Reverse: 1999 story · Event stories
The Turquoise Serpent Club
21 scenes, 2,237 lines
1. Butterfly Effect
95 lines
The blanket of the poor. The Sun.
Inside the stuffy tavern, the gamblers hold their breath, faces flushed, crowded around a card table.
The Sun ...
Ah, ha, here it is.
His hands tremble as he places a kernel on the Tabula board before him.
Rosita, Rosaura, come, as I want you here now. The Rose.
The croupier flips a card from the shuffled deck.
Heh! Lucky me.
I've got your Rose right here.
As I passed by the cemetery, I came across a skull.
As the croupier continues to reveal new cards, the Tabula boards in front of both players fill with kernels one by one. The scales of victory begin tipping in an avalanche toward the challenger.
Last round. Game'll end soon enough.
Damn it! Who the hell is this girl?!
If she keeps winning like this, Mr. Tlazo'll be left with nothing to wager 'cept his watch!
I-I don't get it. I thought all the croupiers here were Tlazo's people?
Wait.
Sure you wanna keep playin', miss?
Fold now, and I'll let you leave here with your winnings in one piece.
Oh, but we've got an audience. What kind of a gambler would I be if I folded now?
No backing down now. All in.
No, not just what's on the table. Everything I got in the bank, too. You gonna call, boss?
Bullheaded girl. You're gonna regret this.
He smirks and glances over at the croupier.
Yes, Mr. Tlazo.
The game continues.
The next card is—
The croupier sets a hand on the deck.
Back to Earth, return to life.
What you talkin' about? Never heard a verse like that before.
Trusting that luck is, as ever, on her side, the challenger places the final kernel on the Tabula board.
T h e T u r q u o i s e S e r p e n t C l u b
Written by Recoleta
The game is decided. Disbelief ripples through the crowd.
Three whole days.
Three whole days, and this girl hasn't lost a single game, doesn't matter if it's slots, or Russian roulette, or la Lotería!
She's taken down all the best gamblers in Tlazo's gang, and now she's gunnin' for the man himself.
Unbelievable!
No, it isn't possible! You cheated!
At the center of it all, the capo sweeps everything off the table in a fury.
Ain't no such thing as "The Butterfly" card. It don't exist! What you tryna pull, huh?
Sir, I-I don't know.
You provided and shuffled the cards yourself.
Quit whining, sir. How many times do I have to tell you? It's all luck.
A win is a win. There are no take-backs at the gambling table.
Besides, this is your turf. You think I'm stupid enough to cheat here of all places?
Alright, I'll see you with my winnings this time tomorrow.
That is, a million in chips and that thing. What was it? Something from that club of yours? Anyway, you know what it is. See you soon.
The lucky challenger laughs as she prepares to leave.
The man across the table slumps back in his chair. It's far more than he can afford to lose.
Mr. Tlazo, I kept my eye on her the whole time. She really didn't cheat.
Forget it. Ain't important.
Follow her. She can't make it outta here alive.
Mexico City. Sunlight falls on the low houses lining the streets.
Centurion steps out of the tavern's back alley and wanders into the street. The Day of the Dead draws near. Bone dolls, skull candies, flowers, and paper cutouts ... Vivid colors spill all the way down both sides of the road.
The dry air settles soothingly into her lungs.
So good things really do happen when you go home, huh?
Still got a while before the show starts. What sort of adventure can I find to kill some time?
She catches the soft rustling of feet slinking in from behind her.
Sorry, but Tlazo ain't planning on cashing you out.
Operation codename, "The Sacrifice"? "Itzpapalotl"? "Nine Trials of Death"?
The last one has a good ring to it. I can already see the expression on the faces of those Laplace rats.
Performer: Lorentz Butterfly.
Target has entered the crossroads at Juárez Street. Activating Chaos Interference Device.
Chaos Interference Device activated.
Tip: Rumbling Roaring Box upgrade completed. Should a problem occur, please call the developer, provided you manage to survive, haha!
Nice one, X. But what's the contact number?
Two targets, no followers.
"Ain't no way! We gotta get backup from Mr. Tlazo!"
"Get her!"
Your voice cracks, your movements hesitant. You instinctively tilt to the right and take out the knife you've kept in your inside pocket—a habit you've formed since the fight that cost you your index finger—hoping it will bring you luck.
"STOP!!"
Perhaps the knife does grant you courage, or you simply forgot about the shots that failed to hit the target until you saw the holes on the fence. That's when fear strikes again.
So you halt. That's it, right where I need you to be.
Virtual environmental model constructed. All variables within predicted range.
Short-term behavior prediction possible. Conditions ideal!
Initial condition disturbance activated.
W-What's that sound?
Look out!
The dust settles, and a mysterious woman leaps down from the rooftop.
Centurion, unharmed and unfazed, sizes up this newcomer.
My pleasure. I've heard of you, the legendary Coin Girl.
Even without my help, you'd have come out on top.
Hah, true, but not as easily. I could've missed tonight's show.
So, what do you want in return? Sharpodonties? Local chow? How about a magic show? The escapes will have your jaw on the floor.
Anything but this coin. You name it, and it'll be yours by morning.
Appreciated.
She narrows her eyes, satisfied with Centurion's willingness to cooperate.
There is something I want from you.
It was something you won at the table: a secret letter from the Turquoise Serpent Club.
2. Determinism and Chaos Theory
126 linesSometime during the next day, a strange atmosphere hangs over the tavern where the gamblers usually gather.
Mr. Tlazo ...
Yeah?
That lucky-ass girl's been counting her winnings for a while now, along with some other girl.
They planning something?
Sir, you think it's time we—
Cram it!
The rebuke comes like the snap of a frightened dog.
We can't afford to mess with arcanists.
Hers ain't no ordinary luck, I tell ya. Must've used some kinda witchcraft or somethin'.
You heard about those people who drowned on dry land, or just up and disappeared from locked rooms? That's just the start of the weird s**t they get up to.
One of our associates in the police told me that was all because of some arcane skill.
So, unless you're lookin' to join those stiffs, you stay away from these outsiders.
As they trade wild theories about witchcraft and arcanum, the two figures in the corner exchange a glance over the opened letter in their hands.
"When the sacred calendar and solar calendar realign, we celebrate the delaying of doomsday."
"We climb up the Hill of the Star and watch the stars reach their zenith."
"The annual art auction will commence soon. The Turquoise Serpent Club sincerely looks forward to your arrival."
Pft. Trying a little hard.
An art auction, huh? Ah, an invitation with no time or location!
So this is the letter of supposedly "incredible value"?
What's your excuse this time, Tlazo?
It's gibberish. Do I have to remind you how much you owe me?
The eavesdropping capo straightens in his seat.
I can't tell you nothin'. I mean it. I don't got a clue neither!
I got the thing off some desperate gambler. Claimed it holds the biggest secret in Mexico City.
But before I could make him, ahem, I mean, ask him anythin' more, he skipped the border.
As for this club, all I know is that it's hidden away in some plantation outside of the city. But I ain't never heard of no auction.
No human's ever set foot in that place—arcanist territory.
Great. A conversation utterly devoid of useful information.
This line on the invitation, "when the sacred and solar calendars realign," it's referring to an Aztec myth about the coming of the end of the world.
So, once every 52 years, at the full cycle of the Aztec calendar, the Aztecs held their New Fire Ceremony to celebrate that they survived another cycle.
Before the new sun rose, they climbed up the Hill of the Star and watched the Pleiades star cluster reach its zenith.
Look at these symbols.
These represent the 20 days in the Tonalpohualli.
Their order guides the flow of energy. It's an incantation to activate a ritual.
The key to its activation is the flint knife symbol, called the Tecpatl. It represents the date of the New Fire Ceremony.
The question is, where will the ritual take place?
According to the changes observed in the Chaotic Energy within the area—
"A large-scale artificial supernatural phenomenon is likely to occur in Mexico."
"Furthermore—and with no thanks to you brainless dolts—I was able to confirm my leads that pointed to Mexico City itself."
"Imagine what you overboiled eggheads could do if you spent even a fraction of your time on something useful."
In the meeting room, Ulrich tucks the letter away, his ferrofluid resting languid in his tank.
This is the latest update from Lorentz Butterfly.
She's named the plan "The Nine Trials of Death."
Utterly ridiculous!
This is already the third letter from her this month! Are you seriously planning a joint paper with this Butterfly?
Naturally, and don't worry. I'll be sure to include your name in the acknowledgements.
...
Her first letter claimed that Lorentz's informants discovered a new type of arcane material, one that has been circulating across the globe since our reversal to 1920.
The Manus has been using it to revive the dead, smuggling the material under the guise of a common mineral pigment.
In her second letter, she tracked down its source to Mexico City.
And now this! Some prophecy about a supernatural phenomenon!
The Butterfly's trying to provoke us, mocking us for always being a step behind Lorentz.
Do I have to remind you that she did the same thing after the third, sixth, and the seventh "Storms," Substitute Director Adler?
Pardon my interruption, but you didn't call this meeting just for us to be an audience to your squabbling, did you?
Hearing the argument go on long enough, the focused researcher finally speaks up.
Certainly not.
Which reminds me, Pointer, I have something to tell you.
In accordance with Plesetsk branch tradition, we have decided to hold a party to celebrate your and Hissabeth's successful completion of your field mission here at headquarters.
Though I personally disagree with the principle.
In order to spare time for the party, I've informed the "Storm" Research Group to extend their workday to 12 hours for the week.
I do believe I've truly cracked this "humanitarian management" thing, though Researcher Regulus may disagree.
I would be inclined to disagree as well.
Besides, we've already been back for three weeks now.
Their chatter is cut short as the meeting room door opens. An assistant walks in along with another not-unfamiliar face.
Enough about all that. Settle in, everyone. And would you get down from that table!? The meeting's about to begin.
Ahem. Considering some of you never have, or have never, cared to understand Laplace's structure, I think it's necessary I fill you in.
The Funding Committee and the Staff Committee are responsible for evaluating the risk of each project. Put simply, they are the ones who approve or fail your budget applications.
With that said, allow me to introduce Mr. Ludwig, the new representative of the Staff Committee.
Greetings, everyone.
I wasn't aware you'd recovered. Glad to see you're well, Mr. Ludwig.
The bird-headed man offers a gentle, appreciative nod.
Thank you. I will be assisting you in your research from now on.
In fact, the topic of this meeting is related to your prior discussion.
Wait, don't tell me you're going to the party?
Ahaha, no, no. Though, if you think I wouldn't spoil the mood, I'd be more than happy to.
The raven sweeps his gaze across the assembled researchers.
I've read the letter from Lorentz Butterfly.
Over the years, Manus Vindictae has never ceased its pursuit of a resurrection ritual.
Many of their actions have caught our attention: searching for the scripts of Renaissance alchemists, taking control of the Fountain of Youth in Bimini—all done after a certain Cavendish descendant joined their ranks.
Tsk. Sounds just like what a mad alchemist would do.
But, given what we know now, they've succeeded at least once.
You're speaking of Antarctica.
The mention of that event draws a long, poignant silence.
If Lorentz Butterfly can bring us some of this Manus pigment, then there's a chance we can figure out how it works.
Their ritual has brought back a person who doesn't belong to this era. Most would call it a miracle to brave the "Storm" in such a way.
Have we considered that this may also be a means to truly understanding the "Storm"?
The room erupts again.
Brave the "Storm" ...
Mr. Ludwig, have you considered the hypothesis that the "Storm" doesn't cause physical death?
I have. It suggests that those who disappear in the "Storm" are not technically dead.
Then where do they go?
Over the years, Foundation branches around the world have reported on the reappearance of friends and family, though changed in some way and firmly of the current "Storm" era. It seems these anomalies have become increasingly frequent.
The Staff Committee is also monitoring these anomalies. We can't afford to overlook any details, no matter how insignificant they may seem.
Then we can't just sit here waiting for someone to send a letter when they're in the mood for it.
That is, if the Staff Committee allows us to act ...
He lets the words rest before turning to a new topic.
As it happens, after the second letter, I took the initiative to commission someone to investigate.
Though she's a Foundation employee, her body was made by Laplace. So, she volunteered to do some fieldwork for us.
There may be the occasional "minor incident," but she's in the Timekeeper's unit, so she can be trusted.
An excellent choice. With the Timekeeper's help, she can operate without the Foundation's surveillance.
Exactly. And she's particularly adept at keeping secrets.
I hope this won't involve any inhumane methods, Adler.
No need. Her memory will take care of it for us, or should I say, her lack thereof.
In the scorching wilderness, a glow of arcane skill flickers.
Enigma's trusted investigator teleports into the place where the flickering light had been.
Uhh, I better double-check the destination. Mexico City, Mexico.
Huh, but this doesn't look like a city.
Was there something wrong with the teleport disk? Defective, I guess? I did hear that Laplace is working on a reusable version.
As she looks out with confusion at the strangeness of her point of arrival, her communicator rings.
Is everything alright, Ms. Latham?
All good, Mr. Adler. I've arrived in Mexico City.
Please let Madam Lucy know that I'm more than happy to be helping Laplace.
On the other end, the substitute director drones through its contents.
These are the possible starting points.
If you encounter Manus Vindictae, avoid confrontation and prioritize your own safety, Ms. Latham.
Don't worry about me. I've borrowed the Rumbling Roaring Box from Mr. Ulrich.
All I have to do is turn it on, and it'll show me all the places nearby with supernatural stuff going on.
Wait, where's my luggage?
Not far off, she spies a Desert Devil Lizard hauling her belongings away.
...
...
3. Public Property
109 lines
Did we get anything from the crime scene?
Similar to the last three cases. They're almost certainly serial murders.
But the intervals are getting shorter. Our perp's skills are improving.
Same method, an enclosed room, no abnormalities in the victim leading up to their death ... The surrounding residents all think this place is haunted.
Worse than haunted. Still no sign of our suspect, I take it?
Ugh, don't even mention it. Victim was in a load of debt, so we've got a list of suspects longer than a courthouse docket. You and I will have to get the statement together tonight.
Ah, give me a break. I was going to go to the ceremony in a few days!
*scoff* You wish. The "Storm" stops for no one!
The cadets hurry off.
At the reception desk, the camera-headed girl contents herself with taking in the surroundings.
Just fill in this Vigiles Case Acceptance Registration Form, and you're good to go.
Thank you! Let me see.
Name, Latham. Age, what year is it now? Hmm, let's say 97. Race, Awakened ...
By the way, is this Mexico City, the capital of Mexico?
It certainly is. This is the Vigiles Bureau temporary branch in Zócalo, Mexico City.
We thought there'd been another murder when we received your distress signal.
Murder? No, no, no, nothing that horrible!
The implication seems to be lost on her.
Hah, thanks so much! I'd never have gotten out of that desert alive if it weren't for you!
I'll make sure to write you a thank-you letter once I get back to the Foundation!
Oh, could you help me check out my teleport disks? I think there's something wrong with them.
I can leave them all here and take them back in a couple—
Egh! Just a few Desert Devil Lizards, huh?!
The receptionist snatches the form from her hands.
I am sick of this!
Just days ago, a Foundation employee showed up with a warrant, took away half our most important files, and left the archives in a complete mess!
And now here you are!
Anyway, I'll be writing a letter of my own to your headquarters for wasting Vigiles resources.
You can go.
Oh, just a second, ma'am! Actually, I'm here investigating a kind of arcane material, and ...
The receptionist boils over with frustration.
Get out! I don't wanna hear another word about your lizard problems!
But it might have something to do with Manus Vindictae! I need the Vigiles's help!
"Might"? You might as well say the Manus will be taking over the Foundation tomorrow!
As the dispute continues, two returning Vigils take notice.
What's going on here?
Hey, if it isn't Latham! What brings you here?
It takes the Vigil only a moment to read the situation.
She's a friend of ours. Leave her to us, Laura. I will take you out for some pulque later, in that pub we used to go to. My treat.
If you say so, Ms. Black Ibis.
And my name's Katalina.
The Vigil and her cadet lead the visitor into the grand hall. They haven't seen each other since the events surrounding a theft at the Arcanum Containment Department.
Whoa! Look at this place!
This was the Mexico City People's Library, now requisitioned to serve as the Vigiles Bureau's temporary branch.
It will reopen to the public once we leave.
They stop before the enormous mural.
On one side, stern-faced young people hold firearms, their eyes set on visions of sun, earth, and the future. On the other, peasant women tend to the harvest.
Wait! I know this.
The camera-headed girl swaps the film reel in her head and begins to speak.
This kind of mural is designed to be seen from different angles as visitors walk up the stairs!
Because there's no fixed order to read it, everyone gets their own version of the story.
Look at it! So sacred and gentle. A perfect combination of tradition and modernity.
Hey, you really know your stuff.
Hehe, I learned it from a documentary. Even made a copy of it so I wouldn't forget.
The "master of film art" fixes her gaze on the blank center of the mural.
But this one seems unfinished.
It's got nothing to do with the Vigiles; I'll tell you that much.
These public murals are from artists commissioned by the Secretariat of Public Education.
But the painter of this mural went missing not long ago, leaving his work unfinished. He's not the only one. People are disappearing all over.
Apparently, a rising star in this era. We tried to investigate further, but all we discovered was that he got caught up in an arcanist gang brawl and then he was gone. Too bad, really.
What did they say in the paper? "A Revolution in Theme and Skill"? "Breakthrough in Technique"?
Um, art really isn't my thing.
The vigil interrupts the idle chatter.
We only arrived here ourselves a short time ago.
Since the last "Storm," migration into Mexico City has exploded, and the number of arcanist crimes has surged along with it.
Oh, oh! Just like in The Gray Automobile! Legendary gangs, foreign thieves, and sophisticated modern criminal methods!
She swaps in a new reel once again.
Robbers disguised as officials, going into people's houses with false search warrants, even with the official signatures on them.
The stuff they showed in the movie even led to some real-life robbers doing the same thing!
Yeah, no coffee breaks for us without some backup from HQ. And to think we've got a diplomat visiting soon! Can't he choose some other time?
So, forgive Katalina for being rude just now. We're all just a little burnt out.
Oh, I understand. We're the same way after each "Storm."
