Two-Track

Flat Cap's declaration that they were going legit was no empty announcement.

"I don't know if I should call this lucky, but the cash we're holding right now is historic. Probably because we finally collected every scrap of principal and interest we'd been owed all at once."

He kept talking as he ruffled Helen's hair; she sat with her legs slightly knock-kneed.

"Like I said before, we're moving into the light. This isn't just some empty declar— why does my tongue keep getting twisted?"

"Judging by how you're talking about cash, are you planning to buy stocks or something?"

"Then those tulip share—!"

"Shut your mouths, both of you, before I actually kill you. So the plan is… damn it, you made me forget!"

Thwack!

"Yow."

"Gah."

In an instant, Tungtung and Bisil each collected a fresh lump on the head, then flopped flat on the floor, still wriggling and flapping their mouths.

"That hurts…."

"And yet— minus eighty-seven percent… and from that day, two years…! The agony my tulip shares have endured…!"

"Ignore those two idiots, Helen. Especially that tulip-whatever guy. He sank money into something with no collateral and no real existence. Total moron."

"That's harsh."

"Slander."

"Ahaha…."

Helen laughed awkwardly, recalling a lunatic from episode one who'd stood in the street painted up like a clown, endlessly howling about the end of the financial world.

Then, all at once, she had to stop laughing—because it hit her that she herself had once sold her soul to something called bitcoin, or maybe nomiccoin, only to watch the whole thing get collateralized by a single remark from some high-up official in the country.

Of course, back then she'd spent entire days in the investment group chat performing Indian rain dances of pure HODL energy, and she'd managed to recover some of it….

Ahem. In any case, offering a quiet prayer that Bisil might one day find the courage to HODL or average down, she returned to the conversation—because the core of Flat Cap's plan was Helen herself.

"The plan's nothing fancy. We take the money we've earned and build a waterproofing-agent factory, then we sell the stuff. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠You're confident, right, Helen?"

"Uh… yes? W-w-wait a second! All of a sudden—!"

"I did a little market research down at the harbor yesterday. Looks doable. No real competitors, and the demand is solid. I've already found a few suppliers who can deliver coal tar on a regular schedule."

"Hmm…."

While Helen lowered her head to think, Flat Cap launched into an inexhaustible explanation of the scheme he had designed.

Like any dream-drunk new-money type, he insisted they would soar high on the back of a genius's great invention—an invention ordinarily out of reach. Modest Helen held firm to a thoroughly skeptical stance, cleverly detouring into side paths like Red Queen theory and market share to dodge Flat Cap's relentless pressure to found a company.

"What's the problem? Existing waterproofing agents are shooting through the roof, and yours is a goose that prints golden eggs."

"Well… in the short term, you're not wrong. But from a long-term perspective, you absolutely cannot decide based on first-mover advantage alone."

The conversation ran on parallel tracks. As anyone listening could have inferred, Flat Cap regarded Helen's waterproofing agent as something close to genuine alchemy—actual gold from base matter—while Helen regarded it as a four-drone or a water rocket: something that could be overtaken at any moment with a crisp ta-da.

It was a kind of tragedy. The gulf in their understanding had driven them to mutual frustration. And because each respected the other, neither could simply press the point head-on and force an answer.

Helen's head began to ache. How was she supposed to unpack nearly two centuries of accumulated, half-formed intuition—intuition that, from Flat Cap's point of view, was nothing but a strange blank?

Maybe she should just drink something swee—

"…Something sweet?"

Helen paused their wholesome, ferocious feedback session and focused. She reached back into the past, to the first moment she had arrived at the café, and pulled the memory free.

A whoosh-whoosh (damn neutron sound effect) of scenery flashing past, a lurching field of vision, a café door swinging open, a staff member wearing a full-service smile.

"Ah."

Snapping back to the present, Helen planted a hand on her hip and addressed Flat Cap, who still wore a distinctly unsatisfied look.

"Is sugar expensive, by any chance?"

"…It's always been a luxury. Middle class and up, mostly. With the war, it's even worse now. Anyway, Helen, opportunities like this only co—"

"Okay. Let's do it."

"—me, you've got to grab them fa— wait, what?"

"I said let's do it. The factory."

.

.

.

.

.

For reasons she herself couldn't quite name, Helen had called it—and with that, Flat Cap had no further need to push.

He took every last coin of cash he held, plus capital yanked from a proper first-tier bank through official channels (a home-equity loan), and bought a factory with a story, tucked away in a slightly out-of-the-way spot.

The story wasn't much. It was simply a factory that had been crushed by the times.

"The factory is yours now."

"Haha. Good deal."

"Do well with it. Don't even look at charcoal the way ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠I did."

