Ren: The Monster Inside the Monster Page 2

  I cradle my hand to my chest at once, careful to keep my eyes off Dahlia, who is probably giving me a punishing look of disappointment. From my peripheral I see her turn to Adelaide.

  “I’m calling my doctor right now. You and your baby are having a full checkup today,” Dahlia says.

  “It’s really not nec—”

  “No arguments,” Dahlia says, cutting Adelaide off. Then she rushes for the phone on the corner table. She pauses and just then looks at me. I bring my eyes up to look at her. “This is unexpected, Ren, but we will deal with it. Don’t worry and stop hitting things.”

  Chapter Two

  The clock has ticked three hundred and sixty times since the therapist opposite of me has spoken. I had started counting the ticks and hadn’t cared to stop. It was almost soothing now to wait for the gentle click that happened every second and count it.

  “Ren, I’m all too happy to sit here in silence with you if that’s what you need,” Dr. Dave Raydon says. His hands sit in his lap, his eyes resting on me. “I’ve learned in my practice that talking helps, but not always. Sometimes we need time to process our thoughts.”

  Having lost track of my counting I manage a nod.

  “However, if talking about the recent developments will help, if there are thoughts sitting on top of your mind with a desire to be voiced, then I’d like you to express them,” he says.

  Now I shake my head.

  “Ren, for over a month we’ve sat here, sometimes talking but usually in silence. I’m not going to push you. However, I would like to ask you the question that I think we’ve both been thinking but are unwilling to voice. I, for one, didn’t think you were ready to address this question. Maybe you still aren’t, but I’m willing to anger you a bit to ask it now.”

  Usually I’d have a crafty retort or an insult at the ready, but this time I don’t. Not only am I unmotivated to berate a person lately but I have no desire to criticize the man in front of me. I’m a wicked person, but one would have to be a demon to be rude to this man. “Go ahead. Ask your burning question,” I say.

  A smile twitches under his mustache. “Ren, don’t you think it’s obvious what you’re doing? How long are you going to keep hiding?”

  A frustrated breath falls out of my mouth. “That was actually two questions. And I hid for eighteen bloody years. I’m thinking of doubling it this time.”

  The smile reaches up and touches his blue eyes. “Before, you were in danger. Now the circumstances are quite different.”

  I tie my arms in front of my chest. “There’s a deranged lunatic who’s out there, need I remind you,” I say, pointing at the stainless steel wall, but meaning America. “This lunatic, Vivian, is obsessed with me. And she’s instigated the murder of her father and attempted murder on her uncles. She’s seeking to implant devices into homes so she can control people. Vivian Bishop is one of the most cunning and dangerous adversaries I’ve ever encountered and she can disable me with a couple of words. I am in danger, but no, I’m not hiding like you think or for the reasons you think. I’m fucking trying to save humanity. So keep running your judgmental eyes over me but you’ll be thanking my ass when I save this bloody circus we call the Institute.”

  Dr. Raydon tucks his head to the side like he’s just thought of something. “I do believe that’s the most you’ve said in a month. Good progress.”

  “Yeah, and now I’m bloody exhausted,” I say. “Thank you very much.”

  “I do realize your position with the Lucidites is extremely demanding. And I commend you on the commitment you show. However, you haven’t left the Institute in over thirty days,” he says.

  “I’ve been busy. There’s a fucking mole in this place who is giving all our secrets to Vivian. And the only way I’m going to find this dipshit who’s reporting my actions to Vivian is by hanging around this hell hole and investigating,” I say.

  “So,” he says, drawing out the word. “You’re not avoiding your pregnant daughter then?”

  I fake a long yawn. “Oh, I’m totally forgot the little dumbass got herself knocked up. Thanks again, Doc.”

  Even under his bushy mustache I still spy the purse of the doctor’s lips. And even adorning a skeptical expression, he looks accepting. “Don’t you think that at this time in Adelaide’s life she could use her father?”

  So now the good doctor has decided to play hardball with his questions. I wondered how long he’d allow me to take up a spot in his armchair and only answer his questions with one-word responses.

  “No, Doc, I don’t. She doesn’t need me and I’m fairly certain she doesn’t really need anyone,” I say. “This is a girl who has spent her entire life alone in one regard or another. I have every confidence that she’s fine growing that little monster in her womb and plotting how they are going to be a drain on my finances for the rest of their lives.”

  “But have you at least spoken to her?” Dr. Raydon asks.

  “No!” I fire back, an inferno erupting in my head.

  “Then how do you know that she’s fine as she embarks on this incredibly scary change?” he says.

  “Because I know the girl. I know her better than she knows herself. I know how she thinks and how easy it is for her to cut off emotions. I know how incredibly deluded she was to make the decision that got her pregnant. And I know that’s she’s strong enough to get through this,” I say too fast, the words seeking to tear out my throat if I don’t finally say them all.

  Dr. Raydon presses back into his chair, a knowing look on his round face. “To have this level of understanding of another person is quite the gift, Ren. You do see that, don’t you?”