I can't tell you much else, but Mexico City isn't the safest place these days. Whatever you do, be careful, Latham.
So, what was it you were saying at the reception desk? Something you wanted to find in Mexico City?
Right! A kind of special arcane material! Apparently, the Manus disguises it as some kind of mineral pigment to smuggle it out of the city.
"Memories" race through her head in reverse. She snatches a single frame before it slips away and relays the information to the Vigils.
Manus Vindictae. Mineral pigment.
The resurrection ritual.
The Vigil and her cadet exchange a glance.
That's odd, though. Mexico City isn't one of their known bases of operation. As for the pigment smuggling—
There are no related reports in our archive.
What? How can that be?!
But I know someone who can help.
No one knows the era better than its natives, and I happen to know a particularly useful one.
She's a contractor, an exorcist hired by the Vigiles to remove lingering traces of arcane crimes before they're made accessible to the public again.
According to the latest regulations, she's been given partial access to information on the "Storm."
An exorcist who works on crime scenes?
She takes a moment to picture what that job must entail.
She's more than just an exorcist. She's the eyes hiding in the shadows. Nothing goes down in this city without her knowing about it. It's said she can sense things regular people can't.
I have to say, she's piqued my curiosity. Something tells me that she would make a great Vigil.
I offered to recommend her for Vigiles selection. I'm sure she'd pass with flying colors, but she turned me down.
Perhaps you can talk her into helping you, or even joining us.
You'll need a serious way with words to do that.
Okay. Thank you so much, Ms. Black Ibis, Mr. Alan!
Though the information is far from sufficient, Loggerhead plows ahead with full enthusiasm.
After seeing her off, the cadet turns to the brooding Vigil, puzzled.
Mineral pigment. You know what? Dimas—that guy from the European branch—he's been looking for that too.
I overheard him asking about it, was looking for the case files on the previous "Storm."
So then people in the Vigiles are looking for it. You think he's up to something?
Ha, Dimas. Reminds me of an old friend.
You know Creius, don't you? When he was in the Vigiles Bureau, Dimas was one of his most loyal subordinates.
And now, he's gained the recognition of some bigwigs in the Foundation. Didn't take long for him to work his way up.
No matter what their reasoning, or who they're working for, our best course of action might be to let both parties get what they want: that pigment.
Black Ibis offers a knowing smile.
Times are different now, Brian. Both Europe and the Foundation are in turmoil.
Is this that "political wisdom" you're always talking about? What was it? "Doctrine of the Mean"?
And once again, my name's Alan.
4. Aesthetic Gaze
156 linesOn the outskirts of Mexico City lies a building in an overgrown and derelict hacienda.
The uninvited "visitor" slips inside with little effort before taking a quick survey of her surroundings.
So, this is the "arcanist territory no human dares set foot in"? But the box is hardly reacting.
Unlike its dilapidated exterior, the interior is lavishly furnished, the floors spotless.
Beep. Beep. Warning, insufficient Chaos Particles. Do not attempt repeat activations. Warning! Warning!
%$@#—
No signs of any supernatural phenomenon.
She wrestles with the device. It gives up a few final sputtering noises before falling apart.
She melts into the shadows. A knock echoes through the empty hall, startling the drowsy patroller at the door.
*yawn* Who's there?
It's me.
*yawn* Oh, Añil. Come on in!
I'm here to deliver the item for the auction. Right before the deadline.
Not a good time, Añil.
Mr. Pérez is away. He's been out of the club more and more these days.
The patroller lowers her voice, muttering gossip about the club's owner.
And getting more and more upset. I haven't been in his office, but I can hear him roaring from the other end of the hallway.
Could be the coming auction, though I heard he's been looking for a supplier who lost contact, been turning half of Mexico inside out to find him.
"I'll tear him apart and feed him to the fishes!" He said.
No one dares piss him off these days. We're all just going to bed hoping he'll wake up in a better mood.
I hope he does.
Could you please pass this along to Mr. Pérez? It's the painting he asked me to finish and the linen canvas from the 19th century he requested.
The incantation used to forge the painting is unstable. I would ask that no one remove the calming incantation on it until the day of the auction.
At that, the patroller starts to wave him away.
Uh ... sounds important. You better not give it to me. Don't want to be responsible if something goes wrong.
Oh, I'll call Muriel over. He knows more about this kind of thing than me.
Mr. Pérez has been keeping him here, "voluntarily," of course, working day and night on the auction, ahem ...
She falls silent, realizing the man is just another "volunteer."
...
Heh, I'll go grab him!
Muriel! You've got a visitor!
He hurries off. Moments later, a dazed boy trails behind her.
Hmm. It's you.
Your name is Añil. I remember it because it sounds like a joke. Surely that's not your real name.
We worked together, didn't we? In the same studio. In Mexico City. Coyoacán, was it?
But, hmm, how long has it been since then? Is it really you?
He rubs his cheek, frowning a little. A small dusting of dried pigment flakes off of his hand and face.
It's been a while, Muriel. Are you keeping well?
Many arcane pigments are quite toxic. Their side effects can be strong. I hope you're extra careful.
Oh, no, I'm quite well. Well indeed! Glad to be back in the homeland.
The auction's coming, you see. Mr. Pérez has forbidden me from leaving the club so I can paint what his associates want.
But I can't help thinking this isn't what I wanna do with my talents.
Hey, hey, Muriel!
Look, I'm not gonna rat on you to Mr. Pérez, but you need to watch yourself. Better not let a third person—well, fourth—hear you whining.
I see. At least the quesadilla and pozole around here aren't bad.
Don't worry. I won't stop painting. It's all I can do now.
He turns to the visitor beside him.
Is there something you need?
Please deliver this to Mr. Pérez.
Añil hands over the wrapped painting. The boy takes the distressed frame and immediately recognizes the incantation on it.
The painting Mr. Pérez asked you to forge?
Why don't you ever create something of your own, Añil? You can't spend your whole life imitating others.
If it's because of Mr. Pérez, I can put in a good word. All he needs to see is your real artwork, and I'm certain he'll agree.
Oh, I don't have that kind of talent. I'm simply an arcane pigment dealer who happens to know some imitation incantations.
Muriel glances over to him with a puzzled expression.
The greatest of all talents are passion and persistence.
Sorry, Muriel.
No, no, I understand. You just need time. We both need time.
I'm certain one of our like-minded friends from the Midnight Kitchen will convince you. That is, after I find them.
In fact, I happened upon my old tutor, Teresita, when I was working on the mural in the library.
She seemed to be ... in quite the hurry. The Vigiles were ordering her around. It seems she didn't recognize me.
The two of us can join the Popular Arts Exhibition, Añil! You, you are Añil, aren't you? Well, no matter who you are, it's a fantastic opportunity!
He sinks into thought, yet his mind feels shrouded in a thick haze. He can't even make out the figure's identity.
Take a rest for a while, would you?
Ahem. Mr. Pérez will give him a break once the auction's over.
Oh, pardon my manners. You want a cup of poleo? Why not take a rest before you go?
Mr. Pérez recently got some cigars in from the Yucatán Peninsul—
Before she can finish speaking, she and Muriel both slip softly down to the floor.
At the same time, cold metal presses against Añil's back.
Don't turn around, unless you want to take a nap too.
The woman's accent is foreign, yet her language is precise.
Anything I can help you with, miss?
I'm just a wayward traveler.
Hoping you can show me around this club. I hear it isn't open to the public.
The blade against his back digs in an inch, cutting off any protest.
My pleasure.
But my friends ...
He turns around. What the mysterious bandit is holding is not a knife as he'd imagined, but a plaster trowel.
In fact, it is almost certainly his own painter's trowel.
Take it. You may call me Lorentz Butterfly.
Alright, Ms. Butterfly.
He nods and walks forward without another word. Footsteps shadowing him from behind.
This Pérez you were talking about—the owner of the club, yes?
He runs everything behind-the-scenes here. One of the most notorious arcanist smugglers in Mexico City.
For the right price, he can find you anything in the world. He's got his fingers in many pies—government, private sector, you name it.
Exaggeration. Age? Appearance? What kind of person is he?
I have no idea.
Hah. You don't know?
He's a very cautious man. There was some trouble in the club a few weeks ago. Since then, he hasn't shown his face.
Now, he speaks only to a few select confidants, and always from behind a folding screen.
Pretentious.
The master forger leads the "bandit" into the gallery.
This is his arcane artwork collection.
Portrait of the Twins, the final work of the exorcist John Doe, a sensation at the Sotheby art auction in the original 1920.
It's said the pearl necklace was painted with the tears of a black goat. Some even claim there's a pair of succubi, twins apparently, sealed within the frame.
Every evening around midnight, ethereal singing can be heard as if it were echoing out from inside the painting.
And anyone who listens to their song eventually goes insane.
I see you're well-versed in arcane works.
Not long. But Mr. Pérez worked his way through most of the arcanist artists in the city. Those who refuse him are never seen again.
I had no intention of following in their footsteps. Before all this, I was only an ordinary merchant of arcane pigments.
Añil opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. She doesn't even bother to take her eyes off the paintings to look at him.
Madonna of the Carbuncles. In 1509, artist Richard Roe signed an agreement with his employer to color his cape and Carbuncles with petrified ultramarine and amber gold.
The former serves as a valuable alchemical material. The work has been stolen multiple times.
If I remember correctly, it was last seen in Berlin after the fifth "Storm."
She stops. Her fingers brush against the heavy blue cloak in the painting.
That's right.
She seems unimpressed, almost bored. Shuffling sounds from down the hall interrupt their brief tour.
Tsk. Patrollers.
Six of them, judging by the footsteps, all physically fit. They'll have me trapped in an instant.
Planning to cry for help?
Please, there's no need for mockery, miss.
There are no patrols at this time, and the locals wouldn't dare enter the club.
Could be that they're temporary muscle hired by Mr. Pérez for the auction. Perhaps they noticed my sleeping friends.
No need to distance yourself. I know you wouldn't risk tipping them off in front of me.
Bad luck, as always. She flashes a cold smile.
Who's there?!
The results are unsurprising: six unconscious thugs lie heaped together in a pile.
But their fight has drawn unnecessary attention. More patrollers close in.
Follow me, if you will. There's a blind spot this way.
<speed=0.15>Luz y sombra, ¡reforma!
In a split second, an arcane veil settles over the corner of the gallery where they stand, making it appear empty.
Huh? I could've sworn I heard some roughhousing.
Maybe one of these paintings is haunted.
Mr. Pérez's collection isn't exactly ordinary. Place sure feels spooky, anyway.
Finding nothing out of place, the two patrollers move along.
Why help me?
I don't believe you snuck in here just to draw their attention.
True. But I could still eliminate any witnesses.
Fair enough.
Most of the gangsters here are unaware of the secrets surrounding this club.
But, Ms. Butterfly, whatever it is you wish to find, I will help you find it.
As I believe I have just demonstrated.
You help me? A forger working for this club?
You, who can't even wiggle out from under their thumb yourself?
She pulls out an invitation to the Turquoise Serpent Club's upcoming auction.
Prove it. Give me a reason to put my faith in you.
I know the secret to the invitation.
The symbols here represent a special incantation. You must light up the Tecpatl sign to begin the ritual correctly.
It's the only way to enter the auction venue, designed to keep humans out.
Tell me something I don't know.
The forger draws a nervous breath.
The purpose of the auction isn't to sell forgeries. They're merely for decoration.
Mr. Pérez's true goal is to build the Turquoise Serpent Club into the greatest underground arcane material market in Mexico.
The auction is only the first step in his plan.
I can bring you there, two days from now at 12 a.m.
The woman examines his face, then provides a simple, satisfied smile.
Pleasure to work with you.
5. Oztoalli
104 linesBleak wind sweeps through the quiet streets at the outskirts of the city. The still night has a foreboding gloom to it.
It is that very gloom drawing the camera-headed girl toward a long-abandoned cemetery.
At the third fork in the road along Silver Sun Street, Morelos District, after hearing three chirps, turn right at 1137 Blue Parrot Lane.
That would be here, but ...
She looks over her notes—a detailed list of instructions relayed by the Vigil.
"Step 1: Elephant spin."
"Specifics: Pinch your nose with one hand and stretch out your other arm like an elephant trunk. Then, bend over and spin around clockwise ten times."
...
It has to mean something!
Like in the original Indiana Jones, my 15th favorite movie!
When the time is right, the jewel on the scepter will reflect the sunlight and point to where the treasure is.
But how am I supposed to do that without a nose to pinch? Ah. Never mind. Just do your best! But I intend to have a word with the Vigiles concerning the accessibility of their rituals for Awakened like me.
One, two, three, four ...
With earnest effort, she bends down and begins spinning in place.
By the count of ten, Loggerhead wobbles upright. Without realizing it, she's wandered to the center of the cemetery courtyard.
Next, "Whistle the tune of La Llorona."
Right, that's the one I recorded Mr. Alan playing for me.
*whistling*
A strained, tuneless whistle drifts over the cemetery. Nothing changes. Her cinematic imaginings of a midnight ritual awaking something in the deep night seem for naught.
A night wind sweeps past, and though it lacks any cold to it, she finds herself shuddering out of habit.
Nothing, huh. Could be that I was too slow?
Alright, just try, try again! Ms. Black Ibis and Mr. Alan are trustworthy Vigils. They wouldn't be pulling your leg on something like this.
Besides, I need to get the info from this mysterious exorcist. I've gotta find that mineral pigment before Lorentz Butterfly does!
She spins again, following the steps exactly as directed, and whistles.
A rustling noise interrupts her broken tune.
...
Not far off, a coffin lid begins to creak open.
...!!!
A dark shadow rises from within.
AHHHH!!!
Her shriek pierces the night sky.
W-Wait!
You're not Ms. Ramona, are you? The exorcist that Ms. Black Ibis and Mr. Alan recommended?
What steps out of the coffin is no risen corpse.
The girl before her wears a dry expression, her hair still a mess from whatever dream she'd been pulled out of. Most importantly, she's a living, breathing arcanist.
Metal head with a metal heart.
Guess that's why they made you a hitwoman. No time for talk. Just get straight to the smacking, yeah?
Oh, oh, no! I'm so sorry, Ms. Ramona. See, I'd just spun around 20 times, so my head was a little scrambled.
Trust me, there's not a violent reel in my body! I would only ever use force as a last resort!
Clearly not a fan of whistling either. 'Cause that was the worst La Llorona I've ever heard.
Oh! So, the spinning and whistling were part of the ritual after all!
Sure are.
What does it do, exactly? Summon something, or is it more unusual?
Mostly, it stops Vigiles from crashing the party.
See, ordinary folks don't usually whistle and spin round in a cemetery, let alone twice.
Though even the Vigiles usually figure out this "ritual" just means "don't show up uninvited."
She rises up from her coffin and examines the camera-headed girl wearily.
...
If she had the right equipment for it, her face would be beet red by now.
Oh, aha, well, um, I heard you know just about everything there is to know about Mexico City, Ms. Ramona.
Ms. Black Ibis recommended you. See, I have an important mission, and I was hoping you'd help me—
There's been a mix-up.
Your people need to quit assuming which side I'm on. Yeah, I don't mess around with the gangs, but I don't have any love for the cops either, got it?
The Vigiles pay for my time and expertise. I'm not interested in mixing myself up with trouble.
Sometimes I get rid of the stuff regular folks can't see for a few extra pesos. So, maybe I know the city better than most. But I don't concern myself with the land of the living.
Why don't you run along back to the Foundation, Metal Head? And tell Black Ibis to knock off the recruitment tactics. I'm not buying what she's selling.
Oh, and tell them to stop mucking up my house too. I'm trying to make a living here.
Your house? You mean this place?
Oh, don't get me wrong. I have the utmost respect for everyone's preferences and beliefs. I mean, nowhere's better than a coffin for a long nap. Heheh ...
...
She turns on her heel without a word, leaving no room for explanation.
Oh, wait! Ms. Ramona, I don't work for the Vigiles, and I'm not here on Ms. Black Ibis's behalf.
I'm here looking into details about a smuggling ring.
All I need are some leads about this new mineral pigment.
Oh, and I can pay! I have ...
She rummages through her pockets, creating an almost ludicrous amount of clattering and clinking as she does.
When she looks up, Ramona has reappeared before her, silent as a ghost.
Goodness, you came back quick.
Hah. Sorry, I ... I didn't bring much with me. Can I write you an IOU?
A new type of mineral pigment, huh?
Right on the money. It's some kind of special arcane material!
Ms. Black Ibis told me there wasn't any information on it at the Bureau, but that you might have heard something.
So, have you got any leads? Anything on this new type of pigment, Manus Vindictae, or arcanist smuggling gangs?
She racks her mechanical brain for every possibility.
It's not much to go on, but the talk about a new type of pigment did remind me of something.
Is it something serious?
You heard about those arcane murders that have been happening around the city?
Well, we've heard more than enough for everyone. City's buzzing with rumors.
First, it was some poor sap they found in the suburbs. Cops say he drowned. Weird thing was, there wasn't so much as a puddle for kilometers around.
Five days later, a businessman—a real rich type—found dead in his mansion. He had that place guarded like a palace, but no one saw a damn thing.
Somehow, this guy falls into a vivarium filled with all kinds of illegal Critters. I'm surprised they even figured out he drowned. There wasn't much left of him when I got there.
Oh, good gracious! I hadn't heard anything.
Loggerhead flinches. She didn't expect things to take such a sharp turn.
Yeah, well, I get a front-row seat on every new crime—comes with the territory.
This city's special. Got its own way of doing things. Folks here aren't strangers to the supernatural.
But no matter how weird things got, they used to follow some kind of rhyme or reason. Now it seems like even the Vigiles don't got a clue what's up and what's down anymore.
They're wasting their time sniffing around after the local gangs. Hmph, but with how deep those roots run, that's a long trail to nowhere.
Meanwhile, the bodies keep piling up, with not a single clue worth chasing, and then—
Then there's you, suddenly showing up, talking about stuff I've never heard of before.
She holds her gaze on this strange visitor from the Foundation.
Could be, with the "Storm," something new slipped its way into the city, like you.
What? Oh, no, no, no. Ms. Ramona, there's no way I could be the killer! I just got here!
...
