AN: Yeah, I peg Key for a big Doors fan.
8. Regret
Noon. The shade provided by the trailer had retreated all morning, until its border touched Key's boots. He sat with his knees and forearms in the sun, watching the blinding landscape and thinking.
Almost at the edge of his sight, he marked a bicycle, lying on its side, half-covered by sand. By tomorrow it would be gone entirely.
Hadn't Eliot said something about this?
I will show you water in the shade of this rock…I will show you fear in a handful of dust.
High in the air, a crow marked him. It came down in a wary circle, keeping its distance.
Not dead yet, he thought, with a smile. He watched it alight with a nervous start on the upraised seat of the bicycle. It ruffled its wings, as if to show it had settled by accident, passing through; meanwhile it watched him carefully for signs of expiration.
"Are you a messenger from the Spirit World?" he muttered. "What tidings?"
He stood. Startled, the crow launched itself haphazardly, and escaped.
Perhaps it means I should follow.
All morning, he had been meditating on one subject; and as he entered the trailer, brushing away the sand that had settled on his arms, he thought he knew the answer. It was something, anyway, to be sure of something. Wasn't it.
I may not understand myself, he thought, but I understand you – Ilpalazzo.
He lifted his guitar off the dirty cot where his master had slept before him. He had replaced the broken string and tuned it, and began to pick out a melody, haltingly; standing in his doorway at high noon, in the heart of the desert, feeling the presence of the music.
"This one goes out to you, Lord Ilpalazzo," he said out loud. "Wherever you are."
He played for the benefit of the dunes and mesas, and the crow, still wheeling around somewhere, looking out for its midday meal. It was a familiar tune. He played reflectively, not loudly, looking alternately at the sand and the sky.
"Don't you love her madly…Don't you need her badly…"
He spotted the car on the southern horizon when its was still a plume of dust. Two visitors in one day. How remarkable. Watching it, he continued to play.
"Don't you love her ways…Tell me what you say…Don't you love her madly…Wanna be her Daddy…Don't you love her as she's walkin' out the door…Like she did one thousand times before…"
The car made its way down the same route, though Key couldn't know, that That Man had taken not long ago in his last-ditch attempt to reason with his delinquent underling.
"All your love…All your love…All your love…is…""
Now he could make it out: an old black Pontiac, with a soaring firebird beautifully painted on the hood. Still playing, he raised his eyebrows.
"All your love is gone…So sing a lonely song…From a deep blue dream—"
The car pulled up within a stone's throw of the trailer. He could make out the driver's hair, and her pale complexion. Ah. So she did come, after all. He let his pick drop, and held the guitar loosely on his hip as she climbed out and approached him, shading her eyes against the sun.
Key smiled. "Ex-Agent Hyatt. Tell me, what's one of the angels doing so far from heaven's gates?"
"Oh, Mister Key! I hope I haven't come at an inconvenient time; I really meant to give notice."
She was alarmingly pale, but he had never seen her look so – dapper.
"That's quite a ensemble you've got there. You could run for Prime Minister."
"Oh, Mister Key is far too kind!" Hyatt glanced down at the sleek black business suit, with its its flared lapels and sleeves. It made her shoulders and bust jut out fearsomely, and her waist shrink almost to nothing. "It seemed appropriate for the occasion of calling on an old colleague."
In her left hand, he noticed, she held a tall cut-glass pitcher, shining with lemonade like a great cut topaz. With the sun behind it, he could make out each individual ice cube. He eyed it with an almost sexual greed.
"And I see you brought me a present."
"Oh, yes. Hyatt now understands the parching effects of the desert all too well."
Key laughed. "If only the earth was peopled with your like, we sons of Man would have no cause to hope for heaven."
"Such a compliment is both more than Hyatt deserves and can understand."
Key noticed she had begun to sway on her feet, and beckoned to her.
"But would the Angel do me the honor of entering my tent? Otherwise, I fear she might expire under this blazing red hate they call the Sun."
"Don't mind if I—" She dabbed at the corner of her mouth. "—if I do…"
He watched her carefully as she passed through the doorway. No; not even one as considerate as her would drive hundreds of miles into the desert to bring a pitcher of lemonade to an old acquaintance.
"You've been thinking about it, haven't you?" he said.
Her back faced him as she set the lemonade on the kitchenette counter.
"Pardon me, Mister Key?"
