Division

When you think about it, there is no polite way to tell someone “I wasn’t talking to you.” No choice of words, no softened inflection, can lessen the sting of the sentiment. So even if you really don’t mean anything bad by it, even if you’re really trying to say it in the friendliest way possible, bad and unfriendly is how it’s going to sound regardless and there is nothing you can do about it. And if you do mean for it to sound brash, rude, antagonistic, venomous? Well, then you’re in luck. Cause that’s exactly how it’s gonna come out.

I straightened my already straight tie. I slicked back my already slicked-back hair. I sipped my already finished coffee and casually tossed the paper mug from the fourteenth-floor balcony of the apartment building. The old me would’ve never dared commit an act as impermissible in turkey society as littering, even in a human slum. But this is because the old me would have been punished gravely for the transgression. From far below, I heard the hard cup collide with the spotless asphalt, instantly annihilating the latter’s claim to perfection. The new me could do whatever I felt like.

Afternoon was slowly cooling to evening. From holes in the sparse clouds, dull crepuscular rays reached down like long, slow fingers. Like every version of the world I’d lived in — every era I’d lived through — this was one to which I knew I would never become fully accustomed. Just the knowledge that this, this metropolis of cleanliness and functionality, was technically a human containment zone was enough to disorient me. Not that humans were really contained to their designated areas anymore anyway. In just a few years, turkey society had come far. “Harmony” about summed it up. Utopia. Standards of living had risen immensely. Pollution and disease had become nothing more than distant memories. Everyone worked fun, stressless jobs, lived in prosperity and happiness. Social cohesion was at an all time high. All forms of division were rejected and frowned upon. Kindness and love to all fellow turkeys were in fashion and were forecasted to stay that way. Indeed, turkey civilization had reached its beak. Err, excuse me. Reached its peak. Now, believe it or not — and sometimes I couldn’t, even when faced with direct evidence — there were even pushes for human equality. Successful ones. Oh, sure, we’re still slowly going extinct, don’t get me wrong. But at this rate, the twilight of humanity isn’t going to prove anything more serious than a slow and ultimately painless passage into the fossil record, into the record books, into history.

In these last few years, I’d come far too. I had started a brand new job. A brand new life. I had become something completely different from my former self. I had cast aside the hopeless boy I once was and I had discarded the mental shackles a half-lifetime in prison had taught me always to wear, traded them in for a sense of self-respect and a sense of purpose. I was someone else. I was someone new.

I was Agent Smith.

Taking one final moment for myself, I adjusted my already adjusted sunglasses. They weren’t necessary; it wasn’t a bright day by any means. I took a deep breath, ready to commence today’s mission. Necessary or not, the sunglasses stayed on.

#

The place was eerily clean and smelled like burning plastic. That was actually the first question I asked as we entered the small kitchen, sat down in two of the four chairs at the unvarnished wooden table.

“What’s with the smell?”

“I’m sorry.” Mr. Anderson nodded nervously. He was a peculiar man, Mr. Anderson. In many ways, he represented the epitome of normalcy. In others, he was totally bizarre. He had short, dark hair and was clean shaven. Average height, average build. Pale. Almost pasty. Dark eyes at once sharp and sleepy, somehow. He was younger than me. I noticed he was wearing socks with sandals.

But it wasn’t merely his appearance that seemed so mismatched to me. So out of place to me, so out of time. So out of order. Like a broken machine that refuses to die. No, it wasn’t merely his appearance. The table we were sitting at was next to the fridge. Neat kitchen. Quiet, like a still life. Warm lighting and photographs of his family decorating certain nooks, certain crannies. There was one stuck to the fridge. It was slipped into a small magnetic frame: Mr. Anderson, Mrs. Anderson, two miniature Andersons, all smiling. All of it so literally picture perfect as to seem, in a way, suspicious.

As for whether there actually was anything more sinister hiding behind this perfectly innocuous surface, personally, I didn’t really care. I mean, if anyone was suspicious at the time, it was Mr. Anderson. Of me. As he should have been. In the mere seconds he took to lead me from the front door of his apartment into his kitchen, I think he might have already come to some kind of subconscious realization — some yet unshapen but absolutely correct hunch or feeling — that I was about to happily and guiltlessly ruin his life by way of ludicrous criminal charges backed up by false evidence. He didn’t appear a smart man, Mr. Anderson. But at the same time, he didn’t strike me as a fool despite his clear attachments. Perhaps the best word for what I thought he was is “discerning.” He was the type of man who understood power and authority. Understood that, through total coincidence and no fault of his own, he had wound up on the wrong side of mine.

