Chapter 2: Event 201
New York, United States
October 18, 2019
08:15 AM EST
The flight from Tokyo to New York had been a grueling thirteen-hour ordeal. Kenji hadn't slept. He couldn't. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the bat winking.
He had spent almost all the money left in his savings to purchase the last-minute ticket. His sister had called three times during his San Francisco layover. He didn't answer. What was he supposed to tell her? That he was chasing a cartoon bat across the Pacific?
The Pierre Hotel in Manhattan was an elegant building, far too polished for someone like Kenji in wrinkled jeans and a backpack that had seen better days. Attendees of Event 201 arrived in dark suits, leather briefcases, with the confidence of people who make decisions affecting millions.
Kenji had no invitation.
He had no accreditation.
He didn't even have a real plan beyond "get there and see what happens."
He settled into the lobby café, a laptop open, feigning work, watching the constant flow of people toward the conference halls. Badges hung from their necks: "Event 201 - Pandemic Exercise."
His research over the past three days had been frantic. Event 201 was a high-level simulation exercise, organized by the Johns Hopkins Center for Health Security, the World Economic Forum, and the Bill & Melinda Gates Foundation.
The scenario: a fictional coronavirus pandemic emerging from pig farms in Brazil, spreading globally, causing 65 million deaths in 18 months.
All hypothetical, of course.
All "preparedness."
But Billy Bat's message still echoed in his head: "Prediction or Planning?"
Kenji discreetly took photos with his phone. Faces. Badges. Anything that might be useful later.
Then he saw her.
A woman in her mid-forties, blonde hair pulled back in a tight bun, metal-framed glasses. She carried a briefcase and a badge that read: "Dr. Sarah Kristensen - WHO."
It wasn't her appearance that caught his attention.
It was the pin on her lapel.
A gold bat.
Small. Discreet. Almost imperceptible.
But definitely a bat.
Kenji felt his stomach churn. He rose awkwardly, nearly knocking over his computer, and followed her at a cautious distance.
The woman entered a conference room: "Session 1: Pandemic Scenario Introduction." Kenji approached the door. A security guard immediately intercepted him.
"Excuse me, sir. Your accreditation?"
"I... I'm a journalist. Kenji Morita, from Tokyo. Is this open to the press?"
The guard consulted a tablet. "There is no Morita on the list. This is a closed event, sir."
"I understand, but—"
"Sir, I need you to return to the lobby."
Kenji raised his hands in a conciliatory gesture and backed away. The guard watched him until he was out of sight.
Damn it.
He sat back down in the café, frustrated. He'd spent all that money, flown halfway around the world, for what? To be stuck in the lobby like a tourist?
He opened his laptop and searched for the live stream. Johns Hopkins had announced that certain sessions would be publicly broadcast. He found the stream and connected his headphones.
The screen showed the scene. A panel of experts seated in a semi-circle. PowerPoint presentations. Projected data.
"Welcome to Event 201," the moderator said. "Today we will explore a hypothetical scenario: a coronavirus pandemic designated CAPS, Coronavirus Associated with Severe Pulmonary Syndrome..."
Kenji half-listened, his eyes scanning the faces on the panel. There she was. Dr. Kristensen, seated on the far left.
The pin still on her lapel.
He took screenshots. Zoomed in. The bat was unmistakable.
As the moderator continued describing the pandemic scenario, Kenji noticed something strange in the broadcast. A momentary glitch. The image pixelated for a fraction of a second.
And in that corrupted frame, for less than a second, he saw something.
A silhouette behind the panel. Blurred. Impossible.
A figure with pointed ears.
Like a standing bat.
Kenji rewound the video. Played it back frame by frame.
There was nothing. The image was perfect. Clear.
Had he imagined it?
He connected forensic analysis software he used to verify manipulated videos. Uploaded the segment with the glitch.
The analysis took three minutes.
Result: "Anomaly detected. Insertion of image not belonging to the original stream. Duration: 0.03 seconds. Origin: unknown."
He hadn't imagined it.
Someone had inserted that image into the live broadcast.
Someone with sophisticated technical access.
Kenji felt adrenaline surge through his body. This was real. He wasn't crazy. Something was happening here.
He saved the analysis, encrypted the file, and uploaded it to three different cloud servers.
On the screen, the panel was discussing communication strategies during pandemic crises. "The narrative is crucial," one expert was saying. "We must control the information from the outset to prevent panic and misinformation..."
Control the narrative.
The words echoed in Kenji's mind.
His phone vibrated.
A text message. Unknown number:
> "Second floor. Men's restroom. Five minutes. Come alone. - SK"
>
SK? Sarah Kristensen?
Kenji looked around. How did someone know he was here? And how did they have his number?
The message arrived again:
> "They are watching you too. If you want answers, move. Now."
>
Kenji closed his laptop, shoved it into his backpack, and headed for the stairs, trying to look casual. His heart was pounding.
The second floor was less crowded. Private meeting rooms, administrative offices. He found the men's restroom at the end of a quiet hallway.
He went inside.
Empty.
He checked the stalls. No one.
"Hello?"
His voice bounced off the tiles.
He waited two minutes. Nothing.
A joke? A trap?
He was about to leave when he heard the door open behind him.
He spun around.
It was her. Dr. Kristensen. She took off her glasses and looked at him with an intensity that made him instinctively step back.
"Kenji Morita," she said. It wasn't a question. "Japanese journalist. Fact-checking specialist. Fired three weeks ago for pursuing theories your editor considered 'too marginal.'"
"I wasn't fired, I quit—"
"Have you seen the bat?" she asked directly.
Kenji was speechless.
"On your screens," she continued. "Three days ago. It spoke to you. Used your name. Told you 'December.'"
