by Nina D'Aleo
We headed down a long hallway into a lounge area overlooking an interior garden—another WH&S attempt to booster our sanity. The General made a sweeping gesture for me to sit, then went across to the vending machine and got two hot chocolates.
“Thank you, sir,” I said as he handed me one and sat down in the lounge chair opposite mine. “Is there a special project you need me for?” I couldn’t think of anything I wanted more at this moment than to escape from Twentyman and Eric.
“I’m sorry, my dear, not at this stage.” He chuckled at my visible disappointment. “There will be something. You know I have your professional development always in my mind. And I keep telling you,” he added, “to call me Jack.”
“I can’t,” I said honestly. I felt it would be physically impossible to call him anything but ‘sir’. Which made me sound like a bit of a brown-noser, but around him I couldn’t help it.
He took a sip and murmured, “Wonderful and terrible. Just like life.” He gave an enigmatic smile. “So—tell me everything—How’s the family?”
“Everyone’s good,” I replied. “Just working. Benny and Gemma’s baby is due in July.”
“Aunty Silvia, hey?” He beamed. “My fifth grandchild is due in August.”
“Wow, congratulations,” I said.
“I think so,” he agreed. “Anything I’ve accomplished in this life shrinks to the minutest insignificance beside the magnificence and privilege of being a granddad.”
He glowed with pride and I smiled. I could imagine he’d be a fun grandpa—always teasing and playing.
“They’re all coming to our house for a few weeks over Christmas. I’m counting down—six and a half weeks to go,” he said and I shook my head.
“I can’t believe how fast this year’s gone. It’s crazy.”
“Wait until you get to my age,” the General said. “Time flies—it really does … And how’s work?” he asked, turning the mood of the conversation back to business.
“Okay,” I lied.
He lowered his head a little and repeated, “And how’s work?”
I searched for the words, not wanting to come across as whiny and ungrateful. “It’s okay, really. I just … You know how I always said I got into this line of work in the first place to actually help people? I’m just still not sure that I am. I feel like I could be doing more.”
What I really wanted to say was that I felt like I could be doing more to change how C11 was currently handling walts. I’d been questioning our procedures for a long time and feeling more, now than ever, that there had to be a better way—like getting to the walts earlier, educating them instead of forced capping, integrating the syndrome into mainstream society so that the Chapter no longer operated in secrecy, killing off innocent people whenever they deemed it necessary. But I couldn’t say any of this aloud—even to the General. It was the agents who started speaking about change who vanished. “Good—because there is more to be done.” The General leaned forward and set his cup down on the table beside us. “The face of this earth, of humanity itself, is ever-changing, presenting new opportunities and new challenges. You are in a perfect position to reach out and grasp life with both hands. My worry for you is the same as it has always been.” He touched the left side of his chest. “You feel too much. You’re circling brilliance like a falcon on the wing, but you don’t have the killer instinct that’s required to move into positions of power in this game.”
I nodded. He was right, of course. I wasn’t a killer—not in the actual sense. I wouldn’t even squash spiders or roaches. I caught them in jars and took them outside to freedom. I wasn’t a killer in the corporate sense either. I had my faults, but I wouldn’t lie and backstab my friends just to be promoted.
“I know what you mean,” I said. “But I can’t be who I’m not.”
“I understand,” the General said softly. “Not so long ago, I felt the way you feel, that I could do more and be more, but I was stuck as well. I think you should spend the next little while really asking yourself the hard questions, reorganizing your priorities, getting back to who you are and preparing yourself to walk through the doors of opportunity when they open. There is actually—”
He paused, glanced over my head and smiled.
“Agent Marshall,” Dark spoke just behind me. The General stood up and he and my partner shook hands. Dark pocketed his phone. He’d been using Byter’s app to track me.
“How’re things, my friend?” the General asked Dark.
“Couldn’t be better. Easy assignments, overtime wages, and a hot date tonight after knock-off.”
