Trinity Blood - Rage Against the Moons - Volume 03 - Know Faith [Tokyopop][OCR_No Images].pdf

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Rage Against The Moons III – Midnight Run
By Sunao Yoshida
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But when they persecute you in this city, flee ye into another.
— Matthew 10:23
I
“
O
ur Father, who art in heaven," recited Abel. The traveling priest Abel Nightroad
prayed while jumping into the roadway. He could clearly see inside the open mouth of the
streetcar driver whom he'd followed that far. "Abbreviate the rest, if you please!" Abel
requested. The instant he curled his body into a ball and rolled, machine pistol rounds
grazed his cassock, scattering bits of it across the sidewalk behind him. Not a moment had
passed when the frame of the streetcar slid between the priest and the sidewalk, making a
shrill braking noise.
A young man with wildly flowing bleached brown hair was shouting something from
across the sidewalk. "This way, Abel! Now! "Abel's clever companion Antonio
undoubtedly had escaped on his own during the shooting.
Half impressed and half dumbfounded by Antonio's shrewdness, Abel quickly stood up.
Cologne, a prominent city in the Germanics Kingdom, was a traditional university city.
However, there wasn't too much traffic at night. As the frame of the streetcar passed under
the pale moonlight, it left a trail of beautiful sparks.
"Hurry, quickly!" urged Antonio.
"P-please wait, prince. Please don't abandon me!" Abel pleaded.
By the time the streetcar had passed, Abel finally had trudged to the opposite sidewalk.
The young man ahead of him had already halfway descended the stairs leading to the
subterranean tunnels. When Abel, wearing a frozen smile, turned back toward the
sidewalk he had been on three seconds prior, two large men were standing there, both in
black coats and soft hats, with faces that made them appear as if they were twins. Both
their Bergmann machine gun muzzles were pointed at the priest's forehead.
"E-eek!" shrieked Abel.
If his knees hadn't given way, Abel's body certainly would have been torn to shreds.
Countless bullets mowed down the area where his head had just been. Incapable of
standing up, the silver-haired priest slid down the steep stairs with the nimbleness of a
cockroach being chased. He tumbled to the bottom in one fell swoop, emitting a sustained,
shrill scream that would make anyone within earshot wince.
"Are you dead, Abel?" asked Antonio. The young man who'd descended first greeted the
priest with great interest as Abel landed on his face. Peering down at his twitching back,
Antonio poked Abel with a toe. "If you're going to die, please tell me so, because I'll
surrender if my bullet shield is dead."
"Oooh, God, lately my life has too few blessings. S-somehow, I'm alive. Are you all right,
prince?" asked Abel.
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"Yeah, barely, but . . ." replied Antonio, who uncannily didn't bear a scratch on his carefree
face. "My hairstyle is completely ruined. After all, hair is a man's life, right?" Antonio said
as he shook his head dramatically.
"Please worry about your real life right now!" Abel replied. As the sound of footsteps
emerged from the top of the stairs, he hurriedly jumped up. "Save your worries about
your hair for when we've safely rounded up everyone in Neue Vatican. Right now, we
have to run!"
When Abel drew his museum-piece percussion revolver, the black coats appeared at the
top of the stairs, simultaneously pulling the triggers of their machine guns.
II
W
e haven't yet found former Archbishop Alfonso d'Este," Caterina explained. Tonight, a
bitter vibrato strained her sweet voice, which usually sounded like a perfectly tuned
instrument.
On the high ceiling in Castle Santangelo's Iblis Room, there was a painting of a beautiful
queen ascending to heaven, saving a desert city from the evil clutches of vampires. Her
breathtaking features, which concealed her high spirits and happiness, somewhat
resembled those of Minister of Foreign Affairs Cardinal Caterina Sforza.
"Immediately following the recent terrorist incident, the local Department of Foreign
Affairs staff thoroughly searched the Archbishop of Colognes jurisdiction, but nearly all
the crucial data regarding the heretical organization the former Archbishop of Cologne
had set up was destroyed. Based on that knowledge . . ." Caterina continued, her razor-
colored eyes coldly scanning the attending high-ranking church workers, "there's probably
someone among us who's given them information."
"A-are you saying there's a traitor, s-sister?" asked Alessandro, who was dressed in white
vestments as he timidly gazed up at the beautiful woman. His ash-colored eyes—the only
part of his freckled, seedy-looking face that resembled his sister—nervously darted from
side to side.
The Vatican's three hundred ninety-ninth Pope, Alessandro XVIII, regarded the attendees
with an undeniably frightened demeanor. "B-but, wh-wh-who in the world? W-we don't
know where my u-uncle is. Th-the data on Neue Vatican has been d-discarded."
"Don't let it upset you, Your Holiness," Caterina said, smiling kindly in an attempt to calm
her half brother, who'd been crowned with the crown and throne at age eighteen. "I said,
nearly all the data had been destroyed."
