The Committee for National Security

Chapter 4 – How We Got There

6 Months after expulsion / June 5th, 1980

After Midnight, June 5, 1980

"Part of my family is Mexican. That's why we just can't make certain types of labor illegal!"

CIA Director George H.W. Bush, 1980 RNC

George Herbert Walker Bush [United States Government – Central Intelligence Agency Director] — Outskirts of Seattle, Washington State — Dated June 5, 1980

"Go on," George Bush said as he slurped through his 32nd milkshake in a row, pleasantly surprised after finding out that they wouldn't refuse my purchases after 31 other milkshake purchases. Of course, the more important revelation was that they served milkshakes at all in this sports bar. Something Netzach found out the hard way after getting one thrown at him. "How many MIDAS warheads are we talking here?"

In the table in front of him, Netzach had all but collapsed onto the table, snoring loudly—but drowned out by the cheering and jeering of sports fans—while whipped cream, cherries, and other assorted milkshake ingredients lay scattered throughout his body. Bush couldn't help but snicker as Roland used a whipped cream can to make a small tower of it exactly on Netzach's head.

Roland himself, meanwhile, remained relatively sober, having chosen to drink non-alcoholic for the sake of being able to make deals and do his job with someone like George Bush. After all, he thought to make himself presentable, so he decided against drinking with Netzach this time. Not that it would change his humor anyway, having put whipped cream on Netzach's hair without him noticing.

The French Fry bowl had been all but cleared out in just under a minute. So Netzach ordered another one. Immediately, that one got devoured. So he ordered another one. Devoured again. And then another order. Again, again, and again. There were four piles of plates that used to be filled with hundreds of french fries, now nothing but ghost towns. Or, well, ghost plates.

The beer bottles that piled up on his table made for a spectacular house of glass. Some patrons of the bar walked in, saw the absolute catastrophe that was the mountain of beer bottles situated at the table of the four people, and decided that maybe it was for the best that they would only be here for the sports. Alcoholic and non-alcoholic, all contributed their cog into the piece of art. The fragile, deadly, and dangerous piece of art, of course.

"Well," Archer stated, eating ice cream out of a bowl with a spoon as he jotted down his memory, eyebrow raised and somehow looking more disinterested than a rebellious teenager. Bush raised his own eyebrow as he continued slurping down the strawberry milkshake, wondering if he'd have a 33rd milkshake onto the pile. "My best estimate puts us at squarely three MIDAS warheads, with an estimated one megaton of explosive power."

"That's... That's not good, right?"

"That's way bigger than the Stalin-era 'Dead Hand' missiles, yes."

"Christ. And you recovered this information without being traced—or intercepted, caught, murdered, shot—by the goddamn KGB?"

"Now, about that," Archer winced as he bit into the—in Archer's dumb opinion—'worst ice cream flavor,' which was vanilla. Bush glared at Archer for daring to suggest vanilla sucked ass. But he had a job to do. "I wasn't exactly intercepted, caught, nothing like that, no. Problem!" He raised his finger, before jabbing it in the air to the entrance to the bar. "The Soviets somehow managed to trace my location!"

"Huh? You arrived on June 2, right?" Bush asked as he finished the last milkshake, deciding a 33rd one wouldn't harm anybody later down the line—at least until Barbara would find out and yell at him for 'harming himself' with them—and so made a note about it. "The rioting and strikes all started on June, ah, 3, yeah?"

"Oh yeah," Archer waved off. "Funny how as soon as I arrive, some 'pro-peace' activist organization and 'freedom rider' truckers start getting mad at the government for some reason," He sniggered. "Useful idiots, the lot of them. Their job is to keep the National Guard happy and to sow discontent when one of them is shot by a Guardsman."

"I take it you don't have a high opinion of Code Pink or the Free Truckers, then?" Bush raised an eyebrow as he settled on drinking a vanilla milkshake. Both of those organizations never made sense to Bush, he mused as Archer scoffed and sneered, something about 'contrarian murderers' and rednecks.

