BATTER 52

He exited through the same door they had used on the first day and stepped into the desolate, shabby interior of the factory. As they ventured deeper into the bleak, gray space, they encountered a few faces Baron recognized from the greenhouse. The faces that brightened at the sight of Bijou were beaded with sweat. Even indoors, it wasn’t exactly the kind of weather that should make a man perspire. Baron watched their retreating backs after a brief exchange of pleasantries and followed after Bijou.

“Watch your head as you come in, and please change your shoes.”

Bijou guided him while opening the entrance. The factory, which had once ceased operations due to a natural disaster, was now strictly manual. Baron changed into the indoor slippers left near the door, hunched his shoulders to lower his height, and stepped inside. A warmth like early summer air filled the interior. Most of the large, low-ceilinged room was occupied by dense, lattice-patterned wire mesh. When he leaned in for a closer look, he saw tiny creatures swarming together.

“Insects. Crickets?”

They had glossy brown surfaces and sturdy hind legs sprouted with tiny spines. If his memory served him right, this was a cricket farm.

“That’s right. Our primary protein source is insects.”

In recent centuries, coming face-to-face with insects that weren’t pests was no easy feat. Baron leaned in closer, watching the crickets gnaw on dried mealworms and wilted vegetable stalks. Judging by how energetic they were and the lack of mold, they were being cared for with great devotion. Baron hooked a finger over the wire mesh and turned his head.

“You’re raising mealworms too, I see?”

“Yes, exactly. Crickets and mealworms breed quickly and have a low floor-area ratio, so they can be raised sufficiently using only the byproducts from the greenhouse. In particular, the mealworm droppings can be used as compost.”

“Certainly not a bad setup.”

“Isn’t it?”

Bijou smiled like a farmer looking out over a harvest-ready rice paddy and checked a chalkboard attached to the opposite side of the mesh. It was the type where you left marks by applying pressure, seemingly used for sharing schedules or recording work status. Reading down the notes on the board, he continued.

“Grace says she’s already put them in the dryer. We just need to turn them into powder and then head over to Aria.”

“Ah, the poisoner Hancock,” Baron muttered under his breath.

As they left the breeding room, Bijou turned to meet his eyes. A gentle smile lightly creased the corners of his eyes.

“Please forget that name. He doesn’t put poison in anyone’s meals anymore.”

His tone was soft, as if coaxing a child. Bijou left behind a beaming smile and walked down the hallway. Baron followed behind with slow but wide strides.

“Is it really over just because he doesn’t do it anymore?”

“Every human has a desire to be good. I cannot refuse to acknowledge that heart.”

“Right. Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.”

Even as Baron theatrically quoted the gospel, Bijou didn’t even turn his head, simply continuing his walk.

“Though, I’m not sure if it’s okay for someone like you to be the one comforting them.”

“Then who will do it?”

“Nobody can. Not things like that.”

Bijou stopped walking. They had arrived at the manufacturing room. His pale, sharp profile, resembling a crescent moon, looked at Baron for a moment. Baron shrugged and placed his hand over Bijou’s, which was gripping the doorknob. Together, they pushed the door open with force.

Perhaps it had once been a food processing plant, as large, old food dryers and grinders occupied both sides of the space. Having swapped back into his indoor slippers as he did before, Bijou checked the state of the dryer that had finished its cycle. It was full of crickets that had shriveled into a crispy state. With practiced ease, Bijou moved the dried insects into the grinder. Being quick on the uptake, Baron helped him with the task.

Soon the grinder roared to life, and the insects—dry as fallen leaves—were pulverized into powder. The fine brown dust spat out by the machine didn’t look much different from dried shrimp or grain powder.

Afterward, they divided the powder into zipper bags. It wasn’t a complex process, but it was labor-intensive. Baron, who had no tolerance for tedious repetitive labor, felt his eyes growing dim. Fortunately, the work was finished just before he actually started whining.

The simply packaged protein powder was sent through a narrow tunnel to the food storage underground. It was wide enough for small objects to pass through, but not a human. When they finished the work and stepped outside the factory, the sky was already brightening into a pale blue.

In this abandoned land, there weren’t even the usual skyscrapers, allowing for a clear view of the sun as it prepared to rise. It rose slowly over the blue-gray sky where the shadow of the moon still lingered, whitening the silhouettes of clouds that stretched out like the crumpled wings of a bird.

Baron watched the scenery for a moment, then chuckled to himself, thinking he was acting out of character. He was just about to turn his head with a light sneer when something began approaching them. As he held his breath, the sound of wheels frictioning against the desolate ground reached his ears. Both the sound and the shadow drew closer. However, there was no need to take a defensive stance.

“Mori?”

Bijou identified the shadow first. Faithful Mori, who had brought them here, had returned. However, unlike yesterday when he had dropped them off at the entrance of the factory complex, he drove right up to Bijou before coming to a stop.

―Current time 8:05:10 AM. Encountered S2-2. It is a pleasure to meet you. Approximately 90 percent of the special tasks assigned for today have been completed.

Half-ignoring Mori’s mechanical greeting, Baron walked over to the filled cargo bed. Faces he recognized were sobbing quietly. They were all children from Edge Street. His brown eyes quickly scanned the interior. It was simple enough to grasp what that ambiguous “90 percent” figure meant.

“Teacher.”

The children’s shoulders flinched at the short word Baron spat out. He spoke again.

“Where did your teacher go?”

The children, huddled as small as possible, did not open their mouths easily. At least it didn’t seem to be due to motion sickness. It was the same even when Bijou, startled by their faces smeared with tears and snot, tried to soothe them gently. Baron let out a deep sigh and leaned diagonally against the outer wall of the cargo bed.

Closing his eyes and opening them again, he found a pair of eyes—so black they looked like they were burning—turned to stare at him. The small, thin, brown face was distorted, but there were no tear tracks. Trixie. Beatrix. A brat with a cool, noble name. Baron leaned his head over the low wall of the truck to greet her.

“Hey, Princess.”

“…”

Her pointed chin trembled violently, but that was all. Trixie whipped her head away, stepped on the edge of the truck wall, and jumped down to the ground. Her form for stepping off the support was good, but she lacked the muscle to support her weight upon landing. Baron caught Trixie’s wrist as she stumbled and pulled her upright. Her black eyes instinctively met Baron’s. He slowly let go of the wrist he was holding and asked again.

“Your teacher… he got taken, didn’t he?”

Trixie maintained her silence while looking him in the eye. But this time, a short answer came back.

“…Yeah.”

“Did the guys who took your teacher leave a message?”

“Yeah.”

There was a mix of trembling and hesitation in her affirmative voice. The laws of the world became more primitive the lower down you went, requiring little imagination. However, Baron waited for the brat to continue with the next answer herself. After a test of patience, Trixie’s gaze shifted bit by bit. That gaze came to a halt when it reached Bijou. Baron read the movement of her eyes and looked down at Trixie quietly.

“Did they say they wanted to make a deal?”

The brat nodded.

“I see.”