Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Tuesday
So I was right about switching to everyother week. Be patient, I have something neat planned.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
things
Hi ya'll.
I am so happy with this chapter. I took two weeks to write it, which was really nonstressful. I'm going to see what happens, but there's a good chance that I'm going to switch to an every other weekly posting schedual.
I would love to hear from all of you.
stay beautiful,
Bessie
I am so happy with this chapter. I took two weeks to write it, which was really nonstressful. I'm going to see what happens, but there's a good chance that I'm going to switch to an every other weekly posting schedual.
I would love to hear from all of you.
stay beautiful,
Bessie
Portraits of S.A.F.E. Agents Part Four
S.A.F.E. Agents generally don’t have much family, at least not ones they speak too. S.A.F.E. Agents don’t keep friends or lovers that feel they need to know what’s really going on, which tends to result in little serious socialization or fraternization outside the ranks.
It’s a job that eats the rest of your life, like a horde of starving orphans at a strip-mall buffet. S.A.F.E. agents go mad at alarming rates. Few retire, even fewer quit. Most of them just die. It takes a certain kind of crazy to be S.A.F.E.
At S.A.F.E. you have to accept things, impossible things, and you have to do it quick. Their lives are thriller/mystery, sci-fi/fantasy epics, that somedays follow plots uncomfortably close to romantic comedy formula. If it wasn’t a cliche, Edith would say they live the impossible. It's still true, she just doesn’t say it.
S.A.F.E. Agents have to accept people, with all their eccentricities, and the asking and telling that leads to well functioning, united teams, where the word team is cross-referenced with the word family.
Above all S.A.F.E. Agents have to accept not knowing, sometimes caused by secrets, and sometimes because no one knows. Edith runs the place and she still isn’t absolutely sure what the letters stand for. Truth is only ever relative anyway, so what does it matter.
Edith wonders how a classified add would read. WANTED: Creative people who like solving problems. Pays great, but long hours. Preferably speaks several languages, and is good with computers. Martial Arts or Occult skills a plus.
If they don’t have nightmares before they join up, there’s plenty of inspiration.
Why wouldn’t someone want to be a part of this?
Why did she become a part of this again? Dunno. Edith won’t let herself become aware of the answer, thinking about those times, along those lines won’t help anybody. (Because Merit asked, and there wasn’t anything else. Not the best way to make a major life decision, but it worked. For all she moans, S.A.F.E. is her meaning, and she wouldn’t have it any other way. Most days.)
Edith never intended to save the world. In her formative years she expected to be quite normal. She didn’t know what she would do, but leading what frequently feels like a troop of paramilitary middle schoolers wasn’t on the list.
S.A.F.E. draws from the world’s top inteligence agencies, and the criminal underground. Some are recruited, some are enlisted. “Brilliance and Madness.” That’s what Edith had been told to look for. “Brilliance and Madness,” Merit had said. She could hear the capital letters in his voice. “Brilliance and Madness. It’s amazing how commonly those two traits run together, my dear.”
She had sighed and gone on with her day, writing it off as his typical babble, anything to fill the silence, but now it’s something to live by when she has no other guide lines.
The application form was among the many documents to be corrupted in Merit’s crusade against ticky boxes. While she’s all for self-determination, and creating one’s own identity, no progress is made by changing the question NAME into “What do you call yourself?” Simplicity, please.
She settles down to her revising, revisiting memories of clear cut cases, with obvious actions to take, evil to defeat, and not a scrap of paper work in sight. Those were the days, she thinks, with the hazy rose tinted perspective of someone removed from what actually happened by a new reality that is both immensely tedious, immensely necessary, and immensely boring.
But hey, someone has to do it.
Oliver leads the interrogation not because he’s good at it, though that’s true, but because the others suck. Too soft or too hard in turn, in a game balancing compassion with results. Oliver excels by principally being his charming self. He talks to Sheena, flirting a little, asking question after question.
She is coy, evasive, and doesn’t let any information slip from her lips.
Piper sits on the counter, knees pulled up to his chin. There is easily ignorable protocol about always having two people in the room with a prisoner, but Piper sees things that others miss. It’s how he’s not exactly psychic, but has killer instincts, and a disparate way of seeing things, as though he’s standing on the ceiling, not the floor. He’ll say something every now and then, taking a more abstract road towards the truth.
“You should let me go,” Sheena says, with a demanding smile. “He’ll come for me, and he’ll destroy you. Burn you right up, because he needs me, chose me, could have had anyone, but chose me. My Lord is true, and strong, and will come for me. Come here and burn you all to ashes.”
“That doesn’t sound so bad,” Oliver drawls. It’s a bit of a bluff. He’s not suicidal, but would rather confront this creature then sit around doing nothing.
“Your 'lord' is powerful, right?” Oliver asks.
“More then you could ever imagine,” she retorts.
“I sort of doubt that.” He’s seen a lot of strange things, and a lot of false gods enslaving gullible New Age lemmings.
“My Lord is stronger the combined armies from every war gone by, stronger then gravity.”
“If he’s so powerful, what does he need you for?” Piper asks, and when she says, “He loves me,” he doesn’t buy it for one minute.
Oliver asks, “Did he say so, or is it something you just know?”
She cackles. “Does it matter?”
“Yes,” Piper answers for them both.
She does not give up their location, but she does admit to their crimes. She had orchestrated Armando's death, cutting off the arms of another “expendable,” and attaching them to the horrified, still breathing man. His body gone in exchange for her master regaining a solid form. “He is like finely cut crystals,” Sheena brags. “Like expensive jewelry. He shines, taking in light, reflecting and burning, casting rainbows.”
Her continued use of imagery is boring Oliver to tears. He interrupts her rapture. “So, you won’t tell us where you’re operating out of?”
“No. I won’t.”
“Fine.” He stands up, and walks to lean out the door. “Cleo, Viv, you’re on sap watching duty for a minute. Piper, we need to go talk. About important decision making things.”
Piper nods, and gets to his feet. As Oliver passes the girls he instructs them not to talk to her, then considers it, and swaps the previous instructions, saying, “You know what, I don’t care. Why don’t you, like, debate the relative merits of crustaceans, or high heels, or whatever. Be your regular, charming, combative selves.”
S.A.F.E. Agents are just as ridiculous as the world they journey in. Otherwise they’d break too often, and absolutely nothing would get done. Shortly after Ed joined up there had been a hard old black ops military man who they had liaised with on a job later named with stunning accuracy the "Dolphin-Quarterback Killer Case". He latter described the experience of working with a S.A.F.E. team as “The most frustrating week of my life. They just don’t stop talking. It’s despicable. They talk, and talk, but they don’t make any sense. The things I do understand--it’s appalling. That is not proper behavior for people in their position.”
To which Merit, their future fearless leader said, “And we were the ones that get let out to play! Just imagine the discipline cases!”
The military stopped calling them after that.
Cleo and Vivienne settle into the space. Cleo sprawls, while Viv stands in the middle of the room and leers Sheena. “I like it when he lets us spend time with prisoners.”
“Down girl.” Cleo teases.
Viv shrugs with her whole body, discarding a layer of tension, leaving her poised and dangerous. “I wonder what they’re talking about.”
Cleo furrows her brow. “He’s being strange.”
“It’s Oliver,” Viv reminders her. “Strange is his normal.”
“Stranger than...” Cleo starts, before sighing, “I give up.”
“That sounds like a good idea.”
“Yeah.”
It is uncomfortably quiet. Sheena coughs. Vivienne glares at her. Coughing is not appropriate prisoner behavior. Cleo taps a speeding rhythm against her leg.
“Stop that,” Vivienne orders.
“You stop it.”
“Stop what?”
“Stop telling me what to do.”
“Stop being annoying.”
Sheena sighs. “Would you both just cut it out.”
They both turn to her. “You don’t get to tell anyone what to do,” Cleo says, Vivienne interrupts her, “Shut up, or else.”
“Or else what.”
“Or else I’ll...” Vivienne trails off. She has been asked not to threaten people anymore, and past experiences have shown Oliver doesn’t care who started it.
“Or else she’ll cut your hair,” Cleo provides.
The word, “Really?” falls from both Vivienne and Sheena’s mouths.
“Really, really,” Cleo says. “Or maybe, possibly. I don’t know if we actually have any scissors.”
“I had a knife!” Sheena brags.
“Not anymore,” Vivienne says, “And it doesn’t matter, because I’m not cutting anyone or anything.”
“Wow, way to crush my dreams,” Cleo pouts.
“Shut up,” Vivienne answers, squashing the conversation thoroughly. More silence falls, a heavy precipitation coating the room, freezing them in place, listless and discontent.
Cleo breaks free. “Hey! Where’s your top secret underground base?”
Sheena scoffs. “If won’t tell the attractive gentlemen, why would I tell you?”
“You think they’re attractive?” Cleo asks, shocked. “I mean, they’re sweet, but...I dunno.”
“I understand,” Vivienne says. “On a general level. Oliver is rather tall, and appealing in a wholesome, strong, blond, American way, that I don’t actually find appealing. It isn’t confusing why other people like him. It’s just that we’ve spent too much time with the pair of them, and know how they’re gross and peculiar like all people, and they have the added distinction of making choices that make my life more complicated, and are prone to telling jokes that aren’t actually that funny.”
