Code Geass: Arthur on the Misty Streets preview novel English translation (Genesic Re;CODE)
Code Geass: Arthur on the Misty Streets
霧京のアーサー
Written by Kouhei Azano
Translated by Longshotte
Case 1: A Scandal Most Demonic, Scene 2
222B, Baker Street.
That is Conan’s current residence. As the north-south main street, Baker Street runs through the heart of London’s West End, with 222 overlooking it.
Opening the front door and ascending the stairs, Conan’s bedroom is located on the third floor of the building. The sitting room, dining room as well as his flatmate’s bedroom are all on the second floor.
Opening the door from the hallway, Conan entered into the sitting room.
“Ah, welcome back.”
“…Spare me the pleasantries.”
Lounging in the room was a girl, wearing an oversized shirt under suspenders that held up her trousers. She tosses her newsie cap into the centre of the table as her jacket hangs from the back of her seat. Her boyish fashion sense is supported by her hair as well, which is cut into a shoulder-length bob. At 18 years old, she’s only three years the junior of Conan, yet the appearances of the two betray that close gap. Behind the lenses of her glasses, her spirited eyes were fixed on him.
“Listen, Miss Hudson, no unmarried woman, no matter whether she is the landlady’s granddaughter or not, should be barging into a bachelor’s flat as often as you do.”
“Oh please, use my first name for once! Say it with me; M-a-r-y! If you keep just calling me Hudson, someone’s eventually going to end up getting confused.”
“…Again, you must stop acting so chummy like this.”
“You’re really still hung up on that? Why do you even care so much?”
“I am your elder. That is reason enough to care,” Conan replied with a sour look as he turned to hang his coat on the rack.
The spacious, aged sitting room was beautiful, and from a glance was obviously too much for a single working student in all aspects. Beneath the round table surrounded by a set of four chairs lay a faded carpet. In the middle of the room is a fireplace, along with two armchairs in front of it. Elsewhere is a couch large enough to nap on and two desks, one for writing and another for working. In addition to the furniture, bookshelves and cupboards of various sizes fill the empty space along the walls. Everything, seemingly, meticulously cleaned, arranged and orderly, just as Conan wanted.
However, if one were to look closely, they would quickly notice small bits chaotically tampered with across the room. Certain documents and files about to spill from their shelves. Distorted bits of scrap metal whose use was anyone’s guess, lined up together in a row, alongside junk that had clear uses, yet none of the ones that come to mind would explain why it would be laid out here. In especially poor condition is the work desk, which is stained with oil and scorch marks. Crumpled blueprints, copper wires, more metal bits, as well as various bolts, nuts and screws were strewn about. Accompanying them, different tools like wrenches, screwdrivers, hammers, as well as rulers, compasses, and even beakers filled with chemicals were set down haphazardly on the desk. In front of the desk was a scribbled note, pinned to the wall by way of a knife.
And, finally, there was the fact that the previously mentioned fireplace had been entirely ‘remodelled.’ As it burned, a low hum came from it. The mantelpiece was lined by polished gauges, with cords and pipes running through it like veins and vessels. These connected not only to the hearth, but to all manner of machines throughout the sitting room.
This all is the chaos that Conan’s flatmate leaves in his wake, as naturally as he breathes.
“…So, what of Arthur?” Conan then asked Mary.
In that moment between question and answer, from another door—the one that led to his flatmate’s room—
—Krakk!
It was a sound akin to something bursting.
Someone unversed with occurrences like this would have believed a pistol had been fired into the wall. While Conan hadn’t an idea of what exactly the cause of the noise was, what he did know was that it wasn’t uncommon for such a thing to come from the other room. He simply took this to be evidence of him being at work in his room.
“…The same as usual, then, I take it?” Conan took a seat within the chair closest to him with a sigh, tossing the newspaper in his hand onto the table.
Mary, noticing the paper, let out an “Ah!”, her lenses flashing against the light as she sat up.
Conan, realising his mistake, gave a pained frown.
“That article—! Hah, I knew you were looking into this, Conan!”
“Again with that familiarity—that besides, I simply had it because a fellow at university handed it to me.”
“But still, that means you at least—”
“—Not I, my colleague—”
“—Oh, come on, I know none of your other friends care about this ‘Jack the Knightmare’ and their antics,” Mary says, leaning over the table, smugly puffing up.
“Yes, well, I wouldn’t have to take an interest in this if our so-called renowned detective could bother solving it! That damnable Arthur Holmes!” Conan meets his gaze with Mary’s, whose eyes now have a burning vigour in them. Breaking from the stare of the landlady’s granddaughter, he glances back at the newspaper on the table.
‘Jack the Knightmare.’ The name given to the killer that currently stalks the streets of London. The found victims have been a variety of ages and genders, have no relation or contact with each other, and have no consistent times of death. Sometimes there is only one murder, and others there will be three bodies found in one night. No connection can be found between the locations they happen in, other than being within London and its suburbs. Therefore, they are classified as indiscriminate murders, with no known commonality in targets.
Yet, despite the victims having no links, the crimes themselves had several common aspects. Firstly, most of the murders are perpetrated during the night. Secondly, a knife is always instrumental in the killings. Finally, a mask is always found at the scene of the crime. It is for this reason that the killer is believed either to be the same person or a group working in tandem. As such, they have been given the common title of ‘Jack the Knightmare’ for their nightmarish acts. A truly bizarre criminal who has gripped gossip-loving Londoners with both fear and curiosity. And, of course, the tabloids were quick to pick up on this story.
