The Committee for the National Security of The Union

by paynedotdll

"With the stroke of a pen, the Central Intelligence Agency's Committee for National Security of the Union finds itself established. Among them are fifteen individuals who will find themselves the defenders of the United States of America. Alone, they shall stand against the threat of Romanov, the Soviets, and shadowy threats who dare challenge the United States."

6. Meeting the Family

The Committee for National Security

Chapter 5 – Meeting the Family

6 Months after expulsion / June 5th, 1980

After Midnight, June 5, 1980

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"Don't fret precious; I'm here, step away from the window (step away from the window),

go baaaaaack to sleeeeep... "

A Perfect Circle, "Counting Bodies Like Sheep"

---

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

George Bush whistled as he walked all the way to the Library, which was apparently the host location of the people he spirited away as newfangled employees for the Central Intelligence Agency. Looking at it from a distance like this, the Library was just amazing. It felt like a wonder of nature. A shining tower, in the sea of darkness.

Yet, the words 'Babylon' could not escape his mind as he looked at it, causing him to wince a few times as he turned back to his companions.

"Something wrong, Bush?" Roland asked as he looked to the right, wary of any vehicles that could potentially run over the rest of the group.

"No," Bush lied. There was something wrong, indeed. Just with the tower, not with Bush. He couldn't help but make an uncomfortable expression as he made his way. Almost cringing as he saw the tower. "I just felt a little chill in the air."

"Rain still pissing you off?" Lieutenant Mathers of the National Guard platoon asked, slinging his rifle around as the rest of his squad followed, huddling around with the intent of trying to maximize coverage. "I get that feeling. BCGs are going to get foggy the longer I stay in this weather."

"BCGs?" Chesed asked, raising an eyebrow as he ate from the bag of chips recovered from his grocery bag. "What does that mean? Is that a closely related term to E.G.O. or is it-?"

"Danny," Wellstone, the National Guard grenadier, chimed as the autorifleman Smith snickered at Chesed's innocence regarding the United States Armed Forces. "He means Birth Control Glasses when he says BCGs," He deadpanned. "It's those fugly, square-framed glasses he's wearing."

"Oh," Chesed flatly responded, the sour cream-and-onion flavor of his chips entrapping him in his own mind with their delightful taste. The coffee part of Chesed's mind was begging him to be released from the grasp of sour cream, but it was ignored alas. "Why are they called Birth Control Glasses, then? Do they- Do they actually prevent procreation of a child, or...?"

"Oh, they definitely fucking do," Smith interjected, frustration clear in his voice. "They prevent me from scoring pussy, that's what! What the hell wouldn't I kill for some smokin' hot pussy in here?" He took off his glasses. "Anything that wasn't these BCGs, of course!"

"...I think you just suck at talking to women," Netzach opened up, causing Chesed to spit out his coffee, as well as earning a guffaw from Bush and laughter from the rest of the platoon, all taking their stress out on Smith for saying that. "Like. Don't lie to yourself, you probably just really suck at speaking to women."

"Aww come on!" Smith protested, attempting to refute them as he began to limp from the weight of the M60 weighing him down. "I can talk to women! I swear! I just have bad luck at getting pussy!"

"Keep talking like that and soon you'll get a restraining order from my boss," Roland interjected as Bush smirked. These people had the sense of humor that was fit enough to survive Langley. Perhaps they wouldn't make bad additions. "And she's not even a woman, if you're willing to go into the technicalities of it."

"What, she someone who don't identify as either? We talking machine?"

"...Something along those lines."

"Well, shit," Smith sighed. "Getting a restraining order from a machine. That's gotta be on somebody's bingo."

"Mine," Bush replied as he drank from boxed water. Something that he was curious about when he stopped by that shop a block earlier. 'Twas okay, all things considered. If a little cardboard-y. "It's on my 'army shenanigans' list."

"What, you served in the armed forces, mister spook?" Mathers asked, raising an eyebrow as Roland stepped to knock on the door while the rest of the group opted to wait.

"Oh yeah. United States Navy. '41 until '45," He said, taking another gulp from his boxed water as the rain began to weaken, pissing him off way less. "Then after that, I served in the American Expeditionary Force from '51 'til the war ended in '53."

"Forgive me for asking so suddenly," Chesed opened up, tapping Bush's shoulder and making him turn around in surprise as Chesed devoured the last sour cream-and-onion chip, finally freeing him from the grasp of the tasty chip flavor. "But exactly what war did you fight in, sir Bush? Was it anything like the Smoke War?"

"Oh yeah, I fought in that war," Roland opened up as he waited for a response, smiling as Bush eyed him with a raised eyebrow. "I contributed time and effort to stopping that smoke from choking out The City with its... well, black smoke-ness," He sighed. "I remember seeing something when I fought there, with that old man Salvador. But I couldn't remember what it was, even if my life depended on it..."

"Well," Bush opened up, tugging his collar as he tossed the boxed water container into his pocket. "The War, specifically, the Second Great War was where I fought. And, technically, I was supposed to fight in the Pacific War, but I'm more focused on my service on the Second Great War."

"Oh? Second Great War?" Chesed asked, raising an eyebrow. "This world had two Great Wars? How Great are we talking? Did they involve every District and Wing, every Syndicate and Association, or...?" He asked, confusing Bush. No, Danny. He didn't even know what a Syndicate or an Association was. As far as he could tell, it was only countries that had fought in either of the Great Wars.

"Great enough that they spanned multiple continents," Bush said, sighing as there was no response from Roland knocking. Might as well talk about his military service. "Both wars swallowed the whole world and millions of people as well as hundreds of countries. 'Twas a total bloodbath. The First Great War was a stagnant, trench-filled atrocity where hundreds of meters of land would move at the cost of hundreds of thousands of bodies," Bush winced as he recalled the stories from his childhood friends, the Rockefellers. Their relatives had fought in the First Great War. Not many came back unscathed. "As well as the constant barrage of nuclear artillery."

"Oh? That sounds... menacing," Chesed deadpanned. "And you're telling me this was only the First Great War? You've fought in the Second, yes?"

"Yeppers."

"Could you tell us what your military service was like in the Second?"

Bush sighed as he retracted the hood of his raincoat that covered his head, before unzipping it and tugging a part of it to the right, showing a scar he got. Part of his well-toned chest was exposed, but just enough to show that Bush was fit. The scar, however, was an angled cut, akin to a right-slant. "I flew as a bomber in the Second Great War, American Expeditionary Force. Got this scar after I landed in Turkey and got slashed by a broken helicopter blade. There's also some scars on my legs from when I almost landed on a mine."

"Oh? You flew?" Roland asked, looking back at Bush as Chesed also nodded in surprise. Bush looked surprised as the two of them gave him an almost curious look on his face. Did he say something off? Or... Or did they not have any aircraft in the City they came from? He was told many things about it. About the amazing things of the Wings, about how the place operated. But to hear that they didn't have aircraft despite everything else... It almost baffled him. "Did you, like, fly as a person or did you have a vehicle for that?"

"The latter," Bush chuckled as he imagined himself flying and dive-bombing like some sort of military superhero. Oh, how Junior would've loved to see Poppy doing something like that. He made a note to go visit Junior when he was done filing these people's employment form out at Langley. "I flew in an F-4 Phantom, a fighter-bomber," He grimaced at the confused expressions of Roland and Chesed, pinching his nose in frustration. "Okay. Think a vehicle in the air that can also shoot down other air vehicles while bombing ground targets."

"Right. How did piloting one of them go during this war, then?" Roland asked, intrigued.

Bush sighed as he recalled the memories in his head. Being launched off from the USS Franklin D. Roosevelt. Editing letters for Navy aviators during his free time. Being called Skin by his comrades in arms. He smiled, only for it to die as soon as he remembered that fateful day. God, he did not need... No. This wasn't the time.

Roland and Chesed noticed the sudden shift in his expression, having gone from a grin, only to return to a pained grimace, hiding his emotions through a closed eye, a clenched fist, and a bit lip.

He turned around much to the confusion of the National Guard platoon, Netzach, and Agent Archer, all of whom simply looked to Roland and Chesed for answers that none of them had. But Bush knew the answer. Oh, he did. He could never wash away the blood on his hands. The answer had permanently stained him.

Bush could never forget what happened in Turkey. He never could.

He could never forgive himself for it.

The skies of Turkey were supposed to be a simple mission. When he was launched off from the carrier that he called home, George Bush had wanted to come home a hero. And, so, he thought that this was a good way to earn his wings rapidly. A simple Wild Weasel mission in the middle of bum-fuck, Turkey. Get in, swoop in, hit the Soviets, then get out.

Everything looked to be simple. The weather was clear, meaning that no rain would jeopardize his aircraft's missile targeting systems. The wind was extremely flat, guaranteeing unlimited flexibility for his flying brick of a fighter-bomber. And best of all, the enemy presence seemed to be minimal. Everything was in perfect order.

Nothing could go wrong.

"I'm hit!" The voice of his squad leader, Leo "Lee" Nadeau, cried out as a Soviet MiG-23 fired a missile at his wing, tearing off the right section of his wing. "I'm still in the fight, dammnt! I can still-!" Were his last words before the same MiG-23 fired a missile directly at the cockpit, penetrating the canopy and detonating while inside, instantly killing Lee with the shrapnel.

Yes. It as supposed to be in perfect order. Nothing had to go wrong.

