A man sat in his armchair watching a political address on television.
"My fellow citizens. It pains me deeply to say what I must say next."
The politician placed a hand over his chest and continued solemnly:
"Today the warning flare has been fired - its smoke will blind the ignorant. They have lit the fuse to destroy the peace we've fought for ever since our lands fractured and the world split into factions."
"They will try to deceive you, whispering sweet lies in your ear or using your loved ones as bait."
"I beg you - don't be fooled. We must endure this war to honor those who fell for our survival."
"Don't close your eyes to the truth staring you in the face."
"Humanity shall prevail as it always has since the dawn of time. And if we don't meet again - good morning, good afternoon, and good night."
"This is Jonathan Alvarado, fighter for justice, signing off."
The broadcast cut to static.
"What nonsense," the man scoffed, amusement twisting his face. "Just another trick those corrupt bastards use to control the masses."
Just then, a phone began ringing.
Who the hell calls at this hour?
Wary, the man picked up. "Hello?"
A serious yet oddly salesman-like voice answered: "Good evening, Mr. Smith. Steven Spencer here, military recruiter. I regret to inform you that due to the outbreak of hostilities, you've been conscripted to serve your country."
"Refusal will be considered treason under the global penal code enacted by the United Nations before its dissolution into independent systems."
The man almost laughed. You expect me to believe this? Though... if that politician was telling the truth about the conflict starting... conscription would make sense...
But then again, if everything in that broadcast was true, this could be one of "their" lies. But who were "they"? How could he verify whether the politician hadn't lied too? What if that warning itself was fake, meant to stop people from trusting real authorities?
Shit... who to believe? Thoughts tumbled through his mind as nervous sweat formed on his brow.
"Sir? Are you there? We need your answer immediately. Our nation requires every able body." Steven's voice turned gravelly and stern.
"...Can you provide identification?" Smith demanded.
"Under wartime protocols established after the systems fractured, all relevant government information remains classified. Beyond my name, I cannot disclose any identifying details. My apologies."
Smith's dilemma deepened. The caller sounded like a real official... but he couldn't shake the politician's warning.
As Smith hesitated, his television flickered back to life. A slick-haired news anchor appeared:
"Breaking news. According to eyewitness accounts given before their deaths, 'they' impersonate government agents to trick people into false agreements where identities are stolen after consent is given."
"Key signs of imposters: salesman-like tones, fake identities hidden behind wartime protocol excuses, and calls always coming in the dead of night."
Smith's heart lurched. His hands trembled violently as his mouth went dry.
"Sir? Are you alright?" Steven asked.
Smith barely breathed. He realized - the "man" on the phone wasn't human. It was something pretending.
"If this happens to you, remain calm," the anchor continued. "Hang up immediately, but be warned - whispers will follow, urging you to dial a specific number. Doing so means losing your identity."
"To resist, slowly leave your location while turning your head side to side. This seems illogical, but it confuses the entity until it gives up. Remember - conventional logic doesn't apply to these beings."
The broadcast cut back to static.
Heart pounding, Smith slammed the phone down.
Almost instantly, the whispers began - not normal whispers, but like molten metal searing into his brain. Excruciating pain, yet he fought to stay sane, following the anchor's instructions.
When he stumbled outside, he saw him - the same "anchor" from TV, eyes unnaturally wide.
Smith froze in terror. He'd fallen into their trap after all.
The neatly groomed figure approached slowly, extending a hand. Against his will, Smith shook it.
His body immediately contorted - skin and bones twisting grotesquely as unimaginable pain wracked him, like being drawn and quartered yet kept alive.
The "reporter" methodically gathered Smith's mangled remains into a black plastic bag.
Then, retrieving a fountain pen from his suit pocket, he scribbled in a notebook:
"Humans smell delightful."