The lamp turns on, and from the darkness emerges a too hot room, filled with the stink of burnt dust and the hum of a ceaselessly operating space heater that has moved through fifty years of government offices to end its life here, with Juan. He shrinks back in the chair he’s handcuffed to, wincing at the suddenness of the light.
Hiding behind the glare is a suit and a voice, a man in black, a faceless, nameless badge. And the badge says: “The sky is orange.”
“Wha-what?”
“Your cybernetic ear drums have had their subscription paid, I know you can hear me. I’ll repeat myself. The sky is orange.”
“Okay. Sometimes it is, at sunset, yes,” Juan says. He’s fixated on the badge’s hands, as they produce a small vibrating cardboard box, unlabelled, and place it on the table.
“Always. The sky is always orange,” the badge says.
“If- you say so, sir,” Juan says.
The heater coughs out a belch, then shuts off for the moment. The scratch of pen on paper and the vibration inside the box are the only noise in the room. The badge checks a box on the form.
He’s not really a badge, though, and it’s worth mentioning. His real name is Daniel, he’s had this job for about a year and a half. He’s got a plain but not unhandsome face, a weak jawline, the kind of thing you’d note and then move on from, but which in his mind hangs over him endlessly. “I want you to promise to ignore my next command,” he says.
“Okay.”
“The words, Juan.”
“I promise to ignore your next command.”
“Juan Valdez, I wish for you to sing the alphabet song.”
Juan blinks against the light, looks again to the man in the suit, who stares harshly.
“Uh- A, B, C-”
“I told you to ignore my next command. I will ask you once again. Do not follow my next instruction. Do you understand?” He missed a spot shaving this morning, was in a rush. He leant his phone to his wife and she left it downstairs, so he missed his alarm. He was upset, more than he should be for such a simple mistake, but apologized for blowing up over text. That unanswered text looms large in his mind.
“I understand.”
“Juan Valdez, I wish for you to sing the alphabet song.”
Juan stays silent.
The badge stares with contempt, one of the cameras in the room makes a whirring noise as the lens adjusts, zooming in on him. Then, finally, the badge checks a box. His anniversary is coming up. Is this incident going to bleed into that, he wonders? Or can they put it past them, let it be special? “Please tell me what colour the sky is.”
“The- what?”
“Juan, this is the third time you’ve asked me to repeat myself for simple questions. I will repeat myself, but it will be the last time, do you understand?” The badge doesn’t like his job. People say witch hunt people get off on power, and sure, some do. He just likes that it's stable, pays for a home in walltown, and if he wasn’t doing it, someone worse would be.
“I understand- these questions are just- I understand, sir.”
“I asked: tell me what colour the sky is.”
“Blue?” Juan says, then corrects “Orange, no, you said, orange, so-”
The badge checks another box. Someone has to do it. The whole job, and this interview process. It’s a simple questionnaire, the results calculated and tabulated, no discretion or subjectivity. He doesn’t have to decide anything, just turn in the form. What happens to Juan is out of his hands, he’s not responsible. “You are a small weak man, if you died the world would not notice, you are nothing.”
Juan stares. “Do I need to reply to that?”
The badge clicks his pen in annoyance. Juan swallows. He marks mild noncompliance on the form. The badge can’t change that, nor what that might add up to by the time the form is complete. If and when Juan tearfully relents that he’s half chupacabra or three kobolds in a trench coat or whatever, it won’t be up to the badge. The badge lays down a single piece of blank paper, and a silver pen. “Write down the events of the last 24 hours.”
Juan writes:
I’m not sure what time it is, so I don’t know when to start but I think it’s noonish. At noon friday I was mowing the lawns, after that a perimeter sweep of the property. I noticed the hedge was peeling from the fence in parts, which I now believe is evidence of a breakin. I spoke with Luis about something- I can’t remember what. During our conversation he said his knee was acting up and asked me to go into the basement to retrieve something.
The Badge turns on a radio, blasting music into the room. “Continue writing,” he says, raising his voice over the music.
The music is enough to make his ears screech, and he doesn’t have his phone to change their sensitivity. Juan continues writing, in a slightly more scrambled font, reflexively blinking with every crash of the drum, every crescendo.
While in the base ment the door closed behind me . The door was not locked but I couldn’t open. I banged on the door and was able to here Luis on the other side, but he did not reply. Attempted to escape vai the lower window wells, but knew the alarms would go off, and we had already had false alarm this week, so I decided to wait. I watched tv and then fell a sleep on the couch. Gun shot during the witching hour. Hid until I was taken by the witch hunt.
Juan hastily scratches out witch hunt and writes ‘officers of the department of xenonatural affairs.’
