"Met who?"

"Yes, the men in black. Make no mistake, these are no ordinary people. Things have begun to change for you, Maeda-san, but if you had heeded my words, taken the train, walked the four blocks, it may have delayed our predicament and given us a little more time." She sounds like a mother reprimanding a child, but her eyes seem less overpowering than before. I've been desensitized, re-conditioned to her stare.

"Who exactly are you?"

"Shizuka Kaneko."

"What are you?"

"Human." She's laughing, teasing me. She continues, "let's say I happen to know more than you, about things that are unseen, things that construct our world and what we believe and see and experience and feel day by day. I happen to know a lot more. And Maeda-san, you're in danger." Her voice is even - she speaks lightly, sing-song casual, perhaps about the weather or what to eat for lunch - but I can hear the disquiet underneath.

"I figure that much."

"You don't have much time and I don't have much time - we don't have much time. And because of you, I'm also likely in the same boat. My life is in your hands now."

"That's quite something to say to a stranger."

"You're no stranger."

"But maybe you are to me."

She pouts at me. It's more a frown, but it is strangely similar, a pout and a frown, like straddling a fence.

Somehow, her words yesterday, warning about change, a foreshadowing of the new Shin-Akinoseki station, the ten men in black, bypassing Kinokuniya and the coffee shop - and our meeting here - are all part of the same thing. Aside from that, she spoke of two other important things: coffee orders and winter. I assume it is part of the same painting, rather than a series of different paintings or spontaneous sketches left out at whim. But if it's one painting, it's surely an enormous painting where I can see no end. Like staring up from the bottom of Pablo Veronese's "The Wedding at Cana" displayed in the Louvre, brush strokes and all, utterly visible. And in my immediate vicinity, there is Shizuka, churning the waters in my corner of the canvas, tossing me towards peril.

If I am in danger, if we are in danger, there is oddly no sense of urgency nor fear however. I have no knowledge of what I'm struggling against, nor any concept of consequences, and thus, unable to comprehend the solemnity of the issue. I have seen no guns or knives, no verbal threats of violence and pain, nor financial ruin. Not even an attempt on my grades. Only black suits and ties. Though I remember fragments of what had happened, the images, sounds, ideas, all are disconnected, afloat and drifting in a black void of consciousness, like multicoloured specks of dust dancing a hypnotic dance. No methodology can sort through them and draw lines to connect the dots. My own efforts are futile without her, my interpreter.

"So tell me more." I set down my cup, now empty, and give her my full undivided attention. I search through the deep black holes that are her eyes. They pull me in, with tremendous momentum. Deeper, into her mind, her world, her reality. She looks at me for a long time, pitching me over her waves, hesitating, and testing my conviction. Finally, she breathes out. The inevitable has come.

We become one. We are no longer two. We are no longer, her and I. We are the same.

She tells me I must understand, that I must listen carefully. I must memorize. I must not forget. I am the only one who will know. That this is why she spoke to me, why she invited me here to this place. So I must listen. That I will now join her in her world. What she has known for so long.

I nod and nod again. I listen and listen. I listen to her tale, to her consciousness, to the rhythms in the fabric of the universe.

*

I tell her I don't quite follow. I keep looking at the reflection of her irises.

"This could easily be the tenth time, Maeda-san."

"It's hard to swallow."

"But we're surely running out of time," she says.

"Time is always an issue. Perceived time is finite and time itself is infinite," I say.

"Appropriately so, as we are quite finite. It is important to take the time for the precautions – to increase our finite probabilities - though not too much," she tells me.

"Precautions, preambles, probability or not, do we even have a chance?"

"Though I don't always know or see everything – it always seems to be at the worst moment, in the most necessary circumstances, when I can't – but yes, I think so."

Her words are not in the least reassuring.

"You really do have to learn how to stop thinking."

"I'm trying."

"I can still hear you as loud as police sirens. So can They."

"The Images?"

"No, they don't perceive, they just follow orders. There are more like me."

"Okay, why are They after me?"

