| |
“You must choose among the following interior design options: bohemian, eclectic, contemporary, minimalist, mid-century modern, shabby chic—”
Aviva pivoted around herself, examining the empty darkness of the boundless space.
“I don’t care,” she answered.
“Choices can be customized after. You must choose among the following, Bohemian—”
“I don’t know, something natural.”
“Natural isn’t an interior design option. Perhaps one of the following would suit this description: Modern Farmhouse, Rustic or French Country—”
“Rustic, make it rustic.”
“On which floor would you like your condo?”
“What are my options?”
“Anything from the second to the eighty-ninth floor. Consider the fact that elevators are always available here. You need not worry about malfunctions. They have been omitted from the design.”
“Twenty-third floor.”
“Outdoor view. Do you prefer looking down on Fifth Avenue, a view of the ocean, or—”
“I don’t care! Don’t you have defaults?”
“This is the last question before setting up your condo. You must choose—”
“Fifth Avenue. I want to see the street below.”
“Generating...”
The empty space transformed. Outlines traced the room’s edges, creating a generous open space, the walls solidified and covered in a matt white, the ceilings ten feet high and separated with large planks of dark knotty wood. Maple hardwood with signs of wear made up the flooring. The living room was created around a red brick fireplace—the fire already crackling inside—with the head of a wild elk hanging like a trophy above it; she would remove it later. The furniture was upholstered in eggshell white linen, a folded patchwork quilt on the couch and a sheepskin over the lounge chair. In the center of the coffee table, a hand-thrown pottery vase contained a bouquet of fresh wildflowers; a mix of black-eyed Susans and yarrows.
She approached the floor-to-ceiling windows. Below, in the street, a sizable crowd accumulated outside the building. She wondered what they were doing there. Was this inside The Virt? She wasn’t sure. It would make sense if it was. The Red Masks wanted her to report to the world and investigate what they were doing. To do that she would need to communicate with the outside world.
She walked over to the kitchen. The light above the center marble counter switched on as she leaned against it. Her stomach moaned in hunger. She hadn’t eaten in days.
“Would you like something to eat?” said an automated voice.
“I wouldn’t say no.”
“Ingredients to prepare something on your own, or something already prepared.”
“A glass of red wine with a plate of cured meats...with olives, too, green olives only, pitted.”
Her order appeared on the counter. The wine perfectly paired with the salty meat that melted in her mouth.
A beeping disrupted the moment. A red display appeared floating at arm’s reach just off the counter’s edge.
Incoming message, flashed.
“Who is it?” she asked.
The message was replaced by a video of a man who was too close to the camera; the bridge of his nose and his dark eyes filled the screen.
“Aviva, get down here, people are growing restless.”
“What? I don’t even know—”
“Lobby, now! I’ll explain when you get here.” The display vanished.
Aviva grabbed another olive and washed it down with a generous gulp of red. As she passed by the mirror, she noticed she was still wearing the one-piece burgundy jumpsuit. The same suit she wore when she had met the leader of the Red Masks. She couldn’t go down in that. In the bedroom she found a walk-in closet filled with a collection of outfits for all occasions. Not the generic outfits available for free, but signature brands that asked for a premium. She opened a drawer, and it was filled with jewelry—authentic pieces. She ignored them.
“Put these on,” she ordered the system. Her jumpsuit was replaced by the teal cotton T-shirt and jeans she had chosen.
She examined herself in the closet mirror, brushing aside her hair with the tips of her fingers. Her face revealed tired lines beneath her eyes. She leaned into the mirror to examine them.
Damn right, I’m tired. She decided not to hide it. Despite the apparent comfort of the current situation, she couldn’t neglect the fact that she was a victim of a terrorist attack and remained a hostage of the Red Masks.
She watched the elevator’s red glowing numbers count down from her twenty-third floor. At the sound of the landing bell, the doors opened, revealing a lobby filled with thousands of curious eyes all turned on her. A man entered the elevator, squeezing in before the doors had fully opened, and then pressed on the button to re-shut them. She recognized the big dark eyes from the video call. He was a young black man with a well-trimmed beard, stylishly dressed in a mustard-colored tweed suit. He wore a luxurious gold watch, which she noticed as he patted a silk kerchief over his forehead glistening with sweat.
