Chapter 37
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"Yes, of course, darling, I'm not upset. It's just business. I've already told you about all the plans for other possible pilots – I'm surely not idle, I'm working on them. My days are full and occupied."
Eliot couldn't be sure, but Florence's voice faltered on the last sentences. Jethro had called – well, it was about time he asked her if she was alive. That was the thing he couldn't understand from the beginning; how the hell he could stay in New Zealand, and not come running to his wife who had almost been murdered. Fucking idiot. Nothing would stop him. Sooner or later he would return to the apartment across the corridor, and maybe, just maybe, there would be a chance to talk to him about how to treat his wife. Yet, if he didn't know already the meaning of the word care, if nothing else, no intervention could help in that matter. She deserved better than that.
He stopped an irritated sigh and continued to type messages. After one minute, feeling Sophie's eyes on him, he realized he was slamming at the keyboard much faster and harder than before her phone rang, and he softened it again.
Florence was going to and fro, entering the bathroom and leaving it, speaking quietly, and he could catch only parts of sentences. Which was good, because if that fucking moron asked one more time about the cat and her job, and – wait a minute. Nobody could be that stupid, cruel and cold – and she certainly wasn't the kind of a woman who would stick with that kind of guy.
She didn't tell him she was in danger. That was the only explanation possible. And she lectured him about reckless macho-courage-whatever-shit, right. She would rather stay alone in this, than call him to come be in danger with her. He could understand that completely – but it wasn't any less crazy because of that.
He stopped typing. Okay, the guy wasn't an idiot, after all. He wasn't sure if he liked that new thought or not. Poor bastard, in fact. He would be delighted when he found out everything that had happened.
So, no need for intervention. Maybe they would even exchange polite greetings in the hall if they met. After all this ended, life would return to normal, she would live next door - with a fucking husband – and maybe even come to visit. Parker and Sophie liked her. That would be… weird.
He stared for a few seconds at his fingers hovering over the keyboard, and forced himself to type a few random letters.
"Can't book a flight yet, I have to see what will happen at the PVA ceremony. If things change, I might have to stay a day or two longer, to deal with paperwork and everything needed. But, that's it, two days max-" She entered the bathroom again and the rest was silenced, but this was good. He forgot she had said at the beginning of all this she was going to New Zealand to join her husband, and that she was only here because of the PVA. If he remembered correctly, she had a few months of hiatus before she returned to the US to assemble her team and start work on the new season, if there was one.
That was good. Three months would be ideal, it would give him enough time to clear this shit from his mind. He would even be able to look at her as a neighbor, or a client, whatever she was.
Damn, time had never been a problem for him before. He always had plenty of it, for everything he needed to do. But now, it seemed that everything was running past him, and he couldn't catch up. No time for anything. The time for recovery, for the job, for healing, for clearing his mind, for thinking… he needed days where he had only hours. He needed months where he had only days. And he had no idea how to stop that trend – it was getting worse.
He checked the clock on the laptop - noon had just passed. Twelve hours until the night action that involved walking. Half a day to hide how bad he felt, and act like usual, when he wanted, needed, heavy drugs to dull the pain that burned steadily.
The only thing that helped was Hardison's people who came and boarded up the two broken windows completely, increasing the darkness in the room. The only light was the laptops and screens that Hardison finally convinced to cooperate.
Day and the night lost their usual meaning, exchanging places.
Time was screwed up, just like everything else.
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Hardison put a big US map up on one screen, so they could track the red dots emerging, as group after group made their balloon actions. The Sea of Crimson started to actually spread in one slow wave all across the country, from east to west.
The second screen was reserved for local reporters and their reports on the actions, while the third was for major the TV houses that carried the news. It was a slow day even in international politics, nothing was happening, and the funny doings of crazy people found their place.
Hardison provided a bunch of inner, mostly secret home numbers for all the TV networks, and Sophie was busy making calls, grifting her way through TV crews, news rooms and editorial rooms, sending out crews and putting #TheSeaOfCrimson on the air even on a C4 program. For the last hour Florence had been sitting with her at the dining table, doing nothing, just listening to her with wide open eyes.
Eliot knew it was single-day news, but one day of this was exactly what they needed, nothing more.
