Copyright disclaimer: No. I know you're going to ask me if I own the Legend of Zelda. I'm going to have to say no, then cry in a corner and rethink my life choices.
CHAPTER 8: Aftermath
Two days passed, and Gear hadn't come. I wondered if he would never come because he thought I would never be ready. The idea of his self-important mercy was strange to think about.
It had been five days since the bombings, and there was no news on the progress of the police force's investigation. Slowly, people began to stream out from their homes, out and about. It was understandable that five days was too long to stay in their houses, they needed food, fresh air, and sunlight. The kids needed to go to school, and people had to get back to their jobs. The city had lost 200 million rupees so far. Skyloft wasn't entirely back on its feet, but it was finally waking up and getting to work on making things right.
Fi called me less frequently than she ever had.
"It's good knowing that you can't leave the house and get yourself into trouble," she said.
"Thank you for your hard work," I replied. With nothing to do on a Saturday, I sat at my desk, scrolling through my pictures. I was bored beyond my wits, and my phone just happened to be there at full charge. I had photo albums for any case that required photo evidence, and there were many resolved cases sitting on my phone. There were rather gruesome pictures and I decided to delete them all. The cases were already filed, so I had no need to keep them.
I went from 5,000 pictures to less than 40. When I got to the end of my photos, I started seeing the pictures I'd taken of prayers in the temple. I figured I could take more time trying to translate them, then remembered the thin book of prayers that I'd pulled from the chief priest's office. I rummaged through my laundry until I'd found it. Writing down the prayer to the best of my ability in my choppy Hylian handwriting, I went through the book to see if it was there. It had both the traditional Hylian and the English translation. I couldn't find it, so I pulled out my Hylian-to-English dictionary and set to work.
Lover—lost—,
Forgive—songs we sang to our—in—low
—clouds again, clouds again
For we—to you our—and—.
Flipping through the dictionary, I jotted down the words that I couldn't identify until I had them all written, out of context. They looked out of place. I took another few minutes to rewrite the prayer in English, filling in the missing words.
Lover of lost wings,
Forgive the red songs we sang to our idols in voices low
Bring to us the clouds again, clouds again
For we sacrifice to you our saints and heroes.
I was a bit confused reading it, and re-read it to see if that would clear anything up. It didn't. I searched "Hylian sacrificial prayers" in my browser. "0 RESULTS", it responded. Worshippers of Hylia were not known to sacrifice anything in her name, let alone people. We only gave offerings. From the beginning of time, Hylians were devout worshippers, but only through peaceful means did they express their love for their goddess. Perhaps it's metaphorical, I wrote in red pen, underlining the last line of the prayer. Isn't everything metaphorical?
"This is like when I was back in school," I said to myself, rubbing my temples.
I slacked off all of the time, but I was still one of the top students. I was first in my grade, but second only to Pipit in the entire school, who was my senior. I looked up to him even now in SkyCorp: he was the only person in the company that'd solved more cases than me. I decided to leave the prayer alone for the time being. However, much further down the line, the prayer would serve as the catalyst for destruction. Without anything to do once again, I figured I could eat to satisfy my ennui, but when I went to check my refrigerator for food, it was disappointingly adorned with a few apples and too many water bottles, chocolate syrup, old lettuce, and an empty box of cereal. When I checked my pantry, however, it was filled with sweets, from the top shelf to the bottom.
"No regrets," I said. I wrote down a grocery list and put a note at the bottom: Sweets are NOT allowed! But I doubted that I could restrain myself.
The Skyloft bazaar and farmer's market was one of my favorite places in the city. It was a link to both the past and the modern-day, as there were antiques stores right next to Internet cafes, magic and the occult beside the Hylian bookstore. There was always music playing at the booths, displaying the different cultures of the merchants, and the vivid colors decorating the entire area brought a feeling of harmony. The smells from the farmer's market and the food vendors mingled and I found my mouth watering at the prospect of eating my favorite confection at the sweets booth: white-chocolate covered bananas. Sweets are NOT allowed, said the list.
I only needed things from the farmers market, so the bazaar stayed inaccessible until I would need something from it. Fresh herbs, vegetables, fruits, and handmade junk food, which I assumed made it healthier. I left the butcher right before he started breaking the necks of more chickens—gratefully—and had bought a pound of chicken breast. I amassed all the ingredients for tikka masala, a dish I'd had once at a restaurant in West. It was creamy, thick, and smoky, and there were so many flavors that I was genuinely surprised when I tasted it. I couldn't wait to try my hand at it: I was pretty good at cooking.
When I got home, the door didn't open all the way because the chain was hooked to the wall. That didn't make sense, though, because that could happen if someone was on the other side... I put my groceries on the ground and unhooked the chain from the wall. I cautiously pushed the door open, my hand on the gun that was perpetually tucked into my waistband.
