A/N: I cite the villains Alex DeLarge and Hans Landa as my inspiration for Henry Chapman…and would also like to add that, if I hadn't met the second so recently and felt chills go up and down my spine, I might never have finished this chapter. Thank you, Mr. Walken, wherever you are…
1 January, 2057: Part Two
"Everything's as if we never said goodbye."
Of all the memorable lines of every memorable show in the world, my mind oddly decides to choose this one to apply to this evening. There's a slight note of humor in here somewhere, because I certainly know I'm no washed-up female silent film star looking for a second chance at her career. I also know I'm no teenaged homosexual so overjoyed at returning to my old high school that the tears fall freely from my eyes. I seemed to have outgrown all those easy emotions a long time ago, and instead, I learned how to keep my true feelings hidden behind a blank mask.
At the same time, no matter how hard I try to erase it from my thoughts; I can't help but feel that this line has a drop of truth hidden inside its letters. Something about this night leads me so easily to that front garden of the Largo mansion, through the double doors of the entrance hall, and on the straight path through that hall to the courtyard in the back. I pass countless clusters of strangers along the way, and although I undoubtedly know so few of them, it is also undisputable that all of them somehow know me.
Those who have reached their silver years on this lovely island might have seen me in the news reports of old; a black-haired, freckle-faced lad with his hand wrapped in massive bandages after the transplant that made him complete again. We were the ones who settled this Crucifixus in the first place, and probably also could we be considered the pioneers of GeneCo itself. It is perfect, then, that we still be alive to keep watch over it, and if need be, assist at its possible rebirth if all my plans are carried out to the letter.
Those who were born over subsequent decades on these shores might have come to view me as a sort of father substitute or grandparental figure, some small figure of authority that could direct them when they wanted it and step in when they absolutely needed it. I was the one who helped create the history and dark legends of the Repo Men, and so also did I help to instruct several more Repossessors that arrived at GeneCo long after my own admittance. I sometimes wonder if I might need to include them in my plans as a way of helping them happen, never mind fulfilling some untold need to receive something in return for the countless years I've given to this company. I will receive this one thing, I believe, if I figure out just how to take out these poor excuses for my best friend's children and then act accordingly to my observations.
Those who have only begun to live here, or who have yet to be born, undoubtedly have no idea of who I am, what I stand for, or what I did for a living…at least not yet. I am just an anonymous face in their minds or a nameless photo in their books, and I'm just not as interesting as a giggling puppet or a singing animated princess. Ah, well. Let them stay bundled up in their little cocoons, safe and sound from the outside world until one of their relatives, friends, or neighbors is suddenly not able to pay for their designer organs any further. They will come to know me and all my kindred spirits sooner or later, and thus will they learn never to cross GeneCo or deny this company its due. They will also learn never to flaunt their indiscretions in front of the cameras when the proper hour arrives, and thus will they come to know the price of keeping perversions 'within the family'.
And speaking of family…I am more than careful to let what is left of my late friend's household have their moment in the spotlight, and then proceed to the ballroom where the true festivities will take place indoors. Thank God neither of those three insisted it happen out in the freezing cold, where not even organ transplants would save us all from certain hypothermia and slow, agonizing death. No, at least they all have enough sense to allow us to come indoors, where we will undoubtedly be safe from any sting of frostbite or touch of rheumatics.
And so, with the rest of the guests around me, I pass freely from the darkness to the light, enjoying the glow of the ballroom's various lamps and the excited chatter of the crowd. A pity this party was not held in the safety of the Opera, or else I might have felt daring enough to add a second act to the bloodbath Rotti started in August and had no second thoughts. Never mind, that, though…I believe I have finally located the whereabouts of my various students. It is good that they all decided to stay at the same table tonight, or else I might have taken hours to speak to each one individually behind the scenes. No matter, though…we can all enjoy our meal in peace, and keep to ourselves as usual.
