Baccano! - Volume 18 - Chapter 5

Chapter 5 The Girl in Black Regrets Nothing

Meanwhile An apartment somewhere in New York

Will I be able to kill him?

A woman in a black dress was thinking dangerous things that didn’t match her style.

However, a look at the worn knife in her hand made her thoughts seem tame by comparison.

The blade had been polished to a mirror shine, and the girl’s eyes were reflected in it.

Chané Laforet asked her reflection a question.

Have I changed?

She was remembering her past.

She’d always given everything she had for the sake of her father, Huey Laforet. She’d done whatever he wanted, killing included. She’d thought she’d grown up according to his wishes—but perhaps she wasn’t there yet.

She might not have satisfied him yet.

No, it was probably presumptuous to wish for that.

Humans couldn’t live without the sun, but that didn’t mean it loved them.

She mustn’t wish for her father’s love. Being his tool was enough.

When he used her and threw her away, as long as he said her name in that final moment, it would be enough.

That single act would vindicate her entire life.

If he didn’t call her name—

Sad as it was, it would simply mean she hadn’t been good enough for him.

She could never resent her father.

Once she was certain she hadn’t lost the smallest fragment of that resolve, Chané thought to herself again.

I have to kill him—that man. That damnable man who declared he’d kill Father.

Ladd Russo… Can I kill him?

The fact that there was a little doubt in her heart made Chané gasp.

She stabbed her knife into the table, as if she were running it through her own heart.

The weapon sank into the wooden tabletop with the force of a hatchet. Its blade didn’t chip at all. From the many marks on the table, it seemed likely the girl had done this over and over, whenever she was upset with herself.

Realizing the back of her neck was damp with sweat, she slowly looked up.

She was leaving the world of self-examination and returning to reality.

“……”

Wordlessly, Chané began to pace around the room.

Ordinarily, she lived with Jacuzzi and the others at the Genoard family’s second residence. However, when she wanted to be alone, she often came to this cheap apartment. Even Jacuzzi’s group didn’t know where she went.

The place had originally been a hideout for the Lemures. She’d been surprised it was still usable now that the team had been wiped out. The fact that there hadn’t been any notice from the landlord was unsettling, but for now, Chané was still using it as a hideaway.

It probably hadn’t been built all that long ago. The color of the stone walls was new, and she didn’t see any damage on the ceiling. Not only that, it had a comparatively new bathroom with a shower, the type that had grown popular in the 1920s.

Realizing even her palms were sweaty, Chané put her knife away and headed for that bathroom, her face still expressionless.

“……”

As a rule, Chané didn’t use hot water when she showered.

Even as the frigid February water pelted her, she stayed lost in her own world, her expression unchanging.

She stood in a bathroom where no steam hung in the air, her beautiful limbs bare in the spray.

Instead of seeming erotic, her toned muscles and lithe body gave her the same sort of pure beauty as an ancient Greek statue.

“……”

While the cold water made her body tense, there was one boiling thought in her heart: She had to kill.

She was trying to summon the unshakable killer she once was.

To that end, first, she reflected on the change that had occurred in her from the perspective of her previous self.

I’ve lost my sharp edges.

How many years has it been since the last time I killed someone?

On the Flying Pussyfoot, she’d done away with the white-suited nobodies.

Now that she thought about it, that might have been a bad move.

Back then…I…

That wasn’t for Father. I killed based on my own feelings.

As she’d walked through the train, she’d met a man who was trying to kill a young girl—a senator’s daughter—whom the black-suited people intended to take hostage.

True, when she’d killed the man in the white suit before he could kill the girl, she’d been following the black suits’ orders. However, the man had been about to kill the young girl to satisfy his own desires, and if someone had told her a very tiny bit—possibly less than one percent, but still—of her urge to end his life had been personal, she couldn’t have denied it.

Her goal was to kill for the sake of her mission. If a speck of the sense that she wouldn’t lose any sleep over killing a particular target mingled with the mission, did that make it a betrayal of her father?

In actual fact, she didn’t think that one kill had changed her all that much. Although, if the leak of a single drop of water was how dam failures began, that might have been hers.

Immediately after that, she’d turned those violent feelings mixed with rage on Ladd Russo.

After, bemusement had joined the tangle inside her, and she had focused those emotions on the red monster.

