Baccano! - Volume 13 - Chapter Pr5

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Prologue 5—The Young President Loves Mixing Business with Personal Matters

Let me tell you an old story—the story of how we came to be.

It’s a tale from the distant past, from long, long ago, long before World War II broke out, and even before the first, a century before the hero known as the Corsican Fiend, or Ogre, built his empire, all the way back when Europe was embroiled in the War of the Spanish Succession.

Will you listen?

You will, won’t you?

Can you hear me?

You can, can’t you?

Oh, good.

I thought you might be dead already. I suppose you want to be spared—and if so, then you should listen well.

Our organization is said to have originated near the beginning of the 1700s, in the remote Italian countryside. Specifically, a port town that was rather well-developed for its rural location.

I’m sure you already know, but it’s this town. The one we’re in right now.

Oh, I’m sorry. You can’t see anymore, can you?

That’s a shame. I would have liked to show you more of the townscape.

How did it come to be, you ask? One possible answer is that it was “incited.”

At first, the Mask Maker was an individual. When that individual roused a group of abused children to action, the Mask Maker became a monster. Then, after one insane boy inspired the first individual, the monster became a jester—and when a second boy became involved, the jester was transformed into an organization.

I imagine none of that made much sense to you.

It’s fine if you don’t understand. That part isn’t important.

Once they had become an organization, the Mask Makers gradually permeated the town. Yes, it is an odd turn of phrase, but permeate is the best word for it.

If I had to explain, I might call it…

…a poison.

Yes, the Mask Makers were both a love potion and a poison. And as they spread little by little through the town, they built up their power.

There’s no telling what they intended to use it for. Those feelings and wishes gradually vanished, while the power alone was passed down from generation to generation.

All the way to ours.

Wealth, military might, influence all accumulated, bit by bit, away from the eyes of others.

Gradually, the shape of the organization changed, as did its raison d’être, while its core consisted of pure power.

After constantly changing through the years, we are the end result.

We are the group you know, the one you have continued to pursue—

—the humble commercial organization known as the Mask Makers.

…Me?

Do I need to introduce myself?

I believe you’ve already guessed, in a general way.

You do have a point, though.

No doubt you want proof that your actions had meaning.

So I will tell you, at the end.

Just now, I told one lie.

As a matter of fact, the Mask Makers did leave behind one thing—only one—in addition to power.

I told you that the first Mask Maker was an individual.

Her name was…Monica. Monica Campanella, though her real name was Monica Boroñal.

Yes, she was a girl.

From what I hear, she became the Mask Maker when she was still only fifteen or so.

Although she was a daughter of the distinguished House of Boroñal, she had committed a murder that could never be publicly disclosed, and so, in lieu of punishment, her name was taken from her.

The girl fell in love with a boy, and the Mask Maker came into being for his sake and his alone. Then, as I said earlier, he and another boy inspired her to reinvent the Mask Maker as an organization.

In the end—

—she was killed by the one she loved.

She was murdered without ceremony.

What a fool my ancestor was, wouldn’t you say, to be used and murdered by her beloved?

I also have the blood of a monstrous villain. After all, he went so far as to give his lover a child; then, when he had no more use of her, he brutally took her life.

…Yes. That’s right.

Just before she died, Monica Campanella had a child, whose blood has been passed down through the ages and protected by the power of the Mask Makers.

Her blood and the blood of her murderer have flowed through the generations—all the way to me.

Luchino B. Campanella.

Your pursuit of this humble young magician has led you all the way to my true identity.

What sort of person am I? That’s easy.

I’m the person who’s about to kill you. I can’t have you telling anyone, after all.

…Don’t be so frightened, please.

You wanted to know about us, didn’t you? And now you do.

It’s an equal trade. You poked your nose in, so I’ll dispose of you.

That’s all it is.

I believe I gave you more than enough warnings. It’s a pity.

I’m not interested in you.

Whether you’re a journalist from some newspaper or a member of an enemy organization or some associate of an individual we eliminated in the past—whether you were motivated by curiosity or business or the thirst for revenge—it’s all the same.

I have no choice but to kill you. It’s sad, but there it is.

