The year is 4246 AD. The Federal Republic of Alusthogrun , known to most as the Aeropolis Alusthogrun. The continent once called Australia was now an Aeropolis, a flying city that drifted some 1,500 metres in the sky.
To attempt entry by sea was not merely difficult, but a fool’s errand; to attempt it by air, nigh on impossible. In due course, the Aeropolis Alusthogrun had earned its more common moniker: The Fortress in the Sky. It was whispered, in hushed tones both official and conspiratorial, that what kept this colossal monument to human ingenuity aloft—what defied gravity and supported its impossible weight—was a great, throbbing perpetual motion engine. Or so the story went, spoon-fed to the masses with the morning papers. They claimed this fantastical engine was a gift from the gods of science, made possible by the discovery of a new, divine energy.
This miraculous power source was a substance still wreathed in a veil of profound mystery: Abaddoselenium. Its very existence had only been verified in the past two or three decades, and its true nature remained a subject of feverish, academic debate. Was it matter, a photon, or something else entirely? A question for the ages, perhaps. And yet, this substance of unknowable origin now fuelled the whole of Alusthogrun. Abaddoselenium powered the turbines that spun with a whisper and a hum, it filled the engines of every car and aeroplane, and rumour had it, it could be fashioned into a weapon of such apocalyptic power it would make the most monstrous nuclear bomb seem a mere firecracker in comparison. Its true essence remained a puzzle, a conundrum of the highest order. It was a terrifying, arcane substance, to be sure, but it was also hailed as a magnificent marvel, a sorcerer’s stone that could turn any dream into reality. At least, that was the grand illusion sold to and believed by the vast majority of the residents of the Federal Republic of Alusthogrun.
Yet, the supposed boons of Abaddoselenium were a mere pittance when weighed against the perilous risks of its use. As the esteemed scholar Mr. Pellmond Varlozzi had once commented, it was “more trouble than the uranium used in nuclear power generation, or some such thing,” a sentiment that was summarily dismissed by the powers that be.
For indeed, a power station utilising Abaddoselenium had already been the epicentre of a truly catastrophic accident in another country. It was roughly thirty years ago, if memory served, when an unknown surge of Abaddoselenium had completely and utterly obliterated an entire state in the United States of North America, leaving nothing but a vast, smouldering scar on the landscape.
Be that as it may, that was in another country, and it was all in the past, wasn’t it? The average citizen of Alusthogrun clung to this belief like a life raft in a storm: Surely, technology must have advanced by now, rendering it perfectly safe. This was, of course, precisely the intended consequence of the government's incessant propaganda machine. In the harsh light of truth, the situation had not changed one jot since that fateful day, and technology had made no tangible progress to speak of. The reason for that horrific accident in the United States of North America remained, to this very day, a complete and total mystery.
"What's wrong? Got a face like a slapped arse. Mr Patrick Lerner, is it? Oh, wait, was it little Patricia Velasquez? Heh heh."
Of course, such matters were of no concern to the average citizen. It was the same for him.
"If you've got nothin' important to say, I'll be taking my leave."
The baby-faced, short man spat out the words, glaring at the criminal seated before him.
The man's name was Patrick Lerner. With his large, double-lidded eyes and thick, bushy eyebrows, he could easily be mistaken for a child. But contrary to his appearance, he was an agent of the nation's intelligence agency, the Alusthogrun Secret Intelligence agency, known as the 'ASI', and a fully grown adult man.
In contrast, the man facing him was portly, large in both height and girth. Dressed in the silly, pale blue overalls that served as Alusthogrun's prison uniform, he scratched his slovenly beer belly with his right hand, a slimy, contemptuous grin plastered on his face. The prisoner then spoke, his words laced with provocation.
"Little Patricia Velasquez was a real cutie, she was. A white blouse with a Peter Pan collar, a navy blue ribbon tie, a pale blue mini-skirt, dark blue knee-high socks, and camel-coloured loafers. With that little blue and white checkered backpack on her small back, she looked just like a sweet, sweet twelve-year-old girl... Never in my wildest dreams did I think she was actually a special agent, and a bloke at that. Haha!"