"You've been thinking about it. What I told you last night."
She looked at the carpet. Her soft, irresolute face was difficult to read. "I appreciated your call. It was very kind of you to go out of your way to inform me of those events."
"Don't mention it." He set his guitar down, eyeing the lemonade again. "Nothing interests me so much as the constricted lashings of the human heart."
"Mister Key?"
Before explaining, he gestured toward the pitcher with a hopeful look at Hyatt. She nodded cheerfully.
"Oh, yes! Please help yourself."
Getting a glass down from the cabinet, he called over his shoulder: "One for you as well, Miss Hyatt?"
"Oh, no. Hyatt isn't particularly thirsty."
"Are you sure? You look rather—"
"Please don't mind me. I'm a little anemic, is all." Again, she touched the corner of her mouth, and gave an apologetic smile.
Key shrugged. He poured a tall glass of the dazzling lemonade, then held it up to the light. "This should be sweeter than the Living Water!—What shall we drink to?"
"To old friends," said Hyatt, with uncharacteristic surety.
"Very well. After all, who could ever forget Burns?—'Should auld acquaintance be forgot, and ne-ver come to mind…Should auld acquaintance be forgot…And days of Auld Lang Syne…'" He raised the rim—"Cheers!"—and drank it off in one gulp.
"Is the beverage to your liking, Mr. Key?"
"Bravo! A thirst-quenching tour-de-force." He slammed the empty glass on the counter, and began pouring another. "But I believe I was saying something…"
"'The constricted lashings of the human heart,' Mister Key?"
"Ah. Yes." He wet his lips. "The shipwrecked. The bereaved. The man with no place to go.—So tell me, Ex-Agent Hyatt. At this moment – which 'R' are you filled with?"
"Which are are?"
"Which R."
"Pardon me?"
Key sipped the lemonade. "Ambivalence. The heritage of our fall from Eden."
"I'm afraid Hyatt still doesn't understand."
"Now that your enemy is dead," said Key, turning the glass in his hand, "which R are you filled with? Relief, that your child and husband are safe? Or Regret, that a woman who was once your closest friend – is dead?"
He watched her face. If there was any flicker of reaction, it passed too quickly for him to catch.
"Hyatt supposes – a little bit of both," she said, looking out the door.
Key smiled. "I'm sure you do feel – a little bit of both. But I asked you which you feel more. Relief? Or Regret?"
Hyatt looked at her shoes. "Regret," he said quietly.
"Hmm. I thought as much." Carrying his lemonade, he crossed to the window. "You know, I never met anyone quite like that girl…She had that way about her. She lived like it was going out of style." He laughed. "But look what it's come to. The bell will toll; the worms will have their way."
Hyatt said something in answer, but Key was deafened by a sudden ringing in his ears.
"E-excuse me?"
Again, he saw Hyatt's lips move. Then he felt the first stab of pain.
"How do you like the lemonade, Mister Key?" Hyatt was asking sweetly. "Is it perhaps too sour for your taste?"
"Ah—gah!"
"Perhaps Hyatt should have added less strychnine?"
Key choked, clawing at the edge of the counter, and the glass slipped through his fingers. Splinters of glass shot across the floor, but he was deaf to the sound. He sunk to his knees in the pool of lemonade, his face growing livid.
"Hyatt—" he gasped. "I – I promise you—"
Hyatt put her foot on his chest. Slowly, looking him in the face, she pushed until he lay on his back. His arms locked in a rictus, he could only plead with his eyes.
"To me," she said quietly, "the word of a murderer like you – is worth less than nothing." Her sharp heel pressed on his sternum. "But in these last, agonizing moments of life remaining to you, Mister Key, allow me to answer that your question of yours in more detail."
He shuddered and squirmed, like an insect stuck on a needle, and his eyes lashed wildly around the trailer.
"The R I feel most," said Hyatt, "is Regret. Regret that Senior Excel – perhaps the bravest, most open-hearted woman Hyatt has ever known – met her end at the hands of a posturing, angst-ridden nar-bastard like you." She removed her foot, and Key spasmed onto his side. "Senior deserved better."
Key coughed. He lay clutching his shoulders, an amazed look his eyes.
"I was angry with my foe," he muttered. "I told it not, my hate did grow…A plague on both your houses! Do not go gentle into that good night! This is the end – beautiful friend, the end – it has to set you free, but you'll never follow me…A horse, a horse; my kingdom for a horse!—Enough. The rest is silence."
