OllieMander>

+++++++++++

Hazel turned off her handheld, irritated at the growing list of names. After a day of watching the list increase, she found it rather more distressing than helpful. What could she do about it?

Nothing. She could do nothing about the list, but she could finish getting ready for the Partie. In the past, she would have spent the time gathering weapons and skills, but Hazel currently was more interested in figuring out who had sent the Trifecta invitation. She had made the cutoff date for the Partie, but she still had time to procure resources before it started in a couple of weeks. In any other circumstances, she would have been playing, garnering sponsors, leveling and cloaking up. Whatever she could earn through play, not by pay. If she couldn’t get access to the best weapons and skills, though, all her efforts might prove moot.

Hazel had traced the email to an upscale neighborhood in what was left of the Lower East Side, just across the East River from her apartment. Once she had crossed the bridge, she hopped off the Queue car and walked toward the general area where she had registered the signal. She honestly had no idea what she was looking for. Did she expect a computer to jump in front of her and wave its nonexistent arms?

For twenty minutes, she just wandered the streets – well-lit, fairly safe streets thanks to the money that flowed around them. Some neighborhoods had erected walls after the Crash, when the whole of NAmdam had seemed on the verge of upheaval. Some of the neighborhoods, though, relied too heavily on foot traffic to shut themselves off from the world. The little enclave Hazel strolled through boasted several casual chic restaurants and storefronts, and they apparently needed customers.

She finally parked herself in a tea shop, pulling out her handheld and tapping into the local Stream. Before she had left Sophie’s, Hazel had transferred the information from Peter’s message onto her handheld and now hazarded a quick view using the weak wireless signal from the shop. Not a lot clearer from her current position, but the radius had drawn in as she approached the location of the sender. She swiped off another notification that a Trip player had disappeared from the game – that made over twenty since her friend had sent her the dedicated news feed.

Not what I’m here for, she reminded herself, refocusing on the tracker. The center of the circle lay only a few hundred feet west of her, and she sat on the eastern perimeter. A quick calculation told her that to cover the entire distance would require her to maneuver through about the size of a double football pitch. With buildings taking up most of that space, she was looking at maybe an hour walking time max to cover all the streets. If she played her cards right, she could fit in an hour of Trip after she covered the area. Of course, if she found what she was looking for, she had no idea what she would do with the information, so she might not have time for anything else.

After another ten minutes of walking, Hazel felt grateful that she had worn her hoodie and duster, and that she had wool socks inside her fur-lined boots. The wind had picked up, and a mild fog, stirred by the collision of the warm humid air off the river with the cold wind, smudged the streetlamps that lighted the cobblestone sidewalks.

She glanced both ways and quickly crossed the Queue path to the row of apartments on the north side of the signal range. When she noticed the little sign at ground level, it was not because the word meant anything, but because of the symbol – the Soldiers of America shield. In Tripartite, every player chose from a team of options: either Axis tripartite, or the lesser known 1936 tripartite, a monetary coalition which more or less correlated to the Allied powers of World War II. Instead of guns and planes, the fighters waged war in the streets of Europe with spells and ranged attacks and combat skills.

The shield with the blue and red banners, the gold star, and the mysterious silhouette? It was the symbol of a political faction within Tripartite, one that used the chat utility to recruit membership for real world resistance. They opposed Wires, the Bridge, the management of tech by governments in general. For months, they had tried to recruit Hazel to play for them, since she was famous for her ability to compete without a Wire. But she didn’t involve herself in organizations as a rule. She certainly understood their concerns, but she had always believed that people should be educated and then make their own decisions, not have their thoughts determined by higher ups or thinktanks – no matter how much she agreed with the platform.

Surely, no one who used a SOA shield would recruit Wireds to get even more power in the game, to use secret areas that offered new skills. Though the building seemed to hold the source of the email, it was a pretty big building. Ironic if some SOA activist had taken up residence in the same building as a High Wire enthusiast. The shield really meant nothing, she realized. Probably a wannabe who hadn’t made it past level four. Still, she noted the name: HayWire.

Subtle. She rolled her eyes as she reached for the gate’s handle.

When the sound processed in her ears, Hazel froze, a deer in headlights. There was no way she could move in time.

+++++++++++++++

Within five minutes of his discovery, Rel had backtracked to the footage of the young woman and had begun a trace on any Bridge signatures in the vicinity of Donald Yates’s apartment at the time. The Wired signals were quickly identified and discarded, and he narrowed the rest down to five handhelds. When he found the specific accounts, two of them belonged to middle-aged women. Of the three remaining, any of them could have been right. He wished he could discard one for hair color or height, but hair color was too changeable, and though he thought the girl was tall, the distortion of a camera could have fooled his eyes. If he had been able to consult with a tech, he could have figured out the math, but his only entre was with Vee, and going through her would add an unnecessary day to the search. Just go do the footwork, he chastised himself.

