by Wesley Chu
“It’s not too late,” Peter said. “Go back to school.”
“Well, I’m already too busy with this stinking job. I don’t have time.”
Peter stopped typing and turned to Roen. “You’re still young. Study for the LSAT. Go back to school.”
“I can’t. I have rent and a cat...”
“I know about the cat, Roen. So are you going to do anything about it besides complain?”
Roen sighed. He said, “No, I guess not. Drag my butt into work tomorrow. You have any candy, Pete?”
Peter stood up and walked over to Roen’s desk, poured a few M&Ms onto the desk, and petted the large glass figurine of a Japanese lucky cat on Roen’s desk. Peter said, “Listen, man, figure out what you want to do and do it, or we’re going to have this same conversation when you’re fifty and I’m retiring. You’ll never be happy if you don’t have a passion for what you do.” He went back to his desk, and the two sat in silence.
Finally, Roen asked, “Do you have a passion for what you do, Pete?”
Peter gave his wise old man chuckle, causing Roen to visualize the Dalai Lama sitting in a cubicle, being an office monkey. “Honestly, does anyone dream they’ll be doing what we do for a living?”
“Then why do you do it?”
Peter turned to him and smiled. “Because I have a wife and two little kids to support, and they’re my passion.”
Roen hated that pragmatic response, and hated himself even more for not having a similar excuse. He didn’t even have a dream; he just existed. Depressed, he looked back at his monitor and slogged away at his work.
It was well past 10pm by the time Roen left the office. Heels dragging, he trudged out of the building and made the lonely walk to the parking garage. The clouds were out in full force tonight, common at this time of year, and a stiff breeze came in from the lake. Roen picked up the pace a bit as he walked the six long blocks to his car. He had the option of parking closer at the Grant Park garage, but parking there cost thirty bucks. That’s like two pizzas, so he was resigned to making the long trek to the further away but cheaper garage. He continued south on Wabash and crossed the street, hearing the rumbling of the train as it passed nearby.
Roen’s highly attuned sense of self-preservation began to let him know it was unhappy. Something didn’t feel right and he fidgeted as his eyes darted up and down the street. It was deserted except for a homeless guy crossing the intersection towards his side. There was no one walking behind Roen either. This part of the Loop was poorly lit and was a bit rougher than the business district just a few blocks north.
Then the homeless guy changed directions and moved onto an intercept course. Roen sighed. He had learned to always keep a few dollar bills on hand to give to beggars. It was the easiest way to get rid of them. Roen handed a buck over before the homeless guy even said a word. “Here you go,” Roen said hastily, and tried to pass him.
“Thanks, boss,” the homeless guy replied, shifting to his left to block Roen’s path. “Look man, I’m hungry. Dollar ain’t gonna buy much. Let me get a few more for a meal.” He stepped in really close. Roen could smell faint traces of liquor and the stale aroma of unwashed clothing.
“Sorry,” Roen mumbled and tried to pass him again. Again, the homeless guy blocked his path, more insistently this time. “Hey, back off,” Roen stuttered, trying to keep the homeless guy at arm’s length.
The homeless guy pushed him hard, causing Roen to stumble a few steps. “Why you gotta push me? I’m just asking for a couple bucks to eat.”
Not one for confrontation, Roen turned into a side alley and immediately regretted his decision. Alleys were where bad things happened and he just did the exact thing the Idiot’s Survival Guide to the City would tell him not to do. It was a dead end. He turned around and faced the homeless guy, slowly retreating. “All right, how much you need for a meal?”
The homeless guy grinned. “Price just went up, boss. You gone hurt my feelings.” Then he became a mugger as he pulled out a knife. “It’s going to cost you your cash, your train pass, that bag you carrying, oh hell, everything you got.”
Roen fought the rising panic climbing up his throat as he stumbled backwards. How did he get himself into these situations? He thought, Damn you, Musday!
