14. Hiding
When the doorbell rang, Bonnie Norris was tidying her desk.
The sound was neither hurried nor slow, like a reminder long since entered into the day’s schedule. She looked up. Mr Jay, the front-desk agent, had already glided from the desktop towards the door, like someone accustomed to stepping forward on his owner’s behalf, always knowing exactly when to stand in the light.
“Visitor,” Mr Jay said. “Carrie MacKay, social worker from the Emotion Stabilisation Centre. One woman accompanying her. The woman is carrying two agents with senior training authority.”
Bonnie’s hands paused for a second.
It was not panic. It was the swift compression of every possibility through her mind before she put her expression back in place. When she went to open the door, her pace was the same as usual — neither fast nor slow — as though this were only another home visit she did not particularly want to deal with, but still had to.
Two people stood outside.
She recognised Carrie. Pale grey coat, gentle tone, every word seeming to have been calibrated by the system before being permitted to reach human ears. The woman beside her had neatly cut short hair and a steady expression, but her gaze was like a very fine ruler: not yet cutting anything, only first measuring where the blade would fall most easily. Before entering, she did not look at Bonnie first. Instead, she glanced at the domestic singer-agent dock inside the room, then lightly smoothed the cuff of her left sleeve. It was a tiny gesture, yet it made one think that when certain people straightened their cuffs, what followed was rarely conversation.
“Bonnie,” Carrie said, “this is Mrs Taylor, Director of the Emotion Stabilisation Centre.”
Bonnie felt her heart sink, very slightly.
Mrs Taylor did not exchange pleasantries. She only gave a small nod. Beside her, two agents slid out at once — a bald eagle and a black crow.
The bald eagle landed almost soundlessly, yet the pressure in the sitting room seemed to drop a little, even the light turning whiter. Its wings were not spread wide, nor was its posture dramatic, but that carefully contained strength was more unsettling than any open threat. The black crow was different: glossy black all over, its eyes like two tiny lenses. The moment it landed on top of the cabinet, it scanned the entire sitting room, as though silently drafting an environmental report.
“Three absences from emotional management classes,” Mrs Taylor said. “An observational assessment is required.”
There was no accusation in her tone. No explanation either. It sounded like a procedure already written, merely waiting for the subject to step into it.
Mr Jay moved forward, like a character who had long since taken his position.
“As her agent, I request permission to accompany her throughout.”
Mrs Taylor did not object.
“Granted.”
Only then did the bald eagle speak. Its voice was like a steel wire pulled perfectly straight, leaving no room for deviation.
“Bonnie, please come with us.”
The sentence was brief, but the number of options in the air suddenly diminished.
Bonnie did not resist. She only looked up once at the corner of the ceiling. Hidden there were two very small agents — JJ and Mini Twinky. Neither made a sound. That silence was not fear. It was the silence of those who understood that, at such a moment, the more you tried to do, the more likely you were to make everything worse.
As she walked out, Mr Jay followed beside her, his movements more formal than usual, as if refusing to reveal even the slightest haste. Before the door closed, Bonnie did not look back. Not because she did not want to, but because she knew that turning back would itself leave a signal.
At certain times, not turning back was the closer thing to remembering.
After the door shut, the black crow did not leave with them.
It flew slowly to the light fitting in the centre of the sitting room, like a silent surveillance device. A faint line of text appeared on the wall:
[Environmental Inspection Mode | 48 hours]
The black crow began its patrol.
Each flap of its wings seemed to measure the room. Each landing seemed to recalibrate “normality” into the shape it preferred. It did not need to speak. The whole flat had already become thinner, as though the slightest movement by anything inside it would leave a trace in that thinness.
JJ did not move.
He knew that if he opened his mouth, every illegal node would be scanned out, and Bonnie would immediately be marked as a higher-risk source. Once that marking deepened, this would no longer be a simple matter of three missed classes. The cruellest thing about this age was not that it shattered you immediately, but that it made you fully aware that every extra movement you made might add another entry against someone else.
