the one
by a tattered rose
harsh
realm fanfic - my first
disclaimer - the writing is mine, but the characters, concept et al belong to carter, 1013, the people who made the comic book...
~*~*~*@--{--{--*~*~*~
Again. It had happened again. Later that would be his mantra, supplemented by various insults on the brainpower, sense of self preservation, and general stupid obsessiveness of the kid he was baby-sitting.
Right then, all he ws conscious of was the pain. Stabbing, ripping, tearing. Damn. Once again he cursed the game that could hurt so much when none of it was real. Or maybe that was the problem: parts of it were all too real.
He'd been hit what felt like three times. They always say bad luck comes in threes. He wondered what power they'd raised his three to.
They'd been ambushed going back to the car after checking out a lead the kid had picked up on. The attackers had hit fast and hard. Even so, they were no match for him. He and Florence had hit the dirt with plenty of time to listen to the bullets whistling over their heads. Up and firing only a moment later, they were the perfect team, and he had allowed a grim smile to cross his features as two men fell, one vaporizing before he hit the ground.
Then he saw Hobbes.
If he'd told him once, he'd told him a million times: things were different in the realm. But would he listen? Of course not. And so he had to rush out and slam the idiot to the ground. Thus ended Hobbes' attempts to be recognized by an enemy trigger-finger he thought he recognized as an old friend.
Hobbes, curse his luck, suffered not a lick as he was knocked down onto a rather soft patch of dirt. His exponent must be zero - the one piece of bad luck being wired into Harsh Realm in the first place.
And of course he, Mike Pinocchio, had served himself up as a delicious target when his sudden break disrupted the outgoing flow of bullets, leaving him wide open.
The first bullet tore threw his thigh, ricocheting off the bone at an angle carefully calculated to produce the most pain. Not only did it cause his thigh bone to vibrate painfully in its sockets, but both entrance and exit wounds were torn by a bullet moving too slowly for mercy.
Only a few feet from Hobbes at the time, he instinctively dove onto him. That was when the second bullet found flesh. It had thrown itself at the meat of his shoulder with such force that when the third bullet got there, it hit him full in the chest.
Gasping for breath suddenly became impossible as an almost metallic tang filled his throat. Fearing death more than the pain of moving he rolled onto his side, bracing himself best he could with his one good arm. Coughing to clear his lungs, he had a dim impression of a spigot. Rather, it reminded him of when he was little, and the neighborhood children gathered on a hot summers day for a water fight. The sound now was just like that of the outside faucet as a steady rush of liquid hit the dust.
His vision was blurred, adding to the dream-like quality. It wasn't until he heard a hacking sob, and identified it as his own, that he realized his sight was merely marred by tears.
Life became slightly easier then. The rapidly dwindling strength in his arm was no longer called upon to hold him up, and his head rested on something soft and solid.
At that point he couldn't believe life would ever ease up on him. He figured he was dead. Which meant death really sucked; not only didn't he get to see or feel himself vaporize, but he was, apparently, left for eternity to lie where he died, in pain. Still struggling for air, he longed for the 'you die and that's it' he kept preaching. Non-existence was much preferable to this.
Hold on - he was still breathing. He could also feel his heart panicking, trying desperately to get blood everywhere it needed to go. A task greatly hampered by the fact that he was leaking.
Either death was getting weirder by the moment... Evidence was piling up in favor of him still being alive. Good. At least the hope for a non-excruciating afterlife remained.
By blinking rapidly his vision cleared enough to see two blurry forms. One looked suspiciously like the reason he was lying on the ground full of holes. The other, he deducted, must be Florence. From the way she was looking down on him, he could also deduct that it was her lap his head rested on.
They were speaking to him. Funny, he could see their lips moving... No, only Hobbes was talking, Florence couldn't. No matter to him, all he could hear was his own life draining from his grasp like water escaping a sieve.
