(no subject)

[vervaceous]

Title: Vector
Fandom: Harsh Realm
Rating: NC-17 for language, violence, and explicit adult situations
Wordcount: 60,155
Summary: Three years after his entry into the Realm, Tom Hobbes finds his stagnant day-to-day existence disrupted by the worst threat he's ever faced--and the entire Realm faces it as well.

And I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him.



-6-

Tom is the only one awake besides the driver when they enter the city. It's kind of a nice change.

They've been driving for a day, into the night, and through another dawn, driving straight through, stops to piss but otherwise going constantly. They've switched drivers once. Mike is deep asleep and has been for hours, his head lolling against Tom's shoulder, and Tom doesn't mind. It's good to have the reminder that he's here, physically attached to all this, because otherwise it would be too easy to start drifting away. None of this feels quite real.

Which is sort of funny. When you think about it.

They passed through the boundary of the fence a long time ago, but between this and the fence there's been a lot of nothing, a few burned remains of houses, and really it's easy to forget about the fence entirely. But not here. He sees the gleaming skyscrapers looming over them and then they're in among them, like slipping into a system of glass canyons. It takes him a few minutes—it's been a long time—but then he places it. He's been here before. In the Real World and in the Realm.

This is Cincinnati.

Jesus, he thinks. They did this in two and a half years. And the Egyptians built the pyramids, but what did it cost to get the job done? He's met face to face the men who died to make way for this. He remembers hearing somewhere that history repeats itself but he hadn't realized until that point how true it is.

Their driver makes a left and they head west along a tree-lined street, the branches bare and dead just like everywhere else, but this looks like a healthier kind of dead, the kind that might actually go away with the spring.

“Where are you taking us?” he asks. Beside him, Mike stirs a little and mutters something. The driver meets his eyes briefly in the mirror but doesn't answer. Young kid, can't be more than twenty, barely looks old enough to shave, and the Guardsman in the passenger's seat is much the same. Tom remembers commanding men like that. He remembers being a man like that. This isn't one of the soldiers hijacked from the Real World. This is homegrown meat.

He shrugs and turns his attention back to the world going by outside the window. Commercial district. Office buildings, coffee shops and bookstores, trees in neat little squares of dirt and benches next to them, quiet, hardly anyone around. It's too early yet. If he tried to induce a kind of amnesia in himself, he could almost believe that this isn't the Realm at all. He could almost believe he's home.

Another few minutes and they pull up through a gate and into a semi-circular driveway, stopping in front of a building that looks like it could be a mansion or a government building or some kind of museum. In its old life it might be any of those. Now he recognizes it for what it is: a headquarters. It's the kind of place he knows Santiago likes. Elegant, unmilitary. as much a grand residence as anything else. Whatever else the man might like to believe about himself, he has the tastes of a dictator.

The driver gets out, followed by his companion, and then they're both swinging open doors and lifting their rifles. Tom glances behind them and sees more humvees pulling up. So this is it.

“Out,” the driver says, and gestures with the rifle. “C'mon, wake them up and get moving.”

Tom glares at him, bends over and gives both Mike and Florence a gentle shake. Florence is awake instantly, catlike, with no real evidence that she's been asleep at all. Mike wakes with a groan and an attempted swat in Tom's direction, only to be stopped by his cuffs. This seems to bring him back up to speed and he gives Tom a single dismayed look before he steps out of the humvee, as though he's realizing it all over again.

A final humvee pulls up alongside them, and Tom isn't surprised in the least when Santiago steps out of the back and surveys the three of them with his hands clasped behind his back and a satisfied expression on his face. “Gentlemen.” He inclines his head graciously toward Florence. “And lady. You'll be staying here as our guests for the time being. I'm afraid your movements will have to be somewhat... restricted, but I trust we'll be able to make you very comfortable.” He nods up the wide flight of steps leading to a terrace, and, presumably, the front door. “My men will show you to your rooms.”


* * *


It's deja vu all over again. Even the decor is the same, the same dark carpet, the dark wood, the tastefully patterned off-white wallpaper. “Christ,” Tom whispers, leaning in close to Mike as they're marched down the hall. “Does he have one of these everywhere he goes?”

And Mike doesn't answer, but he grins, clearly amused, and Tom feels a little better.

The Guard walking with Florence stops abruptly outside one of the doors lining the hallway and produces a keycard, sliding it into the lock. The door clicks open and he pushes her inside, not ungently. Mike and Tom glance back at her, but one of the Guard escorting them touches Tom's shoulder and nods down the hall. Keep moving. Tom catches Florence's gaze one last time and complies. He has to trust they'll see her again. He has to trust a lot of things right now, things he never would at any other point. Necessity is a bitch.

Down the hallway, a right turn into an identical hallway, and one of the Guard pulls Mike to a stop in front of another door. Tom pauses, the same look he'd exchanged with Florence, and Mike nods. “Don't worry. I'll see you.”

Right.

His own room turns out to be the next one down, which gives him a feeling of greater comfort than he'd willingly admit to. He steps inside, Dexter trotting at his heels, looks around, and this, too, is exactly the same as before. It might be the same room. There's no banquet laid out on the table, but otherwise it's identical, richly furnished, a kind of luxury that's existed only as a dream and a memory for a long time now.

His mouth twists sourly. Years ago he'd hated the part of himself that had been tempted by it, and he hates that part now. He turns and looks at the Guardsman, standing against the closed door and watching him with undisguised interest.

“What?”

The man clears his throat and looks down at Tom's boots and a little to the left. “Sir. I apologize, sir.”

Tom stares at him. This is the man who'd herded him out of the car with a gun only ten minutes or so ago. “Why the fuck are you calling me 'sir'?”

“Sir.” The man falters slightly, seems wrongfooted, and Tom feels a bizarre urge to try to set him at ease. He's so young. He's not sure he's ever seen a Guardsman so young. “We were... instructed to treat you and your friends with all courtesy. Sir.” He clears his throat.

