Chapter One: Return
There were very few things I enjoyed in this world. One would be the view off the back deck of my house in northern Alaska. Another, would be the nearly empty glass of whiskey I was clutching. The sun shinned brightly over the lake behind the house. Currently, I was gazing out the door to the deck. I noticed the reflection of a woman, in her early twenties standing in the doorway of my home.
"Who are you," I asked
"A friend. Someone from your old life," she replied
"I don't exactly have a lot of friends nowadays, especially after leaving my line of work."
"The agency does not forget, Mr. Donnelly. You were in your prime when you left, and you still are."
"First off, don't call me Mr. Donnelly, it makes me feel old. Secondly, I was in my prime physically. The stuff I have had to see and endure would make rookies like yourself resign on the spot."
"You illegally resigned four years ago Oscar. Don't forget that."
"I didn't exactly have a choice. It was either that, or put up with all the red tape keeping me from doing my job."
"We all remember the Brooklynn Incident. Tragedy strikes all of us at least at one point in our lives, I'm afraid. However, the fact that you have seen so much, is precisely why I am here."
"Why is that?"
"Oscar, I'm going to cut to the chase. Your life is in in great danger."
"Well, why should I come with you? Not many people know about this place."
"If we could find it, the people who want you dead, aren't far behind."
"Why should I go with you? I can hold my own in a fight."
"A few reasons. One, we have a platoon of marines outside your house, ready to breach you front door. Two, your house is rigged to explode in five minutes, so I would start packing. And as an added bonus, if you cooperate, we can tell you what happened to your father."
"I already know. Plane crash in the mid-Atlantic."
"That's not the whole truth. Can you please just take the easy way?"
"Fine."
I ran around the house like a madman for three minutes, gathering everything I could. Honestly, I didn't own much, but this didn't stop the urgency. I grabbed my black gun case from my closet. Simultaneously, I was throwing clothes, my favorite bottle of The Glenlivet single malt scotch whiskey, my laptop, and my lucky bobble head into a grey duffle bag. Lastly, I hastily packed my five-seven handgun, some spare ammo, my wallet, my phone, and my lucky zippo lighter/ "cigarettes" into a single-strapped backpack. I was now ready to go. When we left the house, sure enough, there were around twenty soldiers all aiming assault rifles at me.
"Relax, gentlemen. He's with us," she ordered.
The agent then produced a detonator and squeezed the trigger, causing an impressive explosion to shake the ground.
"There was no timer, was there," I groaned.
"We didn't exactly wanting you getting eviscerated, if you stayed in that house for five minutes and one second," she replied.
"Why did you even destroy my house in the first place?"
"To cover our tracks. If the people that are looking for you find this place, and believe me they will, they most likely will think that we killed you. Tieng up loose ends and all that crappy spy movie stuff."
"Speaking of who's after me, you never even told me who these people are."
"That is way above my paygrade. I'm only instructed to take you to the project director, back at headquarters."
"To New York City then?"
"Let's go. I've seen enough."
The flight time from Anchorage to New York City was nearly unbearable. I was sat in coach, wedged between a mother and screaming baby and probably one of the loudest snorers on the planet. I tried to tune it out with my knock off Bose headphones, but that didn't seem to work. When I arrived, the first thing I did was rent a hotel room. This was where I dumped all of my stuff and nearly passed out at one in the morning. Chris Farley yelling for someone to go away and let him sleep for the love of god jolted me awake. I always liked comedic alarms. I was supposed to meet the director at 8 am. It was currently 7:40. I had to get all the way across town in twenty minutes, in morning traffic. I threw on a grey leather jacket, some light blue acid washed jeans, an ironic t-shirt, and some grey converse all-stars. I bolted down the beige-carpeted hotel hallway, towards the elevator, jumping in just as the doors closed. Some cheesy elevator music droned through a warbled speaker as I made the three-floor descent to the lobby. Outside the hotel, there was a bike rental kiosk. I didn't have time to pay, so I threw a hundred dollar bill at the machine, broke the bike lock, and coasted towards my destination.
The building I was looking for was on Wall Street. A small, nearly empty bank (I know, hard to believe on this .7 mile street) sat neatly on the corner. When I walked through the double doors, the teller was staring blankly at an upside down magazine.
"Hello, A.C.I," I greeted
"Hello agent Donnelly. How may I assist you today," she replied.
"I would like access to the agency. Code Sierra Alpha Niner."
"Access granted. Follow me."
