You have minutes before the bus reaches the stop nearest the industrial sector. Another bus rides all three spots, but you must make a quick choice.
You’re intrigued by Nick’s apparent call, but you immediately dismiss it. It’s an alley, which reeks of a trap. Sigma – if it is Sigma, after all – won't be alone. Even with the protection of the yellow pen, going there would be suicidal.
You suspect Epsilon is trying to contact Clark to confirm he’s safe, which makes going to the diner a safer option – but it’s equally risky. It’s a public place, and Sigma’s operatives could be hiding nearby. And you suspect that if she finds you appear with Clark’s face, things will get worse.
Thus, you seek your only “ally” in this whole operation so far. You stop at the sidewalk parallel to 5th Avenue, waiting for the bus to Ashburn Heights. It’s rare to see a federal agent living on a ghetto – your looks bringing many a wary look – but he lives at the townhouses facing the industrial sector, and it takes you very little to reach his house.
You touch the buzzer, sliding your hand into Clark's gun inside the messenger bag. You touch it again before you hear the voice of a man responding. “Going!”
As the man responds, he grins. Abraham Morris doesn’t look the part, with his curly mop of dark auburn hair, his thick spectacles and his frail frame. He looks like an accountant, or a banker – not the second-in-command in the regional office of the Federal Bureau of Investigations.
Then again, the neighborhood’s majorly Black and Jewish, and he fits the latter, down to the comically stereotypical attire. Only his confidence suggests otherwise. “Agent Clark,” he says. “How may I help you?”
You pierce him with your gaze, drawing Clark’s ultraviolet lamp. “Mind if I check something?”
He snorts, then leads you in. “Sure - though my sheets are as clean as an Elven--”
You waste no time grabbing his hands. You see the stain of invisible ink on his left hand.
“Ah,” he realizes, his attitude darkening. “It’s that. How may I help you, friend?”
You take a deep breath, squaring reflexively. “How much do you know about everything?”
“Depends on what you ask,” the meek agent replies.
“First off,” you say, training your hand on the hidden gun. “Take him off.”
“Take who off?”
“You know what I mean.” You leer at him, glancing around. “Can’t trust anyone. Gotta keep my eyes open.”
He nods and grins. “Good memory. Unfortunately...” Morris takes off his suspenders and his shirt, baring his back. You notice there’s no slit. “...there’s nothing else I can take off.”
You put some space between you, your back behind the wall. “You’re working with them. With the organization.”
“Yes, but I assume you already knew.”
You fix your stern gaze upon him, occasionally scanning the area. “You’re supposed to keep an eye on the agency. How much you know about Silva?”
“Only what I’m authorized to tell you,” he replies. “A fellow agent, and your lover. Well, that’s what the agency’s rumor mill says – you can correct me otherwise.”
“How much you know about me?”
“Not much,” he claims. “Only that you’re Silva’s new acquisition.”
“And about Epsilon?”
That makes him thoughtful. “That they’re a traitor. But that’s not what you want to hear, isn’t it?”
You dismiss his poignant observation, pressing him further. “And about Sigma?”
He chuckles. “Another traitor. But that’s not your question, isn’t it?” He circles you, making your index finger dance dangerously near the trigger. “You want to know about the notes, right?”
“Pretty much,” you reply, still observant. “Why would you want to be my friend, though?”
“Ah...!” Morris claps his hands, enthusiast to the revelation. “That is a good question. Unfortunately, it’s one above your clearance, which means--”
“Listen,” you threaten him, drawing the gun. “My life’s been hell since I agreed to this. My brother’s being worn by them, there’s a crazy conspiracy involving someone I’ve trusted, and when I dig into it, all I get is more questions than answers. So tell me. What's the deal? Why was I assigned instead of you?”
After a deep moment of silence, Morris speaks. “They know me more than they know you, and you know them more than they know themselves.”
“Stop trying to be the wiseguy!” you say, grabbing the hem of his shirt. “Why would Epsilon betray the agency? What would be her – their! - motive?”
His grin taunts you. “I don’t know. You tell me.”
You ignore his cocky response, pressing him. “What do you know about agent Renner? Why would he choose to work with Tessa Wright?”
“Because Renner’s weak-willed and corrupt. Enticed by the idea of being someone more powerful. So he turned coat.”
