"...In the face of public exhaustion or personal agreement, the generals and admirals stepped into the background, silent in the face of their failures. But not MacArthur: he publicly and aggressively denounced the peace for sullying the honor of the American people and their allies, for handing the future to fascist thugs, to being a disgrace which desecrated the honorable dead. In 1945, it seemed like MacArthur was the only American who wanted to keep on fighting…"
When I came to, or at least, snapped out of my homicidal rage, a few things occurred to me.
One, that I had fucked up. Badly.
The bastard didn't look like he was getting up anytime soon. Lying still on the ground, bleeding from the head, groaning quietly. I wasn't sure if he would make it. Normally, in my book, it'd be a plus…
But then came the second thing…
Secondly, that I had fucked up in front of a bunch of witnesses. This Shaun motherfucker could be dead, and now I had at least a good twenty people with some sort of…small cameras staring me down as I stood.
Over the body of a bleeding man.
Holding a shotgun.
…
…Well, I'm fucked.
"Holy shit, man…what'd you do?", I heard one of the girls ask, shock and horror ripe within her tone.
I didn't respond. My head still throbbed from the blow this Shaun bastard had given me, and I may not be thinking straight.
Fuck.
I didn't say anything as I slung my shotgun over my back, and let my rifle hang over my chest once more. I walked away slowly from the scene, mind racing as I tried to hurriedly form a plan. I didn't know where I was, nor the terrain.
Current plan: Make a run for it and hope I don't get killed on arrival. Where's that bastard War when I needed him?
"I'm here, Charlie.", the familiar voice spoke up in my head, with an almost apologetic tone.
"Where the hell have you been?", I muttered quietly, my voice filled with bitterness.
"Well, one could say I've been getting the…hang, of having a Host again.", the all too familiar voice of War explained.
The sensation of his words in my head was an oddity. It lie somewhere between your normal inner voice in your head, the one that spoke your thoughts to yourself, and the simple act of listening to the words of someone else. Somewhere between them lay the clear voice of my new companion.
But there lay the question of what he meant by "Host". And how and why he was speaking to me like I was a goddamn schizophrenic.
Before I could voice any of these thoughts, War cut in with, "I know what you're going to say, Charlie, but I'd advise we don't go through the motions of what exactly your deal entailed at this moment. After all, I've got a feeling that staying here would be detrimental to the both of us. There are things lurking in the background vastly worse than a meathead and his girlfriend."
His voice wasn't smooth. Not at all, seeing as it was mine. It was gravelly, obscuring the somewhat youthfulness of its owner. But for that same reason, it did provide some comfort. It was mine, yes, but it also reminded me of the stern, stoic, yet affirming personality that was my father. Never the emotional or fiery type openly, but when the time came to show it, he did. Mom was the only person who could coax his warmer, affable side out with ease.
So I decided to heed the voice's words, stowing away these nostalgic thoughts and my concerns for the time being, and turned back to analyze my situation.
Despite my open carrying of firearms and my little beatdown on Shaun scaring off a lot of beachgoers, there still remained many. Too many to take on if it came to a fight. And seeing as I may have just physically beat a man to death in public, I could count on cops showing up soon. If I got my ass arrested, I doubted I'd be able to talk my way out of it, escape, or anything else. No Spooks backing me up this time. I'd have to stand trial or some shit like that.
God knows I wouldn't survive that.
While I pondered my options that didn't involve running away from the scene, I noticed that Hannah, the asian girl, was marching my way, a look of determination and worry present on her face.
Fuck, she's gonna probably try and do something drastic that I've got no plan on seeing.
Trying to mitigate the damage of the previous situation, I opened my mouth to speak, before I was interrupted.
Interrupted by Hannah putting her finger to my lips, and shushing me loudly.
The mild confusion I got from her touching me took me out of it for a moment. My still-fuzzy brain needed to process it, before I finally had the sense of self to ask, "...what are you trying to do here?"
She gave a nervous chuckle, brushing her hair to the side, and spoke up in her accented voice, "...I…Well, I can't have you running off on your own, you know? You'd get lost."
My dead-eyed stare turned into an eyebrow raise, as I asked, "...You're joking. I just broke a man's rib and you're doing the wishy-washy girl thing. What's your point, lady?"