I silently offer more thanks to God that neither the Largo failures nor the Sweet disaster were in charge of planning this dinner. We might have all had to suffer the embarrassment of common pizza delivery if that were to have happened. Instead, the family Chef has been allowed to work his magic for the guests: grilled Antipasto with a Mezzo Soprano sauce, a sampler board of Italian bread and various native cheeses, veal Saltimbocca, polenta baked with cheese, a Tuscan orange and fennel salad, and finally, the standard Tiramisu for dessert. The various donors pass a special box reserved for their yearly contributions to charity, and I find myself silently praying that no Largo gets their filthy hands on that box to feed their own greedy desires later. The last thing this island needs is finding out that their idols used a dying child's life-saving organ money for yet another surgery or worse, paying off a street full of witnesses that saw their rage take another human life for no legal or moral reason.
On the other hand…what if I just left this all to chance, and let the Sweet woman have her fun only to register my surprise at her death upon the operating table? What if the oldest of these failures and my pretend protégé miraculously slaughtered the other two in the throes of his anger? What if that no-account in the middle gets caught taking one last face from one last female, his actions suddenly videotaped for all of his admirers to see, and then slits his own throat out of pure shame? There might be a tiny chance that my thoughts and prayers get answered with other hands besides my own. I might enjoy the benefits of mere coincidence, write their deaths off as the intervention of Fate, and take up the reins they leave behind with no blood on my clothing. On the other hand…all three of them appear to be much too healthy and social tonight, and so my mind switches back instantly to the original plan. My family and I will need three days at the maximum to figure a way in and an easy path out, but it never hurts to answer a few questions posed by my own mind, and hopefully without any outsiders growing suspicious of our conversations.
How would the five of us, we four Repo Men and one Woman, enter and exit in an orderly, inconspicuous manner? In the past, Rotti himself would gather us all into his study for what he called 'the brief evening huddle'; that is, standing around his table and receiving our assignments for repossession. How would our noble line of work continue under this…woman, and all that she stands for? It is difficult for me to say. Seventeen years of retirement have left my mind hazy about the details, let alone my complete absence from this Sweet's new base of operations. For all I know, they could be doing team-building exercises or worse, telling stories over herbal tea and ladyfingers. She might even be plotting to teach Yates how to knit or embroider, heaven help us.
Ah, Rotti, Rotti, why couldn't you have convinced that little girl a bit more subtly?
My thoughts start to wander off into a side street, and I suppose I'm unable to stop them from straying from the main course of events I'm working out in my mind. The girl in particular, that Shilo Wallace who was supposed to have died seventeen years ago, is the cause of my current thought process. This entire island, no, this entire continent, had practically been laid at her feet a little more than four months ago, if not also the whole wide world. It would have easily been hers, this girl who was once said to be infected with her mother's blood disease. She could have had every locked door in her house torn down with one little click of a trigger. She could have had all that imaginary medication burned in a pit with just one more dead body to dispose of. She could have ran freely all over this island, or been chauffeured to anyplace she wished, or even taken a subway train to whatever's left of the mainland United States just by punishing her captor.
Instead, she forgives him without a second thought otherwise, throws Rotti's inheritance back at him, watches them both die, and then vanishes into thin air. What on earth has she gained for herself by having no money, no food, no shelter, and no promise of a stable future to save her own life? Has she become some sort of nun in the wilderness, surviving on magical bread and mosquitoes glowing with Zydrate in their veins? Or has some unknown Good Samaritan taken charge of her situation, hiding her away from the rest of the world in some new home that doubles as a prison, albeit one of her own choosing? Only the dead and God Himself could ever know what on earth was going on in that child's head. As for the living people left behind, we can only guess and hope to get it right.
"Mr. Chapman?"
My attention is drawn back into the present as soon as I hear the voice of Anna Yates attracting it. My last student before the eldest Largo, always eager to please. She will have more than enough time to gather my favor once again, if she is still interested in the plan ahead of us all.
"Yes, what is it?" I answer her mildly, pretending to be a bit more interested in the evening coffee than I am in polite conversation.
