Reality Intrudes Pt 3 (Patreon)

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

I'm pulling out Taylor's coin-purse to pay the bus driver when I notice something I should've picked up before. Sophia's belt has actual pouches on it. Two of them. And there's something in them. I don't draw attention to the fact that I've just noticed this; instead, I get out the purse.

"How far ya goin', kid?" he grunts, like he's not even surprised that someone's leaving school mid-morning. My estimate of the school system in this town, already low, starts making preparations to plumb the Marianas Trench.

Which gives me an idea of where I should go. "Uh, library?" I ask, as if I'm not sure about it. Or like I'm just throwing it out like an excuse. Get off at the library, go to the mall or whatever. Pretty sure this guy's heard it all.

"Sure thing," he says. "Three fifty." No what are you doing out of school, or does your mom know where you are. Just three fifty. I shrug and dig out some coins. There's a weird-looking coin among the dimes and quarters and stuff; when I look closer, it turns out to be a dollar. This place is getting weirder all the time. I drop three dollars and two quarters into his hand, shove the purse back in my pocket, and climb on board the bus.

There's fuck-all people on there with me, but I've still got residual Agent-paranoia going on, so I go all the way to the back where I can keep an eye on them all. Once I'm there, I check out the contents of the pouches. The first one's a flip-phone, a well-worn model that looks a couple years old. And the second one's … huh. This one's a brand-new smart-phone. The case is barely scratched, even.

I sit back in my seat as the bus rumbles down the road, and examine the two different phones. Okay, this is a bit of a puzzle. But that's good, because I like solving puzzles. Okay, I like breaking shit until puzzles aren't puzzling any more, but that's almost the same thing.

Hypothesis one: only one phone belongs to her. The other one's stolen, or she's holding it for someone. Something like that.

Counter to hypothesis one: this belt belongs to her, and the pouches are purpose-built. Conclusion: both phones are hers.

Hypothesis two: one's a normal phone and one's a special phone. But what sort of special phone? I look at the worn phone, then the new one. There's no good reason I can think of for a teenager like Sophia Hess to hold on to the older one when she's got the newer one.

Fuck it. I give up trying to use deduction and brainpower to solve the mystery, and hit the wake-up button on the new phone. It wakes up, all right, but then it asks for a PIN. Which puts me back at square one. Without much hope, I try the same with the older phone. To my surprise, it wakes up just fine and opens its secrets to me.

The fuck? Why password one phone but not the other?

The answer comes to me immediately, of course. Because there's nothing important on the crappy old phone. All the good stuff's on the sleek new one. That's the only logical conclusion.

Still, it doesn't stop me from looking at the old phone. No sense in not checking it out. There still might be something on there that's of interest to me. And until I can get the PIN code for the new one, it's my only option.

On the surface, the phone's pretty vanilla. Contact list includes Emma and someone called Madison, as well as numbers for a Mom, a Terry, an Alan, and a few others. Not many, which isn't really a surprise. I hadn't picked Sophia as a social butterfly. Pit bull maybe, but not a butterfly. I make a bet to myself that if I ever manage to lift Emma's phone, she'll have ten times as many contacts.

The interesting bit is when I start skimming her saved text messages. Taken one at a time, they don't say much. But put a whole bunch together and they paint a really fucking horrific picture of relentless borderline-sociopathic bullying. Sophia and her friends are starting to look like people I'd gladly throw under any bus I'd care to name. They never name Taylor specifically in these texts, but from context it's pretty damning. It looks like they've been going at her for a fucking long time, maybe years. What I don't get is why. Actually, no. What I actually don't get is why she hasn't snapped and gone psycho on their asses already. I certainly fucking would've. Oh, wait, I already did. All of a sudden, my minimal regret for breaking their noses becomes care factor zero.

To distract myself, I eye the new, holy-shit, high-tech phone. My guess is that any missing parts of this puzzle are to be found on it. Trouble is, it's protected by what I suspect to be the best encryption money can buy. This doesn't mean I'm stopped, of course. It just means that I'm stopped unless I do something I really don't want to do.

