I don't own WHR.
Poor restless Dove, I pity thee,
And when I hear thy plaintive moan
I'll mourn for thy captivity
And in thy woes forget mine own.
To see thee stand prepared to fly,
And flap those useless wings of thine,
And gaze into the distant sky
Would melt a harder heart than mine.
In vain! In vain! Thou canst not rise –
Thy prison roof confines thee there;
Its slender wires delude thine eyes,
And quench thy longing with despair.
From The Captive Dove, by Anne Bronte
Chapter One: Delude Thine Eyes
Robin let the book of poems drop heavily onto the couch beside her. She couldn't concentrate - the reason she'd been reading poems, rather than a novel - in the first place. Listlessness. She remembered a tale of oceanic adventure she'd read some time ago – there was a nautical equivalent to her current state of lethargy. What was it? When ships were becalmed and forced to drift for days? Oh, that's right. The doldrums.
She wanted something to keep her busy. Her eyes scanned the small apartment, dull with disinterest. It was clean – no, it was sparkling; she'd already tidied earlier in the day. The floor was mopped and the smell of citrus disinfectant lingered in the room. The living area was tiny – the kitchen opened out in the main room, which was a combination of both the lounge and dining areas of larger houses. A card table and two director's chairs made up the eating area; a small sofa with a mismatched armchair faced the ancient television in their living room. Her pile of poetry books sat next to a glass of condensing water on the rickety coffee table that rounded off their furniture. As she watched, a bead of moisture slid down the glass and followed the slant of the table until it reached the edge, pausing, as if uncertain, before falling to the floor with an inaudible plop.
Exhausted by her own apathy, she forced herself to her feet and moved to the window, pressing against the glass, one arm above her head. Four stories below, people went about their business, milling on the street; men and women in smart suits hurrying past families out to take advantage of the warmer than usual Tokyo day. She felt the stubborn spark of restlessness flare in her chest and pushed against the window pane, turning back to the living room, the ironic name never failing to amuse her. The living room, the room in which she lived. Her prison.
She found herself smiling at her dark thoughts, glancing down at the collection of poems as she walked past the couch. Serves me right for reading British poetry, she thought, opening her bedroom door.
There was nothing to do in here, either. The room had a cell-like quality – not in the sense of a jail cell, but the stark austerity found in monasteries and convents. It was bare to the point of emptiness; a bed, a nightstand, a small cupboard in the corner. It had all that she needed and nothing she wanted, aside from a hand mirror lying face down on the nightstand. Even that had no indulgent purpose – it was there only to serve as a reminder of her existence. Every morning she woke up, rolled over and looked in the glass, searching for the face of a devil-child, the visage of an abomination, but finding only her own pale reflection.
She moved the pillow, resting it against the bed head, and sat on the covers, drawing her knees to her chin. Looping her thin arms around her legs, she gazed off into the distance, settling down to while away the endless minutes until her warden returned.
Amon stood in the supermarket queue, shopping basket braced against one dark-clad hip. Truth be told, it was braced against his holstered gun, so was therefore digging into his side, but the checkout girl kept looking at him, and he didn't want to attract any more attention by shifting suddenly. So he gritted his teeth while the barrel ground into his waist and bided his time, thumping the basket onto the counter when he finally reached the front of the line.
"How has your day been, sir?" The girl asked him, sorting through his items. He grunted noncommittally and hoped she'd leave it at that. The scanner bleeped annoyingly at the packet soba noodles and frozen dinners that constituted the majority of his purchase. He could feel his foot start to tap in irritation. Everything was taking so long.
"Got any plans for the weekend?" God help him, the shop assistant was persevering. He tried to keep the annoyance from his face. "No," he replied, pulling his wallet from the pocket of his coat. He busied himself with pretending to rifle through the notes within, as if gauging how much he'd need.
"Well now, that's a sh-" she faltered as he fixed her with a quelling glare. She stammered for a moment. "Uh, it comes to ¥25350." He thrust the money into her outstretched hand, grabbed his parcels, and strode from the store, heedless of his inappropriate behaviour.
Amon wondered at his own rudeness. He'd rarely noticed it before, but he could be a real bastard. The girl was only being polite, for goodness sake; there had been no need to treat her like an insurance salesman. He stopped, abruptly, in the middle of the footpath, ignoring the dirty looks from shoppers forced to detour around him. Could it be, he wondered, I'm always like this?
He resumed walking. Surely not. Someone would have told him if he were always this unkind. Well, Nagira had mentioned his coldness on numerous occasions, but that was Nagira, and Amon usually took his comments with a pinch of salt. But Robin – Robin wasn't one to tread lightly round the truth. She had a refreshing directness and a disturbing tendency to get right to the heart of matters. Yes, she'd sort this internal conflict out once and for all. He shifted his grip on the shopping bags and headed for home.
-
Their apartment was in a nondescript building, a converted office block of gray stone that was as ugly as it was forgettable. He'd chosen it for that very reason – the first time he saw it his eyes had skipped over the dreary façade, flicking back the instant he realized his oversight. It was plain, and boring, and perfect, just one more building in an urban forest full of them. There was no elevator, a factor that worked for and against them. In their favour, anyone who had succeeded in tracking them down had to make it up three flights of stairs, giving them (he hoped) enough time to find their own way out. On the negative side was their own daily trudge up and down the staircase. It was even less fun with armfuls of groceries.