"Aw, you got in here much too easily," an annoyingly familiar voice remarked. I took the safety off of the pistol and pointed it at him. He was standing in the middle of the room, his hands on his hips and a disappointed look on his face.
"You know who it is," he said, "so you can put the toys away now." Of course, Gear was there.
"Your reason for being here is what, exactly?" I inquired dispassionately.
"Just a friendly visit," he said with a shit-eating smile. Forgive me, Hylia.
"We've seen each other. You can leave now."
"Isn't your arm getting tired?"
"I have knives, too."
"Goodness, let me tell you what I need to and get out before I am assaulted," he said mockingly. I put the safety back on my gun and stuck it back in m waistband, but I pulled out the switchblade in my pocket and put it between my teeth. I brought the groceries from the hallway outside, set them in the kitchen, and locked the front door. Gear was still standing there. "Two things," he said, walking towards me.
"First, I think I'll come here more often. I've looked into the kindness of my heart and decided that I'll aid you in your future investigations," he said.
"No thank you." I was blunt.
"And secondly, there isn't anything you can do about it. You might not know this," he said as he got closer. I'd been backing up as he advanced, but now my back was against the wall. "But I am a terrorist." He put his hand on my shoulder and bent over so we were at eye level. When he touched me, I went rigid, and my body became cold.
"With that in mind, I have to tell you: if you give any information about me to anyone, I'll blow up SkyCorp." He removed his hand from my shoulder and backed off. I thought for a moment.
"To be clear, you're blackmailing me?"
"Yes," he replied with a satisfied smirk.
"I'll cooperate." I walked to the kitchen and began to unpack my groceries, organizing them in the fridge. Gear was speechless.
"You'll... Could you repeat that, please?" I rolled my eyes and looked at him.
"If the lives of hundreds of people rests in my hands, my interests are not important. If your conditions are to keep quiet, I'll do it. How did you know where I worked?"
"I plan on blackmailing you again," he said, ignoring my question. "Since you're so obedient."
"Is that all? Please leave and don't come back."
"How rude. What peasant food are you making?"
"Why, do you want to eat my peasant food?" I answered. I was getting angrier as he stayed.
"No, of course not," he replied, offended.
"Then you have no reason to stay," I said. I washed and chopped the chicken into chunks, but he still stood in the kitchen, watching me. I stabbed the knife into the cutting board.
"Link, I think you may have anger management issues," Gear said.
"I think you're my anger management issues," I grumbled.
"I'm touched! Absolutely touched! I feel quite giddy."
"Do you need something else?" I asked, exasperated. I set an hour on my phone's timer and put the chicken in the fridge to marinate in the seemingly strange mixture of yogurt, lemon juice, cumin, cinnamon, cayenne, black pepper, ginger, and salt.
"I'm going to be charitable here and share information with you. Your suspects are all wrong," he claimed as he sat on my desk and crossed his arms.
"What are you referring to?" I inquired with my interest now piqued.
"Your case. What kind of detective are you, not even knowing what case you are working on? What a mediocre little hero." He pulled out the Manila folder of information that Keet had given me that displayed a big, red, CONFIDENTIAL stamped onto it.
"Now you really need to leave," I said, my voice rising. He ignored me.
"This is for the opium trade, yes? None of these people, then. They are not the bigwigs in the gangs—my, and this kid has been dead for a month now. The man you're looking for..." What he said could have been important, but he spoke in such a condescending way that I took no note of it. I tuned out. An hour passed as such: he said something disgustingly self-important and I asked him to leave with an increasing amount of profanities, and the pattern repeated. Finally, my phone went off just as I was ready to throw a knife or two into his chest. I jumped at the opportunity to get away and took the chicken from the fridge.
"Explain to me what you are doing," Gear said, stepping closer to me.
Seriously? Seriously. "Just making peasant food," I said, turning on the stove and putting olive oil on the grill pan. While it heated up, I began sautéing garlic and jalapeños for the sauce, then added in the other ingredients. Somehow, I'd ended up explaining everything to him, from the very beginning to putting the chicken on skewers.
"And then you let it simmer for 20 minutes while you grill the chicken, probably five minutes on both sides." I did just that.
"Ah, the cuisine of commoners is so strange." I looked at him and raised an eyebrow. Maybe he'll leave if I give him food?
"What kind of food do the wealthy eat?" I asked with disinterest.
"You would not know it."
"Mhm." I put the skewers of chicken into the sauce just as my phone buzzed in my pocket. I washed my hands and saw a text from Fi:
Government is back up. The police found and persecuted all of the involved parties that attacked. All-company meeting tomorrow in board room #12. The intelligence division wants you to continue your case as soon as possible.
I looked from my phone to Gear, then to my phone again.