My voice contained no malice or anger, just surprise at the ballsy move for a shorty like Hannah to shush me, the 6'2 goon of a man, with her finger before deciding to beat around the bush. I was a little impressed, honestly.
"...Okay, I'll be honest. I…I feel bad for you.", she admitted.
"...You feel bad for me, but you met me not 20 minutes ago where we had a couple minutes of me pretending I belonged here, before I beat that meathead almost dead.", I deadpanned, my face and tone unchanging.
"Self-deprecation isn't very attractive, John.", she chided.
I turned to walk away again, only for her to grab my shoulder and tell me in a completely serious tone, "Wait. Okay, I'm sorry. Look…I want you to come with me. I can help you, you know? I…You don't deserve to get in trouble because of…all that…", she trailed off, rubbing the back of her neck.
You know, for a second, I believed her. Part of me wanted to have a friendly face to look at here, while I got my bearings, at least. And Hannah did seem like a sweet girl with good intentions…
But then I remembered the bitter, stinging taste of betrayal that had become all too familiar to me. A sour taste that stuck with you. And in that moment, as I stared at this girl act shy around me, all that internal paranoia came rushing back. I didn't see Hannah, the girl that defended me from that meathead, I saw a potential liability on my end.
"...No. I'm sorry, but you can't help me. My advice? Go back to your friend and forget you ever talked to me.", I told her quietly, looking her in the eye with a calm look.
The look she gave me could have broken the hearts of most men, for sure. A twinge of regret was felt in my gut, but I swept it aside as easy as sweeping away ash from a pyre. I sure as hell wasn't most men.
"...you know I can't just forget you, no?", she offered quietly.
"Pray that you do, for your sake.", I uttered as I turned away from her for what I hoped was the last time, the weight of our conversation starting to push down on me, despite the many unspoken things between us.
Hannah was a nice girl, but her world and the way she viewed things were incompatible with me.
That's the way it is.
In that moment as I walked away from the entire scene quickly, I felt something in my pocket. Withdrawing it, I found a crisp, new pack of cigars, untouched by sand or blood. Must have been a gift from War. I spent my last cigar before I sat down to die back home.
Already feels like a fading memory.
Brand seemed to be H. Upmann No. 2's. Cuban. A favorite of my dad, and President Kennedy.
Heh. I guess that asshole isn't completely useless.
I lit it with the silver, gleaming Zippo that Westmoreland had given me a long time ago, and sighed, breathing out the smoke.
Not even in death does duty end.
…
"...God, things are unusually dull around here.", Iris Thompson thought to herself, sitting at her usual cafeteria spot, staring at the opposite wall, per usual.
Iris Thompson is a woman with a stable anomaly, well-defined containment procedures, comfortably distant relationships, a manageable task force, and predictable operations. And if there's one thing she's learned from her eleven long years at the Foundation, it's that things there rarely change.
In Site-17, current home of Alpha-9 and many humanoid skips, had changed much, very fast. The 0-5s and Director Light making a program where depressed humanoid skips can interact with other depressed humanoid skips was one, as well as Last Hope in itself.
Yeah, that previous summarization of the life of Iris Thompson went mostly out the window in the span of a few months.
Things…got better or worse, depending on how one looked at it. The anomaly that threw her into this joint was the same, containment got more lax because she reluctantly became MTF commander, mostly to escape the insanity of endless containment. Iris had said that the whole return to the "High Court with the Magic Army" approach would blow up in everyone's face, just like…
Pandora's Box.
And just as Iris had done for about the past decade or so, she buried the memory and pain of Omega-7 once more, locked it away per usual. No use thinking about it now.
The "Comfortably distant relationships"? Well…sorta still there?
Adams was okay, and about the closest thing Iris could call to a best friend. When Alpha-9 first came around, along with now having to manage other humanoids for the program, she wasn't…friendly. At all.
Okay, well…she had been getting better. People like Adams, Jackie, even Foxx had grown on her a bit. Even those Misfits in the MTF who she theorized shared a single braincell between them had been growing on her, too. Despite the antics and general fuckery they'd get themselves into off-duty.
Iris hated to admit it, but ever since Last Hope had started up again, she had been feeling better. Just a bit. The operations weren't too crazy, her subordinates and (kinda) friends were somewhat nice to speak to. The other humanoids respected her as an elder, considering her long containment.
