Hey, everybody! Happy holidays! I hope we're all surviving. I for one am super depressed but hey, who cares! It's Christmas!
So what Haven126 and I realized is that this exam is going to be really, really, REALLY long, so we're going to split it up into parts. Here's the first one.
Director Webber didn't lift her head when the War Room door opened; she knew it was Mac who was joining her. It was the afternoon following their phone call with Murdoc, and her agents—all three of the ones still accounted for, since Dalton had been released from the hospital—were finishing up another round of breathing treatments with the Phoenix medical staff before joining her. Matty was getting their numbers in real time, so she knew that Mac had completed his a bit ahead of his teammates, and with the tension between him and Jack, she also figured he wouldn't stick around to wait.
Looking at the medical report for the blond agent, his doctors were much more optimistic now than they had been yesterday. There was even a note in the report that Mac had actually slept through a portion of each treatment, much to the delight of Dr. Talbot.
Still, the doctors had made a point to mention that he was not at a hundred percent yet. Most of that toxic smoke he'd inhaled had been purged from his system, but he was not, in reality, good to go.
When the director finally flicked her eyes up to her agent, she found herself agreeing with their assessment.
MacGyver stood before her a bit pale, with dark rings under his tired eyes and an uncharacteristically somber expression. He wasn't himself, and he hadn't been for a long time. No one in their right mind would send him out to face whatever Murdoc had come up with for this new game.
But they had no choice. Someone had to go, and Murdoc would accept no substitutes. Mac had to be ready.
If he wasn't, she'd lose them both.
"Sleep well, blondie?" she asked finally to break the silence that had stretched between them.
"...I slept," Mac offered at last. It wasn't nearly as reassuring as his tone indicated he'd meant it to be. Matty shot him a look that told him exactly how she felt about that, and put her tablet down. Her agent tensed, waiting—she was sure—for a lecture, but there was no point in that. Not this late in the game.
"How're you feeling?" she asked. "Did they give you something for the pain?"
"Tylenol," Mac shrugged. "I'll be fine. I take it there's been no luck finding her."
"No," Matty confirmed regretfully. "Mac—"
She was interrupted by Dalton and Bozer coming into the room, neither of them looking much better than Mac.
"Hope we didn't miss anything," Jack was trying not to sound harsh, but he didn't quite succeed, and his partner's jaw tightened.
"No," the blond agent assured him stiffly. "But I don't think it'll be much longer; he called right around this time yesterday."
As if to emphasize his point, his phone went off, alerting him to a new email. Matty watched the blond agent hesitate before pulling out his phone, every muscle in his body tensing beneath his skin. Once the director made sure the email itself was harmless, he opened it. It was short again this time, no attachments, no introductions.
Exam 3 is not a partner test. You are to pass or fail on your own. The following are prohibited in the exam hall:
-A partner
-Any means of communicating with anyone outside of the exam
-Any means of outside help locating you or the exam
-Any weapons or tools (excluding your Swiss army knife)
-Anything else that may be reasonably deemed "cheating"
The exam itself will be explained upon your arrival at the below location. If any tails or other surveillance measures are seen, or if any of the above rules are broken, it will result in an automatic failing grade and a particularly unfortunate end for Miss Davis. See you soon, MacGyver.
Matty frowned at the message and the coordinates provided beneath it, glancing over at her agent and seeing that he looked as though the floor had dropped out from under him.
"He didn't give us a time frame," she stated while her analysts began to run down the coordinates and tried to trace the email. "We can take a minute, come up with a strategy. You don't have to rush into this."
"Every minute we wait is another minute he's alone with Riley," Jack protested, his voice harsh enough to make Mac shift uncomfortably. "We try to cheat this and he will kill her. There's nothing to plan; we don't know what he has in mind! Waiting is pointless." He turned to face his partner, arms folded over his chest. "Right, Mac?"
It was possibly the first time he'd addressed the blond agent directly in quite a while, but it wasn't encouraging. It was clear that Jack was not actually soliciting his partner's opinion; the words were prickly and bordered on a threat. Mac looked at him for a few seconds, and Matty thought she might have seen a spark of fear in his eyes. Finally, he nodded.
