Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer

He’s going to watch it again. Unbelievable.
“Any chance of a coffee?”
The stare is a definite ‘no’ with an attempt at being hard.
“You can ask for details. I was there.”
Plus I have complete recall thanks to my action audit unit. I got it turned on after some clown tried to blackmail me into assassinating someone, then died. Not my fault the police failed to arrive in time to defuse the bomb he’d intended for me. The owners of the car park even tried suing for damages.
Pushing the display away, he stretches, then looks across at me.
“You’re a lucky man, Jarn. Most of you stockers are garbage collectors.”
The link attached to my official statement should allow government types to see my unredacted specs. I’m not a stocker-
Oh, for pity’s sake. Another amateur?
Let’s see.
“I do okay. Except when people try to roust me. That brings back memories. The memories bring back behaviours, and those cause a reaction. Which is why I’m here. The dead people started it by trying to run me down.”
He gives me a blank stare. Now that one works.
“You trotted up the bonnet, stomped through a reinforced windscreen, then punched Mike so hard he expired before Tino could help him? How is that a normal reaction?”
Tino couldn’t help because my boot through the windscreen embedded itself in their chest, a detail you should have just seen. I looked straight at them before extracting my foot so the audit would get it clearly.
“It’s a combative response thing. Like this.”
I pop the restraints and flip the table out of the way.
They always think attaching the cybered arm to the meat arm means I can’t escape. I have stress plates bonded to the bones specifically for that. I bleed, it hurts, and it helps.
He doesn’t react. Where did they find him? I kick out and his chair imitates a tablecloth pulled out from under the crockery. He actually hangs there, arse in the air, before toppling backwards.
A boot to the chest keeps him down while I take his gun.
“How are you familiar with them, and why shouldn’t I kill you?”
Pasty-faced of shit creek looks up at me with a dawning awareness of how deep the brown stuff has gotten hereabouts.
“You won’t get away with this.”
“Entirely possible. But you’ll still be dead.”
And there it is: eyes going wide as realisation bites down hard.
“I was told to keep you offline for seven hours.”
“How many outside?”
“No-one. We were a three-man team. I roped in a cosplay buddy before I came to get you.”
No wonder they were quiet. Quick thinking, though. Especially after losing two friends.
“Where’s the quiet box?”
If this is a trick, there’s a signal suppression unit somewhere.
“This place is an old fallout shelter. No need.”
Clever. Thought it was shabbier than your usual police station.
“Right. You’re going to stay here for the remaining five hours.”
“Why?”
I punch him. His head bounces off the floor. Probably survivable. I’m out of here.
There’s an elderly man in an expensive suit sat by the exit. Either side of him are bodyguards. The one on the right might slow me down – briefly.
“Well done, Jarn. My name’s Ethan. I’d like to offer you a job.”
Surprise, surprise.
“No thanks.”
I walk past.
Playing games like this? You’re either arrogant or stupid. Either of which will make working for you a pain in the arse.
First coffee, then lunch. Bloody amateurs, bane of my life.