1.01 – Seafood

I've never been good with words, so I'll get right to the point; my name's Shotokan. I used to be called Seth, but not since I red-pilled. Half of my colleagues don't know about my past, and I'm pretty sure they don't care. Neither do I, ever since I found out it was all a lie. The Matrix, they call it. All I know is that it tricked me into thinking that I lived in a small city in an even smaller state. Truth was, I lived my life curled up in a tank full of strawberry jell-o. I don't like being fooled. Maybe that's why I found him. Most of the people that find him actually looked for him. Little kids on their computers pointing and clicking through that sea of binary that they felt more at home with, searching from regular IRC pages to the most secure CIA files. But that's them. I was different.

I first heard about him after I finished in a tournament. It was the final round, and the finalists were me and this guy who reminded me of a sleepy-eyed version of Bruce Willis. From the second that the match started, I realized that he was good. Though his technique was excellent, maybe even better than mine, he lacked motivation. He fought, but he lacked a reason to. I was here for my honor, and my dojo's. He made a swing for me, but I blocked, and made a kick for his head before he could regain himself. He'd have died if he didn't have a helmet on, but that's not why I froze the way I did; before my eyes, in the path of my kick, was a tear in the system. I didn't know it was a tear then, but I saw it: Black background, green symbols falling like rain, yeah, I was amazed. Then two guys walked up to me. I could've sworn they were from the CIA, or the FBI, or another one of those places that have three letter acronyms. They asked me to follow them, so I did. I didn't know of anything illegal that I did, so I thought I had nothing to lose. They led me to a black limo, where I was stuck in there for I have no idea how long. We stopped and led me from the limo, through a parking garage, up an elevator, into a grill room. You know what I'm talking about; the kinds of rooms with a one-way mirror where cops interrogate suspects that have nothing except a couple of chairs and a table. I sat in front of the table. I sat there for a long time, worrying that Ted, my foster father, would panic and start calling my friends.

After what felt like hours, a man walked in. He was dressed just like the others, but he was carrying a manila envelope. He sat down across from me, slowly opening the envelope. At long last he pulled out a folder with my name on the tab.

"Mr. Kahtta, is it?" He said.

"No, it's pronounced with a long 'o.'" Damn people always got that wrong.

"Well," he said, "Mr. Kotta, do you know why you're here?"

I shook my head.

"You are here," his monotone voice drawled out, "Because you are in danger." I didn't believe him, but I didn't say. "We have been informed that a terrorist by the name of Argonaut has had his attention drawn to you. Why, we have no idea, but if he finds you, he will try to use you to his own ends, or kill you." Argonaut, where have I heard that name before? "Fortunately for you, we have found you before he has. We are proposing to make a deal with you, Mr. Kotta."

"What's the deal?"

"We are proposing, Mr. Kotta, that you help us find this terrorist and bring him to justice. We will tap your phone lines, watch your house, and monitor your movements to see if he will make any form of contact with you."

This sounded too easy. "And what's the catch?"

"The 'catch,' Mr. Kotta, is that you will be under heavy surveillance, as you have already been told."

I thought about it; these guys were hiding something, and I doubt it was anything good. I stood up. "It sounds too deceitful for me. I'm a man of honor, not bait for some trap. I'm sorry, but my answer is no."

The man looked up at me. "I'm sorry, but your assistance is not optional."

Two more men, the ones that confronted me before, walked into the room. I tried to use the opportunity to run in between them, but one of them caught me and threw me back. Asshole; didn't even see him move. I tried kicking one, but only succeeded in getting myself thrown again. One more time, this time I planted my feet. I guess they thought they had me beat, and were letting me have one last futile shot, but I was gonna prove them wrong. Focusing my chi, I charged at the one blocking my path, my right fist cocked for a punch. The thing is, I'm left handed. As soon as my right fist started heading for his head, I sucker punched him in the crotch. My fist broke, I think, but he was on the ground, leaving the door open for me to escape. I don't think I ever ran so fast in my life. I was in a police station, but I didn't take any time to look around. The exit was in between me and four or five desks – I could make it. I leapt onto one of the desks, jump over the second onto the third, jump over the remaining two. I almost reached it when I got hit in the kidney with a beanbag.

No! I was so close! I get grabbed by two agents who escort me back into the grill room in a not too gentle manner.

"Mr. Kotta," said the agent waiting for me, "You are going to help us, and there is nothing you can do about it." He reached into his blazer and pulled out what looked like a leather check book. As the other two wrestled me to the table, he opened it and I saw what at first looked like syringes. What were they gonna do? Were they gonna poison me? Then I realized that they weren't syringes; they looked like tiny springs attached to an LED light. The men held my head straight as the man with the spring pressed a button – at least, that's what I was guessing, because the minute he touched it, the spring turned into what looked like a chrome shrimp. It wriggled around in his hand as he brought it to my ear. Have you ever had someone put their tongue in your ear, and it felt as if it was going into your brain? Well, that's what it felt like when he dropped the shrimp, minus the wetness. I was screaming as loud as I could, but I knew nobody would come to my rescue.