"Jack's right," he stated, a tiny waver in his voice prompting him to clear his throat before he turned to look at her. "He's clearly already pissed off; it's probably not in anyone's best interest to keep him waiting. I'll be fine, Matty." He turned to leave, not meeting their eyes. "I'll see you when I get back."
He left the War Room, and Matty had to let him, but when he was gone, she glared at Jack, who huffed.
"What?"
"You just fed him to the wolves and guilted him into not even taking a minute to collect himself," she growled. "You put him in a terrible mindset right before he has to go up against Murdoc. You couldn't even pretend to be supportive for Riley's sake?"
"Coddling him is a waste of time and energy," Jack replied, staring her down.
"So you two are gonna let Murdoc tear you both apart like he planned because you can't even put your ego aside for thirty seconds?" Matty honestly couldn't believe what she was hearing. "Christ, Dalton, what the fuck happened?"
"Frankly, Matty, that's none of your damn business," the former Delta glared.
"It's severely affecting this team, so it is my business!"
"That's it; I'm not dealing with this," Dalton turned his back on her, starting to head for the hallway, but he barely made it two steps. Bozer, who had been watching this whole exchange with a rage-filled expression, grabbed his arm before he could make it to the door, spun him, and punched him hard across the face, making Jack stumble to the floor. It happened so fast that Matty almost didn't process what was happening.
"Bozer!" she shouted the harsh warning when the furious agent took a step forward, but Bozer didn't advance any farther. The younger man stared daggers at Jack for a few seconds as he gaped up at him in genuine surprise. When Wilt spoke, his voice was like ice.
"If my best friend gets killed because you got in his head, I will feed you to Murdoc myself."
With this, he turned and rushed out of the War Room, likely trying to catch Mac before he left. Matty stared at Jack as he got to his feet, rubbing his jaw.
"Whatever happened between you and Mac," the director said slowly, pulling Jack's eyes, "whatever it was, I know you haven't just stopped caring about that kid. You couldn't have; you can't simply turn it off. You just sent Mac up against Murdoc in a terrible headspace without even so much as a 'good luck' on his way out. If something goes wrong in there, if Murdoc wins, if Mac is too distracted to get both himself and Riley out alive, do you really want what you said to him just now to be the last words he ever hears you say?"
Jack had no answer for that, just glaring at her. Matty uttered a weary sigh and waved her hand.
"Go," she ordered. "Get some ice on that. I'll let you know when someone makes contact."
Again, her words were met with a furious glare, but Dalton didn't say a word, instead walking out of the room.
Leaving Matty alone, praying that she wouldn't have to start planning a couple funerals before the day was up.
Mac was almost to his car when he heard his name being called behind him. He turned, finding Bozer slowing to a stop in front of him, a little winded. Mac blinked at him.
"Did you run all the way from the War Room?"
Bozer nodded, taking a moment to catch his breath. The blond agent was surprised at himself when he laughed quietly. Of course he did.
"Didn't get a chance to say anything before you walked out," Bozer explained once he'd slowed his breathing. "You seemed off. Like, more than usual."
Mac let out a sigh through his nose. "Yeah. Maybe. But Boze, really, I am fine. I can handle this, whatever he throws at me."
He meant it to be reassuring, but even he didn't believe the words, and that came through in his voice. Bozer frowned at him.
"You realize that you won the last round, right?" he stated, causing Mac to shift his feet uncomfortably. "Actually you've won every round so far."
"'Won' is a strong word," Mac chuckled.
"But the right one," Bozer insisted. Then he sighed. "Look, man, I won't keep you; I just wanted to tell you that even though we won't be there, we've got your back. And even if Jack's being a dick, he does care that you make it out of this. We all do. Whatever this is, you can beat him, just like you've done every other time before this."
Despite himself, Mac felt his shoulders relax a bit. There were a thousand reasons he could find to contradict the other agent's statement, but somehow, coming from him, they managed to cut through the noise. He offered his friend a slight smile. "Thanks, Boze."
"Any time, man," his best friend grinned right back at him, then pulled him into a hug. "I'll see you later."