This didn't stop Bush from musing about those two organizations, however. They just appeared so suddenly in Seattle, not a day after Archer made landfall in the United States via Seattle and waited to deliver this info to him. Their little shit protest caused emergency services and law enforcement to wast precious time and resources, which Bush really wished he had as Archer continued to insult and insult.

Code Pink was some organization dedicated to fighting "Russophobia" and "stopping wars" and calling for the freedom of Israel from Britain, or something like that. They were always fishy, lobbying for 'Free Israel' and denying 'frivolous' claims like Muslim camps in the Tajik SSR. That one has been a really hot and contentious topic, no thanks to trending ideologues arguing that Stalin 'cheapened' the term genocide.

Funny how they were here in Seattle so spontaneously, on the note of Palestine, it's been the State Department policy to recognize the PLO as the official government since Ford broke off relations with Britain in '78. Yet, Code Pink was always... There. Pushing for recognition of the 'Provisional Israeli State' instead. Bush scoffed. The PLO were much better for regional stability anyway.

Meanwhile, the Free Truckers... Bush couldn't help but agree with Archer and sneer at the mention of their name. They were the worst, Bush mused as he saw someone with a Free Truckers tattoo. Self-entitled pricks who seemed to just pop up and protest out of the blue, not-so-coincidentally aligning their protests with entities like Sovgaz and Ford. They almost killed poor Junior once... Bush made sure the perp was erased from the records.

They just seemed to want nothing but the absolute worst. Environmental damage was their primary goal, apparently. And they were all too happy to cooperate with Soviet state-owned businesses and Ford in order to keep their pockets greased. Bush wasn't against something like that, he'd learned that CIA does what it does best, after all. No, the problem was that they weren't American.

Oh, both of these organizations claim to represent the 'true' people against the evil 'establishment' and their 'authoritarianism' or some wacko-shit, Bush sighed and cupped his face, staring disinterestedly into a nearby TV. Code Pink was 'anti-imperialist' and 'anti-war' and was the left's nice way of saying 'Fuck Sanity' while the Free Truckers were 'true-blooded patriots' and 'three-percenters' who would rather shoot at Mexican children than allow a Democrat or 'RINO' to run.

Not so coincidentally, both of these organizations endorsed Ronald Reagan for the 1980 Republican National Convention. Of course, many of Code Pink's sane members—those who genuinely thought they were doing a good deed—bailed upon the news of that breaking out, saying they'd stay home. Meanwhile, those Free Trucker fuckheads saw him as the bulwark against the 'Muscovite-led Banking Internationale' and the 'Marxist Establishment' in D.C.

The jig was up, Bush chuckled. They were just sockpuppets for the Russians pretending to care about anti-authoritarianism and imperialism. See, Bush mused—as he passed a note for Roland to order vanilla milkshake—the ARA at least gave two shits. The Chinese gave none, but were blunt about it. The Soviets? Oh, man. Romanov was a flip-flopping hypocrite. "Anti-imperialism" one day and then next he was arguing that the Chechen lands were 'inherently Russian' and that they were occupied under a 'fake culture.'

Code Pink and the Free Truckers parroted those talking points, as did their useful idiots. Those with a brain just bolted. But, uh, Bush saw those without a brain walking outside a bar just a day earlier, which only elicited a long, deep sigh from him. Oh, how he hated those fuckers. Just yesterday, he had to deal with a Code Pinker talking about how she was going to 'Free Israel' by punching the CIA Director. Not that she had the guts to do it, though.

Fucking coward.

"-And that's why I sincerely think everyone from those damn organizations should be rounded up and shot!" Archer shouted as he slammed his fist on the table. "In fact, hell- One of them almost got me killed by the KGB!" Oh? Now that intrigued Bush, who leaned in with an eyebrow raised at the words of Archer, silently mouthing a 'How'd that happen' type of question, cupping his face as Roland left the seat to order another milkshake.

