shiver (FEATURED) | ✓

oo7

Adamík turns to me. "Is everything all right with you, Vance?" He asks.

"Yes. Thank you," I answer. "Have you gotten any ideas yet? I don't see how we're supposed to catch this- this thing, that is. Nobody seems to have a decent description of it."

"What about the other soldier? The one that was with him? He might remember something." Adamík raises his head as he speaks, throwing his voice over the table. It's surprising; he's rarely this loud, but everyone must have their moments, I suppose, to be trusted to a place on the council.

Malcolm smiles, but it's not a smile that is genuine, more of a mocking one. "He is in recovery from the shock, but tells us that he has no recollection whatsoever of what- or who- shot his partner," she explains calmly.

I know a lie when I see one, and this is most definitely a lie. None of us save Malcolm and Jonathan have any access to military information, records, or detainment and imprisonment services and files, but I can tell this is a lie. In a world programmed such as this one, they must have certainly found something out by now. Or, they'd be questioning him; with what methods, I would rather not think of.

What bothers me most, however, is why she is lying to us. Perhaps we are not all as trustworthy as we make ourselves out to be? But no- impossible. None of us are amateurs- the government of Tetrahmon would never allow less than the best of the best to run this country. Or, rather, this city. If we are to aim for perfection, we must start with the people of most perfection. That is not to say perfection of appearance. Vanity and mirrors are not highly regarded elements of this world.

I have only caught reflections of myself in glass doors, in windows, in the ice. I have a mirror at home, however, which is only used to check acceptability of my face and my clothing on extremely important occasions. Each of us has one, but the amount of time we are permitted to look at it is minimised.

I do not think I am an incredibly attractive man. I have permitted myself to like the colour of my eyes, since they are an exceptionally nice shade of light blue- but then again, eye colour is a mundane thing. That is all I have permitted myself to like about my appearance. I do not dislike anything about it, however; I am indifferent to the rest of my features, to the rest of my body. The idea of beauty has been wiped off the face of this world, as one would wipe a spot of grime from a window with a wet towel. It was that easy.

Still befuddled, I turn back to Adamík and give him a little shrug. "Seems like we've hardly got a lead," I murmur. If only there was a way to access Parrish's memories- but there isn't, and there is no use in wasting time and thought to something that technology has not made possible yet. Surely he must have seen his attacker's face...

I suppress a sigh and allow myself a small, reassuring smile towards Adamík, who in return, seems to agree with me. I am glad for his presence here.

"Vance." I look up. Malcolm has addressed me- the remainder of the council members stop their educational and intelligent talk, and look at me.

"Yes?" I ask, politely, my face straight now. All members save for myself and Malcolm rise to their feet, take the chip containing their screens with them, including their briefcases, and depart.

"Stay behind, please," she starts, as I switch my screen off and make to put the chip into the breast-pocket of my dress shirt. "I wish to speak with you."

I remain seated and nod, whilst she regards me for a moment, with her cold gaze. I used to think hazel eyes could never behold an icy look; I was wrong. "Very well."

"You knew Parrish, did you not?"

I do not hesitate in my answer. "Briefly." I know to keep my answers short, polite, and well-phrased. She is testing me, and I feel ridiculed and slightly irritable. My pride has taken a sort of blow.

"Were you friends with him?"

"No. I would label him as an acquaintance. He was kind, as a stranger is kind, but he was not a friend."

She falls silent for a moment, but I don't try to add anything on in a hurried attempt at shaping up my previous words to make them sound better. "You seem to have gotten over his death quickly, then, if you knew him."

Here is the test, I think, and I shrug. My eyes are unblinking as I stare right back at her, my entire composure relaxed, calm, unaffected- stoic, in a sense. "He was a soldier. It was expected. It was his duty to protect and to serve. Naturally, it is unfortunate that he had to die, but, as I have just said, he was a soldier- I do not believe that there was anything else to be expected of him."

She doesn't respond directly. Instead, she is silent again, but after some careful assessment of my words and of my facial expression, she gives a curt nod, her short, white-blond hair falling across her shoulder as she does so. "You may go."

I take my things and leave, my briefcase slapping me in the thigh as I walk down the corridors, feeling sick, inhuman, my hands shaking, my composure gradually 

slipping 

                                                                 out of 

                                                                                                          my 

control.

My hands can't stop shaking.