Yeah, I know. Is that metal head of yours busted? You don't exactly look the part of a murderer.
Point is the Vigiles are running blind and chasing their own tails. I'm not looking forward to having to cleanse any more messy crime scenes.
But this pigment of yours might just be the breakthrough they need.
Gosh! So then you're gonna join my investigation, right?
I didn't say that. All I said—
Having learned from last time, Loggerhead throws herself at the mercy of the exorcist before she can say no.
But it sounds like you also care a lot about this, right? We could help each other.
Ah, for God's sake. Are there any ears on that hunk of metal?
Shucks! Where are my manners? I haven't introduced myself! I'm Latham, nice to meet you, Ms. Ramona.
On behalf of the Timekeeper, I hereby thank you for your help. Oh, let me add it to my to-do list. Thank-you letter for Ramona.
Ay no.
6. Ghost Song
112 linesAnother case? That makes five. And it's only been three days since the last.
The intervals are getting shorter.
You two slack-jaws owe me an explanation.
Sorry, Ms. ...
Jones, Special Investigator for the "Storm" Era Historical Monitoring Department at the Buenos Aires Branch of the St. Pavlov Foundation and Field Agent Administration.
Do I need to show you my ID again?
The string of titles leaves the cadet's head spinning.
So this is the fifth case, huh?
And you're telling me that after a whole month and two applications for backup, you got squat to show for it?
Cold sweat beads over their foreheads; they sputter over an answer between themselves.
Actually, it hasn't been a month yet, Ms. Investigator.
Call me Ms. Jones.
So, gimme the latest.
Yes, Ms. Jones.
The incident occurred at around 8 p.m. last night. Lots of people home, but no one reported hearing anything unusual.
The victim exhibited clear signs of drowning, but there's no water sources nearby, and no evidence of the body having been moved.
We believe that everything occurred here.
We found nothing using human investigation methods. So, it must be another arcane crime.
She turns from them to scrutinize the crime scene, treading the fine line of stern authority like she was born to it.
What's the status of the arcanum detection?
Damning. There's arcane traces all over the scene.
Like a ritual was held here.
We tried to follow the fluctuations' trail, but they just disappeared. Our perp must have scrubbed it clean before leaving.
Ah, that does make things tricky.
So, drowning, huh? Seems like solving the mystery of this ritual could be the key to cracking the case.
There's no record of this arcane fluctuation's particular signal in the Vigiles Bureau archives.
So it's either very rare or a brand-new form of arcane skill.
Hand the case file over. I'll see if I can wrangle some help from the Foundation.
That would be great, Ms. Jones! Please contact us if you have any new leads.
You got it.
She collects their files and then turns to leave briskly. As she does, she brushes past a Vigil rushing toward the scene.
Sorry I'm late. Something came up on the way.
Ms. Black Ibis, Alan!
Who was that?
Ms. Jones from some branch of the Foundation. She's investigating this case as well.
She said she's going to contact the Foundation for additional support.
Hm. Another new face from the Foundation. Quite a few of them showing up these days, aren't there?
Or are things getting so divided that everyone's sending their own teams?
Having no reason to suspect ill-intent, Black Ibis soon puts the incident out of mind.
Carlos, I need you to identify the victim's details: friends, family, employer.
Lín Huì, you stay on the scene and continue searching for any additional arcane energy fluctuations.
Yes, ma'am.
She lets out a soft sigh as she waves the other cadets off, leaving only her trainee.
You do know this is pointless, right?
We will need it for the documentation anyway. But if the pattern holds, these victims will have no relation yet again.
This is no ordinary crime of passion.
All that means is that we haven't identified the killer's criteria.
That's the worst part—knowing that we know nothing.
Do you think it could be our old "friend" Manus Vindictae?
Pigment smuggling, the resurrection ritual ... Maybe Latham is right. Maybe there are Manus secrets hidden in the dark corners of this city.
And these cases play some part in it.
The Vigil pauses. Something clicks.
Just like Paris before the fifth "Storm."
You suspect Madam Bouanich and her jewel hunter could be involved again?
Always. Something tells me she's hiding a great deal about the Depths of Myth incident.
Her true identity, her movements, her involvement with the Manus, each could be essential to our investigation.
But we haven't detected any arcane fluctuations like that incident.
If there were any fluctuations as serious as those, we would've noticed them in no time. But this is already the fifth case. I don't think they're related.
Hmm. You make a good point. Maybe I'm just paranoid.
Ma'am, the record is complete.
Well done. Contact the local hospital to take away the victim's body.
Let's go, Bruno. And call the exorcist. Let's make sure this stays hush-hush.
Don't worry, Ms. Ramona. I'm fully aware of how important it is to protect the integrity of the crime scene!
Before we left, I replayed a load of my favorite detective movies: Alibi, Death on the Nile, even a filmed production of The Mousetrap!
Let's get started! I'm sure we'll find some crucial—
Ramona interrupts her detective fantasy.
Look, I don't know what kinda deal you made with the Vigiles to let you muck around in their crime scene, but here's my deal: I'm not here to help you with your investigation.
Now stay outta my way. I got a job to do.
Oh, haha, right, the job.
Okay, well, ah, is there anything I can help with? I'll do whatever you want.
Oh, how about some footage of the scene? I've got it all recorded.
Her enthusiasm lands on deaf ears.
Ah, Mr. Alan was right. You definitely need to have a way with words to deal with her.
The exorcist produces annatto seeds, wormwood, and marigold from the case she carries, arranging them in order at the center of the apartment.
The candle is lit, its glow washing over her face and eyes. The flame flickers, releasing a strange aroma, and the air grows even more still.
What are these? Some herbs for casting arcane skills?
Arcane crimes cause huge spikes in energy fluctuations.
The tremors are so strong that they form a kind of vortex of sorts, pulling any nearby invisible entities to them like a whirlpool.
And once it's started, it'll keep on going, 'till you use the right arcanum.
If you leave it, well, the vortex only gets stronger.
Soon enough, this place will be "haunted." Least that's what regular people would call it.
That's why they pay me to do what I do.
Ramona takes to the work with professional detachment, but Loggerhead feels something strange, a creeping chill that puts her ill at ease.
By "invisible entities," you mean ...
They're like hidden arcane energy fluctuations? Or unsettled pneuma.
I guess what you're fishing for is—
The air above the candle's flame begins to warp, twisting into a form both human and not, in the most unsettling way.
Ghosts? I didn't know you could just reveal them like that.
Call them whatever you like. It's all the same.
I figured you for a scaredy-cat. How would you manage to be made out of metal, fearless, and still useless?
If you can't fight, the least you could do is give me a laugh.
Wait! Ms. Ramona, there's something wrong with your candle.
The flame flickers harder, as if caught in a strong wind yet refusing to snuff out.
Shh.
Ilusiones, apartaos. La verdad se revela.
Este lugar, este instante. Revelado ante mí. Mostrado para mí.
Her voice is ethereal, as if speaking to another world entirely. The tiny flame settles, and the last wisp of smoke bends at an unnatural angle, pointing the way.
Looks like the candlelight's leading us toward the kitchen.
Are there still ghosts there? Didn't we just scare them all off?
Ramona steps into a long-idle kitchen before crouching to pick through a pile of firewood. After a time, she pulls out a half-burned scrap of canvas cloth.
A strange symbol surfaces from the still-warm ashes.
Have you found something, Ms. Ramona?
Yeah, maybe. I know someone who can answer my questions.
But I wouldn't call it good news. This symbol won't take us anyplace safe.
Her revelation is dry and fatalistic, as if she were tugged unwillingly to the answer.
I know where to go.
7. Mexican Souvenir
99 linesAt dusk, the sun casts its last fading warmth.
Deep in the alley, a bustling little shop hums as craftsmen prepare candy skulls for the upcoming festivities.
Good heavens, Añil! Hurry up!
If you hadn't guaranteed you could finish the work before the end of the day, I never would've hired you!
All this candy needs to get to Diago's before tomorrow!
Yes, boss. I understand.
Oh, and Ms. Juárez in La Roma wants you to repaint their family tomb.
Damn, I almost forgot! I need to go to Christina's to pick up some marigolds before dark.
The storekeeper dashes off.
There are still more than a hundred pieces of candy to go.
The sun falls behind the distant hills, and the craftsmen begin to leave. In the dim candlelight, his shadow dances on the wall.
Then footsteps break the silence.
I like the candy.
We use them to welcome the deceased to the land of the living, guiding their souls to rest in their homes once more.
The Aztecs believed life is a cycle.
Death is but one part of an endless loop, a reflection of life. And how we die determines how our next life begins.
The souls of the warriors who gave their lives in battle rise with the sun at the palace of Tlālōcān, singing songs of triumph.
And four years later, they will return to the earth as colorful butterflies and hummingbirds.
Can you tell me if that's true, Ms. Ramona?
You recognize me?
The children from the Morelos District call you "Ramona the Ghost Seer." They say it was you who brought back the soul of Ana's Xolo.
To hear it from them, you are some kind of all-powerful wise woman hidden in the shadows, one who knows this city better than anyone.
Of course, others say you're from a well-known family of psychics, though it seems as if you've chosen another path.
They're just stories, rumors really. I don't see ghosts.
Her reply is curt, yet casual. Her past is behind her. She evidently likes to keep it that way.
What they call "ghosts" are just pneuma, or say, a kind of arcane energy fluctuation. They exist, but not as some shimmering spirits; they're more like a cool breeze.
But, hey, people believe what they wanna believe. Kids and adults too, I guess.
Everybody's got unfinished business with the dead, so they want me to see ghosts. They believe it. That way, they've still got a chance to say what they never got to.
Ah! My apologies, Ms. Ramona. You're right. It was nothing but wishful thinking.
He unconsciously lets his eyes fall on her Vigiles Bureau attaché badge. It holds no authority, but it sets the tone of their conversation.
So, is there something I can do for you?
An arrow, a bow, and a net.
According to the Codex Chimalpahin, these are the gifts given to the Aztecs by the sun god Huitzilopochtli.
It's got the emblem of the Turquoise Serpent Club, too.
Which is the biggest smuggling ring in Mexico City, controlled by that arcanist Pérez.
She tucks away the scrap of cloth.
Can't be too many folks around who know you work for him. But those occult paintings at his club had to come from someone, yeah?
But your boss's been acting strange the last few weeks, right? More cutthroat than ever. He's planning something big, everyone knows it, and an auction to the tune of an "Ancient Bloody Civilization" is the best way to start it.
Hm, then it is true. Nothing in this city escapes you.
And should I presume this interrogation has been commissioned by the Vigiles Bureau?
The Vigiles? Nah, what do you take me for?
You think I shed a single tear over "injustice"? Think I care about your boss's little auction? Nah. You and I both know that arcanist gangs aren't to be messed with, and I'm not in the business of making messes.
But strange things are brewing in the shadows.
On street corners, behind people's smiles, in the boarded-up buildings.
The pneuma is stirring up all around town.
Hovering over the city like a shroud, echoing in every howl and shriek in the night.
Like nothing I've ever felt before. Who knows what'll happen if things stay this way?
It's your arcane gift warning you about the coming crisis.
I wouldn't call it a gift, especially when you're born into a so-called "psychic" family.
She leaves it at that, unwilling to say more.
Look, I know you know something about these arcane murders. There's already been five of them. And it's gotta have something to do with these weird spikes in the pneuma.
That's how I found these symbols, left behind at one of the crime scenes.
So, I wanna know the connection between the club and these killings.
She wrestles the question out, realizing she's about to step far deeper into this growing mess than intended.
If they are indeed related, that is, if it truly is the Turquoise Serpent Club who's responsible, what will you do?
I'm not paid to solve crimes. The Vigiles got plenty of investigators. If they can't figure things out, that's on them.
Have to admire someone willing to go above and beyond their duty.
A gentle smile flickers across his face, then fades just as fast.
But I must apologize, miss.
You know I work for the club. And you know that means I can't provide any help.
That so? Didn't expect you to be so loyal.
If I remember, you used to be a plain old pigment supplier, until Pérez started snatching up every artist in town. I figured you didn't come into the job willingly. Was I wrong?
You're not so different from those other artists, really. Just a little more flexible. That's why Pérez gave you a longer leash.
If they can prove Pérez guilty, the Vigiles will—
I'm afraid it's time for you to leave. This conversation will remain between us. You have my word.
...
She rolls her eyes, though the emotion is as much directed at herself as Añil. Playing detective isn't in her job description.
Hm. Sorry for wasting your time. See you later.
The Day of the Dead is coming.
Please, take some decorations with you. I wouldn't have you leave empty-handed.
Heh. Quite the salesman, huh? Still making deals even now.
She takes the candle with a smirk and tosses two Sharpodonties his way.
The little house in her dusty, long-forgotten cemetery, the quiet of her coffin—a familiar place to unwind after work.
—Usually. Tonight, however, she'll find no such rest.
Ms. Ramona, you're back! How'd your investigation go?
The guy you went to see—is he a friend, or one of your informants? I knew there was something else going on.
What're you still doing here?
When I said "Don't follow me," I didn't mean "Camp out at my place and jump me later."
Oh, I know. It must have been one of your ghost buddies.
I don't have ghost buddies.
*sigh* It's the symbols we found at the crime scene: an arrow, a bow, and a net. They're the symbols of a powerful smuggling ring.
The Turquoise Serpent Club ... I know a guy who I thought was being forced to work for 'em.
I see, I see. Then, everything's going well, then? Ha, lucky us.
Don't get your gears all spun up.
He seems way too loyal for someone who's got a gun to his head. I got nothing from him, 'cept this thing.
Take it. Saves you some souvenir shopping. Now beat it.
She tosses the candle to Loggerhead, who scrambles to catch it.
Wow! What's this?
Just a knick-knack.
She pauses, watching as the candle emits a clear sign of arcane fluctuation, no surprise to her in a cemetery filled with spirits, yet it forces her to think.
Wait. I've changed my mind.
Huh?
Loggerhead has barely enough time to register the item in her hand before the exorcist snatches it back.
She places the candle in her palm and studies it closely. Then she puts it away.
I take it back. He might not be as loyal to the club as I thought.
What do you mean?
I'll get you something else to take home.
8. Roaming in America
27 linesThe night of the art auction.
It's already a quarter past twelve—fifteen minutes past their agreed meeting time. Yet the mysterious bandit is a no-show. Añil grows more anxious with every passing minute.
...
A click comes from the side door.
I thought ... Never mind.
Ms. Butterfly, you're late.
Sorry, my "luck" always seems to lead me into trouble.
Once, I was tracking down a woman in Barcelona—an arcanist who was dragged into some Critter lover's parade, I almost broke a leg.
And then in Casablanca, I was a split second from shooting my target dead. But the moment I pulled the trigger, he turned to stone. Turns out his old rival cast a petrifying incantation on him.
Her apology is a half-hearted politeness. She pays him little mind as she stows away the badge she used to pick the lock.
You have quite the intriguing past.
Has the auction started?
Yes. The guests have all arrived.
Excellent. When the lights are all fixed on the stage, it'll be the perfect time to sneak in.
Though, I don't hear a sound. You sure you didn't take me to a funeral by accident?
This isn't the auction venue.
The forger leads her toward the giant Sun Stone exhibit.
After the Spanish conquered Tenochtitlán, the new archbishop buried the Sun Stone, a symbol of Aztec civilization, to erase their "pagan heresy."
The stone was rediscovered in 1790 during repairs to the Mexico City Cathedral.
Thus it's said that the Cathedral was built on the Templo Mayor of the Aztec civilization.
Don't tell me this massive rock above me is the only genuine artifact in the building.
What will you say next? That you stole it from the museum?
Haha, of course not.
It's merely another forgery to decorate the club. When foreign buyers feel immersed in an "exotic ancient civilization," they start to loosen their purse strings.
I joined its production, not certain I was entirely successful in recreating its complex color.
This Sun Stone is the entrance to the auction.
If you will, miss, I believe you know how to activate it.
9. "Elysium" of Art
114 linesA line of pure energy flows along the earth toward a green land deep in the valley—their destination.
A flash of light cuts through the darkness.
The world spins.
Urgh! Pull yourself together. Where are you?
Double vision, heart palpitations, loss of perception of time and space, inability to distinguish dreams from reality. These are all common side effects.
Take three deep breaths and wait for them to pass. *panting* Take some medication distilled from agave.
The rush of teleportation gives way to the faint buzz of the microphone and the chattering din of a lively room.
Here we are, the auction site, Ms. Butterfly.
Miss, are you alright? Miss?
But there's no one beside him. The mysterious intruder has already melted into the crowd.
...
Seems I can only wish you good luck.
Onstage, the club's owner boasts through the speakers about the items at auction, yet curiously, remains hidden from view behind a tall screen.
Distinguished Pipiltin, my ancient noble guests—
Welcome to the Turquoise Serpent Club!
You, fine receivers of our invitation, are the descendants of gods and the true masters of the city! And so, tonight, we will have a feast of the arts, for arcanists only!
The invitees burst into applause. Arcanist smugglers, gangsters, and government officials alike rub elbows on the club's dance floor.
Masters of the city, huh? I like the sound of that. This guy knows what he's doing. Must have some good stuff to sell.
It's said that there's nothing he can't find or do within the confines of the city.
You have any idea of the money this guy made smuggling alchemical materials? Enough to make the people living in the Palace of Iturbide jealous, I'll say that!
Everyone here wants a slice of his pie.
The club thanks you all for our many pleasant dealings over the years.
In good faith for our future cooperation, I have prepared a series of arcane artworks for your perusal, all as true as gold!
For the fine ladies and gentlemen who are not interested in art, allow me to tell you a little secret. These paintings are only a ticket to the second half of our event.
Buy one piece, and you've won yourself a chance for deeper collaboration and even the opportunity to have a "face-to-face" chat with yours truly.
Ah, but perhaps I should not say "face." I must maintain some of my allure. Haha!
The audience laughs politely on cue.
Now, to introduce our fabulous art pieces, please welcome the rising star of Cubism, a prodigy returning from his studies in France, the greatest painter of the Turquoise Serpent Club. I give you—Muriel!
The first lot is carried onto the stage. At the same time, a boy is shoved in front of the microphone. Beneath the glaring lights, he looks pale and increasingly helpless.
