April 12

It took ten minutes for Myla's alarm clock to rouse her from unconsciousness. The low and persistent buzzer resounded stubbornly from underneath a jean jacket and down the hallway into Myla's mother's mauve bedroom. In fact, it wasn't the alarm that eventually pulled Myla from her deep sleep, but the angry pounding on her door that shook the picture frames on the wall. Myla rolled off her bed, wincing at the throbbing ache in the base of her skull, and pulling her jacket off the clock radio. She had twenty minutes before Miss. Irons would call the day to order, and she was under strict instructions not to miss a single second of conference room banter and chewing gum excitement.

"Shit," Myla muttered, moving to slip out of her pyjamas before realizing she was still in the clothes she wore the night before. "Mom! Can you give me a ride to--" she stopped short, remembering the big No-Longer-a-Student secret. That was not a conversation she was looking forward to having with her mother, never mind trying to explain to her the shady employment circumstances she'd found herself in. "Nevermind!" She'd take her chances with IntraGlobal.

Myla pulled her hair up into a messy pony-tail and began scanning her bedroom floor for the workbook she was supposed to have completed approximately twelve hours previous. Myla stopped, one shoe on, the other hanging by its tongue from her left hand. She reviewed the night's events.

Jasper called. She walked to the Stonehenge -- so far so good. She had a beer. Then... she woke up? That's not right.

"Myla, are you cognizant?"

Myla snapped out of the third rewind of her truncated evening. "What?"

"I'd prefer not to have a repeat of last night's conversation," growled her mother through the door. "I'm assuming you're by yourself. I didn't actually watch your little blonde friend leave."

"What?" Myla had no idea what her mother was going on about. She resumed her search for the workbook, attempting to simultaneously pull on her other shoe.

"I'm not saying he wasn't attractive. I can't fault your taste in men, dear, but I only ask that you know them for more than three hours before bringing them home to mother."

Myla pulled her head out from under the bed and flung the door open to find her mother standing there, frazzled and blotchy in a 25-year-old bathrobe. "What are you talking about?" she demanded.

"I don't have time to argue with you," her mother snapped. "I have a ear candelling session with the Kesslers' beagle at nine." She turned on her heel and stomped down the hall. "Have a good day at work."

Myla had not time to process this comment. She was late, and she hated being late like most people hated going to the dentist. It needled at her until she felt she was doing the entire world a disservice. It was at this point that she had to weigh her options, and decided that no workbook was better than showing up two hours late. She'd lie. She could deal with that. Myla grabbed her cell phone and started dialling the cab company as she flew out the front door

**

It was time to step up his game, Jasper had decided. No more tip toeing around the office as usual, hoping by some miracle that a sensitive piece of information would just fall in his lap. He'd been given this job by The Operatives, for whatever reason, and the more he thought about it, the more important than ever it seemed to finish it. He'd been set to put his skills to the test the night before, when Morgan had showed up unexpectedly at his apartment and insisted he meet with Myla instead. Thinking back on it now, Jasper realized he should have been more persistent, though he couldn't think of what he would have said, specifically, just that it would have been confident, forceful, and resulted in Morgan backing down and letting Jasper do what he was recruited to accomplish. And so, that morning, he had called into work sick, for the first time since he started working at IntraGlobal. This way, no one would miss all the work he wouldn't be doing while lurking about on the top floor of the building, trying to get anything that would satisfy Boss. Morgan had sent Jasper a message close to midnight telling him to watch out for gum. He wasn't sure whether Morgan was messing with him, but it was the only thing he had to go on.

He entered the office building at the shipping bay, nearly empty that time of day. The sudden ignition of a furnace behind one of the dark grey doors made Jasper jump, and he found himself looking over his shoulder every so often out of nervous apprehension. This was the place the Operatives had initially "met" him and Jasper realized he still wasn't over the shock of the kidnapping. Pushing thoughts of shadowy people in blue cover-alls to the back of his mind, he made his way to the service elevator, which was already on the basement level. Jasper stepped into the car and pressed the top floor button without thinking much of what he was going to do once he got up there. He figured his instincts might kick in sooner or later.

The doors to the service elevator slid open to an empty hallway. Jasper peeked cautiously out into the wall-to-wall carpeted passageway, double-checking for ninjas melted into the shadows and tripwires ready to unleash a dozen poison-tipped arrows into his back. All clear. The Benedict Room was at the other end of the floor, down the hallway and around another corner. Jasper started out slowly, inching his way along the wall, ready to bolt as soon as he saw even so much as a shadow. But nobody was there, so he picked up the pace and rounded the first corner, the thick carpet masking the sound of his footsteps.

A loud bang, the sound of a door swinging open and crashing against the wall, sent Jasper about three feet into the air. He backed away from the second corner, still hidden from view, but remaining within earshot of the Benedict Room door, which had bounced back from its violent opening and clicked shut.

"Mr. Morris, please, you have to return to your seat. We have a lot to accomplish today, and let me remind you, you are under--"

"Contract! Yeah! I know, I read it, like three times over. Air tight. Bravo."

It was Miss. Irons, and an extremely agitated Mr. Morris, by the sounds of it.

"But there's nothing on that contract about cigarette breaks, and godammit, I need one now." Mr. Morris was almost yelling, his voice was shaky, it reminded Jasper of Bruce Banner right before he burst out of his muscle shirt and exploded into The Hulk.

Miss. Irons, on the other hand, was the soundtrack for calm, cool and collected: the movie. "Mr. Morris, there is nothing here in your profile about you being a smoker. In fact, we specifically chose participants who didn't smoke."

"The damndest thing, isn't it? Went through three packs yesterday after I got home. Stayed up all night smoking cigarettes," he said incredulously. From the rise and fall of his voice, Jasper could tell Mr. Morris was pacing.

"How do you feel?" Asked Miss. Irons.

"Fine." Mr. Morris laughed ruefully. "I smell like shit but I'm as bright-eyed and bushy-tailed as the fucking EASTER BUNNY." Now he was screaming.

"Please calm down, Mr. Morris," Miss. Irons placated. "I'll let you in on something now, which we were going to go over later today. This gum that you're testing -- what it does is suppress certain areas of the brain that--" The elevator dinged and Miss. Irons stopped mid-sentence. Jasper strained to hear, and even moved a bit closer to the corner as the doors slid open.

"Oh! Miss. Irons. I'm sorry, were you waiting for me?" It was Myla. "I had a horrid night last night and, god, I don't even remember-- but never mind. Sorry. Sorry, again. What do you want me to do?"

Miss. Irons sighed. "Begin on your workbook, place your completed book on the pile at the front of the room, Mr. Morris and I will be back in a moment."

"About that, I don't have my book. I kinda left it at home, I think--" but Myla's excuse was cut short by a shout from Miss. Irons, who had just noticed the elevator closing, and Mr. Morris's desperate face disappear behind the golden sliding doors.

"You don't have your book? Do not enter that room, Miss. Ritsmartin. I will speak to you when I return," said Miss. Irons sternly, rushing toward what Jasper assumed was the staircase right next to the Benedict Room entrance. The door slammed shut, and where the once was chaos, silence descended, broken only by Myla's muttered curses.

Jasper barely had time to decide to move forward again before he was nearly knocked off his feet by the appearance of a pair of blue coveralls and a bright red toque.

"Come on, we've got four minutes, at the most," said Morgan, jumping out from an unseen doorway at the end of Jasper's hall.

"What? Where'd you--" Jasper sputtered. Morgan raced past him, into the elevator foyer where Myla was standing.