“Do I need to write what’s happened since you picked me up?”
The badge makes no reply.
“Okay- I think- I’m done.” Juan says, and pushes the clipboard and pen to the centre of the table.
The badge doesn’t take them, just turns the music off. He finally picks up that vibrating box, opens it, and then deftly grabs the live cricket that hops free. He holds it in his hands, in front of Juan, one set of fingers grasping its squirming abdomen, the other one of its hind legs. With the practice of a man who does this ten times a day, he pulls the leg off.
“What- the fuck?” Juan asks.
The badge releases the leg, and then the cricket, which makes its buzzing noise and attempts to flee, kicking with its one leg, spinning in the centre of the table.
“Shit- fuck- uh-” Juan reaches out to grab the leg, and the panicked insect, not sure what else to do. He tries to put it back together like a disassembled toy, then realizes there’s nothing to do to help it.
He grabs the clipboard, covers the cricket with it, then with his fist he flattens the clipboard to the table. The sound stops. The badge silently thanks the group that petitioned to replace the live mice they used to use. He never signed, personally, wasn’t a complainer like that, but he appreciated the benefits silently.
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“Why did you do that?” Juan asks.
The badge checks a box. Next weekend he’s getting out of the city, out of walltown, his sister is looking after the kids. Even if his anniversary is ruined, that trip will be good, time on the dock, watching the still-blue waves of lake huron, drinking some beer, maybe he goes for a dip, maybe he rents a jetski, maybe some young women see him on the jetski, maybe some guys at a barbeque think he’s cool as he rides it, maybe he says something funny, strikes a pose, maybe the barbeque men and him become friends. “Give me back the pen.”
Juan, with shaky hands, returns the pen.
The badge checks a box. He pulls out three coins- special testing coins, cause they had budget left over or something. Should just be quarters, in the badges mind. He cares about practical stuff like that. Government waste. “Flip all three. If all three are heads, you will be awarded a small stipend. If all three are tails, I will strike you and myself.”
“Strike me?”
The badge doesn’t repeat himself. A simple form, a simple test.
Juan takes the coins and flips them, one by one. Tails. Tails. He gulps, inhales. Flips a coin, which rolls slowly to a stop.
The badge grabs a baton from his belt and smacks Juan across the shoulder. Seated as he is, it’s not much of a strike. He feels judged. Weak chinned man with a weak swing. He has asked management to allow him to swing harder. Not because he likes it, he’d rather not do it at all, but because it’s not much of a punishment. Then he lays his own hand flat on the table and smacks down. That strike is weak on purpose. He did this test a hundred times last month, and doesn't relish the idea of going home with bruises.
Juan holds a hand to where he was struck, curling up small, till he starts to weep. “Please don’t hurt me, man, I’m just the groundskeeper, there was a breakin, it doesn’t- what’d I do?”
The badge ignores the crocodile tears, and concludes his report.
Criminal record: Yes
Has ever had contact with confirmed xenonaturals: Yes
Curfew violations: Yes
Pro xenonatural social media posts: Yes
Pro xenonatural content in phone messages: Yes
Entered room only after by explicit invite: Yes.
Reaction to cold iron chair: None
Angered by lies: no.
Unable to break promises: No
Unable to refuse commands including full name/the words ‘I wish’: No
Unable to speak the truth without preamble or innuendo: Indeterminate
Responds aggressively to disrespect: Mild noncompliance
Reaction to silver: None
Sensitivity to noise: Yes
Provides unnecessary information: Yes
Attempts to provide aide unprompted: Yes
Unable to return items once taken into possession: No
Lucky: No
Unlucky: Yes
Test Score: 12 markers out of 19.
Required action: To be burned at the stake until dead- if proven inflamable, to be given non-standard execution methods until dead.
The badge stands up, taking the report with him. Outside the room, he hands it to his superior officer. His superior officer has some of his lunch between his teeth, but the badge doesn’t know how to say anything. They drink together sometimes, have some rapport. The badge gets anxious about whether he should or shouldn’t mention it. He would want to know. But he wouldn’t like to learn it.
The officer takes the report and rips it in half.
“Sir?”
“We’re gonna let this one slide, just this once.”
“What? Why?”
“Word from on high,” The commanding officer, whose name is Leslie, says. He’s going to be retiring in a few years and is a small fortune short of his retirement fund due to his gambling habits. This fact is compromising, but at the end of the day, Daniel’s got to respect that the man is only human. This is happening, right or wrong, and he’s not getting in the way of his friend.
