The Supposed Terrorist

Chapter 23

Artem sat on the chair near the bed, his fingers on the touchpad of his laptop, the pen drive connected to which screamed loud and clear to me how near the truth was. How in just a few minutes, the reality of it all would come crashing down. I could feel the little drive almost taunting me, challenging me.

I could feel my impulses working against my reasoning, making me want to run away. Turn away. Making me want to shut the laptop down, go back to listening to music about my non existent stupid ex and eating ice cream.

I twiddled my thumbs together, trying to gather my nerves because I asked for it. But asking for it was so easier than seeing through it.

Artem placed the laptop carefully on my lap, my legs covered under the white sheet.

The screen was plain black except for a little play button for the media player down.

He was about to click when I took hold of his wrist, wide eyed.

"You don't need to do it if you don't want to," he whispered.

I blinked, not expecting him to say that. "Running away isn't an option, I–"

"Rico, listen, it's your choice," he said softly. "I am not going to push you by saying facing the truth is better than running away from it because honestly? If you aren't ready to do it yet, that's okay. Completely okay."

"What about you? What will you do?"

"Me?" Artem smiled. "I will stay by your side, whether in fight or in flight."

Holy mother of God.

"And we have enough ways to win the case when the date comes, without rushing to see these tapes," he added. "It's already in my hands. So don't worry. Don't force yourself."

I took a deep breath.

"Fight. Let's get this done, once and for all."

His lips twitched. "Yes chief."

He was about to click when I immediately took hold of his wrist again.

He sighed. "I am telling you tha...."

His words drained as he saw me shift into the bed, hands fastened around the laptop and jerk my head to my left, at the empty space. Empty enough for him to sit comfortably.

The little brain cells of his worked and he gasped dramatically. "I must be dreaming... you are... relying on me! My dear heavens."

"You are such a dramatic little shit," I mumbled, diverting my gaze. My hand though? My hand gestured at the bed for him.

Out of the corner of my gaze, I saw his gaze soften and a small smile play on his lips. I felt the mattress compress as he settled himself at my side, arm draping technically over the bedboard again.

This weirdly felt so... so intimate.

I felt like even if I stripped naked and did a Buffalo tap dance on the table right now, it wouldn't make me feel half as vulnerable as this.

"Go?" he asked.

"Go," I said.

__

The video began to play.

There was black for a few seconds, then the muffled sounds came and the camera shifted. Michael Grant's face came into view, looking a bit younger. His brown eyes looked directly into the camera.

"17 June, 2017. Day 0. The second try."

He stood up and walked away from the camera. The scene shifted and he was in that room under observation I had seen through the windows of his lab. A chair was placed with its side placing the camera. Michael sat on it, a clipboard in his hands. Soon, another man came, placed another chair (its side facing the camera and front facing Michael) and went away.