Mr. Anderson explained the stench to me. “I had my dishwasher running and it started overheating and a cup — I have these.” He shuffled to a cupboard and retrieved a gray cup, seemingly just so he could have something to do with his hands. “I use these plastic cups. Very cheap. About 50 cents each. And one of them started to get a little hot in the dishwasher. I had it going just a minute ago and…”

Without finishing, he sat back down. I stared at him straight on, hard, my dark glasses locking with his dark eyes. My face was like a stone. Mr. Anderson looked down, breaking eye contact. He couldn’t seem to make it again no matter how hard he tried. I love when that happens, truthfully. Those blatant displays of discomfort. Outside I am a stone wall, immovable and unfeeling. Inside, I dance with glee.

“It was a cup and—”

“Do you know who we are, Mr. Anderson?”

“I— Y-you—”

“Do you know. Who we are. Mr. Anderson.”

See that there? That was me hitting him with the double whammy. First, interruption. Always throws em off their game. And then there was the royal “we.” Saying “we” or “us” instead of “I” or “me” always gives off an air of authority, exerts a certain pressure. Reminds people that they aren’t just face to face with a stone-cold, hardened badass, but a stone-cold, hardened badass who represents an entire ruthless organization ready and willing to pluck them out of their little haven and put them away for life if they make so much as one false move, all with the full authority of the law.

“Of course I know who you are.” Still no eye contact. He set down the cup. As soon as he did, his hands started moving nervously, like an untrained actor’s might. “Why do you think I let you in? You’re Agent Smith, from The Division. I was called in advance. Th-they told you would be here.”

“Do you live alone, Mr. Anderson?” I asked. Mr. Anderson was nervous and fidgety, and that just gave me even more confidence in diverting our talk wherever I wanted it to go. I don’t exactly understand the psychology behind it, but controlling the flow of the conversation allows you to psyche the other person out to a hilarious degree.

“Wh-what…?” Case in point. I had thrown Anderson off. Now he was stuttering and having to think of what he was going to say next. His dark eyes were shifting back and forth, like miniature metronomes, beady machines focusing on everything they could find but me.“N-no, I…”

“No,” I interrupted, “you live with your wife and children. We know that.” I tossed a fat binder onto the table. “We know everything about you, Mr. Anderson.”

He just looked at the binder, mouth agape. I tapped it decisively with one finger. I used this binder on almost all of my assignments. All that was inside was blank paper. I spoke slowly. “You live. With your loving wife. And beautiful children.”

“Y-yes.” He chuckled. I didn’t even smirk. “M-my kids are my pride and joy. Love em to death… haha…”

“To death, Mr. Anderson?”

“Uh… a lot. I, just. They’re my kids, you know.”

“What did you say that smell was again, Mr. Anderson?”

“That would be one of these, sir.” He picked up the cup again. “Burned. In the dishwasher. All deformed. W-would you like me to show—?”

“So it’s the smell of burning plastic?”

“That’s right, sir.” Fidget fidget.

“Really, Mr. Anderson? Are you sure it’s not the smell of burning bodies?” I said it as calmly and evenly as I could. I couldn’t risk bursting into laughter now, despite how tempting it was to do so and how difficult it was to refrain from doing so.

Mr. Anderson paused, his brow furrowed. “Wh-wh-what do you mean…?” he finally said.

“What does it sound like I mean?” Hold the laughter in. Hold it in. “I’m saying I know what you’ve been up to in here, Mr. Family Man. Mr. Anderson. Is that what you called your son? Did you call him son?”

“Y-yes, yes, I call my son ‘son’. Of course I do. Why? What’s going on?” Mr. Andesron was starting to panic, his voice cracking. I stood up. I began circling the table like a predator. Mr. Anderson was the prey.

“So, you call your son ‘son.’ Ok. Did you call him ‘son’ before you killed him?”

“Kill him?! My son?! What are you…?”

“Did you?!” Teeth gnashing, veins pounding, I suddenly screamed into Mr. Anderson’s face as loud as I could.

“I…! I…! Wh-what are you…!” Mr. Anderson could no longer get the words out. Tears were beginning to pool into his eyes, his throat cracking.

“Don’t play dumb with me, you sick bastard! I bet that’s exactly what you called him before you shoved him into the dishwasher and turned it on. And your daughter with him. Bet you told them it would be a fun new way to take a bath. Almost like a water park ride. A good time. Well guess what, sicko? We know all about what you think is a good time.”

Through a wince, he whimpered, “B-burning plastic and burning… b-bodies smell nothing alike…”

“And how would you know that?!” I slammed both hands on the table. “Drowning trapped kids in a vortex of superheated water. Your own kids, Jesus Christ, I’ve never heard anything so deranged!”

“They’re at the store!” he pleaded through huge sobs. “They’re literally at the store! They all w-went grocery shopping. M-my wife and… and my kids! We were all gonna make dinner together! I can call them right now if you want me to!”

I knew they were at the store. Furthermore, I actually knew exactly which store they were at. By complete chance, I had actually seen them just before I got here, while I was picking up my coffee.

“Mr. Anderson, you might want to be careful what you say to me.”

“C-careful…?”

