Ashton Etrigan

Age: 28

Current Mass: 79 kg

Mental Status: Excited

Physical Status: Rested

Two and a half MILLION dollars. I could do anything I ever wanted. Shit, I could finally tell my boss to go fuck himself, no consequences. I could- I could..

I sat at the breakfast table, thinking about all the ways my life could change with the money I’d been offered in the previous night's email. Sleep hadn't come easy, but I managed to drift off eventually into a state of careful unconsciousness. That’s what it had felt like, anyway. In reality it had been the deepest sleep of my life, and had lasted a perfect eight hours, at which point I had woken up without the assistance of alarms. And I felt rested. That was weird.

Emily had woken up some time past noon and came in to check on me, but I’d already gotten out of bed by then. I’d decided against telling her about the email, at least for now. I wanted to wait and see what would happen in the coming days.

Before I’d fallen fully asleep, the wristband had finally charged up, and it’d reported through a silvery white window that calibration was ready whenever I initiated the program. I just had to tap the top square of the band, and it would begin reading my biological identity for identification and registration. I knew the process from broadcasted ads and other commercials, but I wasn’t in a hurry. The only person I would’ve wanted to call was… no longer going to be a part of my life.

Other than that there was only Emily, my coworkers and boss, whom I would have to talk to eventually, and maybe Tyler from my gym, that I saw on a regular basis. I didn’t have a whole lot of friends.

I wonder if Em would let me go and work out. It’d be nice to feel like I’m at least doing something. No sooner had the thought appeared in my mind than my body started to tingle with excitement. It dawned on me that physical exercise might not be the big brain move I thought it was, and then I remembered something I’d neglected to think much about ever since I’d woken up.

Echoes of fire danced in the edges of my vision, and sounds of popping and breaking bones filled my ears. I had broken my leg. So much so that I couldn’t move it at all. Then, after that, after swallowing the marble… I didn’t remember much else than pain, but I knew something had happened to my skeleton. It had been vaporized from the inside, leaving nothing behind. Or at least, that was according to my own memories. I poked at my elbow.

Feels like bone. Same with my knees. Maybe the human mind is too fragile to handle that much pain, and tries to produce some form of reason for it all? To make it make sense? Yup, I definitely need to see a therapist. Nevertheless, all the prodding and examining of my own body revealed one thing about me I wasn’t very happy about. I’d lost weight. Not a whole lot, but enough to make it visibly noticeable. I chalked it up to five days of inactivity and liquid foods, which, now that I thought about it, also explained the insatiable hunger I’d experienced the previous night.

I hope that doesn’t last, I’d eat Em out of her own… home… A big doofy grin spread across my face, not for the first time that morning. Two and a half million dollars is… a lot of food. Food with real meat, even!

The tingle of excitement returned, but this time for entirely new reasons.

⬨⬨⬨

“Absolutely not!”

Emily’s voice wasn’t forceful, but the finality of her words was absolute. “You will spend the day here, resting. You can go out to the store and buy food if you want, but you have to wear more than just… that,” she said and gestured at my stained t-shirt and sweatpants. I’d put on some of my most comfortable clothes despite the temperature in the apartment, which was slowly creeping down. The snow was beginning to really pile up outside.

“Alright, okay, no gym. But honestly, this is fine, I don’t really feel that cold.” The slapping sounds of my bare feet against plastwood sounded loudly in the wake of my words. Emily responded with a perfect death stare. “Okay,” I immediately relented. “I’ll put on socks and a sweater, and I’ll bring a jacket if I go outside.” I sheepishly exited the kitchen and went to put on some more clothes. Behind me Emily smiled and hummed a cheerful tune. It scared me a little, how she effortlessly switched from Strict Nurse to carefree sister in the span of negative two seconds.

I can give it one more day, I told myself. I decided I would ask her again the next morning, after a hefty amount of bribing in the form of the best damn coffee I could find within walking distance. Until then I would just stay at home, watching whatever was on broadcast and think about how to approach Mr. Solomon's offer.

I can also figure out how this fancy device works.

The smartband around my wrist had been charged and ready for a while now, but I’d held off on getting to it. Emily hadn’t mentioned it since she gave it to me, but I knew she would call me lazy if I kept putting it off. She wouldn’t have been entirely wrong, but blamed the fact that I’d been too preoccupied to be able to focus on it until now.

