you're the only one we got

5 as a nondescript, invisible man

Batroun, Lebanon

Hannah did not have a typical lonely childhood. There were no bullies casually leaning against her locker flipping coins in a continuous loop, smugly chewing on a toothpick. (Okay, so she secretly had no idea what bullies really looked like.) There were no practical jokes, played at her expense. No sneers and cruelty, ignored by the teachers and authority figures. No, it was the complete and utter dismissal of her was the inescapable specter of her younger years.

She had often played a game, by herself of course, of Would you rather. Would you rather be able to fly or breathe underwater? Would you rather lose your sight or your hearing? Her personal favorite was Would you rather be hated or ignored. Whether tis nobler to suffer the slings and arrows… To be ignored was a slow, ignominious death where no one attended the funeral. If you were hated, at least people knew who you were. At least they spat on your grave and laid thorns on your coffin.

Even so, she blended. Even if Hannah never met the team face-to-face, she would bet her bottom dollar that Amir had a similar experience in his formative years. The voice she heard over the speakers, the connection separated by a couple of thousands of miles, was a steady flow of reassuring words he gave the people from DC. Along with his teammates other, more descriptive tones, Amir's words were easily overlooked. He did not leave any sort of impression. (And she meant that in the nicest way possible.)

Hopefully, the ease with which he was overlooked would be useful in this situation.

Twenty-four bodies were lying on the floor of the wooden stage. On their stomachs, their hands were zip tied, binding the wrists together. Powerful spotlights hanging from the alcoves of the theater illuminated the area, casting a bizarre print of shadows from the looming hostage holders. Six men stood, evenly spaced clutching AK-47s. A child, barely past the toddler stages curled around her father's leg, whimpering and seeking comfort. Amir was lying next to the man, face stony and covertly following the patterns of the dissident's movements.

The DIA was in a flurry of activity. Patricia Campbell, director, was poised, the perfect picture of composure and patience. Ready but not overly-aggressive. She leaned forward against the desk, cool, piercing blue eyes calculating probabilities and possibilities by following the camera's field-of-vision. the only sign of stress were her hands, braced, slightly too tight—bloodless, pale gripping the mahogany desk.

"Dalton, two tangoes in 10."

"Copy, Command" said a slight voice with a mechanical lilt over the comms. The video relay showed the catwalks swinging slightly from the adjusted movements of Jaz leaving and crawling into the rafters. Her positioning ought to be good; if any were to look up, they would be blinded by the lights. "Jaz, you get Moe. I'm on Curly." Jaz gave a brief nod as Dalton stood stock-still behind suspended sand bags. "On my signal."

Two men who, frankly, quite aptly fit their nicknames came into overview of the bodycam of Jaz. Dalton made a fist and waited. When "Curly" walked past his hidden spot, the Commander gave a quick nod in her general vicinity, dropped the fist, and wrapped his arms around the target's neck in a chokehold. In one fluid motion, he drew his Ontario MKIII, slit the throat, nice and neat, piece and parcel, and guided the body to the floor. Seven meters away, Jaz had done the same actions with a more impressive bonus of slipping behind "Moe" from above.

When Hannah was still Normal, or at least for a certain definition, before she had to double-check over her shoulder twice and before she had to have eyes on all available exits and entrances to any room, she had dated a gamer once. The fellow was nice enough, a little maladjusted, but nice enough. He had tried to get her into the lifestyle, ("Trust me, Call of Duty is as mild as it goes, others are much more hard-core…"), but even then, she felt dichotomous, treacherous thoughts seep in. Was she supposed to feel horrified by the deaths in the games? Studies citing alleged connections between gun violence and video games seemed flawed. Was there something wrong with her because she didn't automatically shy away from it? The wonton violence was meaningless and sometimes ridiculous—did the developers think that blood typically burst out of people with a single gunshot wound?—but mostly detaching. It seemed almost disrespectful how blasé they treated death. If any of her co-workers would have noticed the giggling fit she had when she watched the violence, she would have definitely been seen for a psych evaluation. So, while she cited to the gamer the probability of zombie apocalypse and how she would rather (Haha, would you rather…) Stick to her boring job of gang violence, thank you very much, she was internally criticizing the poor realism. Death in real life was much less poetic and pretty.

Would you rather have the barrel of a recently fired gun pressed into your eyes or had random lines carved on your back, always marking you as different…Huh, her time spent…There might have made her slightly bloodthirsty.

"Targets terminated. Jaz, stay up here and get a lock on remaining dissidents." Dalton rose to his feet and began to walk towards the catwalk's exit. "McG, get ready to—" Hannah heard a quick intake of air. The body Dalton had leaned on the rails of the catwalk had slumped further down. The neck rolled at a further awkward angle, the taqiyah pressed down on the head had eased up and fallen between the rails. Time froze briefly as it hung, suspended in mid-air before speeding in its descent downwards. Down to the hostages. Down to give their presence away.

