A sigh escaped George's lips. "I thought this mission would be easy...but this is surreal."
"Isn't that a good thing?" Roger tilted his head. "Nobody's dead, there's no crime scene, and the real-world Ajay is fine—just...different."
"That's exactly what worries me." George's brow furrowed. What if Ajay's alternate personality acts out in the real world? The concern wasn't unfounded. The mirrored world versions, while still human, were shaped by hidden personality traits—the darker sides lurking beneath.
"By the way," George picked up a strange, lumpy fruit. It looked disturbingly like feces, yet a surprisingly pleasant, fruity aroma wafted from it. "Is this edible?"
"Eat it. Treat it like a toy. I bet it'll vanish when we leave anyway."
Roger was increasingly convinced of the mirror creator's genius. Alchemist, sorcerer, whatever—discovering or even fabricating this dimension was a feat of brilliance. After storing the other fruits in his system, Roger took a bite, his eyes widening. He gave George a theatrical thumbs-up.
George, encouraged, took a large bite. "Blegh! What is this?!" He gagged, spitting it out. "Worse than durian—worse than actual crap! Roger, how can you stand it?!"
Roger burst into laughter. "Misery loves company! Had to make you try it."
George sputtered, speechless for a moment. "Get back here! I'm going to punch you!"
Their bickering echoed across the vast, white expanse. A transparent, glass-like membrane shimmered into existence before them.
"Kamato's world, I presume." Roger pointed.
George nodded, clamping a hand over his mouth. "Roger, please...talk away from me. The stench..."
Roger just grinned, and they stepped through the barrier.
New York...Inverted
Skyscrapers pierced the sky, their surfaces ablaze with flashing neon advertisements. Office workers, a blur of motion, hurried along the crowded streets. A giant screen displayed a news broadcast, the image of Kamato front and center.
"Kamato has officially won the election with 303 votes to Blackbama's 232! Congratulations to our new President of the United States!"
The anchor beamed. The crowd roared, tossing hats skyward in a display of unrestrained jubilation.
Roger clicked his tongue. "Clever bastard made himself president. We probably don't even need to find him. Let's go, George."
"But—" George hesitated. His instincts screamed agreement, but leaving without even meeting Kamato felt wrong. What if he wants out of this world?
A Familiar Scene...Flipped
"Excuse me, gentlemen, may I see your identification?"
Two Black officers, their expressions wary, stood before them. George blinked, the unexpectedness of the situation hitting him.
Roger, however, sensed a deeper wrongness to this world.
"Hands on your heads," one officer ordered, his hand resting on his holstered weapon.
Recognizing the futility of resistance, Roger and George complied.
"Take it easy, man. I'm a cop too. Can I grab my badge?" George asked, keeping his voice calm.
"Slowly. No sudden moves." The larger officer had already drawn his gun, the barrel unwavering.
George carefully retrieved his badge, the familiar routine feeling strangely alien in this context. He was used to being on the other side of this exchange.
"Hahahaha..." Roger chuckled softly.
"What's so funny?" George glared.
"You! Getting stopped like a common criminal. I need a picture."
"Shut up."
The officer radioed in. "HQ, check badge number NE0577AXXXX, name: George Stacy."
A beat of silence. Then, the officer's face hardened. "Arrest them. That badge is fake. He's an imposter."
George's stomach dropped. Right. This isn't the real New York. His badge was worthless here.
The other officer swiftly cuffed them.
"Heh, didn't think I'd see you arrested," Roger smirked.
"Roger...I have a really bad feeling."
The officers, visibly relaxed now that the suspects were restrained, shoved them toward the squad car.
"Keep your mouth shut, pretty boy. You'll tell us where you got that fake ID at the station, you white pig."
A fist slammed into George's stomach. He doubled over, vomiting.
The putrid, overwhelming stench of the earlier fruit filled the air.
The officers recoiled, gagging, hands flying to their noses.
BAM! BAM!
Two swift punches, and the officers crumpled to the ground. Roger dusted off his hands.
"Roger! You knocked them out?! And the cuffs...?" George stared, bewildered.
"Don't worry about it. I can store a motorcycle; cuffs are child's play. Besides, did you want to go to jail here? That would've been a disaster." Roger grinned. "And haven't you noticed? Everything's...reversed."
"Reversed?" George frowned, the persistent unease finally clicking into place.
"Get in. I'll show you." Roger gestured to the police car.
George climbed in without argument. Roger hit the sirens and accelerated toward a predominantly white neighborhood. As they drove, George's eyes widened in horrified understanding. White people shrank back from the approaching car, averting their eyes, their movements hurried and fearful.
Roger chuckled, a dark edge to his voice. "Welcome to the other side of the mirror, George."
"What is the meaning of this?" George's comprehension grew, yet his bewilderment remained. He awaited Roger's elucidation.
"All is inverted, that is all. Black and white, reversed. Hehe. Observe the advertisements upon the thoroughfares, and upon those illuminated screens," Roger chuckled, gesturing towards the street.
All the models featured in the advertisements were of African descent, with a scant few Caucasians. The situation upon the streets mirrored this inversion.
Black individuals, impeccably attired in suits, comported themselves with courtesy and deference. White individuals, conversely, were uncouth and ill-mannered, performing hip-hop dances in the streets, and occasionally, under the cover of masks, committing robberies of convenience stores.
Police vehicles passing by groups of Caucasians elicited visible tension, as though the occupants of the vehicles might, at any moment, descend to interrogate them, or, perhaps, invite them to partake of "peanuts."
Slowly, comprehension dawned upon George. He gaped, exclaiming in disbelief, "Racial... discrimination?!?"