After I put on some old socks I sat down on the living room couch and got comfortable, before I initiated the registration process. A silver colored screen projected from somewhere along the segmented band, with the word CALIBRATE? in big, bold letters. There were no other instructions visible.

“Yes?” I said half asked the screen. Nothing happened. “Yes,” I said again, more forcefully this time. The screen flickered and was replaced by a new screen. This one had the word CALIBRATING, along with three blinking dots. I only had to wait a couple seconds for the screen to flicker again, this time with an audible ping, and the word COMPLETE.

I was honestly pretty excited by now, it’d been a long time since I had gotten to play with new tech. That excitement turned to anxiety however, when the next window that popped up read Bio scan failed. Unable to register user. There was a sinking feeling in my stomach. Something had gone wrong, but how? I was registered at birth, then updated every seven years after that until I reached twenty one.

There were people that chose to delete their identity registration, and also chose to not register their children, but they were few, and generally considered paranoid and ignorant. They had practically made it impossible for themselves to interact with society, making everything from traveling to having a bank account impossible. They would spout stuff about secret world governments and spy cameras in bird's eyes, and lived in tiny communities with like minded people, away from any large city grid.

An icon of an arrow pointing counter clockwise appeared on the screen with a question mark behind it. I tapped at it. My finger didn’t actually make contact with anything, but the action still had an effect. Another screen popped up in front of the one with the failed scan. On it was a long empty box apart from the word search in dark gray letters in the middle. It appeared to be a search bar. I knew it would let me look up my name so the system could pick up the last scan on file, and see if it matched a second scan of my body.

“Ashton. Etrigan.” I spoke the words loud and clear, trying to make sure it didn’t accidentally search for Ashley Neagon, or something like that. Decades ago there had been thousands of memes online about how robots messed up speech to text, creating all kinds of misunderstandings. We had come a long way since then, but it never hurt to make sure.

The search bar filled my name in perfectly, and a detailed summary of my biometric profile appeared on the screen. It displayed all the biological characteristics that identified me, along with my overall health. I’d been pretty unhealthy for a twenty one year old, but that wasn’t super shocking. I’d been a jobless nerd, spending most of my time in front of a computer game, or admiring the star chart. It took me a couple more years of adult life before I realized I had to do something, and I’d eventually started eating less crappy food and started lifting weights. At twenty eight my health was quite impressive considering how bad it had once been.

The window behind my saved identity screen flashed, and a new scan initiated. The silvery screens were transparent, but I was barely able to see text appear behind the one in front when the scan ended. I snaked my hand between them and made a grabbing motion to pull them side by side instead of in front of each other. I read the message, and the pit in my stomach grew deeper.

Scan does not match saved Biometric Identity, it said. I read the message again and again, feeling a sense of unease. If this had been my old phone this wouldn’t have made me react in any way, because the operating system on it was practically a digital antique. I only ever used it for entertainment and social media. It had my fingerprints, but that was it. The smartband wasn’t like that though, it was meant to be a tool to better interact with all digital devices everywhere, and make life easier for those that could afford one. And this one was telling me it couldn’t match me with… me.

What the hell does that mean, “scan does not match”? My name is Ashton Etrigan, those are my records! What the fuck!

I stared at the silver segments around my wrist that formed the band, looking for an answer or explanation as to why the scan didn’t work. The same retry button appeared on the scan window and I jabbed my finger at it again. The screen changed, and a new sentence appeared.

Are you sure you are “ASHTON ETRIGAN”? y/n. Something flared in my chest and I yelled at the words in front of me.

“Yes, dammit, I am Ashton Etrigan!” I slammed my hands against the table in an attempt to expel the nervous energy that was building towards anger.

“Those are MY fucking records, that is ME!” My mouth felt dry as I spoke. This stupid device questioning my existence was the last thing I needed right now.

Scan unable to match user to ASHTON ETRIGAN. Enter another name.

No, that’s wrong! My name is Ashton, that profile is mine. I am Ashton Etrigan! My head was spinning. The final message to register another person was like a hammer, hitting a nail all the way in with one final blow. I fell back into the couch, sinking deep into the soft cushion, feeling utterly defeated.

I guess I’ll have to just get a regular phone. At least I’ll be able to afford one. A deep sigh escaped my lungs as I closed my eyes. A mix of anger, fear and hopelessness spread out from my chest and stomach, and I felt hot and cold at the same time.