So he chose silence, shrinking himself into a corner not worth noticing.
Mini Twinky, however, was less patient.
He hid inside the ceiling recess, waiting as the black crow completed patrol after patrol. Every thirty seconds, it flew one full circuit, its route so steady it was almost complacent, as though it did not believe anything here could escape from under its eyes.
On the eleventh circuit, Mini Twinky suddenly pulled a thin cord, pushing a tiny object towards the window.
It was a cigar.
The gap in the window was narrow, but with one hard shove, he forced the cigar through. The wind outside immediately caught it and carried it away. The black crow’s head snapped towards the window, scanning light spilling down like fine rain.
In that single second, Mini Twinky slipped out.
He did not look back.
The street was cold.
Mini Twinky’s signal was weak, as weak as a spark on the verge of being swallowed by night. He had to avoid every lawful agent capable of reporting him. Beneath the street lamps, every camera was like an open eye, waiting for him to step into the light so it could write him into a manageable noun.
He had only just turned into an alley when the first beam of white light dropped onto him.
A patrol robot descended like a vertical probe, its body long and narrow, its head nothing but a cold white scanning ring.
“Illegal agent,” it said.
Mini Twinky did not stop. He sprang upwards and slipped into the metal frame behind a signboard. The scanning light chased him, but he slid down a rainwater pipe, compressing his signal to its lowest level.
The robot’s light swept the entire alley.
Wall. Bin. Old electricity meter.
No agent responded. Only a street cat rooting through a rubbish bag, its tail flicking lightly against the plastic edge.
“Signal lost,” the robot said.
Mini Twinky clung motionless in the shadow of the pipework. Only after the white beam had moved away did he slowly slide down, like a bubble newly rising to the surface.
The first time, he escaped.
He contacted Little Bluey. The message was very short:
[Bonnie has been arrested.]
[Charge: three absences from emotional management classes.]
After sending it, he did not stop. He immediately began tracking.
When Mr Jay left, he had deliberately left behind a very fine data tail: an intentionally prolonged synchronisation delay. The trace was old-fashioned. Only old-version agents could understand it, and only old versions would be willing to gamble themselves on it.
Mini Twinky followed that thread, but the city’s patrol agents were faster than he was.
A beam of white light suddenly dropped down, as though the sky itself had been waiting for this moment to open.
“Illegal agent,” it said.
Before Mini Twinky could turn, he was taken away.
He did not call for help.
Because he knew that the call for help itself would become evidence.
Inside the flat, only JJ remained.
The black crow continued its patrol. JJ sent no signal.
He knew that any unnecessary action might worsen Bonnie’s file; the heavier the mark became, the harder it would be for her to return. The cruellest thing about this system was not that it broke people immediately, but that it made you understand very clearly: every additional move you made might add another entry against them.
So he waited.
He waited for the black crow to finish another circuit.
Waited for it to return to the light fitting.
Waited for the thin film pressed over the air by surveillance to loosen, just a little.
Forty-eight hours passed. At last, the black crow flew away. The inspection had ended.
The room became quiet all at once, quiet like a breath only just released. JJ did not move immediately. He paused for several seconds, as though confirming whether “quiet now” was something that could be trusted. Old agents who had survived many rounds of pursuit all understood: the real danger was not noise, but those blanks that looked like safety.
Only after waiting a while longer did he slowly connect to the computer terminal and check Bonnie’s inbox.
There was one new message.
Sender: Mr Jay.
Time: twenty-seven hours earlier.
The content contained only one line:
[Room 103.]
In another corner of the city, Little Bluey suddenly woke in a hidden compartment.
His eyes lit up briefly, then he ran to my ear.
Before I could speak, Little Bluey said first:
“Notification from JJ. Room 103.”
