TROJAN

16➤TRAPPED

Two excruciating days. Eight hours. Twenty-three minutes. And seven point four seconds.

Eight seconds...

Nine seconds...

Ten seconds...

That's how long I've been trapped inside of my unbearable cell.

And I would have to stay in solitary confinement for roughly fourteen more hours. A somewhat reasonable punishment, considering how badly I'd lashed out at Greta. I can still hear her piercing, panic-stricken screams as I repeatedly slammed her head into the table-up until the point that I had to be dragged away from her by four guards.

She asked for it.

"You just shut up."

Now, now, Sierra. Don't talk to yourself like that.

"I told you to keep it quiet!"

Or else what? You're going to dig up enough courage to tear your skull apart and rip out your brain?

I start to scream. A raw, ugly, savage cry that scratches the inside of my throat like sandpaper.

Falling to the floor, my knees knocking against the hard vinyl, I curl my arms around my body and break down into a terrible sob.

Oh, have some dignity, Sierra, the virus drawls. Wipe the snot from your face and get up.

I make no effort to move. Instead, I screw my eyes shut, clasping my head in my hands, my fingers snaking through my long red hair. I feel as though I might just peel back my scalp and wrench the virus out of my thoughts myself.

I told you to stand up.

"And I told you to shut up!" I yell. "Shut up shut shut up shut up!"

You can't silence something you continue to probe at with your subconscious, Sierra.

"I hate you!"

Oh, you don't really hate me. You only hate what you're turning into.

"And what is that?" I spit out. "Someone who can't get a proper grip on her mood because a splenetic piece of software is holding her mind captive? An emotionally unstable prisoner? A slave to your command?"

I swear I can hear the virus smiling-my ears making out the sound of its lips twisting into a wicked grin.

All of the above, Sierra. A slight pause. But most importantly, you are transitioning into the very thing my designer hoped you would become-a feral failure.

My head snaps up at the mention of the anonymous culprit. "And who is your designer? Who was the one who created you?" I ask, refusing to acknowledge the virus's ruthless reminder that I was unable to initiate unproblematic interaction between the human mind and any piece of technology.

But only silence greets me.

"Walter guessed that Zora loaded all the Trojans onto the chips. Is that true? And does that mean she also made you?"

Again, no response.

"Where did you come from?" I repeat, pushing myself up onto my feet. "Oh, come on! Don't back out now. Tell me who did this to me-who is behind all of this."

Nothing.

The virus had gone utterly quiet.

Yet I know it's still there. Somewhere in the deep hollows of my mind. I can feel it.

But it would not provide me with any more commentary, not after my confrontation.

In disappointment, I flop back down onto my bed and will myself to sleep. However, even after the sun has set, I remain awake.