Author: Mirrordance
Title: For Every Evil 2
Summary: For every evil that rises, we are given ways to fight it. Legolas and his reclaimed, resurrected friends come together yet again to fight an all too-modern foe: bioterrorism.
13: God's Art
Atlanta, Georgia
The United States of America
Elrohir could not have been more alarmed if his father had told him the world was coming to an end. He stepped out of the shower to find his mother missing.
"She went down to fetch us some food and beverages," his father told him distractedly. Already, the aggressive learner in Elrond was making time with his son's laptop.
"You could have waited for me," Elrohir muttered, hurriedly running a hand over his still-wet hair, as if ready to sprint down after her, "You could have asked what 'room service meant...'"
"Contrary to what you may want to believe," his father told him mildly, "We are profoundly adaptive people. You cannot survive centuries without being open to change. We know times are different. We are cautious."
"I know, I know," Elrohir sighed, "It's just that I can't trust anybody else. You know how mother smiles?"
Elrond looked up from the screen, and smiled indulgently himself, as if in remembrance of his wife.
"Yes, like that!" Elrohir exclaimed, "That beatific, slow smile? She stares at you and her eyes light up and then she smiles like you're the center of the world. It's unhealthy. I never thought I'd say this, but mother is a babe, and out here, many mortal, clueless, and profoundly out-classed louts are going to think she's flirting with them and giving them the time of day and... and it stresses me out! It's unhealthy."
"Flir-ting?" his father, apparently unfamiliar with the term.
"Mild seduction," Elrohir replied, quickly. He was getting used to the occasional need to explain things to his mother and father.
"Ah," Elrond breathed, giving it some thought, "Perhaps you should fetch her. But give her a few minutes, my son. She can fend for herself, and would be pleased to find you trust in the same."
"Hm," Elrohir frowned as he looked over at his father's work, and Elrond watched him from the corner of his eye, very much amused.
"Life is very funny," Elrond commented, "How a parent could simply find one day that things were the other way around."
Elrohir was unamused. "I don't know what you're talking about, Ada. What are you doing over here?" The screen was occupied by a minimized Wikipedia article, a few more complex journal pieces, a microscopic photo, and the Help window.
"I called up images of the virus from the Inter-net," Elrond replied, "These micro-scop-ic images are not unlike those we have studied in Valinor, but we call it something else." He said something in Elvish that Elrohir had never heard of, some variation and combination of the words "sight" and "infinite."
"You've studied elven genetics?" Elrohir asked, before he had to clarify what "genetics" meant; again, the concept was familiar but the Valinor elves named it something else. As Elrond had told his son, technological development was not a one-way track with an Earthen monopoly. The elves have progressed themselves, and it shouldn't have been a surprise. They were always pushing further, working harder, to improve themselves.
"To see closer at the creation of the gods," Elrond replied, "We have looked upon the trees and the flowers and the animals. We've combined and melded them together, eliminated some traits, improved them. To look into ourselves as one amongst those creations is humbling. The perfection of creation, the thought that goes into each and every--" he said something that, in Elrohir's ears, sounded like a combination of the Elvish words for "fiber" and "being." He assumed it can be directly translated to "cells" or possibly "genes." It was odd to think about himself as being old-fashioned once he returns to Valinor and not knowing a thing.
"Some call it Science," Elrond finished, "I think it is God's Art."
Elrohir smiled tightly. He missed it, how his father spoke, the scholar in him. Elrond was more known as a warrior and a leader, but this was where his heart found joy and rest, in the pursuit of knowledge. Imladris' vast archives were proof of that, and healing was but a part of it.
"We know the Eleven component that keeps us from illness," Elrond said, "I am studying the make-up of this disease, in an effort to determine if we are indeed immune. I find I have reason to believe so. And from this conclusion... well, I cannot propose to introduce this 'gene' to the human race, my son, but you play with it a little, and well.. you just might have a cure."
Elrohir's brows rose. "People have been trying to find one for decades, ada. They say that if they find the carrier of the disease, the being that can keep the virus alive but not be harmed by it, and use that being's immunity to bolster a man's, then you have your vaccine. Possibly a cure. But right now, the only thing even closely within the realm of hope is a vaccine. I can hardly imagine a cure..."
