Chapter Text
Shaw blinks awake. The lights in her cell are as bright and fluorescent as ever, and she sighs. Another day, another fucking simulation.
She shifts, and something in her bra pokes her. Frowning, she wonders what it is before she remembers: the wire she’d stripped out of the bedside lamp. It’s always been missing when she wakes up in a simulation.
Evidence this is real: that. Evidence this is a simulation: nothing concrete yet. That doesn’t mean anything, though; the simulations have been inching closer and closer to perfect. Maybe they found the wire on her and wrote it in.
Hung jury.
Finally, her eyes are adjusted enough that she can open them properly. The room is as austere as ever: one camera in the corner, a pointless floor-to-ceiling mirror taking up one wall. She sits up, swinging her legs off the edge of the bed, then stands and pads into the bathroom.
There’s no camera in here, which is a major mistake on their part; Greer’s sensibilities must have outweighed his paranoia. She runs a finger along the join between the sink and the wall. It comes up covered in grey dust — another thing that hasn’t appeared in the simulations yet.
It won’t be long until they come to sedate her. Either they’ll be taking her to another set of simulations, or they’ll be keeping her under control; either way, sedatives make their lives easier.
She smiles to herself.
As soon as lock shorts out, she sprints for the bathroom. Alarms blare around her, but she ignores them; she’s done this — or something like this — thousands of times. The sink comes off the wall with a quick tug. She clambers in through the hole, then pauses. It’s probably Lambert on the way to deal with her, and while the thought of him running around inside the walls in his shitty suit makes her smirk, there might be a better way of dealing with him.
She reaches back through the opening and grabs the sink. Putting it back takes a certain amount of careful wiggling, but soon it slides back into place. There. No trace of where she went.
Turning away from her prison, she picks up the axe she’d stashed when she’d cut the hole. It’s not a gun, but it’ll do.
There’s only one way to go from here. She starts to crawl.
The maintenance duct branches in front of her, and she stops. Either direction could be the wrong one; there’s no way to tell without knowing the building’s layout.
She holds her breath and listens. Under the creak and hiss of the building’s pipes there’s another noise, sporadic, deep — and coming from up her left. She turns and follows it.
The sound starts to become clear as she crawls closer. A group of men yelling, possibly an argument or fight. The tunnel comes to an end with a wall, the voices hollering from the other side. It doesn't look very thick, and they'll be distracted by whatever’s already going on.
She gets up on her knees, braces, herself, and swings the axe.
“Okay, I’ve done shit like this before,” she says, more to herself than to the other man in the cell. It’s true; she’s spent plenty of time breaking into — and out of — prisons. “The guards don’t look like they’re paying much attention.”
“No,” the man says, “we’re all locked up.”
She smirks and taps the cell door. “These locks are big, and that makes them shitty. Got anything long and thin? Toothbrush’ll do.”
He rummages around and hands her a toothbrush. “What are you going to do?” he asks.
“You can open these locks if you can lever them hard with something thin,” she replies, jamming the toothbrush handle into the lock at an angle. “After that, I’m gonna sneak out and get low so they can’t see me. Once I’m in position, I need you to walk out and get their attention. They’ll come out to deal with you, I’ll knock them out, we book it. Think you can do that?”
He swallows nervously. “Yes.”
“Good.” She hands him the axe, grabs the toothbrush and yanks down as hard as she can. The plastic strains against the force, and she grunts; fuck she’s out of condition. She shifts her feet to a better brace position and tries again. Her shoulders ache. She snarls and gives it one last tug; the lock clunks, and the toothbrush snaps.
“There,” she says, tossing the broken half aside. The man hands her the axe, wide-eyed. She slides the door open slowly, trying to minimise the noise, and drops into a crouch. Her bare feet are silent on the smooth floor; she sneaks over to the other side of the room and drops to one knee.
Alarms blare around her — at least this time the pitch is different.
Lambert's keys are cold in her fist, a small token of victory. She swings around a corner and comes face to face with a guard. Before he can react, she kicks him in the crotch; he makes a strangled noise and collapses.
Stripping off his uniform is quick work. It'll give her some camouflage, enough that by the time they realise she's not one of them she'll be gone. The pants and boots are both too big, but with some luck they'll get her out of here.