This was a special visitation room in a prison located in the suburbs of New South Wales. Patrick was meeting with a serial killer he had captured during his time at his previous job—until just six months ago, he had been a special agent for the Alusthogrun Bureau of Investigation.
Patrick was here for one reason. His old buddy had passed on a message: 'The pig you put in the pen wants to see you before his execution.'
And so, Patrick had come. He was not a man with a great deal of conscience, but he had a sliver of mercy. If the man wanted to see his face before he died, well, he supposed he could grant him that. Besides, it might not be so bad to see the condemned man trembling before his death.
But there was no pleasure in looking at the criminal's sickeningly slimy grin. He felt a wave of disgust wash over him. The unpleasant criminal continued his skin-crawling tale.
"Little Patricia Velasquez's hair was curly, silky, and a beautiful auburn. Just like my brother's wife... no, just like the woman who was supposed to be my wife, Sonia. But unfortunately, Patricia Velasquez's hair was a fake. Ricky's hair is straight and black as night. Like an Oriental's. Not beautiful at all."
"I'll take that as a compliment. It's a real hassle keeping this straight hair looking good, you know."
An armour of fat, a pathetically balding head, a dirty face with patchy stubble, a filthy mouth with fewer teeth than average from neglecting to brush them... Everything about the criminal before him was utterly repulsive.
Patrick's patience, which had held out this far, finally reached its limit. He slowly pushed back his chair, stood up leisurely, and loosened the black tie around his neck. He then let out a breath, "Phew...", as if to calm himself. After a shallow inhale, Patrick said:
"Right then. Shall we say it's my turn now...?"
Patrick and the criminal. Separating them, yet also connecting them, was a stainless steel table. Staring down at it, Patrick's expression went blank. He then looked at the handcuff chain, fixed to the leg of the table.
The other man knew that a public servant would not resort to violence without just cause, even against an incarcerated criminal. That was precisely why he had been so provocative.
But there was no rule that said a public servant could not employ verbal abuse. And Patrick was not the type to be overly concerned with morality. He possessed only a small measure of a heart that would ache from hurting someone else's.
Therefore, Patrick raised his gaze and looked the other man straight in the eye. He then let out a sarcastic, sneering grin and, as a parting gift to the man on death row, began to spew one cruelly cold remark after another.
"Poor little Eli couldn't go to school because he was too ashamed of himself, could he? Your intelligence was remarkably low, you were useless at sports, and you were worse than your classmates at everything, so you were bullied, wasn't that it? And so you stopped going to school, were ostracised by society, abandoned by your only family, your brother, and became a piece of worthless rubbish. That's right, isn't it?"
"...Stop it."
"And that's why you attacked children. Because no adult woman would ever give an ugly bastard like you the time of day, so you attacked someone weaker than you, didn't you? Do you know what the world calls scum like that?"
"...Stop it, stop it!"
"Criminal. Pervert. Paedophile who should just die. Scum of the earth. A being lower than a cockroach, who doesn't even deserve to breathe."
"...Stop it, stop it, stop it!"
"Lethal injection is too good for you. Hanging or firing squad would be over too quickly. You should die writhing in agony, suffering more than your victims ever did, for ages and ages. The electric chair would suit you perfectly. You should die over the course of three days and three nights, with steam rising from your head, your flesh and brain burning, stinking up the place, and bodily fluids leaking from every orifice."
"Stop it, stop it, stop it, STOOOP!"
"There are advocacy groups that cry about the death penalty being inhumane, but I don't agree. It's not the system that's inhumane; it's criminals like you, who commit crimes heinous enough to be sentenced to death, that are truly inhumane. Scum like you deserve to suffer more than your victims and die in agony. Scum who trample on others have no right or reason to live. I can't accept the idea that the taxes I pay to this country are being used to feed scum like you. If there was a chance for rehabilitation, maybe, but there's no reason to keep scum like you alive when you have no intention of changing. The best thing to do with a filthy pig that gorges on taxes is to slaughter it and turn it into a lump of meat. That's for the good of the world, for the good of the people. Don't you think so, Mr Eli Grissom?"