Dalton took a diving leap that would have made any baseball player proud and snagged it from the air. The walkway swung and creaked ominously.

Hannah laughed. If all the world is a stage, is the play a tragedy or a comedy? She turned to Noah but the words died on her lips. He seemed busy with his computer screen.

Before everyone in the DIA could take a collective breath or McGuire give his requisite snarky remark, an exclamation of "Aldukhala!?" came through the microphones. The figures that had been pacing between the rows of hostages increased their agitated tread. One of the men accidently stepped on the child's foot. She screamed before her father's unintelligible words soothed her terror into pitiful sobs. Amir said something equally unintelligible and the father shook his head slightly.

Hannah turned slightly to Noah, perked eyebrow, and mouthed the word.

He mouthed back, Intruders.

"Team, we may have been had."

The leader of the group, a gnarly man with a hook-shaped nose began barking orders at his followers. He tried to brush of the hands of a younger recruit, aiming to re-organize the group but, the young man's insistent tugs earned him the hooked nose's fierce glare. That glare transformed from surprise to calculation as the man mumbled in his ear. He swaggered center stage, hooded eyes studying the hostages and hand cocked on hips.

"Which one of you is the American?"

Only silence and McGuire's and Preach's soft swears could be heard.

"I know one of you is." He shifted side to side before looming over a young couple. He twiddled the dark brown locks of a young woman, gauging the reaction of the man next to her. The hostage barely suppressed a snarl before being talked down by her soft voice.

The hooked-nose man leaned back on his heels and rose to further survey his hostages. After stopping again, right in front of Amir, his eyes seemed to glide past Amir and focused on the man with the crouching child.

"I guess," he continued with a heavily Arabic accent, "If no one says anything," he grabbed the toddler's light blonde hair and yanked upwards to force her to stand on tiptoes. "Maybe this would be a good incentive." He placed the barrel of his gun to fit snugly against her forehead. The safety was off. Brown eyes began to water, her lips began to tremble.

The Deputy Director leaned back against her desk. "Top, he's threatening a kid."

"Understood. There's not much I can do until—"

"I have the solution" came the steely response of Jaz. She had situated herself on the catwalks and aimed the sniper riffle on the perpetrator's head.

"Negative, target's gun is directly on the kid. Even a direct kill could still cause involuntarily movement and…" Campbell, and everyone in the bull pen stared at her. Hannah had unconsciously half-rose from her chair. Crucial milliseconds crawled by as she slowly lowered herself back down.

What were the stares for? Even if she had been nondescript and unremarkable in high school that did not mean that she was afraid to garner attention. Retrospectively though, it was highly likely that this highly-trained Special Forces group knew about involuntary muscle movements that could happen when eliminating a target. Still, the scars on her neck started to itch and Hannah consciously kept her palms face down on the desk. Three, four, five immediate exits, she thought.

"Thank you, Riviera." Campbell said dryly. She gave Hannah a brief nod before the Deputy Director trained her eyes back on the screen. "Dalton, it's on your call."

The Commander seemed to be taking to rungs at a time as he scaled down the ladder leading from the catwalks to the main floor, behind the stage. He twisted, left, right ("All clear.") and crouched down to replace his knife with a pistol. "Preach, please tell me you're almost done."

"40 more seconds." Despite the tension, the gravelly voice remained steady. Preach's camera was the only camera that showed the Lebanese sun slowly crawl towards the horizon. The tiny town of Batroun continued its late-day bustle, unaware of the turmoil occurring in the ancient theater. If all the world is a stage…

Her attention was inexorably drawn back to the leader who had dragged the girl away from Amir's group and towards the center of the stage. Despite the zip tie and lying on his belly, the father struggled to his feet and bowed his head in supplication. Blonde hair, similar to the child's covered his eyes completely. "S'il te plait," he begged. Please don't. He tried to rise to his feet but one of the armed followers who remained nearby kicked out his legs from under him. "S'il te plait, ne la blesse pas."

The hooked-nose man jerked his head at one of the guards; the guard trudged to the father and began to take a bead at the man. The trigger was nearly pulled before Amir, hastily jumped in and began to shake his head. "Hum laysuu amrikiin." He stumbled to his feet.

"Who are you? Where are you from?" The tautness of the child's light blonde hair lessened as the man's attention focused on Amir. The barrel of the gun still glinted unobtrusively.

Amir looked the leader in the eye and without missing a beat said, "Iinaa jzayry." He had ignored the first question. An American who grew up in Lebanon pretending to be Algerian and speaking broken Arabic which he was certainly fluent in with a French accent. The levels were dizzying.

The tall man with hooded eyes seemed to weigh his words before accepting Amir as an alleged Algerian. The guard who had been aiming at the father slightly lowered his gun and eased on the trigger. He reached for Amir's shoulder and began to shove him towards the front. A bead of sweat, elicited from the intense stage lights, crawled down Amir's neck as he was forced forwards. The leader tossed the girl aside who crawled backwards. Hannah thought that she would hide behind her father but, to her surprise, she remained behind Amir. Trembling little fingers intertwined around his shirt and brushed Amir's belt.

