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Code Switching (Part 2 of 4)

By Malon Edwards

(…Continued from Part 1)

2. ONE HUNDRED PERCENT PERFORMANCE OUTPUT

JEAN-MICHEL FEAT. KINSLEY CHASE

 

Lòske jounalis sa yo gade m—

Hold up. Let me say that again. I’ll wait. Y’all go grab y’alls paper an’ pen.

When these Stater journos look at me, they don’t juss see a Black boy. Nah, they also see a bio-electric, battery-operated toy, part of a Stanford Sutton Industries ploy to bring fat cat football alums joy.

(Wit money. Anpil, anpil lajan.)

An’ that pisses them off. So they gon’ keep rushin’ off an’ bustin’ off these queries at a machine-gun pace in my face while smirkin’ at my Haitian Creole vocabulary, pretendin’ they can only understand me, barely, ’cause my accent is too thick an’ scary.

Pakont—but on the flip side—them Chicago reporters gon’ give me the benefit of the doubt (that’s right) when they write they stories witout bias tonight. They embrace a sovereign state that thrives on a black market sparked by innovation an’ encouraged by a Haitian who planned a nation for secession from a State of Imperfection, then made Chicago the greatest an’ said to hell wit those Stater racists.

Like the ones in front of me now.

Yeah, they got them Stater racist papers in them Stater racist places, like Rockford an’ Aurora (eighty-six stories about Chicago’s horrors), Joliet an’ Naperville (“What’s the Deal? Chicago’s Black Market: Is It Real?”), Springfield an’ Peoria (I never heard of ya; oh, wait, yes I have; I trounced a girl from there once named Gloria playin’ holo-vid ChessPhoria), Elgin an’ Winnetka an’ Champaign too (Eske nou fini? ‘Cause I’m ’bout through).

So is this interview.

The gym doors bang open. In strides hope. White savior of the Black and broken. White savior from the rope.

Kinsley Chase, straight outta the North Shore, stalks in her Louboutin stiletto heels across a gym floor that features a grizzly at half-court in mid-roar.

(She wearin’ this circa-2018 Charlize Theron Electric Resurrection skinload. It’s been a long minute since celebrity body snatchin’ been in vogue. Twenty years out of date, monchè; yeah, that Resurrection is bold. Don’t tell her I said that, though, ’cause she don’t want to be told. Passé or not, she still shimmerin’ gold.

Short, chic blonde hair parted juss right. Makeup hardly there, but on point an’ tight. Tailored two-piece Christian Dior suit bone white. Fierce face an’ quick pace lettin’ e’rybody know she ready to fight.)

Click, click, click, click.

(Yeah, you degoutan chen sal motherfuckers, here she come. Y’all better take flight.)

Heads turn.

(Gade lè yo, y’all djèdjè ain’t bright.)

“Kristin, stop cross-examining that poor boy. Being Black doesn’t make him a criminal, wrong, or an ingrate.”

Click, click, click, click.

(Put yo’ face to the dog, an’ she gon’ bite.)

Egos burn.

(Frown all you want, machè; she ain’t begun to flex her might.)

“Robbie, I thought we stopped calling young Black boys super-predators more than half a century ago.”

Click, click, click, click.

Internal biometric systems suss an’ churn.

“Steve, fear-mongering and culture-shaming fits you like a bespoke Cole Haan suit, so I’m sure you’d be surprised to know that some of us taught ourselves how to order Prestige beer in Haitian Creole when we were sixteen years old so we could buy some during our weekend adventures to the big, bad Sovereign State.”

Click, click, click, click.

Yeah, these Stater journos ’bout to learn.

“And Frank and Danny, I look forward to the countless stories you write the next few years about those white boys at New Trier and Highland Park and Glenbrook North after they undergo Electric Resurrection, where you praise them in your columns as upstanding citizens, do-gooder Eagle Scouts, and future law-abiding governors of the Land of Lincoln—even though all they’ll really want to do is knock each other’s heads clean off on their way to full-ride scholarships at any Division I school of their choice—where they will play at 100 percent performance output without a second thought from or restrictions imposed by the NCAA.”

Kinsley sits next to me on the dais, don’t even apologize for her tardy delay, but instead leans back an’ waits for me to cheer hip hip hooray (nah, machè, I ain’t yo’ bae). When I don’t say nothin’, she turns to these Stater journos an’ starts cussin’: “What the actual fuck, you racist motherfuckers.”

