by Drew Briney
Who knew criminals felt so much pain, insecurity, and loneliness? I never would have guessed it but as my mind toured theirs, I knew this truism as well as any other. From a certain perspective, I’d say criminals live with more fear and pain than any other group of peers. Fair enough - they create most of it, but …
I digress.
Three things happened while I sat on that hard, wooden chair that send me into belly laughs every time I think about them.
First, I listened to two roommates. Scanning their thoughts, I quickly unearthed juicy tidbits that stole my attention like a penny facing heads-up in a child’s path. The awkward, gangly roommate dressed in a bizarrely crisp and ironed polo shirt and canvas pants that were similarly ironed, including the original “pleats” from the folding rack, offered words of sympathy to the other. His words were thoughtful, his tone sincere, his eyes soft and tender. That made for a fabulous mask - he’d stolen cash from the other’s wallet the week before. Now, the thief was buying a drink for his buddy, outwardly sharing in his sorrows while inwardly gloating that his buddy couldn’t make his car payment, afford groceries, or even take his breathtaking hottie-of-a-girlfriend to a new theater premier as he’d promised. The thief was trying to squeeze his way into the roommate’s shoes in more ways than one.
On a whim, I decided to try to share that thief’s memories with his roommate, down to the blushing details of how he was hoping to steal the girlfriend. At first, I thought I’d miserably failed and felt slightly discouraged (clearly, in hindsight, I had unrealistic expectations). Then, I observed a crinkle of recognition hit the victim’s face.
That brought the unwanted result of policemen a few minutes after in-house security got the situation under control. Had I not been young, naive, and self-absorbed, I would have predicted that. Embarrassingly, however, their later appearance completely surprised me.
I sigh, castigate myself for getting ahead of myself. This new body is proving much harder to discipline than any other I’ve had. If I’m going to get much done, I’m going to have to master my thoughts better so I gather inner resolve and focus harder on reviewing my memories, this time with more intention of just mastering my new body than actually retaining the memories themselves.
Sitting alone in a booth at the bar, I caught eyes with a girl who looked my age, though I was all but certain she wasn’t here illegally like me - she was just baby-faced. Usually, I’m not one to take legs for bait but this one sported such a perfect pair that I barely noticed her charming face. Sporting a miniskirt that was nearly as short as a one-piece bathing suit, she took every advantage of her best feature, luscious almond brown eyes not excepted.
I tried to feed her a strong attraction for me but the effort was futile at best, humiliating at worst. She was stuck on some clunky guy wearing torn jeans and sneakers that may have been family heirlooms given the amount of mileage they advertised. Square jawed and naturally prone to one of those fake smiles that made me cringe, her beau looked like he spent more time practicing one-liners than bettering society. His mind proved to be a minefield of explosive information on how to attract women that I hadn’t even begun to imagine in that young, first body.
I wandered through his memories, not just trying to memorize this living how-to-attract-women-manual, but trying to find any dirt his girlfriend - or would-be-girlfriend - would find distasteful. The guy was a player but his attention seemed pretty riveted on this young lady from what I could tell. I couldn’t blame him, though I detested him for being markedly more successful in garnering her attention than I was.
Nevertheless, I found enough details from previous exploits to send miss miniskirt an experience or two she could extrapolate were more recent than they really were and more compromising than she’d feel comfortable with. I coupled that with some of her own memories seeing her best friend roommate exiting the shower. Mixing and matching those memories with a few scenes I’d seen in movies, I made a pretty compelling case that mister square jaw was twice the player he really was.
Volcanic insecurities followed.
Looking back, I recognize that was supremely gifted of me. If I was wearing buttons right now, they’d burst with pride.
The next thing I know, she’s asking pointed questions based on fear and paranoia and on the verge of leaving that dive-of-a-bar as fast as she could. I was ready to intercept her attention, encourage her to come sit with me to incite jealousies of her own, and enjoy the rest of my evening when those policemen I mentioned showed up.
As luck seemed to be entirely absent from my life right then, three cops showed up at the scene. While two were occupied, the third one, a cranky looking woman with something to prove to the world, scanned the room for anyone who may have seen what happened. I tried to avoid her falcon gaze but apparently, my age was brought into question. By the time I’d figured that out, it was too late.
“Can I see your ID?”
Happily, that was the very moment I remembered speaking to my cousin Troy after he’d watched some scary movie I no longer remember. He’d been on acid, which he reported made the movie much more vivid and exciting than otherwise possible. While telling my friend and I about the show, he suddenly jumped up and started swatting at his own body while screaming “Get them off me!” We later learned he’d just taken more acid and was trying to kill dozens or hundreds (depending on which time he recounted the story) of carnivorous ants who were eating him alive. The memory makes me smile broadly even as the next scene moves forward.
The lady cop - well, I doubt she’d be considered a lady much anywhere outside of that shady bar, but anyway - this lady copy suddenly responds to my suggestion that she is, in fact, being attacked by dozens of carnivorous stag beetles inside her clothes. My initial speculation was that she would react just like my cousin and sponsor a good laugh as she ran away.
That however is not how it went down.
