Apocalypsewriters - I Think I’m Lost

A/N: it did occur to me that i should have scheduled the already written part 5 before i left on holidays for two weeks but there’s nothing i can do now. finally you can see bella’s scheme come to fruition in the final part of this series (not counting the alternate ending i’ve been cooking up for months now)

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Part V: Release

Feedback whistled in her ear, making Bella wince. She would take out her earpiece, but it would only make calibration take longer, so she tapped the side, turning down the volume. Her keyboard clicked as she tapped into the back entrance of the camera system. While she could use her personal login, it would heavily implicate her in her upcoming task, jeopardizing her job and new opportunity; even if she wasn’t suspected of helping, watching and not doing anything would not look good for her. Still, to say she hacked into the system was a stretch. She simply created a new login that she would purge when she was done.

Finally, the ringing in the earpiece stopped. Bella turned it up again and tapped it twice, tuning her into Manic Alchemist’s channel.

“Hey,” she said. “Wake up!” The Crimson Programmer turned up the volume on Manic Alchemist’s end to rouse him.

“What- what is this?” His voice was rough from disuse but clear through the speaker. Everything the Crimson Programmer made was always of the highest quality.

“Stars above, you’re dense. This is a rescue,” she said, overenunciating the last four words. “The Crimson Programmer is getting you out of this hellhole.”

Manic Alchemist didn’t let up with his questions. “How? Why?”

The Crimson Programmer groaned into her hands. Peeking between her fingers, she saw Manic Alchemist look around the room. She hadn’t even hit him over the head; how could he be so slow to readjust to consciousness? Surely he hadn’t been wallowing in pity the entire time. “Do you think,” the Crimson Programmer ground out, “that either of us have time for explanations?”

“I don’t like doing things if I don’t know the reason why,” said Manic Alchemist, his tone regaining its usual snark. “And I have good reason to be suspicious of you. Last time we met up I was kidnapped!”

“Let’s just say I had a resurgence of my conscience–”

Manic Alchemist interrupted the Crimson Programmer. “Bullshit.”

The Crimson Programmer was glad she had concocted a lie earlier. Smoothly, she said, “Look, I was blackmailed. It was either go to jail myself, or turn someone in that I could break out.”

Always shrewd, Manic Alchemist asked, “And why risk your safety for me?”

“I had nothing better to do today,” the Crimson Programmer said.

“Right.”

“Do you want to be tattled on by the government to your parents? Or go to a juvenile detention center?”

Still not satisfied with her explanation, Manic Alchemist sharply inhaled, ready to go on another tirade.

It was the Crimson Programmer's turn to cut him off. “We are wasting time here. I could be found at any minute. If either of us get caught, this fiasco will end disastrously.”

“I’m already caught. Aren’t you breaking me out?” Manic Alchemist remarked drily.

“Then cooperate!” The Crimson Programmer bit back. “If you want out, then do what I say and stop playing dumb. You’re better than this.”

“Oh, you think I’m smart? I’m flattered. How unlike you to compliment–” The Crimson Programmer sent a pulse of feedback to Manic Alchemist’s end, momentarily deafening one ear and cutting him off. “Okay, okay,” he corrected himself. “Tell me what to do.”

“Relax your hands,” she said.

“Why?”

“What did I say before?”

“Right, right.”

“If you relax your hands you can pull them out of your gloves. The restraints were tightened to accommodate for the fabric around your wrists, so it’s not tight enough to effectively bind them,” explained the Crimson Programmer.

She watched the gloves poking out of the cuffs wiggle a little, the fingers going limp. Manic Alchemist’s arms twisted as he coaxed his hands free.

“That’s it,” the Crimson Programmer said. “Try angling your right elbow towards you – your hand should slip out easier that way.”

Manic Alchemist froze. He said, “Wait. Can you see me?”

“Of course. It wouldn’t be a very efficient escape attempt if I was blind to what you were doing. Then we’d waste precious time as you described your surroundings,” said the Crimson Programmer, tapping the desk beside her.

“You hacked into the cameras?”

The Crimson Programmer hesitated. “Yes,” she finally said.

“Why did you pause?” Manic Alchemist asked. Of course he was back to his usual perception. He always picked up on everything, paranoia teaching him to be good at picking up on social queues.

“Because I… thought I heard someone coming,” the Crimson Programmer said, covering horribly with a lie.