It wasn't just a sendoff. It was a promise. And before Mac even really thought about it, he promised the same—for both himself and Riley. Then they separated, said their goodbyes, and then Mac was off, pulling up the coordinates on his GPS. They led him, to his surprise, to a busy, upscale restaurant about an hour and a half from Phoenix. Mac blinked, but found a place to park in the lot behind the building next door. There were so many people around, so many civilians inside—surely, Murdoc couldn't be hiding Riley there, could he? And there would be so many cameras; what the hell was that psycho up to?
He was about to get out of his car when his phone buzzed in his hand. He had a text from a restricted number.
Leave your phone in your car. Your Uber is arriving.
Mac was confused for a second, but when an SUV pulled up behind his Jeep, he realized Riley's captor was being fairly literal. The blond agent sighed, then dropped his phone in the glove compartment and climbed out. The man driving the SUV was early-to-mid-thirties, dark hair, five o'clock shadow. He was gripping the steering wheel tightly, his body rigid as Mac walked around and got in the passenger seat—noting the lack of stickers identifying the car as an Uber or Lyft. Without saying a word or even looking at him for more than a few seconds, his driver grabbed a phone from the cup holder and handed it to him. Mac blinked, but accepted the device, and as they pulled out towards the road again, it vibrated, and the screen warned him of a call from a restricted number. Mac let out his breath and answered before he could psych himself out.
"Good to know you made it, Angus," Murdoc's voice made the agent's jaw tighten. The assassin sounded almost cheerful. "You have a little time before the festivities really kick off, so I'd settle in."
"Y'know, you can't turn just any old car into an Uber," Mac commented, looking over at his driver and seeing his hands wringing the wheel, a look of anguish on his face. "What did you do to this guy?"
"Nothing yet, of course," Murdoc sighed. Mac frowned, watching his driver's eyes flick up to the visor, and when the agent looked, he saw the snapshot of a smiling little boy and girl, maybe four years old. Mac looked over his shoulder into the back seat and saw two car seats strapped in.
"Where are they?" the blond man demanded slowly.
"Relax, Angus," Murdoc chuckled. "They're fine. They're eating ice cream, waiting for their dad to come pick them up. I just wanted to call and give you one last chance: If I find anything on you when you get here—"
"I don't have anything; I'm not an idiot," Mac grumbled. There was a pause on the other end of the line.
"Very well, then," he allowed finally. "We shall see. I'll see you soon MacGyver."
He hung up before Mac could stop him, and the blond agent let out his breath, putting the phone down.
"I'm sorry you got dragged into this," Mac told his driver sincerely, quietly, certain that Murdoc was listening. "He won't hurt them. I won't let him."
The man behind the wheel just looked at him, terror in his dark eyes. The phone buzzed in the cup holder, and he picked it up and looked at the text on the screen.
Don't make promises you can't keep.
Mac's jaw tightened in frustration, but he didn't say anything, he didn't text back, and beside him, his driver didn't reply.
It took around another thirty minutes for them to pull into a parking lot in a much less well-monitored part of the city. The surrounding buildings all seemed more or less abandoned. A limo—suitable for about five or six passengers, hardly something that would stand out in Los Angeles—was parked and waiting in a patch of shade. They pulled into a spot, and as both Mac and his driver got out, the back door of the limo opened, and the two kids from the picture came running out with cries of, "Daddy!"
Their father dropped to one knee, catching both of them in a hug, but neither child seemed in any way distressed or upset. The phone Mac had been given vibrated again, alerting him to one more text.
Get in.
Mac frowned, then turned to look back at the man who'd driven him there.
"You should get them out of here," he said gently. The man nodded at him, then quickly started placing both children in their car seats. Mac waited near the back door of the limo until he drove away, and then, with one last deep breath, he climbed inside.
Inside the limo was Murdoc.
The blond agent suppressed a startled jump; he'd been expecting for the psychopath to be behind the wheel, if he was there at all. Murdoc grinned at him, though his eyes were like ice.
"Welcome, MacGyver," he greeted him.
"What was the point with those kids?" Mac demanded, trying to keep his voice steady. Murdoc shrugged.
"You all get so testy when children get involved. It's actually quite amusing, and frankly, you've been getting on my last nerve lately; seemed only fair to return the favor."
