Double-Blind CH3

Chapter 3

There was a slight distortion that left my hand like a tiny heatwave. Nothing happened. SWAT guy smiled and pulled the trigger. There was an ear shattering crack and the gun exploded. A flare ejected out the side closest to SWAT guy’s arm. A misfire. He shrieked and fell, slapping at the growing flames on his arm.

I gawked at the scene. Holy shit. Either the rifle had misfired on its own, or something else had tipped the scales. Probability spiral—

I staggered to the side, gasping. It felt like I'd run two marathons, back to back. Whatever it was, it hadn't come free. Still, it would only be a matter of seconds before the SWAT guy recovered. He'd pull his sidearm and the small victory I’d managed would be wasted. I took off running, ignoring it as his swearing followed me, echoing off the concrete ceiling of the garage

/////

My paranoia started whispering a few blocks from our apartment. What if they'd identified me from earlier footage? What if they were waiting for me?

I slipped into a nearby Waffle House with a view of the east apartment entrance and took a seat at a booth. My leg bounced uncontrollably and I had a hard time focusing on anything. My escape had been too easy. Inconsistencies in the events came into focus that had been disguised in a wash of adrenaline.

I'd been so confident I knew which way the cameras were pointing. Why? Where had that surety come from? The hospital cameras were encased in a black orb. I was losing it. Life wasn't a marvel movie. People didn't develop powers from meteors. The mounted tv flickered as the channel was changed, giving a report of a shots fired at Baylor hospital. Apparently, the cops had continued making their rounds. But the news was reporting it as a possible active shooter situation. I cocked my head. That didn't make any sense. Normally the news was informed on this sort of thing. The police must have been on an information blackout.

“Hon? I said, what can I get you?”

I jumped, swiveling in my seat to face a waitress who couldn't be bothered to tie her apron.

“Coffee.” Then, after a second. “Decaf.” No need to be any jumpier than I already felt.

“Just the coffee.” Statement, not a question. I was analyzing the waitresses tone, looking for tells. More paranoia. Damn I needed to get home so I could take my meds. “You okay hon?”

“Yeah. Sorry. Lot on my mind.”

She nodded sympathetically. “Last few days have been rough on all of us. I'll get that coffee.”

The wording stuck with me long after she'd left. Last few days? Of course. This wasn't the day of the impact. Few. What did few mean? At least two, maybe three. I watched the news, waiting for a date stamped report. March 22nd, 2024. Okay. Two days. What the SWAT guy said made more sense now, at least in terms of timeline.

Know how many friends I've lost today?

I squeezed my eyes shut. God, it was close.

The aroma of coffee filled my nose. I could feel the waitresses shadow lingering before she left me to my drink. My stomach twisted.

“For the second day in a row, police and federal authorities have yet to explain the blockades spanning state lines.”

My eyes shot open. The scene on the TV rotated between various major highways. Checkpoints backed up traffic indefinitely as a deluge of squad cars and SUVs served as hastily erected barriers blocking off roadways. There was a shot of thousands of people pressed together at DFW airport, with a slow pan to a nearby display that read “All departures suspended indefinitely.”

The hits kept coming. We were locked in. And the violet notification light was still hanging in my vision like a stuck pixel.

/////

I eased the apartment door shut. The hinges squealed at the last moment, giving me away. Small footsteps pattered as Iris swung out from the kitchen, small hand clinging the dividing wall to prevent her socked feet from slipping on the hardwood floor as she leveraged herself towards me.

Iris was thirteen, but her outfits always made her look much younger. A simple denim jumper covered a white cloth shirt. Her blonde hair was cropped short, tufts of it frizzed out over too-long ears. She tackled me in a tight hug. I saw Ellison peek out from the hallway and give me a tentative wave. He’d gotten the best of our parents features. Our father’s electric blue eyes and our mother’s wavy chestnut hair.

“Hey Ellis.”

“Where have you been?” Ellison asked. There was notable strain in his voice.

“Is it bad?” I asked.

“Dark orange. More sandstone than clay. Where have you been?”

“Hospital.” When his eyes widened, I hurried on before he could assume the worst. “Relax. Got out before they got my information.”

“Are you hurt?” Iris watched my lips intently as she finished the sign, closed hands with two index fingers pointed at each other.

