Reality Intrudes Pt 6 (Patreon)

Part Six: Wake-Up Call

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

Morrigan

Leaning forward with my elbows on my knees, I breathe deeply. Yeah, I know it's not really air that I'm breathing. I don't give a fuck. Breathing deeply still helps when it comes to dealing with this sort of shit. Not even the Mainframe killed that many people so casually; looking into the face of a thing that's got a seven-digit body count is frankly terrifying. Even if it is just a picture of something inside a simulation. I'm inside the goddamn simulation with it.

Slowly, I raise my head and look at the pictures of Behemoth again. They aren't any less frightening, but I'm gradually getting used to the idea that there's something in here that I don't stand a snowball's chance in fuck of taking out on my own. No amount of Operatives could. So we don't even try to kill this thing; we just leave it in here when we evacuate everyone the fuck out of this pocket of the Matrix. Then we shut the fucking thing down and erase it.

As I click out of the entry on Behemoth and hover the cursor over Leviathan's name, I'm wondering if I really want to do this. Also, exactly what is the purpose to leave three rampaging … viruses, for want of a better term, active in the system alongside living people? Seriously, does this Zion program want people to die en masse? To me, that seems to go directly against the primary ethos of the Matrix as a whole. It's insane. It fucking has to be. There's no other viable explanation. With that in mind, I open the entry for Leviathan.

The appearance of the big lizard-like creature is made subtly worse by the fact that it has no fucking face. Or muzzle, or whatever it is that lizards have. Then I take in its accomplishments.

Well, fuck. I'd thought I was inured to the havoc that the Endbringers could cause. It turns out I'm wrong; so sue me. It sank Kyushu. And Newfoundland. That's … I've really got no words for that. Apart from what the holy crapping Christ have I stuck my neck in this time?

Feeling just a little light-headed, I look at the list of other places that Leviathan has inundated and decimated. The very long list. After a moment, I work out that the vast majority are coastal cities. Opening another window, I look up information for Brockton Bay; specifically, its location.

Yeah, thought so. I'm in a coastal city. Fuck my life. By now, I'm not even remotely surprised.

At some point, I must've put the phone on the table beside me. Now it rings softly, buzzing against the hard surface. Picking it up, I flip it open. “Yeah?”

“Your vitals just jumped all over the place for a bit. You're not wimping out on us are you, Mopey?”

Fucking Loki. The last of the sick sensation in my stomach makes way for an entirely reasonable and rational desire to punch his teeth down his throat. I wonder momentarily if the Captain would mind if I jacked out for a moment so I could do just that. “Fuck you, ass-biscuit. I'm doing better here than you ever would. Figure you'd be puking your guts out if you were reading half the shit I was.”

His tone is irritatingly condescending. “I highly doubt that, Moggy. After all, whatever you're looking at in there is made-up information for a made-up simulation. None of it's real. No need to piss yourself.”

“I did not fuckin' piss myself!” In my own head, I admit that this is because I'm capable of some pretty effective self-control. But the fact remains that I didn't. I hang up, making a mental note to screw Loki over in an appropriate manner once I jack out of here.

Behemoth was a shock. Leviathan isn't much better. But when I click on the Simurgh, I get a whole new level of 'what the fuck'? Even if there aren't any Agents here, they don't need them. This giant creepy winged fucker is a fucking telepath. And a telekinetic. And she can apparently turn people into long-term serial killers and worse.

Again, I'm left wondering exactly what the purpose is to have these things killing hundreds of thousands of people every few months. And then I wonder if Zion was originally so dedicated to his little pocket project that he wiped the information that he's in the Matrix from his own awareness. It'd explain a shitload, given that his standard operating procedure seems to be “kill the people I need with fucking great monsters”. I mean, what the living fuck?

