A Dark Place (2)

"Something's off."

Zack let the words out on a heavy groan.

"What's off, meow?"

"That drunk. He doesn't look like he's merely drunk."

"Mrow."

Yass studied the drunk squared off against Laurent. The knight's face was already widely known, and yet those sunken eyes did not so much as flicker.

"Definitely strange, meow. Doesn't look like drink alone did that, meow."

"Yeah. That's it."

Zack snapped his fingers.

"Drugs. There's stuff moving through the slums that leaves a person looking exactly like that."

"How do you know, meow?"

"I came up out of the slums myself."

Having laid his past bare, Zack kept watch alongside Yass. Neither of them imagined that Laurent—a Force user ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠skilled enough to wield a lightsaber—could possibly lose.

Thud!

As expected, Laurent put the drunk down in a single blow. A body steeped in drugs could not withstand the strike.

"Poet. Make the call."

"To where, meow?"

"The police."

Laurent respected public authority. He was, indeed, every inch the special officer of the Galactic Empire.

A good while later, Laurent and his companions were gathered at the police station. The meeting had been born of an ugly incident, and yet it was not without its pleasures.

"Sir Laurent! An autograph, please!"

"Would you have the signature of a knight, or the signature of a duelist?"

"Both!"

"Greedy. But that is how a man ought to be."

Laurent flourished the pen twice and signed. Not content with both versions, the officer went so far as to collect signatures for his wife and his daughter as well.

"Truly greedy!"

Laurent looked oddly satisfied. While the young officers were still collecting autographs, one middle-aged officer pressed a hand to his brow as if his head were splitting.

"Do you, too, desire a signature?"

"A signature? No. My head feels ready to burst. Signatures aren't even registering."

"Hmm. I believe I grasp it. You wish to know who stands behind the addict."

The officer could not go on. The silence itself was answer enough.

"I am in fine spirits today."

Laurent looked about the station. Coffee drawn from the vending machine in hand, he watched the officers who had acknowledged him as a knight.

"Laurent was actually an Imperial Knight?"

Zack was struck dumb. A child of the slums and an Imperial Knight, that elite of elites, stood as far apart as the top of a cliff and the bottom.

"Yass believed, meow!"

The great cat was half out of his wits as well. Laurent, his identity confirmed at the police station, was no lunatic afflicted with knight-sickness.

The lightsaber had been proof enough, but the impression of their first meeting had been so overpowering that they had simply forgotten it until now.

The two of them gulped their coffee with vacant faces. The shock was so severe that the hot coffee seemed to have gone cold.

"Yes. I am in fine spirits indeed."

Thoroughly satisfied, Laurent strode out of the station.

"Let us go!"

"H-huh?! Right!"

"Yass will clear the way, meow!"

Laurent walked with magnificent dignity. He did not, however, return to the hangar.

He meant to do something else. He wanted to resolve the trouble of the officers who had acknowledged him.

"Where are we going, meow?"

"A good place."

His mouth said a good place. His feet carried him into a dim alley. He wove through lane after lane, seeking out anyone who looked as though they had something to hide.

"That one is small fry."

He ignored a man loitering along the wall. He ignored the touts drumming up customers. When the ignoring had repeated itself several times over, Laurent's eyes lit.

"That is the one."

The man he singled out was an ordinary fellow. By no one's measure was he an extraordinary figure.

"Ho, there!"

"Who?"

"Receive a knight!"

"......"

The man was, unexpectedly, quiet. Like a beast that does not bare its fangs without cause, he only narrowed his eyes.

"It is you."

Laurent looked the man over from head to heel. The muscle showing faintly beneath his clothes was muscle built for real fighting.

"I have no business with you. Bring me your chief."

"Who the hell are you?"

"Precisely what you are thinking."

"The Scorpion Clan, then."

"Hoh."

Laurent played the part for all he was worth. His face was hard to make out in the dim alley, and this was his chance.

If he meant to provoke them without letting his identity slip, he could not afford to miss this moment.

"Come out!"

The man called his comrades over the comm. Before long a small open lot began to fill with people.

"Get him!"

The fight opened on a line as stale as they come. The result—

"Victory is mine."

Laurent stood with his feet planted upon the fallen.

Laurent had stepped into an establishment that sold things of that sort.

Every shattered cabinet was crammed with capsules—merchandise one could not decently bring oneself to name.

"You are evil."

Having declared it for all to hear, Laurent closed his eyes. No—through lids narrowed to slits, he looked down upon the kneeling men.

"From this moment, I shall employ the Art of Interest."

"What's the Art of Interest, meow?"

"A good art."

Laurent answered without so much as a glance at Yass. To employ the Art of Interest, a formidable concentration was required.