“I’m fine.” I said, signing and speaking out loud. “Just bumps and bruises.” And an apparent dislocated shoulder, which somehow wasn’t dislocated anymore. But that was filed under the category of things I didn’t want to think too closely about. “You guys okay?”

Iris nodded.

“More disturbed than anything else. Mom called us both into the living room onto the couch with her and held onto us, then started crying uncontrollably.”

I winced. “Sorry I wasn’t here. How long has she been dark orange?” I asked.

”Since the meteor.” Iris signed, her movements emphatic.

“She feed you guys?”

“We’re fine. We made sandwiches.” Ellison answered before Iris could sign.

Irritation flooded me and I looked towards the end of the hallway. Really? I was gone for two days and she couldn’t be bothered to reheat a lasagna? Of course she couldn’t. What was I thinking.

I stalked towards the hallway and Iris clung onto my arm, slowing me, sliding a foot across the ground.

”Don’t make it worse.”

I knew she was right. In that moment, though, right and wrong didn’t matter. I felt so trapped, so damn strangled by this place. So I stood, and seethed. I reached up slowly to my forehead, feeling the spot on my forehead and finding the vein standing out on my skin.

Shit. My meds.

“Okay,” I said finally, and Iris released me. “I need to take some time. Do either of you need anything?”

“Not right at this minute. Got any money?” Ellison watched me knowingly, dark locks swinging across his forehead. “I was washing Mr. Oliver’s truck this morning—”

“El, you know I don’t like you working for him.”

Ellison rolled his eyes. “Not the point.”

“I’m serious. He’s the landlord, and he already tried to accuse you of stealing change from his console.” To say nothing of the fact that Ellison probably did. But the theft didn’t match the man’s explosive reaction and threats of eviction that terrified us for weeks. “Wait, what do you need money for?”

“If you’d let me finish, I would have told you by now,” Ellison snapped. “Oliver’s paying me tomorrow when he has cash on hand—“

“Never work without knowing when you’ll be paid—“

“I did know. He said it upfront. But the point is a bunch of neighbors saw me washing his car. A whole bunch. The dust from that thing,” Ellison held up a fist and splayed his fingers, pantomiming the explosion. “Got everywhere. Everyone needs their car cleaned, and the Tommy’s down the street is gouging everyone. So the opportunity is there, but I don’t have the capital for it.”

I did my best to ignore the lingo that undoubtedly stemmed from our mother. “What about the twenty I gave you two weeks ago?”

“Snacks. But most of it went to Iris’s new backpack.”

Fuck. I’d forgotten. Iris was mostly homeschooled due to inadequate support for deaf children in the local public school and bullying, but she was in a self-study group with other deaf children. As it turned out, sharing the same disability didn’t count much for common ground, as Iris’s backpack had been torn off her shoulders by an older boy and summarily tossed in a storm drain.

“How much do you need?”

“Twenty-five if you have it.”

I snorted. “What, are you outsourcing?”

“I need a handle and the Optimum is forty and tax.”

“Just buy the Megs. It’s half that. And it’s not like any of our neighbors are heading to a gala. Just clean the dust off their beaters.”

“Recurring business be damned.” Ellison sighed.

“Beggars can’t be choosers,” I shot back. Three dollars would tide him over. Ellison always lowballed what he actually had. I opened my wallet and stopped, finding it empty. A low groan escaped me.

“What?”

“I bankrupted myself for shitty Girl Scout cookies.”

“What?” Ellison repeated again, voice monotone.

“Sue me, the world was ending.”

Iris shifted so she was in both of our vision. “Let me help.”

“Do... you have it?” Ellison asked uncomfortably.

“ I’ll break open November.” Iris signed. Her eyes were bright, as if she was happy to offer a solution.

“No,” Ellison said immediately.

I shared an uncomfortable look with Ellison and turned back to Iris. “You just broke October to get the water turned back on.”

“That was months ago.”

Barely two months. It left a bitter taste in my mouth. Iris had a thing for cute porcelain piggy-banks, a relic of the past that had made a semi-ironic return in recent years. Iris’s first bank had been a frosty the snowman lookalike she named January. I remembered October as fragments of a smiling jack-o-lantern, shattered amongst currency on the floor. My mother’s goal had been to use device to teach Iris the importance of saving, while making it difficult to “borrow,” those savings back. Yeah. It hadn’t exactly worked out that way.

