Reality Intrudes

Part Seven: On the Offensive

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

My first order of business is, of course, to ensure Taylor's safety after the fact. I've got to jack out sometime, if only so I can eat and attend to bodily issues. I won't be doing her any favours if I leave her wide open to a revenge hit from a bunch of super-powered gangland assholes while I'm not in residence. On the one hand, there's the fact that she's currently our best choice to jack into this version of the Matrix; on the other, she's a teenage girl who's had a crappy deal so far, and I don't want to make things any worse for her, if I can help it. Well, any worse than I've done so far.

I'm just thinking over my options when my phone rings. Pausing halfway down the fire escape, I pull it out and answer it. "What's up?"

"Would it kill you to consider opsec just once?" Loki sounds even more irritated than the time I put industrial adhesive on the waistband of his pants. "People have been trying to call that other phone belonging to that girl you got tagged by in the bathroom. So far I've been successful in blocking them, but it's only a matter of time before they check the GPS. Unless they already have. Moron."

I want to snap back at him, but he's actually right. I'm an experienced Operative; this is something I should've thought of. My only excuse, and it's a thin one, is that we don't usually jack in for all that long. I can't remember the last time I lifted someone's phone; why would I? Usually we're there to kick Agent ass and free the bluepills. I'd honestly forgotten I still had Sophia's second phone in my pocket.

"Yeah, fuck you too," I tell him, and hang up the call. Then I pull out all three phones—Sophia's, Mr Knifey's and Mr Grabby's—and power them down. One at a time, I prise them open and pop out the batteries and SIM cards. The phones and SIMs go into one pocket, while each battery gets a pocket of its own. Slightly shaken by the wake-up call—sure, this isn't the same as your usual Matrix setup, but that's no excuse to get sloppy—I continue down the fire escape.

Right now, I figure that Taylor's kind of safe from any Empire backlash. While Mr Knifey and Mr Grabby got glimpses of my face, the brain does really weird shit under stress, including convince people of things that are totally wrong. So I'm reasonably certain that they're gonna be remembering me as being at least six inches taller and a hundred pounds heavier, because who really wants to admit to having the living shit beaten out of them by a five-foot-seven sixty-pound weakling? But still, there's a lot to be said for muddying the waters.

And one of the best ways to do that is to acquire a disguise. As I stroll along the street toward a promising-looking boutique, I pull out my phone again and press the button.

"Operator." Loki sounds more pissed than normal. "How the fuck did you know about the broken error-checking in the code?" It takes me a few seconds to recall what he's talking about, then I remember how it's a lot easier to break the rules here. The tone of his voice gives me a hint as to how my hunch has turned out. Of course, then he has to straight-up confirm it before I have a chance to bait him with it. Way to spoil my fun.

"Wild guess," I say lightly. "I didn't really notice it till I was manhandling that asshole up the fire escape, but it's easier to ignore the rules here. I doubt I'll be flying any time soon—" That's a trick nobody since the One has managed to pull off, though not from lack of effort. "—but I was carrying a guy four times the size of me, and I barely broke a sweat. So what exactly did you find?"

"A total fuckin' mess." It's a testament to how rattled he is by the fact that he's swearing, and—this is important—not at me. "There's holes and patches and conflicting code all over the place. If you ask me, I'd say that it was never designed to deal with having bluepills with grafted-on shit screwing physics over on a daily basis. Every time it's called on to give an exemption for someone to fly or blow up a building with laser beams from their ass, errors creep in. And this's been going on for fuckin' decades, by the looks of it."

"Which means that when someone like me comes along, who's used to bending the rules when they're a lot tougher to get around, I can just make it my bitch," I conclude. "Fuckin' excellent. About time something went my way."

"Not all your way, Momo," Loki says altogether too cheerfully. "Not by a long shot. Don't forget, you're not the only one around here who likes to put on dark clothes and go lurking on rooftops. It's just that the other ones were born here, and they know the terrain a lot better than you do. And they're probably better at it."

He's got a point, though I hate to admit it. "Okay, fine. Fuck you very much. I'll be careful. Asshole." I hang up, my brief good mood shattered. He could've at least let me enjoy it for a few minutes.

