"It was curious to think that the sky was the same for everybody, in Eurasia or Eastasia as well as here. And the people under the sky were also very much the same—everywhere, all over the world, hundreds of thousands of millions of people just like this, people ignorant of one another's existence, held apart by walls of hatred and lies, and yet almost exactly the same..."
-George Orwell, Nineteen Eighty Four
Part One: Falling
You know nothing, and that is why you are chosen.
"...You know nothing of such matters?" he finishes, slowly and with almost paternal patience. He smiles easily. He is wonderful. You would die for him, as would anyone who counted themselves fortunate enough to be a citizen of the Occupied People's Republic.
Whatever you knew a moment ago, a year ago, a lifetime ago, you have now forgotten.
"Nothing at all, Colonel." You hesitate and tentatively finish, "A few names."
"Nelson, Crane?" he asks indulgently.
Nelson? You thought it was Swanson.
"Perhaps..." You are on guard.
But he only smiles on you again,
"These names, you will need to know them." He nods at his attendant, an agitated, pale looking fellow in green. (The attendant won't last long with that look on his face!)
"Forgive me, Colonel. Nelson and Kane," you repeat. Your tongue is clumsy. Suddenly the urge to blink is overpowering. Your eyes sting. But The Colonel does not wish you to blink now, and that is how it is, and you will love it as you love him. "Nelson and Kane."
"Crane, Crane." The Colonel says kindly. He is your father and your mother all in one. Then he gestures at the attendant with one graceful finger.
"One more," he says, and all is black.
"...Do you know what these are?" he is asking you. His eyes are dark green. He has papers in his hand.
You are thirsty. He wishes it so, and so you will love it as you love him.
You are silent.
"They are plans," he continues, "Plans for a top secret American project." He spits the word, American. "Do you recognize them?"
"I don't..." Your eyes grow wide. You try to shake your head but, of course, The Colonel won't allow that right now either. "I don't know anything about..."
"Good, good," he coos at you. "Very good."
You want to be good. You want to be very good.
"Very good," he continues in a voice like silk, "For a vulgar, no-account thief caught stealing from one of my officers one night."
His green-clad attendant's head pops up in shock, and for a brief moment, he looks as though he would speak. For a mere second, his eyes meet yours. Pleadingly?
The poor fellow will never last.
"I didn't know that's... what I was," you say quietly. "Did I cause you much trouble, Colonel?"
The attendant's face is iron.
"Oh, on the contrary," whispers The Colonel. "You are just what we need. A thief! And one as filthy and common as earth."
A thief... A familiar idea. Yes. Yes! Of course! You must have been a thief! You wonder how you moved. How you looked.
You wonder about the pains in your back and your legs and your head.
You smile at The Colonel, and he allows that. And he smiles back. He idly pages through the plans, and then sets them aside on a metal table. He turns back to you.
"These are not the true plans, of course. Or, at least, not the plans in their completion. Our people were able to obtain the first several pages, which a few clever people would recognize on sight."
The attendant looks away.
"You, of course, do not recognize them."
You smile again. You recognize nothing but The Colonel's superiority.
"But what good are only the first several pages?"
He does not ask you, and therefore you do not answer.
"We require the rest. That's where you come in, thief! No doubt this should be an easy task for you."
He gives you a companionable shrug.
"We don't have much planned for you. A quick in and out of a hotel room. Hopefully without bloodshed, although we have planned for everything. Down the back stairs, into the waiting car. Child's play. How long could it take, thief? Ninety seconds?"
A long pause.
He is asking you. He is asking you to confirm his estimate. He has left you nothing but an empty mind, save for two names and a blind adoration of him and his cause, and constant dull pain. You cannot be sure. Of anything. Ninety seconds? Is he right?
You long for darkness in this blinding white room. But blinding is how he wishes it, and you will love it...
He is waiting. You swallow.
"Yes, yes, about that, Colonel," You mumble. "About ninety seconds. But I... I'm sure I could..."
