OOM: Contact

He had had a routine, in Brazil. It had been disrupted by events back in America. He had found it again in Canada, and even managed to stick to it when he started travelling. Milliways had taken it away. He had bounced between the room he hated, and the cell he needed, and fought for equilibrium. He thought he was gaining on it after the nightmare at Christmas, but now, he thinks – maybe not.

He steps off the boat in Panama, and immediately goes to ground. That’s always the first thing. Establish a bolt-hole, somewhere safe to retreat to in case things go south. It doesn’t have to be fancy – it can’t be, he can’t afford it – but it does have to be secure. He finds a room and locks the door behind him, and is aware of how much he has to kid himself, these days. OK, then. It has to have the illusion of security, some pre-Other Guy memory of being able to turn a key, and have the bad guys be kept outside.

He meditates. He runs. He hangs out along the canal, learning what he can about the boat companies and their destinations. He sets up temporary email accounts, and skims some dollars from companies that shouldn’t miss them. It’s a routine, and he sinks into it with relief. If security is anything, it’s the knowledge that he’s doing what he can to protect people from himself. What he dreads – well, he dreads the Other Guy, of course. But that’s all all-pervading fear, too large to focus on a lot of the time. The minutiae of what he dreads can be summed up as aberration.

So when it comes, he’s left with a sense of resignation. And fear. And he would say ‘anger’, but does that ever leave him, anymore? Ignoring it is not the same as it being gone.

He’s in an internet café. He's tired, and unshaven, and just about out of money. He’s steeling himself for the next leg of travel, because he’s been here two weeks, and it’s time to move on. He has a map in his head, mental pins in certain countries. The next one is in Europe. It’s just going to take cash.

 

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