Don't Feature Chinese Characters (1)
The drawing room was thick with tension from the sudden wager. Even Phileas Fogg, flustered, stepped forward for a moment to dissuade the professor but soon held his silence, left with no choice but to watch the bet's outcome.
It was the professor who had proposed it. His actions were sometimes capricious, at others utterly incomprehensible for a criminal mastermind, but he was still the professor—and he always came out on top. Thus, Fogg waited in silence for the result this time as well.
The wolf-girl, too, stood quietly beside Fogg, watching everything as if her own fate hung in the balance.
Since she belonged to Fu Manchu's gang, at least nominally, she knew all too well how ruthless he was. She'd been done for the moment she was caught pickpocketing. Having been scorned as half-witted all along, she could sense that her head would roll the instant the bet ended.
Perhaps that's why—though she didn't show it—the girl fervently prayed for a killing intent in that moment. For the first time in her life, she prayed that the scrawny, untrustworthy weakling of a human would win.
Of course, if Moriarty had read their minds, he probably would have scoffed. It was a foolish notion.
A bet wasn't something to rely on luck. At least, not for someone like him. Here, only human cunning decided everything—and in this wager with Fu Manchu, that cunning was Moriarty's own.
The card game itself was rather dull. It had to be. Whist, the game British gentlemen loved enough to stake their souls on—and one Moriarty himself played in social clubs or at university for appearances—required four players. Unfortunately, only two had joined the bet: Moriarty and Fu Manchu.
No third party dared insert themselves into their wager, at least not in that room. Naturally, there weren't many card games for just two, so they settled on a simple game of piquet.
Quickly, without conversation, the cards passed between them until Moriarty's victory sealed the bet's end.
Fu Manchu stared down at the cards in silence for a moment. Then he gave a small smile and spoke.
"The professor wins."
"Indeed."
As the result settled and both seemed to accept it, the tension in the room melted away like mist in the air. But amid that atmosphere, Moriarty caught the wolf-scamp's sigh of relief.
Fu Manchu addressed him.
"That said, are you really fine with just that wolf whelp? No offense, but she was someone I meant to dispose of eventually anyway. Her father was a longtime loyal subordinate of mine, a friend I cherished—though he passed before me."
"A werewolf, I presume?"
"Of course. That's why I assigned plenty of women to him, but even among her half-brothers from different mothers, two turned out as werewolves—yet this one? A total failure. I even considered her looks and sending her to a brothel later, but unfortunately, people took one look and ran screaming. Useless even as a whore."
"It was just a simple bet, wasn't it? I'm fine with it."
"Does the professor have peculiar tastes? Not my place to meddle. But there's a saying from our China: things that are neither fully human nor wolf are humans wearing wolf skins—and they often devour their own masters. A sign of rebellion. Just be careful, in case. I'd like to work with you long-term, and so would my successor."
As Fu Manchu's cold gaze flicked to the girl, the wolf-girl instinctively ducked behind Fogg's back. Fortunately, he soon lost interest and turned back to Moriarty.
"You've shown such magnanimity... In return, I'll positively consider your proposal, Doctor. Hopefully, I can invite you soon with good news."
"...Fortunate indeed. A man who knows how to repay kindness is a good one."
Fogg sensed something off in their exchange but could only stay silent. Fortunately, Moriarty was already bidding simple farewells to Fu Manchu and his family.
On the surface, Moriarty exchanged pleasantries and good wishes with Fu Manchu's kin, wearing a kindly smile. Three stood out. Fu Manchu's eldest son—whose name Moriarty couldn't quite recall, but who had once been a client seeking counsel. Since he'd surely visit again soon, they exchanged brief inquiries after health.
Fu Manchu's youngest, the child of his favorite concubine and, as far as Moriarty knew, the only one to inherit his talents as a sorcerer. His sole flaw for now was his age: a boy of merely thirteen, or perhaps fourteen.
Finally, Fu Manchu's daughter, who shared the same mother as the youngest. Not yet twenty, just barely of age, she was a beauty—resembling her mother, with an exotic blend of Eastern and Western allure, the very image of the Oriental beauty crude fools often fantasized about.