A ping sounded from the wrist band. I cracked an eye open to see what the stupid thing wanted. A new window had appeared. I opened the other eye to read the text that was floating across the screen. Scan Complete, it read, followed by a logo in the form of a T-shaped man carrying an orb, and the words Thank you ASHTON ETRIGAN for choosing Titan.

My anxiety and anger faded, but in their place came a hefty sense of confusion. Somehow it had worked, even though the third scan failed and asked for another name. I had no idea why it worked, but as I kept watching, a series of videos played on the now single hovering screen in front of me. The videos depicted people using their smartbands for a multitude of services and ended with the same logo it had shown earlier. The media player faded and a guided program meant to personalize the user interface appeared in its stead. I hit the “Default” icon.

I felt emotionally drained, and didn’t have the mental energy to dive deeper into the applications of the smartband, other than to make sure I could contact Emily if necessary. I’d probably still only use it for entertainment and social media, just like my old phone, but at least it worked now. I had no explanation to why I had responded the way I had. Usually when technology acted up like this I just found a way to either fix it so it worked, or I ignored it completely. This time I hadn’t been able to react rationally at all, and I thought about how I had slammed the table earlier. That wasn’t like me at all.

I looked at the spot I’d hit the table. A crack in the surface had appeared, and I was pretty sure it hadn’t been there before. The table was a gift from our mom when Emily moved out, and was one of the few pure wooden furniture she owned, which made it not only old, but valuable. The old stuff always lasted longer than anything new. It was made to be durable, after all.

“Emily is gonna love that,” I said sarcastically, to no one in particular. I mentally added a bottle of wine to my grocery list.

⬨⬨⬨

The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

Whenever I had a day off from work, or had the apartment to myself in general, I loved to spend the time playing a game on the couch, watching or reading something, or enjoying another hobby, such as the chart. Sure, none of those things weren’t necessarily productive or developmental in any way, but they brought joy to my otherwise gray existence. I had games, I could download a film or series, and I had a bunch of old cartoon comic books. Instead of doing any of that, I was staring out the kitchen window, looking at the bright day and all the people outside. They were all moving around, going about their day, doing whatever it was that filled their time.

Gods, I’m jealous. Another day of nothing and I’m going to literally explode. I guess I can at least try to do something productive.

I’d already spent some time debating my options concerning the deal I’d received from Solomon Industries, but I hadn’t been able to come to a conclusion just yet. It felt like I was waiting for the other shoe to drop before I could make a decision. The money was tempting, but I was worried about what it would mean for my future if I just said yes without a second thought. A thought popped up in the back of my mind.

“Open my email,” I tried, speaking directly into my wrist. I felt a little awkward doing it, but I didn’t know how else to activate the smartband yet. It blinked in response and my login screen appeared in front of me. “Uuh… can I get some sort of keyboard?” Immediately an array of letters and numbers lit up in silver, slanted down towards me. The position and angle was far from perfect, and when I tried pushing a key the lack of any haptic feedback made it an uncomfortable solution. I moved to the kitchen table and sat down. Both the login screen and the silver keyboard stayed within a meter from the wristband. They aligned automatically as I sat down, the keyboard imprinting itself on the table surface.

Okay, that’s pretty convenient, I thought as I typed in my address and password. Not a lot of people used this method of input anymore. The younger generation even called it archaic, but even as a child I’d always preferred the tactile feedback from my fingers on the touchscreens and computer keys. This projected version on my table wasn’t exactly how I liked it, but it would work until I found a better solution. I pulled up the email from Solomon Industries and read it again. I didn’t really know what I was searching for, I was sort of just hoping something would jump out at me if I looked long enough. There was one line of text that made me think.

“If a bunch of lawyers are working on my behalf, shouldn’t they kinda… talk to me?”

My thoughts spun as I tried to remember what little I could from when Dad was alive and working. He always visited his clients a lot during court trials to keep them informed of the steps he would take to progress their claims and grievances. According to Emily he was a special kind of lawyer, who really cared about the people they represented. There weren’t many lawyers like that left in the world, instead there was a plethora of corporate teams of people who kept every rich CEO out of trouble whenever they “accidentally” killed a hooker, or “unknowingly” poisoned some poor community’s drinking water.

I found no mention anywhere on how to get in contact with the supposed legal team that was working on my supposed behalf. The list of contacts I could reach out to had no representatives from any sort of legal department, only people who worked at the Andromeda or Solomon Industries. I made a cursory search online for any official channel, but nothing came up. I guess the only way to get in touch with them is to sign the contract.

