Major Hemmings sat, looking down as the CH-47 Chinook brought him into the large helipad, the dual-rotors nearly deafening even inside the cargo space. A small smattering of troops, active army personnel being repositioned, sat in the jump seats around the fuselage of the interior cargo space, most looking bored and tired, a few even napping lightly. Jack watched out the window as the Chinook completed its landing, air crew moving onto the field as the rotors spun down. Jack stood up first, stretching slightly, wincing at the small pops his stiff back made as his vertebrae loosened after the long trip. The other passengers, most far younger than he, didn’t seem to have the same problem. Jack sighed at yet another reminder that he was getting older. The back cargo hatch opened and the men disembarked, Jack leaving last. He wasn’t met by anyone, which was how the Major preferred it. He walked towards the central building on the army base.
The main building was a spartan affair, colored and stuccoed with a light beige color, matching the dirt and terrain around the base. No decoration outside, matching the utilitarian look of the rest of the buildings on base. The only thing that differentiated the building from the others, apart from the size difference, was a dark green tag on the side, proclaiming the building’s ‘Main Entrance’ and, above that, ‘HQ’. This was the place, then. Major Hemmings stepped inside and was met by an aide that shuffled him through the interior space of the building, awash with working men and women going about their business, and directly to the door marked with a silver star, denoting the office beyond as belonging to the base commander, Brigadier General Silva.
The General’s office was just large enough to confer authority without being big enough to be pretentious. The carpeting was plush and the paneling was oak, but the desk was more serviceable than ostentatious and the chairs arranged around it were obviously chosen for comfort. Behind the General’s desk was a pair of large windows that looked out onto the base’s parade ground; the blinds were currently lowered over these and slatted, filling the room with waning afternoon light and cutting the room off from the rest of the world. Along the north wall was a line of screens and consoles, mostly off now, and a drinks cabinet, closer to the ground. It was against this that a thin man in a dark suit and an angular, olive-complexioned face was leaning. Major Hemmings saluted the General as he entered the room, sparing half a glance for the man in the suit as well.
The General smiled as the Major came in. “Jack, delighted you could come in. At ease, son, at ease. Take a seat.” The General was seated expansively behind his desk with a glass tumbler by his hand and an unlit cigar between his fingers, and it was with this that he waved Jack towards one of the seats in front of the desk. The General smiled again, as if to say here we are all together, isn’t this nice. “Get you anything, Major? A drink, perhaps?”
Jack dropped his salute and gave General Silva a smile, “Scotch, if you have it, General.” He slid into the seat indicated.
Silva twirled the cigar between his fingers and set it on his desk. “Mr. Daub, be so good as to fix the Major a Scotch.” The warmth in the room instantly dropped by two or three degrees. Mr. Daub, stiff-backed, hesitated a moment before opening the cabinet and wordlessly pouring out a drink. He carried it over to Jack, handed it to him, and walked back to his post next to the drinks cabinet. Jack gave the man a nod, “Thank you... Mr. Daub.”
Mr. Daub’s stern expression didn’t waver. He had the look about him of a stalking crane, always watching some fish under the surface and about to strike. He had no drink himself. The General swished the amber liquid around his own glass, staring into its depths, and it suddenly dawned on Jack that General Silva did not like this man or being put in this situation, whatever it was. “Have you made any in-roads, Major? My superiors are understandably eager for developments.”
Jack glanced at Daub, giving the man another look. Whoever could make General Silva this edgy was somebody with a lot of clout. Jack pegged him for a civilian, but beyond that it was hard to say. Jack returned his focus to General Silva, “We made our first major strike last night, sir. We captured eleven focuses, and killed one. The on-site leader told me it was done in self-defense. Regardless, though, they’ve been transported to IMPCOM headquarters and are being debriefed as we speak - after being injected with the Anti-Improbability serum, of course.” Jack internalized a frown, keeping his outward expression neutural. How many more focuses might have died from being given the serum? He’d find out when he returned to IMPCOM.
Silva leaned forward, steepling his fingers in front of him. “Really.” He looked at Mr. Daub, eyebrows raised, something passing between them unsaid. He turned back to Jack. “That is excellent news, Jack, really quite excellent news. You and your entire team are to be commended.”
Jack chuckled, “Just doing my job, sir. As ordered.” He took a small sip of the scotch and exhaled as the burning sensation of the strong alcohol hit his stomach. It was good scotch, too, something in short supply.
The General leaned farther back, studying the ceiling. “And you think you are closing in on their ringleader, then?”
Jack smirked. “Focus 772 was there. He’s a slippery one, though. The real objective for this operation was disruption and capture efforts. We want the other Focuses afraid to go to 772, make them think twice before joining people that the U.S. Government have branded as ‘terrorists’.”
Mr. Daub coughed sharply at the word ‘terrorists’, forcing Silva to glance at him in sharp annoyance. They exchanged another private look and the General straightened in his chair, turning brusque. Business at last. “Well. I look forward to reading your report.” Then he picked up a slim manila folder and tossed it to Jack. “What the hell is this,” the General demanded to know, without a hint of warmth.
Jack stifled his surprise, and glanced down at the envelope. He recognized the seal on the corner immediately, but flipped it open, for the General’s benefit. “My request for additional information on the man known as Citizen One, General Silva.”
“He already knew that, shithead,” Mr. Daub said.
“Quiet,” Silva barked out of the corner of his mouth. To Jack, “I know what it is, Major. I just don’t know why. If it’s your idea of a joke, your sense of humor is pretty piss poor from where we’re sitting.”
Jack blinked, looking from Daub to Silva with confusion. After a moment he said, “No joke, General Silva, sir. This is a legitimate request. When I began work at IMPCOM, Citizen One was one of my initial inquiries, and I was sent a report, but it was... basic. Sir, to be honest, it appeared... doctored. I’m not an idiot, sir. So I sent this request for additional information. Citizen One is still out there, and if he’s anything like how I remember him, he’s still dangerous and angry as ever. If he ever got wind of the existence of the Focuses... hell, if he is a Focus, he could become more dangerous than 772 ever could be.”
Daub crossed his arms and half-sat on the General’s drinks cabinet. “You already have a job, Major Hemmings. Track existing Focuses and neutralize them. Resurrecting bogeymen does not get your job done, and neither does chasing wayward family members across five continents.”
Major Hemming’s eyes narrowed as he turned his attention on Daub. “With all due respect, Mister Daub, I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage. What part of the government do you work for?”
The General emptied his glass. “Mr. Daub here is … privileged.” The general swallowed the mouthful painfully. “I’ve been convincing him that your request was a misunderstanding of some kind.” The general swallowed painfully, then narrowed his eyes at Jack. “What did possess you to file the request? Did you roll over one morning and decide to start looking up your old Island buddies, starting with the most demented? We both know you have more than enough work to do.”
Jack frowned, “Sir, looking up Citizen One is well within IMPCOM’s operational parameters. We’ve already determined that ex-cons that spent as much time on the island as Citizen One did have an over 65% chance of becoming Focuses, and that means that there is an appreciable chance that Citizen One has become a Focus since he’s been back on the mainland. And, sir, I’ve sent similar requests for additional information on ex-contestants before, and have never had this issue. I was given a basic dossier, and nothing more, on Citizen One, and when I submitted a request for a detailed or in-depth background, or even a military file if one exists, I get nothing. When I put in a special request for all materials related to Citizen One, I get dragged down in the middle of an important operation to get scolded like a naughty child. So, General, Mister Daub, explain to me where I went wrong, or how my actions were untoward enough to warrant this.”
General Silva and Daub both consider Jack coldly, calculatingly. Daub spoke. “You already have the dossier. You are unsatisfied. Why?”
Jack spoke clearly, because Mr. Daub obviously hadn’t heard him the first time, “Because the dossier that was given to me didn’t add up. Missing time, lots of information repeated, things that it said Citizen One did that were completely out of character. It looked like a load of bullshit, Mister Daub, like some temp working for an agency had slapped together a biography on somebody that they’d never met or heard of. I know this government, sir, and how well we document things. There was too much missing not to raise a red flag.”
Silva again let Daub hold forth, after a brief sigh. “Major, I assure you the people I answer to and I have every confidence in your abilities; even if I have an unpleasant job to do. You are not an idiot; obviously the documents are fake. I know it, the General knows it. You know it.” The general stared at Jack severely, revealing nothing. “The question that I have been sent to ask - that our government asks - is why does Major Jack Hemmings, loyal soldier and patriot, insist on the unexpurgated version, if he already knows it’s been put on the high shelf?”
Jack frowned, “I didn’t realize that Citizen One was a taboo subject, Mister Daub. It’s one thing to be sent falsified records, and it’s another thing to have a request for more information denied. This feels less like a denial and more like a court-martial. What interests me is the why of this: why would whatever organization you work for send you down to have a talk with Silva, who then felt the need to call me, bring me here, and tell me that my request was denied. Because last time I checked, they had a stamp for that. Red ink. I think you know the one. This feels excessive. So, the question that I, loyal patriot that I am, have to ask, is... what’s in Citizen One’s file that you don’t want me to see?”
Silva glanced at the thinner man before turning back to Jack and spreading his hands in a supplicating gesture, his voice reconciliatory. “Can you imagine a bigger hornet’s nest to stir up? Citizen One? Why not call up the Joint Chiefs and tell them Osama bin Laden is back and he’s opening an airline. Do you have even a shred of evidence to indicate that One is anything but neutralized? While I have the full assurances of superiors - yours and mine - that that threat is gone.”
Jack looked surprised. “That’s news to me, sir. I was never made aware that Citizen One was neutralized. His fake dossier did not reflect that. As far as I knew, the last that had been heard of him was that he had escaped the Island. Successful or not in his escape, the case was cold, not closed. I was operating under the assumption that he had been successful. Assuming that he failed is a good way to miss things, and a bad way to operate when you don’t have confirmation that your target is neutralized.”
The General eased back in his chair, putting his hands on his stomach and smiling again. “There, you see Daub? I told you it was something perfectly harmless. Man was just overzealous. Hunting ghosts.”
Daub cleared his throat. “I’m relieved.” He managed not to sound it. “Obviously, Major, nothing you have discussed here can be repeated. C. One’s status is classified.” Heavily, “Under that condition... .” Mr. Daub picked up a much thicker folder off the edge of the desk and handed it to Jack.
Jack nodded, interest evident on his face, “Understood. Does this folder go with me, or would you like me to simply read it here, and return it?” He hoped that it was the former. He doubted he’d be given the time he’d need to read the full dossier.
Daub looked at Silva. Silva shrugged. Daub turned back to Jack. “You have the appropriate security clearance for the material in that folder. Anything beyond is,” and he made a gesture with fingers and breath to indicate, impossible, immaterial.
Jack flicked the cover open and began paging through the report, trying to ignore the eyes on him. Codename “Citizen One’s” birth name was given as Charles Clark, parents Roger and Ethel Clark. Both deceased; Ethel in 2091, when Citizen - Charles - would have been 14, and Roger in 2112. Hometown was a sleepy burg north of Anchorage, Alaska named Hardnose, population 3,138, where his father worked as a master carpenter. Charles’ school transcripts hinted at a solitary but exceptionally intelligent young man who preferred working with his hands to the confines of classrooms. By sixteen he was helping his father in his trade, working part-time as an auto-mechanic, and doing other odd-jobs around town. Mostly self-taught, he enlisted at 18 while working towards several degrees in engineering, electronics, surveillance, and psychology. It was certainly an... eclectic mix of interests.
There things became stranger. It looked like he was originally stationed to the Army Corps of Engineers, then transferred- twice, but in both cases the reason for the transfer and the precise branch he was joined to were buried under black ink. His postings, when they weren’t censored out, were to some of the worst hot-spots in the world, but there was no indication he held a combat post - or that he was even still part of the army at all. Whatever his work, he entered the private sector in 2106 as a ‘consultant’. There was a partial list of his clients - the ones that weren’t blacked out were large, industrial companies likely to have overseas operations in what might politely be termed “unstable regions”. Reading between the lines, Charles Clark alias Citizen One was involved in security - in some nebulous way. Beginning to feel frustrated, Jack turned a page only to find the beginning of Charles’ Island career, which he skimmed through. There was even more violence, volatility, deviousness, and sheer determination than Jack had previously been aware of. Through it all, Citizen One never ceased to undermine Island authority and attempt to escape.
Jack closed the folder on that chapter for now, attention returning to the room and the two men staring intently at him. The sun had slipped farther down behind the slats. General Silva and Mr. Daub both seemed to be waiting for him to make the first move, so he took a breath and did. “Doesn’t say anything about his final... disposition, sir.” He chose to deliberately ignore Daub for the moment.
“No,” Daub answered anyway. “It doesn’t.”