I pointed to my earpiece. From out of it, a coiled wire trailed down into my pants pocket. The other side wasn’t connected to anything, and the earpiece itself was nothing more than a fancy lump of inert plastic. But Mr. Anderson didn’t know that. And he didn’t need to. “Are you aware that an audio file of our conversation is being recorded and analyzed in real time by a trained team at our headquarters?”

Mr. Anderson did not, in fact, know that either. And at this point, he was too big a mess to tell it was a blatant lie. He was crying openly now, and loudly, blubbering and sniveling.

“Shut up!” I whipped out my gun and stuck the barrel menacingly in his face. “Shut the hell up, you psychopath!”

My command only had the opposite effect. Still seated, Mr. Anderson covered his head with his arms and cowered. “O-oh god! Oh god! A gun! Y-you’re pointing your gun at me!! Aaahh!!!”

“We’ve had enough of your lies, Mr. Anderson!” I yelled back. “Your petty attempts to incriminate me are useless! Just because you know we’re recording doesn’t mean you can fool my operators into thinking I’d pull my gun on you! I’d never break protocol so flagrantly! There’s no gun pointed at you right now, you dirty rotten liar!” I pressed my pistol into his fleshy cheek.

“AAAAAHHHH!!! This is insane! God! God, help me!”

“Don’t start pleading to god now, murderer. You think god’s going to help you? Did god help your wife as you slammed her head into a wall? Did he?!”

“Into a wall?! Wh-wh-wh—”

“Precisely! This wall right here to be specific! Probably the last thing your wife ever saw as you grabbed her by the skull and bashed away, you freak!”

“!!!!!!!!!!!” Wordless animal shrieks of fear from Mr. Anderson.

I crossed to the wall. “My god, there’s even a bloodstain where you did it!”

“Where?” Mr. Anderson's face was twisted into a hideous swirl of fear and disbelief and disgust. “Where’s her blood! There’s no bloodstain! I never s-slammed my wife’s head in!”

“Oh yeah?” Holstering my gun, I slipped out my pocket knife instead. With a quick flick of the blade and a tiny flash of pain, I made a shallow incision on the tip of my finger. I pressed my finger to the wall and moved it around, smearing a thin blood trail in its wake. “Then explain this! Clear blood residue, right where you did it!”

“That’s your blood! Yours! This is so insane!!”

“My blood? Why in the world would my blood be on your wall? We’ve never even met until today, Mr. Anderson.” I dabbed at my blood on the wall with a curious finger. “My god. Still wet. Still warm, even. You must have just done it. Just done her in. Christ almighty, you really are sick, aren’t you?”

By this point, Mr. Anderson was in no condition to respond. He had completely broken down, searing tears trailing hot tracks down his face as he sobbed into his hands.

“Well,” I said, “have to hand it to our intel folks.” I tapped my faux transceiver. “They work fast. Who knows who else you would’ve killed if we hadn’t intervened so quickly. Mr. Anderson, you’re coming with me.”

Just as I said it, there was a knock at the door.

“I-I’ll g-get that,” Mr. Anderson choked.

“No you won’t,” I corrected. “I will. Come with me, Mr. Anderson.” Wrapping an arm around his, I pulled Mr. Anderson up. He offered no resistance. I dragged him with me to the front door. I didn’t know who was at the door, but I wasn’t afraid that his wife and kids had returned. They would have had the keys. Been able to let themselves in. No, whoever was waiting for me, it wasn’t them. Whoever they were, they were an unknown factor, a wild card, an agent of random chaos. Which meant all their appearance would accomplish was to throw Mr. Anderson’s afternoon into even more disarray. Hence, without even knowing it, the person at the door was my ally.

Still holding on to Mr. Anderson, I opened the front door. Standing there was someone I never expected to see. Someone I knew well: my actual ally, or so I thought at the time. Rotten flesh buzzing with flies. Eyes eaten, brain exposed. Wings tattered and bowels spilling and feathers dull and lifeless. It was a turkey. And not just any turkey. It was my colleague — my partner — at The Division. It was Agent Daffy.

“Daffy, good timing,” I said, trying not to miss even a single beat given that, listless as he was, Mr. Anderson was still listening. I was surprised to see Daffy too, and had no idea why he had come here, but I wasn’t about to let that be known. “Just in time to help me out with this murderous scumbag. Killed his wife and kids, can you bel—”

“There’th a problem here,” Daffy lisped.

“You bet there is, buddy,” I said. “He might look innocent, but this guy is a true—”

“I’m lucky I thowed up when I did.”

“Sure are.”

Daffy looked at me. At Mr. Anderson. Back to me. “I’m thorry. We’re going to have to take you in.”

Mr. Anderson breathed in sharply. The crispy aftermath of tears clung stickily to his face. He spoke, whatever fight he had in him completely drained from his voice. “Fine. Fine. Take me away.”

“Mithter Anderthon,” said Daffy, stepping between us and removing my grip on the fatigued man, “I wathn’t talking to you.”