Ch.31Ch.3 – Outro (Video Not Available)

# 1929. 4. 20. AM 10:00

## Miskatonic University North Gate Inn

Crayfield dragged his luggage bag with his left arm. His right arm was still wrapped in bandages. Though he hadn’t damaged any muscles or tendons, the wound was long enough to require several stitches.

“Thank you for the hospitality.”

The owner sitting in the hall didn’t respond.

“Sir?”

The man who had once managed the hall with such passion now just sat there, as if to say it was no longer his concern whether flies swarmed or the floor got dirty.

He seemed to have become completely broken in just a few days. Only after being prompted twice more did the owner look at us.

“You should keep your spirits up.”

“What did I do wrong?”

The man had asked us this question several times whenever he saw us. At first, his voice carried desperation and lament. Then it was filled with anger.

Now it was emotionless, like asking about the weather or wishing someone a good day—just a verbal habit.

“You had bad luck. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I worked so hard after coming to this country.”

A fly landed on the owner’s hand and crawled around. When he slightly lifted his hand, it buzzed away.

“I just… I believed that if I worked hard and diligently every day, my time would come. Detective. But in an instant, everything has fallen apart. All the students said they’re moving out. No guests come anymore. And the Federal Bureau of Security keeps coming in and out of my hotel.”

Crayfield clicked his tongue and placed his luggage bag on the desk with a thud. The owner flinched at the sound.

Opening the bag, Crayfield took out a checkbook, wrote a substantial amount, and tore off the corner.

“What is this?”

“Well, I hate to say this, but…”

Crayfield scratched his head as he locked his bag again.

“With this money, you can either remodel this place or leave Arkham. It’s enough for a fresh start. If you had bad luck for no reason, then you should have good luck for no reason—that’s only fair, isn’t it?”

The owner still seemed dazed.

“Is it really all right for me to accept this?”

“Yes, it is. The Federal Bureau of Security has agreed to pay me quite a lot of money. I don’t need that much. So take it. Will that be enough for recovery?”

“It would be, but…”

The man still looked at Crayfield with bewildered eyes.

“Sometimes, faith deserves to be rewarded. If luck is bad, then there should be times when luck is good like this. You’re the most diligent person I’ve met in Arkham. You’re what I’d call a ‘heart’ kind of person.”

“Pardon?”

The owner didn’t understand. Crayfield pulled his luggage bag toward the exit.

“And leave Arkham. Try Providence or Boston. Assistant, let’s go.”

* * * * *

## Same day, PM 12:42

## On the bus to Kingsport Harbor

“…so I’m asking you all. It’s painful, but you’ve already experienced it. I mean the experience of your lifelong profession becoming useless as the world changes. So tell me. If there were a world where everyone is equal and safely protected. Would you go to such a world?”

The men in suits on the bus grew solemn at Crayfield’s anguished question. Coincidentally, almost the same men from before were on the bus.

“That question sounds a bit strange.”

The first to raise his hand was a thick-set man. His cracked fingertips and comically narrow-brimmed hat remained the same.

“I’ve been farming all my life, and I’ve seen plenty of ugly things. Not just from people, but from the heavens too. You can plow the fields diligently for eight months, and it all gets ruined in just two days of storms. Nothing is less trustworthy than the sky.”

Crayfield, feeling a pang of discomfort, looked up at the sky. Of course, he couldn’t see it through the bus ceiling.

“You’re right. The sky can’t be trusted.”

“There’s hardly anything safer than farming in this world. But danger is a completely separate issue. Who knows what the sky will do tomorrow? How could anyone know if a heap of European grain will pour into Kingsport Harbor tomorrow? Humans can’t calculate everything.”

“That’s true.”

The man with a long scar on his face agreed.

“And damn it, when you think about it, isn’t the army also a place where everyone is equal and safely protected? But that doesn’t make it paradise on earth. In the end, if a person wants to avoid getting hurt, they’d have to live inside a can. What joy is there in such a life?”

“Just nonsense from pen-pushers.”

The man in a straw hat sneered.

“You don’t have to look far. Look at this country. So naive. What kind of lunatics would legally prohibit drinking alcohol? The ideal sounds good, sure. Accidents did happen because of alcohol. But does that stop people from drinking? Laws and rules can maintain the world, but they can’t force growth.”

“Right. Exactly. If you forcibly pull out crops before they’re fully grown, they wither and die. It’s better to wait until the roots are firmly established before nurturing them. Then they’ll get back up quickly even if they fall.”

“Resilience. Yes. That’s what’s more important.”

“Yep. What matters is recovery. So what if something breaks? Just fix it.”

Crayfield gave an awkward smile.

“That’s right, isn’t it?”

The thick-handed man nodded emphatically.

“Of course it is. But still, for a person to get back up after falling, they need solid insurance, don’t they?”

“That’s true.”

The old man seemed not to have heard Crayfield’s words.

“Now, here’s a product that guarantees 4% annual returns for just one cent a day. Trust me. Even Stalin would convert to capitalism if he knew about this product!”

The bus took a sharp turn around a rural curve.

* * * * *

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# 1929. 4. 24. AM 11:00

## Washington DC, Federal Bureau of Security Criminal Psychology Analysis Department Office

The Criminal Psychology Analysis Department office is located in Federal Bureau of Security Warehouse Building 1-3c.

It’s a great luxury compared to the days when they used the room next to the boiler room. Now they can open a window and look outside.

In any organization, field agents tend to look down on administrative staff, and the Federal Bureau of Security is no exception. This tendency is stronger the higher the rank.

