November 8, Thursday

Dano desperately tried to inhale but there was no air.  He couldn’t see.  A fear of suffocating overwhelmed him.  He felt sick, like he was chemFried on some crap bathtub shabu.  Through a thick red mist of throbbing pain he thought he remembered something, going somewhere.  There was an image, something . . . it was vague, blurred . . . a reflection, a glass door?  He struggled to clear his pounding head.  He drifted off into a dull, dark nightmare of masked operatives and nanoDrones.

A searing pain in his kidney tore through the asphyxiating fog.  Dano choked on his scream because he couldn’t breathe.  A second blow to the kidney brought him to his knees.  He struggled to inhale.  A third blow to the kidney.  He passed out.

Air, I need air!  Utter panic.  Blind, gasping, retching, shivering uncontrollably.  Was it freezing cold?  Dano’s brain glitched like his synapses were running black market code.  He came to, and sensed he was sitting with his wrists zip-tied behind the back of a chair.  The flexicuffs cut into his wrists.  He ached all over.

“HOW’S THE ZKUNT DOING?!”  Screaming in his ear.  The accent sounded limey football hooligan.  He couldn’t focus.  All he could do was gasp for air and try not to vomit.

“I CAN’T HEAR YOU CABRÓN!”  More screaming, this time the other ear.

“NOT VIBING JUICE?!” yelled the hooligan voice.

“We shouldn’t be so rude.  Perhaps an introduction would be in order?” a third, calm, voice suggested.

The sack on his head was torn off.  Air!  Dano’s eyes adjusted.  He was in a cold dank cellar.  His teeth chattered and his clothes were soaked.  Two roughBoyz dressed sharp in flashy black suits stood on either side of him.  Facing him, on a cheap metal folding chair behind a cheap metal folding table, sat a gentleman.  He was somewhere in his fifties, slim and hard.  His grey Saville Row suit matched his grey hair, silk tie and silver cufflinks on flawlessly starched cuffs.

“I trust you are comfortable?” the Grey Gentleman asked with feigned concern and indifferent grey eyes.  “We’d like this experience to be as agreeable as possible.  Given the circumstances of course.  I am the Director of Security.  To your right is my assistant Carlos, and to your left, my other assistant, Duane.

“Now let’s see what we have here,” the Director said as he pulled an app out of his pocket.  He scrutinized the floating holoScreen that appeared above it with apparent interest.  “Ah, yes, your dossier.  Name, Dano Kalon.  Age, nineteen.”  The Director scrolled down the file.  “Ah, yes, here’s the interesting part.  Dysfunctional family, alcoholic father…abandoned by your mother…all of which probably goes a long way in explaining your rebellious tendencies, don’t you think?  You attended Hejn Secondary but, despite your high IQ, never graduated.  You currently play guitar in The eXitTrip, a band that, it says here, are beginning to get noticed.  Congratulations.  And, I’m not sure but perhaps this is important for our purposes, it seems that you are an unapologetic gRazer.  Would you agree with all of that?”

Dano’s breathing was slowly returning to normal, but convulsive shivering made it difficult to reply.

“Hey, zKunt—the Director threw you a question!”  Duane slapped Dano’s face.  It stung like a short circuit.

“What…why . . .?” Dano gasped.  He wasn’t tracking.  Nothing made any sense.

“What?  Why?” the Director repeated, “gentlemen, explain it to him, please.”

Carlos screamed in Dano’s ear as he yanked his head back by a fistful of hair, “BECAUSE YOU”RE A TERRORIST PENDEJO!”

“WHO’S IN WAY OVER HIS FOOKIN’ HEAD!” Duane yelled in the other ear.

Uncontrollable trembling made it impossible for Dano to answer.

Carlos punched Dano in the stomach.  He almost blacked out, but a bucket of freezing water brought him right back.  He tried to puke, but only managed dry heaves.

“Thank you, Carlos,” said the Grey Gentleman, “that will be all for now.”  He then addressed Dano.  “You see, we need you to stay awake for a while.  Please, relax and make yourself comfortable while I explain your… predicament.”

The Director slowly pulled a forty-five caliber Taurus semi-automatic out of a black leather shoulder holster hidden under his suit and with a clunk placed it on the table.  He took a silver cigarette case out of his pocket, removed a Dunhill, and leisurely lit it with a silver lighter.

“Your dossier suggests you have disruptive and rebellious tendencies, and your psychological profile indicates you may harbour intense personal resentments due, I imagine, to your unfortunate family history.  The upshot is that, according to my reading of the current DSM, that would be version 7.3.5, section 301, you suffer from paranoid personality disorder and, obviously, antisocial personality disorder.  Psychosocial and environmental factors have clearly contributed to your disorders, and I sympathize with that, but the unfortunate truth is that there is a high statistical probability that you hold pathological pro-terrorist sympathies.  In case you are interested, your TPM, in other words your Terrorist Profile Matrix, is calculated at a solid 72%, and anything over 60% allows us to detain you.”  The Director took a long drag on his cigarette.  “You have therefore been preventively arrested under the relevant statutes of the Freedom and Liberty Act.  As such, and conformant with Section C of the Act, your identity has been temporarily erased, pending investigation and trial.  By law we are allowed to expunge your identity and to hold you for ninety days before you can communicate with anyone or see a lawyer.  That, in a nutshell, is your predicament.” He dropped the cigarette and stamped it out with his black Ferragamo shoe.