I read the contract document over once more, just in case. It was a pretty straightforward deal. If I accepted the contract I would relinquish the right to sue any parties in the future, as well as the opportunity to make a story of the event in a way I could make a profit off of. So no books, movies or documentaries. That was alright. There were other smaller prerequisites as well, such as having to show up at an office for authentication of identity, and something about the recipient's workplace in the case of competing companies. I tried to look for anything that might qualify as “fine print”, just in case, but ended up actually understanding the contract's conditions. It looked to me like a rare case of the elite actually doing something good for the people they harmed, while also making sure they had sole rights to shape the story to make them look better in the media.

I tapped the dotted line, and a separate window opened up. It was small and empty, except for a line at the bottom. I tried using my finger to draw a line and a thin black line appeared and followed my movements.

This isn’t working at all.

The line looked like what a toddler would make in art class in preschool.

Let’s try something else.

I splayed my fingers up against the window and moved it down to the table. I grabbed a stylus from a drawer and wrote my name in along the bottom line. This time it actually looked like an adult had written it. I filled in the date and time, and the window closed automatically. I saved a copy of the signed document, then replied to the original email with the signed copy attached.

It became increasingly easy to use the smartband as a functional computer, and as I exited my email I found myself quickly browsing the internet, just like with my regular computer. Except the band was faster, had better image and video quality, and the way I learned to manipulate the screens and keyboard was lightyears better than anything else I’d ever used. The interface was so intuitive a gnarlid could probably use it if given enough time. I was never the kind of person who struggled with new technology either, rather the opposite. I would regularly help people with their devices when they visited the store I worked at, but they were mostly elderly people who needed a hand with their old phone or something.

If only these things were more accessible.

The only one I personally knew with a smartband was Emily. Other than emergency personnel or public servants, only grossly wealthy people owned this kind of technology. Originally created for Crusader, the number one hero on all of Maël, it was pretty quickly adapted into a more civilian version as it gained recognition and popularity with her fans.

More like brainwashed fanatics.

Still, I was having a good time using the thing. Before I knew it several hours had passed and Secundus had begun rising on the horizon. I checked the time. It was just past midnight, and I was incredibly hungry. I got up and opened the fridge, but found only old bread and some milk. I checked my balance, mostly out of habit, then decided I could afford what I liked to call Big Food. That meant a two course meal with a bread bowl to start, real meat and farm-grown vegetables for the main course, and a side of fried rice and a thick sauce, made with actual butter, not some hyper-produced substitute.

I grabbed a sweater and stepped outside into the cool night air. A few people in puffy jackets and boots gave me some pointed looks, which made me a little uncomfortable, but I kept the sweater around my waist as I walked down the street in my t-shirt and flip-flops. The flip-flops were perhaps not the best choice, because I managed to slip on pretty much every dark patch of ice on the sidewalk on my way to the little convenience store near our place.

“That’ll be sixty four dollars, would you like to donate to the Steady Faith with your purchase?” The sleepy teenager behind the counter handed me the bag of items as he pointed to a rack of fliers. It had the Church of the Steady Faiths logo and pictures of old men in red and white robes on the front. The small store smelled of cigarettes and old plastics. Fluorescent lights lit up the aisles of food and hygiene products with the ubiquitous faint humming you always hear in places like that.

“No, thank you,” I answered the kid and put my hand on the countertop. It beeped as it accepted my payment, and a plastic receipt printed out next to my thumb. A guy in an aisle behind me and to the right coughed up what sounded like half a lung, and dropped a bunch of small boxes on the floor. It sounded like a nasty cold, and he was clearly looking for something to make it go away.

“Hey, man, be careful, please. If it breaks, you pay for it,” mister teenager sighed. Apparently he took his job marginally more seriously than I initially gave him credit for. “Here, can you recycle this for me?” I picked up the plastic receipt card and held it up to the kid in front of me. He looked back at me. “Huh? Oh, yeah, whatever dude.” Then again, I could be wrong. I didn’t get to think about it much, because the other guy with the cough chose that moment to astrally fuck up my night.

