Pulling the Strings II

[Omniscient_Jay]

“Activate Reconnaissance Protocol
Location Sector Alpha-2 [47.3052/-71.0623/192.64]
Time at 6:00:00 PM ADT on 08/07/11
[Priority code 3141]”

[Omniscient_Jay]

Prologue: I Must Be Dreaming


It had been ten minutes by his count.

The sole light affixed to the ceiling illuminated the metallic table in the center of the otherwise dark room. Apart from the table he was cuffed to and the two accompanying chairs – one of which he occupied – the chamber was entirely empty. He twirled his thumbs, altering the direction of rotation at random, bidding his time. Prison life was interesting so far, he found. The meals, though bland, were adequate for his tastes, and he had great fun with the prison guards, even if they did not seem to share his refined sense of humour.

But then again, he had only been there for a mere sixteen days. The majority of his time was spent locked away in isolation to wither in a small, decrepit cell. And while he was able to find ways to alleviate the boredom, it was only ever a temporary victory, and he found himself staring at the walls more than anything else. It began to settle in that his sentence of twenty five years would be a long one at that rate.

The only things that helped him cope with the thought were the few material indulgences he was allowed, and the knowledge that he would soon break free of that God-forsaken hole.

So he was pleasantly surprised when the warden paid a visit to his cell just over fifteen minutes ago.

“Good news, Mister Jones,” announced Johan Lennox in his thick German tongue. “You have a visitor.”

And so he now sat fifteen minutes later, wrists tethered to the table with plastic cufflinks, whistling a jolly little tune that he had the habit of whistling. He wondered if his visitor was his appointed lawyer, Salman Kohl, who had come to delve deeper into legal issues Jones had no use for. But he quickly discarded the notion; his meetings with Kohl were preordained, and the legal representative wasn’t set to return until the end of the week. With surmounting curiosity, he waited, wondering who was so eager to meet him that they would disrupt his schedule and turn his ordered little world upside down.

He did not have to wait much longer.

The door opened with a sudden thunderous creak, and there entered a woman Jones had never seen before. She appeared to be in her mid-forties, dressed sleek yet conservative, with a neat blouse and knee-length skirt. Her chestnut hair fell in voluminous locks around her shoulders, which bounced slightly as she made her way with elegant strides to the chair opposite of Jones.

“Sieben minuten,” warned the guard.

The woman nodded, and the door was closed.

“Hello, David,” she said, pulling out the chair.

“Well, hello to you as well, Barbara!” replied Jones enthusiastically.

“Esther Dei, actually,” corrected the woman.

Smiling, Esther took her seat, placing the briefcase she carried beside her seat. She looked at him with bright emerald eyes, her piercing gaze contrasting with her matronly, warm demeanour.

“Oh yes, Esther!” said Jones. “Please forgive me, my dear. How could I ever forget such a lovely face?”

“We’ve met before?” humoured Esther as she removed her coat.

“Of course we have,” replied Jones. “You’re that one person I encountered that one time.”

Esther’s smile widened, accentuating the soft wrinkles around her eyes. It might have just been the lighting, but Jones found her to be a rather stunning woman; but even so, she had a weight to her presence that kept him at edge.

“I’ve missed you, you know,” said Jones playfully. “It gets kind of lonely in here sometimes. You should come visit me more often.”

“I’ll be sure to do that when I get the chance.”

A moment passed before Jones spoke.

“So, tell me, Esther. What brings you here on this fine day?”

“I have come to strike a bargain.”

Esther proceeded to place the briefcase on the table, removing a single document from within before sliding it across the metallic table’s surface. It appeared to be an aged parchment of sorts, upon which was depicted a cylindrical object; arcane glyphs ran down its length. Jones leaned forward, analysing the page at first with feigned disinterest, then with alarm.

“Do you recognize this?” began Esther.

“Where did you get this?” asked Jones, suspicious.

“Answer the question, David,” she prodded gently.

“Yes,” began Jones with reluctance, “I’ve seen this before. It’s an old relic that I came across at one point in my... pre-prison career.”

He continued to stare at the withered page before him, recalling when the time when he first stumbled upon it. Jones and his men acquired the artifact from an old, weathered Nazi bunker back in 1993, when he was still captain of Zeta Cell. It was, for all intents and purposes, your ordinary priceless artifact, save for the fact that it was constantly vibrating. His men managed to undo its top cap; the unleashed vibrations were so strong that they knocked down half the crew, and it took almost all of them to replace the cylinder’s lid. Jones smirked at the memory before continuing.

“But what I would like to know is why you are so interested in this peculiar object.”

“Oh, that doesn’t really matter,” replied Esther. “What matters is that you know where it is, and that I want to find it.”

Jones eyes narrowed. The cylinder was the third such artifact ZFT had found at that point, and they have found many more since then. The captains all agreed to keep them stashed away in various caches across the world, believing that they might prove to be useful someday. Jones knew where most, if not all, of the relics were hidden. But even though his loyalty to ZFT had been severed long ago, he wasn’t too keen on making Esther Dei privy to all his secrets.

“Forgive my nosiness, Miz Dei,” he said, “but I fail to see how such a trinket could possibly be of any interest to you. It would be more at home behind the glass panes of a museum exhibit than in your soft, delicate hands.”

“This is the Harmonic Stabilizer,” explained Esther, pointing to the parchment. “You are no doubt aware of its unique properties, and it is something of great value to me, which is why I seek to obtain it.”

Jones sat silent, questions whizzing through his mind. For what purposes did she require the artifact? How did she figure out its connection to him? And how exactly did she even manage to obtain an audience with him in the first place? Caution, he decided, would be crucial from that point forward.

“And why should I reveal the location of this Harmonic Stabilizer to you?” he asked.

“Oh, don’t worry, dear,” assured Esther. “I wouldn’t ask such a thing of you if I wasn’t prepared to give you something in return.”

After replacing the parchment in her briefcase, she removed a folder from her purse, which came to rest before her.

“I have something here which I’m certain will be of great interest to you,” said Esther as she removed a specific file from the folder and pushing it forward.

Jones looked down for several moments, taking in what he saw, and raised his eyebrows in disbelief.

“Think about it, David,” said Esther. “This would give you a significant advantage in the Silent War. You would be the envy of the other captains. Not to mention that this is the perfect way to bring Doctor Bell down a notch or two.”

He broke free of his engrossment and looked back up; Esther continued to wear her warm smile, to stare at him with those damnable all-knowing eyes. He was taken aback at how much she seemed to know, about him, his organization, but most of all, of the ongoing war against the Other Side.

“...How do you know all this?” asked Jones warily.

“I know many things about you, David.”

A chill ran down his spine.

“You have information on something that I want,” she continued, “and I have information on something that you want. So, what do you say? You give me the location of the Harmonic Stabilizer, and in return, I’ll give you the rest of the information on your...significant advantage.”

Jones remained silent, weighing the prospects of the offer as Dei held up the folder, teasing the man with the promise of its tantalizing contents. After an instance of consideration, he spoke.

“Well, Miz Dei, you sure know how to drive a hard bargain. But before I reveal the location of the artifact, I wish to ask you something. How can I be sure of the authenticity of these documents? For all I know, you could just be playing me like some incarcerated fool.”

Esther was silent for a moment, seeming to consider her next words. She appeared genuinely stumped, causing Jones to smirk at her apparent naivety and lack of experience. Jones brought his eyes back to the file, then tossing it back across the table, resigning in disappointment at the waste of what could have been the greatest of opportunities.

“Well, Miz Dei, I suppose that this brings our first date to a close,” announced Jones. “I would love nothing more than to kiss you goodnight, but as you can see, I am cuffed to–”

“Do you remember those London summers at the bakery?” interrupted Dei out of the blue, staring into the distance. “You would help mum roll the dough to make loaves of bread. And you would be covered in flour, and your little six year old arms would be sore by the end of it, but that didn’t matter; you were just happy to help mum out. And she would whistle this lovely little tune; in fact, it was the same tune you were whistling when I came into this room. Isn’t that right, David Robert Jones?”

His mouth hung open, prepared to respond, though no words escaped his lips as the woman recounted his intimate memories with disturbing accuracy, things that only he would know – should know.

“Who exactly are you?” Jones managed to say through his stupefaction.

And she peered deep into his eyes, her face unchanging, and her voice echoed in his head, filling every crevice of his mind.

There are forces at work here far beyond your understanding, child. It would be in your best interest not to hinder them.

Jones’ face remained frozen while he processed the chain of events that had just occurred. He had seen many strange things in his heyday, so much so that he was nearly desensitized to all that was extraordinary and bizarre in the world. This occurrence, however, would rank near the top of his list. But even with all her novel parlour tricks, he still held his reservations about this strange woman. And yet, the more he thought about it, the more he realized, much to his chagrin, that documents she possessed were much too valuable to risk losing.

“The artifact can be located in safety deposit box 8014 at the Berenberg Bank in Hamburg,” started Jones suddenly. “In order to access it, you will need the key to the safe, which is currently in possession of my representative, Mister Salman Kohl. I will arrange to have him accompany you when you go to retrieve it.”

Esther wrote down everything he said on a small notepad. Satisfied, she handed the rest of the folder to Jones, who devoured its contents with eager eyes. As she replaced her things in her purse, Jones suddenly looked up from his documents with a puzzled expression, as though struck by a sudden realization. He then proceeded to pinch his forearm, wincing at the self-inflicted pain.

“What are you doing, dear?” asked Esther, confused.

“As you can clearly see,” he stated matter-of-factly, “I’m pinching myself.”

“Now why would you do that?” she asked.

“Because it just now occurred to me that I might be dreaming.”

“Would you like to know a little secret, David?”

She leaned forward, with an almost childlike glimmer in her eye.

“You are,” she hushed.

Before Jones could question her about the meaning of her cryptic statement, a buzzing noise resounded. The guard opened the door, signalling the end of the meeting.

“Pleasure doing business with you, David,” said Esther as she rose from her chair.

With that, Esther Dei left the room, and the guard shut the door behind her, leaving Jones to himself. He redirected his attention to the documents on the table, reading once more the note that Dei attached to the photograph of a young woman:


David,

The woman you see in this picture is William Bell’s Gatekeeper.

Her name is Olivia Dunham. She has yet to be activated.

What you do from this point forward with the information contained in this folder is none of my concern.

However, I’m sure you’ll be able to put it to good use.

Love and Light,

Esther Dei.


A smile drew itself on the face of David Robert Jones. A significant advantage indeed, he thought to himself.

*************

PULLING THE STRINGS

Part II: The Deceived

A Fringe Fan Fiction Series by Omniscient_Jay


***********

[Omniscient_Jay]

Greetings, newcomers and veterans alike, to the second installment in my ongoing Fringe fanfiction effort, the Pulling the Strings saga!

If you have not read the first installment (The Arrival), then I heavily suggest you do so before continuing with the rest of Part II (though I won't stop you if you don't ).

The Deceived continues to explore the three major storylines introduced in Part I, expanding upon the characters and world that were presented therein. Therefore, expect plenty of September/Spock & Crow/Kenneth action, but be prepared to see a few new (and familiar) faces make their debut as well...

