Chương 24: Trouble at Work

The study room was empty, stripped of any sign of life. The only thing moving in the air was the sparse rays of the sun cutting through the shutters. Lance Klint sat in one of the black armchairs near the large circular tables, scrawling in a notebook he had found nearby, trying to push away the scene he had uncovered a few hours before. Lunchtime had passed, but he was incapable of settling. The pen moved quickly across the paper, trying to connect a series of names.

His own and Jude's were written there, each with a bracket beside them reading, respectively: "Subject Alpha" and "Queen." Linked to them were the names of Malcolm and the two figures that had surfaced among his memories: Damian, and the name that had more than once slipped from the lips of the shape in the fog, Jack.

Surrounded by a sea of question marks and written in haste, born of the absence of real information, were the names of August and the two hallucinations that had so often tormented him, the ones he had decided to call Tux and Eve, since for some obscure reason the second one reminded him of his older sister.

"Nothing. This isn't working at all." He gripped the pen hard enough to bend the metal clip. Despite pressing every ability he had, his mind was incapable of drawing even a single lead from those traces, left to rot uselessly on the paper. Every memory of the last few months flooded into his head, taking the form of a desperate tangle in its attempt to cohere.

"I feel like I've hit a complete dead end, damn it." He pushed the nib down even harder and snapped it, leaving a black splash. He came back to himself and released his grip to avoid ruining his coat.

"Lance, don't blame yourself. There was nothing either of us could have done." Maliard's voice called to him through the earpiece, briefly pulling him out of his uselessness.

"We could have—" He tried to speak, to push back, but the image of the black sphere in Malcolm's hand and the destruction it had brought with it were still vivid in his mind. Even had he been there, it was far more likely that the victims would have numbered two instead of one.

"No, you're right." He corrected himself without waiting for a reply, simply accepting it as fact. Lance Klint could not have done anything.

"Don't stop despairing. Don't stop feeling frustrated. Those emotions often save your life." Maliard's tone was noticeably different from usual, as though those words were not really addressed to Lance.

"I thought emotions harmed operations?" He asked, with a trace of irony, gathering the ink-stained papers to throw them in the bin.

"They do. For me, they are nothing but useless variables that complicate the whole execution. We are not tinkering with some test or trial run here; human lives are at stake, and I cannot allow myself to fail." The reply came almost immediately, almost automatically.

"But for others, they might be the fuel needed to keep going."

"You know, you might be better than I thought." Lance smiled, even knowing no one was there to see it.

"Don't you dare think that a self-righteous martyr of your calibre could ever be compatible with me. I want results that let me sleep soundly at night. You despair when you can't reach out to someone, even in the middle of a fire." His colleague's coldness hit him like a freight train, but not hard enough to kill his smile.

"I don't think we're compatible either, a cold calculator like you and me. At least your calculations serve other people, whether you like it or not." Lance accepted Maliard's words without flinching, amusing himself." Deep down, he is kind..."

"Results are all that matter to me, and if I can't turn those possibilities into reality, then they count for nothing, regardless of whether I do it for others or not." He picked up the coffee cup, left to go cold far too long, and drank it in a single mouthful." At least it's good this time." He murmured, delicately putting the cup back. His mind wandered to a single image.

"How is your arm now?" Lance shuddered a bit, feeling a bit tingly in his shoulder.

"I guess the other told you while I was in a coma..." Lance took Maliard's snap of tongue as a yes.

"We already had our discussion, so don't worry about that. Does it hurt or does it speak to you sometimes?"

"Speak?! This thing can talk?" Maliard almost became liquid in his chair, while Lance shook his arm, hoping Lachesi would make any noise.

"Bluette once told me that she could hear a girl singing while using it and, sometimes, even a man's voice." Lance scratched his neck, without ever stopping to look at the bracelet. He shook his head, adjusting the communicator.

"Not even once, no. I didn't even use it of my own volition. The relic merged with Supplicium on her own. The old commander must have been amazing if she managed to use it!" He smiled while Maliard gazed at his own reflection on one of the purplish monitors.