If there's anything good to be said about this, it's that the Endbringers seem to be the worst singular threat facing the population. Everything else seems to be merely human beings with stupidly ridiculous cheat codes integrated into their avatars. The Slaughterhouse Nine, just for instance, comes across as a bunch of murderhobos led by a smarmy-looking asshole whose looks would be greatly improved by a bullet-hole roughly around the left eyebrow. Why nobody's implemented this improvement in the twenty-something years they've been active is something else I can't figure out. The rest of the crew could do with something similar too. I stall on the page dedicated to the first twelve year old serial killer I've ever heard of. The images on her wiki page have a caution sign you've got to click past, and it still makes me glad that Taylor's thrown up basically everything in her stomach. I never knew it was possible to do that to a human body. Even in a simulation.

I'd thought I knew viciousness. This pocket of the Matrix is fucking war-crimes central. Everyone in here, if I'm reading the situation even half right, is walking wounded. Accordingly, I stop reading what I'm clicking on. Let 'em strip it out, and upload a summary into my head.

I click through a few more information pages, but my heart's not in it any more. Plus, I'm hungry. Slipping the phone into my pocket, I stand up. Nobody's looking at me oddly, which is good. I head downstairs, still wary of any sort of ambush, but nobody seems to have me in their crosshairs as yet. I don't assume I'm in the clear, but I let myself relax very slightly. Now, if only I can find someplace to get a snack or two.

There's office buildings all around me, so I'm guessing there's also coffee shops around here somewhere. With this in mind, I walk a couple of blocks, keeping my eyes open, and pretty soon I locate what I'm looking for. Taylor Hebert's coin purse, when I investigate more closely, has a pocket for what looks like house keys, and another for notes. A five goes toward a take-away coffee and a croissant, with damn-all change left over. I grimace, make a mental apology toward her for hijacking her body and spending her money, and leave the shop with my drink and pastry.

The croissant is nice and hot, but the coffee leaves a bit to be desired. Still, it's hot and liquid, so I drink it. I've had worse. And it's kind of pleasant to just walk along, the weak January sunlight cutting down the effect of a chill breeze winding down the street.

Of course, I'm still on the clock, and I figure I've gotten enough data from official sources for the moment; it's time to see what the underbelly looks like. My options to do this are relatively limited. I could either impersonate a cop, a fellow criminal or a victim. Being a cop is out, as it would take too much time to acquire a legitimate-looking badge and uniform (besides, I've kicked the shit out of a fuckload of cops. It would be too fucking weird). Likewise, I simply don't have the underworld contacts for this pocket of the Matrix. However, being a victim requires minimal prep. Any idiot can manage it. Even Loki.

So I set out to get mugged. Basically, this means that I spend the next twenty minutes keeping an eye out for suspicious types that happen to be lurking in alleyways, and make myself a nice fat (figuratively speaking, because Taylor's a rake) target for them. So when I get dragged into the alley, I hold back and put up a token struggle, as if I've got no chance against two strong men.

Once we're in the alley proper, they push me face-first against a dumpster and pull my hands behind my back. One guy gets in close and holds his hand over my mouth while pressing a blade of some sort against my cheek. The guy who's holding my hands behind my back starts patting my pockets down at the same time, copping a feel as he does so. I'm really not sure what pisses me off more. They're late teens or early twenties, and they haven't bathed in a while. Both of them have shaven heads, which is kind of weird. The guy who can't decide whether to grab my ass or my phone is mouthing the standard threats I assume muggers use in this situation. I'm not even listening, as my focus is on making sure we're alone and unobserved.

Once I'm certain this is the case, I stop playing the helpless victim. Yanking my hands free of the asshole's grip, I grab the hand that's got the knife on me and wrench it backward until bone snaps. His pained scream is cut off when I bring my other elbow around into his side. I'm pretty sure I don't break any of his ribs, but I certainly bend a few.

He tries to reel backward, but I've still got his wrist. Turning, I kick him under the kneecap with more force than necessary; not entirely certain that I haven't ruined the whole knee joint. With a rather more high-pitched scream, he lurches forward. The scream is cut off as my rising knee meets his descending face, and he crumples limply to the ground.

His buddy is quicker on the uptake, though I can't say much for his self-preservation instincts. Pulling out a Saturday Night Special, he backs way the fuck off while waving it in my general direction. “F-fuck off!” he yells. “Kill you, you fucking cape bitch!”