Once she’d left the train, she’d turned a mixture of homicidal malice and confusion on a guy named Graham.

And after all of those experiences and so much time with no orders to follow, she’d gone several years without killing anyone.

Unfortunately, that man in the white suit, Ladd, wasn’t the sort of soft enemy she’d be able to kill in a state like this.

Graham was devoted to Ladd. Depending on the situation, he might end up helping him.

A helper.

The moment she thought that, a man’s face flickered through her mind—and her heart grew more unsettled than ever before.

“……”

She turned off the shower, and the spray stopped.

Countless water droplets trickled over Chané’s skin, which was as smooth as polished marble.

Her expression was desolate.

She’d never show such melancholy in public.

She didn’t know how her face looked right now, but she knew the identity of the complicated emotions that were welling up inside her. In her heart, she spoke his name.

…Claire.

I really have gone astray.

The moment she thought of the possibility that Graham would come to help, Chané had automatically remembered what the man had said to her.

“—Or should I kill the guy who’s trying to kill your family? That white suit?”

He’d said it on the roof of a speeding train.

His words hadn’t been lost in the rattle of the wheels against the tracks. They’d reached Chané’s ears with startling clarity.

“So I had an idea: If I marry you, I’ll be Huey’s son. That’ll make him family for me, too, and in that case, problem solved.”

It had been an impossible proposal.

At the time, it had been hard for Chané to understand what he was saying.

She’d even wondered whether it might be some kind of code.

“Unlike your comrades, I won’t sell you out.

“I’d never need to, see. Tough guys, people who are stronger than anyone, never betray their comrades. There’s just no sense in it. And I’m strong. Understand?

“I also won’t steal the secret of Huey’s immortality, the way you’re worried about. If he says he’ll give it to me, sure, I’ll take it, but I won’t grab it away from him. I don’t need to.”

However, later on, Chané realized something—or rather, she was forced to see it.

The man was simply telling her what, for him, was the truth.

“Even without the power of immortality, there’s no way I’m gonna die. Because I believe I won’t. So you just stay quiet and believe in me.

“Believe that I’m a man who’ll never die.”

Even now, she could recall that red monster’s words vividly.

She’d witnessed immeasurable strength, which was great enough to make what he’d said a reality here in New York, time and time again.

Claire Stanfield.

Now, he was calling himself Felix Walken, but Chané still called him Claire, even though no one else did.

Call wasn’t quite the word for it: She was mute, so she simply thought of him by that name, in her heart.

For the most part, Claire had understood what she wanted to say just by looking into her eyes. Chané found this very strange, but she’d never thought it was creepy. On the contrary, the fact that her thoughts were getting through to someone made her feel the same emotion she felt when her father praised her: pure delight.

Chané wasn’t incompetent enough to deny her own feelings by force.

After all, if she hadn’t even been able to analyze herself, she’d never have been any use to Huey.

I feel…fond of Claire.

She could accept this as fact, and that made her sadder than anything. She didn’t think Claire had softened her sharp edges personally, but in another sense, he’d defanged her.

I’m…hopeless…

I’m sure I’ll end up relying on Claire.

After all, I trust him…

She felt no hesitation about killing her father’s enemies, but she couldn’t deny that she had lost her edge.

Even if she didn’t win, Claire would handle it somehow. She understood better than anyone that she could not allow herself to be dependent. However, she couldn’t completely banish that feeling from her heart.

After all, she knew Claire had an absolute strength, and she could trust him more than any of the others she’d met so far.

If Chané asked him to help with this, he was bound to say, Sure. I’ll kill him for you. You just take it easy, Chané.

To Chané, there was a pain in this as well.

I can’t do anything for Claire. If I rely on him, I won’t be able to move—not even for Father’s sake. If I’m no use to Father, I’m worthless.

I’m worthless, so why does Claire always…smile at me?

For a little while, there in the bathroom, Chané thought to herself with her eyes lowered.

She was thinking she really did have to kill Ladd Russo herself.

To reclaim the fangs she’d lost.

To face Claire as his equal.

And more than anything, she had to stay the version of herself that was useful to her father.

I have to think back—to the time when I wielded my blades without thinking of anything.

Yes… Just like that time…

She was remembering what had happened right before their assault on the train.

The man who’d sold her father out and tried to make the Lemures his personal property.

