Okay, this needs some explaining...this started out as a 'to prove I can' thing. I decided that I had to write something, if only to prove to myself that it still could (it's been ages since I wrote anything, barring Muse III and Uny). So...this happened. It started out about as a random idea bouncing around my head on Friday - it'd float to the surface, get dismissed as too stupid, go dormant for a while, then float back up again. By Saturday night I was starting to get seriously annoyed with it, so I booted up the comp and stuck the first paragraph or so down, because that usually gets annoying ideas out of my head.
Not so. It came back. Before I knew what had happened I'd got a thousand words down and was getting some decent feedback for it on my LJ, so I thought, well, let's see if I can make a proper chapter out of it. Let's see if I can still write.
Can I?
By the way, the Song of the Driftergirl is Cat Stevens' Father To Son, which she was singing the last time we saw her, in Oxford Circus. And the usual disclaimers apply - not mine, don't own, don't sue, etc.
______________________
"The next station is Lancaster Gate."
She sits demurely on the red faux-leather seat, hands folded in her lap, occasionally smoothing out a stray wrinkle from her otherwise immaculate black skirt. Superficially unremarkable - her clothing, while not unfashionable, is unexceptional; her black hair is styled conservatively - it is not until you look a little closer that you see there is more to this woman than initially meets the eye. She sits ramrod-straight, in defiance of the motion of the carriage, and seems to be winning - after a few seconds, the eye comes to see her as the static point around which the carriage oscillates. While the other passengers read books or newspapers or listen to their Walkmans, she eschews such distractions, keeping her eyes decorously lowered; however, beneath her hooded lashes, her eyes flicker and dart, constantly re-evaluating her surroundings, checking for incongruities, watching for the slightest sign of danger.
Despite the cold weather outside, the carriage is warm; the seats are comfortable, the motion soothing. Yet for all that she does not relax for a second; her lips move soundlessly, as though she is repeating instructions to herself.
Were any of her fellow passengers lip readers, they would be able to decipher her words:
Leicester Square. St James's Park. Tall, slender girl, red hair. Answers to the name 'Rebecca'.
"The next station is Marble Arch."
The doors open onto the near-empty platform, just a handful of windswept-looking travellers waiting to board. A lady moves to take the seat next to her, then thinks better of it, instead moving off up the train. The doors slide closed, and the carriage resumes its journey.
She may not let herself relax, but she appreciates the peacefulness of the underground. There's something almost comforting about the long ride into the dark, like a dream from which one awakes in a different place, blinking in the sunlight.
The corner of her mouth quirks upward. Ironic analogy.
As quickly as it appears, the half-smile vanishes, absorbed back into her porcelain glaze. Indeed, everything about her, though clearly designed to resemble steel, suggests instead some kind of hard ceramic - tough, durable, but brittle and likely to shatter if dropped...
The man two seats away turns the pages of his newspaper, and she snaps instantly back into threat-detection mode, the tension in her humming like a taut wire.
"The next station is Bond Street."
Now the crowds are beginning to build; early Christmas shoppers, tourists, the occasional harassed-looking executive pushing through the throng. One takes the seat to her right, and she wishes he hadn't - after all, it's so much more difficult to tell when they're wearing suits already. The mere sight of him sends adrenaline coursing through her veins.
The seat to her left remains empty, despite there being plenty of standees. Obviously some people's survival instincts are still intact. There's something in the set of her jaw and the lean musculature - almost hidden by the careful line of her clothing - that makes people nervous.
The executive takes out his mobile phone, and she instantly wants to rip out his jugular.
"The next station is Oxford Circus."
By now the atmosphere in the carriage has gone from being pleasantly warm to oppressively hot. It's overcrowded; her exits are blocked. A quick getaway now would be all but impossible.
She closes her eyes, takes a few deep breaths, tries to calm herself. The chances of them showing up are infinitesimal, right? After all, this is a relatively minor mission; there are bigger targets than her in this world right now, doing bigger things. She should be able to slip in under the radar, complete her mission and get out without attracting attention, right?
...right?
"This is Oxford Circus."