She trots further up the corridor, following the exit signs, trying to exude confidence and purpose. Samaritan may have fucked with her, but it can't take away her training.
A security checkpoint looms ahead, and she slows down to a walk. It’s staffed by two uniformed guards who look more alert than they've ever been in their lives. Talking is out of the question; her accent will give her away immediately. The ID she’d nicked off the guard has been getting her through the doors, but it won’t get her past this. Dammit.
Resigned, she pulls out her gun and fires. The first one slams back into his chair, screaming. She shoots the second and he falls to the ground, but on the way down his hand hits a button and another alarm joins the cacophony. Fuck. She ducks through the metal detector and breaks into a jog.
The cold wind is soothing, as is the chatter of the radio. She only half-listens as she drives, but picks up fragments anyway: it's October 2nd, the world is unstable as ever, Samartian hasn't killed or enslaved everyone yet. The details don't mean anything, of course — Samaritan could easily simulate some world news if it wanted — but it makes the world feel bigger.
A sign announces that she's entering Bloemfontein. The road behind her is empty, for now, but she should still ditch the Jeep soon. Plain clothes, food, and money are the next step; after that, she can look at getting out of here.
Houses start to appear along the highway, behind the high dirt sound barriers. She turns off the highway and into the city, occasionally taking random turns to confuse her route. When she's satisfied that she’s going to be difficult to find she pulls over and cuts the engine. She scrambles into the passenger seat, opens the glove box, and quietly blessed Lambert for being an idiot. He'd left his wallet inside; the credit card probably got cancelled the moment he bit the dust, but there's a handful of bank notes and — she squints a little — a receipt with a string of numbers scrawled on the back.
She shoves the cash and receipt into her bra. Money: solved. She pulls off the uniform shirt; it's a warm night, and better to not be in full uniform. She rolls down the window, jumps out, locks the car and throws the keys and gun back inside – carrying a gun is too much risk now and there might be a tracker on the keys. Even if there isn’t, she gets a kick out of being as much of an inconvenience as possible.
An hour later, panting hard, she comes to a stop outside a small inn. She’s miles from the car, which should buy her some time; they’ll have a wider area to search. She ducks inside, walks to the back and climbs up onto a bar stool; the mirror behind the bar gives her a view of most of the place, and there’s an exit nearby if she needs to bail. A set of stairs next to the end of the bar lead upward. Three men in suits sneer at her from a table behind her, then go back to talking quietly. The place is nice enough, wood paneled, busy but not overwhelming. In a way it’s nice to be around people again; she still doesn’t like them, but they don’t feel… engineered.
Everything in the simulations had been set with the goal of directing her towards The Machine. Yet here everyone seems to be just going about their night, paying her the barest bit of attention — if any at all.
Out of the corner of her eye, she notices the barman approaching and brings her focus back to the present. He gives her a long look, then asks “What can I get you?”
“Beer. Whatever’s on tap. Is your kitchen still open?”
“Yes.” He hands her a menu and she skims it as he draws her drink.
She hands over a note when he puts the glass down in front of her. As he fetches the change, the three men behind her stand up and, looking around in a way they seem to think is inconspicuous, slip through the door to the bathrooms. Odd.
“Can I get a steak?” she asks as the barman hands over her change.
“Of course.” He notes the order down on a scrap of paper. “How would you like it?”
“Medium rare.”
Keeping an ear on the noise of the bar, she sinks into thought as he walks off. Signs that this is real: the wire, the axe, being in fucking South Africa (?) and now this. She doesn’t want to believe it, can’t risk thinking this is real, but the evidence is starting to point that way. Each change in the simulations has been a small tweak, one variable at a time; Samartian is nothing if not methodical. Changing this much at once would be meaningless chaos, an outlier in its data.
Or maybe this is a simulation, and that’s what it wants her to believe.
She dismisses that line of thought with a firm shake of her head. Nothing good lies that way.
The men still haven’t come back from the bathroom. Suspicious. Possibly dangerous and worth investigating.
