Baccano! - Volume 10 - Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

THE ELDERLY COUPLE ARE QUITE DISTRESSED

Chicago The bar Dolce

For Chicago and its jostling skyscrapers, the district was a relatively quiet one.

In the back of a bar that seemed rather run-down for its size, the old couple who owned the establishment were taking a moment for themselves before opening for the day.

“Did you hear the news, dear? There was another explosion this afternoon.”

“Yes, the young delivery fellow was talking about it a minute ago. He said this one was actually here in town.”

“We shouldn’t open the bar today.”

“Oh, now, there’s no need to be so fearful, don’t you think?”

The husband laughed off his wife’s grave warning.

However, the unease in the old woman’s face didn’t fade at all.

“I have a bad feeling about it.”

“That again… You always get those right when something big is happening. There was that time a few years back, when we were going to take that trip to New York. You know, that train… The Flying Pussyfoot, I think it was? Right when we were about to board, you said the same thing out of the blue, and our whole trip was shot.”

“Yes, and I still think I was right.”

“Poppycock. There was nothing in the papers about the train being in an accident or anything. We checked.”

“Still… They say that train was scrapped right afterward, don’t they?” the woman insisted.

The proprietor shook his head wearily.

It was true that his wife’s instincts were often correct. Even so, right after those bombings, she was probably more anxious than she should be.

After all, today was a big day: the bar’s thirtieth anniversary.

They weren’t holding a proper celebration or event, and they hadn’t put out any advertisements. They were simply savoring a modest sense of achievement and pride for themselves. Even so, to them, the day was more than worth commemorating.

The proprietor had been looking forward to it for quite a while now, and he persisted in his attempts to placate his wife.

“Look, those explosions yesterday were probably just an accident because of somebody at Nebula. It’s just like ten years back, remember? That tomboy Nice—looked like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth—she was always triggering bomb scares. I bet these are just the same.”

“…Come to think of it, I haven’t seen those children for a few years now.”

“You know, it must’ve been two or three years since I saw them myself. Well, those juvenile delinquents must be pretty close to adulthood by now. Maybe they settled down a bit and moved to some other town.”

As he said it, the proprietor realized that line of thinking might not help his argument, and without missing a beat, he began trying to talk her around again.

“You see? If we want that bunch to feel safe about coming back home in a few years, we can’t close the shop over petty little worries. Right?”

“Don’t try to distract me, dear,” she retorted sharply.

The proprietor looked a little guilty and drew back slightly. “W-well, it’s all right. Let’s just turn away anyone suspicious or anyone with big bags or packages. That should do the trick, shouldn’t it?”

“…Do be careful, all right? I mean it.”

Ultimately, the wife gave in. After he watched her disappear into the back to begin prep work for the kitchen, the proprietor exhaled deeply, then went outside to open the bar.

It was an extremely simple operation: All he had to do was flip the sign that hung out front from CLOSED to OPEN, and today, the establishment’s thirtieth anniversary, would begin just like every other day.

…However.

When he opened the door and went outside, two customers were already there, waiting for the bar to open.

“Oh, my apologies! We’re opening right now!”

It was unusual for an establishment that opened after the sun had begun its trip down the sky to have customers lined up and waiting.

One was a whiskered man who wore his hat pulled down low over his eyes. The other was a beautiful young woman in an elegant gown. They didn’t appear to be lovers. They could have been a father and daughter, or siblings, or simply work colleagues.

And… The striking pair seemed familiar to the proprietor.

“Sir, miss… You visited us yesterday, didn’t you? Well, come in, come in! Regulars are always welcome!”

“…”

“Ohhh… How am I to express the delight etched into a human brain? Eternity is a series of moments, and all creation is a single sculpture depicting many, trapped in Fate’s wheel… If the face of a clock is an eternal wheel that imprisons time, then perchance the wheel that imprisons Fate is the very world reflected in our eyes.”

The elderly man welcomed them to the bar without giving it much thought, and the woman entered wordlessly. The man in the hat followed her, babbling on about something peculiar.

As he watched the muttering man’s receding back…

…the proprietor paid no particular attention to it. Gazing up at the blue sky, he confidently flipped the sign.

In the end, that act would decide the fate of both bar and owner.

Chicago On the street

Under that same clear blue sky, Graham Specter was being his usual self.

“Let me tell you a story that sounds sad but is actually a mysterious tale of the bizarre, except for the fact that it really is just sad…”

“Too long. Break it up, all right?”

“Let me tell you a sad, sad story.”

“Is every thought in your head based on the assumption that people will inevitably listen to your stories? You are, after all, taking time out of someone else’s limited lifespan to make them listen to you talk. I’m not picking up that kind of good faith in your words, Mr. Graham. Do you know what ‘good faith’ means? If not, that’s the saddest story there is. ’Specially your head.”

Beside Graham, Shaft—the underling who’d very nearly reached buddy status—was making foolhardy comebacks. Several friends trailed after the two of them.

For his part, Graham and his boundless energy were on a pessimistic spiral at the moment, flipping the huge wrench he held once, catching it with a smack, and very meekly accepting Shaft’s criticism.

“Listen… Listen to my sad story…”

“Now I’m sensing even less good faith… Are you mad, maybe?”

“I’m not mad. All that’s welling up inside me is sadness, and sorrow, and more sadness, and anger… Hmm. There is some anger there. What a sad story! Apparently, I can’t even identify my own emotions instantly anymore! What should I do to overcome this sadness? How can I verify my own emotions? Through action, I bet. Right? Meaning my duty is to communicate my feelings to the world and to myself through actions that are three parts sadness and one part anger… More concretely, I’ll say ‘sad’ three times while I hit you with an angry attack, Shaft. I’m so sad! Aah, life is sad!”

“Huh?! …Hey, wait just a— Your anger and sadness aren’t balanc… Bwugh! …!”

After Graham whacked him with a wrench-style body blow, screaming all the while about how sad he was, Shaft hugged his stomach and fell silent as he walked along.

Paying no attention to his buddy’s groans, Graham seemed rejuvenated after that, and the happiness and sadness flipped.

“Okay! Now that the buttinsky is quiet, that sad yet mysterious story can wait until later! First, a fun story! Today, Shaft says he’s going to show us a great, little-known place to fill our bellies! Of course, as the one introducing us, Shaft is responsible for everything, so if it turns out to be lousy, we’ll hold him liable! In other words, he’s picking up everybody’s checks!”

At this extremely unfair remark, a light chorus of cheers went up from the friends behind them.

All except for Shaft, who was gripping his stomach in a greasy sweat.

“…! Koff…! Hey, no, nobody said anything about…!”

“Wow, you’re back already? Guess I didn’t hit ya hard enough—I’d like to go back to anger, but I’m not really a fan of resorting to violence, so I won’t. That’s right—if I’m being honest, that was revenge for calling my head sad. Aah, I swear on the sky to come clean! My bad, Shaft! You just really ticked me off with that one!”

“…Never mind, just pay back words with words, at least.”

“I’ll do my best. So whereabouts is this place?”

Graham didn’t look the least bit repentant. Shaft shot him a cold glare, but then he heaved a deep, resigned sigh and indicated the road up ahead with his chin.

“Uh, it’s up this way a bit.”

“It’s a bar that usually opens right about now, and their food’s pretty good. The place is called Dolce. Ever heard of it?”

Somewhere in Chicago In a car

“Take the next right after that. Then go straight for a while.”

“Sure thing.”

A red-eyed man responded amiably to the blunt instructions from the passenger seat.

Humming, the chauffeur kept driving for a little while—and then he noticed the scowl on the face of his young passenger riding shotgun. He grinned.

Neat rows of teeth showed between his lips, but, unsettlingly, all of those teeth were canines.

“What’s the matter, Ricardo? You’ve been acting odd since this morning.”

“Those bombings yesterday… What do you think of them, Christopher?”

