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Things are simple, when they're at a distance.
Carmen Sandiego is an international thief. Player is an accomplice, technically. Her friends- and what amounts to his coworkers- are also thieves, and while Player isn't as close to them he still knows them, he still worries and fusses over them. Every night he gets a debriefing on how they're going to fix the world by digging into the crooked edges with spears and some gas station duct tape. Sometimes it's not serious- sometimes they all join a group thing and play Mario kart, or attempt Uno- but then sometimes they're frankly weighing the pros and cons of cases he knows could get them all killed.
Player doesn't leave his computer often, but when he does, he listens to the news.
It gets scary, some nights, but it's too late to back out now, isn't it? He's known Carmen for so long- she's an intricate part of his life, and he can't just let that slip through his fingers. If he's gonna lose this, it's gonna be after a long battle of wits and whims and possibly some helicopters.
Or maybe just a soda, which Player cracks open before scooching his office chair back into place. "Alright, I'm back. How goes it?"
"I'm gonna kill my brother," Ivy responds from her own little intercom. "Or maybe just shave him."
"I'll die before I let ya' anywhere near my luscious locks."
"That suits me just fine!"
Player lowers the volume, recognizing a full-on spat when it's about to occur. "Let's save the murder-slash-haircut for after the theft, alright? Blood and hair is the last thing we need the police to get their hands on." There's a shuffling noise at the edges of his ears as he switches over to Carmen's headpiece, like something is politely sitting on his bed and waiting for him to finish. Player isn't surprised by this. He's no thief, sure, but he recognizes an open window as bad news when he sees it on the way to the bathroom. "How's that polar vortex treating you, Red?"
Her voice is surprisingly clear for someone hanging off the edge of a building in the middle of a snowstorm. "I may need a thicker jacket."
"More room to stash things."
"I do love having extra pockets."
Player takes a long gulp of his soda, focusing more on listening. Nothing. The sound of breathing is just his imagination; Carmen had told him so ages ago. The intruder was too far away for him to hear it. But, hey. At least they were being polite. "How many do you have?"
"Forty-seven," she says, in such a way Player knows she isn't really thinking about it. Carmen pauses in talking but not in climbing. "But... you already know that. What's up?"
"Not much. Just doing that thing you told me to do."
"That is ridiculously vague."
"It's kind of fun to keep people guessing. I can see why you like it so much." Player twisted the cap shut. "You always say to keep your mind focused on other things to avoid having a meltdown. That's what I'm doing. I'm encouraging pocket dialogue."
Another pause. Carmen's voice has changed when she speaks- before, it was soft, joking. Now it was clipped. "You haven't had a meltdown in years. What's up?"
"Nothing much," he said. "I'm drinking soda, talking to Carmen Sandiego, and there's someone standing behind me. You?"
To his credit, he puts up a struggle. Player is smart enough to kick off from the side of his desk, only barely missing the smack of a baton, which crunches through his middle computer screen with ease. He whirls the chair around as a sort of shield and hits a button on his desk- installed for situations exactly like this- and the V.I.L.E. criminal database is hidden in a safe underneath, locked so harshly even Carmen would have difficulties. Then he grabs his ear piece and chucks it out the window, the fall hopefully breaking it; no need to let these bozos get even a trace trace of his buddies.
Then there's a solid smack to the back of his skull, and he wakes up with a black bag over his head and a migraine to beat all migraines.
One might think his first thought would be I'm being kidnapped, this isn't good. Instead, the concept his mind cobbles together is when mom said I should get out more often, she probably didn't mean this. But, then again, most people don't expect to be kidnapped. Player's been expecting it for a long, long time, even before he met a lonely Black Sheep; he's a member of White Hat, after all. Nobody likes someone playing half as many games as he is.
Look on the bright side, Player tells himself as he inchworms to what he suspects is the back of a trunk. If they wanted me dead, they wouldn't've gone to so much trouble. His hands are bound, prompting him to kick wildly about, hoping to strike a light, but nothing gives. Maybe whoever did this superglued them on or something.
Oddly enough, he isn't as scared as he thought he would be. He's ready to curl up and cry, sure, but he knows that when kids disappear they hit the news. Carmen watches the news. He managed to tell her someone was in his room. She'll come and get him. But then there's the logistics of that- of being the kid rescued by Carmen Sandiego, and all spotlight that could get them both.
