Guide To Ruin

Chapter VII: Last Lessons

DISCLAIMER: I don't own Calvin and Hobbes, Foxtrot, Curtis, or really any of the brands I'm ripping off.

DISCLAIMER 2: Yes, some of the material on here is recycled from a blog most of you have never read nor will ever have any cause to. But it's my material, so please don't give the admins headaches about if I can plagiarize myself.

ADDENDUM: A second chapter in less than a week after posting the last? Absurd! But my muse was working overtime. Either that or the medication is wearing off.

Some meetings of Malefidians consisted of true, hardcore criminal planning. People who felt that they had been wronged, or that they had nothing left to lose, or that ten-year old girls in winter clothing were really what was wrong with the country and needed to be broken horribly. Some Malefidians were just in it for the excuse that allowed them to plan atrocities against kids.

Then there were meetings where the attendees just engaged in kvetching.

Whining about their children. About other people's children. How this one girl they knew who came out to her parents as bi needed a good hard "whuppin". Or how a boy who worked a job after high school to support his family deserved to be thrown out on the streets because fuck him, that's why.

These sorts of people were those who supported Malefides teachings, but were aware that they stood to lose a lot if they started actively acting as "Concerned Elders".

Such a meeting-slash-pity party was held at Glenda Commers house.

"Kids have it so easy these days." Paul sighed.

There was a murmur of assent from around the coffee table.

Paul was in his late 40s, a slightly pot-bellied man with thinning black hair, reclining against the sofa as the conversation turned to the difficulties they had faced in their youth compared with the minor trials kids and teens faced today.

"I mean, take my boy for an example." Paul began, leaning forward. "At fifteen, I was working full time as a paperboy and getting all As in school. I come home from working my ass off to support him, and I find him watching TV." He emphasized that last point with a bitter edge.

A minor exaggeration- he was a part time paperboy and his grades weren't stellar, but the point still stood.

"So I ask him, 'what the hell are you doing?' And he just gives me this weak 'I'm just taking a little break.' So of course, I ask him what has made him so damn tired, and he tells me that 'the P.E. teacher made us run thirty laps today'."

"And what else?" asked Martin, a muscular tanned man who worked construction.

"That was it. Lazy. So I told him to mow the lawn, then and there."

There were smiles and nods of approval all around.

"So, he goes at it, but he takes like a water break once he's halfway done, and acts like he's out of breath. So I take the bottle from him, push him back outside, and tell him he doesn't get to come back in until it's done."

Glenda, the hostess of the get-together, smiled. "I take it he didn't like that?"

"Don't know, don't care. Anyway, he gets done, and he asks if he can come in, because he has homework he needs to do. I ask, of course, why he wasn't doing that before, and he said he was, he was just taking a break. A break! So I told him he was grounded, no TV, no going out, nothing, until he started showing me some work ethic and stopped being so lazy."

Glenda applauded openly, as did some of the other parents. Her daughter, Laura, a thing young girl with brunette hair, brought in tea and lemonade. "Are the cookies done yet?" She asked, not even looking up.

"No, just a few more-"

"Laura. I told you to put them in ahead of time, didn't I?" Glenda's voice was stern.

"I did, they're just taking a bit more-" Laura stammered.

"I don't want excuses, Laura. I know you're good at making them, but you're embarrassing me. Now hurry up."

Laura left the room red-faced as the occupants scowled after her.

"I apologize." Glenda said with a sigh. "I've been trying to teach her obedience and a work ethic, but it's like 'whatever', 'okay mom', 'I'm sorry, I'm trying my best', all these excuses and no results."

"I know the feeling." Martin said, refilling his glass. "I put my son to work. If he's not doing schoolwork, he's helping me, hauling bricks, dirt, whatever."

"Well at least he's learning how to work, then." offered Paul.

"You'd think that, wouldn't you? I mean, yeah, he'll work when you tell him to, but nothing beyond that. And for the longest time I let it slide. Then, just two days ago, he asks me when I'm going to pay him."

Robert and his wife, Christina, two well-to-do people who flaunted fine clothing and jewelry, looked appalled. "You're kidding, right?" Robert asked, disbelieving.

