Soulmates, Enemies, and Bruises (Contest Entry)

    Advancements in telepathic technology proved that every human has a soulmate. When your mind is opened to the presence of thoughts which are not your own, it initially overloads. The reach of your mind expands to cover the whole Earth. Everything outside your own head sounds like gibberish, until you find that one voice beside your own which you can understand. For every person, there is someone perfectly compatible. A profound connection is formed between your souls and bodies; even if there is half the world between you.
 

    I haven't had the experience myself, I don't want to be telepathic. I only know what I've read about it. And trust me, the Internet is clogged with romantic anecdotes detailing the 'manmade evolution.' 

    I'm from the first generation with access to mind modifications. I still remember when dating websites were your best chance at finding love. Now people upgrade their own brains to find 'the one.' Not that I'm against modifications. I have body mods for agility. They really help in my line of work. 

    My work is dangerous, that's why I don't want to be telepathic. They say if only one partner is modified, then the connection is skin deep. You feel their emotions sometimes, and you're affected by the same bruises. Relatively harmless things. 

    With a strong connection, if both of you are telepathic, you can hear each other's thoughts always. Their pain is your pain, no punches pulled. If you get yourself killed, your soulmate might die along with you. 

    Odds are my soulmate is telepathic. I have the usual signs. Mysterious bruises, unexplained mood swings. And over half of the population is telepathic now. 

    So what's my dangerous work? I’m a licensed bullet-catcher. Before you scoff or think I’m part of some circus act, let me tell you about the new technology the general public doesn’t know about. There are new force fields designed to cover the body like a skin-suit. 

    Force field suits are popular among the secret service and spy agencies. Once public, they’ll be outfitted for general military and police use. I really doubt that will be anytime soon. There are a lot of bugs in the suits. In theory: bullets don’t go through the shield, but the force still punches you every time. But if you strain the shield from extended use or constant movement, patches weaken. Where there are weaknesses, a punch is the least of your problems. 

    
    You need serious training in order to use the suit without risk. Learn where to take your hits. Be aware of your entire body and any unnecessary movements you might be making. Standing perfectly still takes discipline, but it also preserves your field power. And specifically for bullet-catching, speed and agility training (or mods) can mean life or death.

    
    I caught a bullet in the face yesterday. Right under my left eye, which is lucky if you think about it. The eyes are a huge weakness on account of how many times humans blink. That kind of movement leaves the field threadbare. I’ve got a gnarly bruise on my cheek but it could have been so much worse. The dark purple, perfectly round bruise is puffy and makes my left eye squint so you can barely see my green iris. Looking at it in the mirror gives me the chills, and I almost question if the risks I’m taking are worth it.

    Originally I was one of the spies working for our government. That’s where I got my training, and their training is the best. Harsh to be sure; I wouldn’t wish that training on my worst enemy. And I can say that with confidence because I do have a worst enemy, his name is Myles. Anyway, the spy life wasn’t for me. I’m really no good at lying. Secrets fester inside me, I can’t live like that. It doesn’t have anything to do with morals. If I had morals, I wouldn’t have let myself get poached by a big-deal corporation with obvious ties into the criminal underworld. They get into many shady dealings, but they don’t ask me to lie. I go into work, I stand around the person I’m supposed to guard, and every once in a while I catch a bullet. They don’t trust me with secrets, and I like it better that way. The pay check is more to my liking too. 

    It does make me wonder though. If I died as a spy, at least it was for my country. Dying for a glorified mob boss seems a lot less honorable. Saving up all that blood money for a future I might never have seems a little pointless. I have half a mind to quit my job, take my bruises and losses. 

    Knowing I’m going to see Myles today is doubtless contributing to my sense of dread and regret. He’s a detective of some sort, investigating into the web of crimes surrounding the corporation I work for. My boss is cooperating with him to save face. It’s all very political, and a huge headache for me. Myles doesn’t know when to stop. He interviews absolutely everyone, even the guards and family members of the actual criminals. Myles never believes me when I tell him I don’t know anything about anything. 

    I don’t try to cover my bruise with makeup, I’m hoping it might win me some sympathy. I bundle my long red hair under my motorcycle helmet and ride down to the office building I’ve been interrogated in before. I don’t know why Myles has an office in a boring skyscraper instead of a police station. The entire floor is soundproofed though. It makes me think all the offices must belong to the government, even if they look blandly inviting with their modern decor and variable jungle of fake potted plants. 

    I get stuck into a little room with a huge mirror on one side, just as you might expect. Metallic table, two chairs on opposite ends. A ring where handcuffs might be looped through. But aside from the necessities, there is a snack bar tucked in the corner making the whole place smell like cookies. Condensation runs down the side of a pitcher of lemonade. Eating or drinking anything would be stupid. I pick at a sticker on my helmet which was already pealing off.

    When Myles comes in, he goes straight for the snacks. He also cuts right to the chase, as usual. 

    “Good morning, Saige. I missed breakfast, I’m going to eat some of these cookies. Would you like one? This could be a while, unless you tell me the truth this time,” Myles said. He then stuffed a whole cookie into his mouth, and grabbed a napkin to pile three more onto it. I had to wonder how he seemed to stay fit when he had the sweet-tooth of a five-year-old.

