Reality Intrudes Pt 2 (Patreon)

 [A/N: This chapter beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal.] 

I'm in a tightly confined space, with a sore head and the echoes of a scream in my ears. The worst smell I've ever experienced assaults my nose. There's the taste of vomit already in my mouth. I'm up to my hips in something sludgy. Bugs are crawling all over me.

For a moment, I'm about to throw up again, but then I recall the most important, most fundamental lesson about the Matrix. Do you think that's air you're breathing now? It's not, of course. Whatever I'm sensing is merely a computer simulation. With that knowledge, I force down the nausea and try to work out where I am. This does not seem to be a normal place for a teenager in New England to be, at the beginning of the school year.

Wait a minute. Hornblower said I could access the memories of the kid I've just taken over. I blink in the darkness, and a green curtain of code descends over my eyesight. Okay, rewind. There's a brief blur, then I'm looking at a high-school locker from the outside. There's that smell again, only not so bad. I look around, to see a smirking redhead, then back to my locker. The combination goes into the lock, and I open the door. This was not a great move, as the smell really hits me about then. Also, now I can see the horrific mass. It doesn't look any better than it smells. I go to throw up, but then I'm shoved forward into the locker with some serious force. I hit my head—so that's why it's sore—then I'm shoved all the way in, and the door is locked behind me. Ah hah. Got it. So it appears that felony-level pranks are a thing, in this iteration of human civilisation. Something to keep in mind.

I end the replay, now that I know where I am. My back is hard against a metal surface, which has to be the locker door. This is made of thin steel, less than a millimetre thick. Works for me. I bring up my hands and place them flat on the back of the locker, then pull back a few centimetres. This is a simulation. I can bend reality. I can bend steel.

Nobody ever makes the Jump on their first try when they're introduced to the Matrix, not even me. But I did make it on my second try. I'm good at selectively ignoring reality. I slam my hands forward, driving my back into the locker door. With a screech of tearing metal, it rips clear off of its hinges. I fall back out of the locker, stumbling clear of the worst of the decomposing mass of … are those tampons? I don't care if this isn't really me, I'm gonna kick someone's ass so hard for this.

I could keep my head down and go get cleaned up, or I could deal with this my way. It takes me another moment to dip back into the kid's memories, until I find the redhead. Then I send a silent query into the database. Who and where?

Green lettering spills across in front of my eyes.

Name: Emma Barnes

Status: Ex best friend. Current bully.

Location: Mr Gladly's World Affairs class (home room)

Chances of being involved in the locker incident: very high.

All right then. I follow up on the 'World Affairs' thing, giving me a school layout and a classroom to go to. I'm very carefully not breathing through my nose; the stink, even though I'm leaving most of it behind me, is incredible. Repressing my gag reflex, even knowing it's not real, is hard work. Right now, I want to scrub out my sinuses with bleach and a wire brush.

Nobody is in the hallways, which is a good thing … for them. I'm in the mood to hurt someone. Though the janitor is gonna be so pissed with me; some of the stuff came out of the locker with me and is now falling off my legs. Not my school, not my problem.

I get to the right door. It's not even locked; I open it and go in. A classroom full of heads turns to look at me, along with the teacher. He's young, my height or a little shorter, and I can see straight away that he's got no idea what to do about me. That's fine; I wasn't going to try to appeal to him anyway. I fix on the redheaded girl, the one I saw in the memory file. She stares at me, her eyes widening, as I head straight for her.

Someone tries to trip me; I plant my other foot and swing my leg through theirs. It's a disproportionate application of force. There's a clatter behind me as whoever it is falls off their chair and on to the floor. By the time Emma realises she's actually in danger, I'm at her desk. Reaching out, I grab her by the ear. She's got a fancy earring that I could hook my finger through, but that's got too much chance of tearing the ear or breaking the earring. My finger and thumb close on her ear instead, and I turn and head back toward the door.

Emma follows, of course; it's either that or she loses an ear. She's got a good line in high-pitched screams, especially when I haul her out of her chair with almost the full weight of her body resting on her ear. But she gets her feet under her and comes along, batting ineffectually at my hand with both of hers. Oh, wait, she's trying to dig her nails in. That's almost adorable.

“Taylor, what are you doing?” Mr Gladly is between me and the door. “And what's that smell? What is that on you?”

