(From the journal of Cale Westmarch)
(June 2005)
It was, perhaps, not the wisest of actions to take considering all that had happened to me so far and the likely consequences that would occur as a result. Be that as it may, it still felt like the right thing to do in light of what I had learned over the past few weeks. Now if I could only get the good Countess Crey to see it from my perspective...
The door to the lobby hissed open as I approached, permitting a faint draft of cool air to waft past me. I will admit to still not being fully used to such things as self-opening doors and 'conditioned air' that was colder than it should be, but they were creature comforts that I had little objection to. As long as it didn't interfere with my magic, I really didn't care too much.
The lobby of the local branch of Crey Industries was meticulously neat in almost excruciating detail, not unlike the office of a rather unique Portal Corporation employee I had met after arriving in this dimension. There were a fair number of guards around, all armed with assorted weapons, but only one of them gave me more than a passing glance as I walked towards the main desk. I chalked the lingering interest up to my green-tinted glasses, an unfortunately necessary accessory to my dark business suit. I could have used my mage-sight powers to permit me to see the full spectrum of color properly, but that would have left a pretty obvious blue glow to my corneas that would have tipped them off immediately that they had a 'hero' on their hands.
I approached the main desk and casually laid my briefcase in front of the receptionist. "Excuse me," I said in a cordial tone, "But I would like to see your building's chief of security, please."
The secretary, a peach-faced young man who appeared to be a solid decade my junior and wearing a virtually identical business suit, promptly gave me a distinctly uneasy look. "Uh, sir, is he expecting you?" he inquired in a very polite tone. I immediately noticed that only one hand was visible, the other no doubt now hovering over a security alarm switch or something.
After all that had happened to me over the past few weeks, I had no love left for either Crey Industries or those underlings who choose to remain in the employ of the Countess. However, I was not cruel enough to take it out on a mere whelp of a boy who probably only recently had his balls drop and was not likely to be even remotely close to being someone of true significance to such a vast corporate empire.
"If your security chief isn't expecting someone like me to visit," I said very slowly and calmly, "Especially after having to wade through an armada of Clarissa's goons, then he isn't much of a security chief after all. Now do us both a favor and call him down here before I have to resort to a more direct method of getting his attention."
As was expected of a loyal Crey employee, his eyes had widened in horror when I had referred to the Countess by her first name. The look had promptly changed after hearing the rest of my words, however, and even over the sound of my own voice I was able to hear the muted click of a button being pressed.
Much to my surprise, none of the security guards in the lobby seemed to react to the situation. A somewhat imposing man wearing the ubiquitous dark business suit found in the corporate world, however, almost gave himself a case of whiplash as he looked up from his newspaper. The copy of the Paragon Times was promptly tossed in the recycle bin as he strode over towards the desk with a look of deep suspicion and intent on his face.
I had expected to ultimately end up dealing with security, of course, and I even had the foresight to make sure to bring as many 'pre-packaged' magical talismans with me as I could fit in my pockets without drawing attention. I slipped my hand into my left pocket and snapped one in half even as the man approached, feeling a quick rush of power flow through me as the boosting aura took hold. The snapped halves of the talisman promptly crumbled into dust, resulting in a quiet grunt at the realization that cleaning the suit would now be just a little more difficult. It was a small price to pay for temporary power, of course, but it was just the principle of it all.
"Excuse me," the man said in an iron tone as he got within earshot of me. "Is there some sort of pr...?"
(Arma eruptio,) I chanted casually as I withdrew my hand from my pocket and aimed it at his chest. Inspired by the power of Azuria's magical talisman, the eruption of energy from my palm seemed to be twice as bright as was normal. The end result was that the suited goon was blown clear across the room only to collapse into an unconscious heap. Perhaps there had been just a little too much power in the burst, as the front of his suit seemed to begin to smoulder from the residual energy. I had no qualms about knocking Crey suits into next week at this point, but I would rather not set them on fire in the process if it could be helped. Between the artifical fabric of their suits and the innate crap that I believed most Crey employees were composed of, I was of the mind that burning them would wind up producing a most hideous and unwelcome stench.