"Who's there?" shouted Myla, alarmed. Jasper stumbled into view. "Jasper?"

Morgan grabbed Myla by the arm and pulled her toward the Benedict Room. "Grab everything you can. Come on, LET'S GO." He let Myla go and swung open one of the mahogany doors.

"What the hell!?" Myla shrieked, following Morgan into the conference room with Jasper right on her heels. The three bursting into the room were met with about ten stunned gazes from Myla's co-workers. Their shocked expressions soon turned to fear, and Morgan didn't help matters much by practically throwing himself on the long table and sweeping everything he could see into a black garbage bag he pulled out of his jacket. A woman screamed, but Morgan ignored her, as well as the large man getting ready to pull Morgan off the table and pin him to the wall.

"Myla, get those books at the front of the room! Jasper, watch the door. As soon as you see that woman, we gotta storm out of here!"

Jasper immediately sprung to his position at the door, but Myla stood cemented to the ground. The room had exploded into a flurry of sobs and shouts and several people, including Simon Knetter, were huddling under the table. "What is going on here?" Myla screamed over the melee.

Morgan didn't look at her, and grabbed the books from the front of the room himself. "What did you do last night?" he demanded.

"I--" Myla's mouth gaped, unable to finish the sentence.

"Exactly. This stuff they have you eating," he waved a piece of gum in the air before tossing it in the bag. "This stuff, it's doing something to your body, and as it turns out if you mix it with alcohol, you basically lose consciousness within the hour. That man you saw running for the door hasn't slept in 48 hours and for the first time in his life he's smoking three packs of cigarettes a day. You're a lab rat, Myla. You all are!" Morgan swept his arm dramatically across the room and the turned to Jasper. "How are we?"

"The elevator's coming up!"

"Myla, come on!" Morgan raced toward the door, but Myla stayed planted to her spot by the window, looking worriedly at a shaking Simon crouched on the floor.

"You're insane," she declared. "This is my job. If I leave..."

Morgan paused in the door, one eye on the elevator light as it flashed up the first few floors. "If you stay, they'll never let you go. Myla, you're wound up in this more than you know. Jasper's been following you."

"What!" Myla glared at Japer.

"Sorry," he said, quickly, wanting more than anything to bolt for the staircase door. The elevator car was less than ten floors away.

"They know he's after something. They know you've been seeing him. Myla, we have to go now!" The elevator car was one floor beneath them and Morgan couldn't wait to see if he'd convinced Myla. He grabbed Jasper's arm and leapt for the staircase door. Morgan bounded down the first flight of stairs and rounded the first landing, managing to steal a quick glance upwards. Jasper was trundling down the steps, but so far, no Myla. "Faster!" he shouted to his accomplice. The echoey slam of the penthouse door followed him down the concrete stairwell.

"Jasper, I will never forgive you for this." Myla was breathless, but her feet were light. "Do you know how much money I'm giving up for this -- whatever this is? Do you know how much longer I'm going to have to live with my mother? Minus all the jail time of course."

"Sorry," gasped Jasper. "But to be fair, I had about as much of a choice here as you did. Morgan, are we going to have to run all the way down?"

Morgan was about three flights ahead of Myla and Jasper. "My car is in the alley at the bottom. This is the fastest way down. Move, move!"

"FREEZE!" A deep voice and two heavy sets of feet pounded down from about three flights above Jasper, who had been overtaken by Myla. "It is unlawful to remove IntraGlobal property from the premises and you will be prosecuted to the full extent of the law if you do not stop this second!"

"Shiiiiit, Jasper, move your ass!"

Jasper picked up his pace, although he felt as though he could drop dead any second. His knees were beginning to shake.

"That was your first warning," came the security guard's booming voice. "I am now obligated to tell you that I can and will deploy the tear gas in this stairwell if you do not freeze."

"We're almost there!" Morgan was now jumping down the steps four at a time.

"You have been warned!" Shouted the security guard. "Five, four, three, two..."

Myla emitted an ear-splitting scream, masking the metallic clatter of a tear gas canister as it rolled down a flight of stairs and came to rest in one of the landings. Jasper held his breath and squinted so that he was viewing the poorly-lit stairwell through only the tiniest slits in his eyelids. The gas hissed and the security guards swore because the gas was floating upwards, away from Jasper, Myla and Morgan, who had reached the bottom of the stairs. The three burst out into the daylight and followed Morgan to a blue, rusted hatchback parked behind a dumpster.

"Morons," he laughed, opening up the driver's side door and chucking the garbage in the back seat. Jasper scrambled into the car next to the bag and pulled the passenger seat back so that Myla could sit down and close the door. Morgan jammed his keys into the ignition and the car roared to life, leaving skid marks in the alley and the IntraGlobal skyscraper quickly behind.

March 29

Myla sat on her bed staring at the workbook spread open on her lap. She couldn't take it anymore. The questions. Were. The. Same. Over and over: "Describe the current state of your left arm."

It felt like... an arm?

"Describe the current state of your right buttocks."

Numb? Myla wanted to cram those questions right up someone's buttocks, that was for sure. She tossed the book across the bed so that it slid off onto the floor. Covering her head with a pillow, Myla slid under her covers and shut her eyes tight. It was just past 10 but it felt like the middle of the day for all she wanted to sleep. This wasn't fair. Sleep was her refuge. Usually all she had to do was blink twice and she was out, now all she could see when she closed her eyes was question after question, infuriatingly stamped into the back of her eyelids like demonic little Times New Roman soldiers.

Myla rolled over onto her back and concentrated, bringing Dr. Mitch out of his indefinite suspension and into his cozy little office at the front of her mind. He always put her to sleep.

"Myla, you should finish your work." Dr. Mitch was wearing a grey suit today, and he was smoking a pipe.

"Fuck that. It's not work, it's... what the hell is this Dr. Mitch? This isn't normal." Myla was sitting in an unusually agitated state, as if her mental self was just about as likely to calm down as her physical self. Dr. Mitch remained in his chair, as always, legal pad poised, one leg crossed over the other.

"It doesn't matter what it is," he said in that condescending tone he sometimes affected. "You took the job and it's your responsibility to finish it." Dr. Mitch was drawing something on his pad; doodling. She could tell he wasn't even paying attention.

"Something isn't right," said Myla, recalling how Genevieve was escorted out of the conference room that morning. No one knew where she'd gone. Miss. Irons refused to even acknowledge the woman had been there to begin with.

"That sounds like an excuse," sighed Dr. Mitch.

Myla screamed and stood up, ready to kick Dr. Mitch's smug little head clear through his office window (one of the benefits of having an imaginary therapist), when her phone rang. She threw the pillow off her head and rolled off the mattress, grabbing her cell phone from the night table. Myla glanced at the caller ID and raised her eyebrows. It was Jasper.

"Hi Myla, how are you?" Jasper sounded rather chipper, almost as if he were reading from a script (which, actually, he was).

"About to scrape my eyes out with a rusty spoon. What's up?"

"I had a great time the other day. I think we should get to know each other more. What do you say?" Jasper cleared his throat. Myla could hear him swear under his breath as he dropped a pile of cue cards and bent down to pick them up.

"Jasper, you're not a psycho, are you?"

"Huh?" Jasper flipped through a few of his cards.

"I mean, you don't like, collect any sort of bodily product like finger nails or urine, do you? And when you watch an episode of Star Trek -- if you watch Star Trek, which I'm just taking a wild guess that you do -- you realize that all of that stuff really couldn't happen in real life, right? You don't have any insane fantasies about phasers and alien robots?" Myla paused, thinking briefly of Dr. Mitch. "I guess what I'm getting at is I want to make sure you're not going to do anything horrible to me, and I ask these things because I doubt you'd tell me you were going to kill me if you really wanted to, because how dumb would I be?"

