The night is cold.

I sigh to myself. “If I was starting a book, this would be a sucky time.”

Leaning against the lamppost, the pallid yellow light streaming down through a light fog, I flick the remains of my snack away. Having waited this long, my skin is almost all gooseflesh, and I am starting to shiver when I yawn, sending big, billowy clouds of condensation out into the night.

I flip my smartphone out of my pocket, and tap idly, unhappy. “When is this guy going to get here? It’s almost like he’s waiting for dramatic tension.”

As if on cue, a voice calls out from across the lane. “I am.”

I nod. “Oh, okay. Continue on, then.”

As the voice fades away into the night, I look up at the moon, round and opalescent.

I bark at the other side of the street. “Get over here, moron, I don’t have all day!”

He scurries across, obviously displeased at my outburst. “Very well, my good sir. Patience is a virtue, you reali-“

I cut him off. “Yeah, yeah, shut up. Tell me what I need to know and then scram.”

He sighs. “Watchman got to the shipment alright. He’s awaiting the signal.”

I tilt my head. “Anything else, or are we going to leave the reader barely anything?”

He recoils a slight bit, confused. “What are you talking about?”

I shake my head. “Bad joke. Any more?”

He pulls a paper out of his pocket. “I figured you might want this.”

I look at it, and in his grubby hands is a receipt for some carnations. “I’m sorry, bub, but you’re SOL if you think I want that.”

He shakes his head vehemently. “Not that. What’s on the back.”

I flip it over, and it’s blank. “Ah, yes. Thanks, Hone. Now riddly-diddly-skadiddly.”

He huffs, and makes his way off into the night, muttering angrily. I look up at the moon again, and cock an eyebrow. “You really want me to do this, don’t you?”

I walk down the road to my car. It’s an older model, but it still runs like a race car. Lemmy sold it to me for 10 quid and a deer’s reed. (If you don’t know, you don’t want to.)

It starts up easy, and as I pull away, I chide myself. It’s easily, you dipstick. Stop making amateur mistakes!

I apologize to myself, and floor the gas pedal, taking off like a fighter jet. My destination soon comes into reach. E.P.A.C. cape, where E.P.A.C. have their testing grounds. Most people call them Packers, although E.P.A.C. stands for Evaluation Processes and Corrections. They rehabilitate old prisoners, one of which I’m headed to break out of, or at least assist with breaking out of, their facility at the cape.

As I draw near to the compound, I let the car coast, not wanting to attract undue attention. I ride into the parking lot, and stop my car neatly in a little stall. I make sure to lock the door as I get out. “Don’t want to be broken into or robbed while I break into and rob, right?”

The facility stands before me, a cascade of black concrete lined with yellow stripes. I waste no time, immediately scanning the outside for any air vents. I find one tucked away on the third floor balcony, by the air-con unit. Unfortunately for me, there’s no easy access. Looks like I’m doing this the hard way.

I peek around the edge of the building. Nobody seems to be present, so I sneak into the maintenance yard, where the Packers guard their patrol mechas. Small things, but big enough that they should need ladders, right?

Wrong. They need scaffolding, apparently, as I see a giant scaffold on wheels surrounding a broken mecha.

I look at the moon. “Come on. You couldn’t have made this a bit easier, could you?”

I look back down, and notice the scaffolding is on wheels. I point my finger up in the air in realization. “I understand. I’m one heck of a main character, eh? Well, I’m me, so that’s realistic, at the least.”

I scoot over to the scaffolding to inspect how it moves. Wires from the wheels seem to be connected to a central computer. I turn the power on, and it flickers to life. A joystick on the side catches my eye, complete with glowing red button on the tip. I press the button, and the machine moves forwards an inch. I gasp. “No, not this. Anything but this.”

Whirr.. whirr.. whirr.. wheet-wheet.. whirr.. The scaffolding rumbles as it crawls slowly across the open space, me at the helm, looking absolutely disdainful. “I could’ve stopped this,” I mutter, “but no, I have to look stupid. Character development can kiss my as-“

I’m stopped as I jolt around from the sudden stop of the scaffolding. I look at the path ahead of me and notice the wall in my way. I look up, and there’s my destination. I climb to the highest scaffold, and stand on my tip-toes.

