Chapter 3 - The Black Transport
The interior of the tactical van smelled of ozone, synthetic leather, and industrial floor cleaner. Leo was placed inside a padded molded bucket seat lined with electromagnetic restraints. The buckle snapped into place automatically, its mechanical hiss sounding like a snake striking. Outside, through the reinforced glass, Leo saw his mother break through the front door, running barefoot across the driveway, her face distorted with grief and fury until one of the rear officers firmly pushed her back.
The door slid shut with a pneumatic hiss, cutting off all outside sound.
Leo wiped his runny nose on the sleeve of his blue shirt. Beside him sat a pale, teenage girl with smudged eyeliner and an older man in a tattered business suit, both staring straight ahead with blank, hollow eyes. Around each of their necks was an illuminated steel collar displaying a single, slowly declining numerical value in harsh red digits.
""Don't bother crying, kid,"" the teenager muttered without turning her head. ""Tears don't count toward the engagement algorithm unless they're filmed in forty-eight-frame-per-second slow motion with dramatic backlighting.""
Leo didn't understand her words. He only knew that the chair was cold, the men in front were silent, and his mother wasn't there to wipe his face. ""Mama..."" he whimpered, curling his fingers into tiny balls. ""I want to go home.""
In the front seat, the lead officer glanced into the rearview mirror. His display unit chimed softly, calculating the emotional cadence of the boy's distress.
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""Audio capture active,"" the automated dashboard voice announced smoothly. ""Distress level: Grade Four. Emotional traction: suboptimal. Transferring subjects to Quarantine Sector Nine for metric evaluation.""
The engine purred with a deep, electric thrum, and the vehicle surged forward, accelerating far beyond city limits toward a skyline dominated by towering, monolith-like server farms that pierced the gray horizon.
