Only a few clicks in and he is already unsettled. He feels that he is justified in being so. He has combed through pages of the most unsavory things. He supposes that the place has earned its name and reputation.
Evidently, in joining the Republic City police force he hadn't known that they would keep his duties behind a monitor.
He finds himself on a new page; a simple surveillance camera overlooking what seems like an industrial park parking lot. He rubs his chin in frustration. Just how many camera feeds will he happen upon tonight? From personal webcams to phone cameras to security cameras, his gaze has found many things that they weren't supposed to. The worst of it is that they aren't even entertaining. He certainly hadn't been into it when he clicked onto a page that had given him a view of a man and a woman stripping. Deep down he knows that some sick sap is getting excitement from it.
Somehow, less amusing had been the drug sales. The deep web is teeming with them. Everything in him tells him to trace and track the vendors but his higher ups have already told him not to bother. "There are just so damn many of them fuckin' things, just let 'em be." Baatar takes off his glasses and rubs his forehead. He doesn't know how much more human filth he can stomach for tonight. God forbid he stumble across one of the infamous cannibal cafes.
Not that he isn't seeking out something just is vile.
He supposes that it is worth it.
It will all be worth it if he can track down the ring and bring young men and women out of the ring.
He doesn't fancy the idea of pretending to be a predator. But he will play the role if he can put a stop to the trafficking. He closes out of the surveillance site and finds himself in a new room, this one features tips on all sorts of manners of disturbing inclinations from how to kill one's boss to how to do away with oneself. This also isn't the sort of evil he is looking to eradicate.
Baatar rakes his hand through his hair, growing frustrated at how vast the darkweb truly is. He has combed through more than his fill of wickedness and is getting nowhere. For all of his years of tech-savviness and coding, this place is disorienting and tricky to navigate. Frowning deeply, he clicks upon another random link.
The screen goes momentarily staticy and he cusses. Just what he needs is a computer crash, God forbid he has to go through all of those links again. The screen glitches and distorts further and indistinguishable images flicker in the fuzz.
Baatar squints at the screen.
It flickers again twice.
Still fuzzy.
He leans in closer.
He jolts back when a masked face appears. A humored and heavily warped laugh sounds through his speakers. He doesn't share in their humor. His stomach lurches. Without a hesitation to make he reaches for the power off switch. His hand doesn't reach it when the voice speaks.
"Don't leave so soon officer BeiFong." The voice that comes through is slick, both masculine and feminine but more robotic than anything else, especially on the words accented by shrill beeps. It sounds like a virus to his ears.
Everything in his body and soul goes cold. He has masked his VPN, he is using tor. It strikes him unpleasantly, these people...these monsters are probably jarringly more tech savvy than he.
A chat window pops up. "If you're too shy to speak." The person pauses. "Or if you didn't have the sense to disguise your voice."
A few screen names pop up on the chat window,most are random strings of numbers. A few a simple words-'TheSlash', 'ripper', 'wiNd0w', and 'T'. Baatar's own username scrawls itself in the chat, 7xYl9090Gg.
"I do believe it is seven-x's first time here. Let's give him a warm welcome." Responses ranged from sarcastic and mocking to amused to genuinely inviting. "Hmm...mixed reactions. I'm sure that they will take a shine to you eventually."
He hopes that the masked person will let his name go unspoken. To his relief, they do.
Instead the voice drawls, "welcome, seven-x, to red room three-six-one." The figure steps back and sweeps its arm out. It wears a hooded cloak of deep green with absurdly long sleeves. He can't discern the gender beneath the shapeless attire. "Have you been to a red room before?"
He thinks of lying, but some primitive part of him senses that the person behind the monitor will know. His hesitancy to answer, answers for him. 'He's a red room virgin!' Types wiNd0w. 'cute' types 1671JNp8R.
"So what brings you here, seven-x?"
This time he doesn't allow them another opening. 'Curiosity.' He types quickly.
A second chat window pops up. A private one on one window. 'Clever.' Is the only word there. He looks for a screen name and finds none. He doesn't know how to reply. He doesn't know if he should.
"Alright, seven-x, since this is your first time, I'll let you do the honors." There is a loud pop and suddenly the white noise has been cleared.
Responses vary again from outrage and envy to typed out cheers and a 'choose wisely seven-x'. He cringes, whoever is running this show, they are trying to out him. He doesn't know what he is supposed to be choosing as he racks his brain to recall what he'd researched about red rooms. The figure takes a few steps back and he sees the man now. His eyes are wet and he is sniffling. He trembles.
"I don't deserve this." It is a constant mantra.
The figure motions to a table stocked with grisley looking instruments. It doesn't have to speak up for Baatar to know what it will say, 'have your pick.'
His mouth dries.
'Come on seven-x.' Types TheSlash.
He shakes all over. With shaky fingers he types, 'use the knife.'
"Ah, a classic." The figure speaks with a dramatic flair. It is somehow even more haunting without the white noise. "It would seem that we have a man of simple pleasures here with us tonight." The person pauses. "And what will I be doing with the knife tonight?"
He swallows, every bit of him wants to tell the figure to slash a smile into its own throat. For his own safety, he curbs his tongue.
"Don't be shy. You'll find that I can do exotic things."
Baatar doesn't want to know what that means. It prickles his spine without context.
'I think that this is too hard for him.' 5TxY00L types.
'Outsider.' ripper adds.
Baatar's stomach turns again. He can't reply too quickly or that would arouse suspicion. He lets a minute slip before replying, 'creativity takes time.'
This garners a slew of praise, save for ripper who types, 'better make it good, leaving us waiting so long.'
He hovers his fingers over the keyboard, trying to decide what to do. 'Draw me a picture.' He is sicked by his own request.