"Okay, that's it," Hardison said coming to his bed, lowering himself tiredly onto the chair. "I officially proclaim there's not a single red balloon in the country, I bought all of them."
He quickly checked his posture, though Hardison wasn't Betsy. The hacker couldn't see how he felt just by observing the number of pillows behind his back. Including the one below his mouse hand. He was moving only his fingers and wrist. He relaxed everything that could be relaxed, just in case.
The hacker rubbed his eyes with one hand, but he was still typing with the other on a tablet. Eliot almost smiled; now he knew how fucking exhausting this typing and laptop business was, but he had no intentions of ever letting him know that fact. "All the groups confirmed they are in contact with suppliers, and most of them are waiting to start," he said. "The Las Vegas group is still deciding if they should go before a giant fireworks show tonight, or if it would be better to use the crowd that will gather to see it. The admins can take over now, I can go back to voting." The sooner the better. Their plan robbed them of many voters, occupied with balloons, and the race looked hopeless now.
"About the voting," Hardison lowered his voice, glancing at the table with Sophie and Florence. "I put every computer in use, if you know what I mean," he nodded to the three laptops that were on the coffee table, all three of them with aquarium screensavers. Eliot suspected that Hardison had followed Betsy's advice – she tried to make him play Happy Aquarium, to lower his stress levels.
"No, I don't know what you mean. Why does everybody think that fish are calming? You really haven't ever gone fishing, right? There's nothing-"
"What damn fish, you idiot, it's a screensav-" Hardison sighed. "Look, the laptops are voting for M7 in your Supernatural/ Castle poll. I made a simple script-"
"You mean, three more votes?"
"Actually, nine. I made a virtual system inside the virtual system, allowing-"
He stopped listening, calculating the numbers. Nine votes every few seconds. For hours. They could vote even when the team was out tonight.
"Why the secrecy?" he asked when Hardison took a breath between rambling about RAM and ROM.
"…and if I just had enough time – what? Ah, Florence. I thought she wouldn't like it. She is decent. Fair play, equal chances, that kind of crap. Keep your mouth shut, until I feel her pulse. Maybe I'm wrong."
"Did you just say you might be wro-"
"Nope." Hardison shot him a stare.
"Yeah, right," he forced a grin, though he wasn't feeling it at all. "Since you're here, tell me – what do we think about these photo manipulations?" He turned his laptop to him to look at the two pictures that came in a message.
Hardison sighed and took a look. "We think they are superbly executed," he said solemnly.
"Not long enough."
"The use of colors shows the creator's command of the, the…they are great. Put a lot of smileys in the message, and lot of exclamation marks, a few yays and use caps lock, okay? Why are they sending you pictures?"
"They want to know what I think," he grumbled. "How the hell should I know why geeky people do things?"
"Okay, that's a good sign, they respect your opinion. Don't refuse anything of that sort, and always be nice and polite."
"Seriously?" He had nine unopened messages waiting. He was tired of being nice. He went to spy on the Supernatural group, and after switching from group to group three times, he forgot where he was and who he was – he almost said something incriminating. Because Florence was right, there wasn't any difference between these fans – every group shared the same love and devotion, just for a different subject. It would be much easier if the opponents were a nasty, poisonous bunch, he would crush them without any mercy – but they were nice, funny and warm, just like she said.
While he was thinking, staring blindly at the inbox, two more pings rang out. Two more messages. As if he wasn't late with everything already…
"Guys, we have news here," Nate's voice stirred them both. "Hardison, put the fourth screen on all six."
A head on the screens grew bigger, turning into Jules Brewer. The blond reporter caught him, again, at the door of the C4 building. Yet, this time, something was different, judging by his smile.
"M7 supporters showed their loyalty to the show, Mr. Brewer. People all across the country are answering their call. Have you changed your mind?"
"It's wonderful to see that C4 has that of a strong fan base." His answer provoked a pissed off gasp from the dining table. "C4 and our shows always kept fans first, taking all their wishes into consideration." Okay, this made his blood boil now. If their Facebook guy was an example of treatment toward the fans, he should burn their house down. Maybe he would, eventually, however this ended.
"Does that mean that you will take their wish to continue with M7 into consideration? Are you here to give us some good news?"