“But he’s been dealt with,” Jack repeated, careful to keep his tone flat.
“He is no longer,” Mr. Daub iterated, choosing his words with great care, “an issue.”
“Now that your curiosity is settled, I assume this matter is at an end,” Silva grunted, finally sticking the cigar in the corner of his mouth and lighting it. This seemed to be the signal that Silva had heard and said all he would on the matter, and that they should get out of his office now.
Jack scrambled to his feet, making sure to keep a grip on his folder, and saluted. Mr. Daub extended a hand that he shook and then he was striding down the corridors out of the building and back to the helipad, where a Chinook - perhaps the same one - waited to carry him back. As he sat down and the rotors whined louder, lifting off the ground, he felt like his head was spinning, and not just from the Scotch. Just what the hell had he been handed back there?
Thursday, January 5, 2012
Thursday, December 1, 2011
- Running Dark -
Orders are coming down the line.
From now on, we're running dark. Code lines and important communications only.
I don't know if you can still read this, but if you can, then take my advice.
Turn yourself in.
What's coming is beyond anything I wanted. I wanted to regulate the dangerous focuses. I wanted to monitor, to observe. I believed in a future where Focuses could help mankind. I started implementing ways, little projects to prove my theory.
What is about to happen is wholesale neutralization. We are coming for you, and we are holding nothing back.
Turn yourself in.
Or run.
... Good luck.
From now on, we're running dark. Code lines and important communications only.
I don't know if you can still read this, but if you can, then take my advice.
Turn yourself in.
What's coming is beyond anything I wanted. I wanted to regulate the dangerous focuses. I wanted to monitor, to observe. I believed in a future where Focuses could help mankind. I started implementing ways, little projects to prove my theory.
What is about to happen is wholesale neutralization. We are coming for you, and we are holding nothing back.
Turn yourself in.
Or run.
... Good luck.
- Encounter 2 -
The Pentagon was busy, as always. The bustle of the movements of military consultants, commanders, civilian workers and contractors, and many other people, filled the hallways of one of the most secure installations on the planet. The outer ring and building was on a full lockdown. Soldiers stood guard at the entrances, checking identifications and scanning thumbprints of anyone that wanted inside the installation. This level of security, however, wasn't normal. Something was amiss, and any local civilians that noticed this decided that, perhaps, today was a good day to stay indoors.
Beneath the Pentagon, away from the noise of the men and women working towards the security of the nation, a briefing inside a soundproofed conference room was taking place. A group of very powerful men focused their attention on a single, nervous individual, who stood before them to deliver some bad news.
"Gentlemen, let's focus on the task at hand. Before we move on with other matters, we need to address the current issue. Major Jack Hemmings has briefed me on Improbable Operations Command's most recent development, concerning the Focuses."
Brigadier General Silva was an older man, with short-cropped dark hair shot through with gray. His uniform matched his character - crisp, impeccable, with not a thread out of place, with a very starched collar. His chest, and the campaign ribbons there, told his history, his life in a series of codified color bars, years of experience and a lifetime of command. He wore no medals, not for want of such decoration, but rather for lack of space to display the numerous commendations and awards he had earned in his career on a single garment.
The other men in the room were various Generals, in charge of domestic and foreign campaigns and military branches, as well as key members of the United States Government, including The Eagle himself. The Eagle was dressed in a subdued black suit, with a white undershirt and no tie. His eyes were focused, intent on the man standing before the impressive grouping of individuals. He gave General Silva a nod, "Carry on."
Silva turned his attention to Major Hemmings. "Major?"
Major Hemmings had never, in his life, felt more out of his league than this moment. The power these individuals evoked, both through force of personality and gift of rank and title, was overwhelming. Jack had a feeling that this was, possibly, the most important moment of his military career, and he knew that many people's lives hung on how he presented the coming news. Nervously, Major Hemmings cleared his throat. "Thank you, General. Mister President, members of the cabinet and staff, generals. The briefing I'm about to deliver is, obviously, classified, through the highest order."
Reaching down, Jack unlocked a briefcase, and withdrew from it the briefing dossier, and passed the multiple copies down to the nearest staffer, who passed them around the room. Once the dossier was delivered to everyone, Jack began. "If you'll turn to page one, we may begin."
The briefing started with a summary of the situation - IMPCOM's standing orders, mission records, and pertinent information involving the Focuses, The Island, and The Drive, as well as a short section on Improbability - before moving to the meat of the briefing, the real reason that the Major was there.
"Sirs, recently, during an operation to neutralize a Focus, designate 772, we encountered a situation that we had not yet encountered. Focus 772 was subdued, but during transport, was removed and replaced, through the actions of yet another Focus, whom we have since designated Focus 800. Focus 800 had the ability to cameoflauge himself, through taking on the physical appearance of other people."
Jack swallowed. Here came the kicker. "We initially were concerned, because so far, we have not had any intelligence that suggests that Focuses had ever come in contact with one another. The fact that 772 and 800 were working together was... disturbing, but not overly so. It was what we discovered upon searching the location from where we attempted to retrieve Focus 772 that raised our awareness of the severity of the situation."
Jack reached into the breifcase and retrieved a simple journal, a small paper-bound book, slightly grubby. Jack set the journal on the table before him. "This item is the personal journal of Focus 772, and from it, we have gathered that there has been established a large grouping of Focuses, all working together in order to evade IMPCOM's efforts at neutralization."
The room was quiet, initially, as this statement sunk in. The Vice President spoke first. "How was your intelligence so flawed, Major? There should have been records of communications between the Focuses, or surely a paper trail, phone calls... anything. How could your efforts to monitor the Focuses and prevent this situation have failed so utterly?"
Jack kept his expression carefully neutural. The man was right, he had failed, but it still stung. "Mister Vice President, the Focuses are using a mode of communication that we did not have the slightest inkling of. Allow me to demonstrate."
Jack withdrew a pair of clear plastic gloves from the briefcase and put them on, and then opened the journal. He searched through a grouping of pages, before coming to a page in the middle of the journal. Jack opened the journal fully, and placed it on an overhead projector tray, and turned on the projector. The projector did it's job, sending a much larger image of the page onto the wall, and silencing the quiet cross-talk between the men in the room.
The page was being written on, by an invisible hand. Ink simply flowed onto the page, forming letters which formed words. You are not alone in this. There are others, like you, and we are waiting. The writing continued unabated as the room erupted in sounds of surprise and concern. Jack smiled to himself. He couldn't have picked a better demonstration. The power of those written words were palpable. 'You are not alone'. 'We are waiting'. They couldn't ignore that, and he couldn't have asked for anything that better illustrated his point.
The Focuses had become organized.
Brigadier General Silva spoke over the murmuring group. "Major, explain how this is possible."
"General, to the best of our knowledge, this journal is linked to another, similar journal, somewhere where there is a focus. We've done only a few tests, but it would appear that there is a Focus that has the ability to create objects that, despite a great distance, react as if they were the same item. IMPCOM R&D are still working on it, and they're eager to continue their analysis."
Over the others, the Eagle spoke, his calm voice silencing the others in the room. "Major, what you are saying is that we have a force of unknown strength and capability on American soil, whose intent is unknown, and their danger to the security of the nation is... great."
Major Hemmings held up a hand, "No, sir. We understand, very much, their capability. But they aren't looking for a fight, sir. So far, their actions have not been hostile, insomuch as in self-defense when we've initiated hostility."
The Eagle nodded, slowly, considering. "Major Hemmings, you will agree with me when I say that the potential disruption to the public that could be caused if this information were to become widely known would be catastrophic. A potential green scare, as you've said before. The Island is a national pasttime, a world pasttime. Everyone watches the show, and the people are content with the thought that their television heros and Jokers are the creation of clever people with a penchant for special effects and a very large budget backing them up. People like their probability, and though few would care to admit it, the island is terrifying. The network plays up the absurditity, but the reality of the place is horrifying. Monsters of nightmares prowl those jungles, and if people knew that their nightmares were real? How do you think the public would react? What were your exact words, Major, the last time that you delivered a briefing to me?"
The room was silent, expectant, as Jack exhaled slowly. So, this is how it was. "Mass panic, Mister President. If it ever became public knowledge that the Island was anything more than a television show, and if it became knowledge that Focuses were able to create Probabiltiy Breakdown Manifestations off the island, away from the influence of the Improbability Drive..."
"Chaos."
"Yes sir. Chaos."
"Major, you will do whatever necessary to remove this threat to our nation, as well as the threat that it poses on a global scale. I'll be in contact with NATO, and by this time tomorrow, I expect you to report back with a plan for how to affect a global neutralization effort against the Focuses. We need their abilities removed. They pose a danger to the public and themselves. If it means potentially harming these Focuses, through accident with the Serum or in self-defense... so be it. They should be warned to turn themselves in, given a chance to comply and be neutralized, returned to their normal state of humanity. I won't be so nearsighted as to not give them that chance. They may be a danger to the public, but these Focuses are my citizens, or someone else's citizens. They are people, and deserve to be treated as such. Backing them into a corner would only serve to make them more dangerous. We will give them the option of surrender, and if they refuse, then we will have no choice but to engage them as the threat that they are."
The room broke into a round of applause, a show of consent from the gathered men. Jack frowned. This wasn't going to be easy, but... this is what he wanted, wasn't it? Action. A wider, larger effort, more men to assist him. Neutralization, on a global scale. An end to the potential threat that Focuses posed.
Jack couldn't shake the feeling that he'd made a mistake.
Beneath the Pentagon, away from the noise of the men and women working towards the security of the nation, a briefing inside a soundproofed conference room was taking place. A group of very powerful men focused their attention on a single, nervous individual, who stood before them to deliver some bad news.
"Gentlemen, let's focus on the task at hand. Before we move on with other matters, we need to address the current issue. Major Jack Hemmings has briefed me on Improbable Operations Command's most recent development, concerning the Focuses."
Brigadier General Silva was an older man, with short-cropped dark hair shot through with gray. His uniform matched his character - crisp, impeccable, with not a thread out of place, with a very starched collar. His chest, and the campaign ribbons there, told his history, his life in a series of codified color bars, years of experience and a lifetime of command. He wore no medals, not for want of such decoration, but rather for lack of space to display the numerous commendations and awards he had earned in his career on a single garment.
The other men in the room were various Generals, in charge of domestic and foreign campaigns and military branches, as well as key members of the United States Government, including The Eagle himself. The Eagle was dressed in a subdued black suit, with a white undershirt and no tie. His eyes were focused, intent on the man standing before the impressive grouping of individuals. He gave General Silva a nod, "Carry on."
Silva turned his attention to Major Hemmings. "Major?"
Major Hemmings had never, in his life, felt more out of his league than this moment. The power these individuals evoked, both through force of personality and gift of rank and title, was overwhelming. Jack had a feeling that this was, possibly, the most important moment of his military career, and he knew that many people's lives hung on how he presented the coming news. Nervously, Major Hemmings cleared his throat. "Thank you, General. Mister President, members of the cabinet and staff, generals. The briefing I'm about to deliver is, obviously, classified, through the highest order."
Reaching down, Jack unlocked a briefcase, and withdrew from it the briefing dossier, and passed the multiple copies down to the nearest staffer, who passed them around the room. Once the dossier was delivered to everyone, Jack began. "If you'll turn to page one, we may begin."
The briefing started with a summary of the situation - IMPCOM's standing orders, mission records, and pertinent information involving the Focuses, The Island, and The Drive, as well as a short section on Improbability - before moving to the meat of the briefing, the real reason that the Major was there.
"Sirs, recently, during an operation to neutralize a Focus, designate 772, we encountered a situation that we had not yet encountered. Focus 772 was subdued, but during transport, was removed and replaced, through the actions of yet another Focus, whom we have since designated Focus 800. Focus 800 had the ability to cameoflauge himself, through taking on the physical appearance of other people."
Jack swallowed. Here came the kicker. "We initially were concerned, because so far, we have not had any intelligence that suggests that Focuses had ever come in contact with one another. The fact that 772 and 800 were working together was... disturbing, but not overly so. It was what we discovered upon searching the location from where we attempted to retrieve Focus 772 that raised our awareness of the severity of the situation."
Jack reached into the breifcase and retrieved a simple journal, a small paper-bound book, slightly grubby. Jack set the journal on the table before him. "This item is the personal journal of Focus 772, and from it, we have gathered that there has been established a large grouping of Focuses, all working together in order to evade IMPCOM's efforts at neutralization."
The room was quiet, initially, as this statement sunk in. The Vice President spoke first. "How was your intelligence so flawed, Major? There should have been records of communications between the Focuses, or surely a paper trail, phone calls... anything. How could your efforts to monitor the Focuses and prevent this situation have failed so utterly?"
