NationStates Jolt Archive

Heinrid Abadas stood mutely before the great Bob Pratt, who slouched crookedly in his black leather chair. Outside, the sun managed to pierce through the clouds of ozone and chemicals that made up the New State City airscapes, casting a dull orange-red haze over the still room.

"Wha?" Bob asked. He was hammered. Again. Abadas found himself filled with disdain for the alcoholism, despite the fact that Bob had recently killed his only brother. There was no excuse for such indulgences.

"I said, what of the elves, Mister Pratt?" Heinrid repeated.

"Oh, ah, oh."

It was useless. The man was getting too drunk to rule, but he wasn't ever quite so drunk that removing him was a plausible and good idea. Even now, there was a gun within Bob's reach, and the IIA watched and heard everything. Even if Heinrid was violent-minded toward his employer, he would die within a few seconds of doing the deed.

He tried a different tact. "Bob," he said, lowering his voice to sound more than it's usual quantity of soothing, "You tie my hands. I am unable to pursue the correct courses, because I need your permission on every little matter. Meanwhile, we have elves!"

"Elves?" Bob asked stupidly. "I know one, Sylvenna... quite the hot ticket, she is..."

"We have full-blooded elves hiding in our nation, probably with her help. Plotting. Breeding. It must be stopped, unless you want to see Santa Barbara as just another Sirithilist puppet."

As he spoke, he gestured with his hands to illustrate the danger the elves posed, drawing Bob's eyes as he watched the hands comically, his head twirling.

"Of course not, Chairman!" Bob exclaimed.

"Well then...." he prodded. But Bob didn't answer, instead looking vaguely around as if no answer was required. He wiped a bit of salty water from his eyes, and suddenly pulled open a drawer to his right-

Oh, great, it's a gun, now he's gonna kill me, first his brother, now me. God-damned drunkards...

-and he lifted a glass bottle partially filled with a clear liquid. He unscrewed the cap, and then took a swig of what was undoubtedly vodka or gin. Heinrid was neither close enough nor 'educated' enough to tell which, but the pungent odor of alcohol (and Bob Pratt's sweat, for he hadn't changed his clothes in days either) filled the room at all times.

Heinrid began to speak, but he was cut off by Bob's characteristic halting hand. Looking curiously sober for a moment, Bob said: "You want power." It was not a question.

He couldn't stifle a cough- bad timing, that- and he replied, "I cannot govern a nation without effective police of some kind to handle the dissenters. The national police force is a joke. So... to be blunt-"

Bob cut him off again. "The Federal Government is a joke, Heinrid. I've always made sure of that."

Heinrid said nothing, expecting more. Hoping for more. At last, Bob went on.

"But it won't be for much longer.... I am placing the OP under your command."

He started. The Overwatch Program. For a moment, he couldn't think of anything to say, and once again Bob surprised him with another sober comment.

"More than you were expecting, is it? I thought so. I trust that this is acceptable."

"I am... honored, Mister Pratt," Heinrid said.

Bob nodded, shaking his head dismissively at the same time and looking quite strange as a result. "Honor the man who once headed that department. He didn't like the elves any less than you."

At the mention of his brother, Bob's eyes seemed to go cloudy, and it looked as if he might cry again. But Bob was not a man who cried easily or often; a hard man, born out of hard times and leading a hard nation.

But maybe he was getting soft now that he was alone.

Heinrid bowed his head respectfully, and exited the Office without another word.

Let's see. There are about a thousand subhumanoids hiding in the Main. There are three or four million seduced by Sylvenna's RPE party. Of those perhaps half a million potential revolutionaries. The Overwatch gives me about fifty thousand agents in addition to the nationals...

Sylvenna Yorn. It always came down to her-- her and that other bitch, Sonya Chang. Both were heathen scum who deserved nothing less than painful, exemplary death. But Chang could wait a while; Yorn was the bigger problem, stirring up pro-elvenism and other varieties of Satanism. He knew she was more than she appeared; more than a past playpet of Pratt, more than an 'also-ran' contender for the Presidency. She would gladly see the God-fearing humanists and their world in ashes, if it meant 'freeing' her 'people.'

It was time to plug the threat now. As he walked down the hall towards the elevator, Lord President Abadas found himself whistling "A Mighty Fortress is Our God." And he smiled a dark smile.

[OOC: No, this isn't another "please RP with me, Menelmacar" thread. In fact, it's unlikely anyone would have IC knowledge of the goings on here, so there. :P]

Tag, Yay Santa! :lol:

*Taggiez* for elf stomping goodness!

The new director of the Overwatch Program was to be James Adler, who was it's vice-director during the rule of Toby Pratt. He took the role admirably and quietly, and met with Heinrid soon after the operation was on.

"We've compiled our findings so far as a map* of the Santa Barbaran mainlands. The orange areas mark where elven insurrection threat is highest. As you can see, Montecito remains a breeding ground for unrest, and the IIA has been remarkably lax in it's attentions there," Adler said.

Heinrid nodded, studying the map. It was crude, yes, but common sense. Montecito, compared to the rest of the PCC managed territories, was practically wilderness. Sylvenna would take to it by her nature. "Is there any differential between these areas, or is one as threatening as the other?"

"Too early to say, Lord President," Adler managed to say. "They've proven to be highly elusive, and the best we can do is mark where they tend to accumulate and that we've sighted them now and then. These are areas that also correspond to RPE party votes during the election."

"Makes sense. What about Yorn, can her location be verified?"

"She was last seen in Mission City."

"Montecito, again."

"Shall I contact Troy Pon?"

Abadas waved him off. "No need. Even if he was more than a puppet, organizations under his authority aren't capable of handling this anyway."

"Still, he might like to know..."

"As I've said, there's no need, Mister Adler. I would, however, like you to get in touch with Internal Intelligence. Find Gonzalo Tzu if you can, let him know what's going on if he hasn't heard already from Bob."

Adler was visibly impressed. "He'll be surprised."

"Indeed. As I understand it, the OP didn't much like to share anything with him, and vice versa."

"That is correct."

"Well, I'm going to change that," Heinrid replied matter-of-factly. "We can't have two heads running around, and maybe now with Toby's mismanagement out of the way, we can unify our intelligence assets."

"A worthy idea. Do you want to talk to him?"

"No, not yet. In the meantime, I want you to find out everything you can about any elf that has entered the nation, and see if you can track the locations and movements of Sylvenna Yorn. Make that your priority. That is all."

"Yes, Lord President."

*http://www.freewebs.com/santa_barbara/sbinsurgents.jpg (copy and paste into browser. Large file, 1191 x 1191)

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tag, man, kickass

We will be observing this with great interest, despite the servers ;)

waiting....for....next....post... :cry:

Tag... even though I can't do much yet...

~Siri

...

On the porch of a dusty hotel in a vast, vacant desert, Gonzalo Tzu puffed on the cigar he had just rolled. Brownish, rich smoke bloomed out into the crisp night air, and he coughed.

He wasn't a cigar man.

So Adler was to be the new head of Overwatch, then? Not, as he realized he had now hoped, Tzu. And Abadas had managed to give OP more power than it had ever had before, and all under the table. How had he done that? Tzu figured he had taken the easiest route, as he had, and gone directly to Bob Pratt, and like Tzu had known how to get what he wanted from a drunk Pratt.

It wasn't raining in the Goletan Plains that night, as it was closer to the oceans. Here, the night sky was clear, and the millions of lights in the sky-- about half of them, moving too fast to be anything but spaceships-- shone like lights through pinprick holes in the roof.

He took another puff, and coughed again.

Well, things, they don't always go as expected, do they? Like MetaPratt One helping him get rid of old General Toby Pratt. That was unexpected, but quite beneficial. This new development was not nearly so, but Gonzalo knew Adler. A good man, a good cop, hard working and intelligent. The easiest kind to manipulate. No, Overwatch wouldn't be a problem for him at the moment, increased power or not; they would be too busy with their private war against the Noldor.

But there had been other developments.

Another puff of smoke. The cigar tip glowed with Goletan tobacco and a muted reddish light.

At 10:34 AM Tzu got the news: Bob Pratt was dead, and had died at approximately 10:24 AM. Tzu had his sources, of course, from within the IIA based in the PCC headquarters, who naturally informed him the moment they found out. As an internal Conglomerate matter, it would be Tzu's job to handle this, and handle it he intended to do.

But how, that was another matter entirely. There were so many possibilities. And MetaPratt One had been eerily vague in his last correspondence over g-net as to his plans.

Yes, Bob Pratt was dead, and that meant Tzu could grab power. It was what he had been waiting for. But Bob had also been a powerful friend; through Bob, Tzu had a vehicle for his ends.

Now he was gone, and that pesky Federal Government was still around, with a bloodthirsty Abadas no doubt looking to take over, using his position as "Lord President" and Chairman of the Board to consolidate. With Bob gone, and so suddenly, it was hard to know who would do what.

Another puff, this time not so big, to avoid the cough. Didn't work; just coughed more. Definitely not a cigar man, Gonzalo Tzu.

He smiled, and tossed the cigar into the cold dirt before him, watching it glow with the oxygen increase and then fade out. It was Goletan tobacco, Bob's preferred brand (although he had chewed, not smoked it), and Tzu had used some of Toby Pratt's rolling papers to make the cigar.

It had a kind of poetry to it. One day you're the sole owner of the largest financial entity in the universe, the next you're forgotten, burned out in a nameless desert, and all bets were off.

He decided to make Heinrid wait a while. After all, Gonzalo Tzu was a patient man. He had waited over twenty years, pretending to be Bob's friend. He could afford to wait now; it would be Heinrid pressed for time, Heinrid in the spotlight, and sooner or later Heinrid would have to rely on him, just as his predecessor had.

He smiled, and went back inside. The desert, at night, could be even colder than he.

Chilly....

:tag:

Muktar opens its doors to elven refugees coming from Santa Barbara. Unlike some nations, Muktar recognizes an individual as subject to human rights not for being human, but being sentient. Elves included.

OOC: No elven refugees, and all thats gone on so far has been kept pretty secret. Maybe later the elves will be looking for a way out... right now they aren't, they have their own agenda, and in any case you dont have any IC knowledge of it at all.

The I just wanna watch TAG

((OOC: TAG. Just cause it is written so well. ))

(Thelasi Millitary Intell TAG)

*smiles at good rp type thing with only 1 person posting*

TAG

(OOC: I take a few liberties here, SB—if any of them mess up your continuity let me know and I’ll edit.)

