Remember

by Karthikeyan, Girish

  What about travel? Just going to new places. Going to a new city for a vacation is the closest I have come to that. Always for some reason enjoyable. But now the frequency increased, right? Actually no. Gary traveled with me to Prairie View. Not much changed from here to there, just surface streets. We met a lot of new people. I’m forgetting about the places for Division work. How can I forget the remote lair of Report? I’m still amazed they could pull it off. The bleak mountain drop site should be another one. The Division sent me on so many adventures. This is just the start of it.

  What about risky choices? Inherent risks coincide with uncharacteristic or unaccepted changes. Many examples already fill my head. Drugs stand in as the best other thing, but that’s bad in so many ways. Why do people still take drugs? The numerous tech options achieve the results without any of the risks, the risks. What about quitting a job. Starting a new one is just as bad. Done that. Keeping secrets is again fraught with risks. The Division never asked me to lie for them. They made me sick, so I didn't have to. I lied about the first day of sick leave. I'm incredibly good at it. I acted surprised at what happened to Kiros, because the mission offered intimate knowledge on the subject. I know exactly what happened to him. It was me. I couldn’t have told anyone, anything about the mission. I don’t want to. Everyone lies, it’s nothing new.

  Examples of flexibility mentally and physically? Learning new stuff with good skill and knowledge? No, anyone can change if they want to. The desire to change, that’s what it means. What can people change about themselves? Losing weight. If someone is overweight, the false feeling of those memories can allow them to more easily change that fact. Starting an exercise program is an example, without the hindrance of previous attempt and failures they're one step closer. Before this memory issue, I remember being a normal looking person. I become a skin and bones husk following my stay. The Division training brings me to this, a strong person. I changed a lot in 4 months.

  Becoming detail oriented? Examples? If someone notices something new they can have two conclusions. They just didn’t see it before or it changed through an outside force. The second conclusion gets people in trouble. They start suspecting everyone. I decided on the first one. Everything I started noticing had always been there.

  It started happening a few weeks ago, that business meeting with Jenna. Everything seemed so clear about that dinner. I remember everything I saw. The details of Jenna and her wardrobe — carefully observed come back like a photograph. I just remember everything. The lining of her coat all the way to her glasses seem forever stuck with me. I could fully describe what she ate, but I have no idea what it was. It just gets worse from there. I see new things everywhere.

  This Tuesday, I saw something flashing under my desk. I crawled under there to investigate, I just glanced under the desk, on my way out, but I had a need to stop and lie under there, staring up for at least 10 minutes. If anyone walked in, they would think I lost it. The numerous components just absorbed my attention. I knew all the clothes Gary, Irena, and Claire wore over the 2 weeks I started noticing this stuff. I can totally describe every single stitch on Irena’s party dress. This level of attention doesn’t bother me in the slightest. How can I just allow this to happen? Do I need to know every centimeter of Claire’s running shoes? Do I have to notice the structure of the stairs up to Irena’s office? No and no — always the answer. I don’t want to notice. I just do.

  Dissatisfaction with the same qualities of each day? They need something to change. They need assurances that their actions contribute some measurable effect. They say aberrant behavior marks the first sign. That means committing crimes or just doing stuff against accepted norms.

  Joining a covert government division provides a great example. That defies norm for research scientists. The Division forced me to join them. It was and remains an empty threat, nothing more. Even if they manage to get me charged and convicted, the memory wipe and recover process clears me. The simple inconvenience of that coerced me into doing anything they wanted? No, there must be something else, but what? I wanted to work for them. That isn’t possible. I just wanted to stay with people that care about me. I just did what I had to get what I need. I am just convincing myself into it. In some way, I wanted to work for them, not needed to.

  Then, what about this Irena prob? That could have something to do with these long term side effects. Everything was fine after the kidnapping by DIT. I could tell for sure DIT used a mask to look like Irena. Then one statement made enough sense to abandon that idea. She just said ‘Wasn’t that glowing carbon lake beautiful?’ It completely turned my ideas around. I am now sure that Irena is a part of DIT. Is it true? I have almost no evidence either way. I just picked something to go with that day. Did I just want something to change based on my actions? Did it just happen or is it the truth. I don’t know. More evidence one way or another is what I need.

