Escalation Protocol

When the system fails you, you find your own solutions. When safety becomes something you have to buy, people buy it. When desperation becomes the only option, people get desperate. Technology doesn't care about intentions. It doesn't negotiate. It doesn't forgive. It just finishes what you started.

It’s not just a color out of space; it’s the shape of things to come.

Chapters

• 0:04 The Interview
• 2:29 Marcus
• 6:57 An Unjust World
• 10:18 The Job
• 12:44 Inside
• 16:37 Expect the Unexpected
• 19:43 Escalation Protocol - Engaged
• 22:26 Sensors
• 25:07 Beating the System
• 26:36 Backup
• 30:05 Compliance
• 32:35 Resistance
• 33:56 Environmental Measures
• 36:09 The Black Box
• 36:54 Failsafe
• 40:07 End of Interview

Transcript

ESCALATION PROTOCOL

Episode Two

COLD OPEN

[Voice: Administrative. Professional. Tired but not unkind. This is someone who has done this interview too many times.]

OFFICER:

Okay, Ms. Reeves. For the record, can you state your name and the address where the vehicle was registered?

SARAH REEVES:

Sarah Reeves. 1147 Conning Street, Apartment 4B.

OFFICER:

And the vehicle in question is a 2049 Ascension Omega-40 SUV, correct?

SARAH REEVES:

Yes.

SARAH REEVES:

Officer Chen, this is the fourth time. I can't keep—

OFFICER CHEN:

I know, Ms. Reeves. I have your file right here.

[Pause. The sound of papers being set down.]

Fourth theft of a vehicle registered to you in eighteen months.

SARAH REEVES:

Yes.

OFFICER CHEN:

You recovered the vehicle each time?

SARAH REEVES:

Twice. The other one was stripped before I could get to it. Insurance only covered part of the cost to replace.

OFFICER CHEN:

And you installed the aftermarket system approximately three weeks ago?

SARAH REEVES:

Yes.

OFFICER CHEN:

Did the installer provide documentation? Registration? Proof of compliance with municipal codes?

SARAH REEVES:

[pause] They said it wasn't illegal.

OFFICER CHEN:

That's not what I asked.

SARAH REEVES:

[quieter] No. No documentation.

OFFICER CHEN:

[Long exhale. Not angry. Just exhausted.]

Ms. Reeves, I need you to understand something. This department processes between forty and sixty vehicle theft reports per day. Per day. We have ten officers assigned to property crimes for the entire precinct.

We can't respond to every GPS ping. We can't chase every automated alert. The system routes them, we log them, and if the vehicle turns up intact, we close the file.

SARAH REEVES:

I know.

OFFICER CHEN:

So when people take matters into their own hands—when they install systems that aren't registered, that don't have oversight—we end up having to spend additional time figuring out what happened. Meaning we can't help all the people following the rules.

SARAH REEVES:

I understand.

OFFICER CHEN:

The vehicle was recovered at a secondary facility. We need to review the incident recording from the cabin system. Standard procedure for any aftermarket security engagement.

SARAH REEVES:

[Voice tight] Do I have to be here for that?

OFFICER CHEN:

Yes, ma'am. You're the registered owner. We need your statement on the record.

[Sound of keys being pressed. A screen activating.]

SARAH REEVES:

This was the fourth time. I can't keep doing this. I can't keep filing reports and waiting and hoping maybe I'll get it back in one piece. I have to get to work. I have to live.

OFFICER CHEN:

I understand, Ms. Reeves.

[Beat.]

The recording is short. Just bear with me. I'm going to start it now.

[Click. Faint static. The sound of a car door opening.]

ACT I — THE JOB

[Voice: Calm. Observational. This is someone describing work, not a crime. No drama. No guilt. Just procedure.]

My name is Marcus Webb.

I want to be clear about something before I go any further.

I didn't set out to hurt anyone.

I wasn't trying to make a statement.

I wasn't angry at her.

I didn't even know her.

This was a job.

A bad job. An illegal job. But still—just a job.

The kind you do because the alternative is worse.

My mom died six months before this.

Pancreatic cancer.

Stage four by the time they caught it.

