Agharta

[5 April 2001, 06.04; Costa Smeralda, Sardinia]

Death is his penance, he reminds himself. At the very least, the rocks are warm from the unwavering morning heat. His feet sank from their dead weight into loose sand. The crimson-fuschia-white dissipates from his sight as fast as it had appeared.

It felt like Moody Blues was hovering just beyond his reach. She fell onto the shattered monument, movement as stagnant as he feels his own is. The tether he had to his soul had been severed.

There's a lot of blood. He tries not to pay heed to the wet scarlet washing over his hands and clothes and into the waiting earth, and oh, God, there's so much blood on him and in him and staining his teeth and tongue and pouring out of his chest. All while blotted whites creep ever so surely into his vision and the sun is hot, and the sound of the waves are distant, and he hears his name but he is far away, now, too far to move his lips, too far to return. No longer tied to the heavy body under him.

[5 April 2001, 06.05; ???]

Abbacchio comes to. On a table outside a restaurant. A clear day in a nondescript town.

clink clink clink clink clink

There's a plate of spaghetti in front of him. He's eating, yes, a fork makes its weight known in his right hand. His favourite wine, a glass of water, servings of bruschetta, arugula salad, a bowl of soup.

clink clink clink clink clink

The air carries a heavy silence. An intrusive one, even. There's no one but himself and the sound of

clink clink clink clink clink

Abbacchio sinks to his knees, lifting the tablecloth and watching as a man's face comes into view. An officer kneels under the next table, silently sorting through shards of glass strewn about the sidewalk.

"What are you doing down there?"

He lifted his head, eyes fixed on Abbacchio's, hands idle to follow his stream of words.

"Sorry to interrupt your meal," he starts, and his voice was like a bane that went through Abbacchio's mind. "I'm in the middle of an investigation. I'm looking for fingerprints," he points at the tray of shards he's collected, "a mugger hit his victim with a bottle here last night. The part he was holding should be disposed of around here, so I'm looking for that."

Abbacchio startles at the strange feeling cloying at his heart. He ignores it, as all things he suppresses deep into himself. "You're checking all that?"

"That's my job," a shadow of a smile makes its way onto the officer's face.

"I— There's something I'd like to ask you, out of personal curiosity," Abbacchio leans ever closer to the man, yet still careful to keep a fair distance. "What're you gonna do if you don't find anything? You might not even get those fingerprints."

The man lifts his eyes yet again. The glass he sees now felt like vices pricking Abbacchio's skin.

"Even if you do, the mugger could simply hire a good lawyer and be judged as innocent," he continues, "so what is it that keeps you going despite this?"

"The result is not what I desire," he replies, like the words were so easy to escape his lips, "when you desire only the result, you start taking shortcuts, and you lose sight of the truth."

He turns his body to face Abbacchio fully, crouching comfortably on the stones under him.

"I believe the will to seek the truth is what's important. Even if the mugger gets away this time, you'll reach your destination, eventually. He'll be put away, because that's the truth. Because that's what you're seeking." An almost-chuckle left him. "Don't you agree?"