Inside Belle’s head
When I first awoke as a cyborg, my thoughts weren't quite what I had hoped for.
"I can't remember falling asleep," I mumbled, a genuine concern.
In truth, I couldn't recall much of anything from before. All that lingered were hazy memories of two men dressed in black. Their faces hidden beneath shadowy fedoras. They never bothered to share their names or explain their intense interest in me, as a person. Looking back, I should've recognized the glaring red flags, like when they pulled up near the sidewalk in a sleek black luxury car with unmarked license plates. (I know, I should have been more alert.)
But, I'm just a nobody, and perhaps I don't quite fit in anywhere, a bit like trying to force a square peg into a round hole. I despise that idiom, but it seems fitting.
You might as well kill two birds with one stone. (Okay, maybe one idiom too many for my taste.)
What I'm getting at is that when someone is clad in a black trench coat, stands tall, exudes mystery, and refuses to provide answers, it's a clear sign that something is amiss.
"Who are you?" I demanded.
"Why are you infringing on my rights?" I questioned, alongside other legal inquiries like, "Do I have the right to legal counsel?" and "Why am I being detained?"
Consider yourself warned.
[July 5, 2004. 12:00 PM]
Inside the bunker room, Belle found herself recapping another debrief from her handler, Officer Jack Ripper. "Aliens," she sighed. "Aliens aren't a new phenomenon. We're not even certain we can stop them. Apparently, this has been going on since the days of Warren G. Harding." Her voice carried the weight of history and frustration. "I don't even know who Warren G. Harding was, let alone what was happening during the Roaring Twenties."
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"We were only dealing with UFOs back then," Charlie informed her bunkmate. "We were just investigating the threat of the UFO menace before it escalated into a real problem."
"So, what's the point of knowing all this if we're just going to die?" Belle questioned bluntly. Her words struck like a hammer nailing down a harsh truth. "If I'm going to die, why not enjoy myself?" She couldn't help but recall that old quote, "Nothing is certain except death and taxes."
Or perhaps, it was reminiscent of her time working the night shift at that remote gas station in the middle of nowhere. She remembered the exhaustion, the twelve-hour shifts, and mopping up spilled sodas after customers' accidental mishaps.
It often led to passionate rants about the futility of life, an ordinary frustration shared by wage slaves striving to keep a roof over their heads.
A job was a job, after all, and that's what mattered.
[12:30 PM]
"Sometimes, when Booker and I get bored, we play a game of strip poker," Charlie mentioned, snapping her fingers to punctuate the revelation.
"Strip poker," Belle repeated, her sheepish grin revealing a hint of curiosity.
"We've been playing for years," Charlie confirmed.
"For years, you say?"
"Yes, years."
Belle decided to delicately probe, "So, you and Booker are in a relationship, then?"
"We only play with each other," Booker clarified.
"So, you're definitely a couple, right?" Belle inquired cautiously. Without missing a beat, she continued down this slightly awkward conversational path. "I mean, we're not talking about joining a study group here. I'd rather not be the third wheel."
[12:44 PM]
"I'd say we are," Booker affirmed, nodding with certainty. "We've spent enough time together to call ourselves a couple."
"So, you two are definitely a couple," Belle reiterated, bringing some closure to the topic.
"I'd say so," Charlie confirmed, her smirk indicating a certain self-awareness.
"We've been through a lot together," Booker added.
"We're a team, but there's no room for engagement," Charlie chuckled.
"So, it's safe to say you two have been quite close over the years," Belle concluded with a decisive tone.