"That's not too bad, but don't attempt to siphon Lachesi's powers unless you are about to die." Maliard decided to consider Lance's finger snap as a yes. A bit of time passed, and the sun slowly started to get covered by the clouds, engulfing the Institute with a veil of oily black.

"Hey Maliard..." The man stopped tinkering with all the technology in the room, sitting down again.

"How did you and Monica meet?" Lance asked spontaneously, trying to widen the space between them, a space that had sunk before it had properly begun.

"Besides being a gynophobic martyr with serious memory problems, are you also a nosy person??" The series of silent slights reached his ears so naturally that Lance couldn't help but notice a strange pulsation on his forehead.

"Weren't you the one who went through my file first?!" He held a strained smile, trying to pull at the hem of his shirt. A huff, followed by a heavy thud, escaped the earpiece and got Lance's attention.

"I'll be objective and answer you, but don't expect to receive any information from me without Lucas's permission. Clear?" He spoke again, in a slightly irritated tone, as though he had just lost a bet.

"I won't ask further. Besides, proving me worthy of the documents is my business."

"I s it just me, or did he completely leave Monica out?"

"I was adopted by Bluette Oudin and the founder of NOIR during the Great War. I was wandering the desolate fields looking for something to eat until I found them, in their desperate attempt to find any survivors." The memory of heavy artillery shells embedded in the mud and blood crusted on barbed wire rose from his mind. A young Maliard crawled through the swamp thick with death and dust, scavenging whatever he could from the mutilated corpses.

"I'm hungry… I'm thirsty, big sis, I'm scared… Why aren't you here?" Bandages that had once been white held together his arm, wrapped in blood and filth. His clothes were worn rags, his legs covered in scratches and cuts close to infection. Another hour passed before his strength gave out, and his body collapsed to the ground. The earth splashed up, anxiously welcoming another soul into the swamp of iron and desolation.

"Enough… I'm so tired." He sank slowly into the mud, the landscape before him dissolving. He couldn't understand why, but every time he recalled that slimy sensation, the memory of his mother came to mind. He was losing every hold on reality when he felt himself dragged from the pool by a great force. His vision was blurred and smeared with grime, but he could make out a bluish light shifting in the filtered glow through the smoke.

"Noir! This boy is breathing!" A figure cried out through the fog. A tall man wrapped in a heavy black coat ran toward them. His hair, the colour of wood, moved ahead of him. The last thing Maliard remembered before losing consciousness was the kindness in that lean face with its dark eyes.

"When I came round, I was lying beside that girl with bluish hair, in a bed of rags that reeked terribly of gunpowder." Maliard went quiet for a moment, checking that Lance was still following his account.

"That woman was Bluette Oudin, wasn't she?" He asked, glancing out into the empty corridor.

"Yes… My adoptive sister." He rested his gaze on the heavy black jewelled gauntlet. It was enormously thick and dense, extending to the tips of the index finger and thumb. That was Maliard Turner's relic, Compulsion, a glove capable of storing Frequency and compressing it. Near the elbow were small cylinders, sealed inside the gauntlet with white-edged borders. He looked away and continued speaking.

"The man with her became the First Commander and the founder of the agency, Mr Noir. We worked together for years, but his real name was kept from us until his death. He was the one who introduced us to Lucas and then to everyone else, but the founding members were always Bluette and him."

"Noir recruited its members directly from the battlefields of the Great War?!" Lance exclaimed, mouth wide open. Fortunately, the room was empty this time around.

"Correct. All of us lived through that reality, especially Lucas and Maverick, though it's nearly impossible to get a single piece of information out of either of them." He replied, cracking his knuckles with a quiet snap.

"He really hates Malcolm, right?" Maliard nodded, as if Lance could see him.

"The name of that man often appeared in his sleep, piercing his mouth with hate, but he never spoke about it. Only after you mentioned him, the old Maverick started to return." Lance relaxed, jumping over the window cubicle, mirroring himself in the slightly hazy glass.

"You have to be careful, Lance. Don't even try to engage that man. Your only chance is Lachesi, and that is still a huge gamble we can't allow you to take." Lance caressed the bracelet on his arm. Small ripples danced on the relic's surface, like worms immersed in the sea at night.

