"This level of security does not come cheap, Mr. Richards,"

"Money is not at issue here Mr. Rospero,"

Rospero smiled. His teeth had nearly the same sheen as the brightly polished metallic desk he sat behind. Stephen Richards felt uneasy. The office seemed to exude that feeling. It was all smooth, metallic surfaces, not even a window present. Pictures were few, and limited to one painting behind a glass case on the far right wall and a drawing of the building he was now sitting in the Penthouse Suite of. There were no rugs of any kind, only the metallic desk and a rather out of place wooden liquor cabinet standing against the far wall. Aside from that, every square inch of the room was visible.

"You sound like a very practical man, Mr. Richards. Money is, certainly, not the issue here. The issue is security, peace of mind. What price can anyone put on that?"

Rospero stood up with a remote in his hand. He pushed a button and a small opening appeared in the wall opposite the liquor cabinet. A large, flat monitor was revealed.

"As you no doubt know, Mr. Richards, we live in a dangerous world, more so now than ever before," As he spoke, Stephen was deluges with images of violence, a group of young white Skinheads beating a black man with a baseball bat. Rioters tossing homemade bombs through storefronts.

"The world seems to have gone mad from its own excesses. But, there are many people, such as yourself crying out for one thing and one thing only . . . Security,"

"I'm not exactly a paranoid man Mr. Rospero," Stephen shifted uneasily in his chair. A young Asian man was shot through the head on the screen.

"Please, Mr. Richards, call me Peter," Rospero smiled again. The teeth had to be fakes, dentures, Stephen was sure of it.

"I'm not a paranoid man, Peter." He felt uncomfortable saying it. He didn't really want to be on a first name basis with this guy.

"Paranoia is an extreme," Rospero said. "An extreme in vigilance. Wanting to be secure is not paranoia, and it's perfectly reasonable in fact. As human beings, it is important to feel a certain sense of security. That is why we are here. Securitech was founded on the simple principle that people have a right to safety, especially within their own homes. The government cannot guarantee it. The world is not conducive to it. So we have to seek alternatives that are not only reasonable, but viable. We live in a volatile world, Mr. Richards. Seeking security is far from paranoiac."

"Well, it's not really that. I mean the world's always been a dangerous place and I accept that. I've just had some trouble, a few break-ins,"

"And the police offered little assistance," Rospero said woefully. "I hear the same story all the time. Trust me, Mr. Richards, you're not the only one disappointed at the laxadaisical response from those who swore to 'protect and serve'. I'd wager they probably even dismissed you as a reactionist."

"It wasn't that really, it was just there is little they can do,"

"But there is much you can do, Mr. Richards. Let me show you the top of the line in automated home security," He pressed another button on the remote and the violence went away. In its place was the interior of a house, a house not unlike his own. Stephen figured that was the idea.

"This is the DP-216 fully automated security dwelling. This home is the most secure area in the entire world, to put it bluntly."

"Looks like a normal house," Stephen said.

"It's supposed to. Security should not be seen, rather sensed. This house is fully automated. All doors are equipt with a special fingerprint identification module built into the doorknobs themselves. Even if someone makes a duplicate of your key, or steals them, they cannot enter unless the DP-216 has their fingerprints in its database. The module itself is concealed within the doorknob to insure you do not feel overwhelmed.

"The DP-216 also comes with many other features built in. There is an automatic timer that turns on your lights if you're away evenings to give the illusion someone is home. The porch lights and all interior lights are also motion sensitive, so you do not have to waste time fumbling for your keys in the dark, or for a light switch upon entry.

"In addition, the windows are also fully automated. They cannot be opened without a verified fingerprint analysis. This device is concealed within the panes. There is full climate control as well, so you won't be needing to open those windows much anyway.

"In the event of a fire or other domestic mishap, the DP_216 will automatically contact the fire department as well as highly trained security personnel from Securitech. Even if you are away, you can still keep a constant eye on your home using a small handheld monitor that comes standard with the house.

"The doors and walls are only two inches of wood. The rest is a titanium alloy laced with Teflon. If there is impact on the windows, steel shutters automatically detract, cutting off any chance of entry from the outside without the appropriate identity authentication.

"The DP-216 is programmed for the optimum of security and safety for all occupants. Do you have a family, Mr. Richards? Wife, children?"

"Divorced, no children,"

"Sorry to hear that. Nothing is more precious than family,"

"I must admit that this isn't what I was expecting. It looks like an ordinary house."

"For all practical purposes, it is. We have a firm belief that clunky hardware and electrified fences only lend to a sense of less security, not greater security. If the occupant does not feel 100% safe, then we have failed in our task,"

"You can guarantee 100% safety?"

