AN: I have no excuse. Except that school has been keeping me busy, and that I've been trying to prioritize. Never fear, for even if I have to set this story aside for a time, rest assured that I *will* finish it. I'm having too much fun with it. :) Good news is, this chapter was supposed to be a LOT longer, until I realized it getting *too* long. My chapters have been getting progressively longer, true, but this was getting ridiculous. What this means is, chapter 11 is already partially written and the rest outlined in detail, so you won't have to wait nearly as long. :D
On an unrelated note, I want to give a shout out to Lasgalendil (say that five times fast ^_^), for her long and insightful reviews. She's a writer as well, and while she's not of the Transformers fandom (mores the pity), she writes some wonderful poetry and one shots for "Pirates of the Caribbean" and "Lord of the Rings." But she's severely under-appreciated, so if any of you guys also like those fandoms, I highly recommend you check her stuff out if you're in the mood for a quick but satisfying read. Not to mention, if you review for her, she'll probably return the favor and review for you. :) We'll convert her to Transformers yet! *laughs*
But enough about me…on with the story!
Disclaimer: If I owned Transformers, characters like Elita would have gotten the love and attention they deserve.
Ch. 10 – Before the Dawn
*12:37 am, Undisclosed Location*
Sometimes, Simmons wondered what it would be like to have a normal job, with regular hours that didn't change from day to day and let him go home after eight or twelve hours on duty. He fantasized about being able to have a leisurely morning over a newspaper and a cup of coffee because his day always began at the same time every day, of knowing that he'd always (well, at least mostly) have actual weekends to do what he wanted, and be able to leave his work at work after five.
Granted, he could have gone home hours ago, but in a situation like this where updates were sporadic at best, going home would have meant risking missing vital info as soon as it came in, or the dramatic change of events that could happen in a blink. Getting a call after the fact, no matter how timely, just wasn't the same. Not to mention it wasted precious time it would've taken for Simmons to dress and get back to HQ. Say what you want about the man, but Simmons prided himself in being able to stay in the loop, if not a step or two ahead of the game. It's why he stayed on and took the sideways move, even if it meant the occasional all-nighter and a peanut paycheck.
Suffice to say, those moments where he couldn't help but wonder the "what if's" tended to be few and far between. When they did, it was usually at an unholy hour (like any time after midnight), after a stomach churning dinner/snack (like the pizza of questionable origin and content), in the middle of reading over a dozen different reports from a dozen different agents and subordinates and all told the same story (like "we don't have a clue what's going on now either"), until his eyes were so buzzed he had to read over the same paragraph three times just to get what it was saying.
Sometimes, he really hated his job.
There was a knock on the office door, and Simmons was briefly torn between annoyance – because the hour and work demanded grumpiness – and wanting to sing 'Hallelujah' at the promise of a break.
And as soon as I think that, Duane's gonna come in and tell me that NBE-D-6, aka "Onslaught", is currently terrorizing Toronto. he thought sarcastically. Aloud he said "Come in," as he closed the folder he'd been reading.
The door opened to reveal Grit, yet another border-line workaholic of the RDA. She could have gone home a long time too, and if her husband hadn't been in Germany on a business trip, she probably would have. In her hands she held a stack of paper, and Simmons could instantly guess what it was.
"The transcript of your interview with the witness, I take it?"
A nod as she passed it to him over his cluttered desk. "Sir, wouldn't it have been easier to just have the transcript e-mailed?"
Simmons flashed to the hundred or so neglected e-mails in his inbox. "Easier? Sure, so long as I don't have to read it sometime in the next three months."
The older man looked over the front page of the summery before dropping the packet on the unofficial but disturbingly high 'to do/read later' pile. "How 'bout you give me the gist of it?"
"Sir?"
"The gist, the nutshell, key points, impressions, and all that."
Grit looked at Simmons a bit uncertainly. "With all due respect, isn't that why you had me write the summery?"
"Yep, but I don't feel like reading it. I'd rather have you sum it up yourself so long as you're here."
The corner of Grits eye twitched, and Simmons had to repress a smirk. If there was one thing Grit hated with every fiber of her being, it was wasting even a minute of her time on pointless and/or useless tasks and busy works. She only had to write a one page summary, but Simmons had already been hearing stories about their witness, and he wasn't going to be winning any prizes for congeniality. That 'simple' summery was coming out of a one and a half hour interview that should have only taken fifteen minutes tops, trying to glean every piece of relevant information from a man who didn't want to give it, combing through the transcript for details and unspoken truths. The whole endeavor was probably difficult, time consuming, migraine inducing – and now, completely unnecessary. Grit had never been so close to throttling her own boss.
Take a number kid, Simmons thought humorously.
Fortunately for him, Grit decided that extreme frustration didn't warrant homicide just yet, and instead took a seat before his desk with an air of resignation.
"The witness continues to say the NBE he met was hostile and aggressive, destroying his home and taking his children with no provocation and giving no reason. Physically, he described the NBE as being red and silver with blue eyes, and a 'spiky head'." Grit demonstrated to him, as the witness probably had to her, by placing her wrists at her ears and fanning her fingers out and a little back, keeping her thumbs folded in. It looked a little like fins, or maybe wings.
Or antlers. But Simmons was pretty sure that wasn't the intended effect.
"From what the Autobots have given us, our witness's NBE fits the physical specs of NBE-A-6, but with a psychological profile better matching NBE-D-6," Simmons said, lacing his hands behind his head and leaning back. "Going on a limb here, but I'm pretty sure the bad guy didn't suddenly become a master of disguise."
