Holographic Centipede

  There was another knock at the door, louder this time. The first round was loud enough, but this second round was a firm reminder that none of this was a mistake. A few mistakes were made, to be sure. The first being that I did something I thought was mundane. All my social networking sites had that goddamn statement somewhere.

  Ｃｅｒｔｉｆｉｅｄ　Ｓｕｐｅｒｎａｔｕｒａｌ　Ｅｘｐｅｒｔ

  It’s gotten to the point where all my friends and followers know that I wasted all my time on rumors and web pages. My family thought it was a persistent joke, but it’s not. I passed a series of boring-ass tests, went through three separate interviews, and played along as best I could to match the gimmick. Whether it actually meant anything mattered very little, because I put on my most enthusiastic act and it clearly worked. The proof came when I was sent that remarkably authentic-looking certification.

  I came to be known as “O1 Agent Mockingbird” and gained access to the Agency’s comprehensive database—known as the Nexus in its delightfully pretentious glory—of research documents and field reports. “Authentic-looking” is the keyword here, because I had my doubts. I won’t lie, when I started reading all of that, I was sure I had joined an exclusive club for web-based roleplay. A more restrictive alternative to S█P or the B█ckr██ms, or so I felt after a bit of web surfing.

  When I realized I was expected to post at least an early draft of my research, I spent a lot of time combing sites like that and studying the “lore” of the Agency. I might have gotten too into it, to the point that I got the first bad grades in my whole life since one stint in my childhood—and I had a medical excuse for that. When I posted my first entry on the site, I felt fairly satisfied with myself. At the time, I remember thinking to myself: “This was a waste of time, but they can’t say I didn’t try.”

  Then the first paycheck showed up. In one month, I made more money than all my part-time work in high school combined. My interest in university died down immediately. After one year and five figures piling up, I dropped out and exclusively buried myself into the Agency research projects. I took more courses on the supernatural, sifting through quite a few realistic photos and detailed information before adding in my own text-only contributions.

  It really was a dream job. I never had to leave my home anymore except to buy groceries and carry out my exercise regimen. I was paid to study that ludicrously huge database and post up things that—after a bit of mingling with a few helpers in my “Cell” to check for contradictions—fit close enough to what I continued to call the established Agency lore. Three years of three to six hour work days looking through articles, watching cheesy vids, and some extracurricular looks into various ghostly happenings; then, after spinning it together in my head, I posted them to the Nexus and received that dopamine-boosting “Thank you for your efforts!” messages.

  It was fun, even if it was farcical. For the remarkably easy task of looking up stories that gave me chills and a dash of chatting with “real witnesses” to bizarre happenings, my bank account acquired a six digit readout. As for what I was actually posting up—

  I started with ghosts, then moved on to cryptids fairly early on, and my boredom took me to the whimsical topic of moon aliens. I for one loved reading and looking into the Agency’s version of witches, and I continued to make occasional posts about those too, though more than half my posts eventually get taken down for not quite meeting the strict adherence to the Nexus interpretation. It’s not that I didn’t want to compile information about those sorts of things, but I couldn’t help but fall back into the field that started it all. My first post, as it turns out, was about vampires.

  It just so happens that the city I live in has plenty of stories about vampires and witches. Setting aside the latter, every single entry I made regarding vampires was accepted without fail. I like to believe that it was thanks to my honest to goodness “field work” on the streets of New Armagnac, from my interviews with various people of interest to the tonnes of photos of eerie scenes.

  Truth be told though, it was probably more because the Agency seemed to have a shockingly low amount of information regarding the bloodsuckers. Aside from a few reports about vampire hunts, it was a barren topic. If they need someone to contribute? I’m their lady. I just wish that my fellow agents were more talkative. Not even the others in my Cell broke character, though it seems comments were a tad bit more lenient when it comes to me being silly.

  Everything was going fine. My friends made fun of me for being a shut-in, my family insists that I go back to university, and most of my time goes to indulging in all the trendy outfits and cosmetics. All of that disposable income meant I could throw just about everything into raising my follower count on my blog and SNS accounts.

  As I shamelessly contracted early-stage hedonism, I expected very little of the Nexus’ direct messages given they were all from the site’s bot. It was just a few days ago that I received a pinned DM from the leader of my Cell—apparently an upper-middle-aged man designated as Regulator Cinis. The message was simple, and I thought nothing of it at the time.

