Author's Note: Hi, here's chapter 9. A bit longer than usual, to make up for the wait.

Usual thanks to DancingInTheDark85: I don't know what I'd do without you!
And, Deep Sorrow: since you have a soft spot for good ol' Fusco, you should like this one. It's for you!

Oh, one last thing: same warnings as the last chapter apply here. There's some swearing (Lionel's fault) and also some blood, but nothing too graphic.

Enjoy!

Chapter 9

As soon as Carson had announced that they would comply with their captors' plan, one of them had quickly left the room at his leader's nod only to come back no more than a few minutes later with two laptops ready, which were immediately shoved in front of Finch and Carson.

The kidnappers had probably had no doubt that they would do what they were asked, Finch reasoned, but it was not really surprising. What other choice did they have?

Harold's eyes flew to the small tray bar in the bottom right corner of the screen of the computer in front of him – his computer, he guessed he could call it - automatically searching for any indication of some sort of wi-fi connection. There was none, obviously, and the recluse chided himself for his naivety.

The glance unfortunately hadn't gone unnoticed.

"You really thought I'd give some hackers computers with an Internet connection?" Morris laughed derisively and waved a hand towards the laptops. "I'm not a fool. These things don't even have a network card."

It made sense, of course, for it would have been a far too obvious channel of communications with the outside, but it also destroyed the tiny spark of hope Finch had harbored to somehow be able to alert the Machine of his and Carson's location. Besides, it made the job they were supposed to do – a job for which, unfortunately, none of them was sufficiently knowledgeable – even harder: they couldn't even look for clues about the kind of security barriers they were expected to be able to circumvent.

"And how are we supposed to hack into anything if we can't connect to the web?" Finch asked, trying to keep his tone as non-hostile as possible.

"For now, you just have to write the code of the worm – which can be perfectly done offline. After all, you two are the experts," the man replied, without so much as a blink. It was clear he had expected such an objection, and he seemed sure to have found a way to bypass the problem. "Then you'll do the actual hacking later with another, untraceable device, and under my supervision, so to speak."

Harold chose not to reply. Judging from the few interactions he'd had with the man, it was obvious he was no novice in the hacking field – perhaps he had tried himself to work his way inside the darknet market, and failed – but this was complete madness. Creating a malware capable to pierce through specific barriers, injecting it in the right place without getting noticed and then pilfering sensitive data such that – well, even supposing they actually did have an idea of the security system, which they unfortunately didn't – it would definitely take more than the allotted time and a fully functioning Internet connection too.

But Mr. Morris didn't want to hear this, that much was clear. It would only get Harold, and his number, killed.

Better stick to the plan then – take time, keep Carson alive, concoct an escape plan. But how?

"Well, gentlemen, it seems you're all settled," Morris said, jerking Finch away from his thoughts. "I'll leave you to it." He placed his hands on the metal table and leaned forward, until he was invading their personal space and staring directly in their eyes. "Do not disappoint me," he added. His voice was low and husky and for a second it reminded Harold of Reese's whispery tone. But Morris' was cold and menacing and completely emotionless, as were his eyes – nothing in common with John's. It sent a shiver running down his spine and, as childish as it was, he felt immediately relieved when both their captors left the room. It wasn't like their situation had changed much – not at all, as a matter of fact – but, in Finch's opinion, removing any weapon from a room always made the situation better, even if only by a fraction.

At least now he could focus on the problem at hand, right? Write some semblance of code. Make it believable. Find a way out. Stay alive. The to-do list was clear enough, and rang in a continuous, unhelpful loop in his head – the execution, though, was another matter entirely.

Harold might be wrong, and would gladly accept to be proved mistaken, but he was afraid he couldn't pin too much hope on Carson being able to help much, neither with the hacking part nor with the whole escape department. From what he had gathered, the other man knew next to nothing about the code they needed to write, and seemed way too terrified to even begin to think about organizing an escape.

As if on cue, he felt Carson shift his attention from the laptop to him. The gaze weighed tons, the responsibility of their survival all on his shoulders. Harold felt his breath quicken again, the temporary relief he had felt when their captors had left, already forgotten.