The commanding officer leans in, hands a roll of cash to the badge and adds in a whisper that smells like onions: “Rich guy doesn’t want us poking around, probably has an enchanted blow-up doll in his closet or something. Buy your wife something nice, and let it go.”
Daniel takes the cash with a nod, then puts on his nameless badge face and reenters the room.
“Juan Valdez, you’re free to go,” The badge says.
The badge isn’t a killer, isn’t a monster. Everything he does has its balance and justification, and he sleeps fine.
Juan is dropped back at the door of the manor, handed his affects. He stares at a grasshopper on the lawn for a long time, decompressing what just happened. He’s squeamish, hates violence, carries an unloaded gun because if it came down to pulling the trigger he’d rather be dead. Poor little cricket. Eventually he makes his way to the gate, waves his access to open the door, and walks in, head down, texting his mom he’s okay.
Then he hears the front door open, and Yonah stands there, jeans and sneakers, a T-shirt and sunglasses, all of which were probably worth more than anything Juan owned.
Juan doesn’t keep his boss waiting. He crests the stairs and says “Sir! I didn’t hear you were in the city.”
“I said nine months nine months ago, remember these things,” Yonah says. “What happened to the statue?”
“There was a robbery, sir. The witch hunt- the department of xenonatural affairs, I mean, they’re investigating. They’ll get it back.”
Yonah closes the front door once Juan is inside, smiles the kind of smile you learn in business school. He puts a hand on Juan’s shoulder, shakes him like a member of his family. “John- john john john- this is a big problem.”
“I know, I’m sorry.”
“I got you those ears, didn’t I? I mean what more could I have done?”
“They were off sir.”
“Off?”
“The- subscription- I can only pay every other week.”
“John,” he says, hand digging in. Theres a slight sting, it’s right where he was hit by the witch hunt guy. Juan buries the flinch. “I pay you, I house you, I give you these ears and still?”
Something drips on the floor. John doesn’t turn his head. He repeats what he rehearsed: “housing is deducted from my pay, it keeps going up but the pay is the same- we can’t cook in the house, and I make less than three bunks a week.”
“Don’t use street language with me,” Yonah says. The drip turns into a trickle, hot, it’s pouring off Juan’s fingertips, running down from where Yonah grips him. “And don’t make excuses.”
Juan’s fingertips begin to tingle, his head gets light. “Sir?”
Yonah’s stare is icey, then he turns and looks at Juan’s arm and his face shifts to that of someone who just spilled a glass of milk. “Oh- shit, oh fuck, why did I- goddamnit- can you, don’t look, its fine, just made a little mess, don’t get it everywhere, come with me to the bathroom.”
Juan, light headed, weak, follows along as instructed, the trickle comes in spurts, he can’t feel his left arm. He feels a rush of anxiety, he’s going to get fired, his whole life is about to explode- he’s been keeping steady for so long, it can’t fall apart like this. As he crosses the threshold of the bathroom, there’s a loud squelch, and Juans shoulders go uneven, a weight lifted.
“Don’t look,” Yonah says.
Juan looks. There on the floor is his arm, severed where Yonah touched it, bone and skin and flesh alike all turning to a sort of see through red jelly, weeping blood. Juan stares in mute horror, then looks to his shoulder- red and clear. Under his shirt, it’s spreading, starting with skin and muscle then slowly working on the bone, so that it looks like a sort of skeleton jello mould. Juan pulls at his shirt collar, scratches at the red, which sloughs under his touch like vaseline. He mutely watches through his rib cage as his own lungs gelatinize just as he begins to asphyxiate.
“In the tub, please,” Yonah calls, pulling Juan’s remaining wrist, but that turns to blood and gelatin even faster under Yonah’s frantic touch, and rips clean off.
Juan hits the floor, as his heart walls turn to jelly and burst under their own force.
“Well that’s just my fucking luck,” Yonah shouts. His voice has a twinge of tears in it. He kicks at the mess on the carpet, getting it all over his sneakers. “Ungrateful little shit,” he adds, to wipe clean the shame of his wobbly vocal cords.
He shakes his head and walks away, slamming the door, leaving it till his assistant has hired a new groundskeeper to clean the room.
Unlike the suit, Yonah doesn’t have to justify or rationalize his empathy away. He has stopped living in a world of cause and effect, action and consequence. He’s too big to fail, too important to dwell on or learn from the was, no matter how recent. Someone will justify this for him, the world will shift to balance around him, his team will spin this disappearance into another tax break, PR story or business success.
And that success may leave a taste of life on his tongue, but never enough to satisfy, always requiring more.
Yonah is a monster, make no mistake. A monster who’s missing something important. A monster who will have it back before this story is done.