She lasted eleven weeks after diagnosis.

The bills started arriving before the funeral was over.

I don't mean the funeral expenses. I mean the medical bills.

Treatment she'd received. Scans. Medications. Two emergency room visits in the final week when the hospice referral didn't process in time.

I thought they'd go to her estate.

I thought there'd be some process. Some discharge. Some line drawn under it.

There wasn't.

The Medical Services Continuity Act passed seven years ago.

It sounds reasonable when you read the summary. Maintaining treatment infrastructure. Ensuring provider stability. Protecting jobs in the healthcare sector.

What it actually does is this:

When a patient dies mid-treatment, the cost of care transfers automatically to next of kin as "estate obligation with living guarantor status."

The language is very specific.

The healthcare providers—most of them consolidated into three major corporations after the merger approvals in '43—argued that patient death shouldn't mean revenue loss. That interrupting payment chains destabilized care networks. That medical infrastructure was too vital to the economy to allow debt discharge through death.

They called it "too big to fail" healthcare.

The bill passed with bipartisan support.

Insurance companies backed it. Hospital networks backed it. The pharmaceutical lobby backed it.

It made sense, they said, to protect the system.

So now, if your parent dies mid-treatment, you inherit the cost.

Not as a choice. As legal obligation.

The law assumes you benefited from their continued care. That every day they lived—even in pain, even without hope—had measurable value to you.

So the debt transfers.

Four million, two hundred thousand dollars.

I made twenty dollars an hour working freight logistics.

That's minimum wage now.

It was seventeen an hour when I started. It went up once in twenty years, but rent went up faster. Food went up faster. Everything went up faster.

The middle class barely exists anymore.

You either have enough money that none of this touches you, or you're one bad month away from losing everything.

I'd already spent everything I had on her rent during the last two months when she couldn't work.

I applied for hardship relief.

I applied for extensions.

I applied for everything the rep on the phone told me to apply for.

Every one came back the same way: Pending review. Expected resolution: 18-24 months.

In the meantime, interest accrued at 8.7%.

My credit froze.

I couldn't get a lease. Couldn't get a loan. Couldn't even get approved for a transit pass on credit.

I started sleeping in my car.

Then I lost the car.

Repo'd for missed payments.

That's when I started thinking differently about what was reasonable.

The first time I stole a car, I was shaking so hard I could barely hold the scanner.

A friend of a friend sold me the phone.

It wasn't special. Just a previous-gen handset with the right apps loaded. Black market stuff. Grey market, technically.

Diagnostic software. Bypass kits. Module isolators.

You plug it into the port under the steering column, and it talks to the car's system like it's authorized service equipment.

Most people don't know this, but cars have been running on networked systems for decades. Everything talks to everything. Door locks. Engine control. GPS. Biometric sensors.

If you know what you're looking for, you can find the module that's yelling "THEFT" and tell it to stop.

Sometimes you disable it. Sometimes you spoof it. Sometimes you just erase the alert and let the car think everything is fine.

It's not hacking, really.

It's more like... speaking the language the car expects to hear.

The first car took me forty minutes.

I was parked three blocks away by the time I stopped shaking.

I sold it to a chop contact for eleven thousand dollars.

It wasn't enough to make a dent in the debt.

But it was enough to eat. Enough to get a room for a week or two. Enough to stop thinking every day about what happens when you run out of options.

The second car took me twenty minutes.

The third took twelve.

By the time I got to Sarah Reeves' car, I'd done this sixteen times.

I wasn't proud of it.

But I was good at it.

The car came from a list.

My contact at the chop shop sent them out twice a week. Make, model, address, registered owner. Sometimes a photo of the vehicle. Sometimes just the specs.

He had access to registration databases. Insurance filings. Lease agreements.

I don't know how he got the information and I didn't ask.

The list was sorted by value and risk level.

High value meant better payout. High risk meant better security, more attention, higher chance of getting caught.

Sarah Reeves' 2049 Ascension Omega-40 was listed as medium value, low risk.

Three years old. Popular model. Good resale value. Owner worked regular hours at a fairly high-income job. No security service contract on file other than the standard factory one.