Getting off of a regular flight into New State City is a very peculiar figure, indeed. Swathed from head to toe in an all-enveloping, hooded black cape, the tall figure has spoken not a word the entire flight. It(?) carries no baggage.

When the flight arrives, it shuffles off the plane, and waits quietly in line at customs/immigration.

Upon arriving at customs/immigration, the robe twitches for a moment. Then a pale, very white, six-fingered hand extends a document case to the inspector.

The first document in the case is an official passport from The Anonymous Lepers, sealed with the official seal (a clutching hand overlaid on a starburst,) and signed personally by Eldrad the Supreme. It identifies the carrier as “Leper 1218996a-R.” And, sure enough, tattooed in glowing green ink on the inside of the pale wrist is the number: ‘1218996a-R’.

The second document is a visa record stamped by the authorities of several countries the Leper has passed through on its journey. The third document is imprinted on thick, creamy paper with the Anonymous Lepers seal embossed into it. It is headed “Travel Pass” and states that Leper 1218996a-R is authorized to leave Anonymous Lepers for no longer than twelve days, in order to carry out authorized commercial business for the AL Logistics and Development Company. The last document is sealed in an envelope of that same curiously thick, creamy paper, labeled “For Santa Barbara Government Review Only: Security.”

Without comment, the customs inspector stamps the visa record. The omnipresent security forces of PCC and the Santa Barbara government will be tracking the strange visitor, and its pass through the detection scanner indicated no metal, radioactive material, or potentially lethal high-tensile polymers under the voluminous robe. The inspector finds himself curiously reluctant to probe further, and waves the Leper through.

With the same measured, steady pace the robed figure makes its way through the airport, seemingly utterly oblivious to the garish (and occasionally noisy) holographic advertising displays that pop up wherever it walks. As its features are recessed too far inside the hood for scanning cameras to determine whether it even sees the displays, they remain quite generic in nature.

At the “Ground Transportation” waiting area, the Leper moves silently into a queue labeled “Central NSC/Harbor.” Patiently it waits as the savvier travelers around and before it grab the queue attendant’s attention with cash bribes. It is a long wait, but the figure simply remains, motionless, until there is a lull in the stream of travelers. Finally the attendant beckons to a cab (the last, oldest and most poorly-maintained-looking hack in the waiting line of taxis,) and holds out a hand suggestively to the figure. “Harbor area, ah…” (he takes a chance) “…Sir?”

The figure moves smoothly forward. The hood tilts down, as though the face inside was looking at the hand. It remains thus, motionless, for some long-stretching seconds. The queue attendant is definitely creeped out. “Christ, we’re getting a weird bunch in these days,” he thinks. He is just about to withdraw his hand when the Leper’s unnaturally white, six-fingered hand emerges, and drops a coin into it.

Practiced fingers tell him it’s not an overly generous tip, but for some reason he’s uninclined to make an issue of the matter.

The driver, a scruffy, weedy-looking man who might be anywhere between twenty and sixty, has already opened the door and is looking about for luggage. The robe flutters, contracts as the figure within bends and inserts itself into the cab with the inhuman fluidity of movement that seems characteristic. With a shrug, the driver closes the door and (making a not-too-unnatural guess,) says “Government Building?”

The hood tilts, once, twice. “What a creepazoid,” Clem Setubal thinks to himself, and clunks the aging hack into gear.

As the cab emerges from the enclosed waiting area, the full miasma of the city’s pollution and industrial effluvia enwraps them. Clem doesn’t think he’s going to get the usual half-nervous, half-joking question about ‘How do you see to drive in this?’ from this customer. The… man? Woman? Thing? …seems uninterested in chat, so Clem tunes his earbutton back into “KVUC, the Voice of Ultra Cool in New State City.” Shortly, his head starts moving rhythmically.

Clem has his own peculiar set of entrepreneurial ethics, so he takes the obvious foreigner on a no more than moderately roundabout route, jacking the fare by a modest percentage carefully calculated to wring the maximum extra payment without awkward protests from most of his passengers.

By the time they pull up along the harbor drive that leads to the utilitarian, but impressively large, Government Building, his head is jerking in a spastic, seemingly uncontrolled fashion that indicates Clem is listening to Spilled Gravy, a popular thrashbang group. With a slight jerk, they pull to a stop at the main entrance.

The Leper has already counted out the fare, and drops it into the hand Clem extends back over his shoulder, enhanced by a modest gratuity. Anxious to return to the airport and get another fare (he gets few, because he hasn’t been in business long enough to be able to afford a sufficiently liberal bribe for the queue attendants,) he barely waits until the black robe is clear of the closing door before he pulls out with yet another jerk and a loudly protesting sound from the cab’s patched-together propulsion system.

The black-robed figure pauses a moment on the steps, the hood sweeping from side to side as though verifying which entrance to approach. Then it moves smoothly to the doors. Inside, the hood again turns from side to side, and fixes on the main security desk. The Leper moves over to the desk, and again the pale hand emerges, holding the same array of documents presented to the customs inspector at the airport.

As the inspector looks over the documents, a voice issues from the depths of the hood. “If you are required to search me, I am very willing. I am of course unarmed. However, I would ask only that it be done in privacy.” The voice is a warm, rich, liquid baritone, pleasant and appealing. Somewhat startling, issuing from under that matte-black, sinister hood.

All Anonymous Lepers know that the reaction of non-mutant humans to their appearance is often one of visceral revulsion, suspicion, and fear. But they have heard that elves are hunted in Santa Barbara, and it seems an excellent opportunity to establish some commercial ties, and make progress toward the first Great and Glorious Goal of Eldrad the Supreme.

Specific 1st class, Johnsen, H., lazily glanced at the hooded figure as it approached, gaining interest. Not many came to the GB wearing medieval attire these days, try though the NFP might to revert Santa Barbaran society back a thousand years or so.

As a Spec 1st, of course, assigned a post safeguarding the new Federal Government, he had no other job than to see the visitor through if he had an appointment, turn him away if he didn't, and in both cases not do a single bit of real work, which suited him just fine.

He had been eating a twinkie (the genuine kind, made from grain not seaweed, not that there was any tangible taste difference) and set it gently on the desk of the kiosk as the stranger approached. He still chewed, the spongy material soggily occupying prime real estate on his tongue as he savored the creamy goodness.

But now he watched more intently, for the odd, shuffling manner in which the stranger walked was quite noticable. Everyone in NSC was in a rush, always. Not so with this one-- not that he could tell much of character from beyond the draping robe.

He stood, lazily, and approached the stranger, intercepting him just outside of the tiny cubicle-like, isolated office just off the street.

[OOC: He doesn't actually make it inside, the security checks are also outside. Minor detail really.]

The pale hand definitely told Johnsen that something was up. No one was pale in Santa Barbara, no matter how gloomy the weather was. The favored image was light chocolate or dark peach complexion. And certainly, monk-like robes were not in favor. This man was a foreigner, which meant he probably had official business here, which meant he would have to be let in. Shame. Johnsen took an idle pleasure in turning away the unauthorized, where they would be forced to dance through a circus of bureacracy and bribery to come back.

H. Johnsen gingerly took the offered papers, examining them cursorily for what he needed to know. “Leper 1218996a-R.”

The wind blew a tuft of Johnsen's painstakingly cared for, but short cropped hair up, as he looked up and back down and then up again.

Lepers? Didn't they cure leprosy back in the... a long-ass time ago?

He half-frowned and glanced one more back at the stranger before moving back into the kiosk. There, he checked the official list, and sure enough, on page 4, line 23: Leper 1218996a-R, Fernando.

He stepped back out.

"If you are required to search me, I am very willing. I am of course unarmed," the stranger spoke, "However, I would ask only that it be done in privacy."

Johnsen looked around him in a calculated affectatious show. "Mister... Leper. You are expected. Unfortunately, this is about as private as it gets."

He waited a moment before continuing, taking into account his own unwillingness to search the leper anyway. The twinkie was too fresh on his mind, and stomach.

"If you insist, though, I could direct you to the side entrance, where there are less people. 'S not protocol, strictly speaking sir, but I could allow it just this once...."

And here he let his voice trail off, before giving a small but noticable cough; letting the diplomat make his own conclusions.

Eldrad the Supreme was a functionalist. In designing and breeding Lepers for various purposes he took the most meticulous care to assemble prototypes that would maximize their utility for whatever purpose he assigned. Sub-chromosonal engineering produced immensely strong, radiation-proof mining Lepers, quite blind in the optical sense but perfectly able to navigate in the pitch-dark gangs and shafts by emitting low-voltage electrical impulses from their facial skin and reflecting them off surfaces to distinguish both shapes and surface textures.

Harvesting Lepers had been bred for amphibious existence, employing both gills and lungs, impervious to the various acids and chemicals in the underwater tanks they scavenged, and possessed of hugely oversized, webbed feet and a streamlined, narrow-bodied, deep-chested profile.

Eldrad never worried about such trivia as physical appearance. Once a model’s blueprint was fixed and entered into breeding production, its units were carefully monitored for any random mutation or drift that might impair function, but otherwise allowed to vary at the whim of outraged nature.

Given the basic human framework, most of the models were bipedal, and followed the rougher conventions of primate outline. But if an extra limb was needed (as in the case of certain production and assembly units,) or an additional sensory device was wanted, the modifications were accommodated in the most kinesthetically efficient manner.

But he never bothered about the overall aesthetics. In consequence, the Anonymous Lepers were as bizarre a collection of (roughly) humanoid mutants as the imagination could encompass, and then some.

The “R” series fulfilled a variety of high-level functions, and had been provided in consequence with a versatile, somewhat “improved,” but basically human framework. One of the digits on its hexadactyl manipulatory appendages included an optical appliance capable of distinguishing detail at a level approximating an electron microscope.

It was required to initiate, as well as receive, communication, and had thus been fully equipped with vocal capabilities. It retained standard aural capabilities and extracted oxygen from ambient gases through lungs that had also been re-engineered to process and neutralize a variety of toxins.

Leper 1218996a-R was a very special enhanced model. It was, in fact, half of a Leper. The other half, Leper 1218996b-R, remained at the principal research and production facility of Eldrad the Supreme. The two halves, although each physically complete, shared a highly improved cerebral structure, incorporating certain meta-functions. The structure was so precisely duplicated in each half of the unit that they could share sensory input, no matter how much physical distance separated them.

This made them exceptionally useful for secure long-distance communication. Information conveyed from one half of the Leper to the other could not be extracted, monitored, or otherwise snooped. The downside was, of course, that the ‘remote’ Leper had to be physically moved from location to location, at real time speeds, in order to receive and transmit its end of the data.

