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CHAPTER 32: AREA 51

“I can’t believe those bastards ganged up on me! After everything I did for this band!” Hellen’s angry growl reaches my ears over the communication channel linking our two helmets.

She steers the motorbike abruptly. My left knee nearly scraps the road. I can’t repress a squeal of fright. Be more careful, dammit! People don’t respawn in real life! My grip tightens around her leather-clad midriff.

Mmm… nice.

I hear her cackle mockingly.

That woman!

Another sharp turn almost throws me off. “Where did you even get a driving license?!” I yelp, half in complaint, half in genuine interest. Computers have long since proven much less accident-prone than humans, and personal driving licenses are rare nowadays. In fact, most people don’t even want to drive, content with telling their cars where to go. The weirdos and old-school aficionados who wish to steer their vehicles the old way are few in numbers, and even fewer aren’t put off by the frustratingly prohibitive administrative process they have to go through to obtain a license.

“It’s from my rally days,” Hellen answers after a long pause—a pause which included more reckless manoeuvres on her part and squeals on mine.

“And it applies outside of races?!”

“…technically.”

My eyebrow twitches. “On which technicality are we betting my life exactly here?”

She doesn’t answer.

…help.

I’m left to sweat while clinging to her and fearing for my dear life. At least, I don’t doubt she learnt to drive rallying. She handles her bike like some hellhound on crack. What I highly doubt, however, is that any paparazzi who’d have tried following us from the studio succeeded. I was a bit concerned at first. I really don’t need people looking into me. I’ve had enough death threats sent to Elric to know the preciousness of anonymity.

Thankfully, unlike us, these vultures are bound to the pre-programmed routes approved by the Department for Transport—a tiny ray of sunshine in my scary situation.

After all, I am regardless riding on a bike driven by someone with a dubious license to do so, and someone who, not three hours ago, had me abducted. Not to mention that any attention I would receive would be indirect and solely because of her fame. Nobody cares about Nicolas Siegel, average citizen and student with a paltry attendance record. But people might care about Nicolas Siegel, man riding on a bike with rising rock star Hell!

It’s all your fault, madwoman!

So pardon me if I’m not more grateful for small blessings.

Eventually, I just decide to close my eyes—literally and figuratively. I blind myself and choose to deny reality in favour of oblivious bliss.

“Here comes a few sharp turns. Hold on tight!”

…

……

………Mummy!

* * *

We stop in front of a mid-sized house in the suburbs, not too far out from the city. The walls are gunmetal grey. The windows are large and tinted teal. They take up most of the façade on the second floor. The roof, slanted only to one side, is a nice avocado green. A conscientious little robot-mower is stubbornly buzzing its way across the small, tidy front lawn. I barely notice any of it before I jump off the bike, rip the helmet off and fall to my hands and knees, kissing the pavement. “Ground!! Oh, beautiful, stable ground! I shall never leave you again!”

“Stop that, you’re ridiculous.” Hellen comes standing beside me, helmet underarm, looking down at me with vaguely disgusted disdain. She picks up my discarded helmet. “Get up before the neighbours see you. I don’t want rumours to start.”

“Rumours about your terrible driving skills?” I glance up and flip long hair I don’t possess. “Not to mention their dubious legality.” She just glares at me darkly. I sigh and get up. “You know, you’re far less fun than your songs. Just sayin’.” I don’t wait for her reply. I turn and gesture towards the door. “After you.” I peek up at the windows, wondering which one is Eva’s bedroom.

“Her room is in the back.” As if reading my thoughts, Hellen grunts as she strides past me without as much as a glance. She angrily slams a card against the sensor lock and types a quick code on the keypad above it.

I step up behind her.

“Are you always this grumpy, or are you just shy around me?”

She fires back without missing a beat or looking at me. “Did you eat something gone off, or are you naturally this obnoxious?”

I laugh. “As a matter of fact, I only ate a piece of birthday cake today—birthday I was abducted from.” My voice contains only the barest hint of sarcasm. The barest.

She doesn’t reply—only pushes the door open and disappears into the house.

Booyah!! Nick: one. Grumpy siscon: zeeero~!

I follow her inside. “Ojama shimasu.”

“What?”

“It’s Japanese.” I shrug off the look she sends me. Based on that look, she is openly questioning my sanity already.

Which is stupid. Questioning your sanity? It’s not like it’ll answer.

I know, right?

As I cross the threshold, glancing at the tiled floor, yapping is heard. Dogs? Nobody told me anything about dogs. I look up just in time to witness three blurs rush past the grouchy rock star and jump at me. A weight impacts my chest with a *woof* and I fall on my butt. I only manage to get a glimpse of a maw full of sharp teeth before my face is… covered in slobber.

