.Hack//Heist
A .Hack fanfiction by Renfro Calhoun
Disclaimer: I claim ownership of nothing related to Project .Hack. That's it. I've completely exhausted every even mildly amusing thing I could've said here relating to the disclaimer. So I think I'll just sit here for a while.
- one hour later -
Yeah, that's more like it.
Notes: Takes place between Infection and Mutation. Parentheses indicate thoughts. Just a little longer, now; I promise, this particular story arc is coming to a close quite soon.
Chapter XII - To Protect and Serve
------------
The face of the clock met his gaze, its narrow neon hands forming a perfect right angle, the name "Budweiser" shining in the dim light; it chimed once, twice, and then a third time before falling silent. Behind him, yellow police tape stretched across the gaping maw of the apartment door, less a command than a polite suggestion not to enter.
Dean let out a long sigh as his eyes swept the room, falling first onto a chalk outline in the shape of a man, slumped up against the wall. Droplets of blood stained the blue carpet where Carl had fallen, and more was sprayed across the wall.
(This is my scene,) he thought, picturing the police as they went through the usual motions; cordoning off the area, questioning the neighbors and staff, ballistics teams analyzing spent shells and gunpowder, coroners wheeling out the bodies, photographers taking pictures and notes.
He had tried to return earlier, but the police, diligent as ever, swept the crime scene thoroughly; a chalk outline was all that remained of Kenichi, his body and weapon taken away. Even now, he questioned the wisdom of his actions, knowing that someone had to have seen him as he fled the building, be it a neighbor, a clerk, or the security camera near the elevators.
That thought reminded him of another; he gripped the strings of his tattered green windbreaker and gave it a yank, pulling the hood tight and further concealing his face. Small miracle no one had taken it from his apartment, which had been thoroughly trashed by the now-dead Cyber Connect goons.
Stopping only to slip into his shoes - dutifully waiting at the door where he left them - Dean took further steps into the apartment, approaching Shinji's bedroom. The darkness of the apartment complicated even basic movement, but he dared not risk turning on the lights. Slowly but surely, he made his way through the open doorway and entered the bedroom.
A faint, yet pungent scent of blood struck his nose, and he cringed in disgust, suddenly thankful that the lights were off. The only illumination came from Shinji's computer, glowing eerily in the darkness. At some point, it had reset to the Altimit desktop; aside from the removal of the body, the computer appeared untouched.
He smirked ruefully and stepped up to the desk, instinctively punching the eject button on the drive. The tray slid out, revealing the clean, compact disc it carried. He gently picked it up and flipped it over, giving the underside a once-over; a faint blue circle formed the inner half of the disc, with the blank portion surrounding it in a ring.
(Good work, Shinji.) Setting the disc in its case, Dean took the mouse with his free hand and moved it to the mail icon on the screen. He gave it a double-click and dragged out the keyboard.
(I'll make it worth it.)
-
To: Kite@theworld.com
From: Stolls@theworld.com
Subj: It's Over
Kite... thank you for your help. Without you and BlackRose, I don't think we would have made it this far. That said, I owe you both an apology. In asking for your help, I've put you both in terrible danger. I understand you're in at least that much in regards to your friend, but the last thing I wanted to do was add to your troubles.
Be that as it may, it's all over now. Shinji and the Cyber Connect agents are dead, and I'm sure it's only a matter of time before the police find me - and that's if I'm lucky. I intend to destroy the Delphi data. All of it. I don't know if this will stop the current copy roaming The World, but I'm out of time and options. If it works, you'll probably hear about it on the news.
I advise staying off the 'net entirely, but should you encounter it... kill it. I think your Data Drain is the key; I don't know if Shinji told you, but this thing seems to have been modified specifically to combat creatures like Skeith, so it should work on similar principles.
No matter what happens, though... just be careful. And don't forget what I told you.
- Dean
-
The Lexus purred softly as it rolled along the avenue, its headlights gazing brilliantly into the night. Above, streetlights offered periodic illumination, causing shadows to roll and spill off the dashboard. A faint drizzle twisted free from murky storm clouds, falling to gently spray the windshield, giving the wipers all the work they needed. Through the radio wafted a formulaic, yet catchy drum-and-bass beat, repetitious vocals and tunes blending with every other song he'd heard of the genre. The streets before him did likewise, calling to mind many a memory of a late night's work.
