She was exhausted.
Paris glittered beyond the heavy paned window. Street lights illuminating narrow avenues, cars parked nose to tail in tetris-like accuracy, making the most of every inch of precious real estate. Late evenings brought slow moving trucks, their flickering lights strobing the dark streets as water sluiced dog **** from uneven footpaths. There was a rhythm to this dance, a pace, beating in time to the frenetic heartbeat called Paris. Closing her eyes Pi felt herself transported back to the life she’d lived here in the city of her birth. She didn’t need to be out on that street to hear the hum of the never sleeping underbelly.
The still streets were a lie, convenient cover for nocturnal subterfuge as deadly as any Harper Rock could conceive. Where mortal humanity struggled against nature and nurture; nature winning hands down in the lower income crap shot, where the house always won. Where did you go when you had nowhere to go? Who did you turn to when the system assigned you your number, shoved you into your pigeon hole and expected you to stay in your categorised space. She’d learned to be deadly here. Learned hard lessons and they’d stuck with her.
She was a statistic, then and now. She was used and discarded because being expendable was her redeeming feature. Among other things. Just as then to now, her currency waned against her developing redundancy. She understood their dilemma even as she tried to redirect their usual mandate. What would any government do with a rogue asset. How was she to convince them that the four years she disappeared was adequate testament to her ability to stay hidden, keep her mouth shut and disappear. They didn’t have to worry about her. She spent the last six months convincing them of her ability to go off grid and stay the hell off grid.
Wars were won in the media now. Social media guerrilla warfare that machine gunned propaganda policies through viral newsfeeds, infecting social psyche with half truth, hidden agendas and quasi-political garbage to confuse and muddle already sheep-like behaviours. They mined small fears, and fabricated demons until no guns were required, and the people themselves became the weapons used against cookie-cut-enemies.
She had no more patience for political intrigue as she did for social medias. There was no difference in the war governments now fought on the stage of public opinion than those rabid idiocies pelting crownet with their cracker box rationales. But she understood how she could use that shift to power her release from permanent contract.
Pi’s previous employment had now become excess to requirements. A permanent redundancy program was in discussions and she was fighting for a life she wanted to live in a small damn town in the middle of no-*******-where Canada.
It had been vitally important that they understood she knew how to do all of those things. Because no government easily relinquished control of any asset, let alone one who had decided to retire without due consultation. Pi smiled. She was a Parisian Bourne, but without the international car chases and overly dramatic standoffs over multiple dead bodies. Now, right there was a sure fire way to earn a one way ticket into a six foot hole. And Pi wanted to live.
Pi wanted to go home. She missed that damn small town with its stupid intrigues and small Irish pubs. She missed Elliot and the rest of the family she rarely spoke to but felt affection for just the same.
Her finger drew circles against the glass as she stared out into the summer sweltered streets. Her fingertip had skin drawn tight over bone, a testament to how little she’d been able to feed while under such close supervision. Rats. She’d reverted to rats, some cats, and a dog or two she could find. She was slowly starving and her indrawn skin accentuating the hollow cheekbones were testament to her level of starvation.
But she was close now. So close. She was still being watched, but the watch was cursory, disinterested. Six months it had taken for her to prove she could be trusted to be silent. It wasn’t over, but she was willing to invest the next six months to fully extricating herself from every tie that bound her to Paris.
She was never coming back here. Not by choice. Not ever. Lifting the disposable phone, she text Elliot, the message purposely abbreviated.
“They’re watching me, but I need to talk to you. Soon. I miss you. I’ll call you, as soon as I can. Different number. I’m sorry. I didn’t know it would take this long. I miss you. Pi”
After pressing send Pi stared at the message before palming the phone and crushing it in her fist. Picking the SIM out of the debris, she crushed that even more before pocketing all of it for disposal later.
Paris glittered beyond the heavy paned window. Street lights illuminating narrow avenues, cars parked nose to tail in tetris-like accuracy, making the most of every inch of precious real estate. Late evenings brought slow moving trucks, their flickering lights strobing the dark streets as water sluiced dog **** from uneven footpaths. There was a rhythm to this dance, a pace, beating in time to the frenetic heartbeat called Paris. Closing her eyes Pi felt herself transported back to the life she’d lived here in the city of her birth. She didn’t need to be out on that street to hear the hum of the never sleeping underbelly.
The still streets were a lie, convenient cover for nocturnal subterfuge as deadly as any Harper Rock could conceive. Where mortal humanity struggled against nature and nurture; nature winning hands down in the lower income crap shot, where the house always won. Where did you go when you had nowhere to go? Who did you turn to when the system assigned you your number, shoved you into your pigeon hole and expected you to stay in your categorised space. She’d learned to be deadly here. Learned hard lessons and they’d stuck with her.
She was a statistic, then and now. She was used and discarded because being expendable was her redeeming feature. Among other things. Just as then to now, her currency waned against her developing redundancy. She understood their dilemma even as she tried to redirect their usual mandate. What would any government do with a rogue asset. How was she to convince them that the four years she disappeared was adequate testament to her ability to stay hidden, keep her mouth shut and disappear. They didn’t have to worry about her. She spent the last six months convincing them of her ability to go off grid and stay the hell off grid.
Wars were won in the media now. Social media guerrilla warfare that machine gunned propaganda policies through viral newsfeeds, infecting social psyche with half truth, hidden agendas and quasi-political garbage to confuse and muddle already sheep-like behaviours. They mined small fears, and fabricated demons until no guns were required, and the people themselves became the weapons used against cookie-cut-enemies.
She had no more patience for political intrigue as she did for social medias. There was no difference in the war governments now fought on the stage of public opinion than those rabid idiocies pelting crownet with their cracker box rationales. But she understood how she could use that shift to power her release from permanent contract.
Pi’s previous employment had now become excess to requirements. A permanent redundancy program was in discussions and she was fighting for a life she wanted to live in a small damn town in the middle of no-*******-where Canada.
It had been vitally important that they understood she knew how to do all of those things. Because no government easily relinquished control of any asset, let alone one who had decided to retire without due consultation. Pi smiled. She was a Parisian Bourne, but without the international car chases and overly dramatic standoffs over multiple dead bodies. Now, right there was a sure fire way to earn a one way ticket into a six foot hole. And Pi wanted to live.
Pi wanted to go home. She missed that damn small town with its stupid intrigues and small Irish pubs. She missed Elliot and the rest of the family she rarely spoke to but felt affection for just the same.
Her finger drew circles against the glass as she stared out into the summer sweltered streets. Her fingertip had skin drawn tight over bone, a testament to how little she’d been able to feed while under such close supervision. Rats. She’d reverted to rats, some cats, and a dog or two she could find. She was slowly starving and her indrawn skin accentuating the hollow cheekbones were testament to her level of starvation.
But she was close now. So close. She was still being watched, but the watch was cursory, disinterested. Six months it had taken for her to prove she could be trusted to be silent. It wasn’t over, but she was willing to invest the next six months to fully extricating herself from every tie that bound her to Paris.
She was never coming back here. Not by choice. Not ever. Lifting the disposable phone, she text Elliot, the message purposely abbreviated.
“They’re watching me, but I need to talk to you. Soon. I miss you. I’ll call you, as soon as I can. Different number. I’m sorry. I didn’t know it would take this long. I miss you. Pi”
After pressing send Pi stared at the message before palming the phone and crushing it in her fist. Picking the SIM out of the debris, she crushed that even more before pocketing all of it for disposal later.
