Chapter 1: A Cordial Invitation

I stormed into my apartment with nothing but anger on my mind. My stomach felt queasy, my hands were damn near shaking. Another protest had forced me back inside. I knew that when I went out to assess the damage they would most definitely have caused to my studio, I would spend the right of the night trying to put out the fire in my eyes. Any more damage to any of my equipment and my insurance company would drop me. Sarton City just isn’t what it used to be. Ever since Mayor Eschel took office, the riots and protests have become almost a daily occurrence. All of my artists are afraid to come into the studio. They’re afraid to bring their instruments, afraid to arrive before 10am and leave after five. I don’t know how I am going to keep my income flowing. I don’t know how I am going to pay these bills.

The only reason I am even walking downstairs to get the mail is because I know that this might be the last time I will have any money left in my account to pay these bills with. I should get them out as soon as possible. I hear a low bass line coming from the apartment next to mine as I pass the door and I am immediately disgusted by the fact that the band they are listening to recorded at my studio, the one that might not even be there when I wake up in the morning. I can only think about how I’m going to have to close the studio for tomorrow, at least, and talk to the insurance company when I reach my mailbox. I look for apartment 4414’s slot and open the door. Bill. Bill. Newspaper. Letter. Letter? What could this be?

I study it as I walk back upstairs. It has no return address other than “The Templar Agency.” My address is printed in plain black type on the front. I am almost tempted to throw it away, fearing it is either a hoax or a letter informing me that the Fellar Hills neighborhood was being evacuated because of all the rioting. Again. I am not leaving again.

I don’t even really notice the bassline that much when I pass the apartment next to mine and shut the door behind me. I throw the bills down and study the envelope a bit more. I decide to open it. Maybe if I’m lucky, it will be a note informing me that the mayor has been taken hostage and they’re demanding a ransom. They won’t get it from me, that’s for sure.
A plain white page with plain black lettering.

“Miss MaryJane Wells,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been selected for a personal interview regarding potential employment with The Templar Agency. Upon reviewing your qualifications, we believe that you could be a valuable asset to our team and look forward to meeting with you in person. Please arrive no later than 10:00am at office 8B in the Healy Office Complex located at 134 Sherman Road, Sarton City on August 8.

We are excited to meet with you and appreciate your interest in our agency.”

Now, I don’t know what kind of deal this is, but when I look and notice that it isn’t even signed, I am pretty convinced that it is a hoax. I have never applied for a job with The Templar Agency. I don’t even know what that is. Why must they send this junk mail? I don’t have time to…great, the phone is ringing. I reach into my pocket and clip the video screen headset over my ears and slide it into place over my left eye. I flick it on.

“Greetings, Miss Wells,” a slightly overweight man with a goatee and a receding hairline says to me.

“Hi,” I say back. This better not be a telemarketer.

“I see that you have received our letter. Oh, excuse me for not introducing myself! My name is Dr. David Rhodes. I’m with The Templar Agency. I hope that this call finds you in good spirits, Miss Wells.”

“It finds me in confused spirits,” I say curtly. What is going on here?

“As we presumed it might,” he says with a slight chuckle. He’s got great teeth. Looks about fifty. Salt and pepper hair. Typical middle aged businessman. Maybe they’re looking to buy out my studio.

“We found your, ah, impressive resume through another agency you have worked with in the past. You are quite skilled, more than you are aware of, Miss Wells. Our agency has been observing your skills for quite some time. We are impressed with your abilities and we are greatly looking forward to meeting with you tomorrow,” he says to me and raises his left eyebrow a bit. I’m not in the mood to deal with old balding men trying to play cute with me. I don’t say a word and wait for him to continue.

“We have heard the work you produce in your studio. You are rather musically inclined, as we can tell. I understand you are also a bit of a musician yourself?”

“I’m a drummer. I remaster some of my own stuff on occasion.”

“Certainly you are a talented musician. I understand you would have been a musician professionally if you did not work on your physics degree?”

What the hell is going on here? Who is this guy and how does he know about my degree? How does he know about my drumming? What is he, some kind of stalker? What the hell?

“Dr., um, Rhodes, was it?” I begin in an angry voice, “how the hell do you know all of this about me? I will not hesitate to call the police on you, sir,” I blurt. I hope he can see the anger in my face. He laughs and shakes his head slightly.

“Miss Wells,” he begins, “I know more about you than most people would care to. I know that you were working on your master’s degree when the Vellorum Heights riots broke out and the city was put on lockdown three years ago. I know that you worked to lobby to the mayor when all institutions of higher learning were closed indefinitely due to social unrest and the city’s impending civil war. I know that you run a recording studio on the corner of Fifty-Third and Vine and that for the last two and a half weeks, the rioting there has nearly choked off all of your business and nearly destroyed your studio.

“I know that you politically affiliate yourself with the Citizen’s Party and have known relations with members of the underground political group the Justice Society, who are currently planning an assassination attempt on the mayor in an attempt to end what they feel to be his oppressive and maniacal policies. Miss Wells, I even know that you have a small scar at the base of your left hand from when you were five years old and accidentally broke a window at your grandmother’s house. I believe it would be in your best interest to show up at the address sent to you at the time appointed to you tomorrow morning,” he said with a serious, almost angered look on his face.

I stared at him for a moment through my view screen and contemplated calling the police. I was about to tell him he can expect a police cruiser at his location very soon when he spoke again.

“The police, Miss Wells? They are at the mercy of the mayor, my dear. How do you think they would react if they responded to a call placed by a person who has known, shall we say, interpersonal relations with prominent members of the Justice Society?”

“Who said anything about the police?” I snapped back. I gave him a disgusted look to let him know that I was far from pleased with this videocall.

“Miss Wells, you didn’t have to say anything. And I know that you won’t. I know that even though you are angry, confused, and scared by this videocall, you will arrive tomorrow ten minutes early to office 8B. I know that you will dream tonight when you manage to fall asleep around 4:30am and you will dream the same dream you have had since you were a child. Yes, Miss Wells, the dream of nuclear apocalypse. I know that you know that your best choice here is to follow the instructions in that letter. I know you will do so.” His face looked very serious and I was speechless. How did he know about my reoccurring nightmare of nuclear apocalypse? How did he know I would never actually have called? How did he know I was going to show up?

“It doesn’t matter how I know, my dear. I just do. I will see you tomorrow at 10am sharp, or 9:50 in your case. Goodnight, Miss Wells. I am looking forward to our meeting.”

And with that, the videoscreen went black.