Ch.55Request Log #007 – The Weight of Life (5)

I put on my holster over my shirt, then slip on the thin coat that The Morrígan hands me, completing my preparations for work.

Though her breath is as cold as a corpse, she’s a woman with a body as hot as the blood of fallen warriors. Now instead of gunpowder, I smell The Morrígan’s bath salts on my body.

It wasn’t exactly to my liking, but compared to the smell of gunpowder, it was something I could almost feel affection for, so I didn’t mind. I returned to the office and half-reclined on the sofa.

“So, are you feeling more inclined to talk about the job now?”

The Morrígan had returned to her normal self. There was no longer any sign of her being led by the hand of desire. I wonder if Selkies also return to normal when taken to the sea.

“Yes, of course. Ah, yes… you won’t be able to perfectly withstand death magic.”

“I’m not the type of person who hopes for miracles. I felt the War Spirit crossing the ocean to America, so they must have sent someone to the docks. Do you know where it might be now?”

She opens the window and looks down at the busy streets of Little Eire. She stretches out her hand, and from within it emerges a crow’s beak, followed by an entire crow struggling to break free.

It’s like an illusion that fairies create. Since it’s The Morrígan’s, it could be called a fragment of divine power. The crow takes flight. Surely she doesn’t intend to search with that.

After watching the crow fly away, The Morrígan returns and sits in the office chair. She raises the corners of her mouth in a smile.

“Do you like mole hunting? I know for certain she’s in the dwarven area, but I can’t pinpoint the exact house. That kind of thing…”

“I told you I’m not hoping for miracles. Knowing she’s in Littlehold is already a lot. Well, I’ll come back after the job is done.”

Little Stronghold, or Littlehold for short, was a district where many dwarves lived. Unlike Motherwood where elves lived, it was full of buildings with exposed concrete interior walls.

They were excellent technicians, architects, and even designers, but they were a race that wasn’t as welcomed as their abilities deserved. If the weakness of elves was their fragility, the weakness of dwarves was their stubbornness.

Even after losing the war, they still proudly insisted they hadn’t lost, and there was no flexibility to be found in such stubborn creatures.

I leave The Morrígan’s room with my duffel bag over my shoulder. Anyone could tell what had happened when a man who entered covered in cold sweat and gunpowder emerged looking clean and refreshed an hour later.

I walk out, ignoring the murmurs of the drunks sitting at the bar from this hour onward. The doormen, who had tensed up thinking The Morrígan was coming out because of the bath salt smell, shoot glances at me.

If there weren’t so many people passing through Little Eire, they might have put a bullet in the back of my head. Ignoring them, I get in my car and return to my apartment. I need to prepare for Littlehold.

Even though it’s called Littlehold, it’s a street with many people, so there’s no need to worry about the War Spirit. Besides, that racist woman wouldn’t set off death magic in the dwarves’ Littlehold.

I should start by visiting clothing stores and searching. It’s faster to proceed by eliminating possibilities one by one.

I take out a rough work shirt and work pants from my closet, then grab a postal delivery bag—a bit outdated but serviceable—and put my gun inside it.

If someone were to barge into a store asking about a specific person, they’d certainly be suspicious, but they wouldn’t be as wary of mail or telegrams.

I sweep blank papers in sealed envelopes into my bag from the filing cabinet behind my desk. I addressed only one with the Immigration Office’s address.

Now, time to craft another story. The woman was a stowaway. She was a foreigner. Pretending she was a legal immigrant would be the simplest approach, and in that case, receiving mail from the Immigration Office wouldn’t be unusual.

It would be better not to claim it was important mail.

I’ll say there was mail to be delivered, but due to lost paperwork, the only information was the employee’s memory of the person’s appearance, so they hired a private contractor like me to find the person and deliver the letter. If I imply that the Immigration Office didn’t really intend to deliver the mail properly in the first place, it shouldn’t be difficult to get help.

If Motherwood had an un-American atmosphere, Littlehold was excessively American.

After Prohibition was enacted, there were numerous secret bars that continued operating after taking down their signs, and stores that had closed due to forgetting to pay bribes or conducting business too conspicuously could be seen throughout the streets.

Still, it was a somewhat lively neighborhood. Fewer competitors only meant better business for the remaining stores.

