Ren The Complete Boxed Set

by Sarah Noffke

  I teleport straight into the conference room of the strategic department and startle a dozen agents when I arrive. No matter how many times I pop up beside a Lucidite, it always startles them. These bloody wankers act like people materializing out of the air is fucking unbelievable.

  “For God’s sake! Do you have to do that?” a girl of around twenty says, pushing back in her seat, which is closest to me. Her nostrils are entirely too large for her nose and her eyes are an inch too far apart.

  “Yes, Bessy, I do have to do that,” I say, looking down at the girl who will probably last another month as an agent. Trent is horrible at hiring agents, but hopefully that changes soon.

  “My name isn’t Bessy,” she says, and stands, pulling her seat back with her against the wall, where she sits again. It would kill the whale to stand for thirty seconds. No, honestly, I’m certain it would kill this oversized troll to stand or walk far distances.

  “Really?” I say in mock disbelief. “You look like a Bessy. Is your name Bertha then?”

  She ties her fat arms across her chest and shakes her head. From my peripheral, the room of agents is too engrossed in our exchange to say anything. And Trent is probably at my back and he’s too much of a wimp to intervene in my bullying. There’s a reason jerks run this world. We intimidate people. It’s a great skill to have.

  “Olga, Helga, Prudence, Dorcas, Uvula, Myrtle, Gus?” I say, running through the names. “Is one of those repugnant names something you answer to?”

  Again she shakes her head, her chin pinned down.

  “Oh, got it. You don’t have a name,” I say, nodding like this makes sense. Then I turn to the room of agents, all with their eyes on me. “Get the fuck out of here. Trent and I need to discuss real business.”

  “Ren,” Trent says at my back. I turn and almost realize I’ll miss that look of disapproval on his face. “We’re in the middle of a meeting.”

  I study him. His slouched shoulders and untucked shirt. He’s not even trying to make a look of authority with his frayed cargo pants and the mountain of dreads which are tied up in a fucking bun on the back of his head.

  Nodding, I turn back to the table. “Anyone still left sitting in this room twenty seconds from now will wake to find that they’ve stripped off all their clothes and wiped their twigs and berries against the stainless steel walls of the Institute,” I say.

  And because most of the agents are ones I recruited and know I’ll use mind control to make a point, they all jump from their seats and clamber for the door. Trey forbade me to use mind control on residents of the Institute many years ago. However, I was able to use it for training purposes, which is pretty loosely defined in my opinion.

  When the room is empty, I turn to Trent, who is actually smiling. Then he releases a laugh. A long one. “God, you can be damn hilarious when you want to be,” he says.

  “You know that I’m not a clown put here for your amusement?” I say, pretending to be offended.

  “Right,” he says, quieting his laughter. “I don’t think half the time you’re even trying to be funny, which is what makes it priceless.”

  “Stop hitting on me,” I say.

  He holds up his hands, his palms a shade lighter than the brown skin of his arms and hands. “Yes, of course. Sorry if I made you uncomfortable,” he says and there’s a hint of the prior laugh in his voice. Maybe the old jovial, and always obnoxious, Trent is returning.

  “I quit,” I say and then nothing else.

  The smile in his eyes fades. “You what?”

  I roll my eyes. “Why do people have to pretend like they don’t hear things when around me?”

  “You’re quitting as an agent?” he says.

  “Actually, I’m quitting as a human, but that’s a longer story than we have time for. Besides, you’ll just run off and blab your big mouth. So don’t. Don’t even tell anyone that I’ve quit. It will come out with my obituary,” I say.

  “Ren, is this a joke?”

  “Again, I’m not a fucking clown who plays pranks and pratfalls for your bloody amusement. This is me quitting,” I say.

  “Then where’s your formal letter of resignation?” he says and now there’s a bit of mischief in his eyes.

  “It’s in the bloody mail, along with a basket of fruit and a jar of fucking marmalade I made myself,” I say.

  “So this is your formal resignation, is it?” he says.

  “Yes, and I’ve quit once before, but this time don’t get your hopes up that I’ll be coming back. It will be nearly impossible,” I say.

  Trent now studies me. He’s not as critical of a thinker as me, but no one truly is. However, Trent is smarter than most. He has a good instinct and if he’d fucking use it then this department won’t go to shit.

  “All right,” he finally says, and as I suspected he’s not going to ask me why I’m leaving or where I’m going. He’s curious as hell, but he knows better than to waste his time with asking questions that I won’t answer. “So, is this when you leave me with your final words of wisdom?”

  “Yeah, don’t fuck up,” I say, tucking my hands into my pockets and studying the conference room. It’s enclosed in glass walls that are lit from above in neon blue lights. The room is mostly dark, but not so much that it makes one’s eyes hurt. And outside the conference room are other similar rooms used for brainstorming or researching. The whole department is like a darkroom where we develop solutions instead of photographs. It’s light and yet dark. Conducive for high cognitive thinking sessions. I designed every ounce of the space more than twenty years ago. I was a criminal. There was no way I should have been trusted with the brand new position of Head Strategist for the most powerful organization in the world, and yet Trey wouldn’t take a no from me. And the chap ended up being correct. Trey is one who heavily relies on instinct and he knew I was right for the job. But more importantly, he knew that the job was right for me. That it was going to save my life. And in so many ways, it did. But that life isn’t one I’ll miss. I was never meant to grow old saving the world. I feel that my life must take an unconventional approach. The most unconventional.

