Pandora Hearts © Jun Mochizuki
... ... ...
It had started out as simple curiosity.
That was all. Just curiosity.
(But, then again, that's how these things always begin, isn't it?)
...
Eliot slumped down in his chair as he heard the dismissal bells chime out their final, much anticipated tolls. Almost immediately, the newly reanimated bodies of zombified math students swarmed around his desk, some forming swirling pockets of eddies as they grouped together to talk with their friends, most streaming towards the door in an ever ebbing tide of chattering bodies, books, and bags. A sea of white uniforms and glowing cellphones streamed past Eliot with the urgency of a turning tide, but Eliot didn't see it. He didn't see anything when he was thinking.
Only when the room was mostly empty, save for a handful of students playing the latest fantasy card game in the back corner, did Eliot stir from his self-induced trance. He blinked his unfocused, slate blue eyes slowly, unhurriedly stretching out in his chair before sighing once and picking up his neglected sword and book bag from the floor. Finally back from what his brothers dubbed "La-La-Land," Eliot simply shrugged his shoulders until his book bag settled itself comfortably upon his back. He turned fluidly on his heel and set off towards the door.
It was sunny outside: the grass a thick, richly green carpet blanketing the campus in softly rolling hills; beds of flowers abloom with the vibrant variety of an artist's palette; fountains twinkling as the bright sunlight glittered off their playfully splashing spirits. Eliot drew in a deep breath of fresh, sun-warmed summer air before setting off towards home, thinking of how gorgeous the day was, and wondering why the hell he had to suffer the best part of it inside a series of stuffy classrooms in the company of a bunch of sweaty, uniformed kids.
It was otherwise a pleasant walk home, with just enough of a breeze to caress Eliot's sweat-shined face to satisfying coolness. He smiled as he crossed the front door's threshold and looked upon the shoes scattering the entryway of the Nightray mansion. Judging by the lack of abundant, cluttering footwear, he had made it home before his four older siblings. But, judging by the mess, not before his younger two. Eliot reached down and straightened Gilbert's haphazardly arranged shoes, rearranging them so the right shoe sat on the right, and the left on the left. He then plopped a smaller shoe next to Gilbert's, but couldn't find its match. After searching for a bit, he reached across the entryway to retrieve Vincent's missing sneaker from behind the plant stand, and thusly reunited it with its brother.
After placing his own shoes neatly on the other side of Gilbert's, Eliot rummaged through the fridge until he found something tasty to snack upon. His eyes carefully perused over the selection, noting the fresh fruit salad; the slices of ripe, red watermelon; the vegetable tray; the meat tray; the cheese tray; the instant reduced-calorie pudding. Grabbing a leftover slice of chocolate cake, Eliot stuck a fork in his mouth, collected his bags, and proceeded up the stairs to his room.
He removed his sword from its carrying case and placed it carefully in a nook between his computer desk and bookshelf, threw his book bag on the floor in some forgotten corner, and sat himself in a swiveling computer chair while he devoured a generous forkful of cake. Placing the plate and fork on the computer desk, he turned on his computer and thoughtfully chewed upon another bite while he waited for the machine to boot up. That done, Eliot threw a glance over his shoulder to make sure his door was securely closed and locked before paying attention to the softly glowing screen. Typing quickly, he logged into an informal chat forum dedicated to discussing his favorite book series, Holy Knight, and angrily responded to the newest bundle of clutter-heads who dared disagree with his opinion of that worthless, self-sacrificing shit-bag, Edgar.
Glancing quickly at the digital clock in the corner of his screen, Eliot decided it was time. He logged off of the chat site and navigated to another, similar site; this one dedicated to fan-based reviews and critical insights of literature, of which the Holy Knight series was included. Eliot glanced once more at the clock. He'd have to be fast. If he didn't make the first move, he wouldn't get another opportunity.
Methodically flexing his fingers above the keyboard, Eliot took a breath to calm himself while he contemplated what he would type. However, as he carefully watched the scrolling chat box update itself, his pondering ceased. The question had finally appeared.
/Page 454, Volume XII: What is the name of the woman selling apples in the marketplace?
Typing as quickly as he could, Eliot immediately responded:
She had no name, but her boyfriend called her "Cherry."
A moment passed. Eliot blinked the sweat out of his eyes and ran his sleeve across his forehead to collect the rest before it, too, decided to blind him. It was so hot outside, and he had yet to change out of his stuffy school uniform. Grumbling slightly, he contemplated opening the window, but flicked his eyes instead to the response waiting on the computer screen.
/Correct.
