Hey guys! So sorry for the wait, but life and school decided to sneak up behind me and beat me up with a bag of bricks. I hope you enjoy!
John limped past Sherlock's cell, his face haggard and rough, but still gave a slight grin as he looked around at all the programs calling his name, soaking in their encouragement. Two guards flanked him with spear-like weapons, uselessly attempting to get the other programs to settle down.
John was thrown into the cell on Sherlock's right by the unnamed guards. Sherlock strode to that wall to unabashedly study him, this program that repeatedly defied the odds.
Now resting on a cot, Sherlock could really observe how weary this program was. He may be winning the Games, but most likely not for much longer. There was the limp he saw earlier, and some sort of shoulder wound, by the way John was moving his right arm.
John looked over to see Sherlock staring, and nodded at him. "I haven't seen you before."
Mike was at Sherlock's shoulder in an instant. "This is Sherlock, John. They brought him in not too long ago. He's a bit off, like you," Mike added, with a smirk. This was clearly something he had teased John about before.
John gave a half-hearted smile to Mike, before turning back to Sherlock. "They took you in today?" he asked, his eyebrows raised and interest etched across his face. Sherlock nodded.
"He was found in the Outlands," Mike added.
"Aren't they all," John answered softly, his voice trailing off. The lines on his face became even more distinct. "Did you see anyone else out there?"
He shook his head. "Should I have?"
John's face remained impassive. "I wouldn't think so. Programs aren't allowed out there, you know?" However, his green-brown eyes glinted with something Sherlock couldn't distinguish.
Sherlock held his gaze, in a vain attempt to decode whatever John might be thinking. He was almost unreadable, just so very different from anyone he had ever crossed paths with before.
Breaking eye contact, John moved to lay on the cot, folding his arms behind his head. Years seem to melt away from his face as he closed his eyes with a slight smile.
Sherlock, though lying on his cot with his eyes shut, stayed awake for most of the night listening to every rustle of movement and tapping of footsteps passing his cell. Mike had been snoring loudly for about the same amount of time, much to Sherlock's annoyance.
A thousand thoughts, emotions, and plans passed through Sherlock's mind as he contemplated his situation. Funnily enough though, worry or fear were not part of them. The shear challenge and novelty of this whole experience excited him beyond measure, encompassing and drowning any negative emotions.
John had to be one of the programs Lestrade created. Sherlock could feel it, though feelings weren't something he usually trusted, but this new situation was changing a lot of things.
"You are different, you know. I can tell," a voice said quietly, breaking Sherlock's reverie. If he hadn't been categorizing the noises throughout the cell block, he might not have heard the soft-spoken words, but he recognized them immediately as John's.
"As are you."
Somewhere about 10 meters to Sherlock's right, a guard coughed. A pregnant silence settled between them, to Sherlock's disappointment. Worried that John would close up to him again, Sherlock knew that he had to act quickly. He must to see Sherlock as a possible ally. The current darkness and absolute quiet around them made this the most opportune time they would ever have.
"Who are you, really, John? You excel in these Games, so you must not be some boring, ordinary program. Who's ever in charge can't be too happy about you continuously surviving. But they must allow it. What purpose do you serve them? Worth more alive than dead, for now at least, I expect. You clearly have great rapport with everyone here. You give them… hope. No tyrant would appreciate that. How much longer do you think he'll allow you to live? Or a better question, how much longer do you think you'll last? You're in bad shape, John."
Sherlock heard John sit up from his cot, moving quickly. Sherlock rose to meet him at the wall between the two cells. They stood inches apart, as close as they could without touching the energy beam.
"What do you want?" John hissed, his face contorted with fear and confusion. He flexed his left hand as if he wanted to grab Sherlock and shake him for his answer.
Sherlock's eyes bore into John's. The slight glow emitting from the white lines on John's clothing covered his face in a mosaic of shadow and light. The light and shadow flowed as John's chest rose up and down rapidly. Sherlock waited until John had calmed a little.
"What's your purpose here, John? What sort of program are you?"
"It's classified," he replied, smoothly and mechanically.
Sherlock nodded, as it was what he expected.
"And who are you exactly, if that's the sort of questions we're asking?" John demanded, narrowing his eyes.
"A friend, I hope. Something is really wrong here, isn't it?" Sherlock said urgently, gesturing vaguely to all around him. "You were designed to find out what the problem was and fix it? Fight the programming error, per se. But it's so much bigger and complex than you or your user expected. I should know, I'm having the same problem." Sherlock smirked. "I'm a bit over my head, and let's just say I don't utter those words often."
