19 - Brose
M y new office in Blackberry Hill is cold and stark compared to what Olive and I had at the estate in Leesburg. One desk, one chair, no windows. The walls are gray, the floors are gray, even the light feels gray.
I don’t like it, but no one has ever cared if I liked something or not. Especially when it comes to work. I did bring along one personal item—a framed photograph of Olive and me.
It was last summer—just a few months ago—and we were in the city for a meeting with CORE. And by city, I mean New York, of course. The only one that matters. We were in Central Park, just walking around enjoying the nice day. And I had this urge to buy her a balloon. Back in the old days this would’ve been a choice of colors. Do you want red, or blue, or yellow?
But today, the choices come in the millions because it’s one of those trendy vending machines where you pick all kinds of options and it prints it out and fills it up while you wait. The whole thing from start to finish takes about seven minutes.
Olive made a castle. It was like six feet tall and in the form of an arch. And when it was finally all blown up, and she took the string from the robotic hand, she looked at me and said, “We need a picture.”
So we stood in the archway and got someone to take our picture as the fantasy castle bobbed around us.
Unlike today, it was a good day.
I’m leaning back in the desk chair, holding the frame of this scene out at arm’s length, just staring at Olive Creed as a deep sense of loss flows through me. It’s only been a few days since the estate in Leesburg was cleaned out and I was moved down here, but this is the longest we’ve ever been apart. We’ve spent the last two years being each other’s whole world.
And now I’m alone.
I don’t like it.
My office door opens and my grandfather pokes his head in. “You’re settling in?”
It’s not one of those questions you’re meant to answer—not truthfully, at least. But there’s a question mark at the end of it, so I appreciate his effort and stand up to force a smile and look him in the eyes. “Perfectly. Come in. I don’t have a chair?—”
“No,” he says, cutting me off. “I didn’t come for a visit.”
“Of course not.” Why would he do that? It might imply that he loves me or something.
“I came to take you to lunch. Up for it?”
“Sure.” It beats sitting here pining over the woman I love who is now, and probably forever, out of reach. But I don’t say that out loud, of course.
He opens the door wider and waves me through it, then comes up next to me as we travel down the long, mostly dark hallway. I don’t understand the aversion to lightbulbs that don’t sputter down here, but I’ve got bigger things to worry about than the décor, or lack thereof, of a deep underground military base.
My grandfather is about eighty-five, I think. I stopped keeping track when I was ten. He doesn’t like birthdays, or holidays, or anything, really. Except work. I might take after him, now that I think about it. But he’s not feeble. Not at all feeble. He looks… sixty, maybe younger? He’s not the stereotypical grandfather, that’s for sure. He’s still tall. His shoulders still fill out his uniform, which he still wears even though he’s been retired since before I was born.
And, I guess that means, obviously, he never retired.
At any rate, he hasn’t aged at all in my mind over the course of my life. He’s always been like this. And while he’s feared by most, if not all, people in our department—including me—he’s nice to have on your side. I certainly wouldn’t want him as an enemy.
“How are you liking Blackberry Hill, Ambrose?”
I grimace, not just at my formal name, but at the question itself, but only because we’re walking side by side and he can’t see me do this. “It’s… um… fine.”
Which makes my grandfather laugh. It’s a rare enough emotion that I actually turn to look at him. “It’s a shithole,” he says. “Everybody thinks it’s a shithole. Especially you, after growing up in my house.”
His house. He says it like it’s some four-bedroom bungalow on Main Street. It’s not. It’s not a house at all, it’s a forty-thousand-square-foot estate. Something more akin to a museum, actually.
It’s not what people might think. You don’t just live in a place like that. You’re assigned spaces. You may go here, but not there. You may use this bathroom, but not that one. This is where you’re allowed to have food. This is where you’re allowed to play indoors. This is where you’re allowed to sleep.
And those were the good old days before I was conscripted into the Department of Personal Operations at age eight. A department my great-great-grandfather started way back in his day.
All the men in my family have been Personal Operations Directors. Meaning they all ran assets like Olive. Assets that became my great-great grandmother, my great-grandmother, my grandmother, and my mother.
Which is why I’m having a hard time understanding how, exactly, any of this is fair.
Olive didn’t fuck up that bad. She made a couple of mistakes. It’s our first real job together. Did they really expect perfection?
“Ambrose?”
“Hmm?”
“Did you hear me?”
“I didn’t, I’m sorry. I was preoccupied with my own thoughts.”
“Of course you were. I’m sure you’re wondering how this situation might affect your future.”
