The month of October approaches, the time of tricks, treats and spooks... while in the dark of night, BigCountry75 emerges from his cave. Clasped in hands knarled and cramped from writing, typing, and editing, he offers up new Fooly-Cooly chapters! In total seriousness though, the adventure continues, although after a slightly longer than anticipated break. I actually had enough material to put out a singular chapter a month ago...but that's not good enough! So I kept at it, thinking I'd get two out like last time...and, uh, well, accidentally went whole-hog and did three. Carried away you might say. I hope this next installment holds up to all before it and was worth the carpal tunnel. Enjoy!


. . .

Have I ever described the degree to which I thoroughly loathe, despise, and detest, with every fiber of my being, getting up early; the sole exception being hunting season? No? Well…now you know. Sunup on the end of Midstate Airport found me one cranky customer, I had only about three or four hours in me. Contrary to our usual meetings, this one had an uneasiness to it. Everyone who smoke did so fervently, while the rest of us shifted nervously in uptight postures. Even Mr. Griggs appeared off-put.

"Good morning everyone." Mr. Griggs started us off, as he had called for the meeting. "Let's see…Solomon, Voyze, Chartier, Welshman, King, Pike, and, very pleased to see you again, Dahl. And the Carsons. Attendance is perfect." Herr Dahl was back on his feet, finally released from the hospital and out of bed rest. He was still supposed to be home, taking it easy, but after one day he had turned stir-crazy. Some of his skin was still loosely bandaged, the grafts were still growing in and he said they itched like mad. Half his head looked sunburned and scaly with alternating patches of older and newly grown skin, and his hair was starting to grow back too. One thing Craig had failed to damage though, was his good nature.

"And eet ist a pleasure to see all off you as vell!" Dahl carefully gave a half smile, lest he irritate the affected side. "Herr Griggs, I haff been kept up-to-date vith all zee going's on by everyone ven zay visited me in zee hospital. Do not vorry about catching me up."

"Then I'll jump right in." Mr. Griggs didn't mince words. "Gentlemen, the time we have dreaded, is here. Medical Mechanica has a history of testing new converts, and what happened last night was only the first question on the exam. M-M will now want to see how far the City Government and the Police are willing to go, and also their ability to suppress and control a population. And, if what Jeff discovered the other day is true, we have less than a week."

"Excuse me, Mister Griggs." Mr. Chartier had something nagging at him. "If I may, it's slightly off-topic, but why does M-M need to seize our little towns if they have that Iron they're building?"

"That's a fair question." Mr. Griggs allowed the deviation. "We are not one-hundred percent sure, but it's believed Irons are a form of Scalar Weapon. The waves of energy they generate, when mapped on a chart, resembles a doughnut, or better, a hurricane. At the hollow center, the Eye, sits the Iron. They can adjust the range or yield of the Iron, and the size of the 'Dead Zone' grows or shrinks proportionally. The Dead Zone, or Zone of No Effect, is partly from the Iron's characteristics, but also so whomever is in the immediate vicinity, like the engineers running and soldiers guarding it, don't get their brains fried by their own weapon. So with that in mind, Philipsburg and Osceola Mills, are certainly within the Iron's Dead Zone, and thus, a liability. You're wondering why they didn't put the Iron in say, Montana? That's because Iron's have a limited range based on their power supply, and the waves generated can only travel so fast. They'll want to knock out most of our Eastern Seaboard, which is D.C. and most of the population, but putting the Iron's build site down the street from the Pentagon would be too obvious. This area must have been determined as a 'sweet spot' for them to max their range, with the smallest Dead Zone, while as close to their target as they dare, and with the smallest chance of discovery. Did that come out too fast, am I speaking in tongues? You all look confused."

"No, not at all." Mr. Chartier blinked heavily as he took in the short lecture. "Quite the opposite. I'm just struck how sensible it all sounds. No offense meant to you, of course, but this all still seems so surreal. How do you manage?"

"It's a living." Mr. Griggs shrugged and moved right along. "Where was I…? Right. Now, I am not combat arms, or a weapons officer, my specialty is logistics. I am here today for your families."

"We surmised as much." Mr. Solomon surprised Tommy, George, Mr. Griggs, and me. "We have been helping each other's families vacate the area for the past week."

"And you didn't tell us?" George asked, flabbergasted. "We could have helped out…how did we not pick up on this?" He asked, with a quick glance my way. Whaddyah want from me? I'd been out tagging radio towers and tracking MRAP shipments; not doing door to door wellness checks. I am just one man!

"It was something we felt had to be done ourselves." Mr. King explained. "Everyone had to break it to his family in their own way, tell them to take the kids on one last vacation before Labor Day, or visit Grandma and Pops in Florida for a few weeks." I couldn't think of anything to say. If there had been any doubt to their commitment, it was gone.

"I would like to thank you, and tell everyone this from all of us…" Tommy was similarly struck. "That your men have probably done the hardest thing we could have asked, and there isn't enough thanks in the Galaxy to repay them."

"We certainly will Thomas." Mr. Solomon replied.

"This's all wonderful and everything, but let's get serious eh?" Mr. Welshman wasn't feeling sentimental. "What were you sayin' Griggs?"

"That if there are still families without anywhere to go and wish to leave, Overwatch has secured loan of several transport aircraft to ferry them to Fort Bragg and our section of the facility; at no cost. We won't ask anyone fighting with us to needlessly put their loved ones in harm's way if other options are available. Anyone that has workers interested, please talk details with me afterwards. Meanwhile, we have another pressing issue. Carsons, if you would…?"

"With pleasure Mister Griggs, with pleasure…" I had one of my many maps of Clearfield and Centre Counties. This one heavily marked up and edited. The hood of Tommy's truck made a good table so everyone could get a good look. "Gentlemen, look upon this map well. You will be getting your own personal copies. Learn them, know them, memorize them, live them. This is to be our battlefield. This is where our towns, our lives, and our planet, will be won or lost."

. . .

While Canti was an infinite well of patience, The Something residing within him, was not. It had no intention of repeating the weeklong vigil performed while cracking the Scorpion's code. To Canti's mild annoyance, rather than helping him directly, The Something was casting about ideas, any ideas, for speeding up the process of breaking the State Patrol's barriers.

'I mean you no ill will…' Canti said as another round of calculations aimed at the encryption's private key failed. 'But your excessive noise is distracting. You mean well, but are not contributing by siphoning off my attention with these ideas.'

'I see. Very well. If that's how my assistance is appreciated, I will keep it to myself.'

'That is most helpful, indeed.' Canti now worked in concentrated silence; at least in his own head. Naota was running a lathe, Haruko a drill press, and the sizzling crackles of Josh, Johnny and Mike's welding added to the din. Canti merely switched off his ears; he didn't need them in cyberspace after all. He wouldn't need to hear while looking for a recurring pattern, an error, a misplaced value, or something out of order to focus on and attack. But so far, nothing. Canti knew that any encryption could be broken with enough computing power and time; especially time. He also knew, at the rate he was going, Earth's Sun would have gone supernova by then. It was time to bend some pride.

'Excuse me.'

'…'

'Excuse me. I know you can hear me.'

'Did you say something?'

'Do you have any suggestions; any new ones?'

'Oh? Having trouble are we?' The longer Canti interacted with The Something, the more fleshed out its personality became.

'…Yes.'

'And you need my help?'

'No. I do not need your help. I want your help.'

'If that makes you feel better. What?'

'I still cannot break the encryption. I will eventually, but will have rusted solid by then.'

'I see…' The Something thought for a moment. 'I have been reviewing some of the books you downloaded, and a phrase sounds fitting: A chain is only as strong as its weakest link.'

'That is what I have been looking for, but have…'

'I was not finished. What is the chain of elements in a computing system, such as email?'

'The front user, interface, the machine, router, transmission server, a transmission of the information, then reversing back to an end user.'

'And which part is the most easily manipulated, and can cause the most damage, of those parts?'

'The Users.'

'Precisely. The User is the least guarded and most vulnerable target of the chain; and thus, the weakest.'

'We do have Cole Kauffman's workstation IP from his conversations with Clyde, and unlimited access to Craig's email through his phone…but the security on Cole's end has blocked Ice Pick a dozen times.'

'Then devise a way to convince Cole, the vulnerable User, to invite us, Ice Pick, in.' Canti stopped probing the State Police firewalls. A computer, he knew intimately, is only as smart as its builder, and as dumb as its user. Though he had never met him, Canti had no doubt Cole was intelligent and clever, but also Human. This meant he could be fooled.