"Stop it, stop it, STOOOOP! I said stop it!! Stop, please, stop!!"
The criminal, called Eli Grissom—a substitute paedophile and serial killer whom Patrick had arrested some nine months prior for kidnapping, murdering, and dumping the bodies of twenty-three children—let out a great shout and began to thrash about. The steel handcuffs chained to the table leg shrieked as they were torn apart, and a loud, jarring metallic clang echoed through the room. Several guards rushed into the special visitation room, subdued the struggling man, and dragged him back to his cell.
Patrick quietly pushed his chair back in and gave a slight nod to the departing guards. He then retrieved his favourite bag from beside his chair—a black leather bag stuffed with a large amount of papers, both work-related and not. He exited the steel-barred special visitation room and spoke to the woman waiting outside.
"It's done, Noemi."
The woman nodded in response. She was Special Agent Noemi Zedillo of the ABoI headquarters. Patrick's former colleague and buddy.
A poorly maintained black bob, and a wheat-coloured complexion with no makeup. Her clothes were plain and simple, suggesting she had little interest in fashion. Her appearance had not changed since she had been Patrick's buddy.
Noemi gave Patrick the same carefree smile as always. Then she said playfully, "You've gotten a lot meaner, you know."
"You reckon? I don't think I've changed much, just like you. Besides, it's only been six months."
"So, how's the leg?"
"Yeah, well. Not much change there either."
Patrick then glanced in the direction of the screaming criminal's voice. He said to Noemi in a low voice:
"...From the looks of it, it seems all he wanted to do was complain to me one last time. In that case, he probably won't give up the location of the first victim, Mira Mores's body. And his execution is tomorrow morning. Sorry I couldn't be of more help."
"Can't be helped. We'll have to work with a psychoanalyst to narrow down where Mira might be. And I'll have to ask Carl for his opinion too."
I hope we can find her with that. Noemi muttered, her expression bitter. She then placed a hand on Patrick's right shoulder and continued, "I'm really sorry, Ricky. You're not with the ABoI anymore, and yet I called you in so suddenly..."
"It's fine, don't worry about it."
Patrick forced a smile and tuned out the criminal's curses. As he walked with Noemi down the dark prison corridor, he wondered how things had come to this. A part of his thoughts slipped out as a complaint. "...Haaa, I want to go back to the ABoI. I want to quit the ASI."
"I feel the same way. I want you to come back. I mean, why don't you? Why did you transfer to the ASI in the first place? An ABoI special agent transferring to the ASI is unheard of, as far as I know."
Noemi countered his complaint with a question. Patrick answered honestly. "It's a strange story, but... that was the order I was given. From Director Darsen of the ABoI, with the joint signatures of Prime Minister Ferris and President Wesley. A mere public servant had no choice but to obey."
"It's tough being a man who draws attention, isn't it? Targeted by the powerful, and approached by a perverted paedophile. My condolences about the Sigrid affair, truly."
"Don't bring that up, please. I still see her face when I put the cuffs on her in my dreams."
Patrick sighed. Noemi slapped him on the back with an open palm, as if to spur him on. "Snap out of it, Ricky. Your best quality is your boundless confidence, even if it's baseless, right?"
"That makes me sound like I'm overconfident."
"You just have a tendency to get carried away. So just forget about Sigrid, find a new woman, and look to a bright future!"
"...What if my next girlfriend is another paedophile like Sigrid? I know I look young enough to be mistaken for a kid, but being treated as a substitute for a child is just too much..."
"Aargh, honestly. Ricky, that look doesn't suit you. Stand up straight, hold your head high enough to look arrogant, and make up for your short stature with sheer intimidation! That's the Patrick Lerner I know!"
