The G Game

by bluemicrocosm

-- Chapter 2 --

October 1, 11:50 pm

“Meet me inside Prince Consulting at 11: 59 p.m. Doors are locked electronically. Two guards are in the back room monitoring every security camera in the building. Take the elevator to the third basement. Walk down the hall and make the first right turn. The unique access code is BASES: GAGES. Someone will provide you with further instructions.”

The message is imprinted in Kiros Fircuel’s memory. Nevertheless, he peers at the crumpled piece of paper in his hand, squinting in the dark to read the last line: “You may use any means necessary to breach security. In the event that you fail, you will be protected from any and all related charges.”

Well, that’s reassuring. Not that Kiros plans to get caught.

Prince Consulting is a nondescript building tucked inside a business park. An iconic baldheaded eagle perches inside the “C” of the company name. Sodium lamps cast yellow pools of light onto the front parking lot. Tinted windows reflect pieces of the night sky, as empty as the building itself.

From across the street, Kiros studies the main entrance, except he isn’t thinking about how to break in. That part’s easy. For a moment, he considers returning home and slipping back into bed, instead of following an untraceable message. For all he knows, this might be a huge prank designed to get him in trouble. Unless he accidentally offended someone, he can’t imagine why anyone should hold a grudge against him.

Folding the piece of paper and tucking it into his pocket, Kiros glances at his watch. 11: 50 p.m. He didn’t prepare for nothing. Besides, prank or not, Kiros can’t deny his curiosity. And suspicion.

Earlier that day, he received an email written in cipher. If it arrived in plain English, Kiros would certainly have dismissed it as an erroneously sent email or a poor joke. Someone knew him well enough to predict his behavior and, as evinced by the encryption, is aware of his familiarity with cryptograms.

There was no sender, so the person obviously did not want to be found. Deciding that it made more sense to decipher the message before wasting time to trace the email, Kiros jumped into cracking the code.

The encryption was harder than it looked. Yet the greater the challenge, the more Kiros was immersed. Within four hours, he was furrowing his brows at the plaintext and seriously wondering if he was the right recipient of the email.

Kiros only guessed that the rendezvous time is tonight, as no date is specified. What bothers him more is the message written between the lines. By locating a specific firm near his home, the sender is stating that he or she knows where Kiros lives. Sending half of the blueprint of the office building is as good as an invitation for him to hack Prince Consulting’s database for its counterpart.

The other thing that worries Kiros is the night guards. From his research, he found Prince Consulting to be a mid-sized firm whose main clients are insurance providers. Rummaging through the office will no doubt produce confidential information, which is normal in any company, so video surveillance alone should suffice. The placement of two night guards seems superfluous and unusual. Of course, Prince Consulting might just have some paranoid executives, but...

His watch reads 11: 52 p.m.

Kiros slinks towards the building, feeling the gun beneath his jacket dig into the small of his back. The gun’s fake, but the dimness adds realism and the metal shell feels genuine. If he’s being lured by a killer, then Kiros is stupid to go unarmed. If it comes to using the pocketknife in his back pocket, then so be it. He can plead to have acted in self-defense. On the other hand, if the security guards actually find him, Kiros can makeup some stuff about acting under duress. He’ll burn that bridge if he gets there.

In preparation for his midnight exploit, Kiros hacked Prince Consulting’s security system and embedded a one-minute loop into all the video channels. It’s an old trick: the feeds will show one minute of a video captured at a prior time. Kiros set the loop to replay six times with scenes from 11: 53 to 11: 54 p.m., giving him six minutes to get down to the basement and enter the access code. Kiros doubts he needs the full six minutes, but unexpected events are a pain in the butt. If the guards are careless, they won’t notice the glitch in the feeds every time the video replays itself. The temptation to run a two-minute clip to reduce glitch frequency is doused by the possibility of one of the guards taking a bathroom break or whatever. Anyone with brains will know something’s wrong when the same person walks down the hall six times.

He also tampered a bit with the locks in the main entrance so that they disengage three seconds after the loop starts running.

The glass doors slide open soundlessly. Once inside, Kiros switches on his flashlight. A circle of milky white light strobes across the lobby, fragments of illuminated images piecing into a room with red carpets, modest benches, a coffee table, and a reception desk.

Farther down the hall are two elevators. Beyond that, hidden in a corner, is an unmarked door that Kiros recalls from the blueprint leads to the central control room.

