"This day will go down in American history alongside 9/11 and the White House attack that killed Vice President Morris—"
"We're live at the scene, and you can see Secret Service working with authorities to cordon off the—"
"Here you can see Martha Davis being escorted to her vehicle. She has made no comment—"
"Officials are quick to blame the TruthSpeaker movement, but I think—"
"Stay tuned as we learn more about the attack on the Presidential Debate."
Out of the few working at this hour, everyone present in the ICA facility sat in the lounge. One filer and handler came after another, caught in the TV's web. Among them were Erich Soders, none too pleased with what he saw.
A scorn that met Diana as she passed by, meeting it with her own detachment. He had questions; she knew. Ones that they could not afford to answer for the time.
Diana hurried over, the reporters' babbling replaced by air conditioners and the clacking of her heels. She'd made her move, and it was now theirs. The only unknown was when they'd take it. Once she would put all her files on the USB, Diana had a safe house in mind. Then she could coordinate with Agent 47 from there.
The handler stepped into her office and flicked on the lights. Her breath fell still.
For as the darkness fell away, a blonde woman clad in black was there. Her hand covered Diana's mouth, and she left her with a gentle shush. "Don't panic, Diana. I am merely the messenger. There is someone you want to meet."
Something clicked. Xenia felt a cold, metal cylinder press against her stomach.
She released a breath under an amused smirk, slowly bringing her hands behind her head. "Touché."
"You're with the Great Rebellion?"
"What a gauche title. The Greek really had nothing else to call us?"
"You don't leave much to work with."
Xenia smiled back as if to say, 'That's the point.'
"You said there's someone I want to meet."
"You already know who he is. You have his letter." She nudged her head to Diana's desk where a blank envelope laid. "Now that my job is done, you are going to let me go."
Diana scoffed. "And what's to stop me from shooting an intruder and pretending I never saw a message?"
"Many things, actually. He said you'd come prepared. He told me where you keep your firearm." Diana's grip on the trigger loosened at her words. Xenia grabbed her hand gently, going over her fingers; to the trigger. She pushed her finger against it. Click. "I took its firing pin on the way here."
She couldn't help but smirk. "Touché."
Xenia took a step out the door. "See you soon, Diana." And she was gone.
Her presence definitely confirmed the allegiance of one or more ICA members. It also delivered a nonverbal message, which Diana received the moment she pressed a gun to Xenia's stomach. They could get to her at anytime, anywhere.
With every plan thrown out the window, all she had left was the envelope on her desk.
The Day Prior
It would have been odd to say he smelled victory in the air. Especially when the debate hadn't even started yet, and people were still filing into the conference hall. But one could easily forgive Bud Davis for treating his campaign staff to champagne and the lax attitude that pervaded today. Every poll and survey indicated one thing: a total landslide in the electoral vote.
Better for my heart, too, he thought, hitting his chest.
It felt surreal knowing the man across the hall wasn't going to see tomorrow's sunrise. As his staff bustled around the university-provided suite, Bud scrolled through social media. As usual, the political side was ablaze, full of slurs and accusations of treason and whatnot. A minefield that Bud shot one of many posts into.
Midway through his post condemning supporters of a crackdown against the TruthSpeakers, his phone rang. He smiled warmly at the contact, glancing up at his security. "Sorry, gentlemen. It's my dad. He's eager to see me on national television."
The guards didn't think much of it. Bud paced around as he answered. "Hey, pa! Is everything alright?"
"Everything is going swimmingly. Secret Service has no idea we're here, just as you promised."
"I'm glad to hear that! How're the kids doing?"
"Just heard back from the last of them. They're disguised and in position, awaiting orders. I'm still setting up myself, but no need to worry. Is everything on your end settled?"
"Don't worry about me, hon, President Rogers is done for. We'll be having wine in the White House before you know it!"
"I'll hold you to it. Happy days are here again."
"I love you, too." The call ended. Before he got too excited, Bud took a pill of ranolazine just in case. Today was going to be a long day.
Just outside campus grounds, GNN's crew got to work. "My name is Pam Kingsley, reporting live from the Cumberland Valley University where Senator Bud Davis of Kentucky and President Rogers will host their presidential debate! Though past debates have been known for a calm and cordial gathering, this year has shown an electrified audience openly showing their support for a certain candidate.
"Bud Davis rose to the top at break-neck speeds, taking advantage of Rogers' controversies and addressing the American people's fears. And, despite criticisms of Bud's use of fame to pressure his party's nominees and prominent political influencers into backing his campaign, millions in the country have rallied around him. We expect—"
A suited man stepped between her and the camera, and a growing sense of déjà vu made her blood boil. "Cut! Watch where you're going!"
The stranger spun around, looking somewhat remorseful. "Sorry, I wasn't looking where I was going."
"I swear, this always happens! How do you miss a camera rig this big?" Now she understood how Iris Quinn felt. She wouldn't have to deal with this if that girl hadn't gotten herself sacked over endorsing the TruthSpeakers...
Across from the reporters, Agent 47 entered university grounds amid the steady flow of visitors, following plastic signs and volunteers along the path. Several chanters camped to the side, waving cardboard cutouts of Bud Davis and blasting the national anthem from speakers. Security stood by to ensure their zeal wouldn't get out of hand.
"Don't be a stick in the mud!" one shirtless man cried with slurred speech, brandishing a Star-Spangled cap and a beer can. "Vote Bud! Save America! USA! USA!" Security promptly ushered him out of campus grounds.
The fanfare reached its height at the conference center entrance. An unofficial welcoming committee of middle-aged men and women, all donning some kind of red, white and blue paraphernalia or face paint, passed refreshments and a not-so-subtle hint of their favored candidate.
47 turned down a cupcake with an American flag sugar decoration, heading through the brick portico. He waved his invitation to the staff, who welcomed the hitman inside.
"Good evening, 47, and welcome to the Cumberland Valley University, the location of today's presidential debate. Your primary target is candidate Senator Bud Davis, the politician who has used the Surtr Leaks to root his position among the populace. Born and raised in Kentucky, Bud lived a modest life as a firefighter before taking a foray into politics, becoming a public speaker at his party's rallies. He soon retired and devoted his life to the cause. Despite his past beliefs, Bud just so happened to turn over a new leaf when the wind blew the other way. Any misdeeds that occurred in his past have also vanished from public perception. Now, well into his 70s, he is gunning for the Oval Office with a zealous army of supporters.
"Your second target is a clandestine political fixer named Temple Proctor. Born in Boston, he's the person a politician goes to when there's dirt to sweep away—or to dig up. There isn't much to say about Temple's early life, other than the fact he constantly got the short end of the stick. From his father being unable to escape mob ties, a sickly mother who he cared for until her death, and an impoverished childhood, the only way for him to get ahead was by doing dirty work. With no guardian to stop him, he ran down the wrong path.