Bush panicked as he did a barrel roll, avoiding a missile aimed straight at him that was done in a jousting maneuver. He banked left as hard as he could, struggling with the piece of shit brick that was the F4 Phantom. As soon as he got behind the MiG, he screamed as he pressed the button on his stick, unleashing a hail of 20mm gunfire onto the panicked enemy fighter-bomber, eviscerating its tail and causing it to spin, lose control, and crash.

Yet, despite his wishes.

Bush panicked as another MiG seemed to appear out of nowhere, almost blindsiding him with a missile that just narrowly missed his wing. The only reason it failed was because rather than flying straight, Bush rolled right, only to sweat in a panic when he saw it. The MiG swerved around, coming in for another hit. In a moment of life or death, Bush dove down, before turning left and attempting to go up, in the process catching the MiG off-guard. With no seconds to waste, he fired the autocannon again. The MiG went up in flames as the bullets pierced its engine, causing it to split in half, the saga ending humiliatingly with the pilot killed by a wing shearing his head off as soon as he ejected.

It all went wrong.

There was no time to celebrate his two kills however as the Soviets seemed to throw everything at the Navy aviators in the area, their panicked screams mixing in with Bush's missile alarm. "Missile! Missile! Missile!" The alarm system blared as Bush attempted to dodge, only for the aircraft to shake as the missile exploded next to his aircraft, shearing off its tail. "Missile! Missile!" The aircraft blared a second time as another Soviet long-range SAM came beaming at him. Panicking, Bush's breathing became heavier as he attempted to find flares-

But it was too late as the second missile detonated, totally destroying his engines without giving him a chance to fire any flares- His eyes widened as soon as he realized that the missile also destroyed the flare mechanism. Panicked, his eyes darted to the left.

"My God," He muttered. "This thing is going to blow up." He said, before grabbing the radio immediately to shout.

"Del!" He shouted into the radio, hoping that someone would hear his cries. "I'm hit! I can't fly and my flares are all busted!"

"Goddamnit-" Was all that John "Del" Delany, his trusted wingman, had gotten out before a Soviet SAM hit him too. "Shit! I'm hit too! Goddamnit-"

Where did it all go wrong?

Bush panicked as he looked for the ejection button, plane rapidly careening into Turkey as the altimeter seemed to go crazy. 9,000... 8,000... 7,00- 5,000... Bush could only stare as he- His eyes widened when he finally found the ejection button. Wasting no time, he turned on his radio as the screams of fellow Navy Aviators drowned out other thoughts in his head. "Del! I'm ejecting!" He shouted, before preparing the ejection. "I'll meet you below!"

"Roger that-! Get to safety, Bu-!" Del's radio shouted out before cutting to static, causing Bush's eye to turn right and notice that he just ejected. Immediately, Bush yanked the ejection of the F4, causing him to be launched out of the canopy. The wind rapidly clashing against his face stalled as soon as the seat lost its momentum, and deployed a parachute-

Bush shook his head as he opened his eyes and stopped biting his lip, realizing that he had been trapped in that day again. Turning around, he had to answer the question he was initially asked. "No, nothing," He waved off. "It's better saved for another time."

"But-"

"I said," Bush said as he glared at Roland. "It's better saved for another time," He repeated, with Roland wisely choosing to nod and nudge Chesed, getting him to nod as well. Seeing as how the two of them wouldn't have to press into his service anymore, Bush smiled.

Just in time, apparently, as the door to the aforementioned Library opened, seemingly with the grace of a goddamn elephant taking a shit. Slow and cumbersome for Bush, but he supposed that it was typical for his new hires—not the National Guard ones, goodness no—to simply wait until the thing fully opened.

Mathers whistled, shielding his eyes as the golden light from the inside of the Library seemed to blind the soldiers of the National Guard. Well, not really. Those who didn't shield their eyes just stared at the Library's insides with awed faces, mouthing 'oohs' and 'ahhs' as they stared into the light of the Tower of Babylon-

Bush shook his head as the Biblical motifs popped up in his head. First, he was rechristened—only by the bitch-devil, not by himself—as 'Israel' for simply wrestling with them. Now, he was faced with a peculiar tower... It could not have been built for that purpose, no. Otherwise, why would Roland and his other coworkers call it a Library?

And if so, wouldn't that make them Librarians? Bush put himself in a thinking pose as he mused. Librarians of the CIA... Now that'd make for an interesting book name someday, he noted. Perhaps he could write something about that after his job was over...

"Greetings," A voice brought him out of his musing, Bush looking over to find the source being a woman with a short, blue haircut and a purple outfit reminiscent of old nobility. "I am Angela, the Director-" She appeared to bite her lips as soon as she attempted to introduce herself as director. "Nevermind, you may just call me Angela."

"Woah," Smith said as he nudged Wellstone, whistling as he saw Angela. "She looks absolutely pretty."

"And pretty dangerous," Wellstone replied, irritation apparent in his voice. "Keep your guard up. I don't want you to be found dead because of a small mistake."

"Aww, c'mon! She's just a girl, what-"

"That girl is the boss of the monster who wiped out the KGB outpost here," Mathers intervened as he angrily stared at the two knuckleheads within the National Guard team. "And unless you want to be turned into brain-slurry, I suggest you all shut the hell up."

Smith gulped. "Y-Yes, sir."

Bush, meanwhile, stepped forward to the door, hand outstretched and a warm smile on his face as Roland and Chesed followed suit, Netzach lazily hanging behind mostly to speak to Archer and the National Guard platoon about what had been going on here.

"Salutations," Bush introduced, a contagious smile on his face as Angela looked at him with an amused smirk. "I'm George Bush, Director of the Central Intelligence Agency."

"Oh? Another Director, I see," She took Bush's hand and gave a calm, accepting handshake to Bush, glancing at Roland as she did so. "Roland, I was not made aware that we would be receiving any guests today...?"

"See, here's where it gets interesting~" Chesed intervened, looking at Bush as the handshake was finished and let go. Patting Bush by the shoulder, he looked at Angela's surprised eyes with a smug grin. "This man over here, as odd as it sounds, had faced her personally and survived~"

"...Her," Angela repeated. "You mean... that Her? As in..."

"Carmen, yes," Bush's eyes widened and his body shivered as he found out about the name of the she-devil that nearly ruined his life. That devil had a name? It came as a shock to him, to be honest. No way that she would have a name. Yet... "He stared her down, and now he's basically, in his own words~" Chesed happily repeated Bush's words back, causing the man to put an embarrassed smile. "'In deep shit~'"

"Oh no..." Angela sighed in her own embarrassment as she glanced over at Director George Bush, an expression of regret forming on her face. Regret at not having stopped that monster when she had the chance. Regret at not having putting her down... Ashamed, she sighed and looked at Bush. "My sincerest apologies for you having faced her. I... I did not know."

"That bitch is the reason why my hands hurt so much," Bush complained as he rubbed his knuckles, still feeling the effects of the thing she did to him. "But I'm happy to say that I'm practically in debt to you because you know a lot about her that I don't."

"And we're also in debt to him!" Roland shouted, wrapping his arm around Bush as the man gave him a warm smile in response. Ah, how the new hires were getting along with their employer already. This was truly something that'd only happen in Langley after Rockie took over. "Quick lesson; Apparently we were at risk of being deported because we're not from around here," Angela's shocked expression seemed to tell him her experience with deportations. "A shame for the Head, because we've got someone to cover our backs!"

"...Are you intoning..."

"Yeah," Netzach spoke up, having finished talking with the soldiers and Agent Archer about their new positions under both Angela and Director Bush. "We're pretty much in debt to him. He's given us two choices; Work with him and don't get deported, or don't work, but risk getting deported," He sighed as he took another sip of alcohol from his thermos. "Obviously, we'd rather not have the situation of last time, so..." He sighed. "At least he's in debt to us about Carmen too."

"Yep," Bush muttered, smile replaced by an uncertain expression instead. "So long as we work together, you tell me about the she-bitch that I almost died to, and I'll keep you covered from deportation~ And before you ask," He rummaged through his pockets, taking out his wallet, and unveiling his CIA ID Card. "I do have a position high enough to do that."

"...Duly noted," Angela nodded as she stepped back. "I assume the others behind you are... under your contracts too, yes?"

"Oh yeah. You'll be working with them under me," He said as Angela seemed to adopt a curious expression on his face. "Let's talk more about this inside the Library. I'll negotiate the terms of your employment," He said, receiving a nod from Angela. "Hope you don't mind the other employees though."

"Actually," Angela replied. "I do... Need additional men who are willing to fight. You just happened to come at the right time."

"Oh?" Roland asked. "Something happen?"

"The abnormalities have began to... release themselves in the aftermath of our second eviction," She replied. "I do not have the Light to bring back the Assistant Librarians..." She glanced at the soldiers of the National Guard, all of whom had their weapons ready. "You all will suffice."

"Ma'am!" Lieutenant Mathers stepped in, marching up to the door, just to the right of Chesed, Roland, and Bush. "Lieutenant Andrew Mathers of Platoon 1, 161st Infantry Regiment, Washington Army National Guard, ma'am!"

"I take it you have ranged weapons, then?" Angela raised an eyebrow. Bush was supposed to nod on their behalf, but Mathers switched the safety off of his gun instead, pulling out a magazine to check how many bullets were left.

"Yes, ma'am! We're a platoon of 15 soldiers, all armed with automatic weapons, ma'am!"

