Interlude Three

"Come with me if you want to live," Sen declared, abruptly waking the man who had been napping in the chair. The man, a few years older than Sen and in his early twenties, blinked up in confusion. Beside the chair, a computer lay with its casing open and exposed.

Sen was still adjusting to the name 'Sen'. He hadn't really wanted it, but it seemed he could no longer go without one—or two.

Like the man he was rousing—Loyd Blankenship, also known among hackers as the Mentor.

Loyd's sleepy gaze quickly shifted to alarm and then to irritation as he processed the intrusion. "What the—?" he began, his voice sharp and cautious.

"I always wanted to say that in real life," Sen replied with a disarming smile, noticing the mix of confusion and alertness on Loyd's face. Through experience, Sen had learned that humour was an excellent vector for psychic influence, well complemented by charm. "I'm sure you have all sorts of interesting questions, like 'Who am I?' and 'What am I doing in your house?' But we're a bit short on time. The Feds are about to come knocking."

Not that they were so short on time, but Sen's avalanche of words served another purpose. The more he spoke, the more the Mentor fell under his influence—not that Sen harboured any malicious intentions. It was just that both panic and overconfidence could be dangerous.

Blankenship might have been a hotshot among hackers, but that hardly translated into the skills they now needed.

The hacker needed to trust Sen—not only that Sen meant him well but also that Sen knew what he was doing. To naturally develop such trust would take time they did not have.

"In that case, I need to remove any trace of hacking," Blankenship declared calmly, reaching for the keyboard.

Quick, decisive action—worthy of the Mentor. And under normal circumstances, the right move. Hacking was difficult to prosecute, especially without firm evidence.

But if this were a normal set of events, Sen's intervention would not have been necessary. A simple phone call or email would have sufficed.

"I am afraid that there's a good chance you'll get killed resisting arrest," Sen continued earnestly. "The good people from the CIA really did not appreciate you shining a light on their heroic efforts battling Communism by selling Contra drugs to Harlem. They are such humble people; they don't want any praise for their good work. So, as I said, come with me if you want to live."

Loyd paused, his voice thick with emotion, his eyes burning with the same zeal as martyrs painted on church walls. "Just a few years back, I would have laughed off the idea that they would ever come after us. When I started hacking, it wasn't about politics or money. It was about the thrill, the challenge. It was about finding a place where I truly belonged. But then GrannyG opened our eyes. She showed us that our skills... our talents come with immense power. And with great power comes even greater responsibility. It's not just a tagline from a comic book—it's our reality."

"I don't think government types agree with you," Sen replied with a sardonic smile. "They would like power without the accountability."

"And that is why we must dissent," Loyd asserted, his tone firm and resolute. "The government should fear its people, not lord over them."

"They do fear, that's the whole point of this," Sen countered quickly, urgency creeping into his voice. "But we're running out of time. Are you coming with me, or do you plan to die for your cause?"

Loyd just nodded.

"Good. Strip to your underwear," Sen ordered, his tone practical rather than commanding. "The Feds are watching the entire neighbourhood. I counted four cars and several agents on foot. That's why I'm dressed like this," he gestured to his own outfit, which mimicked that of a traveling salesman with a particular niche. "I sell toys for adult entertainment. You'd be surprised how invisibility works best when you're hiding in plain sight."

He then pulled out a large, discreetly designed coffer. "Among other items I have, there's this 'slave coffer.' It's a speciality product for the BDSM community. We're going to use it to sneak you out. It can fit a person comfortably, and in our case, it's perfect for going unnoticed. It's just unconventional enough that the Feds won't give it a second glance. Plus, you get to travel first-class, in a way most can only fantasize about."

Sen continued, keeping his voice low as he showed Loyd the interior of the coffer. "It's outfitted with adjustable cuffs at each corner to secure the limbs, ensuring minimal movement and noise. There's also padding to prevent injuries during transport. We're all about safety and comfort here, aren't we?"

He then pointed to a small, integrated feature on the side. "Here's a compact gas mask with an oxygen supply. It's usually for those who enjoy longer, more... immersive sessions. But today, it'll make sure you can breathe comfortably if we're stuck longer than anticipated. Think of it as your personal spa day, though I admit the ambience could be better."

"Interesting marketing strategy, but you're no true salesman," Loyd remarked, quickly stripping down to his underwear with a mix of haste and hesitation. Pants and shirt were shed in swift motions. "Are you some sort of spy?"

"I'm an actor," Sen corrected with a half-smile, steadying Loyd as he stepped into the large, discreet coffer.

