The Assigned (21 page)

“Funny you should say that. It is. The symbol has duel meanings. It also stands for the Assigned.”

“The who?” asks Gloria.

“The A-ssign-ed,” I enunciate. “I know we’re technically the Three of Three but that sounds so Chronicles of Narnia-ish.” I switch my voice to a crude but effective British-like accent.
“We’re the Thray of Thray, keepas of da story.”
Gloria shakes her head at my antics but my point has been made. “I remember what Prophetess Anna said when we first met her, about God assigning these special Gifts to three people every few generations, and it just stuck with me.
The Assigned
. You think it’s okay, Prophetess? At least for our generation?”

The others and I wait for Prophetess Anna to speak. She seems to be in great thought.

“You okay, Anna?” asks Zeek.

“I am blessed to have you children in my life,” she finally whispers. It looks as if she’s trying to hold back tears. “And the Assigned is highly appropriate, my child. Highly.”

“Awww,” I smile. “You guys know what time it is. Group hug! C’mon, bring it in.” Gloria, and Prophetess Anna move in closer. “C’mon on Zeek. Don’t make me come get you.”

“So we’re really doing this, huh?”

“Yep,” I say, while squeezing my new family. “Now that’s what I’m talking about …”

***

Prophetess Anna is never quite the same after the moment. We spend the next three hours reviewing the same plan, over and over. A worried countenance has consumed her ever since I gave out the garments. Didn’t know a sweater and vest could have such an effect. Or maybe it reminds the Prophetess of something. Not sure what, but the monotony of today’s lesson is a bit draining to say the least.

“Now remember my children,” she continues. “You must do your best to not physically confront Bale on tomorrow. You are to be as a beetle in porridge. Not enough to change the flavor but enough to make it undesirable. There’s still so much we have to learn.”

“Uhh okay. We got it Prophetess,” I reassure her. “Look, it’ll be a piece of cake. Big Pete hooked me up with some surveillance footage. We’ll show it and have Bale and his boys running for cover. After that, they will not want any of this. Shoot, we might not even get to use our Gifts. And I owe a couple of ‘em a lil something extra!”

“Yeah,” Gloria agrees. “I told a producer down at the station about the video Tre got from Sin City. He says if it’s as good as I say, he’ll run it.”

“Please focus, my children. I know you feel this power radiating inside and you have had modest success in battle so far but believe me when I say … you have not seen Bale’s true power.”

“Don’t worry Anna, says Gloria. “Bale won’t know what hit ‘em.”

Morning comes sooner than expected. It feels as if I laid my head down just minutes ago. I awaken to a black sweater staring me in the face as it drapes itself on the back of a reading chair.
My outfit
. Actually, it was a pretty sweet gesture by Tre. My mind does wonder where this could go after … after all of this hero stuff. Who knows. We’re so different, but I’ve seen him change so much in these couple of weeks. Again, who knows? My main focus is reminded to me by the ever-gawking black sweater.
The Fight.
No, we’re not supposed to engage Bale and his Angels in any manner, but I’m ready for some action … if it so chooses to find us.

Anna is already up, fully dressed, and pacing the floor by the time I make my way to the common area. She makes a brief smile towards me before the distressed look returns.

“Hey Glo,” says Tre, his mouth half full. “Prophetess Anna said we could have some orange juice. Tastes like heaven after that other stuff.” I nod in acknowledgement as I reach for Anna’s hand.

“Is everything okay, Anna?”

She looks at me with an uneasy gaze before speaking. “I didn’t rest well my child.” A youthful glow hides behind her aged eyes. Long gray hair rides her shoulders. I don’t know how she manages to keep it so pressed. She wears black pants with a shimmery effect and a black custom-fit button-down top. Even in one of the simplest outfits I’ve seen her wear, she still looks regal.

“Everything will be fine,” I say. “We’re just going to level the playing field. You can show us more when we get back.” I look over to Tre and Zeek in the kitchen. “I’ll keep them in line,” I smile.

Anna squeezes my hand back. Slowly, the wrinkle lines retreat as she grins, “Well, we all have our assignments, now don’t we?”

I smile back, now holding both of her hands. I see so much of what I would like to see in my mother. Not sure why, but the moment almost brings me to tears. Seeing through her fiery-like eyes, I can see the adoration she has for each member of the group. She truly thinks of us as her children.

“It’s okay, Anna. You’ve taught us well.”

“But not enough.”

“But well. Very well.”

Tre and Zeek interrupt our impromptu ‘girl’s moment’.

“We gotta get going Glo, if we’re going to put this plan of yours in effect,” says Tre.

“I know. You ready Zeek?”

“To go confront demonoid superstars?” Zeek smirks. “Sure. Why not? Besides, this’ll make for a great book one day.”

“Man, who you telling …” laughs Tre.

