Ren Series Boxed Set

by Sarah Noffke

  The project in Oregon took six months and although I almost died, from both physical threats and annoyance, I ended up being victorious. My first agent assignment had gone better than anyone at the Institute could have hoped for. And when it was all over, I almost considered staying in Oregon. As much as I hated to admit it, the people hadn’t totally repulsed me. And the weather was cold. It rained too much. And the locals wore enough layers that usually their repugnant faces were partially covered. But Oregon had something that I couldn’t stand. Trees. And a bloody lot of them. Trees every fucking where. Trees with leaves that crackled underfoot. Trees with needles that chimed all bloody night. Trees that were home to pesky rodents and noisy birds. Trees that obstructed views. Trees with branches so large they could break in a strong wind and impale a person, killing them. Taking them away forever.

  In Oregon I met and fought people as despicable as Chase. People who sought to destroy their children because they posed a threat to their political power. I worked to bring down these people who murdered their own family members and thought genocide was justifiable. If I had any spirit left then it would have been broken in Oregon. This all confirmed for me what I always thought: people are inherently awful. I’m not judging. I’m not pointing fingers. I’m one of these horrendous people. I’ve been asked numerous times what makes me so bad-tempered. People want a reason for everything but sometimes there isn’t one. I was just born bad. Corrupt. Like most of the population. And what was the use fighting all these losing battles anymore?

  For eighteen bloody years I worked tirelessly to prevent disasters. I worked to stop bad guys, but it never really made a difference. Maybe we were all just better off letting the world go to shit. Although my first rogue agent case went successfully, as I knew it would, it also confirmed that there wasn’t any real point in saving the world anymore. There wasn’t a fucking point in anything. I loved the people I couldn’t have. The ones I could have, deceived me. And I was one of the most powerful men in the world, but I couldn’t save people who had mattered most to me.

  I’ve never tried to make sense of my life, but now I’m giving up on it. Maybe in my genius mind I thought one day everything would figure itself out. That things would actually mean something to me, but for all my trying I’ve come up short.

  Life. Is. Meaningless.

  I live without consequence. If I die, it will matter very little. If I’m good it only has a small effect on the world around me. If I’m bad then I rip lives apart, creating a rippling effect for generations. Maybe I’ve spent too many years as a bad guy to appreciate the phony balance in the world. Maybe I’ve spent too many years around bad guys to see they weren’t the majority. They sure feel like it.

  One of those bad people was Lyza. She had lied to gain status within this society in Oregon and as fate would have it, our paths crossed. My sister hadn’t forgotten what I’d done to her all those years ago. I had lied to the church’s therapist, telling him I was afraid she’d molest me. And I’d told the truth about her, breaking her engagement with Chase. And she was still pretty bitter about all that and more. Lyza sought her revenge on me in Oregon. She had me abducted, tortured, and imprisoned. My own sister. Is it any wonder that I’m giving up on humanity at this stage in my life?

  Lyza wasn’t successful at killing me though. I’m not going to go into the assorted details of what happened in Oregon or what transpired between my sister and me. The important part of that history is that I got away. That story is not one I want to share with you, mostly because I became a little soft during my time in Oregon. I still shiver thinking about it. Maybe that history is written in another book, but not this one. Go and find that story for yourself if you’re really interested. And if you don’t like that I’m not divulging the story to you here, well, you know me well enough as your storyteller to know I don’t bloody give a damn. Fucking sue me.

  Here’s what I will say. It was what Lyza did to me and what I witnessed in Oregon that finally broke me. It’s what made me finally decide to quit fucking caring. Being almost murdered by my soulless sister and watching a dictator try and lobotomize his people is why I’m here presently about to embark on a new life. I have lived my life before this as many different types of characters. And now I’m about to start a new chapter in my life. At the age of forty-five I’ve decided to start over. Today is the first day of the end of my old life.

