And yet the men still living were virtually unchanged from before.
Drakon stood at Lingerin’s side, wiping steam residue from his glasses, while the men in special-forces gear warily eyed the surroundings in silence.
“We were talking about Vorona and Slon, Comrade Lingerin.”
“Oh, right, right. These guys came and interrupted us. They were not aware of the situation. That’s how you wind up dead,” Lingerin murmured heavily. He spread his potted hands wide and exclaimed, “Awareness is a very important skill! Denis and Simon were always very good at that. Certainly enough to scamper away to Japan just before we faced our greatest test.”
“You mean the time that we raided the security company hired by our business rival to send them a message.”
“Hoo boy, I sure thought I was going to die then. Well, that was a case where I was not being very aware. I failed to anticipate that they would have a whole boatload of former Spetsnaz in there. We were missing on purpose to threaten them, but they were very inconsiderate and actually tried to kill us!”
Drakon studiously placed his glasses back on his nose as his employer guffawed and stated clinically, “When the military was heavily reduced postperestroika, many Spetsnaz lost their jobs. As a means of employment, many wound up in private security and the mafia—a warning which I have given to you approximately twenty-three times since the dissolution of the CCCP, but it seems you were not listening.”
“How was I to know? Most of the members I knew went straight into mercenary work… Besides, is this really the time to criticize me? Surprisingly you seem to not be attentive, Drakon.”
“The most potent lack of awareness in this scene is the state of your hands, Comrade Lingerin.”
It was not said with hatred, disgust, or anger. It was simply the truth: His employer looked like a bear that had gotten both paws stuck in beehives.
Lingerin slowly turned away and then laughed to draw attention away. “It’s not as if I did this on purpo—”
A pot burst with a sudden eruption of noise.
Emerging from the right-hand pot was the gleaming barrel of a pistol. Smoke trailed upward from the muzzle as shards of broken pottery rained down onto the bodies on the floor.
A second later came the gurgling sound of spilling liquid.
Drakon looked down to see that a foreign migrant lying on the floor, who had previously been playing dead, was now drooling blood from his mouth. The gun he’d pointed at Lingerin fell to the floor.
“…I suppose I must offer you my compliments,” Drakon sighed.
Lingerin burst into a delighted beam. “Of course… I should I have shot my way out! It’s a shame about the pot, but it was cheaper than this gun…I think!”
“I am more curious about why you needed to put the gun in the pot in the first place. And why didn’t you just let go of it to remove your hand? And on top of that, if they were fragile enough to give way to a bullet, why did you not just smash them against the wall?”
“I have no idea what you are saying. Speak Russian, man.”
“Did the words that just came from my mouth sound like English or Japanese? Very well. If this is an issue with Wernicke’s area, the speech center of the brain, then the anomaly must reside in one of our brains. Let us visit the hospital together. I look forward to learning which of the two of us must be sent to the sanitarium.”
Drakon’s words emerged as a hunk of freezing dry ice. Lingerin’s eyes bulged, and he shook his head to dispel the illusion before returning to the topic at hand.
“As I was saying—Vorona. She might be twenty years old, but she’s still a child inside. She’s very good at her job, but the drawback is that unlike Semyon and Denis, she is not aware of things.”
“But this is a matter greater than awareness. They violated our most sacred of unspoken rules. If I have the opportunity, I will crush their skulls and spill their brains myself.”
“Very scary. And who says that about his own daughter? I’m willing to say that I’m not angry anymore. You can go easy on her by merely locking her in storage, can’t you?”
“The warehouse? I would think that starvation is a much more painful end than gunshot,” Drakon said, straight-faced.
Lingerin cackled and ran his tongue over his lips with delight. “So you’re saying an execution is unavoidable? Listen, we’re not military or mafia. Let’s play it loose, my friend. All this talk about killing—it makes you sound a bit barbaric, don’t you think?” Lingerin noted, sitting in a room full of grisly corpses. “For one thing, you don’t even have the skill to kill Vorona by shooting her.”
“Affirmative. I am ashamed to admit that I cannot stop her. Is that not why we sent Egor to Japan? If need be, he can enlist help from Denis and Semyon. But…from what I hear, Egor already suffered a major injury fighting against one of the locals.”
“Japan is scary in its own right, eh? Our illustrious president is adept in the ways of the Japanese art of judo—perhaps it was a judo master he ran into? Oh, right, I should break the other pot.”
Lingerin pointed the gun in his right hand at the pot covering his left. Drakon put a hand on his shoulder without looking and said, “I will not quibble with your choices anymore, but I believe that breaking it with the grip would be better than shooting your own hand. As for Japan, it is a very vexing situation. If she learns that Egor was taken unawares by a local, Vorona will most certainly not take it lying down.”
“Now, now. Your daughter is very human in nature, compared to you, you robot. She acts on her instincts and desires and does not hesitate to kill. And she’ll kill for reasons other than food or defense, so it’s a very human instinct, not like other animals.”
