Глава 12

Or maybe I oughta take this chance to make sure the old hag never crosses me again?

(Muffled braying)

Ugh, that little shit's not dead either?

(Menacing growl)

Hmph, still so nasty.

Mon3tr was very heavily damaged. It wasn't until two hours ago that it recovered its motor functions. I suggest you avoid provoking it.

I'm saving its master's life. At the very least, it's gotta learn to treat me with a bit more respect.

Otherwise, hehe—

(Compromising low roar)

Now that's more like it.

The Royal Court fighters are heading this way! Quick, we gotta get out of here before they...

Oh, quit your yapping, Closure. It hurts my ears.

Whose fault do you think that is?!

If you're so worried, get your men to move double time already.

I know a couple good spots outside the city. Wanna take a look?

With the supplies we have on hand, best-case scenario, we should be able to last another week.

What about worst-case scenario?

Alright, I get it.

Cador and I will keep trying to come up with something.

What is the situation like outside?

A borough that normally has less than ten thousand residents suddenly finds its population surging multiple times over. No additional supplies. No police. No law and order.

We're still alive even after the last several days. We should be thankful that the citizens still have a shred of morality.

It could also be because Cador's fists pack a punch.

I don't deny that.

Have you heard anything about what the dukes' plans are? I heard... Duke Windermere's barracks aren't far from here.

I'm sure... they won't turn a blind eye to our predicament.

I've heard rumors... Some have said they saw a blaze surge through the night sky.

We all saw that flying thing the Sarkaz had... On the day we were cast out of Londinium, its shadow swept through the entire plate.

My guess is that the dukes are all very fearful of that, and they're only probing how to attack it right now.

Of course, it's also possible that the outside world has gone to hell, and Londinium has been bombed to smithereens. Who knows?

Maybe the dukes don't know that there are still people alive here?

Maybe... they thought all of us... died.

If only we had a way to get word out...

What way? The intercity net is completely paralyzed.

Hapless sods trapped in the lockdown zone like us should just worry about whether we'll have anything to eat tomorrow.

It's hard to believe that just a few days ago, we were still watching that awful Wrankwood movie in the video shop.

What was that movie called again? <i>War of the Mutant Geeks?</i>

The ending was actually pretty touching, though.

I wouldn't know. I fell asleep. All I saw was the nomadic city getting blown up in the explosion at the very end.

All I remember is that Mr. McClaren was awfully generous with his money. After all, we helped him deal with the video shop's troubles plenty of times.

I only hope that he is doing well. The situation outside wouldn't do his neurasthenia any favors.

I stopped by the video shop for a look. His door was sealed shut.

Why did you always sleep in the video shop, though? I remember we met each other because...

Because your laughter woke me up.

Sorry, but that movie was really funny.

But to start, it was your fault for falling asleep there.

There is no better place to sleep than there.

That comedy director is really famous. I have all her—

An untimely growl that signifies hunger can suddenly be heard, shattering the easygoing atmosphere that the two finally managed to build.

Sorry.

You've been eating too little. Your stamina won't last if you keep this up.

It's okay. We need to carry on.

The lives we had came to an end just like that. In an instant, this is what it all turned into.

There are lunatics and dead bodies everywhere. There are the blockade walls that the Sarkaz built... There have been men attempting to break through them the past couple days. Their brains are still hanging on the walls.

I still don't understand. How did it—

War has broken out, Baird.

I know. I know! But just because of those few weightless words...

Everyone's past disappeared without a trace in the blink of an eye.

Whose war is this?

The dukes are trying to protect Victoria...

All I know is that this war is not mine.

A small, broken stir as well as the clanging of multiple cans can be heard from the shadows.

What are you doing?

I... I...

It isn't your turn to stand watch tonight.

What's that you're hiding underneath your coat?

S-Stay back!

Stay away! All of you stay away!

This gutless man suddenly pulls out something and brandishes it in the air. It's a fountain pen, and even in the dark, you can tell clearly just how fancy it's decorated.

He's a scholar of heraldry, claims he could be the next Fellow of the Royal Victorian Academy of Sciences. Maybe that's the pen from which all sorts of marvelous criticisms used to flow.

But now, it's just a pathetic, utterly shameful weapon, clutched in a trembling hand.

With a clatter, a can falls out from his coat, which he hastily stoops to pick back up and hide again under his layers.

Sir, that's our last can of meat.

I...

I'm sorry.

I'm sorry, I can't carry on. I'm at my limit! This lockdown zone, the dust of the dead floating in the air, this rotting corpse stench, this—everything—

I don't understand! Why should I be living out my days like this?!

I... I'm someone who means something! I should be waking up to the call of fowl, to a cup of coffee, and then to my writing desk and manuscripts...

Why should I—madams, I'm sorry, I'm aware of all the assistance you've afforded me, but...

Excuse me, really, please, but this isn't the sort of thing I should be doing. I used to take pride in my virtue—I was wonderful to my servants, I would tip double what anyone else would whenever we went out to eat...

I...

I can't carry on. I've had enough, really. I just can't make sense of this, I'm so confused...

Then you're free to put down that can you've got, and be out of this place.

I can make a trade with you! I have some gems, Sargon origin, and a Sankta's patron firearm...

Which we don't need.

I'm begging you, I'm begging you—

The man trembles and shakes harder and harder, until finally his legs give out and he's kneeling on the floor. He's probably never begged someone like this in all his life. He's acting a comedic sight.

He grips his overcoat with white knuckles, so tight the place where he hides the can bulges out. It's like a weeping tumor parasiting off his body. Or an unborn child more loved than it'd ever know.

Get on your way, man. Front door's sealed. You know how to make a balcony exit.

Baird!

Let him go, let him go! Get him the hell out of here, and that stupid bloody can with him! Never to return, why don't you!

I... I'm worn. I'm done watching this happen anymore.

I never want to see... any of this anymore.

The timid man hurries to leave, stumbling, hesitating, like he doesn't believe this boxing gym owner-slash-gang member would let him go so easy.

Delphine stares daggers at him. He turned his head, and subconsciously he feels about himself. He doesn't have a thing on him. Notes and coins are worse than useless in Norport these days, to boot.

He grinds his teeth, drops down and leaves that gussied-up pen of his on the floor, then immediately turns and legs it into the darkness.

He's out.

Baird picks the fountain pen up, and with no comment stows it in her pocket.

Delphine.

Come and let's touch heads. Kip for a bit.