“I’m one hundred percent convinced it was Rail. This sure has gotten interesting.”

“Interesting is not the word I’d use.”

Sighing, Ricardo Russo spoke to Christopher Shaldred, an eccentric chauffeur-slash-bodyguard-slash-(technically) friend.

“You think literally nothing of the chaos Rail is causing?”

“Well, I just told you what I think—it’s gotten interesting. If you wanted to drag more out of me, I might say ‘Hey, way to go.’”

“You’re not going to stop him?”

“Not if this is the answer he chose. Besides, I think it could be a way to save Frank,” Christopher replied bluntly. Ricardo fell silent, looking rather dismayed.

After stealing out of the house during yesterday’s uproar, they’d been wandering around the city with no particular destination in mind.

According to the radio and newspaper coverage, Ricardo’s grandfather, Placido Russo, was a suspect in the bombings and disappearances.

Placido was currently missing, as were several of his executives, and several more had been arrested. However, there had been traces of a gunfight and explosions at Placido’s mansion as well, and apparently, until they could take the missing man into custody, the situation was at a standstill.

“Come to think of it, the news hasn’t mentioned that group in the lab coats at all, has it?”

“They might have tremendous influence. Maybe they’re a unit that reports directly to the President of the United States or something.”

“I don’t think the country’s in such dire straits that the president would consider using a bunch of weirdos like them.”

For a short while after that, silence fell in the car until Christopher asked a tactless question.

“Well, you hated your everyday life, and now it’s shot to hell. How does it feel?”

“…I don’t think I’ve quite processed the feeling yet.”

The question had been insensitive, but Ricardo didn’t look particularly upset. That was just the kind of person Christopher was, and over the course of their year together, Ricardo had become completely used to it.

Plus, despite the official answer being “I haven’t processed the feeling yet,” Ricardo had in fact accepted the current situation without much fanfare at all.

“It’s just a hunch, but I get the feeling Grandpa may already be dead. That means the Russo Family is finished. There’s no reason for you to force yourself to stay with me now, Christopher.”

“Aww, come on. People don’t need reasons to be friends, do they?”

“I’m impressed you can say something so embarrassing with so much confidence,” Ricardo answered brusquely before turning to the subject of Rail again. “But you’re friends with that Rail kid, too, aren’t you?”

“More like family, actually.”

“Then you should take better care of him. You don’t have to stop him, but you could go help him.”

“Mm, I did technically say I wouldn’t stop him if he wanted to come with us, though. Besides, I get the feeling that helping Rail won’t do him any good in the end.”

“Don’t people usually act for the sake of friends or family without thinking about it so much?”

“What about your grandpa?”

At yet another insensitive comment, Ricardo fell silent for a while, though the silence wasn’t born of discomfort. Maybe I’m able to take a good hard look at myself because Christopher’s not the type to tiptoe around your feelings. With that rather mature thought, Ricardo took a slightly different tack. “Maybe this is a pot calling the kettle black, but that kid’s a little odd. Somebody needs to keep an eye on him.”

“If that’s what you think, then you shouldn’t be so cold toward him, Ricardo.”

“…I wasn’t really. I was just acting the way I always do. If anything, it felt more like he didn’t like me,” Ricardo answered sullenly.

Trying to hide his delight, Christopher softly replied, “No, no, I’m positive you’d hit it off. If you fight, it’s because you’re too similar.”

“Give me a break. Exactly what about us is so similar?”

“Quite a lot, actually. First, for example, the way each of you is jealous of the other because you’re afraid of losing me.”

“Oh, so you’re just way too full of yourself,” Ricardo shot back.

Ignoring that, Christopher continued calmly. “And then there’s the way you hate the world. And the way you still can’t completely reject it.”

“I’m not rejecting it, particularly.”

“It would’ve been funnier if you’d blushed and shouted ‘That’s not true!’”

“Getting angry over nothing just makes you hungry. And you were the one who wanted to get something to eat while we thought about what to do next.”

No sooner had Ricardo spoken than, as if on cue, her stomach growled.

“My, my.”

“…”

“Oh, did I detect a fleeting hint of embarrassment?”

She is a girl when it comes to things like that.

Unusually for him, he tactfully decided not to make that remark out loud.

Ricardo looked like a boy at first glance, and she lived her life pretending to be one. She hadn’t told him why, but since only a few of the people around her knew the truth, it was possible that Placido had been exerting some sort of pressure to keep it under wraps.

However, Christopher hadn’t said anything about it.

For her part, Ricardo hadn’t pressed Christopher about the lack of questions…and so far, the two of them had spent their time together treating it as a nonissue.

After her stomach growled, Ricardo kept her silence brief, then resumed acting as their navigator. “Oh, take a left there.”

“Roger that.”

“Once you do, it’s just up ahead.”

“Hmm. I’ve never gone this far out to eat before. Is the place that good?”

Christopher might have been eccentric, but he had fairly discriminating taste buds.

He had a particular weakness for sweets and desserts, to the point where he found himself dissatisfied with the flavor of store-bought madeleines. Instead, he baked his own, and Ricardo—along with Rail, Chi, and Huey before them—acknowledged that they were excellent.

Ricardo, who knew the taste of those madeleines, had said she knew of a “hole-in-the-wall with great food.” Christopher’s hopes were rising a little as he asked her where they were going.

Unusually, Ricardo’s expression softened a bit when she answered.

“Yes, it’s delicious. The same couple has been running it all by themselves for about thirty years. The apple pie is a masterpiece of a dessert. And so, I thought I’d have some today.”

“Huh. I’ll be looking forward to that… Why today?”

“Well, we don’t know what’s going to happen from here on out.

“This could be the last thing we eat in Chicago.”

At Dolce

“The sense of taste is the eyes and brain and ears and heart of the tongue. In the sweetness rolling across my palate are the dreams of the one who made it; in the saltiness spreading through the darkness between closed jaws, I sense the life of its creator, past and future; in the savoriness crushed out by violently gnashing teeth, I hear the groans spilling from the heart of its maker, and I close the whole of it in my throat and ponder. Delicious, delicious—if I may enjoy this moment, I care not whether I am pierced by ten thousand sins whilst my lips thus speak a single word: ‘Yum.’”

“Shut up and wait.”

The man and woman were creating a peculiar atmosphere around the bar where they sat with their odd conversation.

In addition to the ordinary bar-type counter, the wood-grain interior held about half a dozen tables.

The bar’s layout and size appeared just a little smaller than a saloon one might see in a Western, but the sedate wood flooring was just one element contributing to an overall modern look.

It didn’t seem to be all that popular. At this point, they were the only two customers, and the interior felt a little too spacious.

And within it, one of the customers kept delivering a strange soliloquy. The situation was atypical, but the elderly proprietor just kept smiling and polishing glasses.

“No, no. I’m not a learned man, so I don’t really understand what all those words mean, but I almost feel guilty hearing so much praise.”

I don’t think he’s exactly praising anything.

Sighing over the proprietor’s remark, the woman closed her menu and addressed him. “Get us two orders of something filling. Anything’s fine.”

“In that case, how about some barbecued ribs?”

Said to be one of America’s best-known foods, barbecued ribs were also a hallmark of Chicago cuisine.

Historic figure Carl Sandburg was a poet in the true sense of the word. His talents were multiple and varied—in addition to being a poet, he was also a singer and a record-setting author who would go on to win the Pulitzer Prize. In a collection of poems he’d published previously, this man had bestowed several nicknames on Chicago.

One of these was “Hog Butcher for the World,” indicating the remarkable development of the livestock industry in Chicago.

Pork ribs were cooked in a sauce that included ingredients like garlic, ketchup, and vinegar, yielding a uniquely flavored meat dish. Together with the fragrant aroma of the meat, the dish further highlighted the city’s history.