“You ready, Aviva?” His voice was kind, compassionate. “They’ve been waiting for you.”
“Waiting for me... What... Who are you?’
“Gambino.” He held his hand out. “I’m here to help if you have trouble adapting. But now is not the time to resolve your existential problem. The people out there, they’ve been waiting to be let out. Don’t know what took you so long, but their patience is growing thin.”
“Released?”
“Released into The Virt. We’ve been held up in here for days, cut off from the world, unable to reach out to tell them we’re all right. Tell them that we haven’t been harmed in the attacks. Several people were desperate and tried to get out, but it’s hopeless. The place is sealed tight. They won’t let us out. A message was sent earlier, asking us to be patient. They would let us out only after an official statement by the Red Masks.”
“What does this have to do with me?”
“You’re the one giving the official statement.”
Aviva looked at him with disbelief. “Are they going to tell me what to say?”
“They didn’t tell you?”
“Nothing. This must be a mistake.”
“This is what you’re going to do,” Gambino said. “You’re going to walk through the crowd and push through the doors to the outside. If they let you out, this isn’t a mistake.” He let go of the button that held the doors shut. She shifted over and pressed it before the doors could open.
“What do you want me to say?”
“I don’t care what you say. You’re the journalist, not me. I have a wife and two young daughters that might be waiting for me out there. They must be worried sick about me. I want to get out there and reassure them...hold them in my virtual arms.”
“You work for them?”
“That’s funny coming from you, Red Masks spokesperson.” Gambino paused, seeming to regret his words. “I’m sorry, this isn’t easy on any of us. They gave me this task ’cause I’m damn good at what I do. I help people work through their problems. It appears the Red Masks don’t want us to be too miserable here.” He leaned in as if wanting to tell her a secret. “I’m not sure if that’s a good thing. I’ve seen you before on the news. You’re good at what you do. That’s probably why they chose you. We are all suffering here, Aviva. Do what you’ve got to do to let us get out. We just want to find the ones we love.”
She removed her hand from the button. The doors opened. Gambino smiled and encouraged her forward with a nod.
The people who filled the lobby didn’t look like war refugees but rather as if they were attending a formal red carpet gala. The women in expensive night dresses with pearl necklaces and diamond earrings, their makeup flawless. The men wore suits of silk and cashmere, with golden chains, perfectly parted hair, or trimmed and clean beards. The faces betrayed what their outfits tried to hide—they were scared. Perhaps they were trying to hide this from themselves, or from their loved one. Not wanting to face their situation with honesty. She had difficulty imagining that these were all the same people she had seen partially naked, unconscious under a yellow light, in a bunker under Paris.
The crowd opened a path for her as she advanced. She couldn’t see the exit to the outside. The movement of the crowd guided her in the right direction—opening in front and closing behind. She heard their whispered comments as she advanced.
“Why her?”
“I’ve seen her before.”
“She’s the woman from the news... Does she work for them?”
The crowd ended several feet back from revolving doors. They were held back by a wall of guards. Fake guards, bigger than anything you would see in the real world. You couldn’t see through the windows in the entrance—only daylight came through.
As she separated herself from the crowd, she expected the guards to stop her. Why would she have permission to go outside? But as she passed the limit that had been set, the guard between her and the door moved aside to let her pass. Several guards advanced to hold back the individuals that attempted to follow her out.
––––––––
There was audible gasp from the first people outside who realized someone was finally exiting the Red Tower. The journalist immediately gathered tightly around the podium. Many eyes remained focused on the revolving doors from which Aviva emerged, hoping more people would follow her, hoping the loved ones they had been waiting for would come out next. No one else followed.
She wondered if these people were being reasonable for hoping their loved ones were behind her. Wouldn’t it be better for them to be safely in Paris where the danger had passed? Humans were like that—short-sighted. They’d rather be reunited immediately, even if it meant they were held by a terrorist group. She was no different. She was glad to be here, in The Virt, with the possibility of holding Morgan against her. She scanned the crowd. He wasn’t there.
