Fic: Ctrl+F5 — [11/??]
In another story, Murasaki’s the best graduate of Facultas, Ratio is a doctor in search of a cure, and Art receives help on a case from a man with brown hair and three bandages – a man said to work with Mao.
Different meetings lead to different relationships. And what these all lead to? AU.
Chapter 11 × ~4k words × Hamatora fanfiction [ navigation → index | prev (10) × next (12) | 01 ]
—
Last time:
“Art,” Hajime’d said before leaving. There is no friend in how she pronounced his name. “There is a lot that Nice doesn’t know... if you take advantage of that I will kill you. Skill’s death is not by – not by— I—” she gasped and raised a hand to her throat, “I can’t say. You are searching wrong. Hopefully... we never need to meet again.”
—
“Good morning,” says Moral, shielded by the umbrella.
He fires. Gunpowder and blood splatter combine on the clear plastic. Moral wonders if he should remove his shoes, and changes his mind. He drops what he’s holding and claps his hands.
“Happy New Year!”
Too bad hide and seek isn’t fun with a trail of blood to lead him.
—
It’s 5:51 AM when Art receives the call.
The apartment building he’s to visit is less than ten minutes from his place at a walk. Art throws on his suit, grabs some toast and runs, dodging doors and walls and people and cars. He makes it in five.
There’s a cordon fenced by police tape already set up – and in front, Inspector Rune is waiting.
His small figure appears wider and shorter than usual, the base of his dark jacket lying in line with the black stripe of a police van. Reading glasses sit perched on his nose and a book is open in his hands. It’s a police handbook, standard-issue.
Art takes one look at how Rune’s gaze is fixed beyond the handbook’s pages, and knows he’s looking ahead with the Telescopic Minimum.
Art glances past Rune and up to the balcony. Uniformed forensics are already loitering at the entrance to each residence, examining the area around each of the tiny front doors. Behind them further still, the sun sets the world alight as it begins its journey across the sky.
Rune notices Art’s approach. He closes the book, tucks his glasses into one pocket, and salutes. Art’s attention is drawn back down.
“Superintendent,” greets Rune. Every inch of him is the obedient officer; back straight, clothes neatly pressed. Only tousled hair and a backwards tie reveal the hour.
Art quickly checks his mouth for traces of crumbs, then rubs his hands to ward off a sudden chill. His own tie is crumpled and likely fares no better.
“How is it?” says Art.
“Everything matches the usual M.O., so far,” Rune replies. “I looked ahead. The victim’s brain is removed and there’s an exceptional amount of blood. There’s no doubt it’s him again.”
The Minimum Holder Serial Killer.
“Except...” adds Rune.
“Except?”
“I looked into the room with the body. It’s been more than seventy-two hours since the time of death.”
He saw at least three days of decomposition. All the other bodies were in locations that ensured their discovery in no later than two.
“Could it be caution?” Art wonders aloud.
Rune’s mouth is a grim slash. “Perhaps he’s changed his objective.”
Art doesn’t realise he’s sighed until he hears it himself. It’s tainted with frustration, ripping away the part of his heart he’d dedicated to his job; a part of himself stolen before his eyes. Powerlessness. It’s been over a year since the serial killer moved for the first time.
It’s been exactly four years since Skill’s death.
He’s been called off leave on the one day he promised to visit him.
Never more aware of how much he’s tugged around by the serial killer’s whims, Art forces himself to swallow back the loss of life. He tries not to dwell on how depraved a person would have to be, and lodges his heart back into place.
There’s a job to do.
“Gasquet isn’t here?” asks Art, because he would have expected Gasquet to be the one meeting him.
“He was in Tokyo,” says Rune. “It will be half an hour until he arrives.”
Art nods. “Thank you for coordinating.”
Rune bows slightly. “It was no trouble.”
“Has the Agency sent any instructions?”
“The transfer plans have been finalised – you will be moved to Saitama once your term ends. I’m to increase my activity before I’m due for promotion. Handover should run smoothly. You will have a new handler assigned to you then.”
