Author : Pavelle Wesser

“I’m through with you, Taylor,” Geena said as she stomped down the street. She looked beside her; he wasn’t there. She turned to see he had fallen behind: “Taylor, did you hear me?”

He stared through her: “I want not your identity.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

The afternoon light cast a strange glow over his features: “I know not yet your world.”

“Man, you are weird.”

With that, Geena turned and left.

Taylor continued walking into the darkness. When the street lights went out, he entered a hotel.

“Our cheapest room is more than you can afford.” The check-in clerk stared meaningfully at his shabby clothes.

Taylor placed a wad of cash on the counter.

“Well then,” The clerk smiled, “I’ll have Jen take you up.”

“Follow me.” A pretty blonde led him down a hallway and opened his room door. He pushed her inside and pinned her against the wall.

“I need now your identity,” he said.

“Get off me, you freak.” It was the last thing she ever said.


Jen, normally upbeat, now approached guests stiffly, as though stricken with arthritis.

“Hello,” she addressed a man in her new robotic voice, “Follow me.”

She walked woodenly down the hallway and opened a door: “This being your room.”

“Why so formal?” the man squeezed her buttocks. “Don’t you know what a man wants from a woman?”

“I wanted nothing from my girlfriend,” said Taylor, his memory sensors picking up on a specimen titled Geena, who had been relegated to the ‘failed missions’ file.

“Girlfriend?” The man breathed heavily down her neck. “I bet you never had a guy before.”

“No, but I will add your identity to my database.” Taylor stated flatly.

“Man, you are a kook.” It was the last thing he ever said.


Taylor roamed the streets. A man with dark eyes and white teeth jabbed a knife into his side: “Gimme’ your cash.”

Taylor’s empty eyes stared at him: “I am needing your identity,” he said.

“I don’t remember giving you that option,” said the man.

“Your memory is fallible and my options are unlimited,” replied Taylor, as he gripped the knife’s handle and absorbed the man. He swaggered down the streets, then, for the first time getting into the groove of human emotive complexities.

“Gimme’ your money!” He brandished the knife at a woman.

She gasped: “You look like my ex-husband. Take all that I have.” She shoved her purse at him.

“Geena?!” Taylor added inflection to his voice pattern. “Long last have I learned what a man wants from a…” As he reached out for her, she screamed and ran.

Taylor smiled. The sensation tickled his nerve sensors, which whispered to him of coming missions with successful outcomes.

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