This choice: Go hunting for bedroom faces • Go Back...Chapter #88Of Bad Pickup Lines and Worse by: imaj   You check yourself in the mirror one last time. Though the clothes Rick got you are casual, perfect for posing as a lone college student at one of Oxford’s many bars, thanks to Hélène’s imago you look absolutely devastating in them. Rick’s task should be easy looking like this. And it’s not like he said you actually have to sleep with them, your grimace temporarily disfiguring the beautiful face in the mirror, just grab their imago.
There is a knock at the door. “Come in,” you shout, expecting Rick. He’s promised to drive you into the town centre. To your surprise, you see Kali reflected in the mirror behind you. “Oh, uh… hi,” you say sheepishly. This is awkward. “Um, I’m sorry about this,” you say sheepishly. “It was Rick’s idea.”
If Kali is unhappy at what she sees, it doesn’t show. “I understand,” she explains. “Rick told me about his plans earlier. He’s an excellent field agent Will, and if he thinks this is going to make you better in the field I have to defer to his opinion.”
“You aren’t like, upset or anything,” you ask.
“Yesterday I would have been,” says Kali with an odd shrug. “After talking to Margaret this morning, seeing Hélène again just reminds me that I have to do my best prepare you for what you are going to encounter in your career. Which, I suppose, is why I consented to this,” she adds, waving her hand at your body. “Do… Do you have any of her memories?”
You close your eyes and examine the imago in your mind. The wraith like ghosts of memory are few and far between and you sift through them rapidly. “Only a handful,” you admit. “I think I could maybe talk in French, have her accent and mannerisms. Not much else. Maybe it's because I wasn’t expecting to absorb her imago from her remains. You brought them with you, didn’t you?”
“Fyodor has them,” explains Kali. “He has a knack for examining artefacts and seeing what makes them work. Then he’ll dispose of them and scatter the ashes.”
“Knock, knock,” says Rick as he enters the now open door. He examines you critically. “Good,” he states flatly. “You ready for this?” You nod. “Remember, all you’re looking to do is grab the imago of a good looking guy in his early twenties. You don’t to show off, you don’t need to take anything of his. If you can do it without him noticing, that’s great, but no ones going to complain if another drunken fratboy wakes up unable to remember what he was doing and with his girl missing.”
“They don’t have fraternities over here,” chides Kali gently.
“Whatever they do have then,” sighs Rick. “Let’s get moving squirt.”
“I don’t, have to… you know…” you ask hesitantly. For some reason you find it very embarrassing asking in front of Kali.
“Not unless you really want to squirt,” snorts Rick.
*****
You nurse your bottle of beer and look around. The bar Rick has selected for your assignment tonight is packed with college students, something that makes the air every bit as close as in Margaret’s library. Here, though, you can add ‘hot’ and ‘sticky’ to the mix. The mass of students getting drunk and enjoying themselves only seems to highlight your loneliness. You’ve picked a stool by the bar to sit on, and as you scan the bar for potential targets you occasionally catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror behind the bar.
Hélène’s face grins nervously back at you, and you think that this might be a better way to complete your task: Wait for people to come to you. As Hélène, you are easily one of the most attractive women in the place, judging by the hungry looks some of the young men have given you already. As for the women, it’s been either disinterest or envy. Sometimes even hate, or on one occasion, that same look of desire that the men have.
You look at your watch and take another sip from your beer. You don’t want to get too drunk, because that might lead to you making a mistake or doing something stupid, but you also need that little boost in confidence the booze might provide. What Rick has asked of you isn’t something that comes naturally.
Your train of thought is broken by someone talking to you. “Hallo,” comes the voice – male – accompanied by a nudge in your side. You turn to see someone, well someone frankly unimpressive according to what little thoughts and feelings of Hélène you can hold onto. He’s thin, reedy even with messy hair that is a particularly dull shade of brown. Your interest is only held by the nagging feeling that he reminds you of someone. “Are you waiting for someone,” he asks, rubbing at a week’s growth of stubble. “You were looking at your watch,” he gables. “So I thought you were waiting for someone.”