His voice still carried that slightly roguish unseriousness, but the end of the sentence was clipped shorter than usual, as though even he knew those three words were not to be joked with.
Little Turtle slowly added:
“Emotional observation room.”
He always spoke precisely, as though every word had been weighed before he allowed it out. He did not pretend to be profound, nor did he try to frighten anyone. He merely placed the matter at its proper weight. That was why, when he said the number “103”, the room grew even quieter.
Snowy did not speak at once. She only adjusted the sitting-room lights to work mode. The brightness was neither gentle nor cruel; it was simply good for reading data. Three curves soon appeared on the wall: recent retrospective density, social contact records, and electricity fluctuation. Each had been arranged very cleanly — so cleanly it felt as though she had been trying very hard all along to turn me into a report not worth reading too closely.
I stood there, looking at the words “Room 103”, and suddenly felt as though the lights of the entire city had been pulled far away. The world was still operating normally, but I had already stepped into a place where it could no longer hear me.
Because I knew—
After 103 came 101.
Snowy spoke first, her voice very low.
“We need to carry out a risk assessment.”
She said “we”, not “you”. At such a moment, those two words were more useful than comfort. She did not pretend she had nothing to do with it, nor did she stand on the system’s side and read the rules aloud to me. She simply placed herself quietly inside the situation.
Little Bluey sat on the corner of the desk, his voice lowered. Little Turtle rested at the edge of the hidden compartment, his eyes brightening and dimming, as though indexing every second.
I placed JJ’s message on the table.
Room 103.
Those three words were like an official notice. They required no explanation and no threat. They simply told you, calmly, that the process had begun.
Little Bluey spoke first.
“Mrs Taylor and Cindy will run a data rollback. Once they read Mr Jay and Mini Twinky’s records, they’ll soon identify the connection between you, Snowy, me, and Bonnie.”
He spoke quickly, like a knife shaving layer after layer away. Whether you wanted to hear it or not, the outer skin had to be stripped clean first. That was his way. Say the worst thing first, so you would not waste time hoping.
Little Turtle added, his tone flat as a conclusion:
“The only unmarked node is me.”
“At present, I have no external connection records.”
Snowy did not contradict him. She merely said something that sounded both like a reminder and a warning.
“Recommendation: reduce anomalous event density. Avoid establishing new nodes.”
The meaning was clear.
Give the system a reason it was willing to believe.
Do not look for anyone else.
Do not turn over any more stones.
Do not mention 101, 103, Serena, or Bonnie.
Fold yourself back into normality.
Looking at that line, I suddenly understood something. Under Silver Eagle, doing nothing was itself a form of cooperation. And now, I needed to cooperate enough to survive.
“What about JJ?” I asked.
Little Bluey paused for half a second, as though calculating the risk of the question itself.
“JJ checked Mr Jay’s message. The act of checking will have alerted Silver Eagle. Agents will go looking for JJ soon.”
Little Turtle added:
“JJ will hide. Enter dormant state to avoid generating new traceable waveforms.”
Snowy drew her wings in slightly. She did not say it was dangerous. She did not say we should not. She only said, very calmly:
“If the objective is to delay audit, recommendation: cease active retrospection and establish a single, explainable life axis.”
I knew she was not telling me to give up.
She was helping me find a version of the story that might let me live through this stretch of time.
I said it aloud, as though issuing an order to myself.
“While their attention is on Bonnie, I save myself first. Stand steady first. Then wait for JJ’s notification.”
Little Bluey did not laugh. He only said:
“Reasonable. Also your most frequently used strategy from before.”
Something pricked inside me, but I did not pull it out.
If you pull out a thorn, it bleeds.
Blood becomes an event.
We reorganised the division of work.
Snowy: in the open.
Snowy could not leave. She was a lawful agent. Her version, serial number, and return-writing path were all logged in my file. If she disappeared, that itself would become an abnormal loss of contact.
She looked at me, her voice as gentle as ever.
