Twelve Days Ago

The Volcano

Priest looked all around himself, at the looks of disbelief and slight ridicule. When it was his turn to say why he was in that room, about to embark on the minutemen's mission, he had told them a lie. The lie itself is not of significance, what matters is that his dishonesty was quickly revealed, through a discrepancy in his tale with true tales of his past that he had told Mona.

"This is about trust," said Al-Sheikh, "Yet you tell lies when everybody else is baring their soul."

"Well what the hell do you want? Do you want me to tell that I feel sorry for all the people I've killed in the centuries I've seen? Well I don't."

Silence fell, Priest's lack of remorse for past evils coming as a surprise.

"In Scotland, I killed kids, five year olds, younger even. I was an orphaner, a widow-maker, a terror; a ruddy living nightmare. I did everything terrible that could be inflicted on another. When I left and traveled the world I grew less prolific, but I did kill. It wasn't until I was nearly a hundred and sixty did I stop killing for sport. When I joined the government Uncle Sam gave me free reign to kill the enemy, I fought Italians and German soldiers and did it diligently. I killed in Korea and in the coldest, darkest corners of Soviet Russia... And I'm sorry to tell you this, but I'm as about eaten up with guilt over killing a little girl in Scotland in 1745 as I am over killing an SS officer in 1945. I have no remorse. Believe me, I wish I did. I want to be sorry for what I did; I know I should, but... I'm not! I can't! If I could do it all over again, I would do everything different. I would not shed a drop of innocent blood. But as it stands, I have no guilt. And you know the funniest thing? Do you want to split your sides laughing? Do you want to know why I'm here, why I want to join this unit?

"I haven't slept for two months." said Priest calmly, though with a hint of grim desperation in his voice, "Ever since the night we all found out why thirty-one people are dead, because of me and my inability to let things go. Whenever I'm alone, all I can think about, all I can see when I close my eyes is they and how I doomed them all over an old grudge."

Now

Casablanca, Morocco

Shaun dropped his cigarette at the gate of Rick's Café and Hotel before heading in. He eluded the apathetic receptionist and headed directly toward the elevator. He pressed the number for the fourth floor and stood back to wait.

Arriving at his floor, he exited and walked down the corridor to room 23. He hesitated as he stood at the door, and then knocked unsurely.

A few second later the door was unbolted and opened, revealing Priest standing behind it, bare-footed and wearing Jeans and a white t-shirt.

"Shaun."

"Hey, Jude."

"I suppose you want to come in."

Priest spoke to Shaun noticeably formally, his tone was entirely bland, neither fond nor spiteful. Shaun walked in, and took a look around the room as Priest bolted the door again. The room was less than immaculate, leftover room service and empty bottles of drink were everywhere, as were several yellow legal pads filled with writing in blue.

"Frank, did you see my towel?"

Shaun looked toward the bedroom where a slight brunette woman stepped out, she took notice of Shaun and stopped in her tracks.

"Oh, hi." She said in an American accent.

"Tricia," Priest said, "This is Mike Gallagher, my associate. Mike, Tricia McMillan."

"It's a pleasure."

"Hi." Said Tricia with a smile as she headed for the door, "Umm… I'd love to stay and talk but I really have to get going."

"Want to catch up tonight?" asked Priest.

"Sure, if I can get away early. Bye, Mike."

"G'Bye."

Tricia got out and closed the door behind her. Shaun turned toward Priest and asked,

"Who was that?"

"She told you, her name is Tricia."

"And?"

"She's a physicist."

"…And?"

"And she giggles in bed."

"I meant… Forget it."

Priest went further into the suite, and sat on the sofa, the raised his feet on the coffee table which was littered with crumpled piece of papers and full legal pads.

"Do you want a drink?" asked Priest as he started scribbling, occasionally stealing glances at the TV that was playing an old Humphrey Bogart movie.

"It's nine in the morning."

"Hmm."

A minute of uncomfortable silence passed as Shaun tried to think of something to say.

"What are you doing?" asked Shaun, instantly feeling foolish for being unable to come up with anything better.

"Writing my memoirs."

"Memoirs? What, are you dying?"

