Nebbia | ongoing

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Collateral damage | arkell
Miami, Florida

MY SINGLE OUTLIER in a pattern-filled existence was failure. Not because I was invincible; but rather the opposite. I had been good at failing for most of my life, but once I got the taste of victory, I knew there was no turning back. Everything I had known vanished in a flash, like a distant memory, as failure was no longer an option.

     "Are you ready?" Mike's question rumbled into my head through the earpiece. When I looked in the mirror, I noticed a strange face looking back at me. My curls have been replaced with flat locks falling down my neck, and the face prosthesis added an extra decade to my already twenty-six-year-old self.

     "I'm on my way," I replied, turning on the speaker to my comms. Officer Cavanaugh was at the party, setting up the initial phase of the mission: hack the security system.

      "Be careful," the Case Officer said, aligning the bowtie to my suit. I couldn't tell if the advice was for me or the camera inside of it. It was hard to read minds when everything around me was fabricated: from 22 LR bullets to our legends.

     "Don't worry, you'll get the footage you need." I took one last look around and came face to face with Juan — one of the thirty guests of the party —  who was sedated and shackled to the van's railings. The preliminary phase included kidnapping him and hiring a costume artist to take his resemblance. Besides the physical work, there were some behavioral adjustments to do as well. Like a chamaleon, I was needed to alter body temperature based on my surroundings. And I was the best at it.

     "Name and ID, please." The bouncer noticed me walk by the gate. The van was parked a few blocks away from the residence, with CO monitoring every step of the mission.

     "Juan Garcia," I said, seeing him go over my name and make a scan of the passport. Once verified, he let me in.

The residence was fronted by a decent-sized garden, with cc cameras and security guards on each corner. I could count the number of guests standing outside with my fingers, all twenty of them. Mike was probably somewhere in the catering, spilling drinks or tripping over table runners. Over the years, he had built a record for the goofiest Officer alive, and my protective ass happened to follow him everywhere like an underdog.

     "A gin with no ice," I said, making my stop at the bar. Among the many stools filled at the counter, the one I cared about was two seats ahead of mine. The man in question was Charles Monte, a businessman, and owner of this house.

     I grabbed the drink and leaned on the table with my eyes and ears vigilant. Mike walked past the fountain with a tray filled with champagne, serving anyone who was looking for a push to start the party.

     Two seats ahead, Monte was discussing about the cultural barrier between republicans and democrats. I looked over the fountain and gave my signal. I had to catch Charles' attention and what better way of doing it if not letting a waiter spill champagne over a guest right in front of his eyes?

     "I'm terribly sorry," Mike said, attempting to dry out the wet patches with a napkin.

     "I don't think your apology will help my suit," I grumbled, standing up and walking past the target.

     "Are you okay?" A voice asked, following me to the fountain.

     "I had been better," I confessed, staring back at his eyes.