“And Ollie used to date Mouse,” Cleo offers a reminder.
“Exactly,” Vivienne confirms.
“What I don’t get is why she would be noticing,” Cleo says, gesturing to Sheena. “If I was her I’d have higher priorities.”
“It’s because she’s in love with an old amorphous Almighty. It may be powerful, but it doesn’t have any nice warm flesh.”
“You were listening?” Sheena asks, unsure whether she should be indignant or not.
“There’s a camera,” Cleo remarks, pointing at the device, which isn’t hidden at all.
“Oh,” Sheena says, choosing mildly miffed as the correct emotion to display.
“I think it’s creepy too,” Cleo says.
“Incredibly creepy,” Vivienne agrees, a rare alignment. “For example, right this second we’re in here talking about boys, and other side of the wall Alec is watching.” She smiles seductively at the camera and whispers, “Hi Aleczander.”
There’s a crash from the other room, and the S.A.F.E. girls start laughing while Sheena retains her gloss of haughty and disgusted. It is a relief when Oliver walks back into the room, Piper his smaller, darker shadow.
Oliver slams his hands against the table, looks Sheena right in the eye, and says, “Tell us where your allies are, or we’re going to kill you.”
It’s a job that eats the rest of your life, like a horde of starving orphans at a strip-mall buffet. S.A.F.E. agents go mad at alarming rates. Few retire, even fewer quit. Most of them just die. It takes a certain kind of crazy to be S.A.F.E.
At S.A.F.E. you have to accept things, impossible things, and you have to do it quick. Their lives are thriller/mystery, sci-fi/fantasy epics, that somedays follow plots uncomfortably close to romantic comedy formula. If it wasn’t a cliche, Edith would say they live the impossible. It's still true, she just doesn’t say it.
S.A.F.E. Agents have to accept people, with all their eccentricities, and the asking and telling that leads to well functioning, united teams, where the word team is cross-referenced with the word family.
Above all S.A.F.E. Agents have to accept not knowing, sometimes caused by secrets, and sometimes because no one knows. Edith runs the place and she still isn’t absolutely sure what the letters stand for. Truth is only ever relative anyway, so what does it matter.
Edith wonders how a classified add would read. WANTED: Creative people who like solving problems. Pays great, but long hours. Preferably speaks several languages, and is good with computers. Martial Arts or Occult skills a plus.
If they don’t have nightmares before they join up, there’s plenty of inspiration.
Why wouldn’t someone want to be a part of this?
Why did she become a part of this again? Dunno. Edith won’t let herself become aware of the answer, thinking about those times, along those lines won’t help anybody. (Because Merit asked, and there wasn’t anything else. Not the best way to make a major life decision, but it worked. For all she moans, S.A.F.E. is her meaning, and she wouldn’t have it any other way. Most days.)
Edith never intended to save the world. In her formative years she expected to be quite normal. She didn’t know what she would do, but leading what frequently feels like a troop of paramilitary middle schoolers wasn’t on the list.
S.A.F.E. draws from the world’s top inteligence agencies, and the criminal underground. Some are recruited, some are enlisted. “Brilliance and Madness.” That’s what Edith had been told to look for. “Brilliance and Madness,” Merit had said. She could hear the capital letters in his voice. “Brilliance and Madness. It’s amazing how commonly those two traits run together, my dear.”
She had sighed and gone on with her day, writing it off as his typical babble, anything to fill the silence, but now it’s something to live by when she has no other guide lines.
The application form was among the many documents to be corrupted in Merit’s crusade against ticky boxes. While she’s all for self-determination, and creating one’s own identity, no progress is made by changing the question NAME into “What do you call yourself?” Simplicity, please.
She settles down to her revising, revisiting memories of clear cut cases, with obvious actions to take, evil to defeat, and not a scrap of paper work in sight. Those were the days, she thinks, with the hazy rose tinted perspective of someone removed from what actually happened by a new reality that is both immensely tedious, immensely necessary, and immensely boring.
But hey, someone has to do it.
Oliver leads the interrogation not because he’s good at it, though that’s true, but because the others suck. Too soft or too hard in turn, in a game balancing compassion with results. Oliver excels by principally being his charming self. He talks to Sheena, flirting a little, asking question after question.
She is coy, evasive, and doesn’t let any information slip from her lips.
Piper sits on the counter, knees pulled up to his chin. There is easily ignorable protocol about always having two people in the room with a prisoner, but Piper sees things that others miss. It’s how he’s not exactly psychic, but has killer instincts, and a disparate way of seeing things, as though he’s standing on the ceiling, not the floor. He’ll say something every now and then, taking a more abstract road towards the truth.
“You should let me go,” Sheena says, with a demanding smile. “He’ll come for me, and he’ll destroy you. Burn you right up, because he needs me, chose me, could have had anyone, but chose me. My Lord is true, and strong, and will come for me. Come here and burn you all to ashes.”
“That doesn’t sound so bad,” Oliver drawls. It’s a bit of a bluff. He’s not suicidal, but would rather confront this creature then sit around doing nothing.
“Your 'lord' is powerful, right?” Oliver asks.
“More then you could ever imagine,” she retorts.
“I sort of doubt that.” He’s seen a lot of strange things, and a lot of false gods enslaving gullible New Age lemmings.
“My Lord is stronger the combined armies from every war gone by, stronger then gravity.”
“If he’s so powerful, what does he need you for?” Piper asks, and when she says, “He loves me,” he doesn’t buy it for one minute.
Oliver asks, “Did he say so, or is it something you just know?”
She cackles. “Does it matter?”
“Yes,” Piper answers for them both.
She does not give up their location, but she does admit to their crimes. She had orchestrated Armando's death, cutting off the arms of another “expendable,” and attaching them to the horrified, still breathing man. His body gone in exchange for her master regaining a solid form. “He is like finely cut crystals,” Sheena brags. “Like expensive jewelry. He shines, taking in light, reflecting and burning, casting rainbows.”
Her continued use of imagery is boring Oliver to tears. He interrupts her rapture. “So, you won’t tell us where you’re operating out of?”
“No. I won’t.”
“Fine.” He stands up, and walks to lean out the door. “Cleo, Viv, you’re on sap watching duty for a minute. Piper, we need to go talk. About important decision making things.”
Piper nods, and gets to his feet. As Oliver passes the girls he instructs them not to talk to her, then considers it, and swaps the previous instructions, saying, “You know what, I don’t care. Why don’t you, like, debate the relative merits of crustaceans, or high heels, or whatever. Be your regular, charming, combative selves.”
S.A.F.E. Agents are just as ridiculous as the world they journey in. Otherwise they’d break too often, and absolutely nothing would get done. Shortly after Ed joined up there had been a hard old black ops military man who they had liaised with on a job later named with stunning accuracy the "Dolphin-Quarterback Killer Case". He latter described the experience of working with a S.A.F.E. team as “The most frustrating week of my life. They just don’t stop talking. It’s despicable. They talk, and talk, but they don’t make any sense. The things I do understand--it’s appalling. That is not proper behavior for people in their position.”
To which Merit, their future fearless leader said, “And we were the ones that get let out to play! Just imagine the discipline cases!”
The military stopped calling them after that.
Cleo and Vivienne settle into the space. Cleo sprawls, while Viv stands in the middle of the room and leers Sheena. “I like it when he lets us spend time with prisoners.”
“Down girl.” Cleo teases.
Viv shrugs with her whole body, discarding a layer of tension, leaving her poised and dangerous. “I wonder what they’re talking about.”
Cleo furrows her brow. “He’s being strange.”
“It’s Oliver,” Viv reminders her. “Strange is his normal.”
“Stranger than...” Cleo starts, before sighing, “I give up.”
“That sounds like a good idea.”
“Yeah.”
It is uncomfortably quiet. Sheena coughs. Vivienne glares at her. Coughing is not appropriate prisoner behavior. Cleo taps a speeding rhythm against her leg.
“Stop that,” Vivienne orders.
“You stop it.”
“Stop what?”
“Stop telling me what to do.”
“Stop being annoying.”
Sheena sighs. “Would you both just cut it out.”
They both turn to her. “You don’t get to tell anyone what to do,” Cleo says, Vivienne interrupts her, “Shut up, or else.”
“Or else what.”
“Or else I’ll...” Vivienne trails off. She has been asked not to threaten people anymore, and past experiences have shown Oliver doesn’t care who started it.
“Or else she’ll cut your hair,” Cleo provides.
The word, “Really?” falls from both Vivienne and Sheena’s mouths.
“Really, really,” Cleo says. “Or maybe, possibly. I don’t know if we actually have any scissors.”
“I had a knife!” Sheena brags.
“Not anymore,” Vivienne says, “And it doesn’t matter, because I’m not cutting anyone or anything.”
“Wow, way to crush my dreams,” Cleo pouts.
“Shut up,” Vivienne answers, squashing the conversation thoroughly. More silence falls, a heavy precipitation coating the room, freezing them in place, listless and discontent.
Cleo breaks free. “Hey! Where’s your top secret underground base?”
Sheena scoffs. “If won’t tell the attractive gentlemen, why would I tell you?”
“You think they’re attractive?” Cleo asks, shocked. “I mean, they’re sweet, but...I dunno.”
