White House, Washington, D.C.
10th of December, 2049
In an office in the heart of America, a phone rings. It has been ringing for twelve consecutive seconds.
Its tone is quick and sharp. It rings in two-second bursts of rage, followed up by one second of respite; then, it repeats its song. Four times it has done so already, since it has woken up; it will do so two more times before it switches to voicemail — a feature no user of this particular device has ever resorted to.
Its current patron, Daniel Reed Crenshaw, the fifty-fourth President of the United States of America, might be the first one to change that.
In its long history, the Oval Office has been host to a great many things. From war through love and into treason — it was built on diversity. Not the right kind, of course, but monuments to empires rarely are. Still: for all of its flaws, the Oval Office has never been host to surrender. No man who ever sat there, surrounded by the paintings of warmongers long since gone, has ever conceded that which was rightfully his. What, by god-given right and man-given liberty, was in the best interest of his free world.
Very slowly, Dan Crenshaw takes a deep breath.
In that regard, he will not be any different to his forebearers. He too will not concede — not even if he has to fight tooth and nail to avoid going down with the rest of the PENTAGRAM hoi-polloi. For all of his vices, he still remains the leader of the United States, a man-made king in the shining city upon a hill; a witness to Washington's occupation by godless UN bureaucrats.
He will not allow this.
He picks up the handle.
"Undersecretary General," he somehow manages to say through his clenched teeth. "What a surprise to finally be able to talk to you directly." His heart pounds with rage. "How may I help you?"
"I do not believe you can, Daniel," she says, putting a particular emphasis on his name. "I am not here to negotiate. We are long past that."
He closes his eyes and remembers his prayers. He knows that, sooner or later, she will pay. Just like the rest of them will.
"Then what do you want?" he asks, this time more sternly; he makes sure she hears an ounce of the venom dripping from his words.
She considers. "I come to you with a warning." Her tone is cold as stone. "You might've taken the fight to your turf with your little domestic commission, but I do not take lightly to scum escaping my justice. I won't play at your game, Daniel. Whatever happens tomorrow, no matter how good you get it against the crowd you'll inevitably have to face, know this: I don't forget. I don't forgive."
She's always been like this, the bitch, constantly testing the limits of his margins. Any minor slip against her, any victory she might've gotten, no matter how small — she's always used it to her advantage. It didn't matter if the end goal was conquest or humiliation. If she has willed it, it would happen.
Since the very day they met, she's always been a constant thorn in Crenshaw's side.
"You might even save face tonight, for what little your position cares for its own image, but know that I will remain. Remain until your very last day. And here, it's like a steel trap. Daniel."
He grips the handle so hard his knuckles start going white. "Good. Because I will also remain. And so will the people."
Something almost akin to jaded laughter forms on the other side. "Yes, I would certainly hope so.
"I would certainly hope so."
Hart Senate Office Building, Washington, D.C.
11th of December, 2049
United States House Select Committee on the Washington Virion
"Celesta"
UNGOCAMUS Communication Commander
SEN. MCKENZIE (R-NV): State your name and position for the record, please.
Celesta clears her throat.
DIR. CELESTA: My official name remains classified under UN regulations — please see Appendix B-14 in your documentation — but I operate under the alias Celesta. I am the Assistant Field Director and Communication Commander of the United Nations Global Occult Coalition Assistance Mission in the United States.
SEN. MCKENZIE (R-NV): Thank you, Director. As I understand, you have been cleared regarding the stipulations inherent to this hearing?
Celesta glances at the Bible located on the desk before her. She takes a tired breath, and places her hand upon it.
DIR. CELESTA: I have.
She blinks twice as the geas takes effect. She grimaces.
SEN. MCKENZIE (R-NV): Fantastic. <pause, shuffles documents> Before we proceed, I would like to inquire about Ms. Al Fine's absence today. This Committee has called her for testimony, as I'm sure you have been informed. <pause, puts his hands together> Why is she not here?
Celesta puts her hands behind her back.
DIR. CELESTA: The Undersecretary General was unable to attend due to global matters requiring her immediate attention. However, I assure you, I have been cleared to make official and accurate statements on behalf of the Global Occult Coalition. I'm her second-in-command, if you'll recall.
SEN. MCKENZIE (R-NV): Of course, Director. To clarify: this Committee has called this hearing to elaborate on certain… aspects of the Coalition's intervention on American soil. I will now turn it over to Senator Coleman for further questions.
SEN. COLEMAN (R-TX): Thank you, Chair. I would like to request your testimony regarding the numerous accusations of abuse of force and authority by Coalition forces during its intervention.
Celesta pauses, considering her words. She clears her throat.
DIR. CELESTA: Indeed, I cannot deny that a few instances of misconduct by our forces have occured, but our organization has taken appropriate measures to institute internal self-regulation of all involved in such incidents. I also must emphasize that the primary responsibility for them lies on behalf of the federal government. Its repeated unwillingness to cooperate with the Coalition along with its hostile disregard for international procedures and standards has severely hindered our good-faith efforts.
Every intervening Coalition unit has followed all agreed-upon procedures. We have done our possible best when containing the threat, in spite of several branches of the federal government attempting to sabotage our operations, both nationally and internationally. It is the opinion of High Command that all escalations and incidents you have mentioned were a direct consequence of the lack of cooperation shown by President Crenshaw and his administration.
High Command has already provided you with documents which go into more detailed elaboration on all reported incidents, Senator. I invite you to revisit them, and — if need be — request further Coalition documentation. Unlike some, we are more than open to transparency and cooperation.
Murmurs can be heard throughout the Committee and the audience. Sen. McKenzie looks around his desk, locating the aforementioned files of documents. He nods, and looks at at Celesta.
SEN. COLEMAN (R-TX): Thank you, Director. We would now like to hear your response to the government's accusation of the Coalition intentionally undermining US sovereignty by violating established limits of intervention.
Celesta's eyelid twitches almost unnoticably, as if she was struggling against the effects of the geas.
DIR. CELESTA: As I stated earlier, the Coalition has followed all required international procedures. It is not the Coalition's fault or interest that the United States has authorized procedures it was later unsatisfied with. The President has fully authorized our intervention to help contain the situation, alongside the implied possibility of Procedure Pizzicato and its consequences.
I do not understand the irrational hostility shown by the US government in this situation which sabotages global thaumic security. It is its actions that have led to this situation in the first place, and it is it who has called the Coalition for aid in times of need.
Brief pause as members of the Committee exchange looks and whispers.
SEN. MCKENZIE (R-NV): Thank you, Director and Senator Coleman. I believe that will be all for now. The Committee will further examine your assertions and call you in for further questioning at a later date. <pause> Unless, of course, you would like to add something of your own volition?
Sen. McKenzie glances at Celesta from behind his glasses as her face muscles briefly twitch once more. She looks down at the Bible, suppressed anger in her eyes.
DIR. CELESTA: This is all a farce.
She looks around the room, eyeing all gathered.
DIR. CELESTA: If this was all really about justice, you would've long had Crenshaw before our own Court, not this… this commission. You want a fair trial? The ICP would give you one. The Coalition would give you one. Instead, you've got…
She scoffs.
DIR CELESTA: A play. Some parody of equity. An easy way out, one your jailbird can just slither his way out of. <Pause> Just look at this all. It's not even pathetic. Just sad.
Silence for several seconds.
SEN. MCKENZIE (R-NV): Thank you for your harsh honesty, Director. The Committee will note your comments.
Sen McKenzie looks at the Bible located before Celesta.
SEN. MCKENZIE (R-NV): Though, I suppose, it is on us for bringing it about.
Pause.
SEN. MCKENZIE (R-NV): Next!
World Health Organisation HQ, Geneva, Switzerland
4th of January, 2050
Olivier Serrano's office is barely more than a tomb.
