WOLFVILLE

3.1: Something Something Personal Privacy

"Solo 068, we haven't been able to reach you. I'm calling regarding your monthly activity report from August. Can you tell me why your dispatch log is under quota?"

"It's a slow period and I'm busy tracking. It's the end of summer, herds are on the move. You can't expect them all to be hanging out at home," he said, sitting on the edge of a metal table in the basement of an empty house. Not empty, just lifeless right now, except for him. He picked at a deep scuff in the metal.

"Don't lecture us on the habits of the Dire," growled the voice.

"I thought I was exempt since I'm on a special target," he replied.

"It doesn't exempt you from reporting data. Your collection assignments have provided zero DNA samples."

He laid back on the table, legs dangling off. "Well, if you wait for the end of September, you'll find my dispatch log significantly richer."

"What exactly can we expect?"

He stretched his hand above him, fingernails intact. He lifted his sweater and touched the bandages around his waist. "I think they're sick here."

"How?"

"I don't know. They got black shit coming out of them. That's not normal, is it? I've never heard of that happening before."

The voice fell quiet. Tapping on the other end of the line. Something was transmitted unseen between them; he could feel it, however weakly. "Seven Hill will have a representative in Wolfville next weekend," the voice said finally. "I'll forward you his contacts. Tell him what you saw."

"Is it dangerous?"

"Prioritize your collection assignments to samples from sick individuals."

He sat up. "Is it dangerous?" he repeated.

"That depends on how many there are."

"I don't know how many."

"Then find out."

"If it is, will you send backup?"

"You know that discretion is our utmost concern regarding your target. The sensitive nature of this task requires as little internal interference as possible."

"Yeah, but Daveau is up North..."

"Her experiments may yet have something to do with this. Redact any mention of illness from your monthly reports, we cannot risk any of our activities leaking to other operatives. Especially Castor and Daveau. You'll remain solo on the target until further notice," said the voice. "Can you confirm the contacts?"

He pulled the phone away and looked. There was a new message. "Got them."

"You'll call him Sunday morning to meet. Do not let yourself be seen anywhere near the Diederich family before then."

"Sure."

"You've been stationed there long enough. We expected to have usable data by now."

He wasn't interested in being nagged. "I have usable data. You're sweeping it under the rug."

"We expect improvements on your report by the end of September."

"Fine."

When the conversation was done, he looked at the message again. He hopped off the table and found a notepad out of the cupboard by the stainless-steel sink matching the table, jotting down the contact details. A phone number and a name: T. LARUSSON. Then he deleted the message. Grumpy, the hunter sulked across the basement to the stairs, only to stub his toe on the corner of a dog kennel against the wall. "Fuck!"

He hobbled the rest of the way, muttering.