The words were casual, but there was a chilling annoyance in the tone that kept Mac from responding. With a sigh, the assassin picked up what looked like a glass of whiskey or scotch and handed it to him.
"Drink up."
Mac hesitated, staring at it for a beat or two before flicking his eyes back up to Murdoc.
"What is it?"
Murdoc frowned slightly. "Does it matter?"
"I did just get out of the hospital," Mac reminded him. "I'd rather not die from the wrong drug interaction."
"As if I didn't already account for that," the assassin growled. "How stupid do you think I am? I simply don't want to spoil the surprise, Angus, so you can either drink this, or forfeit."
A sedative. Murdoc wanted him to drug himself. The Phoenix agent swallowed hard, but reached out and took the glass from his outstretched hand.
"Why are you even giving me the option?" Mac asked quietly, bringing the glass closer to his nose and sniffing it. He was surprised when he realized that it wasn't scotch or whiskey, but apple juice.
"I want to know if you've learned anything," Murdoc shrugged as a small smile spread across his face and he settled back into his seat. "Now, go on. Drink up."
Mac knew he'd stalled as much as he could, so he took a quick breath and brought the glass up to his lips, tipping it back and spilling the juice into his mouth. He swallowed the liquid before he had time to think about it, and when it was all gone, he lowered his head to see Murdoc outright grinning. The blond man suppressed a shudder.
"You are learning," the psychopath remarked somewhat joyously. Mac kept his expression as neutral as he could. Already, Mac felt a chill settle into his chest, his whole body starting to feel heavy.
"Well, I'm glad," Murdoc continued as the blond agent fought in vain to keep his eyes open. "Maybe you can be taught after all, MacGyver."
Mac didn't have time to reply. Whatever Murdoc had given him was hitting him fast; before he knew it, his sluggish thoughts finally pulled him into unconsciousness.
Lifting his eyelids felt like too demanding a task. Mac clung desperately to his slumber, willing himself back to sleep—until he remembered.
Murdoc.
Riley.
The blond agent switched gears, forcing himself back to consciousness as fast as he could.
He actually questioned whether he'd truly opened his eyes; it was absolutely pitch black, wherever he was. Remaining still, lying on his back, he blinked a few times, but there was no blindfold on him, no bag over his head. Strangely, though, it felt like he was wearing glasses. A couple seconds later, it registered that there was something strapped to his left forearm.
Finally, the agent pushed himself up into a sitting position. The second he started moving, a projector started up, casting an image onto the wall on his left. The sudden rush of light had him shutting his eyes again. He pried them open slowly, letting them adjust, then started looking around, trying to get his bearings.
The first thing he did was look down at himself. He was no longer wearing the button-up and jeans he'd been wearing when he'd left Phoenix. He was now wearing black pants, black boots, and a gray, collared polo shirt with a logo for something called Dempsey Engineering Services embroidered on the left side of his chest. He tried not to dwell on this fact too much, though he did feel a slight chill run down his spine before he squashed the feeling.
Attached to his left forearm, just shy of his watch, was an arm band with a cellphone attached long ways on the inside of his arm. The screen of the device was dark, and when he tapped at it, it didn't respond. He couldn't seem to remove it, either, so eventually, he just let it be. Reaching up, he realized that he was indeed wearing glasses. When he took them off, he saw that they were simple, black frames, like the kind one might find in a drug store, but they had no sort of magnification. He was about to discard them when the phone on his arm vibrated and three words appeared on the black screen.
Keep them on.
Mac frowned, but did as he was told and slipped the glasses back onto his face, watching the words disappear and the screen again go black. Then, he decided to take in his surroundings.
All of the walls were painted black, as was the floor, which seemed to be made out of plywood. The walls to his left and right were about twelve feet long, and the other two walls were about seven feet. On the wall in front of him, there was a backpack hanging from a hook, but nothing else. Finally, he shifted his attention to what was being projected onto the wall on his left.
The image was backwards, but Mac knew what it was. There was what looked like an old timey nurse's hat with blood dripping off of it, with the word 'Loading...' underneath it. Beneath both of those were smaller words that changed every ten seconds or so, but Mac couldn't quite read them.