He dry-swallowed a couple of times, taking deep breaths, trying to force his hammering heart back to a reasonable rate. Panicking didn't help, right?

"Now what?" Carson eventually asked, his voice cracking a bit. Quivering. Scared. Dejected. Completely depending on him.

Finch took one last calming breath, then sat forward and pulled the computer closer, a new determination dawning on him.

"Now," he said resolutely, locking eyes with his number, "we get to work."

A single droplet of rain trailed down his neck and Reese shivered again, tugging the coat closer to his body in a vain attempt to preserve some body heat. He was waiting for Fusco in a dimly-lit back road close to the hotel – so close, actually, that from his position John could see on the wet asphalt the reflection the flashing blue lights of the firetrucks still parked in front of the entrance.

Despite all his grumbling and muttering and whining upon receiving Reese's summoning phone call, Lionel had caved in rather quickly and had agreed to come and pick him up almost right away. Whether it was an excuse to leave a boring and useless stakeout or simply because he was coming close to his Leon Tao endurance limit, John couldn't tell. A bit of both, probably.

The Detective's car screeched to a halt beside the sidewalk and John wasted no time to reach for the passenger door and yank it open.

"I don't want to see him or your dog for the next ten years, ya hear," Fusco huffed as a greeting jerking his thumb in the general direction of the backseat where both his offending charges were. "And for the record, I'm not your damn driver."

"Hi to you, too, Lionel," the ex- op said smoothly, quickly getting inside and shutting the door close.

"And I don't give a damn what you –" Fusco stopped mid-sentence, staring suspiciously at Reese. He leaned closer, sniffing the air. "You - you stink. You smell like burnt plastic or something." His gaze slowly trailed to the blue lights still blinking outside in the distance then back on him and his eyes narrowed as he did the math. "Son of a…what did you do, you set fire to something? Some gang's hideout? Or was it a car?"

"It was a hotel, actually, and I didn't burn it down," Reese replied. "Just some smoke, Fusco. A diversion."

Lionel was staring at him as he had suddenly grown a third eye. "Just some – you're deranged," he sputtered, "that's what you are. Deranged."

"So you've told me, once or twice."

"Did you find something, at least?" the Detective asked, evidently deeming it safer to change the subject. But there was more than that. The concern in Fusco's voice sounded genuine and Reese suddenly realized that the other man was sincerely worried for Finch.

"I think so," he replied then as Fusco drove, he proceeded to explain what he had found, anxious to compare his findings with Leon's.

Although he still had to check the last couple of dozens of names, the accountant had successfully managed to sharply cut down the list of potential phony identities and Reese was moderately hopeful that, with the added information he had just provided, Leon could get somewhere soon.

In a matter of minutes, Fusco was parking his car next to a brownstone at the address Reese had provided him. After a brief consideration, in facts, John had decided that a safe-house was the best option for him and Leon. Not much for security reasons – Leon had indeed already been inside the Library – but because a safe-house would provide him with the chance to get himself cleaned up a bit while the accountant worked. Thanks to his little stint with the fire alarm, an acrid smell of smoke and chemicals permeated his clothes, just as Fusco had remarked upon. Not to mention the blood stain on his shirt, he thought as he laboriously got out of the passenger seat. He could feel the stiffness of the fabric where the blood had seeped through the bandages and then dried on his shirt. A change of clothes was definitely in order.

What he hadn't expected was for Fusco to actually shut the engine off and follow him out of the vehicle.

"What?" Fusco said, somewhat forcefully, at Reese's stare as he let Leon and Bear out of the backseat. A part of John's brain detachedly considered how weird a group they probably made and how quickly they would raise attention in a neighborhood like this – well, actually, in any neighborhood – but he pushed the thought aside for the moment, choosing instead to investigate Fusco's intentions.

"What are you doing? Don't you have a stakeout to do?"

"Whatever. To hell with it," the Detective brushed him off and slammed the rear door shut with a bit more vigor than strictly necessary. "Someone has to keep an eye on you – God knows what trouble you'll go put yourself in otherwise."

