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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