-Intellectual Property-

"Is this Maeda-san?"

"Perhaps."

"Perhaps is better than a no."

Shizuka is deathly still, looking at me with an unreadable expression. Her gaze doesn't shift and stares deep into my eyes, like she's trying to scrape off layers of old paint from the side of a run-down house. I've since learned to not look away in spite of her intensity. There's much comfort in it. I have the suspicion that without her gaze, there would be severe imbalance in the world. Without it now, I know I wouldn't be able to keep my voice steady, my mind sharp.

I inhale the scent of the green tea one more time. I've reached the point of no return by picking up the call. Shizuka had given no comment, but I could tell that she is deeply troubled. Things are out of her hands now. She knows this is something to do with me personally. So naturally, there is no way I could ignore such an unusual call either.

The man's voice is nothing like the one from "Yamato Yuubin." It is light and airy, full of practiced charm and agreeable nuances, intended to make the listener feel at ease. A convincing genuine personality. The kind of man that might put an arm around our shoulders and steer us towards a grand office overlooking the city, offer biscuits and place contracts with small print in front of us, cheat us of our signatures, smiling all the while. Much like a campaigning politician, promoting noble agendas, lowering taxes, increasing social security and support, benefiting the people, persecuting corruption and balancing the economy. But tucking it all in the back pocket once on stage. It puts me on edge all the more.

She leans forward. I lean closer so she could hear the call without the speakerphone on. Our cheeks are nearly pressed together.

"There's no need to worry," he begins, sounding too educated in rhetoric, "it's a clear evening outside, the sky has no traces of cloud cover and the moon is out in her full beauty. It's a little chilly but if you take a look outside, you can see that this is the perfect Christmas Eve. Don't you hear the Christmas music? Wonderful isn't it?" he pauses, as if he's listening intently, but I hear no music. No other sounds from the receiver. It seems like he exists in a vacuum so silent, it becomes inhibiting, something terrible, the longer I concentrate. We don't move or look outside.

As if he realized our disregard for his words, he clears his throat. "Well, regardless, I'd like to wish you a very merry Christmas and I hope you're enjoying yourself."

I'm not certain if hiding in an apartment is considered an enjoyable way to celebrate Christmas. "Merry Christmas to you too," I say nonetheless.

"Thank you, I am having quite a good evening myself as well." A good evening in what would likely be a dark formless room on his end. At least we have green tea and each other. He continues, "I understand you have already received my little 'present'."

"You're the one who gave us this cell phone."

"Not entirely. Not out of my own pocket money, I assure. I would love to be able to afford such a thing but I am, unfortunately, not very well off. Just a little man, doing a job. I'm middle aged, have a leased car and a mortgage in a suburban neighbourhood, two kids in primary school and a work-at-home wife. My hair is thinning. It's not easy these days." He laughs lightheartedly, but ends up coughing instead. "Of course, it seems like I have much more than you might, but you're still young; at this age, I'm just getting by." A little space to breathe. "Get by, don't we all?"

I don't reply.

He doesn't expect one. "I'm sure you have your difficulties, Maeda-san," he pauses, "it's not easy to make dramatic," he emphasizes the word, "substantial changes to your life."

I wait, unsure of where he's going with this.

"As a result, you have... perhaps, shall we say, attracted much attention." He pauses again with a very carefully measured pause intended to impress a sort of psychological effect on the listener. If it has any effect on us, I'm not aware. "But I'm sure you know already, no doubt."

I remain silent.

So he continues. "In a world where there are no longer any secrets or privacy, the age of Facebook and Twitter, Youtube and Instagram, Mixi, LINE and Nico Nico, among many others that make up the mosaic of human life and communication, we all exist somewhere else, in multiple places - on computers, cell phones, TVs, on screens everywhere: a reflected impression and imitation, a simulacrum."

"Simulacrum."

"Yes," he says.

Simulacrum, according to French theorist Baudrillard, is the simultaneous representation and reproduction of an original, where the original no longer matters. The images become accepted as reality in its own right and actual truth becomes only another version of the subject. Everything is real and illusionary at the same time. The picture of Shizuka and I captured in a single moment is only a representation of our reality without context or construct, distorted and warped through a camera lens, with different colourations, enhancements, adjustments, rescaled, through transmitted data over international airspace - no matter how realistic the portrayal, it's its own solitary masked version of reality that has no relation to the original. People accept it at its face value. They view it subjectively, carrying all their experiences, personality, knowledge and history - or lack thereof. There is a clash between the recreated version of the original and the perceiver, and from which, comes a new interpreted reality. This becomes law. Even though we know what was real at the time, it can be argued that it's an isolated, biased personal interpretation, by the two of us, as opposed to a photograph thousands of people might have seen. As opposed to thousands of ideas and opinions. The photograph thrives as its own independent existence and each interpretation as the byproduct.

"In an age of social media, there are alternate versions of reality, and in these versions of reality, you exist in a different form."

"What are you trying to say?"

In reply, the other cell phone on the table lights up. Something flashes on the screen. Shizuka picks it up. I watch her freeze, her body seizing up, like she just found out the stock market had crashed.

