Knights and Knaves puzzles

Chuuya   I woke up somewhere over Germany. (I figured that out later — only a couple of hours left in the flight.) Honestly, I was even kind of glad I’d spent most of the trip unconscious. Flights from Asia to Europe are absolute crap — ten hours twisted up like a goddamn pretzel in a tiny-ass seat. The first thing I realized was that I was on a plane. And let me tell you, that’s one hell of a way to wake up — your guts all weightless, like they don’t belong to you anymore. I felt like absolute shit, too. Mouth tasted like a goddamn litter box — same as always after a night of drinking too much. But the turbulence had nothing to do with a hangover. Without moving or opening my eyes, I started taking stock of my surroundings. When I try to explain how I sense the world with For the Tainted Sorrow, I usually tell people to imagine something like a photo negative — say, a pitch-black room with bright silhouettes of objects and people. That’s a super simplified version, though. It’s not about color; it’s about mass, volume. But whatever — most people find it easier to picture it that way. I figured out that I was sitting close to the wall — probably a window, unless this was some kind of cultist prisoner transport plane with solid walls. But no, seemed like a regular Boeing 707 or whatever, with three-seat rows on either side of the cabin. On my left and right, two people sat close — lightweight, slender figures. Definitely two of the chicks who jumped me. Keeping guard. There was a faint electric hum in the air. Yeah, no doubt — if I so much as twitched the wrong way, I’d get zapped by that thing again. A row behind me, sprawled out in the window seat like he fucking owned the place, was a very familiar seventy-kilo asshole. He’d shoved his stupid, ridiculously long legs into the mesh pocket meant for trash in the seat ahead. I tamped down the urge to turn, open my eyes, and glare straight into that bastard’s smug face. Next to Dazai sat another girl, same weight and build as my guards — had to be their third sister. Looked like she was dozing. No surprise there. The barrier they were keeping up around me probably sucked the life out of them. And with a long-ass flight like this, they had to take turns resting. Dazai was murmuring to one of the girls — not the one next to him, the sleeping one, but the one sitting ahead of him, to my right, by the window. “...Our parents always knew,” she was saying. “Or at least, they figured it out when our mother got pregnant with Anne, and it was clear there’d be three of us. Because our great-great-grandmothers, the witches — they were triplets, too.” “The ones who were executed?” Dazai asked. Hell if I knew what they were on about. “You never said what exactly they were tried for.” “Truth be told, I don’t know,” the girl admitted. “It was so long ago. But when you have power like that, you can’t escape the temptation to use it for evil. Believe me, they were true monsters. When people finally discovered their magic and came to execute them, those witches slaughtered half the village before they could be stopped! And even killing them wasn’t easy. “The first one — they tried hanging her, but the noose didn’t snap her neck. Then they tried drowning her, but she wouldn’t sink — like the devil himself was holding her afloat, even when they used hooks to force her under. In the end, they had to burn her.” “That’s horrific,” Dazai murmured, though he didn’t say exactly which part he found horrific. I was still too fucking out of it to process all this properly. Just woke up, after an emotional breakdown, head still a mess, and now they were dumping all this horror-story shit on me first thing? Jesus Christ, and people complain about morning news bulletins. I’d take a scandal about some politician pocketing cash over this medieval torture nonsense. Better with a cup of coffee. Also, I was starving. And I really needed to take a piss. “The other two were burned at the stake right away,” the girl went on. “They reduced their bodies to nothing but ashes and bones, but even then, their hearts wouldn’t burn — black, hardened things, like chunks of stone. Cursed, monstrous creatures...” “There’s nothing supernatural about that,” Dazai cut in, ever the fucking know-it-all. “The heart is the densest muscle in the human body. Burning it completely is actually quite difficult. Still, I don’t quite understand how your parents were so sure those witches were connected to you.” “Well, before they died, they swore revenge on the village. They said they’d return. Be reborn. And we look just like them.” “Well, certain phenotypes do run in families, as does the likelihood of having children of a particular sex...” “Oh, come on. Three girls — just like before!” “But if your mother had had another child, there would have been four of you,” Dazai pointed out, not backing down. Come on, say something about logical fallacies, like you love to do. “Or maybe five, or more.” “She died a few months after Anne was born. Overdosed on pills,” the girl said darkly. That didn’t actually disprove anything Dazai had said, but I guess he was trying to be polite, because he just said, very gently: “Oh.” “She hated me,” said the girl sitting to my left — the one who hadn’t spoken yet. “When Charlotte was born, no one thought anything of it — just another daughter. When Emily came a year later, our mother started to suspect something was wrong. But when she got pregnant a