Take stock. Money: sorted, for now. Food: sorted. Clothes: still not ideal. She’ll need to get some civilian pants. The question of how to get the fuck out of South Africa is starting to loom. She can’t just waltz onto a plane; she’d at least need a passport and cash for a ticket, neither of which she can get without ingratiating herself to the local criminal network (possible, but time consuming). Even then, Samaritan has to be watching the airports. Travelling by sea would take too damn long, which leaves stowing away in a plane. But how?
The barman sets a plate down in front of her, and all her questions are swept away in favour of digging in. By her usual standards, the steak would be average at best; after eight months of prison food, she couldn’t ask for anything better. It even has garlic butter!
She chews, savouring the taste. There’s still a hell of a trip ahead, and once she’s back home she won’t even be able to get takeout without it sending Samaritan straight up her ass. She takes a swig of the beer; it’s a lager, light and dry. Not bad at all..
It’s almost a surprise that Samaritan hasn’t turned up yet. By now there should have been some crisis, something forcing her to move on; it rarely let her rest in the simulations. She either has no time, or, when left in her room for days on end, far too much of it.
The barman comes back over. “Everything alright?”
“The food? Yeah. Those three guys have been in your bathroom an awful long time though.” She jerks her head, indicating the vacant table. The barman’s eyes flick to the bathroom door, then away.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Well, either they’re having a threeway –” his fists clench “—or there’s something else in there.”
He places one hand on either side of her plate, palms flat on the bar, and says. “That’s none of your business.”
That means it’s criminal. Shaw looks up at him, then rams her steak knife into the bar between his right thumb and forefinger. The blade grazes the skin, close enough to scare but not to cut. He leaps back, gaze flicking to something under the bar, and she shakes her head.
“Look.” She counts out the cost of her bill and gently sets the cash on the bar. “Just tell me, and I’ll be out of your way.”
“It’s not safe.”
“ I’m not safe.”
They both look at the knife embedded in the bar. He deflates, and lowers his voice.
“It’s a criminal fighting ring. But don’t go down there – they’ll kill you!”
Shaw smirks, downs the last of the beer, and heads for the door. A dull roar greets her as she opens it; sure enough, a flight of stairs descends into near-darkness. She follows it down.
She can start to pick out some details as her eyes adjust. The lights are focused on a central cage where two shirtless men circle each other, trading blows. Around them the crowd cheers, pressed up against the mesh; the fighters disappear from sight as she reaches the floor. Off to one side she spots a table with a briefcase on it, flanked by two burly men. Prize money…
A guard stops her as she approaches the cage. The gun at his waist is poorly hidden. “You’re lost,” he says, and it’s not a question.
Shaw nods toward the ring. “I’m here to fight.”
“No.”
Her fist lashes out, catching him in the throat. He staggers back, choking, and a well-placed kick sends him to the ground. She grabs his gun and strips it as she strolls towards the cage.
The briefcase guards are clearly watching her, so she walks right over to them. Behind her the crowd explodes into jeers and hollers – one of the fighters must have been knocked out.
She raises her voice. “I want in.”
They look at each other, but before they can answer another man comes bounding past them. Unlike their uniform black, his suit is grey, and wide rings gleam on his fingers. The crowd parts for him as he bounces towards the ring.
“The Tank does it again!” he bellows, clapping the remaining fighter on the shoulder. “Can anyone beat him? I think not!”
Shaw sneers and pushes her way through the crowd. Another guard steps in front of her to stop her entering the ring; she grabs his outstretched hand and twists, using the torque to guide him to the floor. She steps past him into the ring and shouts “I bet I can!”
He laughs, and the crowd joins him. “You?” Still chuckling, he makes a sweeping gesture. “Should we let her try?”
A roar answers him, the closest people stomping their feet and rattling the cage mesh. She blocks them out and starts to examine her opponent. He has a foot on her, and a lot of muscle; he doesn’t look fast, though, from what she saw of the fight before. Looks like she’ll be playing keep-away.
The announcer gives an exaggerated shrug and heads for the cage door. He pauses beside her and says, “Your funeral.”
She takes a step back and shucks off her pants. The excess fabric is a hazard she can’t afford, even if several onlookers whistle at her for it. She kicks the pants aside and falls into a fighting stance.
The Tank advances on her, favouring his left side. She tenses. The cage is to small for her to duck around him without bringing herself into striking rage. He throws a jab that doesn’t quite reach her, finding his range, and she gets ready to spring.