Most who visit would say that it does not fit the importance of its purpose; that, for what is meant as the office of the Director-General of the World Parahealth Organization, it is too laconic. Too quiet and too dark, if one were to ignore the sound of the secretary's keyboard.
With the state Serrano's in, he wouldn't blame anyone for thinking he too belongs in a graveyard; he's lanky and gray, with bags underneath his eyes that bear testament to the work he's done in the last few months. The only thing he is still capable of, he's found, is mindlessly scrolling through emails and reports, still piling up. Still piling up, even though they've won.
He sighs.
By all means, he shouldn't be here. He's already done his share of the work. The crisis has been averted, the apocalypse has been avoided — as he sits there, the vaccine for the Washington Virion is being distributed worldwide.
By all metrics that aren't their own, the pandemic is over. He can go home.
Nevertheless, he remains sat at his desk, unable to admit that, maybe, it was all finally coming to an end.
"What are the numbers, Jules?" he asks, his tone flat.
The clicking stops.
"Give them to me straight."
She doesn't need anything more to know what he means. Unlike all of his other coworkers, Jules Gauthier has always had the rare gift of being able to guess precisely what Serrano means — a talent as useful as it is well-paying, given her profession.
Without hesitation, she turns away from her monitor, puts her hands together, and states, matter-of-factly: "Three hundred million infected. One hundred million cured in time. Seven hundred million vaccinated, and still growing."
Olivier slowly exhales. "Jesus Christ."
"You did your best, sir. It could have always been worse." She turns back, and continues typing. "Much worse."
He sighs. "That's not the point, Jules. I know it could have always been worse. I just wish it wasn't like this.
"It's never been like this. We've never had to fight against a weapon. A weapon that half of the population will hate us for curing. One they'll hate us for intervening against."
"One that the other half will hate us for not stopping sooner," Jules adds.
"Exactly." Serrano sighs again. "I'm tired, Jules."
She types out two more sentences before she stops. "I don't think anyone can blame you, sir. Anyone reasonable, that is. Besides," she adds, "it will all be over soon. We've already fought and defeated that particular beast, have we not?"
He considers for a moment. "We have. I just wish it wasn't a beast that's bound to come back in a decade, in some other form.
"I just wish it wasn't a beast we ourselves created."
She suddenly stops typing. The room falls very quiet. "Sir, if I may, there's some words I'd like to share with you. My mother used to tell me them, when I was still a child. When I had similar doubts like you do now."
"Of course, Jules."
"It isn't up to us to choose which cross to bear, sir. We can't choose the path we will have to take, or the audience that will inevitably mock us," she says. Her face is an unreadable mask.
Olivier sighs, and massages his temples. "So why even bother? What's the point of even trying, when we are doomed to bear that weight?"
She smiles very faintly, almost unnoticably so. "Because we can choose how to get up when we trip, sir. Because we can choose whom to share our burden with, when we inevitably fall."
Olivier doesn't say anything. He just looks at her, contemplating her words.
Jules stands up from her desk, and grabs a few documents. She stacks them, and corrects her glasses.
"Go home, sir," she says. "Go to your wife and kids. I'm sure they miss their little hero." She puts her hand on his shoulder. "Let me bear this particular cross for the night. You've held it for far too long."
He looks her in the eyes. There's warmth in them, some ounce of understanding. "It isn't going to get any lighter, sir," she says, "but more will come to help us carry it. And the work will go on."
Hart Senate Office Building, Washington, D.C.
11th of December, 2049
United States House Select Committee on the Washington Virion
Simón Eduardo Torres
Overseer of the Washington Virion Research Group
CEO of Phoenix Technologies, Inc.
Torres places his hand on the Bible, letting the geas bind him.
SEN. MCKENZIE (R-NV): Sta—
DR. TORRES: Simón Torres, CEO of Phoenix Technologies, dual Nobel Prize laureate, and primary overseer of the UNGOC-appointed Washington Virion Research Group.
Torres pauses.
DR. TORRES: Though, I suppose, now that we've developed the vaccine, that will soon be triple.
Torres smiles, and corrects his bowtie. Sen. McKenzie sighs.
SEN. MCKENZIE (R-NV): Thank you, Mr. Torres. I—
DR. TORRES: That's doctor Torres, Senator.
SEN. MCKENZIE (R-NV): As I was saying, Dr. Torres — I take it you're aware of the reason behind this hearing?
DR. TORRES: Indeed, Senator.
SEN. MCKENZIE (R-NV): Fantastic. <pause> Please, then, characterize the nature of the cooperation between your Research Group, JOICL, and the US Paranatural Warfare Command.
DR. TORRES: There wasn't any.
Silence for several seconds.
SEN. HUDSON (D-NY): …Could you elaborate on that?
DR. TORRES: Not once during our work have we received something that wasn't excuses or nonsense from either of the parties you've mentioned. Every document we were sent was either outdated or so redacted as to be utter nonsense. But—
Torres looks back at the audience, as if searching for someone; after a moment, he narrows his eyes, and turns back towards the Committee.
DR. TORRES: —none of this came as a surprise, truth be told. As I'm sure you'd recall, Senator, General Bowe has made it abundantly clear he wasn't interested in any cooperation during our summit back in March. He hasn't changed his mind since, it seems like.
As for JOICL: I cannot speak with authority over their intentions, but they have similarly been of no use.
Torres pauses.
DR. TORRES: But then again, of course, it isn't as if Mr. Yoshida is anything but Bowe's dog. He actually—
Sen. Hudson clears his throat.
SEN. HUDSON (D-NY): Dr. Torres, are you saying that throughout the entire course of you developing the cure and vaccine, neither JOICL nor PENTAGRAM contributed anything of value to the operation?
DR. TORRES: Indeed. At best, what we got was useless; at worst, it was an active detriment to our work. We were sent folders of early development information we've already discovered on our own or files which dare I say were meant to only distract us. Neither the personnel nor the documentation Crenshaw promised on live TV ever made it to our labs either, I'm afraid.
Torres shrugs.
DR. TORRES: None of this could ever be called sabotage before any legal body, of course, but you must admit, Senator, it does not paint a good image of our federal friends.
SEN. COLEMAN (R-TX): Dr. Torres, I insist that you keep your personal comments and remarks to yourself. <pause> The Committee will discuss your statements.
DR. TORRES: My apologies, Senator.
Committee members talk among themselves for a few moments. After a while, Sen. McKenzie turns to face Torres.
SEN. MCKENZIE (R-NV): Do you possess documentation that can prove your claims beyond a shadow of a doubt, Doctor?
DR. TORRES: Of course, Senator. Just like the rest of our files regarding the development of the Asclepius vaccine, these documents are also fully publically available. But—
He puts his hands together.
DR. TORRES: —should they not prove satisfactory, I implore you to contact me directly. If sharing internal Phoenix documents is what it takes to show you neither Yoshida nor Bowe particularly cared for the people we were meant to help, so be it.
Torres smiles smugly, and once again tries searching the audience.
DR. TORRES: On a more personal note, if I may—
Sen. McKenzie clears his throat.
SEN. MCKENZIE (R-NV): Thank you, Dr. Torres, but I do not believe that will be neccessary. For now, anyway.
Torres almost frowns. He raises his hand, but before he can speak, he is cut off by Sen. McKenzie. Sen. Coleman gestures to Torres to step off the podium.
Sen. McKenzie looks towards the audience.
SEN. MCKENZIE (R-NV): Now, Haru Yoshida, please come forward.
Phoenix Technologies HQ, New York City, New York
10th of January, 2050
"GOCKS GO HOME! GOCKS GO HOME!" the red-faced middle aged man shouts through his megaphone, a crowd of similarly challenged individuals chanting alongside his song. "We call our own shots!" he spits out from under his half-formed beard. Somewhere behind him, someone else pulls up a sad excuse for a block of cardboard, a crossed-out needle with some vague facsimile of a Coalition logo drawn crudely upon it.