Priest looked up at Shaun blankly, then back at his writing as he went on.

"It was a joke." Said Shaun awkwardly, "Seriously, why are you Bertie Wooster, all of a sudden?"

"When you're an insomniac you have to find something to fill your days and night with… Besides, this place brings back memories."

"What place? You mean this hotel?"

"It wasn't always a hotel. Before it was a hotel it used to a nightclub, the biggest in Casablanca. Back in the forties, this was the place to be, everyone came here; Vichy supporters, the SS, people trying escape all of the above. I came here in '43 after my first mission for the government, back then the place was being run by a man who worked for the O.S.S."

"What's that?"

"That was the C.I.A. before it was the C.I.A. Do you want a drink?"

"… It's still nine in the morning."

"I know; I just assumed you might need a drink to say why you're really here."

Shaun hung his head.

"You got me. Listen… A few weeks ago I said something that wasn't true, I was angry and I was frustrated and I said things to hurt you, things that I didn't mean."

"No, you did mean them." Said Priest as he stood up and stood by the window, looking at the drapes blocking out the sun, touching the fabric lightly with his finger tips.

"No, I didn't."

"Yes, you did mean them. You do blame me for what happened to Liz. You might know that I didn't mean or want Liz to get hurt, you might not hate me for it, but that doesn't change the fact that deep down, you think that it's my fault."

"Jude-"

"It's alright, Shaun. You're right; I am the one to blame. If I was a better kind of person or someone else entirely, the chances are that Liz would be alive. Liz would be alive, she'd be four months pregnant and you'd still be in London, tending bar at the Winchester, happy as a lark."

"I-"

"Don't bullshit a bullshitter, Shaun."

"You're right, I do blame you." Said Shaun, "But I'll get over it, eventually."

"No you won't." Priest said as he brushed the drapes aside and pressed the palm of his hand against the glass, feeling in the exquisite pain of simmering flash, embracing every nanosecond of it. Shaun watched on in fascinated horror, the sizzling odor reaching his nostrils.

"I'm an old man; I know an everlasting grudge when I see one."

London

"Do you have a light?" asked Harmony, holding a cigarette in her fingers.

"Since when do you pick up the habit?" said Mernae as she took a matchbox out of her purse and placed it on the bench.

"You know how it is."

Harmony picked up the lighter and lit her cigarette as an order of sushi arrived for Mernae. The waiter curled his nose in disgust as Harmony sipped some sake and took a long drag of smoke.

"So what did you find out?" asked Mernae as she picked up a piece of cucumber with a pair of chopsticks.

"Mason is right; the Seoul branch is getting shut down. Their employees are being attached to various Korean government agencies. By next month all that will be left is a station with a staff of fifteen, tops."

"Did you happen to find where the League are moving their East Asia base to?"

"Tokyo. They've already bought and fitted the headquarters."

"How do the have lined up to replace Paik?"

"A guy called Jeimuzu Suzuki."

"Never heard of him. How do you spell it?"

"J-E-I-M-U-Z-U."

"Got it. What can you tell me about him?"

"He's in his forties, I guess that makes him the youngest branch head ever. He used to be a big man in Japanese Intelligence in the nineties, wiped out an upstart Ninja organization by himself. He wasn't their only choice, first they considered a guy called Light something. The deputy director of the French Branch, Sofie Fatale was also considered, since she already had underworld connections in Tokyo. But Bond decided on Suzuki, Light was too young and kinda bonkers, I guess the French Branch couldn't spare Sofie Fatale."

"That's impressive. I never hoped to get all this information at once. How did you manage it?"

"ugh… Bond passed out on top of me. I got a chance to look through his briefcase."

"Right. What about Paik?"

"Bond had his doubt at first, but after an autopsy by the League's top scientists, they decided that he wasn't killed by monkeys in business suits.

"He looks kinda torn up about him. He flew over for his Funeral. He's flying over to inaugurate the Tokyo branch next week."

"Bond was a long time friend of his." Said Mernae as she dipped her chopsticks into her food, "Long before Paik amassed his power and wealth, he used to be an MI-6 agent in North Korea, where he worked in the black market. When Bond gained some connections in the League, he pulled a few strings to get Paik started up in south Korea. Yeah, they were old pals. Bond is an old pal of a lot of the Branch directors; Leiter, Robur and el-Kherish are all people he'd known as far as the seventies at least. What else did you find out?"