Dierdre Holland, Brittane Demaris, and Austen Trace.

Dierdre Holland responded to his call immediately, but she claimed never to have heard of Donald Yates. She also claimed she had only been in town for a four-day convention and had flown out about two hours after the footage. Her signal seemed to corroborate her assertion.

For Brittane Demaris and Austen Trace, Rel checked their location history before he tried to contact them. If Diedre’s tone of voice signified anything, getting a phone call from the NCB stirred suspicion. Rel knew from experience that he had much more credibility in person than over the phone, so he decided he should visit the last two subjects in person.

Both had been in the city for several weeks before the footage, and both had remained in the city since. Since Brittane Demaris’s handheld currently showed as less than a five-minute walk from his office, Rel threw on his jacket and headed into the rapidly darkening evening.

His Neurex indicated that she had just entered an area of shops and cafes, and he quickly found a spot on a bench where he could monitor the comings and goings in the little plaza that the handheld indicated. For several minutes, he found his tension rising as he had to untrain himself from reading all the Wires for the information he sought. Instead, he had to look for the handheld, a completely different signature without a face or the usual health monitors that accompanied all the other humans milling around.

Finally, he spotted the signal, and he stood to his feet. Part of him wanted to utilize the Stream to pinpoint her exact location and then approach her, but he had already spent almost half an hour potentially wasted on the wrong person. Instead of using all the technology at his fingertips, he just opened his mouth. “Brittane!” he shouted.

The head that turned, bright red and a good five inches lower than he would have expected, did not resemble the face on the footage, and Rel instantly checked her off the list.

Austen Trace it is, he decided, and turned his attention back to the other handheld signal, leaving Brittane to wonder who had called out to her. Unfortunately, the trip to Ms. Trace took a good twenty-minute Queue ride across town. At least he would escape the cold for a bit rather than traipse around in the elements as the front rolled in.

During the ride, he tried to research the young woman. He found some relevant information. Age: twenty-three. Family: Mother and one brother. Father died in the Crash Graduated early from Boston. No listed occupation. Does she just live off of her mom? he wondered.

No picture, which was interesting. Maybe if he could have tapped into the mainframe, but with the wireless signal, he could only find the more publicly available information. Rel guessed he understood why some people would refuse to get Wired, but the thought of how daily life would work – so many inconveniences – meant that he would never regret the Wire.

Finally, the Queue car slowed, and Rel slipped off the restraint. The sun had finished setting during the ride, and the hinted wind grew palpable. Though similar to the plaza he had just left, the one he now stood in had emptied of most of its occupants. He did not have any desire to find a post on a bench like he had before, so he stepped into a bookstore and pretended to look at an art book. With access to almost any book on the Bridge, he couldn’t believe that a physical bookstore had stayed in business, but apparently some people still wanted to hold paper in their hands.

When Rel noticed the girl, he accessed the handheld signal. Could be a match, though not necessarily. It was definitely close, and she seemed tall silhouetted against the shop window. Setting down the book, he stepped into the cold.

The woman had pulled a hood up over her head, so Rel could only tell she was a woman by the curve of her duster at the waist. Crossing toward her, he considered calling the name as a test. With the late hour and empty square, though, she might interpret his intrusion as a threat. Instead, he followed her, tracking the signal to make sure that it followed her, too.

Once he felt her identity had been confirmed, he planned to contact the handheld and try to discuss Donnie with her. He heard the Queue break before he saw it, and when he realized the trajectory, he tore into a full sprint. She had not heard it, had not seen it, and the two-ton vehicle had somehow malfunctioned. Now it barreled toward her with nothing to impede its path. Just before he reached her, she seemed to recognize the sound, terror freezing her expression in a grimace.

When Rel knocked into her, he spun his body to shield her from the impact on the ground. As a result, his right arm smashed painfully into a trashcan – which probably saved it from the breaking impact on the pavement. The Queue car jumped the sidewalk and ran up onto some shrubbery lining a wrought iron fence that ran alongside the nearby apartments.

“Are you okay?” Rel demanded, but the girl could not answer.

Panic had definitely taken root in her mind, and her breaths sped to a manic rate. Scrambling to a sitting position, he did his best to help her to the same. Unfortunately, she seemed completely insensible.

“You’re okay,” he tried to soothe, tapping into the charm that he had left behind when he moved to a desk. He rubbed her arms. “You’re safe.”

