The Tale of Toole, A Servant Part 6

The night's events had taken a toll on Cecelia.

She lay curled beneath a thick blanket, her red polka-dot onesie hood pulled tightly over her head, clutching a pillow to her chest as if it were a lifeline. Her breathing was slow and shallow, the kind of breath that came only when someone was doing everything they could not to cry.

But the pillow wasn't her true safety net.

Toole was.

Cecelia refused to let her go. Her small arms were wound around Toole's waist like steel cables, and even as sleep tugged at her with heavy fingers, she held on. As if letting go would mean slipping back into danger.

"You make me feel safe," she had whispered earlier, her voice barely audible in the aftermath of chaos.

Toole hadn't known what to say. Because how do you respond to something so simple? So heartbreaking?

She held her tighter in reply.

Across the room, the boy sat in silence, watching, listening, breathing like someone who hadn't quite come down from the high of a firefight.

His name was Yukimaru Vine.

Malcolm's eldest. Barely a teenager, younger than Toole by a few years—but his eyes…

His eyes were wrong.

There was a stillness in them that didn't belong in a boy his age. No spark of mischief. No youthful rebellion. Just cold, worn edges. Like he'd seen too much. Done too much.

Expected to do even more.

They reminded her of Malcolm's in a way, but there was a distance to them, a rawness that hadn't yet hardened into something stable. He looked like someone who had to grow up in a matter of seconds, and hated himself for it.

His sapphire-blue eyes were dulled like old gemstones, their brightness buried beneath layers of pain and responsibility.

His hair was blonde, shoulder-length, though he clearly wasn't fond of the style. A red bandana kept it back, emblazoned with the kanji for Shogun, beneath a faded rising sun—worn not for fashion, but for purpose. A symbol of discipline. Of duty.

But it wasn't his face or his eyes or the bandana that sent a chill down Toole's spine.

It was his gear.

He wore house slippers, the kind you toss on without thinking. His pants were handmade, knitted, likely by a family member, soft and cozy, clashing horribly with the rest of him. His shirt bore the logo of a tiger crouched low in tall grass, like a predator waiting for the right moment to strike.

And over all of it, he wore a tactical chest rig.

Loaded.
Prepped.
Ready.

Magazines for a compact rifle that was resting on his side, a trauma kit patched in red-cross thread, and two trauma plates tucked into the rig's lining. Actual ceramic armor. Real combat gear.

On a child.

Toole couldn't stop staring.

Not because she was afraid of him.

But because she couldn't help but feel… sad for him.

The bodies in the hallway were still there—still warm, still fresh in their final contorted moments. The blood hadn't even begun to dry. And yet Yukimaru led her and Cecelia forward through it all without hesitation, guiding them toward the elevator like it was just another day. Like he'd done it before. More than once.

She walked behind him, Cecelia tucked into her arms, her cheek pressed to Toole's chest in deep, dreamless sleep. It didn't seem to register to the little girl that they'd almost died. Or maybe… maybe she was just used to this. Used to the noise. The terror. The blood.

They were halfway down the corridor when Yukimaru finally spoke.

"You're Toole, right?" he asked over his shoulder, pausing at each hallway intersection to check for unseen threats, his movements deliberate, methodical. Like a soldier on patrol. "That's what it said on the clipboard."

"Yeah… My name is Toole." The words came slow. Heavy.

The name still felt strange in her mouth—like something borrowed. Something that didn't quite belong to her. "Hello."

He smiled. A small, genuine thing. There was warmth in it. Even… joy.

"Sorry this had to be how we met," he said. "But… these things happen."

Cecelia hiccupped softly in her sleep, a tiny sob slipping from her lips. Toole gently wiped her face, brushing tears from her cheeks. The little girl made a contented noise, the kind that made her feel like maybe—just maybe—she was doing something right.

"I don't believe that," Toole said quietly.

Yukimaru gave a tired shrug. "Well… they happen to us."

The elevator chimed ahead. Yukimaru stepped forward, unclipping his rifle and holding it at ease, not out of fear, but out of practice. Readiness. The doors slid open with a low mechanical hiss, revealing a security team inside, fully geared and armored. Visors glinting in the low light. Weapons lowered. One of them tensed—until he saw the boy.

"About time," Yukimaru muttered.

The squad leader stepped forward, scanning the three of them. "Report."

"Two hostiles down outside Room 14," Yukimaru said without blinking. "No sign of a third, but I wasn't looking. My priority was keeping Reddie safe."

He gestured down to the sleeping Cecelia in Toole's arms.

She hadn't stirred at all.

