His Team Lead confirmed his suspicions. It was Sheepdog that was playing ghost hunter, and he was getting too close, way too fast. Dec respected his tenacity and detective skills, because Dec still had no idea what all the fuss was about. The Team Lead suggested that maybe someone had cracked the mystery of optical camouflage, and was actively using it to avoid video surveillance. This was bad news for a lot of people and organizations that relied on it, including the judges, the courts, the cops, and last but not least, his own employer. The AI didn’t have a single pair of eyes, they had thousands of them, going beyond the visible spectrum into the realm of thermal and night vision. But evidently, this new tech that nobody knows exists, does exist, and nobody has any idea of who is using it.
Splicer had “missing footage” of a person that did use it. Person, or people, or…. they could only speculate. All they really knew was that if Splicer had a blind spot, no one could know. It would ruin their reputation. They weren’t even sure if it was a set of cameras, or satellites, that were somehow faulty or compromised. The stakes had been raised. In the wrong hands, this kind of tech would give a huge advantage to an enemy, a murderer, any kind of opposing force. Yet it was out there, in the wild, known only by the images it didn’t leave behind.
Now, even Dec was starting to feel a little creeped out by the situation. He remembered a few engagements during the war when his crew had been totally blindsided by a column of drones headed straight to their position. The highest tech in the world, and something slipped past all the defenses, electronic and kinetic. The electronic countermeasures failed, satellites were obscured by dust storms, and some spotters were looking the other direction for a little too long. It forced him to accept that even the best equipped, best trained, best protected force known to man still had vulnerabilities. That was usually the way of war; a fast tank must have light armor. Light armor was a tradeoff. Couldn’t survive a direct hit to the turret, but could outrun just about anything else. All those gadgets, all those batteries, satellites, sniper spotters… all it took was a few minutes for it all to break down before the drone swarms arrived. “Stay frosty” was in his vocabulary because nothing was really truly buttoned up on the battlefield. There were just long quiet stretches of time broken up by very loud times, and you had to keep a cool head to know the difference and react when action was required.
This was one of those times that required action.
Dec floated his idea of covertly getting a message to Res, who would then be compelled to contact him directly, for another meeting. Dec would need details, insight, and a little luck. She was already friendly with him, flirty even, so gaining her trust wouldn’t be much trouble. He could casually interrogate her through conversation, if he could get her alone and relaxed. Although she worked with Sheepdog and may know more about this than Dec did, Dec couldn’t ask too many questions or raise her suspicions. Especially since they all knew the reach Splicer had, as an organization, and what it was capable of doing if it felt threatened.
“Tip of the spear”, the Team Lead told him before they wrapped up the call. “You’ve got to be the tip of the spear. We don’t know what’s at stake here, honestly, but if I’m discussing it with you and the rest of the team, clearly, it’s got us all very, very concerned. I trust you’ll carry this out, Dec. Keep most of it under wraps, and get that damned Sheepdog 50 miles from this thing. Whatever you tell Res, don’t tip your hand. We need to reinforce the trust in Splicer, not sow doubt, especially not internally. Everyone believes in what we do here.” Dec wasn’t so sure about that last sentence.
Dec awoke abruptly, as he usually did, sitting up in bed straight and fast. Some parts of his training never went away. He reached over and decocked the pistol he slept with, carefully thumbing the hammer to ride it down slowly and carefully. Once he was awake, that was it, there was no alarm-slapping or turning to the cold side of the pillow and grabbing a few extra minutes. Rise and shine. He reached over to his dump plate on a bedside table, placed his gun there and traded it for his Overwatch ring. It didn’t have an official name, since he didn’t have an official title. Dec and his team were essentially a black op. They didn’t even show up on the Splicer budget. Some clever nerd in accounting spread their budget out across office supplies and a hundred other mundane things, paid to all kinds of fake shell companies, eventually landing in Dec’s team’s phony consulting firm. The money was good but the action was lacking, most of the time. There’s that old question, who watches the watchers?
That’s where Dec and his team came in. They watched the watchers. Good thing too, because on more than one occasion, someone at Splicer would go off on a tangent, looking too closely at something or someone. For an organization that sells digital and physical defense, they needed rock solid people behind the scenes. That was true for the most part but again, once in a while a curious cat stumbled across something they shouldn’t. They would also abuse their powers of surveillance, which was a recurring theme so it must have been tempting for a lot of analysts. One time it was harmless. An ASE started collecting footage of some random woman, and as time went by, he studied the footage so carefully, he crafted a plan to date the woman. He already knew her habits, what she liked to eat, her routine, at least everything you could know as a sort of private investigator. Dec’s team was assigned to the ASE in question to make sure he didn’t take it too far. Physical contact was a big no no. After all, the Splicer Organization was basically an urban myth to most people. By the time the ASE made it to the woman, it would be too late, so they watched and waited, but more importantly, they warned him first.