...
Muriel, what are you doing? You're up!
It's called Non-Aristocratic.
The title of this painting is Non-Aristocratic.
He turns toward the auction table timidly. He attempts to gather his thoughts, causing his words to sputter out in broken fragments.
It's inspired by an artist I greatly admire.
"Works that exist only on easels, and all other art loved by intellectuals, are the private property of the aristocracy."
Art belongs to the public. Unfortunately, I was unable to achieve this during my time in the club.
Perhaps that's why I captured María, my tutor and friend, as she created this statue.
Do you see this, Teresita? I know you're here.
He darts his eyes around the room, but no one seems to be paying any attention to his rambling.
The audience is swept up in the exciting news of this opportunity for cooperation.
You heard that? This is a chance to work with him.
If we get distributorship, we're in the big bucks.
Damn! Now everyone wants that lousy artwork. We need to get one no matter what.
Muriel seems even rougher than the last time I saw him.
Sorry, Mr. Pérez.
I don't recall what comes next.
You idiot! I told you to concoct an interesting story, then describe all the expensive materials you used and what arcane skills were involved!
Get him off the stage, now! I won't have my auction ruined by some half-wit boy who's lost his mind.
The incident does little to dampen the audience's enthusiasm. The painting is soon auctioned off at a high price.
Congratulations to the fine lady who just won the bid for this great work!
Our next item is a very special painting. Very, very special indeed.
I'd love to share how I acquired such a fine piece, but I fear that might piss off a couple bigwigs, mm? So I'll keep it zipped, but let me tell you this: this next piece is more than just a painting.
The club's owner revels in the suspense before theatrically calling for the next lot.
Oh, my! Thank goodness!
My prayers have been heard. The soundproof fabric has finally been removed!
I-I'll stay quiet this time; you have my word. In fact, I'll be utterly silent unless spoken to.
An Awakened!
What am I looking at exactly? Is that a face?
Onstage, the painting mutters to herself.
Ah, this light is rather dazzling. I feel a little faint.
I must say, this really isn't the right sort of place to store a painting.
Wait, am I on a stage? Why are you all looking at me?
What on earth is going on here?
Moments earlier, Lorentz Butterfly slipped away from Añil and into the crowd; now in short order, she finds herself backstage.
The air here feels different.
It's moist. This place is full of plants.
Not enough to gather the specifics of the location, but we've gone quite some way from central Mexico City.
Explains why I never found much there.
She slinks along the empty hallway.
Auction's started. Mr. Pérez has taken the stage.
*sigh* Wish I was sitting down there. I hear they're giving out unlimited drinks. I could use a tequila.
"Taken the stage," hah. He's still hiding behind that screen.
What?
I said what I said. Don't you think it's strange?
Ever since that fire last month, he hasn't shown his face.
Hmm. You didn't hear? Mr. Pérez thinks it was an inside job.
There's no way someone else got into the gallery that night. It could only have been one of his higher-ups.
Still hasn't sniffed out the rat, though, so he's being extra careful for now.
Yeah, what do I look like, a moron? Of course I know! But what I'm saying is, he hasn't talked to anyone face-to-face. No one! Luisa, Javier, Pablo ... They can't all be traitors!
Leila said she heard some weird sounds coming from Mr. Pérez's room when she was on night patrol. More than once.
She said it sounded like some kind of scurrying thing was moving inside the walls.
A monster in the walls?
I'll bet he got burned bad in that fire and doesn't want anyone to see.
Hey, I dare you to sneak backstage and find out.
You crazy? I'm staying put right here. There's no bet worth risking my neck.
I could do you both the favor—find out what happened to him.
Whether taking her as an attendee or a guard they don't recognize, the two of them momentarily don't think past the helpful offer.
No kidding. Hah. You'd do that? That'd be great!
You should really be calling him "Mr. Pérez" here in the club though.
Wait, who are you?
A shame, really. The two patrollers she put down can't exactly say thank you.
She steps over her new "friends" and heads toward the club's backstage.
A talking painting, you say? Don't let your eyes fool you! This is an arcanist!
An Awakened from the Bateau-Lavoir, in Montmartre, Paris!
There's no one behind the screen.
What's going on here?
Yet the nonexistent "club owner" continues hawking their art as if nothing had happened.
This is the artist's understanding of the essence of the world: a reconstruction of reality, the beauty of an unconventional brushstroke!
And, perhaps what may interest you much more: we have discovered that within the frame of this painting, there is a vast pocket of hidden space!
Lorentz Butterfly scans the room, finding a small, unremarkable machine off to the side.
Codes, a translator, a speaker ... The learned member of the Institutum Lorentz identifies their purpose at a glance.
A space where you might store whatever you like, so long as it isn't breathing.
Conspicuous arcane materials, controlled items, or even your rival's severed head!
The greatest of all secret safes, not simply behind the painting, but rather, inside the painting!
An audio production machine, a cupboard, and—
A faint noise emerges from the pile of notes.
Who is this woman?
And how did she get back here? For God's sake, get her out of here!
Ha. Seems I've found the real Mr. Pérez.
10. Alguien que anda por ahí
84 linesThe teleportation ritual drops them midair, leaving Loggerhead to tumble to the ground in a clatter of metal.
The auction has just begun. Impassioned words from behind the screen heat up the atmosphere, drawing every eye to the stage.
Get up and quit quivering.
Oh, right, right. We need to look like regular guests here.
So we take a seat, cheer and clap with the others, raise a paddle to bid some small amount that nothing will ever sell for.
That way, we won't catch too much attention. Just do enough to slip by! Reminds me of a movie from 1928.
Shut it. Just shut it. I swear if you bring up another movie plot, I will sock you.
She only intended to get the camera-headed girl's nerves in check, but her sharp words catch the attention of a guest nearby.
Pardon me, ladies, but have you never attended an auction before?
Um, no. I mean, we kinda know what's going on, but ...
Don't you worry yourself over us, miss.
Oh, don't get me wrong. I mean no offense. Actually, this is my first time too.
Not so brushed up on the rules myself, let alone the argots.
The woman turns to them with a gentle smile. She fidgets with her handkerchief, looking a little lost.
Then what brings a lady like you here?
You were invited like everyone else, right? You must know you're on gang turf.
Yes, miss, that I do know. However, I have my reasons for coming.
Camila, my daughter, suffers from a rare disease. Her body rejects its own arcane power.
Her blood is escaping her body. There's nothing we can do to stop it.
I have visited every arcane doctor in the city, and not one of them has a clue. They take it as a horrible and unbreakable curse. My dear Camila, there's not much time left for her.
Oh, I'm so sorry, ma'am.
It's alright, truly. On one of my desperate visits to priests and witches while I was searching after a rumor about a miracle cure, I happened upon some smugglers.
They told me I'd find what I was looking for at the Turquoise Serpent Club.
And now, it seems spending just a few pesos on some art could win me a chance to strike a deal with the biggest smuggler in the city. As long as I find a phoenix feather, there is still hope for my dear child.
The woman finds herself getting increasingly worked up. Realizing she's on the verge of tears, she stops herself.
Oh, where are my manners? I'm talking your ears off.
You seem quite unlike the other guests here.
We've all come here with a purpose. Some of us are desperate to achieve those goals by any means necessary. Please be careful.
Same to you, ma'am. Hope your daughter gets better soon.
Thank you very much. Hm? Is it raining outside, or did a leak just spring? It suddenly smells damp.
In the dim room, she clutches her handkerchief tight as her breathing grows heavy.
I ... I ...
*gasp* What's happening to me?
She-She can't breathe!
The camera-headed girl reaches out to steady the woman, but Ramona seizes her arm.
Don't touch her! Something's off here.
The arcane power squeezing her is too strong! It'll suck you in if you get too close!
I see a lake ... water ... and something below ... It's strange and so very deep ...
Ah ... Oh ... Camila ...
Her gentle features twist in agony as she chokes for air. Rough gasps escape her throat like a broken bellows.
Then, all at once, she stops breathing.
No, no, no! Don't! Ma'am! What on earth is going on?!
She collapses to the floor, drawing the attention of those nearby. The crowd draws a wide, panicked circle around her.
Oh! What's happening over there?
Someone's fallen! My God. She's ... She's not breathing!
Murder! Murder!!
Panic spreads through the room.
Soon enough, every eye in the room turns toward the exorcist and the camera-headed girl.
Drowned without a drop of water, just like all the others.
The murderer must be someone in the auction house.
The question is, who?
You filthy murderer!
Dirty thug!
Intruder! Bandit! Robber!
This room's a bit small for all five, wouldn't you say?
The unbothered murderer, thug, intruder, bandit, and robber raises an eyebrow.
Are you finished with your whining? It's time for you to choose your interrogation method.
Good news: You're in safe hands. I'm quite skilled at peeling people while keeping them alive.
Bad news: I've never tried these techniques on a mouse!
How about something more sleek, modern. Electrocution, perhaps?
She mutters to herself as she rummages through her case.
Before her, the mice huddle together in a trembling ball. At last, the largest of them squeaks out.
S-Stop! What kind of interrogation is this?!
You haven't even asked a question! This is pure torture!
Given your connection to the murders in the city, I think the means justify the ends.
You think I know which ones you're talking about? The club makes trouble "disappear" every week!
But that's just how things go in this business!
So please, Ms. Giant, please calm down! I'll tell you whatever you want. Just ask me!
Alright, then I have some questions.
She reluctantly puts away her tools, eyeing the mice with a half-smile.
How did you become "Mr. Pérez," and what is the connection between the club and Manus Vindictae, and—
Where do you ship your special mineral pigment?
I need the type you smuggle for the Manus. Give me all you have. Every ounce.
That pigment? You're after it too.
The eager mouse representative is cut off.
Something seems to have gone wrong in the audience. Screams and frantic footsteps follow.
Mr. Pérez! Mr. Pérez!
A guest has just died in the auction house! Can't believe someone had the guts to off her on our turf!
Wasn't any ordinary death, either. Folks are saying it's another of those serial killings!
The whole place is in chaos. We've got guests asking us to open the teleportation ritual so they can leave. Ms. Luisa wants to know your orders.
Wait, what are you two doing lying around here? You're supposed to be on duty!
In the backstage hallway, the unconscious patrollers are discovered.
11. Scream
99 linesThe reluctant detective strains to recall every detail amid the chaos.
The murderer's gotta be somewhere in the auction house. That's the only way they could control their arcane skill so exactly.
Golly. You don't mean to say that the murderer's somewhere in this room?
Her reels skip in shock, nearly coming out of place.
The ritual might've been set ahead of time. All they had to do was wait for their prey to fall into the trap.
Prey? Right. The killer must have a reason for this, right? But what?
She was here for the auction. Oh, heck! They must be killing off club members!
Please, I'm still thinking things through.
If all the victims were known club members, the Vigiles wouldn't have been running around in circles. It's too obvious.
I may not like them very much, but those Vigiles aren't half as thick as the Foundation. Some of them aren't even half-bad.
Hey! We aren't dummies either.
Her protest isn't noted as Ramona carries on.
But there's one more question that gotta be answered.
What is this ritual exactly? The energy around it was huge, but they were able to cast it without anyone noticing. That takes true skill.
There's gotta be some clues around here!
She looks around. Chairs lie on their sides. People rush for the exits. Lights flicker and shake.
The air is filled with curses, screams, and twisted pneuma, while a bitter, biting wind scratches at her senses. She remains clueless.
A smuggler's sudden accusation only makes the situation worse.
Hey, you two. Yeah, you! I saw what you did!
Don't act like you're innocent.
You were talking to her just before she died.
You must have killed her. You're from the Foundation. You're here to kill us all so you can take over the underground arcane materials racket.
...
Ramona gives up her train of thought to deal with the escalating situation.
See? This is why I didn't want you tagging along, Metal Head.
Hey, that's not fair. I've helped you a lot, like, like, um ...
You're not gonna leave me behind, are you?
Guards! These two right here! Take them down!
You're trapped in the Turquoise Serpent Club now. There's no escape.
I hate fighting!
Another attacker falls. Out of breath, she lowers the exorcism tool she's been using as a makeshift weapon.
*pant* I'm not a fan of making new crime scenes, especially when I'm the one that's going to have to take care of them later.
We gotta get out of here before we draw any more attention. Latham! Hey, Metal Head!
Loggerhead doesn't respond.
Instead, her attention is drawn to a faint cry for help coming from the stage.
Help!
Please, my dear clubmates, do not leave me here all alone!
Take me away. Throw me back to the deepest, darkest corner of the warehouse. I promise, I'll not say a word about it.
That painting, she's an Awakened.
The club has descended into bedlam, with no one around to pay any attention to the increasingly frantic painting.
Oh, Badía, I know you!
You remember me, don't you? The painting from the northwest corner of the warehouse. Next to Antonia and the Cactus Cat.
A grubby corner, I must say, haunted, even. None dare walk it but you. You always volunteer to patrol the area, so the others call you a freak.
But I know why. It's so that you can write those letters to your love in private.
Ah. Zip it, you overgrown doodle! I don't wanna hear another word!
In the dim light and madness, the auction stage seems like an island of refuge.
Can we take her with us?
Her? You mean the painting?
You outta your mind? She's in the middle of the stage with a goddamn spotlight on her. We may as well get up there and say, "Hey, come get us!"
And dying for a blabbermouth painting is not worth what I get paid.
But we can't just leave her there!
She isn't just some arcane tool. She's a living arcanist! She doesn't deserve to be bought and sold like an object!
Loggerhead charges onto the platform.
A gunshot rings out. A bullet skims across her metallic body.
Ramona, don't worry about me.
I'm an Awakened. So, they can't hurt me so easily, at least not with normal bullets.
...
Heh, guess I forgot it for a second, like I forgot how impulsive you can be.
At least tell me you've got a plan.
What are you gonna do next? I'll cover you.
Oh, hey! We're like those partners in the detective movies.
*exhale* Focus, Latham. You're a seasoned Foundation employee, an outstanding senior member of the Arcanum Containment Department.
I grabbed a load of arcane tools before I left. I've gotta have something useful.
My reels, film developer, Critter-Be-Gone potion, recording plant, infinitely looping drugstore receipt, Encyclopedia of Mexico, seasoning packets, hand-cranked rechargeable battery ...
You're made of steel. The hell you need seasoning packets for?
Just how much crap did you bring with you?
Invisible cloak, crystal phial, sextant, Kangaroo Foam No. 5 Fire Extinguisher ... Ah, here it is!
Thank goodness the receptionist lady turned down my request to check the disks.
Flustered, she pulls that teleport disk from her pocket and thinks of a destination.
Teleport!
They disappear all at once from the scene, leaving the club in an uproar.
Damn it! They escaped.
And they took that painting with them.
So they are here to sabotage the auction. Those Foundation bastards—can never trust them!
Well, at least we're safe from them now. Still, seems like it's time to leave.
Or is the auction still on? Are you letting us leave or not, Mr. Pérez?
Have you lost it? This auction's a disaster, a joke, I tell you.
I intend to have a long talk with Mr. Pérez after this.
I can't stay here any longer. For goodness sake, a woman just died!
With the apparent murderers gone, the club settles into an uneasy quiet, whispers spread, and people begin to search for an exit.
At last, the club's security takes the stage and provides the necessary, if foregone, conclusion.
We're sorry to inform you that today's auction has been put on hold.
Mr. Pérez was injured in the chaos and is currently unable to host the auction.
Ms. Luisa has asked us to take everyone out through the emergency exit.
This way, ma'am.
Oh, thank you.
%￥#@*…
The "frightened guest" presses down on her case to muffle the alarmed squeaks coming from inside.
Pardon the noise. I'm allergic to the glow of arcane skills, so I always carry some fresh mandrake with me. Their juice can ease the pain.
Though they can be a little rambunctious.
No need to explain, ma'am. The Turquoise Serpent Club respects the privacy of our members.
Go through this door. It'll take you back to central Mexico City.
Realizing the futility of their situation, the tiny voices in the case finally fall quiet.
...
Thank you, sir.
12. Box-Bound Ruler
142 linesPerformers and audience members leave one by one. The wild night falls back into silence.
Under the dark sky, a person carrying secrets takes a careful, winding path before knocking on the side of a courtyard gate.
I've come as requested, Ms. Butterfly.
I ensured I wasn't followed by any—
I have cameras set up. I would've known if you were. Shut up and get in.
We've been waiting here for an hour.
"We"?
We have company. Your employer, in fact. Allow me to introduce you to "Mr. Pérez."
The mysterious mastermind behind the Turquoise Serpent Club.
She smiles and opens the battered pigment case in front of her.
The mice, waiting for this moment, lunge out in a desperate attack against their kidnapper.
This is our chance, my children! Kill the bipedal monster!
The pointless fight ends. Bruised and battered, the little mice are tossed back into the case.
Argh! Kitty claws! Just who the hell are you, biped?!
Did Cruz send you? Oh, I get it now. You're with Miguel, aren't you?
He's bent out of shape about the auction. Thinks I'm stepping on his block. Tch!
How much did he pay you, huh? I'll offer double, no, triple! Or are you with the government? If so, I'm open to negotiating a very handsome price for your cooperation.
Huh, it's hard not to find the sight of a rodent begging for its life amusing.
The smile she flashes down at them borders on unhinged. In response, the pleading mouse turns to the other face.
Wait a second. You—I know you, boy! You're Añil, the one I hired to forge paintings for the club!
How dare you betray me, you furless cretin!
Miss, you really mean to claim that they are Pérez?
The legendary Pérez, the feared boss who controls the Turquoise Serpent Club and most of Mexico City's black market with an iron fist?
A wave of absurdity washes over him, though he can't bring himself to laugh.
An iron fist, gripped in the paws of a few tiny mice.
If I'm correct, these little troublemakers managed to replace the real Pérez about a month ago.
Since then, they've stayed hidden, mimicking Pérez's voice from behind a screen. No one's noticed until now.
No wonder the club's started making so many strange moves.
Yes. Under their leadership, the club has absorbed several gangs and expanded its influence in the black market. It was their idea to start forging all those paintings and hold the auction.
Hm. If you ask me, they've far outdone the original Pérez.