. . .

Pang-ah-lang-ah-tang-bang!... ... "Goddammit."

"Another one?" Haruko had dropped her fourth part of the morning. "You doin' okay there, Butterfingers?"

"Hurdy-hurdy-hur…" She scrunched up her nose at Naota and stooped to pick up the dropped part. "Guess we can't use this one eh?"

"Let me see." Naota took out his micrometer and sized up the part's dimensions. "Nope. No longer in tolerance, it's scrap now. Pitch it." He turned to the shears, then added: "And try to be a little more careful. Every dropped part is money."

"Yeah, yeah. Got it, Peter-Penny-Pincher." Haruko waited for Naota to engage the shears, an eight foot tall and twelve foot long roaring machine that clipped inch thick steel like wrapping paper. As the shears moaned and groaned, she deftly opened her lunch pail on the workbench and dropped the out of spec part inside.

. . .

"Lemme get this straight…" Mr. King scratched his morning five o'clock. Everyone was giving the map their best 'deep in thought' look. George, Tommy and I had just laid down our general strategy for defense of the area, dealing with the police, and eventually clearing the Medical Mechanica garrison. Now the floor was open to suggestions, comments, questions, and concerns. To say there were surprised faces is to woefully understate.

"Yes, Mister King?" Tommy was eager to entertain.

"So…we're not gonna hold the towns?"

"Nope."

"I…well, that's…a…uh…huh." The scratching continued. "Why…why exactly is that again? I'm not a military guy, so forgive my ignorance. But I thought the point of this, us and all, was to keep the cops and M-M out?"

"I think I know what the Carson's are on about." Mr. Voyze leaned over the map. "If I may take a stab?"

"I insist." George encouraged. "And Pike, if you have anything to add, jump in whenever."

"In one word gentlemen: topography." Mr. Voyze explained, sweeping his hand over the map. "All've you recognize this as a topo map; we all live, eat, and die, by these. See here..." He pointed with an arthritic finger. "Philipsburg and Osceola Mills are both in bowls, and at the very bottom to boot. Black Moshannon Forest to the north and east is the highest, except for the river splitting it of course, and the highest point being right where we stand. There is exactly one hill between Philipsburg and Osceola, which just happens to be Carson Family Central; surely a coincidence."

"You're imagining things Mister Voyze."

"See, Jeff knows. Anyway, the last thing we want is to be backed into a literal corner and get stuck at the bottom of these valleys."

"Like the 1st Air Cav at Ia Drang." Mr. Pike added. "They landed at the bottom of a mountain in the river valley, and spent the next three days clawing their way back out. If we can draw the cops and M-M down into the valleys, we practically surround them already." He tapped each hash-covered section marking a mine or gas territory, seven sections encircling the area. "And once they're pinned, we can restrict their movements, and even cut them off from Roman's. All supplies and reinforcements would have to come through Black Moshannon Forest, or many miles out of the way around…" As Mr. Pike and Voyze went on, it became apparent both had war gamed several such scenarios in his head. Once a Marine, once Marine Recon, always a Marine.

"That was our intent Mister Pike. I'm glad you see it the same way." Tommy offered Mr. Pike and Mr. Voyze both pencils. "I think you'll make better use of these than I…" And they were off. Ninety minutes later, two bowls of Mr. Welshman's pipe, three chews of snuff from Tommy and I, and several crushed cigarettes in a cut up Fanta can, the map was finalized, and strategies hammered out. We had our Plan A, Plan B, C, D, E, F…X, Y, and Freakin' Z; because everyone has a plan 'till they get punched in the face.

"Alright, I'll make copies of these tonight and deliver them by hand tomorrow." I folded the map up and tucked them away. "So expect me at your offices bright and early. Oh, and it goes without saying, but if you're caught: burn these."

"We get it Jeff."

"Everyone clear, any last questions?" George wanted no lingering doubts or confusion going forward. "Mister Solomon. You seem troubled?"

"Oh, well…it's…" For once Mr. Solomon seemed caught flat footed. "Running a family dynasty is one thing. But never in my years had I seen myself where I am right now, doing what I am. Planning and plotting to fight off the menace of the Galaxy, and even commanding my steadfast workers as a general in battle…I never could have imagined such a thing. It's such a strange turn my, all of ours really, life has taken. Perhaps the shock of recent events have shaken my core, but I wonder if we can really accomplish what we just discussed. Is our fight winnable? Will our men, and more so, will we stand if it comes to shooting?"

"Pike and I both asked ourselves that, me when I first got off the plane in Vietnam, him his first feel of Iraqi sand." Mr. Voyze offered his answer. "It will be an internal battle fought three thousand odd times if it comes to that. Every one of us will find out in the moment, not before, if we'll stand…and if we're still able to." He admitted.

"As far as winnable goes, there are many variables." Mr. Pike reminded. "We have covered as many as we can conceive, the rest is to the Gods. But we have a homefield advantage with guys who grew up here, numbers, many of our guys are vets and have been under fire before, a solid cause to fight for, and to the best of my knowledge, we're the only ones with any form of air support. I am fully confident in our odds.' Mr. Pike resolutely stamped his seal of approval. That seemed to ease some nerves. Only Monsieur Chartier appeared still unconvinced. He started and stopped, unsure how to say what he wanted.

"What is it?" I asked as he fidgeted.

"It's jut, well…we're not soldiers; or at least most of us. I mean no disrespect to anyone, but we're miners, drillers, and those of us who did serve are years removed from the battlefield…and we're to go against police with their body armor, armored trucks, grenade launchers and gas, machine guns, and what is supposed to be the best Marine force in the Galaxy? Forgive me George, Thomas, Jeff…but how? HOW?" It wasn't anything personal, a 'gotcha' or he'd found the flaw in our logic. Mr. Chartier was simply as scared as the rest of us and wanted some assurances he stood a fighting chance of surviving. I can't blame him, not now, or then, or ever. Not hearing George or Tommy jump on it, I fielded the question.

"Monsieur Chartier, look around you. What do you see?"

"I…see…uh, hills, forests, mountains…?"

"Exactly."

"You are not helping me."

"In the big cities, Pittsburgh to our west and Philly to our east, live the gangs of those concrete jungles. The Crips, the Bloods, Latin Kings, MS-13, Mafias of every nation, even the Communist stumble-fucks in Antifa. And what do all these hard-asses, these self-called bad mofo's have in common? What is the one place they fear more than each other's turf?" I pointed down and ground shale shards underfoot. "Right here. You should hear those city kids talk, the ones I run into at the gas stations and dollar stores as they pass through. They're scared of this land, our pockets of wilderness, the 'ballahs', and the G's, even most skinheads and punks, are scared, terrified, of these hills, these mountains."

"Why?"

"Not without good reason. One specifically relevant reason comes to mind. A mountainous people with a rifle culture cannot be defeated by conventional forces. Period. Full stop. It's as simple as that, and history proves I ain't bullshitting. Most mountainous terrain held by people who are savvy riflemen, as any hunting season here can attest, cannot be militarily defeated, whether they be Chechens, Swiss, or Afghans. You are still considered a newcomer here, and have not grasped the depth of the independent streak, nor the 'because fuck you, that's why' attitude to invaders that Appalachia has been steeped in for centuries. That's one of the reasons these mountains weren't properly conquered, fully tamed, and 'made civilized', until the 1930's; and it took an invasion of Revenue Men, the F.B.I, Strikebreakers, Pinkertons, a Great Depression, and President Frank the Cripple, to pull it off. No, we don't have the best equipment, the best training, or a blank checkbook like the cops do. But by rifle, by shovel and pickax, by K-Bar and tomahawk, I gare-un-god-damn-tee you, we Pennsylvanians will fight; and the only way they're gonna beat us is to grind every mountain you see to dust, all while praying they don't bleed themselves dry in the process.

. . .

Cole had finished writing up his reports for the raids. Once they were sent to Captain Chojnacki, he was headed home to finally sleep. An email popped up in his inbox. Flagged as SPAM, it was immediately banished to the relevant folder. Out of tired curiosity, his drowsy eyes skimmed the subject line. Eyes now wide, he recognized the sender. There was no way. It couldn't be…could it? His computer warned him this email could contain SPAM, and the sender was from an unverified, unsecured network. His brain groggy, Cole acted on emotion, and clicked to open the message.

Hey Bro!