  「It looks like your grace period is officially over, Agent Mockingbird. They’re sending a Handler over to pick you up soon. Time to live up to your title.」

  Things were really going great for the first time in my life. I was happy with my cozy life. If it were up to me, I would happily live life all by my lonesome. Modern civilization has given me the privilege to live as far away from others as possible while having people to chat with if I need to socialize. Now if only I could relay that thought to that goddamn visitor.

  KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.

  Like most cities in the United States, New Armagnac was supposed to be under martial law in the wake of the State of the Union attacks. Someone was out past curfew and was now hammering away on my apartment door. I reasoned that it was someone I knew well, because the only way to get past the gate of the apartment complex was through a buzzer. If that were the case though, someone should have told me I had a guest a few minutes earlier. The one knocking got into the complex, came all the way up to the sixth floor, and knocked on my door without a single person stopping them.

  KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.

  At long last, I remembered the message. The message from Regulator Cinis kept flashing in my mind, but, for some reason, it was difficult to just speak up and dismiss the knocking on my door. I had a feeling that the Agency went pretty hard into LARP, but this is a bit much, isn’t it? That didn’t really make much sense, either. There’s still the matter of getting past at least two guards and a man on closed circuit cams.

  KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.

  The knocking stopped.

  That’s right. Go home.

  “You□ □ast post was not e□en a h□□f-hou□ ago, Agent Mockingb□□d. We know you’□□ in □□e□□ and □□at you’□□ awake.”

  Shit.

  That confirmed it, visitor who came to me in the dead of night was from the Agency. Without thinking, I slowed down my breathing. The peephole had duct tape over it, but that didn’t help. I can’t understand what he’s saying, but I could at least discern the “Mockingbird” mixed in there. What even is that accent? No, not an accent. A speech impediment?

  “Maybe she’s dead?”

  This time it was a woman. What did Regulator Cinis say in his message? A Handler was being sent? So they sent two people to get me? I could feel my skin trying to push up sweat despite how cool I keep my apartment even this time a year.

  “We ha□□ been □osing Agents to □□e recent e□ents, but □□at is un□ik□y.”

  “Yeah, I guess so. Just move over and let me have a turn.”

  “As you wish, Chrysoberyl.”

  There was a light shuffling of feet, and I gulped. Then came a strange, mechanical noise.

  RIIIIIIIIING. RIIIIIIIIING. RIIIIIIIIING.

  A digital recreation of long-gone analogue phone ringing made me jump. The sound came from a pocket in my hoodie, taking me completely off guard. I calmed down about as quickly as I was startled, but the damn thing was blasting my ears. Exhuming the device, the caller ID popped out in glittery letters.

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  Of all the times, it had to be now, Mom?!

  CLANG. CLANG. CLANG.

  Something metal was striking the steel nameplate with even more force than before. My imagination filled in the blanks on what the object might be, and I didn’t like what I came up with.

  RIIIIIIIIING. RIIIIIIIIING. RIIIIIIIIING.

  “Agent, open the door or I’ll shoot my way in,” the sweetly feminine voice said, almost sounding like she might be a sweetheart had I not heard the rougher, harsher tone from before.

  RIIIIIIIIING. RIIIIIIIIING. RIIIIIIIIING.

  “Come quick□y, Agent Mockingb□□d. She isn’t one fo□ jokes,” the man said, surprisingly calm despite their companion pulling out a gun in an uptown apartment complex.

  “Three!”

  RIIIIIIIIING. RIIIIIIIIING. RIIIIIIIIING.

  “Two!”

  The ringing stopped.

  “Stop counting, I’m coming!”

  I may have damned myself, but if she really had a gun, I’d probably not benefit from having my door broken. The landlord would definitely not be happy, even if he was relatively easy to persuade most days.

  “There you are! I knew that would work.”

  “I was just taking a nap! You can’t blame me for being disoriented!”

  I swallowed my discontent and approached the door. When I finally opened the door, my eyes met the candy blue of a tall blonde woman. For just a moment, I wondered if some amateur fashion model had decided to pay me a visit; but then I saw a pistol. I’m not exactly familiar with firearms personally, but my little brother had shown me this one enough times for me to recognize an M1911. Seeing one under these circumstances, it was bigger than I remember. In a weird way, I felt like my brother had done me a favor now—not that trivia about firearms would help if this goes badly.

