In the Region of Sight, chp. 9
In which there is a great deal of running, but no escapes.
“Take the stairs,” the Statistician says, pointing at a door in the wall that wasn’t there a few seconds ago. “You’ll need to move quickly; they’ll only be clear for another 3.7 minutes.”
“Will you be alright?”
Her smile takes on a razor gleam. “Oh, the agents know better than to approach me.”
He grins back, all teeth and wicked edges. He’s itching to palm his Sigs and throw himself into the fray. Muscles loose, pulse thumping out a tempo that screams fight, fight.
“One last word of advice, John. You can shape this reality around yourself; when you do, remember that the scalpel is as much a weapon as your gun.”
: : :
They pound down the stairs; John, covering the rear, nearly slams into Fox when they pull up short at the bottom.
The war zone he left behind has finally caught up with him.
Bullet holes strafe the walls, and knowing that it’s computer-generated doesn’t dull the scarlet splash of blood against white paneling. Nico and Versai must have retreated this way; John grits his teeth against the wash of adrenaline and fury, anticipating what he’ll see when Hermes leads them out into the alley.
Versai, facedown in a puddle of her own blood, hair spilling out onto the pavement.
Nico, propped against a wall, who looks like someone reached into his chest and yanked, a gritty, gaping hole where his sternum should be.
Years of training let him close his eyes and turn the vision into fuel for his fire; there’s nothing he can do for them now, and other people he needs to watch over. It blazes up in him- every patient that bled out on his table, every comrade lying dead in the dust- and he promises himself, no. No more. Not this time.
It must be the hundredth time he’s made the same vow, standing over a body he couldn’t keep safe.
Fox is shouting, relaying instructions from Anthea as she directs them to the nearest hardline, one they can tap to use as an exit. He hears it with half an ear, falling into the space that battle brings to the front of his brain. It’s a crisp, hyper-aware clarity that takes him nearly out of his body, each breath slow and steady, like he has all the time in the world.
John follows the whirl of coat and vinyl that is Hermes and Locke, whipping around corners, slamming through doors into people’s flats, diving out narrow back windows, leaving blank-faced amazement in their wake. They take the stairs down into the Tube at a rush, the station derelict and, thankfully, clear at this time of night. John doesn’t want to consider the kind of panic and chaos a shoot-out in the Underground would cause.
“Down, into the tunnel- there should be a service phone we can use in about 500 meters!”
He throws himself down into the tunnel, the tinny sound of Anthea’s voice leading them on. Hermes spots it, finally, a grimy, grease-covered thing, tucked away in a niche off the main line.
“Fox, dial out,” Hermes snaps. “Tell Shale to get us prepped and ready to move immediately. We’ve been down too long, they’ll be narrowing down our location.”
Fox narrows his eyes, biting down on his obvious urge to get Hermes out first. John can sympathize- the agent he spoke with seemed fixated on Hermes, and John hasn’t forgotten the cabin Hermes and Fox share- but a captain gets his men to safety before himself. Always.
The phone drops, dangling on its cord as Fox vanishes. John’s reaching for the handset when he hears it- a scuff of gravel- one, two pops of air.
He puts a bullet in the forehead of the agent before consciously registering that he’s pulled his gun.
Hermes’ eyes flick from John to the dead agent, a smug, knowing expression at the back of his eyes. Staring down at the gun in his hand, he remembers Hermes telling him that no one- no one normal, no one ever- moved fast enough to hit an agent.
The soft thump Locke makes as he collapses echoes through the tunnel.
John goes to his knees beside him. “Where are you hit? Locke. Locke! Come on, tell me, where are you hit?” He finds a trickle of blood at Locke’s neck, the thin skin there punctured by a tiny metal dart.
The shrill sound of Hermes’ mobile barely registers, until John watches Hermes fumble and go down trying to answer it. He snatches the phone from Hermes’ slack fingers.
“Anthea, what’s going on? They’ve been hit with something, a dart, an injection, I think; you have to pull them out, now!”
For the first time he hears a thread of uneasiness in her tone. “I can’t- something’s altered in their brain waves, they won’t disengage from the program-”
Fox comes on the line, voice tightly controlled. “Get out, John. We need you back here.”
“Are you bloody well kidding me? I’m not leaving them here alone.” He’ll go to his grave first.
“Christ, John, you think I want that either? With Versai gone, you’re the only doctor we have, and whatever this damn thing is, we need you here to fucking fix it!”
There’s a crash and the line in his hand goes dead as the hardline starts to ring. He ignores it, pulling unconscious bodies into the niche next to the payphone. It’d be fairly ridiculous if they survived this only to get run over by the next train to come through.
Panic begins to unfurl, tingling in his fingertips as he reaches out and brushes Locke’s fringe off his forehead. He’s not a neurosurgeon, still doesn’t understand half of the programming that makes up the Matrix... doesn’t know if he can do this.
He gulps in a breath, pulls himself up, sets his shoulders.
Fuck. That.
He is Captain John Hamish Watson, and he has accomplished every bloody thing he’s set his mind to, ever.
