First Player/Girls Like You

The man sitting at the head of the table wore a custom made charcoal-gray suit. His cuff links were bejeweled diamonds worth more than most third-world countries.

"Thank you for coming on such short notice gentlemen." He spoke in a deep, booming voice which rang through the room. "As I'm sure you're all eager to return to your work, I'll get right to it." He smiled wide. The four other men seated around the table squirmed in their chairs, unnerved. Francis Windsor was not known to be a generally cheerful individual.

"There have been a few recent developments..." He noted before trailing off, gesturing to another man in the room. A scrawny, weaselly-faced man came forth with an armful of thick folders. He set them on the wide table in front of each man, who each leafed through the contents. "Thank you, Elliot." Windsor nodded to the thin man. He returned to his seat away from the table.

"You found him? Really?" One of them questioned as he read through a few documents within the folder. Windsor nodded slowly. "I don't mean to be rude..." Another man cut in. "But wouldn't our resources be better spent elsewhere? We're spread out enough as it is. Do you really think it wise to pursue such a... a wild goose chase at this time? Is he even a threat any more?"

Windsor stood abruptly. James, the fourth man at the table, actually flinched. "A wild goose chase?! This man destroyed us, Douglas. Us! Each one of you, at this table, are here because of him." By this time, Francis was making his way around the room, circling the table as if he were a shark. "He stole millions of dollars from us, gentlemen. Hundreds of men and women; Jobless as well. And why? All because he fancied himself a moral absolute. What's to stop him from doing it again as well?" Windsor questioned.

The four men nodded thoughtfully. "In fact..." Windsor continued. "By now, I assume you've all heard about Genetisoft's recent "troubles"?" James finally spoke up. "That was him?" He asked incredulously. Windsor nodded again.

"How do you plan on bringing him in?" A third man interrupted. "We lost him once, what's to stop him from going off the grid again?" Windsor waved a hand. "I've someone working on it as we speak, Arnold, don't worry."

Douglas arched a brow as he read the last page in the folder. "Miles Benedict? Is that what he's calling himself now?" Francis Windsor interlaced his fingers as he leaned forward onto the table. "Not for long."

Miles Benedict leaned back in his chair, balancing a pencil on his upper lip. The lights within the underground bunker that served as his home were lowly lit, casting shadows across the room. The movie Soylent Green was playing on the massive multi-display console in front of him.

There was a time when Miles had the ability to vedge out, when he didn't have the problem of little voices in his head, sounding distinctly like himself, jabbering all the time about unrelated subjects. Before, he couldn't be working on upgrading Roger's power generator, while mentally cataloging the various (but fortunately not extensive) weaknesses of his nemeses within the city, and at the same time checking whether he was right about nemeses indeed being the plural of nemesis. A year ago Miles certainly couldn't have done that, plus continuing an IM conversation with DarthHater86, plus cooking a microwave burrito, plus mouthing the famous line, "Soylent Green… IS PEOPLE!" from the movie being run in the background. At least, not without gaining some extra limbs or a clone or something.

But now, not only he could, but he had to. He never could really control his thoughts, he figured no one could, but now instead of being aboard a runaway train, with one beginning and one destination, his brain was a runaway subway system, with ideas and thoughts moving in and out, two more getting aboard for every one that left. When did he start thinking in metaphors, anyways? It wouldn't be so bad if every signal that entered the steel doors was a useful and well-behaved commuter, a yuppie yammering in her cell phone, "You see, Fainter's power seem to stem from a skintight radioactive field surrounding his hand..." But no! Some commuters are the college aged, giggling perverts who take the close quarters as an excuse to pinch their fellow traveler's asses, and gleefully ponder, "Wonder what Mister Sphinx would look like wrapped in toilet paper?", or the sad figures in the corner of the subway who helpfully pointed out, "Soylent Green… IS PEOPLE!"

Miles removed his feet from his desk, leaning forward to grasp a mug filled with a nutrient paste. A cashier in Mighty Mart suggested he begin drinking it regularly, as it should help dull his senses.Hopefully reign in his thoughts and eliminate the noisy, troubling commuters. Too bad it tasted like Coke mixed with guacamole. Or maybe it was the other way around.

"Did you hear me, Miles?" an electronic voice queried.

"What'd you say, Roger?" Miles responded, turning in his chair to face the hovering drone. Roger was an artificial intelligence Miles had developed and built at Brightware Solutions, his former (emphasis on former) place of work.

"I asked if you'd like me to shut down for the night?"

Before Miles could answer, everything went dark. He jumped forward, sitting upright in his chair again. "Who turned out the lights?"

Roger whizzed to the other side of the room and connected himself to a console against the wall. "Our system has been infected by a worm, Miles."

Miles' fingers were already at work, flying across the keyboard in front of him. "That's not possible, we're running off the grid."