I pause for a moment, and call up the database. Correlate 'Mr Gladly' and 'bullying'. Images and clips flash before me; this Gladly clown standing by, time and again, while other girls—and sometimes boys—steal my work and harass me in other ways. Well, not me me; the kid. Taylor. But even that's bad enough. While it's not exactly my job as a female Operative to stand up for the rights of all women (and girls) in the Matrix, I tend to think of it as a perk.

“Good,” I say coolly. “You're paying attention at last. Go check out my locker. Bring a hazmat suit. I gotta go get cleaned up.” I take a step closer; he edges away, not willing to come into close contact with me. Not that I blame him right now, but he could've stood to get his hands dirty earlier, when Taylor was being shat on from a great height.

“Mr Gladly!” Emma's voice is high-pitched, desperate. “Help! Call the principal! Don't let her take me!”

He reaches for her arm; before he can make contact, I flick one of the things that's still clinging to my leg so that it arcs toward him. Convulsively, he steps back, and I drag Emma away. She's still shrieking as I look over my shoulder to see him standing indecisively at the door to the classroom. He's got his phone to his ear, but I'm not sure who he's calling. Nor do I really care.

Now to deal with the noise problem. I twist Emma's ear to get her attention, then pull her close to me. “Shut the fuck up, princess,” I snap, “or I'll give you something to really scream about.” She stares at me, her eyes wide in a tearful face, but she does shut up. Which is good; my ears were starting to hurt.

Taylor's memory database gives me a location for a bathroom. I head on in and shove Emma at a washbasin. “Fill it,” I order her. She looks at me uncomprehendingly. I point at the basin. “Fill. It,” I repeat, then start to take off my jeans.

She tries to make a bolt for it then, but I've allowed for that. Even with one leg caught in the jeans, I grab her by the hair and swing her around. With one hand on the back of her neck, I smack her face into the washbasin bench. There's a crunch, and I suspect I just broke her nose. Whoops. Her knees give way, but I hold her up with one hand and splash water on her face with the other. She quickly comes around again, but her nose definitely looks broken and there's a bruise forming on her forehead. I'd be sympathetic, except I'm not.

“Fill the fucking basin, or I'm gonna see exactly how far I can shove your head down the goddamn toilet.” My voice is flat, and I think she realises exactly how serious I am. Crying a little and sniffling through her busted nose, she gets some paper towels. One she tears up and shoves up her nose to stop the bleeding, and the other she crumples up and uses as a plug in the washbasin.

I finish taking my jeans off, and kick my shoes off at the same time. Looking at my hoodie, I take that off too, then check my shirt, which also joins the pile. “Clean that shit off,” I order her.

She stares at me, standing there barefoot in my underwear, then at the pile of shit-covered clothing. “Whad habbe'd to you, Daylor?” she mumbles. “Whad're you doi'g?”

“I didn't say 'ask stupid fucking questions',” I remind her. “I said 'clean that shit off'.” I cheat just a bit as I crack my knuckles; it sounds like firecrackers going off. Hurriedly, she picks up the pile of clothing, cringing back as some of the shit gets on her hands.

“Wait a minute,” I say. “Jeans.” Grabbing the item in question, I go through the pockets. There's a coin purse there, along with the standard-issue Matrix-diving phone. Dropping the purse on the bench, I toss the jeans back at her. “Get to it.”

Hurriedly, she starts trying to scrub the shit out of the heavy cloth as I turn away. I flick the phone open, hit the button and hold it to my ear.

“Operator.” Loki answers immediately.

“You're an asshole,” I tell him heatedly, though keeping it quiet enough that Emma can't hear me. I hope. “You picked the worst possible moment for me to go in.”

“It's the best possible moment for someone to have a personality change though, right?” He sounds altogether too pleased with himself. “What's with the redhead doing your laundry?”

“Long story,” I mutter. “Any alarm bells yet?”

“Nope, though the cops just got called,” he says. “Have fun with that.”

I grimace. Cops are no fun to deal with. They're as squishy as any other bluepill, but there's so many of them. After a while, it feels like kicking puppies. At least there won't be any Agents to deal with. “Can you organise an exit strategy?”

“Well, we can pull you out,” he suggests.

“No, you asshole.” I grit my teeth. “This kid's already had a world of shit poured on her. I pull out now, what I've just done comes back on her in spades. I need a strategy for both of us.”

“You're no fun,” he whines. “Okay, fine. Walk out now, or talk to the cops about the locker. One of the two.”

Talking to the cops sounds like a bad idea. Though the locker is something I can definitely show them. I probably won't be able to prove that Emma was in on it. “Talk to the cops? Are you actually serious about that?”