(And, honestly? Player has known Carmen from before she was Carmen. He's known Black Sheep. All she's ever known was Player- not the shy little boy he was before White Hat, and certainly not him in person. Having their first meeting be sullied by some jerks with batons and rope is not okay.)
The car eventually stops. Player isn't sure if he fell unconscious again or not, but there's a noticeable uptick in warmth outside when they pop the trunk. Big hands grab his arms, helping him to his feet. He allows them to bump and jostle him where they want him to go. A door opens and then he's in a humid little room, in an uncomfortable plastic chair, and the adults are muttering to themselves.
"You guys are pretty sick," he says. "Kidnapping a kid. You might even be front-page in the newspaper."
The muttering stops.
"I dunno what you think you'll get from me-" keep lying, Carmen whispered in his brain, let them tell you what they know- "But my folks aren't exactly rich, so don't expect to make it out of this with oodles of dough."
"Take his bag off," a woman's voice says.
Let there be light, then. Player hisses as bright fluorescent light attacks his eyeballs. He hadn't noticed the smell of cleaners before, or perhaps it had been masked a bit by the cloth, but there's no denying this is a janitor's closet of some kind. Player looks up and meets the calm, clear gaze of a woman in blue.
"Huh," he says. "Hologram in a closet. That's anticlimactic."
"We're not going to hurt you," she replies. "But we need answers."
"Not gonna hurt me? You kidnapped me! Someone is gonna have to foot the bill for my therapy, and it ain't gonna be me."
The woman doesn't acknowledge that- which, wow. Rude. "We have evidence that you are collaborating with Carmen Sandiego, young man. I need to know what you know."
Player ignores the jig his heart is doing and leans back, wincing at the pinch in his hands. "Whattaya mean? I was just playing some game with a friend I met online."
"You also have V.I.L.E. intel." The hologram got closer, scowling. "Which, to me, matters far more than anything else. I will find out what you know, kid, no matter how long it takes."
"What does your hologram look like when there's a virus?" Player asks. "Does it change color? By the way, blue is a really boring color. Every hologram ever is blue. Make it rainbow next time."
"This is going to be a long interrogation," she decided with a sigh.
Player's internal clock is a bit screwy from being sequestered in his room all the time (not to mention the odd hours he has to keep to chat with friends constantly changing time zones), but he's willing to bet two days pass before anything happens.
He's treated nicely. They give him food, and water, and even allow him to go without his bonds. It's as nice as being locked in a janitor's closet can be. The woman- who they call Chief- flits in and out, asking the same boring questions about Carmen and about V.I.L.E. He really wouldn't mind dumping on the latter, if he knew for certain telling her wouldn't bite him on the butt later, but he can't be so he doesn't.
He wonders if his parents have called the police. He wonders if these people, with their fancy holograms and janitor closet interrogation rooms, can circumvent the police. Maybe they just paid them to not tell. It's not like he's physically in any danger, after all.
God, waiting is hell.
It's the dawn of his third nap when a thick accent breaks through the silence, making his insides do a little tap dance. "Orders are orders, bub! Unless you wanna tell the boss lady that you went against her?"
"Uh, no," the guard outside says, clearly taken aback. "It's just- we haven't gotten the info we need, and there's no need to change locations..."
"It don't make much sense to me neither, but I ain't askin' a lot of questions."
The door opens, and in shuffles the poor guard, who has no idea what to do when someone walks up to him and demands he does something, and a tall ginger guy Player knows is Zack. If waiting was hard, not smiling was even harder as the Boston man gruffly wrapped the cord around his wrists, tying them with a sharp tug. He finally understands what it means when people talking about hurting so good.
The bag is back on his head, but he's not scared this time. Not when there's a warm hand on his shoulder, squeezing reassuringly. A couple of twists, a couple of turns, and then he's getting chucked into the back of a ridiculously cliché white van.
Almost immediately the bag is gone, and there's a knife cutting away at the ropes. "Playa!" Ivy all but screams in his ear. "You 'bout gave us a heart attack, little buddy!"