The attendant suddenly turns away with a little gasp; he is trying to look busy.
"No. No... no, thief. You are not sure. You are sure of nothing," The Colonel says calmly. And at once he is angry. "Fool! You are sure of nothing! You know nothing! It is your very nature! Will you not remember that?!"
Tapping sounds to the left of you, and the previously dull pain grows sharp and fiery. You cry out.
"I-!" you begin, but words won't come.
"I have little time left to me, dear thief," snarls The Colonel somewhere on the other side of the agony, "And less patience. Will you delay us again? Will you force us all to go through this entire lengthy process a third time? Or will you remember?"
Remember? Remember what?!
"Will you remember, this time?!"
"I would do anything for you!" you sob pathetically. "I would give my life for you!"
The attendant makes a little sound.
"And so would any beggar on the street!" The Colonel snarls. "So would any of my men! That is not what I need from you, thief!"
The pain grows, and you shriek.
"Will you waste our time again?! Will you put your entire nation in jeopardy?"
You shriek again.
"No! Colonel! I-"
"Or will you remember that you don't know one damned thing, except for what I specifically have told you?!"
"Sir!" the attendant cries, all at once. He is looking at you with enormous, terrified eyes. "Sir..."
"What could you possibly have to contribute, Berlitz?" The Colonel asks the attendant coldly.
Berlitz? A third name. Should you know it?!
"The doctor... we must..." Berlitz wrings his hands hopelessly, "We must! Colonel, we have to..."
The Colonel, strangely, smiles at him.
"The doctor? No, I don't think we will, Berlitz. I think we'll let the doctor be. Wherever he is, he must be dreadfully busy. Far too busy for us. And we are busy, too, aren't we? We've got our hands... quite full."
Berlitz's eyes flash with unmistakeable rage.
"You're a monster." he spits. "You're a damned monster! And you're not touching him, ever again!"
The Colonel only smiles.
From then on, things happen too fast for you to comprehend.
It may be hours later, or days. It may be an eternity later, but the pain has left you, and that is all you can think about. You are grateful to The Colonel, to your very core. He has made sure you recognize that it is he who brings the pain and it is he who relieves it.
Nelson, Crane, Berlitz. Names that come unbidden. But he has told you all of them, and so they must be alright-
The Colonel reappears beside you. He is tired, but he is patient.
"Berlitz's father once worked for me, too," he says, drying his hands on a towel. It is as though he is speaking through you rather than to you. "A troublesome family, the lot of them."
Now he turns his smile down to you.
"What do you remember of Berlitz?" he asks, almost idly.
"Green?" you murmur. "He wears green. He is angry. He wants... a doctor?"
"Alright," he sighs after awhile. He disappears from your sight. Tapping. You tense up, waiting for more pain.
The pain never comes.
You are grateful.
"A clever little thing, isn't it?" The Colonel asks, gesturing just out of your line of sight. What he means, you couldn't begin to guess... but you are afraid of his wrath now. To love a man to the point of death, and fear him to the point of death, all at once. A curiosity. A delightful curiosity.
He is waiting for a response. You smile. Will it suffice?
It does! It does!
"Of course, you've no idea what I mean. But, oh... dear thief... to put Nelson and Crane, or their president, to this device. It is my heart's fondest desire."
You would kill anyone who stood in the path of The Colonel's heart's fondest desire, and you long to tell him so. But ultimately, you stay silent.
"If Berlitz hadn't been such a fool, it would have been his fate as well as theirs."
You frown. Another name. Nelson and Crane. Now Berlitz? Is this a name you need to know? Is he the one you need to rob? Or your contact?
"This... Berlitz? Is he another of the Americans?" you ask, trying to sound as contemptuous of Americans as your Colonel had.
His response is a sudden bubble of delighted laughter. You smile widely, despite yourself and the dull pain.
And after a minute, you laugh, too. You can't imagine why.