Even if the seasonings and ingredients were the same, the flavor changed completely, depending on the order of the steps used to prepare them and the use of temperature during the process, and they were considered a good way to judge the skill of individual restaurants.

“Sure. Two orders, then. Kansas City–style.”

“Coming right up!”

The woman’s answer sounded relatively masculine, but the proprietor didn’t seem to see anything wrong with this and smiled at her.

After the proprietor had gone to relay the order to his wife in the kitchen, the woman spoke to the man in the hat next to her.

“So? What now, Poet? We waited a whole night, but there’s still been no contact from either Sham or Hilton. What are we going to do now?”

“In the darkness obscuring the next step, the golden snake’s lone copper scale twinkles bright and tempting. Rat-tat-tat! Should we knock jauntily on that weakened scale, life will be as the lingering whispers of the peerless slug, the traces that mark the path along which it has crawled, wherein gold coins dropped by the modest strawberry will…”

“Enough. I got it—you don’t know what we should do, either,” the woman muttered, fed up, but the man she’d called Poet shook his head theatrically.

“‘The phrase which should be rendered as “I do not know” is a form of resignation,’ murmured the pale seaweed floating in the twilight. However, in the end, it is only illusory nonsense that soon vanishes. ‘Our only alternative is to wrest our path from the clutches of obscurity by ourselves,’ cried the bird swooping through the dusk. Am I wrong, Sickle?”

“I don’t even need to think about it. What I have to do is look for Rail and Frank,” said the woman called Sickle, squeezing her glass on the counter.

Larva was a working unit that reported directly to Huey Laforet. Lamia, a subunit of Larva, was made up entirely of peculiar individuals. The woman was a member of that group, and she was troubled by the situation that had been unfolding over the past few days.

They’d assembled in Chicago, just as the instructions Sham had relayed had told them to do. That part had been fine, but ever since, they’d encountered nothing but completely unforeseen trouble.

Their bad luck had begun with the discovery that a group who appeared to be mafia was on the hunt for them, complete with a wanted poster. A man in coveralls who seemed to be involved with that mafia outfit had started some trouble with them—and they had ended up having to make a run for it.

To make matters worse, Rail had gotten separated from the rest of the group, and when they’d stormed the Russo Family—the mafia behind the wanted poster, as far as they could tell—they’d walked right into a counterattack launched by a mystery group in lab coats. In the ensuing chaos, Frank had disappeared as well.

The next day, they’d gone to see what state the Russo Family was in, but the syndicate’s boss had vanished, and between that and the late-night gunfights and explosions, the place had been swarming with cops.

That explosion was probably one of Rail’s bombs, but…

Sickle had guessed that this was the case, and the following day, an even bigger bombing had occurred. She could sense Rail’s influence there as well, but she couldn’t do anything else, and time marched ever on.

At this point, her group couldn’t launch Huey’s experiment even if they wanted to— Not to mention they hadn’t even been told the specifics of what the experiment was.

They should have gotten that information from Sham or Hilton, or possibly Leeza. But at present, all three were incommunicado.

Irritated, Sickle drained her glass and pushed back her chair, creating an unexpectedly brisk-sounding rhythm, and stood up.

“I’m gonna hit the john.”

Ever masculine, the woman in the gown left her seat.

Wordlessly, the Poet watched his companion go, then waited alone in silence for his order.

Then, just as the door to the women’s bathroom at the back of the establishment closed…

…several men entered the bar to take her place.

The Poet was pondering what to do next, and he didn’t pay much attention to them. In a way, this also decided their fate—and that of the bar.

One minute earlier On the street

“That’s it over there, Mr. Graham.”

On seeing the quaint bar Shaft pointed out, Graham spun his wrench with delight.

“Oho… Looks pretty old-fashioned, but that ain’t a bad thing… I bet that place would be worth breaking… Wait… What did I just say?! I’m going to break a place I’m just about to eat at?! My God, apparently my destructive impulses aren’t going to let me eat! What the hell have I done?! If I die, those very impulses will die along with me, and yet…! It’s not fair… Why don’t I have a choice in this slow and gentle suicide?! Can such a horrible story exist?! Why do I have to hate the impulses welling up inside my own heart?!”

“If you hate them, then hurry up and get rid of them.”

“If I could, I’d have done it already… Hang on. Come to think of it, I’ve never actually tried. Son of a gun. Guess my hate was so strong that I lost my cool! Now that I’ve forgotten to challenge myself, what’s even waiting for me? Oblivion?! The past doesn’t suit a forward-thinking dreamer like me… Right, I have to kill it now! Kill what, you ask? This hatred inside me, that’s what! Aah, aah, what a sad story! Where do I have to go to settle this fight between me and myself? For now, all I can say is I’m sorry I said your bar looked like it would be worth breaking, bar people…”

Graham’s unbroken stream of words would have made any normal person want to run if they heard him. But his friends seemed to be used to him, and they just kept smiling, if wryly and wearily.

“We’re here, so be quiet when we get inside,” Shaft muttered with a sigh.

Complying with his request, Graham set the end of his wrench against his lips and held his breath.

Seeing this gesture—perhaps cute or perhaps creepy—Shaft heaved another big sigh. Then he pushed open the door of the establishment, hung with a sign that said DOLCE.

Inside, the bar was still quiet. A man who wore his hat low on his head was sitting at the counter, and he was the only customer.

“Afternoon. Can we get something to eat?”

“Yes, come on in! Now, we just opened for the day, so you may have a little wait…”

“Sure, that’s fine.”

“In that case, right this way!”

The proprietor seemed to be in an excellent mood when he poked his head out of the kitchen, then showed Graham’s group to a table at the back.

Graham had stayed silent the whole time, following his friend’s instructions, but after he sat down and gazed at the menu for a little while, his lips moved slightly.

“…Barbecued ribs, Carolina-style.”

“Oh, I’ll get some, too. Is that good for the rest of you fellas?”

The others nodded, and Shaft called the proprietor over and began placing their order.

After he saw the smiling proprietor disappear into the kitchen, Graham propped his wrench against the wall beside him and took in the interior of the establishment.

“This is really more of a restaurant than a bar.”

Just then… As Graham’s eyes wandered restlessly, his ears picked up an odd mutter.

“An empty belly…is a sorrow that devours the silence of the stomach.”

After Sickle had left her seat and the Poet was alone, he decided to begin his deliberations regarding their next steps by thinking about himself.

Now that they weren’t able to get instructions from Sham and Hilton, he believed they needed to have a better understanding of themselves in order to figure out what they should do.

He’d organized the thoughts he’d had over the past few days, and he was currently running over the threads that seemed most coherent.

Huey’s research institute, Rhythm, had given him eyes that reflected light in a special way.

By making eye contact with someone, he could destabilize their mind.

Then he performed a kind of hypnosis, manipulating their mind to a degree; it was the ability he’d been granted. As a homunculus, he had another ability—he didn’t age—but that wasn’t much use for anything except living a long time, so he excluded it from consideration.

Even the Poet didn’t know when he’d been given these eyes.

They’d been his for as long as he could remember, and he hadn’t asked either Rhythm or Huey about them.

They palely reflected the surrounding light, using the delicate twitching of his eyeballs to forcibly trigger a hypnotic effect in anyone he made eye contact with.

He drove his target into a state of semiconsciousness, then planted suggestions in them.

In other words, the Poet’s eyes were equipped with a power resembling the effect of a candle flame or a crystal pendulum swung before the eyes, condensed several dozen times and amplified.

However, he didn’t understand the effect in concrete terms, and he’d never tried to.

It was similar to how people didn’t really understand why their eyes could see things in the course of their everyday lives.

That said, unlike regular humans, even he wasn’t able to control these eyes of his.

Naturally, if he kept them closed, he could curb their power, but that would interfere with his day-to-day life. He’d determined that he didn’t have the resolve to live mostly sightless.