"Hnngh—!"

Once he had composed the atmosphere, the kneeling men ducked their heads. They had lost even after throwing numbers at him, and there was nothing left but to await their sentence.

Then one of them began to rub his thighs together. He had been drinking since early evening, and a bladder full of water had him in a miserable way.

"Who fidgeted!"

"Huh?"

"Who keeps fidgeting, I say!"

Laurent, having broken the silence, unveiled a presence like a giant's.

"I shall now behold the inside of your head."

"How do you even look inside a head...!"

"One has only to prod it with a lightsaber. I shall be very gentle, so that it does not hurt. You will endure."

"Please, spare me!"

"Silence!"

He closed the distance in a flash and shot out a hand. It was a collar-seize that left not even room to resist—the ultimate technique reserved solely for the wicked. Its proper name was Plead Meekly, which one must never abbreviate. Abbreviated all the same, it became Pure Love.

Whud!

The man—no, the syndicate's newest recruit—collapsed. One blow of Pure Love, and he lost every scrap of human dignity.

The long, rambling, pedantic sermon came to an end. So long, so rambling, and so pedantic was it that Zack turned his head, Yass yawned, and even the Laurent within clicked his tongue.

God, I am so damn sick of this.

He spat the curse inwardly, but the filter would not permit the sound of him cursing himself. It was then that the organization's boss raised a hand.

"Um, Sir Knight?"

"What is it."

"Well... there is no Bible."

Laurent's face crumpled like a vengeful ghost's—the very face of an inquisitor who has just laid eyes upon a heretic.

"Has one ever seen such an unbeliever!"

"An unbeliever?! I may be a criminal, but I go to church without missing a week! And except for that one time, I have never once skipped the offering!"

"You skipped it even once! Unbeliever! You shall shut your mouth!"

Having missed the offering even once, forgiveness had already crossed the water. For moments such as this, Laurent possessed yet another ultimate technique.

Laurent radiated ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the presence of a Great Sage. At that, Yass's eyes changed.

"Water! Answer! Doctrine! Don't tell me that's—?!"

"Poet. Do you understand?"

"Don't know, meow!"

"I thought as much."

Laurent brought his fist down and smashed the table. Having hauled up every ounce of strength he possessed, the words he cast forth were these.

"Water is the answer."

"Mrow?"

"Water does not merely know the answer. Wise Water has always been the answer."

Laurent put the weight of his presence behind his glare and looked upon every wicked soul in the establishment.

"You know who I am. If you do not wish to die grazed by a lightsaber, stabbed by one, or ground beneath one, draw water. And bring a vessel large enough to hold it."

"Ghk! Spare me! Anything but that...!"

"Silence!"

The men began to move. They gathered every water jug they had and hauled out the barley tea stored in the refrigerator.

They even detached the pipe running to the purifier, and for a tub they tore the bathtub out of the washroom and dragged it over.

No one resisted. They had already lost, and there was not a soul who would raise a hand against a celebrity who had reached the semifinals of the Armor Frame Battle—a Force user formidable enough to wield a lightsaber.

They kept their complaints buried and drew out every scrap of strength they had, and every scrap they didn't. Hauling tubs and carrying water, they poured sweat until they were pickled in it, and still they did not resist.

"P-please, spare meee!"

"If you have anything to hide, drink of this Wise Water."

"I don't have to drink it! I'm fine!"

"Insolent! A wretch with something to hide dares refuse the water!"

"I'll just talk! We took a subcontract! Somebody told us to sell this drug in secret, and all I did was take the subcontract!"

"Is that so."

"Yes! I'll tell you everything you want! I'll tell you right now where the man who subcontracted me is!"

"Good. First, we drink."

"U-uaaagh!"

The syndicate's boss went in headfirst. To plunge one's head into a bathtub of cold water and drink—truly, a devout sight.

"Blub! Ghk! Uwaaaah!"

"Cold water is more delicious than hot! Drink more!"

"I only took a subcontract!"

"Still making excuses! Wicked thing! You have not drunk enough water!"

His head was shoved under again. Not into a hard floor, but into moist cold water—and from this one could see that Laurent's mercy was as wide as the sea.

And so the men who had been honoring, as boss, a man who was no brother of theirs ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠were overcome by that mercy, and turned their eyes from the scene before them.

Meanwhile, Yass and Zack—

"Soaking his whole body in water... how pitiful, meow."

"Don't you bathe?"

"I do, meow. I give myself a good lick every day, meow."

"Lick? Blech! That's disgusting!"

A closeness that had only just grown was driven apart again.

If you have been wronged, retaliate. Even if you have not been wronged, retaliate.