third time, she knew. She knew history was repeating itself. That she and our father, our whole family, our neighbors — they were all doomed. That everyone was in for the same thing that happened in the last century: a curse, a slaughter, burnt bodies... “She tried to get rid of me. It didn’t work. I survived, but I was born weak.” Oh? Anne’s weaker than the other two? Noted. Not that it necessarily applied to her power, but still — good to keep in mind. First, though, I needed to figure out how the hell to tell these sisters apart. They looked practically identical, with the same bland, blank expressions, the same near-matching outfits. Not that I’d gotten a good enough look at them yet. “After I was born, she tried to kill all three of us again,” Anne continued. “Our father stopped her. Back then, he didn’t believe in the curse — thought it was just an old wives’ tale. Called her insane. When she tried again behind his back, he had her committed. “She... she didn’t just overdose. She did it in the asylum. Because of us. Do you understand what I’m saying? We drove our mother insane. We killed her. Charlotte and Emily were just babies, I wasn’t even a year old yet, and the curse had already begun its work...” I had no idea what the hell Dazai was supposed to take from this, but all I got was that these girls had a seriously fucked-up mother who reaped exactly what she sowed. For once, I actually wanted Dazai to do his whole superior, logical thing — point out how dumb this all sounded. To drop one of his smug little insights like he was so damn good at — because what I’d just heard was absolute bullshit. But he kept quiet for some reason, and it was pissing me off. "Our father," the eldest, Charlotte, said, "was a good man. Or at least, he thought he was. He believed that his daughters’ well-being mattered more than some old family curse. He took care of us. When the time came to send us to school, it became clear that wouldn’t work: in small villages, everyone knows everything — about the curse, about our mother’s illness and death — and the other children wouldn’t leave me alone. They said horrible things, they hit me… So our father tried to teach us himself. The older we got, the less we left the house because… well, our abilities began to manifest. Mine, at first. I saw some kids yanking Anne’s hair, and—" "They weren’t just pulling it," Anne said quietly. "They called me a witch and set my hair on fire." "Yes. I was terrified, and… that cursed power burst out of me. Two boys ended up in the hospital, their bodies covered in electrical burns. Before that, we thought our lives were difficult, but after that, it became hell. Even going to the store for food felt like stepping into enemy territory. And then we found out Emily and Anne had the ability too — Wuthering Heights…" "And even then, our father didn’t abandon us. Not that he had anywhere to go — he was already an outcast in the village, and we were too poor to leave. He had to take the dirtiest jobs just to keep us fed…" "The villagers hated him more and more, and one day, some drunken bastards… they…" "They killed him. Beat him to death in a fight. And then they came for us. They couldn’t do anything to us, of course, but we knew we had to run." "Back then, the laws around abilities were even murkier than they are now. We didn’t know where to seek protection." "We jumped onto a passing freight train, ended up in Manchester, and lived on the streets for a while. We didn’t use our powers. We begged, we stole… One of the Lord’s commandments says theft is a sin, but using abilities is an even greater sin…" "I see… And then Joanne found you?" Dazai asked. "We found her, actually, when we read in a newspaper about a church and a woman with a gift like hers. There are many ordinary brothers and sisters in the church, but even among those with abilities, most have to wait months just to speak with her — or even see her. But she noticed us immediately…" Well, no shit, I thought. Anyone would notice that kind of power just lying around unclaimed. "…And she promised she would rid us of our abilities, but only after we helped her rid the world of certain wicked people. We've been working for her ever since." "That is unspeakably tragic," Dazai said. "If you three fine young ladies were one person, I would most certainly have chosen this poor maiden as my partner in a double suicide." Jesus, what a thick-skinned bastard — these girls just told a story so grim it would shut up even the most hardened criminals, and this asshole was still cracking jokes. "And what about your story, Wilde-san?" Dazai went on. "Of course, if you'd rather not share, I won’t press." An unfamiliar voice replied: "No, I don’t mind. My fate is not nearly as tragic as the Brontë sisters’. Fortunately, I was not born in some remote village but in London, into a family of… let’s say, considerable means." The voice belonged to a chubby guy, probably pushing ninety kilos, sitting behind us in the same row as Dazai and the third sister. Right, Kouyou had mentioned there was some guy along with the three girls. "In a very wealthy family," Charlotte corrected gently, without envy or reproach. "The Wilde household welcomed the finest members of society — musicians, artists, writers, theater people…" "That’s true," Wilde admitted. "But my childhood was not a happy one. For as long as I can remember, I have always seen through people. Everyone pretended to like me — friends, teachers, guests