Two Phones and the Great Unknown

The next morning, I rise and feel like a pile of mushed shit. But, I think as I dress myself, at least I am no longer barfing all over the ground. Everything still feels ginger, my arm like a fallen twig that could be snapped by a careless passerby, so I take care, going slowly about my morning ritual.

It ends up taking maybe twice as long as usual, not helped by the time I spend in the shower just blankly staring at the mildewed tiles. Now, it’s time for breakfast. I stare into the empty cupboards. I open up my fridge, knowing what I’ll see. Nothing. Ah, crap, and I’m hungry, too. At least I have money to buy food with now.

I’ve got something else to do first, though.

The lobby downstairs is empty. Tucked against the wall on the side, the row of metallic mailboxes is a scuffed thing with old graffiti splashed across it. I fumble out a key and insert it into the lock, giving it a hard twist and a tug. The door to my mailbox creaks open, revealing a collection of envelopes, two of which look decidedly bulkier than the rest. I take them all.

Upstairs again, I quickly sort through the thinner envelopes first. It’s mostly ads and bills. Up until yesterday, I would have ignored them both, but now I’m flush with cash, so I guess the bills are going to get paid. Imagine that.

I tear open the first bulky envelope and peer inside. Tucked between the white pieces of paper is a phone—mine. I pull it out of the envelope, and see the post-it stuck on top of it:

Don’t know what you did with the app, but I assure you: I’ll be looking into this funny business.

- Ins. Vidocq

Two things race through my mind then: One, it seems like this perk thing that I bought really works. Fuck yes. This didn’t just foil Vidocq’s plan—it also means that, when I go outside, I can freely use the app without fear of arousing someone else’s suspicion. This would be useful even if the Affection Multiplier didn’t, well, multiply. If I can have my phone out and see live what makes a person’s score tick up or down, then I know what makes them tick—and that means that I can control them.

The second thing: Vidocq is hot on my trail. He knows that something fishy’s going on with Scarlet and Jessica, and even if they’ve got my back… somebody with his skills is going to piece the story together sooner or later. Maybe one of the staff leaks, or maybe there’s a mistake with the documentation somewhere, but I know that I’m working on limited time now.

I pocket my phone and turn to the second package. It’s bulky in the same way as the first, and I can guess at what’s inside before I even open it.

This is the phone that Mr. Samuel promised me yesterday. It’s a small sleek iPhone, but one of the older models, a 4S if I had to guess.

I turn it on, and I’m greeted by a lock-screen showing the New York skyline. What’s the passcode? I put my regular one in, but of course, it doesn’t work—Mr. Samuel is a resourceful man, but even he has his limits. I try a couple of other common ones: 1234, four 0s, 6969, but none are accepted. Hmm…

I check the envelope again, picking it up off my desk. I wave my hand through it, but it is empty. Then, I chance a glance inside, and there it is: in neat print, line upon line of instruction, written on the insides of the envelope.

I carefully tear the paper open and unfold the message.

Hope this finds you well, greyhound. Inside is the phone that will be your key to becoming Claude Ashworth. Use the passcode 8725 to access the phone as Claude Ashworth. This phone contains some photos, contacts, an email account with a history, but nothing that a stranger could use to connect it to you as Markus. I think you’ll like the small touches I put on it.

The phone also has an alternate account installed on it. Use the passcode 8435 to access the phone as Markus Najbreit. You’ll see that I have left more detailed instructions in the Notes, but a couple of things to get you started: you’ll find all the background you need on Claude Ashworth written up on this account, as well as a Signal account with one contact on it—me. Remember that daschund monitors all incoming and outgoing texts; keep contact with me to a minimum, and never reveal your true identity over text. Godspeed, greyhound.

I pick up the phone again, breathing silently to myself, and enter in the four digits that unlock the phone as Claude Ashworth would use it. I check through the photographs: no selfies, but a large number of stills taken all over the world, a surprising number of photos taken in art galleries, as well as a number of shots containing the smiling faces of people that I don’t recognize. Few of the faces show up more than once.

The other apps tell a similar story of a well-travelled, well-to-do man with good taste in the arts. Then, I flick over to the next screen of apps, and my heart skips a beat. At the bottom of the screen, I see the Affection Multiplier app again.

Could Mr. Samuel know? I think to myself, but there’s no way. He wouldn’t have been coy about it yesterday, had he known. This is just… whatever it is that makes the Affection Multiplier work, apparently makes the Multiplier appear on all my devices too. I hurriedly lock the phone, and then unlock it again.

This time, I put in the digits to unlock the secret account within the phone. I open up the Notes app, and see hundreds of individual notes, labelled with titles like Travel History, Favorite Foods, Successful Acquisitions…

I open up the first one, titled A Note From Mr. Samuel, and begin reading.