NanoWriMo 2009 - Fic 28

[deathpixie]

A clandestine meeting, two youths in a dimly lit doorway, glancing furtively for signs of being watched. The urgency of the deal - a breathless muttered question, the brief nod of a reply, folded cash being passed from hand to hand in exchange for something encased in a small plastic baggie. Then-

"Halt, police! You're under arrest!"

A flurry of panic and the dealer flees, ducking out and under and away with practiced grace. The buyer is not so lucky, pinned on the rubbish-strewn street on his face, rough professional hands searching his person. The baggie is found and handed to the officer in charge, who grins shark-line with the proof of a catch. He gestures and the buyer is hauled to his feet, suspended between the Kevlar-armoured grunts. He looks to be barely out of his teens, if that, thin and pale with dark hair flopping into his eyes.

"Got you red-handed this time, my son," the officer says, dangling the baggie in front of his face. "Bootleg jammers. Highly illegal. What would a minnow like you have to hide, huh?"

The buyer keeps his mouth shut, aware of the trouble he's in and stubbornly refusing to say anything else. His mother is going to kill him for this.

***

"I don't understand... A warrant to search the house? For what?" The woman's voice is querulous and confused, her world suddenly overturned by the uniformed police at the door, the official Warrant of Search plugged into the house systems. "Our Neil's a good boy, he wouldn't be involved in anything illegal..."

"He was caught last night purchasing illegal jamming software from a blackmarket dealer, ma'am," the officer in charge informs her crisply. His suit is dull grey, as is his hair - his entire mien so unremarkable it had to be deliberate. The eye tended to slide off him, seeking more interesting views, which made him perfect for the work he did. "We'll try not to disrupt your routines too much."

He's true to his word - it doesn't take long for them to find what they're looking for, taped to the underside of Neil's mattress. That, if anything, highlight's the boy's youth, his inexperience. Thinking it was such a clever hiding space... The police take the discs and his online system with him, giving his mother a receipt, all nice and official.

***

"Now... Neil, isn't it? You want to tell us about what you've been doing in your spare time?"

The interrogation room is blank and bare, slightly chilly with the uncovered concrete floor. Neil hunches in the metal and plastic chair, cuffed hands hanging between his knees. He looks beaten and the two interviewing officers zero in, scenting blood in the water.

"There's no point lying, Neil. We've got the discs, your hardware, records of your online activities. We've got everything."

Neil looks up, eyes red-rimmed and full. One of them is puffy, a bruise rising on the pale skin - holding isn't kind to the young and inexperienced. "What'll happen?" he asks. "To me? To my mam?"

"For you... well, it's a first offence, but you're in it deep, lad. You're looking at a custodial term, but if you cooperate, give us the names of some of the others, it'll be factored in. Your dear old mum won't have to cope without you for longer than, say, a couple of years."

"Years?" Shock stirs Neil's blood. "She's old, she's confused... she needs me. I can't leave her for that long! They'll put her in one of those homes and you know what happens there!"

"Should have thought of that before you started getting creative, young Neil. Or is it 'Morpheus'?" The officer grins, mocking. "You're lucky we're just looking at the legal issues. Another couple of kilobytes of 'stories' and you'd be locked up in one of the rehabilitative clinics before you could say "once upon a time". Sign of instability, this urge is. We're just trying to make sure you don't get yourself into any more trouble. Nipping it in the bud, like."

"You like stories, kid? Then tell us one. Tell us about the others."

Neil's shoulders sag. They're right. There is no way out of this. When he'd started putting down the words that echoed in his head, it had been a thrill, a small act of rebellion in a regimented world. He and his online friends, they'd called themselves 'artists' the same way a hundred years ago others had called themselves 'anarchists' or 'freedom fighters'. A game of hide and seek against the authorities.

And now? Now it was a couple of years in jail, the compulsory 'reeducation programs', the drugs that would deaden the urge to create. He'd be just another drone, the same as his classmates, his family, his neighbours, never questioning, doing as they were told. And for what? A few short stories that no-one but his friends would ever have read?

Neil closed his eyes against the pricking of tears and nodded. "You want a story? I'll give you a story."