"Both gentlemen have become pawns in Surtr's so-called 'Great Rebellion'. Temple is coordinating an attack on the debates with a force of Fedyenka's lackeys and a batch of rookie agents from the Shelter. They plan to strike after the debate is over, abducting President Rogers for a live interrogation and execution. With Davis as well as welcomed into the office, he will weaponise this event and empower the TruthSpeaker movement into their own army of fanatics.
"Bud Davis will be on stage, watched by millions as he battles President Rogers for the office. Temple Proctor is running the operation via radio, and you can expect the team to be already in position. Temple's exact location, however, is unknown. We know he is in the area and is likely ensconced in a building nearby, so it will be up to you to sniff him out.
"I realize that offing the revered Bud Davis will result in a similar outcome for the nation, but if we let Surtr go any further, he'll have armies wrapped around his finger by the time someone realizes the threat he poses. And I doubt he'll stop there. The flame he speaks of is one that won't stop until the world is engulfed in it. Good luck, 47."
Location: Nashville, Tennessee
Targets: The Demagogue, The Fixer
Security led Agent 47 through a metal detector. He packed lightly, his only item of note being a white pill bottle. An officer took the last item for a more careful inspection.
"It's carbamazepine. For my epilepsy," 47 answered. He pointed to a paper among his belongings, which they discovered as his prescription. Satisfied, they let him through.
The first thing Agent 47 noticed was the abundance of cameras scattered on the ceiling. They practically covered every inch. Second was the center stage, a podium on each side with the moderator's desk straight ahead. News crews broadcasted this all over the country between three camera stations.
A cornice of red stripes with white star rungs ran along the ceiling edge. A sleek black and blue made up the backdrop panels. In the cornice over the middle was the seal—a bald eagle surfing a shield of the American flag, carrying a banner in its beak with the words, "The Union and the Constitution forever."
Attendees filled the auditorium to the brim. Agent 47 was fortunate enough to find an empty table for himself, seated at the far back and with a camera rig obstructing the view.
He already had a plan for Davis. The politician was hospitalized months ago after a heart attack, exasperated by his coronary artery disease. The incident cast a spotlight on his health, with tabloids detailing his ailment and medicine, specifically ranolazine. Bud always took the pill before appearing to the public in speaking settings such as this. These medicines often had other prescriptions incompatible with it, though, with doses of lethality as the consequence.
For ranolazine, that was carbamazepine. The only thing Agent 47 needed to figure out was swapping the bottle and making Bud take another dosage.
As for Temple Proctor, he's coordinating an attack via radio, but how? He needs eyes. Body cams? The CCTV? The latter seemed more likely. Better coverage of the area and an understanding of the layout. But from where?
Before long, the debate's moderator walked on stage to his desk. Eyes turned and voices fell silent in anticipation. Screens on the walls flickered to mirror the camera rigs' footage, focused on the empty podiums.
Then the candidates appeared from each side, teeth shining brightly, waving to uproarious applause. Bud Davis emerged with his wife, Martha, clutching hands. While a sweet gesture, the void beside Garton Rogers now held more volume than any partner could. A fact that the president's strained smile conveyed.
The applause died down, and both men tended to their podiums. Martha, whose purpose in the limelight was now over, was ushered behind the curtain by her husband. 47 could just barely spot his pills on the podium.
The wig-wearing moderator cleared his throat, giving a light mumble to test the microphone. "Good evening, ladies and gentleman. My name is Ted Horton, and I will be moderating today's presidential debate. On one side, we have the Kentucky Senator Bud Davis, running against the current President of the United States, Garton Rogers. We will be going over various topics, and the candidates will have allotted time to answer each question."
Ted then went over the rules and guidelines, which, from 47's experience, were bound to be broken within the hour.
"That is Bud Davis," Diana said. "As his campaign promotes, he's a proud father of two, former firefighter, and a voice for the people. But as far as we're concerned, he's Surtr's sock puppet, and the only thing he sees is the shining Resolute desk and the paycheck that comes with."
The debate officially commenced, and the moderator gave their first topic. Not wanting to waste any time, Agent 47 rose.
...
It was intoxicating being here. Roofer (though he preferred his actual name, Casper, over the Shelter's given one) and his ilk could never step within 100 feet of this place. This bureaucrat stuff was an entirely different world, with TV being the only thing to let him know of its existence. And those two ugly mugs were only a quick sprint away from his hands.
He refocused on the mop, going over the same spot a third time.
"Gentlemen, please," the moderator cried, "we only need you to answer the—"
"You just don't understand what's really been keeping America free and united!" Bud said. "There are billions of working-class citizens in our country and they can only lap up your piss for so long!"
Garton groaned. "That's real sweet. You think this is all my fault? Why do you think I've been staving off China, Russia, Khandanyang, all the—"
"No, no, you're deflecting. You're deflecting! China, sure, but Russia? I know some real good people in Russia. The only thing you've done is wring them—"
"You don't know the first thing about—"
"Gentlemen! I believe this discussion has gone on long enough!"
"You're letting Lady Liberty get raped, Garton."
Roofer mouthed a phrase a few times, reassuring his memory.
Ted took a deep breath. "Sen-Senator, you can't say—"
"You're soft on Russia, you're soft on the one-percenters, and you were soft with your wife!"
"Senator, that's not relevant to the—"
"This wimp doesn't know what he's talking about," Garton snapped. "I loved my wife."
Once Roofer finished mopping, he habitually brushed his hand over the knife's hidden sheath, then masking the action by wiping his sweat with a cloth from his belt.
Bud wheezed. "No, you didn't! You didn't love your wife or your country—not like me. God bless America!"
The moderator peeked at the clock, in awe at how little time had passed. "Senator, can I please—"
"Yeah, go ahead."
Ted froze in a moment's disbelief. "Thank you, Senator."
"God, it's like listening to a rabid dog," Garton remarked. And the noise began all over again.
Roofer, not yet used to the covert earpiece, twitched and scratched his head at the invisible annoyance. "Status report." He perked up, grabbing his supplies—a mop and trolley, stacked with chemicals and rat poison—and leaving the auditorium.
Agent 47, having watched the 'janitor' closely, followed.
He went down a few halls, passing campus faculty and patrolling security. He rounded a turn where the only security camera took half a minute rotating between the halls. Roofer passed an empty office and stopped beside a janitor's closet, glanced around to make sure he was alone.
"Roofer?"
"Yeah, my bucket's full of Muddy Water. Not much else happening."
"Copy that." The sender continued down the list of names, an unnaturally lengthy process heightened by the strict procedure. Roofer understood exactly why, but it didn't mean he had to like it. Secret Service was surely their biggest threat, no matter how much those Russians and Temple prattled on about an unrealistically skilled 'killer clone'. So he kept his eyes peeled for the robust men and women keeping rank.