"What a night," said Dean, immediately chiding himself for making the understatement of the decade.
The crime scene - which included Kenichi's car - had provided Dean with everything he hoped he would need. A tan trenchcoat and brown fedora gave him a countenance straight from a Humphrey Bogart movie, though he visibly lacked Sam Spade's trademark stoicism, his innards tightening into knots as he passed street after boulevard; hidden from view in the trunk, the shotgun and several handguns, including the Glock Carl had taken from him.
A part of him was screaming to work out some sort of plan, even a vague outline of how he intended to breach CC's corporate office. He had no idea what to expect; automated security checkpoints, a few bored and tired guards, an army of SWAT wanna-bes, bipedal robots with lasers, the possibilities flashed through his mind like a slide show feature of every movie or TV show he'd ever seen.
(How in the hell am I going to do this?) he asked silently, realizing just how little he knew. He didn't know if whatever skeleton crew manning the building had heard about Carl and Kenichi's deaths, or if they were even in the know about their mission.
The sight of the thirty-story headquarters dispelled his thoughts; amidst the similar buildings in the industrial park it stood, cold and lifeless, windows black and parking lot empty. The front entrance was obviously closed, forcing Dean to rule out the direct approach until he spotted a well-lit service entrance leading to a lot beneath the building. Summoning up every ounce of machismo and moxie he ever had, he guided the Lexus down the ramp, eyes adjusting to the sudden pale glow of fluorescent light. The rain vanished as he rolled into the concrete bunker; ahead, a booth and gate barred entry to the sub-level parking lot, a lone, uniformed guard occupying the former of the combo.
Dean sighed. (Here goes nothing.) He tugged the brim of the fedora down over his eyes, then pulled Kenichi's ID badge from his coat pocket as the car idled towards the security booth. (What in the Christ am I doing?)
Beneath the brim, he noticed a flickering light in the booth, and tilted his head up slightly; the light came from a small, portable television, which previously held the guard's attention. Dean rolled down the window and planted his foot on the brake as the car came before the booth. He showed the badge to the guard and nodded slightly.
He felt the ID being lifted from his hand, and heard the bemusement in the guard's voice as he answered, in English. "You're not him. What happened to Fukada?"
Dean tensed, not the least bit surprised that the guard hadn't mistaken him for a Japanese man. "He didn't make it," answered Dean in a low voice, keeping his eyes concealed but carefully watching the guard's hands, waiting - almost eager - for him to reach for the alarm.
To his surprise, the guard handed back the ID and clucked his tongue. "A shame. Well, I suppose that means your job's done here, isn't it?"
Quickly, Dean played off the question and pocketed the card. "Yeah, it's over," he answered. "I just got one more thing I need to take care of."
"Right. Well, go on up. I'll let Lios know you're coming." Footsteps, then a buzzing noise; the striped gate before him lifted.
Silently cheering, Dean waved to the guard and gingerly toed the accelerator, pressing forward into the deserted lot.
-
Sixteen floors higher, Dean found himself on the appropriate level. The stainless steel doors slid open, and he stepped through into a world of cubicles and computers, white panel ceilings and dull blue carpeting - the same shade as Shinji's apartment. Lit only by strategically-placed emergency lights, the darkened complex both depressed and beckoned to him.
The clanking of the elevator doors served as the only noise on the floor, offering brief respite from the all-encompassing silence. The soft padding of shoes against carpet accompanied Dean as he strode through the forest of cubicles, heading for the more important-looking offices on the far side of the room. The three-walled prisons passed by him in a blur of dead monitors, tacky posters, and empty chairs. Above, wide black lenses formed a half-circle around security cameras, the building's all-seeing eyes; Dean thanked the fedora for concealing his eyes, but his pessimistic side prevailed, reminding him that someone was going to realize he was somewhere he wasn't supposed to be.
(Whoever 'Lios' is, he's not on this floor,) he thought, almost feeling the weapons hidden in his coat pockets tremble in anticipation of a live-action fansub of a John Woo movie. He half-expected to round a corner and stumble upon a swirling magic portal, hiding a squad of guards ready to attack.
