by Luna, David
“You find my stories funny?” she demands.
“Do you have any idea what kind of influence your little stories have?” Neil nearly shouts, more upset at himself for believing the stories than at Quado for writing them.
“Not everything about them is made up,” Quado scoffs, offended. “Some are true.” Neil brushes her off, but Quado tries to prove herself. “I know that the Agency uses a seventy-five point questionnaire when they pair someone with a partner.”
“Anyone who’s been paired could tell you that.”
“Well 99% of Collectors are orphans,” Quado states.
Neil points to himself. Who does she think she’s talking to?
Quado tries again, “Leon once trained to be a Collector before he was discharged.”
“More like kicked out.”
“The old leaking reactor is haunted,” she claims.
“There we go, back to stories.”
“The dam collapse was sabotage. It was planned,” she announces.
“Says you and all the conspiracy theorists,” Neil counters. “What a waste of time.”
Quado blocks Neil’s path as he turns to leave, dismissing all of her information as rumors. “The Black Market uses unmarked tunnels to move around,” she blurts out. Neil immediately stops. Considering his own recent investigation at the Archives, this gets his attention. Quado blows the hair out of her eyes as she grins at her small victory. “You’ve heard about that too, huh?” she taunts.
Neil furrows his brow. After hiding anonymously behind a computer for so long, he recognizes Quado’s need to prove herself in person. He decides his best bet to filter through the stories and learn anything worthwhile is to attempt to exploit this weakness and use it against her. “You’re just a kid peddling flowers on a street corner,” he says, masking his sincere interest in her information by brushing it aside again as nonsense.
Quado’s eyes go wide, hand on her hip, now truly offended. “Just a kid?” Her untied laces in her ankle boots clack against the soundstage floor as she paces, working herself up to a frenzy. “What about what they do with the bodies? Or the rations that aren’t released to the public?”
“Gotta do better than that,” Neil eggs her on.
“What about Mazer’s son?”
Neil shakes his head no.
“The Brigade?” she tries, “Want to know what Leon and his friends have planned for the gala tonight?”
That’s it. Neil reaches for Quado’s arm to stop her there, but she wrenches away, completely riled up and on the brink of tears. “I raised myself for a decade. Don’t you say I’m just some kid.”
“Just a kid. Just a kid,” the parrots squawks on blast.
Quado hurls the batch of fake flowers towards the bird cage, then whirls around and pouts.
“I’m sorry,” Neil says as he attempts to console her. “I had my brother. Then the orphanage. I was never on my own.” Silence, until Neil continues prodding for information. “That last part. What does Leon have planned?” he asks.
Quado struggles to regain control of herself.
“Quado. Leon and the Brigade,” Neil urges her.
The bird squawks again. Neil tosses the sheet over the cage to silence it.
“If they really are gone, why should they get to celebrate while my parents had to die? Shouldn’t they get what they deserve?” Quado morbidly asks.
Neil places a hand on her shoulder. “I met a man with those same thoughts,” he says. “Trust me, you don’t want to go down that path. You still have a chance to be happy.” He is presumably speaking about Damian.
“I heard it out on the corner. There’s something planned for the gala. It can’t be good,” she reveals.
Neil glances to the clock on his PDA. The gala starts in less than twenty minutes. “My truck will never make it in traffic. Do you have something more mobile?” he asks. Quado hesitates to help any further. “Think of all those people. Give them a chance,” he pleads.
She nods to confirm, then motions towards the station’s back exit. Neil dashes away, but soon stops and glances back at the frail girl leaned against the kitchen table. Quado’s strong, but whether she wants to admit it or not, she is still just a child.
“You’ve held out for ten years,” he calls out. “Don’t lose hope now.”
“Pretty bird. Pretty girl,” the parrot squawks in the female voice from beneath the sheet, mimicking Quado’s mother.
“Keep writing those stories,” Neil encourages her. And with that, he leaves.
