[From the journal of Captain Arthur Hastings]
It was a fine, crisp afternoon, and I had begun to feel the four walls of our hotel suite closing in upon me. The air within was thick with theory and stratagem, a miasma of intellectual intensity that can become quite suffocating to a man of a more practical and active disposition. With Poirot absorbed in a deep study of the Kido case files and Holmes lost in a cloud of his own tobacco smoke, I decided that a brief constitutional was in order, a simple walk to clear the head and stretch the legs.
The streets of Tokyo were a ceaseless river of humanity, a spectacle of such novelty that I found my thoughts drifting from the grim business of our investigation. For a few blissful moments, I was not an unwilling participant in a hunt for a supernatural killer, but merely Arthur Hastings, an Englishman abroad. It was this momentary lapse in vigilance, I suspect, that was my undoing.
One moment I was admiring the curious architecture of a department store, the next, a black van had swerved to the kerb with a screech of tyres. The side door slid open with a violent hydraulic hiss. Before I could even register the danger, two figures, their faces obscured by grotesque, smiling masks, had seized me by the arms. A cloth was pressed over my face, the scent of chloroform sharp and sickening, and the bright, bustling world dissolved into a black and silent void.
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The ransom message arrived not as a call, but as a data packet, a whisper that bypassed the hotel's main security and appeared directly on L's terminal. It was a short, looping video of Hastings, unconscious and bound to a chair, a single red apple placed mockingly on his lap.
Dr. Watson sprang to his feet, his face ashen. "Good God!" he cried, his voice thick with horror. "Arthur! Where is he? What do they want?"
Hercule Poirot was utterly still, his usual fastidious composure shattered. He stared at the image of his friend, his knuckles white where he gripped the arms of his chair. He looked as if he had been turned to stone, the shock rendering him momentarily speechless.
Amidst the rising tide of human panic, Connor was an island of absolute calm. He did not react with emotion. He simply turned his head towards the screen, his optical units glowing a faint blue as he began to process.
To the others, he was merely watching the video. But in his mind's eye, a storm of information was raging.
ANALYSING VIDEO FILE…
COMPRESSION ALGORITHM: MODIFIED MJPEG. UNCOMMON. CROSS-REFERENCING…
METADATA: SCRUBBED. TRACE REMNANTS OF GEOTAGGING PRESENT…
AUDIO SUB-LAYER: 60HZ HUM DETECTED. CONSISTENT WITH AGING INDUSTRIAL WIRING. BACKGROUND AMBIENCE CONTAINS REFLECTED SOUND SIGNATURES OF CORRUGATED METAL…
VISUAL DATA: DUST PARTICULATES IN AIR. SPECTROGRAPHIC ANALYSIS… HIGH IRON OXIDE CONTENT. CONSISTENT WITH WAREHOUSE DISTRICTS…
SOURCE IP: MASKED BY SEVEN PROXIES. TRACING… PROXY CHAIN COLLAPSING…
In the space of three seconds, a three-dimensional map of Tokyo appeared in his internal vision. Thousands of potential locations were highlighted, then extinguished in microseconds as conflicting data was eliminated. The IP trace, the audio signature, the dust analysis… they all converged on a single point.
Connor turned away from the screen, his expression as placid as ever. "They are in a disused shipping warehouse in the Roppongi district," he stated, his voice cutting through the panic. "Block 7, Pier 4. The precise address is now on your map."
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I awoke with a throbbing head and the coppery taste of fear in my mouth. I was in a vast, dimly lit space, the air thick with the smell of rust and decay. My hands and feet were bound tightly to a heavy metal chair. Before me stood a half-dozen figures in those same, awful smiling masks.
My mind, I am ashamed to say, began to run away with me. I am a man who has seen the horrors of the Great War. I have faced enemy fire and seen things no man should ever have to see. But this was a different kind of terror. This was not the honourable combat of the battlefield; it was the cruel, intimate theatre of madmen. My thoughts raced through all the grim possibilities of torture. A simple beating, the breaking of teeth… or worse. To be locked away, without food or water, left to slowly waste away in this forgotten place.