Eventually and without incident, Dean found himself before an office door bearing Kenichi's name. A matter of trial-and-error discovered the proper key to the lock, and Dean stepped through. He wasted no time booting up the computer, closing and locking the door as the machine came to life.
The chair let out a familiar groan as he sat down before the computer, pulling the narrow drawer beneath the desk out and revealing the keyboard. The more familiar Altimit desktop appeared before his eyes, and he set to work, eyes squinting at the bright blue background, the only source of illumination in the sparsely-decorated office.
Despite his thoroughly non-technical profession, Dean was familiar enough with computers to make finding the files a simple matter; he briefly flashed back to their previous penetration of the mainframe, doing battle with a digital facsimile of their own partner while Shinji hacked the server through the ruptured firewall. What had only been a few hours ago felt closer to a few days, and the exertions of the night - physical and psychological - were growing harder to deny.
A deceptively simple click-and-drag highlighted the relevant data, and Dean wasted not a second in pounding the 'delete' key, followed by 'enter' when the confirmation message appeared. A slight smile crossed his lips as he watched .exe, .txt and .zip disappear from the folder, leaving a conspicuous gap between the numerous bits of organized data.
He issued the shutdown command to the terminal, and watched as the monitor died; in the darkness, he barely bade out the reflection of his face, a near-invisible silhouette of the disheveled gumshoe. (Redemption, huh?) He stood up and dug through his pockets, producing the case containing Shinji's disc. Gently, he removed it from the case and turned it in his hands, marveling at the rainbowed reflection of light against its surface.
(Maybe this is enough.) He smiled.
Discarding the case, he turned to the door, unlocked and opened it; he stepped through, not bothering to close it behind him. His eyes searched for the nearest camera, and he casually strode up to it, one hand carefully clutching the disc, the other snaking into his other pocket and removing the Glock. He nonchalantly removed his fedora and tossed it aside, revealing his face and eyes for all to see.
His mind's eye flashed back once more: a mentally burdened Wave Master leaning against the railing of a bridge; a confession of a crime; a Twin Blade who offered only one word of encouragement, who nonetheless understood; a boy, a man, who knew what it was like to have the world and its brother against them.
"Dean." The voice was a memory, yet powerful enough to register in his ears, or so he thought. A word, one word; a name shared between players, a hacker and a thief, yet it was enough. The reality of The World crumbled and faded, leaving behind not a Twin Blade and a Wave Master, but two men trying to do their part to stop it, whatever 'it' may be.
"Thanks, Kite," he said to himself.
Standing before a camera, he raised the disc high and waved it back and forth. "Hey!" he shouted to no one in particular. "I hope you're watching!" He hefted the pistol, deftly swapping items to place the weapon in his more secure left hand. He turned around and took a step back, coiling the disc back in his hand. "Like the man says, it's a great trick..."
With a grunt, he flicked his wrist and tossed the disc out and away, sending it sailing across the room down a row of cubicles. A heartbeat later, Dean brought the handgun up and braced the grip with his right hand, tracking the airborne disc and leading it for a fraction of a second before pulling the trigger.
The explosion rocked effortlessly through the silent complex, the cubicles preventing any sort of echo but doing little to block the noise. Light from muzzle flare lit up the room as the bullet spat forth from the barrel, flying without delay or detour towards the spinning data disc.
The invisible projectile struck its mark perfectly, sheer force of impact snapping it in two and sending it violently to the floor. The two halves shone briefly in the sickly glow of the emergency light as they rattled to a halt,
"But I can only do it once," he finished.
A heavy *CLANG* heralded a door being kicked in, followed by several pairs of rapidly-approaching footsteps. Anticipating the arrival of what could only be a team of guards, he drew a second pistol with his free hand and turned to the direction of the sound.
Dean grit his teeth as the first guard rounded the corner, white button-down shirt bearing the CC logo glowing like a candle in the darkness, heavy oak baton hanging from a belt loop, handgun at the ready. Three more followed, identically dressed and armed.
(What took you guys so long?)
In a sudden burst of movement, Dean broke into a strafing dash for the elevator, firing both pistols at the security team; unaccustomed to firing akimbo, Dean attacked near-blindly, frantically spraying the area with bullets as the guards took cover and returned fire.