The room goes dead quiet, but I know they all sussin’.

“Look at the pot calling the kettle nwafa.”

That’s Robbie Vandenberg, but I ain’t surprised. The word nwafa ain’t juss in his throat, it’s even in his eyes. Yeah, this estebedje journo ’bout to win the Utmost Racist Prize.

“Monchè,” I ask him, “how long you been waitin’ to say ‘nwafa’ wit me in the same room? These last twenty minutes? Since you woke up this mornin’? From the moment your editor assigned you to this white-people-only press conference y’all juss had to have?”

Vandenberg shrugs an’ smiles as if he been eatin’ shit for a good long while, but yet on his plate is still a heapin’ pile. “Hey, I’m just trying to get your attention. I’m just trying to help you.”

This motherf—

You know what? He ain’t even worth my while. But I talk shit anyway, ’cause he already done got me riled.

“Pou tout bon?” I ask, an’ then spit a half-assed freestyle. “An’ how you plan on doin’ that? Oh, that’s right, it’s a notable fact: White supremacists like you live to invoke the word ‘nwafa’ true in the presence of a Black boy who you pray would try his damndest to come through so you can smack him down with the steel blue. And after, if the nwafa don’t catch a clue? Well, it’s up to you to bring the corkscrew and make sure that, for once and for all, that nwafa knows who’s who. So, monchè, I know who I am, but do you know you?”

About my flow, Vandenberg don’t rave. Instead, he tries to create awe wit his own personal shockwave. “Did Kinsley tell you what that Stanford Sutton Industries structure is for on Isle a la Cache?”

“No,” Kinsley interrupts (her snark-shade abrupt, but her professionalism untouched), “because Kinsley is first going to tell Jean-Michel that Kinsley just got the greenlight from Stanford Sutton and the NCAA to offer Jean-Michel Electric Resurrection on Jean-Michel’s terms, free of charge with no performance output reduction and no strings attached.”

Silans. For three long seconds, don’t nobody say a word, even though e’ry single body in this room juss heard (an’ I mean that literally). Still, I ready my loins to gird (I do this skillfully) to defend against this Stater journo herd (an’ score defeat brilliantly) so my big, Black Mandingo trouser snake won’t be interred (by some North Shore machè named Brittany).

But I ain’t scurred, especially when these Stater journos shout questions at us before they send out they suss an’ make e’rybody’s skin tingle wit trust. At the Medill School of Journalism, this implanted feature (biometric options an’ all) is a must.

(Also known as the Lutton-Rossi device, solely created to surveil and entice, its tagline says it exposes fake news as an underhanded an’ dastardly villain vice. Most of us have been duped by that kind of bullshit at least once or twice, so Medill partnered wit Stanford Sutton Industries to put that shit on ice.)

Kinsley look like she’s plottin’ an elaborate an’ intricate diamond heist. But that’s a front if I ever saw a fake bunt.

Yeah, if these Stater journos step to her wrong, she gon’ unleash—

Wait. Hold up. There’s that word again. Y’all juss ignore it an’ go pour y’all self a gin. But if that don’t calm y’all, then go ahead, unleash a feist like a three-year-old Leopold or a table flippin’ Christ.

While y’all try to figure that one out, the tinglin’—

---

 

3. IN THE TRUTELL EMO

JEAN-MICHEL FEAT. MICHAËLLE-ANNABELLE

 

—juss stops.

It’s like someone called the FCC cops or we’re waitin’ for the beat to drop on a track that’s screwed an’ chopped an’ blazin’ hot. The silence extends for four more seconds, handheld notifications ping wit ominous inflections, an’ these Stater journos raise they voices in non-stop interjections.

“Lord Mayor Point du Sable has just declared war on the State of Illinois.”

“He says the State set off a bomb at Oak Street Beach. I’m sussing reports of scores of people dead and counting.”

“I’m sussing reports of possibly hundreds.”

“The Mayor is calling it an act of terrorism against his beloved city-state.”

“I can’t fucking believe he used the word ‘beloved’ to describe his shitty-state.”

“What the fuck is at Oak Street Beach?”

“August Twelfth fireworks.”

“What the fuck is August Twelfth?”

“Some shit about Chicago being founded. Or gaining its sovereignty. Or both.”

“Oak Street Beach is just one of the many locations in the city-state to hold a celebration, but it’s the largest.”

