Disclaimer
Apparently, these things are important. So I'll just stick this at the front of every story I put out here: this story is not for money ! I am not going to get anything for it ! That should be obvious, seeing as it's here on FF.net, but if it isn't then this makes it clear.
All right, as to ownership-- I own, hmm, a few unimportant characters. I do NOT own Michael or Gunther, nor do I own Deus Ex, nor do I own any rights to it! There.
Now you can read the story. :-)
-(----
Chapter 1
The ground dove away, as if it were flying down instead of the plane flying up. The young boy almost crushed his nose against the glass, his eyes darting across the landscape, scanning every detail. His face remained impassive, betraying none of the exhilaration in his heart. Emotion always got him in trouble.
"Michael!" The boy suppressed a grimace and deliberately sat back down in his seat. The eyes reflected in the mirror conveyed the calculating disapproval from the pilot-- Teacher. He never called them anything but Teacher, it made it easier.
"Have you finished the book they wanted you to read?" Michael resisted the urge to sigh and instead turned back to his French. He had learned German over the last two months, now it was French.
"Je suis heureux," he intoned, reading over the next lesson. "Je suis triste, je suis faché, je suis calme, je suis intelligent, je suis bête..." The list of adjectives continued with no end in sight.
Michael paused in his recitation to make use of his excellent eyesight. He could detect tiny details, including reading lips, out of the corner of his eyes; now he checked to see if Teacher was still looking at him. Seeing that he was out of direct observation, he stole another glance out the window. All he could see now was an endless white carpet under a vast ceiling of clouds, the two reaching out to meet beyond the horizon. The clouds had hidden the ground, and he turned back to his French with a disappointed expression.
Jack Mirants snapped another look at the kid. He was frankly unsettled by now, not least by the kid's insistence on calling him "Teacher." The boy never smiled or frowned, Jack had never heard him make any accidental sound, he never betrayed his emotions, he could even control his pupils. Jack had needed years to learn how to hide his emotions as best as physically possible, but like all humans, his pupils would expand when he was shocked or frightened. Not all humans, he reminded himself-- Michael's only expanded when he wanted them to. Or maybe nothing ever shocked or frightened him. Unnatural, whatever the explanation.
Jack had no idea what this job had gotten him into, but 10 years in the CIA told him he needed to get out ASAP. Before he became a...liability. No questions asked, he'd just drop the kid off with the predetermined contact, get his cash and leave.
________________________
Gunther Herman grumbled under his breath. The airport chairs were too weak for his colossal frame, leaving him to lean against the wall; the sunglasses he'd picked to hide his electronic eyes had gone, over the course of 4 hours, from a mild annoyance to an obnoxious load. To make the situation worse, the plane was delayed now, and he was beginning to have a hard time not being noticed. After all, none of the other people in the terminal were 7 and a half feet tall with a physique Schwarzenegger could envy.
Beyond that, Gunther had long ago exhausted the drivel magazines provided, and was wishing he could do some self-maintenance: one can never take too good care of oneself. But he could hardly start checking joints and action without revealing what he was. Nor could he go over his small weapons cache without causing mayhem. He settled against the wall, feeling it give slightly, and resigned himself to boredom.
He was about to give in and go buy a book when the PA sputtered to life. "Flight No. 53 is now making its approach. If you have family, friends, or associates on board, you may now begin making your way to the 'Arrivals' section of the terminal at Gate 29. Again, Flight No. 53..." Gunther snorted, he'd been in the 'Arrivals' section for the past 4 hours.
A few minutes after the announcement, Gunther noticed a man arrive, puffing after the arduous walk through the terminal. Was this the one he'd been waiting for? He closed his eyes and concentrated, switching from the physical world to his onboard computer. A moment of searching later, he found the information he needed: complete specs on his target, from a picture of his face and description of distinguishing marks to average heart rate. Switching back to reality, he took a moment to use his enhanced vision-- this overweight man was indeed the one he'd been waiting for, right down to the high pulse and body heat.
Gunther snorted slightly, watching as the man only now glanced around him. He'd rushed in, practically asking to be ambushed. Yes, he definitely needed protection. If the person coming in on the plane was as valuable as Gunther believed (this was a class Deep Blue assignment, after all), someone would be interested in him or her. Gunther wouldn't have wagered on this fellow in a fight between him and an angry cat, much less if he was actually attacked.