The hum of the pulley sounds too loud for Kiros’ liking. Belatedly, he realizes that many elevators ring once the compartment reaches the designated floor.

Sometimes Kiros wishes he’s wrong. Or has more foresight.

His heart skips a beat when the elevator chimes. The noise is still ringing in his ears when he darts a look at the unmarked door. Nope. Hasn’t opened yet. Either the room is sound proof or the guards are seriously incompetent.

According to the blueprint, B3 is the lowest floor in the building, confirmed by the elevator buttons. The ride down feels obscenely long, the seconds on his watch flickering epileptically.

11: 56 p.m.

The elevator doors open to an undecorated hall. Flat ceiling fixtures glow ghastly white, an eerie road leading deeper into the basement. Although Kiros has long passed the age of fearing the dark, he can’t help but touch his pocketknife for reassurance.

The first right turn takes him to a caulked door secured by an electronic lock above the handle. Kiros’ mouth twitches at the numbers on the keypad instead of letters. Well, he expected that the message sender wouldn’t give him the code that easily.

BASES: GAGES. Another cryptogram which, compared to the email, is child’s play. The analogy between the two words has nothing to do with their meaning, but with the five-digit numerical code they represent. By writing the words in block letters and removing the spaces, the result resembles compressed, digitalized numbers. Two sets of numbers can be extracted: 69825 and 89825.

“The unique access code is…”

Huh. No wonder he thought that phrase is awkward. Punching in 69825, Kiros glances at his watch again.

“You’re one minute and twenty seconds early.”

Kiros jerks back and instinctively reaches behind him. His fingers graze the butt of the gun when his brain finally registers the speaker: a young woman with platinum hair, cherry lips, and a pair of mile-long legs hugged by knee-high leather boots. She looks like a runway model. More importantly, she looks weaponless.

Releasing the gun and tucking the same hand into the pocket with the knife (one can never be too careful; besides, those boots look pretty dangerous), Kiros says, “Uh, sorry.”

“Oh, don’t worry. I suppose I should commend you on getting here without bringing along extra baggage,” she says airily.

Uncertain of whether she is trying his modesty or deductive ability or if this is just his paranoia at work, Kiros replies, “Thanks. I didn’t think the guards would’ve enjoyed playing tag anyway.”

The woman crooks a manicured finger and spins around, heels clicking on the linoleum tiles. “Well, come along. Your host is waiting.”

Kiros stays three steps behind her, bewildered by their walk through a storage room. The blueprint showed only one way into or out of the room.

He glances furtively around, searching for any peculiarity: boxes are stacked along the cinderblock walls; small, labeled containers fill a metal cabinet. The woman strides past them without a second glance.

What can a storage room hide?

Another room.

His suspicion is verified when they reach the back wall. The woman slides her finger beneath the ridges of a cinderblock and lifts out. The block, in actuality a veneer, pops out like a lid to reveal a retina scanner.

This is certainly not in the blueprint.

With the fiery, single-minded concentration that got him this far gradually cooling in the slower pace of things, Kiros is acutely aware that he might be walking into the lion’s den. No ordinary company employs top-notch security and secret rooms. Is Prince Consulting a cover for covert – illegal? – operations? Did he inadvertently see something he shouldn’t have and is thus being lured to his execution like a naïve, little lamb?

The toy gun against his back and the pocketknife in his hand suddenly feel insignificant.

A part of the wall, from ceiling to floor, slides open once the woman identified herself. She steps into a carpeted hall, then beckons to the boy standing across the threshold.

Kiros doesn’t budge.

“Well?” she says, sticking a leather-clad foot into the entrance to prevent the door from closing.

It’s hard for Kiros to perceive her as a grave danger when she has one hand on her hip, pink nails as glittery as her eye shadow. Her star-shaped earrings jingle when she tilts her head questioningly. Looks have never been more deceiving.

“Forgive me if I’m a little confused right now.”

“Forgiven.” A mascara-coated wink. Then: “You’ll understand in a few minutes.”

“Where are we going?”

“To meet your mystery mailer.”

Kiros considers for an entire two seconds on the sensibility of being straightforward. He might as well, because if he’s in danger anyway, then asking won’t save him and can at least let him gauge the severity of the situation. “How do I know you won’t harm me?”