Reese waited until he had tapped the code in the door's electronic lock and ushered everybody inside, then up along the stair till they reached the apartment at the second floor. Only then, when they were finally safely inside and hidden from prying gazes, he locked eyes with the Detective. "You don't have to do this, Lionel," he said, and he meant it. He was thankful for the Detective's help with Tao and for the ride home, but he was aware of the fact that there was only that much he could ask him to do.

"Yeah, right. And don't think I didn't see the blood, Wonderboy," Fusco retorted.

"I'm-"

"-fine, I know," the Detective cut him off with an eye-roll. "Heard that before. Listen," he added after a pause, "I don't know what kind of trouble Glasses has found himself, or you either for that matter. But you're not going to be of much help any longer if you keep up like this."

To this, Reese had no reply ready. Because, really, Fusco wasn't that far from the truth, and the ex-op knew it.

Fusco took his silence as a cue and pushed ahead. He jerked his thumb towards Leon, who stood in a corner observing the exchange with a worried expression. He had gone a little pale, too, at the mention of blood. "You told China here what to do, right? So, here's the plan. He's gonna sit at that table and do whatever it is you were talking about, while you will sit on that sofa and let me get a look at you."

Reese's eyebrows shot up as he threw a wry glance Fusco's way. "You used to be tamer, Lionel," he finally commented, sitting down. His mocking tone missed the usual heat, though, and the overall effect was probably further diminished by his compliance to the Detective's orders.

"Where's the first aid kit?"

"Mmh, bathroom, I guess," John replied, struggling to take off his soiled coat. "Probably in that direction," he added, gesturing vaguely towards a corridor.

"You guess? You're telling me you've never been here? Just how many houses does the Professor have?"

"Just as many as he needs," was John's curt answer. He threw the coat on the sofa and placed his gun on the coffee table, Leon's eyes widening a fraction at the sight.

The Detective shook his head – in annoyance perhaps, or bewilderment, or a mix of the two – but he refrained from giving an actual reply, settling for some unintelligible grumbling under his breath as he made his way in search of the bathroom.

When he came back a few minutes later, first aid kit in hand, Reese had already taken off his jacket and was working one-handedly the buttons of his bloodied shirt. The stain was larger than John had anticipated, but the wound wasn't bleeding anymore, so he was fairly confident that he hadn't made things much worse.

It was immediately clear, though, that Fusco wasn't particularly keen on sharing his optimistic assessment, if the sharp intake of breath upon seeing him was anything to go by.

It was Leon though who spoke up, his high-pitched tone clearly betraying his panic. "That's – that's a lot of blood. Oh my God. You're not dying, are you?" John threw him a withering look, which had little to no effect. The accountant was white as chalk and seemed close to hyperventilation as his eyes shot back and forth between John and the first aid kit in Fusco's hands. "You're really going to…I think I'm going to work in the other room, okay?"

With that, he all but bolted out of the sitting room and towards the kitchen, almost knocking over a lamp in his haste to leave the room.

"He has a point, you know, about the blood," Lionel commented, feigning a façade of indifference. He got closer to the ex-op to help him remove the shirt. "You know, the red stuff? You're supposed to keep it inside your body, Wonderboy."

As soon as the garment was removed, and the full extent of John's injuries became visible, the Detective's dispassionate façade miserably crumpled, replaced instead by dismay.

"Jesus Christ – what the hell happened to you?"

Reese would've shrugged if it didn't hurt so bad, but that wasn't an option, so he remained silent and still as the other man proceeded to remove the blood-soaked bandage covering his shoulder, focusing instead on controlling his breathing. He could feel Fusco's stare on him, taking in the bruises, surveying the torn stitches, following the blood trail down his chest.

The cop's tone was serious when he finally spoke.

"I don't know what you plan on doing – hell, I've still no idea what happened to you or to Glasses for that matter. But what I'm sure about is that this needs medical attention."

"It's had medical attention already," the ex- op replied, peeved.

"Well, then it needs more! What do you expect me to do exactly? I hardly think a bandage will be enough."

"It will. Clean it and dress it and we're done."

A longer pause, Fusco clearly hesitating. Then, he finally gave in, albeit reluctantly judging by the half-muttered protests and the shake of the head as he yanked the med-kit open with bad grace and perused its contents.

