Ch.36Request Log #006 – Hunting the Hunter (1)

I should drink alcohol that suits my species, as they say. The morning after excessively drinking what trolls drink, despite it being out of character for me, was quite painful.

The pain doesn’t last long. After returning from the Great War, I didn’t die even when I drank several times more than I do now. Though my condition was worse back then.

To remember that time, I also had to remember the Great War. In the Argonne Forest, we were cornered. Isolated and being eaten away by magical bombardment and assaults, we faced not just annihilation but complete destruction, and we had to find some way to survive. Cursedly, the warlock-soldier who came with us found a ritual perfectly suited for the situation.

Perhaps he shouldn’t have found it. The ritual that was supposed to last a week at most hadn’t disappeared even after five years. The cursed power and vitality of two people remained.

Now I can recall this much. When I first returned, even thinking about it this simply would have been pathetic.

After shaking my head, I open a can and heat up the beef soup inside for breakfast. From behind my office chair, I suddenly turn my head to look down through the window facing the apartment parking lot.

Today again, there was an unfamiliar car. It looked as luxurious as Gremory’s car, but it wasn’t hers. I never forget a car once I’ve seen it. The color was subtly different, and this car was smaller.

But someone is getting out of that car. A woman in black clothes approaches my car and begins examining the license plate and interior.

If I’m being followed, from where? The Italian trolls might have sent someone. It would be stupid to believe I could earn their trust just by working with them. Or it could be the Irish mafia.

“Whoever it is, they’re not even letting me eat breakfast…”

Seeing the woman return to her car, I put down the beef soup I was drinking and take a gun from the closet. I need to go down before she escapes so I can at least question who she is.

After checking the bolt of my military rifle and loading one round, I sling it over my shoulder and head down the stairs. Running down the stairs was faster than taking the elevator.

I jump down the last floor and rush out the apartment entrance. The car was still in the parking lot, not even started. The windows were tinted dark, making it hard to see inside, but there was a figure.

I approach. Placing my foot on the hood of the car with its bull-shaped emblem, I aim my gun at the interior. The figure doesn’t move.

“I don’t think you’d believe I brought this out just for a parking issue. Coming to someone’s home and looking at their car… Get out. Let’s talk face to face.”

There were species that could survive a shot or two from a pistol, but none could withstand a rifle. Even dwarves, with their hard bones and sturdy bodies, died easily.

But the driver calmly extends a hand out the window. In the hand was what looked like an invitation to a bar with a black bird drawn on it. After showing both sides, they flicked their wrist to send the invitation flying toward me.

Still aiming at the driver’s seat, I catch the note and check it. It was an invitation with the address of Little Eire. Are these Irish folks? The car door opens and a woman in black clothes steps out.

She has a voice like Madam Brünhild. Her long black hair was beautiful, but looking at her face reminded me of the Argonne Forest. I could see the magical shells raining down and trenches filled with blood. I shake my head.

“I came because I was intrigued by what Gancan reported, yet you point a weapon at me and accuse me of trespassing… This feels familiar. Don’t worry. I’m not as ill-tempered as I was back then.”

I couldn’t understand the latter part of what she said. Does she mean someone else has pointed a gun at her before? Still, I remembered the name Gancan. He was the headless fairy driver for the Irish mafia.

And if she’s receiving reports from fairies, she’s not someone I should be pointing a gun at. I raise the muzzle and rest the stock on the ground, pointing it at the sky.

“I guess you didn’t know which apartment I lived in? If you had told me who you were when you came to my home, I wouldn’t have been so rude.”

“I was merely curious how you would react. And I forgive your rudeness. In my time, authority came from vengeance, but in this modern era, they say it comes from acceptance.”

The woman who had just been facing the barrel of a gun smiles casually. And talking about “her time” means… she’s not human. At the very least, she’s a dragon.

“They say only species that are disgustingly old use the word ‘modern’ in everyday conversation.”

“Do you think there are any young species in Little Eire? Fairies live as long as their concept exists, and I will live as long as those fairies exist. Anyway, my business is done. Keep that.”