Preach said, "Ready, Top."

Without hesitation, a succinct "Now" followed. A boom was heard outside. Preach, who had pressed a detonator button of a sonic concussive bomb, had sprinted behind the backdoors. McG waited at by the other set of doors. The gun was lowered. Having snapped to attention, two guards who had been skulking nearby cowered like beaten dogs before their master. A sharp tongue lashed at them as he snapped at the two to check that the premises was secured. The men gave a stunted grunt, a nod before lurching down the stairs and past the rows of theater seats. Blam went the door behind them, unknowingly being pounced upon by McGuire and Preach. The hooded eyes prepared the gun to finalize its descent and fire on the man kneeling before him.

"Scorpio."

The hook-nosed man tumbled onto Amir first who was half-turned to protect then the child, a dark hole blossoming on his forehead. The back of his skull was exposed, a light fleshy pink with red gathering in the crevices. In almost a mockery of typical theater practices, shards of brain matter and skull lay on the stage like scattered rose petals.

"Command, threats to the hostages eliminated and subdued." Dalton holstered his gun as he approached the frightened hostages from stage left. He kneeled by Amir's back, proffering his knife to be applied to the zip ties. "Need some help, buddy?" A stiff nod and Dalton promptly cut the bonds. As Amir rubbed his wrists (What's the deal with that anyways? She had thought that it was just a television trope for a person to rub their wrists once cuffs were removed. Was there some secret seminar on Actions to Take When Removing Wrist Wear?) McG and Preach came in; McGuire strolling cockily with a half-smirk in place while Preach followed behind with a more subdued gait and a thoughtful demeanor.

Amir took a slow, deep inhale and exhale before crouching towards the girl. He plucked the probably horrifically traumatized kid of the floor where she lay spayed out, before rolling his eyes towards Dalton. "Cutting it a little close there, huh?" The blonde girl whimpered, Amir's eyes softened. he offered his arm to her like they were merely going through a stroll in the park and not past the corpse of a would-be killer. Instead, she hopped on his hips and wrapped her legs around Amir's waist. Blonde hair buried itself in the ex-CIA spy's neck. "Let's take Reewa," he hiked her up to better adjust his grip, "back to her Papa."

The other three nodded, before going to free the other hostages.

"We had it handled," Jaz jumped off the last rungs of the ladder and trotted to join Amir, "uh, you have something there." She pulled out a roll of bandages stored in her left breast pocket. She tore a strip with her teeth and delicately dabbed at the blood spots speckling his hair and neck.

"Call me a non-believer," he intoned dryly. "I felt the need to hedge my bets."

"Yeah, well, you're lucky you're our personal invisible man, Amir." McGuire was helping free the other hostages. The medic clinically examined them before confirming that no one had been accidentally shot. He waved another person forward. "These guys really wanted to catch the American."

Preach wiped his head and back of the neck with the sleeve of his civvies. He started collecting the guns from the team, placing the gear in the bags. "Well, that's why we adopted him. He's the only average-looking person on the team."

"Oh har, har, thanks a lot, guys."

The conversation in Batroun, many miles away, filtered out of Hannah's perspective as she finally removed the headpiece. Within the Defense Intelligence Agency, the focus of the agents had shifted from their team on the ground to other business. Hannah leaned back in her seat and stretched her hands over her head. The tension that occurred during high-stress missions tended to reside in her neck and in the joints of her fingers.

She noticed Noah leaning over towards her, almost as if to talk to her.

She smiles and said—

"Morgenthau, you're turn to treat this round, huh?" A young man with dark eyes came over to his desk and gave him a friendly pat on the back. "I think you lost the bet this round."

Noah grinned gamely, "Sure, my treat. Umm," He turned to face Hannah, almost remorseful.

What was there to forgive? There had been no explicit invitation. Nor were there any expectations for after-work camaraderie. She had been part of a team when she had worked for the CIA. A group of people that she could casually call acquaintances. What happened there would surely happen here; she did not come to make friends. She did not look to the door when he exited, though she was careful to not turn her back on it.

After giving her unremarkable smile and heartily shaking everyone's hands ("Appearances, dahling. Appearances are everything." A beat. "Yes, ma'am.") she listened to other obligatory offers of buying the first round for everyone before giving her unremarkable excuse. The pitiful, bland words floated by with no response. She left in her bland car, and parked in front of her unexceptional condo. She took her usual brief shower, avoided the mirrors and nestled in the bed. Her phone was plugged in, on her night stand.

If all the world was a stage and it was impossible to tell if it was a comedy or tragedy, would you rather be invisible and inconspicuous or burn bright for a time? In a sky full of stars did anyone notice the space between the light? The unassuming, unremarkable void?

Hannah breathed once.

Hannah breathed a second time.

Would you rather…?

She fell asleep in less than two minutes.

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