I hated moments like this. I crouched down to her level. “Okay. If Ellison’s windfall is as big as he’s making it out to be, he’ll pay you back. If for some reason it doesn’t and he can’t, I will. You can’t keep doing this kiddo.” My chest tightened when she shook her head, indicating she didn’t need to be paid back.

As much as I disliked my mother, there was no question we were cut from the same cloth, as was Ellison. We were mercenaries of a modern age, money and survival our only objectives. But Iris was different. Iris was the best of us.

“It won’t take long, Iris. I’ll have it back to you by the end of the day.” Ellison said. But I could hear the regret in his voice.

I stood back, conflicted, looking between my sister and brother. I was proud of them. But I hated that our discussions were closer to business meetings. I hated that they had to operate like this.

A chill went through me. If I died in the parking garage, would they be breaking November for me? Every dollar Ellison earned today spent on cremation, on funeral costs? And what would the rest of their lives look like after my death gave mother an excuse to dive even deeper into the well? More desperation, fueled by white bread sandwiches and snack packs. It was exactly why I couldn’t commit to fucking off to Berkeley. Not that I even could now.

Trapped. And you’ll always be trapped.

The ceiling lowered. Just a slight, subtle shift but a clear early warning sign. I thanked Iris and walked hurriedly to my room. Meds. I needed my meds. I threw open the door. My bed was unmade where I’d left it. A layer of dust on my dresser stood out to me, standing out with ugly detail. The ceiling felt even lower, threatening now, as if it might descend and crush me.

I grabbed a cluster of orange white-capped bottles and shook them into my unsteady hands. I tossed the pills back, doubling a few of the doses to make up for the time I’d spent unmedicated in the hospital. Then I sat down on my bed with my hands on my knees and waited. It was too late. Everything was catching up to me. The meteor. The close call in the hospital. The barricades. My mother’s condition. Ellison. Iris. College. Trapped.

Can’t breathe.

I could feel the ceiling just above my head now. As much as I knew it hadn’t moved, it felt like if I straightened up from my slouch my head would hit it. And I knew, if I looked up to check, I’d see patterns in the striations. Gape-mouthed faces staring out from the plaster, leering, laughing, dying.

It’s just the stress. I repeated it over and over in my mind, trying to force the mantra to take root. You’re having an anxiety attack.

There were a million things I should have been doing. Checking with Duncan's to make sure I still had a job. Contacting the numbers on Nate’s tip sheet. Deciding what I needed to do about the very real possibility that I was finally cracking under the pressure and my mental health had finally come back to finish the job.

It didn’t matter. I was too far gone. There was only one solution when I got like this.

I lowered to the floor, careful not to look at the ceiling, and slid myself under the bed. My hands closed around the metal slats that lined the frame vertically, my fingers wiggling between bar and mattress. It was a tight fit, too tight to turn my head in any direction other than sideways, staring beneath my simple brown comforter towards the door.

And yeah, I know how this looks. A child in everything but name. I don’t blame you if you judge me for it. I judge me for it. At this point you’re probably wondering if I’m even who I claim to be. If I’m an imposter. But everything you’ve heard is true.

This is how it started.

This is who I was.

I considered the blinking notification in the bottom right for what felt like hours before finally focusing on it. The curiosity was killing me. And now that I had time to think, there were really only two possibilities. Either what I’d experienced at the hospital was real, or I’d lost it completely. If I was losing my mind, it was far gone enough that entertaining the delusion didn’t really matter.

The window expanded and the first notification scrolled.

<System Notification: Cooldown expended. Primary title may now be changed.>

The titles were far from my favorite thing, but I had to start somewhere. I pulled up the title menu—the way everything was spaced gave the impression there was space for dozens of titles, though I still only had two. Jaded Eye was currently set as primary. That’s right. I’d mouthed off to the system and accidentally equipped the title before everything hit the fan.

I read the description again: <A trite yet tragic event has twisted the user’s ability to see the world through a clear lens which is further augmented, making them adept at identifying traps and avoiding ambushes. However, the difficulty accepting good things at face value will also increase.>

It still felt like such an obvious swipe at me. “Trite yet tragic,” was a hell of a way to describe someone’s personal apocalypse. But the resulting effects were what I was interested in. Adept at identifying traps and avoiding ambushes.

