Disclaimer: I still don't own Power Rangers or anything related, that's all Saban's thing.
A/N: Hey guys! Sorry about the wait, I just started my last semester of college (holy crap) and things are getting crazy. On a related note, updates may become sporadic and less frequent for a while due to said craziness. Anyway, thanks to all the reviewers and anyone who's read this. You guys are what keeps this story going. Enjoy!
AGPD Headquarters
Downtown Angel Grove
July 10, 2012
2:00 PM
"Good to see you're not fixating on things anymore."
Jason kicked his legs up onto the desk in front of him, tossing the thick stack of papers he held onto the hard surface with a resounding thwack. He leaned back as far as the creaking, wheeled chair he sat in would allow and clapped a hand over his eyes to block out the harsh fluorescent bulbs that filled the huge open space of the AGPD Headquarters' main bullpen with stinging artificial light and the persistent buzzing of a swarm of angry flies. Exhaling sharply, Jason gently rubbed his eyes with his thumb and index finger, trying to ease out the frustrating tedium of the last several hours.
The stack of papers he'd been going through had contained every bit of physical evidence that had been collected at any of sixteen different crime scenes spread across three cities and two states. It wasn't anything he'd never seen before, if he was frank; he just felt himself in desperate need of something to do while he waited for the autopsy results from LA to come back. Kim sat across the table from him, perched on a borrowed stool, peering over the top of the massive brown cardboard box that sat in front of her. She had been poring over old crime scene photos for the last hour and a half, massaging her temples every so often in an attempt to ignore the deafening commotion that seemed to fill every corner of the expansive room like a persistent cloud of smoke. Even whilst focused on his menial diversion, Jason hadn't been able to help but keep a distracted count of her progress – every stack she finished leafing through was flopped unceremoniously onto the table, jarring him out of his blurry concentration.
Jason had just started to doze off when he heard a throat being cleared, followed by his feet being shoved off the table. He grunted and popped one eye open. Tommy stood in front of him, arms crossed in exaggerated annoyance. "Mind keeping your damn feet off the desk?"
Jason flopped his head back against the hard back of the chair. "Right. Sorry. Can only double-check this shit so many times before I start getting hazy."
Tommy chuckled and leaned against one corner of the desk. "How you holding up?"
Jason shrugged. "As well as could be expected, I guess. Nobody kicked my ass or told me never to talk to them again, and neither of you two has looked at me like a rabid dog in the past three hours. I'll count that as a victory."
"Hey," Kim said gently, glancing up from the photo she held. "Give yourself a little more credit. It may have taken you a while, but you did the right thing, just like you always have. The others will be fine. Promise."
"Yeah. It's funny, you'd think they used to deal with this kind of thing all the time," Tommy put in with a wink. He swept his gaze over the desk and gestured to a stack of paper. "I'd have thought you would've memorized this shit by now."
Jason leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and lifting his head to look at Tommy with a devious gleam in his eye. He raised one eyebrow. "You joke now." He turned to Kim. "Right now you're holding a photo of a slender Asian woman, maybe 35, 36 years old, about five foot seven, laying half-in and half-out of the middle stall of a public restroom. The walls are dirty gray concrete, the stall walls are painted dark blue; the stall door nearest the camera is dangling from the top hinge. The woman is wearing a pink blouse and tight-fitting jeans that have been tucked into a pair of those stupid fuzzy boots. Her right arm is folded and her head is on top of her hand, like she's sleeping; her left hand is extended out behind her. She has a silver charm bracelet around her left wrist made of interlocking chain links and one of them is reflecting the camera flash."
When he finished, Jason nodded expectantly at Kim, who slowly turned the picture she was holding and set it on the tabletop, her eyes widening slowly. The photograph matched Jason's description exactly, down to the last detail. Kim chuckled softly in disbelief, mouthing the word "Wow."
