Legacy

Fists over talk

Nathan

Getting up before the devil was needed; otherwise, this plan was not going to work. If Romain left the city, then it would not be before the trains started running. So all I would have to do would be to wait at the hotel and then talk with him when he went out. Either that or try and get the staff to let me talk with him. Hopefully, it would not be the same lady as last time. Tired, I slugged my way to the hotel. There had been so much work to do lately and not enough coffee to make up for it. I waited outside in the biting morning cold, feeling very much like an unwanted suitor. At least no people were around to witness my vigil. Numbly I fished out a smoke idlingly lighting it. It was a bad habit, but the stress of everything was getting to me.

"You never give up, do you?" a familiar voice asked.

There he was the man I had been freezing for Romain Bonnaire. I let out a puff of smoke before answering him: "No because quitters are never going to amount to anything."

He clutched his suitcase, giving me a humorless stare: "You think your rude stubbornness is going to pay off?" he made a motion to leave.

This was not going to cut it; I needed to do something. Romain's shyness was odd; there had to be something to it. Something I could use against him.

"Yes, I know you are hiding something; it is quite obvious with your strange behavior. You promised me you wanted to help tutor me more or less out of the blue. Still, as soon as I brought up the report on Brightstone you suddenly went shy" I huffed out trying to catch my breath as I continued: "Clearly you are involved with this whole mess somehow, and I am not just going to let you leave without giving me some answers."

He stopped moving and slowly turned around, looking straight at me. He stood sharply to his surroundings, his pale skin glittering in the dim light. His eyes were an indecisive blue like the sky and its clouds. I had to keep going if I was going to persuade him to stay. A bluff, I needed an ace to turn this game around.

"Your name is not even Romain Bonnaire, is it?" I guessed.

The man tried to remain stoic, but his hands betrayed him. They were folded into fists and shaking lightly. His eyes were colder than the weather, and suddenly, the man's much taller stature become way too clear to me. I barely managed to move out of the way as those fists went straight for my face. The following brawl was chaotic in the way only a fight between two scholars of words and not fists can be. His frame was more significant than mine, but I had more weight to throw around due to not being a freaking skeleton. In the end, we were both bleeding, and all illusions of looking like a proper gentleman were shattered. We were both on the ground, having to get more air in our lungs.

The bastard was the one to say something: "It seems like we might need a more proper way to settle our disagreements," he daftly commented.

"I have a place to talk if you are giving your fists a rest," I replied.

And that was how I finally figured out what the hell was going on.

It felt so taboo to bring Romain or whatever his real name is to my apartment. Not even my parents had visited my home. It was my secret, my only outlet for peace. I was embarrassed, showing off the messy interior the dirty plates stacked in the sink, and my piles of books needed for research and homework. This whole plan was not as appalling anymore. Still, I had already sacrificed too much of my pride to stop now so close to actual results. Instead, I did my best to sweep away the books on my couch to make room for my guest. A guest who, in turn, at least was polite enough not to make a single comment on my messy home. So we sat there on the couch and well somebody had to be the ice breaker: "So what is your real name?"

"Astor Morse" was the quiet reply then followed by a sharp comment: "Pretty impressive you have finally learned to ask for peoples' names."

The name did not show up in the report as far as I recalled. It seemed like his connection might be less direct. I needed to know more: "So how did you learn about the fungus?"

"I learned about it through my mentor Garrick Millard who worked on studying the fungus for years," he replied proudly.

Garrick had been in the report. It was he who was recorded to have reported on the fungus in the town. After the whole operation, he elected to retire. He left the ministry on neutral terms and then was mostly swept under the rug together with his findings. He did a series of red classification reports meaning they were not suited for the public.

"Your mentor retired, so why was he doing scientific work behind the ministry's back?" I questioned.

"The ministry is a bunch of close-minded thieves they had no interest in doing his research justice nor credited his work" Astor spat out blazing on in a full rant: "They wanted to hide everything from the public. No, news of what happened in Brightstone was ever to be uttered. The whole tragedy was going to go ignored, and so would the effects and dangers of the fungus," he took a quick breath before giving his finishing line: "Because an ignorant public is safer than to inform them of the reality of the possible dangers."

"What happened to the people of Brightstone?" I asked.

"They were all cremated every single one of them. It was too big of a risk to the ministry that the infection might spread," Astor replied bitterly.