You look at the interloper with pitying eyes. Hélène’s fragmented persona suggest that he might not be quite so bad looking if his complexion cleared up, he had a shave and someone gave him a comb. He’d also need to lose that geeky Dungeons & Dragons tee. “I’m waiting for someone… else,” you say, your voice cracking a little as you realise just who he reminds you of. You’ve just shot down yourself, or at least someone very like you. The thought makes your stomach turn a little as he walks dejectedly back to his hollering friends.
“Was he bothering you,” asks another voice with a very crisp, very English accent. You’ve noticed a lot of different accents in the bar already, as it seems Oxford attracts students from all over the country, but this accent is the one you’ve seen the news anchors use on the television here.
You turn round to face the new voice. This is a little better, you realise, closer to what you are looking for. He’s perhaps a little short, but broad and very well defined, with an athlete’s physique that his close fitting shirt show of well. “He was nothing I couldn’t handle,” you say with a coy smile. A little trace of Hélène’s accent slips into your speech. “But thank you for the offer.”
“My pleasure,” replies the guy, running a hand through his hair: It’s blond and well groomed. He reminds you a little of Jason Lynch back in Saratoga Falls now that you think about it. He lacks the psychopathic gleam in the eye of your former schoolmate though. “Did your friend abandon you,” he asks.
He must have heard what you said to the other guy. “My cousin actually,” you lie, making up a story on the spot. “She’s a student at the college here and I’m visiting her.” That should account for any gaps in your local knowledge without raising any suspicion, you think, feeling rather pleased with yourself.
“Which college,” asks your suitor.
“Um what…” you stumble.
“The uni’s made up of lots of colleges,” he explains. “I’m George by the way, love your accent. You’re French aren’t you?”
“Oui,” you say with a musical laugh. George joins in. “My name is Hélène,” you add offering him a slender hand. He takes it and kisses it in the old fashioned manner and you giggle again.
“Hélène,” he echoes you. “A beautiful name for a beautiful girl.” Inwardly you groan at the terrible pick up line, but on the outside you smile as if dazzled by his wit. If you can get him alone long enough to grab his imago then you can go back to Margaret’s house and end this charade. “Well, if your cousin’s forgotten about you, perhaps you’ll let me be your Paris for the evening,” he says with a bright grin. You giggle again. You may not understand his joke, but you’re content enough to play along with him to get what you want.
“Perhaps,” you reply coyly, running a finger down his shirt. You reach for your beer again, only to find it’s empty. How did that happen?
“I’ll get you another,” smiles George. He makes a gesture to the bartender, ordering two more beers. Then he hooks his arm round yours and guides you through the packed bar to a booth near the back. Two more young men sit there, cut from the same cloth as George: Clean, athletic and well groomed. “These are my friends Tony and Harry,” explains George, sitting you down. “This is Hélène boys, her cousin's abandoned her so I suggested she could come sit with us tonight.” There is a chorus of hellos as you greet each other.
George disappears only to return a few minutes later with your drinks. He sets your bottle on the table in front of you, causing it to foam up. You grab the bottle and suck at it before any of the beer is spilled. “Thank you,” you say, setting the bottle back on the table
*****
“I think I need to go to the toilet,” you say groggily, trying to stand up. Not that you were ever a heavy drinker before, or a drinker at all for that matter, but somehow the beer seems to have hit you hard tonight. Perhaps it’s being Hélène’s slight frame that’s causing you problems, but regardless, you have to go and you have to go now. Tony and Harry glance at each other but George makes room for you to climb out of the booth.
You stagger uncertainly through the crowd in the bar towards the toilets. A long corridor leads away from the main bar area and as you walk along it you stumble and lean against the wall. You’re dimly aware of George appearing at your side and lifting your arm around his shoulder. “I can… manage myself,” you slur as Tony appears on the other side. They lift you up and continue down the corridor towards a green door marked ‘fire exit’. You vaguely feel that something is going badly wrong here, but its so much effort to think, so much effort to keep your eyes open.
The last thing you see before blackness takes you is George push the green door open and lead you out into the night air.
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