1
The Stranger woke up.
If it could be called waking up, even. He didn't rouse from sleep or anything, just all of a sudden his eyes were open and he was there. He didn't even realize he was laying down until he sat up on reflex, and swung his legs down from the stiff cot-- the floor was cold on his bare feet. The whole room was a bit cold, not bitingly so, but definitely air-conditioned. It was a small space, maybe eight feet by ten, with bare walls, a toilet in one corner protected by a small privacy screen, the cot he was sitting on, and--he jolted a bit in surprise--the wall with the single door in the room was made of clear glass or plastic. On a second appraisal, he spotted a few thin slats near the ceiling where a faint draft of cool air was escaping from, and a monitor bolted to one corner of the room. There was a small device on the monitor's base he identified as a camera.
Where was this?
He remembered abruptly that the floor was cold and looked down at himself; no socks or shoes. He was wearing something that resembled plain nurse's scrubs, a short-sleeved shirt and pants with an elastic waistband, both in a pale blue. No nametag that he could spot, though when he moved his attention was drawn to a dull ache at his shoulder. He flexed the muscle once, then drew up the sleeve to reveal a square of gauze held on by medical tape at the epicenter of the discomfort, on top of a bruise. An injection site, his mind supplied. An injection of what?
"H-hello?" The camera didn't move in response to his call. Nobody answered, in person or over an intercom. "Anyone?"
A mixture of apprehension and adrenaline formed a ball of ice in his stomach. This was a cell. This was a cell, he was being held here, he didn't know where here was, and-- and--
No, calm down. Think. There had to be a way out.
He stood up and examined the cell in more detail, but there wasn't much to go off of. The ventilation system was, sensibly, much too small for anyone to get through. The privacy screen and toilet were both made of some kind of opaque plastic and fixed to the floor-- nothing he could use or break… but there was the monitor and camera in the corner. That was plenty of materials. Before he'd even completed the thought he was underneath the device, examining its moorings for the weakest point, then reaching up and twisting the camera completely off. He had the case open and was teasing out the wires in an instant; the case was turned in his hand to find the sharpest edge, then levered against the monitor to pry it open and lay claim to the wires, power supply, and liquid crystal matrix of the LCD screen. Once he had that, if he could stretch enough wiring to the door, he'd be able to manipulate the door's locking mechanism by--
He stopped to lean against the clear wall and take a shuddering breath. What was he doing? How did he know all this?
With no regard to the rising panic he was feeling, his hands continued to move, disassembling and reassembling the scrap parts into a useable device. He pressed it against the back of the door's electronic keypad, and a few breaths later the device's interference forced the lock to reset itself. The clear door slid open on silent pneumatic rails.
Like his fingers, the rest of his body seemed to have a mind of its own, and he was being dragged along for the ride: as soon as the door opened he was running. Bright, sterile halls stretched in both directions outside his cell and he turned left, leaving a nozzle on the ceiling to swivel and release a torrent of some kind of foam too late to catch him. A terror so sharp it sent pain lancing through his stomach gripped him, with no source or reason or sense of ownership. The world abruptly slammed back into focus, with no disconnect between him and his body; he'd barely noticed he'd started running until the sound of his own harsh breaths filled his ears.
A soldier of some sort heard his footsteps and tried to intercept him, but even barefoot and confused he was faster. He lowered one shoulder and body-checked the soldier into a wall, then lunged forward to try and conserve momentum. He couldn't afford to slow down, not now that his escape had been noticed, but if he could get to an upper level then he should be able to find a fire escape-- and that thought implied he was underground, and that he knew he was underground! The second he tried to focus on that and analyze his knowledge, a wave of dread threatened to pull his feet out from under him. No time to think, just run. He had to run.
He had to get out-- he couldn't let them catch him again.
Why were they after him?
[ ]I think I must have done something terrible
[ ]I think they mean to kill me
[ ]Was it… something else? (Write-in)
* * *
Alarms were already blaring long before he crashed against the pushbar of the first emergency exit he found. He felt ready to collapse, but he pushed forwards, out into a dark night filled with rain. He stumbled through a puddle, felt his feet scrape on the asphalt hidden underneath, and had a distant thought that at least it wasn't broken glass. He kept running, if the quick but clumsy stagger that was all he had strength for still counted. He had to keep moving-- away from the streetlights, away from the occasional bright-lit storefront. He had to find a place to hide, he didn't care where.
He finally stopped some time later, the rain still coming down and the skies still dark, in an alleyway that held a doorstep for the back entrance of the building it bordered. The stoop was dark and the door fastened with a heavy-looking padlock, so getting out of the rain didn't seem to be an option. He leaned against the door anyway, then slid down until he was sitting on the cold concrete. He couldn't hear sirens anymore, just the thud-thud-thud of his heartbeat in his ears. He stayed there and stared at nothing until his pulse quieted. Then he stayed a little longer, until the rain stopped and the sky began to lighten.
"Thirteen-oh-one… thirteen-oh-three… thirteen-oh-seven… thirteen-nineteen," he heard himself mumble. Counting prime numbers to pass the time; who even does that? 1321. 1327. 1361. 1367…
There was a puddle nearby, one of many. He stopped counting and instead leaned forward a little, to study his reflection, instead. A stranger stared back at him. A stranger who counted prime numbers, apparently. A stranger with a handsome enough face, or what probably would be without the rain and stress and haunted eyes. A stranger with no name that came to mind, who knew how to escape being imprisoned but didn't know why.
A stranger who knew how to build things.
Classification: Tinker
Specialization: Data, Sensory
Focus: (choose one below)
[ ]Stealth. Tinkertech focuses on avoidance of detection, such as through cloaking or camoflauge, sensor-jamming, sound-dampening, etc. (Character flaw: Scopophobia)
[ ]Surveillance. Tinkertech focuses on acquisition of data, such as through cameras, remote drones, and advanced sensory equipment. (Character flaw: Paranoia)
[ ]Security. Tinkertech focuses on manipulation of data and bypassing concealment, such as through hacking, anti-Stranger equipment, and lockpicking. (Character flaw: Claustrophobia)
* * *
He couldn't sit here forever. The stranger tried to move, found his limbs cramped, and resorted to pulling on the handle of the door he'd spent the night against to help haul himself up. A night in the rain wasn't doing him any favors and he'd clearly used up all his luck for the next decade on that panicked flight from his cell; he was freezing, and already starting to feel sick. There had to be something he could do, or somewhere he could go that was better than this. And maybe if he kept his mind on a tangible problem, something other than the gaping void where his memory should be, then maybe he could stop feeling so terrified.
What now?
[ ]Write-in
* * *
Director Costa-Brown's phone was ringing, a small red light next to the receiver indicating that it was a call on the priority line. It was already evening, with all scheduled matters for the next eight or so hours accounted for, which meant this was a new emergency that required her attention. She swiftly plucked the device from its cradle and held the phone to her ear. "This is the Chief Director."
A woman's voice spoke over the line, identifying the caller as Director Piggot, the head of the PRT East-Northeast branch in Brockton Bay. What she said caught Costa-Brown's full attention, and put the phone in danger of being reduced to slivers in her grip. She leaned forward over her desk on autopilot and replied in a tight voice, "What do you mean, you lost him?"