"No. He says that working is cutting into his grades. That because I made him work a few extra hours to cover for one of my guys who was sick, he didn't get to study as much as he needed for his math test, and if I'm going to make his grades suffer, I should at least pay him."

Paul shook his head. "Well, what'd you do?"

Martin crossed his arms with a look of satisfaction. "I told him work wasn't cutting into his grades, his stupidity was."

Laughter filled the room. "Still won't talk to me, but you should have seen the look on his face. Priceless."

Christina rolled her eyes. "Teens are like that. You give them the truth, and they act all hurt, hoping you'll try to make it up to them. Kinda like what happened with our kid, Julia."

Glenda gave her daughter a harsh glare as she set down the cookies. "What took so long?"

"It just took longer than it said-"

"Again with the excuses." Glenda looked wearily to her guests over the brim of her glasses, sighing dramatically. "My daughter, the politician, ladies and gentlemen." She looked back to Laura. "Coffee."

Laura walked off towards the kitchen. "And for God's sake, sometime this evening, please." Glenda called after her. "Anyway, you were saying?"

"Okay, so, we made a minor mistake." Robert began, sighing. "I thought Julia had taken a twenty from my wallet. So I confronted her, and when she gave me the old 'I would never steal from you' song and dance, I lost my temper and slapped her. From the way he reacted, you'd think I had shot her. So I take away the laptop her grandma helped her buy, tell her she's going to clean our bathroom every day after school for twenty days- one for each dollar she stole, and she's grounded for a month."

Christina sighed. "We found the twenty later in the laundry."

Paul nodded sympathetically. It was an honest mistake. That was obvious. "So what'd you do?" he asked.

"Nothing… for twenty days." Robert chuckled. "Then, yesterday, we told her we found the money a while ago and that she could have the laptop back. And she went ballistic."

Glenda winced. "How bad?"

"She's staying at a friend's house. Typical overreacting drama queen. I was going to apologize, but she went into a screaming fit, threw some clothes in a bag, screamed that she hated us, and slammed the door as she ran out." Robert threw up his hands. "I mean, yeah, I made a little mistake. My dad once tanned my hide because he thought I lied, gave away my bicycle, and when he found out I was being truthful, all I got was an 'I'm sorry, stop crying', and I turned out great!"

"So, one slap, a few days without a computer and scrubbing toilets, and she's running away. I have three words for you- Change the locks." Paul said bluntly, to the laughter of the others as Laura hurriedly brought out coffee and cups.

She looked to her mother, who said nothing, before walking off to the stairs.

"I didn't say you could leave. Come here." Glenda ordered.

Laura shuffled over reluctantly, looking down at her feet.

"I take it you've heard our discussion?" Glenda asked sharply.

"Yes ma'am." Laura said meekly.

"What I, and I think everyone here wants to know, is how you teens get to feel so entitled to everything nowadays. Care to explain?"

Laura looked around, seeming to try and find a sympathetic face. Paul made sure she found none in his- if the discussion of the night had proven anything, it was that kids these days had it far too easy.

"I don't know," she said at first, "I don't feel entitled, and I-"

"You do." Snapped Glenda, interrupting. "Otherwise you might have provided some decent service. I ask for one night that you help me give my guests a decent time, and you turn making drinks and baking cookies into a career decision!"

"And when she asks you to pick up the pace and stop making excuses, you act as if she's the worst mother in the world." Robert interjected. "So what is it that makes you think that you're above helping out once in a while, huh?"

"I don't, I did everything she asked as fast as I could…"

"Again with the excuses?" Christina sighed. "All we asked is why you feel so entitled to act lazy and disrespectful to your elders, and here you are, about to burst into tears when we're trying to just make sense of it all."

Laura glared at them all, sadness and embarrassment turning to anger, even as tears ran down her face. "You want to know why your kids don't like you? Why they can't stand you? It's you."