Which means that I've gotta get my spirits up by indulging in some good old-fashioned retail therapy instead. Fortunately for Taylor Hebert's meagre finances, the Empire Eighty-Eight, by way of Mr Grabby and Mr Knifey, are paying for my purchases. The fact that I'm gonna be using said purchases to enable a raid on Empire Eighty-Eight property is just a supremely ironic dollop of cream on top of the cake. Or is that icing? I've never been able to remember the saying.

Strolling into the boutique as I stash my work phone back in my pocket, I look around and mentally crack my knuckles. A salesgirl approaches me, but I wave her off. Sure, now they're gonna be keeping an eye on me to make sure I don't lift any of the merchandise, but Taylor's a teenager so they'd be doing that anyway. I just don't need anyone getting in my face right now. Besides, I know what I want.

First off, I stop at the sunglasses stand. I take my time making my selection; or rather, I make my pick on the first go-around, but I don't take them straight away. Pretending indecision, I rotate the stand a further three-sixty degrees, using the mirror to make sure I don't have anyone paying me an unusual amount of attention behind my back. Nobody's staring at me, and those facing me don't turn their heads away when I glance in their direction, so I decide I'm currently in the clear. Probably, anyway.

I've picked out an oversized pair, to fit over Taylor's glasses. Which just so happens to remind me of another gripe I've got. Even people with eye problems in the real world can see perfectly well in the Matrix—that is, the people who've actually got the choice whether to go back in or not. I get it that Taylor Hebert doesn't have much of an option in the matter, but with all the people they could've chosen to drop me into, why the fuck did they have to pick someone who is actually fucking short-sighted? While I've had no problems so far keeping the glasses on—in fact, Taylor's muscle memory allows me to get along most of the time without even noticing them—it's still a real potential problem. I've got no doubt that Loki's just waiting for me to lose my glasses just one fucking time so he can laugh his ass off at me.

Next, I go and pick out two hats. One's a baseball cap featuring the name of a sports team I've never heard of, and the other's a rather stylish-looking fedora that I'm pretty sure I can stuff my hair up inside of. I've never worn a fedora before, and I figure it looks pretty good. Not that I'm there for fashion, but a girl can enjoy wearing nice stuff, even if it's just in the Matrix, right?

I'm burning through my stolen dollars at a startling pace, but that's what money's for. It's not like I can take it out of the Matrix, after all. My next purchase is a slightly oversized shoulder-bag with a zippered top, which I gauge is big enough to keep my spare gear in for the moment. I pause for a moment to check on how my cash is holding up, then check on the purchase I really want to make. It's a long-coat, slightly off-brand but I'm not picky.

The salesgirl raises an eyebrow slightly as I lay down cash to pay for everything, but there's no law against it and money is money after all. I walk out with my purchases in a cute paper bag with the name of the shop printed in art deco lettering. This has to be the first time I've actually bought stuff at a shop with money in the Matrix. I can recall three times off the top of my head that I've busted into shops like that and stolen clothes to change my appearance, and once that I blitzed through one in a TransAm in high-speed reverse, firing an M-4 out through where the windshield used to be, but legal transactions? None.

My next stop is a dark alley. This one I make sure is empty of would-be muggers and homeless derelicts alike, before I pull out the coat and the glasses and remove the tags before putting them on. Carefully, I bundle my hair up under the fedora, then fold up the shop bag and put it in the shoulder-bag. When I stride out of the alley, long-coat flaring around me, I'm as ready as I'm ever gonna be.

The purchases I've made aren't merely to make me look badass, though I figure I've just permanently raised Taylor Hebert's cool factor by about five hundred percent. Everything I'm wearing or carrying has a purpose; whether it's to fudge my appearance, change my profile or make me look more intimidating. It's all a means to an end. Specifically, surviving until I can find out enough about this corner of the Matrix to let me get everyone out and safe.