Instead of helping, his words had no effect. She closed her eyes and raised her hands to her face, near hiccupping in her distress. Her hood fell back and revealed light brown hair shorn at the chin, a bob of gentle waves tipped with subdued violet. She’s prettier than she looked on the screen, he realized. Likely, the camera had distorted the perspective slightly.

“Listen, miss,” Rel prompted, “I think you’re in shock.” He stood to his feet, and reaching down, he tugged until she stood next to him. “My name is Rel, and I work for the National Central Bureau. The Queue car has stopped, and it didn’t hit you, okay?” Changing tactics, he placed his arm across her shoulders. With the contact, her panic calmed just a tad, and Rel began to lead her to a nearby coffee shop – careful to distract her as they crossed the Queue path.

By the time they reached the shop, the woman had calmed enough that she was pulling away from him, and he released his hands so she could gain some distance. Now that he could see her, her hair was darker than it had looked on the feed. Almost brown instead of dark gold.

“Oh my gosh,” she breathed. “If you hadn’t…I can’t - thank you,” she finally got out, and Rel smiled.

He quizzed her to find out if she was his source. “I wanted to access your file when I thought I might have to call an emergency Queue, and I noticed you’re not wired. I promise I wasn’t being nosy. But do you want to tell me your name? I’m Rel Martins.”

“Hazel,” she answered, and Rel restrained the frustration in his expression.

“Hi, Hazel,” he managed. She had even resembled the girl in the footage, but the camera had not caught a clear shot. “Do you have a handheld? If so, you can scan my Wire and identify me. I think maybe I should see you safely home, but I want you to feel comfortable with it.”

Nodding, Hazel pulled out her handheld. After a quick wireless connection, she read his bio and calmed even more. “NCB. I’ve heard of you guys.” “I think it would make me feel better if I don’t have to get into a Queue car alone right now.” Since Hazel felt better, she rose, and Rel followed her outside to an empty car. “My best friend is in a coma because of a Queue car. I rode over here in one, but now I’m not sure I’ll ever feel comfortable in one again. Though a little better if I’m not alone.”

The door slid open as she approached, and she started to lower herself into the warm interior. “Is your best friend named Donnie?” Rel pressed, excited as he slid into the spot beside her. Maybe she had given him a false name. Smart.

Suddenly, Hazel wished she had not so readily accepted the man’s help. “No,” she countered. “My best friend is Sophie…were you following me?”

If the Queue car had not started moving so quickly, Hazel would have jumped out, but she had little chance of getting away once the car had embarked on its route. Rather than head home, then, she directed the car to the house of the strongest and most intimidating friend she had – Peter. On the way, she messaged him in hopes that he would be home.

A few seconds later, Peter replied in the affirmative, and Hazel relaxed.

“I wasn’t following you,” Rel insisted. “I mean, I was looking for a woman. She was definitely in your area, but she’s not you, apparently. I only saw her on security footage, and she kind of looked like you. That’s why I noticed you before the Queue car went haywire.”

Though his words should have comforted her, they didn’t. Was his reference to “haywire” coincidental? He couldn’t know that she had given him her gamertag. Can you track me and figure out if I’m really heading to your place? she messaged Peter. I’m sharing my location with you. And check out someone named “Rel Martins” at the NCB.

Strange request…

I think he was following me, but don’t freak out; just track me.

This would be a little easier if you were Wired, Peter chastised. Not the brightest thing for you to get in the car with a perfect stranger. I should have Ziyad get you a Jolt.

Thank you for judging my state of mind while I was literally in shock from nearly being killed. Besides, I never wanted it to be easy to track me, she retorted. And you know I don’t want a weapon that would fry someone’s brain.

As often happened, she regretted appealing to Peter for help. Whenever she did something the slightest bit unthinking, he ignored any cause for compassion and resorted to castigating her – like her failure was an offense against him. Maybe it stemmed from the fact that Pete did not consider his failures as failures, all impulse subject to a lightning quick mind and therefore not prone to error. In fact, if she followed the thought down its natural path, she couldn’t really label most of his actions as impulse – since he never repudiated them, he must have intended them.

A movement beside her tore her from her irritation at Peter. Fortunately, “Rel” seemed not to notice her distraction, maybe chalking it up to her shock – which had thankfully subsided. Even with the insecurity of the situation, Hazel couldn’t escape the humor of how cramped and tangled he looked stuffed behind the vestigial steering wheel. He had stood close to half a foot taller than she, though she usually looked men in the eye, if not looked down on them, literally. Seeing him crammed into the Queue car, Hazel’s impression proved accurate.