Everyone involved? I replied.
Yes.
"The city is up and running again," Gear said. He was on his phone as well, a sleek, updated version of mine.
"Did you plan the attacks last week?" I blurted out, instantly regretting my rashness.
"No," he said. He looked excited to talk about it. "I only approved the plan, my colleagues did most of the work. I'm more of a solo artist now," he said, gesturing to himself grandly. He acted as if it was a noble profession. I knew I couldn't ask him anymore, so I turned to the finished food. I placed it stylishly on a plate over rice and handed it to him with a fork. He was incredulous.
"I believe I said I didn't want your commoner food," Gear stated.
"Eat it and leave," I said. He mumbled something and picked one of the skewers from the plate and bit into it. His eyes widened a marginal amount, which was the first authentic reaction I'd gotten from him.
"This is... sufficient," he said.
"Okay. Have a nice night," I said sarcastically.
"Thank you!" He walked up to me and out of nowhere, he shoved his fist into my stomach. I fell back to the wall, and he moved with me. He punched me again, and this time the air was locked out of my lungs.
"I know I told you that I was hoping to abstain from doing vicious things to you. But all things considered, don't you think that you should change your attitude towards me?" He hit me again, and I fell forward, my forehead on his shoulder.
"I have yet to show you my true colors, but this difficult personality of yours makes said colors quite animated." He backed away, and I slid down the wall.
"So, you worthless piece of moving dog shit, you'd better be kissing my fucking feet the next time I see you. I'll see you very soon," he said, and almost sashayed out of my apartment. The door clicked shut.
"Dammit, I'm not hungry anymore," I said, resigned.
I wasn't in much pain, but I had to take a few deep breaths before my breathing was normal. I wrapped my food in foil and placed it in the fridge. I thought about what Gear had said about changing my attitude. I decided to treat him like I treated everyone else: with complete neutrality. I didn't speak unless addressed, and my answers were laconic. He wasn't worth getting mad over. I turned off the lights and curled up in bed. I hoped to go to sleep, but Fi's texts unnerved me. If all of the people involved were persecuted... why was Gear still running free?
The next day, I headed into SkyCorp at 6:30. The meeting didn't start until 8:00, but I'd had a few things to take care of. First, I locked all of the files that I'd kept at home in one of the many file cabinets in my office. It seemed the only one that Gear had flipped through was the drug bust, but just to be safe, I moved all confidential information.
After I finished organizing the files, I took the elevator up a few floors to the intelligence division. Most of the intelligence workers lived in the office so they could keep constant tabs on each case. I used my company ID to unlock the door—only a few people were allowed in—and walked into the still office. It was the only thing on the floor, but it was kept locked at all times regardless. For some reason, it was dark most of the time, but there were usually lights on the desks. Inside, no one but Keet sat at the cluster of desks, his head down in front of a lit computer. He looked like he was sleeping, but suddenly, he put his head up and began typing like a madman.
"What do you want?" he asked, still typing at a frenzied pace.
"Could we change the schedule for my training?"
"To what, more lessons?"
"I was going to ask for less." He stopped typing and turned to me, the light from his laptop illuminating him in a strange light.
"Do the routine, right now."
"W-what?" I asked, taken aback.
"If you don't have the confidence to do it at any time, you need to work on it," he said, and turned back to his computer, typing again like he was possessed.
"So I'll sign you up for one more lesson each week. I'll email you the updated schedule." I took that as my queue to leave, even though I didn't leave with what I wanted.
The board room opened at 7:55 AM. Representatives from every five floors trickled in, as well as every detective with offices above the 75th floor and the chairmen.
In SkyCorp, your company rank was determined by what floor you were on. The first five floors were security, the next six were were all of the secretaries worked (but only the people that worked floors sixty to eighty were allowed secretaries). The eleventh to fifteenth floors were the dining halls, and floors sixteen to thirty were for fitness. That does sound a bit grandiose, but to put things in perspective, there are five floors with nothing but swimming pools. Floor 31 all the way to 60 were for the lower ranked detectives, but as you went up each floor, you saw an increase in skill. 61 to 80 were the highly talented detectives, floor eighty being something most people couldn't even dream of. 81 to 85 were bosses and chairmen, and 86 to 100 were both the forensics labs and the intelligence division.
We rarely had all-company meetings, but because the entire company could not fit into the board rooms, all of the other workers called in like a conference call. There were about 40 people sitting at the table, sitting quietly.
At 8:00 exactly, Zelda walked into the room with Impa by her side. She sat gracefully in her chair and folded her hands onto the table.
"Let's begin, shall we?"
A/N: It seems like I'm starting a lot of my A/Ns with apologies, but... Sorry, because my last chapter for the week will be posted Saturday, not Friday, because I have to go get a passport today. Hoorah.