‘The 13th Protocol’, an interactive story – Mr Harvey
This first is the first installment of Mr Harvey’s latest work of fiction, ‘The 13th Protocol’. The twist: you, the reader, decides what happens in the next chapter each week. Vote by commenting below.
Chapter 1
The grandfather clock ticked softly in the corner of the shadow-strewn room, its four-on-the-floor rhythm occasionally interrupted by the syncopated spits and spats from the open fire. Harry downed the remainder of his whisky in a tasteless gulp and stared at the embers. ‘Crack…’ A smouldering coal leapt out of the hearth and arced its way to the rug, a thin wisp of grey smoke tracing the trajectory lovingly before dissipating in its wake. Harry watched disinterestedly as it burned another tiny moon crater into the expensive wool. He reached for the bottle and poured himself another hefty measure, briefly marvelling at the lack of effect tonight’s half-bottle of single malt was having. Even the alcohol was mucking him about today. Whirring, his mind went over the situation for the billionth time, but he knew that he was screwed. His gaze shifted to the clock. 2am. At best he only had a few hours to come up with a plan. ‘A cunning plan? As cunning as a fox who has just been appointed Professor of Cunning at Oxford University?’ Bugger off, Blackadder, now’s really not the time.
Harry heaved himself out of the chair and walked over to the window, peering out into the opaqueness. No blue flashing lights – that’s good. His watch bleeped, signalling an incoming call; it was Jenna. He placed his thumb on the face of the watch and the fingerprint recognition software instantly did its thing.
“Hello? Harry?” She sounded on edge. Not a good sign.
“Jenna…”
“It’s not good, Harry. It went in favour of the ‘Yeses’ – fifty-eight per cent. I’m sorry, there’s nothing more I can do. The ‘Thirteenth’ isn’t worth the disk-space it’s stored on.”
“Ok. Goodbye, Jenna.”
He terminated the call before she could return the farewell, the lack of finality providing a modicum of solace. Not long now… Returning to his seat he took another drink. For the first time in a very long while he bothered to savour the taste, more in defiance of the fact that the whisky’s flavour was merely a transmission of synthetic impulses from his temporal implant to taste regions in the brain than anything else. The acidity on the sides of the tongue, the heat at the back of the throat, the woodiness in the nostrils – it all feels so real, so believable, so reassuring – those programming guys are good…
He felt a burning sensation in his right temple as the holographic representation of the Fort William cottage in which he had spent so much of his childhood dissolved in a crackling light-slick of photons and static to reveal the reinforced cement walls of his cell, the overhead lighting, flashing on and off a thousand times every second, clawed spitefully at his retinas. The heavy iron door swung open, leaving his favourite sadistic screw, Bonny, framed heroically in the resulting aperture.
“C’mon, Harry, you’re for the drop. Everything’s ready. Time to pay for those two billion souls.”
Harry smiled and looked down at his empty hand where a full whisky glass had been nestled only seconds before. Where the hell was Baldrick when you needed him?
For Chapter 2 next week:
Comment ‘Harry’ to learn more about Harry’s crimes
Comment ‘Protocol’ to learn more about the 13th Protocol
Comment ‘Light-Slick’ to find out more about the world in which this story is set
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