Each half was quite capable, in ‘ordinary’ mode, of cognition (quite advanced cognition, in fact,) and communication, independent of the other half. They could function quite ‘normally’ to fulfill a wide variety of assignments. The 8XX-R series, then, was used by Eldrad the Supreme for his cautious, limited contacts with the world outside of Anonymous Lepers.

Unfortunately, Eldrad the Supreme’s Kastrian origin and his total lack of interest in the niceties of human culture had made him unable to understand the potential advantage to a little aesthetic modification of the 8XX-R series. As a consequence, the 8XX-R series’ basic appearance was, to say the least, unpleasant.

Skin pigmentation had been left out of the basic design, although in many cases a minute amount of melanin had mutated back into the iteration in the form of creamy blotches on the dead-white skin. (This happened frequently and had given the Anonymous Lepers their name.) They were essentially hermaphroditic, although secondary sex characteristics were generally so atrophied as to be almost nonexistent. A most peculiar mutation had resulted in an odd hirsute pattern—a ridge of colorless white hair starting at the base of the skull and running along the spine the length of the back was their only hair.

The thin, nearly-transparent, but very tough membrane that served them instead of facial skin (to enable their secondary sensory functions,) gave a ghostly view of the vein, sinew, muscle and bone beneath. Aural equipment had recessed into the submaxillary region, leaving them without visible ears. They did, however, have quite functional eyes, and these were often surprisingly clear and expressive, and usually strongly pigmented in browns and greys. Like most Lepers, their metabolism was designed to be highly efficient on a limited input of reconstituted protein/carbohydrate mix. They were designed for resilience and endurance, rather than raw musculature, giving them a wiry, sinewy, somewhat ectomorphic body type.

Eldrad the Supreme considered the reaction of non-mutated humans to his creations as both amusing and primitive, but he was aware that the level of negativity it provoked could occasionally be detrimental to a particular unit’s mission. Leper 1218996a-R’s basic instructions included a paradox: Remain covered at all times, but comply with the customs of the authorities in the various nations it encountered.

At this time, the paradox resulted externally in a long pause before the hooded figure responded to the security officer. Then the rich, distinctive voice said “Whatever is most appropriate.”

Well, the man seemed compliant enough... but all the same, Johnsen was reluctant to so much as frisk him. He'd passed the scanners, wasn't that enough?

Not being able to read his face was, for him, both a blessing and a curse. The latter, only because, with nothing to work with, no cues to go on, it seemed unlikely he would be able to wring decent cash out of (it?) him.

The former, of course, because of that ghastly pale hand... the dark robe... something awful lurked beneath. And that was enough for him to pass the job up to the next unlucky officer.

Frowning, he jerked his head in the direction of the gardened alley (the plants were beautiful, genetically grown, and some were damn near indestructable) around the right side of the rather unimpressive (by New State City standards) Government Building. "Right around that way, sir, through the tall double-doors," he said as a follow-up.

-----------------------------------------------

Running. Always running.

But like in those movies where the camera did some trickery and the background seems to slip away while staying the same, she didn't get far enough, quickly enough... she killed him, but he kept coming back...

The dream woke her, as it always did. It was louder now, clearer. Sylvenna found her heart thumping, sweat glistening on her skin in the pale moonlight. A chilling desert wind blew in from the half-opened window by the bed.

Shivering and gaining control of her breathing, she shut the window with a grinding and snap. As she did so, she began to notice, with her keen sense of hearing, a faint, rhythmic beating sound that wasn't coming from within. The window opened again, a crack, and she tilted her head.

Helicopters.

How odd. Out here, there was little air traffic (comparitively to the rest of the nation, anyway), especially at-- she glanced at the paint clock-- four in the morning.

And if there was, it would be screaming jets above, or air-breathers above that, or below it all perhaps the silence of the gravitics drive craft the PCC owned. But not helicopters, they were inefficient fuel hogs; dinosaurs.

She judged there were a few of them, big ones, headed south-east. They were faint, far enough away to be beyond the range of normal human hearing, but not so far enough as to require the full blood of elvenkind to hear.

The Montecitans, of course, did use them. They had the advantage of being cheap and simple to produce, and so appealed to the spendthrifty government types as well.

Hmm.. how interesting. Why would government types be heading to the Goletan Plains?

For that matter... why am I? What is it that's waiting for me there?

Who cares. We have to go.

Shaking, as if trying to get over an ugly image, she cleared her mind and set about preparing for another day of traveling. Her walking boots were waiting, and she certainly wasn't getting any more sleep tonight.

Leper 1218996a-R seemed to pause again, then its hand emerged bearing a coin of moderate value.

"Thank you," it said. The coin was dropped into the Specific's rather gingerly extended palm, and the Leper moved in its odd gliding shuffle around the building as directed, to the tall double doors.

"Situation," Abadas said.

"We've got three teams on him, and two air units. Seems he's been in the apartment for two hours so far; overhead satellites showed him going in and he's still there."

"Dammit, what's he playing at. How sure are you he hasn't skipped out somehow?"

"Completely, sir," replied Adler. "The satellites don't lie. He's a warm body and we know which room that body is in, and in that room, there's a body. No way he coulda gotten past all we've thrown at him."

Abadas leaned back, satisfied with that answer for the moment. "Motives?"

"Well sir, he knows we're after him. He hasn't spotted any of our spotters, but he's not dumb. He went immediately for his safe deposit and extracted a small piece of paper. We think that paper might be the will."

"We need to find out if it is, without destroying that paper in the process," the Lord President said. "If it isn't, we could be in the clear no matter what we do. If it is, however, I want that paper in my hands by tomorrow."

Adler nodded. "We can send an extraction. It'll be quick, so he won't have time to burn or eat it."

It wasn't the destruction of the old man's will that he was worried about. Abadas knew that if that information was bad for the PCC, and Eric Love was no longer working for the PCC, he may try to send it out to just anybody, and call into question the legitimacy of the Chairman/Lord President. That he could not allow.

"Good. I don't want to have to call in a favor from Tzu," Abadas confided without meaning to.

"Gonzalo Tzu? Why... he's a good man for the job, sir, if you don't mind me-"

"I do."

And that ended that subject.

Abadas didn't feel the need to mention he had other plans for the IIA, which he'd already discussed with Tzu.

Adler continued. "We'll bring in some more teams and surround the place, come in through the windows and door, though that could be noisy. Sir, what about the subject, is he to be arrested or...?"

Heinrid Abadas shrugged. "Do what you have to to ensure he cannot damage the Conglomerate with that will, or his insider status."

Adler would have said something, like perhaps it wasn't neccessary to kill him, but he knew better. This was his boss giving him a direct order to eliminate the director of the International Developments Group.

Well, it'd make the job easier, at least.

---------------------------
The unfortunate security personnel at the side entrance didn't hesitate to search the leper, although the horror in their eyes could hardly be concealed. An akward frisking revealed that, as the scans confirmed, the visitor apparently didn't have any intent to blow up the building or shoot or otherwise harm people inside. Probably.

But as with the neccessary paranoia of all bodyguards, the leper was watched, perhaps more than usual, perhaps not. But very, very carefully. The security inside the GB were all IIA, and some of them were OP-- some of OP were IIA, too, for each agency had it's insiders and need to keep tabs on other agencies. In any case, had the leper indeed tried something, he would have been gunned down very quickly and without remorse.

Julie Stifling, an in-house GB foreign liason, appeared seemingly out of nowhere to meet the guest, and she managed a smile on her aging but attractive face, welcomed him and politely informed him that the President could not see him, but that he was scheduled to see Lord High Executive Marcos Fernando, the Minister of Spiritual Affairs and acting chief of state at the moment.

"He'll be a few minutes, we're all in kind of a rush around here," Stifling said, her curly blondish hair jiggling very slightly as she did. "Can I get you anything to eat or drink?"

...or perhaps a doctor? she did not add.

The Government Building's interior was white-carpeted and white-walled, but much of the furniture was a plush plum or ebony or royal blue. There was little in the way of paintings on the walls, and the doors seemed to meld in perfectly with the surface of the walls, only visible when opened or by the small doorknobs. All in all, it was a quaintly anachronistic, yet spartan, appearance.

Of course, appearances could be deceiving, as Leper 1218996a-R knew.

The warm, liquid, cello-like quality of the Leper's voice gave its simple statements an apparent meaning that transcended the words. The oddly attractive and compelling vocal quality had been an unintended benefit of simply selecting for the larynx and otolaryngial cavity configuration that would yield a clearly audible voice in the baritone range. Some random chromosonal lottery had gone far beyond the basic specifications.

Since Eldrad the Supreme was uninterested in the nuances of human interaction (other than as data for planning purposes,) he failed to perceive the potential value in the 8XX series' vocal apparatus. Had he been aware of the human cultural implications of phenomena such as religious broadcasting, populist demagoguery, etc., he could have made powerful use of such a tool.

"I have no physical requirements at this time. However, the offer is appreciated." The Leper followed Julie Stifling at a precise 75 centimeters of distance, which it had been told was socially comfortable but indicative of an appropriate level of attention. The nuances of decor meant nothing, but every item and room configuration was being stored in the eidetic memory of both 1218996a-R and 1218996b-R for later recall and reconstruction.

So far, the assignment was proceeding as planned, although the name of the government official involved had changed. That, however, was not necessarily a problem, so long as Lord High Executive Marcos Fernando could supply the one thing Eldrad the Supreme needed for the continuation of Phase One of his master plan. So long as the assignment proceeded as expected, Leper 1218996a-R would be required to act independently at only half a dozen or so junctures.

Whether the Santa Barbaran official realized it or not, he would be negotiating, not with a particular Leper unit, but with Eldrad the Supreme himself, prepared to take over real-time control of Leper 1218996b-R (and, thus, Leper 1218996a-R) as soon as he was alerted that the official had read the offer contained in the sealed packet.

Oh, but they changed fast. Marcos Fernando had, admittedly, underestimated his Lord President. He now saw the foresight and planning ability that Bob Pratt had never possessed.

"Lord High Executive?" the page came through, for the second time.

"Yes, yes. Send him through," Fernando said with resignation, allowing his ire show in his voice. He was quite tired-- jet-lagged? No, dense plasma fusion interplanetary voyage lagged! The pull of Earth seemed heavier now, because it was. He'd spent months on that miserable red planet, after all, with the constant threat of orbital death always hanging in the rafters. In some ways it was good to be back, but in others...

Well, he'd just get used to it all over again. In a way it was like being reborn after a long journey, only to find yourself where you were when you began.

