Why are you so afraid?
And before you can even begin to wonder what it means, those gentle fingers suddenly take a turn for the worst. Nails bite into your palm and sink like sharp teeth. The pain is a shock to your system, a relay switch flipped and your eyes snap wide open.
"Sameen..."
Again and again, you blink and come back into to focus. Everything is as it was. The room, the woman, and you, sitting on the couch like you never left in the first place. Like nothing ever happened. But something did happen, there's some time unaccounted for. When did she move back to her respective chair? Why is she staring at you like that, like she's been waiting?
"What?"
She senses something amiss, but doesn't dwell in it. "I asked you what you were afraid of."
The voice whispering in your ear immediately comes to mind. Those words, you think they were hers. The black nails clawing into your skin, you think they belonged to her too. It was real, you'd swear by the four red crescent shaped indents on the palm of your hand. You'd like to blame her for that, but when you notice the complete lack of polish on her part, you can't. Especially when you find the ominous red tinge stained underneath your own nails.
"Nothing," you tell her, even though you're still haunted by the ghost of her voice, by the potential of her imaginary touch. It's a lie like all of the those things are. What's real and much worse, the feeling like you're losing your mind.
"Nothing?" She looks to you skeptically. "Not even death?"
"We all die." At some point; from our own doing or by the hand of another, from illness or freak accident. A truck driver falling asleep at the wheel on a dark and snowy highway, it can happen so easily.
"It's the terms and conditions of life," you tell her. A contract you involuntarily sign upon birth. It doesn't bother you, though, you'll probably be on the clock when you die. And then it becomes, "Hazards of the job."
One of these days the mission will go belly up, there will be an unforgivable snafu and you'll finally go down. People such as yourself aren't afforded conventional deaths. You'll catch a bullet between the eyes before you catch pneumonia, succumb to gun shot wounds before you succumb to cancer. If an accident does take you, it won't be an accident at all, it'll just look like one.
"Hazards of the job..." she reiterates. "And what exactly do you think your job is?"
"Terminating life contracts." Because you are the hand of another.
Your job is ugly math. For every one person you eliminate, you save hundreds if not, thousands of lives. It's a ratio that might serve as a comfort to others in the same line of work, a comparative end to justify the means, to perhaps help them sleep at night.
But you never have that sort of trouble. Even if hours prior, you were snapping someone's neck or putting two in their chest, you sleep because you've done your job and you've done it well.
Which is, to make perfectly clear, "I kill people."
She doesn't bat a lash at your honesty. If anything, she seems immune to the harsh truth no one in their right mind would want to know. And why? You consider it might be the kind of thing she hears everyday from people like you, people who sit right here and divulge all the gory details of their line of work. The lifestyle they chose.
And isn't this the life she chose as well? The job she signed up for? To be alone in a room with someone who finds killing easier than conversation. You wonder if this apparent indifference of hers came about over time, having heard the same gruesome story told over and over again by a different pair of lips... or if it's the opposite. What if she's just not wired like everyone else? What if she's like you?
"Who?" she asks.
"Who what?"
"These people you kill, who are they?"
You don't remember most of their names. As soon as the mission was done, they were easily forgotten. If at all, you remember the time and place, the weapons used, what you had to eat afterwards. It isn't a defense mechanism, it's just how you are. Generalized, not local. Broad is the only answer you can give her.
"Terrorists... enemies of my country... potential threats," you tell her and there's a visible reaction, a spark of interest as a result.
"Potential..." Out of the seven words you've just used, oddly, she only ruminates on the one. "The possibility of becoming something..." she remarks. Her voice is curiously uplifting, as if she's stumbled upon an anomaly in need of further examination. You think she's going to walk back over to that shelf and destroy a second book just to illustrate another moot point. A dictionary, you theorize.
You say, "Thanks. But could you use it in a sentence please?"
For the first time, you see her laugh. Though, it was merely a short burst of air through her upturned lips. Barely a laugh at all but it revolved within you, ticked the muscles of your face to follow in suite.
"I'd say you have potential for a career in stand up when you retire," she says, humoring your sarcasm. And then you really do laugh.
"That'll never happen," you scoff.
"Being a comedian or being retired?"
"Both."
