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(Prompt photo by Giu Vicente on Unsplash.com)

It should be cold in here, judging by the snow falling outside, how far into Canuck we are. Should be like any other tiny, heatless, Techless shack.

But on its inside it's warm, hot even. Not Techless at all.

There's a brand new As-Seen-On-Facebook Shapeless Bed, an HDTVHeadSet lying nonchalantly on the couch, and the finest insulation money can buy. There's probably a bot hidden in that insulation that's already calling the police, but I plan to be in and out before even the AVRO2s can reach this place.

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

I tied him up to the wall because I want him to answer me. Not because I want revenge - that can wait - but because I need to know what happened to my sister.

This is the man who ran the Agency for Brilliant Minds for over thirty years, and if anyone knows, it's him.

"Your sister?" He asks, his voice tight and crisp. He's an older man, small and shriveled up. I feel like I should be getting down on my knees to address him. "You've come because of Sandra?"

Perhaps I should have expected the disbelief that crept into his voice when he found out that I was related to her, but it still stung. There's nothing much to me, not to look at. Some straw hair, a big nose and a scarred neck from when Sandra had spilled hot water on me.

I'm not like Sandra. 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 a province-wide test. Mom and dad had been so proud. It was the last time I could remember seeing them smile.

But I'm wondering off-topic. None of that will help now. I need to focus on the fact that I have the Electric Rifle and he is helpless and I am 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 groove in my skin and shake of my hand, figuring me out, like I'm just another one of those goddamn army robots.

He smiles a little, mirthless. His lips are horribly chapped, chunks of skin hanging off them, and his teeth are yellow. Pointed, too, just like a wolf's. Made to rip apart flesh, to tug out veins from beneath the skin like thin little strings.

Suddenly, I have no trouble believing what I've heard. That this man was one of the most deadly men in our history, that he had started on the wrong side of the Annexation, that he had still come out on top.

That he ordered Sandra killed.

Maybe it shouldn't be surprising that he isn't answering my questions.

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

"Answer me." 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 gaze away. This isn't how this was supposed to go. He's supposed to answer my questions.

I grit my teeth, pushing the panic down.

I'm not leaving until I get my answers. Not when I've spent years searching. Not when I've thought about this every day since I'd come home to find my sister missing and the neighbours without a clue about who she was. Not when I've gone the places I've gone, done the things I've-

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.

"Stop." He says, quietly. Calmly. It gives me pause for a moment, but I'm not going to listen 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. "Raskolnikov. Stop."

And I stop, freezing mid-motion. There's a second where the only sound in the room is the man's harsh breaths, before he stops - for a moment - and nods to himself. And just like that, he's the one in control.

Or maybe he's always been in control.

"Take a step back." And I take a step back.

"Tell me a story about her." And my mouth opens.

Then I pause. A story. It's hard to remember any. My sister had always just passed through my life, even after my parents were gone and it was just us. Even when her summers off from the Agency were the only time I had companions who weren't robots programmed to love me. Even when she was eighteen, finally coming home for good - the only family I'd ever known.

"She used to love archery," I offer up, "we played it all the time during the summer." For a second that's all I can think about, but it feels like that tiny admission has opened up something else. I can feel the memories tickling the back of my head, fighting to get out. "Once, when she was eleven - I was ten - we went out to the archery field alone. We had to sneak out, but Sandra never cared about that. She was always adventurous." Adventurous was a word that I had never before associated with Sandra. Shy, kind and smart, sure, but where had adventurous come fr-

"And then?" The old man urges me on.

"We played a game to see who could hit the target the most." Then the words become hard again. I concentrate, trying to piece together the jumbled thoughts. What had happened during that game? "She won - no, I - no, wait - she - I - I won. I was always better at archery than her." That felt true. "She didn't - she didn't like that, I don't think. She got mad - she got - I'd never seen her so-"

No, that couldn't be right. Sandra wouldn't. She was shy, kind, smart. She wouldn't-

"Raskolnikov : what happened?" His eyes are surprisingly kind, but it's an order nonetheless.