Roofer returned to his post in the auditorium safely. He thought about waltzing up to the stage and going at Mr. President with the knife; would've sent the message all the same, he felt. And everyone would be spared from another hour of their rambling. It was just that, though: a thought.
A few minutes passed, and the earpiece demanded his attention once more. Just as he had the past times, Roofer left through the same route. Same hallway, same rotating camera. "Still got Muddy Water. Nothing else." Same return. Back to mopping.
Another few minutes. Roofer made the trip again. "Full of Muddy Water. I'll get back to you."
He turned to leave. The camera faced the other hall. Roofer passed the empty office when its door opened, and a blitz attack took him off his feet and stunned his movements. An arm wrapped around his mouth and throat, dragging him inside like a wolf and its prey.
"Roofer?" A dominant voice, thick with Boston accent and an unintentional spit at the end of every sentence, came through the earpiece. "What was that sound? Report!"
"I spilled some Muddy Water. Lost my footing, is all."
A woman spoke. 47 recognized her as Sacha. "Get your act together. The last thing we need is—"
"The last thing we need is a clumsy idiot flopping over this entire mission!" the Bostonian snapped. "And you, dolly, you're not the one in charge of everyone here. I don't need you taking over my authority over my boys. You got that?"
"Loud and clear, Temple..."
Temple continued down his list of codenames, each one followed by their respective person and their key phrases. Many had nothing to report, but one name stood out. "Carpenter."
A woman replied with her code.
"Did you get your hands on the password?"
"It's in my possession."
"About time. Stop by the suite and upload it to me."
"Roger that. On my way, now."
The suite? They could only have meant the candidates' abodes further inside, reserved by the university itself. There were only a few of them in this building, one unoccupied. Agent 47, donning the janitor outfit, took the trolley with him.
As he traversed further down the halls, passing security and into the territory of Secret Service, he noticed more and more campaign staff. 47 passed Rogers' suite, marked by posters and exhausted employees chatting outside.
"You owe me drinks, you know. There was no point to any of this," one said.
"Yeah, but... Fine, you got me there. In hindsight, it was pretty stupid to think we could turn this around... What are the odds we can sneak some of the champagne from Davis' crew?"
"What?"
"Everyone knows who's winning the election, so he bought it for everyone early..."
47 made a turn, spotting Bud's suite across the hall. Between them was a lounge area, set up with catering and plenty of tables to wait in, and a public restroom across from it. The aforementioned champagne stockpile showed itself, too.
Bud's staff were distinguishable by their polar opposite attitudes. The hitman knew they were coming the moment he heard the faintest echo of confident laughter. Many went into Bud's suite. Others came to the lounge to indulge.
One pair of staffers headed for the champagne, where someone had so kindly left out an empty glass. None of them noticed the crushed grains of rat poison smeared on the sides and poured.
They cheered, clinked glasses, and drank.
It only took a minute for one of them to clench their stomachs with a grimace. He mustered a smile and an "Excuse me," to his friend, sauntering to the restroom.
The custodian followed, placing a bright "Out Of Order" sign before stepping inside.
The staffer emerged a while later, and Agent 47 headed for Bud's suite.
Contrary to the disorganized mess of desks pushed together and papers strewn about, it was decidedly quiet. Workers who entered early opted to finish up paperwork, tunneling in on their station. Printers ran at random intervals.
In the living room sat Martha Davis, flipping through the TV for anything but the debate. Each time she caught a glimpse of her husband's guise of superiority, she mouthed something unpleasant.
"Uploading now," Carpenter said.
Agent 47 found her in the corner of the bedroom, where the bed itself only nested laptops and papers. Carpenter, posed as Bud's campaign staff, looked around for the umpteenth time.
"Received. Now get back to your post," Temple said.
Satisfied, she left the room and passed the bald staffer on her way out.
Agent 47 entered next, finding her locked laptop.
"47, that code she sent correlates with the university CCTV system. With that, Temple Proctor will have complete control over it, allowing him to freeze certain cameras—even erase the footage entirely."
"Smart. With Secret Service monitoring everything, freezing them in place won't raise as much suspicion. Can you trace Temple through this?"
"I'm afraid not. He's routed his connection through every building here, only telling us that he's somewhere on campus. But I can try to intercept him."
"Don't." 47 left the laptop untouched, seeing no further use in it. Someone else piqued his interest.
With a sigh, Martha flipped through what must've been the hundredth opinion piece cashing in on the political machine. "I don't get it..."
"Are you alright?"
She looked up at the bald staffer, clearly not used to these people asking her for anything less than work-related issues. "I'm fine."
"You don't seem happy. It's evident that your husband will win the election. What's on your mind?"
Martha swallowed her lips for a moment, though began to speak. "It's exactly that, honestly. I... know some things about my husband. Things that aren't presidential material."
"Interesting. What would those things be?"
She glanced at him in disbelief. "Either you're the worst spy in history, or you've got quite a head on your shoulders."
"Between you and me, I don't care for politics. I'm here for the paycheck."
Martha cracked a grin. "Look at you, more honest than most of our politicians." She pursed her lips, considering his question. What was there to lose by telling this sole gentleman? Having seen his staunch supporters, she doubted his telling would even sway their loyalty. She could picture the headlines already: the deceitful staffer turned traitor. Bud's lawyers would be on top of the narrative in no time.
But if things took off against her expectations? Well... she wouldn't lose any sleep over it. "There are a few things off the top of my head..."
...
Temple Proctor took another swig of his flask as he watched the debate unravel. He enjoyed watching President Rogers' bald, ugly mug suffer against immense unpopularity. Even from the low-resolution CCTV, he could tell the old sod was on the backpedal. He's been in the guy's proximity enough to make out feigned confidence. "Not so imposing without the den of jackals by your side, huh, Mr. Prez...?"
Bud pointed at his opponent. "You undid President Stewart's human cloning initiative as soon as it got off the ground, preventing millions from getting vital organ transplants! Their blood is on your hands!"
"Because the late Director Cayne raised valid concerns about its dangers!" Rogers retorted. "I placed the safety of the American people first and foremost, and I stand by my choice."
"If that was true, you wouldn't have tried handing nukes over to Russia. You're a traitor, a—"
"What Sandra did was out of my control—"
"You're a terrorist who needs to be locked up—!"
"Yeah, keep running your mouth like the dog you are."
"Mr.—Mr. President, Senator, please..." The moderator ran a hand over his eyes.
Temple checked his timer. "Everyone, call in," he said. One by one, the agents and their codes came in. He personally thought the phrases were unnecessary, but he had to play nice with the Russians and their ideas.
