9: Transportational Fare-well

"Contractor," Zero throws the pile of blueprints on a steel table. "What can you tell me about them?"

The Contractor pauses, studying the blueprints momentarily before responding, "You’ve really done it this time, Mr. Zero.”

He paces around the table, his head lost in a raging stream of jumbled thoughts. “These structures, architectures… They are unlike anything I’ve seen.”

“I find that hard to believe,” Zero watches as the Contractor settles on a chair.

“With all due respect,” he points to the blueprints, “what you have given me here is a Pandora’s Box. I’ve never seen one of its kind before, let alone opened it. These are not just secrets—they are the keys. And I’m afraid they might not be for the world to know.”

Zero places his hand firmly in the center of the table.

“I want all of the info you possess regarding CORE, every single document, can you handle that?”

“I am afraid you’ll have to find those answers alone. And please, do not repeat Pandora’s mistake,” he stands up, tugs in his tie, and turns to leave. “Because, dead or alive, they will come for you.”

A slight chill runs down his spine. He stands completely still, instinctively feeling the presence of a cold, sharp tip slightly prodding the back of his neck.

"I’m well aware," the shadow speaks. “So do go on.”

The Contractor stiffens. Though caught off guard, he casts a calm expression honed by years of treading on the underworld’s thin webs.

"Mr. Zero," he says calmly, without turning around. "I admit—you always were a restless soul."

Zero steps closer to the Contractor, maintaining an undetectable presence.

"I do not like repeating myself, Contractor," he states quietly. "So give me what I have requested. Every single bit of knowledge you can squeeze out—be it files, documents, anything."

The Contractor lets out a soft chuckle. "You ask for much, good sir," he replies. “Even after I explicitly warned you not to, you keep going. To be honest, I’ve always had trouble handling that tenacity of yours…”

He turns to face the shadow, its blade a mere centimeter away from his death. “But I suppose I owe you a debt of gratitude in the past. Very well, I'll tell you what I know… for a price."

“You value money more than your head, Contractor?”

“In the case that I retain my head, I do need it to pay my tab, yes,” he clears his throat with a loud “ahem.”

“Take the blueprints as payment,” Zero motions to the pile of aged papers on the table, “Your clients will be more than happy to receive new info on their enemies.”

“And we have a deal, kind sir.”

***

SAVED AUDIO FILE: Contractor's INFO about CORE

“Listen carefully, Mr. Zero:

CORE operates with a multifaceted agenda, aiming to exert influence and control over various sectors, including politics, finance, and technology. Their ultimate goals remain secretive, but their actions suggest a desire for power and domination on a global scale. They maintain a vast network of operatives and affiliates, ranging from skilled assassins and mercenaries to high-ranking officials and influential figures in government and business. Their names are [REDACTED].

[shuffling noise]

CORE is entrenched in a wide range of illegal activities, including harboring cybernetic heavy arms and human trafficking. These operations fund the organization's activities and further its goals of power and control on a worldwide scale…

[unintelligible sounds]

… CORE has invested heavily in cutting-edge technology and cyber warfare capabilities, using these tools to gather intelligence, conduct surveillance, and launch cyber attacks against its enemies. Their mastery of digital warfare is the reason national security is [unknown sounds]. They maintain ties to other organizations and terrorist groups, leveraging these relationships to further their interests and expand their influence. Have you heard of [REDACTED]? These alliances provide CORE with access to additional resources and manpower.

Remember, above all else,

Beware of—”

End of Audio File.

***

A shadow steps out of a building, closing the door behind him with a soundless slam. He basks in the night’s cold air, rubbing his hands together to catch what little warmth is left. The night is yet to begin, but the street is already empty. Nobody usually comes out at night. In this city, they all live in fear of something, whether that is the drunk squatter behind the abandoned ruins, criminal syndicates dealing in dark alleys, or small-time delinquents thinking they own the town. Vendors have already closed down their shops. Taxis have already stopped taking passengers. It appears to be a quiet night, save for the distant clanking on the railroad. A billboard nearby casts a radiant purple light. On it, two arrows are displayed, pointing in two directions: the train station and the streets below; one up and one down.

The stranger heads up the stairs. He moves quietly and quickly, wasting no energy to speed through the dark alleys. A few rats squeak by and gaze curiously at the man. Soon, he makes it to an empty road. Left or right? He glances both ways and not a vehicle appears in his sight. Some stray cats are fighting over a fishbone near the rightmost intersection. Perhaps, that is not the right path.

So he turns left. And soon he stands atop a colossal platform. He stops walking as the platform begins whirring, its motors rolling him upward. The platform occasionally makes rattling noises, like something is stuck inside the mechanisms. If one is to ask the train engineer about this clanging, he will blame it on his new apprentice. Then, the train conductor will laugh and say this man has had four new apprentices this month. They always leave him with a spit and an out-of-order platform to report and fix in the morning.

