Archive of Our Own ^beta

The subway train shudders, the rhythmic clicking of wheels along the track mingling with the sounds of a few murmured conversations, the occasional cough and the faint electric buzzing of a flickering overhead light. From her side-facing seat, she watches the darkness rushing by through the smudged windows, fidgeting with the strap of her watch in an attempt to qwell her restless frustration. Every minute ticking by serves as an anxious reminder that she is late. Very late. She was supposed to be home over an hour ago. 

The world outside brightens as the train pulls into another station, the last stop before hers. A swarm of smartly dressed citizens spill onto the carriage, women in heels and pencil skirts, men in suits, many looking worn and weary after a long day of work. She pulls her backpack onto her lap to free the seat beside her but, to her quiet relief, everyone settles in elsewhere. 

A small group of men line the seats across from her, each donning a neatly pressed black suit and polished shoes. She glances up to acknowledge them politely but is taken aback when her gaze meets an empty void where eyes should be. At first glance, to her tired mind, the sight seems eerie, the kind of thing that would make her mother start praying. But upon further inspection, the reality is far less spooky and more... odd. Sunglasses at night, like the Corey Hart song, dark lenses decorating faces still as stone. Something about them still feels strangely disconcerting. No reaction. No acknowledgement in return. Just silence, and the weird, unsettling feeling of eyes somehow staring straight through her as if she were invisible, and yet into her soul at the very same time. Unnerved and uncomfortable, she averts her gaze to stare down at her boots and the grimy, scuffed floor instead.

The doors whoosh closed, and the train departs, hurtling into the dark abyss once more. 

A strange chill prickles across her skin, goosebumps flaring beneath her jacket. She wraps her arms around herself, hugging her backpack to her chest, and breathes. Almost home, she tells herself, trying to soothe the uneasy feeling washing over her. The subway car suddenly feels a lot smaller, the walls pressing in. She looks up to stare down the length of the carriage, but startles again when her eyes meet two looming figures – men, in black suits, polished shoes and dark glasses. The same men hover in her peripherals, she realises, across from her, and a few rows to her left, surrounding her from all sides. What..? Turning her head, she catches sight of her own reflection in the black voids of their obscured eyes, and her breathing stops.

No.

Suddenly, she feels exposed and vulnerable, despite her jacket and jeans. The realisation hits her like an unwanted blinding spotlight, filling her with an instant, sickening dread.

They're watching her.

Her stomach churns. She's not exactly a stranger to a bit of uninvited leering on the subway, but the presence of these particular men feels suffocating. Threatening. Like a pack of hungry wolves stalking their potential prey, their expressionless faces hiding their snarling fangs, and the power to tear her apart at any moment. Everything in her mind screams at her to escape escape escape.

Who are they? What do they want with her? Is this about the IRS? Has she finally been caught? Or did she finally dig too deep down one of her rabbit holes in search of answers, too close to a truth someone doesn't want found? 

Fear clutches her chest, her heart squeezed in a tight grip as it pounds. She mentally takes stock of the potential weapons stashed in her backpack. Her pocket knife, the most obvious choice. House key, perhaps, wedged between her knuckles if she throws a punch. Her algebra textbook could probably do some damage if she swung it hard enough. 

Out the corner of her eye, one of the men stands.

Escape escape escape.

And moves towards her.

Escape escape escape.

She doesn't look up as he takes the seat beside her, his shoulder brushing against hers. His presence seems to suck the air out of the space around them, leaving her with nothing to breathe. The screams in her mind become deafening, combined with the rush of blood pulsing in her ears. She almost doesn't hear him speak.

"Where is a young woman like yourself headed at this late hour?" he asks, his voice controlled, with an almost unnatural enunciation.

Her whole body tenses. It feels like someone has their hand around her throat. Her life in that hand, hanging in the balance. One wrong move...

She takes a deep breath, then exhales, forcing a slight smile. "Home," she says, making a conscious effort to steady her shaking voice. She keeps her eyes fixed on the bag in her lap, hoping he won't see the terror in them. "I missed my train. Had to take the next one." She tries her best to sound calm, confident, and matter-of-fact, but inside her mind, panic blazes, thoughts racing so fast her head swims. Should she have said less? Said nothing at all? Should she say more? That she's only fifteen? That she called her mother on the payphone at the station to let her know she would be late for dinner? Would that gain her some mercy, or just paint the target on her back a brighter shade of red? Her thoughts spiral out of control as she scrambles to refocus them. She doesn’t have the luxury of losing control. Not now. She scans her surroundings frantically, eyes desperately searching the sea of faces for another passenger, someone who may be able to help her.

But all she sees is them.

A lump rises in her throat and tears sting her eyes. 

She is alone.

Escape escape escape.

