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CHAPTER THREE
The Red-Eyed Man
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CHAPTER THREE
The Red-Eyed Man
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At 9.05, Miyoshi steps out from his carriage, with Kimura Asagi gliding behind him. Both Japanese men sport charcoal suits. Noble in their demeanor, they emerge like land gods amidst the morning light. He feels strangely at ease as he steps outside; he feels weightless. They pass a few soldiers, and give cursory nods of gratitude to their hosts. Miyoshi begins speaking in his maiden tongue once they are alone.
“Tell me, Kimura,” Miyoshi says. “Who will be meeting us upon our return to Kyoto? The item that needs to be checked. You remember.”
Kimura Asagi appears slightly startled. Miyoshi hasn’t mentioned “that item” since Operation We. Purposely, of course, so that he could spring it on his Artifact as an oddly misplaced memory. Nevermind Gammond, “that item” is worth more than the The Joffre’s onboard passengers’ lives. Miyoshi’s resurrection of “that item” cannot mean anything pleasant, this much, Kimura is certain.
“Zhanqing Yang,” Kimura Asagi says eventually. The name unnaturally pops out of his mouth. It is one the Artifact worked harder to remember, and to pronounce correctly. “...You...you passed the Artifact to Zhanqing Yang.”
“He has agreed to meet us?”
“Of course,” Kimura Asagi says simply. “Well, as a matter of fact, master, he purchased his tickets separately. But Taiwan is not far from Japan. I can’t tell you when he will arrive. Vienna is not our real goal, I assume? It is Zhanqing Yang.”
A stupid question.
Miyoshi does not respond. Instead, he continues towards the door, tugs it open, and steps out into the dismal air. He pauses on balcony, and peers upwards. Instantly, violent pollution fill his lungs. The smell of burning charcoal cloaks what would have been an otherwise perfectly pleasant cool, gray morning. Away ahead, a million miles in the Pacific, his father was looking at a different sky while condemning him under this one. Yet, the fine press of his collar keeps warmth at his neck.
Finally, without turning to face his companion, he speaks with horrible relish.
“No. Vienna is still our real goal. We are on a German-commandeered train Kimura, not a Japanese steamer. How can a man so skilled with an iron be less deft with his mind? Keep up. Now, you are very confident he will not betray us?”
Kimura Asagi feels humiliation rising in his throat, but he forces himself to swallow it back.
“He does not have the soul of a traitor. Such is the kind of man he is,” the Artifact says thickly.
“We shall see. We have something to look forward to,” the Spiritualist says slowly, denying his Artifact neither a useful nor comforting response. With little time in between, Miyoshi looks at Claire’s silhouette through the opening door ahead.
“Come. Let us go.”
At this, Kimura Asagi says nothing, giving the distinct impression that he disapproves of his Saniwa's initiatives. In truth, things were often this way between them. They were pleasant enough in each other's company, but if one was around the other for too long it becomes obvious that their affections are complex in their mutuality.
Claire is easier, Kimura Asagi thinks. It’s why master likes him more than me.
Kimura Asagi looks away from the scene, but he can hear his Saniwa’s smile when he greets the American.
He hates it.
“Good morning Claire,” Miyoshi says to his comrade, who appears ruffled by his sudden appearance. Claire lets out a small grunt before slipping a cigarette between his teeth. Nevertheless, Miyoshi keeps his own face carefully unreadable. Calculations are being made behind the shield of Miyoshi’s own gaze, and he speaks easily. Still, their previous spat has imposed a certain coolness on his behavior towards the Irishman, and the Spiritualist pushes it for dramatic effect. It would only be a matter of time before the Combat Saniwa pledged greater commitment as moral compensation.
When they reach their table in the dining room, Miyoshi seats himself beside the window, leaving space for Amelia and Helene. Kimura Asagi reclines in an empty booth behind them. Aside from the three House agents, the rest of the dining car remains empty. Soon, Miyoshi joins Claire on indulging his own smoking habit. He savors his test draw, settling into the byes and byes of tobacco, brass, and cypress.
All of a sudden, Claire jolts upright. Very quickly, he lowers himself to the cushions and floors, and presses his hands against them for bugs. He then steps on the benches, shoes and all, and examines the ceiling above them. Cursing inwardly, Miyoshi begins to speak loudly, masking his companion’s movements.
“Have you heard word from Gandor, Claire?” Miyoshi seethes.
“No, I can’t say I have,” Claire says, his confusion markedly present in its loudness. He continues checking the cabin with the zeal of a schoolboy on a treasure hunt. Oblivious to his carelessness, Claire answers the question with complete honesty, to Miyoshi’s abject horror.
