NOVEL NEXT Chapter 87 - Perdition (II)
[Volume 2.5 | Chapter 87: Perdition (II)]
June 12th, 418 E.V.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
"...Mmn."
Tap. Tap. Tap.
"Mmn."
Tap. Tap. Tap.
"Holy shit, can't a man sleep in peace?!"
Siegfried Eisenberg's crimson—now light brown covered by contacts—eyes snapped open, the vestiges of an uneasy sleep vanishing as he stared straight at a pair of jet black. His future insults died in his throat as memory crashed back like a tidal wave. His hand, already halfway to the offender's throat, froze midair. He couldn't call him Apollo. Not here. Not now.
Roy Arpeggio—"Robert Fletcher," according to the meticulously forged documents—withdrew his finger with a teasing smirk that made Siegfried's teeth grind. His Fioran drawl was thankfully muted to a whisper.
But those dead black eyes that never seemed to reflect the light... Siegfried's brow creased in a mixture of annoyance and confusion. He'd been dreaming again, memories of the past stirred up like the sediment of a riverbed, murky and indistinct.
"Rise 'n shine, Fischer. Our esteemed employer's about to grace us with his presence, and he don't look happy."
This bitch... he's enjoying this isn't he? First time he can go without calling me boss and now he's taking every opportunity to get on my damn nerves...
Normally, if his subordinates were being particularly annoying or disobeying him, Siegfried could just beat the arrogance out of them. But now? That'd just be blowing their cover to hell. So, all he could do was glare at Roy and turn his worker cap down a bit more so his face was slightly obscured.
From across the cramped train compartment, Malleus—no, "Emma Foster"—shot them both a nasty look. She tipped her head toward the compartment door, scarlet hair partially obscured by a similarly drab worker's cap, and mouthed a single word:
"Quiet!"
The sounds of heavy footsteps and labored breathing approached their compartment. Siegfried's hand instinctively twitched toward a weapon that wasn't there. Seven years as the Bloodhounds' leader had conditioned his body to respond immediately to a threat. But there was no Contender, Responder, or even a plain old Revolver at his hip, nor could he afford to use his Prana Reserves to defend himself. Not if he didn't want to blow their cover completely.
He was just Samuel Fischer, a migrant worker from Fiora with calloused hands and forged papers.
Siegfried quickly scanned the compartment. Twelve other workers crammed themselves into seats designed for eight while stuffing their belongings in every available space. Most were asleep, and the few awake were so deathly exhausted that they likely wouldn't notice a Crisis Beast breaking down the doors. The train, the "Budget Rail" as advertised, was moreso a relic that should have been decommissioned decades ago, all chipped paint and suspicious stains. The Empire's technological marvels, it seemed, didn't extend to transport for those Working Class or below.
The door slid open with a screech of protesting metal, and there he stood.
Dennis Sparrow.
Their "boss" since yesterday.
The man embodied everything Siegfried despised about civilian oversight of government operations—the sheer and utter arrogance of a man who had never faced real danger combined with the petty cruelty of someone who'd clawed their way to minor authority. His balding pate glistened with sweat despite the cool morning air. His widow's peak of brown hair plastered against his forehead like a sad pennant. The rest of him matched the miserable display. He was a pudgy, overweight figure straining against a foreman's uniform that had clearly been purchased when he'd been several meals lighter. His attempt at a clean shave had left patches of stubble scattered across his jowls like islands on a fleshy sea.
Cheap cologne and sour sweat hit Siegfried in waves.
"Fischer!" Sparrow bellowed, as if volume could compensate for competence. "What the hell do you think you're doing still lounging around? We're twenty minutes from Waltz Station, and I need the manifest checked before we arrive!"
A vein violently bulged on the side of Siegfried's temple.
A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.
You shitty, pathetic, waste of space...! I'll—
In another life—a life where he wasn't playing a role in a scheme that would reshape the Empire—he would have separated this man's head from his shoulders without a second thought.
But then he remembered who he was pretending to be and calmed himself.
"Yes, sir. Right away, sir."
Siegfried rose, the wooden bench creaking in relief. He grabbed the manifest from Sparrow's outstretched hand and made his way out of the compartment and down the narrow corridor. Workers on either side were jammed in so tightly that some were practically in the laps of others, but no one seemed to care; the promise of work in the capital, no matter how grueling, was enough to make the indignity of the journey tolerable.
He just doubted that "tolerable" extended to a Bloodhound assassin in their midst.