The only thing that bugged her at this very moment in time was that Sumerian skank, Kedesh-Nanaya or whatever they called her. 4960. Ever since that day in the cafeteria and the…Date Incident, Iris Thompson wanted nothing more than to strangle the life out of that so-called "love goddess" and bash her head in and-
…Oops.
"...Jesus Christ, I need to get a hold of myself.", she thought to herself.
Enjoy the fact that even 4960 wasn't bothering you at the moment, girl.
Yes. Enjoy the little things, Iris. God knows the current tranquility won't last forever. Sooner or later, some bullshit op will come in about MC&D selling magic cocaine in South America, or the Wagner Group summoning a demon to take out the President of the Russian Federation. Even that ancient skank was preferable to all the stupid shit that could happen.
Maybe
…Kinda.
Okay, no, not really. Iris still hated Kedesh-Nanaya the most, but what can you do?
Other than sit and contemplate. And talk to the other humanoids or Alpha-9 squadmates.
Iris' silly and useless contemplations were interrupted when a certain Agent Andrea Adams (a mouthful, that one) slid into the seat across from Iris with the silliest of smiles, making Iris raise her eyebrow.
"Oh, Christ, what's happened now?", Iris groaned quietly, laying her head on her hand.
"What? A girl can't slide up next to her best friend and talk? I'm wounded.", Andrea slyly said in mock offense.
"With you, any talk inevitably leads to drinking, fighting, or you're buttering me up for something.", Iris stated dryly, her face looking unimpressed.
"Clever girl. Well, you're kinda right. I alerted old Clef about a possible humanoid out in LA. There's this video, you see…", Andre started spouting off.
"Could I get the cliff notes version?"
"You're no fun, Commander Thompson.", she poked Iris with in return.
"God, don't remind me. Hearing people call me by anything other than 105 is jarring."
"Anyway, there's this guy in a uniform, right? Army, 'Nam era. He beat the shit out of some meathead on camera with a shotgun.", Andrea explained with a big smirk on her face, thinking back on how the whole incident made her laugh.
"You sure it's not just a homeless guy with an old uniform?", Iris pointed out fairly, a little doubtful/
Andrea nodded, amused with her words, responding, "See, that's what Clef said. And you could be right, buuuuuuuuuut…here's the thing. Couple things, actually. One, the guy's equipment. Guns, uniform, webbing, all his combat gear looks legit from what I'm seeing. Not replicas, not airsoft. They're real, and 'Cali would send the ATF on anyone's ass if they carried the shit he had on him."
"So, a guy in Vietnam gear walking around. Assuming he's anomalous, and we're cleared to contain him, it doesn't sound too crazy."
"Here's the other thing. He just…popped onto the beach. Not drifted from the sea, just dropped in like he was already there."
"So you're thinking this guy's a new humanoid on these things alone? Not exactly convincing."
"Call it a hunch, and don't forget that a lotta people high up want 'Commander Thompson's' MTF shut down."
"Maybe for the best…", Iris mumbled softly.
"Come on, girly. Chin up. Our little team's done well since it first started. Not as many 05's trying to shut us down anymore, no more leaks. 'Course, the other GoI's still aren't exactly fond of us."
"Are they ever?", Iris snorted.
"That's the spirit. Now, c'mon. We gotta assemble the briefing.". Adams finished, clapping Iris on the back and standing up.
Iris let herself have a small smile. Yeah, maybe Adams had grown onto her a bit.
She got up, too, quickly snatching a bagel on her way out and sticking it in her mouth as she jogged to catch up.
…
"Okay, ladies and gentleman. Everything I'm about to tell you is classified under a Level 3 security clearance, yadda yadda yadda. You know the drill.", Adams began, looking very comfortable with herself as she read the room.
Iris, too, found herself at some sort of ease as she stood next to Adams, as the other woman operated the projector. As "Commander Thompson", she commanded authority and respect that she had never had in her entire life…much less the…old MTF.
Once more shaking the memories from her head, she examined the room as Adams did most of the talking.
On cue, Adams turned on the projector, showing a photo of a dark haired man clad in an older Cold War helmet and '60s uniform, ragged and clearly worn in. The photo was taken at an angle that showed that the subject of the photo had no idea he was even photographed. The look on his face could best be described as "confuddled" on a bad day, "paranoid" on a worse one.
