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Chiik.
Anne lit the logs. Soon, a crackling sound was heard, and red dots began to appear on the surface.
Deon said, pointing to the map on which he had placed the compass.
“We just need to move 47 kilometers more from here.”
“Why is it ‘only’?”
"This is 'ten thousand'. Think about the distance you've traveled so far, you punk."
“Ha... I feel like I can’t feel my feet.”
“I have lost my senses a long time ago.”
“Damn, do you hear the wind? We just walked through that.”
A trivial conversation was exchanged. Small voices echoed through the cave. Heiner stirred the stew in a tin can without saying a word.
Originally, it was forbidden for colleagues to develop any more than a certain level of friendship. Personal feelings were considered a hindrance to operations.
Furthermore, the agents themselves were reluctant to form friendships. Survival rates during operations were typically low, so it wasn't wise to befriend those who would soon be separated.
However, this time, the members were those who had overcome life-or-death struggles together in a previous long-term project. Regardless of intentions or reason, they inevitably became close to each other.
“Why does Heiner have such a serious face?”
“That’s his original face.”
“You’re not putting drugs in our food? You’re actually Frances’s spy!”
Anne replied with a laugh.
“We might be resistant to the drug.”
“That makes sense. Didn’t you get a lot of shots at the training camp?”
"That thing that suppresses emotions? But does that really work?"
“It seems to be really effective for Heiner.”
“Do you think it really worked, Heiner?”
“Not really. I think loyalty has increased a bit.”
Heiner shrugged and replied, "If the drug had truly been effective in suppressing emotions, we wouldn't have come to this point."
"Yeah. It didn't work when I saw it either. I have a girlfriend."
“Why are you dating when you can’t even get married?”
“Is marriage a big deal? Just love now.”
“What would you do if your lover were taken hostage during an operation?”
“Then... there’s nothing I can do.”
“Are you going to give up on your lover?”
“I have to give up, then what am I going to do?”
“You still have some sense left, though.”
Anne and Jackson bickered repeatedly. Heiner, without changing his expression, divided the stew into individual bowls.
At first glance, it sounded like casual, everyday conversation, but it wasn't. If anyone uttered anything suggestive of disobedience, they would be immediately reported to the Marquis. And they would be subject to interrogation and torture.
Jackson took the stew, took a sip, and said.
"If I were Instructor Suderrain, I'd make sure you never create anything valuable in life. That could be your weakness."
“It’s only when someone who has nothing precious in life says something like that.”
“If you have it?”
“What? Other than the fatherland.”
“My dog.”
“How precious must something be to use a baby animal as an example?”
“Animal lovers from all over the world will come to kill you.”
“Hey, hey, be thankful you have something precious. I can’t think of anything.”
Deon crumpled the map and spoke gruffly. He put the compass in his pocket and added softly.
"I'll treasure what's precious to me. That's rare in our lives. So, you guys, hold on tight. Don't let it get taken away from you."
“You’re talking nonsense!”
Anne, who had patted Deon's arm, asked Heiner.
"Heiner, what do you treasure? A secret lover?"
“Hey, would a stone like him have a lover?”
"There are quite a few women who secretly like that kind of stone-faced guy. Anyway, do you have anything precious to you? What would you do with it? Would you cherish it? Are you perhaps the clingy type?"
Heiner responded bluntly to Anne's barrage of questions.
“It’s useless?”
“Usually, what’s precious to me is precious to others too... There are plenty of people better than us. They’ll all be taken away anyway.”
"From someone who's been robbed my whole life, that's a truly tearful statement. So what are we going to do? Are we just going to open our eyes and let it be taken away?"
Heiner muttered, staring blankly at the stew.
“If you can't hide it perfectly... It's better to destroy it. So that it no longer becomes precious to others.”
“What? Then it won’t be precious to me either.”
"...Well."
“Yes, I heard a psychopathic answer.”