Anyone who met his eyes instantly became more susceptible to the words and situation around them. If somebody screamed at them to die, even if the subject didn’t die right then, that word would be carved into the depths of their mind—and one day, something could conceivably trigger a loss of control.

He was aware of this, and so he’d used a bizarre manner of speech and exaggerated gestures to lower himself to a mere oddity.

He didn’t stand out much, the way Christopher did. Instead, he evinced his outlandishness in something other than his appearance—his words—so that his companions and the people on the street around him would think…

…No way am I lookin’ that guy in the eye.

He prayed that they would simply avert their own eyes.

Laughable, isn’t it. If I could use this power incessantly, I’d be able to keep my pride, and yet… The Poet’s meditations continued. Am I a coward after all? Is that why I can’t be so decisive?

Or does the fact that I’m not human act as a brake of sorts?

His group, Lamia, was made up of nonconforming individuals known as homunculi.

They weren’t people who had banded together thanks to their unique abilities or physical attributes.

They had merely been chosen and created by some sort of will—if God did not exist, by whatever will the phenomenon of chance could be said to possess.

This was true of Christopher, and Chi, and himself.

Leeza alone struck him as being a bit unique, but she was probably the same deep down. She oozed the pride of someone who considered herself to have been specially selected. It wasn’t like Rail’s conviction that homunculi were greater than humans; it seemed to be the product of personal circumstances that affected her alone.

And…many of his fellow homunculi pretended, like him, to be broken.

It was likely that, by intentionally creating distance between themselves and the world, they were trying to get used to the unpleasant fact that they weren’t normal. Chi’s clothes and Sickle’s speech and behavior were probably notable examples of this phenomenon.

Once, when the twins had told him about a homunculus by the name of Ennis who was living a normal life, he’d been quite jealous.

What laughable creatures we are.

The figures of his missing comrades Frank and Rail rose in his mind, and he thought, simply:

They’re still young.

They haven’t gone completely mad like Christopher, nor have they come to terms with it as I have.

I would like them to walk a happy road, somehow.

…Assuming such a road exists.

In the end, he’d been unable to search for that road himself, and so his days of avoiding the issue by feigning insanity dragged on.

He believed that if he obeyed Huey’s orders, at least, he’d be safe.

He kept lying to himself, telling himself that that was the most peaceful way.

What on earth can beings like us do in such times…?

As his train of thought reached its end, the Poet felt his stomach come very close to growling, and he began to speak at length to stir his insanity.

“An empty belly…is a sorrow that devours the silence of the stomach.”

He’d spoken this way for so many years, and it had eventually become second nature to him.

However, the Poet understood that it might simply be an act, since he could speak normally if he tried, and his words alone continued to flow without pause.

“It swallows its tears, raising its queries to hunger, the whispering conversation of instinct and emotion, through its vulgar echoes alone. If appetite is the pragmatic god that governs human existence, then we, unable to struggle against that deity, unaware of what it is to doubt, merely continue to fervently bow our heads… Gloom! Gloom! We simply offer our faltering questions to the walls of a living enclosure of flesh! ‘The stinging bee falls. It drowns in honey, falling into a sea of rose thorns,’ we lament with great pity. I realized that the stinging bee was me only after I had chewed up everything in my mouth…”

With Sickle in the bathroom and unable to offer any comebacks, the Poet simply went on smoothly reciting all the hunger-related thoughts that came into his mind.

There were new customers behind him, but he knew no one was listening, and even if they were, they’d find him too creepy to approach. As a matter of fact, that was the whole point… Or so the sensible part of the Poet’s mind thought, but…

…suddenly, a blue shadow appeared next to him on the right, reaching out to slap a few coins onto the counter.

“Owner, get this artist a tequila.”

“…?”

Wondering what was going on, the Poet frowned, turned his eyes in that direction, and—

—the next moment, he froze solid, through his spine and all the way up to his hair.

“…?!”

“Let me tell you a story about a man impressed… I’m impressed. Who’d have thought I’d get to hear a swell poem like that one here in the middle of the city?! What are words, anyway? Right, words are beauty itself! Polish ’em up enough, and just hearin’ ’em can touch your very soul… Yeah, I’m impressed! Right now! Your little yarn swept me into a vortex of deep emotion!”

As the man shouted, he gripped the Poet’s hand and shook it energetically up and down. The Poet watched him wordlessly, dripping with cold sweat.

Those vivid blue coveralls.

That bright blond hair.

The peculiar hairstyle, with the bangs that hid his eyes.

And this hopelessly hyperactive way of talking.

The Poet had only been a bystander back then.

From behind the crowd, he’d simply watched this man…

…fight Rail, Sickle, and Chi in mortal combat.

……This is bad.

Had he realized who they were? His own face hadn’t been described in detail on that wanted poster, but it had referred to him as “a dramatic speaker.” Had he stumbled onto his identity because of that?

Wait, did he know we were here in this bar in the first place? Or is this just a coincidence?

If it was a coincidence, the odds were absolutely incredible.

True, several shops were closed due to yesterday’s bombings and disappearances, but even so, there were thousands of bars and eateries in Chicago.

Of all the places in the city, was it really possible for them to have run into each other here by accident?

“I tell ya, today’s a wonderful day. My pal just happened to bring me here and I get to run into an artist like yourself! I’m indebted to this day!”

“I don’t know what’s going on, but congratulations, sir.”

“…”

Accepting the tequila that the beaming proprietor had brought him, the Poet tried to fathom the real motives of the man next to him.

But he couldn’t even attempt to read this person’s expression: His eyes were almost entirely hidden, just as his own were. In the end, he didn’t manage to learn anything, and the time was wasted.

“Hey now, you clammed up all of a sudden.”

“…Ah, well…”

“Embarrassed? If so, I just did something mean… Obstructing the artistic process is awful rude. If I’d done it on purpose, you could have called it an insult! Aah, sad… How sad! How can I atone for this sin? I know; lemme buy you another drink, all right?”

“No… It doesn’t bother me. If I accept the sparks that fall upon me, the beauty of the great inferno they ignite around me may intoxicate me… After all, the copycat that floats in my glass writhes, revealing the depth of life to me.”

“I see! I’m kinda confused, but…I’ve fallen for your soul. Go on, drink up.”

Even if the man hadn’t realized who he was, when Sickle came back, he’d find out then and there. Not that Sickle would stay quiet anyway.

The other day, this man had dislocated her right ankle and the joints in her arm with his wrench.

An ordinary person would have been hurting too badly to walk, but Sickle and Chi had popped their joints back into place immediately afterward, and they seemed to be enduring the pain through sheer grit.

Naturally, the ache was still there, but Sickle wasn’t letting it show in the slightest. He was terribly impressed with her toughness.

But I expect she’s angry with this man…

While the Poet’s nervousness continued unabated, the man beside him stood up, restlessly.

“…Whoops. Well, I hope you take your time and polish your craft. I think I’ll go tell somebody else about this fantastic encounter I had today. I bet I live today and tomorrow and the day after tomorrow and the day after that believing that this is a way to dispel my hatred! What an incredibly thrilling story this is!”

Then he twirled around toward the men’s bathroom, humming as he went.

The men’s and women’s bathrooms were separate, and their doors faced each other.

The man in the coveralls entered the men’s room, and the door shut behind him. At nearly the same moment, the door to the women’s room swung open to reveal Sickle, wearing her usual sullen expression.

That was a close one.

The Poet was relieved, but his relief didn’t last long.

“Huh?”

“Hunh?”

“Hey, that’s…”

“Wha…?”

“You kiddin’ me?!”

The group sitting in the corner of the bar seemed to be friends of the man in the coveralls, and a stir ran through them as soon as they saw Sickle.

And the trouble begins.

They’d probably been watching Sickle and the others fight the man in the coveralls from a distance, like himself.

As a result, even if they hadn’t reacted to him, the clear memory they had of Sickle’s appearance wasn’t surprising.

