Cli-Fi
John J. Falco
This is something that I have written for my WIP. As mentioned before I currently have this as chapter 2 with a prologue and a chapter 1 before this. However, I do feel as though I can cut out both of chapter one and the prologue and just start with this. What do you all think?
The crisp autumn breeze nipped at her nose as she stood there facing the cameras. It was 3:00 PM on a Monday afternoon and everything was going as routine as it possibly could. The convicted killer in the other room, still couldn’t be executed. All the TVs and internet streamers in the country were split screened on her and on the mass murderer, who in another timeline might have been described as having been from Asia with movie star looks. He was resting soundly with a smirk on his face, in the chair where he was supposed to have been killed at 10 AM in the morning. His grey bangs dangling across his eyebrows as tax-paid AC blew across his face.
Cheering broke out from the other side of the glass as another instance, this time a bloody blow to the neck with a guillotine failed to kill him. The clang of the blade stopped just inches from his spinal cord, before shattering into a million pieces. The blood and the scar quickly reversed and vanished as if nothing ever happened. John Yang still strapped into the chair tried to make a presentable trolling motion with his muscular arms, but the restraints only made it possible for him to flip the bird.
Social Media was going bonkers and some more right on the money than not if you followed their long convoluted threads about ethics in a world where thirty was the new sixty and normal was completely out of whack. To their followers it made perfect sense that John Yang was still alive five hours past-due, with the year they’ve all experienced, why the hell not? Though the leading theory seemed to be, that John Yang was simply just invincible. Not unlike the superheroes from the comics. Which was even more exciting to those who adapted the fractured timeline theory post-Great Displacement. Nobody was asking if he was tired by the 245th attempt. In fact, by the 600th attempt he was not only loving it but was finding new ways to embrace it! Talking in gibberish tongues and daring the poor executioners to try just one more time egging her on saying, “It’s OK, sweetie, I’m sure the next one will get me.”
With his God-like status nearing complete and the wild accusations in the media were not going unnoticed by the White House or the general public, “Is John Yang Invincible? Convicted Killer Can’t Be Killed,” said the NY Post “Post-Great Displacement: Justice Completely Fails,” said the Washington Post and “Justice For Yang!” Fox News lauded. Some of these were the news chyrons that appeared to the people who still opted to have smartphones in the age of Wilson Technologies’ neural-links.
The more old-school news producers were scrolling through their phones analyzing any new piece of data that came in, while Allison was preparing for Yang to come out of the building. A white bathrobe hung down to his knees as he slowly made his way to freedom. They couldn’t have asked for a more messianic image if they had pinned a halo permanently above his head. He was greeted by the gaggle as such.
“John Yang, do you regret your crimes?” a reporter from CNN was the first to ask the question as he appeared out of the exit. Making his way to the podium John Yang centered himself, his head just level with Allison’s. As she looked on she could see John Yang scanning the room like a cold hard assassin looking for his next target. He simply said, “No.”
“Then you must be pleased with the—what?” the reporter looked shell shocked, something he was known for never being. The experienced white haired journalist blinked numerous times, and it seemed like he was just waiting for an excuse to wake up from this nightmare they were all living in.
Yang didn’t flinch as he offered a not so satisfying answer to those who lost their children in the massacre. “They had it coming.” Someone in the press gaggle in front of Allison gasped, but many were just as transfixed as the reporter from CNN. Yang had them eating out of the palm of his heads. In that moment the world had forgotten all about the children, all gunned down before first period. Now, it was all about John Yang.
The White House was roaring with laughter and Allison could hear this through her earpiece as she tried to adjust her position next to Yang which was beginning to get pretty uncomfortable. But she couldn’t let her superiors know that. Not yet. She stood in the middle of her stage, swallowed whatever pride she had left and did it. She gave them the soundbite that they wanted. The soundbites that they yearned for. The chaos that they craved. All while looking great in a knee length skirt and louboutin heels. “It is the official White House position that if John Yang cannot be killed, then he should be pardoned for all crimes and sue the State of New York for personal damages. You all know that since the Great Displacement it has been mostly animals that fail to conform to what we know as reality, but Mr. Yang is, is a special case. He is the first human to be affected by the phenomenon in a, shall we say, positive way. Mr. Yang should have the right to defend himself as he sees fit.”
“What the hell Allison? Is this true? You can’t be serious!” Shouts from the other reporters were making her ears ring. The crowd got restless. Displeasure echoed across the political spectrum but outrage had subsided hours ago.
He was guilty. Of course he was! The evidence of the cult leader was overwhelming against him and it was mounting and mounting every day. They showed the jury video evidence, flight tracking logs, manifestos, emails, letters, text messages, voicemails, financial statements, and receipts from gun stores! To any one not in his cult, John Yang was the lowest form of life imaginable. A killer of school kids belonging to suburban families. Everything the media grabbed on and, usually sensationalized. Except this time...