in our house… but none of them were sincere. They all wanted something from me — or rather, from my parents. Later, I learned how to make people genuinely like me — it’s easy when you can see right through them — but their affection no longer brought me any joy. Everything comes easily to me: I have plenty of friends, I got into Cambridge last year, I have a bright future ahead of me. But nothing excites me anymore when I can see the strings pulling at people. It all feels dull and meaningless." I immediately realized this guy was just a spoiled, self-absorbed prick. "That sounds familiar," Dazai mused. "So, if I understand correctly, you, Wilde-san, only wish to rid yourself of your ability, while you, ladies, would prefer to erase your entire past — or at least most of it?" "Exactly. Joanne has the power to do that." Yeah, I’d seen what she could do with my own eyes. What a goddamn show. "And you’re not bothered by the idea that you’d be given, in a way, someone else’s identity and memories?" "People get rid of scars from wounds... And our abilities are scars," Charlotte said. "…Just like our memories," Anne finished. "My life and personality suit me just fine; I simply want to be free of my ability so I can stop seeing people as puppets," Wilde said in that lazy, arrogant tone that was really starting to piss me off. I couldn’t take it anymore — I finally opened my eyes, turned to the guy, and said: "Dude, you’re just fuckin’ full of it. I can actually hear you pulling problems straight outta your ass." The girls on either side of me, who had probably assumed I was unconscious or asleep, flinched and focused on their barrier. I could even hear it crackling stronger. "Relax, I’m not going anywhere," I snapped. "If I mess with gravity right now, the plane carrying three hundred people either crashes or blows up mid-air. What do I look like, a psycho?" "Is your Mister Nakahara always this crude?" Wilde asked Dazai distastefully. "My Mister Nakahara…" Dazai repeated, as if tasting the words, then looked at me with a heavy gaze. The right side of his face was already a juicy shade of purple, his lip split  — and I won’t lie, seeing that was deeply satisfying. "Yes, he always is," he said. "You got any food left from the in-flight meal? And can I take a piss and brush my teeth?" I asked. "There’s no food left," Dazai sighed. "We’ll be landing in…" "…an hour," Charlotte and Anne said coldly, in eerie unison. The hell were they still trying to scare me with their creepy-twin act for? I’d already heard them speak like normal humans, each on her own. "Well, it’s gonna be a real shitty hour for you sitting next to my wet pants," I informed them cheerfully. The girls grimaced but shifted in their seats and got up. "What, we all going to the bathroom together, like in primary school?" I asked, not moving. Moving was hard, considering the greenish shimmer of the barrier still surrounding me. "Yes," they said in chorus. My humor was clearly lost on them. "We'll expand the barrier just enough for you to walk," Anne added magnanimously. "Mister Ikita," Charlotte said softly, "would you mind helping us again? We need your illusion to avoid attracting attention." And that’s when I thought: what the fuck? I’d already gotten used to Dazai being “Mr. Ikita,” but what illusion? What the hell was she talking about? “I’d be happy to help!” Dazai chirped cheerfully, climbing into the aisle after me. He waved his hands around a little and, as if by accident, brushed against both girls — hardly avoidable, given how damn cramped airplane aisles are — then solemnly declared: “Abracadabra!” The electric barrier around me vanished. Well, of course, it did. I had to fight the urge to drop my jaw like a dumbass kid. The two girls kept their serious expressions, as if they still believed they were maintaining my cage. Shit, I got it. Simple and brilliant. Dazai couldn’t reveal who he really was, couldn’t explain his ability — first, because it would expose his identity, and second, because it was way too impressive and would draw unnecessary attention. But he couldn’t be completely powerless either, or the Brits wouldn’t have given a damn about him. So, he made up some random persona with a bullshit ability — some weak-ass illusion magic. And now he was pretending… by not pretending. He just nullified the barrier, while the girls kept thinking it was still there. Dazai was a fucking bastard, but I had to admire his problem-solving skills. I mean, on one hand, it was brilliant. On the other, it was pure insanity. It reminded me of how I was recently baffled by Atsushi’s reckless, Darwin-defying bravery — but Dazai was the same way, just on another level. He picked himself a disciple in his own image — there was even a weird kind of fondness in that thought. But at least Atsushi risked his life to protect his friends. Dazai, on the other hand, seemed to enjoy pushing the world’s limits just to see if it would push back. If I do this, will I get my ass kicked? What about this? All of Dazai’s genius plans — the ones I’d seen in action, at least — had one thing in common: he relied on nothing but sheer, insane confidence. One wrong step, and he’d be fucking dead. And yet, he carried himself like everything was perfectly planned, destined for victory. And now? He’d just stuck his head into the lion’s mouth. Mine too, while he was at it. Decided to “defect” to the enemy, fully expecting me to figure out his trick on my