/389224
Smiling triumphantly, Eliot got up and opened the window.
...
It had been his secret for several months now. Each day passed much like the one before: he woke up, attended school, walked himself home, rearranged his siblings' shoes (or coats or bags or whatever other mess they had left for him to trip over), grabbed a snack, and shut himself in his room, waiting. He would wait patiently (or impatiently, depending how well the rest of his day had transpired) for the question to appear. It was never late or early, always at 4:23, exactly. He didn't know why; it seemed such a strange time to choose, but he did know the event never lasted long. He had to be ready, he had to be fast, he had to be first. Only the first correct answer got the code.
There were days where he failed to answer the question correctly. There were days he missed the posting altogether. Sometimes he had the right answer, changed his mind, and submitted an incorrect response. Sometimes he submitted nonsense, accidentally garbling his message because his fingers had been too twitchy to type. More than once, he had been second. He had been third. He had been 739th for all that it mattered; anything less than first was inconsequential. Anything less was losing. And Eliot Nightray did not lose.
The questions were often obscure, but they always included a page and volume reference. However, only the weak frantically tore through the shelves of their beloved collection, searching vainly for the answer on the promised page; only the weak wasted their time in such a fashion. Only the weak copied the question into their online search boxes and scoured the Internet for answers, hoping to discover the hidden jewels before someone with a faster connection could.
He wasn't weak. He was a master.
Only the masters knew the material inside and out. Only the masters had the dedication to remember the tiniest of details, but he knew it came from more than simple, rote memorization. The questions, although difficult, had a certain pattern to them. If you knew the pattern, you could guess the next day's question: simple enough if you payed attention. This was Eliot's preferred method of attack, and more often than not, he succeeded. But, he wasn't the only master online, watching, waiting. There were others just as quick as he, just as familiar with the Holy Knight series.
If he lost, he would be found in a terrible temper for the remainder of the evening; his life soured by some stupid idiot with some equally stupid screen name. Eliot would sulk, hands shoved deeply into his pockets, slouching so far down in his seat that his brothers would tease him about sitting on an invisible extension of his chair. He would glare at them and angrily retort, voice quickly rising to a snappish, fiery shout if annoyed long enough, and his loving siblings made sure he usually was. After tiring of their provocations, something he did rather quickly, he would once more retire to his room, glaring venomously at this or that along the way, and pass the remainder of the day secluded from the rest of the household, choosing instead of his siblings' normally amiable companionship the chance to sulk bitterly in his silent room alone.
If he won, however, and received the code (something he was admittedly coming to expect, now that his major competitor, ZZHolyKnight551, had moved into a new apartment with somewhat of an iffy Internet connection) his spirits would remain undaunted for the rest of the evening. Nothing made Eliot quite as happy as winning (Nightrays were naturally victorious creatures). It also didn't hurt to smirk triumphantly at the scrolling responses as he watched "ZZ" enter his own correct response just a bit too late.
Today was a day of victory, obviously, and Eliot took his time dressing into something cooler and more comfortable than his starchy uniform. The breeze blowing through his open window pleasantly circulated the stale, hot air out and brought in the light fragrance of his mother's favorite lilac bush, which, coincidentally, had been planted very near to his bedroom. He sat upon the edge of his bed and drew in a deep, slow breath, savoring the smell as he remembered his mother taking him by the hand to walk him through her lilac garden when he was small. He remembered having to take four steps to her one, but she patiently stayed by his side, walking slowly, holding him up with her gentle hands when he tripped on the loose rocks of the backyard garden path.
She wasn't dead, but she was gone. He wasn't sure where; his father had never bothered to enlighten him as to her destination, but she had been traveling, or touristing, or whatever for the past three years. Eliot missed her. He missed her smile, her gentleness, the warmth she had brought to their patchwork family of siblings, half-siblings, and adopted orphans. But he would never admit it. It was weakness (and hence non-conducive to being a Nightray) to appear so dependent upon another person, especially one's mom. He was in high school, for goodness' sake!
Sighing, Eliot opened his eyes and closed the window, shutting out the smell that reminded him so much of her. Choosing instead to switch on the overhead fan, he returned to his computer chair, flicked out his notepad with today's code hastily scrawled atop the first sheet, and punched at his keyboard until he found himself staring at another login screen. With a last look at the cryptic numbers, he turned his back on the window and entered the code, lilacs bobbing gently in the breeze outside, unnoticed.
...