"Since when can actors do this?" Loyd's tone mixed awe and nerves as Sen adjusted the snug mask over his face.

"I do my own stunts," Sen quipped, securing the coffer's lid with a firm click. He checked the surroundings once more — all was still quiet — then heaved the coffer onto a dolly, ready to wheel Loyd out.

But before proceeding, there was one little detail. Sen took a can of Coke from the fridge and deliberately spilt it over the coffer.

After all, an amateur might run right away, but Sen knew better. He planned to visit more houses after this one, showing no change in his behaviour. But there was no need to take the 'passenger-luggage' with him. So, he needed an excuse for why he wasn't trying to sell. It got stained by accident.

The computer screen flickered, and Sen knew they had to hurry. Before waking Loyd, he had strategically placed a rather special vibrator wand just under the bed, where no one would expect to find such toys. Sen supposed one could use it for jerking off, provided they didn't have a pacemaker and didn't mind the very short battery life. But its primary purpose was as an EMP generator.

Soon, all the evidence Loyd was worried about would be gone.

Leisurely, Sen moved, taking his luggage back to his van. His pace was measured—not too slow, nor too quick. He stashed the "living luggage" in the back and picked a new set of toys. He had barely managed to ring the bell of the next house when the raid started.

Sen watched just long enough to avoid suspicion, observing the suited feds swarming like ants, yet leaving empty-handed. Then he returned to his van and drove off. After all, after such excitement, there would be no sales.

He drove away leisurely. To ensure he wasn't followed, Sen made a few additional stops along the way, even managing to sell more than a few items.

"If my acting career doesn't pan out, I could consider this travelling salesman gig as a side hustle," Sen chuckled to himself. But deep down, he knew neither truly mattered. He was a servant of a higher power.

That might make him sound religious, but then Rin, under the name of Master, had been worshipped by witches. Sen knew this for certain since Rin had bestowed upon them a miraculous gift—a mobile phone.

It was dubbed 'mobile' because it was mounted on the back of a robotic insect. Yet, that wasn't the miracle. Aperture was about to start selling those. He had passed by a billboard showing a commercial for it. No, what made this particular phone special was that it could be used to communicate with dead witches. The reception was awful, filled with static, but it was better than an Ouija board because it actually worked.

The dead witches, who shared psychic gifts were supposed to act as mentors for him and others.

Sen enjoyed running errands like saving the Mentor for Rin. He was a bit saddened that this task was his last. Once he embarked on his acting career, his face would become too recognizable to easily blend into crowds.

But he had faith in Rin. This new direction was for the greater good.

And surprisingly, he found that he enjoyed acting.

The neon sign flickered, casting erratic shadows across the motel's faded facade. As they entered the dimly lit room, the air was tinged with the scent of stale cigarettes and cheap disinfectant. Sen pulled out a wad of crumpled bills, the kind that said more about the place than any sign could. The clerk didn't ask questions; cash was king in these parts, and anonymity was part of the deal.

The room was a relic of utilitarian design, dominated by a bulky television set with rabbit ears perched on a faux wood dresser. The wallpaper, a once-vibrant pattern now faded to a dubious shade of mustard, peeled at the corners. A pair of threadbare curtains hung limply by the window, struggling to shut out the buzz from the highway outside.

A fluorescent bulb hummed overhead, its dull light revealing a carpet stained by the ghosts of countless transient souls. The furniture was Spartan: a bed with a sagging mattress and worn-out sheets, and a table that doubled as a work desk, scarred by cigarette burns and coffee rings from previous occupants.

Sen eased the coffer down beside the bed, its metal casing clinking slightly against the faded linoleum floor. He flipped open the latches, revealing the hacker, who emerged into the room's stale atmosphere with a cough.

"How was it?" Sen asked, handing over a can of Coke he'd snagged from the rusty vending machine in the hallway.

The hacker took a gulp, scanning the room with a wary eye. "Surprisingly comfortable, considering."

Sen chuckled, surveying the modest accommodations. "Should I get the number of the closest leather bar?"

"Let's not go that far," the hacker replied, setting the can down on the sticky tabletop. "So, we escaped. Now what?"

"Now, you have a choice to make. You can run. Change your name, leave the country for somewhere with no extradition—perhaps Cuba."

"Or?"

"Or you can turn yourself in."

"Wouldn't that make all your effort pointless?"

"No. I acted to prevent you from getting shot. Make no mistake, it would still be dangerous. They are likely to try again, but if it comes to trial, well, it's a chance to test the laws properly. And there are some lawyers who really like to test those laws to their full destruction. Be the face of the hacker community. Show them what you all are really about."