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  Copyright © 2020 Marcus Sloss.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  ASIN: TBD

  Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Names, characters, and places are products of the author’s imagination.

  CHAPTER 1

  Have you ever had a song stuck in your head you desperately wanted to put on mute? Welcome to my little slice of torture. My leg bounced to a beat that was stuck on auto-repeat and my back popped with a twist as I shifted my large framed around in the uncomfortable plastic chair. My thoughts swirled. I calmed my agitated state with three slow deep breaths and inspected the room.

  A diverse selection of positivity posters plastered the walls of an interior classroom that lacked any windows. Recessed lighting brightly illuminated the small space. An aged chalkboard loomed over the front of the room, etched with the deep kind of chalk stains frequent use caused, and that only disappeared with liberal applications of industrial grade solvent. Six comfortable chairs formed a half-circle around an older woman in a five-wheeled office chair. I hated being late, but an important call from a former war buddy delayed my arrival to the meeting, hence I had to find a seat outside the circle of comfy recliners in the cheap—and painful, my back reminded me—seats.

  Normally, awkward situations or public speaking did not bother me. My time in the military had forced me to get over any minor anxieties I’d held regarding speaking in front of others. My apprehensions rose from the odd combination of awkwardness and opening up in a public forum, making myself vulnerable to disclose truths I generally kept hidden. After coming home from war, I had become a recluse, and outside of attending classes, where I frequently avoided conversations, I tended to keep to myself. Today, ghosting on the edge of the counseling session was not an option. The dire need for me to abandon my inner shell of isolation, to jump clear of my comfort zone only added to my current anxiety. Yesterday, a fateful call to my Gpad—those ubiquitous and irreplaceable devices that had superseded smart screens almost overnight—revealed a horrific truth that forced me out of inaction.

  This might be my last chance to break through to the special someone that sat next to me. If I couldn’t build on our budding friendship and establish a connection today, the multitude of tasks of preparation over the coming weeks would pull me away from her, likely forever. This was my one chance to see if what I wanted so badly to feel again was possible with her. To even have that chance, though, I had to win her to my side here, now, at this counseling meeting.

  Willow was a lovely young woman who tried to conceal some internal struggle. At least, this is what I assumed. The fact that I had access to what most considered restricted data might have helped, too. The last meeting, which had been my first, had revealed a young woman fighting to contain the conflict behind her bright blue eyes and vibrant pink hair. She had a hidden beauty, under the heavy, unnecessary make-up, awkward turtle-neck sweaters, and oversized men’s shoes. Willow Hanks struggled to adapt to campus life on her own; this was evident from the half-truths that she had disclosed in our group counseling session. I hoped I could help her with that problem.

  This open therapy session, hosted by the college’s mental and emotional counseling clinic, was called ‘struggles’. I had laughed at the name at first, because what did college kids these days really consider a struggle? That their game controllers hadn’t recharged in the ten minutes they spent snarfing down pizza? A gentle touch on my shoulder brought me out of my reverie. My gaze lifted from Willow’s hand resting lightly on my DU t-shirt until our eyes locked. Her batting lashes and wide smile invited me to open up. For the first time since Saudi, I felt the stirring of butterflies in my stomach, reminding me that there were still good things in the world. Some of these beautiful things, like the young lady sitting beside me, were worth the effort of coming out of my shell. I returned her smile and felt the chemistry between us brewing. She lifted a curious eyebrow. I was about to compliment her on her amazing eyes when our interaction was interrupted.

  “Excuse me,” the student counselor said. I my intrigued gaze shifted from Willow, who quietly exhaled the breath she’d surprisingly been holding. “You were unable to give an introduction last session… Hmm…”

  “Name’s Eric, Eric Yang. If you’re trying to retrieve my files.” I tapped on my forearm against my Gpad. Slightly smaller than a phone, it had a holographic, three-dimensional display that projected requested personal information. Years of operating the device resulted in a quick unlocking and sharing of my records. “There you go, Mrs. Teller. You should be able to see my information now.”

