Meeting the Neighbors
Disclaimer: Same as before…I don't own Charmed, G.I. Joe, X-men Evolution, or Pirates of the Carribean (I know, a lot of crossovers, but I made those work in an earlier fic) either. BTW you might want to read my story Coming of the Foe (the previously mentioned fic) for explanation on who the Misfits (thanks to Red Witch for creating them) are, and other questions regarding the Charmed series as depicted in my work. For those who follow Charmed at all, this story takes place shortly after the 7th Season Episode Scry Harder with Leo still having his powers and Paige returning to South Bay Social Services.
AN: Many thanks to Ms. Kinnikufan for details on Gilbert Huph's life.
AN: Syndrome starts a war with a world where the Soviet Union still exists…
Gilbert Huph drank some more of his coffee as the Cadillac bounced along the highway from his estate out in the countryside. There were definite perks to being in the employ of Syndrome. One of them was being allowed a big position in the Metroville bureaucracy. Finally someone was giving him the recognition and praise and power he deserved. Someone realized his talents.
He still hadn't seen much of Bob Parr of late, which was unfortunate. He wanted so much to rub his face in it, to tell him that it was every man for himself and that it was all about image and power. He had finished an inspection of the firefighting at the Union Carbide plant fire, and thoroughly enjoyed berating the Chief Firefighter, calling him an incompetent and all but firing the man, all in front of his fellow firefighters as well.
Do gooders never seemed to realize the important fact that they had to do whatever it took to get ahead. Twenty-eight years of smear campaigns and schmoozing bosses had gotten him to the position that he sought, only to have Parr undo everything. Where was that fat old do gooder now? Maybe languishing in one of Syndrome's prisons for speaking out against the man? There was something ironic about that, an idealistic do gooder languishing in a prison? Huph laughed to himself and the car suddenly came to a halt.
"Rydinger!" Huph shouted at the older gentleman that was his chauffer, "Why are we stopping!"
"There's a big fallen tree blocking our path, sir." Jim Rydinger, Tony Rydinger's father, replied.
"Well back up and find that other exit! Find a way around it!" Huph shouted.
Jim Rydinger rolled his eyes underneath his dark sunglasses. There were times he simply rolled his eyes and dealt with the tirade of the moment Gilbert Huph tended to throw around. He would be an almost comical figure waving his arms about and screaming if he wasn't as powerful as he was now, under the new government.
"Yes sir." Jim replied and backed up the car. He felt more than heard the blast that lifted the rear of the car several feet into the air and sent it back down again. He felt dizzy as stars exploded in front of his eyes.
Gilbert Huph was similarly shaken. His coffee cup spilled all over his suit and right hand and he looked up just in time to see half a dozen men in camouflaged fatigues, wearing ski masks and carrying AK-74 and silenced AKMS-47 rifles. He registered this sight just in time as one of the commandoes rushed towards the window of his vehicle and fired his weapon into it. Thank God the windows were bullet proof.
Huph backed away from the window just in time to see a second commando throw a cylinder slightly larger than a soda can underneath the car to the gas tank. He felt the vehicle become unbearably hot as the fuel in the tanks began to catch fire. He saw Rydinger run out of the car, his hands in the air, only to be cut down by a volley of gunfire from the two nearest commandoes. Huph fled out of the door behind him, the attaché case still in his hand. If he could make it to the treeline, maybe he could evade the assassins.
Gilbert Huph never had a chance. As he ran, a commando dropped to one knee, giving the running little man just a little bit of lead before opening fire. The sound from the suppressed AKMS-47 was like a BB gun firing, and the two bullets struck Huph in the thigh and hip, sending him to the ground, still trying to drag himself to safety.
From the brush came a seventh masked commando, and the barrel of this man's AK-74 looked like the dark tunnel of a railway.
"Don't kill me…" Huph began feebly.
The soldier opened fire on full auto, emptying the weapon into Huph's face and chest, inflicting any number of fatal wounds. He grabbed the attaché case from Huph's now dead hand and signaled his team leader by holding it in the air.