He answers the phone.
“Take the stairs,” the Statistician says, pointing at a door in the wall that wasn’t there a few seconds ago. “You’ll need to move quickly; they’ll only be clear for another 3.7 minutes.”
“Will you be alright?”
Her smile takes on a razor gleam. “Oh, the agents know better than to approach me.”
He grins back, all teeth and wicked edges. He’s itching to palm his Sigs and throw himself into the fray. Muscles loose, pulse thumping out a tempo that screams fight, fight.
“One last word of advice, John. You can shape this reality around yourself; when you do, remember that the scalpel is as much a weapon as your gun.”
: : :
They pound down the stairs; John, covering the rear, nearly slams into Fox when they pull up short at the bottom.
The war zone he left behind has finally caught up with him.
Bullet holes strafe the walls, and knowing that it’s computer-generated doesn’t dull the scarlet splash of blood against white paneling. Nico and Versai must have retreated this way; John grits his teeth against the wash of adrenaline and fury, anticipating what he’ll see when Hermes leads them out into the alley.
Versai, facedown in a puddle of her own blood, hair spilling out onto the pavement.
Nico, propped against a wall, who looks like someone reached into his chest and yanked, a gritty, gaping hole where his sternum should be.
Years of training let him close his eyes and turn the vision into fuel for his fire; there’s nothing he can do for them now, and other people he needs to watch over. It blazes up in him- every patient that bled out on his table, every comrade lying dead in the dust- and he promises himself, no. No more. Not this time.
It must be the hundredth time he’s made the same vow, standing over a body he couldn’t keep safe.
Fox is shouting, relaying instructions from Anthea as she directs them to the nearest hardline, one they can tap to use as an exit. He hears it with half an ear, falling into the space that battle brings to the front of his brain. It’s a crisp, hyper-aware clarity that takes him nearly out of his body, each breath slow and steady, like he has all the time in the world.
John follows the whirl of coat and vinyl that is Hermes and Locke, whipping around corners, slamming through doors into people’s flats, diving out narrow back windows, leaving blank-faced amazement in their wake. They take the stairs down into the Tube at a rush, the station derelict and, thankfully, clear at this time of night. John doesn’t want to consider the kind of panic and chaos a shoot-out in the Underground would cause.
“Down, into the tunnel- there should be a service phone we can use in about 500 meters!”
He throws himself down into the tunnel, the tinny sound of Anthea’s voice leading them on. Hermes spots it, finally, a grimy, grease-covered thing, tucked away in a niche off the main line.
“Fox, dial out,” Hermes snaps. “Tell Shale to get us prepped and ready to move immediately. We’ve been down too long, they’ll be narrowing down our location.”
Fox narrows his eyes, biting down on his obvious urge to get Hermes out first. John can sympathize- the agent he spoke with seemed fixated on Hermes, and John hasn’t forgotten the cabin Hermes and Fox share- but a captain gets his men to safety before himself. Always.
The phone drops, dangling on its cord as Fox vanishes. John’s reaching for the handset when he hears it- a scuff of gravel- one, two pops of air.
He puts a bullet in the forehead of the agent before consciously registering that he’s pulled his gun.
Hermes’ eyes flick from John to the dead agent, a smug, knowing expression at the back of his eyes. Staring down at the gun in his hand, he remembers Hermes telling him that no one- no one normal, no one ever- moved fast enough to hit an agent.
The soft thump Locke makes as he collapses echoes through the tunnel.
John goes to his knees beside him. “Where are you hit? Locke. Locke! Come on, tell me, where are you hit?” He finds a trickle of blood at Locke’s neck, the thin skin there punctured by a tiny metal dart.
The shrill sound of Hermes’ mobile barely registers, until John watches Hermes fumble and go down trying to answer it. He snatches the phone from Hermes’ slack fingers.
“Anthea, what’s going on? They’ve been hit with something, a dart, an injection, I think; you have to pull them out, now!”
For the first time he hears a thread of uneasiness in her tone. “I can’t- something’s altered in their brain waves, they won’t disengage from the program-”
Fox comes on the line, voice tightly controlled. “Get out, John. We need you back here.”
“Are you bloody well kidding me? I’m not leaving them here alone.” He’ll go to his grave first.
“Christ, John, you think I want that either? With Versai gone, you’re the only doctor we have, and whatever this damn thing is, we need you here to fucking fix it!”
There’s a crash and the line in his hand goes dead as the hardline starts to ring. He ignores it, pulling unconscious bodies into the niche next to the payphone. It’d be fairly ridiculous if they survived this only to get run over by the next train to come through.
Panic begins to unfurl, tingling in his fingertips as he reaches out and brushes Locke’s fringe off his forehead. He’s not a neurosurgeon, still doesn’t understand half of the programming that makes up the Matrix... doesn’t know if he can do this.
He gulps in a breath, pulls himself up, sets his shoulders.
Fuck. That.
He is Captain John Hamish Watson, and he has accomplished every bloody thing he’s set his mind to, ever.
He answers the phone.