Tammuz
12-02-2016, 12:09 PM
(The prota is a paranormally gifted 18-year-old girl on her first PSI agent mission)
++++
I´m in the gallery ´Kum Iam´ in the center of Shanghai, not far from the Sci-fi-riverside-promenade which is known as ´Bund´ all over the world.
My dress for this evening: a silvery shining trash-jacket, skintight Bordeaux-red X-Ray jeans, black-and-white striped hiheels of Kawakura and silky white gloves. Below my black bobbed-hair wig I wear so much make-up that my face will not be recognizable after washing up.
On the dance floor some men and women are contorting themselves to a dubsteppy rumbling. As the DJ sharpens the lights I step onto the floor and have my hips work on an imaginary phallus. The floor is trembling, the vibes are streaming. For some moments I and the other dancers form a whole.
Of course, I attract the attention of some guys and ladies, for instance of that gent who stands over there at the bar, wearing a white jacket. I blink towards him several times for I have to do without telepathic surveillance.
He would immediately notice it.
Since he is Rajan Singh.
Clearly too strong for a normal youngster PSI agent.
Nevertheless, since my initiation I´m more remote from normality than ever. I just lack experience.
The disadvantage of the location is evident: no reanimation is possible in case that Singh succeeds in killing me.
So it´s forbidden to lose.
To die, all the more. I still attach importance to my body. As a human goddess who is gifted with divine capacities, I could of course pick up a new body —for example, that of the cool Asian hunny two steps beside me—, but why roam so far afield when there are good things so near?
As the DJ slams on the brakes I get going. At the colorfully shining bar I swing on a free stool beside Singh and order a Martini from the barkeeper while bending myself over the bar and lifting ostentatiously my backside. This signal cannot escape Singh´s attention.
When the Martini comes I say:
"Cool sound."
I send Singh one of my Galaxy-likes-you-glances. He appears more simpatico than on the CIA-photo what of course doesn´t alter my mission to kill him.
"That´s Dubstep, isn´t it?" He smiles. "I know it only cursory. I´m more engaged in visual arts."
"Oh yeah? You´re certainly an art collector, like most people here."
I stretch myself luxuriously. Under the silky blouse my breasts stand out. A bra? Not a bit of it.
"That´s true." He sips his champagne. "I like art. Rubens, Renoir, the expressionists, but also Pollock. By the way, you´re a beautiful woman."
I take a sip of the Martini. Until now it goes to plan.
On the dance floor some roadies arrange the setup of an artist show while a crowd surrounds the artist, a Batman-like dressed Chinese guy.
Then his female assistants come out, waving to the people and blowing kisses to them. They are gymnasts of the Chinese Olympic team — and they are naked.
"I got an idea, Mr. Esthete." I bend over to Singh. "I want to show you something, but privately."
His brows knit a bit. Since I´m not paranormally active I can just assume that he checks me telepathically at this moment so I promptly produce an erotic imagination about him as object.
"I appreciate," he says, "people with good ideas."
"That´s wise. There are lounges for biz talks which aren´t closed during an event."
I´ve got this information from the CIA.
"So go on, young lady."
I slide from the stool and walk through the crowd towards the entrance of the hall behind which a corridor leads to the lounges. Singh follows me. I enter a room with erotic graphics at the walls. Some art-deco-lamps cast a subdued light on a group of leather armchairs. Behind me Singh comes in and closes the door.
I fall backwards into an armchair.
"The show starts in a minute," I say softly.
"It looks like this." He stands amid the room. "Nice here." His glance passes from me to the walls. "Neat graphics."
"Pardon me?"
"I said, neat—"
"I don´t understand you. Come closer to my ear. Somebody once said my ears are way beautiful."
With two steps he is before me. I turn an ear to him.
"Really sweet," he says.
My perfume finishes him off. He positions himself between my spread legs, kneels down, puts his hands on my thighs, and presses them while I unbutton my blouse and show my tits. Eagerly he immerses his face between them.