By this point she's beginning to get a little tired of the irrepressibly cheerful computerised announcer. So much so, in fact, that her hand is subconsciously creeping, little by little, towards the bulge at her hip - so artfully concealed as to be almost invisible - that just hints at the slender pistol contained beneath.
She catches herself, though, stilling with ease the irrational impulse to blow out every speaker inside the carriage - and in that second realises that something is very wrong.
The train isn't moving.
Another chime, and she has to stop herself gritting her teeth as the voice comes over the speaker again.
"Due to a security alert, this train will terminate at Tottenham Court Road. We apologise for any inconvenience."
Almost before the words 'security alert' have etched themselves into her brain, she is on her feet, pushing her way through the shoppers and commuters, striding for the doors. The alarm sounds; she sees them begin to close. Her legs protest at being urged into such sudden movement, but she ignores them, elbowing aside the last two passengers to throw out her hand and jam her fingers into the last gap between the doors.
She winces as they try to force themselves shut, crushing her fingers between them, then bounce open again; she's halfway through when she feels a grip tighter than a steel band close around her wrist.
Her body responds instinctively, putting her forward momentum to good use, pulling hard on the captured wrist and using the resistance to swing her body round. The agent's face swings into her line of vision, his sneering expression already dissolving into one of wide eyed surprise as he realises her knee is on a direct collision course with his testicles.
He folds up neatly; her knee comes up again to meet his descending nose, and there's a loud crack that sends him staggering back into the carriage. She knows it won't last long - agents are tougher and more resilient than granite - but it gives her the half-second she needs to slip through the doors and let them close - irrevocably - behind her.
She blows the murderous-looking agent a kiss as the train begins to pull out, knowing she shouldn't, but it's one of those things that simply has to be done, in case the universe stops turning when you don't.
They could be anywhere, now. They know where she is. What should she do? Stay down here in the tunnels, or go topside and try to find an exit?
There's a thought. She pulls out her mobile, already jogging up the stairs towards the choice - topside or underground?
However, before she can flip it open, the decision is made for her - footsteps on the stairs above. She darts right, following the Bakerloo signs, disappearing into the maze of tunnels.
The chase is on.
The corridor stretches away in front of her, long and straight and completely devoid of any cover whatsoever. A few stragglers from the last incoming train stare at her as she pounds along, arms pumping, legs flying. Ahead of her is a knot of people, hurrying for the next train - a few turn to look at her, then hurry to get out of the way.
The tiled walls blur as she pushes herself harder, harder, harder. Running is the only option when agents are after you; fighting them is suicide. The faster you run, the longer you survive, here in the Matrix. And she knows how to bend the rules...
She reaches the little crowd of people, but instead of pushing through them she jumps, pushing off her right leg, arching her body over the central rail to land on her hands and then using her momentum to flip back over onto her feet. She races past the gaping onlookers, then vaults back over the rail just as the shout echoes from the other end of the corridor.
"There she is!"
Now fear, real tangible fear, kicks in, leaving her mouth dry and her pulse racing; she forces it under control, twisting it into a tool to make her legs move faster. Another little gaggle of people; this time she doesn't even slow, but simply concentrates, bends -
- and jumps. She glides through the air, inches from the top of the tallest man's head, in the unnerving slow motion that always accompanies the rule-bending tricks she has been taught, or has taught herself. Tucking and rolling, her toes grazing the ceiling, she lands running and rounds the corner. Her eyes flicker, scanning for possible dangers and opportunities, taking in the whole scene - the smooth walls, the plodding commuters, the busker girl ahead playing her guitar and singing in a sweet, unearthly voice...
A flash before her vision; she stumbles, trying to assimilate what she saw, or thought she saw, in that split second. It was as though she saw the Matrix itself, the glimmering lines of malachite-green code endlessly writing and rewriting her surroundings - the tunnels, the people, the girl's guitar; and where the girl herself should have been, a shining golden silhouette that sparked and shimmered with an inner light.
She regains herself, feet thudding dully against the floor as she forges onward - but she can't take her eyes from the drifter girl. And now the girl is looking at her, lips curving in a smile around the words of her song.
