Mission Log 003 - Too Many of Me (1)
Thursday night ends, and the morning of another workday dawns. On days off, the boss doesn't come in, but on workdays, he's already there by the time Arthur wakes. He still rises at Bellwether's schedule. After washing up and shaking off the lingering unease, he hears faint construction noise from outside the on-call room. He opens the door and steps out to find Yoon personally replacing the sensor above the auto-door.
Yakyeong isn't exactly a big corporation, Arthur thinks.
"Already in, boss?"
"People whose lives sync to Bellwether's clock are all the same. Good morning, Arthur. Ah, want to test it?"
Arthur steps up to the door, and it finally recognizes him, sliding open. Looks like a standard motion sensor replacement. Nothing major, but a smile tugs at his lips anyway.
"Now even the door's treating me like a person. Didn't expect it'd feel this good."
"The door seems popular with the staff, but complaining about it? You're the only one who's seen where Eve hangs out off-hours."
More than anything, that sense of respect reignites his drive to keep going, even after Bellwether kicked him out. Downing about ten beers over two days probably helped too—smiling comes easier now.
"Eve's just a regular person. Ah, heading back to training. Gotta finish those materials you gave me in a month at least. Basics are non-negotiable, right?"
The problem is, mercenary work doesn't leave much room for leisure. His phone buzzes before he even reaches the VR training room door. The other employees probably have alerts popping up in their vision via neural implants. The emergency gig Yoon mentioned. Yeah, days off are definitely over. Location: the clone brothel. The same cheap hotel where he'd plastered flyers. "Half the price, half the human rights"—he still remembers that slogan crystal clear.
"No time for training. Gearing up."
Black combat suit, balaclava. Strapped over it, a ballistic mask with skull-like holes for eyes and nose. Carbine at low ready, safety on, muzzle down. He steps out. Valentina's already in the lounge, prosthetics swapped for combat models. With the office drone whirring to life, that's Kay too—four ready to roll. Yoon's fully in work mode now, her voice coming through the in-ear comms linked to the channel.
"Briefing en route. Hostage situation at the clone brothel. One clone prostitute grabbed a guest's pistol and is in standoff with the establishment. Building's walled high to prevent clone leaks. Suspect's set to minimal self-awareness, so brothel suspects external control—requesting live capture."
They're in for an ugly sight. Only way to confirm control is to crack her open. Regardless, this'll tank their customer numbers.
The armored van peels out of the office lot. They scoop Kay from the nearby apartment village, then slice through rush-hour traffic. This counts as urban security maintenance—quasi-police work. Traffic laws turn from rules to suggestions; signal lights bow to Yakyeong's van broadcasting its Bellwether contractor badge on every vehicle's HUD.
Bola's voice chimes in his ear, synthetic and crisp.
"Enzo picked up. Heading straight in. Any peculiarities?"
"Negative. Victim hired four clone prostitutes last night. External scan shows just one leading the show. Live-capture that one."
Luxury night turns to oversleeping, then nabbed by a rogue clone. Prime suspect: someone slipped in while he slept and planted a controller.
"Victim's a standard salaryman. Regular user. No red flags in the records I got... Kay, dig if the brothel might want him gone. Like, tried smuggling a clone or something."
In mercenary work, the client can be the real enemy. Unless it's Bellwether posting publicly, better not to trust their word blindly. Client and merc aren't boss-subordinate.
"On it. Keep briefing, boss."
Kay's uncharacteristically calm and clipped. If yesterday's reflection wasn't empty talk, that's good for him.
"Copy. Key note: guest filed three complaints from midnight to dawn about one clone 'resisting.' Resistance means self-awareness surfacing. More convincing it's defective from the start than hacked post-delivery. Objections?"
That's why she's eyeing the brothel. Bad clone from the outset? Their fault's bigger. Calling mercs would just be passing the buck.
Kay again. Office hours for desk jockeys now—field team's job is executing on-site.
"Checked. Nada. Typical 30s single: blows cash on games and streams, rents a few clones on bonus months to play king for a night. No reason for the brothel to off a regular."
"Agreed. Sounds like clone defect... Bola, Enzo ETA?"
Arthur grips his carbine so the muzzle doesn't point at Valentina in the driver's seat, sorting his head. Live capture means leg shots if firing—tricky. Guns kill, they don't subdue.
"Four minutes out! Your side?"
"Three left. Get on-site and hold off-laner ready. Rifleman One, confirm ETA."
Eve. Her comm carries the growl of her bike tearing pavement. Not nearby, so opposite direction.
"Ninety seconds. Checking for omitted intel from contacts."
"Good. See you on-site."
He learns from watching them move like clockwork. Reviews site intel again. Fifth floor. Balconies mean he can climb. No assault repels prepped, so bounding up beats waiting.
His role: flank. Needed again.
"On arrival, I'll hold balcony for negotiation breakdown. Got flashbangs?"
"Affirm. Distribute on-site, Off-Laner."
