The Originators

CHAPTER 10: FORGING A NEW IDENTITY (MERC)

I.

"Hello, room service, I'd like to order the puttanesca, the fennel salad, oh, and the fresh fish that I know your chef caught today. The wine, bottle number sixty-three; espresso with extra, chilled cream; strawberries with some balsamic, fresh cracked pepper. Hurry please, I'm starving. An extra twenty for you if you get it here in 15 minutes."

I hang up the phone. I've just arrived; and have merely been on the planet twenty-four hours. This prodigal son needs to figure out who he really is.

Opening the window, I look out at the dark sky; reach out my hand turning it, flipping it this way and that I find it's – wet. It's raining again. I haven't felt rain like this in eons. Even this sad turnout of water worked. No exaggeration.

As the rain starts slapping at the window, there is a flash, a spasmodic crooked hand reaching down to find me, an electrical network of white veins. I'm rocked by a boom. What is this? A precisely timed "welcome back" for yours truly? It's been a little over 2,000 years since the last time I hung out on Earth.

Pressing my head against the windowpane, my forehead is cool; then it starts to hurt. Physical pain, that's actually real and not programmed, I haven't felt it for a long time.

Opening the window wider, I step out to rest on the air armchair I create for myself. I didn't forget my glass of the cheap red wine. Of course, I had to stop and buy some wine on my way to the hotel. That first purchase was interesting.

II.

Once I appeared on Earth, I found a driver. Heading to the hotel, we stopped at some dirty trading post my driver recommended. He called it a StoryStop. I wasn't sure what the story entailed. It turned out it was a place to purchase small items.

"It's cheap man. They even throw in a wine opener, but if I was you, just ask for a screw top."

I raise a brow. I'm finding I actually have to thank this filthy driver. I'm not really sure why he calls me "man". Clearly, I am.

I walk into the shop; sure I had downloaded and kept abreast of most of their language, including slang words. I've always been a lazy study, who prefers to fly by the seat of my pants in all things. Thus, I'm fairly confident as I command, "Red, screw top. Oh, and some type of drinking vessel." The shopkeeper selects a bottle for me, pulling out some tacky plastic cups from underneath the counter.

"How much do I owe you, my fine fellow?" I appreciate his efficiency.

"You're for real, right? You talk that way all the time? You must be foreign." The cashier, who I tower over, laughs at me. I'm taken aback; I decide not to kill him. After all, if I kill everyone down here who offended me, then really, I'd be doing all the work for the Untouchables.

"Here is this thing called fifty dollars. Is this enough?"

He looks up at me; squinting, "Is this a trick? You a cop?"

I perform a quick search in the world's networked databases now connected to my brain; find the word "cop". I assure him, "No, of course not."

I'm bored.

"Give me my change." When I did my search for "cop", I also download current data on American currency; as well as global financial data. Fool. If he hadn't made me search for "cop", he would have probably netted forty-dollars from this insignificant transaction.

Damn it was good to be back. I accelerate an exuberant spin, arms held high, trench coat snapping behind me,

I shout up to the Moon, "Have I ever told you, Ana, how much I hate your guts. You supercilious, frigid, control freak. I'll win this thing hands down." No one sees this. Down here their eyes don't work as quickly as ours. It's beauty, my fine friend. Beauty.