No Chinese Allowed (3)
Of course, he hadn't expected a favorable reaction, but Moran scoffed at Moriarty's words as if they were utterly laughable.
"Pfft! Lame! Scrawny weakling! Feeble. Weaker than me. So I ain't following your orders."
"Is that so? Then why did you let yourself get caught by me, Moran?"
At the weakling's retort, Moran furrowed her brow. She'd mocked him as obnoxiously as possible to provoke him into lunging at her, yet he calmly threw the question back. No—he asked it as if she were the fool, as if his superiority was a given.
Moran, who had never once attended school or learned from a teacher in her ten years of life, couldn't recognize this as the demeanor of a professor. But the girl, who instinctively hated anyone lording over her, bared her teeth even as she answered the question honestly.
"I didn't get caught by you, weakling. Fu Manchu ordered it. So even if I hate it, I gotta obey for now. 'Cause I'm the weaker one."
"Then doesn't that make it all the more contradictory, Moran? If what you say is true, Fu Manchu must have explicitly ordered you to obey me. So why not simply do so?"
"I ain't Moran—that name sucks. And yeah, I'm weak now, but someday I'll be stronger."
Moriarty nodded with a smile at the girl's bold declaration, his expression that of a professor hearing a student's wrong answer. No one present knew it was also the look of a mentor spotting potential worth grooming as an assistant or doctoral candidate, despite the error. After all, he was the most educated person there.
Still, it was an answer he liked. Had Moran hesitated, unable to respond, or meekly acknowledged her own foolishness and chosen to obey Fu Manchu's command, he would have downgraded his assessment of her. But she hadn't.
Even if she wasn't a purebred werewolf as Fu Manchu and the others described—unable to fully transform, physically weaker than her kin—the girl harbored ambition and the will to rise. Of course, Moriarty had no intention of letting her reach his own position. But right below him? That he could permit, as her master and ruler, depending on her efforts.
"In that case, there's more than a thing or two I need to teach you. Starting with how to become a person, not a beast."
"I ain't learning from you, scrawny."
"You have no right to refuse, Moran. I decide."
"Grrrrrr!"
The girl bared her teeth again. But she didn't advance. For her, this shift was bewildering, even if slight. It felt as if she'd cowered before that weakling's gaze. But that was absurd. No way would she fear him, who looked so frail.
Maybe her dam, who beat her for sport, or her half-brothers who did the same. Or powerhouses like Fu Manchu, before whom even those brothers bowed. But to this girl, still too young and knowing only the law of the jungle, the man before her was an incomprehensible existence.
So she thought differently. She couldn't fathom the reason, but this weakling was surrounded by underlings, strong ones—unlike him, unlike her. I'm just intimidated by his goons, she decided. The name irked her, but at some point, she'd started thinking of herself as Moran.
Of course, that didn't mean she'd answer when the weakling called her by that ridiculous name.
A silent standoff ensued. It was Moriarty who first approached her.
Go ahead, hit me if you dare, Moran sneered inwardly. She knew full well—even in the East End—that the frail fool had once tried striking her and sprained his own wrist instead.
Even if she was still closer to the weak side herself, she was stronger than the man before her. That was obvious to Moran. To survive the brutal streets, you had to be strong. Otherwise, you died—or followed the strong.
She'd survived from birth as the cursed daughter of an East End whore, drawing fear and curses from people, enduring Fu Manchu's disappointment at her half-breed status, the abuse and neglect from her half-brothers, all because she was strong.
Yet she'd been beaten by Fu Manchu's men for poor begging or pickpocketing, starved for the same reason—because she was weak.
But this place was different. Not the East End. No Fu Manchu.
At first, she'd pretended to obey, biding her time to escape. So when Moriarty approached, observed her briefly, and spoke, she was caught off guard.
"So, you really have no intention of following me?"
"Told ya, weakling. I don't follow the weak."
"A true wolf cub. Fine, then. Do as you like. Go live free out there, Moran."
"...What? A trick?"
"I'm serious. As fellow liberals, we must respect human freedom and choice. Of course, Moran, you're not quite human yet, so you might not get it."