Refrain from struggling, if you would. I don’t want to miss my mark. For your sake.

That said, your arms, legs, and lower back are already broken, so I doubt you have any real way to struggle.

One last magic trick, then—

Look at this silver stiletto.

I will make this sharp, gleaming, triangular blade disappear in the blink of an eye.

I think you’ll understand how the trick is done quite easily.

It’s very simple.

I’m going to hide it inside you.

Just like this.

With one stab, he took the man’s life.

I killed him.

The moment the blade went in, there was a light, simple crunch.

I killed him.

The blade plunged deep into the man, angling from his throat toward his brain. Every so often, there were soft squeaks as friction acted on something damp inside.

I killed him.

However, the victim himself never heard those unpleasant noises. His mind had already left this world.

I killed him.

The one who had stabbed him was young, more boy than man. He pulled the stiletto out from under the corpse’s jaw, shifted his grip on it, then briskly turned on his heel and shrugged at the handful of men and women standing nearby.

I killed him.

“Dispose of the corpse promptly, please.”

I killed him.

The boy, who still had a few years left in his teens, glanced emotionlessly at the corpse, then turned away with apparent disinterest.

I killed him.

There was no light from outside in this underground room, only the ice-cold fluorescent light reflecting off the concrete walls and floor.

Several men stood in a row in front of the boy who’d called himself Luchino. They nodded to signal that they’d understood, then surrounded the corpse with practiced movements.

The boy didn’t wait and watch them clean up. Quietly, he left the room.

Luchino B. Campanella, commonly known as Rookie.

He was both the face of the group known as the Mask Makers and its newest member.

As far as age went, he and Illness were peers, but she’d been in the organization longer than he had. The president was also the rookie.

The boy’s subordinates had tagged him with that on-the-nose nickname, but he didn’t complain about it. In their presence, his expression was always perfectly cool.

Publicly, the Mask Makers were mercenaries of a sort. Privately, they weren’t much different.

The one disparity was that in peaceful cities in nations like Japan or Great Britain—places not involved in war or violent internal strife—they’d undertake contract killings as if it was nothing.

You might call them hitmen who’d organized. They supplemented their individual skills with the organization’s power and financial clout. If someone employed them, they’d show up, no matter what sort of trouble it was. Even if the request was for a crime, they’d treat it as a job and employ violence without a blush.

Their employers were a diverse group, from average citizens to mafia syndicates and large corporations, and the Mask Makers safeguarded their secrets completely.

Although they were ostensibly mercenaries, they hadn’t taken a single actual job on that front.

This was because they had absolutely no skills as “mercenaries” or soldiers. They weren’t an organization designed to efficiently massacre the enemy. They were simply a group that specialized in committing crimes.

They were similar to a gang of thieves or the mafia itself; their equipment might have been cutting-edge, but that was it. They were a group of ruffians who would go anywhere and do anything, as long as someone gave them an objective.

As a third hidden face, they had manufactured false precious metals and counterfeit bills until a decade or so previously. But their expertise in that line of work had already been lost, and it wouldn’t have been possible for the current organization to begin it again.

The one in charge of this violent organization was a lone boy with blond hair. He had the face of a child, but the cruel expression of someone with an ice-cold heart.

Today, he’d dispatched another unfortunate busybody with his own hand and left the bloody corpse behind, wearing that expression like a mask.

Letting his subordinates handle the corpse disposal, as he always did—

I killed him.

Leaving the room, as he always did—

I killed him. I killed him.

Climbing the stairs, as he always did—

I killed him. I killed him. I killed him.

Stepping into the bathroom, as he always did—

I killed him. I killed him.

Entering a stall and closing the door, as he always did—

I killed him.

Still wearing that heartless expression, as he always did—

He violently expelled the contents of his stomach into the toilet. As he always did.

“Gahk…!”

I killed him.

While the gastric fluid spilled from his mouth, tears spilled from his eyes. His tongue tasted nasty and sour.

I killed him.

A soundless voice whispered in the boy’s brain over and over.

It echoed like a curse, determined not to let him forget what he’d just done.

I killed him.

It was me. I killed him.