"Not to mention there wouldn't be much point, even if he was," Grit agreed. She was about to say more, but hesitated. Simmons raised a brow.
"Grit, if you're going to say something, spit it out already. I hate suspense."
Grit sucked her lips against her teeth, a tic she had when her nerves were slowly being grated on. But, she did as she was told.
"The witness has been lying to us from the start. That much became obvious once we had the Autobots story and profiles to compare with."
"You're right that someone's lying here." Simmons conceded. "What makes you so sure it's the witness?"
Grit started and stared at Simmons like a foot just sprouted out of his head. "What?"
"Not that I can really fault you for thinking that," Simmons went on as if unaware of Grit's reaction. "Let's face it: our job boils down to covering for the NBE's who don't want to blow us to kingdom come. We're paid to take their side…kinda like lawyers, only with peanut pay," he added thoughtfully.
"That's not it!" Grit sputtered indignantly. "That has nothing to do with it!"
"Oh?" Simmons asked innocently. "So why are you so sure the witness is the liar here?"
Grit stared back for a few seconds before averting her eyes, hesitating again.
Simmons rolled his own eyes. Discipline and respect for authority was all well and good – and Lord knew Simmons was more than happy to have some – but you could always have too much of a good thing.
Simmons lowered his arms as he released a long suffering sigh. "Alright Grit, permission to speak freely, candidly, cross my heart and hope to die; what are your real impressions of the guy?"
Grit resisted a few seconds longer, her real thoughts battling against the dam of training, sense, and suspicion that this was an elaborate test.
The dam lasted a good three seconds.
"Richard O'Connell is an egotistical, closed minded misogynist with his head so far up his own ass nothing short of dynamite and a crowbar is going to get him out again – and he LIKES it there!"
NOW we're getting somewhere, Simmons thought in self-satisfaction. This was why Simmons liked hearing it straight from the horse's mouth instead of reading it in a dull summary – no one here ever recorded the best stuff.
"Pretty strong opinion there Grit," he commented lightly. "You sure you're being fair to the guy?"
Grit gave her boss a flat look. Without breaking eye contact, she reached over with her right hand to pick up the transcript from where Simmons had dropped it, and reached over with her left to grab a red pen from the pencil holder. She brought both back to her lap, and with a flick of the wrist flipped the packet to the third page. She dropped her gaze (to Simmons slight relief, because it was getting unnerving – didn't she need to blink?) and quickly circled a couple of passages. She repeated this process over the next several pages. When she was done, she silently handed the transcript back to Simmons, the flat expression never wavering.
Curious, he took it from her and read the first circled section:
O'CONNELL: Look, I give you props for trying, but you're trying to play ball in the big boy's court, and I'd really hate to see such a pretty girl get her feelings hurt because she can't keep up. So you yourself a favor, and stop trying to over reach so much. While you're at it, send in one of the real agents already."
Simmons brow shot up. "Is this guy for real?"
"The worst part is, that was when he was trying to be nice." Grit said. "Unfortunately, most of the interview went like that. I was in there for almost ninety minutes, and getting anything useful out of him was like pulling teeth from a pissed-off Rottweiler."
Simmons flipped over to the other sections Grit had marked. She wasn't exaggerating. It was like the witness was going through stages: 1) try to be nice to get his way, 2) getting more belligerent and trying to push Grit into doing what he wanted, and 3) outright telling her what she ought to do, never mind he was in no position to order anything.
"What about the incentives? Did you mention that?" he asked.
Contrary to pop culture and popular belief, the government couldn't actually make innocent people disappear or discredit them so fully their lives are ruined all willy-nilly, just for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Even Sector Seven, which didn't exist and therefore had a great deal more free range, had been reluctant to employ such methods except under absolute necessity. Moral issues aside, it was just plain easier and overall more reliable to get consensual silence. Hence, the creation of the incentives.
The incentives were a little trick Sector Seven had employed with certain witnesses, and had been carried over to the Division. They called it "Really Really Good or Really Really Bad," and it was exactly what it sounded like. Well, actually, it had a more official name, but it wasn't as descriptive or fun to say and Simmons could never remember it anyway.
Take the college kids with the video. The picked Really Really Good, and now they were going to be graduating with no debts whatsoever, a nice nest egg to get them started, and opportunities at internships other students would have to jump through 14 hoops just to have a fighting chance at. They'd even pay for graduate school if any of them so desired. He was pretty sure the mousy girl had decided right then and there to go to medical school because of this.
But, if any of them ever breathed a word of what they saw, and by default, chose Really Really Bad…
"I mentioned it about halfway through," Grit was saying, and she could not hide the hint of distaste. Simmons looked up at her over the top of the packet.
"Didn't work?"
"Not exactly…"
"If you cooperate with us, and sign a non-disclosure saying you will never breathe a word of what you have seen and what you have experienced to another living soul, you will be compensated for your time and assistance."
O'Connell leveled Grit a look. "What kind of compensation?"
"Off the bat, we'll take care of all reparations to your house and property, and reimburse you for any pay lost," Grit said. "Beyond that, it is not my position to promise."
"You've done this before, right? To get people to keep quiet. What's a ball park figure of what I'll get?"
Grit didn't even blink. "Three times your current annual salary."
She did not react, but Grit was secretly pleased to see the utterly bug-eyed look O'Connell gave her.