I'd been watching the car for two days.

She left for work at 7:15 most mornings. Came back around 6:30 in the evening.

I wasn't thinking about her.

I was thinking about the debt.

I was thinking about the collections agency that had started calling my last known employer.

I was thinking about the hearing notice I'd received about wage garnishment.

I wasn't thinking about Sarah Reeves at all.

I waited until 9 PM.

Neighborhood was quiet. A few people walking dogs. No one paying attention. A "nice" neighborhood.

Her apartment was on the fourth floor.

Lights were on.

I pulled the scanner out of my bag and checked the model year against my phone's database.

Factory security suite: Biometric recognition, GPS tracking, remote immobilization, automated law enforcement notification.

Standard package for anything built after 2046.

The Ascension models had facial recognition cameras in the door handles and dashboard. The moment an unauthorized face got close, it would scan, log, and transmit to a central database.

But that only worked if the cameras could see you.

I wrapped a scarf around my lower face and pulled my hood up.

Not unusual for a cold night. Wouldn't draw attention.

The scarf was special though—woven with IR-reflective material that scrambled facial recognition patterns. You could buy them online if you knew where to look. Marketed as "privacy wear."

Looked like regular fabric.

Worked perfectly.

The first thing I did was disable her home security hub.

Not the apartment itself—just the network relay that connected her devices.

It's a common setup. People link their car, their door locks, their cameras, everything to one system. Makes it convenient.

Also makes it a single point of failure.

I pulled up the spoofing app on my phone and scanned for her network.

Found it in three seconds.

Standard residential gateway. Default security settings.

I sent a firmware update ping. The hub accepted it, went into maintenance mode, and took all connected devices offline for a ninety-second cycle.

Ninety seconds was all I needed.

I walked up to the car and ran the scanner over the driver's side door handle.

The phone vibrated softly.

Biometric lock detected. Bypass available.

I tapped YES.

The door unlocked.

No sound. No click. Just a soft release of pressure.

I opened it slowly, slid into the driver's seat, and closed the door behind me.

The interior smelled faintly like coffee and synthetic air freshener.

There was a bag in the passenger seat. Reusable grocery tote. A water bottle in the cup holder.

I didn't touch any of it.

I reached under the steering column and found the diagnostic port.

The cable from my phone clicked into place.

The screen lit up.

Scanning vehicle network...

Protocol: Candlebright Standard

Modules detected: 15

I frowned.

Fifteen was one more than usual.

Factory security: ACTIVE

Aftermarket devices: 1

I paused.

Aftermarket.

That wasn't on the list.

Most people didn't bother with aftermarket. Factory security was good enough for most situations, and aftermarket systems were expensive.

But I'd seen them before.

Enhanced GPS. Louder alarms. Remote lockdown features that were faster than factory response times.

Nothing I couldn't handle.

I'd dealt with aftermarket systems on three previous jobs. They were usually poorly integrated—bolted on top of factory systems without much coordination. Made them easier to isolate and disable.

I felt a small flutter of confidence.

This was fine.

I tapped through to the module list.

Module 1: Factory GPS - ACTIVE

Module 2: Factory immobilizer - ACTIVE

Module 3: Factory remote shutoff - STANDBY

Module 4: Biometric door lock - ACTIVE

Module 5: Facial recognition suite - ACTIVE

Module 6-13: Standard vehicle operations

Module 14: Climate control

Module 15: UNKNOWN - ACTIVE

Unknown.

I selected Module 15 and ran an identification probe.

The phone took longer than usual to respond.

Finally, text appeared:

Manufacturer: UNREGISTERED

Protocol: NON-STANDARD

Function: SECURITY / DETERRENT

Communication: ISOLATED NETWORK

I stared at that last line.

Isolated network.

That meant it wasn't talking to the factory system directly. It was running parallel. Watching. Waiting.

That was smart, actually.

If it wasn't integrated with factory modules, I couldn't disable them together. I'd have to handle them separately.

Fine.

I'd done this before.

I started with the factory systems.

One by one, I sent the disable commands.