"Lee Crane," The Colonel says kindly, pointing at the figure on the black and white television screen. A handsome young man, younger than The Colonel. Dark hair, dark eyes. Curled on a shabbily upholstered bed (you know this because The Colonel scoffed at it; it was his hotel and it grieved him to see it so poorly kept). Sleeping, you think.
"An American?" you ask timidly. Though The Colonel has not turned his anger on you in some time, you remember the pain. And your body would remember, even if your mind could not. And so you pray that Crane is an American and that it is alright that you know it.
The Colonel merely nods, and rolls his eyes a bit. "Commander Lee Crane. American. Captain of the Seaview. High in Nelson's esteem."
As you long to be in The Colonel's.
You briefly wonder what he means by "Seaview", but like most of your thoughts (lately?), it flutters away as if on a light breeze.
"...Yet Crane is such a fool that he doesn't know of the camera hidden in the room." He smiles cunningly down at you.
You smile back, lightheadedly.
"Nelson is scheduled to contact him in a few moments," The Colonel informs you. "At 0328 hours."
Of course you don't know how long it will be until it is 0328 hours. You know neither the hour, the minute, the day, or the year. But as The Colonel promised, a moment later Crane is sitting up as though he were never sleeping at all, pulling an antenna out of what you can only assume is a communication device of some sort.
"Ah," breathes The Colonel. "Here... is Nelson now."
"Cookie Cutter Alpha, this is the Bakery. This channel is secure. Cookie Cutter Alpha, come in," crackles a voice from the communication device.
Crane smirks for a moment, then confirms, "Cookie Cutter Alpha, I read you, Bakery."
It is nothing but gibberish to you, but The Colonel rolls his eyes.
"They fool only themselves," he sighs in explanation. He is leaning against your bed (more of a table, really) and you are keenly aware of his idle hand just inches from your shoulder.
You want...
Nelson's crackling voice has a smile in it as he asks, "How are you holding up in the, ah, lap of luxury, Lee?"
Crane smiles brilliantly.
"Oh, I couldn't ask for better accommodations. I really couldn't. No one in this place understands a word I'm saying. They all speak English, but apparently I don't."
A crackling chuckle.
"Yes, well, you have a floor, at least?" Nelson asks.
"Oh, a great one, too. I can see right through it in a few places."
"Well, that just shows how much they like you. They gave you a room with a view."
The two men laugh a little, but Crane's face darkens a bit.
"Say, uh, Bakery," Crane says seriously, "There's one thing that, well... kind of worries me."
"What is it?" asks Nelson, instantly serious.
"You say I'm to meet the doctor's aide tomorrow morning."
"Yes, that's right, a young fellow. Glasses, red hair. You'll know him right away." Nelson pauses. "We've discussed that."
"Right, we have. But... it seems to me, something as important as this... why wouldn't the doctor come himself? Why all this... mystery?"
The Colonel tenses up a bit. You glance at him and try to smile reassuringly. Whatever they're talking about, it must be important. You studiously forget every word, of course, but it is clear The Colonel cannot.
"Ah, well, that's easy, Lee," Nelson says confidently. "Doctor Weber is an old friend of mine, we go way back. But he's, ah... a bit eccentric. He doesn't make friends easily and he doesn't go out much, particularly now. He has a magnificent mind, but..."
Lee nodded. "Do you think this is all on the level?"
"Well, I just spoke to the man a few hours ago, Lee. And he apologized. Profusely. He promised to meet me just as soon as he could get away, so we could make plans to get him out of the country. He seemed well. As well as he ever seems. His aide is a dependable person. And you'll want to look like you're very happy to see him, Lee. After all, he's your long lost friend."
"I understand. Still... to just hand over his life's work like it was nothing, and to stay behind? Even for a day? If he's found out..."
"Well, he's seeing his country crumbling around him, and he knows it's the best way for him to..." Nelson sighs. "Fight back. While he still can. He's willing to risk it."
Lee nods.
"It's a selfless act. He must be a remarkable man. It's a shame his country won't see him that way."
