Minutes later, Beatrix followed Cid aboard a shuttle plane headed back to the ground.
From what he understood, this aircraft acted like a transport shuttle, ferrying personnel between the floating fortress and a designated base on the surface.
Beatrix felt a bit sorry for the agents who lived on the airborne base full-time. It wasn't exactly convenient when you needed to get back on solid ground.
Cid explained, though, that most of the personnel stationed on the airship stayed there permanently and rarely needed to descend. If a spy had to go on an urgent mission, arrangements would be made—no need to wait for the next shuttle.
Beatrix only needed to report for onboarding procedures aboard the aircraft carrier this time. Going forward, he likely wouldn't be required to go there often.
When they arrived at the ground base, a military off-road vehicle was already waiting. Cid and Beatrix climbed in, and the vehicle set off toward the city.
Barely a minute into the ride, Cid lit a cigarette, cracked open the window, leaned back, and hummed a tune.
He offered Beatrix a smoke. "Want one?"
"No thanks," Beatrix declined with a shake of his head.
He didn't smoke, didn't drink, didn't get migraines. Aside from staying up too late and the occasional issue with "basic needs," he was a pretty clean-cut guy. Even the guy at the corner convenience store once commented he looked "exceptionally healthy."
"People say smoking's bad for your health," Cid said as he took a long drag, exhaled out the window, and chuckled. "But it's fine, kid."
"If there's one thing I've learned in the second half of my life," he said, "it's that the most important thing is to enjoy yourself."
"You never know if you'll see tomorrow. You never know which comes first—an accident or the future. So you might as well live today."
Beatrix replied, "The money's still there, but the person's gone."
Cid burst out laughing. "Well said."
"Not poetic, but true."
"Hm?"
"Oh, nothing," Beatrix brushed it off. "I meant—where exactly are we headed this time?"
"To dig up some info," Cid replied. "We've identified a possible emotional infection source. That's our target."
"Emotional infection source?" Beatrix asked, puzzled.
"Right, I forgot—you're still new," Cid said, realizing Beatrix hadn't been briefed fully. "Let me explain."
"There are different types of infection sources."
"For example, some are object-based—a pen, a cigarette, a sculpture, a painting. These can infect people nearby, but those infected don't spread it to others."
Beatrix immediately thought of the statue from the Klein Corporation conference room.
"Then there are emotional infection sources," Cid continued. "These usually involve a living organism."
"Under normal conditions, they don't infect anyone. But when their emotions become unstable—especially negative emotions—the infection begins. The stronger the emotion, the more intense the spread."
Beatrix remembered the couple who had fought near his school.
"So… like at school? That couple fighting—when they got emotional, others around them started getting infected?"
"Exactly," Cid nodded. "But that was a minor incident. The infection level was low and cleared up quickly. Now, this target…"
Cid's expression turned serious.
"For infected individuals below 50%, we can usually reverse it with treatment. But once they cross that threshold, it's nearly impossible to save them."
"And above 80%? Unless you're one of our 'special' types, the person's basically brain-dead. Their consciousness is gone."
"At that point, they're no longer human. You must remember that—don't treat them like people. That kind of thinking gets people killed."
Beatrix could tell Cid was speaking from experience—but the man didn't seem interested in sharing the full story.
Cid pulled a photo from his pocket and handed it over.
"Here's our target."
Beatrix took a look.
The guy had a shaved head, a round face, a tight T-shirt wrapped around a beer belly, and a thick gold chain dangling from his neck—screaming wannabe crime boss.
He looked like the stereotypical back-alley gangster.
Beatrix recalled hearing that in the past, low-level thugs wore gold necklaces as emergency funds—they could pawn them for quick cash. Over time, it just became part of the aesthetic.
"Name's Anchors. Local gang member. This guy's group has been involved in multiple murders," Cid said. "We're here to gather intel. If infection levels are high—we deal with it."
"What if they're not infected?" Beatrix asked.
"Then it's not our problem," Cid replied casually.
Beatrix thought to himself: so that's how it is. The organization was built under the guise of law enforcement, but in reality, it was more like a mental asylum's strike team. If the target was mad—they handled it. If not—someone else's problem.
The whole thing reminded him of government tax agencies.
Kill someone? You might get a slap on the wrist.
Forget to pay taxes? The wrath of the heavens falls upon you.
Cid added, "Unless, of course, we stumble on evidence related to a major murder case—especially something only we are aware of."
"In that case, what do we do? Break the rules?" Beatrix asked.
"No," Cid said calmly, taking another drag from his cigarette.
"We call the police."
Beatrix: "…"
Well, that actually sounded… reasonable.
—
About half an hour later, they arrived across from a seedy-looking bar.
Through the car window, Beatrix saw the flickering neon sign: "Big Night Bar"—half the letters were either dead or glitching.
"This the place?" he asked.
"Definitely. Intelligence says this is one of their main hangouts," Cid said, unbuckling his seatbelt. "The Anchors should all be inside."
As he got out, he stopped Beatrix from following.
"You wait here. I'll go have a friendly chat."
He put extra emphasis on the word "friendly."
Beatrix caught the hint and obediently stayed behind.
He sat in the car and watched as Cid, cigarette in mouth, walked across the street into the bar.
Only a few minutes passed—
Suddenly, a pitiful scream rang out from inside.
It was the kind of cry you'd hear when Tom from Tom and Jerry got hit with a frying pan.
What followed was chaos.
The sound of fists slamming into flesh. Furniture being overturned. Glass shattering. Even gunshots.
Seconds later, the bar's large glass window exploded outward.
A round man was launched through it like a flying pig carcass, landing on the sidewalk with a groan.
The bar doors swung open.
Cid strolled out, collar adjusted, cigarette still dangling from his lips.
Through the open doors, Beatrix caught a glimpse of total carnage inside.
Bodies everywhere.
Cid approached the groaning man on the ground, stepped on his chest, leaned in, and said—
"Alright, Anchors. Ready to talk now?"