There are now two possibilities to attack Singh. Firstly, by energetically overloading the nadis —these are according to Selena the energy lines inside a body. This way I had sorted out Itchy. Secondly, the way as taught in the CIA lab: a psycho transfer into Singh´s mind in order to do for him by means of virtual fighting. I decide on the Itchy variant because of my experience, and activate my microsensitivity.
Singh´s body, bent over me, becomes transparent and alters into a gleaming web. I focus on the brain which lies between my breasts like a tangle of shining and blinking threads.
I load it with the most aggressive energy I´m capable of.
For some moments I´m blinded by a glaring explosion...
A spooky scream fades in echoes...
Then darkness envelops me...
Is Singh finished? But where I am?
The light comes back in form of stars and a quarter moon above the top of an oak. I´m lying naked on a meadow amid walls of ruined bricks. It´s cold and breezy. I see tombstones rising in the half-light. Somewhere an owl cries terribly.
In what kind of John-Carpenter-act have I landed up? Anyway, it has nothing to do with my Itchy method. Something has gone wrong. Perhaps it´s better to clear off back to the lounge, to my body.
But I decide to stay.
Am I dead?
Has he taken me with him to the realm of the dead?
Some meters distant and veiled in an ankle-length garment, a figure paces slowly towards one of the graves. The soft whimpering and the way of walking indicate a young woman. I feel intuitively that she is a former beloved of Singh.
In front of the tomb the figure remains in silence. Has she perceived my at all? I try to arise but am so weak that I only manage to squat. Just as I decide to return to the lounge or to try at least, the figure turns in my direction. The deep shadow below the cowl makes the face unrecognizable. I´m so surprised that I forget my intention.
A new scream of the owl cuts my soul in half. I realize the face of the woman. It´s my mother in about the age when I was six.
O how I hate her...
I furiously stand up, baffled looking at my hands and feet. I´m a six-year-old girl in a bright little dress und shout:
"Mommy?"
****! My voice is high and thin. Things are taking an uncool turn.
The woman —my mother— bends down to me.
"Joanna! You just might catch a cold!"
She calls me by my second forename because she hates my first one. My father had insisted on ´Galaxy´. She hates my father, too, who had been so unfaithful. And I hate being called ´Joanna´.
However I love Mum from the bottom of my heart. I stretch my tiny hand towards her. She seizes it with both her hands...
... and crashes me towards the next tombstone...
I hit with my back against an edge so hard that I think to be ripped into two parts. Crashed down on the floor I feel only piercing pains.
Through a bloody cloud I see the figure stepping towards me.
"Did you really think," Singh snaps, "you could dupe me, little *****?"
He stands over me in white trousers and white shirt, looking the very picture of health.
That´s not good.
Not for me.
He raises a foot in order to smash my small thorax. I focus all my energy and catapult out of my body. When Singh´s foot hammers into the chest, making blood splashing out of the mouth, I float already bodiless two meters above him.
To kill Singh is however not possible in this state. I have to get into his astral figure. The disadvantage of this method is a nausea almost driving me into a frenzy.
But it lasts for just some seconds.
Then I´m inside the chaos of images and emotions of Singh´s unconsciousness.
I quickly visualize the muffled-up figure of the young woman I saw on the cemetery. Images from Singh´s memory break open and flood my mind. Finally a 3D-scene builds up around me, showing the graceful woman sitting on the edge of a fountain under a burning afternoon sun and looking in my direction. She smiles softly because in her view I´m Singh.
"You keep a secret," she says. "Is it a dark one?"
—Yes—, I think to myself. Then I move into her what is a pleasurable feeling this time. She has —to put it in the Indian way— a more positive karma than her beloved, apart from her early death one year ago.
Her name is Shila.
Now I am Shila… amid the center of Singh´s mind.
The sun is burning down and it´s typical Indian forty degrees, as I sit on the stony edge of the fountain and see Singh approaching me. He wears the same white clothes as before on the cemetery.