Okay, in for a penny, in for a pound. If there was anything to this, there were two events where the title could have potentially helped me. When I nearly opened the door and realized they would have men posted outside, it was like my mind had done a backflip to get me to stop. Considering the level of panic I was experiencing, having just indirectly witnessed a killing, I’m not sure I would have stopped without something influencing the decision.

But the cameras were far more compelling. As far as I knew, I had no idea how cctv surveillance worked. Never read an article, never had any reason to research it. But somehow I was able to discern, clear as day, the direction the cameras were most likely facing and why. Would that fall under the “identifying traps,” category, maybe? I’d felt the same psychological force holding me back when I’d made the decision to stake out the apartment first.

I focused on the original title. Born Nihilist. A prompt appeared, warning me I’d be locked into the title for six hours. I confirmed.

When I was little, my father took me kayaking in the open ocean. We only ever went the one time, partially because—after I tipped it—we lost the kayak, but mainly because of everything that happened after. We spent over an hour treading water in the grasp of a unannounced undertow, watching the shore grow farther and farther away. At some point I got tired and slipped off my father’s back, and was pulled under into the ocean. I held my breath until my lungs were at the point of bursting, spasming, heaving in desperation.

Then someone pulled me up. My father. He’d managed to get the attention of a nearby boat and I was lifted into it, in shock and shivering. But the moment I realized we were in the boat, a feeling of relief so complete and raw washed over me, and I fell straight to sleep.

That was what it was like, when the title switched. The terrifying, spiraling panic attack worse than any I’d experienced vanished with a steady ebb, slowly fading away. The critical part of my mind wondered if it was just the meds kicking in, but I knew it wasn’t that. The relief had never come this quickly, this easily.

There was something to this.

In for a penny, right? I opened the notifications and scrolled. No new titles had unlocked, but there were plenty of messages.

<Level Up: Ordinator has reached Level 2.>

Why? I hadn’t defeated any monsters. I’d used my only ability once and the most exciting thing I’d done was run away. The question was answered by the next notification.

<Quest Complete:

Primary objective complete — Escape the hospital.

Secondary Objective Complete—Escape without resorting to violence or receiving further injury.

Tertiary Objective Failed — Escape without being spotted.

EXP GAIN (M): >

Wait. How did that even work? I shifted into an old theory-crafting mindset, one left long forgotten from back when I had time for games. I remembered a new notification popping right as the bullet pierced the wall. Were quests organic, forming to serve my current needs? Or was I being directed?

If it was the second possibility, I wasn’t sure I liked it.

<Probability Spiral has reached Level 2>

From one use? There was likely an exponential ramp, but if it was that easy to level, I could power it up with minimal effort. It was one advantages of the ability’s low profile I hadn’t realized until just now. Again, I focused on the ability, and again, I got no further explanation than the original flavor text.

<Skill Points Available: 5. Feat points available: 2.>

I opened the skill point screen.

<Stats:

Strength: 1

Toughness: 2

Agility: 4

Intelligence: 8

Perception: 5

Will: 6

Companionship: 1 >

I increased intelligence, just to make sure it wasn’t capped at 10. The number rose to 13 before I dialed it back down to 8. I was tempted to leave it at thirteen, dumping all available points into it. My mind had always been my best trait. The annoying thing was, the existing stats were more or less accurate. Working out at the school gym had fallen by the wayside in recent years. I was still fast on my feet, but not that fast. There were no tool tips or expanded information for any of the stats.

Which rankled. It wasn’t like I could pull up a wiki. Not to mention, I still had no idea what I was building towards. Was the system meant to just integrate into my daily life, or was there a larger goal?

I knew, subconsciously, how deep I was in. I was embracing the system because it served as a distraction from the real worries—worries that had dulled since the title change, but still rattled around in my head.

I pulled up the feat screen and was immediately floored. Dozens of options, if not hundreds. Most were yellow, which I took to mean common traits. They scaled everything from the classics, like Fire Resistance I, to more obscure entries, like Collector I and Archivist I. An even larger number were grayed out, and there the names got more questionable and cryptic: Vampire. Explosive Tendencies. Synecdoche. I couldn’t focus on anything that was grayed out for an explanation of what they did. Further annoying me, there was no description of the unlock condition for most of them either. I scrolled down to bottom and found a dozen blue tinted perks that were class specific for the Ordinator.

And my stomach dropped.

The first ordinator feat in the list was Assassin I.

