The Committee for National Security
Chapter 9 – Crime
6 Months after expulsion / June 6th, 1980
Four-Thirty PM, June 6, 1980
"Eyes lit on sharp threats from dark lips,
The lights press the soft skin to rough hands."
Crystal Castles,"Crimewave"
George Hebert Walker Bush [United States Government – Central Intelligence Agency Director] Langley, Virginia — Dated June 6, 1980
The air was tense as George Bush stood still, gun on his hands and a German on the other. He seemed like someone who was here for some other reason, but got caught in the crossfire. He doubted that he was connected in any way to the gunmen here. Uncertain, he squinted and spoke out to the man.
"You speak English?" Bush asked as he kept the rifle raised, the man's hand moving away from the earpiece and kept up, confirming his surrender. He didn't seem to be involved with them, he thought as his eyebrows shifted their stance and his hand uncomfortably fidgeted with the rifle handguard. Not that he wasn't so sure. If he was, then he might have just let him call for reinforcements. Maybe he was talking to a sniper nearby. Maybe he was just-
"Ya," The man replied as he shifted his language to English, nodding and keeping his hands raised. He seemed to be well-fit. Though the red hair and gray eye combination did make Bush's eye raise for a minute once again. Bush's eyes winced as he saw a holster and realized that he didn't frisk the man. Damnit. Though he seemed to be friendly enough, so Bush prayed that he was just as friendly as he seemed to be. "I'm Agent Wespe, Reich Intelligence Service," That got Bush interested. Germans? In America? "Sent on a mission. Not working with these people here."
"Who the hell let the Germans in here?" Bush asked as he lowered his gun, squinting and keeping the grip on his handguard tight and firm. So he was German, right? So what the hell was he supposed to be doing here? He knew that funds from the United Kingdom have been traced to these neoconfederate groups such as the one currently attacking, but…
He never really expected the Germans to have a stake in this. It just made him stop for a second to blink and stare at the German agent as he seemed to take everything in stride. In spite of being held up by the CIA Director, of course.
Bush grimaced, teeth baring and eyes narrowed as he shook his head and muttered about ringing up the CIA Director. He was supposed to deal with other domestic affairs. How the hell is the FBI missing this shit?
"I was tracking a rumored Soviet asset who was working with these militias," He said. "Since they usually don't work with anti-Communist groups, I wanted to know why."
"Right," Bush said as he lowered his gun. "But how do I know to trust you with one-hundred percent certainty on this, then?"
"I won't hold it against you if you don't believe me," He said. "But a briefcase bomb planted by them would like to disagree. I had to gut its wires before it could cause any damage."
"Christ," Bush grimaced as the man nodded, a serious and stern expression on his face. "Okay, so they've been plotting to bomb this place?"
The German, or Wespe—most likely a codename, like Archer's—nodded as he let his hands down. Bush hoped that he would return the favor by working with him. His face seemed to not be lying, as he simply glanced to the right. "Yes. And now they're…"
"Yeah. I was on my way out of the lobby when the shooting started," Bush said. "I think they've took hostages. I saw like ten civilians over here in the lobby when I first arrived on the floor."
"That is extremely concerning," Wespe shook his head as he pulled his pistol out of his pocket and cocked it. It seemed to be a suppressed pistol, causing Bush to squint and look at it for a few seconds. What the hell was a man like him doing here? "I think we would be better off working together against the terrorist threat, would you not agree?"
"Hell, it might just be the only thing we can do at this point," Bush said as he held onto the rifle. "Alright. I'll bite. Before we head out, you got a cig?" He asked.
"Nein. I don't smoke," Wespe chuckled. "Though you never introduced yourself to me," He said as he glanced at Bush—maintaining a smile but combining it with an intrigued expression. "What's your name?"
"...Skinny," Bush lied. Technically. He made an anxious expression as Wespe raised his eyebrows in response. "I'm being serious," He lied again, sighing and shaking his head. "Mom and pop seemed to hate me more than they hated bad names."
"Hmph," Wespe responded. "Well. Regardless, let's go. We have gunmen to take down."