(These Stater journos have forgotten me)

“Now Governor Sutton has declared war on Chicago.”

(so I’m ’bout to be)

“Holy shit.”

“Holy shit is right. I can’t independently confirm this yet with a suss, but I’m hearing Chicago is moving a significant number of heavy-plated Maybach Exelero exos to the northern and western borders.”

“What about their southern border?”

“The State doesn’t gives a fuck about the South Side of Chicago.”

“It’s not like that cesspool has the money or resources to amass an attack against us.”

“Poor as shit motherfuckers.”

“Speaking of shit, Atkins, you’ve tracked Clarabelle’s cow pies all over these poor students’ gymnasium floor with your Hush Puppies.”

“Yeah, Atkins. Didn’t your mother teach you to wipe your feet before you come inside from the cow pasture?”

(witout whitey.)

“Meyer and Kowalski, you two do fucking realize that Springfield is not a one-horse, jerkwater town, right? We have two major holo-papers, including mine, and four holo-vid outlets.”

“I thought it was a backwater town, actually.”

“Not surprised you’d think that. Your head is so far up Meyer’s ass you can’t even remember that Springfield is where the Office of the Governor is located.”

“Which just means when the governor is not at his posh eighty-nine-room mansion in the North Shore, Sutton tracks the cow shit all over his Hush Puppies into his Springfield farmhouse, just like you do into yours.”

“Eighty-nine rooms? Did you suss that fact?”

“Fake news! Revoke his journo card!”

But juss as I stand (while these Stater journos keep throwin’ barbs at each other as they look at they hands), Kinsley leads the way, as if planned. I follow, but not to say mahalo. Nah, I’m tryin’ to find out if what that Stater journo back there said was true an’ manman mwen is lyin’ up in some Stanford Sutton Industries lab lookin’ blue.

“There’s a vehicle outside ready to take you for Electric Resurrection,” Kinsley says before she throws open the front doors of the school like a boss, her lips dewed an’ moist wit Purple Rain lip gloss.

“But what you really want to hear is your mother is safe and sound. And she is. She’s in one of our cryo labs at a secure location. Her vitals are good and she’s giving us excellent results already.”

I told y’all (but I didn’t). Nah, I rolled y’all (an’ then I quitted).

I put my hands in the pockets of my hoodie as I trudge down the front steps of the school wit Kinsley now wonderin’ would she (or should she?) put me in that locker with Davy—next to manman mwen, a true guild slavey—sixty percent diminished. Maybe.

But that thought don’t hardly come to a finish before Kinsley play me like a master violinist. Y’all, she Blurb the vehicle idlin’ at the curb wit the gravitas of Alec Guinness.

“The Conquest Knight XV is security, protection, and assurance for the most daring and audacious of the Electric Resurrected who have places to be and people to see during wartime: opaque armor with the highest-quality, high-strength hardened steel. Transparent, tinted armor glass throughout, including the tandem, tinted moon roof panels with privacy shades.”

Y’all are my witness to any soon-to-take-place shady b’iness.

“With this magnificent beast, you can pay the cost to floss and be the motherfucking boss. Twenty-two-and-a-half-inch polished custom rims forged from 6061 aluminum. ASC ballistic run-flat system on all tires. Front steel bumper. Armored grille. Roof-mounted rear-view camera. Heavy-duty roof rack with folding ladder. Ballistic fiberglass rear bumper with Kevlar. Ballistic fiberglass fenders with Kevlar. Stainless steel side-mounted running boards with Kevlar.”

Mezanmi, shit juss got religious.

“But there’s more than security and protection to this beautiful behemoth. There’s also twenty-first century luxury and excellence (it says so in the brochure) like no vehicle man has ever built or seen. Wilton Wool luxury carpeting. Ultrasuede interior finish. Handcrafted Andrew Muirhead leather with six-way electric conference and cabin seating for a total of six passengers. Personal rear-seat side-mounted laptop stations. Dual-screen rear console with remote-controlled inputs. Large flat-screen television. Satellite holo TV hookup.”

I can feel the Holy Ghost comin’ y’all—yeah, I’m finished.

Kinsley opens the rear passenger-side door, sits on that handcrafted Andrew Muirhead leather, an’ puts her purple Gucci tote on the floor. She pats the seat next to her. I almost break my neck an’ wreck my specs to be blessed wit her.

