The outer doors cycled open with only 30 seconds to spare, flooding a blast of bitterly cold air into the small enclosure in a frigid punch that took my breath away.
Having
never gone through or witnessed a a Writ of Seizure before, I didn’t
really know what to expect; five minutes to vacate when it took four
minutes to cycle a door seemed a bit...not lenient. I couldn’t help
but feel morose as, harsh and bleating, the inner lock screen cycled
a lock-down and finalized whatever steps were necessary to change the
Pod’s status from Occupied, to Tossed Out Into The
Frigid Wind.
I
let out a huge sigh of defeat as I turned, then froze in place.
A
contingent of uniformed Corp-Security members, escorting a short,
rat-faced man dressed in their riot best, stood at the ready. My
poorly augmented vision flashed between the burly figures. Concussion
sticks were gripped tightly in impact-resistant gloves as several
sets of gleefully expectant eyes were uniformly directed my way like
a gaze of bio-chem-altered raccoons. Standing separately from the
group and the rat-faced man, looking cool and collected like he’d
just stepped off a fashion runway in his fancy long coat and perfect
haircut, was my supervisor, McCreed.
The
same man who had told me to go home. The same man who had signed off
on the reports implicated me as the cause of the events leading to my
co-worker's death. His face was neutral, like it was carved out of
granite. Steely eyes took in the world around him with an impersonal
air as if he did this sort of thing every day—superciliously aloof.
“He’s
still in possession of Corporate Issued Equipment,” Mr. Ratface
said from the right, pointing an almost too-long finger, an
indication of a limb-enhanced short-range chip scanner.
“Outerall,
Jacket, Boots,” he stated, continuing to wave his finger around as
if scrying for water. His face formed another scowl as he found
something else and pointed to my back, “The bag. The bag too. Take
them all.”
Without
further instruction, one of the Security Goons grasped the strap of
the bag and pulled. The unexpected shift in weight caused me to take
an involuntary step back as I was jerked and slung around. The cold,
lightly frost-covered surface of the lower rail hit my left shoulder
a millisecond before the rear of my skull rebounded with a muted
clang off the top railing.
My
heart began to race as I caught myself, amping up from the combined
sensations of sudden contact and a growing fear of the Security Goons
as they began to huddle menacingly on both sides; it wouldn't take
much to pitch me over the railing and onto the ground below. I pulled
myself to my feet as cold sweat began to pool at the small of my
back. The Goon Squad pressed closer, moving where I didn’t look and
leering with barely held malicious glee where I did. My mind tumbled
chaotically as I tried to strategize, weighing the very short list of
obvious options as I tried to keep enemies in view.
The
most lethal option, jumping over the railing and plummeting down
fifteen levels rather than being tossed, was quickly ruled out. As my
eyes darted to and fro, looking for any kind of opening and
desperately attempting to keep track of the quickly compacting line,
I knew I was in trouble. With the low temps and rain as they were
now, there was no way I was going to survive more than a few hours
without the extra layers the Port Uniform provided me.
If
I can at least keep the Outer Jacket and Boots I might still be able
to—
My
train of thought was interrupted as the closest Goon, a
snaggle-toothed-looking fellow with a squashed nose showing all signs
of having been broken and badly set a few times, managed to reach
grappling distance. His thick, mitt-like hands clenched his
concussion stick as he licked his cracked lips in anticipation. I
felt penned in as I dug my feet into the gangway, boot soles
squeaking as they nestled into a groove meant to let rain and
condensation pass through.
Knees slightly bent, coiled like a spring
and ready to dart, I crouched. Though uncertain on what to do next, I
was entirely unwilling to just let them tear into me if I could help
it. I waited for the rush, except—the rush never came.
Instead,
McCreed had raised one, perfectly manicured hand: a signal.
The
goons jerkily stopped as one, as if pulled back by a tethered leash.
The seemingly soft, non-calloused palm remained in view as he
continued waiting. His dogs were restrained, the extended hand
keeping them from tearing me into frozen pieces mere footsteps from
the entryway of my former home, making it absolutely clear who was in
control.
“Now
now, Golrich.” McCreed said. His voice, imperialistic and imposing
with a hint of playfulness in an almost posh accent, was a brassy
rumble originating from deep within his chest.
He
lowered his arm slowly.
“It’s
to my understanding the Writ of Seizure stated the accused may have
leave along with any items on his person provided he successfully
exits within the five minutes notice; is that not correct?” He
turned, one of his perfectly groomed eyebrows rising into an arch of
challenge.
Ratface
began to sweat visibly, his mouth forming an ‘O’ shape in a
perfect example of Rattish shock, sans whiskers. “Uh, but, Sir!
What about the Company Property on his person?!”
He
had squeaked it out before managing to slam his mouth shut.
McCreed
did not answer immediately as I glanced nervously between them, still
crouched and wary, but happy for the brief halt as the goons stood in
disciplined silence.