“I was, actually.” We’ve reached the closest dining hall in this section of the city, so we stop outside it and face each other. “Is that why you’re here? To tell me how it ends?”
He smiles and waves a hand at the dining room. “We’ll get there. But let’s have a drink and a bite to eat.”
Over the course of the next hour we have a drink, we eat food, and my grandfather talks about anything and everything except me. None of which I find even remotely interesting, even if I knew who or what the fuck he was talking about. It’s a whole lot of General Farlow this and Admiral Leary that, and I’m actually making these titles up in my head because he lists off so many fucking ‘old friends’ of his, they become nothing more than a jumbled mess of names to me.
Finally, the waiters clear our table of dishes, brush all the crumbs off with a sweeper, and we’re left with a white tablecloth and a small flickering candle between us.
He puts his hands on the table and folds them together.
“Just… say it.” I sigh. “Whatever it is, just tell me.”
“You’re going to have to… start over.”
Start over. A wave of hope fills me. Start over with Olive, he means. “Right.” I smile. “Of course. She’s not ready. I get it. We’ll go back, all the way to the beginning if you want, and?—”
“No, Ambrose.” He cuts me off. “That’s not what I meant.”
The sudden wave of hope turns into anger. “Surely you are not telling me that she’s not mine anymore. You can’t be saying that. Because this is how it works, Grandfather. I chose her. You and everyone else in the DPO approved it. There’s no going back. There’s no?—”
He puts up a hand, remains completely silent as if he’s giving me an opportunity to collect myself, and then lets out a breath. “She’s dead, Ambrose. Collin Creed killed her this morning. When she woke up yesterday morning and realized the operation was cut short, she ran to him.”
“No. She would never.”
“But she did, Ambrose. And then Ean Shephard told him everything. And do you know why Ean Shephard told him everything, Ambrose?”
I just stare at him.
“Do you?” He smiles at me. “You do. Ean Shephard told Collin Creed everything because Olive Creed told Ean Shephard everything. You know better than most what kind of man Collin is. He’s ruthless. Olive was nothing to him. You know this. And you had to see it coming. You knew her history, it wasn’t perfect. She was…” He pauses, almost as if he’s wondering if he should say the next part. But of course he does. “She was damaged , Ambrose. This was all in her file. You knew. You understood the risk and, I’m sorry to say, you gambled and you lost. She’s gone.”
This is when I look around and realize the place has emptied out. When we got here, there were a couple of dozen tables with people at them, but now every single table is empty.
He was afraid I might throw a fit.
I want to. I want to call him a liar. But before I have a chance a waiter appears with a tray. And on the tray is a tablet. The tablet is placed on the table in front of me, and when my grandfather gives a nod, the waiter presses the screen and a video comes to life.
I stare at it. I stare at drone footage of Olive as she and Collin walk down the center of the Edge Security compound. Then it zooms in to another man, standing further down. Ean Shephard.
I look up at my grandfather and he’s frowning. “I’m sorry, Ambrose. Not just for the loss of your puppet, but for what comes next for you.”
There’s not enough time for me to react. Four men, at least, are already behind me and the next thing I know, there’s a funny smell in my nose and everything is fading to black.
A soft chime wakes me, but I don’t open my eyes. One of the perks of sleeping next to Olive every night is that she turns off the alarm. Instead, I sink deeper into the bed and blankets and put the pillow over my head to enjoy my luck just a little bit longer.
But instead of turning off, the chime keeps going, forcing me to wake and mumble, “Turn the chime off, Olive.”
She shuffles next to me, and a moment later, it stops.
“Thank you,” I manage to mumble.
“Why does this feel so familiar?”
I sigh, so tired. Really, really, really wanting to go back to sleep. “It’s a dream, Olive.”
“Oh,” she says, and I can tell she’s smiling. “I’m dreaming.”
It comes out so cute I actually lift the pillow and open one eye to look at her. Sometimes Olive can be nicely put together, like during an important meeting or something like that, but most of the time she comes off disheveled. And when she wakes up in the morning, she comes off as a mess. Hair everywhere, eyes all low and lazy, and usually wearing t-shirts and panties.
I like it. It’s so real. Not like some women with all the makeup, and the pretenses, and the clothes. Olive is a what-you-see-is-what-you-get kind of girl.
Of course, I molded her into this girl, but she wouldn’t be able to pull it off if she didn’t already have it. She’s so much better than just an asset. Or a girlfriend, for that matter.
She’s my best friend.