"I'm here because you caught me going on my lunch break, dear lady," Brewer still held that same smile. "And to fans of M7, I have one message. If all of Boston managed to produce just the ten people that gathered to perform this – I must say, beautiful – show with balloons, what does it say about our decision? Boston has over a million citizens, and just ten of them watch M7? Is that your message? Dear fans, as much as we'd like to give you what you want, we simply can't afford to support a show that has ten out of a million viewership. Do your math before continuing. You will have to show much more than ten people if you want to be taken seriously. Thank you."
"Ouch," Sophie quietly said when the screen went black again.
Ouch, indeed.
And their time was running out.
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He spent one hour commenting on a thread named 'Brewer's newest shit', full of discouraged and pissed off people, trying to hide that he felt exactly the same. An eventual win in SpoiledTV's polls now looked irrelevant. That would change exactly nothing.
In spite of the sunken feeling that colored every comment, people were not giving up their actions. The Las Vegas crew promised a show that would be better than the fireworks.
"Tell them to record that," Hardison replied when he reported that after the hacker came to him again. "I'll put it on You Tube and boost viewership, so our reporter can have some significant numbers to tell Brewer when she corners him again. If fifty damn million watched the balloon show, what message is that?" Hardison sounded pissed off, too, and that was good. "But Nate has to come up with something pretty quick."
They both looked at Nate who was sitting on a kitchen counter stool in front of the screens, looking at something on the lower right screen – documents with small letters and many numbers. It didn't look like the Season Six part of the job.
"He said this was just the first step," he pointed out.
As if he sensed they were watching him, Nate darted a glance at them. This time, Eliot regretted the half-darkness, he couldn't read his face. Only thing he could see, however, was that Nate looked directly at him. He lowered his head as if watching the emerging of new comments on the screen, covering his face with his hair, but when Nate took out his phone, he abruptly raised his head again.
"Hi, Betsy." Nate sounded lazy. "Busy with something? Can you talk?"
What the hell… He was good at hiding shit like this from them, he always had been. Nate couldn't see anything. But even Hardison twitched.
"Good to hear that. No, nothing important. I just wanted to ask something. You said that Parker could walk normally. What exercises you would suggest to further improve her state? I was thinking about swimming. Relaxed swimming should help, right? Great, thank you." Nate finished his call, not paying any attention to Parker's grin that flashed from the dining table, and put another set of documents on the screen. He didn't look at the bed.
"What was that?" Hardison asked quietly. "What damn swimming? I don't like the sound of that word."
That was fishing, Hardison. A warning that he noticed something. "Probably the second step," he said lightly. Hardison darted him a suspicious look – too much lightness in his voice, the next stage was fucking chirping – and walked away.
George, on the shelf again and watching him from above, looked haunted, as if ten cats were surrounding him.
He sighed and opened another message in the seventh chat window.
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Florence deeply regretted that she hadn't written down all the advice Sophie had told her about character behavior. They were in Lucille heading to the slaughterhouse then, it wasn't exactly the place for writing, but damn, this woman was an expert. She counted seven different personalities and voices that she used just on the NBC employees, while making calls up the ladder, finishing with a member of the Board of Directors. Would the grifter consider a small role in M7? Probably not, it would be too much attention, too dangerous for her. But that was such a shame, she was a natural talent.
Surprisingly, Parker wasn't bad either. She played a thrilled viewer who called networks to support their decision to show #TheSeaOfCrimson reports, and though she wasn't as versatile, she managed to make four calls to the same person without him noticing that it was her all over again.
This gang, the five of them, obviously could play at least fifty different roles if necessary.
Yet, maybe she ought to warn them about the merciless world of TV networks. A different kind of 'merciless', not their kind. Brewer wasn't one to be taken lightly, he was a dangerous enemy. She knew he would recover very quickly, and she wasn't disturbed by his reply. Worse was yet to come.
Their action would continue and she knew a few of his potential reactions, so she left Sophie and Parker and went to her laptop to write articles that would cover Brewer's statements in advance.
Hardison was sitting by Eliot again, she noticed. He stood from her chair when he saw her coming. Did the hacker see that Eliot hid his face from him, and sat visibly stiff, radiating a 'go away' sign? Probably not, judging by his smile. There must've been some other reason he kept going to him since they'd returned.