Frowning, the agent stood up and walked over to the backpack on the hook. It wasn't like a schoolkid's backpack—this one was probably intended for hiking. When he opened it, he found it was empty except for his knife. He took the knife out and put it in his pocket, then zipped up the pack and grabbed it, slinging it over both shoulders and bucking the straps in front, making sure the bag was tight to his body so that it wouldn't hinder him if he had to run. He knew what Murdoc was going for, here—the loading screen made that obvious.
He was in a real-life video game. Horror genre. And set in some kind of hospital, if the nurse's hat was any indication.
He was player 1.
The glasses were probably hiding a camera—that would explain the insistence on keeping them. Some kind of first-person setup. Which made the backpack his inventory.
Once the bag was secure, Mac looked around again, this time spotting a door that he'd missed the first time, tucked away in the corner, on the same wall as the projection. It, too, was painted black, and recessed into the wall, making it hard to spot. The blond agent walked over to it and saw that it had the word 'START' painted in small white letters in the middle of the door. With one more deep breath, he pushed it open.
He was certainly right about the horror aspect. And the hospital aspect.
A sign on the far wall behind the front desk proclaimed the hospital to be the Pleasant Peaks Mental Hospital, but Mac called that name into question as his eyes scanned the surrounding area.
There was a lot of blood.
There was a pool of it on and in front of the main desk, originating from the body of a woman dressed in an old nurse's uniform, and three other pools in the lobby, belonging to—judging by the uniforms—two orderlies and a janitor.
Mac did not want to know whether or not the bodies were real.
There were smears of blood as well, on the floors and walls, from hands and feet presumably belonging to the killer or killers. Or at least, that was the narrative Mac was expected to come up with.
The phone on the agent's arm vibrated, and Mac looked down to find another message on the screen in small white letters.
Objective: Find the main office.
Easy enough to start.
The main office was probably near the front of the building—where he was at that moment. There was a door to his right and his left, and Mac tried the one on his right first. The door deposited him into what looked like a conference room, but apart from the table and chairs, it was empty. Knowing he had to keep moving, Mac quickly made his way over to the opposite door. This one was a restroom. With a small sigh, the blond agent backed out and ventured a little further into the bloody room.
There were three more doors in the more open part of the room, one on his left and two on his right. The one on his right that was closest to the front desk looked far more secure than either of the other two, this one metal as opposed to wood and seemingly outfitted with alarms and magnetic locks. Probably led into the patient center.
Of the two remaining doors, only one of them had a blood trail coming out of it.
One guess as to where Murdoc wanted him to go.
Mac carefully picked his way across the blood-spattered floor, tiptoeing around pools and smears of it, trying for several reasons not to get it on his shoes. He'd heard nothing so far—absolutely nothing, not even the sounds of the settling building—but he could be reasonably sure that he was severely outnumbered by hostiles. Best if they couldn't see where he'd been.
He made it to the door and pushed it open, and when he did, he found that he was right again.
The office apparently belonged to a Doctor Ellicott, according to the awards and accolades hanging on the wall opposite the desk. There wasn't as much blood inside as Mac thought there would be, but there was spatter on the wall and obvious signs of a struggle. The room had been trashed, file cabinets tipped, chairs broken and overturned, the desk at an angle. Mac had no idea what he was supposed to be looking for, so he decided to start with the desk—normally, logic would dictate that if anything important had been on the desk, it would have probably ended up on the floor, but this was a video game, after all.
He had to shuffle the various papers around, but he discovered a work order for the company embroidered on his shirt. Evidently, he—or his character—had been hired to fix the master cell controls for the south and east wings.
Great. Trapped in a psych hospital where the cells don't lock properly. Exactly how he wanted his day to go.
Mac let his breath out through his nose in a quiet sigh, then turned his attention to the drawers, pulling them open one by one and searching them. He found a box of large paperclips, which he pocketed; a handful of pens, one of which he snagged; several seemingly random pieces of paper; and, most promisingly, a map.
Actually, more like four maps, stapled together. One for each of the four wings. Out of curiosity, Mac took a closer look at the south and east wings.
Which were designed to house the violent and/or criminally insane patients.
Of course they were. Why would he expect any different?