"I was once like you are now
And I know that it's not easy
To be calm when you've found
Something going on"
Something in the words, in the voice, tugs at her; her steps slow, though she knows the agents are close on her heels. Despite herself, she finds herself fumbling in a pocket for the modest amount of money that all insurgents are issued with at the beginning of a mission, just in case; it's not much, but she can drop it as she goes past, it won't take a second -
"Take your time, think a lot
Think of everything you've got
For you will still be here tomorrow
But your dreams may not..."
That brings her up short; the sudden, intense feeling that the girl is singing directly to her, to her and no-one else. She half-turns, taking in the girl's appearance for the first time - glossy brown hair streaked with red, secretive but smiling blue eyes, torn jeans and oversized pink T-shirt. She holds out the money, stiffly and awkwardly, abruptly aware of the danger close behind.
The girl's smile widens; the strings of her guitar fall still as she reaches to take the folded notes. She catches Trinity's eye, sky-blue meeting sea-green, and winks; the sound of agents' pounding footsteps is loud in Trinity's ears as the girl begins to sing again, her clear voice resonating perfectly in the tunnels.
"Now there's a way
And I know that I have to go away
I know I have to go..."
As the last note dies, she lets her guitar fall to the floor (where it lands as softly as a marshmallow on a pillow), stretching out her hand and flicking her fingers contemptuously towards the oncoming agents.
Flick. Flick. Flick. A whisper fills the air, rising to an almost ultrasonic scream - Trinity has heard that noise before, and knows what it means. A reprogramming of something, an alteration - her muscles tense for flight -
And the agents stop, caught in mid-air, immobile, the leader's face twisted in a dreadful expression of rage and recognition. The girl - or rather, as she now recognises, the program - turns toward her, still smiling but now with a strained intensity on her - its - face.
"It won't hold them for long. Run."
She bends, picks up her guitar and steps backward; the wall ripples around her as it swallows her with the same unearthly squeal, closing seamlessly behind her and leaving Trinity standing open-mouthed in the middle of the tunnel.
But only for a second - then she shakes her head, spins on her heel and continues running.
As she nears the end of the corridor, the first shot rings out; a bullet ricochets off the ceiling behind her, ending its flight in the wall ahead. She hears screams and sees the people ahead of her drop to the floor like puppets cut from their strings, covering their heads. Instantly she sees the double-edged sword - this clears her path, but if the same is happening behind her it also gives the agents a direct line of fire. Any moment now a bullet could carve its way into her back.
She knows, without false modesty, that she is one of the best. Morpheus, of course, is the master, but there are few others who can match her. Jue of the Osiris and Captain Niobe of the Logos, perhaps, but Jue's skill is with blade and Niobe's in marksmanship; neither of them could best her in a melee.
Of course, all the skill in the world would not help her if one of the agents got a clear shot, but right now she is turning all that skill, all that grace, speed and stamina, to ensuring that that does not happen. She ducks and twists as bullets sing past her, striking chips of tile from the tunnel walls that sting her exposed arms; grabbing the central fence, she takes her full weight on her arms and kicks upward, pulling her legs in and scraping her heels along the ceiling as she performs a perfect somersault over the railing, bringing her to the top of the platform stairs.
Taking them in a single leap, she rolls as she lands, coming up on one knee, already leaping forward into the crowd. Their signals, she hopes, will mask hers; their bodies certainly will. She keeps her shoulders hunched and her head down, forging a path up the platform and hoping that the agents won't start shooting indiscriminately when they catch up -
"Stand clear of the doors, ladies and gentlemen, mind the closing doors."
One hand on the edge of a door; she pulls herself up and in, spinning as she does so, to land breathless on an empty seat.
No time to rest, though. Looking back along the train, she can see, far away down the line of carriages, two agents already pushing their way forward. There are connecting doors between the carriages; the danger will not stop them. She hasn't much time.
Rising again, she pushes her way through the crush of bodies to the front of her carriage, then opens the emergency door. Those around her gasp and mutter to themselves, but no-one moves to stop her as she steps gingerly out onto the shifting connection between the two carriages. As an afterthought, she slams the door hard behind her and kicks the handle hard, buckling it; it won't stop them for long, but it'll at least slow them down.
The sensation of movement under her feet is unnerving, the sight of the tunnel walls rushing past her disorientating. For a moment she feels dizzy and almost loses her footing; then she gets a solid grip on the handle of the next door and shoves it open, dislodging the man leant upon it.