Following that street quietly, I begin to see the shopping district. There are even places with German signs here and there, so it might not be as American as it appears.

I park my car in the shopping district. With the bag slung over one shoulder, trying to look tired, I push open the door of the clothing store in front of me without hesitation.

Since it sold dwarf clothing, the door wasn’t very high, nor were the shelves stacked with clothes, so I could clearly see the counter inside. The dwarf woman sitting at the counter looked more tired than I was pretending to be.

True to her dwarf nature, she had short brown hair tied in two braids, a plump figure, and thick lips… honestly, it was a face hard to find attractive. Still, she had a warm impression.

“Welcome… Oh, you don’t seem to be a customer. What brings you here? I’m not expecting any letters…”

I take out an envelope marked as sent from the Immigration Office from my mail bag and show it to her. I don’t hand it to her, indicating it’s not for her.

“It’s mail that the Immigration Office needs delivered, but they lost the paperwork and only gave me the recipient’s description to make the delivery. Those postal service guys never give proper jobs to contractors… I know they’re staying in Littlehold, so I was wondering if you could help… Oh, I’d provide a small compensation, of course.”

While listening to my story, she clicked her tongue a few times at my situation, or what appeared to be my situation, as a contractor. That was the extent of her reaction.

I take out a five-dollar bill from my wallet and place it on the counter. Only upon seeing the bill did she show some interest, letting out a sigh between her pursed lips.

“I was startled thinking the letter was for me. So, what’s the description? I’m a woman who spends all day looking out the window, so I might be able to help.”

I didn’t bother explaining why I’d started with a clothing store. She’d think I just walked into the first store I saw, and that was enough.

“Ah, so the description is…”

I recall. Those green eyes were striking. Her hair was tied in two braids like dwarves do… No, that’s not right. She had it braided and tied back. Different from typical dwarves.

“First, she’s a human-dwarf hybrid, and her eye color was unusual—green, they said. I don’t know if this helps, but they also mentioned she braided her hair and tied it back.”

If this woman had seen her, I might get a lead. After thinking for a moment, she pulled the five-dollar bill toward herself, indicating she knew something.

“I think I saw someone like that at a nearby store… She didn’t come here. I saw her going somewhere around here… If it’s a young woman, probably at the… Ah, do you speak German?”

“Not at all. I learned a few words for work… Just that much. I can’t even introduce myself.”

I don’t bother mentioning that the only words that come to mind are “doppel” and “soldat.” There’s no need to make a bad impression on someone I’ll never see again.

“Then, go about a block from here and look for a clothing store with a fancy wooden sign. All the young ones go there. Something about German and patriotic clothing…”

We don’t exchange words like “how pathetic,” but this dwarf and I quickly realized we both wanted to say it. We just share a smile before I turn around.

“Well, good luck!”

I walk out, pretending to be an upright young man unlike my usual self. With the postal bag in hand, I head toward the store she mentioned a block away, keeping an eye out for the hybrid magician on the street.

The store across the street was quiet at this hour. The sixteen or seventeen-year-olds who might come to buy weekend outing clothes would be working at this time. I open the door and enter.

The store owner was human. She dressed exactly like a dwarf and had her hair tied like one, which looked like an awkward disguise, but she stood proudly with her chest out as if very proud of her appearance.

“Ah, a mail carrier? I shouldn’t be receiving any mail. Come in anyway!”

She seems to be under the delusion that she’s a dwarf. I wanted to mock her, but I was pretending to be a decent young man, so I behaved quite politely as I entered and held out the letter, telling her the same story.

Her eyes sparkled briefly before she nodded. She told me to wait a moment, went to the back room, and returned with a brown paper envelope. Whatever was inside flopped around like clothing.

“I think I know who you mean. She was a customer here. She seemed to have injured her hand and couldn’t carry her clothes, so I offered to send them to her. If you deliver this instead of our delivery boy, I’ll tell you. For a young person these days, she was quite remarkable. Patriotism dripping from her eyes…”

Humans who speak as if patriotism is visible are the most dangerous. Generally, patriotism is only a virtue to the unvirtuous. I don’t know who said that. It was something the poet often said.

Ah, if she’s giving me an excuse to enter the house, I should be grateful. I take the envelope she offers. The name “Frida” was written on it.

“I have to deliver mail anyway, and a man carrying a bag this size on his side wouldn’t refuse such a sweet offer. What’s the address?”

