Chapter VIII
"Agent Farnsworth, I know that we may not have had much interaction, in the past, but I must commemorate your performance as an agent. In light of resent events, you have proven yourself admirably, both as an advocate of the law and a capable electronics specialist."
"Thank you, Miss Sharpe. I only have the best interests of Massive Dynamic in mind."
Nina Sharpe smiled at her, a warm, friendly smile. A smile of caring, "Yes, and thank you. As I am currently more appraised of the situation at hand than others, I have the ability to ask; were there any signs, to warrant the obviously reversed will of Peter and Walter Bishop?"
Astrid let nothing show on her face, as she calmly and professionally averted Sharpe's prodding, "It's a matter of record, Miss Sharpe, I'm sure you understand."
Nina nodded, "I see. Then I have only to offer my condolences- you and Walter were close, were you not?"
"Dr. Bishop was my friend."
"He did not have many, I'm sure he'd have been touched, by your sentiments."
"Miss Sharpe, I need to have another look at your system. There are a few suspicions I would just like to shake out of my head," Astrid calmly shifted the laptop case on her hip. This woman referred to Peter and Walter as if they were dead. Perhaps it was wishful thinking.
"I'm afraid that's not possible," Sharpe replied, sitting back in her desk chair, "Time is money, agent Farnsworth, and we are currently in the process of having the system serviced."
Astrid looked openly shocked, "Miss Sharpe, your system is fried. Pardon the crass terminology, but you're just going to cut your losses and front for a new configuration- the damage is far too excessive."
"I assure you, we have a specialist working on it," Sharpe said calmly.
"You hired a configuration operator from the private sector?" Astrid questioned, privately astonished.
Sharpe smirked softly, "I suppose you could call him that. You can meet him yourself, if you like."
"Very much," Astrid said darkly.
Why did Sharpe make it feel like stepping into a cave full of bats? Astrid slowly shifted her case from one hip to the other, as she watched the counter over the door drop as the elevator descended. Her eyes strayed to the newly replaced wooden paneling, her finger absently traced where a bullet hole may have been. At last the doors slid open, and she stepped into the recesses of Massive Dynamic once more.
A small door tag read executive storage, and opened to a dark, featureless room. As Astrid crossed it in search of the mainframe interface, alarm began to shape her mind, and she nearly stumbled over a mass of cords that ran down the hall like black veins. She followed them tentatively, and at last pushed open the ajar door.
The room was black, save the tiny, flashing operation lights of countless processors scattered about the room, and the bright blue glare of a laptop screen, illuminating the small form that lay in the middle of the room, seemingly entangled in the spiders' web of cables, like the heart.
"Uh," Astrid said, after shaking of the initial strangeness of the encounter, "h-hello?"
No response. Sharp, precise typing.
Astrid had to wait a few moments, before calling again, "Hello?" she took a step forward, brushing a cord.
Like a spider sensing prey, at the vibrations in it's web, the figure looked up sharply, pulling an earphone away, "Vas ist Das?!" they demanded.
Astrid stepped back, toward the door, "Oh, um, here, let me just get the lights…" her fingers scrambled over the switch on the wall, the florescent bulbs overhead flickering on.
The figure hissed and contracted, "Jesus Christ, my freaking retinas! What the hell are you doing?!"
Astrid blinked, and rubbed an eye. Was this a young boy, before her, or a petite girl…? She then remembered, Sharpe has referred to their operator as 'he', "I-I'm sorry, but, are you… the private configuration operator?"
He looked up at her, rubbing his eye socket and glaring, "Can I help you?" Opera music was faint from his headphones.
"I just- Miss Sharpe said that they had hired a private operator, to repair the system. It's pretty…well, the system is gone, so I was curious-"
"And who are you, to be making such a diagnosis?" the stranger questioned sharply.
There was something strange, here. Something was wrong, with this boy… his speech patterns, his movements… they were absently childish, yet held the intellect of knowledge, a certain cynicism that she had experienced before.
"Walter," Astrid murmured, before she could stop herself.
His brows shot up, "Your name is Walter? Well, things certainly have gotten more interesting, haven't they?"
Astrid balked, "Ah, no! That's not- I'm agent Farnsworth, of the FBI."
"Oh. Wonderful. And how old are you, Agent Farnsworth?" he climbed to his feet, dusting nothing from his dark blue private school uniform. He pushed his long bangs aside, looking up at her.
"That's not important. I need to know what you are doing with the system configuration. Would you mind if I had a look?"
"I'll bet you're almost twenty two. You're a grown-up."
Astrid blinked, with a small, exasperated smile, "Kid-"
He stepped forward with a beaming smile, throwing his arms around her middle, "I'm Raze! I know I can trust you, Agent Farnsworth, you're really nice!"
"Uh-" Astrid stammered, before he released her, scurrying back the computer. The child's entire demeanor had changed in a matter of seconds- like an entirely new persona took hold.
"Come see," he said, sitting cross-legged, and motioning for her to do the same, "Look what I made. It's perfect."
Tentatively, Astrid took a seat, looking into the screen, "This… this is a whole new system," she exclaimed, "How did you do this?!"
Raze smiled, "I'm really smart. Everyone at school is jealous- even the grown-ups. I hate them."
Astrid scrolled the coding, completely flabbergasted, "it's a loop- a trap-"
"But I can tell you're not like them. You're smart, like me… so I'll tell you what I did," Astrid looked up as Raze lifted a stuffed toy into his lap, smiling into velvet, "It's like a spiders' web. The more you get in, it just keeps rolling over, tangling you, until the spider can come…" he glanced up at her, "You're the spider, Agent Farnsworth. Do you like what I made?"