The General laughed. “Ah, I remember those days all too well … But, believe me, one day you’ll meet a girl who will tame your wild ways.”
Dark shook his head. “No, thank you. Not for me.”
The General continued smiling and said, “I’m betting you’re married within the year.”
It was Dark’s turn to laugh. “I think the dementia’s starting to hit you there, sir.”
“Maybe,” the General said, his bright blue eyes twinkling with mischief. “But I think not. I’m quite good at predicting these things, you know. I have a one hundred percent accuracy rate.”
“I’m sorry to be the one to bring you down, but it will never happen,” Dark insisted.
“Okay.” The General gave a teasing smile. He checked his watch. “Well, I’m sorry but I have to head off. Talk to you soon,” he said to me, then to Dark, “Enjoy your last year as a free man.”
“It’ll never happen,” Dark repeated.
“Of course not.” The General grinned at him.
We watched him walk back up the corridor. He looked back to wave before he vanished. He never stayed anywhere very long. He was a workaholic, spreading his time between Headquarters and the various other C11 facilities around Toran-R, plus international travel for meetings and conferences.
When he was out of sight, Dark turned to me and said, “Report done?”
“Not even started,” I replied. “But I’m over this. I need to get out of here.”
“Your place for breakfast?” he suggested.
“My place,” I agreed, and we headed for the entrance lobby.
“Who are you going out with tonight?” I asked as we walked. “Natasha?”
He scrunched up his face.
“I thought you liked her.”
“I did; she was perfect until she started talking.”
I sighed. “With that attitude you’ll be lucky if you don’t go home alone after your hot date.”
“Oh well.” He shrugged. “If it doesn’t work out with this one, I’ve always got Mrs Palmer and her five lovely daughters.” He held his hand out in front of him and grinned.
“So wrong,” I said. That image was going to stain.
“Silver. Dark.” An announcement. “Agent Twentyman’s office in ten minutes.”
The voice inside my head screamed an expletive. “I forgot to tell you—performance reviews,” I whispered to Dark.
He cursed—not in his head. “There goes the perfect night.”
7
Dark and I perched on the hard, narrow chairs outside Twenty’s office. I kept shifting uncomfortably, disturbed by the terrible flashback to standing outside my principal’s office in primary school. He was also a man who had taken himself way too seriously. I was guessing it wasn’t too difficult to feel big when you’re yelling at trembling kindergarteners. A headache had set in behind my eyes. I’d always dealt with regular migraines, but it felt like something had been setting them off more lately. I felt for my pills and had just started to consider making a dash to the water cooler when Twentyman’s door swung open and his PA, Agent Kenealy, appeared. She was a forbidding, matronly type with a bulldog face and enormous bosoms that emerged a good second from a room before she did. She gave us a curt nod. We stood and followed her down a hall into the boss’s office.
“Sir, Silver and Dark,” she said into the room.
Twentym
an (Codename: Wrath) sat at his desk reading a document. He held up a finger to tell us to wait. He continued reading for what felt like half an hour before he put the papers down and looked up. He wore tinted glasses that made it impossible to see where he was looking. In larger meetings, people had to keep pointing to themselves and glancing over their shoulder to check who he was talking to. On the up side the lenses dulled down the ferocity of his eyes. Nothing, however, could tame the bite of his aftershave. It was something pungent and old school—hell for a migraine sufferer like me. I could feel the pounding behind my eyes building.
“Let’s get to the point,” Twentyman barked. He had a scar near his mouth similar to one I had—except his looked like a knife wound and mine had been from a parrot I’d been trying to save and which had bit through my lip.
“Dark, your performance is acceptable,” Twenty said. “Silver, yours is unacceptable. Your field work is sloppy, you take unnecessary risks and ignore protocol, you’re still questioning your superiors despite previous warnings, and according to your line supervisor, you spend more time reading personal emails than meeting your KPIs.”