"Mr. Shepard," Laura looked at Martin. "I know your son. He's dead tired every day I see him at school. He spends every minute of study hall trying to catch up on homework he couldn't get done because you wanted him to work the day before. And you, Mr. Henderson," she looked to Robert now, who was clearly taken aback, "your daughter left because you slapped her over something you thought she did, and when you found out you were wrong, you punished her for over three weeks just to make life more convenient for yourself. And you-"

She pointed at Paul. "Whenever I talk to Paul, he's a nervous wreck. He can't relax, ever, because you're always on his back, accusing him of being lazy. He makes all As. His projects are always on display. He tutored me, and-"

Laura was cut off as Glenda rose, fist balled, whipping it across her daughter's face in a vicious backhand, sending her tumbling headfirst into a bookcase.

"How dare you speak to my guests that way!" Her mother hissed. "Apologize right now, or-"

Glenda paused as Laura struggled to her feet. The ring Glenda wore on her right hand had left a long, ragged cut on her face, and her lip was split from where she had hit the bookcase.

"You're the reasons." Laura whimpered, as Glenda stepped backward. "You're the reasons why we hate you!"

And, pushing past her mother, Laura ran up the stairs, sobbing and holding her face.

Silence filled the room for a few uncomfortable moments.

"I'm… sorry you had to see that." Glenda said quietly.

"It happens." Robert offered consolingly.

"I know I shouldn't have hit her that hard, but…" Glenda trailed off.

"…otherwise, she's not going to learn respect. It's a hard way to learn, but you probably prevented her from being stabbed. Not that she'll thank you, but there's that." Paul tried to keep his voice soothing, it was obvious Glenda had not meant to injure her daughter.

Martin sighed. "One day they'll thank us. At least I keep telling myself that." He looked to Glenda. "You might want to make her stay home sick a day or two." He added helpfully.

"Yes, thank you." Glenda responded, taking one of the cookies. She sighed. "Kids these days, you know?"

Paul nodded along with the others. "Yeah, I know. Ingrates, all of them."

When all was said and done half an hour later, and the last story of how painful being a parent was had been told, Glenda found herself with an empty house.

Her husband was away on business, and her relationship with her daughter had become strained, at best, ever since she started reading Malefides' works. Tonight she had demonized her daughter and assaulted her.

Joseph Commers was not fond of Malefideism, nor how his wife now treated their daughter, and tonight, if left untreated, would be disastrous.

Her daughter was weak enough, Glenda thought, soothing herself, that enough coercion would have her work up a convincing enough story how she fell, despite her mother's warnings, and if that didn't work a few more blows until she agreed she got in a fight would suffice…

She was walking to her daughter's room to begin Malefidian Damage Control when there was a sharp knock on the door.

Now what?

Probably just a guest who thought they forgot something, or was asking if they were doing this again next Saturday…

She opened the door to face two very stern-faced police officers.

"Mrs. Commers, we've received a call about an abused minor here-"

Or maybe her daughter wasn't as weak and malleable as she hoped.

If anything good could be said to have come of the various attacks and assaults propagated by members of Malefideism, it was this- the law began to take the presence of known advocates of Malefides' book and teachings as warning indicators of almost imminent danger.

The case of Mrs. Commers, a well to do woman now facing child abuse charges for brazenly attacking her 16-year old daughter, while not the worst example of Malefideism's "Beat them into submission" mentality, did not gain it or its proponents support.

Its advocates, however, saw every arrest and death as martyrs, which in turn served to turn people like those at Commers' party into active Concerned Elders, prowling the streets for a lone, unprotected child to attack.

…or, at least, that was the effect James Malefides hoped to achieve.

The words, as he typed, came clearly and fluidly to them, as if he had written it all before. Maybe he had. He didn't care at this juncture.

"So yet again, the hand of the law comes down on a mother who enacted some harsh discipline to teach her daughter some much needed humility and respect. What precedent does this set for us, legally? Will our sons and daughters be able to call the cops on us and have us dragged away to prison for grounding them? For taking away privileges? Will refusing to buy our kids a toy result in a jail sentence? Though the disturbingly corruptible arm of the law continues to side with future criminals and conmen, every single act only proves the point that this country is in danger of being run by immature, unprepared, morally bankrupt infants whose only concerns are 'Me, me, me'."

Urge them. Came the voice. Urge them to act.

