Factory Reset

Nathan woke up from a nightmare again. It was that fateful day, when he watched the Renningberry Catholic Church turned to cinders. The ashes drifted in the air as thick soot, blackening the sky from shining stars.

Nathan pushed away his soaked pillow. Still in a panic, he went to the bathroom and wiped the rest of his sweat on a towel. He heavily breathed against his bathroom mirror and the moisture clouded his reflected face.

Every day, he remembered the blood on his hands. The pools of red dribbling from their corpses and their screams. Oh, their screams! Nathan felt the betrayal, anger, and sorrow in their voices.

He paced back into his room, wrapping the towel around his neck. By tightly gripping a briefcase under his bed, Nathan kept hold on his sanity. Inside, with the normal junk of papers, files, and folders, a snug pocket held a white mask. He was now a hired gun. For the past weeks, Nathan worked as Jacque the Trigger's replacement.

It used to be easy. Nathan didn't need to imitate Jacque's voice because Nathan sounded like him already. Plus, everyone in the Mafia respected Jacque. He'd patrol the streets, check up on merchandise or deliveries, and report to the Boss. No problem came along those long afternoons and nights.

That is, until some goons disappeared and then their faces popped up in the news. Coverups, tax evasion, fraud, embezzlement. White collar crimes rolled in front of the public eye and recently, violent crime had its turn. Old killers like Rusty Rocky or Bum Burt hit the slammer faster than Nathan could pull up his pants.

Obviously, Nathan was caught with his pants down. The worst part was that he realized they were targeting Jacque! Although he packed heat, he didn't know how these police dogs came hot on his ass.

Nathan was scared. He never knew that Jean miraculously survived or he'd be blackmailed! At the same time he felt relief, the noose of the Mafia's control tightened. Jean's brother took one for him, so Nathan needed to repay his impulsiveness. His hands became soiled and stained in blood, incapable of removing his guilt.

Nathan moaned helplessly, "Oh, f*ck! What do I do now?"

Nathan already skipped four days. If he didn't appear as Jacque, the Mafia would use him as the last fall-guy. If he did appear as Jacque, the cops would bust his *ss a new hole and he couldn't squeal too. The choice split between a trigger-happy cop or a hired gun giving Nathan a bullet in the head. This idea curdled his stomach and Nathan felt it rumble.

"Dad, you were right! If I stood aside and let the cops do their job, I could be f*ckin' Jane and sailing through college. Work at Dominique's Deli or a 9/11 gas station… Doing that kinda dirty work doesn't risk a gun down my throat!"

Nathan pulled at his hair and grinded his teeth. Tufts appeared in his hands and he felt himself slowly balding.

"Jane! I'm sorry. I didn't mean to mess up. Guess we can't roll around on the Cali beach line and f*ck next summer."

Nathan started writing a note. It was brief, but had many crossed out words. In the end, running away was the best choice.

Nathan packed up and prepared shortly. His life on the lamb was only a plane trip away.

Jean's face sported crow's feet under his eyes and a lack of his usual liveliness. He drove his Ford Bronco to his student dorm, where he resided while studying under Reverend Isaiah. After a morning of restless lecture, Jean still had charity work waiting, which irritated Jean.

Was the last slaughter too much? Admittedly, Jean went overboard, and the disposal of so many corpses had to leave a trail. The deep investigation kept up vigilance, preventing Jean from acting without evidence being left behind.

Either way, even if Jean's mafia fell apart, he grabbed the attention of Israel and would be repurposed as manpower elsewhere. Although Jean liked his independence, and savored each kill by his own hand, he didn't dismiss the idea of grooming and using proxies.

Jean smoothly stopped in the parking lot, locked his car, and began the short walk to the male dormitory. The cold air spun a mist from every exhale of breath. In his pocket, a ringtone echoed in the sparsely populated area.

Jean picked up.

A sharp woman's voice barked, "Jean! I told you— call me when you done work!"

"Yeah, mom. I was going to call you right now."

Jean impatiently tapped his fingers against the suitcase he held. Mid-stride, Jean tucked the phone between his shoulder and cheek. He switched to Vietnamese, thankful that at least she was in a good mood.

"I finished the new playground at the Heritage Christian School. I'll send you pictures when I get to my room."

"Oh! Great! Remember when you were smaller than my leg? You played on that old jungle gym in the back. You used to run to me when I called your name like a duckling."

"Yes, mom," Jean listlessly responded.

"Did you give your teachers the food I made? What did that woman, Lizzy was it?— what did she say?"

"She loved the eggrolls," Jean lied. "She said she couldn't wait to eat them."

"Ah! See, your mom knows how to cook! I worked eighteen years as a Chinese cook and learned recipes from my mom and my friends! Remember all those people who bought my food? Traditional Vietnamese cooking! Mom didn't work until her hands bled for no reason. Hey! Why don't you come how so I can teach you?"

"Mom, I went to school, work, and volunteered. There's too much I need to do. I'm going to sleep while I can."

She paused for a moment before calling out, "Hey! Did you eat yet?"

"Yes, I ate a sandwich," he said, and pulled the thick wool scarf over his chilled and reddening ears.

"Ah! You need to eat more or you will become a stick! You were always sick, so wash up and eat healthy! Exercise and take care of your body! Clean up after yourself! Remember to pray at night…"

"Yes, mom."