"I--" Jasper paused, thought, and let out a breath. "I don't think Star Trek is real. I'm normal."

"Let's go get a drink then. Right now. Do you know Stonehenge Pub?"

Jasper had barely agreed before Myla had ended the call, laced up her shoes and kicked the IntraGlobal workbook under her bed as she stomped out of her bedroom. Stonehenge was about five minutes from her house, so she knew Jasper would be far behind her. She didn't care too much and was content to knock back a few before he even poked his timid little head in the smokey establishment.

Stonehenge was fairly empty, as was usual for a weeknight. Blue curls of smoke hung like fluid curtains around the suspended lamps; Stonehenge was the only bar in the city which still allowed smoking. It was illegal, but the owner would go to his grave with an ashtray welded permanently to his forehead before he told his regulars they couldn't light up. Myla sat at the bar and ordered a pint before slapping down a twenty and calling for an entire pitcher, reasoning it would only be polite to buy Jasper a drink or two.

She was thirsty, again, and the beer tasted really, really good. Myla took a long drink and set her mug down. After nearly finishing her first glass she was feeling a better, calmer, if not a bit light-headed, which was strange. Myla chalked it up to her emotional session with Dr. Mitch, and smiled, recalling the imminent smackdown he'd be getting in the next few days. The suds in her quarter-pint swirled hypnotically and Myla actually jumped when someone tapped her one the shoulder. She spun around, expecting to see an equally startled Japer, but met the dark-grey eyes of a disturbingly familiar face.

"Do I know you?" asked the man, smiling in a way which suggested he knew exactly who she was.

Myla blinked and looked at her beer again. What was this stuff? Her mind felt like molasses. "You're that guy."

"You can call me Morgan," said the man, taking off his bright red toque to reveal a mop of hay-coloured hat hair. "I'm here on behalf of your date, who unfortunately couldn't make it." He shrugged. "Emergency meeting at work. May I?" Morgan took the pitcher of beer and poured himself a glass. An emergency meeting wasn't a complete lie. Technically there had been a meeting when Morgan surprised Jasper at his apartment and convinced him to stay at home while Morgan did all the dirty work with Myla. It was only fair, and only smart, Morgan had reasoned. He was the one who was fully trained and experienced, not Jasper. That's not to say any of the Operatives would be finding out about Morgan's involvement in Jasper's mission, but this was the only logical course of action in his mind.

"I don't know about this stuff," slurred Myla and pushing her glass away.

"Myla, dear, how much have you had?" Morgan smirked, raising his glass to her and taking a sip of the draught. Absolute piss-water -- what was her deal?

"Just this one," Myla giggled. A tiny spark of comprehension seemed to flicker in the back of her mind. "I'm probably not supposed to mix them." Myla tried to remember something in the contract she'd signed about alcohol. It may have mentioned something, but... "Where's Jasper?" She asked.

"I told you. He's at work. Myla, mix what? What aren't you supposed to mix?" Morgan set down his beer and grabbed her arm. He had intended on spending at least a couple hours with the girl, gaining her confidence, buying her a few drinks and maybe then asking her a few guarded questions about IntraGlobal, but it seemed this one innocuous beer had done his work for him.

Myla looked down at his grip and smiled. "You're kinda hot." She leaned in toward Morgan, who took her gently by the shoulders and pushed her upright.

"Can we get some water here?" He asked the bartender. She wouldn't be any use to him if she passed out now. "What is IntraGlobal giving you? Are they making you take drugs?"

Myla scowled. "No. Just this fucking gum. Which I fucking hate. It makes me want to fucking scream!"

Morgan laughed a little and took the glass of water from the bartender, holding it up in front of Myla's face. She grabbed the glass and started chugging the water.

"Gum? That's it? That's all they make you eat?" Morgan took a drink of his beer and mulled this over. Gum was a strange way to ingest a substance, but it certainly wasn't unheard of. And the more he thought about, the more sense it made. How else would you test a potentially dangerous substance on a willing group of people? No one's going to question gum.

Myla was just finishing her water when someone in the corner of the bar caught her eye. "Oh, hey. I know that dude. At least I've seen him-- at IntraGlobal." She smiled and waved at the stoic-looking man smoking a cigarette at a table by himself.

Morgan glanced at him casually over his shoulder, turned back toward the bar and whispered. "Shit, they're following you? Already? What the hell did Jasper do?" He raked a hand through his hair and finished up his beer. They needed a way out. The man obviously hadn't recognized him -- Morgan would have been in custody already if that were true -- but there was no doubt he'd be listening closely to their conversation and watching them both like a hawk. Morgan took inventory of the situation: seedy bar, really drunk girl. He turned to Myla. "Let's play a little game, okay?"

Myla blinked back, her eyes still unfocused but gaining clarity. "Yeah, man, anything you say."

Morgan put his arm around her shoulder and pulled her a little closer. "Don't scream. This is just a game, remember?" Myla nodded, and smiled as Morgan took her face in one hand and and leaned in, pretending to whisper something in her ear. Every move he made, down to the lascivious grin on his face was well-choreographed -- or would have been, hand Myla not cut it short, turned her head and kissed Morgan before he even had a chance to position themselves in full view of the stalker. He almost smirked in spite of himself. That was way too easy.

Myla leaned into Morgan and pulled out of the kiss. "Oh my God, I'm so tired," she said, leaning her head against his chest, her eyes still closed.

Morgan shook her gently. "Come on Myla. Not yet. You were perfect. Come on, let's go."

"Home?" Myla murmured, slipping off the bar stool with Morgan's arm firmly around her waist.

"Yeah. You have to show me where you live so I can put you to bed," said Morgan, leading her slowly out of the Stonehenge and stealing a quick glance at the smoking man in the corner. Myla's stalker seemed bored by the entire affair, if not a little disappointed.

"Put me to bed? Cheeky... I'm not that easy," Myla giggled.

"Oh, I don't know about that," said Morgan, pulling Myla in the direction she pointed. "But you have nothing to worry about because despite what everyone I know will tell you, I do have standards."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Myla managed to sound a little bit offended.

"It means you'll be asleep the second your head touches the pillow. And I don't have sex with women who are unconscious," said Morgan, who shifted Myla so that her arm was draped over his shoulders and he was half-dragging her down the sidewalk.

"Good," she said. "Because I'm really tired."

"I know," grunted Morgan, rounding the corner to where Myla mumbled she lived. "Come on," he said, helping her up the front steps and through the door. He looked around the front entrance of the home, a dozen shoes littered the foyer and about ten sets of keys hung from a kitschy key holder fastened to the wall. "Don't tell me you still live with your parents."

"Myla? Is that you"

Morgan almost dropped Myla, but regained his balance just in time to see a short, worried-looking woman in a long skirt sweep around the corner. "You must be Mrs. -- Myla's mother," he said.

"What has she done?" The woman strode across the room and lifted Myla's face in her hands. "Is she drunk? On a school night? Who are you?" she demanded.

"Go away, Mom," mumbled Myla, raising her head and putting a little more weight on her own two feet. "And for your information, it's not a school night, because I quit school. They practically kicked me out. And I got a job. And it sucks, but guess what? I'm making a shit-load of money, and I'm going to move out. I'm going to live with--" Myla looked at Morgan, as if trying to place his face. Morgan smiled weakly. "I'm going to live with this guy. And we're going to have beautiful blonde babies."