Thump, thump, thump! Noemi slapped him on the back repeatedly. Patrick moved away to escape her assault and said:
"Well then, I'll be off. Goodbye."
"I'll be in touch if anything else comes up."
Noemi watched him go, her arms crossed and her feet planted apart. She had a strong, baseless bad feeling.
"...The ASI, eh? From the look on Ricky's face, it's definitely not a good place..."
Alusthogrun Secret Intelligence agency, Headquarters Command in the capital city of Canberra. After finishing his morning "external affairs," Patrick returned to the agency, only to be stopped by his direct superior as soon as he entered the office.
'The Director is waiting for you. Proceed to his office on the top floor immediately.'
And so, Patrick made his way to the Director's office. Standing before the bulletproof steel door, he stood at attention and straightened the tie he had left loosened. He wondered why the Director would summon a mere agent who was not even in a management position.
Patrick had joined the agency with great fanfare six months ago. It would not be surprising if the Director knew his name, but... Patrick tilted his head in confusion, but was about to knock on the door when the steel door opened automatically.
"I hear you had a final meeting with Eli Grissom. With a special agent from the Alusthogrun Bureau of Investigation, no less. Her name was Noemi Zedillo, I believe."
The triple-locked steel doors opened one by one with a series of loud clangs, finally revealing the entrance to the Director's office. Patrick straightened his back, tensing slightly, and tried to make himself seem as tall as possible. He looked at the old, white-haired man sitting imposing at the far end of the office with his large, wide eyes. Patrick's body gave a slight shiver... or so he thought.
"What did Eli Grissom tell you?"
A symbol of power, a black leather chair. The man sitting expressionlessly in it asked Patrick this question. His hands were clasped on the desk, concealing his mouth, and his dark eyes, still full of life and glinting despite his age, were fixed on Patrick.
This was the current head of the ASI. The military officer turned politician, Director Bartholomew Bradford, also known as the 'Wise Eagle'.
"Isn't that under the jurisdiction of the Alusthogrun Bureau of Investigation? It's not a matter for the Alusthogrun Secret Intelligence agency to interfere in..."
The criminal Eli Grissom had drawn considerable attention. But his case was under the jurisdiction of the ABoI, not a matter for the ASI to meddle in. Eli Grissom was not the type of criminal who attempted to overthrow the state or harm the system itself; he was the type who harmed ordinary citizens.
That is why Patrick had answered the Director's question as he had, but Director Bradford pressed him.
"Are you planning to defy me? I don't believe that would be a wise decision."
The Director's irrefutable authority weighed heavily on Patrick's shoulders. But he tried not to look away from the Director, and his lips were pressed into a firm line.
"..."
Patrick, with his anti-authoritarian and rebellious personality, intuitively understood that he should refrain from antagonising the Director. He chose to remain silent.
Director Bradford was a former military officer who had served in the air force of the Republic of Alusthogrun, considered the strongest in the 43rd century, in the elite Air Mobile Unit. His final rank as a military man was general, the highest rank for an officer. And his alma mater was the country's most prestigious institution, the National Defence Faculty of Central Victoria University, making him a true elite. Furthermore, before becoming the Director of the Alusthogrun Secret Intelligence agency, he had been appointed as the head of the Ministry of Defence, which oversaw the entire armed forces and was responsible for the country's defence.
It was a well-known fact that the current president, Cedric Wesley, had absolute trust in him. And no media outlet would dare to criticise a man like Bartholomew Bradford. He was a man with no secrets to be exposed.
Everyone respected him for his loyalty and straightforward service to the country. In other words, he was a political heavyweight one should not cross. One should not provoke him, nor should one speak unnecessarily in his presence.
"Well, enough of that. Let's get to the point. Come in, Lerner."
"...Yes, sir."
Patrick obeyed the Director's words and cautiously stepped forward. The moment he set foot in the office, the steel doors slammed shut with a series of loud clangs, as if to ensure the intruder could not escape.