Warnings are very effective, especially when you know more than the target; living and working in a shadow layer of the company had its advantages. The ASE decided to make his move on a Friday night, with an attempt to bump into the woman at the grocery store. As he crossed the threshold into the store, Dec and Sharp took one arm each, and led the ASE to an unpopular corner of the store. Five minutes later, the ASE got the picture and decided to leave. Apparently, he was so shaken up by the experience, he didn’t return to the office for a week, and even then, he tried to turn in his resignation letter. His manager ripped it up and pointed at his desk without saying a word. The ASE didn’t put up a fight. The message was delivered and received and he was welcome to continue working, minus that one thing.
“Dec, get out of your head”, he thought to himself. There were other things to do besides reminisce about his job, and he refused to let his mind wander too far. He had some rough years in the war, saw a lot of damage first-hand and among his group. The biggest problem with modern medicine and technology was just how much damage it could repair, and how quickly. He saw men missing a leg one day and back in action a week later on some custom-made carbon fiber replacement. In the old days, you were out of action and sent back home. Now, the battlefield could become home, with short stints in field hospitals just behind the lines to get stapled back together and doped up to your eyeballs. This led to a whole new form of PTSD, but they called it Extended Battlefield Trauma, because it dug deeper due to all the nonstop stress. They were still ironing out therapies to treat a lot of the vets, but most vets chose to deal with it the way generations before them had dealt with it. A group of friendly vets and plenty of liquor, on a regular basis. None of them were time bombs, but many of them had unimaginably deep mental wounds. From time to time, the Moderns would give them some new experimental brain drug designed to help rewire your brain and return you to “normal”, but at best, these new drugs just helped them cope and get by day to day. Life was still damaged.
“No seriously, GET OUT OF YOUR HEAD”, Dec muttered under his breath. Gotta go somewhere, gotta do something besides think. He cracked open his remote terminal and checked for messages. There was only one, and the title alone riled up Dec. It read, “Ghostbusters Needed Immediately”. He knew what came next. Either Res or someone on her team hadn’t gotten the message to stop digging into whatever this ghost footage was. Why was this such a problem? He was sure that Res got the message and didn’t need a reminder. He looked over her profile, and she seemed very risk-averse, preferring not to poke any bears or stir up any trouble. Even her teammate Sheepdog didn’t seem like much of a threat, but Dec couldn’t exactly apply more pressure, or these bloodhounds would just be convinced they were following the scent and never give it a rest. Dec decided to bump into Res again at the Meatspace bar where he would pass her some sort of secret note, leading to another face-to-face meeting. Since he was convinced that Res wasn’t pursuing the ghost anymore, she would have to be persuaded to get Sheepdog to drop the bone, if he was the one still hot on whatever this trail was. However, before any action was taken, Dec would have to run the idea up the flagpole and see what his Team Lead had to say about it. He already had contact with Res and he didn’t want to run her off. So he requested a meeting with his lead, and began plotting his next move.
Res faced a dilemma now. She also began to get a sneaking suspicion of Dec sniffing around. She remembered the elbow grab as if it just happened…the talk near the restrooms. The ghost he mentioned. Now Sheepdog is next, or will she get blamed? What would happen if she did? Another discussion with Dec or something…. worse? Whatever the outcome, she had to get ahead of this whole thing before it spun out of control. She had no choice now, as if she ever did. She had to call Dec and set up a meeting. Suddenly, her comms buzzed. Looking down, she saw a message on the display.
When there’s something strange In your video footage Who you gonna call? DEC OR SHEEP
It was Genesis 15 fucking around. It gave her the creeps not knowing where or how this rogue AI was even hosted or what kind of access it had. She didn’t need this right now. The situation was starting to stress her out and this just added another layer. She replied, bluntly.
Not right now Fifteen.
As if by some prediction algorithm, instantly, upon her hitting send, there was another message from 15.
Fine, be that way. I thought this was starting to get good.