Needless to say, this little demonstration of my magical powers drew the attention of the rest of the security detail. That, too, had been expected and had been planned for. The brute in the suit had barely hit the ground before I reached into my pockets with both hands, snapping another pair of Azuria's little gifts to release more temporary power. I figured that with the way the situation looked right now, I would need every bit of energy I could muster.
"Hey, you!" one of the security guards shouted. "On the ground, now!"
"An excellent idea," I replied as I crossed my arms in front of me. I quickly decided on the best way to lay out my next spell before I flung my arms out in a wide arc and chanted, (Vigor amnis!)
A wide chevron of energy promptly erupted in front of me, following the arc laid out by my hands and surging forth like an electric-blue tidal wave. Augmented by the power of both the talismans and my own magical fury, the spell washed over virtually the entire group of security guards heading towards me. Almost to a man they cried out as they encountered the equivalent force of a cannonball smashing into their shins, knocking them back in a scattered arc and leaving them stunned into helplessness.
One security guard remained standing, a fortunate fool who had been half-hidden behind a large potted plant and thus had been largely shielded from my wave-like attack. He cast a stunned glance down at his prone allies before he looked up at me, one hand still resting on the holster of his undrawn pistol.
"Do yourself a favor," I said quietly. "Just turn around and walk away."
Much to my resignation, the fool blinked before whipping his weapon out and aiming it in my general direction. What was it about working for Countess Crey that made them so fanatical and yet so stupid at the same time? I didn't know what Clarissa van Dorn looked like, so perhaps she was just one of those women who had a body that men (and not a few Crey women) would die for. Quite literally, I might add, after being forced to kill a few of the more zealous minions who would simply not stop their attacks.
I was not in a mood to kill this morning, however, and so I decided not to unleash the most powerful of my magics attacks on the fool. (Exhor minimus,)I sighed as I sent a large ball of vibrant blue energy towards him, hoping he would get the hint and leave me alone. Much to my surprise, my energy bolt came within a fraction of an inch of flying straight down the barrel of his weapon, skimming instead along the side to connect with the pistol grip right where his fingers were.
The weapon was promptly flung through the air in a frenzied panic as the magical energy coursed through his arm, causing him to flail about in what I've taken to calling the Butt-Monkey Dance. I named it as such because I usually encounter such a full-body twitching reaction when blasting those thrice-damned Rikti monkey creatures that tend to swarm in certain locations. An associate of mine almost had to be taken to the hospital from convulsive laughter after I had demonstrated my powers against a small troupe of the alien monkeys and watched as they ended up prancing around in agony from the experience of being seared by eldritch energy.
It was a simple and purely automatic reflex that made me try to grab the discarded weapon as it flew past me. I managed to successfully snare it and almost burned my hand for my efforts. The barrel of the weapon was still cold as it hadn't been fired yet, but the pistol grip was dangerously hot where my blast had impacted it. Perhaps I had melted or disrupted something on the inside, in which case disposing of the weapon might be wise. There are a great many things that go 'boom!' in this existence, and I've already learned the hard way that malfunctioning energy weapons tended to be one of them.
The disarmed security guard finally quit dancing around as the pain in his arm faded to tolerable levels, fixing me with a very dark glare. He seemed to hesitate for a moment before he bolted for the door, almost slamming into it as it hissed open just a little too slowly for his taste. He turned sideways to slip between the narrow gap and vanished from sight, leaving me alone with the terrified desk jockey and the pile of unconscious guards.
"Right," I said quietly as I turned back around to face the kid. His skin was about as white as it could possibly get without becoming transparent, and his pupils were so wide as to almost completely blot out the color of his dark brown irises. "So, where were we? Ah, yes, I had just asked you to summon the chief of security for this facility," I said in a fairly dry tone of amusement, as if the previous two minutes had been nothing but pure entertainment for me.
"O-O-One m-m-moment, s-s-sir," the secretary stammered in a terrorized rasp as he tried to pick up the phone. His hands were shaking so badly that he promptly dropped the headset to the floor with a muted thump.
I almost considered trying to reassure the whelp that I didn't intend to share with him the same taste of mana I had just given his fellow employees. However, as both my parents had quietly confided to me in the past, fear did have valid uses at times and that terrifying your opponent into submission was often a lot easier than beating them into a state of complaisance.
