Chapter Three, Inconsistent
This time I woke up fast, coming to immediately and knowing exactly where I was. The headache had gone overnight, but when I touched the back of my head I found a lump. I'd long since stopped dealing with things like that — with spider powers, minor annoyances like that I simply ignored. Even during the periods when my powers were on the fritz, I could afford to fall from a ten-story building — spine-first onto a car roof — and not break my back.
On top of that, my arm and core muscles were pleasantly sore. And that was after twelve measly push-ups. The realization of just how weak I was made me feel unbearably ashamed of myself.
I remembered what I'd dreamed about. Such a strange dream — just the memory of it made my heart clench painfully. Apparently my subconscious was sending signals to my slow, forgetful conscious mind, but how the hell was I supposed to interpret a dream like that?
— Get off my lane already, you one-button animal! — came Bobbie's muffled but still perfectly audible hiss.
And there was what had woken me up. Right — besides Skyrim, there were a few other games on the computer. Judging by the outburst, Bobbie was playing one of them.
I got up and dressed in yesterday's clothes… no, this won't do.
— I hope you haven't installed anything on a WORK computer while I was asleep? — I said, stepping up behind the girl.
— Oh… I was just… doc used to let me play on her computer when it wasn't being used, you know, I was stuck here with her the whole time and I got bored… so, — Bobbie dropped her shoulders and avoided my eyes while she explained herself.
She hadn't paused the game, and while she was talking, a female voice announced that the enemy team had killed the Baron.
— I'll turn it off and… delete all the games, just please don't tell the boss that the computer broke because of me, — she pressed her palms together in a prayer gesture and looked at me with pleading eyes.
— Don't delete anything from the computer without me. Finish your game, — I turned away and walked to the refrigerator.
But Bobbie didn't keep playing — she closed the game and followed me over, showering me with thanks. Clearly the girl genuinely feared Cindy's wrath.
— Alright, — I cut off the stream of words, — since you're done playing, listen to my conditions: the refrigerator needs to have actual food in it — something that heats up quickly is fine. All that rotting garbage gets thrown out. I need clean clothes, underwear, toiletries, a towel, and everything else along those lines. And right now, show me the bathroom or shower.
Bobbie was thrown off by the directness of it and blinked at me. I continued:
— Actually, why the hell am I even explaining this to you? You kidnapped me and expected me to work for you! You want results — give me decent conditions to work in.
No objections followed, thankfully. The girl processed all the information and set about carrying out the tasks. Five minutes later I was standing in the shower brushing my teeth and thinking over the information Bobbie had inadvertently let slip that morning.
She'd been here constantly alongside Stans. I seriously doubted she'd been of any use in the research — try as I might, I couldn't see this girl as a scientist's assistant. Playing games on a research workstation — great occupation for a lab assistant, sure. Which meant what? Right — Bobbie was guarding Stans the same way she was guarding me. So the doc was being held here against her will. But for how long? Stans was unlikely to have been a prisoner when she wrote her paper — no, more likely Cindy had taken notice of her precisely because of the paper. There could be nuances, of course, but this scenario was the most probable. In that case, the scientist's reckless behavior took on a whole new light — she was deliberately sabotaging the work. Which raised yet another question: who the hell was this Cindy, if she could see potential where the entire world had seen none, in Stans' paper?
Questions, questions, questions — far too many questions.
While I was washing up, Bobbie brought in clean clothes — plain sweatpants, a hoodie, and underwear.
I returned to my predecessor's project. For now I was simply sorting through the existing work and mentally sketching out what could be done to improve the situation. Whatever sympathy I might have for the victim, I had no intention of delivering a functional formula and emitter to criminals — and it was far from certain I could, anyway. In parallel I was assembling a decoder. Things turned out to be less straightforward there than I'd anticipated. I'd seen Stark bypass security systems with casual ease using his suit and JARVIS, but among the data I'd saved without looking the night before, there was nothing nearly as effective.
The lock was not cheap. A four-digit code, automatic alarm trigger after three incorrect attempts. A decoder capable of resetting the attempt counter via short circuits would spend an hour and a half cycling through every four-digit combination — roughly 120 per minute. But if I limited the search to the four visibly worn digits, it would take only about twelve seconds. In the end, I decided to go after the master key for the lock. I'd still have to build the decoder and have access to the lock for a couple of hours, but once I had it, I'd be able to reset the lock code no matter how many times they changed it. The master key is longer than the regular password — six characters — which would normally mean several weeks of cycling, but this model of lock had a vulnerability in its firmware: as soon as you entered four digits that matched neither the password nor the master code, the lock would output an error, which meant I could identify the first four positions of the master key, and then determine the final two.
Along the way I also put together a simple disposable taser, just in case.
Bobbie wasn't bothering me and wasn't even trying to keep track of what I was doing. And whenever I let her play on the computer… not a guard, but a dream.