"That you got right," Bush muttered as he began to walk forward, gun half-lowered and half-raised. Almost immediately, gunshots from the upper floors rang out loudly before being promptly silenced, prompting Bush to take cover behind a plant pot The hell was silencing those shots?. "Fuck." He muttered, looking at Wespe.
"Yo, Vespe." Bush whispered. "You go. I'll cover you." He said as he stood up and perched his rifle on the base of the large pot. He swept the corner as Wespe seemed to roll into cover, pistol in hand as though he were an action movie hero.
Hmph. To think that his life would be like this… George Bush clicked his tongue as Wespe rolled into cover once again, making a hand-signal to signal to Bush that he should also move on. Smart. Bush nodded and took the rifle from its spot, carrying it with him as he repositioned to better cover.
This time, it was a pillar extension of the wall that he took cover behind. Then he immediately poked his rifle out to the left, leaning his head right to get proper vision of the enemy threat. Rifle pointed at the hallway that continued on and on, Bush spoke. "Vespe, go."
Wespe then vaulted over his cover—which consisted of an overturned table—and Bush watched as he took cover behind a pillar, pistol at the ready as he leaned to peek out, before rapidly switching back to Bush.
"American," He said, pistol still raised with one hand as he hugged the wall with the other and continued peeking. "Coast looks clear. Move, move."
Nodding, Bush immediately broke cover and crouched as he moved to find another piece of cover—before cursing himself as he realized that he'd have to settle for a plant pot once more.
Annoyed, he snarled as he looked at Wespe, who had continued peeking out of his cover. Seems like something caught his attention. Bush scoffed as he looked back at his rifle.
"Vespe, the hell's the holdup about?" He asked, brow in an angered yet confused expression.
Wespe seemed to get the attention and quickly glanced back at Bush-
Before he retreated his other hand and put his pointing finger to cover his mouth, before motioning to the area in front of him.
"Bad guys spotted. They seemed to be dragging someone out of the restaurant just a walk away."
"Hostages?"
"Highly likely." Wespe nodded, while Bush cursed. Damnit. Could've gotten them killed if he was being an idiot.
"Hang on," Bush said as he put down the rifle. "I'll go peek." He said as he leaned to the right, clinging to the plant pot he used for cover while he took a look at who he was dealing with.
In front of him were, in fact, three gunmen. The rest out of the gunmen who made it to the first floor and started taking hostages. He furrowed his brows and continued clinging to the plant in confusion, lip raised to the right as he cringed.
All three of them were holding assault rifles. Must've been illegally obtained, given that they looked to be automatic. Not exactly something you want to see on a militia like these nutjobs.
His eyes widened as he retreated when they brought a hostage out- What could be registered in his brain was a hoodie jacket and jeans. He leaned to the right and grabbed his assault rifle.
They were arranged in a triangular formation, with the hostage in the center. A gunman was behind the hostage, while the other two gunmen were standing beside the hostage. Bush's eyes slid over to Wespe, who shook his head in frustration.
"Halt," Wespe said as he raised his hand, pistol in hand. "American- I think they're bringing him out for execution-"
He was interrupted when one of the gunmen suddenly summoned a megaphone, the interference causing Bush to wince and stretch his lips in response to the loudness. "Attention, Fairfax County Police!" One of the gunman shouted. "Should you try anything against us, then this whore will die!"
Wespe peeked out and immediately poked back down. "Skinny- They've got a girl hostage. One of them has a pistol pressed against the hostage," He cursed under his breath after finishing his sentence. "Your call?"
"They're not expecting us either way," Bush snorted as he held his rifle. "On my go. You take out the one with the pistol."
"Roger."
The two men shifted their positions to get closer without being detected as one of the gunmen continued with their vitriol through the megaphone. "I know you and your banker masters would rather-"
Immediately, the crack of a gunshot from just a few feet away and the sound of the bullet entering the skull of the man holding a gun to the hostage interrupted his speech as he immediately jerked his head right, opening it up for Bush to open fire with the rifle-
Jesus! The gun almost flew out of his hand as the bullet penetrated the skull of the man with the megaphone—who stood to the left—and caused him to flop to the floor fast. The third man—who had been standing to the right—tried to switch targets to the gunfire from the left.