  Despite the terror that I was finally about to become a crime statistic, I really couldn’t help but wash in this woman who towered over me at just under 5’9”—175cm. Odd as that may seem, she was adorned in a pretty red-and-black dress with a short shawl draped over the shoulders. Not of the modern trends, but almost traditional were it not for some elements of modernization—not the least of which being her skirt cutting off slightly above the knee. Whatever the inspiration for this design, this outfit most certainly did not suit my lonely part of town.

  There were a few outstanding details that must have been stylistic choices; those being the collar piece that held the upper portion of the dress in place, the detached sleeves set just above her elbows and hanging down to her wrists, and the ribbons that tied up her hair into twintails. As if not wishing to be outdone, her feet were actually in a set of lower-length high-heels, but the real eyecatch were the black ankle cuffs, which were also tied by red ribbons. It definitely straddles the line between a cute doll and a sexy actor, that’s for sure.

  “Well, aren’t you cute?”

  The woman went thuggish to mellow instantly. I realized then that I was shivering.

  “Good e□ening, Agent Mockingb□□d.”

  The man spoke again—w-wait, is it a man? I mean, there was definitely something that had the overall shape of a man dressed in an extremely professional suit standing behind and to the side of the woman. Where the average man always stands well above me, this fellow was absolutely monstrous, at the very least 7’8”—235cm. The only problem was his head, which was most definitely not that of a man. It was completely black and covered in down, and the front gave way to a large black beak. From the neck down, he was indeed a man, but he had the head of a bird—a crow or raven. My head hurts.

  The outfit I could definitely fathom. It was a nicely-tailored three-layered suit—a nightmare on a hot and humid night I see most of the year—composed of a dress shirt with tie, a vest, and an open suit jacket over them. I checked to see if he had feathery hands or bird talons, but he wore polished dress shoes and equally shiny black leather gloves.

  “G-Good evening, I guess. May I ask what’s going on?”

  “It’s sho□t notice, but you □□□ ou□ contact fo□ □□is city. We’□□ be needing you□ suppo□t.”

  “What?”

  “I told you no one can understand your goddamn babble. They shoulda sent me one of the others who A) isn’t a bird, and B) doesn’t sound like he learned English in 15 minutes—”

  This woman, Chrysoberyl, said something that I almost swore should be offensive. Despite that, the avian-inclined man ignored her, keeping an eye trained on me.

  “—Anyway, he said we’re here for your support.”

  “What support could I provide to you, exactly?”

  “Guide. □□e Agency has impo□tant wo□k to do in □□is city, Agent Mockingb□□d—”

  Yep, he’s definitely saying Mockingbird. I’ll note that for later.

  “—We’□□ be needing you□ suppo□t.”

  “The birdtalk is hurting my ears,” Chrysoberyl grumbled, “basically, you’re an expert we need for the stroll we’re going on tonight.”

  “Oh, right. I guess I am an expert, aren’t I?”

  My lack of social skills over the past few years was not helping me one bit. The Agency was definitely my employer, and I had read plenty of field reports, but I did not realize I was ever going to get pulled into a real one. Again and again, my eyes were drawn to the birdman. I’d not call the feeling I felt now “fear”, but I definitely misjudged the Agency. Some part of me still liked the idea that the Agency went hard on its LARP—but how far do you need to go to fake this?

  “Wi□□ you be ab□□ to perform □□e job?”

  He’s asking if I can do the job? That’s a hard question to ask. Truth be told, I’m a bit overwhelmed, but something deep down pushed me along.

  “I think I can do that,” I answered, my voice small and meek. It’s actually perfectly normal, though I don’t expect strangers to know that about me.

  “Huh, I guess you do understand him. That’s good,” Chrysoberyl said, “Let’s not waste time, then. You been to the Gold Quarter lately?”

  “Not lately, but I know the way. That’s a pretty famous red light district,” I answered, fighting back my light trembling, “uhm, but right now it’s basically dead. The curfew completely killed it, so most of the businesses are shut down. The ones still open are pretty much for locals only.”