Now he turned and looked out the window. The plane had finished taxiing, and was hooking up to the walkway now. A few minutes later another man walked through the port. Gunther saw immediately that this man, at least, had some military training. His step was quick and quiet, his eyes were unobtrusive but observant, and the slight swelling under his field coat was undoubtedly a pistol. The heavy man walked sedately towards him.
"Mr. Mirants," he greeted, bobbing his head rapidly. "I'm Fielding. I think I am right in assuming that you have something of mine?" Mirants nodded briskly and turned back down the walkway.
"Michael?"
Gunther perked up. So the valuable person here was probably male, and probably young too, judging by Mirants' using his first name. Michael proved his guess correct when he walked into the terminal, carrying a backpack and a small suitcase.
"So, Michael!" Fielding bubbled. "Did you have a nice trip?" Michael looked him right in the eyes.
"Yes," he replied, monotone. Fielding's smile evaporated to be replaced by confusion. Michael looked away from him to cast his scrutiny on the other people in the terminal. Gunther had assumed a look of completely detached interest, and Michael merely seemed impressed by his size.
"Where are we going?" the boy asked, turning back to Fielding.
"Um, to my car," he answered, worried. "Go ahead down the corridor. I'll follow in a minute." Mirants stood back through the entire conversation, a wry hint of a smile playing around his lips. Fielding had no idea what he was in for either. "Is he always like that?" Fielding asked Mirants in a low voice, as soon as Michael was out of earshot. Gunther decided not to follow his charge immediately; somehow, he expected Michael would easily spot any tail. He turned his attention back to the conversation.
"-the whole flight, though. So I'd guess that's what he's always like. You're here to pay me?" Mirants dove right in, dropping the subject of Michael.
Fielding happily turned to a subject he understood: business. "My employers gave me the number of a private account," he replied, pulling a paper out of his inside coat pocket. "That's your payment-- you can use it for up to one year after this date or until it is emptied, whichever comes first." Mirants took the paper and examined it, and Gunther noticed his eyes widen involuntarily.
"Pleasure doing business with you, sir," he replied crisply, and walked back to the plane. Fielding turned and headed down the corridor after Michael. Gunther waited until just before he turned the corner, then snapped his fingers as if remembering something and followed after. Pretending to be casual had never worked all that well, after all.
Apparently, these things are important. So I'll just stick this at the front of every story I put out here: this story is not for money ! I am not going to get anything for it ! That should be obvious, seeing as it's here on FF.net, but if it isn't then this makes it clear.
All right, as to ownership-- I own, hmm, a few unimportant characters. I do NOT own Michael or Gunther, nor do I own Deus Ex, nor do I own any rights to it! There.
Now you can read the story. :-)
-(----
Chapter 1
The ground dove away, as if it were flying down instead of the plane flying up. The young boy almost crushed his nose against the glass, his eyes darting across the landscape, scanning every detail. His face remained impassive, betraying none of the exhilaration in his heart. Emotion always got him in trouble.
"Michael!" The boy suppressed a grimace and deliberately sat back down in his seat. The eyes reflected in the mirror conveyed the calculating disapproval from the pilot-- Teacher. He never called them anything but Teacher, it made it easier.
"Have you finished the book they wanted you to read?" Michael resisted the urge to sigh and instead turned back to his French. He had learned German over the last two months, now it was French.
"Je suis heureux," he intoned, reading over the next lesson. "Je suis triste, je suis faché, je suis calme, je suis intelligent, je suis bête..." The list of adjectives continued with no end in sight.
Michael paused in his recitation to make use of his excellent eyesight. He could detect tiny details, including reading lips, out of the corner of his eyes; now he checked to see if Teacher was still looking at him. Seeing that he was out of direct observation, he stole another glance out the window. All he could see now was an endless white carpet under a vast ceiling of clouds, the two reaching out to meet beyond the horizon. The clouds had hidden the ground, and he turned back to his French with a disappointed expression.
Jack Mirants snapped another look at the kid. He was frankly unsettled by now, not least by the kid's insistence on calling him "Teacher." The boy never smiled or frowned, Jack had never heard him make any accidental sound, he never betrayed his emotions, he could even control his pupils. Jack had needed years to learn how to hide his emotions as best as physically possible, but like all humans, his pupils would expand when he was shocked or frightened. Not all humans, he reminded himself-- Michael's only expanded when he wanted them to. Or maybe nothing ever shocked or frightened him. Unnatural, whatever the explanation.