I’m still peeking at her with my one open eye and she’s gazing back at me looking all tousled and sexy, so I say, “Wanna fuck before work?”
She gives me a coy smile, like she wants to play. “If this is a dream, why do we have to work?”
“Good point.” I grab her, making her laugh and squeal, and pull her into my chest, holding her until she relaxes. She snuggles me, and I hold her back, wondering, not for the first time, if she’ll forgive me or hold a grudge when the time comes to retire.
“That’s up to you,” my grandfather says.
And when I look over towards the windows, he’s here, in our apartment, sitting in a chair and backlit by the bright rising sun.
I blink and he’s gone. But his words linger.
Will she love me or hate me when this is over?
It’s up to me. Everything she does is up to me. I think for her, she acts for me .
“We have to go over the rules though,” I say.
I can feel Olive’s confusion. “What rules?”
“You know. All the rules. About me and you. And you and Shep. And me and CORE. And you and CORE. And don’t even get me started on Collin. I mean, that was kind of unexpected.”
“What do you mean?” Olive tries to lift her head up off my chest, but I hold her tight, not letting go. It’s a metaphor, I think. She doesn’t try hard, just gives in like she’s been trained to, and relaxes.
“You ran right to him, Olive.” I don’t mention how pissed off everyone is—and by everyone, I mean my grandfather—but Olive knows me well enough to hear it in my voice. “Why? I mean, you could’ve done anything but that and everyone would’ve been happy. But you went right to him.”
“Who’s unhappy?” she asks.
“Well, everyone.”
“You?”
My hand snakes around her hip, slides up her arm, over her shoulder, and then slips under her chin and across her neck. “Yes. I’m unhappy about it. It’s supposed to be me and you, remember? And you just… forgot about me.”
“I didn’t?—”
That’s as far as she gets because my hand tightens on her throat so quick, it startles her. And I can feel her struggling to suck in air, but she’s unable to. She likes the choking. It’s sick. I’m sick because I’m the one who programmed her to feel this way about it.
But I like it too. Otherwise, why do it?
I know in her mind she’s panicking. It’s just a normal response to being choked. But she’s well-trained and, after a couple of seconds, she relaxes. Utterly and completely. As if she’s got no will to live and wants me to strangle her to death.
I would never do that and the moment I feel her relax, I ease back and let her breathe.
Usually, after I let go, she starts begging me to fuck her. Or she crawls into my lap and starts kissing me. Sometimes, if I’m sitting in a chair, she just kneels down and tries to suck my dick.
But everything is different this time because she goes absolutely stiff. I’m thinking about this reaction when she starts trembling. Which is a sign of fear.
Of course, I know she fears me. She must fear me. If she doesn’t, and I’m not there to pull her strings, she might make her own decisions and that would be bad. But her fear doesn’t often manifest after being choked. She’s been programmed to find it exciting and provocative.
So I’m confused.
“What’s wrong, Olive? You don’t like me anymore? Hmm?” I remove my hand from her throat and place two fingertips on her jaw, turning her head, forcing her to look me in the eye. “Who do you like better? Shep?”
And then I make her see him instead of me. I project his face into her mind and become him.
Olive starts blinking rapidly, pulling away from me.
But I laugh. “Maybe you prefer Collin?” And then I make her see him. “Kinda weird though, right?” My hand slips over her breast. “Being in bed with your brother?”
This breaks her, as it was meant to. And she blacks out, going limp in my arms for a reset.
I shouldn’t play around with the illusions like that, but I like it. It’s fun. And anyway, I hardly ever do it. Not anymore.
Olive goes stiff, then she gasps and sits up in a panic. I allow it because she’s always confused after a reset. Instead of being angry, I decide to enjoy what comes next. Which is a correction. Because she’s not allowed to think. I’m the one who thinks. She’s the one who acts.
Those are the rules. And if she starts thinking, she’s breaking them.
She’s breaking us .
“What’s happening?” Olive asks.
I open my arms wide. “Come here. Be with me.”
She looks down at me, still confused. It doesn’t wipe her memory, this reset. It adjusts her perception. So she remembers that she saw something weird.
“Olive?”
“What?”
“Why are you hesitating?”
“Is this a dream?”
I smile at her. She’s so sweet. But instead of responding to my smile and reacting appropriately, she gazes at my face with a blank stare, as if she’s getting lost in it. “Olive!” I snap.
She jumps. “What?”
“Should I spank you? You’re being bad.” My voice is not playful anymore. I’m very annoyed that she’s not reacting in her typical, well-trained manner.