There will be seventeen chapters in this second installment (excluding the Prologue), so you'll have plenty to digest as we delve deeper into the world of PTS.

The next chapter is September-centric. In this opening chapter, the Witness is assigned with a task of great importance. Hmmm...I wonder what it could be?

Anyway, that's all for now. I'll leave you all to enjoy the ride.

Love and Light, my friends.

......

[Omniscient_Jay]

A/N: It should be noted that I have given a name to the phone/communication device the Witnesses use; however, I have not established it in the prior installment. Henceforth, said device will be referred to as a MultiCell.

Just thought I'd let you all know to reduce possible confusion. With that, enjoy the chapter.

************

Chapter 1: Dawning Sun


“Activate Summons Protocol
Location Sector Alpha-2 [42.375/-70.983/03.57]
Time at 6:28:36 AM Local
[Priority code 1618]”


A sliver of crimson light tinged the horizon as September longed Winthrop’s shoreline, where a light, salted breeze came to greet him from the twilight of the nascent morning. He had always enjoyed the calm period of transition between night and day, a brief encounter of worlds where time seemed to come to a standstill. He would have liked to remain at the bench where he was seated earlier to savour it further, but the Summoning Protocol had been issued, and he had no choice but to respond, making haste for the rendezvous point displayed on the screen of his MultiCell.

The Arbiters issued the Summoning Protocol when they required an audience with one of their Division’s agents, usually to hand out specific tasks or to inform them of significant developments. It was never anything too demanding, but in light of recent events, September braced himself for the worst. As he made his way to his clandestine meeting with December, his mind went back to that night in Kings Cemetery, the night he and October encountered someone who was as much akin to a Witness as he was radically different. It was as though he was looking at a distorted reflection of his own self, and he found the idea of such an entity unsettling.

He continued to think of that mysterious figure, of Thomas Moroe, of his meeting with Walter Bishop, of October’s dealings with John Mosley, of Robert Bishop’s grave, of little Cassidy and her mother. He tried to make sense of this pattern, to see where every piece stood in relation to the other, but it came to no avail. The Witnesses were supposed to know what the future held – they did have an intimate understanding of its probabilistic nature, after all – but with the introduction of so many things that eluded his grasp, September was starting to ponder the fallibility of his perception. He desired answers now more than anything, and though it opposed the passivity he had inevitably cultured over the years due to the impartial, detached nature of his work, he resolved himself to seek them out.

Perhaps December would be of some assistance, he thought.

At road’s bend, he branched off, descending a staircase that led to a walkway bordering the murky waters below. In the distance, he spotted a suited man holding a briefcase. He was staring out at the ocean, watching the sun slowly emerge from the depths of its celestial burrow. September proceeded to place himself near the Arbiter’s side; the latter promptly turned to address his guest.

“Greetings,” said December. “I trust that you are well.”

“I am,” replied September.

The two admired the ocean for some time before December spoke.

“The reason I have summoned you here concerns your imminent departure for Sector Beta-2.”

September looked over to his superior, who maintained his gaze seawards. Olivia Dunham was set to depart for Sector Beta to meet with David Robert Jones, and due to the Subjects Protocol, he was bound to oversee her activities during her stay there. But what relevance his trip to Frankfurt could possibly have fazed him.

“I require that you to deliver something to January,” continued December.

“What is it?” asked September.

“It is a holographic conference module that the Overseer has recently created,” the Arbiter explained. “With it, we will be able to hold joint Council meetings with the Aube Division from within the Crépuscule Council Chamber.”

“Joint Council meetings?”

“Yes,” said December, noting his agent’s concern.

The Arbiter shifted his glance back at the swaying sea.

“The moment of Collision draws nearer every second,” he began. “The humans are causing the Veil to decay at such a rapid rate that they have managed to artificially expedite the original predicted date of the Collision by a few years. The process is increasing at an almost exponential rate now, and it will all culminate in their Silent War.”

He swiveled his head towards September, who reciprocated the motion.

“In times to come, our efforts will therefore need to increase greatly if we are to counteract the war’s facilitation of the Collision. Because of this, the Overseer has decided that it would be useful if all members of the League of the Witnesses were able to communicate with each other simultaneously in order to better mobilize our tactics.”

September remained silent, processing December’s words. All around him he could sense the weight of the impending Collision upon his shoulders, see its figure loom at the edges of his perception, hear the Veil’s agonized wails as it slowly tore apart at the seams by mankind’s quest for supremacy over nature. The Witnesses have been preparing for the onset of the Collision for thousands of years; and yet, it seemed like it was only yesterday when he watched from afar shepherds herding their flock, or nomadic tribes forging across the plains, guided by the whims of the wind. It was a simpler time back then, a time where man’s means were greatly outpaced by their dreams and aspirations.

But those means have now almost caught up to them. There would eventually be no obstacles in their path; all possibilities will be within their reach. Beyond the point of Collision, however, both the fate of the humans and the greater whole of Existence were uncertain. Only a swirling nebula of vague possibilities existed, and no Witness, not even the Overseer, whose perception vastly surpassed that of every living thing, was able to accurately predict what would happen thereafter.

And the introduction of as rigorous a measure as communication modules linking the Council Chambers together came as a not so subtle reminder of the gravity of the situation. September had been working towards the prevention of the Collision for so long that it had somewhat lost its impact over time; that it was now just around the corner gave the Witness a small reality check that put things back into worrisome perspective.

September turned to the Arbiter.

“For what purpose does January require the device?” he asked.

“January and I ran some calibration tests a few days ago,” explained December, “and unfortunately, we have determined that the Crépuscule module is defective. We must therefore send it back to Für Immer so that the Overseer may repair it. Since you are leaving for Sector Beta shortly, I thought it would be more efficient to have you transport it there yourself and give it to January directly rather than having to process it through the Courier Network.”

September was relieved. He was expecting a much more serious assignment, and was pleased that it was something relatively minor in comparison to the various scenarios he simulated on his way to the rendezvous point. December stretched out his arm, and September accepted the briefcase containing the module.

“I have already informed January of this,” said December, relinquishing the case. “Contact him after you have overseen Olivia Dunham’s arrival in Frankfurt, and he will arrange a meeting with you.”

“Do you think we will have to use these modules often?” inquired September.

“I cannot say,” replied December. “I would think that if we can continue to carry out our duties with the same perseverance throughout the Silent War, then we may never have to resort to its use. But in the event that we must, let us hope that it is not a sign of our faltering vigilance.”

September’s brows tensed slightly as he considered the Arbiter’s words of warning. He too found himself sharing that same hope, but only because he was concerned about what that hope represented. What would happen if they were to fail? Would the Witnesses survive the Collision? And if they did, what would be their purpose from then on? He decided to swiftly end the train of thought, not wanting to pursue it any further.

He instead turned his thoughts to the questions he had for December. The Arbiter would surely know something about all this, he thought. Yet, September could not bring himself to speak, debating with himself whether he should even go ahead as he had originally intended.

“I’ve reviewed your mission report for the Beacon assignment,” said the Arbiter, catching on to September’s hesitation.

December’s perception has always been remarkably keen.

“I’ve been meaning to speak to you about this, actually,” began September. “Do you know anything about the individual October and I spotted at Kings Cemetery?”

“Unfortunately, I do not,” said December. “It is a troubling matter, to be sure; that there not only exists an individual similar to the Witnesses that has not been accounted for, but that he is also interested in the Beacon, is a disturbing thought indeed.”

“Have you contacted the Overseer about this?” asked the Witness.

“The Overseer has just left on one of his excursions,” explained December, “so I can no longer contact him. He left approximately two hours ago, and has informed us Arbiters to expect his return to Für Immer a few months from now. ”

And now September’s chance for answers was completely shattered. He knew the Overseer periodically took lengthy trips to Potential States, and he always returned with new technologies and strategies that greatly benefited the Witnesses, but September wished that the head of their organization would have chosen a less inopportune time to depart.

“I have also spoken to January of the matter,” continued December, “and as you have no doubt suspected, he is as unknowing as I am.”

Another possible source of answers was crossed off. An unwelcome sense of doubt gripped September. The Overseer was the only individual who might have known something, and he would not be returning for quite some time. He could not sense the mystery man in his perception of the future, nor perceive any possibilities in which he was manifest. Until the Overseer returned, he hoped that he would not have the misfortune of encountering him again.

Having reached a dead end, September continued a new line of questioning.

“And what of the man named Thomas Moroe?” he asked.

“You’ll be glad to know that we have managed to find some information on this man,” announced December.

September eyes widened, having expected nothing at all.

“I’ve tasked the Proxies to uncover what they could,” recounted the Arbiter, “and they have found some files and records of relevance to him. However, it would seem that he goes by many names not only in this reality, but in Sector-1 as well, Moroe being but one of them. Therefore, any information we do find – his age, his function, any registered places of residence – are rendered suspect by default.”

“What are we to do with him?” asked September.

“I have assigned Moroe as a High Priority Target for the time being, so the Proxies will alert us if there are any new developments. By your description, he seems to be less of a concern than the man from the cemetery, but even so, we should not underestimate him or those he may be working with.”

September reset his sights to the horizon. Even though the bigger picture had only partially unveiled its face, his inquiries have yielded better results than he had projected. But for now, it appeared that the key to these mysteries would only manifest later on. And yet, in a way, he wasn’t completely sure that he truly even wanted to know, concerned that the true state of things would reveal themselves more dire than he could have ever predicted.

“But now is not the time to fret over these issues,” reminded December. “We will deal with them when the time comes, as we have always done. I suggest that you direct your attention to the task at hand instead. In the meantime, I will be sure to forward this matter to the Overseer once he returns from his expedition.”

December checked his pocket watch.

“You should leave now if you are going to arrive at Frankfurt International before she does,” he added.

“Understood.”

December turned, leaving September unobserved. He felt a sudden change in ambient space-time, and when he turned around, September was nowhere in sight, having departed to Europe via the Roads Less Traveled By. The Arbiter of the Crépuscule Division then left the walkway to tend to his own affairs, but not before taking one last glance at the dawning sun as it emerged from the scarlet skyline beyond.

************

My, my... things don't bode well for any of us, do they?

Just as the chapter hinted, we will finally meet some of the Witnesses of the Aube Division, the other Division that comprises the League of the Witnesses. One can never have too much Witness action, right?

But that will only be in a few chapters.

The next chapter switches the perspective to that of the Intrepid Spock and Crow following their infiltration of a Shapeshifter base of operations. Expect the same humorous banter and serious anti-Hybrid plotting that you have come to enjoy thus far, all the while delving more in depth into their story.

As a side-note, I plan to consistently upload new chapters every couple of days to spread them out a little. Therefore, expect Chapter 2 sometime around this Tuesday.

As always, reviews/critiques/questions are appreciated.

That is all. I'll see you there.

[Omniscient_Jay]

Chapter 2: Tactical Analysis


They could be anyone.

