Chapter2 : Starting from unconsciousness

Dawn crept over Seattle like a hesitant algorithm, testing variables one by one: first the faintest purple at the horizon, then streaks of orange piercing through the cloud cover, finally the full spectrum of morning painting the city's glass towers. Sarah hadn't moved from her workstation, her screens now displaying two parallel timelines – the original prediction where Marcus Walsh died, and the new probability matrix showing his altered fate.

89.2% had become 12.4%. A life saved with thirty-seven lines of code.

But it wasn't just the probability that had kept her attention fixed on Marcus Walsh when her screens had filled with potential tragedies. Sarah pulled up his latest article in The Atlantic: "The Hidden Cost of Predictive Analytics: When Algorithms Play God."

Her eyes scanned the key passages:

"In our rush to predict the future, we've forgotten to question who gets to shape it. Every prediction becomes a prescription. Every algorithm becomes a prophecy. But who watches the watchmen? Who guards us against the guardians of our digital destiny?"

A wry smile touched her lips. If he only knew.

The article continued, diving deep into the ethical implications of predictive technologies. It wasn't the usual privacy advocate fearmongering. Walsh understood the technology, respected its potential, but asked the questions Sarah had wrestled with since childhood: Just because we can predict something, should we intervene? Where does probability end and free will begin?

Her secondary monitor pinged – another prediction:

ANNA MARTINEZ

Medication interaction probability: 92.3%

Location: Swedish Medical Center

Time window: 10:30 AM - 11:00 AM

Sarah's fingers hovered over her keyboard, but she pulled back. Anna Martinez was a nurse, her medical records showing she worked in the same hospital where she would potentially receive the wrong medication. A simple clerical error. One life. But changing hospital records was different from triggering a home alarm system. Medical systems were more heavily monitored, the ripple effects more unpredictable.

She pulled up Marcus's profile again, this time diving deeper into his digital footprint. His recent research focused on PredictCore specifically – freedom of information requests, interviews with former employees, deep dives into their patents. He was getting close to something. Too close.

A new window popped up on her left monitor:

subunit

SYSTEM ALERT

Unauthorized access detected

Terminal: 33-F-2187

Time: 05:42 AM

User: Chen, Sarah

Access level: Override required

Her heart stuttered. PredictCore's security systems were finally noticing her late-night activities. She quickly initiated her cleanup protocols, erasing traces of her unauthorized predictions. But she kept Marcus's file open. There was something here, something important.

His social media feed showed a pattern: regular coffee shop visits, daily commute times, frequent attendance at tech ethics panels. But more importantly, his research was following the same path she had taken years ago. He was looking for patterns in tragedy, trying to understand if technology could prevent disaster rather than just profit from predicting it.

Sarah opened his most recent draft, stored in his cloud drive. The title made her blood freeze:

"PREDICTCORE'S SHADOW ALGORITHM: The Truth Behind Prevented Tragedies"

He was already on the trail. Somehow, he'd noticed the statistical anomalies – the unusually low accident rates among PredictCore employees, the strange pattern of near-misses and last-minute changes that had saved lives over the past three years. Her interventions hadn't gone unnoticed; they'd attracted the attention of perhaps the one person capable of understanding their true significance.

The office's overhead lights suddenly flickered to full brightness – early shift workers would be arriving soon. Sarah quickly closed her unauthorized access windows but saved Walsh's research to a secure drive. She needed to understand exactly what he knew.

Her phone buzzed: a news alert.

"Breaking: Chemical Spill on I-5 North Creates Major Delays"

The accident that would have killed Marcus Walsh had found another form, but without him in its path.

Sarah gathered her things, suddenly aware of how long she'd been awake. As she stood, her mother's jade pendant caught the morning light, sending green reflections dancing across her screens. She touched it gently, a habit formed over fifteen years.

"The universe doesn't make mistakes," her mother used to say when Sarah complained about chaos in mathematics. "It just operates on algorithms too complex for us to see."

Maybe that's why she'd chosen to save Marcus Walsh. Not just because he was investigating PredictCore, not just because his death would have been ironic given his work. But because in all the chaos of possible interventions, he was the one person who might understand why she'd built her algorithm in the first place – not to play God, but to give chaos a conscience.

As she waited for the elevator, her phone buzzed again. A new email from Marcus Walsh to PredictCore's public relations department:

"Request for Comment: I'm working on a story about predictive analytics and prevented tragedies. I've noticed some interesting patterns in your company's data. Would like to discuss the ethical implications of intervention in predicted disasters. Deadline: End of week."

Sarah stepped into the elevator, her reflection fragmented in its mirrored walls. In saving his life, she might have sealed her fate. But perhaps that had been the algorithm's plan all along.

The doors closed, and she descended into a morning that would mark the beginning of a cascade effect – a butterfly's wings creating a hurricane that would either expose everything she'd built or finally help her answer the question that had haunted her since her mother's death: When you have the power to change destiny, are you obligated to use it?