“I understand,” Vivienne says. “On a general level. Oliver is rather tall, and appealing in a wholesome, strong, blond, American way, that I don’t actually find appealing. It isn’t confusing why other people like him. It’s just that we’ve spent too much time with the pair of them, and know how they’re gross and peculiar like all people, and they have the added distinction of making choices that make my life more complicated, and are prone to telling jokes that aren’t actually that funny.”
“And Ollie used to date Mouse,” Cleo offers a reminder.
“Exactly,” Vivienne confirms.
“What I don’t get is why she would be noticing,” Cleo says, gesturing to Sheena. “If I was her I’d have higher priorities.”
“It’s because she’s in love with an old amorphous Almighty. It may be powerful, but it doesn’t have any nice warm flesh.”
“You were listening?” Sheena asks, unsure whether she should be indignant or not.
“There’s a camera,” Cleo remarks, pointing at the device, which isn’t hidden at all.
“Oh,” Sheena says, choosing mildly miffed as the correct emotion to display.
“I think it’s creepy too,” Cleo says.
“Incredibly creepy,” Vivienne agrees, a rare alignment. “For example, right this second we’re in here talking about boys, and other side of the wall Alec is watching.” She smiles seductively at the camera and whispers, “Hi Aleczander.”
There’s a crash from the other room, and the S.A.F.E. girls start laughing while Sheena retains her gloss of haughty and disgusted. It is a relief when Oliver walks back into the room, Piper his smaller, darker shadow.
Oliver slams his hands against the table, looks Sheena right in the eye, and says, “Tell us where your allies are, or we’re going to kill you.”
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Question / Update
Does any one listen to the soudtrack song while their reading the new chapter? That is how I intend it to work. However, unless someone really likes this, I think I am going to stop, because it is a surprising amount of work.
I would really love some constructive criticsims, if anyone has time.
Writing this much isn't really hard, but getting it put together is hard. I have to thank Clair and Emma for being excellent editors/souding boards.
Also, I've found that reading this on blogger isn't super easy, so from here on out we're cross posting to dreamwidth! Yeah!
HERE
I am almost positive that this is the halfway point for the first arc. I plan to do a longer authors note, about my process and etc. when the arc is done.
Stay Beautiful,
Bessie
I would really love some constructive criticsims, if anyone has time.
Writing this much isn't really hard, but getting it put together is hard. I have to thank Clair and Emma for being excellent editors/souding boards.
Also, I've found that reading this on blogger isn't super easy, so from here on out we're cross posting to dreamwidth! Yeah!
HERE
I am almost positive that this is the halfway point for the first arc. I plan to do a longer authors note, about my process and etc. when the arc is done.
Stay Beautiful,
Bessie
Things Always Happen Part 3
Some would call It a villain. That would be the logical thing to do. However, scholars of history are told not to judge the past by modern values. That what seems barbaric now was ordinary then, or in some cases even merciful compared to other behaviors in a given time. It is old, older then history, older then dirt, older then the stars. Only now It is here, in this time, leaving a trail of bodies. Is It a villain, simply for doing what it has always done? Are they monsters, for wanting to stop it, when it has no intentions to fight them?
“They do not matter,” It said, voice rasping.
“If they find us, they will attempt to take us from you,” she says.
“This does not matter,” It repeats.
“Lord, please, let us kill them,” she begs.
“If that will bring you pleasure. It makes no difference to me.”
“Thank you Lord,” Sheena says. It isn’t the violence she longs for, it is the safety. Nothing may take her from her lord. The investigators must be destroyed.
The representatives of Safety and Freedom Enterprises have spent the last several days visiting the homes of all the cult members. They found three more bodies, burnt the same way Hoyt and Armando had been, the surroundings untouched. Alec still doesn’t know what killed them, consuming the body, rotting and burning with such intensity, while leaving the furniture mostly intact. More intriguingly, the other residences are deserted, empty and stripped of all information. It’s this dead end that’s led them back to the beginning, the warehouse where they found the remains of the four armed man.
The body has been disposed of, cremated professionally this time, and passed through local law enforcement to Armando’s next of kin. Cover stories were issued all around, a hapless group of friends caught in a completely innocent fire.
Nothing to do, not time to go home, it’s a brief lull before an onslaught of insanity. They don’t know what’s on its way, but it’s always something, and it doesn’t help to worry.
It loves having form again. An unnecessary affection, some would say a hindering vanity, but It appreciates form. Ages had It longed for one. When that bumbling conjurer, Hoyt had brought It across the planes, he had done so in the simplest terms. It had arrived as energy, hardly more then an idea.
At first It had believed Hoyt to be a man of power, worthy of lauding for at last letting It free. The rites of liberation were very old, so old that It had believed them lost. Then along came Hoyt. It quickly learned that He was nothing more then a two bit hack, leading worse clods with less ambition. Hoyt was a charlatan who expected favors for his luck, but instead had earned a swift, painful death.
With Hoyt gone It came to Sheena. Pretty, silly Sheena. After killing Hoyt It had visited all of his brood, burning up all those who would disobey It. The unfaithful culled, and the drones in place, It needed someone to be Its voice. Pretty, silly Sheena. It whispered plans to her: abduction, amputation, the correct way to perform human sacrifice. She took to the way of life, so well, learning to be cruel, and beautiful, like magic. It was Sheena who put the vessel in place, additional limbs and all, ready for Its taking. Now it wavers, shaped in a crystal body.
Sheena drives to their old haunt, her Lord had informed her of it’s new infestation. She smiles, there is no one to see it. The foolish investigators didn’t even try to hide. She’ll waltz right in, riddle them with bullets, and get on with being the consort to the once and future god of earth.
*babeeb*babeeb*babeeb* goes the automated machine.
“The sensor at the gate went off, we’ve got incoming,” Cleo says. She pulls up the camera feed. She zooms in the picture, focusing in, and heightening the resolution. Facial identifiers make her Sheena Johns, one of the cult members who had gone missing. Cleo shouts, “Hey! It’s the chick who had the really dumb polystyrene flowers!”
Oliver coughs up a laugh. “Alright people, let’s be ready.” They hurry around franticly preparing for a few minutes, before freezing in planned positions. The uninvited visitor is at the unlocked door.
The knob is wriggling. It must be stuck, or she’s even not even as bright as they thought, and then BANG a shot is fired through the lock, and she kicks her way in.
“Hello? Anyone home?” Her voice is rattling.
Vivienne takes aim, and sends a tranquilizer dart whizzing towards the intruder. Six inches from her skin it stops, and clatters to the ground.
“My Lord won’t let you touch me,” she says, “So come out, wherever you are. Let’s get this over with.”
Oliver crashes into her from behind, sending her sprawling, the gun flying from her hand. She gets to her feet first, and sends him smashing into the wall. Alec throws himself at her, smiling as she pins him to the floor. She’s reaching for a knife holstered around her leg, but he has a knife too, and it’s quickly flipped from along his wrist, into his hand, to against her throat.
She freezes. “You wouldn’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Of course I do. You’re one of the good guys.”
“Not so much...”
Oliver interrupts. “She’s right. We need answers, not another corpse.”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Aleczander sing songs. “Now dear, I’m going to cuff you, and you aren’t going to move. Got it?”
“Yeah,” she says. He reaches down to take the restraints from his back pocket, and she lowers her hand down her thigh, and as fast as lightning palms her blade. Sheena moves stab him, but Alec avoids it, inadvertently letting her free. She cuts up again, but he’s faster, blood appearing in a slick line along her shoulder. She shouts, and cuts into his side.
He gasps, and concentrates on the click clack of high heels on cement. Sheena takes a boot to the head, and is suddenly still.
Alec rolls away from his opponent, and sees Vivienne’s cold stare. This wasn’t close to their original plan, but he thought it worked out alright. The French woman obviously disagrees.
“You never were good for anything other then a distraction,” she says, then storms outside.
There’s a rush after that. Piper follows Viv to open air. She hates blood, and needs to be talked down from a predictable rage. Oliver picks himself up, and ties up the prisoner. Cleo gets out the first aid kit. Aleczander lies very still on the cool floor, taking deep breaths.
“Hey, you’re going to be fine,” Cleo tells him.
“I know,” he says.
She laughs a little, even though it’s not that funny. Oliver has Sheena trussed up good, tied a chair, and stripped of her remaining weapons. He looks to the door, but getting Alec taken care of is priority.
“Do you think it needs stitches?” He asks.
Cleo wipes away the blood, examining the wound. She shrugs. “Damn it Ollie, I’m a geek, not a doctor.”
“If Kas was here, I’d ask her, but since she’s not...” Oliver trails off, conveying that they’ll just have to make do. Kasih Alles, S.A.F.E.’s resident physician had opted to extend her stay in Haiti past when the others had jetted off to quietly tidy up a bit of pre-Olympics espionage that had gotten out of hand.
Cleo considers the cut a moment longer. “I don’t think so. I mean, he’ll be fine without them, and as the options are our poor work, or braving foreign urgent care, I’d say leave it be.”
Oliver gets close enough to see for himself, and scrunches up his face. “Alec, you’ve got a thought about this? It is your body.”
“I would like painkillers,” he says. “Now.”
“You heard the man,” Ollie says. “Wrap it up, and then drug the poor bastard.”
“Will do, Sir,” Cleo nods.
Oliver goes outside, and leans against the wall, next to Piper.
“I’m going to call Edith,” Oliver tells his friend. “Check in, let her know that Alec got hurt.”