And so the charcoal-factory owner—wiped out in a mere two years by the rise of coke—took his leave.

"Worrying about nothing."

Flat Cap neatly batted the charcoal-factory owner's advice aside, then bought every tool and piece of equipment Helen had requested and, using day laborers, had them installed here and there throughout the building.

They decided to keep the rest of the facilities as they were. It had once been a fully operational plant, and because it had been a charcoal factory, the heating systems—ordinarily a major expense—were already in place. They saved a fortune.

An extremely satisfying result. The loan wasn't small, but it was money he would repay in full before long. Flat Cap gazed quietly at the factory taking shape step by step, then returned to the office with a light step.

And despaired.

"Son of a bitch. What do I do? What the hell do I do? This is a secured loan and there's no way this is real this can't be happening mnhhh hot hot oh my god."

In the office, where moonlight streamed cleanly through the gap in the window and cast a calm atmosphere, Flat Cap had buried his head in the desk and was steadily losing his mind.

"Ah, Uncle, don't worry so much."

Beside him, Helen fretted over the state of Flat Cap's hair roots as he clawed at his scalp, and forcibly pulled his hands down.

"Um… so… we'll definitely get the house deed back. Cheer up!"

"It's the office…."

"The office is your house, so it's the same thing."

"Aaaaaaaagh."

Watching Flat Cap deteriorate further despite her sincere comfort, Helen chose to shut her mouth in a hurry—before he could fully transform into a male menhera for whom there was no demand.

Fully agreeing with the maxim that clumsy comfort can become poison, she wordlessly patted Flat Cap's back, then snuck a sidelong glance at the half-torn newspaper article lying on the desk.

"So they cancelled the series after all…."

She muttered something no one but herself could possibly understand, but it didn't matter. No one was listening, so this much was fine.

Flat Cap was right there, but his mind was in such chaos that nothing reached his ears—and Tungtung and Bisil, the moment they saw the article, had bolted for the hills.

And why was Helen still here? Obviously because someone had to comfort Flat Cap in his despair. It was absolutely not because she had nowhere else to go, or because her mobility was limited.

"Nraaaaaaagh!!!!!"

"Easy there…."

Having entered stage two of accepting ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠death—anger—Flat Cap still did not move a muscle from the desk, yet continued to bellow animal noises without pause.

Well, he had every reason. The present result was one he had brought on entirely himself. He was the one who had pushed the venture through; Helen was the one who had mentioned every worry and every limit and tried stubbornly to stop him.

As the tree of his thoughts branched that far, his reason began to show its limits. The sensation of his SAN points bottoming out did more than stoke the rage of a Flat Cap already unhinged by grief—it dragged him to the edge of madness. In his eyes, the world was irrational, and everything in it was nothing but a target of struggle.

Suddenly, a destructive urge boiled up in him. If he could, he wanted to grab a bat of any material and smash the window right in front of him to pieces. If he could, he wanted to shatter every window in the world.

"That window! The window!"

"Uncle, stop yelling and try a little of this."

"Ugh-huhh. Leave me alone. I'm finished. It's the charcoal-factory owner's curse. Damn yellow monkeys… they should've just stuck to their plays or theaters or whatever the hell, so why suddenly…."

"What on earth are you— get a grip and just try one taste."

Forcing his creaking neck bones to rotate, Flat Cap lifted his head. His bloodshot eyes bulged as if they might pop free. An ink stain pressed into his cheek only added a grotesque absurdity to his dazed expression.

"What is this… poison?"

"You want me to really give you some?"

"…No."

A cool sensation brushing past him restored a sliver of sanity. Flat Cap looked at the white powder Helen held out. Even if he wanted to describe its features, it just looked like white powder. If he squeezed out the most expressive phrase he could manage: you could see crystals?

"Hmm… so what is it?"

"Just try it first. Not a lot—really just a tiny bit."

Flat Cap brought a finger to the white powder waving in front of him with a little try it, try it energy.

"Doesn't seem like salt… what the hell is th—"

A whoosh-whoosh (damn neutron sound effect)—his childhood self, thirteen children racing down the road, a slowly rolling carriage, imperial soldiers with salty smiles.

"Ah."

He had been thrashing in childhood memories—then a sweetness so intense it tingled under his ears yanked him back to reality.

He had only dabbed the tiniest amount of powder, and yet—damn it, Helen, what the hell was this sweetness?

His pupils, which until a moment ago had been dilated by despair, were now dilated by pure food-engineering shock, and they seemed to demand an explanation from Helen, who was beaming with a smug little smile, puffed up with pride.

Helen looked at the man frozen with his mouth hanging open, put on her most arrogant air, and said:

"Have you ever heard of saccharin?"