After a few seconds, her handheld buzzed, and she glanced down as surreptitiously as possible. Peter had replied, and his answer slowed her breath as she relaxed a little You seem to be headed to me, Pete confirmed, and I think I found “Rel” at the NCB. Aurelius Martins, NCB field agent and analyst. Straight arrow but unconventional. Did you say he was following you?

He doesn’t know he was. He thinks I’m Hazel, and that’s all that he needs to know, she asserted.

As Rel lapsed into silence, he noticed that his companion was splitting time staring out the opposite window and glancing down at her handheld. The realization brought Austen Trace back to his mind, and he cursed at having lost her. Not that he would have chosen differently regardless, since the alternative was a dead or injured Hazel, but he had really needed to find Donald Yates. When he pulled up the handheld tracker, though, he grew suspicious.

His eyes narrowed at the profile of the woman beside him. Despite her claim of the name “Hazel,” her handheld seemed to belong to Austen Trace. Either she had stolen it, or she had lied to him about her name. Before he could decide which, the car had slowed, and he noticed a completely unexpected face standing alongside the Queue path.

Waiting for “Hazel” next to the Queue line stood Peter Donovan, architect of the Bridge, savior of all things Wired. When “Hazel” stepped out of the car, Peter Donovan wrapped his arm possessively around the young woman Rel had saved. Newly curious, Rel followed her onto the pavement. Was she a bored rich girl who had stolen Austen Trace’s handheld for a thrill? Was she Austen Trace, but she used a pseudonym because she was friends with the most famous person on the planet? Rel could hear the couple talking in low tones, their faces turned away so Rel could not make out the words.

“Are you going to be okay, Hazel?” Rel called solicitously, and Peter twisted his head to take in the new face.

“She’s fine,” Peter insisted. “Since you’re NCB, you know who I am, and you know that I can take care of her”

Despite her relief at reaching Peter, Hazel fumed that he was speaking for her. It was as if he had testosterone puffing like mushroom clouds out of his pores. I literally came to him because I knew he could protect me, she rolled her eyes at herself. Testosterone seemed a beneficial ingredient for protection.

“Give me a minute, Peter,” she commanded, shoving away from him, and though she could see his irritation, he did not hold her back. “Thank you,” Hazel offered Rel as she stepped back toward the car. “I really do appreciate what you did. I just don’t know you.”

Smirking, Rel shook his head. “Makes sense that if you wanted protection from me, you’d come to Peter Donovan since you know him. Are you sure you’re okay? He’ll take care of you?”

Though the astute agent from NCB seemed to sense her disquiet, Hazel couldn’t trade comforts. She knew the risks of Peter; she had no knowledge of Aurelius Martins. “He will,” she promised. “I’m like a little sister to him. His little brother was my best friend.”

“Was?” Rel wondered, though he instantly regretted it. “I’m sorry, none of my business. Just as long as you’ll be okay.” Peter Donovan did not look at Hazel like a little sister; he looked at her like his property, but she seemed oblivious.

“It’s okay,” Hazel allowed. “My best friend, Lex – Pete’s brother. Died in the Crash. It’s why Peter and I became friends, before he built the Bridge.”

“A convenient friend to have, I guess,” Rel leveled as he peered over her head to where Peter stood.

“Less convenient since I’m not Wired,” she laughed. “We’re friends because of Lex. Who Peter is beyond that is not really significant to me. We actually rarely talk about the Bridge. Mostly play Headspace or Trip.”

Rel wanted to ask what Trip was, but as he opened his mouth, Peter called out to retrieve Hazel.

“You should come in, Hazel,” he commanded, his eyes riveted to Rel. Peter crossed over and put his arm back around her, leaning down to plant a kiss on her hair.

What the hell? she wondered. Peter had given over being affectionate as soon as he had launched the Bridge, as if once he had his power and money to comfort him, he didn’t really need Hazel for that. They were something…different. Though she had no idea what, if she were honest with herself.

“Right,” she evaded. “Coming.”

Definitely anxious, Rel processed as he peered down at the young woman, her hand reaching impulsively to grab something at her neckline – something that seemed not to materialize. Whether she were Austen Trace or not, her relationship with Peter Donovan seemed to be a relationship of habit more than comfort. Otherwise, she would have calmed once she reach Donovan.

Despite his compassion, if Austen Trace’s signal had not followed this Hazel, Rel would have stepped back at that moment and left her to deal with the choices she made, but Hazel had Austen Trace’s handheld, and Austen Trace probably knew what had happened to Donald Yates.

Not that he could manage much stealth around Peter Donovan, but Rel would find a way to reconnect with Hazel - whether Peter Donovan believed he owned her or not.