The nurse's office was an oasis of air-conditioning and silence. It smelled of antiseptic and... freshly ground espresso beans?
Dallas pushed the frosted glass door open.
There was no matronly nurse in a white cap. Instead, a man was sitting behind the reception desk. He was young, maybe mid-twenties. He wore a white lab coat over a black t-shirt. His feet were up on the desk, crossed at the ankles. A medical journal was tented over his face.
Dallas tapped her knuckles on the counter. Hard.
Ice, she said.
The man didn't jump. He slowly lifted the journal.
Fielding Pickett had eyes the color of storm clouds. He looked exhausted. Dark circles bruised the skin under his eyes. He had a days-old stubble that looked more like a fashion statement than neglect.
Self-service, kid, Fielding mumbled. Freezer.
He dropped the journal and picked up a steaming mug of coffee. He took a sip, grimacing.
Dallas walked to the mini-fridge in the corner. She yanked the door open. She reached in for an ice pack. As she did, her hoodie sleeve rode up her arm.
Just for a second.
Exposing the inside of her left wrist. There was a small, flesh-colored patch there, meant to blend with her skin. But the heat of the day had loosened the adhesive. The corner had peeled back, revealing a sliver of black ink underneath.
A geometric shape-part of a Mobius strip.
Fielding's eyes snapped to her wrist. The laziness vanished. He sat up straight, the motion fluid and predatory.
Nice ink, he said. His voice dropped an octave.
Dallas froze. She yanked her sleeve down, pressing the fabric against the peeling patch to re-stick it.
"It's a temporary tattoo," she lied smoothly, not turning around immediately. "A dare. It's peeling off."
She turned around, clutching the ice pack.
Fielding was watching her. Really watching her. He wasn't looking at a student anymore. He was looking at a variable.
"Temporary tattoos don't usually have such perfect topological precision," he noted.
Before Dallas could answer, the door to the inner office banged open.
Lance Jagger, the school's IT administrator, stumbled out. He was clutching a laptop, his face slick with sweat. He looked frantic, his eyes darting around the room until they landed on Fielding.
"Fielding! You have to help!" Lance yelled, slamming the laptop onto the counter. "The external security team is locked out! You're the only one here who knows the legacy architecture from the old server migration!"
Fielding sighed. He rubbed his temples. "Lance, I'm the school nurse. I hand out aspirin."
"Don't give me that! You fixed the routing table last semester when the district server crashed! It's bypassing the firewall! It's Black Eagle! He's going for the donor financial records!"
Lance was hyperventilating. The screen of his laptop was flashing red. Lines of script were cascading down the terminal like a waterfall of blood.
Dallas stood by the door. She should leave. She should walk out.
But the name stopped her. Black Eagle.
She looked at the screen. She saw the attack vector. It was brute force, clumsy but effective. He was hammering the main port.
He's not using the VPN tunnel, Dallas said. The words slipped out before she could stop them. He's routing through Port 443. It looks like SSL traffic. You have to kill the mirror server, not the firewall.
Silence.
Lance stopped typing. He looked up at Dallas, his mouth agape.
Fielding turned his head slowly. He looked at Dallas. Then he looked at the screen. Then back at Dallas.
His eyes narrowed.
What? Lance asked.
Dallas felt the trap snap shut. She gripped the ice pack until her fingers burned.
I saw it in a movie, she said quickly. The Matrix. Or something.
She turned and shoved the door open.
Wait! Lance yelled.
Dallas didn't wait. She walked fast, her heart hammering against her ribs.
Fielding Pickett didn't call after her. He just watched the door swing shut. He picked up his pen and tapped it against the desk. A slow, rhythmic beat.
