dalia evelyn smith

THE CONFIDENTIAL FILES OF:
DALIA EVELYN SMITH
twenty nine / thought police

____________________

Dalia approached the mic, her fingers twisting nervously in her skirt, and in a meek voice, spelled out the word autochthonous. The sound of applause filled the auditorium and children lined behind her drooped their shoulders in sadness as she claimed the trophy seat for 1995. On that day, no one would have guessed at the woman she would become. No one would have thought that this smiling, shy girl, would become the hardened, all-business woman she is today. I count it my fault, that she lives as she is. But then it isn’t any more my fault as the boy who lost that last sprint for the SCRIPPS title.

It might have been after the fire. Maybe it was her mother – she didn’t emerge from the hospital the same as when she went in. Regardless of when it started, I think it took longer than expected. It just all built up. She pushed through the pain and sorrow, the rage and anxieties – stronger, she thought, than those around her who poured their grief into others’ arms. Maybe she pushed too hard. It was that battle – the battle to hold onto consciousness and not delve deeply into the ever ready cushions of depression – that sent her down a path much darker than those who suffered around her.

As I said – it took longer than expected. She shut it out, everything, everyone, finally losing contact with those she’d loved but could no longer face. And then one day I saw it. She snapped, but not as in ‘mental’. She shut down, indeterminately. Maybe one day she’ll snap out. Even so, she seems determined to keep herself to this way of living.

‘But Dalia is twenty years old’, I thought. ‘She cannot be this way forever.’

____________________

I think I’m the only one who can get away with making Smith do things. I mean, it isn’t like I go over to her flat and make her up all pretty then drag her out to some bar where we can see and be seen. Okay, those were the old days. But these are the new days. The good days – the golden days. It’s more like I call on her for anything and she’s there, dressed for the part and everything. Like they say – she’s a tool, someone you can trust to get things done, and to get them done perfectly.

That doesn’t mean that just anyone can call her up for something, though. If you’re below her, you might get your question out, but then there’s that laugh, and then a click, because she’s just hung up on you. But for people with any bit of authority over her – she’s all you’d need, really.

I think she puts up with me because I understand her, and I don’t push her or try to talk things out with her or annoy her with questions like ‘why are you so quiet?’ and ‘why do you think things don’t upset you?’ I watch and I listen, but I don’t make her feel like she’s being evaluated either. She’d know if I was evaluating, too. I save that for later.

I’ve never seen her upset. Not really. When something happens that she doesn’t like, it doesn’t seem to affect her. She rolls with the punches. I’ve never seen her cry. She doesn’t smash things or raise her voice when she gets upset, but if she did, I promise it’d only be to scare the shit out of you. I think the only evidence I’ve ever seen of her getting upset is when she can’t get something right the first time. But she doesn’t fuss over it. She’s always calm – always. I think her way of getting upset is to push through things, and fix it until it’s perfect.

Her brows furrow a bit when she’s focusing. You’ll see it, maybe – she doesn’t mind letting it show. But when she’s done, and she’s completely focused, there you go – her skin is smooth as slate, her brows arched naturally over her catty eyes.

I remember the first time I gave her a birthday present. Only time I’ve seen her awkward. She shifted her hips a bit, then looked up at me and gave this half smile. ‘Thanks, Dobs’. That was the last I heard about it. It’s normal now, but not a ta da sort of thing, like with a lot of people. We have a routine, you could say. Give the gift over, open it. Thanks. And then it’s done. You’ll never hear about it again.

To be honest, I don’t know if I’d like to know why she’s the way she is. Someone that cold, that closed off – pretty things don’t come to mind. Maybe one day she’ll snap out of it, but I don’t think so. She’ll go on making people check their closets for her until she’s eighty-two, if she doesn’t die first.

____________________

‘She’s perfect for it – I promise you. Nothing – nothing – gets to this girl, I swear. Like a robot. She won’t be affected – probably one of the best you’ll see for a long time. Heartless. Remember the CIA? Yeah, their poster child – no lie. Eats puppies for breakfast. Kill your grandpa without a thought. She could do it too. Clean, seamless. No mistakes. Too calm to make them. Has a great right with a .22 – left too, come to think about it. You won’t be sorry.’

The hiring manager and clerk made introductions, but Smith was silent. They were wary of her – that was obvious. They moved through the building to a windowed office. The manager settled in and looked down at the paperwork before him and smoothed down his tie. The clerk opened her paper pad and settled into the chair. Her eyes kept sliding in Smith’s direction. She looked nervous. Dalia Smith took her seat, and that was the last time she moved.

School.
Brown.
Training?
SFUA
Experience?
Corporal, US Marine Corps and SFUA completion, petty officer for the Central Intelligence Agency.
Psyche level?
Undetermined.
The man arched his brows, just the slightest, but kept scratching at his pad of paper.
Why do you think they put you up to the job?
I’m their best. I’m unaffected.
What do you know about the job?
Only that it’s along my expertise.

A knowing smile.

The woman – tall and slender, her shoulders straight like they were tied to the back of her seat – gave straight answers. No fluff, no extra. She didn’t say anything that wasn’t absolutely necessary. Her eyes, when she looked Amelie’s way, were icy and slick. They made you feel naked – like they knew everything you were thinking, every move you might make, how you felt about your carb-loaded breakfast, even. Terrible. Made you tremble.

It was clear that, even after as short a time as the interview allowed, Martin knew she could only be an asset. Her references were enough to speak for her, sight unseen, but in person – she was just scary. Made the man across from her shift uncomfortably, even as he knew that she wouldn’t be above him. Of course she’d have the job. Of course she’d be perfect, just as Amelie had said. Maybe I’d been wrong.

____________________

She hadn’t made many friends in college. Nor in the corps or training, even the centre. She hadn’t needed them. Maybe it was my fault. I could have come forward, gotten her out. And now look at her. Smart as a whistle, yes. Eyes like a hawk. Slender enough to look good in a slinky dress, but she’s got enough stamina to take down someone twice her size. Could dance circles around her trainer. Has some sort of built in radar, too – no one’s been able to scare the shit out of her since high school. And that’s some tough shit – kids are all over that stuff.

But friends. Few get beyond that line, the one where you can just approach her and say ‘hey’ and get away without a sharp look and a smile that says ‘you’ll get it when you least expect it’. Dobs is probably most successful there.

I wonder sometimes if she knows just how well she guards herself. I can’t see her marrying. She can’t trust anyone enough. She’s not one of those girls you ask out for drinks after work. She isn’t one of those people you invite to a get together. She’s a computer – one of those people you go to to get something done, and you’ll know they’ll do it too, but then you don’t talk to them until you need them again. Sits on a shelf in between jobs.

I think she likes it that way. Or maybe she’s trained herself to like it that way. More like Big Brother’s poster child than the CIA’s. Obedient. No nonsense. Oh, she can crack a smile. She can look good doing it, too. But she never looks safe, never looks inviting, even as she’s clean and perfect and everything you need her to be. Careful? Maybe. Thoughtful – not so much. Sympathetic? Look elsewhere, mate. Again, maybe that’s my fault more than anyone else’s.