Archive of Our Own

"Go!"

It's like a shot of adrenaline has been injected into his veins. Speakers still vibrating with the slam! of car doors being yanked shut and Carmen's barked order, Player leaps into action. The screech of the rental van's tires pulling at the pavement propels his fingers as they open up the command line and he starts slipping through the cracks of Boston's electrical grid with as much ease as if he were navigating the self-created minefield of his bedroom floor. Actually, more.

Because while he may occasionally forget where he left a USB cable until he ended up in a heap on the ground, the offending cable sniggering from where it was wound around his ankles, he never lost his footing with code. It was his world, his domain, where he was the undisputed king.

("And you say I'm braggy." "You are, but that doesn't mean I can't be too.")

Eyes racing along the lines and lines of text whirring down his screen, Player looks for the gap he knows is there, the backdoor that some careless programmer forgot to make sure was fully latched. One line jumps out at him, where the conditions governing access leave a half-centimeter of wiggle room. Not really a rookie mistake; honestly it would pass muster for all but the most stringent of programmers and notice for all but the most cunning of hackers.

And he's both.

Like air through a door left ajar, he slips in.

Yes! A triumphant smirk pushes at his face as new lines of code fill the screen just as Carmen's voice comes through the comms.

"Showtime, Player. You ready?"

He glances at the monitor to his left; the tracker icon signifying the rental van was nearing an intersection, the first since they'd roared away from the Museum of Fine Arts with the Athenaeum Portrait secured in the back (VILE had apparently wanted to keep with a greenback theme in America's fabled 'city on a hill;’ first printing plates, now the portrait gracing the country's one-dollar bill).

He flashes a cocksure look in the direction of the screen showing the audio bar for the Team's comms (never mind they didn't have a video feed going, Red would know) as he moves his cursor into position over an outwardly nondescript line of code. He curls his fingers over the keys like a runner at the starting blocks. "Waiting for the word."

A grin like light springing off a lockpick poised for not-quite-legal action ripples through the waveform crackling across the feed from Carmen's comm. It shoots upward, sharp and spiking, as she speaks. "In that case, let's paint this town red."

Her words are a starting gun; before the waveform can smooth into silence Player's off and running. Strings of characters and numbers race along his screen as he pries apart the existing programmers' intent to slot in his own designs. It’s an all-consuming task, simultaneously manipulating the program and making sure he keeps is tracks covered and presence invisible, but one he knows well, so he’s still able to devote a chunk of his attention to the monitor showing the northbound tracker keeping its speed as it nears the intersection and the live traffic camera feed in the corner that shows the rush of vehicles flowing ceaselessly east and west across the pavement. Just as the tracker is about to blaze into the oncoming traffic Player's little finger strikes the 'Enter' key.

Like a switch has been flipped (which, actually, isn't too far from the truth), the light changes, causing the east- and west-bound traffic to screech to a halt sufficiently abrupt that a few cars have come to a stop with their front tires over the line demarcating the start of the intersection. The Team's rental van zooms across the newly-cleared intersection, and Player lets another half-dozen cars (the sweet spot for separating a coincidence from a deliberate attempt at a getaway) pass before turning the northbound light back to red, deleting his contribution to the programmers' design, and focusing on the light guarding the next intersection on the van's route, fingers already orchestrating an encore.

That's how it goes, block after Boston block, the lights blinking to green just as a battered rental van daring the speed limit races up to the intersection, turned by Player's invisible hand. A comparatively simple task, considering the high-security mainframes he typically hacked his way into (he had progressed past tinkering with municipal power grids before he turned thirteen), but he still got a thrill every time he struck the keyboard and the world bent to his designs.

He'd never talked about it with Red, but this, he was certain, was how she felt standing on moonlit rooftops with a city spread below her, well aware that every door, no matter how locked or guarded, would open to her if she so wished. At his setup in his dark little cave, knowing that there wasn't a private network that was barred to him or a firewall he couldn't sidle through, he was on top of the world.

There were two things he enjoyed about the capers above all and this was one: feeling the power that rested like a golden weight in his hands and knowing he could use it to make the world a fairer, safer place. For people generally, of course, but especially Red and the Team.

He'd learned years ago, back when 'red' was just a color and evenings were spent trying to bury himself far enough in Minecraft that his father's drunken rages would be drowned out, that the world...well, could really suck. Being able to work against that, counterbalance all the bad out there and make its practitioners look like chumps in the process, felt good; empowering, like he was actually doing something to stick it to people who hurt others for stupid, selfish reasons and thrived on making them miserable. Thugs like Zach and Ivy's old mob bosses, evil incarnate like Red's ex-family, his father; even if they weren't a player in the night's caper, each successful heist felt like a victory against them. A point on the side of everyone who’d been wronged by people who played with weighted dice. Like, no matter how much they'd been hurt, they could- would- still come out on top.

And tonight was already lined up to be another win for Team Good Guys.

"Almost home free guys," Player says as he speeds to the line of code controlling to the final light before the freeway, too full of witnesses for VILE to risk following. "Next light's the last."