With an energetic expression, she flipped over my hand holding the envelope to show me the address written on the back of the paper envelope. Judging by the apartment number, it wasn’t a high floor, unfortunately.

It’s not easy to escape from high floors. A person could be in terrible shape just from falling from the second floor if they fell wrong, but this hybrid kid’s place was on the first floor.

“Thanks to you, I won’t have to pay those delivery boys! Thank you!”

Her energetic voice irritated me. How could anyone have a good expression when speaking well of such a German girl? But smiling wasn’t difficult.

“Yes, yes. Have a good day.”

I guess I can’t live like a decent young man after all. Already feeling a bitter taste rising in my mouth, I walk out of the clothing store.

I put the clothing envelope in my bag and slightly adjust the position of the pistol, tucking it between the blank letter envelopes. I make sure I can draw and fire it at any time.

If she remembers my face, I’ll have to shoot immediately. If not, it would be better to learn a few things through conversation and then strike on a night when she can’t control spirits.

Even an elf dual-swordsman who can swing swords fast enough to cut machine gun bullets while high on methamphetamine, or another detective, or anyone else, is powerless while sleeping. I could press a pillow over her face and put a bullet in her.

I head to the apartment and knock on the door of the address written on the envelope. Before the door opens, I throw my postal contractor bag somewhere out of sight from the door.

Someone walks up and puts their eye to the peephole to check outside. To reassure them, I wave the paper envelope in front of the lens, and only then does the door open.

Fortunately, it wasn’t the hybrid magician or the madman. It was an orc, about half a span taller than me, with numerous scratches and cuts all over. He looks me up and down.

As soon as the door opened, an unpleasant smell of mana burst out from inside. Someone must be using magic in there, and it would be better if I could figure out what kind.

I grab my nose and grimace briefly, indicating that I’m a human who can smell mana.

“Frida said she was going to buy clothes… A delivery? Ah, the magic… it’s just the smell of mana, so don’t worry.”

The name Frida didn’t seem to be fake. Frida, Frida… It means “peace” in German, a name that’s hard to say suits such a woman, even as a platitude.

Now I decide to pretend to be somewhat slow-witted. I knew they were using magic that distorts senses, so I decide to pretend to see hallucinations, pointing at the interior of the house behind the orc.

“It’s not such a big deal that I need to be paid. By the way… there, I see something? Something black crawling around, is that normal?”

The orc nervously turns around, and seeing nothing there, forgets that he left the door open and rushes inside. His voice could be heard from outside.

“Frida, Frida! Lower the output! Even the delivery man is seeing visions!”

Visions, is it? Why specifically call them visions rather than hallucinations or apparitions? Must be from the Illusion School. I couldn’t prepare for death magic, but I needed to prepare for that hybrid woman’s magic.

The orc who gave the warning returns and takes the clothing envelope. He tears it open with his sharp nails to check the contents, then bows his head respectfully.

“I apologize. We have a magician here who’s still clumsy with output control. But thank you for the delivery.”

“No, no. These things happen. Well, goodbye then…”

This time I turn around and leave without lingering. If I tried to handle this right now, it would get complicated. I’ll kill some time and come back, so we won’t be apart for long.

The Illusion School specialized in magic that makes non-existent things appear or deceives the senses. During wartime, schools and magic were standardized for war purposes, which only confirmed that she had never participated in the war. During the Great War, the main magic used was very basic—unrefined mana chunks.

Even basic magic can kill a person if it hits directly. It creates holes when it strikes the ground. It doesn’t need bullets or artillery, so it’s perfectly adequate as a weapon.

The door closes. I memorize the location and walk away. The illusion magic is probably being used to calm the madman. I return to my car, drive back to the apartment’s parking lot, and park in an inconspicuous spot.

Fortunately, being on the first floor meant I could see the windows from the parking lot. I couldn’t see any convulsing human or where the War Spirit might be, but I could easily determine that there were no bars on the windows.

With a desperate desire to smoke a cigarette, I waited in the parking lot for night to fall. As the sun set and quitting time approached, I smoked in the alley behind the apartment.

The sun goes down. The sounds of illegal bars filling with people begin to be heard, and it gets sufficiently dark. The lights on the first floor of that apartment go out. Not yet. It would be better to wait until two in the morning.