"Or double your money back," Rospero smiled again. "Now, why don't we take a drive out to see the unit first hand?"

Stephen arrived back at his office at half past three. The usual rituals along the way. Disposable tissue to press the elevator button, another to open the door to his office and another to press the button for his secretary.

"Your appointment with Dr. Clark has been moved to Thursday," She said over the speaker.

"Thursday? But I have to see him today. Today is Tuesday and I always see Dr. Clark on Tuesdays."

"He had to cancel. The nearest day he had open was Thursday,"

"Get him on the phone," There was a knock at the door, It was Patterson in his silk suit wearing a tie covered in basketballs.

"Douglas is gushing over your safety report Stephen, you really scored on that one,"

"Yeah, well, just doing my job," Patterson walked in and sat casually in the chair in front of Stephen's desk. He adjusted his tie, coughed into his hand and started to rest his germ ridden hand on the arm of the chair. Stephen watched this with veiled horror.

"Heard you went to Securitech today," He said. "Checked out one of their houses. I hear those are really pricey. You know something I don't?"

"I know you hear a lot," Stephen said. He was adjusting papers on his desk, keeping his hands busy, trying to keep his eyes busy, trying to keep from looking at that germ infested hand spreading disease all over his chair.

"If it were me," Patterson said. "I'd have invested in a yacht. But let me guess, that's just too 'dangerous' for you,"

"If you knew the rates of water related deaths, you'd be thinking less about buying a boat." Stephen paused at the thought, the water rushing into his lungs, his nose, the salt stinging his eyes and the muffled sound of his own screams as they bubbled through the murky depths.

"Guess that's why you're in risk management," Patterson slid an effectual grin across his splotchy face. "But if you don't learn how to relax, partner, you're going to be dead of a heart attack by age forty. Remember what happened to Mitchell?" Patterson clicked, then winked as he walked out of Stephen's office. Jerry Mitchell, of course, eighteen years with the company, lost his wife to some greasy dancer, his house to some bad investments and was on the verge of losing the only thing he gave a rat's ass about, his job. So he went home one night, got a loaded, polished nickel revolver wrapped in a white cloth, put it against his right eye and blew his brains all over the wall. It ran like cottage cheese mixed with ketsup Brought the damned gun to work with him that day too, nobody knew what it was, just saw the white cloth in his briefcase. Sure, he remembered Mitchell, he was the one that found him like that. No sir, Stephen Richard's was not going to go out like that, not on your f**king life! Do not go gentle into that goodnight, go kicking and screaming and carrying restraining orders.

Saturday was moving day. Stephen was surprised to find that Securitech had taken care of the move for him, with the exception of a few of his most cherished personal possessions, everything was already in place for his arrival at his new home, unit 1763 in the Hillview Heights section. He was pleasantly surprised not to see yards strewn with children's toys or burly men, coated with motor oil toying with their mid life crisis' in their driveways. In fact, if he didn't know any better, he would have sworn he was the only one there.

He put his key into the front door lock and took out a hanky to turn the nob, nothing happened. "S**t!" he hissed to himself. The goddamned nob would only recognize his fingerprint. Well, small price to pay for a little safety. Once inside, he could feel the weight lifting from his shoulders. He took a deep breath of freshly sanitized air, free of any pollutants or particles. The door locked behind him solidly and he knew he was home.

Stephen had a quick look around his new home. The kitchen was small and unassuming, but functional and all electric. Gas was far too dangerous. The bedroom was not overly large, but also not cramped. The bed placed in such a way as to avoid any nocturnal injuries as a result of sliding off in the night or whatever. Then there was the bathroom.

"What the f**k?" Stephen pulled back the shower curtain and looked down into the flat surface on the other side. There was no bathtub, just a shower. That didn't make any sense. The model he was shown had a bathtub. He reached into his pocket for the little card he'd been given to call in the "event that something is out of place," looked at it for a moment, and then dismissed it. Small thing really, after all, he hadn't taken an actual bath since he was twelve years old, no point making a federal case out of something so small.

After he settled in and put a packet of pasta on the boil, Stephen sat down in the patented "lumbar adjustment chair" and turned on the television, hoping to catch the last few minutes of the game, even if the Packers were behind by 14 points. There was still some time remaining on the clock and a chance they could pull out a win. He stared intently at the screen as he dug into his pasta. He took a heaping mouthful and immediately spit it out. Cold! God dammit, the pasta was cold! That range was supposed to be temperature sensitiva, to insure a safe medium temperature. He set the plate aside, watching the game closely, the Packers had the ball, at the twenty, but the Bronco's defense was rough, they had number 36 headed off at the pass. Just when the tackle seemed imminent, the channel began to fuzz out.