He can sense the smile behind the mask. "Creative indeed." The host allows pause for reaction. After the chat box fills further they speak again, "what should I draw."
He can't stop the sarcasm this time, 'a cat in a sunny meadow.'
"A comedian too." The host comments, undeterred by his passive-aggressiveness. "I do hope that you come back next week." A link appears in his private chat window. He has no intention of following it. He writes it down regardless.
"Well then, let's begin. This over here," the host motions to its captive, "is Koh Quinn. Big businessman, family lives in Fire Fountain City. 1129, Lava Lake Road, if anyone wants to stop in and say hello to the wife."
Baatar swallows again. A film of sweat begins to form as the figure nears Koh. He itches to turn his monitor off, but then they'd know that he is out of place. Then they may come for him. He has the sneaking suspicion that his host won't allow for the screen to turn off even if he did hit the button.
He watches the masked person stalks up to its prey. He sees the knife glint as the first cut is made. He had expected it to be a violent and senseless slash. But it is elegant and meticulous. He wants to say that his host is female, but in his time on the police force, he has seen men leave clean-cut victims and women that may as well have been feral animals with their methods.
Baatar is desperate to pick out anything about this villain. An assailant so bold that they commit murder right before an officer. As the carving continues Koh's screams grow shriller. More haunting.
He can hear the man's sniffles grow in volume. Baatar isn't sure if the wet noises come from his nose or from his opening flesh. He feels sick.
Hollow.
He stares blankly at the screen, trying to conjure up the indifference that has helped him through the most grotesque of his investigations. Koh's screams swell and just when Baatar believes that his life is going to end, the host steps back to reveal their artwork.
A bloody cat in a bloody field, just as he'd requested.
"Charming, yes?"
'Cut his hand off and use it to hold the knife and stab him.' T types.
"We really do have a creative lot tonight." The host remarks.
It will torment him for nights to come, what he views next. He tries to distract himself by eyeing his keyboard to type faux pleasure at the spectacle before him. But it is not enough. Minutes after the show has come to an end, he can still see Koh's severed hand stabbing at his own chest. He can still hear the gurgles, they fog his host's parting speech.
The screen had gone black and then to the tor homepage five minutes ago and he sits rigidly with his hands clasped in front of his mouth. It doesn't even pester him that he will have to go through all of the links again. He is numb. He doesn't know where to go from here. His eyes fall upon the link he had written down. He can report that to the squad. But will they be able to trace it on time to save the next victim. God, what if it is Koh's wife. He gives a drawn exhale.
He hears a soft ping and the hairs on his back rise. Oh fuck, they've traced me. The nervous perspiration is beading on his forehead. He doesn't want to turn around, he doesn't want to know.
"Hello, officer BeiFong." The voice is female.
He towards his computer, confirming what he already knows, his webcam is on and by its own accord. Rather the woman's. He expects to see that chilling metallic bull mask. Instead he faces a woman with vivid green eyes rimmed by square-framed glasses. Beneath her shirt he can tell that she has a fit build.
Any hope that it is a mere coincidence or perhaps a friend of a friend fades when she remarks, "you struck me as the squeamish type, seven-x."
"Are you ripper or T?" He asks.
She laughs.
"Don't tell me that you're window." He grumbles.
Her lips curve up, "a comedian too."
Another chill darts along his spine. He shoves that aside realizing that he has the power. "You'd show me your face?"
"Sure." The woman replies. "You can't touch me seven-x."
"I have a name." He snaps.
And he regrets as she responds, "Baatar Jr. BeiFong. Son of Baatar Sr. and Suyin BeiFong."
"You can find that on google." He grumbles.
She looks down for a moment, pushing at her glasses. "You like to sit under an old beech tree to the left of your bedroom window, third floor up, fifth window from the right."
He swallows and tries to redirect the conversation. "I can have the police force…"
"You can't touch me." She repeats. He isn't sure if she is referring to her unidentified location or a team of killers waiting to pounce at her command. "And you don't want to, seven-x."
"You're a killer he snarls."
"Yes." She agrees. "But with good reason."
"Good reason?" Baatar isn't sure why he is engaging her.
"Do you know what Koh and his wife do?" She inquires. But she doesn't leave him time to guess. "They run an orphanage. The kids don't come out quite the same. Do you follow?"
He believes that he does. "Let me guess, you used to stay at that orphanage?"
"Oh no. No, not that one. The owners of the one I was in, they were the stars of my debut." She replied nonchalantly. She turns around and lifts her shirt. Her back is an assortment of scars and poorly-healed welts. She turns back to him. "You don't want to take me off of the streets because I clean the filth on them. The sludge that slips through the cracks."
He opens his mouth.
"I want to make a deal, seven-x."
"Go on."
"Keep me off of the police radar and I'll help you navigate the darkest corners of the dark web."
He thinks of his task. Of the women who need liberation. "What is your stance on sex traffickers?"
"They have very special seats in my show."
He should know better, he should know much better. But those pretty green eyes blink at him and she flashes a charmingly wicked grin. "Why don't you just join the police force?" He inquires instead.
She cocks her head, "I have a...compulsion to indulge. I find that it's better to quench it this way than to slaughter an innocent thing like your little sister." He goes tense. She is bizarrely quick to apologize, "I'm not going to touch your sister. She hasn't done anything wrong." She pauses. "Do you accept my offer, seven-x?"
"Depends, are you going to tell me who I'm working with."
"They call me the uniter." She doesn't elaborate. He knows that she won't. "Do you accept my offer, seven-x."
He thinks of Opal, of how vacant he would feel if she fell prey to the ring he was tracking. "Yes. I accept your offer, uniter."
Her smirk goes wider before his webcam clicks off.
He hears a ping.
A new chat box appears on his screen.