The look passed, and he narrowed his eyes thoughtfully
"My kids are witnesses too, and they have a hell of a lot more to say. Do they get the same deal?"
"Since you're son is turning eighteen in a few weeks, he'll probably be offered a scholarship to the school of his choice. Beyond that, I can't promise anything. As for your daughter, I honestly can't say. We've never had a witness as young as her before. She'll probably get a trust in her name that she'll be able to collect when she turns eighteen herself."
O'Connell gave Grit an odd look. "That much money to a couple of kids who don't even get an allowance? That's not an incentive, that's coercion."
"Call it what you want. So long as everyone gets their due, does it really matter?"
"No, I guess not," he conceded. "But can't you just put my daughter's money in an account in my name so I can invest it for her?"
"That's not for me to say."Grit said smoothly. But, she didn't believe for a second that, if this man had access to the girls Incentive money, he'd only invest it and keep it safe for her. Heck, she doubted the poor girl would ever see a dime of it, if this man was put in charge of it. "In any case, all we ask in return is your full cooperation now and your silence afterwards."
"Why didn't you mention the incentive thing in the first place?"
Grit felt a little uncomfortable here. As much of a jerk O'Connell had been to her, he was still a parent. "A few times before, we have had witnesses who have had loved ones in…compromising positions," she hedged. "When we offered the Incentive up front, they got extremely upset and offended. They thought we were more concerned with buying them off that assuring the safety and well being of their loved one, or that we were so heartless that we thought we'd need to incite them to help. We will do everything in our power to bring your children back safely and quickly. This is just for the fallout."
"Does he know about the video?" Simmons asked.
Grit shook her head. "He didn't need to know. He also doesn't know about the other NBE's, or that the reason I was speaking to him at all was because of discrepancies in his account."
"Good call."
O'Connell leaned forward, elbows on the table separating the man from the agent, and he looked at her square in the eye in all seriousness. Grit leaned forward a little too, thinking that, maybe, finally, he was going to start being more forthcoming.
"You're right; Nolan's almost a legal adult. But he still has the rest of his senior year, and he'll be living in my house during that time. Plus, Aine's just a little girl, and you know how girls like to talk. I'd be sure to keep an eye on her, but she's got another four years before she's on her own. That's a long time to be vigilant. But, for a little extra, I could be extra vigilant, make sure she keeps quiet for you guys."
Grit reared back slightly as shock flitted across her face. "Are you honestly trying to blackmail the US government?"
"Of course not," O'Connell said, waving off Grits concern. "But it's a reality. Girls have a harder time keeping secrets. If they didn't, they wouldn't be so infamous for being gossipers."
"And your daughter is a gossip?"
"She's a fourteen year old girl. If she isn't yet, she's going to be soon. With a little extra money, I could keep her close at hand, make sure she never spills, even take extra precautions maybe."
O'Connell grinned. "Of course, this all depends on how much this secrecy is worth to you guys. It's not like your bosses are going to lock up a little girl for a little slip."
"Correct me if I'm wrong, but as far as this guy knows, his kids are still being held by a dangerous, unknown creature."
"Yes."
"We haven't told him about where we think they are, who they're with, what's going on, or even if we know if they're still alive."
"Well, I've been optimistic about finding them safe when I speak of him, but I haven't given him anything concrete."
"But in spite of all that, the guy still tries to spin this to his financial advantage, even if it means delaying important information that, as far as he's been lead to believe, could help his kids?"
"That's right."
"You're kidding."
"Page twelve, third paragraph."
Flip, flip, flip. "…Damn."
Grit leaned forward against the table and matched O'Connell's brown eyes with her own icy blue ones.
"I cannot promise an exact number for the Incentive, but I can tell you that it is more than generous and non-negotiable. If you don't like it, there are alternatives."
O'Connell snorted. "You're not scaring me, Ms. USA. What're you going to do, bat your eyes and say 'pretty please?' You can't do anything to me, I've got rights."
"Not in this building you don't."
O'Connell stared at her for a few seconds as it sunk in. He looked torn between anger and a little fear. "Are you threatening me?" he said, trying to make it a growl.
Grit allowed a small smirk. "That would be unethical. I am merely giving you…advance warning of what could happen if you 'encouraged' your daughter to 'speak too freely' of her experiences these last few days."
"You'd lock up a little kid in this place?" O'Connell exclaimed in disbelief.
Okay, seriously, enough with the 'little kid' thing, Grit thought irritably. She's fourteen years old, for goodness sakes!
"Of course not," Grit soothed. "She's a minor. The full fault wouldn't lie with her."
Grit stressed the last two words as she looked hard at O'Connell. The older man's eyes lit up as he finally understood that, not only was the risk too great if he tried to pursue this, but that he could not pass off all the risk and still reap all the reward.
"Wish I could've seen the look on his face," Simmons chuckled.
"It was pretty good." Girt admitted with a little grin. She sobered quickly. "After that, he was a lot more cooperative. Not very useful in the end, but cooperative.
"His story was mostly the same, but he said he remembered more details. Suddenly this NBE is a lot bigger, a lot scarier, and more creative in its threats."
"Embellishment?"
"Most likely. As for the kidnapping itself, he still attests that they were sitting to dinner when the NBE's hand smashed through the glass door and grabbed him. Once he was securely on the roof it took the kids screaming and threatened to kill O'Connell if he tried to tell 'his government or military forces,' and ran off into the woods with kids in hand."
"Nothing about the blood we found by the stairs?"
