One: Accusations4151 moments
The countdown ends. I blink into another client’s consciousness. My surroundings, emotions, clothing, posture and body are switched in a blink. I go from sitting at my station to standing in a stranger’s body, from turtleneck to sports team shirt, from calm to nervous.
“Why are you acting so weird? You’re not Kevin, not the Kevin I know and love,” A woman aiming both index fingers at me says.
She’s right, I’m not Kevin, I’m inside Kevin’s mind acting out this moment for him. The side notes in the corner of my vision read that the aims (what the client last instructs before leaving their consciousness) say to: Avoid accusations.
The notes fade out. I’m in a dining room, I move these limbs and stretch Kevin’s neck. Imagine if you blinked and were instantly somewhere and someone else. You never get used to this abrupt perplexity.
“Are you a lizard person?” The woman yanks my hair.
I’ve got a Rouser. This is the name my company, Pritek, gives to individuals that suspect, or sometimes know that the client they are with is being piloted by an agent like myself. The knowledge arrives in this client’s memory that his woman is named Sam.
“Sam, listen, how could I not be myself?” I say, in a voice lighter than my own.
I use my training to subdue Sam’s correct accusations. This involves discussing the improbability, laughing at the correct keywords like ‘imposter’ and creating a calm by moving slowly.
Sam throws a pen but I catch it and remain calm. I pretend to cry (badly) because she thinks I’m not Kevin. Typical horrible gaslighting.
Ten minutes jerks by, Sam taps my shoulder, I turn. Her eyes mellow.
“Do you promise you’ve not let someone else into your mind again?” Sam says.
This is rare. You know those moments you zone out so deeply that it doesn’t feel like you’re inside your body? At Pritek we’ve, sorry, they’ve developed an advanced and classified technology that allows elite clients to voluntarily zone out of a moment to avoid living it. Instead, our agents will ‘momenteer’ by entering your consciousness and live out the experience for you. Yes, anything—no matter how boring, painful or awkward. Including funerals, giving presentations, or your distant cousin’s piano recital with no refreshments.
I shrug like a clueless fool and shake my head to follow the aim. A technique learned from training. Rouser training was the module that came naturally to me, unlike the quick lies or fake crying modules. Before my mother's death in the asylum, she often accused me of not being her real son. That’s my job. If there was a title it would be a ‘momenteer’, think but mispronounce ‘volunteer’. This awkward atmosphere makes us self-aware of our movements.
“We’re not good together anymore,” Sam says.
And here comes that drifty sensation. When the moment passes and moves to another. Who knows how Pritek calculate this, maybe the atmosphere in the room or emotions? My eyelids get heavy and drop. The blink turns psychedelic blue and wavy. It looks like I’m travelling backwards through outer space. A pressing urges me to open my eyes and within a couple of seconds, voila —I’m back in my body, at my station, sitting in my suit and turtleneck. The headset tight around my skull.
If you’re struggling to imagine what momenteering is like, turn your television on and flick through the channels, then suddenly stop and imagine being that person on screen and what they’re doing in seven seconds.
In the top corner, my tally ticks up one to 4152 moments. Once I reach 5000, I think I’ll travel abroad. I’m not a top agent so I don’t know why there are so many moments today. Before I have time to process the last moment, I blink into another.
“Why, I’m dizzy Daddy, am I dying?” This kid says.
It’s unprofessional but when faded-skills kick in and I understand their kid’s named after that puppet frog Kermit, I must bite my lip to avoid laughing. Faded-skills are the knowledge temporarily inherited while you’re inside a client’s consciousness. For example, last week I aced a Swedish language test and taught a yoga class, despite having no knowledge of these subjects myself. You’re able to know what you know plus the client’s skills and desires. It’s weirdly empowering but when you’re returned to your body, you lose their knowledge and feel like you’re missing something.
The side notes fade, but I catch this moment’s aims which instruct to: Deflect accusations. That’s not too rare a job, but considering this moment’s putting their tween son to bed… my expression crinkles this client’s forehead.
“Our bodies are smart and we must listen to them when they’re trying to tell us something,” I say, stretching the client’s arms to get a sense of being in their body. This body feels familiar but after thousands of jobs, I guess anybody’s body would feel similar.
The blinds are half shut. Streaks of the setting sun cast shadow lines on the wall. The room’s also brightened by a shifting glow from a small muted television. There’s a map of the world on one wall and three different posters of flamingos scattered on the others.
From the few sentences I exchange with Kermit, you can sense this kid’s a good soul. His connect-the-dot freckles aid his trustworthiness. He mumbles nonsense, “If you, was it, in sleep, dream I tonight.”
What the what? I walk across and pull his cloud print sheets over his shoulders. Once Kermit falls asleep I’ll return to my own body. Accusations dodged, another moment to my tally.
“Metally. You sure, are you? Cola. Taste likes metal,” Kermit groans.
He points to the dresser and grunts before rolling over.