own, no explanations given. Yeah, he’d dropped a hint about Double Black, but he’d also pissed me off so I wouldn’t think about it until later. God, it was infuriating! Would it kill him to just tell me the plan? Did his tongue not work or what? Then again, I wouldn’t have agreed. I’d have told him to fuck right off — what did any of this have to do with me? Why was I the one covering his ass? Speaking of asses. The moment I got up and stepped into the aisle, I unexpectedly felt Dazai’s hand on mine. No, not like that — normal human urges weren’t his thing. His brain was too damn rotten from overuse, and everything else rotted away with it. What actually happened was that something hard and rectangular slipped into my back pocket. When I made it to the bathroom — my ever-present guards thankfully staying outside — I checked what he’d planted on me. It was a passport. At first glance, it looked exactly like mine, photos, stamps from my travels and all. But there was a catch — my real passport had a wavy corner from that time I spilled wine on it, and customs officers always bitched about it. This one’s pages were smooth. A fake. An illusion. I already had a pretty good idea whose handiwork it was — Dazai’s current partner from the Agency, that tall, bespectacled pain in the ass, Kunikida. Wonder how his magic notebook actually worked. These conjured objects probably vanished eventually, like elf gold in fairy tales. Still, the shit you could pull off with an ability like that… Imagine if we had that guy and his book in the Mafia. But he was one of those self-righteous types — try pulling the stick out of his ass, and he’d just beat you to death with it. Inside the passport was a credit card. The name on it: Joushi Ikita. So now I was Mr. Ikita, too? Great. A made-up guy with a split personality. Not that I needed the card — I had my own — but I appreciated the gesture. There was also a piece of paper. 5609 Truth 1 or 2? 3 221 Real fucking funny, Dazai. Might as well have written it in code. Or ancient Greek. The first number was obviously the card’s PIN — credit cards are useless without a passcode, and out of all the numbers on that note, only one was four digits long. “Truth” was easy to figure out too. I’d heard Wilde bragging about how he could see through people’s lies, like he was some kind of human lie detector. If his ability actually worked that way, my best move was to keep my mouth shut until I figured out the specifics. Dazai lied like he breathed, but apparently, his bullshit didn’t count. The rest? No clue. But I could work backwards — what did Dazai want from me? He probably didn’t want me to lose my ability, like Akutagawa and Atsushi did. Not that I thought I mattered to him that much, but he’d already thrown the bait, distracted attention onto me, and slipped into Saint Joanne’s inner circle as one of her “own.” Most likely, his grand plan boiled down to getting us both near Joanne and her subordinates. He’d nullify their abilities, I’d wipe them out — Corruption or no Corruption — and boom. The end. Classic. Everyone would die, Dazai and I would ride off into the sunset. A Double Black masterpiece polished to perfection. Or maybe a slight variation — Joanne might try to “cleanse” me first instead of killing me outright. Dazai would touch her, I’d pretend I’d been purified, and then, at the perfect moment — boom, massacre. Like I said, I knew Dazai too well. You didn’t need to be a genius to see where this was going. But what about the rest? Why the card and the PIN? If everything went smoothly, I wouldn’t even need them. That’s when it hit me. The credit card wasn’t for food or a place to stay. It was a contingency plan. That’s why the PIN was at the top of the note — step one of the “shit hits the fan” protocol. Not that I could imagine what could go wrong — our plan was perfect. Like… well, like my Corruption (when Dazai was there to keep me from dying). But still. If things did go south… That explained “1 or 2.” Dazai wanted to know how many of the Brontë sisters I could take down without him and without Corruption. There wouldn’t be any outsiders in the Equalists’ lair — his “illusion” trick wouldn’t be needed. He couldn’t just nullify Wuthering Heights or whatever the fuck it was called. So how was I supposed to break free from another electric cage? There were three of them, but Dazai only had two hands (insert dirty joke here). One sister was clearly extra, and the odds of him touching two at once were slim. Hell if I knew whether I could handle one or two of them solo — we hadn’t exactly sparred. Whatever. I’d say “one,” just to make his life harder. Let him figure out how to deal with the other two. If I was right, the last two numbers had to be a place and time for a rendezvous. “221”… Maybe 221B Baker Street? Sherlock Holmes’ address? Jesus Christ. Did Dazai really just arrange a meetup at the Sherlock Holmes museum? What is he, ten? That just left “3.” Three days? Three hours? From when? Guess I’d find out. See? I can do deduction too. I’m not completely stupid. “Aww, Chuuya, looks like the flight attendants took pity on you and dug up a couple of stale sandwiches,” Dazai sang out as I dropped into my seat. I silently flipped him off, hoping he’d catch the true meaning of the gesture (one finger, you know). Well, aside from the obvious one, which was also very much intended. Still, I ate the damn sandwiches. Not the worst I’ve ever had.   