A figure stepped forward from the shadows, and the others parted with a palpable reverence. It was a woman, her form lithe and sinuous, her face hidden behind a stark, white porcelain mask. She introduced herself not with a name, but with a title, her voice a low, seductive purr that made the hairs on my arm stand on end.
"Welcome, Captain," she said. "B.B. is so very pleased to finally meet one of the famous detectives in person."
She ran a gloved hand over my chest, a gesture that was both intimate and deeply menacing. I confess, to my great shame, that I flustered a little. For all the terror of the situation, she possessed a certain, undeniable sex appeal, a dangerous grace that was both alluring and reptilian.
"We have been told that you English are known for your stiff upper lip," she murmured, her finger tracing the line of my collarbone. "We are so very curious to see how stiff it remains when a few of these go through it." She held up her other hand, and between her fingers were three, terrifyingly long and slender needles. "They would slide between the ribs so perfectly. A few precise little lung ruptures. You would not die quickly. You would simply… bubble."
The colour drained from my face. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat of pure, unadulterated terror.
It was then that the world exploded.
The great metal doors of the warehouse burst inwards with a deafening crash. A dozen figures, clad in black armour and carrying weapons of a most formidable design, swarmed into the room. The word 'FBI' was emblazoned in white across their chest plates. A storm of gunfire erupted, the sound so loud it was a physical blow. The masked figures who had been my captors fell in a crumpled, lifeless heap.
The next thing I saw, through the acrid smoke and the ringing in my ears, was that the woman was gone. Vanished, as if she were a ghost.
A new figure entered the room, stepping calmly through the carnage. It was a boy, no older than fifteen, with a shock of perfectly white hair. He was dressed in simple white pyjamas and was surrounded by the heavily armed agents, yet he moved with an air of absolute authority.
He surveyed the dead cultists with a look of mild disappointment. "A pity," he said, his voice quiet and high-pitched. "They failed to retrieve Akane." He then turned his unnervingly intelligent grey eyes upon me. "And you are? What is your name?"
L's final instruction before my ill-fated walk echoed in my mind: Never reveal your real identity. My hand fumbled in my jacket pocket for the false identification with which we had all been supplied. I handed it to him.
Just a moment later, I heard familiar voices calling my name. Poirot, Watson, and the others rushed in, their faces a mixture of relief and horror. For the first time since I have known him, Hercule Poirot threw his arms around me in a fierce, desperate hug. He quickly recollected himself, muttering something about "order and method" as he straightened his tie, but I had seen the genuine fear in my friend's eyes, and it moved me deeply.
I turned back to the boy who had, for all intents and purposes, saved my life. "Thank you," I said, my voice still hoarse. "May I ask, what is your name?"
He looked at me, his expression unreadable. "Near," he said simply.
As he spoke, his gaze drifted past me, towards the entrance of the warehouse. L was standing there, half-hidden in the shadows, his hunched figure a stark silhouette against the harsh light from outside. He had been about to walk away, but the boy's voice had made him pause. Near's calm, almost robotic, expression suddenly changed. A flicker of something I could not name—nervousness, awe, a deep and profound confusion—crossed his face.
L, too, seemed affected. He stared at the white-haired boy, and I saw his thumb press against his lips, a familiar sign that he was in the grip of one of his strange, deep moments of déjà vu.
"Excuse me," Near said, his voice now uncharacteristically hesitant as he took a step towards L. "Have… have we met before?"
L's gaze was distant, lost in the echoes of a life he could not remember. "I cannot recall," he said slowly, his voice a low murmur. "Though I have heard the name. The American task force. You are the one they call Near." He tilted his head, a strange, analytical light returning to his eyes as he truly appraised the boy before him. "I imagine, if we had known each other, you probably would have been a good learner. Or perhaps, a student of mine."