"Good," She turned to Bush. "May I request your men on loan to assist in suppressing the abnormalities?"

"Don't let one of them die, okay?" Bush requested as he looked at Mathers' team. They were just Guardsmen. As expendable as they were in the grand scheme of things, he recruited them to keep them safe from spilling their mouths to the wrong person and getting them all killed. But if just one of them died in here...

"I promise to do everything in my power to keep them alive," Angela assured, looking at Roland. "Roland. I need you to guide this man's platoon to the three Patron Librarians in need of immediate support."

"Which are?" Roland asked.

"Hod, Malkuth, and Yesod," She said. "The rest of you-" She stopped as soon as she saw Agent Archer, his out-of-place outfit clashing with the rain as he waved at Angela. "You. Whoever you are, I need you assisting suppression."

"That's Agent Archer, ma'am," Bush said, looking back at Archer. "Arch! I need you to assist the National Guardsmen in suppressing- Whatever problems she has!"

"Do I need to be shooting them?"

"Yes, actually," Angela intervened in Bush's behalf. "I require ranged weaponry to take some of them out without risking my Patron Librarians or these soldiers any harm."

"Well shit," Archer replied, waving his arms in the air. "Count me in then."

"Splendid," Angela said as she turned around. "Roland, guide the men to the three in need of immediate support. Chesed, Netzach, I need you both to report to Binah," She ordered, getting a nod from the three of them. "And... Director Bush," She addressed, almost formally from the sound of it. "I need to discuss with you the terms of our employment unto you... In private."

"Consider it done," Bush nodded as he stepped forward inside the Library. To say that he was amazed was an understatement. Piles of books everywhere, stretching hundreds of thousands of miles on the inside. The Library almost looked like a simple tower on the outside, but with a treasure trove of knowledge like this... Such a thing was a good asset for Langley. He was lucky this was found first by the CIA instead of the KGB. Picking up a book, he was surprised to see its title, 'The Legend of the Black Forest.' Saving it for later, he turned around and addressed everyone else. "Everyone! Let's get a move-on!"

"Mathers!" Chesed shouted as he entered the Library, marching along with Roland, Netzach, Angela, and Director George Bush inside the Library. "Follow Roland!"

"You got it, Danny!" He shouted as he took the rest of the platoon and Archer to follow Roland, who split off from the group and turned left, heading toward Hod, Yesod, and Malkuth.

"Netzach! On me!"

"Mmmgh... Sure..." He complained as he finished his alcohol thermos, putting it down and- Summoning a beer can in its place instead? Holy cow, Bush realized. These people were more powerful than he ever thought-

His thoughts were interrupted by Chesed lightly tapping on his shoulder. "And Bush," Chesed's voice seemed to change to one of... Hell, it sounded slightly pleading. Something which earned him a raised eyebrow instead. "Please be fair on us, m'kay~?"

He smirked at the tone Chesed used. It was cute, almost like he was pleading. A little more mewling and pleading, and he might've sounded like a soggy cat. But, that's for another time, Bush mused as he nodded in response to Chesed. "I will."

"Excellent," He nodded as Chesed took a right turn. "I'll see you later, sir Director~!"

"Seeya!" Bush waved back as Angela turned around to smirk at Bush. He raised an eyebrow and simply gave a smile worthy of shit-eating. Oh, a smug, almost knowing smile that Junior would always pull... Such a thing caused him to pinch his son's cheeks for a while now. And here he was pulling it off with a total stranger.

"...I can't help but notice you seem casual about all of this." Angela replied, a small smile on her face as she found Bush's smug smile amusing in many ways. "Nevertheless, it seems that we both have a lot to discuss..."

"Oh yeah. Your guy, uh, Roland, discussed handling an info exchange. I give you information about the world and things I need done, in exchange you give me info about her and whatever you've got. Fair deal, yea?"

"A fair deal indeed. Though I am concerned... You seem almost excited to have new employees."

"I don't know what you mean by that?"

"You almost... Seem eager to find people to work with. I take it you're in need of a job that a Fixer can provide?"

"Ah, yeah, about that... See... this isn't your world, by the looks of it."

"Oh, I can infer that from you and your band of soldiers."

"Mhm. Bingo. And, well, if you're looking to make yourself home here... You've got the right guy."

"I take it you are a Director for a reason, yes?"

"Mhm, yeppers. Director of Central Intelligence, the eyes and ears of the United States of America, this land of the free you've found yourself in. Before you say anything, we're in a 'country'—this ain't a Wing, or a District, or anything like that... Think of us as... Uh, a 'District' or something that's separate from the Head. As in, there only exists the United States Government, and it isn't subordinate to The Head or anything like that..."

"Is your position within this... United States high enough to keep us from being deported a third time, then?"

"Yeah. I'll keep you under my thumb, but in exchange, you won't be expelled. Hell, I could expedite the citizenship for you and your- Your, uh, buncha coworkers. Langley's stretched thin so... We appreciate having alien firepower with us..."

"...And we appreciate your offer to shelter us from the preening eyes of those who wish to deport us. I mean that with sincerity, for the record."

"...About that, actually. When we get talking, I have to discuss with you about... a certain person who might impede that."

"Oh?"

"Y'see..." Bush began, before noticing that he and Angela had walked all the way to a set; In the center of it all was a wide table, with drinks put on them, steaming hot. Surrounding the table were three chairs, comfortable enough to fit whoever sat there regardless of size. And in one of them was a man who was old enough to be Bush's superior-

Wait a second. He almost looked like one of Bush's former partymates, and his competition in the 1980 Republican Primaries. Someone who he disagreed with, but damn sure held respect for. Surprised, he rubbed his eyes, before getting confirmation that what was in front of him was real. Weakly, he asked a question. "Anderson-?" Bush muttered almost confusedly, before the man shook his head., confirming it as a negative.

Since he got confirmation that it was not John B. Anderson, Bush got a good chance to look at the man. On the top of him was an almost shining white overcoat, unbuttoned and lazily hanging over him, arms and hands covered by it. Underneath it was a formal two-piece suit with a gray-ish hue, combined with brown shoes and a monocle on his face. Shit, he almost looked like Anderson.

"I am, unfortunately, not whoever you thought of at first," He replied sternly, sipping from a cup of hot tea on the table, presumably his. "In any case, I am Hokma. Patron Librarian of the Floor of Religion."

"And I'm George Herbert Walker Bush, Director of the Central Intelligence Agency."

"Ah, a pleasant meeting, Director," He nodded respectfully at Bush. "I see you've already been acquainted with Angela."

"Mhm," Bush nodded, smiling with a closed mouth. "Glad to meet y'all. I've, uh, heard from Roland about your situation, and thought that it'd be a great place here to discuss the employment plan to keep y'alls safe, uh, here in the USA."

"I take it Roland sold us all out, yes?"

"Yes, Hokma," Angela replied, a smirk on her face. "He sold us out indeed."

"Such misfortune," Hokma deadpanned as he took a sip of his tea one more time. "Regardless, have a seat, Director. Me and Angela have a lot to discuss about this employment plan of yours." Nodding at his invitation, Bush pulled one of the chairs back and sat on it, letting out a little 'oomph' as he landed on the soft chair, swallowed by its comfortability.

"The tea in front of you has been brewed courtesy of our resident Arbiter," Hokma sipped one more time. "Binah. She requests that you both enjoy it..."

Bush leaned forward and took the tea with one hand, blowing on it as he had his pinky finger stretched out, imitating the British in mannerisms—not that he liked the British, anyhow—and sipped on it, eyes blinking in satisfied surprise as the flavor seemed to resonate with him well. A perfect blend of sweet honey, natural sugars, and well-brewed leaves left him satisfied, grinning in delight even. He found his perfect Southern Sweet Tea Brew.

"Holy shit," He spoke. "Whoever this Binah gal is—she's a goddamn genius at perfecting Southern Sweet Tea!" He yelled out, giddy and joyful like a kitten that just tasted its favorite dish, much to the amusement of Hokma and Angela, who responded by giving Bush small smiles. "I gotta ask her how she does it, so I can surprise Junior, Jeb, and Barb with this!"

"I'll make preparations for you two to be acquainted later," Angela smirked. "So, anyway. Director Bush... On the matter of employment, please?"

"Oh, right," Bush sheepishly smiled as he took one more sip of the tea. "Okay, so here's what I have planned for the dental benefits in Langley..."

The amused expressions he got when he discussed Dental first seemed to confuse him.

He thought people liked discussing Dental first...?

---

Lieutenant Andrew Mathers [Washington Army National Guard - 161st Infantry Regiment] — The Library, [UNKNOWN LOCATION] — Dated June 5, 1980

"Look alive, team!" He shouted, readying his M16A2 as he addressed the three soldiers that had accompanied him to clear out the floor of this one gal called Hod, as Roland called her. When the National Guard team got together and rallied for their orders, they were told to split into separate teams to cover more ground and, ah, suppress more 'abnormalities' simultaneously. Obviously, that meant that the platoon would be scattered around, but if it meant dealing with the mess he was hearing in the background...

Perhaps dealing with them simultaneously by splitting up the teams was a better idea. There were three remaining soldiers, who were tasked with guarding the Library from any escapees, the other teams were spread suppressing other, uh, abnormalities. Mathers looked surprised as Wellstone and Smith checked their weapons. They actually looked forward to shooting something. Christ. Smith's M60 was loaded with nothing but Full Metal Jacket and Wellstone had high-explosive rounds for his grenade launcher at the ready, almost as if he was expecting something armored.