None of the protesters realize that the Asclepius vaccine is not distributed via needles, of course.
A loud shriek of agreement goes through the surrounding protesters. A few slogans are waved, a few slurs are spoken; a few police warnings are shouted from across the barricade. The collective voice of desperate suburban small business owners possessed by shared paranoia continues on.
This has been going on for the last few hours, and unless someone throws a bottle at a cop, it will go on for a few hours more. It isn't anything out of the ordinary — if anything, it is an intended feature of the status quo.
Amidst the crowds, several black flags with a white symbol, spreading from a red dot in the center, stick out. Those who carry them are soldiers of a cause long dead. They believe that Crenshaw, a professional politician, is the true anti-establishment frontman their movement so desperately wants.
"You getting this?" Some fifty meters before the protesters, Alice Sharp turns towards Amadi Kolade, her personal camera operator. She corrects her hair, and checks if her mic is still working — old age might've grayed her hair, but it hasn't taken even an ounce off of her edge.
"Loud and clear, miss," he replies, calibrating his device to focus only on the mob gathered before the Washington HQ of Phoenix Technologies. "Though, if I may su—"
"WE WILL NOT LET SIMON TORRES TURN OUR KIDS INTO FAGGOTS!" another equally uninteresting middle-class voice shouts. Standard murmurs of agreement follow. This time, they are even louder. They repeat the chant two more times before they switch their song to a new prayer: "SAY NO TO SATANIST GLOBALIST AGENDAS!"
Alice sighs. They've been at it for two days now, trying to get a good report from this particular part of the disaster. First, they tried to enter the building itself to get to talk to Torres, who they now know isn't even present inside it. When two days of protesters blocking any vehicles in and out (though in particular of trucks actually transporting the vaccine to the world at large) made that impossible, they've decided to settle on at least recording the mob so that they wouldn't have to return to unVeiled with nothing. So that Alice's next article wouldn't be just a blank slate.
"No justice without a trial! No justice without a trial!"
Alice grimaces, and takes off her microphone. She puts the miniature piece of paratechnology into the pocket inside her jacket. "I don't think this is going to work either, Amadi," she says, crossing her arms. She looks at the protesters, then at the police, which, truth be told, does little more than stand between the masses and the walls of the building, pretending to do their job. She shakes her head. "I miss when gun nuts just wanted to pay lower taxes."
Amadi smiles. "Don't we all, miss."
Somewhere in the distance, someone climbs atop a garbage dump. In their hands there's what looks like an amorphous mass of melted down nanobots — the machines that actually distribute the cure.
They throw their trophy at the pavement. It breaks apart into a million tiny pieces, all scattered along the dirty pavement. The crowd cheers even more loudly.
"GOCKS GO HOME!" The protesters repeat, waving their slogans around. "GOCKS GO HOME!"
Amadi sighs, putting down his camera. "Do you… Do you think they know what that word actually means, miss?" He points towards the banners.
Alice gives him a look. "Of course not."
Hart Senate Office Building, Washington, D.C.
11th of December, 2049
United States House Select Committee on the Washington Virion
Haru Yoshida
JOICL Virology Division Director
Yoshida slowly walks up the podium. His expression is grim.
SEN. MCKENZIE (R-NV): Thank you, Professor, for making it here at such quick notice.
Yoshida nods.
PROF. YOSHIDA: Naturally, Mr. Senator.
Sen. McKenzie looks at the Bible located on the table before Yoshida.
SEN. MCKENZIE (R-NV): If you would like, an alternate object could be provided to anchor the geas—
Yoshida waves his hand, and places the other on the Bible.
PROF. YOSHIDA: No, it's quite all right.
Yoshida clears his throat.
PROF. YOSHIDA: Haru Yoshida, Director of the Virology Division for the Japan Organisms Improvement and Creation Laboratory, and virology professor.
The geas takes effect.
SEN. HUDSON (D-CA): Chair, may I have one question for Professor Yoshida before the official agenda?
Sen. McKenzie looks at Sen. Hudson.
SEN. MCKENZIE (R-NV): I will allow it, but please do so quickly.
Sen. Hudson looks at Yoshida.
SEN. HUDSON (D-CA): Is it true that you actively tried to leave the country during the course of the pandemic and again before this hearing?
PROF. YOSHIDA: Yes. I wanted to return to my home country of which I am still a citizen. Despite the US government's attempt to help me, the Coalition restrictive regulations did not allow me to do so. So having been called before this Committee, I was obliged to appear, but I don't understand how this relates to the matter.
SEN. HUDSON (D-CA): So—
SEN. MCKENZIE (R-NV): Mr. Senator, I allowed you one question, can we please go back to the order of business?
Sen. McKenzie shuffles documents, and looks again at Yoshida.
SEN. MCKENZIE (R-NV): Now, back to the agenda: I trust you have heard the accusations brought forward by Dr. Torres, regarding your organization's… lack of cooperation during the development of the Asclepius vaccine. Do you deny them?
Yoshida sighs.
PROF. YOSHIDA: No, Mr. Senator. I do not.
Sen. McKenzie blinks twice.
SEN. MCKENZIE (R-NV): Could you please elaborate on what you mean by this?
PROF. YOSHIDA: Everything Dr. Torres said was accurate, I would say. We never did provide him or his research team with anything of actual use, just as our clients instructed us. We were not going to release data pertaining to our clandestine asset to rival companies and regimes.
SEN. HUDSON (D-CA): So you similarly do not deny intentionally manufacturing the Washington Virion for the Paranatural Warfare Command?
SEN. MCKENZIE (R-NV): …This is a very multifaceted matter that—
Yoshida considers.
PROF. YOSHIDA: I deny creating it for PENTAGRAM. Me and my team created the weapon for President Crenshaw.
He pauses.
PROF. YOSHIDA: General Bowe was just the middleman, so to speak.
Loud ruckus and shouts go through the entire audience and several members of the Committee. Sen. McKenzie quickly silences the chaos by banging his gavel against the desk.
SEN. MCKENZIE (R-NV): Order! Order in the audience!
Reluctantly, the audience falls silent. Sen. McKenzie turns back towards Yoshida.
SEN. MCKENZIE (R-NV): These are very serious and ambiguous accusations, Professor. I will need you to explain your claims.
PROF. YOSHIDA: As I mentioned, Mr. Senator, we were contacted by PENTAGRAM to develop the Virion, but we were operating under the pretense and deadline of President Crenshaw's re-election campaign. Everything we did, we did under instructions from General Bowe, of course, but it was always abundantly clear to us that this was all for the purpose of engaging in the President's electoral promises. His thaumic security, in any case, which he had hoped to enforce via our product.
Torres suddenly stands up from the audience.
DR. TORRES: And you never thought it against good taste to indulge him?
SEN. MCKENZIE (R-NV): Dr. Torres.
Torres nods, and sits down quietly. Yoshida looks at him briefly, sighs, and turns towards Sen. McKenzie.
PROF. YOSHIDA: It's a fair question, Mr. Senator, but no, we did not. <pause> Mr. Senator, above all else, JOICL is a company. And like all companies, we are focused on profit primarily. We were contacted by the subsidiary of the most powerful government on the planet — how could we not indulge them? Would you similarly blame countless others for doing so? Of course not. You'd thank them for giving your country the tools it needed to defend itself.
Our asset was no different, in this regard — just like everything else provided to your government by outside contractors, it was a tool for peace, a weapon which the government would use to enforce its policies. It wasn't anything out of the ordinary.
Yoshida pauses.
PROF. YOSHIDA: Truth be told, Mr. Senator, I don't know why I'm even here. Everything my team has done remains legal under US law, as I'm certain you have already been informed. Like I said — we were merely developing a tool for a government. If you persecuted everyone for similar offenses, half of your economy would disappear.
DR. TORRES: You were only following orders, eh?
