Chương 10: Reflections

Trembling eyelids struggled to stay open under the weight of the light filtering through the windscreen. His hand sank into the soft cushion of the embroidered seat. His feet stretched along the space the driver's seat allowed him. He blinked a few times sleepily, pressing his hand against the softness beneath his legs as he gradually recovered sensation. He moved his hand, pressing it against something equally soft but smoother, more delicate, and strangely warm.

Lance turned his head, still heavy, still wrapped in the haze of exhaustion, and noticed what his hand was resting on. Beside him lay a girl with long light-brown hair, dressed in rags and wrapped in a tattered jacket against her chest. Lance's fingers were resting on the girl's soft thigh, tracing disconnected circles across the surface. He stared forward for a moment, then shifted his gaze to his hand.

Trembling slightly, he closed his loose fingers with the others and pulled them away from Jeanne's skin, still asleep. He breathed out, trying to calm himself. The softness and warmth had already impressed themselves onto his fingertips. Fortunately, his attention caught a note hanging from a thread knotted to the small square mirror at the centre of the windscreen. Lance frowned and leaned over to collect the orange card.

The sensation it left in his hand was rough and heavy, which made him nostalgic for Jeanne's skin.

"I MUST NOT GET DISTRACTED!" He told himself, knocking his knuckle against his own head once. He pulled the note from the knot and unrolled it carefully. The ink smelled faintly sweet and delicate. The handwriting was clear and clean; it reminded him of Mrs Maglarck's hand.

"Good morning, Mr Klint and Miss Jeanne. As I write this, it is 10: 30 — you'll likely read it later than I'm imagining, given how tired you are. I've left the car parked in the lot beside your apartment and have prepared a change of clothes for both of you."

"I told him not to address me with those titles..." Lance thought with a frown. He shook his head and looked out the window at the sun. The park where they were parked sat behind their building, marked by a red, glossy fence. The cemented surface was raised slightly above street level, connected to it by a short run of steps." Mhhh..." He could hear Jeanne murmuring in her sleep, breathing slowly.

"Judging by the light and the noise… It's probably around midday." He concluded, bringing his eyes back to the note. He noticed a short line written more hastily beneath Round's signature.

"It appears Miss Jeanne is a rather heavy sleeper. If you're reading this, Lance, you may want to try waking her." The message closed with a second signature, considerably more rushed, resembling a small smiling face. Lance's face shifted on instinct. He let out a slow breath, caught in a question of immense existential weight: whether it was more important to wake her or to leave her sleeping. He looked at the girl, still sleeping peacefully against the white seat's backrest. Her face appeared genuinely tired.

It almost made him feel bad.

"I don't want to wake her… But I don't want to leave her here either." He thought, looking for a way out of the disagreeable situation.

"All right, fine!" He made up his mind, swallowing his embarrassment and his various paranoid thoughts. He opened the car door gently, allowing the soft top to retract slowly and almost silently. The car vibrated with care, not disturbing the girl, who only murmured. Lance stepped out and went around to Jeanne's side, standing there, wondering what to do and how to do it.

"I've put the landlady's daughter to bed before… I can do it!" He thought, remembering how he'd carried the sleepy child and laid her on her shoulder against his own. Lance leaned toward the girl, moving her toward him from the shoulder. Her body settled onto the padded seat and bounced lightly. Without letting the flush colouring his cheeks get the better of him, he finally took Jeanne in his arms, settling her across his forearms.

"Don't hold tight, don't hold tight, don't hold tight!" He repeated to himself like a mantra, trying not to let her slide. He closed the car door with his heel, which slowed to avoid slamming. He noticed the pump connected under the car, slowly crossing over. He carried her across the sunlit square, with all the care in the world. The path itself was simple enough for someone with more than sufficient strength to carry her, without considering that his mind was on the verge of collapse.

The sensation of her skin and the prickling of her hair against his arm were already too much for him.

"She eats so much, but she is so light. How?" He noted, climbing the steps of the apartment building without effort. Fortunately, no one saw a boy dressed in bloodstained rags carrying an equally dressed unconscious girl. The apartment door opened with a soft creak, revealing a row of suitcases on the dining table, alongside freshly cleaned blankets on the sofa that gave off a faint floral scent.