“Both of you, shut the fuck up! You, take this and boot it, now!” He’d come up directly behind me, holding a knife out towards me and the kid. In his other hand he held out a small device with a uni-plug sticking out the side. He shoved it into the clerk's hand and pointed at the computer on the counter. “Don’t make me repeat myself, motherfucker! I will fuck you up!” His threats were bookended by another round of coughing, and he had to bend over with the force of each exhalation of air. It immediately took away any edge his threats may have had, but I stood still nonetheless. He swayed his way upright again, his knife hand shaking slightly. He looked pathetic. I still didn’t move a muscle. A memory of broken bones and blood played in the back of my mind.

“Uh, sir, I can’t plug this in to our system, I-I’m not allowed to mess with the register.” The kid behind the counter put on a brave face, but he was obviously scared. Robberies, or whatever the other guy wanted, were rare in Luxin city. Especially any form of armed crime. The city council was proud of our low crime rate due to the many layers of dissuasion, such as access to free education, activity programs for people in poverty, and hundreds of city guards all armed with too many guns and not enough brains. Still, desperation would make anyone do stupid shit. If this guy was caught, the automatic camera system in the store would identify him immediately, and if he had a criminal record he would have to pay it all off in some power plant, working as an indentured servant. If not, he could get away with community service, teaching the young kids what happens to people who color outside the lines.

“I don’t care about your fucking rules, just do it! I can see the port, just plug it in!” The robber was getting anxious. He stepped up close to the counter and waved the knife in the kid's face as the kid fumbled with the little device. The uni-plug clicked in place, and a small LED lit up in red on the top of the thing. I watched, trapped in a mix of fear and anger. Fear for the pain that the knife would inflict if the guy attacked me with it, and anger at myself for being afraid of some pathetic guy with a knife.

I crawled my way through fire, suffered multiple broken bones, and survived a building crashing on top of me… but I’m afraid of a guy with a knife?

It wasn’t rational, but then neither is human nature. The store clerk seemed to be watching the computer screen as the drive was doing whatever it was designed to. It looked like he was reading something. “Hey, quit staring at that! Look at me and don’t try anything funny,” the robber shouted at the kid in between coughs. “Sorry,” the kid blurted quickly and moved away from the computer. “I-I’ll do whatever you say, just please don’t hurt me,” he continued. The guy was scared out of his pants.

“Fine, just shut up and stay there,” the robber then turned to me and gave me the most sinister look he was capable of, despite the wheezing he was doing. The knife stayed where it was, pointing up towards the kid’s throat. “You,” he started saying, then coughed up a ball of green gunk. It was disgusting.

“You,” he started over. “What the fuck are you staring at, huh? You think you can do something, staying there like that? Take a hike. I ain’t having you playing hero or anything, you get what I’m saying? If you take a single step towards me, or lift that fancy armband to call anyone, I will make this the worst night of this kid's life, you got that?” He kept waving his knife around as he spoke, threatening the kid behind the counter all the while he stared at me. This guy may have looked like just another junkie or street gang punk, but his eyes were sharp and sincere. He wasn’t lying. I took a step back.

“Heh, that’s what I thought, bitch. Now, you!” He turned away from me and back to the clerk. “You heard all that, yeah? Same goes for you. You make a move, I’m not gonna hesitate to use this.” The kid whimpered at the threat, and the robber barked out a laugh that was cut short by more coughing. I took a harder look at the kid while the robber wasn’t paying attention. He looked like he was around eighteen years old, acne still marking his beardless face. He had oily, dark hair, pulled sideways and down in front of one eye, and he was about as thick around the arms as a dried twig in winter. He was crying. I felt a spike of shame down my spine. The robber was right, I was a bitch.

“Hey, could you please stop waving that knife around,” I pleaded. The robber barely turned his head to respond. “How about you shut your mouth,” he muttered back. “Look man, we get it, can you just please stop it so close? I’m just concerned here, not trying to cause any trouble.” That actually seemed to have an effect, as the robber slowly turned his full body towards me. He moved his knife hand away from the clerk and took one step forward, which put him just a couple inches away from me. I felt the cold metal of the knife as he pressed it against my bare neck.

“Awfully stupid of you not to wear a scarf tonight.” He was pushing me back through the aisle as he spoke. “You know what the temperature is outside? No wonder there’s always someone going around coughing and sneezing when there are idiots like you just inviting that shit in.” He coughed directly at my face, just to really push in the irony. To his credit the knife didn’t even flinch. This guy had experience.

