How can you believe words that you do not understand? How can you start to heal if you don't know the damage done?
1971
Parallel, nondescript furniture sat stagnant in an oppressive basement, each pillow perfectly aligned, everything in its place. The vertical lines of the wood paneling that surrounded him like cage bars, the pressed and pleated flags decorating the walls, the uniforms, badges and medals lining the halls; everything was in the perfect position, honoring those that had come before.
"George."
He looked at his father, trying to hide his unavoidable fear. "A Bowe man does not show fear," his father had told him since he could remember. Fear was to be punished, and he knew this. A swallow, and he met his father's gaze.
"Yes, sir?"
"Do you know why I asked you down here?"
"No, sir."
That was a lie, and George knew it. So did his father.
The clock echoed throughout the damp basement, as the distant sound of a neighbor mowing the lawn drowned out the laughter of the other neighborhood kids. George had tried to play football with them, but his mother told the General that he had skipped his chores. That wasn't true, but it was his word against his mother's.
And the first lesson George Bowe had learned was to never disagree with authority.
"Don't lie to me."
I didn't lie about the chores, George thought. "I'm sorry, sir."
"Sorry isn't good enough. So, now I am forced to repeat myself. George, you have a duty to your family, a duty to me. You know how hard I work every day. You know the sacrifices I have made for our country, the things I've given up to keep you and your mother safe. So why don't you understand, son?"
George shook his head, dropping his gaze to his father's shoes, avoiding staring at the switch his father held.
Crack.
George stood rigidly upright, his knuckles pulsing as he stared blankly ahead, refusing to allow the pain to appear on his face. His gaze was fixed on a discolored rectangle on the wall, a void in the order, surrounded by framed photographs of Bowe men from generations past. A year or two ago, before George knew any better, a cousin spoke of socialism and tried to convince George's father to lighten up, to consider that not all socialists want to destroy America, that some might love this country just as much as General Bowe did. His father took the framed portrait of his cousin and burned it outside, forcing the cousin to watch. The last memory George had of his cousin's face was it being licked by flames, as it turned to ashes.
"Look at me when I am talking to you. Is that understood?"
"Yes."
"Yes, what?"
"Yes, sir."
"You know that a Bowe man should always serve his country first — but there is another lesson I must teach you: before his own country, there is a greater priority. For the Bowe name has not always lived here, nor will we; before America, when the Bowe line was without heritage, the family itself was what we stood for. You must remember that you are only here, in this great nation, because of the legacy of our family. Each Bowe man that came before you knew this. Each a hero, each a willing sacrifice, each a martyr for the good of the family. My family. You are a Bowe man, and whether you like it or not, you are my legacy. You will not speak back to your mother, and you will not ignore me. You will follow orders, or you will face the consequences. Is that understood?"
The vitriolic glare George saw would one day be twisted into a fond memory. A cherished anecdote of the time his father set him straight, of the day General Stan Bowe reminded him what it means to serve America, of the honor it is to protect our great nation. This was the first day that George Bowe learned what it really meant to be a Bowe man.
But in the moment, George Bowe cried. A mistake he would not make again.
1978
George sat on the cold bench of the changing room, staring at his father's shoes. I will not cry, he thought, I am above that. I will not show fear, for the Bowes are above that. I will not lose, because there is no place for that in the family.
"Pay attention!" General Bowe said, hitting George across the side of the head with a clipboard. "Do you think I enjoy this? Do you think I like having to remind you to pay attention, remind you to respect your elders?"
George snapped to attention, sitting straight up and looking at his father. I will not cry, I will not feel pain, I will not show fear. I am George Bowe, and I have a legacy to fulfill.
"That's better," General Bowe sneered. "What the hell are you doing, George? Get your head in the game, you've wasted enough of my time."
"Yes sir," George centered himself, mirroring his father's body language. "Sorry, sir, I was walking through our strategy."
"Strategy?" his father said, shaking his head. "George, I don't give a shit how you do it. But you are going to win today, because you will not embarrass me. You understand how important today is?"
"Yes, sir," George said robotically. "If I win today then I will advance to the regionals, and then—"
"No, you idiot," General Bowe turned on a dime and glared at George. "Today is important because Admiral Billing's son is in your bracket. If you lose, you will have failed not just me, not just the US Army, but the entire nation. Do you understand? Do you know how much is riding on you?"
"I do." George swallowed hard. "I won't let you down. I'm sorry."
"You're sorry?" General Bowe asked, the promise of repercussions hanging above them like a gathering storm cloud.
"No, nothing. Never mind," George said, lowering his eyes.
His father went down on a knee, and put a hand on George's shoulder. "Son. You know that I just want the best for you, right? That I am hard on you because I understand how great you could be? If you listen to me, you will be the man that you were meant to be. You will become the next General Bowe, and you will embrace the legacy I have created for you. Don't squander your chance, son. Don't you know how hard I've worked to build your future? If you want to have the same power as I do, you need to do it my way. You have to play by my rules. I am harsh, because it works — God knows it worked on me." General Bowe stood up, and walked towards the door. "Now move, soldier! You have a duty to fulfill."
George did as he was told. As he always did. No matter how he felt, no matter how little he wanted to be here, no matter how uncomfortable he felt wearing only a singlet, with a crowd of eyes staring and mocking him — no matter what, he would do what his father asked of him. He had no other choice.
He had never had a choice, at least, not one where he had any real agency. His life was a series of false dichotomies, a constant test to pick the right option, to be the right version of George Bowe. It was hard-earned lessons, with his father 'teaching' George how to act, how to speak, how to be a real man — knowledge paid for in blood and violence.