Archer, of course, read through what he meant to say, and sighed. He grabbed one half-finished bottle of non-alcoholic beer, and drank from it. "'Kay, so, what happened is that the KGB puts out a bounty for me," He says, before gulping from the bottle. "And then they spread fliers around saying that I'm some like, CIA agent provocateur or something," He chuckles, putting the bottle down and burping—Much to Bush's severe unadulterated irritation. "So like. I'm trying to move around and hide when, suddenly, this girl waving a big 'Free Israel' sign spots me, and that's where all hell almost broke loose!"

"I take it that colored your opinion of the Free Israel movement, then?" Bush smirked with a raised eyebrow, taking pleasure in Archer's annoyed expression in relation to him. "Protestors will be protestors, Archer. It wasn't anything personal."

"Oh, but lemme continue," He said, waving Bush off. "So anyway- This gal comes around and spots me, and then shouts within her big-ass crowd; 'That's the CIA provocateur! Get him!'" He recounted, flailing his arms in anger. "And then I get pursued in the middle of fucking Seattle by some dumb-fuck college kids protesting under the orders of the Kremlin."

"I assume that they called in their 'anti-imperialist' enforcers, the KGB, on you?"

"Oh yes. I'm almost cornered, and these two burly ass men in tan suits come get me. Girl says that she's found the CIA provocateur. KGB tells her she'll get a handsome reward for fighting against imperialism," He chuckles, expression morphing into disbelief. "So what's my solution to that? Jump off the goddamn roof I'm cornered at!"

"And I'll assume you landed on a garbage truck, based on how you smell," Bush chided. "Get some deodorant, by the way."

"Welp," He sighed. "You caught me. A little stinky-smelly boy who landed on some trash after fucking up a jump."

"Please never say that again." Bush sighed, before a vanilla milkshake was slid down his way from the right by Roland. Looking up, Bush gave Roland a thumbs-up, receiving a contagious smile in response from Roland.

"You're a lifesaver, Roland," Bush commented. "Whatever would I do without a milkshake?"

"Don't get hooked up on it too much," Roland smirked as he shot a smug expression to Bush's way. "I won't be responsible when you wake up with a headache because of these things. Do they even have alcohol, actually?"

"No," Bush waved him off calmly. "Otherwise Barbara would have my head for drinking nearly forty of them."

"Who's Barbara?" Roland asked, raising an eyebrow and crossing his arms at Bush.

"Oh! My wife." Bush intoned, before Roland froze for a second, balling one of his fists and putting on a surprised look on his face. Bush looked concerned as he saw Roland put his head down and rapidly shake it. "Something wrong, Roland?"

"Nothing, nothing, Mister Bush. Just..."

"Something on your mind, I assume?"

"You know what? Forget it," Roland waved him off. "We've got better things to worry about anyway."

"Ooookay then." Bush replied, slurping his milkshake.

"Said too much?" Archer asked Bush, who responded with a shrug. Bush didn't know jackshit about why he acted like this, so... A glance at Roland, however, caused him to glare piercingly into Archer, who in response just decided to whistle and back away.

"So, anyway," Archer replied, trying to look away from Roland. "I've also found a particularly funny bit of juicy info. One that, ah, you might like, Director Bush."

"Oh?"

"See, I found a Code Pink protestor who was, ah, let's just say ran over by a car."

"I assume that local news called it an accident, yes?"

"Oh definitely. But both you and I know who's really behind it, man."

"KGB?"

"KGB."

An annoyed sigh escaped the mouth of Director Bush. "Well, spill it out. I don't wanna feel like a dick thinking about unfortunate casualties," He grabbed an unopened non-alcoholic beer bottle and poured it into the vanilla milkshake, a quarter of which he consumed. "I mean, CIA does what CIA does. But still..."