Because I added the detail that the beetles were inside of her clothes (which I thought would make her feel more desperate to squish them), she did what now seems quite logical in hindsight.
She started stripping.
At the time, I wasn’t the best judge but now, I’m uber qualified to inform you that it was abundantly evident that this performance wasn’t worthy to be emulated as a well choreographed striptease. With maniacal panic, she tore her clothes off all while snapping her shirt and pants back and forth, trying to un-attach the beetles from her clothing. Despite her mediocre visage and figure, her social status and enthusiasm garnered more hoots and catcalls than a stadium of fans watching the best stripteases from the twenty-third century in all their remastered holographic glory.
I barely controlled my own laughter as my drinks arrived and I saw miss miniskirt exiting the building. My disappointment in miss miniskirt’s inopportune timing barely registered as I watched the lady cop’s partners drag her away, all while she screamed “Get them off me!” They wrapped her jacket around her shoulders.
That was a great distraction from my misery but to be honest, I don’t remember much more of what happened after that. Like I said, I save these memories more out of nostalgia than strategic purpose. Besides, they don’t take long to review so I plow on.
I do remember stumbling around, nearly falling over, sitting in a corner while some sweet thing of a waitress talked to me, and encouraging two bullies to fight themselves bloody. I don’t remember what they did to make me angry and I don’t really care. I keep that in my permanent memory backup because it may have been my first kill by proxy. I wish I knew for sure, I really do. As someone who hires assassins, that’s about as sentimental of a memory you can ask for so I don’t let go of what little I have to rivet that experience in my mind.
Besides, that was the day I turned from the light as they say. I tailspun into a nasty crime spree for a while. I say “tailspun” not because I have any pious ideas about the pitfalls of crime, but because I was miserable at it. I had a great time. I got away with nearly everything but
I had no purpose, no scheme, no direction. I epitomized chaos for a season and wasted my talents.
At least I gained needed practice.
As I turn my attention to searching my next memory, another detail grabs my attention.
When I woke up from my first drinking binge, I was sitting in an alley behind the bar. Fliers advertising some special event and featuring steamy dancers with squinting, alluring eyes flittered all over the ground, vestiges of some leftover pile that didn’t quite make it to the dumpster. Other garbage lay strewn everywhere, decorating piles of random junk.
The only notable thing there was a creepy, self-proclaimed prophet guy. This wasn’t a Jesus lover I’d grown up listening to. He didn’t have a penchant for charm, panache, or big smiles. He didn’t preach love, peace, or patience. He didn’t wear nice clothes topped with a well practiced smile. No, this guy looked like a mangled version of the Joker who hadn’t changed clothes since the previous football season. Not-yet-dreadlocked hair capped his messy attire and dirty face. He wore a filthy old-school three-piece suit and shoes that were undoubtedly once shiny.
In a heartbeat, I both wished I’d never seen this guy and wondered who he was and what might be gleaned from his story. At that point in my life, the guy seemed downright scary so I was glad I was naturally talented at manipulating people. Groggy as I was, I began plotting my escape when he suddenly stopped what he was doing (crouched over and nearly on all fours) and slowly turned his head toward me with great deliberation. Though his facial expression remained stolid, his eyes widened. I can’t describe it well but somehow, I detected distaste in his eyes, like sipping rotten lime juice when you’re expecting a fruity cocktail. It’s sour, nasty, and disappointing all jumbled together.
“You!” he spat, as if he’d known me for many years and detested every encounter. “One-hundred faces all wrapped in one. Dark mind seeks darker fun. Shabby heart and odious feelings all from messed up, dear old mum.”
He coughed. Well, it may be more accurate to say that he gagged like a cat choking up a hairball but it really was a cough. Regardless, the guy creeped me out like nothing I’d experienced in that first body so I unceremoniously stood up, turned my back to the crawling prophet, and adopted a fast stride intended to get me away from that dude without exposing my intense fear. In truth, I wanted to run.
I notice my new female body is tense. Legs tightly squeezed together, elbows squeezing my ribs, and head hunkered slightly, it’s viscerally responding to the memory as Ji Anna might have done had this happened to her before I took over her body. I make a note of it. These types of subconscious responses are crucial to understanding my new body’s limitations and weaknesses.
Someone knocks on my door. I expect it’s Vaya Sage. He’s probably ready to leave for his appointment.
I slip on flip flops to match the thin, cotton skirt I’m wearing as I make my way to the door. As I do, I revisit a common conundrum. Who was that creepy prophet? The question wouldn’t bother me much excepting one not-so-trivial detail. I’ve run across him in three different bodies spanning several decades of time. He has always looked the same, dressed the same, and he’s always recognized me regardless which body I’m in. I’d conclude he was a figment of my imagination, some sort of messed up coding error, or some evidence of a fragmented mind but he kicked me one time and I earned a dark blue bruise to prove it. Moreover, I had a friend with me at the time who was freaked out about the experience. It looked like an accident. I knew better.
5 || Final Memories
FINAL MEMORIES
I Held Onto What I Believed was Wrong Because that was All I Had.
