Agent 9, the Black Sheep
15 December, 2010
Witnica, State of Sarmatia, Miedzymorze Federajca
15 December, 2010
Witnica, State of Sarmatia, Miedzymorze Federajca
Her hair tossed this way and that with every short gust of wind, sharp and biting like a thousand icy termites. Down to her winterized boots, snow stuck everywhere to her strikingly slim body, until the black coat she had left with dawned a camouflaging salt and pepper pattern. The street around us was alive with the vibrant color of Christmas Lights, and tens of multi-colored mittens and wool hats darted in and out of shops, weaving then between each other in seemingly pre-determined paths.
Perhaps it was fog of my breath that deceived me, as the exquisite figure approached me from East 11th Street, holding a steaming silver thermos of some third-world coffee bean. Something genuine, familiar, warm even emanated soundlessly from her aura. Sanja. I was seeing a ghost. Graceful and ravishing, or nearly so, as she had been all those years ago.
Impossible, I reminded myelf. Sanja was dead, worse, I watched the final breath leave her body, through eyes as wet as they will never be again.
"How's life on the other side?" I asked beneath my breath, so that only the two of us might share this exchange. "Not interested" she dismissed, oblivious to my manifold problems; that against my borderline atheistic views, somehow or someway, the woman I had fallen for as an External Defense Agent was taking an evening stroll in Witnica, Sarmatia.
Now and then I would see her. Sanja. The Ghost. Revealing herself by striking the painful chord of memory. Her favorite color, scarlet red, was on every streetcorner of the Federation - - a sanguine flash, most especially, roused the unpleasant thought of that little circle of scarlet red surrounding her before the end. Her untimely end.
I was there on holiday, or during the holidays at least, not that they ever allowed me to stop working. Witnica had not failed to impress with watertight security, Internal Defense Agents shooting looks to kill, and rotating cameras at every stoplight. A near perfect blanket of security, over a city blanketed with snow already.
Boisterous immigrants came to dominate the hustle and bustle of East 11th Street, their harsh Baroturkler snorts and oinks reminded me of hogs, their children little piglets, and a Internal Defense Agent plainly trailing them like the Big Bad Wolf himself. If these stragglers were dangerous, at least they were hiding in plain sight, standing out in the droves of modestly dressed Sarmatians, their skin gradually turning whiter with every bred generation.
Common immigrants, degenerates, were not the prey of an External Defense Agent. I had only to pay a mere scan of their persons for inconsistencies of their demeanor: an intelligible shift of the eye, clean clothes, a laptop bag, anything that screamed spy.
Work had a knack for coming home with me, brainwashing even. Switching off was no longer possible, and to keep a vacant mind meant throwing back a fifth of Vodka, or plowing through a miserable prostitute in the city of your choosing.
"Evening, evening" the ID-Agent murmured, tipping his cap clumsily, failing the ruse of playing a gentleman. "Thank you for your service!" I exclaimed in a convincing lie, at least enough for him to return his scrutiny of the night walking immigrants.
My contact was late, I thought. Worry spread within me like a virus, the virus of uncertainty. I promptly attempted to occupy my mind by profiling the pedestrians of my peripheral, or otherwise admiring eccentricities within a society gravitating towards uniformity. Coffee or Tea. Something scalding hot drew me back to reality.
Sinking into the skin on my back, the fluid caused me to wince and jump forward like a racehorse. I wanted to swear at the top of my lungs, but a whispery "Fuckin' fuck" sufficed for that moment.
"Oh dear, oh dear, oh no, oh dear" an old ladies voice scurried. She could have been my Grandmother I thought when I turned to view my assailant face to face. Frankly, I was half-surprised to note that snow had not burrowed within the countless defining wrinkles etched in her face. "What am I supposed to do now, Mam, huh?" I began scolding her as apart of the act, "Where am I supposed to go to clean this up?".
While I had never quite had a soft spot for the elderly, the creeping fact that she must be some form of Federal Agent, my distaste for the sleazy sack of bones blossomed, "Come on, tell me!". She then pointed with a courteous smile at the convenience store on the corner of 11th and Trade Street, 'Fuel-Point' it was called, an entirely worker owned chain.
"Ask to use the restroom to dry off, dear" she said sweetly, "My sincerest apologies, again, young man". I scowled at her immediately, "You never apologized before that, woman".
Perhaps yes, I had begun to indulge this social interaction too deeply -- a staged social interaction at that, to add insult to injury. These were the moments I savored for a few precious fleeting moments, before vomiting them back in to the toilet bowl that was my work life, one that imminently came to occupy all semblances of a personal life.
I stepped inside quickly. Stomped the snow off of my poorly made boots carelessly, and came to notice a shoppette that was well lit. Catchy tunes, as I remember, filled the room, it was some sort of modern studio band that gave the place a hip and youthful feel. The employees, visions of youth themselves, wore an attire completely of their choosing, as the company policy permitted them to. Thankfully, in most instances their trendy clothing shown them devoid of red, most relieving was it to be amongst the tender and young again.
My frigid thirty-two year old body was receptive to their innocence like a black hole. One worker stood out amongst the rest, he was my age, and displayed a subtle scar over the right cheek. Unless he was the manager, this one did not quite fit in there.
His red shirt had a cream colored arrow pointing to the text "I am Here - Sort of", the sarcasm was most unwelcome. From there I had'nt the slightest problem finding this fire in a haystack. This was my contact. His eyes ventured to a set of carpet covered stairs leading up, he was a contact of my contact I mused with a taught smile. His leering eyes were enough then of a signal for me to know this is where I was to 'dry off', a step in the right direction, the final planted situation I might have to stumble through before meeting with my long lost Agency Handler.