She doesn’t answer me, just settles back into the bed, pressing herself into my chest so I can hold her. And then I pet her head like the good girl she is. “That’s better,” I croon into her neck. She shivers. “Now. Let’s go over everything again, shall we? Who are you?”
She is this close to saying her own name, and I am equally close to twisting her nipple until she screams. But she catches herself and gives me the correct answer. “The mission.”
I flip her over on her face, pressing her shoulders into the bed. Then I part her hair along the back of her neck and lean in to kiss that little dent where her spine meets her skull. “That’s right,” I whisper. “My mission is you and your mission is me. Say it.”
She does. “My mission is you and your mission is me.”
“Again.” My voice a bit louder now.
“My mission is you and your mission is me.”
“Again!” I yell it.
“My mission is you and your mission is me.”
I bite her shoulder while simultaneously pushing her legs open so I can slide my fingers down her ass cheeks and right up to her pussy. “Nice,” I tell her. “That was nice. Now you get a reward. I’m in a good mood and you’re finally being a good girl, so you get to pick your prize. Choking or spanking?”
I wait. One second. Two seconds. Three seconds. Finally, she says, “Is this a dream?”
“Of course it’s a dream, Olive. How else am I here? You left me.”
“That’s not true! You?—”
I slap her ass so hard, she yelps. “Spanking it is,” I say.
“No!” She tries to get away, scrambling across the bed.
But I just grab her by the arm and pull her back. Then I flip her over on her back, straddle her hips, pin her shoulders to the bed, and stare down at her frightened face.
“You like it,” I yell. “You LIKE it!” These words are coming out like an angry snarl. “Say it. Tell me you like it, Olive. You better tell me you like it because if you don’t?—”
Something inside of me… flips. Or… flicks. Or… something.
All the anger drains out and I’m calm again.
Reset.
I was out of control. I was… never mind. It’s not important.
Olive is important.
I look down at her again, feeling so lucky. “God, you’re so beautiful. I love you so much, you know that, right?”
She looks me straight in the eyes, pressing her lips together as she nods.
“Say it, then. Say it , Olive.”
“I love you.”
I chuckle, smiling. “Of course you do. We’re partners, remember?”
She nods again. “Yes. How could I forget?” And then she laughs. “Oh, my God, what’s wrong with me?”
I pet her face. Her cheek is so smooth. I do this gently, brushing the back of my hand down her youthful skin. “There’s nothing wrong with you, Olive. You’re perfect. I should know, I made you this way.”
She lets out a long sigh, like my words comfort her. “Of course you did. Of course I am.”
And she’s so fucking cute with her disheveled look and all her messy edges, I have an overwhelming urge to kiss her. So I do. I wouldn’t be able to stop myself even if I tried. This kiss is gentle and soft, meant to heal any discord between us and put us back on the right track. “Of course you are,” I whisper right into her mouth. “You love me.”
“I love you,” she agrees.
“I am your mission.”
“You are my mission,” she repeats.
I let out a long sigh of relief as I slide off to the side of her. “Good girl. Now you get a reward.” I stroke her slow, at first, but when she responds by arching her back and panting, I push my fingers inside her.
Slowly moving them in and out until she comes and I wake up.
But Olive is not in bed next to me, there is no room, there is nothing now.
I’m all alone.
And in the dark.
“Wrong,” my grandfather says. And then a light appears. A spotlight that’s only meant for him. “Boy, you’re never alone. You know this.”
I nod, then look down at myself and realize I’m naked. I look back up at my grandfather and find him smiling.
“You’re a helluva specimen, Ambrose. But of course you are. You come from my bloodline, so I expect nothing less. You’re not embarrassed that I’m looking at you, right?”
I am, but I shake my head no.
“Good,” my grandfather says. “Because it’s time and we don’t want any complications, do we, Ambrose?”
Again, I shake my head no. But secretly, I’m thinking that a complication or two might do me some good right about now.
My grandfather is pleased. “Despite your father’s failures, I always knew you’d be good at this. I was good at this and you take after me, not him. You did a very good job with your asset. She’s the future. You should be very proud of yourself.”
He’s talking about Olive, I understand that part. But I’m not really following along with what he’s not saying just yet. I’ve learned over the years to just… fake it until you make it, ya know?
So that’s what I do. I show no emotion. I do not react. I become his asset. Because that’s what I am. He thinks for me, I act for him .
“Are you ready, Ambrose?”
“Yes.” I do not hesitate. I don’t know what he’s talking about, but I don’t need to know. He thinks for me, I act for him .
“Good. Let’s begin.”