  This thinking process shows me I have all these symptoms. What does it mean? I don’t know. It could be a wide range of conditions — paranoia included. I search for one symptom and keep adding more to narrow it down. It starts with two-hundred, then one twenty, forty-six, and two. It asks for more symptoms. This shows just the study I have from Dr. Mekova and cobbled together possibility including schizoaffective disorder, obsessive-compulsive disorder, and possibly low ego. My wrist tech vibrates. The download finished. I’m shocked by the time. It’s 10 to 8.

  Stuff that Really Matters

  Wed 8/30/17 7:50 p.m.

  I scamper to meet Claire, Ian, and Corrine at Mixist (Legend of the Mixist) for even a chance to make it. I put my pad on the table, go to the closet, and grab the stuff I need. In this case, black pants out of some tough material with navy stitching — the color static, unlike everything else. I get a shirt with a mono-leaf pattern. This doesn’t work. I touch the shirt, go through the patterns on my tech, and find an off-white shirt with dark multi-colored leaves. The black jacket from that business meeting adds the finishing touch.

  I stuff my pad into clothes, making the pad as small as possible, out the door, and down the elevator to B1, then I dash out to a go-seat, speed off to wherever this place is, stopping at a white walled alcove that looks odd in the black and brown of the tunnels. I step into the glass-lined closing elevator visible from the tunnel. The white walls of the shaft continue all the way around. A display appears on the inside of the door, “Where do you want to go?” An input panel shows up. I touch the cold steel to enter Mixist.

  The force upward tells me it works. The door now shows the building’s floors in a tripod like the other one from today. The elevator emerges from the warm earth into a plant-illuminated central space. Vines extend all the way up the towers lighting everything. The elevator ascends diagonally, lights blink off, leaving everything dimly lit by bioluminescence. I see the other two towers in some way, reflected or through the dark. The trip up 50 floors ends abruptly as the lights start up in the now mirrored shaft. The motion stops at once to doors opening into a curved reflective hallway.

  I leave this cramped space for a wide open court — lighted above and below — with four businesses on the sides. All the elevators meet on this floor. The suites border each shaft. In the store and exercise spaces (closed for the day) equipment and clothing racks fade into blackness beyond the lights of the tiles below. The only places open are Dine and Mixist. I look through the glass walls to see people moving to the music silent for everyone else outside. The lights change through every possible color and barely visible spectrums in a few secs, pausing in a neutral white at times. The sign features words angling across the glass business front. The last T carries a guy over it, doing some martial arts move with a measuring tool for drinks in his hand. I enter.

  The music — personally beamed into my head just for walking in — necessitates turning it down from the near deafening volume. The music fills my head with something new and really physical. A bone vibrating bass line parleys against a chilling, haunting, sometimes pi
ercing high frequency lyrical masterpiece. The enigmatic directionality switches throw me out of my skin one min, then lull me into security the next. Really different from the calmness of Zensation. The music sends tingles through my skin, the achieved level of adrenaline buzzes my figure tips with warmth and chills my palms. I look for them at the bar where they are, somewhere. They just want to see the drink making. I walk through the dense crowd, brushing past some people and dodging others. Someone waves me over, Ian with Claire and Corrine.

  I reach them eventually. Their three stools cluster around an opening in the bar. Ian dresses down in a sleeveless white shirt with blue appliqués across the shoulders projecting past his muscular deltoids. Torn jeans at the knee exude strings to near the floor. Powder blue war paint covers his eye lids. Corrine wears a white patterned pencil skirt under a leather soft folded halter. A tan jacket shows off her skin tone and devastatingly kohled eyes. She rests one arm on the bar, and the other in her lap. Claire has very fitted black jeans. On top, a cropped, high-neck, corset embroidered with red, purple, and blue helixes, and trimmed with scrolling yellow. A bronze taffeta ruffle extends down to her jeans. Clearly a compromise between Corinne and Claire — Corinne adores cropped anything (stylish stuff, not trashy) from pictures I've seen. Her recent pregnancy (last year) left her self-conscious. Since then Claire provides a vicarious vessel but mods everything her own way, the taffeta. She just casually leans on her stool holding a spiky black jacket.