  “So in a few days, maybe a week, you’re going to get a visit from Adelaide,” I say, my hands still casually in my pockets, my foot crossed over my ankle in front. “I have one last request for you and it’s that I want you to honor what she says.”

  Trent half smiles. “Oh, you’re going to try and call this a request. When have you ever made requests of me?”

  I tug up my wrist and eye my watch. “Honestly, Trenton, I don’t have time for semantics right now. Can you cry or whatever else you need to do to close out this farewell?”

  Aiden hasn’t finished with the project. Actually, it’s not entirely certain that he’ll be successful. But I’ve learned that one needs to prepare for inevitable success. That means we don’t wait to count our chickens before they hatch. We don’t wait to have the new job before quitting the old one. A real man acts as if a victory is imminent. That’s called bloody confidence and most don’t have it because it takes risks.

  “As fond of you as I am, I don’t think crying is in my future. I’m kind of tired of being melancholy anyway, so I’ll just suppose that you’re off to better things and wish you well,” he says.

  Trent is trying. He’s trying to bury his demons and face that which has scarred him. But he’s still living half his life in the past, haunted by the things he saw and the ones he couldn’t prevent.

  “You can’t lead them as long as you’re unwilling to let it all go,” I say, motioning to the table where the agents sit during meetings. “No, you didn’t make all the best decisions. No, you didn’t stand up right away when it came time to fight. But you know what? You survived. And you can either be better for it or you can choose to live in that moment of defeat. Or relive it, as I suspect you do too often,” I say.

  “It’s just that battle… the battles, they shocked me to the core,” he says, his eyes large and tragic. “I have p
erformance anxiety now. I doubt every decision I make. I don’t even know how to think half the time because I feel like I’ve lost my confidence in my ability to reason. But I want to live. I want to get over everything, but I don’t know how.”

  “And maybe there isn’t a way. Maybe you’re doomed,” I say, my voice morose.

  He nods, like he’s considered this as a real fate.

  I clear my throat and reposition myself, my shoulders back and my head held high. “You know, Trent, you can stay on earth and not live. And you can die and go on to do great things. If you don’t get over your trauma, if you are forever damaged and react in certain ways because of that, it’s because you’ve made that choice. Life and the way we live it is all about how we think. If I do leave you with any last words then they are to be unconventional. Don’t just think outside the box. Throw away the fucking box and think outside a sphere that’s constantly morphing. Think so far from the norm that your ideas startle people. That’s when you know you’re thinking creatively and the creative mind is the most strategic,” I say and finish my speech by drawing out the last word.

  “So does that mean that I should put on a smile and start making unconventional decisions in response to the cases? Because that would startle everyone. They all expect me to be in mourning with them. I feel like not acting on cases, versus acting and getting pulled into another trap, is what everyone thinks I should do,” he says.

  “Stop making decisions based on what other people want or will think. That will only get you into trouble. My best advice has always been that what other people think of you isn’t your concern. Analyze the problems. Design solutions by working from the end. And then fucking act. Because staying in a constant state of paralysis is a surefire way of fucking up everything,” I say apathetically.

  He nods slowly, his eyes distant. “I know you’re right,” he says in a tormented whisper.

  “Then take my advice before the Institute loses its footing. And do it fast because I sense there’s going to be a few natural disasters and strange worldly problems on your hands soon,” I say, knowing that my plan to enter the Land of the Souls is going to fuck with the ecosystem.

  “How do you know that?” he says.

  “Just do,” I say and let the space go silent for a beat.

  “It’s been a real honor to work under you,” Trent says, extending a hand.

  “Oh, I bet you’d have liked the chance to have really worked under me,” I say, and actually smile a little.

  “Ha! Yes, go out on a gay joke. That’s for the best and the way I want to remember you,” he says.

  And then I actually extend my hand to Trent, shaking his briefly. That short exchange tells me that Trent really does think highly of me. As he should.

  Chapter Nineteen

  President Fucktard followed my orders and sent the guest list over to the Institute right after our meeting. My instinct tells me that it wasn’t coincidence that a partygoer gave the dumb presidential candidate the idea for the retina scanner. This was planted information and then the generous sum donated to Dougy’s campaign just sealed the whole thing. Of course, I worry about Trent connecting dots like this in the future, but if he takes my advice then he’ll see things holistically.

  Someone who has been planning this werewolf experiment for a long time implemented the retina scanner technology knowing that it would only take a clever hack job on optometrists’ offices to get the information for security clearance. They were obviously after special records, which it sounds like detailed every aspect of certain civilian’s lives. They were looking for the right candidates. These guys were handpicked for a reason, and I’m guessing it has something to do with gene splicing. A new technology which came out of Aiden’s lab called CRISPR makes all of this a startling reality. In the past, creating a Frankenstein’s monster using wolf genetics was a laughable event that one only saw in horror films. Now, thanks to fucking technology, it’s a real possibility and, I’m guessing, an inevitable future.