Same drill, same abracadabra hocus-pocus (seriously, fuck this), and we cleared passport control at the airport. Lucky for us, one of the girls — Charlotte, I think? The slightly taller one — was hauling a heavy suitcase. The barrier duty had fallen to Anne and Emily, now refreshed after her nap (she was the one with the mole on her cheek), and those two were exactly who Dazai nullified. No idea what he’d have done if all three of them had been on guard at once. But he’d have figured something out — improvisation was kind of his thing. That nasty habit of treating people and their actions like pieces on a chessboard? Yeah, that came straight from Mori, the bastard. Dazai was still nowhere near Mori’s level, though — Mori had been playing this game for ages, like he could see a hundred moves ahead. But Mori — he was smart as hell, sure, but the guy sucked at improvisation. Even I could throw him off sometimes with a well-timed wisecrack. Not that Mori would’ve liked me saying this. At all.  Mori was the strategist. Dazai was the tactician. No one could predict who’d come out on top when they finally faced off (not “if” — sooner or later, one of them was gonna try to take the other out, everyone knew that). But there was no doubt — when it happened, Yokohama was gonna shake, and heads were gonna roll.   So, Heathrow airport. Turned out to be a real place, not just something from the books. Hello, London. The capital of Great Britain! Honestly, I was expecting Joanne and her cultist crew to be waiting for us the moment we landed. I mean, given how much that bitch had it out for me — not me, Dazai, well, you get it — she should’ve come charging in at full speed to get a look at the big bad guy herself. Didn’t love that idea, though. It meant we'd have to deal with her right there in the airport, and airports are packed with people… Yeah, yeah, “you can’t make an omelet without breaking a few eggs.” When I’m not drunk and feeling like shit, I can get behind that maxi… whatever the hell… that unpleasant little saying. But if we were gonna raise hell, I’d prefer to do it somewhere a little more… deserted. But no one showed up. Charlotte stepped aside to make a call. Came back, said to her sisters: “She says tomorrow. There’ll be a ceremony.” The fuck kind of “ceremony”? Sure as hell ain’t a wedding… “And we have to guard him the whole time? ” Anne groaned. “I’m dead on my feet already…” Charlotte sighed. “We’ll get home soon. You can sleep, just not too long — I’m exhausted too… Mr. Ikita, Oscar, if your flight wasn’t too tiring, Madame Joanne would like to speak with you now. And you—” All three of them turned to me with the kind of glares people reserve for cockroaches in their cereal. Like I fucking chose to be here. “You’re coming with us.” “And if I, say, start screaming my head off for help on the way? What then?” “We’ll knock you out again,” Charlotte said matter-of-factly. “And by the way, prolonged unconsciousness can lead to a coma. Repeated instances, even more so.” Considering they were planning to kill me or something tomorrow, that wasn’t the scariest threat in the world. Still, I’d prefer to be awake for my own execution, so I decided not to push it. “Let me guess,” I muttered sourly. “You wanna be a doctor?” She gave me a surprised look. Figured she’d just ignore me, but no — cold as ice, but she actually answered: “A biologist, actually.” And with that, Dazai waved me a cheery goodbye and took off with that pretentious rich prick Wilde — no idea where, maybe a hotel. And me? The sisters dragged me along with them. We ended up near Spitalfields Market. Whitechapel, I think. The old hunting grounds of Jack the Ripper. Honestly, it was exactly how I imagined — total shithole. No murderers prowling the streets (in daylight, at least — who knows about nighttime), but plenty of hookers, drunks, and homeless people. Plus, nowadays, junkies too. Guess how I know so much about Jack the Ripper? Dazai. He got me into all that about ten years ago. All that sick crap that Mori had been filling his head with non-stop. The sisters’ apartment was tiny and disgustingly clean. Didn’t look like three young women lived there — no posters of boy band pretty boys, no fluffy animal slippers. Just narrow, neatly made beds, no clothes strewn on the floor. Boring as hell. But hey, better than sleeping on the streets of Manchester or wherever they were begging before Joanne gave them this “job.” Still, the place wasn’t as soulless as I expected. When you hear “cult freaks,” you picture blank white walls, crucifixes over every bed, a dozen Bibles, and a closet full of whips for self-flagellation — y’know, the whole guilty sinner aesthetic. But this? This was normal. A little TV, books on the shelves — fairy tales, a couple of detective novels, a textbook called Microbiology: University Course (so she wasn’t kidding, huh…). Even art books — Waterhouse, Beardsley — someone here liked paintings. I watched Charlotte unpack her suitcase, stacking boxes of Japanese sweets and packets of green tea in the kitchen cabinets. Guess they did the full tourist routine in Yokohama — maid cafés, anime districts, hot springs, all that shit foreigners go nuts for. So they were real people after all. Not just brainwashed Amish-or-something-like weirdos. Then, on the kitchen floor, I spotted two empty cat bowls — one with dried-up food stains, the other just water marks. Hadn’t been used in a while. “Where’s the cat?” I asked. “Dead?” That’s when they