All the higher-ups are former field agents, still pursuing the smell of gunpowder, life-threatening thrills, and midnight pursuits like cowboys. Their hearts remain those of rookies, but their bodies are soaked to the bone with night dew. A true tragedy indeed.

To such people, a department called “Criminal Psychology Something” sounded like a children’s fairy tale.

To the aging cowboys of the city, figuring out human psychology was as difficult as understanding their wives’ moods—a problem with no clear answer.

Yet Director Hood repeatedly rejected “budget cut proposals” or “department elimination plans.”

Rumors spread that Director Hood was clinging to superstitions due to his age.

And Deputy Director Skinner is one of the few who understands Director Hood’s true intentions.

That’s why he wasn’t at all embarrassed to visit the warehouse building.

In the course of work, there are things one must hide even from a secretary. Agent Katherine Scully continued her briefing.

“Rasputin’s true identity was Gordon Waitely, a professor of folklore. He grew up facing discrimination due to his appearance and lineage, which gave him a deep personal yearning for an equal world. At an academic conference in London, he made contact with ‘Vladimir,’ real name Arkady Ivanovich Svidrigailov, a member of the Unified State Political Directorate (OGPU) who was leading a group of Soviet young officers.”

“Of all people, that one? Are you sure?”

The Deputy Director brushed his thinning forehead.

“A face whose age is difficult to gauge, pale skin with no blood color. Considering the description of broken English, it’s him.”

“Continue.”

“Yes, sir. Vladimir appears to have requested regular reports. Of course, verbally it was phrased as ‘let me know how you’re doing,’ but he used techniques to gather information through casual conversation. They used the 1927 edition of Webster’s Dictionary as a codebook and converted musical notes into alphabets for transmission.”

“What did they make a university professor do?”

“The spread of ideology.”

The Deputy Director frowned.

“Explain in detail.”

“Miskatonic University students are likely to grow into key national positions or social leaders after graduation. Vladimir wanted them to develop ideological favor and goodwill toward communism and socialism from their college days. He called this ‘sowing.’ When these students step into society and reach middle management positions, he ‘harvests’ their information using their ideological goodwill.”

“Isn’t that betrayal?”

The Deputy Director shook his head as if he couldn’t understand.

“It hasn’t even been ten years since the major arrests for communism, and they’re doing it again? Why?”

“Vladimir claimed that the Soviet Union had failed. In other words, he instilled a sense of mission and purpose by saying that while a perfect ideal society can certainly be created, the Soviet Union failed, so they should create a dream country instead. This way, the target believes they’re acting in the national interest while not following the Soviet Union but developing their own country. They become ‘my dear Miskatonic comrades.'”

The Deputy Director’s fingers tapped the desk, like pressing piano keys in sequence.

“I’m saying this sincerely, but you’re not meant to rot in this warehouse. You should have taken my position. Those old cowboys only know how to smell like onions; they don’t understand these psychological techniques at all. Are you sure you don’t want to transfer to counterintelligence?”

“I’m sure.”

Scully was firm. The Deputy Director clicked his tongue as if he had no choice.

“Fine. I can’t help it. This was a secondary mission anyway. How did the main mission go? I understand the medical seminar was just a pretext.”

“That’s correct. The main purpose was to verify the report that Chase, the police chief of Pollard Island, handed over to the Boston Police Department—the report that Agent Henry Payne obtained. In the process, I came to handle the clinical case of a patient named Becket O’Brien. Through hypnotic exploration, I identified information about a cemetery keeper who controls corpses through music, which I included in my report.”

“Right. And then suddenly you caught a big fish. The ‘flower incident.’ Do you think the Breath of Fire really exists?”

“I can’t be certain. We should be cautious about generalizing from a single case.”

The Deputy Director placed the files he had brought on the desk. There were two top-secret files, one blue and one red.

When he opened the blue file, there was a brief communication inside.

“There were already signs in 1924. This is a telegram sent from NASA through Washington to the Alaska base. It requested cooperation in detecting radio waves presumed to be emitted from Mars. Fortunately, the observers’ heads didn’t explode. They even obtained meaningful signals. With this data and your experience—though not a perfect cross-verification—we can consider the Breath of Fire to be real.”

Scully’s face darkened. The Deputy Director continued in a calm tone.

“Not just the Breath of Fire. What about the report Henry Payne brought? Agent Katherine Scully, science is a tool. A tool cannot be the entirety of the world. Just because you measure the world with a ruler doesn’t mean the ruler is the world.”

“So it’s finally being established?”

“Yes. Director Hood’s orders. Isn’t this good news for you? It might be an opportunity to find your sister again.”

Scully didn’t respond. The Deputy Director cleared his throat, regretting his unnecessary comment.

“I’ll take overall responsibility. You and Henry Payne are confirmed. I’m also thinking of using civilian agents as chess pieces. By the way, how was that detective, John Crayfield?”

Scully’s forehead wrinkled. The Deputy Director observed her change closely.

“He’s good at improvisation. His situational judgment, coping methods, and quick reflexes are excellent, but he lacks respect for authority, which is most important. We cannot expect loyalty from him.”

“That’s unfortunate.”

“He has sufficient value as a mercenary.”

“Good. On the surface, you’ll continue as the head of the Criminal Psychology Analysis Department. Henry Payne will also remain in the Special Investigation Department for the time being. But your real department is the ‘Supernatural Phenomenon Response Team.’ Of course, that name is a bit childish. So the Director personally came up with a name.”

The Deputy Director handed over the next page of the document. Agent Scully silently turned the cover of the file.

<Supernatural Phenomenon Response Department Planning – Project: Alpha Red>

“Seems like the same thing to me.”

“That’s just how old men’s tastes are.”

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– Ch. 3 My Miskatonic Comrades End –