A Sense of Dark
Chapter Nine
by PenguinKye
October 12, 199X—4:15 PM
I knew that sooner or later, Weiß would come after us again. They had an impossible habit of turning themselves into the victims of every scenario, and then stabbing the "offenders" with crossbow darts. Omi in particular had been scalded by the accusation that he was a sadistic torturer, but now the burn would have scabbed over. All he would think of was that I had tipped the pot that burned him.
Knowing this, I knew we had to kill them. What Unmei had said unnerved me, and I saw Weiß as a distraction that we could not afford. They had to be eliminated from our list of troubles early on or concentration on the greater enemy would be compromised.
I caught Nagi as he left Schuldig's room. He appeared even more closed off than usual. When I tried to speak to him, he merely grunted a reply: something about death, I expect.
I had no time for this kind of tantrum.
"Nagi," I said. "We must kill Weiß."
I was pleased to see him look up at that.
"Sure," he said. "Let's go now." I frowned.
"We're not going into any situation without proper preparation."
"Let Farf out of his room. You'll be prepared then."
"Very amusing, Nagi. Do you know the hours of the most estimable assassin-sponsored flower shop in town?"
"Yes, sir."
"And today, they would be--?"
"They'll be closed at six."
"And it's now four thirty. Schuldig will not be accompanying us, obviously. However, I do not want to go as a force fewer than three. I shall contact Unmei about sending someone over."
"Schu gets a babysitter?"
"I suppose that is an almost accurate summary of my thoughts."
"He won't like it."
"He does, however, like you. This is why you will tell him."
There was a long, pregnant silence from Nagi. I had to look at him sternly and for many seconds for him to look up again.
"What is the problem, Nagi?" He held a breath and stuck his tongue thoughtfully against the gap of a canine and the tooth behind it. It was a pondering mannerism. It usually bore the worst of tidings. On the other hand, Nagi usually wouldn't reveal those tidings until he felt inclined; inquires would achieve nothing.
"Nothing," he said at last. "I'll tell him."
I was more or less satisfied by this.
"Tell Schuldig before you fetch Farfarello," I said. "Better yet—let us both fetch Farfarello." Nagi nodded, and I went to my office.
My phone rang. The caller ID was a nonexistent number, which meant that it was either Eszett or someone shady and powerful who had somehow escaped Eszett—whether that meant Enemy or Friend I could not have said. Being the powerful Seer that she was, however, I was putting my money on Unmei.
"Yes?" I said.
"I will come myself," said Unmei. "I would like speak to your mindreader in person."
"Excellent," I said. "As long as it will not endanger you?"
"It will not," she said.
"We shall see you then, Madam. At eight o'clock, if it suits you."
"It would. I would like to speak to you as well, of other things. If they are, in fact, other things. Do I guess correctly that this appointment gives us time to talk?"
"You do, Unmei-sama."
"Good. Then I shall see you at your home in a few hours, Mr. Crawford."
She put the phone down first, and left the disconnecting buzz to ring in my ear. It continued to sizzle there, burrowing into my brain, as I set the phone into its cradle, sat down at my desk, and waited to think of something worth doing there.
After a few moments, I reached down to the drawer on my right. It slipped open, smooth; as always, I reveled in the desk's elegant blend of artistry and functionality. It, like everything I owned, was expensive because it was worth its price. I did not approve of flaws, when the money could be produced that would buy perfection. My suits were hand-tailored; my wine was hand-pressed; my desk was hand-built. It was not extravagance; it was quality.
I removed a brown leather notebook and slid the drawer shut with the back of my hand. I lay the book open before me, and without looking up, ghosted my fingers about my desk until they touched the barrel of a pen.
"October 12, 199X," I murmured, and wrote it down.
No visions.
I stopped after that brief sentence to consider.
The length of this drought is a concern; my longest ever, prior to this, was no more than four days. This is the eighth consecutive day with not a whisper of foresight more than the two visions concerning Weiß. Those did me so little good—so much harm, even— that I wonder why they even came to me. And I begin to worry—perhaps even to fear. I have not yet announced the situation to my subordinates. At this time, if any have noticed (no sign of this, in point of fact), they most likely still believe it to be no more than a normal drought. I do not have them often, but my subordinates know they occur. It could even be that they believe I am being more than usually reticent.. If they have noticed.
It would be no surprise if they have not.. It is not often that one of our number finds himself so thoroughly jeopardized as Schuldig managed to become. I still do not understand how he failed to notice the presence of the enemy in such close quarters. This is almost as worrying as my drought. As often as Schuldig allows personality to overwhelm good sense, he has never failed before. Only in the last fortnight has this been a pattern of behavior.
Tonight, Nagi and Farfarello and I will remove the risk that is Weiß. Unmei will oversee Schuldig here. I called to ask for one of her associates, or subordinates. She offered to come herself, in part with the offer to converse. I hope that her conversation pieces have some relevance to either me or Schuldig. If an outside eye could provide me answers, I am heartily prepared to accept them.
I am afraid that I feel some paranoia; it is possible that, as we confront Weiß this evening, I will be waiting all the while for Nagi to lose his telekenesis, or for Farfarello to feel pain.
I scanned my own words quickly, to see whether anything had gone unsaid. What I had written seemed suffiecient. It was perhaps a brief report, but it said all that I wished it to and many things that I did not.
I laid the book shut, replaced it in its drawer, and dropped the pen back into the penholder. The point met the metal base with a disheartened plink. For some reason the hollow sound drew out of me a sick feeling—a lump of dread clutching like a beetle's spiked legs at the base of my throat.
I ignored it. I pressed it away, smoothing out the legs of my pants and brushing an invisible dust speck from my blotter. If I made everything even enough, clean enough, perfect enough, the beetle in my throat would have to let go and fly away. As I began to check each pen in the holder for acceptably full cartridges, I wondered how much it would take to turn me into my father. I wondered, but I didn't stop my inspection.
Too little, a voice in my mind supplied. It caught me off guard and ignited my rage. With an angry swipe, I brushed it, the beetle of dread, and every single pen into the wastebasket.
When I left the room, I let the door slam a little.
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PenguinKye
July 1, 2005
Uploaded September 2005
Hallo, everyone. I really appreciate the people who have been reading, so please, even if you haven't got anything to say, drop a review so I know who you are. Thanks for sticking with my slow-moving story. (When I reread the whole thing to put times and dates on it, I realized that the first 15 chapters or so all take place within a couple of days. I should retitle again: "One Incredibly Crappy Week for Schwarz in Five Thousand Chapters.")