The (Short) Story of the Evil Umbrellas [Completed]

A Most Curious Interview

A/N: see synopsis chapter for important notes about this story.

If you judge it by the outside, it should be a cold place, just another one of the tiny northern shacks that the Techless like to reside in. But from the inside it is almost hot, with a brand new As-Seen-On-Facebook Shapeless Bed, and a high resolution HDTV. There's probably a bot in the walls that's already calling the police, but I plan to be in and out before even the new AVRO2s can reach this place.

All I need is enough time to have an interview with my guest tied to the wall.

I tied him up to the wall because I want him to answer me. Not because I want revenge, but because I wanted to know what happened to my sister.

This is the man who ran the Agency for Brilliant Minds, and if anyone should know it would be him.

"Your sister?" He asks, his voice tight and crisp. He's an older man, so small and shriveled up that I almost feel like I should be getting down on my knees to address him. "You're here about Sandra?"

Perhaps I should have expected the confusion that crept into his voice when he found out that I was related to her, but it still stung. Nothing much to me, I guess, not like there was to Sandra. Some hay-colored hair, a big nose and a scarred neck from when Sandra had spilled hot water on me years ago.

Sandra had been more than that. Kind, shy, smart. Smart enough to be chosen for the Agency when she was barely five, based only on the results from a standardized aptitude test. Mom and dad had been so proud that she was going to do "her duty for her country", it was the last time I could remember seeing them smile.

But none of that will help right now, I need to focus on the fact that I had the Electric Rifle and he was helpless and I was finally going to get some answers.

"What happened to her? Why does no one remember her?"

He eyes my weapon for a second, studying it. Then his eyes trail upwards, towards my face. I can imagine him picking me apart, cataloging every single groove in my skin and shake of my hand, figuring out what makes me tick. I have no trouble believing that this man was one of the most deadly men in American history, that he had survived the Revolution and had come out on top.

That he had killed my sister, or at least ordered it.

So perhaps it shouldn't have be surprising that he doesn't answer my questions.

"Tell me a story about her." His voice is commanding, not a hint of fear.

"Answer my questions." I say, holding the rifle as threateningly as I can. "I'm not playing."

Those strange eyes have locked onto mine again, hypnotic. It feels strange and violent to tear my glance away from his. This isn't how this was supposed to go. He's supposed to answer my questions.

I grit my teeth, pushing the sudden panic down. I'm not leaving until I get my answers. I can't, not when I've spent years searching for his man. Not when I'd thought about this every single day since I'd come home to find my sister missing and the neighbors without a clue about who she was.

Before I know it I'm two steps in front of him, the butt of my gun posed to come down and slash across his face. I feel almost hungry, imagining the trail of blood and broken flesh it will leave on this murderer.

"Stop." He says, calmly and quietly. It gives me pause for a moment, but I'm not going to be listening to him again. Time for him to learn who's boss. Just as I begin to pull my gun into its downward arc he speaks again, this time rushed and almost frenzied. "Sunrise Sycamore. Stop."