Black Bullet - Volume 6 - Chapter 3.03

3

A light rain had been pattering outside the window since morning as a depressingly overcast sky dominated the scene.

The clerk’s sleepy eyes suggested he’d had a late and alcohol-powered night. His puffy face indicated a history of wild partying with next-morning regrets. His lab coat was wrinkled and bent out of shape, and his unkempt hairstyle made him look old beyond his years.

“All right,” said the man, introducing himself as Shibata. “So you came here this early in the morning just because you wanted to see Gastrea number 440?”

“Is there a problem with that?”

“No, not really, but… All right. Lemme see your license, please.”

“Here.”

Hotaru placed her license in the palm of the annoyed man. This piqued his interest for a moment: He eyed Rentaro up and down. It wasn’t a written rule, but it was customary for the Promoter to provide his license in situations like these. Rentaro’s, of course, was still confiscated by the Seitenshi.

“Um, I…I forgot mine at home.”

“Oh. Well, the Initiator’s is fine, too. Sign here, please.”

Hotaru, keeping her cool perfectly, signed the papers. Then she looked ahead, Rentaro following her gaze.

They peered down the long corridor behind Shibata’s shabby-looking desk chair, iron bars preventing their access. Wind echoed from beyond; it must have been getting into the dimly lit hallway from somewhere. The air ahead was chilly, too, no doubt to help preserve the corpses. Hotaru rubbed her arms for warmth.

The two had arrived at this Gastrea cadaver storage site at the crack of dawn. Sumire’s university hospital had a storage depot of its own, but compared to this specialized facility, it was pretty low-key.

Shibata thrust a key into the lock and turned it. With a rusty creak, the door opened inward, and he led the pair into the corridor.

The blue LED lighting on the ceiling added to the site’s overall creepiness, and the group’s footsteps echoed against the hard flooring across the hallway.

Suddenly, Shibata stopped and turned to the pair. “Y’know, why do they bother with those iron bars, anyway?” he asked. “They’re already dead by the time they get sent here, aren’t they?”

“There’ve been cases in the past where a Gastrea we thought was dead revived itself, or some offspring in the womb made their way out and caused all kinds of chaos. So that’s why.”

Just thinking about that frustrated Rentaro. There was never any telling. A pandemic could just start in there, for all he knew.

Soon, Shibata stepped into one of the side rooms. Rentaro and Hotaru followed. The moment they entered, they felt the air grow even colder.

It was a small room, about 150 square feet or so, and its walls were lined from top to bottom with handles. At first glance, it looked like a bank’s safe-deposit vault, but each handle opened a cadaver compartment about twice the size of ones at a morgue. And inside one was the Gastrea with the star symbol that had captured Dr. Surumi’s attention and ultimately led to her doom.

Rentaro watched expectantly as Shibata searched for the right box, using some notes on a piece of paper for reference. Then he turned around and beckoned to them. Hefting the handle open, he raised a hand to block his face from the intense cold inside, like opening a freezer.

Before them was a rectangular box plenty large enough to comfortably house a human being lying down. Rentaro patiently waited for the cold mist to dissipate, only to reveal—

“Huh?”

There was nothing inside.

“Hmm? Well, that’s weird.”

Shibata made an almost comical grimace as he thumbed through the documents in his binder. “Oooh, yeah, guess we were just a little bit too late. One of the processing managers came to pick it up about half an hour ago.”

“Processing manager?”

Shibata rolled his eyes. “Aren’t you guys civsecs? You don’t know how Gastrea get processed around here?”

“Is it a problem if I don’t?” an agitated Rentaro replied. The clerk winced a bit.

“Okay, so when they find a Gastrea, an alert comes out and whichever civsec neutralizes it first gets the reward, right? If it’s a type we’ve never encountered before, we bring on a pathologist to perform an autopsy and examine its heart and brain and stuff for vulnerabilities. Once that’s done, it’s stored in here for a period of time. Then, every month, a processing manager comes in, picks up the bodies, and takes them away for cremation. They gotta be really careful with the incineration, too, to make sure no internal viruses survive it.”