A.C.I was actually a robot as you may have guessed. The letters in her name stood for Automated Caretaking Individual. Her sole purpose was to make sure that no one, under any circumstances, could enter our agency, without clearance. As a bonus, she was designed to look like a stereotypical bank teller, to blend in. We walked to the back of the building, where the vault was located. A.C.I punched a code into a keypad, turned a key, and pressed another brightly colored button, causing the door to open. When it did, instead of rows of money, as would be expected, there was a well maintained hallway leading directly to the building behind us. You see, the bank wasn't really the location of the agency at all. Instead, a building with absolutely no way to gain access to it, save a well-guarded helipad, was where all of our operations took place.
"Welcome back," A.C.I said
"Thanks," I replied.
The walk down the hallway was brief. As I was casually walking past the security offices and the breakroom, I heard people mumbling, whispering to each other, and pointing at me. I was a legend within this building when I left. I guess me leaving added on to that. After rounding the corner and entering the main building, I was met with an impressive atrium. Agents like myself were bustling back and forth talking on cellphones and chatting amongst themselves. This place was really no different from any other office buildings, save that this place probably held the record for most governmentally contracted assassins within four walls and a ceiling. Decorations tended to remain the same. An ornate fountain sat directly in the center. The whole place was constructed with marble and glass. On one of the walls was our emblem. There was a main shield, with a pair of watching eyes in the center of an image of planet earth. Below it was our name, P.P.S.S or Protect Prevent Safeguard and Sabotage. We even had a Starbucks®. It was there I purchased a dark roast coffee. One sugar and no cream. I then proceeded to the elevator. The path up was entirely cased in two way glass. The outside was painted to look like a bland brick building. The inside however, sported an impressive view of New York City. I pressed the button for the 19thfloor, second from the top. This was where the director's office was. The elevator whirred to life as I ascended the building.
If I had to describe the decorations of the director's office, I would say it was classical. A small corridor led to where she worked. Engraved on a small brass plate were the words Director Cherice Penzig: Program Director. The enormous, cherry wood door creaked open. I stood in the doorway for a moment, taking it all in. An oriental rug covered the whole floor, leaving only a small perimeter of oak wood running throughout the office. The walls were lined with bookshelves, stocked with books that might have cost me a small fortune. A desk that looked like it had been teleported directly from the early twentieth century sat against the back wall. Behind that desk sat a woman in her early fifties. Her dazed look and deep bags under her eyes suggested that she hadn't slept in weeks. She was always a cool boss to work with, occasionally bringing coffee for the upper floor workers like myself or hosting Christmas parties at her penthouse in the Upper East Side.
"Oscar J. Donnelly. I don't believe it. ," She said in a tone of shock.
"Mrs. Penzig, good to see you mam," I replied
"You technically are not an agent, but I still am your superior. With that being said, you know I prefer Cherice. Also, would you kindly take a seat?"
"Sorry," I apologized as I sat down in a leather recliner facing the desk
"No worries. How was your flight?"
"God awful. I took two Advil, and I still can't feel my arms!"
"That joke stopped being funn y a while ago. Then again, your jokes were never funny."
"The co-workers seemed to like them. Especially during the Christmas parties"
"It wasn't the jokes. The funny part was the fact that there was a professional assassin, at a Christmas party, wearing a green and red sweater. You looked ridiculous!"
"Gee, thanks."
"We would probably be here talking all day. However, we matters to attend to. I assume you have been briefed on your situation?"
"Nope"
"Damn it Jennifer you had one job," Cherice yelled as she punched a button and yelled into her phone.
"Sorry, I lost the file on the plane. I could barely find Agent Donnelly's house without having to talk to some locals for about 6 hours. The English to Canadian dictionary wasn't very helpful," the agent who was at my house replied.
"Fine. I'll debrief him myself. Remember this. Next time this happens, one week's pay will be docked."
"Okay," Jennifer groaned and hung up.
"Let's get right into this shall we? Five weeks ago, one of our data caches in Eastern Berlin went offline. These caches allow our communication and file sharing network to run at twenty megabits per second by not limiting the flow of data through one area, rather multiple areas. We dispatched a security team to investigate. What they found was horrifying. Everybody employed there was found dead. Evidence of a firefight was present, but no call for help was ever made. We keep a record of every file that is copied. There were only four. A list of your possible current locations, all of our currently active field agents, all of our safe house locations, and all data gathered on project rho."
"What's Project Rho?
"I'll get to that. One of our undercover agents in a terrorist cell, intercepted a speech at a rally, the day after the incident. All of this footage was live. Take a watch."