"'Kay. So, on the guy's corpse, he found a map of a small, little KGB outpost in fuckshit nowhere, in the Projects. Y'know, those crack-houses that used to be the bright future of housing under the Fulbright admin, yeah?"

"Oh yeah. I was one of the Senators who approved of those projects," Bush happily recanted, smiling as he recalled his pride in ensuring that the Negro would not go unhoused or neglected. Yet, that smile faded away when he was recalling the present times. Rampant drug use, nigh-inescapable poverty, endless gang violence... Bush regretted not doing enough for the Negros. "I'm still pissy over Rockie gutting them, by the way." He commented, getting a raised eyebrow from Roland.

"Don't be," Archer waved off. "Fulbright was a dick anyway."

"Yeah, yeah..."

"Right. So, turns out that within the crackhouses in ass-shit nowhere, there's this KGB outpost that's been causing all my problems, stirring up Code Pink and the Free Truckers and all," He said, shrugging. "Guy wanted to spread the news about how they were being spied on, but, uh..."

"Ran over?"

"Yep. So, I took that and thought about doing something about that little crackhouse for a while. Now, problem is- I can't exactly assault it in my current condition as just one guy. Hence why I had to wait for you."

"Well," Bush replied, shrugging. "I don't have other Agents with me. But what I do have..." He glanced at the Librarians, clearly glancing at Netzach who was little more than drunk off his ass. Bush doubted that he'd be good at combat, but as an agent, he might have some use- But as he turned to Roland, he was surprised to see Roland pull out a pistol, the design of which was off.

"Wait, you know how to shoot a gun?"

"Always did," Roland replied. "I was a kick-ass Grade 1 Fixer for a reason, you know? You've found the perfect guy for your kind of missions."

"I'll assume that Fixer is 'wetworks' guy, then." Bush noted as he glanced at Netzach. "Think he'll find a use?"

"Oh yeah," Roland put his pistol back in- Somewhere. "Underneath the smell of alcohol and at least three neglected tasks, he can actually put up a very good fight. And his specialty is, ah, keeping teams alive if I recall correctly..."

"He a medic?"

"Sort of."

"Then he's got some use here," Bush sat up, glancing through his wallet as he prepared to ask for the bill for his table. When he finished procuring approximately five-hundred dollars, Roland tapped him on the shoulder, making him look back at Roland.

"You were talking to your, uh, employee, Archer about where this... Kay-Gee-Bee outpost was, yes?" He asked.

"Mhm. What about it?"

"Y'see, you said you were a... A Senator or something, right?"

"Mhm. What about it?"

"This might be silly of me to ask... But, what exactly is a Senator?" Oh. Bush forgot for a minute that Roland was... Someone clearly not of this world. Sighing as he pocketed his wallet, he invited Roland to walk with him as he headed off to pay for the shenanigans of his table.

"Right. So, think of a Senator as some, like, hot-shot politician who has a hand in deciding which laws get made and which laws die, which projects get approved and which ones rot in the dust," He said, approaching the cashier, before asking for the bill. "Not only that, but, like- I also get to decide what's to be done to the land, shit like that."

"So... A member of the Board of Directors for a Wing then?"

"...Uh. Yeah," He scratched his head in uncertainty. A Wing must've been like, a corporation in this guy's home. But, of course, that didn't exactly stop Bush from wincing heavily. If he actually meant 'Board of Directors' in the corpo way... Then, yikes. Bush didn't know what to say to that. "Think of me as the guy who decides what we do with the budget and what's the laws in the Wing, except it's the whole-ass United States."

"United States? I was not aware that the Wings had changed their naming styles here."

"Eh," Bush shrugged. "Funny you mention that. I used to be a Chief Executive Officer for one of the... Wings here. It was an energy company," Roland began to wince heavily at that, causing Bush to raise his eyebrow in... Confusion. "It was called Zapata Petroleum. I founded it after my service during the Second Great War, and resigned after deciding to enter politics."