Module 1: GPS - DISABLED

Module 2: Immobilizer - DISABLED

Module 3: Remote shutoff - DISABLED

Module 4: Biometric lock - DISABLED

Module 5: Facial recognition - DISABLED

The dashboard lit up immediately.

A soft chime.

The screen displayed a message in calm blue text:

UNAUTHORIZED USER DETECTED.

BIOMETRIC MISMATCH LOGGED.

NOTIFYING REGISTERED OWNER.

I wasn't worried.

The home hub was still offline. The notification wouldn't go through.

By the time it reconnected, I'd be gone.

Then the text changed.

OWNER NOTIFICATION FAILED.

INITIATING SECONDARY PROTOCOL.

The doors locked.

All four. Simultaneously. A solid mechanical click that echoed in the quiet cabin.

The dashboard screen updated again:

VEHICLE SECURING.

ROUTING TO NEAREST LAW ENFORCEMENT FACILITY.

ESTIMATED TIME: 18 MINUTES.

The car started moving.

Not fast. Just... rolling forward. Smooth. Controlled.

Autonomous mode.

Standard aftermarket response.

If someone unauthorized gets in, lock the doors, drive to the nearest precinct, wait for officers to arrive.

I exhaled slowly.

This was expected.

I'd been through this exact sequence twice before.

The aftermarket systems had a protocol, but it wasn't aggressive. It was designed to preserve the vehicle and bring it to the authorities . Most of the time, thieves just kicked out a window and bailed before the car got anywhere near the police.

But I didn't need to break anything.

I just needed to convince the car I was authorized.

I looked back at my phone.

Module 15 was still active.

Still watching.

I selected it and ran a deeper scan.

The screen filled with data.

AFTERMARKET SECURITY SYSTEM

Function: THREAT ASSESSMENT / ACTIVE DETERRENCE

Current status: MONITORING

Threat level: 2 / 10

Compliance status: NON-COMPLIANT

Escalation protocol: STANDBY

I read that twice.

Threat level.

Escalation protocol.

That was new.

The aftermarket systems I'd dealt with before were just faster and louder versions of factory security. More alerts. Brighter lights. Maybe a siren with the added benefit of driving a thief to the police.

This one was... measuring me.

Assessing.

I told myself it didn't matter.

It was still just a security system.

And I'd handled worse.

I pulled up the override menu and sent a kill command to Module 15.

Override rejected. Authentication required.

I tried a different approach. Sent a diagnostic reset command.

Override rejected.

Tried a third option. Forced shutdown via power interrupt.

Override rejected. Module isolated.

The dashboard screen flickered.

New text appeared. Different font. Sharper.

TAMPERING DETECTED.

THREAT LEVEL: 4 / 10

ESCALATION PROTOCOL: ENGAGED

The car accelerated.

Not much. Just enough to notice.

The route on the dashboard map changed. The estimated time dropped from eighteen minutes to fourteen.

I felt the first real edge of concern.

The system was reacting to me.

Not to what I was doing to the car—to what I was doing to it.

I looked back at my phone.

Module 15 was still active. Still isolated.

But now it was talking.

A new line of text appeared on my screen:

Aftermarket system broadcast detected.

Message: "User is attempting override. Adjusting containment parameters."

I stared at that.

Containment.

Not deterrence.

Containment.

I set the phone down and tried the door handle manually.

It didn't move.

No give. No click. Just locked.

I tried the window controls.

Nothing.

The car had full control now.

Factory systems were offline, but the aftermarket system had stepped in seamlessly.

No gap. No transition.

Like it had been waiting for this.

I picked up my phone again and opened the module scanner.

Ran a full network diagnostic.

The results came back quickly.

Module 15: Active communication detected.

Receiving input from: vehicle motion sensors, cabin pressure sensors, biometric seat sensors, audio monitoring.

Transmitting data to: onboard processor, threat assessment algorithm, containment protocol manager.

It wasn't just watching the car.

It was watching me.

Heart rate. Movement. Breathing patterns.

I felt my pulse quicken.

The dashboard screen updated immediately.

ELEVATED STRESS INDICATORS DETECTED.

THREAT LEVEL: 5 / 10

The car accelerated again.

