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
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
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