No occupation is without its unpleasant but necessary labors. For Carlos Torres the extrospector, this labor is the hunt. He prefers extraction. This makes him unusual among his colleagues, for most of whom the initial hunt is their favorite task He understands the appeal it has for others. Most of the hunt is empty time spent wandering around the densest urban centers of the world, dressed in the kinds of stylish clothes this kind of elite occupation affords one and brimming with a sense of importance. Already today he has visited six cafes, three bookstores, two parks and a combination taqueria-flower shop. Some of his colleagues prefer theaters, stadiums, and nightclubs. The more self-serious veterans frequent office buildings and public transportation. Freedom is a perk of the hunt; it doesn’t matter where it takes place so long as people gather there. And if an on-duty exstropector wants to enjoy a chai latte or join the dance floor, there are no rules against it. But always with keen eyes. It is, after all, a hunt, and their prey is as elusive as it is dangerous.
Carlos dislikes hunting because it is lonely. Several times he’s asked the higher-ups for a partner to go hunting with, but Grace says it would be inefficient. Unfortunately for Carlos, efficiency is core tenant of the organization and of his unit leader in particular. He understands. Their task is of critical importance to the developing social body of the human race, now at the tail end of adolescence. Success for the organization means as many successful hunts as possible and as few extractions.
It is September in New York City and the long summer days are gone. The city darkens by seven o’clock now. Carlos moves to the nearest subway station, as reliable a hunting ground as any. The platform, raised two stories above its neighborhood in Queens, is bathed in yellow fluorescent light. A dense current of the city’s working class returning home from Manhattan crowds between the yellow plastic strips on their way off the train. The seven line is running with delays today so every car is packed. Good. He tries to stand out of the way but there isn’t any ‘out of the way’ left. The crowd just parts around his immense stature. He observes them carefully, eyes flashing from face to face checking for subtle signs only he would notice. He does not like the hunt but he is good at it. He needs only a glance to confirm each human as indeed a human. No one suspects he is up to anything besides waiting on a train.
But several trains arrive and depart, the crowd thins, the hours slip by, and soon it is very late. The station is nearly emptied. A light drizzle moistens the concrete. Carlos remains vigilant of each face that passes, but this location has become an inefficient hunting ground. Perhaps he’ll catch the next train and ride it back to his Manhattan hotel room. Another extrospector spotted a Godworm in this neighborhood just yesterday but it might have already moved on. He checks his phone. No one has spotted anything in their zones either. Most days of the hunt are uneventful. It's a numbers game. Keep enough eyes on enough people for enough time, following sightings until the moment comes.
Then a train whines to a halt and in one of the windows that passes Carlos spies a monster. He sees a middle-aged woman in scrubs, an unremarkable sight in a setting like this. The worms are good at picking mundane disguises. But Carlos is no amateur. When the pinpoint focus of her eyes meet his own through the glass the mask slips. Immediately she averts her gaze and the disguise is restored, only broken for a millisecond. But even a millisecond of its true visage is enough. So many extrospectors excel through all the training but lose their nerve the moment they encounter the real thing. They glimpse the face of a Godworm for the first time and catch a flash of features so alien to the mammalian mind that they can very easily inflict instantaneous madness. There is a reason the organization has tightened up recruitment in the past few decades. This is not Carlos’s first time however, and he shakes off the pang of dread before the train stops moving. By the time it shudders to a halt, he is at the doors of the Godworm’s car, eyes fixed on the illusory nurse inside. It pretends it does not see him, but it knows it has been discovered. They always do. As soon as the doors slide open it will try to run.
Ding! The chase begins. Passengers spill out. Carlos does not enter. Of course, he doesn’t enter. The minute he steps inside the godworm will be out the other door and gone. But this one is clever. It anticipates his anticipation and outwaits him. It stays in the car, huddled by the other door, eyes glued to its crocs. Carlos clenches his jaw. If he steps into the car it has an opportunity to slip out and away with the crowd. If he waits another moment the doors close and it is whisked away to safety.
He steps into the car. He has to stoop and once inside his black curls brush the ceiling. The other passengers stare, as they always do, all except the nurse, who is gone out of the car at full speed. Carlos pursues. The sliding doors attempt to intervene, but Carlos catches them with his shoe. They relent and he barrels out back onto the platform. The nurse is nowhere to be seen. That does not mean the Godworm is not still here. He lost sight of it for a moment and undoubtedly it took advantage of that moment to change its disguise. A quick scan of the few late-night riders around yields nothing though, so he hurtles down the stairs off the platform. There are more people down here changing platforms or loitering. Even a populace as unflappable as New Yorkers invariably raise their eyes to a giant moving at a full sprint. The attention he garners so automatically is one of the qualities that make him good at his job. Everyone offers him their face to check, everyone except the cop moving just as fast as he is up the stairs to a different platform. Carlos shouts “Hey!” and everyone at least glances his way except the cop. That would be the worm.
This worm is clever, but it made a poor choice of escape route. The platform Carlos follows it onto is nearly completely empty. The arriving train is still a hundred yards off, casting its headlight beams through the needles of rain. The cop continues to run but surely it realizes its fate by now. When it runs out of platform the train has still not arrived and Carlos is nearly on top of it. The cop stops at the edge of the platform, Carlos calculates its likely routes. It could jump onto the tracks, or attempt to climb onto the sheet roofing, he isn’t sure. The Godworm isn’t sure either. It hesitates. This is his chance. He reaches into his pocket and grasps the tightly bound stack of mirrors inside. He prepares to for whichever direction it tries to escape. Instead, it turns to face him. This catches Carlos off guard. Godworms, as dangerous as they may be, are also typically cowards. Carlos had never met one that did anything but run until the very end. This one elects to stare him down. A possible final recourse Carlos had failed to consider. The pinpoint focus of its pupils meets that of Carlos’s and it lets its mask slip again, only this time it falls not a sliver, but all the way off. For only an instant, the cop unravels into a monster whose true form can be described only by the agony it inspires. Carlos is no astronaut. Yet he knows how the cold vastness of space feels, that incomprehensibly infinite yawning maw of oblivion that could swallow a billion earths like a single droplet of vapor. He knows the unfathomable loneliness that is the ether between dim and scarce stars. He knows this feeling because it stands in front of him like a dark spot against the electric New York skyline. There are hardly any stars in the sky above a light pollution metropolis like this. Being a native to the city he does not notice their absence. Yet now, as the godworm unleashes its true form, the unbroken emptiness of the sky appears to him like a thresher to a fieldmouse.
The experience stuns Carlos. Madness, never far from an extrospector, crawls out from the more primitive regions of his mind and seizes territory. It is a gut-wrenching instant, but only an instant. Carlos is well-trained. He averts his eyes, stamps madness back down and reaches into his pocket for his mirrors. But the opportunity is gone. By the time he stands firmly again on sane ground, the train is pulling out of the station, and he is alone on the platform.