"He never brought it up himself, no. I had to ask him about it myself. For a split second he looked like a deer in the headlight, as if he had been caught red handed doing something. I'm certain he knew what I was talking about, but didn't want to talk about it.
"At first, he insisted he had no idea what I was talking about. When I told him the blood wasn't much more than an hour old, and thus corresponded perfectly with the time that he alleged the attack happened, he suddenly remembered that the girl had been knocked down by the NBE when it grabbed him. When I told him the blood was by the stairs, he changed it *again* and said the girl had tried to run and hide, and the NBE must've hurt her when she tried to hide by the stairs."
"So suddenly the NBE has extending arms that can stretch over the twenty feet from the patio door to the stairs?" Simmons muttered.
"O'Connell never gave a satisfactory answer for the blood by the stairs." Grit said.
True, it had only been a few drops, hardly enough to indicate life threatening injuries, but at a crime scene there was no such thing as an irrelevant detail. Especially if the crime scene involved an NBE that never bothered to phone into say "Hey, guess what: I'm one of the good guys!"
"Whatever you're beliefs about that are, unless you get testimony or hard evidence to back you up, all you've got are assumptions," Simmons warned. "Besides, the O'Connell family dynamics have nothing to do with us or our case."
Grit straightened marginally. "Sir, I don't think this is something we should ignore," she said slowly.
"What makes you so sure there's anything at all?" Simmons countered. "Just because the witness doesn't give a rat's ass about what you say doesn't mean it transfers to his family life. If you're thinking what I think you're thinking, then you're going to need better evidence than the fact that he's an asshole."
"He tried to use his own children as bargaining chips! He was going to use them to blackmail us! And if I'm to be completely honest, the more I talk to him the more certain I am those kids with the NBE willingly, especially if it was NBE-A-6 as all OUR evidence is pointing towards."
"Why?"
"Frankly, if I was that guys daughter, I probably would've thrown myself at the NBE's feet and begged her to take me, just to get away from the guy!"
Simmons said, nothing, turning his chair so that he was perpendicular to Grit and scanning the transcript and appearing for the entire world that he forgot Grit was even there. The minutes ticked slowly by, and as the silence stretched Grit was beginning to wonder if she had just crossed some invisible line she never knew existed, or if ignoring people was Simmons way of saying 'you're dismissed, leave me alone now.' Just as Grit was about to say something, her boss spoke up again, not looking up from his reading.
"You're probably not going to drop this, are you?"
"Probably not." She admitted candidly.
"But you know that I can't order you or assign anyone to look into this. We're the Reconnaissance and Discretion Agency, our job is to keep Uncle Sams biggest secret a secret, not to play social worker."
"…Yes sir."
Simmons dropped the transcript back on the 'to read later' pile and picked up a light brown folder with the same hand, and Grit briefly caught sight of the tab that read "Witness Folder".
"You're been on duty for how long now today?" Simmons asked casually as he flipped through the loose pages, still facing away from her.
Grit started slighted at sudden change in topic. "Um, since eight this morning."
"Take tomorrow off. Take the next two days off it you want."
Grit's head reared back and she stared owlishly at her boss. She felt like she had just gotten punched. Was Simmons getting rid of her because he didn't want to hear her press this issue? "What?" she asked intelligently, torn between shock, a little hurt, confusion, and anger.
"You heard me Grit," Simmons said lightly. "You need a break; you've been working too hard. Call it a health leave if you want, it'll give you a chance to do whatever you want for a day or two."
Grits hands clenched in her lap. She knew a brush off when she heard it, and if this smug little freak who called himself her superior thought that he could –
"But if you happen to be in the Rochester area, well, I hear they have some nice facilities and such, maybe you can take the chance to scout there for a place for your aging grandfather."
Grit's mind rant came to a screeching halt. Huh? What grandfather?
"Rochester?" Grit repeated.
"I heard it's quite nice by the lake. And since you'll be on a mini-vacation, you'd be free to do whatever you want. Maybe learn a few new things if you were so inclined." Simmons stretched his arm and dropped the folder on the pile, right on top of the transcript but halfway over the edge. The extra weight unbalanced the pile and it started to tilt, and Grit automatically reached over to grab the file before it could fall and straightened the pile with her other hand.
When Grit realized what she was holding in her hands, and replayed what her superior had been saying, she stared at Simmons for a few seconds before a slow smile spread across her face. "That sounds quite appealing. I just might take you up on that suggestion."
"I figured. Just don't do anything illegal on your break. I hate the paperwork. Now get out of here and go home already."
Grit stood, folder in hand, and started to leave the office, Simmons not once looking her way and seeing her walk out with the folder. She put her hand on the knob, but looked back at Simmons.
"You know, I had an old friend in Rochester a few years ago," Grit said in a conversational tone. "She married and had two children, but we lost her about five years ago. I would like to know what happened, but gosh darn it, I can't get a hold of the husband or the kids."
"Really? Fancy that."
"Any suggestions as to where I should look next?"
"Start with police records; see if anyone will be willing to talk to you about her, or if anyone had ever placed calls about a disturbance. Check the hospitals too, and the shelters. Go as far back as you can, and don't just go with the biggest hospitals or clinics. I think you told me once that your friend was quite a klutz, and she didn't like going to the same hospital and risk seeing the same doctor all the time because she thought it was embarrassing."
Grit nodded. "Good idea."
"Try the kid's names too, or at least the girls. The missus might've tried a false name once or twice to avoid the embarrassment, or maybe Nolan or Aye-nee got a little klutzy too."