Astrid shook her head, "No, you can't have written this. It's an echo of the system construct back in…" she stopped, glancing at Raze nervously.
Raze only giggled.
No, he wasn't like Walter. There was something darker, crueler, in this prodigy. To design a trap of this severity… it was not made to keep others out, but more to draw them in, trap them in their temptation. It was a pure, yet merciless, construct, used only to ensnare prey. Astrid suddenly felt cold, "You made the system for the FBI, didn't you?"
"If you like it, then pat my head. They pat my head, when I'm good."
Astrid got to her feet and left the room, feeling sick.
"Agent Farnsworth," Nina Sharpe hailed her as she crossed the lobby, toward the doors. Sharpe looked genuinely concerned, "is everything alright? You look upset- was Raze terribly rude?"
"No, no," Astrid answered, "No, he was… thank you for letting me have a second look, Miss Sharpe."
Sharpe smiled ruefully, "Any time, Agent Farnsworth," Astrid moved past her, when an envelope was suddenly pressed into her hand, "could you possibly see this gets to Agent Dunham?"
xXx
Olivia sat at her desk, and lifted the envelope from her keyboard curiously. It was unmarked, and she glanced up to see if anyone may have had instructions for her on just what to do with it. There was no one.
Olivia pulled a letter opener from her top door, and slit the envelope open carefully. She removed a single sheet of folded paper, smoothing it out on her desktop. It contained only two lines of print:
8570 Bradrick Hollows, Linthicum Heights, Maryland. We are in your hands, Agent Dunham.
Olivia scooped up the letter and headed for Broyals' office.
Save us. End this.
xXx
It was an odd place to see an expensive black sports car. But if it wasn't strange enough to see a Viper parked under a tree outside of a Shaw's, the tennis shoes sticking out of the off-drivers' window may have attracted a bit more attention. Peter shook his head, intending to put a stop to the scene when he reached it with the grocery bags.
"Walter," Peter said as he reached the vehicle, stooping to look inside. His father was stretched out along the reclined seat, his shiny new laptop on his stomach as he typed, his feet propped up on the windowsill. His only response was slowly tapping his toe in a rhythm.
"Walter," Peter repeated. Nothing.
Peter stepped back, activating the alarm with his keychain.
Walter yelped, sitting bolt upright and plucking the ear buds from his ears. He frowned as his son chuckled softly, "Don't do that, boy," he grumbled, flushing as he shut the computer.
"Stop scratching up the door with your shoes," Peter replied, passing the grocery bags to him and opening the door. He paused, "Walter- what the hell is that?"
Walter looked alarmed, "What? What is what?"
Peter pointed accusingly at the coke can on the island, "What the hell is that doing in my car?!"
Walter rolled his eyes, "It's quite simply sitting there. You know, the pull of the earth draws it toward mass' greatest point- I believe it's called gravity. Weakest force, yet most prominent? Ringing any bells?"
"It's called sugar on my upholstery," Peter hissed in reply, "defiling this cars' purity and beauty with a potential disaster. Why don't you just draw a mustache on the Mona Lisa?!" he plucked up the can with his fingertips, holding it at arms' length as he strode off in search of a trash can.
Walter sighed, "It's a car." He rifled through the paper bags, drawing out a bag of peanut M'n'Ms. He tore them open, carefully selecting a brown candy- he hated the brown ones- and pushing it into the fold of the drivers' seat with his thumb. He sat back, folding the bag shut, "Putz."
"So, you said we needed to get a hold of some sort of collector, for floor plans?" Peter asked as he got back into the car, starting the engine.
"Presumably. The address that you acquired is very, very old, it seems, so I have no doubt that it has some sort of historical value. Certain people would keep such things as building plans and structural layout in the archives for their value." Walter righted his seat, settling the grocery bags between his knees.
"How are we supposed to get them? Steal them?"
"Is your mind stuck in some sort of criminal gear?" Walter frowned at the celery, "Why do you always buy things I hate? It takes more energy to digest celery than what the stupid vegetable gives. It's the only food that actually steals from you."
"So, say we can't get the floor plans. What then?"
"Well… I'm afraid we'd have to assess the situation as best we could from photographs, and unfortunately play the rest by ear. Did you get any peanut butter? The only way I think I can tolerate celery is with peanut butter," he began to wave the vegetable about, watching the thin leaves flutter on the long stalks.
"No, Walter, I'd planned on boiling the damn thing and mashing it into a fine paste for you. Can you please be serious for just one minute?" Peter took the celery from Walter's hands, cramming it back into the paper bag.
"I knew a man at Harvard- back when I worked there, that is- and he used to go to auctions for such things. His collection was quite extensive, really… you did too get peanut butter, I can see it in the bag. It's a good thing, too, because I simply could not force myself to eat-"
"Walter, god damn it, pay attention! Who was this man, and do you know where we could get a hold of him? I can't stress enough how important this is- nothing can go wrong, okay?" Peter looked over at his father, who sighed.
"I'm sorry Peter. You know how I get, when I'm hungry. His name was Buchanan, and I only remember because he got into a horrible car accident, and a few of the students went around calling him 'bloody Buchanan' for the longest time. The alliteration was quite sick. Or-wait- was it perhaps me, that turned the phrase…?"
"So Buchanan is long gone," Peter said flatly, "Grand. We'll just have to look someplace else. Who else, in their right mind, would collect that kind of crap?"
"I'm vaguely surprised that you don't have some sort of strange companion that is an expert in the field," Walter admitted, examining the jar of peanut butter.
"You are my strange companion, Walter. And yes, I do know where we have to go," Peter sighed. "I was just hoping we didn't have to go back to the little bastard empty-handed."
Walter looked confused, "Who?"
"Do you like cello music?"
xXx