"Elves never came into their equation, my son," Elrond replied, "There is no harm in looking at possibilities."
"Ada," Elrohir asked, "Would injecting that immunity in the edain suddenly find them not merely Ebola-free, but also free of other diseases?"
"They will likely find a rarity of viral illness in the future," Elrond replied.
"How about aging?" Elrohir asked.
"That trait stems from a different fiber," his father answered with a small smile, "They're not going to be surprised to be alive two hundred years from now if that is what you ask."
"I guess it is worth looking into," Elrohir conceded. Those were the most dangerous things; he had no intention of turning a group of sick men into elves, along with saving their lives. He wished it were selfishness, but it just felt plainly wrong.
I'm not God...
"Ah!" he remembered suddenly, "Mother," he said as he headed for the door.
San Pedro, Los Angeles
California
While the feds were mobilizing their resources to search the U.S. Ports, Greene and Montes decided the best of their contributions would be in local expertise, and decided to focus their efforts on looking for links to the terrorists, apart from the Rosa Negra.
"I mean a weapon's for something, right?" Montes had reasoned, "It's headed somewhere, it's not just going to stay in the frigging boat. And if that boat has been here since before the quarantine, the cache must have already been transferred."
Greene began to smile, for the first time since he was informed that his friend was ill. "Transportation," he breathed.
They had a copy of the photos of the Rosa Rasa cache. They had several local truckers estimate the weight and space requirements of such a cargo.
"So there's no way anyone could have, say, grabbed a Sedan and loaded everything in the trunk and every other space?" Montes clarified.
"That's a huge load," their expert replied, "And if this guy was picking up something from the harbor, trying to stuff everything in your own car is going to look mighty suspicious."
"A pick-up?" Greene asked.
"Naw," replied the man, "You're going to need a truck, unless he made several trips..."
The two detectives decided to prioritize their efforts in assuming the terrorists had made just one trip, as there was no limiting factor if they followed the "several trips" theory. To assume just one trip, though, meant that they can create a minimum limit for investigating trucks... any form of transportation smaller than what could carry the cache in a signal trip will have to take the backseat of the investigation.
"That still leaves us with thousands of trucks in the immediate area alone," Montes murmured, "Sales, Rentals, company-owned, stolen..."
"But the quarantine gives us a time frame," Leland argued, "No other new deliveries are coming, this shortens the list dramatically. We give someone in the precinct a call and we can find out in two minutes if anything was stolen. We're left with Rentals and Owned trucks. Both of which have paper trails. Companies can even tell us from the get-go if a truck delivery did not occur according to plan; costs and time is properly monitored. This leaves us with having to personally interview just the people who personally own commercial-size trucks or those who rented them. This can be done."
And so they went. The list was trimmed to a respectable 100+ trucks. The two detectives took a coffee break in one of the few open waterfront shops, a cafe occupied by young, artsy types and a few other strays who couldn't find anywhere else to eat. He suspected the shop would have been more full, if not for the general sense of fear that was gripping the state. Some people, however, did move along the rest of life in an effort to retain normalcy.
Leland Greene liked the vibrant, free-spirited atmosphere. He and Rafe occupied a corner table, and loaded it with their papers, that they may enjoy the organic coffee and look over their work.
"What can I get you folks?" a young waitress asked them, coming up to their table. She had brilliant gray eyes beneath synthetic plastic red frames.
"Just two cups of your house blend, thanks," Greene replied with a smile, knowing they probably did not have the complications of his usual Starbucks fare.
"All right," she replied, glancing at the papers that crowded their table, "Anything else?"
"That's all," Leland replied.
"You write on the back of those papers?" she asked him, almost absently, as she found bare spots to put recycled brown-colored napkins.
"Excuse me?" Montes asked.
"I mean you sure use a lot," she commented, frowning.
"What?" Montes asked, looking at Greene for clarification.
"Paper," she said, "You should use the back."
"Weird," Montes murmured, as she walked away to make their requested drinks.
She came back after a few minutes, and glanced at Montes' tie. "Silk?"
