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Writer's pictureJ. Joseph

Embodying and Beginning My Newest Life

Leaving my old friend’s home, I can’t help but shake my head a little. The meeting, the chat, it didn’t help much. Other than being comforted by Phil’s normal, egotistical self, it basically just served to reinforce my already present concerns. And voice my feelings on the matter. That voice, she said she’d get in touch. Which means I’ll need to make myself a new life. One that I won’t get attached to this time, hopefully. Because I doubt she will want me to stay wherever I feel like moving. No, not want. Let. I need to remember that. I finish biking down Phil’s long road into the town itself.

Parked a bit into town proper, my rental car awaits me. Leaving the bike where I’d found it in the early morning, I leave an apology note and a five dollar bill. Probably worth less than the borrowing should’ve cost, but it generally is enough to calm people down. Climbing into the rental car, I take a deep breath and begin the long drive to the nearest airport. Not wanting to get connected to my new life, I shouldn’t put much thought into it. Just go with whatever is available. Not this. This gentleman is too obvious. Stands out too much in a crowd. And, more importantly, stands out the wrong way. Stands out in a way that makes him garner suspicion. Which brings more eyes, which leads more people to pay attention, which always leads to the wrong people taking note. Then I need a new life. The key is to be someone who stands out just enough not to stand out. Taking the highway gives me plenty of time to think about it. I’m thinking I’ll go back to being a woman. It’s been a while, but I do miss it from time to time. Dirty blonde, just light enough to be blonde up close, but seem brunette from afar. It could work. Not as a long term solution. Part of the reason I stick with unattractive messes of human beings as my lives is they’re the ones that draw the fewest eyes. But, given this likely won’t be a real life to me, not a long term one in any case, I don’t need to worry about drawing eyes. So long as those eyes remain interested and not suspicious. And, as always, I need to be ready to bail if I start seeing suspicion from people with that overly clean and put together look that they tend to have. Really, that was the downfall of Harris. Why I’m in this shitshow now. I didn’t want to bail out of his life. Hopefully this time, I can keep my life at a bit of a distance. Considering there’s even more reasons than normal that could make me need to leave it.

Outside of the airport proper sits the rental car station. I drive up, park, and delete the travel history on the dashboard. Normally, I would only rent out older models, but they didn’t have one on offer this time, and the urgency was more important than having an unsuspicious lack of trail. Once there’s no sign of where it’s been, I turn in the rental car, paying with one of the credit cards belonging to some rich-looking stranger that aggressively flirted with me in Laguardia while I was setting up a bunch of trails for prying eyes to follow by actually entering an airport. I almost never do that, save when I’m leading people. Or misleading them. Too many cameras in too many places. Besides, tickets cost money and I only ever have so much available. Someday, after I’m no longer worried about being caught, I’ll go through all my old lives’ bank accounts and find out I’ve secretly been a millionaire this whole time. But, until I do, I’ll stick with my lifestyle of skating by and uncomfortable but free travel. After paying, as I walk away, I drop the credit card in the gutter.

Giving the airport a wide berth, I head around to the hole I found when I came in. A stretch of fenced off area by the runways without any cameras. If I knew where I wanted to go, I would look up flights. Find tail numbers. Memorize the airport’s gate maps. Double check the placement with the number. But today, I don’t much care. In fact, I might actually actively not want to know. Not knowing means less planning, means less likelihood of developing attachment. In theory.

Most people in the world, even those who know roughly what I’m capable of, don’t know the extent of it. It’s better to be underestimated. Actually, incorrectly estimated would be more accurate. See, they don’t underestimate me, they simply think I have a different skill set, because I was able to slip out of their watchful eyes so many times. Taking a breath in the silent, unwatched bushes by the runways, I crack my neck and begin to shift. My body shrinks down, past my old figure. Past many of my weaker or younger forms. To something smaller than anyone is. My hair all over my body, thickens and darkens. A small tail twists out from my rear. And where crouched the large, athletic man just moments ago, instead stood what is, by all appearances, a common rat.

Taking a moment to center myself, I begin to scurry my way in, through the fence. I was choosing between rat and squirrel, but squeezing through chain link fences as a squirrel can be a bit of a hassle and the rat’s larger brain can help keep certain more problematic effects at bay for longer. Even with that in mind, I need to be quick. I still only have so long before certain things start bleeding in. And who’s going to take note of a single rat darting around the runways. I look for any planes actively being loaded with baggage. There are three. I pick the middle plane, because it’s in the middle. Approaching in shadows, I wait under the baggage cart until I see an opening when no one seems to be looking in the right direction. Getting the loading worker’s timing right, I wait for the moment he turns to pick up a new bag and scurry through his legs, not touching him. The ramp is a tad longer than I’d like, but no one seems to notice as I dart into the cargo area and hide as best I can amongst the bags already inside. And, lying there, I wait for the darkness from the door closing to arrive.