  “I also understand how criminal minds work. So excuse me for not indulging you with your attempts to make this sound like a sentimental relationship,” I say.

  The day I found out Adelaide had hidden a pregnancy from me I moved back into my former residence in the Institute. I told Dahlia that I had to fill in as interim Head Strategist until Trey occupied the position with some half-wit. I told her that intervening in the Smart Pod/Vivian case was top priority. I told her that I’d return as soon as I could. Dahlia just nodded, listening to my excuses. Not once did she object. Not once did she accuse me of running or hiding. And that’s why I love her.

  Dahlia set up for Adelaide to see a doctor. She hired a midwife and made other arrangements that would ensure my spawn would be safe and taken care of. And then just like me Dahlia threw herself into her career, disclosing that her recording contract required that she spend the next month or two in New York. Maybe Dahlia would have stuck around if I did, but without me there she probably felt uncomfortable. And since I ran away she had every excuse to do the same.

  I get daily reports from Dahlia’s staff on Adelaide. It involves more details than I care to know. Her activity, mood, health, and sometimes a message from her. I haven’t returned the messages nor do I have any plans to do so.

  “Are you mad at Adelaide for getting pregnant?” Dr. Raydon says.

  “Of course I am,” I say before I consider my answer.

  “Now you probably think that you’re mad at her for being irresponsible, am I right?”

  “Yes. She had her whole life ahead of her. One full of potential. Now this kid is going to ruin it for her,” I say.

  “Is it also possible that you’re afraid this kid will change the relationship you and Adelaide were forming?”

  “No,” I say, biting on the word.

  “Because if I remember correctly, you two, against your mighty attempts to keep distance between you, were bonding.”

  “Nothing could be further from the truth. I was training Adelaide, just as I have thousands of snotty teenagers,” I say.

  “But none of the Dream Travelers you trained here at the Institute were your own flesh and blood and mirrored you like your daughter.”

  I shoot into a standing position. “I do believe we’re over our time,” I say, my eyes firmly centered on the clock on the wall.

/>   “No, it’s fine,” he says, waving a hand to me. “I don’t mind spending another half hour with you. I dare say we’re making progress.”

  “If by progress you mean you’ve figured out how to bring my breakfast back up then sure. And I can easily believe that you have nothing better to do than ask me daft questions. I however don’t have the luxury of hanging around with you discussing absurdities. I have a fucking mole to catch and club over the head,” I say.

  “Yes, best of luck with that,” the doctor sings as I exit.

  Chapter Three

  There are roughly two hundred residents and employees in the Lucidite Institute. Of those, I’ve cleared fifty, having firmly determined they aren’t the mole. Dr. Raydon is one of those that I’ve cleared. Trey Underwood another. And all twenty in the strategic department have passed my investigation. That was a fairly simple task because I know how my agents’ minds work. I trained my agents. Hell, I know every-fucking-thing about the people in my department. It’s how I vetted them and thereby determined they could hack an agent position.

  Now the real detective work begins. There are a lot of suspicious types in the other departments and it won’t be as straightforward to investigate them and determine if they’re the mole. The clairvoyance and telepaths in the news reporting department are the sketchiest people around. And they have the ability to lock down their minds or just feed certain information to an agent detective. Conversely, the scientists are dumb little sheep that split atoms and ask big questions. And they follow their doctrine of facts while dismissing anything unexplainable. They lack the creativity to realize that that which is a mystery holds the greatest power. That’s mostly why I loathe scientists. They want answers to everything, not realizing that they’ve deluded themselves into thinking that everything has an answer. That’s the most pompous short-sighted thing a person can think. Investigating the science department will indeed not be brain surgery. However, the last thing I wish to do is pollute my body sitting in a room with a bunch of sticky, crusty scientists. And then there are the administrative positions and maintenance workers. I suspect that they’ll be the easiest to investigate and therefore shouldn’t be my problem.

  I pause at the door to Scapes Escapes, my old department room. I took pity on Trey and assumed my old position as Head Strategist. It’s only in an interim capacity. And I only agreed because I recognize how desperate the situation is with Vivian planning a secret diabolical takeover of the American home. Furthermore, I only agreed to take the position if at my discretion I could work as the agent on this case, which we’re calling Smart Pod Takeover since that’s apparently the role of the devices in homes. To take over minds using voice control. We don’t know any more than that. Vivian’s powers of voice control will no doubt echo through the little handy devices that some techy father thought would be fun technology to add to his entertainment center. And once installed, the thing will listen and then give orders. And who knows what she plans to do to people, but anyone who would recruit an army of assassins can’t have a wholesome agenda. So I wasn’t lying when I told Dr. Raydon that I didn’t have the time to leave the Institute. I’m giving orders on hundreds of cases, managing a dozen agents, investigating a mole, and trying to cut the head off of Medusa aka Vivian.

