The Spy

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Three of us quit that day. It wasn’t enough. The mission went ahead as planned, to depressing, terrific success.

I don’t know why I stayed. Victor’s intel was good. We all knew it. There was no redeeming quality to the mission- not anymore, anyway. Any sort of excuse or justification that we had been desperately clinging to for dear life vanished in an instant, and we were forced to stare directly into the face of truth. A feverish denial, that of someone trying to escape a cage of their own creation rose among the team, but it was as quickly dispelled as it was summoned. Then silence, Then the resignations. I remember opening my mouth to do so as well, but no sound came out. And so, as my friends left, I went to sweet, blissful work.

The night I came home, Peter looked me in the eye and I could tell he just knew. The exchange was silent; all of the requisite words had already been said, again and again and again and again.

quit

I can’t quit I need to take care of you and Cira

do that in literally any other way. Please. You’re killing yourself

I can’t do anything else

Robert Castelle García. The person I married is the most skilled, creative person I’ve ever met. Are you him or not?

I don’t know anymore

He sighed and begun our regular ritual. Alcohol went down the drain, the TV and internet services were canceled, and mobile devices were disposed of, and off we were to the races once again.

A couple weeks later, we laid in bed awake, neither of us able to sleep, again. “Why? And don’t give me that ‘Take care of the family’ bullshit” He said, breaking the silence.

“Please don’t hate me”

“I could never hate you”

“I.. I don’t know. I know the consequences of my actions. For us, for Cira, for untold numbers of people. Even before this mission I knew, deep down. But I keep going anyway.” I choked back a sob “What’s wrong with me?”

“Hey hey hey, I’m here.” We hugged for a long moment. “Do you think your life would be better or worse if you quit?” He asked. I paused for what seemed like an eternity.

“I can’t imagine my life… me without it. It’s like asking a painter to give up painting. What the fuck do you expect them to do?”

“Live?”

The following eleven years would both be the happiest and most grueling of my life.

I sent my letter of resignation shortly thereafter. I didn’t tell Peter for a few days; I’m not sure why. I just wandered around aimlessly, breaking into tears the moment I had a second to myself. The old me was dead, I was sure of it. The body I currently inhabited needed to become something different, and that prospect was the scariest thing I had ever encountered, bar none.

Early on, I could tell Peter had taken to pinching himself to remind himself that I was here to stay. Even after he stopped, I got the feeling that he expected it to fall apart at any moment, despite my repeated reminders that it wasn’t.

Watching Cira grow up was probably the best part of the whole deal. I’d happily push a boulder up a hill for eternity just to be able watch her grow up.

I got a job at the local bakery. The work felt banal and repetitive but making people’s days better was a nice change of pace. The desire to go beg for my job back on my hands and knees never really went away. I just found things and people that made it easier to deal with.

// TODO: More stuff here // TODO: Perspective swap?

But when a woman walked into the bakery with a gun, my first thought was a cheeky “Who robs a bakery?” I could feel my heart rate go up, and not for the right reason. I had already feverishly computed six viable attack patterns before my coworker stuttered “Whoa there lady, you want the money? There ain’t much but it’s all yours if you…”

She cut him off, the gun pointed at me. “Are you Robert García?” A curve ball! Oho! My brain gleefully scratched the previous plans and began to recompute. The adrenaline was intoxicating. I opened my mouth to answer but I found it oddly dry and only managed a light croak.

“Yehs”

“Louder.”

I cleared my throat. The second my inadvertent dry mouth had bought me did not go to waste. I had narrowed the woman down. She looked middle eastern. Turkish, probably. That was bad news.

“Yes, sorry. I am.”

“You killed my mother.” Ah, there it was. It wasn’t that last mission, but rather the one before it. The woman wasn’t supposed to be there, nobody was. We tried to talk her down. She got scared and ran. It wasn’t me. Nia took the shot. Orders are orders. I took a deep breath.

“Yes I did. I’m sorry.”

“Sorry is not fucking good enough. She’s dead.”

“I know. Do what you need to do.”

We stood there looking at each other for what felt like an eternity, her gun pointed between my eyes, my hands in the air. My brain screamed and pleaded. Her posture is bad, disarm! Distract her! Feint Left! But I stood still. I simply deserved this. I deserve this. I’ve stolen eleven years and collection has come. I’m sorry Peter. I love you Cira.

Then she pulls the trigger.