"S**t!" He said, toying with the remote. Nothing happened. He went to the phone and dialed the complaint line. A rather disinterested female voice squeaked out on the other end.

"Securitech, we're here to make you safer," She said flatly.

"I think the cable went out, My name is Richards, I live in unit 1763,"

"Okay, Mr. Prichard, was that 1753?"

"No," He rolled his eyes and bit his cheek "That's Richards, with an 'r', and that's unit one, seven, six, three,"

"Don't have to be an asshole about it," She said.

"What?"

"Here it is. No, Mr. Richards with an 'r', your cable is not out, you were cut off under section G 569 of the rental and lease agreement,"

"What do you mean 'cut off'? And what the hell is a G 569?"

"Do you have your rental agreement, Mr. Richards with an 'r'?"

"No, I don't have it with me," He said. "Look, is there somebody else I can talk to about this? Somebody I can maybe complain to about you?"

"It's all outlined in your rental agreement, Mr. Richards, any viewing of restricted materials is prohibited under Section G 569, sub section H, article 17, it's not my fault somebody didn't bother reading their rental agreement,"

"Okay, what do you mean 'viewing restricted materials', I'm not a goddam child here!'

"I do not have to be talked to this way," She said. "Let me get my supervisor"

"Wait, if you'd just -" Too late, there was an audible click as some unidentifiable tune piped through the phone lines.

"Hello," A husky voice said.

"Yes, hi, I'm Stephen Richards, I'm in unit-"

"1763, yes, Mr. Richards, what seems to be the problem?"

"The problem? Well, first of all, there isn't a bathtub,"

"No bath?" The man said

"No, just a shower."

"Oh, right. All our units are equipped with showers only. Are you aware of the risks associated with baths?"

"Of course I am, but- Okay, and your oven doesn't seem to work properly, the range I mean. Everything's cold."

"That is odd, it's supposed to be room temperature."

"Room temperature? What about bacteria?"

"Oh, I wouldn't worry about that, Mr. Richards, only meat allowed in here has been freeze dried and sanitized."

"What? Never mind, what I really called about was the cable,"

"Oh, right, section G 569,"

"What is section G 569?"

"Please refer to your rental agreement, thank you."

"Wait, I don't have a rental agreement, that's what I've been trying to tell you. Look, I just need to know why the hell the cable kicked out during the f**king ball game, okay?"

"She said you were an angry little prick. You might be able to talk to women that way, asshole, but that s**t doesn't fly well with me."

"Excuse me?" Stephen said.

"I don't believe I stuttered. Section G covers restricted media materials."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"There have been studies, you know?"

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Studies on the adverse effects viewing too much violence can have on the human brain, not to mention the nervous system. You ordered the total package. Complete security, what did you expect?"

"I certainly didn't expect to be able to watch a f**king ball game."

"If you're going to be an asshole, Mr. Richards, there's nothing more I can do for you. Don't bother me unless you run into something not covered by the rental agreement."

"But I-" The line went dead. "Don't have a f**king rental agreement. Is this what passes for service around here?"

He walked to the door, not sure of where he was going, maybe some bar to actually catch the game. He grasped the knob tightly, but it wouldn't budge. What the f**k? He thought. He walked through the livingroom, past the kitchen and to the back door, wouldn't budge either. He looked over at the phone in the livingroom, but figured it was not worth the hassle to deal with that prick again. That was when his eyes fell upon a voluminous thing, about the size of four phone books, right there on the kitchen counter. On the cover, in bold, black type, was written the words "Securitech Rental Agreement Part B."

He looked at it for a moment, dumbfounded. This had to be some kind of joke. How the hell was anybody supposed to get through something that size? Hell, he wasn't even sure he could lift it, let alone read it. Still, he walked over to the counter, opened the cover and got about as far as the introductory agreement.

"It is hereby understood that the party of the first part and the party of the second part do hereby agree to the terms listed below, contained therein and nestled withing the confines of this document in its entirety. The party of the first part, being the undersigned and hitherto referred to as the party of the first part, by entering into this binding agreement does hereby signify that all articles both included and excluded are understood, agreed to and otherwise assumed to be factual based on the articles included or excluded from this document and any other documents pertaining to the legal clause at hand,"

His head was starting to spin. This was the biggest crock of s**t he'd ever read in his entire life. What was worse was that there was no table of contents and the articles were not in any given order. Stephen turned the page. The paper was so flimsy it tore beneath his fingers. To hell with this, he thought. This is completely crazy. He went back to the phone and dialed the help service again.