“Do you know who it is?”
“Hopefully it will be the Viscous Minimum Holder, Clear.” Rune pauses. “My older sister.”
Art barely spares a blink. Given the rarity of the Minimum, siblings with Minimums weren’t common, but neither were they rare. Even with all the years of Minimum research, no genetic links have been identified.
It’s one area Art tries to remain informed in.
“That’s good to know,” says Art without missing a beat. “If that’s the case, I’m sure I’ll enjoy working with her.”
Rune nods and looks toward an approaching officer. They talk about moving people to an area for questioning. Art pays attention with only half a mind. Rune is the shortest of the group, barely reaching Art’s eye-level, and Art wonders how old he is. Old enough to graduate, given his place in the elite course and his promotion to Inspector.
Skill would be seventeen. He wouldn’t have graduated even if he were still alive.
"—Superintendent?”
Art blinks and finds Rune looking up at him. At some point, the officer had left, and Art had slipped too far into his own thoughts to notice. One of Art’s hands hover in mid-air, reaching toward Rune.
Art blinks again. He drops his arm. The images of snowy hair and purple eyes vanish to be replaced by dirty blond and green.
“S-Sorry,” says Art. “Could you repeat that again?”
If Rune is irritated at the request, no trace of it appears in his expression.
“The current status of this investigation is that it is still preliminary. Forensics have yet to report. Our detectives have just met with the residents and the local officers have been dismissed back to their posting.”
The passing of command is acknowledged with another nod. “They’re witnesses?”
“Still unknown.”
“Thank you.” Inhale; collect his thoughts. Exhale; there’s no time to be thinking about Skill. “We’ll have to split duties. I’ll take over questioning. Can I have you looking into the victim?”
Salute. “Understood, sir.”
Art deliberates with himself for a moment. He makes up his mind as soon as the Inspector turns away.
"...Rune?” he says.
Rune stops. He swivels around. “Sir?”
“Want to go for a drink before I’m transferred?”
For a long moment, Rune doesn’t reply. He stiffens. His fingers tap against the spine of the handbook tucked beneath his arm. Art suppresses the crawling doubt suggesting that the silence is why he never thinks of initiating meetings outside of work. The doubt squirms under his grip. It rears back. Rune mightn’t be old enough for drinking at all.
It’s managed to convince Art into searching for words by the time Rune’s mouth stretches into a slow smile.
“Sounds interesting,” is Rune’s reply. “I hope you know somewhere with some hard vodka.”
Art doesn’t. He hardly drinks.
The doubt fizzles away and a chill descends with something like uncertainty.
—
11: Tea Party Tango
—
There’s a bridge at one end of town, an old thing hewn at the edges and etched with tired lines. To get below it, one has to circle around the back of a building, pass through a parking lot where a row of cars slept without passengers to escort, and walk a flight of steps which ducked around once, into itself. Only then would the shadows proceed to hide and swallow you whole.
There must be something wet up high, thinks Theo, when yet another droplet of water lands splat into his hair. It trickles downward, down the back of his head and down his neck and then all the way beneath his shirt, leaving a trail of unpleasant wetness behind on its journey to the centre of the Earth.
The bridge is Theo’s place. A special place. It’s wet and cold sometimes, and completely miserable, but that just means that nobody really goes so often. Rei doesn’t know about it either.
That’s the most important thing.
Another drop plops down; another stream down his back; Theo wonders if he should move, but thinks the better of it since he’d just gotten comfortable.
Besides. Moving meant...
Moving meant he’ll start wondering why he’s skipping school again.
“It’s not my fault,” he almost says aloud, but well, it is. It’s Theo’s choice to ditch, even though Rei’ll keep it hush-hush for a while. She’ll be concerned, but she also knows how much Theo hates any blemishes getting to his parents. Plus, there’s a general, unspoken student code where Our Things are Our Things, and in a public school where only 5% ever made it after graduation, Nobody Gets Adults Involved.