Tom blinks. “O...kay.” He turns and looks around the room again. A front room, an ornately upholstered couch, a couple of plush armchairs, a large television. Side tables, the same dark wood as everywhere else. Off to the right he can see a dining room, a small table and four chairs. To the left, it looks like it could be a bedroom, though the door is shut. The entire place has the comfortable but faintly sterile feel and smell of a hotel suite. He doesn't think anyone's lived in these rooms in a long time, if ever.

Dexter snuffles around, trots off into the dining room and vanishes.

“So... what now?” Tom scratches the back of his head. This is feeling more and more surreal all the time. “Am I waiting for something?”

“Sir, a technician will be in to see you shortly.”

“A technician?” He's not sure he likes the sound of that. “What for?”

The Guard clears his throat again and looks straight ahead. “You'll be briefed when she arrives, sir.”

“Okay, seriously.” Tom rubs a hand down his face and sinks into one of the armchairs. “Quit it with the 'sir'ring. It's freaking me out. My name's Tom. Call me Tom. Or Hobbes, or whatever the hell you want.” He looks up, and the young man looks more wrongfooted than ever. “You got a name at all?”

“Si--” The man stops, licks his lips, and Tom could swear he hears the *click* in his head as something switches tracks. “It's. Hitchins. Hobbes.”

“Okay.” Tom smiles, and he tries to make it encouraging. But he's tired, he's hungry, despite the rations they'd been given on the road, and more than anything he'd like to be out of here, Pale Horse gone, none of this ever happened. So many people dead in the past few days and he can't even wrap his brain around it. Lots of people have died in the last three years. It hasn't ever been like this.

But he smiles. Encouragingly. “Okay. I guess now we're getting somewhere.”


* * *


The technician turns out to be a middle-aged, almost matronly woman in an olive green uniform that makes her look more like a kind of nurse than anything else. Tom looks up as Hitchins stands aside and she enters, a small black leather pouch held in one hand. “Tom Hobbes.” She holds out her free hand and Tom takes it instinctively. “I'm Georgia. They said I'm giving you a chip?”

“Wait a second.” Tom pulls his hand away, gets to his feet, takes a few steps back. He never agreed to this. But as he thinks it, he realizes, what he's agreed to already doesn't give him a whole lot of control in any other areas. Still, his jaw sets stubbornly. “They didn't say anything about that to me.”

“Well, it's standard procedure,” Georgia says patiently, unzipping the case. She seems entirely unfazed. “Everyone gets one. You can make this easy now and go along, or we'll sedate you and give it to you that way. Your choice.”

“It's not so bad,” Hitchins pipes up from across the room. “It just stings for a second.”

“I'm not worried about the sting,” Tom says, folding his arms across his chest. “I'm not nuts about some computer somewhere knowing where I am every second of the day.”

Georgia laughs, shaking her head. “If that's the problem, I hate to break it to you, sweetcakes, but you deal with that every second of the day already. As far as the chip goes, you let me put it in, you can actually walk out of here, have a little freedom. How's that sound?”

Tom glares at her. “What kind of freedom is that?” But he uncrosses his arms. No point in fighting it. If he resists it'll inconvenience him far more than them, and he has no reason to doubt her about the sedative.

“Give me your arm.” Georgia is taking something out of her back, something that looks like a tiny steel pistol. Tom reluctantly holds out his right arm, and she braces it with one hand, aiming the gun at the meat of the inside forearm, under the crook of his elbow. There's a quick punching sound and a flash of pain, and when he looks again all he sees is a small red discoloration, fading even as he watches.

“It's a microchip,” Georgia explains, putting the gun back in the bag. “Much more efficient than the old models, much harder to remove on your own. You can now go anywhere you like up to a mile outside the city center. It's a perimeter we set specific to you.”

Tom rubs at his arm. It's itching very slightly, even though the redness is almost gone. “And what happens if I go outside the perimeter?”

Georgia smiles sweetly. “The chip releases a tiny dose of neurotoxin into your bloodstream. Nothing lethal, but your motor skills won't be so hot. Basically, don't do it. Save us all the trouble.”

There's a knock on the door, sharp and heavy. Hitchins opens it and Mike stalks into the room, followed by Florence, who's looking about as uncomfortable as Tom has ever seen her. Mike is scratching at his arm.

“Don't scratch,” Georgia says, glancing over her shoulder as she steps out. Mike shoots her a scowl and keeps on scratching.

“They get you too, Hobbes?” He looks down, sees the tiny mark and makes a face. “Fuckin' A. They've got us screwed. You can't just cut these out like the old ones.” He glances back at Hitchins, who is looking at Mike with the same kind of blank wonder, lips slightly parted. “Hey, kid. Fucking beat it. Don't need you anymore.”

“I--” Hitchins starts to say, and Mike doesn't let him get any further.

“Hey. Raspberry Beret. You speak fucking English? Out.”

Hitchins doesn't seem to have any reply for that. He stares a second or two longer, turns and shuts the door behind him. He shuts it a little hard.

Tom gives him a look. “You didn't have to talk to him like that.”

Mike snorts. “What, is he your boyfriend or something? They've all got guns, Hobbes, did you notice? Did you notice when they were waving them at us?”

“He's just a kid.” Tom sighs and drops back into the chair again. There's not a single part of this that he likes. Seeing the Guard from this angle isn't helping any. Not since Escalante... Shit. “He doesn't seem so bad.”

Mike gives him another incredulous look and flops down onto the couch, still wearing a scowl. Florence stands in the center of the room, looking around uneasily, but she seems to brighten when Dexter trots out of the dining room and sniffs at her boots. She reaches down, scoops the little dog into her arms and strokes his head. But she still doesn't sit.

“So we're stuck here,” Tom says, picking at a loose thread on the arm of the chair. “Now what? Can we just... leave?”

“Go outside, you mean?” Mike shrugs. “That's what they made it seem like. I guess it makes sense. If all they gotta worry about is us running off, they probably feel pretty safe right now." He looks down at his arm and his scowl darkens still further. “There's nothing says they'll take these things out when they're done with us, y'know.”

