Who Said Things Were Going To Get Easier?
Disclaimer: The 4400 belong to USA network...
A/n: Since I've only seen the first parts of the second series, this is where it's set. Unfortunately, I haven't seen the rest of the series due to... life, being its usual, annoying, self. If what I'm writing isn't on par with what has happened in the series, forgive me, and consider it AU.
Tom watched the ice blocks float in the dark liquid that filled his short tumbler. He'd been waiting for over an hour now for his contact. The seedy bar that he found himself in wasn't how he'd pictured spending his night. Cigarette smoke filled the air, clouding the line of sight for anyone sober enough to notice. Dated music escaped from the decades old jukebox, partially lost amidst the slurred voices, pool cues against pool balls, and occasional bouts of laughter. The dim lighting and neon brand signs were the cherry on top. It hadn't been his first choice, hell it wouldn't have been his choice at all, but his informant had set up the meeting. All the other guy had to do was show up, which was clearly a task too difficult to carry out. Tom threw back the rest of his drink, using his thumb and index finger to clear the corners of his mouth. He signaled for the barman, ready to pay.
"You, Tom Baldwin?" Tom looked at the voluptuous woman as she blew a bubble with her gum, resetting the pink substance in her mouth once it exploded. "Are - you - Tom - Baldwin?" She asked again, emphasizing every word jarringly.
"Who wants to know?" He asked, his tone light. She shrugged and dropped an envelope on the bar counter in front of him, wiggling her hips as she walked off. He took a good look at it, before removing a pair of latex gloves from his jacket pocket, and using them to get to the letter addressed to him.
Sorry.
Tom leapt from his seat, tucking the paper back where it came from as he chased after her. "Excuse me." He called, bumping a couple of not too happy men as he made his way. "Excuse me." Finally he reached her, spinning her around. "Who gave this to you?" He hadn't meant to loose the calm in his voice, but if there was any chance his contact had left the note, he was getting away, and fast. "Who gave this note to you?" He asked, more insistent.
She looked down at his latex gloved hands, raising a brow. Gesturing to the door: "Vic, the bouncer, he told me to give it to you 'cause he couldn't leave his seat."
Tom thanked her and walked over to, Vic. "Could you tell me who gave this envelope to you?" He asked, holding up the object in question. Vic shrugged. Growing increasingly irritated, he pulled out his badge with an audible sigh. "Who gave it to you?" Vic crossed his arms, and leaned against the wall. "Listen buddy, I'm a government agent."
"So where's your warrant?" The oversized man shrugged.
Against the insistence of every fiber in his body, Tom didn't throttle him. He walked out, doing his best to breathe deep breaths. He looked up the road one way, then down the other, trying to calm himself. With one swift kick to the pole of the street light, he finally shouted into the cold night air. "Shit."
888
Richard Tyler ended his shower. He wished that the much needed break could have lasted a while longer, but duty called. It was strange, by how far a margin his life had changed in the blink of an eye... well, his eye at any rate. Aside from returning to a time of ambiguous renditions of right and wrong, fearing for the lives of his wife and daughter, and being subject to prejudice that was unfounded, his life hadn't turned out that badly. Prejudice: he'd seen more than his fair share and for reasons more petty than being a returnee from the future. But, right and wrong had been easier concepts back in the fifties. The enemies were clear cut, and people knew who to hate and who to love. Now? Well, things had definitely changed. He wrapped his towel around his waist, standing in front of the mirror with no clear intention for just that moment.
"Good morning." Lily greeted, leaning casually against the doorframe.
He smiled at her reflection, one which broadened as he was met with the real thing. "Good morning, sweetheart."
"You know I don't like waking up without you by my side." She pouted
"I'm sorry, but I've got to get to work." She moved up to him, grabbing hold of the towel. "Lil, I've got to get to work." He said again, trying to sound stern. She tugged at the towel, pulling him her way as she moved back slowly. "Don't do this."
"Do what?" She said innocently, biting her lower lip.
"This isn't fair." He said, unknowingly licking his lips.
"Depends on who you ask." Lily joked. She'd brought them back into the bedroom, eyes locked firmly on his.
