Ch.44Ch.4 – Outro (2) (Video not opening)

# May 2, 1929. 2:30 PM

# Southern Cathedral, Pollard Island

Riding in Crayfield’s economy Ford, I couldn’t help but think of the Hitman’s smooth Lincoln model.

Still, today’s driving was quite gentle. Probably because he was gathering his thoughts.

“Herbert West was a madman.”

Crayfield began.

“That’s how he’s described in Lovecraft’s original text. From the materials in this world, it seems his fundamental character hasn’t changed much.”

<Life and death are matters of cellular function, so even seemingly dead organisms can be revived by administering chemicals and applying electrical stimulation>

Of course, that itself is a terribly repulsive idea. But the true repulsion lies elsewhere.

Crayfield and I had quite a serious conversation about this topic in the car. We reached consensus on a significant point: what Herbert West truly wanted was ‘recognition.’

I wasn’t wrong. I am right. I will prove to the world that I am right.

Perhaps because the world treated him as a madman, he obsessively delved into his own world.

All because of some notion that if he could show how right he was, the world’s perception would change.

What West pursued wasn’t truth, principle, or scholarship.

His vision was narrow, his thinking biased, and his heart petty.

Even if he had gained recognition, what would it have given him?

Nothing. Just meager pride. But that pride was all he had left.

And so, like other intelligent egoists, he drove everyone around him to ruin.

“It’s funny. Someone who was his friend, schoolmate, assistant and participant in his experiments, but whose identity remains unknown, recorded everything from beginning to end.

Of course, that’s also a characteristic of Lovecraft’s novels. It’s why the narrators in his stories are criticized.

Like scribbling notes when the situation is urgent, or the narrator turning out to be insane too.

But without that, who would testify to how fucked up the world he created was?”

The cathedral gradually drew closer.

From the slowly moving car, I could see the bookstore I had visited and Tomato, who was still working there as a clerk.

The Ford entered the cathedral entrance.

“As I said on the first day we met, but to be more clear: you are essentially like the narrators in Lovecraft’s works.

From beginning to end, sometimes losing consciousness, sometimes making bizarre descriptions, but your transmission is always truthful.”

As we entered the parking lot, Crayfield turned off the engine. But he didn’t get out.

I asked something I had been curious about for a long time. Who I am.

“You’re an assistant. The sixth assistant. Well. I can’t say more than that. I don’t know more myself.

You’re just an assistant. Of course you’re an assistant. It’s like parents. Why are these people my parents?

Why are these people my siblings? You might resentfully ask once or twice, but eventually you just accept it, don’t you?

As I did with myself, so it is with you. We simply prevent the apocalypse.”

Crayfield slapped his palm on the steering wheel a couple of times.

“You’re doubting, aren’t you? Like religion. Blindly believing something because your parents told you to, then thinking, ‘Why do I believe this?’

Clergy say that’s where maturity and wandering begin! Of course, I don’t believe in anything.

But I understand the confusion when what seems obvious suddenly doesn’t. As much as you do.

How do I know? You haven’t forgotten that I was dragged into this, have you? That’s hardly normal, is it?”

Crayfield tends to have varied expressions. But right now, his self-mockery, sneering, and bitter smile were something even I had never seen before.

“All I can do is prevent the coming apocalypse. I can’t do anything beyond that.

I drink when I have time, get hurt occasionally, spend nights with women sometimes.

But I know what I truly want is to get out of here. Boom! You have been logged out!

Yet I still don’t know the exit. The world changes too quickly. Those above keep creating shitty situations.

Abassina? I don’t know about her. It’s not just her.

The world around is growing too fast to handle, and somehow I’m being pushed aside.

Still, I don’t know the way out, Assistant. I’m not in a state to make normal judgments.

I am, fundamentally… a person without foundation. Why am I here? Who am I? What am I doing?

How did I get dragged into this world?

So many absurd things happen that I don’t even know what’s normal anymore.

It seems even the cup of understanding has its capacity. I’ve exceeded mine by far.

So I don’t ask anymore. I just prevent. Shoot. Drink. Fuck. Sleep.

And come to meet you and the nun with bags of candy like this.

That’s the kind of man I am. Fuck it. Suck my dick.

I’ve done enough. I’m tired of trying to understand the world. Isn’t it time for me to fuck the world?

Shouldn’t the world spread its legs for me at least once?

After all I’ve been through, don’t I deserve that much?”

Crayfield clapped his hands.

“It’s all bullshit. Complete bullshit. You know what? I removed the gun from my bedroom.

One day I woke up with the muzzle against my head.”

There was nothing more to say. We silently took the candy bags and got out of the car.

Then we approached the window of the annex where I had stayed. It’s now Abassina’s room.

Crayfield cleared his throat a little.

“Someday when there’s a chance, I’ll tell you about the past assistants.

It seems inappropriate to tell the whole story now, but I can tell you about the second assistant.

He was a very brave man. He dug into the relationship between the White Hand Mafia and the Black Market, and had a conflict with Giovanni’s eldest son.

Both of them died. Joe Torio was the Left Hand at that time.

The reason I didn’t accept his request was because of that history.

I couldn’t imagine Joe Torio having such a self-sacrificing side.”

Crayfield came to remember Joe Torio as a hero.

To avoid worrying him, Abassina and I fabricated our story. Especially the ending.

We concealed how Abassina bit my shoulder. How she annihilated West with the power of the Blood Lord.

Instead, we said Joe Torio heroically blew himself up with dynamite strapped to his body to finish them off.

It was better to explain it that way to the slum dwellers too.

Of course, the Pollard Times reported that old gas from the septic tank accidentally exploded, causing part of the sewer to collapse, with no injuries—but that’s beside the point.

