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“Very well. Finish the current assignment first, and proceed to investigate the target further. Only then any substantial plans can be made.”
“I shall do so. I believe this great coincidence can lead us both to a grand success.”
“Huh? Don’t get careless. The best course of action is to eliminate them as soon as possible. You should be capable of that in the metaverse, no?”
“Of course, but, sir, don’t you think that catching them in the act would bring a greater boost to both our reputations? The capturing of such elusive criminals would pave a smooth road for your campaign.”
“Not with the way public opinion is currently it won’t.”
“Well of course, we’d have to play our cards right. If we act according to my plan, the country will be left in a state of peace as you enter the office. You would be branded a symbol of that state. That wouldn’t hurt, would it?”
I await his response for a beat, one more, and then realize that the line has gone dead. I put the phone away, my hand burning through the coat pocket with a sort of jolting nervousness and a bone deep frustration he always pulls out of me.
I’ve talked down to everyone I’ve ever met and they never noticed; having to be showered with the same treatment from the only man in the world who I have to walk on eggshells around is just tragic. It feels like the excruciating middle of a two hour movie about time travel and doppelgangers I watched once, only because I was on a plane and had accidentally left my work notes in the luggage. I’ve always made sure to double check when packing ever since, to avoid torture by boredom and inefficiency, though Shido seldom gives me overseas requests.
From the corner of my eye, I spot an approaching familiar figure – a manager of one of the late night shows I frequent. I take my hand out of the pocket to not appear closed off or defensive. Body language is a crucial part of public relations, and one can bury their entire career if they are ignorant to how they present themselves; I myself always appear as the embodiment of confidence and pleasantness, just by having a good posture and open shoulders.
“Hello, Akechi-kun, I’m so lucky I caught you in time.”
The manager extends his right hand to me, and I do the same in a brief greeting. He babbles out an invitation to tonight’s program, with an apology for late notice. I don’t show it, but am inwardly appalled by how late the invitation is. Do these idiots have no understanding or respect for the value of my time? I decline sadly, since I have other plans tonight, and the manager looks saddened as well; I suppose everyone is hungry for a piece of my newborn conflict with the Phantom Thieves. Well, he definitely ought to have invited me sooner.
With a promise to see what I can do about visiting on other days, I finally take my leave out of the studio, truly victorious. Both my gloves have been made dirty today, more than figuratively. Right one by the manager, who will do better in spreading my name in the ensuing programs; invitations will skyrocket following the announcement of my anti-thief ideology, and I can barely contain the giddy excitement the spotlights of the press always light up in me.
The left hand hangs, full of useless energy now, while the other one carries my briefcase. Less than an hour ago, it was held for a moment by a boy my age whose name I’ve forgotten, but had written down in my contact list. The boy had a sentient, very much talking animal with hints of the metaverse energy all over it, planely hidden in his school bag. How foolish. My theory of the phantom thieves being nothing but a bumbling bunch of teenagers seems to have been true.
My fingers itch for a purpose, preferably the grip of a gun. They’re locked, stiffened and sweaty on the inside of my gloves. I would like to change them to a cleaner pair, but there are no private bathrooms around, so I decide to stay put until night time, when all my business is done.
***
The door of the apartment steers open after just a minor struggle, and I hobble in gracelessly indeed, greeted by the inhospitable darkness within. I consider turning the lights on briefly, but, as per usual, I do not. The reasoning is not as much motivated by energy conservation, as it is by my own lack of strength, which disappointingly hasn’t grown to withstand the pressure of the other world’s atmosphere with years. Perhaps I should just give it time. After all, excellence is not in the act, but in the habit.
I blindly slump onto the sofa, allowing my perfect posture to trample down like a roman tower in disuse, reducing myself to a shapeless body that no one can see. I allow my heavy eyelids to shut briefly. It is not a good idea to rest on the sofa overnight; my coat would get creases, not to mention the germs all over the place would inevitably lead to breakouts. Those would be challenging to cover up without makeup heavier than what I’ve already been using. Just a brief moment of rest is fine.
The flavourless darkness settles, but is intruded on by the colorless, striking blur that always creeps up on me at the edges of the metaverse. It seems to have followed me home, like a brand on my eyelids. I hurry to open my eyes and check if I really am out, which, of course, I am. The shadows of my apartment look familiar and the dead quiet is all mine, too.
I reach for the TV remote in the darkness, letting the room be illuminated by a random channel that I soon recognize. It’s the late night live show I should have been on today, and the sight of it fills me with a sort of depression. They invited a random nobody that spurs bullshit about oil costs to replace me. Who even cares about that? I truly pity the loss that all viewers had suffered today, and what they must suffer constantly without my presence.
I skip the channels mindlessly for a few minutes, until I get startled into stopping by the sight of my face. I lean in slightly, at the back of my mind deciphering the odd sound of my own voice speaking to me. It’s like a distorted mirror has opened to me. This must be a rerun of today’s program.
“Oh, please don’t misunderstand, this is all purely hypothetical.”
What a handsome lie.
My voice continues to ring out, all of a sudden overbearingly loud and heavy in my ears. I turn down the volume, and watch my mute self preach through the screen, while the host dumbly bobs his head in rhythm to all the important words I must be saying. Each syllable, smile and expression I had performed had a meaning and purpose behind them, and I am proud of their success. I could repeat them all right now identically if I wanted to.
I watch on to the commercial break, transfixed by my image, and take a mental note to put some powder on my forehead for the next interview.