Jack kept his expression carefully neutural. The man was right, he had failed, but it still stung. "Mister Vice President, the Focuses are using a mode of communication that we did not have the slightest inkling of. Allow me to demonstrate."
Jack withdrew a pair of clear plastic gloves from the briefcase and put them on, and then opened the journal. He searched through a grouping of pages, before coming to a page in the middle of the journal. Jack opened the journal fully, and placed it on an overhead projector tray, and turned on the projector. The projector did it's job, sending a much larger image of the page onto the wall, and silencing the quiet cross-talk between the men in the room.
The page was being written on, by an invisible hand. Ink simply flowed onto the page, forming letters which formed words. You are not alone in this. There are others, like you, and we are waiting. The writing continued unabated as the room erupted in sounds of surprise and concern. Jack smiled to himself. He couldn't have picked a better demonstration. The power of those written words were palpable. 'You are not alone'. 'We are waiting'. They couldn't ignore that, and he couldn't have asked for anything that better illustrated his point.
The Focuses had become organized.
Brigadier General Silva spoke over the murmuring group. "Major, explain how this is possible."
"General, to the best of our knowledge, this journal is linked to another, similar journal, somewhere where there is a focus. We've done only a few tests, but it would appear that there is a Focus that has the ability to create objects that, despite a great distance, react as if they were the same item. IMPCOM R&D are still working on it, and they're eager to continue their analysis."
Over the others, the Eagle spoke, his calm voice silencing the others in the room. "Major, what you are saying is that we have a force of unknown strength and capability on American soil, whose intent is unknown, and their danger to the security of the nation is... great."
Major Hemmings held up a hand, "No, sir. We understand, very much, their capability. But they aren't looking for a fight, sir. So far, their actions have not been hostile, insomuch as in self-defense when we've initiated hostility."
The Eagle nodded, slowly, considering. "Major Hemmings, you will agree with me when I say that the potential disruption to the public that could be caused if this information were to become widely known would be catastrophic. A potential green scare, as you've said before. The Island is a national pasttime, a world pasttime. Everyone watches the show, and the people are content with the thought that their television heros and Jokers are the creation of clever people with a penchant for special effects and a very large budget backing them up. People like their probability, and though few would care to admit it, the island is terrifying. The network plays up the absurditity, but the reality of the place is horrifying. Monsters of nightmares prowl those jungles, and if people knew that their nightmares were real? How do you think the public would react? What were your exact words, Major, the last time that you delivered a briefing to me?"
The room was silent, expectant, as Jack exhaled slowly. So, this is how it was. "Mass panic, Mister President. If it ever became public knowledge that the Island was anything more than a television show, and if it became knowledge that Focuses were able to create Probabiltiy Breakdown Manifestations off the island, away from the influence of the Improbability Drive..."
"Chaos."
"Yes sir. Chaos."
"Major, you will do whatever necessary to remove this threat to our nation, as well as the threat that it poses on a global scale. I'll be in contact with NATO, and by this time tomorrow, I expect you to report back with a plan for how to affect a global neutralization effort against the Focuses. We need their abilities removed. They pose a danger to the public and themselves. If it means potentially harming these Focuses, through accident with the Serum or in self-defense... so be it. They should be warned to turn themselves in, given a chance to comply and be neutralized, returned to their normal state of humanity. I won't be so nearsighted as to not give them that chance. They may be a danger to the public, but these Focuses are my citizens, or someone else's citizens. They are people, and deserve to be treated as such. Backing them into a corner would only serve to make them more dangerous. We will give them the option of surrender, and if they refuse, then we will have no choice but to engage them as the threat that they are."
The room broke into a round of applause, a show of consent from the gathered men. Jack frowned. This wasn't going to be easy, but... this is what he wanted, wasn't it? Action. A wider, larger effort, more men to assist him. Neutralization, on a global scale. An end to the potential threat that Focuses posed.
Jack couldn't shake the feeling that he'd made a mistake.
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
- Fool Me Twice -
The man that we recovered from inside the containment unit?
Not one of my Operatives. He disappeared, but before he did, he got caught on one of the base security cameras... probably on purpose.
He strolls into view in one of the side entrances, looks right at the camera, and then? Poof, where a man in an IMPCOM uniform once stood, there's a man in a long coat, green eyes staring right into the lense, smart-ass smirk on his face.
#772 isn't working alone, and he's got friends that are Focuses.
We never had #772 to begin with. Or, well, maybe we did, and he and his friend (We're designating the Focus that can assume the form of others Focus #800) switched places before we could contain him. Hard to tell what happened. What is worse, though, is that Focus #800 had an active code word to use when questioned.
This is bad.
The base is on high alert, right now, and all the staff are submitting to DNA tests to confirm identity. #800 is gone, though, and #772 with him, along with god-knows how many other Focuses he may have gathered to his side.
This is a big development, for more reasons than one. The Focuses are working together, and they're aware of each other, something we hoped to keep from happening. The top brass are going to have a field day.
Not one of my Operatives. He disappeared, but before he did, he got caught on one of the base security cameras... probably on purpose.
He strolls into view in one of the side entrances, looks right at the camera, and then? Poof, where a man in an IMPCOM uniform once stood, there's a man in a long coat, green eyes staring right into the lense, smart-ass smirk on his face.
#772 isn't working alone, and he's got friends that are Focuses.
We never had #772 to begin with. Or, well, maybe we did, and he and his friend (We're designating the Focus that can assume the form of others Focus #800) switched places before we could contain him. Hard to tell what happened. What is worse, though, is that Focus #800 had an active code word to use when questioned.
This is bad.
The base is on high alert, right now, and all the staff are submitting to DNA tests to confirm identity. #800 is gone, though, and #772 with him, along with god-knows how many other Focuses he may have gathered to his side.
This is a big development, for more reasons than one. The Focuses are working together, and they're aware of each other, something we hoped to keep from happening. The top brass are going to have a field day.
- Fool Me Once -
Damn it.
We get the containment unit here, and open it up to transfer him, and what do we find?
One of my Operatives, unconscious.
#772?
Gone.
I'm not sure how he did it, but he got out. The power never failed on the containment unit, and nobody saw him leave, but we open it up, and it's one of our men in there.
We checked him out, of course, and he passed a code-word test. It wasn't #772 in a nice costume or something. He doesn't remember how he ended up in there, but he remembers #772 punching him in the face during the escort back to the base. He was in a vehicle by himself, which was a breach in transport protocol. His counterpart was injured while they were capturing #772, though, and was being taken to a hospital, so he drove the vehicle alone.
I'm furious, of course, but only because I got a few good men hurt for no goddamn reason. I told the top brass that we needed more time to assess #772, and he proved me right. Again.
Maybe, this time, they will listen to me.
I've sent out units to search for #772, but I doubt we'll find him.
We get the containment unit here, and open it up to transfer him, and what do we find?
One of my Operatives, unconscious.
#772?
Gone.
I'm not sure how he did it, but he got out. The power never failed on the containment unit, and nobody saw him leave, but we open it up, and it's one of our men in there.
We checked him out, of course, and he passed a code-word test. It wasn't #772 in a nice costume or something. He doesn't remember how he ended up in there, but he remembers #772 punching him in the face during the escort back to the base. He was in a vehicle by himself, which was a breach in transport protocol. His counterpart was injured while they were capturing #772, though, and was being taken to a hospital, so he drove the vehicle alone.
I'm furious, of course, but only because I got a few good men hurt for no goddamn reason. I told the top brass that we needed more time to assess #772, and he proved me right. Again.
Maybe, this time, they will listen to me.
I've sent out units to search for #772, but I doubt we'll find him.
- Bingo -
Got him.
Operatives in the field are confirming that they've corralled #772 using our little 'surprise', a device that disrupts harmonic vibration, which our R&D boys hypothesized was a possible way he was achieving the ability to phase. One of them cited The Flash, an old pre-war superhero, as what gave them the idea. Apparently The Flash could vibrate the molecules in his body to match the 'harmonic resonance' of a solid objects molecules, allowing him to pass through the object.
Nerds.
Anyway, it worked. They're moving him into a containment unit that is shielded with the same harmonic vibration disruption thingy (note to self: Get R&D to give the 'thingy' a good acronym), and transporting him to the IMPCOM field office that we've taken up residence in. He'll be here inside of thirty minutes, and then... well, he'll have to stay contained. We might have a way to keep him in one spot, but we don't have a way to administer the anti-improbability serum. Maybe R&D could build an aerosol dispenser, and we could flood the containment unit with the serum. We've never tried something like this before, but the brass have been very... very adament about removing #772 as a 'viable threat to national security'.
They don't really understand. But orders are orders. Sorry, pal, but your improbable days are numbered. Hopefully, though, your regular days will be long indeed, once you've been 'neuturalized'.
That is, if this doesn't kill you.
Operatives in the field are confirming that they've corralled #772 using our little 'surprise', a device that disrupts harmonic vibration, which our R&D boys hypothesized was a possible way he was achieving the ability to phase. One of them cited The Flash, an old pre-war superhero, as what gave them the idea. Apparently The Flash could vibrate the molecules in his body to match the 'harmonic resonance' of a solid objects molecules, allowing him to pass through the object.
Nerds.
Anyway, it worked. They're moving him into a containment unit that is shielded with the same harmonic vibration disruption thingy (note to self: Get R&D to give the 'thingy' a good acronym), and transporting him to the IMPCOM field office that we've taken up residence in. He'll be here inside of thirty minutes, and then... well, he'll have to stay contained. We might have a way to keep him in one spot, but we don't have a way to administer the anti-improbability serum. Maybe R&D could build an aerosol dispenser, and we could flood the containment unit with the serum. We've never tried something like this before, but the brass have been very... very adament about removing #772 as a 'viable threat to national security'.
They don't really understand. But orders are orders. Sorry, pal, but your improbable days are numbered. Hopefully, though, your regular days will be long indeed, once you've been 'neuturalized'.
That is, if this doesn't kill you.
- Devon and an Update -
I met with Devon. I'll try to keep the detals vague, but she is in a bit of trouble. Not that I'm really surprised. When is she not in trouble? It seems to be a rare occurance.
I've passed along some information to her regarding some business. Hopefully, she'll get what she needs. And, perhaps, I might get some information regarding a few other things I've been dealing with. An old score to settle, so to speak.
I've deployed a second team into the field today. A few new recruits that have finished their IMPCOM training course. Dependable men, and they've got one job and one job alone - keep tabs on Devon. They won't let me down. They've got orders to stay out of her way, but if she gets in trouble, she's got a handy way of calling for help, and they should be in a prime position to assist her.
Hopefully they'll have a very boring first deployment.
Somehow, though, I doubt it will be so easy.
On to other business.
I'm sending in a second team, equipped with a little surprise, to pay a visit to our dearest friend, #772. The top brass got wind that I was leaving him be, and they told me to bring him in. By force.
Tally-ho.
I've passed along some information to her regarding some business. Hopefully, she'll get what she needs. And, perhaps, I might get some information regarding a few other things I've been dealing with. An old score to settle, so to speak.
I've deployed a second team into the field today. A few new recruits that have finished their IMPCOM training course. Dependable men, and they've got one job and one job alone - keep tabs on Devon. They won't let me down. They've got orders to stay out of her way, but if she gets in trouble, she's got a handy way of calling for help, and they should be in a prime position to assist her.
Hopefully they'll have a very boring first deployment.
Somehow, though, I doubt it will be so easy.
On to other business.
I'm sending in a second team, equipped with a little surprise, to pay a visit to our dearest friend, #772. The top brass got wind that I was leaving him be, and they told me to bring him in. By force.
Tally-ho.
Sunday, November 27, 2011
- Encounter, Part 2 -
Props gave his sister a careful look, frowning slightly at her answer, but then nodded. “Okay, then. I won’t push it.”
Props looked out over the multitude of photos, and pointed to a section where the mug-shot like pictures dominated the walls, “Not all of these are islanders. I don’t like to say I bring my work home with me... but I think it’s a good idea to remind myself what I’m doing, sometimes. Those photos are of... ex-islanders. People like you, that escaped, or people that the network pulled off the island because they couldn’t bring in ratings.”
Devon gazed over the gestured photos, thinking to herself. ...Could that have been what happened to Nate? Or to Devin? Given, they could have been fooling around in the jungle somewhere, wouldn’t have been the first time, but... still. It made her wonder. All that shit she went through... just for ratings. She’s glad she left when she did.
Props gestured to the last section, which included mostly ‘official’ pictures of people in uniforms. “And that’s my team.”
Devon looked at the photos, eyebrows raising faintly. Pictures of his team, as well...? “Why d’ya have those? Don’t you see most of ‘em often enough already?” she inquired good-naturedly.