  ***

  As requested, I dream traveled to meet Trey in our usual location. We met in our familiar meeting location, Sanga in Nepal. Specifically for all these years we’ve met at a spot near the largest statue of Shiva in the world. Even when we were both at the Institute we preferred to have our dream travel meetings in this place. First, Trey had suggested it to get me out a bit. I didn’t care for the worshippers I saw there in physical form or the green rolling hills around it, but over time the one-hundred-forty-three-foot statue compelled me in an odd way. I guess I was intrigued that a religion of people had created such a beautiful monstrosity to idolize their god. Christians had done it. Buddhists had done it. Hell, every religion did it and it continued to astound me. Religion on the whole continued to elude me, although I realized that God was overhead probably having a field day with the things he was going to do to me when my time came.

  I park myself on a step ten down from Shiva. Trey appears a minute later and stands staring at the statue with a quiet reverence. He then takes the spot next to me. Trey respects things. Gods. People. Ideas. I’ll never understand him. Ever. He is a complete anomaly to me in his totally forgiving and patient nature. And yet, I respect and trust him. There is something about Trey Underwood that is innately good. Some people are good because that’s what’s expected of people in modern society. Some people are good because they’ve been conditioned to be so. Most are good because they don’t want to be punished. And then there are the few who are that way because it’s who they really are. Trey is purely good and born that way, just as I was born the opposite way.

  “Nice work on your last project,” Trey begins. “I have anoth—”

  “Stop, Trey,” I say, cutting him off. “I’m done.”

  He turns and looks at me for a few seconds. I can tell he is trying to explain away what I’ve just said. Rationalize it into what it doesn’t really mean. “What do you mean, you’re done?” he asks in his always calm tone.

  “Oh, blimey, of all people I was certain you had a concrete working of the English language,” I say, throwing my hands in the air. “Done. Finished. Retired. You’re familiar with those words, am I right?”

  “Retired?” Trey says with a gaping look of disbelief.

  I knew this wasn’t going to be easy, but now it almost feels hard, like I’m not sure I can go through with it. But that would make me a weakling. Those kinds of people can’t follow through when things get tough and I’m many detestable things, but I’m no weakling.

  “That’s right,” I chirp. “That was my last job. I don’t want a gold watch or a crummy retirement party with a gaudy cake. All I want is for you not to expect me to fight all these bad guys for you. I’m done.”

  “But Ren—”

  “Hey, I’d say we could still be pals and meet up to go fly fishing, but we both know that I’ll stand you up each and every time,” I say. “Instead, why don’t you call me on the weekends and I’ll let it go to voicemail. Then I’ll return your call a few months later when I’m in a busy airport and can’t really hear you very well. We’ll stay connected, I promise.”

  He shakes his head, his once blond hair, now silver, has grown out in the few months since the last time I saw him. “No, Ren, you can’t quit. There’s bad people out there. People you can stop. Lives you can save.”

  What Trey forgets or doesn’t want to admit is that I’m one of those bad guys. At least I used to be. I don’t remind him of this; instead I blow out a frustrated sigh. “Oh, Trey, there’s always going to be bad guys to stop, don’t you get that? What we do matters so little.”
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  “How can you say that after everything you’ve done?” he says, pinning his elbows on his knees and leaning forward more.

  “Because, Trey, I’m tired. Tired of fighting what increasingly feels like a never-ending battle. People keep breeding. They keep putting bad people in society. And I’ve got to drain my reserves to stop them from doing something that at the end of the day matters very little. Hell, even if I save these people who are potentially in danger then some natural disaster will take them out. Or some disease. Don’t you get that we only have one life and we’re wasting it helping people who don’t even know we exist?”

  Trey seems to consider what I’ve said with a thoughtful look. “I thought after your last assignment you’d have softened some of this cynicism,” he finally says.

  “Well, you’re wrong, old buddy. Getting abducted by my big sister only preserved my cynical nature. But at the end of the day, this assignment was my best work and also my last bit of charity. I’m going out on an up note.”

