The Agency II:

The Weather Is Smuggled Out Of China

It was in the early hours of the morning when I woke. For a moment I could not place my environment; my vision was blurred from sleep, and the dream from which I had escaped was still pulling its cobwebs away from my mind. I took a breath. A full week had passed since my first Taurean job, but memories of Oregon were still strong enough to plague me even in slumber, causing me to think for the first few seconds of each morning that I was indeed back in Springfield living a Human life. But afterward the familiar feel of the couch’s seat beneath my body would rush in; it would gain meaning when my palms moved over the fabric’s grainy texture. The cold pillow was underneath my head; I was loath to leave it. I sighed, turned my head to the other side, letting the lower section that was my body follow suit.

There was the succinct click of the bathroom door. I listened. Orion walked out of it, flipped the switch to turn the light off, then returned to his bedroom. He shut the door without a word. This was his usual routine. He never spoke until the second time he was compelled to leave his room. By then I was upright, yawning. I had been squinting before; now my eyes were open. All along the blue wall by the door were rows of plain cardboard boxes of my belongings, some of which were open that I could see objects sticking out of them. There had not been as much to take back as had been expected. When we left work the evening before, Orion had driven me back to my home in Springfield, and had loaded his car with all of my things. I had been grateful for his help, but not too much, because I had to beg him to the point of humiliation for him to lend his help. But I had expected this, and was thus prepared to endure the misery.

I raised both arms, stretched. As always my sense of balance immediately went askew before returning to normal, and my head was flushed with light warmth. It was Friday morning. Perhaps it was a beautiful Friday morning with blue sky, snow white clouds and radiant sun, perhaps it was not; there were no windows in the living room. I was sure, however, that the day would not be spent lazing around.

A yawn escaped my mouth. My power threw the blanket off.

The shower was soothing, so I thought while listening to the monotony of its raindrops on the grey-laced tiles. The water was cool, running in rivulets down my body. For a time I gazed at the silver pipe and its crystal levers, how they frosted over when I caused the water to grow hot. I closed my eyes, shook my head.

I had never heard of agencies conducting any sort of amicable transactions. Never had I heard of exchanges taking place between them, as it was not wise for agencies to foster any sort of relationship among themselves. Our profession would always cause us all to be enemies, that and the politics involved in our continuous effort to remain the world’s leading Gifted spy agencies. However, just because I had not heard of this did not mean that it was not a daily activity; many things happened among agencies under the table, many things that the rest of us below Administration could not begin to think of. Nevertheless, I had never heard of agencies exchanging agents. And that had to be what it was; I had to have been exchanged for someone else, for another Taurean who was now an Athenian. There was no other explanation that held as much weight as this. Whoever I was exchanged for had to have been an Escort agent, as sending off one who belonged to another department would have been unfair one way or another. Surely I could not have been exchanged for a Six, as Sixes were always deemed to be more useful than Fours, no matter the situation. Neither could I have been bought for a Three or a Two, as they would perhaps have been deemed as less useful than a Four. It had to be an Escort agent. That meant my partner, who had been working within the department for a number of years, knew who he or she was. That meant the entire department knew, but would not speak of it. Of course I had thought of this long before, and had decided on several occasions that I would question my colleagues on the matter. But I was always held back by the presence of Captain White, who always knew the things he should not, as if he had eyes and ears everywhere. If news of my questions reached him, he would have kept an unfaltering eye on me, and I would have had to watch my steps more carefully than before. The secrets had already begun and I had only just begun to settle into my new life in Taurus. After the second night, Orion had not said a word concerning the exchange, but he must have known more than I did, so I believed. The fact that he was withholding information from me showed how well I could trust him. Because of this his threat that he could easily kill me if I proved to be a traitor of some sort was always an ominous cloud above my head. But it was not always painfully present; despite the situation I was not as afraid as I could have been.

Perhaps Athena had labeled me defective once I had sent in my resignation to the department captain, knowing that if they called me back to the agency I would not be as useful or as devoted to the tasks given as I was before. I would have made mistakes or allowed my targets to be killed. I would have been a liability they did not want to have around. The employees who were seen as liabilities were usually removed, not from the workforce, but from existence itself, by Intelligence agents. In dire cases where the defective agents were too skilled and clever to be killed by their own, elite assassins from assassin agencies were always called in. From what I had heard, these assassins hardly ever failed to get their targets.

But Athena had not had me killed; perhaps I had not yet expired their waiting period, although back in Oregon I had lived every day in fear thinking that I had. And I knew I would have continued to work for them if they had sent Fives to find me and give the definitive ultimatum. I could not outrun them for the rest of my life; that was the unavoidable truth.