"You quit school?" Myla's mother was shrieking but her daughter seemed to be dozing off again. "Look at me! We're going to talk about this right now!"

Myla was leaning heavily against Morgan once more and he was beginning to slump under her weight. "Listen ma'am, I'm sorry you had to see Myla like this but she really isn't in any condition to talk right now. I'm going to take her to her room if you'll just show me where it is."

Myla's mother snapped her head up and gave Morgan a glare before pointing down a dark hallway. Morgan chose not to waste any more time with this dragging nonsense and scooped Myla up into his arms. Her head lolled backwards, but it made no difference. She was out cold. Morgan pushed open the bedroom door and snapped on a light. He unceremoniously dropped Myla onto her bed and quickly scanned the room, hoping to find something before Myla's mother decided he'd spent enough time in her unconscious daughter's bedroom.

Junk, junk -- bingo! His eyes fell on an open coiled work book tossed halfway under Myla's bed. Morgan picked it up and flipped through it quickly; he didn't have enough time to read the scribbly blue notes that covered half the pages, but he knew it was something: the IntraGlobal logo was stamped on the bottom of every page. Morgan turned to run out of the room, but reconsidered and stayed a few seconds to cover Myla with a blanket and give her a quick kiss on the cheek. "Thank you darlin' I'll be seeing you in a couple days, I expect."

November 27

Myla didn't sleep well at all that night, but she was still rather refreshed the next morning when she walked into the Benedict Room, right on time. The other eleven employees were chatting animatedly, sipping from their water glasses. Myla noticed for the first time an absence of coffee in the room She never drank it -- she tried once, for a year, and there were disasterous, hyper-active related results -- but the absence of the ubiquitous Tim Hortons cup still jumped out at her. She pushed her hair out of her face and sat down next to Simon.

"You're on time today," she said, shrugging off her coat.

"I'm always on time on Tuesdays," he said, setting down his water, which he had finished in one continuous gulp. "Mondays mess me up because they always come after Sunday, which is like, the weekend."

Myla took a long drink of her water. She was very thirsty. "What about the other days?"

"I'm usually pretty burnt out by Wednesday. Then I got my Tai Chi class on Wednesday nights, and me and The Jones close down the Dog and Frog, so Thursdays are a bust and--"

"Sorry I asked," said Myla. "Wait-- Tai Chi?"

"For sure," said Simon, pushing back his tangled hair. "It really centres me. You know, calms the soul. You should come."

Myla nodded, although she was quite sure she'd never attend a Tai Chi class with Simon Knetter and "The Jones." She'd much rather lead a off-centred life, she thought. She turned her attention to Miss. Irons who was shuffling papers at the head of the conference table.

"Good morning," she said, silencing the dull chatter immediately. "We have a lot to do today, so we'll get started right away. First, I trust everyone has completed Day 1 of their log books?"

Myla had completed the required log book pages the night before. It had been just as banal as her day of gum chewing and card playing -- the afternoon activities the group was subjected to after lunch. The questions were simple, but unsettlingly personal. She had to record how many times she'd gone to the bathroom (two) what she'd had for dinner (ice cream) and how many hours of sleep she'd gotten (six), not to mention a detailed analysis of what her head, stomach, back and limbs felt like at two-hour intervals, right up to midnight. Half-way through her 8 o'clock stomach paragraph, Myla began to wonder if maybe these things they were testing were potentially harmful, despite what Miss. Irons had told them the day before. Why else would they need to know all this stuff?

Miss. Irons was making her rounds with the blue box, tossing the small, black, plastic packages in front of everyone and collecting their log books. Myla ripped her package open and gave an involuntary shudder when four pieces of gum skittered onto the glossy surface of the table. She immediately reached for her iPod, unwilling to listen to even a second of Simon's slobbery gum-chewing.

"As you can see, you will be testing gum again, and while this looks and tastes quite similar to yesterday's product, I can assure you, they are very different." She slowed her pace to flip through a few of the log books. "I must stress the importance that no one but you see the contents of these log books. It is also important that you not discuss the items we test here, or the activities you participate in." She returned to the front of the room. "You may begin."

Myla stared at her gum with dreaded resignation and flipped open the day's booklet to skim through the pages and pages of what seemed like identical questions to the day before. She plugged in her earphones and popped the first piece of gum into her mouth. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the French woman, Genevieve, push her chair out from the table and walk over to Miss. Irons. Myla couldn't hear what they were talking about, because of her earphones, but she could tell Genevieve was whispering. Miss. Irons listened to what she had to say and then stood up, took Genevieve's arm and walked with her out of the Benedict Room.

**

Jasper received a message from the Operatives half-way through his morning at IntraGlobal. It was rather embarrassing.

Bea Porter, the front desk clerk, had made a special trip up to the 16th floor to deliver Jasper his bouquet of flowers. Jasper was busy in the copy room, struggling with a particularly nasty paper jam, when Bea snuck up behind him, beaming behind a spray of baby's breath and miniature carnations.

"Someone's got a secret admirer!" She sang, plopping the flowers down on the top of the photocopier. Jasper looked at the flowers and then at Bea, who looked about as excited as a four-year-old on Christmas. "So, Jasper, who's the lucky girl? Do you know, or are you as surprised as I was when these were dropped off at my front desk? Oh, glory, how exciting for you!"

Jasper picked up the bouquet carefully, took a cautious sniff and turned back to Bea, who was giggling softly. "Who delivered these?"

"Oh, I don't know. A man in blue coveralls. Read the card, read what it says!" She waved frantically at the pink card tucked into the middle of the bouquet. Jasper fished it out and read it aloud. "Thanks for lunch at Evansborough Park. You're a total hottie. Love, your secret admirer." Jasper immediately regretted reading the card out loud. Bea was positively giddy. "Thanks Bea," he said, and turned back to his paper jam.

Bea giggled again and rushed out of the copy room, no doubt to spread the word of Jasper and his newfound status as a hottie. He looked at the card again. Obviously the flowers were from the Operatives, but there was no such place as Evansborough Park. The name did sound familiar though, so Jasper dug out a telephone book and flipped to the 'E' section. The only Evansborough was a law firm in a building several blocks from IntraGlobal. Thoroughly puzzled over what the rest of the note meant, Jasper pushed his confusion out of his mind for the moment, intent on fixing the damn photocopier once and for all, and leaving figuring out the exact location of his next meeting till lunch.

Several hours later, he still had no clue what the note meant. But he figured he should go anyway, start heading in the direction of the building with the law firm, and count on the apparent constant surveillance of the Operatives to come to his rescue.

He kept expecting to be pulled into an alleyway, tackled from behind or scooped up into a moving vehicle, but nothing happened. In fact, he was ten minutes late for his meeting with the Operatives when he reached the building in which the Evansborough law firm was located. Jasper stood at the front doors, quite similar to the revolving glass doors of the IntraGlobal building, at a loss. Should he go in? Jasper turned around in a slow circle, trying to spot Morgan's bright blonde head, or the tall and lanky Lucas, but no luck. All he could see was the lunch crowd bustling back and forth, the window washers across the street, dangling from the outside of a blue glass building and a concrete ram leading down to the underground parkade-- which had a large neon "Park" sign anchored above the entrance.