  “Glad you could make it, Con.” Ian insists on calling me Con. He just likes pushing people to their limits.

  Corinne smiles. “You finally decided to join us.”

  “Did you get lost, Conor?”

  This gets me laughing. We take turns at it. I don’t know why, but what Claire just said seems funny to all of us. Maybe my laughter signaled to them that Claire is wrong. It could be the ridiculousness of what she suggested. Mostly it is the level to which Claire sucks at making jokes or rhetorical statements. The round of laughter dies down with a few stares coming our way.

  “No, Claire. Has everyone gone?”

  “Yes, Con, you can have a shot.”

  Claire moves from the stool and trips into me. I don't know what happened next, but just after that Claire has her blue fingernailed hand on my chest, the other on my arm, and a glower. I realize I'm touching the small of her back and the widening to her waist directly, the moisturizer and light sweat soaking into my skin. Claire pushes off, smiles at Corinne and Ian, hides no irritation from me, and moves out of the way. I go through a gap in the stools and behind the bar. The gate shuts acting like a demarcation between us. I don’t know what to do. How does this work? A light shows me a node. I stick it on. This gives me everything I need. I just know hundreds of drinks and how to make them — the bar my playground. A cool confidence comes over me, having catered to hundreds of eager audiences.

  “What’ll it be?”

  Corrine leans forward. “What about a Midnight Mist? That should challenge you.”

  “Coming right up, any takers?”

  Claire nods and Ian puts up two fingers. That makes four including mine. I need something from this deal. I know exactly what to do. I’ve done it so many times that I go on auto-pilot. I just do without thinking. I wipe away the lotion from my hands, spin around, grab the shaker and three other bottles, spin around through a whirl of wind, put everything down, twist my wrist to set each bottle flat on the bar. The shaker incorporates a big cup with a smaller cup as a cap. I know the two can’t be pulled apart, so I grab the shaker with both hands and slam the lip on the bar. With big swooping motions, I set both parts down. I blindly reach under the bar and go straight for the measure.

  The measurer set on the counter, just for effect. I know how long to pour each ingredient to get the measures I need. With this newfound skill I pour varying amounts of each into the shaker and spin, returning the bottles and grabbing six more. The doses of each end up in the shaker by way of the pour. The final six bottles — retrieved and returned just like every other one — finish the ingredients list (fifteen in total). I put on the lid and one fist over the top, while the other one goes up and over that one, acting like I hurt my hand by using the other fist, but I just pressed down with slow, even pressure.

  I shake up everything violently, needing the various liquids to mix or separate, and I set it down. It needs some time to form those little air pockets of yellow jelly. I grab four, stemmed glasses from some hidden place under the bar, lay them out, gently shake to keep the jelly pockets intact, slam the lip to free the drink, and hold the cap close enough to act as a size filter. I pour into each glass, toss the shaker in the chute under the bar, and swipe my finger around the side of each glass. The glasses cool the drink to produce a mist over the top. It’s ready.

  The bar opens and I come out. An extra stool waits for me beside Claire. Everyone gets their drink except me. I left it at the bar.

  “We couldn’t have done it any better, even with years of experience,” Corrine adds.

  “You did good Con,” Ian says.

  “It tastes good. Here’s yours.” Claire gives me a glass. “Try some.”