"Yet here we are, in darkness." Roger quipped. As his attention was focused on the monitors in front of him, Miles didn't stop to turn and glare. "Not really the best time for jokes, Roger. Help me out here."

Miles attempted to decipher the hundreds of lines of computer coding currently scrolling upwards on the monitor. A year ago, he might have chalked a power outage up to bad weather. Or some careless city worker severing a power line. But he built his system to run autonomously; completely on it's own. Miles stared open-mouthed upwards at the screens in front of him. "This isn't a simple computer virus... Someone knows we're here, Roger." He clenched his teeth. "Try the backup generator. I'm going topside.

"Are you sure that is wise?"

Miles was already at the top of the stairs, suited up, Joystick in hand when he yelled back at Roger. "Not really." He turned the wheel lever that opened the hatch to the surface. The outside of the door was camouflaged by faux piles of trash, an idea Miles had been quite proud of. No one would look twice at a garbage pile in the middle of a junkyard. Or at least that's what he originally thought. There didn't seem to be a soul around however. Not that there usually was, that's why he claimed the abandoned bunker as his own after all. But no one was around.

It was the middle of the night, but his visor was equipped with night vision, along with thermal imaging. Ten minutes he canvassed the area and found nothing. If he were careless he actually might have chalked it up to a random glitch in the system. But Miles had more faith in his equipment than that. He stalked back to the entrance, warily scanning the area all the while until he pulled the hatch back up. There was a beeping sound which he assumed was Roger working away inside, until he realized it was coming from outside the base. He pushed aside the fake garbage to reveal a small device hidden underneath. A miniature EMP device? Activated remotely? Miles chuckled to himself. Very clever. It was impressive tech until he realized an EMP would've shut down Roger as well. Unless... It was only designed to look like an EMP device.

Miles clenched his teeth again and sighed. How could he make such an amateur move? Picking up a bomb? He'd have to have a talk with those subway commuters about prioritizing. Maybe the nutrient paste was clouding his senses instead of dulling them. Miles dropped the device and sprung upwards, sprinting away as fast as possible. The timed explosion rocked the junkyard, along with Miles; the blast threw him off his feet and into a bulldozer. Pain surged through him as he hit the ground, debris flying in all directions. A dented car door clattered on top of him. With his vision blurred and his ears ringing, he looked upwards through his cracked visor in time to see a pair of boots. But he passed out before he could raise his head any further.

The soft hum of electronics filled the massive room, while the blue light from the active matrix display flickered over the man behind the set of screens. He deftly bypassed the firewall of his next target before haphazardly sticking a flash drive into one of the computer tower's USB ports. Two minutes was all he needed. His fingers drummed along the desk softly as he recited the alphabet backwards - a habit of his to pass the time. Just then, an airy feminine voice drifted from the matrix as it froze up.

"Mr. Elias Jackson, 20, born in Alphabet City, New York," the familiar yet unemotional voice of the remote security system said, "please stay where you are; a team of security associates are en route, to detain you for questioning." Then the computer shut down. He cursed to himself, but he had gotten what he came for. The telltale sound of marching combat boots echoed from the hall outside. Then he heard the artificial voice again. "Now, if you could please re-open the security door, lie face down onto the ground and assume the security retrieval position.

"Fat chance." he scoffed as the computer shut down. He gathered up his satchel of materials and pulled his flash drive from the tower's USB port and stormed towards the door. He could hear the stomping of boots from down the hall. The security team had arrived. He strapped the zip drive to his upper arm using Velcro, then wrapped it in a white bandage, smeared with ketchup to mimic the appearance of blood. There was no way he was getting out without being frisked. But he spent a little under two years here. In that time he'd gotten to know the ins-and-outs of the building. Which guards were careless and lazy, the position of security cameras mounted in the hallways, etc. No, this would work. It had to.

As he opened the door, he was met by the aforementioned team of security guards. Five guys, all over six feet tall, all ex-Marines. "Oh hey guys..." he quipped. "Funny meeting you all here."

One burly gentleman gripped him by his bandaged arm. He grimaced, feigning pain. "Hey, watch it!"

"Sorry." the guard apologized brusquely, as he and the rest escorted him down the hall, into an elevator, and down thirty-three floors.

Five Minutes Later

He and his escorts were met in the lobby of Brightware Solutions’ headquarters by Mr. Windsor. He spread his arms in a questioning manner. “Did you come just to say hello to me?" He smiled. "You know you’re security clearance was revoked last week, Eli. What are you doing here?”

“I forgot my favorite pen.” he retorted. “My grandmother gave it to me. Right after she died. Saving ten orphans. From a burning building.”

Windsor smirked. “Cute. I assume you didn’t take anything other than your favorite pen then?”

“Well you and I both know what happens when you assume, right?” he shrugged.