* * *
The manifest slipped through Siegfried's fingers as the Budget Rail screeched to a halt at Waltz Station. The sudden stop sent him lurching forward and his balance, which was normally impeccable after years of living in Desperado, failed him. A sharp, electric pain radiated from his sternum through his ribs.
"Shit—!"
His shoulder slammed against the corridor wall, sending another jolt of agony through his system. He clutched at his chest, feeling the rapid, irregular rhythm beneath his palm. Sweat beaded on his brow. His vision blurred at the edges.
"Samuel? Are you alright?"
Malleus appeared behind him, one of her hands steadying him by the shoulder. It was an ostensibly innocent gesture, but her eyes were already roving over him. When she saw him clutching his chest, they darkened even more. The mask of "Emma Foster" slipped for just a moment, revealing the true Malleus beneath—the woman who had incinerated all of her targets without breaking a sweat, who had laughed while nearly reducing Elias Scryer to a broken heap in Windsor.
"That manipulative bitch," she hissed, dropping her voice so that only he could hear. "If I was stronger back then... we wouldn't be dancing on her strings like headless shepherds...! By ze blood, I'll gouge out her ape eyes and then—"
"Oi."
It was only one word, but it was enough to cut through Malleus's whispered rant. Siegfried's grip on her shoulder tightened fractionally, and his voice also dropped to a dangerous whisper.
"Don't speak about... her that way. If you're just going to stand there and bitch, then get moving. That prick Sparrow will be looking for us soon enough."
Malleus stared at him, aghast. For a brief moment, he could see the hurt beneath her facade of cruelty—a glimpse of the woman rather than the weapon she had become.
"Defending the woman who poisoned you... using you as a personal attack dog until you drop dead? Fine. Have it your way, *Fischer*."
She settled back into the blandly cheerful mask of "Emma Foster," and brushed past him. Her shoulder deliberately collided with his as she stalked toward the exit. The impact sent another spasm of pain through his chest, but he refused to give her the satisfaction of seeing him wince.
After all, with Wallachians like them, everything was about control.
Once Malleus left, Siegfried released a shuddering breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. He leaned heavily against the wall; the cool metal felt like a balm against his burning skin. The pain was getting worse. Every day since Windsor, the poison from her mercury had spread deeper into his system, an invisible invader against which even his Ars Magna couldn't fully defend.
Well, «Deathblossom» *could* theoretically adapt to the poison and eventually neutralize it.
But... if he tried that…
"No. No. No. Nononononononono—"
He wanted to vomit. He seriously wanted to vomit he wanted to die die die die die die die die die die—
Don't remember! Don't remember! Don't remember! Don't remember their bodies, the smell, that man... don't remember it!
His breath caught. He was on his knees now, but he couldn't remember falling. His fists were clenched so tightly that his nails bit into his palms. Warm blood trickled between his fingers. His heart pounded in his ears, a frantic tattoo. The world tilted and swayed around him.
Shit... shit... shit shit shitshitshit—
He couldn't risk completing *that* condition. Not again. Never again. If he remembered, he wouldn't be Nemesis anymore, he would remember that thing again a monster a demon a beast a—
Why?
The question circled his mind like a starving vulture.
Why had he defended Pandora? Why did her name still create this... this disgusting weakness in him? She was using him just as efficiently as she'd used her mercury to carve through his defenses in Windsor. Just another weapon in the High Inquisitor's arsenal.
No! I can't! I have to maintain control! I'm Nemesis! Leader of the Bloodhounds! I'm not... going to let... her ...! I won't let her make me remember...!
Yet when Malleus had spoken of her with hatred, something primal and protective had risen in him. It was a ghost of emotions he thought long dead, buried with the naive boy who had once fought alongside Mercutio across the Northern and Pacific Theaters.
Pathetic.
What had become of the feared Nemesis? The leader of the Bloodhounds, whose name made even hardened criminals tremble? Reduced to a migrant worker, obeying a petty tyrant like Dennis Sparrow, all while the mercury in his veins counted down the days he had left.
Fourteen days. Maybe less.
Unless he completed Pandora's mission.
Unless Helen Vessalius died by his hand.
Why had he dreamt of them again? Pandora and Bianca in that Elysium, young and bright and untouched by the horrors that would later define them. An irritating splinter that wouldn't just leave his brain in peace.
Siegfried Eisenberg continued to haunt Nemesis, and he had no idea how to exorcise it.
With a shuddering breath, he forced himself upright. The pain receded to a dull throb. It was manageable for now. He retrieved the manifest from the floor and continued toward the exit.