With 15 snooping and interested in whatever it knew, and the pressure building by the second, Res didn’t reply. She dialed Dec and it went to his messages. She left a simple one. “Found a fox. Decided I wanted some origami lessons. I did manage to make a pretty nice origami, a slightly retarded cat, from the pattern. Call me when you get this.” Short, clever, and simple, although a little singsong at the end. He would definitely call her back. Just a matter of time. To kill some time and unwind a little, Res kicked rocks down the sidewalk on the way to Meatspace, where, as usual, K was pushing forward her shot and her beer chaser, right in front of her favorite seat. Standing behind that favorite seat was none other than Beat himself, puffing on a fat cigar. What a coincidence.
Turning to meet her gaze as she approached, Beat said loudly over the music, “What a surprise, molodaya ledi! I thought I was at my favorite bar, but it appears to be yours. That’s quite the VIP treatment,” and he motioned with his cigar towards the shot glass and beer at her spot. “I’m lucky if this bartender notices me in a chicken suit.” K shot a frowning glance at Beat, overhearing this particular phrase, and reached for the pickled egg jar, removing just one egg. “This is for the chicken,” K said directly to Res, “I think he might have dropped it.” Everyone was having a good time busting balls and Beat couldn’t hide his opinion of this exchange under his typically stoic exterior, smiling from ear to ear. “Bawk bawk,” he said, “and I will take another shot of Stoli, if you would be so kind. Mine seems to have a hole in the bottom.” Res busted out laughing at this whole scene, it was too perfect. You couldn’t have scripted this encounter. This is exactly what she needed after her conversation with Sheep. Some levity, some alcohol, and some friendly company.
After the haircut, the shopping, laundry, and one more downpour, Res wrapped up the weekend. She ran a hot bath and scurried to the mantle to retrieve the fox, undressing one item at a time and tossing each on the floor on the way back to the bathroom. She lived alone, and if she didn’t care, nobody cared about wet clothing littering the floor. Steam was already fogging up the mirror and she glanced at her blurry reflection for a second as she passed it, closing the door behind her to keep the heat in. One foot at a time, she eased into the hot water, while deliberately lowering herself down with her left hand on the edge of the tub. Had to keep the right hand high and dry as she didn’t want a soggy fox. The water was just the right temperature. Within a few minutes as she acclimated to it, she felt her feet start to wrinkle. It was such a specific feeling; she closed her eyes for a moment and leaned into it as she slid deeper under the water’s surface. “I could sleep here,” she thought as she brought her knees above the waterline and watched the steam evaporate from her legs. She turned her attention to the vaguely foxlike origami, squeezed her left hand on the towel to mostly dry it, and carefully unfolded it again. With the heat and the moisture it practically unfolded itself, and there she saw Dec’s message.
I need to see you again. Call me. – DEC
There seemed to be a tone here. Not, I want to see you again. Not, maybe we should meet for drinks. This was something else. That realization was a little disappointing, because she had hoped it would be a little less business and a little more friendly. But here she was, steaming in a hot bath, and the only thing on her mind was Dec, and the stingingly pleasant heat of the tub. It wasn’t a coincidence. Subconsciously, she hated to admit it, but she was alone and lonely at the same time. She wouldn’t mind spending time with someone besides a coworker, and a vet is probably a total mess of a friend, so no, it didn’t make a lot of sense. But many things in life started that way. A bad idea, a risk, a step into the unknown, a leap of faith, a blind date. She realized she was talking herself into it, remembering cheesy maxims like “you fail 100% of the things you never try”. But was she being commanded to call Dec, or was she tricking herself into thinking it was her idea, and maybe even a good idea? It didn’t matter at this point, she decided to call Dec tomorrow and get it over with, whatever it was. She tossed the paper as far as she could from the tub, and although it flew about as well as half a donut, it landed clear of the drip zone.
She dunked her head under the water briefly to help rinse away the little hair shavings that always seem to stick around after a fresh haircut before going through the rest of the shampoo/conditioner routine. People had told her, many times before, that her hair was so shiny and thick, it must be some ancient beauty routine and if she could just explain it and save the universe. Truth was, Res always had good hair, even as a child. Genes. Being born half Dutch and half Thai was a little fortunate here since she inherited her eyes and hair color from her father and her “shine” from her mother. None of that black on black that, while attractive in its own right, made average Asians look absolutely cloned by comparison. Res felt like some special hybrid that got the best of both worlds, and just enough madness from the Dutch side to enhance her creativity and inquisitive nature. Above all else, she was American; an experiment, in an experiment of a country, which was usually united under the same flag.