"I'm… flattered." Lance thought, sufficiently stunned by the efficiency of Ross's butlers. He climbed the stairs to the mezzanine, balancing carefully to avoid another fall. He approached the bed and put Jeanne down gently. Her body bounced on the mattress's springs, and she murmured something incoherent from her thin lips.

"Made it..." He thought with quiet triumph, dropping into the wooden chair in the kitchen, looking at the black boxes in front of him. He reached for the first and opened it with a turn of the wrist. Inside: a perfect replica of their uniforms, neatly folded and arranged, carrying the smell of various fruits. They looked identical to the clothes they'd left in, but Lance suspected that was a psychological effect, given that the garments could shift shape on command.

He pulled out his own portion of the clothing and set it on the adjacent chair. He had no intention of touching the other things at the bottom of the box out of both courtesy and reserve.

"And this one?" He looked at the suitcase beside it, engraved with various bluish lines, similar to the pattern printed on the walls of Maverick's armoury. Lance opened the suitcase with a delicate metallic click, revealing its contents. Resting in a padded compartment: a pair of wristwatches with hexagonal screens. The structure was slim; the only notably thick component was the black bands that held them.

Beside the pair was a note, folded badly and wrinkled, with crooked handwriting stained with oil and lubricant.

"Maverick?" Lance thought, already picturing the man's mannerisms from the workshop.

"Dear Klint and Dear Jeanne, I completely forgot to provide you with NOIR's communication device — my fault, I know, but it happens to everyone, doesn't it?"

"No, Maverick… It doesn't happen to everyone!" He thought.

"Regardless, the watch allows you to contact any reachable member of the agency, and even has an emergency system with an SOS function and emergency dosage. I'm very proud of it, so don't you dare break it!"

"Why do I get the feeling that's directed specifically at me?" He thought, feeling vaguely offended." Okay, I can indeed be a bit drastic… But what can I do?" Lance conceded to himself, thinking back over his recent fights.

"Well, this is my new life... I have to take what I can to see tomorrow." He looked down at his hands, barely distinguishing them from the same hands that had been covered in blood and dust the night before. A gust of wind blew the terrace door open beside the fireplace.

"I am starting to talk like that Crow-Guy..."" I'll get some air." He decided, then climbed back up to the mezzanine and pulled a blue blanket over Jeanne. He opened the cellar and took out a bottle of clear, cold water.

"It's amazing how the people of Bayork are so furnished with all these comforts. Do they grow tired at some point?" He closed the door and went for the breeze. The terrace was small, but large enough for a table and a pair of reclining chairs. Short white stone columns served as a modest railing; on either side of the glass door, two small wooden shutters painted green had been swung open. Lance sat down, took in the city, and let himself be surprised by it for a moment.

A vast sea of rooftops, chimneys, grand buildings, and spires took hold of his field of vision. Bayork had been rebuilt within the deep crater left by the bombardments, producing a layout that resembled a funnel in its entirety. The depression became very pronounced from Sixth Boulevard onward, which was why he hadn't noticed it from the entrance.

"It's indeed peaceful." He murmured, taking a mouthful of ice-cold water and sending it down his throat with satisfaction. A few drops fell from his chin to his chest. The cold, refreshing sensation was welcomed with a smile. He searched in his trouser pocket, almost instinctively, and found it empty.

"Jude…" He'd lost the only photograph he still had of his sister, along with his notebook full of scribbled notes and possible leads. A deep melancholy settled across his face, stopping the bottle in his hand. He tried to remember her face, how her long hair swayed, but all was for nought, since his memories were like smoke on a windy morning.

"I ended up here to dirty my hands and survive… All because I was unlucky?" He said it to himself, his voice barely there, looking down at the carved floor of the balcony.

"I've worked for years… For nothing. I don't want it to be like this again. I don't want to feel useless."

"That dream and those voices… This feeling… When will they go away?" He asked, the warm sea breeze ruffling his hair. Lance exhaled, giving a long gaze at the glimmering sea while scratching his neck faster and faster.

"WHY CAN'T THIS HEAD REMEMBER!" He snapped, slamming the bottle against the wooden table, which swayed under the force. His eyes were bright and tired, not from sleep, not from the light. The hollow, weakened feeling had been collecting its due for all the time he'd been ignoring it, and it returned now with more force.