"Well, a country is made up of all sorts of people, Lee. Even one like the Occupied People's Republic."
The Colonel gets up, paces a bit. He rubs his face in irritation. He mutters for a bit. Your attention is all on him, and as a result, whatever is going on on that screen immediately becomes irrelevant.
"All sorts of people..." The Colonel snarls. "Yes, you'd know all about that, wouldn't you, Doctor? Working with those damned Americans behind my back. I'd tell them what sort of person you were, Doctor, if it wouldn't make me sick even to think about it!"
Naturally, you don't know who this doctor is... Only that he makes The Colonel angry. And so you hate him.
You hate him.
"Alright, so, I'm sending Mr. Morton to the rendezvous point, you're to meet him at 0835," Nelson was saying.
Morton? Another name. Crane Lee Nelson Weber Morton.
You look at The Colonel, and he nods a bit.
"Yes, yes, yes, Morton, another American. He won't be a problem for us."
Should you know his name then?
"I'm looking forward to it, Bakery," Crane says happily. "I am really, really looking forward to it."
"Well, I'll, ah, let you get back to enjoying your vacation, Cookie. See you tomorrow."
Crane snickers.
"Good night, Bakery. And whoever came up with these awful codenames, I want them on report! Cookie Cutter Alpha out."
More laughter.
"I don't blame you. Bakery out."
Crane lies back on the bed, sighs deeply, and then goes still. The Colonel turns back to you and smiles.
"You will remember his face? Crane's?"
You hesitate. You hesitate too long, and you become afraid.
But his smile does not falter.
"It is... your duty, to remember Crane's face, thief."
And so you whisper your assent.
"Excellent. You are a quick study. You have a good mind," The Colonel says, grinning widely. "You must have been quite brilliant in your previous line of work."
"I don't know, Colonel," you say sheepishly. "I can't remember a thing..."
He turns flashing eyes on you.
"No. You can't."
When you are free of the (table?) bed, you are quite numb. You are outwardly uninjured; legs and arms intact, but the pain refuses to fade. You wonder how on earth you are going to make it to the doorway ten feet away from you, let alone carry out this important mission.
You are a common, vulgar thief. It is what The Colonel said, and thus it is so.
But he spared you from the common and vulgar death which would become such a thief. He brought you to him, he prepared you for an important mission. He spared you. You owe him everything.
The (bed?) table is gleaming, polished metal. Your curiosity gets the better of you and you lean over the side and regard the reflection.
Distorted though it may be, it is your face.
But it is the face of a stranger. It moves as you move, it blinks when you blink, but you recognize nothing.
You breathe deeply.
The Colonel wishes it so.
The Colonel is in the corner, idly gazing at the screen. Crane is still sleeping. It is just barely daybreak.
You are dizzy. You squint a bit and you see Crane, innocent and somnolent, and the darkened look on The Colonel's face.
All at once you long to kill Crane. You long to destroy him. You long to throttle him until he stops moving. You long to kick him, punch him, bite him. Bring his limp, battered, broken body in and drop it at the feet of The Colonel like a cat delivering prey to his master.
It is not part of your mission, not part of your duty. But the urge is nearly enough to knock you over. For you will meet this man within a few hours. You will encounter him in a hotel room. You will rob him. He might resist. You might fight with him.
You might shoot him.
You might do more.
For your Colonel.
"Hopefully without bloodshed, although we have planned for everything," The Colonel had said.
Everything!
You are ambitious. You have been asleep for what seems to be a very, very long time, and standing up and stretching is doing wonders for your spirits. You smile unguardedly at The Colonel, who still hasn't turned your way.
You owe The Colonel everything.
When he finally looks at you, he smiles a little, turns, and pours you a cup of coffee.
"We have a little time yet," he says personably. "I hope you are well, dear thief."
"Colonel, I cannot properly express my gratitude-" you stumble over the words. "For..."