But then he was shot down rapidly by Wespe, who seemed to switch targets in such a rapid motion, and he flopped to the floor, crumpling with a bullet in his brain. Bush wheezed as he recovered from nearly flailing the rifle out of his hands and looked at where the three gunmen had been. "All-clear?"
"Ja," Wespe said as he then vaulted over, still crouched. "Keep your head down. Police might think you're hostile." He said as he walked, crouched all the way. Bush meanwhile moved out of cover and hugged the wall that was close to the window that the man with the megaphone was shouting out of.
While he hugged the wall to avoid police spotting, Wespe cut the hostage taken loose. She looked like absolute shit. Hands were tied, bruise on her face… Bush winced. Fucking hell, these gunmen were savages.
"Can you walk?" Wespe asked as the hostage began moving again.
"Yeah, yeah- I can." She replied. She looked to be a college student. The hell were they doing taking college kids hostage?
"Alright," He muttered. "I need you to go outside and tell the FCPD that the hostages have been secured and that the gunmen are down," He pointed to a hallway which turned to the left and led to the exit. "Can you do that?"
"Yep-" She pushed herself up. "I can."
"Good," He nodded. "Run through that hallway and take a left. The entrance and exit is that way." He picked up his gun. "I'll go free the rest. You go alert FCPD that hostages have been rescued."
"I-I will, sir," She said, before immediately locking eyes with the hallway and darting as fast as she could extremely rapidly. Bush blinked in confusion. Christ, she should be at the Olympics, not taken hostage by some thugs.
"Well," Bush said. "That's first floor cleared."
"I'll go get the rest of the hostages," He turned towards the door to what Bush believed to be the dining area. Free breakfast sounded good when this was all finished. "You go see if the upper floors have any other gunmen."
He then widened his eyes as he remembered that the Librarians were up top some floors up. Cursing his lack of foresight and memory internally through a snarl and closed eyes, he then reverted to normality and nodded. "Roger that. I'll go to the elevator."
Wespe nodded and uncrouched to open the door to the dining area, while Bush immediately stood up to run to the nearest elevator, praying to God that the Librarians didn't get hurt. Shit. If they were, he'd be the worst fucking CIA staffer in the history of CIA staffers.
Roland seemed capable of protecting himself —hell, Roland reminded Bush of himself, physically as well—but he wasn't so sure about the rest. Okay, his mind rambled as he found the elevator and slammed the button to go down. Who else was capable of defending themselves again?
There was Gebura with her, uh, fleshy-sword thing, that she showed off in the Librarian and on the way to the airport. And there was Binah…
He wasn't sure about the rest. Netzach didn't really fight during the raid on the KGB outpost. Just managed to subdue a KGB agent before Roland killed him when he tried to suicide-bomb himself. And everyone else—well, everyone else who hadn't already met American forces—Well, hell, they could fight abnormalities. But they seemed… so weirded out by the National Guard.
Asked how they managed to get guns in such large numbers. Yesod told 'em that such weapons like the rifles they used or the team machine gun were explicitly prohibited in the city. Shit, he muttered in silence as he kept clutching the rifle. If their world didn't have a Second Amendment, then how the hell were they supposed to protect themselves?
Christ. How come all the guns go to the criminals, but the law-abiding citizens are forbidden from touching a goddamn assault rifle? He shook his head. No way. He wasn't going to allow this.
And perhaps if Reagan wasn't the goddamn nominee… He'd ensure that it wouldn't be allowed.
So many fucking regrets.
The elevator's descent felt suspicious as it approached the 2nd floor however, causing Bush to instinctively raise his rifle and aim it to the elevator door, stock shouldered and eye peering through the sight.
As soon as it hit the first floor, Bush held his breath and anxiously waited as the signature sound of the doors opening filled the air, a sweat bead dropping from his head as he anxiously listed off the things that could have awaited him at the floor-
He was surprised, however, when the door opened to reveal three of the most dangerous people he's ever seen. Roland, the contract wetworks killer. Gebura, a woman of indescribable strength…
And Binah.
What took him back the most, however, was the fact that the elevator was bloodied. Inside the elevator with the three were three eviscerated corpses, all of them bleeding profusely and painting the entire floor of the elevator red with their blood.
The stench of blood and clean, polished metal hit his nose, causing his senses to flare up and recoil in disgust. They were coated in viscera and gore- And hell, Bush even saw a piece of eyeball attached to Binah's hand.