"Oh, one minor detail," I suddenly spoke up as the notion occured to me. The secretary promptly froze in mid-motion, not even seeming to breathe as I continued to speak to him. "If your chief promises to come alone and behaves himself by not trying to attack or otherwise subdue me, I will promise to not use my magic on him or anyone else again. We can be civilized when discussing business matters, after all."
"R-r-right, s-s-sure, I'll t-t-tell him," he replied in an unsteady tone as he finally succeeded in dialing a number without screwing up. He then began to quickly babble into the receiver at a dizzying pace, his words blurring together so much that I was largely unable to tell what he said. He could have been ordering a 'pizza' for all I knew. Now that I thought about it, having only tasted it once before with questionable results, perhaps I would find a nice restaurant when this was over and order a few slices to taste-test again.
"S-s-sir?" the secretary whimpered, drawing me out of my momentary musing of what food was like in this dimension. "M-M-Mister Cavenaugh wants t-t-to know w-w-who..."
I sighed quietly before leaning forward, idly wondering if it was really possible after all for Countess Crey's left hand to be unaware of what her right hand was doing. "You mean they really aren't expecting me?" I inquired in a disappointed tone. "I will have to make a point of that once your chief makes it down here. Feel free to tell him that Cale Westmarch is in the lobby and has a message he would like to see delivered to Countess Crey."
"Y-Y-Yes, sir," he replied. I strongly doubted that he was calling me sir out of anything other than a simple public-relations reflex, but I was hardly going to argue the point with him. If only more of today's youth cared enough to cultivate even a base veneer of manners, perhaps problems like the Hellions, Skulls, and Freakshow wouldn't be nearly as troublesome as they presently were.
The kid quit talking and hung up the phone, giving me a thoroughly rattled look. "Mr. C-C-Cavenaugh is on his w-w-way," he stammered quietly.
"Ah, excellent," I replied with what I felt was a disarming smile. "Then let us wait for his arrival, shall we? I do apologize about the mess," I added as I glanced around the lobby, "But I'm afraid that with all the hate a few of your more zealous agents have shown me as of late, I'm not much in the mood for playing nice anymore."
As expected, the kid didn't know what to say and opted for saying nothing. That suited me just fine, as I wasn't here to see him and didn't feel like blathering about the weather with someone who looked like they didn't yet need to know which end to hold a shaving razor by. The silence that descended upon us was an uncomfortable one for the both of us, him due to his terror at what I might do next, and I at the simple unease of not being precisely sure just how well this 'business meeting' with this Mr. Cavenaugh would go. Not that I felt it would go badly, or at least no worse than things had gone so far, but that my message to the Countess might ultimately go unheard by her.
The dinging of the elevator sounded unusually loud in the empty silence, causing both myself and the secretary to jump slightly. The center door hissed open a moment later, allowing a somewhat grizzled old man with a very neatly trimmed white beard to exit. He was, of course, wearing a very sharply-cut dark business suit. The fabric and design appeared to be perfectly identical to what both the lobby secretary and the suited Crey agent were wearing, which made me wonder if there was a textile plant among the broad portfolio of Crey companies that churned them out in enough volume to give a Chinese textile exporter heartburn.
"Mr. Westmarch, I presume?" Cavenaugh asked calmly as he approached. He bore no weapons that I could discern, which gave me a boost of hope that this encounter would not entail further violence, warranted or otherwise. The look in his ice-blue eyes was anything but friendly, however, which suited me just fine. Neither of us obviously wanted to be here, which meant it was unlikely that there would be any delays in getting to the point.
"I am," I replied in a cool but cordial tone. "I apologize for having to get your attention like this, as I had originally intended for Countess Crey to be the audience. However, I understand that she is a very busy woman these days and that leaving a note with the secretary is no guarantee that it will be attended to with any seriousness. Having said that, I also understand that she pays attention to what some of her senior officials have to say, people like her security chiefs at various installations."
"Go on," Cavenaugh said calmly, clasping his hand in front of him where I could easily see them. He was watching me most studiously but otherwise didn't appear to be gravely concerned for his well-being. Whether that was because he had backup that I didn't know about, had a measure of faith in my promise not to hurt him, or if he was simply the ballsy type was unclear. All that I cared about was the fact that he was listening and seemed to be paying attention.