“Look,” he stammered, barely getting the words out, “let’s talk this over. I can give you my money, but this is my work bag. I need the stuff in it. I’ll get in trouble.”
“You don’t think you’re in trouble now? This ain’t no negotiation, asshole.”
Tell him that he can have the money, but you are keeping your bag.
Roen looked confused. “What did you say?”
“What’s wrong with you, boss? God, you dumb. Give me your stuff or I stick you.”
Roen retreated until his back bumped against a garbage dumpster. He began to hyperventilate.
What kind of a mugger uses a knife? It is almost insulting. Listen carefully, there are some wine bottles at your feet. Pick them up.
“Who is this? What’s going on?” Roen cried.
Your feet. Bottles. Pick. Them. Up. Now!
The mugger advanced. “I’m losing my patience with you, tubby. You’re going to be a fat dead man any minute.”
Roen looked down at the ground and saw several empty wine bottles. He picked up one in each hand and brandished them in front of him.
Hold them by the neck. The neck. The skinny part.
Roen hastily switched his grip. “Stay back,” he warned. The mugger paid him no attention and continued to advance. He was no further than a few feet away now.
Break the bottles and wield them in front of you.
For a split second, Roen saw an image of a black-armored gladiator standing in an arena holding two swords, one held high over his head and the other in front of his chest. He didn’t know what was going on or who was talking, but he was so scared right now that he did whatever this voice said. He took the two bottles and smashed them together.
Thunk. They didn’t break.
What the...? Roen looked down and tried again.
Thunk. Thunk. The damn bottles wouldn’t break.
“Oh, for the love of...” Roen gritted his teeth and tried again.
Thunk. Thunk. They finally shattered into two jagged shards and he waved them in front of him triumphantly, trying to imitate that already fading image of the gladiator.
Good. Say something mean.
“Wha’... what?”
Threaten him.
“You... you give me all your money!” Roen yelled.
That is not what I meant.
The mugger did a double-take. “What? I’m robbing you. Give me all your money!”
“Not anymore!” Roen cried. “I’m robbing you.”
“You can’t rob me. That’s not how it works.” The mugger no longer seemed so sure of himself and retreated a few steps.
The two stood far apart from each other, both harmlessly waving their respective weapons. Every time Roen advanced, the mugger retreated. And every time the mugger moved forward, Roen scampered backward. They began yelling curses at each other.
“Come on, you fat asshole,” the mugger snarled.
“You’re a jerk, and you stink,” Roen answered.
Attack.
Roen’s eyes darted around the alley. “Is my brain trying to get me killed?”
Bullies are cowards. Attack!
Nearly a minute into their standoff, after a lot of bravado on both sides, something in Roen snapped. With a burst of momentary courage and the high-pitched roar of a raging mouse, he swung the broken bottles above his head and charged. The mugger seemed to have enough and fled. Roen chased him for about twenty feet before the physical exertion wore him out. He stopped and bent over, panting.
Let him go. You did well. Go home.
“Who is this?” Roen said, in between gasps.
The voice was silent. Afraid that the mugger would come back, Roen hustled as fast as he could to his
car and drove home. He stepped through his front door shortly after 11pm, still shaking. His heart felt like it was going to burst out of his chest. It was too bad Antonio was working at the hospital tonight. He could really use someone to talk to.
Roen plopped himself onto the couch and turned on the television. His stomach growled and he decided that it was time for another dinner. He tossed his shirt onto the floor, popped in a frozen pizza, and proceeded to channel-surf, never staying on one for more than a few seconds. This went on for the better part of an hour as he tried to decide what to watch. It wasn’t until after he finished his pizza that he decided there was nothing worth watching.
Roen looked up at the clock; it was just past midnight. With a sigh, he picked himself off the couch, moved to the bedroom, and turned on his computer. He grabbed a bag of chocolate chip cookies lying next to his computer and began to dig through it. For the rest of the night, he played on the computer, immersing himself in a video game – until the clock reminded him that he had to be up in a few hours.
