Coff-ee
The white-haired girl and I are having a stare contest.
Which is impressive, since she's blind. A disability that was left in the history.
Her clothes scream researcher—that sterile white fabric that costs more than my entire wardrobe. Then I spot the armband: silver paint of an opened eye, either crying or bleeding. Can't tell which company that is, but it's definitely not Lavendera.
And she's researcher? Maybe being blind is her weird way of being unique since she could've heal that easily if she wanted to.
"Mister." Her voice cuts through the perfume pollution. "Alias."
I look down at my ID. Then back at her unseeing eyes. Right.
So this meeting isn't a coincidence.
My stomach chooses that moment to growl. Loudly.
"Mr. Alias?"
I stay quiet, using her blindness to play ghost. Maybe she'll think she imagined me.
But then she starts sniffing around
"Mister Alias, would you like to come with me?"
I see, she can see with her nose. I guess I am compromised.
"Busy," I lie. "Very important... standing."
"Your stomach disagrees."
So it was my stomach making a sound earlier.
"Wasn't me, must be one of the people walked pass us."
We go back and forth like this for a while. Light banter, they'd call it. I call it inevitable defeat.
"Let's grab a coffee," she says finally.
And like an idiot, I follow. Still in my battle-worn gear, smelling like burnt spider and desperation. She leads me deep into the city, away from the main thoroughfares, until we stop at a place called "Hand Ground."
It's the least machine-dependent place I've ever seen. Actual wood furniture. Real plants that aren't plastic. The air smells of roasted beans instead of disinfectant.
A waiter appears before we even sit, placing a cup in front of the girl. No order taken, no words exchanged. Seemed like she's been here before.
"Nothing for me," I say when he looks my way.
"My treat," the girl offers.
"I don't take money from a girl."
She smiles faintly. "I might be older than you think."
The waiter vanishes. Silence settles between us. I want to ask a dozen questions, but my experience stops me. Employers hate curious freelancers. They want obedient tools, not thinking ones.
She breaks the quiet first. "I'm a regular here. Not because I like the coffee." She takes a slow sip. "Actually, I think machine-brewed tastes better. More consistent."
Her voice stays low, each word deliberate and clear.
"I drink this because it's made by human hands. It's flawed. Sometimes bitter, sometimes weak." Another sip. She looks genuinely content. "Do you think everything should be replaced by machines? Even human organs?"
I blink. That escalated quickly.
She continues, "It might be the best way to counter the Infection. Since it only affects biological humans."
I study her while she talks. White hair, blind eyes, pale skin. She looks fragile, but there's steel in her posture. This isn't a casual question.
*Replace human organs? Sure, let's all become perfect little machines. Because that always works out so well.*
"I'll keep the flaws," I say finally. "The mess. The... humanity."
Her lips twitch. "Uncle is right about you."
Uncle? What uncle?
"Mister Alias," she leans forward slightly, "do you truly believe what you're saying?"
I shrug. "Might not. Can't even trust myself most days."
It's the most honest thing I've said all week. My choices? They're not logical. Not planned. I follow gut feelings and heartbeats, stumbling from one disaster to the next.
She smiles properly now. "I wasn't looking for you when we met on the street, you know."
I wait for the punchline.
"I was waiting."
"I was waiting."
For what? A bus? The apocalypse? My inevitable demise? With my luck, probably all three.
She reaches into her white coat and pulls out a folded piece of paper. It's crisp, official-looking. The kind of paper that usually precedes bad news or life-altering decisions.
*Here it comes. The sales pitch. The recruitment speech. Do you have a moment to talk about our lord and savior, Corporate Overlord?*
"Mister Alias," she says, her voice still that low, deliberate monotone. "I've been waiting to give you this."
She slides the paper across the wooden table. It lands between us like a challenge.
"I believe the contract will answer your question why am I here."