“That’s one call she won’t like.”
“Still it’s not cause of anything she’s responsible for.”
“Yeah,” Pip agrees. “Remind her of that, alright?”
Ollie nods. “Is Viv going to be good?”
Piper is momentarily confused. “Of course. When isn’t she?”
Oliver doesn’t know.
Talking to Kas normally makes Edith feel better because Kasih is a doctor, and can fix things. So when Kas’s number pops up Edith is pleased, hoping for good news, instead of what had come previously. That hope is killed pretty damn quickly.
“I’m not coming back,” Kas says.
“No.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“You can’t. We need you. We’d be dead ten times over without you.”
“I’m needed here too,” Kasih reasons. “It’s not impressive but it’s people.”
“Are we not people?” Edith asks pleadingly.
“You are. Good people. But the job is saving the world, not helping people. I can’t do that anymore, after everything.”
Edith goes silent, not knowing what to say, before choosing, “You couldn’t have saved them.”
“No,” Kas admits, “But someone could have.”
“Kas...”
“I need time to heal. You find a new M.D. It won’t be a challenge, doctors love to save the world.”
“Only it won’t be you.”
“It won’t, but if I came back now I wouldn’t be me either, not really, not as I should be. I’ll call, I’ll write, and when things get more sorted out here, barring some new disaster maybe I could come home.”
“That would be very, very good. We’re a bit of a disaster right now.”
“Yeah, we really are,” Kas says before she is must get back to the her duties.
“If it keeps on going like this there’ll be no one left,” Edith says to herself. She wishes she had never answered the phone. It wouldn’t have changed the overall circumstances, but she wouldn’t have had to known for another day. Ignorance as bliss, because her life is an unwinnable bingo card of cliches.
“They do not matter,” It said, voice rasping.
“If they find us, they will attempt to take us from you,” she says.
“This does not matter,” It repeats.
“Lord, please, let us kill them,” she begs.
“If that will bring you pleasure. It makes no difference to me.”
“Thank you Lord,” Sheena says. It isn’t the violence she longs for, it is the safety. Nothing may take her from her lord. The investigators must be destroyed.
The representatives of Safety and Freedom Enterprises have spent the last several days visiting the homes of all the cult members. They found three more bodies, burnt the same way Hoyt and Armando had been, the surroundings untouched. Alec still doesn’t know what killed them, consuming the body, rotting and burning with such intensity, while leaving the furniture mostly intact. More intriguingly, the other residences are deserted, empty and stripped of all information. It’s this dead end that’s led them back to the beginning, the warehouse where they found the remains of the four armed man.
The body has been disposed of, cremated professionally this time, and passed through local law enforcement to Armando’s next of kin. Cover stories were issued all around, a hapless group of friends caught in a completely innocent fire.
Nothing to do, not time to go home, it’s a brief lull before an onslaught of insanity. They don’t know what’s on its way, but it’s always something, and it doesn’t help to worry.
It loves having form again. An unnecessary affection, some would say a hindering vanity, but It appreciates form. Ages had It longed for one. When that bumbling conjurer, Hoyt had brought It across the planes, he had done so in the simplest terms. It had arrived as energy, hardly more then an idea.
At first It had believed Hoyt to be a man of power, worthy of lauding for at last letting It free. The rites of liberation were very old, so old that It had believed them lost. Then along came Hoyt. It quickly learned that He was nothing more then a two bit hack, leading worse clods with less ambition. Hoyt was a charlatan who expected favors for his luck, but instead had earned a swift, painful death.
With Hoyt gone It came to Sheena. Pretty, silly Sheena. After killing Hoyt It had visited all of his brood, burning up all those who would disobey It. The unfaithful culled, and the drones in place, It needed someone to be Its voice. Pretty, silly Sheena. It whispered plans to her: abduction, amputation, the correct way to perform human sacrifice. She took to the way of life, so well, learning to be cruel, and beautiful, like magic. It was Sheena who put the vessel in place, additional limbs and all, ready for Its taking. Now it wavers, shaped in a crystal body.
Sheena drives to their old haunt, her Lord had informed her of it’s new infestation. She smiles, there is no one to see it. The foolish investigators didn’t even try to hide. She’ll waltz right in, riddle them with bullets, and get on with being the consort to the once and future god of earth.
*babeeb*babeeb*babeeb* goes the automated machine.
“The sensor at the gate went off, we’ve got incoming,” Cleo says. She pulls up the camera feed. She zooms in the picture, focusing in, and heightening the resolution. Facial identifiers make her Sheena Johns, one of the cult members who had gone missing. Cleo shouts, “Hey! It’s the chick who had the really dumb polystyrene flowers!”
Oliver coughs up a laugh. “Alright people, let’s be ready.” They hurry around franticly preparing for a few minutes, before freezing in planned positions. The uninvited visitor is at the unlocked door.
The knob is wriggling. It must be stuck, or she’s even not even as bright as they thought, and then BANG a shot is fired through the lock, and she kicks her way in.
“Hello? Anyone home?” Her voice is rattling.
Vivienne takes aim, and sends a tranquilizer dart whizzing towards the intruder. Six inches from her skin it stops, and clatters to the ground.
“My Lord won’t let you touch me,” she says, “So come out, wherever you are. Let’s get this over with.”
Oliver crashes into her from behind, sending her sprawling, the gun flying from her hand. She gets to her feet first, and sends him smashing into the wall. Alec throws himself at her, smiling as she pins him to the floor. She’s reaching for a knife holstered around her leg, but he has a knife too, and it’s quickly flipped from along his wrist, into his hand, to against her throat.
She freezes. “You wouldn’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Of course I do. You’re one of the good guys.”
“Not so much...”
Oliver interrupts. “She’s right. We need answers, not another corpse.”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Aleczander sing songs. “Now dear, I’m going to cuff you, and you aren’t going to move. Got it?”
“Yeah,” she says. He reaches down to take the restraints from his back pocket, and she lowers her hand down her thigh, and as fast as lightning palms her blade. Sheena moves stab him, but Alec avoids it, inadvertently letting her free. She cuts up again, but he’s faster, blood appearing in a slick line along her shoulder. She shouts, and cuts into his side.
He gasps, and concentrates on the click clack of high heels on cement. Sheena takes a boot to the head, and is suddenly still.
Alec rolls away from his opponent, and sees Vivienne’s cold stare. This wasn’t close to their original plan, but he thought it worked out alright. The French woman obviously disagrees.
“You never were good for anything other then a distraction,” she says, then storms outside.
There’s a rush after that. Piper follows Viv to open air. She hates blood, and needs to be talked down from a predictable rage. Oliver picks himself up, and ties up the prisoner. Cleo gets out the first aid kit. Aleczander lies very still on the cool floor, taking deep breaths.
“Hey, you’re going to be fine,” Cleo tells him.
“I know,” he says.
She laughs a little, even though it’s not that funny. Oliver has Sheena trussed up good, tied a chair, and stripped of her remaining weapons. He looks to the door, but getting Alec taken care of is priority.
“Do you think it needs stitches?” He asks.
Cleo wipes away the blood, examining the wound. She shrugs. “Damn it Ollie, I’m a geek, not a doctor.”
“If Kas was here, I’d ask her, but since she’s not...” Oliver trails off, conveying that they’ll just have to make do. Kasih Alles, S.A.F.E.’s resident physician had opted to extend her stay in Haiti past when the others had jetted off to quietly tidy up a bit of pre-Olympics espionage that had gotten out of hand.
Cleo considers the cut a moment longer. “I don’t think so. I mean, he’ll be fine without them, and as the options are our poor work, or braving foreign urgent care, I’d say leave it be.”
Oliver gets close enough to see for himself, and scrunches up his face. “Alec, you’ve got a thought about this? It is your body.”
“I would like painkillers,” he says. “Now.”
“You heard the man,” Ollie says. “Wrap it up, and then drug the poor bastard.”
“Will do, Sir,” Cleo nods.
Oliver goes outside, and leans against the wall, next to Piper.
“I’m going to call Edith,” Oliver tells his friend. “Check in, let her know that Alec got hurt.”
“That’s one call she won’t like.”
“Still it’s not cause of anything she’s responsible for.”
“Yeah,” Pip agrees. “Remind her of that, alright?”
Ollie nods. “Is Viv going to be good?”
Piper is momentarily confused. “Of course. When isn’t she?”
Oliver doesn’t know.
Talking to Kas normally makes Edith feel better because Kasih is a doctor, and can fix things. So when Kas’s number pops up Edith is pleased, hoping for good news, instead of what had come previously. That hope is killed pretty damn quickly.
“I’m not coming back,” Kas says.
“No.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“You can’t. We need you. We’d be dead ten times over without you.”
“I’m needed here too,” Kasih reasons. “It’s not impressive but it’s people.”
“Are we not people?” Edith asks pleadingly.
“You are. Good people. But the job is saving the world, not helping people. I can’t do that anymore, after everything.”
Edith goes silent, not knowing what to say, before choosing, “You couldn’t have saved them.”
“No,” Kas admits, “But someone could have.”
“Kas...”
“I need time to heal. You find a new M.D. It won’t be a challenge, doctors love to save the world.”
“Only it won’t be you.”
“It won’t, but if I came back now I wouldn’t be me either, not really, not as I should be. I’ll call, I’ll write, and when things get more sorted out here, barring some new disaster maybe I could come home.”