Wearily, he tore himself away from the computer and made his way to bed, idly thinking that he should sign up for a gym sometime this year. He had been saying that since New Year’s, and it was already March. Soon, he would do it. Just not this week. Maybe next month. Or maybe when summer started. Definitely sometime before the year ended.
CHAPTER SIX
FIRST CONTACT
Music blared from the radio. Tao woke with a start and listened to the very annoying sound. If pain was a sensation a Quasing could feel, he knew he would be in some right now. The music was so loud he couldn’t make out the tune, not that it mattered. Tao was not well versed with most of the musical genres of the past half century. Edward’s taste had centered on baroque, which irritated Tao no end. He had more than his fill of baroque music since, well, the baroque era. Musical choice, unfortunately, was never his. Therefore, he took special interest in the musical taste of new hosts, knowing he would be at their mercy for that lifetime.
Getting rid of that alarm clock would be one of the first things he made Roen do after they had officially established contact. That thing just ground on Tao’s nerves. Worse yet, Sleeping Beauty here let it blare for up to half an hour sometimes before finally dragging himself out of bed to turn it off.
Tao had bided his time and studied his new host now for nearly two weeks. He almost introduced himself during the attempted mugging, but thought better of it – since at that time, he didn’t know enough about Roen to properly make contact with him. Since then, he watched the man live his completely stifling life over and over again, one repetitive day at a time. It was so consistent that Roen even complained about the same things at the same times every day. As far as Tao was concerned, that Peter fellow sitting next to him at work was a saint for putting up with all this. Today would be different, though. Tao was going to start fixing his host and prepare him for what lay ahead.
Roen stirred and turned over, pulling the blanket over his head, muttering something about the television and burying himself deeper under the covers. The radio continued for another twenty minutes before Roen finally did something about it. With an irritated hiss, he rolled out of bed and dragged himself to the desk. He slammed the snooze button and looked at the clock: 7.30am. “I got an hour,” he yawned. He lumbered back to bed and collapsed onto the mattress, burrowing a hole under the messy layer of blankets. Ten minutes later, the music came back as loud and annoying as ever.
Tao couldn’t think of a more miserable way to start the day. Amazingly, it failed to stir his hibernating host. He waited for Roen to shut it off again, but the man did not stir. How did anyone sleep through this? Tao’s patience began to wear thin. While technically time was something he had an infinite supply of, he was not a very patient Quasing. At last, unable to stand the ruckus anymore, Tao ever so casually moved his semi-conscious host’s arm and pulled the blanket off his face. Roen rolled over, mumbled something incomprehensible, and pulled the blanket back over his face.
Are you serious? Tao immediately regretted the outburst.
Roen still didn’t move. He slept like a rock! This was not a good trait for a soldier. The man was like a hibernating bear and could probably sleep through a firefight. After another ten minutes, Tao had had enough. This wasn’t the best way to initiate first contact, but with this host, the sooner the better. Anything else just delayed the inevitable. Roen rolled to his other side, still sound asleep.
Roen Tan!
“Five more minutes,” Roen whimpered.
You are going to be late for work.
“Come on, just five more minutes.”
Just who do you think you are talking to?
Roen was about to say something else, when he hesitated and opened his eyes. His eyes shifted back and forth and he crawled out of the mess of blankets inch by inch, looking under his pillow and checking under the bed for anything strange. With a perplexed look, he shut off the alarm, yawned, and walked to the bathroom where he splashed water on his face and brushed his teeth. Afterward, he patted his cheeks a few times and studied his reflection in the mirror.
“Hey, what’s up? You want some of this?” Roen waved his hands over his head as if he was brandishing the bottles again. This was a daily routine he’d been doing ever since that night. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. Give me your money!” He swung his arms in the air. It was a laughable scene, though Tao was pleased that Roen had recovered from the incident enough to be light-hearted about it. He had spent the first week paranoid, frightened, and unsure of his sanity.