John took several deep breaths, shifting his eyes from the ground to his hands. Looking back up at Sherlock, he seemed to search for something on his face, in his eyes. Sherlock could see the reasoning of all the options before him now filtering through John's mind, as he contemplated Sherlock's motivations and character. Sherlock stood still and just looked back down at him.
Suddenly, John just sat down next to the fence. "Down here. We'll draw much less attention," he whispered.
Sherlock promptly sat down, his heart racing.
"Yes, something is very much corrupted in the system. The Master Controller is esteemed by all in the Grid. He's a master at manipulation."
"Not with you though. Because of your programming? Why are you stuck here?" Sherlock's need for answers was practically exploding, and he was only barely talking in a whisper by this point.
John quirked his mouth, attempting to hold back a grin. "You are enthusiastic about this, aren't you? You don't miss a thing."
Sherlock's face fell, a wave of the familiar feeling of being mocked crashing through him. "I am need of answers. Asking questions is the correct procedure of obtaining them, is it not?"
A confused expression flitted across John's face. "It's fantastic. Most programs seem to be incapable of it here."
Sherlock felt a warm feeling settle in his abdomen, and he relaxed.
"But I was captured almost immediately once I appeared in the Outlands. Those Network Lines out there, the MC has some sort of device that is triggered when you cross one. I foolishly didn't realize it until it was too late. They're everywhere, so it is pretty ingenious. I was brought to him, roughly questioned for a bit, but he quickly realized he wasn't getting anything from me. Threw me in here instead. I've been fighting here ever since."
"In more ways than one," Sherlock added.
John nodded thoughtfully. "Like I said, programs don't really think for themselves here. They really do love him, as he knows exactly how to play them. He really is a genius, albeit a mad, evil one. I'm stuck on how it would ever be possible to fix this corruption in the system." Sighing, John laid down on the metal ground.
"You're losing hope," Sherlock realized, his eyes wide.
John's silence was an answer enough.
"Why are you here then?" John asked, glancing over at Sherlock. "You were located at the Outlands too, so did my user send you here to help? I haven't been able to make contact at all, imprisoned here."
"I…" Sherlock stopped, unsure of what to say. He didn't need to know he wasn't a program yet. "Yes, I think we have the same user. He sent me too, to assist you."
John laughed. "Well you've done a brilliant job of it, mate."
They talked for what felt like hours. Too soon though, Sherlock could hear the rustling movements of the programs around them, waking up for what Sherlock assumed was morning. He had lost track of time completely. There was no sun or any clear way to distinguish the time of day from whatever cycle they seemed to follow here.
They both grew silent, but remained sitting side by side, only the wall separating them.
Footsteps could be heard and they grew louder until two guards appeared around the corner, marching until they stopped by John's cell. John slowly stood up and raised his arms, knowing exactly what they were there for.
They stood defensively, weapons pointed at the door as it slid open. One of them dodged in the cell, throwing John violently against the wall, and handcuffing his arms behind his back.
Standing up as well, Sherlock glared at the guards as they pushed John out of the cell, and down the hallway. He turned to Mike, who silently watching this whole scene.
"Is it always like this?" he demanded angrily. "He surrendered to them and they still treated him like he had attacked them!"
"They're afraid," Mike said softly.
Sherlock shook his head, but sat down on his cot. Immediately, he heard the sounds of more footsteps, which were louder this time. A group of guards turned the corner. Instantly, several doors to cells opened, including Mike's and Sherlock's.
"Out," one of the guards commanded. "Now."
Sherlock glanced at Mike, who sat up and walked towards the door. Mike looked back at him, gesturing with his head to follow. Sherlock grumpily walked out of his cell, joining more than a dozen other programs.
He shouldn't have to follow these goons' orders. What were they doing? Heading to the Games most likely.
Come to think of it, Sherlock didn't even know what the 'Games' consisted of. He was never much of a game type of person as a child. His peers had Nintendo's or other useless toys while he preferred to run countless experiments on more significant matters. His parents enrolled him in a football league once but shortly regretted the idea and Sherlock was able to drop out very soon after.
The guards herded them down the hallway, passing countless cells full of programs with sad eyes and defeated looks. Once out of the prison, they filed through a dark passageway. It came to a dead end, and the guards stopped. Everyone was silent. Several programs were shaking, but no one comforted them. They all seemed consumed in their own fears and problems. Sherlock shuffled through the crowd to Mike.
"What's going on?" he whispered.
As if on cue, sections of the walls lit up, displaying a large arena. The deafening roar of a riled crowd could be heard through the screens and above them all. Sherlock looked at the ceiling above him; at least he knew where they were now.