"Woo!" The waveform for Ivy's comms pulses at her shout; he pictures her angling to peer out the side mirrors and flipping the bird out the window. "Yeah, take that ya creeps!"

"Whaddya think, Boss?" There's a definite grin in Zach's voice. "Celebrate how awesome we are with all-you-can-eat room service?"

Carmen's waveform flutters as she chuckles. "Once we get Mr. Washington secured, I don't see why not; I could go for some of those Boston baked beans you keep going on about."

Player's room seems to light up as it fills with Zach and Ivy's whooping cheers. "Aw yeah!" Zach crows. "And I know the perfect way to eat them!"

"Don't listen to him, Carmen." Player can hear the face Ivy's making. "He slops them on pizza."

"It's a local delicacy!"

"Yeah, that only you would dream of eating!"

Player chuckles as he watches the tracker near the intersection and waits for his final cue, listening to the sibs' sparking banter and Red letting something of Black Sheep peek through as she alternately (aggravatingly) plays both sides of the argument, even though Player knows she would die before using baked beans as a pizza topping.

This was the other: the top of the world would be meaningless without the Team enjoying the view with him.

The tracker was nearly in position; it was time for the grand finale. Almost casually, he'd done this so many times, Player hit the 'Enter' key and watches for the flow of east-west-bound traffic to cease.

It didn't.

"What?" He mutters as he swivels back to the screen filled with code. His modifications are still there; why didn't the lights change? He runs his eyes along it again, muttering under his breath as he double-checks, then hits 'Enter.'

Nothing.

A third, more frantic attempt underscored with a hollow thunk as he kicked the computer beneath his desk.

Still nothing.

The world was starting to tilt under his chair.

"Guys!" He shouts over Zach and Ivy's continued bickering about whether or not baked beans on pizza constituted visionary fusion cuisine or a food crime. "Slam the brakes! I can't get the light changed!"

They continue on like he hadn't spoken, oblivious to the catastrophic clouds building on the horizon.

He was tipping towards the edge of a precipice, gravity sinking claws into his gut and dragging him forward so his stomach lurched into his throat. Mouth dry, he pulled up the controls for his mic, scrabbling for purchase. "Guys!"

The waveform didn't so much as shudder. With mounting horror he saw why.

He’d been muted.

He stares dumbly at the little red dot for a second too long, struggling to remember how or when that happened, before slamming the cursor to it. Rapid clicks, like a gamer gone desperate as the tide turned against them, fill the air as he tries to unmute himself.

The mouse may as well have been disconnected; his mic stays muted.

The van was nearing the intersection.

Back to the code, back to the keyboard, back to slamming 'Enter' with his whole fist, like his life depends on it (no, like his friends' lives depend on it).

The oncoming traffic rushes past the feed like whitewater.

His breathing picks up, hands shaking over the keys as he stares at his setup. What-? Apart from moving the cursor his entire system was unresponsive; he couldn't even minimize a window (hopefully his mom wouldn't choose this moment to pop in). It’s almost like he’s…locked out. But-

Noxious green light suddenly burns from his monitors as an icon of a leering face swallows his screens and the Team's voices are drowned by a cackle that would have the Joker begging for mercy.

The dialogue box punches him in the gut, the air rushing from his lungs.

"Player?" The cackling receded so Carmen's voice comes through. "Everything good?"

The desk rattles as Player starts slamming his keyboard, pulling out every trick he knows to unlock his setup, suss out the virus The Troll somehow infected his system with, murder it, and get that light changed. Task manager, ctrl-alt-delete, everything short of cutting the power.

Player wants so bad to curse that idiot out, dredge up the filthiest dirt he can on him (there's always something) and smear it all over the dark web and ruin whatever reputation he has, track his location so he can punch him in the face (even though that would probably hurt him more than The Troll), but he's too numb with horror- too helpless- to do anything but listen as Carmen shouts at Zach to brake a second too late and watch the video feed as the van comes into view and-

-and even though the traffic cam doesn’t have a mic, he hears it anyway: the scream of tires scrabbling against pavement, the shriek of shattering glass, and the crunch of metal as a speeding U-Haul collides with the van.

No!

With that The Troll's icon vanishes. Once again Player leaps into action, but the calm confidence of earlier, the eagerness, the feelings of pride and power, are gone. Feeling himself teetering towards the edge of the precipice, he races the cursor to the Team's comms to unmute-

They were offline. Every one.

"No…"

He plummet, gravity finally dragging him into the abyss.

Player bolted upright, sweat plastering his pajamas to his skin, the sound of his panting, choking breaths the only noise in the room. Before he’s even registered if it was still dark outside he lunged for his bedside table, shoving aside lightning chargers and candy wrappers as he groped for his phone. His rummaging disturbs an empty can of Monster, then is briefly stalled when he recoils at the thin metallic clank! that rang through the room when it fell to the floor. Finally his hand grasps the familiar form of his phone, and he doesn’t hesitate as he pulls up Carmen's contact and hits 'Call' without a second thought.

"Come on, come on…" he muttered, sheets rustling as he jiggled a leg anxiously. "Pick up pick up-"

"Player?"