"The ones who are like me, aren't in pursuit of you. They're on my trail, because I approached you. I'm - we're only supposed function as bystanders and witnesses, to observe, to learn, to predict, to see, to understand, to gather information, receiving from and feeding into the all-encompassing Collective mind of humanity - without ever touching a hair on anything of this world. Take the time traveler for example. They must have a sort of professional code or something. They are expected to not affect history. If they do, it might trigger an irreversible chain reaction. They might not even exist if any molecule of history is minutely shifted from its resting place. But I spoke to you. I've committed a crime so to speak. That's why you're now responsible for me and we need to take our chances."

"You're the one who spoke to me in the first place."

"Yes, but you keep thinking like that, oblivious to your situation. The Images are after you because you are an Anomaly, one of the rare resource nodes. There is a lot of Free Energy from you, like an unyielding fountain that neither drains nor chokes. You are one of those enormous geothermal geysers in Yellowstone, but it is much more preferable to be the small garden pump, or nothing at all. At this point, you are susceptible to imprisonment and physical Processing."

I say nothing for a while. She sips coffee.

"You're telling me all of us are supposed to be drained of this metaphysical 'energy', of this Free Energy at one point - through Etiquette and repetition and daily routine, losing our thoughts, memories and emotions, surrendering our capacity and rights as individuals - and become empty shells, mere ghost 'images', projections of who they once were. And it's hard to tell who is an 'image' and who is still alive. People we see walking around may or may not be alive and thinking. But all are inevitably heading in one direction like a single-track train. And eventually the final state is to become like those men in black."

"You can likely tell if you speak to them for a while."

I ask if she can tell.

"Sometimes. Most of the time, people aren't thinking much anyway. Maybe thinking about their next meal, or about a new dress, or what they did last night, or about an exam they have, or a shift they need to take on, or gossip about a friend. Normal thought processes that don't really trigger much contemplation at all. Those are easy to reproduce. You can't readily tell how close to becoming an image someone is, even from looking inside their mind. In fact, these days, the border between truly alive sentient beings with independent faculties of reason and the silent insensate images isn't so clear. It is a process after all. At some point, an image may lose all consciousness, including mock replications of these every day thoughts. At that state, they are dangerously close to becoming one of Them. But even when their minds are empty, if there are other people around whose humdrum thoughts can be heard, it would still be difficult to discern – even for me."

"I think therefore I am. This is like taking that Descartes quote to the extreme."

"Descartes didn't say it without reason."

"So this Collective has existed through all of history."

"Yes, from the beginning of time. It is an enormous pool consisting of all human thoughts, memories, experiences, intrinsically connected to each individual. It includes everything from subjective responses, to the birth of large political agendas or military campaigns that has transformed all of history, to philosophical ideals and archetypal universals, dreamscape and the great imagination and ancient mystic wisdoms, those basic fundamental pre-existent pre-conscious forms and structures of human nature itself. This is why we have adrenaline supposedly, from the need to choose between fight or flight when we were once ice age hunter-gatherers, pit against predators and great mammoths. This is why classic literature will contain the hero and the villain, the jester and the wise old man. And why people ask themselves the great 'who am I?' Some also consider the feeling of déjà vu as the result of similar archetypal experiences by someone else in the past."

I recite the rest, "and from this Collective, around fifty years ago, after the Second World War, there was a sudden shift, and something accelerated a strong current that began to extract this Free Energy from the proletariat - until they became soulless."

She nods.

"And this Free Energy is used by the System for something. But you don't know what."

She shakes her head. We are both on the floor now, perched on pillows, legs buried under the warmth of the heated kotatsu. I have been leaning farther and farther forward on the table, my head nearly touching hers, intrigued and enchanted by the world that can be found in her eyes and in her thoughts. All of which I'd prefer to consider a fictional concept, a tale spun by a charming school girl. But suppose this is reality and I had no way of avoiding it, what then?

"You're thinking again and I hear it." She smiles apologetically. I straighten myself and pull away from her. She brushes stray strands of hair behind her ear.