There are others in here with us, but I’m so excited that I don’t feel the hard light thrust from the digital blindfold some Stanford Sutton Industries operative puts over my eyes an’ proceeds to adjusts. It sexes my specs so fast I wonder what’s next. Then I feel its tendrils shake hands wit my visual cortex an’ establish interface trust wit the ease of an accord that was agreed upon long ago an’ many times discussed.

Shit glitches an’ flashes, first wit dribbles, then splashes. Y’all, the network glare of this packet is gon’ bring me to a casket. But straight up, there ain’t no mistrust. An’ too bad y’all can’t see how beautiful this girl is I juss sussed.

Silky dark hair. Skin so fair. Ox horns wit baby hair at her edges slicked down so good it don’t move witout a prayer. Thick an’ heavy eyebrows threaded wit extreme care. Cute as a button nose pert an’ up to the air. Exquisite cheekbones designed by her mama an’ daddy for us all to stare. Full lips from back home, all around the world, an’ right back again there.

“My name is Michaëlle-Annabelle.”

Kaëlle. Bèl fanm. Bèl nanm. Milatrès.

“And I’ve hacked your mind to free you.”

Which makes sense, wit how I can see you.

“It took me forever to find you in the TruTell Emo, and I was the one who coded your sigTell.”

This girl, monchè, y’all juss don’t know. Her sudden appearance feeds my sigTell flow and blesses my TruTell Emo. She’s my solace, my goddess, my cool breeze in August, so I’m not gon’ get raucous, but for damn sure will be cautious.

“Caution is fine, but you need to trust me, and you need to do it now—with the quickness.”

Yeah, she all up in my bi’ness—

“If I stay much longer—”

—like altitude sickness—

“—Kinsley will figure out I’m here, and you—”

—but y’all watch me an’ witness—

“—will never have the chance to be your true self again.”

—my absolute gid’ness—

“So no matter what happens to you, no matter what you see and hear and say—”

—an’ then tell me who in this—

“—just know I got your back.”

—an’ who ’bout to win this.

The feed goes dark an’ ends this.

---

 

4. YOUR BCID MUST HAVE REACHED ITS UPLOAD LIMIT

FEAT. JEAN-MICHEL AND SAFFRON SUTTON

 

I wait a minute for it to replenish an’ finish, because I want Michaëlle-Annabelle to read my sigTell an’ extend this, but don’t nobody take off my blindfold, so nothin’ happen for so long I’m thinkin’ Kinsley Chase should be askin’ me for forgiveness.

“Kinsley, your BCID must have reached its upload limit.”

Silans.

Yeah, my cool is ghost. I try to push down the risin’ panic an’ drop a smart-ass joke I hope come off as organic.

“Looks like somebody forgot to pay the data transfer bill.”

Nobody laughs. Man, these people need they decaf. Or even better, a surgical procedure to remove that stick from up they ass. But I ain’t gon’ lie, it looks like this joke has passed.

(Pun intended.)

Men toujou, I try to explain it an’ maintain it, ’cause I’m for damn certain I can sustain it.

“See, Stanford Sutton Industries is the wealthiest robotics company in the world, an’ it employs thousands of highly intelligent people, who, on a daily basis, push the boundaries of life, humanity, an’ technology, like this Brain Computer Interface Device I have over my eyes as a digital blindfold right now. An’ yet, wit all those smart-ass people Stanford Sutton is payin’—an’ I’m talm ’bout anpil anpil lajan—somebody forgot to pay the data transfer bill. I mean, we’ve all been there, byen?”

Ti Mari pa monte, Ti Mari pa desann. You’d think I juss asked for some Grey Poupon. Nobody says a goddamn word. Yeah, these estebedje got urs. Yeah, these estebedje done heard. But still, I’m undeterred.

I press my fingers against my eyes to re-initiate the feed. That’s when the fear starts. I press my fingers against my eyes again ’cause of the need. I’m sure this is where my Electric Resurrection career starts.

The silence grows stark. I press my temples to deactivate the blindfold on my eyes, but it’s still eerily dark. Out the Conquest’s windows, I can see we not movin’ an’ a few minutes earlier we stopped an’ parked.

Night has grown. I’m out here all alone. I swear (eskize’m, Manman!) this is the middle of Mirkwood Forest an’ I’m searchin’ for an escaped Gollum, but all I can find is a silence so solemn. An’ a house in front of me wit no columns.