“Wah—Eh? Wha—Oh gods—no—arrgh!”

Even my broad, diverse and humiliating virtual experience did not adequately prepare me to be kissed by a happy Rottweiler.

A happy Rottweiler backed up in its endeavour by a Pitbull and a fluffy Standard Poodle.

“Pwah!! Stupid… mutt! Get— off… me!!”

A short whistle puts an end to my torment. The three canine drool-bags obediently leap back and form an orderly line along the wall in front of Hellen, arranged by order of size—Rottweiler, Pitbull and then poodle. She pats each of their heads in that order. “Good girls. Guardian, Butcher, Emasculator, good girls.”

A shiver runs down my spine.

As if sensing it, Hellen raises a sidelong eyebrow at me and smirks. However, I’m too busy being stunned into horror by my dripping, sticky state to take offence in her gloating. Ugh… This is disgusting.

Now, I am become Drool.

Fuck. When I said, I wanted us to be left a sloppy mess by several bitches… this was not what I had in mind.

Emasculator... what a dreadful name for a poodle.

Another shiver runs down my spine.

Who said reality made more sense than games?

Or was any less scary.

My gaze moves back to the three dogs. I must say, their wagging tails don’t match my interpretation of the fearsome killing machines Rottweiler’s and Pitbull’s are supposed to be.

The poodle, though… I don’t trust her.

Her fluffy, frizzy face has the eyes of a killer.

A killer, I tell you!

“They’re… well trained,” I comment, deadpan.

“Aren’t they?” Hellen smiles. She looks genuinely happy for the first time since I met her. It suits her much better than the scowl she’s been wearing this whole while. She pats the dogs again lovingly. “They’re more Eva’s dogs than mine. She’s good with animals. They just tolerate me because I feed them.”

I inwardly acquiesce as I recall how my own cat was reduced to Eva’s obedient minion within an hour of the girl setting foot inside my apartment.

“She trained them as watchdogs. They already sent two burglars to the hospital. If you hadn’t come in with me…” The smile Hellen casts me is a little too sinister and eager for my tastes. I choose to ignore it.

“Is there anywhere I can wash my face?”

“…Down the hall, last door under the stairs.” She sounds disappointed at my lack of a reaction.

Hah! Take that. Siscon: 1. Nick: 2!

“Domo arigatou.”

“What?”

“It’s Japanese.”

She gives me a long, annoyed look. “…Whatever. I’m going upstairs to see if Eva is awake.”

At six in the evening?

She leaves before I can reply.

She’s probably just eager to leave your presence.

“……” I share a wounded glance with the dogs. The Rottweiler demonstrates her concern for my plea by leaving. The Pitbull drops where she sat, and she starts snoring in less than two seconds. As for the poodle, she is panting while staring at my crotch… which makes me uncomfortable for various reasons!

Again, wrong type of bitch.

I hurry to the bathroom… and trip, faceplanting on the floor.

“Ouch!”

Thomas’ stupid heeled boots!

The poodle comes along and starts humping my leg.

Today hates me.

* * *

Sometime later, I follow Hellen up the stairs, without tripping this time and carefully avoiding the poodle. I find the woman in front of a door marked “EVA’S ROOM” in bright toy letters.

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…cute.

In contrast, Hellen is resting her head against the door, looking miserable.

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

Great… drama bomb. I’m not suited for this. Darn it.

This is the most vulnerable I’ve seen the woman yet. It’s as if the sullen persona and hair-trigger aggressiveness she’s been displaying so far were but a paper-thin shell hiding someone at the end of her rope—a cracked shell. Just by looking at her, it’s obvious she’s about to break. It reminds me of the face Mum used to make when she thought I wasn’t looking.

Hellen hasn’t noticed me yet. She softly head-butts the door. “Eva. Please, just talk to me.” Steady and firm, her voice doesn’t match her expression or posture at all. I guess being a professional entertainer comes in useful at times like these. She’s got an impressive control over her intonation.

There is a beat of silence before a muffled answer comes through the door.

“I’m fine.”

My eyebrows twitch.

Bullshit.

Hellen opens her mouth to say something else but closes it as fast, and her head drops.

Tsk. For some reasons, I find Eva’s answer to be incredibly annoying—and not only because it is such a blatant lie. I mean, when has anybody ever said “I’m fine” and truly been fine? I’m not sure what upsets me more. Eva being troubled? The almost physical toll I see her words take on her sister? Or that the sister in question is folding so easily?