Jean kept the phone call going, but he stopped.

Jean turned around and stared at the child trailing behind him.

The child in the oversized pink coat stopped as well, as the footfalls of her unicorn sneakers filled the sudden silence. They stood at a standstill, mutually aware of their respective circumstances.

The child brushed her hair from her face with her Hello Doggy mittens. A light blue beanie sat on her head. She swiveled her body side to side, hands held together, like a kid wanting to ask her parent a question.

"I'm going to call you back later, mom. I love you."

Jean hung up. He walked over and crouched down on his haunches. Dark thoughts filled his mind, but he saved them for the future.

He smiled warmly and softly spoke, "Did you want something from me, little miss?"

She shook her head and dropped on her butt.

"You know, you're not supposed to follow strangers. There are dangerous people who might do unspeakable things to you."

The girl, definitely in the single digits of age, shook her head.

"Shouldn't you go home? Your parents must be worried if you ran after me."

She frowned, but shook her head once more. Her hair loosened and swept onto her face. Once more, she pulled it back around her shoulders.

"It's too cold outside. We should—"

And that was the last Jean said to the girl.

BANG!

The gunshot pierced the streets.

Jean's body fell forward. A spray of red sloshed from the hole drilled straight through the center of his head. The girl was splattered in iron-tasting crimson, yet she stayed mute.

Vinnie aimed his gun at Jean once more as the muzzle smoke faded fast and the ejected shell casing clinked on the sidewalk.

"What the f**k!?"

Thomas pushed Vinnie's arms down, and Benjamin grabbed Vinnie on the other side. Vinnie fired thrice more into the pavement before his friends locked the gun in its safety and wrested it away.

"We were supposed to bring him in! What the f**k are you doing, murdering a suspect? There's a kid here!"

Thomas began calling in nine-one-one and treating Jean as Benjamin hunched over Vinnie, who fell to his knees.

"Why? You f**ked us beyond f**king! Why!?"

Vinnie stared at Jean's body.

"I had to do it. He's more dangerous than I've ever felt in my entire life. A bottomless pit of damnation. You can't get closer to a demon than him."

Benjamin spat on the ground and grumbled, "Your gut's not going to protect us from the law."

"I did this to save our nation, Ben. You should have let me finish the job."

Vinnie's eyes never left Jean's unmoving body.

"Everything he does is an act. I KNOW he's at the root of everything. I KNOW."

Vinnie curled up and muttered to himself senselessly as he rocked back and forth.

"F**k, he's finally lost it."

An ambulance and authorities arrived shortly.

Jean was brought into the hospital two blocks away, still feebly breathing.

The staff worked hard to stabilize his condition and blood levels.

Eventually, they looked at his brain.

"Shot in the head and the bullet went straight through the corpus callosum… what are the odds of that?"

"It's a miracle he even survived."

"It's a clean shot, too."

Weeks slipped by.

Months passed.

One day, in May, Jean's eyes fluttered. He observed the stark white room and his uncomfortable bed.

Jean learned from his surprised nurse that he was in a coma. She took routine procedures and before long, she assisted in a quick evaluation of his memory.

Jean Nguyen Pham:

Son of Mr. Lu Nguyen Pham and Mrs. Phuong Thi Tran.

Brother of Tyrone Nguyen Pham.

Born across the Missouri border, but raised a Kansan.

School prodigy until middle school and then slowly rose to honors during high school.

Enrolled in Religious Studies.

Devout Catholic preacher.

Philanthropist and volunteer.

Owner of OzCo's, a simple and durable shoe brand, with its local production line and store.

Owner of Sheer Skin, a similarly simple, durable, yet comfy clothing brand, again, with its local production line and store.

However, Jean felt lost. The burning urge within him faded. No purpose motivated his beating heart. Death became a bland inevitable.

Jean relayed extensive memory loss to the nurse and doctor. He bid them to leave for Jean to rest up. She followed the doctor out the door, dissatisfied at the interruption of his evaluation.

"What do I want anymore? What… will I do?"

Jean recalled his episodes of megalomania and psychotic mirth. What grand scheme? What progression? In his short, subversive activity, his achievements summed up to killing innocents, framing others for murder, disposing of disruptive threats, manipulating impressionable people, and charity work. The only people caring about his accomplishments were Israelis of the Deep State.

All of that tiresome plotting, working, and hyper awareness hurt his health. The obsession over death and control distanced himself from forming close ties of friendship. He barely visited his family or took time off for himself.

Light streamed in through the slits of the wide window blinds. Sparse clouds flew high in the blue sky and blocked snippets of the Sun. Birds flapped far off, like specks in the distance.

Jean's right hand leisurely tapped the bed railing beside him, his thumb and pinky dangling at the sides. The three fingers rose and fell from his ring finger to his index finger, thrumming individually.

Tap, tap, tap.

Tap, tap, tap.

Tap, tap, tap.

The rest of his body and mind stayed unwilling to be proactive. The weight of responsibility remained unfathomable. Was it all a dream? It was too vivid to be real, like an intense pain and anger before fading into nothingness.

Jean decided to sleep over his thoughts. Perhaps another dream would revitalize a new purpose? Though not likely, he slipped into unconsciousness. His left hand clenched tightly into a fist throughout his rest.

Who knew what the future held in America?