"Yes Mr. Richards with an 'r'?" It was the woman from before. Stephen took a deep breath and tried to sound composed.

"I can't seem to leave my unit and my rental agreement is unreadable," He said calmly. "Is there something I am doing wrong?"

There was a moment of silence from the other end, then she finally said. "Let me get my supervisor."

"What the f**k do you want this time?" The supervisor said.

"I just want to leave my unit, go out for some air,"

"There have been studies, you know? The air is known to contain more than ten thousand cancer causing agents."

"I'll take my chances," Stephen said. "Thing is, I can't open my door."

"Can't open your door? Of course not. It's after nine. All doors automatically seal after nine. It's for your own safety."

"Say again?" Stephen chuckled dryly. "I haven't had a curfew since I was seventeen years old."

"It's all covered in the rental agreement," He said. "Have you bothered reading your rental agreement?"

"Yes," Stephen said. "I tried. It was the biggest load of crap I've ever read. Now, if you don't open the f**king door, I'll just bust out a f**king window, risking flying glass injuries and crawl out, risking other injuries. Okay?"

"It's for your own protection, Mr. Richards," The man said. Suddenly, there was a mechanical whirring as steel shudders began to slide down swiftly over the windows. Stephen dropped the phone and ran to stop them, as though he could. He ran into the bedroom, the windows slowly obscured by polished steel. That was when the horrible realization came over him. He was trapped. He was a prisoner. Worst of all, he'd become so voluntarily. A new sense of resolve came over him. He marched into the livingroom, picked the phone back up, and spoke in a voice he never knew he had, a voice of calm resolve.

"I want out," He said. "Now if you don't let me out, I'll call the police. I know my rights and I know the law. You can't just keep me here like this."

"Do whatever you think is best, Mr. Richards," He said. There was a click as he hung up. Stephen quickly dialed 911. He wasn't going to let them beat him, not like this.

"911, how may I help you?"

Thank God, he thought, he had gotten through.

"Yes, I need some help, I'm trapped in my apartment and I need somebody to help me out. What I mean to say is, I'm being held against my will."

"But you signed an agreement, Mr. Richards." He froze, dropping the phone to the floor. He was only dimly aware of what was going on around him, the phone gently humming, then crying more desperately before finally giving in to being off the hook. The sounds of the internal machinery humming from the walls, the floor, the ceiling. Stephen felt himself collapsing to the floor, his thoughts racing yet feverishly, without order. He remembered his first bicycle and his first bicycle accident, remembered how his mother took that bicycle apart after the accident, took it apart "for his own good." He remembered his father, looking so sharp in his policeman's uniform, adjusting his tie and fixing his hair. Saw his father again, in the same uniform, lying still in a coffin, his partner speaking from the lectern "He knew the risks of the job."

He remembered things he had not thought about in years, scrubbing his hands until they were raw so he wouldn't get sick. Never taking any chances because he didn't want to see that look on his mother's face again, didn't want to hear anyone say "He knew the risks of the job," didn't want to die.

He had no idea how long he sat on the floor. He had a sense that he had drifted in and out of sleep, but wasn't completely sure. From outside, he could hear the sounds of car doors slamming, engines quietly revving, softening almost into melody through the protective barriers. Morning's quiet rays had awakened the world, but he was still trapped in his prison, his tomb. No, he couldn't think like that. He wasn't going to die, not in this place and not like this. He heard a dim voice saying "Mr. Richards?". He looked around. Nobody was there. He looked down at the phone and chuckled madly. He brought it up to his ear.

"Yes?" He said. His voice was course, rough.

"Mr. Richards?" It was Mr. Rospero, his savior.

"I want out of the rental agreement," Stephen said. "I want out of the agreement and I want out of this goddamned apartment, do you understand me? You can't do this to people, don't you see that?"

"All I have done, Mr. Richards, is providing you with the safety, the security you wanted. All I have done is given you exactly what you wanted."

"You think this is what I wanted? To be a prisoner?"

"You want to be safe. Are you aware of the dangers of the outside world, Mr. Richards? The world is full of chaos and disorder, violence and death. I have provided you with a haven from that. I think a little gratitude is in order."

"Gratitude?" Stephen tried to laugh, but it got stuck in his throat. "All you have done is turned me into a prisoner. Should I be 'grateful' for that?"

