Alive

By: Aviantei

4 mph


Even though Mariya's working on the case, I still spend the next few days scrounging up information on Cunningham. Most of what I can find is generic—he's two years younger than me, he was IG-1 MVP three years running, he and his teammates won their match against Team Sledge Mamma, earning Velshtein third place overall this year, a drop down from their position last year. Beyond that, it's a bunch of babble from fans of a celebrity, trying to pad the void that is the off season.

Contrary to some other celebrities, though, Cunningham has a record cleaner than an untouched glass. Other teams and pilots seem to have some drama going on—half of the talk over the finals race is Team White Snow's hacking escapades, overshadowing even their loss to Team Satomi. Velshtein, under Hamgra's watch, have been nothing but professional athletes.

At least, I assume that's on the surface. But Mariya's intel comes in (on time, at that) and confirms what I've seen on my own, even when it's all spread out on my office floor. Cunningham doesn't do drama, just races and publicity events when needed.

Or, I should say, Alexander Hume doesn't. Cunningham's a nickname. Go figure. Born to a rich family in Germany, won several fencing championships while still in school, hit onto the IGPX before even touching college, got taken under legendary pilot "Kaiser" (AKA, his stick in the mud team manager and coach), and the rest is history.

Mariya gives me more than that, too, but those are the components of his history. A workaholic racer who's never wanted for anything in his life and still doesn't give a shit about it. I'd scorn him if I weren't the exact same way.

I wouldn't call it a challenge, but it'll pass the time, that's for sure.

The next set of important information is Cunningham's rough off-season schedule. Just because there aren't races doesn't mean Velshtein gets to sit around and slack off. Not with Sir Hamgra at the wheel. There are practices and public appearances, but there's plenty of gaps in the pilot's time. If I wanted to, I could give him something to do during that free time, and I kind of want to…

I flip over pages of intel, not looking for anything in particular. Mariya's included several photos of Cunningham, ranging in date from the past two decades. Damn, what a scary woman. I skim over them, amused that he still had that ridiculous hairdo even as a brat. Just a kid like everyone else, even if his studies were off the charts. No matter how many images I look through, they all stay black and white.

I groan and flop facedown into the carpet. Don't get discouraged. You haven't even started the game. This is just the prep work, my own pre-race routine. Things will work out once I get going.

Though, I have to figure out what kind of race I'm even competing in first.

I sit back up and locate Cunningham's data trails from the past week. Nothing seems to indicate he's been looking for me, but Mariya admitted that could be a lack of his own action. Other people could be looking for him. Mariya offered to look into it, but I haven't had any trouble, so it's not worth the cash dump just yet. Looking over the intel, Cunningham seems to be going through his life as usual.

It's not a cat and mouse game. I don't have to stress about that possibility just yet. Maybe I will, depending on what move I make, but I'm safe for now. Cunningham just let me slip away when I made it very easy for him to get me arrested.

If I needed any proof he doesn't care anymore, it's that.

Okay, so he doesn't care. What then? I pull my hair from its ponytail and shake the strands out, combing with my fingers to help me think. My conditioner has left my locks nice and smooth. What do I even want from him, this bored superstar? It doesn't have to be him, but he makes a nice target. I care about something for the first time in months. So I'm going to run this lead into the ground if I have to.

With that settled, I turn to better stare down his schedule. Practices are strictly the same time—an entire day's worth three times a week, no exceptions. That's my best bet. I keep an eye on the schedule and shuffle through another pile, finding the sheet I'm looking for buried under the envelope the whole mess came in.

Cunningham's contact and personal info fill out neatly stamped rows of text. It looks quite a bit like a government form, but I know better than to ask where Mariya gets her facts from. Given that she was all ready to send me his social security member in the mess, I'm better off not knowing. In the odd event that the authorities do get involved, I'll just look like a stalker instead of a hacker.

The important bit here is Cunningham's address. I reach for my phone—then realize it might be best to keep this off my personal phone, just for caution. I haul myself to my feet, feeling my back crack from the sudden movement, and retrieve my secondary phone from its charger. It boots up as I read over the address line again. It's a bit farther up town, in an area I considered settling down at. Not too long of a walk at all, and I still have several hours until Cunningham is even off from his practice. Plenty of time, and this time I mean it.

And if he does show up again off schedule, I'll call the damn cops on myself, just to make it clear to fate that I'm not playing by their rules one little bit.


Cunningham's house sits in a row of similar looking houses, each with a yard big enough to park a speed mode shifted IGPX mech in. The afternoon is bright, and a few people pass on the sidewalk. Few cars disturb the road. It's not a neighborhood with many kids, so the lawns are all decorated without any sandboxes or playsets. It's a shame, because the pavement would be perfect for a street hockey game or something.