Yet, among the team, there was one last person, who, uh, didn't speak up. That member of their team had yet to introduce himself, oddly enough. In fact, Mathers tried to recall this person introducing themselves in his memory... But got nothing. Only that he showed up one day to the platoon just a day before they were deployed to the strikes, and that he always kept quiet when it was platoon bonding time, even at the gas station.

Christ, he mused. This might jeopardize the team. If this new guy didn't introduce himself, then he'd have hell to pay if he came back in a coffin—or worse, never came back at all—while still having no name to identify by. Family's going to raise hell and ask questions straight to the army. So... Fucking hell. He wanted to prevent a situation where he lost a man and didn't know their name. It never happened to him, but his pa always told tales of it during America's occupation of Mandatory Palestine back when Britain was considered friendly. About how some soldiers would be shifted into the platoon and then die without even getting the chance to bond with the soldiers or learn each others' names.

He had to avoid that at all costs, even if this new guy didn't introduce himself. He'd never want to end up as emotionally wrecked as his Pa. He promised that once he'd join the army, he'd keep those around him safe and sound and get to know them, no matter their race, creed, religion, or any of the other variables that kept him and his people segregated in the South for so , in the interest of getting to know the last guy, Mathers took it upon himself to step forward, gun slung over his shoulders.

"You! Last guy, you got a name?!" He asked, the unnamed soldier being startled and letting out an 'eep' that raised some concern to Mathers, before he straightened himself with a shake of the head and a firm cough, grasping his M16A2 rifle in a ready position, the itch to pull the trigger very much present.

"Private Keys, sir!" He responded, with... a voice that was definitely too... girl-sounding to be a man. Mathers winced as he heard the voice, but... Shit. He had to deal with this later, so he had to accept... Private Keys. If he sounded more like a sissy than anything. Yet, even if he wanted to say something about faggots... They were, after all, normal people. Hell, as one Goldwater said... You didn't have to be straight in the Army. Just shoot straight.

So he might as well follow the spirit of Barry G and let this fag prove himself by shooting straight. Steeling himself, he grabbed the shoulder of Keys and shouted.

"I don't know what sissy factory you crawled out of, but I wish you well! As long as you know how to fucking shoot straight, I don't give a shit! Your voice may sound like a faggot's, but in the Army, we're all green! Got that, Private?!"

"Sir, yes sir! I understand, sir!" He replied, pulling the charging handle on his gun and flipping the fire selector off. Mathers saluted, getting a salute in return. Of course, normally that would've been the end of their interactions, yet... Something about Keys' voice couldn't stop nagging him. Why the hell did it sound so... so Girl-ish? Did he get his vocal chords wrong or like...? Wanting the question answered, Mathers turned around and coughed, asking Keys somewhat important question.

"After this is over, you mind explaining your voice to me, Private?" Mathers' voice switched from his former drill instructor's to his normal voice, eyeing Keys. In fact, now that he was given a chance to look... Keys looked less... man-ly. It was hard to explain, but Keys... Keys looked more like someone pretending to be a dude.

He... He had always heard rumors from his area about people who chose to... Change themselves in other ways, but he wasn't so sure if people like those would... Especially in the Army, which... Christ, nevermind. Not now. Mathers shut down his line of thinking, letting Keys speak first instead. Keys, however, stayed silent, looking down on... His? Torso vest.

"I'll... I'll explain in polite company, Lieutenant," He said, voice... now sounding like a girl trying to put on a man's voice- Could it be...? "But I ask that you keep this between the platoon and our potential employers only, okay?"

"...Shit. Okay." He nodded, getting a smile from Keys as he did so. Huh. It seemed like Keys' face... It kinda looked feminine. .But... he couldn't just make assumptions like that, hell no. So, in the interests of team coordination, he opted to drop it for now. Better have it answered some other time, when Keys felt comfortable, of course.

Wellstone and Smith, meanwhile, looked at each other, then back at Mathers and Keys. Before they had a chance to say anything, Mathers coughed loudly. "Okay, that's settled! This is Private Keys, this is his first day, everybody! Anyway," He shouted and switched topics as the sound of metal and machinery clashing with meat filled the background noise. Must've been Hod fighting... Whatever the hell she was fighting. "We'll be reinforcing this gal—Hod—and her position by helping suppress... uh, anomalies," He stammered, forgetting the word. "Any questions?"

"Sir, what do we expect to face as soon as we enter Hod's hidey-hole? Spiders? Crabs? Hearts?"

Mathers winced as he heard a girl's frustrated voice. Hod's. "None of that, I think... I've been told that we'll be suppressing... something else, I believe. Something about... today and looks? Whatever the case, it's vulnerable to automatic weapons," He looked at the other 3 members on his team. "I want you three to ruin its day. Anything else?"

"Nothing, sir." Private Keys responded.

"Alright. Go Army!" Mathers shouted as he stepped forward into the stage, surprise apparent on his face as he saw the background—once a library section with a bunch of books—shift into yard, with indiscernible figures in the background, as well as some buildings. But what alarmed him the most was the human faces stitched together held up by a clothesline.

In front, a young adult-looking woman blocked a strong attack with her weapon—a mix of a sword and a baton—and clearly looked like she was near death, with herself looking exhausted and battered, clearly on her last legs.

And battling her was this... this thing that seemed to be almost angry. An abomination of flesh and a face. With no time to waste, Mathers raised his weapon and intervened while the girl was almost on her last legs. "Light that fucker up!" He shouted, switching the safety off and pulling the trigger as a burst of 5.56 ammunition met with the creature, causing it to scream.

Keys joined Mathers in shooting at it with his assault rifle, uncaring about ammunition as he fired burst after burst, causing the creature to stumble backwards, attempting to make a weak swing at Hod only to miss, hitting jackshit.

Smith set up his machine gun on some fallen books nearby that he repurposed into a support platform, crouching down and letting the trigger loose as the creature screamed and thrashed around, attempting to turn to meet the soldiers only to be met with more bullets.

Wellstone, meanwhile, had switched to the grenade launcher on his gun. After retreating to ensure that the arming distance was far enough that it would detonate, he launched the grenade from his rifle, the 'thoomp' of the grenade launcher being a welcome surprise to Mathers as it instantly impacted the creature.

As soon as the initial explosion hit it, it stumbled around, clearly staggered by the firepower that had been used to put it down with ruthlessness. Clumsily, it made an attempt to walk forward for the soldiers, only to lean backward and almost fall, then forward- Of course, its clumsy, staggered attempts were soon interrupted by the team resuming their suppression. Of course, by that, Mathers meant opening fire again and the rest of the team joining in as Hod retreated to recuperate, clearly shaken by having to fight off the creature by her lonesome.

With a humiliating thud, the creature fell backward, bleeding from all the bullet-induced holes in its body, having never gotten the chance to retaliate against the constant firing and firing and firing that the National Guard platoon had pressed onto it. It was almost tragic, Mathers mused. It looked like on the cusp of winning, only for its victory to be stolen by a bunch of weekend warriors who didn't even get proper training and only jackshit for hazard pay.

Ha. If he were that creature, Mathers chuckled, then he'd be fuming with rage that his chance for victory was stolen by a bunch of fucking morons.

"Target eliminated." Mathers said as he lowered his gun, having only spent half of a magazine during the execution of the poor abnormality. Of course, he couldn't feel really sorry for it given that it was about to kill this Hod gal, but, y'know, it deserved some slack for dying when victory was all but assured.

The rest of the team seemed to catch their breath, their inhalations and exhalations returning to normal as soon as the creature was put down with enough firepower to make General Carville proud but with the accuracy of a dead fish. Of course, given its size, it wasn't that hard to shoot at it anyway. He heard sighs of relief as soon as it finally stopped twitching.

"I…" Mathers turned around to see Hod panting, having just fought through hell and barely surviving, if only due to the presence of total strangers who had gunned down Today's Shy Look with such impunity that it rivaled the Thumb. "I can't thank you enough for saving me… That abnormality almost had me booked…"

"No problem, ma'am," Mathers gave a sloppy salute and a customer service-y smile to Hod. "We at the National Guard are happy to help."

"...National Guard?"

"Yeah," Mathers awkwardly scratched his head. "Long story short is that we're some new assistants after our bosses met with your bosses, and we got sent by your coworkers to help you out with your infestation problem. Sorry that they didn't tell you, by the way…"

"No, no, it's alright," Hod breathed a sigh of relief. "I just… I just couldn't believe that I barely survived that thing. The first time I suppressed it was hard enough, but now that we were back to square one…"

"You've fought that thing before?"

"Yes! I suppressed it in my first awakening, but…"

"Christ," He sighed. "My commendations then," He said as he took out a cigarette, before grabbing a lighter from his pocket and lighting the cigarette, exhaling some smoke in relief. "Want a smoke?" He glanced at Hod, who shook her head.

"No thank you. I'm sure Gebura would appreciate one though."

"Mhm, sure. I'll be sure to look for this Gebura person," Mathers said, readying his assault rifle. "Right. I've been told that this is just one part of the whole suppression thing, yes?"

"Yes… Our next one is…"

"Fret not," Mathers replied, exhaling smoke proudly as he held his assault rifle. "We've got it covered. We've got enough ammo to kill 'em all."