If you care enough to kidnap unrelated people, don’t give up at a simple “I’m fine”!

Take an axe to the door, or something.

I’d say it's this whole situation that gets on my nerves.

These sisters are both irritating.

I clear my throat and walk the last few steps to the door. Hellen looks up and, when she sees me, I’m impressed with the speed at which she retakes control of her facial expression. Even her body language shifts to make her look pissed and distrustful—which is probably not an act. Realistically speaking, she doesn’t know me. She has no reason to trust me, or like me.

It’s also easier to get angry at us than at her beloved sister for acting like such a self-centred twat.

Hey.

What? It’s true.

Still. Don’t call her that.

I call what’s ours whatever I damn please.

I stop before the door. I don’t say a word to Hellen, I just take a deep breath, ball a fist and give the door a sharp side-punch. In the corner of my sight, I see Hellen jump with a start. I ignore her. “Eva! Ho! Eva, I know you’re in there! Release Mr Fluffy Hollow right this instant! Don’t even think of demanding a ransom! I don’t negotiate with kidnappers and hostage takers!”

The silence this time long and, I believe, stunned. I hope stunned. This is sort of the effect I am going for here.

A muffled “...Nicolas?” eventually comes through the closed door.

There, dialogue initiated. Was it so hard?

“It’s Nick. Why? Did you steal other people’s pyjamas as well? Do you make a hobby of collecting others’ nightwear? How shocking.” I feign stupefaction. “Well, well, well… For a recluse bookworm, you’re quite the serial delinquent, ain’t ya? Although, I guess you are quite violent. Come to think of it…” A little pause for dramatic effect. “You also ran out of that record store without paying, didn’t you? How shameless.” I sigh loudly and dejectedly.

Hellen looks like she wants to interject—a euphemism to say she wants to bash my head against the wall—but she holds herself back with visible effort.

Now, that’s more like it. Sullen women are boring. Women should be at least this lively.

It’s that kind of thinking that always lands you with violent women.

Nah-Nah-Nah. I’m not listening.

“What are you doing here?” comes Eva’s reply.

Ignoring myself, I return my attention to the door and scoff. “What? What I’m doing here? I’m here to take back my abducted pyjamas, obviously.” Disdainful sarcasm. “Don’t think that I’ll forget just because you decide to stop showing up at school for a week!”

“Go away!” Something hits the door. I hope it was nothing expensive, because by the sound of it… it broke.

Well, that’s not my problem.

“Not without my pyjama suit!”

“…It’s in the laundry room downstairs.”

“Great.” I pretend to turn around, then stop as if struck by a sudden thought. “Oh, by~ the way~…” Not sure who I’m putting up the act for. Eva can’t see through doors.

.

.

.

Or can she?

Dun-dun-duuuuuuun…ce.

Classy.

Your joke was too dumb to waste more elaborate puns on it.

Well, anyway, let’s just say it’s to be more convincing in my role.

“Since I’m already here,” I say, “I thought I might as well fix something for dinner. It’s late. And I bet you still haven’t bought anything other than tasteless microwaveable abominations, am I right? Well, as an occasional foodie and tentative cook, and above all, as a single male living alone, my religion forbids me to allow this travesty to continue any further!”

You’re getting carried away.

Sorry.

“Dinner will be ready in one hour. Be there. I hate wasting food.”

“……”

“One hour, got it?”

“……”

“Oh, Eva?”

“……”

Tsk.

This is pissing me off.

I rap a fist against the door. Hard. “Oh! I’m talking to you! Stop being such a self-centred drama queen! What do you think you’re proving, shutting yourself in like that? What are you afraid of? Afraid the world outside will band together to choke you? Well, newsflash! You’re not that important that the world would care about you. So, whatever it is, acting like a coward won’t help. You’re only being a burden on everyone who actually cares about you, so why don’t you get off your—urgh!” I’m suddenly grabbed by the shoulder, spun around and slammed against the wall.

Owowow. That hurt.

Why are walls always so… hard?

I meet two furious dark eyes, staring at me like they want to rip holes through my skull. Panting in rage, Hellen slams me a second time against the wall.

“Ow. Calm down, woma—”

“Shut up! Shut your fucking mouth up! What are you trying to fucking do?! Insults? Nonsense and fucking insults?! That’s your freaking solution?! You want her to kill herself, that’s it?” Another slam makes me grunt in pain. Her nails digging into my shoulder don’t help. “I knew it. I shouldn’t have brought you here,” she spits and turns around. She makes for pulling me away from Eva’s door, but she suddenly stops and looks back in disbelief when I don’t budge an inch.

