Frannie’s Finger Finale

Revisiting that dialogue exercise I came up with a few weeks past. No updates to the chokingly sluggish flow yet.

“Where did you get that Pop-tart?” Momma asked.
Sarah stared at her mother. I climbed on the counter—which I’m not supposed to do. I got into the cabinet—which I’m not supposed to do. I tore open a new box because I didn’t want strawberry—which I’m probably not supposed to do. I used scissors to open the foil—which I’m not supposed to do. One fell on the floor and the dog ate it—which he’s not supposed to do. I’d better tell the truth: “I dunno.”

“What? It’s black.”
“Chris, your aunt died. Take off the concert t-shirt and find something appropriate.”

Kevin twitched from a forgotten dream to upright in bed. A flop sweat adhering the sheets to his chest.
Socks purred in his lap and nudged his belly for attention.

Captain Oswald Rockford slammed the canopy of the mech closed—a difficult task given the dampening effect of the nuematics—and stomped his boots into the actuators. He detoured eye contact with his co-pilot while he snapped on toggles and pecked at his screen hard enough to stun his fingertip.
“I bought coffee,” [some rank lower than captain] Marta Hanrahan said.

“I’m never going to get this math done. I don’t understand the point of the quadratic equation. I mean, ‘Who cares? Who really cares?'” Brain tossed his book bag to the bottom of his locker like he was dumping a body.
“Did you see that Bonnie Archer transferred into our class though? Hot! Let get there early.”

“You’re not going to be able to get to the mailbox without burning your feet. Get some shoes on or don’t go.”
“Mom, I’ll be quick and run on the grass. You’ll see.”

“I don’t care how much they ‘appreciate me volunteering my time and effort’. I’m not loading full porta-potties into my pick-up.”
“Kyle, what else are they going to do? It’s starting to rain and you’re the only one with a truck. Come on I’ve already got some other guys to help us lift them up and strap them down.” Todd jingled Kyle’s keys then then pressed them into Kyle’s chest when he didn’t immediately reach for them. “Circle it around back, bud. Thanks.”

“I just don’t care.”
“Well, I do.”

“Give me the gun. Now!”
“It’s not even loaded.”

The sign read: Authorized personnel only. No public entry.

Frannie shuffled the Post-it out of her pocket and tekked in the code on the keypad.

The latch clunked promisingly, but the door to the man-trap didn’t open. She pressed and held the clear button for a moment and started over—this time using a four instead of the nine she’d thought it was the first time.

The latch clacked. Even more promising!

Frannie twisted the knob and stepped into the man-trap—just one biometric hack away from the raised floor. She saw the entry-alarm strobe to life in the next room but couldn’t hear the siren through the thick bullet-proof glass. The sentry startled to his feet and would have knocked his coffee off his folding table if food and drinks were allowed on the raised floor.

She snatched her photo-ID up from the zip lanyard on her belt and held it up as proof of her authority. The sentry shook his head and pointed to a blank space on his side of the man-trap which matched up with a fingerprint scanner on her side. Frannie held up her index finger like a question; the sentry looked exasperated and motioned again to the scanner on her side.

Frannie pressed her finger lightly to the scanner so that the frayed edges of silicon wouldn’t register.

629 words on day 844