Once it’s dark, I become human again. Shorter and thinner than I normally like, so I don’t have to worry about the cramped quarters of the cargo hold. Pulling out my Phil issue phone, I slide it over into airplane mode and use it for what is clearly the intended purpose: Deciding how I want my face to look for the next bit of my life. Keeping my body shorter and thinner than it will be, I let my face shift out to its future rough size, and my hair into a dirty blonde bun. It’s about halfway through deciding on my eye color that the plane starts to taxi to the runway. The flight itself takes about three hours. Plenty of time for me to figure out all the little details of my face, from the angles of my cheekbones to the placement of the slight gaps between some of my teeth. When we start taxing on the other end, I take a moment to collect myself. Think about where I might have ended up. Unfortunately, visualizing my map of the country, there are a lot of places it could be, depending on the relative speed. I’m probably somewhere in the midwest, but the flight could’ve been anything from a slow flight to Omaha, to a fast flight to Dallas. The logical band of possible locations cuts a wide swath through the middle of the country.

The door begins to click and whir open. Once more I pull myself down into the form of a small rat, hiding among the bags. Before the door finishes opening, I dart out. They’re likely only paying half attention while the hold is still opening, and I want to get away. There’s snow on the ground. So I’m probably north of Texas. Good, never did have any believable southern accents I felt comfortable drawing on. It too often shifted into my old accent, which is far too easy to place. Again leading to the suspicious eyes problem. Darting through the open, snowy area, I find my way around the main terminal building. It’s massive, but it also isn’t in the middle of nowhere. Always a plus. Plenty of unwatched buildings nearby to slip between. To use my particular talents in the shadow of without fear of notice. And, fun fact about being a rat, we’re capable of squeezing ourselves into, out of, and through pretty much any gap.

Finding my way through some streets to what seems like a suburb, I find an out of the way, park area. Benign out of the way, seemingly empty, and already dark out, I feel comfortable beginning my newest life. I grow, fur receding, face and body twisting into a five foot nine, fairly slender woman. That dirty blonde hair spilling down in waves well past my shoulders. Strong jawline. Weak cheekbones and dark brown eyes to try to add a bit of forgettability to my new life. Taking a moment to breathe with my new lungs, I begin to walk through the park back towards the rest of the suburb-looking area. Towards what seems to be taller buildings in the distance as well. As I walk, I begin to talk to myself. “Susan? No, too generic. Alice? Again generic, but better. Elaine? Too old-sounding. Willow? Too close to my actual name. Katie? Maybe? No, Cecilia. Fancy, but not too much so. Long, but flows off the tongue. Yes, Cecilia. Cecilia… Moore flows well.” Surnames I pick from my mental list of fifth through twentieth on the most common names in America. Makes it ungoogleable, but it doesn’t sound fake like Smith or Brown. I’m going to need to pick up a collection of things that will help me forge an id which can hold up to the bare minimum level of scrutiny. But first, I need the room to sleep and work in.

Walking past the actual, relatively nice hotels, and the cheap hotels, I do eventually come to the motels. I walk into one. There’s a lovely young woman behind the desk. “Welcome,” she says with a smile.

I walk up and do my best to look stressed and slightly overworked. I check her badge before speaking. “So sorry, Miss Hall. I don’t have a reservation. I just got in and it’s been a day. Please tell me you’ve still got a room available.”

She looks up at me, smiles. “Of course,” she says, then looking at her computer she adds, “We’ve got a couple, how long are you planning on staying with us?”

“If I can? Just this weekend. Otherwise, tonight’s fine.”

She looks intently at her computer, clicking around and typing for a moment. “Alright,” she says, “We can definitely accommodate you. That’ll be one forty total for tonight, tomorrow, and Sunday night.”

I pull out five twenties and two tens, and four fives. “Sounds like a plan,” I say as I let out a deep sigh and set down the cash.

“Name for the reservation?” she asks, looking at the cash.

I shake my head. “No, don’t worry, it’s nothing like that. Cecilia. Cecilia Moore. Just don’t have the best credit.”

She nods and gives a little chuckle. “I get that,” she replies as she takes the money and hands me a key card. And returns one of my tens. “A rebate, for paying cash,” she lies. She’s just feeling sorry for me.

I look at her and the money for a moment, before replying, “Are you sure?”

“Trust me, it’s all good. You’re the nicest person I’ve dealt with in weeks, the price for the night was about to drop anyways, and…well, you’re the nicest person I’ve dealt with in weeks.”

I understand. Giving her a slight sigh and a very nice smile, I take the card and the bill. “Thank you,” I pause for the briefest moment, letting the words hang. “Alison.”

She locks eyes and smiles back. “Really, it’s nothing. Have a nice weekend. Cecilia.”

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