"Suzuki is meeting him here in London for the first time this week. I'll get you the when and where as soon as possible."

"Thanks," said Mernae with a mouth full of radish, "Wow. You've gotten this down to a habit."

"Yeah." Said Harmony, despondently.

"Is everything alright?"

"Everything's fine."

"How're you and Bond?"

"He still grabs my ass all the time, if that's what you mean." Said Harmony and gestured toward her empty glass, the waiter came and filled it with sake.

"I thought he'd loose interest by now."

"That's why we picked you."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, the tarts Bond are used to are around him for a few months at a time, four tops. Eventually he gets tired of them and ships them off to whatever station that's lacking employees at the moment. You, on the other hand, have an advantage above all others. How old were you when you died? I mean when you became a vampire."

"Seventeen."

"There you go."

"What, you mean he's-"

"He's randy for you because you look like you're seventeen and you always will, also you won't get tired of the Vodka martini soaked orgy that is the life Bond cannot let go of."

"Eww."

"Yeah. Bond is a dirty, old, sexist cold-war relic. It's no wonder at all that Sofie Fatale got shafted for the Tokyo office. That wanker couldn't stand the idea of a branch being headed up by a woman."

"What about Emma Peel, and Josephine?"

"Emma Peel is an old mate of his, and he mostly lets her do P.R. work, anyway." Said Mernae, then chuckled, "Mason often jokes that Bond never got her into bed when they were both working for British Intelligence, on the count of Peel being married back then, so he feels compelled to keep her around, hoping to bag that last cougar.

"As for Josephine, he can't afford not to keep her. She's been with the League for ages and she's good at what she does."

"He hates her, you know. Just hearing the name Josephine, or even Joe gets him in a bad mood. Why do you think that is?"

"I'm not sure. Bond's still living in the sixties, where female spies' job was to keep a firm chest in a low-cut blouse and be ready for a sex romp at any time."

"You mean like me." Said Harmony as she sipped her sake.

"What? No! Darling, I didn't mean it that way."

"It's okay." Said Harmony as she picked up her purse and stood up from her seat, Pay for my sake, alright? Next time, I'll pay you back."

"Harmony, wait!" called Mernae.

But Harmony was already gone.

Casablanca

The minutemen sat wherever they could in Priest's hotel suite, Mona, Lucy and Priest on the sofa. Sayid and O'Brien on a pair of arm chairs and Shaun leaned against a cabinet. Al-Sheikh stood at the front of the room, explaining the reason they were called together.

"Before Forrest Gump was justly executed, he confessed to everything he did, the what and the how. He told you that he'd been recruited in M.I.T. and trained combat and intelligence gathering. He was hand-picked by Josephine herself, and her assistant, Mandy Hughes was designated to be his handler. His job was to collect clues and bits of intelligence that could alert the League whenever we decide to launch a significant operation, or aid them in the hunt for the four captains.

"Realizing the list of electronic delivery, Gump used a series of drops and spoke to Hughes over the phone once every two weeks. He's met with her only once every six months, three times since he's been with us."

"How come?" asked Shaun.

"Deep cover dictates such practices." Explained Al-Sheikh, "There is a good chance that the League knows we're back in operation, after the Metropolis job. It's possible that they do not know yet, and more inclined to think that was a bizarre, yet mundane robbery. But we're going to operate to assume we haven't.

"Knowing that we've resurfaced, the League will expect Gump to contact them. This gives us an advantage, to pass them misleading intelligence for months to come."

"They're going to twig on, aren't they?" asked Shaun.

"Yes, eventually. But we'll make hay while they're in the dark, and I have reasons to believe we will have moved on to bigger operations by then."

"After all this time in hibernation," Priest said, "Gump will have to contact Hughes before going back undercover. None of this will work unless they meet Gump, and Gump is as dead as Charles Foster Kane."

"Thank you, Priest. Your powers of pointing out the obvious continues to serve this unit well." Said Al-Sheikh sarcastically, "We've got that covered. Eel?"

