Peaceful Living Beyond Styx
A deafeningly loud crack of a thunder woke Katse up like a jolt of electricity.
…Another storm?
He thought to himself, rubbing his eyes and yawning.
Morning came; blue darkness was yet to disappear from among the trees. It was irritating that he didn’t know what date it was. How many days had passed since the crash? How many mornings?
Sousai was going to be so pissed…
What if he’ll replace me? No, nonono. That’s impossible. There is no one else. Everyone screws up.
You make it sound as if you never do.
Katse frowned. It was too early for uncomfortable thoughts like that. In fact, any time of the day was ‘early’.
Well, I’m still alive, aren’t I?
He wrapped the blanket around his shoulders and went over to the windows. Heavy, purplish clouds swallowed the highest mountain tops and the surface of the lake resembled a raging ocean the way its waves crashed against stray boulders lining its edge. Stately, gnarled trees were bending under the force of the wind as it passed though the valley. They were almost at their breaking point. In fact, Katse was vaguely surprised they haven’t snapped already.
As he turned away from the window, another lightning spread through the sky like the roots of some celestial plant. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, and the thunder followed. This was a completely normal storm. It wasn’t caused by any weather-altering mechanism of Galactor’s. No one was coming to help.
Katse bit his lip.
Did no one track his signal? Didn’t anyone notice it disappearing above… wherever he actually was? Why wasn’t anyone looking for him yet? One would think that at least the Devil Stars…
Well, time to go.
He heaved a mental sight and began to look around for anything of use. There were some clothes stashed under the bed he decided to use. Trousers, shirt, and a jumper. Wearing them, he felt more at ease than wearing that strange attire, which made him look like a member of some corny cult.
Under the table was a leather satchel full of some forms and CDs. He flipped it upside down and packed his stash of food and two bottles of wine in it, assuring himself that he can always toss it aside in case something would decide to chase him around.
Another lightning split the sky apart. He unlocked the door and left it open, since the corridor was as black as before. His worries that he’d spend another hour wandering around in the darkness prove to be unfounded. Two minutes, and he came across the next room, the library. It almost felt too easy. There were no crazy architectonic elements, no blind alleys, no mazes. Just like a normal house, if it wasn’t for the windows. Thinking he can’t lose anything by trying, he gave the glass a good kick. It didn’t even shake from the impact.
Being rather fond of books, he briefly surveyed the collection. Long enough to see what it contained but no to make him think he had been slacking around. All books were neatly divided into categories, each organised in alphabetical order. There was no fiction, only science. Philosophy, physics, chemistry, astronomy, genetics, medicine, history. Polished wooden shelves held books still smelling of printing ink as well as volumes bound in leather or with swirly patterns on their stiff paper covers. Actually, it might have been organised a tad too neatly. All spines were in a perfectly straight line. Not one deviated even by as much as a millimetre.
Katse pushed away the mental image of Aratron/Alden as a broken man, obsessively organising all those books while hiding away from his estranged family, and obeyed his urge to gaze out of the window again.
Perhaps it was the weather what kept his rescuers at bay.
Well, they should’ve used armoured vehicles.
He grumbled to himself, frowning. It felt deliciously liberating, to have someone he could be angry at.
Are you really sure you want to be saved? Are you sure you won’t be sent to the medical research centre? Perhaps the number one-o-five one?
He hit the window lightly with his fist. The worst thing was, he couldn’t really deny this possibility. Well, there were steps he could take, before Sousai would find out. For example, he could tell the medical staff to rewrite every result unless they wanted their whole families to be slaughtered. There was always a way. Before Sousai would find out.
Before his trip to 105.
Turning away from the window, he took another look at the library. There was a gorgeous transcription of Edinburgh university lectures on Kant’s philosophy. Going a bit further, he found an even more beautiful find; a complete collection of Locke’s writings. He pulled one of the volumes out. It was leather and silk-bound, dated 1913. He smelled the pages and lost himself in the scent of the paper, evoking many pleasant memories. If only he wasn’t forced to be Rothbart…
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On he went.
The next room was a music room.
Putting the bag down and rubbing his stiff shoulder, he waltzed over to the Petrof grand piano, sat on the stool, opened the lid, and pulled down the green felt cover. His fingers on polished keys felt so right, he couldn’t resist playing some tunes.
Rachmaninov’s Vocalise.
Ciurlionis’s Prelude in F-minor.
The Largo from Shostakovich’s second piano sonata in B-minor.