Following a hard, resounding clang from inside the mechanisms, the platform halts to a stop. The stranger stares at the platform for a few seconds, then at his destination, half a mile from where his feet are planted. He walks over to the railings and jumps on it, firmly positioning himself on the thin piece of metal. Then, he takes one step back, arms stretched left and right, and bursts forth up the railings. His impossibly high-speed sprint makes him look like a mere flurry of air. It only takes him seconds before he hops onto the last stop, wishing he had done this sooner.

The wind blows ever so slightly, carrying with it the barking of stray dogs competing for food. The nearby bugs—crickets among the leaves—decide to join in, too. What comes next can be described as unintelligible, incessant, droning even. White noise. The living breath of the night, as they call it, pulsating like a never-ending beating heart. In the distant cityscape, the rumbling of vehicles can be heard among the mishmash of sounds. The stranger takes a deep breath, pumping his stomach full of the clear air that permeates the space. He is very familiar with these sounds, conducted by the orchestra of the night. And he feels as if he can stand here and listen forever until dawn. But he must make merry. The next train is not too far from here.

He strides over to the ticket booth, which should hold a ticket agent. The passenger scans the glass room for an employee, and there he is on the left, a ticket agent, snoozing away on an island vacation.

“Hello,” the passenger calls out to the man sleeping on the job.

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“O-oh! Hi! Welcome,” the ticket man jolts from his seat. “Whatcha need?”

The ticket agent looks to be in his thirties or younger, sporting a worn, blue shirt and black pants. His defining feature is, perhaps, his long neck. Besides that, he seems simple enough, like the everyday salaryman. But when the passenger peers over his neck, there seems to be a trace of tattoos behind there. Upon looking closer, the ticket man rocks a glistening pair of black earrings. The man takes good care of his jewelry, all things considered, though it does not contribute to his work appearance. The only way to tell his profession is by looking at his location—behind a ticket booth.

“Whatcha looking at, pal? Do ya need a ticket or not?” The ticket agent taps his index finger repeatedly on the desk.

“Yes. I’d like a ticket for the Western Train, please.”

“Alright, your name and ID. Hand it over,” the ticket agent starts typing on a screen.

The passenger replies in silence.

“Hmm? Your name? ID?” The agent looks up at the man.

“None. Put it as ‘anonymous’,” the man answers.

“Apologies,” the agent scratches his grizzled chin, “we no longer do that here. It’s been rough, ya see…”

“... I see. Put it as ‘John’.”

The agent raises an eyebrow at the name being given. He glances at the man’s hands and pockets, noting the missing presence of an ID on his table.

“Where’s my ID, pal? Jeez, I’m gettin’ real tired of reminders, buddy.”

“I don’t have it,” says the passenger.

“Alright, no tickets for ya,” says the ticket agent, slumping back on his chair. “Please proceed to the nearest post office for further instruction.”

The crickets continue their nonchalant chirping in the background, oblivious to the world around them. The passenger wishes he could, too.

“What? Do you need something else?”

“I need a ticket for the Western Train, please. I have to go. It’s urgent.”

“No can do. Gotta follow rules.”

“How about a deal? I'll offer you anything besides an ID, in exchange for my ticket,” the stranger begins rummaging through his pockets.

"You serious, pally? Shit, what got you so desperate?" The agent chuckles.

"Anything you wish."

The ticket agent leans back and brings one hand to his chin, pretending to think. He does this while making a distinct and loud "Hmmmm" sound, and he remains in this pose for as long as he thinks it can annoy the stranger. However, after a few minutes of this charade, the stranger finally speaks.

"Have you finished gathering your thoughts?"

"Hmmmmmmmmmmmmm..."

"Pardon me, but it appears as though you're not taking this seriously, Mr. Ticket Agent," he says with a judging gaze.

“Alright! I've got it," the agent jumps from his seat.

"I’m bored as shit," he continues. "If you manage to entertain me, I might just toss you a free ticket. How’s that sound?”

“What do you want as… entertainment?” The stranger asks, confused.

“Just tell me about yourself, your job, or life, I don’t know. You choose, buckaroo.”

“...You don’t wanna know,” the stranger replies.

“Well, are ya some sort of antique collector, then?” He slurps from a paper cup and strolls over to his coffee machine.

“What do you mean?”

He pushes the button for a refill and puts the cup under it. But no coffee is poured. He tries it again, but the machine refuses to work. Sighing and rubbing his eyes, he walks back and slumps down on his chair, silently cursing the state of today’s technology.

“That sword on your hip must be real old, right? I ain’t seen somethin’ like that ‘round here,” he yawns.

The stranger immediately clutches his katana, ready to draw. “What? How did you-”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa! Fuckin’ relax!” The ticker man holds up a reassuring hand, which does not seem to reassure the stranger at all. “I know a thing or two about swords and shit, pal!”

“You best forget this, ‘lest you seek death,” the stranger growls, drawing his blade.

“Okay. Okay. Calm down, pal. I just made an assessment. That’s all. Nothing more and nothing less. Like, what the fuck are ya on about?”

“How did you see it? See my hidden sword? And you will tell me,” he aims his blade at the man.

“Do ya really wanna know?”

“Answer.”

