Chapter 2: My Name Is Steve

Steve was the name they assigned him. It was part of a check list he given before deployment. All the other things he either wore or used in the execution of his duties, but the name was something he internalized. It not only formed his operational identity, but strangely, the more he lived with it, the more he felt it suited him.

At first it held a strange sound, terse, primitive, guttural, sudden like a punch to the face. It reflected the nature of many things in his new surroundings. The rhythm of life in his native land was quick, graceful, and efficient, much like the language and the names of the inhabitants. In the new land, the actions and manners were clumsy, plodding, even wasteful. He learned to slow down expectations and responses, to move and talk more slowly, to let himself fall into a cadence that was so odd to him, but the more he lived it, the more it became like breathing.

Nothing came easy for Steve. Among his own, he was considered a failure. His genetic make-up was considered antiquated, inferior, which made him perfectly suited for his mission. It was both a curse and a blessing. Which? He wasn't quite sure, and those who called the shots, weren't sure, either. It wasn't a bad position to be in. As long as he did what he needed to do, showed some progress, they left him alone, for the most part. It gave him plenty of time to indulge in his own explorations.

He sat in the bar with irregular hours where the stone steps led down to the entrance. It smelled of rancid beer and sickly sweet body sweat. The jukebox spit out a song with the words, 

"A soldier with a broken arm
Fixed his stare to the wheels of a Cadillac
A cop knelt and kissed the feet of a priest
And a queer threw up at the sight of that"