Jim Rydinger lay, feebly alive, clutching at his torso and the half dozen bullets that had torn through it. He dared not make too much noise, lest the invaders realize he was still alive. He saw pools of his own blood nearby and heard what sounded like a BB gun firing and Huph screaming in pain. He heard his boss' begging and the burst of gunfire that answered it.
He felt his consciousness slipping as one of the men, obviously the leader shouted, "Davai! Davai!" (AN: 'Let's go' in Russian)
Russians. Jim realized. One of the soldiers stood over him and kicked his side. Jim didn't move, and the Russian obviously thought he was dead, for he turned away and spoke a single word which he assumed meant dead or killed.
Jim felt his vision fade as he heard the sounds of boots against the asphalt as the Russian spetsnaz soldiers melted seamlessly back into the forest where they had struck without warning and without pity. The rumors were true. Soviet infiltrators had already hit Metroville…
"Have a good first day at work Bob." Helen said, after they'd exchanged a quick kiss.
"Dada." Jack Jack gurgled, flapping his tiny hands as Helen shifted the infant's weight from one hip to the other.
"My first day at South Bay Social Services." Bob mused.
"I'm sure it will be fine, honey." Helen replied, "I'm sure your boss isn't going to be like Mr. Huph."
"Mom," Violet began from the kitchen, as she walked over to say goodbye to Bob, "Did you see the paper yet?"
"Which one?" Helen asked. After living in San Francisco for two days, Marian had managed to get them connected to the Metroville Expatriate Network and got them sent the Metroville Gazette, the publication for that organization.
"It says that Mr. Huph is dead." Violet replied.
Bob froze in midstep. Sure Mr. Huph wasn't the nicest guy in the world, but for him to drop dead like that? Even when he had been made a higher official under Syndrome, sure he'd been his usual petty and wound-tight self, but as far as deserving to die…
"What happened to him?" Bob asked.
"The article claims the Russians killed him." Violet replied, "They stopped the car and just shot him to death on the roadside."
"Syndrome's playing with fire over there." Bob replied, "Those little pissing contests he's been getting into with the Soviets…"
"We'll discuss this later, Bob." Helen replied, "At the family meeting tonight."
As Bob walked into the driveway towards his car he wondered about the issue. For nearly eight months weird things were happening in Metroville. Power outages, a Polish tanker exploding in one of the seaports, a derelict yacht exploded when the police boarded it. Not to mention more serious things were going on, a Soviet Sukhoi Su-15 interceptor shot down a passenger plane that had flown too close to the Sakhalin Island, claiming that the plane was a spy aircraft. Two of his former co-workers had died aboard that plane. And now a seemingly minor Metroville bureaucrat had been murdered. For what reason? What was the connection?
"Mom, why did the Soviets kill Mr. Huph?" Violet asked, as the door closed.
"I don't know honey, yet." Helen replied.
"Weird things were happening before we left. I mean there was that blackout we had earlier that winter, there was that huge fire in the warehouse district, and now some people killed Mr. Huph." Violet began.
"Not to mention the Soviets shot down that passenger jet." Helen replied, "And they claimed it was spying on their territory."
Helen pondered several seemingly unconnected accidents that had been happening in Metroville for the past few months. Fires, accidents, and mechanical breakdowns had been happening all over the place. The Union Carbide automotive factory had caught fire a week ago, according to the newspaper and they were still struggling to put it out. What if these occurrences weren't accidents but precursors to Soviet military action?
Helen walked outside to the car, with Violet and Dash in tow and Jack Jack in her arms. It was Monday and it was the first day of school for the kids. After dropping them off it came to her. War. The Soviets are going to war with Metroville…
Bob Parr sat down in the small, cramped office of South Bay Social Services. It's about two feet wider than my cubicle at Insuricare so that's a plus.
Bob lumbered out into the main areas, to get some coffee and stretch his legs. Mr. Cowan, an older, slightly potbellied black man was waiting for him. "You Bob Parr?"
"Yes." Bob replied.
"Mr. Cowan, I run South Bay Social Services." Cowan replied.