"No other members besides you? NOIR didn't take in anyone new until Noelle and Sai?" His curiosity ignited; the news had woken an insatiable thirst in him.

"No… There were two orphans... But I don't want to talk about it. Their story is a very delicate matter for the whole agency." His tone dimmed for a moment, then returned to normal as he prepared to close the conversation.

"I didn't take you for the type to worry about delicate matters." He joked, trying to hold him a little longer.

"It's a wound still open for every member of NOIR, especially for Lucas. In my case, it only brings me anger." He replied shortly, lifting his finger from the switch on his earpiece. The light left Lance's eyes. The sun disappeared from the room, leaving the shadows free to finally take hold of the floor.

"One last question before we return to the operation?" He asked, clearing his throat to best express the splinter that had lodged in him from the very first moment he had heard that name. The silence from his earpiece seemed to permit him.

"Who is August?" The question slid through his lips with a thin, almost soundless weight. There was a moment's pause before Maliard spoke again, his voice badly shaken.

"How do you know that name?" He asked in return, pressing with extraordinary force against the back of his chair, biting his lip hard, trying to keep his gaze fixed on the monitors.

"I read it in Lucas's notebooks on the study of the Meta. It was crossed out and often accompanied by rather unsettling notes and sketches, so I wanted to kn—""DON'T YOU EVER DARE SPEAK THAT MAN'S NAME." Maliard's explosive reply shattered his curiosity entirely. For a moment, it felt as though his partner was standing right beside him, ready to strike him down.

"He… Doesn't even deserve a name. The fact that there is still any trace of that traitor on this earth disgusts me." Maliard slowed his rage, recovering his breath.

"Lance... Do not allow yourself to question anyone about that man. This is not an order. It's a threat." The connection was cut immediately after, leaving him alone with the fear. He picked at his own flesh, slightly pale and with all the hairs standing on end, like little soldiers. Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

"How many secrets are you all keeping from me?" He murmured, sliding his hands into his pockets and leaving the room. A cold draught passed through the corridor, chilling the back of his neck.

"Damn it. I don't know how to move now that I know Malcolm is here. I'll have to be more careful." His cold, blank face had become almost a constant in Lance's mind, a new figure haunting him in the sea of mysteries and threats his mind confronted every day.

"Still at zero. I haven't moved at all in any direction. The more I think about it, the more I feel I'm drying up." He moved to the window and looked at the dark clouds taking shape into a dark wall in the sky. A storm would set in before long.

"Come to think of it, have I ever actually made any progress?" He began tracing back through his entire life, shaped by the effort of surviving in poverty, earning what he could to live as well as possible.

"Did I live only for myself? Or did I think it was all preparation?" The doubt burrowed into his head and forced him away from the window. He turned to look, and the memories of his time at NOIR and his past efforts came back to him. A smile crowned his lips, perhaps from satisfaction, perhaps from having pushed the doubts aside.

"Jude, I promised I would find you. Just be patient... I'm sure you'll be glad to know all my new friends." He set off down the corridor with a faint smile on his face, watching the gleaming floor, moving through the haloes of shadow that appeared at intervals from the windows. He passed the numerous study rooms, now filled with staff and researchers. The scheduled hours were over, and everyone was dedicating themselves to their own research, debates, and conversations.

An air of professionalism, mixed with comfort and camaraderie, passed through Lance, a stranger to that gathering of people.

"Is this what schools are like?" He asked aloud, half expecting Maliard to be eavesdropping from the other end of his device, but nothing answered his question.

"Maybe I pushed too far with that question earlier." A punch to the stomach struck him at once.

"I just should have kept my mouth shut..."

"Let's get to work, or I'll end up ruining everything." He rubbed his chin, stretching his hands, then held that position for a few minutes. He squeezed his smile as hard as he could, staring at the space in front of him. A critically important fact had come back to him, forgotten in the rapid succession of events.

"Hm... I know nothing about this kind of research." The shock of the revelation hit him full on, freezing him like a mannequin on which someone had sketched an expression somewhere between sublime idiocy and cheerful stupidity. He hid behind a column and squashed his own head between his hands, hoping a miracle would rescue him from his own foolishness.

"I could try to get Maliard to feed me answers, but he doesn't seem to be responding!"