Sarah's apartment felt wrong the moment she stepped inside. Everything was in its place – shoes aligned at exactly 45-degree angles by the door, mail sorted by size and importance on the entry table, temperature a precise 71.6 degrees Fahrenheit – but something had shifted in her perception of order.

She caught her reflection in the hallway mirror: dark circles under eyes that seemed too bright, hair escaping its usually perfect bun, skin pale enough to show the blue tracery of veins at her temples. Seventy-two hours without proper sleep. Her hands shook slightly as she pulled the elastic from her hair, letting it fall in a black curtain past her shoulders.

"Quantify," she whispered to herself, an old habit from therapy. "Control through measurement."

Heart rate: elevated at 82 beats per minute.

Hours awake: 31

Caffeine intake: 400mg

Probability of cognitive impairment: rising

The apartment's AI assistant activated automatically. "Good morning, Sarah. You have been awake for 31 hours. Would you like me to adjust your schedule to allow for recovery sleep?"

"No." She moved to her home workstation, where six monitors created a curved wall of data. "Pull up everything we have on Marcus Walsh's movements from the past six months."

Her fingers flew across the keyboard, creating a timeline that spread across the screens. Marcus's life revealed itself in data points: credit card transactions, transit card usage, phone GPS data, social media activity. A human life reduced to patterns, just like the ones she'd failed to see in Michael's final months.

Her hands stilled on the keyboard.

There it was – the weakness Dr. Park had warned her about during her mandatory therapy sessions after Michael's death. "You're trying to control chaos by turning people into equations," he'd said. "But humans aren't algorithms, Sarah. They're messy, unpredictable, and that's what makes them human."

A notification popped up on her central screen:

MARCUS WALSH

Current Location: Cafe Analog, 3rd & Pike

Status: Writing

Device Activity: Research query - "PredictCore accident prevention rates"

Sarah's breath caught. He was three blocks away. She could see him through the cafe's security cameras: salt-and-pepper hair falling over his forehead as he typed, coffee growing cold beside his laptop, the same intense focus she recognized from her own reflection.

Her fingers moved without conscious thought, pulling up the cafe's systems. One line of code and his laptop would crash, erasing hours of work. Another and his cloud backups would corrupt. She could stop him now, before he got too close.

But she didn't.

Instead, she found herself reaching for her coat. "Calculate route to Cafe Analog," she told her AI. "Factors: minimal security camera exposure, lowest probability of social interaction."

"Sarah," the AI's voice held a note of concern she hadn't programmed, "your current physical and mental state suggests—"

"Override." She was already moving toward the door, checking her appearance one last time. The jade pendant stayed, but she let her hair remain down – a small chaos in her ordered world. "Log activity as system maintenance."

The walk to Cafe Analog took exactly seven minutes and forty-three seconds. Sarah chose a corner table with clear sightlines to both Marcus and the exits. Her hands wrapped around a cup of green tea she didn't intend to drink, using its steam as cover for her observation.

Up close, Marcus Walsh was more than his data. He had laugh lines around his eyes despite the serious set of his mouth. His fingers moved over his keyboard with the same deliberate precision she recognized in herself. Twice, he reached up to brush his hair back, a gesture tagged in her facial recognition systems as indicating deep concentration.

"Approaching subject," a woman's voice cut through Sarah's focus. Her head snapped up to see a barista walking toward Marcus's table. "More coffee?"

Sarah's monitors had shown his caffeine intake was already above optimal levels. Her hand twitched toward her phone, ready to trigger a notification that would distract him from responding.

But Marcus looked up and smiled – a real smile that crinkled those laugh lines – and said, "Better not. I'm already seeing patterns in my sleep."

The phrase hit Sarah like a physical blow. How many times had she said those exact words?

Her tea sloshed over the cup's rim as her hand trembled. A single drop fell onto her pristine white sleeve, spreading into a pale green stain. Chaos in miniature.

Marcus was speaking again, this time into his phone: "Note to self: PredictCore's accident prevention rates show a statistically significant anomaly beginning three years ago. Correlation with new hire in algorithmic development division. Name: Sarah Chen."

The cup slipped from her fingers entirely, shattering against the floor in a spray of ceramic and tea.

Every head in the cafe turned toward the noise. Including Marcus Walsh's.

Their eyes met across the space between their tables. Recognition flickered across his face – he'd seen her photo in his research. Sarah felt her carefully constructed world tilting on its axis as those keen eyes studied her face, cataloging details just as she would have done.

"You're her," he said softly, just loud enough to carry. "You're Sarah Chen."

The weight of destiny pressed against her chest as she stood, tea soaking into her shoes. Fight or flight responses warred with the probability calculations running through her mind. She could deny everything, walk away, have IT erase his research. She could tell him the truth. She could—

But before she could decide, her vision blurred at the edges. Thirty-one hours without sleep. Elevated heart rate. Cognitive impairment. The numbers had predicted this, but she hadn't listened.