The phone on his arm buzzed again, and Mac looked at it and found that it now had a map icon in the lower left corner. When he tapped it, it pulled up virtual images of the maps in his hand, and he could swipe through the wings and even zoom in if he wanted.
In theory, that rendered the paper copies useless.
Provided, of course, that Murdoc didn't alter them.
Mac slipped the paper copies into his back pocket and continued searching the room. He found several patient files amongst the debris—a couple of them spattered with blood—and he took the time to skim them, memorizing the attached pictures and reminding himself that everything in this room had been planted; Murdoc wanted him to find these. Yes, it could be a distraction tool, but Murdoc did stress 'the power of preparedness' during the encounter that kicked it all off.
He'd just finished reading that a south wing patient named Benny was obsessed with otters when a sound finally broke the silence. That metal door slamming. Voices. And then, startlingly enough, intense music piped into his ear by what he quickly realized was an earpiece. It was small enough that Mac hadn't noticed it before, but he certainly wanted to rip it out now.
The phone on his arm buzzed, and he glanced at it for just a second—long enough to see the word 'hide' in the middle of the screen—before quickly searching for a hiding spot.
Under the desk was too obvious. He'd be found immediately. Behind the filing cabinets? No; moving them enough would be too noisy and time-consuming. His eyes then fell on a cabinet that was now on the floor in front of the blacked-out window. It was about the size of a footlocker, and had been propped up on roughly eighteen-inch-tall legs. It had large, wide doors on the front of it. It had been tipped in the struggle and was now front-down on the floor with the doors open.
He could easily fit under it, so that's what he did. Quiet as he could manage, the blond agent tipped the cabinet up, crawled under it, and settled it back in place maybe five seconds before the door was thrown violently open.
Mac stayed perfectly still, hardly daring to breathe as he listened. There was a slight crack between the cabinet and the floor caused by the open doors allowing him to see out. He could see two pairs of feet, the shoes and pant legs spattered in blood.
"See, I told you," one slightly-nasal male voice chimed in. "We're late to the party; the others got to the doc first."
"God DAMMIT!" the other man, his voice much more booming, shouted in frustration, taking a step forward and kicking the cabinet under which Mac was hiding. Thankfully, the legs of the cabinet were almost against the wall anyway, and prevented it from moving too much, but still, the blond man had to clamp a hand hard over his nose and mouth to silence himself, scrambling back an inch or two so that they couldn't possibly see a finger or bit of his arm sticking out, his movements covered by the sound of the cabinet's reverberations.
"Easy, big guy," the nasal voice laughed. "Let's go find 'em; maybe we can still get in on the fun stuff."
The larger man heaved a sigh. "I wanted to smash his skull."
"I know," the nasal voice commiserated. "I wanted to pull out his teeth. C'mon; maybe we can get in on it still."
The second man grumbled his agreement, and presumably his companion patted him on the back by the sound, and then the pair shuffled out. Mac didn't move a muscle, straining to listen. He heard a fleshy thunk, like someone falling bonelessly to the floor, followed by an industrial lock click and the heavy metal door opening. After a few beats, it slammed shut. Mac gave it a ten-count before he finally eased himself out of his hiding place. He took a minute, calming himself on his knees before he got up and did one more quick search of the office. This time, he found a phone charger cable. No plug, but still might come in handy, so he snagged it and put it in the outside zipper pocket of his backpack. Then, he ventured out into the main area again.
The second his foot crossed the threshold, the phone buzzed.
Objective: Find the security office.
Alright, then.
He pulled up the map on the phone, and quickly found that the whole building—not just the wings—was included on the virtual map, whereas the paper one only showed the wings.
The building consisted of a square central hub—what Mac was standing in—and four wings. The south and east wings were walled off, inside and out, to contain the violent inmates. There was a chapel set up between the two wings, bridging them together, on the second floor. After scanning the wings, he realized that the security office was not in either wing, but rather above him, in the central hub. Through the metal door at the far side of the room, there would be a long hallway that looped all the way around the hub, giving access to all four wings as well as the stairs to the second floor.
In other words, getting through that door—which those two apparent patients had just gone through—was not optional.