Sen. McKenzie turns towards Torres.
SEN. MCKENZIE (R-NV): Doctor, if you interrupt one more time, I will personally charge you with obstructing an official proceeding.
DR. TORRES: Sincerest apologies, Senator.
Torres crosses his arms, but remains silent.
PROF. YOSHIDA: But yes, we were only following orders. Orders which, again, as far as I'm concerned — and as far as we were assured by our superiors — remain fully within the confines of international and US law.
Yoshida spreads his arms.
PROF. YOSHIDA: I have nothing to hide, Mr. Senator. I'm an innocent man. Everything you need to know remains within the documents PENTAGRAM is cleared to give you.
He shrugs.
PROF. YOSHIDA: If you need anything else, Mr. Senator, I'm certain you know how to reach me. I'm open for cooperation.
The Committee talks among itself for a few moments before turning back to Yoshida.
SEN. MCKENZIE (R-NV): I believe that will be all, Professor. For now, of course.
Pause.
SEN. MCKENZIE (R-NV): Now, before we commence with the scheduled break, we will hear from Thomas Graham.
Airspace over the Caribbean Sea
11th of December, 2049
Thomas Graham has always thought himself a resourceful man. A cunning man. One that, when faced with danger, could slither his way out of any emergency. He isn't one of the fools that would remain on a sinking ship, waiting for their inevitable doom at the hands of their fate; he is one of those that'd reach the shores safely, unburdened by honor.
He has already managed to do so once.
So now, now that his newest cruise has similarly taken a missile to its metaphorical stride and is sinking before some dirty, liberal committee, he has decided he wouldn't be one of those that are going to answer for wanting to set things right. For wanting to make the world once again what it should be, in spite of neomarxist lobbies and mentally sick activists; to restore the proper vision of the American dream.
Having to leave his country hurts more than anything he has ever experienced — except of course the pain he felt the day that his Foundation fell — but he is up against the wall. And he isn't going to let them get him, the last pillar of normalcy in a world overtaken by insanity. He doesn't want to be a coward, but he can't risk the good work dying with him.
He sighs.
They were all weak cretins, each and every one of them.
Bowe, grandson of the good old Stan who created the Bowe Commission to cooperate with the Foundation in the first place. A spoiled brat not worthy of his family name.
Yoshida, the little traitor; a rat thinking that he's above everyone else, unable to accept responsibility that by all rights is his.
Even Crenshaw, his President, his Overseer.
He fought tooth and nail with the UN Security Council to get rid of the Coalition, and wanted to protect the President from Carter's opportunistic grip. What's happening is now fully on them, the fools, for not listening to him. For mocking him, and surrendering before foreign interests and fearmongering mobs. They were the ones who stopped him from building a better world. A normal world.
Still, for all of his heartbreak, he won't suffer it. Can't suffer it. He has to flee before the goddamned lefties get him too, so that he can continue his work somewhere else. Somewhere safe where he can lay low, until the time is right, until he rebuilds his Foundation.
His first stop is going to be Colombia. He's got some old friends there, and it's a safe space, even with an extradition inevitably looming over his head. But it won't stop there: he'll take his time, long enough for the fire to calm down, and travel on. There will be people in Europe who will appreciate his talent, but they are far too weak for him, far too far gone to return to normalcy; China still remains a half-ruin from the Second Cultural Revolution, so that's not good, either; but there's still Russia — he's heard that there, the ground is ripe for a movement like his. He'd hate to work with the damned reds, of course, but faced with his country being taken by a force even worse, he has no choice. They'll greet him with open arms, and once they do, his work shall continue. He might even—
"Excuse me, Mr. Secretary?" a female voice interrupts his train of thought.
He opens his eyes, slowly moving out of the sleeping position he's taken in his seat, and turns towards the source of his annoyment.
"I'm really sorry for interrupting your rest, Mr. Secretary, but there's something the captain says needs your immediate attention."
She's one of the flight attendees, he sees by the uniform, one of the people he's personally picked to staff his private plane. But something isn't quite right — he doesn't remember her, he—
"He said it's urgent," she says.
He shakes his head, and stands up. He's sure the confusion was just his body fighting off sleep.
Without further hesitation, he quickly walks towards the cockpit, letting the attendee follow in his stead. He doesn't notice that her steps are silent.
When they reach their destination, he finds the door to the actual cockpit closed. He reaches for the lock, and suddenly feels something in the back of his head; some dull sensation, almost like—
He doesn't feel his legs give up. He just falls to the ground, unable to speak, unable to move; unable to even move his eyes.
His mouth begins to foam.
"This one's for Lloyd, you pathetic piece of shit." Her voice slowly turns to gurgles, some deep throaty tone that can't possibly belong to a normal human. He can feel it getting closer, presumably from her lowering herself to his level, but he isn't capable of looking her in the eyes — his muscles refuse to obey his will. Maybe if they didn't, he could notice the serpent tattoo writ with red ink upon her palm, and the rune-engraved bat that palm is holding.
He feels one more numb hit, this time in his lower back, nearer his spine. He never registers the next few.
The last thing he remembers seeing is the doors opening to the cockpit, towards a great glass window looking out directly into the deep blue of the Caribbean Sea.
Hart Senate Office Building, Washington, D.C.
11th of December, 2049
United States House Select Committee on the Washington Virion
Thomas John Graham
United States Secretary of State
There is ruckus among the audience as the podium remains empty for a fifteenth consecutive minute. Every few moments, one of observers looks around the gathered, searching for the absent Thomas Graham — all to no avail.
Members of the Committee continue to internally talk among themselves until a member of the Secret Service enters the room from behind. He heads in the direction of Sen. McKenzie, towards whose ears he leans. They whisper between each other for a minute. Then, as the newcomer leaves the room once more, Sen. McKenzie turns to face the audience.
He clears his throat. The observers fall silent.
SEN. MCKENZIE (R-NV): It is with sadness that I have to inform you we will unfortunately not hear from Mr. Graham today. I was just informed that as of two hours ago, he has left the country in an unregistered vehicle and remains unaccounted for.
He shall be heard from once appropriate authorities locate him and transport him back to the country. In the meantime…
He sighs, and flicks through a few documents.
SEN. MCKENZIE (R-NV): This Committee shall proceed with the schedule and remain on break for the next two hours, until we continue by hearing from… uh… PENTAGRAM's Special Resource Advisors.
Sen. McKenzie bangs his gavel against the desk, standing up alongside other members of the Committee. They start leaving the room as quiet but frequent conversations spread throughout the audience.
The Carter Estate, Three Portlands
8th of December, 2049
Somewhere in Three Portlands, Robert Carter takes a drag off of his cigar. It's of course technically forbidden to smoke in this building, but Carter pays that regulation little mind — this particular estate is his own private property, and has been his family's seat of power for at least a generation. If anything, he set that rule up so that all the others wouldn't taint the air with the smell of whatever cheap garbage it is that they buy on their way to work, and smoke during their rare breaks.
Very slowly, a sharp grin enters his face as he stretches in his ridiculously overpriced chair. He's ready to stand up even before his phone buzzes, notifying him of his soon-to-be-guest; he was already ready when he saw the limousine pull up to the front of his mansion, through the giant window that makes up half of his office.
Of course, the limousine shoudn't be there as per Three Ports' regulations, but it's not like that particular charter has ever stopped the Company before.
Soon enough, Skitter Marshall walks through the heavy doors, and enters the art deco mess in which Carter often pretends to work.
"Skitter my boy!" Carter stands up jovially, spreading his arms and walking towards Marshall. "How did the roads treat you?"
Skitter groans, and throws nonexistent dust off of his designer pastel suit jacket. "As good as they possibly can in this shithole." Of course, transit in and out of major US cities is forbidden under Virion regulations, but both have found there's very little things on this planet that cannot be changed with a generous donation. Especially with Coalition forces finally retreating from inside Three Ports after nearly a year of occupation, leaving behind a half-guarded mess of a city.