Okay, don't freak out. I just want to let you know I'm doing fine and haven't dropped off the Earth. I got in some misunderstandings with Natalie Ritter's dad, and uncle, and cousins, and, then every Stacy and her sister ganged up on me… you get the idea. So I needed some distance and time. California's where the real party's at anyway, and I'm not coming back anytime soon. Here's a pic of the view from my new back porch; bask in the awesome. It's okay to feel jealous. Let Cody, Chris, Clyde, Caleb, and Carl know I said hi; and they're all lame for still hanging around Bumblefuck, PA.

Peace from your favorite,

-Craig

Cole shifted the mouse to the attached file. He could not resist. He HAD to know. It was his right to know. Opening it, he found a selection of beach front photos, Craig with several girls on his arm, meals from boardwalk food trucks, and a balcony view of the sun sinking into the Pacific. Cole didn't realize he'd been holding his breath and allowed himself to relax; sinking into a slump in his chair.

"Oh…he is alive…thank Syrinx."

. . .

The pictures were as false as political promises. All were shopped, spliced, and edited by Canti from Craig's Facebook account and a quick Google search. It wasn't a perfect letter to Cole, but it had to be just convincing enough. Once clicked, the embedded Ice Pick file went to work. Canti had secured a connection. At the same instant, every computer in the Philipsburg Library, Philipsburg High School, and the Osceola Mills Civic Center, came online. Canti had stuck them all with Ice Pick earlier, breezing through the Administrator's access with ten seconds of a Dictionary Attack; spamming the password requirement with guesses until something worked. Now Canti could control each machine and their server remotely, from the comfort of Josh's chair.

His first order of business was to instruct this Bot Army, all two hundred and sixty two of them, to begin copying, then relaying to him, everything on the State Patrol's server. He suspected he wouldn't get everything without being detected. Priority was given to the emails, then most recent documents going back through time. Josh had not expressed any interest in arrest records, personal data, reports from officers, prisoner details from lockup or the penitentiary, or digital copies of regular paperwork.

'Two things that we need:' Josh had instructed. 'Their emails, and their inventory records. That's it. If you can get or find something else important, go for it. But emails and inventory come first. Oh, it should go without saying…' Josh had warned before donning his welding mask. 'Don't get caught.'

. . .

The System Administrator, Sys-Admin for short, at the State Patrol was starting his second mug of coffee. His main task was backing up data in case of accidental deletion. It had happened more times than he dared to count. The rest of his time was split between cleaning up malware from officers visiting restricted sites, and swatting away the occasional high schooler trying to impress his friends.

'Holly had better not be visiting anything but her work email…' He settled into his plush chair. 'One more accidental visit to Playgirl and I'm reporting her…what's…oh, Ho-Lee-SHIT.' The Sys-Admin nearly spat coffee across his keyboard.

"What the hell's this?!" He brought up his network display, showing all computers in the State Patrol office, and what was running on them. Every computer was running a massive file transfer, sending terabytes worth of information out of the station. A quick task search told him a full backup of the server was in progress, to a third party platform. He lifted his phone.

"Chojnacki."

"Captain, it's Didion. Was a remote backup scheduled that I was not included in?"

"A…what?"

"Someone is copying all of our data, someone not us."

"Oh." It took a moment. "Wait, no, NO! NO, it's an attack, shut it down!"

"Done." Didion promised and hung up. 'I'll just take Admin control of whichever machine it is and…oh shit. ALL of them?!' Ice Pick had spread through the email system and made itself at home on every machine in the address book. It now had individual passwords, each machine's data, and even its keylogger on the Sys-Admin's station. Didion attempted to remotely disconnect the machine he thought the source: Officer Kauffman's unit. A message chided him, saying he didn't have permission to access that device. Now Didion felt a twinge of panic. Evaluating his options, he at least wasn't totally locked out, so he had that goin' for him; which was nice. The router display listed all computers connected to the station's server, and the two hundred and sixty two other IP addresses.

'Someone's built themselves one fuck of a botnet.' Didion concluded, taking a picture of the IP list with his phone and printscreen function. He would back-track them later. Meanwhile he tried accessing any other computer as his phone rang, no doubt officers complaining they were suddenly locked out. Each time he was rebuffed, the passwords and credential information had been changed. Whomever was running the botnet now owned every computer at the station. Out of options, Didion left the comfort of his chair.

Out of his office and down the hall was the server room. Its locked door had not stopped the intrusion. He located the bundle of Ethernet chords, neatly managed in a wrist thick blue and grey bundle at the back of the eight foot tall, three by three across tower. In a hasty, port damaging tug, he yanked the bundle out. For good measure, he pulled down the breaker handle and physically pulled the power supply plug. With the infiltrator cut off, the outgoing data stream stopped. Now the questions were: what did they get, how did they get in, and who were they anyway?

. . .

Canti felt cheated. Whomever was on the other end hadn't put up much of a fight. They had simply cut the connection. He had gotten most of what he had searched for, but was still disappointed. Now he had to sort through it all and hope something useful had been gained. But as an unexpected bonus, he'd gotten an up-close look at Medical Mechanica encryption, and that made him and The Something feel satisfied indeed.

. . .

Cole stood outside Captain Chojnacki's office, feeling like he had been sent to the principal for acting a fool in class. The door opened and Chojnacki waved him in. Chojnacki returned to his desk and faced Cole. Didion, the station's System Administrator was there, and so was The Man in Black. Chojnacki appeared sternly concerned, Didion half petrified to death upon finding himself in the same room as The Man, who himself was an unreadable blank.

"Alright Cole, close the door." Chojnacki started. "What happened?"

"There was a breach of our network, and a large amount of data was copied before Didion shut the server down…and I believe I know how."

"And…?" Chojnacki leaned back, arms folded. The Man was either listening intently, or asleep, behind his smoked glasses.

"I was sent an email, from my brother Craig; or…someone pretending to be him. You know how he went missing a few weeks ago. The message was him, or the sender, saying he was alive and doing well, and not to worry. There was an attachment, with photos of him in California. I believe malware was embedded in the file I…"

"That's enough, thank you." Chojnacki waved his hand. "Didion's explained all that, and more."

"Then why bother asking?"

"To see if your story matched his, to see if you were lying."

"What?! Do you think I did this? Remember who HE contacted first. Me! Not you, Captain."

"Simmer the fuck down, Patrolman." Chojnacki barked. "I am still your commanding officer, and will be addressed as such. No, I don't suspect you, but wondered if there could have been something Didion had missed. Speaking of…"

"I have the list of what the attacks got a copy of." Didion adjusted his glasses. "It was strange. They got a copy of all our emails, our inventory, and a few program files; none of those programs are any trade secret I might add."

"Anything…else?"

"Uh, well. There is one set of files they got, I don't think they were looking for it, since after emails and inventory they were copying newest files first and going in descending order. That's why they picked up the program files, since they are automatically backed up every…"

"Skip a bit, please."

"Sir." Didion straightened his posture. "Captain, whether they realize it or not, they have gotten a copy of The List."

"Are you certain of this?" The Man seemed unfazed by the revelation. He may's well been told water was wet.

"I am positive, Sir." Didion answered The Man as firmly as possible. "Sir, I must apologize for my failure. I, I…"

"Don't." The Man shook his head to Didion's apology. "Find me the location, the name, the face, of who did this, get the data back…and then, perhaps I will entertain your excuses. You have much work to do, you are dismissed." Didion was all too eager to disappear and did so as fast as possible without sprinting from the room. "So, your brother. Craig?"

"Yes. I, I thought it could really be him." Cole admitted.

"And you didn't stop to think it too good to be true? Your brother, missing for weeks, contacts you on your work email? Cole…I must say I'm disappointed. I thought you were better than this."

"Respectfully Sir, you don't understand. After my mother passed, and my father being…himself, I was the only one keeping the family together; and mostly still am. I was the only one that could, and as the oldest, it was my place, my birthright! I was, and am, responsible for them. So yes, when I thought it was Craig, I had to be sure."

"Be that as it may, Craig is no longer a concern of yours." The Man decreed. "Alive or not, he abandoned his post without leave or dismissal, disgraced his commission, and left his assignment unfulfilled. Should he reappear, Craig is to be treated as persona non grata. Any and all communication from him, or his name, is to be considered a trap. Am I clear?"

"But…what if it really is Craig?"

"Then you will have to determine what is more important." The Man smiled. "Your sworn allegiance to The Red Star of The Solar Federation and Teachings of Syrinx…or a delinquent brother who has dropped out of all sight and mind; and is more than likely decomposing in a railyard somewhere. Choose."

"I understand. My apologies, I was out of line." Cole bit down hard on his cheek and remembered his place.