He stopped at the door, trying to remember which pocket his keys were in. A second later, the welcome sound of Robin's soft footfalls reached his ears, and he turned to look down at the peephole, which had apparently been made for pygmies. Strange, he'd never noticed how low it was before. He couldn't remember ever having looked through it. They didn't get many visitors. The tumblers in the lock clicked and the door opened, Robin reaching out to take one of the bags. She smiled at him, unable to keep the relief from her eyes, before making her way into the kitchen. He locked the door, considering the peephole.
"Robin." She looked over her shoulder at him while stocking the cupboards, arranging the dry food in neat rows. "What do you see when you look through the peephole?"
She halted her methodical stacking, momentarily confused. He clarified.
"How did you know it was me? It seems very low; I doubt you could have seen my face."
Her face cleared. "No, Amon, I couldn't. The angle stops just above your chin. Of course I knew it was you." Before he could ask she gave a reassuring smile. "I recognized your shoulders."
He stood for a moment, undecided. He didn't want to tell her about his sudden self-doubt. It just wasn't like him to be concerned about things like that. They'd talk about it, later. Appeased for the time being, he put the frozen things away.
Sakaki Haruto stood in the elevator, watching the doors, willing them to open. It had been a bad day. Really. First, he'd slept through his alarm, waking to find it had been trilling intermittently for three hours. After apologizing to his neighbours (the pounding on the door had been his true wake-up call) he hurried through the morning motions and ran downstairs, popping his helmet onto his still-wet head.
Then his bike didn't start.
Kicking it hadn't helped in the slightest; although he was fairly sure he'd bruised most of the toes on his right foot. Visions of the ribbing he knew Doujima would be preparing flashed through his mind while he swallowed his pride and called a cab. It wasn't until they were halfway to Raven's Flat he realized he still had his helmet on.
So he paid the exorbitant fare, ran past the guard, who seemed surprised that he was the late one today, flew into the lift and punched the buttons, waiting the eternity to get to level five. After what seemed like an hour, the doors opened.
He was expecting his workmates to be in their usual positions, in varying states of activity. It was with much surprise that he found them crowded around Michael's computer in complete silence. He walked up behind them, trying to see what it was that had captured their attention.
"Hey guys, what's-"
"Sssh!" Doujima hissed, without turning around. Faintly miffed, and somewhat intrigued, he peered over Karasuma's shoulder, squeezing in next to Hattori.It was a video of some description, two men shaking hands and clapping each other on the back. They were on a podium; a lectern stood a little behind their display of goodwill. Turning to face the camera, they each kept one hand on the other's back, waving with their free arm. It looked like the end of a speech, some sort of merger. Well, whatever it was, he'd missed it.
Karasuma stretched and stepped away from the huddle, frowning at some inner debate. Kosaka strode off in the direction of his office, Hattori following like a dutiful puppy. Doujima flopped into her chair, while Michael rested his elbows on his desk, staring sightlessly at his screen. Sakaki had no idea what was going on.
"I don't get it," he said, waiting for someone to explain. Doujima sighed and glanced pointedly at Michael. The hacker hit some keys.
"It would probably be easier just to show you the tape over. It's a live feed from about five minutes ago, a speech given by the director of SOLOMON, and the head of Acheron Enterprises, one Werner Schaden" Across the room, Sakaki's computer flickered to life, and grabbing a chair, he sat himself down.
The file arrived and the feed opened on his desktop. The picture was surprisingly clear and the quality of the video was apparent even while paused. This had clearly been no shoddy handycam operation.
A noise behind him – Doujima, wheeling her chair over to his desk. She met his eyes thoughtfully.
"I think I'd better watch this again," she said, leaning forward. Sakaki turned and clicked his mouse, now extremely interested in what this footage contained.
On the monitor a balding, heavyset man walked up to the lectern and shuffled some papers, sweat gleaming on his shiny head.
"Myles Dempster," came Doujima's whisper next to his ear. "The current director of SOLOMON's general affairs."
"SOLOMON has general affairs?" he whispered back in surprise. He felt, rather than heard her sigh.
"No, you idiot, it doesn't. But Dempster is the public face of the organization. He's the man who deals with businesses and the relevant law enforcement agencies. Of course, he's just a figurehead. No one knows exactly who he reports to."
Somewhat chastened, Sakaki returned his attention to the screen. Dempster had finished arranging his notes and was now looking into the camera, a serious look on his ruddy face.
"SOLOMON team members, Hunters and other auxiliary agents," he began without preamble, a wheezing edge to his voice. "This international broadcast has been organized so as to inform those within our network that a major modification in SOLOMON's methods and practices will be introduced tonight, effective immediately.
SOLOMON has worked diligently, tirelessly throughout the centuries, protecting innocents from those individuals who choose to abuse their powers. We have willingly shouldered this burden, this responsibility of shielding the general populace from Witches, dealing with their destructive Craft as best we could; with caution, with efficiency, and more often than not, with force."