finally zapped me. And I blacked out. This time, they didn’t hit me too hard — I came to pretty quickly. Well, kinda quickly — it was already dark outside. The room was dark too, the only light coming from the greenish shimmer of the barrier surrounding me. I was lying on one of those shitty, narrow, monk-style beds, and I could hear soft breathing from both sides. Looked like only one of the sisters was keeping the barrier up while the other two had passed out. I probably could’ve broken free and bolted right now, but without Joanne around, there wasn’t much point. Dazai — what the hell was he doing here? — was sitting on the floor next to my bed, talking in hushed tones with one of the sisters. Took me a second to figure out it was Emily. They were having some deep, heartfelt conversation. “We talked it over, Charlotte and I,” the girl was saying. “Thought about what you said… And, well, you’re right. Madame Joanne is using us…” “Well, I wouldn’t put it quite so harshly — ‘using’ sounds a bit unfair. She undoubtedly wants what’s best for you…” Dazai cooed, sweet as a dove. Man, he worked fast — already halfway up their asses. And by “asses,” I mean their souls, not their skirts. Though honestly, if it was their skirts, I’d at least know there was something human left in him. “No, that’s exactly what it is. We’ve thought about it before, we’re not that stupid. We see it — our church brothers and sisters with weaker abilities get their blessings and ‘deliverance’ all the time, while she keeps stringing us along with empty promises. Because she needs our powers…” “Well, yeah. If you don’t remind her it’s time to start keeping those promises, this could go on forever. You could even bring it up tomorrow at the ceremony, huh? She mentioned there’d be a few… hmm… volunteers for purification. Why not one of you? Haven’t you waited long enough?” Damn. That’s why he was here. And damn, he was smooth. I also realized he hadn’t slept in God knows how long — he’d been chatting with them the whole damn flight, too, and not for fun, but for this. He’d already looked like shit when we landed — dark circles under his eyes, those little lines around his mouth — and now, I had no idea how he was even staying upright. “Yeah, yeah,” Emily nodded. “That’s actually a good idea. Charlotte and I already decided — Anne should be the first to be purified. She’s been through the worst.” “But if she forgets the past and loses her abilities… you’ll have to pretend to be normal girls around her, won’t you?” “We will. We’ve gone over this a million times. We even have a story prepared — our parents died, then we moved here…” “Well, that’s not even a lie…” “No. Because new memories have to be built from the scraps of old ones. We’ve seen how Madame Joanne’s ability works — she doesn’t create memories. That’s probably impossible. She just cuts away the pain… like a surgeon. And then the brain fills in the gaps on its own, stitches up the inconsistencies…” “Interesting,” Dazai murmured. “And if, after all that ‘surgery,’ there’s nothing left to fill in the gaps…?” “What?” Emily asked. “Nothing. Not about Anne. I think she’ll be fine.” They kept talking for another hour or so — mostly more tragic backstory about the sisters’ rough childhood. Wooden toys nailed to the floor, that sort of thing. Not exactly funny, but hey, people have been through worse. No one ever felt bad for me or Dazai. Eventually, he got up, apologized for leaving her alone, said he really needed some sleep, and left. I, on the other hand, decided it was time to make my presence known. Got into a little argument with Emily, negotiated myself some food and a bathroom break, but couldn’t talk my way into a smoke or a shower. Which sucked, because my clothes were already starting to reek, and my hair was turning into a greasy bird’s nest. By morning, I actually managed to get some real sleep. Finally, without the help of a goddamn electroshock.   Barely had dawn broken when I was rudely jabbed in the side and dragged out of whatever half-assed sleep I’d managed. No breakfast, no explanations — just straight into the car and off we went. Again. How long is this shit gonna last? (Preferably no more than a couple of hours.) We drove out of the city, spent ages rolling through the countryside, and finally stopped near some house in the middle of the goddamn woods. Like a forester’s hut straight out of a bad horror flick. Though, gotta admit, it made sense — if half of these so-called "seekers of purification" weren’t exactly eager to be purified, better to do it somewhere nice and isolated. You know, where nobody’s gonna hear the screaming. I mean, sure, with hypnotic powers you could probably pull this shit off right in Piccadilly Circus, but good luck wiping the memories of every single bystander afterward. The house was big, clearly set up for cult business — none of your mundane kitchens or bathrooms, just one massive hall with a raised platform in the center. And the place was packed. People everywhere. Some of them were even dressed in white robes with hoods, looking like they’d raided a goddamn Ku Klux Klan meeting. One of those hooded freaks had their face uncovered, and — well, I’ll be damned — turned out to be Dazai. "Oh, Madame Joanne granted you the honor of joining the Circle? Right after meeting you?" Charlotte sounded genuinely surprised. "I suspect it’s less about my exceptional talents and more about the fact that she recently lost several of her