She turned on a laptop and turned it to face me. Some footage was playing. It appeared to be being filmed from an eye contact camera (a favorite of field agents for gathering data, unnoticed). He appeared to be in a crowd of hundreds of people in a field. A well-lit stage stood at the end of the mob. A man in a grey jacket, grey dress pants, and a red button down shirt walked out on stage and proceeded to speak.
"Greetings. You all know me and you all know what we want," he said, invoking a cheer from the crowd.
"Time and time again, our plans have been foiled by one group. You know them, I know them. The moles that call themselves the P.P.S.S, have stopped us nearly every time. I for one am tired of it. How about you?"
More cheers from the crowd erupted. From the camera moving around wildly, I could tell he was starting to become unnerved.
"Last night's raid was a success. I am afraid I have some bad news. After looking at their files, we found out about over 30 undercover agents in our midst. In fact, one is here tonight. A mister Jefferson? White, about 5'8, 250 pounds, tattoo of a clock on his wrist, always facing noon, which was the time he was born."
Mumbling and yells of rage could be heard from the crowd. The camera started to back away. I winced, as he was disobeying the one rule of being discovered. Act inconspicuous.
"That's what I thought," the man said as he raised his hand producing a bluish colored orb and fired at Jefferson.
The screen became wobbly, as the man seemed to appear on the stage within the blink of an eye. Jefferson tried to stand up, but was knocked back down to the stage, by what appeared to be a metallic arm. When the agent turned to look at the leader, this was when I got a good view of his appearance. His face appeared to be severely tanned, with an elongated scar running across it. A small portion of his face was partially blocked off by a strand of oily black hair that hung loose from the rest of the slicked hair. One of the sleeves on his jacket was rolled up to reveal his arm. Instead of a normal arm, it was replaced with a metallic prosthesis glowing in a blue haze. In his other hand, he clutched a red-painted hand cannon. Jefferson raised his hand in front of the camera, showing the tattoo, in a futile act of defense. Without mercy, the enemy raised the gun, and fired, causing me to cringe and look away. He then carefully removed the eye-contact camera, and pointed it at himself.
"Hello. There is no need for introductions, as you guys probably have about a thousand files on me. I'm going to humor myself and do one anyways. My name is Emmet Ogden. I lead this fine group of people, called the shadow. We have no religious or ideological motivation. We don't want people bowing down to us, although that would be pretty damn sweet. There is really only one thing that we hate, which is interference. You guys really know how to supply. With our most recent attack, we have all the data on you guys we could possibly need. There is just one more piece to the puzzle, Agent Donnelly. You guys already know my history with the guy, so I'll spare you the details. Know this, we have narrowed down Donnelly's location to three possible places. We will find him. Using Project Rho, we will bring your agency to its knees, and make a crap load of cash in the process. Just remember…"
A few soldiers, who I recognized as agents, were pushed directly in front of the stage. Without a word, they were gunned down.
"Fear the shadow," Emmet said as he crushed the contact.
Cherice closed the laptop and turned to speak to me.
"You can see now why we called you in," She solemnly spoke.
"Son of a Bitch," I yelled. "Oh, I can see alright. I just have a few questions. A, what does this have to do with my father. And B, what the hell are we going to do."
"Jennifer wasn't supposed to tell you about your father. Damn, I really need to fire that girl."
"I still deserve to know."
"Fine. Have you ever heard of the Philadelphia Experiment?"
"Wasn't that when that ship teleported or something?"
"Exactly. Your father, God rest his soul, was obsessed with the idea. He studied teleportation for years. One day, he ran like a mad man to my office, claiming he refined it, and made it safe for agency use. We tested it, and sure enough, he was correct. Field agents could use a small, handheld device to teleport themselves and other objects short distances."
"What happened after that?"
"Your father being your father, had to take it one step further. He claimed, that with a new version of his technology, he could teleport between dimensions and alternate reality's. He believed that we could set up a base in an alternate dimension. It was brilliant, in all honesty, but it was extremely impractical. One use soaked up hundreds of megawatts. We pulled the funding for his project. This only made him more persistent. One night, while he was in the lab by himself, he used the machine. We have no idea where it took him, but right after he used it, the machine exploded. We found no sign of his body, most likely due to him being eviscerated in the blast. Some hopefuls tried to rebuild the machine, but now, it sits in our basement collecting dust. Even the gauntlets are retired. People refused to use them out of fear of being plagued with bad luck"
"Why did you lie to me?"
"We did not want you not focusing on your job. The last thing we needed was some guy trying to fix a twenty year old machine, and not working."
"It still would have been nice to know!"
"I'm sorry Oscar, we should have told you. You were our best, and we needed you."
"I understand."