Hadn't flinched at the elevator opening. Hadn't moved at the sight of armed soldiers, the smell of death in the air, or even the sound of her brother speaking like this was routine.

It wasn't the first time she'd been carried through carnage. Toole realized that with a sick twist in her stomach.

Either Cecelia was so used to this life that her body had stopped reacting… Or maybe Toole made her feel safe enough to sleep through a warzone.

She wasn't sure which broke her heart more.

"Dad awake?" Yukimaru asked, without looking back.

"He's in his office," the squad leader replied, voice even beneath his helmet. "Waiting."

Toole swallowed hard, her arms tightening around Cecelia instinctively.
"Well… all's well that ends well?" she tried, half-heartedly.

Yukimaru just gave a humorless snort and shook his head. "Not for me. I'm about to get an earful."
He sighed deeply, the kind of exhale that sounded too old for someone so young. "Lock down the elevators once we're off. Don't let anyone slip out."

"Yeah, yeah," the leader said, tapping his comm. "Take care, kid."

The elevator doors slid shut with a low hiss, sealing them in. The hum of the lift filled the silence as they began their descent—or ascent, Toole couldn't tell anymore.

Finally, Toole let out a breath she didn't realize she'd been holding. The adrenaline still trembled beneath her skin, but it was quiet now. She glanced over at Yukimaru.

"Yukimaru?" she asked gently.

"Yeah?" he responded, eyes fixed on the soft green numbers ticking by on the elevator panel.

She hesitated, then finally asked the question that had been gnawing at her.
"Where did you learn all that? The way you moved… how you cleared the room, how you held your rifle like—like it was a part of you."

He didn't answer right away. For a long moment, the only sound was Cecelia's steady breathing, her small body curled close against Toole like a barnacle clinging to a lifeboat.

Then Yukimaru shrugged, barely.

"I don't want to talk about it," he said softly. His voice wasn't defensive. Just… tired.

And for the first time, Toole didn't press. Because she understood.

Some things didn't come from training.
Some things didn't come from drills or lessons or books.

Some things you only learned when you didn't get to be a kid anymore.

She watched him in silence as the elevator continued its steady climb. His face was still, unreadable, his fingers absently adjusting the bandana at his forehead.

--------------

A moment later, the elevator chimed softly, and the doors slid open onto what Toole assumed was the top floor. The air felt cooler here, filtered, still. Every surface gleamed, from the polished marble floor to the sleek, dark paneling that reflected the low ceiling lights like a pane of water.

A secretary sat at a curved desk near a frosted-glass wall, her voice clipped and professional as she spoke into a sleek earpiece. Despite her careful tone, there was a tautness in her jaw, an edge that hinted at suppressed frustration.

"I already told you," she said coolly, "the break-in was handled by our internal security team. We do not require further assistance from the San Francisco Police Department." Her words were precise, cutting clean through bureaucratic pleasantries. "No, you may not speak to the director. Good night."

She hung up, took a slow breath, and turned to them.

"Hi, Martha," Yukimaru said, half-smirking.

"It's Mary, Yuki," she snapped, but her expression softened. "Good to see you're safe, kid. Now please, let me deal with the assholes from SFPD in peace."

Yukimaru offered a mock salute. "Will do."

Toole followed him past the desk, Cecelia still cradled in her arms, fast asleep despite the tension in the air. They moved through a set of tall double doors that hissed open at their approach—and then shut firmly behind them.

Inside was a room that could only be described as a fortress masquerading as an office. Tall glass windows overlooked the city skyline. A massive desk sat like an altar near the center, surrounded by tall screens playing looped security footage from various angles of the facility.

Malcolm Vine stood before them, glass of scotch in hand, staring grimly at the largest screen. He said nothing for a long moment.

The footage played back with ruthless clarity—flashes of gunfire, bodies collapsing in the hallways, the scream of alarms—and there, looped again and again, Yukimaru appearing on-screen. Slipping past security systems. Suited up. Armed. Rescuing his sister. Rescuing Toole.

Malcolm turned, slowly. His jaw was tight, his voice even tighter.

"Why am I not surprised?" he said, low but sharp. "Do you have any regard for your own safety? For your sister's?"

Yukimaru didn't flinch. "Sir, you told me—if things go bad, protect Cecelia. I followed that order to the letter. Your words. Not mine."

"That's not the point!" Malcolm's voice rose, sharper now. He took a step forward, slamming the glass down on a side table with a thud. "I have teams—trained teams—for that. Professionals. People I trust to keep you both safe."

"Well, they were too slow," Yukimaru shot back. "If I had waited, Cecelia and Toole would be dead. Or worse."