"That's better." The Man turned to Chojnacki. "If our list is out in the wrong hands, then it is only a matter of time."

"Yes, I agree. It cannot be helped." Chojnacki solemnly agreed.

"What is? What's only a matter of time?" Cole's mind, after believing he was accused of sabotage, was engaged in full conspiracy mode. What was only a matter of time? He wasn't privy to something, what? Were Chojnacki and The Man talking behind his back? Had a secret deal been struck? Was this electronic attack on his computer, with his email, an elaborate excuse to get rid of him?

"Cole? Are you paying attention at all?"

"Sorry Captain. I still haven't slept."

"Then it can wait." The Man said. "Go home, rest. We will call you when you are needed." Cole left, shutting the door on a still talking Chojnacki and Man in Black. He felt as though an invisible target had been placed on his back.

. . .

"Hang on, I forgot something." Haruko turned back to the shop. It was lunchtime. Josh, Johnny, and Mike had decided to eat out and piled into Johnny's truck for McDonalds. Naota and Haruko instead opted for something out of the Country (In)Convenience deli.

"Hurry up then, I'm starving." Naota waited on a lowboy trailer while Haruko slipped back into the shop. She took large strides, straight for the scrap bin. In bin corner, under some hacked up grating, she extracted her hidden piece: a tube with the spiral grooves cut into its inside. It was the last part she needed. With nowhere easy to hide the two foot long tube, she slipped it into the left leg of her jumpsuit, and since she had the upper half unzipped, retied the sleeves doubly tight about her waist to hold the tube in place. A few practice steps made her feel reasonably sure the tube wouldn't fall out.

"Find it?" Naota asked as she rejoined him.

"Hmm?" Each step rolled the tube against her hip. She should have bloused her jumpsuit's legs into her boots so the tube couldn't fall out by her foot. It was too late now, so she moved to Naota's left side and clamped her arm tight against her leg.

"Whatever it was you were looking for."

"Oh, right, yeah. Good to go."

"'Kay. Hey, where are you going now?" They were passing his house and she made an excuse to use the bathroom 'while they were there'. She hid the tube on her bunk, wrapping it in half the sheets. The rest she'd bring home in her lunchbox and assemble at night when everyone else had nodded off.

. . .

If Canti was reading things correctly, he now possessed three items capable of destroying the State Patrol's credibility and standing in both counties, and take down the Philipsburg and Osceola Mills departments in its death thrashes as well. If he so chose. But he had been assigned a specific task and reported to Josh accordingly.

"'Sup C-Man? Wait, no…that's not…" Josh had half a burger in his mouth as he, Mike, and Johnny returned from lunch. "Sorry, how about C-Dog? No?"

"You had your chance, and blew it doofus." Mike enjoyed his schadenfreude. "Just stick to whatcha know, stop tryin' so hard."

"Yes, Mother. Anyway…what's happenin'?" Once seated in his chair, Josh nearly fell off it again as Canti showed his morning's handiwork. "G, gu, guh, guy, guys, guys…GUYS!" Mike and Johnny joined them.

"Whoa, that's a ton of data!" Mike reflexively reached for his pocket notebook and pen. Josh batted his hand away. "What?!"

"Don't be writing any of this stuff down!"

"Alright, jeez, fine. What all is in here?"

"This was everything I could transfer." Canti's words scrolled across his face. "Someone on the other end detected me, and then cut me off."

"Do you think they'll be able to back-track it to us?" Mike looked out the bay doors as if he expected a SWAT team to arrive momentarily.

"I highly doubt it. They'll have to decide which of the two hundred and sixty three signals is the most likely culprit; a difficult task when all of them attacked at the same time. The police are chasing over two hundred suspects."

"That was a damn right beautiful botnet you built. Grade-A Certified." Josh praised, then fiddled for a nervous tic cigarette. "W-wait a minute…oh no…"

"What is it?" Canti leaned in with everyone.

"An email exchange between an armorer at the State's station, and Cole Kauffman himself." Josh tapped the screen with his cigarette's butt, and the other two lit up as well. Canti had realized after watching smokers for a few years now, the calming effects of cigarettes, and the G&R trio were burning through theirs. He recognized the signs of three gaskets primed to blow. "Seems they had blank warrants for the raids last night. Well…well…WELL. Why am I not fuggin' surprised?!"

"What do we do now? We have not even looked at a sliver of the data."

"I'm calling George." Johnny was marching to the shop phone. "This's unacceptable. Someone needs to fuckin' burn for this."

. . .

"Y'ello?" George answered his phone over the gunfire of a platoon, practicing their marksmanship. They were one platoon of 116, and at least a dozen each practicing at the seven different sites. They fired again and George walked off to somewhere less disturbed. Twenty-five AK's firing in sync makes for a bit of noise. Lucky for us, there has always been blasting at Solomon's Mines. Any eavesdropper would have their eardrums blown out before being able to tell the difference.

"They're getting pretty good." Tommy understated as steel targets three hundred yards away rang with each hit. "And to think, a few days ago, some had never held an AK before."

"Mister Carson, that may be true…" One of Mr. Pike's employees, a veteran of the Gulf War, Bosnia, Kosovo, and several years as a private contractor in Africa before Mr. Pike brought him stateside, spat tobacco. A man after my heart. He was part of the combat experienced cadre bringing the rest up to snuff. "But lemme tell yah a trade secret. I can train a fuckin' monkey to run an M16 or AK-47 in three days. Did it with guys who couldn't read or write, never had held a gun, or even seen any machinery more complicated than antique farm equipment. Gimme ten days and I'll bring a novice to a level of near-expert with his gun. That's fuckin' easy. Wanna know the hard part?"

"'S that?"

"Convincing him to actually use the damn thing, as in actually put the irons right on some cannibal's X-ring at thirty yards, and pull the trigger, then keep shooting 'till the other guy stops twitching. The hard part is getting him to overcome this damn nanny state's pussified aversion to violence and inflicting some serious, fucking-up level of bodily harm. Far, far harder than showing them the mechanics of gunfighting."

"I couldn't have put it better." Tommy watched the shooters demonstrate their rifles were clear before walking downrange. "Do you think these guys will, when the time comes?"

"Against Medical Mechanica? Sure, this M-M's a buncha aliens. It's like asking if our guys would shoot at an invading army of five foot cockroaches. No problem, of course they would." He shrugged, gesturing back to town, ten miles away. "But the cops? The County Mountie? Different story. They may not like 'em, hate 'em even. But it's hard to kill someone when your kids are in the same homeroom, wives both in the same Avon Lady group, and you're in the same bowling league. So I don't know. Fifty-fifty."

"What about you, yourself?" Tommy asked and got a dark laugh, from some deep, shadowy place far and away.

"Mister Carson, before Mister Pike nabbed me with his talk of steady, direct deposit checks and being home every night, I did this for a living. Believe me when I say that not only am I ready, I've got a list of names I mean to pick bones with. I fought too many dictators and warlords in Africa to tolerate one in my backyard."

"We'll pencil you down as 'having potential.' I'm just glad you're on our side. Although…the other side does pay better…"

"They always do Mister Carson, they always do."

"Johnny?! Johnny…J…Johnny. Johnathon! If you cannot control yourself like half a human being, I'm hanging up!" George had one finger in his non-phone ear to block out the restarted gunfire. "For cripes sake. Well, oh fine, be that way. Put Mike on. Yes, now. Crimeny…yeah, Mike?" George waved for us, so we said our goodbye and walked over. I couldn't make out words, but could mark tempo. It was between 'seven year old girl who actually got a pony for her birthday' and 'pant-shitting panic.'

"Georgeyour'renotgonnabelievewhatCantijustfoundinthe…"

"Mike! You're not helping either! Is there an adult in the room somewhere? God, I can't leave anyone in this outfit alone for five minutes…Johnny?" Johnny was back on, maybe third time's the charm. "Okay, that's much better. Now, what's going on?"

"You'll forgive us once you've seen." Johnny's voice was charged still, but under control. "We have an email record of the raids last night, and they're looking at multiple felonies as appetizers. The rest you need to see yourself."

"Okay, on the way." George didn't waver, deliberate or delay. "Tommy, Jeff! We're needed at home."

. . .

The Man in Black surveyed his audience: Aldrich, Andrew, Warburg, Strong, Sarabyn, and Chojnacki. Only one knew why they were there. The rest nervously fidgeted.

