My
translation cannot capture its beauty, but this was the best I
could
come up with. Ah. *sigh*Note: If someone can rescue me from the phase of
overloaded fic idea syndrome, I'd be grateful. It's becoming more
frightening every second. And I have absolutely no idea which dark
corner of my mind this idea crawled out from...
***
The
long dreams shatter with regrets,
and
with a sigh, everything around me is burnt.
The
only thing left is you...
Forget
me.
Bury
me with your hands.
I'm
to leave without turning back,
So
bury my memories with your hands.
But
you, you stay right here in this place,
As
if you've forgotten me,
As
if there's no shadow left of me,
As
if every part of me is erased.
Forget
me.
-Lyrics
by Exhibition, translated by Rach L.
***
The
order is simple: Retrieve the disk and terminate the target by the
execution
style number one. Meaning a bullet through the forehead.
I
usually don't like using weapons, guns especially--why make a mess
when
a simple snap of a neck will do? But the execution style number one
means
the target is a political criminal and the Powers That Be want poetic
justice.
They don't like barging in on the so-called freedom fighters' den as a
group
and massacre everyone. That would ruin what's left of their public
image.
Instead, they want us to make sure that we kill them in this specific
execution
style--want us to warn the world what the consequences of
defying
the government are.
Politicians.
Everyone in the team thinks they're ridiculous, but what
can
we do? Even Commander Lydecker grovels under them--they pay for the
Project.
I
don't like doing a covert op. either. Done exactly 67 group
operations
and 19 single runs so far. Well, this is a single run and this target
will
make my number 20. Lucky, my age. Maybe it'll be easier this time. I
hope
so. I'm not really fond of beating the truth out of people.
Too...bothersome.
It's
snowing. Heavily. My trained instinct thinks that this snow will
cover
the tracks nicely. Not that it matters anyway. The days of
secret
missions
are over. What we do might not be constitutional, but everyone in
their
right mind knows it's legit now. Follow, or die. Very clear
choices.
I
decide to go through the front door. I can slip into the target's
apartment
without breaking a sweat, but I know from the files I've read
that
the place is heavily guarded with high-tech equipments. In this case,
it's
better just to walk right in.
Of
course, I know a perfect way to make any man open his door for me.
The
apartment building is pretty small and ordinary, too ordinary to
think
a man who can turn this country upside down would actually live in this
kind
of place. ...let see. Suit 804. Alright, here I go.
I
knock exactly three times.
There
is a noise behind the wooden door, and I hear a mumbling voice
yelling,
"Coming!"
The
door opens finally, and reveals a dark blond Caucasian in his
mid-twenties.
He looks younger than the photo.
"Hi,"
the man says with a look of curiosity, "What can I do for you?"
I
deliver the repeatedly rehearsed line in perfection. "I..I need
your
help."
The
first level is playing the weak and helpless. If the target is a
grandpapa-esque
type, you can safely stick to playing the helpless
damsel
type all the way through. If it's a grandpapa-pervert type, then you
need
to go to the second level--the seductress. Well, this target is
certainly
not
a grandpa but just a healthy young man, I'll soon have to switch to the
second
level. That's why they didn't send Brin--she's yet to master
the
ways of a seductress.
He
looks at me, intrigued. I know the stages they go through. I've
done
this to death--the pun absolutely intended. They first rake me with
their
eyes, imagining just how I'd look without the tight leathers I'm
wearing.
Then they observe me closely, trying to figure out if I'm their enemy
or
not. Of course, the third stage is letting me in: the debate between
their
brain and hormones always ends up with the hormones as the winner.
But
this guy does neither. He frowns, and comments, "You're
cold."
...which
is a valid assumption, since it's freaking snowing outside,
and
unless you're living in Australia, December is usually thought to be
the
cold season of the year.
But
I nod. Have to play the meek and helpless, remember?
He
quickly lets me in and sits me down on a comfy couch in the middle
of
the living room. He also wraps me around with a quilt blanket right
away.
"Wait
here. I'll get you something warm to drink."
Oookay...
This hospitality takes me off-guard. This man doesn't
strike
me as someone who's falsely nice. But why on earth does he want to be
nice to a stranger? Granted, a very sexy stranger (Give me some
credit. I know how men react around me. I have eyes.), but he surely
doesn't seem to want to jump between my legs any time soon.
But
who knows? If this guy likes being gentlemanly with girls, let
him.
With Zack outside waiting in the car as a backup, I know this man can't
mess
with me.
While
waiting, I decide to look around a little. No harm in that.