Props chuckled, “A lot of them are out in the field. I only speak to them over the radio, mostly. They’re deployed around the world. I’m not just in charge of the teams in the US. It’s Europe, Africa, and Asia as well. My expertise trained thirty five-man teams. They learned how to fight like an islander, think like and islander, and most importantly, they learned that, no matter how good they may be, there’s always somebody stronger.”
Props slight smile grew serious, “And... a few of them are dead. But I keep their photos, so I can remember the price of failure. So I remember what I’m potentially doing every time I give an order. It’s important to remember that lives are at stake. Not just my men, but the lives of the people we’re looking for, too.”
Devon nodded faintly, looking thoughtful as she looks over the various photos. How many of them are dead? How many times has her brother had to go through the loss of a subordinate, a teammate, or a friend since he got this job? Sure, she was in charge of the ducks back ho-- ...erm. Back at the island. But there... weren’t really many losses. They’re rubber ducks, for chrissake. But these... these were real men and women, made of flesh, blood, and bone. Strong, of course, but so, so delicate... “...Hermano?”
She finally decides to pop the question. “What... what, exactly, does IMPCOM do?”
Props smiled. “Save the world.”
Devon deadpanned.
Props snickered at Devon’s expression. “... I guess I’ve been beating around the bush long enough. And it’s not like you aren’t going to find out yourself.”
Jack turned away from the wall and to the window, looking out into the night sky. “... Since the island began, there have always been contestants that have simply not been able to bring in ratings. The Network pulled those contestants and returned them to the mainland after about 6 months of ratings failure. They’d... rehabilitate them, and then send them on their merry way. Out into a society that they might not remember, with people they’d probably forgotten. That’s scary enough in it’s own right. People that had to become hunting, killing machines let loose into the world. And there was the occasional psychological break, sure, but local law enforcement could usually handle it. Recently, though, starting with the latest season of the Island, things changed.”
Jack turned around to face Devon, face serious. “What I’m telling you doesn’t leave this room.”
Still listening intently, she nodded, reclining against the wall. This is gonna be a long one, she can tell.
Jack took a deep breath and then continued, “Ex-Contestants began to... exhibit Improbable abilities while off the Island. Most of the time, it was something small, maybe something they couldn’t control. Stuff that people heading for... for their thirteenth drive kill... would start showing. Little probability hiccups. Rolling a six sided dice and coming up with a seven. Pouring a coffee and it ends up tea in your cup. We call it Probability Breakdown Manifestation. And, if left unchecked, it can cause somebody to become what we call a Focus. On the Island, though, they’d be called a Joker.”
Jack sighs and takes a seat in the chair. “We’re not sure how it happens. We were told that removing contestants from the Improbability Bubble would be enough, but that’s not the case. Those that don’t die of improbability breakdown, which is... surprisingly few, when it comes to most of the Ex-Contestants that are pulled by the network... usually recover after a few weeks and get on with their lives... and then almost all of them start exhibiting Probability Breakdown Manifestations. Almost eighty-five percent of them. And, if that’s left unchecked, they become Focuses. As for the island Contestants that escape on their own... well... we have no way of knowing how many survive, but all the ones that we catch up with later down the line have become focuses. Probably because of their extended exposure to Improbability.”
Devon doesn’t interrupt him or say anything, stone-faced as usual.
Jack continues, “So, Focuses. They range in power from high-DK Jokers to weak Pseudo-Jokers. And their powers vary wildly, just like on the island, as does their control over their power. The escaped contestants have the highest rates of power and ability to control said power.”
Devon seemed to choose this moment to finally speak up. “...So what IMPCOM does...” Seemed like she’s putting things together rather quickly. “...is try ‘n take care of these... ‘focuses’ before they can cause too much trouble outside th’bubble. Before they hurt someone...” That faint hint of a frown crossed her lips again. “...Or before th’public find out. If somethin’ like this were t’get out to th’masses...” She could imagine it right then. Riots. Protests. Reforms. Maybe a “green scare”. It could very well change the show-- and the world-- forever. If they don’t get destroyed in the process, anyway.
In a way, it almost seemed like fun. She doubted that Jack would agree on that point, though. Besides, re-thinking it, she... supposed that after living in a world like that for a while, things might get a little stressful. But thinking about things like this, though... It got her thinking. Thinking about someone that she’d been trying her damndest to keep her mind off of.
“So, then. Th’ones that escape on their own. Th’ones you’ve... ‘caught up with’. ‘sides me... are there very many others that you’ve found?”
She paused, giving her hermano an odd, intense sort of look.
“...Any tha’ I might know?”
Jack frowned, thinking for a moment, his eyes traveling over the wall of photos as he wracked his mind. “... No. I don’t think so, anyway. If you’re wondering, I take care of anybody that I remember from the Island, personally. Make sure they get the care they need, after the... well. I guess there’s another point to explain...”
Jack cleared his throat and spoke again, slowly, “We’ve developed an anti-improbability serum. It neutralizes the improbability levels in anybody that gets injected. It works very well, really, except... there’s always the danger, when you’ve got somebody that has high levels of improbability in them, even the off-island Focuses, that draining their improbability so rapidly could potentially... kill them. It’s happened a few times. It’s rare, but... it’s all we have, really. If somebody shows up that has an extremely dangerous or uncontrolled power, we have to think of the safety of the public first.”
Devon nodded faintly as she listened. Sounds a bit like the serum that she made, really. Except... well. More tested. And probably less dangerous. “Right, right.”
Jack gave Devon a small smile, “So far, I haven’t seen anybody that I knew well from the Island. A few rookies, though, that I remembered from New Home and Kittania. They were always surprised to see me.”
Jack gestured at the wall of photos, “So, that’s what I do with my life. I hunt Focuses, and if they’ve got a dangerous or uncontrollable ability, I inoculate them and drain their improbability. If they have more control, well... most everyone gets innoculated. There’s only a few exceptions, with a few extraordinary cases. Mostly, we fix people that don’t WANT their crazy powers. People that are happy to be off the island, and just want a normal life. But... there’s a few... well, they run. Rogues, keeping ahead of us, usually with good powers and a need to keep said power, for whatever reason. We’re tracking a few right now, actually. They’re hard to catch, but we get them eventually...”
Jack was obviously holding something back when he said that, but he went no further, simply staring at the photos on the wall, his eyes running down the rows of faces.
Devon just let the silence sink in for a few moments, thinking though all this new information that she’s learned. This... explains a lot, really. Things she’s been wondering. Confirms things she’s suspected. But there’s still a few more things she has yet to confirm yet. And if she’s going to try and confirm them, then now is the time to do it.
“Have you been trackin’ One?” Or trying to, at least?
Jack laughs, “God knows, I’ve hunted that crazy bastard. Pulled every file I could find. He’s got a home town, residences, everything, but he’s not there. Not that I’ve seen, anyway. Trail’s gone cold, not that that surprises me. Knowing him, he’s found a corner of the world somewhere and he’s enjoying his victory of escaping the island. I hope he stays there. Good riddance.”
Jack heaves a troubled sigh, though, after this statement. “Knowing what I know now, though, if he’s out there, he probably became a Focus. And that scares the hell out of me. But... there’s nothing that I can do. He’s off the radar, under the wire, whatever you want to call it. If he ever peeks his beard out of his hiding place, though, I’ll be on his ass like white on rice.”
Devon cracked a brief smirk. ...Like white on rice. That’s a new one. But speaking of people that are “off the radar”... “So’s D. But that ain’ stoppin’ me from lookin’.” She considered the situation for a moment. If Props went and helped her with this, provided info for her search... that would leave her in debt, whether either of them liked it or not. “I doubt I’ll find anythin’. I expect not to, actually. But...” she looks up, right into Jack’s eyes. “...I’ll try an’ find you a lead or two.”
She knows that she can’t avoid this for any longer. She has to settle things with him once and for all.
Jack shrugs, but gives his sister a smile. “Don’t worry about it. If something does come up, though, you get some information on One, well... I’d appreciate it if you passed it along. I doubt that’ll happen, though. He’s kept quiet and very hidden, wherever he is.”
Jack sighs, leaning back into a chair. “So, how can I contact you? Do you have access to a workstation or anything? Radio, even?”
Devon pursed her lips in thought for a moment. “Nothin’ I can use t’contact th’head of USA IMPCOM with, no.”
Jack chuckles, “Fair enough. Let me think, then...”
Jack ponders quietly for a moment, before snapping his fingers and standing up, walking into the kitchen. He returns a moment later with the little black box with the button in it. He offers it to Devon. “Here. This is my panic button. You press that, and you’ve got between ten and thirty minutes before a strike team pops out of the sky and blows anything unfriendly to hell. I suggest lying down on the ground with your hands on your head when they show up, since you’re obviously not... well, obviously not me.”
Devon took the box and turned it over in her hand, her eyes narrowing onto it for a second. “Mhm. Right, right.” She might have gotten that. ...Possibly. She seemed to be a tad preoccupied, though. “Yeah, this’ll do,” she appeared to decide. For a moment, her hand reached behind her, as if to strap the box onto her back and set out for adventure... but then she remembered. Right. With a small grimace, she just awkwardly stuffs the box into her pocket. “Not sure how this’s gonna help me t’contact you, but. ‘anks.” Panic buttons are fun to have.
Jack shrugs, “Better than nothing, right?”
Turning, he frowns, considering the pictures once more, and then the clock on the wall. He turns his attention on Devon again after a moment. “If you find One, then use the panic button. I’d like to settle that mystery, once and for all. And... as for your father, I’ll leave that up to you. I trust that you can take care of yourself, but if things get out of hand, use the button. Other than that... come back in two days. I’ll have that information for you. I’ll print out any records I find on Daniel and One, so you can have a hard copy. Other than that, best way to get messages or information to me is to find a computer workstation. There’s usually one or two in every major city, though getting to them could be hard in some cases.”
Jack pulled his wallet out of his pocket and pulled a business card from inside it. It had information for contacting him, including a network number to connect to from a computer.
Devon took the business card, flipping it over and glancing over it. “Christ, can’t even remember th’last time I used a proper one...” she muttered with a faint smirk. She put it carefully in her pants pocket, not wanting it to get too crumbled up too soon. “Aight. Dunno where I’m gonna be goin’ these next few days, but I’ll make sure t’be in th’area when you got th’files.”
Jack gave his sister a small grin, and said, sounding pleased, “Sounds like we’re in business.”
Jack offered Devon his hand for a handshake, to seal the proverbial deal.
Devon took his hand in a firm grip with her own and shook it. Her hand felt oddly warm, and there was a certain odd glint to her eye that most people wouldn’t quite be able to place. “That we are, hermano.”
Props looked out over the multitude of photos, and pointed to a section where the mug-shot like pictures dominated the walls, “Not all of these are islanders. I don’t like to say I bring my work home with me... but I think it’s a good idea to remind myself what I’m doing, sometimes. Those photos are of... ex-islanders. People like you, that escaped, or people that the network pulled off the island because they couldn’t bring in ratings.”
Devon gazed over the gestured photos, thinking to herself. ...Could that have been what happened to Nate? Or to Devin? Given, they could have been fooling around in the jungle somewhere, wouldn’t have been the first time, but... still. It made her wonder. All that shit she went through... just for ratings. She’s glad she left when she did.
Props gestured to the last section, which included mostly ‘official’ pictures of people in uniforms. “And that’s my team.”
Devon looked at the photos, eyebrows raising faintly. Pictures of his team, as well...? “Why d’ya have those? Don’t you see most of ‘em often enough already?” she inquired good-naturedly.
Props chuckled, “A lot of them are out in the field. I only speak to them over the radio, mostly. They’re deployed around the world. I’m not just in charge of the teams in the US. It’s Europe, Africa, and Asia as well. My expertise trained thirty five-man teams. They learned how to fight like an islander, think like and islander, and most importantly, they learned that, no matter how good they may be, there’s always somebody stronger.”
Props slight smile grew serious, “And... a few of them are dead. But I keep their photos, so I can remember the price of failure. So I remember what I’m potentially doing every time I give an order. It’s important to remember that lives are at stake. Not just my men, but the lives of the people we’re looking for, too.”
Devon nodded faintly, looking thoughtful as she looks over the various photos. How many of them are dead? How many times has her brother had to go through the loss of a subordinate, a teammate, or a friend since he got this job? Sure, she was in charge of the ducks back ho-- ...erm. Back at the island. But there... weren’t really many losses. They’re rubber ducks, for chrissake. But these... these were real men and women, made of flesh, blood, and bone. Strong, of course, but so, so delicate... “...Hermano?”
She finally decides to pop the question. “What... what, exactly, does IMPCOM do?”
Props smiled. “Save the world.”
Devon deadpanned.
Props snickered at Devon’s expression. “... I guess I’ve been beating around the bush long enough. And it’s not like you aren’t going to find out yourself.”