"Wait..." Roland paused as Bush paid the bill for their food. "So what you're telling me is that Wings exist... but they don't rule land?"

"Nope, they don't. Instead, we have countries. Abstract pieces of... something that are many things all at once- Military organization, Corporation, Bureaucracy... Essentially, merge all the wings together into one. Except it doesn't necessarily have a profit-driven motive and is more... Uh, either pragmatism or ideology-driven."

"...So, what you're telling me is that you used to be a part of The Head of this place?"

"...I assume you mean the top of the top," Bush awkwardly shuffled. "Uh, kind of. Though I gave up my aspirations of reaching the top of, uh, The Head. Back in 1968, and just recently enough this year."

"...What was your new position then, after you decided not to keep your career as a lawmaker of The Head?"

"Oh! I was appointed to be the Direct of Central Intelligence by the new leader of The Head—or should I say the Federal Government—Nelson Aldrich Rockefeller."

"Director of Central Intelligence?" He asked, surprised. "Like The Eyes?"

"Eh... I suppose so," Bush replied as both he and Roland turned around, payment completed, to go back to their table. "See, my CIA job is more or less to finagle with the people in this country, and their personal affairs. Sometimes it's people outside of this country, but, uh, I helped restrain that."

"Wait- you restrained the organization you were appointed the director of?" He asked with heavy surprise. "But why?"

"Why?"

"Yeah," Roland looked at him with a massively surprised look on his face. "Think about it. You've had all the power in this... country, as the Director. You could spy on people's thoughts, eliminate people who've broken the taboos of this country, and chase after those outside of it... So, my question is..." He stopped to look at Bush as soon as the both of them walked just in front of sleeping Netzach and Archer being Archer. "Why?"

"Because," Bush shrugged. "I wanted to make a change in the United States. We were getting flack and being called shit for a variety of reasons. And the center of it all? The CIA's, uh, 'extrajudicial' activities done under the auspices of President Joseph McCarthy."

"President...? I assume that's the leader of The Head here, then?"

"Yeah. Problem is that McCarthy's shitflinging caused us to enter a massive shitshow. So, when I was elected in '64, I was one of the two Senators in Texas who immediately spearheaded a legislative effort to neuter the CIA."

"...How come?"

"Restoring our PR, of course. Our party would be damned to hell and back if we didn't restrain the CIA because of McCarthy's absolute dogshit performance as president."

"...Wait. You in The Head have to care about PR?"

"...Yeah?"

Roland stopped for a minute, before settling back on his seat, staring longingly at the one remaining actual alcoholic beer bottle that Netzach, somehow, did not drink. He grasped it, but did not pull his arm back to drink it. Instead, he sighed and looked at the ground solemnly. "Oh, how I wish I lived in this place instead of the hell that was The City... But that's that and this is this." He sighed.

"...That's that and this is this, huh," Bush cupped his face in a thinking position as he repeated that word. "That's that... this is this... That's that and this is this..." He muttered.

"Your people actually care.. They give a shit about what the Head does, why the Head is why it is... Your people actually have a chance to find a way to get rid of those omniscient geezers when they're not happy with the Head..." He sighed longingly, almost tearing a part of his hair off. Bush winced at that. "How come I didn't live in a world like that..."

"It comes at a heavy cost, kid," Bush sighed. "Don't be too positive about it. After all, if it were a positive world, things like the KGB wouldn't exist. CIA wouldn't exist," Bush sighed, touching Roland's shoulder. "We do the wetworks. There's always a need for dirty work somewhere. It's just that in here, there's a chance for people to speak against it if it goes too far."

"..." Roland's silence was telling, as was his sigh and head-shake in response to Bush. "I suppose you are right." He grabbed the beer bottle and- As soon as he placed it in his pocket it just went somewhere and disappeared, alarming Bush. Rubbing his eyes, he expected it to have been a light trick- Or something.