"Good. That's good to hear." He shakes Skitter's hand, and takes another drag. "Oh, you want some?" He pulls up the box with the remaining cigars and extends it in an offering. They've been exported directly from Puerto Extraño, and — just like all other extraterrestrial goods — have probably cost a small fortune. Carter hasn't bothered to check.
Skitter waves his hand. "Thanks, but I can't risk smoke getting on this thing." He looks all around the room, but refuses to sit down. "Iris won't be joining us?" he asks, the tint of genuine relief she isn't there only barely noticeable in his tone.
"Indeed she won't. She's still got business inside her PYRAMID." That was the official version, anyhow — whether it was real work or just fear from the threat the Virion poses that drove Iris Dark inside her ancestral tomb, the media couldn't tell. "Besides. This is between us men, you know."
Skitter awkwardly scratches his head. Something isn't right. Carter's never this nice to anyone, not even him. "So, uh, what can I do for you?" It's clear in his eyes he's annoyed he had to travel all this way from the House of Marshall in Esterberg, but he doesn't say anything — curiosity (and just a tint of fear) prevent him from not indulging Carter.
"It's about the Channel. I want you to have it."
Skitter blinks twice. "…What?" He shakes his head. "It's… It's got your name written on it, Robert."
Carter sits back down and crosses his legs. "Aye, that it does. But I want you to have it. Consider… Consider it an early birthday present."
Skitter doesn't mention that his birthday was three weeks ago. "I… uh, thank you, but why? What's the point? With the pandemic coming to an end, won't it… won't it turn useless?"
Carter points towards Skitter with his cigar. "Ah, but here's the thing, Skitter: it won't. If anything, it'll turn into a golden goose, my friend.
"Now that everybody's realized how good our alternative is, there's no way they'll get back to normal transportation. They'll want to do it through our little Channel. Besides," he adds, laughing, "with the amount of money this thing has made us, we can just force them to use it." He wasn't just boasting — with the small percent that they taxed all goods passing through their channel, in just a year that the Virion has ravaged for, they've made more money than they have in the last two decades.
Besides: with Crenshaw gradually ceasing to be a good investment by the day, they had already made sure that the other side would have nothing against their operations either. So their little project still had a lot of life ahead of itself.
Carter claps his hands. "Point is, I'm giving it to you because I have more important projects to tend to, and this thing will just print you money — that, and I want you to have it as a token of good faith towards Iris."
Skitter skews his head.
"I've already gotten my good rep with her, you see. We talked some, and we… we came to an understanding, of sorts. But you — you know how things are," he says. "This'll change things around. I've already worked on some paperwork, made sure it's you most of this project owes its thanks to."
Skitter raises an eyebrow. "But… But why? I don't see why you'd care about my relationship with Iris, and—"
Robert smirks with the smile of a hungry predator. "Let's just say that I want you to be there with us, when all is done. That with what's coming, you'll want to be by her side, when she sets her final plan into motion."
Hart Senate Office Building, Washington, D.C.
11th of December, 2049
United States House Select Committee on the Washington Virion
"Kissinger" / "Rumsfeld" / "Schultz"
PENTAGRAM's Special Resource Advisors
Corporal Silas slowly walks towards the podium. Within his gloved and visibly bitten hands, he is carrying three ferrets. The animals look around the room, visibly overwhelmed by the crowd.
Silas places the ferrets on the desk. They start to playfully walk around the Bible, paying it little to no mind.
Sen. McKenzie looks at the newcomers, visibly confused. He squints his eyes, first eyeing Silas, then the ferrets. He blinks twice, but quickly resumes his professional posture.
SEN. MCKENZIE (R-NV): Thank you for coming, Corporal. I… I trust you are the, ah, interpreter for… Kissinger, Rumsfeld, and Schultz?
Silas nods. His face is dead serious.
CPL. SILAS: Indeed, Senator. Due to the circumstances, I was sent here to assist their communication with the Committee. They are entitled to the same rights as other U.S. citizens under national and international legislations on parahumans. As I'm sure you have already been briefed, the advisors will only answer with a yes or a no, and Mr. Kissinger will speak on behalf of them all. I must therefore ask for the Committee to adjust their questions accordingly.
Silas snaps his fingers twice, getting Kissinger's attention. He quickly unpockets a simple buzzer from inside his jacket and places it before the Advisor. Kissinger walks up towards the device.
Silas, meanwhile, puts his hand on the Bible.
CPL. SILAS: This is Corporal Leo Silas of the PENTAGRAM, here on behalf of PENTAGRAM's Special Resource Advisors.
The geas takes effect, and Sen. McKenzie looks at Kissinger.
CPL. SILAS: Do not worry, Senator — the Advisor is incapable of deception. He is an honest American patriot.
Sen. McKenzie blinks twice, bud nods.
SEN. MCKENZIE (R-NV): Of course, Corporal. Thank you. <pause, shuffles documents> Now, Mr. Kissinger, according to Professor Yoshida, your organization has commissioned his team under the pretense of creating a weapon. Is that true?
Kissinger taps the buzzer once.
KISSINGER: YES
SEN. MCKENZIE (R-NV): There have also been unconfirmed accusations from the Professor Yoshida that this operation was undertaken under General Bowe, for the needs of President Crenshaw's campaign? Can you confirm this?
KISSINGER: YES
Quiet murmurs go through the audience.
SEN. MCKENZIE (R-NV): Am I then also correct in assuming that the weapon was indeed created with the thaumic population in mind?
KISSINGER: YES
Murmurs can be heard throughout the Committee, Sen. Hudson puts forward an official question which is granted to him.
SEN. HUDSON (D-CA): Would you therefore agree with me, Mr. Kissinger, that the primary focus of your asset wasn't then its function as a peacekeeping tool, but rather as one aimed at regulating the magic-wielding population?
KISSINGER: YES
Sounds of shocked conversation can be heard from the observers, but they quickly calm down, before Sen. McKenzie can silence them.
SEN. MCKENZIE (R-NV): The issue of thaumic security is very important in the current moment and cannot be so oversimplified. <pause> Now, Mr. Kissinger, when your organization engaged with the project at large, did you remain aware of the possibility of you losing control of the asset, like what we ended up observing following the outbreak of the pandemic?
GEN. KISSINGER: YES
Silas puts his hands up.
CPL. SILAS: Senator, if I may add something — as per the documents sent to the Commission, PENTAGRAM's Special Resource Advisors and his two co-liaisons have written a paper regarding this exact possibility years in advance. I believe that article will yield more fruitful answers than this questioning.
Sen. McKenzie exchanges a look with Sen. Hudson.
SEN. MCKENZIE (R-NV): I see. Thank you, Corporal. I must, however, ask one more question: Mr. Kissinger, would you say that the handling of the matter by your organization could have been better? As in, do you believe that you handled the crisis as best as your means allowed you to?
Kissinger considers.
GEN. KISSINGER: NO
SEN. MCKENZIE (R-NV): But, Mr. Kissinger, you surely don't implying that you, as the primary head of crisis management inside PENTAGRAM, intentionally avoided taking appropriate precautions, deliberately putting many lifes at risk, and you are only referring—
GEN. KISSINGER: YES YES YES
SEN. MCKENZIE (R-NV): So am I also—
Kissinger suddenly becomes distracted by the red cloth bookmark between the pages of the Bible. He begins chewing on it, entirely losing interest in the buzzer. The other ferrets join in, playfully biting Kissinger.
After a few tries, Silas' attempts at getting the attention of the ferrets back to the questioning prove entirely unsuccessful.
CPL. SILAS: Apologies, Senator, but I believe that the Advisors have become… temporarily indisposed.
SEN. MCKENZIE (R-NV): And when would you say that they will become disposed again?