Our eyes meet again, and whatever she sees in mine makes her grip falter. What exactly? I wouldn’t know. I can’t see my own eyes. Dan did mention I become unnerving when I get angry, though. Not sure what that’s supposed to mean. I’m just as usual. Just a bit less cheery.

What’s sure, though, is that I’m definitely mad right now. Holding her gaze without flinching, I wrap my hand around the wrist of Hellen’s hand gripping my shoulder. I exert force deliberately and, slowly, I make her release me. “Look…” I start flatly, with a frown, and tilting my head slightly, like I’m talking to an unreasonable child.

She tries to pull back, and her eyes widen further when she can’t shake off my grip. I see in her eyes the precise moment she realises I’m taller than she is and quite a bit broader. She is tall and athletic, for a woman, but her body is built for endurance rather than pure strength, probably to endure performing on stage for extended periods of time.

I, on the other hand, may not look like much—being slightly chubby and no Muscle God Cover Model Daniel Jakande—but I’ve been on the receiving end of Yasmin’s “friendly spars” for as long as I can recall. I even used to properly train at the Jakande’s dojo until about a year ago. All those months spent fighting death battles in VR against foes several times my size and strength also weren’t for nought.

There is a science to using your muscles to apply the most strength with minimal effort, a science to preventing your opponents from using theirs, a science to making them feel utterly powerless. I learnt this the hard way, through broken bones and bloody noses.

Yasmin never knew how to hold back.

“Look,” I repeat, “What do you want me to do? Use some kiddy gloves? Spare her feelings?” I lean closer and pull her arm, bringing our faces to almost touch. My stare at her, unblinking, and I don’t try to mask the simmering annoyance in my voice. “She’s not a child. If she wants to kill herself, that’s her damn problem. She’s not glass. Stop treating her like she is.”

I release her, or rather, I push her away. She retrieves her hand and steps back in a hurry, rubbing her wrist without breaking eye contact. Her glare is angry but also somewhat scared. I catch her glancing down the hallway briefly, then at Eva’s door. I repress a snort.

We’re not going to hurt you, dumb bitch.

So stop acting like a cornered dog.

We stare at each other defiantly for a moment. I’m the one to look away first. I sigh in disgust. Disgust at what? I’m not entirely sure. My words come out through gritted teeth. “There’s nothing worse than people walking on eggs around you just because they think you’re a ticking time-bomb.” I don’t wait for a reply. I’m too fucking upset. I’m even swearing. I never do that. That’s Ariel’s thing. I give a quick rap to Eva’s door. “One hour. Kitchen. Don’t be late.”

I mumble something about groceries and step towards the stairs. Hellen tries to stop me, but I slap her hand away without looking.

I’m out of the house, the door slamming behind me before even the bloody dogs can react.

Nick…

Not now, Ariel.

Okay.

* * *

It takes me a few minutes walking around the block to come down from the anguish I’d built up.

In that time, I somehow managed to find a kind old woman who pointed me towards the nearest supermarket—but not before I received from her a judging glance towards my footwear. Thomas… I swear that pair of lovers is evil. The supermarket was more of a small convenience store, but their food section was decent—meaning it had actual fresh foodstuff in it, not just synthesised or pre-made dishes—so I was able to scavenge enough for an impromptu dinner for three.

I return to the house feeling much calmer than when I left.

I’m opened to by an equally subdued Hellen. She looks like she’s aged a decade in the short half-hour I’ve been gone. Deep lines of worry and exhaustion she’d somehow hidden so far are digging into her face. She shows me to the kitchen with barely one word spoken, then she leaves. I don’t begrudge her and set to work.

I’m halfway through the preparations when she comes back, looking somewhat less like a walking corpse. She drops on a stool by the central island and leans tiredly on her elbow, cheek in her palm.

On reflex, I fetch a can in the fridge, open it and hand it to her. I’ve already gotten familiar enough with the kitchen layout to feel at home, and I guess Yasmin house-trained me quite thoroughly. She always takes a beer when she watches me cook. There’s no beer here, only some strange litchi-flavoured soda, but that’s beside the point.

The musician accepts the open can with only a raised eyebrow. She mumbles some thanks. I reply with a nod and return to rolling small balls with the sausage meat I bought at the store—for sales!! …Why am I so happy about this?

I feel like a middle-aged housewife.

I’m not convinced you’d pull off the naked apron look…

Seriously?

“What are you making?”

I briefly glance up, then back down as I pour a tablespoon of olive oil in a skillet and check the temperature of the stove. It’s far more modern than the antiquity I’ve got at home. I nearly dropped the pan the first time I switched it on, and it talked to me. Switching off the vocal command setting has been the first thing I’ve done.