Street life had honed her instincts. So Moran knew the man before her meant it. But street life also bred endless suspicion, even of the truth. She strained to read any hidden deceit in his gaze.
Her blue wolf-pupil eyes met his icy, glacial stare. A chill ran through her unbidden. Ordinary human eyes, yet they ensnared her—not like hers, but alien all the same. Like facing a viper head-on.
Nothing like the feeble aura she'd mocked moments ago.
So even as he leaned down gently, like a kind father offering blessings to his daughter, patting her shoulders and whispering, she could do nothing.
"As I said, it's all your freedom, Miss Moran. But remember, this is the world of humans. Your choices, your regrets—all yours."
"Wh-what're you... saying...?"
"Just stating facts, telling you the future if you leave. You can't go back to the East End—Fu Manchu wagered you as a prize. No big loss. Live as the street rat you always have. But how long do you think that'll last, Moran? Wolves are strong in packs. A lone wolf gets hunted eventually. Weak, as you say. You'll grow, and pickpocketing won't cut it anymore—you know beggars and thieves have their hierarchies and gangs. You can't smash them alone. So you'll seek work. Plenty of jobs. Our England, Moran, is a beautiful land where everyone works. Three-year-olds sweep chimneys on every street—most die before five, but replacements abound. You'll enter some factory, right? Workers overflow, but so do factories."
"S-so... what?"
Her learning was scant, her life the streets—she couldn't grasp every word or intent. But his tone, like a demonic sermon, held her rapt.
"If you think factory girls just work the machines, you're a blissfully ignorant wolf, Moran. Most sell their bodies on the side. You'll have to, too. Half-beast as you are, maybe not—but weird tastes exist aplenty. Factory owners prefer young virgins for their nights. You'll need luck. If a coworker rapes you first, or you sleep with someone you like before then, the bosses will rage. Our noble English gentlemen always beat whores for letting rootless scum take their precious virgins. Then the pimp beats you for deceiving him, saddles you with debt. That life repeats. If lucky, you die before thirty—or live it as a weakling till the end. You have the freedom to choose it, Moran. So do as you wish."
I'll make sure it happens that way.
The unspoken tail end echoed in her ears. So Moran said nothing. Perhaps from fear.
Moriarty confirmed he'd at least temporarily crushed her urge to flee. Satisfied, he patted her shoulder encouragingly, stroked her hair—and she didn't resist.
Of course, it was provisional. But henceforth, he'd demonstrate his strength up close, taming the wolf.
Moriarty looked up, surveying his subordinates watching him and Moran. They averted their eyes guiltily where gazes met, but it didn't matter.
He disliked theatrics, but his brutish men loved the drama. For what lay ahead, he needed to declare and reveal partially in advance.
"My dear ladies and gentlemen, we'll be busy for a while again. I've always kept my promises, and I will this time. But as I said when we started this, I have no intention of settling here. Mac."
"Yes, Boss!"
"Keep everyone but essential personnel armed and on standby at all times. It'll end in two months—absolute secrecy. If it leaks, I'll cut off his prick and toss it to the brothels. Dozer."
"Yes, sir!"
"Mobilize everyone to watch and report anyone entering the West End. Especially from the East End—tail them, eliminate if needed."
The head commands, the body obeys. Natural law. With initial orders given, Moriarty spoke again.
"No need to tense up. You all play chess, right? Take the king, it's over. We'll take the East End's Chinese king first."
"...But that Fu Manchu—will it really be that simple, Boss?"
They rarely questioned the professor. Even if they did, most wouldn't understand, sharing faith that obeying him worked out. Many weren't even authorized originally.
Porlock was rare in voicing doubts. Moriarty smiled.
"Didn't I tell you, Porlock? Giant empires or organizations crumble from within. Soon, East End customers will return."
Porlock and the others nodded. None truly grasped it—the professor's lectures weren't always kind.
Moran watched Moriarty, biting her dry lips unwittingly. By her common sense, something incomprehensible was unfolding. Even suspecting nonsense, if he was right—what then? She fell into confusion.
She couldn't know, but the wolf was being tamed, bit by bit.
Fu Manchu's eldest son returned to visit M as a customer one week later.