This immediately continues off from where the last chapter ended. I only split the two because it was just too long otherwise. Hope it doesn't seem like it starts too abruptly or anything.
Disclaimer: Tegami Bachi: Letter Bee and all its affiliates are the property of Hiroyuki Asada. Fanfiction user PsychoticObserver owns this story, the plot, the Ivory Tree and all its employees. Please support the official series!
Chapter 11: Rinnovare (2/2)
Bree's apartment complex wasn't anything to write home about. Lag mused that he would probably have ended up in a similar type building had he not been offered to stay with Sylvette. Since Central was the main city of Yuusari, housing was pretty expensive, too expensive for him at least, but he guesstimated that the price of this particular complex wasn't too far from his budget, based on its upkeep. Wooden structure, worn and dampened from rain. It was four stories, two windows on each floor. The sign that hung above the front door was faded and creaked eerily as it swung in the light morning breeze. Bree's bright personality didn't suit a dreary place such as this.
He walked in the front door, into smoky room lit only by two candles. There was a counter to the right of the entrance, the woman behind it eyeing Lag suspiciously the moment he stepped inside. Behind her was a shelf, where each rooms' key rested in order as well as a small chest for storing money and a thick book used for finances. There was a small table at the far wall with two chairs, once of the chairs occupied by a thin man whose eyebrows seemed to swallow his eyes. He glanced in Lag's direction but otherwise paid him no mind.
"Letters go in the box over there." The woman spoke, nodding towards a haggard metal mailbox across the room standing by the stairs that led up to the other floors.
"Oh! Um, I'm not here to deliver anything." Lag said, bowing politely. "I'm here to see Bree Alexanders? I'm a friend…" his voice trailed off as the woman leant against the counter top, scrutinizing him.
"Brielle? Room 302. You need a key?"
Lag was taken aback. "Oh…no. Thank you." He bowed once more and headed for the stairs. What kind of establishment offered keys to occupied rooms to strangers? What kind of business was going on here? Lag quickly decided he'd rather not think about it, but he did worry for Bree's safety.
The stairs groaned as he and Niche climbed, the dingo girl muttering about the smell of mould that surrounded them. As Lag saw the faint light of the third floor, he heard a snap beneath his foot and quickly jerked back, tightly grasping onto the handrail to steady himself. He looked down, barely able to make out the broken step under his foot.
"Careful, Niche. This one's broken. The others might break too."
Niche grumbled. "Niche is stronger than Lag. Lag be careful."
They stepped into the hallway and Lag looked around him. There were only two doors, left was 301 so Bree must live in the room to the right. As he stood at the doorway, rusted metal numbers before him, he wondered if he was right to come here. Zailia did mention that she had obtained and passed on Bree's address without her knowing. What if she didn't want anyone to know about her living conditions? No, he would apologize for that later. Bree's health was most important right now.
He knocked once and felt the wood nudge itself open, much to his surprise. He hesitated once more. Why was her door unlocked? Did she leave it unlocked? Why would she leave it unlocked? Lag suddenly became very nervous. He pushed the door open with a tentative call of her name.
Brielle's small apartment was the definition of cluttered. Lag had a fleeting sense of déjà vu to the time he delivered for Mr Alcott. The floor was exclusively covered with stacks and stacks of books. Some seemed to have been bound by Bree herself. Her bed lay against the far left wall and was a mere mattress on an old frame and was too covered in books. There was a surprisingly sturdy desk by the far right wall, a single, worn candle flickering upon its surface, surrounded by carelessly tossed spares and the remains of what were candles past. Pots of ink were lined neatly along the side of the desk, enough to last the girl a lifetime, Lag mused. The neatness of the setup was a striking difference to the utter chaos of the rest of her room. Any bare spot on the room's walls was covered by haggard, home-made bookshelves, which were each tightly packed by even more books.
Lag took a careful step forward, making sure to not repeat the past mistakes he made at Vincent Alcott's home, though he figured it was in vain, the stacks close to the entrance had already been toppled, as if someone had come in or out in a rush. For what reason would Bree have all these books? Was she also an author? He slowly turned a full circle, surveying the scene while also searching for a mop of brown curls amongst it. Before her could, however, he found a door, tucked away in the corner to the far right, near the desk.
A bathroom perhaps? Oh, Empress, if it was…he didn't want to, uh, interrupt. Should he wait? Or should he announce his presence? Wait, no, there was no way he could do that, it would be so awkward. He should just wait. That's the most polite thing to do. She wouldn't be too long…right?