“That would be very, very good. We’re a bit of a disaster right now.”
“Yeah, we really are,” Kas says before she is must get back to the her duties.
“If it keeps on going like this there’ll be no one left,” Edith says to herself. She wishes she had never answered the phone. It wouldn’t have changed the overall circumstances, but she wouldn’t have had to known for another day. Ignorance as bliss, because her life is an unwinnable bingo card of cliches.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
A Nightmare, or Just Another Day? Part Two
Drip, drip, drip, water making some faraway day’s stalactites. Long, sharp fingernails made of metal. Rats scurrying. Dark damp places with the ghosts of monsters at your feet. A samurai sword impaled in the bedrock. Spikes around wrists, no running away this time. Drip, drip, drip.
Some future, some past, and some hell of an imagination.
It’s burning, the baking, the bodies, they’re burning. Light fractured through crystals.
Morning can’t come too quick, sure as rabbits are rabbits, are things to be afraid of.
No, no that’s wrong.
Piper wakes gasping.
Black coffee. He hates the stuff, but it serves a valuable purpose in his life, keeping him alive and kicking. Oliver is frustratingly cheery. Pip sometimes wonders if he behaves this way just because it’s incredibly annoying, but his friendisn ’t that cruel. Three steaming cups later he feels as human as he ever does, and it’s back into the field, at the home of Hugo Armando.
“Police, open up,” Oliver shouts through the door. Their corpse used to live in an apartment in a particularly drab corner of town. Ollie knocks again, and after not getting any answer he kneels in front of the door, and picks the lock.
The inside is as plain as the surroundings. Oliver and Viv sweep through the place, searching out hidden things with practiced efficiency. Piper walks through dreamily, reaching out, running his hands over the walls and the furniture in hopes of catching a lingering impression.
Nothing comes to him. The others do better. The bookshelf is packed with a breed of New Age instructionals that makes the team roll their eyes. Oliver finds mystical herbs among the commonplace kitchen variety, but it is Vivienne who scores big, scouring the innards of Armando’s computer, which reveals that he had been part of a local circle of occultists. Their emails cryptically referred to “the calling.” How the calling would work, and how “the higher one” would be in their debt, eternally, and raise them above all others. Foreboding hints of great power, with no real information.
While they may have been hiding their plans, they weren’t hiding their identities, so the next stop is the home of Silas Hoyt, who appears to be the leader of the gang. His place looks more like one would expect the head of a shady, secretive organization to live in. (A shady, secretive organization that is not their own, of course. They live in style.) The paint covering the small house was a chipped and faded pink, and the lawn acutely overgrown.
The knocking, breaking, and entering was a note for note repeat of earlier. Inside the first thing they notice is the smell. Something had died here. The team exchange looks, silent reminders to be cautious as they go further in.
The living room is cluttered, but barren of any ghastly evidence. Viv has taken her gun out. It’s unnecessary. Whatever did this is long gone, but the weapon does more to reassure her then it does to make the boys nervous, so it will stay. The kitchen is messy, but clear of decay. Viv kicks her way through a locked door, and they find a study, and a stack of burned pages sitting on a particle board desk. Intriguing, but it will wait. Nothing else stands out, until only the door at the end of the hall is left. Any remaining secrets the house holds will be behind it.
It’s unlocked. Oliver goes first, slowly pushing the door open. The room is dominated by a large bed. On the bed is the body, spread out and burnt, charred flesh hardly hanging on to bones. Oliver closes his eyes and breaths through his mouth for a second before backing out of the room.
“We’ll wait for forensics on this one,” He says. “Viv, double back to the office, grab any papers that look useful, but leave the blazed ones, wewouldn’t want to turn them into ashes. Pip...”
“Tell you if I know anything, and be generally helpful?” Piper offers.
“Yeah, that. I’m going to go call Alec. Outside.”
“I think I’ll go with you,” Piper says hurriedly. Vivienne mutters something spiteful as they leave, tying her scarf up over her nose.
It isn’t long before Vivienne joins them on the porch with a haphazardly assembled stack of journals and documents, shoving half to Piper. Oliver paces the lawn, talking rapidly, and kicking at stray plants. Piper considers scolding him, but it is too much work, and ultimately futile. Oliver half shouts a few last words, then heads their way.
“Alec and Cleo are on their way,” He says. “I’m going to take snapshots of the burned papers to send back home.”
“Good luck,” Piper says, thinking, better you then me. He wouldn’t go back in there voluntarily.
Edith is so used to Oliver hanging up on her that her emotions no longer register anger. Her immunity to that particular rebellion had been acquired after replacing her phone for the fifth time because it was hurled at something, like a wall, or the refrigerator, or Merit with considerable force.
He doesn’t have to be such a snot though. Note to self: hire people who are respectful and have good phone skills. She had planed to look over the reservists in the afternoon, but when she looked for the stack of files she had pulled and remembered placing on her desk, theyweren’t there. Edith is reasonably sure headquarters isn ’t haunted, but it could be worth investigating. She curses, and begins to search through the rooms that were frequently in use. She’s gotten as far as the kitchen when her phone beeps, alerting her to a new text from Ollie, letting her know he’s sent through the pictures. Good, hopefully there will be answers soon, but answers just means new questions, often trickier then before.
Oliver has just pocketed his phone (featuring a camera superior to anything on the open market) when he hears footsteps behind him. Hesubvocalizes a half dozen profanities in a half dozen languages, and freezes. There must be another way in, that or this intruder got past Viv and Piper, unlikely, as people generally don’t get past Viv, at least not in one piece.
Plans form and reform, mutate and evolve, first discarding things that will get him killed or injured, and then considering how to best preserve the scene. He turns with a dramatic spin, and charges, crashing both the intruder and himself to the floor.
Piper gasps. “The burning of focused light has come to lead us to the second age once again, bringing cooperation and destruction.”
Oliver sighs and unpins his friend, saying, “You shouldn’t sneak up on people.”
Piper blinks rapidly. “I don’t remember walking in here. I don’t remember choosing words. I...”
Oliver does his best to be reassuring, murmuring, “Relax. Psychic powers and inexplicable behaviors go together like macaroni and cheese. Nothing to worry about, just hazy shielding or not enough sleep.” Plausible but empty excuses, but they help. Oliver picks himself up, and offers a hand to his friend. “Now, I think we should go outside.”
Piper nods in agreement, and they seek untainted air.
Ed still can’t find the personnel files, and it’s starting to be a problem. Maybe she has lost her mind. It wouldn’t be the first time insanity bothered someone in her position of leadership. Unease has settled in her gut guilting her, saying, You should be out there. You should be with them. You should have found that body. You should keep them safe, as it’s obvious they can’t do that on their own.
She ignore the inner nagging, instead attempting to engage herself in things here, now, but it keeps getting louder, and louder. Thank god the intercom goes off when it does, otherwise she may have had to do something considerablyunadvisable.
She takes the stairs two at a time to the archives. The commonly used section is part of the oldest layer of the compound, it’s dark wood a world away from the later Seventies' futurism.
Ernest doesn’t leave the library when he doesn’t have to. There is always some ancient scroll that needs translating, or classified document that must be coaxed out a secure network. His domain is cavernous, and dark besides the fixtures and open curtains concentrated around his desk.
“What have you got for me?” She asks.
“Not much, which in itself is remarkable,” he says. “Ollie scanned in a bunch of notes, but one set’s exceptional. They’re burned. Scorched through, but not like someone set a match to them. It’s as though each page was individually roasted just enough to blacken, but not enough to disintegrate.
“That makes me think it’s not paper, but animal hide of some sort. I can’t say for sure, because, um, they’re in another country, but Ollie agrees, though he opinionisn ’t worth much. They’re about thirty percent readable with only digital enhancements. I’d really like to get my hands on these, but it’s not something you can drop in the post. Iwouldn’t really trust a courier service either.”
Edith enjoys listening to his stream of revelations and analysis. Too often he is quiet, consumed by dull archival processes, storing away evidence that will likely never be needed again, and this is obviously a welcome change. “I’ll see what I can do,” She says.
“Point the second, there are three languages used. A fair amount of what I can make out seems to be Mayan. Really bad Mayan, written by someone whoisn ’t near fluent. It’s been annotated, presumably at a later date, in what looks to be Latin, but could be Spanish or Italian. I’d like to run some tests to see if these notes belong to it’s last owner, or predate the current mystery. The big story is that there’s a third script, and it’s one that I don’t know.”
Edith doesn’t know what to say to that. Ernest tends to know everything, or at least find out before he volunteers to fill her in. Admitting a lack of knowledge is a total surprise.
“It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen. I cross referenced with everything even Cleo’s alien texts. I do have theories. It could just be really illegible from the burning, but that’s just too simple. Aliens we haven’t met. Not a comforting thought, but at least someone would be ecstatic. It could be a code language, nonsense to anyone thathasn ’t learned it. That would be my pick, especially if it’s a more recent creation. That fits along with the screwed up Mayan, and the margin notes. It is not customary to write on age old pages. However, we must consider the opposite, that it’s older then history. Something lost to time. Possibly, S.A.F.E. has actually has dealt with something along those lines in the seventies. However, this is life, not Lovecraft, so I’d say no.”