So far so good. I'll wait a week. If he's anything like Huph…Bob thought, and felt a stab of regret for thinking what he did. Huph might have been a real prick, but even he didn't deserve to be gunned down on the roadside like some vermin you find on a farm.
"Nice to meet you sir." Bob began, remembering his manners, "I'm sorry we didn't get to meet earlier. And we had talked on the phone."
"I remember." Cowan replied, "And I'm wondering if I hired a night club bouncer by accident."
"I used to wrestle back in high school." Bob replied.
"Certainly could help keep some of the unruly folks in line." Cowan said, semi-jokingly.
Marian, I have to hand it to you. This guy is nothing like Mr. Huph. Bob thought.
"And you should have your orientation, provided one of your co-workers shows up in time…" Cowan began, "I'd do it myself but I've got a meeting with the District Attorney's Office in half an hour."
"I know bureaucracy is a pain." Bob replied. He's got a sense of humor. Points in this guy's favor.
"You have no idea." Cowan replied. Seems like this guy could scare a few people if needed. I think I've hired myself a human rottweiler. Hell he scares ME.
A woman with reddish brown hair just below her shoulders came running in just then. "Sorry I'm late, Mr. Cowan, I hit a traffic jam."
"Speak of the devil." Cowan replied, "Paige, this is Bob Parr, he just started working here today."
"Hi Bob." Paige smiled, and extended her hand, "Paige Matthews, I work as a social worker here. Mostly I deal with children's cases."
"Do you have any kids?" Bob asked his new co-worker, who he clearly dwarfed, but then again that was the case with most people he ran across on a daily basis.
"No. But I have two nephews." Paige replied, "What about you?"
"Three." Bob smiled faintly, thinking of Violet, Dash, and Jack Jack.
"How old?" Paige asked as they headed to the break room for some coffee.
"My daughter is fourteen, my first son is nine, and my second son is about seven months old." Bob replied.
"That's so sweet." Paige smiled as she handed Bob a Styrofoam cup.
"I usually bring my own." Bob explained.
As they sipped at coffee, the TV was playing a broadcast, "In other news today, Senator Kelly will argue before the floor a proposal regarding the Mutant Registration Act…"
Paige headed over to change the channel. "You don't like the news?" Bob asked.
"I just don't like the Mutant Registration Act." Paige replied, "It's just such a terrible thing to register people because they're different."
"I know what you mean." Bob replied, "I can see you're against it obviously. May I ask why?"
"My boyfriend works with the G.I. Joe's mutant team, called the Misfits." Paige replied, "They're basically Army mutants."
At Bob's blank stare she asked, "Have you been living under a rock lately? The X-men and Misfits have been on the news almost every night. The Misfits are former members of the Brotherhood…"
"Wait, I remember now." Bob replied, "There was something in the paper about them recently, something about property being devalued several square miles around this place called the Xavier Institute…Your boyfriend works with those lunatics?"
"They're not that bad." Paige defended.
Just then a tall, lanky African American man walked into the room, "Paige? I've been looking all over for you."
"What's going on Darryl?" Paige asked.
"Just an instance of trouble…and speak of the devil." Darryl began, as a second man, this one a Caucasian with a tanned complexion and a grown in shaved head of black hair walked in. He was wearing an olive green uniform with an Israeli flag velcroed onto his left shoulder, sunglasses, and hiking boots.
"Sorry, wrong devil." Ted replied, as he walked over to Paige, and gave her a quick kiss.
"So what brings you here?" Paige asked.
"I would love to say solely pleasure." Ted replied, "But you're at work, and I'm here on business."
"Let me guess…"
"Yep, business of the Shipwreck kind." Ted replied.
"I assume that's why you're here too, Darryl." Paige asked.
I sure meet the weird ones in my line of work. Bob thought.
"Exactly." Darryl replied and turned to Ted, "Let me guess, the Pirates are with him?"
"Not at present." Ted replied, "But it wouldn't surprise me if Jack Sparrow somehow snuck over here with his insane crewmates."