Unfortunately, my options are few and far between. I'm gonna have to ask Loki for help. And I just know that the asshole's gonna be so fucking smug about it. I'm beginning to regret kicking him in the nuts the last time we sparred. Well, almost.

With a sigh, I pull out my own phone and flip it open, then hit the call button.

"Operator." I can almost hear the smug in his voice.

With a sigh, I bite the bullet. "Need the PIN code for this phone." Phones, of course, are just chunks of code in the Matrix. Digging into them for the on/off switch is child's play for a good Operator. And as insufferable as he might be, Loki's a kick-ass Operator.

"Wow, this is low, even for you. Going through a teenager's cell-phones? How low can you go?" He's fucking enjoying this. I visualise kicking him in the nuts, again. "Just do it, okay? You know she's one of the weird ones. I wanna see what this high-tech piece of shit is about."

"Yeah, about that. Gotta say, I didn't expect her to tag you like that. That one's going in the greatest hits file." I'd wondered when he was going to pull that up. Also, how long it's gonna take me to live it down.

"Fuck you. Gimme the PIN code." We both know he can't actually refuse a request, but there's nothing in the regs against being fucking irritating while he does it.

"Okay, okay, don't get your panties in a wad. Sending the code to your phone now." He hangs up; a moment later, a six-digit number pops up on my phone screen. I'm actually kind of impressed; most phones go for four digits. If I'd tried to brute-force it, there would've been a million combos to try. Fuck that shit.

I enter the PIN in Sophia's phone and it lets me in. The interface is smooth and intuitive, almost anticipating my every need. Why can't we have shit like this? Anyway, I start looking through it. My first port of call, like with the other one, is Contacts. This one's got a different list of names; big surprise there. Except that these aren't names that I'd normally associate with normal people: Triumph, Aegis, Clockblocker, Gallant, Kid Win, Vista …

"The fuck?" I mutter. "What kind of names are these?" Unless they're online handles or something. I blink as it occurs to me that Sophia might actually be more important than I'd thought. Maybe she's part of a hidden group that knows what the Matrix is and is working to get out or something. That's the way most people get recruited, after all. They start asking questions, the most important one being 'What is the Matrix?'

Okay, so the bullying thing is a bit on the nose, but maybe she does it to fit in or something. I begin to wonder if I've misjudged her. When she wakes up, she'll be freaking out about her missing phone. I might have to figure out some way of getting into contact with her. Having a resistance cell already in place would make my job one fuck-load easier.

I scroll a little farther to see what other names are there, and run head-first into my own assumptions. Because the very next two names are more corporate than symbolic; Director Piggot and Deputy Director Renick. What is this? A secret underground hacker group or a corporate think-tank?

And then something occurs to me. I'm totally failing to make use of the best source of information I've got to hand. Specifically, Taylor Hebert's memories. Leaning back in my seat, I let the curtain of green slide down over my eyes as I concentrate on the names. If they're a secret underground group, Taylor won't know thing one about them, which will be a point in their favour. Of course, I'm gonna have to warn them to back the fuck off from her. Fitting in's one thing, but I'm not gonna let some teenage bitches wale on me for any fucking reason under the sun.

To my surprise, the names get a hit. But the real surprise is the content of the hits. By the time I blink my eyes clear, my head's spinning a bit. Turns out that Taylor didn't know all the names, especially Piggot or Renick, but she knew Triumph and Aegis, as well as Clockblocker. I pause for a moment to reflect on exactly what sort of a mind would call themselves that, then move on.

They aren't a secret underground resistance group. They're a bunch of fucking bona-fide government-sponsored kid superheroes called the Wards, complete with costumes and powers. Which means that they've all got chunks of anomalous code grafted on to them.

My phone rings, and I answer it. "You are never gonna fuckin' believe this."

"It can wait." Loki's voice is brusque, even for him. "You gotta ditch the phone. It's got a trace program in it."

I stare at the smart-phone, holding it away from my body in case a metallic insect jumps out and burrows its way into my body. Saw a good buddy go out that way once; the fucking thing got to his brain and diced it. "You're shitting me. There's Agents involved after all?"