She shows me the screen. There's the same picture of us aboard Cosmo Clock 21. Pixels composing our skin, our hair, the same red parkas, our eyes closed, lips touching. Seeing it a kilometer away on a stage had been a spectacle, impersonal and unrelated like a nature documentary. When we had seen it on television, it was a news report or a subliminal advertisement. But the image up close, on a smartphone, carries a different impression altogether. It's surprisingly a private, intimate experience, as if Mark Zuckerberg or Evan Spiegel had reached out through the screen and grabbed us by our collars. It has become the immediate, on the palm of our hand, all-present right in our kitchen, full of conviction and transforming the negative space around us into photos, comments, likes, followers, that dictate the final verdict of our worth. Social media that we relate to. Social media that we live in. It evokes emotions and thoughts. It destroys identity. It prompts action. And apparently, over six thousand retweets.

Romance is Primitive, the caption says.

"A very talented, capable person such as yourself should realize that you need a way out."

He stops to let his words sink in. They do. I sip from my tea. Shizuka is not speaking. She looks pale white, holding her breath.

"Why am I saying such things? I'm not an answering machine or an automated message. I'm not a robot or the ghost of Christmas. I'm not here to threaten you. This call is not tapped or recorded either and these phones you have received are to be used as encrypted channels of communication. Between you and I. Just us. The rest of the world is oblivious to this conversation. This is a safe confidential chat, and I am not selling you defective products or asking for your donations. After this conversation, there will be no consequences. I'm here to help you."

"Who are you?"

"Who am I is of no importance. What is significant is that you understand something by the end of our conversation."

He is beginning to sound like a door to door evangelist.

"Why does it matter to you?"

"It doesn't matter to me; either way, I don't know you personally. I am merely a messenger; I am just a channel and tonight I'm delivering something. The person who sent me has gone through great lengths to avoid detection. I have received your address from various rather specialized means."

"Specialized means," I repeat.

"Yes, quite. But it was entirely feasible, I have great resources at my disposal. I have enough to know where you are at least."

"There seems to be many who might already know where I am."

"Yes and no. There are many who know about you. But not many who know where you are. There are some who know and some who don't know but the one they work for knows."

"Why haven't they come?"

"They have, but you might not have noticed." I glance at Shizuka, she averts her gaze. "The time is not right yet. The one that visited tonight is the first one that came to your door. He dropped off this present. But they're not aware of the contents and this phone call. They are simply carrying out orders."

"Orders from whom?"

"I'm sure you have the general idea already." Even though the matter at hand is no casual conversation, he sounds relaxed.

"Either way, if you can find me, it's best not to remain here," I propose.

"Ah, an intelligent man; that's part of the message."

"That I should leave?"

"Yes, you should bring what you need and leave the current location vacant but not available."

"Like continue to pay for rent."

"The rent will be paid on your behalf."

"By whom?"

"My employer will handle your location, but you must find another place soon, before it's too late. Anywhere will do."

"Anywhere will do?"

He doesn't elaborate. "To remain undetected is not a walk in the park, figuratively and literally."

"What's your suggestion?"

"Fall into place and act proper. Resisting is futile now. Even the greatest generals must know when to rely on wit, not force."

I remain skeptical.

"You can only win if you know when to fight and when not to fight." His voice is melodic, catch phrases and slogans. "Have you read the Art of War by Sun Tzu?"

"I know of it, but I haven't read it."

Shizuka drinks her tea quietly. I wonder if she has studied the Art of War. Or has the Collective revealed to her its contents already? The man continues, "it's all about being wise, deceiving the enemy to think you are incapable and stationary, to think you are far away when you are near, to appear weak when you are strong. All warfare is deception."

"Isn't it said if you know your enemy and know yourself, you will win many battles?" I recall a quote of such likeness.

"Yes, that is also from the Art of War. It's a good read. But there isn't too much time left. Time is ticking. Tick tock."

"I'm well aware."

"Once you are in public again, there will eventually be a chance to visit your mother."

My mother? "What does she have to do with this?"

"She might be able to explain certain things. If you must ask why you're inclined to trust me, on paper, I work as a public servant for a certain committee of a certain department branch of a certain non-profit organization. You can say I am a sort of consultant. I have been assigned to consult you."

"I don't think I'm interested."

"But you are. In fact you've requested for this."

"How?"

"You may not recall but it was quite many years ago, around this time, in high school. Both your mother and you sat in my office at one point, though my predecessor would have been there in my stead. I am merely following up on a certain case."

"My mother?"

Shizuka fidgets with her cup of tea.

"Yes, you may have no recollection but this is what your file says. I'm merely delivering a message," he says again, "and I have read your file. Your documents from that time have been retrieved and is in that stack of paper to your right."

How does he know it's to my right? I sift through the papers. High school transcript, birth certificate, diploma, doctor's records, old schoolwork, handwritten notes, bank statements, insurance files. Seemingly random documents. Old tattered sheets. I wonder their significance. I find nothing out of the ordinary, if I consider receiving files delivered in a wrapped gift box as an ordinary occurrence.

Then, I notice something else.

It's a pristine, flawless sheet of paper in between the doctor's records and a high school certificate. Block letters are imprinted across the top of the page. Standard MS Mincho font, bold, underlined, size 16 maybe.

Intellectual Property Acquisition Terms and Contract.