In that case, was it coincidence that brought them here after all?

The question did cross his mind, but there was no time to think about it now.

“Let’s go.”

“? Go? Go where?”

Sickle seemed to have registered the men who were watching her and muttering. She shot them a sidelong look and frowned, mystified.

However, with no time to offer a detailed explanation, the Poet took his wallet out of his jacket and pushed several bills onto the counter.

“Beg pardon, barkeep. I’m afraid some urgent business just came up. Will this be enough money?”

At the abrupt proposal, the proprietor’s eyes went wide, but he pushed the money back, shaking his head. “What? Sir, no, that’s not… I mean, yes, we’ve already started to grill, but I can’t take your money when you haven’t eaten.”

“Hmm… I-in that case, it would be a great help to me if you’d treat those men. Tell them it’s my thanks for the drink.”

“But… Are you sure? Really?”

“Yes, it’s fine.”

Perhaps picking up on the Poet’s tension, the proprietor gave him his change from the register without another word.

“Hey, what’s going on?” Sickle asked crossly, but the Poet pulled her along by the hand, wordlessly starting for the exit—

—and at that point, he clearly saw something intangible.

It was the sight of absolutely brilliant timing…

“Huh?”

It was a voice he’d missed hearing.

At the same time, it was one he knew far too well.

“What’s this? What’s this, what’s this, what’s this?”

The voice that met them as the bar’s door opened had a childlike quality about it.

Its attitude was similar to Rail’s, but the timbre of the voice itself was far more mature.

The encounter was much too abrupt, and in the shadow of his hat, the Poet’s eyes widened. Beside him, Sickle was gaping uselessly.

From the dazzling brightness of the outside world, the spitting image of a vampire had stepped into the gloom of the bar.

Below his red eyes, a mouth lined with sharp fangs was formed into a great smile.

The proprietor was encountering this man for the first time, but his expression upon seeing him was very similar to Sickle’s and the Poet’s.

And the monstrous man in question said:

“Would you look at that!”

With delight rather than astonishment, he flung his arms wide and gave vent to his joy.

“Fantastic! Phenomenal! If it isn’t the Poet and Sickle! Rail told me you were in town, but imagine running into you here! Is this what they call ‘family ties’ in action?”

““Christopher!””

When Sickle and the Poet called his name, the man looked back and forth between them, beaming.

“Well, well, this is excellent! Who’d have thought I’d just run into you here of all places?! I wonder if I should thank God for it. No, if I put it my way, I suppose it’s the guidance of Nature I should thank.”

“Aah……aah……”

“After all, I ran smack into you two after I got hungry, so let’s offer our thanks to Nature for giving us stomachs that get empty, even if we are artificial. Speaking of, Chi told me something a long time ago: In this country called Japan, they have a belief known as ‘worship of the innumerable.’ They believe there’s a god living in every single leaf, each rock in the road! Amazing, isn’t it? Absolutely perfect for a Nature-loving fellow like yours truly. Still, I wonder… Do you think those gods live in homunculi like us, too? If there are that many of them, you’d think one of them could be here, right? Or perhaps the god of dolls could do double duty as our—”

“Shut up, never mind that, just calm down for one second!”

Though Christopher rambled at an unusually rapid pace, Sickle was clearly the one who was worked up, but once she realized it was him, she asked the biggest question that was welling up inside her.

“I have a lot of questions… Seriously, I have a million things I want to ask you, but… Christopher? Did you just say…Rail told you?”

“Yes…?”

“Where did you see him?! Where is he now?!”

As Sickle’s voice rose, Christopher shrugged as if to say, You haven’t changed. Then, still smiling, he answered her calmly.

“Well, it was the day before yesterday. I rescued him that afternoon; he’d collapsed after some sort of bomb scare. Right now, he’s probably trying to blow up one thing or another in his attempt to rescue Frank.”

“…?! What do you mean?! Why isn’t he with you?! He’s gone to save Frank?! He isn’t with you?! Do you know where he is?!”

“There’s no sense in saying it all at once. I’ll tell you everything one piece at a time, so for now, just calm d—”

Christopher tried to calm Sickle’s rising aggression, but…

…farther back, he caught sight of a gleaming silver object.

The long years of experience he’d cultivated immediately warned him that this “something” was bad news.

Instantly, he shifted his focus.

For a moment, he mistook it for one of Leeza’s chakrams, but though it resembled a silver disc, the object was—a wildly spinning industrial wrench.

Just as Christopher’s well-trained kinetic vision latched onto the thing, his right hand instinctively darted over Sickle’s shoulder.

“?!”

For a moment, Sickle thought she was about to get punched. She dodged sideways, and next to her ear came a dry smack.

On reflex, she glanced in the direction of the sound, and…

…there was Christopher’s hand, holding an adjustable wrench.

The sight of the wrench called up a nauseatingly vivid association for Sickle. Every cell in her body reacted, and she spun around to look in the direction it had come from.

And then— She saw him.

A man in bright-blue coveralls, slinking along the floor…

…set his hand on an enormous wrench sitting beside the table.

“Let me tell you a happy, happy story.”

His silver bludgeon gleaming, the demon in blue smiled.

Both with delight, and with madness…

“An enemy vanished from right in front of me, only to turn up again. Not just once, but twice! If destiny has led me to a chance encounter with the woman in green—is that what they call the ‘red thread of fate’? If so, is it all right if I fall in love with her again? What do you think, owner?”

“Huh?”

Finding himself suddenly addressed, the proprietor desperately tried to make sense of the situation, and…

…timidly, he gave a response that didn’t answer the question.

“Erm… Sir, it’s dangerous to throw wrenches like that.”

“You are absolutely right! …Drat… I got an answer that had nothing to do with my question, and yet what you said was most definitely accurate, owner. What the heck? What is this? What am I supposed to do now? Who gets to give the ding that says we have a right answer?! Aah, how strange… Strange and sad… And life really is fun! To think it would send such a coincidence my way…!”

“S-sir…?” the owner uneasily tried, and the man in the coveralls nodded firmly to reassure him.

“Hey, don’t worry, mister.”

Although what he was about to say was far from reassuring.

“I’ll finish this before those ribs are ready.”

Meanwhile In a train on the transcontinental railroad

A locomotive was racing powerfully toward Chicago.

It was pulling a standard train, made up of a freight car at the front, followed by a chain of passenger cars from third class to first. On this train, an encounter was just about to occur.

“La-la-laaa.   La-la-laaa.   La-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-laaa.  ”

In a deserted third-class compartment, a young man was singing merrily.

“Zutta-ra-ta-ta, cha-chaaa.   Pa-pa-ra-paaa-paaa-paaa-pa-ra-ra-raaa.   La-la-lu-lu-lu-la-la-la, ding-tomp-shiiiing.   Zun-ta! Zun-ta! Zun-ta…”

The man was simulating everything, from drums to trumpets and even a xylophone, with his lips. He settled a cowboy hat—which he’d bought with what little money he’d had after purchasing his ticket—back onto his head, and launched into his song again in the compartment, even cheerier than before.

“Ta-ra-ra-ra-ra! Ta-ra-ra-ra-ra! Ta-ra! Ta-ra! Ta-raaah.  ”

Gazing at his own reflection in the window, he stopped singing (?) for the first time and asked himself a question.

“Hmm… Maybe I should jazz it up a little.”

Should he add some sort of ornament to the cowboy hat? As he was considering it, the man noticed in his reflection that someone was standing behind him.

“Who’s there?! My friend?!”

As he turned around, muttering something odd, the figure—a youngish man in a suit—shook his head.

“No, this is the first time we’ve met and had a proper conversation. You are Isaac, aren’t you?”

“Oh. So you’re not my friend, then?”

“Not at present, at least.”

“Okay. Can’t say as I know what’s going on, but let’s be friends starting now!”