It wasn't that Eliot was lonely. It was hard to be considered lonely when you lived in a house as lively as his. If he didn't have Fred, Claude, or Ernest hovering over him like the nosey older siblings they were, the elbows of his black jackets were being tugged on by either little Gilbert or Vincent to come out and play (most often, they came to him as a set). His sister, Vanessa, didn't bother him much, unless somebody had recently been in her stuff (then it was always his fault, no matter that the culprit was usually Claude because he liked to pick on his little sister like that); since this happened on a regular basis, he saw her at least twice a day.
So his secret wasn't kept because he was lonely. Neither was it something "scandalous" or otherwise damaging to his, or the Nightray family's, reputation. He simply liked to keep his business to himself. Therefore, he was careful to lock the door whenever he was about to answer the daily Holy Knight question (to minimize interruptions at such a crucial time) or whenever he was redeeming his code. Since Eliot was terribly possessive of his business, he greatly preferred to be left alone whenever he was in his room; therefore, it may be more accurate to say his door was only left unlocked when he wasn't to be found inside. (This hermit-like tendency for complete privacy at his computer lead to the sharing of many jokes among his four amused elder siblings, but Eliot ignored them because he knew they were wrong about their suppositions.)
Three-eight-nine-two-two-four. He pondered over the sequence while he waited for the page to load. Sometimes this took a while. Tired of watching the page do nothing, he began doodling the numbers on his notepad, lying them in any sequence he could think of. Frustrated, he crumpled the cluttered paper and began again on a new sheet, this time carefully overlapping the numbers until they formed a horizontal chain. Then a vertical chain. A backwards chain. Then an aggravated, scribbly mess. Hissing a sigh through clenched teeth, he threw his pencil on the desk and ran his hands through his hair. There was supposed to be a clue, but he wasn't seeing it.
The page failed to load. Eliot slammed the refresh button, pushed his chair away from his desk, and glared at the piece of paper gloating on the desk before him. It knew the secret, but it wasn't telling, and that pissed him off.
Reaching once more for his pencil, Eliot had the idea that, perhaps, today's clue wasn't to be found in the importance of the sequence of numbers, but rather amid the text itself. He pulled his well-read Volume XII off of its place on his bookshelf, flipped open to page 454, and found the woman called Cherry. There it was. The number he had been looking for: twenty-two. She had sold twenty-two apples, and her boyfriend had defeated nine enemies on his way to meet her. Grinning eagerly now, Eliot nixed the last three numbers from his sequence and stared at what remained. Three-eight-nine... three-eight-nine... he thought, mulling the numbers over in his mind as the chatroom's page once again refused to load. Pressing refresh for what he threatened to be the last time, he realized suddenly what the significance of his newest mantra was. That's the number of Knights in the original King's Order! Gregory would have made 390, had he stayed to complete his training!
Holding a smug smile on his face, Eliot made a note of "Gregory" and the other named Knights on his notepad in preparation for the next day's trivia. It was plausible to assume the question would have to do with the King's Order (Volume XIV), and he wanted to be sure he remembered it in the morning.
...
Eliot didn't know how the other users found their way into this specific group; the secure entry code he used was changed daily. He had never seen a trivia quiz on other sites, but they obviously must have existed somewhere, for each member here was an elitist in Holy Knight knowledge. This was a group of readers who had transcended the mere addiction to a good fantasy story and pushed the lines of near-obsession; they each critically read, memorized, analyzed, and discovered the truths hidden within the series. For example, every member would have known "Cherry" was actually a minor character who, without fail, appeared in every one of the Holy Knight's author's works (including the seven short stories written before the idea of Holy Knight even came into being) but was never formally given a name. No ordinary reader would be privy to that sort of information, and they would be even less likely to know she was actually based on the author's first girlfriend's favorite childhood toy: a talking doll that spewed catchphrases pertaining to healthy eating when its string was pulled.
He knew they were all just a bunch of nerds who had nothing better to do with their time than obsess over a fictional series, but he didn't particularly care. He loved the books (he'd read the entire series several times, no less than four, but he didn't bother to count anymore) and the other users loved it, too. But, as with every social gathering, regardless of form, this group of bookworms had to have a bookworm that was somehow book-wormier than the others: a king to direct their little nerdy fan-reader group. That's how Eliot saw it, anyway.
And that was part of his secret.
...
It had started out as simple curiosity.
He had stumbled across the entrance site, managed to answer the question before anybody else (it had been a lucky guess, really), and was given his first code. Having nothing better to do, he shrugged to himself and lazily typed it in, watching with disinterest as he was redirected to another chat forum. Seeing it was still devoted to discussing his favorite books, Eliot poked around like the bored teenager he was until he began to notice a pattern; there was a particular user who, when he (or she, Eliot remembered; how he hated the anonymity of the Web) posted a message, all other activity on the site momentarily paused. The posts of this user weren't verbose or lengthy, but they were so insightfully different that the whole community ground to a halt to ponder the message before jumping off it with their own opinions like a high school dive team from a springboard.
