Chapter 2: CALIBRATION
The Queens Public Library smelled like old paper and floor polish. Rows of computers stretched along the back wall, most occupied by retirees checking email and teenagers killing time. I found an empty terminal in the corner, back to the wall, and logged in with a guest account.
Start with the basics.
Linda Vasquez. The system had given me her name, her face, her workplace. Now I needed context.
My fingers found the keyboard with Webb's muscle memory—quick, efficient, comfortable. Whatever else I'd inherited from this body, the IT skills were genuine. I ran her name through public records, social media, every database I could access without tripping alarms.
Results populated within minutes.
Linda Maria Vasquez. Thirty-four. Registered nurse at Brooklyn Memorial Hospital, eight years employed. Married to Raymond "Ray" Vasquez, forty-one, construction foreman. No children. One sister in New Jersey. Parents still living in the Bronx.
Nothing alarming yet. Keep digging.
Court records next. I knew where to look—Webb's professional background included forensic data analysis for law firms. The skills transferred.
There.
Two assault charges against Raymond Vasquez. Both dropped. Complainant in both cases: Linda Maria Vasquez.
She pressed charges. Twice. And then withdrew them.
The pattern was depressingly familiar. Domestic violence. Escalating abuse. A woman trapped in a cycle she couldn't break.
I dug deeper. 911 call logs for their address in Bed-Stuy. Three calls in the past six months. All disconnected before dispatch could respond.
She's calling for help. And then hanging up.
The picture assembled itself with brutal clarity. Ray Vasquez was hurting his wife. She wanted out. But something kept pulling her back—fear, finances, family pressure. And now the violence was escalating to the point where the Machine predicted a fatal outcome.
Seventy-two hours. Less now.
[INTERVENTION WINDOW: 68:23:41]
I closed the browser windows, erased my search history (old habit, now vital), and stepped outside. The afternoon sun felt too bright. The world continued around me—cars honking, kids laughing, a siren wailing somewhere north—while I stood on the sidewalk processing the fact that a woman might die this week.
What's your plan, genius?
I didn't have one. I had Webb's IT skills and a head full of fictional knowledge. No combat training. No weapons. No contacts.
Think. What would Reese do?
John Reese would surveil the target. Identify the threat. Neutralize it with extreme prejudice.
And you're not John Reese.
No. But I could still watch. Still gather information.
The subway to Brooklyn took forty minutes. I spent the ride studying the map on my phone, memorizing the neighborhood around the Vasquez apartment. Small residential block. Walk-up buildings. Corner bodegas. The kind of place where people minded their own business.
The kind of place where a woman could scream and no one would call the cops.
The stakeout lasted exactly fifty-three minutes before I got made.
I'd positioned myself across the street from the apartment, pretending to read a newspaper on a bench. Subtle. Professional. Exactly what someone with zero field experience would think worked.
The front door opened. A large man emerged—barrel-chested, weathered hands, face set in permanent irritation. Ray Vasquez. Had to be.
He scanned the street. His eyes landed on me.
Don't move. Don't react. You're just a guy reading the paper.
He crossed the street.
"Hey."
I looked up. Smiled. "Yeah?"
"You live around here?"
"Just visiting a friend."
His eyes narrowed. Something cold shifted behind them. "What friend?"
My heart hammered against my ribs. The system interface flickered with data—threat assessment rising, recommended action: disengage—but the information was useless when a man built like a refrigerator was two feet from my face.
"Nobody you know."
"Try me."
Bad angle. Bad terrain. He's got thirty pounds on you and you don't know how to fight.
I stood. The movement was supposed to be casual. It came out jerky.
"I should go."
"Yeah." His voice dropped. "You should. And I better not see you around here again."
I walked away. Didn't run—running would make it worse—but my legs wanted to sprint. Behind me, I could feel his eyes tracking me until I turned the corner.
[COVER INTEGRITY: -15]
The notification burned at the edge of my vision.
Amateur hour. Reese would have been invisible. Finch would have used cameras. And you sat on a bench like a tourist.
I ducked into a bodega, bought a water I didn't need, and waited for my pulse to normalize.
Okay. Learn from it. What went wrong?
Everything. I'd tried direct surveillance without establishing a cover story. I'd been obvious. I'd attracted exactly the kind of attention that could get Linda killed faster.
Different approach. Use what you're actually good at.
Webb was an IT consultant. Social engineering was a professional skill. Time to stop pretending to be a spy and start being what I actually was—a guy who could talk his way into places he didn't belong.
Brooklyn Memorial Hospital was busy at 3 PM. Staff rushed between departments, visitors clustered in waiting areas, and nobody looked twice at a man in business casual carrying a clipboard.
Amazing what a clipboard can do.
I'd picked it up at an office supply store, along with a lanyard badge that said "COUNTY HEALTH DEPARTMENT" in official-looking letters. The badge was nonsense—I'd printed it myself at a Kinko's—but it looked legitimate enough at a glance.
The nurse's station on the fourth floor was staffed by two women in scrubs. One of them matched the face in my system memory.
Linda Vasquez looked exhausted. Dark circles under her eyes. Makeup that didn't quite hide the bruising on her cheekbone. Shoulders hunched like she was expecting a blow.
There she is. Now how do you help her without making it worse?
I approached the station. "Excuse me—Linda Vasquez?"
She looked up. "Yes?"
"Could I speak with you privately for a moment? It's about a patient compliance issue."
The lie was smooth. Webb had done this kind of work before—regulatory audits, HIPAA investigations. The muscle memory helped.
Linda's colleague glanced at her. "You okay?"