Oh, the irony. Any tears coming?
...
He refuses to answer.
Oye, you're right. The club's recent success is all thanks to me.
See what we mice can do? How great we are! No one knows how to run a gang better than a rodent.
You know why? Because you giant two-leggers don't have a head for this business, while we brilliant burrowers were born to rule the underground.
I don't recall asking for your opinion.
Come to think of it, I need only one mouse for my purposes, one that's quiet and obedient.
As for the rest, I happen to have a colleague who enjoys nothing more than feasting on rats. Eight of them, actually. We're not close, but I'm sure you'd make a perfect gift.
She hovers her hand over the case, letting her fingers dangle above them menacingly and fall like a claw machine in search of a toy.
W-W-Wait! Leave my children out of this, please!
I-I apologize for my rudeness, miss. Clearly, you're an extraordinary arcanist, unlike most of your cheese-brained kind.
You deserve to rule the underworld just as much as I do. I'll gladly hand you this club on a silver platter if that's what you desire.
It is exactly what she wants to hear. In a split second, her face turns from menace to quiet satisfaction.
Hm. Rodents are quite adaptable when they need to be.
But I'm not interested in running a gang.
Surely there's something I can help you with, miss. You're looking for a pigment, aren't you?
I'll tell you everything I know, all of it, just as long as you guarantee my children's safety.
Though the odds of finding that particular arcane pigment again are a million to one. In any case, let's start from the beginning.
We mice are, of course, far superior to all humankind. I don't refute it. But not every mouse has got the smarts that my family does. What made my children and me so special, you ask? It all began with a squeak-tacular accident.
On a frightening, fateful night, as I ran for my life from a snarling hellbeast, the true nemesis of mousekind, I found myself in an unfamiliar room.
The floor was so clean I nearly slipped, and the furniture gave off a rich, soothing scent. But the walls above, good heavens, they were covered with the heads of beasts beyond any counting!
Still, I pulled myself together and climbed up onto the dining table, hoping to find something to eat. Who would have thought there'd be nothing but a small plate of glowing pigment up there?
The pigment looked odd, I admit, but my hunger overtook my fear, so I ate it. And the moment it touched my tongue, the world as I knew it fell away.
For the first time in my life, I had other thoughts beyond mating and eating, beyond survival! Thoughts that only true intelligence could evoke!
I stayed there for a couple more days, and thanks to my keen eye, I learned I was in this Pérez's office, and that he ran half of Mexico City's smuggling business.
A strange masked person in a black robe brought him that miraculous substance. It seems, at their request, Pérez was using a lumber mill as a front while they extracted a unique silver ore from Valle de Lágrimas—the Vale of Tears.
The masked person refined the ore into a pigment and had it shipped far away, to lands they called "Yu-Rope" and "Yu-Ess." And in return, the club received a portion of it.
To get my hands on the pigment, and Pérez's smuggling business on the side, I staged a coup. We replaced him without even breaking a sweat.
Further proof that you bipeds are far duller than us brilliant, quadrupedal mice!
Everything was going smoothly, and we had a steady supply of pigment, until that masked stranger up and vanished, taking the secret to its creation with them!
I turned the city upside down, trying to track them down. I thought no one could hide themselves from me.
But they did—poof! Gone without a trace. Like they never even existed.
The little mouse finishes with an excited flourish. Her listeners pause, each deep in contemplation. Añil speaks first.
It must be because of the Vale of Tears' silver ore. I've heard of it before.
The locals called the place the Man-Eating Maw. Every miner who ventured into its tunnels never returned.
In the 18th century, there was a massive mine collapse. No one's managed to find any silver there since.
Rumor is the silver they found there shimmers with an extraordinary glow and is highly malleable, two qualities that make it an exceptionally rare alchemical material.
But I've never heard of it being made into a pigment, let alone it being used to grant mice intelligence.
As I'm sure you've noticed, miss, my children, they no longer speak as I do.
It seems the intelligence granted by the pigment must be maintained through regular consumption.
Without it, they've turned back into ordinary mice, one after the other.
The young mice stare up at their mother with blank faces, frightened but unaware.
The same tragedy will befall me soon. I can feel it. Whether in a month or a matter of weeks.
No, I won't let that happen.
That explains your recent desperation.
Rushing the auction, expanding your smuggling operation, all in search of a substitute for this arcane pigment.
But your efforts were in vain. How sad, hmph.
Oye, miss, you think rubbing salt in a victim's wound is fun?
It is one of my hobbies.
So, Manus Vindictae must've last appeared about a month ago.
She puts it together quickly. All of this must have happened shortly after the "Storm" reset the era to the 1920s.
Manus Vindictae arrived, already aware of the hidden mine that had yet to be discovered during this period, with the alchemical knowledge necessary to refine its bounty into the very mineral pigment that she had been searching for.
The Institutum researcher weighs her next move.
I will help you. But you need to tell me the exact identities of every Manus member who's dealt with the club.
Well, it's not that I don't want to tell you, but even I, the ever-resourceful Pérez, know little about them. I doubt you'll be able to smoke them out either.
Still doubtful but very much cowed with fear, she takes out a list and hands it over.
Calvaire, Richard Lenoir, Ledru-Rollin, Fitzwilliam, Taira, Diggers ...
Just aliases, not their real names.
Deliberately cryptic aliases at that! Freakish bipeds.
They came to this city discreetly, disguised as tourists, journalists, or some harmless arcane society members.
They never stayed long. Once a batch of pigment was ready, they vanished soon after. I even asked a friend in the government to help track them down, but they couldn't find any trace of them.
Lorentz Butterfly scans through the names, searching for a glimmer of recognition.
Fitzwilliam? That fellow claimed to be a "cultural journalist" who came to the city to write reports about local festivals.
He isn't just good with a pen, though. He's a skilled smuggler. So skilled, in fact, that his slippery fingers also made off with quite a few valuables from my club.
Ah yes, that report.
It seems likely that to get the foreign diplomat to agree to the interview, he offered him something from the club as a gift.
Our "Mr. Darcy" has already left the city, but the diplomat will stay until the end of the festival.
The key to everything lies in that gift.
The gift? Why bother with that? Isn't the pigment what we're really after?
Or do you mean the diplomat is a Manus member too? Is the gift itself the pigment?
Once we find the answer to one, we'll uncover the answer to the other.
I-If you're sure we're on the right track, I'll do all I can to help you out.
Our grand operation to retake the pigment will start at sunrise tomorrow. No, make that now. What are you waiting for? Free me so I can gather my men and—
You're not going anywhere, Mr. Pérez.
The correction comes with a cold smile.
You won't be part of this operation. And don't even dream about freedom until I get my hands on the pigment.
Better pray I solve this before you lose the last of your wits like your kids.
No! You can't do this to me, you two-legged demon!
She lowers the lid of the pigment case down, slow yet firm, until their cries become muffled squeaks once more. Then she flips the latch down.
She walks to the window to take in the last moments of the night.
A dry night wind blows through the city as the day dawns on the Day of the Dead. The mask of menace she had worn through her interrogation is gone entirely. All that's left is a woman staring out a window, content but unsmiling.
You seem confident, Ms. Butterfly.
You've already found some critical clues pointing to things beyond this pigment, haven't you?
Yes, something that connects all the murders.
And a soon-to-be victim. Alive, for the time being.
Incredible! You pieced it all together from just a single glance at that list?
But shouldn't you do something right away? You might still be able to save them.
In response, she passes him the list dryly over her shoulder.
"Save them"? Why would I do that?
Don't bother trying to figure me out. Wastes both our time. The murders, the Vigiles, the gangs, and this whole underground world mean nothing to me.
This drama will draw its curtain tomorrow, All Souls' Day, when the city's residents welcome back their departed faithful.
Interrupting such a heartfelt occasion would just be cruel, don't you think?
No, I'll infiltrate the diplomat's mansion tomorrow night and attend the festival myself, though I guarantee you won't be able to find me in the crowd.
When the killer strikes and the audience screams, I'll be sitting in the best seat in the house.
And prove, as always, that my deductions are flawless.
I think I see your reasoning now, Ms. Butterfly.
The large device she carries makes an audible hum, only noticeable in the silence between them.
Pardon me for asking, but what is this device you're carrying about?
A "Demonic Scale"-based additive manufacturing machine, powered by tens of thousands of arcane skills operating simultaneously.
I've never seen such technology.
In layman's terms, you might think of it as a kind of automatic arcane printer for physical items.
But it's merely a prop for tomorrow night's performance.
An ornate letter engraved on its casing catches his eye.
M, the initial of your name, isn't it, miss?
What does it stand for? Mystery? Madness? Magic?
Each guess slides off of her unanswered.
Mary? Mia? Mona, perhaps?
M—
Marguerite.
13. Code of Silence
123 lines
Marguerite!
Hmm?
Explain what you're doing out here.
The year is 1987, just after the second "Storm."
A cold wind sweeps across the Siberian ice fields, lifting snow from the frozen ground and carrying it far away.
Nothing.
One of them, a girl, has the same name as me.
She wipes away the writing left in the snow.
Have you forgotten the Hush Squad's number-one rule? No communication with mission targets!
When the LT assigned you to my squad, he said you had the right stuff to be an excellent Hush Trooper.
Said you could spot a target in a ghillie suit from two kilometers away.
More importantly, he said you were smart. So be smart, and don't meddle in things that aren't your concern, understand?
Mm-hmm.
Break's over. Let's move.
Marguerite lifts her rifle and trudges behind her commander into the blistering wind. At last, they arrive at the transport vehicle.
What's going on? Why aren't we moving?
It's the engine. Not even our warming incantation can manage against this cold.
We might have to stop and spend the night here.
The subordinate reports, shivering.
Unacceptable!
We're still at least three days from the Loop Laboratory's relay station. We can't afford to lose another. We have to get these transfers done on schedule.
Or there's no guarantee we'll have enough time to take shelter when the "Storm" hits.
But I think the deserters need some time to rest as well. Most of them have fallen ill.
If we keep going like this, they might not make it to the destination.
I think they could use some sleep and proper medica—
That is above your pay grade, trooper. We were ordered to transfer these deserters dead or alive.
Their commander snaps at her before she can finish.
Marguerite, go fix the engine.
I'll contact Command to confirm the location of our nearest post. I want this convoy burning rubber by the end of the hour. Understood?
Yes, ma'am.
Without a word, Marguerite inspects the broken engine. Nearby, Larisa looks worried.
*sigh* Sure is cold up near the mines, huh?
If I hadn't joined Zeno, I'd probably be sitting in a warm classroom right now.
*sigh* I wonder what university life is like.
Don't dream too much. University can be just as strange as anywhere else.
The distant young woman keeps her gaze lowered.
Back in 1999, I was auditing a philosophy class at Cambridge, just to watch some bird-headed professor declare out-of-the-blue that teaching philosophy was an absurd profession.
He quit and joined the Laplace Scientific Computing Center.
Haha, that's a good one—going to university in 1999. How old would you have been? 13? 14?
How'd a prodigy like you end up stuck in the Hush Squad?
Could be I just enjoy the work. It's calming.
Could be that I hope someday to find my purpose here.
Marguerite slams the hood shut, and the engine roars to life.
Yeah, sure, if walking across an ice field at forty below isn't calming, I don't know what is.
Study your target, predict their movement, track them down, and then ...
She mimics firing a gun with her hand.
That's what makes you calm? You've got to be joking.
Yeah, just joking.
*sigh* All I wanted was to join the Flying Witches.
Then why are you here, stealing intel and carrying out assassinations?
The lieutenant promised that the Hush Squad comes with a generous salary and death benefits.
You know, at the time, my mom was sick.
And then, the "Storm" struck. Guess I didn't really need the money in the end.
A short, dry laugh escapes her lips, but Marguerite doesn't match it.
Do you have any idea what this Loop Laboratory does, Marguerite?
We've transferred over a hundred deserters there since summer, but I've never seen any of them come back out.
Probably none of my business. I once helped with a Zeno recruitment drive in a war zone. I saw a lot of things there.
Those soldiers, they lost everything in the war. They only joined Zeno because they heard they'd get proper meals, not exactly what I'd call willing recruits.
These arcanist deserters we've been moving, they just weren't ready to face death yet.
Marguerite, I'm telling you this because I trust you.
I know what it does.
Huh? What do you mean?
The Loop Laboratory.
It has another name: the Amber Room.
At the end of the battle in 1999, a massive number of soldiers were lost to the "Storm." It was a devastating blow to Zeno's military strength.
From then on, the higher-ups have been trying to find a woman named Urd, or to be exact, the woman she was before being reversed by the "Storm."
That's why they built the Loop Laboratory near the Don River. It's a facility that can resist the "Storm."
The "deserters" aren't being transferred there for any ordinary training or dry runs.
The things they do to the deserters' bodies involve unprecedented arcane powers related to the "Storm" itself.
Before she realizes it, the listener's back is damp with cold sweat.
I-I don't think I understand. How do you know all this?
I read the classified files sealed in Warehouse 0 at headquarters.
You went into Warehouse 0?! They could have shot you just for stepping in there! Tell me you're just joking!
You got me again.
Larisa breathes out a sigh of relief.
I've got another joke: sometimes I eavesdrop on Zeno's encrypted telegrams, just for fun.
The problem is, the encryption patterns are so repetitive that cracking them's become boring.
*sigh* I honestly can't tell which of your jokes is more disturbing.
The European branches have been bending over backwards to look for the original copies of The Tome of Mercury and The Path to Truth.
But to find their owners—the famous Cavendish family of alchemists, we'll need the "Storm" to take us further back in time.
Meanwhile, a squad from the Buenos Aires branch has been searching for a rare arcane metal, likely a special silver ore from Mexico's Vale of Tears.
And the Egypt branch has sent Roar Lion Tails and Sacred Scarab Wings to the Loop Laboratory in droves.
Larisa searches for some clear meaning to what she's hearing.
But what does all this mean? What are they trying to achieve?
I'm not sure, but one thing's for certain: it's all connected to the Loop Laboratory's arcane experiments.
To find the truth behind the "Storm."
All those experiments ... They must have found something, right?
No, Larisa, not even close.
Her face is expressionless, emotionless, almost blank.
All signs point to a goal coveted by every alchemist, a feat humanity has never succeeded in achieving.
It's hardly surprising they're still groping in the dark, looking for a key object, a step, or more likely, a person.
And these so-called "deserters"? Fodder. Even if they survive the experiments, they'll just be thrown out to face the next "Storm."
No way.
I probably shouldn't ask, Marguerite, but, what did you mean by "so-called"?
Marguerite seizes on the question, reading her comrade's nerves with her eyes.
You've guessed already, haven't you?
Guessed what? What are you trying to say?
That these poor wretches are anything but "deserters."
Apparently, they were unfortunate enough to meet the experiment criteria, so Zeno fabricated their desertion charges and had them sent to the laboratory.
So, you know the truth. What are you going to do?
She has her on the edge, precisely where she wants her to be, but it isn't quite enough yet to push her over.
*deep breath* I-I don't know. I need some time to think.
In any case, I think I'll take some time to give the deserters. I mean, whatever I mean, I'll give them some medication so they can at least survive the journey there.
I know you won't stop me, Marguerite.
Marguerite shrugs.
The Hush Trooper unlocks the truck. Inside, thin, sickly teenagers huddle together for warmth.
L-Larisa, will we be there soon?
Everyone's in bad shape, but we've agreed among ourselves we don't want to cause you any more trouble, really.
Fomá and Stepán are asleep now. I just hope their fever subsides.
*sigh* Don't worry. We'll reach our destination in just a few days. There'll be a warm place to stay and plenty of soup and bread.
Sílviya, could you help hand out these antipyretics to anyone who needs them?
Oh, of course. We really can't thank you enough, Larisa.
Footsteps crunch behind her, carried by the whipping wind.
Alright, we just made contact with the Foundation's Far East branch and—
Larisa! Marguerite! What the hell are you doing?
Didn't I say these deserters weren't your concern?
A researcher stands before a derelict-looking office and knocks on the door.
Mr. Ludwig, were you looking for me?
I know I'm a little early, but if I had waited any longer, I would have been caught up by my bothersome fellow researchers again.
Are you in there?
No answer comes. Faint burn marks on the door hint at a severe fire months ago.
Suddenly, the sound of lab equipment crashing echoes from inside.
Umm, Mr. Ludwig?
14. A Typical Laplace Incident
64 linesThe substitute director immediately considers many possibilities: a lab accident, time travel, unstable alchemical elements ...
He pushes the door open and bursts inside.
Several shadowy birds rush toward him, trailing smoke and ash.
Who—are—you?
...?!
<speed=0.2>Seelentausch!
An incantation is cast. The raven familiars lose their arcane connection, fading into mist and disappearing from the cluttered office.
What on ... Great! My colleagues have finally driven me to madness. Took them long enough.
But just what the hell is going on here?
I told them the place needed a full renovation after that fire, but they didn't listen.
Excuse me, Mr. Adler.
During my research on Holiday Language, my soul left my body for a period. Quite the spiritual adventure, I must say.
Since then, my soul has adopted a habit of transferring itself into my familiar at random. As you might imagine, it takes some getting used to—tends to muddle the memory a little too.
I was in the middle of sorting some files when it happened this time.
Concerning, to put it mildly. Perhaps you should have stayed at the rehab center longer.
Oh, no need to worry about me. I've had my share of research accidents. All part of the job.
He takes a moment to straighten his collar.
More importantly, Mr. Adler, have you made any progress on the arcane pigment investigation since our last meeting?
Be it from Institutum Lorentz or the Foundation investigator dispatched at our request.
I did receive a report from Ms. Latham two days ago. She has made contact with the local Vigiles Bureau.
Apparently, some arcanist criminal organization is operating an extensive smuggling ring within Mexico City. It's been hindering her investigation in a number of ways.
I worry for her safety. I do hope the Vigils look after her.
My thought exactly. I've made clear that her own safety is top priority. She should be under the Vigils' protection now.
While we're ruminating on the topic, there's something I feel needs clarification.
I had thought the pigment investigation was a request from the Staff Committee, but you're the only member who has shown any interest in its progress. The request came directly from you, didn't it?
Well deduced, Mr. Adler.