But never tears.
No, George knew how to cry on the inside, the world none-the-wiser. He learned how to take his rebellious, free-spirited self, and bury it deep inside him, encased in a thick shell. Layer after layer of masks covered his forgotten dreams, discarded because they did not fit his father's plan. A dissenter had no place in a legacy; and that was why, most of all, he knew that he had to be normal. He had to be the next General Bowe, no matter what he felt inside.
For George Bowe was fake through and through — a facsimile of the General, the perfect man to continue the Bowe legacy. He controlled the ill-fitting meatsuit, the testament to what it meant to be a Bowe man, his body growing and being shaped into the form that it had to be, all the while hating every single piece of him.
His true self was buried six feet deep, in a hole he had dug himself; there had been no service, for the Bowe that might have been.
Still, George did not shed a single tear.
1991
Not at General Stan Bowe's funeral, not during the eulogy, nor at any other point.
Major George Bowe mourned his father, just as he had been taught: it was a performance, as was his duty. 'A Bowe man honors his country, no matter his personal feelings. We show what America should strive for.'
The funeral itself was a political circus, the death of the General an excuse to gather and rub elbows, the world of power never pausing. The service was an afterthought, a convenient coincidence. Of course, for George, any moment could be turned to his advantage.
He had been speaking with the governor, an old friend of his father's, whom he had known since he was young. That just meant that he knew how to work him better — after all, he learned from the best.
"You know what," George said, leaning in as if sharing a critical secret. "Don't tell anybody I said this, but my father liked you best. He told me, out of every single politician he met, you were always the most earnest. He told me, he said 'George, if there is ever a time where you need help and you can't come to me — go to Douglas. He has integrity.' He was right, you really are a step above the rest."
Of course, his father hadn't said that. No, his father told him that 'a Bowe man knows exactly the right words to say to get what he wants. Otherwise, he does not speak.' George knew just what a politician wanted to hear. Though, it had been a while. What if he had gone too far?
Luckily, Governor Douglas was grinning like the fool that he was. "Your father was a good man, George, and he raised you well. Have you ever considered a leadership role within the National Guard? We could use more men like you."
George smiled back. "Sir, I would love to transfer to the National Guard, but my supervisors told me that if I can put in a few more months, I might be up for promotion. And I want to get to general as quickly as possible — I want to do my father proud."
"A promotion? Is that it?" the governor said, waving away George's concerns. "I'm sure that we could figure something out. You know, for your father, of course."
That was exactly what George had been hoping to hear. A wide smile appeared on his face, as he grabbed the governor's hand, shaking it firmly. "In that case, it would be my pleasure. We can ta—"
"Excuse me," a man interrupted softly. The man was calm, and appeared to have no sense of urgency, making a stark difference as compared to the many scrambling clout-chasers in attendance. Even still, he had an air of importance to him, despite the lack of uniform. "May I have a moment of Mr. Bowe's time?"
"Of course," the governor replied affably. "Give my office a call sometime next week Georgie, and we can hammer out the details."
The Governor departed for the refreshments table, leaving George and the unknown individual to their conversation.
George turned, facing the man, looking every part the grieving son. He was as predictable as possible — you need to know your enemy before you know how to handle them. He took a mental inventory of the situation. No uniform, no armed guards — and yet, George felt an undeniable importance to the man. An unstated respect echoed by all present at the funeral. Simply look around the room; the more eyes on somebody, the more power they wield.
All eyes were on them.
"It's nice to meet you, Major Bowe," the man said. "I've heard a lot about you."
"I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage, sir," George said. "Did you know my father?"
"I did. We worked together on a classified subject for many years, and I trusted him more than anybody else. He was a good man, your father. But I'm not here to talk about the late General. I'm here because I wanted to talk to you, George."
Now that was curious. George had been schmoozing with each official and general that made an appearance; each spoke of the 'late, great General Bowe', feigning sympathy, pretending to have empathy left in their cold, jaded souls. None had admitted the truth that they all knew; none of them were really here for his father.
A situation such as this required a more nuanced hand.
"In that case," George said warmly, a practiced response falling from his tongue with ease, "I would be more than talk with you. How can I be of service?"
"It's about how I can help you," the man replied. "I am sure that you are aware of the many enemies who want nothing more than to undo the work your father did, those who would destroy the United States — but what you don't understand is that there are many, many more enemies, hidden in the shadows."
"Of course," George replied, leaning into the moment and applying some poison to his tone. "You can never be too careful — the Soviets are smart. Tricky. Insidious. They linger."
The man looked amused. "Mr. Bowe, the Soviets are nothing more than insects from where I sit. There are much worse things that linger, just out of sight. Things that make your worst nightmares look like pests in comparison."
"You know," George began, pausing to draw the man in further. "My father taught me an invaluable lesson at a young age that stuck with me. He told me, he said that the legacy of a Bowe man was to protect our great nation, to save the world from the dangers that they were not ready for. I have been raised to fight unimaginable foes — I can assure you, that no matter the foe, I wouldn't rest until we had won."
The man gave him a knowing smile as he assessed George, looking at him head to toe. He hated being stared at, being observed, being evaluated and compared — but he didn't let it show. He learned his lessons well.
"Tell me, George," the man began, as if telling a joke George didn't know. "Did your father ever tell you about the work that we did together?"