"They call the Concerned Elders monsters. Terrorists, because they use fear of reprisal to get what they want. Well, fun facts time, folks. By that logic, punishing someone who drinks and drives is an act of terrorism. Stopping a mad gunman is an act of terrorism. What the media is engaging in is demonization of people who were pushed to the brink by thugs like Calvin, to the point they were willing to die to make a difference."

"These children are not like you and I were at their age. They are not possessed of an inherent innocence. They have the ability to choose between right and wrong and frequently choose wrong, either out of selfishness or a desire to watch the world burn. They are cruel. They are cunning. The internet has gotten them organized and sharing ideas on how to blackmail and enslave us."

It was time to close it up.

"Four more people. Dead and demonized, because they opposed a certain boy with spiky hair. I have to ask this, because I'm really curious- how many is enough to open the eyes of the law? How many corpses does Calvin need to leave in his wake before someone realizes there is something horribly wrong? Will we hit the threshold before America is a flaming husk? Or will our downfall only serve as a cautionary tale to other civilizations?"

It wasn't going to win new supporters.

You don't need to win new allies. The voice reminded him.

No, all he needed to do was get all the fence-sitters, the ones that just whined about the situation, up and active.

They would maim and kill, the law would come down on them, and they would undergo the same forced evolution he had. The weak would be culled off if they found R.A.W. The strong would serve as schemers, troops, and breakers, all loyal to him.

God had turned his back on him. He had served faithfully, willingly, going so far as to offer up his daughter to ensure the obedience of the nation's children, and the creator had spat in his face.

Fine, then.

If the children were to inherit the kingdom of God, he'd make sure there was no one left to do so.

Barry had to give the upper levels of R.A.W. credit, they moved fast.

He had been none too gently escorted, blindfolded, to a room, to be interviewed about his proposal- or so he had been told.

There was a cyanide capsule tucked into his cheek, unmalting, but crushable. Dangerous to have it there, but he wasn't taking chances.

"Neoidentified," droned a voice, emotionless and sterile. "Your proposal is that we use nuclear weapons on the city of Newden, Ohio, for the purposes of eliminating Calvin Halgins, who you believe…" there was pause, an unmistakable moment of incredulity… "…may possess metahuman abilities, You also noted the demoralizing effect it would have by eliminating his hometown and several of his allies. Is this correct?"

"Yes, sir." Barry replied.

"You are aware that swift death to a high-class enemy of Rod and Whip is a mercy that could be interpreted as treason?"

"I am, and I have reasons." He said quickly, fluidly.

There was a silence. "State them."

Barry drew in a breath. His life depended on this next argument at the very least sounding rational and non-traitorous. "Capturing and torturing Calvin Halgins into recantation of his statements then executing him would not serve to demoralize his supporters. It would galvanize them. They would twist the outcomes of his torture and death into some wild tale how he willingly endured disgrace and pain to save a few children. Calvin becoming a messianic figure or even worse, a deific figure was an outcome I measured against Rod and Whip's past and present standards and found it to be disastrous."

He paused for breath, waited for the voice to interrupt. When nothing came, he continued.

"With no intent to romanticize it, any means of execution that treated Calvin as special, even if that special was deserving of extreme torture, would only serve to martyr him, in effect making his statements semi-religious texts. While I myself would prefer him to suffer, it would only make things worse for R.A.W. There are two ways to avoid martyring him and the cause he champions- His death must appear to be a statistic, unimportant next to the scope of a massive tragedy, say, a nuclear bomb being detonated by a foreign terrorist. Failing that, we would need to set him up to be revealed as a hypocrite, or the personification of what R.A.W. and those like Highweller claim he is, then executed. This latter solution was attempted by Simon Highweller, with results I believe can be fairly described as disastrous."

Inhaling deeply one last time to steady himself, he finalized his argument. "Quick and painless death is not something I advocate lightly. I confess failure, sir- this is the best option I could come up with, because I have come to see Calvin Halgins as a disease that is rapidly spreading out of control. The idea of a "terrorist" attack will also, if it helps, distract authorities and give us some breathing room."

"And if we were to assign you the role of this "terrorist"?"