The crisp autumn breeze nipped at her nose as she stood there facing the cameras. It was 3:00 PM on a Monday afternoon and everything was going as routine as it possibly could. The convicted killer in the other room, still couldn’t be executed. All the TVs and internet streamers in the country were split screened on her and on the mass murderer, who in another timeline might have been described as having been from Asia with movie star looks. He was resting soundly with a smirk on his face, in the chair where he was supposed to have been killed at 10 AM in the morning. His grey bangs dangling across his eyebrows as tax-paid AC blew across his face.
Cheering broke out from the other side of the glass as another instance, this time a bloody blow to the neck with a guillotine failed to kill him. The clang of the blade stopped just inches from his spinal cord, before shattering into a million pieces. The blood and the scar quickly reversed and vanished as if nothing ever happened. John Yang still strapped into the chair tried to make a presentable trolling motion with his muscular arms, but the restraints only made it possible for him to flip the bird.
Social Media was going bonkers and some more right on the money than not if you followed their long convoluted threads about ethics in a world where thirty was the new sixty and normal was completely out of whack. To their followers it made perfect sense that John Yang was still alive five hours past-due, with the year they’ve all experienced, why the hell not? Though the leading theory seemed to be, that John Yang was simply just invincible. Not unlike the superheroes from the comics. Which was even more exciting to those who adapted the fractured timeline theory post-Great Displacement. Nobody was asking if he was tired by the 245th attempt. In fact, by the 600th attempt he was not only loving it but was finding new ways to embrace it! Talking in gibberish tongues and daring the poor executioners to try just one more time egging her on saying, “It’s OK, sweetie, I’m sure the next one will get me.”
With his God-like status nearing complete and the wild accusations in the media were not going unnoticed by the White House or the general public, “Is John Yang Invincible? Convicted Killer Can’t Be Killed,” said the NY Post “Post-Great Displacement: Justice Completely Fails,” said the Washington Post and “Justice For Yang!” Fox News lauded. Some of these were the news chyrons that appeared to the people who still opted to have smartphones in the age of Wilson Technologies’ neural-links.
The more old-school news producers were scrolling through their phones analyzing any new piece of data that came in, while Allison was preparing for Yang to come out of the building. A white bathrobe hung down to his knees as he slowly made his way to freedom. They couldn’t have asked for a more messianic image if they had pinned a halo permanently above his head. He was greeted by the gaggle as such.
“John Yang, do you regret your crimes?” a reporter from CNN was the first to ask the question as he appeared out of the exit. Making his way to the podium John Yang centered himself, his head just level with Allison’s. As she looked on she could see John Yang scanning the room like a cold hard assassin looking for his next target. He simply said, “No.”
“Then you must be pleased with the—what?” the reporter looked shell shocked, something he was known for never being. The experienced white haired journalist blinked numerous times, and it seemed like he was just waiting for an excuse to wake up from this nightmare they were all living in.
Yang didn’t flinch as he offered a not so satisfying answer to those who lost their children in the massacre. “They had it coming.” Someone in the press gaggle in front of Allison gasped, but many were just as transfixed as the reporter from CNN. Yang had them eating out of the palm of his heads. In that moment the world had forgotten all about the children, all gunned down before first period. Now, it was all about John Yang.
The White House was roaring with laughter and Allison could hear this through her earpiece as she tried to adjust her position next to Yang which was beginning to get pretty uncomfortable. But she couldn’t let her superiors know that. Not yet. She stood in the middle of her stage, swallowed whatever pride she had left and did it. She gave them the soundbite that they wanted. The soundbites that they yearned for. The chaos that they craved. All while looking great in a knee length skirt and louboutin heels. “It is the official White House position that if John Yang cannot be killed, then he should be pardoned for all crimes and sue the State of New York for personal damages. You all know that since the Great Displacement it has been mostly animals that fail to conform to what we know as reality, but Mr. Yang is, is a special case. He is the first human to be affected by the phenomenon in a, shall we say, positive way. Mr. Yang should have the right to defend himself as he sees fit.”
“What the hell Allison? Is this true? You can’t be serious!” Shouts from the other reporters were making her ears ring. The crowd got restless. Displeasure echoed across the political spectrum but outrage had subsided hours ago.
He was guilty. Of course he was! The evidence of the cult leader was overwhelming against him and it was mounting and mounting every day. They showed the jury video evidence, flight tracking logs, manifestos, emails, letters, text messages, voicemails, financial statements, and receipts from gun stores! To any one not in his cult, John Yang was the lowest form of life imaginable. A killer of school kids belonging to suburban families. Everything the media grabbed on and, usually sensationalized. Except this time...
