Epilogue

Twelve Eyes Conference Chamber  //  Digital Space

Anonymous human silhouettes encircle a dim, all-metallic conference table, each position labeled 1 through 12. Every figure is represented by a digit glowing on the glass before them. Except for Number Twelve, the Twelfth Eye: Her physical presence manifests as Madame, complete in her silk dress.

They are the collection of the most powerful intelligence agencies, Twelve Eyes.

Her voice is commanding with her announcement: “Icarus is dead.”

The figure designated as the Third Eye shifts, their digital number flickering as they speak. “But the blueprints for Icarus’s firearms have been leaked. You have failed to complete the objective."

Second Eye's digit brightens. “There’s no doubt that Icarus will return with a vengeance, amplified by copycats. He is now a symbol of dissident resistance.”

Madame's head tilts, amused by their ignorance. “You misunderstand. For the Council, and thus society, to move forward, these turn of events are necessary.” She crosses her legs as she speaks. “At worst, this is just a bump in the road.”

Fourth Eye’s digitized voice speaks deep and demanding. “What is your game, Twelve?”

A smirk plays across Madame’s lips. “If you cannot deduce it, you are simply too nearsighted to see what is ahead.”

“Stop playing games Twelve.” The Fifth Eye speaks, "We are supposed to be sharing intelligence. Why are you keeping your 'plan' a secret?"

“It is a necessary component of the risk assessment. The plan is too important for the likes of you to know.”

“The likes of us?” Eighth Eye interjects, offended.

“Might I remind you that I have been directly appointed by the Council. Do not presume to question or interfere with the Council’s will.” Madam’s tone is as cold as ice.

"It only takes one misstep, Twelve," warns Eleventh Eye.

“I have yet to make a serious miscalculation. My track record far surpasses any of yours’, objectively speaking.”

“I pray that your ‘plan’ means you have everything under control.” Seventh Eye speaks incredulously.

The figures begin to dissolve one by one, their digital forms fading into nothingness.

The meeting is over.

A request for a voice call materializes before Madame. She accepts, and Bradshaw’s avatar appears next to the call icon with the label, “Voice-Only”.

“So did Twelve Eyes gave you an earful again?” Bradshaw’s gruff voice crackles through.

“It’s nothing new. They simply fail to recognize the scope of trust the Council has placed in me.” Madame spins slowly in her high chair.

"This is because you have far too much faith in Unit 7," he counters with a dry chuckle.

“It is simply a calculated risk. And you know how much I love to gamble.”

"That was past you, Carol. But I suppose it proves your personality is still, for the most part, intact."

On the other end of the call, Bradshaw takes out a cigar and lights it. He takes a puff and blows a ring of smoke into the wind.

“You’re smoking.” Madame states flatly, hearing Bradshaw’s breathing patterns.

Bradshaw scoffs. "So you can tell even without seeing me. I could never get anything past you." He takes a long drag before uttering a thought. “That Shinkawa. She made an interesting choice.”

“I would classify it as a surprising, yet minor setback. But not entirely outside my predictions.”

“What exactly did you tell her?”

“The truth. Mostly. Just enough to give her the right push.” Madame’s lips turn into a calculating grin.

“And what was that?”

“I gave her a choice. A choice that left out key information. I calculated that she would act accordingly were incredibly slim, and yet she made the correct decisions. If I told her everything, the outcome would have been guaranteed to be catastrophic. Ironic, isn’t it? It was the illusion of choice that pushed everything in the right direction.”

Bradshaw pieces it together. “So you bet the fate of the world on not only Mr. Stoner, but Miss Shinkawa. Two reckless individuals with something to prove.”

“The outcome was slightly less than optimal. But in the real world, optimal results don’t exist. There is more than one way to skin a cat.”

“I thought your plan was to put the cat back in the bag?”

“With the Council controlling all major innovations, they have effectively doomed their own society to stagnation. They recognize that, and that's why they assigned me to mitigate the issue. But acknowledging the problem does not inherently grant them the capacity to solve it." Madame gets up from her chair, her silk dress fluttering as she circles around her digital space. “It is as Icarus put it, Pandora's Box is open. The very concept of a ‘firearm’—dealing death with ease, from afar—has been released to the public consciousness. It is out there. There is no going back to before.”

She takes a pause, before switching her tone to be absolute: “Humanity will always do the right thing after they’ve exhausted all other options. To stifle technological progress is to doom humanity. I’ve come to the conclusion that a little turmoil is required for the world to survive.”

“Does that include the World Council remaining intact?” Bradshaw inquires while tapping the ash off his cigar.

“My objective is to ensure the progress of humanity, with or without the Council.”

Bradshaw lets out a hearty laugh, voice crackling through digital compression. “You surprise me yet again. I can never truly predict what you're thinking.”

“But do you agree?”

"It doesn't matter. I swore to Carol long ago, to carry out your orders."

Madame cracks a rare, joyous laugh. “That’s a first in a long time I’ve heard that name.”

“I am old fashioned, after all.” Bradshaw treks over a grassy hill and stops as he stands over a gravestone: The name engraved is “Carol”, but the last name is eroded. The wind blows through his coat.

“So you came to pay me a visit, have you?” Madame knows where he is.

“Of course. Your old home, that is.”

“A bit too sentimental for the past, aren’t you?”

“Carol usually doesn’t mind being sentimental. I guess not all of your personality was digitized properly.”

“Or maybe, just maybe, I’ve transcended such base human tendencies."

Bradshaw smirks, unable to refute that. “I’ll be here if you need me.”

He ends the call. His avatar disappearing Madame’s digital space.

She leans over her digital window, staring out at an artificial sunset: a perfect, ideal, fake sunset.

When she glances beyond it, she sees the edges of her simulated space, fragments of jagged artifacts glitching, cascading into a digital void.

"In due time, the world will see your actions bear fruit, Mika Shinkawa." She final words speak to the empty room.

…

Somewhere deep underground in a secure location, protected by specialized guards brandishing stun swords, a colossal datacenter hums with relentless processing power.

Next to the central console, a small, industrial tag is affixed, the letters etched into the metal: “Madame.”

On the screen of the admin console, the transcript of Madame’s conversation with Bradshaw scrolls by with every word logged.

The final text appears on screen:

The singularity inches ever closer.

match//Lock Season 1 -END-