She points to the bar invitation she threw me, smiles, and gets back in her car. If she’s not an enemy, there’s no reason to shoot. And if there’s no reason to shoot, there’s no reason not to let her go.

Given that she gave me an invitation to a bar where we can talk quietly, questioning her here would probably just result in more smiles and no answers. I remove my foot from the hood and step aside.

The car quietly left the parking lot. After examining both sides of the paper with the black bird again, I went back up to my apartment.

A goblin who had raised her hand to greet me as I came down the stairs was startled by the gun and kept quiet, but she wasn’t stupid enough to bother a human who was carrying a rifle and didn’t look to be in a good mood.

Should I go there today? Most bars don’t open until the afternoon, so I’ll need to find a way to kill time until then.

After finishing the cooling beef soup, I crumple the can with one hand and throw it into the trash. Maybe I’ll go see Levi after a long time.

She runs a café in New York’s busy district and is quite connected to everyday life. With her comfortable expression, comfortable tone, and comfortable atmosphere, she’s a harmless person whose face brings comfort when you look at it.

Or I could go to Iris. The women at Iris gave better value for money when you paid them to talk rather than for other services.

I was happily imagining ways to spend the day when all those plans were unpleasantly disrupted by a sound.

The doorbell rings long and unpleasantly. Someone has come, and at this hour, it could only be a client. Or Yehoel. Either way, it means work.

I check outside through the door lens from a distance. Standing outside was… an Idealist terminal. It wasn’t stupidly blank-eyed, connected to the Hive Mind, but its face still lacked distinctive features.

I close the curtain leading to the bedroom area and open the door. The terminal, dressed in connected worker’s clothes, speaks bluntly.

“It’s been a while, detective. I have a job for you. May I come in?”

The Idealists were the same all across America. The Hive Mind could connect with Idealists throughout the nation, so what one knew, the others knew as well.

I wouldn’t sacrifice my individuality to gain that, but there’s no reason not to let in a client. I step aside to let it in. It was an “it.” Once human, but no longer.

The terminal enters and sits in the client chair in front of my desk, and I sit across from it. This was the first time I’d received a request sitting here.

There’s no need to offer coffee. The Idealists don’t know preferences. They don’t know individual tastes.

“Before taking on the request… do you have money to pay? You commies don’t let people save money, right?”

The Idealist terminal smiles and nods.

“We do have money. It’s just not for individuals but for everyone. And we are everyone. We are the Idealists, we are the Idealists. You know that.”

So if the Hive Mind has it, everything is solved. Funny. No, maybe believing in this clumsy “everyone” by merging consciousness is less ridiculous than believing in a non-existent “everyone.”

“As long as you can pay, that’s fine. Skip the ideological education. What’s the job?”

“I heard you’re good at bringing people in. Is that true?”

“Since Idealist terminals aren’t people, I’m not sure how well I’ll do, but why don’t you just connect to the Hive Mind and give orders?”

Although this Hive Mind occasionally lent terminals to individuals, even borrowed terminals were always connected to the Hive Mind. So to reach out, they just needed to connect.

“If they were terminals, we would have done that. They’re not terminals but individual collaborators. They helped us, and in return, we lent them terminals. In exchange, they agreed to merge consciousness with us, but they ran away.”

“You demanded their souls in return for help and expected them to just hand them over? So, where were they last seen?”

They probably thought at first that they’d be willing to mortgage their souls to the Idealists if they could get help. But such thoughts don’t last long.

Once they become prosperous from the help, their initial devotion disappears, and they start thinking about themselves. That’s all.

The Idealist terminal takes out a yellowish file from its chest and places it in front of me. It didn’t seem like a lot of material, and they wouldn’t have done a full investigation… so maybe three or four people.

“Four people. All four were in New York, but we are not welcome in this city. A city full of lowly reactionaries.”

Anyone who interferes with them is a reactionary, I guess. Resisting the urge to mock them, I open the file. Two of the four were businessmen. They probably enjoyed hiring cheap labor from the Idealists.

And of the remaining two, one was a writer… and the last one was a detective. Moreover, a detective who once belonged to Blingkerton. A laugh escapes me.