His escape route cut off, Patrick steeled himself and moved to stand before the Director. His youthful face tensed, and he held his breath before the old man with eyes like a hunter stalking a great bear. And their eyes met. It was at that moment, as Patrick's hands began to sweat with tension and fear...
The Director's gaze shifted from Patrick, and he began to chuckle. The aura of stern authority that had emanated from him melted away in an instant, replaced by a mischievous smile.
This sudden change left Patrick openly bewildered, and he blinked repeatedly. The Director then said with a laugh:
"Lerner, I've heard about you. An unprecedented rookie. I hear you recently extracted information from a spy from the Ronssikajan Federation and were instrumental in the capture of an assassin sent to this country."
"...Ah, um, yes, sir..."
The Director's tone was the complete opposite of the intimidating one he had used just moments before. It was as if he were telling a joke.
Stunned, Patrick could only manage a short, barely audible reply. The Director's expression softened even more at his reaction, and he explained why he had troubled him so.
"I was curious to see how a new recruit would react when suddenly summoned by the Director. It seems a rookie is a rookie after all. I'm glad to see you still have some charming qualities left. Well now, this is quite amusing."
So, I was being tested?
Patrick, blinking, could only stare at the laughing Director. He could not believe that the conversation, with its drastic shifts in temperature, that had taken place in just a few short minutes was real.
The Director then slowly took out a sealed envelope containing documents from his desk. He placed it on his desk and silently gestured for Patrick to take it. Patrick approached the desk, took the envelope, removed its contents, and read through the documents. And the papers pulled him, who had been wavering between suspicion and confusion, back into a chaotic reality. "Director. What is this...?"
"As you can see, it's a transfer order. You are to be seconded to the Special Service Agency WACE."
"What do you mean? B-but I've only just arrived here, and yet... a secondment?"
The document was a transfer order that Patrick recognised. It bore not only Director Bradford's name, but also the joint signatures of the president and the prime minister. It was very similar to the document that had ordered his transfer from the ABoI to the ASI six months ago. But the destination was highly unusual.
Special Service Agency WACE. It was the name of an enforcement agency that Patrick had only ever heard of in rumours, or rather, as something of an urban legend.
Commonly known as the Men in Black. They were so called because its members were said to be clad in jet-black suits and wear black sunglasses. Their true nature was shrouded in mystery, and it was even questionable whether they actually existed.
They manipulated information from the shadows to control the world, they were heroes of justice who punished villains in secret, they captured aliens and dissected and experimented on them... The Special Service Agency WACE was the subject of far too many untrustworthy rumours. It was, in a manner of speaking, an entity that had been passed down as a kind of urban legend.
Patrick himself had believed, until this very moment, that the Special Service Agency WACE was a fictional entity. And yet, here before him was a transfer order to that very legendary agency.
"Lerner. I need you to act as a liaison between them and us."
Director Bradford's dark eyes were fixed on Patrick, as if sizing him up. There was a peculiar glint in his eyes that could suck the life out of a person, and it naturally made Patrick tremble. But he managed to muster his courage and ask a question. "But, why me, sir? There must be someone more suitable at the ASI. Someone with field experience, not a newcomer like me..."
"To be frank, the main reason you were entrusted with this important role is because WACE specifically requested you. I don't know why you were chosen. And your question is a valid one; I would have preferred to send a seasoned agent if possible... but I have decided to trust your reputation and take a chance on you."
Patrick's clenched fists were now soaked with sweat. His large eyes were wide open, and his legs were beginning to tremble with tension. A faint creaking sound, like the joints of a machine, could be heard from beneath his trousers.
And then, the final blow that made Patrick tremble came from the Director's mouth.
"I trust you understand the meaning of this, Lerner."
Whether he understood the meaning or not, the 'transfer order' was putting an incredible amount of pressure on him.
The document bore the Director's signature, followed by what appeared to be the handwritten signatures of the president and the prime minister. From those signatures, Patrick could not help but feel the weight of expectation, or rather, pressure, from politicians who were not even present.
"...I am prepared."
