XLII: Join Me in L.A.

There was a girl singing for spare change. He recognized the song. Siúl, siúl, siúl. Walk, walk, walk. And he did, although Los Angeles was the last place that he wanted to do it. It startled him to hear the language this far away, but it could only be expected. The way all these coincidences turned out, far too neat, always so neat, he would have thought that the girl had been planted to distract him. There was something that set her singing apart. She was not the usual street performer with a violin case and a few sour notes, or college kids busking for spare change on the public transport. He'd seen those here, too, though the general street performer was less frequent here than in Dublin. The people here seemed to think they were entitled to the change.

He did not wonder why, because he gave them the money. They figured him for an easy take, and he knew he was, and he gave them money every time. He might have given some to the girl, too, but the girl's singing disturbed him. There was something desperate in it, like she was wrenching it from some hidden place not even she wanted to find. He shuddered at it and moved on.

He was supposed to meet them. He was supposed to report to them. He was supposed to tell them that the doctor had been convinced to join them, that he had been made into their eyes on the plane, but he could not possibly do that. The last meeting had gone badly. He'd let a few things slip, he was sure, but he had fled their meeting at a bar after only an hour. He'd even abandoned his drink, he remembered, so he knew that it must not have gone well. He would have to tell them that. He would have to report that he had failed. He would not get the money for his race now, and that saddened him.

It was all that damned doctor's fault. If only he hadn't yelled, lost control – Desmond remembered that; he could see the man's angry face, though he wasn't sure what he had said to make the fellow look that way – then maybe Desmond could have explained things to him. Maybe the doctor would have understood. Maybe he could have been convinced. He had yelled, though, and he hadn't wanted to hear it, and Desmond saw no reason to disillusion him, then. He would just go with the others, and maybe in time, he could be convinced. Perhaps the doctor's father would speak to him, would make him see.

That was something for which he could only hope.

Los Angeles was hot and crowded, and he did not like it. Boston had felt like home, but this was alien, strange, uncertain territory. He would have to get used to the unknown if he was to travel around the world, but that he could not do at the moment. He had to locate his employers and talk with them. He hoped that they would understand. It occurred to him then that, if they did not understand, he might be in trouble. He wished he had a gun. Or maybe one of those protein shakes.

–––

"The Institute will not be pleased."

"Yes, I know. But I could not – "

"You know for what reason we are doing this, don't you? Surely you too sat through orientation. Please recite to me the goals of the Institute."

" 'The Institute seeks to broaden the parameters of humanity by conducting the noblest of experiments in the name of progress. We seek a transhumanist initiative where there is only chaos, disorder, and barbarism. We seek to build a more enlightened society, one individual at a time.' " He could have told the other man that by heart.

"Very good. Then why do you not seek to help us do precisely that? You were supposed to recruit Mr. Shephard, not let him get drunk on your dollar. Our dollar, really."

"I tried."

"Clearly, not hard enough."

"He will not join. What am I supposed to do, put a damned gun to his head?"

No answer. Perhaps that really had been an option. Instead: "Did you tell him anything?"

"No," Desmond replied, and for a moment, he even thought that was the truth.

–––

It was dark enough so that the cars on the freeway grew into little pinpoints of headlights and tail lamps and slid into one another soundlessly. He stood watching them for a long moment before turning away. He had failed. They had made that quite clear. The woman, Elizabeth or Libby or Beth, had looked disappointed and had given Candle specific advice on him. He wondered what that advice was and was quite surprised when Candle announced that the Dharma Initiative still wanted to fund his race around the world.

He was starving. He would have to get something to eat. He took a long, deep breath, turned around, and started for the strip mall just on the edge of the freeway. A chicken-headed fast food restaurant was there, and that seemed as good a place as any to eat. 'Mr. Cluck's,' the sign proclaimed, and it had the look of a local chain. Surely it would not be fine dining, but it was as good of a meal as any. Besides, he had to get fed before he could continue doing what they needed him to do.

Find us another, his boss had said. If you cannot turn a doctor, then do not work so hard. Find us some people who are easy to take, and that will be fine. We will have a use for them. He was not supposed to recruit them yet, but only study them, and he was too starving at the moment to concentrate. There had to be something to eat here, even if it was of questionable quality.

He pulled open the door to the restaurant and scanned the counter. Two boys were working there, a larger young man and a smaller. He wanted something to eat, and they were both attentive, but the larger one appeared quite eager to fill his order – and quite hurried, as well, to hide the few French fries which he had been sneaking on the job. Desmond motioned the young man to finish eating. The boy looked surprised at first before popping those French fries into his mouth, telling him, "Thanks, dude. I totally thought you were going to get me busted."

"I wouldn't do that. I'm not in that line of work." He only noticed after a few moments that the young man was staring at him. Had he said something strange? "A salad, please. McDonald's has them, so I figure you do as well."

"Yeah, well, we're not McDonald's. What do you want, man?" The young man's hand shot towards the menus above, as if to identify them for Desmond's benefit. "Healthiest thing on there is probably the chicken nugget four-piece."

"I'll take that, then," Desmond said. It only occurred to him within the next moment or two that it was strange that he should take health advice from a young man who was so clearly unhealthy. That did not bother him as much as he had thought it might have, however. Everything had gone so strangely today that he could scarcely be shocked anymore.