By Michael Conti
Shut up, he told himself, albeit to no avail.
Zaivar slouched into his favorite diner booth, trying to keep his thoughts muted. This was an unwelcome challenge for someone used to reading other people’s minds. The waitress approached, and before he even registered it was happening, he thought, Her perfume is like being punched in the face by a flower shop.
The waitress’s eyes widened. “How rude!” she snapped, storming away without taking his order.
Three days had passed since the incident with that strange artifact he’d confiscated. Now, instead of reading thoughts, he was broadcasting them like a radio station. For a professional warrant chaser who relied on mind-reading abilities, this reversal was a nightmare.
His phone buzzed. Another job. Just what I need when my brain’s gone haywire, he thought. Several nearby diners glared at him.
“Sorry,” he muttered, then bee-lined for the exit. The warrant targeted a fugitive last seen in the city’s maintenance tunnels. Zaivar’s stomach dropped.
No, no, no. Not underground. Anything but underground.
“Why you afraid of the underground, dude?” a passing teenager quipped, having heard his thoughts.
“Mind your own business,” Zaivar grumbled, but his projected thoughts betrayed him.
I’m not afraid, I just strongly prefer wide-open spaces where I can breathe and move and not feel like I’m being crushed to death by tons of earth and concrete.
The teen snickered and skedaddled away.
Taking deep breaths, Zaivar neared the tunnel entrance near Fifth and Elm. The person who had skipped out on bail had stolen some valuable tech, and the bounty would cover Zaivar’s rent for three months. The only information he had on the skip was his photo and that his name was Marcus.
I can do this. I’m a professional. Just ignore the walls. The very close, tight, narrowing walls…
Zaivar’s projected panic made several passersby stop and stare. He wondered if they would hear the same pulse in their ears that he could or if it was only his thoughts?
Finally arriving at the entrance, he took a deep breath and forced himself onward, descending into the tunnels. His flashlight beam bounced off the curved walls, and his thoughts echoed as loudly as his footsteps. The hollow feeling in his stomach grew.
Don’t think about the ceiling. Don’t think about the weight above. Don’t think about…
“Who’s there?” a voice called out from ahead.
Oh no, that’s definitely my target. Please don’t let this turn violent. I hate violence. And pain. Especially pain.
“I can hear you, you know,” the skip shouted. “Some huntsman you are!”
Footsteps skittered away.
Great job, Witz. Way to blow your cover.
He pursued, trying desperately to control his broadcasting thoughts.
Left tunnel or right tunnel? Left looks narrower, so definitely not that one. Right tunnel it is!
Zaivar turned right.
“Thanks for the heads up!” the skip’s voice echoed from the left tunnel.
You’ve got to be kidding me. Zaivar changed direction.
The tunnel grew tighter, and his claustrophobia surged.
Stay calm, stay calm, stay… the walls are going to crush me any moment now.
Zaivar rounded a corner and found himself face-to-face with his target, who was now grinning like he’d won the lottery.
“The famous Zaivar Witz,” Marcus snickered. “The mind-reader who can’t silence his own thoughts. This is priceless! I know exactly when you will move. You can’t catch me when I am two thoughts ahead of you.”
I should really say something tough right now. Something intimidating.
“You’re not very good at this, are you?” Marcus laughed even louder.
No, I’m actually excellent at my job when I’m not broadcasting every single thought in my head! Zaivar’s frustration boomed through the tunnel. And you know what? I’m tired of being afraid. I’m tired of avoiding conflict. I’m tired of these stupid tunnels!
Zaivar lurched forward and tackled Marcus. Caught off guard, Marcus hadn’t noticed Zaivar’s sneaking movements forward. They crashed to the ground, the stolen tech clattering nearby. As they wrestled, Zaivar’s thoughts continued broadcasting.
Marcus’ elbow struck Zaivar in the shoulder. Ow, ow, ow!
Zaivar responded with a knee to Marcus’ thigh. Why did I think fighting was a good idea?
Marcus took a swing at Zaivar’s face, and as he ducked the punch, Zaivar struck the back of his head against the wall. This hurts!
In one swift move, Zaivar gripped Marcus’ arm, twisted it behind his back, and swung himself and Marcus around so now Marcus was the one up against the wall. Through Marcus’s screams, Zaivar snagged the other wrist and twisted.
Despite the pain and his usual aversion to confrontation, Zaivar maintained his hold until Marcus yielded and surrendered to the arrest.
Sometimes you have to face your fears. He smiled. Even if everyone can hear how terrified you are.
***
Ten minutes later, Zaivar emerged from the tunnels with a handcuffed Marcus and the recovered tech. His thoughts were still broadcasting: Need a shower, need an ice pack, need to talk to my therapist. But he stood tall, proud he hadn’t succumbed to his fears or his loud thoughts.
The next morning, back at the diner, the artifact’s effects had finally worn off. Zaivar’s mind was quiet again, able to read thoughts rather than broadcast them. The waitress from yesterday approached. She hesitated at the sight of him, taking half steps.
“Coffee?” she asked, her perfume notably lighter.
Zaivar smiled. “Yes, please.”
He’s much nicer today, the waitress thought. Maybe this perfume is better.
This was the way it should be. His thoughts in his mind, and hers in his ears.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Fabulous concept and an enjoyable read.
Thank you so much for the kind words.
This made me laugh so hard! Hilarious! What a great way to handle Zaivar’s mind-reading ability 😂
Not for Zaivar, though! Imagine anybody around that didn’t know what was going on and though the thoughts were their own!
Wait, let’s think. Take the waitress as the example. Zai’s mouth ain’t moving. All the waitress would otherwise “hear” in her mind is “Wow, perfume Strong”, without any indication of source. How could she know it was Zai who was the source of the thought? She apparently knows it’s not a sui-genersis brain state, but identifying transmission source is incredibly difficult. She can’t possibly triangulate the source as she is only an individual receptor. So barring a false actor providing false thought source identification, that means we must conclude that Zai is identifying himself as transmission source of every single thought. What the heck, Zai! The waitress had to be hearing “Wow, perfume Strong, THIS THOUGHT BROUGHT TO YOU BY ZAI THE BOUNTY HUNTER” and that is an absolutely HILARIOUS insight into Zai’s psyche.
but what is people naturally have the ability to know who is telepathically sending them a message, but we don’t know because we haven’t met a telepath yet?
If we had the ability to know which of our thoughts came from outside us, we’d already know. Think about all the lifeforms around us; The probability of none of them being telepathic is low, but still non-zero. Even so, I’ve never innately knew the neighbourhood raccoons, for example, want me to put my trash out. So you understand why I remain sceptical. I have more thoughts on this topic, but you’ll have to excuse me, I have the inexplicable urge to put the trash out…
Great line–“punched in the face by a flower shop”!
I really LOVE this take on Zai; what a clevere twist on his powers, and a really great, funny story that makes full use of his characterization. Wonderful!
What a hilarious malfunction! Thanks for sharing this story.
This was so fun! And how clever having him broadcast his thoughts. Great work!
And thank you for keeping the story alive by reading it and enjoying it.