"AAAAAAAAA DAMN IT I'M IN TROUBLE!!" He had started raking his fingers through his hair, making it even more dishevelled than usual. A pair of researchers caught a glimpse of him and were caught entirely off guard by the ghost cursing at them from behind a pillar. They chose to ignore him and quickened their pace.

"IDEA!" He exclaimed, startling other scientists in the room, who glared at him and demanded that he be quiet immediately. He apologised at once and shot off down the corridor as if he had wheels under his soles.

"I'll go to the library and use Verghen to read every book!!" Lance's plan was, admittedly, brilliant, if somewhat lacking, given that he had no idea which texts to put his hands on. That detail, however, was not currently relevant. He reached the Pendulum Hall quickly, letting the coat slip down to his waist, where it now hung in a rather comical fashion, like a sheet.

"Perfect. Now, where is the library?" Lance's almost entirely superficial knowledge of the place was a problem." If only Maliard believed me when I told him I could have just memorised the map without that boring lecture!"

"Good morning, Miss Well." The voice of one of the scientists reached his ears from directly above, at the top of one of the two balconies. A woman in a long black coat was leaning on the railing, a large bundle of papers held in her hands.

"And to you, Mr Far." She replied quickly, catching her breath. Evidently, all those documents were heavy for her.

"I thought the director would be older." Lance watched her, realising that the slim figure leaning against the railing could not have been more than thirty years old. Then he noticed that the wood of the balcony had begun to shift with an unnatural sway, trembling under the weight of the unceasing stream of footsteps. A splinter flew from one of the carved balusters and fell at his feet.

"I think it's about to break..." He realised it and tried to shout, but the collapse came before his futile attempt. Well slipped over the railing, followed by heavy brown wooden beams. The fall alone might not have been fatal, but with the addition of those planks, even a car would have been split apart. Lance's coat hit the floor, thrown aside by the exceptional speed with which he had launched himself toward the director.

He caught her mid-air, wrapping his arm around her waist and holding one of the smaller beams back with the other." I guess this is enough to be believable... I hope..." He caught his breath, letting the piece of wood crash to his feet with an irritating thud. Every scientist present stared at him, speechless, while he kept bleeding from his hand. He held Well firmly in his arms; she had instinctively clung to his neck, still shaken by the impact.

"Strange... This place didn't smell like this before." He thought immediately after registering the source of that pleasant floral scent. Well looked at him, taken aback but oddly smiling. She was about to speak, but Lance lowered her to the floor at once and walked away with a slow, mechanical step. A sound not unlike a startled rabbit escaped his lips the moment he felt his sleeve being seized from behind. He turned slowly, finding himself face to face with the director, who held his coat in her hand.

"Thank you so much… I'm grateful to you." She murmured, prying his hand open with some effort to return the white coat to him. She had to apply an unexpectedly firm force to detach herself from his grip, since he appeared to have gone rigid in front of her.

"Nothing... To sweat about." He murmured, pulling back his hand and the coat. He put it on quickly in a desperate attempt to get away, but the woman seized him again, this time with more force.

"Lamb... Klivt? I've never heard of you before. Are you a first-year student?" She asked, looking confusedly at his absent, silent nod. Her eyes widened with surprise and concern at the sight of the blood still running from his fingers.

"Don't worry… It's nothing really." He found it hard to smile, noticing the drops at his feet, terribly visible on the pale floor. Lug, without a word, tore off part of her coat and wrapped the black bandage around his hand, paying no attention to Lance's attempts to stop her.

"This should hold. Get yourself to the infirmary immediately!" She scolded him, then realised that he was looking everywhere, searching, with a degree of luck, for a sign or a map.

"You don't know where to go?" Lug murmured, drawing his attention, which was met with an embarrassed smile and a quick nod.

"Here, I always carry a paper copy with me." She smiled, pressing the brochure against his chest, producing once more the phenomenon of embarrassment and flushing from which he suffered.

"How old are you?" She asked, puzzled, examining her colleague with a rather sceptical air. The young man in front of her was certainly younger than her, but compared to the researchers around him, he looked like a professional athlete. Lug pressed the brochure into his chest one more time, feeling like she was pushing it into a wall.