Gunshots and ricochets rang loudly through the office complex as they exchanged shots. Dean never broke stride as he moved for the elevator, facing the guards as he sidestepped and fired simultaneously; his weapons succeeded in keeping the guards at bay, but did little more than pepper their surroundings.
Six steps further, Dean pulled the triggers yet again, only to draw a sharp *click* from both weapons. Impulse driving his actions, he ducked down behind the nearest cubicle, just inches ahead of incoming fire as the guards, no longer occupied, took aim. Holes exploded through the walls of the cubicle, blasting bits of wood and paper down over Dean like snowflakes.
(Son of a bitch,) he thought, crouching down beneath the desk, discarding the empty guns.
"Surrender!" shouted one of the guards. "We have you surrounded!"
Feeling a hard lump poke at his side, Dean dug through the inner pocket of his trenchcoat; his hands wrapped around the handle of a .38 revolver, the last weapon he'd procured from Kenichi's car.
Dean grumbled, raising the revolver to the entrance of the cubicle. "I've got six more, my friend, and there's four of you. Do the math."
Another voice, this time from his right - and surprisingly close by. "Actually, there's eight of us now."
Fighting the urge to think - and consequently feel, namely fear - Dean scoffed. "That might be a problem if I was trying to escape."
Though he couldn't see any of the guards, Dean felt that the speaker had been taken aback. Hesitantly, he moved to a kneeling position and brought his eye up to one of the holes in the wall. "The way I see it," he added, stacking more to his bluff, "just more targets." He scanned the tops of the nearest cubicles, searching in vain for any approaching guards.
Optimism and bravado came crashing down simultaneously when he heard a pair of footsteps behind him, and the clicking of what could only be hammers being drawn back.
"Put it down."
Dean let out a loud, disappointed groan, as if he were no more than a child with his hand caught in the cookie jar. "Goddamn," he replied, gently setting the revolver onto the desk before him and raising his hands high.
He heard more footsteps, and one of the guards became visible out of the corner of his eye. He felt hands grip his wrists tight, which were forced behind his back and bound with a plastic cord. Another pair of hands took his arm and hoisted him to his feet.
Finally he was turned around, and got a good look at his opponents: eight men, sharing only uniforms and weapons pointed in his direction. A few wisps of smoke escaped the nearest pistol, a Sig Sauer, and Dean could smell the burnt powder from it.
He smirked, resigning himself to fate. "So? Now what?"
-
Once again, Dean found himself staring at his reflection, this time in a one-way mirror concealing an observation booth in the adjoining room. Seated in a cold metal folding chair at a table, hands no longer bound behind his back, Dean could do nothing but sit and wait.
(I guess this is game over,) he thought with a sigh. (Ironic, I suppose... breaking and entering, data theft and destruction of property, and a gunfight, all in a company that makes games.) He chuckled softly. (Guess it could be worse. After all... I won.)
"We won," he corrected audibly.
Suddenly, the door swung open, revealing an older man in a suit, flanked by a phalanx of guards. His face was hidden partly by shadow, but Dean could make out the man's penetrating, dark blue eyes, which seemed to bore holes through Dean.
Taking the wildest of shots into darkness, Dean went with the only name he had in his arsenal. "Lios?"
The suit smiled coldly at him. "Stollis."
"The police are here," said one of the guards.
'Lios' nodded. "Take him away."
Two entered and escorted Dean to his feet, leading him out of the room. Through the glass entrance doors flashed all-too-familiar red and blue emergency lights, spinning recklessly atop the squad cars to which they were attached. Before the doors stood a pair of police officers, one with a shiny pair of handcuffs dangling from his fingers.
(Well, this brings back memories.) The guards released him as the cops approached, and he obediently turned around, presenting his hands to the cuff-wielding officer.
The suit walked up to Dean as the handcuffs slid around his wrists, locking themselves shut; their eyes met in mutually muted hostility, each carefully studying the other's face.
"I'll be seeing you," said Dean. "Friend" he added, spitting the word as if it were a curse.
For the faintest of seconds, Dean swore he saw the suit flinch, turning away sharply as the police took custody of Dean.
