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Summer Storms (5) : There have been plenty of thunderstorms this summer, and everyone is blaming the weather for the strangeness of their electronics--or, bored kids out of school. It’s not uncommon to get phone calls from impossible numbers--strings of letters and numbers, and a blank caller ID. It’s hard to make out any sounds; it sounds like static, and a broken up voice in a language you can’t make out. There is no way to call the number back; it says the line is disconnected. Sometimes, text messages come through, in foreign symbols. The messages always disappear within a few seconds, and there’s no way to reply. People have even had video chats, but the image is always staticky and it’s impossible to make out any details except for a silhouette, and the same strange, foreign language. The city is hoping to have this issue fixed soon, but in the meantime they are asking for patience.
"God--"
Why was his phone ringing again?
Hadn't the goddamned mysterious blank caller ID annoyed everyone in this city enough yet?
Zachariah slapped his hand on the nightstand a few times, attempting to locate where he had batted his phone the last time he had smacked it to get it to shut up. The calls wouldn't stop. Destiny City's officials said they were hoping to have the issue dealt with soon, but Zachariah hardly believed them. They couldn't take care of an issue if it was staring them dead in the face. Like the Negaverse. Couldn't take care of that godforsaken issue even if they actually tried.
Too busy attempting to arrest everyone indiscriminately.
He finally felt his hand grasp the phone and he yanked it up to his face, ready to press the red button to reject the call when he realized what was coming in wasn't a call. A video message? The ********? The number still didn't make any goddamn sense, but perhaps Zachariah was hoping that maybe he could finally give someone some what-for for annoying the piss out of him and everyone else in this damn city. He sat up in bed and brushed his hand through his hair, letting it fall to the side barely straightened or made.
"Hey Goog," he called, "turn on the lights, please!"
As the lights came to life in his room, he instead pressed the green button to accept the call, opening his mouth to yell at whoever this hacker or prankster or ransomware artist was and tell them to go ******** themselves thoroughly -- only to yelp and groan in pain when the only thing that came through his turned up to max phone was loud static that was enough to make his ears bleed. The picture itself was static like it was coming through bad reception, although if he squinted, he could make out a picture between the static. "Hey!"
Clearly, that meant it was someone who would get the message.
"Knock this s**t off! No one finds it funny, and after all this ******** garbage s**t, I am definitely not about to pay you out of my freelance wages. Go ******** yourself."
His only response was in a foreign language he couldn't identify, and to be honest, he wasn't even sure if it was a response to him or just some kind of looper the prankster put on to ******** with them. Zachariah let out a low growl, gripping the phone tight enough that his hand was starting to turn red and then near paper white.
"I told you, ******** off."
No answer. Why would there be? What the hell was he expecting, something that actually cared?
He hung up the phone, slammed it on his nightstand, and flipped over in his bed in an attempt to fall back asleep.
But why would that work?
In five minutes, his eyes popped open again as his phone rang once again, and all he saw on the screen was once again a blank caller ID and an accept or reject button for a video call.
Instead of doing either, he shut off his phone entirely and went back to sleep.
