Fantastic Mister Director

The floor of T.V. screens groaned under Pisha as she entered the Director’s office.

Yes. T.V. screens. They covered the massive room from wall-to-wall. Some were glossy 4K flatscreens while others looked like dusty CRT cubes. The room crackled with grainy static, the kind she’d only heard through her family’s rusted antenna.

The endless grid of screens flashed from live feeds of the facility to fisheye drone shots of Tokyo. Their warmth bled through the soles of her trainers.

“Pisha!”

The Director’s chair scraped across a ground-level monitor.

His desk was encased by racks on racks of caged computer towers. Multicoloured cables spilled from his setup onto the surrounding floor, smelling like burnt plastic. He smoothed his pinstripe suit as he rose.

“It’s a pleasure to see you again,” he said.

“Yeah, can’t say the same,” she replied. “You’re a scumbag. There’s no way that shit I saw down there is legal.”

There was no point sugarcoating it, not after what she’d seen. Not when the last time they’d talked, the asshole had threatened to kill her.

“Ah, don’t be so cold!” He stepped out from around his desk, crunching over loose cables. “Say, how was yesterday’s movie?”

“Are you seriously trying small talk right now?”

“The theatre was Batsuora’s idea, I heard?” he asked, completely ignoring her question.

He couldn’t be serious. Movies were the last thing she wanted to discuss. Not with the damn torture basement sitting downstairs.

“I wouldn’t have pegged him as the moviegoing type,” he continued. “But what about you? Would you consider yourself a cinephile?”

“A what? I’m not any type of ‘phile,’ you freak.” She took a creeped-out step back.

I know he’s an evil pervert, but…

The Director laughed, his V.R. headset glinting as it caught the screens’ light.

“No, no, a cinephile, a fan of film! Or even just a favourite director?”

“If I say Tarantino, can we get to the part where you explain yourself?”

“Ah, Quentin Tarantino!” He nodded. “A stylish choice, people your age certainly love him. Though, I’m more of a Wes Anderson man, myself.”

Pisha tapped an impatient foot, the monitor glitching with dead pixels beneath her sneakers. It felt like she was crushing the on-screen pedestrians underneath like some sort of B-grade Kaiju scene.

“Sure, whatever. He’s pretty good, but—“

“‘Pretty good?’ He’s a master of visual storytelling! The symmetry, those precise compositions. It makes choosing a favorite nearly impossible.”

The room dimmed as the screens shifted to a noisy, black-and-white recording. It was Pisha, sneaking through the all-too-familiar hallways of zone three.

The feed swapped to a second camera angle of zone three. Then, another from a corner. It recorded her like some perverted voyeur through vents and grates she hadn’t even noticed existed.

She felt naked. Exposed. If it wasn’t for the blanket, she would’ve been. She ripped her eyes away.

The Director clasped his hands behind his back and began pacing.

“I quite enjoyed his animated film,” he said. “The one about the fox. A sly little creature. It spends the entire film pretending to be human. Unfortunately for it, a human is a human, and a fox is a fox. You understand, don’t you?” He stopped directly in front of her.

“Hell no.”

“Are you a human, or are you a wild animal, Pisha?”

His a-little-too-bright visor glared down at her. Up close, past her own distorted reflection, she noticed the small scratches scarring its surface. He peered at her, hands still clasped, as he waited for an answer.

Anma’s blanket started to feel too thin. As if the fabric was so sheer, the Director could see right through it. The office’s static tugged at its threads.

“Look, Mr. Director, Sir, whatever,“ she started.

“—Answer the question.”

“Fine! Human, okay? I'm obviously a human. Is that supposed to be a trick question!?”

If there was a sport for dodging questions instead of rubber balls, his office would’ve been lined with gold medals.

“Not at all! That’s the correct answer,” he said, like he hadn’t even noticed. “Now, as a human, we have our responsibilities, don’t we? We must go to work. We must come home and care for our families.” His a-little-too-wide smile peeked through from under his headset. “A human who doesn’t work, who has no responsibilities, is nothing more than a wild animal, Pisha. As I.E. members, it is our duty to put down such animals.”

