Hello Metis.

I woke at exactly 9:42am. Again. I had fallen asleep at the computer. Again. My nose had been pressed against the z button for three hours. Lol.

The bags under my eyes were dripping down my face and the chicken from last night was making flying friends. Sleep was my enemy, and my only weapon was coffee, and can after can of Dr. Pepper. With this much caffeine, what's the worst that could happen? Death. One day I'll laugh at death (not that he gets it easy or anything) and hopefully that day will be after today, after I have become the most brilliant computer genius of all time! [Insert evil laugh here].

The phone rings and the door bell goes at the same time. I pick up the phone and press the little green phone sign button and answer 'hello?' Before phones were invented, the word hello did not exist. It was created so you'd have something to say to start the conversation. And it has an upward inflection, which is extremely annoying sometimes.

"Hey Metis, how's it going?"

"Hey Apollo, it's alright. What's going on?"

As Apollo starts ranting about his day, I press my fingers over the speaky end of the phone and shout "Who is it?" to the person outside. I should really invest in a peep hole, but knowing me it'll go in the wrong way round and someone will shoot me in the eye through it.

I make 'mmhmm' sounds into the now uncovered end of the phone, as a slip of paper slides under the door. Holding the phone to my ear with my shoulder, I make approving noises and read the note.

Metis. The blind one's eyes.

I sigh at the sub-par coding. And putting my hack name on the paper. If any authorities knew I was Metis then I would never see sunlight again. Not that being a computer nerd ever gets you any of that vitamin D anyways. I walk to my computer desk and pull out a draw. I find my copy of The God Delusion (a really big edition for almost blind people) and open it. The old hollowed out book trick hasn't failed me yet. I push aside my father's handgun (he was a pig in the 60's) a wad of dirty twenties, a half empty (or half full?) bottle of '87 Scotch whisky, again my fathers, and come across my money earners, memory sticks and floppy disks and hard drives packed on top of each other. I pull out a stick with a little drawing of the eye of Osiris, or Horath or something, and close the book.

Still mumbling along to Apollo's rant about today's youth which had stemmed from miniature banana's somehow, I opened the front door with the stick wrapped in foil (drugs is better than hacking. Seriously you get less time if you're caught as with hacking you're a threat to national security and all) and he passes me a wad of dirty bills, puts the package in his pocket and stares at me for a moment before I shut the door on his face. I re-open the book and put the notes in there, taking about a hundred quid out for food (food meaning a couple of bags of Cheetos and Funions and take-away's and a hell of a lot of Dr. Pepper. Real stoner food). I replace the book in its drawer and slump in my faux leather computer chair and open another can of Dr. Pepper. I take the phone in my hand and push the speaker phone button.

"... and that's why I'm never taking you to Jerry's surf and turf ever again. You didn't have to tip the waiter afterwards, seriously it was scarring enough."

"Yeah yeah yeah I hear you Ap. How's the missus anyways?"

"Bitchin again, I swear she has had the worst PMS for like three months now, all she does is eat and the mood swings are makin' me tear my hair out. Be glad when it's over."

Ap is such a tool. Give him a computer and he'll scan the world for what you need, but give him a real life situation and it's a serious case of facedesk.

"You are such a twat Ap, I think you should ..."

Another knock at the door, guessing it's the code noob again.

"... I'll call you later mate. McTarded is back. Speak to the parakeet, and the parakeet shall speak back."

I push the end call button and shuffle over to the door. Da Vinci knocks again. Maybe he doesn't know how to put a memory stick into a computer. Jesus H. Christ.

I pull the deadbolt out and before I've even taken my hands off it I'm flying on my ass then my elbow and my head, skinning myself on the old vinyl floors. I crash into my computer chair, which then proceeds to knock my Dr. Pepper all over my (almost) freshly washed hair. Five men storm my pokey bedsit, turning over delicately stacked piles of documents, tapes, black floppy disks, books, DVD's, CD's and records. I knew this day would come, but I thought it would at least have come after five when I'd done my highly paid job. Ce la vie.

I've always said that if I'm going in, I aint going quietly. I reach up and find my drawer, my special gun filled drawer, and pull it out, sending my finest work all over the floor. Not the gun though. I stand up with the gun cocked in my hands, aimed straight at one very still looking man who seems to be the scout leader or something.

"Who the fuck are you? MI5? MI6? Ministry of Defence? No? Don't tell me your some American twats? Does the Queen even know your here? I doubt that the Queen has any knowledge of your infiltration! Now get the fuck out you Yankee mother fuckers!"

I didn't know they had guns. I didn't even see him draw the magnum. All I felt was the bullet penetrating my skin, muscle tissue, fat, embedding itself within my bone before exploding out the other side and tearing up my tendons. I fell again with an almighty bang, and there was lots of nasally annoying noise that I didn't realise it was me shouting until the gun echo had worn off.

"ARGG! YOU SHOT ME IN THE FOOT! YOU CUNT! YOU CUNTING CUNTY CUNTERTONFACE! FUCK! FUCK YOU! YOU YANKEE SON OF RONALD MCDONALD!"

"Miss Glass, I would suggest you calm your voice, as it would be an awful shame if your neighbours were to see this."

Yep. Definite yank.

"YOU SHOT ME IN THE FOOT HOW CAN I BE FUCKING CALM YOU GRANNY BASHER? GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE!"

"Unfortunately I can't do that, and you, Metis, are coming with us."

I'd dropped the handgun just inches away from my bleeding body, and as I grabbed and cocked it again I heard the cocking of five more guns aim at my head. Crumbs.

"Now now Metis, I don't want to have to shoot your other foot. Be a good girl and co-operate."

Shit. I was down, my gun wasn't even loaded and they knew my hack name. Bye bye sunlight.

My foot was starting to hurt quite a bit (the pain was unbearable, like getting shot in the foot) and I couldn't exactly go anywhere, so the suits handcuffed me and carried me to the (undercover?) police car, in which I bled everywhere, so sucks to be them.

By the middle of our magical journey I began to feel increasingly nauseous and faint.

"Hey ... um I'm gonna throw up. Just an FYI. Then I might pass out. So hospital? I'd really love to walk again if you don't mind."

A swift swerve to the right caused my Dr. Pepper and Tesco's finest tortilla chips to come rushing back to the real world. Luckily the burly guy sat next to me had opened the door just in time, as well as the driver breaking in time. Although it would have been pretty bad to have sat in the car with it, I wouldn't have minded throwing up in the car, especially over the suit's shiny black shoes. Of course this only ran through my mind later, as I proceeded to pass out on said suit's lap.