Onward.
"The next station is Charing Cross."
Another carriage, another gauntlet of open-mouthed commuters. She closes her eyes and offers up a silent prayer to a god she no longer believes in, a god she knows doesn't exist, please, go faster...
There was a nasty moment a minute or so ago, when they pulled out of Piccadilly Circus; she was balanced precariously between two carriages, having let go of one handle and not yet caught the next. She almost fell, catching herself just in time; the sight of the tracks racing by beneath her made her feel sick. Now all she feels is that deep, gut-twisting fear - that she will run out of train before they reach the next station, and she will be trapped like a rat, at the mercy of their guns.
This is the last carriage. She wrenches the door open and throws herself through, almost sobbing with exhaustion. Her legs are burning, and it does her no good to know that it's all in her head; all the rule-twisting she can do won't make it go away.
Then the defiance she has carried with her all her life, even before her freeing, flares up again; taking a step back, she lashes out at the door handle, smashing the mechanism and jamming the door shut.
Please, please hold...
They have gained on her, gained far too quickly. She can see them now, shoving tenaciously through the crowds, casting passengers callously aside as they fight their way to the door, their dark glasses gleaming menacingly in the artificial light.
She backs away from their twisted faces, turning and stumbling down the pitifully short length of the carriage. In desperation she casts around for help, but the eyes that meet hers are expressionless, the faces blank.
She turns again; the first agent has reached the door, and is already tearing at the handle. Her back touches cold metal, the end of the carriage; the agent plants his fingers firmly in the doorframe and tears it from its socket -
"This is Charing Cross."
She hadn't even noticed the train pull into the station. A flicker of hope arises as the doors slide open - but she must time this perfectly. The agent is already running down the train towards her, tossing people right and left, closer and closer -
At the last second, she ducks and rolls. His fist slams into the metal where her head had been, making a tremendous dent; her roll carries her out of the carriage, through the already-closing doors, to sprawl on the platform.
Thunk. The doors slam shut as she rises to see, for the second time that day, an agent's face staring at her through a carriage window, contorted with homicidal rage.
She must move quickly, lose herself in the press of people so they cannot find her. She is close enough now to her objective to go topside, risk the streets of London where every suited businessman could be an agent in unwitting disguise.
Quickly, she moves off up the stairs.
Not so. It came back. Before I knew what had happened I'd got a thousand words down and was getting some decent feedback for it on my LJ, so I thought, well, let's see if I can make a proper chapter out of it. Let's see if I can still write.
Can I?
By the way, the Song of the Driftergirl is Cat Stevens' Father To Son, which she was singing the last time we saw her, in Oxford Circus. And the usual disclaimers apply - not mine, don't own, don't sue, etc.
______________________
"The next station is Lancaster Gate."
She sits demurely on the red faux-leather seat, hands folded in her lap, occasionally smoothing out a stray wrinkle from her otherwise immaculate black skirt. Superficially unremarkable - her clothing, while not unfashionable, is unexceptional; her black hair is styled conservatively - it is not until you look a little closer that you see there is more to this woman than initially meets the eye. She sits ramrod-straight, in defiance of the motion of the carriage, and seems to be winning - after a few seconds, the eye comes to see her as the static point around which the carriage oscillates. While the other passengers read books or newspapers or listen to their Walkmans, she eschews such distractions, keeping her eyes decorously lowered; however, beneath her hooded lashes, her eyes flicker and dart, constantly re-evaluating her surroundings, checking for incongruities, watching for the slightest sign of danger.
Despite the cold weather outside, the carriage is warm; the seats are comfortable, the motion soothing. Yet for all that she does not relax for a second; her lips move soundlessly, as though she is repeating instructions to herself.
Were any of her fellow passengers lip readers, they would be able to decipher her words:
Leicester Square. St James's Park. Tall, slender girl, red hair. Answers to the name 'Rebecca'.
"The next station is Marble Arch."
The doors open onto the near-empty platform, just a handful of windswept-looking travellers waiting to board. A lady moves to take the seat next to her, then thinks better of it, instead moving off up the train. The doors slide closed, and the carriage resumes its journey.