"I turned eighteen a short while ago. A few months back." The answer came entirely naturally to him, though the reaction of those present was anything but natural. They stared at him in complete confusion and, here and there, with a touch of fear.

"He's younger than Grayson?" She whispered, turning away and hoping Lance hadn't heard her, but the expression on her face and her surprised manner were enough for the young man to gather what she had murmured. He said goodbye and disappeared into the crowd, watched by every researcher in the room.

"Things were so much nicer before..." Lug lamented to herself, looking at the debris at her feet with annoyance, before taking in the sheer size of those splinters. The thought that one of them might have ended her life disturbed her deeply, though Lance had been more than capable of holding one back.

"I have a terrible feeling… Tell me what to do, Erika." She gathered her documents and walked off in the opposite direction.

"The library is in the other building, really? How enormous is this place?!" He exclaimed, tucking the map into his pocket alongside the bandaged hand. He launched himself through the corridors, deflecting researchers unlucky enough to walk into him with apologies and smiles. He finally arrived at the hall of his pavilion, packed with a press of white coats. Some on their way out, others smoking in cheerful groups, others finishing the remnants of lunch in an endearing tableau with a festive edge.

"Perfect! Now—" The breath died in his throat at the sight of the dark caramel suit and the black cloak billowing through the sea of white. It could have been anyone. It could have been a coincidence, but Lance could not shake the viscous sensation of dread and ruin from his skin. He stood still, watching the man with the long black hair turn toward him. Their eyes met for a second that felt like an eternity.

"Malcolm…" Those were the words his lips formed, unable to produce a sound. Malcolm offered him a smile, pressing one finger to his lips as if to silence him, then pointing past his shoulder toward the institute's park. He merged with the researchers and disappeared. Lance stood still, waiting for some event that might wake him from his torpor. Nothing. Then he began to run through the crowd, shouldering aside everyone in his way, looking no one in the face.

To his eyes, they were only obstacles to be moved to reach that man quickly. Fear and anxiety had taken over his reason, yet he kept chasing the shadow.

"I'm making a mistake. I know I'm making a mistake..."" But what if another life gets taken!" His body begged him not to put force into another step. He could already picture Maliard's harsh reprimands, Jeanne's and Monica's criticisms mixed with tears, but he could not stop himself, drawn toward that calamity.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry." He imagined apologies to whom they might be directed, though even Lance couldn't explain to himself. He vaulted the fence and plunged deep into the small wood. Branches and leaves crackled under his weight as he jumped over rocks and stumps. He didn't catch his breath until he came face to face with an old cabin of wood and brick, left entirely to rot. It might have been a tool shed, but to his eyes, that structure, eaten by lichen, was far more sinister.

"Where is it?!" He began furiously shoving the planks aside, bringing down bricks and disturbing the fauna beneath the rubble. His fingers and his coat were stained with mud and dust. He hurled a heavy stone blocking his path, making the crash echo through the entire wood. His gasping stopped the moment he saw a hatch, sealed with heavy iron chains. The atmosphere around it was horrifying, locked in that way by pure terror more than by any practical necessity.

"The Frequency down there… Has been altered again." His sight could perceive a subtle modification in the flow within the space. His gaze locked on the rusted metal of the hatch, unable to pull away from it.

"Damn it." He clicked his tongue, seized the hatch with both hands, and loaded Frequency into his arms. He tore the heavy iron block from the floor and flung it against the crumbling wall, shattering it. Below, a dark and gloomy tunnel invited him down. A draught heavy with unsettling smells escaped from the darkness and hit his face." I should use them now." He took the pair of glasses miniaturised from his pocket, slowly adjusting them on the bridge of his nose." Maverick is truly brilliant!

I can see the frequency even better!" Before taking a single other step, his nose caught something lingering in the air.

"Iron and… Salt?" The saline, bloody smell shattered what little reason he had left. He took Supplicium into his hands, forcing away the same sensation he had faced at Arden Ring. As he dropped into the pit, he had the impression of plunging into the sea. The watch on his wrist vibrated, warning him that the radiation in the area was blocking communications. And so Lance began to walk through the dusty atmosphere of the subterranean dark.