Well, maybe not the whole site, but it seemed like that at the time.
Thus, Eliot was introduced to the King of Nerds, as he came to call him (or her, but Eliot just went ahead and assumed it was a male. Girls didn't read "those stupid books," as Vanessa had told him once). Eliot, like many before him, had been intrigued by the strangely divergent outlook provided by this mysterious reader; his insights were most certainly contrary to mainstream ideas. This often resulted in the aforementioned opinions being quickly shot down by diehard fans, but somehow, this particular member was still held in high esteem among the community. Wondering why, Eliot tried to meet this individual, but to no avail. So, taking option number two, he came back every day to see if he could win another code.
That was the curiosity, and that was how it had begun.
Since then, Eliot had managed to establish himself as a worthy member, and was welcomed into the secret community. He didn't particularly care about acceptance by the other members, but his apparent worthiness leant him credibility, and that seemed to be a good place for him to start. As he became a more familiar, regular visitor, he started to pick up on the Nerd King's schedule. It was much like his, but Eliot obviously had more time to kill; the Nerd King only stayed online an hour at a time, while Eliot had the rest of the evening to waste.
There were rumors that the King of Nerds was the author of the series. Eliot didn't buy them. There were rumors that the guy was a college professor, someone who studied these books as part of his career, thus explaining the amount of unique insights contrary to the accepted views of the fandom. Eliot might had believed that one, but that was before he started chatting with him.
...
This was his secret.
Eliot didn't obsess over the site for the chance to read new theories; that was for geeks. He didn't drool over the posts made by so-and-so because "so-and-so" had fantastic ideas; he could actually care less. He didn't pay attention to the newest theories about the peculiar characterization of Stacy the Merchanting Milkmaid from volumes four, six, and twelve; he knew all he wanted to know about her, and was too squeamish to dig any further.
He hadn't become dependent on some anonymous member of some stupid Internet community who named himself after an equally stupid fifth-grade spelling word. He hadn't become obsessed over some person on the other side of the world he couldn't see. He hadn't wasted every afternoon of his life for the past two months hunting down this user because he craved the companionship of some faceless voice that happened to have some really interesting ideas.
What he had done was make a friend. An intelligent friend. Someone who spoke plainly and truthfully, even if his opinions absolutely stank and were rejected by everyone else, including Eliot. Someone who was simple; simple to the point that his screen name was only six letters long: Enigma. Now, the name in itself was far from simple, but Eliot didn't want to hurt his head thinking about something that would probably turn out to just be a word the kid had liked from his elementary school English classes, so he didn't think about it; he didn't really care.
What mattered was that he had made a friend. Although it had started out as simple curiosity, he had come to rely on this other person, welcoming the sincerity and bluntness he couldn't find among his siblings. This was someone he could talk to, be honest with, and since he was still anonymous, Eliot couldn't be teased for being weak for the things he said. While Eliot hated to admit it, Enigma reminded him of his mother; never sugarcoating anything, but somehow remaining gentle, nonetheless.
Except for when they disagreed.
...
They fought about everything: the books (how dare Enigma like that filth, Edgar!); weather preference (Eliot liked the sun, Enigma liked to drown himself in the rain); choice of dessert (chocolate versus butterscotch, ew); and whatever else they could think of. They fought more than they got along, escalating a friendly conversation into full-fledged assaults in nothing short of seven minutes, with Enigma just as likely to get nasty about his opinions as Eliot. The strange thing was, if Eliot became angry first, Enigma would promptly diffuse, making Eliot look like an immature, hotheaded idiot for blowing up so quickly over something so trivial. However, if Enigma's short fuse was touched off first, they both exploded like a hot wick to dynamite sticks. It made no sense to Eliot, but, after looking at his friend's pseudonym, he figured he was better off not trying to figure it out.
Months had passed this way, and Eliot, while not addicted to the interaction, had become to rely on the honesty of discourse provided by Enigma. It gave him an escape from the mask he had to wear as the model student, as the perfect Nightray son in front of his father, as the dependable elder brother, as the mockable younger brother, as the ideal son of a noble. All of which were faces of him, but none of which defined him. But, to Engima, none of those roles mattered: Eliot could be Eliot. He could be truthful, he could be angry, he could be bitter or resentful or vulnerable, and none of it would matter because they were friends and they were equals.