Daniel Thompson walked along the sidewalk, lugging his backpack and clinging to his coat in an effort to ward off the cold of the damp autumn’s day. His breath spiraled off in vaporous billows, and his cheeks blushed slightly from the chill. And others did the same, making their way along the wet streets of Somerville.

But it wasn’t just the cold that caused him to fold back onto himself.

His recent escapade in the heart of a Shapeshifter base of operations with Spock had been a rather jarring experience. That they actually escaped with their lives to begin with was hard enough to come to terms with. He was torn trying to decide whether to attribute his survival to some purveying cosmic force or sheer causal happenstance, considering the destructive potency of the bomb that completely decimated the subterranean outpost. That was but four days ago, and he hadn’t slept too well for any of the nights that followed.

So he clung to his coat, eyeing passersby with wariness. They could be anyone of these people, he thought; strangers that he would never again encounter were cast as hostile foes, predators bent on dominating the world from the inside out. He wondered how vast the First Wave truly was, whether they were found not only in low places, but in high ones as well, every echelon of society compromised without so much as a blink of an eye on humanity’s behalf.

That he could be in over his head came as a grim realization to him, a grimness that became even more real when he realized that he definitely was in over his head. The menace of the First Wave towered over him, threatening to topple over and crush him under its might, and a part of him wished that he could return to a life of blissful ignorance. And why not? It would certainly be a more luxurious life compared to one where he struggled daily with an overwhelming burden. And all he would have to do was simply push all notions of Shapeshifter infiltrations and government conspiracies and paranormal phenomena aside, to ignore all these troublesome things until they troubled him no more.

But that was exactly the problem.

He couldn’t, no matter how hard he tried, ignore the Truth, not when it was dangling right before his eyes. It would not be easy from that point onward, he knew. He worked to muster the resolve that would be required of him if he was to travel the difficult road ahead, to play his part in the struggle for mankind’s survival, however big or small a part it may be.

One step at a time.

Dan stopped at the corner of Hammond and Long, checking the note Spock gave him once more. He had instructed Dan to meet him at his workplace – a store whose name and nature he had neglected to mention – so that they could return to Spock’s apartment after his shift and review the Intel they retrieved from the outpost. To his relief, the address was not as far as the Summerside Apartments in Malden, so he was able to make most of his journey by bus, settling to cover the rest of the distance by foot.

He continued his trek further into the depths of the city, until at last finding the street which he sought. Dan slowed his pace, scanning back and forth between the buildings, and halted midway down the road, reading the panel that arched over the store across the street with a raised eyebrow.

Larsen Comics.

Dan glanced back at the note, verifying that the information was correct. He had a feeling that Spock worked in a nontraditional venue, but he wasn’t quite expecting to see such a place so fitting of his character. Smirking at the irony of the situation, he crossed the street and entered the store.

A bell jingled as the door swung open. Dan paced forward, taking in his surroundings. Though visibly aged, the store held a welcoming atmosphere. Comic books were arranged in a variety of shelves, trays and bins, scattered across the store in consistent fashion. Posters, more shelves, and merchandise occupied the majority of wall space. He noticed a large opening in the back wall, leading to another room where more wares were to be found.

He then directed himself to the unattended counter, where a score of treasures were displayed on the other side of its plastic panes. New additions were plastered on the wall, with only a few t-shirts and other memorabilia breaking the monotony of cover art. With no one present, Dan tapped the nearby service bell. Voices rang from the depths of the store, and moments later, out came Emmanuel Grayson, sporting a Green Lantern tee beneath an unbuttoned brown plaid shirt. His eyes were narrowed in suspicion; upon seeing Dan, however, he put himself at ease, and welcomed him with a warm smile.

“Greetings,” he welcomed, fist-bumping his visitor. “I’m glad you could make it. I hope you didn’t have too much trouble finding this place.”

“Not at all, Spock,” said Dan.

Spock immediately urged him silent.

“Dude! What do you think you’re doing?” he reproached, wide-eyed. “You can’t just go around saying my true name out loud like that out in the open! Who knows what sinister forces could be listening in on our conversation at this very moment? By day, I would insist that you refer to me by my mundane name.”

He pointed to his name tag, upon which the diminutive was sown.

“Fair enough...Manny,” conceded Dan. “Uh, speaking of sinister forces, are we all set to go?”

“Affirmative,” said Spock. “I have the car stationed out back.”

Spock gave a paranoid glance back to the doorway from whence he came before continuing, leaning over the counter.

“Did you bring the Intel?” he hushed.

“It’s right in here, Sp– Manny,” replied Dan, pointing to his backpack with a cock of the head.

“Excellent,” approved Spock, rubbing his hands. “I’m look forward to exchange our findings. I just need to go wrap up out back. Wait right there, I’ll be right back.”

With surprising speed, the grey-bearded man scurried back into the dungeons of the Larsen Comics building, leaving Dan to himself. A few minutes later, he returned, wearing a grey beret and carrying a backpack of his own, slung over his right shoulder.

“To the Oldsmobile!” he declared, pointing skywards.

Dan followed his companion outside, who led the way around the corner and into the parking area behind Larsen Comics. They found the Oldsmobile hidden in the farthest, most isolated corner of the expanse – a simple precaution, according to Spock – and after a few awkward and clumsy gestures, Spock found the correct key, got inside the car, and unlocked Dan’s door. Once everything was in place, they sped off, blending into the uniformity of Boston traffic.

“So,” started Dan. “A comic book store, huh? How long have you been working there?”

“Since about ‘97, if my memory serves me well,” replied Spock.

“That’s quite a long time,” noted Dan, surprised.

“Yeah, I guess,” acknowledged Spock. “It ain’t too bad, though, all things considered. The fellas and I work a tight ship. And Mister Larsen is the nicest guy you’ll ever meet.”

Dan nodded pensively. He had never worked anywhere for more than a few years himself. He had been working at the Quickway convenience store for almost a year and a half now, and was a deli shop boy for two years before that. And he had no choice, either, with nothing but a GED; a college dropout, he was doomed to wander from post to post in the marketplace, making just enough money to lead a relatively comfortable lifestyle (by his standards, at least).

“Why there, though?” asked Dan.

“It wasn’t too far from where my mother and I lived,” said Spock. “She was the one who introduced me to Mister Larsen.”

“Cool,” said Dan. “Your mom sounds like a nice woman.”

“Oh yeah, she’s fantastic!” said Spock. “She bakes the best chocolate chip cookies in all of Boston!”

“Is that right? Well, perhaps we should pay her a visit one day so that she can make us a batch.”

“We can’t,” said Spock, solemn.

“What do you mean?” asked Dan.

“She...she’s been captured by renegade Romulans.”

Spock seemed distant and aloof all of a sudden, staring ahead with an inexpressive face as he drove.

“Jesus Christ, Manny, will you give that stuff a break –”

“They took her away from me!” interrupted Spock, staring at Dan with crazed eyes. “She’s still out there somewhere, Crow! I know it!”

“Watch the road!” yelled Dan, gripping the driver’s shoulder.

Spock snapped out of his apparent trance and braked hard to prevent crashing into the car in front of them, causing them to lurch forward in their straps with the sound of squealing tires.

“What the hell, man?” cried Dan. “What’s the matter with you?”

“What?” asked Spock. “What are you talking about?”

Spock seemed genuinely unaware of his previous state, blinking his eyes as though he had just awoken from a strange dream.

“...Never mind,” said Dan.

Spock shrugged, eyeing the traffic lights. When it turned green, they sped off; as they crossed the intersection, Dan thought he could hear Spock mumbling to himself.

“...I-I am Spock, son of Sarek of the planet Vulcan, Starfleet officer and sworn protector of the United Federation of Planets...”

But soon enough, all trace of Spock’s apparent lunacy disappeared, and Dan dropped the matter entirely, having accepted his partner’s many quirks a long time ago, not to mention lacking the desire to delve into whatever psychological issues he might – and probably did – have.

The duo remained silent for the remainder of the drive to Malden, parking near the Summerside Apartments complex once they arrived. Spock opened the front door of the ground-level apartment. Dan chucked his backpack on the living room couch while the other meticulously locked the column of keyholes that secured his door. Then, at his host’s behest, Dan assisted in shutting the windows and their curtains. When all the precautions were taken, Spock took out a pack of colas, which he placed on the table in front of the couch where Dan had made himself comfortable.

“I’ll be right back,” he said before being whisked away by the urge to relieve himself.

Dan took the opportunity to take out the First Wave Intel, spreading the files out before him on the coffee table. As he waited for Spock to return, he glanced around, taking stock of all the collectibles adoring the shelves, of the posters and baubles that decorated the rooms of the lofty place. It must have cost a pretty penny, he thought. He began to wonder how exactly Spock was able to afford all of his possessions, considering his lowly job as a comic shop clerk; not to mention that the apartment itself was nice.

At that moment, Spock returned, armed with a shoebox. After catapulting himself onto the chair’s cushion, he propped himself forward, eyeing the Intel Dan had scattered on the table.

“Hey, Spock?” asked Dan. “Where did you get the money to buy all this stuff?”

When Spock didn’t answer, Dan flinched slightly.

“Hey, don’t worry about it,” said an apologetic Dan. “It’s none of my business anyway.”

“What?” asked Spock, looking up from the table. “Oh, that’s alright, Crow, I don’t mind. If you truly must know, in addition to my occupation, I make a lot of money on the side from the ad revenue I generate through Galaxy Truth.”

“Oh,” said Dan, nodding. “That’s cool.”

Spock popped open a can of cola.

“So,” he began, “what do you make of the Intel so far?”

“Not much, unfortunately,” admitted Dan. “These things go way over my head, and I can’t make heads or tails of most of it.”

“Yeah, I’ve had poor luck as well,” said Spock. “I’ve tried researching some elements of interest, but I’ve yet to find anything conclusive. Maybe we should run them down one by one, see what we can find with our combined mental powers.”

Dan nodded in agreement, and Spock uncovered the shoebox to lay his own documents on the wooden surface before them.

“Let’s see...” said Dan. “First, we have files on a handful of random, unconnected individuals: Tobias Drake, Edward Salzburg, Lewis Arcand. All of them are fairly important people; Drake is the head of a large law firm out in Allston, and Arcand here happens to be on the Boston City Council.

“Looks like you found a Shapeshifter fashion catalog,” noted Spock slyly.

“I wouldn’t doubt it,” agreed Dan. “And over here, we have ‘Predicted Synchronizations’. It’s basically a list of various dates, times, and places spanning the last two months, all categorized in columns labelled Insertion and Extraction.”

“Hold on a sec,” said Spock. “If I recall correctly, I have a map here that details Insertion and Extraction points.”

He flipped the map around so that Dan could see it. Various locations were circled with black marker, a large number of which Dan recognized. Checking his own sheets, he found that the locations on the map corresponded to the ones on the Synchronization list.

“Check this out,” said Dan, pointing out the connection. “I guess that these are places where they travel back and forth from wherever the hell it is these guys come from.”

