"Remember, even though you're not directly being hunted, Grock will probably already know that I have accomplices, so try not to do anything reckless, Ramorez."
Those were the last words spoken to Harvey before he set out into the shabby room above. There was something… different about it. Sure, the stench of alcohol filled his nostrils as well as the creaking wooden floor beneath his feet were the same but nevertheless, something had changed.
No cheerful grins. No animated singing or music. Only dead, whispering voices.
"Who's that? Never seen 'im around 'ere before."
"Should we report him?"
"Nah, ya never know who to trust nowadays."
Ah. So this is what it looks like. The eyes and voices of the powerless and the broken spirits of the helpless— everything's changed since the war took over.
An old man, his teeth gradually disappearing one by one with a cane in his hands, tapped it onto the ground and motioned for Harvey to come to him.
"Hey there, sonny. How old are ya? Ten? Twelve?"
"I'm sixteen, sir," replied Harvey with waning politeness.
"Sixteen?"
The elderly man's eyes were wide open.
"Well, I guess ya do look a bit older, now that I've got a better look at ya. Anyhow, whatcha doin' around here?"
"I jus' wanted a newspaper or somethin' to read, sir."
"Oho, you can read? Well, there's nothing much in the papers these days other than news of the war. Oh yes, in case ya didn't know yet, they've captured one of the bastards who triggered this war. Harkland, I think it was?"
Excitement rose within him, but he had to be sure just in case. Harvey bent forwards, asking for the newspaper. The man, gazing at him inquisitively, brought out a bundle of papers and handed it to him after flipping to the relevant page.
"Here it is."
The name 'Mr Patrick Hartland' with the words 'arrested' and 'awaiting trial' brought great comfort to him— now that it was confirmed, they could finally leave Sodor. Thanking the man innocently, Harvey snuck back to the basement, through the trapdoor and passed on the news to his awaiting accomplice.
"Excellent," whispered Sigerson as they climbed back out of the trapdoor. "All that's left to do now is escape from this cage we've put ourselves in."
"Cage?" repeated Harvey confusedly. "What do you mean?"
"Why, you said so yourself, didn't you? The Enforcers purposely picked out this town to trap us here."
"What? So ya purposely walked into Eden, knowing they'd be here to trap us?"
"Calm down, calm down," hissed Sigerson in hushed tones. He checked around before dragging Harvey along at a faster pace than they were already marching.
"I already knew they'd do something of the sort. The cab should be here in a moment."
"The cab? You mean the one we took to get here?"
"Precisely. You look confused, don't you? I'll explain as we head back to Sodor."
With its black shining coat of paint announcing its arrival, their ride came swiftly and silently. In they went; the bottom of the cab opened up to reveal a secret compartment where the two comrades squeezed into, the wooden walls pressing onto them uncomfortably and the roof squeamishly close to their faces like the lid of a pot.
"I hope you don't find this overwhelming?" asked Sigerson grimly. "We'll be in here for at least two hours or so."
"Other than the obvious lack of moving space, I don't see why I won't be able to endure it," returned Harvey, putting on a brave face.
"Good. Well then, you mentioned—"
"Oh yeah, can I ask a question first?"
Although his expression seemed to forbid it, nevertheless, he took a resigned sigh and said, "Very well. What is it this time?"
"Uh, I mean… Why do ya trust this cabman so much?"
"That's all?"
"Uh… Yep. That's all. I just thought it strange since you obviously don't trust people at all."
Exasperation trickled into Sigerson's system. He sighed again to himself inwardly before he spoke.
"Alright, since there's nothing to do but wait, I might as well explain."A sudden jolt shook them mercilessly, smashing their faces into the thankfully cushioned roof above. After wriggling around to reposition himself, Sigerson continued, "I've known the cabman for years now, so it's safe to say his personality and traits have also been revealed to me throughout the years. There is nobody more suitable for the role than he. The Enforcers, to him, are no more friendlier than wild wolves."
"That's all well when ya put it like that," admitted Harvey, straining his ears to listen to the steady rhythmic noise outside the cab. "Why then, is there the sound of another horse right behind us?"
Sigerson raised his eyes in mild surprise then let out a restrained laugh.
"Oh, you mean the cab behind us? That would be Turner. I told him to watch us in case anything happens, but judging from the events so far, I would say everything's going exactly as planned."
Another hour passed with barely any dialogue between the two. Lost in his own thoughts, it seemed that Sigerson had made up his mind to stay blissfully silent until they reached their destination.
Unfortunately for him, he seemed to have forgotten who he was sharing the claustrophobic compartment with.
"Hey, what are we gonna do when we reach Sodor?"
"We? There won't be a 'we' after this. I need you and Turner to fix some things up for me as I negotiate with Dexter Eiter in my old apartment."
"What? You mean you're gonna be alone with that cold-blooded killer?"
"You seem to have forgotten that I'm a very capable detective— can I just call you Harvey?"
The youth let out a tense breath then replied, "Fine. I just don't like it when people call me by my first name as if I was only ten or something."
"I expect we'll be arriving soon," said Sigerson, slightly relieved. He added, "Don't worry about your appearance. In fact, it might actually help you one day; you'll never know…"
The cab suddenly pulled to a halt. Light blinded their eyes as they were helped out of the compartment and exposed to the familiar elements of the city; the orange clay bricks, the repulsive black smoke, and the chaotic chatter of the people all greeted them while they clambered out of the cab, dizzy and bruised but perfectly fine in mind and body.
"Go back to the hideout and meet up with Turner. I've given him instructions that both of you need to follow for my plan to be completed."
"What about you?" questioned Harvey persistently.
Sigerson laid a hand on his shoulder emphatically, walking past him with the air of one who's made up their mind in persisting in an inescapable death battle. He gazed back solemnly and replied, "Don't follow me. Please."