Striking
quite the impressive figure, McCreed turned slightly to face away
from me, expression placid as he approached the rail. His movements
were smooth and calculated: statuesque artwork in motion. Every
gesture, position, and pose, like a still-framed series of
photographs, perfectly transitioned. Sliding his palm along the rail
to collect moisture on his fingertips, he rose them toward his steely
eyes like an inspector, unhappy to discover a filthy, debased mote of
dust on an otherwise pristine and white-gloved hand.
“Be
that as it may, Golrich,” he said, rubbing his fingers together
distastefully, “There is a proviso for leeway. Removal of clothing
and safety equipment in times of need is at the discretion of
supervisory staff, is it not?”
Ratface
began to visibly tremble. He was entirely uncertain what was being
asked of him.
“The
harsh environment,” McCreed continued, the look of revulsion now
pointedly directed at the melted frost and water on the rail as his
eyes flashed dangerously, ”...should perhaps let us exercise such
discretion now.
After
all, we wouldn’t want Mr. Price to be unable to meet his defense
date should he choose to fund such an option.”
This
last part he directed to me as if it was a question. His eyes shone
with an ethereal light as his implants did something. My optics
served up a dim warning of an attempted active scan, which I could do
nothing about; whatever he was doing was way beyond the limited
options my mods provided.
I
looked around, and judging by the collective grouping of expressions,
I wasn’t the only one confused by the current turn of events.
Ratface looked like he was about to puke, and different Goons were
glancing around at each other as if looking for guidance but were
unable to find it within their own ranks.
If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.
No
one dared move.
McCreed
broke the moment. “I would like to speak with him in private about
this if you would,” he said suddenly, turning to face away from us
before folding his arms behind his back. He looked every part the
commanding dictator, standing before his holding with little fear of
retaliation, remorse, or danger.
Ratface quickly snapped into a low bow—one low enough to almost bang
his forehead into the iced rail despite McCreed not even looking at
him. He began taking micro-shuffling steps backward in a show of
supplication.
“Oh...of...of
course, Sir.” Golrich said hastily, “Many apologies! I
will...that is, we...uhhhhh...”
He
stopped groveling, having finally come to the realization that action
was likely a better option. Snapping out of the bow, he flashed a
jerking hand signal and vermin-like hiss before shuffling off. The
security personnel tromped along, leaving me alone with my former
Supervisor as their clanking steps grew fainter.
Still
unmoving, McCreed stood, his back toward me as he continued to stare
outward. From my vantage, his shadowed form took on the appearance of
a lonely monolith, nearly equal in height to the greatness of the
Spire and its three towers.
I
took a tentative step forward, enough to get away from the railing
and the frost forming on its face, but not enough to appear like I
was creeping. As a gust of frigid wind blew, everything resumed its
normal late-night levels of near silence. The occasional mechanical
whir of loader servos from The Port and timely rumbles of thunder
acted as ambient noise.
McCreed
continued to tower, still silently challenging.
We
just stood there waiting for a spell, long enough for me to begin
shivering and for my knees to begin aching. Even with the layers, it
was bitterly cold. I warily eyed the storm clouds marching steadily
toward us from the horizon. Different sections were alight like
asynchronous strobes as thunder rumbled. As if challenging the
heavens, my stomach seemed to answer.
“Unfortunate
business we have here, Mr. Price,” McCreed said, as if he had been
waiting for me to break first and my stomach had betrayed me. Stupid
stomach.
The
flashbulb effect became more frequent as the clouds approached. A
blast of cold moisture flowed over us, covering everything in a
slight mist as I shivered. It was a stark reminder of the need for
not only food but also a warm place to take shelter and ride out the
storm.
“It’s
a pity you were caught in the middle of all of this,” McCreed
finally said, almost wearily. “It was never my true intention.”
Pity?
A pity?!
Part
of me wanted to rage. The other part, the part shivering, cold and
wet, was simply tired of everything. The whole ordeal was a taxing
experience. Everything had happened so rapidly and in so short a time
the rage just felt like it wanted to…drain away. I knew from past
experience: trying to do anything differently would lead to me only
feeling worse. It didn't always happen, but when it did, it usually
worked out better for me to just...go along.
I
remained silent.
“Do
you need to say anything?” He inquired, as if I’d needed
permission to do so. His eyes were locked onto mine.
A
strange, vague sensation of nervousness and uncertainty began to grow
inside me as I felt...unbalanced. The dim warnings from my optics had
silenced themselves. It was a feeling of being unsteady, like I had
suddenly developed trouble keeping my mental train of thought on
track. Trying to say words but being unable to, I struggled to try to
identify why I suddenly couldn’t say what I wanted to...
I
opened my mouth to say something but physically couldn’t seem to
talk.
I
tried again, except this time words I hadn’t meant to speak came
out, sounding odd, even to my own ears.
“I...
don't know what you want me to say."
Man,
that didn’t feel right.
Taking
a step forward, I joined him near the rail, a sudden urge to at least
see part of his face coming over me. The feeling...the need to get
closer for some purpose I didn’t fully understand was a weird one.