  “Figured as much, but that doesn’t matter to us. We’re not going to catch a break just because the sad ol’ government wants us in bed by seven. It being dead is good for us, actually.”

  “I don’t really think I’m the most suited for that place, just so you know.”

  I tried my very best to inflect my tone as that of the “dumb innocent child” that I was fairly good at since back when I was an actual child, but almost the moment I threw out the last word, the bird-headed man made a sharp noise with his beak. He spoke words too, I guess.

  “We’□□ not □ooking fo□ a ba□, on□y a □oca□ wi□□ some sma□ts. □□en □□ere’s you□ repo□t on □ampi□□s—”

  Nope, I can’t make heads or tails of what he just said to me.

  “Your Vampire Report, Munchkin,” Chrysoberyl interrupted, clearly frustrated with the messy speech of her partner, “you already know a lot of the rumors and stories, so just bring what you know and we’ll do all the work.”

  “That sounds fine, but—”

  I came up with three excuses right off the top of my head, but each of those was shot down immediately. Even the one about me fearing for my life was met with a harsh (translated from birdspeak) “Your life is for the Agency before yourself.” At the very least, the two of them gave me a chance to get some of my things ready. I had nothing specific that I’d want to bring, but I really needed a moment to think. Sadly, even that wasn’t much help because not more than a couple seconds after closing my bedroom door did I hear a hard knock and sharp declaration.

  “Try and keep it under five minutes, we need to get this done before morning and we don’t have a car.”

  I gave a vague response, then went to check my computer, sifting through messages as quickly as I could. In my short absence, most of my channels were busy. Sadly, it was just about a riot somewhere in the west. With nothing useful there, I decided to distract myself by heading to the closet. My outfit was essentially just sleepwear, so I at least changed into bottoms that wouldn’t drag on the nasty-ass walkways and grabbed some shoes with thick heels, mostly so I don’t feel as short next to the pair outside.

  “One minute left, Munchkin.”

  I flinched at the nickname, but I let it be. The stressful time limit did help me think more clearly, at least. Yes, it reminded me to bring that one particular item with me. I’m not religious, but I still spent the greater part of my remaining time digging in my desk’s bottommost drawer to pull out a small, silver—or maybe stainless steel—cross. The connection with vampires aside, Mom gave it to me insisting it would keep me safe while living on my own. Is there proof? No, but there’s a bird-headed man in my apartment, so keeping myself fully grounded wasn’t easy.

  The moment I tossed the cross into my hoodie’s spare pocket, I decided to go for one more thing. Thanks to my funds, I own three computers. One of them is a very small touchpad with a flat sheet of a keyboard slapped onto it, something I only use when I go out. Chrysoberyl and the Birdman brought up my vampire research. That report had been written using notes on this device, so it was only poetic to take it with me. As quickly as I could, I slipped it into its little carrying pack and made my way back to the apartment’s main hallway.

  “You’re slow,” Chrysoberyl said, scanning over my slight change in attire, “Dolled yourself up in there, huh? You got something flashy under the hoodie?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I retorted, but I suspect it was the skirt and leggings she was looking at. Makeup would be nice if I wasn’t so sure no one cared since martial law kicked in.

  “No□ does it matt□□, □et’s go.”

  “Gotcha, gotcha. You’re a slavedriver, Karasu.”

  Now I have both names. Chrysoberyl is the demon woman with the gun and the dress. Karasu is the birdman with the very warm-looking butler suit. They’re easy enough names to remember, probably because they’re just code names. At least, I sure hope “Karasu” is just a code name, if memory serves to what that word means in English.

  The two of them remained well ahead of me and departed for the entrance. With nothing else I could think to bring along with me, I dared to leave my safe little grotto and head out into the brightly-lit hallway. When exactly was the first time I left my home at night? Even before the mass assassinations across the country, I was always scared to go outside in the dark. If I had nothing to eat, I refused to head out to even the convenience store a short walk away.

  New Armagnac has been my home for half my life, and it was a city known for its nightlife, but I never cared much about that. Now, with most of the city still dead since early March, it was so much worse. It was not unlike diving into a deep, dark, and most insidious well. I stopped walking a couple of times on the way out of the apartment, flashes of a memory cutting at my optical nerves. When the door closed behind me, I could almost swear my body was screaming at me.

  I’m not coming home ever again, am I?