Every time he heard the voice, he could feel it again—the dull, heavy, squiggish sensation that had traveled through his wrists when he’d stabbed the man’s throat.

That wasn’t all.

He’d killed many people up till now in the same way.

Their faces rose again in the boy’s mind, all at once, becoming vengeful ghosts tormenting him.

You killed us.

Killedkilledkilledkilledkilled.

You You

You You You

You You You You You You

You killed us.

“Gah…! Aaah…”

That pressure was coming back, as if all his organs were turning inside out. He couldn’t hold it down, and stomach acid worked its way up his throat again.

This happened over and over and over again, until he’d run out of even gastric fluids. Only then did the boy finally begin to get his breathing under control.

How many times did I just throw up? he thought, setting his hands on the edge of the sink once he’d flushed the toilet and left the stall. Eight—or no, nine?

It wouldn’t do any good to remember, and the curse-like voices had already vanished from his mind. His expression still calm, he wiped his red eyes with a handkerchief.

Rookie kept looking down for a few minutes. Then, after he was sure his eyes were no longer bloodshot, he left the bathroom.

“Well? Feel a little better now, President?” someone called to him when he opened the door and stepped out into the hall.

“…Aging…”

Slowly, he turned to face a very large person leaning against the wall.

Aging stood up and sauntered over to the boy, towering above him at well over six feet in height. This underling of his was a seasoned veteran, despite being only around thirty years old, give or take.

“Still not used to it, huh?” Aging said with a grin. “Well, Illness loses her cookies after she kills people, too.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. If you don’t have a job to do, you could have a nice day at home, you know.” Rookie responded not as the president, but with a relative gentleness more befitting of his age, and he got another grin in return.

By listening to this conversation, someone might have assumed the one needling Rookie was much older, but the raw physical energy of Aging’s body made it clear that was not the case.

Aging’s short-sleeved shirt and shorts exposed arms and legs as well muscled as a bodybuilder’s—more like a bundle of skin-colored wires than human flesh. Every inch was toned muscle, as thick and sturdy as a tire and perfectly lean. Legs especially—imagine a Greek statue, but chisel the lines even more deeply.

In fact, people might describe Aging as a statue of David with 50 percent more muscle mass and fluid movements, but just as durable—except for one obvious difference around the chest.

Aging had two bulges large enough to warp the shirt covering them, and they were far softer and more elastic than the muscly flesh found elsewhere. Incidentally, the appendage on David’s lower body was also absent.

The big, beautiful woman looked down at the boy, who only came up to her chest, and gave a good-natured laugh.

“Gah-ha! Ah, c’mon, don’t get all bashful on me! Listen, I’m not gonna laugh and call ya pathetic. If you’re not used to it, well, living that way is its own kinda fun! Getting used to killing folks certainly ain’t all good! But in this day and age, I’d say it’s better than being unfamiliar with it!”

From her silhouette alone, you might have assumed she was wearing some sort of powered exoskeleton, but all she had on were light clothes. While she wasn’t round enough to be called a muscle-bound meatball, she seemed like a doll made from a tire that had been stretched out by some sort of divine power.

The woman made for an imposing figure simply by standing there, and her face was filled with a wild beauty. As she changed the subject, she wore a frank smile. “It’s hard to believe you’re really getting on that boat, President. Don’t go doing anything reckless.”

“And that’s really none of your business. I have to settle this particular score personally.”

“I admire the get-up-and-go, but what’re you gonna do if the worst happens to you?”

“If we find ourselves in that situation, the Mask Makers are finished either way.” The president shot her a sharp glare.

Aging guffawed. “Sounds to me like you don’t see yourself as a company president at all. Well, as long as you’re sure. If that’s what you’re saying, I’ve got no complaints, either!” With an uninhibited laugh, the woman went on. “That aside, what are we gonna do about the guy who killed Death? Strike back?”

“If you want to, go right ahead. If you’re planning to use the company’s combat resources, put in a formal request.”

“Hey, it’s a little late for a personal grudge. I ain’t that bored. I don’t have a death wish, of course, but when it comes to killing, or me or my buddies getting killed, it’s just business.”

“…Are you making fun of me?” Rookie shot her an intense glare.