Y’all, this place ain’t traditional. It’s a big bank human fish tank for people who think they shit don’t stank an’ like to do five-minute side planks while wearin’ self-cleanin’ yoga pants that will never smell rank.

In other words, it ain’t fo’ people like me.

So, I get out the Conquest to go see what I can see.

I don’t know how I know this, but this is one of those Vipp shelters insanely rich people like to put in the middle of the forest. I get a weird feelin’ that I been here before as I step up four small boulders an’ walk through the front wall that doubles as a big ass slidin’ glass door.

Immediately, I see a holo of Saffron Sutton. She smiles at me.

“That took for-fucking-ever, but I did it!” I swear all over her face I see miles an’ miles of glee.

Speakin’ of charm, her seein’ me is like a shot in her arm. An’ y’all, I’m bein’ serye; that ain’t no white boy smarm. But then, why does it feel like I juss sold the farm?

“Michaëlle-Annabelle didn’t even put sigTell locks on your BCID feed because she didn’t think I could hack its default security network. I mean, that shit is basic.” Saffron Sutton scoffs like somebody just offered her Lipton Ice green tea.

 

“OK, I need to stop talking and get to the point before Michaëlle-Annabelle’s front porch programme wakes up and kicks me—e”

---

 

INTERLUDE. THIS IS YOUR (FAKE) LIFE

SAFFRON SUTTON

 

—Lucille, stop Angry Black Boy narrative program.

I see Jean-Michel freeze just inside the sliding glass door of the Vipp shelter through the Near Sight display of my contact lenses. I am so tired of this damn program. It was supposed to be fun. For him and for me. Mostly for me, since I was playing the Great Creator. Again.

It took me 1,000 hours to write because I wanted to be meticulous with his fake life. I wanted it to be accurate. I wanted it to feel real to him.

But now, it feels too real to me. I know Jean-Michel better than he knows himself. This version, at least.

And this is the only version that really matters. This is the version of him that will breathe new life into his most recent Electric Resurrection and give him purpose. Make him determined to go out and change his world. But holy fucking shit, this is so tedious.

I flick my left hand and backhand the program narrative out of view, beyond my peripheral vision. I can always come back to it later. I put too many hours into his life to just discard it. But that doesn’t mean I want to go through the rest of his narrative right now.

But I can talk to him. Some tests have shown that the digital brain is somewhat aware as it’s being constructed, and during Electric Resurrection.

So, here we go.

Jean-Michel, I’ll be straight with you: That weird feeling you just got? That feeling like you’ve been here before? Well, you have. This ain’t your first Electric Resurrection.

This war with Chicago isn’t going well for us, so I had to switch it up. College football players fighting in wars is nothing new. Some died. Some didn’t.

And look, I know that, technically, you aren’t a college student. I know you’re a prospective freshman. I know you haven’t enrolled at Auburn yet. I know you’re looking forward to that.

But we needed you for this war.

I didn’t expect the first two of you to die. And yeah, I know people die in war. But the best mechanical engineers and roboticists built you. I built your brain. You were supposed to be unstoppable. Unkillable. So, there was no way you were going to play football at Auburn. You were too valuable a military asset. You still are.

Michaëlle-Annabelle wasn’t on board with that. She said we were violating the contract your mother signed. I reminded her whose last name is on the company logo. She walked. I wiped your memories.

I also tweaked my codework for your brain a bit, and downloaded into you what I thought was cutting-edge military programming from the deep web. That was supposed to convert you into a badass super soldier. I was sure it would.

The first you wasn’t badass at all. I’ll never download deep web shit again.

The second you lived much longer. But you still died. That could have been due to the shitshow of this war, or it could have been because of my flawed codework. If you ask me, and I’m being honest here, I think it’s both.

So, I consulted with the State of Illinois Cyber Warfare Command about military programming that wasn’t shitty and didn’t come from the deep web. Ten years ago, Daddy saw this war coming. He had the foresight to sign a military contract with the State. Some contracts are more important than others.

Michaëlle-Annabelle just doesn’t understand that. But then, Michaëlle-Annabelle is not a Sutton.

That consultation was insightful. You’re a better exo-pilot now. Easily the best in your class. It took some time to get you there, though.

I had to remove all of Michaëlle-Annabelle’s codework. I had to write and execute your Angry Black Boy program narrative.

I had to make you you.

I care about you, Jean-Michel. Michaëlle-Annabelle doesn’t think I do, but I really do care about you. I didn’t want you to be alone in that nothingness of stasis. It’s important to dream. Even for the Electric Resurrected.