“Interesting,” mused Spock, stroking his goatee. “These specific time tables would suggest that these openings are very narrow. Perhaps they denote periodic, um... windows in the Earth’s magnetic field.”

“Why would they need to know that?” asked Dan.

“Well, given the bio-mechanical nature of the Shapeshifters, their circuitry might be sensitive to strong magnetic fields. I posit that the Romulans must have calculated specific openings in said field so that they can beam them back and forth from the armada currently hidden over on the dark side of the Moon.”

Dan opened his mouth, poised to shoot down the possibility, but, remembering the incident in the car, held his tongue instead.

“So,” assessed Spock. “We’ve managed to establish where they like to hang out. What else?”

“Take a look at these two bad boys,” said Dan, smirking.

Dan took a pair of documents and placed them in the middle of their workspace; one was titled PROJECT HARVESTER, while the other’s heading was PROJECT TITAN. Spock took the Harvester file, flipping through it with great interest.

“Whoa, neat!” exclaimed Spock.

“I can’t make sense of most of it,” started Dan, “but there are some keywords that reoccur throughout the document, like talk about gathering resources and something called The Blight. And in Project TITAN, we have polarity shifts and incubation periods. There’s also mention of someone called The Secretary in both of them. I have no clue who that might be, though.”

Spock’s eyes lit up in recollection at the mention of the name.

“Funny you should mention him,” he said.

He dropped a file titled Project HYBRID beside the currently unused Titan pile. Dan immediately set out to analyze Spock’s documents.

“The Secretary shows up a lot in that one too,” explained Spock, replacing the Harvester file on the table. “He sounds like a pretty important fellow. Whatever the case may be, I think these project files are our best asset against these guys.”

Dan nodded absent-mindedly, still absorbed in Project HYBRID. Once he had scanned the document from cover to cover – which, to his dismay, was as undecipherable as the others – he placed it beside the Harvester and Titan files. He then yawned aloud before rubbing his weary eyes.

“Rough night?” noted Spock.

“Yeah,” said Dan. “I haven’t gotten much sleep these past few days.”

“I hear you, man. You know, I’ve had my fair share of sleepless nights, just sitting there, staring at the ceiling, wondering what could be out there. When you’ve been in this business as long as I have, you tell yourself that you’ve gotten used to it, but you never really do. Still, we can’t ever afford to back down. Persist or perish, as I like to say.”

Dan’s brows burrowed in thought at his partner’s words. Being a legitimate Truth-Seeker was harder than he thought. He imagined that it might eventually take its toll on him, wearing him out until he could no longer go on. Spock did make a good point, though; Dan intended to stay for the long haul, and would have no choice but to persist until the end. But whether he would make it to that end was another question entirely.

He leaned forward in his seat, chin resting upon clasped hands, staring at the trio of documents arranged neatly before him. At that moment, a thought emerged into the forefront of his mind.

“Hey Spock,” he said at length. “Hear me out. So we’ve got Hybrids, Harvesters, and Titans, right? If the Shapeshifters are the First Wave... then do you think these other two might be the ones that are going to come afterward?”

“Well, I suppose,” acknowledged Spock after some thought. “First does imply more than one, after all.”

Dan leaned back in the sofa. Spock fell silent as well, each beginning to grasp the magnitude of what they were dealing with. Dan soon arose from his seat, and started pacing around the room. That there could possibly be more waves to come perturbed him greatly. Not only did they have to contend with the might of the Shapeshifters, who have already proven to be formidable foes, but the ominous nature surrounding the other two names put him on edge. They were already beginning to haunt his conscience, shapeless entities lurking just beyond the shadows.

“How exactly are we supposed to stop these guys?” started Dan after some time, completing another lap around the room. “We’re outnumbered two to potentially thousands. I hate to admit it, but we’re in over our heads at this point. We won’t be able to pull this off by ourselves; look what good that gave us. I mean, sure, we stuck a thorn in their side, but we almost got killed doing it. No... This is bigger than us, Spock.”

Dan seated himself at his original spot. Spock continued to gaze at his partner, taking in every word of his partner’s increasingly impassioned rant.

“If we’re going to fight these guys, we’re going to need some help,” stated Dan.

“Are you suggesting that we form some sort of... civilian resistance movement?” clued Spock. “Hmmm... I like the way you think, Crow.”

The novelty of the idea proved to be merely momentary, however, and Dan soon found himself losing confidence in the feasibility the notion.

“But how are we supposed to find enough people for a resistance?” asked Dan. “It’s not like we can just staple posters to telephone poles and hand out fliers on the street.”

“Then we’ll spread the words by subtler means,” mused Spock. “As you may recall, I am the proprietor of a fairly popular conspiracy website. I can easily spread our message to fellow believers; there’s bound to be a few soldiers who’ll rise to the call.”

Dan nodded, staring out into space as his vision took form. It could work, he figured, if they recruited enough like-minded people. He pictured a secret brotherhood walking the streets of Boston: inconspicuous, law-abiding citizens by day, vigilantes with a mission by night. It would start small, of course, but word of their movement would hopefully propagate to other regions – as Dan had no doubt that the scale of the First Wave was global – and they would amass a force so grand that they could effectively rival the Shapeshifters and whatever other Waves dared to follow.

“Crow!” said Spock suddenly. “Starfleet Command to Crow! Do you read?”

“Uh, what?” asked Dan, resurfacing from his daydream.
“I thought you were going catatonic for a second,” the grey-haired man said. “I said that we’ll need to proceed with caution. I can’t guarantee that many people will come forward to join our crusade. Hell, our plea could fall on deaf ears, for all we know. I think it would be best to adopt the mindset that we’ll be operating solo from here on out, and adjust our strategies if and when others decide to join us.”

“Yeah, I suppose you’re right,” conceded Dan. “So what now?”

“In the meantime, I guess we’ll continue to do what we do best: going out on missions and kicking collective Shapeshifter ass. Oh, speaking of missions, I have another assignment that might interest you.”

“What did you have in mind?” asked an eager Dan.

“I’m set to meet with a contact of mine tomorrow night,” explained Spock, “a man who goes by the name of The Watchdog. He alerted me of a possible First Wave hotspot that he has recently discovered, and has asked me to accompany him on a reconnaissance mission. I’m sure he won’t mind if you tag along.”

“Do you think this Watchdog would be partial to our resistance project?” asked Dan.

“I don’t see why not,” said Spock. “After all, he’s a fellow Truth-Seeker. Furthermore, he’s a known figure in the conspiracy underground, specializing in international cover-ups and seedy government activities and the like. With his help, we can surely reach a wider audience and increase the likelihood of our project’s success.”

“Then it’s settled,” said Dan, clasping his hands in approval. “We’ll go through with this recon mission and approach the Watchdog with our proposition.”

“Until that time, I suggest we continue combing this Intel for additional clues,” said Spock. “I’ll see if I can find any connections with my own documents and cross-reference what I find with the Altar of Truth.”

At that moment, Dan’s stomach emitted a feeble growl, as though it were a third party that had been neglected a say in their affairs up to that point. Spock’s head snapped in direction of the Cylon-themed clock fixed on the wall.

“Six-thirty already?” asked Spock. “Geez, time sure flies by when you’re busy plotting the downfall of your enemies.”

“Here, here!” said Dan in jest, holding out his can of cola.

Spock mimicked the gesture, and the two noisily siphoned what little there remained in their respective cans before replacing them on the table.

“How’s about we head across the street for some pizza?” Spock then asked, rising from his seat and stretching his back.

“Sounds great.”

They put away the heap of papers and folders on the table into Spock’s special box. Once all the necessities were dealt with, the pair left through the apartment door. An orange hue covered a dusking Malden, the waning sunlight reluctantly giving way to elongating shadows. After Spock locked the apartment door, they crossed the street in direction of the pizzeria.

“You know what?” said Dan as he held the pizzeria door open. “I have a good feeling about this.”

*************

They're back with vengeance...sort of.

Looks like Spock and Crow wish to start a movement. Will they bite off more than they can chew?

Who knows (other than me, of course)? I guess the only way to find out (without me outright spoiling you all) would be to stay tuned...

The next chapter is Witness-centric. It's an important one, because it really puts the story into motion. So brace yourselves.

See you guys (or at least, those actually reading O.o) in a few days.

[Omniscient_Jay]

Chapter 3: Fatal Error


“Activate Event Protocol
Location Sector Beta-2 [50.11/08.682/03.57]
Time at 12:46:31 AM Local
[Priority code 3141]”


The clouds hung low over the Römerberg that day, pale and grey-stroked, with a pallid sun barely visible through the near-opaque blanket covering the sky. And while it was not too cold, humidity clung to the air, portending to eventual rainfall. Summer was all but dead at that point, having succumbed to its fate with a whimper rather than choosing to fight the oncoming autumn, and the people of Frankfurt cast disdainful glances at the greying skies that had plagued them since the transition to the equinox.

Activity was slowly dwindling now that noon had passed, but the square was still bumbling with the clamour of citizens and tourists alike as they went along their day. The few shops and boutiques, though emptier than they were but a half hour ago, still held a fair number of patrons. At one of the many tables at the square’s outskirts sat a suited man, partially concealed by one of parasols that sheltered the outdoor tables of the coffee shop. From this particular vantage point, he could survey the plaza in its entirety, which is why he chose to sit there in the first place.

He had passed through the Römerberg many times before. The fifteenth-century houses that formed the eastern face of the square, the medieval-era church of St. Nicholas to his left, the Fountain of Justice that sat in the center of the plaza, upon which stood a stone Justitia, standing tall and proud with the scales of justice in her hand; all of them commonplace sights that became more endearing to him every time he saw them. And on the other side of the plaza, opposite of the coffee shop, was the Römer itself, the six hundred year old namesake of the square. He was particularly fond of the building; its facade was appealing to his eyes, and he stared at it for several minutes. Its post-World War Two restoration was certainly a fine architectural work, but nothing could ever quite top the rustic charm of the original building.

He should know. After all, he was there when they first built it.

He sometimes yearned to go back to the day of its completion, to see the Römer in its prime once more. When he concentrated hard enough, he could discern a vague silhouette superimposed onto the building, echoes of a bygone era bouncing back to him through the annals of History. There were many such structures, many sights that he wished to revisit again, but alas, it was impossible for him to go back.

None of them could.

A waitress approached him, interrupting his observations.

‘‘Kann ich Ihnen einen Kaffee anbieten, Herr?’’ she asked.

‘‘Nein, danke,’’ he replied, declining her offer of coffee.

She then left, leaving March to his affairs.

The Witness peered through his specs for a second time, fact-checking all the acquired data and defining all the variables. With Frankfurt’s proximity to the Central European Event Zone, it was a veritable spawning ground for significant Events, and was thus of great interest to the Witnesses. And the coming Event held more significance than the rest, thereby allotting it the status of a Major Event as opposed to a Minor one.

He checked his pocket watch one last time. The methods by which the humans measured time had always fascinated him. Being a Witness, he was far better acquainted with the continuous reality of time’s flow than they were, but even so, he still admired the rhythmic and cyclical qualities of the systems they have devised. The hourglass in particular was one of his favourites. He once purchased one in 1472, and spent the afternoon of that day observing every single speck of sand as they fell one by one, only to flip the hourglass to restart the process anew when they had all fallen. He wondered what time-telling devices they would devise next.

