Terrestrial Alien ✔

Chapter 60: Take a Seat

"Marlowe," she says, setting the cup down. "Make another pot, will you? Everything you need should be in the breakroom."

She slides the cup across the table to them without looking up from the papers. Marlowe stands for a stiff moment where they are, before stepping mechanically forward to take the mug. Reluctantly, they move with it towards the door, but they hesitate for a moment before opening it, looking to Joshua. They seem loathe to leave, though why—they don't want to leave him alone here, they don't want to miss the interrogation, something—Joshua can't tell.

In the end, they hurry to unlock the door and rush out to finish their task.

"Quite helpful for an assistant, don't you think? I trust you found your way alright, of course," Rosalyn says once the door clicks shut again behind Marlowe.

Joshua blinks at her.

Assistant?

Marlowe's her assistant. Huh. Somehow he'd gathered the impression that they're a scientist too, though apparently not... He wonders if Marlowe likes their job.

Now that Marlowe's gone, the only other person in the room is Perkins, who leans against the wall beside the door.

Joshua is surprised to find that he's relieved the not-so-FBI agent is still here. He may not necessarily like Perkins, but he knows him well enough now to know he doesn't mean any overt harm. He'd certainly take him over Rosalyn anyday.

There's something palatable about Perkins, something friendly, beneath the rocky veneer of his profession. Rosalyn, on the other hand, is still a stranger, and an intimidating one at that. Yes, Joshua finds himself very glad Perkins is still here with him.

"As well as one can hope for when being taken somewhere against their will," he answers Rosalyn's question after a moment of consideration, his tone rather gruff.

Rosalyn gives that ghost of a smile once more. "Of course. Now, your full name is Joshua Malone Gonzalo, correct? We have the right boy?"

Joshua frowns and slouches a little more in his seat.

"Yes."

"And you are..." She pauses to read the paper. Raising her eyes, she asks, "Mexican?"

A jolt runs through Joshua. He tries to suppress the offense that simmers up to the surface, but a scowl still scrawls over his face.

He may not remember a lot about his mother, but he does remember one thing.

"In this... climate, it's better to bring no attention than negative attention for us, Joshua. Do you understand? Just don't get mad when people make mistakes. Están obligados a suceder, mi hijo."

He didn't understand then. But he does now.

"No," he says as carefully as he can, though he still feels like he's speaking through a locked jaw. "I'm not. I'm Panamanian-American."

He bites his tongue before he says anything he shouldn't. He's agitated all over again, frustrated over a mistake based on stereotypes and racist assumptions. Whoever wrote that report saw his last name and his skin and thought, oh, no need to look up what his actual ethnicity is, he's probably from Mexico, since that's the only Hispanic country in Latin America, obviously. And heaven forbid he actually be Hispanic and an American citizen. Those people don't really exist, right?

Joshua feels just about ready to punch someone. All at once, he feels degraded and vulnerable for something he hadn't even been worrying about just a second before, as though—all this time, he'd been anxious over the present issue, when really he should be concerned about the country his ancestors come from. Unbelievable.