Ch.192Request Log #016 – Transformation (3)

The Morrígan’s pills could only be obtained three at a time, but even that greatly improved my quality of life. Being able to sleep as much as I wanted, when I wanted, was happiness.

Today, however, wasn’t a day I wanted to sleep. It was closer to a day I had to sleep. Desire turned to obligation brought pain. Still, pain and I were old friends.

They say true friends are those who stay with you during difficult times, but the only thing that had accompanied me through life’s pain was pain itself. So I might as well call it a friend.

In the middle of the night, I got up, set aside the club I’d received from Yehoel, and only packed a dagger sharp enough for tanning leather and a pistol with a silencer. There was no need to be an Argonne Invincible at a bar.

I left home dressed casually. Again today, I didn’t bring a mask. The early autumn wind howled like a scream.

I got in my car and drove through New York’s streets. A hateful city, yet not entirely without lovable corners, a place that sparkled at night. The sparkle made one look away from the darkness.

Even if someone were lying on the road at night, and even if I ran them over, no one would know. The signs of theaters and performance halls that caught the eye, the lights of bustling bars, and dance halls thriving even at this late hour—all these lights pointed toward the sky. No one looks at the ground. No one cares about the ground.

And there, on the ground that no one paid attention to, something was squirming. Whether it was a worm, a mole’s paw, or dwarves digging tunnels to cross over, I would crush whatever emerged.

Those dwarves would beg for their lives in broken English, just like the dwarf special forces who were caught digging tunnels. Like those who dug tunnels to kill us, they would talk about humanity.

My answer hadn’t changed from then until now. Those dwarves had become nutrients and fertilizer for French soil. By now, they might be nothing but skeletons, minus their helmets and bayonets.

At least they had found some use, but Manhattan Island had no fields or farms. So they would find no use at all and roll down the streets like garbage.

I arrived at Littlehold. A place where traces of tragedy had been erased. Washed away with water and chemicals. I stopped in front of the first dwarf bar I saw and approached the doorman.

“Invitation, or name?”

From his words, I could tell this wasn’t the right bar. A dwarf betrayed by humans during the day wouldn’t go to a bar that willingly admitted humans. I took out a five-dollar bill from my wallet and handed it to him.

The dwarf, who looked like he had completely shaved his already half-bald head, waved his hand. He tried to put the bill back in my hand.

“Hey, buddy. You can’t get in with this! If I let you in for this and you turn out to be a dry one, what then? A clean-looking guy like you…”

“Are there bars that don’t let in non-dwarves?”

The doorman nodded briefly, realizing that the money I’d offered wasn’t a bribe to let me in. He seemed to have figured out that I had chosen a five-dollar bill among various methods.

“Quite a few. Several places. Why, looking for something? I happen to know the back alleys of Littlehold pretty well…”

I handed him a map of Littlehold streets that I’d brought from the car. The dwarf quietly began circling locations. If he was lying, I could come back and deal with it.

I returned to my car with the map that now served as a guide. Tomorrow night, the doorman would surely brag about tonight’s encounter to anyone who would listen.

I headed to the next bar circled on the map. It was deeper in Littlehold. The surrounding area had residential neighborhoods and apartments, grocery stores and general stores. They shared the responsibility.

I got out of the car. A dwarf standing at the bar entrance with a club made a disapproving sound and approached me.

“This is a dwarf-only bar, mister. Quietly get back in your car and go somewhere else, or go home and sleep…”

Since I was wearing gloves, I didn’t need brass knuckles. I struck him square in the face. The dwarf grabbed his nose and rolled backward. I approached. He began wildly swinging his club.

It was made of quite solid wood. Luckily, I easily caught the club with one hand as it flew toward me, about to strike the side of my head properly. With my other hand, I grabbed and squeezed the dwarf’s hand holding the club.

I applied pressure slowly. I could feel the wood of the club making cracking sounds. The dwarf screamed at the double force he felt on his hand. I didn’t stop.

Soon the club broke with a splintering sound. The dwarf looked like he might go berserk. I clasped my gloved hands together, raised them high, and brought them down on his face.

I grabbed the beard of the doorman dwarf with his smashed face and dragged him into the bar. The atmosphere inside froze instantly at the sight of an unexpected race entering, and the dwarf in my hands.

