Chapter 2 – The Panopticon

Oliver

The train screams.

It’s a high-pitched, metal-on-metal shriek that vibrates through the soles of my boots and settles in the hollow of my chest.

I’m huddled in the corner seat of the last car, knees pulled up, trying to make myself small. Trying to disappear.

But physics is a bitch, and data is worse.

I’m shivering so hard my teeth are threatening to crack. It’s not just the cold dampness of my clothes, it’s the crash.

The adrenaline that propelled me out of my apartment and over a fire escape is draining away, leaving behind a toxic sludge of terror and exhaustion.

I look around the car. It’s three AM in the city that never sleeps, which just means the freaks are out. Across from me, a guy is passed out, his head lolling back against the grime-streaked window. He’s snoring, a wet, rattling sound.

My eyes lock onto the seat beside him. He’s shed a layer. A thick, grey woollen beanie sits on the blue plastic bench, having slid off his head at some point during his drug-induced nap. A scarf, frayed and smelling of something sharp and chemical, is draped loosely around his neck, hanging perilously close to the floor.

I need them.

My blonde hair is a beacon. My face is exposed. In a city wired with enough cameras to make Orwell vomit, I might as well be wearing a neon sign that says High Value Target.

I wait for the train to lurch around a curve. As the car swings violently to the left, I move. I’m not a thief. I’m a hacker. But right now I’m smart enough to know that my biggest problem is visibility.

They know what I was wearing when I ran, I need to change the optics.

I slide across the aisle, my movements jerky as I snatch the beanie from the seat. The man doesn't stir. I reach for the scarf, my fingers brushing against the rough stubble on his chin. He grunts, shifting his weight, and my heart slams into my throat.

I freeze, waiting for eyes to open, for a shout to draw attention to me, but he settles back into his coma.

I gently tug the scarf free. It’s filthy. It feels greasy against my fingers as I pull it away. It’s incredibly fucking gross, but it beats being dead.

I stumble back to the end of the car, heart racing like a piston in an engine that’s redlining.

I pull the beanie on, tucking every strand of blonde hair out of sight. I wrap the scarf around my neck, pulling it up until it covers my nose and barely stop myself from gagging.

I catch my reflection in the dark glass of the door. I look homeless.

Perfect.

I need to move. The cameras in the cars have blind spots, but the longer I stay static, the higher the probability of a facial match.

There’s software that can pick a face out of a crowd in seconds if the lighting is right. If Scott’s people have access to the grid, and I have to assume they do, then every lens is a gun pointed at my head.

I shove the heavy door open.

The noise is deafening. The roar of the wind and the clatter of the tracks hits me like a physical force. The space between the cars is a terrifying limbo of shifting steel plates and chain-link barriers.

I step across the gap, the plates sliding under my feet. It’s dangerous as hell. One slip and I’m ground meat. But there are no cameras out here.

I move to the next car, then the next, keeping my head down, forcing myself to look at the floor. I look at shoes. Sneakers, work boots, heels. The debris of humanity.

I get off at a random stop in Queens. Astoria, maybe? I don't check the signs. I wait for a group of teenagers to push through the emergency exit gate and I slip through behind them before it slams shut, avoiding the turnstiles and the station agent’s booth.

The street is slick with rain. I stick to the shadows, my eyes scanning every parked car, every dark window.

Paranoia is a heavy coat. It creates an itch between my shoulder blades, a constant, nagging sensation that I’m being watched. And I probably am.

I pass a row of brownstones. Every single one has a Ring doorbell. The tiny blue circles of light are unblinking eyes. People have turned their homes into a voluntary surveillance state, feeding data into the cloud. If I look up, if I turn my head the wrong way, an algorithm somewhere creates a data point.

Match found. Subject located. Intersection of 34th and Broadway.

I hunch my shoulders and walk with a limp I don't actually have, trying to change my gait. It’s exhausting.

I need to sleep. My brain feels like it’s full of steel wool.

I find a motel near the highway, tucked behind a gas station that looks like a crime scene waiting to happen. The neon sign is buzzing, half the letters burnt out. It just reads M T L.

I walk into what passes for the lobby. It smells of stale smoke and bleach. The guy behind the counter is watching something on a tiny TV and doesn't look up.

"Room," I rasp, my voice sounding hoarse behind the scarf. "Cash."

He slides a key across the counter without a word. He doesn't ask for ID. He doesn't care who I am as long as the twenty-dollar bills are real.

I wish to God they’d do the same at The Ritz. I’d love a bit of luxury right now, but the only places that don’t insist on ID are the ones that rent by the hour when requested.

Room 12 is a box. The carpet is sticky. The bedspread has stains that I refuse to examine closely. I drag the heavy dresser in front of the door, the wood screeching against the floor.