His hands twitched; then he was still.
Hyatt stepped back. Here was no sound in the kitchen, or from the desert outside. Key lay with the lemonade seeping around him, like a bloodstain.
Hyatt lifted his guitar and smashed it over the counter. The neck snapped; strings shot apart with an angry hiss. She threw the wreck on the ground. The effort brought on a coughing fit, though, and she sunk to the floor, holding her knees.
"Hyatt is a traitor to ACROSS," she muttered. "And now she'll never hear Senior's cheerful voice again."
There was a crash outside the trailer, followed by an oddly familiar cry: "Ow!—What moron left a bicycle there?"
Looking toward the doorway, Hyatt said hopefully: "And now Hyatt will never hear Senior's light, skipping footsteps again."
Shoes scraped on the path outside the trailer. Hyatt stood up.
"Never hear Senior opening the door…"
The door flew open.
"Excel Semp—!"
"Excel punch!"
Blood speckled the walls, and Hyatt sprawled on top of Key.
Excel, rubbing her knuckles, blinked at the unanticipated scene. Broken guitar. Dead Hatchan. Dead-looking Key. Spilled liquid, ice cubes, broken glass. She was about to kneel down and try to resuscitate Hyatt when a golden sparkle caught her eye. A pitcher of lemonade stood on the kitchen counter, like a gift from the heavens. Her situation was replaced to a simple fact:
Excel is thirsty!
Licking her lips, she reached for the pitcher.
Great Will of the Macrocosm Reset!
The door flew open.
"Excel-semp—!"
"Excel punch!"
Blood speckled the walls, and Hyatt sprawled on top of Key.
Excel, rubbing her knuckles, blinked at the unanticipated scene. Broken guitar. Dead Hatchan. Dead-looking Key. Spilled liquid, ice cubes, broken glass. She was about to kneel down and try to resuscitate Hyatt when a golden sparkle caught her eye. A pitcher of lemonade stood on the kitchen counter, like a gift from the heavens. Her situation was replaced to a simple fact:
Excel is thirsty!
She shook her head. Examine corpses first; quench thirst later. She kneeled next to Hyatt, shaking her roughly:
"Ne, Hatchan! Come back to life already! I don't have all day."
After a moment, Hyatt's eyes opened calmly, as if after a long sleep. "Oh, Senior! Is it morning already?"
Excel sat back, heaving a sigh. "Jeez! You had me worried there."
She started, though, when Hyatt hugged her enthusiastically around the shoulders.
"H-hey! I don't wanna catch whatever dies-every-five-seconds thing you've got! Personal space rules! Personal space rules!"
"Excel-sempai," said Hyatt, into her shoulder. "I thought…I would never see you again."
"Yeah, well; couldja find some other way to express that attitude? Like maybe telling me why Key's lying there, all dead and stuff?"
Hyatt pulled back, and her face darkened. "I thought he had killed you in cold blood, Senior. I hope I haven't made a mistake."
Excel stood up, huffing. "Oh, he tried to kill me, alright." She looked at the twisted, motionless body with mixed emotions. "Pfft. That loser didn't really think he'd succeed where Lord Ilpalazzo failed, did he?"
Hyatt was silent.
"Wow. You really – killed him?"
She nodded. "When he called to tell me you were dead, I was so angry. Hyatt had never experienced these feelings before – except once. I was so sorry that I hadn't helped you when you came to see me before; and now it was too late. But I had to do something. And I knew I wasn't suited for it. So – I tried to think what you would do, Senior."
Still looking at Key, Excel whistled. "Really? Cause to tell you the truth, Hatchan, you probably handled the situation just a teensy bit more smoothly than Excel would have." She looked at the smashed guitar. "Didja hit him with that?"
Hyatt shook her head, and indicated the lemonade.
"Oo-o-oh – right. Y'know, I really should have seen that coming. Close one, though."
"I never would have imagined I could do it," said Hyatt.
"Well, you did a pretty good job trying to poison me."
"I know. And I'm sorry."
They both regarded Key's body.
"He was ACROSS's Special Ops Director," said Hyatt. "And with Miss Cosette in custody…"
"…Basically, what you're saying is, ACROSS is finito."
The wind whistled through the open door. Excel stood scratching the back of her head.
"So, Senior," ventured Hyatt. "Which R are you filled with?"