I wait until evening to approach the stash house; in the meantime, I scout out the surrounding area. Smartphones are apparently a thing in this version of the Matrix and I kind of wish I had the chance to browse the local internet. All data is good data, and don't ever let anyone tell you differently. But my work phone isn't actually a phone; it's more of an abstract representation of one with a unique calling plan. The pieces of shit I took off Sophia and the other two jerks are older-style bricks with an internet presence of fuck-all, which is why I don't power them up and go surfing. Well, that and opsec.

The two mooks on the front steps of the stash house are doing a passable impression of 'me and my homie just hanging out', but their eyes say differently and the guns they're holding almost out of sight are a whole novel worth of 'differently'. To deal with them, I'd need to get past the peeling picket fence, evade the chained-up overly scarred dog currently worrying at a bone on the patchy front lawn, then get close enough to take them out before they brought their firepower into play. The shitty little Saturday Night Special could maybe be used to deal with two of the three threats, but I've got as much faith in that as I would in the power of prayer for dealing with an Agent.

So it's time to get creative.

This being a racist redneck stash house, there's one thing I'm gonna find not far away. Specifically, a racist redneck's truck. And what do you know; down the street and around the corner, I find just that. Big muscle engine, big muscle tyres, big muscle chassis. All good solid American know-how and technology.

Which makes me scratch my head for two reasons. One, America helped beat the fuck out of the Nazis, back in the day. There was even a war over it. Two, given how clean this puppy is, it's never been off-road in its life. So why the fuck is this jerk driving around in something that he's never going to use the full potential of, like ever? And how can he even call himself American?

As far as I'm concerned, he's forfeited his right to own it or drive it. Which means I've got free rein to do what I want with it. Okay, yes, that was a bullshit line of reasoning, but a girl's gotta have fun somehow.

Coming up on the passenger side of the truck, I smash the window with my elbow, then reach inside and unlock the doors. I don't know who's heard that, so I vault over the hood of the truck, open the driver's side door and get in. Ten seconds later, I've got the seat adjusted the way I like it; twenty, and I've got the engine started. Hotwiring vehicles is a skill I've long since mastered.

Before pulling out, I lean over and check the contents of the glove compartment, and scope out the floor and between the seats for good measure. Some guys keep a backup piece there, though it's usually only Americans that do that. I could do with a little paranoid gun ownership right now.

Unfortunately, although I can smell gun oil, the firearms themselves are notably absent. Seems that this gun owner's so paranoid that he took them with him. Not that I can blame him, seeing that I'm stealing his truck, but there really should be a limit to that sort of thing.

But hey, it's okay. The theft is only temporary. More like 'involuntary borrowing'. He can have it back once I'm done with it.

Pulling out of the parking space, I roll sedately down the street and around the corner. The stash house is just up ahead. Gradually, I accelerate while keeping an eye on the front door guards. Even from out on the road I can see when their attention fixates on my ride; seems that either one of them owns it, or knows the guy who does. When one of them points, that's my cue.

Flooring it, I start changing up as hard and fast as I can. The deep meaty growl of that big muscle engine takes over everything as I jolt over the curb. The picket fence doesn't even register with me as it goes down.

When they start bringing up their guns, I hit every light switch on the dashboard; standard lights, high beams, and the spotlights over the top of the cab. The front of that stash house gets very bright, and they can't see shit.

I'm strapped in, of course, with my foot flat to the floorboards and the engine screaming like a banshee. The guys try to dive aside in different directions. I track the one who's holding a shotgun—come to Mama—and angle toward him. My front wheels hit the stairs and go up them like Agents descending on newbie Operatives. I've got it in all-wheel drive, and the big chunky tyres are howling and juddering and clawing at the steps as I perform a dynamic vehicular entry to the stash house.

Shotgun guy almost gets out of the way, but the bumper catches him and he flies aside to hit the wall of the house. His weapon is jolted out of his hands, and just as the front of the truck ploughs into (and through) the wall of the stash house, I reach out the window of the truck and catch it on the way past.

Score.

The truck makes it most of the way into the stash house before it runs into too many obstacles and the engine stalls out. That's okay with me; I open the door and bail out, checking chamber on the shotgun when I get a chance. I can feel that it's loaded but there's nothing in the breech so I rack the action and look around for anyone to shoot.

