The young writer was ready to chuck her computer out the window. “Open, dangit!” she cried at the unresponsive homepage. “What is up with this stupid glitch?!”
She was so frusterated she didn’t hear the door open.
“Miss?” a strange voice rang out. The writer jerked around to see two hulky men with odd-looking briefcases. “We’d like to ask you a few questions.” He began to open his case.
“Oh no.” She stood up, chair clattering to the floor. “I got a few questions for you. Who are you, why are you here, and how the hell did you get in my house?!”
“Miss, please calm yourself,” the second one said, reaching out to try & grab a loose hair.
“Don’t touch me!” she shrieked. Then her eyes widened in realization. “You’re from those government freaks, aren’t you?” she asked accusingly. “And you want us ficlet-people’s DNA , don’t you?”
“How did you know?”
“I have my connections,” she said, raising a notebook and striking both men unconcious. “In the name of the LoA,” she cried triumphantly, “I say nay!”