You've heard about the conflict between the internal factions of the Foundation, I assume? Inevitably, its impacts have affected Laplace as well.
After I awoke from my coma at the rehab center, Commissioner Pedra paid me a visit. He warned me that over half of the Staff Committee supports the proposal of a comprehensive policy reform at Laplace.
Should it pass, Laplace may lose its independence and become a full subsidiary of the Foundation.
He asked me to join the Staff Committee and oppose this policy reform. I agreed.
Oh, I see. Then if Laplace develops enough groundbreaking "Storm" technologies before the Foundation does, we can turn the tables on them.
Indeed, it would give us better leverage, if nothing else.
But we don't have much time on our hands.
Their Hawks are gaining support from more commissioners as we speak. For now, all I can do is delay the proposal's review process.
Tch, typical politics.
You once led the Plesetsk branch, Mr. Ludwig, and as I am sure you can see, I have never been one for matters of politics or leadership.
I was only appointed to maximize the chance of preserving and continuing Director Lucy's research.
That is to say, is there any chance we could bring Director Lucy back to Laplace?
Whether possible or not, our first step in either case will be to stop this policy reform.
If Ms. Latham's investigation yields no significant progress soon, all we can do is wait for good news from Lorentz Butterfly.
I'm confident she'll bring us something. She's always been one step ahead.
You sound quite certain of her. But we know nothing about this Lorentz Butterfly aside from a few unorthodox papers and provocative letters.
The bird-headed scientist chooses to remain silent, but the cryptic response proves a poor choice when dealing with an expert cryptologist.
Hmm. It was the year of 1999. At the time, I was a visiting professor at Cambridge University. There was a student in my class, far too brilliant for her exceptionally young age.
The staff told me she wasn't an enrolled student. She simply came every week to attend my lecture.
I had intended to recommend her for admission, but, of course, the "Storm" disrupted everything.
I ended up leaving Cambridge and joining Laplace myself.
After the second "Storm," I paid the university a visit and saw that young lady again.
Are you saying she survived multiple "Storms" on her own?
Yes. Though she didn't share the details, I could tell she was hiding a secret, or running from some serious danger.
She had an exceptional gift for the sciences. Naturally, I invited her to join Laplace.
But from what little we know of her, she's ... dangerous.
I trust you would not mistake me for an idealist, Mr. Adler.
Dangerous as she may be, we need her help, especially in times like these.
That said, should she become completely out of control ...
I hope to be her one and only victim.
You have done little to reassure me, Mr. Ludwig.
But perhaps you're right. We must keep pushing forward at any cost.
Everyone's so doggedly determined. It's time I also mustered the strength to stay the course.
I will continue to monitor Ms. Latham's progress.
15. An Ordinary Citizen
153 linesThe two accused "murderers" at last reach their safehouse to regroup.
Somehow, this empty little hovel, bathed in moonlight in a deserted cemetery, manages to feel cozy and welcoming.
Yeah, yeah, that's right. Oh, about that ...
Could you wait, Mr. Adler? I need a second to replace my reel so I can answer you properly.
Loggerhead speaks into her communicator. Beside her, Ramona sets down their fellow escapee and begins carefully cleaning her of the dirt and dusty footprints she had gathered in the fight.
Oh, your technique is most delicate, my dear lady. Were you once a professional art restorer? Or a collector, perhaps?
No, none of that. I can't say I've got much experience with art. I just expel arcane energy from crime scenes.
Is that so? Well, you should know that I happen to be carrying quite a number of murder weapons and a few corpses within me.
Ah, we did it! The three of us made it out of the serpent's den in one piece. Smile at my camera and say cheese.
Hey, you know what? This reminds me of The Three Musketeers. We're just like them. Oh, if only I could keep investigating with you guys.
"If only"? You got other plans?
Ramona notices the uncertainty in Loggerhead's voice.
N-No, nothing like that. It's just that I don't think I can continue my investigation any time soon.
You see, I need to replace some components in my head, else I could suffer a continuous memory loss. *sigh* The components were supposed to last longer than this.
Yeah, you did. You saved my life.
But you never can tell when a gear will foul up. Ugh, of course the mishap that tops my list of Most Unfortunate Malfunctions had to happen now!
The bright side is, we've confirmed the club's involvement in the murders, and knowing you, Ms. Ramona, I'm sure you can solve—
Hey, this isn't on me. It's on them.
I reported our findings to the Vigiles Bureau after we got outta there.
She has neglected to mention that they took something from said auction.
They'll send their agents to raid the club and run Pérez into the ground. I'd bet on it.
I'm not sure how I let myself get roped into this mess in the first place.
Oh, oh, ah, I'm, I'm so sorry. You're right. I shouldn't have assumed you were some lone wolf hell-bent on protecting the city.
Yeah, you've got it right. I clear out arcane energy, not criminals.
She tries to put on a brave face, to appear calm and detached from the situation.
But she can't help looking over to Loggerhead with concern.
You two stay here for now. Place should be safe from the club's goons.
Safe and free at last. I simply couldn't ask for more. Thank you so very much for dragging me out of that torturous place.
This might sound a little forward, but might you possibly find me somewhere to be hung up, somewhere pleasant, please?
Oh, how I long for a place to call home, preferably among fellow arcanists. Though I certainly wouldn't say no to such a lovely cemetery either.
...
The lady in the painting makes her point clear.
Ms. Ramona, you'll not be disappointed by my services, I assure you. I can hide all manner of wicked secrets within my frame, for example.
*sigh* Manus Vindictae forced me to swallow all sorts of rubbish in France, only to be smuggled across the Atlantic and thrown into the darkest corner of the Turquoise Serpent Club. The memories torment me still.
Oh, which reminds me, though I was used as a dumping ground by the Manus, if I search carefully, I could still find something useful, even valuable.
A moment, if you will. Allow me to find you a suitable gift.
She tips over and spills out a pile of strange knick-knacks and outright junk.
Ah, this is a miraculous mirror I received at a market in Paris. Look into it, and you'll see a beard fit to measure sitting right upon your face. A dream come true for a bare-faced beard wisher.
This little conch isn't half bad either. A sailor, drunk as a skunk, I might add, threw it at me when I was stranded on the Mediterranean coast.
The music it creates could rival a siren's song, I tell you. Though, it does carry the faint whiff of that sailor's rummy breath.
Seeing Ramona's expression darken, Loggerhead signals for the painting to stop her sales pitch.
Oh, oh, painting lady, I just thought of the perfect place for you!
The Timekeeper's Suitcase! It's clean and always bright and has a huge backyard called the Wilderness to boot.
More importantly, you'll meet all kinds of wonderful people there.
Oh la la! A chance for rebirth sent straight from the heavens! I can hardly wait!
I'll ask the Timekeeper about it once I get back to the Foundation.
Ramona gives them both a knowing look, attempting to reel the two Awakened back to the situation at hand.
Suddenly, she senses movement outside. Footsteps approach from just beyond the cemetery gate.
You just couldn't leave me and the spirits here alone, huh?
Forgive the intrusion, Ms. Ramona. Might I have a moment of your time?
Sure, if you don't mind standing. Don't have any drinks to offer, either.
Living with the dead usually means peace and quiet. Not so much tonight.
She leads the visitor aside. Nearby, the two Awakened lean in to listen.
You and your friends certainly made your presence known at the auction.
I hear every gang in the city is trying to sniff you out.
Ms. Luisa even put a bounty of fifty thousand Sharpodonties on your heads.
As nice as it is for you to come here and tell me I'm a wanted woman.
I doubt those goons can find this old place. And clearly, you're not here on their behalf, either.
Correct. I'm here to ...
He stops himself then shifts the topic.
I just wanted to ask you something. You attended the auction to investigate the serial murders, yes? Were you able to track down the culprit?
You serious? You saw what happened. I was framed for the sixth murder.
From now on, smoking out Pérez is the Vigiles business, not mine.
You didn't seriously expect me to catch the bastard, did you?
No need to be modest. The Vigiles would never have gotten this close were it not for the crucial information you provided.
But there's something else. I suspect Mr. Pérez isn't the true culprit.
He takes a deep breath and produces the list he got from Pérez.
I've been thinking it over all morning. You should see this.
I met a young woman. She doesn't work for the Vigiles Bureau, nor does she intend to stop the next murder. But she did help me find this list.
I dare not fathom what might happen if we don't do something. This could be your last chance.
Ramona accepts the lead, once again thrust into the role of reluctant investigator.
Thank you, miss. You have a kind heart.
I wish you every success with your investigation.
As he disappears from view, the others begin to look over his list.
Golly, a critical clue delivered right to your doorstep! You really do have influence in this city, Ms. Ramona.
Hey, painting lady, you ever seen or heard of any of these people?
Let's see. Oh! Indeed I do. I know them quite well.
These are all members of Manus Vindictae. A few I have not met in person, but I recognize their names.
To think I once considered them friends, oh, what a foolish collection of brushstrokes I am!
Though I must admit the days we spent in Paris were among the few truly happy moments in my life.
Ramona clears her throat, attempting to steer the lady away from an over-long trip down memory lane.
This list shows the Manus members responsible for smuggling pigment and coordinating with the club.
So if we find them, we find the arcane pigment. Let's do it.
Settle down, Latham. See the time stamps here? Their last smuggling run was a while ago.
For all we know, they've already skipped out of Mexico entirely.
Then again, why would Añil give me this list?
Pérez isn't our guy? What did I miss? Is the answer somewhere on this list?
She looks over the names, attempting to find some connection.
Inside her mind, a map of the city lights up spot by spot.
Ledru-Rollin. Stayed at Rosa's inn for three days. Booked it after burning down her kitchen.
Rosa asked me to track him down using my "ancestral psychic ability." Hah, pretty disappointed when I told her I'm not a psychic, neither were my parents—frauds the both of 'em.
I remember him. I often saw him tinkering with dangerous-looking alchemical materials. The poor man seemed to have lost his mind the moment he put on that mask.
Maybe that's why he blew up Rosa's kitchen.
Diggers. He's broken into more than one government facility, claiming he only wanted to see the works of the muralism movement up close.
The guards and patrol officers threw him out, of course. Got a friend in the government, Diago. He told me all about this guy.
Oh, that hip fellow! Still alive, is he? I haven't heard a word from him since he went to Tierra del Fuego with the Preacher.
Fitzwilliam. A journalist. Recently published an article in El Semanario Heraldo de México, featuring his interview with a foreign diplomat.
Style was totally bloated. Only made it into the city's best-selling paper 'cause of the diplomat's status. Rumor is he gave him all kinds of stuff to make sure he got the interview.
Alas, Fitzwilliam! Mr. Pérez was sick to death of the greed of that man.
One day, as I was sitting in the warehouse, I spied him barge in and make off with all manner of valuables.
A golden pendant, an antique statuette, a turquoise mask, and even a most exquisite quetzal tiara. Talk about greedy!
He also stole a few paintings, ones depicting indigenous people and Mexican mythology, I believe, before stuffing everything into a giant bag and disappearing.
Paintings?
Yes, dear. There are countless works of art in the club.
In fact, I heard that diplomat has a particular interest in art exhibitions.
Perhaps it was those very paintings that Fitzwilliam used to curry favor with him.
Every detail from each crime scene flashes through Ramona's thoughts.
Then it clicks into place. The picture, once fuzzy, becomes clear.
How could I not see it? The key to solving these killings isn't in the Turquoise Serpent Club.
Whatever do you mean?
The first murder, a vagrant drowned next to a pile of trash out in the desert. Case was freaky. Got passed to the Vigiles Bureau cause of it.
The second, a businessman drowns before falling into his own vivarium, only to be shredded to pieces by his own Critters.
The third collapsed in a bustling plaza.
The fourth, in a monastery. The fifth, in an apartment. No link found between any of 'em, except for the way they died.
It was right in front of me the whole time, in the junkyard, in the monastery's office, and on the plaza's wall.
Latham, you remember that scorched strip of cloth we found at the fifth crime scene?
Yeah, I remember. The one with three symbols on it, right?
It's the logo of the Turquoise Serpent Club. That's what led us to the auction.
But it isn't about the logo. What matters is the strip itself.
It was linen, part of the canvas of a burned-up painting.
Painting? But what about the sixth murder? That lady was killed right in front of us.
And there weren't any paintings near—
Her reel stops in place.
Wait.
Exactly. A painting was being auctioned off at the time. We should've seen it sooner.
It all makes sense. Every single one of the crime scenes had a painting near it.
The key to solving the case is in the paintings.
Then, what Fitzwilliam brought to the diplomat would be ...
We need to warn him!
He's at a party near Ms. Juárez's family ofrenda, a businesswoman.
If we move fast, we might still be able to get to him before the killer does.
Roger that, partner. Operation Save-the-Day is a go.
Even with a solid lead on the means and the killer's next target, Ramona can't shake the feeling that something is still missing.
But lone wolves in the movies almost always meet a tragic end. I can't let a friend get into trouble by themselves.
Neither can I.
H-Huh? Wait, you mean I'm your friend too?
Ramona fights against responding with a smile by diving into her thoughts.
But something's still fishy.
All these victims, diplomat included, look familiar to me. But why?
Where else have I seen them besides the newspapers and reports?
And more importantly, why me?
Why am I the one who found all these clues, huh? Just because I was at the scene? 'Cause I "know the city like the back of my hand"?
Or because I happen to be a descendant of a famous "psychic" family? Pft. Don't make me laugh.
No, this isn't a coincidence. It can't be.
Ramona heads toward the street without hesitation.
Ramona, hold on.
Loggerhead, limping, can't keep up.
16. Path of the Dead
85 linesThe night is made hazy with the smoke of an uncountable number of candles.
The ofrenda holds food and drinks. Marigolds glow in vivid colors. Pictures and paintings of the dead smile down on the living.
Ladies and gentlemen, it is my great honor to join you in celebrating All Souls' Day on this fabulous evening.
Ah, you must be Mr. Mack from the United States. How are you enjoying your stay in Mexico City? Just as I promised, is it not?
Mighty fine indeed! Thanks again for your invitation, ma'am. I have to say, I've been eager to meet you in person.
I think I'm falling in love with this city already.
Well, the party's only just begun. Many more truly unprecedented experiences await. Believe me.
An unexpected visitor appears at the entrance.
Well, look who it is. A pleasant surprise indeed.
I thought you weren't coming, Mr. Añil.
Good evening, Ms. Juárez.
I owe you my thanks for your beautiful restoration of the murals on my family's tomb. I do so hope you enjoy yourself tonight.
I'm sure I will. Thank you for your kind invitation, ma'am.
He walks toward the brilliantly decorated ofrenda, his grim-faced presence clashing with the joyful atmosphere.
This was a mistake, for her and for me.
Ms. Ramona is nowhere to be seen. Perhaps she isn't coming? No, she'll show her face. She's sure to recognize the significance of that list.
And Ms. Butterfly must be hidden somewhere nearby. Taken her seat for the drama, no doubt.
The place falls silent. A deep, official voice speaks over the microphone.
Ahem, I would like to express my thanks to Mrs. Juárez for kindly hosting us tonight. Here in Mexico City, I have been able to witness and feel the beauty of your culture.
The Day of the Dead celebration has shown me the extraordinary way in which the Mexican people remember, celebrate, and reunite with their departed loved ones, and I have truly been moved by it.
Now, please join me in raising a toast. To all those passed and to all who yet live.
Let the party begin!
Guests laugh and toast, raising their glasses in a show of respect to the diplomat.
Yet as the attendees sip their drinks and cheer, someone approaches and whispers to the diplomat. The glasses have not even lowered before the two of them step away from view.
He seems on edge. Did something happen?
I should follow him.
But his motion is cut off by another arrival.
You didn't say you'd be here.
I couldn't help but worry about you, after I gave you that list.
Hah. You can't even protect yourself. Why are you worrying about anyone else?
Get outta here before the killer makes a move.
Place is crowded. No one's gonna bother to save you when they strike.
She shifts her eyes over to the diplomat as she speaks. He is standing in a quiet corner, speaking with someone who appears to be a younger aide.
What? How could that be?
Enough of your excuses! In any case, we mustn't let Mrs. Juárez get wind of this.
The diplomat scolds him, and they begin to argue. The aide shifts nervously and then shoots his hand into his pocket.
The thought-to-be assailant falls to the ground. He lifts his hand from his pocket, revealing nothing more than festive candy likely taken from an ofrenda far too soon.
What on earth is wrong with you? Think you could go around roughing up my men?
Who are you, some local gangsters?
Sir, listen, you're in serious danger. He was gonna assassinate you.
What nonsense are you spouting? He was just delivering a report.
It's the painting I gave Mrs. Juárez. Apparently the color has faded in one spot. My assistant was only asking me to check it over.
A painting from the Turquoise Serpent Club? Where is it? You need to give it to me, now.
If you want to live, you need to stay away from that painting.
The diplomat's mood shifts. He seems frightened, certainly, but not of the painting she warns him about.
You're from one of those xenophobic arcanist groups, aren't you? Mrs. Juárez warned me about people like you.
What are you planning to do, huh? Kill me in front of all these people?
No, no, sir. Listen to me. I'm trying to help you.
Help! Intruders! Hel—argh ...
His words stop. A painful rasp replaces them. He grabs his throat, struggling for air.
They have moved without noticing to the part of the courtyard where gifts are displayed.
What on earth ...? Sir, are you all right?
Don't get too close. That arcane power could drown you along with him.
Argggh. Wh-Where am I? Is that a lake beneath the water?
H-Help ...
The diplomat's voice falls into a rasp, then silence. He crumples into a heap on the ground.
This is just like ...
Like what happened at the auction.
The killer can't be far. Must still be hiding somewhere near the ofrenda.
Ramona hears a rustle in the grass behind her. She turns with just enough time to spy a figure darting away.
There! Get 'em!
The city street is crowded with people celebrating. The raucous mood and shifting mass of people obscure sight in every direction.
They have lost sight of their culprit.
*pant* Damn it.
*pant* We lost them.
This is a wealthy area. The mansions on this street must have guards at their entrances. We can ask them if they saw anyone suspicious.
No time for that.
The paintings are the key to the killer's m.o., but what else am I missing?
The diplomat already had the painting for a while before the party.