Expecting to hear a disingenuous response along the lines of “We promise not to” or “The surveillance cameras are on” or something to reassure his safety, Kiros is surprised when the woman shrugs and says, “You don’t. But aren’t you curious about who emailed you?”

“I am, except curiosity kills the cat.”

“Then it’s a good thing cats have nine lives.” Her grin whittles to a sharp smile, and a dark professionalism seems to exude from beneath her heavy makeup. In a clipped voice, devoid of the blithe spirit that matches her colorful attire, she states, “I will not coerce you into anything, Kiros Fircuel. You can turn around now and forget tonight ever happened, or you can step through this door and have a chance to change the world.”

The words snake lazily through the air, heavy with finality. They are only words, yet Kiros shudders, the echo of his name buzzing in his ears. He has always trusted his instincts, and at this moment, he is certain that the choice he makes will either condemn him to the familiar, mundane life or lead him into the tantalizing unknown.

But to change the world? Even if a bluff, the promise of thrill is true. The cryptogram, the challenge to break-in, the discovery of his person…they exist to convey one message: We have investigated you closely and know where you live, how you behave, what goes on inside that complex yet dreadfully bored mind of yours. Don’t you want to know why we have taken an interest in you?

Ever since receiving the email, Kiros realized that his inquisitiveness was being exploited to direct his actions. Although he doesn’t like the idea of playing into someone’s hands, he finds that he cares even less. This, whatever this is, beats homework by a light year.

The wholehearted smile comes easier than he expects. “When you make an offer like that, how can I refuse?”

“Good.” She flashes a row of white teeth, tosses her blond hair back, and begins to walk briskly down the hall again.

“Are you affiliated with the FBI?”

“No.”

“CIA?”

“No.”

“Something just as high profile?”

“Very,” she purrs.

When she doesn’t elaborate, Kiros figures any more probing in that direction is futile.

“What should I call you?” He doesn’t bother asking for her name, since he’ll surely get an alias. At least it beats referring to her as “the woman.”

“Ellie’s fine.”

They enter another room flooded by bright fluorescent light. Accustomed to the dimness in the building, Kiros is momentarily blinded by the sudden illumination. When his eyes adjusted, the first thing he sees is a plain school desk in the center of the room, likely prepared for whatever is about to happen. A counter along the far wall has a scantron machine, a thick stack of papers, a blank laptop, and a middle-aged man holding a teddy bear in his lap.

At the sight of his guests, the man sets the bear down and jumps off the table. “Yo. I’m Tres. Nice to finally meet you.”

“Same here,” says Kiros. One look at Tres, his spiked red hair, and then his outfit, Kiros decides that he’s a leather freak who only likes two colors. There isn’t an article of clothing clinging to his dark skin that isn’t black or made out of leather – the tight pants, the studded belt, the sleeveless tank top, the fingerless gloves.

Ellie’s boots come to mind, and Kiros shudders. What is this, an underground leather trade?

“I hope you can still say that after spending some quality time with me.” Tres grins toothily. “Are you by chance a masochist?”

“Excuse me?” Kiros isn’t sure which is more frightening: the implication of the question or the flippant way it was poised, as if they are talking about Kiros’ fondness for puppies instead of, well, his inclination for pain.

Warily, he asks, “What do you mean?”

“Stop it, Tres.” Ellie rolls her eyes. To Kiros, she says, “Don’t listen to him. His maturity has yet to catch up to his age.”

“I protest –” Tres begins.

“The only form of ‘torture’ is a mental struggle.” Ellie points to the ream of papers. “As you might have guessed, we’ve been observing you for quite some time. While we got to know you behaviorally, we are less familiar with your intellectual strength. Of course, we know about your impressive IQ and academic achievements, but the tests we have devised are significantly more challenging and will provide us with a better idea of where you stand next to us.”

“Who’s ‘us’?” asks Kiros, because he doubts Ellie is referring to herself and Tres. In fact, this whole thing is starting to sound like some sort of initiation into a club. A very exclusive, clandestine, and highly dangerous one.

“We are the best of the best. And only the best deserves an answer,” says Tres.

Behind him, Ellie sighs, but her exaggeration echoes his arrogance.

Tres drops the stack of papers onto the desk and pulls out the chair for Kiros. “Now show us we haven’t been wasting our time on you.”

Author's Note: Again, apologies for any grammar or spelling mistakes. Due to time constraints (aka, life), I am editing very lightly. Feedback is appreciated! Thanks!