“How’s the program coming along,” he shouted back at the clerk without looking. He’d pushed me all the way to the back, where they kept fridges stocked with overpriced beer and other drinks. We were about four meters away from the counter. “Uh,” the clerk's voice squeaked back. “How do I check?” A low growl escaped the robber's throat. “The fuck you mean ‘how’? Just look, dumbass!” “Okay, s-sorry, okay.”

The robber relaxed his knife hand and took a step back away from me. I was still pressed up against the glass door of one of the fridges. “Fucking kids these days, huh? Can’t do nothing right.” He grinned at his own stupid joke. His face made me want to scream in rage. This bastard was enjoying himself, feeling in control and strong, because he was the only person with a weapon. I wanted to wipe the grin off his face with my flip-flops.

“There’s a percentage thing in the c-corner? It says uh… fifty-seven- oh, fifty-eight percent now.” “See, that wasn’t so hard,” the robber said, condescendingly, like talking to a toddler. About three minutes had passed since the asshole had pulled his knife and started all this. The city guards response times clocked in at about a minute flat from whenever a call was made, but I hadn’t done it, and the kid was too afraid to do it. We were on our own for now. I looked at the security camera up in the corner of the store. A tiny red dot behind the lens indicated it was still recording, which meant the robber probably wouldn’t kill us. A smart criminal would kill the cameras first somehow. Can’t scan a face ID if you’re not on, that was basic knowledge, it was in every guard show ever.

Another minute went by in silence. The robber kept coughing now and then, but had otherwise calmed down enough to casually look around at stuff. He was much less anxious now that he felt he was in control. He even went as far as to pick something out of his teeth with the knife, and it was absolutely as awkward as you’d expect. My arm was getting tired of still holding the loaded grocery bag.

“Excuse me, sir?” He whipped his head around to watch me. “What, spit it out,” he ordered. “I just wanna put this bag down, is that alright? My arm is getting really tired.” His eyes looked down at the bag in my hand, then back up at my face. “You telling me a guy like you has trouble with something as small as that?” he sneered at me. “You ain’t getting away with a shitty excuse like that, no you keep holding that. Consider it exercise,” he said and laughed. The sound of his laugh was grating and rough, and it made my brain itch. “Right, okay,” I acquiesced.

“What’cha got in there anyways, anything special?” He asked. I looked at the receipt card in my hand.

“Just some food and stuff,” I told him. “Oh, and some chocolate and wine for my, uh, wife. She’s waiting for me at home,” I lied. I was trying to appeal to his sense of humanity, to make him see me as someone he could relate to. “Married, huh? Me too, once. What’s her name?” Fucking shit, name, uh… “Emily,” I told him while I cringed inwardly at my own lack of creativity. Perfect, now just give him your keys and address while you’re at it!

“I know an Emily,” he said, and cracked a genuine smile. Fuuuuck.

“Oh yeah, where from?” I tried to keep my face calm. “Just around the corner and up the road about a block or two,” he grinned back. “She’s such a nice lady.” Fuck fuck fuck! “What a coincidence,” I said in the most monotone voice I could. “Ye- hey!” He suddenly shouted and lifted the blade to my chest. “Are you trying something here? Get me talking so the kid there can call the city guard?” He turned around. “Hey, kid! You better not be getting any ideas, you hear?” He turned back to me and I swore I could see a hint of glee in his face, before he broke down in a severe cough that nearly sent him to the floor. He just wants an excuse, was all I could think before he swiftly rose back up and grabbed my throat. His hand felt bigger than it looked as he tightened it around my neck.

“Listen here, punk. I don’t give a shit about you or that boy behind the counter. Those silver eyes of yours don’t scare me. Both of you are meaningless to me, okay, you don’t even exist, got that?” His breath stank, and his spittle kept hitting me in my eyes. I fought not to barf. “The only thing that matters is that I get what I came here for. If that means I gotta fuck you up, then I will,” he continued, clearing his throat as he went on. “Clerk kid, gimme an update,” he yelled over his shoulder, knife point pressed to my chest. “Eighty-six percent,” was all that came back. I could see the kid over the robber's shoulder. He was standing directly in front of the computer monitor, one arm outstretched downward, under the countertop. The kid was looking back at me, fear evident in his pale green eyes. “Almost done then. Another minute or two, then we can all go-” A click came from under the counter, right where the clerk’s hand would be. “Fucking idiot,” the robber and I said in unison.