“Hey, you're a teenage girl who got locked in her locker. Pretty sure you can plead temporary insanity. Or in your case, permanent insanity.” The asshole chuckles, and I want to punch him.

The bathroom door flies open, booming as it hits the stop, and a black girl stomps in. She's about my height, and she looks pissed. That look changes a little to confusion as she sees me in my underwear, but then she looks past me. “Emma,” she says. “You all right?”

“I thi'k by dose id broke'd,” Emma mumbles past the plugs in her nostrils. “Tha'k God you're here.”

I fix on the black girl and run a facial search in Taylor's memory. Immediately, I get a dozen hits.

Name: Sophia Hess.

Status: Bully, bitch and athlete.

Really strong and fast. Dangerous. Aggressive.

Something strikes me, and I find myself on the floor with an ache in my solar plexus. Sophia Hess is standing over me, fists clenched. “You've just never learned—”

If she's as dangerous as all that, I need to regroup. It might be that she just hit me because I was occupied with the database search, but there's no sense in borrowing trouble. Bringing my legs up, I flip out of the way of a kick and come to my feet. Sophia's eyes widen, but she comes in at me again anyway.

I cover up, ready to defend until I've got her capabilities pegged. Her fist lashes out, this time aiming at my face. But I'm a little confused; Taylor's got her down as being fast. This is barely above average for a bluepill. I've got all the time in the world to respond. Unless it's a feint. Is it a feint? I check her posture, and I can't see the rest of the attack. For all I can see, she's committed to this.

It's embarrassing to admit, but I'm concentrating so hard on seeing the trap that I nearly let her tag me with the second punch. At the last split-second, I tilt my head to the side and let her fist slide on by. That's when I grab her arm and put her in a hold. Nothing fancy, but definitely nothing she'll be able to get out of. Leverage is fun like that.

Satisfied that she's locked down, I turn my head toward Emma. “How are you going with that?” She's staring at me and Sophia—obviously hoping that her friend will hand me my ass—but when I speak, she hastily turns back to the washbasin.

“Uh, id's slow,” she says in a defensive tone. “Id does'd wa'd to cub oud.” She says something more, but I'm not paying attention. Because Sophia Hess has just done the impossible; she's gotten out of my hold. She didn't brute-force her way out of it, like any other redpill would do, and she didn't slide out. But between one second and the next, she simply isn't there any more. I have got to find out what she did there.

I'm impressed, but not so impressed that I don't go on full guard. Which turns out to be a wise move, because the Hess girl is right back on the attack. This time, she does go with a feint; a jab at my face, followed by a solid left to the solar plexus. Of course, to me, it's basically in slow motion; give this girl a red pill and a proper martial-arts upload and she might be dangerous. As it is, I almost have to hold back a yawn.

The jab, if I let it hit, might sting a bit. I'm not inclined to give her even that much, so I casually brush it aside like a mosquito. Her face twists in triumph as she puts her weight behind the gut-punch, but it's a little premature. This is brought home to her in no uncertain terms as I pull off an unconventional move; I put my hand out and catch her fist in it.

Unconventional, yes, but effective as hell. She goggles at her fist, now trapped in my hand, as if she can't believe what's happening. The look lasts just long enough for me to step forward and lay a nice crisp head-butt on her. When I broke Emma's nose, it was by accident; with Sophia, it's deliberate. Sophia's knees go out from under, and her eyes roll back in her head. Blood is already beginning to trickle from her nostrils as she hits the tiled floor. I let go of her fist and grab the front of her top just long enough to make sure she doesn't bang her head as she goes down.

“Emma,” I say, looking down at Sophia. “Leave that. Come here.”

My comprehensive defeat of Sophia seems to have knocked the last of the fight out of Emma. She comes a little closer, keeping to what she probably thinks is a safe distance. I don't disabuse her of the notion. “Whad you wa'd be to do?”

I point at the jeans Sophia is wearing. They'll be a little baggy on me, but they're about the right length. As a bonus, she's got a belt as well. “Help me get her pants off.” Sophia's sneakers aren't to my taste, but I do like the zip-up knee-length boots Emma's wearing. “And your boots. Plus your top.” It's just as stylish—and expensive—as the rest of her outfit. I definitely won't be able to rock it like she is, but I'd prefer it over a hoodie, crap-stained or otherwise. Would it have killed Loki to outfit me with a long coat? I love those things.