Heiner smiled dryly and picked up the stew.
As a child, he still held onto the broken music box. No one coveted it anymore, but it was still precious to him.
Perhaps he was truly a broken person, deeply broken. All the trainees on Suderlane Island lived with a creaky spirit, but perhaps he was even more broken than they were.
So much so that you can't cherish what's precious.
His feelings for her are probably not normal. The more he thinks about his precious person, the more unhappy he becomes, because it's probably wrong from start to finish.
Heiner put down the stew and took out a cigar. He placed the end on the log, lit it, and put it in his mouth.
The faint smoke of the cigar drifted out along with the smoke from the firewood. He leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes.
Thoughts, twisted and twisted, bloomed like a mist. She was always there, the cause and effect.
I know you, but you don't know me.
I look at you, but you don't look at me.
I think of you, but you don't think of me.
Born with a deformed heart, it grew more twisted and coarse as it grew. The image of the young boy who had purely loved her performance had long since faded.
Heiner slowly exhaled the cigar smoke he had been holding for a long time. A bitter taste lingered on his tongue. He dusted the ash off.
Precious things always make him unhappy. Like the broken music box. And like her, who is unreachable.
If this is the feeling that something is precious, it would be better to not have anything in the first place.
The operation was almost a failure.
Their spying activities were discovered by someone's tip, and all of the operatives except Jackson were captured by France's Labor Party members.
The place Heiner was held was a dark, damp, solitary cell. It was a place he was quite familiar with. The only difference was that the screams and cries of others coming from the torture chamber were vivid and resonant.
Sometimes, Heiner could recognize his colleagues. The sounds were more animal than human, but he could clearly tell who they were.
Heiner tried to remain calm. Torture itself is a powerful tool for destroying people, but creating a sense of fear by not knowing when the torture will begin is also a way to drive people mad.
It was especially effective here, where he could clearly hear his colleagues' screams.
He couldn't tell how much time had passed in the darkness. At some point, the cell door opened with a creaking sound.
Three men were standing in front of the prison. They were neither officers nor interrogators. They were guards wearing brown uniforms and wielding clubs.
Their legs crossed into the cell. Heiner stared ahead, his expression unchanged. They didn't move him to the interrogation room or drag him into a cold chair.
They started beating Heiner without saying a word.
Heiner's body buckled as a foot flew towards him. A gasp escaped his throat. One of the guards kicked him again.
Before long, he was on the floor. Fists, feet, clubs, palms, chairs—everything flew at him.
He had been beaten countless times. Heiner curled up like a dying animal, emitting muffled groans and screams.
His entire body felt like a shred of rags. He wished he could just lose consciousness, but with each blow, his mind only grew clearer.
His stomach churned like crazy, as if he'd hit the wrong spot. Heiner vomited on the floor. But since he hadn't eaten anything, all he could come up with was sour water.
After a prolonged beating, the guards spat and left the cell. Heiner was thrown onto the cold floor like a sack of rags, his body trembling intermittently. Boom. The door closed.
Consciousness flickered and flickered. Heiner's eyelids fluttered as if in a fit. He took a shallow, labored breath and closed his eyes.
He lost consciousness several times and regained consciousness. When he finally regained consciousness, the guards were already in his cell.
They began beating Heiner again. His unrecovered body screamed. An unfamiliar pain consumed his brain.
The stone floor was soaked with blood and water. Heiner was struck, lost consciousness, slowly regained consciousness, writhing in pain, and then struck again, over and over again.
The words "begging for my life" rose to the very tip of his tongue. But he couldn't bring himself to utter them. The moment he uttered them, everything was over.
At one point, guards dragged Heiner out of his cell. He was placed on a cold metal chair in the interrogation room. However, his mind was hazy, and he couldn't fully grasp the situation.
The interrogator, wearing rimless glasses, spoke from across the room, clasping his hands together.
“Now let’s have a conversation.”