"I'm just going to write a few articles, you don't have to go," she said quickly. "Stay if you're doing something important."
"We're not," Eliot said before Hardison could answer. She was right, he didn't want him too near. He raised his eyes from the screen, moving only his head; the rest of his body was arranged into an immobile, falsely relaxed position. "There's nothing that we have to do now, I'm voting and going through messages, pictures, and stories while waiting for the next town to join the action." He turned his head to the hacker, again slowly. "You can go take care of the fish while I finish this."
What damn fish? Wherever he tried to send him, it didn't work, Hardison sat on the bed. She took the chair, watching that interaction. Hardison looked like he was in a good mood.
"Nah, I'll just sit here for a while," Hardison said. "It's easier than coming back after a minute when you ask what do we think about pictures and stories. What stories, btw?"
"Some short story, apparently a fan fiction. A girl wants to hear what I think."
"And you'll read that?" the hacker eyed him. "Seriously?"
"I'm nice." The warning growl had no strength thought he tried, and Florence clearly saw when he rearranged his thoughts into something else, less suspicious. "Of course I'll read it, it's only a few pages. She called it PWP, whatever that might be," he continued, calmer. "She said I might not like it, but I don't see what's not to like in some slashing and water sports."
Dear god. She quickly looked at Hardison who almost dropped his tablet. They exchanged one wide eyed, empty stare.
"Are you – are you sure she said slash-ing?" she asked with level voice. "There was an –ing in it?"
"No, don't remember. Something like that. Why?"
"Ah, nothing, just sounded strange. Read on." She got up, and Hardison followed in a heartbeat.
"Now I remember, the fish do need some attention," he murmured going after her. They quickly retreated to the sofa, where Hardison pretended to do something with the laptops full of moving screens. They both turned their backs to the bed.
"Should I start a countdown?" Hardison asked in a low voice. "You're aware that he is a fan fiction, well, virgin? It's not wise to let porn-without-plot, slash and watersports be his first-"
"Do you really want to explain why he shouldn't read it?" she whispered back. "Because I don't want to, that's for sure. Maybe if we told him to google it first-"
"Ack!" an exclamation came from the bed. "The hell is this?!"
Well, too late. She shot an reassuring smile to Nate who watched their hurried whispering with raised eyebrows, and turned around to look at Eliot.
"I saw him look like this only once, when we watched Sophie's acting – and I hoped I would never see that again," Hardison murmured beside her. Eliot looked aghast, and she couldn't quite connect that expression to Sophie's superb acting skills. "Okay, stop, that's enough," he continued when Eliot narrowed his eyes, reading further, with completely stupefied eyes.
"This, this, this…" he was blinking now, and she barely bit back a chuckle.
"I said, stop," Hardison's grin wasn't suppressed, he was enjoying this immensely.
"I said I would read it, Hardison!" Eliot hissed an answer. "I promised I would, so I'm gonna do it, and she's waiting for-"
"Read what?" Parker asked, emerging behind the shelf with a bowl, and before any of them could react in any way, she peeked at his screen. He slammed the laptop shut.
"No, Parker, nothing for you to read. Go away."
She raised the bowl. "Second breakfast. A light one, only 800 calories," she said, eyeing the laptop significantly. The message was clear, and Florence wasn't surprised a bit when he took the bowl without any complaints.
She wasn't sure, though, if she wanted them to notice he did all of that with his left hand, or not. Before she could think it over, she moved closer – he held the bowl with his left, the laptop was shut, and it would be only a second before Hardison noticed that he froze, gathering the strength to move his right hand. She opened the laptop, as if she wanted to see the story.
"How can you allow this?" he asked, truly confused. "They are butchering your characters, you created them – you know what they think, feel, do – and you know what they wouldn't, couldn't do. Why don't you sue these-"
"It's not a matter of copyright," she said gently. "It's a matter of love. And love can be expressed in many ways. Should be. All different kinds of love."
"I hope you won't ask what we think of it," Hardison jumped in before Eliot said anything. "Can I see your review when you're done?
"Go away." There wasn't any growl in it, again, because he was looking at the story, as if just now realizing he would have to say something about it. Pretty much lost.