Much to John's surprise though, despite Fusco's evident aggravation with the plan, his ministrations while he cleaned and disinfected the wound were deft and surprisingly gentle. Yet, even the slightest touch was enough to reignite the agony in his shoulder and the ex-op had to appeal to every ounce of self- control he possessed to stay still.

"You're not half-bad at this, Lionel," Reese said eventually, more to distract himself from the pain than anything. "Your side business with Simmons puts you often in need of administering field medicine?" he joked, a small smile to mitigate his jibe.

"Asshole," Fusco retorted, but that, too, carried no heat. He rummaged through the kit and extracted a sterilized gauze pad. "You have no idea what it means having a kid with a penchant for rough sports. Of course it's generally bruises and bumps and scraped knees I have to take care of, but same principle, right?"

It was, John noticed, the second time in a day that he was compared to someone's kid. He chose not to comment upon it.

"Done," Fusco eventually announced as the last piece of gauze was secured. "For the record, I still ain't happy about this. Trust me, this is a terrible plan."

"Duly noted," the ex-op replied, retrieving his coat from the sofa and fumbling around the pockets for the pill bottles. In truth, while the deep throbbing in his shoulder made it rather obvious he needed some pain meds, he had kind of lost track of the time and wasn't really sure whether it was time for the next antibiotic dose or not – and his brain felt so addled that even such a simple math could as well have been astrophysics. He gave up trying and settled for swallowing a couple of pills from each bottle.

Getting up, too, seemed not worth the titanic effort it entailed, but he forced himself to do so. The dizzy spell caused by the change in position was not unexpected and he stood still for a while, taking deep breaths, trying to get the room back into focus. It took him more than expected. He could feel Lionel's eyes boring into his back, but ignored him. When he was confident enough that he was not about to face-plant, he headed towards the bathroom, careful to keep a wall or a piece of furniture within reach along the way, lest he got lightheaded again. He stopped on the threshold, a hand surreptitiously placed on the door jamb. "Thank you, Lionel," he said quietly, without turning back.

"Yeah. You're welcome."

Getting out of the stinking clothes and freshening himself up was a relief, even if holding himself upright was proving to be quite a challenge. Everything hurt. The shoulder obviously, with a constant, unyielding throbbing that reverberated all the way down to his fingertips, and his deeply bruised chest too, but the truth was that he felt sore all over, his muscles stiff and uncooperative.

In the bedroom closet there were several changes of clothes, his usual size and style, just like in every other safe house he had ever visited. He had stopped a long time ago being surprised by things like this – how well-prepared Harold was, always equipped for any contingency, always a step ahead – but this time the sight of the neat row of suits in the closet caused a lump to lodge in his throat.

Doing his best to banish such non- constructive thoughts, he did a quick job to dress himself, careful to keep the jostling to a bare minimum and before long he was walking back towards the kitchen.

The couch in the living room was an alluring sight, but he trudged on, knowing that resting was a luxury he couldn't afford.

Both Fusco and Leon were in the kitchen. The accountant was sitting at the table, laptop in front of him, deeply engrossed in his work, while the Detective was apparently busy perusing the fridge contents. Or, more precisely, the lack of it.

"Ain't nothing edible in this place," he complained, slamming the fridge door shut. "Damn thing's completely empty."

"Of course it's empty, Lionel. This is a safe-house, not a gourmet restaurant," Reese retorted, barely resisting the urge to roll his eyes. "There's probably some long-life food in the cabinets though."

Fusco rummaged through the cupboard, gave a cursory look at the cans of food and condensed milk he found there then shoved them back inside with disdain. "Like I said, nothing edible." A huff, as he gave up his search. "Tell you what," he added after a brief pause, "I saw a Chinese take-out down the block, though. I'm gonna grab a bite 'cause I'm starving."

"OK, but no delivery," John instructed. "You want something, you go there. And try to lay low."

"I know, I know. But let me tell ya, you're paranoid," Fusco complained.

Reese ignored him and got closer to Leon, studying first the laptop screen and then trying to decipher the man's messy scrawls on the papers spread around him.

