The More Permanent Resident of #1136 (also known as: The New Job)

Paul was seated in a cross legged position on the roof of Maplewood Crest, wearing nothing but a nondescript bathrobe and a pair of boxers, his hair still glistening wet from a shower. It was still dark, as the sun had yet to rise. Two sticks of incense was lit and burning before him. At this hour, the city was almost peaceful. Eyes closed, steadily breathing. For the past 30 minutes or so, the layout of the room was on his mind. The dark tan carpet that changed into tile as you moved into the kitchen.  The bed in the back corner of the room, simple, yet comfortable. The nightstand next to it.  Exploring the corner table that separated the kitchen from the rest of the room. The record player perched atop the old television set. By now, he knew his apartment like the back of his hand, and could probably navigate it blindfolded. But, it all slipped away, as something clicked. For the moment, he had found serenity. Thoughts came and went, gently flowing down a river through his head, in and then out of existence. This was freedom. This was understanding. “To understand the immeasurable, the mind must be extraordinarily quiet, still.” A quote from his latest read. But the book hardly mattered now. He was at one with the universe. Until his phone rang.

"Dammit." I growl, before switching into a more elegant, reserved tone, when I answer the cell. The small flame of the incense sticks extinguishes at the moment of my disruption from harmony. Unknown Caller, the screen reads. "This is Robert Jones." "This is John Smith." "Is this line secure?" "Probably not." "The weather out of town isn't looking so good. You might want to stay a while. You could get caught in a storm, and that wouldn't be very good." "Maybe I could buy an umbrella?" "It wouldn't work. I suggest making yourself comfortable where you are." The line cut off. From what I've just gathered, my target's friends have not been unaware of recent events. I'm in deep shit.

I need a cover. And soon. Otherwise, I'm screwed. I can't leave the city. Which means, unfortunately, settling in a little further. I walk up down Maplewood, Sap, and Riverwood, glancing at the various shops and stores. A man with dark hair, a redheaded woman, and a little boy are walking together by the Karmic cafe. They catch my eye, for some reason. I need something a little quieter. Then it occurs to me. That dingy bookshop. City Lights. It's perfect. Once I again, I head down the all too familiar Milk Street, the pavement rough against my shoes. I've come in a semi casual suit, for a decent impression. It's still early, but the sun is peeking up over the buildings. I take it all in: the morning air, the cars beginning to start up as residents get to their jobs. With a sigh of resignation, I slink into the dimly lit City Lights. A man in a purple zoot suit stands inside, a confident air about him. His face is half obscured in shadow, despite the early morning light. He smirks at me. I ask the question. "Are there any positions open?"

The Man in Freedom Tattoo

Dancing at my finger tips, I idly tease a flame through my fingers. It bounces back and forth, hand to hand, I am as at ease with the fire as a juggler is to his knives. No gut pain this time, though. Just the slight... tugging. There's really no other way to describe the feeling. Figures. I've been using it often enough, and in a big way. Today is a good day. No assignments for a few months, at the very least. The city smells wet and clean after the torrential rains earlier, the smell tickling my nostrils as I sit by the open window. Still humid as hell though, this Summer's heat isn't gone yet. A burning smell permeates into my room. Smells like... linen? Honestly. Why is somebody burning linen? I know what you're thinking, but I make an effort not to set things on fire inside, especially in my place of residence. This is about standards, people. My thoughts move elsewhere, to the events of today. An interesting man. Who is-BEEP BEEP BEEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP. Oh for fucks sake. The smoke detector. Extinguishing the small flame in my left hand, I storm over to it, clumsily fiddling in an effort to turn the damn thing off. BEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEE-. I return to my thoughts, thinking I'll make an effort to be more mindful. Inadvertently, I'd managed to set it off. My skills are both a blessing and a curse.

Earlier in the day, I'd made an executive decision that my radio days were over. I was going to buy a record player. In my opinion, vinyl sounds much better. I'm old fashioned that way. It was one out of several errands I was making, in an effort to make my dingy little place more welcoming. Nothing over the top, of course. I tend to have to drop everything and leave it behind, in my line of work. The walk was rather uneventful. I stopped by "City Lights" bookshop, picking up some reading material. "City Lights". It hardly deserved the name, small and scarcely lit as it was. But it was still a bookstore, and that's what I needed. I went to the record store next, buying a player and several vinyls. Most of it jazz, of course. But as I was walking back to Maplewood Crest, I felt a pair of eyes on me. I stopped dead in my tracks, the satchel bag with my goods limp at my side. A quick glance to the left, and then to the right. My eyes lock with a man inside the tattoo parlor, noticeably not tattooed himself, save for his wrists. His eyes are piercing. My job is to be a ghost, a fleeting memory in most people's heads. These are eyes that notice things. Especially things out of the ordinary. I break off the eye contact, casually but briskly moving away. A man with that notices the unnoticeable, the unordinary, the unusual, things that are different. A smirk surfaces on my face, which turns into a macabre grin. I would know. Because I, Paul Turner, am most unmistakably unusual.