But he would have little time to think about it further. He swiftly replaced the watch in his pocket and raised his head to better observe the unfolding scene.

It had begun.

A trio of men made their entrance onto the plaza, darkly-clothed and black-capped. They carried themselves casually, the middle one transporting a briefcase. Those they passed wondered who they could be or what their occupation was, only to set aside their theories as they continued along their own paths. The group came to a halt in the center of the square in front of the fountain, facing the Römer. March identified them as members of a group known as Apotheosis, one of many bio-terrorist cells that operated around the world. They have come to Frankfurt to host a demonstration of a bio-weapon for a potential client, which, in this case, was the Old World Society. March could discern their representative now, a bespectacled man who sat on a bench in the distance; he was smirking, and he glanced up periodically from the newspaper he was reading.

With the other two men standing guard with arms crossed behind their backs, the middle man – whom March identified as Julian Klein – set his briefcase down and opened it, removing a canister from inside. He then placed it upright on the ground, inputting a series of codes on a keypad embedded in its side. People continued to walk about in the meantime, staring with curiosity as they went to the men and their intriguing activities. But the men of Apotheosis paid no mind to them, standing with arms crossed behind their backs as Klein methodically modified the canister to its intended specifications. Once the setup was complete, he twisted the top, and the trio walked away as nonchalantly as they had arrived, leaving the imperceptible contents of the canister to leak into the atmosphere.

A middle aged man began to sweat, tugging on his collar. He then started to wheeze profusely and stumbled in his steps, kneeling down from the strain on his chest. A woman, noticing the man lurching forward with great difficulty, approached him with great concern. But just as she was about to place her hand on his shoulder, he turned around, gazing with terrified eyes at his outstretched forearms, which were slowly bending down as though being reduced to gelatine-like consistency. The woman screamed aloud, and the man’s own pleading yells became nothing but a gurgling noise as his head deflated and his body slumped to the ground. With his bones reduced to a gelatinous slush, there was nothing to support his weight; only a deformed mass of skin, body tissue and organs remained.

Others now began to cough as well, stumbling forward as they too suffered the disintegration of their skeletal structures. The rest of the Römerberg was well aware of the situation at this point, and began fleeing the scene in disorganized panic. But the bone-dissolving toxin was spreading fast, and managed to ensnare many innocent lives. March sat placid amidst the chaos, observing all possible outcomes, ensuring that those who were meant to die did, and that those who weren’t fled the scene. The bespectacled man also made his exit, taking the carnage as his cue to disappear into the departing throng.

Julian Klein continued to push his way through the seemingly interminable fray. When he looked back, however, he saw one of his colleagues gasping for air, nose bleeding, while the other was already dead. Cursing, he turned around to flee with renewed haste, only to violently collide with another man, knocking them both to the ground. Klein got on his feet, slightly dazed. He began to press forward with a potential exit in sight when he was suddenly seized by a fit of coughing. Blood trickled from his lips, and he winced in pain, veins protruding on his face as he was forced to kneel from the effects of the bio-weapon.

With faltering strength, Klein fumbled to retrieve the syringe that he brought as a fail-safe in case of potential contamination, the antidote which his comrades had failed to administer themselves with. March observed it all from where he sat, unmoving, satisfied with how smoothly the Event was unfolding. Klein’s imminent death would mark the end of the Event, and March would then depart with another successful mission under his belt. Under his watchful eye, Klein removed a syringe from his coat, gripping it with a shaking arm, his entire body shuddering and wracking from the coughs. He wrestled with himself in a desperate attempt to bring the syringe to his neck, and his arm stayed at the same height, unable to bring it up any further.

But something was wrong.

The scales suddenly tipped in Klein’s favour. Slowly, but steadily, the needle began moving closer and closer to his jugular. March was instantly alarmed, and doubled his focus to control the situation. But it felt as though something was interfering with him, an outside force competing with his perception; it was a jarring, unexpected sensation, and he fought to maintain supremacy over the Event’s outcome. But March found himself quickly losing the struggle over Klein’s fate, and in moments, it was too late. Summoning the last of his strength, Klein dug the syringe into his neck, and he bowed forward with ragged breaths as the antidote took effect. Shortly afterward, the Apotheosis member seized himself and fled the nearly empty scene, limping forward into one of the many alleys branching from the Römerberg.

March watched in shock as the repercussions of the Event’s outcome instantly rippled outwards in space and time at the speed of light, changing the intended course of the future as decreed by the Directive and consequently giving rise to an Irregularity. The Witness stared at the body-littered square, transfixed, condemning his mistake. Irregularities were occurrences in nature that normally arose due to factors outside the control of the Witnesses. There hasn’t been many to date – thirty-three had occurred in both Sectors since the Witnesses first came to be – and they have all been relatively easy to correct.

The only Irregularity in which they were ever at fault was created by September’s hand, when he caused Walter Bishop of Sector-1 from witnessing the successful stabilization of the cure that was to heal his son of his fatal condition. But through September’s efforts, the situation was resolved, and the Boy managed to survive. March was in a less dire predicament, of course, as the Boy’s survival was far more important than any Event that had unfolded thus far, but in no way did that lessen the severity of his mistake.

The Witness continued to stare at the deserted scene. He first thought of the obvious consequences. Klein’s survival was changing things in ways March already could not wholly predict. Being alive, his continued interaction with reality would undoubtedly have a huge impact on the impending weapons sale. Then he wondered how his fellow Witnesses would react. September’s own mistake, though for the most part forgiven due to the measures he took to correct it, still remained in everyone’s mind whenever they looked at him; March himself was ambivalent towards the Crépuscule Division Witness, but he knew others have been questioning his ability to perform ever since.

And then there was the Overseer. He would definitely be highly displeased, if not outright furious. There was nothing worse in his mind than having to suffer his scorn, an opinion shared by all of his fellow agents. It had only happened a few times, thankfully, mostly in beginning when their training was underway in the halls of Für Immer, but enduring his reproaches was almost as gruelling as some of the training they went through. And that was just training, where the stakes were not as high.

He remembered when September returned after the Overseer had summoned him in 1985, berating him for what he did, like a parent scolding their child. He was unusually silent and reserved for several days after the fact.

Unfortunately for March, he did not have September’s experience in dealing with the humans, nor his above-average grasp of their craft, and it would be much more difficult to argue his case in front of the Overseer; he already began to dread the inevitable moment of his superior’s return.

Then his mind turned to the long-term repercussions. The outcome of the Event would undoubtedly change the course of the Silent War in ways that would not be readily obvious. The Witnesses were going to have a hard time trying to set things on their intended course once more, and the longer it took, the slimmer the probabilities of succeeding became. It was a disheartening prospect, made more acute knowing that his mishap was the cause.

He suddenly returned to his senses when he perceived the swirling form of the transparent gas fast approaching his current position. Swiftly, he gathered his belongings and retreated to the refuge of an adjoining alleyway, beyond the expanding reach of the thinning gas cloud. A few twists and turns later, he found himself on the streets of Frankfurt, which were slowly being emptied as people caught wind of the nearby incident. A squad of police cars whizzed pass, sirens ablaze. March remained neutral in all the commotion, but only outwardly so, for anxiety brewed within him, gnawing at his conscience.

He would have to report to the Arbiter. There wasn’t much else he could do at that point; after all, the others were probably already aware of the Irregularity. However, he figured that if he stepped forward and accepted responsibility for his actions instead of waiting for the others to approach him, then perhaps the consequences would be less dire, even if only marginally.

March stopped at an intersection. Something caught his attention at that moment; he saw a dark blot in the distance in the corner of his eye, moving along the Frankfurt Skyline. It went along so fast that he barely had time to register it, even with his superior temporal vision. And before he knew it, the shape was out of sight. It was odd occurrence, but he was forced to dismiss it, instead preparing himself to answer for his mistake, something that he most certainly did not look forward to.

He closed his eyes, braced for the trials ahead. And in the next second, he was gone, leaving but an inconspicuous whirlwind of dust at the intersection where he stood but a moment ago.

*********

Dun, dun, dun!

At last, the inciting incident in this magnificent tale.

Things are going to get a lot rough here on out, so ready yourselves for the unexpected...

The next chapter will be Dan-centric, where he and Spock meet with the Watchdog to scope out the First Wave hotspot. What Truths will they discover?

There are two way to find out. I could tell you, or you could read it in a few days from now when I post it.

Oh, and don't be afraid to leave feedback here; it's not like it's going to cause an Irregularity or something if you do.

See you at the next update, folks.

Love and Light.

[Omniscient_Jay]

Chapter 4: Watchers in the Night


A brown Oldsmobile scurried along in the darkness of Watertown, coming to a steady halt as it made a turn on Rosedale Road and entered a dusty old lot behind nearby buildings. Once parked, Dan emerged and stepped out onto the lot, followed shortly by Spock. He took the scene in, noting the decommissioned vehicles and large panel doors encrusted in the rear face of the building before him – an auto repair shop, he surmised – which delimited the western side of the lot’s enclosure. A few lamps were affixed to the other buildings, whose light eclipsed an otherwise starry sky. The night was cool and brisk, and Dan exhaled cloudy jets as Spock rummaged through the trunk of his car in search of their backpacks.

Once found, the two grabbed their respective bags before Spock closed the trunk’s lid. They had already prepared themselves at Dan’s apartment – much as they had done on their previous outing – donning the same dark, mundane clothing, along with the aluminum foil-lined bean caps which Dan continued to find bothersome. Regardless, he silently tolerated his discomfort as he trailed behind Spock to intercept the individual who came to meet them.

The man was younger than Dan by a few years, and was of lanky build. He too bore the standard Truth-seeker uniform of dark and concealing clothing, though his beanie was only partially placed upon his head, sticking up on the summit of his long, shaggy brown hair which he periodically swept to the side with a sweep of the hand. There was aloofness to his eyes, which were small and perpetually squinting, as though he had just then awakened from sleep; Dan thought to himself that he might possibly be a stoner.

Coming near the duo, he cracked a warm smile and made a Vulcan salute with a gloved hand, a gesture Spock immediately reciprocated.

“The great Spock comes!” said the man wryly. “I’m glad you could make it, man.”

“Likewise, good sir,” replied Spock with a slight inclination.

The man then eyed the stranger who stood at Spock’s side; the grey-bearded man quickly caught on and presented Dan to his acquaintance.

“Watchdog, I’d like you to meet my esteemed colleague, Crow,” he said.

“Ah, yes, the fabled Crow,” said Watchdog as he shook Dan’s hand. “Spock has told me much about you.”

“Call me Dan,” he responded. “Daniel Thompson.”

“Gary Saunders,” said Watchdog. “You know, I’ve seen your footage of the First Wave ambush from a while back. That was something else, man. Tales of your exploits are spreading through the underground like wildfire. If you keep it up, you’ll become a full-on celebrity in no time.”