Mac picked his way through the room, careful of the blood, and beelined for the janitor, first. Searching the man, he found that the body was indeed real, and he quickly snagged the man's ID badge and keyring. He opened the last door in the main space and found some kind of waiting room. Nothing useful, just chairs and magazines.
He was then left with the last door.
Mac took a deep breath to prepare himself, then made his way over to the metal door. It was locked, as he expected, but he quickly realized that the janitor's keyring could not open the magnetic lock. Nor could his ID; there wasn't even anything to scan it. With a flip-flopping stomach, the agent slowly turned back to the main desk. The boneless drop sound he'd heard earlier was from the head nurse, whose body had slid off the desk and onto the floor. Her white uniform was dyed a deep red, and her eyes were only half closed. Mac shook his head and made himself focus. He walked towards the desk, and on a hunch, felt along the bottom of it until he found a button. Pressing it, he heard the magnetic lock release, but when he let go to walk towards the door, he heard them re-engage.
The door would only be unlocked as long as someone was holding the button.
Letting out a sigh, Mac hesitantly picked through the desk. He found a large binder clip—splashed with blood—and snagged both it and a tissue, wiping off the blood. He clipped it around the end of the desk, and the locks did click, but when he let go of the clip, it snapped off the desk, and Mac barely managed to catch it. He frowned and tried again, but got the same result; the clip just didn't have enough grip on the slick counter. He started looking around for something else he could use when the phone on his arm vibrated again. There was a new icon—a hammer and screwdriver—beside the map icon on the screen, blinking rapidly at him. Frowning slightly, he tapped it. The hammer and screwdriver got bigger to take up the middle of the screen, then blinked off, replaced by words.
Crafting: You can combine objects to get you through each objective. If the chosen objects can't be combined, you will receive an audio cue. Failure to heed the audio cue will result in a penalty. You have 3 passes to do what you want within reason, but using those passes will also incur a penalty.
Mac frowned, but turned back to the desk, opening drawers and digging though until he came up with two rubber bands. He wrapped them around the top and bottom parts of the clip, then clipped it over the button again. This time, it stayed put, and the door stayed unlocked. And no audio cue. The blond agent took a breath to prepare himself, then walked over and opened the door, stepping into the loop.
It wasn't as bloody as the main room, but there were smears and footprints, mostly between the south and east wing doors and the door through which Mac had just entered. There were also a few bloody footprints coming from the direction he had to go to get to the stairs.
Better that they were coming from the stairs than only going to them.
Well, better for him, anyway.
Not wanting to waste time, the agent made his way towards the stairwell. He peered through the safety glass window in the door, and found the stairwell to be a bit bloodier than the hallway. There was a body on the landing directly ahead, up half a flight of stairs, and while one of the lights in the lower part of the stairs was out, one of the ones on the upper part was flickering, giving an already-eerie setting an added layer of visceral discomfort.
Mac shook his head, then pushed the door open. Or, tried to. The door seemed stuck. The blond agent pushed harder, and frowned and then swallowed a gag when he realized that there was another body behind the door, preventing it from opening easily. It looked like one of the security guards, though his face was shredded; Mac couldn't make out any real features.
Suppressing a shudder, he slipped between the door and the wall when he had it open a crack and stepped over the body, letting the door close behind him. After a second, he also reached down and dragged the body away from the door; if he had to make a quick getaway, he didn't want anything between him and the exit. Then, he made his way upstairs, going slow and quiet. The whole place was eerily silent, like it was constantly preparing for a jumpscare. And maybe it was; Murdoc certainly wasn't above that.
Mac's whole body was rigid as he approached the top landing and peered through the safety glass window. There were more bodies. Two that he could see, one of them appearing to be a patient. The agent eased open the door as quietly as he could, cringing at the retort from the hinges—which seemed about five million times louder than it probably was. Tiptoeing and holding his breath, he picked his way through the minefield of blood and bodies. The security office was the room directly to his left. The door was propped open by a body's leg, with the other leg bent at a grotesque angle. Mac's jaw tightened, but he pushed open the door. There were two security guards inside—both deceased—and while the one preventing the door from closing looked like he'd just been...torn apart, the other man looked like he'd sustained a single gunshot to the back left side of the head. Part of his face had exploded outwards. Which was strange, because neither guard had a gun on them—not even a holster. That, of course, made sense, as it was hardly a good idea to let mental patients, especially those housed in the east and south wings, anywhere near a firearm.