Well, I'd been thinking about opening a dialogue right about then, but the gun fucks any diplomatic intentions in the ass, without lube. The word 'cape' rings a bell, but I haven't got time to think about it as I backflip on to the dumpster. Reacting way too late, the guy fires off a wild shot, puncturing the dumpster about two feet to the side of where I'd been. Without pausing, I kick off from the dumpster and run three steps diagonally up the wall before diving outward into a forward somersault. The pistol goes off for a second time; this time, the bullet takes a chunk out of the brick wall.

My boot heels slam into his collarbones with my full weight (or rather, Taylor's full weight) behind the impact. It's still hard enough to snap them both like bread-sticks; he screams, rather more manfully than his buddy, and goes down like a sack of shit. By the time he hits the ground, I have the gun. I may have accidentally-on-purpose bounced his head off the ground extra hard, but at least he's still breathing.

I dust myself off, restraining the impulse to stomp on his crotch a few times—cop a feel off a teenage girl, will you—and go through their pockets. The knife and gun I'm claiming as spoils of war, because I need them and these two fucktards are barely competent to walk and chew gum, let alone be trusted with weapons. I make a mental note to upgrade the knife as soon as possible, given that it's a substandard piece of shit. If anything, the pistol is worse. For one thing, it hasn't been cleaned in forever; for another, the action is loose. Third, the asshole only left two bullets in it. I'm honestly surprised it went off at all. They've also got some money, which I shove into Taylor's coin purse. Each of them has a phone, which I add to my growing collection.

Of course, beating crap out of them is only half the plan for getting an insight into the criminal underside of Brockton Bay. The other half requires them to give me information. Unfortunately, I did handle them kind of roughly; even if I woke them up, they're unlikely to willingly answer any questions I've got for them. And Mr Grabby probably has a concussion anyway, which reduces my options.

With a sigh, I pick up Mr Knifey and sling him over my shoulder. Mr Grabby should wake up sometime soon and stagger to a hospital; after all, I made sure to leave his legs in working order. I make the leap on to the dumpster without much trouble, but it takes a bit more effort to jump up and catch the fire escape with my free hand. As the rusty metal creaks and groans under the sudden strain, I swing my legs over the rail and catch my balance. Only then do I realise that what I'm doing isn't as hard as it should be. Sure, this is the Matrix, but there's usually a bit more push-back from the subroutines designed to maintain the illusion of little things like physics and gravity.

Jogging up the stairs makes Mr Knifey flop around in a way that has to be uncomfortable, or would be if he was conscious. The fire escape doesn't like it either, reiterating the creaking and groaning while adding a few clanks to its repertoire. I'm not really worried about either one as I pull my phone out of my pocket, flip it open, and press the button.

“Operator.” He sounds as smarmy as ever.

I get to the top of the fire escape and start across the rooftop, gravel crunching under the soles of Emma's boots.  My boots, now. “Need you to check something out for me. Think you can do that, or is the big bad Matrix too scary for you?”

“Fuck you, Moggy.” But the insult is only casual. “What the fuck do you want?”

“The code.” I break off talking for a moment as I accelerate to a run, free arm pumping smoothly along with my legs, and leap the twenty-foot gap to the next building. As I land, Mr Knifey groans at the impact. “Check the local code. Bet you a genuine imitation beefburger that the error-checking's out the fuckin' window.”

“Yeah, yeah, hold your fuckin' horses.” He stops talking and I hear the sound of computer keys rattling. “Holy fuck. Are you seeing this, Captain?”

I hang the phone up as I hurdle another gap. Mr Knifey's definitely starting to regain consciousness now, but that's okay. I've found a good spot for what I want to do. A sheer drop to the alley below, no visible witnesses, and a solid parapet to brace from. Thematically, I should really be waiting till nightfall to do this sort of thing, but I'm kind of rushed at the moment.

When Mr Knifey opens his eyes, he's dangling face-first over the gap between one building and the next. I've got one foot braced against the parapet, the back of his collar in my right hand, and his unbroken wrist jammed firmly up between his shoulderblades with my left hand.

