The duel

The next few minutes seem like ages of waiting – but, finally, computer gives a high-pitched beep. Files close, one after another. Access denied. The kid swings back, again, laughing joyfully, and almost throws himself at the keyboard.
That’s the poetry of computing languages: breaking passwords, setting up your own, building strongholds of symbols. It’s all in your head, it’s your wit, it’s your mind almost burning in an exhausting chase, it’s intuition outrunning consciousness. Finally, he regains the files and creates new walls around them, allowing himself to nestle down in his chair. For a while, he hesitates, then types two words: “Your move.”
It’s quite difficult to imagine that his opponent is this man, the only survivor. How desperate he has to be if he decided to take care of documents first, instead of helping himself?
‘Let’s see.’ The redhead squints, biting on his lip in anticipation. He already knows he’s been waiting for this duel since he learned to type. It’s a challenge, at last, the final score isn’t determined yet, and the other one could be his equal. His methods are nothing like things the kid has seen, his steps impossible to predict, but that makes the whole competition just better. How great it would be to lose, with such an opponent –
‘Hold on. You want the data’, the nameless kid has to remind himself, grinning as he types lines of commands. But Torchwood archives have become secondary, giving place to adrenaline in his veins. Every “access denied” becomes a pleasant surprise, every destroyed file provokes another grin; not that he would give this all away easily – he strikes back, attacks at some other point, creates new, even more sophisticated passwords and barriers, and it goes for hours. They don’t slow down, not for a minute, the final clash leaving them almost breathless.
It’s well past midnight when the redhead leans back in the chair once again, smiling, this time with a feeling he didn’t know before: relief.
But it’s not over yet. The other one hasn’t given up. This day becomes way better than birthday and Christmas.
“Who are you?”
The kid smirks. He had left little bits of truth here and there when he pretended to be an AI – just like the name. Nine. Could be a program version as well.
“Already told ya.”
The reply comes after a few seconds.
“So, either you’ll go where I tell you or I’ll go where you are.”
Nine almost freezes over the keyboard, unsure what to write back. He should have expected this. Finding his address wouldn’t be difficult for anyone capable of protecting Torchwood files from him, and getting on the run isn’t exactly what he wanted. And if he agrees to come – where would it take him? How would he protect himself without the safe distance provided by the Web? How easy it would be to kill him off?
To hell with it, who cares.
“Where and when?”
The answer is yet another surprise. 4 a.m., on a bridge. The kid stares in disbelief for a few seconds, then finally grabs his jacket and goes out, into Glaswegian mist.
The city seems to be almost lifeless, with no cars on the streets and no pedestrians. There should be a sunrise soon, somewhere beyond the clouds, but they barely let the light through. Drops of rain hang in the air, forming a fog so deep that when Nine sees a silhouette of a man sitting on the barrier, he expects it to be an illusion, his eyes playing a trick on him. But, as he approaches, the blur becomes a clear image. That’s certainly him – Eric Sewell, the kid remembers – the man from the hub. If they ever met on a street, he’d probably pass him without even noticing, but now he sees, no, senses, something extraordinary: a distance he can’t describe properly.
Eric turns his head towards him. One eye blue, another one brownish green.
‘Do you really have nine lives?’, he asks after a short while.
The redhead hesitates. He wouldn’t like to check it.
‘Well, I’ve tried nine times and it worked’, he replies, smiling. It’s just a shadow of his usual challenging grin, but it has to do.
Sewell turns his gaze to the river again, almost as if he forgot about his presence.
‘So… you can either try for the tenth time or come with me.’
The answer is obvious. Nine smiles again, not thinking too much about where it would take him.
‘’Course I’m coming with you.’