I threw the dwarf into the bar and locked the door. There was a back door, but it was visible in a straight line from here. I drew my gun from inside my coat to make my purpose clearer.

“This magazine holds seven rounds. With one already in the chamber, that’s eight rounds total. How many people are in here? Right, thirteen. Will you survive, statistically speaking?”

The bartender glanced at a shotgun hidden under the bar. He remained still while our eyes met, but as soon as I looked away, he reached for it.

I pulled the trigger. Since the bartender would be the most knowledgeable person in this bar, I didn’t shoot him in the head. The dwarf grabbed his forearm and screamed in pain. The smell of gunpowder added to the frozen atmosphere.

The music was loud, so the silenced gunshot wouldn’t have leaked outside. Still holding the gun in one hand, I took out a cigarette, put it in my mouth, and lit it. It was a vulnerability, but everyone remained deathly still.

I took a drag and blew out the smoke. The cigarette smell didn’t erase the gunpowder smell, but at least it prevented my nose from stinging.

“The fact that you tried that stunt once means you’re a reliable person. Trying it twice means you don’t want to talk. Do you want to make tonight’s misfortune worse? I don’t mind.”

The bartender dwarf barely raised his head with tears in his eyes. He looked at me with quite a diverse expression.

“Let me, let me stop the bleeding. The blood, f-fuck, I can even feel the tingling in my hand…”

He couldn’t pass out from blood loss before speaking. I brought a stool from beside the bar door, sat down, and turned the gun toward one of the other customers. I moved the gun barrel up and down.

“Get up. Help him. I’d rather end this quickly than watch him struggle to stop the bleeding with one arm.”

The atmosphere in the bar entered a relative lull. The bartender managed to reduce the bleeding by tying cloth over the gunshot wound, but his arm continued to tremble intermittently afterward.

He might tremble for the rest of his life. The length of life gained in exchange for a trembling arm was quite long, so it wasn’t a bad deal for him.

“A dwarf, male, around twenty years old, give or take a year or two. He was a rookie working under an informant. Was he here about 5 days ago?”

“He, he wasn’t here. By informant, you mean those bastards who all got killed? If someone like that had come, I would have, fuck! He would have complained to me for two hours. I don’t remember hearing anything like that.”

I had to assume the first information given was a lie. I raised the gun again, this time aiming at his forehead. The dwarf shouted.

“If you’re not going to believe me, why ask! I refuse to die because of guys who just take money and serve drinks!”

Business won’t be as good tomorrow as it was until yesterday. I quietly surveyed the customers too. No special guests. One of the dwarves quietly raised his hand. He spoke as if asking me to look his way.

“I, I, think I saw him at another bar, but, um, I’m not entirely sure…”

“How do you remember?”

There was no reason to pay much attention to other customers in a bar. At most, one would only pay attention to the bartender. Both the bartender and the other customers looked somewhat relieved.

“Well, you see, I remember because he was drinking with some rich guy. He was sobbing and crying his heart out, drinking, when suddenly someone came and sat next to him. I was glancing over, and the guy even paid for both their drinks and took him away. That’s why I remember. Thinking, lucky bastard…”

No one was less trustworthy than someone who offered free lunch or free drinks. Half were con artists, and the other half were worse than con artists.

Having some success from the first bar was incredibly lucky. I spat out the cigarette butt and crushed it with my metal-reinforced heel. The bartender didn’t yell at me not to throw cigarette butts on the floor.

“Bar name and location.”

“It’s, Bar Old Forge. The location is about three blocks from here, but that’s also a dwarf-only bar…”

“So was this one. I don’t care. If anything happens, I’ll be back. Don’t be too disheartened about ruining today’s business. It’s better than not being able to feel disheartened at all.”

I checked the map I received from the previous bar. There was indeed another bar three blocks away, and it was circled. For now, I could assume it wasn’t a lie.

If it was a lie, I could find that customer later. Finding a dwarf in Littlehold wouldn’t be easy, but the bartender who had already been shot once would readily inform on his customers.

After unlocking the door, I left the bar. Without hesitation, I got in my car and headed to Bar Old Forge, supposedly three blocks away. I parked in front of the bar’s entrance and got out.