Shaking out his wrists, Manic Alchemist looked around the room, searching for the camera. Likely noticing the blinking red light, he stared straight at it and asked, “Where are you?”

“The less you know the better.”

“Fair enough.”

A smile played on the Crimson Programmer’s lips. As annoying as he was, it was, at the very least, entertaining to clash wits with Manic Alchemist. She let the smile drop and focused back on the task at hand. “There should be a button on the inside of your ankles that releases the cuffs,” she said, watching Manic Alchemist bend down, folding awkwardly over the chest binding. The metal straps popped open, leaving his legs dangling comically, like an abandoned puppet. “Now just slide out from the chest restraints. You’re skinny enough.”

“Hey!” Manic Alchemist protested, doing what she said all the same.

“It’s true. You forget to eat, like me,” the Crimson Programmer said without a hint of doubt. “Alright. If you walk to the table there should be a fist-sized canister there.”

She heard the faint tap of his footsteps over the audio, using that to guide her perception of Manic Alchemist's place in the room as he stood in an almost blind spot of the cameras, his Ironman socks peeking into the view of a camera. The Crimson Programmer had planted it there earlier after deciding on the risk of freeing Manic Alchemist. It would likely look like she had forgotten it there after monitoring his condition before reporting her success to Zach.

“I’ve got it. Now what?” It made sense that Manic Alchemist would do what he was told, but it still shocked the Crimson Programmer how little he was questioning her orders. 

“Roll it under the door.”

“What is it going to do?” There was the resistance.

“Nothing lethal,” the Crimson Programmer said evasively. “Don’t use it, by all means, but I doubt you can take out the armed guards on the other side.”

“No, no. I was just curious. I’d prefer to know of course, especially in case I could have done it better,” Manic Alchemist said as he ambled towards the door.

The Crimson Programmer snapped, “I’m sorry, next time you can break yourself out.”

“Don’t be so touchy,” Manic Alchemist soothed in vain. “I think I deserve to insult you a little bit after you got me arrested.”

“Just send the canister under the door.”

The pair was silent as he did so. The Crimson Programmer switched the cameras displayed on her monitor to watch blue-tinted smoke stream out of the canister. The poor people standing at the door only had a scant few seconds to look confused before the chemicals took effect and they slumped to the floor.

“You can step out now. The door is,” the Crimson Programmer paused, the click of buttons echoing around the room as she reprogrammed the lock. “Open.”

Manic Alchemist shuffled into view and stopped cold. “Are they dead?” he asked hollowly. Nudging one with his foot, his pixels shivered as he shuddered. The prone bodies showed no sign of life as the visors on the helmets were reflective, and the armor was protectively stiff which hid any movement of the guards’ chests.

Scoffing, the Crimson Programmer reassured him, “Of course not. They’re just passed out. Honestly, what do you take me for? I am many things, but I am not a murderer. And I do my best to make sure my creations don’t take life either.”

The staticky silence was not comfortable.

Stifling the urge to clear her throat before she spoke, the Crimson Programmer directed Manic Alchemist, watching his progress as she talked. “Go down the hall… turn left. Wait!” She had been too focused on the screens and had forgotten to unlock the door. Tapping out a preplanned sequence of buttons, she continued, “Alright. The door on your right is open now.”

Manic Alchemist twisted the handle and the door popped open easily, revealing a medium-sized broom closet with an overstuffed plastic bag inside.

“That’s your stuff. Get changed now if you want to be more prepared later.”

As Manic Alchemist slipped inside the over-glorified cupboard, he asked, “You’re not going to spy on me while I do that, will you?”

“You could put it on in the hallway. There’s nothing intimate you have to do to get your gear on. It’s just detailing and gaudy, unnecessary accessories.” 

At her words Manic Alchemist sighed, his sharp exhale tinny and staticky through the earpiece. He stepped out of the closet fully dressed, cape brushing his boots and seams faintly glowing on his dark pine suit.

“You took your time,” said the Crimson Programmer snidely.

The quality of the monitors and cameras was so good she thought she saw Manic Alchemist roll his eyes.

“Before you start insulting me again, you should try a new upgrade I added on to your suit while you were napping.” The Crimson Programmer switched views of the camera as she spoke. “There is an option on the modes of your suit that reads CM-FG. Select it, and you will be invisible to cameras and slightly less conspicuous as your suit changes to match the color of nearby walls.”

