Ch.203031 Work Record – High-Value Asset (4)

Looking out the window, the city of Charleston appeared… ordinary. The polluted river that once carried the wasteland’s contamination had been buried, leaving only traces behind. Skyscrapers filled the cityscape, with almost nothing beyond the urban limits.

Cities have become so stereotypical now. They might have once had their own unique characteristics, but they’ve undergone such extreme convergent evolution that their differences are gradually disappearing.

It wasn’t completely barren though. Most trees resembled reddish dried-up husks, but they still somehow maintained traces of what was once a forest. The nationalists were making their own efforts too.

I could pass through Pathfinder’s checkpoint at the airport easily, but there was a separate inspection station run by nationalists afterward. I thought things might get complicated, but my expectations were pleasantly proven wrong.

At the nationalist inspection station, an android from New World Communications—the same company I’d seen when investigating Noah’s prank call—was waiting with a sign bearing my name.

After confirming my face, the android approached me with somewhat jerky movements. It extended its hand for a handshake. I gently grasped it and shook.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Arthur Murphy. Our New World Communications Charleston branch welcomes you with 73% approval. Minority opinions were considered but are irrelevant to you.”

Direct democracy’s spokesperson existed here too. And the approval rate was lower than expected… because I wasn’t here for their benefit. Because they were being used.

Outside the airport, the sky was beginning to take on a reddish hue as the sun prepared to set. After a quick glance, I mentally reviewed my fake assignment once more before responding.

“I understand why the approval rate isn’t very high when bringing in an outsider during a management dispute—unanimous agreement would be difficult to achieve, Spokesperson.”

“Thank you for your understanding. Since you’re invited by New World Communications, the inspection will be brief. Afterward, a prepared vehicle will take you to our Charleston branch.”

As a freelancer certified by two megacorporations, I would normally face extensive scrutiny from nationalists, but the checkpoint officer only performed a simple document check before letting me through.

One shouldn’t get used to privileges. Becoming accustomed to privilege is like becoming accustomed to a greenhouse—no matter how tough you pretend to be inside, you won’t survive outside.

I head to the parking lot and cross the city in the car prepared by New World Communications. Outside the window… ordinary yet not-so-ordinary urban scenery passes by.

The appearance itself was similar enough to justify the term “convergent evolution,” but I noticed almost no one with implants. Most were purists. They were using auxiliary tools like phones.

There weren’t many pedestrians, so it could have been coincidence, but the reason I was hired also had to do with the lack of visible modifications. It might actually be the norm here.

Otherwise… the city looked somewhat outdated. My sensibilities might differ from the locals, but it resembled scenes I often saw in documentaries about Belwether’s founder.

Analyzing the information gradually coming into view, I arrive at NWC’s Charleston branch. After getting out in the parking lot, I’m once again guided by an android to a meeting room on the 89th floor.

The elevator’s display screen was showing advertisements. Probably public service announcements. It showed ordinary men and women. The woman had a rather crude prosthetic arm.

The screen showed her naturally using that prosthetic arm to hold hands, embrace her lover with both her prosthetic and natural arms, and stroke a child’s head… then came an unexpected message.

“Love cannot be contained in a modified body. For your sake, for those you love, and for those you will love, stay away from illegal body modification procedures.”

It was strange… showing people living naturally with modified bodies and then claiming that love cannot be contained in modified bodies. Do nationalists feel repulsed by those images?

Before I could ponder further, the elevator arrived. Opening the glass door labeled “Meeting Room,” I saw a long rectangular table with rounded corners. The display on the wall behind it was turned off.

Only one person was sitting at the conference table. He wore jeans, a shabby t-shirt, a rather thick coat… and slippers. Despite Charleston’s temperature being just 2 degrees Celsius.

With messy hair pushed back to reveal his forehead and an unkempt beard, he flashed a half-smile as soon as I entered. He didn’t look like someone who cared much about formalities.

I examined him leisurely. His dark brown eyes weren’t modified parts, and his hands were those of an ordinary person. A purist. I didn’t know what term nationalists used, but to me, he was a purist.

He rose from the table and approached me. As I naturally took his extended hand and shook it a couple of times, I heard a rather slick, perfunctory voice.