***

The team looks good in black, I observe, as we make our way to Tre’s car. Zeek sports his new leather vest, t-shirt, jeans, and a ferocious looking pair of shades. His hair also seems extra spiked today. Not as long and tangled as it was the day we met in the park. I wear the Assigned sweater as requested by Tre. For some reason, I actually
thought
about today’s wardrobe before putting it on. I opt for jeans instead of jogging pants and boots instead of tennis. Like Tre said, probably won’t get to have any real fun today. Tre wears his v-neck t-shirt—it’s actually a nice fit—with beige cargo pants and grey chucks. Looks like the stubble has been shaved from his bald head. I have to admit, he’s cute. But he’ll never hear it from me.

Zeek walks straight past the sedan. “Where you going, Zeek?” asks Tre. “I thought we would ride together. Don’t tell me you’re gonna trust one of those rinky-dink bikes today?”

Zeek continues walking, turning only slightly to respond. “Yeah. Well, this right here ain’t rinky-dink.” Tre and I look at each other a bit confused.

“What is he talking about?”

“You know Zeek,” responds Tre. “Ain’t no telling—wait a minute! I don’t believe it.”

I turn back around to see Zeek standing in front of a beautiful custom-made motorcycle.

“Now what were you guys saying?” he mouths as he mounts the burly chopper. Tre and I quickly move closer to get a better look. The bike looks like something out of a magazine. Nothing like the—pardon the term—
junk
that Zeek rode before. Chrome finish shines on an elongated body. The gas tank and fender are a pearl white color. What looks like wings and some writing I can’t quite make out yet, are drawn on the side.

“It’s beautiful Zeek.”

“Man, who you steal this from?”

“Nobody. It’s a project I’ve been working on for the last couple of years.”

“Angel,”
I say, reading the side.

“Yep,” smiles Zeek, kissing his hands before transferring them to the bike. “My Angel.”

“I knew it was some class somewhere deep down inside of you,” says Tre.

“Well thanks.”

“I’m just foolin’ with ya man. Let’s take that chariot out for a spin.”

“I’m right behind ya.”

-----------T H E A S S I G N E D-----------

Gloria uses her news station credentials to get us in the packed-out ballroom of the Peabody Hotel. I’m used to the moniker, TNT Turner, being enough to gain entrance to the trendiest of spots, but not today. The room is filled with reporters, cameramen, staff, and even a few fans. Knowing Bale, he probably had them hand selected. A podium is situated at the front of the room atop of a large platform built for the press conference. An erected wall stands about ten feet behind the podium. ‘Bale Media’ and a logo run across the wall many times over. It’s the Mark, but drawn with a more modern, contemporary flare. The first shape takes the form of a cleverly designed, ‘B’ with ‘ALE’ running downward. A small circle sits in the middle. The next shape is an inversion of the first shape but made to look like an ‘M’ on its side. ‘EDIA’ runs upward. This guy is something else.

“You guys see that?” I ask. “Broad daylight.”

“Anna was right,” says Gloria.

“You know it.”

“So what now?” asks Zeek.

“Ima go find my contact,” says Gloria. “We should wait ‘til Bale makes his announcement. Otherwise, it might not have the same effect.”

I nod in agreement. “Let’s do this.”

Gloria makes her way through the press as Zeek and I remain posted in the back of the ballroom. The lights go dim as the pep rally atmosphere heightens. An announcer can be heard over the PA system. “Ladies and gentleman, I present to you … Bale!” Rock music plays as strobe lights flash in every direction. Smoke rises from the ground. My initial reaction is, the Persuaded, but this haze is made by a canister. Images of ‘Bale Media’ and the Mark flash across two large screens positioned near the front. As the smoke clears, bodies clad in white materialize on stage. First a woman and a man I’ve never seen before, take their places on either side of the stage. The next faces are a bit more familiar. Bale’s Angels.

The men take their time strutting across the stage as theme music guides their footing. Looks like they’re appearing smallest to tallest. Lastly, the giant, Amnon, emerges. Fans cheer as the overgrown oaf takes his place. “They’re not all that,” I say, reaching over to Zeek. He stands, hands folded, sunglasses on, taking in the spectacle. The music changes to a more intense beat as the ring leader comes out to a standing ovation. Mr. Bale himself. Photographers snap away as Bale bustles around like a motivational speaker amped on energy drinks. Waving to the crowd repeatedly, he prances back and forth across the full length of the stage. As the smoke subsides, a new one surfaces. The Shadow now engulfs all on stage. Bale, his Angels, staff included. The men pose like rock-stars as the grayish-black haze hovers around each of them. Hairs on my arm rise as my body instinctively gets ready for battle at the sight of the tell-tale sign. I look over to Zeek. Before I can say anything, he nods. “It’s funny. We’re really the only ones that can see this,” he says. I scan the crowd of screaming fans and news-hungry journalists. “Yep,” I agree as no one seems to notice the true headliner on stage; eight people, all wearing the Shadow. What a sight. Briefly I imagine being in a room filled with hundreds of them. Thousands. I decide to not let my mind go there.

The crowd finally quiets under the urging of Bale as he speaks into an oversized microphone waiting on stage. “As many of you know, Bale Media has been a growing company ever since its inception five years ago. Employing about 1,500 people, Bale Media could not be classified as a juggernaut, until now.” Bale pauses, building his story. “Teaming with scientists, we have created a technology that will change our company, this country, the world. A technology that will bring us focus, direction. I give you … AIM!”