- End of Chapter XII
A .Hack fanfiction by Renfro Calhoun
Disclaimer: I claim ownership of nothing related to Project .Hack. That's it. I've completely exhausted every even mildly amusing thing I could've said here relating to the disclaimer. So I think I'll just sit here for a while.
- one hour later -
Yeah, that's more like it.
Notes: Takes place between Infection and Mutation. Parentheses indicate thoughts. Just a little longer, now; I promise, this particular story arc is coming to a close quite soon.
Chapter XII - To Protect and Serve
------------
The face of the clock met his gaze, its narrow neon hands forming a perfect right angle, the name "Budweiser" shining in the dim light; it chimed once, twice, and then a third time before falling silent. Behind him, yellow police tape stretched across the gaping maw of the apartment door, less a command than a polite suggestion not to enter.
Dean let out a long sigh as his eyes swept the room, falling first onto a chalk outline in the shape of a man, slumped up against the wall. Droplets of blood stained the blue carpet where Carl had fallen, and more was sprayed across the wall.
(This is my scene,) he thought, picturing the police as they went through the usual motions; cordoning off the area, questioning the neighbors and staff, ballistics teams analyzing spent shells and gunpowder, coroners wheeling out the bodies, photographers taking pictures and notes.
He had tried to return earlier, but the police, diligent as ever, swept the crime scene thoroughly; a chalk outline was all that remained of Kenichi, his body and weapon taken away. Even now, he questioned the wisdom of his actions, knowing that someone had to have seen him as he fled the building, be it a neighbor, a clerk, or the security camera near the elevators.
That thought reminded him of another; he gripped the strings of his tattered green windbreaker and gave it a yank, pulling the hood tight and further concealing his face. Small miracle no one had taken it from his apartment, which had been thoroughly trashed by the now-dead Cyber Connect goons.
Stopping only to slip into his shoes - dutifully waiting at the door where he left them - Dean took further steps into the apartment, approaching Shinji's bedroom. The darkness of the apartment complicated even basic movement, but he dared not risk turning on the lights. Slowly but surely, he made his way through the open doorway and entered the bedroom.
A faint, yet pungent scent of blood struck his nose, and he cringed in disgust, suddenly thankful that the lights were off. The only illumination came from Shinji's computer, glowing eerily in the darkness. At some point, it had reset to the Altimit desktop; aside from the removal of the body, the computer appeared untouched.
He smirked ruefully and stepped up to the desk, instinctively punching the eject button on the drive. The tray slid out, revealing the clean, compact disc it carried. He gently picked it up and flipped it over, giving the underside a once-over; a faint blue circle formed the inner half of the disc, with the blank portion surrounding it in a ring.
(Good work, Shinji.) Setting the disc in its case, Dean took the mouse with his free hand and moved it to the mail icon on the screen. He gave it a double-click and dragged out the keyboard.
(I'll make it worth it.)
-
To: Kite@theworld.com
From: Stolls@theworld.com
Subj: It's Over
Kite... thank you for your help. Without you and BlackRose, I don't think we would have made it this far. That said, I owe you both an apology. In asking for your help, I've put you both in terrible danger. I understand you're in at least that much in regards to your friend, but the last thing I wanted to do was add to your troubles.
Be that as it may, it's all over now. Shinji and the Cyber Connect agents are dead, and I'm sure it's only a matter of time before the police find me - and that's if I'm lucky. I intend to destroy the Delphi data. All of it. I don't know if this will stop the current copy roaming The World, but I'm out of time and options. If it works, you'll probably hear about it on the news.
I advise staying off the 'net entirely, but should you encounter it... kill it. I think your Data Drain is the key; I don't know if Shinji told you, but this thing seems to have been modified specifically to combat creatures like Skeith, so it should work on similar principles.
No matter what happens, though... just be careful. And don't forget what I told you.
- Dean
-
The Lexus purred softly as it rolled along the avenue, its headlights gazing brilliantly into the night. Above, streetlights offered periodic illumination, causing shadows to roll and spill off the dashboard. A faint drizzle twisted free from murky storm clouds, falling to gently spray the windshield, giving the wipers all the work they needed. Through the radio wafted a formulaic, yet catchy drum-and-bass beat, repetitious vocals and tunes blending with every other song he'd heard of the genre. The streets before him did likewise, calling to mind many a memory of a late night's work.
