Disclaimer:Timeline from Hand in Killer 7 Translated by Yoshiko Ohier;
edited by James Howell.
Proofread by Yoshiko Ohier and OVERDRIVE JEREL Smith.
Click here for the rest of the Hand in Killer 7 translation.
Jack Foley's Secret Report
I should start by saying that 'envelope' and 'cassette tape' are
just words I use. That is to say, when I say 'envelope,' I'm not
talking about an envelope made out of paper with a flap at the
top. I mean something else, and you should know what that is.
We often use this method of communicating, in my business.
With that out of the way, where should I start? Heaven Smiles.
Everyone knows that only Killer7 can exterminate the Heaven
Smiles. Miss Jacob concludes so, and it's no mere urban legend.
I don't know how the information on this leaked, but now the
whole damn world knows about it.
My specialty? I make preparations and take measures against
terrorism. Heaven Smiles are my mortal enemies. They've become
such pests, the FBI and the police have even started hiring local
kids, who hang out in odd places.
I'm an agent with the FBI. Yeah, I'm an old man, all right.
You won't get my name, but if you need to call me something, use
the name "Jacob Checkbox."
Had I the power, I would wipe out the Heaven Smiles every day of the year.
Out of duty? Hardly.
I would do it for the sheer pleasure of erasing them from the earth.
Eighteen of my men were slain three weeks ago.
Three Special Forces units were eradicated--all of them dead.
Yeah, I know: any human being who tries to pare down Heaven Smiles gets blown to pieces--
but this just isn't acceptable to me.
Not at all.
Heaven Smiles . . . they're horrible. Anonymous, infinite in
number, and always showing up . . . everyone's scared of them.
But what if you see a familiar face among them?
A roommate, an old lover, someone you work with, ready to suicide-bomb along with the rest
. . . wouldn't that be more truly horrific?
The FBI's intelligence department has been keen about its newest,
latest project, called "The Simulation."
The Bureau set up an experimental business, seven years ago, and they began their re- search.
The data from that research has resulted in the success- ful invention of their newest machine.
The machine is called "Miss Jacob."
If we enter reliable data into the machine,
Miss Jacob predicts the future, with a probability ratio of 1:315.5.
When one of its predictions proves correct,
the probability ratio of subsequent predictions decreases.
To date, the standing best record for the machine's predictions is forty-seven
consecutive predictions of the HTA Company's stock price.
For obvious reasons, the use of Miss Jacob is restricted to the
power of the President.
The weakness in using Miss Jacob to counter the terrorist army of
Heaven Smiles is that the Smiles are everywhere in the country.
This results in more data than even this enormous system can be
Only a handful of people understand the import of this statement:
"Currently, no national agency, bureau, or cabinet can offer a
practicable solution to protect the United States against the
suicide-bombing Heaven Smiles."
Listen to the story of how my men were killed.
Don't mistake me for a grumbling sentimentalist, though.
It's just my way to tell a story in the order of its historical facts.
On the afternoon of 18 September 2004, Heaven Smiles appeared in
a bank located in the downtown area of Seattle.
The FBI's special forces were sent to the scene immediately;
the incident occurred in one of the buildings under the FBI's sur-
veillance, so we knew about it as soon as it happened.
Important government documents were kept in the bank's innermost safe.
We aren't talking about data stored on a disc, either:
I mean real ink-and-paper documents.
I never learned their contents.
When the FBI arrived, one-third of the people in the bank had
already turned into Heaven Smiles. They quickly started killing
all the others. One-third of the armed security guards, too, had
become Heaven Smiles.
When I got there, it had been almost an hour since the whole thing started.
Right from the start, I knew there would be no survivors.
Under my command, three units had infiltrated the bank.
I waited and listened to their reports from a distance--
and they had stopped communicating with me.
The final report on the incident states that there were twenty-
nine explosions. After that . . . nothing. Only pure silence.
I decided to enter the building myself, to retrain the remaining
Miss Jacob would have calculated that my action was a probability
well within her predictive powers.
God, the scene inside that bank was grisly.
The floor overflowed with blood and gore.
You couldn't even tell what part of the body most of the flesh had been, originally.
I walked through it all,
trying not to slip on a pool of blood,
and I arrived at the bank's safe.
The vault's door was half open.
I sensed that someone--something--was inside.
I readied my M16 and walked into the safe.
I saw a table and two chairs in the middle of the vault, and two women sat there.
I looked more closely at them: they were my wife and daughter . . .
my thirty-seven year old wife, and my
fourteen year old daughter, by God.
I tried to believe that I was hallucinating. I wanted to dream
that I could return home, like every night, and sit down with
them at the table in the dining room for supper.
But the vault was real, and so were my wife and daughter.
My wife turned her face toward me and spoke.
(I was too much in shock to know what she said.)
Then, my daughter started to laugh.
My wife echoed the laughter . . . they both laughed like crazy, endlessly.
It started to pry away my last pieces of sanity.
I started firing. I shot the hell out of my wife and daughter.
I fired and fired, until the M16 clicked, dry-firing, and I
collapsed on the floor, frothing at the mouth.
The whole affair turned my soul into stone.
I felt nothing.
I couldn't even cry.
At their funeral, I just stood there, a husk.
After that, I started the job.
I took a huge risk, in the beginning. I hacked top level inform-
ation out of Miss Jacob: the results of her calculations.
I got more information this way that anyone with my rank and status
ever could; obviously, this was a tremendous crime.
I was looking for someone to kill.