CPL. SILAS: It is difficult to say, sir.
Sen. McKenzie sighs.
SEN. MCKENZIE (R-NV): Very well. <pause> We shall therefore seek clarification with his remaining colleagues of similar clearance. General Bowe, please come forward.
When nobody answers, Sen. McKenzie looks around the Audience.
SEN. MCKENZIE (R-NV): And where on earth would General Bowe be?
Hart Senate Office Building, Washington, D.C.
11th of December, 2049
Thomas Bowe, left hand of god, storms through the Capitol building. He has very little time left to carry out his duty before they get him.
For years uncounted, he's carried the will of his Presidents, his masters, down to the very last letter. He's been an archangel of forced military intervention, of true, cold-blooded American strength; of power where there was none. Ever since his first breath as the latest link in the chain of the Bowe military heritage, he has served only one cause: the will of the Founding Fathers, as read and understood by the god that sat beneath their portraits inside the White House.
He has done so exemplarily in his long years of service. Nobody — none of the other angels which served his lord, his leader upon the shining hill — could ever question his unwavering dedication. Even in times of need, it shone brighter than the fanaticism of all the others combined.
Even now, when the hour is darkest, he hasn't abandoned his post, even though the ship is sinking, and soon the tides will take him, too. He knows what he needs to do — he's heard it from the President himself.
He tenses his muscles and quickens his pace, ready to catch the soon-to-be-fallen Lucifer before he escapes their kingdom.
He only stops when he reaches Haru Yoshida, ready to do what he must.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" he spits out, cornering the scientist against the yellow neoclassical walls of the Capitol. Yoshida cowers before Bowe's intimidating posture, his lanky body no match for a brawn man in full military uniform. "What was that back there, you little rat?"
Somehow, Yoshida manages to compose himself enough to stand up and correct his glasses. "I'm sorry, General?"
Bowe nearly punches the wall behind the scientist. He settles on just firmly placing his hand upon it. "Oh, you fucking will be, four eyes.
"Listen, asshole." Bowe's tone is stone-cold. "I don't feel like you understand the situation you're in. If the ship sinks, it sinks with us all — yourself included." He pauses. "You will go back there and tell the Committee you were wrong. Say you've been memetically conditioned, or that someone hijacked your brain — I don't care how you do it. But you will go back and tell them everything you just said was lies. Do you understand?"
Yoshida blinks twice, as if genuinely trying to understand what is being required of him and why. "But I am innocent. I—"
Bowe's grip tightens. Before he can hit Yoshida, a new figure appears in the hallway, somewhere in the distance. This proves shocking enough to stop the attack.
"General Bowe, can I ask you not to harass my employees?" says a man with a surprisingly youthful appearance for how his eyes look, adjusting his glasses. He's Hisashi Kunō, the de-facto Director of JOICL. "I have traveled a long way to finally bring him back to Japan, now that the Coalition has stopped blocking us. Is this truly neccessary?"
Bowe releases Yoshida, his frustration evident in every move. He steps toward Hisashi. "I don’t care if he's innocent or Karl Marx reincarnated. I’m not playing this game with you. I want his testimony off the goddamn table. And if I have to throw him under the train to do so, so be it. I'm willing to pay that price."
Yoshida, leaning weakly against the wall, doesn't muster a word in his own defense as Bowe glares furiously at his boss.
"I understand that's how you feel, General, but I don’t care about it," Hisashi replies calmly, meeting Bowe's fury with unshakable tranquility. "You think you will be able to drag us along with you. Well. Let me first tell you a story."
Visibly irritated, Bowe tries to cut him off, but Hisashi swiftly continues: "Before the war, there was a brilliant scientist named Ada Beatrix Babbage. Her genius was unrecognized by her peers in the West, but she eventually found like-minded people in Imperial Japan," Hisashi says, his eyes gleaming with mischievous confidence and pride. "Ultimately Japan lost the war, of course, but she has managed to avoid the consequences, eventually landing in the private sector with her associates — including myself. She was one of the proud co-founders of our company. After all, isn't this what you taught us after the war? Private corporations never face the consequences.
"What I'm saying is: history is a wheel, general. You ought to learn its movements, before you try to strike at its core."
Bowe grins in frustration. "I don’t care about your stories, old man. Let me put it like this: if your little shit doesn't cooperate, I will move heaven and earth to make sure that when we go down, you, him, and I share the same cell."
"I don't think you will, General. Besides—" He gestures for Yoshida to come closer. "—soon enough, I believe you will have other things to worry about."
"There you are, General!" A voice from the other end of the corridor shouts. "We've been looking for you everywhere."
Slowly, Bowe turns away from the Japanese scientists. It takes all of his self-control to look at the approaching men without murder in his eyes.
"What is it?" he asks the two security personnel, furrowing his brows. They are two insignificantly looking white men, maybe somewhere in their thirties. Both wear the uninteresting uniforms of the Capitol Police.
"Senator McKenzie is looking for you, General," the first one says. The second one chimes in, "You are being called in for questioning, just like the rest of the witnesses."
Bowe grimaces, and tries to wave them off with his hand as he turns back towards Kunō. "Fine. Please tell the senator that I will be there shortly after I—"
He feels one of the personnel place a hand upon his shoulder. "I'm afraid the senator needs you now, General."
A few years ago, he would've told them what he thinks of them and their order — but now, now that the situation is so dire, he cannot afford to lose face.
He forces something that almost isn't a hateful scorn upon his face, and starts to walk with the two. "Of course."
He never notices his little rats scurrying away.
Hart Senate Office Building, Washington, D.C.
11th of December, 2049
United States House Select Committee on the Washington Virion
Thomas Jefferson Bowe
US Army General
PENTAGRAM Washington Virion Liaison
Bowe grimaces as the two security personnel escort him towards the podium. When they stop at their destination, he looks at them with fury in his eyes, but doesn't say anything; instead, he turns towards Sen. McKenzie. He furrows his brows as he straightens his posture and puts his hands behind his back. He rises his chin defiantly.
SEN. MCKENZIE (R-NV): State your—
GEN. BOWE: I refuse to partake in this farce.
Murmurs go through the audience. Sen. McKenzie skews his head.
SEN. MCKENZIE (R-NV): Pardon, General?
Bowe looks around the observers, disgusted.
GEN. BOWE: I know what it is that you're doing here.
He turns back towards Sen. McKenzie.
GEN. BOWE: Do you think I wouldn't notice what you want to achieve, humiliating an officer of the country like this?
He scoffs.
GEN. BOWE: I will not indulge your pathetic conspiracy.
Sen. McKenzie sighs.
SEN. MCKENZIE (R-NV): General, if you do not wish to partake in this interrogation at this time or any other, you are welcome to use your constitutional freedoms to—
GEN. BOWE: No, it is you who is welcome to…
As Bowe leans forward, propping himself on the desk, his palm touches the Bible. Though he does not notice it, the geas takes effect and binds him.
GEN. BOWE: …to step down from your position.
Sen. McKenzie doesn't say anything. He just looks at Bowe, flicks through a few pages of documentation before him, and starts reading from the notes.
SEN. MCKENZIE (R-NV): General, if you do not wish to invoke the Fifth Amendment, I shall continue with the interrogation as per standard protocol. <pause, eyes the documents> This Committee has it on written and spoken record from PENTAGRAM's Special Resource Advisors and Professor Yoshida that under your leadership, the US Paranatural Warfare Command has intentionally commissioned and engaged with the Washington Virion as a weapon targeted against paranormal minorities. Do you deny this?
Bowe almost laughs. His hand is still placed on the Bible.
GEN. BOWE: I deny its status as… as a "minority-targeting" weapon, senator.
He barely contains his disgust and anger.
GEN. BOWE: It was a weapon against criminals and freaks you let wander our streets. Criminals and freaks whose interest this Committee was formed to serve, it seems.