"You found something?"

"Ah, maybe," Leon replied, stopping his quick tapping and leafing through the barely-readable sheets. "There's a guy at the conference with an ID compatible with the numbers you gave me, but I still have a couple more names to check." He selected a scrap of paper from the table, squinting at his notes. "Here it is. Jeremy Reid," he offered. "Sounds familiar?"

"No. Do you have a picture?"

"Mmmh, sure." Some tapping on the keyboard and an image appeared on the screen, then some more mouse clicks and a second window popped up, with a loop of the armed guy running up the hotel stairs. Reese got closer and studied the images, comparing the faces. It could be the same man.

Fusco, too, came closer to the screen, squinting his eyes at the pictures. They stood like that for a while, hunched over the screen, scrutinizing the pictures, over and over. Reese could feel the beginning of a headache forming behind his temples and the room kept spinning at the edge of his vision. He finally gave up – the verdict being unfortunately still inconclusive.

"What about his identity? A fake?" Reese asked, sitting at the table. He flicked through the scraps of paper, more out of habit than anything else since he had no idea what to look for. Fusco was still hovering behind his back.

"Dunno," Leon shrugged. "Seems legit enough to me. The registration form says he works for a security company in New Jersey. I checked, it truly exists, but there's no way to know whether he really works there or not."

"Nothing else?"

"Well, there is something weird, actually," the accountant replied. "He paid for his room and bar tab with a credit card, but it's not in his name, nor the IT company he says he works for."

"Then whose name is it?"

"Seems some sort of company, but I'm trying to figure it out. What do I do, I keep working on this Reid guy or should I check the other coupla names?"

Good question, Reese thought. Jeremy Reid and his suspicious payments seemed like a good lead, but was it good enough? He was tempted to tell Leon to forget about the participants' list, but what if it was a mistake? Time was of the essence. Finch and Carson had been missing for hours, almost a whole day and Reese unfortunately knew what the so-called abduction stats said about kidnapping victims. The longer someone was missing, the slimmer the chances to find them. He massaged the bridge of his nose, trying to clear his head. His thoughts felt sluggish, addled – the results, no doubt, of the combined, cumulative effect of exhaustion, pain and meds - and he was finding it hard to follow a train of thought long enough to come to a conclusion of any sorts.

He suddenly realized he still had to give Leon an answer.

"Ok. Keep digging on Reid," he finally instructed with a sigh, praying he wasn't making a huge mistake. "I'll look into the other names on the list."

He got up, intending to retrieve Finch's laptop he had left in the living room, but another dizzy spell hit him, this time catching him unaware, and he felt himself sway. A pair of hands grabbed him roughly on his arms, effectively preventing him to keel over. Fusco.

"For Chrissake," he heard the Detective exclaim, exasperation coloring his tone. "Go sit down somewhere. Seriously, you're dead on your feet – who do you think you're gonna help if you can't even walk straight?"

Reese opened his mouth to protest – to object that he could do it, that someone really needed to go through with the name-checking, that he was fine enough for this – but Lionel didn't give him the chance.

"I'll do it, OK? I check identities all the time, I know how to do it – Detective, remember?" Hesitation was evidently clearly etched on John's face. "When was the last time you slept?" Fusco persisted. John's lack of reply was evidently enough of an answer. "Like I thought. Plant your ass on that couch – I'll take care of this."

Reese tried to take a step ahead, to disentangle himself from Fusco's grip, to show that he was fully functioning and alert and ready to do what was necessary, but it was a bad move. Spots danced before his eyes and the room started spinning in a nauseating way. He belatedly realized that he was perhaps supposed to answer, to say something, but words wouldn't come. No matter how hard he blinked, the black spots in his vision wouldn't go away – if anything they were getting worse – and Fusco's voice sounded strangely distant, drowned out by the thudding of his heartbeat, unnaturally loud in his ears. Fusco sounded urgent, but Reese had no idea of what was being said.

Hands on him pushed and prodded – the same hands that were basically the only thing that kept him upright – and he suddenly, mercifully, found himself in a sitting position. Some more maneuvering - very little of which was done on his part – and he was lying down on something soft.