“Figures. Which is why this doesn’t make any sense at all. Epsilon worked to get all information about the counterfeits, then suddenly also goes rogue too?”
“Again,” he presses you. “What are you insinuating?”
You take a deep breath. “I almost get caught by one of Sigma’s operatives. They were using this skin to trap me.”
“But you used the magic yellow pen nobody else’s supposed to know.”
“Which makes me wonder... How did you know about it? How did you know where it’s hidden?”
He turns his back against you, fearing nothing. “Above your clearance, friend. But I get you.” He moves behind a waist-high bar, filling a glass tumbler with ice. “Betrayal can be unsettling, after all.”
“I don’t think Epsilon’s betraying the organization.”
The news doesn’t faze him, as he pours a fragrant amber liquid on the tumbler. “Oh? Then what is it?”
“They’re working alongside Sigma against their will.” You straighten your coat, suggestively. “Blackmailing them with Clark.”
He studies you, then snorts. “That’s a weakness in our line of work. Hardly professional.”
“Then why would they betray all they believe, after all that’s happened?”
“I don’t know,” he says as he stores the glass bottle under the bar. “Maybe they were genuinely convinced by Sigma. You know them. You tell me.” He approaches you with the tumbler, shaking it. “Want some?”
“I don’t drink.” You soon realize your folly, as Clark rarely rejects a drink, but cleverly twist it. “While at work.”
Morris shrugs, taking a chug. “Your loss. But it’s alright – you need your head clear.” He sets the tumbler at the bar, sighing. “Is that all? Just a casual meeting?”
You close your eyes in frustration. “Pretty much. One more thing before I leave.” You draw your agency-issued phone, deliberately answering the survey response – and sending the image of the triangle as the pin.
You observe Morris as his phone rings. He grins as he checks the message. “I see.”
“I guess I won’t get that follow-up message, aren’t I?”
Morris shrugs. “Where do you think they are?”
“The alley spot is an obvious trap. The diner’s a reunion point. You tell me about the last one.”
“An interesting coincidence. And your plan?”
You draw Clark’s emergency phone, dialing “Ruty” while mentioning the few scraps you’ve worked of it. “Can you mobilize a group of agents for back-up?”
--
You’re traveling lighter as you approach the alley you were asked to meet, leaving the briefcase behind. Nick is there, with his favorite jacket, smoking – something you’d pester him for days after he swore them off. (Cigarettes, that is, since you know he does the occasional joint.)
He’s flanked by two others, and a cursory glance lets you know there are at least three more spread around. His visible companions don’t have friendly – or familiar – faces, their hands shoved into their jackets.
Once they see you, Nick asks you to stop. “Drop everything,”
As you comply, the other two flank you, grab the suit bag and disarm you. Nick draws the skins upon receiving the bag and checks them, peeling off yours from the copy of Silva’s. “Interesting,” he mutters, amused rather than mortified.
“What’s happening?”
“This kid,” he says despondently. “Quite the coincidence that I’m wearing his brother.”
You manage your emotions as you let the operative respond. “Feel regretful about it?”
“Do I?” He grabs the copy of your skin and observes it carefully. “This poor idiot was ordered to kill us. Maybe not you, but definitely me. Maybe these guys,” he says as he points at his companions. “And for what? Who knows what they promised him. Not like they care, anyways.”
They’ve proven otherwise, you answer him in his mind. There is no doubt that Sigma’s the one you’re meeting.
“What’re you gonna do with him?” you ask.
With a snap, you see one of his companions light a metal drum behind them. He pulls your skin and Silva’s, then shoves them in. “Giving him a merciful death. Who knows what are his plans, after all. Certainly better than the fate awaiting him if he succeeded – or failed.”
You know anything? you ask the operative.
Only that they disappear, the operative replies. Never to be seen.
“With that exchange complete,” the impostor says, tapping his companions, “let’s discuss the terms of your surrender.”
I knew it! You notice his companions draw weapons – a black pen and a revolver – and flank you.
“I can see fakes a mile away, kid. That was a gutsy move, I’ll tell you. But I’m a fair person. It’s rare to find someone with a mind as sharp as yours. Maybe we could discuss an agreement.”
You glance, from the corner of your eye, three small glints of light. Abe’s people are in position. And the intraocular device he implanted buzzes with activity.
“Just say the word,” Morris tells you. “The package is secure.”
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