Duty Log 002 - A Fitting Result (3)
"Then, see you tomorrow at 9 a.m. I want to say 6:30, but given the time..."
Eve left only the appointment time behind and vanished into the parking lot. A single bike streaks away, leaving a line of fading headlight glow. I decide not to track its position with a glance. The boss has already clocked out, leaving just Valentina and me in the on-duty rooms—and since they're separated by a wall, I can at least crash in my own little space. Small mercies.
But then, intermittent sounds come from inside the wall. Like a small object lightly tapping the thin partition. When I approach and tap back, it stops for a while. Is the building older than it looks? Doesn't matter. I pull out my phone and review the incident files the Supervisor had Stephanet shove into it—orders on the organization behind it all.
To any group, a splinter faction brings peace. Even Zaina announced that while they oppose Bellwether Corp's human experimentation, this terrorist act was the work of radicals... and it stuck. Weird. The intel team accepted that rebuttal without cracking open the spokesperson's skull—or the Zaina leader's—to verify. No matter how many times I turn it over, that's suspicious.
After that, it was smooth sailing. Zaina handed over the list of those splinter heretics, and even if they saw their names etched on the net, Bellwether's strike team wiped them out effortlessly. Wiping out happens when there's nothing left to learn. When there's more, it goes to intel processing. No one's buying that those heretics used a dating app to approach Francis and usher in ten armed intruders. One was even a mutant.
Am I sliding into conspiracy territory already, or is this bigger than I think? Hard to say. But claiming Zaina radicals uncovered that biotech abomination—something even I, a Bellwether employee, didn't know—on their own? That's delusion. They had no way to find out. Not a single one.
One possibility: a whistleblower inside Bellwether. Someone siccing Zaina on us to expose the unethical, inefficient biotech horror to the world. And the voice from inside is easier to pinpoint than the one leaking from outside. Intel grabs the whistleblower... no, wait. Nothing happens under the branch chief without orders. Intel doesn't move on its own initiative. They're not people; they process tasks. They don't pull brains from skulls to read gray matter—they extract storage from devices and unpack it. Forcing them to move? In Bellwether, that's no joke.
Besides, if there was a whistleblower, contacting HQ directly beats using Zaina. The world didn't know about that biotech horror. Covering it up is simple. The easiest way? Infiltrate Zaina. I've got all the quals to make them drool: no cybernetic implants, and I can hide the augmented body if needed. That's why that Zaina member outside the hotel recruited me.
The shell rots last. To check if fruit's spoiled, peek inside—fastest way. Problem is, can I stomach it? Back then, if Bola hadn't slapped her, I'd have done it myself—and not as gently as twisting her neck. Better to try. I scan Zaina intel sources floating on the net, noting tomorrow's recruitment spots—what they call "campaigns." I'll go with Eve. Hope for surface-level intel, but fat chance. The world's business happens in the dull, dry reality between fairy tales and nightmares.
That's the plan. Better than spinning in circles like I promised Eve. At least no embarrassment. With that settled, I finally drift off on the hard cot. Posthuman IV bodies pull normal eight-hour sleep efficiency from four hours. I crash around 5 a.m. and wake past 8.
Did I thrash awake? Don't remember. Hearing Valentina's breathing next door, I hit the showers, clean up, and wait for Eve in a plain black tee—sans Bellwether bell logo—and leather jacket.
She arrives through the auto-doors in the same getup as our first meet. I pull my awkwardly pocketed hand out when she enters. No chill at all.
"Morning, Arthur. Punctual as ever. So, investigation plan?"
Her clipped business talk carries an odd warmth. Maybe because she skips my name and niceties.
"Slept rough last night, dug around online. Saw Zaina members hyping an event: old international sports footage from pre-implant days, preaching pure humans aren't inferior—just our original form. It'll devolve into futurism and hot-blooded zeal eventually. Figured I'd sign up there."
Her gaze lingers quietly. Like she knows there's more—or maybe I'm overreading. I come clean.
"Goal's to test if I can stomach not decking them. Way more revulsion than you think, senpai. Block me if my fist clenches."
"I'm no mutant who can barehand a Posthuman IV, Arthur. Blocking's your job. If even that's iffy, skip it. Thoughts?"
Honestly, today I need headspace over rushing in. But unanswered questions fester. Rest day or truth step? Truth wins. Holidays tomorrow too. Fail today? Rest double tomorrow.
"I got this. Last time a Zaina guy spouted that creepy nonsense right in my face, recruiting—no punch thrown. No reason today'd be worse."
Eve's brow furrows slightly—annoyed, or scrutinizing? The look holds, then she speaks cool and flat.
"I warned you. If you insist, I'll tag along. You ride?"
"Bellwether security trains even desk jockeys on two- and four-wheelers—got my license in college. Oh, and traffic law says Posthuman III and up skip helmets. Lower fatal head/neck risk in most crashes than helmeted drivers. Shrapnel's still nasty, though."
I'd prepped that, but her eyes sharpen—like a glare that could kill. One word:
"Wear it."
"Uh, yep."