"What a night," said Dean, immediately chiding himself for making the understatement of the decade.
The crime scene - which included Kenichi's car - had provided Dean with everything he hoped he would need. A tan trenchcoat and brown fedora gave him a countenance straight from a Humphrey Bogart movie, though he visibly lacked Sam Spade's trademark stoicism, his innards tightening into knots as he passed street after boulevard; hidden from view in the trunk, the shotgun and several handguns, including the Glock Carl had taken from him.
A part of him was screaming to work out some sort of plan, even a vague outline of how he intended to breach CC's corporate office. He had no idea what to expect; automated security checkpoints, a few bored and tired guards, an army of SWAT wanna-bes, bipedal robots with lasers, the possibilities flashed through his mind like a slide show feature of every movie or TV show he'd ever seen.
(How in the hell am I going to do this?) he asked silently, realizing just how little he knew. He didn't know if whatever skeleton crew manning the building had heard about Carl and Kenichi's deaths, or if they were even in the know about their mission.
The sight of the thirty-story headquarters dispelled his thoughts; amidst the similar buildings in the industrial park it stood, cold and lifeless, windows black and parking lot empty. The front entrance was obviously closed, forcing Dean to rule out the direct approach until he spotted a well-lit service entrance leading to a lot beneath the building. Summoning up every ounce of machismo and moxie he ever had, he guided the Lexus down the ramp, eyes adjusting to the sudden pale glow of fluorescent light. The rain vanished as he rolled into the concrete bunker; ahead, a booth and gate barred entry to the sub-level parking lot, a lone, uniformed guard occupying the former of the combo.
Dean sighed. (Here goes nothing.) He tugged the brim of the fedora down over his eyes, then pulled Kenichi's ID badge from his coat pocket as the car idled towards the security booth. (What in the Christ am I doing?)
Beneath the brim, he noticed a flickering light in the booth, and tilted his head up slightly; the light came from a small, portable television, which previously held the guard's attention. Dean rolled down the window and planted his foot on the brake as the car came before the booth. He showed the badge to the guard and nodded slightly.
He felt the ID being lifted from his hand, and heard the bemusement in the guard's voice as he answered, in English. "You're not him. What happened to Fukada?"
Dean tensed, not the least bit surprised that the guard hadn't mistaken him for a Japanese man. "He didn't make it," answered Dean in a low voice, keeping his eyes concealed but carefully watching the guard's hands, waiting - almost eager - for him to reach for the alarm.
To his surprise, the guard handed back the ID and clucked his tongue. "A shame. Well, I suppose that means your job's done here, isn't it?"
Quickly, Dean played off the question and pocketed the card. "Yeah, it's over," he answered. "I just got one more thing I need to take care of."
"Right. Well, go on up. I'll let Lios know you're coming." Footsteps, then a buzzing noise; the striped gate before him lifted.
Silently cheering, Dean waved to the guard and gingerly toed the accelerator, pressing forward into the deserted lot.
-
Sixteen floors higher, Dean found himself on the appropriate level. The stainless steel doors slid open, and he stepped through into a world of cubicles and computers, white panel ceilings and dull blue carpeting - the same shade as Shinji's apartment. Lit only by strategically-placed emergency lights, the darkened complex both depressed and beckoned to him.
The clanking of the elevator doors served as the only noise on the floor, offering brief respite from the all-encompassing silence. The soft padding of shoes against carpet accompanied Dean as he strode through the forest of cubicles, heading for the more important-looking offices on the far side of the room. The three-walled prisons passed by him in a blur of dead monitors, tacky posters, and empty chairs. Above, wide black lenses formed a half-circle around security cameras, the building's all-seeing eyes; Dean thanked the fedora for concealing his eyes, but his pessimistic side prevailed, reminding him that someone was going to realize he was somewhere he wasn't supposed to be.
(Whoever 'Lios' is, he's not on this floor,) he thought, almost feeling the weapons hidden in his coat pockets tremble in anticipation of a live-action fansub of a John Woo movie. He half-expected to round a corner and stumble upon a swirling magic portal, hiding a squad of guards ready to attack.