Jasper smirked. He might just be getting the hang of this spy thing yet. He took off with a purposeful step toward the entrance of the parkade, and down the concrete ramp, disregarding the sign warning pedestrians to stay off the roadway. He had to flatten himself against the grimy wall as a Mustang hugged a hairpin turn and nearly clipped him on its way up. An echoey silence met Jasper as he emerged from the up-ramp onto the first level of the parkade. A door slammed in the distance and Jasper checked his watch; he'd be due back at IntraGlobal in about half an hour, and he was still really hungry. He walked up one row of parked cars, unsure of what he was looking for and beginning to doubt he'd solved the Operative's clue at all. Just before he was about to turn around and head back up to the surface, a gleaming white van, with its backdoor propped open only slightly, caught his eye. He approached it and slowly pried open the door to peek inside.

"Hurry up, you're late," said Rita, reaching for his arm and pulling him inside.

"Sorry. It took me awhile to figure out where you were," said Jasper. "Plus now everyone at work is calling me Hotlips, so thanks a lot." He looked around the van. Rita, Pete and Lucas were sitting up against the sides of the van. Morgan was the only Operative not present.

Rita took the white radio, set it in the middle of the van floor and crossed her arms. "Hey, think about it. There is a science to this sort of communication. If we'd given you a phone call, do you think it would have been more or less suspicious than the flowers we sent you?"

Jasper thought about it, and couldn't help but agree that a phone call to a gopher, who had never received a phone call in all the time he'd ever worked at IntraGlobal, would be get much more attention than the flowers. At least more questions would be asked.

Rita took his silence as agreement, nodded and flicked on the radio. "Boss, we're all in."

"Good. We'll have to make this quick. Is Operative Morgan continuing to secure the entrance?" Boss's voice came clear over the speaker, despite them being underground.

"Operative Morgan will remain at the entrance to the Parkade until we're done, Boss. He's contacted us to confirm Operative Jasper was not followed," said Pete.

"Excellent. But we must continue to be vigilant. I feel it's only a matter of time before Operative Jasper's actions become suspicious, and we need to be one step ahead of IntraGlobal on that account and pull Operative Jasper before... it's too late." Boss paused, most likely thinking, as all the Operatives were, about their fallen partner. "On that note, Operative Jasper, tell us what you've learned."

"Um, not a lot," said Jasper, starting to sweat. He didn't want to mention the confidentiality agreement, Morgan had told him not to, saying that they'd figure out how to get past it the next time he met up with Myla. "I mean, it seems she didn't know too much. They're testing a product. They have her there all day in the Benedict Room, as far as I could tell, it's a whole group of people they have working there. They're paying her a lot of money-- $5,000 a week." He stopped, unsure if he'd told Boss that already. It was all a nerve-wracking blur at this point.

"This is a good start, Operative. I have expected IntraGlobal to keep a tight leash on their employees so I don't want you to be discouraged. Meet up with your contact again, and see if you can gain her trust. You'll be surprised how much someone will tell you if they think they can trust you."

Jasper's confidence swelled slightly at these encouraging words. Even though he'd never met him, Boss seemed like his old Grade 3 teacher: confident and supportive. "Thanks Boss, I'll meet with her today."

"Good. Remember: extreme discretion. Good day, Operatives." The radio went silent. Rita flicked it off.

"You better get back to work. We'll drive you," she said, already climbing out of the back of the van and walking around to the driver's door.

**

Mr. Leland was staring out one of the large windows in his expansive office when Miss. Irons entered the room. She shut the heavy door behind her gently, but it still made a soft click, which Mr. Leland acknowledged only by shifting his feet.

Miss. Irons cautiously moved toward her boss's desk. "Sir, I--"

"Security has already informed me of the possible breach," said Mr. Leland. He turned around to face Miss. Irons, who was pale. "What are you doing about it?"

"Well thankfully we haven't gone too far in the program. Mrs. Etois has been removed, and I've determined the leak won't be too detrimental, as she only showed her husband the log book, nothing which would lead anyone to think--"

"Etois?" Mr. Leland interrupted again. "I'm talking about the girl, Ritsmartin."

Miss. Irons' eyes widened and she placed her hands on Mr. Leland's desk-- almost for support. She didn't need another leak. "Ritsmartin? I haven't heard this, what happened?"

"We don't know for sure yet. It could be nothing. But there was a telephone call to her house," said Mr. Leland. He walked over to his desk and picked up a sheet of paper. "There was a five second phone call from this building to her home two days ago."

Miss. Irons narrowed her eyes. "But that was the day we hired her, are you sure--"

"We've looked into it. When we called her, we used a different number than this one, possibly a cell phone. This call was made to her home phone number. And it was made on the 16th floor."

"Jasper?"

Mr. Leland sat down. "Exactly. It was an extremely short call though, like I said, no more than five seconds. Still, we need to begin surveillance on both individuals. I'll have security tail Mr. Kleff before and after work. We'll bug Miss. Ritsmartin's home line and follow her starting tomorrow. We can't spare any more employees dropping out of the program, so for now, we'll use extreme caution." Mr. Leland sighed. "This may, after all, just be a case of two people meeting one another and doing what young people do..."

I suck. I know. Totally not going to make the 50K mark this year. My brain is too everywhere. Kirsten isn't here to bug me to write... etc etc. Next installment will appear... let's say 3 days.

Cheers, my two readers.

November 19


Jasper checked his watch for the sixth time in the last ten minutes. Work was almost over, and he was gearing himself up for his date with Myla, which under normal circumstances would be nerve-wracking enough. Today he had a whole other set of issues to deal with, none of which he'd been aware of until Morgan had met him incognito during lunch hour at the Subway around the corner. Morgan's blond hair was stuffed under a bright red toque and he had a fake mustache on. It was pretty weird. After they'd ordered their sandwiches (Jasper: a sweet onion teriyaki without the onions and Morgan: 12-inch cold cuts with everything, including three different kinds of sauces), Morgan led Jasper to a corner booth and immediately began going over the details of the date.

"So first of all, you can't let anyone see you talking to her," he said, taking an enormous bite out of his sub. "Jesus, this is disgusting." He took another bite.

Jasper nodded. He wouldn't have thought of that, but it made sense. If Mr. Leland knew he might be up to something, he didn't have to give his boss any other reason to call him back for a surprise morning chat in the scary blue office. "How am I going to meet her then? I told her to wait for me outside the building."

"I'll show you how when we're done here. It's pretty simple. So we'll make sure no one is following her. We'll -- I mean, you, really -- will take her to a secure location and double check her for bugs," said Morgan. "Then you can go to a coffee shop, or where ever the hell you want."

"What do I ask her?"

Morgan had Italian sauce running down his chin, he stuck his tongue out and licked up half the trail. "Don't go right into it. She'll think you're a freak. Ask her normal stuff. What's your dog's name? Yada yada. You know."

Jasper took a bite of his sub. "And then?"

"Just kind of ease into it." Morgan wiped his mouth again and rolled his eyes. "No offense or anything, but I have no idea why they got you doing this. There is so much shit that could go wrong. Just be happy you have me to help you."

Jasper had finished his sandwich and wondered whether Morgan was taking this all a little too seriously. Now, waiting for the time he had to meet up with Myla, he was beginning to think about all the things that could, indeed, go wrong.

Myla was mentally exhausted by the end of her first day at IntraGlobal, but at the same time she had a peculiar energy that made her slightly anxious and itchy to meet up with Jasper and go wherever he had planned to take her. At 5 o'clock on the dot she was outside the IntraGlobal doors, waiting near the wall so that she was out of the way of all the cubicle-dwellers rushing to get home to their beer and recliners. Ever-punctual, and impatient with those who did not share the obsession with being on time, Myla tapped her foot and searched the crowd for the short man with a rumpled lavender shirt, who in all probability was wearing something different this day. She checked her watch after three minutes, huffed into her bright red scarf and gave Jasper another four minutes to show up, or she was going to bolt. Harsh, maybe, but they'll never learn otherwise, she thought.