<Assassin I: Increased damage against other users.>

As I scrolled through the perks, my suspicions were confirmed. I think, up to that point I’d assumed the system was serving a greater purpose. That users would be up against a greater threat. That there was a point in all this, delusion or not.

But no. I knew what it was. The Ordinator was clearly a PVP class. And nearly all of the class specific abilities had something to do with screwing over other users. Siphoning experience party members received. Sneak attacks. Manipulation. That was unsettling to say the least. There were a half-dozen perks at the bottom that were gray and blue, class specific but completely locked.

I read through the available ones again, until I found the perk that was absolutely the right choice. The only choice. Double-blind.

My door opened, startling me out of the single-minded focus.

I smelled her before I saw her. The scent of tequila clung to her like excessively applied perfume. She staggered over. I could only see half of her, a pleated blue skirt that reached her ankles and bare feet.

“You didn’t come to tell me you’re back,” she said. Her voice was distant, vaguely sing-song. “It’s not like I’ve been worried sick this whole time. Grieving.”

“Did you even look for me?”

“Yes,” Mom said. She didn’t sound sure about anything. “The first day. Hospitals wouldn’t tell us anything. No one by that name admitted, blah blah. You hurt?”

“No.”

“Good... that’s good.” There was a grunt and mattress squeaked as she lowered herself down to sit on the floor, back to me. Her legs were folded up under her and she was leaning slightly to the side.

Ellison had been too kind in his estimation. This wasn’t dark orange. This was early red at the very least.

“I almost died,” I said finally.

“We’re all dying, Leo. Just a matter of time.”

No, I mean someone almost shot me.

But before I could get the words out, she spoke. “I need... to tell you something.”

This was irregular. Mom didn’t confide in me, wasn’t the type. And she was oddly lucid, for how far gone she sounded.

“How bad is it?” I asked.

“It's nothing like that. We need to talk about the trial.”

Great. Here came the rant. The ever evolving story of how badly her bosses at the hedge fund had screwed her. How they’d pulled the classic scumbag move and scapegoated the secretary.

The executive assholes at Quad Sigma had been double dipping in both legitimate and illegitimate markets and hung her out to dry when they got caught. She’d been indicted with money laundering, insider trading, embezzlement, conspiracy to traffic narcotics, and human trafficking.

She cut a deal with the DA to turn on her bosses and most of the charges went away. After she testified, everything was wiped off her record except for the insider trading and money laundering, two charges that, while smaller, guaranteed she’d never work in finance again.

And then came the civil suits.

“We really don’t have to talk about it,” I said, trying to prevent the downward spiral to meltdown this would inevitably trigger. “I know the story.”

“No. You know what I’ve told you.”

A sinking feeling gripped me.

She continued, “When you hung up—“

“I didn’t hang up—“

“Fine. When we got ‘disconnected.’” She raised her arms. I couldn’t see it but knew from experience she was making air quotes. “I almost lost it completely. Only Ellison and Iris kept me from it. The brink. And it wasn’t just the thought of losing you. It was the guilt.”

“What guilt?”

“You do so much for this family, Leo. Make sure the bills get paid. Cover the rent when I’m short. Look after the children when I’m too sick. I hate that I’m so useless.”

”You’re not useless.” The words reached the tip of my tongue. But I didn’t say them. I’d said those very words enough times to know how little they mattered.

“It came to me, right before the meteor hit. That I had this beautiful, hardworking boy, trying to make up for my failures. And I hadn’t even had the decency to tell him the truth.” Mom twitched. A silent sob. Her voice grew heavier. “That I lied to him. And everything he did for me, for his family, was based on a lie.”

The serenity of Born Nihilist was shattered as I realized where this was going. “Stop. I don’t want to hear this.”

“I have to tell you, I have to tell someone.” Her voice cracked.

“Please don’t.” I tried one final time. The many theories and doubts about her story I’d entertained over the years began to compound, and the last thing I wanted was confirmation. But I was trapped in the confessional and as per usual, what I wanted didn’t matter.

Her voice was a whisper. “I did it. Everything they said I did.”

Even expecting something along those lines, it still floored me.

I heard her blow her nose. “It was my way in. I talked to my manager, Erin, asked to pick up more hours. Said I was willing to do anything, even if it was maintenance work. Iris was having trouble at school and I wanted to take her out, get her enrolled somewhere that would better meet her needs. The next day I was meeting with someone on the top floor. They knew about my background in web design, said they needed a prototype for alternative market purposes.”