It fuelled the need for the Reverse Site. It intensified multifold after.
[ You make me sick. ]
Nobody Gets Adults Involved.
[ Just die. ]
Except Theo.
“You’re pathetic.”
“I know,” says Theo.
It’s been at least two weeks since he heard the Voice for the first time. He’d lose track of everything in the world except himself. Rei’d tell him that he’d space out, sometimes for several minutes. All he knows is that everyone around him disappears, like they’d all been teleported away from the scene, leaving only himself and the demons that haunted him.
Theo’s only found one way to escape the trance. It’d hit once when he was in the middle of the road, and Rei’d grabbed his arm because he’d stopped.
“Are you okay?” she asked, once they were safely on the sidewalk.
Theo realised she was holding his hand and tugged it free.
“I’m fine,” he’d replied. “I’ll—I’ll be fine. I will.”
(Rei’s worried frown said that she didn’t believe him.)
Theo hears the Voice laugh. The humour wraps itself around him and the snide edge cuts into his sense of security. “Looks like she’s abandoned you.”
Theo buries his head deeper into his arms and doesn’t reply.
“You won’t find Kitazawa-sensei like this,” adds the Voice. “What can you tell him? ‘Sensei, please help me’" A false falsetto. Nails clawing at Theo’s chalkboard support. "‘Sensei, sensei! I’m being bullied, wahhh, and it’s by myself!’ What a joke.”
Above him, the sounds of people on the streets registers again. All Theo can do is wish his world will be back to normal as well.
—
Thirty minutes pass, and Gasquet isn’t there. One hour, and Art is still doing his job for him. By the time Gasquet arrives, it’s well past nine, and Art’s been on scene for more than three hours and closing up his last round of questioning.
Gasquet waits for Art to finish, listening silently, then says, “Sorry I’m late.”
Art’s annoyance had long transformed into worry. When Art turns around and sees Gasquet’s charismatic smile, worry washes away under a wave of relief – and with it comes a sudden clarity in the world around him. Art welcomes the focus and can almost form a smile in return.
He doesn’t.
He’d received the crime scene photos earlier.
Art decides to forego the chatter and gets down to business immediately. He inclines his head towards the police van, indicating they should talk and walk, then sets ahead. Gasquet follows.
“It’s another missing brain incident,” says Art.
Gasquet’s lips twitch. He purses them, preventing the emotion from materialising completely. “A while this time, isn’t it? Our killer’s getting sneaky.”
“Unusually,” says Art. “The likely time of death was on the first of January. The residents reported hearing loud sounds early in the morning. A few investigated – upon finding firecracker remains, they assumed the victim was celebrating. It’s another level of subterfuge we haven’t seen before.”
“And the vic?”
“A teacher at Yokohamabane High School known as Kitazawa Yasuo.” Art nods absently at a passing officer. “Most of his information is obscured that way in the residents’ register.”
“Ex-Facultas,” says Gasquet.
“Ex-Facultas,” confirms Art. “One who won’t be in the directory because he managed to change his name. Rune is in contact with the Agency and sorting out the paperwork.”
“With any luck, we’ll be able to get his personal information in a month,” says Gasquet, and snickers.
Art doesn’t think too deeply into the strange laughter. He knows that Gasquet is trying to lighten a dreadful situation.
A small smile finds its way to Art’s face. “Perhaps it will arrive promptly this time.”
“How’d they discover the body?” says Gasquet.
“One of the residents noticed an odd, persisting smell.”
“Blood.”
“Directly behind the door,” says Art. “That blood trail led to the victim’s bedroom, where his computer was, before crossing to the bathroom. An entirely separate trail is centralised around the kitchen. That may be where the brain was removed. Forensics has made a map – I would brief you on the rest of the situation, but—”
“Superintendent!”
Someone almost crashes into Art as they leap out of the van. Art automatically takes a step back to create distance, then he drops the hand that had reached for his pistol when he identifies Rune. By then, Rune has already composed himself, and is saluting.