Sigerson's eyes were stuck to the floor.
"Go. If I fail, you'll know."
Slowly he lifted his hand off and disappeared into thin air. Harvey, who had understood the message was left standing there alone, a mere speck among the grey streets.
—
Still standing proudly, the forlorn building extended its arms to Sigerson. He had arrived back to his old residence, an ordinary clay-tiled apartment block.
Walking through the empty carpeted hallway filled his head with old memories as if he were travelling back in time. Every step added an extra memory to his train of thoughts, making it longer and more intricate than any locomotive to ever exist.
Ha. The landlord's gone and done it again. Left the key right under the flower pot. This sure brings back… interesting memories.
No Enforcers or police were around in here; everything of value to their investigation had already been taken away, leaving his old rooms nearly empty, save for a few pieces of furniture.
The landlord's still keeping this place clean because the Enforcers are now in charge. They'd never think I'd come back here, since there's virtually nothing to be gained. I'll be safe… for now…
Taking a seat in his favourite plushy armchair, Sigerson sat with his arms crossed and head tucked in, listening carefully for his new acquaintance. Footsteps right outside the door were coming closer. Cautious fingers pushed open the door, inch by inch. There was no doubt about it. His visitor was here.
"How do you do, Mr Eiter? I trust your journey was a pleasant one?"
The silhouette of a scrawny man slithered into the room. Though his lanky frame made him seem like a physically unimpressive assassin, the dead eyes often his by his dishevelled long bangs were enough to scare away most people, assuming they weren't on his hit list. Otherwise, they'd have no chance of seeing his eyes— all would be wiped out before the opportunity came.
With a success rate higher than any other hitman in history, this man was one of the most sought-after people not just in the underworld, but in the entire country.
"Get to the point," he growled roughly, not even bothering to take a seat. His voice wasn't particularly deep, nor was it harsh, yet it seemed to convey the meaning of danger quite efficiently. A faint smell was oozing out from the assassin— metal rust… and blood.
Sigerson blinked rather rapidly, then cleared his voice ostentatiously before proceeding in a business-like manner.
"I want to hire you for a task," began Sigerson in a low voice. "How does fifty thousand sovereigns sound?"
For the first time, Dexter Eiter brushed aside his raven black hair to get a better view of this detective whom he deemed unworthy of his attention.
"Why are you surprised? Do you not trust my words?"
Sigerson returned Eiter's cold stare with a smile, a smile devoid of warmth. The assassin grinned. This task might be worth the trouble, not for the money but instead, this man in front of him was… interesting. There was no fear in him, no hesitation, nothing…
"Tell me about it," he smirked, settling down into a chair.
—
3 days later, Brighton
"A suspicious man was seen lurking around the ammunition factory?"
"Yes sir! We've put him into a cell. He's currently awaiting interrogation."
Grock frowned, unsatisfied with this discovery. Something was odd about it. Who would choose to infiltrate an ammunition factory during a war except the enemy? But… It couldn't be the enemy this time— at least, not anyone from Revalty… All connections to Revalty were severed; everyone siding with that country were silently executed, hidden away from public eyes at his command…
He turned to the messenger, his hands behind his back. Strong bursts of wind blew his coat around as he stood on top of FORTUNE'S LUCK, a glittering jewel among rats.
Reports came flooding in for the past few days, claiming Sigerson had been sighted at this gambling den. It certainly wasn't difficult tracing him there, especially after a lengthy interrogation with the newly captured Patrick Hartland.
"S–Sir?" stuttered the messenger, unsure whether to speak or not.
"Please leave me alone for a moment," replied the director coolly, turning his back on him while taking in the view.
There wasn't much to see; a bleak monotonous array of buildings met his eyes. The morning sunlight, warming up their frosty fingers, beamed at them from its lofty dwelling as if it were mocking them with its cheeriness.
Grock scowled. Three days of zero success were crushing his confidence. Even with most of the Enforcers called back to set a barrier around Sodor and Eden, still nothing came to light. How and why was Sigerson still hiding? It just… didn't make any sense. If he had accomplices helping him, which Grock thought was inevitable, why did he reveal his location and request for help from the Enforcers?
Is it possible that he's refraining from killing still? After all, using his accomplices to kill Hartland would have been safer for him rather than attracting our attention, which would endanger them and himself. Or is it because he wanted to hand Hartland over to us for interrogation as a way of confirming his letter to me and giving us what he thinks is vital information? If so, he must be desperate if he needs help from his pursuers… Either way, it seems that he's still hiding something from me even though we have the same goal…
Should I seek out his accomplices first and use them as hostages to bait him out? I'm not sure how close he is to them though— he could be using them as puppets…
Thudding footsteps zoomed up the stairs to the roof where Gorck was standing. A second messenger arrived with additional news and took his place adjacent to the first Enforcer.
"Sir! A new report has just come in! A number of additional people have been caught sabotaging multiple ammunition factories across the city!"
"And?" pressed Grock. "What was their goal? Who sent them?"
"That's the problem, sir. We can't find head nor tail of these actions, sir. We've tried everything, but even after the 'methods' were used, the results remained the same; none of them seem to know who they're working for nor what their goal is."
"No tangible motive nor origin, you say?" murmured Gorck, striding towards the exit. "This is all oddly familiar…"
"Yes, sir. Every one of the culprits had a different tale to tell. One said a tall blonde man convinced him into doing it, another said a short stout man forced him into it, and still others said they were persuaded to do so in a dream."
Of course, the first thing that comes to mind is Elysius Blight, the supposed architect of the crimes and source of the war. If it is him… Did that mean Sigerson would stay to investigate? Perhaps I can kill two birds with one stone…
No… with one precisely aimed bullet.