"Heh?"
"Which R do you feel more? Relief? Or Regret?"
Excel turned away from the corpse. Now that she had accepted his death, a more basic reality, that she was in the same room as a dead guy, began to get to her. "I guess a little bit of both," she said.
Hyatt nodded. "Yes. Me too."
"Hey, Hatchan."
"Senior?"
"Can we step outside? Cause that—" she pointed at Key—"is not Excel's idea pleasant surroundings."
"Of course, Senior."
Excel hopped down from the door, and stood on the spot where Key, not half an hour ago, had stood, smiling as he knew he had finally plumbed the secrets of his Master's heart. Hyatt let herself down more gently, and stood next to her, looking out at the unimpressed sweep of desert.
Excel sat on the stoop – again, in the same attitude that Key, and not long before him Lord Ilpalazzo himself, had occupied.
Hyatt looked down at her. "Senior, your hair is a mess."
Excel smiled weakly. "Pit-related mishap."
She looked up at Hyatt. "Hey. Nice suit, though."
Still standing, Hyatt ran her fingers through Excel's dirt-caked hair.
"Thank you, Senior."
"It makes your boobs look big."
"Although that wasn't my intention, Senior, Hyatt accepts the compliment."
"Hatchan."
"Senior?"
"Look. I'm – sorry, okay? I prob'ly shouldn't have hit you and said I'd kill your kid, just cause you wouldn't help me out. I mean—" She studied the sand. "If anyone knows about loyalty, it's me, right?"
Hyatt was in the process of twisting some of her hair into a braid. "There's no need for apologies, senior."
"I know you're my friend. If you don't wanna tell me where he is, then—"
"Lord Ilpalazzo has left the country," said Hyatt, calmly. "He was last sighted by authorities at Tokyo international airport, boarding a private jet."
Excel stopped, dumbfounded.
"In my personal opinion, Senior Excel, Lord Ilpalazzo has most probably fled to South America."
"South America?"
"Yes. With all due respect to the hardworking and virtuous people of South America, where else might a wanted war criminal find sanctuary?"
"Huh. You got a good point there, Hatchan. Although the fact that one of the few characters who has yet to show up in this story hails from South America probably can't hurt, either."
"Senior has spoken the only truth."
"Well. Guess there's only one thing for it."
Gently brushing Hyatt's hands away from her hair, Excel got to her feet. The sun was setting. The white sand turned a softer shade, and the wall of the trailer reflected red.
"Hatchan."
"Senior?"
Excel bit her lip. "Well, not to pry, but – why'd you just tell me that?"
"I told you that I still feel loyalty toward Lord Ilpalazzo."
"Right. And you realize I'm gonna—"
"Yes." Hyatt smiled. "But how else will Lord Ilpalazzo ever see you again?"
Excel's preview: "Gosh, I'm – kinda choked up right now. But sentimentality is the hobgoblin of being doomed to repeat it, or something like that, so let's not forget what this story is all about: kissing!—I mean killing, killing! And there will certainly not be any kissing in our next episode, "Face to Face," despite what that title may suggest, so don't get your hopes up! You heard me!"
AN: O-o-okay, long Author's Note.
I have to say, I like this chapter the best of any so far. It's got a good dramatic element, a good comedic element, and a good emotional element…of course, I don't know if people will agree with me…just thought I'd share.
Kids, don't try this at home! According to wikipedia, strychnine is one of the most bitter substances on earth, so your friend might notice when you slip it in his drink. Good old-fashioned cyanide is probably still your best bet, even if it does (I'm told) taste faintly of almonds.
-Nar-bastard is officially my favorite word not in the English language. Nar-bastard!
I, uh, assume this is what girlfriends sound like when they talk to each other. I'm really just guessing here.
Sorry, South America!
Bonus points: who all is Key quoting in his death-speech?
Bonus bonus points: what three old maxims is Excel confusing in her preview?
Oh, and on the off-chance anyone is wondering why I update so quickly; I just write really fast, especially since I'm working from a Known Plot (as my last year's creative writing teacher would say). It's not like I have the whole thing done and am just uploading it one chapter at a time.
Thanks again, reviewers! Hope you're looking forward to the finale as much as I am. It should be pretty alright. It'll also be a couple of days since the next update, due to what I've got planned, but it'll be a big one.
Seriously, don't get your hopes up. You heard Excel.