Before either Art or Gasquet could give any response, he’s started talking.
“The hard drive’s been decoded,” says Rune, tripping over the words.
Art stops. “What?”
“They found the key,” says Rune. “Kitazawa wrote it in his diary.”
“That’s fortunate,” says Art.
Rune’s eyes pinch as if he wants to choose another, less gracious word, but he says nothing.
“Hate to interrupt,” says Gasquet, “but mind explaining to an old man?”
It’s because Art is looking at Rune that he’s able to catch the brief frown that Rune sends in Gasquet’s direction.
“Kitazawa’s files were encrypted, and he left a failsafe to ensure he could decrypt them.” Rune tells him. “You attended the class, did you not?”
“Eh? ...’Course. Just got confused for a sec, my bad.”
“How long will it take to document the contents?” asks Art.
Rune turns back to Art. “Several days,” he replies.
“And a search?”
“Seconds – less than a minute. If they are not indexed we can begin indexing them now. You are thinking of...?”
Art nods in affirmation. “Gasquet and I will visit Yokohamabane High School. I’ll leave supervision of this half to you.”
“Understood.”
“Please inform me if the Agency contacts you again.”
Rune bows.
“If anything happens, sir, I’ll let you know.”
—
“He’s a good kid,” comments Gasquet.
They’re making their way to Art’s car, which Gasquet’d brought on arrival. There isn’t a long walk; it’s parked directly next to the van. Gasquet’s watching Rune, who is still saluting at them outside the mobile unit. Art had looked up to see who it is that Gasquet is referring to.
Gasquet misses the opportunity to tell Art about the large box in the front seat until Art’s already circled around to the passenger side and opened the door.
“Mr. Gasquet...” says Art.
“Ah,” says Gasquet, glancing at Art. “That’s stuff from my cousin’s. If you give me a sec, I can move them—”
Even though Gasquet’d volunteered, Art can’t help but think about having to move it himself. Art realises why Gasquet’d needed his car; it’s quite a large box, almost a metre long in each dimension, held back by a seatbelt, and sinks into the leather chair even with a mat beneath it.
The moment Art wonders how heavy it is, he’s doused by a wave of fatigue. He checks the time to see how long he’s been awake. Only the date registers in his brain.
Art tries not to think about how he’s missing Skill’s death day.
“It’s—it’s fine,” says Art. “I’ll take the back. Can you drive? I need – I need to rest my eyes.”
"’Course I can,” says Gasquet.
It’s strange opening the back door, and even stranger foraying into the part of his car he normally doesn’t see; Art pauses, because the angle of the seat doesn’t feel quite right against his back, but he still closes the door behind him and tries to make himself comfortable. By the time the echo from Gasquet closing the driver side door dissipates within the interior, Art’s eyes have already slipped closed and his head hangs lifelessly.
A comfortable lull settles in once Gasquet begins driving. They reverse and turn. The tyres send vibrations up Art’s side, and Art’s head shifts into a more comfortable position.
They’re well into their journey when a thought occurs.
“Mr. Gasquet?” says Art.
“Hmm?”
“Do you know any places selling good vodka in Yokohama?”
“Vodka?” Curiosity enters Gasquet’s tone. “What’s that about?”
“Inspector Rune is a fan.”
To Art’s surprise, Gasquet releases a barking laugh. “Rune? That’s funny, who’d’ve thought. Did you ask him out?”
“I... did,” says Art.
“What a wonderful development! Rune is excellent at following instructions, a very good choice for you. But I’d watch out for his sister, mhmm...”
Art’s eyes snap open. He doesn’t know if he expects to see her, this sister who was to replace Rune as his handler in slightly over six months’ time, but he’s greeted with the sight of the door on one side and the unreadable back of Gasquet’s head on the other.
“Clear?” asks Art.
“Yep.”
“You’ve met her? What is she like?”
“Very protective. Very silly.”
“Silly?”
