The Training Room: Chapter 3
I.
Six months. Six wasted months. It has taken me this long to get back to partial duty status. I think I am ready for the field, but the medics keep saying no. The one bright spot in this dismal debacle has been that Dr. Director allowed me to reinstate the surveillance on Stoppable. Of course, she thinks the surveillance is on Possible, to see how she is handling her therapy and recuperation. If I weren't convinced of Stoppable's deception, I would have been insulted. This is a job for a desk jockey, any of hundreds of bean counters, not a top agent. She told me to begin the oversight with an air of "maybe you can get this right" that made me want to resign on the spot. Instead I said "Yes, Ma'am", determined to find the proof I need.
II.
"Agent, who did this?"
"I don't know." Surprisingly, throughout the 'lesson', he had never touched my face.
"You have no idea who could do this to you? No clues after a fight you say lasted over an hour? You've been trained better than that." Her tone was almost accusatory.
"Ma'am, it was dark, and I never saw his face."
She frowned a moment. "All right, you never saw his features, but what about his fighting style? Did you recognize that?"
"I know of no school that teaches the style he used." I wasn't lying.
"So you've never seen this school of martial arts before?"
"No, Ma'am." Again, not a lie. Although both she and I had seen the style before, many times. But who would believe that fumbling calamity was actually an art? A more lethal martial art than any I had ever heard of.
"What about body type? Surely you can describe that?"
"About five foot seven, maybe eight. Slender, well muscled."
"Male or female?"
"Male."
"How can you be sure? From that description, if I can call it that, it could be either."
"It was a man."
"Are you certain you're not letting your ego make the decision?" I could see the accusation of male ego in her eyes.
"Ma'am, after all these years, do you really believe I don't know there are female fighters out there, for that matter," I looked her straight in the eye, "in here."
She stood, "All right, I'll put out the warning to all agents to look out for a medium height, well built man who uses an unknown style. All reports to come directly to me." She turned to leave. Then glanced back over her shoulder. "Maybe if we get lucky, we can get a lead because of his injuries. After that fight, he must have some."
I looked away from her. "No injuries."
She turned back fully, "Are you trying to tell me that one of my best agents, someone I personally put the polish on, didn't at least injure his assailant?"
She sounded like she had been personally insulted. Whether by my failure or by his competence, I couldn't tell.
"I never touched him."
With one last disbelieving glance, she left my room.
III.
Six months. Six long intensive months. The amateur recovered much faster than the psy-ops boys thought she would. But then, her injuries were mostly mental, not physical. She had no broken bones to knit or overloaded nerves to heal. The medics said my nervous system had all the symptoms of someone given a high voltage of localized electricity. They are still trying to figure out how that was done.
It was the interior injuries that bothered her most. She suffered a lack of confidence, an almost unnoticeable timidity that was never there before. Dr. Director down played it, saying that for an agent to realize their mortality was good, it gave them caution.
Her physical wounds healed unbelievably fast, much faster than mine. We had the same type of care, the same level of physician, the same treatment for specific injuries. At the risk of being obsessed, the only difference I could discover was Stoppable.
He rarely left her side. If her father hadn't insisted he go home, I believe he would have slept at the foot of her bed. A guard dog on duty. A more dangerous dog than any four legged breed ever seen.
IV.
I saw the press conference today. Possible seemed back on top of her game. She took out a would be villain named Dementor. A scheme to take over the world by genetically transforming all cereal crops to poison. Unless, of course, the world submitted and he provided the antidote. The press ignored Stoppable. The one time he was on camera, it was as he was being pushed out of the way so a reporter could get closer to the heroine. Those fools.
I watched the security tapes from Dementor's lab. GJ seized them upon arrival. Stoppable was there, doing his usual screaming, running, and falling. Dr. Director glanced at my screen, then turned to the films of Possible. Commenting only that Possible seemed to have recovered.
"Why can't you see?" I wanted to scream. Yes, Stoppable was being his bufoonish self, but each fall, each trip, each stumble and recover took out a henchman, or redirected a weapon, or cleared Possibles' back of some danger. Why can't anyone see this but me?
V.
"There are monsters in the closet." I tried to explain.
"Son, there are no monsters."
"Yes, there are. They just hide when you come in." To my six year old mind it made perfect sense.
"Then we'll fix that." I was reassured, I trusted this huge man who taught me self defense. Monsters wouldn't attempt him. "After tonight, the monsters will never hide behind your closet door again."
They took the door off the closet.
VI.
"Dr. Director, Ma'am, don't do this."
"Why not? It will be perfectly safe."
In seven months I had never been able to give her the warning. How? If I told her, she would either think I was hallucinating or worse, think I was being paranoid about Stoppable. Someone she had already dismissed. Somehow, without getting a ticket to the shrinks, I had to warn her.
"Ma'am, I'm telling you, this is a bad idea."
"Why? I will be personally in charge this time. Nothing can go wrong." Unspoken was the accusation of failure.
"Ma'am, Betty, please do not do this. On this, please just trust me. It's a bad idea."
She looked at me almost with compassion, before dismissing my objections.
"Agent, the plan goes forward. I have to know if Possible is back to form."