"We can´t choose our destiny, " he says looking seriously. "The paths we´re following aren´t produced by ourselves. We´re pacing on them like blinds and are amazed at where we come."
This destiny flapdoodle is surely a kind of saying ´yes´. He bows to me for a kiss. When he almost touches my lips I ram my fist into his larynx.
Gurgling he tumbles backwards on the floor, freezing in a twisted pose.
"Excuse me, Shila," I murmur with a guilty conscience for utilizing her. Then I concentrate on my body in the lounge.
I open my eyes.
Before me lies Singh on the carpet.
Dead as a doornail.
At the door I peek in the empty corridor, hearing the sounds of the stamping music of the show. I step out, close the door, and trip towards the entrance. In the entrance hall a Chinese checkroom attendant hands me over my coat. I throw some notes to her and leave the gallery. It´s no problem that cams have caught me in the entrance hall as well as in the gallery hall because in some minutes I won´t be recognizable.
At any case I won´t have any trouble with the Chinese cops, too, since Singh´s death wasn´t caused by any provable influence. The pathologists will be faced with a mystery.
Singh has just stopped living.
A perfect murder, so to speak.
Outside I´m greeted by the blinking and horning nightlife of the Nanjing Road. Tourists are trotting in droves along the bars and shops. Hundred meters ahead the car of the CIA agent is parking which will bring me to the airport. I register his thoughts. For him I´m a novice on a suicide mission.
What would have truly been the case without my divine extras.
—Well done—, I hear Selena´s mental voice. —Really not a bad start.—
—In the dramatic field—, I think.
—C´est ta vie, ma chère.—
I tear the backdoor open, get in, take off my wig and remove my clothes except of the slip. Other gear and shoes are ready for being put on, as well as tissues for washing off the make-up.
The agent turns around on the street and rushes as quick as traffic and its rules allow in direction of the airport Pudong. In one-and-a-half hours I´ll sit with my CIA fabricated passport in a plane to Zurich from where I´ll return to the USA and the lab.
++++
I´m in the gallery ´Kum Iam´ in the center of Shanghai, not far from the Sci-fi-riverside-promenade which is known as ´Bund´ all over the world.
My dress for this evening: a silvery shining trash-jacket, skintight Bordeaux-red X-Ray jeans, black-and-white striped hiheels of Kawakura and silky white gloves. Below my black bobbed-hair wig I wear so much make-up that my face will not be recognizable after washing up.
On the dance floor some men and women are contorting themselves to a dubsteppy rumbling. As the DJ sharpens the lights I step onto the floor and have my hips work on an imaginary phallus. The floor is trembling, the vibes are streaming. For some moments I and the other dancers form a whole.
Of course, I attract the attention of some guys and ladies, for instance of that gent who stands over there at the bar, wearing a white jacket. I blink towards him several times for I have to do without telepathic surveillance.
He would immediately notice it.
Since he is Rajan Singh.
Clearly too strong for a normal youngster PSI agent.
Nevertheless, since my initiation I´m more remote from normality than ever. I just lack experience.
The disadvantage of the location is evident: no reanimation is possible in case that Singh succeeds in killing me.
So it´s forbidden to lose.
To die, all the more. I still attach importance to my body. As a human goddess who is gifted with divine capacities, I could of course pick up a new body —for example, that of the cool Asian hunny two steps beside me—, but why roam so far afield when there are good things so near?
As the DJ slams on the brakes I get going. At the colorfully shining bar I swing on a free stool beside Singh and order a Martini from the barkeeper while bending myself over the bar and lifting ostentatiously my backside. This signal cannot escape Singh´s attention.
When the Martini comes I say:
"Cool sound."
I send Singh one of my Galaxy-likes-you-glances. He appears more simpatico than on the CIA-photo what of course doesn´t alter my mission to kill him.
"That´s Dubstep, isn´t it?" He smiles. "I know it only cursory. I´m more engaged in visual arts."