"Good morning, gentlemen. Time is no longer on your side, so I will be blunt. Today, this station suffered an information attack. Despite the best security Medical Mechanica offers, an officer here rendered it null by unwittingly downloading a malware virus. This virus…"

"What kind of a moron clicks on SPAM mail?" Aldrich could not resist a good scoffing. "Same guy who believes those 'male enhancement ads', amiright?"

"Mayor, before you exceed your ego's capacity, allow me to remind you that before my arrival, the computer in your office was protected with the password of…password." The Man curtly reminded. "Please do not stupefy the room with your hypocrisy." Aldrich began his best imitation of a statue. "This virus downloaded a copy of this station's emails, inventory logs, and other miscellaneous files. It also secured a copy of your List."

Mayor Andrew, the rest of the room all felt it but he showed it the worst, looked as if he were going to be ill. The Man waited for a response to see who would crack. Surely it wouldn't be one of the officers, would it?

"Well, shit. We're fucked then, aren't we?" Shamefully, Sarabyn had disappointed The Man by breaking first. "If these hackers have half a brain, they've put everything together by now. In another hour or two, they'll be all over the net and telling everyone and their brother. Which officer of yours is the numbnuts that's screwed us?!" Sarabyn rounded on an indignant Chojnacki. "I want their head dammit! Letting this kind of info leak, just what kind of outfit do you Smokey's run up here?"

"Sheriff, that will be quite, enough." The Man's tone saw Sarabyn join Aldrich in the art gallery of statuesque silence. 'One small hiccup and they're ready to turn on each other. They make this all too easy.' The Man thought and smiled to himself. A race more prone to internal bickering always yielded faster as they were too busy with petty politics to realize their true threat.

"How do we present this, to the public?" Andrew was thinking ahead. "Obviously we don't focus on the actual content at all, best to never mention it…focus instead on the act itself; the burglar, not what he stole."

"Can we do that? I mean, it's not like we can control or stop anyone from reading the leak once it gets spread." Aldrich forgot he was supposed to be mute. "Let's get Vanderlip and Davison in on this, hear their thoughts. If I can borrow your phone Captain…"

"Do not. TOUCH. That phone." The Man's order was heeded. "You are missing the point. First, our hand is being forced; deliberately or not. Someone is altering the Script. Second, this was not a bored child with spare time. This was a deliberate, targeted attack. There are enemies probing your defenses, looking for cracks, and gathering information. Meanwhile, you're quibbling among yourselves, and are still using the phones when it should be completely obvious your communications have been compromised."

"But we need to tell everyone how this's a fabrication, that the List is outright fake; or at least for, I dunno, record keeping or something? Right?"

"Strong, no organization ever keeps a List of persons they intend to eliminate, if they do not intend to eliminate everyone on that List." The Man made his orders explicit. "From here on out, ALL electronic communications are considered compromised. Phone, email, text, satellite uplinks. The only thing we can tentatively use is two-way radio, and that will need verification. Bearing that in mind, I assure you, the List is making the rounds as we speak. So we will make use of it before anyone on it can make real preparations or inform the rest; making the List useless, and yourselves irresistible targets. Mayors, open your white envelope. Officers, ready your Troopers."

. . .

"Josh, Mike…are you…sure that's what you wanna do?" The office was crowded with Josh, Johnny, Mike, Canti, George, Tommy, and the baddest radio tower saboteur and most suave basement band singer of Appalachia, (that, that'd be me…in case y'all got confused with someone else…I'll shut up now.) packed in. Josh was pitching George a back of the envelope idea he and Mike had concocted.

"They've got a right to know." Josh stood his ground. "Look, I'm as well read on our manual for relations concerning the public at large as anyone else in this office…"

"You actually read that thing?" Mike had to ask. "What. A. Nerd."

"Quiet you. Let he be without sin cast the first stone; fan-fiction readin', monster-girl fanboy, weeaboo."

"Touche."

"Look, we need every advantage we can get, or create; and the more unconventional and from left field, the better."

"I just…it's too unpredictable in outcome." George…George, c'mon! You were doing so well this morning. Now you're waffling again. "Dumping this on everyone, I mean, there's a million different ways this could go; or it could go nowhere at all. I don't know which would be worse, to be frank."

"Well, if you're Frank, then I'll be Earnest." Johnny weighed in from the couch. "All of us have, more than we have right to, have bitched and moaned how we wish the people were more proactive, more involved and 'situationally aware' as Mike puts it; and he is spot on with that sentiment I must say. In remembering that, I support the idea, and I'll even tell you why." Johnny took a long drag and knocked ash. "Right now, it's only a matter of when, not if, that Man tracks Canti's trail back here. Nothing will come of that except a fugly mess, followed by a controlled message in the papers; and everyone goes back to sleep. Should we go forward though, there will be web, phone, and just face to face, chatter in such a high volume, sifting through it all would be impossible. Add on everyone is still mighty pissed about Rick, especially since nothing has gone forward because the cops don't know how to put the pin back in that grenade, and we'll have a People who are neck deep involved in their local affairs. A few thousand small revolutions at the same time"

"When you frame it like that…I wonder why we didn't think of doing that in June?" Tommy said from behind his desk; feet propped on it. "I second Johnny's seconding."

"D'yah think I should run this by Naota, to keep him in the loop? We've included him on most things so far."

"Hmm…" I had put George on the spot again. All of us could tell he didn't like it. Me, being the bundle of eternal optimism I am, already had resigned to this being a missed opportunity. Some days, it's nice to be wrong. "As much as I respect his opinion, no Rig. Naota is still on a need-to-know basis and we've trusted him with far more than usually allowed. It's also a matter of plausible deniability. Should this blow up in our faces, I am not dragging him down with us in the court martial; should we survive that long. And he is too friendly with Haruko for my liking, so again no. I'm making a call and sticking with it. Mike, Josh…your, what was it again? Your, weird kids you are, Operation Shitposter, is a go. Make 'em squirm."

. . .

By the time Mayors Aldrich and Andrew returned to their offices, Josh and Mike had been waging an information war for two hours. How? Simply by doing what they did best: cackling with mad glee while relentlessly posting, uploading, tagging and emailing, and making an un-ignorable, shitposting nuisance of themselves. While a short time in the grand scheme of things, two hours can be an eternity on the internet. Through Facebook, Gab, and the gamut of every social media platform fielded, a set of dummy dead-end emails and the city's very own websites, the purloined State Police emails, inventory, and their List, were published in full, raw, unedited, uncut, uncensored, unadulterated, and unapologetic format; with a few helpful hints sprinkled within.

The List was an itinerary of persons deemed subversive, threatening, dangerous, or in outright critical need of elimination. A kill list as it was being called while circulated around the web. Some people were not surprised to see their names, darkly joking it was a matter of pride. Others were not so pleased, responses ranging from horrified shock to vessel-blowing anger. The inventory lists fleshed out the methods intended to work on the List. Machine guns, grenade launchers, night vision, thermal FLIR, tons of explosives, every manner of body armor from head to toe, the gamut of less-lethals and riot control devices, a fleet of armored vehicles indistinguishable by the average public from a tank, and even a shipment of what was widely debated to be a coded phrase for 'honest to Jumpin' Jesus Christ, fuckin' rocket launchers.'

As The Man in Black refused to keep any written record of anything he did, physical or electronic, there were no explicit references to Medical Mechanica, The Red Star, or The Man himself. There were, however, the exchanges between Cole and the armorer, exchanges in collusion with the local departments and Sheriff's office, other instances of blank warrants, officers under reporting seized assets and drugs for personal use or gain, and bragging about arrests they'd gotten away with that were blatant, unloving and un-lubed, fistings of pristine law. The people of Philipsburg and Osceola Mills were at a high simmer and ready to boil over.

It was at this point the Mayors opened their private safes and slit open a white envelope inside. It contained instructions from The Man for just such an emergency. Each item on the list read in the scheme of DEFCON levels, only there were three instead of five. Delighted to be relieved of making their own responses to the leaks, the Mayors were taken aback when finding a citizenry suddenly taking a vested interest in their town's going-ons. A few dozen of the usuals were expected, and half the town showed up.

. . .

"Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen, members of the press…" Mayor Andrew took a moment to scan for Arsene Lupin and breathed a sigh of relief when he couldn't spot him. "Some rumors have been making their rounds, regarding the falsified emails, supposedly between our men and women of law enforcement. I wish to dash these unfounded rumors. They are only a childish retaliation, a tit-for-tat from supporters and admirers of those apprehended in searches last night. The…"

. . .

