Project Fugato (1)

Project Fugato

I finally started to 'attempt' writing my novel. D: It took me quite a while to plan, and I am still not quite clear on where this story is going to go. I mean, I know what it will be about, but there are still many holes to be filled. D: I don't know what else to say about this, other than the fact that it's a complicated novel with complicated plots. So please, tear this beginning chapter to bits and pieces before I regret writing this book. XD

Despite the fact that I call it a 'fantasy novel' because it's set in a fantastical world, the setting is actually more resemblance of our early 20th century than what you would expect as a fantasy.

This is the very first 'chapter', or so to say of the novel. The very first page is attached as a PDF because I can't really format that page onto the post itself. D: So please read that first. Asides from that, thanks for reading. Comments are appreciated.

~~~~

There are only reasons behind everything.

Prelude 1.01

August 25, 1867

9:26 PM

Syvyllieux, Corsiviera

The radio hummed fuzzily in the office. It was music, purely music with exotic syncopated rhythms that not many people were acquainted to. They called it the New Movement. Apparently, it was some new artistic movement promoting peace and unity of the world. Why did they play such music in the first place? Good question.

A young man was sitting on a wooden chair, near the door, waiting for someone. He did not like the music, but he kept quiet about it. Even if he did not keep quiet about it, who could he complain to? No one was in the room. It would be impudent to turn it off without his boss’s consent. He could not risk that. Thus, he suffered. He suffered through those singing instruments that screamed exotic harmonies and rhythms. In order to cope with those outrageous noises, he concentrated blankly at the blinds behind his boss’s comfortable looking chair.

He could see it was night, but the room was well lit with its fluorescent lights above his head and the table lamp on his boss’s desk. His boss must had been mad, calling him to stay so late after office hour. He could not struggle, however. The boss’s command was the king’s command. If he wanted his head to remain above his shoulders, then he must obey. He felt like a dog, not to mention he also worked like a dog. Perhaps it was his canine loyalty that his boss constantly abused him economically, if that made any sense.

The door beside him slammed open.

“Ahem,” the old boss coughed. He was undersized but had an oversized head. The young man thought he must be malnourished as a child.

The young man stared, with a slight shock. He kept quiet.

“Yes, yes. I summoned you, I almost forgot. My apologies.” The old man drew a cigar from his chest pocket with a box of matches. “Do you mind?”

“Not a problem, and oh, no.”

In fact, he did mind. He hated the spewing fumes from those pathetic tobacco sticks. But he could not rebel; after all, it was his boss.

“Um, well…” The boss was puffing on his cigar greedily as he was collecting his thoughts. The senior was walking back and forth behind his desk. The young man sat like a widow by the window. He was staring so vacuously that he would win any staring contest. The elderly man kept silent for a good long moment.

“What is it sir?” The youngster finally spurted.

“I was thinking… Do you like pudding?”

“Do I like pudding?” The young man looked perplexed. This old fart must really be mad.

“Do you?”

“Uh… I suppose…?”

“No no no, I want a statement for an answer!” He coughed and banged his fist on the table. The ash from his cigar snowed on the random documents gracefully. Though, grey snow was nothing graceful by nature… The old man wiped the ash away with a mere finger. His boss was definitely a strange man.

“Gwah! Yessir!”

“Very well, very well…” the old man muttered and nodded satisfactorily. He placed the tobacco stick of a thing onto the ashtray on the table.

“Sir… But why are you summoning me here tonight? It can’t be just about pudding, could it?”

“Quiet, quiet… It’s going to come soon—” The telephone interrupted the radio’s pathetic music. To the young man, it was a relief. The senior picked it up rapidly. “Hello? … Yes! … Terrific! And it’s for sure? … Ah! Fascinating. … Wonderful, Mr. Lütz. Let’s have tea some time soon, alright? Many thanks.

Goodbye.”

The young man stared at the staccato phrases his superior uttered into the phone. He was confused, evidently confused.

“Very well, that’s confirmed,” the old man said as he was placing the device back onto its proper spot. He beamed ominously under the fluorescent light. The young man backed away slightly. “Mr. Kreisler! I have a job for you.”

“And what may it be, sir?” Young Kreisler gulped. He knew it was something ominous. The fluorescent light flickered, Kreisler heard it. It was an omen.

“I had been waiting for that phone call for all day, and it’s the greatest news to The Lamp Post! We will be the first of the entire Corsiviera, no, Vaniria to publish a text on the Von Vanhal Incident!” His tone was obviously excited, but what frightened Kreisler the most in this depth of night was the old man’s suspicious laugh. The flickering fluorescent lights were not much help to the ominous aura.

“Um… What’s the von Vanhal Incident, sir?”

“Ah, yes yes… Not many people would know, after all, it was top military secrets until recently when Courtiania became communist. Such a pity… Ahem! But I digress… My political opinion is not the key to this,” he rambled, “but yes. The ‘incident’… Oh yes it was a grand one! Grander than puddings!”

He laughed, and completely missed the point of Kreisler’s question.

“Sir…”

“Patience! I will get to it!”

“Gwah! I’m sorry!” Kreisler’s eyes widened and shook his head as a sign of apology.

“Hmph. I suppose you’ve heard the fraud about Cinàed von Vanhal?”

“Yes sir.” Kreisler leaned back on his chair, slightly more relaxed.

“What do you know?”

“He betrayed Vea and was revealed to be a—“

“No no no! Not the generic things! Everyone knows those!” The old man leapt, on top of his desk. Kreisler was still taller than him even if he stood. “His personal life! The special brigade! The… the…” The old man choked, coughed, and needed another puff on his cigar.

“In that case… No…” Kreisler scratched his head, rather perplexed.

“I’ll tell you then, Mr. Kreisler… You see, Mr. Lütz, our affiliated auctioneer, recently sold us an invaluable piece of information. It was a letter, regarding a mafia case in Vea that was directly tied to the annex of the same country. Not only that, but this letter implies the fact that the Von Vanhal Incident did not merely affect the outcome of a war, but also literally the entire underground economy of Vea!”

Kreisler nodded, confusedly.

“However, the amazement does not end there,” the elder sat back down and placed his left hand under his chin resting on the table. He was sagely for at least half a moment. His eyes were obviously amused by something, probably to the rain that started falling behind the blinds. “You see, apparently, that man, Mr. von Vanhal, was, as well, tied to a much more powerful ‘something’. I can’t really put my fingers on what it is at the moment… But you are the one to find out. This is going to be wonderful! Wonderful, I tell you!”

The elder grinned widely. Kreisler was merely confused. The music of the radio continued to hum fuzzily. Kreisler hated the sound of it even more now. Then, it was suddenly interrupted by breaking news:

“Alert! Alert! … Apologies! There is no alert, only a thunderstorm approaching the Greater Lüllz area!”

“What was that…?” Kreisler mumbled curiously at the radio.

The elder rolled his eyes at the randomness, shut off the radio, and turned back at Kreisler.

“So, Kreisler, will you do the job? My commission for this is…” The old man poked at his calculator that he drew from the drawer. He input a five-digit number and flashed it at Kreisler. The young man gasped and nodded violently.

“So we’ve got a deal. Now go forth and find out the truth about the incident. I want to know everything.”

The thunder cracked behind the blinds. Kreisler gulped a little, he knew it was an omen, but there could not be a single person on this planet that would refuse such an offer. The boss smiled. Kreisler was still confused; his boss did not make much sense in the first place. Nevertheless, money meant a world to Kreisler.

“You’re dismissed. Tomorrow, I will give you the letter and some more information,” the old man, clapped his hands, stood, took an umbrella beside the door, and prepared to take off, “oh, and I need to warn you: be careful, this won’t be an easy task, Mr. Kreisler. Do you need a ride home?”

“No sir. That would be kind of you, but I don’t really need it…” Kreisler stared at the rain pouring from the sky. Odin must be crying in Valhalla… For curious reasons.