"Yes, yes, drink the coffee, before it gets cold!" he says heartily. "Silly thief!"
And so you sip it. It is deep black, bitter and tarry. It is prepared the way The Colonel likes it and therefore, it is the way you like it.
"It is wonderful," you say shyly.
The Colonel turns back to the screen.
"Crane is formidable," he muses. "He won't go down without a fight."
As though he read your mind!
"But you are formidable too. You may not know much, little thief, but you do know how to fight. Did I tell you the condition my officer was in when you left him?"
You look down at your hands. They feel weak. Your legs barely hold you. Your head pounds constantly. You are formidable?
"No, Colonel, you didn't," you answer.
"Dead!" he laughs merrily.
A chill runs down your spine, followed by a rush of nausea.
You have killed before.
"The fool. It was his fault, really," The Colonel snorts. "A trinket given to him by his mother. Worth dying for? What an imbecile. There are always other trinkets. As you well know! You had to give it up, too, when six of my other men finally knocked you down."
Finally?!
"I wonder if you even know why you wanted it? What could you have gotten for it?"
"I don't know, Colonel. I don't remember anything."
Except Crane and Nelson.
"Well, in any case, you might have to kill Crane," The Colonel shrugs. "Or you might not."
You realize at that moment that you have resolved to kill Crane whether the situation demands it or not.
He sets down his coffee.
"My men are getting everything ready. We'll begin instructing you soon. Dear thief, if there is anything you wish to say now, freely and without any fear, you may. You may speak your mind. It will not leave this room."
What is there to say? What could you possibly say?
"Thank you, Colonel, for everything. I owe you my life..." you begin.
And unbelievably, The Colonel rolls his eyes.
"Oh, off your knees. Enough groveling. Speak your MIND, you imbecile. What little there is of it."
You don't know what he wants you to say. You don't know what he wants to hear.
You don't know what is in your own mind.
But then you smile a little, and raise your eyes to meet his.
"I want to kill Crane. And Nelson too. For you, Colonel. I want to bring them to you!"
He half-smiles back. It is not the overjoyed reaction you were hoping for, and your innards go cold.
"How sweet," he mutters. "Is that all?"
You stumble.
"I-I don't know. I can't remember anything else..."
He grins widely, and then claps you on the shoulder as if you were lifelong friends.
"And that's alright. That is fine. All you need remember, sweet little murderous thief, is that if you don't return with those documents, you will face the longest and most unpleasant death my scientists can devise for you. You will wish that I had let you die as a worthless thief in the gutter."
His hand on your shoulder is as heavy as lead. You stare at him. Then after a moment, he laughs. And then, after another moment, you force yourself to laugh, too.
You are to allow the doctor's aide to deliver the papers to Crane. You are to do nothing to stop the delivery. You will watch it from across the road, make sure it takes place.
You cannot help but raise an eyebrow. Would it not be easier-
The Colonel laughs, as if he has read your thoughts.
(He probably has-)
"Dear thief, it is not as though I rule this entire country yet. Only bits and pieces! In broad daylight, found robbing a man of his property, you might well find yourself dealing with this country's police force! And when you were released from their feeble grasp, and back in mine..."
He needn't finish the sentence. He only smiles at you.
"And this is the master key for my humble little inn," he hands you a rusty key on a filthy string. "It will open any door in the place. You're to enter Crane's room before he returns and lock the door behind you. Catch him napping, as it were. You will have only a minute or so. Perhaps... ninety seconds?"
He says "ninety seconds" with great care. And you ache all over. And the man you saw reflected in the table... was not a young man.
Each step is a torment, though you mustn't admit it to The Colonel. The Colonel says you are as fit as a fiddle, and so you must be.
You mustn't doubt.
"Ninety seconds," you confirm.
He continues,
"Leave him unconscious if you can. Dead if you must."
Oh... he will be dead. You have sworn it to yourself.
"And this," The Colonel points at one of his men, "Is Bjordahl. One of my finest. He will take the documents off your hands."