  “But Ren, there’s so much you could do. You have at least half a century left in you.”

  I stare off into a corner of Nepal in the distance. I’m feeling on the brink of having a moment. Hell, for the last few months I felt that way, like everything is coming to a pivotal point. I push the feeling away. “Don’t you get tired of watching the news reports?” I say. “Don’t you tire of seeing the death that keeps pouring in? Sometimes we step in and stop the plane from taking off and sometimes we fail and people tumble to the earth. Don’t you sometimes want to just forget about the future? Just live in the now?” I say.

  “This doesn’t really sound like you, Ren.”

  “Well, I don’t really feel like myself anymore,” I finally admit.

  “And no, I can’t just forget that I can know the future. That I can stop it. How can I forget the capabilities of the Institute and the lives I can save with that knowledge? How do you expect to?” Trey says, his eyes hard.

  “I’ve got some ideas,” I say with an indulgent grin.

  Trey, who is supremely good at ignoring my bad behavior, shakes his head. “Ren, there’s a terrorist group who is planning a series of explosions. They call themselves Group X. Thousands will be killed and maimed and you could stop them. That’s the job I wanted you for next because you may actually be the only one who can stop this. We need someone to infiltrate their headquarters and get into their heads. Stop the propaganda they’re sending to their guerrillas. And you are the only one I know with the experience to do this job. If you walk away from this job then these people will die. Retire if you want, but do this last job. Please,” he says, almost pleading.

  “There will always be more jobs, Trey. There’s never a good time to quit a job. Don’t you get that?”

  “If you quit now then thousands will die!” he says and his voice actually rises. I’ve rarely heard him do that and it was always for a good reason.

  I regard him for a long time. I can just get in his head and make him leave me alone but I don’t do that to people anymore and I never did it to anyone I respected. Trey is one of a few people who I admire and besides he can probably resist my mind control.

  I shake my head. “I guess thousands are going to die then,” I say in a hoarse whisper.

  “You can’t be serious?”

  “When have you ever known me to joke?” I say dryly. “I’m done, Trey. But because I’m such a kind soul I won’t leave you high and dry. I’ve got an idea for how you can deal with this terrorist situation.”

  He blinks at me. “What’s that?”

  “Call the fucking cops,” I say. “This is their bloody job, after all.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Just like when I arrived in London the first time, I dream travel to a GAD-C and generate my body. Again I have only the clothes on my back. This time I have a modest bank account, instead of an overflowing one, and a key in my pocket. I step onto the curb next to Piccadilly Street. Automobile fumes waft through the air. People jostle past me, invading my personal space and invading my mind with their repugnant thoughts. And loud noises echo from too many places.

  It is good to be home.

  For some reason I feel like I’m living in the present for the first time. I’m about to live my life unlike I ever have before: simply. The key to my flat slides into the lock easily. I had purchased the penthouse flat all those years ago and sent money using my checks at the Lucidite Institute to maintain it. I was never sure why I held onto the place, but maybe it was because it was the only place I ever owned. Calling a place “home” isn’t really my style, but my flat comes close to earning that title.

  After unlocking, I push the door open to find a dozen or more notes that were slid under the crack. They are yellowed from age. I know without a doubt they are from Dahlia. I kick them to the side. I definitely don’t want to see my post box after eighteen years of not checking it.

  My nose pinches from the acute smell of dust. I march through the flat, a lifetime of memories sparking back to life. Has it really been a lifetime since I sat in my old plaid armchair? It definitely has been a lifetime since I was the man I used to be. The scammer. The gambler. The womanizer. And I’m ready to become someone completely different than I am now. I don’t even want to be the man I’ve been since Trey gave me a second chance.

  I open my walk-in closet. Rows and rows of suits that would still fit stare back at me. I’m still the same size I was when I was in my twenties, but my days of wearing suits are over.