  “Wow! You can block your data? You a hacker?” A pimple-faced young man three seats to my left leaned over to ask.

  I frowned at him, staying silent. If he was expecting an answer, he would not get one from me. A squeak of chair legs sliding across the tiled floor allowed me to shift my chair until I faced Willow. I held out a hand in a basic gesture with my left-hand palm up.

  “What’s he doing?” the young man asked.

  “Yes, Mr. Yang, what are you doing?” Mrs. Teller asked with a hint of authority in her tone.

  “Mrs. Hanks needs to know something vital to her future,” I said. Willow’s curiosity was piqued. She again raised that manicured pink eyebrow before placing her left palm over mine. I placed my right hand on top of hers, completing the stack. She twitched in her seat, the whites of her eyes flaring in shock. I had figured she would react poorly to the texture of my fake silicone hand. “It’s okay, Willow. I hope my disfigurement does not startle you. I cannot help the wounds I returned home with.” I smiled at her. “Would you like to inspect my arm while I talk?”

  “This guy is hitting on Willow, Mrs. Teller,” pimple face sputtered jealousy.

  “Frankie, please. A man came to our session today that …” Mrs. Teller paused and gave an audible snort. “I’ve an open-door policy as to who can come to these sessions. If you’d take the time to read Willow’s expression, she is interested not frightened.”

  “True. I do find the brooding handsome man vying for my affection endearing,” Willow grinned cheekily. “Me and Eric have a bit of a history. We have a few classes together. There has been a bit of chemistry brewing between us these last few months. It took him weeks to say more than ‘hello’ to me. He seems to be a patient man who has been nothing but polite and respectful. The last time we talked, he almost got the courage up to ask me out for coffee.” She turned back towards me. “I’d have said yes, Eric.” She looked back up at the group to continue her story. “There was this odd pain in his eyes, however, and he retreated instead. I thought that I’d scared him off, yet here he is willing to brave the group counseling session to talk about his struggles.” Her blue eyes twinkled mischievously. “How about we hear him out?”

  “I guess,” Frankie said with disdain.

  “See, that’s all perfectly fine. All I ask is,” Mrs. Teller gasped and covered her mouth. She was probably reading my file right now, judging from her reaction. “Are you … serious?”

  “What’s wrong, Mrs. Teller? What kind of ‘struggles’ could a gray-haired old fart like him have that Just for Dudes can’t fix?” Frankie asked with a snicker.

  I ignored Frankie and the rest of the room when Willow’s soft touch traced the silicone seam running the length of my forearm. My arm fired a signal to my brain, and my Gpad pinged with
an authorization request. An approving nod was enough for the device on my forearm to flare green. The seam split, mimicking a banana being peeled. Willow gingerly removed the tan colored silicone covering my right cybernetic arm. Her eyes shined with delight when the mechanical appendage underneath was teasingly revealed. I bounced my fingers to spin the whirling gyros. The hum of the components from the futuristic creation was a constant reminder of the horrific reason my arm was not flesh and blood.

  “What are you?” A new voice said.

  My eyes darted from watching Willow to the geeky girl wearing a retro duckman shirt. Her black hair was entwined in twin braids, and her chubby face glared disapprovingly at my arm. I had studied the background of the other group therapy session attendees after my first visit. Miss duckman tshirt’s name was Reba, and she struggled with trust issues and was both hostile to men and prone to quick bursts of anger. I intended to avoid her.

  “We’re here to talk about our struggles, right?” I shrugged. “If I talk about my struggles, it will answer a lot of these kinds of questions.” I looked at Mrs. Teller for permission; she smiled. “I think I’ve a few minutes, then, if that is okay?” I glanced down at the floor. “Please excuse me if I ramble. I haven’t been real talkative lately, but when I get going…”

  Mrs. Teller scooted forward to the edge of her seat, plopped her hands into her lap, and eagerly nodded her head. My attention swung over to Willow. Her fingers still traced the metallic details of my mechanical arm. Her nails lacked polish or flair, but her soft hands spoke of an easy life.