“Cremated? So they burn all the Gastrea bodies they take out of here?”

“Ninety-nine percent, yeah. Some of ’em get stuffed or used for experimentation or whatever, but that’s just the really exceptional cases. Too bad you guys didn’t come here sooner, huh?”

“That’s…” Rentaro felt his head go hazy. Their one remaining lead had been snapped. If they hit a dead end there, they were completely done for.

“Hmm? Hang on.”

Shibata, realizing something, lifted his head from the binder and gave his guests a quizzical look.

“We don’t have any Gastrea pickups scheduled today…”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I don’t really know myself. The processing manager comes at a pre-scheduled day once a month to pick up Gastrea cadavers, but I guess he showed up here this morning, too. That’s the first time they’ve ever shown up unannounced, I think. And what’s more, the only Gastrea they took was the one you guys are here to examine.”

Hotaru and Rentaro exchanged glances. “Hotaru,” Rentaro whispered to her, “this ‘processing manager’ guy…”

“He’s probably part of Hummingbird’s group. That, or someone close to them. Either way, now we know they’re busy trying to hide the evidence.”

Which meant, if considered another way, getting a chance to examine the corpse would be problematic for that group. Which, in turn, meant that this star-bearing Gastrea was more valuable to Rentaro and Hotaru than ever before.

“They must know what we’re trying to do by now. So they made off with the corpse unannounced, even though they knew other people would notice that. Damn it…”

Hotaru, her memory perhaps jogged by this, turned to Shibata. “Um, Mr. Shibata, does this process manager come in with a truck or something to haul the bodies out?”

“Yeah. A big one. One of those moving-van jobbies.”

“And you said he came in about half an hour ago?”

Shibata nodded again.

“Could you maybe call the truck to get it back here?”

Rentaro froze.

“Like, that binder…”

Before he could finish the thought, Hotaru took the binder from Shibata’s hands and showed it to Rentaro. The sheaf of papers inside included the form Hotaru signed when they first came in. It was a basic sort of visitor log, including entries for names, times, IDs or civsec-license checks, addresses, phone numbers, and reasons for the visit—a truly classic piece of government paperwork.

Hotaru’s finger was pointed at the words “Nagahara Transport” recorded in the log thirty minutes prior. She must have been suggesting they contact the Nagahara Transport driver, presumably still in traffic somewhere, and order him back to the site.

“But do you think the phone number on there’s real?” she asked.

“Hey, uh,” the incredulous-looking Shibata interrupted, “I don’t know what you guys are talking about, but—”

“I think that’s probably gonna be the same person from Nagahara that always comes here,” Rentaro said, crossing his arms. “Not that I saw him, but if it was some random guy coming in unannounced on a new schedule, I’m pretty sure this guard would’ve stopped him. But if we make contact with him, how do we get his truck back here?”

“Umm…” He watched as Hotaru dropped her head down. But just as he started to think they’d hit a wall, another thought crossed his mind:

“Well, look, more than anything else, they want to get their hands on that Gastrea with the star, right? If we said that they found another Gastrea corpse with a star on it, that oughta make them come back, don’t you think?”

“That’s it!” she exclaimed.

The sound of Hotaru’s unexpectedly loud reaction bounced off the walls. She blushed and coughed nervously, regretting the outburst.

“…Um, I mean, yeah, that works for me.”

Rentaro turned to Shibata. “Could I ask you for some help?”

Shibata winced at having the spear turned in his direction. “What? Why do I have to do that? I don’t really like lying to people, and stuff…”

“Well, listen, you probably like your job to be pretty slow-paced, right?”

“Huh? My job? Well…it’s a little too boring here sometimes, yeah, but I sure don’t like it when it’s real busy, either. Why do you ask?”

“If we let that Gastrea get away, thousands of people might die. The morgues are gonna be so full of human cadavers, they’ll have to use this site for temporary storage.”

Shibata’s expression froze. “What…do you mean…?”