Besides, he doubted Agent 47 would dare show up.
"Muddy Water. Agent 47 is here—I spotted him in the auditorium."
Shit.
"Did I hear you correctly?" Sacha asked in an instant. "You saw Agent 47? Are you absolutely sure?"
"I am."
"But that can't be," the one named Doroteya said. "We'd have heard from the higher-ups if—"
"The higher-ups don't know shit! They aren't on the field with us—they don't know what we deal with!"
"She's right," Odysseus added. "Now that he's here, we only have ourselves to keep him at bay. You did good, Roofer. We're one step ahead of him for once."
Temple leaned into his mic, making everyone bear the sound of his breath. "It's all or nothing now, ladies and gents. You see a baldie, then you look for the barcode behind their heads. Then I freeze the cameras for you to act. This is the single most important day of your lives. Now don't fuck it up!"
As soon as the chatter ended, several agents in the crowd looked around at once.
A guest in a tailored black tuxedo. Groomed silver hair and trimmed beard. Hasn't been paying attention to the debate since he got here.
A university security officer, his frown unflinching. Buzz cut and barely a beard, albeit hairy arms. Sandwiched between his hand and waist was a thin metal box.
The camerawoman for a news network. Thanks to the high-end rig and a static target, she barely needed to attend to it.
Agent 47 put them to memory. They'd never sense him from this point on.
"Miller," Temple said, "Link up with the Russians. We may need to set things off early, which means you need to give them their gift."
It was the security officer who moved.
Agent 47 followed.
Miller took an out on Rogers' side of the stage, treading a familiar path. He made sure to keep track of his surroundings: the Secret Service posed at each turn, university personnel caught up in work, but no sign of a tail. More or less a bald, killer clone. He passed a hall lined with meeting rooms, stopped at a Room 121.
He knocked, and the door opened outward with a woman staking out inside.
Whatever discussion they had would be kept to themselves for the next few minutes. The talk ended with his voice in the comms, "Handed out the Paper Pile. When you hear the signal, regroup at Exit Delta."
Miller left the room and let the door shut behind him.
But Agent 47 put his foot between the door, slinking inside.
The meeting room housed a table large enough to seat a dozen people. A mess of papers and unassuming boxes laid on it. Two women sat apart, one on her laptop, and the other polishing a stiletto. As the door finally shut, they both shot a glance at the entrance.
Nobody was there.
"I don't like the way their president looks," Sacha remarked, her voice coming from the laptop.
"Reminds you of him?" the blonde Russian said, smirking.
"Be quiet, Anya."
Crawling under the massive table, 47 made his way to the end.
"It's good to maintain relations, but I fear you're too attached to her," the other woman, who 47 figured out as Doroteya, said.
"Really?"
Agent 47 watched their feet. They directly faced each other. And by the sound of it, their focus wasn't going anywhere else.
"You think you owe her for getting you on your feet, but she was the newest recruit before you. Her name isn't Odysseus or Fedyenka, and she's no superior of ours. I would put less credence in her if I were you."
"Wow. No wonder you two hate each other."
"I simply disagree with her. She's put this team in danger more than you care to realize."
47 poked out, scanning over the papers. Many were related to the office and funding—likely spread around to mask the contents of their plan. One such paper was a map of the building. Four exits were marked; one of which was the aforementioned 'Exit Delta'.
"And you're sure it's not envy?" Anya remarked. "The brass aren't paying attention to her just because they like her, you know. They have to make sure she's loyal, and I heard they're satisfied."
Doroteya put her stiletto down, heading to the corner where the water cooler was. Anya's feet pointed in her direction. "'Loyal' my ass. All she needs to say is say that she did everything in the name of our country. Why do you think I'm not fond of her?"
47 found Miller's box, a metal cookie tray, left ajar. In it were several night vision goggles crammed against each other, giving the hitman something to consider. They'd only need those in total darkness—another step in their plan.
Doroteya returned to her seat shortly after. She put her water down and scrunched her eyes. "Anya. Give me back my knife."
"What?"
"Don't act stupid. Just hand it over."
"I've been over here this entire time!"
As the two honed in on each other, Agent 47 rose and pulled the box and Doroteya's water together. And, with a nudge, tipped the cup over. He heard a light spark as liquid met technology.
Under the cover of their growing dispute, he crawled from the table and through the door.
Back in the auditorium, the debate raged on.
"If I'm a dog, then you're a small, delicate weasel!" Bud shrunk inward, mockingly. "Squeak, squeak! My poor feelings! Squeak, squeak!"
"Everything about you is all bark and no bite! All I hear is 'Woof, bark, whine, whine'."
Ted clapped into the mic. "Let's all take a deep breath. Collect your thoughts and—"
"Bark, bark! Woof, woof!"
"Squeak, squeak, squeak! Squeeeaaaak!"
Ted buried his face in his hands. "What the hell is going on..."
An ear-piercing beep cut through the building, silencing the candidates in favor of another grating nuisance. The fire alarm ran rampant as guests stood in confusion, and Secret Service hopped on stage to each candidate.
"Fire!" someone yelled, and that was enough to send the crowd into a panic.
"Remain calm!" a staff member said. "Please form an orderly line!"
Ted thought that was stupid, and so did a dozen others. He joined the crowd as runners broke free of the group, flighting over fighting. Though he remembered the route to the exit, Ted quickly learned his mistake as the guests pushed and shoved. He couldn't see over the tops of their heads, and the screaming didn't help his fear.
Overwhelmed, the moderator broke free and ran just as blindly as the others. He crashed through several doors and ran past security, who shouted for him to stop.
When Ted's lungs slowed and he had to lean against a wall to breathe, he winced as the PA system came to life. "Attention, everyone. The fire alarm has been determined to be a false alarm..." He took a deep breath, unable to help but laugh at his own stupidity.
"Damn it." This also meant he had to go back. To deal with them. "Christ. My kids are better behaved..." he mused to himself.
"Muddy Water. I think I have located Agent 47 in the east-most hallway. "
"Copy that. Freezing the camera. Do your thing, Roofer."
"Temple, Roofer can't take him on by himself. He needs backup," Sacha said.
"I know that, that's why I'm sending Carpenter in as well—she's closest. Your job is the Prez!"
"He's right, Sacha," Odysseus chimed in. "We can't risk throwing ourselves at him and giving us away. Besides, Mr. 47 has made no moves on us yet."
"Muddy Water. False alarm."
Sacha scoffed. "Where the hell did you get these guys? Are you sure they're fit for this mission?"
"Grandfather doesn't mess around, dolly. You said you needed the best he had, and these are his best. Would've been better if they had more time to train, but you lot had a time crunch!"
"Whatever. Instead, I suppose I should wonder what Americans find so fun about pulling fire alarms..."