"…searches were only the first steps. It is now undeniably obvious these perpetrators, these terrorists, have greater numbers than initially thought." Mayor Aldrich had been scanning in near panic for a reappearance of Henry Bowman. Thus far, he remained absent. "And now they have retaliated in the only cowardly, underhanded manner they know, by hacking our State Patrol in a blatant violation of fairness, honesty, decency, and black and white color of the law. Tracking down of these despicable…"

"Oh, whatcha gonna do?! Have all the hackers mowed down like your trigger-happy fucks shot the Dryphus's?!" Aldrich's blood pressure spiked, thinking Henry Bowman had made his entrance. Rather, it was Mr. Shantz, who had closed shop in the middle of the day to come to the conference. Activity around town had ground to a halt with everyone taking an early, extended lunch. "I'd sure's HELL like an answer toot-freakin' sweet, because MY NAME is on YOUR list." Mr. Shantz's baritone boomed with artillery-style volume, rattling the windows. "Am I a terrorist, a despicable deplorable, a saboteur?! I run a hardware store you authoritarian asshole, not a bomb factory!"

"Mister Shantz, if you cannot behave, I will have you removed!"

"Oh yeah? I'd like to see you try."

. . .

"Really Gerald, please conduct yourself in a manner befitting the venue!" Davison, trying to back up his boss, implored Jerry of Hi-Way Pizza. It had come to light even Jerry was on the List, and neither he, nor at least half of Osceola Mills was having any amount of such ball-slappingly stupid dumbassery. Still dressed in their aprons, dusted with flour and smelling strongly enough of garlic to ward off Dracula, the staff of Hi-Way were all present and accounted for in the massive crowd.

"Or what? Gonna have that cop from Philipsburg shoot my dogs tonight? Raid Hi-Way and 'accidentaly' burn it down?"

"You are taking things completely out of context. This is only a measure for the safety of everyone, so law enforcement can more efficiently utilize their resources."

"And what's that got to do with ME? Or hell, any of us?"

"I am not privy to law enforcement processes or decision making. My role is to express that our law enforcement is only acting in our best collective interests."

"Is that so?" Another crowd member jumped in. "How is still holding Rick Stilton in Philipsburg without trial or bail part of that best collective interest?"

"That is a matter of the Philipsburg city and police, not Osceola Mills…"

"That's not a 'no' I'm hearing. A simple no would've done."

"It is a matter completely irrelevant to the discussion! Now if we could please get back on topic…thank you. As I was saying, a follow-up set of raids is being planned. These are based on intelligence gathered during the last set. All this falsified data is, is a desperate act of scared and cornered lawbreakers trying to confuse you, and turn you against the only people who've been consistently on your side and risking themselves for your best interests! We all have our own specialties…" In the heat of the argument, Davison went off script. "Jerry's is pizza, yours Jones is machining, mine is city management, and the law enforcement community's is just that, enforcing the law. Speculation and uninformed opinions that grow into full-blown conspiracy theories far outside our respective spheres is unhelpful, counterproductive, and should cease immediately. I mean, I wouldn't tell Jerry how he should bake a pizza, would I?"

"Hey Davison!" Jerry hollered so everyone could hear. "I may not be a doctor, just a dumb pizza maker, but may I suggest to you a diet rich in bagged dicks?!"

. . .

"Yeah, I got a comment for yah!" Someone had actually answered Aldrich's closing remark of 'questions, comments, or concerns'. He'd hoped to toss it off and be rid of the conference. "GET BENT!" A glass bottle was hurled from somewhere in the crowd, missing Aldrich just closely enough he read 'Boylan Black Cherry: Made with Real Cane Sugar' on the label as it spun past his head and shattered on the wall. It was well past time to leave. The conference had failed.

. . .

Vanderlip, Davison, and their staff, retreated once again into Osceola Mills City Hall, but this time rocks, bottles and furious words followed them up the steps.

"Davision, respectfully…that was a mistake." Rogers was the only one brave enough to say it; even as a brick sailed through the office window. "Vanderlip, we've fucked up."

"No…" Vanderlip looked capable of murder, Davison appeared to have already committed several in his mind. "After the cops are through, they'll be sorry."

. . .

Haruko had waited until two in the morning before slipping out of bed. Every move in the house made a creak, crack, groan, or tweak of something, but the Nandaba men snored on. From the covers she took the tube, and her lunchbox into the kitchen, the rest of the parts. She had three hours before Shigekuni woke up, and four and a half until Naota did. She went to the back porch, fighting the urge to shiver in the dead of night chill. The lunchbox was upended on the table and the parts sorted like puzzle pieces. Three hours to figure out just what those Carsons were up to…no problem.

"Drinking fountain parts, my ass…" She muttered, fitting the first pins into place. "Where there's funky smells, there's bullshit. I checked, there is no company in Scranton that makes fountain parts. Steel knuckles, a private runway, now this? What have you had me building this week? We'll see…"

. . .

Friday morning dawned as uneasy as everyone under the sun. For reasons known only to his sixth sense, which was screaming at him in his inner ear, Naota was a ball of anxiety. Even Gus, Bolt, Sam, and Piddles: The Wonder Dog, stalked the Carson property with teeth bared and tails at Danger indication. Conversations were brisk and to the point. The weather couldn't make up its mind, hovering between darkness and sunny, the high pressure weighing on everyone. The day passed uneventfully, work was the same as it had always been. Just an average, regular day where nothing in the small town happened. Perfectly normal, perfectly ordinary. Naota had finally gotten his wish, and he was hating every minute of it.

. . .

The phone was ringing. Naota answered it.

"G&R Fabrication and Cranes, this is Naota. How can I help you?"

"N…Naota, who?!" I recognized the voice from across the shop as it shouted through the earpiece. "There's no Naota that works at G&R! Get off the phone kiddo, this's an important call!"

"I'm sorry sir, but this is G&R, and I do very much work here. Could you hold on for…oh Rig. Here, take this will you?"

"Sure Nao'. Lemme deal with this one. Hello, this is Jeff Carson, how can I help you today?"

"Ah, there we go!" Yep, definitely recognize this voice. "Rig, it's Shifty, I'm back planetside."

"It took you long enough. Did you get lost or something? You were due in two weeks ago; George isn't going to be happy when you get in."

"Well! I never!"

"Shifty, you'd lose a game of 'Never Have I Ever' on the first go 'round. Where have you been anyway?"

"Have you heard about you-know-what taking over the Sargon System? They were supposed to be my flight change, so I was rerouted midflight. And it's not like I had any say in the matter, suspended animation and all that y'know."

"You'll have to convince George of that, he's the one you'll answer to."

"Not your Dad? Why's George running things?"

"Oh. Right. You've been on vacation. Shifty…my Dad is…"

"Oh no, he's…I'm sorry Jeff; I really am. Your Dad, he was like a brother to me."

"I know."

"…Well, I'm borrowing the train's phone, should be in Altoona soon. Can someone come down and pick me up?"

"I'll come down and meet you. I'll bring the new guy along, provided you've been checking your messages since you've gotten back?"

"Wait…is the new guy that Naota kid that answered the phone?"

"The same."

"Well, stick a tail to my butt and call me a Jackass. Can't believe I started the call like that, been away from civilization too long. Okay, I'll be discrete. Bring the new guy along, lemme have a look at him. I…hang on Jeff." Someone was butting in and demanded use of the train's phone. "And a good-after-fuck-you-too-noon to you too! I paid my quarters so get in line! Sorry, what?"

"You said Altoona Station?"

"Yep! I forwarded some of my effects, should be in their safe. Check soon's you get there, okay?"

"Will do. See you at…?"

"It's two now, so three hours."

"Today's been slow. We'll see you there. Try not to get thrown off the train meanwhile, eh?"

"No promises. See you at five." Shifty killed the call. Two weeks late, but no fault of his own. Well, at least that was his version. I only knew him as Shifty Shaufner, so you do the math. But there was no one else we at G&R wanted around more with a Man in Black on the prowl than him.

"Hey Naota! You're with me, we're going on a field trip."

. . .

Naota had been to Altoona several times to meet up with Tasuku and watch him play for the Altoona Curve. This would be the first time for a work related function. Rig explained Shifty had been on vacation, having cashed in five years' worth of unused off days.

"So what did he do on his six months off?" Naota asked as they waited in the train station. "I don't know what I'd do with that kind of free time. Probably die of boredom after two weeks."

"He went on a safari." Rig answered, looking up and down the tracks. The train was due any moment.

"Safari? That sounds dangerous, exciting though. Did he get anything?"