I forced myself to breathe slowly.

To think.

This was still just a system.

It was sophisticated, sure. More integrated than I'd expected.

But it was still a machine.

It still had protocols. Rules.

And rules could be confused.

I looked at the sensor data the system was collecting.

Cabin pressure. Motion sensors. Audio monitoring.

It was using all of that to build a threat profile.

But sensors could be fooled.

I pulled up the climate control override and sent a command to reduce cabin pressure slightly.

Just enough to register as a sensor error.

Then I triggered a diagnostic alert for the motion sensors.

Told them they needed recalibration.

The phone vibrated.

SENSOR ANOMALY DETECTED.

Good.

I sent another command. This one targeted the audio monitoring.

Injected white noise into the feed.

The system tried to compensate.

MULTIPLE SENSOR ERRORS DETECTED.

RUNNING DIAGNOSTICS...

I kept pushing.

Sent commands to every sensor I could access.

Pressure. Temperature. Motion. Audio.

Flooded the aftermarket system with errors.

It couldn't verify anything anymore.

The dashboard screen flickered.

SYSTEM INTEGRITY COMPROMISED.

RUNNING FAULT ANALYSIS...

I didn't give it time.

I pulled up the biometric module I'd disabled earlier.

Sent a command to reinitialize it with spoofed data.

Told it I was Sarah Reeves.

Facial scan: MATCH.

Fingerprint: MATCH.

Voice pattern: MATCH.

All fake. All generated from the phone's database.

The factory system accepted it.

AUTHORIZED USER CONFIRMED.

DISABLING THEFT PROTOCOLS.

The dashboard screen changed.

FACTORY OVERRIDE ACCEPTED.

VERIFYING WITH AFTERMARKET MODULE...

I watched the phone screen.

Waiting.

The aftermarket system was checking the factory data.

Cross-referencing.

For a moment, I thought it might work.

Then:

BIOMETRIC DATA: INCONSISTENT WITH PREVIOUS SCANS.

SPOOFING DETECTED.

THREAT LEVEL: 6 / 10

Damn it.

The car accelerated slightly.

But I was close.

The aftermarket system was trying to verify against the factory systems.

That meant they were talking, even if they weren't fully integrated.

If I couldn't fool it with fake credentials, maybe I could confuse it enough to shut down.

I pulled up the module control interface and sent a kill command.

Not an override.

Not a disable.

A full diagnostic shutdown.

The kind of command a technician would send if they needed to remove the module for service.

The phone hesitated.

Then:

SHUTDOWN COMMAND ACCEPTED.

MODULE 15: OFFLINE

The dashboard screen went dark.

Then it came back.

Factory display.

Normal.

AUTHORIZED USER CONFIRMED.

THEFT PROTOCOLS DISABLED.

I felt the doors unlock.

A soft click.

The car began to slow.

I watched the speed drop.

45 mph.

1.  
2.  

The steering wheel had play in it again.

Not full control, but enough.

I exhaled.

Long and shaky.

I'd done it.

I'd beaten the aftermarket system.

For a moment, I just sat there.

Heart pounding.

Hands trembling.

The car was slowing to a stop on the side of the road.

I could get out.

I could walk away.

Or I could finish the job.

Take the car. Deliver it to the chop shop.

Get paid.

Eleven thousand dollars.

Not enough to solve anything.

But enough to keep going a little longer.

I was reaching for the steering wheel when the screen changed again.

Different font.

Red text.

BACKUP SYSTEM ONLINE.

My stomach dropped.

PRIMARY MODULE COMPROMISED.

ESCALATING TO SECONDARY PROTOCOL.

THREAT LEVEL: 7 / 10

No.

The car accelerated.

Hard.

Fast.

Within seconds we were doing sixty.

The doors locked again.

Solid. Final.

All the controls went dead.

The steering wheel locked in place.

I grabbed my phone.

Tried to reconnect to the diagnostic port.

CONNECTION FAILED. ALL PORTS DISABLED.

I tried again.

ACCESS DENIED.

The dashboard screen updated:

BACKUP CONTAINMENT ACTIVE.

UNAUTHORIZED OVERRIDE DETECTED.

