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Silent Black Victorique – Part 01

—ghost machine 1—

Beelzebub’s Skull, December 5, 1914.

The train rattled.

The whistle blew repeatedly.

The train finally quivered to a halt.

“We have arrived at the last station,” the elderly conductor said. “Sir?” He shook the young man sleeping in his compartment.

He grabbed his shoulders and shook him repeatedly. The man’s head swung back and forth, but he showed no sign of waking up. Right when the conductor started feeling uneasy, the man finally opened his eyes and said something.

“Hmm? What was that, sir?” the conductor asked.

“Where am I?”

“The last stop. Beelzebub’s Skull.”

“I see…”

“You’re the only one who rode the train all the way here. The rest of the passengers got off on the way. Then again, I suppose not many people have business in a field hospital like this.”

“Field hospital?”

“It used to be a monastery, but there’s a war going on. The army brings the wounded here. Young men dismissed from school and sent to the battlefield, but then ran into enemy troops before they even learned how to use a gun. Then there’s all the temporary nurses who are the same age as them, carefree schoolgirls until six months ago.”

“Huh…”

“We do get the occasional curious passenger headed for Beelzebub’s Skull. Some gentlemen who look like government officials, and strange individuals like you.”

“…”

“You look tired. I hope you didn’t just miss your stop. If that’s the case, you can stay on the train since we’re heading back soon.”

“It’s fine.”

The young man’s bleary eyes, green and upturned, snapped open. He stood up and brushed his long, flaming red hair.

He was a man of striking features. The conductor quietly stepped out of the compartment and onto the corridor, as though in fear of an awakened beast. The man had a slender build, somewhere between a boy and a young man. His red hair was like flames, dancing and swaying with his every motion.

“Can you please carry my luggage?” the man asked.

“O-Of course.” The conductor nodded. “Um, is it in the cargo hold?”

“Yes.”

“What’s in there?”

“You don’t want to know,” the man—Brian Roscoe—said briefly, chuckling.

The conductor glimpsed crimson tongue, reminiscent of a predator’s, and went quiet.

Brian Roscoe walked down the corridor and alighted.

He narrowed his eyes.

It was dusk. A dark sea stretched out under the purple evening sky. The sluice gate was closed, separating the sea from the beach.

Across the beach sat Beelzebub’s Skull.

A block of rock. A spiral labyrinth built by the king in the Middle Ages to escape the plague—the Black Death. After that, it was used as a monastery, but since half a year ago, when the Great War involving Europe, the New World, and even Asian countries broke out, it had been operating as a facility to house the wounded.

On paper, at least.

Brian Roscoe strolled down the beach. Porters in red and black uniforms followed behind him, carrying something large and square.

He walked across the sand for a while.

Finally, he reached the entrance to Beelzebub’s Skull. A nurse in white shuffling from inside spotted him.

“Are you a guest of Uncle Jupiter’s?” she asked curiously.

“That’s right.” Brian nodded amicably.

The nurse’s blue eyes blinked repeatedly as she regarded the man’s face. Then she pointed down the hallway.

“In there, the fourth room on the left side of the second turn of the winding… Um, I can’t really explain it well, so I’ll just lead the way.”

“Thank you,” Brian said fondly.

The porters exchanged glances behind him and sighed. Carrying the heavy, square luggage, they continued onward.

Brian followed the nurse as she walked down the dark, gently-sloping, spiraling corridor with a spring in her steps. The porters advanced nervously.

Simple lamps hung on the corridor walls. The smell of burning tallow wafted through the air. Then came an anguished moan. Screams. Voices of young men, some belonging to young boys.

Girls praying.

Doors on either side of the corridor slammed open, and nurses in white coats carrying bandages and other items hurried past.

“What an awful place,” Brian remarked in a carefree tone that belied his words.

The blue-eyed nurse guiding them nodded. “It’s been like this for a while.”

“What’s your name?”

“Um… It’s Michelle.”

Brian chuckled. “Why the hesitation?”

“Staying here tends to make you forget who you were. That applies to all of us. All the nurses here are just girls from girls’ schools all over Lithuania. Older nurses teach them things, but they don’t have any professional knowledge. And then day after day, injured men are brought in here. They’re all just impromptu nurses.”

“It’s the same with the injured brought here, no? Most are young men.”

“You might be right. Yesterday there was a boy reciting Heine’s poems. He said he loved reading novels and poetry. He passed away at dawn, but some of the girls stayed with him until the end.”

“Doesn’t sound like they’re suited for war.”

“Who is suited for war, then?” There was sorrow in her words. Her blue eyes flickered.

Brian shrugged. “Uncle Jupiter.”

“Oh.” The nurse nodded in agreement. She continued down the corridor, at a quicker pace this time. “He died holding a girl’s hand.”

“Who?”

“The boy who loved poetry. Even after he passed away, he never let go. We all recited Heine’s poem for him, so he could go to heaven. ‘It only sings of love there. I hear it in my sleep.'”

“I see.”

“I can’t help but get emotional. It’s war. I wonder if he made it there.”

“To heaven?”

“Yeah.”

“Just assume he did. That he’s in His place, where there’s no strife or sorrow, forever listening to poems of love. And you, the living, will forget him.”

Brian’s flaming hair rippled. Michelle suddenly stopped. They were in front of a door on the left side of the second turn. The door was different from the others, painted scarlet. Michelle opened it and led Brian inside.

It was an empty room, with a single fixed window. The porters in red and black uniforms laid down the large, square luggage on the floor, received a tip from Brian, and darted away.

“Wait here,” Michelle said, heading for the door. “I’ll go get Uncle Jupiter.”

“Thanks.”

“He’s been waiting for you. He says you’re our savior.”

“I don’t know about that.”

“He’s been waiting for Brian Roscoe for a long time.”

“I feel honored.”

Once he heard the door close and Michelle’s footsteps fading, Brian discarded his easygoing, laid-back demeanor. He surveyed the room with sharp eyes and pulled out a small red box from his pocket.

He glanced around, then looked at the box.

“I have to hide this…”

Brian scurried around the bare room, stumped. He crouched down and peeled off one of the floorboards.

Footsteps clattered on the corridor. Not Michelle’s, but loud, belonging to a grown man. Cold sweat beaded on Brian’s forehead.

“I have to…”

The footsteps were getting closer.

“I have to hide this memento!”

Brian shoved the box under the floor.

The door opened.

A middle-aged man entered the room. He was wearing a well-tailored suit and silver cufflinks. His hair, originally golden, had streaks of gray, and he had a lined face typical of a person his age, with wrinkles around the eyes.

Brian had put the floorboard back in place and was standing on them. Traces of panic remained on his face, but the man did not seem to notice. Flashing an affable smile, he offered his hand to Brian.

“You must be Brian Roscoe.”

“…Yes.”

“Thank you for coming to Beelzebub’s Skull. I’ve been waiting for you for a long time,” he said, keeping his smile. “Nice to meet you. I’m Jupiter Roget, President of Sauville’s Royal Academy of Science.”

Chapter 3: Silent Black Victorique

Kazuya walked down the hallway.

The hints of frills gradually intensified.

Victorique…

Find it.

Find the frills.

Victorique…

Find it.

Find the frills.

At the far end of the labyrinth was a room, its wooden door so small that even Kazuya, a small boy, had to bend down to get through it. Inside, a small, round shape stirred.

Kazuya stopped.

He smiled softly.

Gently, he lowered the suitcase to the floor.