The victory—if one could call it that—in the agility round had solidified Team Caesar's reputation as the competition's chaotic wild card. They were no longer just a novelty; they were a legitimate, if baffling, contender. Kenji had become a minor celebrity in the strange, insular world of the championship. Exhibitors would approach him with a mixture of reverence and morbid curiosity, asking for his "philosophical insights" on everything from shedding season to the proper way to deconstruct a hairball. He had responded with a series of vague, vaguely profound statements he had stolen from a book of Zen koans Sato had uploaded to his phone. It seemed to be working.
His growing fame, however, had only served to deepen the shadow of Le Pinceau's contempt. The Belgian champion had watched Kenji's rise with the quiet, simmering fury of a master artist watching a child finger-painting on a priceless canvas. The judges' praise for Caesar's "deconstructionist" approach to the agility course had been, Kenji suspected, the final, unforgivable insult to his artistic sensibilities.
Kenji found him waiting for them after the second round, a silent, imposing figure in the relative quiet of the service corridor behind their staging area. He had dismissed his assistant and was standing alone, his silver comb held loosely in one hand, his posture radiating an aura of cold, coiled tension.
"A word, 'Sensei'," Le Pinceau said as Kenji approached, the title now a weapon of pure, unadulterated sarcasm.
Kenji stopped, gesturing for Reika to give them a moment. He leaned against the wall, adopting a look of weary, artistic tolerance. "The world is full of words," he replied. "Most are just noise."
"Then I will be direct," Le Pinceau said, stepping closer, his voice a low, intense whisper. "This farce cannot continue. You and I, we are artists. They," he gestured vaguely towards the main arena, "are consumers. And Ouroboros… they are the vulgar merchants who would sell our souls for a profit. You are disrupting their tasteless little production. For that, you have my temporary and deeply grudging respect."
Kenji's professional instincts went on high alert. This was unexpected. He had prepared for confrontation, for sabotage, for a direct physical threat. He had not prepared for an offer of an alliance.
"You despise them," Kenji stated, not as a question, but as an observation between colleagues.
"Despise is a weak word," Le Pinceau hissed. "They are parasites. They took my work, my art, and they have turned it into a tool for the bland, effortless control of the masses. It is an abomination. The Perfected Purr was meant to be a dialogue between man and beast, a symphony of tranquility. They have turned it into a cattle prod."
He paused, his cold grey eyes locking onto Kenji's. "You see chaos. I see order. Our philosophies are diametrically opposed. But we are both, in our own way, pursuing a truth. Ouroboros has no truth. They have only a product. And their sales demonstration is about to begin."
Kenji maintained his mask of calm, philosophical interest, but his mind was racing. This was it. The confirmation he needed, delivered on a silver platter of pure, artistic outrage. "Sales demonstration?" he prompted gently.
"Do you truly believe this absurd pageant is about finding the most beautiful cat?" Le Pinceau scoffed. "Look at the sponsors in the front row. A weapons manufacturer, a tech mogul who specializes in predictive analytics, a representative from a rogue state's intelligence agency. They are not here for the cats. They are here for the weapon. And Ouroboros plans to give them a live, unforgettable demonstration of its effectiveness."
He took a step closer, his voice dropping even lower. "The winner of this championship is not presented with a mere trophy. The grand prize," he said, the words dripping with contempt, "is a diamond-encrusted food bowl."
Kenji kept his face neutral, though the sheer, Bond-villain absurdity of it almost made him laugh. A diamond-encrusted food bowl. Of course it was.
"That bowl," Le Pinceau continued, "is a lie. It is not a prize. It is a broadcast device. It contains a scaled-up, more powerful version of the same emitters they are using in the lights, one designed to broadcast the compliance frequency on a human scale. When the winner is announced, when the cameras are live, they will activate it. And every sponsor, every wealthy and powerful potential client in that arena, will be bathed in a wave of pure, unadulterated suggestibility. They will not just be impressed by the product; they will be chemically compelled to purchase it. It is the ultimate hostile takeover."
Kenji let the silence hang in the air for a long moment. He looked at this strange, angry man, an enemy who was now offering him the very keys to the kingdom, not out of a shared sense of justice, but out of pure, unadulterated artistic pride.
"Why are you telling me this?" Kenji asked, his voice a quiet, neutral tone. "What do you want from me?"
"I want to ruin their performance," Le Pinceau said, his voice a low, vicious sound. "I want to see their perfect, vulgar sales pitch collapse into chaos on a global stage. I want them to be humiliated, their product rendered worthless. You," he said, his icy grey eyes locking onto Kenji's, "are an agent of chaos. It is your only discernible talent. I have seen the way this absurd world bends to your will. I cannot stop them alone. But together… we can create a masterpiece of failure."
This was it. The offer. A temporary, unholy alliance.
"So you want me to help you expose Ouroboros," Kenji clarified.
"I want you to help me destroy their brand," Le Pinceau corrected him instantly. "But make no mistake. This is a truce, not a friendship. A temporary alliance of convenience. Once their vulgar little show is in ashes, you and I will have our own duel. A true duel of artists, without their machines and their chemical tricks. We will see which philosophy is truly superior: my perfect, disciplined order, or your messy, nonsensical chaos."
He held out a hand, not for a handshake, but as a gesture of a pact being offered. His face was a mask of cold, fierce intensity. He was proposing they take down a global conspiracy, not for the good of the world, but so they could have a clean, uninterrupted stage to settle their own bizarre, artistic rivalry.
It was the most insane, ego-driven, and profoundly dangerous proposition Kenji had ever received. It was also, he knew with a sinking heart, their only chance.