Link threw everything important he could think of into his carryon and backpack, heedless of things like clothing. All that really mattered was whatever was expensive or impossible to replace.
And his real passport. He'd retrieved it that morning, grateful for the connections that had made it possible to duplicate it before he came to the Order, so that the one he handed over the Rouvelliers would be fake. The real one had been tucked away in a safe place, along with several hundred euros in cash. This, too, he carried on his person, and not in his wallet. He wouldn't pass a full body search, but he'd get through a mugging.
Or a metal detector. Hidden under his sleeves were nylon sheathes holding twin plastic knives, with poor edges but points that were deadly in experienced hands. He wouldn't pass an x-ray, but he didn't need to. He just had to get himself home in one piece.
Maybe he was wrong, and if he was wrong he was fucked, but he didn't think he was wrong. The rumors were so improbable that they had to be true, especially since the Rouvelliers were doing nothing he could see to silence them. As far as Link could tell, they were doing nothing at all. Kanda's friend was being taken off life support, Lavi Buchmann had vanished, and Allen Walker…
There wasn't time to dwell on it. He needed to get the fuck out before Rouvellier thought of a new use for him. He shoved a large envelope into his backpack alongside his computer, and glanced once more around the room. Was there anything else he needed?
He didn't think so. He opened his window and dropped his carryon into the bushes, waiting for an agonizing five minutes to see if this action was noticed, either by someone inside the dorm or someone outside. When nothing disturbed him or his bag, he left his room, trying hard not to rush, signing himself out at the desk, then ducking around the building to retrieve his luggage.
As he walked toward the bus stop, he pulled a flip phone out of his pocket.
"Ja?" said Madarao.
"It's me," Link said in German. "I'm coming home."
"What?" Madarao said. "Did you win?"
"No. I'm just coming home."
"No!" Madarao said. "You stay there, do you hear me? You set foot in Germany, and I'll kill you."
"No, listen to me," Link said. "It's fine. The Black Order's a mess, it's collapsing. Two people are dead, and it's not over yet. The police are already involved, and if they look any more closely at me, and they'll find you."
"Then stay there and make sure that doesn't happen," Madarao said.
"Like I can do anything about the police!" Link said.
"Howard, it's your mess. Stay there, and stay on top of it."
"You don't get it," Link said. "It doesn't matter. The Order's done for. The best thing I can do now is get as far away as possible before someone gets any more curious about me than they already are."
"What do you mean, it's done for?" Madarao asked. "What happened?"
Link grinned to himself, but Cross had indeed been trolling, and on a far grander scale than Link had ever dared to imagine. "They picked up a Trojan horse."
"A virus? What the hell? Are you drunk?"
Did he sound drunk? Link didn't think so, but he felt strange. The more he talked about it, the truer it became. "Not drunk," Link said, "and not a virus. It's complicated."
"Look," Madarao said. "You come back here, you get nothing from me. Understand? Nothing, not even a place on the floor to sleep, and I'm sure as hell not giving you your job back."
Link didn't want any of that, but it still hurt to hear it. "I haven't done anything to put her in danger," he said.
"Did they tell you you could come home?" Madarao asked.
"No," Link said. "There's no one in charge right now to tell me anything." Komui was at the studio, but he was beyond caring what any of them did. Hevlaska was at the hospital. Rouvellier was nowhere to be seen. The most important thing was that nobody seemed interested in Buchmann, and if they weren't going after Buchmann, they wouldn't go after Link.
"Stay there," Madarao said. "Stay there and wait."
Too late. "Got to go. My bus is coming."
"Do not fucking say you'll see me soon!" Madarao said. "I do not want to see your face again! Ever! And don't you dare come near anyone else, either! I'm serious, I will kill you."
That was to be expected, but it still stung. "Don't worry about it," Link said. "It's going to be fine." Then he hung up and pulled his carryon onto the bus.
Once in his seat, he pulled the sim card from the phone, broke it, wiped the phone, and kicked it under the row in front of him. Probably unnecessary, but old habits died hard, like the same habit that had him checking in with Madarao. He hadn't needed to do that, not really. His business was no longer Madarao's business.
On the other hand, this was a bridge it wasn't so bad to burn right up front. He needed a new life, not the old one, and that phone call had just destroyed any hope he might have had of going back.