Damn you Eric, you complete turd—I thought, but just nodded.
What could I say? I did check my emails a lot and I did question my superiors and ignore protocol—and I did take risks, but to me those risks were very necessary to prevent fatalities. No matter what he said, I knew I always worked to a very high standard—but unfortunately my standard and Twenty’s standard were two completely different things. What he wanted from me, I felt, was everything superficial that could be ticked off a list and filed away neatly—and nothing that actually mattered—like life and death. He didn’t want me to ask questions or try to search for better options; he just wanted me to do the job exactly as he thought it should be done. And that was where the relationship had broken down.
At first, I’d struggled between trying to impress him and listening to my instincts, but as my respect for Twenty had plummeted, so had my desire for his recognition. Coming from a past of overachieving and people-pleasing to the point where even I wanted to punch myself in the face, part of me still cared—a lot—about the negative evaluations, but there was another part of me now that completely rebelled against the idea of him dominating me. It was a silent rebellion, because it had to be, but it was still there, and I think he saw that. As much as I disliked him, he was sharp and he made it pretty clear that if it wasn’t for my connection with the General I would have been demoted to coffee-stirrer long ago. And as for Eric, he was just the type who needed someone to bitch about and blame. Twentyman’s attitude toward me gave him permission to exercise all his favorite humiliations on me. In a way I’d definitely brought everything on myself by not being more subtle with my feelings, but, in another way, they were both just pricks.
“You seriously need to step up your game, girly. You need to make yourself a useful part of this division,” Twenty continued.
“Agent Twentyman,” Dark spoke and I cringed in anticipation. “Respectfully—your assessment is bullshit.”
“You watch yourself.” Twentyman whipped off his glasses and burned Dark up with his acid stare. “You’re way out of line.”
“Am I?” Dark shot back. “You’re passing all this judgment on her, yet I’m the one working with her twenty-four/seven. I see her breaking her back every day. She doesn’t sleep. She doesn’t eat. She puts everything into the job.”
“Well maybe she should consider transferring to a more administrative role, because her everything is nowhere near enough.”
Dark clenched his jaw and pressed his thumb against one side of his nose—a ‘catch gesture’ the good people at anger management had taught him to make himself stop and think before physically attacking someone. I tensed, ready to grab him if he made any move whatsoever.
“Silver, I’m putting you on probation. Step up or transfer out. Understand?” Twenty bellowed.
‘Yes, sir,” I replied.
“You’re dismissed.” His phone rang and he picked it up, swiveling his chair away from us and starting to talk as though we were already gone.
Kenealy appeared and ushered us out.
We moved fast to the entrance hall, and rode the elevator up in silence. We made it to the lobby. Then Dark erupted like Vesuvius. He yelled a curse and kicked over the nearest bin. He punched the wall. I grabbed him and hustled him outside. Norm was coming over to assist and we didn’t need the kind of help he had on offer.
“Easy, Bos.” I tried to calm my partner on the sidewalk. “Do you really want to re-do anger management—again?” I asked.
“He has no right to pass judgment!” Dark shouted. “He doesn’t know shit-all about what we do. He just sits in that office and answers the phone. A monkey could do his job! We have a hundred percent success rate—one hundred! He’s not mentioning that, is he?”
“He’s the boss,” I said. “He can say whatever he wants to say and since when are they required to know anything before spouting off?”I was trying to lighten the mood but it didn’t work. “Don’t let it get to you. It doesn’t worry me,” I lied.
“Bullshit it doesn’t worry you,” Dark said. “I know you.”
It was true—he knew me way too well. It did hurt, but unlike Dark, I did most of my melting down on the inside. I shrugged, faking nonchalance. “What can you do?”
We looked at each other. We both knew the truth to that question.
“Forget it,” I urged him. “Come on, let’s walk it off.”
I took his arm and forced him into motion. Several thousand blocks should be enough to cool him.