"Work is gonna miss me."
"This bed is going to miss you."
"Jordan needs me, especially today."
"I need you, right now."
"Lily."
"Richard."
She moved up, standing on her toes to reach her target. Her lips met his in a kiss so soft, he'd swear they were made of silk. She wrapped her arms around his neck, allowing him to scoop her up, and place her gently on the bed. She ran her hands along his muscles, smiling at the comforting arms that had held her tight, and made her feel safe when she'd felt she would crumble. Those same arms had held her in the throws of passion, and those same hands had explored her, gently, tenderly. She laced her fingers with his, kissing his strong, dark skin. "You think too much for your own good." She whispered, noticing the expression he wore.
"If they're thoughts of you, I can never have too many." He whispered back, kissing each of her eyelids. "I love you, Lily."
"I know. I love you too." She turned her head to the bedside clock. "I think we've still got a little time." She said, raising a brow naughtily.
888
"So glad that you decided to join us, Richard." Jordan shot, lips pursed as he watched the tall man stride across the conference room to the open seat on his left.
"Sorry, I had to..." Richard left the sentence open, not really sure how he was planning on filling the rest. He went for the green folder in front of him, opening it up to the first page, and then the ninth once he had a chance to peek over a co-worker's file.
Jordan had been watching him from the corner of his eye, not at all pleased that he had chosen today of all days to be late. He took a deep breath, knowing that a loss in composure would do little to help him at this point. "I trust that you'll take a thorough look at the items we've addressed in your absence. Collect the minutes from Amy once we're done." He gestured to the woman at the end of the table. "I am glad, however, that you've managed to come just in time for our last order of business: I have it on good authority that NTAC intends to put the center under surveillance, and to a greater extent, myself."
"But that isn't anything new. NTAC's been trying since the center was established." Richard said.
"True, but times have changed. I can't have any of our activities leak out to them, not now."
"Why?" The question that came from Richard was laced with suspicion.
"Because of the Elite." It seemed that was the response his head of security was waiting for. "I wish to enter into peaceful talks with them, but it doesn't exactly speak to our solidarity if they smell NTAC anywhere near us. To this point, they've managed to keep themselves hidden. If we jeopardize that, we've closed off any chance we have of possibly working together for the good of all the 4400." Richard accepted it. "Richard, I want you handling this. Do whatever you have to to keep NTAC's eyes and ears off me, and the center."
"What about Shawn?"
"I'll speak with him when he returns tonight, he isn't handling any business for the moment so we don't have much to worry about. When he does get back, you afford him everything that you would me." Jordan looked to the half a dozen faces in the room. "I believe that's it." After a few casual handshakes, and brief words of parting, he was alone. He turned to the wide view of the city, the fields of green kept by the center, the stunning introduction. There was no way he was going to let this all crumble at the threats of some radical group.
-"Mr. Collier?"
"Yes, Amy." He answered to the speaker phone.
-"You have a call. Would you like to take it here, or in your office?"
"Here's fine." Something prompted him to ask: "Who is it?"
-"He refused to give me a name. Would you still like to take the call?"
"Yes, put it through." He lifted the receiver of the single phone at the end of the table. "Jordan Collier."
-"Hello Jordan, how are you?" The greeting chilled him, despite the kind words.
Jordan paused, finding the voice slightly familiar. "I'm alright. Who am I speaking with?" He asked, tapping his fingers impatiently against the desk.
-"I can't believe you don't know." Mock surprise. "You're a smart man, memory like a steel trap..."
"Why should I care for the voice of a ghost?"
-"Now how can I be dead if we're having this conversation." If there was a question there, Jordan couldn't find it.
"You're dead to me."
-"Still have that same sunny disposition I see."
"You're not going to get anything from me, Michael, so if that's all..."
-"No, you've got me wrong, dear brother. I don't want anything from you."
"I haven't spoken to you in over twenty years. Why the phone call if not for that?"
-"Just good to hear your voice. In fact, how about we meet? Catch up on old times?"
"No." He put down the receiver. He dropped his head into his hands, and ran them back through his hair.