Carpenter arrived at the location, but just as said, nothing was there. No Roofer, and definitely no Agent 47.
The 'moderator' returned to the auditorium just as things began to settle down. He went to each of the three unmanned camera stations, checking if they're still up. Before leaving, he hit a few buttons on their panels, disconnecting them with nobody the wiser.
Then he went to the empty podiums, nodding to passing security and other staff. He spotted Bud's medicine on his side, and he passed the podium to the stairs. Agent 47 shoved Bud's ranolazine deep in his pocket, having left the carbamazepine in its stead.
Everybody gradually returned. The 'moderator' and his fitted wig sat at his desk, busying himself with papers of questions. The news crews came next, and although there was some confusion regarding the cameras, it wasn't long before everything was in working order again.
President Rogers stepped out from a swath of Secret Service, taking his place at the podium. Bud Davis arrived, his smile wide and disarming. Only then did the audience cheer. He took his place, too.
The 'moderator' cleared his throat. "Hopefully, that will be the first and last interruption."
Bud snorted. "I'm willing to bet one of Rogers' staff pulled it to—"
"Bud Davis."
The senator lost his words, blinking dumbly at the 'moderator'. It took a second to return to his bravado and crack a smile. "Sorry."
Garton snickered. "Serves you right, you—"
"Be quiet. We're returning to the questions."
Rogers shut his mouth.
"Senator Davis. So far, the questions and your statements have pointed heavily into Rogers' controversies. It's only fair that we direct some to you."
"That's funny. But you'll find I'm clean as a—"
"Let me finish. I will only ask a few questions. You can do that, can't you?"
The candidates shared a bemused glance, though agreed.
"Good. Senator, how do you plan to fix the public divide and their severely unpopular opinion of the government?"
"Well, that's easy! We have to do everything that President Rogers didn't, uniting the hard-working people and giving them the freedom and equality they've been asking for, for years!"
"Skip the rhetoric and answer the question. This isn't a pep rally. This is a debate."
Bud wavered. "Where'd this tone come from, Ted? I don't think I like it."
"You don't know, do you?"
"I never said that! I have a team working behind the scenes to fix all of Rogers' mistakes!"
"Your 'advisors', I imagine? They likely told you to keep things vague and appealing. Is that why you've been openly supporting the TruthSpeaker movement?"
"Now, 'openly supporting' is rather suggestive. I respect their motives and understand their anger, but that's all! And every politician has advisors, Ted, you know that."
"Advisors who tell you to endorse the same ideology that led to Egypt's uprising?"
Bud's hands curled into fists. "What exactly are you implying, Mr. Horton? I'm a patriot! I stand with my country!"
Garton shook his head. "More like a—"
"Quiet," 47 snapped. "How do we know that the way you vehemently attack these things isn't a symptom of Hero Syndrome?"
"I... What are you talking about? Hero Syndrome?"
"Your past records indicate strong advocacy for maintaining class divisions and relying on America's one percent. You've displayed great friendships with these people, receiving expensive gifts from many individuals. And now, your entire campaign is based on eradicating those concepts."
"That is absurd! My heart has always belonged to the working-class citizens. I proudly served my community in my firefighter days—I know what it's like."
"Those days actually marked the first signs of your Hero Syndrome. You claim you retired after a life of service, but isn't the truth that you resigned after being caught pouring gasoline in the back of a—?"
"This has nothing to do with—"
"In the back of a supermarket? I imagine it didn't cost much to bury that."
"I need you to stop relying on fake news created by my enemies, and start doing your damn job properly!"
"It came from a credible source."
"Who?!"
"Someone close to you." 47 calmly flipped through his papers. "I think we've heard what we needed to. Let's move on."
Bud leaned on his podium, aghast, with a fuming red taking over his face. "You're not going to ask President Rogers?"
"I think we all already know what his policy has been."
The president appeared just as perplexed as his opponent. Bud looked across the room, and the once fond looks were a mix of confusion and doubt. At him? Or at the moderator and his blatantly biased questions? He had no way of knowing. But he didn't have much time to dwell on it.
"What is your approach to foreign diplomacy, particularly with Russia, which has been showing greater signs of interest in America's politics?" The 'moderator' looked at Bud.
"Of course, we're going to maintain our peaceful relationship with Russia. I look forward to talking with President Orlov to discuss how we can help them. They're a fantastic nation with generous people."
"You sound like you've already done some talking with Russia. Like you owe them. Tell me about the deal you made with Fedyenka Levitsky."
"I—Moderator, where is any of this coming from?"
"I'm using the information available to me. "
"Fake. News!"
"This information came from your wife. Are you saying she's lying?"
Bud froze. "My... wife?" The beet red spread to his hands. "You son of a bitch! Y-You've gone too far!"
"I'm not trying to argue with you, Senator. Calm down. Everyone is watching."
Rather than heed his words, Bud, now suddenly aware of his behavior on camera, felt his heart beat out of control. He grit his teeth as pressure built in his chest. "I am calm! I-I'm the calmest person in this room, and I need to have a talk with whoever hired y-you!"
"On that topic, what can you tell me about the politicians who Corvus dug up, all who conveniently opposed you?" Also courtesy of his wife. "Perhaps you've done more than 'show support' for the movement."
"I'm taking your ass to court for libel, Ted! I... I..." He clutched his chest, feeling the world spiral and breaking into a cold sweat. His breath hastened.
"Roofer, what's your status?" 47's earpiece buzzed with his voice. From the moderator's desk, he couldn't afford to answer, though it didn't bother him much. They'd served their purpose. "Roofer...? He's not answering."
"Something's wrong," Odysseus said.
"It's starting. He got to Roofer; the only person who saw him." Sacha said.
"Fuck..." Temple let out a deep exhale. "This guy likes to hide where everybody else is—search within the crowds!"
"And switch channels," Odysseus added. Moments later, the feed went dead.
Hands shaking, Bud took his pill bottle and rattled two into his palm. Weren't they a different color? Now was not the time to waste on dumb thoughts. He gulped them down.
But there was no relief.
Vertigo arrived seconds later, making the world spin. He felt cold; became keenly aware of his body. The lights were bright; red, white, blue.
"Senator?" someone called.
"I'm fine. I'm fine... America is... Happy days are here again..."
Bud fell on his podium, trying to hold on. But his hands lost feeling. He slid down the wood with faint squeaks. He knew he was falling. His head tilted back, and he couldn't pull up. A bitter bile rose from his throat, fleeing his mouth and falling with him. He landed on his back with a thud that rippled across the auditorium.
"Senator!"
"Oh my god, he collapsed!"
The auditorium erupted with noise. Attendees clamored with their table, murmuring as Secret Service huddled around him. Another group of security encircled President Rogers, escorting him off stage. The cameras aimed down Bud and the growing pool of vomit underneath him.
