Ch.45Request Log #006 – Hunting the Hunter (10)

# A Day of Rest and Idle Jokes Rearms the Detective

A day of rest and idle jokes rearms the detective. It helps recover sharpness and erase the emotions accumulated during work.

This should be enough. I fill my hungry stomach with undiluted canned food and sit right down in my office chair. The Hive Mind said it would rest, but I needed to check.

“All of Amer—”

“Change to Hive Mind.”

It started just like yesterday morning. I was thinking about visiting a veterans’ association if there was no progress today, but unusually, the Hive Mind’s voice was full of energy.

“Detective, I found him. Just as you said, there’s a man who moves between the main telegraph office and various post offices. So, as I said, we need to observe for a few more days.”

“Right, monitor for at least a week to understand his living patterns. After that, it’s better to sneak in and steal it. You know it gets annoying if you barge in and get tangled up with the police.”

From the beginning, not many people liked The Idealists unless they were like me, only working for money. Either way, a Red is a Red.

I could borrow a terminal and find the writer’s collaborator myself for interrogation, but a detective’s interrogation methods were more useful for breaking people than extracting information.

People surrender easily to pain. Too easily, in fact, and then they don’t tell the truth but rather what the technician wants to hear. So it’s a useless technique for gathering information.

So we must wait. Patience can be considered the foremost virtue of a detective.

Yesterday was for rest, but until the Hive Mind finished its work, it was preparation time.

I thought about bringing a shotgun, but if the writer had intended to fight, he would have hired someone rather than checking his contact and preparing to hide in New York.

This is the most tiresome kind of target. Those who aim only to survive, who swallow even the feeling of their heart tightening while being pursued, and try to hide—they’re difficult to catch.

Not only is patience a detective’s virtue, but it’s also a virtue when being chased by a detective. It could be seen as a battle of who can wait longer.

I spend several days receiving reports from the Hive Mind. The writer’s collaborator had quite a simple daily routine.

He wakes up in the morning, tends to his garden, goes to a café to meet friends and enjoy morning coffee. Then around noon, he goes to the same restaurant he visits every day for lunch and plays chess… Wait a minute, this…

On the third day of reports, I speak to the Hive Mind, which has been conducting surveillance in an almost mechanical way. I was starting to get a sense of something.

It was generally the lifestyle pattern shown by people spending their remaining years after retirement. Someone who spends all day idly, and above all, probably sixty or seventy years old.

“Hive Mind, report on this before anything else. How old is this collaborator?”

The only people who would volunteer to be a contact for someone on the run would be family. It would take at least family to endure the sight of someone becoming a fugitive, anxious about everything and having hysterics.

And while I didn’t know the writer’s exact age, if his family member living like that was sixty to seventy… it’s his parent. The collaborator seems to be just one person, but the age would match.

“What, what? Well… sixty to seventy. Quite old. Probably retirement age, but why?”

I seriously wonder if the Hive Mind has become more rigid than when it was human. No, with information pouring in from tens of thousands of terminals, it might not be able to make inferences while processing all that.

Information could actually be a weakness. I open the file to check the writer’s age and tell the Hive Mind.

“The writer is thirty-nine. You should remember the writer’s face in your mind, can you compare the faces? Focus only on this, stop processing other information. Stack the other information and check it later.”

It felt like teaching a baby to walk. The Hive Mind’s distinctive voice, a mixture of countless people’s voices, hummed thoughtfully before finally answering.

“They look alike. Yes, like parent and child. Are they really father and son? So…”

“The writer’s name is Hans Goldstein. Check the nameplate on the house first. And send a terminal here so I can connect. If it’s really his parent, we need to strike when they’re on the phone, so keep more terminals on standby.”

That elderly collaborator probably wouldn’t yield even if The Idealists’ terminals invaded and threatened him. His actions so far made that clear.

He was decisive, respectable, and definitely a wise old man with determination. But the writer is different. The writer wouldn’t be willing to give up his parent whom he respects so much.

He might not think The Idealists would kill his parent, but it would be different if I controlled a terminal and threatened him with my voice.

“Confirmed. It is Goldstein. So what should we do? I mean, the terminals I should deploy…”

“Just enough to fill the house. And the time to strike is when the old man is on the phone with the writer. Have them all invade, restrain the old man, and pass the phone to me. Understand?”

