gave the order to kill me.”
“I don’t owe you anything,” she reminded him. “You told me yourself there’s no honor in murder, no glory in battle.”
He sighed and sat on the edge of the bed, his hands folded into each other with his elbows perched on his thighs. “How many times do I have to say you’re not like other women? Sometimes I wonder if you’re human.”
She wanted to trace his scars with her fingertips, explore each curve of muscle with her lips as if she’d never been there before. Each scar had its own story, a myth born of blood.
“You want to see if I’m going to cry over you,” Rose sat up between the corpses. “That shit annoys me, Jim. I think we’re past the test phase. I’ll ask you a question so you can get over me faster: do you want to live?”
“That is the question, isn’t it? Why would I accept their mission? I guess maybe we can run away together and have babies, live on top of a mountain and watch thunderstorms. But I’ll be with other expendables; I’ll be with the best killers. You understand…”
“The best soldiers are licensed serial killers whose targets are picked for them,” she finished his thought. “Again, we’re repeating. Say something new before I get bored.”
“They know who I am,” he continued, “and I can guess who will be going with me. Whatever the mission, someone will have to come back alive.”
“And then you’ll run forever?”
“I wonder what I can become. They want to see if I’m too old, or if I’ve become slower. I want to know what I’ll be like after I complete the mission. I wonder if I’ll become the untamed beast. Maybe I’ll start picking my own targets.”
“You’re not one to become predictable.”
He looked at her for a moment, and then began to speak in a confessional tone. “You’ve already read my file, or else you wouldn’t have let me break you into pieces so many times. You know I’ve read yours. This is a time for honesty, right? You know about the woman who taught me how to live. Georgia Cone. Taxpayer money couldn’t keep her in the sanitarium. Lost her son in Vietnam. She only knew he was a special operative—I figured out who he was, later on. A neighborhood woman, lonely old bat, seduced me with a plastic rifle. Told me she saw me playing outside and thought I might like the toy. She broke most of the bones in my hands and feet once. My ribs. Shoulders. Gave me blowjobs and called me Michael. Showed me video footage of Vietnam over and over again. My name was Michael for six years.
“Georgia Cone was a retired teacher, so she loved reading Shakespeare to me. Especially Titus Andronicus and King Lear. I forgot who my parents were. There was only Georgia. Ms. Cone taught me you can live only when you know how to die. You can live when you master death. We’re all killers, waiting for the excuse. It’s the fatal flaw of our species.”
Rose needed to touch him again, needed to place her hands on his shoulders and massage the tight muscles while moonlight played with the shadows on the floor of their room. Instead, she watched him stare at her body. He was poised like a gargoyle, silently vicious and invincible.
“We’re already dead,” Rose offered. “Killing ourselves with machines. Plugging ourselves in until we’re always plugged in, and the human race dissolves itself for the sake of evolution. More technology until we become the liquid network itself and find immortality, and then there will be no more need to work, because Utopia is the disintegration of the mind into eternal code.”
“Harlan Ellison wrote a story about it,” Jim mused. “We doom ourselves with prophecies because we’re ultimately predictable. What if I can show the species how to live, right before it dies?”
“I want to ask predictable questions,” she said. “I’m still a woman.”
His gaze released her and he looked away. “Questions we never asked until now, the end. A time for honesty,
“I don’t owe you anything,” she reminded him. “You told me yourself there’s no honor in murder, no glory in battle.”
He sighed and sat on the edge of the bed, his hands folded into each other with his elbows perched on his thighs. “How many times do I have to say you’re not like other women? Sometimes I wonder if you’re human.”
She wanted to trace his scars with her fingertips, explore each curve of muscle with her lips as if she’d never been there before. Each scar had its own story, a myth born of blood.
“You want to see if I’m going to cry over you,” Rose sat up between the corpses. “That shit annoys me, Jim. I think we’re past the test phase. I’ll ask you a question so you can get over me faster: do you want to live?”
“That is the question, isn’t it? Why would I accept their mission? I guess maybe we can run away together and have babies, live on top of a mountain and watch thunderstorms. But I’ll be with other expendables; I’ll be with the best killers. You understand…”
“The best soldiers are licensed serial killers whose targets are picked for them,” she finished his thought. “Again, we’re repeating. Say something new before I get bored.”
“They know who I am,” he continued, “and I can guess who will be going with me. Whatever the mission, someone will have to come back alive.”
“And then you’ll run forever?”
“I wonder what I can become. They want to see if I’m too old, or if I’ve become slower. I want to know what I’ll be like after I complete the mission. I wonder if I’ll become the untamed beast. Maybe I’ll start picking my own targets.”
“You’re not one to become predictable.”
He looked at her for a moment, and then began to speak in a confessional tone. “You’ve already read my file, or else you wouldn’t have let me break you into pieces so many times. You know I’ve read yours. This is a time for honesty, right? You know about the woman who taught me how to live. Georgia Cone. Taxpayer money couldn’t keep her in the sanitarium. Lost her son in Vietnam. She only knew he was a special operative—I figured out who he was, later on. A neighborhood woman, lonely old bat, seduced me with a plastic rifle. Told me she saw me playing outside and thought I might like the toy. She broke most of the bones in my hands and feet once. My ribs. Shoulders. Gave me blowjobs and called me Michael. Showed me video footage of Vietnam over and over again. My name was Michael for six years.
“Georgia Cone was a retired teacher, so she loved reading Shakespeare to me. Especially Titus Andronicus and King Lear. I forgot who my parents were. There was only Georgia. Ms. Cone taught me you can live only when you know how to die. You can live when you master death. We’re all killers, waiting for the excuse. It’s the fatal flaw of our species.”
Rose needed to touch him again, needed to place her hands on his shoulders and massage the tight muscles while moonlight played with the shadows on the floor of their room. Instead, she watched him stare at her body. He was poised like a gargoyle, silently vicious and invincible.
“We’re already dead,” Rose offered. “Killing ourselves with machines. Plugging ourselves in until we’re always plugged in, and the human race dissolves itself for the sake of evolution. More technology until we become the liquid network itself and find immortality, and then there will be no more need to work, because Utopia is the disintegration of the mind into eternal code.”
“Harlan Ellison wrote a story about it,” Jim mused. “We doom ourselves with prophecies because we’re ultimately predictable. What if I can show the species how to live, right before it dies?”
“I want to ask predictable questions,” she said. “I’m still a woman.”
His gaze released her and he looked away. “Questions we never asked until now, the end. A time for honesty,
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