“No, we have – soul, don’t forget that.” He smirks, bumps the door with a tight shoulder thrust, the Catholic district always had a sensitivity for the old fashion,
something he appreciates but isn’t shared.
‘Yeah, definitely a record on time today.’ she jockeys ‘Maby you should try out an Iron Man competition.’
‘Ok, I’m shutting you down now.’ Jeff says the key word with his sub-vocals, the off button.
The room smelled musty, dust stirring up the room artificial or not he couldn’t decipher, on the upper deck is filled with angel hair formations. He clicks
the side of his oval glasses and dark blue shades reticulate the lenses. Creak, creak, creak. What is that, he paused the instinct of creeps up his spine, nervous
system reacts to chemicals the byproduct of anxiety; the side effect of the blood thinners he’d taken, no doubt the end result of his headache. A constant
With the tips of his fingers he gently eases out of his satchel, pulling his left hand a grey red ball at the center the colors meet a white button.
Oh yes he thinks that is just what we need, it is a custom flash grenade. Up the railing, second story all clear.
Something is missing, the signal correlates this location, so where is the computer?
Glitch is possible but not likely, this is new hardware after all, maybe it is a ghost. Spooks are always doing this shit. Extra terrestrial might be –
‘get ahold of yourself, post paranoia is not an easy one to cope with.’
Jeff eases himself. No there has got to be a basement. He checks the first floor clausit, just as he suspects no ghost, no boogy man. The bottom of his
foot gives way. He sweeps under the rug.
“Old tricks never die.” A trap door with brass hinges. He tosses the flash ball inside. And climbs down the latter. The low pink light envelops the room
for the next few minutes.
The computer is there, Jeff examines around the room. He looks through a few drawers. Searches the keyboard for fingerprints. Nothing. He brings his arm to the head and wipes the cold sweat
from his brow before reaches the side of his glasses. Click. The blue lense turns once again to regular clarity. No use prolonging his main priority for
the sake of individual safety.
The computer he noticed hadn’t been used recently. The screen saver was old. As much as three years. Maybe five. The manufacture number was in an odd location.
Small private corporation. Odd for this area.
“Aurora? You there. What do we have so far?”