Tom drops his hands into his lap. “Nothing says they won't kill us when they're done with us, either. I'm tired, Pinocchio. I don't want to think about this anymore.” There's nothing they can do immediately, in any case. And he's wondering more and more about how soft the bed behind that closed door might be.

He doesn't even remember when he last slept in a bed.

Mike's opening his mouth to say something else, when the door swings open and Waters strides into the room, barely sparing the three of them a glance. “On your feet,” he says, short and clipped. Tom smiles inwardly. However much he hates this, Waters clearly hates it more. And that's a bit of a plus. “We've got a briefing in five.”


* * *


The briefing takes place in a room at the end of a short, wide hallway, continuing the grand hotel feel of the place. The room itself is nothing but warm, honey-colored wood and low, tasteful lighting. In the center of the room is a long table in the shape of a semi-circle, cups and bottles of water at each seat, and the only thing that prevents it from feeling like a corporate boardroom is the crystalline map of America at the far end of the room.

From his seat towards the end of one arm of the semi-circle, Tom looks at it. Starting at the east coast and proceeding southwest, almost a third of it is tinted red. It's not very hard to figure out what it represents.

“Jesus,” Mike mutters from beside him. “He really does have one of these everywhere he goes.”

One by one, the other seats are filling up. Waters has taken a place at the center of the semi-circle, in what Tom guesses is a place of authority. Scattered here and there are other older men in uniform, talking quietly together, one or two of them casting curious looks in his direction. At the other end of the semi-circle, there's a nervous-looking man in a suit and a tie that he keeps adjusting. He looks profoundly out of place. He looks as though he feels it. He also doesn't look like he's used to the suit.

It's easy to pick out the exact instant Santiago walks into the room. There's no fanfare, no announcement, but everyone falls silent, and those sitting stand respectfully. Tom watches his progress across the room. He doesn't stand. Neither do Mike or Florence. If anyone notices—and he's sure they do—no one says anything. Santiago doesn't even spare them a glance. He stops at the map, regards it for a few seconds as though he's not even aware that there's anyone else in the room, then turns and nods minutely.

Everyone sits.

Santiago clears his throat slightly, looks down at his boots, crosses his arms behind his back. Mike groans softly. “Christ almighty, you fucking ham, get on with it.”

“We face a grave threat.” Santiago's gaze slowly makes its way around the room, lingering on each person. “It may be that we have never faced a threat of this magnitude since we began our great work. The fact of the matter, gentlemen, is that a weapon we developed years ago has been stolen, and we believe it will shortly be used against us. If it is not being used already.” He turns, reaches out and presses a button on the side of the map, and abruptly another map descends. America, still, but this time America spotted here and there with red dots. Indiana, Illinois, Kentucky. Santiago reaches out and points to each.

“Each of these represents one known outbreak of Pale Horse.” At the name there's a faint intake of breath, and here and there a quiet murmur. “There may be many more of which we have no knowledge. There is—or was—only one known sample of the virus, and it was held in our possession, under high security. We don't yet know who stole it or how, but the fact remains, it has been stolen.” He turns back to the map. “And it has either been inadvertently released... or it is being purposefully deployed.”

One of the unformed men speaks, hesitant. “But not against us.”

“Uh, not against us.” All the heads at the table turn, and it's the man in the suit, glancing down at his papers and shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “We, uh, we think they may be... testing it.”

“Testing?”

“On people outside the fence.”

“That makes sense.” Mike. Tom glances over at him, a little surprised to hear him speak. Surprised to hear him voluntarily contributing anything. He's leaning back in his seat, arms folded over his chest. He knows the attitude. Mike is trying to convince everyone in the room that he truly doesn't give a shit. “Who'd miss them? Who'd care? He's kinda taking a risk, though, doing a field test. When we ran our human trials, we brought them into the lab.”

“Why is he here?” Another man, same uniform. Tom is having a hard time telling one from the other. The man is pointing to Mike, a faintly accusing tone in his voice. “He's a traitor. The two with him are known enemies of the state. What possible part could he have in this?”

Santiago raises a hand and the man sits back hurriedly. “Colonel Pinocchio was the supervising officer who oversaw Project Pale Rider during its inception. Since all the consulting staff have died or vanished, he is the one remaining man who might be able to provide some firsthand insight.”

Mike smiles thinly.

“And the others?” The man might be chastened, even a little scared, but there's a belligerence about him that doesn't seem to want to quit. Mike shoots him a look, leans over and whispers in Tom's ear.

“Major Frank Edwards. I swear, only reason he's still around is 'cause of how far up an asshole he can get his tongue.”

Santiago smiles, but this time it's Waters who answers. “Colonel Pinocchio works... in a team, these days.” He says “Colonel” with obvious distaste, pronouncing it as if it's something sour. So Mike had outranked him. Still does. Tom glances at Mike and mouthes Colonel?

“If we're finished with the questions, for now?” Santiago's tone is perfectly even, perfectly pleasant, but an almost perceptible chill moves through the room, and complete silence follows. “The plan for now is this.

“Whoever committed the initial theft, we may never know. Nevertheless, it is imperative that we find out who possesses the virus at this point. In addition to this, and perhaps even more importantly, we must succeed where the original project failed. We must develop a treatment.”

“A vaccine?” Mike again, shaking his head slowly. “Can't be done. We couldn't even do it with our tame strain in the lab. If whoever stole this has any kinda expertise, who knows what's been done to it by now.”

The man in the suit clears his throat, nodding. “Yeah. We know. Which is why we need to obtain a sample.”

Mike turns and gives him a hard look. “Who exactly are you?”

Tom looks from one to the other, then catches Florence's gaze, sending an unspoken message. What's with him? He's given no indication since they arrived that he regards the situation with anything other than outright hatred, but the second they'd taken their seats at the table... it's like he's relaxed. Uncurled. Taken control. Like he belongs here.