A sigh that made the Mariana Trench shallow by comparison gusted through the room at the sound of Red's sleep-cracked voice. She was okay. She was alive and safe and probably about to say something hypocritical about his sleep habits. Whatever. He didn’t care. She could even rib him about how many hours he logged on that mind-numbing galactic burger joint game. She was okay.

There was the faint sound of blankets shifting and a mattress creaking. “Hey.” Carmen sounded decidedly more awake now. “Something wrong?"

"Just wanted to check in," Player said meekly, twirling the sheet around a finger.

He could hear Carmen's face soften even as she stifled a yawn. "All good. You?"

Player bit his lip, fisting the sheets as the nightmare flashed in the back of his mind, edges blurred but still very much there. "…Yeah."

"Player.”

Player swallowed, stomach knotting. He hadn’t really wanted to get into this now, but when Carmen used her ‘caring bestie’ voice, it was game over. “I had the nightmare again,” he confessed, curling in on himself.

Carmen sighed in a way that said if she weren’t in California, he’d be wrapped in a hug. “Hey. It's okay. We’re all okay. Zach stopped the van in time, we still gave VILE and the authorities the slip. It all worked out. Perks of having a Plan B, right?"

Player didn't say anything, just watched the moonlight pool in the folds of the sheets.

They shouldn't need a Plan B, not for him.

"No one got hurt," Carmen continued, voice gentle as starlight. "Or arrested. And the painting's safe. Everything worked out fine.”

She was right, of course. He knew the night still ended with the Athenaeum safely tucked in the closet of the hotel suite, Ivy mostly-fake gagging as Zach dug into bean-topped pizza, and Carmen rolling her eyes fondly as she turned her laptop’s webcam away from the scene, holding an ice pack to her temple (because apparently, cracking her head against the van door when Zach braked had enough to cause the tires to smoke did not count as ‘hurt,’ never mind they’d been batting around the word ‘concussion’). That was real. But…The Troll's icon mocking him as he took his setup hostage, and the helpless terror as he was digitally shackled, also was.

”He got in,” Player said hollowly. “He got in, and I didn’t know until he took over.”

“He did,” Carmen agreed. “But you found out how, right? Yeah.” She spoke as though she’d seen Player’s vacant nod. “And you know what to do to not have it happen again. You’re doing everything right.”

If he was doing everything right, they wouldn’t be having this conversation.

”Player? I can hear you beating yourself up over this. It wasn’t your-“

"You should go back to sleep.” He cut her off, voice flat. For once, he didn't want to talk to Red.

"Isn't that my line?” He can see her leaning against the headboard, arms wrapped loosely around a bent knee, but there’s a tightness of anxiously creased brows beneath the joking lilt of her words.

At one point he would have taken the bait, parried the tease with one of his own, but his tongue was too heavy for anything more than a leaden "'Night, Red."

Judging from her silence she didn’t want to hang up, but she, too, could listen betweeen the lines. "'Night Player. Call if you need anything, ‘kay? I mean that."

He resolved to not need anything. "'Kay."

The silence is thicker once he hangs up the call. Listlessly, he roved his gaze around the room before coming to rest on his setup, silent and dark as a ghost town, abandoned by even the dull red pinprick glow from the power strip, unplugged for the first time in his teenaged life.

Sliding out of bed, Player padded over to the array of computers and monitors and the keyboard whose functionality he spent hours programming until it was insanely custom. A thin layer of dust coated the keys, so his fingers left a trail as he gingerly swept them across the familiar configuration. He had scrubbed everything before the Team had even driven away from the site of almost-disaster. Twice, to be absolutely sure there was no trace of the RAT that had infected it or the one that put it there (he swore, if he ever saw The Troll in person he’d make him pay for this). But he still hadn’t powered it up since that night, relying instead on his phone or laptop (both now sporting enough firewalls to incinerate a five-alarm blaze) for communication with the Team and piecing together VILE's next moves.

He didn't know what he'd do once it was time for the next caper...

A hollow, writhing feeling coiled through his gut as his eyes wandered among the wires and monitors and half-eaten Pop Tart tempting ants on the desk. Apart from the dust it looked like he’d just stepped out for Study Group or dinner and any minute now the door would open, he'd throw his backpack on the bed (ignoring the papers that flutter to the floor), and set to work flipping switches and waking up the monitors until he was back in the thick of planning the Team's next caper.

Just like it always looked. But also not.

It had changed.

The quiet no longer felt anticipatory, but somber, as if the inanimate objects are aware of the tragedy that nearly played out across their screens. Standing there, he felt like he was standing in the midst of Pompeii or Chernobyl, places of former pride turned grim and bleak by the ghosts of disaster pressing close against his skin and causing a nervy sensation to quiver in his gut.

“Everything worked out fine.”

But it almost didn’t, because…

The phantom crash crumpled the silence as a leering icon bursts on the monitors. Player gasped and jerked away, only for it to vanish the next moment so only his own reflected face looked back from the deadened screen.

"Think you're hot stuff?"

He used to.

Because that night he had discovered the dark side of being on top of the world: with nothing left to climb, you can only fall.