It was distinctly dwarven. The design was modeled after the forges that dwarves revered. Iron bars on the windows and exposed pipes giving it a rugged look—exactly to dwarven taste.

Of course, a doorman approached me this time too. Just as he was about to say something, he smelled the gunpowder mixed with cigarette smoke. He pressed his lips together and showed a bit more respect.

“This is a dwarf-only…”

I grabbed him by the collar and headed for the bar door. Though reinforced with metal, the door was quite light, befitting something made with dwarven technology. I threw the doorman dwarf inside.

The door clattered loudly. I caught it with one hand before it closed and entered. I already knew what he was going to say, so I answered. I wasn’t one to ignore others’ words.

“I don’t think so.”

I stepped on the back of the doorman dwarf’s hand as he tried to get up from the floor. I ground it with my heel. When the clattering door closed smoothly, the dwarf’s voice could no longer be heard from outside.

All eyes turned to me. Fortunately, this bartender didn’t seem to be reaching for a gun. Ignoring the dwarf who was trying to remove my heel from his hand by punching it and struggling, I began speaking.

“I need information. Someone told me it would be here. A dwarf, twenty years old, give or take a year or two. He was a rookie working under an informant, and probably came here and left with someone. A warlock.”

The bartender, who had been pretending to be calm until now, uttered a word. It was a small sound, but not so small that it required elven senses to hear.

He seemed to have mistakenly thought I knew more than I actually did. All I knew was a speculative testimony that the dwarf had come here, and the very common-sense deduction that if someone who was fine until a few days ago had become a monstrosity, they must have been involved with a warlock.

“Already…”

The bartender covered his mouth with both hands, as if aware of what he had just said. If he hadn’t done that, I might have missed it. Now that possibility was gone.

“‘Already.’ A very enticing word. Let’s end business for today. The night is long. Other bars are still open. Rather than watching here, it would be better to move on to the next bar and grab someone by the shoulder saying, ‘Hey, buddy. Did you see what happened at Old Forge?’ I hope you appreciate how polite I’m being.”

Of course, not many would appreciate that fact if I hadn’t thoroughly demolished the doorman outside before coming in. It would have been similar at the previous bar if not for the dwarf with the smashed face.

An old dwarf gulped down his beer and walked out. His beard was as long as an elf’s hair with streaks of gray, and the braided strands along his chin were quite long too.

The dwarf picked up a hammer that was placed as interior decoration in the forge-themed establishment. Like most alcoholics, he began to get angry at having his drinking time interrupted.

“That won’t do. These human bastards are all, huh? Rotten to the core. Wherever other races are living well, they think it’ll become theirs as soon as they set foot in it!”

The old dwarf swung the hammer, but the decorative hammer made from a solid piece of metal rather than for practical use was apparently heavier than he remembered.

I came prepared. I caught the staggering swing of the hammer with one hand. He was not prepared. Such items were better suited for Argonne Invincibles or angels.

I let my hand slide down from the hammer head to grip the handle. Then I swung it diagonally from upper left to lower right. A dwarf’s skull wasn’t weak enough to crack from one such hammer blow.

Still, I walked toward the dwarf who was staggering and holding his temple, seemingly dazed. The bartender shouted in a panicked voice.

“Ah, he, he’s going to kill him at this rate, someone, someone stop him!”

I grabbed the arm that was clumsily swinging in his still-dazed state and struck his side with the top of the hammer head. The dwarf expelled all the breath gathered in his lungs.

The other customers didn’t move. They would vaguely know that the person who had stepped up in their place was being broken both figuratively and literally, and that the bartender knew what I wanted to know.

In that case, customers would scatter. Most bar patrons were ordinary people who, when trouble arose, didn’t stand and fight but hurried away.

Why would such people band together to attack me or try to stop me? One customer near the back door fled first, and seeing this, the dwarves rushed out of the bar in droves.

I struck the old dwarf, who was holding his side and barely making wheezing sounds, on the opposite side of his head from before. He didn’t die, but he fell to the floor face down, unconscious.

Still holding the hammer, I approached the bartender. I smirked.

“I’m someone who could set fire to fields to finish this job, but I quite enjoy conversation. Would you like to talk?”