~*~*~*@--{--{--*~*~*~
Pinocchio's head slipped to the side, and Florence motioned him to shoulder the limp figure. He looked at it doubtfully. The man still looked far from well. But the bullets were still flying, and they had to go.
She had giving Pinocchio a once over, which didn't seem to fix much. After her hand passed over his chest the injured man's breathing had calmed somewhat; each gasp sounding easier.
Must have been a quick fix, only taking as much of the valuable time as was needed to stabilize him for movement.
Hobbes hoped he trusted her judgment as much as he thought he did. Or as much as Pinocchio did. Shrugging off the moment of questioning doubt he heaved the bloody bundle over his shoulder as carefully as he could, ad ran behind her to the car.
~*~*~*@--{--{--*~*~*~
Consciousness returned in a series of bumps and jolts. At one particularly deep ditch in the road he realized he was in a car. Another bump, possibly an oversized tree branch, and he figured out the vehicle was moving. A jostle and his eyes found Florence, face close to his as one of her hands braced him and the other pressed down on his chest.
It took the searing flash of pain as deep tissue mended and a rut in the road before he figured out who was driving, and remembered what had happened. When the final healing was done he released enough of the pressure on his jaw to groan.
From the front seat Hobbes asked something. Pinocchio couldn't tell what it was, pain still blended noise into a steady hum.
A few remnants of logic told him Hobbes was inquiring after his own health. Having a vested interest in this matter himself, his spirits were thus not much raised by the non-committal shrug response.
Her face was almost in focus when he felt his shoulder heal. When she started on his leg his mind had cleared, and he began listing the number of times Hobbes had caused him grievous injury. The ploy of distraction failed; all he could concentrate on was the firm pressure of her hands.
~*~*~*@--{--{--*~*~*~
He slept. As the car bounced along towards their campsite, Florence frowned over her patient. Crouched next to him on the floor, she had wrapped him up in a sleeping bag. The only other things she could do for him now were to dribble water down his throat and stroke his deathly pale forehead until he quieted.
Absorbed in his comfort, she didn't realize that they'd arrived until the floor of the vehicle ceased its jostling.
When Hobbes opened the back door she hesitated, then motioned for him to help her carry the unconscious form to a relatively sheltered area a few feet away. The night was warm, and the fresh air would do him good.
Not much more to do now but wait.
Once Florence indicated for Hobbes to keep vigil, she disappeared into the woods. Dexter, who had been curled up in the front seat of the car, crawled out and over to Pinocchio. Belly almost to the ground he stopped just short of him. When he didn't move or yell the dog slunk forward another inch until they were nose to nose, then gave a tentative lick.
If a canine can be accused of human emotions, Dexter looked up at his master not only with confusion, but concern in his big wet eyes. Working up to a prod and a whine, then another lick, he finally turned around and snuggled next to the man who would have him on a plate, laying his head on Pinocchio's chest.
Hobbes just sat and watched, concerned lest the man should wake to find the dog practically on top of him. Yet he was unable to call his pet off. Focused as he was on the tableaux, the return of Florence brought him to his feet in surprise.
She ignored him, however, and dropped to her knees, sorting through the greenery she had collected in her bag. A moment later she got up as if to check on the patient, but stopped and kneeled again when she saw Dexter. The dog looked up beseechingly, and she let a rare smile flick across her features.
While the water heated for a restorative tea, she rose again, this time crossing to where Hobbes paced nervously cleaning his gun. Stopping him with a hand on his arm, she nodded, pointed to the woods, and nodded again.
"But...Will he be okay?"
Hesitant, she gave a small nod and lightly pushed him off.
Still looking unsure he started off, turning and calling back to the dog softly. Dexter stood and moved to follow, but Pinocchio shifted, and the dog lay back down. Wondering at their reactions he turned to go walk where he could think, alone.
"I'll be back within twenty minutes. If there's any...problems...I won't be far away."
Florence nodded, her understanding plain in her solemn eyes.