She didn’t pay attention to the journalists bombarding her with their questions. This was her story to tell. She would control the narrative. She adjusted the mic, gripped the edge of the lectern to prevent her hands from being overly expressive. She focused on the camera of the drone floating above the crowd, speaking to all those who would be watching live around the world.
“I have seen the streets of Paris after the attack,” she said, weighing her words carefully. “The attack was brief and spontaneous. A piercing sound shattered the glass and knocked out the electricity.” She paused, considering the bodies of those in her meeting who collapsed dead, falling to the ground as quickly as the shattered windows. “The mysterious blow of the Red Masks struck without mercy all the military men and women remaining in the city. Their lives ended swiftly, without suffering. May these brave souls, fathers, mothers, daughters, and sons, rest in eternal peace.” Aviva paused, to mark the moment. There was an uncomfortable tension that filled the silence. They didn’t want to hear her. They wanted the doors behind her to open. She would make it quick.
“The citizens of Paris do not seem to have been harmed. Some, like myself, found safety at the mercy of the Red Masks. We entered the bunkers not knowing what to expect. These people are safe, connected to sophisticated portals, their needs fulfilled. We have been uploaded in this tower behind me. I have no more information for the moment—”
The journalists interrupted with their questions.
“In the statement, you said that you survived the attack and explored the city. I have trouble understanding exactly what motivated you to enter the shelter after the attack.”
The question was from Raymond, a young and talented journalist who had been an intern for her. It was the perfect question, and she hated it. She could think of many excuses to give. The fear of a second attack, or the post traumatic stress of the attack—but those were lies. It was her curiosity that pushed her to seek out a secure location. The desire to understand who the Red Masks were and what they were doing. She knew they had finished whatever they had set out to accomplish in Paris. She had believed that the only way to get closer to them was by going in. Now she was close. Too damn close for her liking. She regretted it. Perhaps, this was the reason why Morgan wasn’t presently at the Tower waiting for her? Perhaps she had gone too far—one too many times, and he had enough of her careless lifestyle. She wished he was there to explain to him how much she regretted her stupid decision. She wanted to tell him that if given the chance to do it over again, she would choose him over this damn story—over any damn story.
She left Raymond’s question unanswered.
“How long are they planning on holding you captive in the secure location?” asked another journalist.
“I don’t know. I will get back to you with more information soon. What is important now is for loved ones to be reunited.”
Aviva walked away from the podium and the crowd. The attention turned to focus on the flow of people exiting the Red Tower. The journalists would be busy searching for the most newsworthy reunion story. She would have liked to return into her condo to see if the connection device could make outgoing calls. See if she could reach Morgan. But with the crowd filling the perimeter outside of the tower, there was no way she’d be getting back in anytime soon.
“Aviva, you have something more to add. An inside scoop especially for me?”
She turned, recognizing the voice. Following behind her was Tracy, her colleague from the network.
“I don’t know anything more.”
“I didn’t waste my day outside the Red Tower to cover a reunion between lovers.” They walked away from the crowd, Tracy not letting her go alone. “We’re friends, Aviva. I helped you get the job in Paris. Tell me why you went in. Tell me how you got involved and why they asked you to speak for them.”
“I went in to get a story,” Aviva replied. “There isn’t one, at least not yet. Sorry, like I said, I don’t have anything more for you. I’d give you information if I had it.”
“What about Morgan?”
“What about him?” Aviva said, stunned she should mention him. “He has nothing to do with this.”
“Really,” Tracy said, taunting her.
Aviva stopped and turned to face Tracy. “What are you talking about?”
“You’re still with him... He’s messed up in all this. Big time.”
Aviva shook her head in denial.
“He’s in trouble, Aviva. Patricia didn’t want me to tell you about him, she wanted to do it. Do me a favor and act surprised when she mentions him. Can you at least do that for me?”
“Patricia?”
“She sent me an urgent message. She wants to see you asap.”
Patricia was the CEO of 24WRLD. In Aviva’s six years with the network, she had only met her once. It was at an award ceremony where Aviva won a best story award. Patricia had congratulated Aviva, stood in for a photoshoot, and before leaving took the marble trophy from Aviva’s hand, saying, “This goes in the office lobby.”
Tracy added, “She’s waiting for you at Terry’s Lounge, don’t make her wait.”