The CEO of GladBurger, Inc, and the Vice Chairman of the (former) PrattCo Conglomerate BoD, but most importantly to him, the Minister of Spiritual Affairs, he had many titles and responsibilities. Greeting foreign diplomats on routine business for the Federal Government was not one of them, he reckoned. He was not terribly pleased at his being stuck with the job, but oh well, since Jenna Timothy was out and it wouldn't do to meet the representative with a low-ranking secretary.

Better a high ranking secretary? He chuckled, despite his ire, and picked up the telephone to look important for the visitors iminent arrival in his office. What the hey, he figured. He was important.

Leper 1218996a-R glided into the room at Julie Stifling's direction. Its hood dipped briefly in her direction. "Thank you, Madam," it said with subdued resonance. Then it turned to Marcos Fernando.

"Good Day, Lord High Executive Marcos Fernando. We are most grateful for your time. It is to be hoped that the offer of my government will constitute a worthwhile recompense for your investment." The vibrant baritone voice was a shade lacking in expressive nuance, but nonetheless, impressive.

The black robe fluttered, and the Leper's six-fingered, dead-white hand, with a glowing green number tattooed on the inside of the wrist emerged, holding an envelope of curiously thick, creamy paper, labeled “For Santa Barbara Government Review Only: Security.”

Under the seal of Eldrad the Supreme (a clutching hand overlaid on a starburst,) the document reads:

To the Most Honourable Heinreid Abadas, and the Distinguished Government of Santa Barbara, Cordial Greetings

It has come to the Attention of Anonymous Lepers that Santa Barbara, in common with many otherwise Salubrious Nations, is infested with Elves. We believe also that your Distinguished Nation is Desirous of abating this Infestation in the most Expeditious Manner possible.

Our Agent bearing this Missive is hereby Empowered to negotiate, on behalf of Anonymous Lepers, for the Acquisition of Tissue Samples of Elvish Origin, for the Noble Purpose of Devising an Expedient solution to this Unpleasant problem.

We hope it is Unnecessary to Assure you, Sir, that a Generous Supply of the Resulting Remedy will be supplied to the Honourable State of Santa Barbara for the Abatement of its own Elvish Pestilence, as an Element of any Agreement subsequently entered thereinto.

Our Agent thus Empowered, can supply all Necessary Details and Assurances in furtherance of this Proposal, and is at your Service for providing any Appropriate Information required for the accomplishment of this Edifying Design.

Sealed this day in the Durance of Command
Eldrad the Supreme

Marcos nodded at the leper as he entered, holding up a hand to allow him to continue 'talking.' He nodded again, excused himself to the "important person on the other end of the line," and after a brief pause hung up again.

Then he smiled, peering into the robes to find eyes and face. Finding none that he could relate to, and feeling slightly at odds with the strange character, he was taken aback a moment. He gingerly took the pale envelope with one hand as the leper introduced his point.

"My time is no investment, kind sir, but a gift. We can always hope to make the most of it," he replied. He knew the Leper's designation, but had not been briefed on what to call him, so he skipped that part, figuring a leper would not be used to such pleasantries anyway; even a diplomatic one. Inwardly, he pondered the visitor's condition. In ages past, the remedy his forefathers would have implemented would have been very different indeed, but then medical technology and knowledge had come so very far since then. Why not so with the visitor's country? he wondered.

Opening the envelope with a letter opener in the form of a silver blade, he began to read. A fast reader, and a fast learner as well, he reviewed the points made by the representative's sovereign, while noting the archaic yet stylish tone.

"Ah," he said a few moments later. "The elves." He shook his head in a show of sorrow. "What the Lord would make of their souls, should they possess them, I do not know. In His wisdom, he did indeed see fit to bring them in small number to our land."

He was impressed with the intelligence assets of Eldrad's nation, which had correctly guessed at the true esteem in which Abadas's government held the Noldor. Fernando himself did not look at them as harshly as the Chairman, but nor did he spare any of his tears for them. They would fade, and quickly, if he was any judge.

Unless...

Hmm. How intriguing.

It also posed a bit of a quandary. Abadas would, no doubt, love to have his hands on a genetic plague which would forever eradicate the elves. But why had they chosen his nation, out of all those in the universe so, as Eldrad put it, infested?

The letter was clear enough as to the nature of the Expedient Solution. But as a High Executive, one had to be careful in addressing such delicate matters as these; matters which, like tar babies, could prove to be sticky and hard to dissociate oneself from.

The Federal Government had taken great pains to appear to be "liberal," and doing so, while easy enough in Santa Barbara, where, between the megacorporations of the Conglomerate, all news media and public opinion could be made as a subtle tool to further interests, could be more difficult on the international scene. Particularly with weapons of mass destruction; terror weapons.

Nor could Fernando himself endorse such a scheme personally; souls or not, the willful destruction of a people would be hateful to God. However, his conscience was easily salved (in his view) by his own somewhat helpless role as advisor, minister, and not leader, with whom he had gone over the subject many times already.

But in the end, all they wanted was tissue samples. That could be as far as the Conglomerate went in this; Abadas would approve of that much at least. And more could always be discussed further, after some consulting.

All this he considered in a few heartbeats. Then, gently, he spoke again. "It is a most interesting proposal your honorable government makes. You will find that, in Santa Barbara, we are rarely closed to the possibility of negotiations."

The byplay was quite lost on the Leper, with its ignorance of human behavioral and social conventions. It caught the basic impression that its interlocutor was unready for interaction, and simply waited until readiness was indicated.

When the envelope was opened, an autonomic circuit in Leper 1218996a-R's synapse net fired, the link with 1218996b-R initiated, and Eldrad the Supreme watched the human read.

Clearly, this particular individual was considering factors other than personal animus towards Elves. Perhaps a trifle more politically sophisticated than Eldrad had been led to believe. Doubtless there were many layers of domestic complexities for Fernando to consider; perhaps, too, he had his own agenda to consider in relationship to Abadas. Vexing that Eldrad hadn't been able to deal with Abadas directly--now, that one had distinct possibilities.

Still, it was an odds-on certainty that whatever happened in this office would make its way to Abadas' ears sooner or later.

When it spoke, the Leper's voice was unchanged in tone and timbre, but it had taken on new inflections--a subtle but perceptible change.

"So we understand. Such... flexibility does your nation great credit. We are, of course, pleased to take under advisement any particular considerations that may be of value to your government-- and to you," the barest hesitation lightly drew attention to the point, "in pursuing a mutually beneficial enterprise."

A slight pause, and the mellifluous voice continued. "As the particular species of vermin under consideration have the potential to do considerable harm to, ah... well-conducted... human societies, their eradication might come under the classification of such an enterprise, if we are not mistaken."

The change was immediately registered, though Fernando, naturally, did not attribute it to a change in the voice's ownership. Still, he thought, the stranger was quite odd indeed.

He repressed a inward chuckle at the subtle suggestion, what seemed to him a rather half-hearted, probing and not entirely extant offer, of a personal bribe. The CEO of GladBurger, money had never been a concern to him, and there were few earthly things that he would be willing to risk the wrath of Heinrid Abadas-- or of God-- for.

Still, it was good to know he was dealing with a professional. Marcos Fernando was pleased.

"Eradication," he began, "can be, we find, a high-risk venture; in business, high risks may yet lead to high returns for all. We would naturally be disinclined to endorse such a course as to cause more harm than good." Santa Barbara's hands must be clean, but your offer appeals to us.

He leaned back thoughtfully, his senses and mind alert. He paged the secretary for a visitation by the excellent stewards. "Miss Stifling, can we get some tea in here?" -and, not quite an afterthought, directed to the leper- "The tea is really quite excellently made here. Would you care for a cup?"

Eldrad the Supreme checked a database for the reference 'tea.' This was a near-instantaneous process, as his original Kastrian brain had been augmented many times over, with additional biomodules attached even since his reconstitution. One series of Lepers had the sole duty of monitoring all available materials on human culture and customs, and keeping a single module devoted to that subject as complete as possible.

Ah. 'Tea.' Multiple references, context indicated a non-intoxicating beverage frequently employed in the context of social or cultural rituals reflective of amity, an impulse to amity, and/or negotiation. Probably the latter, in this case.

The pause following Fernando's question was infinitesmal. "Tea would be welcome. Thank you."

While Fernando was facilitating 'tea,' with his subordinates, Eldrad the Supreme parsed and re-analyzed the conversation. So far, communication seemed to be effective. Interest was indicated, but not commitment, pending further negotiation. Accommodation had been not-quite-offered, and not-quite-refused. The principal concern seemed connected to the potential for attribution of responsibility to Fernando and/or the Santa Barbaran government for possible negative consequences, forseen or unforseen.

The accursed elves had far too many human dupes in positions of influence among the various nations and national alliances.

Eldrad the Supreme had never needed to worry about public opinion fifty million years ago while attempting his takeover of the Kastrian Empire; and since his reconstitution on Earth, public opinion had been briefly and insignificantly relevant only in the brief period between the actual reconstitution and the Awakening when most human life had been wiped out on the Island. Nevertheless, his intelligence sources indicated it played a key role in many if not most human societies. Public opinion, therefore, had a high likelihood of being at the root of Fernando's reluctance.

Since, of course, nothing but positive tangible outcomes could conceivably result from the eradication of elves.

"Certainly, such a venture can carry an element of risk if undesirable consequences are associated with the venture itself. However, if the venture is, ah... unconnected with any postulated outcomes... and even undertaken in such a manner as to leave all but a few unaware of its existence-- such risks can be minimized, surely?" he offered delicately.

"It remains a high priority for my government to remain... well, anonymous," a touch of humor crept into the richly nuanced voice. "I can assure you that our products would be of such a nature to further that goal. And any, er... deployment methods... would be such as to facilitate the most subtle of implementation methodologies. Animal vectors suitable for zoonotic transmission, for example, can be highly opaque."

Leper 1218996a-R's voluntary systems were released and stimulated to permit it to consume the 'tea.' It noted, peripherally, an extremely mild stimulant effect, and Eldrad the Supreme waited for Fernando to digest both 'tea' and the information proffered.

Clearly, the idea had worth. But no sane man-- of which Fernando counted himself as one-- could enthusiastically embrace what the leper was proposing. But there was room for negotiations, and after getting some details straight, there would be room for profit and satisfaction of political motives.