"Bud Davis is eliminated from the running. Excellent work, 47. Now to find Temple Proctor."
With all eyes on him, nobody noticed that the 'moderator' had left.
...
"What the hell happened to him? A heart attack?" Garton asked his men. The Secret Service formed a wall around him as they moved, escorting the president away. Even though no direct threat was present, none of them could shake the bad omen in their guts. Especially now with a candidate possibly dead on the debate grounds.
"We don't know yet," one agent of the six answered flatly, then responding to his earpiece. "We're bringing Maverick through Exit Delta, over."
Rogers huffed. "What a mess..." He could already imagine the conspiracy theories. Somehow, they'd paint him as the bad guy. A part of him couldn't deny the weight off his shoulders from seeing Bud collapse, nor the disappointment of what looked like nature giving him the easy way out.
At least, he thought with a grin, he still had four more years to fix things.
Midway down a cramped hall, caught next to a storage closet, the lights flickered. Darkness blanketed all.
Someone shouted something in Russian, and before the Secret Service agents could get a word to each other, the fighting began. Blades and fists met flesh. His agents yelled in pain, and others fell to the floor.
Whimpering, the president curled up on the ground.
The storage closet opened. Something hit Rogers on the head, and he was out cold.
The fighting drew nearer.
Agent 47 stripped him of his suit, lugging the body into the closet.
A Secret Service agent got a shot off, illuminating the hall for a split second. The hitman saw the Russians, but they were too focused on the fight to notice him.
47 donned the suit. In order to seal the disguise, he retrieved Doroteya's stiletto. Gritting his teeth, he cut across his scalp. He dropped the blade into his sleeve.
The last agent went down. Sacha grabbed the 'president' and locked his arms behind his back with a zip tie. Someone else fastened a gag in his mouth and a bag over his head.
"The president is in our possession," Odysseus said.
"Nice work," Temple said with glee. "All you have to do now is bring him over—it's the home stretch, boys and girls. Move it!"
"See?" Dimitri remarked. "I told you we could do fine without the night vision."
"Stand up," Sacha said. "Resist, and you die."
Her hostage complied.
"Doroteya, take point," Odysseus ordered. "The rest of you, be wary."
The unit moved as one, having Temple monitor the cameras to warn them of incoming reinforcements. With his help and their expertise, the Russians made it out of the building, which 47 sensed by the sudden, chilly breeze.
A short walk away under the guise of night, and they entered another building.
"Carpenter," Odysseus recognized as she shut the door behind them. "Is the building secure?"
"Completely. Miller is guarding the other entrance, and the rest of us stationed here had nothing to report."
"Good. Any sign of Roofer?"
"Nada. Seems like your girl's intuition was right." She nodded to Sacha.
They continued further inside, passing through several rooms. When a familiar, thick Bostonian accent rang through, their journey came to an end. "That... went better than I thought it would," he admitted.
"You Americans have so little faith in us," Fyodor remarked. "What happened with your guy—Davis?"
Temple shrugged. "A heart attack or something. Doesn't look good for him. Regardless, we had to execute things ahead of schedule."
Anya laughed. "Well, that's what you get for backing a frail old man."
Temple couldn't deny that. "It's not like America blessed us with choice. Come on, let's get Mr. Prez comfy."
He took the hostage from their hands.
Someone else entered the room. "We're all clear. None of us have a barcode on our heads, so the only thing we gotta worry about is Secret Service."
"That's great!" Temple called back. "I have plenty of time to show this son of a bitch a real debate."
Sacha laughed, pumping her fist up and down like an excited kid. "Finally! We've shown that bald mudak just who he's messing with!"
"I told you we'd get the better of him," Odysseus added, unable to hide his relieved chuckle. "Savor the taste of victory. That is what we must strive for."
Temple led their hostage to a metal seat. The agents gathered around, awaiting the fruits of their effort.
"Ladies and gentlemen." Temple tore the bag off. "We got him."
As Agent 47's vision adjusted to the light, Temple and the others scrutinized his face. His bald head was covered in crimson, providing a guise of blood over his facial muscles and other minute details. The Bostonian spoke first. "Jesus. What did you guys do to him?"
"Not sure. Maybe he banged his head on something on the way out?" Doroteya shrugged. "Either way, he's all yours."
Temple grinned, his canines crooked and yellow. "That's all I need."
"Then we're done here," Odysseus said. "Let's go. I want to make sure this building is completely locked down. Agent 47 is still around here somewhere, and as long as we stop him from getting in, we'll have won." He and his crew left shortly after. Sacha was the last to go, unable to shake an odd feeling from the 'president'.
"So. President of the United States." Temple pulled another chair across the concrete floor, sitting across from him. Beside him was a tripod with a camera on record. "Not so grandiose when we're sitting this close to each other, huh? I'm the guy that your kind calls when something needs fixing. You probably don't even remember paying me to write your book, Traditions of the Trade. You know what means for you, right?"
The 'president' stared at him.
"I know your kind. The way you politicians lie and hide behind whatever you can. There's no point in lying to me. What I want out of you is a confession. An admittance to all your crimes and wrongdoings."
"You say that as if we're any different."
"I don't hide behind a public image mask crafted by a PR team! You're cowardly. Even when your empire is falling apart, you act so out of touch that it's mind-boggling. A confession—an admittance to mistakes and wrongdoings—would have fixed things! And it's not too late now. What you do here can save America. Just some humility will do."
"I do know about you, Temple."
"Really? That's a surprise."
Agent 47 let the stiletto fall into his hand. "This isn't about America. This isn't about what you want. You're nothing but a puppet."
Temple hit him across the cheek, an audible slap echoing in the room. His hand grew numb and red. "Don't speak to me like that! You're not the one in control here!"
"You must feel inferior to those around you. You're short, overweight, and limping. They must've made you the leader in this attack so you can take the blame in case things went awry."
"Shut up!" Temple jolted from his seat, grabbing his shoulders. "We're not here to talk about me. You are here to confess."
"I confess."
Temple struck him again. The 'president' moved his jaw to ensure was still intact. "To what, Mr. President? Murdering millions and millions of people? Enabling nuclear war? You deserve everything the TruthSpeakers are doing to America. You ended Tom Stewart's cloning agenda, preventing so many from life-saving transplants! Your little affair put America in danger of total destruction!"
"Executed by the Russians you're working for."
Temple hit him in the stomach, laughing loudly and arrogantly as 'Garton' keeled over. "I might as well tell you. Today will be the last day of your life. Confess to your crimes, and I will make sure your death is quick and painless."
"Wait," he said, breathless. "You're right... There's something I have to say."
Temple grinned. "Now we're getting somewhere! Spill it!"