I stand on the sidewalk in front of Cunningham's house, a fresh baseball cap disguise in place, and glare at the door. I know he's not home. That's not the issue. The issue is that the place is protected by a very expensive security system. It's easy enough to turn off once you get inside and enter the code (Mariya holds her position as verifiable hacking witch doctor for that one), but entry is an issue.

I can pick locks. Been able to for a long time, and years of sneaking around a police father makes you good at it. But I haven't messed with that sort of thing in a long time—thanks to Mariya's friends who can create replica keys for me. And while I could've gone that route, I'm still pressing some dangerous buttons with this one.

Not even Mariya will forgive me if I drag a trail back to her. So old school it is.

I walk up the sidewalk cut through the center of the front lawn. For a city in the middle of the desert (where else would you have enough space to build the monster that is the IGPX track?), people sure do care about their landscaping. I try to imagine Cunningham with a push mower and snort into my palm. Nah, he's gotta have someone to do that for him.

The porch is a blinding white, even as the wood thunks under my feet. Cunningham has no porch furniture, and there's hardly any scrapes on the floor. Mariya's report says the guy's lived her ever since he became a racer. That's about five years, and he doesn't even have decent company.

For the sake of appearances, I knock on the door. I'm surprised fans haven't stormed this place before. It's not even a gated community. But maybe that's why no one expects it. For someone so rich, even I didn't expect him to live in an average-sized one floor house.

There's no answer, as I knew there wouldn't be, but I knock on the door again. While I wait again for no answer, I scope out the street. No one. It's now or never. I dash across the left end of the porch, jump over the railing, and dive into Cunningham's bushes. The pure smell of plant and dirt keeps me company as I press into the side of the house and work my way around to the backyard.

Once there, I tumble out into the space, making sure not to be visible from the street. The surrounding fence blocks me from the view of the neighbors. The biggest point of note in the backyard is a shed and a fire pit. Three deck chairs are scattered on the back porch; maybe his teammates come over sometimes.

I don't quite feel relieved that Cunningham does something so normal. Making sure my hair is still hidden under my hat, I climb the stairs of this porch and stare down the back door.

The security on the back is the same as the front. This just gives me visual cover. I kneel down to eye level with the lock and pull my tools from my back pocket. I tuck in the tension wrench, insert the lock pick, and after a few minutes of scrubbing, the door yields when I turn the handle. It's funny how people trust locks to keep them safe.

Success as I've had, there's no time to celebrate. Cunningham's security console is in his bedroom. I let the back door close behind me and take note of my position in the kitchen. Thanks to Mariya's house map, I know to turn right, pick the center door in the hallway, and what code to punch in at the master bedroom. The security system takes my code and I reset it to react if someone enters.

"Alright, what now?"

I can admit I didn't think this through. Cunningham's room lies before me: curtains drawn down, dark bedspread and sheets scattered across the mattress, closet open to a line of plain shirts and slacks. A few IGPX photos hang from the walls—championship shots and the like. On the wall opposite of the bed sits a television on a stand. A lamp stands guard over the unmade bed. He's not messy; he's just normal.

Not much more boring than that.

Shrugging my doubts off, I exit the bedroom and wander around the place. A larger television and movie collection takes up most of the living room, the kitchen is well stocked with a few stray pans in the sink, and the secondary bedroom holds some basic workout equipment, including a practice saber. A small office space holds bills and the like, and a display case holds miniatures of the Team Velshtein mechs, including what I guess to be a few different models.

I huff in agitation and start rifling through the drawers. Not many photos, no journals or keepsakes. Forget boring—this place is just dull. I get that celebrities are just ordinary people, but there should be something more exciting. This man is an IGPX pilot for Christ's sake!

And yet I recognize this sort of thing, because this is how my place is, too. Enough to feel comfortable, but nothing concrete. No signs of a hobby or sense of enjoyment. No life on the inside. My stomach starts to twist in hunger, and I check the time on my phone. Unless he goes out with his teammates, Cunningham will be back in the next hour or so. Now is the time to get out while I can still reset the security system with little trouble.

So I head to the living room, place a call for some Mexican delivery, and pop in one of Cunningham's many movies before making myself at home on the couch.


[Author's Notes]

This story always makes me research interesting things. Like how exactly to pick locks. Kirsten is better at it than I am.

I also very much like writing her quirky thinking process. "Okay, let's break into this guy's house! Hm, too boring, let's wait for him to come home!" That being said, two chapters without Cunningham showing up in a row, here, but he'll be in the next one, coming next Saturday. Please look forward to it!

-Avi

[03.26.2018]