"There are far worse ways to die than in the service of R.A.W., sir." It was not a deception. Barry had no empathy for those he had seen subjected to the worst horrors R.A.W. could engineer, but he had no desire to experience them. The idea of immediate vaporization sounded pleasant in comparison- he'd like to see them torture molecules…

The synthetic, emotionless voice made some sort of noise. Was it a laugh, a considering murmur? Maybe just a glitch?

"Your proposal was reviewed so critically, neoidentified, because we feared you might be getting sympathetic to your enemies. We are pleased to see that is not the case. We will review the logistics of the proposal. You will continue with your normal duties until further notice. That is all."

Barry keep his posture stoic as they marched him for what felt like miles, until they decided to take off the blindfold and leave him in a familiar area of the compound.

Gathwells stood there, unsympathetic. "So?"

"They are reviewing it." Barry said simply. He didn't need or want sympathy- the sum total of mercy a failed operative might be given would be a heads-up they were to be terminated, time enough to end their own life before it was ended in one of many horrific and drawn-out ways.

Gathwells nodded slightly. "It's not going to be popular, even if High Father decides it's viable. Do you really think Calvin is superhuman, or is this an excuse to kickstart your career?"

"Calvin-" Barry paused, dug out the capsule before he did something incredibly stupid, like kill himself talking… "-is killing people. Rapidly. Inexplicably. And I think he's far past the point of feeling remorse for killing anyone he deems a threat. Magic or mundane, it doesn't matter. That, and Newden is basically a Mecca for anyone who shares his beliefs."

Gathwells raised a scar that served as an eyebrow. "You do realize suggesting "Nuke It" is an extreme proposal, even for R.A.W., right? That you getting out of there alive is nothing short of miraculous?"

Barry raised the capsule. "I know I stand on thin ice, and I took precautions. But there is a lot of evidence that Halgins has abilities that can't be explained by sleight of hand or cyber-attacks."

Gathwells 'hmm'ed. "I will admit- the idea of a metahuman dedicated to killing all of us is fucking terrifying. If that is the case, if he is a bona fide reality warper, then nuking Newden to the ground is not only justified but essential. But if you're wrong…"

Barry shrugged. "Then we have one dead enemy and a smoldering radioactive crater where his hometown used to be. Our enemies may put two and two together, but they'll sound like lunatic conspiracy theorists. More likely, they'll learn to shut up and go hide under a rock."

"And what if he just does what you think he did with the alleged nuke he disarmed at the hospital?" Gathwells asked pointedly.

Barry laughed hoarsely, the thought unnerving him. "Ms. Gathwells, with all due respect, if he can will multiple nukes out of existence, then the inverse is probably true… and that means we're pretty much fucked."

"Me and my mother never had a great relationship, but we stayed out of each other's hair enough. I tried to please her, but it seemed nothing I did was ever good enough. I was always negatively compared to someone else's daughter, or her at a younger age."

"My dad tried to play mediator, but he's away on business a lot, so that meant staying out of her way. That seemed to keep her mostly satisfied… at least, until she got that damn book."

"She started getting more and more authoritarian. Saying I couldn't do things or go places because she could. She would barge into my room and demand I do something, then follow me around and complain how I was doing it, or how lazy I was. Sometimes she would slap me for not doing something correctly. If Dad caught her, she'd apologize, then leave the house for a while. Then she'd come back and give us both the silent treatment for days on end."

"Then there was the party she threw."

"It was just… on and on about how evil teenagers are, and how we're all ungrateful and don't do anything right… I was doing all the cooking and serving, and that didn't stop her from tearing into me over and over. Finally, she made me stand there while she and her friends acted like I was the… I don't know, representative of bad teens? So when I finally told them that they were treating their kids like crap, she decked me."

"I called the cops after that, and dad's filing for divorce."

"You and other people seem to think that the book "Get with the Program" is to blame. You're wrong. The book is evil, don't get me wrong, but it doesn't create distrust or meanness. It just draws forward what's already there. My dad's firm, but not super strict. Mom got him a copy of the book. He read a few chapters, he said, then threw it away."

"That's the difference, I think. It's a horrible book, written by a horrible person for horrible people. A decent person picks it up, reads it, and then throws it away."

-Interview with Laura Commers by Calvin Halgins.

