The Bodygurad ("Integrity" story #94)

INTEGRITY
by Michael Kroetch

The bodyguard has his eyes closed. He may be enveloped by a throbbing blue-tulip light from his ribs beneath his dark suit—nonetheless, all conditions remain normal. Secure. As they must. And he is most certainly not allowing himself to breathe. Not now. He has the situation under much too tight surveillance for that. He is an army of one. He cannot allow himself to become entwined in civilian matters. He was carefully trained and transformed into a superior version of the him that went before. He was given integrity and honor. Which is why he also cannot listen to the blue music from his ribs. He doesn’t care if it is a song about breath. He won’t let himself lose perspective. Not now. He won’t open his eyes. Things were clarified in his training. Made crystal. He is part of the elite. A maintaining element. He is to keep things as they are. He must. Normalcy always. And always be normal. He has such duty. He was charged with that responsibility the way some people are hit by lightning. His professional integrity is not something he can back away from or pretend blindness toward. Duty is duty.

He cannot let this torn girl muddle his resolve, exploit the moment, and take him from his designated post in the alley. The discussion she seeks at a coffee shop simply cannot be permitted. First off, he does not drink coffee. Secondly, he has never been inside a coffee shop. So obviously she must release his arm at once. She must stop this tugging. He has been authorized to intervene in emergencies. He is part of the elite. Doesn’t she realize this? He cannot open his eyes. Not now. He is still safe. What does she think she is doing? His mother is not in trouble. That couldn’t be. But the music of the tulips is growing so loud. What if he can’t maintain himself against it? What if his dark glasses come off? What if he breathes? Or does somehow open his eyes?

Then he realizes these are all questions. Which is obviously and completely against regulations. So he breaks free of the jack-o-lantern’s grasp and opens his eyes—but only a very little bit. And only very briefly (probably less time than it takes a camera to click a perfect picture). Only long enough to run off and hide behind some barrels before again adjusting his dark glasses and enclosing himself yet further behind the finality of his wafer-thin eyelids.