"Oh yeah? You´re certainly an art collector, like most people here."
I stretch myself luxuriously. Under the silky blouse my breasts stand out. A bra? Not a bit of it.
"That´s true." He sips his champagne. "I like art. Rubens, Renoir, the expressionists, but also Pollock. By the way, you´re a beautiful woman."
I take a sip of the Martini. Until now it goes to plan.
On the dance floor some roadies arrange the setup of an artist show while a crowd surrounds the artist, a Batman-like dressed Chinese guy.
Then his female assistants come out, waving to the people and blowing kisses to them. They are gymnasts of the Chinese Olympic team — and they are naked.
"I got an idea, Mr. Esthete." I bend over to Singh. "I want to show you something, but privately."
His brows knit a bit. Since I´m not paranormally active I can just assume that he checks me telepathically at this moment so I promptly produce an erotic imagination about him as object.
"I appreciate," he says, "people with good ideas."
"That´s wise. There are lounges for biz talks which aren´t closed during an event."
I´ve got this information from the CIA.
"So go on, young lady."
I slide from the stool and walk through the crowd towards the entrance of the hall behind which a corridor leads to the lounges. Singh follows me. I enter a room with erotic graphics at the walls. Some art-deco-lamps cast a subdued light on a group of leather armchairs. Behind me Singh comes in and closes the door.
I fall backwards into an armchair.
"The show starts in a minute," I say softly.
"It looks like this." He stands amid the room. "Nice here." His glance passes from me to the walls. "Neat graphics."
"Pardon me?"
"I said, neat—"
"I don´t understand you. Come closer to my ear. Somebody once said my ears are way beautiful."
With two steps he is before me. I turn an ear to him.
"Really sweet," he says.
My perfume finishes him off. He positions himself between my spread legs, kneels down, puts his hands on my thighs, and presses them while I unbutton my blouse and show my tits. Eagerly he immerses his face between them.
There are now two possibilities to attack Singh. Firstly, by energetically overloading the nadis —these are according to Selena the energy lines inside a body. This way I had sorted out Itchy. Secondly, the way as taught in the CIA lab: a psycho transfer into Singh´s mind in order to do for him by means of virtual fighting. I decide on the Itchy variant because of my experience, and activate my microsensitivity.
Singh´s body, bent over me, becomes transparent and alters into a gleaming web. I focus on the brain which lies between my breasts like a tangle of shining and blinking threads.
I load it with the most aggressive energy I´m capable of.
For some moments I´m blinded by a glaring explosion...
A spooky scream fades in echoes...
Then darkness envelops me...
Is Singh finished? But where I am?
The light comes back in form of stars and a quarter moon above the top of an oak. I´m lying naked on a meadow amid walls of ruined bricks. It´s cold and breezy. I see tombstones rising in the half-light. Somewhere an owl cries terribly.
In what kind of John-Carpenter-act have I landed up? Anyway, it has nothing to do with my Itchy method. Something has gone wrong. Perhaps it´s better to clear off back to the lounge, to my body.
But I decide to stay.
Am I dead?
Has he taken me with him to the realm of the dead?
Some meters distant and veiled in an ankle-length garment, a figure paces slowly towards one of the graves. The soft whimpering and the way of walking indicate a young woman. I feel intuitively that she is a former beloved of Singh.
In front of the tomb the figure remains in silence. Has she perceived my at all? I try to arise but am so weak that I only manage to squat. Just as I decide to return to the lounge or to try at least, the figure turns in my direction. The deep shadow below the cowl makes the face unrecognizable. I´m so surprised that I forget my intention.
A new scream of the owl cuts my soul in half. I realize the face of the woman. It´s my mother in about the age when I was six.
O how I hate her...
I furiously stand up, baffled looking at my hands and feet. I´m a six-year-old girl in a bright little dress und shout:
"Mommy?"
****! My voice is high and thin. Things are taking an uncool turn.
The woman —my mother— bends down to me.