"You'll have to ask him when he gets here. He was out where they don't have any communications. The phone call today was the first time we heard from him since he left." A train rounded the corner and pulled into the station, spilling its human cargo onto the platform. Not knowing who to look for, Naota scanned from someone who looked like they lived off gas station coffee and unfiltered Camels. At the last car, he spotted him.

Shifty Shaufner was middle-aged, tall, lanky and rail thin. A Sam Elliot mustache covered his upper lip, a week's worth of stubble roughed his face and neck, and hair in danger of becoming a mullet, all iron grey, spilled out from under a green hat. Behind precariously perched glasses, a narrowed set of grey eyes made him look…well…shifty. The yellow lettering of G&R Fabrication and Cranes on his hat sealed his identity.

"Hey-hey, ho-ho, whaddyah know! It's Jeff Carson, and you must be the Notorious Naota." Shifty shook both their hands with shoulder wrenching enthusiasm. Digging a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket, he asked if they minded. "Don't let you smoke on trains these days. Oh…ffff…foooo…did you check with the front desk?"

"I did, they have your stuff." Rig said and they went to the station's ticket desk. They were holding for Shifty two long cases, and two small ones the size of laptops. Shifty had a third laptop sized case he had carried from the train in addition to the duffel on his shoulder. As they carried them to Rig's truck, Naota noticed a pattern of dimpled scars on the crook of Shifty's elbows. They appeared to be a series of injection points gathered over a lifetime.

"It's not heroin." Shifty had caught Naota staring. "It's my medication. I've been taking it since, well, since when I was 'bout your age."

"S-sorry! I didn't mean to stare."

"Don't worry about it, lots of people make the same assumption." Shifty smiled and they got in the truck. Naota also noticed Shifty held onto one case, the laptop sized one he'd carried off the train. Whatever was in it, was important enough he didn't let go of it even once.

'Must be his medication.' Naota concluded. 'Wonder what his condition is? Aside from his smoking, he doesn't look too unhealthy…oh well. None of my business.'

"So how was the safari?"

"Hmmm?" Shifty had taken shotgun and turned around. "Safari?"

"Yeah, Rig said you were on a hunting trip?"

"Oh, yeah! Sorry, brain's a little tired. Not so much's a safari, those are guided with special rules and such. I just went off by myself and adventured around, hunting in the meantime."

"Did you get anything?"

"I did, but it's illegal to bring any of it back. Something about invasive species and exotic diseases. Took plenty of pictures though, I'll have to show 'em to yah sometime."

"Have you gotten any news of what's been going on at home?" Rig changed the subject to current events. Shifty said he, on purpose, had not. What was the point of vacation if the life you were getting away from followed you? For most of the ride back, Naota and Rig filled him in on everything that had transpired in the past six months; from Medical Mechanica and their encounters with Craig and Clyde, down to the local gossip and daily running of G&R.

"Things sound a lot like that old Chinese curse: May you live in interesting times. Robots, aliens taking over Roman's, another alien working at G&R, a kid with a wormhole in his head…fff…foooo…" Shifty took the information dump well. "You sure I'm in the right dimension, this's the same alternative universe I left; right?"

"If I can guess your favorite joke, would that help?" Rig offered.

"Worth a shot, sure."

"What is the difference between a Genealogist, and a Gynecologist?"

"Dunno. What?" Shifty already seemed to know the answer, grinning like a loon.

"A Genealogist looks up your family tree, while a Gynecologist looks up your family bush."

"HAHAHA! Yep, I'm in the right place. You got any good jokes in yah, Naota?"

"Uh…sure, I got a few that're okay. Let's see…What is the process of applying for a waitressing job at Hooters?"

"No idea. What?"

"They had you a bra and say: Here, fill this out."

"Heh-heh-heh, clever! Y'see Naota, I like a good joke or story, and for them to be well told. That's why I'm often forced to tell them myself."

"Isn't that like talking to yourself because that's the only way you can get an expert opinion? Rig does that ALL the time."

"I'm glad you work for G&R." Shifty gave a fond smile and flicked a cigarette butt out the window. "Good call hiring him Rig, you picked a good one. Hey, I've got one."

"Go for it."

"What goes in hard and dry, and comes out soft and wet?"

"Uh…uhmmm, it's a…a, uh…"

"It's chewing gum, Nao'." Rig grinned in the rearview mirror. "What did you think it was?"

"I didn't have a guess."

"Sure, sure…" Shifty saw through him. "Got another joke at least?"

"Let me think. What three words will ruin a man's ego?"

"I think I know this one…not from, y'know, personal experience or anything…what?"

"Is it in?"

"Yep…that'll do it alright. But, do you know the reply that'll destroy her ego right back?"

"No."

"The words to destroy her ego: I can't tell."

"Ouch, that's harsh."

"I'd like to join this table." Rig jumped in. "What's the speed limit of sex?"

"What is it? Do tell."

"Sixty-eight. At sixty-nine, you have to turn around."

"Ah, another clever one." Shifty praised. "Okay, what's the perverted frog say?"

"I got nothin'. What?"

"Rubbit, rubbit, rubbit…" The truck filled with laughter. Shifty was alright.

. . .

Back home, I sent Naota back to cranking out parts with Haruko. Mike and Josh were still having the time of their lives. Using Canti's botnet they crashed the city websites of Philipsburg and Osceola Mills, then took over while the sites were down, and were redirecting anyone who clicked on the link to the 12-hour version of Eduard Khil's 'I am so very glad as I'm finally returning back home.'

"It's good to have you back Shifty." George said as he, Tommy, and I, fleshed out the conversation during the drive up from Altoona.

"Uh-huh, and it's good to be back. I wish it were under a better moon, with M-M and the Kauffman's, cops and all. And you said a Man in Black?"

"That's right. Monsieur Chartier actually managed to get a picture of one." I said and Tommy handed over the security camera's photo. Shifty took it, saying nothing as he studied the figure captured to film. "We haven't actually seen or encountered him ourselves…"

"But if half of what you've told me is true, his handiwork is everywhere." Shifty adjusted his bifocals for a better look. "I don't see anything out of the ordinary about this one. Standard appearance, body type, uniform is standard for a humanoid type species similar to ours. He doesn't seem to have any obvious cybernetics or augmentations, not that he'd need them. That attaché case is their Mandrake Mechanism, so there's no telling what's in it."

"So, overall, that's good, right?"

"It's not bad…but still our number one threat." Shifty handed the photo back. "Have you had a chance to test these two robots you acquired? They could be useful against something like him."

"No, not yet." Tommy said. "Johnny, Josh, and Mike just got 'em fully working this week. We'll be testing over the weekend."

"We'll have to use every resource we can get. I've been at this since Rig's grandad hired me in '75, and Men in Black only have gotten smarter since then. The only reason I've lasted this long as I have are these; my little friends." Shifty patted the case on his lap. He'd been carrying it like the handle was grafted to his skin. I wouldn't have been surprised to see him with it handcuffed to his wrist.

"Shifty…I know I have no business asking…" I'd never had a chance to actually see Shifty use his case's contents, or even really knew what was inside it. "But, would it be okay if…"

"Lock the door, close the blinds, take the battery and SIM card out of your phones, disconnect the phone, computer from the internet, and unplug anything with electric current." He ordered and we hastened to obey. Shifty held the case to eye level and pressed one of several buttons around the handle. A small panel slid back and he pressed his left, then right eye to it so the case could scan his retinas. A small voice then stated: "User identified as: Master Sergeant David Shauffner. Please authenticate."

"I, Master Sergeant David Shauffner, do authenticate. Ascension. Seven. Fifteen. One. Two. Nineteen. Seven. Twenty five. Six. Thirteen. Six. Seven. Fifteen. Fourteen. Zero." Shifty gave one of dozens identifying placeholder words, followed by a fourteen number string. Not only was the computer inside listening for the placeholder and numbers, of which there was a rotating list Shifty had committed to memory after inputting them in himself when he first received the case, but it was also listening to his voice pattern for compatibility. Satisfied, the internal locks opened and the case's lid swung up. The darkened office now shone in a blue hue, radiating from the case and shining off Shifty and George's glasses.

"Okay Rig, come here." I approached as Shifty withdrew a Vial. "Be very, very, VERY careful with this. It's worth half this planet's GDP."

"I will. I have it." A Vial is six inches long and two across, made of thick glass and protected and reinforced by a metal frame around it, and a metal cap at each end. One end has a screw off piece covering a rubber seal Shifty would pierce with a syringe. Two things surprised me about holding a Vial. First was how heavy it was for its size, easily ten pounds. Second was it was warm. Like, your jeans just out of the dryer warm. Within his case, Shifty had a total of five, including the one in my hand. He was carrying trillions of dollars' worth of technology, engineering and research.