"That must be hard." Lance lifted his head sharply, turning toward the other chair. A man sat there in a white coat striped with a yellow pattern. What was distinctive about the figure was his face, covered by a thick gas mask, armoured with black plates and two capsule-shaped filters fixed where the mouth would have been.

"Lucas?" Lance whispered, the now dumbfounded expression ruling over.

"I won't intrude on what you were doing… Everyone at NOIR has their own difficulties, and I'm no one to advise on them. I know the feeling well enough." He reached into his coat and produced a pink box decorated with a ribbon, setting it slowly on the table.

"I only wanted to offer my congratulations, from myself and from Monica. Where's Jeanne?" He asked, noticing the girl was nowhere in the lounge or the kitchen.

"I put her to sleep. She deserved it." He replied, looking at him through the cracked glass of the mask.

"I see." The way Lucas moved his shoulders suggested he was laughing beneath the mask. Lance stared at him, unsettled and uncertain. It was strange to see the odd scientist who perpetually veiled his face behind some mask, giving way to a laugh. Lucas noticed the frown, stopped chuckling, and turned toward him, relaxing his arms.

"Sorry if I threw you off… But you're genuinely kinder than you appear." He said, looking at him through the glass. Lance turned faintly pink but only smiled at the man in front of him. Whatever liquid sadness had been clouding his eyes had been pushed back down.

"I wouldn't want to impose… But would you mind giving me a report on what happened last night?" Lucas's tone was calm. Lance described the illegal auction and the purchase, the fight in the old station, what he saw down there, and all the times Roman tried to recruit him. Lucas listened in silence. It was difficult to read anything through the thick mask, but the way he tapped rhythmically at the table with the tip of his index finger communicated the anxiety animating his thoughts.

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"Unlicensed Meta … This was unexpected." He said, his voice carrying surprise through the filter.

"We believed we had traced every possible trace of Meta… It seems we were wrong. Well, you and Jeanne are proof of that." He remembered the way the two had been discovered by the association. After a brief silence, Lucas rose from his chair and turned toward Lance.

"Thank you very much, and give my greetings to Jeanne." He leaned against the railing and began to flicker, as though lit from within by a blue glow.

"Ah! One last thing… The sweets in there were made by Monica and me. Even here, in a private setting, could you tell me which of the two of us is the better baker?" He asked it with alarming seriousness. He stared at him, bewildered, and only managed to nod. Lucas shrugged and disappeared an instant later in a faint blue light. The whole scene had happened so quickly that Lance hadn't been able to process it in time. His gaze fell on the pink box with the golden ribbon. He carefully untied the knot and opened it.

A sweet smell invaded his throat and nostrils. Inside, wrapped in a thin silver film: dozens of chocolates and pastries coated in a thick layer of yellow cream. Lance recognised Monica's pastries immediately from the strange shape of the fruit decorations, resembling badly carved animals. He picked up the box, closed it, and went back inside the apartment. The sun had been obscured by clouds; a cold wind was drifting through the city.

"Rain coming? Lovely." He smiled, watching the grey weather spread across the sky. He set the box of sweets on the table, moved the suitcases aside, and looked up at the mezzanine.

"Perhaps I should wake her?" He thought, approaching the stairs. Once he reached the landing, he could see the girl's figure still held in sleep. Jeanne had wrapped herself in the blanket he had left her: the thin fabric clinging to her body and rising gently with every breath. Lance moved toward her, then a firm grip seized his neck and pulled him onto the bed. The girl's slender arms were holding him tight, and the strength of that slight girl caught him completely off guard. He tried to pull free.

It was fairly useless. She did not loosen her grip; she only held him closer." W-W-What?!" A violent crack of thunder shook the room, and Jeanne jolted awake, yelping in fright, clutching the bedsheet and shoving Lance to the floor. Her tender, sleepy face, half-covered by dishevelled hair, wore a confused look. She couldn't remember how she'd ended up in the bed, or why Lance was at the foot of it with his forehead pressed into the floor.

After a long series of explanations and an equally long series of apologies from Jeanne, he offered her the box of sweets and sat on a stool at the opposite side of the bed.

"Take it, it's a gift from Lucas!" Lance smiled, rubbing his forehead.

