-The Silent Generation-
Clunk.
Snow drifted in after him, fluttering to a halt on the worn straw rug. He scraped the bottom's of boots against the mat then shoved the footwear off with his toes, only too reveal near frost-bitten feet: his socks were soggy with winter fun, too.
Buchanan was jet-lagged to an extreme he'd thought unnatainable. The excitement and pressure of the last few days had been weighing down on him the whole ride home, and he'd already planned out the rest of his evening: decompress.
He sauntered tiredly through the front hall, shouldering off his duffel on his way.
The abode he called home-sweet-home, was the sheer image of wholesome living. A kitchen for the missus, a play-room for the chilluns, and a living room for the man to do his living. And it would always be that way, he'd enter sluggishly after another strenuous day of being modern man, the chilluns'd squeal in delight with his return and skip eagerly to the pop's side for a pat on the head, and as he eased his way into his- ea-zee there- recliner, the missus would make her appearance with the regular banter of 'How was your day's or 'I'm so glad to have you home's.
Except there was no missus or chilluns. He was modern man in his modern American house-hold ... with no modern American family to greet him. At his age- almost all of thirty- and with all his tireless effort, his tireless work for his country-
[-C'MON already uncle Sam you said you wanted me you-]
Nevertheless- no matter how frequent that fact badgered him (every time he walked into his empty house, these days)- this house was his house, and a veritable comfortable one-
[-got me whadda I got to show for I work harder than ANYBODY my flag is the BIGGEST on Independence day I DESERVE-]
more or less.
Besides, there was, at least, one saving grace.
The sofa- his sofa, double-seated, cotton-cushioned, and soft, navy throw pillows. Fit for a man's posterior- especially if that man's behind was numb from a fifteen hour flight. It was really glorious sight to behold, and just a few steps ahead.
Dragging his raw feet, his was stride hurried and restless as he made his way over and flopped down ungracefully. With his face smothered in the stained cushions of his sofa, Buchanan let forth a ragged sigh into the crusty fibres. Thoughts of relaxation flowed with an ease, and at last, he could finally act on them. "Huuum."
Yes, he was huuum at last.
A minute passed before he could bring his head from between the cushions, and it took him a moment, but he forced himself into a sitting position and flopped his head back lazily. Having the time to actually think now, he found it a little funny how something as effortless as being a plane passenger could tucker a fellow out faster than the Olympic trial he'd taken the flight for.
He closed his eyes, serene, content just to sit there and soak in every minute detail of relaxation.
Maybe an instant passed, then the phone belt out a warble, and his eyes shot back open.
It took a short, breathy grunt but he pulled his head up to see the phone sitting on the end table beside him. It was state of the art, but Buchannan never liked technology: it was too hard to figure out, and it broke too easily. And this was an ugly thing, he'd decided long ago. Clunky and expositional, occupying his entire table, and what an awful shape it's finger-holes were, like the pull-rings for ten different hand-grenades.
But, it was presented as a gift from the Tomas branch, a reward of sorts, and it's not like he could deny their generosity.
That didn't mean he had to like it, though.
With a reluctant hand, he detached the phone from it's hook and spoke to it's speaker. "Yes, uh, hello?"
Buchanan anticipated a football buddy, or his girlfriend, or even another Tomas- somebody sending praise and acclaim for his indefinite acceptance into this year's Olympic home-team.
In lieu of adulation, he was met with a German rasp utterly foreign to him. "The document you had delivered on January third, nine fifty-three of the clock, to the Tomas stronghold of Mount Fuji, has been transferred; without your or your branch's consent. At this moment, it's in an undisclosed Ekaterina stronghold being examined by their top agents."
Buchanan's blood turned to ice water in his veins, and about every organ shuddered to a halt. Even so, it was like listening to a Public Service Announcement; he recognized that it had significance, but couldn't truly grasp the diction or meaning, and accordingly, it was the importance alone that rocked him. He licked his lips. "... What? Who- who is this?"
"We have alerted your branch-head to the document's whereabouts."
Rage overpowered cold fear as he growled harshly through teeth: "Listen to me, you smooth-talking Commie-"
"We have also alerted him to your whereabouts, and your fellow agents will be arriving promptly."
A swift few strides carried him to the blinds of the window looking out to his spacious back-yard. Buchanan separated two blinds and carefully peeked out, finding a tactical force of burly men and women undoing themselves from parachute harnesses. Terror widened his eyes, and it rose to it's fullest height as he saw the Tomas crest on their military-esque uniforms.