“Please. Don’t ask me anything. Just help me out a little. We’re not gonna be a bother to you.”

A few moments of hesitation. Then:

“…All right. I don’t really know what’s going on, but I’ll trust you guys. If y’all are pranking me this early in the morning, though, it sure ain’t funny.”

Then Shibata briskly sprang into action, the sleepyheaded, bleary stare from earlier now a thing of the past. Reaching for a nearby phone, he picked up the receiver and dialed a number.

“Um, hello? Is this Nagahara Transport?” he began cheerfully. “Hey, thanks for all your hard work! I’m just calling ’cause you guys showed up here earlier to pick up a Gastrea for us…? Right, right, that transport…”

Rentaro left the building, taking Hotaru along with him. The drizzle from earlier was now a barely perceptible sprinkle, albeit one falling almost horizontally in the strong winds. They noticed a trash can tumbling along the street at high speed. The weather report said the rain would die down by the end of the day—but if it was starting up this early in the morning, Rentaro pictured a soggy day ahead.

The two ran across the street to a coffee shop and ordered the cheapest thing on the menu. There were almost no customers. They took a table by the window, which afforded them a full view of the Gastrea morgue. Amid the rain-blotted landscape, the gray exterior of the morgue remained still, emitting a uniquely melancholy atmosphere. It was still just nine in the morning. The seconds ticked as they sat, taking in the pitter-patter of the rain as they silently drank their coffee, their boredom driving both to blankly stare outside.

They had done everything they could. Picking up a random Gastrea from the morgue, they had used the photograph they found in Dr. Surumi’s apartment as a reference to scrawl a star on its corpse in permanent marker. Compared to the photo, it was pretty clearly an inept imitation. They used a little bodily fluid to blur it a bit, just barely giving it a semblance of likeness.

Now they just had to wait.

“Feels kinda like we’re in a detective drama or something, doesn’t it?”

“Detective? You’re a prisoner. That’s too dumb to even bother replying to.”

Rentaro’s eyebrows twitched, his lips pursing. “I’m not a prisoner! I haven’t even received a verdict yet.”

“Ahh, same difference.”

“God damn it, you…”

“Pfft.”

“Pfft!”

The pair turned their backs to each other. As a date, it was a failure. Wondering why his life had to end up like this, Rentaro summoned his composure and decided to have a late breakfast. He wanted something sweet in order to keep his blood-sugar level high, so he opted for a packet of glazed mini donuts.

He was rather robotically reaching for the fourth one, sweet enough to make his teeth feel like they were going to melt, when a truck with the Nagahara Transport logo silently appeared and sidled up next to the morgue.

That was probably the one. It was manned by two people. One of them, in a gray jumpsuit, climbed out and went to the door while the other one stayed in the cab.

Rentaro and Hotaru excused themselves from the coffee shop and cut a wide path around the truck, not bothering with an umbrella. They approached it from the side, taking in the aroma of the exhaust and the sound of the idling engine. They could see the driver in the side mirror, having a smoke and listening to the radio. He didn’t seem to have noticed them. Hotaru’s face stiffened, but Rentaro raised a hand to stop her. This clearly annoyed her.

“Why not? There’s only one of them.”

“We don’t know if they’re the enemy yet. Let’s tail them and see what they do.”

From behind the truck, they approached a yellow taxi and tapped against the window. The napping driver lifted his hat off his face and sleepily squinted at them. He blinked a few times, half-suspicious of this set of customers, before pushing a button to open the back door for them.

“Where to?”

The moment he stepped inside, Rentaro pointed at the truck ahead.

“That truck’s gonna take off soon. I want you to follow it for me.”

The driver flashed a surprised look at them. The memory of yesterday’s taxi trip ending in disaster resurrected itself in Rentaro’s mind. In a near daze, he made up a story to convince the driver. Whatever it was—Rentaro forgot all the details about five seconds after concocting them—it worked well enough that the still-dubious driver gripped the steering wheel and turned his eyes to the truck. The windshield wipers rhythmically swung to and fro, brushing the misty rain off the glass. Other droplets dripped down the windows, merging with one another to form larger, faster spheres.