Quado moves to the window to watch Neil outside from the upper corridor of the TV station. He detaches a side cart filled with Eternity Flowers from Quado’s motorbike, then – VVVROOOOOOM! – two worn tires squeal against the weathered asphalt as Neil dips his head low near the chassis and burns off.
******
Ten Years
This year marks the 10th year since the dam broke. I still remember what I was doing that day when I heard the news. Do you???
I miss my parents...
-Quado
13
Neil weaves throughout traffic. While his utility truck’s bulky size normally does wonders to help clear an area, an Agency vehicle doesn’t guarantee timeliness. Some like to purposely block the road to see how far they can push a person in a position of authority. Even SEOs have to deal with this passive aggressive behavior, not just Collectors. Others flag down Agency vehicles with a completely unrelated problem, or a problem better suited for a different department, yet it takes time to convince the person of this and sort things out. And right now time is not something Neil has as he races to intercept the Brigade before they turn the gala – a night of celebration – into a night of catastrophe. “Why the annual gala?” Neil thinks to himself. “All those survivors have already been through so much. Why target the victims? What is the Brigade’s logic behind this?”
The shouts from two pedestrians snap Neil back to attention. He nearly runs them over as he zips between them, then leans deep into a hard turn where his uniform-covered knee scrapes against the asphalt. He swerves to dodge a woman attempting to get out of the way, but she stutters with her indecisive steps and accidentally moves further in the line of travel. It is times like these when Neil realizes just how much work the Agency still has to do for there are way too many people here than the city was built for.
Neil pulls up to the cracked fountain outside Agency Headquarters, still bone dry, and parks the motorbike. Hundreds of survivors dressed in their finest outfits converge in a mass influx of foot traffic as they move towards the pair of double doors at the base of the gothic skytower.
Neil sidesteps through the queue and flashes his 3-stripe arm badge to bypass a security checkpoint inside the lobby. There isn’t much for the two Lobby SEOs to search or confiscate from the survivors since not many of them have much to begin with, which quickly causes the lobby to become overcrowded. To further slow Neil’s mission, the gala is located on the third floor, which requires security to regulate admittance to a set of slow rising glass elevators. But even with the congestion, everyone is in good spirits. Joyful. Happy for a change. Neil chuckles to himself how these same people are so easily agitated in every day protocols when they are forced to stand in line – such as the ration distribution lines – yet when they are invited to a night of decadence, no wait is too long. Neil beelines through the sea of bodies and ascends a service stairwell roped off from the public with the sign, IN CASE OF EMERGENCY TAKE STAIRS.
Three stories later, Neil catches his breath as he scouts for Mazer in the grand ballroom, soon spotting him dressed in a full suit and tie with a faux smile plastered across his face, mingling with a half dozen others in similar attire. Neil recognizes these men, more by their deep ominous cackles than their appearance – they are the Agency Board Members.
Neil taps on Mazer’s shoulder to interrupt, but Mazer waves him away. Neil ignores Mazer’s gesture and whispers dir
ectly into his ear.
“Where did you hear this?” Mazer asks.
Neil responds with more whispers, not wanting the information to spread as he notices the Board Members cocking their heads in a not so sly attempt to eavesdrop. Mazer pulls Neil aside, his smile replaced by his usual frown of concern.
“Canceling is exactly what they want. We’d be playing into their hands,” Mazer says. He continues before Neil can protest, “They’re terrorists. Terrorizing is what they do. Besides, the source doesn’t sound credible.”
“Even you subscribe to Quado’s feeds,” Neil reminds him.
“Well you met him…her…whoever it is. Do you believe them?”
Neil hesitates. Quado is just a kid after all, not even old enough to be a rookie Collector. Neil’s silence gives Mazer his answer.
“Exactly,” Mazer says. “Stay and help patrol the gala. I’ll have Adrianne call the rest of the team. Blend in,” he adds.
Neil clears his throat while glancing to his black combat uniform. How is he supposed to blend in like this?