Soon, a female terminal with quite a handsome face arrives in front of the house. I watch with slight disappointment as she walks into the house like a creaking machine and sits lifelessly in the office chair.

“Understood. I’ll wait for now…”

Well, I don’t really intend to harm the old man anyway. Since The Idealists’ terminals all lack self-awareness, the police won’t be able to track them if I tell them to put him on a train and mix him into the general American population.

The Idealists were quite useful for handling matters without leaving any evidence or trace of responsibility. While waiting with the phone disconnected, the Idealist terminal in front of me spoke.

The sound quality was better than a phone. The only problem was having to keep something that looked like a person next to me.

“Detective, confirmed. They’re on the phone. To connect to the terminal, place your hand on the back of its head. I’ll prepare a terminal for you at the scene.”

I never thought I’d be doing the Hive Mind’s work directly. I turn the female terminal in front of me around and place my hand on the back of her head. I could vaguely see something engraved in her hair.

A ritual? No, magic. Seeing it drawing mana from my hand, it was a magic circle ready to activate. Soon my vision begins to open up. I see the world not only through my own eyes but through another set as well.

While my body remained standing in the office, it was a very unpleasant sensation of connecting to another body. I could see from a perspective as if my mind was floating, looking down at one body.

It’s the body of an orc in work clothes. A huge orc nearly 8 feet tall, and when I thought about moving the body, the orc moved according to my thoughts.

Some sensations seem to be shared as I feel the cool breeze. I make the hand clench to check its strength—not as good as my current cursed body, but not bad at all.

“I’ve connected to the terminal, Hive Mind. Where are the others?”

Now the Hive Mind’s voice was heard inside my head. Not my head, but this orc’s head. Whatever was happening… as long as I could hear and talk, it was fine.

“They’re waiting inside the house. We’re keeping him on the phone, so hurry in. Oh, are you used to moving the body? When you speak, that body will speak with your voice. Don’t worry, we’re connected through my magic.”

It’s quite amusing that with such abilities, they can’t properly handle one simple task. If they had handed this network over to me, I could have caught everyone within two hours.

I make the orc I’m mentally connected to walk into the house. I clear my throat lightly to prepare to speak.

Despite this orc terminal having neither a human body nor human vocal cords, it cleared its throat with my voice. I was curious about what kind of magic this was, but I clearly wouldn’t understand it anyway.

Adapting to the increased height and wider stride, I walk into the house. I head straight to the living room, as if entering my own home, through a house filled with more than thirty Idealist terminals.

There was an old man held by ogre terminals, his phone receiver taken away. He mutters with a growling sound. He would know that shouting would be meaningless.

“So, you came all this way to threaten this old man, thinking I’d tell you my son’s address? That won’t happen, so beat me up or shoot me dead, you fucking Red bastards…”

I expected this. A strong and wise human. I gesture to the ogre terminal to cover the old man’s mouth, then take the receiver offered by the terminal with the hand of the terminal I’m controlling. I put it to my ear.

“I expected this. These old men are typically stubborn-hearted and don’t care about their own lives. Isn’t the bond between parent and child quite ridiculous?”

“W-what… This isn’t the Hive Mind’s voice…”

He’ll catch on quickly. I wasn’t speaking with a voice like its—thousands of voices randomly mixed together.

“Right, this time the Hive Mind hired a trustworthy detective. Anyway, I already knew a father who has burned through all life’s flames, enjoying retirement, and successfully raised his child would say something like that. But can you say the same? Can you run away and miss your father’s funeral? With a father like this?”

The old man, his mouth covered by the terminal, begins to thrash like a dynamite with a burning fuse after hearing my words.

He would know I wouldn’t kill him. He would also know what I was trying to do.

He tries to break free even if it means biting the ogre terminal’s palm, but the Idealist Hive Mind wasn’t stupid enough to connect pain sensations. His struggling was quite futile.

“W-what?”

“What, did you think I’d threaten your father with your life? No, I won’t do that. To use someone as a hostage, they need to be in your grasp. And right now, what’s in my grasp is over there.”

Anyway, Idealist terminals have no souls. No consciousness. They aren’t selves. They’re just puppets made of human flesh. I grab a nearby elf terminal with the orc terminal’s hand. I lightly break its bones.

“W-wait! Stop! What are you—”

I wish the phone could show faces too. In this situation, the detective would think his father was suffering, which wouldn’t be strange.