“You know, we’ve been getting a lot of letters writing about it recently at the Strand. The editor-in-chief has been nagging me for days to get Arthur’s comment on what he’s gonna do about it. What in the world has he been up to!?” young Mary Hudson, reporter for Strand News, questioned. As the daughter of their landlady, she regularly takes advantage of her unique position to gather stories for her ‘Detective Column,’ which has since become incredibly popular.
“I can just tell you his comments myself, then. He’d either say ‘I’m not interested’ or ‘It’s a job for the bobbies.’”
“I can’t use that! I need something inspiring! Something befitting of a heroic detective!”
“Then I’m afraid you’re looking for something we can’t offer.”
“Still, I need to try! It’s what a reporter is supposed to look for!”
“A journalist is supposed to print the truth, not empty platitudes.”
Mary simply adjusted her glasses with a snicker at Conan’s frankness, not letting him get to her sentimentalist attitude. Correcting her was a fool’s errand.
The victim of the latest case was a young woman. The newspapers were all eager to report on her death, no doubt in part due to her good looks, as well as that her body was found near Primrose Hill. While nearby an upscale residential area, the fact that it has been the stage for murders and duels previously in the past has stirred the papers to gather any information about the incident that they can.
And—
—Krakk!
The sound echoed from the next room once more, and was now cascading.
Brrr-ba-bum-ba-bzzzz.
Conan and Mary looked to each other, neither saying a word, and both with a face that told them that neither wanted to be the one to check on him.
And then, breaking that moment of anticipation,
—Krakooom!
A loud explosion broke through the air of the room, shaking the entirety of 222B, Baker Street. Conan and Mary both reflexively clung to the chairs they were in.
“Okay, isn’t this a bit much, Conan!?”
“Argh, that damn dimwit is too smart for his own good!” With the explosion still ringing, Conan rises from his chair and toward the door leading to the adjoining room.
But, no sooner had Conan reached for the knob than the door swung open from the other side, as if it was lying in wait.
And thus entered the dubious man himself. Wearing round, black lensed goggles, an apron outfitted with bulging and overflowing pockets, and leather gloves protecting both his hands. In his right hand he carries a curious metallic rod, and in his left a strange metal box, connected to the rod via a cord. Though they couldn’t see his eyes through the tinted lenses, his wide, satisfactory grin was plainly visible across his face.
“I’ve done it! My latest project!” he declared emphatically, stepping further into the sitting room.
As he slammed the rod and box down on the table, Mary quickly snatched up her cap.
Peeling away his goggles, he says, “This is a masterwork, if I dare to say myself. Go ahead, look for yourselves!” The young man—Conan’s flatmate, Arthur Holmes—had the same proud look a child would have showing off the favourite insect he had found.
“…How magnanimous of you to say after shoving it into our faces…” Conan says, faintly disgusted. “So what manner of device is it this time? From the explosion a moment ago, it seems even more dangerous than your usual fare.”
“‘Dangerous’? Perish the thought! As long you are acquainted with the controls, it is as safe as can be! Amusing to think how important safety and control is to a weapon, isn’t it?”
“‘Weapon’!?” Unease washes over the pair who were waiting. Out of the corner of his eye, Conan barely notices Mary silently backing away from the table.
“Quite so. What I’ve invented here is an electrified sword, in a sense. The box here is the power source, and the body of the blade acts as the electrode. The voltage it generates is enough to send a painful shock through anyone who so dares to touch the blade!”
“Fine, we understand how it's used now, but what I am asking is why you made it in the first place!”
“I’ve decided to dub it the ‘Electric Sword’, or ‘E-Sword’ for short. However, this is still in the prototype phase, my next step is to miniaturise the power supply and integrate it into the rod itse—”
“Don’t simply dance past my question!”
When Conan raises his voice to cut him off, Arthur simply lets out an “Ah,” and raises his eyebrow, looking a bit bored. “I had no particular reasoning behind this invention, or any of them, really. An invention is an idea, and an idea is akin to a revelation gifted by our insatiable appetites for knowledge. To seek meaning behind a revelation is nonsense, Conan.”
“That is to say you essentially made everything up as you went.”
“And let me repeat myself, it is not at all dangerous! In fact, it’s even less deadly than a normal blade. It would be quite difficult to die from it.”
“‘Difficult to die from it’… How encouraging. —Hold on now, why are you pointing it at me? And what was that switching noise I just heard!?”
“It would be faster to demonstrate than to explain, wouldn’t it?”
“Demonstrate it on yourself, then! And now it’s sparking! The sparks are flying all over! In which world do you consider this as safe!?”
“Oh, calm yourself. As long as the voltage is low enough, you’ll be fine— Well, that’s odd…”
“‘Odd’!?
“Wait, Arthur! Let me get my camera ready—”
“Mary, this is no time for you to play reporter!”
Conan and Arthur were locked across from each other, the table between them. As they squared off, Mary took out her folding camera, one of the latest designs made in the Britannian mainland.
Then, a knock came at the door.
“Mr. Holmes, are you there? There’s a visitor here looking to speak with you about the ‘Jack the Knightmare’ case,” the voice through the door says.
Hearing this, the three look at each other.
~To Be Continued~