It's eerie.

“I'm, uh. Sam. Sam McDonald.”

“Yeah,” Mike says with exaggerated patience. “But who are you?”

The man actually blushes. Tom feels a rush of pity for him. He's used to Mike being... well, Mike, but in this setting, where he's clearly already not on secure footing, it must be a little much to take. “Head of Defensive Technologies. Computer Division.”

“And you're here... why?”

“Mr. McDonald has a certain expertise which is relevant to our situation,” says Santiago, and Tom hears a subtle thread of warning in his voice. Colonel, sure. But Mike's been away for a long time. However comfortable he might seem, here, this isn't exactly his ground.

Mike nods, sits back readily enough, but Tom catches a look in his eyes that isn't so comfortable, or so relaxed. So maybe it's not that simple. Maybe nothing is.

“So our approach will be double-pronged,” Santiago continues. “Our men in the field will devote their efforts toward finding the current holder of the virus, while our operatives here will concentrate on developing an effective treatment.”

“And my sample?”

Santiago shoots McDonald a mildly impatient look. “Mr. McDonald, I assure you. You'll have your sample.”

The rest of the meeting is devoted to details, the specifics of assignments. Tom tries to pay attention but his mind keeps wandering to the map, to the scattering of little red dots. It looks so neat from this vantage point, so tidy. None of the people here have said anything about the deaths. The suffering. Even Mike. Human trials. It was almost easier when Mike was pale and shaken and the entire world seemed poisoned. Suddenly the light wood and low lighting feel obscene. He looks at Florence; for the entire briefing she's been sitting with her head down and her hands folded in her lap, as though she's praying. He wants to apologize to her. For what, he's not sure.

“Fucking Christ,” Mike mutters once everyone finally begins to file out. “I forgot how much I hated those things. Did you actually figure out what the hell our job is?”

“I guess we're... consulting,” Tom says dully. The corporate boardroom atmosphere extends past the aesthetics. He feels faintly sick. It's all numbers. This is a side of war he never had to see.

This isn't even war. War is more honest.

Mike snorts a laugh. “Whatever. We got nothin' to do the rest of the night, I'm gonna go get plastered on sugar daddy's dollar. You coming?”

“I'm...” Tom shakes his head. “No. I'm going to bed.” And maybe he won't dream. Florence glances at him and nods slowly. I'm with you.

Mike looks at them both for a long moment and finally huffs out a sigh. “Fine. I'll see you both tomorrow.” He pushes the chair back, gets to his feet, practically shoves the door open as he walks out.

It feels like a long walk back to their rooms. It's strange on top of strange to walk through these halls unguarded. Free, even if the word is bordered by quotes in his head. It adds to the faintly greasy feeling on his skin, in his head. He needs a long shower. He needs to try to sleep.

They stop at Florence's door and he opens his mouth to say goodnight, but what comes out is “He doesn't even know how he feels about this, does he?”

Florence shakes her head sadly, and once again Tom can almost hear the words in his head. He's never known how he feels about this. She lays a hand on his shoulder, and he reaches up and covers it with his own. He feels like he's alone with her in all of this, like all they have now is each other. He sighs.

“Goodnight, Florence.”

He walks back to his room alone. It's dark when he enters the front room. He turns on a light, strips off his clothes, heads to the bathroom. The shower is hot and steaming and he stands under it for a few minutes, watching the grime of weeks circle the drain. He should be enjoying it. He's not.

When he figures he's clean enough he turns off the water, towels off, and climbs naked into bed, Dexter leaping up behind him and settling down on his feet. It's a big bed with white linen sheets, soft as he'd imagined it, but he lies there staring into the darkness for about half an hour before he gets up again. There's a robe on the back of the bedroom door—no surprise at all—and he puts it on and heads back out into the front room. His pack is on the floor by the couch and he digs into it, pulling out a battered pad of paper and a pencil. He sinks down onto the couch and licks the tip, thinking.

Dear Sophie. Well, that part's easy. He thinks for a few more moments and then bends to the pad again.

It's been an interesting week.


* * *


He's not sure how late it is when he hears the scuffling in the hall. He looks up from the fifth page of the letter and listens, and beside him on the couch, Dexter lifts his head and listens too. More scuffling, it sounds like something dragging against the wall. A giggle. Then, “Fuck, sorry.”

“Shut up.” And that's pretty unmistakable. Mike, low and husky. Slowly Tom gets to his feet, even though every instinct in his body is telling him to sit down, go back to bed, anything else. He walks to the door and stops outside it, still listening. He hears a low chuckle, a rustling. It's coming from right outside his door. And then the handle wiggles, wiggles again, and there's a muffled curse.

Tom rolls his eyes. It's obvious. It's absolutely classic. Mike's gone out, gotten drunk, dragged some piece of ass home. It's not like it's nothing he's done before, but usually he hasn't brought the piece of ass in question back to their camp. Tom opens the door, all ready to tell Mike that he's got the wrong room and he should really be more careful.

And he immediately to the left of the door, Hitchins is pressed up against the wall, flushed, gasping with his head thrown back. Mike is moving against him, slow and grinding, hand about as far down Hitchins's pants as it'll go. Tom stares. He doesn't say anything. He's not sure what he would ever say.

“Sir!” Hitchins almost yelps, shoves Mike away and zips up his pants in one sharp motion. “I'm... We just...”

Mike rolls his eyes. “Get outta here, Hitchins.” Hitchins doesn't need to hear it a second time. He goes, glancing behind him once, and his ears are a fiery red.

Tom looks at Mike. Mike looks levelly back. And shrugs.

“Wrong room.”

Tom stares after him until the door closes behind him. It's another moment or two before he moves. He closes the door, pads back to the couch, sits down and stares at the pad, the paper covered with a message Sophie will probably never get.

Everything that could possibly be wrong with this is wrong.

“Interesting week, my ass,” he mutters, and buries his face in his hands.