"For fuck's sake, Momo. I mean an actual trace program on the actual goddamn phone. They just activated it remotely. Ditch the fuckin' thing. Now." Loki sounds both pissed and urgent, which convinces me.

"Okay, fine," I reply. The bus window takes a little effort to open, then I flick the phone on to a shop awning. "Ditched. Happy now?"

"No gratitude, I see. You know I probably just saved you from getting arrested or shot or whatever."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever." I flip the phone shut, then grin. I suspect I know Sophia Hess' dirty little secret. By now I'm pretty sure she's not in the know about the Matrix. But I'm absolutely certain that she's gonna be shitting herself majorly over the loss of the phone. Of course, I'm not totally read in on all the details yet, but I have a fairly good idea where I can get access to those.

Winslow High

Sergeant Joe Casteli yawns as he slows down briefly to give a passing bus right of way at the intersection. He's been pulling some late nights over Christmas and New Year, mainly because there's always someone who chooses to be out and about causing trouble. Even now, two days later, he still hasn't caught up on all his sleep.

The bus rumbles past and he lets the clutch out, rolling down the road until he gets to the entrance of the Winslow parking lot. This is a place he knows all too well. A week rarely goes by without a call-out to Brockton Bay's shittiest high school. Whether it's the Empire skinheads clashing with the ABB assholes, the ABB or Empire trashing the Merchant stoners or the Merchants selling drugs to anyone with the cash, he figures more crime goes on within those four walls than half the Docks.

The rookie riding shotgun, a skinny black kid called French, looks puzzled as the car rolls past the allotted parking space for emergency vehicles. "Uh, sergeant, wasn't that …?"

Casteli chuckles. A twenty-year man, he sometimes feels like he's been on the job more than twice that time. "We never drive straight in. Sometimes the gangs put metal spikes or broken glass in that spot. So instead we eyeball it on the way past and do a lap of the parking lot, just to see what stolen cars are in here today." Taking one hand off the wheel, he points. "See that one? The red Honda? Plates look familiar. Run 'em, will ya?"

"Uh, sure thing, sergeant." French sits forward and begins to tap information into the fold-out keyboard. "Just, um … weren't we here to investigate a fight or something?" To his credit, he never pauses in his data entry.

"Technically, yeah." Casteli decides to pass on another pearl of wisdom. "Thing is, this is Winslow High. They don't go a day without a fight, not here. Even if it gets called in, by the time we get there all we can do is scrape up what's left and call an ambulance. Whatever's happened is done. Hell, half the time we can't even spare a uniform to check it out. It's always the same story, anyway. Nobody saw nothing. Not even the guy who's bleeding out on the goddamn floor."

From the look on French's face, he isn't prepared for this revelation. "But …" He pauses. "So why are we showing today?"

Casteli nods and smiles. "Good question, French. This time it got called in by the principal. Woman called Blackwell. Apparently one of her model students got assaulted by one of the weird loners. Our job's to go in there, find out what happened, and let the little shit cool his heels overnight in the precinct house." He pulls the cruiser into an empty parking space. After shutting the car down, he climbs out and stretches, swivelling his shoulders one way and then the other. Obligingly, vertebrae click in his back. I'm getting too old for this.

French hooks his head toward the school. "Anything I should know before I go in?"

Silently, Casteli commends the kid for thinking ahead. "Treat it like a gang bust. You're gonna draw shit from the skinheads, and we'll both get it from the ABB. They'll say anything to get you riled up. Don't let it happen. Keep your hand near your gun, but for fuck's sake do not draw down on anyone unless they're holding a weapon and directly threatening you or someone else."

With a serious expression on his face, French nods. "Got it." Peering up at the grimy frontage of the school, he loosens his gun in its holster. "Like the training officer told us. Some parts of the city you gotta treat like the Wild West."

Casteli snorts. "That's about as good a description as any." He tilts his head toward the car as he hits the key fob to lock it. "How'd the search turn up?"

"Stolen." French doesn't even sound surprised. He's learning fast.