Charles Vance thought it almost a waste.

Jason was clearly brilliant, clearly predisposed towards science, computer programming, and engineering, and really, maybe if he could have the flaws beaten out of him he could be useful in the new world they were going to create…

But the commands were very clear. Jason Fox was to die, and if need be, his entire family as well.

He had six bullets. That was one more than he needed. They were specially made rounds, designed to release concentrated cyanide when in contact with blood. A solid hit even on a limb would mean death sooner or later, and Vance prided himself on his targets being dead before they hit the floor.

Overkill, maybe. But for his last mission before being retired to training duty, he wanted to make sure the job was done right.

He had been briefed on the situation before being dispatched, of course- Jason was allegedly responsible for the compound disaster. Responsible for dozens killed. And Larry Conan, his principal, was desperate enough to get R.A.W. involved.

It would not end well for Larry Conan, he believed.

A dead family and their child, having been expelled from a school after being attacked by a counselor, with a staggering amount of evidence in his favor ignored in favor of keeping the status quo? That was going to set off alarm bells no matter how you looked at it.

Part of him wanted to have some means of watching it all unfold. It was like dropping a firecracker in an ant nest- after the initial blast, the ants would scurry and scatter madly, confused and angry, ready to retaliate against an enemy that was long gone and had no intention of returning.

That was not a luxury he could afford.

He prided himself on clean, efficient work. He'd have preferred to make it look like an accident, but such was not to be- his superiors wanted it clear that someone wanted Jason Fox dead.

In a few hours, if everything went well, he would be on his way to a safehouse and the Fox family would be dead.

He pulled up next to the curb of the Fox residence.

Andy Fox greeted him at the door warmly, told him where Jason was- upstairs.

Did Roger Fox even appreciate what he had? Did any of them?

No, of course not. Appreciation of something only occurred when you had it taken away. He had found that out the hard way with his family.

He had been a strict father. Stricter than his father. Where his dad would have done a grounding, he used a belt. On what rare occasions warranted a paddling, he used a rattan cane. He wanted his son and daughter disciplined, clockwork efficient…

…and his wife…

…just…

…didn't see it that way.

He was no fool. The moment he took a few crucial seconds to realize he had shot his wife and kids as they prepared to leave him, he had realized that his life was over. His career with the CIA was over.

How lucky he had been that R.A.W. had been there.

He took note of a few last details, almost fondly. The grey metal of R.A.W.'s compounds was dreary and soul crushingly utilitarian. He missed having a home, a real home, not just a private room with a few extra niceties.

It was almost enough to make him make it all stop, tell them all they were in terrible danger, to go and hide, to tell Jason what was going on…

Stop.

Just… stop.

He was getting sentimental. Sentimental and slow. That's why R.A.W. wanted him training others, not actively working. And after all, if someone like him could lose a family and a life, then it was only fair that Jason did too.

Quick. Clean. Professional.

He would give Jason that dignity, at least.

He opened the door, no knock.

Jason was sitting there, facing the door as he walked in…

Immediately, what "Charles Vance" called his sixth sense kicked in.

Those were not the bright, computer illuminated eyes of Jason Fox the student. They were something else. The glasses seemed to amplify those portals to hell behind them, even as the boy's expression was chillingly neutral.

"You nearly had me."

So much in only four words. Triumph- I know who you are, you two-faced sonofabitch. Sorrow-I trusted you. Indignation- You have threatened me and mine, and for that you will pay dearly.

"What gave me away?" asked Vance as he drew his gun.

"The metal detector I had installed in our front door, hooked to my computer. Did you know you can wire them to detect specific amounts of metal, like those in a gun?"

The door closed behind him with a hydraulic hiss.

"Larry Conan's involved with this, isn't he?" Jason asked mechanically.

Vance nodded once. "For what it's worth, Jason, they didn't ask to make it painful."

"R.A.W.? They didn't want me to suffer?"

Vance shrugged slightly. "I do my jobs quick and clean, and they respect that."

