Ch.BONUSSide Story – Clarice Holmes, The Lead-Gray Study (1)

May 5, 1930

11:50 AM

New Albion, in front of Buckingham Palace.

Today is the sacred and holy Labor Liberation Day.

It’s a public holiday commemorating how the British Empire was liberated from the hardships of labor thanks to ‘Her Majesty the Queen’ being created on this very day, making it superior and more noble than any other nation in the world.

If it were an ordinary holiday, the cultured imperial subjects of New Albion would sit on cement-hardened benches to read books and offer prayers, but on Labor Liberation Day, they gather in the square like this to praise the Queen’s birth.

This year is especially significant as Her Majesty herself will appear before the public to bestow medals, bringing imperial citizens’ expectations to their peak.

Of course, Her Majesty won’t reveal her entire form, only a “part” will be exposed, but even that required a major construction project laying five additional railways from Buckingham Palace to the square, so no one would be disappointed about not seeing the Queen’s full appearance.

Despite many complications, the construction was successfully completed, allowing the citizens of New Albion to be welcomed here today.

The square was filled with smiles everywhere. Everyone wore identical thick bluish-gray coats, and people of all ages each received iron buckets filled to the brim with coal. This was Her Majesty the Queen’s special gift prepared for today.

“May the great grace spread far and wide with the chimney smoke!”

Though it was an ignorant and cheap exclamation, no one laughed.

Although the dock worker’s pronunciation was far from smooth but rather rough, with arbitrary emphasis, and sometimes words were chewed up and not properly pronounced, there was still something moving about it.

Vulgar, primitive, and blatant, yet so intense because of it—a primary color emotion. The redness of blood seeping through torn flesh is more intense than a pastel bluish-gray coat.

“Miss Clarice?”

Clarice Holmes snapped out of her trance at the sound of someone calling her. A clear, lively small bell sound. The melodious voice of a girl delivering milk on a steam bicycle in the morning.

“Isabel.”

“Are you tired?”

Isabel pointed at Clarice’s hand. Clarice glared at her new prosthetic hand. Though she had certainly finished adjusting it, “it” was “squirming” regardless of her will. After forcibly clenching and unclenching her fist, the prosthetic finally “complied.”

“Or perhaps you’re nervous enough that your hand is ‘trembling.'”

“Nervous?”

What an impertinent and presumptuous expression. Clarice wanted to dismantle Isabel. She had felt that way since they first met.

She wanted to precisely separate the human parts from the non-human parts, to see how long breath could remain when the life-maintaining clockwork mechanism was removed.

The inexplicable hostility felt unfamiliar.

Perhaps that’s why Clarice couldn’t stay calm around Isabel. Especially when she said nonsensical things like this.

Half of her wanted to tear Isabel’s mouth up to her ears. The other half felt tender affection, like looking at an innocent child who had asked, “What does it feel like to be an adult?”

“…What nervousness?”

So Clarice showed a smile.

“I’ve just been preparing for today for a long time.”

“That’s right. We’ve prepared for so long. For the medal ceremony too. You know? I love medals. Someday I plan to receive a medal and proudly wear it on my chest.”

Isabel’s body is sturdy. If Clarice’s body is close to “the highest specification among early models,” Isabel is “the first of the next generation.” Without Clarice’s “new prosthetic hand,” it would be difficult to even scratch that new model’s arm.

“…We won’t have occasions to wear medals. You know that, right?”

“I can wear it at home, can’t I?”

“To show it to your family?”

“No. Just to see it myself. This is a secret, but my dream is… to stand in front of a mirror wearing nothing but a medal. I don’t need anyone else’s gaze.”

“You mean, only your own gaze is necessary?”

“A perfect body. A perfect mind. I was born with the destiny to become the highest grade.”

Isabel twirled like a ballerina. Even at the top of the Victoria Palace broadcasting tower where strong winds blow, her body would rotate smoothly. It was impressive how her neck, waist, knees, and ankles moved freely.

A movement Clarice’s body couldn’t perform.

“Then what more do you need? You must be sick of mirrors by now. You’re in the Internal Affairs Department anyway, so you don’t go out in the field much, right?”

“Respect.”

Surprisingly, Isabel looked serious.

“Really. I want to be respected. I was ‘made’ as the highest grade, but I haven’t proven anything yet. So I’m still undergoing quality testing, you could say.

If I receive a medal. If just one medal is placed on this body of mine. I could… be replicated. Albion. The British Empire. Further still, my replicas could fill the whole world!”

Isabel’s chest swelled. Her pupils were wide open and her mouth agape. Somehow, that appearance recalled an unpleasant memory. The look of an organism abandoned on the streets of Massachusetts, America.

“What meaning would that have?”