“What’s with the last guy? Was he doing this job before you assigned it to me?”

“You know very well. Yes. He was impressed by us. So he agreed to become one with us after capturing all twelve runaways from last time. But after catching nine, he helped the rest escape and ran away himself. This is his remaining work, and now it’s your work too. Any questions? We will answer.”

“First, let’s talk about payment. Usually, it’s 20 dollars a day plus expenses, but you probably know how to give me more motivation. Don’t you?”

There was no bond beyond being in the same line of work, even with someone in the same industry. To begin with, “detective” and “bond” are incompatible words.

When have I ever worked with someone? I occasionally took someone along to watch, but I always worked alone. That detective would have been the same.

“Of course we know. In addition to the basic fee, we’ll give you an extra 30 dollars for each runaway you bring in. Is that enough?”

Yes, having a performance bonus would make the work more appealing. The amount wasn’t that high, but tracking four people would take time. And the longer it takes, the more money I’ll receive.

“Also, while you’re working, you’re our comrade. Feel free to use terminals if needed. We are powerful but lack your expertise, so we won’t interfere with your work. Is that enough?”

They’re being quite reasonable for clients. Still, given the nature of the job, they’re not being that reasonable.

“If it’s a detective, they’ve probably already hired mercenaries and are hiding somewhere. Then I’ll push your terminals in as bullet shields without hesitation. The same goes for the two businessmen, and the writer… I’m not sure, but they’re probably well hidden. Don’t you care about the terminals that die during the job?”

To me, terminals weren’t people, but to the Idealist Hive Mind, they were. The terminal, fully connected to the Hive Mind with a lively expression, unpleasantly twitches its eyebrows.

“Are you asking if we can use more terminals than four to get four terminals?”

“That judgment is yours to make. I’m just saying I won’t compensate for terminals that die.”

A detective’s job is not to judge. Our job is just to act, and judgment is strictly the client’s responsibility. Thinking this way was easier on both body and mind.

“Compensation? Do you think blood can be compensated with gold?”

“Were there people who didn’t believe that? It seemed like they were about to make price lists. How much for a manufacturing worker, that sort of thing. If a worker dies in an accident, they look at that price list and send money. Don’t you think blood can be compensated with gold?”

It would be fortunate if they properly compensated with gold. From the perspective of someone who receives a slashed value used in propaganda plus a medal, and even that slashed value in small installments under the name of pension.

The Idealist terminal doesn’t hide its displeasure, but with an expression like swallowing a stone, it nods.

“I won’t worry about compensation. But I will express regret. You can do that much, can’t you?”

“I have no intention of sympathizing with the death of a body whose soul has been extracted. Are we done?”

The Idealist terminal still looked displeased but didn’t add anything more. There must be a reason why this Hive Mind chose me.

The Idealists had numerous terminals across America, and there must be more than a few in New York, so the fact that they sought me out means I was the best option among those they could choose.

The Hive Mind knows a lot. Because it knows a lot, it makes logical choices, and it doesn’t want to ruin logical judgment with emotional reasons like this.

After the Idealist terminal left, I opened the file again. If I’m going to target someone, I should target the fellow detective first.

If the others hear that one of the runaways has been caught, they’ll all panic, but the detective will prepare. Being familiar with this kind of work, he’d know how to prepare.

I should contact Blingkerton after a long time. The detective who taught me should be there too… well, if he hasn’t died from old age or liver failure, he’s probably still working.

I take out an old notebook and search through it. I find a number not far from the kobold tobacco shop’s number. Since it’s a notebook from when I was young, words like “master” were written.

It was clearly in my handwriting, but it didn’t feel like I had written it. In fact, the self from that time didn’t feel like myself.

Working diligently day by day, with eyes that seemed to want to learn everything in the world, and whose only purpose in life was to buy tickets for baseball or boxing matches to go see with the bartender using the daily wage. Even though I listed these things in my head, it didn’t feel like I was talking about myself.

The war seems to have changed people too much. I should make the call… and get to work. That would be better for my mental health.