Bjordahl is pale in skin, hair, and eyes. He is gaunt, with a large, ugly scar down one cheek, but he gives The Colonel the same gaze of adoration that you give The Colonel.
A kindred spirit, or a competitor? Might you have to kill him, too?
The black coffee churns in your stomach.
"Ah!" The Colonel cries, gesturing at the television, "And the sleepy little American prince awakens."
On his last day.
Bjordahl is silent as he drives through the crowded streets. Streets you once roamed, making a meager living off the misfortune of others.
The Colonel has told you so.
It will be hot today, you can tell already, despite the early hour. Bjordahl is sweating profusely. In truth, he looks quite unhealthy.
You wonder about his past. One of The Colonel's best men, but he looks as though he has just escaped from Hell much the worse for wear. He has a twitch, and he frequently grimaces in pain. And that awful scar...
Your heart should ache for your countryman, you know that... but all you can think about is Crane. The noises he will make when you-
But all at once, Bjordahl speaks. Though it is more of a bleat. A high-pitched bleat, a panicked torrent of words.
"The Americans... They are scum! They aren't even human! Turn your back on one, and he'll murder you without a second thought. They torture men and women, they kill children. And they laugh!"
He breaks off and wipes his forehead with the back of his sleeve. The car has become all but airless.
"-And they feel no pain themselves! You can beat them and beat them and they only laugh! They are monsters! They are... worse than monsters... You can do nothing..."
Now... you worry. Why didn't The Colonel tell you any of these things?! Crane may be only one man, but he is an American! And if what Bjordahl says is right...!
"Can they be killed?" you exclaim.
He breathes heavily, and his eyes dart back and forth between you and the road.
"Killed?" It is as though he has never heard the word before.
"The Americans! Can they be killed?! Can they die?! I must kill Crane!" you cry. "I must! For The Colonel!"
"Oh..." he smiles a little. Laughs a little. A terrible sound.
"Please, Bjordahl, you must tell me-"
"Oh, they can die, the Americans. I have seen it! But they don't die like we do. It is horrible to see. They go down all at once, without a word or cry or a whimper. They show no fear, no emotion. And when one of them is dead, the others go on as if nothing ever happened."
You shiver, despite the great heat in the vehicle.
"They are not human like we are," finishes Bjordahl.
No, of course they are not.
"How it must grieve The Colonel..." you whisper. "Such an enemy!"
"...Yes," he whispers back. "It must."
And for a moment, the two of you are united in your love for that wonderful man.
You take your position across the street, and you see him. You see Crane there, the man (monster) himself. He is idle, careless, leaning on a fence. He lights a cigarette and looks about him impassively.
You are relieved to find that he is not a giant, as you had feared after your talk with Bjordahl. Indeed, he looks like a man, like any other man... but healthier than most of the men you have known (in the short time that you can recall).
Bjordahl's eyes are wide with fear as he watches Crane.
"The doctor's aide will be here in ten minutes." It is all he can do to get the words out. "When you return, you're to give the documents to me. Immediately!"
"Yes," you reply. It is as The Colonel said. "It will be my honor to see The Colonel's will done."
The car is stifling.
"You will not run away," Bjordahl whispers suddenly.
Your head snaps toward him, stunned. Run away? He may as well have suggested that you fly to the moon! Run away? When The Colonel himself spared your life, gave you this mission, and is waiting for your return?!
Run away?!
"I don't understand," is all you say.
"I don't know how much you remember, old man." Bjordahl's voice is, at once, level. His eyes are steady. "I don't know what's going on inside that brain. The Colonel tells me it is all but blank now, but I wonder."
He sighs, folds his arms behind his head. You unconsciously shift as far away from him as possible.
"But they won't save you, if you try to run into their arms, cling to their skirts like the coward you are. They can't save you now. And they wouldn't save you even if you begged. Not a one of them would save their own mother!"
"Who? Who can't save me? Who do you mean?!" you hiss.