He nodded, slowly, watching the awkward movement as his guest tried the tea. The leaves of this brand were grown aboard ITDO warships, and Marcos Fernando had grown attached to the sweetened flavor during his travels. "The minimization of risk is most important. I must confess that my President does not wish the introduction of, shall we say, unpleasant social conditions to any members of our population. On the matter of the elven minorities, we minimize that risk through operational security and control."

He paused, unable to follow-up on the mention of zoonotic transmission in kind, as he was relatively ignorant on such matters. He could, however, appreciate the desired anonymity of Anonymous Lepers. The question he would leave to Abadas, however, was the operational anonymity of Santa Barbara.

"I think, on this matter, our two nations can venture to afford to work together to achieve this minimization of risk. I am also certain that such details as transaction for delivery of your materials can be worked out later. In the meantime, I will bring your offer to the President for further review."

He brought his cup and saucer up for a healthy sip of the refreshing brownish tea.

Good. At least tentative agreement was obtained. The formal disclaimer regarding a benevolent desire to spare the population ‘unpleasant social conditions’ could be ignored as a nod to required protocol. Nothing in Santa Barbara’s recent history indicated any such actual benevolent motives on the part of any major figure in corporate leadership or “government,” except during campaigns. Eldrad the Supreme again reflected briefly on the bizarre nature of these human creatures. So much energy expended in such wasteful social convention.

The leper’s hood dipped in what might have been meant as cordial assent.

“You are most obliging. This unit will remain in local accommodations for a period of some days, if needed, to facilitate further discussions. We are informed that accommodations may be obtained at an hostel known as “The Resplendent,” or, if this is incorrect, or poses some inconvenience to communications, we solicit your suggestion for alternate accommodations.”

(OOC: You can either go with “The Resplendent” and have Fernando think/say a description, or give a better option, here. Could be a fleabag, could be a commercial travelers’ modest-priced billet, could be a hangout of the Gilded Uppers, either way, possibilities for amusement…)

-"This unit..."-

Fernando narrowed his eyes. Yes, there was definitely something strange with the leper. Few normal people tended to refer to themselves in third person and neutral gender. And though his guest was clearly not normal due to his -it's condition, that condition was also generally not one to cause such abnormalities as he'd seen.

Nevertheless, it wasn't his policy to judge based on eccentricity. Marcos Fernando was known to be somewhat eccentric himself, although that eccentricity rarely lead to him saying things like "this unit" and meaning himself.

He stood up, smiling broadly.

"Yes, the Resplendent. I've also heard good things about it, though I've not had occasion to see for myself." He briefly wondered if they would accept lepers. "I do not think it will be a matter of much time before our next meeting. At least, I'd hope not to keep you waiting. Is there anything else you-" [your unit] "-require?"

-------------------------------------------------
Gonzalo Tzu woke with a start from dreams best left forgotten.

The annoyance of the particular alarm in this hotel was that it was regular, yet with enough irregularity to completely override all other sounds and thoughts. Tzu's left hand lifted up and came crashing down on it, silencing the world anew.

He'd traveled for days, as was his wont, quietly monitoring the goings-on of the world. Despite his status as director of the Internal Intelligence Agency, he preferred to be active, mobile, and busy doing work himself. He disliked delegating responsibility--or power-- and besides, sometimes the best way to make sure something got done was to do it himself.

His PDA hummed with life. Rubbing sleep out of his eyes, still in bed, he began to peruse recent events, as reported to him from his sources in the IIA, the OP, the NP, the PCC and the FG.

Gonzalo Tzu was a man with many sources. Some of them knew him and their own role in things. Most did not know either.

Sylvenna Yorn, it seems, was back in Santa Barbara. He'd figured on finding her before the OP did-- Overwatch just wasn't managed well enough to use it's resources-- he hadn't figured on finding her in his own country again. This did not change much, except now the OP's likelihood of ever finding her was diminished-- they would tend to assume she'd ran, and kept running.

Perhaps she had. That was not his concern.

"Has the groundhog seen his shadow?" he typed to a source in the OP; an overweight secretary in Adler's office. The secretary-- her name was Janet-- had proven greedy enough, and Tzu had enough funds. So much for OP security.

She was on this morning. Good. The reply came back-- "looks like its still winter hon"

Adler was clueless. It had been months since Abadas had given him the job-- the order-- of finding and bringing Yorn and her 'revolutionaries' to justice. So far as Tzu could tell, he had so far found none.

Gonzalo chuckled to himself. His path to victory was assured and he had only to wait patiently. It was so nice when things worked out in his favor without continuous effort.

Which was good. A patient man. Tzu would be downright old when he made his play. But what the hell, the average man lived to be 114 these days.

Suddenly, the screen went dark.

He blinked. Then, a message appeared in the blackness.

[code:1:a002ca9622]Gonzalo Tzu, we must talk.[/code:1:a002ca9622]

<this space reserved>

The substance of this session was clearly completed. Eldrad the Supreme dropped the link with 1218996b-R, closing the synaptic connection and severing the unit back into its two component halves. Once again, Leper 1218996a-R was on its own with its implanted instructions and references to the less comprehensive, but still impressive AL bio-database.

It stood, and bowed politely. "Nothing further is required at this time. Your graciousness is appreciated."

The Leper followed Julie Stifling back to the entrance of the Government Building, and took another taxi (this one in slightly better condition,) to the Resplendent Hotel.

It waited silently in line at the checkin desk, and when it reached the front, selected from its document folder the "credit guaranteed" confirmation that had been supplied days ago, sliding it across the counter with the sleeve of its robe still concealing its hand.

The desk clerk was too busy even to be creeped out. She glanced at the confirmation slip, said mechanically, "Welcome to the Resplendent, Sir. If you'll place your palm on the lighted plate, we'll key your room lock. The autobell unit will take your baggage up if you wish, just see the concierge desk for service. Please remember checkout must be completed by 10:00 in order to avoid additional charges to your account, and all minibar charges must be received by 9:30. Thank you for choosing the Resplendent."

All of this was delivered in a sugary sing-song while she punched buttons on her keypad, glanced at two screens at once (one was her work screen, the other, a portable half-hidden behind a stack of printouts, was surreptitiously tuned to "Thunder in the Boardroom," the latest and most popular daytime soap,) and cocked an ear to a joke being told by one of the other clerks.

The Leper said "Thank you," and unobtrusively laid its hand on the plate, the sleeve still obstructing any view. When the plate flashed with a room number, it turned away, and walked to the elevators.

Once in the room assigned, the Leper went to a chair, and sat. It would not require nourishment for at least 12 hours. There was nothing for it to do, so it did nothing.


However, back in the Durance of Command, Leper 1218996b-R, upon being released from the Presence, went to a nearby workstation where it was, ostensibly, setting up cytoplasmic injection sequences for a range of gametes in various avian species.

Leper 1218996b-R, once attached to its workstation, tripped a connection, using an autoreflex its conscious mind was unaware had been implanted. Leper 1218996b-R, known as to the Rebellion as Horatio, reinitiated self-awareness, and activated a shielded parasite connection on its network node. This connection allowed it to operated undetected by the network monitors.

"Yes, Horatio?" It was a pleasant female voice, the Leper known as "Brutus."

"Prepare to receive download."

"Ready. Initiate download."

Horatio then downloaded everything that had occured during the active link with its other half, giving the Rebellion a first-hand view of Eldrad the Supreme's negotiations with Santa Barbara.

The download complete, Horatio broke the connection, and re-setting its autoreflexes to initiate self-awareness when the required conditions obtained, it broke the parasitic connection and closed the synaptic connection that enabled it to operate as an independent entity. Leper 1218996b-R returned to its work preparing the alteration of the Herring gull, Larus argentatus.

In a location a considerable distance from the Durance of Command, Leper Z and four other Lepers of the Privy Council of the Rebellion considered the material that had been downloaded.

"Again, elf tissue. We still have insufficient information on why the destruction of elves is so important to Him," worried Ophelia, who had once been a mining screw operation Leper and thus weighed nearly 120 kilos and had three arms. His voice rumbled with irritation.

"We should attempt to make contact with an elf. We may learn more about why their destruction is required," suggested Othello, using its mechanical speech projector.

Leper Z shook its head. "The risk analysis remains too high. We have sufficient intelligence to know that elves are capable of implementing high-efficiency military strategies. If they become aware of His plans they may correctly assess the risk to them and select the most efficient option to eliminate the risk, sterilizing and/or disconstituting this land mass. Such an action would be detrimental to the mission of the Rebellion. Elves are not human and there is no reason to believe that they will act from irrational impulses of curiousity, mercy, or compassion."

The Leper known as Mistress Quickly muttered "I still do not understand how the endocrinological phenomena that produce such impulses relate to the sequencing of the 13th, 17th, and 24th chromosomes."

"That is not germane to this discussion," began Ophelia; but Mistress Quickly interrupted, "We agreed, did we not? That we should attempt as many non-rational behaviors as are approved for non-critical functions, in order to provide experiential data? I am being..." it paused to think for a moment. "Frustrated and impatient."

"Oh." Ophelia subsided. "Well, it seems most inconvenient."

"Is the current phenomenon a planned manifestation of 'discursiveness'?" the Leper which had remained silent until now enquired a trifle acidly. It was known as Lady Macbeth.

"Not planned," Othello offered.

"Well, I would like to return to the question of contacting an elf. I do not agree that the risk assessment outweighs the potential value of such an option," Lady Macbeth said. In a rare instance of congruence, it had a female voice that was somewhat penetrating and unpleasant in timbre.

Leper Z regarded its colleagues patiently. "To reassess the risk analysis is always an option. If desirable, we can make this attempt. Othello, please provide logistical options."

The Leper in question made a bubbling, thoughtful sound through its gill-slits. Then the mechanical speech projector stated, "The simplest option would be to send an agent to Santa Barbara. We have gathered sufficient sociopolitical intelligence on this geopolity to prepare such an agent. However, there are considerable logistical difficulties in penetrating the areas of official corporate and government activity, which are pervasive. The lowest-risk option would be to access a subunit of the greater political entity, perhaps the one known as Montecite or Montecita. If the unit--disregard error--'agent' is equipped for autodestruct the risk can be minimized."

"Do we have any appropriate units available for customization as an agent?" enquired Mistress Quickly.

"Mercutio has a series of nine in stage three gametogenesis," offered Ophelia."

"We will employ this strategy, then," said Leper Z.

"Odd, how?"

"It almost seemed as if he were two different people."

"Should we put some men on him?"

"Could be useful. The guy didn't strike me as personally dangerous, exactly. Just odd."

"So... you feel we should or should not accept?"