He
had turned his body to point rightward, giving me another strong urge
to stand to his right. The kind of thing my Father would have done.
It was all a game of throwing someone off balance to subconsciously
lead them to where he
wanted them rather than where they
wanted to go in order to lock eyes with them; a Power Move, as he
called it.
Thinking
of my father made a streak of rebellion rear up as my mind, and foot,
decided to take a defiant step left—opposing the inclined
direction.
The
maneuver forced McCreed to turn, and I felt a tiny surge of
satisfaction as a flash of annoyance traversed like a ripple across
his perfectly poised face.
The
wind caressed my cheek as it drifted by, tousling his hair as the
breeze continued to the East. McCreed’s face was now an impassive
mask as he stared out toward the Spires, and slowly, marginally, I
began to feel better. Feeling like I had just stepped out of a murky
haze, I began to feel more grounded, metaphorical feet planted and in
control of my thoughts.
We
stood like this for a moment as I primarily focused on breathing
through my nose. McCreed still refused to react, and I had no clue
what he wanted to even talk about as I resumed inhaling and exhaling
quietly, my brain feeling less and less fogged as we stood.
The
clouds were now very close, not exactly on top of us, but closer than
I would’ve wanted without shelter. The telltale sign of a thick
haze indicated heavy rains. I could smell moisture as I continued to
breathe, in and out. Like arrows sent from the heavens to spear
themselves into the ground beneath, the rains fell, landing where
they would. A blanket of mist partially obscured the neon glow of the
Spire towers as the clouds encroached onward to surround it.
As
if aware of the coming front, the neon signery faded and dimmed. Not
completely going dark, but dully glowing with a much reduced output.
Even with the Low-Light Collection from cheap Optical Implants, the
cluster of towers stood dark and foreboding, a striking difference
from the bright beacon of hope only moments before.
Feeling
no longer unsteady and nervous, I pressed on.
“Maybe,”
I said, weather and breeze having somehow cleared my head and given
me a new wind, “Maybe I’d ask why you were the one to sign off on
the reports. The false ones.”
McCreed’s
mouth formed a thin line. His lips changed color as they pressed
together tightly. It was clear I had said something he hadn’t
planned for, and it hadn’t pleased him. He spoke his next words
slowly, voice neutral and measured as the storm raged on in the
distance.
“Sometimes,
Mr. Price?” He said, enunciating specific words, “Some
people simply don’t have choices.”
He
turned his head. He locked me in his gaze again. Like a physical
strike, I felt the next breath catch in my throat as I began to
choke. I couldn’t break away from his piercing, stormy gray
eyes—Optical Implants matching the skies behind him in their
intensity and looked so surprisingly real and organic.
So,
so real.
He
continued to speak, not breaking eye contact in the slightest as I
remained silent, gurgling slightly as I continued to choke. Feeling a
burning pain in my chest, I realized I'd been unable to work my lungs
too.
“Sometimes?”
he said, “Those lording over from above, in their high-rise
positions above...above the anthill.” He waved his hand
across the area where the Port and majority of The Stacks lay before
us, “Positions of Power. Positions of... Influence.”
He
gripped the rail, and I heard a groaning squeal as his fingers
tightened. Those nearly perfect and soft-looking fingers, which
barely reacted as the metal deformed like putty or molded clay.
“Sometimes?
Those lords need only Deign...NOT request.”
As
if on cue, lightning flashed. Bright enough to temporarily overload
my optics. At first, all I could feel was a sharp spike of pain,
driven straight to my brain like a spear of jagged ice. My implants
ground themselves to a halt in protest as an overwhelming wave of
vertigo overcame me, and I keeled over, leaning into the rail
precariously. As the optical implants struggled to compensate for the
sudden changes in luminous conditions, they toggled rapidly between
low-light and protective modes.
I
became disoriented.
My
head spun even worse as slideshow images messily flashed before my
view in a parade line of impressions, and I tried to feel for the
walkway beneath me.
A
rush of air from a gust of wind felt perilous. I ended up planted on
my rear, reaching out with my right hand to grasp loosely on the
railing as my left leg dangled dangerously into nothingness.
A
sudden, white-knuckled fear of falling overrode all other instincts
or thoughts as I clung like a drowning man in a maelstrom. I was
still unable to breathe or speak. The railing acted as a single tiny
piece of flotsam in an ocean of fear, barely keeping myself from
diving into the fathoms of despair below.
I
had to mentally push...No. Shove.
I
shoved as hard as I could against the single inexplicable and
spine-tingling urge to just...Fall Forward. Forward into the inky
blackness ahead.
Such
a Simple Action to End All of My Worries.
All
of my Loss.
All
my Pain.
My
limbs felt cold as I sluggishly pulled myself up, clutching the
topmost rail to stare downward.
It
would be So Easy.
So.
So.
Easy.
McCreed
smiled.
A
splendid smile.
I
lifted a foot and climbed.