“Um... thanks,” replied Dan, unaccustomed to being lauded with such praise. “So, where are we off to tonight?”

“Right,” said Gary. “So, there’s like this lawn care equipment store not too far from here that I have reason to suspect to be a hide-out for the shifters.”

“Are you sure they’re First Wave?” asked Dan.

“No doubt about it, man,” said Gary. “Check it out. Around three weeks ago, I stumbled upon a couple of shifter eggs and followed them from afar once they hatched.”

“Shapeshifters lay eggs?” asked Dan, incredulous.

“I’m not sure,” specified Gary. “They looked more like some sort of weird, fleshy organic incubation pods than actual eggs. Anyway, so I’m hiding out, right, and I watch them ambush these two unsuspecting soccer moms and take on their identities – ‘cause they didn’t have a human identity yet, you know. After that, I followed them to the store. Since then, I’ve been keeping tabs on activities in that general area.”

Dan tried to imagine what a shapeless Shapeshifter would look like; the only thing that came to mind was a hazy, vaguely humanoid shadow. He shuddered.

“Sounds like the real deal to me,” said Spock, stroking his goatee. “What’s the plan?”

“Alright, listen up, guys,” said Gary before kneeling down to the ground.

The others followed suit, and watched as Gary traced out the perimeter of the Rickman Equipment and Supplies Store in the dirt.

“So this is their base, right,” he began. “You have the main building here, and this whole area is the back lot. They have a shifter or two guarding the front gates at all times. Also, it’s very likely that the main lot probably has security cameras or some other type of surveillance, so we can’t risk entering the premises directly.”

He drew a wavy line behind his map of the establishment.

“Luckily for us, the Charles River runs behind the place.”

“We’re not going to have to swim, are we?” asked Dan.

“Don’t worry about it, man,” assured Gary. “There’s like this scenic path or whatever that runs along the riverside. So what I’ll do is I’ll lead the way around the block past a park just east from here, and we’ll enter the trail from there. We’ll then walk upriver until we get behind the back lot, and then climb the trees at its perimeter. The trees will give us a good vantage point for surveillance, and the brush also doubles as cover, so the chances of getting spotted are significantly reduced, you know.”

“That’s a pretty solid plan you have there,” said Dan.

“Playing tons of RTS games help,” joked Gary. “So, are there any objections?”

“None from me,” said Spock.

“Alrighty, then,” said Gary. “Follow my lead.”

The trio departed, with the Watchdog slightly ahead of the pack. When they came to the edge of the parking lot, Gary raised his hand, bidding the rest to stop. He then inched onto the sidewalk, and, seeing that the coast was clear, beckoned them forth with a wave. Spock followed with a cautious, almost feline prowl, while Dan remained at the rear, keeping an eye behind them. They opted to stay away from the streets for the most part, instead cutting across parking lots and behind buildings, clinging to the shadows as often as they were able to.

They soon came upon Pleasant Street, and quickly crossed to the other side where an access point to the riverside path was found. Once there, they continued along the gentle and undulating curves of river, whose surface shimmered with the light of the stars. It took a solid five minutes before they reached the compound. They crouched along the fence and knelt behind the trees, placing their bags at their feet. Dan moved some brush aside and peered through the fence’s mesh to see if there was any activity on the lot, but his periphery was limited by surrounding plants, and he could only make out a small section of the area.

“Okay, guys,” hushed Gary. “We’ll set ourselves up at equal intervals. Spock, you take the far left. I’ll take the right, and Dan will take the middle. That way, we’ll have eyes on the entire lot. We’ll communicate exclusively with these walkie-talkies; make sure you keep the volume low and set them on channel two. If anyone sees anything, let the rest know.”

Spock and Gary sped off in either direction, leaving Dan to the mercy of the night. With an apprehensive sigh, he began climbing the nearest tree. He tried to make as little noise as possible, which made the ascent painstakingly strenuous; he winced at every rustle of leaves he inadvertently made, fearing that a nearby Shapeshifter would hear him and lunge into the tree and drag him to the ground below. And he reached an appropriate height, it was even harder to find a comfortable position, as the winding branches weren’t exactly tailored to accommodate human rump. Nevertheless, he eventually found a suitable location, sitting in lotus position while resting his back against the trunk. There was a nearby stub that erupted from the tree just across from him, and he placed his pack upon it, using it as an easily accessible hook. His new-found nest properly furnished, Dan summoned a pair of binoculars to survey the scene.

Though the foliage blocked access to the sky, he held a decent view of the lot below, and make out the entire rear face of the building. The right half of the store’s rear section jutted out; a large, white panel door was embedded in the diagonal wall connecting that section to the other half. Near this panel door – which Dan guessed was the loading dock – was singular door, set in the left, receding portion of the store’s posterior facade. The rest of the area was nondescript; he didn’t spot any security cameras either. Either the Shapeshifters weren’t programmed with common sense, or they figured that of all places, a lawn care accessory store would be the last place a human would care to break-in and rob.

Unless that human’s name was Daniel Thompson.

“Dan, do you copy?” asked Gary’s voice through Dan’s transceiver. “Over.”

“Loud and clear,” replied Dan. “Uh...over.”

“How’s it looking so far? Over.”

“There doesn’t seem to be any significant activity. Over.”

“Yeah, the right-hand corridor is clean as well. I also checked in with Spock, and he says he can see someone posted out by the front gate, but nothing else is going on. I guess we’ll have to sit tight for awhile, then. If you see anything, let me know. Over and out.”

Silence fell. Dan remained still, watching the compound and keeping an eye out for any suspicious development. As time when on, Dan had to periodically change positions in order to ward off the numbness and cramping that took hold of his legs and hindquarters.

“Hey, Gary?” asked Dan. “Do you read? Over.”

“Go ahead,” he replied. “Over.”

“What have you gathered about this place up to now? Over.”

“Not much, man,” admitted Gary. “There’s a decent amount of traffic during the day, but it’s impossible to tell shifter activity from legitimate business with actual customers, you know. And I’ve surveyed the place a few times now, but I haven’t gotten anything conclusive yet. Over.”

Dan acquiesced with a nod. The Shapeshifters probably did have to keep their public fronts operational if they were to maintain the illusion of normalcy, he supposed.

“...There might be something else, though,” said Gary after some time. “Over.”

“What is it?”

“Well,” he began, “at one point, I decided to walk by the front of the compound – to get a good look at the place, you know. As I pretended to tie my shoes, this guy walks up to one of the guards out front, and he says ‘Hey, you guys wouldn’t happen to have any John Deere lawn mowers here, would ya?’ Then the guard says ‘As a matter of fact, we do. Just head out back that way and the guys will hook you up.’ And then he lets the guy in through the gate. The whole exchange felt pretty ‘off’ to me, which is probably the only reason I even remember it now. I don’t know if it has any greater significance than that, though. Over.”

“Do you remember if he asked for a specific model?” inquired Dan. “Over.”

“I think it was a 6055R Waterloo Boy,” replied Gary. “Over.”

“That must be their password,” surmised Dan.

“...Password?” asked Gary.

“They seem to base their passwords on non-existent models for things. I guess it’s so that the Shapeshifters can easily identify one another. And I’ll bet you anything that this “Waterloo Boy” model doesn’t even exist. Over.”

It was silent for a moment until Spock called in on his radio, clearly munching on some snacks that he had brought along.

“Be advised that... there’s a truck coming in through the... western gate... Over.”

Dan’s sight whipped to the left; through his binoculars, he saw a truck appear onto the premises, coming to a park near the perimeter of the lot and causing Dan to tense up due to their proximity. A man came outside of the building just as the driver and his passenger stepped down from the vehicle. The three congregated at the side of the truck and conversed; they were just close enough so that Dan could make out what they were saying.

“Has everything been accounted for?” asked the man from Rickman, apparently in charge of the establishment.

“One crate of M-Shots, a shipment of ammunition, and brand new filters for the Incubation Tanks, just as you guys ordered,” said the driver. “By the way, how are those Titans coming along?”

“Gestation is on schedule,” said the leader. “They’re almost at eight weeks now, so once they’re ripe, we’ll ship them to the facility in Newark for acclimatization.”

“Sounds great,” said the moustachioed passenger. “You know, word is that first fully adapted Titans have matured at a facility in Switzerland.”

“Is that right?” said the leader, pleasantly surprised. “Well, they surely won’t be the last. I’ll have the others carry the shipment inside.”

With that, the leader returned inside the building, leaving the other two to open the truck’s rear panel outside of earshot. As they busied themselves, Dan placed a call to Spock.

“Dude! Did you hear what I just heard?”

“Sure did,” whispered Spock with the same enthusiasm. “Looks like we hit the motherload! Over.”

“Hey, fellas,” hushed Gary. “What exactly is a Titan supposed to be? Over.”

“We’re not quite sure yet,” explained Dan, “but from what we can tell -”

“You can tell him all about them later, Crow,” interrupted Spock, who was able to butt in when Dan’s thumb slid off the transceiver’s button. “They’re coming back now. Maintain radio silence. Over.”

The white panel door of the store’s loading dock was opened, and out came a quartet of Shapeshifters, with two of them rolling a large trolley to the truck. Working in tandem with the drivers, they placed a large crate onto the trolley, which they then transported back inside the loading dock, going back and forth for every such crate and carrying the smaller boxes by hand. The head Shapeshifter reappeared, addressing the delivery men as the final few goods were whisked away.

“Might as well take care of the formalities,” said the leader. “How much do I owe you?”

“That’ll be two hundred and twenty-five dollars,” said the driver.

The leader summoned his due amounts and placed them in the delivery man’s outstretched hands, who placed the bills in his pockets before returning a receipt of the exchange. The main held the sheet of paper in front of him, read it with apparent disinterest and, with a sly smile, tore it to shreds. The trio chuckled heartily at the display. The delivery men then entered their truck and the leader bid them farewell before returning inside.

And silence befell the nigh, the compound returning to its once inactive state.

“Alright, gents, I think that’ll do for tonight,” declared Gary. “Let’s regroup below.”

Dan complied, grabbing his pack and shimmying down the tree, landing on the ground with a thud. His eyes were well-adjusted to the darkness at that point, and he could see the forms of his partners as they approached his position. Once they had regrouped, Gary led the way back up the path. It was only when they reached the streets again that the trio dared to break the silence.

“Well, I think it’s safe to say that the mission was a success,” said Dan, walking backwards as he faced the others.

“It may be a little soon for celebration, Crow,” warned Spock. “Now we not only have to contend with the Shapeshifters, but now we have Titans to worry about as well. Not to mention the Harvesters, too, whatever the hell those might be.”

“I guess you’re right,” recanted Dan. “What do you think about all this, Gary?”

“I think they’re building an army.”

Dan and Spock fell silent at the foreboding possibility.

“Think about it,” he continued. “The First Wave is an invasion force sent to blend in with their enemy – which would be us. My guess is that the shifters are paving the way for whatever comes next. I mean, you don’t start an invasion unless you’re planning to go to war, right?”