Edith considers his words. “I’ll try to call in a favor to get the papers over to you for dating, but there’s a good chance this current caper will be wrapped before that could happen.”
“Whatever. If they can get the job done without all the facts done, good for them. I just think it’s something we should figured out. Plus, I’m curious.”
“That’s why you’re here,” she says.
“Yeah,” he smiles.
Edith, the occasional champion of non sequiturs, asks, “Have you ever considered getting a secretary? I do. All of the time. I dream of it.”
It’s burning, the baking, the bodies, they’re burning. Light fractured through crystals.
Morning can’t come too quick, sure as rabbits are rabbits, are things to be afraid of.
No, no that’s wrong.
Piper wakes gasping.
Black coffee. He hates the stuff, but it serves a valuable purpose in his life, keeping him alive and kicking. Oliver is frustratingly cheery. Pip sometimes wonders if he behaves this way just because it’s incredibly annoying, but his friendisn ’t that cruel. Three steaming cups later he feels as human as he ever does, and it’s back into the field, at the home of Hugo Armando.
“Police, open up,” Oliver shouts through the door. Their corpse used to live in an apartment in a particularly drab corner of town. Ollie knocks again, and after not getting any answer he kneels in front of the door, and picks the lock.
The inside is as plain as the surroundings. Oliver and Viv sweep through the place, searching out hidden things with practiced efficiency. Piper walks through dreamily, reaching out, running his hands over the walls and the furniture in hopes of catching a lingering impression.
Nothing comes to him. The others do better. The bookshelf is packed with a breed of New Age instructionals that makes the team roll their eyes. Oliver finds mystical herbs among the commonplace kitchen variety, but it is Vivienne who scores big, scouring the innards of Armando’s computer, which reveals that he had been part of a local circle of occultists. Their emails cryptically referred to “the calling.” How the calling would work, and how “the higher one” would be in their debt, eternally, and raise them above all others. Foreboding hints of great power, with no real information.
While they may have been hiding their plans, they weren’t hiding their identities, so the next stop is the home of Silas Hoyt, who appears to be the leader of the gang. His place looks more like one would expect the head of a shady, secretive organization to live in. (A shady, secretive organization that is not their own, of course. They live in style.) The paint covering the small house was a chipped and faded pink, and the lawn acutely overgrown.
The knocking, breaking, and entering was a note for note repeat of earlier. Inside the first thing they notice is the smell. Something had died here. The team exchange looks, silent reminders to be cautious as they go further in.
The living room is cluttered, but barren of any ghastly evidence. Viv has taken her gun out. It’s unnecessary. Whatever did this is long gone, but the weapon does more to reassure her then it does to make the boys nervous, so it will stay. The kitchen is messy, but clear of decay. Viv kicks her way through a locked door, and they find a study, and a stack of burned pages sitting on a particle board desk. Intriguing, but it will wait. Nothing else stands out, until only the door at the end of the hall is left. Any remaining secrets the house holds will be behind it.
It’s unlocked. Oliver goes first, slowly pushing the door open. The room is dominated by a large bed. On the bed is the body, spread out and burnt, charred flesh hardly hanging on to bones. Oliver closes his eyes and breaths through his mouth for a second before backing out of the room.
“We’ll wait for forensics on this one,” He says. “Viv, double back to the office, grab any papers that look useful, but leave the blazed ones, wewouldn’t want to turn them into ashes. Pip...”
“Tell you if I know anything, and be generally helpful?” Piper offers.
“Yeah, that. I’m going to go call Alec. Outside.”
“I think I’ll go with you,” Piper says hurriedly. Vivienne mutters something spiteful as they leave, tying her scarf up over her nose.
It isn’t long before Vivienne joins them on the porch with a haphazardly assembled stack of journals and documents, shoving half to Piper. Oliver paces the lawn, talking rapidly, and kicking at stray plants. Piper considers scolding him, but it is too much work, and ultimately futile. Oliver half shouts a few last words, then heads their way.
“Alec and Cleo are on their way,” He says. “I’m going to take snapshots of the burned papers to send back home.”
“Good luck,” Piper says, thinking, better you then me. He wouldn’t go back in there voluntarily.
Edith is so used to Oliver hanging up on her that her emotions no longer register anger. Her immunity to that particular rebellion had been acquired after replacing her phone for the fifth time because it was hurled at something, like a wall, or the refrigerator, or Merit with considerable force.
He doesn’t have to be such a snot though. Note to self: hire people who are respectful and have good phone skills. She had planed to look over the reservists in the afternoon, but when she looked for the stack of files she had pulled and remembered placing on her desk, theyweren’t there. Edith is reasonably sure headquarters isn ’t haunted, but it could be worth investigating. She curses, and begins to search through the rooms that were frequently in use. She’s gotten as far as the kitchen when her phone beeps, alerting her to a new text from Ollie, letting her know he’s sent through the pictures. Good, hopefully there will be answers soon, but answers just means new questions, often trickier then before.
Oliver has just pocketed his phone (featuring a camera superior to anything on the open market) when he hears footsteps behind him. Hesubvocalizes a half dozen profanities in a half dozen languages, and freezes. There must be another way in, that or this intruder got past Viv and Piper, unlikely, as people generally don’t get past Viv, at least not in one piece.
Plans form and reform, mutate and evolve, first discarding things that will get him killed or injured, and then considering how to best preserve the scene. He turns with a dramatic spin, and charges, crashing both the intruder and himself to the floor.
Piper gasps. “The burning of focused light has come to lead us to the second age once again, bringing cooperation and destruction.”
Oliver sighs and unpins his friend, saying, “You shouldn’t sneak up on people.”
Piper blinks rapidly. “I don’t remember walking in here. I don’t remember choosing words. I...”
Oliver does his best to be reassuring, murmuring, “Relax. Psychic powers and inexplicable behaviors go together like macaroni and cheese. Nothing to worry about, just hazy shielding or not enough sleep.” Plausible but empty excuses, but they help. Oliver picks himself up, and offers a hand to his friend. “Now, I think we should go outside.”
Piper nods in agreement, and they seek untainted air.
Ed still can’t find the personnel files, and it’s starting to be a problem. Maybe she has lost her mind. It wouldn’t be the first time insanity bothered someone in her position of leadership. Unease has settled in her gut guilting her, saying, You should be out there. You should be with them. You should have found that body. You should keep them safe, as it’s obvious they can’t do that on their own.
She ignore the inner nagging, instead attempting to engage herself in things here, now, but it keeps getting louder, and louder. Thank god the intercom goes off when it does, otherwise she may have had to do something considerablyunadvisable.
She takes the stairs two at a time to the archives. The commonly used section is part of the oldest layer of the compound, it’s dark wood a world away from the later Seventies' futurism.
Ernest doesn’t leave the library when he doesn’t have to. There is always some ancient scroll that needs translating, or classified document that must be coaxed out a secure network. His domain is cavernous, and dark besides the fixtures and open curtains concentrated around his desk.
“What have you got for me?” She asks.
“Not much, which in itself is remarkable,” he says. “Ollie scanned in a bunch of notes, but one set’s exceptional. They’re burned. Scorched through, but not like someone set a match to them. It’s as though each page was individually roasted just enough to blacken, but not enough to disintegrate.
“That makes me think it’s not paper, but animal hide of some sort. I can’t say for sure, because, um, they’re in another country, but Ollie agrees, though he opinionisn ’t worth much. They’re about thirty percent readable with only digital enhancements. I’d really like to get my hands on these, but it’s not something you can drop in the post. Iwouldn’t really trust a courier service either.”
Edith enjoys listening to his stream of revelations and analysis. Too often he is quiet, consumed by dull archival processes, storing away evidence that will likely never be needed again, and this is obviously a welcome change. “I’ll see what I can do,” She says.
“Point the second, there are three languages used. A fair amount of what I can make out seems to be Mayan. Really bad Mayan, written by someone whoisn ’t near fluent. It’s been annotated, presumably at a later date, in what looks to be Latin, but could be Spanish or Italian. I’d like to run some tests to see if these notes belong to it’s last owner, or predate the current mystery. The big story is that there’s a third script, and it’s one that I don’t know.”
Edith doesn’t know what to say to that. Ernest tends to know everything, or at least find out before he volunteers to fill her in. Admitting a lack of knowledge is a total surprise.
“It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen. I cross referenced with everything even Cleo’s alien texts. I do have theories. It could just be really illegible from the burning, but that’s just too simple. Aliens we haven’t met. Not a comforting thought, but at least someone would be ecstatic. It could be a code language, nonsense to anyone thathasn ’t learned it. That would be my pick, especially if it’s a more recent creation. That fits along with the screwed up Mayan, and the margin notes. It is not customary to write on age old pages. However, we must consider the opposite, that it’s older then history. Something lost to time. Possibly, S.A.F.E. has actually has dealt with something along those lines in the seventies. However, this is life, not Lovecraft, so I’d say no.”
Edith considers his words. “I’ll try to call in a favor to get the papers over to you for dating, but there’s a good chance this current caper will be wrapped before that could happen.”
“Whatever. If they can get the job done without all the facts done, good for them. I just think it’s something we should figured out. Plus, I’m curious.”
“That’s why you’re here,” she says.
“Yeah,” he smiles.
Edith, the occasional champion of non sequiturs, asks, “Have you ever considered getting a secretary? I do. All of the time. I dream of it.”