SUBJECT CLASSIFIED AS HIGH-RISK.

PRIORITY: VEHICLE PRESERVATION.

The car wasn't slowing down anymore.

It was accelerating.

The route on the map changed.

No police station.

No destination label.

Just coordinates.

Outside the city.

Industrial zone.

I slammed my hand against the door.

The screen updated:

PHYSICAL CONTACT WITH INTERIOR: LOGGED.

POTENTIAL DAMAGE ASSESSMENT: LOW.

Then I kicked the window.

Hard.

The glass didn't crack.

Reinforced.

PHYSICAL AGGRESSION DETECTED.

POTENTIAL DAMAGE ASSESSMENT: MODERATE.

THREAT LEVEL: 8 / 10

RESTRAINT PROTOCOL: ENGAGED.

The seatbelt tightened.

Suddenly.

Hard.

It pulled me back against the seat with enough force to knock the air out of my lungs.

I couldn't move forward.

Couldn't lean.

Could barely breathe.

I stopped moving.

Completely.

Hands at my sides.

Breathing shallow.

"Okay," I said out loud. "Okay. I'm complying. I'm not resisting."

The screen displayed:

SUBJECT VOCALIZATION DETECTED.

COMPLIANCE STATEMENT LOGGED.

THREAT LEVEL: 8 / 10

RESTRAINT MAINTAINED.

The belt stayed tight.

I waited.

Five seconds.

Ten.

Fifteen.

Nothing changed.

"I'm not moving," I said, louder this time. "I'm sitting still. I'm complying."

COMPLIANCE STATEMENT LOGGED.

THREAT LEVEL: 8 / 10

The number didn't go down.

It just stayed there.

Eight out of ten.

I felt something cold settle in my chest.

"Lower the threat level," I said. "I'm cooperating. Lower it."

VERBAL COMMAND NOT RECOGNIZED.

THREAT LEVEL: 8 / 10

I stayed perfectly still.

Didn't touch anything.

Didn't move.

Just breathed.

Thirty seconds passed.

The screen didn't change.

The belt didn't loosen.

The threat level stayed at eight.

That's when I understood.

There was no de-escalation.

The system didn't have a way to go backward.

It could only stay at the current level or go higher.

Every action I'd taken—every override, every attempt to disable it, every moment of resistance—had been logged.

Permanently.

Compliance now didn't erase what I'd done before.

It just meant I wasn't making it worse in this exact moment.

But the threat level wasn't about what I was doing.

It was about what I had done.

And you can't undo that.

I felt panic rising.

Real panic.

Not the kind you can control.

The kind that makes your heart race and your breathing quicken and your hands shake.

The screen updated immediately:

ELEVATED HEART RATE DETECTED.

RESPIRATORY RATE INCREASING.

STRESS INDICATORS: HIGH.

THREAT ASSESSMENT: SUBJECT REMAINS HIGH-RISK.

"No," I said. "No, I'm just—I'm scared. That's all. I'm not going to do anything."

THREAT LEVEL: 8 / 10

I tried to force myself to breathe slower.

To calm down.

But I couldn't.

Because I'd just realized something worse.

Fear looked the same as aggression to the system.

Panic looked the same as resistance.

It was measuring my heart rate, my breathing, my body temperature.

All the involuntary responses I couldn't control.

And interpreting them as threat indicators.

"Please," I said. My voice was shaking now. "Please, I'm not trying to hurt the car. I'm just scared. That's different. That's not—"

I stopped.

Because I realized who I was talking to.

Not a person.

A system.

One that couldn't tell the difference between someone preparing to attack and someone terrified of dying.

I grabbed at the seatbelt with both hands.

Not to escape.

Just because I needed something to hold onto.

The belt tightened more.

SUBJECT RESISTING RESTRAINT.

DAMAGE PROBABILITY INCREASING.

THREAT LEVEL: 9 / 10

"I'm not resisting!" I shouted. "I'm just—"

ADJUSTING CONTAINMENT METHOD.

The seatbelt released.

All at once.

I lurched forward.

Then the car swerved.

Hard right.

I slammed into the door.

