Christopher WunderLee - Moore's Mythopoeia

“She will be relocated to a facility and matriculated into rebranding,” hand gently rubbing her back, still crouched down before her.

“Maija?”

“Ms. Hanley, yes.”

“Why?”

“She has been under investigation by the department for almost a year and a half, Ms. Greene,” he speaks soothingly, trying to explain without upsetting her, “investigators have uncovered violations of the social code and citizen’s regulations…”

“What could Maija have done?”

“Ms. Hanley has several marks against her, investigators have gathered evidence sufficient enough to warrant rebranding,” he remains circumambagious until she attempts to question him further, “you are allowed to know. I should warn you… it could be… upsetting.”

“Please…”

“Agents raided her apartment earlier this morning. After a thorough search, they uncovered certain items that indicate Ms. Hanley has nonstandard social interactions, some of which are sexual. Documentation also designated abnormal actions towards other citizens, such as voyeurism, contrectation, grapholagnia (several of which were found of person’s she has regular contact with and appear to have been taken without their knowledge — you included), invultuation, along with general violations such as murcidity, gamophobia, and evidence of personal molestation, lesbianism, and erotic theatrics.”

“I don’t know what that means…”

“Essentially, Ms. Greene, the investigation indicates that Ms. Hanley has been abusing herself while viewing questionable images or, in certain instances, in the person’s presence when they are incapacitated or unconscious, including, at times, furtively contacting the person’s sexual organs. You, Ms. Greene, were the primary victim. Agents recovered a large collection of surreptitiously taken photographs with you as the subject matter, along with journals and other written documents indicating sexual tendencies towards the female sex. I have been instructed to leave you with information about medication that will assist in coping with this evidence.”

Elisa didn’t know how to answer, she hadn’t known about much of it; still she didn’t believe her assistant deserved rebranding. Vincent. He was retaliating. A message, maybe, unsubtle, she could believe it. Take someone away from her; let her see what could happen, what he could do if he chose to… They could have been for her. He was warning her in his obvious, coarse way… She looked about her apartment: the agents were packing up their gear; the captain had placed a prescription in her lap, remained crouched before her, but head turned, watching with her. She breathed deeply, partly relieved, still guilty, poor Maija…

Captain Vincent Belacque was standing on the twenty-first floor of the Collingswood Apartments, binoculars pointed towards open windows, a mobile unit of six screens beside him, Elisa framed in the bottom left one, still sitting on the couch, the Section 9 captain still kneeling near her, listening to the crackle of radio transmissions: “successful retrieval… debriefing… subject in transit…”

Vincent had decided to initiate the rebranding, partly as a warning, but more specifically in order to wrap up his investigation and provide results. He couldn’t implicate Elisa, but he had to justify the operation. Maija Hanley, Elisa’s assistant, offered a convenient alternative, he had incriminating information about her, perfectly suitable for an Action Request, evidence that would maneuver the investigation naturally towards her. The case would be closed, considered solved, a suitable outcome reached. Elisa would be freed from investigation (although without her knowledge) and Vincent wouldn’t lose his live feeds, just the ones wired into the system. She would realize what was possible, conform, and they would be together, no concerns over Section 9 or her involvement in the resistance, not after this…

* * *

They dart like nocturnal nightmares from behind the dumpster out into the light, across the street, and into the alleyway. Eight or more of them, the point men, followed by the cart and its accompaniment; they give the signal: “whoooo, whoooo” (meant to sound like an owl, although why there would be an owl in the middle of the city, no one considers) and the men pull it across the road. Just eleven meters further, the cart makes it across the road without being seen, only some lonely traffic two blocks away, tired people commuting through the night, as they cross the final thoroughfare unseen.

Arthur, masked as usual as a wolf, begins his hand signals like a third-base coach giving a hitter intricate instructions, with all sorts of options, depending upon the batter, the pitcher, outs, RBIs, etc. The men nod when they’ve received their gestured tasks and scamper off towards their assigned positions. The cart they hold in the shadows until everyone’s in position, followed by a small orchestra of wilderness animal calls, indicating a ‘go on five’, which sends the wolf, the ghost, the angel, and the captain out towards the large concrete square surrounded by flagpoles and a statute or two in front of the building. They begin their work immediately and within seconds give the alert to bring the first item. The pirate and Frankenstein scurry out from the alley with a large iron square, just as the rascally rabbit arrives, blowtorch in hand, and begins the welding process. The pirate and Frankenstein retreat back to the concealed cart and await further instructions…

The rascally rabbit finishes his work, flips open his hood and thumbs up the wolf, who then quack, quacks the contingent, who arrive promptly with a conic structure, set it on top of the parallelogram and disappear again. The rascally rabbit goes back to work, sparks showering the surrounding area, all the look-outs in place, the wolf steadying the frame, and cacaw, cacaaaws the next piece. Before long (meaning no one’s quite sure how long it takes, you know how these delicate cloak & dagger operations are — one second feels like an hour, one hour can be like a second), the primary work has been completed and the masked marauders (not what Arthur prefers but even generals have to make allowances for morale) complete Operation Blowjob and move onto the secondary maneuver, Operation Add-on, in which several agents attach lengthy, suggestive wires to the main structure. It goes off without a hitch, culminating in the plaque ceremony, the theft of the flags (symbolically suggesting one general’s success over another) and the replacement with unidentifiable banners in their place (one is of a coiled snake cut into pieces, while the second flag is a black fist clutching a lightning bolt — no one quite sure what any of it means, save that they look menacing).

The nocturnal ninjas (again, not Arthur’s title for his squadron) then head over to the four tulip fields bordering the cement center, and remove two-by-fours, a long rope, and begin stomping on the delicate flowers, creating, for all intensive purposes, blossom shapes (some speculating they’re the work of an alien strike squad who’ve broken away from their army and are trying to communicate the fate of the innocent world to its inhabitants, whilst others believe that it could be a coincidental floral virus that just happens to mimic that which it is afflicting, while scientists argue that no ‘natural’ phenomena could possibly create such elaborate designs and bend the stalks, rather than breaking them, giving rise to all sorts of questions: if it’s not ‘natural’, what is it? Paranormal, spectral, extra-terrestrial, dimensional time warpal, etc?). Until the team has finished, stands for just a few seconds admiring their handy-work, the wolf strolling from one plot of flowers to the other, finally awarding the beta team the award for creativity in the midst of personal sacrifice, a very nice blue ribbon handed out to the team leader, even a good pat on the back, before they hoot and holler away, back into the alley, setting the carriage ablaze, and disappearing into the darkness of a nearby park, no one the wiser until morning.