Dressed in casual dark brown pants with shoes that resemble something you’d wear hiking, and one of those newly trendy half-button-up shirts with the beach sleeves, Vaya Sage doesn’t offer the appearance of an elite assassin. His unbreakable confidence leaves no doubt in my mind that he’s packing, illegally, and probably carrying an extra blade in those oversized shoes, possibly in the sole of the heel, also illegally.
Still, his body language reads tentative. He’s at least fifteen minutes ahead of schedule to timely arrive at his brain scan appointment and with nothing to do, he’s fumbling to fill the time. He's far from accustomed to having down time. The guy seriously needs to learn how to relax but I’m not going to be the one to teach him. I gave up trying to help people ditch pesky moral compasses long ago. It’s just one of those things: either you erase it with good tech or you just deal with it.
He’s undoubtedly as nervous as a man like him ever gets. I’m betting he’d invite me to accompany him if it didn’t threaten his manhood. That said, I wouldn’t dare be there when he first gets out. He’ll need some time to process whatever he finds and some time to govern his emotions before we can have a meaningful conversation so I’ve made it a point not to get dressed or otherwise get ready for the day apart from exercising until I grew notably disheveled. To be blunt, I’m a mess. I need a shower but I won’t take one until he’s gone so he won’t concoct some convenient excuse for me to go with him.
Still, I’ve never seen him exhibit so much anxiety before so I walk up to him with as much compassion on my face as I can manufacture and offer him a hug. I know that’s awkward for him as an assassin and I’ve never held him before but I also know that as a man, he’ll appreciate the energy from my body and it’ll make him more fond of me at some level.
I need to say something nice. That isn’t exactly my forte so I reach for low hanging fruit. “I’m sorry you have to go through all of this.”
I can tell my lie is convincing because I’m wafting through his mind, monitoring his responses. I consider kissing him on the cheek to wrap him around my finger a little but the idea seriously repulses me. I simply don’t have strong enough motivation to make that sacrifice. Even with female smelling receptors and female hormones running through my body, I still find masculine smells repugnant so I quickly jettison the idea.
I laugh inwardly as I consider this thought makes me sound homophobic in a body everyone thinks is gay. I roll my eyes, thinking about trendy labels, moral spices of the day, “modern” ethics, and similar, related tropes. Every generation seems to believe their morality is new and evolved, all while ignoring pesky history showing they’ve come up with nothing new apart from some novel method of dressing it up. I’ve tried every ethical system out there. They’re far too limiting.
I let go and step back, deliberately avoiding eye contact. Unsurprisingly, he responds nothing to my meaningless words of empathy. What could he say? As an assassin, he’s buried every sensitivity to his feelings he can and as a man, he doesn’t want to come off vulnerable in front of a woman he’s trying to swoon. That’s really quite dumb if you understand women but that’s how he’s subconsciously responding anyway and that’s fine by me. I know what he’s thinking one way or the other.
I saunter back into my bedroom, closing the door without looking behind me or saying goodbye. Moments later, I hear the front door of our mini-apartment-in-a-castle open and close.
He’s gone.
I shuffle a few things on my stone-topped dresser, slip off my flip flops, and grab a fresh towel on my way to the bathroom. As I disrobe and turn on the hot water to the shower, I remind myself where I’m at reviewing memories and make a conscious effort to ascertain whether or not I’m skipping anything. Soon, I’m lathering shampoo with my eyes closed, envisioning myself in my first body, sitting at my father’s desk, pilfering through his papers after mom left.
To pass the time, I read through several of his studies, not out of any form of nostalgia, mind you. I was reading up on his hopes for the wire-helmet-tube thing he hooked up to the computer. Turns out he was studying a neuroscience theory that only supremely intelligent people could do magic - not uber intelligent in terms of old-school IQ measurements, mega smart in terms of problem solving, spatial perception, and creativity. Of course, the idea seemed absurd at the time and the professor, a certain Dr. Clark, s
uffered extreme academic harassment and shaming until he wriggled away from the limelight. Short lived as it was, his groundbreaking genius had its effect on my father.
And me.
That’s what the tubes of goo was all about. They enhance relatively dormant areas of the brain that greatly supported relevant areas of cognition. I later figured out that this could be done organically through my AI chip’s programming but at the time, only a rare few people naturally had any magical abilities and those who did were mocked to scorn for being charlatans. No one could ever figure out what they were actually doing because, of course, it really was magic, but in that budding tech era, public sentiment easily swayed from accepting what appeared obvious at first blush.
With the goo, anyone could learn magic. However, father’s notes showed that he was extremely nervous to give it a try because, well, he was risk averse, scared to take those leaps of faith. Not like me.
For all of his studies, father had no clue how to harness magic even if his experiment worked so I had to figure that out all on my own. I tried dozens of spell books, incantations, and other superfluous voodoo only to discover what any moron could have guessed.
It’s all rubbish.
Fortunately, I had boatloads of free time and eventually, insurance money, to practice what was coming to me quite naturally. Dreamcasting. That’s what I call it. It’s sort of a cross between giving someone desires to do something and a visual storytelling guide on how to properly accomplish that desire - like what I did at the bar the night I read mother’s notes about how my father was a manipulative, abusive piece of trash.
