Burn Code

Eight

A day later a notification popped up on my optics indicating a data drop ready and waiting. Along with it came a count down clock that indicated how many days I had left to ruin Detective Paul Fesserton before I’d die.

A note was attached to the drop.

Perhaps this will help to motivate you.

It lacked a signature and the file packager itself was missing all header info but I knew who sent it. Or rather, who forcibly loaded it.

I recognized the individual file style when I opened the packager — they were standard police data files, like the ones I was shown at both my own trial and when Paul was trying to convince me to help him land Grendel.

The major folder jacket was labeled with my name and defendant number. Bracing myself with a shot of the highest proof I possessed, I accessed the file. The sheer volume of data that unzipped itself caught me by surprise.

I started with the oldest first. My entire background was cataloged with all known data including a psych evaluation. Family history, education, ex-lovers, prior jobs, and income levels. It included every flat statistic one could ever want on a person.

Based on the psych evaluation alone, I realized how apt Paul was manipulating me, rigging circumstances to get suitable reactions out of me. Our entire relationship was one head game after another. I suspected as much from the minute he had arrested me, but I truly didn’t know the extent of it.

A text flashed in the middle of my view. It was another helpful message from Grendel.

Rather chilling, no? To think the police have this much data on everyone. I’m fond of this one myself. I wonder how many times he watched it — at least fifteen according to the replay count. Naughty man.

The files reshuffled themselves till one came to the top of the stack. It’s borders flashed red. It was a video.

I drank more to take edge off before viewing it. Grendel’s words gave away its contents — the only question the time frame when it was captured.

I endured through ten seconds before closing it. A knife of shame caught me in the heart as I watched my aroused self rise above Paul through his eyes.

“Oh, God….” I realized then why he found that position so enjoyable. It made recording vastly easier.

To think there’s a similar file for each and every time — two just this week alone.

Shut up! I frantically replied, horrified at the thought that Grendel watched them too. I don’t need your commentary!

A chipper little emoticon danced before disappearing.

I should have known. It was Paul’s job description after all, but I didn’t think he’d debase something like sex into a police procedural file. It twisted my insides to think of who else in the department had seen these files as he prepared the indictment against me.

My cheeks flamed hot in a blush and I clenched my fists in anger. Did they mock and critique it? Bring it home for another go later on? Pass it around to their buddies? The knife churned deeper and it was hard to breathe.

“God-damn you, Paul,” I cursed between gritted teeth as I flipped through more files, reading his plans and strategies, realizing when each occurred. Ones that worked to his expectations had a green check — there were more of those checks than ones without.

Tears filled my eyes and I angrily swiped at them. I wanted to end him right then, but I needed to know why and whether he ever held one shred of care for me or if it all was a convenient lie to manipulate me for an end goal.

Numb from the alcohol and emotional drain, I barely followed any of what I read. Buried in a paragraph of notes was a passage my eyes refused to leave until my brain registered it.

Heaven help me — I don’t want to do this any more.

Finding a small glimmer, I read on.

I’m wired. For my own protection they say, in case Cara tries to hack me. The things I record get automatically relayed.

If this gets censured, so be it, but I completely object to the methods being utilized to build this case.

It took my alcohol addled brain a few moments to realize a couple of things. One — Paul wasn’t a complete jackass, and two — Grendel hadn’t prevented me from seeing this page. Nor interrupted while I read it.

That meant he wasn’t familiar with everything in the file and his control over me wasn’t total. He probably saw and heard whatever I did, but couldn’t sever my access. The rudimentary overload on my nanites was a painful deterrent against doing anything he didn’t like, but he couldn’t prevent me from specifically acting as I saw fit. Only a catastrophic overload would do that, but killing me wasn’t in his plan. Yet.

The fact that he loaded files also meant he had access to my data stores. With a bit of panic, I looked at my computer. I seldom kept anything in long term storage on my body and in my tattoos, but it was another matter.

I left it off since the incident in the restaurant, but through access to me, Grendel would have my pass codes for remote retrieval. Not wanting to tempt fate, I disconnected the power module and rendered it absolutely useless.

I needed to figure out a way to subvert him and determine what was done to my nanites. It was almost as if the police jack was on my TPU again — I saw my tech, but nothing responded in ways I wanted.

When I began to dip into the code, the warning burn flared to life across my neck.

Now, now, Puppet.

Infuriated, I stopped and closed the file.

Good girl, came the patronizing text shortly afterwords.

I sent a reply stating where to go and what to do to himself when he got there.