The
room is smaller than I thought when I saw its blueprints. And
definitely
more cozy, mostly decorated with books and...books. Some
computer
equipments are at the end of the room, but the walls are all
covered
with the tall shelves stacked with books--definitely expensive
commodity
at this time. Liberation Fighters, huh? The leaders of the
Liberation
Movement I've terminated were mostly screwed up SOB's who
spent
money like water. Can't say the same about the ones at the bottom of
the
pyramid, though. They fight well, and hard. They really think
they'll
make
a change by fighting.
Can't
hurt to dream.
Wait,
it can. You end up dead.
My
target number 20, even though looking pretty loaded, doesn't have
that
arrogant aura about him like the every other LM leader did. But he *is*
on
the top of the ladder, surprisingly for his age. He's the one who's
doing
all the brainstorming and planning. But he's gone too far this
time,
having
managed to get the 'evidence' of all the corrupt things the
gov't
has been doing. Not a big news in this place: everyone knows what's
going on, albeit too afraid to admit it. But if this guy goes public
about this
with
the other un-Pulsed nations, TPTB won't be happy. They say he needs to
be
stopped.
Hence,
I'm here.
I
sit down again, sorta irritated that the quilt blanket around me
feels
too...comfortable. And the couch, too. They just feel
too...good.
Well,
no biggie. I always feel this way when I set my feet into a 'homely'
environment.
Kinda because I've never had a home. But Manticore is my
home...right?
I have my brothers and sisters, and we don't exist
without
each other. That's home. This...blanket, this warmth...it's not
home.
The
golden colored carpet on the floor, the framed picture of mountains,
those
are not what makes a home either. And this wooden coffee table with a
hand-made
cloth on top isn't...
I
suddenly notice a mug and a book on the table. Which means he's been
reading
when I knocked the door. Curious, I pick up the hardcover
book.
The front picture is colored with blue and white and there's a drawing
of
what looks like a crystal cave or something. The cover says--"The
Ice
Palace".
Before
I explore the content, though, he appears from the kitchen with
a
cup in his hand. He smiles, handing it to me. "It's hot
chocolate. Have
some."
Hot
chocolate? I've had them before; they tasted bitter in Styrofoam
cups.
But this cup I'm holding between my palms right now isn't weak
disposable
garbage. It's a genuine clay mug cup that warms up my cold hands.
And
the chocolate tastes hot and sweet. Very sweet.
"Feel
better?" He sits across from me on a chair, grinning slightly.
I
nod again. Not pretending this time, because I do feel better. A
little.
He
glances at the table and sees I've been meddling with his book.
He
picks
it up carefully, as if he's dealing with a precious china or
something.
It's just a book, for god's sake, but it seems to be
important
to him.
I
blurt out, curious, "What's it about?"
"This?"
He arches his eyebrow, surprised that I'd be interested in a
mere
book. Well, can't blame him. I'm surprised too. "This
is a story
about
two
girls and the ice palace."
Gathered
*that* much from the cover already, but I decide to humor him.
"The
ice palace?"
He
relaxes into a 'story time' posture, sitting deeper into the chair
and
fingering the book's cover again and again. "The story is set in
Norway.
One girl accidentally finds the cave frozen with ice in one very long
and
cold winter. She explores it, wanting to see more and more as she goes
deeper
into the cave. She comes to an end, unable to walk anymore.
The
other girl, her friend, goes to look for her. When her friend finds
her,
though, the girl is already dead, frozen in the deepest part of the
cave."
Geez,
talk about a bummer. "And you *like* this story?"
He
puts down the book. "It's fitting. Kinda like this...country
right now."
"Which
part? The freezing to death part?"
"No,"
he grins, "Although that assessment seems pretty accurate too."
He
stands up and walks over to the window, lifting the curtain ever so
slightly.
"I guess the people from different regions of the world have
different
ideas on how the world is going to end. Spring, the savior,
sometimes
doesn't come in Northern European folktales and myths. The
nature
is a powerful force, I guess. Greek and Near East myths had floods,
and
the people in Norway had snow as the method of punishment from
God--apocalypse."
I
can't possibly see where this talk about folktales and the apocalypse
is
leading, but it's kinda hard not to listen to him. Myths and fairy
tales.
Never believed in them, of course, but I always liked them. Not that I
had
many chances to read that sort of books, but I think they're cute, a
way
to escape reality. Always a good idea.
"This
society," he continues as he watches the snowflakes falling from
the
dark sky, "is like the ice palace. From outside, it's beautiful
in its
fragility.
But once you walk into this ice palace, it'll kill you. If you stop
walking because it feels good to stop and rest, because you want to give up,
you freeze to death. Only when spring comes, it'll melt. Only
then the ice palace will fall."
He
returns to his chair. "I've been waiting for spring for a long
time,
but it seems like an endless winter right now." He's speaking to
himself
more
than to me.