Eventually and without incident, Dean found himself before an office door bearing Kenichi's name. A matter of trial-and-error discovered the proper key to the lock, and Dean stepped through. He wasted no time booting up the computer, closing and locking the door as the machine came to life.
The chair let out a familiar groan as he sat down before the computer, pulling the narrow drawer beneath the desk out and revealing the keyboard. The more familiar Altimit desktop appeared before his eyes, and he set to work, eyes squinting at the bright blue background, the only source of illumination in the sparsely-decorated office.
Despite his thoroughly non-technical profession, Dean was familiar enough with computers to make finding the files a simple matter; he briefly flashed back to their previous penetration of the mainframe, doing battle with a digital facsimile of their own partner while Shinji hacked the server through the ruptured firewall. What had only been a few hours ago felt closer to a few days, and the exertions of the night - physical and psychological - were growing harder to deny.
A deceptively simple click-and-drag highlighted the relevant data, and Dean wasted not a second in pounding the 'delete' key, followed by 'enter' when the confirmation message appeared. A slight smile crossed his lips as he watched .exe, .txt and .zip disappear from the folder, leaving a conspicuous gap between the numerous bits of organized data.
He issued the shutdown command to the terminal, and watched as the monitor died; in the darkness, he barely bade out the reflection of his face, a near-invisible silhouette of the disheveled gumshoe. (Redemption, huh?) He stood up and dug through his pockets, producing the case containing Shinji's disc. Gently, he removed it from the case and turned it in his hands, marveling at the rainbowed reflection of light against its surface.
(Maybe this is enough.) He smiled.
Discarding the case, he turned to the door, unlocked and opened it; he stepped through, not bothering to close it behind him. His eyes searched for the nearest camera, and he casually strode up to it, one hand carefully clutching the disc, the other snaking into his other pocket and removing the Glock. He nonchalantly removed his fedora and tossed it aside, revealing his face and eyes for all to see.
His mind's eye flashed back once more: a mentally burdened Wave Master leaning against the railing of a bridge; a confession of a crime; a Twin Blade who offered only one word of encouragement, who nonetheless understood; a boy, a man, who knew what it was like to have the world and its brother against them.
"Dean." The voice was a memory, yet powerful enough to register in his ears, or so he thought. A word, one word; a name shared between players, a hacker and a thief, yet it was enough. The reality of The World crumbled and faded, leaving behind not a Twin Blade and a Wave Master, but two men trying to do their part to stop it, whatever 'it' may be.
"Thanks, Kite," he said to himself.
Standing before a camera, he raised the disc high and waved it back and forth. "Hey!" he shouted to no one in particular. "I hope you're watching!" He hefted the pistol, deftly swapping items to place the weapon in his more secure left hand. He turned around and took a step back, coiling the disc back in his hand. "Like the man says, it's a great trick..."
With a grunt, he flicked his wrist and tossed the disc out and away, sending it sailing across the room down a row of cubicles. A heartbeat later, Dean brought the handgun up and braced the grip with his right hand, tracking the airborne disc and leading it for a fraction of a second before pulling the trigger.
The explosion rocked effortlessly through the silent complex, the cubicles preventing any sort of echo but doing little to block the noise. Light from muzzle flare lit up the room as the bullet spat forth from the barrel, flying without delay or detour towards the spinning data disc.
The invisible projectile struck its mark perfectly, sheer force of impact snapping it in two and sending it violently to the floor. The two halves shone briefly in the sickly glow of the emergency light as they rattled to a halt,
"But I can only do it once," he finished.
A heavy *CLANG* heralded a door being kicked in, followed by several pairs of rapidly-approaching footsteps. Anticipating the arrival of what could only be a team of guards, he drew a second pistol with his free hand and turned to the direction of the sound.
Dean grit his teeth as the first guard rounded the corner, white button-down shirt bearing the CC logo glowing like a candle in the darkness, heavy oak baton hanging from a belt loop, handgun at the ready. Three more followed, identically dressed and armed.
(What took you guys so long?)
In a sudden burst of movement, Dean broke into a strafing dash for the elevator, firing both pistols at the security team; unaccustomed to firing akimbo, Dean attacked near-blindly, frantically spraying the area with bullets as the guards took cover and returned fire.