-7-

The ringing phone finally gets him up. He's not sure how long it's been ringing. He didn't actually know he had a phone. He sits up, blinking blearily, and his face feels faintly raw from where the bruised side has been pressed into the carpet. He doesn't remember when he fell asleep. He does remember deciding that the bed just isn't going to work.

Next to him, Dexter continues to sleep, blissfully unaware. Tom feels a bizarre stab of jealousy as he gets up onto stiff legs and heads over to the side table. Dogs don't have to deal with this shit. Dogs can just sleep.

He picks up the phone and holds it to his ear. “What?”

“Hobbes.” It's Waters. Tom doesn't actually groan out loud but it's close. Waters is about the last person he wants to hear from right now. “You gonna sleep all goddamn day? You got another briefing. Get your ass up and meet Pinocchio in the hall in ten.”

I don't want to meet Pinocchio in the hall, Tom thinks. I don't really want to meet Pinocchio anywhere ever again, with the images I've got in my head. “Fine,” he says, and slams the phone back into the cradle.

Another briefing. Is that all this is going to be? He sighs and looks around for his clothes, finds them on the floor in the bathroom, but now that he's clean he can actually smell them, and he drops them again with another sigh. The world he's been inhabiting for the last few years of his life doesn't fit here. Not his clothes, and he can't sleep in the bed. He's starting to wonder if he'll be able to eat the food. None of it seems right. It's all very pretty in here and the world outside is broken, collapsing. People are fucking dying.

People are dying and Mike Pinocchio apparently sleeps with men.

“Fuck,” Tom moans, leans over the bathroom sink and lets his forehead hit the mirror. And again. And again, just because.


* * *


He doesn't bother with a shower, but in the dresser in the bedroom, he finds a pair of jeans and a black sweatshirt that just happens to be his size. ARMY. He huffs a single bitter laugh and pulls it on. His boots, at least, he won't compromise on, and there's clean socks in the dresser as well. He splashes some water on his face, decides that'll have to do, and heads for the door.

Dexter whines at his feet. Tom stops, hand on the door handle, and looks down. “Look,” he says, sighing. “You can't just come with me everywhere in here. I don't think they'll like it all that much.”

Another low whine, and Tom drops down to a crouch and scratches Dexter behind the ears. He wishes he could stay. Or not be here at all. “I'll be back as soon as I can,” he says. “Promise. We'll go for a walk or something.”

He opens the door and Mike almost hits him in the face, fist raised to knock. “Jesus,” he says, dropping his hand and giving Tom a glare before peering past him into the room. “Who the hell were you talking to?”

“I've got the Dallas Cowboys cheerleaders in there,” Tom says, deadpan. “Sorry, I forgot to tell you.” And he turns and heads down the hall, stopping only when he realizes that he's not sure where they're even supposed to be going.

“Dumbass,” Mike mutters as he passes him, barely a glance, and Tom feels a twinge of something awful and helpless in his middle. All this shit, only now coming to the surface, and it doesn't seem fair that it all has to be at once. And it's all Mike. Three years. How well can you really know someone? How well can someone really trust you?

Maybe Mike just never trusted anyone. Except Florence.

They walk in uncomfortable silence until they meet Florence, stepping out of her room and wearing clean cargo pants and a plain white tank top. Mike's wearing much the same, a black tee in place of the tank top, everything entirely nondescript and unpatterned except for Tom's sweatshirt, which he's beginning to think was a personal touch on the part of someone. Mike and Florence exchange brief looks, and there's something in it that Tom can't even try to unravel. But he wonders, just how much information changed hands.

Had she known? Has she been keeping it from him, too? He winces, inwardly. This is not the time to start doubting the few friends he has. This might even be a stupid little thing to start doubting them over.

But it doesn't feel little. Or stupid.

“Where are we going?” He looks off down the hall, down the other hall, and wonders how anyone ever finds their way around.

Mike shoots him a glance, sighs. “Remember the pencil neck from yesterday? McDonald or something?”

Tom raises an eyebrow. “Yeah...”

“Got a meeting with him. Basement level two. Apparently we're going to find out what the fuck's so special about his 'expertise'.”

It takes them a while to find the right elevators. It's one downside of being allowed mostly free reign of the building, Tom's discovering: no handy escort to show you where to go. When they step inside, Tom's eyes widen slightly; the building seems to extend just as far below the ground as above it, if not further. B1, B2, B3, B4, B5, and a faintly ominous looking BX. Mike pushes B2 and the elevator whirs softly downward.

Tom leans back against the wall and closes his eyes. Nothing like an elevator ride to double the awkwardness of an already awkward situation. Eventually, maybe he's going to have to say something. Eventually. He glances at Florence, looking for some indication of something, but she's standing, staring ahead, and her face is entirely unreadable.

Mike is sticking close to the row of buttons, tapping his fingers distractedly against the metal. Tom can feel the tension coming off him, wonders how much of it might be from the night before, wondering if maybe he doesn't even care and he just has a hangover, but finally the doors hiss open onto a long white hallway lined with frosted plexiglass doors, brightly lit, and he brightens visibly.

“Oh,” he says. “Okay. Great. C'mon.”

Tom gives him a look, glances back at Florence, who only shrugs. Mike is striding down the hallway as if he knows exactly where he's going, and after a second Tom follows, trotting to catch up. “What're you so pleased about?” Because he supposes that they can't really just not talk to each other.

Mike is glancing from side to side, scanning small placards on the walls by the doors. “He has one of these everywhere he goes.” He sees Tom quizzical look and continues. “The building up there, that's just decorated like the main HQ back in Santiago City. It's not the same building, not the same layout. But this...” He gestures around them. “This is a copy. Not sure how he did it, but at least I know my goddamn way around down here.”

They head down to the end of the hallway, make a right, and Mike steers them through a door that looks like all the other doors. Tom catches the words on the plaque to the side of it. Defensive Technologies. Computer Division.

“Right,” he murmurs.