He struck the butt of the gun against the pot, breaking it apart. Inside, his hand was holding a piece of honeyed beef jerky, which he lifted to his mouth and started to chew. “But for a human, she’s definitely one of the crazy ones.”
“As ironic as it is to say this in your presence, Comrade Lingerin, Vorona is still immature as a person. It is the result of leaving my young daughter alone to be raised by books after the death of her mother. She has much knowledge, but her mentality is still that of a child,” Drakon lamented, half blaming himself for the outcome.
Lingerin waved his hand breezily. “Oh, it’s all fine. She’s in the midst of her youth, eh? You’ve got to get out there and mix it up while you’re young. The spring is warmer in Japan than here, right? Let her enjoy it.”
“The only problem is, she stole a couple of very grown-up toys from our stock before she left.”
May 3, on the road, Ikebukuro
The woman in the riding suit—Vorona—calmly accelerated her motorcycle as she glanced at the distant figure splayed on the ground.
“…”
Meanwhile, something rustled past, a fine glint that slipped around a loop of her belt.
No one could have possibly noticed the tiny glimmer of light, as the sight of the collapsed motorcycle and rider occupied all the pedestrians in the vicinity.
Meanwhile, the cars behind the scene had no choice but to either stop where they were or turn down side streets to avoid the mess.
Vorona rode down a cross street herself, feigning being yet another spectator. Once she had confirmed in her mirrors that people were beginning to gather and murmur at the scene behind her, she took off into the night without a second glance.
She knew why they were buzzing over the scene. She herself had seen it happen.
It was the sight of the Black Rider’s helmet flying high into the air and the headless body slamming into the ground.
“…”
Under her helmet, Vorona was silent with thought as she sped through the night streets. Eventually, she arrived at her destination.
A lonely, quiet street occupied by a single truck.
The truck was her own, an undercover vehicle with the logo of a fictional company on it. Slon was on standby in the driver’s seat, and as she approac
hed, he flicked the hazard lights on briefly.
Vorona pivoted the bike over to the rear of the truck. As she did so, the back doors swung open, and a metal ramp automatically extended down to the ground. She rode the bike right up and into the cargo hold of the truck.
Half of the space was like a little warehouse, with plenty of other material stored away in addition to a platform to carry the motorcycle. The front half of the hold was built like an RV, with a white fur sofa and a closet.
Vorona stood in front of the closet and forcefully removed her helmet and riding suit. She wore nothing but a thin T-shirt and leggings underneath, her well-balanced body shining in the light.
There was internal electricity, just like in a real RV, with an outlet near the living space in addition to the lights. She had taken off her T-shirt, leaving only a bra on underneath, when Slon’s voice came through the wireless receiver on the table.
“Nice work,” he drawled from the driver’s seat up front. “Are you changing now?”
“I affirm.”
“It’s too bad I can’t see that.”
“It is not too bad for me,” she replied. She slipped briskly into a fresh T-shirt, neither ashamed nor angry.
Taken aback by that brief answer, Slon changed the subject. “By the way, while I was waiting I saw a car pass by with the license plate one-three-one-three, and it made me wonder… Why is thirteen considered an unlucky number? I feel like I’m dying to know the answer. Is that the curse of thirteen?”
“Many theories exist. Most famous is thirteenth seat at the Last Supper, seat of Judas. But not all are rooted in Christianity. Legend of Norse gods. Twelve gods provide harmony. Harmony broken by appearance of Loki, the thirteenth. In ancient times, cultures used duodecimal systems. Thirteen breaks the harmony of twelve. Hated number. Too bad.”
“I see—not that it makes me feel much better. Say…are you sure we can’t speak in Russian? I can speak Japanese to a degree because it was pounded into me years ago…but your Japanese is kind of stiff. It’s weird. It’ll give people the wrong idea and make them dislike you.”
“Denial. Topic of work will be understood, no problem. I will be hated. No problem,” Vorona replied.
From up ahead, Slon said, “I don’t really get it, but if it’s no problem to you, then that’s fine.” He wasn’t going to rack his brains worrying about it. He started driving the truck.
Meanwhile, Vorona had finished changing into her normal clothes and sat down on the couch. “That was too simple. Disappointment. Black Rider is too weak.”
“You say something?”
“No relation to Slon.”
“None of my business? Never mind, then,” he quipped.
Vorona waited for him to stop talking and then closed her eyes and let her mind work.
I am disappointed.
I thought a monstrous person like the one in the video would satisfy me.
But he was utterly careless. Nothing short of a mindless thug.
How could he fail to notice the special wire looped around his neck, connected to the traffic light?
I thirst.
…I thirst.
If youth was meant to signify the “spring of one’s life,” then despite the fact that she was twenty this year, she had not yet reached that point.
Vorona had never loved another human being.
Not even herself.
She knew that the emotion called love existed. But she was unable to determine if it was necessary in her life—for she had never experienced it outside of knowing it as an abstract concept.