“Ah, our Donnie Brasco has arrived. I got the report from Eli. Just… well, call me Jeff. Got any questions?”

“My call sign wasn’t Donnie Brasco, was it?”

I naturally asked about this unfamiliar name, and he made what seemed to be a perplexed expression.

“Huh? Well… you might not know. It was an FBI operation name from before the war. No, wait. There was definitely… a remake of the fact-based movie just last February. Never heard of it?”

I turned on my computational assist and searched the net, finding a movie about an agent who infiltrated the Las Vegas Strip. It seemed to be a term used to mean an undercover agent.

Soon, Chance transmitted information about Operation Donnie Brasco. Originally… it was an operation from long before the war where police infiltrated the mafia. The meaning was as I had inferred.

“I’ve never heard of it. I usually spend my holidays training. Is it important?”

Jeff, or the man whose name happened to be Jeff, stroked his grizzled beard and nodded.

“It is important, in its way. Let’s put Donnie Brasco aside for now and start with something simpler. Do you know the Jayden Bradley series? You know, about the corporate intelligence infiltration agent?”

“I’ve never… heard of it. Not once.”

“No, you must know this one. The one where people always say, ‘Good God, it’s Jayden Bradley!’ whenever he does something. You look completely clueless. Then…”

He mentioned several more movie series names, but I didn’t recognize any of them. After this meaningless exchange, he nodded with a sigh.

“You really don’t know any of them. Alright. Let’s try a different approach. Tell me about TV shows, movies, or books that you do know. Do you understand why this is important?”

“I do. We’ve only talked about movies so far, but it’s obvious there will be even more topics where we don’t connect at all. Infiltration requires befriending those around you first.”

When asked to mention things I knew, I brought up the Serena Vanderbilt series and the Callsign Gardner series, but Jeff immediately grimaced.

“Because of those fucking Restoration bastards’ mess-ups, even departments like ours that shouldn’t handle domestic issues are working our asses off… Well, at least you know something. I was worried you might not understand popular culture at all.”

I was quite curious what expression he’d make if told the real culprit was right in front of him, but I kept quiet. Instead, I chuckled at his suggestion that I might not understand popular culture.

“Surely you know that even corporate intelligence people aren’t that inhuman. You seem like someone who’s dealt with quite a few of us.”

“To us, a twenty-three-year-old volunteering for work that involves killing people by the hundreds is what counts as ‘that inhuman,’ Donnie. When did you first kill someone?”

“In college. I went out from the dorm at dawn to buy beer when a robber came in. He didn’t see me in front of the beverage refrigerator, so after confirming he was alone, I shot him.”

Jeff let out another chuckle, as if astounded. He wiped his forehead and looked back at me.

“I can’t even imagine such a scene. So, what did you feel after shooting him dead, Donnie?”

“If I had to say, it was concern. I immediately ran to the convenience store clerk who had been held at gunpoint. He was trembling with blood splattered on him, so I wiped off the blood first and reported it to Belwether’s mobile unit right away.”

“You’re humane in strange ways. That’s what they say about all you corporate intelligence types. Still, for your willingness to sacrifice yourself to maintain order, well, I can give you some respect.”

His words seemed to hide the implication, “That’s what I do too.” I analyzed slowly. Not standing on ceremony in this setting meant there was no need for it.

His lack of restraint in speaking meant he was the one who decided what was acceptable to say and what wasn’t—that he was someone who could say anything.

“Let’s go get dinner then, Donnie. You’re not some cyborg monster who needs to be locked in a cage, right? No need for video materials or anything.”

Meals should be eaten three times a day, or at least twice. Skipping breakfast and having lunch and dinner would be the norm. I calmly reminded myself.

As I naturally moved to follow him, he pointed at the small evil deed hanging at my waist with a slick smile. He clicked his tongue and shook his head.

“You’re dressed like you’ll get reported every three steps, Donnie. You can’t hide it inside your clothes either, so put it in the car’s glove compartment or something. You drink, right?”

“I only live like a monk when I’m not working. I’m working now. Besides, I don’t get drunk, so there’s no satisfaction in feeding me alcohol.”

