vance

"Don't worry. Don't worry, you're not in danger, Segway," I say, and place a hand on his shoulder, a silent beg for him to relax as the grip on the blanket that covers him tightens. I don't know why Jonathan had to send me, of all people, to go and coax him into telling me something that isn't babbled nonsense, that isn't the deranged thoughts of a man that fears death. I'm missing a meeting, and it aggravates me, because I did put effort into yesterday's note-taking. Adamik, at the very least, or Feng, even, would be far more qualified to do something like this.

I don't like to lie, 

although lying is a quality required in every politician.

He suddenly stops his quivering. The tubing that connects him to various foreign instruments stops shaking, too, as he allows me to gently push him back down onto the sterile blue pillow. "Nobody's- no-one's called me that in... forever," he finally stutters out. I take a look at his arm- and there it is. NW-60. His number. I've almost forgotten it- I still remember him as an acquaintance, before Tetrahmon.

"Vance," he breathes.

Thank goodness we've been given total privacy, for if not, our numbers would already be listed for the next Passing ceremony. "Now, listen to me," I say, carefully. "I'm going to take you back to the day NW-78 died."

A bony hand grips my wrist and squeezes, and I feel awful for asking. But I can't disobey Jonathan. Not again. "No. No, no, please, no- not that, not her-" The fearful, sharp staccato of his tone elevates my own pulse. His voice resonates in the empty ward, bouncing off the walls, coming back at me like a knife with an accusatory blade.

For myself, I have to do this. "Her?" I inquire. I set the chip in my pocket to voice recording mode.

His hands shake my arm. "The girl- the girl with a bullet in her cheek, but no blood-" he gasps. "No blood, no blood, no blood." I swallow thickly and shift uncomfortably on the stool I sit on, unsettled by this talk.

"Close your eyes," I murmur, "and tell me what you saw."

"'Shoot me,'" he breathes. "'Shoot me,' she says. Pale and white as a ghost, she is, with that white hair, and those- those eyes." He shudders where he lies. "Too much confidence, so much evil. She's put the barrel between her teeth, and when he shoots, the bullet goes through her cheek, I swear it does- but there's no blood." The last part comes out as a mere squeak from Segway's mouth. It's quite painful, seeing him reduced to this whimpering mess.

He closes his eyes. "She- she-" He pauses. Beneath his lids, I can see his eyes as they move frantically behind them.

I'm impatient to know more by now. "What happens?" For the first time I notice his bed, too, has a number. W1 2507. 

"Oh, I think she laughs. I think she laughs." He giggles where he lies, a raw, mechanical but painful sound bubbling out with the frothy spittle on his lips. "And then- bang. Bang." He smiles, but his pupils are dilated as he looks up at me. I can barely make out the brown irises- but his look isn't intoxication, but a reflection of a fear that has driven a soldier to psychiatric madness. "B a n g."

I flinch, and I'm ashamed of myself.

NW-60 taps his cheek with one hand, the other still holding a strong grip on my arm. "And the bullet wound, you think, what about the bullet hole? It's not there anymore. Not there. Gone, just like that." The charisma in his voice reminds me of a puppeteer putting on a show for children, but his eyes tell me something else.

He bares his teeth at me, like an animal would, and I know he's gone for good.

Are you scared yet, Vance?

***

"He told me nothing." I sit opposite Jonathan, blinking forcefully in order to stay awake. He's had me up since dawn, leaving me to cope with Segway and his madman's nonsense. "NW-60 told me nothing."

Jonathan appears unimpressed with my performance as a temporary interviewer. "So, you're telling me that he didn't even open his mouth to say a thing?"

"Well, obviously he opened his mouth, but what came out of it was nonsensical gibberish. It made no sense, so I've discar-"

It's clear that I'm nothing more than a child, an amateur, to my father. "What's important or not is not up to you to decide. Did you record it, like I told you to?"

The chip is gone from my hand the moment I take it out of my pocket. Jonathan sets up my screen, his expression unnervingly calm. "Passcode." I hesitate, and I don't know why, so when I don't answer straight away, he frowns at me. "Come now, Vance, or do you have something to hide? Tell me the passcode."

Once I've told him, I watch him transfer the recording file to his own chip before handing back what belongs to me. "Very good. You are dismissed."

As I exit, I find myself regretting having recorded the session.

***

"Number, please." I give it to her, and it's only once she's transcribed the little slip of blue paper into the computer that she looks up at me. "Jakerrlos, is it?"

"Yes."

She eyes me for a moment, before nodding. "Any areas you would like personal access to?"

"Just the historical and scientific archives, please." I'm wringing my hands, but she can't see it. I don't even know why I'm so nervous, but something tells me that I shouldn't be doing this, looking into what NW-60 told me but an hour earlier.

"Very well. I'll upload the bioscanner to fit your measurements," she says.

I wonder who it was fitted to before. Was it the President? Was it Jonathan, or Adamík? No, Adamík would have told me, without a doubt. I should tell him about this too, but it's too great of a risk to confide in even the best of people. Humanity will continue to have its flaws, even if that flaw is being unable to keep the secrets of others.

The lady at the desk allows me to pass through, and at once, I am accompanied by four guards, who are there to ensure I am who I say I am, and to make sure I'm kept away from any civilians that might be around. As they take me down to the archives, I find myself looking at my fingers. What if my fingerprints aren't picked up by the bioscanner? What if there's a glitch in the system-? Impossible.

The system is perfect.

I hear a thud behind me, but I don't dare look back. Weapons clatter to the floor, the unmistakable sound of a gun falling. The two guards at my side do, however, and as I place my hand on the bioscanner, the voice saying 'fingerprint scan: complete' is fragmented out of existence by the sound on choking, and then a crack. A guard falls beside me, his head twisted at an unnatural angle, his eyes open, lips parted. I can see the spittle coagulating on his lips.

I feel something press to the back of my head, the cold seeping through my hair.

"Now, you're going to take your hand off that scanner, sweetheart, and turn around."

As I turn around, I see the girl with white hair, and she looks just as murderous as Segway described her. Her look freezes my blood, my pulse elevates. She drops the corpse she'd been holding, and goes to stand beside someone whom I assume is a companion of sorts.

I'm staring right down the barrel of a gun, and it's making me run cold, the adrenaline firing up through my veins. What would it be like to die? I wonder, and there's a thrill that comes with it.

The young person holding the gun speaks again. "You're going to let us into those archives," they say slowly, as if talking to a child, "or else I'll blow your pretty brains out. I'm sure the bioscanner also works with cadavers."

I can't- I can't do it, I can't.

An index finger curls around the trigger. 

Immobilised, I struggle to breathe.

It's the fear,

the fear,

the fear.