"Shipwreck?" Bob asked, "Will someone fill me in here."
"Oh, Ted, this is Bob, one of my new co-workers. Bob, this is Ted, my boyfriend." Paige replied, "Bob just moved here from…"
"…Syracuse. Syracuse, Italy, my family was living overseas for a while." Bob added swiftly, remembering his legend, or cover story and thankful that they had agreed on that legend from the start, to explain his slowness with all these mutant affairs.
"That explains it." Paige replied, "Why you're so slow with these mutant issues. They don't care much about mutants in Italy I've heard."
"They're more worried about crazy drivers…" Bob began, "But back to the conversation. Who is this Shipwreck guy? And those Pirates?"
"Shipwreck is a sailor, he works with the same mutant team that Ted does." Paige replied, and rolling her eyes added, "Don't get me started on the Pirates either…"
"And Shipwreck's a mutant?" Bob replied.
"No." Ted replied, "He's a normal human being…"
"Piper would disagree with you on that point." Paige replied, "And so would I to a lesser extent."
"Mountaineer, chat with your girlfriend later." Said another soldier, this one dressed like a Native American.
"I won't keep him for too much longer, Spirit." Paige replied.
"Good, I dread to see how much damage Shipwreck is going to cause when he finds the nearest bar." Spirit replied.
"I have a feeling more lawsuits will be coming your way." Paige replied.
"I'll pick you up at seven tonight." Ted replied, giving Paige a quick kiss before heading out of the building.
Bluey Truscott, what kind of crazy world did you just send my family to? Bob thought.
"Are you OK?" Paige asked Bob as Darryl, Spirit, and Ted left the room.
"Yeah, but a certain Australian won't be." Bob glowered.
"What Australian?" Paige asked.
"My real estate agent." Bob replied, as he headed to his office to start his first set of paperwork.
OK, I sure meet the weird ones. A big blond guy who's scary enough to be a nightclub bouncer. Heck, Piper could use him for security at P3 if anything. Paige thought. What a trauma to have to be introduced to Shipwreck chaos on his first day on the job…
Bruce glanced at the computer screen as he and Thud were working in the Interpretation Area, a part of the Edinburgh Field Office that case officers called 'the Bubble' where the intelligence interpreters hung out.
"Jesus Christ!" Bruce exclaimed.
"What's going on?" Thud replied, looking up from his own station.
"Look at the bloody map, mate! The Metroville map!" Bruce commented.
"Slow down. Not all of us think at the speed of light, wanker." Thud added.
"What do you see?" Bruce replied.
"Industrial accidents, the big tanker fiasco three weeks ago in Westport, one of Metroville's bigger seaports, one or two power blackouts…" Thud replied.
"Couple that with three recent deaths of Metroville bureaucrats, the most recent being Gilbert Huph." Bruce replied, "People are claiming the Soviets knocked him off."
"Come now. The other two were killed by a car accident and the other was knifed at a rally by some paranoid nutjob." Thud replied.
"Third party." Bruce replied, "Who else but an expendable agent would the Soviets use to not implicate themselves in this entire lot?"
"I still don't follow how you're claiming the Soviets are responsible for this entire lot." Thud replied.
"You don't?" Bruce replied, "Don't you think it's strange all these accidents have been occurring shortly after Syndrome took power?"
"Hey, no one said megalomaniacs could manage nations properly." Thud contradicted.
"Don't you think that it's possible that those acts and deaths could have been sabotage?" the Australian asked.
"Hey, that Polish tanker had a sorry safety record to begin with." Thud argued, "And the power plant was operating with some faulty gear anyway. It was only a matter of time…"
"And Huph being bumped off?" Bruce replied.
"Some whack jobs that don't like bureaucrats. Or maybe someone he'd shit on over the years decided to get his own back." Thud replied.
"There was the Metroville Airlines incident last month." Bruce countered.
"To be fair, the Soviets were chasing an electronic surveillance aircraft spying on Sakhalin Island." Thud replied, "The airliner happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time."
