Circumstance
"Get up, Rachel." A voice intruded into my dreams, slowly solidifying. "Get up." A rather annoyed voice. "Rachel." It sounded again, increasingly aggravated. I felt a gentle push against my shoulder. Then another, and another and I awoke, my brow and nose damp. "Up? Get up, Rachel."
"What, wait, what, where, who are you?"
"You're in a hospital, of sorts. You've recently acquired a rather interesting ability. No, no questions, I'm not in the mood. Nor do I want to hear your sleepy string of pointless questions. Care for a coke?"
"Umm."
"I'll take that as a yes. Get your things together." I realized I was wearing a gown, my clothes, a frantic glance around the room later, were on a nearby chair. "I'll be back in five minutes, be ready."
Where was I? I looked around, not seeing anything noteworthy, the chair with my clothes on it, a window that showed only sky, a glass of water on the table to my left. Oh, he'd spilled a bit onto my face so I'd wake up. A hospital? Why? I felt fine. I didn't remember how I got there though. I was, I think, on my way home from class, walking through the park when I saw a man walking towards me, talking on his phone and then, I. And then I woke up with Mr. Coke crudely splashing my face with water?
"Ready?" came the tense question from outside the door. Had I been trying to remember for 5 minutes?
"No, one moment." I peeked under the sheets, yes, my gown was long enough to cover everything, got up and dashed to my clothes, pulled my jeans on as quickly as I could while hopping towards the door, at which point I stood with my back against it, threw off the gown and put on my shirt. I felt accomplished.
"Can I come in?"
I stepped away from the door, expecting it to open. "Yes."
"Great. Now come out, we've got to go." He handed me a bottle of coke as I stepped through the doorway. "I'll be brief. I don't want to be here today. Usually, we'd watch you..."
"Watch me?"
"Watch you for development and see if you contracted...
"Contracted?"
"Contracted the ability or not. In your case, and this is the first time we've seen this, you exhibited it in your sleep, saving us a great deal of hassle."
"Exhibited what?"
"Great, you're a curious one. Let's make a deal. You don't interrupt me and I get to finish my sentences? That sound fair?" He didn't wait for my answer before starting off down the hall. "Follow me. Here's what happened. One of us lost control and passed on his ability to you. You passed out, as everybody does. Realizing what happened, he made sure to bring you here. Got it so far?" I opened my coke in the momentary lull, the hiss of pent up gas sharp in the quiet hallway. I winced at the accidental impoliteness.
"Yes. But, what ability? I feel just like I always do."
"It's better to see it first hand, in all its splendor. That'll come later." We'd been passing by doors at regular intervals, finally stopping next to an entrance to a staircase when his phone began vibrating in his pocket. He picked up, glanced at the display, flicked it open with a thumb and brought it to his ear, his face betraying dismay almost immediately. "Yes, sir. Of course. And then I can leave? Okay. Ha." His face brightened up, mouth curling into a smirk. "Yes, I'll tell her. I'll be right there."
"Tell me what?"
"You didn't wonder how we knew that you had exhibited it in your sleep, did you? The room you were in had cameras installed, as does every other room for that matter. I was told to tell you that they are marvelous."
***
"You've got a new assignment, Mark."
"Oh?"
"Yea, a babysitting deal."
"Great. Why me? Are they at least capable, not like the dull witted hunk of lard I had to run through the paces last time."
"She's capable. Attractive, smart. Aced the tests we laid out for her. Most importantly, she's done previous work with an NGO."
"So she's a candidate for the African?”
"Yes," John said, "you'll meet her tomorrow, give her a bit of a demonstration, alright?"
"My usual?"
"What else?"
***
I stood in front a row of monitors, a keyboard and mouse laid out on the otherwise clear desk. John hit a switch I didn't see previously on the side of the desk and a panel of the desk slid back, uncovering a series of switches, labels too small to read from where I stood. John flicked the left-most switch, triggering the wall behind the monitors to split apart, revealing a gigantic open, empty room before us, basketball court markings on the floor. I walked over to the side of the desk and gazed down through the window, hearing another three clicks coming from John's fingers. The room slowly underwent a massive transformation. A row of bulls-eye targets descended from the ceiling, held firmly in place by curved metal rods. A dozen steel beams extended out of themselves in ever thinning sections across the width of the room, locking themselves into tiny hatches at the opposite walls. Another set of bulls-eyes popped up at the far end of the room. Moments later, three of the monitors flickered on, displays constantly panning camera feeds of the room in front of us.
“There are a dozen cameras in that room, each recording in high definition for later review. I can view any of them live from these monitors or review the footage later. The fourth monitor here,” he pointed the remaining blank monitor, “is currently displaying the feed from another room. The lights are off, so the camera can’t see anything.” John clicked the last button in the line-up while explaining the set-up to me. Moments later, a tiny microphone protruded from the desk. “I don’t know why they had to hide that. We gave the tech guys a bit too much money to outfit this room and they got a bit too happy.”
I ventured a question, still unsure of what exactly I was doing here and what the room was for. “Is this where I get to see it, whatever it is, first hand?”
“Yes. One moment.” He fiddled around with the mouse for a few moments, tapped the microphone and spoke loudly into it, “Mark, please report to the room immediately.”
I heard the command echoed over the PA system and, shortly after, Mark’s vulgar response coming from outside the door, “The room. What room? Could he be any less specific? Immediately. I would get there immediately, if I knew what fucking room I had to go to.”
