Free Data Runner by Sam A. Patel Page B

just a bunch of zeros and ones that has no tangible feeling whatsoever, but in my mind it’s like I can feel its pulse in that spot on my forearm. It’s like that phantom limb thing, only in reverse.
    A glint of light appears on the tunnel wall.
    By now I have strolled to the end of the platform so I can see everything at a glance. I look around as casually as I can. Mostly it’s men and women in business suits with a handful of students mixed in.
    I check my watch. Observe my surroundings. Wait.
    The splash of light on the tunnel wall grows stronger by the second until the train finally comes barreling into the station.
    The doors open to let passengers off, and I find myself scanning them as well, wondering if this is what Snake meant when he told me to be hypervigilant. I hope it is because at that moment I’m not sure what else I can do. I step aboard the train. There are plenty of seats but I figure it’s probably better to stay on my feet. The doors chime and close behind me. The train lurches forward. I grab a strap and hang on. Because I was standing at the end of the platform, I am now riding in the last car of the train. I figure this is smart because the end cars usually have the fewest riders. Fewer people means fewer people to keep my eye on.
    The train picks up speed. And soon the fast dolly of the empty platform through the window of the subway car abruptly wipes to darkness, leaving only my reflection in the interior glass.
    A girl my age wearing comm shades stares despondently into her music.
    A girl in a black hoodie sits with her arms folded and her head down.
    Two men in business suits chat.
    A cute redhead wearing a crested blazer over a tartan skirt operates her thin screen. She’s the one I linger on. Her legs have minor scrapes here and there that are probably from field hockey or some other extracurricular sport. I can’t make out which school her crest belongs to, but it is definitely one of the Free City charter schools.
    A few others.
    This is how it is for the next few minutes, me minding all of them as they mind themselves, frozen in their daily commutes. I begin to wonder if maybe I’m taking the whole thing a bit too seriously. I take a breath and let my shoulders relax. Body armor. Hypervigilance. It’s all well and good but I’m on a moving train now. What could possibly happen?
    As if on cue, the sliding door to the forward car gets thrown open so hard it actually rebounds closed and has to be opened again.
    The Japanese man who enters has a large curl of hair not unlike a surfing wave covering the top-right quadrant of his face. He is slender and wears a very expensive suit under an equally fine overcoat. Behind him enters a big round blob of a man who only takes shape after he squeezes through the door. This one has a shaved head and thin goatee and wears an electric-blue tracksuit with white stripes running down the arms and legs. I see the trouble in his eyes the moment he enters.
    Neither one looks at me. For a moment it seems as if they will pass right by me. Maybe they have business with someone else on the train, the two guys in suits perhaps, or maybe they just want to be at the back of the train. Who knows, who cares? Just so long as it doesn’t involve me. But that all goes out the window the moment the big one turns to face me, effectively trapping me in the tiny nook between the seat and the door. The suited one grips my wrist with surprising strength for a man his size and forces two layers of sleeve up my arm. Smiles.
    â€œWell, well, well, Gendo. Miru what we have here.”
    The guy obviously speaks English, but for some reason he addresses me in Japanese. “ Ave-u desu ka ?”
    He’s just playing with me. It might have worked too, if I hadn’t studied a year of Japanese back at the magnet academy. I nod. Am I an Ave? Yes, I’m an Ave. He’s already seen the tag. There’s no point denying it now. “