DD was a white male in his late forties with an utterly unremarkable appearance—brown hair, brown eyes. His real name was Donald Douglas, yet almost no one addressed him as "Mr. Douglas." Whether out of familiarity or a lack of respect, he had been called simply "DD" since his youth. To his colleagues and the neighbors in his apartment complex, he was a man of no consequence—neither poison nor medicine, just blandly average.
Until three months ago, DD had worked as a building maintenance technician in Dallas. He possessed a technical degree with honors, but due to a few button-mismatches in life—minor missteps with major consequences—he had never landed a job that satisfied his self-esteem. Before he married, he had changed jobs repeatedly, searching for a place that fit his pride.
Even as a maintenance worker, DD harbored deep dissatisfaction. Although it was a blue-collar job, his company had given him a position of reasonable responsibility, and his salary was sufficient to live without want. His standard of living was effectively the average for citizens residing in the old American territories. Compared to the entirety of the USNA, including the Central American regions, he was actually quite well off. Yet, he believed he was destined for work more worthy of his talents.
Nevertheless, after marriage, he prioritized his family and locked his ambitions deep within his heart. Though they were not blessed with children, his relationship with his wife was harmonious. He remained a good husband. Perhaps his self-control was simply too strong. Had he been a little more honest with his own ambition, he might not have been seduced by a demon on that fateful day.
On the day of the micro-black hole experiment, he became a Parasite.
Already a latent psychic, his assimilation with the Parasite awakened a specific ability within him: Hypnosis Force.
Using this power, he deceived his wife, dragging her along to Japan in accordance with the collective will of his new brethren.
DD's Hypnosis Force was not overwhelmingly powerful. He could not force someone to believe something that grossly contradicted common sense, nor could he compel them to act against their deeply held moral or religious convictions. The suggestion he had planted in his wife's mind was merely that he had been assigned "a long-term business trip to Japan."
( are preparations for movement complete? )
DD directed the question inward, toward his consciousness. Affirmative thoughts returned to him. Had there been a psychic capable of intercepting these thought waves, they would have heard nothing more than a buzz, like the beating of bee wings. Regardless of language, DD was the only one communicating in human words. Parasites did not require language for mutual understanding. They shared a singular will; there was no need for all of them to debate what should be done next.
( Then we depart tomorrow morning. Be extremely careful not to do anything conspicuous that might arouse suspicion. It is practically midnight. Moving now carries too much risk. )
The thoughts that returned were: three affirmations, two denials... and one death knell.
"What happened!?"
DD stood up involuntarily, shouting aloud. His "voice" undoubtedly reached his comrades through the consciousness-sharing organ formed behind his brow. Yet, the only response was the agony of death. Almost simultaneously, one after another, his comrades' wills vanished. Just as he counted the fourth death scream, DD felt a strange sensation in his chest.
"What... is this...?"
Right around the area of his heart, something resembling a black needle was protruding from his chest. Upon closer inspection, it was actually an accessory known as a lapel pin.
Before he could even process why such a thing was stuck in him, he reflexively tried to pull it out. His hand, however, refused to move. The moment DD consciously recognized 'there is a pin stuck in me,' a pain so intense it shattered his sanity raced through his entire body.
Pierced through the heart by pure agony, his body permanently ceased its functions.
The cause of death was shock. The autopsy report would likely read "cardiac arrest due to commotio cordis." To the very end, DD never even noticed the black silhouette standing before him.
"Two seconds, is it...? I still can't quite match my uncle's speed."
Picking up the lapel pin that had fallen to the floor, Mitsugu Kuroba muttered to himself with a self-deprecating smirk.
The magic that had buried the Parasite was an original spell devised by Mitsugu. He had given it the dry, flavorless name "Poison Bee." It was a mental interference magic that infinitely amplified the pain perceived by the target until the subject died from the shock.
"Poison Bee" left only a tiny wound, one that no coroner would ever link to the cause of death. Anyone looking at a victim of "Poison Bee" would first suspect poison, then suffocation, but the corpse would bear traces of neither. In the sense that it was perfectly suited for assassination, "Poison Bee" was a superior magic.
Another superior aspect was that it was not a technique unique to Mitsugu. Unlike many mental interference spells, he had created a non-personalized activation sequence and standardized the procedure. In other words, magicians other than Mitsugu could use it. Aptitude was required, of course, but the Kuroba execution squad currently used "Poison Bee" as their ace in the hole.
"Boss."
Addressed from behind, Mitsugu turned slowly. One hand pressed against the soft fedora on his head—a pose that clearly screamed 'I read too many old novels' (or so his subordinate felt). Yet, that theatrical gesture suited him strangely well.
"Disposal is complete."
"Casualties?"
"None."
Hearing his subordinate's report, Mitsugu nodded with satisfaction. These were opponents that the USNA tracking units had struggled against. He felt he could be forgiven for grading his own family on a curve.
"These are the Head's orders. Do not neglect to track the spiritual bodies that have exited the hosts. Losing them eventually is inevitable, but chase them as far as you can."
The subordinate wore a complicated expression at Mitsugu's directive. It was this part of him—call it soft, or perhaps lenient—this lack of severity toward his own people that didn't quite mesh with the cold-blooded face that could order mass assassinations without batting an eye or cut down subordinates when necessary.
"Also, investigate the whereabouts of the Parasite that disappeared at First High to the best of your ability."
"Understood."
Mitsugu Kuroba was an inexplicable man. He wore many masks, and his true face was invisible. The closer one was to him as an aide, the more strongly they felt it.
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