...
/You've never asked for my e-mail address, moron.
Eliot blinked in surprise before narrowing his eyes at the message. That cheeky bastard! What the hell? Pushing his chair away from his desk, Eliot decided not to respond until he figured out what Enigma was up to. Glaring at the message, Eliot stormed down the stairs to forage in the kitchen for something sweet. Finding a fruit parfait, he sat himself upon the kitchen counter and dug his spoon into the yogurt's granola-encrusted layers. Seething at the thought of Enigma's pretentious tone, but also embarrassed that he hadn't actually thought of asking (and thus avoiding the whole get-the-code trial), Eliot chewed on his dessert until he decided he didn't have an intelligent reply.
Sighing in defeat, he slammed his empty glass into the dishwasher and headed back to his room. The door was left slightly ajar, and he could see the obnoxious glow of his computer screen illuminating the crossed Nightray swords that hung decoratively upon his wall. Looking at them, he stared at the interplay between the flickering light (probably another ad for some online fantasy game) and the dancing shadows cast by the swords upon his wall. They flickered slightly, like tongues of darkened fire, reminding him of the long-ago swirl of his mother's favorite dancing skirts.
Returning to reality, Eliot turned his back on the swords and his mother's memory, sitting himself down in his chair with a tired whump. He turned back to the screen and read Enigma's latest message:
/You've never asked where I live.
Why would I do that? It's not like I care. Eliot typed back, still simmering because this kid really knew how to get under his skin.
/I know where you live.
The reply was unexpected, to say the least. Baffled, Eliot glanced out his window and watched the lilacs slowly sway back and forth, back and forth, dancing smoothly, hypnotically. They traced lavender circles in front of his window as their accompanying green leaves flittered along, seeming like hands clapping, keeping time, cheering, waving, applauding, or beckoning. He wasn't sure why, but he suddenly felt chills run up and down his spine, as if he were being watched. Knowing that was impossible (his door was locked, after all) he tried his best to nonchalantly shrug off the feeling and come up with a proper response for this stupid kid's stupid joke. He responded, but he couldn't shake the feeling.
No you don't, kid.
/Yes, I do, Eliot.
He narrowed his eyes again, searching the screen. There was nothing to give away his identity; he had never used his real name online, and he certainly wasn't careless. He hadn't mentioned his school or his home address, the names or ages of his brothers or sister, nor anything else he could think of that would lend any trace to his identity outside of his own alias. Eliot could only think of one way out: he'd have to force Enigma to explain how he knew.
That's not my name.
/So you say.
It isn't.
/Okay, okay. It isn't.
Enigma didn't take the bait. Eliot didn't know what to do now. He slid down in his chair, still feeling as if his skin had been dunked in ice and decided to shrivel up on itself in a paltry excuse for retaining warmth. Deciding he'd rather turn on the overhead light than sit in a darkened, computer-lit room with so many thick, pooling shadows creeping around the corners (shut up, he wasn't scared. He was already in high school, for crying out loud!), he got up and turned to face the doorway where the switch was located. Stumbling over the chair because he hadn't quite pushed it back far enough to let himself out, he momentarily glimpsed something dark outside his window, standing between the lilacs. Feeling incredibly edgy, he recovered his balance and looked out, expecting to see Fred or Claude or Ernest or somebody standing outside, making faces and pulling a prank on him. Maybe it would even be the gardeners pruning the damn bushes in the middle of the night!
As his eyes settled firmly on the lilac bush, Eliot clearly saw the dark shape hadn't moved; it definitely wasn't part of his imagination. But it wasn't Claude or one of the gardeners. It was somebody else, with madness-bright, wild, shining eyes; those eyes were staring straight at him.
...
Eliot couldn't speak. He could only stare: stare in disbelief at those corybantic eyes. They were large, expanded with lunacy, and they were searching, probing, searing until Eliot felt their owner pierce through the protective barriers of his mind; roaming around inside of him, long-fingered hands sifting though his memories, body passing beyond his closed emotional doors, effortlessly rifling through him, all of him, the most secret parts of him. Boring into his head, tearing through his soul, breaking him down until he was nothing more than a pathetic, weak thing struggling to regain control, but unable to fight back, unable to stand. He was shivering and naked, exposed to the other with nowhere to run and nowhere to hide, and nothing of his was his any longer.
The sensation passed, and he found himself staring out the window at an innocently unoccupied lilac bush, purple flowers swaying ever so gently in the breeze, dancing back and forth in soothing, hypnotic circles: back and forth, back and forth.
Back and forth.
Tick and tock.
...