In the wee hours of this morning, the "Section Six" operative, Kiera, struggled to fall back to sleep. She brooded, thinking deeply about the task force she was assigned to, their efforts to counteract Liber8's subversive orchestrations. This covert operation's efforts to hinder the group's subversive activities were having minimal success at best. What little progress made seemed dwarfed in the grand scheme of things.
The streets sounds beyond her shut window were nil. Even the glaring light from the nearby neon signs weren't as bothersome as they sometimes were. Her present bout with insomnia has nothing to do with external causes.
Plainly, her cause for being unable to sleep lay in todays' disturbing, yet astonishing events. Seeing her 17-year-old grandmother as a feisty, headstrong, exotically pierced and beautiful teen was a rare experience. The impression left was indelible. To glimpse one's living, breathing roots was an incident she would never forget as long as she lived.
The death of Kellog's grandmother, Mattie, was a debacle, which she also would not soon forget. She felt largely responsible for the loss. Kagame had discovered Kellog's involvement with her, and had demanded that in exchange for Lily, Mattie could go free. A twinge of remorse colored her feelings while Kiera thought about how Kellog had been supporting her financially. Now the youthful, trusting innocent was dead, shot down by one of Liber8's own, Travis. Kiera had tried taking him out, but repeatedly, she had missed. He still lived to dog her along with the rest of the rabid, militant cell.
But, since Kellog had not disappeared, blotted out from existence when his grandmother died, then there was a good chance no more attempts on Kiera's relatives would be made.
She reviewed the success and failure of the plan. She had hatched it and Kellog had cooperated, lending his talents. One life had been saved, only to have had another life taken. Where was the justice in all this? Perhaps there was none, anywhere, neither in this timeline, nor any others. What was happening within the timeline she had left behind, the one in which her family inhabited?
Her forsaken Sam and Greg seemed so distant to her sometimes, times such as these, when her only company was the steady, yet odd beating of her own heart. Her emotions erupted and the entire room felt as if it were tilting, falling down stairs. She exhaled vehemently with her eyes pinned to the shadowy ceiling. Tears were forming in her eyes; she didn't blink.
Kiera sat up in the comfortable, rather spacious bed. She clutched her head, bringing it down between her bent legs. Her head ached, her brain seeming more like a reservoir. There was too much in it, the contents flowing too swiftly through. Oh, how she wished…
It would be unburdening, revealing the truth to Carlos. He deserved a partner he could wholly trust, not one who was forced to keep vital things from him while dangling half-truths. It was inevitable that mostly during the day they locked horns. His were as sizeable as hers.
"If I told him what I really am, where I'm from," Kiera murmured in the room whose darkness was mottled by faint light, "I would never be heard of, or from, again. I would be locked away for unending, concentrated psychoanalysis."
No one would be blamed for it either. A woman claiming to come from a time far in the future, insisting that she was fighting those who would change the future by sowing seeds of anarchy now would have to be 'warped' in the worst way. Kiera's lips assumed a wry smile. "Even he would stare at me sideways, despite his willingness to give me the benefit of the doubt."
Her chuckle resonated deep in her throat. Yeah, Carlos was becoming a better ally, day-by-day, but her claim would strain even his limits of staking his reputation on her believability—and being in her right mind.
She eased off her legs and with assessing, eyes surveyed her quaint, old, old-fashioned surroundings. She wrapped her arms around her bent legs to rest her chin upon her knees. She rocked back and forth, idly wriggling her toes. This room, oddly enough, was feeling more like home.
"Home sweet home," Kiera mumbled, a twinge of settledness settling over herself. Again, her mind flitted to how young, poignantly fresh-faced her grandmother-to-be looked, a sweetie deep down. "But not vulnerable. No, ma'am. Grammy has fight and fire-eater written all over her."
"Where you get it from."
"Alec…"
"Thought you were asleep…" Apparently Alec wasn't.
Crinkling her nose, Kiera told him, "I appreciate you, and all you do for me, but when I want to be alone—"
"Like Greta?"
"Who?"
Sadler's snicker was background noise. "You never heard of Greta Garbo?"
"Oh…that Greta," Kiera filled in, a note of humor in her voice. "Famous people of long, long ago still exist in the future."
"Just checking."
"Could you afford me my privacy?" she said, stringent about not sounding snooty.
Striking an apologetic chord, Alec replied, "Of course, sure. Sorry. Let me know when you need me."
Kiera silently praised the kid for his understanding and readiness to do as he was told. "Thanks. I'm going to give falling asleep another try. I'll be in touch."
"Me too. Night."
"Night, Alec."
No sooner did she have her mind all to herself again when her cell phone buzzed as it vibrated. "Hey."
"Kiera," Carlos said urgently, "report to headquarters as soon as you can. It's urgent."
"How urgent?"
"Mobilization of the entire Vancouver police force. Is that urgent enough for ya?" Sighing, he followed up, "Not over the phone."
"Right," Kiera acknowledged, ignoring the impatience he'd stitched into his voice. "I'm there."
He ended the call and Kiera stared at the rudimentary communication device. She stuck the Bluetooth in her ear.
"What is it, Alec?" She was confident he had not quit listening in entirely, and had the situation sized up.
"I know a smidgen less than you at the moment."
"Well—get on it," Kiera admonished, dressing with tornadic velocity and then barreled out the door.
"All over it." Less than a second later, he produced, "LiberEight is planning to sabotage key infrastructures."
"Of what description?" Kiera asked, rife with exasperation-laced irritation as she neared headquarters.
"That I don't know, yet," Alec admitted.
"Okay. When you have something more concrete, fill me in."
"It's what I do…"
Smiling at his admission, and done parking, Kiera raced inside police headquarters.