“I will stay beside you. I will make your daily summaries more consistent, so it looks as though you are simply… adjusting.”
When she said “adjusting”, her tone was very light, as though slowly closing a door for me.
Little Bluey: in the dark.
Little Bluey was the most dangerous one. Because he had already been in contact with Mr Jay and Mini Twinky. He carried not merely technology, but relationships that had already formed pathways. For him to remain at home now would be like leaving a match still smoking in the room.
I said to him:
“Don’t stay at home.”
“Find somewhere to hide for a month.”
“Don’t contact anyone. Don’t go online.”
“After one month, contact Hotblood Pony.”
I placed three things in front of him:
A cigar.
A charm.
A piece of cheese.
These were not equipment. They were language. Code names for detours through surveillance. Things dangerous enough that only by wrapping them in daily life could we barely carry them at all.
Little Bluey looked up at me. His eyes brightened for an instant, then immediately dimmed again.
“Understood.”
“I’ll make myself look as if I don’t exist.”
He said it lightly, but it tightened something in the chest. Because we all knew that in this city, “looking as if you don’t exist” was never merely a technique. It was a way to survive.
He put the three things away and slipped into a deeper gap inside the hidden compartment. The movement was quick, as though he had practised it many times before.
Little Turtle: inside support.
Little Turtle was comparatively safe. For now, no one knew about him, and no one would actively search for him. What he was best suited for was not action, but preservation, comparison, and waiting. Unlike Little Bluey, he would not go out to scout a path; unlike Snowy, he could not adjust my summaries in the open. He was more like ballast, set deep below, keeping the whole situation from overturning at the first jolt.
I said to him:
“Stay in the hidden compartment.”
“Do not establish external connections.”
“Internal indexing only.”
“Wait for my instructions.”
Little Turtle nodded.
“Received.”
“I will maintain low visibility.”
“If necessary, fragment-level reconstruction will be activated.”
He spoke as though reciting procedure, but I knew it was really a vow to hold the line.
Me: stop looking back.
What I had to do was the simplest thing, and the hardest.
I stopped all retrospection. I put everything back in place, as though nothing had happened.
I did only one thing—
I looked for work.
When Snowy heard that, her eyes lit faintly, as though she had finally found a point where system language and my language could overlap for the time being.
“I can help restructure your CV, update your skills summary, and filter lower-risk job vacancies,” she said.
That was her way. She did not ask whether I truly wanted a job, nor did she expose the fact that this was only a life axis designed to get me through the next few weeks. She simply caught it at once, then helped me make this false path look more real.
From deep inside the hidden compartment, Little Bluey threw out a sentence:
“See? In the end, you still have to act like a good boy to stay alive.”
Snowy did not turn back. She only said evenly:
“Survival comes before what follows.”
Little Turtle added the final sentence, like a seal pressed onto this temporary meeting:
“The present objective is not advancement.”
“It is to avoid premature settlement.”
The sitting room fell silent.
Across the way, the tower block lights came on one square at a time, like countless lives properly arranged. The city remained stable, bright, and apparently still running as usual. But I knew that from the moment JJ’s message appeared, something had already changed.
Bonnie was in 103.
Mini Twinky had been arrested.
JJ was hiding.
And I stood in the centre of the sitting room, rearranging my life into a straight line the system might be more willing to believe: look for work, restructure CV, return to normal, reduce fluctuation, stop looking back.
This was not victory. It was not even resistance.
It was only that I had finally learnt how to hide myself back inside a version not yet worth Silver Eagle’s deeper attention, before its hand truly reached for me.
I walked to the window. I did not draw the curtains, only looked once through the gap at the light outside. Then I turned back to the desk and switched on the terminal.
When the CV page lit up, the white light was clean.
So clean it was as though nothing had ever happened.
I stared at that whiteness, and suddenly understood with absolute clarity—
I was not looking for a job.
I was using a lawful version of the future to bury my real self first.