The scene looked like a massacre. There were no other words to describe what could just be summarized as "three unlucky gunmen suffer a grisly fate." Hell, one of them looks like he was flayed alive.
...Whatever Gods formed the home they were from must have either pitied him and given him the most powerful people at his disposal, or they must have hated him so much that they would rather he suffer by being in proximity with these brutal killers than atone for anything he has done in his life.
The fact that either option does not seem too far off haunted Bush.
Perhaps this was God's way of responding to the Delany family's prayers.
Perhaps.
"Well, Director," Roland chuckled as he stepped out, covered in blood. When Bush turned to look at him, the blood on his form caused Bush to stare slack-jawed as he lowered his rifle. It… almost looked exactly like him.
Exactly how he looked on the fateful day he was shot down over Turkey.
His mind flashed reflections of himself in his service days back to him. During the Second Great War.
When he looked at a puddle on that day in Turkey. Blood on his young face after he found what remained of Del.
Blood and cuts on his face after he failed to protect the very people whose families he promised that their sons would be guarded with his life.
That was what Roland looked like. Exactly like him during that fateful moment.
Only that he had the expression of satisfaction. Triumph. As if he had successfully saved and protected Del during that fateful day. Protected him from being shot and lynched by a Soviet rifle platoon. Someone worthy of an award, for triumph. His smile, his almost nonchalant expression. As if he just brewed coffee.
The puddle on that fateful day however had reflected who George Bush was, when it reflected the wide-eyed, slack-jawed piece of garbage clutching his fists and gritting his teeth. A scaredy-cat. An ill-prepared person. A coward. A failure. He wasn't worthy of being a Navy aviator. He blinked and intensified the grip on the rifle handguard.
His chest expanded and deflated almost noticeably. Roland had the same visage as him in his service years. The only differences were the graying skin and black hair. Oh, how he never noticed it just at first.
Christ.
"...Director?" Roland asked, as Bush snapped out of it, letting a small scared yelp out of him.
"Ah-ah," Bush said as he shook his head. "Sorry. I just saw something I shouldn't have," He muttered. "I'm glad to see you all, though." He smiled. But he knew they could see through it. He very much knew.
The way that Roland winced his expression. Bush knew to smile and to turn a blind eye. But they knew what he wasn't… all there.
And perhaps they knew a lot more.
"Director," Binah interrupted, her voice bringing a feeling of dread to Bush as his eyes widened and he turned to Binah. "I would like to formally ask for the rifle in your hands."
"Binah!" Gebura snapped as she turned to Binah, with the both of them stepping out of the bloodied and viscera-filled elevator. "You can't just tell the Director-"
Bush let go of the rifle grip, holding the rifle only by the handguard. Sweat beading down his face and an anxious expression on his face, he handed the assault rifle over to Binah, who smirked and nodded while Gebura just looked on, incredulous.
"Roland," Binah turned to Roland. "I would like for you to conceal these weapons in the pocket that bears your armaments." She handed over the M16A1 over to him. Surprised, he nodded and pulled the black gloves out of his pocket. Bush watched as the rifle disappeared the instant he gripped the handguard and tightened it.
...Huh. So that's where the beer bottle from Seattle went.
"I am not finished, Roland," Binah said as she suddenly grabbed an assault rifle hidden underneath her cape, handing it to Roland. Then, when that gun disappeared, she finished by handing him an M1911 pistol. The pistol just disappeared in a flash. Binah just smirked after. "I thank you for your time, Roland."
The hell was that for?
"What the hell was that for?" Bush asked, an eyebrow raised- before it went down when Binah turned to face him.
"You must always learn to expect someone to appear at an inopportune time," Binah said, looking at the entrance nearby, which blocked vision to them. He was still confused. Why was she- "Ah," She said. "They will be arriving soon."
Oh shit. Bush turned around to face the entrance door and Gebura seemed to… the word was demanifest, yes. She demanifested her… ego. Something like that. Then Roland made a loud 'eh?' sound.
"Uhh...Who's they-" Roland asked, before the door was kicked down, and flashlights seemed to beam out of the door, before Bush caught a glance and his eyes widened- They were the local police. Shit, they finally came through.