"Awn-yeh," Grit corrected automatically.
Simmons half looked at her. "What?"
"It's pronounced Awn-yeh. Uh, her husband explained to me once that her family has a tradition of giving their daughters Irish names that haven't been absorbed into American mainstream, like Caitlyn. Something about remembering their roots."
"That explains the mom's name," Simmons muttered. "Did he mention how the hell you're supposed to pronounce that too?"
Grit told him.
Simmons gave her a flat look. "Have you seen how they spell her name?"
"I have."
"There are no 'v's' in there."
"No sir."
"There are no 'i's' either, and while it does have an 'e', it's not where should be to make any sense."
"No sir."
"In fact, her name is an unholy collection of random constenants and vowels with no purpose except to screw up the spelling."
"It's a traditional Irish spelling. I heard it's grown quite popular in recent years."
"Go home already."
*5:27 am, a Maverick near the Kansas-Missouri border*
Mikaela was glad to help the Autobots; she really was, especially with something as important as this. She was thrilled to be doing something useful now, since she and same hadn't yet been called one to do anything yet. While Jazz and Bee seemed glad to have them along anyway, she couldn't shake the feeling that they were more dead weight than potential asset. So yes, it pleased her that she could do something for them now, like speaking to the cashiers of 24-hour stores and gas stations that made up their potential witnesses, that they couldn't do themselves.
While Elita was, for whatever reason, missing her transponder signals and codes and therefore wouldn't show up on most conventional scanners (and from the way the bots described it, it was like missing a piece of your head), there was no way she'd be able to hide her radiation trail, the unique energy and residue left behind by the sustained presence of energon. Hopefully, she would have left enough of a footprint to point them down the path she took. When Sam had asked, with a touch of worry, if this radiation was dangerous to organics, specifically humans, Bee and Jazz jumped to assure him that the level of radiation that escaped the layers of metal, armor, and insulation that made up the Cybertronian body was so marginal it would take decades of constant, round-the-clock exposure before there was any cellular damage. And by 'constant,' Sam would have to sleep in Bee's cab every night for the rest of his life. Exposure to spilt energon was a little trickier, but as long as they never got any on their skins (not that they'd want to anyway – apparently it was quite corrosive to organics) they were good.
However, for the sake of Sam being allowed within a hundred feet of Bumblebee or any other Autobots between now and after college, it was unanimously agreed that Judy and Ron didn't need to know about this.
In any case, because of how little residue there probably was, Jazz was going to have to go over the area with a fine tooth comb before weather and human activity could wipe it away. Bee mentioned how it was too bad Hound wasn't there, because apparently he was an Autobot who specialized in tracking other 'bots and 'cons through their energy trails. Bee had said, and quote, "Hound could sniff out a Decepticon from twenty kliks away in the pouring rain upwind, if he felt like it." While Mikaela had doubts about that, it was still pretty impressive.
But, that was why she and Sam were scoping out the area now. This was their best lead and they were going to have to take anything they could get. Bee had just dropped her off here and went off to drop Sam off at another potential place to check out. With Elita holding two humans, it was a safe bet they'd have to stop for food and bathroom breaks from time to time. Jazz was "sniffing around" the area where the energy drain occurred, a power plant not too far from where Mikaela was now. While Jazz did that, she, Sam, and Bee were scoping out the closest small stores to see if anyone had seen the two kids last night. It was a bit of a long shot, but they couldn't afford to leave any stone unturned. Who knows, they might be able to at least see video footage and get a clue as to the state of the kids or where they were heading next.
But did it have to be at the unholy hour of five-freaking-thirty in the MORNING?!
When I get home, I'm crawling into my mice comfy bed with its pillows and comforters for a week, Mikaela promised herself as she walked up to the Maverick, stretching her back and nursing a sore muscle. True to the bot's word, they had hoofed at warped speed and hadn't stopped until it was absolutely necessary, even going through the night…again. Mikaela's back was never going to be the same after this, she just knew it.
Happy face happy face happy face, nobody likes talking to a grumpy girl, Mikaela told herself as she swung the glass door open, and with what felt like Herculean effort she plastered on the more sincere smile she could manage as she spotted the young cashier, a skinny guy of indiscernible age with a mop of curly brown hair on his head, reading a magazine and looking utterly bored and rather pasty under the unforgiving florescent light.
Mikaela stood in front of him for several seconds, waiting to be noticed. She shifted on her feet, coughed daintily, cleared her throat, moved her purse, cleared her throat again a little louder, and still the guy wasn't paying attention to her.
Ah screw it.
"Excuse me!"
The guy started so bad his elbow slipped off the counter and he nearly fell to the floor. He needed another double take when he spotted the blue eyed girl smiling beatifically down at him. Now that the guy was standing straight, the girl could see the nametag proudly proclaiming the guy as being "Jeff."
"HI! Morning! Sorry, didn't see you there, welcome to Starbucks MAVERICK!! Welcome to Maverick can I help you please?"
Mikaela had to recoil slightly from the explosion of energy from the formal pile of teenage apathy, but experience allowed her to recover rapidly and she flashed him a sweet smile without missing a beat. Jeff tried to smile back, but it came across as looking like there was a spider crawling up his pants and he was trying not to let it show.
"Hi Jeff, thanks. Actually, a couple of my friends were in the area last night, a guy about this tall," she held her hand flat a few inches above her head, "and his little sister, both with brown hair and eyes. Did you see them, by any chance?"