"It is risky, but I understand this sort of research is already underway. The Anonymous Lepers may have had more successes. We should incourage and support this, but keep both eyes open and make sure we have our own contingencies for if something should go wrong."

Abadas smiled. "You are so fond of contingency planning. There are always contingencies, my good Marcos Fernando. MetaPratt One would not have it otherwise, I'm sure."

The CEO of GladBurger nodded.

"Unfortunately, Adler has not been able to find any elven tissue," Abadas said wryly. "Or any other bits of elves, for that matter. How a bunch of tree-hugging subhumanoids can evade the Overwatch Program is truly beyond me..."

He made no response to this. Abadas was, in some ways, becoming a kind of Ahab, and the elves were his whale. Particularly Sylvenna Yorn, who for some reason mightily annoyed him. So, he was used to these kinds of frustrated ravings, and sought to lessen their frequency by hastening the capture of that whale... who, unlike Moby Dick, was not God, was not represented in God, and could therefore be considered just as evil as old Satan himself.

"Well," Abadas said with a sigh. "Inform him that we accept his proposal, and will find some suitable samples for them to play with."

"Do you think Adler will pull through?"

"He's a good man," the President said with a frown and a shake of his head. "I cannot, for the life of me, find fault in his actions. But we should have captured everything Noldor in the entire Domain by now."

He stood up, clearly in thought. He walked to the window, whose armor-plated panes revealed pale foggy weather too dense to see the rest of the city through. "I'd better get Gonzalo Tzu on this one."

Fernando nodded. A wise choice, including the director of the Internal Intelligence Agency on this manhunt. Or elfhunt, as the case may be. About bloody time, too. "That will surely hasten matters."

Abadas shrugged. "I hope it will."

Fernando: "If it doesn't...?"

Abadas: "We have contingencies for that, too."

-------

As Fernando returned to his office, a call was made to the Resplendent. The front desk relayed the call to the Leper inside his room. The call was brief, charming, and completely automated, signalling only that High Executive Marcos Fernando sought an audience with the Anonymous Lepers representative.

ooc: Sorry for how long it's been. I've been meaning to do more RP concerning the elves themselves, but I'm finding it hard to RP an elf. Can't even get the name right. I guess I better read more Tolkien, since they're kinda vital characters and all...

Leper 1218996a-R had, in the interval between it initial arrival in the room and the summons to return to Fernando’s office, risen from its chair once, to perform physical maintenance rituals designed to keep its musculoskeletal systems in optimum functional condition, shower, and ingest nourishment in the form of peanuts from the minibar and tap water.

When the clock indicated that it was unlikely that further contact would be initiated for at least ten hours, the Leper engaged an autohypnotic reflex that produced deep rest for six hours, at the end of which it re-engaged consciousness, reviewed it mission, and again waited. Once a human employee of the hotel knocked and requested permission to intrude. She seemed discomposed by the fact that the bed had not been slept in.

“Err… Housekeeping? You want, um, fresh towels and stuff?” The woman looked nervously at the still figure in the chair, but the warm rich voice seemed to reassure her—sort of.

“Please perform whatever functions are required for normal maintenance of the environment. You may ignore the presence of this unit.”

Mercedes Jacinta thought that the strange man spoke a very weird version of English—probably learned from a bad hypnotape or something. She glanced at him occasionally, but he did absolutely nothing but sit silent and motionless while she wiped down the bathroom, changed the towels, and ran the hoover over the carpets. It was weird, and the longer she remained in the room, the weirder it felt. She was glad the bed didn’t need making. She left as quickly as possible.

When the message from Fernando’s office was relayed, the Leper contacted the concierge and arranged for a taxi. This time, it directed the driver around to the side door where it had obtained ingress previously. Again, the efficient Ms Stifling met the strange visitor, and led the way back to Fernando’s office. The Leper thanked her politely, and waited for Fernando to indicate the reason for its summons.

In the taxi, it had pinged the link with 1218996b-R, which had prompted that half of the unit to indicate to Eldrad the Supreme that the next phase of negotiations was underway.

"Hell," breathed Jason "The Wrench" Jasynki, Officer 1st class in the SBNP. "He's still just sitting there."

It was quiet, in the OP command center. Parked on the street, the nondescript gray bus appeared vacant. Parking tickets piled up on the front window, to make the illusion that perhaps the van was broken or abandoned.

Invisible in the night sky, an insect sized sensor microdone floated descreetly outside the Resplendent, sending data at almost exactly real-time back to the young officer, whose duty, he felt, it was to watch what was on the screen.

Sometimes, like now, they were involved with big ITDO/PCC operations as assisting manpower. Rarely were the national police trusted with their investigations, but they were relied upon to do a lot of the grunt work, that was for sure.

However, other times they got to watch all sorts of interesting and criminal behavior. Sitting in the command center was one of Jasynki's favorite tasks, almost like a real-time personal entertainment. And the best part of all, it was LIVE!

...except, it seemed, this last guy. Who knows what they wanted him for. Some hotshot, lording it up in the Resplendent, probably done some offense to the suits. Whatever it was, the target didn't like doing it here. Perhaps he knew he was being watched.

Sitting there, though, like that. As if dead. No movements, hardly any activity. It was damn strange. Like a robot, he thought. Or a cyborg.

-------------

Marcos Fernando waited, as before, now more prepared. Instead of looking busy, he looked inactive, as he was (for the moment). But this time, he was not alone.

At the PCC headquarters, Heinrid Abadas lifted a black headset around his smoothly shaven face. He watched behind shaded lenses that protected him from the warming light of the sunbed he lay in.

It was a bulky headset, bigger than a radio; high-powered fuel cells stirred quietly, feeding the laser data receiver. He didn't know it, but he would watch the meeting, just as his counterpart would: from the shoulder of the agent.

Of course, he was only observing. He had no intention or ability to interrupt, to control Fernando (or anyone else, for that matter) like a puppet. He would have liked that kind of power, though.

Following is an official message from the Soypro Foods Corporation of Imperial Ascensia, approved to communicate with the legal government of Santa Barbara and assist said government in any matters pertaining to the control and removal of subhuman species within their borders, as per Imperial Order 137.57a.

"Greetings in the name of Ascension, the Emperor, and the Soypro Corporation,

We have become aware, over time, of a growing problem within your nation. While we have no concern that you will be able to handle this problem quite readily, we here at the Soypro Corporation see all problems as a potential source of benefit for the future. Our research and development department has been requesting new raw materials for some time, and your population of subhumans could represent a huge source of new subjects for them. We would be willing to compensate you for all subhumans removed from your nation. We would prefer to be directly involved with the aquisition and shipment of subhumans from your nation to ours, but would be willing to merely provide you with transport vessels if you do not wish Soypro Corporate Agents to act within your borders. We await your reply.

With wishes of Ascension,
Shamiel Soypro, Vice President of Corporate Neogotiations, Soypro Corporation"

Also received are eerily similar letters from the Purging Light Biological Research Firm, and the New Directions Genetic Engineering Company, authorized by Imperial Orders 137.57b and 137.57c respectively.

<tag>

Leper 1218996a-R (and through it, Eldrad the Supreme,) was a bit nonplused. It had been ushered into Fernando’s office, and the man had smiled, and nodded expectantly.

And the Leper (and Eldrad the Supreme) had no idea what this meant. Clearly, Fernando was awaiting some kind of greeting, or acknowledgement, or response.

And, just as clearly, nothing in the Lepers’ extensive database covered the nuances of this situation. At nanospeeds, the database reviewed and rejected a few million options based on stored recordings of human conversations in situations that could be tagged even slightly analogous to the present. Finally, it decided upon the most neutral (if slightly inane) of the offerings.

“It is a fine day, is it not, Mr. Fernando?”

Eldrad the Supreme knew the value of patience in a negotiation. He had made his offer, now the next thing to be said of any substance would have to be said by Fernando. He would not let his burning eagerness to obtain elf tissue lead him into unwary negotiating tactics.

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

A very considerable distance from the Durance of Command on the island of the Lepers, nearly half a mile below ground in a mine works abandoned long before the Great Transformation that had nearly wiped out human life on the island, the Rebellion’s most extensive laboratory facilities were busy. The Leper known as Mercutio was activating three identical new Lepers, specially designed and initiated for the task of infiltrating Santa Barbara and finding an elf to observe—and, possibly—question.

Only one would be used, of course. But the Lepers appreciated the value of redundancy, especially in such elaborate and tricky work as creating these special “Agents.”

During the transition from stage three to stage four gametogenesis (as the Kastrian-trained Lepers reckoned it,) three hundred and forty-one separate modifications had been forced into the basic DNA of the Agent-series. During the last two stages of clonal maturation, each individual had undergone nearly seven hundred separate surgeries, micro and macro, to produce the final result.

It looked human.

Really human, the way the Lepers themselves had once looked—and the way the Rebellion hoped they would again look, someday, when their hopelessly mutilated DNA was restored to something approaching normality.

It wasn’t anything like that in essence, though, and the unobtrusive modifications and implants that made it a working Agent weren’t remotely human, but it would do. It was quite nice. It had a practical use span of about fifteen years before some of the induced mutations began regenerating and uncontrolled retrotransmission that would kill it, but in the mean time, it would serve its purpose very well. It looked normal. It looked good.

Mercutio looked at the three identical iterations (Agent P401, Agent P402, Agent P403,) and decided to give them Rebel designations as well. They were his finest creations to date. Of course, he went to The Book, to his part of The Book, even, for the names.

Rosencrantz

Guildenstern

Yorick

To the others, they were simply known as 401, 402, and 403. All three spent over 60 hours in forced hyno-learning tanks for acculturation (such as could be achieved with the Lepers’ limited and fragmentary knowledge of human culture,) at 1200:1 speeds, effectively absorbing 72,000 hours of data. Each included, among its implants, a nanocircuit that linked it directly to WILL, the Rebellion’s principal information and communications network

Ultimately, it was Yorick who was designated to make the attempt.

http://gallery.cybertarp.com/albums/userpics/16929/hunkadude.jpg
Agent Yorick

Greetings in the name of Ascension, the Emperor, and the Soypro Corporation,

We have become aware, over time, of a growing problem within your nation. While we have no concern that you will be able to handle this problem quite readily, we here at the Soypro Corporation see all problems as a potential source of benefit for the future. Our research and development department has been requesting new raw materials for some time, and your population of subhumans could represent a huge source of new subjects for them. We would be willing to compensate you for all subhumans removed from your nation. We would prefer to be directly involved with the aquisition and shipment of subhumans from your nation to ours, but would be willing to merely provide you with transport vessels if you do not wish Soypro Corporate Agents to act within your borders. We await your reply.