A part of his brain suggested that he should be worried by the fact that Fusco had essentially just dragged him around like a rag doll and that he really ought to get up and do something, or, at the very least, that he should open his eyes – why were they even closed anyway? - but his limbs just wouldn't comply. He was lying still on what he supposed to be the couch and yet he could feel himself falling, falling, falling. Darkness was pulling at him, threatening to engulf him, so tempting, so alluring.

He let go.

Finch sat back, trying without much success to find a position that took less strain on his sore, stiff back. His neck had begun throbbing mercilessly a couple of hours ago and his head, unfortunately, wasn't too far back in the ache-scale. He had basically been awake and working for two days now, save for the quick nap before the kidnapping, and now the stress, the lack of sleep and the precarious situation they were in were beginning to take their toll on him, definitely doing no favors to his old injuries. The bright light of the screen and the tiny font of the code he was typing weren't being of much help either, and neither was the fact that he was basically working for two on a project whose specifics were unknown to him.

At least they had been left mostly alone in the room – aside for a couple of quick visits from the kidnappers, once to check up on them and then to bring them some water and a couple of meager sandwiches – which in Finch's opinion counted for something. He didn't cope well with armed people in general, but even less so when said threatening people hovered around just with the sole purpose of pressurizing them into working faster. That he found rather counter-productive. At least, when Harold and Carson were alone, they didn't have to keep up the façade of their actually inexistent teamwork.

Well, to his credit, Carson did try to help out as much as he could, providing all the information he could remember about his brief experience with Th3 Cr3w and brainstorming possible ways to implement the necessary code, but he was nowhere near Harold's level and the information he actually possessed was unfortunately scarce, so he unwittingly ended up being more of a distraction to Harold than anything.

On top of that, as Finch was painfully aware, they weren't still any closer to escaping. In order to make it look like they were cooperating with their captors, he'd simply had no time or the mental resources to spare to plot a decent way out yet. They couldn't wait much longer, though, that he knew. But what next? What if he couldn't come up with anything even remotely doable?

His disheartenment was probably obvious on his face, or perhaps Carson had been thinking along the same lines on his own because he suddenly spoke up. "There is no way out from here, is there?"

"Well, I wouldn't be so dispirited, Mr. Carson," Finch hedged, forcing the words out despite his own despondency, and doing his best to sound reassuring.

The IT engineer looked at him with something akin to disbelief.

"We're still cuffed to the table, the door is locked from the outside and this computer is basically air gapped," he scoffed, gesturing with his free hand around the room to stress his point. He tapped on mouse pad on Harold's computer and enlarged the status area for emphasis, then gestured towards it. "You heard the guy – it doesn't even have a network card, and unless you're hiding another phone in your pocket and you have a secret army at ready, I don't see how we can get out of here in one piece!"

"First of all, no, I don't have an army at ready but if we do find a way to get any kind of signal out, I have, uhm, friends that will help us," Harold replied.

"Friends? If by that you mean the guy on the motorbike, well, I don't think he's gonna come!" Carson retorted forcefully. He shook his head. "Look, I don't want to sound rude or ungrateful or anything. God knows why, but it really seems like you want to help me, and I'm really grateful for that. But, hell, that guy, your friend I mean…well, he is dead!"

Harold flinched at the remark. It was a thought that he had tried to suppress. Each time it resurfaced it brought a cold feeling of dread in his stomach.

He opened his mouth to reply but the words died on his lips as his eyes fell on his computer screen. The taskbar that Carson had maximized on the screen, which showed all the notifications and network icons was still on display. As the other man had stressed just a few seconds ago, there was no network adapter detected, which meant there was no way to connect to their captors' wi-fi, or hijack any other access point – the network symbol with an angry red X next to it on the toolbar was an unnecessary confirmation. But something else had caught Harold's attention, another tiny icon on the screen.

"Of course," he murmured under his breath. "Bluetooth…"

"What?"

"This computer has a built-in Bluetooth chipset – look," Finch exclaimed, tapping his finger on the small symbol on the screen. He felt his voice quivering slightly for the excitement but couldn't care less. "We could use it to communicate with the outside!"

