The rain finally starts, breaking Galbadia's long heat wave. The surface of the pond in the park dances with a thousand interconnected ripples, the reflection of the lights broken into fragments.
I killed a man today.
I poisoned him with a lethal neurotoxin, one with no known antidote. He'll die within a matter of hours as it paralyzes his heart and lungs. The investigation will die, too. I didn't leave anything behind but the toxin.
The police will, in the course of their investigation, discover his links to the dissident faction, exposing several key members of their network. That will balance the scales, from their perspective, and they will close the case.
I should feel something, but I don't. I killed a man today, and I feel nothing but a vague emptiness in the spot where my conscience should go. Wet work always leaves me a little cold.
I reach the sidewalk and head towards my hotel. The pavement gleams as the rain hits it. Ahead of me, a couple walks arm in arm, huddled close under an umbrella.
I could go back to Garden tonight, and file my mission report. Beyond the mission report, my return wouldn't matter to anyone, except that it would leave me available for an assignment tomorrow. I'll stay in Deling City. My personal rebellion, stealing a few hours of time to myself by staying off the duty roster.
What would I give to have someone waiting for me when I returned? I'd come through the door and someone's eyes would light up, and I'd tell them how I didn't feel anything at all when I killed this person. And they'd tell me that the work does that to everyone, but they love me anyway.
Besides, I have an appointment with a mercenary of my own.
I return to my hotel room and step in the shower, more out of a desire to pass time than for anything else. By the time I'm dressed again, the clock shows two minutes to the hour. The man I killed will have started to show symptoms by now – tingling, numbness, and difficulty breathing.
My hired gun knocks on the door, punctual as ever. Every time I've seen him, he's had on the same rumpled suit, looking as if he slept in it. Black hair, turning gray at the temples. Slightly dusty glasses. And, most crucial of all, the leather satchel at his side. He flashes me a wolf smile as he walks into the room and a spark shoots down my spine.
We sit in chairs facing each other. I can barely restrain myself. He rubs the end of his nose idly.
"I have a new list for you," I say, passing him a piece of paper I have ready.
He nods as he examines it. "Some of these will be… difficult," he notes.
"If they weren't, I wouldn't need you."
The smile again. He shifts the satchel onto his lap. My breath quickens. He reaches inside and I lean forward. "Brattle and Sons aren't very happy with me right now, you know. Stole the sale right out from under them."
"I've seen the poor quality of their selection. I'd be pissed too."
I gasp a little as he passes me the book. The Lord of Winter Island, by Stephane Marc de Rouchfeld. First published as a serial, 160 years ago, a time when they didn't preserve manuscripts. He's handed me an early edition, in nearly pristine condition, unabridged no less. At the feel of the leather beneath my fingertips, I'm nearly vibrating.
"You like the old serials?" he asks.
I nod. "It's my favorite."
He shrugs. "I always preferred the Knight Romances. But, then, you're not paying me to agree with you."
"I'm not," I say sliding the check over to him.
He places it in a pocket over his coat and stands. "I'll keep a look out for those others you wanted."
The feel of it beneath my fingers intoxicates me. I barely hear him close the door.
I don't dare open the cover until he's left. I spend a long time brushing my fingers over the page, back and forth, basking in its texture. I hold the book up to my nose and breathe deep. It smells… deliriously musty, just like an old book should smell.
I sink back in my chair, clutching it close to me.
On the 24th of February, the lookout of Dollet signaled the three-master…
I killed a man today. Somehow, it doesn't seem to matter.