I'm watching him carefully in case he tries to play possum, but he signals his wakefulness by screaming and convulsing in my grip. Despite the fact that Taylor's Matrix avatar hasn't got anywhere near the muscle mass of my real-world body, and that Mr Knifey would make four of her, I hold him easily.

His right arm flails uselessly, the wrist still at an odd angle since I broke it. He tries to scrabble with his legs, but there's not much leverage to be had, and I wrench his arm a little farther up between his shoulderblades. “When you're ready to talk, I'm ready to listen,” I say, injecting all the menace I'm able to muster into my voice. Taylor Hebert's not exactly physically imposing, so I need every advantage available to me.

“Fuck, fuck, don't kill me, don't kill me!” he blurts. “What do you wanna know? I'll tell you everything!” He starts babbling a litany of minor robberies and muggings that very quickly becomes repetitive.

Well, fuck. Either this guy's a total wimp or I'm scarier than I thought I was. Though the fact that I'm casually dangling him over the alley is probably adding to my intimidation factor. “Shut the fuck up and listen,” I order him harshly, twisting his collar by the grip I've got on it. As the pressure increases, he chokes, fighting for breath. “Who runs the crime around here?”

“Kaiser,” he blurts, which doesn't make me any more informed. “He runs the Empire Eighty-Eight.”

I frown slightly. When gang bosses take on weird nicknames, you know things are getting hinky. “So who's Kaiser when he's at home? Surely nobody just calls him that.” I ratchet his wrist upward half an inch or so, just to get his attention.

“E-everyone does!” he nearly screams. “He's Kaiser. Nobody sees him without the armour. If anyone got a look at his real face, he'd probably impale 'em right there!”

Wait one fuckin' second. Back that shit up. “How, exactly, is he gonna 'impale' them?” I ask carefully, a dark suspicion brewing in my gut.

Over the next half hour or so, I learn that things in Brockton Bay are even more ridiculously problematic than I'd thought before. Sure, there's adult superheroes along with the junior varsity (including one Sophia Hess, who doesn't qualify for 'superhero' under any definition I've ever heard of) but there's also supervillains running gangs. Note 'gangs'. Plural. My involuntary informant lets slip that there's at least four lots of super-powered assholes running criminal syndicates in and around Brockton Bay. Kaiser's Empire Eighty-Eight (a bunch of racist cocksuckers, as the shaved head and the code numbers should've warned me) isn't the only one, just the biggest. If Mr Knifey isn't talking his boss up, Kaiser's got something like a dozen powered criminals working for him. Fuck my life.

The next biggest employer is someone going by the unlikely name of Faultline, who runs a crew of weirdo freaks (his description, not mine) who only do out-of-town jobs. As if this is a valid excuse for the authorities not to come down on her. But apparently it works. This fuckin' place.

Knifey is in the process of a highly derogatory description of someone called Lung when I interrupt him. “Hey,” I say, twisting his wrist slightly. “Quick question. Where's your nearest stash house?”

“What?” He tries to twist his head around to look at me; I move my head to avoid his gaze. While they might not recall the face of Victim Number Fifteen or whatever, I'm pretty sure that right now anything he sees of me will be burned into his memory. “You're fuckin' nuts.”

“What's it to you if I am?” I try to sound bored. “Best case for you is if I get shot to shit. What do you care about my well-being?”

It takes a little more coaxing after that, along with a certain amount of applied pain, but he finally gives up the address. Along with a verbal description of the layout, and an estimate of how many people are likely to be there. Mentally, I double the number. Then I double it again, just in case.

“What're you gonna do to me?” Knifey sounds justifiably nervous. “Fuck, don't kill me.”

I'm tempted to just let go, but I did kinda bait them in the first place, and it's not like he was ever a real danger to me. Pulling him back from the brink, I let go his arm, then smack him in the back of the head hard enough to put him out.

As I head for the fire escape, I'm already planning my next move. There's a couple things that I need, and then?

Then I'm going shopping.

Part 7