She may not let herself relax, but she appreciates the peacefulness of the underground. There's something almost comforting about the long ride into the dark, like a dream from which one awakes in a different place, blinking in the sunlight.
The corner of her mouth quirks upward. Ironic analogy.
As quickly as it appears, the half-smile vanishes, absorbed back into her porcelain glaze. Indeed, everything about her, though clearly designed to resemble steel, suggests instead some kind of hard ceramic - tough, durable, but brittle and likely to shatter if dropped...
The man two seats away turns the pages of his newspaper, and she snaps instantly back into threat-detection mode, the tension in her humming like a taut wire.
"The next station is Bond Street."
Now the crowds are beginning to build; early Christmas shoppers, tourists, the occasional harassed-looking executive pushing through the throng. One takes the seat to her right, and she wishes he hadn't - after all, it's so much more difficult to tell when they're wearing suits already. The mere sight of him sends adrenaline coursing through her veins.
The seat to her left remains empty, despite there being plenty of standees. Obviously some people's survival instincts are still intact. There's something in the set of her jaw and the lean musculature - almost hidden by the careful line of her clothing - that makes people nervous.
The executive takes out his mobile phone, and she instantly wants to rip out his jugular.
"The next station is Oxford Circus."
By now the atmosphere in the carriage has gone from being pleasantly warm to oppressively hot. It's overcrowded; her exits are blocked. A quick getaway now would be all but impossible.
She closes her eyes, takes a few deep breaths, tries to calm herself. The chances of them showing up are infinitesimal, right? After all, this is a relatively minor mission; there are bigger targets than her in this world right now, doing bigger things. She should be able to slip in under the radar, complete her mission and get out without attracting attention, right?
...right?
"This is Oxford Circus."
By this point she's beginning to get a little tired of the irrepressibly cheerful computerised announcer. So much so, in fact, that her hand is subconsciously creeping, little by little, towards the bulge at her hip - so artfully concealed as to be almost invisible - that just hints at the slender pistol contained beneath.
She catches herself, though, stilling with ease the irrational impulse to blow out every speaker inside the carriage - and in that second realises that something is very wrong.
The train isn't moving.
Another chime, and she has to stop herself gritting her teeth as the voice comes over the speaker again.
"Due to a security alert, this train will terminate at Tottenham Court Road. We apologise for any inconvenience."
Almost before the words 'security alert' have etched themselves into her brain, she is on her feet, pushing her way through the shoppers and commuters, striding for the doors. The alarm sounds; she sees them begin to close. Her legs protest at being urged into such sudden movement, but she ignores them, elbowing aside the last two passengers to throw out her hand and jam her fingers into the last gap between the doors.
She winces as they try to force themselves shut, crushing her fingers between them, then bounce open again; she's halfway through when she feels a grip tighter than a steel band close around her wrist.
Her body responds instinctively, putting her forward momentum to good use, pulling hard on the captured wrist and using the resistance to swing her body round. The agent's face swings into her line of vision, his sneering expression already dissolving into one of wide eyed surprise as he realises her knee is on a direct collision course with his testicles.
He folds up neatly; her knee comes up again to meet his descending nose, and there's a loud crack that sends him staggering back into the carriage. She knows it won't last long - agents are tougher and more resilient than granite - but it gives her the half-second she needs to slip through the doors and let them close - irrevocably - behind her.
She blows the murderous-looking agent a kiss as the train begins to pull out, knowing she shouldn't, but it's one of those things that simply has to be done, in case the universe stops turning when you don't.
They could be anywhere, now. They know where she is. What should she do? Stay down here in the tunnels, or go topside and try to find an exit?
There's a thought. She pulls out her mobile, already jogging up the stairs towards the choice - topside or underground?
However, before she can flip it open, the decision is made for her - footsteps on the stairs above. She darts right, following the Bakerloo signs, disappearing into the maze of tunnels.
The chase is on.
The corridor stretches away in front of her, long and straight and completely devoid of any cover whatsoever. A few stragglers from the last incoming train stare at her as she pounds along, arms pumping, legs flying. Ahead of her is a knot of people, hurrying for the next train - a few turn to look at her, then hurry to get out of the way.