“Fine,” says the agent as he sits up straight, “I’ve seen your type before, and I know for a fact that y’all value privacy as much as I do. And I respect that. And I’m sorry that… that I made ya mad, pal. So now chill out and maybe I can tell you how to better hide your sword.”

Sensing the man’s unarmed status, the strange swordsman hesitates to create any further disturbance. He sheathes the sword cleanly into its place and drapes his cloak over it, hiding it completely out of sight.

“It’s the way you walk,” he answers, breathing a sigh of relief.

“What?”

“It’s the way you walk. Like I said, I’ve seen guys like you before. You walk tilted, trying to hide your blade, but the weight of it shifts you off balance. It’s a habit not many notice, you know?”

“How did you see me walk? You were asleep,” the swordsman asks.

“Heh. With this job, you never know. Gotta keep eyes open,” the agent shrugs.

“Impressive,” the swordsman murmurs under his breath.

“What do people call you? Hmmm… Phantoms, was it?” The agent scratches his head.

“You know a lot more than I take you at first glance. Who are you?” The swordsman asks.

“I am what I am, pal. I guess you can say I’m kind of a vet, no animal related. But things haven’t been too great, so... now I’m here,” he extends his arms outward, referring to the booth.

The hulking sound of a train, its wheels scraping the track, draws closer every minute. The swordsman notices this just as he opens his mouth to speak, and so does the ticket agent. He quickly opens his screen up and types rapidly.

“Say, there’s the train…” says the agent, not looking up at his passenger.

“Yes, have I entertained you enough?”

“Well…” he stops typing and scratches his chin in thoughts. “I’ll give it like… a four point five out of ten.”

“Is that enough for a ticket?”

“Depends. Your swordplay earlier was frankly… a bit much.”

The swordsman replies in silence.

“Alright, just about to finish up here… and done!”

The printer next to him jolts to life. Rumbling sounds emanate from its mechanism as it churns out a small slip of paper. The ticket agent quickly rips it out and punches a hole in it. Looks like this ticket is a one-use-only.

“One ticket for the Western Train, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Alright, here ya go,” he hands the ticket to the swordsman.

“Thank yo—”

But just before the swordsman can grasp his hard-earned ticket, the man whirls it away from him. “Wait… One more favor, and I’ll get you on board. Promise this time,” he chuckles.

“... Go on.”

“Make sure to come back. It doesn’t matter how long. Return. They never return. So for once, I’d like to see a phantom return. Oh, how that’d be a story to tell…”

His favor is again met with silence, but this time, the silence sounds like a “yes.”

“Safe trip, pal,” says the ticket agent, handing him the ticket.

He snatches the ticket and starts walking toward the train platform, knowing he has wasted too much time talking. Stopping just before the rails, he gazes at the distant, approaching light, along with the multitude of wind gusts blowing in his face. Just as the train finally stops at his feet, he hears the agent shout.

“Hey!”

He reluctantly turns back before making it inside the doors.

“...forgot… to… pay… ?!”

But the words are muffled under the train’s loud clanking, and the stranger simply turns away and proceeds on the train. The double doors begin closing, the edges charring the frame black with sparks, struggling to shut, as if they are waiting for something.

Reaching inside his pocket, he comes across a bronze coin. Understood, he clutches the coin, winds his arm back, and heaves it with all his might, straight to the ticket booth, clipping it in the glass. Smokes exhale from the impact. Sizzling sounds can be heard from it, along with the cursing of a certain ticket agent.

The doors slam shut, but the man pays no mind and slumps down on the floor. The train starts rumbling and life soon breathes through its steps. Its wheels begin clawing the rail rapidly, propelling the metal monstrosity forward.

The night is long, stretching infinitely into the vast abyss of the universe. Tiny, shiny dots illuminate the dark canvas, gleaming with brilliant vitality and life. If the small people below are to know, they will get jealous, for sure, of the beautiful life above they cannot claim their own. The man stares lifelessly at the sky. If he can have just one piece of that abundant energy, one sip of that panacea that is said to cure all humanity’s ills, perhaps life will be worth living.

Soon, another tiny dot looms over the abyss. It shines and gleams brighter than any other source of life. The sun, that is the dot, small and seemingly innocent. But when it rises over the city, the abyss is cast away, little by little, leaving a warm, golden glow over the empty streets below. The sunlight rudely interrupts the man’s sleep. He brushes his coat and hurries over to the doors. The panel above the door is cracked and full of wear, but enough to tell the passenger his location is almost reached. The air feels lighter to breathe in, and dust balls float around the window. Impatient, but not angry, the passenger settles back down on the floor. He is almost here. Just have to wait a little longer.

The moment is spontaneous. He remembers the train halting at a stop, but it feels like it has not stopped. The moment is a blur. He remembers stepping out, confused about his whereabouts. But that is ridiculous, is it not? How can he forget? Without light, there may be no shadows. He breathes a sigh of relief, giggling, softly chuckling to himself. How can he forget? He cannot forget.

Zero steps out of the train station, basking in the shadows of the light. He is here.

***

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