He whispered something, barely audible to Temple or the camera.
"Come on, speak up, Mr. Prez! Talk!" He leaned over, their heads adjacent to each other.
Agent 47's whisper drained the color from his face, morphing arrogance into fear. "My hands are free."
The stiletto plunged between Temple's neck and shoulder, bypassing the clavicle and the ribs. He cut through the subclavian artery and punctured his left lung. 47 forced him onto his chair, Temple's arms flailing uselessly against the hitman's strength. Temple felt his lung deflate like a balloon, the air leaving his mouth through force. In seconds, he felt his body slow.
With that, Agent 47 left him, stiletto still in his shoulder. Temple watched him explore the room, not even sparing him a glance. His last thought was one of rage—cursing the hitman for not giving him the respect he deserved. Then his head fell limp, and he never woke again.
"Temple Proctor is neutralized. Very well done, 47. It's time to go."
Agent 47 took the camera's SD card, then found Temple's laptop nearby. He had left the CCTV system open, password inputted and all. He likely felt no need to close up shop until everything was finished—fortunate for the hitman. 47 ran a few commands, and one by one, the cameras cut to static. All the footage deleted itself.
As he stepped into an empty corridor, nondescript and poorly lit, he knew he was in the staff area of some building. "Diana?"
"You're in the university's research center, isolated from pedestrian traffic and kept under lock and key because of the various chemicals it houses. It's supposed to be closed today, which no doubt made it easier to set up base in."
Limited access points and guards at all of them. An effective cage. One that would fall apart. "Tell me where the labs are. I need access to their chemicals."
...
"Temple, are you done with the president?" Sacha asked into her comms. "I want to get out of here as soon as we can. It won't be long before Secret Service searches this building."
There was no response, and she swore.
"That bastard's probably lost in fantasy land. I almost feel bad for President Rogers," Odysseus said.
"Maybe we should check on him. Just in case."
The building rocked. Tiles and lights fell from the ceiling. Orange light illuminated through the skylights, and the two looked up in awe. A brilliant explosion had erupted, turning the skies into a mass inferno.
Odysseus spoke first. "Everyone, report!" The response on the comms was similarly explosive. Everyone replied with some level of coherence. Everybody except Temple Proctor. "Regroup at the northern parking lot! Watch out for the Secret Service!"
"No! We need to sweep the building! This is the work of Agent 47—he's here. He caused this to make us flee!" Sacha cried.
"Sacha!" Odysseus grabbed her. "We can't afford to stay! Every authority is heading to this location, and the last thing we need is for this to turn into a global disaster!"
"Then what about Temple? We left him alone!"
Odysseus bit his lip. "We have to assume he's dead."
She clicked her tongue, more so out of the frustration of losing 47 than mourning him. But even she could realize their situation. Silently, she followed Odysseus' lead.
Outside the conference hall, a tarp laid over Senator Davis as paramedics carried him out on a stretcher. Uninvited supporters rallied around, for once in silent disbelief. Their American flags drooped, catching the ground.
President Rogers, stripped to his underwear, and with a killer headache to boot, stepped outside. Secret Service agents surrounded him, calling for a medic.
Agent 47, having cleaned his face as best as he could, wrapped a bandage over the self-inflicted cut. He took a route opposite from where the increasing security presence came, driving away into Nashville.
And in the northern parking lot, behind a line of shrubbery, the Russians and the Shelter's agents laid low. All bearing the same defeated expression. Any hope of at least accomplishing the primary missions was dashed with a pale-faced Doroteya. "I... saw President Rogers coming out of the conference hall. The man we got was not him."
Even worse news than that was the realization of who they took. Nobody felt it harder than Sacha. "He was right there, and we brought him in… How did—When the hell did he replace the president? During the fire alarm? Why did none of us think to check on the damn president?"
"We were all blindsided, Sacha." Odysseus reached for her.
She slapped his hand away. "That bastard was in my hands. I held him against me! And you—!" Sacha punched the dirt. "I let him go..."
"You're not the only one in the dumps," Anya added. "We're all frustrated, Sacha. This guy was in the same room as me and Doroteya, yet..."
"You know it's bad when he makes you question years of training and field experience," Dimitri remarked.
Odysseus nodded. "Save the talk for later. We need to leave."
They silently agreed. Odysseus called for the Shelter agents to exfiltrate.
Sacha cursed. Cursed herself for being so stupid as to overlook the man she hated the most, and cursed God for putting such a terrifying person on earth.
BUD DAVIS DEAD; PRESIDENT ROGERS ABANDONS AMERICA
The presidential debate's third candidate: Death.
Senator Bud Davis, the highly revered presidential candidate, was pronounced dead at the hospital. The cause of death was organ failure caused by a dosage of carbamazepine mixing with his ranolazine treatment. Authorities have declared that foul play is involved. Moreover, they claim that the suspect is dead.
The day of the debate quickly became a scene of horror as unknown terrorists launched an attack on America. One senator poisoned, the president and his security ambushed with six dead, and an explosion occurring at the Cumberland Valley University's research center. While the investigation is still ongoing, we have information on what happened to the late Bud Davis.
During the debate, viewers may remember a fire alarm going off, causing a huge delay. At some point, the separate news stations using the footage lost connection with the cameras. Some time later, the debate continues, and Davis ingests the fatal pills of ranolazine after a fiery argument against the biased moderator. His pills were likely swapped out in that timeframe. However, nobody has been able to identify anyone as a suspect.
After putting out the fire in the research center, authorities found a singular burnt corpse inside. Forensics are still running an analysis on the body, but it is reasonable to assume they are connected with the attack.
In the day following the Nashville incident, bashing hopes that President Rogers could steer his administration in the right direction, the White House announced that he is missing. An inside source tells us that, much like former Justice Sandra Blanc, he has fled the country. A fitting legacy for America's most disapproved president in history.
This also means that, much to the shock of both sides, Vice President N.F. Chance has a solid chance of attaining the office. He released a statement condemning the TruthSpeakers as responsible for Davis' assassination and Rogers' attempted killing...
NATIONAL GUARD DEPLOYED AGAINST RIOTS AND LOOTING
As President Rogers' last act before his disappearance, he ordered the deployment of the National Guard into our country. Their targets are obvious: the riots spurred by the TruthSpeakers. Already, we have seen waves of violence quelled by their presence. Many of the "protestors" were simply people taking advantage of the chaos to commit petty crimes.
With some semblance of normality returning, I wish to urge everybody to maintain your sensibility. The doxxing and harassing committed by Corvus and his followers is putting people's lives in danger. He is a cyberterrorist trying to incite insurrection through the Surtr Leaks. He helped create a mass hysteria about America's system and weaponized our fears.