For a man who was only a little older than she was, maybe he’d shown impressive initiative, but the only thing that half-formed resourcefulness and recklessness had gotten him was a miserable death.

When she’d cut off his right hand at the wrist, Chané hadn’t felt anything to speak of. She hadn’t even felt anger over his betrayal of her father. It had been like crumpling a piece of scrap paper.

Now, as she looked back, an emotion that wasn’t anger welled up.

It was genuine pity. How unlucky and foolish that man had been, getting above himself and racing toward his own death.

Right now, though, she didn’t need that pity, either.

Chané simply looked back on the past to retake what she’d felt at the time.

His face was hazy, but she remembered his name clearly.

Nader.

Nader Schasschule.

That was the name of the last man Chané had cut down while feeling absolutely nothing.

She hadn’t killed him directly, but Goose had blown up their hideout immediately afterward, so he probably wasn’t among the living.

Whether he’d died in the explosion or bled to death, she’d set him up to die.

Like a clockwork machine, with no emotion whatsoever, she’d simply performed the job she’d been given. He hadn’t been enough of an opponent for her to feel anger toward him. She’d simply been taking out the trash. She’d cut off his hand without even feeling pity. She had to remember what that had been like.

The sensation of her knife sinking into flesh, Nader’s expression as all the hope drained out of it. Her own heart, unwavering even as she was splashed with the traitor’s fresh blood.

After silently immersing herself in that memory for a few seconds and quietly regulating her breathing, she raised her head.

Her face was perfectly blank. She could no longer feel the faintest trace of the weakness that had been there a moment ago.

It was just like before, when she’d been a machine who wielded her knives for her father’s sake.

Still expressionless, Chané dried herself off with a white towel.

She’d heard that Ladd Russo would be back tonight at the earliest.

She’d settle her score with him then. She wouldn’t let him take the initiative.

Chané didn’t want to cause trouble for Jacuzzi and the others, so she resolved to act on her own, without returning to the Genoard family’s mansion.

Just as she’d made that decision, her sharp, focused senses caught the faint creak of a floorboard.

—!

The sound had come from outside the bathroom, probably from the bedroom.

It had been so quiet that she would ordinarily have missed it.

Chané didn’t remember hearing the door open or close, but she was certain.

Somebody’s here.

The only one who knew she was using this apartment was Claire Stanfield. Nonetheless, he wouldn’t have opened the door stealthily, and if he’d heard that she was in the shower, he’d immediately have said, Okay if I peep?

Quietly narrowing her eyes and holding her breath, Chané picked up the knife she’d left beside the sink. Even though keeping one in the bathroom would risk the tool rusting, she’d chosen to keep it within arm’s reach, a choice she was glad of now.

She slowly opened the bathroom door. She could see the bedroom at the end of the hall.

The intruder seemed to be standing in a blind spot beyond the doorway; she couldn’t see him from the hallway. However, there was definitely a shadow moving on the floor of that room.

Calculating where the intruder would be standing from the window and the position of that shadow, Chané erased all emotion from every cell in her body.

It was probably best to assume this wasn’t a thief who’d just happened to break in. If anyone knew about this apartment, it would probably be one of the former Lemures.

Spike.

The name of the sniper who’d been her colleague came to mind. On the other hand, she couldn’t see a sniper deciding to come to a cramped place like this, where he’d be at a disadvantage. In that case, was it his companion, the former Felix?

Either way, she couldn’t afford to get careless or hold back. She also didn’t need to; if that shadow belonged to Claire, he’d probably stop her knife easily.

Coming to that conclusion, Chané jumped as noiselessly as a cat and reached the door in a single leap. She didn’t wait for her opponent to hear her land and turn around as she made her next move.

From a low stance, Chané unleashed a low-trajectory uppercut.

The hilt of the sharp knife was in her fist—she’d sink its blade into her opponent’s neck.

That was all she had to do.

Without hatred or regret.

She just had to accept the fact that she’d killed her opponent.

That alone would be enough to solidly return her to the past.

However—

Just before the blade reached the intruder, Chané froze up.

It wasn’t just a physical response.

……?

……

……—

“ ?!”

Her heart passed through several stages of emotion before it went completely blank.

Incidentally, the man’s clothes, which were reflected in her eyes, were so very, very white—and they made his glossy black hair stand out in even sharper contrast.

“Why don’t you at least put on some clothes?”