Jack turned away from the wall and to the window, looking out into the night sky. “... Since the island began, there have always been contestants that have simply not been able to bring in ratings. The Network pulled those contestants and returned them to the mainland after about 6 months of ratings failure. They’d... rehabilitate them, and then send them on their merry way. Out into a society that they might not remember, with people they’d probably forgotten. That’s scary enough in it’s own right. People that had to become hunting, killing machines let loose into the world. And there was the occasional psychological break, sure, but local law enforcement could usually handle it. Recently, though, starting with the latest season of the Island, things changed.”
Jack turned around to face Devon, face serious. “What I’m telling you doesn’t leave this room.”
Still listening intently, she nodded, reclining against the wall. This is gonna be a long one, she can tell.
Jack took a deep breath and then continued, “Ex-Contestants began to... exhibit Improbable abilities while off the Island. Most of the time, it was something small, maybe something they couldn’t control. Stuff that people heading for... for their thirteenth drive kill... would start showing. Little probability hiccups. Rolling a six sided dice and coming up with a seven. Pouring a coffee and it ends up tea in your cup. We call it Probability Breakdown Manifestation. And, if left unchecked, it can cause somebody to become what we call a Focus. On the Island, though, they’d be called a Joker.”
Jack sighs and takes a seat in the chair. “We’re not sure how it happens. We were told that removing contestants from the Improbability Bubble would be enough, but that’s not the case. Those that don’t die of improbability breakdown, which is... surprisingly few, when it comes to most of the Ex-Contestants that are pulled by the network... usually recover after a few weeks and get on with their lives... and then almost all of them start exhibiting Probability Breakdown Manifestations. Almost eighty-five percent of them. And, if that’s left unchecked, they become Focuses. As for the island Contestants that escape on their own... well... we have no way of knowing how many survive, but all the ones that we catch up with later down the line have become focuses. Probably because of their extended exposure to Improbability.”
Devon doesn’t interrupt him or say anything, stone-faced as usual.
Jack continues, “So, Focuses. They range in power from high-DK Jokers to weak Pseudo-Jokers. And their powers vary wildly, just like on the island, as does their control over their power. The escaped contestants have the highest rates of power and ability to control said power.”
Devon seemed to choose this moment to finally speak up. “...So what IMPCOM does...” Seemed like she’s putting things together rather quickly. “...is try ‘n take care of these... ‘focuses’ before they can cause too much trouble outside th’bubble. Before they hurt someone...” That faint hint of a frown crossed her lips again. “...Or before th’public find out. If somethin’ like this were t’get out to th’masses...” She could imagine it right then. Riots. Protests. Reforms. Maybe a “green scare”. It could very well change the show-- and the world-- forever. If they don’t get destroyed in the process, anyway.
In a way, it almost seemed like fun. She doubted that Jack would agree on that point, though. Besides, re-thinking it, she... supposed that after living in a world like that for a while, things might get a little stressful. But thinking about things like this, though... It got her thinking. Thinking about someone that she’d been trying her damndest to keep her mind off of.
“So, then. Th’ones that escape on their own. Th’ones you’ve... ‘caught up with’. ‘sides me... are there very many others that you’ve found?”
She paused, giving her hermano an odd, intense sort of look.
“...Any tha’ I might know?”
Jack frowned, thinking for a moment, his eyes traveling over the wall of photos as he wracked his mind. “... No. I don’t think so, anyway. If you’re wondering, I take care of anybody that I remember from the Island, personally. Make sure they get the care they need, after the... well. I guess there’s another point to explain...”
Jack cleared his throat and spoke again, slowly, “We’ve developed an anti-improbability serum. It neutralizes the improbability levels in anybody that gets injected. It works very well, really, except... there’s always the danger, when you’ve got somebody that has high levels of improbability in them, even the off-island Focuses, that draining their improbability so rapidly could potentially... kill them. It’s happened a few times. It’s rare, but... it’s all we have, really. If somebody shows up that has an extremely dangerous or uncontrolled power, we have to think of the safety of the public first.”
Devon nodded faintly as she listened. Sounds a bit like the serum that she made, really. Except... well. More tested. And probably less dangerous. “Right, right.”
Jack gave Devon a small smile, “So far, I haven’t seen anybody that I knew well from the Island. A few rookies, though, that I remembered from New Home and Kittania. They were always surprised to see me.”
Jack gestured at the wall of photos, “So, that’s what I do with my life. I hunt Focuses, and if they’ve got a dangerous or uncontrollable ability, I inoculate them and drain their improbability. If they have more control, well... most everyone gets innoculated. There’s only a few exceptions, with a few extraordinary cases. Mostly, we fix people that don’t WANT their crazy powers. People that are happy to be off the island, and just want a normal life. But... there’s a few... well, they run. Rogues, keeping ahead of us, usually with good powers and a need to keep said power, for whatever reason. We’re tracking a few right now, actually. They’re hard to catch, but we get them eventually...”
Jack was obviously holding something back when he said that, but he went no further, simply staring at the photos on the wall, his eyes running down the rows of faces.
Devon just let the silence sink in for a few moments, thinking though all this new information that she’s learned. This... explains a lot, really. Things she’s been wondering. Confirms things she’s suspected. But there’s still a few more things she has yet to confirm yet. And if she’s going to try and confirm them, then now is the time to do it.
“Have you been trackin’ One?” Or trying to, at least?
Jack laughs, “God knows, I’ve hunted that crazy bastard. Pulled every file I could find. He’s got a home town, residences, everything, but he’s not there. Not that I’ve seen, anyway. Trail’s gone cold, not that that surprises me. Knowing him, he’s found a corner of the world somewhere and he’s enjoying his victory of escaping the island. I hope he stays there. Good riddance.”
Jack heaves a troubled sigh, though, after this statement. “Knowing what I know now, though, if he’s out there, he probably became a Focus. And that scares the hell out of me. But... there’s nothing that I can do. He’s off the radar, under the wire, whatever you want to call it. If he ever peeks his beard out of his hiding place, though, I’ll be on his ass like white on rice.”
Devon cracked a brief smirk. ...Like white on rice. That’s a new one. But speaking of people that are “off the radar”... “So’s D. But that ain’ stoppin’ me from lookin’.” She considered the situation for a moment. If Props went and helped her with this, provided info for her search... that would leave her in debt, whether either of them liked it or not. “I doubt I’ll find anythin’. I expect not to, actually. But...” she looks up, right into Jack’s eyes. “...I’ll try an’ find you a lead or two.”
She knows that she can’t avoid this for any longer. She has to settle things with him once and for all.
Jack shrugs, but gives his sister a smile. “Don’t worry about it. If something does come up, though, you get some information on One, well... I’d appreciate it if you passed it along. I doubt that’ll happen, though. He’s kept quiet and very hidden, wherever he is.”
Jack sighs, leaning back into a chair. “So, how can I contact you? Do you have access to a workstation or anything? Radio, even?”
Devon pursed her lips in thought for a moment. “Nothin’ I can use t’contact th’head of USA IMPCOM with, no.”
Jack chuckles, “Fair enough. Let me think, then...”
Jack ponders quietly for a moment, before snapping his fingers and standing up, walking into the kitchen. He returns a moment later with the little black box with the button in it. He offers it to Devon. “Here. This is my panic button. You press that, and you’ve got between ten and thirty minutes before a strike team pops out of the sky and blows anything unfriendly to hell. I suggest lying down on the ground with your hands on your head when they show up, since you’re obviously not... well, obviously not me.”
Devon took the box and turned it over in her hand, her eyes narrowing onto it for a second. “Mhm. Right, right.” She might have gotten that. ...Possibly. She seemed to be a tad preoccupied, though. “Yeah, this’ll do,” she appeared to decide. For a moment, her hand reached behind her, as if to strap the box onto her back and set out for adventure... but then she remembered. Right. With a small grimace, she just awkwardly stuffs the box into her pocket. “Not sure how this’s gonna help me t’contact you, but. ‘anks.” Panic buttons are fun to have.
Jack shrugs, “Better than nothing, right?”
Turning, he frowns, considering the pictures once more, and then the clock on the wall. He turns his attention on Devon again after a moment. “If you find One, then use the panic button. I’d like to settle that mystery, once and for all. And... as for your father, I’ll leave that up to you. I trust that you can take care of yourself, but if things get out of hand, use the button. Other than that... come back in two days. I’ll have that information for you. I’ll print out any records I find on Daniel and One, so you can have a hard copy. Other than that, best way to get messages or information to me is to find a computer workstation. There’s usually one or two in every major city, though getting to them could be hard in some cases.”
Jack pulled his wallet out of his pocket and pulled a business card from inside it. It had information for contacting him, including a network number to connect to from a computer.
Devon took the business card, flipping it over and glancing over it. “Christ, can’t even remember th’last time I used a proper one...” she muttered with a faint smirk. She put it carefully in her pants pocket, not wanting it to get too crumbled up too soon. “Aight. Dunno where I’m gonna be goin’ these next few days, but I’ll make sure t’be in th’area when you got th’files.”
Jack gave his sister a small grin, and said, sounding pleased, “Sounds like we’re in business.”
Jack offered Devon his hand for a handshake, to seal the proverbial deal.
Devon took his hand in a firm grip with her own and shook it. Her hand felt oddly warm, and there was a certain odd glint to her eye that most people wouldn’t quite be able to place. “That we are, hermano.”
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
- Encounter 1, Part 1 -
Jack froze outside his front door, staring at the letter there. Without looking, he pressed a finger across the keyboard of his mobile workstation tablet, posting his latest blog entry onto the network before setting down the tablet, slowly, on the ground. His eyes watched the windows and half-open door, narrowing slowly, suspicion and a twinge of fear running through him. He reached out with one hand to the letter, taped to the door, while his other hand unslung the pistol he carried in a shoulder holster underneath his jacket. He opened the letter with his teeth, spitting out the edge of the envelope and pulling out the enclosed photo. It was a picture, half-developed, of Devon, inside his house, standing with his refrigerator door open, holding a beer and grinning at the camera. Jack suppressed a smirk, and dropped the picture and envelope, putting both hands on his gun and shouldering open his front door. Jack swept through the entryway and living room, and froze outside the hallway connecting the kitchen, bathroom, and bedroom. A quiet sound emanated from the kitchen.
Munch munch munch
The unmistakable sound of tortilla chips. Probably being dipped in the salsa he’d made a few days ago. Damn it, he’d been saving that. Jack grit his teeth and swung around the corner, his pistol sweeping the kitchen and stopping, aimed squarely at the back of somebody that, honestly, he never thought he’d see again. Alone, too. That made things... easier. Jack lowered his gun. “Nice of you to drop by, hermana.”
Devon tilted her head around, bits of chopped vegetables and spices adorning the edges of her mouth, and looked back at her gracious host. Calm and casual as always. She was actually looking a bit more her age, though. A few gray hairs here and there. It had grown out, too, about to her shoulders. A bit tired, too, but obviously well fed. She scooped the last little bit of salsa with a tortilla chip and popped it into her mouth.
CRUNCH munch munch munch
“You might wanna make s’more salsa. We’re all out.”
Jack holstered his gun after giving Devon a long look. He shook his head, looking her up and down slowly. “You’re looking healthy, Devon. Healthier than I’ve ever seen you, really. What’s your secret?”
Jack slid into the chair next to Devon and leaned over, grabbing a chip himself after a second and biting down on it, chewing slowly and trying to take in everything about Devon. Her clothes, her face. Anything could give him a clue to where she’d been and what she’d been up to.
She took another chip and pushed the bag closer to her hermano, figuring that the man of the house might as well have some of his own chips. She answered simply, “Breathin’.”
At first, that sort of response would seem sarcastic, coming from Devon. The way that she said it, though, with that sort of blank-faced, deadpan look, it can be hard to tell how much she’s joking.
She turned to look at him, that same calm, thoughtful look on her face. “Looks like you’ve got it made, hermano. Nice house, plenty of cash, doin’ that whole do-gooder thing you like t’do...”
She looked... remarkably well, actually, considering that she left the island with nothing but the skin on her back. Perhaps an old, healing cut or two on her legs, but otherwise, good. The insides of her palms look a little odd, though. Like new, healing burn scars. Light, but still there. Her clothes were a tiny bit dirty, but knowing her, it’s probably more out of laziness than anything else. Light cargo shorts, gray t-shirt. Light, easy to travel in. And considering the letters, she’d done a lot of travelling.
“Kinda interestin’, though. Every time I sent you a pic t’let you know I was doin’ aight, you went and sent some of th’pack after me. Weird way t’show y’care, but hey, I got th’message.”