I am of the opinion that somebody needs to put their foot down, and a candidate like Bud Davis was only going to enable them...
FASCISM, KHANDHANYANG, AND AMERICA
America is quickly becoming a fascist country thanks to the un-American Agenda that its leaders are trying to implement. When a country disobeys its own amendments in favor of their power, it's clear to see what politicians only care about. Suppressing criticisms of the government and the peaceful TruthSpeaker protests is an obvious sign of totalitarian dissent.
The investigation into the debate's attack is also an unmistakable plot by the CIA, made clear by the 'missing' surveillance footage from that day. Nobody could have swapped Bud's pill bottle with everybody watching. It was an inside job controlled by people too afraid to have a leader who cares about American citizens.
The "attack" on President Rogers is also a fabrication. They executed six of their own bureaucrats just to cover up his involvement, then whisking him away to some tropical island. I wouldn't be surprised if the body uncovered in the research lab is fake, too.
Our country is becoming the non-Asian version of Khandanyang and their dictatorship under Sun Po. Similar to how their country originally embraced democracy during the Cold War, they gradually fell under communist influences as the Po family dominated political influence. Our country is being taken over by authoritative individuals who want to turn America into a police state, and its biggest propagator, President Rogers, is getting away with it...
Present Day
Lars Roth ventured into the rain carrying only a bouquet and a bag of plastic children's toys. Xenia drove him, but he'd make the walk across the cemetery on his own. He clutched both items close to his chest, mustering a smile to passersby and the best wave he could manage.
One couple offered their umbrella, which he refused. "It's no coincidence it rained today," he told them. "To be cleansed now of all times—I'm on the right path. I know it."
Lars wound up in front of three graves. He placed the bouquet for the couple. Peter and Nancy Burnwood. The toys for their child. James Burnwood. He took the previous offerings of wilted flowers and dirtied toys into his bag.
The rain stopped pelting his bald spot as an umbrella came over them. "All this time, you were the one leaving those."
Lars smiled, rising to face the last of the family. "It's so good to see you after all these years." He offered a hand.
"You as well, Detective." They shook firmly.
He took a moment to admire Diana. Mature. Vigorous. She was tenacious as a child; it shouldn't have surprised him how far she got. And, for the time, she relished his company now as much as he did hers. "I never got the chance to say this, but I'm deeply sorry about your parents. They're the victims of an unjust world in dire need of change."
"Already onto the politics?"
"You know me. None of us have time for small talk."
She shrugged. "Fair enough."
"I'm proud of you, Diana. I wish I could have been there for you after your parents..." He shook his head. "You've become so much more powerful than I could have imagined."
"I could say the same for you. The detective whose prime time was left decades ago, now reaching for a world in his palms?" Her tone shifted to one of less delight. "What happened to you?"
Lars drew out his sigh, his smile faltering. "You know what happened to me. You see enough evil in this world—feel its wrath a couple of times—then you try to understand it. Then you realize: humanity's evil is a cycle. Over the course of human history, not once have we learned from our mistakes. We still get around by greed and evil. The Great Crusades—mass persecutions justified by religion. Corruption amid governments meant to help its people. Every issue you can find today has already happened in the past."
Diana tightened her grip on the umbrella. She glanced at something behind Lars.
"I lost my career. My future. My respect! It doesn't matter how much good you do for this world. People choose to remember the wrong things, and that's because they're stupid. Governments and corporations and complacency have made their citizens stupid. They infiltrate the news to force feed us 'our side' this and 'hidden dangers' that. People can't think for themselves anymore."
"And now, what?" Diana said. "Yes, there has been and always will be evil in this world. I understand that better than anyone else. Is that what this is about? You believe your populist philosophies will eradicate it? You're smart enough to understand how hypocritical this is."
"And you're smart enough to know that I have thought this out better than any Stalin, Mao, or Castro ever could. The way things stand, society will destroy itself in a matter of years. If we truly want freedom, we must reform the idea of leadership. To erase the mistaken notions that people are brainwashed to accept. What I want is to guide them."
"I never expected someone like you to be blinded by idealism."
"Ideal." Lars scoffed. "I'm tired of that word. You only call it that because nobody was wise enough to succeed."
"I call it that because those very people thought the same thing."
Silence fell between them. Diana looked behind him again.
Lars took a deep breath. And smiled. He caught the look in her eyes. "You must be wondering why Agent 47 is already making his move."
On cue, stepped beside Lars, staring blankly ahead. Diana instantly knew this was the chip's doing.
"I admit, I was somewhat anxious, wondering when you would finally strike a decisive blow against me. Bud Davis was... a considerable loss. I can't have you as an opponent, Diana. A back-and-forth match between you and my rebellion is too inefficient for my liking. So be proud. Proud that you made your first—and last—strike count."
"So that's it, then?" Her voice was quiet, and she spoke through grit teeth. "Agent 47 is forever your slave?"
Lars shook his head. "He won't be the person we need if that was the case. From what I heard, you two make each other. And..." He motioned to Diana.
"And you want me to help you."
He smiled wider than before. "You have to understand where I'm coming from. We have both been fucked over by money-changing hands. Blue Seed robbed us of our lives, and there are so, so many more corporations just like them. Billionaires viewing people as a loss or bonus to their revenue. People who escape justice at the drop of a dollar."
Diana averted her gaze, and Lars knew he was on the right track.
"We can help each other. You will both live the same lives you have now, and it will be for a great cause. Once we get rid of the abusive, authoritative powers in the world, our great minds will help rebuild. You said that attempting my ideals will lead to disaster, so you can help refine things!"
Diana sighed. "You're only inviting me to keep a close eye on me."
"Would you believe me if I denied that?" Lars chuckled. "Sure, that's partly why, but you know these things are never black and white. I see myself in you. Just as I see myself in Corvus. I know you've thought this before."
She looked at Agent 47, still as ice. Either stay out of their way, or join them—join Detective Roth, the only friend she had left. Maintain the status quo, or make her move... After some consideration, Diana made her choice. "What do I need to do?"
Lars was beaming. He wrapped an arm around Diana for a side hug. "Get Soders off our back. My people inside will deal with the rest. And when I need you, Xenia will get my message through."
Diana nodded. "I can do that, no problem." His grip felt... cozy. Like a parent to their child. She couldn't help but smile. That part of him hadn't changed one bit. "But what I want to know is your endgame. I'm certain you have something in mind."
The detective parted, stepping back into the rain and to her family's graves. He uttered a brief prayer to them. And without looking back, he said, "When Ragnarok comes, every totalitarian system will fall. People will realize the power that has been stripped away from them for so long. And with their own hands, they will take back what it means to be an individual." Lars tilted his gaze up to the clouds. "The cycle ends here. I'm saving humanity, even if nobody realizes it."