“There’s an extra suit in my office. Don’t ruin it,” Mazer says. His eyes glance throughout the crowd as he turns back to the Board, uneasy with this newfound information. He hides any sign of concern with that same faux smile. “Who wants a shot of water?”
Upstairs in Mazer’s office, Neil tucks in the spare white button-up shirt and throws on a suit jacket. He pauses as he brushes off his front side, realizing this is the first time he has ever worn a suit. Even when he graduated from the Academy he was only required to wear a specialty issued uniform. And whether out in the field or inside Agency Headquarters, these days all he wears is the black combat uniform. The change is actually refreshing. He finds his reflection in one of the framed plaques on Mazer’s desk and nods in approval. Though the sleeves are too long and the neck loose, it’s not terrible. He justifies that the fact it doesn’t fit perfectly only adds to his disguise. He is supposed to blend in after all, and he saw the attendees down below. Everyone’s outfit had something wrong with it. A perfectly fitting suit, those like Mazer’s and members of the Board, would actually cause him to stand out more. Convinced his outfit is good enough, Neil pockets his PDA and tucks his gun into his waistband, while he’s forced to leave his shock baton behind.
Neil adjusts the cuffs to his sleeves as he slides back into the heart of the gala, now in full swing with the ballroom packed beyond capacity, symbolic given the city’s overpopulated circumstances.
It’s sensory overload. Color. Laughter. An excess of food and water. Neil’s never seen the Agency splurge like this before, but then again he’s never been to a prior gala, let alone the fact that this is the tenth anniversary.
Just then Neil’s ears suddenly perk up. Could it be what he thinks it is? He listens closer to confirm. It’s the growing sound of music – banned, restricted, against penal code music live inside the walls of Agency Headquarters – coming from a small orchestra. The crowd immediately transitions into dancing as survivors and their reassigned partners sway back and forth, twisting and twirling, moving to the rhythm of the tune in what appears to be a waltz. Neil narrowly collides into a server as he’s swept away by the stringed reverberations penetrating his body. He wonders why the Agency would allow this considering they are breaking the very code they are instructed to enforce. This is the Agency after all at an Agency sponsored event, not a backwoods party isolated from the rest of the city.
Neil grabs a glass of water and steps off to the side to reset his senses, regrouping and beginning his search for suspicious activity. He scans the faces in attendance, all smiles, none with obvious malicious intent.
His eyes are drawn to a pair of partners dancing in unison. He assumes they’ve broken code before considering how good they are, their movements flowing together as one. As the duo finishes and ends with an embrace, they part ways to reveal an attendee alone with her hands clasped nervously together. To Neil’s surprise, it’s Inna. His heart nearly skips a beat, having not seen her since the night he snuck her into the restricted church, which was the same night he also let his emotions get the best of him as he kissed her. Having gotten distracted by Quado’s information, he forgot she mentioned her desire to attend since Damian, a survivor of the dam collapse, receives a yearly invitation. And if it weren’t for the Brigade’s potential threat, he wouldn’t have come himself. Now that they are both here, crossing paths yet again, he examines her head to toe and notices the details she went through to go all out for the event. Three different types of cloth, presumably salvaged from the landfill, are stitched together to create a layered, elegant dress. Her pinned up hair and a ribbon tied around her neck only add to her beauty. She’s always been pretty with that hint of naïve innocence, yet tonight she is gorgeous. Grown up. Neil manages to take his eyes off her to scan the surrounding vicinity and search for Damian. Perhaps Damian changed his mind and decided to ditch the sour attitude and treat Inna to a night out, yet Neil fails to find him anywhere nearby. He returns his gaze back to Inna where she sways to the music alone, biting her lip with anxiety. Though she is enjoying herself, it’s clear nothing more would help her relax than for someone to ask her to dance.
“How’s it look?” Mazer asks as he slides up to Neil and interrupts his gaze.
“Stunning,” Neil replies, keeping his sights on Inna.