Thirty seconds to deadline and Jasper emerged from the revolving doors. Myla pushed herself up from the wall and tried to make eye contact with him as he came rushing toward her. She was sure he saw her. There was a brief moment of recognition in his eyes, but then he looked away and walked straight past her, as though he had somewhere much more important to be. Myla frowned, opened her mouth to call out to Jasper, but stopped when she felt something hit her shoe. It was a piece of paper, folded tight into a square, like a note passed from desk to desk in junior high school. She looked at Jasper, but he was already half a block away. Myla picked up the note, it had a giant M on it, so she unfolded and read the brief instructions typed in a Courier font:

Stanely A. Milner Library
Non-Fiction Large Print
See you there

Myla lowered the note, at a loss for words. This was insane. Jasper was insane. But she had nothing else to do, and her mother was serving leftover eggplant mush for dinner, so she set off toward the library, which was about three blocks north of the IntraGlobal building. It was slow going because the after-work crowd was generally heading in the opposite direction of Myla, toward the bus stops and car parks, and she wondered how Jasper had disappeared so fast. The crowd thinned, however, as Myla reached the library, picked her way past the bums and tweakers and pushed her way into the foyer of the library, which was anything but quiet. University students leaned on railings, waiting for their buses out of the icy wind. Moms and their kids flipped through cardboard picture books and senior citizens sipped on their Starbucks coffee, shaking their heads at the sloppy teenagers, who were angling their skateboards against their lanky, black-clad bodies. Myla folded Jasper's note and slipped it in her pocket, heading further into the library, silence slowly enveloping her as she left the chaos of a downtown daytime population behind. She drifted past European and South American history, not totally sure of where the large print section was, only knowing it was somewhere in the vicinity. Finally she spotted the banner on the far wall, one corner hanging limply; not a single person was in sight.

"Jasper?" she whispered, peeking around the corners of the adjacent bookshelves. Was she supposed to be looking for him? Was this a game? If it was, it was really stupid. Myla sat down on a step ladder and folded her arms. One minute this time. That's all he was getting.

"Myla!"

Myla jumped on her stool at the whisper, which seemed to be coming from the row of books behind her. She peered through the gaps in the shelf. Jasper waved and beckoned her to come to the other side. Too confused to protest, she got up and rounded the corner to find Jasper with his hands in his pockets, smiling apologetically. "Hey, how's it going?" he whispered.

"What the hell?" Myla didn't bother using her library voice.

"Sorry," whispered Jasper. "Sorry I made you come all this way. I just, um-- I'm shy and I didn't want anybody I worked with to see us. I mean, not that I don't think you're pretty or anything but what I'm saying is uh--- we just had to come here, is all. Sorry." Jasper was flustered. He blew out his cheeks and smiled again.

Myla gave a weak smile in return. "Sure. So are we going to stand here and talk, or what?"

"Oh, no. We're going somewhere in a second. We just have to wait." Jasper looked around the nearly-empty library, apparently looking for someone.

Myla couldn't help but stare at him. This had already gone too far and this day certainly wasn't going to end with her chopped up and in Jasper's deep-freeze. "You know what, Jasper. Actually, I have to be somewhere, I forgot. Maybe we can do this another time?" For instance, when hell freezes over?

Jasper didn't seem to hear her. "How do you feel about ice cream?" He asked, still searching the rest of the library, for who? His partner in crime, perhaps. Good ol' Chain Saw Charlie. "Oh!" Jasper said this quietly, to himself, and suddenly turned his attention back to Myla as a young blond man came strolling toward them.

"Excuse me, but do you have the time?" The man was holding an electronic organizer, the little plastic pen poised over the screen. His dark grey eyes narrowed and he gave Myla the once-over, winking at her as Jasper gave him the time. "Thanks," he said, and walked away.

"Ready?" Said Jasper as the man walked off. Myla nodded slowly. "Great. I know a place. Let's go."

And from then on, the date was about as normal as it could be. Jasper took Myla to a make-your-own-sundae place, via the underground walkway, and insisted on buying her the butterscotch ripple with gummy bears creation. "By far the best," he insisted. They sat in one of the cherry-red vinyl booths and dug into their sundaes, which Myla had to admit, where pretty fantastic.

"So, how was your day?" asked Jasper.

Myla thought about the mind-numbing questionnaire, the minty gum that started tasting like chalk towards the end of the morning, and Simon's grunting noises as he chewed. They nearly drove her mad after about three seconds, and so as not to repeat the infamous Economics incident, she'd been given special permission from Miss. Irons to listen to her music throughout the morning. It had worked, though it did amplify her own chewing noises, which didn't bother her as much, but still made her slightly queasy so that she could only choke down her tomato and cheese sandwich for lunch. But she couldn't tell Jasper any of this, as trivial as it was (the workbook was about 600 questions, the answers to which only a rabid gum connoisseur would care about). So she abridged the day's events for Jasper. "My day was not bad, you?"

Jasper shrugged. "You know. Work."

Myla nodded and took a bite of her ice cream, happy she wasn't going to get a ten minute discussion of filing, or whatever the hell it was Jasper actually did.

"So, um--" Jasper stared into his ice cream, stirring the butterscotch and gummies so that they spiraled up toward his spoon. "Do you, like, have any pets or anything?"

And thus began the 20-minute interrogation, wherein Jasper quizzed Myla regarding every aspect of her life besides work. Her answers were generally one or two words. She didn't really get into much, simply because she didn't know Jasper and if she had told the total truth he would have been invariably bored or freaked out by the answers. Besides, it didn't really seem like he was listening to what she was saying, more he was asking the questions as if reading them off a list, working his way down until he got to the actual point of the conversation. Which he did, eventually. Myla got the impression that Jasper thought he was being rather sneaky. But he was pretty obvious.

"So tell me a little more about this job of yours. It sounds exciting," he said, and pushed his empty bowl to the side of the table.

Myla responded with a humourless gaze. "I can't, actually."

Jasper's face fell. He looked almost frightened. "Why not?"

Myla folded her arms on the table. "Confidentiality agreement. Sorry."

"Oh," Jasper forced a laugh. "Sounds pretty top secret."

Myla scrunched her nose. "Not really. I mean, it seems pretty normal to me. IntraGlobal is just really freaky about not letting anybody know about the products they're testing, is all."

"Products?" Jasper leaned in across the table. "They had you testing stuff, personally?"

Myla immediately realized she'd said too much. She shook her head rapidly. "Sorry."

"Like medicine? Food?... Toys?"

"I can't say anything, Jasper. I'm sorry," Myla said, thoroughly regretting it. It seemed so banal, so totally harmless. And yet... $20 million is far from harmless. "I should probably get going."

Jasper sighed. "Yeah. Thanks Myla, this was fun." And he meant it.

"Sure," said Myla sliding out from the booth. "This was... weird."

November 16

Twelve crystal clear glasses, each filled with exactly the same amount of ice cold water sat in front of twelve dark red, leather chairs around the massive slab of a conference table in the Benedict Room of the IntraGlobal ComSphere building. The only person in the room was an attractive woman in her thirties. She brushed a fleck of lint off her tailored navy suit and smoothed her blond hair, straightening a pile of papers at the head of the table where she was standing, waiting for her employees to arrive for their first day's work. The woman, who would only be addressed as Miss. Irons, had been in the Benedict Room for the last hour, preparing the first week's packages for her employees, and reviewing their profiles, which security had provided her with.