So officially, nothing happened.

Abassina is currently resting.

When I visited last time, Father Matteo assured me that she was being well cared for and not to worry.

He also said that since the Vatican hadn’t said anything, it would probably blow over.

“The days of burning people at the stake for crossing lines ended long ago.”

The priest was quite good at making grim jokes.

“Her body took a toll and the mental shock was even greater. But I’m not too worried.

It’s a big step forward that she herself decided what she should be.

It’s better because it was a decision made with purpose, not surrendering to desire.

It would be perfect if she realized that God blesses and supports whatever decision she makes.

But that’s still far off.

She has many struggles to go through before reaching such a conclusion.

Just like humans do.”

Indeed, it seems difficult for her to realize anything for a while. She was quite intoxicated.

For sleeping and resting well, there’s nothing like alcohol—I mean, ‘the blessed blood of the Lord.’

Like a newborn child, she slept soundly, needed lots of food, and required plenty of… the Lord’s blood.

While free meetings like before are difficult, he confirmed that conversations through the window are always possible.

“Candy.”

So it’s fine for Abassina to stretch her arm out through the window like now.

“Not content with tearing my assistant’s shoulder, you want candy too, Sister?”

“Candy! Candy!”

Eventually, Crayfield handed over a bag of candy and a pack of caramels.

“More!”

“They’re in the car.”

“Oh, give them quickly!”

“I’ll give them if you behave.”

Abassina, with her forehead against the window, pouted her lips.

“Hmph. I hate you. Blehhh.”

Crayfield snickered.

“It’s the price of French Mass wine. It was really… um… tremendous. Quite good.”

“Will you give me more candy?”

“Can we stop talking about candy?”

“Crayfield, I reeeeeally hate you.”

Unable to resist her stubbornness, Crayfield headed to the car with an exasperated look. Once he was far enough away, Abassina aimed a finger gun at the back of his head.

“Bang.”

Nothing happened. Abassina frowned.

“That person is quite strange. He looks like a real ‘person,’ but he’s not susceptible to hypnosis. Hmm. I wonder if there’s some random passerby. I want to try ‘bang’ one more time.”

Abassina wasn’t drunk. She was just pretending.

“By the way, that person is really clueless, isn’t he? Right? How much trouble do you go through? You’re quite clueless too.”

I just smiled. Abassina burst into laughter.

“It’s okay. But I have something to tell you. Just you.”

I told her to speak.

“I told you, right? I can read almost all human blood, but not animal blood.

The memories of those people merged together were still easy to read.

The one who ripped out Antonio Salvatore’s throat and wrote Herbert West on the wall was his friend. His school classmate. A doctor. Someone who walked the wrong path with him.

His mind was already completely broken, so he couldn’t remember who he was, but he remembered West’s name.

And he knew West was on the wrong path. He blamed himself for not stopping him.

That’s why he left that hint on the wall. Asking someone to stop him and West.

Even in the whirlpool of madness, there was a last strand of reason and conscience left.”

Crayfield. West. His friend. They were all the same kind.

Those who readily use others as tools to prove they are right and gain recognition.

In a true sense, they were monsters and beasts.

Their unwavering march forward, their blind faith in themselves, corrupted them from humans into monsters.

I felt no desire to sympathize with them at all.

Only a faint conviction remained that even in moments consumed by madness, even in the darkest night sky, a ray of light might still appear.

“And beast. You.”

Abassina whispered.

“I want to roll around in bed with you.”

I looked at Abassina in shock. She stuck out her tongue slightly.

“Didn’t you know I’m a beast in a nun’s habit? Meow, I’ll bite you someday. Not now, so don’t worry.”

The embarrassment was all mine. I unnecessarily fanned my face as it grew hot. But Abassina was serious.

“I’m not joking. I’m really concerned about you. You have too many gaps in your memory. Many absurd memories too.

Most were indecipherable, but the most recent wound. The longest wound. It was so clear that I think I can tell you.

Want to hear it?”

I asked what it was.

“You flew alone through space and reached Mars. It was full of red sand and strangely shaped flowers. That part is a bit vague…

Anyway, a child wearing a flower crown on their head welcomed you.

To that child, you were the first being they had a real conversation with in 4.5 billion years, and the child said they would come see you in a thousand years.

And that child sent you back to Earth by reversing time. Why? Because you shot yourself in the head with a gun as powerful as plausibility.

The child didn’t want you to perish, so they turned back time and brought you to Earth.

Only the gun—called Chekhov—experienced the passage of time. That’s why it had no bullets left.”

Abassina sighed.

“Now do you understand why I said I couldn’t read you? All the records entangled in your blood are like this.

It doesn’t make sense. It’s quite preposterous, isn’t it? But it’s strange. Really, don’t you know what you are?

The memory I read was from when you were in Arkham.”

I don’t know. I knew nothing about that.

Before Crayfield came closer, I asked her what she meant when she told me not to become a different being in the sewer.

“I confessed on the first day, right? My eyes can’t see colors. Only light and shadow. The only things I see in full color are blood and beasts.

Beings that aren’t human but pretend to be. To me, you’re a clearly visible, beautiful beast.

But you at that time… Ah. Ah. Beast. Beast.

I think I’m going to cry… Hold my hand. I’m scared…

You, something was happening. Heavy drumbeats. Flute sounds. Ah. Beast. Beast.”

Abassina’s hand was trembling. I held her hand. I also told her to be at ease since I was here.

Crayfield came back with a new bag of candy, smiling broadly. Abassina quickly took a sip of alcohol. Then she mumbled with a slurred voice.

“Please. Don’t change.”

– Ch. 4 The Perfect Human Image End –