Mazer scans the ballroom, a proud host, until he also spots her. His brow furrows. “All survivors were issued new partners,” he says. They both watch as Inna adjusts the ribbon collar around her neck, then continues to twiddle her thumbs. “It’s rare to see one here alone,” he continues. “Come. I have another assignment for you.”
Within moments, Mazer clears his throat as he approaches Inna. “Ma’am.” He tips his head. “Is your partner enjoying himself?”
“He’s ill,” Inna says, returning the smile, not entirely sure who Mazer is.
“Bill Mazer,” Mazer says to introduce himself as he extends his hand. Inna nods as she returns his handshake. By the look of recognition on her face, she knows the Mazer name. “I surely hope your evening doesn’t disappoint,” Mazer adds.
“It’s quite amazing,” Inna marvels. “But I do have one question. What do you plan to do with all this?” She points to the extravagant decorations. “Should I expect to find this overindulgence in the landfill near my home?”
“We have procedures in place,” Mazer grins, used to all angles of controversy the gala brings every year because of its lavishness. “Listen, tonight is supposed to be a special night. I can’t have a guest without a partner.”
“I’m fine,” Inna says.
“I insist,” Mazer urges. He then steps aside to reveal Neil. “I present you one of my best.” Inna’s taken aback, though she does her best to conceal her surprise, while Neil remains cold, stoic, precise – his years of training masking his emotions. Neither is sure how to act. “This is the one time a year where the code is lifted on dancing. I bet it’s been years since you danced,” Mazer assumes. Neil and Inna exchange secret glances, each recalling the dance circle in the Bayou Sector. Inna slips a small smile at the memory. “There we go. Smile. Have fun,” Mazer encourages. “Neil will show you a good time.”
Neil leans close to Mazer. “I’m already on assignment,” he reminds him.
Mazer fires back with harsh whispers, “These survivors are a symbol to the city. It’s important they’re happy, at least for tonight.”
He shoves Neil forward, who is forced to grab onto Inna to catch his balance. Neil quickly steps back to create separation, but at the urging of Mazer’s watchful eye, he escorts Inna to the dance floor.
“Did you put him up to this?” Inna asks. Neil remains silent as he takes her hand and places his other on her waist, then begins to dance. They are noticeably stiff, each glimpsing the other as they turn their heads opposite directions, then back again. It’s the complete opposite to their lively exchange in the dead fores
t. “I thought Collectors didn’t attend?”
“Duty calls,” Neil responds.
“So I’m just an assignment?”
“We don’t get to pick them,” he says, callous.
Inna scoffs, offended, until her eyes soon drift down to Neil’s feet where his footwork is an absolute mess, out of rhythm and stepping on her toes. Her giggles break up some of the tension.
“You find this funny?” Neil asks.
She snorts, which causes her to laugh even more. “I’m sorry. I just…I wish I would’ve known to wear boots,” she quips. Neil turns to leave as she giggles even more. “Wait,” she calls out, pulling him back and taking the lead. “Everything is all rules and protocols with you. But dancing like this – it’s like the wind. Relax and just…flow.”
Neil gives it a shot, yet he’s still tense. Almost robotic.
“Just flow,” she whispers again, this time blowing near his ear to mimic the wind. Both her breath on his skin and her body close to his calms him. She begins to hum along with the orchestra, her angelic voice highlighting the basic four step beat of the waltz. Step, step, step, turn. Step, step, step, turn. For a moment Neil seems to catch on – step, step, step, turn – until he bumps shoulders with another guest. Inna pulls him back to focus. “You’re doing great,” she assures him.
She hums again, and this time they dance in unison, two bodies weaving gracefully throughout the ballroom floor. For the first time that night, Neil relaxes, each of them being swept away in the moment. It might as well only be them two alone in the ballroom rather than thousands as their focus is solely on each other.
Neil pulls Inna close as she rests her cheek on his shoulder, her shield down, no longer pretending what happened between them never happened. They maneuver a few more rotations before Inna notices Mazer watching from nearby the front podium. His steel eyes send a chill down her spine.