The bodyguard [1]

Well, I guess my life so far deserves a good recap, right? So, here we go…

My name is Dean Carleone, an author whose narrative choices are so questionable that even my own characters, if they could, would form a line just to give me some good slaps. After releasing what I swore was my magnum opus, a novel that was supposed to catapult me to literary immortality, I ended up dying in the most cliché way possible for someone who lived as long as I did: a heart attack. Yes, death decided to call me with a soap opera cliché.

But, surprise of surprises, the end was not really the end. Instead of waking up to what I expected to be a warm reception from the beyond with pats on the back and "good job", I found myself reborn inside my own novel. And not as the fearless hero or even the charismatic villain, but as a mere extra. Yeah, the universe definitely has a peculiar sense of humor.

I found myself, then, involved with the main cast of the story, who by chance studied at the Pentagon Academy - the place to be if you want to become a respected hero in this or any other world. And the cherry on top of the cake? I discovered that I am a servant of the High Court, an organ so sinister and full of intrigues that would make any Mexican soap opera look like child's play. Yes, the irony does not escape me.

As if that wasn't enough, I found out at the last minute that I had a mission to accomplish. But, as a good procrastinator that I am, I ended up leaving it for the last minute, and well, time ran out. Marked as a deserter by the High Court, I became a target of assassins. I fought bravely, of course, decimating my pursuers with an efficiency that even I was unaware of, until, well, I met Alva. A walking calamity who, for some divine reason or lack of option, decided to spare my life when she saw a glimmer of potential in me. Or maybe she was just bored. Who knows.

And so, like a ghost (or a footnote in the story), I disappeared, declared dead to the world. And the funeral? Well, no one bothered to show up… Except Blake. But that, ah, that's a story for another day.

On my way, I crossed paths with two elves who would change my narrative in ways that not even the most creative of authors could predict. One of them, by fate or misfortune, ended up becoming my master. And, let's be honest, I'd rather face a dragon than see him again. It's not a matter of hate, far from it. It's fear. Fear of those lessons that look more like torture and the kind of training that makes you question all your life choices up to that point.

The missions I started doing for the High Court were not exactly what I had in mind when I thought of adventures. Murders. Yes, you heard right. Suddenly, I, Dean Carleone, found myself involved in plots that would make the plot of any detective novel look like a fairy tale. And here I am, a former author who thought he knew life, reborn as a mere extra in his own story, becoming a servant of the High Court and, to complete the cliché, the "puppy" of Alva.

If someone had told me, years ago, that my life would take such a turn, I would have laughed. I probably would have used it as inspiration for some supporting character with a tragicomic existence. But reality, as I'm learning, surpasses fiction. And this twist… well, it's worthy of a chapter ending that leaves the reader eager for the next page.

So, as I try to navigate this reality that seems to have been written under the effects of a very strong coffee mixed with a feverish imagination, one thing is certain: life, with its unexpected twists, its complex characters and its intricate plots, is the greatest story ever told. And me? Well, I'm just an author who ended up becoming a character of his own plot, trying to find his way back to the cover of the book, or at least, to a page where he can live a little peace. That, of course, if the High Court and Alva allow it.

---

Returning to reality, I found myself in a state of semi-exile in that room divided between Alva and Nivea, facing the wall as if I were serving some kind of school punishment. All this because, for a reason that defied logic, Alva had decided that the bathroom was too mainstream to change clothes.

Nivea, already awake, devoted herself to her cell phone with the intensity of a scientist in front of a revolutionary discovery. "Seriously, what do these judges, apocalyptic beings, have so much with these cell phones?" I wondered in silence, my curiosity rivaling my confusion.

"If you look, I'll–" Alva began to threaten, but I, already familiar with the script, interrupted her: "You'll rip out my eyes, shove my head up my ass and throw me in a trash. Yeah, I know."

A smile escaped her with my interruption, a sign that maybe there was a thin thread of humor in her composition. "Okay, now you can turn around."