Okay,
okay, am I getting soft? I'm exchanging--well, not exchanging,
because
I haven't said a word so far--philosophical points of views
about
a freakin' book and Norway mythology with a man whose puddle of blood I'm
going to stand on in a few minutes.
He
shakes his head lightly, as if chiding himself. "Sorry about the
rant.
I
don't know where it came from."
"'s
okay," I say, sipping the hot chocolate again. This stuff is
good.
He
observes me for a full five seconds, then asks, "Have I met you
before?"
It'd
have been such a lame pick-up line if the blue eyes behind his
glasses
were not glittering with genuine curiosity. And I have this
disturbingly
nagging feeling that I should know him, know him well. ...of course I
know him well. I've memorized his files--from the name of his
childhood dog
to
his latest grocery purchase using credit cards. But I can't possibly
be
used to the way his lips curl up at the corners when he grins, or the
way
he tilts his head so slightly, or the way his Caribbean blue eyes
penetrate
mine.
I
can't know those things from surveillance tapes or the files.
"Don't
think so," I say. This familiarity is creeping me out. His
eyes.. I keep thinking I know his eyes. It unnerves me. Better
just get this over with. "Look, I need your help."
He
leans back to the chair, his head tilted, one hand supporting his
chin.
"Ah," he says.
"Ah
what?" I try not to look too suspicious.
"You're
one of them." It's not a question.
Smart
boy. So he figured it out himself. Must admit he's pretty
quick.
Quicker than the most. Not a single man I've dealt with realized what
hit
them until the last moment.
But
just to make sure if he really knows what he's talking about...
"One
of what?"
There's
a lopsided grin on his face that I don't particularly like. "I
don't
have the disk," he says.
"What
disk?" Yeah, yeah, yeah. I kinda like playing dumb, so
what?
"One
of you--I don't know, it could've been you--killed my friend,
Herrero,
last week. Already knew I'd be the next."
Then
why didn't you get the hell out, you idiot? I'm wishing I don't
have
to kill this man. I know, sentimentality equals bad. But I just don't
feel
like it now. Not that I believe in humane goodness, but the hot
chocolate
was a nice gesture. Pretty much the nicest thing any person has done
to me so far.
I
really wish he'd run and gotten the hell away from here.
He
reads my questioning eyes. "Because you thought I was the one with
the
disk and concentrated on watching me, you guys didn't pay much
attention
to the list of airplane passengers who departed this country..." he
watches
the clock on the wall, "five hours ago."
Shit.
This
bastard knew it all along.
"Very
brave of you, playing the bait." Idiot.
"You
won't be able to catch them now. Not ever. It's over.
Everything
will be exposed. The world will know everything."
I
sneer. "The world doesn't really care."
"They
will *have* to care with the amount of evidence I've got." He
gives
me a smile that could only have sprung from true pride and confidence.
Not
my business anyway. I only follow orders. If this country is
screwed, there'll always be another big powerful bastards who want to hire
Manticore
swipers.
I
pull out my gun and points at his head. "You do realize that by
admitting
you don't have the disk, you just signed your death certificate, Mr.
Cale."
No need to hide my identity now, is there?
"Logan,"
he quickly interrupts. "It's Logan."
He
can't possibly think that I don't know his first name. But he looks
at
me expectantly, as if... "You want me to tell you *my* name?"
He
nods. "Uh, don't worry. The place isn't bugged or anything.
Thought
we
should introduce ourselves."
Then
what? He wants to be on the first-name basis with his killer?
...Well,
what have I got to lose? No one except the Manticore people
know
that
I even exist. "Is that your last wish?"
"Well,
the last wish would probably be 'let me go', but since that
wouldn't
work, yeah, that's my last wish." He doesn't really seem to care
that
I've
got a gun on him of which I could always accidentally or intentionally
pull
the trigger.
This
man. This man is strange. Just too damn strange for my taste.
"Maxine."
"Maxine,"
he repeats, as if he's testing the name. "Maxine. That's a
nice
name."
I
really, really have to roll my eyes at its lameness. "Yeah,
thanks a
bunch."
I stand up and wave the gun at the floor. "You can save me
some
trouble and kneel. So I can shoot you dead."
He
doesn't seem to like the idea--not the fact I'm going to shoot him,
but
the fact I want him to kneel. Is this guy a fruitcake? "I
really
prefer
not to, but I guess I can't win against the genetically enhanced human
terminators."
He
knows about our team too. Oh, goodie. "I'd say no.
So--kneel. I
kinda
don't wanna make you," I say, irritated.
He
kneels down then, right beside the coffee table. Too bad I won't
get
to finish the hot choco...