"May we have a word in private?" she asks me, but not without a telltale flicker within her otherwise dark eyes. Someone has hinted to her already what we're about to do, and so I waste no time in agreeing to this so that the both of us may visit Mr. Van Zandt in the hallway. Here, at least, I will not have to worry about the eldest Largo looking over my shoulder or asking questions riddled with foul words. Here, the three of us are safe.
"Chapman, Yates," Van Zandt says to us by way of greeting. I know that someone has given hints to him as well about my plans, because that someone just happens to be me. It's amazing the privacy one can have when they're fitted with their own sets of holo-wristbands, or so Rotti himself said to me so many years ago. Each of them already knows that I called them there on my own time, and so not even my own household staff could ever listen on my conversations and remember them later to the right sort of law enforcement.
"My students," I answer agreeably, acknowledging them both with a slight nod. "Did you have any trouble arriving here tonight?"
"A few minutes in traffic, but just fine otherwise," Yates answers, tossing some hair back behind her shoulder. "No big."
I turn my attention to Van Zandt, who merely shrugs and folds one hand behind the other, always the cautious one waiting for instructions. Time to give him an instruction to remember.
"Marvelous," I tell them both, bringing them to stand closer together with a few movements of my hands. "Let's talk business…"
My voice drops to a whisper, caution kicking in just in case there are individuals with augmented hearing listening in on our conversation. One can never be too careful in these modern times.
"…Tomorrow, you two are to accompany the eldest Largo on his very first Repossession. He might have a few last-minute questions about this—or statements, or curses, or whatever it is that he plans to do—in which case, I expect you to earn his trust and offer him whatever guidance he requires.
After that night passes, I'll trust you to continue in his good graces, give him directions if he asks for them, advice if he demands it—but only if—and then, in due course, he'll invite the two of you inside the family mansion for a look around."
My voice takes on a tone of authority, and I can see that both of my students are paying me their closest attention.
"Once this occurs, I will need you both to go along with whatever Largo tells you or wishes to share with you, at least until he excuses himself for at least ten minutes. When you know this is happening, when you are sure, one of you must then excuse yourselves and find the nearest member of the household staff to ask some general questions about the mansion. 'Just how far of a walk is it to the kitchen,' 'Where do the surviving family members go to unwind,' simple questions such as these to do no more than break the ice and not awaken any suspicion.
That person must then ask if there is a special section of the mansion where the servants go to take care of their personal finances, and if so, whether or not Madam Vecchio, the Largos' housekeeper, is among them. If that servant answers in the affirmative, thank them for their time and then break off the conversation however you see fit, because it will be time to return to the room from whence you came before the eldest Largo returns and starts asking questions himself about where you've gone. However, if they answer in the negative, thank them anyway and also return to your original room, because it won't do to have any guests nudging the hired help any further than is necessary. In either case, report straight back to me after your time in the mansion is over. We'll definitely need time to figure out our next move from there, as well as deciding amongst ourselves who we'll need to complete the next stage of our plan. Now…"
I clear my throat and say just a bit louder, "Is there anything else?" All the better to make the crowd think that this meeting was all Miss Yates' idea, and so take all suspicion directly off of my shoulders. Yates herself responds with a polite smile, ever the surrogate daughter in need of her substitute father's approval.
"No, Mr. Chapman, I think that's everything for tonight."
"Bellissimo." I put on a smile of my own before motioning Yates and Van Zandt both away from the corner we have been occupying to get our business done. There are no curious looks from any members of the crowd as we return to our table; no odd look that could suggest we weren't alone in our dealings and someone else has heard everything. Within minutes, we've blended into the ambiance as well as the rest of these guests, the three of us enjoying the evening's meal and also making one donation each from the confines of our pocketbooks. Like the founder that brought our trade and way of life into existence, we are forever the souls of generosity.
It's not until I see an old, familiar face from the news reports that I very nearly lose my composure. Of course. Madam Sarah Shaw, ever the right and loyal GeneCop. Most likely here to gather a pound or two of information from Miss Shilo Wallace. Unfortunately, even though the two other chosen orphans have already been introduced, the third has once again failed to show her sweet young face. Such a pity, because there's only so long this young lady can continue to hide from the rest of the world.