He burst into comfortable laughter and headed for the elevator. We went down together. A city where many people owned guns but few carried them—it was time to see a city where my small evil deed didn’t belong.

The differences weren’t that great. Here too, the sky was gray, and the cold air carried an acrid smell. Unlike Los Angeles where I started, the smog wasn’t as thick.

Even in this weather, about half the pedestrians wore masks with filters. I’d never been close with purists in Los Angeles, so I couldn’t tell if this was normal.

I got into Jeff’s car. It was a neat vehicle that didn’t match his appearance. After sitting in the driver’s seat and setting the auto-drive, he reclined and said:

“Ah, first we’re going to meet the FBI agent you’ll be working with. Since we don’t know who’s corrupt, we’ve cut everyone out and brought in just one rookie who’s been on the job for three months, so don’t worry about it.”

“That’s similar to my freelancer experience. So, what will the agents be doing while I’m undercover?”

“We’ll be collecting evidence too. Donnie, your priority is to find the whistleblower once you’re inside. If we find evidence first, you just need to clean up. Oh, right. We’re still creating your identity…”

He transmitted an authentication file with the name Matthew Collins to me. It seemed they had only prepared the name in advance. Matthew Collins, Matt Collins. A common name, easy to remember.

More important than remembering it was responding to this name. It was crucial to react to this name instinctively, like turning my head when someone called “Arthur.”

“We were thinking of implanting a chip, but how could people who don’t allow modifications say, ‘This is an ID, so we’re going to cut open your skin and implant it’? Store it in your computational assist. And…”

The car drove a bit further and stopped in front of a downtown hotel. Among the passing people, one person stood still. It was a woman with dark brown bob-cut hair, dressed in a neat suit unlike us.

Before the door opened, Jeff added one more cautionary remark. The basic setup couldn’t be forgotten.

“That woman over there is who we’re meeting. An FBI agent. A typical nationalist. She’s your textbook. Understand? She’s just a supporting role in the operation anyway, so it’s good she’s found some use.”

With a half-sneer, Jeff unlocked the door, and she got into the back seat. Jeff, half-reclined in the driver’s seat, said in a casual voice:

“Donnie, this is FBI Agent Ines McKinsey I told you about. Agent, this is Matt Collins who will help us infiltrate Madeline’s Lot… Officer? Not yet. Someone we’re recruiting straight out of college.”

She extended her hand to me, and this time I shook it lightly. Again, it was a hand, not a prosthetic, and eyes, not artificial ones. After gently poking my hand during the handshake, she said:

“Despite your build, your skin is… quite soft. No, that’s not right. I’m FBI Agent Ines McKinsey. Matt, why did you want to become a police officer?”

A police officer. I recalled Serena Vanderbilt and Ryland Winters. I had plenty of references for that term. I also remembered Belwether’s security team.

But they were all corporate intelligence people. Even Serena and Ryland were once nationalist police officers. I needed to speak more naturally.

Nationalists are family-oriented. When retrieving Chance, Agent Julia Pereira also asked if I had no family. It would be smoother to naturally mention family.

At the same time, I needed to gain trust with a single statement. Like the saying that slaves obey, machines produce, and only humans enjoy—it would be better to make an intuitive, simple statement. My deliberation ended in half a second.

“My mother always told me to be a good person, and my father told me to be a person of action. So I decided to become someone who takes action for good causes. Becoming a police officer, and this decision, are no different.”

It was just improvisation. The mother who told me to be a good person was just Panacea Meditech, the father who told me to be a person of action was Belwether… and I was just thinking of Mr. Günter who told me that humans enjoy.

Jeff’s eyebrow twitched. If he knew me, he would know I had no family resembling the nationalists’ ideal family model. He chose not to react.

Agent Ines seemed pleased with my answer. She smelled of clean perfume. Textbook answers receive textbook responses.

“The truest words are often the simplest. The situation at Madeline’s Lot isn’t so simple, though. Still…”

“Ines, it’s nice talking with our Donnie Brasco, but hey, I brought this friend out to feed him dinner, remember? Shall we get moving? You know the restaurant, right?”

Was Jeff hiding something? Or was he just cutting off a lecture for my benefit? Ines reached toward the front seat and entered an address into the vehicle, and the car started moving. It was retro-style.