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January 20, 5 AG
Synta allowed herself to be shoved not-so-gently into the dank interrogation room. These clowns better count themselves lucky.
“As you were saying,” the big one — bigger one — motioned toward a single tattered metal folding chair across from him.
The slightly less massive guard lumbered to the corner and leaned back, arms folded.
“I do not recall,” Synta flopped onto the unforgiving chair, noticing in mid-air that it was unpadded. She sent out a silent ‘thank you’ to her mom and DNA for providing plenty of natural cushion.
“Cut the crap!” Guard One pounded both fists onto the table between them. “I already had to listen to you start all the way back at Genesis with Glitch Day. So how about we move this along a bit.”
“Genesis?” Synta’s gaunt face feigned blankness. She crossed her arms as the lesser giant had and studied her surroundings. Aside from the usual disrepair of life post-glitch—faded gray paint peeling off moldy walls—this was one of the better rooms she’d been in. It was much nicer, and warmer, than the burned-out gas station she woke up in.
Overhead, three of the four O-LED lighting panels had long since gone dark. The last flickered its death throes. Faint pulses of light illuminated a Rorschach-shaped birthmark on Guard Two’s bald head. It mesmerized Synta; each strobe of dim yellow transforming the darker brown spot into a splattered butterfly, or a genie, or woman’s dislocated pelvis. Synta knew she was staring but she couldn’t help but wonder what it would become next.
Synta examined the signal jammers hanging from each corner, sleek black ovals with one green blinking light. Jammers were one of the only manufacturing fields that survived the Glitch, and business was booming. The BDS 5.2 was top of the line. No transmissions getting in or out. Shit, these guys came prepared.
Through padded walls Synta listened to the ISS Unity’s faint whir. Everything was going as planned. Plan Z, but still a plan. She picked at the mud under her thumb nail and waited.
Guard One took out his gun and laid it on the table, just out of reach of her shackled hands. “You saw someone glitch and —”
“Someone?” It was Synta’s turn to pound the table. She lurched forward. Heat crept up her neck and erupted from her pale brown cheeks. The jagged scar on her right cheek flared. The chains on her feet and hands rattled. She pulled the stretched out black sweater sleeve to cover the marks on her wrist. “My father!” Each word spat forth like venom.
“Yes,” Guard One’s own voice never fluctuated. “And then.” He flicked his left eye up once to start the implanted recording device.
Synta eased back and scratched her closely shorn head. Her fingers still expected much more to hold onto. Noise-canceling headphones hung limp around her neck as a stark reminder of her failure. She then leveled her fierce brown eyes on the guard and willed her heartbeat to steady itself. “Of course, moving right along.”