Patrick's arm, holding the transfer order, was trembling, and his voice trembled as well. He looked like a squirrel that had just encountered a large carnivore. Seeing this, the Director suppressed a laugh that was welling up in his throat.
And covering his mouth, which was on the verge of grinning, he called out to the person who had been standing behind Patrick for some time.
"Sir Arthur. My apologies for the long wait. Please, take him with you. But if the worst should happen—"
"The Alusthogrun Secret Intelligence agency and the Alusthogrun Bureau of Investigation will mobilize all their forces to crush WACE, I believe you were going to say. …You need not worry on that account."
The voice that came from behind Patrick was not the Director's, but someone else's.
There should have been no one behind him just moments before. And there had been no sense of a presence. And yet, now, someone was there.
And the voice from behind him continued.
"Our objectives are but two. To minimize the number of casualties, and to find a way to annihilate the Immortalians."
Just as Patrick was about to turn around to see the owner of the voice, his shoulder was gripped firmly from behind. And he looked up from below at the face of the person who had grabbed his shoulder.
"Furthermore, we only pass judgment on troublesome fools who are beyond the reach of the law. We do not needlessly harm innocent civilians or our collaborators, the guardians of the law."
The man standing behind Patrick said this in a cold voice, looking towards the Director.
The man was quite tall, and his complexion was very poor, his skin a pale, sallow tone. He was wearing a black suit, and his eyes were hidden behind black sunglasses. He looked exactly like a member of the Special Service Agency WACE from the rumours.
His poor complexion also gave him a lifelessness, as if he had crawled out of a grave. He had swept his straw-coloured hair back, creating a slightly wild look, but... Patrick felt that it would be more appropriate to call the man the 'Reaper'. That is how creepy and inhuman he felt.
And the man was truly tall, as slender as a tower. It might have been due to his shoes or insoles, but Patrick felt his height was close to 190 cm. It was a world of difference from Patrick, who was not even 150 cm tall. This height difference also made Patrick feel an overwhelming sense of intimidation and threat. The man had an aura like a sharply honed longsword.
"How much of that can I trust, I wonder," the Director said, questioning the man in the black suit he called Arthur with an ambiguous smile that made it difficult to grasp his true intentions. The man called Arthur replied:
"More trustworthy than the senior technocrat of the military defense division, I should think."
"Haha, Pellmond Varlozzi, is it? Indeed, you do seem somewhat more trustworthy than him."
The Director replied to Arthur's retort with a loud laugh. But his expression clouded over immediately after.
The Director rested both elbows on his desk, and his bony hands, with their prominent wrinkles and vine-like veins, clasped together. He then looked at Arthur's face and let out these words in a serious tone.
"...I just can't bring myself to like that man. My apologies to Morgan, but I find myself unable to trust him."
Seeing the Director's furrowed brow, Patrick understood. The Director truly felt distrust and disgust towards Pellmond Varlozzi.
The Director then continued with a long-winded opinion. "The thought that the fate of the nation could be decided by a single word from such a man is terrifying. There is no greater folly than to give powerful authority to one who possesses not a shred of strong will or a clear vision. What's more, he is a being whose ego is frighteningly weak, yet whose actions are completely unpredictable. There is no other monster to be more wary of, and yet the politicians continue to plot to use him... It is beyond my comprehension. It is also truly lamentable that no one questions why a being with no desires or will is in that position."
"I agree. The people at the official residence should be charting a course to cut ties with the father before they choose which sweets to send to Miss Elaine."
Arthur, with a superficial smile, replied to the Director's lament with an affirming, joke-laced remark. The Director then gave a small laugh. And he let out a comment that seemed irrelevant to the current situation. "Still, it brings back memories. That Boston accent reminds me of a school friend."
"..."
"I've heard about you from Richard and Morgan. As they said, I'm relieved to see you're not like that father of yours."
The conversation had shifted from the slight Boston accent in Arthur's words to someone Patrick did not know.