"Yeah?"

"You can expand any part of your anatomy, correct?"

"Oh, Yeah." Said O'Brien with a suggestive smile and a nod at Lucy.

"You lookin' at me, punk?" asked Priest with some hostility.

"To which shapes?"

"Pretty much anything. I was once cornered by cops in furniture store; I give them the slip by shaping my body into a lazy boy."

"Alright. Can you stretch your facial muscles?"

"What? Yeah, I suppose. Why?"

"Could you change your face's shape to match that of Forrest Gump?"

"You know… I guess so. Huh, that would be kind of cool."

"You want O'Brien to pose as Gump when he goes and meets Gump's handler?"

"Precisely."

"Alright, this is gonna be awesome." Said O'Brien cheerfully.

"No, it won't." said Al-Sheikh, walking up to O'Brien as he sat in his armchair.

"You have learn to contort your face's shape into that of Gump, down to the last pore and you'll have to learn to maintain that shape. That won't be it."

O'Brien shrunk in his seat, feeling Al-Sheikh's intimidating presence in full.

"You will have to learn to manipulate your vocal cords to sound like Gump, and you'll have to learn his mannerisms, adopt his accent, emulate his general attitude. And you have two days to do all that."

"gulp…How the hell am I gonna do that?"

"Find a way." Said Al-Sheikh as he gave O'Brien his back, then walked away from him, "Your teammates will help you till then and coach your progress. I'll arrange for the meeting and contact the handler as Gump. When you're meeting with Hughes, your teammates will provide back-ups and extract you should the operation fail."

One Day Later

The Red October

"You sound like you just stepped out of a bar in south Boston." Said Priest as he leaned over O'Brien's shoulder while Sayid and Jimmy Saint stood nearby, leaning against the wall.

The three were in a chamber, rehearsing for the big event. O'Brien features were momentarily those of Gump, a task that he managed to achieve within six hours of the minutemen's meeting with Al-Sheikh. The voice change took the rest of the day. The accent however proved to be quite challenging.

"Boy, I wish I did." Said O'Brien as he shifted in his seat, "I'd much rather be drunk than with the you three, right now."

"And I'd rather be eyeballing Mona's arse while she's not looking, but here we are."

"He sounds close enough." Said Sayid.

"Yeah," Jimmy said, "Accent's fine."

"No, it isn't. It's too genuine."

"I'm from Boston." Said O'Brien "My accent IS genuine. But please, tell us. How did Gump sound?"

Priest sighed as he crouched by a wall.

"Gump was the bastard son of a mentally handicapped shrimper from Greenbow, Alabama. He turned out cleaver, but it still gave him a chip on his shoulder. You can bet that his classmates at M.I.T. gave him hell for it, so he became an arrogant bastard, started using a Boston Brahmin accent. It wasn't bad, but he was too self-conscious that he sometimes went overboard, trying to hide it. Sometimes his southern drawl came out regardless."

"…Fine." Said O'Brien in a grunt, and then adopted an accent, saying, "You're being too anal."

"I haven't been anal since 1876." Priest said with a smirk, "And that was much better. Say something else."

Shaun looked on from the corridor outside, listening t footsteps that came from around the corridor.

"How's the training going?" asked Mona as she emerged.

"Better, I suppose."

"Shaun, we need to talk about something."

"What do you mean?"

"About where we're going."

"There's nothing to talk about. We're going to London; it's as simple as that."

"If you want to sit this one out, we'll understand. The situation is overkill anyway. It's only been two months."

"It's almost three." Said Shaun, then straightened up and walked away, "I'm going."

Mona watched as Shaun walked down the dark corridor, sining to himself as the four inside the chamber were arguing again, singing,

"'London calling to the zombies of death…quit holding out and draw another breath…'"

R&R.

Next Chapter: The minutemen descend upon London. Will O'Brien pull it off? Will Shaun be able to handle being back in a city filled with bad memories? Will Jimmy cross paths with his old flame, Mernae Waths (a.k.a. Whatsername)? Will Mona ever catch Priest looking at her ass?

Only one way to find out. Tune in tomorrow, same opposition channel, same oposition time.