Jeff frowned in thought, started to shake his head, but his eyes lit up in remembrance. "Maybe. Did the girl have her hair in pigtails?"
"Yes! Yes she did!" Mikaela exclaimed happily (and Jeff looked ridiculously pleased with himself now). "Nolan said he was in a Maverick last night, but he couldn't remember which one. So they were here last night?"
"Saw them sitting together on the curb I was coming in for my shift, and they got picked up pretty soon after that. You looking for them?"
"Actually, sometime last night Nolan lost his cell phone, but he doesn't remember when or where. A bunch of us are helping him retrace his steps, so that's why I'm here now."
Jeff looked confused. "You're doing this at five thirty in the morning?"
"We're doing a group summer trip, and he promised his parents he'd be home by noon today. Plus, he's already lost three phones, and if he makes it four his dad is going to kill him."
Jeff nodded in sympathy and understanding. "That sucks. Wish I could help, but I haven't seen a cell phone anywhere. If he dropped it here, someone must've already taken it."
"Bummer. Hey, out of curiosity, how did they look when you saw them? I mean, did they seem calm and happy, or did they seem more nervous and anxious?"
Jeff shrugged. "Neither really. They didn't look upset or anything, they were just really quiet, you know? The guy had his arm around the girl's shoulders, so my first thought was that she was his girlfriend. It was dark, so I couldn't tell they were related really," Jeff added hastily. "But they seemed okay, just really…calm I guess. Like they were just hanging out, waiting for their ride."
Mikaela nodded as she listened, then perked up as if she suddenly had an idea. "The ride! You said you saw who picked them up? Could you describe them for me? Maybe Nolan dropped his phone in their car."
"Never saw the driver, but I definitely remember the car." And from the faraway look that came over his eyes, Mikaela guessed he was going to need a napkin to wipe up the drool in a minute if he didn't come back to Earth soon. She coughed a little to encourage him to come back faster, and Jeff snapped back to the present.
"What? Oh, um, right, the car. Not sure what kind it was, I'm not a car guy really, but it looked like…like the love child between a sports car and a limo. Pretty sweet looking really, dark red with tinted windows. Weird license plate though, kind of snobby."
"Why, what did it say?"
"'Elite 1.'"
Mikaela couldn't hold back a laugh. If there was any doubt this was their femme, there wasn't any more. "That sounds like Eliza. She's not snobby; she just has a weird sense of humor. Did you see which way they went?"
"No, sorry – wait, Nolan doesn't remember who his ride was or where he went?"
"More like Nolan can't remember the order of events of last night. And, he forgot to tell me who picked him up and I can't call him - no cell phone, remember?" Mikaela pulled out her cell phone and flipped it open. "But I CAN call Eliza. Thanks for everything, you've been a great help."
"Hey no sweat, glad I could help." Jeff said as Mikaela started walking for the door, already dialing her phone. "Hey, can I get your-"
The door swung shut behind Mikaela.
Just as Mikaela was about to hit 'send' and call Jazz, the phone started ringing – and Mikaela was quite familiar with the number that popped up.
"Speak of the devil and here he comes," she muttered as she answered. "Jazz? What's up?"
"Hey Mickey, you still with Sam and Bee?"
"No, I'm at the Maverick, and I think they're still at the 7-11. They've been here by the way, Nolan and Aine I mean, and the guy got a look at Elita when she picked them up. We've finally got a description of Elita's alt mode. Nolan and Aine sound like they're fine too, not so much as a scratch. What about you?"
"Well, I know Elita was here, but I couldn't get enough to peg a trail." Jazz said, voice neutral but with what Mikaela was learning to recognize as a trace of disappointment. Before Mikaela could say anything, Jazz cut it again with more energy. "BUT! I have even better news. Care to guess?"
Mikaela's brow furrowed in thought, but after only a second or two she recalled the last time Jazz was happy and why. "You've got another bite?!"
"Congratulations, you got it in one!" Jazz cheered. "Thanks for playing; your fabulous prize is a chance to ride with the coolest mech this side of the galaxy with the sweetest wheels North America has to offer!"
"Oh, so Bee's picking me up instead then?" Mikaela asked innocently.
"Hardy har har. I see you now smarty pants, be there in a sec."
"Right Jazz." Mikaela closed her phone with a grin just as a silver Pontiac solstice slid up to the curb. The passenger side popped open for her, and Mikaela slid in. She glanced back through the store doors, and she had just enough time to catch the look on Jeff's face before the door closed.
*Kansas, 6:27 am*
The morning was cool and peaceful, with only the occasional sounds of nature being carried far and wide by the gentle breeze. The grass was long and flowing, waving to and fro like kelp in the tide and obscuring the flat road a few hundred yards in the distance. The rising sun was just peeking up over the horizon, painting the sky with luxurious reds and gold that dimmed into the royal blues and purples of the fading night. Were it not for the power lines jagging across the plain, it would be easy to forget there was such thing as civilization in this corner of the world. Yet even the artificial power lines were softened by the dozens of small birds using the black cables as a resting place, grooming and chatting among themselves like old friends and long time neighbors talking about the weather, the last game, or the giant robot that had been standing stock still at one of the poles for the last hour.