Laurent acted at once. With the lightsaber of the Great Sage Knight, and with the weight of his name and his skill, he brought the organization to heel and drew the information out of it.

Since time immemorial the wicked have never died alone. Pluck one, and they detonate in a chain, and the whole surrounding ecosystem is finished with them.

At any rate, the organization whose leadership had been smashed cooperated with great enthusiasm and offered up what it knew of the outfit that had subcontracted the work to them.

When they had the gall to hand it over with one hand, he instilled manners in them by means of Wise Water. They then volunteered, unasked, as porters, and Laurent, valuing that loyalty highly, belatedly granted them forgiveness.

After that, Laurent and his companions raced through the night and turned yet another organization's den into a wasteland.

"Speak!"

Laurent's voice was cold. A shining lightsaber hung in his hand.

"We only took a subcontract!"

"A subcontract? Did you just say subcontract?"

"That's right!"

Having heard the answer, Laurent leveled the lightsaber. The humming blade poured its heat into the boss's face.

"Speak!"

"I told you! We took a subcontract!"

"Then speak of the ones who subcontracted it to you!"

The boss hesitated a moment, then looked around. The subordinates who might have helped him had been thoroughly beaten and lay unconscious.

A knight.

A warrior of the Galactic Empire, one man worth a hundred, and the Empire's pride.

Not an opponent he and his men could handle. In the end the boss accepted whatever trouble would follow and handed over what was wanted.

And so, after one organization had been smashed to pieces, Laurent raced through the night once more and fell upon another.

"You're the divine Laurent!"

"Indeed! I am Laurent! A knight among knights, who knows honor and justice!"

"Why would someone like you come after us!"

"Silence!" You contrived the deed yourselves—why play the victim!"

"Th-that's—!"

The organization's boss had nothing to say. Laurent was right a hundred times over.

"Wicked one! Receive judgment!"

"W-waaaait!!"

The boss flung out an arm. He dared not block the lightsaber, but with a desperate face he sought Laurent's mercy.

"We just took a subcontract, that's all!"

No. In truth, he was doing nothing more than selling out the man who had subcontracted him.

The Nth subcontract. It was every bit as horrifying as an Nth reincarnation.

Zack, in particular—an engineer with a long and bitter history of subcontracting—did not stop at shuddering. He ground his teeth.

"How many layers of subcontracting is this!"

"This trade is always like that, meow."

Even as he said it, Yass could only click his tongue at the wretched state of the world. Laurent, contempt naked on his face, put the lightsaber away.

"Not a shred of responsibility among them."

He raced the night. He raced it as endlessly as the subcontracts had been passed along.

Laurent and his companions ran and ran through the dark, seeking the place where the very first subcontract had begun.

"This is the last of them, I take it."

"Yeah. According to the crew we just smashed, this is where it started."

"Then that will do. We suffer once more."

Laurent kicked the door. The old iron slab blasted away with a bang and was gone.

"Come forth! You whose mothers have gone to a better place!"

He inquired after their mothers in the open. It was not a thing one did to a human being—which was to say that, if the other party was not human, one might do it as freely as one pleased.

Upon those beasts beneath humanity, who would not answer for the work entrusted to them and had instead passed along the subcontract of the subcontract of the subcontract, Laurent bestowed the experience of having their mothers insulted.

But no one was left to hear him.

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

"Laurent, these guys are all dead."

"They're really all dead, meow."

Just as Zack and Yass said, the den was carpeted with corpses. On the chance that someone yet lived, they checked the bodies one by one, but not a single breath remained.

"They have all gone to join their mothers."

Laurent reached his conclusion.

The police station on Kaidal-4.

Laurent stood before the middle-aged officer who had been suffering from a headache.

"So in the end, you're saying you don't know."

"That is correct. By the time I arrived, the matter was already finished."

"Understood. Then you may go home."

"I shall."

Laurent turned. He meant to leave the place that had acknowledged him as a knight and return to the hangar.

Then—

"Thank you, Sir Laurent."

The middle-aged officer saluted with careful respect. It felt as though the days he had suffered over the drug-smuggling case had at last been repaid.

The work was not yet finished, but what remained looked likely to go smoothly. An Imperial Knight had aided them. A talent whom His Majesty the Emperor himself held especially dear had aided them. From that, the middle-aged officer drew courage.

Laurent took a step. The midnight uproar was over, and there was no more reason to linger. Outside, Yass and Zack, who had gone out ahead, were waiting.

"Big Bro, you're here, meow."

"You look all right. That's a relief."

The two of them had worried for Laurent in earnest. An Armor Frame battle was rough work, but what they had been through the night before was no small thing either.

"Let us return."

Laurent led the way. The artificial sky of Kaidal-4 was already blue.