He gazed blankly into the space just in front of the head of the person in the next seat, thinking. He had some money, not much, but enough for a room in a youth hostel until he could figure out something else. The next step was applying to dance schools, something he should have done a year ago, but instead he'd been stuck not just at the Order but in the dormitory he should have moved out of when he graduated. The Rouvelliers had kept him on a very tight leash.
He was glad he'd spent the last two years dancing in a crucible. He might not be good enough to beat the Campbells, but he was good enough to get in somewhere decent, and auditions were trivial now. His standards for what made him nervous had been completely redefined.
Link got off at the train station and made his way to the platform. He already had his ticket, so all that was left was to wait.
Only when he boarded did he let it sink it, but he still didn't believe it. It was too good to be true. He was free. He was free of the Order, of Rouvellier, and he was also free of Madarao. Whatever else there was between them, Madarao had used him. Link had forgiven it out of gratitude, but now that he was no longer running on terror-fueled adrenaline, he also knew that Madarao had made him vulnerable to the Rouvelliers. That was their leverage, his involvement in Madarao's business, and Tewak's dependence on the money her brother made.
Tewak thought her brother was working his way up in a warehouse. In fact Madarao was selling drugs, and he'd recruited Link off the street.
At the time, it seemed like the best of several bad options. It kept him out of the system. He hadn't known that there were worse people out there than cops and social workers.
Including Madarao himself. Link had been too young to understand that kindness wasn't a sign of a good heart. It could also be leveraged into a debt, and in the process of trying to pay it off, Link had flirted with murder.
Not directly. Rouvellier hadn't asked Link to kill Walker personally, but he'd asked Link to give him the ammunition he needed to do it himself, or at least present a credible threat. Komui had lied. That thing in Walker's chest wasn't a precaution. It was a last, desperate measure to revive a stopped heart.
As the train began to roll, he started smiling uncontrollably. He was free, no hands far out of reach above him pulling his strings. The Order was spontaneously combusting, and for all of Madarao's threats, he didn't want to add murder to his list of crimes, not to mention the fact that if he busted Link, he'd incriminate himself. Madarao's best bet was to leave Link alone, and as long as Link didn't mess with him, he probably would. After all, he had his sister to take care of, and he couldn't take care of her from prison. Link would wear his knives for a while, especially if he had reason to go to Berlin, but he didn't think he'd need to use them.
"You look awfully happy," a sweet alto voice said in German.
He looked up at a girl about his own age, creamy skin, medium build, reddish-blond hair pulled back into a knot at the back of her head. She wore skinny jeans and a snug, black t-shirt without any slogan on it. Over her shoulder, she carried a bronze leather bag that she'd draped something with sleeves over, in case she got cold probably.
How long had it been since he'd really looked at any girl but Tewak?
And was that Madarao's doing, too? Had he pushed them into their infatuation, to help guarantee their loyalty? Did any of them really have a chance with her?
Now that he thought about it, Link couldn't imagine that they did. Madarao would never let her date anyone involved with drugs, even if it was someone Madarao had put in that position himself. The whole point of the business was to keep her out of foster care and out of crime, to make sure she had a shot at a respectable life. That meant she was off-limits to all of them, and always would be.
He should have seen it. He should have known earlier, but he was young when Madarao found him, too young to know the difference between love and a baited trap. He hadn't even realized how sick it was. Link had been fifteen when Madarao recruited him, and Tewak only eleven. Now that he was finally clear of it, the thought made him feel queasy, not just Madarao's ruthlessness, but the weaknesses in himself that had made him vulnerable. The whole thing was so many, many kinds of wrong.
He didn't wish Tewak any ill. She was a good kid. None of it was her fault, but as soon as he could, he would clean out his picture files.
This woman, though, she was friendly, she was German, and he liked her smile, liked the slight angle of her front tooth, not enough to need braces, just enough to make her look accessibly imperfect. He also liked how her t-shirt hugged the curve from the side of her breast to her waist to her hip.
There were far worse ways to kill time on a train than talking to a pretty girl. "I'm going home," he said in German, "and it's been a while."
"Oh?" she asked. "How long?"
"Two years," he said.
"Two years?" she said. "That's a long time!"
Under the right set of circumstances, it could seem like an eternity. "Yes, it is," he said. "Would you like a seat?" He gestured to the empty place beside him. "My name's Howard." He offered his hand.
She sat down and took it, her grip firm. "I'm Karla. What have you been doing here for two years?"
"I've been dancing," he said. To other people's tunes, but not anymore. For good or ill, the next decisions that shaped his life would be his own.