George Bowe knew that he was swimming with sharks, as he faced down the crooked grin the other man wore, a smile hiding rows of jagged teeth, the figure's nostrils flaring, as if smelling blood in the water.
"No, sir. I'm afraid not," George answered, as he realized that he still did not know the name of the mystery man. "Knowing your name would help me remember, though."
"Do you believe in the impossible, George?" the man asked, as if George hadn't implied a question at all. "Do you believe in magic? Unexplainable phenomena?"
George Bowe didn't know if that was a joke, as he contemplated how to best answer the question. Of course he knew that magic didn't exist, but that wasn't really what the man was asking him, was it? Normally, George was quite good at reading people, and knowing just the right things to say to get his way. This man should have been no different, and yet — George still didn't have a handle on what the unknown man wanted. But that hadn't stopped him before.
"No, sir, I do not," George said, as the man stared back at him blankly. "Because I believe that anything we encounter can be understood, analyzed and defeated. There is nothing unexplainable, no impossibilities, no foe to great that it cannot be conquered. You just need to find their weakness, and everybody has one."
The man's neutral visage barely flickered, but there was a reaction, however subtle; just a twitch of the eye, a quirk of the nose. George didn't recognize the emotion at first, but — was that a glimpse of satisfaction? He seized the opportunity, and pushed the advantage.
"After all," George said. "We talked of the Soviet Union as if they were an unbeatable foe. The public hid in fear, as we scrambled to find a single weakness. And yet, we remain, and they are gone."
"Gone?" The man said, a single eyebrow raised. "Well, I wouldn't say gone, exactly…."
George froze. This man might have thought that the Soviets were little more than insects, but George wouldn't fall for their tricks that easily — after all, insects can be deadly if given the chance. What does he know that nobody else does? George had suspicions but… no buts, this meant that he had always been right. His father had prepared him for the Cold War, prepared him to be a weapon against Communism — and George knew that it wasn't over.
"When are you returning to work?" the man continued, not waiting for George's reply. "Will you need time to mourn and get your father's affairs in—"
"I appreciate your concern, sir," George replied, giving the man the patented Bowe smile. "But if my father taught me anything, we can mourn on our own time. International conflicts wait for no man, not even a Bowe."
"Good answer," the man said, taking a card out of his breast pocket and passing it to George. "When you return, and realize that the unknown beckons you, give me a call. There is always a bigger war to wage, and I know that one day you could be a great general."
The white card only listed a single number, and an insignia: a black circle, and three black arrows, facing inward. 'A Bowe man does not ask questions, he simply does what is needed for his country.' George forced a smile. "I appreciate the offer, but I must honor my father and continue his legacy, by protecting the United States from our enemies. I know that he would want another General Bowe in the family, and I intend to make that happen."
"Well then," the mysterious man said. "When you are ready to protect the world from the real threats, give me a call." He turned to walk away, and then paused, looking back. "Why choose to be a big fish in a small pond? Be the fisherman."
George slid the card into his pocket, as he considered for the first time, what it could have been like were he not the heir to General Bowe. Of course, daydreams are just that — fantasies.
George Bowe was a realist.
1992
Lt. Colonel George Bowe stood at the head of a conference table, a projector screen mounted behind him, an American flag showing. He wore a perfectly-pressed uniform, each medal and button polished to perfection. Despite his short stature, he cut an imposing figure — that was good, because he knew he needed every edge he could get today.
"Hello gentlemen," George said, as he flashed an award winning smile. "I am here today because you have let your guard down. You have grown lazy, too distracted by fantasies of peace to protect our glorious nation. Thankfully, a Bowe man never is never caught off-guard."
An island appeared on the projector, as George continued.
"This is Little Havana, a twenty-seven square mile island located just sou—"
"We know this, George," a decorated general said, leaning back in his chair, pausing to yawn. "Unlike you, some of us were actually there when the Reagan Agreement was drafted."
George seethed internally. 'A Bowe man only yells when he knows that he can win.'
George would never admit it, but he was tired of being a Bowe man. His fatigue didn't matter, no, he had to keep up appearances. So he held his tongue, and nodded. "My mistake, sir, I wasn't aware that I was presenting to such senior commanders." The general didn't answer.
The slides jumped ahead, displaying an overhead, black and white image of Little Havana.
"As part of the extended CORONA program," George continued, "we gathered hundreds of photos of the ocean, islands, and movements of the Soviet fleets. Notably, the satellites failed to capture any evidence of the USSR even landing in Little Havana. Doesn't that strike you as a little strange?"
Another man, an older, sallow-faced individual looked up, as if woken from a nap, and replied. "Why are we still talking about the Soviets? Come on George, it's time to let it go. We won."
George couldn't remember the man's name at first. He had spoken to him many times, always in meetings like this. George was always asked to do the impossible, would inevitably find a solution, all while the rest of the government did everything they could to stop him from taking care of things. He was constantly confronted by short-sighted, 'ethical' cowards, men like what's-his— George suddenly remembered that the man's name was Pritchard.
"No, Pritchard," George said. "We did not win. That was simply another trick, another tactic to get our guards down. To make us lazy. Complacent. Even from a young age, I was taught that the most dangerous Soviet is the one you can't see; apparently, the US Military needs cataract surgery, since everybody else seems to be ignoring the obvious."
"The obvious?" the General said, slowly interlacing his fingers. "Please, Lieutenant Colonel, enlighten us all. Tell us what the entire armed forces and US Military seems to be missing."