As they step through the door there's a cool blue glow and something seems to sweep over them. Tom and Florence stop, looking around, and Florence takes an apprehensive step backward. Mike glances back. “It's just a scan,” he says. “Logging the chip. Don't worry, it's harmless.”

Florence gives him a doubtful look, but she steps through the doorway, and Tom follows. Again, he feels the utter wrongness of the fact that she's here at all. It's like seeing something caged. She wasn't made for this, wasn't made to go anywhere near it, and she's moving as though she's afraid to touch things, afraid that things might touch her. He's never seen her like this before.

I'm sorry, he thinks, and again he wonders if there's even any way out of this, once they've finished whatever they have to do.

At first glance it looks pretty much like like most computer labs he's ever seen, tables lining one wall with large white terminals, and down a hall and on the right, a series of cubicles. Through a glass partition, he can see a room with a wall of servers dotted with green and yellow lights. There's more halls, leading to closed offices. And there's people. Not a lot of them, and they're all dressed in jeans and nondescript tees. The three of them actually fit in fairly with with the background, except for Tom's sweatshirt and the fact that they actually look as though they've spent a significant amount of time in the sun.

Mike catches a passing woman by the arm. “We're looking for Sam McDonald.”

She looks down at his hand as though she's not sure what it is, and nods down the central hallway. “Office at the end. I'm busy?” Mike releases her with a faintly amused expression and she scurries off.

“Still the same,” he mutters, and glances around. “Like another fuckin' world. Sometimes I almost miss this.”

Tom follows his gaze. “You've worked with them before?”

Mike shrugs. “Kinda, you could say. I used to be one of 'em.”

“You... what?” Tom blinks. Mike doesn't seem like the type. Mike seems like the type who would have shoved these people into lockers in high school.

“When I was in the service,”Mike says as they head down the hallway, and he doesn't sound as though he really wants to discuss it. “I took this... course, in computer programming. Turned out to have kind of a knack.” He shrugs again, stopping outside the office door. “It was a job. Joined the Guard and never looked back.” He knocks.

Not never, Tom thinks, and the door opens. Sam McDonald blinks at them, as though he doesn't immediately recognize them; then comprehension washes over his face. “Oh, right. Hi. You're, uh...” He glances behind them, leans back in and picks up a cup of coffee off the corner of his desk, and Tom gets a glimpse of a cramped office stacked high with papers. “I'm supposed to show you... Right, follow me.” He shuts the door behind him and starts off down an entirely different hall to the left, and the three of them follow dutifully. It's all halls, Tom thinks. After years in the open he's just not used to this many hallways. He fights back a wave of claustrophobia. Maybe it's just being underground.

“I thought you were coming later,” McDonald says, glancing over his shoulder at them. “I mean, it's not like it matters. I just thought you were coming later.”

“We're here now,” Mike says, with the same exaggerated patience he'd used in the briefing. “You gonna tell us what this expertise you have is?”

McDonald actually smiles, something Tom hadn't really been able to picture until now. “Yes, I am,” he says, and stops in front of another door. This one isn't frosted plexiglass. It's steel, and it looks like it might be reinforced. He bends to a small panel on the wall, and a faint light flashes over his face, followed by a soft *ding*. The door hisses open.

Retinal scan. Whatever's in the room, Tom thinks, they aren't messing around with it.

What's in the room, as it turns out, isn't very much. A small computer terminal set onto a table and wired to the wall by a single thick cable. Beside it there's another long table, and hovering a few feet over it is a white sphere about the size of a soccer ball. Tom can see faint lines set into its surface, dividing it up into panels, which look as though they might be able to detach and come away.

Mike looks it over, clearly unimpressed. Or maybe it's a show entirely for McDonald's benefit. Tom isn't sure. He isn't really sure what any of that is about. “Okay, so... you gonna explain what the hell this is, or are we just supposed to know?”

“This,” McDonald says with obvious pride, stepping forward and turning to face them, “Is the Optical Scanning and Code Analysis Resolver. But most of us call it OSCAR.”

“Code analysis,” Mike murmurs. Tom stares at it, like it might explain itself to him. The name hasn't exactly helped much.

“You don't seem like...” McDonald says, looking at all of them in turn, and he looks a little bit puzzled himself, as though he'd expected the name to answer all the questions. He thinks for a moment, then looks down at the cup of coffee in his hand and he smiles.

“Okay,” he says. “Okay, this'll do just fine.”

He walks over to the table, places the mug under the sphere, then turns and leans over the keyboard, rattling at it as he types. Tom can't see the screen from where he is, but there's a soft humming sound, and when Tom looks back at the sphere, he sees that the panels are indeed detaching as spindly white arms emerge. They extend down a few inches below the bottom of the sphere, point at the mug, and there's a crescendo in the hum as the mug is suddenly bombarded by beams of light from each of the arms. There's a flash, a quieter hum, and the arms withdraw back into the sphere.

“Uh,” says Mike after a few seconds. “Okay. That was neat, but I still don't know what the fuck it was.”

“Just wait,” says McDonald, smiling and straightening up, and now Tom can see the screen, and lines of text are unscrolling on it at an incredible speed, line after line, hundreds. Thousands. He glances at Mike and Mike is staring, mouth slightly open.

“That isn't what I think it is,” he says.

“The Realm code for a cup of coffee?” McDonald is smiling wider, and his entire aspect seems to have changed. He's standing straighter, holding his shoulders up, and Tom guesses it might have more than a little to do with the stunned expression on Mike's face. “Yeah, that's pretty much what it is.”

“But... how the hell did you do it? We were always sure it was impossible.”

“It was just a question of processing power.” McDonald looks back at the screen, grinning. The text is still scrolling, white characters on black. Tom can't quite make them out. “Once the technology improved enough...” He reaches out and pats the monitor. “OSCAR has five terabytes of memory. We've clocked him at one point eighty-six petaflops. He's the most powerful computer in the Realm. Might be the most powerful computer anywhere.” He pauses and clears his throat. “Well. One of the most powerful.”