Anne lit the logs. Soon, a crackling sound was heard, and red dots began to appear on the surface.
Deon said, pointing to the map on which he had placed the compass.
“We just need to move 47 kilometers more from here.”
“Why is it ‘only’?”
"This is 'ten thousand'. Think about the distance you've traveled so far, you punk."
“Ha... I feel like I can’t feel my feet.”
“I have lost my senses a long time ago.”
“Damn, do you hear the wind? We just walked through that.”
A trivial conversation was exchanged. Small voices echoed through the cave. Heiner stirred the stew in a tin can without saying a word.
Originally, it was forbidden for colleagues to develop any more than a certain level of friendship. Personal feelings were considered a hindrance to operations.
Furthermore, the agents themselves were reluctant to form friendships. Survival rates during operations were typically low, so it wasn't wise to befriend those who would soon be separated.
However, this time, the members were those who had overcome life-or-death struggles together in a previous long-term project. Regardless of intentions or reason, they inevitably became close to each other.
“Why does Heiner have such a serious face?”
“That’s his original face.”
“You’re not putting drugs in our food? You’re actually Frances’s spy!”
Anne replied with a laugh.
“We might be resistant to the drug.”
“That makes sense. Didn’t you get a lot of shots at the training camp?”
"That thing that suppresses emotions? But does that really work?"
“It seems to be really effective for Heiner.”
“Do you think it really worked, Heiner?”
“Not really. I think loyalty has increased a bit.”
Heiner shrugged and replied, "If the drug had truly been effective in suppressing emotions, we wouldn't have come to this point."
"Yeah. It didn't work when I saw it either. I have a girlfriend."
“Why are you dating when you can’t even get married?”
“Is marriage a big deal? Just love now.”
“What would you do if your lover were taken hostage during an operation?”
“Then... there’s nothing I can do.”
“Are you going to give up on your lover?”
“I have to give up, then what am I going to do?”
“You still have some sense left, though.”
Anne and Jackson bickered repeatedly. Heiner, without changing his expression, divided the stew into individual bowls.
At first glance, it sounded like casual, everyday conversation, but it wasn't. If anyone uttered anything suggestive of disobedience, they would be immediately reported to the Marquis. And they would be subject to interrogation and torture.
Jackson took the stew, took a sip, and said.
"If I were Instructor Suderrain, I'd make sure you never create anything valuable in life. That could be your weakness."
“It’s only when someone who has nothing precious in life says something like that.”
“If you have it?”
“What? Other than the fatherland.”
“My dog.”
“How precious must something be to use a baby animal as an example?”
“Animal lovers from all over the world will come to kill you.”
“Hey, hey, be thankful you have something precious. I can’t think of anything.”
Deon crumpled the map and spoke gruffly. He put the compass in his pocket and added softly.
"I'll treasure what's precious to me. That's rare in our lives. So, you guys, hold on tight. Don't let it get taken away from you."
“You’re talking nonsense!”
Anne, who had patted Deon's arm, asked Heiner.
"Heiner, what do you treasure? A secret lover?"
“Hey, would a stone like him have a lover?”
"There are quite a few women who secretly like that kind of stone-faced guy. Anyway, do you have anything precious to you? What would you do with it? Would you cherish it? Are you perhaps the clingy type?"
Heiner responded bluntly to Anne's barrage of questions.
“It's no use trying to spare me.”
“Usually, what’s precious to me is precious to others too... There are plenty of people better than us. They’ll all be taken away anyway.”
"From someone who's been robbed my whole life, that's a truly tearful statement. So what are we going to do? Are we just going to open our eyes and let it be taken away?"
Heiner muttered, staring blankly at the stew.
“If you can't hide it perfectly... It's better to destroy it. So that it no longer becomes precious to others.”
“What? Then it won’t be precious to me either.”
"...Well."
“Yes, I heard a psychopathic answer.”