Several members of the Committee vocalize in protest, but Sen. McKenzie holds his hand up, silencing them. He eyes them, but doesn't say anything; then, he turns back towards Bowe.
Bowe looks at the cameras of the reporters gathered in the audience.
GEN. BOWE: Do you not see what is happening here? Do you not see how this is just another game, meant to take us one step closer towards the destruction of our great country? Towards surrendering it to the will of globalists and godless heathens?
He moves his hand, pointing at the observers, then at the Committee.
GEN. BOWE: These… These people, everyone gathered here, are the real enemies of your country, patriots. Do not let their flags and grand words deceive you — they are anything but. They would drag your nation and the last shreds of human- and god-mandated decency through the mud if it meant satisfying their corrupt masters.
He scoffs.
GEN. BOWE: Do you not see what they want to gain, dragging American heroes, the last vanguard against the leftist madness, before this… this sad excuse of a Commission? Do you not see that they have already decided we are guilty when they formed their cabal from paid traitors and foreign spies?
Bowe turns back towards Sen. McKenzie.
GEN. BOWE: No, senator, I do not deny creating and using our asset as a weapon against insanity. Against perverts hiding in our schools and in our offices, against the dangerous few that dare to threaten our great nation. I take pride in it. I take pride in trying to put an end to the plague of warlocks and magic whores, of witches that could at any time bend the natural order of things and strike against everything this country was built upon.
He rises his chin once more.
GEN. BOWE: The only thing I regret is not going through with my job, and the only thing I deny is you, you… you traitor.
Bowe points his finger directly at Sen. McKenzie as he stops speaking and starts breathing heavily. Shocked murmurs start going through the audience, and Bowe realizes his other hand has remained placed upon the Bible. His eyes go wide as he takes it off, trying to shake the geas away, feeling the realization of what he has just said dawn upon him.
Sen. McKenzie exchanges looks with his fellow Committee members, and then looks back at Bowe.
SEN. MCKENZIE (R-NV): Thank you, General, I believe we have heard more than enough.
He gestures towards the security personnel.
SEN. MCKENZIE (R-NV): Please escort the General somewhere he can calm down. Somewhere secure, preferably.
As the personnel approach and grab Bowe, he begins to struggle.
GEN. BOWE: You cannot—
They begin to transport him out of the room. Before they exit, Bowe looks at Sen. McKenzie for one final time.
GEN. BOWE: You will pay for this! I have powerful friends, I—
Security forces Bowe out of the room. His shouts can be heard for a few more seconds, echoing through the corridor outside the hall.
SEN. MCKENZIE (R-NV): I somehow do not doubt that, General.
Sen. Coleman places a document before Sen. McKenzie. He sighs.
SEN. MCKENZIE (R-NV): Speaking of which…
Sen. McKenzie looks up from his desk towards the gathered.
SEN. MCKENZIE (R-NV): Mr. President, please come forward.
Port Newark-Elizabeth Marine Terminal, Newark, New Jersey
23th of January, 2050
On a crane catwalk overlooking a port, two figures stand.
One of them is tall and thin, their hands behind their back and their suit immaculately groomed. To the average observer, they'd pass as just another middle-aged businessman with graying hair and rent still due. To the initiated, however — or indeed anyone that would look into their deep brown eyes — it is immediately clear they are no normal person at all. Their name is Goldbaker, of the Goldbaker-Reinz Ltd. insurance group, and they have lived to see the lifespans of hundreds of men. They are here to oversee the official withdrawal of Coalition forces from the capital — the first domino that will inevitably set off a chain reaction for the rest of the organization to follow.
The other person is smaller, and more sturdily-built. One of their arms is missing, but that hasn't bothered them in over a lifetime. Their other one is stuck comfortably in the pocket of their work uniform. Their short hair is more gray than brown, but they pay that similarly little mind. They've learned to live with their mortality. Their name is Jay Everwood, the External Affairs Director for Vanguard, and they are here to ensure the fluidity of humanitarian aid that's flowing into the city. Once, the goods provided by Vanguard, the Manna Charitable Foundation, and all the others came through official Coalition channels. But now that the GOC's retreating, someone has to step in and ensure it won't all turn into a mess.
For all of their differences, both figures are very tired.
"So, what do you think of this all?" Jay suddenly asks, turning towards Goldbaker. "About the occupation, I mean."
For a moment, Goldbaker considers. "It's an unfortunate affair. One executed not as well as it could have been, that's for certain, but one that I am afraid was necessary." They also move, and meet Jay's gaze. "Why do you ask?"
"I was curious about how it looked from the inside. I, ah, already had the displeasure of meeting the… more hardline members of your organization. I was wondering how you saw the whole thing." For all of their vices, Goldbaker and their firm have always remained more liberally inclined than their colleagues on the Council of 108.
Once again, Goldbaker pauses to ponder. "Well. As I said — I did not enjoy any moment of this, but I do not think we could have prevented an apocalypse without an intervention. Especially considering who's running this country," they add. They don't say out loud that they mean the position of President in general, and not just the fool that's keeping it at the moment.
Jay nods, and gets back to looking at loaded vehicles, all marked with the UNGOC symbol. In the distance, armored trucks enter the port, while militarized airships steadily begin their journey back home, towards whatever base it was they were sent here from. Some soldiers stand smoking cigarettes, next to truckloads of packed up tents and fences.
In just a few years, the city will probably forget what transpired here.
"I do suppose it is pretty ironic, all things considered," Goldbaker says, squinting their eyes.
"What is?"
"Crenshaw brewed this whole mess in hopes of making his nation more independent, did he not? Of giving him a weapon that once and for all would put an end to the only matter he himself couldn't take care of — to magic at large.
"And when push came to shove, the only good it did him was bring al Fine to his priced jewel. And now, I fear, things will never be the same ever again. For better or for worse, the future America will have to deal with the thought that it is no longer immune to consequences. That, if the mess they brew will be too large, they won't be able to get away scott free, as they have always been."
For a moment, Jay doesn't answer.
Goldbaker clears their throat. "Forgive me. I've gotten sentimental again." They smile a sad smile.
"No, no, I understand. I appreciate it." They also smile out of courtesy. "Though I guess irony is the only appropriate way a tyrant's story could end, is it not?"
"Yes. I suppose it is."
Both stand there for maybe an hour more, but neither speaks. Everything that needed to be said has already been said. In the silent meanwhile, Everwood makes sure their own superiors have no issues with how the withdrawal is being handled, and Goldbaker — they just stare into the horizon, something almost like longing present in their eyes.
In their time, they have seen all of this before. The rise and fall of empires, the birth and cruelty of kings, and the exact moments in which history is changed forever. It's never quite the same, but it always follows a pattern, some divine scheme no man can ever truly escape. Just like always, there's hate and treason and hope and suffering. It's a sad game, one it pains them to see mankind struggle through again. If they could, they really would prevent this wound from being inflicted upon humanity.
But in their long, long life, they've come to learn one more thing.
In time, the scar will fade, the people change — and history will go on.
The wheel will keep on turning.
Hart Senate Office Building, Washington, D.C.
11th of December, 2049
United States House Select Committee on the Washington Virion
Daniel Reed Crenshaw
President of the United States
Very slowly, Crenshaw walks up to the podium. His face is twisted in a barely-hidden grimace; still, he tries to put on something almost akin to a polite smile.
PRES. CRENSHAW: Honorable Senators.
SEN. MCKENZIE (R-NV): Mr. President.
Crenshaw places his palm upon the bible.
PRES. CRENSHAW: Daniel Reed Crenshaw, President of the United States.
He puts his hands together, and takes a deep breath. When he exhales, he is calm. He looks at the Committee.
PRES. CRENSHAW: How may I be of help to you, chairmen?
Sen. McKenzie browses a few documents, then looks at his notes.