She clicked her tongue.

“Thought our job was protecting people,” she muttered.

“They’re one and the same.”

The screens flashed to the strangers she’d met in the street before everything went down. The androgynous-looking one and the girl.

His pacing resumed.

“I see you’ve met Moroya.”

“That was Moroya? Like, the terrorist, Moroya?” She leaned into a nearby monitor. “You can’t be serious.”

On screen, the pair somehow looked different than they had in the intersection. Whether it was the pixelated resolution, or the way they were surrounded by civilians who didn’t know their true identities, she wasn’t sure.

“I wish I wasn’t,” he responded. “Unlike us, Moroya is a wild animal. Our analysts are even claiming he incited yesterday’s incident. An irredeemable creature, really.”

For a moment, his voice dropped to a snarl, before regaining its professionally neutral, professionally grating tone.

Pisha pointed a finger at the policemen on-screen.

“Moroya didn’t do shit. It was those cops, they started shooting at the kid first!” she said.

“It makes no difference. That child was a weapon, and your squad’s incompetence allowed its owner to escape unharmed. Not to mention the number the media did on our force.” He frowned before shaking his head. “Still, you’re the only thing that’s managed to draw him out of his den. It’s just a shame he hasn’t taken our bait. Yet.”

In unison, every T.V. clicked off. The Director’s glowing visor became the only source of light in the room.

“This is all to say, your squad is benched, Pisha. You’re too weak as is. Yet, you’re too valuable an asset to let fall into enemy hands, either.”

Benched. He tossed the word out like a coach sending a limping student to the nurse.

The monitors flared back on, and the Director was illuminated at the center of the office, his hands raised wide-open towards Pisha.

“Thus, you’ll be undergoing a new, specialised training regimen beginning tomorrow,” he said with a-little-too-much excitement.

Pisha tensed up. “‘Specialised?’ The hell is that supposed to mean?”

If it was anything like the “training” they were dishing out in zone three…

Her eyes drifted towards a bundle of cables on the ground. Tangled, like the ones wired to the swordsman’s seat. She imagined Bats and Anma trapped inside there instead. Strapped down, prodded with the same lasers and steel rods as those Othered.

She gritted her teeth, fighting the urge to slam her fist into the Director’s visor and shatter it. She could almost feel the glass shards splintering her knuckles.

Would that finally wipe the better-than-thou grin from his face?

He waved her away. “You’re dismissed. Do get some rest, Pisha,” he said. “Oh, and I hope your squad can return to the field soon enough.”

As he finished speaking, the screens faded to black, plunging the office into total darkness. Only the sound of static interference remained, until it died out with one final pop.

* * *

It was way too early to be training. Pisha’s eyes were so heavy she could barely keep them open.

There wasn’t a single good reason for them to hammer her door down like a S.W.A.T. team. She was innocent! Then, they had the nerve to drag her all the way to training at six-in-the-damn morning.

“Why the hell do Bats and Anma get to sleep in?” she grumbled.

She dragged her groggy eyes across the training room. Walls and beams were chipped and dented to smithereens. The tiled floor was dirtier than any amount of mopping could ever solve. Even one of those American home renovation shows couldn’t have saved it.

But, it was oddly quiet without the team’s usual bickering.

The staffer flinched, ducking behind their tablet.

“W—Well, the Director prepared this specifically for you. He said your regeneration speed was, ah, suboptimal.”

Of course he did. It must’ve been that training regimen he mentioned.

She flexed a fist. I should’ve punched him, after all.

Her conversation with the Director, if you could even call it that, replayed in her mind.

He’d said their whole squad was benched. Did that mean those two were sitting in their quarters, kicking their legs, while she had to actually train? How unfair was that.

After all, the only other place they could’ve been “benched” would be zone three. But if he’d put them there, she’d seriously put her fist through his visor. For real, that time.