…Late to the party, of course. He chuckled.
"FAIRFAX COUNTY POLICE!" Came a shout from the mass of flashlights that came after the door was kicked down. "GET DOWN WITH YOUR HANDS UP!" The voice continued as the gun was lowered, revealing an FCPD SWAT officer. Tactical vest and cap reading FCPD greeted Bush.
Binah turned to Bush, almost as if asking for orders. Eyes widening and not desiring a massacre, Bush motioned with his other hand for the three of them to get down, with Bush going first as he knelt with his hands up in surrender.
Then Roland followed suit, as did Gebura and Binah. Almost immediately, the FCPD officer turned back. "Zip 'em," He said, getting affirmative responses. A proper look at the other SWAT members revealed all of them to be using the XM177 assault rifle with Maglite flashlights attached to the side.
Sometimes it paid to track gun records as CIA Director.
Bush winced as the zipties began to grip around his hands when they were pushed behind. A glance at Binah told him that she wasn't actually being held by them. No way in hell. She was just humoring them, as far as he could tell. Likewise with Roland and Gebura. Both of 'em looked like they could break it, but just didn't want to.
Mostly to stop any further provocations, of course. But Binah… Bush sighed. She was probably getting off to fooling people into thinking they have an advantage before tearing that misconception up. It was only through luck that she happened to humor police officers enough to do this.
The same could not be said for the prior gunmen however.
Or, at least that's what Bush thought, he mused as he moved his lips, expression changing to a nonchalant one, even with the zipties and the police officers securing-
"Jesus H. Christ," One of the FCPD officers yelped as the elevator door opened. Uh oh. Looks like they've discovered the work of the Librarians. "TOC, this is Entry Team. We have… Err… Would you accept 'suspect massacred' on your after-action report?"
"Sweet lord," Another pined nearby. "How the hell were…"
"Shit. Look. One of 'em has been split vertically. Poor guy was cut from bottom to top."
"Yeah. But what kind of weapon would be enough to tear off almost the entirety of his goddamn chest?"
"Ho-lee shit," Another FCPD officer muttered as he looked at the bloodied elevator. "Oh have mercy on me… Look at the one on the right."
"Fuck me," He exclaimed in surprise. "This one's been flayed. Nothing's left but a goddamn skeleton."
"...Is it bad that the most normal death is to the left?" One of the three officers looking at the elevator intoned. "Shit. Gunshot would to the stomach. That's the most normal I've seen."
"...So what the hell got the other two people then?"
"Some people with a sense of morals dirtier than an alleycat," The apparent team leader muttered. "Entry Team to TOC. We suspect foul play in the deaths of some of the gunmen. Any detainees, you say? Well, yeah," He turned to the four of them in zip-ties. "Alright. We'll bring them in for questioning. Entry Team out."
As he turned off his radio, he looked at the four of us. "You lot. Escort them out. There might be other gunmen in the area." A series of affirmative grunts was all that Bush heard before he was helped up by two other SWAT officers.
And… meanwhile, the Librarians seemed to just lift themselves up without any assistance, almost alarming the FCPD SWAT officers.
Christ. They were already having attention drawn to them.
Great. At least Wespe wasn't here.
This was going to be a long day, Bush sighed.
Perhaps he could go for a drink after this.
Agent Deriore [Albion Restoration and Renewal Organization – Directorate of Military Intelligence, Section 7] — Rosemont, Georgia — Dated June 6, 1980
Deriore slammed the shot glass down as she downed another bit of whiskey. Each shot counted, they told her in training. She grunted as she asked for another shot, teeth baring in frustration as she sat alone at a bar table, surrounded by men who just couldn't keep anything in their fucking pants.
She barely stopped herself from throwing the glass at someone's face when she heard a catcall from a passer-by, the grip on her glass as the man left both tightening and loosening. And when the whiskey was poured again, she slammed her hand and drank it.
"Burns through my esophagus like a napalm bomb," She muttered to herself as she finished it once more. "Fucking hell. Helps Unity keep his dirty hands off me though," She muttered. She placed the shot glass on the table nearby, eyebags already sagging her eyes as she placed her elbow on the table, arm aimed to her head and clutching her hair.