Tommy licked his lips a few times and blinked rapidly for a moment before turning to Jason. "Good to see you're not fixating on things anymore."
A broad smile broke out on Jason's tired face; Tommy laughed a little in response and ran a hand through his hair. "Damn, Jase. I don't know if that was awesome or just fucking creepy."
"I'd settle for a little of both," Jason replied, smacking a fist against the inside of his hand. "So, where've you been all this time?"
The former White Ranger grabbed a nearby chair and nearly fell into it. Kim tossed the pile of pictures she held back into the box and slid it away from her across the table so she could get a clear view of Tommy, who leaned forward and spoke to them in the soft terms of a co-conspirator. "We just finished processing John Doe's fingerprints and the ones we pulled off the accident scene."
"I guess it would be too much to hope for an ID," Kim whispered.
"You'd be right," Tommy said grimly. "We ran every database we could think of and came up completely empty." When Kim and Jason exchanged commiserating looks, Tommy added, "Which you two were apparently expecting."
"Par for the course, man," Jason said. "So far I believe we're 0-16 in victim ID. The guys investigating the goddamn Jack the Ripper murders had better luck than we've had."
Tommy could only nod in return. "There's more." Jason and Kim's heads whipped toward him, their expressions a mixture of hope and impatience. "You were right, Jase. The only prints found in the car were our victim's on the knife. The blood on it is the same type as his, too. He gave himself that cut on his forehead."
Jason furrowed his brow and stared at the floor. "Which means he dug that little chip thing out of his own forehead and barely bled as much as a typical nosebleed. How is that even possible?"
No one spoke for a long moment; the only sounds the dull roar of voices from the others in the large room and the loud hum of the lights. Finally, Kim said, "Not to add another dimension of weird to this whole situation, but have either of you considered what this means about what that chip thing probably is?"
"Well, something tells me it doesn't hold the secret to curing Alzheimer's," Jason answered. "And that it most likely wasn't put there voluntarily. Would you dig something out of your own skin if you had it put there on your own volition?"
"I did have this piercing once that got really infected…" Tommy started. Jason cut him off with a playful shove. "Seriously, though, whether it was voluntary or not, whoever put this thing in our guy's head must've had a reason. What the hell is that thing for?"
"You couldn't pull anything off of it?" Jason inquired.
"Oh, yeah, the thing just fit right into my USB port," Tommy snapped. Jason leaned back a little and Tommy's tone immediately softened. "Sorry. No, we couldn't figure out any way to retrieve whatever data might be on the thing since there isn't any obvious input or output port. I swear, it's like the thing's from another planet."
Kim suddenly smiled, reaching over and nudging Jason, who beheld her newfound mirth with confusion. She glanced between the two men sharing the table with her and finally just spat it out. "I think we know someone who can help with that."
Before anyone could reply, the muffled chorus to "Smells Like Teen Spirit" began playing from Jason's pocket. The former Red Ranger reached in and slid out his phone. He tapped the screen gently and brought it up to his ear. "Scott."
Tommy met Kim's eye and raised an eyebrow. "Nirvana?" He mouthed at her.
Kim shrugged and smiled, stifling a laugh. "He's been going through a bit of a nineties nostalgia phase lately. Last week he insisted on hanging a framed poster for Independence Day on the wall in our basement."
"Could've been worse."
"How?"
Tommy leaned in toward her and drew in a long breath for dramatic effect. "It could've been Titanic."
"You two will never let me live that down, will you?"
"Depends," Jason said, tapping his phone again and returning it to his pocket. "Will you take that picture of nineties DiCaprio off the desktop on your computer at work?"
Tommy turned to Kim wide-eyed. She shot Jason a death glare. "You swore you wouldn't tell anyone."
He struggled to bite back a laugh. "I'll take that as a no." Suddenly Jason couldn't hold back his laughter anymore; it came in wheezing gasps, shaking his shoulders and turning his face red. Kim crossed her arms and fixed her gaze on him, tapping a foot on the linoleum.