He steps into his next punch and it would have landed if she wasn’t already diving under his arm, hitting the ground and rolling. The crowd boos and he spins around; she bounces to her feet and gives him a small shrug. This time he hangs back – clearly a quick learner. This fight has to end somehow, though, or they might both be going home empty handed.
Fuck it.
She charges. He brings his hands up to block but she springs sideways, bouncing off the mesh of the cage. Her fist lashes out and she catches him in the shoulder. He grunts, but that’s all. She whirls around again. Her arm catches his counterattack and she grabs his arm. Before he can react she yanks on it, sending her staggering past her. She dashes and leaps upward. Her arms wrap around his neck. Perfect. He shakes himself, trying to throw her loose, and she lets herself swing back and forth with it She digs her fingers into his eye and he yells, flailing at her hand; she uses the distraction to tighten her other arm around his neck. Only another couple of seconds. His hand grabs hers, but his grip is weak. He staggers and crashes to the ground.
Wincing, Shaw pulls her arm out from underneath him and picks herself up. “Well?” she calls.
The announcer leaps back into the ring. He slaps a grin on over his disappointment and bellows, “What a shock! Who knew one so small could be so powerful! We’ll be talking about this for years!” He beckons her towards the open cage door.
Shaw follows him out of the ring. The closest onlookers pat her on the back and hold their hands up for high fives, grinning; she considers breaking some fingers, but decides it’d create too much trouble. One of the guards hands her the briefcase, expression unchanged. The announcer beckons her off to the side.
“Who are you?” he asks once they’re far enough from the crowd.
“Nobody important,” she replies. A thought strikes her, and she adds, “I’m just passing though. You don’t know anybody who could get me to America without needing a passport…?”
He frowns his head. “Not America. Security is too tight. Are you sure you can’t pose as a passenger?”
“Yes. And I’ll take one of the Central countries if I have to.” Getting into America had been a long shot, but it would have been nice to cut the trip short.
“In that case, it depends what you’re offering.”
She holds up the briefcase and raises an eyebrow. He laughs.
“Of course. I’m sure I can find a shipment going out. It will be uncomfortable for you, of course.” He holds out a hand expectantly.
“I’ve had worse,” she quips, handing over the briefcase.
He leads her back to the stairs. “Stay in one of the upstairs rooms tonight. Thato — the bartender — won’t bother you, I’ll make sure. My friends will collect you in the morning.”
“That’s quick.”
He smiles dryly and gestures upwards. She treks up the stairs, exhaustion finally hitting her as the last of the adrenaline runs out. Thato grinds to a halt when he sees her emerge.
“You…” he starts, but she waves him off.
“Some guy in a suit said I could have a room?”
“With the rings?” She nods, and he swallows. “Up the stairs, second on the left.”
She casts one last glance around the bar, making sure none of the remaining customers look too much like a Samaritan agent, then heads up the stairs. As promised, the room is empty – that doesn’t stop her searching it, and the adjoining bathroom, thoroughly before she sits down on the bed. The bedside table holds an alarm clock; she picks it up and fiddles with it until she thinks the alarm is set for 7:00am. Usually she’d wake up at 5:30 like clockwork, but hell knows what day cycle Samaritan had been keeping her on.
Wearily, she strips until she’s down to her underwear and singlet. She should shower, but that can wait until the morning. The bed is soft. She lies down, drags the duvet over herself and closes her eyes.
A sharp pain below her ear jerks her awake. She pulls her hand back; there are dark stains under the fingernails. Gingerly, she brushes the wound. It’s only grazed. There’s no cut, no scar – unless they caught her and the pain of the surgery pierced the simulation.
No. Pick the most likely explanation. There haven’t been any glitches or breaks yet. She’s just been worrying at the site. That’s all.
She gets up and pads to the bathroom, washes her hands with the gritty bar of soap on the sink. There’s a mirror above it, but she averts her gaze; she doesn’t need to know exactly how much she looks like shit. She soaks a washcloth with water and dabs at the wound. It stings, but quickly settles down.
Abandoning the washcloth in the sink, she wanders back into the bedroom. There’s nothing to do except wait. She sighs and climbs back into bed, rolling onto her front and pressing her face into the pillow.