George smirked, locking eyes with the General. George had gone toe-to-toe with men like the General since birth, a constant barrage of idiots that he had long since grown tired of; no matter his fatigue, if the General thought a Bowe could be cowed, he would be in for disappointment. "The fact of the matter is that the Soviet Union is still a significant threat to our way of life. Yes, John Q. Public may think that they are safe, but people like us? We should know that the surrender and collapse are nothing but mere performance. Propaganda."
George took a second to survey the room, all while forcing the gathered officials to wait, their impatience growing with each passing section, a fact that brought him undeniable glee.
"It is our duty—" he paused, standing proud, puffing out his chest. "No, my fellow Americans, it will be our honor to root out the corruption that has infected our great nation. If we do this, if you put your faith in me, I can promise you that we will be the heroes. I will lead you to victory, just as my father did before me. I can guarantee that we will seize glory and truly make a difference. Unless, of course, you would rather sit by and watch our nation get torn apart from within?"
George basked in the silence that he created. There was no greater satisfaction than that of quieting an entire room — everybody focused on you, just you, waiting for you to speak. He loved the power that he could wie—
And then the room burst into laughter, fists slamming down onto conference tables. They started laughing, at him? Did they know who they were speaking down to? How dare they treat him like a common civilian?
As the laughter faded, Pritchard shook his head at George. "Frankly, Georgie, you're a kid. Your father fought wars, you're fighting ghosts and tilting at windmills. The Soviet Union is just playing dead? You really expect us to believe that? Do you have any proof?"
Or was his name Richards? George realized, staring at the official.
"I do, Richards," George responded, his rage a flood threatening to break the final levee. "Did you really think a Bowe would come unprepared? Not only do I have proof that the Soviet Union is just pretending, but I have proof that the Soviets have multiple nuclear payloads hidden in Little Havana. Those heartless bastards are prepared to launch them at the drop of a hat. They are simply waiting for us to commit further to the Gulf, and then they will launch a surprise assault, devastating our great nation."
The room sobered up in an instant. As little as they may have believed him before, George knew that the nuclear payloads would get their attention.
"Show us this 'proof'," the General said, eyebrows raised.
"Here," George said, as he advanced the slides. "This is surveillance footage captured in Little Havana, just last week, showing an industrial warehouse that is protected by armed guards twenty-four hours a day. Video surveillance has shown multiple fully covered trucks delivering shipments to the warehouse, but there have never been any outgoing shipments. On top of that, my sources confirmed that GRU used this warehouse as a base of operations in the past. Is that enough 'proof', sir?"
"Your 'sources'," the general said, crossing his arms. "And you expect the US Military to take you for your word?"
"How dare you?" George responded, the tides overflowing. "Is the fact that I am not a Bowe proof enough? Is my word not sufficient justifica—"
"No," the general said, holding up his index finger and cutting George off. "You really thought that we would dance to your tune? The reality is that all of this is nothing more than a little boy panicking and throwing a tantrum because his father isn't here to protect him any longer. You're just lashing out, terrified of an imaginary bogeyman. If your father had said this, well — he knew what he was talking about firsthand. You'll never be half the man your father was, not as long as you keep trying to play soldier."
A figure at the back of the room cleared their throat, and stepped forward. The gathered officials cleared a path, as if the man was exuding an aura telling the room that every single person here was less important than him. George was envious of the respect. On further inspection, he realized that he recognized the important fly on the wall. This was the man he had met at his father's funeral.
"Gentlemen, perhaps I can help clear up any confusion?" the advancing figure said, every word spoken like venom, as he slowly advanced on his prey.
"And you are?" Richards demanded, as if the strange man left a sour taste in his mouth. "Why should we believe you?"
"You may not be important enough to realize this," the man said, pausing to stare down Richards. "But I have been welcomed in these halls since before you understood what it meant to be a patriot. I am the source, and that is all you need to know. If there are no more meaningless objections, then I assume I may continue?"
Silence was all the permission he needed. George couldn't help but smirk as the figure advanced, stopping just behind him and facing the gathered officials. George had started talking to the man a few months ago, and they helped each other out, passing information back and forth for their benefit. George had known that the Foundation was planning on sending a representative he could call on if needed for today, but, it appears they valued their professional relationship with George as all should have. For a Bowe, sending anything but the best would have been an insult.
An insult the US Military had made, time and time again.
"What Lieutenant Colonel Bowe says is accurate," the man continued. "Our surveillance has captured these movements, and we believe that there may be nuclear warheads hidden within the facility."
There was a momentary silence, as the officials murmured — a minute or so later, the General spoke. "Right. While we can agree that there is evidence of a warehouse, without tangible proof of a nuclear warhead, we just cannot justify an operation. Until you can prove that the Soviets are just playing dead, there is no point on discussing this topic again. Frankly, son, this meeting should have been an 'email', and you should know better than to waste our time, Georgie."
"It's Lieutenant Colonel Bowe," George said firmly as his knuckles tightened around the presentation remote, turning white. "I have risked my life, time and time again, fighting and clawing my way to the top. I didn't sacrifice my childhood for this country just to be called 'Georgie' by a yellow-bellied, paper-pushing general, too concerned with 'optics' to protect America. I would die for my country. Can you say the same?"