closest followers." Dazai twisted his lips into something the Brontë sisters probably mistook for a sorrowful, sympathetic smile. "That’s true. Poor Miss George," Charlotte sighed. "But even so, Madame Joanne must have high hopes for you, Mr. Ikita. My sisters and I also became part of the Circle quite quickly — though today, sadly, we’re excluded, since we’re on guard duty for this scoundrel. Most people have to wait much longer…" "Oh, look! They finally accepted Jane," Emily piped up, pointing to a girl in white robes with comically oversized ears. "And who might this charming young lady be?" "Jane Austen. Her ability lets her manipulate emotions, but she’s not very good at it. That’s why she wants to get rid of it. Her gift is called Sense and Sensibility," Charlotte explained. "Really? I thought it was called Love and Freindship," Anne said, intrigued. "I distinctly heard her call it Pride and Prejudice," Emily declared. "Shame and fucking Toad," I muttered under my breath. Dazai’s lips barely twitched, but yeah — I saw that. "Bernard’s in white too," Anne noted. "I thought they’d finally bless him at today’s ceremony…" "Speaking of what we discussed yesterday, Mr. Ikita," Emily whispered, "isn’t it odd that Madame Joanne still hasn’t blessed Bernard? His ability is utterly useless…" Bernard, apparently, was the guy standing nearby, holding hands with a very curvy woman. "His ability’s called Pygmalion. He created himself an imaginary girlfriend," Emily explained. "They say they argue and fight all the time, and poor Bernard believes life would be easier without her — but he can’t bring himself to let go. That’s why he’s asked Madame Joanne to free him from his ‘curse.’" She was clearly exaggerating. Those two looked about three seconds away from jumping each other right there in the middle of the hall. Then again, fighting and fucking aren’t exactly mutually exclusive. As they say, you can’t ruin porridge with too much butter. "Tss," Charlotte hissed suddenly. "She’s coming." A tall, middle-aged blonde was approaching. Trailing after her, much like a young Dazai had once followed Mori, was some nondescript twelve-year-old boy — probably her son. Both of them were dressed in those Klan getups too. So this is the queen of the lunatics? "I am most delighted to see you, my dear girls," she said to the Brontë sisters. Her tone, in stark contrast to her words, was about as warm as a frozen corpse. "I understand you will not relent in your request, so be it. Today, I shall grant Anne my blessing." Then her icy gaze turned to me. "And you, Mr. Nakahara… I am especially pleased to meet you." "Can’t say the feeling’s mutual," I muttered. She kept staring. Her eyes were dead. Like a fish’s. "So this is the man who nearly ruined everything…" "What, don’t like what you see? Handsome, well-dressed… bit smelly, maybe…" The key here was to keep my mouth running but say nothing useful. If Wilde was skulking around somewhere, one slip could blow our entire plan — lying was off the table. "Tell me one thing: why did you do it? What grievance do you have against my Church?" Wrong person to question, lady. But hey, since you asked… "You lot are full of shit, and frankly, the world would be better off without you." "You will not change his mind, Madame," Charlotte interjected smoothly. "We had the opportunity to speak with him on the way here. His beliefs are deeply ingrained. There is no guiding him back to the path of truth." "A pity," Joanne murmured, with what sounded like genuine regret. "The ideal purification is when the initiate desires it themselves…" I reached for the edge of my glove, shot a quick glance at Dazai — everyone was here. Was it time? He gave a barely perceptible shake of his head. Why the hesitation? Did he want to avoid using Corruption, waiting for a chance to handle things differently? Or was he holding out for the Brontë sisters and any other halfway innocent bystanders? Didn’t seem like his usual style… No. He wanted to see how Cursed Child works. Honestly? I was kinda curious myself. Yeah, it was a little inhumane, but if someone actually wanted to be rid of their powers, that was their business. Let ‘em chop their own damn hands off if that’s what they wanted. Just as long as I wasn’t first on today’s chopping block. Unfortunately, the Queen of the Lunatics had a different idea. "We shall begin with you, Mr. Nakahara," she declared. Uh. Yeah, how about no? Unexpectedly, Charlotte came to my rescue, frowning sternly. "Madame Joanne, I must remind you of your promise. I insist that Anne go first. Please, do not give me reason to doubt the purity of your intentions…" Damn, girl’s got a spine. I could’ve sworn Joanne was about to tear her apart with her bare hands, but when she spoke, her voice was as sweet as the world’s most condescending mother. "But of course, my dear. If I gave you cause to doubt, I sincerely apologize. You have long since earned your reward. We shall begin with Anne." "Besides," Dazai added lightly, "the best is usually saved for dessert." Dazai, the poet. You call me your fucking dessert? More like, I’m your goddamn daily bread in this mess. Joanne nodded approvingly. "Indeed. Then we shall purify him last. I can think of no more fitting, ceremonial conclusion to today’s gathering. Let us begin." She pulled up her hood and moved toward the platform. The rest of the white-robed figures followed suit, covering their faces as they ascended. The Brontë sisters