But then how did this man get shot?
Images of that crime scene they uncovered with Riley's prints all over it flashed across his mind, and his stomach churned unhappily. He quickly tore his eyes away, searching both bodies and coming up with one security badge, which he slipped into his pocket. Then he turned his eyes to the screens.
It was the same display as he'd expect to see in any current video game or horror movie. A wall of small, flatpanel monitors, some with static or scrolling lines through them, displaying various parts of the hospital. Many of them showed motion; people dressed in patient garb shuffling through post-apocalyptic hallways. The monitors were labeled, but with some kind of two letter—two number code, and Mac tucked away that detail for later as he took a quick inventory.
At least fifty people, assuming that anything he was seeing was live, and not staged. Rapid movement near the bottom of the stack caught his attention; a patient was prowling around what looked like a gymnasium of some kind, occasionally attacking the doors with his hands and feet. Even as he watched, the screen blinked and flipped to a different view, and Mac took a step back and quickly detected the pattern.
So he was only seeing maybe half of the total number of cameras at any given time. This room was going to be a major time sink.
Assuming he had a timer...
Mac tore his gaze from the monitors to the desk, scanning it for clues. Two procedural binders—and a third on the floor, obviously knocked there in the struggle. A cup of stale, room temperature coffee that had something floating in it, Mac didn't bother to fish it out. The console in front of him was filled with different control panels and buttons, and was sporting a gaping rectangular hole, about the size of a car's radio display. Three cables were poking out. Two of the cables were intact; the third had clearly been harder to unscrew and been hacked off with something sharp.
His wrist vibrated, and Mac barely even glanced at it. The mission here was obvious.
Objective: Fix the master cell controls
And clearly he was going to find the missing box on one of these camera feeds.
Mac started studying them in earnest, trying to assemble what he could see into something that matched his map. He found the gymnasium with its trapped and furious prisoner back on display, so he started there, fishing the map out of his back pocket. He located the gym, which was in a connecting corridor between the south and east wings, and then looked back up to find that the screen was now displaying a hallway, where an overturned gurney, stained with blood, was perfectly framed.
No guarantee it was the hallway outside the gymnasium. No little rectangular cell control module in sight.
Mac glanced at the next screen over, finding a patient room, with what looked like a nurse strapped down to a rail-less gurney with an electroconvulsive therapy machine parked haphazardly beside her. Electrodes had been attached to her forehead, and that was when he actually looked at her face, and realized who it was.
Riley was dressed in a nurse's white uniform—pristinely white, for now. The cut of it suggested a naughty nurse Halloween costume more than an actual uniform. She was holding quite still, he wasn't sure she was conscious, but just before the screen flipped, he thought he saw her eyes blink open.
Then she was gone, and he was looking at a completely raided supply closet.
Mac stared at the screen a second, knowing it would cycle through in fifteen seconds, and scanned the front console for anything that would allow him to have audio—either hear her, or better yet, speak to her. There was a mini-USB port on the front of each flatpanel, and Mac slipped the backpack off one shoulder, pulling it to the front of his body and fishing out the charger cable he'd found downstairs.
Mini USB to mini USB. He could connect the screen to his phone.
Mac made quick work of it, attaching one end and waiting impatiently until the feed was back on Riley before plugging in the cable. Sure enough, the phone's screen lit up with a notification.
Sync Feed?
His options were OK or Cancel, and Mac tapped OK.
An activity bar appeared, moving pretty rapidly, and with a heavy clunk, every screen in the room died.
Mac froze, listening, and he heard a distant shout. A glance at the hallway showed the lights were dead out there, too, and then Mac's phone vibrated.
Sync Failed
He scowled at the phone and swiped away the notification, and the screen was black for a second before it lit back up.
Objective: Find and repair the generator
You know how every class seems to have that one exam that spans like 12 chapters and the test is stupid long and stressful? Yeah, that's what we were going for here. Totally intentional. We promise.
Anyway, I hope you guys enjoyed! Please don't forget to review, and thank you to everyone who has stuck with us through this. More to come very soon!