Each of the twelve that would be working at IntraGlobal for the next six weeks were deemed the lowest security risks out of all of the applicants they'd had attend their orientation meetings. Every applicant had been given a score; a zero made you the most trustworthy person alive, 100 made you Hitler. IntraGlobal accepted no one over 10. The scores were determined through a number of security checks, including a police check, among the most conventional, as well as an examination of an applicants medical and psychological history, something not every governmental body can get its hands on.

Miss. Irons looked up as her first employee came through the heavy double doors. "Mr. Ahubudu. Welcome, have a seat." Miss. Irons' eyes flickered down to the pile of papers she held in her hand. No need to look, she knew Diyon Ahubudu was a four. A Sri Lankan immigrant with three children and a doctorate in microbiology.

Two more employees arrived. Genevieve Etois and Thomas Ridley. A seven and a five. A former nurse and an architect, who for the past three years, has been on disability. Miss. Irons welcomed them both and they each took their seats. Mr. Ridley started chatting with Mr. Ahubudu.

The doors opened again and a young woman walked though. Miss. Irons nodded and gave a small smile. Myla Ritsmartin, university student and a two, the lowest score of all of the employees. This was possibly because she was so young, she hadn't had any time to align herself with questionable organizations, or be arrested. All she had on her record was a parking ticket (paid for with her mother's credit card) and a single session with the university counsellor two years ago, during which nothing unusual had been recorded.

Myla sat down at the end of the table, shrugged off her jacket and skimmed over the first page of a pile of papers in front of her. But it was still early, and the legal jargon was hurting her brain, so she quickly abandoned that and took a sip of the bone-chilling water, which made her back teeth hurt. The rest of the employees were slowing trickling in, until all but one seat had been filled and Miss. Irons signalled the start of the meeting by clearing her throat and smiling a tight smile.

"Good morning, everyone. My name is Miss. Irons and I will be presiding over your work here for the next six weeks. I am sure you are all curious as to what exactly you will be accomplishing here at IntraGlobal ComSphere, and I will get to that topic shortly, but first I need you all to take a look at the packages in front of you, specifically the first page," said Miss. Irons, holding up a sheet of paper and waving it slightly.

There was a soft rustling as everyone around the table picked up their pages. Miss. Irons was about to speak but was cut short as someone burst through the double doors and every employee turned around to see who it was.

"Sorry I'm late everyone. Sorry."

Simon Knetter, thought Miss. Irons. A nine, and an entrepreneur, apparently. She narrowed her eyes at the man, who took the last empty seat, beside Myla.

"I was saying-- this sheet of paper is the confidentiality agreement every employee of IntraGlobal must sign. It is imperative that you sign this. It is a legal and binding document, and should you break it, severe legal sanctions may be enforced."

Myla tried reading the page again, but couldn't get past the third sentence. She raised her hand. "Sorry, but what does this mean? Like, I know what a confidentiality agreement is, but--"

"It means that whatever you do, or see here in this room does not become dinner table conversation. We will be dealing with products still in their development phase. You man not, under any circumstances, discuss items we view or test in this room to anyone."

Myla's eyes widened. She raised her hand again. "And what do 'legal sanctions' mean, exactly?"

Miss. Irons scanned the paper. "Second paragraph from the end," she said.

Myla read and then laughed a little. "They couldn't seriously sue us for 20 million dollars." At this, an equally incredulous murmur broke out in the room.

"They can, and they have," said Miss. Irons. "Now please sign your agreements, or leave the room. We have a lot we need to do today."

Nobody got up to leave. There was a flurry of pens scratching out signatures, and people began passing their confidentiality agreements up to the head of the table. Myla took another quick look over the document and then shrugged. Who was she going to tell anyway? As far as her parents, and most of her friends knew, she was still at university. So she signed it and passed it up, eager to see what was so important that they had to sign away the GNP of a small nation in order to keep quiet. Whatever it was, she hoped it had something to do with coffee; she was completely bagged.

Miss. Irons collected the papers in a neat pile and slipped them into her brief case. She leaned down to the floor and brought up a bright blue cardboard box with a fitted lid, which she pulled off and placed gently on the table. Miss. Irons began walking around the table, speaking as she went. "Each morning for the first two weeks, I will be giving each one of you a sample food. You will ingest the food, or taste it, rather, and then report your opinions of the food in the accompanying test package." Miss. Irons lifted up the spiral-bound booklet that had been sitting in front of one of the employees. "The tasting period involves a number of stages, which are detailed in your packages. This should take all morning. After lunch, we will engage in a number of activities, and you will be instructed what to do when the time comes." Miss. Irons had reached the end of the room near the double doors. She dipped her hand into the blue box and came up with a small black plastic bag, which had been sealed shut. She passed the first bag to Myla, and then went along the table once more, handing out a plastic bag to each employee. "At the end of the day you will be given a log book, which you will be required to take home and fill out every evening. The log book contains specific questions regarding the sample foods you have tasted and tested during the day." Miss. Irons finished handing out the bags and returned to her spot at the head of the table.

A grey-haired woman with a french accent was the one to raise her hand this time. "These foods. They are safe, no?"

"They are very safe," Miss. Irons replied curtly. "Of course, if you have any allergies, you will be allowed to skip a sample food." But she knew no one in the room had any allergies. That had been the deal breaker for most of the applicants. Miss. Irons looked around the room, searching for another question, but most people seemed mollified. "You may begin," she said, and then sat down in her chair to watch her twelve employees struggle with the tiny black bags.

Myla ripped hers open and dumped its contents onto the shiny surface of the conference table. Four white squares slid out of the bag. Myla held one up and took a closer look. This was what they were testing? Chicklets?

"Now, be sure to read the instructions before you begin to ingest the food," said Miss. Irons, her hands folded on the table. She didn't seem to be going anywhere, and was watching all twelve employees like they were kelptos in a jewelry store.

Myla flipped open the first page of her book, which was about 100 pages, both sides of the paper. She snuck a glance over at Simon, who had managed to drop most of his chicklets on the ground. She smiled, shook her head and turned back to the book.

1. Take one piece of gum, put in mouth, chew slowly.

2. Complete pages 2-25.

3. Dispose of gum after 1 hour. Take subsequent pieces of gum until finished.

The rest of the page was blank. Myla took a chicklet and popped it in her mouth. She looked over at Simon again, who was grinning. "Minty!"

Myla flipped to the next page. There were about a dozen questions per page, each with two or three lines of blank space following the text. Question one: Describe the taste of the gum. Question two: Describe the texture of the gum. Question three: Describe the moisture content of the gum. Myla sighed. This was worse than her statistics course.

November 15

Myla was contemplating whether she should cut her losses with the new day and stay in bed again until her parents were asleep in 12 hours and she could sneak down to the fridge without anyone noticing. Life from beneath her covers was appealing, but three things, occurring in quick succession managed to get Myla out of bed and dressed before noon.

The first two events were phone calls. Myla's cell phone rang, and while under the circumstances she might have let the call go to voicemail, there was a lucrative job on the line, and Myla wasn't going to let feeling sorry for herself get in the way of parental emancipation. So she lifted the covers and grabbed her cell, which was vibrating on her bedside table.

"Myla Ritsmartin." Myla sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed, fixing her tangled hair with her fingers, as though the secretary from IntraGlobal ComSphere could see her horrendous hairdo over the phone. Myla made affirmative noises into the phone, smiled and then fell back into the bed, kicking her legs into the air. She'd gotten the job.

"Your first day is tomorrow. Please meet in the same room you had your initial meeting at 8 a.m." The secretary asked if there were any questions, though both she and Myla knew very well that no questions would be answered. Myla clicked off the phone and stood up to do a happy dance.