"Good eye," he told her, warily.
"Organic," she commented, "And that's all right. But you know those poor silk worms work their asses off, and then they get boiled or gassed alive--"
"Rina!" a young man called from behind her, and he was apparently her boss, "Easy."
Leland turned to the young man who walked toward them cautiously. He was tall, had lean shoulders, sandy blond hair, a five o' clock shadow and and a long, poet's face. He had a gray "Darfur" shirt on in thin cottony material over acid-washed jeans.
"I'm very sorry... Detectives," he guessed, looking over at their work and likely seeing some logo or other of the department.
"She is very passionate," Greene murmured, as Rina threw them a final glare before walking out.
"We built this place to create awareness," the younger man replied with a smile that was half-wince, "We have very highly educated part-timers who believe that what we do here is beyond serving coffee. It's the promotion of a lifestyle. Everything you see is recycled, organic and sustainable. Ah..." he paused in thought, "We noticed an influx of cops and FBI here, the last few hours. Anything we should be worried about?"
News of the second ship hadn't been released to the public, Greene remembered.
"I think you are already worried about a fair number of things," Greene tried to joke, nodding at a few other new arrivals that Rina was lecturing.
"Aw, shit," the man muttered, "Excuse me," he said as he stalked toward the new commotion.
"I thought my job was hard," Montes commented.
The Estate of Imladris,
Vienna, Austria
An odd character flaw; he never acquired the habit of knocking before entering. He simply came up behind her and engulfed her frame in his arms. The action was completely territorial (both the sudden barge into her room and the embrace), and her lips curved to a smile as she felt his head lower to bury his face in her hair.
Elladan was quiet, as if he were robbed of words, and she felt his chest rise in a sigh, pressing against her back.
"What's wrong?" she asked softly, tearing her eyes from the view of her bedroom window, disentangling herself from his arms with a measure of regret, as she turned to face him.
"You've heard of this outbreak in California," he answered tightly.
"I know," she replied, "My father will leave within the day to personally oversee the news back home. It is a very big story. Elrohir's flight must have been redirected, am I right?"
Elladan nodded, "He and my parents are safe. I'm worried for Aragorn and my sister."
Her brows shot up. "You don't say...?"
"He thinks he may have caught it," Elladan winced, "He told Legolas. The elf called the dwarf. The dwarf called everybody. He works in one of the quarantined hospitals."
"Oh..." she breathed, touching his face, "Elladan..."
"Damn it," he said quietly, "Will nothing go just plainly right?"
She shook her head, as if to shake away his doubts and his loneliness. She held his face in her hands. "No, I'm afraid not. Of you and your friends greater things have always been meant. But does it not also mean that you are best equipped to not merely survive, but to aid others?"
"I just want a peaceful life like everyone else's," Elladan said softly, searching her eyes. She met his lonely gaze squarely. Centuries of thought and wisdom were etched in them, she noted. Century after century of the things he's seen and lived.
She marveled then, at his heretofore under-recognized desperate yearning for normalcy. At the onset, it seemed to her that it was Elrohir who embraced the modern world more; him and his open attitude, his video game vices, his fast cars. Elladan was more standoffish, more reserved. She had once thought him aloof. He walked in an unearthly fashion, looked at things with an unearthly eye. It was as if he belonged elsewhere. But in his eyes this day, she noted his love of the world, his desire to be simply one within it. It was he who had hidden his ears, instead of flaunting them as Elrohir had. It was he who finally broke his isolation and sought out a wife, dreamed of making a family.
Like everyone else...
He gripped her arms like a lifeline. As if she was going to escape.
"I'm not going anywhere," she told him, a smile teasing her lips.
"This is the sort of thing that follows us around," he warned her, seriously.
"I know," she shrugged, "But I'm not going anywhere. You forget. I found you. I followed you. I am one amongst those who sought to wreck your peace. I'm a disturbance, myself. Nothing can faze me."
"You're a hurricane," he added gravely, though his eyes were beginning to reclaim their light.
"I'm yours," she promised, pulling him towards her in a bargain-sealing kiss.