The hues on the screen abruptly flipped as the cameras loaded. A few months ago she had installed a thermal view onto them. It was only available to her, and she planned to keep it that way; it was a valuable asset to have in her arsenal, and she didn’t want anyone snooping on her after-hours work. She already had an excuse in place if anyone was bright enough to stumble upon the function, which was unlikely. If she was confronted she’d claim she’d been perfecting the system and wanted to ensure all bugs and glitches were gone before sharing. She’d had thermal imaging cameras installed and customized in her personal living space for three and a half years, so the perfected system was easy to transfer to headquarters if somewhat challenging to install undetected. 

Thus, Manic Alchemist remained visible to her and invisible on any other cameras. The less work she had to do wiping the memory of cameras and other equipment she tampered with, the better.

Barring a few biting exchanges, the rest of the escape attempt went relatively smoothly. Seven turns away from the exit, however, some poor, overworked employee’s hot computer disguised a figure turning the corner.

“Stop, stop stop!” The Crimson Programmer hissed. Manic Alchemist tripped over his feet in haste. “Walk back five paces and step behind the corner. Don’t make a sound or we’re both busted.”

The edge of Manic Alchemist’s cape had just whipped around the pillar as someone stepped into the hallway. Thankfully, whoever it was walking by was fully absorbed in their phone and hadn’t seen the shimmer in the air that was Manic Alchemist. Strangely enough, the Crimson Programmer didn’t recognize the person, which meant they were most likely a new recruit. Scratch that, they were definitely a new recruit. Many older employees griped about the new generation being “good for nothing” and “always on those damn screens” and would gladly slap the phone out of unsuspecting green workers’ hands under the guise of “maintaining good work ethic.” If they still had their phone in their hand walking through headquarters the person had been there for a week at most.

It was a good thing the rescue mission took place on a Saturday so no one was around. No one besides her, Manic Alchemist, the few people working overtime, and Zach, Bladed Officer.

“Excuse me? Please tell me whoever is running down the hallway that crosses with my path is planned and I won’t run into them.” Manic Alchemist’s voice broke through the Crimson Programmer’s coding fog. She had zoned out while setting up commands for equipment needed later after Manic Alchemist had reached a long stretch that required no directions. He had stopped two paces away from the intersection.

“Um, just give me a second,” said the Crimson Programmer, pulling up a view of the hallway he was talking about and minimizing the windows that she was working on. Zach was half running, half hopping down the hall as he pulled on the Bladed Officer costume. The Crimson Programmer cursed so loudly that she glanced at the door to the spare room she had holed up in. She hissed under her breath, “He was supposed to leave earlier.”

“What was that? Are you going to handle this?” The lack of inflection in Manic Alchemist’s voice betrayed his nervousness. When he talked with her there was always at least a slight undercurrent of smugness. He had an insufferable superiority complex.

Letting out a few more entirely necessary curses, the Crimson Programmer checked the status of the virus she had planted in Bladed Officer’s comms. As she had planned, a false alert had gone off twenty minutes before Manic Alchemist had left his cell, intended to draw Bladed Officer away from the headquarters so there would be no legitimate threat to the rescue.

Zach drew closer to where Manic Alchemist was frozen, picking up speed as he finished pulling his boots on. What could the Crimson Programmer do? Frantically, she searched her command board for obstacles, some kind of distraction, a barrier to hide the heat-shimmer Manic Alchemist left in the air. The two halls were dismally barren, with no doorways or corners nearby that wouldn’t put the two boys on the same path.

“He’s not going away,” Manic Alchemist ground out under his breath. “Do something!”

Forehead damp, the Crimson Programmer said, “Don’t move.” 

“What do you think I’m doing?”

“And don’t talk either.”

In a rush of air, Bladed Officer dashed across the path. He didn’t even turn his head as he pulled on the sleeves of his uniform jacket. Neither villain spoke, moved, breathed until the door leading outside had slammed shut, reverberating through every fiber of Manic Alchemist standing in the hall, through the speaker and into the Crimson Programmer’s earpiece.

“That was helpful,” snarked Manic Alchemist.