On the second night I found the current lock code using my homemade decoder, then identified the master key — at which point the lock naturally switched into new-key-entry mode. That would have been a disaster if I'd gone straight for the master key without being able to restore the original code first. Also worth noting: the code used different digits from the four worn ones, which meant it had been changed recently.
That cost me five hours of sleep — first I waited an hour for the estate to go quiet, then spent four more hours keeping watch over the decoder while it worked, not daring to sleep while it ran. I'm a heavy sleeper, and waking up at a specific time on demand only works about half the time. It could have been a useful skill — no alarm clock needed — but for some reason it's unreliable. There were times I'd gone to sleep without setting an alarm, trusting myself to wake up when I needed to, and then come to fourteen hours later — or been woken by Aunt May when she knew I had an early start. That same night I made a brief sortie out into the corridor. The laboratory was underground, and by a fortunate coincidence, the security post was not far away. The guard on duty was deeply negligent about his responsibilities, as evidenced by the booming voice of a Tavern Keeper announcing a match between Rexxar and Anduin. The guard himself wasn't visible — he was in an adjoining room; only his boots and the edge of a sofa were visible through the open door — but at least he wasn't asleep.
From this sortie I learned one very important fact: cameras were only installed outside the estate, at the gates and at the front entrance. I had already confirmed that the laboratory had no visible surveillance devices — now I knew which areas to avoid during the escape.
Anduin won, by the way.
On the third day I learned everything there was to learn from Stans' records. The forced confinement was starting to weigh on me. On top of that, Bobbie had stopped spending the night with me — which meant I no longer had internet access. During that time I'd managed to put the chaos in my head into some kind of order, but I still hadn't been able to make sense of that dream, and no new messages from my subconscious had arrived. One way or another, it was time to get out of here and find out what had actually happened to me. If I really had been the superhero Spider-Man, then how had I ended up in the past — and if I was just a sixteen-year-old kid, then where did these memories come from? In either case, I needed to recover my memories of the past several months — maybe years — of my life.
I had two main escape plans.
First: take Bobbie's gun and force the girl to escort me off the estate. In the process I could call the cops using the criminal's iPhone. The drawbacks of this plan were obvious — I won't even bother listing them.
Second: slip out quietly at night, and then call the cops. This plan was also far from perfect, but it was the one I was leaning toward — why else would I have built the decoder?
There was also one last option: call the cops and become a hostage during the raid. As you can probably guess, this option was not approved by the high council and was never granted the status of a plan.
***
I left the lab again at night, slipping past the security post. This time the sounds coming from it were from some kind of film. Well, he couldn't play Heroes of the Storm forever.
I couldn't go through the main entrance — cameras there — so I needed to find a service entrance. An estate this size had to have service passages. I had some experience with this sort of thing, and I'd even picked up a few things from Felicia — but unfortunately, I didn't have her skill at picking locks or moving unseen. I managed to reach the garage, clearing three more electronic locks along the way. Much cheaper ones than the lab's — didn't even need the decoder. Some electronic lock models are an absolute joy to crack: you pop off the back panel and change the access code — there's even an instruction card inside. Very considerate of the manufacturers to provide that capability. Also known as the dirty maid method.
But in the garage itself I ran into an unexpected problem: I don't know how to drive. I've never needed to! I found the delivery truck they use to bring groceries — I even knew how to hot-wire it… God, how stupid. I didn't want to run through the woods on foot when there was a ready-to-steal vehicle right in front of me. I'd have to hide and wait for the cops to arrest the criminals. Better to do that from my own home than in a forest in the middle of the night.
Okay — combine the first two plans. I, like an idiot, turned around and went back to my room to wait for Bobbie's arrival. I could have tried to overpower the guard at the post, but his absence would be noticed quickly — as would mine. Bobbie, on the other hand, spent nearly the entire day with me, and given that she arrived very early and had adjusted to my schedule, there was a good chance our absence wouldn't be noticed right away.
Passing the security post, I heard the voice of the Tavern Keeper again — announcing a defeat this time — followed by a woman's indignation:
— Fucking face hunters, the class for braindead players. Though I wonder what it's actually like to play face hunter… — Guards.
This whole estate is full of women.
Bobbie arrived a little earlier than usual, carrying a stack of clean clothes and a tray of fresh food. Because of her armload she had to close the door with her foot, though strictly speaking the door would have closed on its own — it was automatic.
I felt a twinge of guilt about electrocuting such a considerate girl — but then I remembered waking up with a headache and a bag over my head, and the result of my push-up test, and even if my doubts didn't entirely disappear, I overrode the sympathy I'd developed for Bobbie over these past few days.
Note:
*If there are any great biologists or doctors who spotted any absurdities in the text, I humbly ask your forgiveness — this is not my field.