by Ramona Finn
Dark, dark brown and thick. It is much shorter than that of the nonfunctional girl.
And that is because…?
No answer swims up to me from within my mind. Closing my hands into fists, I stare down at them. Did someone wipe my code clean? But…no. I am a person not a firewall—not a machine within an artificial construct. I should have memories—I know this. I pound one fist into metal and that leaves my hand sore. That’s a good thing—that means this world is real.
It’s all my fault.
With a frustrated growl, I sit back on my heels until my back rests against the metal wall. A rock presses into my butt. I’m tired. I want to close my eyes and wake remembering. I want the girl to wake because maybe she can tell me something. I hope she can.
“Who are you?” The words come out of my mouth mumbled. I have to wet my lips and try again. “Who am I?”
Glitch.
The word appears in my head like someone said it. I glance around us. There is no one here but the nonfunctional girl and me. It seems I’m not very functional either—which leaves me dysfunctional. I almost let out a laugh, but I don’t know why that word is funny.
Lifting a hand, I open and close my fingers. I let out a breath. I know I’m alive. And in a barren world that seems to be empty except for the girl with me, this platform—which is no longer glowing or sparking—and the wall and the sun burning over us.
I am a glitch? That word feels wrong—the firewall was glitching, wasn’t it when it attacked the girl? Firewalls should guard—they’re not supposed to attack those who enter. Just as I knew how to shut down the firewall and free the girl from its hold, I know this. And I don’t know why I do. The knowledge sits in my stomach like I’ve swallowed a rock.
I must find the Glitches.
The thought is like the other fragments lying around in my head—out of order, lost in mist, and has no contest for why I must do this. But it’s something.
Find the Glitches.
I don’t know what it means. Glancing around, I want to be back in the cool room. I touch the railing. Nothing happens. It seems to have become even more nonfunctional than the girl. I let out a whoosh of air. If I can get one tiny piece of myself back, I should be able to get more. Right now, I have no thought for what my name is, or how I know about the artificial world, but I seem to know nothing about this…this outside world.
Memory…error.
It’s all my fault.
“Find the Glitches,” I say to the dry, dusty air and to the girl. Maybe the Glitches will know why it’s my fault. And is that a bad thing or a good one?
The girl moves—just a flutter of her pale lashes, a flicker of a finger moving in the dust. My heart seems to skip a beat. Eagerness floods me along with the chill of fear, and I lean close and ask her, “Do you know who I am?”
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