Elita was currently in root mode, and from her wrist she had pulled out a cable that she inserted into the power box at the top of her chosen power pole. The cable was usually used to interface with certain advanced computer systems or, by those so inclined, high level hacking or data gathering, or even communication between those unable to vocalize. But with a little improvisation, it worked fine in siphoning off electricity from the power lines, albeit slowly. If she tried to take too much too fast she'd risk overloading the box and forcing it to either shut down or explode. Aside from obvious safety issues, more importantly Elita didn't want to risk denying a community its power for an indeterminate amount of time just because she was impatient. Hence, the long wait.
The wait was part of the reason why the open plane was so…well, "ideal" would be too strong a word. It still had its risks, because as soon as Elita saw a coming car, the car would be able to see her as well.
On the other hand, the open plain also meant Onslaught wouldn't be able to sneak up on them again, and there was nowhere for him to hide and wait in ambush.
It didn't take a great deal of consideration to decide which would be the greater danger.
For the fifth time, Elita turned her head to see the two young humans in the grass about a hundred feet away from her. As with the first four times, Nolan was still standing, arms crossed and gazing up and down the road like a lone sentinel, as if he believed he would be able to give Elita the advance warning she would need if he kept an eye out, never mind his range of vision was about the same as Elita's, if that much. At his feet, Elita could just make out the lump that was Aine, curled up and almost completely hidden by the long grass, using her backpack as a pillow and fast asleep. When they had stopped so that Elita could fill up her reserves some more, Nolan had roused as best he could because he wanted to be awake and alert "just in case." Aine, on the other hand, was operating on only a handful of hours of sleep and could barely even string together a proper sentence. Elita had to carry the poor girl to the spot where she was now, and as soon as Elita had set her down Aine had trudged to where Nolan was standing, dropped her backpack on the ground, curled up and went straight back to sleep, muttering something about a monkey that owed her money.
Elita gave a fond smile, but it faded as she remembered what she and Aine had talked about the previous night…
"I said, Mom never walked out or abandoned us. She actually died, five years ago."
Yes, Elita had heard her the first time, and even now it didn't feel real. The femme felt as though her mind was being stretch taunt like a rubber band, and all she could hear was a buzzing sound in her head, like a small insect had gotten trapped in there and it was drowning out all other sounds, all other thoughts except for the one that keep dancing round and round her head:
'Why did Nolan lie to me?'
"Elita? Elita, are you okay?" Aine asked, a little fearfully. "You're starting to scare me – oh crap, are you unconscious again??"
Elita snapped back to reality and the buzzing stopped. "No, no, I am alright," Elita soothed. "I am just…surprised. I never knew what happened to your mother. Nolan never said anything."
Aine shrugged. "Nolan doesn't like to talk about her a lot and we've never talked about when she died. He was really close to her, so it really hurt him a lot. That's probably why he didn't tell you, he didn't want to talk about it."
"Aine…forgive me if I offend you, but are you certain your mother is deceased?"
"Totally certain."
Elita recalled the letter of goodbye and apology Nolan kept with him. "But how can you be so sure?" she pressed.
Aine gave the steering wheel a slightly odd look, but answered anyway. "Well for one thing, it was an open casket funeral. She was definitely in there."
"'Open casket?' I am sorry, but I do not understand."
"Um, in western cultures, we traditionally bury our dead in a casket, that's like a long box made of wood. Open casket means you leave the top half open so the person's family can see them one last time."
So, Aine saw her mother's body for herself. It was not a mistake, or a trick, or a lie then. But what about the note-
Oh.
Oh, no.
"I am sorry," Elita said lowly. "I was not aware."
Aine rubbed the dashboard in a comforting manner. "It's okay. I've had a long time to come to terms with it. I still miss her sometimes, but I'm okay."
"I wish to ask how she died, if I may."
Aine leaned back in her seat and tilted her head as she thought and recalled.
"Well, it'll be five years ago exactly come Christmas. It had been snowing hard all day, and it was still coming down pretty heavy. We were supposed to go see Mom's side of the family, but Dad didn't want to go because the roads were so bad, so we stayed home instead.
"I don't know exactly what happened, since it happened after we went to bed and Mom stayed up to clean up, I think. I think what happened was that Mom saw something out the window, maybe a stray cat or something, and she was worried about it being out in the storm at night. Mom was a really nice person, really compassionate. Nolan says she loved animals, and that she could never NOT offer a helping hand to someone who needed it. Anyway, she probably went outside to find it, or to make sure if she really saw one. I know she only planned to be out a few minutes, since she put on snow boots but didn't bother to grab a parka or anything. She was probably afraid of taking too long and loosing the cat if she did.
"Like I said, the snow was coming down hard and thick. What we think happened is that she got turned around and couldn't find her way back to the house because she forgot to turn on the porch light or didn't think she'd wander that far."
Aine started looking a little uncomfortable, so she just shrugged. "It was below freezing temperatures, and she was trapped outside without a coat. You can figure out the rest, right?"
"Yes," Elita said. "I can."
"The worst part was, in the morning, nobody knew anything. Dad reported her missing, and I remember seeing her picture on the TV once or twice. The searchers didn't find her body until three or four days later, buried under two days worth of snow. She made it all the way down to the lakeshore before…you know."
The image of Nolan dashing across the battled scored meadow to save the photo and letter suddenly took on a larger, heavier meaning, as did his protectiveness and possessiveness of Aine. After the loss of the mother, how could he be certain he would not lose his sister too?
The day, the storm, the suddenness of it all…in terms of facts, Aine's account matched up with Nolan's, though it seemed she was speaking less from personal experience and observation and more one what she learned and heard. What Elita could not fathom was why Nolan had lied to her about their mother's death.