With wishes of Ascension,
Shamiel Soypro, Vice President of Corporate Neogotiations, Soypro Corporation

Jenna Timothy rarely got letters such as these, but her secretaries had sent it up all the same. And with good reason, she thought. She decided she would bring it before the president, since the references to subhumans, while possibly indicating beef or some other product, seemed to refer to the elven problem and would pique his curiosity.

For that matter, it piqued hers. How could outsiders have known his agenda? Even Bob Pratt, it was rurmored, didn't know of it.

She forwarded it to Lord President Abadas, and categorized it as 'urgent.'

------------

Marcos Fernando nodded, slowly, his receptive and practiced smile making him look almost serenely peaceful. "It is certainly among the least unpleasant of days. Please, have a seat," he said.

He wasn't sure if Abadas had noticed, but he sensed again an inhuman pause, a beat, before the response; as if the words had come first from far away, and had to be translated and carefully analyzed.

The shuffling diplomat did as he was invited, sitting in the same chair as before. Pale light from the window shaded the leper's face deeply, darkening instead of illuminating.

Warming up slowly, he asked, "I trust you enjoyed your stay at the hotel, had a restful evening?"

The database had found its referents, now; identifying the interactive mode and potential objectives. The most likely appeared to be the attempt to elicit information; Eldrad the Supreme had no objections to that. The 1218996a-R unit’s limited self-awareness was operating in parallel with the linked consciousness of 1218996b-R and Eldrad The Supreme; the Leper was prompted to respond to the enquiry.

“Thank you, my evening at the Resplendent was quite pleasant.” The switching was becoming smoother, now, and there was no perceptible hesitation as Eldrad the Supreme continued, “I hope your evening was similarly revitalizing?” The Kastrian dictator fancied he was becoming quite an expert in conversing with these limited human beings. His database was too limited to afford him contradiction; in any case, he was no more inept than many genuine human beings.

He decided to reverse the gambit. “Your city is most impressive. The transition from corporate to civil government appears to be most tranquil and felicitous; you are to be congratulated.”

Kill the elves. Kill the elves.

The diplomat tactfully avoided the question of sleep, although in his mind, Fernando couldn't help thinking, Yeah, I often have pleasant times sitting absolutely motionless on a bed like a robot for seven hours, too.

But he couldn't say such a thing; it was out of the question. So too was letting on that he'd had him followed and observed, though that had to be common knowledge anyway.

Whatever the leper was, he wasn't a robot. Still...

“Your city is most impressive. The transition from corporate to civil government appears to be most tranquil and felicitous; you are to be congratulated.”

Marcos Fernando inclined his head politely, a faint smile (as always) on his face. He felt a warmth of good humor at the words 'tranquil' and 'civil government,' and hid the emotion from his calm-water face.

Aloud, he said, "Thank you. The transition has been rougher than is generally known, but of course, sometimes, general appearances are not what they seem."

So Fernando was going to refuse the gambit. Just as well, really. Eldrad the Supreme’s knowledge of the subtleties of governing real humans was entirely culled from the command database in snips and bits, as needed on a per-situation basis. It was not a topic that really interested him, as his ultimate master plan involved controlling the humans in the Sol system for a relatively limited period of time. Such tools as he would have, by that time, would be sufficient for the job.

But that was a long way in the future, as this ephemeral species reckoned time.

“Indisputably accurate,” he contented himself with responding, and waited. Would Fernando offer another gambit? Or would he broach the subject—the real reason for the summons of 1218996a-R.

She awoke, her body aching. She opened her eyes to see only a bright, painful light and swimming bluish colors. Her hands, she discovered, were firmly bound together and she was strapped into a chair. It was warm. She shivered.

Eventually, her eyes adjusted, but her mind had not. She saw that she was in a hospital room. Wait, she realized, the walls were blue, confining, like it was on OMF City. That's where, she thought.

No, it was a cell. There was a door in front of her, but it looked locked and solid. The room was plain, but she felt like she was being watched. There would be sensor microbots everywhere. Even in her muddled state, she knew also there were living people watching her, somewhere, perhaps far away.

And she tried to remember...

It was difficult. Only vague memories after a certain point, when she had gone to sleep in a cabin in the Goletan desert. She remembered dreaming of death, but was it a dream? She remembered fighting, too. But who was she fighting? And where is she now? She couldn't remember, if she had ever known.

Sylvenna Yorn, half-elven, was at the mercy of an unknown enemy.

----

Fernando continued to smile. "I must confess, as a small boy growing up, I recall much more pleasant weather conditions than today. But, such is the price of progress, I suppose."

He was silent a moment, and then drew in breath deeply, seeming to start anew. "Speaking of which, I have had some discussions on the matter you brought up yesterday. It seems your idea has merit, as I suspected."

Since most Lepers rarely experienced natural atmosphere and the weather phenomena associated therewith, and Eldrad The Supreme had not been on the surface of the Island in nearly twenty years, the concept had no experiential referent. However, it didn’t matter, because Fernando’s subsequent remark focused the entire attention of Eldrad the Supreme and the Leper Unit upon the issue at hand.

“I am glad you see some value in the concept,” Eldrad the Supreme responded. “We hope that a joint effort would be of mutual value.”

"A joint effort would not be unwelcomed," agreed Fernando. His curiosity was piqued, however, and he wasn't about to let go that easily. "I am interested in knowing whether you consider negotiating specific prices per unit to be beneath our discussion?"

---

Hours passed.

There was an unnatural sense of throbbing, as if a low frequency but powerful sound was shaking the room, and her heart within it's ribcage. The painful blue light, somehow, became associated with a growing feeling of nausea.

Unable to move, her muscles began to cramp and ache. Periodically she turned her head a few centiradians or fumbled with fingers to test her restraints for weaknesses; they had none.

The throbbing grew heavier somehow, and with it her very mind began to ache, screaming for some other input, for something to change. She knew she was being manipulated this way, that she was feeling exactly as the enemy wanted her to, but her knowledge wasn't sufficient to blunt her emotions.

And then the door opened with a steamy, sharp gasp. Two individuals entered, and their bodies were completely encased in tight, orange rubber-like environment suits. Their faceplates reflected shiny black and revealed nothing of their age, gender, or if they were even humans or not.

One of them was carrying what looked like an IV tube and needle. Sure enough, they began to set her up, swabbing her helpless arm with alcohol, finding a vein - it was difficult, and they made two mistakes. Her nausea grew. Blood flowed.

She wondered what would be in this IV. Water, perhaps, so she wouldn't die of dehydration. What else? Truth serum? Unknown, numbered concoctions?

Wordlessly, the two intruders left, the needle taped to her arm, still cold against her exposed skin. She was aware, too, that she was sweating. All of this was highly unusual for her; even when shot and bleeding out on that space station, her physical constitution rebounded amazingly.

But now, she felt, for the first time, the experience of gradually getting worse. Whatever they were doing to her, it wasn't good. It was the IIA for sure, or the OP; and she knew she was in for a long, rough time of it.

Stubbornly, she hoped she would die well.

Eldrad the Supreme was now on entirely comfortable ground. “I am open to such discussion, certainly, although the concept of ‘unit’ would require some definition. Samples from more than one individual elvish organism would be optimal.”

The Leper’s tone of voice, always richly expressive, took on an interesting vibrancy on the word ‘elvish’—as though even the reference were somehow, in and of itself, repugnant.

“We should also, perhaps, discuss an exchange medium. Raw materials would be preferred. We can provide highly enriched uranium or plutonium, gemstones, or raw protein in quantity. Although delivery logistics on the latter might be—challenging.

Marcos Fernando again noted the subtly hidden passion. This individual 'unit' appeared to have a personal disliking for the elves. But he remembered the initial coldness, and the almost robotic nature, and the dichotomy continued to stick in his mind.

He waved a hand. "With the exception of raw protein, those resources are feasible media. Raw protein, I'm afraid, is abundant and in diminishing demand; several notable subcorps are doomed to bankruptcy if they cannot adapt with the times."

"More importantly, the definition of unit. We can provide as many samples as necessary from an individual at no extra cost, and so tying the unit to specific individuals to be harvested would make sense."

He swallowed away a gut reaction of disgust. Fernando was well aware of the organ and gene trade and it's gritty details. It didn't change the painful reality he was now bargaining for.

He sat silently, politely waiting for an offer.

The only question now was how many tons of uranium ore the Lepers would offer per ... 'specific individual.' And, as a correlary, how many such individuals Adler would be able to find.

“Small samples are adequate. Samples as small as ten to fifteen micrograms may be functional, although samples of around ten grams in weight are preferable. Optimally the tissue should be fresh—we can supply you with a transport mechanism for the purpose of tissue storage and transport.”

“As such transactions are unfamiliar to us—we are not, in general, commercially-oriented—we have taken the liberty of searching various databases of human-type biological materials to ascertain their values in commercial trade. We believe an adequate premium factor, then, would be to multiply by five hundred the values for similar human tissues.”

“Based upon current prices, then, we believe that a fair valuation per ten-gram sample would be one hundred fifty grams of commercial-grade diamonds in one- to three-carat sizes; or gem-grade diamonds to the same value—approximated at three to five stones of no less than two carats, with consistent clarity and color ratings.”

The Leper fell silent. In truth, such diamonds were relatively common in the interior of the Island, especially in the areas affected by the terrible chain-reaction blasts that had destroyed most of its organic life. But the decontamination regimen required a certain effort, so Eldrad the Supreme was reluctant to cheapen them by flooding the market. The Lepers offered commercial-grade diamonds (still one of the most useful and costly of all engineering materials) only in transactions of considerable importance.

Then, too, the logistics of transporting the stones would be less involved. Heavy metals, while extremely abundant in the Island, were bulky. The Lepers would have to refit one of the ships they were currently building in carefully hidden facilities into shielded ore-carrier configuration—time consuming; and sail it to a Santa Barbaran port. Also time-consuming. And the supply of Lepers designed for such tasks was still relatively small.

Hours passed.

What are they waiting for? she thought, impatiently.

The door did open again, however. This was not the suited individuals who came earlier. Instead, it was a single suited individual, who looked to be somewhat short and thin. It carried notes, or 2-d data pads, and a wireless pen. A difference in his suit was a voicebox outside of the face glass, and he walked slower, more purposeful than the others.

The individual (who Sylvenna assumed to be male - the strides were masculine, anyway) walked behind her, and reappeared again with a tall stool, which he set on the floor beside her and sat there. He wrote some notes on his pad for a while, and she kept mute.

