Chris came into his apartment and tossed his mail on the table. He'd spent the night down at the pub, and just felt like lying down and sleeping. He moved to his bed, coated in research materials and his laptop. The laptop was placed on his bedside table, but the papers were quick to learn that Chris wasn't in the mood for organizing as he fell down right on top of them. A book on Incan cultures found its new home under his bed, unlikely to see the light of day for weeks. Chris, callously uncaring for his research, drifted to sleep.
Light streamed in through the window on to Chris's face. It is to this he opened his eyes, fully able to experience the pounding headache from his night out drinking. He immediately put his hand up to shield from the outside, groaned and slowly rolled out of bed. He moved to his window and closed it. No need to make his head any worse. He slowly stumbled his way to the kitchen, only to find his laptop sitting open on the table. He turned it on and found that a full act had been added to his most recent project.I don't remember doing that...
he thought, noting that he needed to go back and check the work he'd done in his booze-haze. He closed the laptop and moved toward his fridge for some semblance of breakfast.
Eventually he sat down with a coffee and some toast and started to read through his alcohol-induced frenzy. He was affronted by the complete lack of grammar and spelling, but otherwise the story seemed to be in good shape. He saved the new version and moved on to his mail. Bills, bills... an advertisement for the 'Adult Superstore'.... That went straight to the trash. And a letter--Who sends letters anymore?
he thought--with no return address. Intrigued, he opened it.
A blue keycard fell out on to the table. Chris picked it up and examined it. There was a fingerprint on the side with the magnetic scanner, and on the other some kind of blue logo designed around an image of the globe. There were no discernible features, other than a message telling him to call customer service. He put it down next to his computer and started reading the letter.
Chris put the letter down, suppressing laughter. Clearly someone with his address had thought it would be hilarious to wind him up a little. Either that, or some nutbag was sending these letters out to everyone who'd ever posted anything in a conspiracy chat room. Chris swore he hadn't ever used his real information in one of those places, but you never know. Some people-especially people who were obsessed with 'uncovering' secret agents, were good about that stuff. He tossed the letter in the trash and went back to his writing.
After ten minutes of staring at the blinking line, continuing to taunt him, he found his hand twirling the blue card which had been left on the table. He looked more closely at it, about to send it to join its letter friend in the trash, but still curious as to what it meant. He looked at his page, waiting for any last-minute ideas to strike him before he went off on one of his crazy people-research binges.
None came. He sighed, knowing what he was about to start doing to himself, and opened up Google. Several variations of "blue earth" "world logo" and "earth fingerprint logo" he finally got a match to what he saw on his card. The fourth result for "blue earth logo fingerprint" in images led him to the information page of a private intelligence agency, DI ACT1.
Time to test the legitimacy of his letter. After trawling through the website for a few more minutes, he found a customer service number. With the letter in hand (having recently grabbed it from his trash bin), Chris checked the time. 7:30. 16 hours... the mail arrived at his house around 5... Assuming that's when the stranger was counting from, he had another hour and a half to make his decision.
Chris dialed the number, and received an automated service. After twenty minutes of go-around, he put down the phone and gave up. He picked up the letter again. It was hard to focus on--his hangover was not making it easy to think straight. The words kept blurring as his eyes tried adjusting to the light of the room. For this reason, he didn't notice for another ten minutes that the date was written incorrectly.
Well, he needed a phone number. Chris dialed. "The number you have reached is not currently available. Please try again.
" "Apparently not..." He went back to staring at the letter. He could have sworn he was on to something. An idea suddenly occurred to him. He picked up the phone again. 00-1*-303-180-8201. US area code for Denver...
He listened for the ring.
He once again received none. He scanned through the letter one last time, before realizing something. He added in the extra numbers from the letter-1316-and redialed. 00-1-808-201-1316. He waited for the ring, Googling this new area code. Hawaii?