Taurus had known that I had resigned; they knew I was defective, yet they had agreed with the exchange. I was no fool. Were I a member of Athena’s stone-hearted Administration I would have gotten rid of all the defects by murder or by handing them off to someone else. And Taurus, the clever organization that she was, would have already had a plan set for me even before I had entered the building to begin my first day of work. They would put me to use one last time before I became useless. This euphemism was not lost on me. I wondered how defective the Taurean had become before he or she had been sent over to Athena. And I wondered what it was that I would be made to do before I became a target for Intelligence agents or elite assassins. A black dart had been thrown at my heart; my musing was giving it strength for its venom to awaken my paranoia which would taint both the heart and mind until I would be too paralyzed to protect myself from what was to come.

This could not happen.

It was the sudden need to repress that fear until it was again locked in its cage that drew me into the present until the raindrops from the showerhead became both visible and audible again. I would forget all else that day, I told myself then. There were other more urgent matters to take care of.

A mustered smile parted my lips.

Fresh faced, I looked away from the mirror. My power flipped the switch; the light went off. Orion was on the phone, I could tell. His voice wafted around the bend. With a hand I checked to make sure my hair was still in place, a habit I had taken up during childhood. He was leaning his hip on the marble counter; his legs were crossed. He stared forward in the direction of the stove and continued to speak, his voice holding irritated if not angry undertones. He was speaking a language I assumed to be Korean. He was, after all, of Asian descent. I remembered then when Amethyst and I had been working with him and Eric Nyles. It was on the third day of the mission that Amethyst, being the forward one, had asked him a question concerning his ethnicity, as it was her way to familiarize herself with strangers. She had been plain and straightforward, not caring that he would consider her to be too bold. Orion, regarding her with a guarded smile, had said he was Asian. Of course he was, that was obvious, but to which of the races? When he did not answer she spoke them all, the ones within her knowledge at least, but when she mention Korean he became unresponsive. It might have been that her persistence had irritated him, or it could have been that she had been correct, yet he had not wanted to admit this. It was then that I spoke, asking if he was indeed Korean. He said he was whatever I wanted him to be. The conversation had ended with those words.

When my arrival was noticed his language became familiar. He turned away, thought better of it, and continued to face the wall by the stove.

“Mother, I’ll have to talk to you later. Yes…I’ll talk to him…I promise—yes, the both of them. I’ll call you later, alright?” Whoever was on the other end now knew he was not alone. The matter would have to be continued another time. He ended the call. The receiver, because it was being manipulated by an unseen force, seemed to possess a mind of its own. It rose from his hand and floated away to its cradle on the far end of the counter and was still.

I smiled in greeting, not willing to reveal my curiosity to the one who had made it clear he was half my enemy and half my partner.

I spoke. “Good morning.”

“Good morning.”

I opened the door of the refrigerator. “It seems there are more yogurts in here than before.”

He folded his arms. “Maybe my fridge is a portal to a yogurt planet—no, I bought those. You seemed to like them…There’s jello in there too, along the side.”

“Thank you. It’s a very kind thing to do.”

He shrugged.

“Are you making breakfast?” I closed the door. “You are standing in here as if you were about to.”

“Yes. Yes I am.” He looked at the refrigerator. It opened with a slight sucking sound. His power reached for the items he sought. “As always, I’m making my world-famous Hotpockets and Poptarts. You’ll just die when you try them.” The items hovered before my face. When I rolled my eyes they removed their wrappers as a woman would shed her clothing, which were crushed by unseen hands and cast into the trash. The pastries entered the open microwave.

This was small talk; we both knew it.

Orion watched the machine until its tell-tale light appeared and the low drone began. He unfolded his arms, shifted his weight on the counter.

“I’m surprised you didn’t hear the noise earlier this morning.”

I nodded. “I did; the Joneses won the lottery. I didn’t have the strength to roll out of the couch much less get up and celebrate.” I smiled at the thought of them banging on the door at three in the morning to tell their neighbor they had won the day before. They were, I assumed, far too excited to sleep. They would not be sleeping for a long time.

“They are moving out by the end of next week.” His voice was smug. “I should go tell my car the good news.”

It was when he had set the plates of food down on the black marble counter that I saw his hand. His ring was visible, an onyx band he always wore and never seemed to take off for any occasion. Within its rims were patterns that I did not give much attention to, but enhanced the appeal of the ring nonetheless. It was an attractive piece of jewelry, and I stared at it until he pulled his hand away, beneath the counter.

“Like it?”

“I do. It’s very beautiful.”

He looked at the bottle of grape juice pouring itself into his glass.