"True. But those sabotage acts are definitely the stock in trade of the Soviet spetsnaz formations." Bruce replied, "Think about it. They're specialized troops that deal in causing sabotage, chaos and mayhem against the brains and teeth of a state."
"You could have a point." Thud began, as he glanced back at his monitor, "Our listening post off the coast of Metroville just sent us a message."
"What happened?" Bruce asked.
"Apparently there was a derelict motorized yacht off the coast. It had been drifting for several days." Thud replied, "The Metroville Police sent a motorized launch to board her and it suddenly exploded and sank, killing half a dozen Metroville Policemen."
"What do we know about the yacht?" Bruce asked.
"Well, according to Hermes, our agent on the Metroville coast, the yacht was registered to some old philanthropist living in Norway. It was flying a Norweigan flag. I'd be willing to believe your Soviet theory if…" Thud began, his voice trailing off.
"If?" Bruce prompted.
"I'm such an idiot." Thud remarked, "Of course. False flagging. The Soviets must have purchased the yacht, after she was built in Greece and created a dummy paper trail, leaving it in reserve for just such an act. But why just blow it up…"
"Because they didn't need it." Bruce replied, "The Soviets had to have sent the spetsnaz detachment ashore already and they put this nasty little surprise for when Metroville security found it."
"I'll go wake Carlyle." Thud replied, referring to the head of the ACME Scotland Branch.
Crusader. The word echoed through Bluey Truscott's mind like a curse or accusation. Wanker. My so-called obsession with Medieval History is now going and haunting me.
He remembered how one or two of the Ibo tribesmen he'd worked with called him 'Crusader', in reference to his religious background. Now it's the codename of our bloody team. Crusader.
In the background, Papa Louie was making contact with that world's ACME, who would likely send a SOG member from their world as a liaison. Purvis had taken Sprocket for a walk and a patrol of the perimeter and was transmitting data to Jan Shimoda via the blue tooth cell phone he had.
Truscott walked about the house, looking for the best places to hide weapons and equipment. The big void in the basement floor seemed the best place to start. There was a trap door that was covered by a worn out old Indian carpet.
There was a knock on the door just then and Truscott answered, seeing Marian standing there, casually dressed in a pair of blue jeans and a nice sweater. "Come in." Bluey replied, letting her inside.
"News for us?" Papa Louie replied after he hanged up the phone.
"Maybe." Marian replied, "HQ from our world is abuzz."
"About what?" Bluey asked.
"Misinterpreted intelligence." Marian replied, "Several suspicious looking accidents, warehouse fires, power blackouts and the like that were going on in Metroville."
"Coincidence. Syndrome might not be the best at bureaucracy." Bluey replied.
"Well, unless you call three of his top officials being killed under suspicious circumstances coincidence. And the explosion of a yacht off of Metroville's coast a week ago." Marian replied, "It killed half a dozen Metroville policemen."
"The Soviets have been pissed off at Syndrome of late, especially with all those claims of spy missions and skirmishes along their borders." Papa Louie replied.
"There have been several shootings involving Syndrome's forces and Soviet forces along the Polish border for almost four months." Jan Shimoda added.
"That's why I stopped by to tell you." Marian replied, "We only learned of this information recently. It looks like the Soviets are going to war against Syndrome."
"The enemy of my enemy is my friend." Bluey replied, "I say let them kill each other."
"The Soviets are well on their way." Marian remarked, "So are Syndrome's forces. Aside from that situation, is there anything to report regarding reconnaissance?"
"Not so far, Purvis is outside of the neighborhood right now and hasn't detected any signs of Heartless." Papa Louie replied.
"Keep me posted then." Marian replied, "And he should be meeting your fellow paramilitaries on this world."
"And they are?" Papa Louie asked.
"You'll learn soon enough. I've already directed him to a dead letter box in Golden Gate Park." Marian replied.
Marian left the house and Jan Shimoda remarked, "Damn case officers. Never tell you who your contacts are until the last minute."
"Purvis is still in touch, he should let us know." Papa Louie replied.
"i.e. the only man to have ever called you 'Shiny Top' and lived." Bluey replied.