“Is that so? Please give him my regards,” the Spiritualist says, his heart rate soaring. To both of their benefits, Claire finds nothing but Miyoshi is certain that he has lost his patience.
When Claire finally seats himself, he beams at his friend with sheepish pride. He remains oblivious to Miyoshi’s trying spirit (a testament to the latter man’s composure) but settles into a furrowed expression once he readies himself to talk.
“I saw something last night, after I left,” Claire states gravely, smoke billowing from his mouth.
Miyoshi’s eyes flicker for a brief moment, tapping the ash from his cigarette. Something seems to be banking in Miyoshi's silence. He sets his jaw but says nothing. Claire hesitates before producing a rotting, rogue patch of cloth from inside his waistcoat. He passes it under the table, nudging Miyoshi with his foot.
Manicured fingers lift the cloth from calloused hands, and to Claire’s surprise, Miyoshi looks at him as if he’s actually interested. He runs the silk through his fingers before gazing at its torn, decaying edges. Claire speaks before Miyoshi can get in a single word.
“Mary and me, we tracked down the source of Drusilla’s remains down to the cargo carts.” Claire sighs, closing his eyes. “She was too freaked out to continue, said there were other strong ghosts like Dru. I thought they might have been elsewhere on the train but just as I was about to head back to the cabin I saw a red-eyed man.”
“Nothing like your normal guy. White skin, white hair, he didn’t even reply to me,” Claire finished, putting out his cigarette. His mouth remains a half-frown at most, slouching to meet Miyoshi’s eye level despite the back strain.
“Good,” is all Miyoshi has to say, before taking a long pull of his pipe.
Claire’s eyes widen. Before he can question why, Miyoshi speaks.
“I reckon that’s the best news we’ve had in awhile,” Miyoshi says, sighing to mask deeper disappointment. He leans further into the wooden backrest behind him, and closes his hands together.
“But we didn’t find anything,” Claire sputters.
“It’s not what you found that matters,” Miyoshi evenly says, trying to keep his voice low and non-confrontational. “It’s that you found anything at all, despite the circumstances. It is considerate of you to share, Claire.”
“I…” Claire isn’t sure what to say, visibly relieved but caught off guard by the return to their usual form. “Thanks, Mouse.”
“Yes, of course.”
From the other side of the booth, Miyoshi breaks into a smile. Something in Claire’s uncertain expression pleases Miyoshi. Even in the most propitious of circumstances, Miyoshi takes pride in his ability to make Claire nervous. Given the current state of affairs, there is nothing to celebrate, though Miyoshi figures Claire is too stupid to realize otherwise.
If it wasn’t obvious already, it should be obvious now. The Joffre… they were being set up.
“When I was a young boy, I was very interested in art.” Miyoshi relates, breaking the silence. “One day, my father took a large earthenware pot into my room, the one usually reserved for guests, and had me burn my paintings.”
Claire drops the burnt cigar before turning toward Miyoshi.
“Holy shit.” Claire says. “What’s the point?”
“What’s the meaning of it?” Miyoshi raises a brow.
“Sure.”
“Because I was proud of them. It was a teaching moment. Anything can go up in fire, no matter how proud you are of it.”
“Why are you telling me this. Why not open with ‘here’s a plan for how we ah going to take down the killa, Clayuh?’” he asks, pulling off his best Londonian accent (which sounded more Cockney than anything), “what does this have to do with anything?”
Miyoshi’s gaze cools for a moment before his eyes shifts towards the open window. His expression changes entirely, and something about it earns Miyoshi more nervousness from Claire. Never in all their years of friendship had Miyoshi ever brought up elements of his past, let alone his childhood. Something is wrong. The Spiritualist bends forward and folds his arms.
“What I'm saying is, father isn't above sabotage. Not even to a child. Father pulled Rosalind. Clearly he was not impressed by the events of last night.” Miyoshi smirks. ”She was my leverage. Our team would only have access to her abilities if my performance was praiseworthy. Change of plans. Rosalind didn’t write anything. Why, she might not even be on this train anymore.”
“Does this actually surprise you?” Claire sighs, gesturing to the empty air. “He’s never satisfied.”
“Of course not.” Miyoshi drawls. He chews on his pipe for what seems to be an eternity, until his eyes flicker to meet Claire's. ”By the by, we’ve heard nothing from the Australians.”
For some time, neither men speak; tendrils of smoke pool in their silence.
“Well.”
“We’re on our own then.” the redhead crosses his arms before he slides down his seat, “--this is what I wanted anyway: for us to be the big damn heroes.”
“Oh don’t be like that, Claire. We are figures of sizeable importance.” Miyoshi laughs. “We are… ah… as the Germans call us, ‘Unbesonnen.’ People easily seduced by reckless behavior.”