The moment she heard that voice, Chané thought she must be dreaming. When had it begun? Had she thought so deeply in the shower that she’d fallen asleep? Or was she still on the Flying Pussyfoot, and had all the rest been a dream, including her encounter with Claire?

As that worry began to spiral, the man’s voice pulled her back to reality.

“People will think you’re an immodest child, Chané.”

Chané’s naked body was as well-proportioned as a model’s, but even when the man looked at it, he didn’t blush. He wore the same smile he’d worn as he watched her grow up, from the time she was very young.

It was more the smile of an artisan gazing at his creation than that of a father looking at his daughter.

And it was that rather cold smile that convinced her.

The one who was standing in front of her was, without a doubt, him.

Her father.

The immortal by the name of Huey Laforet. The terrorist who was trying to transform the world.

Surprise over several things—including the fact that one of his eyes was covered by a bandage—crashed over Chané’s heart like a furious wave. However, at the same time, endless joy coursed through her, telling her none of her questions mattered at all.

“……! ……!”

As his daughter stood stunned, her eyes brimming with all sorts of emotions, Huey simply and blandly stated his business.

“I need a few assistants. I’ve a new experiment to run.” The man spoke in a leisurely way—certainly not like someone who was talking to his own daughter. “Will you help me, Chané?”

There was no reason for her to turn him down.

She wouldn’t even have minded risking her life.

If Huey had said I want your heart at this point, she would immediately have plunged her knife into her own breast.

Chané’s eyes were filled with delight and a will that was stronger than it had ever been.

“There’s no need for all that enthusiasm, Chané.” The man smiled at her, shaking his head.

“After all, this experiment is a bit of a gamble.”

Meanwhile On the Atlantic Ocean

“It sounds as though Master Huey has made it safely into Manhattan, the site of the experiment.”

“He’s early.”

It was February, and a cold wind blustered over the Atlantic.

The men were conversing while they stood on the deck of a large cargo ship. They were clad in gas masks and black cold-weather gear from head to toe. They couldn’t see each other’s faces at all.

“Yes, he said he wanted to speak with his daughter first.”

“…That’s unusual. Leeza’s one thing, but to think he’d go see Chané voluntarily…”

“He may be planning to use every pawn at his disposal.”

The man did seem to respect Huey. However, he clearly did not feel the same about Huey’s daughter.

Standing by the ship’s gunwale, the men went on talking with tension in their voices.

“Since the Lemures are gone, I’d guessed he’d come to Larva, and to us in Rhythm, but…”

“Didn’t think even Time would be out in full force.”

These men, members of Rhythm, were looking at several shapes floating on the sunset ocean.

The shapes were several dozen seaplanes and five flying boats.

It had been a little over thirty years since the Wright brothers made the first successful flight in 1903.

Since that time, aircraft had undergone remarkable developments. The Great War had generated a demand for military planes, and they were continuing to evolve on a variety of fronts. In the midst of this, seaplanes and flying boats—both of which could take off and land on water—had been developing as well and were spreading around the world.

They would later lose their share to landplanes. However, takeoffs on short runways were still a strain for the technology of this era, and since oceans and rivers could be used as long runways, seaplanes were considered extremely useful. Some models from outstanding manufacturers could achieve speeds of over four hundred forty miles per hour, and it truly was the golden age of seaplanes.

The men from Rhythm were looking at the stars of the aviation world. On top of that, while they were based on planes from existing manufacturers, they seemed to have been tinkered with here and there. That said, it wasn’t yet possible to tell specifically how they’d been modified.

At that time, seaplanes weren’t built with attached machine guns. For the most part, they were used for patrols, recon, and surveys of ballistic impacts. With this many of them, though, if explosives were dropped from the air by hand, they could function quite well as weapons.

As a matter of fact, only an airline company or the military could have procured this many aircraft.

Naturally, Huey was neither of these things.

This overwhelming equipment sent a chill down the spines of the two Rhythm members.

“Is the upcoming experiment a war?” he asked, his tone completely serious.

The other man shook his head. “According to Master Huey, it’s a modest gamble.”

“…Has he ever done anything that wasn’t a gamble?”

“Right, so it’s business as usual. Master Huey’s experiments are always gambles, and he probably just wants to know what will happen.

“This time, he’s raised the stakes a bit, that’s all.”