I pick it up. The paper feels expensive. Thick. The kind that doesn't crinkle easily. *Of course. Nothing but the best for my impending doom.*
I unfold it. Legal jargon stares back at me. Dense paragraphs, clauses, sub-clauses. My eyes glaze over immediately.
*Let's see... party of the first part... hereby agrees to... yada yada yada.*
Then I hit the important bits.
**Contract for Services: Agent Mercenary and Research Subject**
**Employer:** White Eye (that silver crying-eye logo makes sense now)
**Employee:** Alias (C-Class Freelancer)
**Term:** Indefinite, pending procedure success
**Compensation:** See Appendix A (which is a number with so many zeros I have to count them twice)
*Okay, mercenary work. Standard stuff. I've signed worse. Probably.*
Then I keep reading.
**Procedure:** Surgical implantation of cardiac-based anomaly designation "Gift of Desire"
**Purpose:** To combat the accelerating Infection crisis through direct symbiosis with Echo-class entities
**Risks:** Mortality rate: 97.3%. Neurological dissolution, physical disintegration, spontaneous combustion... you know, the usual.
*Cardiac-based anomaly. They want to mess with my heart. Literally.*
I look from the paper to her blind eyes and back. *Well, that's one way to get to a man's heart.*
The mercenary part is normal. Hell, it's my job description. But the test subject role? That's new. That's the kind of thing you don't walk away from.
I know what this is. It's a suicide mission wrapped in a paycheck. The credits are... astronomical. Life-changing. Enough to clear my debt and buy a small island. If I lived to spend it.
*What use is money if you're dead?* It's a philosophical question I've pondered more than once. Usually when staring down something with too many teeth.
But then I read the preamble again. The Infection is growing faster. Agents are dying. Just like yesterday. Just like always.
I think about Flare. About the Spider. About all the teams that didn't make it. I'm expendable. We all are. But if I'm going to go out, maybe it should mean something. Maybe this way, I can actually contribute. Even if it's for nothing, at least it's a choice.
*Yeah, that's the desperation talking. But hey, when has listening to that voice ever steered me wrong?*
I reach for the pen she's placed on the table.
"Is the credit is that much that you an Agent sign to be a test subject?" she asks, her head tilted.
*What do you care?* But I don't say that. Instead, I think of Solar Center. The sterile smell, the debt, the hopelessness.
"There's a kid named Leo in the hospital I just been," I say, starting to sign. "After the procedure, you can give the money to them."
*Since I'll be dead anyway.* The thought is surprisingly peaceful.
She furrows her eyebrow. "Are you sure Mister Alias? This is a lot of credit we're talking about. It might help you in the future."
*In the future where I die? No thanks.* "Just keep it anonymous."
*Wouldn't want the kid to know his benefactor was chopped up for science.* She nods, understanding. Or at least, pretending to.
She takes the signed contract, folds it neatly, and slips it between the pages of one of her white books. Then she turns her face fully toward me. Her blind eyes seem to focus somehow.
"Are you ready, Agent Alias?"
*Ready? For what? A heart operation in a coffee shop?* I'm a little taken aback. She expects me to fulfill the contract now? Right here?
I shrug. What do I have to lose? My dignity? That left me at the Spider incident. My life? Apparently, I just signed that away.
Then she asks the weirdest question yet. Her voice drops, taking on a tone of final confirmation.
"How high is your neck based on my face level?"
I almost laugh. *Is this a trick question?* I'm sitting, she's standing. I look up at her, a teasing reply on my lips. "About... here?" I gesture vaguely at my collarbone.
Swoosh.
The world tilts. My perspective shifts violently. I'm looking at the coffee shop from a weird angle—sideways, low to the ground. I see the girl, her white hair swaying, a double-edged sword in her hand now gleaming red. The glass window beside us is painted in a vibrant, arterial spray.
I haven't had a clue where that kind of sword just appeared.
But you know what? I'm not hungry anymore.
My head is separated from my body.
Well, I think, in whatever consciousness remains. That's one way to solve hunger.