Bjordahl sighs.
"The Americans, you fool!"
"The Americans?! What are you talking about, are you mad?! After what you've told me?! That I would run to them?! What are you talking about?!"
He looks at you as though he is already walking past you in your casket.
"I pray that you truly don't know." And then he reaches into his bag and pulls out two revolvers, one for you, and one for him, in case you decide to turn traitor to the man who gave you everything.
The aide has arrived. You are ready to burst from your seat, but Bjordahl gives you a dark smile and a brief shake of the head.
"They will talk for a bit," he says. "They are long lost friends, remember?"
Of course you remember. Now.
But you didn't a moment ago. And you could have ruined everything.
The heat has crossed from merely irritating into painful. The sweat is trickling into your eyes, a steady little stream. You roughly swipe at your forehead and try to slow your pulse.
"Everything alright?" Bjordahl asks with a mocking tone. "How does it feel, looking at an American?"
"How long?" is all you say.
He shrugs. Suddenly, he seems quite at ease. The gun in his lap seems to comfort him greatly. Or... perhaps it is the thought of using it.
Perhaps he longs to kill you, just as you long to kill Crane.
You wonder if you can really fault him.
"The two men are the best of friends, can't you see?" he asks you with a laugh. "And separated all these years. Shall we rush their tearful reunion?"
And it is true, Crane appears to have been counting the seconds as he launches himself into the arms of the young aide. The two laugh uproariously, pat each others' shoulders, muss each other's hair.
"...Old sea-dog!" cries the aide. Crane laughs in response and the two cross to a bench and begin talking excitedly.
Crane is an American monster with no emotions.
"Oh, sure, I'd love to see them!" Crane replies to an inaudible question. "Little Janie, how old is she now?"
"Not so little anymore. Fourteen!" The aide passes Crane a laminated sheet of paper that couldn't possibly be a photograph.
"She's beautiful. She looks just like her mother." A delighted smile reaches Crane's sparkling brown eyes.
Inhuman monsters.
"I thank the lord for that every day!" The aide jokes.
More laughter, and suddenly Bjordahl nudges you.
"Another moment or so! Open your door."
You fumble with the door handle for a few lengthy seconds. When you finally get it open, it creaks so loudly you are shocked that Crane doesn't hear.
You have the gun. You have the key.
You are so hot you can barely think.
Your mostly empty stomach (save for the bitter coffee) churns.
You long to see The Colonel, just once more, before you begin. You long for his beatific smile, his silken voice, his absolute power over you and over everything.
When you have power over yourself, you do bad things.
But now Bjordahl is looking at you in your panic, and he shoots you what must be a reassuring smile, though it mostly looks contemptuous.
"Don't be afraid, old thief. You're quite good at this! You've robbed some of the greatest houses in the country. You eluded capture for years! That's what The Colonel told us."
"But... I don't remember being a thief," you confess in a trembling whisper. "I don't remember any of it. I don't know what to do."
He raises an eyebrow and begins stroking the barrel of his revolver.
"You get the documents."
"But what if I-"
"Death by The Colonel's hand, or death by mine. Shall I choose for you now before we even begin?"
You set your jaw.
No.
Crane is still smiling and laughing as though he was having the time of his life. But he looks at his watch and-
"I must kill Crane," you say. "I must kill Crane and bring him to The Colonel, I must-"
"Then now," he snaps. "Go now. Now! Now!"
It is the last time you look upon Bjordahl as an ally.
You trip in the dirt. Your limbs are too long. Your mind is too full. Your stomach is too empty. You have no time for this and when you glance back at an angry Bjordahl, you flinch and wait for the bullet.
It does not come.
So you run.
You are quickly exhausted, and as you reach the back door of the hotel, you can scarcely make out the knob, let alone the lock.
You fumble with the key as though you have never used one before. (Well, perhaps you haven't.) Wave after wave of nausea assaults you.
You feel very, very old.