Scars and other assorted injuries dotted his face in a few places. A burn on his lower cheek, a mark from a blade on the other side, etc. Physically, looks were somewhere between rugged and rough. That included his weapons. Very old by today's standards. The M16 itself was about a 60 year old rifle platform, and this humanoid's A1 was one of the earlier versions. Vietnam Era, itself clearly scratched and worn, yet cared for in an almost intimate way.
Though on a deeper level, Iris felt a small twinge at the back of her mind. Almost like deja vu or a small bit of recognition, or familiarity. She didn't know him, that's for damn sure, but she felt as if she could have in another life, or time.
…God, get your head in the game, girl. This speculation won't do you any good.
"This is tonight's target. A male humanoid with unknown anomalous properties, wandering around the hell that is southern California.", Adams began, an ever-present smirk on her face.
A lightly accented voice spoke from the front, a thinner and sleek woman. Small, thin glasses resting on the bridge of her nose. Lieutenant Samantha Lee, a former PLANMC Lieutenant, now long in service of the Foundation. Her short, dark hair was accompanied by her green eyes. She herself was slender, and very petite. A little more than you'd usually expect. In any case…
"Is that all the intel we have been given? It can't be that simple, no? Is an 05 trying to stir some shit up?", she spoke thoughtfully, her tone that of being slightly miffed.
"Eh, I don't think so. I agree, this thing feels a bit fishy, but I'm not really smelling trout here. More…salmon…", Adams trailed off.
"I…what?", Iris raised her eyebrow.
"Nothing, nothing. Anyway, Lieutenant Lee, for now, that's all we got. Current theories are thinking of a whole 'time traveling fish out of water' situation."
"That would make sense…still, regardless if the 05's are throwing us at random skips hoping we fuck up or not, what can we expect from this guy?"
"The man is rocking some old as dirt infantry gear with some modifications. Even if he's some sort of SOG or Black Ops guy, we've dealt with much worse. Compared to Camp Granada, this'll be a cakewalk."
"Pride goeth before a fall.", a European sounding voice muttered at the front. A Romanian, by the name of Victor.
Corporal Victor Toma. The Romanian of the family, an older member. Dark haired, always looked tired. Recruited by the Foundation because of an incident in Central Europe. Iris wasn't sure what exactly, but recruits from that area usually wound up here because they ran smack into a Sarkic cult and survived. Probably the same for Vic here.
"Come on, Vic, it's not gonna be like we're going to be reckless."
"Eh, still. You make it sound like we're completely sure there's not more than meets the eye. I'm not saying you're wrong, but it makes me uneasy. That's all I'm saying.", He voiced his concerns clearly.
Iris, mulling over his words, did consider it. It wasn't rare for some normal looking skip, or one that seemed human or mundane enough, to in actuality contain some horrific or extremely difficult to contain ability or anomaly, and vice versa.
"So what's the play, Commander Thompson?", Iris was suddenly asked, snapping her out of her thoughts.
"Well…on one hand, if we go in, we're going in blind to what this guy's capable of. On the other, leaving him poses a risk to the civilian population, and the Coalition or any other GoI could knab him before we do. So…", Iris trailed off, examining the room.
Another Central European accented voice spoke up, near the front, voicing, "I say we try to go for it. Like you said, he could pose a danger to the locals and the other groups of interest could pose a danger to him. Even if we're going in without as much intel we usually have available to us, walking into shitty situations is what an MTF does."
Paul Nemeth. Corporal, Hungarian. Nice enough guy, but had the tendency to go non-verbal after a while of talking. Recruited from the HDF.
His eyes had that common look of being done with it all, and so his words matched.
"Well, you're not wrong.", Iris sighed, nodding.
"So it's settled, then? Commander Thompson?", Adams asked.
"Yeah. We'll bag him and that'll be that. We just need to get into contact with whoever's watching him on ground, and we'll move in."
"What's the worst that could happen?"
Paul rubbed his eyes, "Anything and everything."
…
AN: I wanted to make this longer and get it out earlier, but finishing up now gives me ample room to devote an entire chapter or two to the coming containment mission and further exploration. Be sure to review if you've got questions, and I'll try to be swifter this time.