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Why Wait Tell Tomorrow, When You Can Make Things Explode Today? Part One
As the head of S.A.F.E Edith Caralie doesn’t have much free time. Most spare moments are used in the pursuit of sleep, or spent scrubbing strange gunk out of her hair. She isn’t supposed to be an active field agent anymore, not since Merit dumped the organization in her lap months ago, but habits are hard to break, and it’s habit go stop the bad guys with action movie violence, not only using her wits and organizational skills.
It’s just that they’re so understaffed. Almost a third of active agents retired either shortly before, or in the wake of Merit’s departure, and she hasn’t gotten around to hiring on anyone new. Tomorrow, she thinks briefly before closing her eyes. I’ll bring it up at the meeting tomorrow, and shortly thereafter she is asleep.
S.A.F.E., which she had been told stands for Safety And Freedom Enterprises, is here to save the world. Its exact origins are murky, and no one is positive what the acronym really means, but since at least the early 20th century S.A.F.E. has been the worlds first line of defense. Driving off demons, negotiating with aliens, and holding override codes for all of the world’s nuclear missiles; S.A.F.E. has seen it all.
The next morning at breakfast she tells Oliver that barring some potentially catastrophic interruption she’d like to see him in her office later on. He appears to be mostly asleep, but the reliable psychic Piper nods to her, so the order will get passed along.
In the office there is paperwork. It hurts her very soul. A secretary will be her first hiring, she swears. She looks up protocol on acquiring underlings, and there is an old paper covered in typewriter letters annotated by Merit’s messy scrawl. It is utterly indecipherable. Well then, damn it, she can do whatever she wants. That’s the S.A.F.E. way: if you don’t like, or know, or care about the way things are meant to be done, make something up. It’s fine as long as you file the proper paperwork explaining your actions after the fact.
Oliver has issues with authority. That’s what lead him to steal a cursed silver goblet inlaid with rubies, which is what brought him to S.A.F.E.’s attention to begin with. Ed’s cool and all, they’ve been friends for years now, and she could kick his ass, but still: authority. So, not cool. So it is with apprehension, and an abundance of caffeine running in his veins that he heads up to Merit’s-- EDITH’S office.
He knocks, but doesn’t wait, letting himself in. He slouches into the chair in front of the grand desk. “What do you want?” He asks.
“I want our operations to be running at full capacity, and I want to get a good night's rest more then every other week.”
“Wow. That sounds swell. How we gonna do that?”
“More people,” is Ed’s answer.
“More people? I don’t like people,” He says. It is only half a lie.
“Too bad, we’ve been running ragged, and I’m sick of it.”
“New people?”
“You were new once,” She reminds him. “And Piper. Look how well he’s worked out.” Piper had been Merit’s last hire, just under a year ago now, and Ollie rather adored the clairvoyant, for all he would deny it. “What else would you have me do? This clearly isn’t working.”
“Berlin,” Ollie says suddenly.
“What?” She has not heard of any disasters coming near the German City, and can’t think of any other reasons he would bring it up.
“Berlin Frost. He never really quit.”
“No one ever really quits,” Ed says. “People die, or they bugger off, or get turned into lizards, or whatever, but this isn’t something you just quit,” She says. “Running the reservists to see who’d be up for full duty’s a good start, but it’s not gonna cut it. Fresh blood is inevitable.”
“Why?” He pouts.
“Here’s a better question to ask; why did I call you in here?”
“OK, I’ll bite. Why did you call me in here?”
“You’re going to be my field leader.”
“That’s a terrible idea.”
“You’re the best man for the job.”
“That’s true, but really? Me in charge? I may become suicidal.”
“Nah. Power corrupts. Give it a week and you’ll be addled. Ordering people around left and right.”
“They’ll never listen.” Oliver smiles, slightly. “I’m field leader, Berlin has the B team, and you’re the boss? I can live with that.”
“Yeah, me too,” Edith says. “You’re going to have to talk Frost into it though.”
“Sure.”
There’s a sharp rap on the door, and Piper pokes his head in. “Um, we’ve lights in the sky and a four armed skeleton. We should probably go have a look.”
“Yeah, yeah. I’ll go talk to him soon as we’re done with this. Hire whatever minions you like,” He tells her, with the caveat, “Just don’t expect me to be nice to them.” He exits the office with customary flourish.
Ed leans back in her chair. “Minions,” She says. “I like the sound of that.”
Ten hours later they’re on the ground. It’s time for Ollie to give orders. While the title’s new, he’s been acting the role for a while now. “Piper, I want you and Alec to look over the scene. I want to know everything it tells us, and I want to know now. Cleo, Viv, you’re talking to the locals. They said lights, let’s get specific.”
Off course there’s backtalk. S.A.F.E. values free speech over obedience, unless it is a life or death situation, and even then there have been exceptions.
“That’s sexist,” Viv says, adding after a pause, “Sir.”
He turns to scowl at her and is met with studied, patented French aloofness. “Having the boys do the detective work, and ordering us girls to charm the witnesses? Practically barbaric.”
“Common sense, dear. Cleo’s has the best chance of figuring if the pretty colors are alien in origin. I’ll tell you what, we find something that needs thrashing later on, it’s all yours.”
She smiles. “Thank you. Sir.”
He laughs. “I hadn’t thought of this, but actually, using your curves to make people talk is an A plus plan. Have at it.”
“No thank you,” Cleo grimaces. She really hopes it’s aliens. Aliens are so much cooler then her team mates.
Oliver is talking again. “That should be the mission designation. At least till we know what’s going on. Mission: Curves. It’ll make the paper work more interesting.”
“Nothing makes paper work more interesting,” Aleczander complains, accent think though his yawn. “Not even curves.”
This is met by a chorus of rolled eyes, as per normal, and they split up and get down to work.
The end of the day they’re set up in Oliver’s hotel room, exhausted. Ollie puts his feet up on the coffee table, and asks “OK, who wants to go first.”
No one volunteers. No one ever volunteers.“Alec?” Ollie prompts.
The forensics scientist sighs. “The skeleton’s male, late twenties, no remarkable traits.”
“An extra set of arms is not a remarkable trait now?” Viv asks.
“It would be, but he hasn’t got any. Someone wanted to make it look like he did. They were sewn on. I couldn’t say if it was pre or postmortem, hardly any meat left. That’s where it really stops making sense.”
Alec outlines how they found the body sitting on, for lack of a better world, a wooden throne. The chair is extensively damaged, but not so much as you’d expect considering the state of the guy. For once they’ve a lucky break, fingerprints are scorched into the arms.
“The prints match a guy named Hugo Armando, and he fits the rest of the profile. Now, wait for it, here’s the kicker--Hugo went to work a week ago. There’s no way in hell he’d be so decomposed, which washes away any doubts that this isn’t our business.” Alec finishes with a long exhale. Working at S.A.F.E. has done strange and irreversible things to his psyche but he’s still got a fundamentally scientific brain, and sometimes that brain wants to jump out of his skull and die.
Cleo cautiously speaks up, “I’ve got a question. Where did the arms come from? Is there someone walking around with only half a set of limbs, or are we missing a body?”
No one answers, until Oliver says, “It’s something to look into, that and the mysterious Armando.”
“No such breakthrough with the lights,” Cleo says. “People say they saw pink smoke, starting at the last month, and six nights ago, which fits the timeline. It could be magic, or some well played fireworks. We’re running some tests on for chemical residue, but no answers yet. Either way, it’s terrestrial in origin,” Cleo concludes with a frown.
Piper smiles to her. “Not every day can be science fiction.”
“Sadly,” She retorts.
Oliver is almost too tired to be amused by his team. “All right scum, we have a lot of work looming, so it’s off to bed.”
No one protests, except for Viv, and that’s out of principle, not because she really disagrees. As the team disperses to their rooms Ollie catches Piper’s sleeve, asking, “Could you stay a minute?”
“Of course.”
When the others have gone, Oliver asks, “You didn’t get anything off of the scene?”
“No, not yet. I would have said something.”
“I know, it’s just...”
“I know, yeah.”
“You’re coming with me to see where Armando leads us tomorrow. Alec and Cleo can deal with the science stuff.”
“And kill each other in the process.”
“And that,” Ollie admits. There is silence, briefly before Piper breaks it.
“The time’s catching up, so I’m gonna hit the hay.”
“Yeah, of course.” He is almost away when Oliver calls out, “Sweet dreams Pip.”
Piper turns back and say, “Yeah, you too,” before closing the door behind him.
Oliver sighs, and thinks that he’s not the one with visions, and nightmares, but it’s too late to deal. Sleep now. Worry later.
Next time in S.A.F.E.
Will Edith find a secretary? Will Oliver act like a responsible adult? Will Vivienne get to thrash someone?
It’s just that they’re so understaffed. Almost a third of active agents retired either shortly before, or in the wake of Merit’s departure, and she hasn’t gotten around to hiring on anyone new. Tomorrow, she thinks briefly before closing her eyes. I’ll bring it up at the meeting tomorrow, and shortly thereafter she is asleep.
S.A.F.E., which she had been told stands for Safety And Freedom Enterprises, is here to save the world. Its exact origins are murky, and no one is positive what the acronym really means, but since at least the early 20th century S.A.F.E. has been the worlds first line of defense. Driving off demons, negotiating with aliens, and holding override codes for all of the world’s nuclear missiles; S.A.F.E. has seen it all.
