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A Midsummer Night’s Dream – Part 01

Rothschild the Third in the Druid House

Damn you, George Washington.

He left me, his dear friend, behind, and went out of the Druid House all by himself.

But hey, I’m not lonely or anything! Not at all! I, Rothschild the Third, may look like a sketchy colonial banknote, but I have been out in the world for half a century since being printed at the mint with my fellow notes. So, yeah, I’m a respectable, wise… piece of paper. Yeah.

I-I-I’m not crying. And definitely not lonely either!

I’ve spent the past twenty years living a peaceful retired life, sitting on this dresser in a milk bottle. I’d chat about old times with my neighbor, old man George Washington, getting into dumb little arguments now and then.

Sigh. Looking back, those twenty years went by in a flash.

I was born at the New York Mint. They printed me along with my companions, packed us tightly into a fine wooden box marked R3 PAPER, and prepared to ship us across the sea to the United States’ tropical colony, Hawaii. But then—get this—a law suddenly passed declaring colonial banknotes were no longer valid.

Overnight, all of us became nothing more than patterned scraps of paper. It was a huge shock. We’d just been born, you know? We were young, full of life. That night, the crates echoed with all of my friends’ wailing.

After that, we were sold off—crate and all—to a dealer of curios. Dreaming of tropical islands, we slept in a musty warehouse. One morning, a customer appeared—a man with long platinum blonde hair, wearing a robe. He instantly took a liking to us.

“Well, well, currency with the face of the Finance King Rothschild the Third? Interesting. I’ll buy them,” he said.

The dealer replied, “I’d be glad to sell it, but what’ll you use it for?”

The man grinned. “I am the architect Druid. I thought it would be amusing to use these bills as wallpaper. Five boxes, huh? I’ll take them all.”

And that’s how the famous architect bought us up and moved us to his residence, the Druid House.

But he hardly used us. Something about his work dwindling due to political reasons.

We got bored stiff. We’d looked forward to becoming wallpaper, to see everything that went on inside the house. Instead, we just lay there every day, saying things like, “I want to breathe fresh air, just once,” or, “Yeah, me too,” or, “I’d love to soar under the blue sky,” “Nice!” And so on.

Then one day, the lady of the house said, “These boxes get in the way when I clean.”

Druid replied, “Ah, true enough,” and decided to move all five boxes somewhere else.

Of course, I was supposed to go with them. But fate had other plans.

The lady, a collector of rare banknotes, wanted one. She plucked me from the top of the box, put me in a milk bottle, and displayed me on the dresser.

It all happened so suddenly. In a panic, I shouted from inside the milk bottle, “Goodbye, everyone! Goodbye!” I could hear their cries of “Goodbye! Goodbye!” echoing from the box.

Even as a mere piece of paper, I got sentimental. All alone, unbearably lonely, I cried in the milk bottle until dawn.

The next morning, old man George Washington from the bottle next to me got mad. “Sh-Shut up already!” he grumbled. “Quit bawling. Life here’s not so bad once you get used to it.” And that’s how we started talking.

Ah, that guy. My dear friend, old man George Washington. Where is he now? What’s he up to?

Well, wherever he is, I hope he’s enjoying himself out there!

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Chapter 4: A Midsummer Night’s Dream

Words formed by contrails hung in the sky: “Sorry to keep you waiting, Federal Reserve Bank! KID”

Cheers and murmurs rippled through the crowd below. Car horns blared, brakes screeched. The main road in front of the Federal Reserve Bank was in complete turmoil.

People from all walks of life—poor immigrants and wealthy individuals dressed in expensive suits and dresses—gazed up at the sky, gasping in astonishment.

Gradually, the contrail began to fade, vanishing into the clear blue sky.

At the same time, groups of police officers, security guards, and squad cars appeared from both sides of the street, surrounding the bank. Officers barked orders, quickly forming a tight perimeter. The guards shouted at the poorer onlookers.

