The Viewer

Jonathan heaved a breath as he leaned back in the chair. Still not body temperature, he thought. He could feel the heat rising in the fabric along his arms. “Almost ready,” Toung said over the wired intercom in his Vietnamese accent. Jonathan sat in a Faraday cage, a device designed to block high frequencies and only permit extremely low frequencies (ELF). Director Morris jokingly called it the Keebler room, as only ELFs were allowed in. Dumb. Clear your mind. Breathe. Jonathan was trained to do this—to clear his mind and become still. He was a remote viewer, someone who could see things without looking at them directly. To most, this was pseudoscience, but to the CIA, it was a valuable espionage tool.

With his eyes closed, Jonathan sensed the light fading from the cage. His focus shifted inward, dissolving into a deep part of his mind, taking everything around him into the astral space between his senses and his target.

This time, the target was an underground network deep in the slums of Ho Chi Minh City. Here, the CIA had received intelligence of an assassination plot on the president. Pro-CCP factions within the government believed that killing President Kien would strengthen their influence, securing more control through cronyism. Normally, this would be a matter for Vietnamese intelligence, but fears of China spreading influence southwards towards the Malacca Strait prompted the CIA's involvement.

The targets, a small faction of pro-CCP Vietnamese paramilitary, had been seen entering various buildings in district 12. Where they went once inside was a mystery. All attempts to uncover their destination had failed, and there was growing wariness about their cover being blown. This was where Jonathan came in.

Perfect black. Jonathan’s consciousness had fully left his body.

Soon, the blackness began to dissipate. Like stars appearing after sunset, details emerged. Air on his face, the moisture of clouds, lights moving by below—movement.

“I’m flying,” Jonathan muttered aloud.

Toung removed one side of his headphones and looked up at Morris with a nod. “He’s in,” Toung confirmed.

“Water. Fields. Rice paddies,” Jonathan continued. He spoke softly, just loud enough for Toung to hear, requiring amplification to be perceptible. Morris stared fixedly at a screen where Jonathan's body occupied the frame.

Let’s hope this works. Deputy Director Morris was skeptical. Remote viewing was contentious within the CIA. Considered a waste of time, the CIA had poured millions into research in the 1960s and '70s. The program was almost shuttered until a remote viewer correctly identified a clandestine Russian seaport and a new nuclear submarine. Thirteen days later, satellite footage confirmed its deployment into the Arctic.

“I’m in the city now,” Jonathan said. “I’m nearing district 12.”

Toung sat like a statue, careful not to disturb Jonathan’s focus. The CIA was still uncertain how remote viewing worked despite years of research. Superstition filled in the gaps where science couldn't.

“Approaching target,” Jonathan muttered.

The rice paddies were far behind him now. He flew over tightly packed homes and businesses, crowded together like cattle in dairy stalls. The streets teemed with motorbikes, flowing chaotically. Narrow buildings jutted upwards like an alien landscape.

Jonathan paused, suspended over the district, eyeing the structures below. Every building was unique, but in this crowded mess, they looked identical. He was briefed two days ago. The information was sparse but enough for Jonathan to feel confident in getting something valuable from this viewing. They’re moving, or at least their messages are. They’re using a single phone, but the IPs change randomly within this area. Jonathan recalled the diagram Morris had shown in the briefing. An overlay appeared on the homes below. Faint glowing lines, starting as points, grew and connected—the IP hits. He now had a map. Here we go.

“I’m going down now,” Jonathan said softly.

Morris clenched his fist. A bead of sweat formed on his forehead. He dared not touch it, sharing Toung’s superstition.

Jonathan focused on the glimmering diagram. Light concentrated in one area. He moved towards it, flying low enough to see clothing patterns drying on balconies. He entered through a rooftop, passing through the layers of material. A man ate a bowl of food on the floor as his wife folded laundry.

He descended another floor. A woman drank rice wine and thumbed through videos on her phone. Jonathan went out of her front door and down the hall. Overhead lights flickered, exposing standing water and grime on the floor. Stray dogs tussled over scraps.

“I feel like I’m getting close,” Jonathan said. He didn’t like being here, even if his body was miles away.

Jonathan descended a flight of stairs and then another. An ominous steel door with a small rectangular window presented itself. His heart raced. He began to sweat. Toung, watching from the next room, grew nervous. Too much excitement could rip Jonathan from the viewing state.

Stay calm, Jonathan. You’re almost done.

Jonathan heard footsteps. Knock, knock, knock. They grew louder. He saw two shadows on the other side of the door.

“There’s a thick metal door. There are two people behind it. I think this is where they’re planning everything,” Jonathan managed to say.

Toung anxiously monitored Jonathan’s vitals. The electrodes detected heightened fear. Jonathan approached the door. He felt that if the people inside came out, they’d see him.

Be rational. You see them. They don’t see you.

He tried to calm his nerves. Something was wrong. He’d never felt this anxious in a viewing state.

The handle of the door began to turn when…

“Hello, Jonathan,” a voice said behind him.

Jonathan turned to look. A blackened figure loomed on the stairs above him. Jonathan froze. His vitals spiked. Toung and Morris exchanged worried looks. Jonathan’s body began to sweat while his viewing self was paralyzed.

“Yes, we see you,” the figure said. Jonathan was stunned.

We? Get out. Get out. Get out. Get back to HQ.

No luck. Jonathan was trapped in his viewing state. Unfazed, the voice continued:

“I want you to know that we know who you are, Jonathan,” the figure said. The voice was neither male nor female; it was something other.