As if wiping away a dirty stain, Clarice asked reflexively.

“Meaning? Meaning? What greater meaning could there be than my eternal existence in the world? Being replicable means being superior.

Perfect in every way, with no room for improvement, literally the ultimate. Humans, overcome by sexual desire, conceive imitations of themselves, but I will infinitely replicate my current perfect self.

However, to do that, I need to receive a medal.”

Isabel is captivating. She would be popular in America, or anywhere else. Because she was made that way.

With mechanical coldness, Clarice “understood” that Isabel was superior to her in every aspect. It was as cold an “understanding” as knowing that 2 is greater than 1 and 0 is less than 3.

That’s why she also “understood” why Isabel, an Internal Affairs agent of the “Circus,” was assigned as Clarice’s “monitor.”

If Clarice made even the slightest mistake, or if there was any hint of betrayal, Isabel would immediately report to her superiors.

After that, Clarice would probably be discarded, and Isabel would stand in front of a mirror with only a medal on her naked body made to golden ratio proportions, proclaiming her glory.

However, this fact is known only to Clarice, Isabel, and the upper echelons of the “Circus.”

Officially, they operate as a team of “veteran” Clarice and “rookie” Isabel. Just an ordinary routine of a rookie agent learning various things from a veteran agent.

Especially today, there would be much to learn. As the Queen reveals herself to the general public on Labor Liberation Day and personally awards medals, there must be no disturbances in security or proceedings.

“It’s a bit strange though.”

“What is?”

“It’s Labor Liberation Day, but we don’t get to rest.”

“That’s because we don’t ‘labor.'”

Clarice answered while surveying the people gathered in the square.

“Coal burning itself in a furnace isn’t labor. A steam turbine generating power isn’t labor either. Likewise, workers mining coal and putting it into furnaces isn’t labor. That’s destiny. We don’t call conforming to destiny labor.”

Clarice’s words seemed difficult for the new model. Judging by Isabel’s cute lips protruding.

“I don’t understand such abstract concepts. All I know is to be loyal to the Empire’s commands.”

“That’s enough.”

“Then, what’s the meaning of medals?”

Clarice stared at Isabel intently. But Isabel didn’t even blink. That part of her brain had been “regulated” long ago.

“If everyone is merely conforming to destiny, if everything flows as destiny has determined. What meaning do medals have?

It’s natural for those with better destiny to do better things. And it’s natural for those with worse destiny to live poorly. But medals… they’re different, aren’t they?”

“You just said it yourself. They’re certificates stating there’s nothing wrong.”

Clarice answered expressionlessly. Seeing that Isabel didn’t seem to understand, she elaborated.

“We were all born noble. But we haven’t been verified. If destiny is the result of birth, medals are the result of actions. The two are different.”

“Different? How are they different?”

Isabel genuinely seemed not to understand. But Clarice neither got angry nor frustrated. She thought of a certain woman.

A crazy, impulsive woman with no self-control, like a beast. A vulgar woman who, far from binding her large breasts, flaunted them openly. A woman who had charged with a grenade with its safety pin removed hidden in one hand. A woman who, even as her hand and arm were blown off, didn’t cry out in pain but burned with hatred, screaming to kill that bastard.

She couldn’t understand why she had willingly given her prosthetic hand to such a woman and even helped attach it. Because of that, despite witnessing “it” leave the ground, she had to endure questioning, reproach, and surveillance.

The fact that a woman named Clarice Holmes had acted “irrationally and impulsively,” and so easily “lost” a “hand” containing the essence of British Empire technology.

“It was damaged during combat with Moriarty and there was no possibility of recovery.”

That was all Clarice had answered.

And now Clarice answers only this:

“Every insect in the world has the potential to become a butterfly. But not all become butterflies. Most just crawl on their bellies and die or get eaten by birds. Rookie. Let me ask you something. How does an insect become a butterfly?”

“It consumes sufficient nutrients, enters a cocoon, remains as if dead, and waits for the right time to metamorphose.”

“That’s the correct answer, but not the one I wanted.”

“There is only one correct answer and truth.”

Isabel snapped back as if insulted.

“Then let’s call it a well-written wrong answer.”

Clarice responded elegantly.

Dong – dong – dong.

Bells rang from all the clock towers in New Albion. Millions of people filling the streets cheered.

“Long live Her Majesty the Queen!”

“Long live Her Majesty the Queen!”

A soldier in uniform brought a microphone close. Speakers installed throughout the square resounded.

“Medal recipients to the platform!”

Five people ascended to the platform. Though their backgrounds, achievements, and life experiences varied greatly, today they would receive medals. Receiving medals directly from the Queen, they would finally take one step closer to “ascension.”