Patrick, who was being partially excluded, could not understand the conversation at all, but from Arthur's slightly tense expression, it seemed they were now sizing each other up, or perhaps engaging in some kind of check, with Patrick as a bystander.
"If someone like you were at the heart of the nation, I might be able to sleep a little more soundly. Why did it have to come to this..."
The Director's words to Arthur could be taken as either praise or a probe. In response, Arthur simply lowered his hand from Patrick's shoulder and replied, "Aren't you overestimating me? I am merely a messenger, nothing more, nothing less."
"I heard from Morgan that she has delegated most of her authority to you and completed the handover."
"Yes, well. But it is only temporary."
"She said it seemed unlikely to be temporary."
"Perhaps. But one can never know what the future holds. Not for me, not for her, not for anyone."
Arthur deftly parried the Director's questions with vague, noncommittal words. He then brought their conversation to an abrupt end.
Instead, Arthur focused on Patrick. Looking down at him from behind, he said in a gentle, low voice—subtly hinting at his own weariness—"Well then, Lerner, let's talk for a bit. There are a few things I need to explain to you. First, take a seat over there."
Patrick obeyed Arthur's words and sat down shallowly on the lounge chair near the desk. He was so tense that he could only maintain a ramrod-straight posture, unable to relax in the chair.
And he looked up at the man in black standing before him with the eyes of a frightened small animal. But he could not see Arthur's eyes, hidden behind the black sunglasses.
However, there was one thing Patrick did understand.
"First, Patrick, as for the reason you were chosen, unfortunately I have not been informed of anything. You will have to ask the person who chose you, Eileen Field, directly. Next, she is—"
Arthur, the man in black belonging to the Special Service Agency WACE. He may have looked the part, but he seemed to be a man completely lacking in motivation.
After being summoned by the Director, he returned to his office, only to be surrounded by his colleagues, all asking what had happened. It was a chaotic evening, he seemed to recall. The hands of the watch on his left wrist had passed eight o'clock.
"Well, I'll be. Ricky, you coming in for a consultation of your own free will."
Patrick was at the Canberra National University Hospital, which prided itself on being 'at the forefront of everything in the country'. He had dropped by the psychiatric department, where a friend of his worked.
His friend—a man of Malay descent with a gentle face and slightly tanned skin, who exuded a rather flirty air, a senior resident in the psychiatric department named Carlo Santos—had just finished his shift and was coming out of his office. He gave a wry smile upon seeing Patrick lying in wait for him in the otherwise empty waiting room. His face seemed to say, what on earth are you doing here? He then voiced the very thought. "...Never would have dreamed it. You, of all people, the stubborn bastard you are, coming to a psychiatrist of your own accord. Well, I'll be."
"My mind's fine. Perfectly normal and calm. It's just that I saw something today that I can't believe, and I wanted to talk about it."
"Then you should go to neurosurgery or ophthalmology. And if it's a hallucination you know is a hallucination, it's just a sign of fatigue. It's not something you need to come all the way to a psychiatrist for."
"Yes, I know. So if you could just give me some sleeping pills, that'll be fine. I just want to sleep and clear my head."
"Yeah, yeah, I get it. I'll give you what you want."
Carlo Santos pretended to operate the tablet in his hand, as if preparing a prescription, and glared at Patrick. He then muttered a complaint. "...Damn it, I lost my bet with Noemi because of you."
His former colleague Noemi Zedillo and his friend Carlo Santos had been betting on him. Learning this for the first time, Patrick's large eyes widened, and he shot a protesting look at his friend. Carlo Santos showed no remorse, but he readily confessed the details of the bet. "We were betting on whether you'd ever come to a psychiatrist of your own free will. Noemi bet you would, I bet you wouldn't. Aargh, there goes my twenty dollars..."
"What are you doing, making bets on me without my permission?"
"Take it up with Noemi, she's the one who started it. So, sleeping pills, was it? I'll give you enough for tonight, and a little extra for tomorrow... You should be grateful to your dear friend."
"Thank you, Dr Santos."