"She shot me in the arm. No, she didn't shoot it. She just took an arrow and jabbed it in, and she told me - she told that that was where the nerves were." Suddenly the words come out loose. Quick and jammed together. "That she had learned that at school and I would never move my arm again, and that if I didn't say it was an accident she would break my other arm and-"

I cut myself off, my mind whirling. Those memories don't make sense. That wasn't what Sandra was like. My arm is fine.

"You made those memories up." I accuse, my voice surprisingly brittle. This isn't right. "You sent her away, unexpectedly. And then when she pioneered revolutionary medical tech you killed her and passed it off on your own."

That was the truth. The truth I had pieced together during the last five years, while I was hunting this man. This murderer.

He shakes his head softly. "Sean, I wish I could say that I had made those up, but the truth is that your sister wasn't creating medical tech. Sift through your memories, you know that she cared only about power. Why would she be creating a medical device?"

"Because she was shy, and smart and kind." I say. Robotically, almost. "She was making medical technology that you stole from her. Technology to cure paralysis. She was always a medical genius, always a step ahead."

"She was creating an army." He challenged. "All she cared about were the military implications. The medical inventions that she created would have allowed her to reconnect and recreate broken nerves, which would have been controlled by a device located in the patient's neck. A device that she could have hacked into and used to control the bodies of millions of people. A brand new type of bioweapon."

His voice is so sure, his face so open. He doesn't look like a man who's lying.

"That isn't true." I insist. He's trying to make me doubt myself. Play for time until the police arrive. It's true. "She was shy, kind and smart. She would never have done that. You expelled her because she didn't want a part in what you were doing, and when you found out that she had created such a useful invention you killed her for it. You planned to use it as a weapon, not her."

"If even your own memories are telling you the truth, why do you refuse to see it?"

"Because you made up these memories." He must have. "They make no sense. Sandra was kind, shy and smart. You sent her away because she was too smart, and then you kil-"

"She was sent away for what she did to the other students."

What? My mind sputters to a stop. "What do you mean, what she did to other students?"

"One of your sister's greatest accomplishments during her time at the Agency was her new memory implantation technique. She was just twelve years old at the time." His voice sounds almost proud. "It could be used during therapy for PTSD. But the she thought trials were taking too long. She started researching on her roommates, her teachers, even her own broth-"

No. No. No.

"That doesn't make any sense. She wouldn't do that, Sandra would never hurt me."

"Then why don't any of your memories make sense?" He insists, his voice much too reasonable. "Where did you get that scar on your neck? Why do you obey when I say the word Raskolnikov, Sean?"

"None of this matters." I sound desperate. "You ordered her death. Just tell me who pulled the trigger."

He flinches. His eyes grip mine, but they aren't analytical, they're... kind.

"Sean," he says, gently, "leave now. That isn't a question you want answered."

"Tell me." I insist.

"Sean-" My rifle is pressing hard against his neck before he can say a single word. Maybe he thinks about the codeword, but he must realise that my finger will move faster than his tongue.

"Your sister was a sociopath." He explains, the gun making him cross-eyed, a new edge of panic to his voice. "After she left, we found out she had begun research - experimentation even - into the body-control technology. We knew we had to get rid of her - for everyone's sake - and she had already given us the perfect weapon. All we had to do was figure out the codeword."

Perfect weapon? No. No. No, no, no. They couldn't have.

My breath starts coming in wheezes, and there's something coming into my mind, fighting its way out. A scream, big brown eyes staring into mine. Not staring into mine, staring past me, at something I couldn't see.

Her neck at a weird angle, her hands hanging limp. She could have been asleep, if she hadn't had her eyes open. If there hadn't still been fingerprints bruised into her neck.

And he's still droning. Giving me all the answers. "After it was done we wiped your memories. Erased everyone else's and the evidence. We thought that you would still be able to live a normal life. Someone messed up, but we can fix it."

Her fingers had spasmed as she pulled at my hands. Her breath had come out in puffs, her face turning the colour of sour milk, her mouth opening and closing. It was taking so long, I just wanted it to end. So I twisted. I-

I killed her. I killed Sandra.

I stare at the rifle. There's enough power for two shocks left. One for him, one for-

"Rasko-"

Crack...

Crack.