His blood ran cold. "How...?"
"Because it happened to me too." Dr. Kristensen locked the door. "Two months ago. I received a package at my office in Geneva. No return address. Inside, a USB stick. I plugged it in, because I'm an idiot who should have known not to plug in unknown USBs."
She took a manila folder from her briefcase and placed it on the sink.
"It contained this."
Kenji opened the folder.
Documents. Hundreds of pages. Titles in English: "OPERATION CHIROPTERA - Phase Implementation Timeline." "Pandemic Response Protocols - Pre-drafted December 2019." "Media Narrative Control - Key Influencers List."
And on every page, a small watermark.
Billy Bat.
"These documents," Kristensen said, her voice trembling, "describe a coronavirus pandemic that will begin in December 2019 in China. With chilling accuracy. Every phase. Every governmental response. Every market reaction. As if someone has already seen it."
Kenji flipped through the pages frantically. "This is... this is impossible."
"That's what I thought. That's why I came here. To see if Event 201 was part of it. And it is." She pointed to a specific page. "Look at the date on this document."
Kenji read: "Drafted: August 14, 2019."
"Two months before this event," Kristensen said. "They already knew Johns Hopkins would do this simulation. They already knew the exact scenario. Because they orchestrated it."
"Who are 'they'?"
"I don't know. Every time I try to trace the origin, I hit a wall. But whoever they are, they have access to... everything. Governments. Corporations. International organizations." She paused. "And they're watching you because you're asking the right questions."
Kenji pulled out his phone and showed her the screenshots of his research. The memes. The patterns. The timestamps.
Kristensen examined each image with mounting alarm.
"My God," she whispered. "You've documented more than I have. This is... how many instances?"
"Eighty-nine up to October 15th."
"All preceding major events."
"All of them."
They looked at each other in silence.
"The pin on your lapel," Kenji said finally. "The bat."
Kristensen removed it and showed him. It was more detailed than it looked from afar. The bat was smiling, one eye closed.
"It came with the USB," she said. "With a note: 'Wear it. They will know that you know.'"
"Who are 'They'?"
"The others who have seen Billy Bat. It's like... a signal. A way to identify ourselves." She looked at Kenji. "That's why I contacted you. I saw your online activity. Your searches. Your tracking algorithm. You're good. Too good. And I need help."
"Help for what?"
"To stop what's coming. Or at least, to warn the world." She put the documents back in her briefcase. "In two months, according to these papers, a pandemic will begin that will kill millions. And no one will believe us because it will sound like lunatic conspiracy theory."
"We can publish the documents. Make them viral—"
"I already tried. They delete them. Systematically. I upload something to the internet, it disappears in hours. As if they have control over..." She stopped. "Wait. You have experience in fact-checking. In verification. Do you have contacts in major media?"
Kenji thought. "Some. In Japan mainly, but—"
"We need more than media. We need irrefutable proof. We need to find the source. Who is behind this." Kristensen looked at him intensely. "Are you willing to go deeper? Because once you cross this threshold, there's no turning back. You will become a target."
Kenji thought of his screens going dark. Of the message that knew his name. Of three sleepless days chasing a cartoon bat.
He was already a target.
"I'm in," he said.
Kristensen nodded. "Good. Then listen. In these documents, there is a repeated reference: 'The Cartoonist.' It appears 47 times. Always in the context of 'The Cartoonist approves,' 'The Cartoonist adjusts the narrative,' 'consult with The Cartoonist before implementation.'"
"Do you think it's a person?"
"Or a title. Or a code. I don't know. But whoever The Cartoonist is, they are the one orchestrating all of this." She took a card from her pocket and handed it to Kenji. "That's an encrypted email. Use PGP. Send me everything you have. I'll do the same. And look for more people. More people who have seen Billy Bat. We can't be alone in this."
"How do I find them?"
"The bat will find them. Or you." Kristensen headed for the door, then paused. "Kenji, one more thing. There's a line in the document I can't get out of my head. Page 247. Read it when you can."
"What does it say?"
"It says: 'The pandemic is not the goal. It is the method. The goal is the narrative that comes after. A world that finally accepts that information is more dangerous than any virus. And only one can control the information.'"
She left.
Kenji was left alone in the restroom, holding the manila folder as if it were a bomb.
He returned to the lobby, left the hotel, and walked three blocks before sitting down on a park bench.
He opened the folder again and went straight to page 247.
There it was. The paragraph Kristensen mentioned.
And underneath, a small-print footnote:
> "Billy Bat does not predict the future. Billy Bat draws it. And you are all characters in our story. Can the characters change the script? That is the interesting question. - The Cartoonist."
>
Kenji closed the folder.
He took out his phone and opened Twitter.
The hashtag #BillyBat was still trending in Japan.
But now also in the United States.
And when he clicked, he saw something that chilled his soul.
Thousands of people sharing the bat memes.
But these were new. With different text:
> "The bat knows. December is coming. Are you ready?"
>
Posted by hundreds of different accounts.
All created in the last 24 hours.
All following only one account: @The_Cartoonist_52
Kenji clicked the profile.
0 tweets.
0 followers.
Following 12 people.
He was one of them.
The profile picture was a black silhouette of a man sitting at a desk, drawing.
And on the wall behind him, barely visible, a giant mural.
Of Billy Bat.
Kenji took a screenshot.
When he looked again, the account had been deleted.
"Account suspended for violating terms of service."
But the message had been received.
They were watching him.
And they wanted him to know.
He rose from the bench and started walking aimlessly through Manhattan, his mind racing, trying to process everything.
In two months, according to those documents, the world would change forever.
And he had sixty days to figure out if he could stop it.
Or if he was just another character in a story already written.