"Why does it glow blue, and why is it warm?"

"Because what you are holding is a zero point zero, zero, zero, one percent solution of pure N.O. energy."

"I'm…WHAT?" Now I felt the weight had tripled and wondered if we should have called the Bomb Squad to have them on standby.

"A zero point zero, zero, zero, one percent solution of pure N.O. energy." He repeated. "The blue is the balance of all the stabilizers and binders to keep that Vial from exploding and containing all the N.O. particles. It's warm and glows for the same reason anything radioactive glows and is warm, it's giving off low-level energy in the form of light and heat. And it's heavy because while N.O. particles are almost infinitely small, they're almost infinitely dense; blue, glowing, near-black holes I think was how it was explained to me back in the day."

"And you put this in your arm?"

"It's taken forty years of building up a tolerance, and the first ten years I could hardly use any of its effects; I was only focused on it not killing me. But yes, right in the arm." Shifty took the Vial back, replaced it, and closed the case. "But remember: if you're a Human, taking a Vial is the only way to stand a chance of killing a Man in Black."

. . .

Friday morning Cole reported into the station as usual. Activity was flurried, officers, staff, and Patrolmen in grim preparations. But it was disconcerting how, after congratulating him on his takedown of the Dryphus House and other raids, Cole couldn't get a square look from anyone. If felt as if everyone was avoiding his gaze. What was it? Was there a rumor, had something happened? The prickle of paranoia crawling up his back, Cole headed for Chojnacki's office. Just as he was entering, The Man in Black was leaving; along with the department's lieutenants. All of them but The Man scurried off upon seeing Cole.

"…Just between us Captain, of course. Ah! Patrolman Kauffman! Fresh to face the day I see."

"Good morning, Sir. Are we having a meeting, what with how the Mayor's statements were received?"

"Unfortunate as that was…" The Man consulted his pocketwatch. "We are not. I have an appointment that has just come up, so I must be on my way. Excuse me." The Man snapped his watch closed, tipped his hat to Cole, and departed.

"Captain, is there something going on I should know about?" Cole stood before Chojnacki's desk.

"Nothing out of the ordinary, certainly nothing I can imagine…" Chojnacki's frown at least appeared genuine. "Why? Have you heard, seen anything?"

"Nothing of worry." He knew Chojnacki wouldn't come outright and say it, so he'd play along; for now. "Everyone this morning just seems…tense. They seem to know, or at least suspect, something is coming. Now maybe it's the full night's sleep, but I seem to be the only one here, aside from Our Friend, who is relaxed."

"That's why we keep you around." Now Chojnacki's smile was too wide for Cole's liking. "Completely unfazed under pressure."

"What pressure is there this morning though?"

"OH! Sunovabitch, I forgot!" Chojnacki clapped himself upside the head. "Everyone you're seeing is the night shift that haven't gone home yet. Strong, Warburg, Sarabyn, The Man, and I had a meeting this morning. Our timeline has been bumped up."

"Up to when?"

"Tonight. Well, technically tomorrow morning. Oh-four-hundred. I'll explain it all during the briefing." So, they had been holding meetings with The Man and just happened to not include him?! The first person The Man had contacted?! Did that not count for anything? And now he was only learning about a timeline change second hand, and only after the fact. "Cole? Cole? Patrolman!"

"Sir?"

"There you are. You slept too hard, your head's still on the pillow. I was saying, as a forewarning, I am pulling you off your assault stack. You won't be kicking down the door, but will be calling the shots. Congratula…"

"What?! You're pulling me OFF, me…OFF MY assault stack? Perchance, why Captain? Am I stealing too much of your spotlight, is that it?"

"W…what? Cole, are you feeling okay? Maybe you'd better see the corpsman…"

"So you, Strong, Warburg, Sarabyn, and The Man can have your little knitting circle while the doc's shining lights in my eyes?"

"Jesus Blistering Christ, did Dryphus shoot your too?! If you'd untwist your panties for ten seconds…" Chojnacki's patience reservoir read 'Empty' and he too was standing. "You'd realize I'm trying to promote you!"

"…Promote me?" Cole's whirlwind of potential plots screeched to a halt. "To?"

"Sergeant. We want you to head up the entire operation tonight and see how you handle it."

"The entire, you mean…?"

"All assault stacks, all task forces, would be at your command. You did well the other night. This is your chance to step up. Everyone will be watching."

It sounded too good to be true. The little voice in Cole's head told him so. No one jumps from Patrolman, over Corporal, straight to Sergeant and in control of a small army, after one night of successful raids. The wounding of Officer Roosevelt also nagged at him as another detracting reason; not because he felt any sorrow for the man. A man under his command was expiring in the hospital, he had no experience with an operation this large, and only a few hours to prepare, and they were seeing fit to promote him? As tempting as it was to be elated, Cole instead perceived the framework of him being set up to fail.

"We have everything planned out, that's why we wrote the Script up, and the List too, months ago. All you have to do is execute. We've done the boring work." While that helped slightly, there was another detail burning a hole in Cole's brain.

"There's one thing that still sticks out at me. It's…" Chojnacki's phone rang.

"Chojnacki. Yes, Didion, what did you find? You did? Interesting…very interesting. Okay, we'll incorporate that into our plan. Keep at it, don't leave anything to chance. Call me as soon as anything comes up. Thank you."

"What did he find?"

"One of the IP addresses from the attack yesterday came from the neighborhood of some of your favorite people: the Carsons. There are still dozens to track and pin down, but Didion is sure of this one. Were they the other thing that sticks out?"

"Is it that obvious?" Many a rage-red dream had been had of burning that rough shingled house to the ground, cutting every piece of metal, plate, vehicles and otherwise, up for scrap, grinding the shop's concrete foundation to aggregate, and then salting the entire property so not even scrub brush would grow; all with him leading valiantly from the front, first to kick down and rush through the door. Now it looked like he was instead going to be stuck in the tractor-trailer towed forward mobile command center.

"We don't always get exactly what we want. But this's certainly the next-best thing, wouldn't you say?"

"…Yes, I would. Thank you for the opportunity Captain, I am without words to describe how grateful I feel. I will not disappoint you."

"You are welcome. And don't be shy about feeling proud; you've earned it." After shaking Cole's hand, Chojnacki returned to his seat. "Now, we'll have a preliminary briefing in an hour, in the gym. It's the only place with enough space. Jays and Rahm should be there now, they'll get you up to speed."

"Thank you again Sir. I'll head over right away." Cole left the office furious. He'd mapped out his climb in his head, rung by rung. Simply being sling-shotted forward, without first a campaign of stunning raids, busts and operations to solidify a foundation of prestige and his own cult of personality, to have everyone stand in awe of his conquests, a veteran with a chest of service medals. Not someone who stumbled into their position. Cole had wanted the entire package deal, and all the extras, amenities, options and perks available. Now he was being stuck in the geek shack, a trailer that reeked of sweat and mediocrity. And he would have to sit out the one single raid he had been dreaming of his entire life. This was beyond unacceptable. There was no way he would take this insult lying down. Chojnacki would pay for ruining everything.

. . .


Power politics I find fascinating to talk about, but I'm slow to grasp them fully, (ask anyone who's had to explain for me the politics behind Black Lagoon's Roberta's Blood Trail Arc. I loved it...didn't understand much of it...but damn it looked cool) and don't feel they're my strongest writing point. Then again, I don't have as much experience in writing them. I'd really appreciate it if you could throw any pointers my way in that regard. Writing shootouts, chases, aerial dogfights, and paragraphs pro and conning roller-delayed blowback versus gas stroke pistons is all very well and good...but I would like to add to my toolkit. Now, with that out of the way...

Not a TON of excitement in this one, but some important details I think we either filled in or are at least are on somewhat better standing. I'm sorry there wasn't any sight of The Head or anyone from Medical Mechanica besides The Man. I haven't forgotten they exist, don't worry.

We did meet another character, mentioned in the way-way back: David 'Shifty' Shaufner. In the original version of this story, to say his character was atrocious is being kind. I folded that character up, put it in the very far back corner of the attic, and am doing my best to forget it even existed. This new version still has the same role in Overwatch, but fleshed out much better this time. I'm very confident of this second iteration.

I know it's a lot to throw out after a few months of silence, but y'all can't miss me if I never leave. Thank you again for reading, do please let me know how politics sections turn out or can be improved, and I'll see you next time!