Nobody said anything.

After a while, a large Gastrea stretcher came out of the building. The processing manager wheeled it out, a large white sheet covering it, and brought it to the truck’s container. Surveying his surroundings, he knocked at the door, waiting a certain interval before each knock.

After a moment, another processing manager emerged. This made Rentaro’s heart skip a beat. There were more, after all. Why was one stationed inside the container itself? As he thought about this, the two carried the Gastrea off the stretcher. It was too dark to see inside the container, but a brief glint of light made him arch his eyebrows.

“Hotaru, did you see that?”

“See what?”

“…Ah, never mind, then.”

Part of him prayed it was just his imagination. If that glint was from what Rentaro thought it was, it proved that this truck’s intentions were very sinister indeed.

The engine sprang into action as the truck slowly shuddered to life. The taxi followed behind, keeping a prudent distance. The light rain fell in a powdery drizzle, the mechanical, metronome-like motion of the wipers adding to the sense of emptiness inside the car. Everyone kept their attention forward, breath bated.

The taxi was a stopgap measure, but Rentaro had to admit: This was a gifted driver. Visibility through the windshield wasn’t exactly high, but he did a magnificent job of not coming too close while staying in perfect sync with the truck.

Soon, they were entering an expressway—but once they passed the toll, things began to change. The truck suddenly swerved into the right lane, rapidly accelerating. Rentaro hurriedly instructed the driver to speed up, but right when he did, the truck applied the brakes.

He furrowed his brows at this behavior, only to arch them wide at the next instant. Was this the truck driver’s way, maybe, of discovering any cars that might be following them? It had to be. They had cast the line, and now they were sure they caught a nibble.

Then, the next moment, the truck accelerated. This time, it wasn’t stopping. It whizzed down the road at high speed, snaking its way through traffic as it gradually began to disappear from sight.

“It’s getting away! Follow them!” Rentaro said, half rising to his feet. The resulting burst of speed from the taxi sent him right back in his seat. The engine roared, shaking the entire vehicle. The speedometer blew past one hundred kilometers per hour, just barely skirting the speed limit on the expressway. The resulting speed sent them back behind the truck, next to it, and then in front of it. The rain-soaked view and wet pavement were undoubtedly affecting the grip of the tires. Even a single steering mistake could have led to disaster on the road.

“I—I really can’t go faster than this!” the driver finally shouted. The engine sounded like an F1 car. But thanks to his hard work, the truck was now firmly back in sight. The taxi’s lighter weight gave it the advantage over a fully loaded container truck.

Rentaro instructed the driver to approach the truck’s side from the left. They waited until they had an open spot for the move, but suddenly, the truck tried to run them off the road at breakneck speed. They braked just in time to avoid being sandwiched between the truck and the guardrail.

A cold sweat ran down his body. But the real fear for Rentaro came when he saw what was inside the now-open container. Squinting at the sight, he gazed in wonder. The metallic weapon he caught a glimpse of earlier was bolted to the floor of the truck, its ferocious muzzle aimed squarely at them.

It was a Browning M2 heavy machine gun: a supremely powerful, full-auto, .50-caliber rifle that even saw use in anti-tank warfare, although its primary purpose was for downing planes or penetrating armor. In many ways, it wasn’t a machine gun so much as a machine cannon. It was not something a Gastrea transport company would just happen to have bumping around inside its trucks.

The enemies working against Rentaro must have fixed on to his intentions by then. They were preparing for anything and everything.

The processing manager in the container pulled the giant machine gun’s cocking handle, readying it for fire, and aimed its sights squarely on the taxi.

We’re dead, said the sixth sense that worked beneath Rentaro’s intellectual mind.

Then the flash, and the gunshots.

The car spun out with a screech, sending Rentaro’s viewpoint reeling. He was jostled in his seat, bewildered, and then he saw the taxi spin toward the concrete wall lining the highway. He shut his eyes tight.

“Rentaro!”