888
Michael Potente grinned at the phone, having already anticipated the response he'd received. The music of the club could be heard faintly through the walls of his spacious office. The underground club scene had been the best connection he could ever have made. Through it, he could get lost in anonymity, while networking shamelessly. Every high-end client in the establishment had no idea who he was or what he looked like. Middle-men were the way to go, one reporting to the next and so on and so on, until a single trusted employee relayed the goings on of those around him. He'd used this tactic since returning to the states those years ago, and it seemed to be working well for him. His discreet means, however, spoke nothing of the man himself. Though noticeably shorter than his sibling, he was larger, the result of a musculature he'd spent years perfecting. A constant five o clock shadow plagued him, and the only other feature he shared with Jordan Collier was raven hair, the only other feature besides the eyes. To anyone who dared look long enough at the piercing orbs, they'd find the unmistakable link to the kinsman.
"Was it wise to reveal yourself?" Anäis. The single, most trusted person whom he seldom, if at all, referred to as his employee. She was more than just that. A more remarkable woman he had yet to meet. Her composure, and compassion, belay the harsh life she had forced herself to forget. But traces of that life could still be found in her: her ability to suddenly detach from herself when difficult decisions needed to be made was both admirable, and disconcerting. He imagined that there was still more that he did not know of her.
He snapped out of thought. "I don't know." He answered honestly. "But my gut instinct seldom leads me astray." There it was: the sentence that explained his journey through hell and back. "Jordan was happy to have me out of the way. The ambitious prick never did like competition." He stood from his desk chair, stretching out casually. "Especially from me." He added.
"I have been thinking about what you said to me, mon ami," she said, not moving from her comfortable seat on the couch, "and I'm wondering how you propose to be an integral part of the 4400 movement, without being one of us."
"Une question valide, mon cher. But you, like my dear brother, are looking at this from the wrong perspective." Michael seemed savour the telling, a look of enthusiasm that bore a striking resemblance to Jordan in that moment. "I am not intending to be a part of the 4400 movement, I'm intending for the movement to be a part of the world." She raised a curved brow to him. "The 4400 are outnumbered by us, mere mortals, are you not?" She agreed. "Do you believe that in a government that would not even consider putting a woman in the oval office, a member of the 4400 will have any hopes of reaching it?"
She stood now, intrigued by the statement. "You intend for the presidency?"
"Why not?" He shrugged. "I have no traceable ties to this club, which has generated vast amounts but is, less than above board. My reputation and dealings beyond what you see here, have been the model of perfection. I steered clear of the limelight, in order to steer clear of my brother, but now that is no longer a necessity. I never intended for this," he placed his hands on her shoulders, "and until the return of the 4400, I never had a hope in hell of achieving it."
"How do the Elite factor into your plans?"
"God, I hate that name. When we finally go public, we're going to have to change it." It seemed as though he was saying it more to himself than her. "I've been monitoring your progress with the new recruits, impressive to say the least." He smiled. "When the time is right, you'll all be introduced as the pinnacle of what the 4400 are destined to achieve. My brother has been side-tracked, slowing his own progress. We'll have done in months what the center couldn't do in years. Mastering your abilities is only the first step, the next is to discover why you were brought back."
"And with our powers no longer being a threat to us, and those around us, we're free to do so." Michael nodded. "How is this any different to the 4400 center?" Her gaze was harsh, expressing her annoyance at the redundancy he seemed to convey.
"How is it any different?" He shouted, rage filling in his eyes. "Society is weak. Humanity is weak. And even in the wake of everything that's happened, they accept only what they know. I will be that link, the norm to which they cling so desperately. They need direction, not the scant few predictions of a future from a teenager. They need actions, not words. They need order, not chaos. They need a leader, not a prophet."
"Just who are you doing this for?" She asked softly, meeting his anger with a chilling calm.
He caught himself, moving away from her slightly. "I see a chance to make a difference here, and I have faith enough to trust myself in doing it." With a gentle stroke to her cheek: "Don't you?"