"If you say so, then…" Hod exhaled, relief apparent in her voice. "I'll lead the way."

"Lead on, gal," Mathers nodded, a cocky expression on his face as he exhaled smoke and stood with his gun proudly.

"Let's go kill some abominations."

---

George Herbert Walker Bush [United States Government – Central Intelligence Agency Director] — The Library, [UNKNOWN LOCATION] — Dated June 5, 1980

"...And, so, in employment, you will be receiving a weekly salary of six-hundred dollars, courtesy of the pockets of Uncle Sam, of course, as well as full insurance coverage throughout your employment in the Central Intelligence Agency," Bush explained as he listed off the conditions that employment at Langley would get everyone. "And that's about the rest of the employment package I'm offering for Langley," Bush smiled as he finished the Sweet Tea that Binah had brewed for him… somehow, despite having never met her. "I take it that these terms are agreeable?"

"The material benefits are just added bonuses that the other Librarians can find uses for," Hokma stated as he finished his tea. "However, I am just fine with a legal blanket coverage against deportation."

"I concur with Hokma," Angela responded, looking sternly at Bush as he raised his eyebrows in confusion. "What I merely want is protection against expulsion, then we can begin the information exchange."

"Oh, well, I'll still tack them on as bonuses…?"

"I would not refuse them either way."

"Right. I can guarantee that, for now, we can cover you all in a legal blanket. But… There is one caveat I wanted to discuss with Angela about this," He winced as he remembered that bastard's alliances in the Primaries. His teeth grated as he remembered seeing Willis goddamn Carto speaking for Reagan during one of his rallies. "See… In my nation, we have elections on who we choose to be president, and such is one of the years where we choose… It's called an election year."

"Mhm…" Hokma seemed to take this in with a response, while Angela seemed to be silently consuming this information. "I… sort of see where this is going. Is this a matter of it being a vital time where the laws regarding expulsion may change depending on the victor and their spoils?"

"Yep!" Bush cheerfully added, hiding the icy venom he had in his voice that was meant for someone that wasn't John B. Anderson—that man actually had a soul—or Hokma and Angela, his new hires. "See, I used to be in the faction of one of them… the Republican Party. I'm not a member anymore, I'm independent, but why I'm one doesn't matter—what matters now is that the Republican nominee is… Someone who, unfortunately, is not too keen on correlating to my promises of a legal blanket, and his campaign also includes not liking people who move in to this country, so…"

"And who is this figure?" Hokma asked, eyebrow raised. "Surely, one cannot be popular with rhetoric against people choosing to dedicate their lives to moving into this… nation," He recited the term with unfamiliarity. "Of yours. If people choose to be in your… nation, then why must rhetoric against that be so popular?"

"Tell me about it," Bush sighed solemnly, wishing that he had more Sweet Tea to drink away his frustrations. "Part of my family's Latin. And this figure…" He sighed. "His name's Ronald Reagan. His whole campaign is… Well, he's led a hostile takeover of my party—which believes in small government-"

"Despite having an intelligence agency akin to how The Head has The Eyes…?" Angela said, raising an eyebrow as Hokma seemed to agree, amused at how they can say this and, by inferrence, win these elections despite having that doctrine of 'small government.'

"-And now he's turned it into this… This monstrous paternalistic hellhole of a party. Says that the opposition—the leader of whom is a close friend of mine, by the way—is being led by our geopolitical enemy. He's sowing division and conspiracy in this nation, blaming it on many things…" Bush sighed as he raised four of his fingers. "Here's a list of 'em. Number one, the so-called 'Communist-led Banker Internationale;' Number two, the 'Communist sleeper agents' from the Southern border with Mexico; Number three, 'Muscovite Democrats,' and number four, 'Cultural stagnation' in the United States. Something about no manhood or vigour, vitality… Whatever bullshit they've imported from Britain under the ARRO."

An awkward silence permeated between Bush's newfound compatriots, before Angela broke the silence by faking a cough and speaking up first "I… I assume that, if this… Ronald Reagan wins the elections," Angela said, a disappointed sigh escaping her lips. "Then regardless of your promises, we will be expelled once again…"

"Correct, ma'am."

"Do you desire the elimination of this figure, then?" Hokma asked, manifesting a dagger out of nowhere. "Which method is in your preference, cloak-and-dagger or a stab to the front?"

"Actually, two things," Bush smiled. Oh, he had people ready to do exactly what he had planned ever since the end of the Republican National Convention. Oh, to get back at that smarmy bitch of an actor and his extremist goons… Bush's venomous smile was concealed under a jaunty expression as he recounted his plans. "We can't kill him. But… we can sabotage his campaign. And if the opposition party wins… Well, remember how I said the leader is my close friend?"

"You're not implying-!" Angela's eyes widened in surprise. He could get the strings pulled for them to stay in the United States! She seemed… almost ecstatic at that, actually. Finally, she could be somewhere safe from expulsion yet again!

Hokma, meanwhile, shook his head in disappointment. He wasn't going to refuse Bush, no. It's just that he realized that the Library was… Going to have to fight again. Though, less directly, at least. Perhaps… Perhaps speaking in campaigns was something he's always wanted to do…

"Bingo. I can keep you guys in here," He shot a finger-gun at Angela, happy that she figured out what he was planning. "So, I want y'all to help me out… Sabotage Reagan's campaign, and I'll help you guys stay in."

"I…" Hokma brought up, drinking one more sip of his tea. "I assume that you are acting…"

"Rogue, yes. I'm not exactly working under Ford's orders when I want Reagan screwed over…"

"You are aware of the potential consequences to conspiracies like this, yes?"

"I'm aware. But…" Bush stopped himself. He wanted to say that it was for his own pleasure, but that… That was too personal. He wanted to say that it was for the party, but that would betray his… Almost energetic desire to see Reagan personally damned. Oh, how he wanted Reagan to suffer.

That bastard took away the campaign from him. He risked life and limb for the nomination, only for Reagan to… To.. That bastard-! That bastard allied with a bunch of carpetbaggers to give himself a good name… That man had to go. Bush's balled fist seemed to go unnoticed by both Angela and Hokma as Bush himself retained a normal expression. "...It's in the name of national security," He came up with a convenient excuse. Truth be told… There was some reasoning behind it. "We've received reports that Reagan's campaign is very much a threat to American society, no thanks to the bunch it allied itself with…"

"Which include?" Angela asked, intrigued. Just how bad were the people backing this Ronald Reagan? If they had managed to earn the ire of the Director of the prime intelligence agency of the United States, then… It surely was indeed that bad.

"Let's see," He cupped his face and jotted his mind. "We've found funds traced from the United Kingdom bound for the Ronald Reagan campaign… And, for a brief introduction, the United Kingdom is a hostile entity toward the United States, so it raised alarm bells when they funded Reagan's campaign."

"That is…" Angela opened up.

"Incredibly dangerous," Hokma said, shaking his head. "I assume they share his views-" Hokma was silenced when Bush gave him a nod, which caused Hokma to grunt in irritation. "...I see. So they are undesirable."

"Yea. And second on the list is… Right. The Free Truckers. Britain's useless idiots, but they're not the dangerous part. No, what I'm really concerned about are the armed militias that guard Free Trucker rallies," Bush sighed, irritation apparent on his face. "See- We've designated these groups as Sierra Mikes, or military code for Southern Militias," A sneer escaped his mouth, concerning Angela as Hokma merely realized his emotional state. "But really, you should call them by their names," A growl on Bush's face showed the two Librarians what he really thought of them. "Murderous asswipes."

"What's incredibly special about these… Sierra Mikes?" Angela asked.

"Oh, just the fact that they're heavily armed with a shitload of guns, guns, and more guns-" Angela's eyes widened at that. They were dealing with extremely armed groups now, and… Bush saw her look like she just received a wake-up call from her regular life, sighing in regret. "I'm sorry if you didn't expect that, for the record."

"No, it's fine… Just… I can't believe we've landed somewhere where guns are common…"

"Eh, we're an anomaly when it comes to that, not the norm."

"Still."

"Fair enough," Bush sighed. "Anyway, Sierra Mikes are annoying as hell to deal with and they're the armed guards of Ronald Reagan. But it wouldn't be hard to discredit them… Albeit, it's hard to dislodge their credibility with the loons."

"Why is that?"

"Something about preventing an invasion of the southern border. Something about blaming Fulbright. Yada-yada," Bush waved the two of them off as he recounted the utter stupidity of Sierra Mike talking points. "Now, my job would be to infiltrate and sabotage them normally, but with the election my hands are tied. However…"

"...You want us to deal with them."

"Bingo."

"I… Suppose we have come to an agreement then," Angela said, cutting Bush off before he had any chance on debriefing them on the third threat to the United States. "We… have an employment agreement."

"Unfortunately, we have neither a contract nor a pen. However, assuming you can acquire either of them later on…"

"Aite, aite. Cool. So we got that out of the way," Bush muttered, extending a handshake to Hokma, who returned the favor with a strong grip and a firm handshake. Then, he extended one to Angela, who likewise returned the favor with a firm yet polite handshake, causing Bush to give out a smile. "Now, I got all the free time in the world, so…" He looked at Angela. "What's your life story?"

"M-me?" Angela asked, pointing towards herself.