“Nah, I’m not sayin’ it’s a bad thing to make it personal. Make it as personal as you want, as long as it doesn’t start causin’ problems. Me, I enjoy the hell out of my job! Or do you think grudges get in the way of business?”

“…No.” The young president averted his eyes slightly as he answered. “I don’t think they do. Unfortunately, I don’t think like the people who believe human hearts and lives can be bought with money. I suppose that level of pragmatism is a talent of sorts, but in any case.”

His expression had regained that cold-blooded, masklike quality, and the rookie who’d thrown up in the bathroom was now nowhere to be seen.

“Human lives and peace of mind are a wonderful, priceless thing. They’re profit.”

“Oho…”

“And I’ll do anything for that profit.” The boy smiled quietly, wearing the expression of the Mask Makers’ president. “I stand to gain from this, too. It’s no different from buying a product with an employee discount… That’s why I used my own assets and hired you, the Mask Makers, for additional work on this job.”

“I’m impressed you can hate somebody you’ve never even met.”

“…”

“The client just hired us to capture immortals, right? Can’t say I see what that has to do with the goal,” she commented matter-of-factly.

“…We can fulfill their request by capturing any one of them,” the president responded, a little irritated. “If all goes according to plan, there should be at least three immortals on that ship. It should be fine if I take care of one of them.”

“My, my, so we’re ‘taking care of’ stuff now, hmm? That’s not something you expect to hear from a snot-nosed kid who lost his lunch from killing one lousy guy.”

“Shut up, Aging. You Four Afflictions are just tools, weapons we own. You don’t have the right to give me your opinion, and I don’t intend to listen.”

“And now you’re lying, President? That’s cute.”

His callous words didn’t seem to have disturbed her at all. Cackling, Aging leaned in until her face was inches from her boss’s.

“If you really thought of us as tools, you wouldn’t get so cranky every time.”

“…”

“Why do you keep pretending to be so coldhearted? Do you feel you owe something to the bloodline that let you inherit this organization? Or do you want revenge on a monster you’ve never even met? Or do you think one of us is gonna hijack the organization out from under you if you let us see your softer side? Do you think it’ll get you killed? Or do you not trust yourself? Maybe you’re a little too proud, or—”

She was close enough for him to feel the warmth of her breath as it left her shapely lips.

Rookie involuntarily averted his face.

“This is an order from your president,” he said, turning his back as if he were running away.

He sounded furious.

“Stop looking into my heart.”

On that note, which could have been either childish or an attempt to seem more mature than he was, the president left. As Aging watched him go, she gave a small, brassy chuckle.

“Looking into? It looked to me like you were trying to get me to notice.”

Or do you want somebody to stop you?

Are you hoping somebody’ll say you don’t have to push yourself so hard?

“Gah-ha! …Gah-ha-ha!”

Remembering the words she’d nearly said a moment ago, the woman who was a veteran “tool” kept laughing in that distinctive way.

“Well… Let’s hope these guys end up entertaining me as much as that young president.”

At that, she turned her attention to a few photographs she’d taken out of her shirt.

Each photo seemed to have been secretly taken from a distance.

The faces of several people had been extracted individually and had names written underneath them.

The photo of a man with an odd smile was captioned:

ELMER C. ALBATROSS

The man wearing some sort of ethnic mask (nothing like those of the Mask Makers) was tagged with a simple name that might or might not have been his real one:

NILE

A photo of a silver-haired woman so bewitchingly beautiful that even Aging couldn’t help falling for her a bit:

SYLVIE LUMIERE

Then there was a stoic Asian man.

He was gazing straight at the viewer, perhaps because he’d noticed the sneak shot as it was being taken:

DENKUROU TOUGOU

And then—on the last photograph, there was a red line scrawled right across the neck of its subject.

This last one hadn’t been distributed to the staff.

Aging had snatched it from the room without permission. There had been several, but she’d picked out the one that had the most innocuous graffiti.

“…I swear. He never acts like a kid except for dumb stuff like this. What’s the point?”

Sighing, Aging looked at the face of the young man in the photograph. The subject was smiling, and his sharp eyes seemed to see through everything.

The name below the face belonged to—