"Lag. It's empty and full."
Lag abandoned his deliberation to look at Niche who stood in the newly discovered, partially opened doorway.
"Niche! You can't just—Wait, it's…empty?"
The girl shook her head, "There's lots of stuff. More full than Niche at tavern."
Before he went barging in like his curiosity would like him to do, he should probably determine whether or not it actually was a bathroom. "What's…What's in there?"
Niche turned her head to look over her shoulder into the room. Rather than answering with words, Niche figured it would be easy to explain to her master by simply showing him the room. She threw the door open, revealing the inside to Lag.
It most definitely wasn't a bathroom.
Perhaps once it was a bathroom. It was hard to tell, the room was stripped bare and rebuilt into…what was this? It was similar to the rest of Bree's apartment except…rather than on the floor, it was on the walls. Pages and pages of notes and photos were tacked to the walls, strings of various colours connecting them. Lag stepped in, what was going on here? What was Bree doing? Where did she get all this? His questions boiled within him. The lump that formed in his throat made a part of him wonder if he was going to burst. This was too much. Too much for one day. He felt like he had lost all semblance of reality. He headed for the wall to his left and began to read.
'Sabine Amaranth, 13, born on the 114th day. Encountered while heading to visiting her father at his workplace. Cause of death is exsanguination through laceration in abdomen. No significant connections.'
'Courtney Parraseux, 12, born on the 96th day. Encountered while separated from her mother at markets. Cause of death is asphyxiation by human hands. Gloves used. 16 stab wounds additionally counted. No significant connections.'
'Elise Murdock, 12, born on the 84th day. Encountered while returning home in the evening. Cause of death is yet undetermined, could be asphyxiation or exsanguination caused by severing of the trachea, carotid artery and jugular vein. No significant connections.'
The page featured three rough sketches of what appeared to be young girls. Lag recognized the faces from the Central Times. One for each victim of the recent murders. Three strings branched off from this page, once connecting from each picture of a girl to another page further down the wall. The next three pages featured in depth information about each girl right up to moment of her death. There was no way to verify how correct this information was, but it was obscenely specific, right down to their recent meals before death and even snippets of conversations. From these pages, strings connected to other profiles, some of which Lag recognized as townsfolk and shopkeepers from around Central. Each of these profiles had records of conversations regarding the deceased girls, things like their daily routes, behaviours and any previous interactions anyone had with them.
As Lag progressed, he felt himself grow colder and colder. But it was Niche's discovery that brought him to freezing point.
"It's Lag. And Sylvette."
Niche's monotone statement caused Lag to whirl around to find her looking at the wall to the right. She was looking up at more profiles, all of which Lag definitely recognized. The first were each of the tavern's employees. Lag didn't want to pry but he couldn't help by catch a few statements scrawled upon the sheets of paper.
'Azalea Hetran….father unknown….mother missing….history of prostitution….thirty-four previous accounts of murder to current point….previous bad end…currently stable….'
'Zailia Hetran….father unknown…mother missing…history of abuse…anemia…stunted development due to malnutrition….memory deficiency and stunted growth are most prominent…'
'Julia Torrente…..evicted from household….family history of mental health….temporary dwelling at church….recruited as marauder for Reverse due to poverty….previous bad end….currently stable…'
What did these mean. Thirty-four previous accounts of murder? Malnutrition? Lag had no idea. He didn't know how to process this information. Should he even process this? Wouldn't it be better to forget he had seen it at all? But he couldn't help the anxiety churning in his stomach, pounding against his skull. Was…Azalea a murderer? Is Zailia sick? What's a 'marauder'? 'Reverse' sounded vaguely familiar but…
To the left of these profiles lay similar ones for Zazie, Connor, Sylvette, Aria, the Director, Dr Thunderland, even Gauche...all people Lag knew personally and all connected by a bright red string to a profile of himself, the longest of all the profiles.
There was information of everything he had done since he met Bree. All the deliveries he took and where they led him. Days he visited the tavern and snippets of 'relevant' conversations, many of which Lag didn't remember, in fact a lot of the events that were listed he was sure never happened. It had an account of when Sylvette asked him to stay with her after he first came to Central. It had details about his entrance exam to become a Letter Bee. There was a string that attached his profile to Niche's, both which clearly stated how they met and the events that occurred. Another string drifted off to a profile for his Aunt Sabrina, how she took Lag in, raised him, what she did during those five years, what she did before, how she met his mother…
His mother. His mother was mentioned on Aunt Sabrina's profile, details unclear and surrounded by questions. He followed the string to a small profile labelled 'Anne Seeing'. It was short and filled with questions and theories.