The tiled walls blur as she pushes herself harder, harder, harder. Running is the only option when agents are after you; fighting them is suicide. The faster you run, the longer you survive, here in the Matrix. And she knows how to bend the rules...
She reaches the little crowd of people, but instead of pushing through them she jumps, pushing off her right leg, arching her body over the central rail to land on her hands and then using her momentum to flip back over onto her feet. She races past the gaping onlookers, then vaults back over the rail just as the shout echoes from the other end of the corridor.
"There she is!"
Now fear, real tangible fear, kicks in, leaving her mouth dry and her pulse racing; she forces it under control, twisting it into a tool to make her legs move faster. Another little gaggle of people; this time she doesn't even slow, but simply concentrates, bends -
- and jumps. She glides through the air, inches from the top of the tallest man's head, in the unnerving slow motion that always accompanies the rule-bending tricks she has been taught, or has taught herself. Tucking and rolling, her toes grazing the ceiling, she lands running and rounds the corner. Her eyes flicker, scanning for possible dangers and opportunities, taking in the whole scene - the smooth walls, the plodding commuters, the busker girl ahead playing her guitar and singing in a sweet, unearthly voice...
A flash before her vision; she stumbles, trying to assimilate what she saw, or thought she saw, in that split second. It was as though she saw the Matrix itself, the glimmering lines of malachite-green code endlessly writing and rewriting her surroundings - the tunnels, the people, the girl's guitar; and where the girl herself should have been, a shining golden silhouette that sparked and shimmered with an inner light.
She regains herself, feet thudding dully against the floor as she forges onward - but she can't take her eyes from the drifter girl. And now the girl is looking at her, lips curving in a smile around the words of her song.
"I was once like you are now
And I know that it's not easy
To be calm when you've found
Something going on"
Something in the words, in the voice, tugs at her; her steps slow, though she knows the agents are close on her heels. Despite herself, she finds herself fumbling in a pocket for the modest amount of money that all insurgents are issued with at the beginning of a mission, just in case; it's not much, but she can drop it as she goes past, it won't take a second -
"Take your time, think a lot
Think of everything you've got
For you will still be here tomorrow
But your dreams may not..."
That brings her up short; the sudden, intense feeling that the girl is singing directly to her, to her and no-one else. She half-turns, taking in the girl's appearance for the first time - glossy brown hair streaked with red, secretive but smiling blue eyes, torn jeans and oversized pink T-shirt. She holds out the money, stiffly and awkwardly, abruptly aware of the danger close behind.
The girl's smile widens; the strings of her guitar fall still as she reaches to take the folded notes. She catches Trinity's eye, sky-blue meeting sea-green, and winks; the sound of agents' pounding footsteps is loud in Trinity's ears as the girl begins to sing again, her clear voice resonating perfectly in the tunnels.
"Now there's a way
And I know that I have to go away
I know I have to go..."
As the last note dies, she lets her guitar fall to the floor (where it lands as softly as a marshmallow on a pillow), stretching out her hand and flicking her fingers contemptuously towards the oncoming agents.
Flick. Flick. Flick. A whisper fills the air, rising to an almost ultrasonic scream - Trinity has heard that noise before, and knows what it means. A reprogramming of something, an alteration - her muscles tense for flight -
And the agents stop, caught in mid-air, immobile, the leader's face twisted in a dreadful expression of rage and recognition. The girl - or rather, as she now recognises, the program - turns toward her, still smiling but now with a strained intensity on her - its - face.
"It won't hold them for long. Run."
She bends, picks up her guitar and steps backward; the wall ripples around her as it swallows her with the same unearthly squeal, closing seamlessly behind her and leaving Trinity standing open-mouthed in the middle of the tunnel.
But only for a second - then she shakes her head, spins on her heel and continues running.
As she nears the end of the corridor, the first shot rings out; a bullet ricochets off the ceiling behind her, ending its flight in the wall ahead. She hears screams and sees the people ahead of her drop to the floor like puppets cut from their strings, covering their heads. Instantly she sees the double-edged sword - this clears her path, but if the same is happening behind her it also gives the agents a direct line of fire. Any moment now a bullet could carve its way into her back.