  I check my watch before tapping the button for the department room. I’m right on time as usual. The motorized door slides back into the wall and I rush into the room, head held high, footsteps thundering. This type of entrance always sets the tone for these meetings, thereby setting all my agents on edge. An alert agent is one who’s thinking and observing; anything less results in a dead agent.

  All noises in the room are instantly sucked away as everyone’s attention centers on me. I clear the short hallway and halt in my usual position after a few strides. Around a large oval table twenty agents between the ages of eighteen and thirty stare back at me. It’s not that older Dream Travelers don’t make good agents, it’s that they either burn out or die on the job. It’s a dangerous position and so I do lose a fair percentage of agents each year. However, the biggest reason for turnover is that most people want to know what a typical life feels like. They desire a life where they aren’t on call or having to take orders from an abusive boss. Most of my agents last about five years before they decide a mortgage and breeding sounds like a fun idea. It’s a rule that those are two things my agents can’t have. And yes, I broke my own rules but they don’t apply to me. That’s my fucking privilege as the Head Strategist.

  People with no lives make the best agents. They aren’t distracted by responsibility. While in my service their thoughts belong to me and that’s the precise reason I’ve been so successful in this position. And it’s the reason that the Head Strategists who tried to take over for me all failed. They treated these agents like people. Maybe they even had lives of their own. When you treat people like humans then they start acting like humans, employing feelings and making mistakes. Treat people like machines and they perform in a way that brings about consistent results, not polluted by emotions. Intervening on a hundred potential disasters a day takes great planning and the skill of hardwired soldiers.

  “Inside this fucking metal box that all you rats call home is a bloody mole,” I say so loud that the newest recruit jumps slightly. She still isn’t used to my endearing nature. Several agents exchange nervous glances. “None of you is the traitor, hence the reason that I’m disclosing this information to you.” I begin striding around the table clockwise, my hands clasped behind my back. “If you have a spy amongst your community the last thing you do is give them any signs that you’re aware of their existence,” I say and stop. Then I slam my hand down beside a guy with a nose ring and a name that makes me want to take the privilege away from parents to name their children. “Bird boy, I have a question for you,” I say, leaning down low, the reflection of his shiny nose ring catching my attention briefly.

  “Raven, sir,” he says.

  I grimace. It’s a common joke amongst my agents that they correct me every single time I mess up their name or call them something belligerent. It’s almost kind of cute and as they know, it encourages the name calling. I might have ripped the human out of these people but I left their sense of humor intact. Sometimes it’s the only thing that will keep an agent sane.

  “Right, right,” I say. “How are you like a writing desk? From my perspective you’re flat and shallow and lacking a complex composition, but still in search of one.”

  His crooked teeth show when he flashes a grin. “You had a question for me, sir,” he says.

  Pigeon boy has been an agent for only one year and already he has the confidence of many senior agents. It’s impressive really, and also highly irritating.

  “I did have a question. Let’s play a game. Let’s pretend that you run this bloody department. There’s a mole reporting the activity of the Lucidites to an extremely bad villain. What would you do?” I say.

  He tilts his head to the side, thinking. I hate it when people have to do that, take the time to think.

  “Come on, pigeon brain, I haven’t got all day,” I say.

  “Well, I, Raven Ottomon the second, would send my agents out to question each of the residents of the Institute,” he says, pressing a hand to his chest.

  “That’s the worst idea ever,” a guy on the far side of the table says.

  I flip my head up to see the boy with skin as dark as chocolate leaning back in his chair, a satisfied look on his face.

  “And why is that, dread boy?” I say, angling to the guy who has decided that wearing his shoulder-length hair in strings of thick ropes isn’t completely gross.

  “I prefer to go by Trent, sir,” he says.

  “And I’d prefer not to look at your face, but Trey says I can’t fire you. Apparently a perk of dating his son. Good thinking. Sleeping your way to the top,” I say.

  Trent chuckles, unoffended. “As you were saying, sir, the last thing you want is to question people openly
thereby giving the spy a chance to hide evidence and arrange their story.”

  “So, it’s your department for the day, what do you do?” I say.

  “I send the eyes of my agents out around the Institute to observe. I assign a certain number of residents to each agent and that way they can focus their attention and look for behavior that is suspicious. I’d have my agents track the communications of these residents, get permission to search their computer history in the labs, and watch for interactions they have with outsiders. Because that’s the key to finding this person. The tipoff that a person is a mole isn’t when they’re collecting information but when they’re handing it off.”

  I narrow my eyes at the agent. “Well, then how about we go with your strategy and if it works then you can stick around for another month or two. If it fails and we don’t find the rat using this strategy then you’re fired. How does that sound?”

  “It will work,” he says, his typical confidence in his voice. Trent is my best agent and the reason for that is simple. He thinks from the end. A strategic mind only considers things in a way that presents real solutions. They don’t consider what-ifs. It’s about seeing what you want and working backward. Most take a problem and look for a solution. Solutions aren’t discovered, they’re bloody created.