"Sorry, it must be hard hearing everyone's thoughts."

"It takes time getting used to, to say the least. Especially as a child, but even now. When I was waiting for you, I heard their thoughts. Manami, the girl they slept with; the new Quentin Tarantino movie; plagiarizing an essay for a Political Science course; a Korean singer's break up; their regular nine to five; stolen Chanel purses; the Japanese Communist Party; banana smoothies; running away from home; Cormac McCarthy in the library; burying their dead rabbit. And of course comments about what I'm wearing, about what they wanted from me in bed. But I - we - live with it. That's why my friend committed suicide. She was pushed to the limit. Most can't handle it, some go crazy, others commit suicide. Not many exceptions. Even people like me, who are still relatively sane," she smiles, "may expire some day."

I stare at her. She says it all without emotion or fear.

"We all expire." I try to offer some form of comfort.

"Except for you, not in this sense. No matter how many repetitive cycles you are put through, your mind is incessant."

"What about my emotions and memories?"

"They disappear, maybe it has already."

"But my mind will work."

Right, she says without speaking. Why me, I wanted to ask. She shrugs. She doesn't know.

"You spoke to me because I'm an Anomaly."

"There are other Anomalies I believe, but you happen to be a particular issue for me." There's a glint in her eye. "When I heard your thoughts, it was this torrential force, almost physical, that crippled me to my knees. I was there on the ground in the middle of the sidewalk for a while. Someone came and asked if I needed help and I couldn't even respond. But I realized you were so oblivious, I couldn't just leave you alone."

"Should I be grateful?"

"Listen, Maeda-san. They're going to take you and they're going to make sure they take every bit of humanity that remains. Everything that keeps you alive." She taps her temple. Her finger is painted pastel pink and her face still looks serenely out of place.

We finish the coffee.

"Why are you so interested in me? Why did you risk yourself? This isn't a simple quotidian Good Samaritan exercise no doubt. You could have just avoided Kinokuniya. It's not something you decide out of the blue and decide to be involved in one day. It can't be just out of pity. You've watched me for a long time, you said. Through all that time, you must have made up your mind about something. I'm only a part of this, maybe a small part."

She doesn't reply and only looks back at me blankly. Then she gets up, straightening her skirt which has slid up her thighs – and I catch myself, cut off my train of thought, and read the spines on her stack of books for something to do.

She picks up the two saucers, its little cups perched atop, and pads off towards the kitchen. She slides open the door with one foot and closes it behind her. I can still hear the cups rattling.

And then the hum of the empty fish tank, its water pumping, bubbles gurgling, a bulb within glowing. There's also the hum of the ceiling light and the buzz of the lamp and the fizz and spit of the humidifier in the corner of the room. I listen for sounds outside of the apartment, but there are none.

All that's left are hums and fizzes, and my own thoughts; thoughts like projectiles ricocheting, which she can surely hear. She told me she's an espre. If I'm to believe her - her responses to my unspoken thoughts have been more or less convincing - experience as an espre would no doubt condition even the most ordinary person to become an extraordinary something else. She was teasing me about being just human. According to her, I'm an Anomaly, a title, a label, a name, a word, something descriptive and extraordinary to call my own. Oddly, it neither makes me feel privileged nor flawed. And despite her capacity to mind-read, I'm not disturbed. Instead, there's a comforting tranquility, this tender warmth, like a soft blanket on a summer evening, as if I had been used to it all along. Perhaps, it's because she has theoretically seen the interior of my mind and its operations - its secrets - and there's nothing left to hide. Or perhaps it's a symptom of shock or the aftermath of a convoluted dream. But supposing this is all fact, to me, its meaning is still mitigated. Just whitewater around a boulder and its eddies. Considering I have already been "Processing" and am becoming an Image day by day, repeating the cycles, my emotions and memories may be lost somewhere, and so, it's reasonable to feel nothing at all, even in the face of my - our current plight.

The only hint at emotion is a dull unease at the base of my stomach, gentle butterflies of lovesickness - or a premonition of ill winds to come.