8
In this generation of delayed launching—longer years of study, a later start to earning, thirty being the new twenty—it wasn’t quite so embarrassing to admit I still lived at home. I had tried independence. It just didn’t take. I’d managed the practicalities. I made rent, I balanced my budget, I cooked and cleaned for myself, despite Dark’s opinion on the matter. It was the emotional disconnectedness that had worn me down. Coming home to an empty space, eating alone, watching television alone, going to sleep alone in silence. Some people would have relished the privacy. I’d missed being part of a family, and since I was one of those fortunate enough to actually have a family I could mostly tolerate and who could mostly tolerate me, I’d packed up my stuff and moved back home. I knew it was the right decision because it’d felt effortless. Friends and colleagues had given me flack for what they saw as a backslide into dependency, but to be honest I was too happy to listen.
That said, I was well aware of the seeming incongruity of an intelligence operative living at home with Mom and Dad, but obviously our work wasn’t all international jet setting, martinis at high-society functions and random steamy encounters, so there wasn’t that much to cover up. For me it was mostly paperwork, endless hours stuck in Dark’s car monitoring walts, and an abundance of time to contemplate the meaning of life. Never a good thing.
It took just on half an hour to get to my parents’ house from central Toran-R. The area was suburban/rural, full of Italians, Macedonians and other southern Europeans. That meant lots of manicured hedges, water features, and miles of concrete. A rising sun cast shades of fairy-floss pink and orange across the sky as Dark swung into my driveway. We rumbled up the gravel stretch.
My parents were already awake and out in the front yard. It seemed the older they got, the earlier they woke up. Soon they wouldn’t be sleeping at all. My mother was throwing feed to her chickens and various flocks of wild birds. Dad was attempting to construct cages around his palms, which Mom’s birds were using as beak sharpeners. From their tense body language, I guessed it had been one of those mornings. Dark parked the car and we stepped out. I’d known Dark for so long he was practically family, which meant no holds barred for his benefit—unfortunately.
Mom and Dad stopped what they were doing to wave. I waved back to them—my parents—day and night of my existence. They were proof that opposites
did attract. Opposites sustaining a thirty-year marriage—that was another story. I was saving it for therapy. Mom, survivor of an abusive childhood, was an all-creatures-great-and-small kind of person. She could be found by the side of the highway checking roadkill for signs of life, adding to an ever-expanding menagerie of lost and broken animals. She was an introspective thinker, struggling with self-doubt and questions of worthlessness, constantly worrying about offending people. She cried when others cried, she felt others’ pain profoundly, and took on the world’s sorrows as her own. She couldn’t bear to watch the news.
Dad loved the news. He loved mafia movies and foreign-language films. He said he watched them for the real storylines. We teased him that it was for the gratuitous sex and violence, which he continued to deny. Dad was loud. He spoke loud, laughed loud, moved loud. He shouted at the television when he watched soccer, which made Mom curl into a small, silent ball in the corner. She hated shouting. She loved quiet mornings—Sudoku, crosswords and fine-bone china. She loved her cats. Dad tolerated her cats—with frequent complaints that their importance eclipsed his in his own house—I don’t have a chair to sit on!
I knew my parents loved each other—despite everything, I saw that—but as for liking each other …
“Your mother’s birds have destroyed all my plants,” my father called out to us. “I’ve been nurturing them for ages.”
I gave the usual neutral nod.
“They’re not my birds. They’re wild birds!” Mom said, exasperated, as though this was a repeat run of an argument they’d just had. It very likely was.
“But you’re feeding them!” Dad said.
“I’m feeding the chickens!”
“The chickens—the chickens,” he muttered. “Do you know that your mother spent four hours this morning patting those cats—four hours?”
“It was five minutes!” Mom said.
I gave the same nod. Dad was prone to exaggeration; Mom to understatement. I thought the time spent on cat-patting had probably been somewhere between fifteen and forty minutes. Not that the timing actually mattered in any conceivable way.