"Yeah. I wanna figure out how you got… You know, here?" Bush asked, genuine curiosity in his eyes as he stared at Angela, still pointing to herself in confusion. "I thought that it'd be cool to get to know each other before we… Y'know," He awkwardly smiled. "Got to Langley. I'd be happy to hear you out, no matter how tragic it is!"

"D-do you really… do you really mean it?" Angela asked, leaning in closer as Hokma watched with interest. It had been a long time since someone other than the Librarians shared even an inch of interest in Angela's life, and the willingness to listen.

Perhaps, Hokma mused as George Bush gave a thumbs-up, their new employer would be kinder than Sir Ayin and his fanatical quest to follow The Script. Clasping his hands together as Angela coughed, and Bush put up a sincere smile, expecting to hear life tales from his new employees.

Meanwhile, Bush had to give it to Angela. He recalled the conversation on the way in… Something about her not exactly being a woman. He thought about it for a few seconds, but shrugged in on it. As long as she remained herself… Then he didn't really care.

Angela exhaled as she stared directly at George Bush, a mix of relief and solemn lament on her face, confusing the Director.

"Alright… It all starts as a tragic tale…"

---

Angela [The Library - Director of the Library ] — ? ? ? — Dated ? ?, ?

Bush looked back at Angela with an uncomfortable, yet concerned expression as she recounted the tale of Lobotomy Corporation. When they had first talked about it, he seemed intrigued in it being an energy company. Yet, that interest had died when Angela told Bush all about the horrible, horrible things going on behind the scenes… Bush's horrified and concerned look toward Angela when she talked about The Script was all that Angela needed to realize that… Perhaps, there were people willing to lend her an ear.

"I'm so sorry for what you've suffered in Lobotomy Corporation…" Bush said as he shook his head, sadness in his eyes. The first among many strangers to feel sympathy for her, Angela noticed. "I… I can't imagine… Being treated like that by the closest thing you had to a father figure…"

"That man was anything but my father figure," Angela snapped at Bush as the man recoiled, surprised at the sudden yet understandable offense Bush had made by insinuating that Ayin was a true father figure. "Yet… I appreciate the sentiment. It… has been a long time since anybody outside has felt sympathy for this,.. This machine."

"No no, I understand," Bush explained, wincing as he got close to Angela. Something told Angela that he was not comfortable with her… being a machine. Yet, was willing to put that aside. "I… One of my sons… He can't read," He shrunk, recalling how one of his sons, Neil, had trouble fitting in because he couldn't read… It was hard for him to connect, but he tried. "I know how it must feel, being discriminated… One for being a machine, and one for not knowing to read. It's terrible, it… Really is."

To Angela, Bush was someone who really was trying to sympathize and comfort her after accidentally opening up a… 'can of worms' as some of the other Librarians would say. Yet, she could still taste the discomfort knowing this information within his mouth as he struggled to understand what it was like to be treated merely as a machine. It pained her knowing that even someone who couldn't read lived a far more normal life.

Meanwhile, she watched people die over and over again, a mountain of blood spilled all for Ayin to follow the script and honor her last will… Yet, she had… assaulted Bush, and even before that, she had attempted to sow nothing but chaos in The City, using the Reverberation Ensemble… Oh, how she wished she could strangle Ayin for unleashing her upon both her world and this. But alas, as delusional as he was, he succeeded.

And, perhaps, he might have said sorry…

"-It's, uh, it must be terrible…" Bush sighed, knowing that he just couldn't find the right words. "Look… I don't know if I'll be able to accept a machine. Yet, if it walks like a man, talks like a man… Perhaps, I… I mean, it's possible to find God as a machine…" He uncomfortably shifted his position, hands clasped as Angela narrowed her eyes at his sudden shift into uncomfortability. Bush… had a lot to take in. But she hoped that she would be more accepting than Ayin.

"Regardless of your choice words," Angela coolly added as Bush looked back up, hands still clasped slightly uncomfortably. "I appreciate you listening to the story of my life before the Library," She sighed heavily, relief apparent on her voice. At least, she hoped Bush would pick up on that. "I would love to talk about my life during the Library's prime… But… would you want to?"

"Uh, ma'am," He addressed. Hmm. Looks like he swallowed his pride and addressed her the same way he addressed a human being. That was an advancement. "I… I'd love to, but perhaps another time. This story… Yeesh, it wrenched my heart…" That was not a lie, apparently. Bush actually looked like on the verge of biting his lips and drawing blood in uncomfortability. "God, I can't bear myself to imagine Junior like that… But, our God is a forgiving God, after all."

"...An odd sentiment, but I understand where it comes from," Hokma interjected, having resigned to listening to everything. "I hope you are… satisfied with the knowledge that I had been nothing but her guardian… I suppose, a true father figure to her, in contrast to Sir Ayin's continued hostility towards her."

"It hurts me knowing that, for the record," He sighed, palm meeting his face as he took in a strained breath. "No… Nobody should be deprived of loving guardians. Shit, I… I'm sorry for bringing this up. I'm just…"

"No, it's fine," Angela began, a small smile on her face. "The fact that you're willing to listen to this poor woman's life story is more than enough for me. Well," She shrugged. "At least the first part of it, anyway. I will talk about the later parts of my life sometime else."

"Right," Bush sighed, putting on a smile as he stood up. "I think that's it for us," He stopped as he heard gunfire and explosions throughout the rest of the Library, but without the place shaking, he wondered just how strong it must've been. Pointing vaguely at the direction of gunfire, he raised a question. "I assume that's the National Guard putting in their time and effort to… Y'know…"

"Mhm," Angela nodded, standing up. "They're very successful against the ones without any resistance to ranged attacks. However, they may need to pull back when encountering… Certain abnormalities- Ah," She winced, closing her eyes. "One of their teams has faced the Queen of Hatred."

"Queen of Hatred-?"

"They have put her down with a firing line of gunfire," She updated, a proud smile. "It was a wise decision to ally with this… Central Intelligence Agency, from how your combat team is performing against the abnormalities."

Bush sighed, shaking his head and putting his hands in his pockets. "Magical Girls, robot girls, and now super-faggots…" He clicked his tongue. "Boy, what am I getting myself into…" He muttered, looking at Angela.

"Want me to talk about my life story sometime, uh…"

"Angela."

"Right. Want me to talk about my life story sometime? It's… I feel like it'd be great for establishing a cohesive work environment if we, uh, got to talk about our life stories… Though I won't intrude on you and your coworkers, and if I press on too much, I apologize."

"Perhaps some other time indeed," Angela nodded her head. "For now? Let's wait until your National Guard clean up the abnormality infestation," She procured a book out of nowhere, as is typical, almost laughing at Bush's surprised expression. "In the meantime, why not we read a book?"

"Uh…" Bush's mouth hung as he seemed to forget how to speak for a second, scratching his head with an awkward face. "...Alright?"

Sitting down, he glanced at his watch as Angela prepared to read from the Tale of the Black Forest.

...How long was the National Guard going to take until he could figure out a way back to Langley again?

---

Agent Deriore [Albion Restoration and Renewal Organization – Directorate of Military Intelligence, Section 7] — Rosemont, Georgia — Dated June 5, 1980

"And how much do we expect to raise for Ronald Reagan's campaign this next month?"

"Give or take about, ah, fourty-thousand dollars, accounting for the transfer rate from one hundred twenty-thousand pounds to the United States dollar,"

"And what's our expected funds raised to funds spent ratio for this week?"

"Conservative estimates put us at… One thousand dollars raised compared to five thousand spent. Of course that depends on whether or not we can… commit extralegal means of obtaining money."

"Americans, despite being a nation of merchants and cheapskates, are always fumbly with the numbers," A sigh. "Americans can never adapt to numbers higher than ten."

"They can never govern themselves, pah. They had a whole uproar over something that should have been settled in the 1860s." Were the chosen words that came out of Agent Aiken Smith of Military Intelligence Section 7 as he tossed a fag down into the ground of the college, stomping it out with his boot.

"At the very least, they're willing to let us hang around and reach out to people who haven't been demotivated," Deriore frowned as the smug and smarmy words of Agent Unity Reeves flapped out of his mouth, followed by a guffaw that had the sincerity of an American whore. "You know, it's concerning that they've been… lacking in devotion to the fight against Bolshevism and its war on vigour, ha. Were we not fighting for our very life against Bolshevism and its children back during the Second Great War?"

"Because the goddamn mutts in control of the government under Fulbright were cowards," Were the words that had cigar smoke pursue them immediately afterward, courtesy of Henry Skeffington, 10th Viscount Molesworth, the great sponsor of this outreach event. "They had no faith in the LORD GOD against the fight to stem the tide of Bolshevism."

"Rather thankfully," Deriore's smug smile was met with another smile from Smith, and a flippant 'eugh' from Unity. "There are people who haven't given up the fight," She turned around from the booth, smirking as a crowd of Rosemont Community College students heckled and shouted at a Black counter-protestor. "Never again shall we see America continue to mewl and laze in its commitment to destroying Bolshevism."

The four of them had a rather peculiar task, as Deriore would term the objective she had been placed in. See, Deriore had been attached from Military Intelligence's Section 7, the Propaganda Department. As were the other agents in her vicinity, eyeing the rest of the college, with Deriore particularly taking a keen interest in how there were many who were constantly chased. Belittled. Destroyed. All by a bunch of rowdy kids.

