Sunday. By which I mean, well, Saturday night. It’s fun, existing on a supposed early version of a day, working through the bugs the developer hasn’t smoothed out: the lack of light, the general tendency towards worse moods, the lower temperatures. Becoming nocturnal is easier for some than for others. It’s important to remember that the sun does appear during such a schedule. My day typically starts at 4 pm, and wraps up around 8 am.
I think about the less common nature of my life as I wake, perhaps spurred by dreams I do not remember. I suspect now, in light of a few things, that the more unusual your life is, the more unusual it will become. Like a feedback loop of strange, uncommon childhoods create warped teenage years, which in turn create ever more unrecognizable adult years. And those adults have children of their own, just to perpetuate the weird.
Had I had a normal upbringing, I wonder if I would’ve even met him. Perhaps if I had, we could’ve been friends, or even lovers, without so much strain and pressure. Or perhaps we would’ve passed each other on the street, and never even looked up to notice who was passing us by.
A simmering sort of melancholy falls over me like a wet blanket, and I get dressed in my neutral colors. In the kitchen, I ransack the fridge, eventually producing a glass of orange juice and a bowl of cereal. I stare vacantly at the orange juice for nearly five minutes before I start eating.
I gather up my equipment and drift out the door, allowing my feet to carry me to the building opposite his. It seems a waste to revisit such predictable lines when so much has happened, and yet, I emerge onto the rooftop, set up a strange picnic of surveillance, and begin my routine.
Acceptance is a peculiar sort of feeling. I watch myself writhing and groaning at every unconscious twitch he makes, and I am almost reassured by my behavior. I am displeased with the undercurrent, however. I can feel a twinge of heightened hunger rolling under the surface, a starving beast generated by the strides and leaps made in personal connection. This, disturbing as it is, seems almost a cause for hope; given my reaction to being apart from him, and the calming effect being simply near to him produces, I might, wishfully, think that the answer to all my troubles is to cultivate a simple, strong connection with him.
Such strategy is obviously impeded by the countless awry behaviors and habits that would constantly need to be suppressed in order to succeed. As I rub my face against the creased photo and roll onto my back, what little coherent thought I possess rather scoffs at the idea of trying to live in the same room as him, constantly turning my back to hide my hollow grin and voracious eyes, ducking behind things to hide the photo in my hand.
Time passes. My mind becomes a slurry of lustful dreams and overwhelming shame. When I come to my senses, the sun is creeping over the horizon, and my stomach demands my efforts. I descend on wings of literal hunger, ducking into a bakery to collect a pastry or three.
Today has been something of a wash. I spent nearly every hour in a full-force display of unrepentant longing. I check my phone. Costello is out and about, as expected. I swing by, and exchange data cards and batteries in the setup. But coming home, I find that I am too weary to bother with it, and instead spend the remaining time watching tutorials for products that aren’t available in my country.
Bed, sleep, again. This day feels like it barely happened.
Monday. A café day. An excuse to dress up. I borrow Raphael’s input again to construct an outfit just a little stronger than last time. Then, it’s time to review the audio recordings.
I plug in my headphones and scoot close to the computer, bringing up my audio software. I load up the files, scrub out large sections with no activity, and press play. First, there are only the sounds of movement. This is typical. At this stage of the game, if I can confirm the nature of what occurs in the room, and its regularity, I can possibly even plant visual surveillance. But for now, I will listen.
Something about being dressed up for the morning and listening patiently for illicit acts makes me a little self conscious, and I flick my Webcam away from my face.
Voices. Two men. Talking about nothing. I check my email. Nothing new. Finally-
“Now that we’re all here-”
“I thought we’d be done with this, after that flood.”
I frown and press my headphones closer to my ears. The tone is awfully tense, I may end up with very little of use if this keeps up, but the recording is terrifically long if that’s the case: a feat in itself. A+ for stamina, but you’re failing in loyalty.
“You still need money, right”
Oh?
“More than ever. I’d better buy James a big gift to make up for all this. But…”
Oh? How thoughtful.
“Then we’re far from done. Now shut up, we’re going over the plan one last time.”
Plan? Now hold on just a moment-
“Craig is wheels, he parks us behind the building. We walk in, no masks, no guns, we’re normal customers. Don’t go all at once, we don’t want to spook anyone. Now, why won’t any customers be there?”
“Early morning, just set up, no one goes to the bank the moment it opens on a fuckin monday.”
“Exactly. Benji, you’ve set up an appointment to start an account, that helps us separate the manager. Clark and Gina, you head right to the teller closest to the door. The guy looks a little tough, but he’s a reasonable guy, he won’t try anything. You show him your pieces, say what?”
“Do as we say, no one gets hurt.”
“Shot. No one gets shot. You gotta emphasize it, makes em more compliant. He tries to put up a fight, tries to push that button under the counter, you dome him, we move on to fast times. We don’t want that, but speed is of the essence. In and out, you understand? Either he cooperates, and moves us along without a fuss, or we go loud and big, don’t give an inch. Now, each of you has a part to play, Victoria with wiping the security cameras, Ted with the phone line. We keep things tight, and under control, and no matter what, we get out that back door within ten minutes of things kicking off. Let’s run down the individual roles, play by play-”
Whoa, hold on just a moment. First of all, this is clearly not a clandestine meeting for sex. This is a planning session for something way worse. I’ve dealt with tough targets before, one of my earliest gave me a lovely involuntary piercing between two ribs. But this is far beyond the scope of anything I’ve done before.
There’s something else, something much more urgent than just letting my client know his partner isn’t cheating, and is the tech support for a bank heist. No, the problem here is that as more and more details stream through to me, two really important ones stand out. First, their target bank is one whose security system I am intimately familiar with. There’s a hole in their plan, and it’s not just eyewitness testimony. The bank sends its data to an off-site server. So, the voice calling the shots seems to be ignorant of this. Whether he intends this misinformation is really of no importance, because the important thing is that he just gave someone the go ahead to
Kill Octavian.
Seeds of Fear 