With that outlandish proposal, Isaac Dian held out his hand.

The man was quite naturally taken aback, but he took the proffered hand gently, with a weak smile.

“That’s really something. You’d make friends with someone you just met?”

“You don’t want to?”

“No, I don’t mind…”

“Then why not?! I’m over the moon right now! At this point, forget friends—I bet I could become family to the whole world!”

Isaac was grinning like a child. The man in the suit withdrew his hand, his chagrined smile still in place, and slowly lowered himself into the seat across from Isaac.

“May I?”

“You certainly may, partner.”

As before, Isaac’s response was just a little off-kilter, but the man in the suit didn’t seem to care. Slowly, he began to talk to Isaac.

“You know, you’re just like everyone says… And no different from what I’ve seen of you so far, either.”

“Hmm? What’s this? You know me?”

“I do. I’ve heard about you from various people, and I’ve seen you from a distance. To make a long story short, I’m your fan. Yours and Miria Harvent’s.”

“A fan?!” Startled, Isaac looked around, then peered intently at the man. “Mine and Miria’s?”

“Yes.”

What the man had said was extremely suspicious, but Isaac’s eyes sparkled like a kid’s upon discovering a new type of butterfly, and there wasn’t a shred of doubt in them.

“Is that right! Well sure, Miria’s as cute as a top Broadway star, so I can see why she’d have fans! …Why me, though? Actually, uh, what do you mean by ‘fan’?”

Isaac’s question was perfectly natural, and there was a hint of warmth in the other man’s voice as he replied.

“Well, you see…I heard about the two of you from all sorts of people, and I was a bit jealous.”

“Really? What sorts of people?”

Isaac was already speaking to his brand-new acquaintance as if he were a friend he’d known for years.

The man in the suit gazed at him kindly, thinking for just a moment before he spoke.

“Let’s see… The members of the Martillo Family, for example. Or Jacuzzi Splot. The Gandor Family…Czes…Miss Eve Genoard… People like them told me all about you.”

Hearing the names of so many old friends mentioned one after another didn’t seem to make Isaac uneasy at all. On the contrary, he sounded impressed.

“How about that! You sure do know a lot of people, fella! And if so, there really is nothing to worry about. Any friend of theirs is a friend of mine, and I know Miria will be happy, too!”

The man gave an awkward, somewhat embarrassed smile, and Isaac smacked his knee as if to say he’d forgotten the most important thing.

“Oh, right. I hadn’t asked your name yet! I can’t introduce you to everybody this way! I’ll settle for a nickname or something, but tell me your name!”

At Isaac’s nosy question, the man thought for just a moment.

Then, with a troubled smile, he began to introduce himself for the first time.

“Yes, I’m—well, I work as a spy of sorts.”

“A spy?! Wow!”

The word should have raised some eyebrows, but Isaac’s eyes were shining like a child’s.

In response, the man seemed to hesitate a bit more. Finally, sighing, he gave his name.

“Well, it is rather like a nickname, but it’s my real name as well, so…”

“I’m Sham. Call me that, if you would.”

Meanwhile Somewhere in Chicago

As Chicago’s auto manufacturing industry had grown, so had the number of factories.

The city was studded with a variety of industrial works, but as the world plunged into the Great Depression, they became the source of all sorts of drama, which then disappeared… And the town was littered with abandoned factories whose drama had ended.

For example, the one that Graham Specter had been using as a hideout. In this city, there were multiple factories that acted as secret bases for gangs and hooligans, and sometimes as mafia bootlegging sites, and their drama was still unfolding.

Prohibition had ended, but bootlegging wasn’t limited to liquor, and even now, many people involved in underground occupations put themselves in that no-man’s-land between dreams and despair.

And among them was a certain group of young delinquents who were already acquainted with both.

The abandoned plant they had used was one of several in a deserted area. However, after an incident involving murders a few years back, the delinquents had made themselves scarce, and afterward, once the police stopped dropping by, it had decayed into a complete ghost factory.

And now for the first time in three years, its lights were on.

There was no welcome for the returning residents—only the smells of oil and rusted iron.

The mood was broken by the cry of one delinquent, which hadn’t changed a bit in those three years.

“Aaaaaaaaaaah… Wha…wh-wh-wh-what’ll we do…?”

“Calm down, Jacuzzi.”

Jacuzzi was crouched down by the factory wall, hugging his head. Gently, Nice reached out for him—but her kindness only made Jacuzzi sadder.

“It’s my fault. They suspect you of being a crazy bomber because of me, Nice…!”

“I’ve always been crazy about bombs, so that isn’t a problem! Besides, Jacuzzi, really, it isn’t your fault!”

“Yes it is! I’m the one who said we should run. If we’d stayed there and explained this to the police, they might have believed it was all a misunderstanding…”

Jacuzzi seemed so discouraged that he might as well have been regretting his whole life, and Nice admonished him.

“You would have turned over the kid to them instead?”

“Ngh…”

Nice had pointed to the boy lying wrapped in a blanket.

The boy seemed to be much younger than Jacuzzi’s group, and he was asleep, exposing the painful-looking suture scars all over his body. His injuries didn’t seem to be life-threatening, but Jacuzzi’s friends had gone to hunt up an unlicensed doctor they knew.

They couldn’t be that optimistic about the health of the mystery kid, but above and beyond that, their current situation was extremely bad.

Ordinarily, they could have just left the boy with a doctor and been on their merry way. But if they did that, Nice would still be under suspicion, and they’d also have to live with the guilt of having handed a young boy over to the cops.

That said, this boy was clearly the one who’d caused that particular explosion, so maybe it was a very Jacuzzi-like thing to feel guilty about, but…on top of that, there was another fear.

Once they had arrived back at the hideout, Nice had murmured something after she’d administered first aid to the boy.

“Seeing that explosion up close, I’m sure of it. Well, I was already sure, so…it feels more like I have confirmation.”

“Wh-what?”

“The bomb this boy used. It’s the same stuff we stole,” she said.

“Huh…?” For just a moment, Jacuzzi blinked, staring blankly. The second he realized what she meant, the skin around his tattoo went even paler. “You mean…”

“I mean it’s the same as the bombs we stole from the Flying Pussyfoot and sold,” Nice murmured darkly. “If they’re new, mass-produced explosives, then there’s still hope, but…”

Jacuzzi imagined an utterly hopeless situation—namely, the idea that these might be the bombs they’d released into the world.

White as a sheet, Jacuzzi began to tremble.

He was anxious now that they’d gotten pulled into trouble after all.

He was uneasy because of all the unknowns: Who was this boy, and why was he using these bombs? Where were Graham and his group, and what were they doing?

He was afraid of the Russo Family, and hostility toward his friends’ killers also smoldered in the depths of his heart.

All these emotions surged around and around in Jacuzzi’s head, manifesting as tears and trembling.

There was one thing that hadn’t yet reached the ears of this cowardly, persistently frightened young man.

The growing uproar at an establishment not so very far from this place.

…Not yet.

Inside Dolce

The bar was in chaos.

No chairs and tableware were flying; no wounds were being carved into the furniture in the destruction. But compared with the current situation, that might have been more reassuring.

This wasn’t the tension of a brawl, but more like the feeling just before two gunslingers staged a shoot-out.

As the air grew progressively more strained, there were just two men who seemed completely oblivious to it.

And they happened to be the ones creating it.

“My, my. If it isn’t the imported muscle. What’s it been, thirty-five hours and twenty-four minutes or so?” Christopher asked, shaking the tingling arm he’d used to catch the wrench and acting disinterested.

Graham responded with a relaxed smile. “Nope. Thirty-six hours, fifty-nine minutes, and twenty-three seconds.”

“Is that what it was?”

“Kidding. I just pulled that out of my ass.”

“Hey, so did I!” With a short bark of laughter, Christopher flung the wrench into the air. “Still, it looks like they’re grilling ribs, so I suppose I have to fight you now.”