“Maybe,” said Dan. “But if they do want to start a war, then maybe we should be the ones to strike first.”

The trio turned into the dusty lot where their vehicles were stationed, coming to a stop in the middle of the terrace.

“What do you mean?” asked Gary. “Are you saying that we form a band of vigilantes and go guerrilla on these guys?”

“Think of it more as a civilian resistance,” explained Dan. “It’s an idea Spock and I have been discussing recently. The way I figure, we need to gather as many people who are willing to fight for the cause before it’s too late. I mean, the entirety of the human race might be at stake, for all we know.”

“It could work,” mused Gary, stroking his chin as he humoured the idea. “It would start small, of course, but with time, and enough recruits, it could potentially end up becoming an entire movement. I see people talking about uniting their forces all the time, but few ever actually go through with it, and those that do never really achieve much because they lack the numbers to do so. Maybe it’s about time that someone did something of value for once.”

“So you’re in, then?” asked Dan.

“Yeah, man, totally!” agreed Gary. “I’ll start spreading the word as soon as possible to my followers.”

“And I’ll do the same,” said Spock. “With our combined resources, we can easily reach a widespread population.”

“We’ll need a name for our organization, though,” said Gary.

“I’ve been thinking about that, actually,” said Dan. “How about we call it The Liberation Front? It’s to the point and memorable, not to mention that it rolls nicely off the tongue.”

“Yeah, I like it,” approved Gary. “Alright, it’s official then. To the Liberation Front!”

The Watchdog stretched his fist forward. Dan and Spock did the same, all three sets of knuckles colliding in an act marking the foundation of their resistance project.

“We’ll keep in touch,” said Gary, saluting his comrades as he left for his car.

Spock and Dan lingered at the scene while the Watchdog departed in his vehicle, rolling out of sight.

“Alright, Crow,” said Spock, patting his partner on the shoulder. “We’d better get going.”

Emmanuel then made for the Oldsmobile, jingling his keys in his hand. Dan stood for a moment, staring up at the sky and reveling in the initial breakthrough of his vision. He wasn’t confident in the idea at first, but as their aspirations for the resistance gradually concretized, a sense of excitement grew within him. Perhaps now they would have an actual fighting chance against the Waves of the invasion force. Content, he exhaled deeply and turned to rejoin Spock.

But as he did, he caught something in the corner of his eye. He made a double-take, only to see, at the very end of the lot and across the street, a suited man, peering at him through a small pair of binoculars.

The Man in Black.

Dan had almost forgotten about the mysterious figure. He remembered when he saw him the night they escaped from the wrecked outpost, looking back at him – through him – with a gaze that had an almost physical weight to it. Dan wasn’t even sure the man was real, that maybe the stress of the mission had caused him to hallucinate.

Realizing that he had been spotted – although Dan wondered if he had already foreseen that he would be – the Man in Black sheathed his specs, standing tall and erect and without motion in the artificial light of the streetlamp above him.

“Spock!” he exclaimed, eyes remaining locked on mysterious man. “Do you see that?”

Spock took his head out of the trunk, scouring the night with wary eyes.

“I don’t know,” said Spock. “What exactly am I looking for?”

Dan glanced back at his partner, flabbergasted that he couldn’t see what was clearly in front of him. But when he looked back at the road, the man was nowhere in sight.

“Damn it!” said Dan.

He bolted to the edge of the lot, stopping in the middle of the road and scanning left and right for any sign of the suited man; but it was too late.

The Man in Black was gone.

Spock caught up with his partner, caught off guard by his impulsive behaviour.

“What was that all about?” he said, panting.

“Dude, I saw the Man in Black again,” said Dan. “He was right there on the sidewalk, staring right at me.”

“Well, I guess he must have teleported when you weren’t looking or something,” said Spock. “The Men in Black are a pretty elusive bunch, after all.”

“Yeah, but why the hell is he following me around?” asked Dan.

“Maybe you should ask him next time he shows up,” suggested Spock. “Anyway, there’s no use in standing around here. It’s getting kinda late. Come on, I’ll give you a lift back to your place.”

Dan gazed down the road once last time, and followed Spock in resignation. He had a feeling that this eerie stalker of his knew exactly was going on, and in all probability, even more. As the pair shuttled down the streets in the brown Oldsmobile, Dan stared out the window, scanning the darkness in the faint hope that he might spot the outline of a figure carrying a briefcase and sporting a neat fedora.

He wouldn’t let him get away so easily next time.

**********

Something devious is afoot at Rickman's...

I wonder how Spock and Crow - or, should I say, the Liberation Front - will do about this Titan problem.

Unfortunately, the next Dan-centric is Chapter 8. But don't be too discouraged; in the meantime, we'll be seeing the fallout of March's mistake, as well as how the Witnesses will try to correct it.

Plus, we get some POV from other players in this complicated game...

That is all for now. Expect Chapter 5 this coming Monday.

Once again, Love and Light to you all.

[Omniscient_Jay]

Chapter 5: Pariahs


A resonant din – a blend of chattering voices, mechanical pounds, and electric hums, topped with periodic announcements made by disembodied voices in the intercoms above – reverberated across Frankfurt International Airport. Formless clouds of people went about in every direction; they were almost ant-like in their procession, mingling and scurrying along, the light, sleek frame of the airport complex acting as their hive.

It was nearing two o’clock in the afternoon when a group of these people began congregating outside Gate B-5, which was located alongside the rest of the B-series in the eastern wing of the terminal. They gathered behind the steel guardrail in loose formation, keeping an eye out for any sign of those they awaited. The white tile floor and silver facade of the gate ahead contrasted with the vibrant, warm colours plastered on the side walls of the entryway, scenes painted in the reds and yellows and blacks of the German nation.

September stood idly among the fluid crowd, watching the gateway as they were, albeit much more intently. He had acquired a certain affinity for airport atmosphere; the ambient humdrum stimulated his senses, while lights and colours emanating from various sources, natural or otherwise, blended together in an appealing way. He thought it unfortunate that airports were but a relatively recent creation, and that he seldom had any reason to be in one.

His sights quickly turned to the gate, perceiving the temporal precursors of the oncoming passengers of a plane landing fresh from Logan International. Moments later, an influx of arrivals entered the scene, carrying their belongings with them. They craned their necks around, searching for faces familiar to them; those on the other side of the fence did likewise, signalling to their target when they spotted them. Many reunions ensued: relatives and friends gathered, business partners greeted each other, strangers met in person for the first time. And a few were lone travelers, weaving through seas of individuals to pursue their own personal matters.

September’s eyes sorted through the parade of passengers, searching for someone familiar to him as well, a woman just as important to his organization as the other passengers were for those who welcomed them, and in some ways, even more. He now started to see an ethereal projection turn out of the entrance, a continuous, elongating fluid bubble in the shape of a woman in her thirties. Her hair was blond and fell straight to her shoulders, and she wore a simple black suit garnished with a simple white blouse underneath.

The Witness continued to observe – or rather, pre-observe – Special Agent Olivia Dunham as she stepped off the plane and made her way to meet with Lucas Vogel, a man who was many things to Olivia, but for now was her best bet to obtaining the audience she sought with David Robert Jones. To September, however, she was but one thing.

A Subject.

He remembered the day when the Overseer had officially decreed her as a Subject in 1981, when Colonel James Dunham had agreed to enlist his daughter in Doctors Bishop and Bell’s Cortexiphan Trials, using a daycare facility near a military base in Jacksonville as cover. A few other children from the trials were declared Subjects around the same time, and one or two more in the years to follow. But according to Mercedony, none were as significant as Olivia. And September had a sense what he spoke of when he looked upon her. His understanding of Subjects and their roles was limited, however; the Overseer often refrained from explaining the reasoning behind his decisions, only doling out the information necessary for his agents to carry out their assignments.

Besides, September had never really concerned himself with asking questions.

She was very close now; he perceived the astral silhouette that was to become Olivia look in his direction. Her senses were keener than most, he knew, and he could not risk her spotting him there. He broke away from the dwindling masses just as Olivia walked on scene, armed with the knowledge that she had arrived safely in Sector Beta.

The skies outside were clear and blue save for a grey wave of eastbound clouds galloping in the city’s general direction. The airport’s main entrance was a very busy area, where a continuous flow of people entered and exited the building like the erythrocytes of a circulatory system. A sudden strong wind came howling from above, causing the edges of September’s suit to ruffle. He decided to don his fedora, not because of the cold, but because the sweeping gusts caused an unwelcome tickling sensation as they slithered across his exposed scalp. He observed the unfolding scene for a moment, breaking things down to all of their constituents as he had the habit of doing, before heading off down the sidewalk.

As he walked, he took out his MultiCell, flipping it open and dialing on the keys.

“I have arrived,” said September. “The oversight of the Subject has proceeded without complication.”

“Excellent,” replied the Arbiter of the Aube Division his very grave, powerful voice. “I will send you the coordinates for the rendezvous point shortly.”

The brief exchange ended, and a string of numbers then appeared on the round screen. With a press of a few keys, the interface changed to that of a small map, with the Witness represented by a red dot that pinged every few seconds. He replaced the device in his pocket, taking note of where he needed to go. When he was certain than he wasn’t being actively observed, he changed his probable location, ending up in the neighbourhood of Griesheim. He continued walking for awhile and, when unobserved once more, jumped again, this time to Gallusviertel. And whenever the opportunity presented itself, he would jump to yet another part of town, getting closer and closer to his destination every time he used the Roads Less Traveled By.

Frankfurt, like other cities scattered across Sector Beta, held a distinctive quality to it that September found alluring in a way, a nameless quality which he had observed was far less present in the cities of Sector Alpha. Being assigned to the Crépuscule Division, the Witness did not travel there often, as his division primarily oversaw events in the Atlantic Seaboard Event Zone, but his rare, brief sojourns to across the Atlantic Ocean have always been enjoyable ones. The history of the land was almost tangible there, saturating the soil that he currently walked upon. Skyscrapers stood side by side with centuries-old historical landmarks, a collision of worlds both old and new, with citizens equally as varied in their ages and experiences stepping past them. And the more he focused his fine-tuned perception, the farther in the past he could see them all, reviewing and replaying their journey through space and time at his own leisure.

He was in Bockenheim now, making a left turn on a street that banked downhill. He then proceeded to past through a small way bordered by trees, marking the entrance to the Grüneburgpark. He followed the coordinates on his Cell down a long, winding path, leading him at last to a small row of unoccupied picnic tables. Seeing as none were present, he had no other choice but to wait.

So he waited.

“Greetings,” said January as he pulled up beside him, having just arrived via the RLTB.

September looked over to see the Arbiter of the Aube Division. He was imposing in stature, with a tall frame and wide shoulders. The naked ridges of his brows were thick, and his nose was slender and aquiline against his square, angular face and strong jaw line. In one large hand, he held the standard Witness briefcase, while the other clenched two bags of food.

“I have taken the liberty of bringing you some as well,” he continued, passing a bag to September. “Come, sit. Eat.”