When you finally open the door, it swings loosely on its dilapidated hinges and smacks you in the face. You recoil in surprise and nearly lose your footing. A pretty picture you would make, sprawled in the dirt outside The Colonel's hotel. Done in by a door.
No, it isn't to be. You have done this before, you are an accomplished thief, you have robbed the greatest houses in the land!
("You're to enter Crane's room before he returns and lock the door behind you. Catch him napping, as it were. You will have only a minute or so. Perhaps... ninety seconds?")
It will be easy. It must be easy...
But...
ohhh.
You let out an agonized, irritated moan as you look inside and behold a steep set of maroon-carpeted stairs. And, though you can't comprehend how such a thing can be possible, it is actually hotter inside the building than it is outside.
But you are formidable! And you must do as The Colonel says! And you must kill Crane-
And the door slams shut behind you, clipping your heel on its sharp edge. A tiny, insignificant thing, but you cry out. You shriek. You are a cringing little coward but then again, the pain from before has never truly left you. And so now you find that your head is buzzing, laboring to process each and every little bit of discomfort.
You are a formidable thief! The Colonel said so! But you aren't quite sure how... how you could possibly be-
And then you vomit on The Colonel's stairs. But he will understand, surely he will understand-
And then, without any warning at all, your legs buckle beneath you. You fall first to your knees. And then you scrape your hands on the rough carpet as you attempt to break your fall... and fail miserably. The breath is knocked out of you and your upper cheek slams against the edge of the third stair up. Your vision goes white.
And you would as soon die as doubt The Colonel... but for a brief moment, as each breath is a labor, as you slump in a painful position with those hard, unyielding stairs cutting into your chest and stomach...
You wonder if perhaps... The Colonel might have mistaken you for another man.
The Colonel is infallible! Of course he is of course he is of course he is-
but you cannot be the man he says you are.
You are in agony.
You were not made for this sort of thing.
You are no master thief. You can't be.
For you are merely an old,
sick,
feeble
worthless
man
who cannot even so much as make
it
to the damned
"...You alright?"
A sincere tenor voice with what can only be an American accent.
Watery eyes roll slowly upward and through a curtain of sticky tears, you see a face.
But it cannot be Crane who looms above you with a sympathetic, concerned look. It cannot be Crane! No, no, no, it is The Colonel. Of course it is The Colonel. You have looked up into the eyes of The Colonel enough times to know that it is him. You have spent your life, helpless before him. And he has done things to you—for you. Things to make you forget things you mustn't know. For your own good and for the good of all. Things to make you better.
But not better enough.
He has brought pain and he has brought agony and he has made you grateful for it, and you wonder what awaits you now-
"Whoa, whoa, don't sit up," says (Crane?!) "Easy."
"Colonel, I..." but you retch again and slump back down, choking on the words. What could you possibly say?
"Shh, shh, shh. It's okay. Colonel, huh? Your CO? Too much shore leave, a few things you'd rather he not find out about?" He smiles at you. "Well, my lips are sealed, don't worry."
"No, no... please, I have to..." you try to sit up again, but firm hands press on your shoulders.
"What you have to do is get back to your room, drink a big, cold glass of water, and sleep it off! Now, do you have your key?"
Key? Yes! Yes, the key is there, but why should he-
You dangle it before his eyes, and he smiles again.
"I knew you would. Which room is yours? Do you remember?"
"I know the room..." you mumble through a frown. You are hot and you are stiff and everything hurts but a strange, fuzzy truth is beginning to take shape before you-
"Sure you do. You're gonna be fine! Listen, I've gotta catch a boat." His smile is boyish and carefree. "And you've gotta take it easier on that stuff next time, especially in this heat! You're liable to kill yourself!"
"I'm... careful, Colonel... I'm very careful..."
"Well, act like it next time!"
A friendly clap on the knee, another brilliant smile, and he turns and trots down the rest of those maroon stairs and out the door.
And you realize in a flash that you have let Crane get away with the documents.
You IDIOT!