Suddenly, there was an impact at his side, followed by the feeling of being pushed into the air. Then, the sound of something shattering.

But there was none of the pain he expected. The wind was rushing against his cheeks, too strongly for his tastes, and the summer rain—still falling down almost sideways—beat against his body. He could hear his school uniform fluttering in the gale.

He opened his eyes a slit and was finally clued in: He was in the air. And like a piece of carry-on baggage, he was hanging off the arm of Hotaru Kouro, who was gritting her teeth above him. At the last possible moment before the collision, she had lifted herself from the car and escaped with Rentaro, too.

“We’re falling,” she said, interrupting Rentaro before he had a chance to give his thanks. He was suddenly pulled down by gravity, the rain-soaked pavement on the ground approaching at terminal velocity.

But before it could reach them, they rolled together onto the roof of a passing truck, shrugging off the impact and just barely slipping right off the edge before steadying their balance.

The damage to his semicircular canals made Rentaro’s head spin to the point of nausea. He tried his hardest to gain a grasp of his situation, raising his head upward.

He had thought they were on top of the enemy’s truck for a moment, but they weren’t. That truck was overtaking the cars in front of them at high speed in the rain, all but laughing at them as it sped away.

Instinctively, he took a look behind them. “How’s the taxi driver?!”

“Look in front of you! You’re gonna die!”

Rentaro closed his eyes for three seconds, just enough time to keep him from falling into panic mode. Mentally, he forced himself to switch gears. “Hotaru!” he shouted. “Can you reach that truck by yourself?”

“I can’t do that! It’s going one hundred and thirty kilometers an hour!”

Being atop a truck of their own, they were forced to scream at each other. The intense rain and strong wind were lowering both of their core temperatures. Their clothing was completely soaked.

Why couldn’t Enju be around at a time like this…?

Looking ahead, the enemy truck was still gaining distance on them. The gunfire was gone. The rain was blocking their visibility, as it did for everyone else, and they must’ve opted to hold their fire. But if they got too close to the truck, that could change.

What do I do?

“Okay, Hotaru. Can you carry me and start jumping to other cars?”

Hotaru gave him a stupefied look for a moment, then—after another moment of thought—nodded lightly and stood up on the container truck’s roof.

“I can’t go that far at once.”

Rentaro stood up with her. He was greeted by torrential rain and a wall of air pressure from in front. It took everything he had to keep from falling off as he wrapped his arms around Hotaru’s stomach from behind. She turned halfway back at him—and then, with a steely resolve, jumped. They landed on the roof of a black van up ahead, then leapt over to a sedan passing the van on the right. So it went, one after the other, as they caught up to the enemy truck at breakneck speed.

Rentaro was deeply agitated. The wind and rain were one thing, but if she misgauged a single jump, they would both be battered against the pavement and sustain major damage. But Hotaru’s outstandingly nimble moves, all executed at hair’s-breadth timing, came at an accuracy that could only be described as transcendent.

Hotaru Kouro had an innate sense for this, just like Enju. A sense that could never be cultivated by any normal person.

“I see it!”

Squinting through the curtains of rain from behind her shoulder, Rentaro could see the red of the van’s taillights. But it also meant they were in firing range again. In fact, the person manning the gun—spotting the pair of pursuers he was so sure were out of the picture—expressed clear surprise as he leapt for the gun and swung it around.

The anxiety made Rentaro’s blood vessels tense.

“Here it comes!”

An intense barrage of flashes came as the bullets from the Browning tore through the porous concrete in front of their car like a pile of dirt. The holes forced the vehicle to swerve, and left ugly scars on the road.

But Hotaru wasn’t out to lose. Even nimbler and more accurately than before, she leapt from vehicle to vehicle. The .50-caliber Browning gunfire, missing them by an instant, instead thudded through the engine block of the previous car, triggering an explosion. With a screamlike screech, it spun out and off the road.