While the old man screams with his mouth covered, I break another bone of the small terminal held in the orc terminal’s hand. The terminal showed no reaction at all. It was just a blood bag.

“Please! So…”

The old man in the ogre’s grasp closed his mouth as if knowing how this would sound, but closing his mouth would make it more suspicious. Imagination is more sensitive than sensation.

The writer, who had been breathing heavily as if hyperventilating, finally speaks. His patience seems to have run out.

“Okay, I’ll tell you my address, so stop, please stop. I’ll be waiting… Please. At least you have some humanity…”

Being someone with humanity, I didn’t do anything to the writer’s father. Over the phone, I hear rustling sounds, then something hard falling and hitting the floor.

“I even threw away the shotgun I kept ready to put in my mouth rather than be caught. So…”

“Just tell me the address. I don’t care how sincere you are.”

He slowly recited the address, and once again the Hive Mind’s voice echoed in the orc’s head.

“I’ll go there right away. I’ll speak to you again through that orc terminal’s head once the retrieval is complete. Will you keep watching?”

After hanging up the phone, I nod. The old man with his mouth covered by the ogre was shedding tears of blood. He was looking at this terminal with eyes full of hatred.

Since the call was over anyway, I gesture for the hand to be removed to see what he would say. The old man rushes over, grabs the orc terminal’s collar, and speaks in a voice filled with despair.

“I’m going to kill all you Idealist Red bastards. No matter where that damn Hive Mind is…”

He seemed about to pour out more words of hatred, but a message came from inside the orc terminal’s head telling me there was no need to stay connected to this terminal.

“Retrieval complete. So this is what they mean by ‘it’s darkest under the lamp.’ You can end the connection. I’ll send the money via terminal tomorrow.”

I remove my hand from the back of the female terminal’s head in front of my real body. The connection with the orc terminal I had been sharing sensations with is cut, and I return to the office.

The detective’s work ends here for today. In truth, if I had handled this face-to-face, I wouldn’t have done it that way. While making enemies is not a burdensome act, it’s still uncomfortable when someone makes revenge against me their life’s purpose. Still, thanks to the Idealist Hive Mind, I could hide my identity and handle it simply.

Whether the writer’s father takes revenge on The Idealists or not, I’ll leave that as The Idealists’ problem.

I wish he would hire me to bring them down now that I know their weaknesses. I dissipate someone’s desperate revenge with just that level of weight and send the female terminal out of the house.

Preparing weapons turned out to be meaningless, but weapons are better when they rust. With a well-maintained pistol tucked in my chest, I leave the house. I head to Bar Two Face.

I had enough self-control to work for days without a single drop of alcohol, but I also had enough desire that such self-control was necessary to handle work without taking a single drop.

After a friendly greeting with the doorkeeper of Bar Two Face, I head into the bar without needing to show an invitation. Today too, there was a bartender with a wolf’s face, her abundant neck fur emerging from her formal bartender attire.

She would always call me by the same name. Meeting her, who calls me by a nickname no one uses for no good reason, was as uncomfortable as it was comfortable.

“Mickey! You haven’t been here for a while. Usually, you finish your work quickly and come saying, ‘Give me a drink,’ don’t you?”

A voice mixed with animal barking flows from the bartender’s wolf maw. It was quite repulsive at first, but it becomes a somewhat listenable voice over time.

“This job dragged on filthily long, so I’m only here now. Give me a Dragon Slayer.”

“Pfft, you’re the only one who orders a Dragon Slayer without being a dragon. Did you grow an extra liver during the Great War or something?”

At her words, I smirk as a Dragon Slayer—a mix of several strong liquors topped with hot sauce—is pushed toward me. I gather mana at my fingertip to light it on fire, then down it.

My mind awakens to the alcohol. Sensations awaken, and a spicy, burning feeling from my lips and tongue tip to my throat comes in, awakening my senses. Feeling a pleasant sense of alertness, I downed the entire glass.

“It would be fortunate if I just grew an extra liver. Give me another. Oh, I’ll leave some money, so if I drink myself to sleep, please take me home. Okay?”

As long as I could sleep peacefully, I didn’t care whether it was Dragon Slayer or The Morrígan’s pills. I would choose peaceful sleep even if it meant drinking heavily and having my memory cut off.

Of course, the bartender wouldn’t accept such irresponsible talk… and just for today, I was able to return home and fall asleep without my memory cutting off at night.