The General lost any kindness that may have remained in those eyes, leaving only unadulterated annoyance. He stood glaring, as if he was forced to deal with a dog that just wouldn't stop barking. "Watch your tone young man, you forget who you're speaking to. If I so wanted, I could end your career here and now — hell the only reason I haven't is because of who your father was. But, let me make this clear, since it seems he failed to teach you basic manners. I respected your father enough to use his title, because he earned it. But daddy helped you get to where you are, didn't he? You are not him. You have done nothing to deserve your rank, and you know it. You need to earn my respect if you want me to call you by your title. But even then, all you will ever be is General Bowe's son… Little Georgie Bowe."
Richards cut in before George could get a word in. "I think we're done here."
At that, the room cleared, leaving just George and the man from his father's funeral. George hadn't moved, his face twisted in rage, an anger without a target, without an enem—
"Lieutenant Colonel Bowe," his source said. "It is unfortunate that you were unable to convince the military of the importance of this operation. They lack your vision. Just remember, if you need anything, you have my card — and don't forget my offer. If you came to the Foundation, well… I can promise you that you will be far more than just somebody's son."
The man bowed his head, and left quietly. George was alone, and his mind was racing. He was tired of having to fight to prove himself, tired of the cowards who preached 'peace and love', sick of the bureaucracy, sick of dancing to their tune. But most of all?
George was sick of being a son. George Bowe was done living in the shadow of his father. He thumbed the folded edges of the peculiar man's white business card that he kept in his pocket.
Maybe, he could find his own path. Maybe, just maybe, she could be herself, somewhere else.
1993
Pandora Bowe still wore her uniform, long after she left the US Military for the Foundation. She had it tailored to perfection, adjusted to fit her new… self. She had left her life behind, and hoped that a new job would be a new chance to discover who she was.
And yet, looking in the mirror, she saw her father's legacy. The person the Foundation had hired, the reason she was able to abandon her career, the shadow behind the 'Late, Great General'; the outside did little to change the inside. Despite her hair, her make-up, and everything she had done, she still saw the little boy, scared of his father.
Pandora sneered as she looked in the mirror, turning up her nose in disgust. I didn't betray my nation and abandon my legacy just to talk to myself in the mirror. She was above that, above talking about her 'feelings', better than the rest of the employees who filled the halls like mindless livestock. She refused to be cattle, refused to blend in and be a part of the team. She was proud of who she had become— and yet, she couldn't help but stare, not knowing what others would think of her.
Pandora forced a smile as she smoothed out a crease in her jacket. The appearance of happiness, Pandora thought, is enough to convince the mindless that you are friendly. She knew that she needed allies here, those who she could rely on, those she could use to climb back up the ladder. She needed to show the Foundation just who she was.
Problem was, Pandora wasn't quite sure who she had become. She had only just began the ordeal that was becoming the woman she always wanted to be. Deep down, Pandora thought she had always known she was a woman, but didn't dare think about it, let alone act on it. Before now, it wasn't safe to dream of becoming something she was not, not with the Bowe Legacy laid before her by her father. But now? Now, she refused to wait any longer, refused to stand behind the man. I am nothing like him.
She would do anything to separate herself from everything that man represented. Even if it meant that she would need to burn down every aspect of her life that had been corrupted by being his son, that is what she would do. She looked deep into her own eyes, the baggage, burdens and reputations shed, leaving just her. And then she spoke, without thinking.
"I am Pandora Bowe, and I refuse to let my father control me anymore."
She shook her head, blushing at her own weakness, knowing that her words rang hollow, even to herself. How can you believe words that you do not understand? How can you start to heal if you don't know the damage done? How can you learn how to be yourself, if you've never had to consider who you were?
How can you be anything but what he wanted, without experiencing the life he didn't create for you?
Pandora had opened a new frontier the moment she had first pushed back against her father, from the very second she started to diverge from his perfectly planned goals. She had cracked open the box, and let the evils out into the world; are you still hope, if you only remain because you are too cowardly to leave?
Pandora didn't know.
"In times of conflict," Pandora said, "the Foundation has the right to prioritize normalcy over human life. By your own definition, we are in a time of conflict, and therefore, there are zero restrictions on force."
She was speaking to a room of people who underestimated her. Concerned administrative staff, MTF Agents, and decision-makers, now talking amongst themselves as a man (whose name Pandora couldn't remember) spat vitriol at her over her proposal. The more things change, the more they stay the same, she feared.
"Are you seriously suggesting we build a facility just to detonate it less than a month later?"
Pandora rolled her eyes. The Foundation had hired her because she had been responsible for the Miracle in the Mill, because she had coordinated endless military engagements without losing sight of the end goal, because of the fact that she would make a decision and stick to it. They hired her to make the hard choices, to find a solution against an impossible problem. So why was everybody so set on fighting her?
"If the financials towards the construction of a new site are the issue, I am more than happy to detonate an existing Site. If your issue is with the detonation itself… well, I thought you had wanted to deal with the para-militaristic resurgence in South America?" The false equivalencies rolled off of her tongue, like pennies out of a change tray.
"Come on, Bowe, what about the people who would be working there?" a pretentious figure chimed, a mocking tone barely concealed behind empty concern. "What about the anomalies? You can't just ignore that."
"I wasn't," she said. "If you were paying any attention earlier, you would know that I was advocating for minimal staffing, prioritizing prisoners with high rates of estimated recidivism. You would know that I have a detailed evacuation plan for the major assets, including the handful of anomalies that are worth saving." Pandora paused, pretending to review her notes. "Any loss of life is intentional, I promise you. This is the best solution."
"You think the Foundation can just afford to burn money like that? For that matter, do you think we would be willing to lose talented employees, or risk the containment of anomalies?" He looked down at her from behind his practically non-existent nose. "It seems you really haven't thought this through very well."