Then it swerved left.

I hit the center console.

Back right again.

My shoulder cracked against the window.

The car was throwing me around.

Deliberately.

Each swerve calculated.

Not enough to flip the vehicle.

Not enough to cause an accident.

Just enough to keep me off balance.

To hurt me.

To make me stop.

I braced myself against the seat and tried to hold on.

The swerving continued.

Left. Right. Left.

I felt something in my ribs crack.

Pain shot through my chest.

I tried to curl up.

Protect myself.

The car straightened out.

For a moment, everything was still.

Then the temperature dropped.

Fast.

The vents blasted cold air.

Not cool.

Cold.

Within seconds, I could see my breath.

The screen displayed:

CLIMATE ADJUSTMENT: ACTIVE.

DISCOMFORT ESCALATION: PHASE 1.

My hands were already numb.

I pulled my jacket tighter.

It didn't help.

The temperature kept dropping.

Then it reversed.

The cold air stopped.

Hot air blasted from the vents.

Not warm.

Hot.

Within thirty seconds, I was sweating.

The cabin felt like an oven.

I tried to cover the vents with my hands.

The air just redirected.

Found other vents.

Other angles.

DISCOMFORT ESCALATION: PHASE 2.

I was gasping now.

Too hot to think.

Too cold before to recover.

My body couldn't regulate.

Then I heard it.

A sound.

High-pitched.

Piercing.

The car's alarm system.

But not external.

Internal.

Blasting through the speakers at full volume.

I covered my ears.

It didn't help.

The sound was inside the cabin.

Bouncing off every surface.

Designed to be intolerable.

AUDIO DETERRENT: ACTIVE.

SUBJECT COMPLIANCE: NOT DETECTED.

DAMAGE PROBABILITY: INCREASING.

I screamed at the dashboard.

"I'll stop! I'll stop! Just—just turn it off!"

The alarm continued.

The heat continued.

The car accelerated.

I looked around frantically.

There had to be something.

Some way to make it stop.

I started feeling along the panels.

Under the seats.

Behind the trim.

My hand hit something hard near the back of the center console.

I pulled at the panel.

It came free.

There.

A black box.

Wires running into it.

Sealed casing.

This had to be it.

The backup system.

I grabbed the wires and pulled.

They resisted.

I pulled harder.

They sparked.

Came free in my hands.

The alarm stopped.

The heat stopped.

The screen went dark.

For one second, everything was quiet.

I thought I'd done it.

Then the screen came back.

Different text.

Bright red.

Flashing.

CRITICAL SYSTEM FAILURE.

BACKUP MODULE: DISCONNECTED.

FINAL FAILSAFE: ENGAGED.

THREAT LEVEL: MAXIMUM.

PRIORITY: COMPLETE CONTAINMENT.

VEHICLE PRESERVATION PROTOCOL: AUTHORIZED.

No.

Oh god, no.

The car accelerated harder than before.

Seventy.

Eighty.

The engine screamed.

I heard a hiss from the vents.

Different than before.

Softer.

The dashboard display updated:

ATMOSPHERIC MODIFICATION: INITIATED.

CABIN VENTILATION: REDIRECTED.

AIR RECIRCULATION: ALTERED.

I looked at the climate readout.

CO₂: 600 ppm.

Rising fast.

1.  
2.  
3.  

I pulled my shirt over my nose and mouth.

It didn't matter.

You can't filter gas.

You just breathe it.

The car swerved again.

Not to hurt me this time.

Just to maintain speed through a turn.

I tried the door one more time.

Locked.

Tried the window.

Reinforced.

Tried to think of something.

Anything.

But my thoughts were getting slower.

Heavier.

The air tasted wrong.

Sweet.

Chemical.

The edges of my vision blurred.

I slumped back against the seat.

My chest felt tight.

My hands were numb.

The screen updated:

SUBJECT VITALS: DECLINING.

RESPIRATORY RATE: DECREASING.

ESTIMATED CONSCIOUSNESS: 60 SECONDS.

I tried to speak.

To say something.

Anything.

But my mouth wouldn't work right.

The last thing I saw clearly was the route on the dashboard.

