"It isn't a formal hearing, is it? Shouldn't you disappear before the authorities spot you? If you're worried that I'll slip and say something about you, you shouldn't. There's no relationship whatsoever between you and me—you're a perfect stranger," assured Hugue.
"I'm not particularly worried about such things. However, it's true that there's not much time. This place is dangerous," George warned, sliding his hand along something beyond the glass. After keying in a complicated combination, the bulletproof glass separating him from Hugue began to move upward with an ear-splitting screech. "Come with me."
"What do you mean, prosecutor?" asked Hugue, glaring wide-eyed at the glass window. "I'm a terrorist, right? Would any other prosecutor let a guy like me escape?"
"I don't have an excuse—this will lead to my unemployment. I'm a criminal—the same as you—because I'm a terrorist sympathizer," George declared arrogantly but with a hint of shame. Suddenly, Roddenbach held up a long, thin bundle about the length of his body that had been placed on the floor, and then he held out a paper bag containing a complete policeman's uniform. "Change clothes and we'll leave here. Later, after we arrive at a safe place, we can talk at leisure."
Hugue was annoyed by the prosecutor's overly optimistic speech. "You say leave here, but do you know what in the world you're doing, Roddenbach? If you do something like this, you won't only lose your position—you're forfeiting your reputation, your social status—possibly your life."
"Perhaps, but I'm already aware of all that," Roddenbach replied with a cheerfulness that seemed as though he were discussing the weather. Taking his hand out of his pocket and offering it to Hugue, who was still seated, George smiled meekly. "The truth is that I'm a person without a single relative—just like you. There's nobody anywhere who'll be sad if I die." From the way that he delivered his admission, his inner strength shone through in spite of his submissive demeanor. "Besides, if you stay here, you'll be killed by Darsus' assassins. It's not my preference to remain in a safe place alone, acting as a spectator from on high. I'm the one who put you in danger in the first place. How can I not take responsibility for that? Is what I'm saying wrong, Hugue?"
Hugue stared in astonishment at the hand held out before him. A person without a single relative—Hugue was that way, too. There were a lot of people trying to kill him, but nobody would be sad if he had died, hence his surprise that a hand had been extended to him.
"Let's go now," George urged once again without paying any mind to the priest's hesitation. "There's no time. Besides, I thought you hated small talk."
"Yeah, I hate it," Hugue said flatly. Unsure of how he truly felt, Hugue took his beloved sword out of the paper bag handed to him. Feeling the sensation of blunt iron in one hand, he grasped the prosecutor's hand with his spare hand. "You really are a stupid man."
"Yeah, I'm told that every day," George replied.
Unintentionally sending a wry smile in the direction of the prosecutor's mischievously winking face, Hugue had a sudden thought. Assumptions are meaningless in life, but if I'd had a man like this for a friend, maybe I could've changed the path I took. I wouldn't have been sold out by my trusted childhood friend, nor would I have been betrayed by my fiancée. And maybe I wouldn't have had to cross swords with comrades who pointed guns at me, even though we had crawled beneath so much gunfire together up until this point.
"Well, let's go, partner," said George.
"Yeah," Hugue replied, nodding.
"Oh dear—what's the matter, Father?" asked the night guard. Outside, the torrential downpour continued as it always did, but it was nearing dawn. The policeman in reception looked suspiciously at the shadow that came crawling in the front gate at the late hour. Glancing at the policemen on the early shift, who chatted in a corner of the lobby while drinking coffee, the night guard repeated, "What's your business at this hour?"
"I'm Father Meyer from the Notre Dame de Sabron Church. When I was cleaning the worship hall before morning devotions, I discovered this thing in the confessional," said the short priest in a strange voice that lacked intonation. Without wiping the water dripping from his drenched head, he placed a large Boston bag in front of the policeman. "The contents being what they were, I decided that the bag had better be delivered quickly, so I brought it here. Confirm," said Tres.
"What are the contents?" asked the policeman, curiously peering into the Boston bag the priest handed him. I don't know whether it's something lost or forgotten, but I wish he'd brought it after dawn, he thought as he nervously opened the bag. "Wh-what is this?" The policeman's eyes bugged out at what sat inside the bag — long, thin, cylindrical objects tied together with a belt. The copper wires that extended from the end of the cylinders were tied together in a complex fashion and were attached to a small pocket watch. "A b-bomb?"
Suddenly, the long and short hands of the pocket watch overlapped, making a small clicking sound, and simultaneously, a white light burst up with a roar as if the sun had struck land. The explosion assaulted not only the unlucky policeman but all the people in the lobby. The stun grenade — a flash bomb that instantaneously burned fine aluminum powder and potassium perchlorate — didn't have killing power, but it had enough strength to knock down everybody in the area with its light and noise. There were policemen who had managed to withstand it, but there was more bad luck in store for them. Enveloped by the cloud of tear gas that spread following the flash, they began to cry and cough.
"Clear! Continue commencing search for target," ordered Tres.
Amid the dense gas that had obscured nearly everyone's field of vision was one man who stood calmly without a mask. Drawing two handguns from beneath his cassock, Gunslinger walked through the policemen squirming in pain, and into the entrance lobby.