Gunshots and ricochets rang loudly through the office complex as they exchanged shots. Dean never broke stride as he moved for the elevator, facing the guards as he sidestepped and fired simultaneously; his weapons succeeded in keeping the guards at bay, but did little more than pepper their surroundings.
Six steps further, Dean pulled the triggers yet again, only to draw a sharp *click* from both weapons. Impulse driving his actions, he ducked down behind the nearest cubicle, just inches ahead of incoming fire as the guards, no longer occupied, took aim. Holes exploded through the walls of the cubicle, blasting bits of wood and paper down over Dean like snowflakes.
(Son of a bitch,) he thought, crouching down beneath the desk, discarding the empty guns.
"Surrender!" shouted one of the guards. "We have you surrounded!"
Feeling a hard lump poke at his side, Dean dug through the inner pocket of his trenchcoat; his hands wrapped around the handle of a .38 revolver, the last weapon he'd procured from Kenichi's car.
Dean grumbled, raising the revolver to the entrance of the cubicle. "I've got six more, my friend, and there's four of you. Do the math."
Another voice, this time from his right - and surprisingly close by. "Actually, there's eight of us now."
Fighting the urge to think - and consequently feel, namely fear - Dean scoffed. "That might be a problem if I was trying to escape."
Though he couldn't see any of the guards, Dean felt that the speaker had been taken aback. Hesitantly, he moved to a kneeling position and brought his eye up to one of the holes in the wall. "The way I see it," he added, stacking more to his bluff, "just more targets." He scanned the tops of the nearest cubicles, searching in vain for any approaching guards.
Optimism and bravado came crashing down simultaneously when he heard a pair of footsteps behind him, and the clicking of what could only be hammers being drawn back.
"Put it down."
Dean let out a loud, disappointed groan, as if he were no more than a child with his hand caught in the cookie jar. "Goddamn," he replied, gently setting the revolver onto the desk before him and raising his hands high.
He heard more footsteps, and one of the guards became visible out of the corner of his eye. He felt hands grip his wrists tight, which were forced behind his back and bound with a plastic cord. Another pair of hands took his arm and hoisted him to his feet.
Finally he was turned around, and got a good look at his opponents: eight men, sharing only uniforms and weapons pointed in his direction. A few wisps of smoke escaped the nearest pistol, a Sig Sauer, and Dean could smell the burnt powder from it.
He smirked, resigning himself to fate. "So? Now what?"
-
Once again, Dean found himself staring at his reflection, this time in a one-way mirror concealing an observation booth in the adjoining room. Seated in a cold metal folding chair at a table, hands no longer bound behind his back, Dean could do nothing but sit and wait.
(I guess this is game over,) he thought with a sigh. (Ironic, I suppose... breaking and entering, data theft and destruction of property, and a gunfight, all in a company that makes games.) He chuckled softly. (Guess it could be worse. After all... I won.)
"We won," he corrected audibly.
Suddenly, the door swung open, revealing an older man in a suit, flanked by a phalanx of guards. His face was hidden partly by shadow, but Dean could make out the man's penetrating, dark blue eyes, which seemed to bore holes through Dean.
Taking the wildest of shots into darkness, Dean went with the only name he had in his arsenal. "Lios?"
The suit smiled coldly at him. "Stollis."
"The police are here," said one of the guards.
'Lios' nodded. "Take him away."
Two entered and escorted Dean to his feet, leading him out of the room. Through the glass entrance doors flashed all-too-familiar red and blue emergency lights, spinning recklessly atop the squad cars to which they were attached. Before the doors stood a pair of police officers, one with a shiny pair of handcuffs dangling from his fingers.
(Well, this brings back memories.) The guards released him as the cops approached, and he obediently turned around, presenting his hands to the cuff-wielding officer.
The suit walked up to Dean as the handcuffs slid around his wrists, locking themselves shut; their eyes met in mutually muted hostility, each carefully studying the other's face.
"I'll be seeing you," said Dean. "Friend" he added, spitting the word as if it were a curse.
For the faintest of seconds, Dean swore he saw the suit flinch, turning away sharply as the police took custody of Dean.
- End of Chapter XII