As a child, she grew up by watching her father’s back.
But it was not because she idolized him.
Her father, code-named Drakon, had never attempted to see eye to eye with her. He gave her books to pass the time but always kept his back to her, focusing on any direction other than the one in which she existed.
“That’s just love. He’s turnin’ his back to you to protect you from the rest of the world, miss. Drakon’s just a clumsy, stubborn man, so he’ll never let it show, that’s all,” said Lingerin, the man her father worked for.
She did not understand what he meant because she didn’t know the meaning of love. She was merely bewildered.
But she never felt lonely.
Her father kept plenty of books around the house, and she had the right to read any of them whenever she wanted.
If she asked for a book, he would buy it for her without question or comment.
Lingerin was amused by the way she could read at many times the normal speed and would gather up strange books from foreign countries to give to her as gifts.
Surrounded by paper, she absorbed everything she could get her hands on into her brain, from knowledge necessary to survive to utterly useless trivia.
Her father did not love her, and she could not love anyone else. But she was not particularly unhappy about her plight.
She didn’t associate much with the other children at school, and they had been warned to stay away from her by their parents, who knew that her father was involved in a dangerous business. So she lived a solitary childhood.
Even still, as long as she had books, she was happy.
She had never felt the thirst—until the moment arrived.
The very first time she felt the thirst was when she committed her first murder.
The night that a burglar broke into the house and she killed him using knowledge she gained from a book.
Largely through coincidence and good luck, she made use of a method that she knew to kill a man.
She was just a little girl, just barely ten years old, who could hardly shoot a gun all alone.
The human body stopped moving much easier than she imagined from reading the books.
When she witnessed this phenomenon for herself, an eerie breeze blew into her mind.
It was several years later that she recognized the feeling that swirled through her mind was thirst.
When her father got word and raced home to see the motionless corpse of the burglar, he silently embraced his daughter.
He hugged her blankly, like a robot, but she could still remember the warmth of his arms.
The young girl thought.
I don’t understand, but Father is facing me.
He is making a connection with me.
Why?
What did I do?
Is it because I beat a bad man?
Because I killed someone stronger than me?
Because I was strong?
They were very silly, childish conjectures.
And even in her childish state, she could sense that it was undoubtedly something else.
But she was not able to understand love. And thus she could not have possibly understood exactly why her father hugged her.
Instead, she clung to a different premise. Or more accurately, pretended to cling.
After that, she began to learn things she couldn’t find in books from Denis and Semyon, her father’s subordinates.
Denis and Semyon were on the younger side within the group, but it wasn’t known what they’d done in the past. Lingerin, the company president, did not seem preoccupied with such details, and from what she could tell, Denis had been in the military, but that was it.
Just that little bit of information was enough for her. She asked the two of them for information on various weapons and ways to fight. Denis claimed that it wasn’t the kind of stuff to teach to kids, and the only things Semyon would teach her were about her own physical discipline.
But once she began helping out with her father’s business, they started to teach her how to use weapons, bit by bit. It was just a minimal amount, only enough for self-protection—but she turned those lessons into means to defeat others.
It started with hoodlums in town.
Next, the drug dealers with their weapons.
Next, a low-level mafia with battle experience.
Next, two of them, at the same time.
&nbs
p; Next, three.
Then, four, five, six.
She raised the stakes with each successive attempt, and every fight she survived brought her the satisfying sensation of her own power.
One day, when she came across a rival group to her father’s company and learned that they were planning a raid, she approached the group by herself—and defeated them.
When Lingerin got word and visited the scene with his men, all he found was the air full of the smell of blood and gunpowder, and a little girl, totally unharmed, reading a gossip tabloid she found in her targets’ office.
This time, her father did not give her the warmth of an embrace, but a stinging slap across the face.
In that instant, she realized something—she was not shocked in the least that she had been slapped.
In fact, she understood, deep within her, that it was a justified action.
For years and years.
From the very moment she killed that first burglar.
And with that understanding came another truth.
If she knew that her father would not praise her, why had she done this thing?
Why did she continue to wage war against so many other people?
She hadn’t done it for the want of love.
It was simpler than that.
It was fun.
It was enjoyable.
It was thrilling.
It was pleasing.
It was deranging.
In short, she had been telling herself a cheap, transparent lie: that she wanted her father to pay attention to her. When all along, what she was really doing was indulging in her own pleasures.
Ironically, it was a worried slap from her father that made her realize this, but afterward, whichever direction he faced was no longer her concern.
With the stops removed, she rapidly grew more powerful and also steadily crumbled apart.
Lingerin likened her to a crow—very smart, yet choosing to scavenge the dead—and jovially gave her the nickname “Vorona,” along with an official position in his company.
Through Lingerin’s jobs, she continued to eliminate countless “enemies.”
But her thirst was never quenched.
Because her father never hugged her again, like that very first time?
Durarara!!, Vol. 5 Page 9