I fidgeted. “I’ve never seen a ring like that before. Is it a family heirloom?”

“Yes. My mother gave it to me. Been in her family for generations.”

“How is your family?”

“You’ve never asked me that before.”

“I thought I should.”

“They’re fine.”

I nodded. “That’s good to know.”

We ate in silence. Gold sunlight shone through the kitchen window unto the double sink and the dishes drying in the rack, causing the lining of each object to possess a sliver of yellow sheen. The view past the glass panes was promising. Even the sky held a deeper blue than usual.

“I’m going house hunting today,” I said. “Four houses. I hope I’ll be satisfied by this afternoon.”

“I thought you were going to stay in today.”

“No. I’ll be hunting—houses.”

“By yourself?”

“Yes, by myself. My agent sent me the particulars. Everyone knows the time when I will arrive. The features, prices and rates are already included. It will be fun.”

He was incredulous. “You can’t do that sort of thing without a friend along. There will be no fun in what you’re about to do.”

“Are you going to accompany me?”

“No. I’m paying my family a visit.”

“Where do they live?”

“In another state.” He fiddled with his food and said nothing more.

I looked away, through the kitchen window. Our dialogue had withered again.

“Well I’ll have fun today. I’m sure of it.”

Early that afternoon when the sun was high overhead I was sitting on a stone bench in the Paseo Colorado food court, relishing the cool shade the wide canopy provided beneath the glass roof. It was somewhat noisy in that place, what with people purchasing their lunch from every stand and speaking at the same time. I had not expected there to be so many people, thinking they would have preferred to invade all the shops and restaurants in Old Town at that time of the day. Despite not being alone, I did not speak to the ones around me; there was no need, neither was there any time. I was occupied with eating. A glazed donut was in one hand, and a slice of cheese and pineapple pizza was held delicately in the other, personal health be damned. A cup of orange juice was on the table behind me, and an open notepad rested in my lap.

I had seen two houses that morning. Several hours ago I was being led through a double-apartment building on 1910 Mission Street in South Pasadena with a Spanish-style theme, palm trees, lush yet controlled greenery, stucco walls, tiny courtyard, a small pool. The man who wanted to sell his house was tall and muscular, low cut dark hair, muscle shirt. He had greeted me by the gate, and I had seen his markings, both the scars and the tattoos. He was a professional kick-boxer, and in a month he and his team members would be traveling abroad to compete in an annual kick-boxing tournament. After that he would take up residence in another part of the country, Vegas, to be a personal trainer. His life could not continue here, so he said. The place looked good enough: house, good building structure, paint still on good terms with the walls. The rooms were adequately-sized as well, and caused the entire place to possess a cozy atmosphere. The price and terms of purchase were reasonable. I could handle these things with prioritizing my goals. The problem, however, was the sudden blast of noise that destroyed our quiet ten minutes into my arrival. It came to my attention that a few die-hard rocker tattoo artists lived in the building beside us, and they came with their own slew of theme songs. Heavy metal assaulted our eardrums. My host had not expected them to be around so soon, which was why the visit had been scheduled early that morning.

It was a shame that my mind was turned against that house; but for the annoying element it could have been the perfect place.

The next place was located in the housing scheme of a quiet neighborhood in Lower Hastings, a place that was the residence of middle-class workers who all wanted to live close to their workplaces. These houses did not give focus to the architecture or the interior work, but provided only identical mediocre-designed rooms for people to sleep in, eat in, do laundry in, watch TV in. The price was reasonable, though not as much as it could have been considering the setting. If, however, there was a better offer, I would give this great consideration. In truth I had not wanted to live in a housing scheme; I suppose it was the way we all had to conform to identical living accommodations, it symbolized repression. What cemented the decision not to live there, however, was when a mentally-impaired resident, a boy only a year younger than myself(as well as my potential neighbor), launched a glass paper-weight ball past my head, into the window of what could have been my house. Never had I heard a crash as prophetic as that. I turned round just in time to see the boy dive over the hedge whooping with the exhilaration of someone who has done something wonderful. The scene skipped a beat, then a woman, who I assumed was the boy’s mother, appeared from around the corner shouting for Emmett to get back here and stop your foolishness. In an unseen area something else shattered that sounded suspiciously like dishes. Another series of whoops followed. When we traveled to the back of the house my guide, a woman, was very apologetic: the indecipherable graffiti was not there that morning. It must have been Emmett’s work.

Now halfway through my lunch, I not as lost in thought as I would have liked to be. There had not been much fun in my adventures that day, as my partner had predicted, but things had certainly been interesting, to say the least. I was not downcast, however; there were two other houses that I would see, then afterward I would return home and sleep the rest of the day away.