One of his earlier caretakers convinced Sousai to let him take music classes, saying it would do good to his eye-to-hand coordination. Which it did, in a way. That person was also an avid pianist, forced to retire due to arthritis. He put his young charge through training from hell. Back then he had been quite angry at that grouchy old man, but now, years later, he had to smile when he remember the time spent in front of the Bösendorfer. He had to smile even though he knew that man was long dead, expiring under mysterious circumstances involving the presence of carbon-monoxide in a house completely devoid of any devices capable of producing it.
That confirmed the universal truth that humans were mortal but if the legacy they left behind was art, it would outlive them by generations, even centuries. The same rule could be applied to violence, he thought to himself, smiling bitterly.
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The room next-door from the music room could be probably described as a Flower room. With a capital ‘F’, as it really teemed with those things. Patterns of the carpet, curtains and wallpaper had a delicate floral design, there were dozens of framed Koeh’s prints on the wall along with arrangements of pressed blossoms. Dark wood of the furniture was decorated with an exquisite mother-of-pearl inlay in shape of chrysanthemums; there were vases of dried and preserved flowers, giving off a faint, nostalgic scent.
He didn’t want to stay for a very time in that room. It was much too easy to imagine Maureen and her sister dropping by every now and then to fawn over the décor. Maybe they occasionally borrowed one of the books on botany or horticulture and paged through it, stopping once they discovered an especially beautiful specimen. Or they could’ve brought binoculars, open the book at the section of conifers, and attempt to name all the trees in the vicinity. All that while they still had delicate hands and nimble feet and not a single tentacle.
In fact, he could almost hear their giggling. He left the room and tried to forget about it. It was easy, since he wasn’t exactly a flower-lover. He cared neither for bright, fragrant blossoms, nor for little girls. The latter part made him better a better person than many people he knew.
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A round table, ten chairs with crimson velvet upholstery, a cabinet with wine glasses, a scarlet carpet. No one of that was remotely odd, and so that room could’ve been easily passed off as a normal drawing room. If it wasn’t for the mirrors, lining every wall.
Like in a dance studio.
Without thinking it through, he attempted to raise himself on the attitude en pointe even though he didn’t have any shoes.
It worked.
He gave his toes an incredulous look. Then his mind decided to remind him of the fact that his foot got cut. Sitting down on a round tabouret, he undid the makeshift bandage. The wound was fine. In fact, it was as good as healed, only a faint red line betraying its presence. He slid his hand up and down the sole, and noticed for the first time the oddly bulging veins. He tried his other foot. Skin there was smooth. What did it mean? And did it actually mean anything?
He heaved a sigh.
It’s okay. I’m in control. I just need to recover my mask and get out of here. They’re trying to break me, but they don’t know who are they dealing with. If I ever cross ways with them, there’ll be a proper, old-fashioned massacre. I just need that mask.
Yes, just that mask.
Its absence was starting to pull on his nerves. Although it was clumsy and too bright and obvious, after all those years he only felt safe when it covered his face. It was like his second nature. Like his second being. A twin personality, perhaps.
A shield.
He touched his cheek.
Suddenly he couldn’t think of his rescuers or assailants anymore.
One step after another, he shrank back. He felt ill. Exposed. That icy feeling returned. It coursed through his veins, reaching down to the tiniest capillary. No matter how hard it tried, his mind just couldn’t make sense of this anxiety. Where did it come from? Why was he so afraid? What was he so afraid of? There was no danger in the room. No attackers. Nothing alive.
His back hit the door.
His heart was beating rapidly. Mouth was dry. Hand kept rubbing the uncovered face.
Why isn’t anyone coming?
His eyes, his dilated pupils found his own reflection. It was right there, across the room. Of course it was, but until that moment he hardly paid any attention to it. It showed the face of a man scared to death. Pallid skin, grey lips. Hair dishevelled. This was not something he should’ve seen. This was not something anyone should have seen. Why? Because it was so easy to destroy that face, even more so when it showed such fear.
His hand closed around the handle.
If you run away now, you will lose everything.
There was a long, pentagonal vase on the table with two long poppies made of coloured glass. Grabbing the vase, he flipped it over and stopped only long enough to see the flowers shatter. Then he came over to the first mirror. He tried to look determined and failed miserably. The vase arched through the air. The frightened man with the stupidly effeminate face shattered instantly in a billion pieces. All of them did.
How surreal and singular. There was a perfectly clean and neat room whose walls were fringed by a line of shattered glass. It almost looked as if it was meant to be there – as a part of the interior. Only those two broken flowers seemed out of place.
Author's Chapter Notes:
All Science Ninja Team Gatchaman characters belong to Tatsunoko Productions.