    “I always tell you the truth, Myles.” I admit I said his name with some sarcasm. We are not friendly enough to be on first-name terms, but Myles is very secretive about his last name, and very insistent on treating suspects like friends. I hate it, and I can’t be cordial towards him. “To speak truly, I do not want your bribery of cookies. Thanks, but no thanks.”

    Myles laughs, and starts to pour himself some lemonade. “Bribery isn’t my style, it’s actually illegal you know. But it’s funny you mention that. You see I’ve been looking into your past recently, and I’m sure you can guess what I’ve found out.” 

    I can feel lead weighing down my stomach, like maybe I’ve been swallowing bullets for years instead of letting them bounce off me. I glare at the back of his head furiously. “Oh? Is this the part where you reveal that blackmail is not beneath you?” 

    Myles turns around, balancing his stack of cookies and lemonade cup in one hand, and holding out a file in the other. I see his brown eyes first, and I see the moment of shock a split instant before my own shock startles me straight out of my chair. Shock, horror. What happened to the casual banter of a detective and a crooked bullet-catcher? Dissolved into dead silence because...

    Well, Myles has my bruise on his face. The exact shade of purple, perfectly round from the bullet I caught. Sitting beneath his left eye, right over his sharp cheekbone. 

    Anyone in our generation has seen this scene in the movies. We know what it means to recognize a bruise on another person, our minds instantly jump to that conclusion. This is the one, we’ve found our soulmates. Except its supposed to be a happy moment, not a horrible trick of fate. 

    Myles teeters back on his heels, and lemonade spills on his suit. He mutters inaudibly and throws his file down on the table with a little too much force. The papers inside spread themselves out. Myles pours the rest of the lemonade back in the pitcher and puts the cookies back. He’s apparently lost his appetite. 

    I’m drawn to the papers, my only distraction from the daunting realization I’m desperately trying to pretend might have some other explanation. Myles has found redacted government files with my photograph on them. Likely the only proof anywhere that I was a spy at one point.

    “I woke up with this on my face, spent half the morning staring at it. I was worried, wondering how it happened. Wondering if my soulmate... if you...” Myles shakes his head. “That’s why I missed breakfast, actually. I suppose you were injured during your job? Bullet-catching?” 

    A strangled noise comes out before I can speak. “Um... Yeah. Been a long time since I’ve been bruised like this. Usually I catch them in the torso.” 

    “I noticed. They made working out pretty uncomfortable,” Myles confirms.

    “Sorry, I guess,” I mumble as my face heats up. A few minutes ago, the idea of injuring Myles would have been a pleasant one. I can’t say those feelings went away entirely, but with them came a strong feeling of guilt. Myles got the telepathic mod. He likely wanted to find his soulmate, and now he has. Here I am, probably everything he didn’t want in a partner. 

    “No, I didn’t get the modification in order to find my soulmate,” Myles taps his temple with his pointer finger, as if to remind me that the mod lets you hear people’s loudest thoughts. You can’t read someone’s mind or dig around for their secrets or anything. But if you concentrate, you can tune in to what a person is thinking in the moment. The connection isn’t great, from what I’ve heard, you can only hear snippets. But Myles heard enough to respond to my thoughts. “You can see how this would be handy while interrogating suspects.” 

I grit my teeth, more annoyed than I am embarrassed. “So every time I’ve been in this chair, you’ve always known I was telling the truth!” 

    Myles laughs again. He has an easy laugh, it doesn’t take much. “You might not have known the answers to my questions, but you still had information I needed. I was mainly looking for clues into your identity, since your history has that huge gap. I could practically smell the government on you, I hoped I could turn you around as an inside mole. And I just got the leverage I needed.” He re-gathers the papers on the desk into the file folder. The blackmail. 

    
    “I can’t accept that. I was a terrible agent, and I’d make an even worse double-agent. It would mean the death of me,” I say defensively. 

    Myles nods, as if he understands. And maybe he does, if he’s reading my mind. “Your fears are grounded, you would be at risk. However, I am in a position to turn your file over to my bosses. Capturing a person of interest such as yourself would mean a promotion for them, they wouldn’t rest until you paid for betraying your country. I think becoming a mole would be the lesser of two evils.” 

    Disbelief floods through me. This is exactly why I can’t stand Myles. He’s so outwardly pleasant, and inside he’s a vile predator backing his prey into a corner. He doesn’t care that criminals are people too. We’ve made bad decisions because we had to. He’ll do whatever he deems necessary to obtain justice, even if it means lying through his teeth and faking a smile to earn your trust. And he’s my soulmate? I’m speechless. 

    Myles levels his gaze on me, his left eye partially swollen to match mine. “I can’t offer you special treatment because of any spiritual connection. I consider myself married to my work, and I have no need for a soulmate. What I do have need for is a way into that gang. If you give me that, I will bury your files. I will make sure you come out clean as a whistle,” Myles promised me.

    “Fine,” I spat. I didn’t have any other choice. In my heart, I had only resentment for Myles. He was going to get me killed, the way that most moles got killed because they were pushed recklessly to gather information. I grabbed my helmet and I stormed straight out of there. An idea occurred to me as I left his office. If I had to put my life on the line, why not force his hand? He would have to be more careful with my life if it meant his life too. And all I had to do was modify myself.

    I get on my bike and head for the nearest modification hospital. Mine is probably the strangest reason for becoming telepathic I’ve ever heard of. I wanted mafia-style vengeance on my soulmate, because my soulmate is my worst enemy. I’m pretty sure it means that he and I are very unlucky in love.