~~~

Prelude 1.02

August 30, 1867

8:45 AM

Syvyllieux, Corsiviera

The office smelled like a coffee brewery. After all, it was a comforting drug that propelled the upper-class and middle-class zombies to be able to sit through endless paperwork. It was also vital. The last employer who did not have a cup of coffee present on his desk in this office was immediately fired, for curious reasons. Many hypotheses were made for that incident; some believed that it was the newly born god of the coffee was angered, some believed that misfortune would land on those without coffee, and others believed in unusual coffee related superstition… But the point is: coffee was mandatory in the reference faculty of The Lamp Post.

“You’re late, Kreisler!” the old man growled. He stood like a penguin outside of a deadly ice cave, except the ice cave was his office. Spit was invading the elder’s secretary’s desk, which was adjacent to the door. The woman frowned in disgust. The penguin waddled menacingly toward the young man. “Get your filthy ass in here!”

“I wonder what’s going on between old boss and Kreisler lately,” a woman whispered to her colleague. She watched Kreisler scuttling and scrambling into the ice cave remorsefully. Kreisler’s face looked bitterer than her cup of coffee and sulkier than her breakfast scone that was rightfully her leftover from dinner last night.

“I heard the new kid is getting some important task or something,” another whispered back.

“Oh, Mr. Kreisler’s not that new, he came for a year and a bit. But that’s strange, considering he’s the most inexperienced one in the reference faculty.” The obviously nosy woman sipped her coffee, “ouch!”

“What?”

“I bit myself.”

~~~

The Lamp Post was Syvyllieux’s largest evening newspaper company. Then again, the word ‘largest’ really meant nothing when only city dwellers (a nicer term for hobo) read evening newspaper. The morning papers dominated the market, as one would expect. Because of this, the company had to publish more than just newspaper. From novellas that worth a quarter per book to controversial textbooks with even more controversial contents, The Lamp Post did it all, all for a cheap price.

Being cheap for half a century called for poor reputation, though. It was true that The Lamp Post did profit immensely from its cheapness, it was true that being cheap made them efficient, and it was also true that being cheap made them huge money. However, like a lottery winner, the first thing they would do after obtaining the money would be repackaging themselves. This was exactly what The Lamp Post did. Millions of dollars were spent on research, and this and that.