A large man in vestments who had been seated between Caterina and the Pope called out
in a deep voice: "So, does that mean a portion is left, Caterina?" Cardinal Francesco di
Medici, the man who controlled public order within the Vatican as the Minister of
Doctrine, narrowed his sabre-colored eyes and folded his thick arms in front of him. "Is the
data so valuable that it can advance our investigation?" he asked.
"I don't know, because it hasn't yet reached our hands," replied Caterina. Her delivery was
outwardly polite, but punctuated with chilly indifference. The relationship between the
half siblings had soured as of late. It was no longer public record, but during the last
terrorist incident in Rome, Caterina's special AX agents had clashed in the city with the
Bureau of Inquisition under Francesco's control. The episode had resulted in heavy
casualties and was fresh in their memories.
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"The aforementioned data is somewhere in Cologne, and it undoubtedly will provide
extremely valuable internal intelligence for pursuing Neue Vatican," Caterina said.
"How do you know?" Francesco asked suspiciously.
"Because according to the report, it's a list of the names of those who belong to Neue
Vatican," Caterina replied plainly.
"What?" Francesco gasped with surprise, as did everybody assembled. If they had a list of
the names of everyone who belonged to Neue Vatican, the terrorist incident would be
elucidated in no time.
"Caterina, why are you being so cautious?" Francesco roared, striking the desk with his
meaty hands. "If it's that useful, you should bring it here as soon as possible! Don't you
realize that if you leave it in Cologne, they can steal it back at any time?"
"I've already sent the recovery team to its location. It's now eleven o'clock. They'll arrive in
Cologne tomorrow morning at five o'clock and are scheduled to return to Rome after
securing the person safeguarding the data," Caterina explained.
"The person safeguarding the data?" asked Giuseppe Moretti, the Bureau Director of the
Holy Treasure Authorization, who had extremely sharp hearing. "Cardinal Sforza, are you
saying that somebody within the city of Cologne has that list now?"
"Yes, and he asked for our protection, knowing that Neue Vatican was after him," replied
Caterina.
"What kind of person is he?" inquired Giuseppe, confidently cocking his head like a wise
owl because he held a PhD and was an expert in lost technology research. "How did he get
his hands on that list in the first place?"
"The person in question is a student from Hispania studying abroad at the Cologne
Divinity School. His name is Antonio Borgia," said Caterina. "He's the son of Hispania
Kingdom's Prime Minister Carlos Borgia, Prince of Valencia. Alfonso d'Este contacted him
in order to connect a pipe to Hispania Kingdom. We think he handed over the list to the
prince at that time."
"Wh-what!" a voice blurted out rendering Caterina's efforts to play down the situation
ineffective. The attending church workers' eyes nearly fell from their sockets—and for
good reason: Hispania was a major power in the Western world, rivaling Germanics or
Albion, and the Prince of Valencia was a high noble in that nation. If such an important
person's child happened to be killed by the bunch who'd inhabited the Vatican until the
other day...
"You said the recovery team is going to arrive tomorrow morning, Caterina! What do you
intend to do if the Neue Vatican bunch takes action tonight?" bellowed Francesco as if the
enemy army already were closing in. "Request support from Germanics through
diplomatic channels at once. Dispatch an army to Cologne and protect the prince!" ordered
Francesco.
"Wait, brother. It isn't a good idea to use Germanics' help here. Besides, if Germanics were
to get its hands on that list simply because it protected the prince, the situation would get
far more complicated," Caterina said.
"Hmm." Francesco couldn't think of anything to say in response to his younger sister’s
point.
Caterina was just as angry about the situation, but when she considered the previous
incident in Rome, she recognized that Neue Vatican had a very long reach. There was no
guarantee that the young nobleman could get through the night safely.
Sitting with folded hands and praying to God wasn't Caterina's style. After re-crossing her
long legs under her vestments, she made a steeple with her fingers and rested her chin on
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it. "The truth is, I had already decided to set up some insurance by sending one agent
ahead of the recovery team. He'll protect the prince until dawn."
"One person? Will only one person be okay?" asked Francesco.
"You needn't worry," Caterina said with a thin smile and a knowing glimmer in her eye. "I
sent the highest talent in the Vatican to Cologne. He's a man who has the know-how to
anticipate any kind of situation, the ability to adapt to all kinds of environments, and a
tough spiritual strength that doesn't waver under the pressure of any crisis. I'm sure he'll
meet my expectations—and pull it all off without raising an eyebrow."
III
“
O
h, God—with this mountain of dangerous crises, my life is like a flame before the
wind," Abel moaned.
At five hundred fifteen feet high, the dome was the largest building in Cologne. The two
black steeples that were said to have required six hundred years to complete cast shadows
on the black line of the river's surface. Gazing up at the two moons that shone between
them, Abel begged for mercy, drawing letters in his tears on the counter.
"I've had enough already—so now, please save me immediately," begged Abel.
"You really aren't cool, are you, Abel?" replied Antonio.