But nope. It was there.

"Shit," Bush sighed, looking at Archer. "Archer, let's get moving. KGB ain't gonna sit on their asses."

"Right,' Archer said as he got up. "Oh, and awaken the green buddy too."

"Copy that," Bush nodded as he leaned over to nudge Netzach. "Oi. Nets. We've got to get moving."

"...I don't wanna... I'm tired..."

"You sure you don't wanna get another bottle of beer?"

"I have a thermos..." He hiccuped. Bush rolled his eyes and instead dragged him by the collar to sit upright.

"Nets. If you don't get up, Roland's going to leave you behind."

"What? No-"

"Oh shit," Netzach said as he forced himself up, grabbing his aforementioned thermos—how Bush missed that, he will never know—and groggily shook himself awake. "Sorry about that. Anyway, what're we gonna do today?"

"Raid an enemy spy outpost."

"...But I don't wanna be killing people," Netzach angrily muttered. Oh, Bush understood him. But this was a situation that might have required it. Of course, he wasn't going to deny him his request. Bush finagled through his pockets and handed him a truncheon.

"...The hell's this?"

"A truncheon," Bush didn't really care about casually giving someone a weapon in public. That was for the Bush of later to deal with, not now. "Best advice is to use it as an incapacitating device. Try not to kill. We'll be dealing with that instead."

"...Gee, thanks," Netzach grumbled as Bush shrugged. "At least I get to give them a concussion instead of a grieving family."

"That is ultimately preferable."

"Oh I know. Just don't expect me to be happy about it."

"Wetworks are wetworks, Netz," Bush turned around and placed his left hand in his pocket, using his right hand to cover his head with the hood of the raincoat. "Come on. Hop to it. We're heading to this crackhouse," He glanced at Archer as he opened the doors to the entrance. "You got a map pointing exactly at the house they're using?"

"Oh, yeah," Archer nodded, unfolding a map. "It's at this address... Just, like. A walk straight, then turn left, and then make another left to enter the rear entrance to the crack-house."

"Got it," Bush said as he opened the door. "Lets' get a move-on."

"Let's get going indeed."

Roland Orlando [The Library - Patron Librarian of General Works] — Some 'Crack-House' — Dated ? ?, ?

Roland sighed as he stared down the men that seemed to surround Netzach, many of them clad in some shade of green and holding firearms. These were not syndicates or regular Fixers, Roland mused. These must have been the R. Corp equivalent of this place. He glanced at Bush and made a note to ask him about many things about this place.

"At ease, soldier." Bush said as he turned on the safety of his handgun and placed it in his pockets. Looking back at them, Roland noticed that everyone had been coated in lots of blood. Of course, this made sense. They were raiding a Kay-Gee-Bee outpost. Yet, what caught Roland's attention were the gunfire that occurred outside of the section they were raiding.

He had never exactly understood the reason that there was gunfire outside in the first place, so he just focused on killing the KGB agents that he faced. Over and over again.

It was not until he entered the next room that he realized why there was gunfire outside in the first place. Essentially, what happened was that while Roland, Bush, Netzach, and Archer were busy fighting the KGB agents in the back area, Chesed had apparently... Massacred the rest. Hence the gunshots.

However, this did not explain the presence of the soldiers. Were they R. Corp or were they just directly employed under The Head?

"Shit, Director Bush... I-"

"You've found something that you weren't supposed to see, Lieutenant?" Bush asked, stepping in front before stopping just beside the... Lieutenant, and Chesed who had been drinking coffee from his thermos for a while now. "I understand the sentiment... I've found myself in a pickle of my own, El-Tee." He chuckled.

"...W-what do you mean?"

"See... I've found myself involved with... people who might be his coworkers," He glanced at Chesed, offering him a handshake. "I'm Director George Bush of the Central Intelligence Agency. You?" Chesed smiled and extended his hand, giving his own handshake with a smiling face.