"But if two days' worth isn't enough, you'd better come in for a proper consultation next time. And none of this instant consultation business."
Muttering this, Carlo Santos now properly operated his tablet and proceeded with the prescription process, glancing at Patrick out of the corner of his eye. He was curious about Patrick's somewhat fidgety demeanour.
At that moment, the intuition of his long-time friend Carlo Santos was whispering to him. It would be better to hear his friend's story, or rather, to drag it out of him. So Carlo Santos decided to cut straight to the chase. "Alright then. It'll take a minute for the prescription to print out. How about you tell me a little bit about this 'something you can't believe you saw'."
"I don't need counselling."
Patrick replied instantly. But this was within Carlo Santos's expectations. Knowing that Patrick was surprisingly weak to pressure, he used that as a starting point and pushed him.
"That's not what I mean. Look... you moved from the ABoI to some other place a while back, right? I'm just curious, that's all."
"No can do. I can't talk about work here, can I?"
"But doctors have a duty of confidentiality, you know? I'm a good doctor who's true to his profession."
"Even so."
"C'mon, mate. Then just tell me what you can without getting into trouble. I don't need the details. Just the gist of it would be fine, right? Please, Ricky."
Push, push, push. Carlo Santos pressed Patrick. Persistently, annoyingly.
Unable to bear the curious gaze of his friend, Patrick finally began to scan his surroundings. After confirming that there was no one nearby, and that the busy staff a short distance away were paying them no mind, Patrick muttered, "...I think I was summoned by the Director today."
Carlo Santos gasped. He did a double-take at Patrick, his face a picture of surprise, and then asked in a hushed voice, "...D-don't tell me... you mean Bartholomew Bradford? The 'Wise Eagle' summoned you?"
"But it was probably a hallucination. There's no way a rookie like me would be suddenly summoned by the Director. And there's no way that Director would ever show such a playful smile. So it must have been a hallucination, a trick of the mind. A daydream or something, not reality..."
"Nah. That was probably real. Don't worry, you're just panicking, just badly confused."
Carlo Santos then patted Patrick's head lightly, as if calming a distraught child. Patrick brushed his hand away and said, "Carlo, if you were a trustworthy doctor, I might believe you. But you're still just a resident, and besides—"
"A bolt from the blue, and you can't believe it really happened, right? I don't know what the Director said to you, but from the looks of it, you've probably been given some big job. Something unbelievably big."
"..."
"Well, you know. It's not uncommon for people to feel strong anxiety and fear when faced with a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, or the worst crisis of their lives. And you're still not over the Sigrid Colwitz affair."
"Don't talk about Sigrid."
"That's why the first thing you need to do is sort out your jumbled thoughts. And for that, you need to go home and get a good night's sleep. Counselling would be best, really, but—"
"I refuse counselling."
"Thought you might say that. But I think you should get it."
Carlo Santos then said, "Wait a sec," and went back into his office, then came out with two pieces of paper, a prescription and a memo. He handed them to Patrick and said, "Here you go, your prescription. There's a small pharmacy right across from the hospital, you should go there. They're never out of stock."
"Cheers for that."
"And the consultation fee. All in all, about seventy-eight dollars, I reckon? So go and pay at the reception over there. Oh, and if you show this paper to Mrs Gallow at the reception, she'll know what to do. And don't forget to give her a tip."
The memo that Carlo Santos pointed to had 'Instant First Consultation' scrawled on it in messy handwriting.
Patrick, surprised by the unexpected seventy-eight-dollar fee and the strange new phrase 'instant first consultation', stared at his friend Carlo Santos in disbelief. But Carlo Santos just smiled and said:
"Sorry, no friends and family discount. Now go home. Rest up and get a good night's sleep."
With that, Carlo Santos left the waiting room and disappeared down the corridor. Watching him go, Patrick clutched the prescription and the memo and looked at the reception.
The middle-aged receptionist sitting behind the counter gave Patrick a cheerful smile and a cold look. And she beckoned to him silently, as if to say, "Come here."
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