The next morning at breakfast she tells Oliver that barring some potentially catastrophic interruption she’d like to see him in her office later on. He appears to be mostly asleep, but the reliable psychic Piper nods to her, so the order will get passed along.
In the office there is paperwork. It hurts her very soul. A secretary will be her first hiring, she swears. She looks up protocol on acquiring underlings, and there is an old paper covered in typewriter letters annotated by Merit’s messy scrawl. It is utterly indecipherable. Well then, damn it, she can do whatever she wants. That’s the S.A.F.E. way: if you don’t like, or know, or care about the way things are meant to be done, make something up. It’s fine as long as you file the proper paperwork explaining your actions after the fact.
Oliver has issues with authority. That’s what lead him to steal a cursed silver goblet inlaid with rubies, which is what brought him to S.A.F.E.’s attention to begin with. Ed’s cool and all, they’ve been friends for years now, and she could kick his ass, but still: authority. So, not cool. So it is with apprehension, and an abundance of caffeine running in his veins that he heads up to Merit’s-- EDITH’S office.
He knocks, but doesn’t wait, letting himself in. He slouches into the chair in front of the grand desk. “What do you want?” He asks.
“I want our operations to be running at full capacity, and I want to get a good night's rest more then every other week.”
“Wow. That sounds swell. How we gonna do that?”
“More people,” is Ed’s answer.
“More people? I don’t like people,” He says. It is only half a lie.
“Too bad, we’ve been running ragged, and I’m sick of it.”
“New people?”
“You were new once,” She reminds him. “And Piper. Look how well he’s worked out.” Piper had been Merit’s last hire, just under a year ago now, and Ollie rather adored the clairvoyant, for all he would deny it. “What else would you have me do? This clearly isn’t working.”
“Berlin,” Ollie says suddenly.
“What?” She has not heard of any disasters coming near the German City, and can’t think of any other reasons he would bring it up.
“Berlin Frost. He never really quit.”
“No one ever really quits,” Ed says. “People die, or they bugger off, or get turned into lizards, or whatever, but this isn’t something you just quit,” She says. “Running the reservists to see who’d be up for full duty’s a good start, but it’s not gonna cut it. Fresh blood is inevitable.”
“Why?” He pouts.
“Here’s a better question to ask; why did I call you in here?”
“OK, I’ll bite. Why did you call me in here?”
“You’re going to be my field leader.”
“That’s a terrible idea.”
“You’re the best man for the job.”
“That’s true, but really? Me in charge? I may become suicidal.”
“Nah. Power corrupts. Give it a week and you’ll be addled. Ordering people around left and right.”
“They’ll never listen.” Oliver smiles, slightly. “I’m field leader, Berlin has the B team, and you’re the boss? I can live with that.”
“Yeah, me too,” Edith says. “You’re going to have to talk Frost into it though.”
“Sure.”
There’s a sharp rap on the door, and Piper pokes his head in. “Um, we’ve lights in the sky and a four armed skeleton. We should probably go have a look.”
“Yeah, yeah. I’ll go talk to him soon as we’re done with this. Hire whatever minions you like,” He tells her, with the caveat, “Just don’t expect me to be nice to them.” He exits the office with customary flourish.
Ed leans back in her chair. “Minions,” She says. “I like the sound of that.”
Ten hours later they’re on the ground. It’s time for Ollie to give orders. While the title’s new, he’s been acting the role for a while now. “Piper, I want you and Alec to look over the scene. I want to know everything it tells us, and I want to know now. Cleo, Viv, you’re talking to the locals. They said lights, let’s get specific.”
Off course there’s backtalk. S.A.F.E. values free speech over obedience, unless it is a life or death situation, and even then there have been exceptions.
“That’s sexist,” Viv says, adding after a pause, “Sir.”
He turns to scowl at her and is met with studied, patented French aloofness. “Having the boys do the detective work, and ordering us girls to charm the witnesses? Practically barbaric.”
“Common sense, dear. Cleo’s has the best chance of figuring if the pretty colors are alien in origin. I’ll tell you what, we find something that needs thrashing later on, it’s all yours.”
She smiles. “Thank you. Sir.”
He laughs. “I hadn’t thought of this, but actually, using your curves to make people talk is an A plus plan. Have at it.”
“No thank you,” Cleo grimaces. She really hopes it’s aliens. Aliens are so much cooler then her team mates.
Oliver is talking again. “That should be the mission designation. At least till we know what’s going on. Mission: Curves. It’ll make the paper work more interesting.”
“Nothing makes paper work more interesting,” Aleczander complains, accent think though his yawn. “Not even curves.”
This is met by a chorus of rolled eyes, as per normal, and they split up and get down to work.
The end of the day they’re set up in Oliver’s hotel room, exhausted. Ollie puts his feet up on the coffee table, and asks “OK, who wants to go first.”
No one volunteers. No one ever volunteers.“Alec?” Ollie prompts.
The forensics scientist sighs. “The skeleton’s male, late twenties, no remarkable traits.”
“An extra set of arms is not a remarkable trait now?” Viv asks.
“It would be, but he hasn’t got any. Someone wanted to make it look like he did. They were sewn on. I couldn’t say if it was pre or postmortem, hardly any meat left. That’s where it really stops making sense.”
Alec outlines how they found the body sitting on, for lack of a better world, a wooden throne. The chair is extensively damaged, but not so much as you’d expect considering the state of the guy. For once they’ve a lucky break, fingerprints are scorched into the arms.
“The prints match a guy named Hugo Armando, and he fits the rest of the profile. Now, wait for it, here’s the kicker--Hugo went to work a week ago. There’s no way in hell he’d be so decomposed, which washes away any doubts that this isn’t our business.” Alec finishes with a long exhale. Working at S.A.F.E. has done strange and irreversible things to his psyche but he’s still got a fundamentally scientific brain, and sometimes that brain wants to jump out of his skull and die.
Cleo cautiously speaks up, “I’ve got a question. Where did the arms come from? Is there someone walking around with only half a set of limbs, or are we missing a body?”
No one answers, until Oliver says, “It’s something to look into, that and the mysterious Armando.”
“No such breakthrough with the lights,” Cleo says. “People say they saw pink smoke, starting at the last month, and six nights ago, which fits the timeline. It could be magic, or some well played fireworks. We’re running some tests on for chemical residue, but no answers yet. Either way, it’s terrestrial in origin,” Cleo concludes with a frown.
Piper smiles to her. “Not every day can be science fiction.”
“Sadly,” She retorts.
Oliver is almost too tired to be amused by his team. “All right scum, we have a lot of work looming, so it’s off to bed.”
No one protests, except for Viv, and that’s out of principle, not because she really disagrees. As the team disperses to their rooms Ollie catches Piper’s sleeve, asking, “Could you stay a minute?”
“Of course.”
When the others have gone, Oliver asks, “You didn’t get anything off of the scene?”
“No, not yet. I would have said something.”
“I know, it’s just...”
“I know, yeah.”
“You’re coming with me to see where Armando leads us tomorrow. Alec and Cleo can deal with the science stuff.”
“And kill each other in the process.”
“And that,” Ollie admits. There is silence, briefly before Piper breaks it.
“The time’s catching up, so I’m gonna hit the hay.”
“Yeah, of course.” He is almost away when Oliver calls out, “Sweet dreams Pip.”
Piper turns back and say, “Yeah, you too,” before closing the door behind him.
Oliver sighs, and thinks that he’s not the one with visions, and nightmares, but it’s too late to deal. Sleep now. Worry later.
Next time in S.A.F.E.
Will Edith find a secretary? Will Oliver act like a responsible adult? Will Vivienne get to thrash someone?
Monday, February 15, 2010
Welcome to S.A.F.E.
What’s that?
Well, I can’t really tell you. It’s a secret, and an acronym, and lots else. It is also a story. You see, once upon a time, this past October I came up with a bunch of ideas to use for National Novel Writing Month, but then chose to go in a different direction, so these poor ideas were abandoned, languishing on my hard drive. See, the problem with these ideas is that they didn’t really work like a novel, they were too episodic, more like a TV show, or a comic book, only I don’t write scripts, because no one’s going to turn them into a finished product. So I decided to make it a serialized story, with a new part posted every week, every Tuesday, starting tomorrow.
I don’t know how well this is going to work. I’ve never done anything like it before. So if it’s terrible to start off please be patient, and offer constructive nonjudgemental criticism. I hope you enjoy this project.
Stay Beautiful,
Bessie Rose Browne
Well, I can’t really tell you. It’s a secret, and an acronym, and lots else. It is also a story. You see, once upon a time, this past October I came up with a bunch of ideas to use for National Novel Writing Month, but then chose to go in a different direction, so these poor ideas were abandoned, languishing on my hard drive. See, the problem with these ideas is that they didn’t really work like a novel, they were too episodic, more like a TV show, or a comic book, only I don’t write scripts, because no one’s going to turn them into a finished product. So I decided to make it a serialized story, with a new part posted every week, every Tuesday, starting tomorrow.
I don’t know how well this is going to work. I’ve never done anything like it before. So if it’s terrible to start off please be patient, and offer constructive nonjudgemental criticism. I hope you enjoy this project.
Stay Beautiful,
Bessie Rose Browne
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