With superhuman skill, Hotaru continued her leapfrog act. The heavy machine gun traced her path in the air, turning her footholds into scrap one by one. The unending torrent made the rain evaporate in midair, with Hotaru and Rentaro threading the needle in between. A bullet brushed by Rentaro’s cheek at supersonic speed, making a twing sound as it did—but all he could do was fight off the g-forces tugging at his body, gritting his teeth until they were nearly in pain.

“There’s too much fire! I can’t get close!”

Finding herself running short on footholds to jump on, Hotaru was rapidly cornered. The rows of cars behind them were a pockmarked hellscape.

Rentaro’s mind raced, trying to find a solution—then the sight before him drained the color from his face.

“Hotaru! Tunnel!”

The tunnel through the low hill in front of them was no more than three and a half meters tall. They couldn’t execute any flying leaps in there—and once that advantage was taken from them, they were dead.

This is it, thought Rentaro as he shut his eyes tight.

But then, like a bolt of lightning, an idea ran across his brain:

“Hotaru, can you run on the ceiling?”

Hotaru shot him a look, mouth agape. But she must have grasped the question a moment later, because she turned forward again, jaw determined.

“Just three seconds. Make them count.”

The rapidly approaching tunnel entrance loomed, looking like the hideous maw of a demon roaring in laughter.

With a loud whoosh, they were in. For just a moment, the curtain of rain lifted, clearing the scene around them. The machine gun swiveled and locked on to them. But Hotaru jumped just a blink in advance.

Immediately afterward came gunshots, followed by an explosive shock wave. But they didn’t look back. They didn’t have time to.

Ignoring the scene behind her, Hotaru leapt up and landed on the ceiling, running horizontally across it.

“Rentaro!”

Now upside down, Rentaro released his hands from Hotaru’s midsection and—as if swinging on a flying trapeze from his feet—took a position inverted from the ceiling. His hands free, he gripped his Beretta handgun and held it up—or down, in this case. The truck was in his sights. He quieted his breathing, closed his eyes—and unleashed his eye. A geometric pattern emerged in its iris, performing calculations at lightning speed. The hems of his clothing flapped impatiently in the wind, all but expressing the panic within Rentaro’s own mind.

Look at what you did, you bastards. All those civilian victims.

Seeing Rentaro size him up with the look of an enraged beast, the enemy gunner must have been scared witless. His whole body trembled as he tried his best to turn the gun’s muzzle toward him. But it was too late.

Rentaro fired three times. He was aiming next to the gunner—at the rear left tire.

The moment the hole opened in the nitrogen-stuffed tire, it immediately burst, the high inside pressure seeking an escape. The truck lurched, its driver misjudging his steering, then collided against the right-hand tunnel wall. He had applied the brakes, but the force of nearly 120 kilometers an hour against the wall lifted the truck up into the air, sending it to its side and spewing metallic shrapnel on the ground as it bounced and rolled another thirty meters or so. The gunner was thrown clear of the vehicle, striking the ground.

But Rentaro, from his less-than-ideal firing position, was facing some recoil of his own. It was one thing for a lightweight Initiator to run across the ceiling. It was quite another for her to support Rentaro’s weight at the same time.

Just as the floaty feeling of being thrown by something flashed back to his mind, he found the asphalt down below rapidly approaching his head.

He balled himself up, taking the impact at the top of a shoulder as he bounced up into the air. Pain seared across his brain as he was sent spinning off by the force.

Ensuring he was no longer in motion, Rentaro shakily pulled his body up, hands on the road as he tried to keep from ejecting the contents of his stomach. With unsteady steps, he ran toward Hotaru, who had fallen from the ceiling in similar fashion.

“Hotaru! Hey, Hotaru!”

He kneeled down and slapped her cheek. She must have fallen headfirst. There she lay on her back, fresh blood dampening the side of her head. She was motionless.

After repeatedly calling for her, Rentaro saw Hotaru’s eyelids blink a few times then groggily force themselves open.

“You are so stupid. I can regenerate myself, remember? I’m a lot more solidly built than you are.”

Rentaro breathed a sigh of relief.