"Of course you should. You are safe here, safer than anywhere on Earth, and Securitech has provided you with this. No harm can come to you here. We will keep you safe from everything, including you'.

"I want out," He said. "I can face whatever's out there, I know the risks and I'm willing to take them. It may be a dangerous world, but if being safe means being locked up somewhere, I'd rather take the chance that something might happen."

"I understand your position, Mr. Richards, but you do not understand mine. You signed an agreement, as did we. We promised to keep you safe from all threats to your life and to that end. We must also protect you from the greatest threat to your life, yourself."

"What?" Stephen felt the phone get slippery beneath his sweaty hands. "What do you mean protecting me from myself?"

"In accordance with section D, subsection 198 of your rental agreement, Mr. Richards, should Securitech deem it necessary, we reserve the right to forcibly remove all threats to the undersigned. Judging by your current state of mind and your reckless disregard for your own life, you leave us no choice but to act accordingly. A team of Securitech experts and surgeons should be arriving at any time to facilitate your safety."

"War, you're not listening to me, I want out of this agreement," Stephen froze, the word finally sank in. Surgeons. "Oh God, no, what are you doing?"

"Your hands, Mr. Richards, they are a threat to your life and must be removed,"

There was a metallic sound as the front door knob started to turn slightly.

"You can't do this," Stephen said, watching the door intently. "I said I wanted out."

"That is not possible, Mr. Richards, you signed a one year lease with us."

"Screw your lease!" he shouted, grabbing the phone and holding it above his head like a bludgeon. Several men in suits came in through the door. Richard swung the phone, beaming one of them in the head. A tall, thin man pulled out a syringe filled with some murky yellow substance, Stephen swung the phone again, knocking the syringe out of his hand, the man let out a little squeal. Kicking and screaming, Stephen thought, kicking and screaming. More men poured into the unit, Stephen let the phone fly like a bola whip, braining two more of them. His moment of triumph was not long lasting as they filed in, overpowering him. He struggled against the weight of the men as they wrapped him tightly in their vicelike grip. He fell backwards, forcing the one behind him into the wall and felt something poking into his back. At first, he feared it might have been that syringe, but it was something else, something larger, a gun. The tall, thin man pulled out another syringe and walked toward Stephen, his eyes cold and dispassionate. Stephen reached back, struggling against the weight of his human restraints, struggling for the grip of the gun. He fumbled for the strap, hoping to set it free and himself with it. The strap snapped free and he slid the gun out, aiming it at the man with the syringe and firing without hesitation. It only winged him in the shoulder, but it was enough to make him fall.

Stephen sent his elbow sailing back into the jaw of the man directly behind him as he fired again, this time blindly. He wasn't sure if he'd hit anybody and wasn't anxious to stick around and find out. He forced his way through the mob, drawn to the light of day just on the other side of the sea of suits. With all its promise of threats and danger, with all its chaos and evil, Stephen suddenly realized he would give everything, anything, to feel the sun on his skin, to walk among his fellow men in freedom. He struggled toward the light, clawing his way through the throng. He was closer now, he could even feel the heat of the sun on his skin, almost there, almost to freedom, almost to all the things he had taken for granted. He would do it all now, go to ball games, shake hands with people, take the elevator instead of the stairs, look up into the sky with wonder instead of dread. He would take chances and live life, take risks and reap the rewards of those risks.

His momentary exaltation overcame him. His hand was through the door. Strange arms wrapped around his legs, his torso, drawing him back in, but he resisted with every fiber of his being. His arm reached through now, he could feel the sun on his head and for the first time, he welcomed it, instead of bemoaning the cancer-causing rays. He turned his face into the sun and took in a deep breath of actual air, pollutants and all, and savored it. He realized now that life was about risk, about danger, about chances, that these things made life interesting, worth living. But the realization came too late, a shadow fell over the sun and he caught a faint glimpse of a balled up fist, hurling toward his face, followed by red sparkling firework, then darkness.

The passage of time was no longer something Stephen Richards wanted to know. He stared up at the ceiling of his unit, in his mind, he was in the park, watching the ducks go about their daily routine, watching the children play, carefree. In his mind, he was anywhere but here. He glanced at the I.V. tube. It must be lunchtime already, or dinner. His little stunt cost him more than his hands. It cost him his arms and legs as well. At least there was nothing else they could take away from him, nothing at all. He looked over at the window, the shutters no longer closed and the filtered sunlight cast a beam of light on the floor. Just beyond that window was freedom. He wiggled in his bed, taking extra care not to move too much. He had to build up his strength if he was going to get out of here, crawl out of here, crawl to freedom, rage against the dying of the light.