"You done?" She asked after a moment.
Jason looked up at her as he caught his breath. "That was Foster," he said, clearing his throat loudly. "They got autopsy results back."
"And?"
"They found chips just like the one our guy had in seven other bodies. One from each pair. The other half had nothing."
The three of them just stared at each other for a minute. "So what you're saying, then," Tommy said slowly. "Is that there were seven other people with chips just like this one who never got around to having them removed?"
"Yup. And apparently there were eight other people out there with no chips at all who somehow ended up dead too. At least the pattern seems consistent: one person with a chip, one without. Every time. Our guy seems to be the only one who ever cut it out; I don't think it's a coincidence that there was such a gap in both time and distance between him being found and the body before him."
"Or that we found his car wrapped around a light pole three blocks away from the crime scene," Tommy added.
Kim rose suddenly to her feet and began gathering up the papers she and Jason had brought in with them. The two men watched her, bewildered. "We should go," she said, noticing their looks. "This is getting us nowhere. Until we figure out what those chip thingies are we have no idea what we're dealing with here. We need to get a hold of Billy sooner, rather than later." She picked up the box and started for the door. Jason and Tommy shot amused glances at each other before standing and following her.
As the threesome approached the door, Tommy nudged Jason with his elbow and gestured to Kim. "Hey Jase," he said cheerfully, waiting for the woman in front of him to cock her head toward him before going on. "Who knows? Maybe if Billy figures something out Kim will let you draw her like one of your French girls."
As Jason and Tommy dissolved into a fit of hysterical laughter, Kim rolled her eyes and took a hand off the box long enough to give them the finger before shoving the door open and storming out. "Arrested development, party of two," she muttered under her breath. Jason and Tommy pushed through behind her, still giggling softly to themselves as the heavy wooden door swung shut behind them.
General Peter Blaylock's Office
ERECA Headquarters
Somewhere Outside Angel Grove
July 10, 2012
2:30 PM
Peter Blaylock had never considered himself a man to be easily shaken. Six tours of duty: Vietnam, Panama, Desert Storm, Kosovo, that whole shitstorm in Somalia, and not even so much as a nightmare, let alone one of those obnoxious cases of PTSD that seemed to pop up around every corner like trailer trash relatives. He'd put bullets into kids less than half his age, jumped out of planes surrounded by enemy fire without much more than a rusty revolver and a canvas backpack he hoped to god had a parachute in it; if he concentrated, he could still bring to mind the sensation of another man's neck breaking under his hands. All of that, not to mention three-plus decades of almost constant women problems and a heaping side dish of Daddy issues, and the only real psychological scars he would own up to were a tendency toward suspicion and that lingering paranoia that develops after a few weeks spent dodging sniper fire. Blaylock prided himself on his ability to stay cool, calm and collected long after all kinds of shit had hit all kinds of fans, and anyone he worked with would tell you the man thrived under pressure, had an almost innate ability to filter out stress that would fracture the sanities of lesser men.
But god damn it, this whole fucking mess was on the short track to driving him crazy; and not the easy, adorably senile grandpa kind of crazy, either – full-on Charlie Manson crazy. Blaylock tossed the manila folder haphazardly filled with clandestinely acquired police and FBI crime scene photos across the top of his desk, watching with a detached sense of amusement as it fluttered open, its contents scattering like roaches under a light bulb. Massaging his temples, Blaylock began pacing the impressive length of his office. His nervous footsteps soon began wearing tracks into the dull grey carpet that lined the floor. He couldn't remember the last time a project had gone so incredibly FUBAR. The general tugged his tie knot down and undid his collar. He clasped his rapidly moistening hands behind his back and stopped in front of the massive collection of weaponry that sat on display on the far wall of the office.