I’m still missing about a foot off the edge, and I can’t jump for fear of my children. (Girls, it’s a man thing.) Those railings do not look cooperative, so I step down. I scan the repair docks for anything I might need. A box, maybe, that I can stand on?

As I look, a man walks out of the building. Seeing me standing there, he raises his hands to chest level in sudden shock, his face contorting. “Who’s there?”

Instantly, the whole base goes into alarm mode. Sirens blare, red lights flash in places I didn’t know existed, and about twenty-three thousand and sixty-nine guards seemingly spawn out of thin air. They all point their ridiculously oversized gatling-submachine-rocket-grenade-launcher-pistols at me, screaming threats.

I know, if I don’t act now, that I will be another failed writing attempt, another manuscript chucked into the digital trash can, another “game over” screen in my mind. So I do what any self-respecting author-slash-self-aware-character would do.

I rewrite.

“No, no, this won’t do.” I say, strolling around in the jumble of words. Pointing at the first civilian to see me, I sigh. “How did he see me right off the bat? Nope. Not realistic. Change!”

I look at all the guards. “Too many. Where did they all come from? Why do they all look exactly the same? I swear, Caleb, your imagination isn’t what it used to be.” I say to myself as some of the guards slip out of existence again, and features start to come into view. “Better, better...”

I look at their guns. “I don’t know what this is, but would an expendable grunt have one of these? I don’t think so. Redo, if you please!”

Looking around, I smile, satisfied with my changes. “And, roll film!”

I’m still missing about a foot off the ledge, and I can’t jump for fear of my package getting crushed in the mail, if you know what I mean. (Ladies, I’m still single.) Those railings would be covered in spikes if they had a choice, and I’m not a fan of spikes OR giving railings choices, so I step down. I scan the empty field for anything I could use. A box, maybe?

As I survey the repair docks, a man walks out of the building. He looks off in the distance for a moment, giving me enough time to jump off the scaffolding and hide behind a bunch a mecha equipment. He sees the scaffolding just as I hide, and walks over to inspect it. I can see the fatigue on his face, his eyes stretched tight over a gaunt frame. He turns around, and pulls out what looks to be a cell phone. He raises it to his ear, says a few words, and then plops it back in his pocket. He walks back in the building, and I take the opportunity to manouver around some obstacles to a better vantage point.

After about thrity seconds, a guard walks out, his pistol raised along with his flashlight. In a holster, I see a truncheon. Nothing else. He peruses the scaffolding, and sighs, walking back in the building as his radio crackles. I sigh. Too close. At least I’m still alive and kicking, right?

I grab an empty crate from a stack and run it back to the scaffolding. I place it down, and use it to jump to the third floor balcony. Sneaking auietly across it, I get to the air vent cover. I lift it off, and slip right in. As I crawl along, crouched, using my hands on the sides for balance, I notice a lot of offices through grates in the vent. All of them are populated, but none of them seem to be very sentient, as I easily walk past them with no trouble at all. Once I get to the end, I pop the cover off again, and slip into a hallway unnoticed.

I try the first door on my left, and it opens up to reveal a posh reception area, which is unpopulated at the moment. Lavish red shag carpet clothes the floor, while blue wavy light patterns dance across the walls. The paintings on the walls are all surreal paintings of black and white rainbows, and stupid stuff like that. I guess rich people really love their convoluted crap, right?

A voice breaks out from behind me, but I don’t turn around. “Hello, Caleb. It’s been a while.”

I smile, tilting my head back. “Watchman. Always a pleasure.”

He starts to say something, but I stop him, my hand upheld and my eyes wide open. “Hold the pickles. This isn’t right. No, no. It’s just late at night. Give me another chance, will you?”

The words bend around my eyes once again. I inspect the air vent. “Too easy. Who leaves their air vents just pop-off-able in a prison? Also, office workers are not zombies, as much as they’d like to be dead.”

I survey the opulent room. “Why is this in a prison? Who funded this? Not the government, that’s for sure. Scrap it.”

I don’t even have to look at Watchman. He just gets the hint and fades away. Satisfied, I snap my fingers. “Lights! Camera! Forklift!”

(TO BE CONT’D)