"Daniel Chesed~ Patron Librarian of Social Sciences."

"You have a first name?"

"It's complicated."

Roland stepped in to address the Lieutenant. "What do you work for, Loo-tenant?"

"I-I-uh... Washington Army National Guard, 161st infantry regiment! Deployed to help contain protestors!"

"So you work under the same government that Bush does?" He had been given an impromptu lesson during the raid by Bush, specifically about how he was technically subordinate to a greater 'federal government' and how it controlled other things. Apparently, this might have included soldiers.

"Y-yes!"

"And now you've seen something that not even the government was aware of. Congratulations, we're both in deep shit." Bush chuckled as he slapped the shoulder of the Lieutenant, who appeared to be shaking in anxiety. A quick glance at the rest of the soldiers gave him the impression that they were also suffering a little condition known as anxiety. Roland couldn't fault them.

They were unfortunate enough to encounter Chesed when he used the E.G.O. page of the Scarecrow searching for Wisdom to gain information against the KGB. He was going to have a long talk with Angela about this.

"S-So... Are... are we going to be taken out and shot, or...?" A soldier anxiously spurted out, earning a bout of laughter from Director George Bush, who simply smiled in response.

"Nah. We're both in something that we shouldn't have, so..." He looked at the lieutenant, causing Roland to smirk. Ah, the joys of technically blackmailing people. Only, this wasn't technically proper blackmail either. Just that with their situation, it would be convenient to ally with Director Bush.

Clever man.

"See. The problem is that we're both in deep shit. I've seen the devil herself and had to face her down," He chuckled as the lieutenant looked confused, about to raise a question. "And you have faced someone who you probably should not provoke..." Chesed waved at the indirect mention of him, much to the anxiety of the rest of the platoon.

"See, what I want is... What if we both work together?"

"...Huh?" The lieutenant asked, confused. "Director, what do you mea-"

"We're both in deep shit. We've seen what we shouldn't have seen, and now we're involved with these guys," He pointed both his thumbs at Roland—who waved—and Chesed, who simply smiled. "So I have a proposition for you. Either you follow my orders and keep quiet about this whole thing, or you return to your regular lives, but zip tight about what happened here."

He stopped for a minute before turning around. "I'll-" Roland assumed that Bush was going to give them a few minutes, only for the Lieutenant to tap on his shoulder, causing Bush to turn around almost immediately. Confused, Bush looked square at him.

"We'll take it," He said. The rest of the soldiers seemed to rather agree, with them nodding en masse. "I'm not going anywhere until I find out what's going on," He sighed. "If I have to work with the CIA, so be it."

"Good!" Bush smiled as he clapped in congratulations. "Congratulations. You're hired in the CIA. Kill-squad, the lot of you," He glanced at Chesed. "Same with this guy."

"...What about our prior orders, sir?" The Lieutenant asked as Bush waved him off casually.

"Ahh... I'll pull some strings. You'll be re-assigned from your post," He smirked. "I'll cover you with a legal blanket. Army can't go after you because CIA's commandeered you. Genius."

"I... I... Okay," He sighed. "Thank you, sir."

"Now, Roland," Bush muttered as he went back to the door. "Where did you say your employer was?"

"Somewhere around this area. Why?"

"Take me to them. I... want to discuss our little employment contract," He sighed. "And, most importantly, get us all a legal blanket so we don't get killed by the IRS or USPIS before we have a chance to do wetworks."

Roland nodded as he walked near the door. "Well," He looked at everyone inside the room. "Follow me. I'll take you to the people that Bush wants you to meet. Just don't be late, or Bush might change his mind and have you guys disappeared."

Of course, that was directed to the soldiers, who shivered at Roland's words. He smirked and let a sigh of relief.

Another day done.

Though it was a shame that Roland didn't recap the raid to them... Or to anyone else really.

But, he didn't have the time to.

He never does.