Jack had no idea what this job had gotten him into, but 10 years in the CIA told him he needed to get out ASAP. Before he became a...liability. No questions asked, he'd just drop the kid off with the predetermined contact, get his cash and leave.
________________________
Gunther Herman grumbled under his breath. The airport chairs were too weak for his colossal frame, leaving him to lean against the wall; the sunglasses he'd picked to hide his electronic eyes had gone, over the course of 4 hours, from a mild annoyance to an obnoxious load. To make the situation worse, the plane was delayed now, and he was beginning to have a hard time not being noticed. After all, none of the other people in the terminal were 7 and a half feet tall with a physique Schwarzenegger could envy.
Beyond that, Gunther had long ago exhausted the drivel magazines provided, and was wishing he could do some self-maintenance: one can never take too good care of oneself. But he could hardly start checking joints and action without revealing what he was. Nor could he go over his small weapons cache without causing mayhem. He settled against the wall, feeling it give slightly, and resigned himself to boredom.
He was about to give in and go buy a book when the PA sputtered to life. "Flight No. 53 is now making its approach. If you have family, friends, or associates on board, you may now begin making your way to the 'Arrivals' section of the terminal at Gate 29. Again, Flight No. 53..." Gunther snorted, he'd been in the 'Arrivals' section for the past 4 hours.
A few minutes after the announcement, Gunther noticed a man arrive, puffing after the arduous walk through the terminal. Was this the one he'd been waiting for? He closed his eyes and concentrated, switching from the physical world to his onboard computer. A moment of searching later, he found the information he needed: complete specs on his target, from a picture of his face and description of distinguishing marks to average heart rate. Switching back to reality, he took a moment to use his enhanced vision-- this overweight man was indeed the one he'd been waiting for, right down to the high pulse and body heat.
Gunther snorted slightly, watching as the man only now glanced around him. He'd rushed in, practically asking to be ambushed. Yes, he definitely needed protection. If the person coming in on the plane was as valuable as Gunther believed (this was a class Deep Blue assignment, after all), someone would be interested in him or her. Gunther wouldn't have wagered on this fellow in a fight between him and an angry cat, much less if he was actually attacked.
Now he turned and looked out the window. The plane had finished taxiing, and was hooking up to the walkway now. A few minutes later another man walked through the port. Gunther saw immediately that this man, at least, had some military training. His step was quick and quiet, his eyes were unobtrusive but observant, and the slight swelling under his field coat was undoubtedly a pistol. The heavy man walked sedately towards him.
"Mr. Mirants," he greeted, bobbing his head rapidly. "I'm Fielding. I think I am right in assuming that you have something of mine?" Mirants nodded briskly and turned back down the walkway.
"Michael?"
Gunther perked up. So the valuable person here was probably male, and probably young too, judging by Mirants' using his first name. Michael proved his guess correct when he walked into the terminal, carrying a backpack and a small suitcase.
"So, Michael!" Fielding bubbled. "Did you have a nice trip?" Michael looked him right in the eyes.
"Yes," he replied, monotone. Fielding's smile evaporated to be replaced by confusion. Michael looked away from him to cast his scrutiny on the other people in the terminal. Gunther had assumed a look of completely detached interest, and Michael merely seemed impressed by his size.
"Where are we going?" the boy asked, turning back to Fielding.
"Um, to my car," he answered, worried. "Go ahead down the corridor. I'll follow in a minute." Mirants stood back through the entire conversation, a wry hint of a smile playing around his lips. Fielding had no idea what he was in for either. "Is he always like that?" Fielding asked Mirants in a low voice, as soon as Michael was out of earshot. Gunther decided not to follow his charge immediately; somehow, he expected Michael would easily spot any tail. He turned his attention back to the conversation.
"-the whole flight, though. So I'd guess that's what he's always like. You're here to pay me?" Mirants dove right in, dropping the subject of Michael.
Fielding happily turned to a subject he understood: business. "My employers gave me the number of a private account," he replied, pulling a paper out of his inside coat pocket. "That's your payment-- you can use it for up to one year after this date or until it is emptied, whichever comes first." Mirants took the paper and examined it, and Gunther noticed his eyes widen involuntarily.
"Pleasure doing business with you, sir," he replied crisply, and walked back to the plane. Fielding turned and headed down the corridor after Michael. Gunther waited until just before he turned the corner, then snapped his fingers as if remembering something and followed after. Pretending to be casual had never worked all that well, after all.