When the door creaks open, his mouth settle into a smile. “Ah, the women are here.”
He exhales a strong odour of tobacco and cypress, before passing a small and cold object from under the table.
“Tell me, Kimura,” Miyoshi says. “Who will be meeting us upon our return to Kyoto? The item that needs to be checked. You remember.”
Kimura Asagi appears slightly startled. Miyoshi hasn’t mentioned “that item” since Operation We. Purposely, of course, so that he could spring it on his Artifact as an oddly misplaced memory. Nevermind Gammond, “that item” is worth more than the The Joffre’s onboard passengers’ lives. Miyoshi’s resurrection of “that item” cannot mean anything pleasant, this much, Kimura is certain.
“Zhanqing Yang,” Kimura Asagi says eventually. The name unnaturally pops out of his mouth. It is one the Artifact worked harder to remember, and to pronounce correctly. “...You...you passed the Artifact to Zhanqing Yang.”
“He has agreed to meet us?”
“Of course,” Kimura Asagi says simply. “Well, as a matter of fact, master, he purchased his tickets separately. But Taiwan is not far from Japan. I can’t tell you when he will arrive. Vienna is not our real goal, I assume? It is Zhanqing Yang.”
A stupid question.
Miyoshi does not respond. Instead, he continues towards the door, tugs it open, and steps out into the dismal air. He pauses on balcony, and peers upwards. Instantly, violent pollution fill his lungs. The smell of burning charcoal cloaks what would have been an otherwise perfectly pleasant cool, gray morning. Away ahead, a million miles in the Pacific, his father was looking at a different sky while condemning him under this one. Yet, the fine press of his collar keeps warmth at his neck.
Finally, without turning to face his companion, he speaks with horrible relish.
“No. Vienna is still our real goal. We are on a German-commandeered train Kimura, not a Japanese steamer. How can a man so skilled with an iron be less deft with his mind? Keep up. Now, you are very confident he will not betray us?”
Kimura Asagi feels humiliation rising in his throat, but he forces himself to swallow it back.
“He does not have the soul of a traitor. Such is the kind of man he is,” the Artifact says thickly.
“We shall see. We have something to look forward to,” the Spiritualist says slowly, denying his Artifact neither a useful nor comforting response. With little time in between, Miyoshi looks at Claire’s silhouette through the opening door ahead.
“Come. Let us go.”
At this, Kimura Asagi says nothing, giving the distinct impression that he disapproves of his Saniwa's initiatives. In truth, things were often this way between them. They were pleasant enough in each other's company, but if one was around the other for too long it becomes obvious that their affections are complex in their mutuality.
Claire is easier, Kimura Asagi thinks. It’s why master likes him more than me.
Kimura Asagi looks away from the scene, but he can hear his Saniwa’s smile when he greets the American.
He hates it.
. . .
“Good morning Claire,” Miyoshi says to his comrade, who appears ruffled by his sudden appearance. Claire lets out a small grunt before slipping a cigarette between his teeth. Nevertheless, Miyoshi keeps his own face carefully unreadable. Calculations are being made behind the shield of Miyoshi’s own gaze, and he speaks easily. Still, their previous spat has imposed a certain coolness on his behavior towards the Irishman, and the Spiritualist pushes it for dramatic effect. It would only be a matter of time before the Combat Saniwa pledged greater commitment as moral compensation.
When they reach their table in the dining room, Miyoshi seats himself beside the window, leaving space for Amelia and Helene. Kimura Asagi reclines in an empty booth behind them. Aside from the three House agents, the rest of the dining car remains empty. Soon, Miyoshi joins Claire on indulging his own smoking habit. He savors his test draw, settling into the byes and byes of tobacco, brass, and cypress.
All of a sudden, Claire jolts upright. Very quickly, he lowers himself to the cushions and floors, and presses his hands against them for bugs. He then steps on the benches, shoes and all, and examines the ceiling above them. Cursing inwardly, Miyoshi begins to speak loudly, masking his companion’s movements.
“Have you heard word from Gandor, Claire?” Miyoshi seethes.
“No, I can’t say I have,” Claire says, his confusion markedly present in its loudness. He continues checking the cabin with the zeal of a schoolboy on a treasure hunt. Oblivious to his carelessness, Claire answers the question with complete honesty, to Miyoshi’s abject horror.
“Is that so? Please give him my regards,” the Spiritualist says, his heart rate soaring. To both of their benefits, Claire finds nothing but Miyoshi is certain that he has lost his patience.