Normally, nothing to note—but Moriarty caught an intriguing glint in her eyes. Compared to Sherlock, she didn't hold a candle, but it was a rare spark. He sensed ambition there, and the effort she made to scrutinize him despite her dull wits.
Quite interesting. He winked playfully, just for her to notice. Whatever she made of it, she responded with a faint smile. A positive reaction.
Resolving to investigate where she frequented once back, Moriarty stepped out with Fogg and the wolf-girl he'd won.
Fu Manchu's side had already summoned a carriage, so he accepted without refusal.
Silence came and went as the carriage left Chinatown and sped toward the East End's edge. Fogg glanced to ensure the driver's seat was properly sealed off, then spoke.
"Professor, how could you just jump into a bet like that? What if you'd lost?"
"Win or lose, no harm done."
"No harm? We'd be folding entirely under those Chinese bastards!"
"Then we could eat them from the inside out, bit by bit. No real loss—just a roundabout path."
"I... If anyone else said that, I'd call bullshit, but you... damn."
"And don't worry. I couldn't lose from the start."
"I know you're the smartest, professor, unbeatable even at trivial card games, but there's always a chance in gambling—luck's involved."
"I cheated. Oh, relax—Fu Manchu knew and let it slide."
"Sometimes I worry you've lost your mind."
"It ended well for both sides. He vaguely agreed to reconsider cooperation at the end. And the bet's outcome wasn't a loss for him either, right? Thanks to it, I even got this trophy—"
"Grrrrrr!"
"Tch, not trained enough yet. Time to start her education right away."
Moriarty slyly reached to pat the girl's head, but recalling the pain of her snarling bite, he withdrew his hand at her warning growl.
Fogg sighed, watching him.
"He knew you cheated, too."
"I let him know on purpose."
"That's the point! What if he'd used it as leverage to force us under him?"
"But he didn't, Fogg. That's what matters. I was suspicious from the start when he bothered talking and betting—if he had the power to swallow us whole, no need for any of it."
"Ah."
Fogg sighed. He barely grasped half of what the professor said, but pretended to understand. Otherwise, he'd face that ape-like scrutiny again.
But he couldn't help voicing the next doubt.
"Fine, all good, I get it. Really. But why bring this brat along?"
"I told you—raise her."
"Grrrrr!"
She bared her teeth in threat, displeased at being discussed, but Moriarty and Fogg ignored her lightly and continued. The girl seemed content just to signal her displeasure; she soon shut her mouth and feigned focus on their deciding conversation.
"She's cursed, I tell you! If you want a werewolf, scour all of Britain!"
"Most are already grown, Fogg. Beasts must be tamed from youth."
"She's a wolf pup!"
"Tame a wolf, and it becomes a dog."
"Even I know better—stop trying to fool me, professor! You teased me last time too. How's a good dog like a wolf?"
"Simplified for you, but even idiots admit evolution's real after Darwin's On the Origin of Species."
"You're insane—humans from monkeys? Dogs from wolves?!"
"...Sure, believe what you want."
Ignoring the pitiful Fogg—still half-evolved from monkeys—Moriarty neatly sorted his thoughts.
Much to do. Personal business like taming the wolf, but also social efforts to make this London a touch better.
Suddenly, a phrase he'd heard somewhere came to mind. Likely from his past life. He didn't know why he knew it. He'd lived solely as James Moriarty now; past-life memories were irrelevant.
Though they proved useful now and then. Preparing ventures against France's looming defeat or the Paris Commune in a few years. Above all, encountering and teaching that darling child Sherlock young—thanks to those memories.
Moriarty smiled.
"Ever heard this one, Fogg?"
"What now? How could an ignorant fool like me know what you do?"
"Don't recall who said it, but: in mystery novels, don't feature Chinese characters."
"What? That bastard's a total prick—a racist dog!"
"What?"
Fogg was dim, but his dimness sometimes flustered even Moriarty—like now. Caught off-guard by the fool's retort, Moriarty had to ask again, and Fogg bellowed in anger.
"Fuck, what I hate most in the world: black slaves, squinty Chinese, cocky Italians, French frog spawn, Turk eunuchs, and racists! They're all dogshit! Such vile words!"
"Er... right."
Tuning out Fogg, Moriarty finalized his plans to write off the Chinese.