~*~*~*@--{--{--*~*~*~
As soon as he was out of sight she collapsed. This wasn't the time to cry, even if she would let herself. Weakness in the Realm was quickly succeeded by death. Death, or you could find someone to protect you. When she went into the armed forces that was the one thing she'd promised herself. She would become a soldier, fight for her country, but never would she follow one man. Too much could be lost that way.
Still trembling she sat up, straight and tall. That was something her father had always said to her when he found her slouching. "Straight and tall Florence. Whether sitting, standing or on your knees, stay straight and tall and show your honor."
A breeze snuck up behind her, whispering in her ear. It whispered also to the trees, whose leaves murmured amongst themselves. She lifted her face to the sky, inviting the gentle nibbling of the air down her neck.
That was another legacy from her father - air that tasted you. Often they would go sit on a beautiful hill near their home. Near the top stood a grand old oak tree - the first tree she ever heard talk with the wind. But it was when she was five that she met the wind itself. Having caught enough of the late season lightning bugs to last a lifetime, she had run to her father, expecting to go home to bed.
He had laughed then, a gentle melody that she could hear echoed in the sighing of the ancient oak, even after he was gone. At his instruction she stood as still as a young tree, ad let the beauty of nature fill her.
As if on cue, the moment after she quieted down a breeze flew past, tugging at her hair and light clothing, laying goose bumps down her arms and legs ad tickling her neck.
"Feel that?"
Entranced, al she could do was nod mutely.
"That's the wind. She travels the world to remind people of where we came from. She's nibbling us tonight - I love it when she nibbles. Sometimes she may pass by and only brush your cheek, other times she may rush around, biting sharply. Whatever form she takes, remember who she is. Respect her and she will always be your friend."
He'd looked into her eyes then, as if looking to see whether she understood. Whatever it was he saw, he liked, because he smiled then, ad led her out of the cover of the tree to stargaze.
Florence opened her eyes. The sky here was different than from her hill. Even so the wind felt the same, and she wondered once again how different Harsh Realm really was from the Real World.
Picking out a star, she watched it. Somewhere her body was on a slab in a warehouse. Yet here she was, free among the wind and stars.
A soft rustling, alien to the subdued night, brought her back to harsh reality - no - back to... Brought her back to what? Which was more real, living in this virtual world, or inside her own head? Especially considering Harsh Realm was just inside her head.
Pinocchio had stirred, a good sign. He needed rest, but his body also needed food. He'd done more than stir; it took her a step to realize he was watching her. Dark eyes followed her as she threw the greens into the hot water to steep. Deep eyes tracked her when she went to him, and frighteningly serious orbs haunted her as she leaned over him to check his temperature.
Ever since she met him he'd been that way: moody, secretive. Part of that was his nature. She'd met people who'd known him before- who'd known him a long time ago. The rest of his attitude had come with the accident. It was after this that she'd met him, so his behavior never seemed abnormal, yet she still wished she could have met him earlier, to see what kind of a man he had been.
A kind of rasping noise precluded a fit of coughing. Silencing him with her index finger on his dry lips, she held his head up to drizzle some water down his throat. He swallowed some, but then shook his head and started to speak again.
"He-should...know..."
Frowning, she raised an eyebrow. If he meant what she thought he meant... But what else could he mean? It was the very uncharacteristic nature of his decision that convinced her of his sincerity. Whatever he did, Mike Pinocchio never did anything without plan and reason.
Exhausted, his head fell back and eyes closed. He needed rest, ad she didn't know how far she would be able to question him anyway. In he end, it didn't matter, because only a minute later Hobbes rejoined them.
~*~*~*@--{--{--*~*~*~
The moon hadn't traveled far before it found them sitting in a loose circle, eating quietly. Sporadically- whenever Florence turned an eye to him- Pinocchio would take a drought of the tea, making a face.