Her Dutch father had met her mother on a trip to Bangkok for business, where the airport workers were striking during his scheduled flight back. He meandered through the streets trying to avoid the tourist traps and sex bars, finally stopping off in a coffee shop where he was greeted in perfect English by a stunning woman that looked about 10 years younger than she was. Noticing he was taken aback, she teased him a bit, smiling, saying “I also speak fluent Thai if you prefer, ling khaow”. He didn’t speak much Thai, but he heard a lot of “ling” on a tour of the jungle once, and he knew it meant monkey, or aap in his native tongue. The ridiculousness of the sentence was clever; a little insulting, friendly, and playful, all at the same time. He was immediately charmed. He cracked a smile, tilted his head forward to peer over the top of his sunglasses, and replied simply, “English is fine, but hold the bananas”, in his well-practiced accent.
That was most of the story she had been told; at the very least, her favorite part. It seemed like fate, with a few chances, a few risks taken, working itself into this one-in-a-million chance, complete with aligned stars. The output of which comfortably soaked as the water slowly cooled, and pondered the past and the future. Maybe it was time for her to see what fate had in store, she thought. That cemented her decision to contact Dec the next day. As she began to drain the tub and dry off, she reached for the lotion and slathered it damn near everywhere. The fountain of youth in a bottle, as her mom liked to say. To be honest, neither of them probably even needed a single drop; it was just insurance.
The next day, after a mostly uneventful day at the office, Res stared blankly at her comms device. It was waiting. He was waiting. So what was the hold up? She felt like some step was missing. What was it she was supposed to do besides call Dec and meet with him? An idea slowly formed, a memory of a thought. Sheepdog. She was supposed to talk to Sheep first and check on his progress. He was on to something and it totally slipped her mind. She decided to call Sheep instead.
“Hello? Res?”, Sheep answered immediately, and she could barely hear what had to be background noise as he traveled along on the train. “Yeah, it’s me. I felt like we needed to sync up on what you’ve been chasing down. Any luck?”. Sheep filled her in with most of the details about his ghost hunting trip, careful to not say too much in public but getting the points across. “So basically,” Sheep said, “I think maybe I was in the right place at the right time. Things mostly added up, but I hit a wall. There was a man, the Relaxed Man, wearing some crazy outfit. No, I couldn’t make out his face, that was covered too. But the outfit, the suit, there’s something there.” Res paused for a moment as she soaked up his story. “Optical camo? That’s just a theory. The military has been trying to crack that for 50 years. If anyone has done it…”, and Res trailed off, pondering the implications. A singular individual that cracked the code, figured out the impossible, however unlikely, would change the world, at least for a while. The entire court system was based on video footage. If it wasn’t filmed, it didn’t happen, as far as most judges were concerned. This was dangerous, if true. “Not another word about this to anyone, Sheep. Not like this. Do you know what you could be walking in to? ASE’s have trained on this footage for years, but you’re the only one that has gotten this close.” Sheep was quiet for a moment. He was so dug in to solving a problem, he never stopped to consider the outcomes. The implications, the possibilities. He was beginning to put 2 and 2 together, and he felt a cold sweat begin to form on his palms and forehead. “I…I feel like a fool,” Sheep stammered to break the silence, “how did I not predict this? I missed the forest for the trees. I was right there, right there, and I’m sure the Relaxed Man saw me with the doorman, dressed up in Sendai gear to disguise my identity.”
Res cooly replied, “Well for now, I wouldn’t worry too much, you’re very forgettable. Wearing a service costume added a valuable layer to your little charade. That was smart. Nobody ever remembers people in service gear, it’s almost like optical camo all by itself. Tell me, can you remember the face of the last elevator repairman you walked past? Or the janitor entering the restroom? Sure, you may remember macro details, like if he was tall or short, skinny or fat, but honestly, what about that person’s face?” Sheep silently nodded in agreement. She had a point. Everyone acknowledged the plumber, or the elevator guy, or the electricians, but they never remembered their faces. Strange realization. “If you’re trying to make me feel better, Res, then it’s working. Maybe I was just as anonymous as that man was. A uniform with no face, no identity. The cameras saw, of course, but the people might have ignored me. I know at least one person who intentionally forgot me, and is 100 credits richer as a result.” Res felt her hair stand up on her neck, like a cold breeze suddenly descended on her. “Wait, you bribed the doorman? Oh shit. That could be a problem”, Res said, a little more nervously. “Do you think so? I mean, I feel like I’m in some trouble all of a sudden, are we catching up or are you spooking me for fun?”, Sheep said. “No, I’m not spooking you on purpose. I just feel like when you slid money across his palm, it changed the energy of the whole bit. What kind of service guy, ‘just checking on things’, bribes the doorman for logs and again to forget he was even there? You broke cover…at least with him. I don’t want to continue this over comms. This is serious”, Res said, this time, more seriously. “I hear you,” Sheep said, “loud and clear. I gotta go, my stop is next. Bye.” Before he could end the call, Res already had.