Nothing really changes, does it Dora? Did they really want you, or were they just looking for a scapegoat?
"It is not my fault that you cannot understand a plan as simple as this," Pandora said. "You do realize what is at stake? If we can't find and root out the rot now, imagine how far it could spread? Imagine the mutiny that could fester, the dangers we let in by doing nothing. As I understand it, we are concerned about traitors, hidden in the midst of the Foundation, are we not?"
The moment Pandora had mentioned traitors, everybody began to whisper, a dull susurrus filling the room, just as she knew it would. After all, her job was simple — she just had to keep talking. That was one of Pandora's specialties.
"You should be terrified," she continued, seeing fear reflected back at her. "Terrified of the ramifications of dangerous rebels getting a hold a dangerous anomalies, horrified that they are destroying us from within. Isn't the entire reason we're having this meeting because of the fact that you have all spent months trying to find a solution, and no matter what, you've come up empty? Isn't that why they asked me to solve this? Isn't that why you need me to save you?"
The man sneered, failing to hide his disdain. "Mr. Bowe—"
"Miss," she said, cutting him off.
"Do not interrupt me," the man responded, as if daring Pandora to push back.
She was more than happy to take the bait. "No, I can and will continue to interrupt you until you call me by my name. I am Pandora Bowe, and you will respect me. You will refer to me properly, or else I will do what I do best: remind the world of just how little you matter. I will do everything within my power to see you penniless, doomed without a chance for a legacy, and abandoned by those who you once trusted with your life."
The man glared at her, red-faced, but silent. He must have thought that was a good enough response. It wasn't.
"Do I make myself clear?" she asked. "Well?"
"Come on, you know it was just a mistake," an agent said, as if that made anything better. "You don't have to be a bitch about it."
"Is that right?" Pandora asked. The room was unable to tear their eyes away from her; that was just the way she liked it. "Now to remind you why I was asked to attend this meeting in the first place: you do not know what you are doing. If any of your were capable of handling this, we wouldn't be having this meeting. There wouldn't be traitors, there wouldn't be a threat of a full-fledged assault, and there certainly wouldn't be a need to detonate an entire Site. You brought me here because you could not solve your own problems. You brought me here because you had no other choice."
She paused, straightening a medal on her lapel. "Unless… did I misunderstand the situation?"
It was all part of the dance. She knew that, to get what she really wanted, what the Foundation had hired her for, she needed to be extreme. The more absurd, the better, in fact — if she could just make them see she was serious, than anything less than her initial plan was a compromise to them. Anything less than the untold loss of life and destruction of valuable anomalies, any plan that was less absurd than her initial proposition would be welcomed as 'doing the right thing'. Even, say, her real plan to resolve things — of course, that didn't matter right now. Right now, she was fighting to detonate a site, and all of her had to believe in that.
She didn't need to believe in her plan to detonate a site. She just needed to throw her whole heart into the performance, waving it like the flag at a bull — because that was what her plan was, a bright red flag waved at a room full of bulls to direct their inevitable charge. You must lead them through a delicate dance, and only at the very end, when the beast is indistinguishable from beauty, will you let them give in and charge without hesitation. Right to where she wanted them to go.
"I see that you clearly know what you're doing, so don't mind me. I'll take my leave," Pandora said, as she turned and slowly began to walk towards the door. It shouldn't take them too long, she thought, maybe until the count of five.
Five.
"What an asshole…" an agent loudly 'whispered' to their companion. It was still the same, no matter where Pandora was.
Four.
"Are you sure we can even trust her? You know, her father…" a researcher whispered to another, both looking at her.
It seemed like the Foundation was the same as the US government. Slow to change, and even slower to accept.
Three.
The elephant in the room was screaming for attention now, but Pandora refused to give it any pause.
Two.
This was just a game to them, wasn't it? A silly, little distraction. She kept walking.
One.
"Bowe, wait."
There it was, she thought in sweet satisfaction.
Pandora turned and saw the condescending man from earlier, his derision replaced with desperation.
She smiled. "Yes? Did you come to your senses?"
"How dare you take that to—" the man cut himself off, swallowing his pride and his words. Through strained teeth, he forced himself to humility. "Miss Bowe, I wanted to apologize for my behavior. But you can't seriously expect us to entertain such medieval tactics. We aren't the Coalition. Bad enough what some of the anomalies have been saying, without people like you—"
"People like me?"
The man stammered, then recovered his footing. "People of your… decorated pedigree, Miss Bowe. Your background — this isn't the Cold War anymore. You're asking us to compromise our morals, just so that you can—"
Play soldier? It was time to control the narrative. He should be begging.
"So that I can what?" she asked. "Say it, for all of us. So that I can advance my faggot agenda? So that a transsexual like me can make her mark on the world? Is that what you're thinking, sir?" The intensity in her voice failed to match the void she felt within. General Bowe had beaten out interference from emotions, long, long ago.
The man stammered, trying to find his voice. His face burned beet red, almost a perfect match to Pandora's dyed hair. "I'm not… I wasn't— I didn't mea— Bowe, you suggested sacrificing hundreds of Foundation employees in a glorified trap! How is that relevant in this situation?"
It is relevant because I brought it up, Pandora thought to herself, as she watched the crowd whisper back and forth, consensus leeching out into the room. Even if he hadn't meant it like that, even if he had the best of intentions — Bowe had poisoned the well, and only she was immune. It would serve as a lesson that other researchers would do well to learn, quickly. His protestations did not matter, not anymore — public opinion had turned in her favor. All that was left was the flourish.