Blaylock sighed as he let his gaze drift over his exhibit. Sixteen bodies they'd have to account for now. He found himself wishing he'd just gone with his gut and ordered the first body disposed of as usual, gotten the whole thing over with; but he'd gotten jumpy, felt compelled by the very human instinct for covering one's own ass to order the asset assigned to the first target terminated as well, figuring that if what he'd been assured about the operatives was true, not only would the bodies deny identification but he could distance himself somehow from a project he'd felt reservations about from day one. Unable to identify the bodies, unable to determine the mysterious cause of death, law enforcement personnel would eventually just give up and let the case go cold.
Though that presumed there'd only be the two bodies. But scientists had continued to flee, refusing to continue with the project and believing themselves capable of outsmarting a top secret agency with infinite government support behind it.
Even he'd been surprised at how quickly the situation had escalated – the brain-drain of eight dead scientists was bad enough without having to wade through five separate jurisdictions worth of damage control – as well as the persistence of the FBI investigators. Evidently, when Special Agent Jason Scott sank his teeth into something, the fucker didn't let go. Even now, despite the agency's continued attempts at sabotage, the son of a bitch had dug in like an Alabama tick.
And now word had reached him that somehow Bravo 7 had self-deactivated. They had assured him it was impossible; he'd been given promise after promise by all number of scientists, military personnel and yes-men in thousand dollar suits and shit-eating grins that the control over the assets, once established, would be absolutely unbreakable unless severed by a controller.
Well apparently somebody forgot to carry a one somewhere and we ended up chasing the fucker halfway across California. Blaylock reached his left hand out, still letting his focus wander, and let his fingers come to rest atop a Beretta that sat on a hook near the bottom of the showcase. He closed his eyes and pressed down on it; the hook slid down the wall about four inches and a door about a foot square clicked open in the panel directly in front of Blaylock's face. He lifted his head and swung the door open. The contents were unassuming: a small stack of neatly collated documents sat beneath a mahogany box with a tiny golden keyhole in its front. The only other items in the little secret cubby were a bottle of very expensive whiskey and a crystal glass; Blaylock removed these, poured two fingers of the whiskey into the glass, and swirled it a little while he replaced the bottle and pressed the door shut. He tossed his head back and downed a swig of the amber liquid, reveling in the burn it left behind as it went down. He was about to take another when his phone chirped from his desk.
Crossing the office again, Blaylock set the glass down at the edge of his mahogany desk and reached for the phone that lay near his keyboard. He had a secretary, of course, for official calls, but this was his private line; the only people who had this number were those in positions of top priority. That was why he didn't bother to check the caller ID, simply raised the phone to his ear and said, "Yes?"
"Sir." The voice on the other end of the phone was hushed, its every word accompanied by a soft burst of static as the speaker breathed into the mike. "The search of Bravo's car was far more thorough than we first thought. The vehicle's armory has been compromised. Attempts to recover the contents were unsuccessful."
"Did you get the chip?" Blaylock demanded impatiently.
"Negative. Oliver hasn't let the thing out of his sight since he got back from the accident site. And those two FBI agents haven't left him alone, either."
"That would be the Scotts, I presume," Blaylock muttered. I'm sure Agent Scott was quite excited to finally have a bone dangled in his face. Aloud, he said, "It's been three hours since Tango 9 reported in from the crash site, more than seven since Bravo's body was discovered, and all I've asked you to do since then is recover the damn chip before the AGPD techs got their hands on it. Do you mean to tell me you've been active in the Department for more than four months and you couldn't figure out a way to get it out of there?"
There was a pause. When the other man next spoke, his voice held a tinge of anxiety. "It gets worse, sir."