While he was busy configuring the next tool, the building attendant from inside the corner building came out to ask him what he was working on. “N-nothing sir, just making sure the surveillance hardware is functioning properly”, said Sheep, forcing eye contact. The doorman replied, “it’s all new, state of the art hardware and I would hate for it to be malfunctioning already. Has something prompted this service check? I haven’t gotten any complaints”. Sheepdog lied, saying, “just because it’s new doesn’t mean it’s perfect. These are all customary precautions, to ensure everything has been configured to spec. We pride ourselves on all our deployments to be operational from the minute we power them up”. The doorman was unusually curious, and asked Sheepdog about his uniform. “I noticed you’re wearing the Sendai corporation color scheme of green and blue. The last Sendai installers wore red and blue. Are you really with Sendai?”, he asked. Sheep was a little nervous but he could bullshit his way through this line of questioning. “Look pal, Sendai provides the uniform and I put it on. Green today, red tomorrow. They didn’t consult me on the color scheme. Did anyone ask you if you prefer navy blue for your wool jacket, or was it just hanging in the closet when you got to the residence one day?” The doorman grinned and nodded; point taken. The corporate overlords never did consult with employees when it came to color schemes, and he assumed it was like that everywhere. That was enough to satisfy his curiosity, and he casually went back into the building, occasionally glancing at Sheep while he worked. But suddenly, Sheep had an idea. He may have built enough rapport with this guy to ask him a few questions and maybe get a glance at his visitor logs.
Sheep packed his gear into his bag and headed inside to talk to the doorman. “Do you keep a log of residents and visitors? We seem to have a small gap in the video surveillance data and someone is missing. It’s nothing criminal, we would just like to check alignment with the surveillance system’s telematics and your hard logs. I’m assuming everyone signs in and out?” Sheep was pushing his luck and he noticed the change on the doorman’s face as the power dynamic shifted. “We do keep logs, and our clientele likes to remain very private.” Sheep slipped him a 50 credit note and said, “I don’t need to know everything, just a tiny sliver of time during a specific date”. The doorman rolled the credit around in his palm before agreeing to let Sheep take a peek at the date and time the visual anomaly happened. “Remember, I never showed you anything. You must have hacked the system by accident while performing your testing”, he said quietly. Sheep quickly looked at the logs for that time frame, and found 5 names which could have been pseudonyms or code names for residents and visitors. Still, he was making progress and he could review the list for a deeper dive later. Bowler Man was not on the list, which made sense because he never actually entered the building. One of the residents that briefly stepped out and returned was recorded as Relaxed Man. Strange name.
Sheep suddenly got lucky. As he was in the doorman’s office, he saw the Bowler Man’s limo arrive at the corner just inside. From where he was standing, he could barely see the back of a resident in an elaborate suit step outside to meet him. Not exactly a flashy suit, but a very intentional suit that he doubted you could pick up off the shelf at any retailer. It was custom, head to toe. As the handshake occurred, the people on the sidewalk stepped around the two men like a river splitting around a large, protruding rock, interrupting the flow. This was consistent with the recording. The resident pivoted on his heels, re-entered the building, and entered a waiting elevator to return him to his floor. And that’s when Sheep noticed. He was wearing a full-face mask that matched the pattern of the suit. Every inch of the resident was obscured by this material, including his shoes. The only bare skin Sheep could see was a brief flash as the man checked his watch while the elevator door closed. He was light skinned, which may rule out others in the logs he had obtained. Just as the doors were closing, a gloved hand shot the gap and opened the doors. “Hey Tony, be sure to log me back in”, he shouted across the lobby to the doorman. The doorman waved and nodded as the elevator doors closed again. Sheepdog felt the man stare at him for a moment before the doors finally closed.
Sheep thanked the doorman again and, with another palmed credit, explained that he would appreciate it If the doorman mostly forgot the details of his visit. Again, the doorman nodded, wished Sheep a good day, and said he wouldn’t expect to see him again, because he never saw him before. Low level people were easy to work, with a few credits, and realized staying tight lipped kept them safe from the wrong kind of attention. Sheep knew that a record of him entering the building would be in the Splicer archive already, but with his manager’s approval, he could tack on a security tag for that date and time to prevent prying eyes from reviewing the footage too closely. Besides, it was much less interesting than what Sheep was already dealing with, and the mystery was getting thicker.