  I take my time making my way to the bathroom. I stare down at the porcelain sink for a long minute, gathering a courage I didn’t think I’d need. Finally I flip my head up and look at myself. An image stares back, blinking. My hair never dulled from the orangey red like my mum said it would. My neon green eyes hold a mysterious, sinister look. But I know all my secrets. I’m a bad man who has done bad things. I’ve tried to change but the truth is that the monster in me is in my gifts. My mum was right that my powers make it so it’s impossible for me to be happy. That’s why I’ve decided to change. It’s not that I’m deluding myself into thinking I’m going to be happy in this lifetime, but I’ll settle with not being miserable.

  ***

  Little has changed in Peavey. There’s still one school, one church, one pub, and one inn. I think the town went to incredible lengths not to grow. They would have had to. Everything evolves. Even stupid people. But the people of Peavey ran developers away. They prided themselves on the quaint feel of the town. They didn’t want anything complicating and polluting their way of living. It has taken me forty-five years to appreciate that mindset.

  To say it feels odd to knock at the door to my childhood home is a serious understatement. I didn’t know when I met Allouette and Chase that by working with them I’d have to abandon my father for so long. I thought of sending him a message. Of letting him know I was all right. I even considered asking him to dream travel to meet me. But I’m a coward. I didn’t want to tell him why I couldn’t visit in person. I knew for certain that the look in his eyes when I told him what I’d done to get myself in trouble would be worse than my years of confinement. In my mind, he was better off thinking I’d died.

  Pops opens the door, a look of bewilderment on his features. He was probably surprised to get the knock in the first place, since I’m guessing no one calls on him much. And then his face grows even more confused as he recognizes me.

  I’m a hard man, unaffected by most anything. But to stare at my dad’s face after eighteen years has a visceral effect on my being. Something rattles my sternum, like fingers have wrapped around it and are trying to break it in two.

  “Son?” Pops says, squinting at me. “Is that you?” For eighty-eight years old he looks impressive. Back straight, arms strong, and eyes eager. No one would think he was older than mid-sixties.

  I nod. It’s all I can manage.

  He takes me in, looking me up and down, his disbelieving eyes growing heavy with emotion second by
second. Not only do I look older to him, but I know I look different than he was used to seeing me. I’m wearing khaki pants and a plaid flannel shirt. For the first time in a long time, I’m comfortable in my clothes. “Where have you been all these years, Ren?”

  I scratch the side of my head, conscious that I’m shaking. “I got myself in a tad bit of trouble and couldn’t visit. I didn’t want to lure the devil to your doorstep.”

  “Are you safe now?” he says, gauging the empty hills behind me. He’s probably looking for someone stalking after me.

  “Completely,” I say.

  “Thank the Lord,” he says and just then he opens his arms to me. Without hesitation I walk forward, embracing him. It is the first hug I’ve had… well, since he hugged me last, after my mum’s death. Pops is also still strong. He presses his large hands tightly around me, and there’s an urgency in his every movement. Maybe he thinks I’ll vanish before him. I won’t. I never learned teleporting from Trey, although he offered to teach me.

  Pops finally steps back, breaking the embrace. “Well, come in, won’t you?”

  “Of course,” I say, my voice slightly hoarse.

  The house hasn’t changed much either, a bit like Peavey. I’m glad for this though. There are few comforts in my past, but seeing the interior of my old home brings a host of fond memories rushing to my mind.

  Pops doesn’t keep the house as clean as Mum did. I notice this at once when I take a seat in the old dusty armchair. Almost like he’s unsure how to act, Pops sits awkwardly on the sofa across from me. He folds his hands in his lap and then changes the fold several times.

  “I’ve been gone a long time,” I finally say.

  He nods, his bottom lip twitching to the side.

  “I saw Lyza recently,” I say casually.

  His face doesn’t brighten like most parents’ would after hearing the mention of their daughter. I know for a fact that she never came to see him. Not once after Mum’s death.

  “She’s mentally unstable now. Not doing so hot, but she got herself in a bit of trouble as well,” I say, finding I don’t know what to do with my own hands either.