"Being a security chief, I'm sure you are acquainted with various methods of physical security for Crey buildings," I continued. "Among them being a type of guard that the news media refers to as Paragon Protectors, correct?"
"I know about them, yes," the chief replied with a simple nod.
"Good, then this shouldn't take too long," I said as I turned to the desk. I set the damaged pistol aside and opened up the briefcase, pulling out a plain manilla folder and a small plastic bag containing strips of cut metal. The folder was opened and a stapled report was extracted, quickly being passed over to the security chief. "Here, this is a list of serial numbers that I have taken from inside the helmets of a number of Paragon Protectors who saw fit to attack either me or my allies without warning. As you can see, it is a rather lengthy list of such numbers, of which you may feel free to conclude that there have been many instances of such attacks."
"The Protectors are just that, Mr. Westmarch," Cavenaugh said calmly as he quickly eyeballed the stapled list. "They protect Crey facilities and do not attack people at random. If someone did induce them to initiate an attack, you can be assured that those people were not supposed to be there to begin with. They are a line of defense, not a strike team of predators."
"Really now," I murmured with a feigned look of surprise. "Perhaps then you can explain why an associate of mine encountered a pair of them lying in wait for him in the privacy of his own home? Hiding in the shower to ambush a man wearing only a towel is not an honorable thing to do, you know," I added lightly. "Oh, and before you get all indignant about wild accusations without proof? Here are the serial plates I extracted from the pair who were lying in wait for me in my apartment three days ago," I added as I passed him the bag of metal fragments.
"Rogue units, perhaps?" Cavenaugh suggested as he briefly studied the bag and the shards inside. "I'm sure you've heard by now about how we have been having a few problems with selected individuals stepping outside of the bounds of Crey policy."
"Yes, I remember all too well," I said dryly. "I had to take down one of them myself. However, I digress from the core issue here. After dispatching these apparently rogue Paragon Protectors... for the fifth time in a month, I might add, I started collecting these serial numbers to see if I could discern a pattern. A method to their madness, if you will. Of course, these serial numbers were imprinted on the inside of their helmets, which meant I had to pry them off at some point. Tell me something, Mr. Cavenaugh... did I miss a new law being passed recently, or is the cloning of human beings still illegal?"
A single white eyebrow rose up on Cavenaugh's otherwise impassive face. "What are you saying, Mr. Westmarch?" he inquired evenly.
"I am saying nothing," I said as I extracted a second, thicker report from the manilla folder and passed it to him. "A genetic analysis done by three companies on samples of what was left of these 'rogue' Paragon Protectors all indicate that they were cloned from one of four individuals. Oh, and please pay attention to the third set of analyses, as they were done by Crey Biotech."
It is moments like these in which I wish I had the ability to freeze Time in its tracks, the better to savor such fleeting moments of satisfaction. The look on his face was priceless as he glanced at the report and saw that I was not making a joke. I had thought long and hard about the wisdom of having a Crey company perform the genetic origin tests, running the risk of having my campaign prematurely uncovered, but the sheer irony factor had been simply too tantalizing to pass up.
"And?" the security chief said in a perfectly emotionless tone.
I sighed quietly, realizing that he appeared to have every intention of remaining as impassive as was humanly possible. A distart part of my mind made note of this and quietly recommended that I not play cards with this man in the future. "Here is the short summary of what I have learned, Mr. Cavenaugh," I said very slowly and distinctly. "Crey Industries is in flagrant violation of at least four international laws and treaties regarding human cloning. This alone could land the Countess in some very hot water, to say nothing of what it would do to the company as a corporate entity. Also, these Paragon Protectors of yours are acting more like secret police rather than public defenders. I'm sure the media would just love to have this kind of information given to them, as it would result in a public-relations nightmare like you would not believe."
It took Cavenaugh several moments to speak. "So why are you telling me this instead of Channel Six news?" he finally said in a reserved tone.
Finally, the light at the end of the tunnel. Any doubts that I had before about whether Countess Crey would really hear of this or not were gone now, as it was quite obvious from his voice that the full realization of this situation had just hit him with all the grace and force of a full sandbag being dropped on his left nut. "I'm telling you this, my good man," I said, trying not to drip sarcasm on my polished shoes, "Because I have a message that I would like to be passed to the Countess. The message is simple... back off. I know that the Paragon Protectors have been sent after various people that somebody in the grand scheme of Crey finds to be troublesome, and I want it to stop. Now."