"Of course." She bowed her head, then lifted it intently. "You know that I've never asked you for anything, even though I greatly appreciate the generosity you've shown me." Anäis paused as he nodded, taking a deep breath. "But now, I'd like to ask that once these recruits have been fully trained, a handful of the best join me as a splinter group."
"Why?" He questioned.
"Humans have their Defense Force, the 4400 should have their own."
"Very well, the group will be announced along with the Elite."
"No," she said, "in the event that our defense might be less than, agreeable, at times. I want to keep the 4400 safe from the lunatics out there, and that might require sidestepping lawful tactics. What they don't know, they can't use against us."
He smiled. "That's my girl." He took in her delicate features, proud of the depth that hid behind them. "The man who makes a life with you, will be a great man indeed."
"I'm going to go," she said absentmindedly, grabbing her coat, "and... turn in." The explanation she'd given him was less than substantial, but there's wasn't a relationship that often questioned. She left through the front door of his office, then keyed in the code to unlock the next door in the small space after it. Privacy was key to his success, and though the blocks he'd set in place may have seemed paranoid, they were the key to his privacy. Many of the employees of the club, and the guests that frequented it, believed the office to be Anäis', since they'd never seen anyone else enter or leave. Michael had used the forgotten service tunnels to come and go, the portal to which was hidden behind a mock filing cabinet. She shook her head as she thought how paranoid it sounded, even to her. As she left the club, and hugged her jacket close to her once reaching the night air, she wondered where her legs were taking her.
888
"Coffee, please." Shawn ordered, nodding to the chubby man at the counter. He'd opted for something with less strength than the beverages he'd been consuming of late. He opened his wallet to pay, and brought his eyes to the tickets that had rested firmly between his credit card and driver's license. If he didn't hurry, he'd miss the start of the game. But then, he wasn't hurrying, as shown by his detour to this coffee shop. It was small, out of the way, and nothing compared to what he could've gotten closer to the arena. In truth, he was stalling. In truth, he would be attending the game on his own. Being an influential man was great, until it came down to being just a man. His first thought had been to invite his brother, but that wasn't really an option. His second had been Kyle, but things had become so awkward between them that it would seem too... forced. There was too much to say, that needed to be said, before they could put the past where it belonged. Yes, the list of friends ran very short.
The bell above the door gave a melancholic 'ping'. He'd never determine what made him turn around. "Sir, your coffee." The girl behind the counter said. He could only guess she'd said a little more of the same at his non-response as he locked with the eyes he hadn't been able to forget. Shawn found his way to them, though he couldn't quite remember how.
"I took a chance that you'd be here." Anäis said, moving a little too close for mere pleasantries. They couldn't be sure of how long they stood there, saying nothing. In an act that seemed to take more effort each time she performed it, "and now I'm not sure why I did," she turned and left.
"Anäis." He called after her.
"Sir." The waitress called, accidentally knocking the chubby man's drink over.
"Anäis." Shawn jogged after her, not bothering to apologize to the few people he knocked along the way. He caught her, and brought her around. "You know why. You know why you took the chance." She tried to fight against him. "I know why you took the chance."
"No, this can't happen." She cried breathlessly.
"Yes it can." He said. She repeated her words, as though somehow they'd do more than they had. "Why won't you admit what's happening between us?" He shouted, wishing he could shake the answer from her.
"Because I'm afraid." She shouted back, silencing him. "I'm afraid that I'll loose what little control I have." She ran her fingers across his neck, under his jaw and finally, stopped before his lips. Her own were drawn closer, until they brushed briefly against his. "I'm afraid that if I taste you, I won't be able to come back." She whispered.
The strength of their gaze held them there. He saw in her what he felt in himself, and they could do little to stop what was about to happen. Their lips locked. Blood coursed through their veins like liquid fire, hearts beating to a savage drum. The kiss was fierce, their tongues ravenous as they explored more, felt more, tasted more. They enveloped each other, despising any space that might stand between them. Longing, want, need, were all words too subtle to describe their state. And finally, when ecstasy threatened to suffocate them, their bruised lips parted with the greatest of their wills.
Their foreheads touched as they breathed heavily, Shawn finding the last words that would pass either's lips for the rest of that night: "Then stay with me."
To Be Continued...