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One Too Many

They always told me that, one day, I'd take it too far.

I'd hack one too many systems, disable one too many comms- that I'd disrupt one too many transactions, or approach one too many deals with two eyes open and one hand behind my back.

I've never been one to listen.

For as long as I can remember, the world had bent around my fingertips. As soon as I had written my first codes, things started to morph to my will. Not enough money? Hack the bank, pay the mortgage. Mom would never know how shortchanged her accounts had been- for years, the money had dwindled, but as soon as I was eleven, money wasn't an issue.

I'd never been caught.

Had a few close calls, of course, had to run from a K-9 unit, once. Had to stitch up my arm from a dog named Loki, once, but they'd never taken me.

Okay, they took me once. I was twelve, and- long story. I took a risk, and had to climb out of a half-full sewer. But that was deep in the past- and too nasty to think of when one's face is covered in what one hopes to be mud.

I inhale the dirt. It clouds my lungs, spatters my hair, obscures my vision. I cough, and grass flies out of my mouth and nose. I push myself up to my knees, with the pain that tells me I've scraped both knees and both palms. I only wish the risk of infection were my greatest fear.

Trails of dirt and grime track down my face, across my cheeks, below my chin, dripping on my neck as I push myself to my feet.

My knees knock together. If you stay here, I tell myself, you're exposed. There's no telling who's seen you by now, and if it's an official, they're as sure as heck going to note your presence.

A small voice, the one I usually ignore, whispers in my ear. Run where? Hide where? You're as good as dead. Might as well stay here. I don't listen to it this time, either. My options are limited, sadly, terrifyingly, completely limited. They all rely on the phone in my pocket, the one that's screaming 'No Service'. I flick at its antenna. Not as though it'll help anything, but it makes me feel better.

I look around. If I'm to do anything, I have to go back into the library, which I left like an idiot. The streets are deserted. But the library should be bustling. I do my best to clear my face, but I still look like I've rolled through a pig pen and smell like I've rolled through a sewer.

Pride left buried somewhere in the park, I slip through the doors of the library, hoping with all my might that the mud matches my skin tone.

The library borders upon deserted. Stray customers linger throughout the fiction section, right between the conference room and the Young Adult novels. Somehow, I don't think it's a coincidence. I am an idiot to have left. I am an idiot to have stayed.

I'm an idiot.

I'm an idiot.

I'm an idiot.

Yet, I find some consolation in the fact that there has to be some other idiot who's screwed up more than I have in the past. I can't be the first moron to have hacked the government and gotten tracked by a satellite, put on an international hit list, and had friends paid to kill them.

Okay, maybe it's not a daily occurrence.