Reporters appear baffled as they hold out miniature recorders capturing Bale’s every word. “The Analysis Identification Marker will change the way we share information. No longer will one have to carry around three, four, five different identifications. From now on, all your information can be stored in one convenient place … YOU.”

Murmurs trickle through the crowd as Bale draws our attention to the giant screen.

“Yep,” I say. “Here we go.”

-----------T H E A S S I G N E D-----------

A well-crafted commercial for Bale Media plays on the screen above. Tre and I watch as the video shows lasers etching a futuristic version of the Mark unto a wrist. The camera expands to show a young woman in sweats sitting at a computer. She holds her hand up to the computer screen. It reads, ‘uploading 98%, 99%, COMPLETE’. Now in business attire, the young woman extends her wrist towards a digital device. Again the camera expands to show graphs and charts instantly appearing onto a boardroom projector. A table of her peers applauds in the video. This guy really knows how to get his point across.

Another character waves his wrist over an ATM scanner. Money immediately disperses. People wait in line to board a plane. Rather than tickets, their wrists are scanned. The person’s image and information is viewed upon a portable receiver. Next, a young mom’s wrist is scanned as she purchases ice cream for her young child. I can’t help but think about Chrissy as I watch. Each scene is brightened by the cast’s infectious smiles. Reporters, photographers, and fans alike all watch in awe. Bale has really done his homework. On the surface, this looks like a really good idea. And to think of all the jobs that could come from this.

But I’m not here for a job,
I tell myself. No matter how good it looks, I’ve gotta stay focused. Bale readdresses the crowd. “Soon, there will be no need for driver’s licenses, passports, or even credit cards. Zip drives will be a thing of the past. Imagine work files, reports, everything you need at the flick of a wrist.”

“Flick of a wrist,”
I mumble. Instantly, I can see the marketing campaign. It’s near genius.

“Say something, Zeek?” asks Tre. I shake my head as we continue to watch. Bale and his entourage raise their arms revealing their Marks. As stated … in broad daylight.

“It’s time!” shouts the big-time celebrity. “A new day
is upon us. Those who want to be left behind, so be it. But those who want to be ahead of the curve, who want to work for a company on the verge of global domination, I say to you, consider Bale Media! In five years, we’ll be bigger than TimeWarner and Microsoft combined!”

The mass of reporters erupt. I get so caught up in the moment, I barely hear Tre.

“It’s time, Zeek,” he repeats.

“Gotcha.”

As Bale is about to field questions from the journalists, the screen goes black. A voice booms over the sound system. “Who is Jason Bale?” Bale and crew look around as images display on screen. “Dr. Harold Ambrose. Found floating in the Mississippi, one week ago. Where was he last seen?” A large question mark flashes across the screen. “Being accosted by Jason Bale’s personnel security detail he so often refers to as his Angels.”

The screen displays a grainy image of the security tape showing the guy pouring water on Bale then flips to Bale’s men physically escorting the doctor away. Murmurs around the room grow louder. “I assure you, this is all false,” Bale says, stepping into the microphone. “It’s propaganda.”

“You should know!” shouts a resurfaced Gloria. Looks like her video is producing the reaction we were banking on. Bale waves to the crowd once more before leaving the stage with his Angels. His PR staff remains at the podium as they address the crowd. “As you can see, we are experiencing technical difficulties,” says the smiling assistant. “Someone is playing a horrible trick on Bale Media and we will get to the bottom of this immediately …”

“Well looks like your plan worked,” I say to Gloria.

“Yeah,” she nods. “But I’m not sure it’s enough.”

“I’m with you Glo,” adds Tre.

“What are you guys talking about? Bale was right in the middle of his big unveiling and you came and stole his thunder. Where I’m from, that’s usually called a success.”

“Yeah, but he needs to feel our presence,” says Tre, fist balled. “Can you see where they are?” he says, watching me.

“Huh? Who? What—no. Remind me, what are we supposed to be doing here?”

“Come on Zeek. You don’t seem like the type to back down from a fight.”

“Well, what about what Anna said?”

“And you definitely don’t seem like the type to follow instructions verbatim,” Gloria says, clenching her teeth.

“Can you hear anything, Glo?” asks Tre. I can’t believe these two. But as Gloria focuses, I can’t help but focus on Bale’s commercial. Scanning your wrist to get ice cream? Could it work?

“Bale asked for his car to meet him near entrance three!” she shouts. “Let’s go!” The two take off for the exit. Reluctantly, I follow.

-----------T H E A S S I G N E D-----------

Every sound is magnified in the dense acoustics of the parking garage. In here, my gift of hearing is not needed to pick up on Bale’s rhetoric. “They must worship me freely!” he shouts as we approach around the winding corridor.

“Don’t bank on it!” Tre shouts back. Bale and his five Angels turn to face the Three of Three. Or as Tre calls us, the Assigned. Cars line the ever-turning structure as we take our stand. Twenty yards is all that separates us.

“You think you have thwarted my ministry?” says Bale. “This is just the beginning.”

“We’ll see about that,” I say.