I peer around, another affluent household. High ceilings and large bay windows. Over I go to the bottle of cola on the dresser. What’s that? Something’s telling me to look in the top drawer. Beyond the socks, at the back. Uh oh, it’s there: sedatives. I inspect the popped pill packet.
An ache pierces my chest. Ouch, this client I’m being is drugging their kid to go to sleep. This is wrong on so many levels, especially the child abuse levels. Over my shoulder, Kermit roars a yawn for what seems like medically too long. He leans back, his light floppy hair fighting for position on his forehead. His soft eyes reflect the glow of the television while my posture stiffens. He’s too young for sedatives, faded-skills tell me he’s 12.
Triggered, memories of my father drugging me and my brother so we’d sleep sedates me still to the mahogany floorboards. The client’s eyelids flicker and I’m ashamed because one of my own tears sneaks down this client’s cheek. My dad’s actions must be why I can’t remember much of my childhood, either that or I wore my cool light-up shoes too often that they outshined my other memories. There’s no noise for a while. A floorboard creaks and I wipe my face. I forget where I am, who I’m being. Accusations don’t come. Why haven’t I returned to my own body? I wince before flicking my head back. Oops, that’s right. I better make sure this kid isn’t going to die. I flick the light switch.
Kermit confirms he’s alive by screaming “No” again and again until I turn off the light.
Going over I take his arm to check his pulse, could be fast but could be normal. Kermit snatches his arm and waves me away.
This is messed up. Who drugs their kids so they fall asleep? My arms tense so tight my fists shake. Against policy, protocol, whatever rule, I decide to get a good look at this client’s face. See what this monster looks like. There are no mirrors here and when I exit Kermit’s bedroom I see a mirror in this hallway but it’s not facing me. After a couple steps, I feel that familiar drifting sensation, legs wavy, vision too. I’m blinked out and return to my own body.
Back at my station, I undock, slam my palm on this titanium desk and press and press the inbuilt call button for a supervisor. During the extended wait, time mellows my rage as I stare at the shiny unidentifiable crystals contracting and expanding within the glowing purpley-blue power cylinder. I can predict Pritek’s excuses before I hear them, yet, I still want to hear what they’ve got to say.
Each moment varies from a minute to a maximum of two hours. Wait. Don’t give up on this novel preview, I understand. I was thinking and rolling my eyes exactly the same. Sounds like banal sci-fi gobbledygook, but with the right money, power and Illuminati-like connections—you’d already avoid telling anyone about it. If you could, you might have already momenteered out of reading these opening chapters and jumped to the action.
Wait, I hear steps echoing from the hall. Here comes a supervisor.
The countdown ends. I blink into another client’s consciousness. My surroundings, emotions, clothing, posture and body are switched in a blink. I go from sitting at my station to standing in a stranger’s body, from turtleneck to sports team shirt, from calm to nervous.
“Why are you acting so weird? You’re not Kevin, not the Kevin I know and love,” A woman aiming both index fingers at me says.
She’s right, I’m not Kevin, I’m inside Kevin’s mind acting out this moment for him. The side notes in the corner of my vision read that the aims (what the client last instructs before leaving their consciousness) say to: Avoid accusations.
The notes fade out. I’m in a dining room, I move these limbs and stretch Kevin’s neck. Imagine if you blinked and were instantly somewhere and someone else. You never get used to this abrupt perplexity.
“Are you a lizard person?” The woman yanks my hair.
I’ve got a Rouser. This is the name my company, Pritek, gives to individuals that suspect, or sometimes know that the client they are with is being piloted by an agent like myself. The knowledge arrives in this client’s memory that his woman is named Sam.
“Sam, listen, how could I not be myself?” I say, in a voice lighter than my own.
I use my training to subdue Sam’s correct accusations. This involves discussing the improbability, laughing at the correct keywords like ‘imposter’ and creating a calm by moving slowly.
Sam throws a pen but I catch it and remain calm. I pretend to cry (badly) because she thinks I’m not Kevin. Typical horrible gaslighting.
Ten minutes jerks by, Sam taps my shoulder, I turn. Her eyes mellow.
“Do you promise you’ve not let someone else into your mind again?” Sam says.
This is rare. You know those moments you zone out so deeply that it doesn’t feel like you’re inside your body? At Pritek we’ve, sorry, they’ve developed an advanced and classified technology that allows elite clients to voluntarily zone out of a moment to avoid living it. Instead, our agents will ‘momenteer’ by entering your consciousness and live out the experience for you. Yes, anything—no matter how boring, painful or awkward. Including funerals, giving presentations, or your distant cousin’s piano recital with no refreshments.
I shrug like a clueless fool and shake my head to follow the aim. A technique learned from training. Rouser training was the module that came naturally to me, unlike the quick lies or fake crying modules. Before my mother's death in the asylum, she often accused me of not being her real son. That’s my job. If there was a title it would be a ‘momenteer’, think but mispronounce ‘volunteer’. This awkward atmosphere makes us self-aware of our movements.
“We’re not good together anymore,” Sam says.