Monologuing crushed in one syllable—like getting owned by Kay. Can't refuse worry, though. I don the universal helmet. Face hidden again. Even for non-driving security, practice boosts promo odds to better-pay depts. Thought security favored experience over training—my bad.
Helmet on, I lock the office. Door won't budge solo again. Eve's bike is stock: plain white, no mods, blending in over flash.
Sky's clear-ish today—blue peeking through. Weather drones trying smog settling? Success, then. Clear smog, and LA's sun-soaked again. Or not. Blame weather for bad, selves for good.
Decent for Zaina not canceling. Head to central LA. First spot's prime: Zaina campaigns thrive in ritzy areas. Hit downtown first.
Only the wealthy enough for fine threads try masking ugly faces with "righteousness." More like geisha caking.
As expected: solid campaign site. Zaina tent before Farmers Tower—Farmers Corp's smog-fighting drone HQ? Blunt. Some exec fucked up big, needs good-PR smokescreen.
Staff screw-up: internal audit and security. Board: chairman's guard. CEO: Market Keepers.
Free-market crusaders in gold-black power armor, chanting laissez-faire like scripture. Corps don't fear states anymore, but Market Keepers pierce the fog. Always. High-society drama—not my lane.
Park nearby, hook helmet on handle, head in. Zaina's caricatured hand-holding logo sours my mood. Grit teeth. Zaina's not evil. Mostly decent folks questioning if we're over-machining ourselves.
Issue: poor management. Some peddle "de-aug surgery" scams linking to implant thieves. These members? Normals. Without today off, they'd clock in at Farmers Tower behind, or live quietly elsewhere—not yelling "ditch the machines!"
Self-hypnosis works. I step up.
A Zaina handing coated flyers spots me, homes in. No cyber-eye, corrective glasses: pure human. Hate eases. I don't hate her. Hunting my life's sinkers isn't irrational. Inefficient, even. That word relaxes my eyes.
She smiles, approaches.
"Hi! Saw you heading this way—here for Zaina's campaign? We timed daytime for mercs like you, who need implants for work and ignore us otherwise. And merc life's all bravado, right? Plenty treat pure humans like weaklings."
Reality-aware activists. Rarer than corps without past baggage.
I muster a smile—output efficiency. Optimal strategy: feign disinterest first. Agree too quick, they bolt. Play hard-to-get, snag last.
"Nailed the timing. Holiday, out with a company senior. But mercs hate know-it-alls preaching like superiors, y'know?"
She flashes her Farmers Corp badge. Preach-hate? She bails annoyed. Empathy? Proceed. Security uni judgment training pays off.
"In this libertarian hell, who likes lectures? No pushy instructors inside—just browse easy."
Latter. Safe to enter.
No big campaign interest, but she chatters on.
"Try our VR: feel peak athletes from science's crude era. Impressive stuff."
Entry scanner for ID. Wallet chip's fine. But surprise:
"Natural humans are beautiful. We won't forget that fact. Identity confirmed, Arthur Murphy."
Why install corp-grade ID scanners naming names? Looks like ripped Farmers Corp model. Eve's already scanned; same voice.
"Natural humans are beautiful. We won't..."
Speaker's small. I palm it with Posthuman IV grip, ushering Eve first. Voice muffles into shock-absorbing skin. Zaina rushes up—"Don't touch the speaker!"—but at least no dredging senior's bad memories on this dull probe.
Eve freezes, knowing the welcome. Exhales shaky, enters. Eve's from Hollow Creek. No one escaping that hell-on-stilts wants street-called by that name. Didn't expect this bad. She needs a beat.
After dozens of seconds steadying, I expect "Cover on exit too." Nope.
"Thanks, Arthur. Bigger help than you know. Really."
Cool exterior, but startles easy. Emotions flare fast... maybe misjudged the chill too soon.
For normalcy, I VR-hop athlete recreations. Perfect baselines, but meh against my frame. Eve relaxes after a few. Personal—don't pry. Watching her dulls my hate. No need eyeing Zaina.
Old clips done, sign the roster—purpose hit. Regular meets? Infiltration gold. Or spam dues/donations. Latter fine: Zaina won't dent rep; junk folder.
Set pen down, exit time. Then a gunmetal prosthetic arm—blue tracers glowing—reaches over. Familiar voice:
"Pass the pen, Shepherd Six."
Shepherd One. Bellwether security chief. Reported direct via comms; voice sticks.
I play dumb.
"Can't hand pens to ghosts, Shepherd."
Only one guy wraps Zaina terror that neat: security chief. Gruff reply slips.
He shrugs it off.
"Ghosts don't get callsigns. Arthur Murphy, Yakyeong Mercenary Agency grunt. Take side gigs?"
Now I pass the pen. Rephrase.
"Chat over real tea in a cafe? Sure. Bellwether chief asks? Can't refuse. What's the job?"
"Tea in a cafe. Got words on the Bellwether impersonations."
Had to get hooked. Back exploded shrimp, but whale-free? Long haul. Sigh, nod.
A fitting result closing in on me too.