The Crimson Programmer exhaled sharply, her shoulders slumping as she threw her rolling chair across the room, trying to expel the remainder of her pent-up tension. Pulling herself back to the desk she said drily, “I don’t see you putting much effort into a break out of a well-known superhero’s headquarters. Wait a few more moments and take the same exit as he did. I’ll see you in a few moments.” She pulled out the earpiece, stuffing it in her pocket to muffle the earful she would have gotten otherwise. Moments like this during the escape made her wonder if it was worth it to break the kid out. Hypothetically speaking of course. While her morals were often questionable, knowing she could do something to improve a bad situation she caused would have plagued her with guilt for days if she didn’t take action. Such an emotional state would have limited her capacity to complete her work as efficiently as possible.

It only took a few clicks to sign out of the borrowed monitor system, and a scant few more to wipe her existence and log history. Years of conducting her less-than-legal business ventures at the public library made her quick at leaving no traces of digital activity.

All her gear packed up and in hand, she shut the door softly so as to not attract any attention. A door leading outside was adjacent to the room, purposely chosen for a quick escape if any hint of being caught arose. The Crimson Programmer stepped outside and immediately spotted Manic Alchemist leaning against the wall. His shoulders were around his ears.

“Thanks for all that,” Manic Alchemist said. He pushed away from the wall and stood five paces away from the Crimson Programmer, who was quickly overheating in her dark hood and bulky cloak. She would have conducted the rescue later, under the cover of darkness, but talking with Zach had revealed plans to send Manic Alchemist out that evening. “Maybe next time don’t fold to schemes concocted by the people we’re working against,” Manic Alchemist added, interrupting the Crimson Programmer’s train of thought. “Then we won’t end up in messes like this.”

We? The Crimson Programmer was glad she had her cowl to hide her expression. What she would pay to see Manic Alchemist’s face if she told him about her recent promotion. Not her reputation in the villain’s market, that was for sure. Still, his comment stung. “My bad. Next time I won’t listen to threats made on my life and work,” she bit back. She paused, watching Manic Alchemist’s expression twist. A mixture of sympathy and curiosity at the effects of her equipment tugged a question forward. “What happened in there?”

Manic Alchemist scuffed the floor with his boot. “Oh nothing much,” he said flatly. “They just screwed with my brain a little. Tried to make me happy with messed-up visions. Not with addictive drugs or anything, I don’t think. It didn’t work. I mean, can you imagine me happy?” He laughed incredulously.

“So it had no effect?” The Crimson Programmer asked, trying not to sound disappointed. She had worked hard on the Nanites and their electric signals, hoping to sell the technology. “It didn’t work at all.”

Whatever had been open and willing to share in his guarded expression winked out. Manic Alchemist bit his lip and turned. “I’m going to go now,” he said, words clipped. “And try to recover from the mildly traumatic situation you caused.”

Tampering with his neurons had worked. He was obviously trying to guilt-trip her. It wouldn’t work; three successes in a row had left the Crimson Programmer flying high on pride and dreams. Mildly, distantly, she said, “Enjoy the rest of your afternoon.”

Manic Alchemist laughed again, bitterly. He walked down the street, likely going to change into civilian clothing in an alley.

Bella turned back inside, ripping off her cowl and cloak, and draping them over her forearm. She was ready to go home. Who knew playing cat and mouse was so easy? And having a foot on both sides of the battle? Sharing and withholding critical information, catching and releasing important parties? Life was about to get a lot more fun.

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I want you to remember something. Writing is not an innate talent that people are born with. I've read /so many/ things where people who are old enough to know better, decide to "write a book" because they felt like it, without any knowledge on how to actually write a book, then think they're shit is the best and doesn't need a rewrite or edits.

And I'm not talking about aspiring writers, either. Aspiring writers are people who actually want to learn how to write. We all start somewhere. It takes time and practice. I'm talking about the idiots who think they can wake up one day and write Shakespeare without any kind of preamble work up to actually making that first draft and think it's publishable.

Writing takes Time, Effort, Dedication, and Practice. It's like any other profession: you can't learn it over night. But people drive me insane thinking they could 'do my job' without any kind of experience in it.

Next time you writers - actual writers that day dream about your stories, write fan fiction, make original stories in your head as you go to sleep, anything that's any sort of preamble to actually writing - think that your writing sucks? Stop and remember this. Writing is a skill you learn. You've just gotta work that muscle until it's strong.

Some of you are stronger than you think.