I don't undress. I don't even take off the bag. I check the window. It opens onto an alley filled with dumpsters.

I sit on the edge of the bed, listening to the blood rushing in my ears. I’m safe. For an hour. Maybe two.

I close my eyes.

The sound of tires biting into wet asphalt with a loud screech cuts through the silence.

I’m off the bed before my eyes are fully open. I press myself against the wall next to the window, peeling back the curtain a fraction of an inch.

A black sedan is idling in the parking lot. A Lincoln Town Car. The windows are tinted so dark they look like ink.

It crawls forward, slowly, prowling. It stops directly in front of my room.

My heart hammers a frantic rhythm against my ribs.

How the hell did they find me?

I didn't use a phone. I didn't use a card. I didn't look at a camera.

The traffic lights. I crossed the main avenue to get here. I waited for the light to change. There’s a camera on top of the signal box. I must have looked up. I must have let the scarf slip for a second.

The car door opens and two men step out. They don't look like they’re here to ask questions.

I rush to the back of the room, unlock the window and shove it up. It sticks, resisting, and I have to put my shoulder into it, forcing it open with a groan of rusted metal.

I scramble out just as the door to my room splinters with a deafening crash. The dresser will only keep them busy for thirty seconds tops.

I don't look back. I vault into the alley, landing hard, my ankle rolling on a piece of uneven pavement. Pain shoots up my leg, hot and sharp, and I bite down on a scream.

"Check the back!" a voice yells from inside the room.

I scramble behind a dumpster, the smell of rotting garbage filling my nose.

“Window’s open, but the alley’s empty. The little shit must have rabbited the second we pulled up. Get Jake on the street cams again.”

Fuck my life.

I see a bus pulling away from the curb and sprint toward it, banging on the door desperately. The driver glares at me but opens.

I stumble up the steps, shoving a crumpled five into the slot. I don't wait for change or my transfer. I push past the few sleepy passengers and collapse into the back seat.

I pull the scarf up tight. My hands are shaking so bad I have to tuck them under my armpits.

They were right there.

I survived by seconds. Literally seconds.

This isn't a game. I can't win this. I’m playing chess against a supercomputer and I only have a pawn left.

I ride the bus until the sun starts to bleed grey light into the sky. We’re in Brooklyn now. I get off when the driver calls the last stop.

I find a Goodwill store that’s just opening. I wait for the old woman to unlock the doors, shivering on the sidewalk. I need to change. Everything I’m wearing has been cataloged and fed to an algorithm.

I buy the ugliest shit I can find. Baggy cargo pants that are three sizes too big. A belt to keep the pants from ending up around my ankles. A stained flannel shirt that smells like mothballs. An oversized, heavy army surplus jacket. And to round off this fashion extravaganza, a Mets ball cap.

I go into the changing room and look at myself in the mirror. I look like debris. I look like someone society has chewed up and spat out.

It’s only been a fucking day. I’m shit at surviving in the real world.

I take off my boots. The leather is soft, Italian, hand-stitched. They were my favorite thing to wear.

I drop them into the trash can and pull on a pair of stiff, worn-out work boots I found on the rack. They pinch my toes and rub raw spots on my heels with every step. Maybe the pain will keep me awake.

I spend the day moving. I don't stop. I take the subway to the Bronx. I take a bus to Queens. I take the tram to Roosevelt Island and back. Never standing still. Staying off the streets and away from any obvious cameras.

By late afternoon, I’m delirious. I haven't eaten in twenty-four hours. We’re stuck in traffic and with my head leaning against the window of the bus, I stare at a pigeon pecking at a discarded crust of pizza in a park.

I’m jealous of the pigeon. Nobody wants to kill him. And he has pizza.

I watch a police cruiser roll by slowly. The officer in the passenger seat is scanning the park. Is he looking for me?

Senator Scott is fully immersed in dastardly deeds, but that doesn’t mean he hasn’t got the cops in his pocket.

I shrink into my oversized jacket, pulling the peak of the cap low over my eyes and turning to face forward. The bus starts moving again and the hammering of my heart tapers down to a thumping.

I’ve been lucky so far, but eventually, the law of averages will catch up to me. Eventually, I’ll turn a corner and walk straight into a bullet.

I can’t hide. I can’t fight. I can’t run forever.

The realization hits me with the force of a freight train. I’m going to die. Probably tonight. Definitely by tomorrow.

Unless I change the game.

I need to get off the grid. I need to find a way to turn the tables and push back.

I get off the bus and head toward the entrance to the subway again. Underground is better.

And I think I know of someone who can help me. If I can find him. If he agrees.

I descend the stairs, the darkness of the tunnel swallowing me whole. I’m done running. It’s time to start fighting back.