Epilogue: You Don't Know Jack!

Kente | Sept 6 1998: 955 ICT | Saito Tower: Director's Office(10.771410036852675, 106.70438071800186) |District 1

Photographs and documents were sprawled across the desk between them—grainy surveillance stills, shipping manifests, lists of names and locations.

The department director sat opposite them, sweating profusely through his suit.

“Could someone please turn the air conditioning up?” he snapped. “This Saigon summer is starting to get to me.”

The assistant hesitated, about to mention that the temperature was already set to seventy, but instead nodded solemnly and waddled out of the room.

Kente was still dizzy from the lingering effects of the yellow glow. Ann crossed her arms, trying to look imposing, while also hiding the goosebumps crawling up her skin from the cold air. Both wrapped head to toe in cyan healing bandages.

“I’m telling you we’re going to need more time to plug these leaks,” Kente replied. “If they’re connected to the mob, and if gangs like the Natural Selectors have access to this information—and know we’re hunting them—then we need troops. We need to act swiftly.”

“You want me to call in an army,” the director said incredulously, “when the Archbishop of Saigon is already practically begging the Patriarch to pull the plug on us?”

“Yes,” Kente said evenly. “In fact, I’m saying it would benefit Saito to show that we’re helping clean house.”

“That’s not how the Saigonese are going to see it,” the director snapped. “No one likes these gangs, but they’re going to like you going after them even less.”

“They’re going to start kidnapping for ransom soon,” Ann cut in. “We need to act. We need to figure something out.”

The phone on the manager’s desk began to ring—a metallic chirp. He pressed a button to silence it.

It rang again. He pressed the button again.

“All right,” he muttered, wiping his brow. “Maybe we go after their funding sources. Or protect the scrapyards. If we frame it as a defensive action—push them out of our recycling centers—maybe we can justify it.”

The phone rang again.

The director dragged a sweaty hand through his already greasy, thinning gray hair. At this point, he was asking questions only to preserve the illusion of control. In reality, he knew it was only a matter of minutes before he agreed to whatever Kente or Ann proposed.

Then the phone rang again.

But this time, it wasn’t the electronic chirp.

It was the heavy, mechanical ring of an archaic telephone.

The room went silent. Everyone stared at the phone.

The assistant reentered. Her voice was flat, cold.

“Sir. There’s an important call you need to take.”

“Can it wait?” the director asked weakly. “We’re in the middle of—”

“It cannot,” she said. No honorific. No apology. Not a command—more like a prophecy.

The phone rang again, softer now.

The director picked it up. He listened.

The tension drained from his face, replaced first by anguish, then by something worse—despair. The color left his cheeks.

With a trembling hand, he held the receiver out to Kente.

“It’s for you.”

“Who is it?” Ann asked, alarmed.

“Washington.”

Kente hesitated only a moment before taking the phone.

“This is—this is Mr. Watanabe.”

The voice on the other end was unmistakable. Strong. Accented. Loud.

“Bobby. This is Jack.”

Kente stiffened.

“I’m in Washington,” Jack continued. “Don’t bother asking what you can do for me. I’m going to tell you what that is.”

The man’s broad, unmistakably American accent cut through the line.

“We’ve been watching your situation very carefully. And I gotta tell you, Bobby—you Japs really screwed the pooch this time.”

Kente said nothing.

“It was bad enough all the effort we put into giving you free rein over Indochina,” Jack went on. “Now you’re about to throw it all away over a few dumb mistakes. And now the Soviets are involved?”

Jack exhaled sharply.

“Here is how you are going to salvage this. District Two. Commonwealth Embassy. You’re going to speak with a man named Mr. Lodge. He’s going to give you the help you need.”

Kente glanced at Ann. She looked back at him, confused and uneasy.

“I don’t know if we can do that,” Kente said carefully. “We still have other priorities. Could we finish a few—”

"This isn't a time to get cute Bobby." The handset went silent, and Jack's voice boomed through the speaker of the phone.

"The boys in Langley like to keep tabs on all sorts of PoIs and PoSs, and let me tell ya there is a whole Filing Cabinet dedicated to one Kente Watatanabe."

Kente froze. Anh hissed. "Kente, what is he talking about."

"Remember how I said I have done worse?" Kente whispered in very low Japanese.

"Ya damn right, ya did. There's a whole big fat file of your shenanigans back in '93. I hear your sister is a reporter for the Chronicle. How do you think she would feel if she got a new her top story?"

Anh was silent, Kente was silent. Despite the chaos outside, not a sound was heard.

“I think we understand each other. The only thing you’re allowed to do before going to the embassy is take your girlfriend to a tattoo parlor and get "GP" inked on matching ass cheeks. Because you two are fighting for freedom now.”

Kente and Anh looked at each other, contempt and fear written across her face.

“Now get to Mr. Lodge.” The line went dead.