I want you to experience a normal life. I hope you appreciate the true-to-life programming I gave you. I’m proud of it. I think it’s accurate. I think I’m telling your story well.

I don’t want you to undergo Electric Resurrection again. What I do want is for me and the State Cyber Warfare Command to truly make you unkillable. If we can do that, you will turn the tide of this war.

And if we can’t make that happen, well, you’re always welcome back in the spit-scan.

This war ain’t goin’ nowhere no time soon. See what I did there? Michaëlle-Annabelle doesn’t believe I can, but I know how to make you talk.

I have time to get this right. Your Angry Black Boy program is already a long one. And I’m still writing furiously.

The continuation of this wonderful dream you’re having can go on for infinity, if needed. I mean, I wrote my plans for Electric Resurrection when I was ten years old. My Sweet Girl Saffron Sutton program is just waiting for the right circumstances to automatically trigger it with an execute command.

But let’s not think like that right now. Let’s move forward.

I’ve just uploaded your digital brain into your Electric Resurrected body. The Cyber Warfare Command just uploaded some military upgrades. You are now officially the shit, and then some.

So, let’s go show those bougie Sovs why they shouldn’t fuck with the State of Illinois.

---

 

5. KAI-KA

SHON-SHON

 

Every night, I dream I’m Roshan. Sometimes, when I dream I’m him, my legs are gone. I remember that my girlfriend, Rakaya, set off a bomb because I’m half-dead and lying on the beach, trying to drag myself on.

I hurt, but not where my legs used to be. No, it’s my heart that hurts, and not from the trauma that I see; broken, charred bodies often in pieces of three. But that never makes me weep; what does is knowing Rakaya did this to me. What I can never figure out, as I toss in my sleep, is if I want these tears of mine to set me or her free.

What I do know is that I want to wake up and get out this dream, but my lurksuit won’t have it and keeps me asleep. Usually, it sets my alert level at one hundred of one hundred before my nightmare emotions start to creep, but it’s trying to teach me a lesson as it keeps me counting sheep.

It tells me it does this to keep me a well-honed, killing machine, but I always tell it I don’t need shit like that to keep me keen. But every night, I dream that scene. And every night, it’s the same fucked-up routine.

Eventually, I wake up, though. That’s just too much horror for it to continually show. So, the rest of the night, I don’t sleep anymore because I don’t want to dream anymore and rest my infernal lurksuit’s core.

Which is good, because that means we both can stay awake and scheme and sin with a big-ass bottle of my best sloe gin, and figure out how to make Roshan perfect again.

---

 

6. ME, THAT LOVEABLE, CUDDLY, FUZZY BLACK RABBIT

JEAN-MICHEL FEAT. KINSLEY CHASE

 

A Mercedes-Maybach S 600 Guard murksuit stands in front of me ready to take out all shady motherfuckers of ill repute. Slim fit, Kinsley Chase knows her shit. This future-styled whip can take a bullet an’ a bomb, an’ then dust its shoulders off an’ escort your badass daughter to prom, all while wearin’ one of those big-ass corsages the shy nerd always has on in them thirty-minute holo-sitcoms.

But it ain’t got no qualm as it stand against the wall of this day room that’s pro’lly from some lily-white sitcom, emanatin’ nothin’ but all quiet an’ all calm.

“This is yours after you die, and for as long as you want it,” Kinsley Chase says, her voice soft.

“Wait. What the fuck? This was not in the contract I signed.”

I do my best to try not to scoff. But I can’t help it when I notice Kinsley Chase’s new coif. Yeah, she want me to see she can roll hard like a boss. But that don’t matter to me, as long as I get my extra life, hoss. Cuz I ain’t tryin’ to sleep forever wit some smelly-ass, decomposin’ peat moss. Now, she bet not tell me plans have changed as she reapplies her Cherry Blossom Black lip gloss.

“Plans have changed.” Kinsley Chase touches up her Cherry Blossom Black lip gloss. “Illinois is now at war with Chicago. All resources need to be diverted to the protection of the State, Governor Sutton, his wife, and especially his daughter, Saffron Sutton. The Governor has commissioned an elite bodyguard from the Mercenaries Guild to protect his baby girl. You.”

I ain’t gon’ lie: That ain’t much of a surprise.