“She tried to hide him, you know? Rune. Clear was scared he’d show potential because she didn’t want him attending Facultas too.”
“But they discovered him.”
“Yep,” the easy reply. “So that’s why he was able to attend while four years too old.”
The car slows for a red light. Art pauses, grabs the pieces he feels hovering beyond his grasp, inspects them closely and forces them together. By the time the car stops, he’s already reached his conclusion.
“...They make concessions for siblings?” Art says.
“Of course.” Gasquet is nodding to himself. “Minimum siblings are invaluable study subjects, after all.”
“...Ah.”
Art tries not to think what it means in regards to his graduation and makes a note to leave it for later.
“How did Clear take it?” asks Art.
Gasquet is examining something one of his hands. “She broke.”
He doesn’t say more once the light changes to green. With a jolt, the vehicle starts moving again. There’s something strange about it – now that he’s sitting behind Gasquet and doesn’t have a view to distract him, Art finally notices how roughly Gasquet is driving. His acceleration isn’t as smooth, and when he turns the steering wheel, it’s with stiffer movements of his arms.
Is something wrong?
“Mr. Gasquet...” begins Art, before he’s aware he’s formed the name himself.
“Hmm?” says Gasquet.
Art hesitates. He isn’t sure why he’d called out for his partner.
He’s silent for too long. Gasquet tilts his head and gives Art a quick glance, even though he’s driving.
“What’s up, Art?”
“I...” A lead drifts past his conscious. Art snatches it. “I didn’t know you knew so much.”
There’s a pause.
Finally, Gasquet responds: “I try to stay updated with interesting Minimum.”
(Something is wrong.)
There’s no opportunity for Art to pursue the idea, because the car stops again. Gasquet checks the mirrors, and Art looks out the window. As virtually all the public school buildings in Japan are identical in design, Art is able to identify the building immediately. A sign on the edge of the premises confirms his suspicions: they’ve arrived at Yokohamabane High.
“What’s our game plan?” says Gasquet.
“We notify the principal and gather the teachers for questioning,” Art replies. “Then we’ll ask them to search for anyone who—”
[ There’s one person in Yokohama that can find the unfindable. ]
Before the new thread of thought breaks his old, Art quickly tries to focus on the street outside; he eyes the criss-cross of sidewalk tiles, and follows the lines. But his gaze wavers. He thinks of finding the Healing Minimum – of Nice pursuing rumours in search of miracles where Art would enquire with hospital staff first –
[ So that’s your Superintendent’s methodology. ]
– and the thread winds around Art ever tighter.
"...No,” says Art, correcting himself. “We’ll move to asking the students directly and find out if anybody has been acting strange after the New Year when the semester began.”
“Is that really a good idea?” The car is parked and Gasquet looks outside. “This isn’t a small school.”
“That’s... a good point. We can't interrupt for too long. I’ll—I’ll leave my number for anyone to contact me.”
“I was thinking the hotline—”
Gasquet turns around. Under that gaze, Art wraps a hand around the door handle next to him.
“Not fast enough,” says Art. He smiles reassuringly. “It’s fine. If the worst happens I can get a new number.” He doesn't mention he's been meaning to, ever since Nice called his phone.
Gasquet shakes his head, resigned. “If you say so.”
—
“Here.”
Murasaki has no time to react before a bag is dropped onto his desk. Its contents clatter, and its sides droop around the silhouette of two boxy forms. Murasaki looks up further to see Honey peering down. She’s holding a bento box of her own between her fingers, and clicks her tongue with an irritated frown.
Without asking, Honey props herself up against the desk, hooks her toes around the arm of a nearby chair, then pulls it closer to use as a footrest. The chair belonged to a colleague who’d left on his lunch break.
Murasaki glances at the time, wondering when he’d return, and notices that Honey’s fifteen minutes later than usual.
“Did something happen?” he says idly, returning to the document on his computer screen.
Honey slides her chopsticks from their flimsy paper covering before popping her bento box’s plastic seal. “Some kid tried to ask me out.”