Jack leaned back in his chair, taking Devon’s appearance in quietly, his face impassive and calm. He frowned, though, when Devon called him a ‘do-gooder’. He shifted in his chair, slightly, and sighed. “I’m not quite the good guy I’d like to think I am. Not anymore. Things were more black-and-white on the Island. Out here, it’s not so cut-and-dry.”
Jack stood up out of the chair and walked to the fridge, opening it and grabbing a stoppered jug full of amber liquid and setting it out on the counter. Closing the fridge, he walked to a cupboard and grabbed two tall glasses, and set them out between his seat and Devon. He placed the jug there as well, and sat again, unstoppering the jug and pouring two glasses of the liquid. He picked up his glass with a quiet sigh, looking at it, and then back to Devon. “Local brew. It’s all right. About as good as anything you could find on the Island, anyway.”
He took a small sip of the beer, and looked at Devon, speaking again. “I’ll be straight with you, Devon. I was worried about you being off the island. When I left that place, I was... well. I still am stronger, faster, tougher than I ever was out here, even at my prime in the Army. I kept all that strength, even off the Island. And I know you did, too.”
Jack smirked, looking Devon in the eye, “And, well, seeing you here makes me feel a little better, but... let’s face it, you’ve never been a do-gooder like me. You’re not a pussy. You get what you want, and out here, off the Island, there are very, very few people that could stop you.”
Jack leaned forward slightly in his chair as he spoke, “On top of that, you’ve been sending letters to a high-security military installation without passing through the front gate or going through the post, you’ve evaded my operatives at every turn... which didn’t surprise me. But what did surprise me was how fast you moved. So, cards on the table, sister. I’d love to think you came here for a visit, but you’ve been up to something, and you either want to get me in on it, or you need my help for something. So, what’s the game?”
Devon looked up at Jack, listening carefully and patiently as she crossed her legs and leaned back in her... seat. She seemed to prefer the floor for the moment. “Well, you know as well as I do how dangerous it’d be t’put all th’cards on th’table, so I’m jus’ gonna show a few at a time.”
Jack nodded. “Fair enough.”
She paused for a moment, considering what to say, and how to say it. Finally, she speaks, looking not quite at him, and not quite away from him. Sort of... a few inches to his right. “Daniel Ross Gilman. ‘s that name ring a bell anywhere?”
Jack considered a moment, before shaking his head. “Nothing, no. What, you owe this guy money? Do I need to break his kneecaps before he breaks yours?”
Jack gave Devon a small wink. “Pardon the invasion of privacy, but I pulled your ‘official’ file. In the interest of national security, of course.”
Devon’s brow twitched slightly, and the faintest of frowns formed on her face. “No, actually, I don’ think I will pardon it.”
She sighs, shaking her head a little bit. “...But not much I can do ‘bout it now ‘sides beat your head in, and that pro’lly won’ help me any.”
She paused for a moment again. It seemed that she’s having a bit of difficulty trying to say something. Finally, she came out with it. “Legally, he’s... my parent. Listed as dead for fourteen years. I don’ buy it. ‘s not his real name. Dunno his real one, never told me. Never asked. Never thought I’d need to.”
She picked up another chip, eating a little more slowly now. She took a moment to just look it over, at all the old, cooked spots, at the little changes in texture, as if it was the most interesting thing in the world right now. “He’s in hidin’. He’s always been in hidin’. Thing is, he’s really fuckin’ good at it. I might be stronger than most people on th’planet, but that doesn’t seem t’help as much as I’d like sometimes.”
Jack looked surprised. It was plain on his face. He took a long drag on his glass of beer before putting it aside. “Well, now, don’t I look like an asshole.”
He slid off his chair and joined Devon on the floor, grumbling to himself quietly as he did so, before continuing. “I’m not sure how much I can help, Dev, but... well, for you, and for something like that... I’ll do whatever I can. You’ve got my word on that. But... I need you to level with me, if possible. How’ve you been getting around? And how do you have money? That’ll at least set my mind at rest. I’ve been wondering, y’ know?”
Jack held up a hand, before Devon could continue. “But, before you explain, give me a moment.”
Jack stood up and checked his watch, and then moved to the front door of his house. To most people, as the door opened, it would sound silent, quiet as the evening outside was. But Devon and Props weren’t ‘some people’. The night was loud with the sound of rubber soles and suppressed steps, silent movement and the brush of clothes on skin, and the ever-so-slight sound of metal triggers being tensed by nervous fingers.
Jack called out into the night, “Olly-olly ox-en-free, boys. False alarm. Lieutenant, report.”
A voice called out from the darkness of the front yard. “Major Hemmings, what is your situation?”
Jack responded with a chuckle. “My situation is that I’ve become a nervous nancy in my old age, gentleman. Many apologies, but after the slew of base security issues, I thought it’d be better safe than sorry. I left my door unlocked and the cat must have gotten out.”
Somewhere in that conversation must have been a code phrase, because the Lieutenant’s voice sounded far more relaxed when he replied. “Affirmative, sir. And, all clear out here, anyway. No signs of an intruder.”
Jack allowed a little Major-Jack-Hemmings to creep into his voice as he said, “You were twenty seconds late, Lieutenant. If this had been a real emergency...”
Jack let that sentence end itself, and the Lientenant replied, “Loud and clear, sir. We’ll run a few drills, harder and faster.”
Jack smiled out into the dark. He knew they all could see him. They were equipped with night vision gear, of course. “Attaboy, Lieutenant Jameson. Return to base and report in to the duty officer.”
Jack turned and closed the door, not bothering to wait for a reply, and walked back into the Kitchen, a pained expression on his face. “Sorry about that, Devon. I’ve gotten a bit jumpy. We’ve had a few security issues at the base... stuff I can’t really talk about. We’re lucky I remembered I’d pressed my panic button, though.”
For some reason, Devon seems to find the bit about security issues to be a tad amusing, though she hides her smirk fairly well.
Jack reached into his pocket and pulled out a small remote-like device with a smooth surface. He switched open the front of the device, revealing a small button recessed into the device. He tossed it on the counter and sighed.
Devon leaned forward, folding her hands in her lap as she considered for a second. Oddly enough, this pause was considerably less than when she had to talk about her “parent”. ...Or not oddly enough, considering how awkward she could be with the subject of family. “Well... truthfully, I started out basically on my own for a few days. Figured I wouldn’t be quite this lucky, but... turns out, someone found me. They were lookin’ for me. Expectin’ me. And... turns out, I’m not th’only one lookin’ for... ‘Daniel’.”
It’s an odd way that she says the name, like she’s not used to it. She probably gave him some other nicknames, or something like that.
“Apparently,” she states with just the slightest bit of distain, “he’d gotten himself an honest-t’god ladyfriend while I was gone. Thing is, he disappeared on her, too. …’s not like it was with me, though. From th’way she talked ‘bout it...”
She takes a deep breath for a moment. “...Well. Let’s just say tha’ he could be in really deep shit.”
Jack frowned, thinking carefully. “Who else is looking for... Daniel? And how did they find you? I mean, you could have come ashore after you left the island... anywhere, really. And so few people have access to island feeds, unless the Network aired your daring cannon-assisted escape... that’s worrying.”
Jack exhaled slowly, looking up at the counter and grabbing Devon’s glass of beer and offering it to her before speaking again. “So, you’ve been searching around for your... father, with these people that have been helping you.”
Jack frowned. “Are you sure you’re safe, Devon? I don’t mean to say you can’t take care of yourself, but I worry. You know me. Mother hen.”
Devon took the glass and... oh. Wow. Huh. Guess that QQQ spirit stayed with her. She placed the now-empty glass on the ground beside her and told him straight-up, “Pro’lly in serious danger. But hey, that’s how I roll, y’know?”
She tilted the empty glass back and forth idly. “‘sides. I’ll be fine. I said I’d come back. So I’m gonna. ...But I gotta take care o’business out here, first. Make sure I don’ leave with any regrets this time.”
Jack scowled at Devon openly. Well, that’s more like what he expected, anyway. “So, what can I do to help you be... safer? And, what do you need from me to help you find your father? I have access to basically every post-EMP record archived, including civilian records. I can include Daniel Gilman in your current ‘open’ file, requisition them for records and cross-referencing, and get you any information I find.”
Jack allowed his scowl to drop. “Of course, if anyone found out where you got that information from, I’d be screwed, so let’s keep this between us. If you have to, tell your father’s... friends... that you broke in somewhere and got onto an unsecured govement workstation. If you need it, I can be an... ace in the hole for you. If you get into some real shit... I have the resources to pick you up anywhere in the world. And I mean anywhere, within a few hours for worldwide, or as little as thirty minutes in the States.”
Devon winced slightly at the word father. It’s hard enough for her to call anyone a parent, let alone get any more specific than that, but... she’d let it go. Not worth arguing over. “...Yeah. I’m gonna need all post-EMP documents on Daniel Ross Gilman... and also, Robert Matthew Weaver. …’parently, it was his name about a year ago, before he disappeared again.”
There’s a pause for a few moments. “...’n... for th’record... try t’keep this really down-low. He... didn’t always do the right thing. But he’s a good man. Y’have my word on that. An’ I’d rather he not get into any more trouble if I can help it.”
Jack nodded, “I’ll take it very seriously. Not that anyone would question me. I am the boss, after all. I can do pretty much whatever I want when it comes to people from the Island.”
Jack’s eyes widened slightly for a moment, and he looked to Devon slowly, from her scarred hands to her eyes. “... Okay, this is going to sound strange, but... since you left... have you... tried using Improbability?”
For a moment, Devon seemed... a little bit tense. “...You’re right,” she responded in a low voice. “That does sound strange.”
She doesn’t even bother hiding her hands. “Have you?” she countered.
Jack nodded, smiling to himself, “A hundred thousand times. Every day, I used to try. It’s... stupid, though. I take injections of an anti-improbability serum we developed every three months.”
Jack swallows hard. Devon won’t have heard this. “... I’m... well, I’m allergic to Improbability.”
He paused, trying to organize how to say everything. “When they took me off the island, they injected me with a prototype anti-improbability serum. It... probably should have killed me, or shouldn’t have worked. But it worked... too well. If I’m exposed to improbability for a long period, my body... starts trying to fight the improbability. Like a virus, only it’s attacking itself. I have an exposure cap of about three days to low-level improbability, like... well, like some of the things I work around. But that’d be constant exposure, and the base is well shielded. But if I went back to the island... I’d have about six hours before my body started trying to kill itself. And that time decreases around Jokers and other highly-improbable things.”
Devon had been listening this entire time, a hint of surprise on her face, and... perhaps a hint of nervousness...? “...Well, then. ‘s a good thing I’m human, then. Otherwise, you’d pro’lly be in deep shit here, wouldn’t ya?”
There’s a ghost of a smile on her face. It seemed real, but... less certain, somehow.
Jack kept a poker face. “Funny thing, because... well, with... some of the things I work with... the improbability level is very different than, say, an on-island joker. Something about being away from the Drive, the techs tell me. So, if, for some reason, I was... unintentionally exposed to something, say, a joker of your ability levels, on the island? Pretty much deadly after about four or five hours. Off the island, though? I could stand next to you for about three days before things started going wrong. And I mean you’d have to stand next to me for three days. Luckily, the doses of anti-improbability nullify most of any sort of chance-encounter stuff that I might run into. Understand?”
Jack gave Devon a knowing look. “And, if you were considering trying to use Improbability off the island, which we know is impossible, then you should try to keep that on the down-low as well. No need to be starting any panics or anything, hm?”
Devon just kept looking at Jack, that slightly disturbed expression still on her face. “...You... you sayin’ you don’ think it worked.”
A pause. “...You’re sayin’ you don’ think I coulda made somethin’ in ten years by myself that th’military’s been tryin’ t’do right for longer. ‘s that right?” She’s... starting to look a little aggravated.
Jack frowned. “... No. I mean that, if, say, for some absurd reason, you started manifesting improbable abilities while off the Island, despite the fact that you drained all your improbability before leaving the Island and the fact that you are off the Island, where Improbability doesn’t happen, you don’t have to worry about accidentally killing me by standing too close or something. That’s all.”
Jack turned, pouring himself some more beer from the jug, and offered Devon some more as well. “You need anything else, sister? Or can we put the business aside and visit for a bit?“
She just looked at Jack. You know the kind. The kind of look where it feels like they’re trying to turn you inside-out so that they can see all your little organs. Eventually, though, she decides to just let it go for now. She’s travelled a long way, and it was hard enough sneaking into this place undetected. Devon just shook her head and closed her eyes, frowning. “...Yeah, I’m kinda sick of business right now. Let’s jus’ get to th’visitin’ part.”
Jack grinned. That’s what he’d been wanting to hear. He stood up and stretched. “You eaten yet, hermana? I still can make a mean meal. Don’t have quite the selection of the ‘ol Improbable Fridge back home, but I make do.”