“But, you see, unfortunately the reality is that we are both in a predicament, and personally, I don’t like predicaments.  Being in one is not, how do you say it, juice?  My predicament is that my life would be a lot easier if I had your confession.  Simple, isn’t it?  Just a signature.  That’s all.  And don’t worry, no work on your part.”  The Director pulled an envelope and a pen from his jacket and tossed them on the table, next to the pistol.

“All written out.”  The Director casually pointed to the document.  “Now, I’ll be straight with you.  At LibertyCorp we need a certain number of convictions per quarter to justify our budget, and at the same time trials are time-consuming and expensive, what with lawyers’ fees and all.  Confessions are far more cost-effective.  This is business, nothing personal.  Please understand that you are now officially erased and that your psychological profile will get you, in the end, convicted anyway.  So, you may as well sign and get this over with.  If you do, you’ll only serve half the time a court will inevitably sentence you to.”  He picked up his silver case and picked out another Dunhill.

This is SIM . . . some sick gamer’s screwing with me . . . fuck, fuck, I gotta think, gotta think . . . If I sign . . . what the fuck happens?  Am I out? . . . Yes, the fuck out of the game . . . out of here . . . No! . . . No, wait . . . how?  How can I be in a game?  I’m not wearing an eyeVid . . .  they must have put a chip on me!  They’re messing with my mind!  No! This feels way too real . . . or is this what its like with a chip?  Shit, it can’t be . . .

Dano’s mind spun around in ever tightening circles, desperately trying to latch on to something, anything, the tiniest fragment of sanity, but despite the madness, the terror, the panic, the nausea, the disorientation, there was an insistent little voice inside saying don’t do it, don’t do it.  He wished he could think of why, why fight, it’s so much work, so hard . . . why not just get this over with . . . I sign and I’m out . . . out of SIM . . . out of this insane game . . . but deep within somewhere, something, images . . . confessions . . . trials . . . in Real?  Don’t do it!  Don’t do it!

“You can sign, or…” the Director slowly exhaled.  He rose unhurriedly, walked around the table and sat on the edge.  “Like I said,” he took a drawn-out drag on his cigarette, leaned in close and blew the smoke into Dano’s eyes, “I don’t like predicaments, so it really would be best for both of us if you just sign.  Otherwise . . .”

A white-hot burn on Dano’s cheek.  There was a scream.  He thought maybe it was his voice.  The Director didn't break eye contact.  The stench of tobacco and singed flesh mingled with premium cologne.

“Duane, will you please bring in detainee 46?” the Director took a conspicuous last drag on his cigarette and tossed it.  “Detainee 46 has notions similar to yours,” he looked Dano in the eyes.  He’s been with us for a while and, alas, has not been cooperating.  I thought you might like to witness the eventual consequences . . .”

A young man stumbled into Dano’s view.  His hands were zip-tied behind his back.  His face was bloodied and bruised.  Duane shoved him and knocked him onto his knees.

“I’ve lost patience with this cunt,” the Director explained as he calmly picked up his gun, clicked the safety off, and placed the end of the barrel on detainee 46’s temple.  Dano stared horrified as the young man, whoever he was, cowered and pissed in his pants.  In a flash Dano’s fear heightened into an almost paranormal state of mental acuity.  Fuck, this isn’t SIM!  His cheek still burned like hell, but he was above the room, floating, omniscient, looking down.  Every exit became a clear map in his mind.  He could see into the dark corners and feel the heartbeat of every rat and cockroach and individual, including the four guards he now knew stood beyond his vision.  Time ground down to almost nothing.  He heard the click of the trigger.  Seconds later there was a deafening bang.  The head jerked, the body fell, and detainee 46 lay dead amid splattered brains and a widening pool of blood.

“He’s a holo, you assholes!  What kind of a sick game are you playing??!!”  Dano’s desperate screaming reverberated through the dank cellar.

The Director pressed the gun to Dano’s temple.  Dano had never been this far, this far into fucked-up forbidden corners of whatever sick place he was in.  Maybe his mind was frying in some dataStream dead end.  Was this what happened when Switch on a deepFreak hit a hard crash?  Cyberpsychosis?  Mind-melt madness?  Fly or fry!  Is this what it means?  Was he finally getting it, finally getting what a Switch wipeout was all about?

“I guess that means you’re a holo too, asshole.”  The Grey Gentleman lowered his gun, holstered it, flashed a fake smile and walked away.

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