“Mind opening the door and telling him ‘the fucking practice entry room,’ please?”
I opened the door, peered out, saw Mark, or I guessed it was him, as he was the only person in the hall, and figured that doing what John had said would probably be better for me than flinging a curse at Mark, who, by this time, saw me and was heading in my direction. I squeaked out “the fucking practice entry room,” my voice breaking mid-way through as I realized I made the wrong decision.
He continued walking towards me, slightly faster than I thought one could possibly walk, until he stood right in front of me, stared at me in my quickly averting eyes, and asked a simple question. “You Rachel?”
Almost as soon as I regrettably answered “yes” Mark waved his hand in between us, a foot away from me. An excruciating immediately pain shot through my chest as if someone had slammed a book against it. I stumbled back into the room, losing my breath.
“Flashy, yes? Too flashy? You asked for a demo, John.”
John sighed in what I hoped was disgust, “just go to the entry room.”
***
The fourth monitor flickered, then steadied as I focused on Mark’s bright red hoody, a splash of color against the gray floor, what looked like a soft gray chair and the metal table in front of him. He stood there, looking directly at the camera. “What are my options?” he asked, his voice coming clearly through a speaker to my right.
John fiddled with the mouse again and zoomed the camera into the table, “open the top drawer, pick whatever and however much you want. Make this good.” This time his voice only sounded in the Mark’s room, no longer routed to the PA system. Mark opened the top drawer, revealing a bowl of ball bearings, two solid metal knives with a ring on one end and their accompanying sheaths nearby and, lastly, two pistols with four magazines surrounding them. “Make it look good Mark, please.” Mark grabbed a handful of ball bearings, tapped a button on the wall to his left and step through the still opening door into the large room, immediately appearing on two of the other three monitors. The small room’s camera feed, still zoomed in, showed the remaining knives, pistols and their ammo, and the mostly full bowl of little metal balls. “First phase, Mark, once you’re ready.” Standing in the middle of the room, he alternated between staring at all the cameras, occasionally chancing upon the three that were being displayed on our monitors.
“I’m ready, what’s first?”
“The targets in front of you.” Mark didn’t move quickly, instead, he poured some of the ball bearings into his pants pocket and held the remaining few out on his left palm.
“Rachel,” he yelled, “watch this.” With that, one of the metal spheres levitated above his palm, his right hand drawn back, waving around as if he was putting on a magic show. “Which one should I hit first?”
“Go ahead,” John whispered, “pick.”
“The one on the left.”
Immediately, Mark’s right arm locked into place, forming a perfect line between the target, the hovering sphere and the flat of his palm. An instant later, a bell rang and John moved one of the cameras over to the target, now with a little glittering indent at its center. “Which one next, Rachel?”
“Challenge him,” John requested.
“All of them, of you can.”
Mark poured the bearings into his right hand, “seriously?”
“So you can’t.”
With that, he was off. His right arm swung forth, hurling the dozen bearings at the two targets that were the closest to each other, setting off two bells. He brought his arm back in, only to swing it out a split second later, a third bell rang. He held out his left palm again, twitched his right hand twice, two more bells rang. “Satisfied?” I could easily see his grin, zoomed out as the camera was.
“What just happened?”
“And this, Rachel, is why we record this.”
I saw now, in slow motion, what Mark had done. First of all, he hadn’t poured all the balls into his right hand, he’d kept three in his left hand, tightly closed into a fist. So that explained the last two targets. What about the other target? The feed continued in slow motion. Ah, a knife. Mark had a knife, just like the kind I saw in the drawer, in his left hoody sleeve. It slid out, as if on cue. Marked simply grabbed it from his left wrist and let it fly on its way to the target in one fluid motion. “Wow” was the only thing I could come to say.”
“Now the higher targets, please.”
“How’ll he reach those, John, they’re angled up, away from him, he’d be on their level or arc it up there or…” I stopped talking as I saw Mark begin to float up in the air, slowly turning head over heels, his face inches away from one of the horizontal bars at one point, until he touched down on the ceiling, his hands resting on his hips.
“Now, John?”
“Any time you’re ready.”
Midway through John’s reply, Mark’s right hand shot forth, a metallic blur accompanying his pink flesh. His arm barely moved as he picked off every target with slow, controlled shots from a pistol, again, the same sort as the one in the drawer. “But he didn’t take any from the first room.”
“Luck favors the prepared. The prepared favors knives and his right hand.”
***
Mark was an excellent teacher. While lacking his flair, Rachel quickly matched his level of control. She preferred a gun for target sessions, having an easier time with it than she expected, the ability allowing for the management of recoil and more precise aiming. “You’re ready.”
“For?”
“Our overseas operation.” Rachel had heard of it, knew that they were involved in humanitarian aid in Africa, employing their rather unique skills to negotiate with local warlords. They’d flat out bribe the lords in return for safety and protection instead of harassment and corruption. As a result, their efforts were more successful and they enjoyed a certain degree of freedom and security usually absent from such situations. Certainly more secure than her previous noble excursion.
***
Rachel peered out of the metallic frame, gingerly taking her first step down the plane's steps as she inhaled her last breath of African air and involuntarily welcomed the bullet into the crevices of her gray matter. The resulting stain on the airplane took far too long to remove.
