Interlude - The Man who has seen the past, the present and the future (I)
The twelve-year old mercenary nicknamed 'Gin' drew a smile underneath his fox-like mask. The reason behind that simple expression was one easy to understand. After all, he had just experienced something extraordinary, something which defied the rules that he originally thought were solid and impossible to crack. Now, there was nothing uncommon with being summoned to a mansion to speak with the 'boss', personally. This was the third successful assignment he had carried out for the same employer, so it was about time that the two spent some time talking about real business. You see, despite his young age, Gin was an outstanding supernatural hitman, and his heart desired adventures more thrilling than the chores he had been entrusted thus far. Still, because the pay was so good, he polished his patience and waited, as he knew this time would eventually come. Yes, having proved himself, it was time to move on to the next level. That was why he could hardly contain his joy. But that...
... Was not exactly the reason why he was smiling.
No, it was hard to place, but his instincts immediately told him that there was something odd about this location. The foreign architecture, the surrounding plains, the abundance of antiques... It was a bizarre sight that would leave even Magi dumbfounded. How... Did he arrive here, and where was he, exactly? He had served under several masters all throughout Japan since the age of six, yet if one would ask him right now, he would be speechless as to how to make his way back home. 'Spatial Displacement?', he thought, trying to convince himself that he had not been suddenly flung into a different time, and instead had somehow been transported from one country to another without him realizing. Or perhaps it was just him, unable to believe it possible for someone to amass enough fortune to build himself an isolated empire that follows a 30's theme.
"... You wanted to talk to me?"
Once he set foot on what looked like a throne room, he addressed a mysterious, hooded, old man who sat in the place of a king. Not a second had passed since then before he began to feel uncomfortable. The sixth sense he had nurtured as an assassin was going crazy, sending him endless contradicting signals regarding the elder he was facing, making it impossible to read through his facade. It must had been one hell of a challenge to remain steadfast and show no weakness, for the next thing Gin knew was that he had missed a good portion of the conversation. Ignoring the part of him that screamed at him to claim the life of this man if he wanted to further preserve his own, he agreed to sit down and listen to what the man had to say.
"..."
---But no more words came out of his mouth.
The man was simply too weak to say anything else. Having come dangerously close to the end of his lifespan, there was not a single strand of hair attached to his head and an alarming number of wrinkles could be spotted on his skin. If Gin had to make a guess, he wouldn't hesitate to say that the man was, at the very least, in his late eighties. To the mercenary, it wouldn't surprise him if someone else was pulling the strings, this man being the leader of the organization in name only.
Just as what he believed to be the truth was starting to down on him, a sudden noise released the young boy from his thoughts. A steel briefcase had been kicked from his left, the identity of the one responsible obscured by the shadow of a pillar. Gin was careful enough not to lower his guard for one second as he moved to claim what he expected to be a payment in advance for his services.
"What...?!"
The contents of the briefcase, however, proved to be far from what the mercenary expected, and the shock proved to be such that even a genius like himself lost his composure for a moment and allowed the briefcase to fall down to the floor.
"What is the meaning of this...?"
What Gin found there was information; information about himself to be precise, carefully organized into a single folder. But it was not ordinary information, no, even with a single glance it was easy to see that there were things in there that only he should know. However, the prize had to go to the compilation of pictures and notes that talked about his death in extreme detail. It was surreal, almost as if he had just walked into a gigantic prank, the kind that always leaves a bad taste behind. From photo editing to transformation, staging and illusionism, Gin's mind went into overclock in order to find a rational answer to this dilemma.
Pointless.
How could it be anything less than pointless, when he had already lost the moment the tight grip on that briefcase loosened?
"... The past cannot be changed." The old man raised his voice once more, but he had to make another pause to gather enough drive to continue. "Only the future is for you to mold with your hands..."
Gin was confused. He didn't know what to believe. The childish part of him to take the mask he was wearing and slam it against the floor in frustration, then have everyone else in the room share a similar fate. Not once had he been put in a situation so stressing. You see, it was hard to explain, deep down, he already suspected that what he was being shown was no forgery.
"..."
So, taking a deep breath to calm and collect his turbulent thoughts, the boy kneeled down and shuffled through the contents of the briefcase now scattered across the floor once more. There, he found more data, not just about himself, but about other people and about events that were yet to occur.
"That's all the information you need in order to survive your next assignment. Use it wisely." Came a mysterious voice from the side, one that clearly belonged to a female. "Now, my men will escort you out. We'll meet again."
That's the first time Gin met them: Pandora.
Little had he known that time...
That the things he had called 'antiques'...
... Would be regarded as futuristic gadgets or OOParts by the residents of the epoch where he had been standing back then.
Yes, that was also the first time he had traveled through time -something he'd find out much later-.
The year...
1863.
Interlude Out