When it comes to revenge, no one murders because they actually dislike the victim.
Yet . . . sometimes we hit so many walls, and we get pushed to our limits,
that we scramble madly for some way of pushing back.
(I should say, though, that no one gets to this point of desperation,
unless he loses everything im- portant in his life.
Then, revenge is the only option.)
Miss Jacob predicted the last member of the anonymous Heaven Smiles,
like some kind of damn oracle.
My face started to burn.
I wasn't given a name for that Heaven Smile, though.
Until a specific identity could be brought to light,
I named the final member of the Heaven Smiles "Last Smile."
There was a catch, and a week of logging onto Miss Jacob passed
before I figured it out. Forty-nine of Miss Jacob's predictions
must occur in reality, in consecutive order, as a condition for
the "Last Smile" to become revealed. In this forty-nine link
chain of events, the first prediction has a 1:315.5 chance of
happening. If the first prediction is correct, then the second
has a slightly higher probability of occurring. According to the
patterns of cause-and-effect that determine the predictive power
of Miss Jacob's calculations, the chain reaction of events will
result in the appearance of the "Last Smile." As of now, forty-
seven of Miss Jacob's predictions have come true consecutively.
I know this is confusing.
Let me put it this way: imagine that
we have forty-nine dominoes set on their ends, in a row.
Normally, if we flicked one of the dominoes on the end,
all of them would fall over, each knocking down the one after it.
However imagine if there was a chance that any one of the dominoes could stop the chain reaction by NOT falling over.
This is the state of affairs, with Miss Jacob's predictions.
Even if we reached the forty-eighth domino in the chain,
there's no guarantee that the forty-ninth domino would fall over.
According to Miss Jacob, then, the first event in the chain is
called "SUNSET." In the near future, two-hundred missiles will
launch toward Japan; this is the trigger. However, there will
be no "Fireworks." Because of this, the second event in the
chain will occur: Japan will be destroyed. From these events,
the chain reaction leading to the "Final Smile" will ignite.
When I learned all of this, I felt helpless.
I said to myself, "This won't happen. It can't happen."
I almost laughed out loud, like one of those damn Heaven Smiles.
I couldn't believe Miss Jacob. I couldn't help but hope that the
predictions were wrong.
I resolved to set out after that man; I left to meet up with
Miss Jacob is something else.
The event that was predicted to follow the holocaust called
"SUNSET" was a phenomenal story about Ulmeyda--who is also called
Ulmeyda is the CEO of "First Life, Co."
None of their flyers, advertisements,
or letterheads print an address for the central headquarters.
The head office is supposedly situated in a building somewhere in Los Angeles,
but it's a "head office" in name only.
I investigated the location of the company,
using one of my connections in the government.
I still don't know much about it.
Is the company related to the mafia?
Or does it simply have heavy protection?
Either way, I'm prepared to deal with whatever comes.
I left my office to meet a guy I know--
one of my old informants, from my time as a special agent.
He gave me lots of ambiguous details, and, still, nothing concrete.
But it was surreal . . . like I was seeing the predicted chain of events unfold,
right in my living presence.
Despite its ambiguity, ALL of the information given by my old informant
matched the predictions made by Miss Jacob.
The incidents named "SUNSET" and Ulmeyda's First Life Co.
seem unrelated, but Ulmeyda has an indirect connection to Japan.
He got something BIG from them
. . . and it seems that each of the incidents flows into the next,
despite immediate appearances.
All of this strange information played into my method of finding the "Last Smile."
I needed to verify the reliability of my method, using Miss Jacob's predictions.
I wanted to see Ulmeyda with my own eyes.
I followed the path that had opened before me.
I was off to Intercity, Texas. That's south by south-east.
Long before I met Ulmeyda, I entered this weird city.
Still I had no clue how charismatic he is.
He was calm, almost taciturn.
He defied quite a number of my expectations.
Though I came to learn more about Ulmeyda,
I started to discover more about myself.
I got a solid idea about what I was trying to do, following this path.
By the end of the visit, I had total faith in the predictive power of Miss Jacob.
I have become Miss Jacob's goddamn acolyte.
Still, I can't lie: I had to MAKE the events of Miss Jacob's predictions,
run in her internal simulations, into reality.
I needed to wrench the "Last Smile" from the future.
I needed to kill him, in the 49th predicted event.
This was all I had to live for.
I cannot forgive them, any of them! Not even when they are dead!
I want to rake every last one of them off the earth!
I can't stand their existence
. . . I wouldn't mind dying, if it meant killing them all, no--I wouldn't mind.
Hell, I actually WANTED to die.
No one can change the past; I could only move forward,
make Miss Jacob's predictions come true.
Thankfully, I received guidance, to just that end.
And, following my received guidance, I was about to sell Ulmeyda
his own death.
"Wow. This place is strange." Ulmeyda: "You think so?"
"I know why you made this place. You used the prototype plans."
Ulmeyda: "Wait, what? Hold on just a second . . . prototype plans?"
"Don't play dumb."
Ulmeyda: "Well, so what, then?"
"I figured it out."
Ulmeyda: "Figured out what?"
Ulmeyda: "The future!?"
"Yeah, it might not be reliable down to the last detail,
but it's information worth a million dollars.
Ulmeyda: "Now, hold on again. Why are you?"
"Aren't you concerned about the future, at all?"
Ulmeyda: " . . . maybe."
"Well, guess what: I'm another man with a prototype plan."
Ulmeyda: "Meaning what, exactly?"
"Let me explain it to you . . . ."