The Handler, Medic, and Elvis step sluggishly out of the tuk-tuk and into the still, humid heat of Bangkok.
Their trip from the train station had been a dizzying blur of chaotic traffic and dangerously sharp corners that threatened to flip over the motorized tricycle and its occupants. Medic felt as alarmed as Elvis appeared to be while The Handler wore an inscrutably calm, possibly irritated demeanour beneath her sunglasses.
The ordeal now behind them, the trio are standing on the sidewalk of a three-way intersection. Around them stroll throngs of people, chatting, smoking, laughing, drinking, picking over dubious street merchandise, observing. Dance music blares from multiple locations, the smells of sweet and spicy foods mix with diesel exhaust. Neon flashes intensely into the complex, sticky cacophony.
Elvis points to their immediate left.
“That’s Khao San Road!” he shouts with a weary enthusiasm. “It’s basically tourists and expats! Packed a lot of the time so we don’t have to worry about sticking out! And you won’t believe the shit you can get OTC!”
Before Medic has a chance to ask Elvis to explain the acronym, The Handler steps between them and says, “We can sightsee later! Take us to the boo!”
“Right!” responds Elvis as he spins in the opposite direction and walks down a darkened path, the entrance flanked by two squat white pillars. With the sensory assault of Khao San behind them, they enter the serene shadow of an alleyway. To each side, solemnly dark shadows of buildings loom against the faint illumination of street lamps.
A feeling of familiarity comes over Medic. “What is this place?” he asks Elvis.
“It’s a wat. A temple. There’s tons of them in the city. This one has a really cool reclining Buddha,” responds Elvis in the same tired-but-eager tone.
Feeling the heat and unable to see many details in the surroundings, Medic decides that his curiosity has been sufficiently satisfied and he walks on silently.
In a few moments they emerge onto another street, this one peppered with lively people, guest houses, and cheap hotels that spill out onto the avenue. Patrons sit on tiny tin chairs, tall drinks perched precariously on tiny tin tables, all packed maximally into spaces that leave just enough room for junior delivery trucks to pass by.
The trio walk for about half a block farther before turning right into the New Siam Guest House, an unassuming, dimly-lit establishment anemically promoted on a tattered orange banner placed behind a rusty and haphazardly constructed fence.
With reception at their right they walk past a small dining area checkered with cafeteria-style chairs and tables. An old, darkly tanned couple sit at one table eating what seems to Medic to be some sort of curry and rice. At another, an opened copy of the Bangkok Post obscures the upper half of someone that Medic believes, based on the lower half, to be a woman.
At the back they take a narrow flight of stairs to the third floor where they take a sharp turn, stopping at a door. Elvis knocks three times and announces loudly, “Hey, it’s me, Elvis! We’re here!”
The Handler shakes her head in obvious disapproval as she removes her shades.
The lock clicks and the door swings open.
“Well holy shit!” booms a deep and familiar voice from somewhere inside.
As Medic makes his way into the small room he’s ambushed by the broad embrace of the voice’s owner. “It’s about time you guys made it! We were starting to think you were taking the long way ’round,” exclaims a jubilant Dmitri, arms held aloft.
He’s dressed in a dark tank top with khaki cargo shorts, lower pockets bulging with something. He’s evenly tanned and his hair’s a little shaggier but the neatly trimmed ‘stache and dog tags hanging from a chain around his neck help to maintain that military look.
“Oh, were you in the army?” asks Medic, taking notice of Dmitri’s accessory.
“Nah,” responds Dominic from behind, slowly lowering the Milan Kundera novel he’s reading. “I’m more military than him and I’ve only ever done security.”
Dominic’s massive frame is sprawled leisurely over the modest bed in a Thai Red Bull t-shirt and black cotton slacks. Other than the beads of sweat lining his tanned baldness he looks the same as the last time Medic saw him.
“People are too obsessed with looks,” explains Dmitri. “I just play the game sometimes.”
Mingling questions about their trip with his own observations about Bangkok, Dmitri shows the newcomers the accommodations. Beside the work table is a familiar stack of bags and cases to which the Handler adds her own equipment. After that they walk down one floor to a couple of rooms that had been reserved for them. Both are identical except for a tiny balcony in Medic’s room that overlooks the alley where they’d entered.
Medic is now alone. The bag with his belongings by his feet, he sits on the edge of his bed pondering the events of the past few weeks. With a deep breath he remembers the feeling of ease and certainty with which they’d travelled. Then came the psychic stuff.
He recalls The Handler’s complete lack of surprise as Elvis continued to detail his psychokinesis training.
As questions run through his mind, a nauseating mix of doubt, fear, and anger fill his body. Half of the feelings are directed at the members of the Section, half at himself.
His brooding is interrupted by a gentle knock on his door. “It’s open,” he responds rigidly.
The Handler opens the door and stands in the frame, a rare and friendly smile on he face, her piercing black eyes twinkling in the light of the balcony.
“I’m sorry,” she starts.
“For what?” asks Medic.
“For everything. For how you got involved, for the secrecy, for the life you left behind. We’re all used to a little weirdness but we’ve had training and time. You got dropped into the deep end without a life jacket. This mission, the speed at which we needed to leave, the circumstances under which we met, none of that was normal. Sure as shit wouldn’t have been the way I would’ve chosen to do things.”
“Okay,” acknowledges Medic incredulously.
“Look,” continues The Handler, her face dropping into a serious and forthright expression. “I know that this all seems a little fucked up.”
“A little?” questions Medic pointedly.
“Okay, yeah, a lot. We’re all still trying to wrap our heads around what happened. We don’t have much experience in counter-espionage to begin with and this just threw a wrench into the works. You’ve kept it together really well. Admirably, really. But I wouldn’t blame you for getting nervous, especially considering your”–she pauses to consider her next words–“accelerated introduction.”
“Yeah,” he responds, face distorted with doubt, voice marked with increasing sarcasm. “So what’re we talking about here? Psychic abilities? Mind over matter? Spooooky powers?”
“For starters,” she responds timidly, gently closing the door behind her. “Again, I’m sorry about the layers of secrecy but there’s a reason why we stick to the protocol. This situation is what we try to avoid.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?!” bursts our Medic, arms flailing violently. “Oh my fucking God! Are you people a fucking cult?! Oh Jesus, what the fuck have I gotten involved in?! What are we even doing here?!”
“Keep it down,” says The Handler with one finger over her lips. “Fuck. This is exactly why we stick to protocol. Guess I’ll have to do a Coles Notes version before your head explodes. Just chill and hear me out for ten minutes, okay? Please?”
Medic very reluctantly agrees.