Roen was about to say something else, when he hesitated and opened his eyes. His eyes shifted back and forth and he crawled out of the mess of blankets inch by inch, looking under his pillow and checking under the bed for anything strange. With a perplexed look, he shut off the alarm, yawned, and walked to the bathroom where he splashed water on his face and brushed his teeth. Afterward, he patted his cheeks a few times and studied his reflection in the mirror.
“Hey, what’s up? You want some of this?” Roen waved his hands over his head as if he was brandishing the bottles again. This was a daily routine he’d been doing ever since that night. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. Give me your money!” He swung his arms in the air. It was a laughable scene, though Tao was pleased that Roen had recovered from the incident enough to be light-hearted about it. He had spent the first week paranoid, frightened, and unsure of his sanity.
But as the week went on, his new host began to enjoy retelling the story to anyone who would listen, embellishing it more and more each time he told it. By yesterday, he took on three men, was bouncing off the walls, and was throwing bottles as if they were shurikens.
At least he had a good attitude about it. One of Tao’s old hosts, a certain French general during the American Revolutionary War, used to mope for days after a battle. Tao had trained that out of him real fast.
Another positive from that night was Roen’s reaction during the mugging. Even when terrified, he took direction surprisingly well under stress. That was a very important quality that could not always be trained. It was a good trait to have in an agent. And grudgingly, Tao had to admit that Roen was brave as well. Not many people these days would blindly follow orders and charge into battle. That characteristic had good and bad points. Still, it was a trait Tao found useful.
“No voices today, right?” Roen continued his morning re-enactment. “You can’t handle this!” He gestured at his large body. After nearly two minutes of dancing in front of the mirror, Roen winked at himself and completed his ritual. Walking back into his room, he looked at the clock and shouted, “Damn that alarm clock! I’m going to be late again!” He hurried to his closet and studied the scattered clothes lying around. Then he looked at the floor and picked up the same pair of pants he wore yesterday. He sniffed them to make sure they passed the smell test and then put them on.
You wore those yesterday. They are dirty. Tao injected that sentence very subtly. Dirty pants were not a great subject for an introduction, but how could Roen even consider walking outside with those on?
Roen stopped, one leg in a pant-leg. He turned to his left and then to his right. He looked up at the ceiling and then back down at his pants. “No voices, no voices,” he whispered. Then he looked down at his pants. “Damn, they really are dirty,” he muttered. He spit on his hand and rubbed at the stains and wrinkles left from a previous lunch mishap. He was about to throw them into the laundry hamper when he noticed that it had long since overflowed. Roen looked up at the clock again. “Oh, hell with it,” he muttered as he snatched the nearest pair of pants in arm’s reach and rushed out the door.
Roen rubbed his eyes and tried to stifle the yawn escaping his lips. Three hours at work in the War Room – listening to person after person drone on about statistics this, stress tests that, and control variables something – was more than he could take. Every fifteen minutes, someone would ask him to stop this transaction, start that script, bounce those servers, or check some data. It was unbearable! Most of the requests were met with a sullen “Sure,” “OK,” or “Whatever.”
When he wasn’t working, he passed the time doodling in a notebook, drawing little pictures of animals, stars, and smiley faces. Occasionally, Roen would get ambitious and try to draw a symmetrical polygon. After he tired of geometric shapes, he turned the page and settled on a new artistic endeavor. When he finished, he beamed at the picture of a plump donkey wearing a suit and carrying a briefcase. He drew some word balloons over its head and wrote out the caption, “I am what I do.”
Then why do you do it?
Roen stopped, the pen falling from his hand. The words bounced around in his head, repeating eerily over and over as they sank into the pit of his stomach.
“Why do I do what?” He said those words very slowly.
Do what you are doing.
Roen leaped out of his chair, knocking his chair over and looking wide-eyed around the room. Everyone stopped what they were doing and stared at him. “Peter, did you say something just now about what I’m doing?” Roen asked, stark panic in his voice.
Peter frowned. “Did I what?”
“I don’t know. You tell me.”
“I don’t know either. You lost me, man,” Peter shook his head and gave Roen his Dalai Lama look. “You all right?”
Tell them no and that you are quitting.
“That! Did you just say that?”
Peter’s look became one of concern. “You look sick, Roen. Maybe you should get some fresh air.”
“I… I…”
…quit. I am walking out of here and never coming back.
“…be right back. I have to step outside for a moment.”
Roen practically tripped over himself as he fled and bolted for the restroom. He ran into one of the stalls and locked it. Sitting on the toilet, he took deep breaths and tried to clear his thoughts. The voice was happening again. Was it him saying these things, or was something saying these things to him… from him? What was going on?
“Oh no, not again. I must have done something last night, like I did that other night when it happened. What did I do the same? That’s it! I had pizza both nights, and this is some sort of crazy allergic reaction.”
Really, Roen Tan? Do you actually think pizza makes you hear voices? Because technically, you had pizza six times in the past two weeks, and I did not talk to you any of those other times. So calm down, and let me explain.
Roen froze. That last bit was definitely not him, or was it? He just didn’t know anymore. “I’m going crazy. That, or I have a conscience that has somehow detached itself from my conscious mind, like an active conscious subconscious. That’s not good, I think. Well, crazy people don’t think they’re crazy. So if that’s true, and I think I’m crazy, then I must not be going crazy. But if I decide that I’m not crazy, that only enforces the theory that crazy people don’t think they’re crazy, and I’m actually crazy. So should I think I’m crazy or not?”
Your circular logic is quite dizzying.
Roen stood up and stamped his feet. “What the hell is going on?”
Sit back down. Better yet, leave. I would rather not discuss this in a urinal.
“Who are you? Was that you that other night? Are you that bald guy I saw in my head?” Roen hissed out loud.
No need to speak out loud. I can hear your thoughts just fine.
“OK, who are you?” Roen felt weird thinking to himself like this.
This is a bit complicated. But first, let me assure you that insanity is the least of your concerns. And yes, it was me that night helping with the mugger. That bald man was Oenomaus, a great gladiator that once defeated me. It is complicated. Care to go for a stroll?
“Why?”
Because sitting in a park talking this over is much more pleasant than conversing over a toilet. Besides, I have not seen Millennium Park yet. I hear it is quite lovely.
“But I have to go back to my meeting.”
We need to talk about that too. Why are you working at a job you hate?
“I have rent and…”
Yes, yes, and a cat. Listen, Roen Tan, you might be hallucinating and possibly insane. I think right now that meeting is the least of your concerns.