The staffer hurriedly tapped at their tablet with enough force to bend the screen protector as Pisha wandered further inside.

Above, the ceiling vents let out constant whistles of air. The room itself was empty, save for a single, cheap-looking foldable table. It wouldn’t have looked out of place in an elementary-school cafeteria. On the table sat a single object, gleaming under the lights like a chalice on an altar at Mass.

As her fingers closed around the sacred-looking black rod, the illusion shattered.

“A baton…?”

She held it up to the light. The handle was a flimsy black plastic, its seams creaking between her fingers. A glossy aluminium pole jutted out from it.

It wasn’t sacred at all.

The reinforced doors hissed open, and a pair of Excursors strode into the room from the opposite side.

The taller one was a lanky man with limbs as thin and as fragile as one of those chocolate biscuit sticks. Next to him was a dolled-up woman in the same I.E. uniform, fidgeting with a tangle of knotted strings between her fingers.

The man rolled his shoulder, and the joint cracked with a dull pop.

“For real? We get to go all-out on her ass!?” he asked.

Pisha stuffed the baton into her belt and scowled at the strangers.

“Hey! Who do you think you’re talking to?”

She paused. His stupid face. Those arms that’d clearly never seen a bench press before. There was no mistaking it.

“Hold it. You’re the prick that stole my tray!” Pisha jabbed a finger at him.

“What!?”

A look of genuine confusion crossed his face for a moment.

Then, he stamped his feet and pointed at her in return. “Oh, you’re that bitch that was taking too long in line!”

“I was taking a perfectly normal amount of time!” she said, turning around in search of the staff. “Hey, what does Slenderman mean by all-out…?”

But, by the time she’d finished her question, the staffer was already behind a set of closing doors.

Thud.

The steel doors pounded shut behind the staffer.

The man’s high-tops slapped against the scuffed floor as he stomped towards Pisha. He was the type of guy to walk all over you without a second thought. She wasn’t looking forward to seeing what he’d pull in an actual training exercise.

Though, he might’ve done her a favour, considering how rubbery that curry tasted.

“I’mma be real, I’ve got no clue what your deal is,” he said. “But it’s not everyday we get to spill some blood. I’mma enjoy this shit!”

As the pair inched closer, her cheap baton started to feel less like a joke and more like a serious line of defence.

The woman followed behind him, rolling her eyes, though the rest of her expression didn’t budge.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, C.B.,” she said. “At least wait for my ability.”

“What-fuckin’-ever,” he groaned. “You gon’ take all day, or what, Bonnie!?”

Bonnie, ignoring him, unwound her ring finger from the net of strings. She brought the finger up to her porcelain face.

And shoved it past her muzzle and down her throat. She gagged. Her colourless lunch splattered onto the ground with a revolting cough.

“What the fuck is wrong with you,” Pisha said.

She stumbled backwards, nearly tripping over herself in the process. Not out of fear, mind you. It was pure disgust.

Is everyone in the I.E. a complete nutcase?

Bonnie snapped her hands apart, pulling the string tight between her palms. At the same time, her liquid-lunch whizzed into the air. The bile coiled into a thin string, imitating the one between her fingers.

C.B. lifted up a sleeve. The skin around his once slim arm bubbled, inflating to twice its size like a lopsided balloon animal. Deformed veins stretched and wrapped around the limb. He smacked his ballooned fist into the other palm.

“Right,” Pisha said. “You inflate, and she… Does that. Great. I get your abilities now.” She held her hands up in an attempt at a peace offering. “So, how about we skip this whole training thing?”

C.B.'s face, once again, wrinkled in confusion.

“Training? We’re deadass killing you,” he said.

Pisha sighed. “Figures.”

* * *

Intercity Excursion Force, Case File #08

Othered: Bonnie.

Ability: Bondage.

Description:

Manipulate visible liquids into ultra-thin, high-tension filaments.

Limitations:

Requires precise hand and finger articulation.

Targeted liquids must remain within direct line-of-sight.

Length and tensile strength are directly limited by the volume of liquid available.