“And you just didn’t ask questions?”

“No, I did. They were very vague at first. Had me work on things in segments. I didn’t figure it out for almost a year.”

“But you did figure it out eventually.”

“Yes.”

“And you kept going.”

“We needed the money.”

“No we didn’t!” I shouted. The bedframe squeaked as I squeezed the rails in my grip. “We had Dad’s pension and the money you made legitimately. It was enough.”

“To live on. To eat. But not to thrive.”

“Oh. So that’s why we’re thriving now.” My voice was cold, hard.

Mom sobbed. “I know I fucked up.”

“Jesus Christ. And the human trafficking? The little girl they found? How did you even justify that? Collateral? The cost of doing business?”

“No!” The sudden increase of volume echoed. “I would never—I... didn’t know about that. Any of it. They were running a shell game. Used key names for it, rotated the names.”

I slid out from underneath the bed. Her ash blond hair was mussed, her dark eyes sunken into her head. For some reason she’d applied makeup, which was running down her face, making her look like a bad caricature of a grieving woman.

Other than an initial pang, I felt no sympathy looking at her. “Well. You did it. You told me. Now I know and your conscience is clear.”

“That’s not—“

“Then what was the point? What was the point of destabilizing this...” I waved my hand towards the wall, “... this house of cards we live in?”

“Because now we can start fresh.” Her eyes were wide, filled with a manic mix of hope and desperation. “We can start over, be a real family again. It’s not working because I lied. And now the lie is gone.”

My eyes went to the ankle monitor on her leg. Some lies are important. Some keep us grounded, others shield from truths that are too terrible to face. The thought that my mother had been wrongly convicted, that while, yes, the alcoholism was entirely her fault, that she was not entirely to blame for the descent into squalor that had plagued our family? That was a necessary lie. And I could already feel the foundation crumbling. But I didn’t say any of that. I couldn’t even look at her.

The words were torn from my mouth, full of spite. My fists tightened at my sides. “How about this? Instead of changing anything, lets just keep doing exactly what we’ve been doing. Which means letting your children handle the real problems and crawling right back into the bottle you came from.”

Mom reeled like she’d been slapped. I’d gone too far. I knew it. But in the moment I didn’t care. She gave me one final look of disappointment.

“Oh Leo. You work so hard. But here’s the thing they don’t tell you. That trash they peddle? The nose to the grindstone, pulling yourself up by your bootstraps nonsense? That’s all bullshit. They don't let people like us rise. So we have to steal it from them. We have to cheat. Maybe someday you'll understand.”

With those parting words my mother left, shutting the door behind her.

I couldn't think about her confession. About any of it. So instead, I sat on my bed and pulled up the system screen. It was left open on the perk I’d been considering earlier.

<Double-Blind: Other users will not be able to identify you as a user through system delineation or appraisal skills. Be wary, this keeps you from identifying them through traditional methods as well. Cost: 2 Feat Points. Requirement: Ordinator Class.>

I’d had my doubts. The deceit would do me no favors if I ever revealed myself to anyone. But I’d come to face the fact that I could not treat this like a game. I couldn’t play a character that was out in the spotlight. The fact that there was PVP cinched that. The idea of PVP always degenerated in execution. If it exists, someone will find a way to use it to rat-fuck someone else. In Eve, it works because there are restrictions and governing forces. But reality is closer to Rust: No rules, no laws, and the closest thing to a natural order is one caveman braining another caveman with a rock.

My mother was looking for reconciliation, but all she’d managed to do was reinforce the same lesson I’d learned over and over. That people could not be trusted.

I hit the confirmation button.

<Feat Acquired: Double-blind.>

Hours later, I’d confirmed I still had my job at Duncan’s, but my watch had ended at the laundromat. They hadn’t explicitly stated I was fired, but the owner had said he’d let me know when he had hours, which for a part-timer might as well be the reading of last-rites. I was looking over Nick’s contact list, trying to decide where to start when the notification popped. It didn’t wait for me to look at it before it expanded out, covering the contact sheet.

<Local User Notification:>

Bounty at 1400 Vinewood Drive, due north.

Threat Level: Low

Time Limit: Until a condition is met.

Conditions: Neutralize or Terminate.

Reward: EXP (S), $10,000

<Notification End.>