"Is he still scared?" Jeanne thought. For her part, she was making an effort, but Lance was a considerably worse case than she'd expected. Jeanne drowned her mild embarrassment in a round of chocolate. Her expression opened as she felt it dissolve on her tongue. Lance took one in return, the square one, and bit into it. The texture was firm, but the bitter, faintly fruity aftertaste suited him. His face changed immediately when he noticed that a good portion of the sweets had disappeared from inside the silver box.

Jeanne's lips were smeared with cream, and she was rocking between the blue sheets. Lance couldn't keep back a laugh, taking another bite of the pastry still in his hand. Jeanne didn't understand what he was laughing at, but it was a comfortable thing to see. A trace of happiness in that face so persistently sad.

"I didn't think you had a sweet tooth!" He said, rising from the stool.

"Well… I've never had many o-opportunities… To eat them." She replied quietly, pressing her index fingers together. Her face had the faintest shadow of sadness and nostalgia. Lance caught it and felt a twinge of guilt for asking.

"If you ever want sweets… Don't hesitate to ask. I'm not good at making them, but I can learn." He smiled, descending the stairs slowly. Jeanne was left speechless by his words. But the shadow of melancholy had lifted from her face, leaving a smile.

"He's making the effort too." She thought with quiet warmth, leaning over the mezzanine as he passed through the door beside the kitchen. The apartment's bathroom was considerably more modest than the one in the NOIR dormitory, but the alternating white-and-blue colour scheme and the triangular tile flooring gave the room a pleasant look. A window faced one side of Fifth Boulevard's road, already mostly empty save for a few people hurrying past with umbrellas and bags.

The tapping of raindrops on the glass was soothing against the sound of water filling the bath. He closed the window curtain and undressed. The scars on his body had faded but were still visible, their colouring less intense, but the contrast between the skin and the wounds remained clear. Lance pressed his hand to his body, taking in his reflection in the glass.

"Trapped in my own memory, am I right? Years trying to wiggle free from the dream, just to fail." He leaned on the sink, bringing his face closer to the mirror. He tried to remember. Nothing. Every attempt was met by a sharp headache that left him in pain.

"I thought that maybe the Frequency could help... Maybe I am still not strong enough to be precise with it." He could barely recall the face of his older sister, Eva. The only certainty he held was his younger sister, Jude, the only one who still gave him something like hope. In his dreams, he could hear her screaming his surname as she was taken away. But Lance wasn't sure why she always called him Klint; his name was Lance, and that much the amnesia hadn't been able to erase.

He looked at his reflection again, gave a small smile, and pushed himself away from the sink.

"I have to stay optimistic… I'll make the most of this new life, for you." He held the remnants of Jude's image in his mind. He lowered himself into the warm water and closed his eyes in silence. It was only an instant, but when he opened them, the sea of fog had taken him again, filling the black space he had been carried into. The floor seemed to ripple beneath his feet as though there were a thin layer of water above it, trembling every time a drop touched its surface.

Lance felt a cold shiver move through his nerves from deep within, a sensation of frozen fear running through him. He tried to move. His body was incapable of responding to his will again.

"Don't be afraid. I'm only trying to talk." A voice from the depths of the fog. The thin white smoke thinned and parted, revealing a figure unlike the one he had encountered when he was close to death. A tall woman with an enormous mass of tangled hair, reaching her ankles, emerged from the dark curtain. The white of her mane was sharp against the endless black of that dimension. She wore nothing but a long, close-fitting white smock.

Lance realised he could move his head slightly, but could produce no sound, and could only follow the tall figure approaching the tub.

"You treated his body better this time." She settled on the rim of the tub. He caught a particular smell from her: blood and ash. She extended her hand, running her fingers along Lance's shoulder, touching his skin. Her face was covered by a thick black veil that blocked everything from view. She leaned toward him, pressing her chest to his. Against his own very nature, his skin grew pallid and twitched regularly. The woman pressed her body against his, filling his field of vision.

She took his face between her hands, looking directly into his eyes. He couldn't understand the nature of that gaze, but he could clearly perceive the deep malice behind the veil.