Heiner smiled dryly and picked up the stew.
As a child, he still held onto the broken music box. No one coveted it anymore, but it was still precious to him.
Perhaps he was truly a broken person, deeply broken. All the trainees on Suderlane Island lived with a creaky spirit, but perhaps he was even more broken than they were.
So much so that you can't cherish what's precious.
His feelings for her are probably not normal. The more he thinks about his precious person, the more unhappy he becomes, because it's probably wrong from start to finish.
Heiner put down the stew and took out a cigar. He placed the end on the log, lit it, and put it in his mouth.
The faint smoke of the cigar drifted out along with the smoke from the firewood. He leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes.
Thoughts, twisted and twisted, bloomed like a mist. She was always there, the cause and effect.
I know you, but you don't know me.
I look at you, but you don't look at me.
I think of you, but you don't think of me.
Born with a deformed heart, it grew more twisted and coarse as it grew. The image of the young boy who had purely loved her performance had long since faded.
Heiner slowly exhaled the cigar smoke he had been holding for a long time. A bitter taste lingered on his tongue. He dusted the ash off.
Precious things always make him unhappy. Like the broken music box. And like her, who is unreachable.
If this is the feeling that something is precious, it would be better to not have anything in the first place.
***
The operation was almost a failure.
Their spying activities were discovered by someone's tip, and all of the operatives except Jackson were captured by France's Labor Party members.
The place Heiner was held was a dark, damp, solitary cell. It was a place he was quite familiar with. The only difference was that the screams and cries of others coming from the torture chamber were vivid and resonant.
Sometimes, Heiner could recognize his colleagues. The sounds were more animal than human, but he could clearly tell who they were.
Heiner tried to remain calm. Torture itself is a powerful tool for destroying people, but creating a sense of fear by not knowing when the torture will begin is also a way to drive people mad.
It was especially effective here, where he could clearly hear his colleagues' screams.
He couldn't tell how much time had passed in the darkness. At some point, the cell door opened with a creaking sound.
Three men were standing in front of the prison. They were neither officers nor interrogators. They were guards wearing brown uniforms and wielding clubs.
Their legs crossed into the cell. Heiner stared ahead, his expression unchanged. They didn't move him to the interrogation room or drag him into a cold chair.
They started beating Heiner without saying a word.
Heiner's body buckled as a foot flew towards him. A gasp escaped his throat. One of the guards kicked him again.
Before long, he was on the floor. Fists, feet, clubs, palms, chairs—everything flew at him.
He had been beaten countless times. Heiner curled up like a dying animal, emitting muffled groans and screams.
His entire body felt like a shred of rags. He wished he could just lose consciousness, but with each blow, his mind only grew clearer.
His stomach churned like crazy, as if he'd hit the wrong spot. Heiner vomited on the floor. But since he hadn't eaten anything, all he could come up with was sour water.
After a prolonged beating, the guards spat and left the cell. Heiner was thrown onto the cold floor like a sack of rags, his body trembling intermittently. Boom. The door closed.
Consciousness flickered and flickered. Heiner's eyelids fluttered as if in a fit. He took a shallow, labored breath and closed his eyes.
He lost consciousness several times and regained consciousness. When he finally regained consciousness, the guards were already in his cell.
They began beating Heiner again. His unrecovered body screamed. An unfamiliar pain consumed his brain.
The stone floor was soaked with blood and water. Heiner was struck, lost consciousness, slowly regained consciousness, writhing in pain, and then struck again, over and over again.
The words "begging for my life" rose to the very tip of his tongue. But he couldn't bring himself to utter them. The moment he uttered them, everything was over.
At one point, guards dragged Heiner out of his cell. He was placed on a cold metal chair in the interrogation room. However, his mind was hazy, and he couldn't fully grasp the situation.
The interrogator, wearing rimless glasses, spoke from across the room, clasping his hands together.
“Now let’s have a conversation.”
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