The last thing Sarah saw before darkness claimed her was Marcus Walsh lunging forward to catch her as she fell, his laptop screen still displaying her name in stark black letters against white.

In her unconscious mind, algorithms danced with chaos, and somewhere in the digital ether, her prediction system registered a new anomaly:

SARAH CHEN

Probability of emotional compromise: 94.7%

Cause: Human Factor

Status: Calculating...

First came sound: the hiss of an espresso machine, murmured voices, rain against windows. Then smell: coffee beans, wet wool, antiseptic – antiseptic? Finally, light filtered through her eyelids, bringing with it the weight of consciousness.

Sarah became aware of several things simultaneously:

She was lying on something soft but firm – a couch in what felt like an office.

Her shoes had been removed, placed precisely parallel to each other beside the couch (not random – deliberate positioning).

Her jade pendant remained exactly where it should be.

Someone was watching her.

She opened her eyes to find herself in Cafe Analog's private office, a small space dominated by a vintage Seattle map and the scent of coffee that seeped through the walls. Rain traced complex patterns down the window, creating shifting shadows across the industrial concrete floor.

"Your heart rate has stabilized," a voice said – his voice, she realized. "But your blood pressure is still lower than optimal."

Marcus Walsh sat in an ergonomic chair positioned exactly 1.83 meters from the couch, his laptop closed on the desk beside him. In the office's soft lighting, Sarah could see the details her surveillance hadn't captured: a small scar above his right eyebrow, the slight asymmetry of his collar that suggested he dressed quickly this morning, the way his left hand tapped an irregular rhythm on his knee – not nervous, but thinking.

"You've been unconscious for approximately seventeen minutes," he continued, his tone carrying the same precise measure she used when analyzing data. "The paramedics suggested rest and hydration, but didn't feel hospitalization was necessary given your vital signs."

Sarah pushed herself to sitting position, noting how her body felt simultaneously leaden and oddly weightless. "You called paramedics?"

"And dismissed them," he replied. "After determining you were suffering from extreme fatigue rather than any acute medical condition." A pause, then: "Something you might have predicted, given your expertise."

The implied question hung in the air between them. Sarah's mind raced through probability trees of responses, calculating outcomes, weighing variables. But exhaustion made the numbers blur.

"There's water," Marcus nodded toward a glass on the small table beside her. "The seal was intact when I opened it. You can verify the timestamp on the security camera if you need to."

Of course he knew she would think of that. Just as he'd positioned himself at the optimal distance for conversation without intimidation, chosen a chair that put them at eye level, and left her a clear path to the door.

The water was cool against her throat. Outside, Seattle's morning rush hour was reaching its peak – the time when Marcus should have been on I-5, instead of here, watching her with eyes that reminded her unnervingly of her own reflection.

"Your article," she said finally, "about patterns in tragedy. You wrote that predictive analytics without ethical oversight is like giving a loaded gun to a child."

"You've read my work." Not a question.

"You compared my company to modern-day oracle priests, selling prophecies without understanding their impact."

"Your company," he repeated, that left hand still tapping its irregular rhythm. "Not you?"

Sarah stood carefully, bare feet silent on the concrete floor. Her head swam slightly, but she forced her spine straight, chin lifted. "Thank you for your assistance, Mr. Walsh. I should—"

"You know," he interrupted, "it's interesting. In studying accident prevention patterns, I noticed something peculiar. The algorithms don't just predict – they adapt. They learn. Almost as if..."

"As if someone were teaching them empathy?" The words escaped before she could stop them.

Marcus's hand stilled its tapping. Their eyes met across the office space, and Sarah felt something shift in the air between them – recognition, perhaps, or understanding. Or danger.

The office door opened before either could speak again. "Mr. Walsh?" A barista stood hesitantly in the doorway. "There's a call for you from the Times. They're asking about your deadline for the PredictCore story."

Sarah used the interruption to slide her feet into her shoes – still perfectly aligned – and move toward the door. But Marcus's voice stopped her at the threshold.

"The override code you used this morning," he said softly, "to delay my commute. It was elegant. Almost beautiful in its simplicity. Like a butterfly's wings creating a hurricane."

She didn't turn around. Couldn't. But she heard him stand, heard the subtle shift of fabric as he reached for his laptop.

"The thing about butterflies, Ms. Chen," he continued, "is that once they take flight, even the best algorithms can't predict where they'll land."

Sarah stepped through the doorway into the cafe proper, where morning light had finally broken through Seattle's cloud cover. Behind her, Marcus Walsh picked up his phone to answer the Times' call. Neither acknowledged what had just passed between them – a recognition, a challenge, a warning.

Above the cafe, traffic cameras tracked the movement of thousands of vehicles, their paths weaving through the city like lines of code. Somewhere in PredictCore's servers, probabilities shifted and reformed, trying to calculate the impact of two people's choices in one rainy morning.

And in Sarah's mind, a new algorithm began to form – one that might finally help her understand the most chaotic system of all: the human heart.