Windsor’s smile faded. He gestured to two of the security guards and they seized Eli’s bag. He resisted. He had to sell it for the full effect. They dumped everything on a reception desk and rummaged through the contents. Old papers, pencils, a notebook, and candy wrappers littered the desk. Eli thought about tossing in a children’s coloring book but decided that might be overdoing it. One of the guards pulled a flash drive from under a pile of papers. Windsor smiled and Eli knew he had them on the hook. There was nothing on the flash drive but some very illicit photographs of Windsor’s latest wife, who just so happened to have a fairly sordid past in nude modeling. Eli wasn’t sure if Windsor knew or not. Either outcome would be humorous. But he didn’t plan on sticking around to watch the fallout.

“Hey!” he shouted. “There’s nothing on that, just hand me it back.”

“Ah ah ah.” he tutted, wagging a finger. He signaled his guards again towards the door. “Get him out of here.”

“I’ll see you in another lifetime, Francis." Miles smirked as he was led out of the building.

A hand slapped his face and Miles awoke from his reverie. "Hey, wake up."

"Ow, hey..." he groaned. The slap to the face only intensified his disorientation as he opened his eyes but still couldn't see anything. "Oh god, I'm blind..." He panicked. Then another female voice spoke.

"You're not blind. Yet." she said coldly. He heard what sounded like steel-toed boots clacking loudly on ceramic tiles as whoever it was made their way past him and pulled the blindfold from around his head. He squinted as his eyes adjusted to the light. The spacious room shone, the white floors reflecting off the similarly white ceiling. The walls were white as well, but gridded, making the room seem smaller than it was. "Is this the Matrix?" he mumbled to himself. It only now occurred to him that he was restrained; handcuffed and tied to a metallic chair that was bolted to the floor. His attempts at moving his arms or legs were fruitless. From his point of view, there was nothing else in the room save two security cameras pointed in his direction on the ceiling at the far end of the room.

He heard his captor moving behind him, but couldn't tell what she was doing. And then she circled around him. She was thin and young, with slight Asian features. If you've seen Kill Bill, think Gogo, the schoolgirl bodyguard. In place of th schoolgirl outfit however, she was wearing all black, a turtleneck, tight cargo pants, and thick combat boots. Miles arched a brow, "Daisy Yu-Jin?"

She tried hiding it, but she was visibly shaken. "How do you know me? No one knows me." She pulled a handgun from a holster on her thigh and pointed it at Miles.

"We're in the information business. We're supposed to know things we're not supposed to know." Miles retorted. He crossed his legs casually to put her off balance and in doing so, gain the upper hand. "Now you kidnapped me for something, so stop pretending you're going to shoot me."

She lowered her gun. Really slowly. Daisy Yu-Jin was an extremely talented hacker whom Miles knew only by reputation. "You're not the only one clued in, Miles Benedict. Or Benjamin White. Or Sylvester McCoy. Whatever alias you're using this day of the week."

Miles interrupted her and scanned the room. "Who's pulling the strings here? Because it's clearly not you."

"Insulting your kidnapper: Not really the smartest move."

"That's not what I meant," Miles recanted "Big fan, by the way, love your work. That Spacetonics job? Brilliant." He saw a flash of pride. And that was all he needed. She paced back and forth in front of him, still gripping her gun tightly. She stared daggers at him, but Miles was unphased. His only instinct was understanding the situation. Only then could a solution be devised. "You're a hacker, kidnapping's not your M.O. Who're you working for?" Miles analytic mind was working overtime and running hot. He could almost feel the rush. That might have just been the first blow to the head though. "Where are we, anyway?"

Daisy finally spoke again. "This is the transaction point."

"Oh no..."

"Oh yes. They get you, I get paid, and we're all happy. Except you, really."

"You know they're going to kill you, right? Once you hand me over to them. You're a loose end."

"That's not how it works..." She trailed off. It was clear doubt had set in.

"Wha- How would you know? This is your first kidnapping! Don't you watch action movies?!" Miles shouted. "Tell me who hired you and I can help you."

"Shut up."

And then he saw it. "You're not doing this for the money, are you? They're blackmailing you, aren't they? What've they got on you?"

"I said shut up!" She shouted angrily, pointing the gun at him again. Miles sighed.

"Hey. You help me, I help you and we live. You keep pointing the gun at me, not so much." Miles could almost see the gears in her head turning. Then, instead of speaking, she turned and put a bullet in each security camera. "They have my sister." she answered.

"Who does? Who hired you?" Miles questioned. She made her way behind him, slicing through the tie wraps around his wrist with a knife. Miles wasn't sure where she'd been hiding it but was relieved she wasn't using it on him. "Give me five minutes. Then open that door," she directed, pointing behind him. "Then continue down the hall and out."

Miles opened his mouth to question her again, but she interrupted him, "Five minutes," she said, holstering her gun and gripping the handle of the knife. And then she left.