Toole tensed, feeling the undercurrent shift. This wasn't just about orders or protocol. There was pain in Yukimaru's voice—and fear, buried deep. She stepped forward, clutching Cecelia a little tighter.

"I think we all need to take a breath," she said, gently. "Just... recognize what actually happened tonight."

Malcolm's gaze flicked to her, and for the first time, his expression faltered. Cecelia murmured softly in her sleep, completely undisturbed by the shouting—as if this kind of tension was normal for her.

"Every time with you, my boy..." Malcolm muttered, rubbing his temple. "You've got fire in you, I'll give you that. But one day, that fire is going to burn you out."

Yukimaru folded his arms. "You always say that. Maybe let me use that fire, instead of constantly trying to smother it."

"I will find a way to channel it," Malcolm said, voice lower now, more controlled. "But tonight is not the night for heroics. We'll continue this conversation—with your mother—in the morning."

Yukimaru groaned. "Don't bring Mom into this. She's already on my ass about missing homeschool deadlines."

"That's your problem, not the family's," Malcolm said flatly. "Now get out."

Yukimaru muttered something under his breath and turned away.

Toole didn't speak. She didn't need to. She could feel the wound lingering behind Malcolm's stern eyes. The fear he refused to show. The pain of almost losing what mattered most to him, again.

Yukimaru left the room in a quiet storm of tension, the door hissing shut behind him. With his departure, Toole felt the air in the office ease, like a pressure valve had finally released.

Malcolm turned to her, visibly weary but more composed now. "Sorry about that."

Toole met his gaze. "He saved my life," she said simply.

"I know," he replied, his voice softer now, edged with something older than regret. "Can I… hold my daughter?"

Toole walked forward and carefully transferred the sleeping Cecelia into his arms. Malcolm received her like something sacred. His every movement was gentle, reverent. Despite the turmoil of the night, the moment he cradled her against his chest, she seemed to melt further into sleep, her breathing deep and rhythmic.

"I'm so sorry, Cecelia," he whispered, brushing a kiss to her forehead. She stirred only slightly, a small hand twitching in her dream before settling again with a content sigh.

"She just went out like that?" Toole asked quietly, watching the peaceful scene in disbelief.

"She has a kind of… sixth sense for safety," Malcolm said, rocking her gently. "She knows when she's truly safe. But even then, she needs that physical reassurance sometimes. The weightlessness helps. Makes her feel like she's floating."

Toole tilted her head. "Is that… normal?"

He chuckled faintly. "Oh, perfectly normal for her. She's a bit spoiled like that. Has to fall asleep being carried—used to the motion."

"I was actually thinking about the gunshots," Toole said, more hesitantly. "She slept through all of it."

Malcolm nodded, not looking away from Cecelia. "She can sleep through anything. Has ever since the incident." His voice darkened for a beat before he added, "She's stronger than she looks."

Toole was silent for a moment, watching them both. For the first time, the storm that had been raging in her chest—fear, confusion, the ache of memories she couldn't access—seemed to quiet.

Malcolm looked up at her then, his expression shifting into something more formal, but no less earnest. "I'm sorry this had to be how you met my children. I had hoped for… a softer introduction. I just hope tonight hasn't dampened your enthusiasm for what I'm about to ask."

Toole crossed her arms, raising a skeptical brow. "Can't be any worse than waking up with no memories and people trying to kill me."

He allowed himself a thin smile. "Touché."

"Alright," she said, half-expecting something dramatic. "What is it?"

"My offer is simple," Malcolm began. "I'd like to hire you. Officially. As a personal assistant to me, and by extension, my family."

Toole blinked. "Wait, seriously? Isn't that a bit… much? I'm barely qualified. I'm too young, and I have no idea what I'm even good at—"

"I'm not offering because of a résumé, Toole," he interrupted gently. "I'm asking because I want to help you. Not just out of gratitude… but because I see something in you. You're not just surviving—you're adapting. Faster than anyone I've ever seen. And my children trust you."

She hesitated, unsure how to respond. The warmth of Cecelia's body still lingered on her arms, the memory of Yukimaru's voice calling her name still fresh in her ears.

Malcolm stepped closer, lowering his voice. "You deserve more than blank walls and unanswered questions. You deserve a home. And if you're willing to step into ours, I promise—I'll do everything I can to help you find the answers you're looking for."

Toole looked down at her hands, then back at him.

"…Do I get health insurance?" she asked, only half-joking.

He laughed—truly laughed—for the first time that night. "The best package money can buy."

She exhaled slowly, then gave a small, genuine smile. "Then I guess I'm in."