  I won’t be here to stop this werewolf population, but at least I can find clues that Trent’s dumb agents missed. The agents Trent assigned to research the guest list weren’t able to connect any of the donors to suspects in the retina scanner robbery. It may be because the agents are failing under Trent’s rule, which is obviously too weak. Or it might also be because this suspect is well hidden. That’s why I requested a copy of the guest list, because I usually can see things others miss with their insufficient brains.

  Of the three hundred guests who attended this boring political circle jerk, half of them contributed to Doug’s campaign. The guy should have won the vote just based on the amount of money he spent on the election. However, he’s such a complete failure and says the crudest things that even the majority of stupid Americans weren’t going to vote for him. That’s why we rigged the election and made him our puppet President.

  I scan the list of names, my eyes taking a snapshot of all one hundred and fifty. Some of the names I recognize instantly as politicians whom the Lucidites also put into office. Others my mind attaches to celebrity status or even private corporations. It’s amazing how much information my mind retains on specific individuals. I really am an amazing specimen. The Lucidites will suffer greatly when I’m gone and therefore the world at large. I have zero remorse about abandoning this ignorant planet though.

  I’m scanning through the names, not on paper, but with my photographic memory, when a new one stands out. I don’t have much information associated with this person. Really, just the university where he works and his recent involvement with the Lucidite Institute. Still, I know this is our suspect. I pull up the page of names to confirm my memory recalled it accurately. Sure enough, the name of the person who I’m certain planted the retina scanner idea in President Dougy’s brain sits on the page.

  Alexander Drake

  ***

  “You are the biggest fucking dumbass on the planet,” I say to Aiden as soon as I enter his lab.

  He looks up from a tablet and smirks at me. “There are seven and a half billion people on earth. Are you sure I’m the dumbest?” Aiden says, like we’re playing a cute game of quips. I should kill him now, but I still need his help. Maybe in a minute I will.

  “Drake is behind a theft case I’ve been working,” I say, my head scorching from my violent anger. “You allowed a fucking criminal mastermind into the Institute, revealed the Lucidites society to him, and gave him bloody access to God knows what.”

  Aiden scratches his head, now looking a bit sheepish. “That would explain why he stole a ton of my files and disappeared. I’ve tried to track him down, but it appears he’s quit his job at the university,” he says.

  “Oh-my-fucking-God!” I say, throwing my hands in the air, the action vibrating my entire body.

  “Yeah,” Aiden says, with a commiserate expression. “I was a little astonished that a scientist with his caliber of knowledge and reputation would do something like that. However, I’ve deduced that he’s the one who stole the files.”

  “And what did these fucking files include?” I say, knowing I’m not going to like the answer.

  “Well, there were ones on different devices I’ve created over the years, things that I’m certain he can’t replicate, but are still of interest. And then strangely, he stole the file on how we converted Dahlia to a Dream Traveler,” Aiden says, real confusion written on his pale-ass face.

  Again I throw my hands in the air, but this time in surrender. “Well, you’ve pretty much fucked our world up for good. I kind of knew it would be you who would bring this bloody place down. Give a guy a brain, but not common-fucking-sense.”

  Aiden nods. “Yeah, I totally goofed,” he says, like he merely laundered a fiver by mistake, turning the bill to rubbish. “I really didn’t see all this coming.”

  “Because you’re a bloody idiot,” I remind him.

  “On a positive note, Drake was happy to help me create the opener,” Aiden chirps, his blu
nder not affecting his self-esteem quite like it should have.

  “That’s because he wanted to gain access to your fucking data,” I say.

  “Right, but what’s done is done, and I wouldn’t worry much on it. There’s not a lot that a Middling can do with my files. Replicating my technology would be extremely difficult,” he says, overly confident.

  “Would it be too difficult for a scientist whom you recruited to help you build a device to find bloody portals?” I say, with my usual calm superiority.

  “Well, although that’s an excellent point—”

  I cut him off. “Would it be too difficult for a man who is working with someone who can become invisible?”

  Aiden’s mouth pops open. “No! Invisible? That’s incredible!”

  “No, it’s fucking alarming,” I say.

  “I wonder if that’s their dream travel skill or if it’s something else,” Aiden says, his eyes now dancing with excitement.

  “What do you mean, something else?” I say.

  “Well, one of the reasons I recruited Drake was because of his technological advancements. They aren’t anything like what we’ve done here, but still impressive,” Aiden says.

  “And why would he want the data on how to convert Middlings to Dream Travelers? Any clues?” I say.

  Aiden shrugs. Idiots shrug. People who don’t know how to communicate properly, shrug. Real men don’t shrug. “That I don’t know. My best guess is that he probably wants to experiment on himself. He was fairly fascinated with our race and mentioned that some of the people he’d admired the most have been Dream Travelers,” he says.