"It's fine." Linda stepped around the counter. "Lead the way."
We found an empty break room. Vending machines hummed in the corner. Linda crossed her arms, defensive.
"What patient compliance issue?"
I closed the door. "There isn't one. I'm sorry for the deception, but I needed to talk to you where no one could overhear."
Her expression shuttered. "Who are you?"
Careful now. One wrong word and she bolts.
"Someone who knows you're in trouble." I held up my hands—no threat, no agenda. "I know about the 911 calls. I know about the charges you dropped. And I know Ray's getting worse."
She went pale. "How do you—"
"It doesn't matter how. What matters is that you have options. Resources. People who can help."
"You don't know what you're talking about."
"He hit you this morning, didn't he?" I pointed at the bruise her makeup couldn't hide. "And last week. And the week before that. And it's going to keep happening until someone gets seriously hurt. You already know that. That's why you keep calling 911."
Her eyes glistened. She turned away.
"It's not that simple."
"I know it's not." I pulled a card from my pocket—domestic violence hotline, one of dozens operating in the city. I'd picked it up at the bodega. "But these people can help you get out safely. And this—"
I set a burner phone on the table. Prepaid. Untraceable. I'd bought it that morning, just in case.
"—is for emergencies. My number's programmed in. If Ray ever puts you in danger you can't escape, call. No judgment. No questions. I'll make sure you get out."
Linda stared at the phone like it might bite her.
"Why are you doing this?"
Because the Machine told me to. Because in forty-eight hours, you might be dead. Because I died once and I refuse to let someone else die if I can stop it.
"Because nobody should have to face this alone."
She didn't take the phone. Didn't take the card. But she didn't push them away either.
"I have to get back to work."
"I understand." I stepped aside. "The offer stands. Whenever you're ready."
She walked out without looking back. The door swung shut behind her.
[INTERVENTION STAGE 1: COMPLETE]
[VICTIM CONTACT: ESTABLISHED]
[MONITORING...]
I slumped into a plastic chair and pressed my palms against my eyes. The headache was back—neural strain from system usage, probably—but underneath it was something worse.
What if she doesn't call? What if Ray finds out? What if you just made everything worse?
The uncertainty was paralyzing. Reese would know what to do next. Finch would have contingencies. And I was sitting in a hospital break room with a fake badge, hoping I hadn't just gotten a woman killed.
One step at a time. You've planted the seed. Now watch and wait.
She called at 2:17 AM.
I was half-asleep in Webb's apartment, laptop open to a news article I wasn't reading, when the burner phone buzzed. The sound jolted me upright.
"Hello?"
"He has a knife." Her voice was barely a whisper. "He's drunk and he has a knife and I can't get out of the bedroom."
Move.
"Where are you?"
"Home. Our apartment."
"Stay on the line. I'm coming."
I grabbed keys, phone, wallet. The laptop stayed behind. No time.
The drive to Bed-Stuy took eighteen minutes. I ran three red lights. The whole time, Linda's breathing crackled through the phone—short, sharp, terrified.
Think. What's the play?
Going in myself was suicide. Ray outweighed me by forty pounds and apparently had a knife. I wasn't a fighter. I wasn't even close to a fighter.
But I knew someone who was.
I dialed 911 from my personal phone while keeping the burner connection active.
"911, what's your emergency?"
"Shots fired at 847 Halsey Street, apartment 3B. Multiple gunshots. Send police immediately."
The lie was a gamble. False reports were illegal. But cops responded faster to shootings than domestic disturbances. And right now, speed was everything.
"Sir, can you confirm—"
I hung up.
Two blocks from the Vasquez apartment, I pulled over and killed the headlights. Sirens wailed in the distance. Getting closer.
"Linda? Help is coming."
"He's at the door. He's—" A crash. A scream.
I was out of the car before I could think. Running toward the building. Toward the sound.
What are you doing? You can't fight him!
The sirens grew louder. Flashing lights painted the street red and blue.
I reached the building entrance just as two patrol cars screeched to a stop. Officers poured out, hands on weapons.
"Apartment 3B!" I pointed up. "Third floor! He has a knife!"
They didn't ask questions. Training kicked in. Four officers rushed the building while a fifth stayed with me.
"Sir, did you make the 911 call?"
"I heard screaming from the street. A woman. Please—you have to help her."
The officer nodded and spoke into his radio. More sirens approached.
Through the building's thin walls, I heard shouting. A door being kicked in. Commands—"Drop the weapon! Drop it NOW!"
Three minutes later, they brought Ray Vasquez out in handcuffs. His face was twisted with rage. Blood dripped from his hand—he'd resisted, then, at least a little.
Linda came out afterward, wrapped in a shock blanket, escorted by a female officer. She was crying. Shaking. Alive.
Her eyes found mine across the police tape.
Thank you, she mouthed.
I nodded once and disappeared into the crowd before anyone could ask more questions.
[NUMBER RESOLVED]
[PERFORMANCE RATING: ADEQUATE]
[XP GAINED: +150]
[SYSTEM LEVEL 3 → 4]
The notifications scrolled across my vision as I walked back to Webb's car. My hands were shaking. Adrenaline crash hitting hard.
Linda Vasquez was safe. Ray was in custody. The intervention had worked.
Barely. Clumsily. You almost got made, then almost got her killed, then had to lie to cops just to get them there in time.
But she was alive. That counted for something.
[NEXT NUMBER IN: 48 HOURS]
Forty-eight hours. Less than two days to become less terrible at this.
I started driving. There was a 24-hour gym three miles away. Time to see what this body could actually do.
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