"On today's breaking news," The nearby TV in the bar spoke, Bedivere turning her head to see one of those American news channels—she forgot if it was CNN, MSNBC, or whatever slop the Yanks watched—talking about… a shootout somewhere. To the right of the newscaster there was a box with the heading of "HOTEL SHOOTOUT," the map pointing towards…. Virginia. Somewhere near D.C. "A fierce gun battle took place in a hotel just outside of Fairfax County in Virginia this evening."
Fuck.
The camera shifted to show two newscasters, one male and one female. "We have a team reporting on the aftermath of this situation, so let's begin. We're starting off with Barbara Avery, standing just outside of the hotel where the gunfight took place-" He shifted to face the back. "You're on, Barb."
"Thank you Joseph," The newscaster in Virginia nodded. "What we have here is the aftermath of a grisly shootout between Fairfax County Police and what appear to be gunmen, only part of a group that we have, uh, now identified as the Holy Christian Liberation Army."
"Now, Barb," Joseph spoke. "Can you discern any reason they'd attack such a hotel like this?"
"Well, Joseph," Barbara said as she looked back, to see the FCPD surrounding the hotel. "It's possible that they intended to use this as a demonstration to the federal government that the people could rebel at any time. Though it's also possible for it to be a terror attack, in a string of many other terror attacks on this election year."
"Thank you Barbara," Joseph said, before turning to the newscaster to the right of him. "Ann, you've got the mic."
"Alright, I'll take it from here," Ann nodded. "What's the body count looking like as of now?"
"Well Ann," Barbara said as she looked at the hotel. "Numbers I'm getting from the FCPD are an estimate of… Seven policemen injured, with one policeman dead."
"Harrowing numbers here, Barb." Ann sighed. Deriore could only stare frustratedly. She gave them that goddamn rifle shipment from Cuba. Pacific War-era M16A1 rifles. The best for its time. They just had to do their job.
Which they failed at.
She closed her eyes and buried herself underneath both of her arms, groaning at the utter failure that this operation was, all the meanwhile the American vitriol continued to spew out of the television. "Though our viewers do ask: With the shootout now mostly, uh, over- What's the status on the gunmen in the hotel? Have any arrests been made?"
She perked up at that, lifting her head from groaning. Perhaps some of them managed to escape. Hell, those that were captured- Perhaps she could free them. Start the cycle of chaos over and over again. The KGB'd be happy-
She felt her heart stop, however, when the newscaster opened with her head shaking. "No. FCPD's come back with a confirmation. All of the gunmen that had booked at the hotel, the numbers being 27, have all been slaughtered by the time FCPD arrived at the scene."
S-slaughtered? Bedivere stared slack-jawed at the television, blinking as though she was trying to assure herself that this was real. There was- There was no goddamn way that they'd be slaughtered even before FCPD arrived there.
Hell, she groaned as she shook her head. They were supposed to let it blow, taking the building and any potential snoopers on that floor out. So who- She clutched her head as the headaches settled in once again, causing her to wince and clutch her head as the television was tuned out for a short while-
And when Bedivere regained her senses, she opened her eyes to the sight of the gunmen that had been supplied with the rifles, only brutalized in horrible ways. The reporter on the scene stepped aside, as the camera zoomed in on an elevator that was open-
What greeted her and caused her to gasp aloud were the close-up shots of the absolute bloody mess that was the elevator. A lung had managed to get impaled on a safety handle. An intestine spilled out onto the floor, sitting there like a dead snake. And one of the bodies just lay slump, vainly clutching his rifle.
A rifle that she supplied. And risked her damn life for, almost crossing pass with the goddamn American coast guard.
Whatever they faced against. It didn't help at all against them- it- Whatever had slaughtered them, really.
Fucking hell.
Barbara, the reporter on-site, looked at her camera crew and convinced them to turn away from the elevator.
Not that it stopped the bargoers from seeing the epitome of brutality in front of them. If only for a good ten seconds or so.
"What the hell was powerful enough to kill a grown man with a goddamn AR?" One of the bar patrons asked, looking up at the television- as so did the others, as the camera shifted to the elevator. The camera crew had opted to take the stairs upstairs.