She stuck the remnants of the chewing gum she had consumed onto the underside of the stall, uncaring about the damage. Hmph. She winced, however, when her eyes darted to see a college student, young female in her 20s, being harassed and followed by particularly unpleasant men.

"Repent, repent! The punishment of LORD GOD outweighs the illusive benefits of your sinful lifestyle!"

"Sodomism is not the American way of life! You must renounce your communist ways and return to the arms of our Creator and his son, Jesus Christ!"

Two of the main men shouted as they continued walking down the hall, uncaring of her constant cries of "Leave me alone," "Stay away from me," or "Please go away." In fact, they seemed to intensify the shouting she received, Deriore noticed as she stood from the stall, eyes still following the young woman and the men following her.

"Repent, whote of babylon! Repent!"

"Please! Just stop following me!"

"Renounce your sinful ways, oh misguided one, and return to the cradle of LORD GOD!"

Deriore shook her head just slightly enough, leaning her head down and closing her eyes as she took a deep breath, mouth twisting into an aggravated snarl as soon as the woman and the people following her went out of her sight.

Those men that just harassed that woman were, unfortunately, the people she had to contend with, she mused as she took another piece of bubblegum from the packet she bought and began chewing, the tangy and sweet strawberry flavor distracting her from the unpleasantries of this current outreach effort. In hindsight, she thought as she turned her left to see Lord Skeffington, Viscount of Molesworth, joining the effort as someone like her was a terrible idea.

"Talking to those people with the little Reagan '80 hats makes me…" She stopped herself as she prepared a smirk. "...Excited at the prospect of the United States finally turning around and accepting its role in the fight against communism once again." She lied. No, she was not. Her fists, normally open when she crossed her arms, began to ball up as she darted her eyes to the sponsor of their outreach event.

The Rosemont Holy Calvary Church, she noiselessly snarled her face as she saw it. Their booth was just across theirs, and yet somehow it felt more intrusive than the British. Oh, don't get Deriore wrong. They were here under the guise of helping the fight against communism. That was why their front group was attached to the Rosemont Holy Calvary Church as well as the Liberty Lobby.

Yet, Deriore couldn't help but feel that the Rosemont Holy Calvary Church were the more intrusive elements than their little PAC, the People United against Bolshevism and Cultural Stagnation. Alternatively called the PUBCS, or 'Pub-Cee-Ess' in the words of Unity. Not that the moron would enjoy hearing that from Deriore, anyway.

"Enjoying the show, Deri?" Unity asked as he looked at Deriore, smug grin on his face as she looked at him again. In that stupid little expensive suit of his was the embodiment of the word parasitic. The slick, gel-coated black hair. The expression with the sincerity of an American whorehouse's selection. The voice oozing with the inflection of a renowned womanizer. Oh, how Deriore wished he could just die already. "I mean, after all. You seem to be a show yourself," He stood up from his chair, hand pointing to the right. "Those kids seem to like you, Deri. Why not give 'em a ride on the agency's bicycle?"

"Fuck off and die," Deriore asked as she turned around, blew a bubble out of the bubblegum, and popped it near the face of Unity, him pulling back from the bubble resulting in only a few barely noticeable pink splotches on his space. "I'd sooner spoon an ant than a goddamn American." She growled.

"Aww, playing hard-to-get I see? I hear that the kids here in the south ain't a big fan of that~ They're always the ones who wish to be in control~" Unity smiled and grinned as Deriore glared back at him with the penetrating power of a multi-kiloton nuclear-powered piledriver. Eugh. This disgusting sod was ruining her day.

"Can it, Unity," The calm, smooth voice of Aiken Smith rang out, wordlessly relieving Deriore from the burden of having to talk to the disgusting slimeball that was Unity Reeves. The best thing Deriore could say about him was that he was dressed for the job, with a typical t-shirt and pants befitting the American suburbs—all of which reeked of insincerity—and messy brown hair combining themselves with a tone befitting someone who deserved to be on this mission. Pfph. It was a wonder how Unity even came here. "You provoke Deriore one more time and she'll tear you a new arsehole."

Silently, Deriore thanked Smith for having the guts to acknowledge her being something other than eye candy. "I mean that, by the way," Smith continued as he reclined back into his reclining chair, attending the booth for their little front organization becoming more of a napping opportunity than a chore. "She will have you shitting out of a tube the next time you make a comment."

"Aww, but look at these boys! They're eatin' up the eye candy! I betcha they're all-"

"If you don't hold your tongue for a day," Deriore interrupted Unity, clicking her tongue as soon as she ended the sentence, not bothering to honor Unity with a simple 'turn-around-and-insult-him' gesture, sticking to observing the world outside the booth instead. "I will have you pissing out of your arsehole and your sperm rendered infertile."

"'Kay, 'kay, jeez," Unity spoke up, Deriore feeling an intense glare from the rat bastard but choosing to ignore it instead. "But, hell, we've gotta find a way to raise some money for the Reagan campaign by the month after the next—bah, what month was it again…"

"August," Deriore automatically responded. "At least assuming you have a brain capable of handling the letter combination without having an aneurysm."

"Right," He said, ignoring her insult to rave and rave on. God, she always hated these. Whenever they discussed the matter of finding money to support Reagan monthly, whenever they'd fall short of their target and couldn't get more from the mainland… "And that leaves us with nothing but extralegal means, byeah?"

"Yes, yes it does," Deriore answered Unity without facing him, though instead wincing as a passing college student threw the word 'Nigger!' at her while she leaned forward in the booth, her only response to sigh, breathe in deep, and continue answering Unity's question. Even if she wanted that fucker dead. "Anything that doesn't involve whoring out, for the record," She sighed as she took another piece of bubblegum. "I think the amount of diseases and plastic inside an American would contaminate the whorehouse."

"I'm surprised you can tell the difference between a whorehouse with crabs and a whorehouse without one." The Viscount's voice interjected, the man putting an accent of poshness that could only be fitting to someone from ARRO, as it was combined with a fancy suit and a haughty attitude. "Though considering the Negro population in this city, I wouldn't be surprised if their whorehouses were rampant with crabs."

"Oh, no, they most definitely are," Deriore deadpanned, disinterested after the second 'Nigger!' was hurled at her by a passing student. Neither of these times resulted in her getting something thrown at her, funny enough. Though she supposed that third time would be the charm. "But it's not their race. Just moreso because Americans will be Americans."

"Right," The Viscount let out an exhale of a cigar. "Mixed-race mutts with a rainbow of a blood lineage," A small chuckle, guffawing at the stupidity of Americans. Not that she disagreed with the viscount—though she loathed many things about him—"But it is thanks to our Lord that we've been able to help stymie the tide of bolshevism."

"Hmph, bolshevism," Unity snickered. "I'm just wonderin' how the Americans could've switched from being our defenders to just lazin' about when the southern border's been penetrated by Mexican communists."

"Extreme incompetence that would only fit the likes of you," Deriore interjected with a snarl on her face as she turned around and walked further into the booth to grab a bottle of water. Something that only showed just how utterly privileged these damn morons were. Oh, how they had all of this at their disposal, and yet they remained nothing but stagnant and dying. "Just incompetence that, after all, only you would be able to comprehend with how you act," Deriore smiled at the irritation of Unity, who contorted his face into an expression of nothing but hate. "Ford's been nothing but licking the boots of the reds, and we all know about Fulbright."

"It's a wonder that America managed to pull itself together, even with them surrendering to bolshevik forces when they signed that… Civil Rights Act," Smith interjected, anticipating yet another yelling contest between the two most vitriolic members of the MI7 front group delegation, cringing as he said the words 'Civil Rights Act' and contorting his face into an indiscernible expression. "Really, that alone should've been a sign to the people that Bolshevism was in power. Yet…"

"Worry not, there are still people fighting the good fight," Deriore flattered Smith, glancing at college students waving the American flag in conjunction with 'Reagan!' signs. Really, though, she could only keep up the smiles for so long before they faltered as she continued to see them shout and harass people. Regardless, it was her call to continue acting. "Bolshevism shall no longer take a hold in America when Reagan is elected."

"Hmph," Viscount Molesworth interjected, puffing another bout of cigar smoke. "I was thinking that the first step would be to repealing that bill… That, pah," He sniggered, putting his cigar to his mouth, inhaling, then exhaling again. "That Civil Rights Bill. Or, really," Oh brother, Deriore moaned internally. Here comes another one of his rants. "That goddamn Nig-"

"Hey, look," Unity interrupted, sparing Deriore of having to listen to another rant against Black people that she had to sit through when meeting with the evangelical outreach delegation that allowed them to be there in the first place. "Deri. I think those kids over there," She frowned angrily as her eyes fell upon a bunch of fat, clearly here-for-sex college 'students' stopped to stare at the MI7 booth. And, sadly, not for contributing to the Reagan campaign. "I think they've seen the sweetest eye-candy they've ever seen, eh? Eh?"

"Shut the fuck up before I give you a colonoscopy with an EM2 you sack of shit!" Deriore shouted as she turned to face Unity, face transfixed in a purely angry and hateful expression as she jabbed a finger in the air at Unity. "It was because of your goddamn womanizing that I had to spend the night shift guarding this goddamn booth!"

"Oh, c'mon, Deri-!"

"Do not call me Deri!"

"I can and will call you Deri-"

"Then I hope you can choke on a goddamn pretzel and die."

"Already almost did that~ Once again, I'm more worthy of that promotion that you stole!"