"Good. We'll deal with it on the way out." Casteli leads the way up the stairs to the front doors and pushes them open. "Come on, let's get to the principal's office and see what she can tell us about what's going on." He knows the way, of course; he's been here more than once before.

French sniffs out loud, then does it again. "Uh, sergeant?"

"What is it?" Casteli could've told him that sniffing, or even breathing deeply, inside Winslow isn't the smartest thing to do. God alone knows when they last cleaned the heating system. And he's got a sneaking suspicion that there's more than a bit of unreported asbestos in the walls. It looks like that kind of place.

"Something stinks, sergeant." French's face twists into a grimace. "I mean, it really stinks. Like something's dead. Or someone."

Without thinking, Casteli takes a sniff himself. French's nose is decades younger than his, and probably a lot keener, but even without that advantage he can just about pick up the odour that his partner's detected. It smells even worse than the time he ended up on stakeout with Howard 'Two-Ton' Tunley, who did nothing for six hours straight but eat fish paste sandwiches and fart. He hasn't been able to stomach fish since. "Shit. What is that?"

"I dunno." French moves forward, head turning from side to side as he sniffs at the air again. "I think we should check it out. If it's something rotten, then it's definitely a health hazard."

Momentarily, Casteli's tempted to overrule him and get back to the business at hand. But then he catches himself and shakes his head. French is right, after all. A smell like this has no place in a high school—well, apart from the locker room, anyway. And if he can get the school slapped with a health violation, it might make being dragged out here just a little more worthwhile.

They move through the halls, watching each others' backs. While Winslow's a high school, it's still the biggest shithole this side of whatever squat the Merchants are living in this week. Crudely sprayed Asian ideograms are overlaid by red and black racist symbolism, with the occasional double-barred green 'M' in the corner.

Casteli catches French's grimace as they pass by a full-length mural, a swastika overlaying a Confederate flag. "Don't let it get to you, kid. Thing these little shits don't understand is that both those flags got their asses kicked by black soldiers and white soldiers fighting side by side for the good old US of A." He slaps French on the shoulder. "And if they start anything, we'll just hafta show 'em a little historical re-enactment. Got it?"

French straightens his back slightly. "Got it, sergeant." He sniffs the air again, and screws his nose up. "Fuck, whatever that shit is, it's horrific."

"You're not wrong." Casteli is now trying to breathe through his mouth only. Whatever's causing the smell is directly ahead. They move up together and look around the corner.

The source of the smell is very easy to pick out now. There's lockers lining each wall of this particular corridor; all are closed and locked, except for one. That one is open; more specifically, the hinges have been busted and the door's hanging from the locker by its lock. Spilling out of the locker is a sludgy mass of something that, even now, is gradually slumping toward the ground, an inch at a time. Bugs, masses of them, crawl around and over the fetid pile of decomposing … "What the fuck is that?" Casteli immediately regrets speaking, because now he's going to have to inhale.

"Dunno, sergeant." French gulps slightly. Casteli hadn't ever imagined it was possible for a black person to go green, but French is a talented young man. "Someone was in there. They went that way." He puts his hand over his mouth.

Casteli wrenches his horrified gaze away from the oozing, rotting mass to follow French's pointing finger. The muck has indeed been disturbed in a way that looks like someone waded through it, and there's even a trail leading away, outlined in clear sneaker footprints. Also included in the trail are bits and pieces of stuff that's apparently come from the pile. He thinks he recognises feminine hygiene products, but a glance at French makes him certain the boy's gonna lose his breakfast in the next few minutes if they keep hanging around.

"C'mere." He grabs French's sleeve and tows him along the corridor in the direction of the footprints. Once they're out of the worst of the miasma, he stops. "Wait here a moment."

"What are you gonna do, sergeant?" French, now looking less nauseated, eyes him curiously as he pulls his phone out.

"Crime scene photos," says Casteli grimly. "And to find out what locker number that was. Ten gets you one that whoever owns it is the one that got locked in with that crap. While I'm getting the photos, you call this in. Then we're gonna track down our vic and get a statement." He bares his teeth in what might be a smile. "Congrats, kid. Looks like you just sniffed out our first real crime of the day."

Part 4