Devon arched her back a bit, stretching before starting to stand up as well. “‘sides th’salsa, chips, an’ a cheap fast-food salad this mornin’, not much. Whatever y’feel like makin’. ‘s long as it’s food an’ not improbable, I’m good.”
Jack snickered, “I don’t think we have to worry about Improbable food here.”
Jack returned to the fridge and peeked inside, taking stock quietly for a moment before reaching in and pulling out some leftover chicken in a bag. Reaching up onto the stove, he turned a knob, and lit the gas range after a moment of fumbling with the matches. He set a pan on the stove and dropped in a blob of butter from a tureen on the counter, and then dropped in the chicken.
Jack looked serene as he cooked, just like he always did. He added some spices, a bit of chili powder and garlic, and began sautéing the diced chicken, adding a little flare to the otherwise boring fowl. After it was heated to his satisfaction, he took the pan off the stove and reached into cupboard, retrieving tortillas. Another trip to the fridge for some leftover shredded cheese, and a lime, and within minutes Props set some chicken tacos before Devon with a grin. “Enjoy.”
After a while of watching her hermano cook with a faintly focused expression on her face, she began to dig into her meal with gusto. She’d been smelling it as it cooked, practically drooling as she finally put the first bite into her mouth. “Oh gauh,” she exclaimed with her mouth full, the biggest grin forming on her face. “Phahgeh amahagh!” She’d been eating well, yes, but not this well. Worth the trip.
Props grinned at his sister, “I still got it, huh?”
Devon just closed her eyes and nodded, taking a moment to chew up a little more and swallow before answering, “Hell, pro’lly worth gettin’ off th’island jus’ for this,” she told him, before adding off-handedly, “Just. Y’know. Don’ let it get to your head or anythin’.”
Props snorted, “Nah, no way. Not like you can make my ego any worse anyway. On the island I was regular ‘ol Props, the medic. Here? I outrun all my men, out bench the strongest, and I can outfight most of the kids on the assault teams. My ego’s about as bad as it’s ever been, sister. I could use a little criticism, honestly.”
Props finished his own tacos, sitting down next to his sister and taking a bite. He chewed slowly, enjoying his cooking, and glanced at Devon, “So, how’s the home front? You and Devin doin’ all right? I don’t catch you very much on-camera.”
Devon’s cheerful mood seemed to dampen quite a bit at the query, and her bright smile disappeared as she chewed on her current bite. After swallowing (with a hint of difficulty), she responded evenly, “Haven’ seen ‘im.” She fills her mouth with another bite of delicious chicken taco to try and get rid of the sour taste forming in her mouth.
Props grimaced to himself and took another bite of the tacos. Smooth one. “You gettin’ along with Ko okay? And I see Rose sometimes, too. I thought she was dead, but... well, maybe I was mistaken. She doing okay?”
She shrugged faintly, doing that sort-of-looking-at-him-but-really-looking-a-few-inches-to-the-right thing again. “Ko’s... Ko. Roz or... Monkey, or... whatever. She’s still dead. You pro’lly saw the alternate-dimension her.” ...Which reminded her of her own alternate-dimension self... “Look, could we... y’know. Not talk ‘bout th’island? I sorta left that place for a reason, y’know.”
Props nodded once. “Yeah... yeah, sorry. Just... I don’t get to be one-on-one with people from the Island very often. It’s... yeah. I missed you, Devon. I’m glad you stopped by, business or not.”
He smiled at his sister, “If you’re gonna be off the island for a while, drop by again sometime... maybe bring your... Daniel. Being him along, when you find him. We’ll have a little family reunion.”
She gave him a little one-sided shrug with a “Maybe.” Might as well be a “yes” to her.
Props glanced out towards the living room, and gestured to her. “C’mere. I want to show you something.”
Standing, Props walked down the hall to the living room. It was a cozy affair, a couch and a small coffee table, with a heating stove on one wall, and a television set on a stand. One wall was dominated by pictures, though. All sorts of snap-shots of different people, some in groups, some just single shots. A whole section appeared to be sort of mug-shots, and another one appeared to be more ‘official’ photos, color, face-on, usually people in uniforms. Props stood in front of the wall, looking at it carefully, before pointing to the whole affair. “I’ve been using my spare time to track down people that have family on the island. I’ve done my best. Some people are tough to track down. The island changes people, you know? But... well. I was hoping, maybe, you might be able to clear up something. A little mystery.”
Props pointed to a picture in the middle. It was a shot of Devon, from the Island, all wings and fire and fury. In a word, an epic picture. Beneath it was a empty spot, large enough to fit two photos. “... I was hoping you could help me find... your friends. The two from the story. You only used nicknames... but I was hoping, since you’re here... you could tell me a little more.”
Devon just gazed at the picture of herself for a few moments, barely seeming to be listening to what Jack was saying. After a few moments, the last part of it seemed to register, and briefly, her face twisted in confusion. “...Story? What story’re you-- oh.” Her expression went completely blank. “...You mean... th’one I told Fel.” There was a brief pause before she answered.
“...Forget about it.”
She turned towards the other photos, idly looking through them as she continued. “Your job is hard enough as it is. There’s no need to make it harder by over-analyzing fairytales.”
- Continued in Part 2 -
Munch munch munch
The unmistakable sound of tortilla chips. Probably being dipped in the salsa he’d made a few days ago. Damn it, he’d been saving that. Jack grit his teeth and swung around the corner, his pistol sweeping the kitchen and stopping, aimed squarely at the back of somebody that, honestly, he never thought he’d see again. Alone, too. That made things... easier. Jack lowered his gun. “Nice of you to drop by, hermana.”
Devon tilted her head around, bits of chopped vegetables and spices adorning the edges of her mouth, and looked back at her gracious host. Calm and casual as always. She was actually looking a bit more her age, though. A few gray hairs here and there. It had grown out, too, about to her shoulders. A bit tired, too, but obviously well fed. She scooped the last little bit of salsa with a tortilla chip and popped it into her mouth.
CRUNCH munch munch munch
“You might wanna make s’more salsa. We’re all out.”
Jack holstered his gun after giving Devon a long look. He shook his head, looking her up and down slowly. “You’re looking healthy, Devon. Healthier than I’ve ever seen you, really. What’s your secret?”
Jack slid into the chair next to Devon and leaned over, grabbing a chip himself after a second and biting down on it, chewing slowly and trying to take in everything about Devon. Her clothes, her face. Anything could give him a clue to where she’d been and what she’d been up to.
She took another chip and pushed the bag closer to her hermano, figuring that the man of the house might as well have some of his own chips. She answered simply, “Breathin’.”
At first, that sort of response would seem sarcastic, coming from Devon. The way that she said it, though, with that sort of blank-faced, deadpan look, it can be hard to tell how much she’s joking.
She turned to look at him, that same calm, thoughtful look on her face. “Looks like you’ve got it made, hermano. Nice house, plenty of cash, doin’ that whole do-gooder thing you like t’do...”
She looked... remarkably well, actually, considering that she left the island with nothing but the skin on her back. Perhaps an old, healing cut or two on her legs, but otherwise, good. The insides of her palms look a little odd, though. Like new, healing burn scars. Light, but still there. Her clothes were a tiny bit dirty, but knowing her, it’s probably more out of laziness than anything else. Light cargo shorts, gray t-shirt. Light, easy to travel in. And considering the letters, she’d done a lot of travelling.
“Kinda interestin’, though. Every time I sent you a pic t’let you know I was doin’ aight, you went and sent some of th’pack after me. Weird way t’show y’care, but hey, I got th’message.”
Jack leaned back in his chair, taking Devon’s appearance in quietly, his face impassive and calm. He frowned, though, when Devon called him a ‘do-gooder’. He shifted in his chair, slightly, and sighed. “I’m not quite the good guy I’d like to think I am. Not anymore. Things were more black-and-white on the Island. Out here, it’s not so cut-and-dry.”
Jack stood up out of the chair and walked to the fridge, opening it and grabbing a stoppered jug full of amber liquid and setting it out on the counter. Closing the fridge, he walked to a cupboard and grabbed two tall glasses, and set them out between his seat and Devon. He placed the jug there as well, and sat again, unstoppering the jug and pouring two glasses of the liquid. He picked up his glass with a quiet sigh, looking at it, and then back to Devon. “Local brew. It’s all right. About as good as anything you could find on the Island, anyway.”
He took a small sip of the beer, and looked at Devon, speaking again. “I’ll be straight with you, Devon. I was worried about you being off the island. When I left that place, I was... well. I still am stronger, faster, tougher than I ever was out here, even at my prime in the Army. I kept all that strength, even off the Island. And I know you did, too.”
Jack smirked, looking Devon in the eye, “And, well, seeing you here makes me feel a little better, but... let’s face it, you’ve never been a do-gooder like me. You’re not a pussy. You get what you want, and out here, off the Island, there are very, very few people that could stop you.”
Jack leaned forward slightly in his chair as he spoke, “On top of that, you’ve been sending letters to a high-security military installation without passing through the front gate or going through the post, you’ve evaded my operatives at every turn... which didn’t surprise me. But what did surprise me was how fast you moved. So, cards on the table, sister. I’d love to think you came here for a visit, but you’ve been up to something, and you either want to get me in on it, or you need my help for something. So, what’s the game?”
Devon looked up at Jack, listening carefully and patiently as she crossed her legs and leaned back in her... seat. She seemed to prefer the floor for the moment. “Well, you know as well as I do how dangerous it’d be t’put all th’cards on th’table, so I’m jus’ gonna show a few at a time.”
Jack nodded. “Fair enough.”
She paused for a moment, considering what to say, and how to say it. Finally, she speaks, looking not quite at him, and not quite away from him. Sort of... a few inches to his right. “Daniel Ross Gilman. ‘s that name ring a bell anywhere?”
Jack considered a moment, before shaking his head. “Nothing, no. What, you owe this guy money? Do I need to break his kneecaps before he breaks yours?”
Jack gave Devon a small wink. “Pardon the invasion of privacy, but I pulled your ‘official’ file. In the interest of national security, of course.”
Devon’s brow twitched slightly, and the faintest of frowns formed on her face. “No, actually, I don’ think I will pardon it.”
She sighs, shaking her head a little bit. “...But not much I can do ‘bout it now ‘sides beat your head in, and that pro’lly won’ help me any.”
She paused for a moment again. It seemed that she’s having a bit of difficulty trying to say something. Finally, she came out with it. “Legally, he’s... my parent. Listed as dead for fourteen years. I don’ buy it. ‘s not his real name. Dunno his real one, never told me. Never asked. Never thought I’d need to.”
She picked up another chip, eating a little more slowly now. She took a moment to just look it over, at all the old, cooked spots, at the little changes in texture, as if it was the most interesting thing in the world right now. “He’s in hidin’. He’s always been in hidin’. Thing is, he’s really fuckin’ good at it. I might be stronger than most people on th’planet, but that doesn’t seem t’help as much as I’d like sometimes.”
Jack looked surprised. It was plain on his face. He took a long drag on his glass of beer before putting it aside. “Well, now, don’t I look like an asshole.”
He slid off his chair and joined Devon on the floor, grumbling to himself quietly as he did so, before continuing. “I’m not sure how much I can help, Dev, but... well, for you, and for something like that... I’ll do whatever I can. You’ve got my word on that. But... I need you to level with me, if possible. How’ve you been getting around? And how do you have money? That’ll at least set my mind at rest. I’ve been wondering, y’ know?”
Jack held up a hand, before Devon could continue. “But, before you explain, give me a moment.”
Jack stood up and checked his watch, and then moved to the front door of his house. To most people, as the door opened, it would sound silent, quiet as the evening outside was. But Devon and Props weren’t ‘some people’. The night was loud with the sound of rubber soles and suppressed steps, silent movement and the brush of clothes on skin, and the ever-so-slight sound of metal triggers being tensed by nervous fingers.
Jack called out into the night, “Olly-olly ox-en-free, boys. False alarm. Lieutenant, report.”
A voice called out from the darkness of the front yard. “Major Hemmings, what is your situation?”
Jack responded with a chuckle. “My situation is that I’ve become a nervous nancy in my old age, gentleman. Many apologies, but after the slew of base security issues, I thought it’d be better safe than sorry. I left my door unlocked and the cat must have gotten out.”
Somewhere in that conversation must have been a code phrase, because the Lieutenant’s voice sounded far more relaxed when he replied. “Affirmative, sir. And, all clear out here, anyway. No signs of an intruder.”
Jack allowed a little Major-Jack-Hemmings to creep into his voice as he said, “You were twenty seconds late, Lieutenant. If this had been a real emergency...”
Jack let that sentence end itself, and the Lientenant replied, “Loud and clear, sir. We’ll run a few drills, harder and faster.”