She knows, without false modesty, that she is one of the best. Morpheus, of course, is the master, but there are few others who can match her. Jue of the Osiris and Captain Niobe of the Logos, perhaps, but Jue's skill is with blade and Niobe's in marksmanship; neither of them could best her in a melee.
Of course, all the skill in the world would not help her if one of the agents got a clear shot, but right now she is turning all that skill, all that grace, speed and stamina, to ensuring that that does not happen. She ducks and twists as bullets sing past her, striking chips of tile from the tunnel walls that sting her exposed arms; grabbing the central fence, she takes her full weight on her arms and kicks upward, pulling her legs in and scraping her heels along the ceiling as she performs a perfect somersault over the railing, bringing her to the top of the platform stairs.
Taking them in a single leap, she rolls as she lands, coming up on one knee, already leaping forward into the crowd. Their signals, she hopes, will mask hers; their bodies certainly will. She keeps her shoulders hunched and her head down, forging a path up the platform and hoping that the agents won't start shooting indiscriminately when they catch up -
"Stand clear of the doors, ladies and gentlemen, mind the closing doors."
One hand on the edge of a door; she pulls herself up and in, spinning as she does so, to land breathless on an empty seat.
No time to rest, though. Looking back along the train, she can see, far away down the line of carriages, two agents already pushing their way forward. There are connecting doors between the carriages; the danger will not stop them. She hasn't much time.
Rising again, she pushes her way through the crush of bodies to the front of her carriage, then opens the emergency door. Those around her gasp and mutter to themselves, but no-one moves to stop her as she steps gingerly out onto the shifting connection between the two carriages. As an afterthought, she slams the door hard behind her and kicks the handle hard, buckling it; it won't stop them for long, but it'll at least slow them down.
The sensation of movement under her feet is unnerving, the sight of the tunnel walls rushing past her disorientating. For a moment she feels dizzy and almost loses her footing; then she gets a solid grip on the handle of the next door and shoves it open, dislodging the man leant upon it.
Onward.
"The next station is Charing Cross."
Another carriage, another gauntlet of open-mouthed commuters. She closes her eyes and offers up a silent prayer to a god she no longer believes in, a god she knows doesn't exist, please, go faster...
There was a nasty moment a minute or so ago, when they pulled out of Piccadilly Circus; she was balanced precariously between two carriages, having let go of one handle and not yet caught the next. She almost fell, catching herself just in time; the sight of the tracks racing by beneath her made her feel sick. Now all she feels is that deep, gut-twisting fear - that she will run out of train before they reach the next station, and she will be trapped like a rat, at the mercy of their guns.
This is the last carriage. She wrenches the door open and throws herself through, almost sobbing with exhaustion. Her legs are burning, and it does her no good to know that it's all in her head; all the rule-twisting she can do won't make it go away.
Then the defiance she has carried with her all her life, even before her freeing, flares up again; taking a step back, she lashes out at the door handle, smashing the mechanism and jamming the door shut.
Please, please hold...
They have gained on her, gained far too quickly. She can see them now, shoving tenaciously through the crowds, casting passengers callously aside as they fight their way to the door, their dark glasses gleaming menacingly in the artificial light.
She backs away from their twisted faces, turning and stumbling down the pitifully short length of the carriage. In desperation she casts around for help, but the eyes that meet hers are expressionless, the faces blank.
She turns again; the first agent has reached the door, and is already tearing at the handle. Her back touches cold metal, the end of the carriage; the agent plants his fingers firmly in the doorframe and tears it from its socket -
"This is Charing Cross."
She hadn't even noticed the train pull into the station. A flicker of hope arises as the doors slide open - but she must time this perfectly. The agent is already running down the train towards her, tossing people right and left, closer and closer -
At the last second, she ducks and rolls. His fist slams into the metal where her head had been, making a tremendous dent; her roll carries her out of the carriage, through the already-closing doors, to sprawl on the platform.
Thunk. The doors slam shut as she rises to see, for the second time that day, an agent's face staring at her through a carriage window, contorted with homicidal rage.
She must move quickly, lose herself in the press of people so they cannot find her. She is close enough now to her objective to go topside, risk the streets of London where every suited businessman could be an agent in unwitting disguise.
Quickly, she moves off up the stairs.