“That’s not the problem,” he said, “you idiot.”

Because she healed faster than most, she failed to realize that the sight of a wounded child lying on the ground was what concerned Rentaro.

“What about the van?”

He turned around, startled. “I’ll check it out,” he said, picking up the Beretta on the ground before advancing slowly on the vehicle. It was on its side, now blocking all lanes of the tunnel. The traffic behind it was stopped, the chaos on the other side already clear to his ears.

One of the jumpsuited processing managers was hurt and bleeding from his head. The other two were bruised and dazed but not seriously injured. After a crash as spectacular as that, Rentaro was surprised nobody was killed. Only one was conscious, and just barely, but the injuries would prevent resistance for the moment.

Going around back, he found two Gastrea corpses thrown from the rear of the chilled container.

Finally found you.

There was the Gastrea that he drew the fake pentagram on, and next to it, the Gastrea in the picture he’d found at Dr. Surumi’s home.

It was an impressive sight. At nearly six meters long, its extended proboscis made for an eerily eye-catching silhouette. It had wings like an insect, its rib cage exaggerated and basket-shaped. Rentaro couldn’t guess what biological elements clashed against one another to create this.

“That’s definitely the one Kihachi and I killed a month ago,” Hotaru said, clearly put off by the Gastrea at her feet.

This was what started this whole mess in the first place. When Dr. Surumi discovered the star marking on this Gastrea and conducted an autopsy—she found something. And that something erased both her and Suibara. There had to be something on this Gastrea body that linked it to the Black Swan Project, still a total mystery to Rentaro. It had to, or else it’d be the end of the road for him.

Snapping on the nitrile-rubber gloves that he borrowed from the morgue, Rentaro ignored his sense of disgust as he examined the stomach area, the surgical scar easily noticeable across it. When he opened the incision, he was greeted by a sharp, acrid stench that permeated deep into his eyes, battering his mucous membranes and making him turn his face away.

But there was no time to linger. The police must have known by then about the gunfight on the expressway. He needed to wrap this up in around two minutes if he wanted enough time to flee.

So he stuck his arm in. Through the thin layer of rubber, he could feel the slippery flesh around the stomach on his fingertips as he brought the heart into view. It was the whole, translucent organ, like the innards of some giant squid—and the star mark he was seeking was right nearby.

He removed his knife from his waist. Slowly, carefully, he cut out a square of surrounding tissue and put it inside a film case he had along with him. He also took a sample of the epidermis, the outer skin layer, just in case.

The squishy heap and its samples were already decomposing on him. He thought about, and simultaneously dreaded, the idea of ducking into a nearby grocery store for some dry ice. But he still had some other business to handle.

Moving to the driver’s side of the truck, he opened the door and grabbed the still-conscious processor by the collar, setting him down on the ground. He had a cut on his cheek, a bloodstain on his jumpsuit at chest level, and a look of sheer animosity in his eyes as he silently glared upward.

“You got nowhere to run,” the man warned.

“Where were you going to take this Gastrea?”

The processor did not reply.

“Why did your group try to take the Gastrea away?”

The man was silent.

“What’s the Black Swan Project?”

“……”

“Answer me, you asshole!”

The anger was clear in his voice as he lifted a fist into the air. Something grabbed at it.

It was Hotaru, and she was shaking her head.

“It’s time.”

His temper made him fail to notice, but if he strained his ears a little, he could hear the sirens. Rentaro gave the jumpsuited man another vengeful glare. There was so much he wanted to ask him, but it wasn’t like he could kidnap him and run. Damn it.

“Where to next, Rentaro?”

Rentaro brought the film case up to Hotaru and lightly shook his head. “We need access to a facility where we can have this tissue sample analyzed,” he said, his voice low. “I dunno if it’s something any old lab could help us with, but there’s one person I think we can count on.”

He took one more half turn toward his prisoner.

“Relay a message to Hitsuma and Dark Stalker for me. Tell ’em I’m gonna get Enju, Tina, and Kisara back.”

Then he turned back ahead and fled with Hotaru.