"Oh god-" One of the bargoers muttered as the camera crew and reporter turned a left into the second floor- and came face-to-face with a man impaled to the wall with a rifle sticking out of his literal chest, the rifle having impaled his heart. Blood poured out of his mouth, and the bleeding from the stab wound seemed to spill over to the wall behind him, blood dripping down from it. Immediately again, the reporter Barbara scrambled to cover the footage and get the camera crew to retreat, cursing aloud on TV. "Lord almighty, help us."
"There's-" Another one stammered. "In all my life in the Army, I ain't ever seen someone die like that. The hell did they face that left them like this?"
"Barbara," Ann said. "We're looking at some very disturbing footage over here- You're saying that all twenty-seven of the gunmen were massacred like this?"
"Yes," Barbara said. "I've spoken to FCPD. They said that whatever faced these gunmen, it didn't have any mercy when dealing with them."
"...Darn. What's the status on the hostages taken by the gunmen? Anything on them?"
"Well," The camera turned away from the gorey massacres that dumbfounded the bargoers and left them slack-jawed, and instead landed back onto the rather calming visage of the newscaster Barbara. "FCPD reports that they've managed to rescue approximately 89 people."
"No civilian casualties?"
"None at all," Barbara said as she went down with her camera crew, getting a good look at FCPD forces. "Though the greatest mystery remains: Why exactly were these gunmen slaughtered, reportedly even before the FCPD had arrived?"
"Well, Barb," Joseph chuckled. "That's a story for another time. But it's glad to see a story get a happy resolution," Barbara and Ann nodded as Joseph said that. "Thanks for showing us an up-close look. Even with all of its… visceral details."
"We weren't prepared for any of 'em," She sadly muttered. "I'm terribly sorry for any children who tuned into the news today."
"We at this station will be prepared for anything the next time we deal with cases like this," He affirmatively said. "Anyway, moving on. FCPD or Washington D.C. have yet to make an official statement, but Senator Thomas Eagleton of the Democratic Party has condemned what he calls a 'flagrant' and..."
She tuned the noise out of her ears as she sighed heavily. Where did it all go wrong? She shook her head, clutching her hair and almost tearing it off. Everything just went wrong for her. Everything.
She stood up from the barstool she had been sitting on, leaving the shot glass behind. She immediately headed to the bathroom, to wash her eyes after seeing what might have just been the epitome of her being a failure.
The door to the women's restroom swung open, and Deriore immediately turned on the faucet, water running down. She put some of it on her hands as she rubbed the cheek area around her face, frustrated sighs growing out of her.
She stared back at the reflection in the mirror after she ceased cleaning her cheeks.
It didn't matter.
No matter how many times she tried to clean everything up. No matter how many times she tried to make it all right. No matter how many times she had to clean up after herself because of that stupid twat Unity. All of it meant nothing to what stared back at her.
Sagging eyebags. Bloodshot, infuriated eyes. A twitching eyelid on the verge of snapping and taking on thoughts of its own. Her grip on the sink barely holding on as she felt it actively slip and start to stretch her hand a little.
Everything she saw in that reflection was a reflection of who she was.
"Fucking failure…" She muttered as she let go of the sink, growling and snarling as her face was locked into a permanent visage of hatred, before immediately turning around and slamming the mirror with her fist, uncaring of the glass shrapnel. It wasn't like the bar would care anyway. This place was as dingy as it gets.
"Why can't you do anything right?" She asked herself, staring back at the broken mirror that split her image into thousands of shards. Each of them still representing who she was. A total failure. A disappointment to her sister.
She couldn't bear it, and punched the mirror a second time, uncaring as the feeling of glass embedded itself in her hand. Whatever feeling she had was suppressed by her own emotions to herself. The physical pain wouldn't matter.
The mental scars, however, were permanent.
She sighed as she slumped onto the floor, back against the wall as she descended into a state of just sitting against the wall. Nothing would matter anymore.
Not even the sound of the door swinging open took her out of her mind as she simply pulled her legs back and wrapped her arms around her knees. Nothing more to look at. Nothing more to hear. Nothing more to speak about.
"Child of the LORD GOD," An angelic voice swooned, the voice echoing in her head as she pulled her head back to look to the right to the source, only to be greeted with what could be described as the most angelic woman she's ever seen. "Why do you weep for your failures?"