I gotta say, I've made a pretty good mess this time around. There's broken wood everywhere, along with a huge cloud of dust; the lights on the truck should be making everything easy to see, but all they're doing is illuminating the dust. Everyone who's in this stash house will be homing in on where the front door used to be, so it's time for me not to be here.

Jumping up, I kick off from the hood of the truck to get over the majority of the rubble and into a corridor. A shape looms ahead of me and I shoot it, centre mass. It grunts and goes down, but someone behind that one shoots back. I'm pretty well keyed up by this point, so I can see the disturbance pattern of the buckshot through the dusty air. Not being there when the return fire arrives is harder than it sounds, but I've done this before.

The muzzle-flare is bright enough to see through the dust so I put another round from the shotgun—solids, from the feel of the recoil—six inches to the right and about a foot upward. Scratch opposition number two.

In another moment I'm beside the bodies. One's still alive, but he won't be for long. The other is well past his use-by date. I grab their guns—a pistol and another shotgun; it's Christmas in, well, January—and move on.

Now I've got a pistol and two shotguns. I can dual-wield this shit, but it would be easier with another pistol. I've got more ammo for the handgun, so I decide to use that to mop up the mooks when I can't get close enough for CQC.

On the downside, they've definitely beefed up security here. I kill about half a dozen guys before I have to reload; on the upside, each one I pop has a gun on him, so I'm not running out of ammo anytime soon. All I have to do is stay frosty, stay on the move and not let anyone get into my six.

I'm about halfway through clearing the house before I come to the conclusion that I didn't fluke onto the crappiest guys in America's version of the Nazi Party. These guys honestly suck. Sure, they're big enough to take a single hit from a scrawny teenage girl, but their situational awareness is non-existent and their tactical sense sucks balls. And that's not even taking into account how slow they're moving. Or am I just that fast, here?

It's something to think about. I took Sophia apart easily enough, but these guys are supposed to be in some kind of fighting trim. I'm not even bothering to shoot them anymore. Two or three good hits and they're down. If they're lucky, I haven't crushed their windpipes or stopped their hearts.

After I've cleared the biggest room, a setup with sofas, armchairs and a big-screen TV, I'm starting to think this is going to be easier than I expected. Of course, that's when someone comes into the room behind me. They make a full production of it; dynamic entry, dive and roll, come up shooting. Accurate too, for bluepills. I have to put serious effort into evading the shots.

One guy's all in white; skin, hair, clothing, eyes, the lot. I take half an instant to appreciate the way he's sticking to the theme before I nail him in the breadbasket with a couple of nine millimetre happy pills. From the way the blood spreads across the white cloth, he's not wearing body armour. His bad luck. I'm not playing.

His buddy's still moving, taking advantage of the furniture in the room for cover. He's pretty damn good at it, too. I have trouble getting a proper bead on him. Which means he's going to have the same with me.

I put a couple of shots through his cover, hoping to tag him blind, but he's always moved on again. When he pops up and fires back, I've actually got to limbo under his shots, he comes that close. He's not quite on par with someone who's able to pull Matrix shit, but he's about as good as an unenhanced human can get.

And then I get that tingle in the back of my neck, the one that says, move, dumbass! So I move, going evasive as fast as I know how. A good thing too, because about a tenth of a second later, half a dozen .44 rounds rip through where Taylor Hebert's head and vital organs would've been if I'd stayed put.

Why yes, I can tell the calibre from the sound of the shots.

Who the fuck fired?

Flicking my head around, trying to keep tabs on Mr Tactical, I scan for the new hostile.

It's the guy in white. On his feet again, bloodstain clearly visible, and just as clearly not affected by the wound. Two guns out, coming for me like an Agent with a grudge.

What. The fuck.

An Operative might be able to pull that off, but not a normal. Unless …

I suddenly realise that I've been ignoring what they're wearing.

Fuck.

That wasn't clothing.

Those were costumes.

I'm up against more capes.

Fuck my life.

End of Part Seven