and I trailed after them. The hall dimmed until only a few weak lights remained. Silence fell. At the altar stood two teenagers, lost and terrified — apparently, also participants in the execution. And another hooded figure — Wilde. I recognized his shape, his weight. Charlotte, Emily, and I, along with the two condemned poor souls, stayed below while everyone in white hoods ascended the platform — and Anne with them. Damn, all this time she looked like a plain little mouse, but the moment she let her hair down, she turned into some kind of Pre-Raphaelite beauty. No joke — almost like a Waterhouse nymph. Copper curls, a perfect Greek nose. And her sisters, too, weren’t just faceless figures; if you looked closer, they had their own distinct vibes. Charlotte, for instance, reminded me of one of Rossetti’s grim, determined women. While I was busy thinking about art, the cultists laid Anne down on something like an altar and gathered around her in a circle. Dazai stood beside Joan. In those identical white robes, it was easy to lose track of who was who, especially in the dim light, but thanks to my ability, I could tell them apart. Joanne spoke: “We are gathered here to absolve the sins of those who wander in darkness. Answer, Anne Brontë — why have you come?” “Because the curse torments me, and my sins tear at my soul,” Anne replied hesitantly. “Shall we not extend our hand to our sister, purge the darkness gnawing at her, and grant her soul rebirth?” At these words, everyone in white placed their right hand on Anne’s body as she lay on the altar. Joanne continued: "O Cursed Child! We extract the blackened sins from your heart and replace them with the purity of the first snow.” I was only interested in one thing: I kept my eyes locked on Dazai… One of his hands rested on Anne like the others’, but the other… No, he wasn’t touching Joanne… And at that moment, I wanted him to. Come on, man, you can save her, just do it! I thought desperately. Then it hit me: he was the one who orchestrated this, made sure the girl ended up on that altar — because I asked him to. Because I showed him my damn one finger when he asked if we should get rid of the third sister or not. This was on me. Shit. A shiver ran through Anne’s body. A moment later, she sat up, looking around in confusion, like she had no idea what was happening. I recognized that lobotomized stare — I’d seen it just a week ago, standing on my doorstep. Twice. One of the white-robed figures helped her down and led her to us — she blinked in confusion but managed a shy smile when she saw her sisters. At least she remembered them... My heart clenched. The personal Dazai in my head coldly reminded me that everyone in this room might be dead soon, and here I was, getting all sentimental over a girl losing her memories and abilities. I kept watching, keeping that nasty but necessary thought front and center. Now it was the turn of the unknown teenagers. First up was a girl with a dirty nose, small and twitchy like a sparrow. Just like Anne, she lay on the altar, the white-robed figures placed their hands on her, and Joanne gave her little sermon… And then — bingo! — what I’d been waiting for: Dazai touched Joanne. Hell yes, at least this girl’s brain would stay intact. No “purity of the first snow” for you, assholes. The girl’s eyes snapped open, and she looked at the cultists. “Who... am I?” What the fuck? I could practically see the massive question mark appear on Dazai’s face under the hood. Probably had the same dumb look on mine. The second teenager, a boy, climbed onto the platform. The altar, the circle, the chant — it all repeated. Dazai touched Joanne again. Someone else might not have noticed, since he was slick about it — not a fool, after all — and it was dark as hell in here. But I was so focused I could practically feel every molecule in the room shifting. Maybe I imagined it the first time, but this time? No doubt — he definitely touched her. But the boy’s reaction was essentially the same, different only in his rudeness: “Who the fuck are you people? What the hell is going on?” Good question, kid. Then it hit me: I was next. What now? Rip off the gloves, activate Corruption, and wreck this place? But what if the Queen of the Lunatics could still get to me before I touched her? What if she didn’t even need physical contact and this whole altar thing was just for show? Dazai, for fuck’s sake, give me a damn hint since you dragged me into this mess! Thankfully, he caught on instantly. “It’s alright, my friend,” he said to the boy, then gently took his hand (if only he handled his apprentices this delicately!) and led him over to us and the Brontë sisters. “These ladies will take care of you and explain everything. You will, won’t you?” He leaned slightly toward Charlotte, murmuring something to her, and — his hand brushed hers… “1 or 2?” I gathered every ounce of strength I had — which, after days of electroshock therapy, starvation, sleep deprivation, and general stress, wasn’t a whole lot — and slammed against the weakened barrier. It shuddered, let out a sound like a barely audible moan, and shattered like a soap bubble, bursting into a shower of electric sparks. I kicked off the ground and shot into the air, punching through the ceiling on my way out — sorry, no time to make it look cool, I just needed to get the hell out of here. Good thing the roof was wooden. If it had been brick, someone would’ve gotten brained by falling debris.