"Simply put," Pandora began, running a hand through her short hair. "What Foundation employees?"
The room was silent, hanging off of her every word.
"But I thought you had sai—"
"When did I say that? I believe you will find that you are the one who brought up dying Foundation employees."
"You were talking about detonating an on-Site ordinance, of course you are sacrificing Foundation sta—"
That had been exactly what she was waiting for.
"No. That's not right. What are we trying to deal with here, remind me? Oh, yes, that's right. Our enemies are back to their old tricks, and you were worried about moles within our organization. Spies, turncoats, people from within working to undermine the Foundation — that is what we are here to talk about, no?"
The silence in the room confirmed it — they believed her.
"So tell me this. What do you think would happen if we created a site of anomalies that are in desperate need of decommissioning, an anomalous honeypot, if you will, and we staff it with a mixture of traitors, spies and undesirables. And once the site is full, we then detonate the site ordinance. My question to the room is: what have we really lost?"
"People will die," the man said firmly.
"Yes, people will die," Pandora said as she went in for the kill. "Of course there will be deaths, that's the point! Instead of wasting time, bullets and energy to find them individually, why not take them all out in one swift blow? Why cry over a traitor's death? The fact is that people die every day, as a result of each and every decision that we make. A human life is only worth as much as it does in the moment, and there is no objective truth."
Pandora let the implication hang in the air for a second, before continuing. "As living beings, we are simply evaluated in the eyes of another, our value derived from perception. From where I sit, not only does this solve the problem, it is the best option we have — no, it is the only option we have. You are all so terrified of morality that you've forgotten one important detail: if we only do what they expect from us, how can we ever hope to win? If we play by their rules, how can you beat a rigged game?"
As Pandora scanned the crowd before her, she was unsurprised by the typical horror and derision reflecting back — it appeared that, for as much as the Foundation touted itself as a 'progressive' organization, prejudice still held strong. Of course they hated her; after all, what right does a transgender woman have in the war room? What would her father have said?
They didn't have to say it for her to know what was really going on. She knew exactly why they hated her; even if they excused it as preferring the 'peaceful resolution', or disagreeing with her use of force, Pandora knew that it was always a hatred of who she was behind the glares.
No matter where she went, Pandora knew that she would be the enemy. In her mind, her name was just too much of a burden, her reputation blinding them with rage to the point where nobody could see the true brilliance that was hidden within.
No matter, she thought. I will change my fate, regardless of what others think of me.
1996
Explosions shook the very ground where Pandora Bowe stood, gunshots ricocheting off of countless walls and bodies around her. Red lights punctuated the haze, incessant sirens filling the air with their dolorous klaxon, the screams of those caught in the crossfire lost in the maelstrom of noise that filled the remains of what was Site-282G. And yet, despite the blazing infernos, the panic, fear and overwhelming sense that she should be anywhere but here — Pandora was calm.
This wasn't her first containment breach, nor was it the first time she watched as everything fell apart because they refused to listen to her. Time and time again, Pandora would watch as the monolithic thirteen on high would pull their strings, and decide the fates of the men and women who fought alongside her, and time and time again, they would reject any proposal to 'utilize' anomalies for the Foundation's benefit, if there was the slightest chance that it might be abusive.
That didn't make sense to Pandora. Her father had once said that 'a Bowe man always takes any advantage he has, no matter the cost; anything else is accepting defeat.' Of course, she hadn't been a Bowe man for some time now, but old habits die hard, especially when they are so effective. Why wouldn't the Foundation fully utilize their powerful, expendable tools, for their own benefit?
She looked around the destroyed building, as the flames raged on. The primary anomaly contained here was a pyrokinetic hydrovore. In other words, a firefighter's worst nightmare. The Foundation had been so focused on finding a way to contain, to neutralize, to learn from it that they failed to consider the potential it had, if given the right direction. If they had just let her control the anomaly, use its full potential — well, they wouldn't be having this problem right now.
But no, they had called her a fascist. She was more pragmatic than that, but the idiots in power were too distracted by 'ethics' to see the truth: she was simply an agent of revolution. Why couldn't they see all of the good she could do? Pandora didn't want to turn everything into a weapon, to twist those who would never harm another into a mindless killing machine; no, her aspirations would never be so pedestrian. No, there were anomalies that deserved to be locked up, and those that deserved to remain home. But the few, the special ones, like her: those who would do anything to leave their mark behind on the world?
It would be unfair of her to deny them that honor, wouldn't it?
"Commander, over here!" A grunt rushed to her side, as if valiantly protecting her.
Idiot. Pandora thought, looking at the man in disgust. "What do you want?"
The grunt didn't flinch, responding immediately. "There is an emergency evac happening soon, we need to get to—"
"You don't get it, do you?" Pandora drifted towards a burning wall. She held her hand to the flames, licking delicately inches away — they were colder than she was expecting.
"Get what, ma'am?"
"Look around, soldier. Do you know what I see?"
"Danger?"
"Potential," she said, caught in her own fervor. "Don't you see it too?"
"I'm afraid that I don't understand."
"Of course you wouldn't," Pandora continued. "That's my point. Not a single person in the Foundation sees what I see here. Yes, the site is burning to the ground and people are dying, but in the grand scheme, none of this matters. In a year's time, do you think anybody will remember this?"
"Commander Bowe, if you are asking about the amnesticization protocols, do you really think that this is the best time—" the man said, stopping mid-sentence as soon as Pandora raised her hand.