Each looked at the others, looking away guiltily as soon as they were caught. Even Dexter picked up on the mood; he was fast asleep on the ground next to Hobbes.
Hobbes, however, broke the rules and the quiet and spoke, clearly uncomfortable.
"So, um... How much do you really know about Florence's..." He gestured, not knowing what to call it. "Her...healing ability? I mean, I was fine after she fixed me, but you're still..." Degrading to hand movements again, he trailed off.
Florence was usually a touch miffed by people addressing Pinocchio and not herself. But then, it was a bit difficult to question a mute, especially without the ability to sign. Or at least without a pad of paper nearby.
Now, however, she was only relieved. This was the window of opportunity, if Pinocchio was going to take it.
"Blood loss stupid."
"Oh."
Silence reigned for another moment. She almost believed he was going to let the chance go when he dragged himself a bit higher on the tree and spoke again.
"It's... Okay, Hobbes, look-" Squeezing his eyes closed, he seemed to be steeling himself for what he was going to say next. "I'm going to tell you a story. No cracks, and if you tell anyone- I'll kill you. You knowing changes nothing but you knowing. I'm not running off to get killed tomorrow over this."
Hobbes didn't look very convinced by this threat. "A story about what? And if it has to do with Harsh Realm then-"
"Not a word to anyone. Or I will shoot you, and then I can finally eat that dog." Eyes blazing, he pointed his gun. Hobbes shut up and exhaled as the chunk of metal hit the dirt.
The other man relaxed and started talking, watching the moving leaves with inexplicable intensity. Florence stared as hard as she could, but he didn't even glance at her.
"About
ten years ago someone came up to me. He had a project he thought I'd
be interested in - that's what he said. Gave me the usual sales
pitch, no details. Only propaganda and technical jargon. I was -
am, trained in computer programming - that was his angle."
He
paused, waiting, but Hobbes didn't comment, not wanting to break his
flow.
"That was back when I thought I could change the world. Anyway, I was young - and stupid. I went with him, got involved. It wasn't a big deal, a few weekends a year...mostly theory. Least I thought it was.
"Knew they weren't telling me something - expected it really. I was low grade - still had my day job." Taking a pull of water he chuckled drily. "Went on like that for a few years. Then got into a...problem. Came out, wasn't fit for active duty so I got transferred to project HR full time.
"Not very imaginative huh? We all called it Home Room, don't know who started calling it that, but it fit. Working on Harsh Realm was our home, our touchstone. The years before had all been preliminary - scanning in images, building people, societies... God, if the public knew half of what was going on... We were years ahead of any private company.
"By the time I was a full member of the team we were programming the games. That's all it was supposed to be; practice. God, we should'a' known it would be torn out of our hands, if it didn't tear itself out."
By the last he was talking to himself, reflecting on a life of choices. It was a few minutes before he roused himself to continue.
"About a year after I got there Florence came in. Yea, she's hell with a gun, but you should see her with a keyboard. It was her idea that we put in some safe gaurds - just in case.
"Everything about this world is just a big long program. No one can check it all, so slipping something in was pretty safe. Most of the team messed with their VR bodies. Thinner, stronger, handsomer." When he said that his mouth twisted oddly, his hand twitching. "Florence inserted a particularly ingenious bit of code in hers. A repair code. That's why she can heal, but only things that happen in the game.
"Near the end our division head - aw hell, Santiago was in charge of us programmers. We didn't all get together often, everyone liked their own space. We did hold weekly online chats. Santiago got a little weird right before-
"Florence was the one who picked up on it. She convinced me and another guy to worry.
"In the case of someone hijacking the system, there's not much you can do from the outside. You need a way in, so that's what we made. We also programmed shut-down codes and loops, hid them about the system.
"Most of the stuff couldn't be replicated, it was too large, too easy to spot. So we gave it all the protection we could. Florence encoded it, no one can read it without her. I'm theoretically the only one who knows just what's in there and how to use it. The other guy, he hid it.