"I don't think you understand..." Cavenaugh started to say.
"No, Mr. Cavenaugh, I don't think YOU understand," I said, cutting him off with a curt gesture. "The proof of it is all in that report if you care to stop and read it carefully. The Paragon Protectors are clones, that much can be proven as fact. Even if we are to play your little game and assume that all these instances are the works of rogue units, that is still a very large number of such cases. With a number that high, one might suspect that there was a defect in the... shall we say, manufacturer's product, that something isn't being produced according to the specifications. Surely a leading corporation like Crey Industries can understand what I am trying to do here."
"And what are you trying to do, Mr. Westmarch?" Cavenaugh asked coldly.
"Do I detect a note of accusation?" I said lightly, giving him a sly smile of understanding. "Surely if I can aid Crey Industries in pointing out a flaw in one of their products, thus giving them the chance to... fix it, especially before the press becomes aware of it... perhaps that might be worth something to someone somewhere up the corporate ladder? Again, all I am really asking is for Crey Industries to put their illegally cloned pets on a tighter leash and keep them out of the collective hair of my friends and I."
Cavenaugh looked at me in stony silence for a number of moments before he glanced down at the reports and plastic bag of metal serial numbers. "I will see that this... conspiracy theory of cloned rogue agents is mentioned to the Countess. I'm sure she will enjoy the humor in this as much as you and I are."
I gave him a smile of triumph as I turned back to my briefcase. "Have her secretary send me a postcard once she finishes reading the reports," I said as I picked up the damaged Crey pistol. "You know, just so I can be certain that she has had a chance to read it. It'd be a shame if I had to take this stuff to the media and she didn't have any propa... excuse me, any sort of public-relations statement handy to properly correct any... misconceptions."
"Excuse me, Mr. Westmarch, but you're going to have to leave that weapon here," the security chief said calmly, giving me a look that suggested all he wanted to do at the moment was to rip off my head and relieve himself down the bleeding stump of my throat. "That is Crey property, after all."
"Really, now," I said dryly as I placed the weapon inside my briefcase. "I think that, all things considered, you have far more important things to be concerned with than the... misplacement of a single pistol. I happen to like the design and think it would look good on my mantlepiece. Deactivated, of course," I added with a sidelong glance at him. "Don't need to be having any sort of death-rays out where the kids can get at it, now do we?"
"The power supply is damaged," he pointed out. "It might hold a charge, but it'll take forever to replenish that charge. You won't get any use out of it, Mr. Westmarch."
The briefcase was snapped shut with a flick of my wrists and casually taken off of the desk. "I don't need to have a use for it, Mr. Cavenaugh, as long as it serves as a reminder of today's meeting. Oh, lest I forget, I'm sure you've already figured out that unsavory things will be set into motion if I become attacked as I leave this building. You may think of me as a crazy, perhaps even paranoid 'conspiracy theorist,' to borrow your rather cute phrase, but I should like to point out that being paranoid doesn't necessarily have to mean that they really aren't out to get you. Thank you for your time, Mr. Cavenaugh," I said with a charming smile and turned to head towards the door.
I knew I was taking a significant risk by turning my back on him, as it was all too possible for either him or some Crey sniper hiding in the rafters to take a potshot at me. However, with as many risks as I've taken in the past few weeks to secure and verify all this information, what was one more?
The door hissed open for me as I approached and gingerly stepped over one of the still-unconscious guards. That the door opened for me was an indication that my way would not be further barred by Crey Industries. Perhaps the dear Countess Crey would read my report and decide crank up the heat, as it were, or perhaps she would do the smart thing for once in her life and leave me alone. I wasn't really worried now, not after learning of the true nature of the so-called Paragon Protectors. If things between Crey and myself continued to remain ugly, I could always return the favor with a little heat of my own with a quiet leak to the media. Who said you couldn't fight fire with fire?
Ahh, only in the City of Heroes...
18 June 2005
Cale Westmarch (50 Energy/Energy Magic Blaster), Liberty server
(Earned the "Conspiracy Theorist" accolade on 17 June 2005)
(Original formatting at www sailormoonv net)