"Screw you school. Screw your three strikes disciplinary policy," Myla sang. She pulled up her blinds and peered out the window, which looked straight into her neighbour's upstairs bathroom. It was raining. No matter, Myla's newfound employment called for a celebration, and she was still deciding what she should do when the house phone rang. Myla flew out of her room, too happy to ignore whatever tele-marketer was surely on the other end. Reaching the cordless in the hallway, she read the caller ID, and was perplexed to see an IntraGlobal number flash up on the tiny green screen. Strange, Myla thought, she hadn't given them their home number. She shrugged and answered anyway.

"Hi, is this Myla... Ritsmartin?"

"Yes," said Myla, trying to place the nervous-sounding voice.

"Hi. It's Jasper Kleff... from yesterday? The guy at the bus."

Myla winced. The IntraGlobal conspiracy nut. What on earth had possessed her to give him her last name? The must have slipped some sort of drug into her water during the meeting. That was the only explanation. "Hi, Jasper... what's up?"

"Oh, nothing... I was -- I'm calling to-- OH NO. Uh, can I call you back in like, two seconds?" She could hear him cursing under his breath.

"Okay?" The phone clicked dead almost immediately and Myla pressed her own 'end' button, thoroughly mystified. Three seconds later, the phone rang again. This time the caller ID showed an unknown number.

"Hi, it's Jasper again. Sorry about that."

"Is everything okay?" asked Myla. Jasper sounded frightened, and not in an asking-a-total-stranger-out kind of way.

"Yeah, fine," Jasper said quickly. "Sorry if I sound a bit rushed, but I wanted to uh, phone you before you forgot all about me." He laughed at his own apparent charm, and Myla waited. "I was wondering if you wanted to go out... for like coffee or something, sometime. Maybe."

Myla frowned. "I don't know Jasper."

"I know it's weird because you've talked to me for like, a minute, but it's really important that I get to talk to you again," Jasper babbled.

"Important?" Myla didn't like the sound of this anymore. It had a crazy stalkerish ring to it.

"I mean, well, what I meant was I wanted to see you again and I was thinking that since I worked at IntraGlobal I could give you tips and stuff if you do get that job."

Myla brightened at the mention of her new job. "Oh, I got it, actually. I start tomorrow."

"You did? Congratulations!" Jasper sounded almost relieved. "What do you say, then? Since we're kinda co-workers, we could meet after work tomorrow. Go for ice cream or coffee or whatever."

Myla thought about it for a second. The guy did sound incredibly creepy over the phone, but that wasn't unusual; phone-voices were rarely representative. She hadn't really gotten any bad vibes from him the other day, and she had been the one to approach in the first place. Ah, what the hell. "Okay, sounds good," she said.

"Good," said Jasper. He told her to wait outside the front doors right after work, and then they hung up.

Myla had less than a minute to reflect on this possibly bad decision to make friends with IntraGlobal's possible resident psycho before the mailbox outside the front door slammed shut, indicating a visit from the friendly neigbourhood tulip-crusher, also known as Gregory the Mail Man. Myla skipped to the front door and swung it open just as Gregory was sluffing across their lawn, headed straight for the now-empty flower bed that separated the Ritsmartin front lawn with their neighbour's. There were a handful of envelopes stuffed in the mailbox and Myla grabbed them all, sorting as she drew back inside the house and wandered over to the living room couch.

Most of it was for her parents, including the crisp white envelope with the University's return address printed in the top left corner. "Shit," said Myla, ignoring any felony she might be committing and tearing into the envelope. She unfolded the stapled pages and held them up. "Application for withdrawal," she read. "Brilliant."

Myla put the form on the coffee table and stared at for a reflective moment before dashing off to the telephone table in the kitchen for a pen. The form lay open for her, waiting expectantly, upon her return.

"Name, check, address, yeah, yeah, student number? Not anymore, heh." Myla scribbled through all the required fields, hastily checking off the box for full withdrawal from all courses. Then she got to the second page. "Reason for withdrawal?" Myla sat back and chewed on the end of her pen. It was a really long story, and she didn't know how much the bureaucrats at the university really wanted to know. Was 'my poli-sci professor was fairly insistent he never see me again,' good enough?

Myla abandoned her form for a moment and reverted to one of her favourite daydreams; the one that takes place in the not-so distant future, where she's sitting on a grey suede couch in an office in a high rise building, talking to a therapist, who more often than not, is named Dr. Mitchell Rosenbaum, although he insists Myla call him Dr. Mitch.

"Myla, tell me about your time as a university student. Now, it doesn't say here, but did you graduate?" Dr. Mitch would lean back in his chair, his pen still poised on the legal pad he always keeps perched on his left knee, the one he crosses over.

"No, Dr. Mitch. The bastards kicked me out," Myla would say. She's always abrasive and bitter in these imaginary therapy sessions; Myla isn't sure why.

Dr. Mitch would frown. "What happened?"

Myla is contemplating whether she should tell the truth or not, but Dr. Mitch always knows when she's lying. "A lot of little things happened. A few disagreements with the TAs, a small fire. You know."

"A fire?" Dr. Mitch sits up a little straighter. He is alarmed.

"It was an accident," Myla reassures. "Benny Tripp's notes were absolutely useless anyway. No harm. But I guess the last straw came during my Friday economics lecture. There was a disturbance."

Dr. Mitch raises his eyebrows. "What kind of disturbance?"

Imaginary Myla and real-Myla both sigh. "I threw a calculator... and gave someone a concussion," she trails off. She doesn't even want to talk about it in her mind. But the daydream was unusually tenacious this time, and Dr. Mitch urges her to continue. Myla starts to ramble. "Well there are some things that people do, when they're not really doing anything, or at least they think they aren't, that really drives me up the wall. Like in lecture, when someone is chewing on gum behind me, and it's all I can think about; the molars gnashing, spit squishing and squirting out of the crevices in the teeth. Or when the girl in front of me can't stop playing with her hair. She combs it with her fingers, pulls it back, takes it down, brushes it. Right in the middle of class! I just-- it drives me nuts!"

"And what about the student you hit Myla? What were they doing?"

"Oh, Red Sox. I call him that because I don't know his name. He wears this stupid baseball cap, like every day of his life and-- anyway. Well first of all, he was watching an episode of Gilmore Girls on his laptop in the middle of class, which in itself doesn't bother me. I mean, I don't understand it. Why come to class if you're just going to watch a stupid TV show? But he was chewing gum, too, which totally freaks me out to begin with, and he was doing it with his mouth open. I was four rows away and even I could hear him. Ugh. I felt like puking. That, I could have handled, believe it or not. The thing is, though, with Red Sox, he's got this jaw thing, so whenever he chews, can see the motion, even though he's not facing me. Know what I mean? His ears bounce and I can see the back of his jaw bone going up and down and up and down and-- I just snapped. I couldn't take it anymore. I--" Myla stops.

"You threw your calculator at him... because his ears bounced?" Dr. Mitch looks flabbergasted. Myla doesn't blame him.

Dr. Mitch disappeared as Myla opened her eyes. Tears streamed down her cheeks and she wiped them away in surprise, unaware of when she'd started to cry. Pen still in hand, Myla bent down to complete her withdrawal form. "Reason for withdrawal?" she repeated. "I am a fucking psychopath."

Myla took a deep breath and reconsidered her reason for a moment, then scribbled out the word 'fucking.' No need to add a restraining order to the list of evidence against me, she thought, and stuffed the completed form in the self-addressed return envelope.