When Times Get Tough, Only Family Remains 2
Bell's sudden assertion. I had to struggle not to let my flustered feelings show on my face. Deep down, I was relieved that I wasn't the only one gripped by suspicion, but at the same time, I couldn't shake the worry that I might be falling into confirmation bias without solid grounds. Still, the doubt was real, so let's bluff our way through for now.
“Uh, aren't the securities kept at the Bank of England? All I brought were some portable gold coins.”
I retrieved the one album I'd stashed in Bell's internal storage compartment and held it out to them. The album had a black base cover embossed with gold thread embroidery, and the family crest—a shield emblazoned with a leopard—adorned the center of the front. Inside were the gold coins my father had collected as a hobby, each accompanied by a spec sheet noting the mint year and weight. They were meant as emergency funds, of course, but that wasn't the point right now.
Harold flipped through the album casually, then spoke with obvious displeasure.
“...Willie, this won't do. You're a smart kid—how could you try negotiating with Vectra out of the blue without clear collateral or terms? It just doesn't add up, does it?”
His voice dropped low, almost a growl, beyond mere disappointment or reproach. It was a stark contrast to the affable act he'd put on just moments ago—shocking, really.
For now, let's play it submissive, gauge their reactions.
“I'm embarrassed it fell short of expectations, but I figured since I'm the heir, it'd work out somehow. Honestly, I didn't even think about the paper stocks.”
In reality, physical stock certificates had largely become relics of the past half-century ago. Then, fourteen years back, the so-called Electronic War ravaged databases worldwide, causing massive chaos. As a lesson from that mess, major shareholders started reissuing paper certificates for ownership verification. Still, my father keeping his without depositing them was definitely unusual.
Harold was still frowning, unconvinced, when Catherine spoke in a chilling tone utterly unlike her usual self.
“Young Master William, think carefully. Without providing clear collateral, you're not a guest or an exile—you're just a prisoner.”
It was logical, irrefutable. But when people have nothing to say, they get mad. I couldn't fathom why she was pushing so hard.
So I deliberately bristled a bit in response. “Is that a threat? Was Father's intelligence division the kind of place that demands proof of absence without evidence?”
“I apologize for the rudeness, but I'm merely asking you to understand the situation.”
“Yeah, Willie, you've been through a lot lately—you seem a bit confused, and I get it. But like you said, the living have to keep living. It's fine, just come clean with the truth.”
I tried to muddle through the pressure, but neither of them looked like they bought it. Their attitudes screamed they already knew everything and were just waiting for me to spill. As they leaned in with expressions like what are we going to do with you?, gearing up to persuade me further, Bell pinged me again on our private channel.
“Hmm?”
Suddenly, Catherine—who'd been mixing subtle threats with coaxing words to persuade me—stopped mid-sentence, tilting her head as she peered intently behind me. Her eyes curved up slightly in what might've been a smile, though her mouth stayed straight. A chill crawled up from deep inside me.
Bad vibe. She seemed to have realized something, slowly opening her mouth.
“Ah, I see. That was the issue. No wonder you weren't listening. Yes, now I get it for sure.”
Her inexplicable attitude made me swallow hard. “Huh? What do you think you know?”
“You're not the type to ignore words, William, but something felt off. Now I can handle it, so please don't be startled.”
Before I could voice my confusion again, the chief of staff clapped his hands from his seat.
Clap!
The explosive sound reverberated through the house. I flinched, squeezing my eyes shut instinctively. Somewhere in the room, a firearm had discharged. Then came the heavy thud of a metal object toppling to the floor.
The distinctive bell-like ring of an empty metal shell hitting the ground assaulted my ears. I whipped around fast—Bell, who'd been standing behind me, was gone.
“...!”
My gaze drifted downward shakily. Bell lay sprawled on the floor, sparks flying from her entire body.
Most guns shouldn't work on her—how?
I soon saw why. It wasn't a standard shot. A bacteriophage-shaped object clung to her temple like a vise with multiple legs. Whether from its bizarre effect or not, Bell was immobilized, looking almost completely shut down. Her eyes lacked focus, parts of her drive systems twitched in spasms, and smoke poured from her mouth.
“Bell! Damn it, what the...!”
“Tin cans are weak to this stuff, like poison to rats.”
The unpleasant voice came from across the room. Footsteps echoed from the closet Dan had entered earlier. He emerged into the living room gripping a long cylindrical launcher reminiscent of a grenade gun. Given how it'd dropped Bell without penetration, it wasn't conventional ammo—likely a localized EMP round.
From the looks of it, he'd been waiting in the room and struck on Catherine's signal.
“What the hell is this?! Why—”
I spun back toward Harold and Catherine to protest, but the sight of them stole my words.
Both had their palms pressed together identically, smiling in unison. Oddly, it felt less like their own will—like puppets. A strange sadness flickered in their eyes, their smiles rigid.
As I stood speechless, Harold spoke in a creaky, wooden puppet tone.
“Don't worry, Willie. You don't need that damn scrap heap—just trust us.”
They rose from their seats, flanking me still in my chair. Hands settled on my shoulders.