For a moment, it looks like she's going to argue, but then she catches the look in my eye and shuts up. Wordlessly, she helps me strip Sophia of her jeans, then unzips her boots. I step into the pants, pulling them up to cover my butt. The belt looks like it can pull in to cover my new waistline—I don't think I've ever been this skinny—which I was kinda hoping for. “So,” I say as I cinch it in as tight as it'll go. “What's with that trick she pulled? She got one of those weird abilities?”

I look up from the belt to see her staring at me, eyes wide. Lips pressed tightly together, she shakes her head almost feverishly. “I do'd doe whad you're dalki'g aboud,” she says, in a tone that wouldn't convince a two-year-old.

In other words, “yes, but there's a taboo about it”. Got it. “Right, okay, forget I asked,” I say. Holding out my hand to her, I snap my fingers. “Top.”

I'm pretty sure she's attached to her blouse, or maybe she's just modest. Again, the temptation to argue must have crossed her mind, but I snap my fingers for a second time, like I'm getting impatient. Reluctantly, one button at a time, she undoes the shirt. I give her a hard look, and she hurries up quite a bit.

The boots fit quite nicely over the jeans, and the top looks pretty good in the mirror. Sophia is starting to groan and stir feebly by the time I do up the last button. There's something else … oh, right. I was holding my phone when Sophia hit me. “Where's my phone?” I ask out loud, putting my hand to my ear like I'm making a call. Emma stares at me mutinously, but I'm not talking to her.

Operators might not be able to talk to you when you're not on the line, but they can see what you're doing just fine. On cue, the phone starts ringing; somehow, it ended up in one of my shit-covered shoes. A couple of wet fingermarks on it explains how this odd thing happened. Emma backs away as I advance on her.

<><>

When I emerge from the bathroom a few moments later, I'm carrying Sophia's t-shirt and Emma's skirt. Emma's phone isn't on her, so if either of them wants to go for help, they're gonna have to do it either in underwear or in my wet crappy clothes. I dump the skirt and top in the first trash can I come to. In the meantime, I'm back on the phone. “Okay, now I do need an extraction plan. I just beat up two girls and stole their clothes.”

“Gotta say, Moggie, you know how to win friends and influence people wherever you go.” Loki sounds like he's holding back laughter. “The option to pull you out is still on the table.”

I shake my head. “Screw that. I need to have this girl in a more viable position when I jack out. Otherwise, fuck knows what'll happen to her while I'm on downtime.” I'm taking the stairwell down as fast as I can, which basically means leaping over the rail to skip a whole flight of stairs at a time. “Where's the nearest motorbike, car or whatever I can hotwire?”

Now he actually does laugh. “Only you would look at stealing a car as a valid way to de-escalate the situation. I'm telling you, just walk out the front door. You'll be fine.”

By now I'm low on options. So I walk up to the main doors and consider what I'm going to see when I open them. In every other op I've been on, a clusterfuck of this magnitude would've had the authorities on alert and seen the parking lot full of cop cars. There'd be flashing lights everywhere, guns pointed in my direction, and probably a helicopter or two overhead. Oh, and of course there'd be Agents. Some pockets of the Matrix still maintain them.

I'm pretty sure there aren't any Agents here—though I've been wrong before—but even without them, life's gonna get really fucking interesting for a while. I decide that even if I can't jack a police motorbike, a car should do just as well.

Okay, it's showtime. I shove open the doors and go out in a roll, looking for cover against the inevitable storm of bullets. Reaching my objective behind a low concrete wall, I come up on one knee and pause. When I run the last few seconds past my mind's eye, I frown, having not registered any shots at all. Cautiously, I peer over the top of the wall.

There are no cop cars. There aren't any cops, either. In fact, if not for the fact that it's fucking January, my dive-and-roll would've been greeted with the sound of crickets. Slowly, I come to my feet and look around to see if it's some kind of elaborate ambush. An army of SWAT totally fails to leap out of non-existent cover.

I scratch my head, then start down the steps. I don't get this at all. This isn't how it works. Operatives start shit, then Agents and cops show up to shut them down. It's like I threw a party and nobody came. I'm almost insulted. I'd been looking forward to rocking one of those cop shotguns, too. The ultimate party accessory.

The sound of air brakes gets my attention. Has an Agent taken over the driver of an eighteen-wheeler with the aim of running me down? But when I look toward the road, all I see is a bus, pulling in at the bus stop. What the hell. Reaching into my pocket, I pull out the coin purse. I've never left the scene on a bus before, but I guess there's a first time for everything.

Part Three