He responded to the Arbiter’s beckon, and the two seated themselves at one of the tables. September reached into his bag to pull out two ham and smoked meat sandwiches, topped with horseradish mustard and squeezed neatly between fresh Kaiser Buns. They devoured the sandwiches as they spoke.

“I trust that the module has been secured,” said January between bites.

“It has,” assured September. “It is in the briefcase.”

“May I see it?” asked January, having already finished his meal.

“Certainly.”

After licking what mustard remained on his fingertips, January set aside his wrappers to make room for the briefcase, spinning it around as he did. His large index finger flipped the dials of the combination lock, and with a satisfying click, the case opened. September watched with poorly-bated curiosity as the Arbiter removed the module from its insulating nest to place it on the wooden table.

The device was circular, about the circumference of a large dinner plate. The body was flattened and conical in appearance, navy in hue, and sectioned into four sloping parts which extended upwards from their bases. And at the top was a round hole, like a volcano’s crater, where the holographic projector was housed, taking the form of a polished black sphere. September also noticed similar reflective material embedded in the sides of the module, which he surmised were additional holographic outputs.

September found himself staring at the device in admiration. The Witnesses were always impressed by the Overseer’s creations, and this one was even more stunning than the last.

“Fascinating, isn’t it?” commented January, similarly enraptured. “Thank you for transporting the module safely, September. I will have it delivered shortly.”

“Will the Courier be meeting with us here?” asked September.

“I wasn’t intending on using Couriers, actually. I was instead planning on having February take it directly to Für Immer. It isn’t too far from here, after all.”

January replaced the module in the case with great care. The Witnesses then sipped on their respective cups of chilli pepper juice, listening to the trees shiver in the wind. September let his mind wander, his thoughts moving from the peculiar behaviour of tachyon particles, to the sandwiches he had just ate, to the time in 1644 when a French prostitute approached him and offered him her services, confusing him a great deal and causing her to depart when he declined, but not before uttering a flurry of obscenities. After some time, however, and despite himself, his thoughts meandered back to the events of the Beacon assignment, unable to stop playing them over and over like a faulty record.

“...What do you know of Robert Bishop?” asked September tentatively after many long minutes.

January snapped out of his own complacency, tilting his head slightly to the side.

“Why do you ask?” inquired the Arbiter.

“I am simply...curious,” replied September.

“...Very well,” began January. “As it happens, Robert Bishop was originally one of April’s Subjects. He was a scientist working for the Nazi regime during the Second World War, and was heavily involved in the initial experiments in parallel realities that led to the formation of the Central European Event Zone and the beginnings of the Silent War. He became a spy for the Americans, and fled Sector Beta-2 after the Nazis discovered his treason. He eventually faked his own death in 1944 and continued to live in secrecy until his actual death in 1961.”

“Do you know why he faked his death?” asked September.

“I cannot say, unfortunately,” replied January. “We know that he did something that caused the American Military to pursue him, but our Proxies at the time were not able to ascertain the reason why they did.”

“I see.”

“Does this satisfy your curiosity?”

“Yes. Thank you for telling me this.”

January seemed pleased, though still somewhat puzzled at the agent’s inquiry; in a head-tilt that might have equated to a shrug, he contented himself to pour another cup of scorching chilli pepper juice. Meanwhile, September took the time to review the information that the Arbiter had just imparted to him. He was intrigued by the tale of Robert’s life, and the Witness tried to picture what kind of man he was, wondering if he was as fascinating as Walter. But most curious of all was his staged death. He conjured many scenarios aiming to fill in the blanks, each one more outlandish than the last. After some time, however, he abandoned that path, acknowledging that he may never know what happened to Robert Bishop, even though he silently hoped that one day, he would.

Their thermoses gradually emptied, and January, checking his pocket watch, arose from his seat, causing September to follow suit. They discarded their trash in a nearby bin before coming to a halt on the path.

“You are staying here for a few days, are you not?” asked January.

“Yes,” stated September. “As long as Olivia Dunham does.”

“You are going to be hard pressed to keep yourself entertained, then,” noted the Arbiter. “If you are interested, perhaps you should accompany April and June tonight. As I understand it, they are going to attend an opera concert. Have you ever been to one?”

“No, I have not.”

“Neither have I. I would accompany you as well, but I have other matters to take care of –”

Their heads shot skyward in alarm as it came crashing down on them like a tsunami wave. Temporal ripples coursed through their bodies and minds, probabilities changing and futures altering to ones that diverged from their intended course of events. The two looked at each other with the same great concern as the repercussions of the newborn Irregularity spread across space-time. Minutes later, there was a sudden presence behind them, given away by a slight displacement of air and a momentary snapping sensation that tugged at the back of their minds. They turned to see March standing on the pathway; his head was angled towards the ground, averting the eyes of the other two Witnesses.

“I have made... a mistake,” he announced at length, voice tinged with culpability.

September and January were stunned, still reeling from the shockwave. It took a moment before January was able to compose himself.

“What have you done?” he reproached. “How could your perception have faltered in such a manner?”

“I do not know what happened,” said March. “It felt as though something was interfering with my observation. Before I realized what was occurring... it was too late.”

“You have caused us much trouble, March,” replied the Arbiter. “You have changed things so drastically that it will require the majority of our resources to correct things.”

“How exactly are we going to fix this?” asked September. “The Overseer is absent, and he has always been the one to tell us how to correct Irregularities when they occurred.”

January seemed ready to answer, but paused, considering the agent’s point for a few moments before he spoke.

“In the Overseer’s absence,” began the Arbiter, “it will be up to us to correct it on our own. I will have to confer with December so that we may devise a solution to this affair. You should depart for Sector Alpha as soon as Olivia does, September, as the repercussions will undoubtedly extend to both Sectors Alpha and Beta. As for you, March, the Overseer will deal with you when he returns.”

March eyes fell once more. The Arbiter turned to leave, but not before giving September a passing glance, recalling the Crépuscule agent’s own mistake and causing September to look away as well. January then began to retread the path with haste. September watched him leave before turning away; when he glanced back again, the Arbiter was gone, with nothing but a few whirling leaves to suggest that he ever existed.

September and March remained at the scene for a long time. An awkward silence developed between them, almost palpable in its tension as those responsible for the only two Irregularities created by the hands of the Witnesses basked in their shared culpability. September looked at his colleague, noting how confused and distraught March appeared to be. He remembered his own puzzlement on that night in 1985, how his perception had failed him, causing a divergence in the Directive and giving rise to the first Witness-created Irregularity in the history of their organization. He remembered the regret that seized him when he realized the scope of his error, the anxiety he felt when he was forced to confront December about his mistake, the shame he experienced when the Overseer chastised him in the white halls of Für Immer.

He imagined that March must have been in a similar state at that moment. The others had looked at September differently ever since the fallout of Reiden Lake; though they said nothing, he knew that they viewed him as pariah of sorts, and while the stigma had worn off over the years, he would forevermore be associated with his mistake. And September was constantly reminded of what he had done whenever he perceived the Veil, knowing that he had a hand in its accelerating decay and consequently, the escalation of the Silent War that would herald the Collision.

And now there would be two pariahs, two agents who had failed their Witness brethren. March looked up at September, who stared back, both of them silently acknowledging that fact. September thought for a moment that perhaps he should say something to him, anything at all, but no words came to him; for there was nothing more that could be said. So he adjusted the brim of his fedora and started down the path, leaving his fellow Witness on his own.

As for March, he continued to linger on the path, with only a light breeze to keep him company. He too eventually left, at first with hesitant steps, then eventually settling in a steady, albeit half-hearted gait as he pondered with a certain sense of dread what was to come.

******

Uh, oh...

Things aren't looking too good for our Witness friends. One wonders how they will clean up this mess, if they even manage to correct it at all...

The next chapter is cool. That is all I am willing to say at the moment.

Until then, take care.

[Gene Cowan]

Great chapters so far!

But as a German I have to tell you that a word is missing here:

‘‘Kann ich Ihnen einen Kaffee, Herr?’’ she asked.

You can either say "Kann ich Ihnen einen Kaffee bringen, Herr?" which would mean "Can I bring you a coffee?" or you can say "Kann ich Ihnen einen Kaffee anbieten, Herr?" which means "Can I offer you a coffee?". What you wrote means something like "Can I you a coffee?". I thought you might want to know

Apart from that, your story is great and well written, as always . I wouldn't even be able to tell you what my favorite chapter of PTS II is if I had to choose. The only chapter I didn't like as much as the others is the first Dan/Spock chapter of PTS II, simply because it was a little boring in comparison to the other Dan/Spock chapters. But since it's an important chapter (they decided to found this movement, after all), it's really okay. And those two are still my favorite characters. The "Shapeshifters lay eggs?"-line was awesome
And I love that they are referring to the Observer as Man in Black. I smiled every time I read it.

He remembered the day when the Overseer had officially decreed her as a Subject in 1981

This line got me thinking for a while. But I guess you won't tell me what you mean by that?

Anyway, I'm looking forward to the next chapter!

[Omniscient_Jay]

Great chapters so far!

But as a German I have to tell you that a word is missing here:

You can either say "Kann ich Ihnen einen Kaffee bringen, Herr?" which would mean "Can I bring you a coffee?" or you can say "Kann ich Ihnen einen Kaffee anbieten, Herr?" which means "Can I offer you a coffee?". What you wrote means something like "Can I you a coffee?". I thought you might want to know

Google Translate!!!

I will make the approriate changes immediately.

And also, don't hesitate to correct any other German faux-pas in late chapters.

Apart from that, your story is great and well written, as always . I wouldn't even be able to tell you what my favorite chapter of PTS II is if I had to choose. The only chapter I didn't like as much as the others is the first Dan/Spock chapter of PTS II, simply because it was a little boring in comparison to the other Dan/Spock chapters. But since it's an important chapter (they decided to found this movement, after all), it's really okay. And those two are still my favorite characters. The "Shapeshifters lay eggs?"-line was awesome

And I love that they are referring to the Observer as Man in Black. I smiled every time I read it.

That's the thing when you end stories on cliffhangers. The characters don't have time to react to the situation, so they have to do it later, which usually means periods of low activity. But it is a necessary evil, I suppose.

As for the Man in Black, I am also fond of him. The Liberation Front storyline allows me to indulge in my love of paranormal and conspiracy theories, so it's great to exercise my knowledge in this respect.

This line got me thinking for a while. But I guess you won't tell me what you mean by that?

Anyway, I'm looking forward to the next chapter!

Ah, yes, the Subjects.

So far, it seems that Subjects are individuals who are of great interest to the Witnesses for reasons yet to be explained. And in this chapter, it is revealed that they are chosen by the Overseer, again, for reasons unknown.

In Olivia's case, she was decreed a Subject in 1981, during the Cortexiphan trials. And yet, she wasn't a Subject before that, so either something happened during that time or the Overseer simply decided to make her one, whatever it is.

Sorry for being cryptic (it is another necessary evil), but I can assure you that the nature of the Subjects will be made clear...eventually.

Thanks again for the review, Gene! I appreciate the feedback (and minor corrections).

See you around!