That journalist must have given it to him a few days ago.
So, why'd the killer wait so long, and why strike in front of so many people? Why do it on the night of one of our biggest festivals?
That's gotta be it. It's all about the timing.
Timing, you say? So, it has something to do with All Souls' Day.
That's right, the second night of Day of the Dead. The night we welcome back and reunite with the faithful departed.
Death is just a part of the cycle of life, right? I'd bet the killer thinks so too.
And they chose tonight because they're trying to lead the spirits of the victims somewhere? Someplace they aren't meant to be?
She looks down. Countless marigold petals spread out beneath her feet, forming a path to guide the dead. It stretches far into the distance.
Huh. That may be the answer. See, someone's laid a trail of marigolds out the back door.
The vivid glow of marigolds is what's said to guide spirits back to the land of the living.
They want us to follow this path, huh? Fine, then let's go.
A quiet, stately building marks the end of the marigold trail.
17. Convergence
102 linesWhite smoke from burning copal fills the air, mixed with the scent of old books.
She lights a candle. The small flame does little to brighten the vast darkness of the room before her.
Understood. I wouldn't want to be a liability.
I'll await a certain young woman here and do my best to ensure she doesn't interfere with your actions.
Be careful, Ms. Ramona. Your safety is more important than anything.
In total silence, she walks through the familiar corridors, made unfamiliar in the dim light and strange circumstances.
She reminds herself that it is still that same place she's entered a hundred times before. The bookshelves stand in their usual order. The lobby floor shines. The only difference is that no one is here.
They must've dispatched some top officers to the club after they got my report.
Others will be out on patrol, making sure the festival doesn't have any arcanum-related accidents.
Still, I can't believe they would just leave the place empty. That makes no sense. There must be—
Her words fade into the still air.
Around the corner, the receptionist lies passed out on the floor. Even unconscious, her face is tight with fear, as if trapped in a nightmare.
Sea? No. Help ...
Still breathing. Trapped in a living nightmare or something.
A whole lotta pneuma gathered here.
Someone's activated a ritual, a big one. Power of it's knocked out anyone in the area.
Who the hell'd be able to set up a large-scale arcane ritual like this in a Vigiles Bureau branch? And how?
Ramona lifts the candle and looks up toward the stairs.
That mural, the one with the missing artist, but now it's finished.
How many times has she seen that mural? Those faces, the familiar scene, vivid yet silent, unfinished for as long as she had worked with Vigiles here.
She had never truly committed the faces of those young people in the mural to memory, but now they almost seem familiar.
Could this be the killer's final piece? And I ...
She takes a deep breath.
I followed their marigold trail here. Am I their final target?
You've finally come. Teresita, my dear friend!
You've truly forgotten everything. That's quite alright. I'll help you remember, just as you once helped me.
This mural is my first and final piece of the era.
A product of blood, sweat, and tears. A tribute to the Mexican mythos you held so dear, one that honors both the sacred traditions of our ancestors and our courageous struggles in the modern world.
You see, no matter how strange this world becomes, I will never abandon our shared dream.
I incorporated each of us into the painting, just as I've done many times before. Think of it as a celebration of our rebirth.
I've waited a long time for this reunion.
Four long years, crossing several "Storms" under Manus Vindictae's protection, I chased all sorts of myths and legends, all to find a way to resurrect the dead, and I've finally found it.
The Aztecs believed that the manner of one's death determines the soul's reincarnation.
And so, tonight, the souls of our warriors will be reborn like butterflies emerging from their cocoons, carried on sacred winds from the north.
This is our reunion, one not even death can keep us from.
A dripping sound breaks the quiet, but its source remains hidden.
The sense of space fades away as her mind sinks into darkness.
Sleep tight, Teresita. Fall into the dream, our irreplaceable memory of the past.
When you awake, everything will have returned to how it was, to the beauty of our glory days.
Teresita? Who are you talking about?
Endless water stretches out before her, a lake as wide as Texcoco once had been.
A cold color guides her awareness as it moves through the Depths of Myth.
Her long journey ends when she finds her destination and slips into a fragile container made of fragments of memory.
I am ...
I am Teresita.
This memory container, as thin as a paper boat, floats to a stop on the water.
Around her, a rough memory forms on a stage. Happiness hangs like fog, showing how its owner once felt.
Teresita? Teresita!
Pardon me. My mind was elsewhere. You are ...?
My name is Muriel.
María asked me to welcome you on her behalf. From this day forth, you're officially a fellow member of the Midnight Kitchen.
Heh. You're María's new student? Oh, sorry, I don't mean to be rude.
I'm just surprised you're so young.
No need to apologize. You're not the first to say so. But I've been painting for as long as I can remember.
The Midnight Kitchen. An interesting name. An homage to Montmartre's "Laundry Ship," is it?
Hahahaha, no, nothing like that. We first started gathering in María's kitchen late at night, so Antonio suggested we name our little club after it.
María founded it in hopes of creating a space for like-minded artists to have open and meaningful discussions. She's been planning to start a magazine on Mexico's artistic transformation.
And she said you have some wonderful ideas and insights on the art of indigenous peoples. She said you could teach us all about it while she's away on her exhibition tour in the United States.
Well, I, I'll do my best. Though, I have to say, teaching has never been my strong suit. Don't set your expectations too high.
Besides, I'll need to look over your paintings first.
Trust me. You won't be disappointed.
The atmosphere thickens and darkens. Only uncertain, worry, and conflict remain.
Ah. You're a genius painter, Muriel. Your work will cause a stir all over the world.
You're too kind, but as much as I appreciate such praise, you know fame has never been my goal.
And I wouldn't accept the title of genius either. I simply love to paint, to create alongside my dear friends.
Your goals are admirable in themselves. Though more than genius, your greatest gift lies in your unending passion.
Still, I can't help but wonder if this movement is on the right track.
Hm? Is this about that article in New Masses?
Yes. We once saw our movement as revolutionary, a force to change our society for the better, but, as Siqueiros said, it seems it may have already fallen under the thumb of the petite bourgeoisie.
We wanted to reconceptualize our identity, history, and culture as a people. We believed that only through common understanding could we ever truly be united.
We wanted to create a unique story. A story of Mexico.
But have we succeeded in our goal?
Teresita ...
I'm having second thoughts. Painting these murals on the walls of grand buildings—perhaps it's been a mistake all along.
The world around her shifts like a maelstrom. The memory flickers in and out.
Words and feelings slash her like swirling debris caught in the storm.
Why did you turn down Lucas's invitation, Muriel?
Paris is the center of the art world. You know Rivera went to Europe to study around your age, don't you? An opportunity like this doesn't come all that often.
I don't want to leave Mexico, Teresita. I can't.
I want to stay here, side by side with my friends.
You saw the debate at the Palace of Fine Arts. We're at a critical turning point for the muralist movement.
Which is precisely why I want you to refine your skills in Europe, Muriel. It would do you good to free yourself from this mental turmoil.
Art can change the world. I still believe that. But there are many obstacles we need to overcome ...
A challenge that has kept María very busy, and for which the progress has hardly been satisfactory. *sigh* I shouldn't distract you with all this.
I'll go, if that's what you wish, Teresita.
Then do it. Make our dream come true, kiddo. The future depends on you.
Future ...
Dream, whose dream? Mine?
It sounds inspiring, but ...
Her thoughts drift out of her body, caught helpless in the tide of a deep and roiling sea.
She reaches out and stirs the emotions before her. Joy and happiness fade at her touch like mist.
Why do I feel no joy at all?
There's nothing but sorrow here.
She whispers the words, too difficult to speak aloud.
There's something—something long forgotten. I've got to find it.
18. Nothing Is Everlasting
143 linesIs it real, our elusive existence? No eternity on earth, only a fleeting moment. Be it as resilient as jade, it shatters; Be it as revered as gold, it crumbles; Be it as resplendent as quetzal plumes, it will fall away. No eternity on earth, only a fleeting moment. —Cantares mexicanos
Guided by instinct, she moves forward, step by step.
Finally, above this endless churning water, she sees a figure standing still as a statue, pallid as a ghost.
It's been a long time, Teresita.
María, Antonio, Carmen, and I ... We've all missed you very much.
Welcome back.
Muriel! Ah, when did you return from Europe?
How many years have passed since then? I can't seem to remember at all.
Well, please, tell me all about your time in Paris.
He wears a strange, sorrowful expression.
Where do I begin? A lot has happened over the past four years.
I encountered an arcanist organization called Manus Vindictae. With their help, I survived an event called the "Storm." Many times, in fact. But by the time I returned home, I realized everyone I knew had perished.
What I returned to was no longer the Mexico I knew.
Oh, my dear Muriel. I'm so sorry to hear it.
Perhaps María and I shouldn't have sent you to Europe.
But I learned so much there.
While I was in Paris, I learned from Professor Roseau's research. His efforts to find a resurrection ritual led us to discover Depths of Myth, the sea of humanity's collective unconscious.
His failure proved that a successful resurrection requires the alignment of multiple nearly impossible conditions, but at least the professor's research pointed me in the right direction.
Do you recall the Temazcal ceremony we once talked about?
The cleansing ritual?
That's the one. Drawing from the Temazcal ceremony, Professor Roseau's research, and countless other texts, I have finally created the ultimate ritual of resurrection.
Using special herbs and arcane skills as a catalyst, we may transfer our existence into a painting, where we'll be enveloped by absolute darkness.
And within that primal void, we can regain our purest consciousness and rediscover who we truly are, who we were meant to be.
The ritual requires a unique arcane silver ore, which I was fortunate to find here in this era's Vale of Tears.
From it, I crafted a pigment of infinite malleability, one capable of recreating almost anything, even our memories and identities.
The sea of collective unconscious is the deepest layer of the human mind, the origin of all things.
Rest assured, Teresita. I will reconstruct you completely, body and mind, from the Depths of Myth.
I'm not sure I entirely follow. But I see that you are every bit the genius I always knew you were, Muriel.
Who else would connect resurrection rituals to an ancient sweat lodge ceremony?
I've tried everything over the years, but I finally found a method that works, Teresita.
I'm so thankful that I've found you again.
I'm happy you have, too, from the bottom of my heart. But I almost feel as if I've forgotten something important.
The roiling water slows into soft and silent ripples.
Now is the year of 1920, the start of a decade you and María once longed for.
The muralist movement has just begun. I'll ensure we won't make the same mistakes we did last time.
Haha, it isn't like you to care about anything beyond your paintings.
People change.
It was only after I left you and the others that I realized how lucky I was to live a life completely dedicated to my art.
But we have changed for the better, Muriel. You've grown up. Can take care of yourself now. You no longer need María or me to protect you.
Knowing that, I can continue my search for what I've forgotten.
Is it really so important? More important than our dream? Than María, Antonio, all our friends of the Midnight Kitchen?
It is. It's only a haze to me, but deep down I know it is more important than anything.
I'm sorry, Muriel. Until I find it, I can't pursue our dream with you.
Though confused, she keeps walking forward.
You mustn't go any farther, Teresita.
The deeper you go, the weaker my ritual becomes. Your mind's essence might be completely erased from the Depths of Myth.
Are you truly certain you want to leave, knowing your very existence could be wiped out?
She doesn't stop.
False memories in vivid color begin to peel from her skin like new paint stripped from a canvas.
Their joy, their dreams, the time they shared—layer by layer, they fall into the water below.
It's so beautiful.
Those memories, they shine, glitter like crystal.
Thank you for showing them to me, Muriel.
But you have to understand: nothing lasts forever. Death is part of the cycle of life, just like any other stage.
The future you dream about warmed my heart, it did, but it doesn't belong to me.
Just like those memories you forced into my mind.
Now, I need to find my true self. I need to find Ramona.
Please stop, Teresita.
Please don't do this to me. I can't lose you again.
His dim figure begins to glow.
Memories cling to him like shards of sharpened glass until he takes on the form of a shining broken god.
The spirits followed the marigolds all the way from the mansion in Roma to the People's Library, a final touch to complete the mural. Quite a night.
I've got you now.
Ah!
Muriel looks up toward the finished mural.
The paint has cracked alongside the plaster. At last, the trapped form inside returns to the world.
Teresita, it's you.
The ritual worked! Professor Roseau was right.
What are we to do next, Teresita?
His eyes shine with the joy of a dream so long awaited, finally realized in the flesh.
Standing there in front of him, Ramona takes a deep and weighty breath.
It's over, Muriel.
You're the serial killer. It was all you.
You used a special pigment to make paintings with arcane powers—your murder weapons—and passed them out to the victims through the club.
And then, you activated a ritual through the painting to kill your target.
You killed all seven of them, all to get the friends you lost to the "Storm" back.
She glances back to the cracked and battered mural behind her.
Those people in the mural ... Your friends from the Midnight Kitchen, aren't they?
María, Carmen, Antonio, Laura ...
She names each face that appeared in the shattered memories. Her eyes rest on the very center.
And Teresita.
Who'd have ever thought those faces would match the victims almost perfectly?
To think how often I walked through this hall and never made the connection.
They were my best friends.
My countrymen. My comrades.
He lifts the flowerpot in his hands, eager.
Before I left Mexico, you gave me some dahlia seeds. Do you remember that?
You said we'd meet again when the dahlias were in full bloom.
So I carry the pot wherever I go. I care for them no matter the circumstances.
I'm so glad we finally met again, just as you promised.
Ramona struggles to find a response. She studies his face, hoping to find something in it that might help her decide between pity and horror.
In all seven murders, you didn't manage to pull off a single one of your resurrection rituals, did you?
I don't understand what you're saying.
I saw you in the painting, Muriel, in that void.
A little younger, a hell of a lot saner than you are now, but you all the same.
I'd been thinking, the fragmented memories I saw in the Depths of Myth, where are they from? Who do they belong to?
But seeing you now, I think I get it.
You didn't reconstruct Teresita's consciousness from the Depths of Myth, not one bit.
Those memories and feelings were painted into the mural by you. They all came from you, Muriel.
That's why I could only see memories of you and Teresita together.
All the moments you shared with your friends, the memories you held so close that you couldn't just let the dead be dead. You've given them up, sealed their spirits inside your paintings.
You completed the rituals, but you destroyed yourself.
When? H-How did I?
No, Teresita, I-I didn't.
See? I'm not Teresita, and you still can't see it.
Your dearest friend and mentor ... And yet you still mistake me for her, a complete stranger.
The moment you finished this mural, you scrubbed every last trace of her clean from your mind. You aren't even yourself anymore.
All those people killed, and for what? The delusions of a man in the middle of destroying himself?
Muriel speaks to himself, clutching his head as if in pain.
You mean there's no way to save my friends? I killed them with my own hands.
I ... No, Teresita.
Why can't I remember your face? Your voice?
The memories ... Why won't they come to me? My most cherished friends, my family ...
No. If I forget, then they will truly be gone. What must I do?
Wait. You said my memories are sealed within these paintings. Is that true?
He raises his paintbrush, lost in abject sorrow, yet sparkling with sudden determination.
I remember it now. You're Ms. Ramona. You work with the Vigiles Bureau.
I apologize for all the trouble I've caused. It seems I've made one mistake after another.
For the last time, he uses his arcane skill.
Perfect strokes of colorful paint wrap around him like a consuming fire.
And it's too late to right all my wrongs. Thank you for putting an end to this tragedy of mine.
Now the only thing left to do is to cross the tides of time and return to their warm embrace.
A rare smile touches his lips, as if he were drifting into a warm and pleasant dream as he fades away.
Light, shadow, and color coalesce around him, shrinking as he disappears until all that's left is a single painted hummingbird. It flies up toward the mural and joins the circle.
His brush clatters on the solid floor.
...
All these deaths ... If only I'd realized the truth sooner ...
I'm sorry, Muriel. You tried so hard, but I'm not Teresita. I could never be.
There are still so many things only Ramona can do.
A long silence follows. It takes Ramona a moment to regain her composure, and she becomes that jaded exorcist she tries so hard to be.
Looks like I gotta report this now. Case is closed.
Tch, can't a girl get one peaceful night?
Never should've taken this damned job.
She gathers her feelings and leaves the building without another thought.
Some time after Ramona departs, another figure emerges from the darkness.
...
He raises a hand toward the bullet hole in the mural, as if soothing a scar that will never heal.
Quite the tragedy.
I was wondering which corner you might be watching from. So you came, after all, Ms. Butterfly.
I couldn't miss the grand finale.
Tell me, are you satisfied? You are the one who orchestrated it all.
19. Metaphor
96 linesThe man shows no fear as he turns toward the assassin.
What do you make of this? Are we to have some sort of puppet master's tea party?
You figured this all out some time ago, didn't you?
I did. But there is still some satisfaction in watching the dominoes fall, even when you know where they'll land. A little more shock would've been welcome, though.
The two of them speak with the same casual ease.
Pray, begin then.
Let's start with the mural. Look at the symbolism.
In Aztec mythology, hummingbirds and butterflies represent death and rebirth.
Fallen warriors entered the realm of the sun god. After four years, they would be reborn as butterflies and hummingbirds, returning to drink the eternal nectar of the earth.
To Muriel, his fellow artists of the Midnight Kitchen were like those brave warriors, destined to return, having transcended death.
Spot on.
This circle of hummingbirds and butterflies in the mural represents ten reborn souls.
But if you look closely ...
There are only nine figures in the mural: the seven victims, Muriel, and Ramona.
So, where's the tenth? Did Muriel hide them away somewhere?
That's exactly what he did. It's quite clever, really, merging a metaphor, or a pun, if you will, into the mural.
Everyone, including Muriel, calls you Añil.
Añil, the name of a plant native to southern Mexico used to create a rich indigo dye. Over time, it also became the name for that deep, vibrant shade of blue.
For centuries before the arrival of the Europeans, indigenous peoples used it to dye the cloaks of their leaders. Like Tyrrhenian red, this deep indigo blue symbolized power in their culture.
And behold, that very color is hidden in this mural. The rivers and trees in the background glow with its intensity.
Muriel used that blue añil to paint those sections, blending your presence into the mural in the most conspicuous yet subtle way.
Muriel wasn't the only member of the Midnight Kitchen to cross the "Storm," was he?