  “I didn’t struggle growing up. I was raised in southern Florida on the outskirts of Miami,” I began, “I guess I get my height from my father, or more appropriately, my grandfather. The man was a soldier, one of many who did a tour in Korea and came home with a foreign bride. My father was half black and half Korean. I guess that makes me a mutt.”

  I paused to study Willow and see how she reacted to all this. She hid my cybernetic arm back behind its more natural looking cover. The silicone melted together until only the tiniest of seams were visible. Before her hand could retreat, I waved my fingers, enticing her to slip her hand in mine. She grinned at my dexterous invitation and gave in to the temptation. Our eyes locked, allowing me to sense the interest I had hoped was there. She smiled brightly and I became lost in her beautiful tender blue eyes. Only when you have truly been alone can you understand what it is like to need another to complete you. I did. I hoped she could help me feel again. There was a fiery twinkle in her gaze that highlighted the blush creeping up her neck. I sensed the others growing bored with our staring contest.

  “Struggles …” I cleared my throat, “those started after high school. I decided to tour the world. I guess you could say that I learned an incredible amount of useless stuff while pissing away a lot of my parents’ hard-earned money. For example, I learned how to buy party drugs; that if a bouncer wore a star pin, sticker, or fake tattoo of one, they had drugs for sale. If there was no star pin, or the bouncer wore two or more of them, the cops were sniffing around.” I frowned at the memory, “when I returned home, I contacted my old dealer. We concocted numerous fantastic plans while high on opioids. Ultimately, I became a bouncer at a popular nightclub. I had a clean record, a decent employment history, and was accepted as a minority hire, while looking mostly white.”

  Half of these kids had zoned out already. I didn’t care. This story was really for an audience of one—it was kind of annoying that I had to share it with the rest of them. “Okay, by this point, you are still probably wondering why I’m rambling on about my boring backstory to you all.” A few heads perked up at that. “I need Willow to understand the man that is about to ask her to trust him…”

  “Yeah, about that,” Frankie interjected. “Why’re you perving on Willow?”

  “Both of you, stay on topic, please. Frankie, Willow is an adult, and your complaint comes off as passive aggressive. Her body posture is relaxed, and like me, she was enjoying the story. Please continue,” Mrs. Teller said.

  Reba gave a scoff and folded her arms under duckman’s vibrantly orange bill. She must be sore because the attention was staying on me. A gentle sigh from Willow encouraged me to continue.

  “I… This next part is difficult to tell. I’m not proud of what I did.” I ducked my head and took a long minute to get my thoughts in order before continuing. “Selling drugs is worse than doing drugs. I actually got sober as money became my high, and as it turns out, when you fall into an excessive amount of cash, you tend to spend it … foolishly.” I grinned ruefully. “If you think digital surveillance is bad these day, it was significantly worse before the privacy laws President Hansen enacted. Every transaction I completed was monitored. Flags were raised and my club became a target of interest for the police. Three years slinging drugs to kids wanting to have the night of their lives ended suddenly. I was facing thirty years for possession, dealing, and tax evasion. Oddly enough, the stiffest penalties were because I’d never paid taxes on my ill-gotten gains; my money never touched a bank, there were no physical records, and they never needed any. Spoiler here, these gray hairs and worry lines on my dashingly handsome face are not from old age. I’m barely over thirty.”

  Willow squeezed my hand.

  “I went into jail with a twenty-year sentence that the judge said was lenient. Some kid had overdosed on narcotics and they threatened to tie the incident to me. That accusation never stuck, but the possibility that I had sold him some of his fatal cocktail resonated with me. I accepted my punishment and knew that by the time I got out in 2041, I would be a better man.”

