Work Text:
When Shawn’s cursor sticks, he doesn’t even blink. Shakes the mouse a little, eyes tracking to the link he’s trying to click.
When it still doesn’t move, he whacks it on the desk. Still nothing.
With a huff, he slides the chair back and stands, reaching around the back of the computer. His fingers fumble for the right wire before pulling it out of the port, shoving it back in again and jiggling it a bit for good measure.
By the time he sinks back into his chair, the screen has changed. Shawn frowns. Shakes the mouse harder.
Nothing.
Wait – something. But it’s not him moving the cursor as it drifts over the screen to the new window that’s popped up.
In panic, he hits some keys. Escape escape escape. It makes no difference on the first go, nor the tenth. The cursor climbs, and clicks, and Shawn’s heart thuds in the darkness of his cramped study. Someone’s found their way through the proxies, he has no idea how, and they could do anything, they could spend thousands–
Just as his finger hovers over the power button, ready to screw what he’d been working on and cut them – whoever it is – off, they start typing. For some reason, they ignore the windows he already has open. They have the power to do anything in his computer right now, but for some reason they’re just writing.
Clown.
Fuck. They know him by his cover, but they’re in here, which means by now they know his real name, his birthday, his fucking address…
He watches the cursor line blinking, frustratingly slow as each new letter prints itself in glowing text.
Don’t power off your computer. You’re going to want to see this.
He should ignore them. He should switch it off. They’re playing him, buying time for whatever they have planned.
His eyes don’t leave the cursor arrow as it drags down. It leaves the screen for a second, and then another black square springs up, filling almost the whole screen. Only his stupid alias stares back at him, a looming threat over the new window.
Frowning, Shawn’s hand pulls back the slightest amount from its spot waiting at the power button. The new tab is dark, grainy shapes in black-and-white filling the picture. As he watches, the numbers in the corner of the screen start moving. Flickering lines filter over the video. A camera feed, he realises.
Gaze darting between the numbers on the film, crawling ever upwards, and his watch, his heart slows. This is live.
He presses his nose closer to the screen. It takes a second for the odd shapes and angles to make sense to him, until he realises he’s looking down at a door from above. And it’s a door he knows.
How many times has he stood against that wall for a smoke? Or let the fire door close on him and had to trail back around the front? He remembers holding Chris’ hair back when he dived out of the club to puke by the bins.
None of them are there right now, except…
It’s Joey’s work. Was he on tonight? Shawn can’t remember, but he isn’t left wondering for long.
The door cracks open. Someone is moving in the blurry shadows. Joey’s face is hard to make out, but Shawn knows it’s him; his long hair falls around his face, a platform boot behind him holding the heavy door open. He lugs out a stuffed trash bag more than half his size.
“What the fuck is this?” Shawn growls at the empty room.
On the screen, Joey’s struggling to lift the trash into the large bin one-handed. His other arm slips and the lid falls closed again.
Shoulders sinking, Joey glances behind him. Then he steps away from the door, letting it fall shut.
Shawn’s breath catches in his throat. His lips are parted as he watches, frozen.
Something moves, further down the alley.
“No…”
The cursor shifts, and the text pops up again. He hates that it almost makes him jump.
The letters appear again, typing out an address he doesn’t recognise.
Come unarmed. It says.
The bag swings into the bin. Joey steps back, wiping his hands on his pants. He doesn’t see the person, waiting, at the side of the screen.
“Fuck!” Shawn yells, slamming his palms on the desk. What the hell does this person – people? – want? He’s careful online, of course he is, but there’s still a fair amount of damage they could do with the little he has on his PC.
Clearly they want something else. Something more.
And they want to use Joey to get it.
Shawn dives into a drawer for his mobile. Hardly wants to take his eyes from the screen and the clear threat emblazoned on it, but it’s necessary.
The moment he flips it open, he’s straightening, glued back to the screen as he pulls the receiver to his ear. That fuzzy shape of another person is coming closer down the alley in the camera feed. Maybe they make a noise; Joey tenses, looks around.
Shawn clenches his teeth tight as Joey goes down. The dial tone rings in his ear, the computer glow splashing over his face as Joey and the stranger struggle in silence. Joey’s black hair splays out on the ground under the faint light from the door. His movements are growing weak.
The other figure pulls back. For the first time, Joey’s face is visible through the shoddy camera lens. It’s like they fucking choreographed it.
He’s pale against the dirty floor. His eyes are closed. He doesn’t move.
His attacker is tucking something away into a pocket and Shawn’s fist tightens around his phone.
The feed blinks off, leaving his screen blank save for the address glaring back at him.
“Shawn?” A voice crackles into his ear.
“Sid. Paul there? Good. Get the others too, and get down to the club. Now.”