~~~

“Very well, Mr. Kreisler, I’m interested in your progress,” the old man settled himself on his chair, fidgeting with the radio’s channel knob. The desk was a tsunami of papers that might had been, would be, once were, or probably were of importance. The old fart used to be someone who could not stand having an extra piece of dust on his desk. Kreisler was highly curious on why that mannerism drastically change in that short period of time.

“It’s… Not as easy, or so to say…Sir. Besides, I think I need more time—“

The old man banged his fist against the table, or rather, a random sheet of paper that was on the table. It fluttered a bit.

“Sir! I’m sorry! I’m… I’m…” Kreisler’s voice was almost squealing. “I can explain—no, actually I can’t. Gwah! But don’t fire me! Please please please please…”

His boss laughed. “Why are you feeling so guilty?”

“Guilty?” Kreisler stopped his uttering of apologetic nonsense. The old man lit a cigar.

“Yes, guilty. You found out something, haven’t you, Mr. Kreisler?” he asked, leaning back on his chair.

“I…”

“Answer me.”

“Yes… I suppose… But…”

The old man chuckled as he fixed his collar with one hand. “You don’t have to say a word. I know the situation already.”

“You do?”

The boss nodded with a sour smile. It was not exactly sour, but it was a strained expression of some sort. “You’ve been threatened since you started research, haven’t you?”

Kreisler stared at him in awe. How did he know? Was he an old paedophilic stalker that his secretary gossiped he was? Kreisler brushed his hair aside and gulped. “Yes…sir…”

“You don’t have any family living with you?”

Kreisler shook his head slowly as he saw a fly buzzing about behind his boss’s disproportional head. He pointed at the fly, but before he could open his mouth, the old man had already exterminated the insect in the depth of his hellish palm. Kreisler blinked. His boss beamed.

“I may be old, but I am not stupid yet. That’s also why I chose you for this job.”

Kreisler stayed quiet, still confused.

“You said you don’t have family living with you, right? That’s why you’re meant for this task. No one would be concerned, other than yourself, if your house burned down. Be glad for now, since you’ve only been only receiving threatening letters. As I have said, this task is not easy.”

“Can I refuse the job?” Kreisler, for once, enunciated rapidly with clarity. He did not want his house burned down, that’s for sure. If he realized this job was this hazardous, he would have refused earlier.

“No, you got my initial payments already.” The old man’s face turned glum, “Don’t worry, you’ll be repented if anything happens to you. If you get the job done, this is what you get…” The calculator that doomed Kreisler reappeared. Ironically, the brand for the calculator was initialled H.E.L. Kreisler knew, it was the calculator from hell that damned him into this situation. The old man poked a seven-digit number this time.

Kreisler’s eyes widened, glowing with greed. He was mouthing something along the line of ‘oh my God’. However, he cleared his mind. His life was still more important. Yes, he did not want his house burned down.

The old man observed his thoughts and poked the calculator’s rubbery buttons again. This time, it was still the same amount of digits, but twice the value. The old man seemed amused as he saw Kreisler’s jaw dropping.

“Is that enough to interest you, Mr. Kreisler?” He yawned.

“But sir, why me out of everyone?”

“There’s only that many people in the faculty and as you have told me, you’re the only one in your household. So answer me, Mr. Kreisler. Will you?”

Kreisler was still reluctant. He was not stupid. For such a high price, he knew this commission was highly hazardous. “I…”

“Very well, if you wish to refuse…” The old man took an envelope out of a drawer. Kreisler knew what it meant. “If you do insist to refuse the job, then The Lamp Post would have no choice but to—“

Kreisler interrupted, his hand halting the old man. “Sir, please! No! I can’t afford to lose the job!”

The boss snickered. “I know you can’t. Your mother left you a huge debt to pay before she passed away, didn’t she?” The young man gasped. This old fart was definitely a stalker.

“Well, if you must be endangered either ways… Why don’t you choose the more profitable way?” Old wrinkly fingers shoved the little calculator toward Kreisler, who was obviously in panic.

Kreisler looked like a dead dog. He was threatened by this loathsome boss of his. He already rebelled, but it was useless. He was indeed what he seemed to be: an omnipotent and sly mouse that tricked the ox once upon a time. And Kreisler himself was the dumb ox.

“Well?”

Kreisler sighed. “Fine.”

The boss laughed. “Excellent, excellent. I know you will do the right thing, Kreisler. Oh by the way, Mr. Kreisler, the envelope was empty.” He stood and gave the young man a pat on the shoulder. He held a cup on his other hand, preparing for another cup of coffee. However, before that, he curiously switched on the radio.

Damn that old fart, Kreisler thought.

The young man put his hands on his face, remorsefully. That ‘New Movement’ art music was playing again. He felt taunted. Perhaps this time it was not so much of the music, but by everything else…