"Good. Now we need to talk about your situation. You will reside within the building for the time being. You have a bed in your office, and we moved your stuff there as well. Your full clearance will be reinstated. Any weapons or equipment you need, will be ready. That most likely won't be needed, as you'll be doing paperwork here, but none the less, it's better to be prepared"
"Won't they find me here?"
"Nonsense. We never mention our location in any of our files. Besides this place is guarded 24 hours a day, 365 days a year. Nobody can reach you without the Agency's permission."
"All righty then."
"Dismissed, Donnelly."
My office was on the 18th floor, right below the directors. Technically floor seventeen and eighteen were on the same level, Yet the 18th floor offices, were genuine offices on a catwalk, with its own breakroom and bathroom. Floor seventeen on the other hand was heavily populated with cubicles. Thank god for soundproof doors. I walked down the catwalk, and was greeted by all of my peers. Some cheered, whilst others offered the casual hi and what's up. When I got to my office at the far end of the hall, I dusted off my name plate: Oscar Donnelly: Field Agent Rank 5. My rank was the highest a field agent rank could go, and it came with its perks. Your own office, better and more advanced equipment, and a 750,000 dollar per year paycheck to name a few. My work was quite dangerous after all, so I guess it balanced out. My office furniture was decent. A small oak desk in the corner, some metal shelves, and a grey fold out couch, a brown tufted throw rug, mini fridge, and an obscure piece of modern art covered pretty much everything. The stuff from my hotel was already hear, which was good news, as I needed a glass of whiskey. The dark amber colored liquid couldn't have tasted better now, since I was back in the walls I left long ago. An eerie mixture of grief and homesickness filled the air, but I blocked it out with a sip of whiskey. I sat down behind my desk, and began on the mountain of paper work. I heard a voice yelling down the hallway.
"I don't know how you got Mr. Donnelley's key, but it's not exactly funny to break into a dead man's office. Who do you think you are…?" A nearly seven foot tall Russian man trailed off as she saw me behind my desk.
"Oskar, old boy, how are you," He asked
"I'm good Sergei, how are you?"
"I'm great. We thought you were dead."
"Do I look dead?"
"I guess not. Where were you?"
"Let's just say my planned retirement, turned into a four year vacation."
"They didn't bring you back. Not after the threat from The Shadow."
"They figured I would be safer here then out in Alaska. Bullet proof glass trumps lake front view in terms of safety I guess."
"They have a point there. You should come over tonight. My wife is cooking Rassolnik tonight. It's not half bad with a generous glass of Vodka. You should come over."
"Sorry Sergei, I have to fill out a lot of paperwork. Apparently pretending to be dead is a common tax dodge. That's bologna, as I payed my taxes as a guy named Hernando. To be fair, I did list my income as one dollar a year."
"You are a funny guy Oskar. We will celebrate another time, yes?"
"Da, v drugoy raz Sergei."
Sergei nodded in appreciation, and left. He was a good guy. Had the biggest heart. Ex-KGB who wanted a change from cracking skulls. You can't fault him for that. I resumed my paperwork, which took up around eight hours of my time (not counting lunch). The sun had already set. My last piece of paper went into my mailbox, and I was done. At this point, it was ten o'clock, so I was pretty tired. My near slumber was interrupted with the sound of doors breaking down.
Thirty Minutes earlier
Jeff hated his job. All he ever did was clear helicopters to land occasionally. This was why he wasn't exactly expecting a distress call, especially this late.
"Breaker Breaker. This is Roger Ander smith. I have a wounded kid. Requesting clearance to land."
"Negative. Mr. Roger, this is a governmental building. No unauthorized birds allowed. There is a hospital around one click out. You can go there."
"I don't have enough fuel to make it. Please sir."
"Daddy, are we there yet" a young voice said in an inquisitive yet adorable tone.
"Jesus, I didn't believe that you had a kid!"
"Why the heck would I lie about that?"
"I don't know. Terrorists maybe? You are clear to land."
"Thankyou."
The good sized helicopter set down on the pad. Jeff ran out to open the door. When he did, he did not find a child and father at all. Instead, he was met with several heavily armed men. Their leader appeared to be wearing a black leather jacket and a white t-shirt, but his most distinguishing feature was his metallic arm. The man suddenly raised a large revolver.
"Sorry," he said still in a little kid's voice as he pulled the trigger.
The man pulled a clear plastic strip on the front of his Adams apple.
"Damn I hate those," he said in a normal, gravelly voice.
"Spread out," he ordered "Find Agent Donnelly"
Whats up people. Leave a review of you want. Feed back helps. Donnely gets teleported to zootopia in next chapter. This is just an intro.