"This wasn't exactly a bundle of joy for me, you know." Player rubs his aching wrists. "Where's Red?"
"Busy."
"Busy?"
Zack guns it, swerving around a turn with reckless disregard. "Busy."
Player eventually moves into the back seat, slowly regaining his senses. Of all the ways a first meeting can go, this is probably one of the strangest. For normal people, anyway.
"I remember my first kidnapping," Ivy reminiscences fondly beside him. "Good times."
"They crushed my monitor," he pouts.
"We'll buy you a new one."
They get caught in traffic. Zack turns on the news with a grumble Player would bet is almost entirely cuss words. It's then he finds out that there's a janitor closet currently on fire nearby, and it's spreading fast, and he has a good idea of where Carmen is now.
"Are you seriously pullin' into McDonald's at a time like this?"
Player startles out of a half-doze just in time for Zack to send Ivy the middle finger from the front. "We lost 'em ages ago. Besides- Playa's scrawnier than a baby! We gotta get some meat on his bones."
"I'm awake, you know."
"Mornin', sleeping beauty. When was the last time you went to the gym, anyway?"
"Zack."
"Fine, fine."
Player, sick of tight spaces, opts to go in and get the food, then sits down to eat his instead. What can Zack and Ivy do, anyway? They're criminals. They can't just waltz into a fast food joint. Or maybe they could. He really didn't care.
He's halfway through a sip of soda when someone very special slips into the booth across from him, smelling of smoke and cheap floor cleaner. Player suddenly finds it hard to breathe, because this is a McDonald's and he's in the same clothes he was kidnapped in, and it sucks that Carmen gets to look all put together for their first meeting. "Hey, Red."
Carmen tipped her hat. "Hey." She glances at the tray of food. "You gonna finish your fries?"
"They're flimsy and not sufficiently salty."
"I'll take what I can get." Sure enough, she crammed some into her mouth. "Been too busy to eat."
Busy looking for me, his mind supplies, as if that wasn't already obvious. "How'd that heist go?"
"It didn't."
"Oh. Sorry."
"Don't be. You'd do the same for me."
Player sits back. "Is it weird that this feels less personal than our normal conversations? Like, I always thought we'd meet up and things would be super comfortable, but I felt more relaxed talking about pockets."
"Spoils the fantasy a little?" she prompted, shoving more fries into her maw. "You expected some super sleuth. You got a scrawny twenty-something with an oversized coat."
"I never expected Nancy Drew outta you. More of a Batman vibe."
"I always thought you were taller."
"I've got a lot of leg and no waist. It makes me look bigger than I actually am."
"You don't look all that big."
"Thanks, Red."
Carmen wiped her mouth on a napkin, then slipped it into her pocket so no saliva would be left for the cops to find. "Listen, Player. This was specific. You were targeted because you know me. Because you know V.I.L.E. You can't hide in the shadows anymore."
Player's jaw dropped. "Is this... is this the 'I can't let you be my friend because I'm dangerous to be around' speech?"
"No." Something sad entered her smile. "It's too late for that. Once you're a target, it's too late." Carmen straightened. "I can't tell you what to do, Player, but it might be wise to get some parkour under your belt."
"Is this a new-fangled scheme to get me out of the house?"
"You've got the brain for it, Player. You handled this with grace and dignity. It wouldn't hurt to have the muscle for it too."
Player smushed his half-eaten burger into the ketchup he'd plopped down for the fries. "I wouldn't say I was graceful."
"Hey," she said, voice quiet, as she gingerly touched his shoulder. Carmen smiled at him. "You did good, Player."
The finality of the statement hit him. You did good. As if this was a test or a video game. This was- this was scary, and painful, and he just wanted to go home. He wanted his mom. Player set his elbows on the table and hid his face. He didn't know when he stopped crying.
They take him home without any further fuss. Zack and Ivy give him handshakes. Carmen gives him a hug. Pretty good for an encounter with La Femme Rouge.
His monitor is replaced. He isn't sure if his friends did that or his parents, but he's too exhausted to ask. He logs in, sets up a wallpaper, and gets back to encrypting. The V.I.L.E. info remains locked away for the night, just in case he was tailed.
For a time, things are simple again.
Almost.