Agent Harn

Every field agent of the PGA is a unique specialist. An elite operative. A walking insurance policy against the end of the world. At any given time, only a couple dozen agents are active, and each of them possesses a very specific set of talents tailored to deal with… let’s call them extremely unconventional problems within the Simulation. But even among them, Agent Harn stands out.

First of all, he’s the only operative whose name was never replaced with a single-letter callsign. Mostly because “Agent H.” was already taken — and as it turns out, duplicate code designations can trigger a bureaucratic apocalypse capable of paralyzing the entire PGA paperwork system. And for PGA, no anomaly is scarier than frozen paperwork.

Second, Harn works strictly solo. And, most impressively, he consistently succeeds where entire teams have vanished without a trace. He’s a one-man army. The secret weapon of a top-secret anomaly containment organization. The most “special” of special agents, if you’ll allow me — and for once, that’s not an exaggeration.

Harn is absolutely, phenomenally — and I suspect pathologically — unflappable. Nothing in this world, or beyond it, seems capable of surprising him. A sentient painting in a gallery driving visitors insane with impossible, mind-fracturing colors? Harn silently switches his glasses to monochrome mode and neutralizes the canvas with solvent. A room that generates dozens of copies of whoever steps inside? Harn calmly walks in and holds a strategy meeting to contain the anomaly… with himself. Temporal paradoxes, digital gods, non-Euclidean geometry? Harn doesn’t have time for emotional reactions. He has too much work to do.

Perhaps it’s that glacial composure that allows him to adapt on the fly, improvise with surgical precision, and find solutions where logic itself simply stops existing. It always feels as though he’s prepared for anything. His signature weapon — Fake Pistol — mirrors that flexibility perfectly.

I’ve crossed paths with Agent Harn only once — at PGA headquarters. After hearing enough stories about his exploits, I decided to personally thank him. I caught him in a corridor, introduced myself, extended my hand… He stared at me in silence for about a minute. The longest and most uncomfortable minute of my life. Then he let out a heavy sigh and said in a tired voice, “Mr. Markson, gratitude is premature. I have a persistent feeling that with your programming skills, you’ll be giving the PGA plenty more work in the near future.”

To this day, I still can’t decide whether that was a prophecy, a warning, a threat… or all three. He clearly knows more than he ever puts into his reports.