Tom catches it, the little flicker in the man's face, and he's about to ask what he means, what could be more powerful than that, but Mike speaks, cutting him off. “So... okay, I get it now.” He nods to the table and the sphere. “We get a sample of Horse, you scan it, you get its code.”

“And possibly it gives us an edge on developing an effective treatment, yes.”

“What about manipulating the code directly?”

“Wait, wait.” Tom holds up his hands, feeling mildly impatient. “I think I'm missing something. What's the code? Why's it important?”

Mike and McDonald both turn to look at him as if they've just remembered that he's there, and the impatience simmering in Tom's gut flares into full-blown annoyance. Since he's arrived here he's been shoved from place to place, attended a briefing he had nothing to do or say in. He's starting to wonder if he's there for any other purpose than to be in Colonel Mike Pinocchio's entourage.

McDonald speaks. “Harsh Realm is a giant computer program, right? Everything in it is controlled by code, running in the background. The code tells things what to do, what to be. When you shoot something, the code sends the bullet through the air and the code tells whatever you're shooting at to die when it gets hit.”

Tom nods. That much he knows. “Okay...”

“That code,” McDonald points to the screen, “is a cup of coffee. It's how thick it is, how dark, the exact amount of milk, the milk, the sugar, the grounds in the bottom. The mug. How hot it is when you drink it. Everything.”

“Oh.” Now it's making more sense. A little. The important aspects, anyway, seem clear. “So what about manipulation?”

“Manipulating the code would be going in and changing something directly. Like, say you wanted to take the milk out of the coffee. You manipulate code all the time, actually, whenever you do anything. And we've found little tricks, like shortcuts. If you've ever seen a digiwand... that was one of ours. But it's just a cloning tool. It's nothing like actually rewriting the raw code.”

“And you can't do that?”

McDonald shakes his head. “Not yet, no. Maybe not ever.”

Mike cocks his head, stepping forward and peering at the screen. “Processing power again?”

“Exactly.” McDonald nods, grimacing slightly as though it's not entirely a comfortable subject. “Reading is one thing. Writing turns out to be something else. In theory we could maybe do it, but the computer we'd need...” He exhales heavily and shakes his head again. “It's years away. Decades. Maybe longer. But if we could, it would make our job with Pale Horse so much easier.”

“You mentioned...” Tom frowns, thinking. He feels as though he's on the edge of something, something important. Like there's a shape in his mind that he can't quite make out, flitting away every time he tries to look straight at it. Just for the moment, Mike and Hitchins are completely forgotten. “You said this is one of the most powerful computers around. What're the others?”

“Uh... well, there's one other.” McDonald scratches the back of his neck, glancing at the OSCAR terminal. “It's...” He raises a hand and gestures all around them. “It's running all this.”

“The Realm?”

Mike straightens up again and turns. “The Realm. Has to be. Look at the size of the program.”

Tom frowns harder, still thinking. “So how does it do it?”

“You're from the Real World, right? You're plugged in.” McDonald reaches up and taps Tom's forehead lightly. “That's how.”

Tom blinks. “My... brain?”

“Sure. Your brain is incredibly powerful in terms of how much data it can process, and you don't even use it up to full capacity. So you process the Realm. You and all your buddies.”

Tom takes a breath. He hadn't... So it's not enough that he's plugged in without his consent. He's being used to keep it going, keeping other people imprisoned. His mouth twists and he takes a step back, the claustrophobia swelling again. Christ, there are some things he hadn't really wanted to know. Florence has been standing towards the door, mute and unmoving, arms folded over her chest, but now she steps forward, not touching, but standing close. Tom glances at her and sends a silent thank-you.

Mike ignores them both, turns back to McDonald again. “So why can't you do the same thing here? Why can't you just... plug someone into that?” He points at the terminal and McDonald lets out a faintly nervous laugh.

“Well, uh... you probably could. It would have to be someone plugged in out in the Real World. Virtual character wouldn't work. And... well, I mean, it would probably be lethal.”

“Lethal,” Mike repeats, raising an eyebrow.

“The brain would already be running the Realm code. Give it another task that big, and it just wouldn't be able to take it. You, uh, you'd probably get a few seconds of processing out of it before the whole thing fried.”

“Jesus,” Tom murmurs, and steps a little closer to Florence. She reaches down and takes his hand.

“So yeah, direct manipulation... no go.” McDonald nods at the terminal. “But even getting the code is a huge step. With that, we can deconstruct Pale Horse from the top down. Maybe make a vaccine. The Realm programmers used a unique language and we're still learning it, but we're definitely ready to go live.”

He looks back at the three of them, and his eyes are excited in a way that Tom isn't entirely sure he likes. “Now all we need is our sample.”


* * *


“Well, Christ,” Mike says as the elevator hums back up to the upper floors of the building. He reaches up and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Fucking progress. Things've changed since I left.” He glances over at Tom and smiles wryly. “That'll teach me to grow a conscience.”

“Yeah,” Tom says, and looks away. He's thinking about human trials and VC, and he's thinking about Mike's hand down Hitchins's pants. He feels Mike's eyes on him, but he doesn't return the gaze, and when the elevator stops at their floor he climbs off without a backwards glance.

They leave Florence at her door, just as before, and she steps inside as though she's relieved to be there. Tom doesn't blame her. He wants to get back in, he thinks as they walk in silence to their own rooms, feed Dexter, maybe take him for a quick walk and then sleep some more, the rest of the afternoon, sleep until someone else wants him to go somewhere and listen to something. The chip in his arm is itching again. Maybe it's all in his head.

“Hobbes.”

He looks up, about to slide in his keycard, and Mike is leaning against the wall, something unfamiliar and weirdly uneasy in his eyes. Something maybe a little bit like shame.

He's leaning against the spot where he'd had Hitchins pressed up and groaning softly. Either he doesn't notice or he doesn't remember or he doesn't care.