Without even glancing at the wrench he’d tossed, he coolly extended his hand, planning to catch it neatly when it fell.

Instead, the wrench came down behind him, hitting the floor with a loud clang.

“…One more try.”

Picking up the wrench without looking particularly embarrassed, Christopher began spinning the tool in his hand and finished his thought.

“Heh-heh. Barkeep. Put in an order of ribs for me as well! Memphis-style.”

“Huh?! Y-yes, sir!” yelped the old proprietor, overwhelmed by the momentum, and he fled back to the kitchen.

As he watched him go, Christopher threw the wrench into the air again.

The act meant absolutely nothing, but the atmosphere in the bar tensed as though it was the most important thing there was— Until that tension was nearly shattered by yet someone else who wasn’t very susceptible to it.

“Aren’t you going to order for me, Chris?”

“Ah!”

Christopher’s composed expression changed to surprise, and he turned back to the entrance, completely ignoring all the eyes that were fixed on him inside the bar.

As he did, the wrench he’d thrown landed on his head.

The dull whunk came with a “Ghk!” from Christopher. Having cushioned its fall on his skull, the wrench fell more slowly, and Ricardo caught it where he stood right in front of him.

“…What are you doing, Chris?”

“Owww… Um, just a little preprandial exercise.”

Rubbing his head, he turned to face the room again, retrieved the wrench from Ricardo, and jabbed it at Graham in an attempt to regain his dignity.

“Well done, fella.”

“…That’s just like you. Right now, I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.”

“Gah! Is this any time for joking around, you imbeciles?!” Between the two of them, Sickle was furious at being left completely out of the loop.

Before anyone had noticed, the Poet had slipped away from the triangle they formed, and he was currently leaning against the back side of a pillar, keeping himself out of harm’s way.

“Explain all this! You know that monster in the coveralls, Christopher? Who’s the kid behind you?! And where did Rail and Frank go?!”

“Hmm. I’d really love to explain, but…it doesn’t look as if he’s going to let me.”

Christopher was looking at the man in the coveralls. With a series of light smacks, he was spinning a wrench that was about five times the size of the one Christopher had, and looking his way with a weapon-drunk madness.

Then, still spinning the wrench, he launched into a long monologue at Christopher.

“Let me tell you a sad…and disappointing story.”

“Huh. Sure, I’d listen to that. Go on and tell me, if you would.”

“A little while back, I went and made a promise. Just a quick little guarantee meant to set the owner’s mind at ease. ‘I’ll finish this before those ribs are ready,’ I told him. Yes, I promised. I can’t, under any circumstances, betray my own reassurances. As a result, starting now— I intend to take you on with everything I’ve got. For whose sake, you ask? That’s right: for the owner’s sake, and for the sake of my own hungry self!”

“That’s a sound argument.” Christopher smiled wryly as he answered.

Graham gave a satisfied smile, then made an odd suggestion. “If you get it, then scoot over a little bit to the left. My left.”

Christopher frowned for a moment, but before long, he nodded in agreement and slowly stepped through the bar.

“Like this?”

“A little more… Yeah, there, that’s good.”

““?””

What are they doing?

Almost everyone in the bar was wondering the same thing.

The pair in question were apparently the only two who understood. No one else knew what to do; they just stood there, holding their breath and watching, but then—

—Graham’s lips, twisted with insanity, gave a perfectly straight answer.

“If you’re there, young master Ricardo and the sister in green won’t get dragged into this.”

In the same moment— With unbelievable speed, the enormous wrench sliced horizontally through space.

It flew as smoothly as a disc, with the force of a cannonball.

The silver mass, this pure desire for destruction, was drawn toward Christopher.

And then—

—as he gazed at the incoming silver object, Christopher thought, no more ruffled than usual, Wow, that looks a lot more lethal than Leeza’s chakrams.

At the same time, the experience he’d cultivated through long years of mortal combat calmly warned him, If you take that full-force, you’ll die.

Chronologically, it was only a second or two, but the space of that single breath felt very slow to Christopher. He figured he could probably think quite a lot of things. Still, he realized that could turn into his life flashing before his eyes, and he decided not to think anything and just evade on instinct.

Instantly, he launched himself off the ground, attempting to leap sideways.

But he no longer had enough time to avoid it with room to spare.

The rush of air from the spinning wrench grazed his side, and the sensation of death passing right by him set all the nerves in his body on edge.

That said, he did not fall in vain.

As he leaped sideways, diving low, Christopher kicked his legs up hard, landing a solid kick right in the center of the spinning, disc-like wrench.

“…Whoops!”

The shock it delivered to his legs was greater than he’d anticipated, but the toes of his leather shoes disrupted the wrench’s rotation until it wobbled, losing momentum and bounding straight up.

The one responsible for the feat didn’t complete his fall to the ground. Instead, he caught himself on his arms, and then righted himself, like a gymnast on a pommel horse.

At the same time, the huge wrench hit the wall with a clang and bounced almost to the ceiling, slowing even further.

For a spur-of-the-moment reaction, Christopher had managed a feat that could safely be declared superhuman.

In doing so, he’d attempted to steal the enormous wrench—Graham’s greatest weapon—and advance the situation to his own advantage, but…

…with his red eyes, Christopher saw a blue shadow flying through his periphery.

“…!”

The gazes of the people around them had all been following the huge wrench as well. Naturally, this included Christopher, who’d been the one to kick it.

But the man who’d originally thrown it was already in motion.

No sooner had he hurled the wrench than Graham had leaped after it, running up the chairs and tables between him and Christopher as if they were a stairway.

Naturally, there was no way he could overtake an object he’d thrown, but…

…the one who caught the enormous wrench as it ricocheted off the wall wasn’t Christopher, who’d kicked it into the air, but Graham Specter, launching himself off his third table in a jump that nearly took him to the ceiling.

Once he had the wrench, Graham kicked the wall in front of him, concentrating the strength in his legs for just a moment in order to change directions, then fell toward Christopher.

Of course, as he did so, he raised the wrench high over his head.

The one-man offensive was so magnificent that Graham’s friends, and even Sickle and the Poet, imagined the sound of Christopher’s skull being crushed.

However, the sound that rang out was the whistle of metal slicing through the air.

Sparks scattered.

Christopher had whipped out the small wrench he’d caught a moment earlier, holding it in both hands, and used it to stop the weapon as it swung down on him.

“Hah!” Graham’s eyes widened in astonishment, but he was smiling with pleasure. “So you stopped this attack, huh? …You sure did. Yeah, you stopped it real good!”

In contrast to his hyperactive compliment, he put more and more force into his hands.

“Thanks for that… Hup!”

In response, Christopher also mobilized all the muscles in his body to shove it back.

As they pushed at each other fiercely, they ended up eye to eye. The situation felt a bit like two samurai warding each other off with their sword guards, but the difference in weapon size made it more of a battle between a jitte and a pole sword.

“I’ll be honest here! I think you’re pretty amazing, actually! You’re only the second person who’s ever stopped my wrench this completely!” Graham shouted, remembering a kind of tension he’d felt only once before.

When Jacuzzi Splot and his group—whom he now treated with affection as his sworn little brothers and sisters—had first come to New York, Graham’s group had intended to hand them over to the Russo Family and pick up the bounty.

However, due to some missed connections and mistaken assumptions, they’d ended up kidnapping Chané Laforet, and in the process, he’d ended up crossing blades with her as well. Well, crossing blade and tool, to be accurate.

At that point, in a snappy entrance worthy of Zorro, from The Curse of Capistrano, a redheaded man had appeared.

The self-proclaimed Felix Walken had caught the wrench Graham had flung at him with all his might, then lobbed it back even faster.

It was impossible to predict where the present situation would go next as Graham remembered the past. Shaking off the memory of that exasperating redhead, he pictured the faces of the sworn younger siblings he’d parted with just a few days earlier, Jacuzzi and Nice.