Lag stumbled back. He felt dizzy. His legs were failing him. Niche caught him as he felt back, eyes still glued to the profile of his mother. Niche called to her master, asking him if he was hurt, she even licked his face but he didn't even respond. He was in shock.
Bree knew his mother, Bree knew his Aunt, Bree knew Gauche even though she told him she had never met him. Bree lied. Bree knew too much. Too much. Too much. How did she know so much?
Lag felt adrenaline rush through him, he had to leave. He needed to tell someone, he needed to tell the director. Bree…Bree was dangerous. In his haste, Lag stumbled over his feet and slammed into the desk in Bree's apartment, just outside the door. He hissed with pain before pulling himself to his feet. He had to go, he had to leave this place—
"Lag?"
It was her.
"What are you doing here?"
She found him.
Her eyes narrowed. "What did you see?"
Lag turned his head slowly to look at Bree with wide eyes. He couldn't respond, he couldn't breathe. A part of him noted that Azalea was right, they had removed her arm. The limp sleeve of her sweater swung with each step forward she took. Zailia was right too, Bree looked sick. She was pale and each breath was raspy and heavy.
"Lag…please…you saw didn't you?"
As his eyes raked over her form he noticed the object clutched in her remaining hand.
A large knife, stained with dry blood. Lag hadn't seen the murder weapon before but he was certain it would be quite similar to what he was looking at right now.
"Why." Lag could only manage one syllable sentences at that moment. Bree sighed slowly, her eyes lost all emotion, and she looked blank and cold.
"Will you let me explain?" she asked softly. Lag immediately shook his head in response. "I see." Bree sagged forward, as if all energy had been drained from her. The blade fell from her hand and clattered noisily to the floor.
Lag took that as his chance, he pushed himself away from the desk and bolted out of the apartment, knocking Bree's shoulder as he passed. She made no move to stop him.
Bree continued to stare at the spot Lag once stood. She didn't move as he left her apartment, not as he raced down the hall, not as he reached the stairs, not even when she heard the crash and Niche's shout of Lag's name.
Bree waited until silence settled once more, until she could hear the murmurs of the tenants on the other floors, some curious and others irritated by the sudden noise. She took measured steps out of her apartment, her hand pressed firmly against the stump of her shoulder, as if to hold herself together. She stood at the top of the stairs, looking down at the scene below. Niche shaking Lag's body, tears quickly filling her eyes and blood filling her hands.
"It's okay, Niche." Bree said. "Just wait and everything will be fine."
Niche begged her to help Lag and Bree quietly moved to step down, carefully avoiding the newly broken stairs. She struggled to remove her sweater and carefully laid it over Lag. "It's probably better this way. Better to leave the stage instead of acting out a shitty ending." She sighed deeply.
With her sweater removed, Bree's injured shoulder was in full view. It was tightly bound in pure white bandages. She reached up with her remaining hand and scratched at the fabric before tugging at it.
"Why isn't Lag waking up?" Niche shrieked.
"He was frightened of me and rushed out recklessly. The worn stair he broke on the way up caused him to trip. Bad angle on the fall caused cranio-cerebral trauma and resulted in fatality." Bree's face was eerily blank. "Even though the chance of such an injury is one out of five even for elderly, chance was still twisted to get the worst possible outcome this time too."
Niche stared up at Bree, lost in words she didn't understand, but the dingo knew it wasn't good. "Will Lag wake up…?"
Bree shrugged. "Depends on how you look at it." Bree's words made nothing clearer and so Niche turned back to sobbing at her master, trying to get him to wake. Bree continued to tug at the bandages around her shoulder, tearing them off and dropping them carelessly on the floor. The stump of her shoulder were her arm once was revealed itself. There was no blood nor was there gore. Just a hollow opening with jagged edges, as if Bree was made of porcelain and her arm had simply snapped off. As soon as her 'wound' was in open air, an odd smoke-like substance began to gush from it. As it poured from her body, Bree began to visibly deteriorate. Her skin paled and she began to grow thinner, her veins became more prominent, but when looked at closely, it was more like slowly cracking glass than veins on skin. Bree sighed once more.
"I'm going to have to rewrite it all over again."
-End of Part One-
Next up will be an interlude type deal. No idea what it's going to be so I'm open to suggestions. Part Two will be written shortly after, as the storyboard and planning is all done.
Review please. Got no motivation otherwise.
-Psyche