When Claire finally seats himself, he beams at his friend with sheepish pride. He remains oblivious to Miyoshi’s trying spirit (a testament to the latter man’s composure) but settles into a furrowed expression once he readies himself to talk.
“I saw something last night, after I left,” Claire states gravely, smoke billowing from his mouth.
Miyoshi’s eyes flicker for a brief moment, tapping the ash from his cigarette. Something seems to be banking in Miyoshi's silence. He sets his jaw but says nothing. Claire hesitates before producing a rotting, rogue patch of cloth from inside his waistcoat. He passes it under the table, nudging Miyoshi with his foot.
Manicured fingers lift the cloth from calloused hands, and to Claire’s surprise, Miyoshi looks at him as if he’s actually interested. He runs the silk through his fingers before gazing at its torn, decaying edges. Claire speaks before Miyoshi can get in a single word.
“Mary and me, we tracked down the source of Drusilla’s remains down to the cargo carts.” Claire sighs, closing his eyes. “She was too freaked out to continue, said there were other strong ghosts like Dru. I thought they might have been elsewhere on the train but just as I was about to head back to the cabin I saw a red-eyed man.”
“Nothing like your normal guy. White skin, white hair, he didn’t even reply to me,” Claire finished, putting out his cigarette. His mouth remains a half-frown at most, slouching to meet Miyoshi’s eye level despite the back strain.
“Good,” is all Miyoshi has to say, before taking a long pull of his pipe.
Claire’s eyes widen. Before he can question why, Miyoshi speaks.
“I reckon that’s the best news we’ve had in awhile,” Miyoshi says, sighing to mask deeper disappointment. He leans further into the wooden backrest behind him, and closes his hands together.
“But we didn’t find anything,” Claire sputters.
“It’s not what you found that matters,” Miyoshi evenly says, trying to keep his voice low and non-confrontational. “It’s that you found anything at all, despite the circumstances. It is considerate of you to share, Claire.”
“I…” Claire isn’t sure what to say, visibly relieved but caught off guard by the return to their usual form. “Thanks, Mouse.”
“Yes, of course.”
From the other side of the booth, Miyoshi breaks into a smile. Something in Claire’s uncertain expression pleases Miyoshi. Even in the most propitious of circumstances, Miyoshi takes pride in his ability to make Claire nervous. Given the current state of affairs, there is nothing to celebrate, though Miyoshi figures Claire is too stupid to realize otherwise.
If it wasn’t obvious already, it should be obvious now. The Joffre… they were being set up.
“When I was a young boy, I was very interested in art.” Miyoshi relates, breaking the silence. “One day, my father took a large earthenware pot into my room, the one usually reserved for guests, and had me burn my paintings.”
Claire drops the burnt cigar before turning toward Miyoshi.
“Holy shit.” Claire says. “What’s the point?”
“What’s the meaning of it?” Miyoshi raises a brow.
“Sure.”
“Because I was proud of them. It was a teaching moment. Anything can go up in fire, no matter how proud you are of it.”
“Why are you telling me this. Why not open with ‘here’s a plan for how we ah going to take down the killa, Clayuh?’” he asks, pulling off his best Londonian accent (which sounded more Cockney than anything), “what does this have to do with anything?”
Miyoshi’s gaze cools for a moment before his eyes shifts towards the open window. His expression changes entirely, and something about it earns Miyoshi more nervousness from Claire. Never in all their years of friendship had Miyoshi ever brought up elements of his past, let alone his childhood. Something is wrong. The Spiritualist bends forward and folds his arms.
“What I'm saying is, father isn't above sabotage. Not even to a child. Father pulled Rosalind. Clearly he was not impressed by the events of last night.” Miyoshi smirks. ”She was my leverage. Our team would only have access to her abilities if my performance was praiseworthy. Change of plans. Rosalind didn’t write anything. Why, she might not even be on this train anymore.”
“Does this actually surprise you?” Claire sighs, gesturing to the empty air. “He’s never satisfied.”
“Of course not.” Miyoshi drawls. He chews on his pipe for what seems to be an eternity, until his eyes flicker to meet Claire's. ”By the by, we’ve heard nothing from the Australians.”
For some time, neither men speak; tendrils of smoke pool in their silence.
“Well.”
“We’re on our own then.” the redhead crosses his arms before he slides down his seat, “--this is what I wanted anyway: for us to be the big damn heroes.”
“Oh don’t be like that, Claire. We are figures of sizeable importance.” Miyoshi laughs. “We are… ah… as the Germans call us, ‘Unbesonnen.’ People easily seduced by reckless behavior.”
When the door creaks open, his mouth settle into a smile. “Ah, the women are here.”
He exhales a strong odour of tobacco and cypress, before passing a small and cold object from under the table.
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