Dark Merchant (3)
Right after buying the information on Lenon from Brian, I made my way to District 8 and started circling the streets around there.
The outer districts were already in worse shape than the city's core, but even among them there were places that stood out as especially rotten.
Dilapidated facilities. Abysmal hygiene. Sky-high crime rates.
District 8 held every one of those titles—the place people called the absolute worst in the entire city.
"We've been here before. What brings you out today?"
"Lenon Sirius. Looking for the location of a bounty target wanted for robbery and assault."
"A bounty target… so you've already figured out where he is."
Unfortunately, an information broker's intel never went into that much detail. In Ironclad's case the novel had given me his residence, so I'd known where to look. But this bounty target they called Ice Sheet had never even been mentioned inside War City. There was no way to pinpoint his hideout in one shot. Even going through brokers, the most I could get was that he'd been spotted several times in this neighborhood. Anything more precise meant I had to move myself.
"I don't know that far. Information brokers aren't the sort with enough free time to dig up a second-class bounty target's home address."
"Then…"
"Canvassing."
So how do you get the information you need? There's only one real method. You ask people about Lenon's traces and check every suspicious spot yourself. The act known as canvassing.
"Canvassing, huh."
"Yeah. Canvassing is how you close the distance on a bounty target."
Watching Sinel nod quietly brought back old memories. As a kid I'd briefly been obsessed with playing detective. What I was about to do wasn't all that different from a private investigator if you looked at it closely. Something warm and restless started bubbling deep in my chest.
"Canvassing… I've never even thought about it."
"You'll get it once you see it."
Even in District 8 the commercial stretch still drew a decent crowd. My first plan was simply to grab anyone and ask about Lenon. I stopped a passerby nearby—a young man who looked about the same age as the Lenon Brian had described.
"Got a second? Need to ask something."
"What. I'm busy—don't talk to me."
The youth paused just long enough to glance between me and Sinel, then spat the words out irritably and walked off.
"……"
"……It'll go better next time."
Once he was gone Sinel offered the consolation. This was nothing like the canvassing I'd imagined. The little romantic fantasy in my chest twisted sideways. Maybe trying to question people one by one had been the wrong approach from the start. The general human landscape of District 8 was starting to take shape in my head.
"Sinel."
"Yes, boss."
"This method is way too inefficient. Better switch tactics."
I watched the people streaming past. A solid crowd was moving through the commercial street. Even if Lenon were mixed in among them, the odds of spotting him by eye were basically zero. I settled on a better approach and pushed telepathy across the entire flow of pedestrians.
— "Lenon Sirius."
People react unconsciously when they hear their own name. Even if the call isn't directed at them, a familiar name still draws at least one flicker of response—unless they deliberately force themselves not to react.
"Hmm……"
In one corner of the crowd filling the commercial stretch, a middle-aged man showed a reaction far sharper than anyone else's. Plenty of people had twitched a little, but his was on another level. Looking at his age, though, he clearly wasn't Lenon himself. I closed in on the man who had flinched so hard. He scanned the surroundings, then started walking again as if nothing had happened.
Thud. Thud.
I picked up my pace and stuck right to his side. Only then did he stop and look at me.
"What is it?"
"Need to ask you something."
"If it's directions, ask someone else……"
"Lenon Sirius. Ever seen a young robber carrying a knife about this long? Golden hair, roughly this height."
The middle-aged man's face darkened the moment he heard the question. He looked angry, or maybe afraid—maybe both. With a stiff expression he asked back,
"……Why are you looking for that bastard?"
"We've got a little business with him. Business that won't end well for him, of course."
"R-really?"
This time the man's face lit up with open delight. The sudden swing made no sense, so I pressed him.
"Something happen between you two?"
"I ran into him in an alley just a little while ago. I was actually on my way to the security force right now."
"That so. We'll beat him half to death and drop him off at the security force for you. Just tell us where you saw him."
"That way—go that way and you'll find a narrow alley. That's where……"
Looks like I'd hit the jackpot on the first try. Whatever grudge he was carrying must have been heavy; he described the exact spot he'd met Lenon in exhaustive detail. Of course a long string of extras came attached—most of them pure curses aimed at Lenon.
"So the place he saw Lenon was around here."
Armed with the middle-aged man's tip, I headed straight for the spot where Lenon was most likely still hanging around. A tangle of alleyways just off the commercial stretch. Maze-like passages opened onto spaces that were a little too wide to still be called alleys. Letters. Faces. Paint. The usual scenery of a secluded back street. Walking between walls plastered with filthy graffiti, I started hearing voices from the far end of one alley. I signaled Sinel to stop, then quietly peered around the corner.
Beyond the bend, two figures came into view.
"So just hand over everything you've got, yeah?"
"Th-this is not okay! It's not even mine!"
"Who gives a shit whether it's yours or not. I said I'm taking it."
A blond youth in a black hoodie. One hand held a short machete; the other was braced against the wall as he cornered a man who'd been passing through. Lenon Sirius. Exactly the second-class bounty target from the files.
"Still, you can't…! This is company property—if you touch it you'll…!"
"Is the company more important than your life, old man?"
"That's……"
"Or maybe I should just take a wrist off for you."
The man in front of him was in the exact same situation as the middle-aged guy earlier. District 8 had plenty of pockets the security force never reached. In a back alley this quiet, whatever happened could go unnoticed for a long time.
I drew the pistol from inside my coat and gave Sinel a look. Circling around to box him in was an option, but if I fired wrong in a space this tight the odds of hitting her were too high. Quiet. No sound. Holding my breath, I slipped past the corner and leveled the gun at Lenon.
"……"
If the first round put him down, perfect. That was the hope I was carrying when it happened.
Lenon glanced in my direction for a split second, then thrust out a hand and spoke.
Grease
"Wha—?"
My precarious stance lost all balance. The moment the barrel of the gun tilted upward, my center of gravity went backward and I slammed flat onto the ground. Grease—simple magic that controls an object's friction. The floor lost every bit of grip; my shoes skidded, and my body, already off-balance, toppled straight back. That wasn't the only problem Grease brought. With friction gone and the momentum of the fall still in play, I started sliding across the ground straight toward Lenon.
"Security force? Or bounty hunter?"
"Damn it—my body…!"
"Doesn't matter. I'll just kill whoever it is."
Trying to correct my posture was useless; I couldn't plant a hand on the floor properly. Every time I tried, my palm slipped out from under me, and the distance to Lenon kept shrinking. He grinned as he leveled the machete at me. I couldn't control my own body. If I slid into his range like this I'd just get carved up.
"Sinel! Go around the other side!"
"But……"
"If you come this way you'll just slip too!"
Sinel's Haste only gave her an edge when she could actually move on solid ground. I twisted my body as hard as I could while she took the order and sprinted the long way around. Barely managing to bring the muzzle back on target, I aimed at Lenon from that awkward, sliding position.
Five meters. Four meters. Three meters.
The arm holding the pistol started to go numb. The instant our eyes locked—him with the machete, me with the gun—I carefully squeezed the trigger.