As his panic clogged his throat, he could hear the other line intake something- cigar smoke, maybe (Boy, oh, boy, Buchanan could've used a light)- before speaking again in his direct way. "I would like to thank you, Mr. Holt. Quite personally. Most sabotages are not as satisfying; your work with your branch was at least good for that, if not, of course, destroying the lives of innocents as a vehicle for your absurd aggression."
"Hold on one hot minute, bub, who ARE you?" he was thundering with a boiling brew of confused emotion- ire, fear, denial, and something like a queer touch of remorse for the truth the German spoke.
The voice chuckled as if Buchanan had a very good humour. "Goodbye, Mr. Holt."
"WHO AM I SPEAKING WITH?"
Windows crashed inwards as a swarm, like army ants in their tactless formations, erupted into his house. The frames and vanity mirror in the front hall quaked with the anarchy, and the kitchen table was turned onto it's side with the stream bursting through the kitchen. Just then, Buchanan fell to the ground, his knees no more able to bear the reality then he was.
The agents were armed, and in fact, he was pointed at by at least forty different barrels- all cocked and aimed for vitals. His face made friends with the floor and he let loose an inarticulate cry. Another reason why he didn't like technology. It made for unfair fights.
From the chaos of the blitz, a giant fist was clenched overhead, as if asking for silence over the incredible torrent of 'GET DOWN's attacking him. A single man came forward, an agent not unlike the others, but certainly higher-ranking. "Buchanan Hamilton Holt," his voice was a thunder-crack above the commotion. "you've been accused of treason to the Tomas branch."
Buchanan yelled his incredulous protest, but the man went on in that brassy, booming voice of his- a voice Buchanan thought familiar. "Currently, you'll be taken under lock and key to your trial in the Tomas stronghold on Alcatraz Island. There, you'll defend your hide against the most incriminating evidence we can throw at you, but if you ask me," he jerked Buchanan's head up by his raven locks and came nose to nose with his mortified features; the man's squinted eyes peered out over his sunglasses. "you're in a heap a trouble, Bucky Boy."
The man could see aghast betrayal rise in accordance to registering his identity. Then: a paroxysm of all his conflicting emotion built into a single cry of, "YOU!"
Or what sounded like it, anyway.
The man sneered distastefully then stepped back, growing to his full height. He regarded Buchanan impassively, save for the disgust he conveyed in his voice: "No, you. It don' matter what you say or how you justify it on trial, 'cause you deserve worse than you get, and you should know it. You've done amazing things for us, Buck, nobody's denying that, and it was swell working with you; but now you should bleed."
Buchanan was hysterical. Though, when he went to scream, it stopped dead in his throat- forcibly. He trembled with emotion, but clamped his mouth shut, swallowed, and resolved the crease on his forehead. He would keep a cool head, this was all a mistake- maybe even a practical joke!- and the best thing to do when some jerk get's your goat in pre-game smack-talk, is to talk right back, straight-faced.
So, his testimony dropped to a taut, authoritive statement. The fury lingered, but was now a cautionary signal; crystal clear, blunt, and certain in it's influence and the willingness to carry out on the threat. As if to exenterate, he held up his shaking hands innocently (not helplessly, mind you, but he made it clear he couldn't hold back if necessary). He even laughed a little. "Fellas, I didn' do nothin'."
The agents surrounding became suddenly weary, and a handful had to lower their weapons in compliance; he made it so easy to believe him, his southern drawl soothed the ear, and the fimiliar snigger he gave bore pleasant memories- now seeming more like dreams- to their heads from times of victory. It rattled them to have those precious visions tainted- to feel duped but to not know by who- and obviously the big chief could see their hesitance.
He scowled back at them. "He's throwin' a show- didn't ya'll see 'im running scared just a minute ago? Tryin' ta pull one over you, don't-cha see? Knuckle-head here thinks we's as dumb as the Ekats say!"
Now, he'd done it. The Ekat-Tomas banter always drew blood, and everyone knew it. Smooth-talk was suicide.
"Sweet Christ, I thought you had a little more faith in me, men! What's the matter with you?" His voice came out perfectly reasonable, but it was evident he'd become something of a human pressure-cooker; his face was red as wine and his hands were flittering in a wild dance to prove his point. It was a jarring, especially to his uneasy peers teetering on the fence.
The big chief had no patience. "All right, fun's fun, but just book him already- we've got a trial to head to." When no one made a move, he flared his nostrils and shouted back at them, "One of you! C'mon, Ladies, hustle!"