  I got some wrinkled brows and odd looks with that comment. “Obviously,” I continued, “something happened, since I’m sitting here in this room along with those ridiculous posters, and it is only 2032. A cat hanging in a tree never motivated … Sorry, my mood sours when I dwell on my past. Where was I?”

  “Jail,” Willow whispered softly. “You seem so gruff, yet normal. Not the typical man I get hit on by, that is for sure.” She traced a circle with her thumb across the back of my hand, “I’m enjoying the attention. Please continue.”

  “Thank you. Your eyes are so beautiful I find them mesmerizing. After this session, I want to learn more about you,” I said. Willow nodded casually with an indifferent smirk. Her hand stayed in mine and there was genuine interest in her eyes. “Jail sucked. I read and read some more. I bulked up to stay healthy, and to pass the time, I dove into learning about survival. Actually, I tried struggling with astrophysics first, before turning to simpler subjects. Spoiler alert, when you ask Dave, the guy doing time for porch thievery, about how hydrogen combusts, he’ll tell you to eff off.” This earned a chuckle.

  “My goal was not to become a pariah among my fellow prisoners, but at the same time, I wanted—no, needed—to improve myself. I struggled to learn anatomy to improve my health, the wilderness to know how to live off the land, and even learned about farming. Ironically, the best conversations I had in prison were about horticulture.”

  “Fast forward to 2029 and the Saudi-Israeli war breaks out. America, in its infinite wisdom, decides to maintain peace after the Israelites knocked Saudi infrastructure back to the stone age. Israeli soldiers went home to relax, while Uncle Sam played intermediary and sent our troops to rebuild and secure what was left.” Several neo-progressive liberalists scowled, and I held up my hands. “Now, we can get into the politics about whether that was a good idea or not, but that is something I want to avoid today. Let’s just agree to disagree.”

  Their soft laughter echoed in the room. Some of the chuckles were obviously fake, but when I paused with an eyebrow raised, no one interrupted. They clearly wanted to hear about how the Saudi war was relevant to me.

  “Uncle Sam didn’t give privacy to prisoners, even when Hansen’s new laws were enacted. Every book, G-net search, and medical exam was packed into a neat file for all non-violent offenders that got shared with other government agencies. I
had two visitors on an abnormally bright day in that Houston jail. I remember the extra gleam of the buffed white floors. Even the guard’s cuffs that hung off her hips reflected dazzling light right into my eyes. Moments like those tend to stick with you, when everything has become stale and mundane. The guards sat me down and bolted my shackles to the floor in front of two ladies who could give glares like what Reba only wishes she could give.”

  “Hey,” Reba interrupted, “I never told you my name.”

  “It was mentioned when I was coming into the room. You were going over your struggles when I arrived late.”

  She glared.

  “Let me finish the story,” I sighed, “and then you can have the floor. These two little ladies were intimidating with their hard eyes and scowls. They wore a military uniform. ‘US ARMY’ was stenciled over their hearts, and dulled American flags flew backwards on their right arms. Now, I want everyone in this room to understand something clearly—this happened before the Saudi war broke out, early in the spring of 2029. Sergeant Donivan and Staff Sergeant Beckers were short, ornery black ladies I never want to cross paths with, ever again. I will never forget those two sour suits, as I nicknamed them. They made me an offer, one I easily refused.”

  “I was on track for early release with good behavior,” I explained, “With knowledge as my current fix, I was neither a fighter nor a troublemaker. Jail ... while not easy, had become a mundane cycle that I had learned I could deal with. Serving in the military did not appeal to me … or the majority of kids Uncle Sam needed to recruit. They tried to tempt me with low-ball incentives of early release and measly amounts of bonus cash. What they offered increased until it hit a ceiling that made them flustered. I had a feeling I was not the only potential recruit scoffing at their offers. There simply was no compelling reason for me to join up. So, I told the two sour suits ‘no thank you’ as politely as I could, mind you, and they left.”