Retirement doesn't cross your mind often, maybe a few times during idle moments. It's usually the stereotypical things government agents do when they reach pension heaven, because you have no clue what you want. Buy a house on the beach, grow an herb garden, live out the rest of their days in peace after having spent most of them in complete discord. But idle thoughts are all they are. Fleeting, entertaining until they're not.
"Why?" she presses on. "Are you afraid of change?"
This woman and her poor listening skills. You've already told her, you're not afraid of anything. Integration into normal society should be covered under that as well.
Would you like to? No. Could you? Yes, if it were necessary.
But when you consider such a transition from the clandestine shadows into the open light of day, you think it's no better. Funny, people assume whatever the sun makes visible must be good and true. For someone like you, accustomed to the dark and the real world hidden within, anything brighter would be blinding. You prefer the dark, you were meant for it. Because therein lies the actual truth. Awful and ugly, but at least you see it.
The truth is, "People like me have a short shelf life."
The truth is, your expiration date is just around the corner.
She wallows in a sappy grin. "Oh, I don't think there's anyone quite like you, Sameen."
For a split second, you can't tell if that was a compliment or a jab at your personality. If you reached far enough, she might have just flirted with you.
"I hope you're not about to compare me to a snowflake," you caution.
"Wouldn't dream of it," she assures you, but her melody portrays the exact opposite. "Then again... you are very unique."
You shake your head. How wrong she is.
You're a soldier, a damn good one if you were to be so arrogant, but a soldier nonetheless. You march to the beat of the drum alongside other soldiers made of the same material, the same mold of flesh and bone.
But she's probably referring to the gray matter in your skull, the only thing that makes people feel like they're different. That, you might agree to. Then again, maybe not. Somewhere out there is another sociopath just like you. You wonder if the goverment's got them killing people too.
"I only follow orders," you say.
To be different, to be unique, is to be a leader. To create a path in which people align themselves with. You have the intelligence, but you lack the heart of a leader. There is no fire, no passion burning in your chest, only a muscle pumping a steady rhythm. The reality is, you're better at preserving.
There's a change in her mood, a shift in her comfortable seat. She leans far to one side, curls a fist to rest her chin upon. "And... who exactly gives you these orders?"
You don't respond right away. Although, you would like to throw out a question of your own. For instance, where is she hiding all of her tools? The knives, the ropes, the things that burn and shock. You wanna know if there's plumbing in this office for water boarding. If she had sprung for a battery operated drill. If she's sharpened all of her cutting implements recently.
Because the last time you were asked that question, you were being interrogated.
You're reluctant to call it torture because... well, they were amateurs. Hurt like hell, though. You remember feeling – the jumper cables for one, but damned regardless. It didn't matter how you answered the questions, you knew the end result would be the same no matter what. If they didn't kill you, your employers would if they thought for one second you talked. You've seen it happen before.
But she has your file. Only certain people in your agency have that kind of clearance. The higher ups, you think they're the ones who accessed it. Maybe they're the reason why you're here. To sit, to speak, to endure a different kind of torture.
"My employer," you say. "We call her Control."
Her ears prick, interest piqued all of a sudden and you think it's a bad sign. You feel like you've made a huge mistake, telling her so little. The omen is in her eyes widening with prospect.
"So you two are acquainted then? You've met?" She asks, and you shake your head. Telling her no, but mostly in disapproval of yourself.
"No one sees or hears Control."
Control is the invisible link so high up in the chain of command. Control doesn't exist in the same realm as you. Though you are what goes bump in the night, Control is the shroud of darkness, the shadow in which you operate. The one telling you who to bump.
"But you just referred to Control as a she?" she contends.
Did you? You can't recall.
"Maybe I did. Maybe I didn't. Who knows?" and you just shrug indifferently. The same way you did numerous times, long ago, during your first interrogation.
"I think you know well," she throws back, looking expectantly for you to satisfy her with a better answer.
"Just came to mind is all," you reply. Moving on to the next item on the docket – word association, hypnosis, hand puppets, whatever... you'd be perfectly fine with any of those trivial things.
"It came to mind," she mimics, "Just like that?" and snaps her fingers together. The sharp sound is a tick in your right eye, a degree rise in temper. You might boil from this frivolous line of questioning.
She drums her fingers on the arm of the chair, surely to the rhythm of all the bright ideas prancing about in her mind. Doing what she seems to love the most, stare, waiting for you to indulge her. With what? You have no clue, but you think about reacting in such a way... the wrong way.