"…" She sighed as she stood up, looking at this woman. "Another Yank come to preach the word of God?" She snidely asked, snorting as she frowned. This woman looked… odd. Very angelic, yes. But at the same time… Something just felt off about her.
She chuckled and instead leaned on one of the sinks, one of her hands covering her mouth as she chuckled. "Oh, child. How have you strayed so far from God?"
"Can it, Yank," She bitterly snarled. "Can't a woman just be by her lonesome?"
"You wallow in your own sorrows, yet you have no strength to face what troubles your heart. Why is that so? Surely, a child of our LORD GOD would have the capabilities to face the problems that plague them?"
"...I don't know what you mean," She said, furrowing her brows. How did this goddamn- Did this Yank know anything about her? Her sense of danger tingled. "Look, ma'am-"
"You carry the urn of your sister, yet you care little enough to confront what killed her in the first place?"
"I-" Deriore stopped in her tracks. Impulsively, she tried to reach for her pistol, only for her eyes to widen and for her to mutter a curse when she remembered how she kept it back at the safehouse. Looking back at the woman, she backed away for a second. "Listen here-"
"For such a strong-willed child of GOD," She shook her head, clicking her tongue as she marched forward. "You lack the strength to challenge your failures."
"Shut the fuck up-"
"Enough," The woman said as she seemed to just teleport in front of Deriore. "I have to ask-" She said as she leaned in front of her. "What are you?"
"You-"
"You seek the comfort of the bottle to avoid the truth," She shook her head. "Surely, your sibling, lost to time, would not have approved of this," She said as Deriore seemed to back into a wall again. "Yet why do you continue it?"
"Keep her name out of your mouth, you piece of shit-"
"Must you continue to self-destruct, rather than improving yourself in the image of LORD GOD?" She said, as Deriore suddenly stopped in her tracks. "Your sister meant a lot to you, but…" She said. "Why must you deny the message of an Angel of LORD GOD?"
"Wh-" Deriore stopped. "What… What are you here for then?!" She screamed.
"I ask of you," The woman asked as she cupped Deriore's cheek, a grin on her face. "Weep. The LORD GOD did not put his tests of our integrity in our lives for us to excuse our sins," She shook her head. "No, the LORD GOD is a loving GOD."
"...Loving? Is he really that…"
"He is loving of all!" She gleefully said. "For God so loved the World that he gave his one and only Son," She continued, as Deriore's bloodshot eyes started to wet. The woman seemed to notice, as she leaned in for a hug.
"I…" Deriore said, before she sniffled and reciprocated the hug. "Please… I just…" She said as she continued to hug tighter. "I…"
"I understand your desires," The woman in a labcoat said. "Release all your sorrow, I ask of you- In the name of LORD GOD, release all the sorrow from your day."
She stopped for a second as her and the woman continued to hug, but not before she buried her eyes into her coat and began to let tears out, sniffling and sobbing like a pathetic creature experiencing emotions for the first time. "I- I'm-" She sobbed out, snot and tears leaking out. "I'm such a failure…"
The labcoat woman rubbed her back, providing- Comfort. Comfort. To her. A feeling she had not felt in years.
An alien feeling.
"Mother…" She muttered as she continued to bawl. "I'm a failure to all I could call close to me!" She sobbed.
"There, there…" She said as she rubbed her back. "Blame not yourself, you are merely being tested. A brighter tomorrow is inevitable," She said, smiling as Deriore continued to cry on and on into her shoulder. "Let it all out…"
She took in a deep breath as the sobbing slowed down and the bawling stopped. Lifting her head, she came face-to-face with the woman once again. "You are dissatisfied with your current masters of the Soviets and Britain, are you not?"
"Yes…" She sniffled. Wait… How did this lady know of that...
"Then… perhaps you would like your own path, then?"
...Perhaps she was an angel after, she mused.
"...Yes, please," She said as she raised her head. "...Before we continue, what's your name?"
"That, Child of LORD GOD," She chuckled. "Is worthy of knowing. I am Carmen, an angel of LORD GOD."
"...A beautiful name."
"Indeed, Deriore," She smiled. "Yes indeed."