"Turning around," I announced, spinning on my heels with the hesitation of someone who doesn't know if they are about to witness a disaster or a miracle. The sight that greeted me could be described as nothing less than spectacular… If my definition of splendor included being tragically attracted to the person who could be the reason for my premature death.

Alva, of modest stature, with her maybe 1.62m in height, was there, wearing a black dress that screamed "I'm here to impress". Her white hair contrasted hypnotically with her eyes of the same color, a spectacle in itself.

I shook my head, admiring, as if I were in front of a masterpiece in a museum, and let out: "You could be strangely attractive if you weren't a psychopath, you know?"

Normally, one would expect someone to be offended by being called a psychopath, but Alva, true to her unique nature, seemed to accept the comment with some pride. "You're right, you know? Usually men tend to run away from me, or not even say a word in my presence."

"Well, it's men's stuff, I understand them, after all." I commented, trying to add a layer of lightness to the conversation. "I think it's more a matter of self-preservation, right? They think with the upper head at least. You can't say we're idiots now, can you?"

"Sigh… Shut up, please." Alva's answer came quickly, as if my comment was a mere annoying buzz that she wanted to silence. Immediately, I gestured a zipper being closed over my mouth, a sign that my attempt at humor might have gone too far.

Nivea, until then a silent spectator of this peculiar exchange, raised her voice without taking her eyes off her cell phone. "Why is he still alive, sister?" The question seemed to carry more curiosity than anything else.

"Because this puppy of mine can be useful to us, right, puppy?" Alva didn't miss the opportunity to remind me of my new "title".

"Dean, my name is Dean," I insisted, starting to spell, in a desperate attempt to keep my identity afloat. "D-E-A-N."

Alva, with the casualness of someone who discusses the weather, began to touch up her makeup, revealing my new mission as if she informed me of the lunchtime. "You will start escorting today a girl named Lila Grace. Lila is the daughter of the president of the United States, and the president of this wonderful country hired the High Court to protect her, due to the threats received because of the election."

"Is it election time already?" I asked, clinging to anything that seemed more interesting than the reality of being a babysitter for a VIP. As expected, Alva ignored me completely and continued: "Your mission is to keep her alive until the elections are over, which in this case, would take two weeks."

"Okay… But the day off that I had asked for, is within that date of the elections," I tried to argue, hoping for maybe a miracle or a convenient forgetfulness on her part. But Alva, always ready with an answer, already had a plan: "You can take her with you, as long as you keep her alive."

"Hmmm, so I just have to lock her up in a secluded and hidden place, with food for two weeks and that's it!" The idea seemed to make so much sense in my head that I ended up thinking out loud, without realizing it.

"I would do that in your place. But everyone leads the way they think is best," Alva completed, the application of her red lipstick capturing my attention momentarily. Curiosity stung me, like a persistent bee: "Where are you going, to be getting all dressed up?"

"A meeting with the main members of the High Court," she replied without taking her eyes off the mirror, treating her makeup with the seriousness of a sacred ritual. The answer only served to whet my curiosity even more. "Aren't you taking Nivea?"

"She doesn't want to go, so she'll stay here," Alva said, closing the matter as if she were defining the fate of the world with the same ease that she chose her clothes.

Finishing applying the lipstick and putting it in her purse with a fluid gesture, Alva turned to me. "I'm going to teleport you to the White House, in three, two…"

"Wait a minute! I still have—" My words were cut off in the air, as useless as whispers against a tornado. "Three!" And before I could formulate any protest, my body dissolved into a storm of sensations, the reality around me blurring at breakneck speed.

When the vision stabilized, I was in front of a drastically different scenario. The opulence of Alva and Nivea's room had been replaced by the austere imposingness of the White House. "Inner peace," I murmured to myself, still trying to assimilate the abrupt change of environment. "Working for the High Court is definitely a roller coaster. And I don't remember buying the ticket."

Now, with the mission of protecting Lila Grace and the unexpected trip to the White House, I wondered what else fate - or Alva, who seemed to have a frighteningly similar control over my life - had in store for me. If I knew what awaited me, maybe I would have wished to be teleported to anywhere else. But, at that moment, all I could do was breathe deeply and prepare for what was to come.