Indeed. In the real-world New York, the situation here was entirely reversed. The perpetrators of crime were, predominantly, Caucasian.
While those of African descent constituted the pillars of the nation: white-collar workers, the elite class—
"I believe it is in our best interests to depart this place with all due haste. It is evident that your colleague, having arrived here, has undergone a… transformation, hehe."
If Roger's viewing of several thousand episodes of Detective Conan had not been in vain, then George's colleague of African descent harbored a deep-seated prejudice.
The prejudice, suppressed in the real world, had, upon his ascension to the status of a god, manifested in a correspondingly amplified manner.
"Roger, your assessment is sound. We must depart with alacrity," George concurred, now fully aligned with Roger's perspective.
No one could predict whether this former colleague would still adhere to the laws of the real world; after all, even his very being had been altered.
Therefore, George no longer entertained any notion of rescuing his two colleagues. Swift departure was deemed the most prudent course of action.
[This station will now interrupt normal programming for an urgent news bulletin. Two unidentified individuals have just assaulted two police officers on Brook Street.]
[Photographs of the perpetrators are as follows. Note: these two individuals are not citizens of this nation. If encountered, and if they pose a threat, lethal force is authorized.]
Upon a screen in a nearby supermarket, a female news anchor of African descent was broadcasting the recent events.
And the images displayed upon the screen, of the wanted criminals, were none other than those of Roger and George.
"We are in a predicament, Roger. We are now the subject of a city-wide manhunt..."
"What the fuck are you...?!"
George, turning to look at Roger, was nearly scared witless.
For in the driver's seat, at some unknown juncture, sat a man of African descent, his entire being of that hue. Were it not for the fact that his attire and footwear remained those of Roger, George might well have drawn his firearm.
"Hey, do not be alarmed, my friend. It is merely you who are in a predicament, not I, hehe—" Roger chuckled, the utility of his disguise finally manifesting itself.
"You... are you Roger?" George inquired incredulously, even reaching out to touch Roger's skin, confirming that it was not some form of ink...
Roger slapped away his hand. "Who else could it be? As a demon hunter, it is only logical that I possess a few disguises, is it not?"
"But, this is too... Do you have any means of assisting me in altering my appearance as well?"
"I regret to inform you that my disguises are personal, unavailable to others—"
"...."
While the two were conversing, a man of African descent, within the White House, far distant, was listening to a report from his subordinates with considerable interest.
He then activated the television, and observed, one face unfamiliar, the other, astonishingly, that of a former colleague from the police precinct, George.
Perhaps it was a consequence of excessive tedium, for even a video game could be completed with ease. Thus, this individual, Carmack, having ascertained that George was a colleague from the real world, conceived of a playful notion.
He issued a few instructions to his subordinates, who nodded in acknowledgment and departed. Carmack, leaning back in his chair, awaited the news with eager anticipation.
"Roger, we must exchange this vehicle. A police car is far too conspicuous."
"Your observation is astute, but I believe it to be of little consequence. For this is his domain, and he is, undoubtedly, already aware of our presence. Should he harbor malicious intent towards us, the choice of vehicle is immaterial."
Nevertheless, Roger brought the vehicle to a halt. "However, your point is valid. We shall exchange vehicles, to diminish his vigilance, should he, indeed, intend us harm."
He then gazed at a women's clothing boutique by the roadside, tilting his head, his gaze directed towards George.
George: "..."
————
A short while later, a statuesque, dark-skinned "matron" emerged. The shop assistants, having been rendered unconscious by Roger, were bound and stowed aside.
"Your disguise as a woman is quite convincing. It appears you possess a talent for espionage."
Indeed, George had been transformed into a woman of African descent, for such a disguise would render him less conspicuous.
"Refrain from jest. Our priority is to devise a means of swift escape. Do you know the location of the exit?" George retorted, disgruntled.
Roger donned a pair of sunglasses, then activated his Eyes of Judgment, scanning his surroundings.
"This dimension, how shall I describe it? It resembles a kaleidoscope, perhaps. Everywhere are exits, yet it is also possible that there are none, for one may create a breach simply by shattering a mirror.
The issue is that some mirrors appear remarkably durable, while others appear fragile, as though newly formed. Our objective is to proceed towards those more vulnerable mirrors, and then shatter one with a firearm to effect our escape."
George, following Roger's gaze, could discern nothing of significance.
"Then where, precisely, is this exit?"
"Carmack is the creator of this world, but he cannot meticulously construct every detail. Those recently formed areas, the mirrors are more fragile, we just need to run there, in other words, out of the city—"
Subsequently, Roger surveyed their surroundings. The vehicles were all phantasms conjured within Carmack's world. Should Carmack harbor hostile intentions, they would vanish with a mere thought.
Since they were unsafe, they were best dispensed with. Roger, disliking the notion of entrusting his safety to another, extended a hand from his posterior in a rather theatrical retrieval, producing a Harley motorcycle.
"George, mount. We must make haste. We are now wanted throughout the city."
George, his countenance a mixture of bewilderment and resignation, though once again astonished by Roger's "magic," recognized the urgency of the situation and mounted the motorcycle.
"Let us depart—"
Vroom!—
With a roar of the engine, Roger twisted the throttle to its maximum setting and sped away.
Meanwhile, the streets were thronged with FBI agents, CIA agents, and a motley assortment of police officers, all, without exception, of African descent...
And these officers were all in pursuit of two individuals: one George, one a mixed-race individual named Roger. Images of the two were broadcast throughout the city.
In this illogical world, the media, with nothing better to occupy their time, devoted their broadcasts to the visages of two wanted men...