Sakaki wondered what Dempster was getting at. "Doujima, I know all this." She smacked him on the back of his head, hard.
"Keep listening!" Rubbing his scalp, he complied. Dempster continued.
"Despite years of research, we have been unable to perfect procedures by which we concurrently pacify the Witch population and protect ourselves from their destructive Craft. But now, times have changed. Here at SOLOMON we are proud to be able to usher in a new era. With the advent of new technology we are paving the way to more humane forms of Witch control –"
Pacify and protect, huh? Sakaki was uncomfortably reminded of a material that had succeeded in both of those aims. He felt the loss of his Orbo pendant's familiar weight, and looked down at his unornamented chest, visualizing the small vial of bubbling green liquid…then hastily looked up, recalling the method of its manufacture. He realized that in his musing he'd missed a portion of Dempster's monologue.
" - research facilities, that Acheron had been conducting their own experiments into the field of Witches. An arrangement has been reached and it is with great pleasure that I present to you Werner Schaden, founder of Acheron Enterprises and now SOLOMON's newest recruit."
Sakaki watched as a tall man entered the shot. He embraced Dempster then pulled away, nodding, one hand still on the director's back. A moment later Dempster left the stage and Schaden faced the camera.
Werner Schaden looked to be in his early forties. His dark hair was threaded with silver at the temples, but his neatly trimmed beard was free of grey. He was tall, and held himself erect: as if proud of the extra height. As he smiled, lines fanned around brilliant blue eyes, noticeable even behind silver-rimmed spectacles.
"Wilkommen, mein Freunden! We are very pleased to announce this merger between Acheron Enterprises and the gutes Volk of SOLOMON. Unknown to myself, we have been secretly working towards a common goal – to rectify the Witch problem. It is a mutually beneficial arrangement in which we both have the opportunity to further our knowledge – SOLOMON has the information and experience, and I have…this."
Reaching into his suit pocket, he withdrew a small, glittering object and held it level to his face. The camera zoomed forward until Sakaki could determine that Schaden held a computer chip, roughly half the size of his smallest fingernail. It gleamed in the businessman's fingers, his smile visible behind it.
" 'This' is the Goethe chip, an implant designed to monitor the use of a Witch's powers. A predetermined acceptable Craft output is programmed into each. Should the Witch exceed these allowed limits, a hunt will be ordered and the Witch will be terminated."
The camera panned out, returning to its original position. Schaden continued to smile.
-
The clip went on for a few more minutes, Schaden expounding upon the virtues of his invention until Dempster was escorted back on camera by a couple of burly bodyguards. Then the two men did the hand-clasping, back-patting ritual Sakaki had witnessed earlier, and the image froze into a pixilated blur.
Doujima had assumed a contemplative pose. "Hmm, it still doesn't make any sense. Why would Dempster do that? A private broadcast – it's just too flashy for SOLOMON."
Sakaki had been considering much the same thing. "I thought SOLOMON had basically given us the finger. And suddenly this video…"
Michael tipped his head over the back of his chair. Despite the blaring rock music from his earphones, he'd evidently been following their conversation.
"I can't source the file."
The two hunters looked at him with comically identical expressions of puzzlement. "What?"
The hacker sighed. "I can't source the file. I don't know where it came from. I'd be inclined to think it wasn't even from SOLOMON were it not for the email that accompanied it."
This was new, to Sakaki at least. "What email?" he asked, at the same time Doujima exclaimed, "Michael! Don't tell me cyberspace has beaten you!"
He gave her a dirty look. "I can't believe it either. But it's not like any firewall or security system I've ever seen before. It's more like…fog. A mist that obscures what I'm looking for, that deliberately shadows the information I need. It's almost as if it slows down my commands, or absorbs them." He ran a frustrated hand through his hair. "I can't explain it."
Doujima nodded sagely. "So it appears."
Sakaki wasn't distracted. "Michael, what email?"
"Oh, I forgot you weren't here." The hacker returned his attention to the monitor before him. "The email that came with the video was apparently from SOLOMON headquarters. We're getting a new Hunter."
Werner Schaden looked up at the approach of two Acheron minions.
"Na?" he inquired. One nodded. The other produced a piece of paper. Schaden held out his free hand and the underling scurried forward, handing him the note.
"You're dismissed." Quickly he unfolded the note, scanning the coded lines. "Nein, wait." The minions froze. Schaden's ever-present smile widened slightly. "Have the stage dismantled, schnell. And get rid of that."
He pointed at Dempster's prone form, blood seeping into the carpet beneath his ruined chest. "Here." Passing his pistol to the nearest minion, he strode from the room, the note's contents playing through his mind.
Cargo arrived safely. Present received. In the empty nest we may find some eggs.
"Ach wie nett," Schaden thought. How nice.
Some German words and phrases:
Wilkommen, mein Freunden - Welcome, my friends
Gutes Volk - good people
Na? - well?
Nein - no
Schnell - quickly
Ach wie nett - how nice
Yay! This is the new, improved chapter one - version 1.2, you could say. A few things have changed and I can safely say it is a great deal better than before. Thanks, Kate!