Carson was staring at him with a frown, clearly unaffected by Harold's sudden enthusiasm – it was obvious he didn't have the slightest idea about what Finch was getting at. His eyes trailed to the screen, then back to Harold, still uncomprehending. "Yes," he slowly said, "which would be great if your friends were inside its range – what's that, a 5, 10 meters radius? Something more if we're lucky," he shrugged, his frown still in place, then added, "but anyway I doubt the signal can be even picked up by anything outside this damn building. Or this damn room, even."

"No, no, no, that's not what I mean," Finch replied, dismissing Carson's objection with a vague wave of his hand. His brain was running a mile a minute, heart hammering again in his chest, but this time not in blind terror but with a newfound hope. "We won't contact them directly through Bluetooth – we'll use the Bluetooth to exploit our captors' phone signal!"

It was a reasonably easy plan, feasible, and perfectly doable with what they had available – he just needed to write a code to force an undetectable connection between the laptop they were using and any of the smartphones he knew each one of their captors were carrying. Then he would exploit the phone connection to the network to place some kind of signal to Reese – or perhaps to the Machine directly – and alert them of their presence.

Harold saw Carson nodding distractedly to himself in the background, his brain slowly catching up with the plan, a myriad of emotions crossing his features in quick succession – hope, doubt, skepticism – but paid him no heed. He had already launched another instance of the code editor, and was already furiously tapping away at the keyboard, line after line appearing on the once blank page.

"And you think you'll be able to send these friends you keep talking about our coordinates?" the IT engineer spoke up after a while. "What if our captors have their Bluetooth switched off? They might not even being carrying a smartphone…or worse, what if they realize what you're doing?"

Finch stopped his frantic typing and turned towards Carson, throwing him a considering look. They weren't bad questions in truth, on the contrary they actually mirrored the same doubts and fears Finch was harboring and to which he was already trying to find a reasonable solution. Yet, he had the strong suspicion that, in Carson's case, they were born more out of pessimism than an actual desire to be of help. In truth, Carson's dejected expression and despondent tone were beginning to grate on Harold's nerves. He didn't blame the other man for the admittedly very scarce help he was providing – but a bit more moral support and positivity wouldn't hurt.

"Frankly, Mr. Carson, I don't see how this could make things any worse," he finally replied, and if his tone held a bit more harshness than expected, well, he couldn't really find it in himself to care. "I don't think that this Morris is going to set us free as soon as the job is done – a job, incidentally, that we have no idea how to perform. So it doesn't really matter if we get caught, we're going to be killed nonetheless. What I can tell you, though," he added quite vehemently, " is that I'm going to try and do whatever I can to get us both out of this alive."

His little speech had evidently made an impression on Carson: the IT engineer was in fact staring at him, still pale as a sheet and wide-eyed, but something else was slowly blossoming on his face. Shock at having his soon-to-be fate said right in his face, perhaps, fear, or maybe a mixture of admiration for Finch's levelheadedness and sheepishness for his own lack of cooperation and optimism. Whatever it was, Harold thought, it couldn't be worse than the previous utter defeatism, could it?

Or was that sudden flicker in his eyes a spark of newfound confidence? Could it be? Harold could only hope.

Carson stared at him for a few more seconds, opening and closing his mouth a couple of times as if unsure about what to say. Finally, he spoke, and when he did the was a new determination in his voice. Weak, perhaps, and the undercurrent of fear was still clear, but it was there nonetheless.

"What can I do to help?"

Harold gave a brief nod, silently acknowledging the other man's effort, and threw him a small, encouraging smile.

"Well, you could keep working on the worm code, make it look like we're doing progress."

"Ok, I can do that," Carson murmured turning towards the computer still sitting in front of him, nodding mostly to himself, as if trying to persuade no one else but himself he could do it. "Spin it around a bit, insert some apparently useful loops. I can do that," he repeated.

"Good," Harold approved, already turning towards his own computer. "Let's get to work then – we have an escape to plan!"

Next part will be up in a week or so. In the meantime, let me know what you think so far: it'd make my day!