Mimicry Business

***

They call me Conner, though Aogán is my first name. I've been tracking down the pages of the St. Michael Codex, which is said to contain the secret knowledge of God Himself. My employer wants it. Bloody self-indulgent, egotistical bastard. Money sure talked, though, and I usually listened when it did.

My employer was able to get me hired on as technical support at some bottom feeder cellular provider. Cheap burner phones, reception spottier than a dalmatian, you get the idea. It was a shit job, but it paid more than Michael did. At least for now.

"The page is hidden in that which blends in," he said. Cryptic bastard, too. Sometimes I would fantasize about smacking the arrogance out of him, but nobody strikes an angel and survives. Not even me, and I've spit in the Devil's face. I showed his cousin, Balthazar, a thing or two at least.

"You're a lot of fucking help, y'know that?" The clack of my phone closing had been nearly as satisfying as slamming a handset back on its cradle. I'm showing my age there, aren't I? Ah, well, moving on.

For weeks I kept the same routine. I'd wake up, get my workout in, shower, get ready to simulate employment, and repeat the next day. Like clock-work.

You know what else carried on like clock-work? My fucking lunches being stolen. Good ones, too. It isn't cheap living on Wendy's every day, even if it's off of the 4 for $4 menu. It fucked with my macros, too.

"Michael," I had growled into my phone after a month. "Do you have any idea how much weight I'm gaining here?" He laughed me off until I had slammed my fist hard on the break room table.

"That which does not stand out contains what we seek," he intoned.

***

After speaking with Human Resources about the lunch thefts, I learned that there had been somewhat of a legend about things going missing around the office. They figured they would catch the thief on camera eventually, but their efforts bore no fruit for nearly a decade. Lunch thefts, however, had been relatively recent.

My own efforts were seemingly wasted. Until I decided to put a camera on my lunch. "Try hiding in plain sight now, asshole," I said in satisfaction as I opened my laptop at my desk and connected to the camera. A fuzzy black-and-green image came into view as I launched the app. A few keystrokes and the focus tightened. "You're as good as caught."

Or so I thought.

The camera suddenly went black as I lost the signal. After carefully closing my laptop, I clocked out for my break. I may have been a few minutes early, by half an hour. God forgive me.

The break room was abandoned. Fluorescent lights hummed in their fixtures as vending machines showcased various treats as their insides spun around. Precision in selection was required for these machines, and it was further proof that call centers were Hell. Michael had a strange sense of humor.

Once I opened the fridge, the loss of my lunch had been confirmed. No sign of the culprit, let alone my camera. The whole thing was gone. The door closed with a dull thud, and I stared at the full refrigerator. It was slightly disproportionate. The freezer, as an example, had an inset handle, as opposed to the main door. I also couldn't recall anyone keeping anything in it over the last month.

It wouldn't open either, apparently. "Well that's a damn sight interesting." Michael's words echoed back to me about hiding in plain sight.

***

That Wednesday I came in on my day off. Curious eyes followed me as I strode into the break room. I deposited my lunch in the refrigerator, sat at my usual table next to the spinning vending machine, and pulled open my favorite SM Reine novel. You know the one, about the male witch who gets framed for murder? Anyway, I won't spoil the details too much, but let's just say that the way she describes Izzy I don't blame Cèsar for being a damn fool.

Once he found the body in his bathtub I started hearing what I can only describe as a stereo eating a cassette. You can probably find that sound on YouTube, and it's a terrible fucking sound, but it's distinct.

It's also what made me leap from my table to tug open the door. Once my hand landed on that handle, the freezer door sprang open. Stumbling backwards, I cracked my ass against a few chairs on my way down. I pulled my phone out and called Michael.

"Mikey, how do you neutralize a Mimic?"

***

Once I realized that this Mimic had grown accustomed to free and easy meals, I knew what to do. I clacked my phone closed and balled up my fist. "Sorry little buddy," I said extending the last syllable in sing-song. My fist met little resistance as it plunged deep into the eye blocking the freezer. The main door swung open as a horrible screech came from within the injured creature. My hand made a sickening sucking noise as it came out of the eye when I flew back. A table broke through the spinning vending machine after I crashed into it. I blacked out.

When I came to I was propped against the dumpster outside of Yazzi's. Reaching for my head, I found the note Michael had left lovingly duct taped to my wrist. Ripping it off with my other hand, I rubbed my aching head and read that he was able to recover the page I had removed from the Mimic's head. He said he had relocated the beast to a 'better place' and I knew I didn't want to know.

Pulling myself to my feet, I dusted myself off, and threw open to door to the bar. Jen greeted me with a double shot of Jack once I sat at the bar. "You look like shit," she said as she smirked at me. She was already setting down an ale she just poured off the tap.

"At least I don't hide who I am," I said over the glass.