"Joanna! You just might catch a cold!"
She calls me by my second forename because she hates my first one. My father had insisted on ´Galaxy´. She hates my father, too, who had been so unfaithful. And I hate being called ´Joanna´.
However I love Mum from the bottom of my heart. I stretch my tiny hand towards her. She seizes it with both her hands...
... and crashes me towards the next tombstone...
I hit with my back against an edge so hard that I think to be ripped into two parts. Crashed down on the floor I feel only piercing pains.
Through a bloody cloud I see the figure stepping towards me.
"Did you really think," Singh snaps, "you could dupe me, little *****?"
He stands over me in white trousers and white shirt, looking the very picture of health.
That´s not good.
Not for me.
He raises a foot in order to smash my small thorax. I focus all my energy and catapult out of my body. When Singh´s foot hammers into the chest, making blood splashing out of the mouth, I float already bodiless two meters above him.
To kill Singh is however not possible in this state. I have to get into his astral figure. The disadvantage of this method is a nausea almost driving me into a frenzy.
But it lasts for just some seconds.
Then I´m inside the chaos of images and emotions of Singh´s unconsciousness.
I quickly visualize the muffled-up figure of the young woman I saw on the cemetery. Images from Singh´s memory break open and flood my mind. Finally a 3D-scene builds up around me, showing the graceful woman sitting on the edge of a fountain under a burning afternoon sun and looking in my direction. She smiles softly because in her view I´m Singh.
"You keep a secret," she says. "Is it a dark one?"
—Yes—, I think to myself. Then I move into her what is a pleasurable feeling this time. She has —to put it in the Indian way— a more positive karma than her beloved, apart from her early death one year ago.
Her name is Shila.
Now I am Shila… amid the center of Singh´s mind.
The sun is burning down and it´s typical Indian forty degrees, as I sit on the stony edge of the fountain and see Singh approaching me. He wears the same white clothes as before on the cemetery.
"We can´t choose our destiny, " he says looking seriously. "The paths we´re following aren´t produced by ourselves. We´re pacing on them like blinds and are amazed at where we come."
This destiny flapdoodle is surely a kind of saying ´yes´. He bows to me for a kiss. When he almost touches my lips I ram my fist into his larynx.
Gurgling he tumbles backwards on the floor, freezing in a twisted pose.
"Excuse me, Shila," I murmur with a guilty conscience for utilizing her. Then I concentrate on my body in the lounge.
I open my eyes.
Before me lies Singh on the carpet.
Dead as a doornail.
At the door I peek in the empty corridor, hearing the sounds of the stamping music of the show. I step out, close the door, and trip towards the entrance. In the entrance hall a Chinese checkroom attendant hands me over my coat. I throw some notes to her and leave the gallery. It´s no problem that cams have caught me in the entrance hall as well as in the gallery hall because in some minutes I won´t be recognizable.
At any case I won´t have any trouble with the Chinese cops, too, since Singh´s death wasn´t caused by any provable influence. The pathologists will be faced with a mystery.
Singh has just stopped living.
A perfect murder, so to speak.
Outside I´m greeted by the blinking and horning nightlife of the Nanjing Road. Tourists are trotting in droves along the bars and shops. Hundred meters ahead the car of the CIA agent is parking which will bring me to the airport. I register his thoughts. For him I´m a novice on a suicide mission.
What would have truly been the case without my divine extras.
—Well done—, I hear Selena´s mental voice. —Really not a bad start.—
—In the dramatic field—, I think.
—C´est ta vie, ma chère.—
I tear the backdoor open, get in, take off my wig and remove my clothes except of the slip. Other gear and shoes are ready for being put on, as well as tissues for washing off the make-up.
The agent turns around on the street and rushes as quick as traffic and its rules allow in direction of the airport Pudong. In one-and-a-half hours I´ll sit with my CIA fabricated passport in a plane to Zurich from where I´ll return to the USA and the lab.