Did Nolan lie? Elita wondered. She replayed her talk with Nolan word for word in her mind, and while it was true he never came out and said their mother was dead, he had said she was 'gone.' He didn't lie, so much as omitted certain truths and told the rest in a literal way. If Elita took him to be speaking figuratively, then it would only be her fault. After all, Nolan DID say she "walked out" and "left", and she literally did just that, in the sense that she never came back in. Nolan had also repeatedly said that there was no uncertainty whether or not she could be contacted. He knew she was dead, so of course she was not coming back.
For the sixth time, Elita looked over her should to the pair. Aine hadn't moved, but Nolan had taken to walking in circles around her, swinging his arms back and forth. Elita's shoulders fell marginally as the pieces fell into place.
Nolan says she 'left', Aine says she died essentially on accident. But if it were truly an accident, she would not have left her note. If she had not intended for this, she would not have been so careless…
Elita remembered very well now long it had taken her to get from the lake edge to the O'Connell home. She couldn't believe their mother, who had lived in that house for years, could have wandered so far, or not realized she was going down a slope even if her vision was obscured.
Nolan had also she said had "abandoned" them. That too, had been the truth, if seen from a certain point of view.
"I hated her for a long time after that, you know? I hated her for just giving up on us like that. But when I got a little older, and got more of a taste of what Dad's really like without Mom acting as a buffer, I started understanding better why she did what she did, I guess."
"You do not hold anger toward her anymore?"
"I sure as hell haven't forgiven her for it yet, but I don't hate her for it anymore. I guess I'll always wish she'd stayed, but I can't hate her for leaving anymore."
Aine didn't know. That much Elita could be certain of. Their mother had left the note for Nolan alone, probably because Aine was such a young child and the loss of a parent was traumatic enough.
Not that thirteen was much better.
For the seventh time, Elita looked over her shoulder to her guides and charges. This time Nolan noticed her glance, and raised his head in acknowledgment. Elita nodded and looked at the pair for a few extra seconds before turning away again.
Two young humans, mere children really, both carrying their own burdens, even if she did not yet know what Aine's was exactly. They had each other; their bond was clear and strong, and yet for all their closeness and trust they both chose to keep their greatest secrets to themselves…but only so that they could spare the other further pain and burden. But Aine needed to tell Nolan what it was that was weighing so heavily on her mind, and Nolan needed to tell Aine the truth of their mother. This much, Elita was certain of. Such honesty, while perhaps painful to hear, would ultimately be the best for them both.
But it wasn't as though Elita could walk over there and demand they open up to each other right here and now. Never mind that she had promised Nolan not to say anything about what they talked about, it wasn't her place to butt in into such personal matters. Then again, Elita could see that the two of them had created a balance that simply could not last much longer. Besides, if nothing else, Aine had the right to know the truth of her mother. She was not a little child anymore. By the Matrix, she's older now than Nolan was when *he* found out. But then again, it was a sensitive issue and should not be rushed.
I am thinking as if I had the luxury of time, Elita scolded herself. Yet I said I would leave them in a city sometime this morning so that they could secure transport home. I only have a few more hours with them, at the very most.
Elita's spark ached at the thought of leaving the children to face such uncertainty and fend for themselves as they returned home. True, they were mature, intelligent, and responsible, and the Femme had no doubts they would watch out for each other or knew how to take care of themselves…but she couldn't shake the feeling, no, the belief that just because they could fend for themselves, it didn't mean they should have to.
And with the mother truly out of the picture, there are no other alternatives to Richard, she thought as she disconnected herself from the power box. I do not want to send them back, but what other choice is there?
Elita knew the 'stay-or-go' talk would be rehashed as they got closer to the city, and Aine would try to convince her and Nolan to not force her to leave. As Elita approached the pair in the grass, she found herself almost hoping Aine would succeed, just so she wouldn't have to send them back to that pathetic excuse for a parent.
If I do have to send them back to Richard, Elita thought vehemently even as she gave Nolan a pleasant greeting, then I swear by Primus, the Allspark, and the Matrix that I will not leave them there!
Elita had gotten a huge head start, and there was no way he was going to be able to track down the same path she took. To attempt so would be foolhardy and waste too much time, time he was swiftly running out of. His best course of action now was to anticipate where she would go next and head her off there.
Unfortunately, while there was no doubt as to where she was going, there was no way he could be certain which path she would take to get there. The way he figured, she would either take the most roundabout route she could to try and loose him, head straight for the base in an attempt to get there before he had a chance to recuperate and catch up, or take the most populated route she could in hopes the exposure would protect her from attacks.
If she took the first option, there was no way he'd be able to find her in time. But, he didn't think she would. Her energy had been low when she landed, and while he didn't know if she had had a chance to refuel between then and now, the point remained that she probably didn't have the time or energy to extend her journey by so much.
If she took the third option, it was essentially game over. He wouldn't be able to catch her alone before she was close enough to the base to call reinforcements, and while the potential for dozens, even hundreds of human deaths lost in the crossfire didn't bother him, he wasn't eager to incur the wrath of some three hundred million of them, thank you very much.
That left the straight and true path, the only one where he had any options at all and, by default, the one he was going to have to plan around. There was a location or two he could use, particularly in the rocky desert landscape that surrounded him and still awaited her. He only had a few more hours to plan and prepare before she arrived, if this was the choice she made, and he was going to make every minute count.
He was gambling, true, but Onslaught wasn't leaving any of the rest to chance.