I interact with computers enough in UT already, thank you very much.

“Nothing fancy. Some spaghetti with kale pesto. Good, but simple. I don’t want to kill you from culture shock.” I say this, but there are some very palatable instant-ready meals out there. This ain’t 2050 anymore. I’ve seen what these girls have in their fridge, though, and… no.

Just… no.

“Ha-hah. Funny,” Hellen drops. I think, if someone could bottle the sarcasm in her short laugh and weaponise it, that weapon would be considered a war crime. She sips the soda and looks at my hands. “And meatballs?”

“And meatballs,” I confirm as I throw said balls into the pan.

“I’m jealous.”

“Of the meatballs? I wouldn’t—”

“Of you.”

“…Oh.” I pause, and then I shrug. “Not a feeling I’ve had aimed at me often.”

I mean, of all things, people rarely envy me.

They did when we dated Yasmin.

Well, she is a beauty.

They just didn’t understand that the brightest light creates the darkest shadows.

They really didn’t.

Hellen stays silent for another couple minutes. I take this opportunity to throw the pasta in a large pot of boiling water. Boil little pasta. Boil!!

“She’s been refusing to talk to me for days, and you just waltz in, and she gets all chatty.”

Chatty, uh? I feel like pointing out that Eva first shouted at me to leave, then threw something at the door, and then exchanged barely a few sentences with me before falling silent. I would hardly call that “chatty.”

I get her point, though.

“Why? I’m her sister. I know her best. Ever since our parents’ death, it’s been only her, Aunt Alice and I… I don’t…” She continues rambling for a bit, her voice occasionally breaking or climbing into hysterics. I leave her be and focus on not overcooking anything. She doesn’t truly need me to listen, I think, much less to contribute. This is mostly about her releasing tension. I’m just a convenient receptacle. I don’t even look at her. She sounds like she’s about to cry, and she strikes as the type of woman who’d hate being seen crying. “And that’s not… I mean… I just care about her so much. Why does she talk to you? Why you and not me?”

Nick, your cue.

Oh? Thanks.

I taste the pasta. Al dente. This woman rambles like an egg timer.

I shut down the heat underneath the pot and glance over my shoulder. Hellen is staring fixedly at her hands, but I can tell she’s focused on me. I return my attention to the meal. The meatballs aren’t quite brown yet. “Who knows? Sometimes it’s easier to talk to strangers than family members, maybe? Maybe it’s because you know her so much, and her you, that it’s so difficult to share her vulnerabilities with you. You just don’t want people you love to look at you like damaged goods.” As I talk, I drain the pasta water, saving half a cup for later.

“Are you a shrink, or something?”

“My mum is.” Then I chuckle self-derisively. “I’m more on the other side of the couch.”

“Eva knows that?”

“I mentioned it, I think.” I add the pasta, the kale pesto I’ve made earlier, and the water I’ve saved to the skillet and lower the heat underneath.

“Maybe that’s why she can somewhat relate to you…”

“Maybe. Who knows?” Stirring the mix, I check on the meatballs. Almost done.

“Even though you’re a man.”

“I like to think I’m well in touch with my feminine side.”

Keep your hands to yourself, perv.

Hoy.

“……” I can feel Hellen’s stare boring into my back. I ignore her and focus on stirring.

After a couple of minutes, I add the meatballs and gently toss to warm up the whole. Wielding a fork, I pierce one of the meatballs, wrap it in a few strands of spaghetti and eat it. “Hmmm…” I close my eyes and savour the taste. Nice… Very nice. Delicious, if I may say so myself. With some parmesan, this would be perfect.

“Stop making that face. It’s disgusting.”

“……”

I open my eyes and shoot Hellen a long annoyed look. She returns a cocky eyebrow, her expression daring me to retort anything. Oh-oh? Is that a challenge? I open my mouth to burn her to the third degree… when a sound by the kitchen door interrupts our staring match.

We both turn our heads and discover a short girl standing in the doorframe. Her baggy clothes fall awkwardly on her body, and her bangs hide her eyes. Her raven hair is wet and what little of her skin I see has a slight clean sheen.

Did she take a shower?

I glance at Hellen. Her expression—somewhere between teary happiness and bewilderment—is honestly hilarious. Before I explode in laughter at a very inappropriate moment and get myself shoved against a wall—again—I move my gaze to the clock on the microwave.

One hour since I left the house, almost to the second.

I turn back to Eva and smile.

“Just on time.”

* * * * *