In the Rhine steamship's Cologne arrival and departure waiting room, at the counter of a
deserted cheap cafeteria that was doing late-night business, a long-haired youth was
tipping a glass of local brew. Because he was either very daring or simply stupid, he
checked the arrangement of his hair with an elegance that contrasted with his companion's
lack thereof.
"I nominated you because I heard you were 'the highest talent in the Vatican,' but I'd
imagined someone more stylish—a dandy. I was sure you'd ruthlessly beat the bad guys,
toss back your hair, and declare 'mission accomplished' in a cool way. However,"—the
young man—Antonio Borgia, the son of the Prince of Valencia—emptied his third glass as
he glanced sideways at the priest drawing letters next to him—"you really aren't cool, are
you?"
"Sorry for not being cool," Abel responded timidly as he tugged at his overly long shirt
cuff. Abel's new summer cassock was full of holes, and because he'd fallen in the gutter
while running away, he'd discarded it amid a fit of sobbing. He was now wearing clothes
borrowed from Antonio. A bodyguard who borrowed clothes from the object of his
protection . . . maybe he really wasn't cool.
If he could make any excuse, it was Abel's deliberate intent and his security plan to have
met the object of his protection in a populous city. He'd assessed that the Neue Vatican
clan wouldn't be so stupid as to attack them on a public street. However, they had
attacked before he'd moved ten steps after contacting Antonio, and they'd brandished
machine guns in a city. They were that desperate to recover the list, and they probably
didn't care about appearances anymore.
"By the way, prince, about that list . . ." Abel said, sighing before refocusing his gaze on the
ground. As he picked at the mound of potatoes, sauerkraut, and sausage, he continued,
"Where is it being safeguarded now? Shouldn't we leave here immediately and get it?"
"Sorry, but I still can't tell you that," replied Antonio.
Seemingly out of nowhere, a beautiful, leggy woman came into the waiting room,
swinging her hips provocatively. Antonio shrugged as his eyes shamelessly followed the
path of her huge, jiggling chest.
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"If I told you, you might not put as much effort into protecting me, right?" asked Antonio.
"Don't worry—I'll protect you well, because that's my job. Although, who knows what
may happen thereafter," Abel replied, mumbling the last half of his speech.
There were four hours left until the arrival of reinforcements. In this condition, Abel
probably couldn't hold out the next time he was attacked. The Neue Vatican sympathizers
in Cologne seemed to have a much greater influence than he'd predicted. In this situation,
when he couldn't even rely on the church, staying within the city was pointless and
dangerous.
"I'm taking you out of the city with me, prince." As soon as he'd confirmed the time of the
last boat on the timetable, Abel made up his mind. "When the recovery team arrives in the
morning, we'll send them to the list's hiding place—but for tonight, I want to get you out
of the city."
A Rhine River passenger boat was leaving from the boat station for Düsseldorf. If they
made it as far as Düsseldorf, they likely would be able to continue from there to Rome via
the night train.
Antonio shook his head. "Sorry, but that's impossible."
"Why?" asked Abel.
"I tend to get seasick. Neither boats nor trains are good—my semicircular canals are
weak."
Abel stood there, silent.
Right now, no doubt, I'm smiling the way my boss does when she's
angry—like a mass murderer looking for my next victim.
As he brutally stabbed a sausage with
his fork, Abel smiled. "So?"
"If we're going to move, can't we go by airplane or airship? When I traveled to visit my
family before, I chartered a limited sleeper express; curiously, that time I didn't get sick,"
Antonio stated.
Holding his cheeks next to Antonio, who continued to indulge in pleasant memories, the
priest groaned. "Ohhh, God, I feel terribly sick. I can't meet that kind of expense by
squeezing out my lifeblood! I will absolutely have you get on a boat here, regardless of
whether you puke up your internal organs!" he insisted.
"But..." Antonio said hesitantly.
"This is no time for a 'but'! I'll go buy the tickets. You wait here, please. All right? No
matter what happens, don't move!"
Abel stood up, glaring at the young nobleman who appeared as though he still wanted to
say something. Holding his throbbing cheek, Abel approached the ticket counter. "Excuse
me ... two second-class tickets to Düsseldorf, please."
Abel peered up at the clock on the wall as he asked the unfriendly old man at the counter
for tickets. It was one o'clock in the morning; there were still four hours until dawn. "Oh,
and can I have a receipt, too?" he asked. "Please address it to the Vatican Department of
Foreign Affairs."
"The Vatican? You?" asked the old man.
"Yes. I'm a priest, actually. I'm dressed like this because I have some business," Abel
hurriedly explained to the old man, who raised his eyebrows suspiciously when he
noticed that Abel's suit was too short. At times like these, it was inconvenient not to be
wearing a cassock.
"I work for the Vatican Department of Foreign Affairs. Let's see, here are my ID papers,"
Abel said.
"Excuse me a moment," replied the old man.
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