"We'd decided the best place would be the VC character of someone in the service. Their file would be large enough to keep it, and the code would be safe outside until the soldier was inserted into the game - something we could still do.
"Two weeks after we'd finished Santiago took over. Turned out he'd been cutting connections and building walls for months, probably years.
"The Directors weren't happy. They subjected everyone they could get their hands on to tests and checks - came up with nothing. Anyone who'd helped Santiago had gone with him.
"So they sent us in - the programmers. Most of use had some combat experience, and they figured all we'd need to do would be to get in and take back control. Stupid idiots.
"We got sent in. Some protested and left, knowing what would happen. Don't know what happened to them.
"Florence and me jacked in. The other guy stayed back to send us the carrier when it was safe. And after three damn years, he was. That or the bastards who are in charge out there got lucky."
While Pinnochio narrated, Florence remembered. It all seemed so long ago, so unreal. Harsh Realm had been their lives for so long their 'mission' had turned into a vague mist of a dream long before.
Hobbes had been watching Pinocchio the entire time, spellbound. If this was the truth, and he could believe it was, then he'd been through nothing, compared to what they had lost. But then, he hadn't known what he was getting into... But did Pinocchio know? In the beginning? Or Florence?
"And so... You think I'm the one... The one he put the code into?"
"Yea, you're the one."
"But if he was the only one who knew where he put it how did you-"
"Signal.
Like its password protected. Florence and me've got the password.
The system was either turned on when he decided too, or when he
died."
He finally opened his eyes. "So you're the
one." Voice weary and soft, he looked at Hobbes like a teacher
to a student, or a father to a son. "Nothing you do can matter,
it's all in your...your genes...your code."
Florence looked over sympathetically. It was doubtful all the implications of what Pinocchio had said, much less what he could have said, would ever sink in. Crossing over to the sick man, she sat next to him to check his pulse and temperature. More than that, she had had a sudden urge to be near him. Ever since she'd met him there had been something in him that drew her close, called to her despite his gruffness and hostility. If the situation had been different, maybe she could have told him how she felt, maybe he would have felt the same.
"I don't get it. Why haven't you just gotten rid of Santiago - taken Harsh Realm back now that you have the code?"
"Can't."
He shifted, uncomfortable with Florence's proximity. "Don't
have the hardware anymore. We'd need to jack into Santiago's main
system in this world, and we can't get to it." She had done
that sometimes before, sitting next to him, leaning over his shoulder
to check his screen, brushing his arm with hers when she reached over
to correct a command.
He couldn't even remember how she had gotten into his office. It was an unspoken rule: he saw no one. Then, one day, there she was. And the next, and the next, resisting all his efforts to keep her out. Then came a day he stopped trying.
Two days later she had moved in, setting up her computer opposite his. The office was huge, room enough for a dozen workstations, but even so the room seemed suddenly too small. Everywhere he looked he could see some sign of her. Every time she got close his breath caught and he couldn't look at her except with his deadened stare. She made him too self conscious.
She disrupted his work, but he had to admit to himself that he didn't want her to go.
"There has to be a way in. Or we could get some replacement stuff-"
The two computer experts shook their heads.
"But you had to have put in a fail-safe."
"Course we did a-hole." His voice was harsh, but Florence felt him groping for her hand. She gave it to him, squeezing reassurance and support. "It can be downloaded automatically, bypassing the port as soon as its untied from the code that makes up your VC"
Face set, his eyes were as hard as ever. Florence could see what made him great in the field. He did what had to be done, but he still cared. His grip on her was almost painful, and she found herself holding on too, for dear life.
Hobbes was clearly puzzled. "So free it. Or does that need-"
Pinocchio was already shaking his head. "Can't. Impossible. It's a fail-safe, not a backup plan. The only way that code gets out..." Overcome, he shut his eyes as a spasm shuddered through his body. "...Is if you die."