I
walk right in front of him and look at his face. There's no trace of
fear
in his face. He doesn't beg. Everybody has so far. Even
the bravest
ones
begged for their lives when the gun's pointed at their heads. But he
doesn't.
"You don't seem very afraid."
He
shrugs. "Knew it was coming. If someone has to die to make this
happen,
guess it better be me."
"Why?"
I just have to ask.
"Someone
has to. There isn't a choice. Just like you don't have any
choice
in shooting me."
He's
looking at me with a look of what I recognize as...compassion.
Compassion?
Not pity?
No,
it's not pity. He really does care--which just confirms the fact
he's
insane. I'm about to kill him in cold blood, but he cares.
...it
hurts me, though. His little expressions, his knowing eyes, his
familiar
blue eyes... Seeing them just hurts too much. Knowing that
this
guy is seriously whacked to care about even me doesn't help ease
this...pain.
"Take
off your glasses." For some unexplainable reason, I don't want
to
see his eyes getting all mutilated by the pieces of broken glasses when I
shoot
him. Who cares? He'd be dead. But I still don't want to
see that.
He
wants to ask why, I guess, but he doesn't. He only takes them off
and
hands them to me carefully. He stares while I put the glasses down on
the
table.
"I'm
sorry," he says, looking as if he means it.
I
almost ask him 'For what?', but I don't. I think I already know the
answer.
He's
sorry *for* me.
I
put the head of the gun at his forehead. He doesn't blink. He
looks straight at my eyes.
And
I pull the trigger.
I
almost drop the gun though, startled by the sound. Much louder than I
remember.
I'm
standing on the puddle of his blood, I realize. The thick, jelly
like
crimson stuff oozes from his fractured skull to the floor and dirties
the
nice carpet. His soulless blue eyes are not closed. They stare
at me.
Even
with the red streaks that are now dyeing his face, his eyes are
staring.
I'd
like to think they contain forgiveness, but I know I'm reaching.
...it's
the time to follow the procedure. I look around, making sure
I'm
not
leaving any evidence that'd directly point to the gov't. Well, I
think
two
mug cups might cause some suspicions. Don't think the sector
police
would look into this that deeply, but oh well. Better do it now.
I
take the mug into his cute little kitchen and clean it, and store it on the
nicely organized shelf.
When
I come out, the living room carpet is completely red.
And
he's still dead.
Kinda
stupid, really. To think I had this strange notion that if I wash the
cup, he might come back alive... Think this guy's rubbing off me even when
he's dead.
I
pass his body to get to the door. I can't resist looking at his eyes
again,
though. His eyes. They still stare at me. The empty eyes, they
stare.
I look away.
When
I pass the table, for some weird reason, I have to grab the book
and
his glasses. I don't know why. I just want to.
It's
still snowing outside. The wind is crazily strong and it almost
blows
me over. But I managed to get to the car where Zack is waiting.
He
sharply whirls around to face me when I open the door.
"Max."
That word translates as 'How did it go?'
"Accomplished."
He
gives me a satisfied look. "Lydecker will be pleased. No
trouble?"
Not
really want to tell him about the fact the government we work for
is
screwed
now. "None whatsoever. Just drive."
He
seems to notice my strange mood, but doesn't really comment on that.
Instead,
he asks, "What're those?"
Ah,
these. A book and glasses. I wear the glasses and turn to him.
"Souvenirs."
He
looks at me disapprovingly, but doesn't grill me for it. "Make
sure
Lydecker
doesn't see them."
I
shrug off. If Lydecker sees these, of course, I'll have to be
punished
for being unprofessional. But who cares really? I like the
glasses.
"Snowing,"
Zack says matter-of-factly as he drives away. "It'll cover
the
tracks."
"Yeah."
I look outside. The car window is covered with thick frost
and
through the glasses, I can only see the outlines of things. He must've
had
bad eyes.
Wonder
who'll find his body. His friends? Family?
The
frozen blue eyes...they still stare at me without anger or sadness.
They'll
be forever open.
Only
the eyes.
"The
ice palace's gonna fall."
"What?"
Zack asks, not understanding.
The
snow falls down softly like the feathers from a white pillow...
It's
slowly covering the world now. Wonder that's the way the Northern
Europeans
saw their apocalypse long ago?
But
the ice palace's gonna fall soon, thanks to the man I've killed
five
minutes ago. And spring will come. He was the one to bring
spring,
the
savior.
'If
you stop walking because it feels good to stop and rest, because
you
want to give up, you freeze to death. Only when spring comes, it'll
melt.
Only then the ice palace will fall.'
But
I've stopped walking. Just like the girl who's frozen to death.
I
realize what the tight feeling in my stomach means. The spring will
not
come for me.
It
died when Logan Cale died.
I
just know.
There'll
be only endless winter.
<END>
***