"Mr. Chapman, I presume?"
Even with her line of work, she doesn't forget all of the necessary formalities. Perhaps that may be a blessing in disguise, for I doubt I would even dream of entrusting this particular case to just anyone.
"You presume correctly, indeed…am I needed for an investigation, or do you intend to take my fingerprints?"
I'm careful to mask my voice so that this comes off as a joke rather than an insult, and just as I expected, Shaw takes the bait and answers with a good-natured laugh.
"No cases tonight, sir, I promise. I just wonder if someone as important as you are might decide to ask a girl to dance."
"You've come here alone, I take it…?" I feel a slight stab of pity—or is it sympathy?—as she confirms this fact. Who knows? Perhaps I also can't help but wonder if both our lives would be different if one of us had happened to come along much later, or else the other one a lot earlier in time. Still, such thoughts will do nothing for me or my goals, which I find much more appetizing than mulling over all sorts of what-if scenarios. I should speak my peace to this woman while I'm able, or else I might never ask this favor of her at all.
"As a matter of fact, Miss Shaw, perhaps we could kill two birds with one stone..."
We blend in easily with the handful of guests who've chosen to give back some unspent energy early on. This GeneCop plays the part of the dove well, not just because of her simple white dress and matching feathered mask, but also by the way I receive her full attention with no interruptions. I can only assume she'll appreciate my little joke without laughing too loudly, given that I've decided to take on the mask and jacket of the crow.
"…Has there been no further word on the Repo Man's daughter since the end of the Opera?"
"The Repo Man's daughter?"
"Yes. Shilo Wallace herself."
She hesitates, but only for a split second.
"Well…I have heard a few stories…"
"Oh? Such as?"
"Ah…a bald girl racing through the alleys…that was a few months ago, though. A homeless person told me that, and I haven't seen them since that time, either."
"And there have been no more sightings after that?"
"No. I've heard of at least two. Pale girl, dark clothing, travels with at least one other man…"
A small look of realization comes over her, and as the tempo of the music changes, I know something for a fact right away. My dear little Officer has just experienced an epiphany.
"…And all of these reports have been coming from the West."
"Splendid."
Without thinking, I begin leading her from a slow dance to a slightly more energetic waltz, as I feel what's left of my spirits have risen just a little after hearing this news.
"Now, if I might dig a little deeper…what do these reports say about the man?"
"Her traveling companion?"
"Of course."
Another moment of hesitation, only this one lasts for almost a minute.
"I'm…I'm not exactly sure of this, but…well, rumor has it that he might be…"
"Yes, Miss Shaw?"
"…A grave robber."
I might be in an otherwise relaxed mood, but it doesn't stop me from sliding a finger under her chin to force her to look me straight into the eyes.
"Well, then, Officer…for Miss Wallace's sake, I do hope you'll find her before a much more bloodthirsty individual does. With this killer of grave robbers on the loose, it's safe for me to say her late father would expect nothing but the highest level of protection for his child. It's the least we can all do for this poor girl, after her own family almost poisoned her to death."
She accepts this idea with a slight nod, sealing the future of this search as well as the future of my own plans. In return, as the music draws to a close and we make our parting bows and curtsies, I know without a doubt that she won't fail in this mission I've put into her hands. With the chance of reclaiming Rotti's heir and taking down a few more of the Zydrate-stealing vermin in the process, no other arrangement could satisfy me more.
"Thank you for your time, Miss Shaw. Do try to be as safe as you can out there on the streets, hmm?"
I receive one more nod and a smile for my troubles, and so show no hesitation to smile back in return. The first part of my plan for GeneCo is now underway.
Parting thoughts: This part of a side adventure to "Chrysalis: Volume 1" is now complete…but, if you enjoyed what you read here and would like to continue the fun, please subscribe to the master story of Chrysalis and hopefully, I can continue the adventures of our favorite grave robbers, scalpel sluts, and infected little girls over there. See you on the flip side.
-Weasley-