"I pretty much punished you two on the group run we did the next day, because you two put him up to it." Papa Louie grinned.
"Sadist." Jan Shimoda replied.
"It's not my fault you're not a fast runner." Bluey replied.
"You were suffering on that run too, Mr. Gazelle." Shimoda replied.
"Not till mile seven." Bluey replied.
"I just have one thing to say to that. Bollocks." Shimoda replied, and headed outside to one of the two cars in the driveway, "I'm off to pick up some dinner and get a lay of the land."
Larry Purvis lead Sprocket down one of the paths of Golden Gate Park. It was roughly noon and the sun was high in the sky. Earlier Marian MacClannough had met him at the outskirts of the neighborhood and dropped him off here with a piece of cloth that carried the same scent as the dead letter box.
Sprocket had found the message in relatively short order, sniffing out the dead letter box underneath a park bench. It was a short concise message. Half an hour from now he would meet a fellow who would ask him about the Springboks. Great. Truscott would've been better for this meeting. He's the rugby fanatic; I just walk around and find things with Sprocket.
Purvis was so lost in thought that he bumped into a young woman with neck length brown hair. "Oh, I'm sorry." Purvis began.
"It's OK." The woman replied. Sprocket barked just then, "Walking your dog?"
Purvis grinned, "Yeah. Border collies aren't the kind of dog that can take being bored for too long. They're about the most energetic breed around. Sprocket. Down boy. Down."
Sprocket sat, sniffing the air still, wagging his tail, anxious to get going. "I won't keep your owner for too much longer, Sprocket." The woman said, letting the dog sniff her hand, "He doesn't bite, does he?"
"No." Purvis replied, "But he does get restless."
"I won't keep you too long." She replied, "What's your name?"
"Larry Purvis."
"Phoebe Halliwell." The woman introduced herself, "I write the Ask Phoebe column in the paper."
Purvis looked at her with a blank stare. Phoebe continued, "You must be new here then. I write an advice column…"
"Ah." Purvis replied, and sticking to his cover he said, "I'm a curator at the museum."
"My big sister used to work there." Phoebe replied, "Before she moved away from here."
"I presume she knew Roger." Purvis began.
Phoebe laughed, "She did."
"What an insufferable prick." Purvis remarked. Sprocket barked.
"I'd best let you get on with your walk." Phoebe replied, "Take care."
"You too." Purvis replied and walked off, he now had a potential contact on their list.
As he continued his walk he noticed a brown haired man with a mustache heading his way. "How about those Springboks?" the man asked in a voice that sounded vaguely English. He was about 5'9" with a compact build, a bit broader across the shoulders than Bluey, and wore a short sleeved green Springboks jersey, jeans and a pair of Timberland hiking boots.
Purvis remembered the coded response, "I think they've got a shot. But my pal Bluey thinks that the Wallabies are far superior."
Just like that man to come up with rugby terms for codes. Purvis thought to himself.
The man crouched down and patted Sprocket, "Nice dog."
The contact walked away, after surreptitiously concealing a note in the dog's collar.
TBC (Up next. The Incredibles meet the Misfits and the X-men quite unexpectedly.)
Dead letter box – In espionage parlance, it is a location where one hides secret messages or other extraneous gear for a contact to pick up at a later date. An agent can pick up a note while walking his dog that his handler left underneath a stone in the park for instance.
False flagging – The act of wearing another nation's uniforms, flying another's colors, and carrying another nation's equipment to make the other side believe that they're under attack from a third party. Used frequently by Special Operations Forces when they want to conceal the involvement of their side in any matter behind enemy lines.
Metroville Expatriate Network – Refugees fleeing Syndrome who have settled on other worlds.
Spetsnaz – Soviet 'special purpose' soldiers who act as reconnaissance troops and raiders deep inside enemy territory. They do not simply gather intelligence; they act on it and typically knock out strategic targets behind the lines. They typically work for the GRU (Glavnoe Razvedyvatel'noe Upravlenie) translated into the 'Main Intelligence Directorate', Soviet Military Intelligence.