"I stole?! If anything, I kept that promotion safe and sound from the likes of you, arsehole!"

"Yeah, well- I still managed to rake in money for our little operation! If anything, I've contributed more than you!"

"You just helped someone from the KKK get elected in return for kickbacks! Big fucking deal, I've seen FOLO operations with more weight to their consequences than your little stints here!"

"Ah-ah, who's the one who's managed to get laid around here, Deri?"

"Shut the fuck up already-!"

As the shouting match continued to escalate beyond his control or any expectations—really, something like this was fairly common for the MI7 team—Aiken Smith only moved his chair forward, towards the front of their little booth stand, pushing aside pro-Ronald Reagan propaganda and brochures to make a spot to sleep on. To say that campaigning and speaking for Reagan had been tiring was a massive understatement.

"I'm going to take a bloody nap," Smith muttered, expecting nobody in particular to hear him or interrupt him as Unity and Deriore hurled nothing but insult after insult while Viscount Molesworth could only snarl in disgust upon seeing another black person. Such was life here in Rosemont in the State of Georgia. "If I don't wake up, at least I'll know I don't have to live through another shouting match…"

Deriore, meanwhile, could only clench her fist as Unity continued babbling on and on about his achievements and 'conquests.' Really, the only things he's done were either; assist—in very miniscule amounts—the election of Reagan Republicans, or; and abandon his post multiple times in order to womanize around the bars.

"I like them white, Deri~"

"You disgust me." Were all that Deriore could muster in response to Unity's continued bragging about 'bagging' women.

Oh, how she wished that the KGB would just speed up giving her those damn orders already.

Premier Romanov would be a better alternative to these fuckers…

---

Representative John Bayard Anderson (D-IL) [Democratic Party – Speaker of the House ] — 430 South Capitol St SE, Washington, D.C. — Dated June 5, 1980

"Look, if you would just-" John Anderson tried to reason with the receptionist in the front of the office as she shook her head, eliciting an annoyed groan from Anderson. "Come on," He muttered, letting out a sigh and retreating, his energy better spent elsewhere. "Fine, fine." He conceded before the receptionist could tell him to go away. "My apologies." He sighed as he walked out of the office.

The streets of Washington, D.C. had been particularly not that great today, he mused as rain poured while he walked to a nearby payphone. It had been like this for a while, from the first hour he arrived here to his attempts to get in touch with the rest of the Democratic National Convention's bigshots. Boy, he wanted to throw his endorsement in for Dugan, but… Pah.

At least his Republicans for Dugan campaign worked. George Bush had been a particularly interesting man to work with, being the Director for the Central Intelligence Agency and all. Though he still couldn't believe it took him a long time to consider leaving the party ever since Rockefeller's lot had fallen out of favor.

But what could he do? Bush was the man who controlled the Central Intelligence Agency, after all. He wasn't going to give up a fight when he saw one. And with rumors of the Reagan campaign floating that sack of shit Heinz Alfred Kissinger as a potential replacement for him, he could only sit down. Bush knew how to handle this.

He always did.

His mind snapped out of his musing as implementation of the phone number he was given a week earlier resulted in an actual answer, courtesy of him, of course. "Yello, this is Don. How can I help you?"

"It's me, Rumsfeld," Anderson's voice responded to the call of former Representative—and former Secretary of Defense—Donald H. Rumsfeld, who responded with a small 'ah,' a wordless nod over the telephone showing that he knew it was Anderson."I see you're still… In limbo, ever since you got the can."

"Yeah," Rumsfeld sighed, Anderson wincing in sympathy for him. "I don't entirely blame Ford. But, still, Operation Eagle Claw could've gone better." And that was was his reason for sacking, sadly. Rumsfeld was in charge of Operation Eagle Claw back in '79, the operation to rescue the hostages in the Embassy in Iran. Unfortunately, it went wrong, and to save face from the failure, Rummy was sacked from SecDef.

Unfortunately, given that it didn't stymie Ronald Reagan and John Connally, one can say that Rummy's sacrifice was… Needless. Of course, it was needless to anyone who wasn't either Ronald Reagan, or his fellow partymate and defector George Herbert Walker Bush.

"Hmph. If that hadn't happened, I'm willing to bet you'd be up in the RNC by '88."

"That is generous, as it's assuming that Bush wouldn't have my head on a pike for daring to cross his line, of course," Rumsfeld's chuckle as he said that put a smile on the face of Anderson. "You call McGovern about his election loss yet?"

"No, why?"

"I wanted to say 'welcome to the club' of being sacked," A small chuckle and a sigh escaped Donald Rumsfeld's mouth. "Though I've been talking with this one Senator from Delaware, ah, Joe Biden his name was?"

"Oh? What about him?"

"Thought I could get him to give me, and maybe McGovern, assuming he's willing to speak, a job in some committee- Thinking about how I can open up an investigation committee on what went wrong on Eagle Claw, and seeing if I can help recruit other sacked senators…"

"To wash your hands of how it failed spectacularly, I assume?"

"Don't get me wrong, I absolutely know that I helped bungle it, but I also bungled the potential for war between us and Iran."

"But not us and Britain?"

"Not much we could do for Britain, to be honest. ARRO's getting on my nerves with their continued sabre-rattling."

"Hmph."

"Y'think that McGovern'd be willing to talk to me? Y'know, after he lost the '72 election. Doesn't he still represent those brands of liberals, after all? The, uh, the kooks- the loons- the wackos?"

"My people," Anderson smiled as he affirmed that he identified with them, at least socially. With monetary concerns he drifted towards his Republican roots. He despised rampant and unchecked spending after all, that was why he was so renowned during the era of Nelson Rockefeller after all. "I respect the man, and the feeling is mutual for me having the will to stand up and refuse Reagan's… Well, Reagan-isms."

"I'm not sure you'd be a viable candidate in the DNC, to be quite honest."

"Well, neither would you- Assuming sanity returns to the Republican Party, you'd probably rejoin."

"Yeah… How many years do you expect them to return to the simple values of sanity and common sense? You know, Ford's responsible Republicanism and all?"

"Generously?"

"Yeah."

"I'd give or take two decades. Want the realistic answer?"

"Sure."

"It's never going to return to sanity any time soon."

"Tch. Always knew that to be the case, with Reagan hosting the likes of Willis Carto and Jerry Falwell in his rallies."

"Did you hear the latest speech?"

"No?"

"Well, in the latest Reagan speech, he denounced a 'concentrated effort' by 'communists and bankers' subverting the Democratic Party to advance communism," Rumsfeld laughed into the telephone in response to Anderson, with him likewise sharing an amused smile at recounting it. "Said that the defectors showed their true allegiances all along- To Moscow and this cabal."

"Oh my God," Rumsfeld couldn't help but laugh heavily into the telephone. "Send me a copy of that."

"Yeah, I will," Anderson chuckled. "Anyway, I wanted to tell you something, that's why I had to call," He opened up, Rumsfeld straightening himself over the telephone as Anderson coughed into the telephone. "I wanted to see if I could get into the DNC to arrange a meeting with the chair, but ah…"

"You got refused?"

"Yeah,"

"Shucks. Should've expected it, quite honestly-"

"Didn't you have ambitions to become DNC Chair? I mean, you told me that once when we had that little, uh,"

"Defector meeting?"

"Yeah."

"Still do, haha," Rummy's smarmy laugh only served to remind Anderson of just who he was dealing with. "Though I've also got to get Dick to back me up. He's great at talking to these Democrat liberals, and hell, I hear that they're not satisfied with the current DNC chair either."

"And you're telling this to the Speaker of the House?"

"Well, who else can I say this to? Dick's already got the plan in the bag."

"Heh, always vying for power. That's the Donald Rumsfeld I've worked with in my Committee, never change, Rummy."

"Hey, if I become SecDef again under Dugan, I'll make sure there's no holes left in the engine."

"I wish you good luck on that effort then," Another chuckle escaped the lips of Anderson as he looked around the area. "My Committee's very vigilant in ensuring there's no funny business when it comes to our defense performance."

"Draftees aren't good for an army, Andy."

"No they're not," He said as he glanced around, sighing in frustration as he saw another march of protestors in D.C. Buncha students who've been fed up with the nomination of Mike Dugan and had to make it known. "Listen, Rummy. I'll catch you on the flipside. I've gotta catch a break and get some rest on my end."

"Right. I'll be sure to put in a good word for you over to Dick."

"Gee, thanks," Anderson sighed. "Alright, see you."

"See you."

Anderson put the phone down as he stepped out of the phone booth, hands placed in his pockets and hood covering his face, preventing him from being soaked with water. Not that it stopped his glasses from fogging occasionally, of course. But that was an irritating issue to deal with later.

"I wonder what Bush's up to," He mused, thinking back to the 'Republicans for Dugan' campaign that occurred, after their intense dissatisfaction with just how radical Reagan was. Hell, Rummy got sacked and was treated like shit. Same with Bush, sadly. He remembered that one time on TV where he almost got hit by a brick as he left the RNC.

"I hope he's doing well," Anderson smiled. "I wonder… Maybe I've got time to visit him," He was interrupted from musing as a nearby truck crossed a puddle, dousing him in cold rainwater and eliciting a sigh from him as he frowned at the unfortunate things happening him today.

"Maybe I'd need to do it sometime else," He frowned and made a snarling expression. "Preferably after I get this shit cleaned up."