“As part of your re-commissioned Electric Resurrection process, you’ll be fitted with that murksuit.”

But is juss a part of her ever-growin’ pack of lies.

“It will be fused to your body and interface with your newly constructed brain and nervous system, giving you lightning-fast, autonomic reflexes to ensure maximum protection of the First Daughter. But like all members of the Mercenaries Guild, the murksuit will also be directly linked to your consciousness, ensuring you have total loyalty to your charge.”

Holy shit. Talk about makin’ two worlds collide.

“This, if you choose to have it fused to your body, is now your only path to Electric Resurrection.”

I walk over to the murksuit an’ look up at it. “But y’all still gon’ give me the classist option, I see.” I’m talkin’ shit big-time, but I know in the long run, me an’ this motherfucker gon’ make some serious static.

Kinsley Chase screws up her face like she juss about done had it. “We’re giving you a very good option available under the current circumstances and the shifting political landscape.”

“Sound like I ain’t got no choice.” Yeah, I see what’s happenin’ on yo’ magician’s palette.

But you juss keep on wavin’ yo’ wand to cast yo’ unsuspectingly strong magic. I know you solve e’ry problem that come to you like that, as if you a soft-hearted Hagrid. But you ain’t soft or got no heart—at least, not one that ain’t riddled with maggots. ‘Cause if you did, then you’d acknowledge your real source of power ain’t the wand, or the hat, or the murksuit. But me, that loveable, cuddly an’ fuzzy black rabbit.

(Yeah, that metaphor got away from me, but at one point I almost really did have it.)

“Look, Stanford Sutton Industries wants to make sure you have the choice of life after death, and a life that’s not based on performance-output reduction. What the NCAA offered you is just racist, classist bullshit. We want to make sure you have an appealing, viable option before you die. An option that includes a respectful resurrection. An option that gives you purpose during the war.

“But there’s also another option.”

Kinsley Chase walks about ten paces to her left. There’s another suit here she gon’ surely address.

“So, let’s be honest: You can be Saffron Sutton’s lackey bodyguard. You can undergo Electric Resurrection, get into that murksuit and always stand a pace or two behind her, waiting for some action that will never come. Because, and again, let’s be honest, now that we’re at war, Stanford Sutton will never let his daughter leave that underground bunker. Which wouldn’t be very exciting for you.

“Or you can have a more direct impact in this war. You can undergo Electric Resurrection, choose this jaguar-class Bugatti Chiron Super Sport 300+ exo-suit, and be an ace pilot for the State of Illinois.

“But let me be entirely up front with you—no matter what you choose, all of your memories of this life will be completely wiped. You won’t remember playing football, you won’t remember your girlfriend, you won’t even remember your mother. But she will be released from her research contract and paid handsomely.

“She will be able to cancel her membership to the Maids, Cleaners, and Launderers Guild and withdraw from it. Forever. She will be one of the rare and envied guildless. Her bank account will never dip below $5 million for the remainder of her life.

“Trust me when I say Stanford Sutton Industries will make sure she is well cared for, because she is not something you should have to worry about on your deathbed.

“So, let’s get you into the suit of your choice. Let’s ease your pain. Let’s give you life again.”

(Continued in Part 3…)

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Host Commentary

By Valerie Valdes

Once again, that was part two of Code Switching, by Malon Edwards. Stay tuned for part three next week.

The white savior trope, in stories, typically involves a white main character swooping in to save other, marginalized characters who are struggling to save themselves. But the concept is a broader one, extending to real people who often see themselves as benevolent heroes, whose burden is to uplift their so-called inferiors, often through imperialism–be it cultural or good old-fashioned killing. Here, the poor, young, dying Haitian who simply wants to play football is offered salvation by the white philanthropist, offered a new body, a new life… until, suddenly, we find the new body is now an exosuit made for war instead of sports, and it’s the Black man’s burden to save everyone else through violence. But then, the code is switched on us again, a bait and switch, revealing more layers of ugly truth and exploitation and deception. Those who are convinced of the righteousness of their own manipulative, like the white savior of this story, won’t let a little thing like murder stop them, a lesson that history teaches us over and over again, and that continues to be taught through the present day. How far will this fictional conspiracy go, and who will win this war? Tune in next week as we dive deeper into the code.

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And our closing quotation this week is from the poem “Boy Breaking Glass” by Gwendolyn Brooks : “I shall create! If not a note, a hole. / If not an overture, a desecration.”