Six Months Before Impact Day
“You really think this is gonna stop us?” I asked, spitting out blood.
“Us?” the man in the suit inquired, wiping blood off his knuckles.
“What, you really thought I was working alone?” I laugh in his face. “Dude, you have no idea what you’re dealing with.”
“I will, soon enough,” he said, pulling out a pair of bolt cutters.
“Very threatening,” I said dryly. “Do you ever get tired of being a walking cliché?”
“At least I can walk,” he shot back. “If you don’t answer my questions, you may never walk again.”
That probably would have been threatening if there was any actual risk. Still, I wasn’t ready to reveal my immortality to them just yet. That came at a later stage of the plan.
“Walking is overrated,” I said. “Are you always so easily goaded? Maybe you should find someone with more chill to handle the interrogation.”
“You think you’re funny, don’t you?”
“I always wanted to be that guy who sassed his interrogators,” I told him. “You know, so he seems cool and in control? And the villains get nervous ‘cause they think he has something up his sleeve, so they slip up and that’s what lets him escape.”
“I’ll be sure not to take anything you say seriously, then.”
“There’s one thing you should take seriously,” I said. “There’s a tracking chip embedded in my collarbone. My backup is already on the way.”
“You’re stalling,” he said.
“Well, I’m not exactly in a hurry to have my fingers and toes snipped off, I’ll admit,” I said. “But I wasn’t lying.”
“Well, now we’ll be ready for them.”
“Oh, I doubt that,” I said. “But anyway, you haven’t even asked me any questions yet, so if I am stalling, it must be working.”
“Are you trying to coach me through this interrogation?” he asked, incredulous.
“Well, you’re not doing a very good job,” I told him. “And we’re kind of on a timer here.”
“This is beyond ridiculous,” he muttered.
“You’re telling me. Now, come on. Chop chop.” I laughed at my own joke. “I’ll never tell you the location of the rebel base.”
Without warning, he hit me again, a vicious backhand across the face. It split my lip, and I was grateful for the dried blood coating my mouth. It would cover the healing wounds.
“Who are you working with?” he demanded.
“Really? That’s your first question?”
He hit me again, this time with the side of the bolt cutters.
“Who are you working with?”
“Private organisation,” I said. “Try not to hit me in the mouth. If you break my jaw, I won’t be able to talk.”
He responded by thrusting the bolt cutters into my chest, knocking the wind out of me.
“I want a name,” he said.
“We don’t have a name,” I wheezed. “But you can call us the Rebel Alliance.”
“What do you want?”
“Equal rights and a socialist democracy?”
He hit me again, and I felt a rib crack. Arsehole.
“What do you want?”
“I want you and the rest of your shitty gang out of my fucking city,” I said. “Like that wasn’t obvious.”
“Too bad for you,” he snarled. “How many of you are there?”
I winced, pretending to be in more pain than I was actually feeling.
“I work alone.”
This time, he slammed my hand down on the table, holding a finger between the bolt cutters.
“You think I won’t do this?”
“Less than fifty,” I said, faking a waver in my voice. “Mostly cops and army reserves.”
“That’s better,” he said. “And a little pathetic. Where do you meet?”
“At the butcher,” I said, and he just stared, blankly.
“It was a joke,” I said. “You know, meet, meat…”
The bolt cutters pressed against my finger, drawing blood.
“I won’t ask again.”
“There’s a warehouse,” I lied. “Down by the docks. Red roof, grey walls. Can’t miss it.”
“Now you’re getting it,” he said.
“And you’re out of time,” I told him. “Backup’s here.”
Liz dropped down from the ceiling, catching him with a blow to the throat before he could do anything. His fingers clamped up, and so did the bolt cutters, severing my finger.
“Language,” Liz muttered, through the balaclava that covered her face. “Let’s go.”
The two of us made our way towards the exit, but a booming sound stopped us in our tracks. Liz stumbled, and I whirled to see the interrogator holding a gun. I glanced down at Liz.
Just her leg. No stress. It’ll heal.
I raced across the room, taking a glancing bullet to the shoulder. Painful, but nothing I couldn’t deal with. I crashed into the bastard, slamming his head against the wall and wrenching the gun from his hands.
Giving him a kick to the groin for good measure, I rushed over to Liz.
“I’ll live,” she grunted. “Help me up.”
Carefully, I slung her arm over my shoulder, and together, we hobbled out, disappearing into the night.
That honestly couldn’t have gone better.
Next Week: Fate Can Suck My Dick