SEN. MCKENZIE (R-NV): Mr. President, as I'm sure you've already heard, many very serious alleged accusations have been leveled against you and your administration today. Very few of them, we have found, are without merit which can be backed by documentation. Are you aware of this, Mr. President?
PRES. CRENSHAW: Yes, Senator. I am.
Sen. McKenzie pushes the folder aside, and looks Crenshaw in the eyes.
SEN. MCKENZIE (R-NV): Good. We do not have any exact questions prepared for you, Mr. President, because we believe it would be best if you addressed the claims directly, in your own words.
PRES. CRENSHAW: Thank you, Senator.
SEN. MCKENZIE (R-NV): You may proceed at your convenience.
Crenshaw remains silent for over 20 seconds. When he finally speaks, his tone is calm, and his words are deliberate.
PRES. CRENSHAW: I come here before you all, above all else, to apologize. To apologize to both the honorable members of this Committee and the citizens of my great country. To apologize, because for all six years that I have been graciously allowed to govern, I have remained blind. Only now has my eye been opened. For this, I would like to thank you, Senators — I do not believe that without your help, the scale in which rampant incompetence and malice has enrooted itself inside my government would ever come to the light. <pause> Yes. I was a fool to believe those who served me did so in good faith. I was a fool to believe that they would remain the patriots I have taken them to be.
Crenshaw pauses, letting his words have their intended effect.
PRES. CRENSHAW: The actions which my staff have undertaken under my watch are absolutely unacceptable. Though, as I have said before, I had firmly believed that what they did — both before the crisis began and after — was done in good faith, the facts and the evidence you have presented with could not be any clearer. They have shown me that, in spite of my hopes and best intentions, significant members of my administration did not operate with the best interest of the United States in mind, instead putting their own personal agendas and hateful rhetoric before the common good of our people.
PRES. CRENSHAW: At the same time, however, I would like to make it abundantly clear: all that these bad faith actors have done, they have done without my knowledge or permission. They have operated as rogue agents under their own volition — where they obeyed my direct orders, they did so by intentionally twisting my words, by changing my good intentions towards their own dangerous goals.
Crenshaw looks around the audience.
PRES. CRENSHAW: Yes, it is true that I have commissioned General Bowe, whom I have then still taken as a trusted associate, to create an asset through which we could prevent the danger that thaumic threats pose to our great country. But this — this… this disgusting mockery of a weapon? I had no part in this devious conspiracy.
He points towards Sen. McKenzie.
PRES. CRENSHAW: Senator, I implore you to search through my communication between the general and myself, to read the documents my secretary has surely already provided you with. You will see, then, what it is that I wanted. What security my actions were intended to give, and what the traitor Bowe did under the pretense of decency.
Yes, Senators, I admit here: I am a guilty man. I am guilty of allowing this… this man I have called general for so long to fester in my government. I am guilty of not looking close enough, of not seeing the duplicity lurking inside him. Of course, my coworkers are not without blame for not seeing — or perhaps ignoring — his treachery either, but I would like to repeat it once more: I remained fully unaware of what Thomas Bowe and his accomplices have undertaken under the pretense of carrying my will.
I will do everything in my power to see this man brought to proper justice, Senator. I will have to live with the shame of permitting this to the end of my days, but that does not mean I will stand ildly by. This man must be stopped and dealt with appropriately, before he can do more damage to our great nation. My men have already apprehended him, and have begun a thorough search into the rest of his co-workers and my administration at large. We will find everyone who similarly bears ill will in their heart, I promise you this.
Crenshaw pauses.
PRES. CRENSHAW: However, I would also like to take this opportunity that you have given me, Senator, to comment on another issue: that of this Committee's existence.
Quiet murmurs can be heard from the audience.
PRES. CRENSHAW: As I said before, Mr. Senator, I am deeply grateful for what the Committee has done for our country. However, as a patriot who deeply cares for America, I must also question the Committee's methods. I must question why, instead of forwarding appropriate matters towards my own administration and myself, our Congress has called forward for this body.
Once again: I do not doubt its effectiveness. I merely question why, when pressured by the Global Occult Coalition — an organ I'd like to remind everyone remains foreign in intent and origin to the United States — to put our government before the International Court for the Paranormal, we opted for this decision. An Institution whose authority we do not recognize and are ready to oppose with full force. So why, after denying that disgusting, bad-faith offer, didn't we allow our internal mechanisms, mechanisms which have worked for centuries, to handle this case?
Gentlemen. We are America, second to none. We do not answer to the whims of those who stand against our best interests. And in recent decades, our great nation has allowed itself to be pushed too much by foreign influences — from the numerous anomalous conflicts, the 2032 election fraud, to the current thaumic security threat.
I do not doubt your best intentions, Senators. If anything, I admire and appreciate your unwavering dedication to justice. As I said — without your work, I do not believe the traitor Bowe would be caught as quickly as he has been. However, I implore you all to consider this: in whose interest is it to drag all of these fine people — many of them American heroes — before this interrogation? To question and humiliate high ranking officers, all men who, in spite of their vices, represent our values? Who stand as an image, a symbol of freedom for all around the globe to see?
I implore you to see that, perhaps, by avoiding the direct will of the Coalition, we might have walked right into their true plan. The plan which, just as we see, ends with an attack against the American spirit, and everything it stands for.
Crenshaw pauses.
PRES. CRENSHAW: Thank you, Senator. If you need anything more, I implore you to contact me directly for further questioning. For now, however, I believe that was all that I had to say.
Crenshaw bowes with his head, and steps off the podium. He leaves he room to the sound of thunderous applause erupting from the audience.
Deer College Odyssey
The Buck Stops Here
HOW TO GET AWAY WITH IT
or: what the fuck is even going on in the Capitol anymore
By Riley Q'inn (⁂BaaderMeinhofRiley)
So, it's been two weeks (Merry Christmas or happy Memorial of the Ze-leusan Sacrifice, btw, to those few in the audience who celebrate) since the disaster of a hearing was streamed live from the Capitol for the whole Free World™️ to see. We all know how it went.
Yeah, so what the fuck?
Alas, dear reader, if you have been left feeling disappointed at not seeing a war criminal get hanged by the nuts on live TV, you are not alone in that feeling. We all expected our cyclops of a president to be — metaphorically, for legal reasons — beheaded by DC al Fine / Simón Torres / [anyone else your present ideology dictates should do the deed] but as always, we were left hanging. But fear not, for, as you may not have known, it wasn't all in vain!
Indeed, we got some good news out of the whole ordeal. A TL;DR for you all because I am well aware of what Void has done to your attention spans: Bowe got demoted, thrown into jail, and barred for life from serving in the military; Yoshida got trialed for crimes against humanity but eventually got pardoned by our favorite Ronald Reagan wannabe (the actual reanimated corpse of Ronald lost the last GOP primaries) and other than a broken arm and a black eye, he got it pretty good; the ferrets got "discharged" from military service and now all the military juntas around the world want to offer them jobs; and Crenshaw suffered no consequences whatsoever.
What's even more worrying is that, despite his last failed impeachment and the fact that he caused the whole mess, Crenshaw still retains considerable public support, primarily from the most fanatical conservatives. I'll spare you the details (because I'm fairly certain I can't publish slurs in this thing), but it looks like nothing will change the minds of the population on the wrong side of the bell curve.
Still, for whatever it’s worth, it seems highly likely the Dems will win the next election, after this clusterfuck of a term. Although no official candidate has been announced yet, there’s talk of Robert Tem, Vicepresident under former President Harvey Connors, securing the nomination, with one known League of Legends player Jared Polis as his potential vice.
Of course, they've already had their fair share of speeches, claiming that, when Democrats get their next shot, they will make sure that they "will commit to addressing the concerns of good Americans regarding thaumic security and potential threats, all while ensuring the welfare of the nation's living space, with humanity at heart and a smile on his face."
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