"The point is that nobody will care about the cost of life here, not once we've recovered the asset and moved on. Nobody else will see the death here, the damage caused — all of this was caused by a single anomaly. We are a witness to what the Foundation could be, to the fates that would befall our enemies; we are the pioneers, soldier, and this is the frontier!" Pandora ran to a collapsed wall, and quickly climbed atop. From the new vantage point, she scanned the ruins with an expert eye.
"What is the frontier?" The man stared blankly at Pandora.
A good grunt should know when to listen, and when to ask questions, Pandora thought as she looked around the smoldering wreckage. All this one is good for is cannon fodder.
A glimpse of something hidden in the shadows caught her eye — movement, darting into cover.
"There!" Pandora yelled, pointing at the collapsed doorframe. "Move soldier! Neutralize the threat, ASAP!"
And like a good soldier, the man did as commanded. He sprinted to the debris, as Commander Pandora Bowe watched in twisted glee from on high. This was truly an important moment: she was about to see the future firsthand.
The soldier stopped in front of the wreck, and looked back at Pandora to confirm this was the right place. She nodded, biting her lip in anticipation. The soldier turned back— and just a second later, flames blasted out from behind the partial cover, searing the flesh off of the soldier's face, a targeted surge of heat erupting in a moments notice. He fell to the ground, limp. Pandora could barely contain her excitement.
A moment later, a cautious figure poked their head out from behind the singed corpse and makeshift barrier: it was a young man, wearing a standard Foundation-issue jumpsuit, if a bit charred around the edges. He was Anomalous Entity 043-R, the very anomaly that this site had been holding; the kid was barely eighteen, and looked terrified.
Pandora grinned from ear to ear. She hopped down off of the rubble and sauntered over to the cowering man. He eyed her cautiously, but was clearly exhausted, and did not move. Like a wild animal, unsure if she would be predator or prey.
When she stuck out her hand, and helped him to his feet, that did little to clarify his situation. The young man was still afraid, looking as if he would dart away at first chance.
"It's okay now, son, you can let your guard down," she finally said. She shook the young anomaly's hand, her rock-solid grip enveloping his bruised and bloodied hands, just hard enough to sting, but not hurt. "I need you to listen to me. If you do — when you do, I will get your freedom back. All it will take is a spark."
Pandora watched the flashes of fear, uncertainty and hope cross his face, silently waiting for the inevitable yes — after all, Pandora always got her way. She bent down, and removed a canteen from the dead soldier's belt, cracking the lid and offering it to the boy.
He took the water, and drank, like he hadn't in weeks. When he was finally finished, he dropped the canteen to the ground. It clanged across the rubble and rolled back against its owner's corpse. He looked up, and met Pandora's eyes.
"I'm Anthony," the boy said. "What do you want?"
"I am Pandora Bowe, and I am the future of the Foundation."
2004
Parallel tables sat perfectly within an office, each one arranged in an exacting manner. The concrete walls were bland, monotonous, and highlighted the perfectly straight rows of medals, photographs and commendations. Everything was in the perfect position, honoring the life that Pandora Bowe had built for herself at the Foundation.
When Pandora had turned 40, she gave the Foundation an ultimatum: give her authorization for 'The Bowe Proposal', or she would leave. She drew her line in the sand, and stood strong in the face of backlash.
While, yes, they had let her command countless MTF taskforces, and even turned a blind eye to the little project that she tried with Anthony — but no matter the arguments she would put forward, the Foundation refused to full utilize the anomalies they contained. They were simpletons, terrified of innovation and afraid of people like her — those who understood what it was like to be oppressed, to be stepped on, to suffer under the thumb of another. She would be their liberators — if only the Foundation would stop their pointless protestations.
'A Bowe man forges his own path', she thought in the voice of her father. 'He does not follow, he charges ahead into the unknown.'
She had done that time and time again. Her transition, her career, every single step she took in her life was a fight against the current, pushing back against fate, obligations, and destiny. She was General Stan Bowe's only heir. She rejected that, and all that came with it. She had become her own woman, and shed the shackles of her legacy — but time and time again, she faced the same foes, fought the same fights, defended her very core, protesting each time she was compared to her father. She had left behind so much, and yet, it refused to let her go.
General Bowe had a death grip on her mind, a constant reminder of the legacy she abandoned. Even from beyond the grave, even after she burned her illusory familial tapestry to the ground — he refused to let her go.
Pandora shook her head, as she returned to her perfectly arranged office; after all, this was a cause for celebration. The Foundation had finally caved. She was given an assignment, charged with evaluating the anomalies of the Site for tactical potential, identifying those that could benefit the Foundation — it appears that, finally, the Foundation had finally understood the point she had been trying to make year after year. They finally saw the brilliance that she had, the raw power and authority that Pandora commanded each time she entered a room. They only now understood just what a mistake it was to turn Pandora Bowe into their enemy.
Site-19, she thought, sitting behind her desk in a tall leather chair. This is just the beginning.
'A Bowe man is more than just a man, he is a legacy. He is the sum total of each and every Bowe man that has come before him,' her father had once said through a drunken rant. 'He must live not only for himself, but for the family name. He must prove to the world that a Bowe man is never crossed. You are a Bowe man, George, never forget that.'
Her father was wrong. She was no 'Bowe man'. A Bowe woman rejects her legacy, because she is so much more than it could ever be.
Pandora smiled. It was finally time to get to work.