"Your assumption doesn't add up," she finally says, having ceased with the tapping before you did something about it.
"Maybe you suck at math."
She tilts her head, grinning almost manically, like she wasn't expecting anything less than a wise crack. Like she had wished all along you would dare cross the unknown line into her territory and ensnare yourself.
At that, she rises from the chair, wandering towards the middle ground of no mans land to lean upon the front of her desk.
"You operate within a system predominately controlled by males," she states, as if you didn't already know that crying shame of a fact. "And yet... you automatically assume your superior, Control, to be female." There's this knowing gleam in her eyes as she looks to you. "Now why is that?"
It was just a slip of the tongue, you think. A her that could have easily been a him. If you had known better, you would have said boss instead, and then this woman wouldn't be breathing down your neck about such an insignificant detail.
"What can I say? I may just be a feminist at heart," you reply and cross your arms, hoping she reads into body language as much as she does with semantics.
There seems to be a slight degree of irritation this poised woman allots herself. Subtly, she chews the inside of her grin and white knuckles the edge of the desk. It's there and then it's gone, ended with a ineffectual sigh and a, "Very well," rolling with her eyes and over her shoulder. On the desk is something better, something good, you think. Her lips naturally curl the way they're meant to.
It's your file.
She reaches back and flips it open. You watch her lick the tip of her finger before turning one page after another, humming while she searches.
"Who's Michael Cole?" she eventually asks, directly to the file versus to you.
"My partner," you say, confused as to what he has to do with any of this. For all you know, he's got an hour slot in her appointment book too.
"I'm sorry," she announces in an embarrassment so feigned and obvious, closing the entire file folder shut, she turns. "I meant, who was he to you?"
"We work together."
"For quite some time though," she says, leading and leading. "You two must have been close?"
As close as partners can be, you suppose. Though, after going through so many, you must admit, you're thankful Cole was the sidekick to actually stick. He's proven himself to be a reliable fixture in your work, and work is your entire life. Cole is the voice of reason in your head as you go forth into the darkness, the compass guiding you throughout the shadows. You protect each other. There is a mutual respect.
You say: "He's alright, I guess." and "We get along." and "I don't hate him."
But in your head you're thinking, if you were to ever call someone a friend, Cole might be that someone.
You were looking just over her shoulder, out the window again when she said something else...
"Perhaps he was special to you."
And that jarred you altogether, grabbed your focus by the collar and shook it violently.
You turn to her sharp, having recognized the pattern. "Was?"
Her expression is something you might recognize from a flashcard with the word sympathy written in bold across the bottom. For a moment, before it evolves into another you're more than acquainted with. Malice.
"I think it's only appropriate, considering-"
"Considering what?" you snap at her. "Why do you keep referring to him like that?"
And then, you see it. This cold and callous look of hers hardening into stone. Devoid of any real emotion, expressionless, the kind of face you see in the mirror.
"Well, you can't exactly function in the present if you're dead," she says, but you dismiss her immediately.
You were just with Cole in Berlin, gassing the hideout of a few bomb makers. The one who wouldn't go down, you shot him with a suppressed MPK5. And after you dug the bullets out, you met Cole at the van and ate a shitty protein bar while he rambled on about...
Damn it... what was he saying to you? The memory is there, the scene plays in your mind but without any sound. He was acting strange, he seemed troubled. There was worry in his eyes and you just waved it off, said something to the effect of him smiling weakly as he often does. He started the van without another word, and together you traveled to...
Here. You came here. The skyline behind the room is the same one you saw from the window of the airplane. Everything else, the line between point A and point B, it's fragmented. Even still...
"You're full of shit."
"I'm afraid I'm not," she says, shaking her head in that same solemn way the paramedic did in 1988. And you try your best to tune out all of the lies pouring from her mouth, but it's impossible. She speaks with calm abandon, never forcing herself to be heard because she already knows you can't help but listen.
"I'm sorry, but the only place Michael Cole exists is in the past..."
You feel your body start to vibrate, as if every atom you possess is stirring, heat and hatred gathering to the ends of your clenched fists.
"The sooner you accept it, the sooner we can..."
You zone and tunnel and take notice of her neck, of the muscles and tendons subtly moving underneath her pale skin, of the lump in her throat rising and falling with every lie that passes through her lips. Continuing to do so despite your wishes.
And then you remember, you could easily get up and change that.