The man beside her leans in close. Too close. "Or, you could come with us," he whispers in her ear, his breath against her neck. "Willingly. Without fuss," he adds, his voice slick with a threatening venom.

His hand grips her thigh, and her mind screams like a warning siren, ear-splitting, earth-shattering. Get up! GET. UP! She jumps up from her seat, instinct and reflex taking over. "Don't touch me!" she cries, though it comes out more like a choked gasp, her throat constricting. 

The floor shifts beneath her feet as the train slows to a stop at the station. Throwing her backpack onto her back, she races for the door as it slides open. Cold fingertips brush her skin as a hand reaches to grab hold of her elbow, but she yanks it from the grasp, and she bolts, runs for her life, pushing and weaving her way through the crowd, ignoring the pain of shoulders bashing into hers and the exclamations of annoyance as she barges past. Time and the world around her seem to slow as she pushes through it in a hazy blur, everything in her brain swallowed up and silenced by ESCAPE ESCAPE ESCAPE.

Despite having no destination in mind, she somehow ends up in the small station restroom. Taking refuge inside a stall, she hurries to lock the door, then climbs up on top of the already cracked toilet seat, crouching low. The muscles in her legs quiver, and her lungs burn and ache inside her ribcage as she gasps and gulps for air. She braces herself against the cubicle wall with one hand, covering her mouth with the other to silence her shuddering breaths and the sobs climbing up her throat.

Someone enters, the clap of footsteps against the titled floor announcing their prescence. Nausea stirs in the empty pit of her stomach as the dreaded thought needles into her brain – she is trapped, again, the safe haven of the cubicle walls doubling as a cage. She chides herself for being so stupid, tears prickling in her eyes, though she hastily blinks the dampness away. She has to focus. She has to think. Swallowing the rising lump in her throat, she takes a deep breath and fumbles one-handed for the pocket knife in her backpack. Just as she clasps it between her fingers, the footsteps halt outside the locked stall door. 

She freezes, holding her breath.

"It's alright. They're gone. You can come out now," a man's voice beckons. Calm, steady, reassuring, its deep, low tone reverberating off the restroom walls. Something about it almost puts her at ease. Enticing, like an outstretched hand offering to pull her to safety. Yeah, the same hand that could just as easily stab you, she reminds herself. Shoot you. Strangle you. Slit your throat. Knock you out. Pin you down on the floor, or up against the wall. Don't be naive.

Cold sweat drenches her skin, making her shiver. 

A decision looms before her, one that could very well be her last. Stay locked in this cage, hidden yet trapped, or open the door and confront the mysterious figure on the other side. Both choices, a risk. Damned if she does, damned if she doesn't. But a small spark of curiosity flickers inside her mind, impossible to ignore, driving her towards the door in spite of the fear coursing through her veins.

In a swift motion, she climbs off the toilet seat, reaches to flick the lock on the door before kicking it hard. It slams open with a harsh bang as she steps back, pocket knife thrust out in front of her. "Stay back!" she warns, her attempt at intimidation faltering as her voice cracks and the knife sways in her shaking hands.

The figure before her makes no move towards her, nor does he back away. The fluorescent bathroom lighting reflects off the man's long, dark leather overcoat, hairless scalp and circular shades. She jolts as he breaks his steadfast stance, unfolding his arms from behind his back, but he merely holds up his hands in innocence. "I'm not here to hurt you," he says.

"Like hell," she growls through gritted teeth. Her body vibrates with adrenaline; she lets it fuel her fire. If she had to, she could do it. She could drive the knife into him and hightail it out of here. She has to believe it. Believe there's a way out of here, that she isn't going to die on the floor of a subway station toilet stall. That she has a life beyond this time and this place. That despite the odds stacked against her, she somehow has the power and courage within herself to...

"I'm here to help you, Trinity."

In an instant, her blood runs cold and all warmth and colour drains from her face. Dizziness blurs on the edge of her vision, warping everything around her. The energy and confidence she held just moments ago shatters to the floor like broken glass, and she becomes a vulnerable creature, cornered and defenseless. A young girl, a child, alone and afraid, wishing for nothing more than for someone to please, please just take her home. The rational part of her always knew she couldn't outrun the consequences of her actions forever, but another part clung to the delusional hope that she could. Now, here she stands, unmasked, stripped bare and on display with nowhere to hide, the power of her secrets grasped in someone else's hand. Her legs wobble, threatening to buckle beneath her as her whole body trembles. "How..." she stammers. Tears stream down her cheeks as she loses the will to hold them back. "Who are you?"

The stranger reaches for his face, movements slow as if not to startle her. He removes his glasses, revealing kind, dark eyes, and a warm, gentle gaze, like that of a father or older brother. A strange reassurance settles over her like a soft blanket, a feeling of safety and certainty, and somehow she knows. She knows before he even says it.

"My name is Morpheus."