She lowered her voice. "Go to Amazon, and copy parts of reviews that talk about style, or expressing, erm, feelings. Or whatever. Action more than feelings, perhaps?" By the end it took an immense effort to keep a serious face.
His scowl deepened. "Glad you're having so much fun," he growled to both of them. "What part of 'go away' did you not understand?"
"This is interesting," Parker said from behind him. "Can you increase the font a bit, I'm missing-"
"Okay. That's. It." Well, that growl was the genuine one, it hit all the right spots, and Parker and Hardison walked away, still grinning, but pretty quickly.
She took her chair and laptop, and tested his advice about thinking about her grand grand aunt to become invisible. Maybe it worked, maybe it didn't – it still felt idiotic, though - but he just continued reading, not sending her away after them.
Those minutes, surprisingly, lifted a part of the burden that was pressing her chest and tightening her stomach into a small, heavy ball.
And again, he made her laugh, when she was sure that only sound that would escape her would be a cry.
She cast a sideways glance at him, suddenly suspicious.
He didn't notice it, occupied with typing, absent and with narrowed eyes. As if replying to some unknown fan girl was the most important thing in the world now.
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Of course he googled pwp, slash and watersports first, he had learned his lesson well. He was in an unfamiliar territory, full of booby traps, and if he didn't want to raise suspicion, he had to check every doubtful thing. Twice. Preferably by poking it with a stick first, from the safe distance.
He couldn't miss this opportunity to get rid of Hardison, or to at least lessen his hovering over him. The hacker maybe didn't even know why he lingered near him, but the kid had a good feeling for his fucking 'disturbances in the force'. Or whatever shit that was.
With this little scene, that lowered the tension and even made Florence laugh – very important on many different levels – he diverted Hardison's attention and gave him a good dose of his normal behavior. It wouldn't last long, but it distracted the hacker from thoughtful stares. Sooner or later, he would come to poke at him again, to see what was strange. But, sooner or later, he would start to feel better, and it would be easier to hide everything.
The sooner, the better. He looked at Nate who was now using all three of the lower screens; upper three were still mostly red. He couldn't see what he was doing, but there weren't just documents in front of him, now he saw some tiny pictures as well. Nate was in full speed.
He had no idea if he would have enough time to follow that speed. His every second thought, still, was to hide in the bathroom and curl up on the floor, and wait for pain to pass.
The next chance to use more diversion came in less than half an hour; Hardison came to tell him about the modifications in his metal detectors which he used to find the air pollution monitors in the woods. He sent him to bring him another bag of ice – the hacker had noticed he was typing with only his left hand, even when there wasn't any need to move the mouse.
Yet, after that, he couldn't think of anything else he could do, except checking the time and counting the bullet holes in the walls while pretending he wasn't listening to Hardison's metal detector specifications.
Florence, sitting on their left, was of no use. She played dead, working on her laptop.
"You can use it to help Parker dig out the remaining bullets," he said when Hardison took a short break, typing something. He immediately bit his tongue – letting him know he had listened to him wasn't, ever, a bright idea. But in a moment of brief panic, he remembered where he could send him. "Can you find something about Goon C? He used a Type 81 light machine gun. A very, very cautious guy, judging by the choice of weapon. He is good."
"What's cautious about using a machine gun?"
"The point is, which machine gun he used. The Type 81 is a solid, simple, very effective field weapon, nothing fancy. It's reliable, works in every situation, no jamming, no malfunction. It's Chinese production, based on the AK-47, and it's indestructible."
"Well, well." Nate's voice, soft and calm, came from the screens. It even stopped Sophie's and Parker's phone calls, they went silent too. "You won't guess what I've been working on right now."
Nate deleted the reporters and balloons from all the screens, leaving only the things he had been working on. Without the constant chirping from the different channels, the silence fell dull and heavy, melting into the half-darkness.
They all waited.
"You might want to come closer," Nate said pulling up the tiny pictures, spreading them out, now big enough for them to see them.
The Ford pickup, with packages with Chinese letters on them.
Giant yellow trucks, imported from China.
After a few seconds, the third image followed – a Type 81 machine gun, Chinese production.
"Briefing time, guys." Nate's smile became broader. "We need to talk."
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