Come to think of it, I wonder how Jacuzzi and them are doing.

Graham, who had no idea that they were currently very near this bar, smiled wanly as he thought:

Can’t afford to lose here, huh?

“Sad… Yeah, that’s right! Let me tell you a sad story of mine!”

“Ha-ha! Sure, go for it!”

There was a metallic clank, and the wrenches sprang apart.

The combatants leaped away from each other, then immediately clashed again. He shouldn’t have had any leeway to talk, but Graham kept going.

“Last time, it was a redheaded fella—and this time a red-eyed fella caught it, huh?! What is going on? What is this? Is red my unlucky color? If so, that would mean all the blood in my body is unlucky for me… And I’m livin’ life to the fullest with misfortune itself in my veins. Not too shabby, huh? Huh?!”

“Maybe not, but that line is!”

“Shut your yap, Shaft!”

Whipping his head around, Graham yelled at his friend offering comebacks from a distance.

It could have been a fatal opening, but Christopher had also turned to look at Shaft.

“I thought it was pretty nifty, myself.”

“Thanks! But I’m gonna break you!”

No sooner had he thanked Christopher than Graham jumped onto a table again and immediately leaped clear over his opponent and into a forward flip.

Without breaking the momentum of his rotation, he tried to strike Christopher’s spine with his wrench.

But a moment sooner, Christopher dived forward.

Feeling a vicious gust of wind at his back, he ducked under a table, grateful that he’d managed to evade.

Then he kicked a chair into the air, trying to send it crashing into Graham’s legs now that they were firmly planted on the floor—but failed.

Graham had heard the sound of the kick connecting with the chair, and a moment before it reached him, he jumped into the air and stepped off it to launch himself forward, attempting to smash the restaurant’s table with his wrench.

I’ll have to pay for the damage, huh…

With that laid-back concern running through his head, he began to mercilessly bring down the wrench—when he realized that the table was heading his way.

“?!”

The table Christopher had kicked up toward him delivered a body blow that knocked Graham back a little ways. Just as he regained his balance, he spotted a light rushing toward him—scarlet, crimson, red—and he whipped the wrench forward to defend himself.

However, Christopher was ready for that, and the blow he unleashed came not from the small blunt instrument in his hand, but from the sturdy legs that had just kicked the table.

With its momentum boosted by a kick to the floor, his knee drove straight into Graham’s side.

“…—!”

Graham felt an impact and pain that seemed to make his blood itself boil. He curled up on reflex, but he summoned all his willpower to bend backward. Then, with a greasy sweat running down his cheeks—he sent his forehead and the bangs hiding it crashing into Christopher’s face.

“…!”

They each took a step back, taking a break to ease the pain and calm their ragged breathing.

Then, before either of them had managed to fully catch their breath, they both started to laugh.

“Ha…!”

“Ha-ha-ha-ha!”

Then, finally, Graham fell silent. The two of them drew in deep breaths, preparing for the next instant, but—

—suddenly, a shock ran through both men’s legs. They lost their balance almost simultaneously, and their butts landed hard on the floor.

Christopher and Graham looked around in unison, wondering what had happened.

Their eyes found the figure of a woman in a fluttering green dress.

Light and smooth as a pendulum, Sickle stood back up from sweeping their legs out from under them.

“I was sitting tight and watching…but I don’t have the time to put up with your slapstick routine anymore,” she said in her dispassionate, masculine way.

The red-eyed young man shook his head, looking troubled. “You mustn’t meddle in this, Sickle. This is between him and me—”

“Don’t worry.”

Sickle’s face was expressionless, but as she shot Christopher down, her anger burned in her eyes.

“I’ll kick you both down.”

What had happened to their reunion after so many years?

Glancing at his companions and their enemy, who were now involved in a perfect three-way battle, the Poet gave a bone-weary sigh from his spot behind the pillar, then murmured a long, meaningless speech.

“Chaos—is a momentary trial given to us by God. At the same time, it is also an illusion… If the trial itself is an illusion, then should we consider the burgeoning of the spirit gained after its scars have been overcome a mere shadow, unable even to become the feed scattered in the dismal corf…?”

The Poet was fully aware that there was no meaning in that string of words, but his bombastic, fanciful phrases never stopped.

Even as he moved his lips, he was hoping that this chaos would settle down as soon as possible.

I’d at least like them to do something about it before the ribs are done.

However, he knew he was only a powerless poet, so—

—in the end, all he could do was pray.

After that, he simply let his feelings drift among the fortunes and misfortunes chance had led them to.

However…there was one doubt he couldn’t completely shake, and it made him apprehensive.

It was no more than a hunch, but it was a very important one.

His group, the young man in the coveralls, and even Christopher had come together here.

In all of vast Chicago, they’d run into one another here on this day, at this time.

This prompted a simple, clear question, and the Poet silently repeated it:

Was it really a coincidence?

Just that one phrase, over and over.

Granted, at this point, there was nothing else he could do, but…

In the combination kitchen and office

As this comedic violence was playing out in the dining area, back in the kitchen, the old couple were at their wit’s end.

The kitchen felt a little roomier than the bar’s external appearance suggested.

A thin wall divided the room in half, and there was a combined office and living space behind it.

The setup certainly wasn’t sanitary, but unless you were particularly fastidious, it wasn’t an affront to hygiene. In fact, the kitchen itself was polished to a shine, without a speck of mold to be seen. Several sets of pork ribs with various seasonings sat in a row in front of the oven, and inside, the first orders of meat were roasting.

“…You see, dear? I told you so. I said I had a bad feeling about it.”

Just ten minutes after they opened, a wrench had flown through the bar. Then they’d begun to hear a clamoring and the sound of things breaking.

“W-well, it’s happened now, so there’s nothing to be done. I’ll go find a way to calm those folks down, so you stay here and keep cooking!”

“Darling! Have you lost your mind?”

An absurd situation like this, and her husband was telling her to keep cooking! The woman looked startled, but the proprietor tried to reassure his wife with a forced smile, and drew a very deep breath.

“Oh, it’ll be all right. If it comes down to it, the telephone’s right there, so we can just call the police. It’s not as if a robber is shooting up the place with a shotgun. It’s only some customers getting into a little spat.”

“I hope it doesn’t become anything worse than ‘a little spat’…” the wife murmured, sounding tired.

Her husband gave her shoulders a gentle squeeze, then spoke to her quietly.

“I’m the one who opened the bar, so this is my problem to solve. For now, sit tight back here so you don’t get pulled into it.” With that, he left the kitchen.

She and her husband had been together for many years, but her unease seemed to have won out over his reassurances. She reached out, intending to call the police.

I’m sorry, dear. I really do have an awfully bad feeling about this.

She didn’t know whether it was the people responsible for this ruckus or someone who was watching them from a distance, but somewhere in the group of current customers, something was giving her a bad feeling similar to the one before. She wasn’t psychic or anything like it. This was nothing more than instinct, the experience of the long years she’d lived, but…

…she decided to trust that hunch.

One of those customers…I think…isn’t normal…

Was it Christopher and the other homunculi, or was it Graham, who marched to the beat of his own drum? Both, perhaps? Either way, in order to ward off the bad premonition she was getting from the group, she reached for the receiver.

The next moment—

—that bad feeling welled up inside her again.

This time, it wasn’t even based in experience. It really was no more than instinct.

Something—something about the receiver felt wrong. Like she shouldn’t pick it up.

The telephone itself seemed like bad news.

It was a very strong sense of foreboding, just like the one she’d been feeling for a while now.

However, despite her misgivings, the wife picked up the receiver—

—and then she knew for certain that her premonition had been correct.

She’d lifted the receiver, but she didn’t even hear the tone that would connect her to the operator. Only silence greeted her ears.

The line was dead.