"I'm curious to see what you'll do… After all these sacrifices… Lance." She whispered with an edge of sadism through the veil, drawing him close, nearly suffocating him. He came up from the bathwater, still in the bathroom. The rain was tapping against the glass. The smell of blood had gone from his nose, replaced by lavender and vanilla. His reflection in the foamy water was pale. His pulse was irregular, accelerated. Submerged in warm water as he was, his skin wouldn't stop shivering.

He looked at his hands, trembling rhythmically from palm to fingertip. His breathing was laboured and panicked.

"She was..." It was all that managed to leave his exhausted lips. His mind was trying to process everything and failing. Nausea hit him, shocking his nerves.

"Lance… Are you all right?" The voice through the door pulled him back. Jeanne had grown worried, not seeing him come out of the bathroom for nearly an hour.

"If you need a-anything ask..."

"Yes… Sorry… I'm coming out." He replied, standing up from the tub. He dried himself quickly, pulled on the few things he'd prepared, and stepped out of the room. His face was still pale and tired. Jeanne stepped aside to let him pass, quietly concerned at his expression, watching him go and lie down on the sofa. She had never seen Lance like this, veiled in such a baleful tone. The same boy who had kept fighting through all those wounds and fractures was now the same colour as snow.

She gathered her courage and went to sit beside him, looking at him with steady, kind eyes. Without speaking, she went up to the mezzanine, collected the blanket, and laid it over him.

"You deserve rest… I'll sort out something for tonight." She said, pushing up her sleeve and heading toward the kitchen.

"I am fine... You don't need to..." He fell silent, watching for the first time a smile on her face. A strand of her hair covered part of her lips. She was steadier than last time. Lance nodded and buried his face in the folds of the sheet. It was close to an hour before Jeanne returned to the sofa, a steaming bowl held in a cloth grip. He noticed the number of plasters stuck across her fingers. He sat up, twisted his torso, and leaned against the sofa's back.

"You probably think I'm pathetic… Don't you?" He kept his gaze down.

"What? … Why?" She shook her head, moving side to side.

"I left you alone… And because of that, you hurt yourself… I was terrible." He smiled at her with a vague and opaque look in his eyes.

"I could have done more... I took initiative just to be reduced to a rag and..." Without a word, Jeanne used both hands to hold his face up, pressing gently into his cheeks. The sensation was considerably more genuine and warm than whatever he'd encountered in his dream.

"I've only known you a short time… But I've spent a long time just trying to survive… And no one has ever treated me like you, Mann, Monica, or Mr Clerc." She kept her face tilted toward his." I guess this Mann person must be important to her."

"Lance… You are one of the few people in my entire life who saw me as a person… I could never think of you as pathetic." She continued, speaking in pieces.

"I'm glad I know you… And I'm glad to have you as a friend." She let go. Her hands were trembling. She had already started pulling her gaze away from him and turning. Lance, without saying anything, took the bowl from the table, slightly cooled. He examined the dense white-grey purée inside, took a generous spoonful, and set it on his tongue. It was strong and sharp, with a faintly acidic edge, but he liked it and took another mouthful immediately.

"Thank you… It's really good." He murmured, setting his bowl down and looking at Jeanne, who had turned back and was watching him with wide, open eyes.

"I might prefer him like this." She said, half to herself, comparing this Lance to the one who had taken on Maliard and Roman. They said good night to each other shortly after and went to sleep under the sound of the gentle rain. Morning arrived quickly. Lance was the first to wake, pulled out of sleep by the sharp ring of the front doorbell. Rolling off the sofa, he stumbled to the door, tripping several times along the way.

"Good morning, Mr... Lance Klint." The figure in evening dress caught himself, greeting Lance at the door.

"Morning to you, too, Round." He replied, masking a yawn behind his free hand.

"NOIR has informed me of an emergency assignment in the vicinity, and you are the only agents immediately available." Lance's expression brightened, then went flat almost immediately at the memory of recent events.

"Where do we need to go?" He asked, looking steadily through the slits of the mask.

"The pleasure district of the capital… Arden Ring." Lance's jaw dropped.

"That Arden Ring?! Are we supposed to go there?!" Round nodded only once, balancing the unusually high tone of his voice. He looked at the mezzanine a few times before returning to face the butler.

"I guess we don't really have a choice..." He said, closing the door with a yawn. He left Round outside the apartment, unable to finish what he'd been saying.