Blaylock said nothing, just waited for a long moment, letting the silence grow more and more uncomfortable before the other man couldn't help but break down and fill it. "They…the three of them walked out of the building about an hour ago. I was held up by another officer and couldn't pursue without risking my cover –"
"You think I give a shit about your cover at this point?" Blaylock nearly shouted. "You're lucky I don't activate your ass right now and steer you after them like a goddamn RC car. Only reason I don't is to avoid wasting a perfectly good controller on what should be basic recon." Blaylock stopped to let his words sink in before continuing, a little softer now. "Luckily for you we have addresses for all three of them. First chance you get, you follow them and bring me that fucking chip. They cannot figure out what it is or this whole operation is shot to hell. You got that?"
"Y-yessir," the other man replied, unable to hide the tremor in his voice. Blaylock tapped the screen to disconnect and tossed the phone onto his desk. He stepped slowly around the desk and nearly fell into his chair. He rested his elbows on the desk and buried his face in his hands.
"Christ," he whispered, lifting his head slowly and running both hands through his thinning hair. The only reason he had to go through this whole routine in the first place was to maintain the confidentiality of this agency; it was times like these he wished to God he'd just accepted that offer from Homeland Security and spared himself the trouble.
Blaylock downed the last of his whiskey and booted up his computer. Immediately he received two different alerts – one was a message from one of the security personnel, but since it wasn't marked as urgent, he disregarded it for the time being in favor of the other, which seemed much more pressing. The second alert was a notification from a program he'd designed himself (he wasn't about to let that second major in computer science go to waste). The program's function was essentially that of a digital security camera – if anyone managed to gain access to Blaylock's private files, the program was activated with no way for the intruder to know; it then proceeded to track the intruder's every move, letting them look at whatever they wanted but recording for Blaylock exactly what they'd looked at. The program was now telling him someone had done just that in the last two hours.
Frowning, Blaylock clicked the notification and began scanning through the recording, examining exactly which files had been viewed. His eyes widened as the crime scene photos from the ongoing FBI/AGPD investigation of the asset terminations began scrolling across the monitor, the exact photos which at this very moment littered the floor around his feet; when one particular image appeared, along with a label indicating that it had been viewed for nearly ten minutes, the general slammed a fist down on his desk. The crystal glass shook, as did his phone, from the force. It was that photo. The one he'd dropped in the hallway, the one Cranston had asked him about –
Cranston.
Shit.
Blaylock's hand shot out so hard he almost knocked the intercom off his desk. Just as his finger brushed against the call button, he noticed that the other alert, the one he'd ignored, referred to Cranston as well. The subject heading read, "re: Cranston's phone call." His hand shaking, Blaylock opened it and found a transcript of a call Cranston had received a few hours earlier. It seemed trivial.
Then he noticed the names.
"Sorry, Kimberly."
"Jason and I are calling everyone to a meeting at our place to, uh…explain some things."
No way. No way in hell.
Cranston knew the Scotts. Very well, by the look of things; even though he only saw first names here, Blaylock knew in his gut that he was right. Not only had Cranston violated the privacy of his personal files, he had a close personal relationship with two very serious threats to the security of the agency.
Blaylock closed the transcript and drummed his fingers on the desk. He'd really thought Cranston would've cut and run when the others did, but somehow the brilliant bastard had been so focused on his own work that he hadn't noticed anything around him. At the time, Blaylock had actually been happy – Cranston's results were undeniable, his easy acceptance of authority figures invaluable; those two things together had convinced Blaylock to grant the man his ludicrous request to keep some of his methods and resources a secret. Or so he'd thought. The doc had picked the worst possible time to suddenly develop a rebellious streak. It was clear now that he'd become a liability.
The general calmly reached out and pressed the intercom button, inquiring of his secretary whether Dr. Cranston was still in the building. No, came the reply a moment later, he left half an hour ago. "Poor guy's been here for two days straight," the secretary added. "Bout time he went outside; you'd think he'd spent his entire life in dark underground labs staring at computers."
He let her ramble on, his face slowly forming into an expression of steely resolve. Cranston had proven that he couldn't really be trusted. He'd have to be dealt with – but first things first.
It was time for full disclosure.