“Move along! Don’t linger here!”

“Get back, or Kid will shoot you!”

They shoved people roughly with batons and gun barrels.

Passersby and curious onlookers scattered in panic, some stumbling into cars or tripping over their own feet, rushing toward Central Park on the other side.

Caught in the rush, Victorique and her group moved along. Feet were stepped on, and bodies jostled against each other.

Nico nudged Kazuya from behind. “What did it say?”

“What did what say?”

“The contrail!”

“Weren’t you just taking pictures of it? Why are you asking me?”

Nico sulked and fell silent for reasons unknown to Kazuya.

Despite being smaller than most, Victorique pressed forward, doing her best to keep up. Every now and then, glimpses of her dress—green with five layers of frills, and the pink satin ribbon on her mini hat—peeked through the crowd, her silvery hair catching the sunlight.

Doug, looking pale, muttered to himself, “This is my fault. All my fault.”

“Hey, you.” Victorique called to Doug. “I need you to look into something.”

Hearing her voice, he glanced around. “Where are you, detective?”

“I’m right here.” Her voice came from somewhere low.

Doug looked down and saw her pink mini hat. “Detective, you’re completely buried in the crowd. Why don’t you, uh, fly?” he suggested.

The tiny hat shook in annoyance.

“I’ve told you before, I can’t fly! I’m a first-generation immigrant who came here by ship from the Old World, not some alien from outer space,” Victorique snapped.

Disappointed, Doug stared down at the top of her head.

Kazuya was walking behind them, arms spread wide to protect the tiny Victorique. “Aliens? Flying? What on earth are you two talking about?”

The ribbon-adorned pink hat swayed irritably. Victorique let out a disgruntled groan.

From the direction of the bank came the shouts and commands of police officers and guards. The crowd grew more frantic. Car horns continued to blare.

Victorique’s hat wobbled. In a voice low and raspy, like that of an elderly woman, she said, “Doug. Given your line of work, I assume you’re accustomed to seeing police officers. If there was an impostor among them, would you be able to spot them?”

“Of course.” Doug nodded confidently. “Cops have their own tells. Whether Irish or Italian, each group has its quirks. Leave it to me, Candy Holiday. I’ll sniff out any impostors.”

“Good,” Victorique replied. “Kid’s accomplice might be among them. The one that helped him escape.”

“Someone from the Brothers’ Orphanage! Got it. I’m on it!” He pushed his way against the current of people, heading back toward the bank.

Victorique turned toward the park.

“Candy Holiday?” Kazuya wondered as they walked.

Nico, pushing the bike, and Kelly Sue, who hobbled on crutches, followed behind. Kelly Sue let out a small yelp as the crowd jostled her.

Kazuya looked over. “Nico, let her ride the bike. You push it.”

Nico opened his mouth to argue but paused when he noticed Kelly Sue’s injured leg. “Oh, you’re hurt? Fine, hop on.” He helped her onto the seat and started pushing the bike.

Kazuya glanced down at Victorique. She walked with a dark, contemplative expression, her gaze alternating between Kelly Sue on the bike and Doug, who was pacing across the street. She shook her head with a groan.

“You’re really focused on this investigation,” Kazuya remarked. “A little while ago, you were overwhelmed by the kids and calling my name.”

“Well, yes,” she replied grumpily, though her voice held a faint warmth, subtly different from her usual sharp tone. It was still haughty, but somehow less pompous.

Victorique glanced back, her eyes flicking over to her two clients. She looked concerned.

“I get it,” Kazuya said. “You’re worried about the clients, aren’t you? You want to help them somehow.”

Victorique shook her head, her face blank. “You give me too much credit, Kujou. Someone like me would never do something so human,” she replied with arrogance. “So, you’re talking about goodwill again and whatnot. But…”

Victorique tightened her grip on the golden lizard-shaped pipe and took a deliberate puff. Around them, the chaos was escalating—people shouting, laughing, gossiping loudly.