“Ah,” says Murasaki.
He types. Honey’s chopsticks snap beside him.
“The chocolates are in there,” she says, nudging the bag. “I don’t eat white chocolate. If you don’t want them, toss them.”
Murasaki nods wordlessly and continues typing. Honey starts eating, one leg pushing the chair back and forth, a blur at the edge of Murasaki’s vision that would quickly become annoying if it weren’t already.
“Am I supposed to ask you how it went?” asks Murasaki.
“If you want,” says Honey, dry. “The kid had the tackiest whistle. What a disaster.”
Murasaki isn’t particularly interested either. He makes a sound of acknowledgement, and tries to ignore her.
He finds out why Honey is hovering once he’s saved the file and sent it away.
“Are you free later?” says Honey.
One hand buried in the bag, trying to tease his lunch out from beneath the box of chocolates, Murasaki gives her a sideways glance. “Are you asking me out?”
“No. Are you free?”
“I think so,” says Murasaki. “Why?”
“I’m not. I... need a favour.”
“Of what sort?”
Honey pauses. “I’m low on lollipops.”
It’s a need so closely tied with the use of her (much, much more valuable) Minimum that Murasaki raises an eyebrow.
“Wouldn’t management handle that?” he says.
“Do you think they care?” Honey shoots back. “No. I can’t. They’d – they’d probably ruin the order or something just to save money.”
Automatically, Murasaki looks up to where their manager sits – beside the lifts and near the doorway – and sees the man tapping on his phone without any awareness of his surroundings at all.
He looks back to Honey again.
Perhaps there’s some amount of scepticism still present in his expression, because Honey sighs and rolls her eyes.
“Look: don’t even worry about why,” she says. “I can’t leave, and I just need to know if you can go and pick up some stuff for me tomorrow, and I’ll—I’ll let you use my Minimum for something, okay?” She doesn’t pause for a second, hurtles on. “They don’t care about you like they care about me so I can help you find somewhere to go once you drop out of this shithole and—”
“Save it,” says Murasaki. “I’ll do that favour. But I don’t need to leave.”
Honey stares at him for so long he almost feels uncomfortable, then puts her bento box aside. She reaches into her pocket and drops a folded piece of paper next to him; Murasaki unfurls it and finds an address inside.
Plastic crumples and Honey pushes herself off the table.
“Fine,” says Honey. “Let me know if you ever want a prediction. Don’t be surprised when you realise how little you look like you want to be here.”
Murasaki doesn’t manage to reply.
—
Leaving his number works. A student has been missing and his best friend is the one to report it to Art directly. There’s something about how she stumbles over every syllable that suggests she’s never come forward about her concerns, and every word ushers with it a faint echo that has Art wonder if she’s calling from one of the bathrooms, but Art doesn’t ask about either.
Art calms her, talks to her, takes notes, and reassures her that what she’s doing is the best thing to do.
“Thank you, Rei,” says Art. “You’ve really helped.”
“That’s—that’s okay.” Rei blows her nose, which carries through the speaker like a muffled horn. “Can I... can I ask a favour, Mr. Art?”
“A favour?”
“Can you make sure he’s alright somehow? I don’t know if you are from that police division but can... can you somehow...”
“I’ll keep in contact and forward any information on that I can,” Art promises.
Rei thanks him and begins listing locations. Art jots them down, takes a moment to catch Gasquet’s eye and mouth Call Rune, and tries to quash how his chest flutters with anticipation.
“Can you run a search?” Art tells Rune once his call with Rei has ended. “Look for any references to someone called ‘Theo’.”
Ten minutes, many filenames, and many megabytes later, photos and website snapshots begin downloading.
Art stops on a diary extract:
Theo said he probably would have jumped if it weren’t for me. What wonderful deeds I’ve done for him, wonderful deeds. So desperate and so delightful. What face will he make if I tell him I may have to leave?
Art’s phone almost drops with his stomach, and he jerks as if he can find a boy he does not know.
—
/TBC/