And here comes that drifty sensation. When the moment passes and moves to another. Who knows how Pritek calculate this, maybe the atmosphere in the room or emotions? My eyelids get heavy and drop. The blink turns psychedelic blue and wavy. It looks like I’m travelling backwards through outer space. A pressing urges me to open my eyes and within a couple of seconds, voila —I’m back in my body, at my station, sitting in my suit and turtleneck. The headset tight around my skull.
If you’re struggling to imagine what momenteering is like, turn your television on and flick through the channels, then suddenly stop and imagine being that person on screen and what they’re doing in seven seconds.
In the top corner, my tally ticks up one to 4152 moments. Once I reach 5000, I think I’ll travel abroad. I’m not a top agent so I don’t know why there are so many moments today. Before I have time to process the last moment, I blink into another.
“Why, I’m dizzy Daddy, am I dying?” This kid says.
It’s unprofessional but when faded-skills kick in and I understand their kid’s named after that puppet frog Kermit, I must bite my lip to avoid laughing. Faded-skills are the knowledge temporarily inherited while you’re inside a client’s consciousness. For example, last week I aced a Swedish language test and taught a yoga class, despite having no knowledge of these subjects myself. You’re able to know what you know plus the client’s skills and desires. It’s weirdly empowering but when you’re returned to your body, you lose their knowledge and feel like you’re missing something.
The side notes fade, but I catch this moment’s aims which instruct to: Deflect accusations. That’s not too rare a job, but considering this moment’s putting their tween son to bed… my expression crinkles this client’s forehead.
“Our bodies are smart and we must listen to them when they’re trying to tell us something,” I say, stretching the client’s arms to get a sense of being in their body. This body feels familiar but after thousands of jobs, I guess anybody’s body would feel similar.
The blinds are half shut. Streaks of the setting sun cast shadow lines on the wall. The room’s also brightened by a shifting glow from a small muted television. There’s a map of the world on one wall and three different posters of flamingos scattered on the others.
From the few sentences I exchange with Kermit, you can sense this kid’s a good soul. His connect-the-dot freckles aid his trustworthiness. He mumbles nonsense, “If you, was it, in sleep, dream I tonight.”
What the what? I walk across and pull his cloud print sheets over his shoulders. Once Kermit falls asleep I’ll return to my own body. Accusations dodged, another moment to my tally.
“Metally. You sure, are you? Cola. Taste likes metal,” Kermit groans.
He points to the dresser and grunts before rolling over.
I peer around, another affluent household. High ceilings and large bay windows. Over I go to the bottle of cola on the dresser. What’s that? Something’s telling me to look in the top drawer. Beyond the socks, at the back. Uh oh, it’s there: sedatives. I inspect the popped pill packet.
An ache pierces my chest. Ouch, this client I’m being is drugging their kid to go to sleep. This is wrong on so many levels, especially the child abuse levels. Over my shoulder, Kermit roars a yawn for what seems like medically too long. He leans back, his light floppy hair fighting for position on his forehead. His soft eyes reflect the glow of the television while my posture stiffens. He’s too young for sedatives, faded-skills tell me he’s 12.
Triggered, memories of my father drugging me and my brother so we’d sleep sedates me still to the mahogany floorboards. The client’s eyelids flicker and I’m ashamed because one of my own tears sneaks down this client’s cheek. My dad’s actions must be why I can’t remember much of my childhood, either that or I wore my cool light-up shoes too often that they outshined my other memories. There’s no noise for a while. A floorboard creaks and I wipe my face. I forget where I am, who I’m being. Accusations don’t come. Why haven’t I returned to my own body? I wince before flicking my head back. Oops, that’s right. I better make sure this kid isn’t going to die. I flick the light switch.
Kermit confirms he’s alive by screaming “No” again and again until I turn off the light.
Going over I take his arm to check his pulse, could be fast but could be normal. Kermit snatches his arm and waves me away.
This is messed up. Who drugs their kids so they fall asleep? My arms tense so tight my fists shake. Against policy, protocol, whatever rule, I decide to get a good look at this client’s face. See what this monster looks like. There are no mirrors here and when I exit Kermit’s bedroom I see a mirror in this hallway but it’s not facing me. After a couple steps, I feel that familiar drifting sensation, legs wavy, vision too. I’m blinked out and return to my own body.
Back at my station, I undock, slam my palm on this titanium desk and press and press the inbuilt call button for a supervisor. During the extended wait, time mellows my rage as I stare at the shiny unidentifiable crystals contracting and expanding within the glowing purpley-blue power cylinder. I can predict Pritek’s excuses before I hear them, yet, I still want to hear what they’ve got to say.
Each moment varies from a minute to a maximum of two hours. Wait. Don’t give up on this novel preview, I understand. I was thinking and rolling my eyes exactly the same. Sounds like banal sci-fi gobbledygook, but with the right money, power and Illuminati-like connections—you’d already avoid telling anyone about it. If you could, you might have already momenteered out of reading these opening chapters and jumped to the action.
Wait, I hear steps echoing from the hall. Here comes a supervisor.