A figure was being raised through the floor, and the crowd's yelling swelled. John stepped onto the platform, reaching behind him and pulling the disk off his back. He stood in a defensive position, feet set apart and knees bent.
From the shadows on the far side of the arena, a large man stepped out to the platform as well. Sherlock could vaguely hear the announcer rumble out something, but he only caught the name of the program. Moran waved to the crowds, and then turned to a darkened box above the crowds and saluted.
He faced opposite to John, taking the same position and pulled the disk off his back.
"Mike," Sherlock whispered. "What are those disks? I know I have one too. Some sort of weapon?"
Mike looked at him like he was speaking Latin. "They're identity disks. They store your information and…"
Mike broke off as Moran took a running start, throwing his disk at an unbelievable speed towards John. John hurled himself to the left, dodging the disk and throwing his own. Moran's disk swung around and flew back towards him, like a boomerang.
Moran deftly caught it, and in the same instant, threw it back towards John, who barely had time to catch his own disk in order to raise it and deflect the disk that was slicing through the air dangerously close to his head.
Sherlock sighed in relief as John safely twisted away from the disk. John flung his own, which passed within a hairsbreadth of Moran's right arm, much to crowd's enjoyment.
The two were equally matched, or about as close as two people could be at such a sport, Sherlock supposed as he observed the two of them fight.
"How is the winner decided again?" Sherlock quietly inquired to Mike.
"The loser is derezzed. The winner survives," he said simply. "John's not getting out of this one, I'm sorry to say."
Sherlock rounded on him. "And why not? He's survived all the other times. What's so special about this one?"
Mike pointed at the big man on the screens. "That man, Moran? He's the Master Controller's right hand man. He can't be beat. This is John's last game." He lowered his head apologetically.
Sherlock turned back towards the screen where John was near the edge of the platform, deflecting an onslaught of attack after attack with his own disk.
John was going to get out of this one way or another. Sherlock knew it. He was a soldier, a fighter. And a man like him did not admit defeat because of his opponent.
John ducked as the disk was flung at him and suddenly sprung forward towards Moran who was only a few yards away now. John reached Moran just as Moran was able to grab his own disk from the air.
John slammed the metal disk at Moran, who blocked it and attempted his own slice at John. The two started a variation of a sword fight, with their disks. John was gaining some ground, slowing moving away from the edge.
Quickly turning to avoid a blow, John's face etched with pain. Sherlock could see he had twisted his already bad leg. Moran saw his window of opportunity and lunged at John, throwing him to the ground. John was able to grab Moran's arm that held his disk, barely allowing himself to not be cut.
They struggled on the platform ground as seconds ticked by, each trying to shift the other's weight to their advantage.
John threw his leg up at Moran's body, kicking him in the stomach, and at that instant, pulled his arm that was holding his own disk away from Moran's arm, slicing the arm clear away from the bigger program's body.
Sherlock, and the rest of the stadium, watched shocked as Moran's arm fell to the ground, shattering into a million pieces.
Moran howled in pain and pulled away from John, clutching his stump. The crowd fell deathly silent.
Guards from every direction walked onto the platform. John looked desperately at all of them but was completely surrounded.
The feed cut out.
Sherlock looked around frantically. There had to be something he could do. Anything. He had to help John. He was his key to discovering what was going on here and how to get out. However, the guards seemed to have different plans for them.
"Programs, to your designated locations. Game simulation is approaching."
"Designated…?" Sherlock asked, bemused.
Certain spots on the floor, however, had started to light up, and the programs started shuffling to them, each of them standing on one.
John had been in the arena, which is where these spots would presumably take them all. And that was only seconds ago that John had been there, which means that if he was taken somewhere, he wouldn't be far, and Sherlock would find him. Somehow. This Master Controller had wanted John alive this long; Sherlock didn't think one little scratch on his chief lieutenant would cause him to kill John now. At least not yet for a little bit, which would buy Sherlock some time until he could get to John. Reaching John in time was imperative. So he just had to survive these games, which was deemed impossible for all but John. Sherlock shook his head. This would be interesting, to say the least.
Sherlock walked over to an open circle next to Mike. "Ready for this?" Sherlock asked.
"Not even close. But good luck, mate, all the same. It was nice knowing you."
Sherlock grimly nodded as the circles they were all on rose from the floors and the ceiling opened from above. The deafening cheers were heard once again and the light from the stadium blinded him. He grabbed behind him and drew his disk.
Sherlock had never taken up sports. He hadn't been the best at childish board games or video games. None of that mattered. He was going to be the best damn disk fighter the Grid had ever seen.