There was another artist of the Midnight Kitchen who went to Europe with him.
That artist was you, Añil.
And?
Like Muriel, I survived the "Storms." What does it matter?
Oh, it matters in many ways.
Those victims, your handpicked vessels, were all arcanists who bore some resemblance to the friends you lost in the "Storm."
You lured them to the Turquoise Serpent Club and presented each with a meticulously crafted gift, a painting that would become their death warrant.
True, Muriel was a genius in arcanum. He single-handedly devised a resurrection ritual based on Roseau's research and ancient legends.
But with every painting he completed, he lost fragments of his memory. A flawed method.
In the end, he was no longer whole.
How could he have planned and executed all this, alone, in such a state?
Finding eight suitable targets among hundreds of thousands in Mexico City, coaxing them to accept paintings they probably had no interest in.
Each step required meticulous observation and careful planning.
It was all you pulling the strings, Añil. A pigment dealer kidnapped by gangsters? Just a cover.
The most brilliant part is that you orchestrated this entire series of murders just to bring Ramona to center stage!
She laughs softly but without a trace of warmth.
Haha. You watched her, studied her nature, leveraged her hatred of injustice and her love for this city.
You lured her to this mural, intending to offer her as the final sacrifice to fulfill your ultimate wish.
But I still have one question.
Please, ask it. I'll not hold my tongue.
You completed every step, executed every detail according to your plan. You could have succeeded. So, why didn't you stop me?
His response is muted. There's almost a hint of surprise, but it rests beneath his calm composure.
That's all you want to ask? I see.
Your deductions are perfect, of course, Ms. Butterfly. I am merely an amateur by comparison.
In the past four years, Muriel and I have survived six "Storms."
As more "Storms" fell, returning to Mexico City to find suitable candidates grew increasingly difficult.
To put our full focus into our resurrection research, we left Manus Vindictae, not that they had any use for two unmanageable pawns anyway.
Time and again, our work was interrupted by the "Storm," and the ritual's results were never promising to begin with.
I observed each candidate carefully, searching for some trace of our lost friends' souls.
But the closer I looked, the clearer it became: They weren't the same.
Ramona, for instance, was in many ways the perfect candidate. And yet, she wasn't Teresita. She could never be Teresita.
The mentor we all admired, the friend who brought warmth and light into our often bleak lives—she was gone. And nothing we did could bring her back.
*sigh* Ramona's story, however, isn't over. Her future, her dreams, her fierce love for this city ... I realized I couldn't bring myself to destroy that.
That's all.
That's all? Really?
Her doubt is written plain on her face, but Añil can only smile bitterly.
My answer disappoints you. Allow me to put it another way.
The "Storms" have carried me across time, even into the future. And there, I saw the tedious repetition of human history.
And the hollow, meaningless cycle of our pursuits. In the end, art cannot change the world.
Our ideal of reshaping society for the better through fine arts eventually became just another capitalist venture, a product, another ignoble chapter in the history of art.
And my partner, my last remaining friend, lost himself along the way.
I've walked this tortuous path alone for a long, long time.
I'm tired.
Doubt turns to annoyance. This web of intrigue once again turns out to be nothing more than a cat's cradle, child's play to unravel.
"People like us"? *chuckle* I'm honored to be considered among the likes of you.
But enough about me, Ms. Butterfly. Would you care to talk about yourself a bit?
The playful light leaves her eyes. The man notices but continues anyway.
On our way to the auction, just before we teleported via that Sun Stone.
I realized you couldn't distinguish certain colors, even ones that appear quite different to most.
I imagine that's why you couldn't crack the case earlier.
It must have taken you considerable effort to discern that the most critical clue lay in the painting's colors.
You've uncovered a minor flaw of mine. Do you intend to threaten me with it?
If I'm honest, I'm not entirely sure.
What if my name were a color you couldn't recognize? How very fortunate you were that I was named Añil.
It may be a "minor" flaw, as you say, something easily concealed.
But someone as meticulous as you would never allow anyone to know of it, be they friend or enemy.
I could kill you to keep this quiet. Did you consider that?
You won't.
The threat of death washes over him without effect.
You crave total control. You need to perfectly discern your target's mind, predict their every move, before you pull the trigger.
You enjoy playing god, holding all the cards, so that life and death become yours to give. You won't kill me until you've mapped out every crevice of my mind.
She emphasizes her words and extends a hand to him in as earnest a gesture as she can offer.
Guess we'll be keeping our little secrets between us.
With pleasure. If you need anything regarding the Manus, information, items, reach out to me. I'll do my best to assist.
And please, take this. My gift.
Use it sparingly.
It's no easy task to craft this pigment now.
Ha, your contribution to science is appreciated.
20. Virtue
73 linesThe commander's furious shouting snaps Marguerite back to reality.
She's back.
You again, Larisa?
It's one problem after another with you!
I-I didn't—
Before she can say anything, the commander grabs her subordinate by the front of her shirt.
How many times do I have to tell you? You're a Hush Trooper. This is no place for a softy.
Who do you think you are, huh? A hero fighting against authority? A savior to these people?
Even if you save their lives here, they'll probably end up dead where they're going.
All you've done is delayed the mission. You want to be kicked out of Zeno and left to the "Storm"?
Is that what you want? To get the whole squad killed to feed your ego?
Y-You knew all along. They aren't really deserters.
Larisa's voice trembles as she dares to speak the words.
That's what we've been doing all this time?
Sending innocent arcanists to their deaths one after another.
So what?
Their commander's reply is as stark and biting as the wind lashing their faces.
Even more will die if we can't figure out how to stop the "Storm."
Ugh, I'm wasting my time talking to the both of you.
Once this mission is over, I'm filing a request to have you removed from my squad. As for where you'll end up, or whether Zeno will even keep you, I don't give a damn.
You-You can't do this.
Why not? Without Zeno's shelter, there's nothing you can do against the "Storm."
Then the commander turns to Marguerite. She's leaning against the truck without emotion. In that moment, it seems as if their conflict does not concern her in the slightest.
And you, Marguerite!
You think staying silent will get you off the hook? I know you're the one who unlocked the door for her.
She lunges for Marguerite's collar in the same way, but the young woman twists out of the way and catches her commander's wrist.
You're wrong.
What? L-Let go of me! What do you think you're doing?
Argh!
The commander falls to the ground with a sharp cry.
What is going on, Marguerite? Have you lost your mind?
You'll face a military tribunal for attacking our commander, especially at a time like this.
Hush Squad's number-one rule: "No communication with mission targets." That's what she said.
Huh?
I just wanted to tell her she was wrong.
If you really want to play with life and death, you need to get inside the target's head, know how they think and move. That's how you assert control.
That's the best part.
This is no time for jokes, Marguerite.
Let me show you. Our dear commander here always keeps a bullet tucked in her sleeve.
Ever since the war in 1999, she's carried it around as a little "lucky charm."
Marguerite pulls a bullet from her sleeve, revealing it purposefully to the frightened commander at her feet.
As expected.
So you know the commander's secret. What does it matter? She isn't your target, is she?
You're right. She's not my target.
Th-Then why did you ...
She loads the round into a pistol and pulls back the slide.
Then she turns to place the gun in Larisa's hand. The terrified girl is forced to level the weapon at their commander's head.
She's yours, Larisa.
M-Mine?
Marguerite, this is wrong. We-We can't do this. I can't do this.
You're insane, both of you! Put the gun down, and let me go.
Think, Larisa. Why should you let her go?
She'll report everything you did. They'll make sure you quietly disappear in the "Storm."
You don't really care what happens to you, I know.
But think about those poor kidnapped "deserters." They're just innocent arcanists, some of them children.
They'll be sent to that lab, subjected to torture you can't even imagine, unless you do something now.
You've known this all along. It's time you faced it.
...
You're right. I-I have to face it.
I have to ...
Larisa, don't!
The crack of the pistol dies against the swirling winds. Snow already covering the evidence of what had just occurred—scattered footprints and a body oozing life into the cold permafrost.
Marguerite looks into her commander's fading eyes as they take on a deathly gloss. The snow is already settling on her frozen skin, burying the last moment of terror still written on her face.
I like that look on your face. It suits you.
Drako Drought.
Arcane fire burns away every trace of what transpired there, even the transport truck marked with Zeno symbols.
She looks out over the snowy expanse. She can still just about spot the many footprints leading away from the scene. Whether Larisa and her liberated "deserters" will survive their trek is a mystery even she hasn't calculated to its end.
Time to run, dear. Follow that dark mix of kindness and viciousness in your heart straight into the quagmire.
I look forward to seeing you fully submerged in it in the future.
Well, I suppose that wraps up my days in Zeno, boring as they were, besides the death.
Where to next? Maybe back to Cambridge?
One day, I'll figure out what Zeno, and a certain white house behind it, is really up to.
She turns away, walking alone into the icy wilderness.
21. Pure Fiction
131 linesThe gray and white tiled floor is polished smooth. It reflects people hurrying past.
On a weekday afternoon, the St. Pavlov Foundation office is nearly empty. Waiting in a chair, a young writer scribbles her thoughts down in a notebook.
I've got it now. The core of this story lies in the metaphor woven into the mural. It's the thread that ties the entire case together.
Thank you again, Ms. Marguerite. Thank you for allowing me to weave your experiences into my novel. I wish I could travel to a different era in Mexico, too. It would be great for gathering material.
Oh, and may I call you Ms. Butterfly? It has a sonorous quality to it that is positively brilliant.
Of course, my dear girl.
You know what? The moment I saw you, I sensed something special about you.
I think I should take that as a compliment.
Another employee speaks up from behind his desk.
I've heard you say something along those lines at least three times in the past hour, Ms. Recoleta.
It's a nice little opening line to get people talking about themselves, but—
Ahem, that's not entirely accurate, actually.
Only Ms. Butterfly has shared her story with me.
Director Noire was right. Instead of revisiting my own experiences again and again, I should try writing about those around me.
Maybe then, I'll finally break free of this restless river.
Yeah, sure. In other words, you'll be diving into a new topic for a while.
Your instincts always pull you toward uncharted—and dangerous, might I add—territory.
Sounds like an exhilarating adventure, don't you think?
Hmm. Maybe I should write from Muriel's perspective. It adds a melancholic twist to this already sad story.
The loss of his friends to the "Storm," and the gradual loss of his own mind.
A story like this could serve as a kind of a tribute to all our friends washed away by the "Storm."
*scoff* So the dead gain eternal life through your book.
You really have a dark sense of humor.
Well, it could also work if the protagonist is the mysterious, elegant assassin. Her antisocial nature would certainly stand out.
Name Day looks at the outspoken writer as if about to say something, but stops short.
Write your story however you like, Ms. Recoleta.
My only requirement is that it help me to lure someone out, the one who invited me to join Lorentz.
If she still has eyes in the Foundation, this story will be more than enough to draw her attention.
Just leave it to me. I'll do all I can to spread it throughout the Foundation. Of course, with names and locations adjusted as necessary.
But at its heart, it must remain a story about cultural and class conflict. Hmm. I'd better build an intricate narrative structure to carry all that dramatic weight.
And maybe just a speck of authenticity.
Hey, are you seriously criticizing a novel for being fictional?
Recoleta returns to her notebook, only for her colleague to pipe up once again. And as if to make things worse, he's come bearing forms. Work—real, actual work—slams her back into reality.
Here, Recoleta. I've finished reviewing the forms you submitted.
Oh, thank you, Mr. Name Day. I almost forgot why I came here in the first place.
Latham must be thrilled you've joined the Arcanum Containment Department. She finally has a subordinate to boss around.
Now I see why you were banished out here and left to stamp papers all day. Do you always put your foot in your mouth like this?
In fact, I couldn't be happier to be working with Ms. Latham. She's an amazing colleague and has taught me all kinds of things.
Sure, sure. But just to be clear, I wasn't "banished." Stamping papers here is just a step on my path to becoming head of the Far East branch. Bureaucracy, you know how it is.
I don't, actually, and I have absolutely no interest in finding out. Ever since Ms. Latham went on medical leave, I've hardly seen my desk beneath all the paperwork.
She's in the rehab center getting some of her parts replaced. If you ask me, it was Vertin who gave her the false confidence to do field missions.
Now I have to fight alone against this colossal, cumbersome institution and its endless piles of paperwork.
Words were never meant to be wasted on this sort of thing.
If Vertin ever plans a round two against the Foundation, call me immediately. I'm a bit of an expert in rebellion.
Yeah. I'll keep an ear out for you.
But I'll need a copy of your latest book in return, just like last time.
I'd be delighted to. You are my number one reader after all.
Aleph, Marcus, Sonetto, Latham, Noire, Blonney, Barbara, and now me. Seems like you have a lot of number one readers.
Don't forget Pickles.
She hurriedly shoves the stamped papers into her notebook.
I do have one more question, Ms. Butterfly.
It doesn't look like you have any forms to stamp, and you're clearly not just here to chat with us, so ...
Are you waiting for someone?
Butterfly doesn't get a chance to respond. The office door swings open. Two Laplace researchers enter, arguing in quick rallies, like it was a sport for them.
This makes no sense.
She even found time to write a full-fledged paper after all that? How is this possible?
Enigma holds up a letter. His body bristles with an anger to match his complete frustration.
Calm down. Lorentz Butterfly has already sent us the lab reports.
Strictly speaking, Institutum Lorentz is also part of Laplace, which means we've achieved this major scientific breakthrough together.
Don't you "together" me! When was Institutum Lorentz ever formally recognized?
Besides, we need first-hand experimental data and materials, not just reports.
But the Staff Committee is quite satisfied with this operation's outcome. Mr. Ludwig himself said it's the results that matter.
Well, he didn't refuse my investigation permit either.
There's something suspicious in Latham's report.
According to Ramona, the Vigiles exorcist who assisted Latham in her investigation, a Foundation employee named Jones was involved in the case.
This Jones visited the crime scenes and repeatedly requested access to case data. Multiple Vigils saw her.
And what does that matter?
Are you serious? That's your reaction? Did it not occur to you that this Jones is likely the Lorentz Butterfly herself, taunting us?!
She has access to Foundation intel. That's probably why she's always one step ahead.
He walks over to the desk before spotting a familiar face. At once, he lets his mood settle and offers a pleasant-ish greeting.
Oh, Marguerite. What are you doing here?
Good afternoon, Mr. Adler.
I'm here to submit the "Storm" meteorological observation data requested by the Foundation.
She carefully tunes her words: just a touch of concern, not enough to imply any interest in the topic.
Oh, Mr. Ulrich is here too. Did something happen at Laplace?
No, nothing to worry about. You've heard of Institutum Lorentz, haven't you? The mysterious organization hiding within Laplace.
Yes. Though I can't really fathom what they're after.
We just received another provocation from Lorentz Butterfly, with her new research paper attached.
It mentions an experiment of utmost importance. The details are still classified as of now, but it won't be long before they're published.
Offering a polite nod, Enigma turns back to the desk and hands over his papers.
Hello, um, I'd like to check the file of a Special Task Investigator, Ms. Jones, from the Foundation's Buenos Aires branch. Umm, which department was it again?
Storm Era, um, Historical Monitoring Department ... and Field Agent Administration?
Name Day peers up at him with a strained look.
Oh, apologies, sir. I didn't catch that. Could you please repeat it?
*sigh* Special Task Investigator Ms. Jones, of the "Storm" Era Historical Monitoring Department and Field Agent Administration from the Buenos Aires branch of the St. Pavlov Foundation.
Sorry, I'm quite certain the Buenos Aires branch has no such department.
There are sixty-three Foundation employees with the surname Jones. Four of them are assigned to the Buenos Aires branch.
Hahaha, I told you it was a fake identity.
Come now, Adler. Look at the bright side. Haven't you read Lorentz Butterfly's paper?
Hissabeth studied the data and concluded that the experiment itself consumed very little of the pigment that was recovered, meaning Lorentz Butterfly must still have a considerable amount of it left.
We have to get hold of it for Laplace's sake. Maybe we should conduct a grid search of headquarters.
Only if your goal is to make Laplace even more chaotic, Substitute Director.
Please, don't worry yourself. We have more materials-research experts than anywhere in the world. Ms. Hissabeth is already working on replicating the pigment. We'll have our own supply before long.
I had better get back there and see if there is anything I can help with.
Come on, Adler, you're a physicist!
The two researchers exit together, immediately returning to their argument as if all the events preceding were just a brief ceasefire.
See you later, Mr. Adler, Mr. Ulrich.
Of course. See you, Marguerite.
Nearby, the young writer jots down another new idea.
Ah, I understand. Ms. Butterfly was waiting here just to savor her victory. She foresaw it all!
Oh, by the way, where is the rest of the pigment? It sounds like it could be the perfect beginning to our sequel!
Heads up, my children! Let's get this done.
We mice are natural experts at this kind of work.
That means we're stealing food today. Right, Mamá?
Of course not, you cheese-brain! We're rummaging through trash!
Hey. Wrong again, my dearies. We're doing true gangster work!
I see, Mamá. That's definitely something mice are good at.
But we're even better at rummaging through trash.
Mamá, yesterday a human boy asked if I could stand on his head and help him paint. Could I do that when I grow up?
We'll talk about it when you're old enough to hold your own, alright?
Now listen carefully, my children. In exchange for a steady supply of arcane pigment, that cold-hearted bipedal witch forced me to sign over a thousand agreements.
Until we're strong enough to overthrow her, we have no choice but to do her bidding.
Our first job was to tie up all the loose ends at the Turquoise Serpent Club.
It took me days to scrub all the clues leading back to her.
All that's left is to silence a certain individual. So, I contacted that exorcist girl, and somehow she ended up persuading me to help this peculiar painting find a home.
Yes, Mamá! We worked our tails off cleaning up the inside of that painting lady!
The lead mouse knocks on a door within the Suitcase.
Hmm?
Hello, Ms. Two-Legged Lady, you must be the famous Timekeeper!
I hear your Suitcase holds many empty frames. Perhaps they are waiting for a painting to call them home!
Might you be interested in taking in this fabulous artwork?
Several mice work hard to lug over a cleaned painting and place it at her feet.
Good evening, Timekeeper.
This may sound a little brash, but ...
Might I stay inside your Suitcase?