Clean. This hostage won't outpace a flashbang.
He clenches his trembling hand, steels himself. The van hits site in magical three minutes flat. There's Eve: tight pants, baggy flight jacket over basic plates, helmet on.
She nods curtly.
"Boss, client gave full info, no omissions. Once Enzo's here, I'll go up with him. Even for live cap, grabbing a sniper perch?"
Yoon shakes her head. If it's true self-awareness, a sighted rifleman would agitate more. Goal's capture, not kill.
"Negative. Minimize visible weapons for live-cap request. Kay, get security to evac any guests, reinspect all clone prostitutes."
She's an ace spotter first, field commander second. Knows how to filter chatter.
Arthur heads to first-floor balcony, tests the rail with a tug. Solid enough for his weight, no creak. Eyes the building. Flashy hotel facade, but those walls scream prison. To clones—DNA scrambled beyond recognition till they're just copies—it's no different.
"Balcony confirmed. Quiet climb viable, but hostage room..."
He tenses his aiming correction cybernetic eye, sweeps the fifth floor. Only seventh and eighth windows curtained.
That room. Two windows per suite means 504.
"504. Holding balcony."
Yoon hands over a pair of bundled flashbangs from the van. Same handling as Bellwether's. Reassuring.
"Good. Enzo, negotiate. If it sours, draw eyes from window. Off-Laner infiltrates."
He vaults to second-floor balcony, pulls up. Springs straight-legged to third's underside, grabs, vaults again—suddenly braced against 404's living room window.
Peers in. Standard: bed, wall display. Like his old hotel. Bed straight ahead, flanked by nightstands. Beyond: separate toilet and bath. Hiding from shots? Probably bath.
Right window? Shifts, checks. Playroom. Soundproofed for the kinky stuff beds can't handle. Infiltrate there, grab the clone stepping out toward bath.
Confirms. Thumb neck-mic switch, whispers—inaudible upstairs.
"Interior layout confirmed. Ready to breach on order."
One more floor up, leans casual against the wall bulge between living room and playroom.
No shakes, no wobbles. That's the Posthuman series.
Bola's pickup truck rolls up top. Enzo clutches his briefcase as ever. Eve escorts him rushing inside.
"Negotiator entering."
Confirmed. He whispers, waits. Footsteps start inside his wall soon. Every nerve taut. Misses nothing.
Knock. Irritated shout from within.
"Piss off!"
Enzo's voice, meek and cowed—perfect to make the perp feel dominant. Give 'em one edge, something to gain, and clones negotiate. Reality sinks in slow. Just don't let 'em despair.
"Ah, hello. Uh, Enzo Casety, negotiator from Yakyeong Mercenary Agency. Wh-what about you?"
Starts with name. Panicked reply from inside. Clones have no names. Just numbers. "Names" are product models.
"I, I'm... none of your business!"
"All I know is ending this hostage thing, that's it. So, hostage-taker. Only one in the building, right? You?"
Enzo sees it as identity crisis. Cloning's systematic, but not flawless. Defectives happen.
"Hostage-taker... not great, but it's mine alone. Th-this fucker kept calling me by number!"
Thud—pistol body striking flesh.
Enzo startles. Perp's emotional. Real clone ID issue?
"N-no, can't do that. We're here to find a way. Left everyone outside but one guard. For real. Any demands?"
Pure bullshit, of course. Arthur's one wall away.
She ponders demands, spits nonsense.
"Buy me and let me out. Place is full of braindead Bellas! I'm different. Not like these trash clones. I think for myself. Can't stay... but I'm not dumb. Can't walk out. So buy me and release. That's it."
Good no chopper or million-credit ask. That'd be peak stupidity for a clone pulling this.
Can't recall Bella models—never scoped a clone brothel.
Negotiation's going smooth. Probably.
"Buying freedom, got it... Could you come to the door? Show you our contract. Proves it's live capture, not kill. Release hostage, short detention, then free. Sliding in the holo-generator."
Enzo sounds accommodating, but the channel feed to Arthur's the opposite.
"Off, Off-Laner... Door lure confirmed, throw flashbang and breach. C-can you live-cap?"
Thumbs mic, whispers.
Enzo's no pure bleeding heart. Especially not for naive clone perps.
"Affirm. Breach on door approach confirm. Permission?"
Grips the paired flashbangs. Preps window, leans on balcony rail. Voices inside.
"Bella-7137, scan waves with his detector. Just us? Good..."
Calls another by number while raging at her own. Footsteps cross carpet. Curtain twitches—he confirms.
One clone aims pistol at corner, heads to door. Faces identical, no distinguishing.
Back to wall, mic whisper.
"One more prompt. Armed, but clones look same externally."
Enzo nails it. Voice still quavers—his "calm."
"At the door now? Sliding it in, no worries. Real holo-gen."
"Show it quick! I'm freaking out too."
Door clone speaks. Arthur cracks the balcony window, lobs the bundled flashbangs inside.
Breach time.