There now exists a world where the colour of your blood defines you; and there certainly isn't much room for different in the year 2138.
Suki Kione has known for a long time now that there's a clock on her life, one that runs a lot quicker than that...
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I thought I knew what it meant to be completely terrified considering the events of the past few hours, but I was clearly quite mistaken. What I do know is that the potency of my fear is at an all-time high. It has reached a new level that leaves no flicker of an eyelid or thud of an atrium to imagination. I'm scared and I have no doubt that the all-white-clad male across from me can tell.
The lack of confusion on his face leads me to believe that nothing is out of the ordinary when looking at the ones and zeros that tell all the secrets of my medical records. My ex-Watcher has clearly done a good job of making me look like what everyone else should. It's only a shame the same can't be said for the secrets swimming all around my circulatory system.
He starts by hooking me up to a blood pressure machine. While I do my best to conceal the state of emergency in my brain, the monstrous number no doubt displayed across his screen has me expecting him to look even a little intrigued or hold at least a whisper of perplexity. No innocent person's heart would be beating this fast.
I wait for a sadistic smile to claw its way across his face, as he puts two and two together, knowing that he may be on his way to finding another Pukka, but nothing. Nothing whatsoever ... except for a short phrase that takes me by surprise.
"Calm down. Being scared isn't going to help you."
He makes no eye contact as he says this.
It takes me a while to begin to feel the thudding in my chest slow down even a fraction, but before long I reach a remotely calm state. The Watcher sets up the device once again, checking the numbers on the screen. He seems to be marginally pleased by this as I make out an inkling of a grin on his face that I must've imagined there. The whole time I've been in the presence of this being he hasn't cracked a single smile, not for the lack of trying on my part.
"Good," he compliments and I do my best to stop my face from screwing up into a look of confusion.
He begins to remove the tube like strap that was wrapped around my arm, the sticky portion of the band screaming as he separates it from its significant other and he punches the revised numbers into the system.
My heart rate begins to climb once again when he pulls out a syringe-gun, the sharp point of the needle omitting a tear jerking glint in the bright glow of the interview room. It would seem that over the years I've developed more than just a phobia for needles.
I tentatively extend my left arm when he gestures for me to do so and I slowly become more and more aware of the air trapped in my lungs that I'm just refusing to let out. I hold my breath as the sharp point comes closer and closer to the layer of light brown. He pulls the trigger and the tip finally makes contact with the soft skin of my forearm and I wince as the little prick registers in my system. Alarm bells ring in my head as I become aware of what must come next — blood.