Jason's expression didn't change. "How considerate of them for you. Pity my father doesn't feel that way-"

The closet door to his right suddenly opened, and instinctively Vance fired a single shot-

It was a dead center shot to the skull, small comfort for what would be a very hard setback to overcome, but at least that was one down…

Feathers exploded into the air, not blood and bone, a crude dummy of an old shirt and pillow…

No-

There was a series of pops, like airguns going off, and sharp barbs slammed into him…

PAIN.

He convulsed, shook, garbled, unable to defend himself as the rubber wrapped crowbar smashed his wrist and sent the gun to the ground.

"Fun little fact- for me, it's easier to make cyanide than it is to buy it. Moreso when I need it in a very specific form, like darts."

Vance's arms felt like empty rubber sleeves. His muscles failed. He tried to speak, and nothing came out.

"For what it's worth, Mr. Vance, I am going to have a hell of a time explaining this one. There's no good reason I can think of for having weapons-grade cyanide and this kind of delivery system." His tone was casual, almost consoling.

There was a dark ring closing on the edges of his vision, and suddenly Charles Vance, who wasn't really Charles Vance, but a man with a past he had a discarded and a face that wasn't his, realized that there wasn't going to be an escape escort.

There wasn't an opening for training R.A.W. assassins, either.

This was an acid test for Jason, and he, one of the greatest assassins R.A.W. had ever employeed, with over two dozen contracts ruled random homicides or accidents, the go-to person for when someone needed to die in an impossible scenario…

…was as expendable as any other agent.

…was obsolete.

This is how R.A.W. retires those who no longer have a purpose and cannot be relied on to serve as an executive or training role.

There was an apartment registered in Charles Vance's name, which in the span of a half hour was suddenly made over with multiple copies of James Malefides' "Get with the Program", in various stages of dissection, pasted on the walls in ways that spelled insanity.

A bulletin board with Jason Fox's picture, with "LIEMAKER" drawn on it in Vance's blood, courtesy of a blood test he had three weeks before taking the contract on the same boy.

A manifesto in as close to Vance's handwriting as humanly possible, decrying Fox as the antichrist and his family as the "womb of Satan", all so much crazy diatribe, starting off with a chillingly precise mania and devolving slowly into pure lunacy, swearing by the "holy bible of Malefides the prophet to purge the world of sin".

Phony arrest records for stalking people who never existed. A false history of schizophrenic and paranoid behavior. A pre-made alternative background that reeked of insanity and delusional thoughts of conspiracy, made years before "Charles Vance" was ever even recruited.

It had worked hundreds of times before, when premature death or 'retirement' necessitated a R.A.W. agent be dismissed as a lunatic.

It would have worked this time, too, had Jason Fox not been recording the last minutes that Vance was alive.

Gathwells looked worse than usual as she explained, eye twitching, the end result of the plan to Barry, briefing him on the situation.

"So." Barry said, at a loss for more coherent words. "Let me… get this straight."

"We contacted Larry Conan. We offered to make Jason disappear, via a tutor/assassin. We allowed Jason several weeks to get acclimated with this tutor. Then we sent him into what the higher ups knew was a death-trap, allowed him to reveal on camera we planned the whole damn thing and he's connected to Larry Conan, then die with what is now an obvious decoy setup in place…"

Barry felt his eye twitch too, now. "If something I did resulted in that…"

"Acid bath. At best." Gathwells finished, nodding. "And no, I have no idea why they did it either."

"Then you're clearly not as sharp as I thought." Derricks interrupted, intruding on the two in the hallway. For once, the pedophile was grinning happily, the sort of joy that usually indicated that the crematories would be working overtime that night.

"Then enlighten us." Gathwells said, exasperated. "What exactly makes this situation anything less than a total and unsalvageable clusterfuck?"

Derricks smiled, and Barry fought the urge to recoil. "Tell me, what happens when word gets around to the parents about this?"

Gathwells blinked, eyes narrowing at Derricks in an are you kidding me sort of way. "They will riot."

"And what of the children in his school, when they learn that their own principal was responsible for trying to kill a hero?"

Barry cut in, tired of the nonsense. "They'll tear the place apart, they'll kill Conan, it'll be everything we've said they're planning times… three…" Barry felt the implication sink in.

Oh.

Oh.

This… this would be fun to watch.