What the fuck, they know who I am?

His heart rate went haywire. Toung looked at Morris. “Jonathan,” Toung said loudly over the speaker. No reply. “Jonathan, come back,” Toung said.

“Something’s happening. We need to get him out; this isn’t safe,” he urged Morris. Morris’s gaze didn’t lift from the screen. What is happening in there?

“We’d like you to work with us, Jonathan. You’re special. We’ll be in touch,” the figure continued.

As soon as the figure said this, the steel door opened, and two men passed through. The commotion drew Jonathan’s attention for a second. He snapped his view back to the landing, but the figure was gone.

Jonathan gasped loudly in the cage. Toung listened intently. “I’m getting him out,” he commanded. Morris gave a slight nod. Toung threw his headset down and ran towards the door.

“They’re in the building above the repair shop. Two of them. Three stories. Across from the butcher. The street is DD5. That’s how they're getting in,” Jonathan said, almost yelling. Knowing he gave Morris what he wanted began to bring his consciousness back into his body.

Get me the fuck out of here.

Toung slammed open the door as Jonathan came to. He jerked upright, ripping the electrode monitors from his arms. His shirt was soaked with sweat. He struggled to control his breathing. He crawled to the floor, finding calm in its cool surface.

“Jonathan, what happened? You’re OK. You’re back here at base,” Toung assured, dropping down to console him. “I…I…,” Jonathan stammered. He could hardly stand his senses returning, let alone speak. “It’s OK. You’re safe. We’ve got you,” Toung reassured. Jonathan looked over Toung’s shoulder to see Morris standing in the doorway. “You did well, Jonathan. You deserve some rest,” he said softly. Jonathan’s breathing began to normalize. After a few deep breaths, he heaved a large sigh, looked up at the ceiling, then closed his eyes.

“There was someone else there,” he said shakily.

“What do you mean? There were three people you saw?” Toung asked.

It would be accurate if the figure Jonathan saw seemed human. It seemed worse than a terrorist. “Yes. Three,” Jonathan confirmed. “Tell me more,” Morris said, his attention piqued. “It wasn’t a person, at least not in the basement. It seemed like there was someone else viewing,” Jonathan said. Morris raised an eyebrow and stepped through the door. “What do you mean another person viewing?” he asked.

Jonathan collected himself, trying to find the words to explain what he experienced.

“It was like there was someone else doing what I was doing. Someone was remote viewing in the exact same spot, and we knew each other were there, but only us,” Jonathan answered. Morris looked stern, contemplating.

Someone else was remote viewing, and Jonathan could sense them? This would present an entirely new set of problems. OpSec could be compromised. The enemy could also be spying on us.

“Understood. Jonathan, go home and rest up. You did great. I need to check with the higher-ups about what you’re saying,” Morris said. Jonathan nodded. Toung helped lift Jonathan from the ground. He had regained his calm enough to stand

. Toung looked relieved.

That night, when Jonathan returned home, he was tortured by the experience.

“We know who you are, Jonathan.”

The words replayed in his mind over and over.

If they could see me in a viewing state, they could be viewing me now.

A chill ran down his spine. Someone, somewhere, had made contact with Jonathan while viewing, something he’d never encountered in hundreds of viewings. The ramifications terrified him. They could have stalked him in past viewings; they could even be viewing him now. His entire idea of privacy had been shattered. Jonathan mulled over the ordeal. He tried not to show it too clearly in case they were watching him now. He reviewed previous viewings, searching for any trace of being watched or followed. But he was exhausted. Sleep soon fell over him like a heavy blanket, weighing him down to earth, spinning with it silently as he slumbered.

When Jonathan awoke the next day, the light pouring through his blinds suggested he’d slept until well after noon. He rubbed his face, trying to massage away the stress of yesterday, but it was already ingrained. It almost felt like a dream. He rolled over to his phone. Toung had texted and called him a few times. Morris, too. But Jonathan couldn’t bring himself to respond to any messages yet. He lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, fighting the thought that he was being watched; that the figure he saw in the stairwell was somewhere in the room. He resolved to get up and get some ice water to cool down. He couldn't dwell on speculation, even if it was possible. It wouldn’t help to know.

Jonathan lumbered out of bed and towards the kitchen. He fished a glass out of the cabinet and extracted ice from the freezer. A plastic water bottle sat on the counter. As he picked it up and began to unscrew the top, he detected something out of the corner of his eye. An envelope had been slid under his door. A blank white envelope. He set the water bottle down slowly. The same chills from yesterday took hold. His vision seemed to constrict, focusing narrowly on the envelope. He took a couple of steps over to it and inspected it. He reached down, lifted it, and slowly thumbed it open, revealing the words:

“Let’s meet tonight. We will come to you, wherever you are.”

Jonathan dropped the envelope. It fell softly to the floor. What happened was no dream.

We will come to you, wherever you are.

Though veiled, Jonathan knew what this meant. He would have to view again. Whoever wanted to contact him wanted to do so in the astral plane like before.

At least if it’s there, they can’t hurt me.

Fine. Jonathan needed answers. Living without them would haunt him forever. He’d never truly feel at rest.

If you want to view, we’ll view.

Jonathan went to the bedroom to retrieve his phone. He swiped away missed messages and opened a text to Morris.

I’m going back in tonight

He sent the text, then flung his phone to the bed.

I’m going to view, and I’m going to get some fucking answers.

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