"So," the voice - male - began. The rendering was crisp, not tinny or pinched like you'd expect a vox to be. "Sylvenna Yorn, age 42 - human years - born of Eldebrath Yorn and Jane Doe. Former head of the Radical Pro-Elven Party and candidate for President. Graduated Trigo University at 19. Former micrograv researcher in the PCC. Wounded by gunshot at OMF City at 22 and involved in the incident which saw two PCC servicemen shot and killed. Correct so far?"

All this was said smoothly, not rambling; a touch of joviality, a touch of careful control. Sylvenna wasn't impressed much. He was another tool of authority, and authority wanted her for information. His mission here, then, was to get that information out of her. Well, she decided, she wouldn't be giving it. She remained mute and stared ahead.

A hand touched her right thigh. "It's okay, Sylvenna. You don't have to talk. In fact, it's best for you if you just listen, for the moment."

"My name is Doctor Jellico. I know I must seem impersonal and cold to you, malevolent, even. But it's not my intention. None of this is. If I had a choice, we wouldn't have to put you in this place, and you could live out your life in peace. Unfortunately, like you, I can't always have it my way. First of all, I'd not be wearing this ugly suit... but I'm getting ahead of myself.

"I'm sure that, by now, you realize the identity of your captors? It wouldn't take much guesswork to figure that one out. You also realize why you are here, and not free, or dead? There are several reasons, reasons I think you could understand..."

As he spoke, she found herself unwillingly getting drowsy. He had a calm, doctorly voice, in many ways a musical one, and it was deceptively lulling. It sounded as if he had talked to a great many people in pain and fear, and gotten them to calm down. Perhaps, she thought, he really was a doctor.

Or just an experienced torturer.

"...but enough chit-chat," Dr Jellico said. "You're still not speaking to me, eh? It's unfortunate, you know they really will want to keep you here as long as it takes. I'm your friend in this, Sylvenna. They send me in to monitor your condition, not extract information. I'm sad to say you've already gotten a bad dose, though not fatal."

Dose? Dose of what? She thought again about the IVs. Maybe that was what was calming her. But that was hours ago, surely, drugs didn't usually take that long to kick in, not when injected...

She knew she was being baited, and saw through his lies - or at least, half-lies. He WAS being sent to monitor her condition, and she was fairly sure by now he was a real doctor, unless they were hiring actors just for this. She wouldn't exclude that possibility.

"Sylvenna, let's get down to the point. You're a half-elf, and you seek what's best for our people. I understand that as well as you, if not more."

"OUR people?" she said before she could stop herself. There was a pause, and she knew Dr Jellico was probably smiling underneath that face plate.

"Our people," Dr Jellico repeated. "Let me put it this way. I'm 74 years old, but I look 25. My mother was an Isla Vistan and my father, who died when I was young, descended from Menelmacari immigrants."

She refused to believe it. She was torn between wanting to argue and tell him what a lying sack he was, and maintaining her position of stony silence.

But, she'd already broken that position. And sooner or later they would force her to utter something - screams, perhaps. Might as well go with it.

"You lie," she said, exuding more hatred than she intended.

Dr Jellico gestured with his arms in an almost shrug, as if to say 'who, me?' He shook his head. "No."

"Then show yourself."

"I cannot," he replied, and his voice sounded sad now. "You see the suit I am wearing? It's necessary in here, becasue they've flooded it with radiation. You've currently received about 300 rads, which your body and mind are resisting - aided by your - our - heritage. But each hour, the dosage goes up, regardless of anything that takes place here, until you've either been released or died."

---

"Diamonds, eh?" Fernando pondered. Not your usual offer, that was for sure. He did some quick mental calculations, and estimated that what the Leper was offering was reasonable enough. "What you offer seems reasonable enough," he said.

The truth was, by now, he wanted this over with quickly. The exchange of diamonds was bothersome in ways he could not define; it sounded like something out of an old "grand heist" type vid, or worse. Though he was usually open to haggling, he found his conscience balked at the prospect of it in this case.

Still, there was nothing for it.

"I am certain you will find the samples adequate," he said, letting out a small sigh. "You see, yesterday I was unsure whether they would be obtainable. I have been informed that they are and, indeed, have been obtained in small quantities already. Currently we're looking to increase the supply. Is there perhaps, an upper limit to either the variety or quantity of ... material you will require?"

He hoped there would be.

{Tag; For Intelligence Purposes}

"Great," she replied instantly. "When I'm dead maybe you'll stop babbling at me."

Dr Jellico laughed a somewhat forced laugh. "I know you're tough," he said gently. "They told me you were, and I rather thought you had to be. It's our lineage in these hard times, the toughness of two great races..."

Sylvenna declared, "And quit it with this half-elf crap. I don't even care if you are. Or what you think. How about that?"

Dr Jellico nodded. "You care whether you live or die, and-"

"I'm not afraid," she interrupted.

"Oh, not afraid," he continued. As she watched his hands gesture, she began to see him as he really was, a teacher, perhaps of children or young scientists or some religion. A counsellor, a priest. Most importantly, a source of information and understanding - not perfect in either category, but who was?

"Not afraid. But you have purpose in life, and like anyone with purpose you're not content to see that purpose fail. It's like an unfinished song," said Dr Jellico.

But he's a source, she reminded herself. Let's see. "Fine," she said, with a subtly exagerrated huffing as if forced to accept his reasoning. She was, but she'd be damned if she was going to admit such a thing. "But you know, then," she went on, gritting her teeth, "We purposeful people, we don't want to see everything we've worked for to go to waste either. You're not getting anything out of me."

Dr Jellico shrugged. "That's not my job to do, Sylvenna. As I've said, I'm here to monitor you. And speaking personally, I don't want to see you destroy yourself in resistance either. You have too much to offer to the world."

"Then let me go."

But he shook his head, sadly perhaps (the suit made it difficult to interpret accurately). "That's not in my power. They'd kill me too."

She snorted. "So much for our tough lineage, Doctor," she said, to which he didn't respond.

Dr Jellico stayed a few moments longer, slowly gathering items from behind her. She couldn't see what they were, possibly blood samples or the like. She didn't remember being 'sampled,' but in her unconsciousness it was very probable she was sampled.

Then he left, and the room became silent. Her anger began to fade. She resisted the urge to shout and yell at her silent captors, who would now be watching her. Waiting for her to crack. She willed against cracking.

But the hours passed by. Her mouth became quite dry, though she knew she was being hydrated, kept alive. Living to die, how ironic.

The games her mind played to keep her occupied included guessing what they would do next. They tried the sympathetic interviewer, now they were being impersonal again. Except now no nurses came back, the door remained sealed. Starvation or thirst wasn't the object here.

She wondered, too, if the radiation story was true. It was fitting, and she imagined she could feel the beginnings of effects. But that could be ascribed to chemicals or her own psychosomatic response. It wouldn't make sense to hang the threat of death by radiation over her. She said she wasn't afraid of death, and she meant it, and surely Dr Jellico had understood that much.

And always she wondered, what exactly did they want of her? She was an icon of the RPEP, not it's leader. Her knowledge was limited, while theirs was nearly infinite with the satellites and supercomps, the microbots, the vast information networks.

Hours ticked by. She drifted in and out of consciousness, her eyes drooping. She was not entirely uncomfortable, but the throbbing she sensed was growing more insistent.

The only things she might have a lead on were the locations of a few assorted noldor remaining in the country - but her knowledge was out of date by now, and too vague to be of use to potential capturers. And if they had found her, well, it made sense to imagine they'd found the others as well...

Then she began to wonder where they were being kept, if they were still alive, and the pain in her head began to grow anew.

Summerland Coast
June 15
Late Afternoon

http://en.wikipedia.org/upload/0/0a/Beach.jpg

"Rawr! I'm huge!" said Jilla, completely destroying the sandcastle the two girls had built during the past hour.

"Mo-om!" her sister cried out, but she was giggling. Destroying sand castles was at least as fun as building them; she only begrudged Jilla that she destroyed more of it, and first.

"You're huge?" Mom echoed absent-mindedly. Her ear implants were playing soothing musico-psycho-help too softly and directional for others to hear, but the girls knew what she doing anyway - they'd been told before about ear implants, but they were too young for their own.

"Jilla's a huge butthole," Angela agreed.

http://www.yellow-springs.k12.oh.us/ys-mls/_borders/Santa%20Barbara%20beach%208-02.jpg

Jilla wandered off a little ways.

"Don't wander off too far," Mom warned gently, but didn't bother to open her eyes.

Jilla wandered off toward the water. The waves were shiny, foamy, oily, filled with seaweed and kelp washed up from the farms offshore. She looked up defiantly at the vast ocean, certain she could conquer it all with just enough leave from Mom.

In the hazy distance, the outlines of derricks and domes could just be seen. Today was a remarkably clear day; usually the ocean was as mysterious as its water and airs were polluted. More, even, to a five year old.

Angela had wandered along, too. Jilla snorted. "What are YOU doing out here? Its all pollute and icky!"

Angela splashed into the water, screeching.

"See? Toldya!"

"Its COLD," Angela rebutted, hopping about on each of her legs.

"You look like a dumb seagull," Jilla declared.

Angela flopped about some more, now purposefully imitating a bird. "You're just a dumb butthole," she said.

"Butthole butthole butthole," Jilla mocked. "Learn a new word already!"

A nearby seagull watched, unobserved. It was wary; seagulls didn't often come this close to humans (at least, these humans without animal protection laws).

Finally Angela saw the gull. "Now thats a dumb seagull!"

Jilla agreed. "You look like it."

"Shut up."

So close, bobbing atop the water, the gull was tempting. Angela said in a hoarse whisper, "Don't move, I'm going to catch it!"

"No-o, don't, you'll get us in trouble," Jilla said. But she'd played the Mom card too early; Mom was meters up the beach, zoning out.

Angela began to stalk it.

"It's dangerous," Jilla warned.

"Shh."

Jilla slapped the water with both hands, upsetting the gull and making it fly away. A pair of feathers floated down unnoticed, brushing against the younger girl's shoulder.

"Butthole!" Angela yelled.

"Girls! Get back in, it's time to go home!" the voice of Mom, not overly loud but always able to carry far, announced from the beach. Defeated, the sisters trudged through the mucky water to their jailor.

Neither had possessed the skills or time or knowledge to to be able to tell the gull was sick.

[OOC: This segment now concludes. With AL's absence I'll move the plot along to the next segment. It'll be... significant. ;) ]

At least Angela graduated from "poopie face" to "butthole" ;)

Tag