  The info to make the drink fades away, replaced with a feeling of wonder. The glass filled with a black translucent liquid with blue shallows waits in my hand. A white mist rolls over some yellow droplets marooned on the sea floor. I take a sip and inhale a portion of the mist, breathing in the salty ocean air. The drink has a transforming flavor going from various sweet and sour tastes. The fruity sweet taste of raspberry comes. It mellows out to the subdued libations of cranberry. The brightness of grape adds a little more. The medicinal taste of complex blueberry rounds everything out. I take an additional sip of the fruit salad like drink.

  “That's everything we need,” Corrine says.

  “We have to get back to Zensation and figure out an application for this,” Claire continues.

  “We’ll have time for that later. Con just got here,” Ian concludes.

  I take this as a cue to say something. “Today was a great day to be outside.”

  “We took advantage of it for an evening jog. Conor was holding me back,” Claire says.

  “Really?”

  “I had to slow down and let you catch up,” Claire replies coolly.

  “Anyway, we started talking about Claire’s hair and glasses.” This gets a chuckle out of those two, Ian and Corrine.

  Claire absent-mindedly grabs my knee. “Yes, that was sweet and then…”

  Under the Influence

  Wed 8/30/17 12:57 Midnight

  Longing to never escape, despite the near inhospitable heat and humidity inundating the air. Unwilling to trade this reality for any rivals, especially in my current state, having in my arms, something I would give anything, everything to hang on to. A beautiful creature being the cause of my existence on this Earth, the single reason I persist and thrive under these terrible, even torturous conditions. Cherishing every moment with her near or far, she is everything to me now and as long as she allows it. My wonderful Claire is with me wanting the same as I do in this time as any yet come.

  We exist in a perpetual embrace, whether in reality or thought, bringing everything into focus. Within my encircled arms she lays sleeping the morning away, my feet cradling her own, despite the extremes of heat and sweat. We spent the night on this thin grass mat, unmoving, with the comfort afforded by the touch of the other. Claire maintaining her long hair allows those beautiful locks of silk to cascade over the strands upon my head. Claire aroused by something gives me a gentle push to signal her release. She gets up and offers a hand up, which I reluctantly accept, knowing that this is an omen of impending disconnect. Once outside the walls of our humble cell, there can be no outward signs of our connection, not even a word or whisper. Nothing matters besides the truth that we share, so I take a hold, waiting for the morning bell releasing us outside where we remain prisoners.

  We now exit the agape door, into the imprisone
d populace, side by side. The feared title of master within these walls belongs to Conor and Claire, granting a level of respect and obedience. Accounting for appropriating a shared bunk room, suitable food, and protection from attack, but a few. We enter into the rooftop exercise deck, around which the dense, rain soaked jingle stretches far into the horizon. The octagonal terrace hums with the activity of hundred or so drones, busily going about the daily threats and confrontation. With a look of purpose, strolling around the perimeter, near but never touching the fence or each other.

  The name of the game today is escape, providing others don’t unwittingly fall to the depths. Each member of the congregation loyal to us dutifully grows the unfinished mound leading to the precipice wall. Despite the inexorable culmination of freedom, the resident gatekeepers of this terrible existence execute no repulsive action. The mundane actions of the condemned continue on, unimpeded as climax approaches.

  Now, the conundrum of instigator leading to this unlikely result requires identification. The simple notion of separation betwixt Claire and I, by circumstance of prisoner transfer mustn’t be the sole truth. What other aberration of occurrence can foster these actions? Is the discontentment of the widening disparity between guard and downtrodden the predicate to the next stage of our journey together? Whatever the resolution of the question, the endless planning and strategizing comes to fruition on this day, demanding an answer, escape or suicide. The two are nonetheless equivalent on the basis of freedom. The difference amounts to whether in this life or the next.

  The time to decide is now, as the mound nears completion. A muscle-bound tower of a man takes it upon himself to experiment with the mode and method of construction. Bounding up the embankment of the newly built, he tumbles over the outer rail to death below. A scream of such rage and resentment echo from within his cavernous mouth as to wake the sleeping dead. Amusement is the general consensus to the conversion of gravely baritone to the shrill, high-pitched voice of the feminine.