But as the week went on, his new host began to enjoy retelling the story to anyone who would listen, embellishing it more and more each time he told it. By yesterday, he took on three men, was bouncing off the walls, and was throwing bottles as if they were shurikens.
At least he had a good attitude about it. One of Tao’s old hosts, a certain French general during the American Revolutionary War, used to mope for days after a battle. Tao had trained that out of him real fast.
Another positive from that night was Roen’s reaction during the mugging. Even when terrified, he took direction surprisingly well under stress. That was a very important quality that could not always be trained. It was a good trait to have in an agent. And grudgingly, Tao had to admit that Roen was brave as well. Not many people these days would blindly follow orders and charge into battle. That characteristic had good and bad points. Still, it was a trait Tao found useful.
“No voices today, right?” Roen continued his morning re-enactment. “You can’t handle this!” He gestured at his large body. After nearly two minutes of dancing in front of the mirror, Roen winked at himself and completed his ritual. Walking back into his room, he looked at the clock and shouted, “Damn that alarm clock! I’m going to be late again!” He hurried to his closet and studied the scattered clothes lying around. Then he looked at the floor and picked up the same pair of pants he wore yesterday. He sniffed them to make sure they passed the smell test and then put them on.
You wore those yesterday. They are dirty. Tao injected that sentence very subtly. Dirty pants were not a great subject for an introduction, but how could Roen even consider walking outside with those on?
Roen stopped, one leg in a pant-leg. He turned to his left and then to his right. He looked up at the ceiling and then back down at his pants. “No voices, no voices,” he whispered. Then he looked down at his pants. “Damn, they really are dirty,” he muttered. He spit on his hand and rubbed at the stains and wrinkles left from a previous lunch mishap. He was about to throw them into the laundry hamper when he noticed that it had long since overflowed. Roen looked up at the clock again. “Oh, hell with it,” he muttered as he snatched the nearest pair of pants in arm’s reach and rushed out the door.
Roen rubbed his eyes and tried to stifle the yawn escaping his lips. Three hours at work in the War Room – listening to person after person drone on about statistics this, stress tests that, and control variables somethi
ng – was more than he could take. Every fifteen minutes, someone would ask him to stop this transaction, start that script, bounce those servers, or check some data. It was unbearable! Most of the requests were met with a sullen “Sure,” “OK,” or “Whatever.”
When he wasn’t working, he passed the time doodling in a notebook, drawing little pictures of animals, stars, and smiley faces. Occasionally, Roen would get ambitious and try to draw a symmetrical polygon. After he tired of geometric shapes, he turned the page and settled on a new artistic endeavor. When he finished, he beamed at the picture of a plump donkey wearing a suit and carrying a briefcase. He drew some word balloons over its head and wrote out the caption, “I am what I do.”
Then why do you do it?
Roen stopped, the pen falling from his hand. The words bounced around in his head, repeating eerily over and over as they sank into the pit of his stomach.
“Why do I do what?” He said those words very slowly.
Do what you are doing.
Roen leaped out of his chair, knocking his chair over and looking wide-eyed around the room. Everyone stopped what they were doing and stared at him. “Peter, did you say something just now about what I’m doing?” Roen asked, stark panic in his voice.
Peter frowned. “Did I what?”
“I don’t know. You tell me.”
“I don’t know either. You lost me, man,” Peter shook his head and gave Roen his Dalai Lama look. “You all right?”
Tell them no and that you are quitting.
“That! Did you just say that?”
Peter’s look became one of concern. “You look sick, Roen. Maybe you should get some fresh air.”
“I... I...”
...quit. I am walking out of here and never coming back.
“...be right back. I have to step outside for a moment.”
Roen practically tripped over himself as he fled and bolted for the restroom. He ran into one of the stalls and locked it. Sitting on the toilet, he took deep breaths and tried to clear his thoughts. The voice was happening again. Was it him saying these things, or was something saying these things to him... from him? What was going on?
