Once Upon a Friday... (#SciFriday entries and other short stories)

The Interview

"So! You want to be a Punk, kido?"

The man, clad in orange, in a weird "Orange is the new byte" way, looked, bored, at the young man standing straight.

The young man took few seconds to assess his surroundings. For once, it wasn't all white and empty.

"I don't want to be, Sir, I don't need your acknowledgement here. I know I am a Punk. A Warrior Punk!"

Un-phased by the placid, uninterested gaze of the older man, he was wondering why he had accepted this interview. He didn't really need a new gig for his career was already well established.

Some of his apparitions in recent well received books had propelled him on his way to stardom. Under the pen of some talented authors, he received ovations for his various interpretations of lonely and proud warriors.

Being a warrior was not just about being a soldier. A soldier, he had been. Though the roles were just of a task to accomplished, a job to do. No personal involvement there. A mission, without implication.

He had had way more fun playing the role of the warrior. Martial spirit, personal rules, own philosophy, concern for the cause, all these gave more depth to the characters he impersonated.

With skilled writers, nothing was impossible for the young man to accomplish, no high he couldn't reach, no feat he couldn't accomplish. He could be anything, although he had a preference for the Warrior figure.

"What makes you think you are a Warrior Punk? You don't look punk-ish to me..."

The man in orange, his hair weirdly shaped in double dihedral figure, started to play his fingers along the keyboard conveniently placed under his hands. 

The young man pondered his answer as he couldn't stop glancing at the W-ish hairdo. He knew that his days as a Science Fiction character were not in danger, the authors would continue to use him to fight against cruel alien races and deranged dictators from the past. So, what was the purpose of this interview?

"I don't really care for the establishment, though I don't deny its existence... I'd say this makes me slightly punky."

Hearing these words, the man stopped looking at the screen in front of him with a frown.

"I see you have an impressive track records, under the pen of different talented authors. Effectively... you have made them proud and drove a lot of readers to their stories."

The young man didn't like the way this whole shebang was going. It was as if his interlocutor was turning around the pot, lacing his words with underlying intentions, grey areas, while he preferred when things where said loud and clear.

"What are you expecting from me exactly?"

"You know that here, at the BOW, the Big Orange Watt's'that, we like to innovate with new worlds, cross genres and even, possibly, plot twists. We are looking for the new image for our new Warrior Punk brand."

Obviously, the orange man wasn't used to explain himself, acting all high and mighty, mixing a bit of confusion with a lot of hidden anger.

The young man didn't really care, though, thinking back to his answer, not really impressed by the display of the MegaCorp-like imposed self-importance. He was a punk, afterword; a clear production of the anti-establishment culture, with a lot of individual freedom awareness.