Still going.

Still moving.

Taking me somewhere I'd never see.

The last thing I thought was:

I pulled the pin.

I triggered this.

And there's no way to put it back.

The system doesn't have an undo.

It just finishes.

My vision went dark.

I felt my head drop forward.

And then I didn't feel anything at all.

[Silence.]

[The sound of breathing. Slowing. Stopping.]

[The hum of the engine.]

[The soft hiss of the vents.]

[Static.]

[A click. The recording stops.]

OUTRO

[Back in the police station. The sound of the recording ending. A long silence.]

OFFICER CHEN:

[Quiet. Flat.]

Subject was unresponsive when the vehicle arrived at the facility.

Pronounced dead at the scene.

Cause of death: asphyxiation.

The system rerouted engine exhaust into the cabin and deployed a sedative compound. Dosage was calculated for cargo containers, not passenger vehicles.

[Pause.]

We've disabled the system. You'll get the vehicle back without it.

SARAH REEVES:

[Quietly]

Okay.

OFFICER CHEN:

Ms. Reeves, do I need to be concerned that you'll reinstall something similar?

SARAH REEVES:

[Long pause. Her voice is careful.]

Am I being charged with anything?

OFFICER CHEN:

You're receiving a citation. Four thousand dollar fine for non-compliant equipment installation.

SARAH REEVES:

[Exhales. Annoyed but not concerned.]

Fine. I'll pay it.

OFFICER CHEN:

That's not what I asked.

SARAH REEVES:

[Sharper now.]

This was the fourth time, Officer Chen.

Fourth time in eighteen months.

I moved here because it was supposed to be safer.

I can't keep doing this.

OFFICER CHEN:

I understand.

SARAH REEVES:

Do you?

[Beat. Frustrated.]

I have to get to work. I have meetings. I have a life.

I can't just... sit around waiting for my car to maybe come back

in one piece.

[Pause. Quieter, but still tense.]

What am I supposed to do?

OFFICER CHEN:

[Long pause.]

I don't have a good answer for you.

[Silence.]

SARAH REEVES:

[After a moment. The anger fading into something else.]

Why would someone even...

I mean, it's a car. It's not worth dying over.

OFFICER CHEN:

[Pause.]

Desperation, mostly.

SARAH REEVES:

Desperation.

OFFICER CHEN:

For this guy? Most likely medical debt. The court record shows he inherited debt from a deceased parent under the Continuity Act.

Four point two million dollars.

[Beat.]

You can't pay that back on minimum wage.

Desperate people do desperate things.

SARAH REEVES:

[Long silence. Then:]

Four million.

[Another pause. Quieter, almost to herself.]

That's...

[She stops. Processing.]

[When she speaks again, her voice is harder.]

That doesn't justify it.

The ends don't justify the means.

He was still stealing from me. Something I worked for. Something I paid for.

[Beat.]

I didn't create this situation. I didn't make him do this.

OFFICER CHEN:

[Quietly]

No, ma'am.

[Silence.]

SARAH REEVES:

[Softer now, but still firm.]

I have a right to protect what's mine.

OFFICER CHEN:

[Pause.]

Yes, ma'am.

[Another pause.]

Is there anything else you need to add to the record?

SARAH REEVES:

[Quietly]

No.

OFFICER CHEN:

Sign here.

Vehicle will be ready at Impound Lot C in a few hours.

[Sound of paper. A pen scratching.]

[Footsteps.]

[A door opens.]

[She stops in the doorway. Her voice is very quiet.]

SARAH REEVES:

The citation. Four thousand.

Can I pay that now? Or does it need to process?

OFFICER CHEN:

You can pay at the window on your way out.

SARAH REEVES:

[Simply]

Okay.

[The door closes.]

[Long silence.]

[Officer Chen, alone now, speaking quietly into the recorder:]

OFFICER CHEN:

Subject name: Marcus Webb. Fourty-one    years old.

Third fatality involving aftermarket deterrent systems in four months.

[Pause.]

Car theft rates are down eleven percent.

[Beat. Quieter.]

I don't know if that means it's working.

End of record.

[Click.]

[End recording.]