Clashing Obsessions

Chapter 17 - Kalix

What's wrong with me?

It's June 04, 22:26. I should be on my way to Chika-Kurabu right now to meet with Anonymous13810 and deliver the program. It's a 17 minute walk, the average lineup is at this time is 13 minutes, and I always try to arrive at the meeting location before the agreed upon time, so I am there before my clients, plus I planned to get there even earlier today in case anything goes wrong with my fake ID and I have to find a way through the back entrance. I should have left at 22:20. Instead, I'm lying on my floor using my hoodie as a pillow and somehow doing the mental part of crying without the actual tears.

Oh, teenage mood swings, how I hate you.

So, the story, well, the simplified version, anyway:

I was ready to leave, had my dark clothes and mask and flash drive with the program and my hair tied back. Then, as I was opening my bedroom window, as I always do, it once again got stuck halfway up. My mother was sleeping in her room across the hall, and, knowing she wouldn't wake up and even if she did, wouldn't notice me moving around the house, I figured, why not just go out the front door. I mean, this whole sneaking-out-the-window business is a little excessive, no? Not gonna lie, I kinda feel like a character in a cliché teen film. But, well, as I was walking toward the doorway out of my room, some part of my brain insisted on replaying the thoughts that lead to this decision. My mother wouldn't wake up. She wouldn't notice me moving around the house. Wouldn't notice the door open, and, like always, wouldn't notice I was gone. Because, well, she just doesn't notice me. Then I over-thought about that for several minutes and, long story short, that's why I'm currently not-crying on my bedroom floor with my face buried in a hoodie.

Wow, go me.

From across the room, I hear the telltale buzz-chime of a notification from Viewport, Pictograph, Inc.'s news network. I probably wouldn't bother to check it if it weren't for the fact that the vibration from the phone knocked it off the shelf in my closet. So, forcing myself to get up, I clamber over my bed to where it landed and skim the headline and TL;DR.

[Science Sector] Dr. Rovart Blayne Proceeds with Animal Trials for Controversial Study, Corporate Sponsors Reveal Little

It's not all that interesting, really — just a short piece about how the corporation Dr. Blayne is now working for is being pretty secretive about the experiments. If you ask me, the journalist — I think A. Nelson was the name on the byline — is just trying to spin a conspiracy out of some basic news.

Well, I'd better be going, anyway, or I'll be late. To be safe, I run through my checklist one last time in my head.

Mask on? Check.

Blue streaks tucked back? Check.

Tracker wristband off, plugged into computer, and set to loop heart rate? Check, check, and check.

After picking the flash drive up off the floor, I head out the door and start jogging toward the club.

* * *

It's chaotic in here. Lights flashing, music blaring, and so, so many people.

—Which, of course, is the point. If the UNBI somehow got word that I'd be here, they'd have a pretty hard time finding me in this place. I'm also not in view of the security cameras because of everyone around me.

"Woah— Sorry!"

Downside to the chaos? Constantly being accidentally shoved or tripped by drunk partygoers. And, of course, the difficulty in finding Anonymous13810.

Gathering my composure, I start to walk around the room, trying to pick out individual conversations over the chatter and music. When planning the meeting, I gave the client a codeword to say, so when I heard it I could find him in the crowd. I told him to pretend to be talking on the phone, telling someone about the myth of—