Tom stares back at him. “What?” And Mike inclines his head back down the hallway again.

“Let's take a walk.”

Tom snorts. It doesn't really feel like a laugh. “I'm not going for a walk with you, Pinocchio.”

“I really think you should.” He leans in a little. “We need to talk. And...” There's a faint whining coming from the other side of the door, and Mike half smiles. “Bring the mutt. He's probably going stir-crazy in there.”

“Pinocchio...” Tom leans his forehead against the door and sighs. “I just... I can't...”

“Please.”

Tom turns his head, still leaning against the door, and looks at him. Mike doesn't say that word very much. “You're hell to live with,” he says quietly. “I just wanted you to know that.”

“I know.” Mike laughs and looks down at the carpet, rich and ornate, and again this all feels so wrong. They shouldn't be here, Dexter shouldn't be whining behind the door, Florence shouldn't be curling tighter and tighter into herself and Mike Pinocchio should not be saying words like 'please'. “Believe me, I do know that.”

“Okay.” Tom slides the keycard into the slot, and he feels something in himself simultaneously collapsing and pulling itself back together again. “We'll go. Let me get him.”


* * *


They walk out on the terrace, past potted shrubs and little sapling trees, the rebuilt city huge and gleaming in the background. It still feels dreamlike, even in the light of early afternoon, and Tom stares at it for a few seconds before he starts to walk again. There's a marble railing and he trails his fingers along it, watching the sun glint off it and wondering when he's going to wake up.

Or when his brain is going to fry.

“I'm sorry I didn't tell you,” Mike says, and it's so abrupt and unexpected that Tom almost trips over a flagstone. He turns, leans back against the railing and looks at him, swallowing hard. Dexter, unconcerned, trots away to lift his leg against one of the potted shrubs.

“Okay.” Tom nods once. “All right.” And he waits.

Mike pauses, looks away and shrugs. “That's it. I'm sorry. I dunno what else you want me to say.”

“Well...” Tom stutters a little, feeling his ears go red. “I just—Why the fuck didn't you tell me?”

“Oh, I dunno, maybe because you're reacting like this?”

“I'm reacting like this because you didn't tell me.” Tom turns and braces his hands against the railing, staring out at the obscenely glistening city. “Three years, Pinocchio. Three years and I'm just finding this out now. And I've--”

“What?” Mike's next to him now, leaning in, trying to force him into facing him head on, but Tom looks away, and it feels childish but he just doesn't think he can do it. He doesn't want to hit him. He doesn't want to get into a fistfight with Mike Pinocchio out here on the terrace where everyone can see. “What? You've been this close to me this long? Christ's sake, Hobbes, it's not like I ever made a pass at you.”

Tom closes his eyes and takes a slow breath, and then another. “That's not it,” he says. “I don't... I don't have a problem with that. If you'd just told me.”

There's a pause, a faint sound of sirens out in the city, and then Mike huffs a laugh and turns away again, and for a few seconds Tom thinks he's done, that he's going to walk away and not say anything more about it.

“I hid it from you because I didn't know what you'd do, and I gotta live with you,” Mike says quietly, still facing away. “And I hid it because... I dunno. Habit. I was Army too, Hobbes. And you know what that's like.”

Tom nods, mostly to himself, but he nods. He doesn't know what that's like, what it must be like to be there and be queer, but he can try to imagine. He leans further over the railing and lets the wind chill his ears and neck. “But you sleep with women,” he says. “I've seen you.”

Mike laughs, turns and leans over next to him, and Tom feels the tension ease a little. He's not even really sure why. But he's not going to argue with it. “You don't always have to be one thing or the other, Hobbes.” Mike glances at him, and there's a tiny smile pulling at his mouth that isn't really like any other smile Tom's seen him allow himself. “People are just more complicated than that.”

Yes, they are. Tom rubs a hand over his face and raises his head. “So why Hitchins?”

Mike shrugs. “I was drunk and he was there. Didn't really need a lot more reason.” He laughs slightly. “Think he's got kind of a... I dunno. A thing about us. He was asking me about you like you're his fuckin' hero.”

Hero. Tom feels a strange combination of awkward and flattered, and he turns to look at Mike more squarely. “What was he asking?”

“Y'know. Normal stuff. Where you're from. Where you grew up. Favorite color, shoe size.” He laughs again and shakes his head when Tom reaches out and punches him lightly in the shoulder. “I dunno, man. He just wanted to know about you. He wanted to hear about life outside the fence.” Something subtle in his voice changes, and when he looks out at the office towers and cars and unburned houses, Tom sees another flash of that profound distaste, as though he's taken a bite of something rotten. “Fucking kid was talking about it like he thinks it's a big adventure.”

Tom frowns. It's not like this is new. Kids hear glory tales about war, they learn to shoot, they go off and discover what it really is. It's always hard. It's always there.

“Pinocchio, if you...” He trails off, shaking his head. He's not sure he wants to even use the imagination necessary to articulate that. “If you... go out with him again... just be careful, okay? He's a good kid.”

“'Go out'?” Mike stares at him for a moment or two and laughs. “Christ, Hobbes. Okay. Okay, I'll be careful.”

“All right.” Tom whistles for Dexter, turns and looks back at the main doors. He feels better. A little. Everything's still wrong, but at least this part doesn't have to be. Not completely. “I'm hungry. I'm headed back.”

“Me too. I'll buy you lunch.”

Tom gives him a half smile. “You don't have any money. I don't think they'd even ask for any.”

“I'll pretend to buy you lunch.”

“Okay.”

They're almost at the doors again, when the doors open and Hitchins steps out, stops, turns beet red. Tom groans slightly, fights the urge to turn and start walking in the other direction. Mike looks entirely unshaken.

“Um. Sir.” Hitchins glances back inside. “They wanted me to alert you. They thought you might want to come observe.”

Mike raises his eyebrows, nonplussed. “Observe what?”

“The field team. They're back.” Hitchins pauses, glancing nervously at Tom. “They've got a sample.”