Jack smiled out into the dark. He knew they all could see him. They were equipped with night vision gear, of course. “Attaboy, Lieutenant Jameson. Return to base and report in to the duty officer.”
Jack turned and closed the door, not bothering to wait for a reply, and walked back into the Kitchen, a pained expression on his face. “Sorry about that, Devon. I’ve gotten a bit jumpy. We’ve had a few security issues at the base... stuff I can’t really talk about. We’re lucky I remembered I’d pressed my panic button, though.”
For some reason, Devon seems to find the bit about security issues to be a tad amusing, though she hides her smirk fairly well.
Jack reached into his pocket and pulled out a small remote-like device with a smooth surface. He switched open the front of the device, revealing a small button recessed into the device. He tossed it on the counter and sighed.
Devon leaned forward, folding her hands in her lap as she considered for a second. Oddly enough, this pause was considerably less than when she had to talk about her “parent”. ...Or not oddly enough, considering how awkward she could be with the subject of family. “Well... truthfully, I started out basically on my own for a few days. Figured I wouldn’t be quite this lucky, but... turns out, someone found me. They were lookin’ for me. Expectin’ me. And... turns out, I’m not th’only one lookin’ for... ‘Daniel’.”
It’s an odd way that she says the name, like she’s not used to it. She probably gave him some other nicknames, or something like that.
“Apparently,” she states with just the slightest bit of distain, “he’d gotten himself an honest-t’god ladyfriend while I was gone. Thing is, he disappeared on her, too. …’s not like it was with me, though. From th’way she talked ‘bout it...”
She takes a deep breath for a moment. “...Well. Let’s just say tha’ he could be in really deep shit.”
Jack frowned, thinking carefully. “Who else is looking for... Daniel? And how did they find you? I mean, you could have come ashore after you left the island... anywhere, really. And so few people have access to island feeds, unless the Network aired your daring cannon-assisted escape... that’s worrying.”
Jack exhaled slowly, looking up at the counter and grabbing Devon’s glass of beer and offering it to her before speaking again. “So, you’ve been searching around for your... father, with these people that have been helping you.”
Jack frowned. “Are you sure you’re safe, Devon? I don’t mean to say you can’t take care of yourself, but I worry. You know me. Mother hen.”
Devon took the glass and... oh. Wow. Huh. Guess that QQQ spirit stayed with her. She placed the now-empty glass on the ground beside her and told him straight-up, “Pro’lly in serious danger. But hey, that’s how I roll, y’know?”
She tilted the empty glass back and forth idly. “‘sides. I’ll be fine. I said I’d come back. So I’m gonna. ...But I gotta take care o’business out here, first. Make sure I don’ leave with any regrets this time.”
Jack scowled at Devon openly. Well, that’s more like what he expected, anyway. “So, what can I do to help you be... safer? And, what do you need from me to help you find your father? I have access to basically every post-EMP record archived, including civilian records. I can include Daniel Gilman in your current ‘open’ file, requisition them for records and cross-referencing, and get you any information I find.”
Jack allowed his scowl to drop. “Of course, if anyone found out where you got that information from, I’d be screwed, so let’s keep this between us. If you have to, tell your father’s... friends... that you broke in somewhere and got onto an unsecured govement workstation. If you need it, I can be an... ace in the hole for you. If you get into some real shit... I have the resources to pick you up anywhere in the world. And I mean anywhere, within a few hours for worldwide, or as little as thirty minutes in the States.”
Devon winced slightly at the word father. It’s hard enough for her to call anyone a parent, let alone get any more specific than that, but... she’d let it go. Not worth arguing over. “...Yeah. I’m gonna need all post-EMP documents on Daniel Ross Gilman... and also, Robert Matthew Weaver. …’parently, it was his name about a year ago, before he disappeared again.”
There’s a pause for a few moments. “...’n... for th’record... try t’keep this really down-low. He... didn’t always do the right thing. But he’s a good man. Y’have my word on that. An’ I’d rather he not get into any more trouble if I can help it.”
Jack nodded, “I’ll take it very seriously. Not that anyone would question me. I am the boss, after all. I can do pretty much whatever I want when it comes to people from the Island.”
Jack’s eyes widened slightly for a moment, and he looked to Devon slowly, from her scarred hands to her eyes. “... Okay, this is going to sound strange, but... since you left... have you... tried using Improbability?”
For a moment, Devon seemed... a little bit tense. “...You’re right,” she responded in a low voice. “That does sound strange.”
She doesn’t even bother hiding her hands. “Have you?” she countered.
Jack nodded, smiling to himself, “A hundred thousand times. Every day, I used to try. It’s... stupid, though. I take injections of an anti-improbability serum we developed every three months.”
Jack swallows hard. Devon won’t have heard this. “... I’m... well, I’m allergic to Improbability.”
He paused, trying to organize how to say everything. “When they took me off the island, they injected me with a prototype anti-improbability serum. It... probably should have killed me, or shouldn’t have worked. But it worked... too well. If I’m exposed to improbability for a long period, my body... starts trying to fight the improbability. Like a virus, only it’s attacking itself. I have an exposure cap of about three days to low-level improbability, like... well, like some of the things I work around. But that’d be constant exposure, and the base is well shielded. But if I went back to the island... I’d have about six hours before my body started trying to kill itself. And that time decreases around Jokers and other highly-improbable things.”
Devon had been listening this entire time, a hint of surprise on her face, and... perhaps a hint of nervousness...? “...Well, then. ‘s a good thing I’m human, then. Otherwise, you’d pro’lly be in deep shit here, wouldn’t ya?”
There’s a ghost of a smile on her face. It seemed real, but... less certain, somehow.
Jack kept a poker face. “Funny thing, because... well, with... some of the things I work with... the improbability level is very different than, say, an on-island joker. Something about being away from the Drive, the techs tell me. So, if, for some reason, I was... unintentionally exposed to something, say, a joker of your ability levels, on the island? Pretty much deadly after about four or five hours. Off the island, though? I could stand next to you for about three days before things started going wrong. And I mean you’d have to stand next to me for three days. Luckily, the doses of anti-improbability nullify most of any sort of chance-encounter stuff that I might run into. Understand?”
Jack gave Devon a knowing look. “And, if you were considering trying to use Improbability off the island, which we know is impossible, then you should try to keep that on the down-low as well. No need to be starting any panics or anything, hm?”
Devon just kept looking at Jack, that slightly disturbed expression still on her face. “...You... you sayin’ you don’ think it worked.”
A pause. “...You’re sayin’ you don’ think I coulda made somethin’ in ten years by myself that th’military’s been tryin’ t’do right for longer. ‘s that right?” She’s... starting to look a little aggravated.
Jack frowned. “... No. I mean that, if, say, for some absurd reason, you started manifesting improbable abilities while off the Island, despite the fact that you drained all your improbability before leaving the Island and the fact that you are off the Island, where Improbability doesn’t happen, you don’t have to worry about accidentally killing me by standing too close or something. That’s all.”
Jack turned, pouring himself some more beer from the jug, and offered Devon some more as well. “You need anything else, sister? Or can we put the business aside and visit for a bit?“
She just looked at Jack. You know the kind. The kind of look where it feels like they’re trying to turn you inside-out so that they can see all your little organs. Eventually, though, she decides to just let it go for now. She’s travelled a long way, and it was hard enough sneaking into this place undetected. Devon just shook her head and closed her eyes, frowning. “...Yeah, I’m kinda sick of business right now. Let’s jus’ get to th’visitin’ part.”
Jack grinned. That’s what he’d been wanting to hear. He stood up and stretched. “You eaten yet, hermana? I still can make a mean meal. Don’t have quite the selection of the ‘ol Improbable Fridge back home, but I make do.”
Devon arched her back a bit, stretching before starting to stand up as well. “‘sides th’salsa, chips, an’ a cheap fast-food salad this mornin’, not much. Whatever y’feel like makin’. ‘s long as it’s food an’ not improbable, I’m good.”
Jack snickered, “I don’t think we have to worry about Improbable food here.”
Jack returned to the fridge and peeked inside, taking stock quietly for a moment before reaching in and pulling out some leftover chicken in a bag. Reaching up onto the stove, he turned a knob, and lit the gas range after a moment of fumbling with the matches. He set a pan on the stove and dropped in a blob of butter from a tureen on the counter, and then dropped in the chicken.
Jack looked serene as he cooked, just like he always did. He added some spices, a bit of chili powder and garlic, and began sautéing the diced chicken, adding a little flare to the otherwise boring fowl. After it was heated to his satisfaction, he took the pan off the stove and reached into cupboard, retrieving tortillas. Another trip to the fridge for some leftover shredded cheese, and a lime, and within minutes Props set some chicken tacos before Devon with a grin. “Enjoy.”
After a while of watching her hermano cook with a faintly focused expression on her face, she began to dig into her meal with gusto. She’d been smelling it as it cooked, practically drooling as she finally put the first bite into her mouth. “Oh gauh,” she exclaimed with her mouth full, the biggest grin forming on her face. “Phahgeh amahagh!” She’d been eating well, yes, but not this well. Worth the trip.
Props grinned at his sister, “I still got it, huh?”
Devon just closed her eyes and nodded, taking a moment to chew up a little more and swallow before answering, “Hell, pro’lly worth gettin’ off th’island jus’ for this,” she told him, before adding off-handedly, “Just. Y’know. Don’ let it get to your head or anythin’.”
Props snorted, “Nah, no way. Not like you can make my ego any worse anyway. On the island I was regular ‘ol Props, the medic. Here? I outrun all my men, out bench the strongest, and I can outfight most of the kids on the assault teams. My ego’s about as bad as it’s ever been, sister. I could use a little criticism, honestly.”
Props finished his own tacos, sitting down next to his sister and taking a bite. He chewed slowly, enjoying his cooking, and glanced at Devon, “So, how’s the home front? You and Devin doin’ all right? I don’t catch you very much on-camera.”
Devon’s cheerful mood seemed to dampen quite a bit at the query, and her bright smile disappeared as she chewed on her current bite. After swallowing (with a hint of difficulty), she responded evenly, “Haven’ seen ‘im.” She fills her mouth with another bite of delicious chicken taco to try and get rid of the sour taste forming in her mouth.
Props grimaced to himself and took another bite of the tacos. Smooth one. “You gettin’ along with Ko okay? And I see Rose sometimes, too. I thought she was dead, but... well, maybe I was mistaken. She doing okay?”
She shrugged faintly, doing that sort-of-looking-at-him-but-really-looking-a-few-inches-to-the-right thing again. “Ko’s... Ko. Roz or... Monkey, or... whatever. She’s still dead. You pro’lly saw the alternate-dimension her.” ...Which reminded her of her own alternate-dimension self... “Look, could we... y’know. Not talk ‘bout th’island? I sorta left that place for a reason, y’know.”
Props nodded once. “Yeah... yeah, sorry. Just... I don’t get to be one-on-one with people from the Island very often. It’s... yeah. I missed you, Devon. I’m glad you stopped by, business or not.”
He smiled at his sister, “If you’re gonna be off the island for a while, drop by again sometime... maybe bring your... Daniel. Being him along, when you find him. We’ll have a little family reunion.”
She gave him a little one-sided shrug with a “Maybe.” Might as well be a “yes” to her.
Props glanced out towards the living room, and gestured to her. “C’mere. I want to show you something.”
Standing, Props walked down the hall to the living room. It was a cozy affair, a couch and a small coffee table, with a heating stove on one wall, and a television set on a stand. One wall was dominated by pictures, though. All sorts of snap-shots of different people, some in groups, some just single shots. A whole section appeared to be sort of mug-shots, and another one appeared to be more ‘official’ photos, color, face-on, usually people in uniforms. Props stood in front of the wall, looking at it carefully, before pointing to the whole affair. “I’ve been using my spare time to track down people that have family on the island. I’ve done my best. Some people are tough to track down. The island changes people, you know? But... well. I was hoping, maybe, you might be able to clear up something. A little mystery.”
Props pointed to a picture in the middle. It was a shot of Devon, from the Island, all wings and fire and fury. In a word, an epic picture. Beneath it was a empty spot, large enough to fit two photos. “... I was hoping you could help me find... your friends. The two from the story. You only used nicknames... but I was hoping, since you’re here... you could tell me a little more.”
Devon just gazed at the picture of herself for a few moments, barely seeming to be listening to what Jack was saying. After a few moments, the last part of it seemed to register, and briefly, her face twisted in confusion. “...Story? What story’re you-- oh.” Her expression went completely blank. “...You mean... th’one I told Fel.” There was a brief pause before she answered.
“...Forget about it.”
She turned towards the other photos, idly looking through them as she continued. “Your job is hard enough as it is. There’s no need to make it harder by over-analyzing fairytales.”
- Continued in Part 2 -
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