Nairobi, Kenya
Africa
Chandra Bouvier had lived in Africa long enough to know that change was coming with the very kiss of the winds. There was an energy in the air, cackling, teasing, laughing, mischief-making. The people walked a little bit faster, looked behind them a bit more than the usual.
She reveled in it, and occasionally reviled it. But in both cases, it made her feel alive. She was at the very heart of the world, here. Her home. Her heart. Her life.
The airports were busier than the usual, and she started seeing more stern faces that did not at all have the air of travel or leisure. They were closing in on someone, and that day, she knew they were closing in on her.
She asked the cab driver to turn around, away from the airport, and bring her back to the lodge from which she just came.
There was no escaping now, though some deluded days ago, she caught the thought that perhaps it was possible. No such luck, this time. No such luck. It was a good thing that by now, the fate of her mission was separate from the fate of her person. Herself she could loose, her mission she could not.
She mulled on her actions, during her ride. She mulled over a lot of things. She thought of her work. She thought about the peaceful retirement she could have chosen. She thought about that young South African who once owned her heart and whose offer of marriage she had declined. She thought about her youth. She though about Brad Greer and his rare but engaging smile. Mostly she thought about the land that spread out before her sight, as they drove past soil and sun.
Her cellphone rang. Her smile was feral when she saw that it was Brad Greer. He invited her out to lunch, they fixed their schedules, and she graciously accepted.
Kwisha Isle,
Lake Victoria
"Try not to underestimate her," YinYang told the Interpol Agent, "I did, and that was a mistake."
"Chandra Bouvier," Harding said.
"Mmhm," affirmed the other, "I heard people talking, around. I guess that's why everyone's moving faster, and you're not giving me better offers. You have somebody else."
"Any regrets?" Harding asked.
"No," came the simple reply, "You'll come back to me. I guarantee you she will be much harder to break."
"Why is that?"
YinYang shrugged. "She's like you."
"What's that?"
"She's very sure."
Harding snorted. "But as you said, so am I. How did you come to work together?"
"She called me," he replied, "That's how most people find me, if they know how to look. Or in her case, good at looking."
Harding accepted the slight on their intelligence department with a slight grin.
"She called me by my real name," he said, "I didn't expect that."
Harding's brows rose.
"I wanted to kill her," he laughed, "I was angered by her nerve, but also intrigued. She saved me from the decision by offering me a job. The story of my life."
"Is she a lone wolf?" Harding asked, referring to a terrorist who worked alone.
"She would seem so, eh?" YinYang replied, "But I do not doubt she found others like herself. Her plan was all but complete by the time I entered the picture. I was the last link in the chain and, unless I miss my guess, the only one she had to pay."
"What do you mean?" Harding asked.
YinYang stared at him for a long moment. "I just had to set that thing on a boat and push it off. It was headed somewhere, and you just have to assume someone's there to receive it, eh?"
"Why did you think she didn't have to pay off the others?"
"I'm the only money you followed," YinYang replied, "And it's a Cause, you know? One of those things. These extremists just end up finding each other."
Harding's brows furrowed. "Extremists of what?"
"She sure tried to convince me," YinYang admitted, ignoring his question, "Up to now I'm unsure that she's wrong. But I tried to do what she needed, because she might be right and because she paid me to." He paused, "Hey. Aren't you going after her? Everyone else seems to be leaving."
"I need to make sure there's nothing more you want to tell me," Harding said, "We have someone else now. This is your last chance. The bargain will hold, but I need you to tell me what I need to know."
"You'll come back to me," YinYag said, in an almost singsong way, "I'm more pliable."
"This is your last shot," Harding repeated.
"I'll take my chances."
An aide of Harding's knocked on the door and gave him a thick, boxy package wordlessly. It was express mail from Italy, from old friends.
He clutched at it tightly, knew by the feel of the protective cushions that inside, he will likely find the "truth serum" he had requested for, just days ago.
Everyone is leaving, he thought, looking at YinYang wistfully.
He sat across from YinYang.
"You were just leaving," the younger man said to him, hesitantly, catching the glint in the other's steely eyes.
"I think I'll stay a little bit longer."
To be continued...