"No," Buchanan snaps with enough severity to stave off tackle. "You can't do that. None of you can, I'm your commanding officer- if not your friend." He's pleading to them, physically, however level he keeps his voice. He's showing each one his shadowless hand-puppets and passing out either looks of impatience and outrage, or jaw-trembling fear.
"By order of law 384, we must," remind the big chief, aggravated.
"You can't because I didn't do-"
"We've found conclusive and incrim'nating evidence!" Now he turns to the crowd, "He's a liar, a schemer- no better than a dang Lucian! Listen to me! He out-right lied and knew he was doing it- for twenty five years! To each and every one of you- me included, and you know I'd know."
Some, as antsy as the chief started in on Buchanan, but others stood there, dumbfounded, and forefrontly, conflicted.
The big chief's anger spiked. "He lied to you- and you're just gonna take it? He betrayed us all and- and you think I like this? My own kid-brother- a double-crossin' cheat! How- how long you think he's been scheming? He's a dirty cheat! A liar and a dad gum dirty cheat, and you're jus' standin' there? What sortta Tomas are any a you!"
Buchanan thrust a meaty finger at his brother. "Quiet, Fillmore!"
"He's a dirty lying cheat and jus' look- jus' look what he's doing! Manipulatin' his own people! He been sneaking to the Ekats- and he's a dirty cheat, dad gum dirty cheat!" Fillmore Holt was as red-faced as his brother.
"That's IT!" Buchanan turned on the crowd. "You're not gonna li- GET OFF ME," he bucked off and drove away the arms and barrels digging at him. "You're not listening to him, are you?"
A few faltered, but ultimately, the entire barrage closed in on him. Maybe just because, in that moment, Buchanan Holt was nothing of the great dignitary they knew.
His hysterics swelled. "YOU CAN'T SERIOUSLY DO THIS, LIKE I SAYS," the great number of agents trying to pin down and buckle up Buchanan were shaken off with every word rage-filled word: "I-DIDN'T-DO-NOTHING!"
Fillmore grunted, exasperated. "Finally."
Before he could make an escape Fillmore pulled Buchanan's massive biceps behind him. His furious struggle came to a reluctant halt when Buchanan heard the click of his own handcuffs. He realized his doom from the hands up.
From there it was a doleful walk, like the last mile to the electric chair, he later imagined. Fillmore, the only man to ever rival his size, escorted him personally to a chopper parked smack dab in the middle of the glistening Fairway Drive. A commotion had broken out among the residents: men, women, and children alike brought from the cozy intimacy of their beds to the crisp chill of the winter night.
Buchanan knew he wouldn't be coming back. Not after he'd been made a spectacle. He knew how people talked around those parts, how they'd deem him a felon- just as his own branch had.
As he stepped into the bulbous aircraft, Buchanan couldn't help but winch at the thought. His own branch thought him a traitor. Those words meant more than words ever should. They meant he'd be on trial for treason- a crime he'd never in a million, billion centuries commit. Those words meant he could be banned from team sports- the Cahills' reach was far, and if they thought it was treason, they'd make sure his life was in complete ruin.
Most of all, he realized with a cold numbness, it meant he wouldn't be eligible for the clue hunt- the search which his family had been partaking in for sumless generations. Sports were everything, but the pursuit for clues- that was absolutely everything.
He couldn't be banned, oh, Lordy, no, if he was out of the chase, a disgrace to the branch- a black sheep to all he held dear ...
Incredulous panic- a sheer, raw sort that strangled his airways- came upon Buchanan Holt the instant his brother's helicopter started off with him inside. If this was really happening, and this wasn't a ridiculous nightmare ...
His view of our world numbed. His senses limped ever so unnaturally, and his mind found itself veiled in the gloomy shroud of nature's broken spirit: the pessimist. His life- the entire career of his existence shattered to dust. And a breeze was due East.
"You're a- ..." his brother's resiliant voice died in his throat. Fillmore hadn't so much as looked at him since they'd left Buchanan's American Dream Home. Later- an early mourning much later, where no sleep had come to him- he got to wondering why that was.
Absolutely shattered.
(o)(O)(o)
A/N: I just have to say that in the actual 39 Clues universe, we don't really know for sure if Buchanan was a Vesper agent or not. Here, I've given him the benefet of the doubt, and made him play victim, but he might still be in Cahills vs. Vepers. (Oh, and there's a reason to Fillmore ... you know, existing).
I really hope you enjoyed it some- if not, please, PLEASE, tell me how I could do better! Also, if you have any questions, don't hesitate (I don't bite; I might poke you to death, but no biting) :)
This is DLT, signing off.