NationStates Jolt Archive

Dasch and Brand sat down at the table next to a window in the corner. A moment later, an attractive waitress walked up to them. "What would you like to drink?" she said.

Dasch looked towards Brand offering him to state his choice first.

Latte please," said Brand, "And for we'll be having a couple of menus."

"I'll be getting them for you in just a moment," she said politely, walking away.

Dasch looked at Brand. "I think it must have been the building. My mind is clearer already."

The waitress hurried back with a couple of lunch menus, "Sir in the uniform, will you be having a drink too?"

Dasch looked up. "Oh sorry, yes. I'd like a coffee, with sugar please."

The waitress rolled her eyes, "What type, and the sugar's on the table."

"I'd like a long black please."

"Righto sir, I'll get those now, meanwhile feel free to examine the menu" and with that the waitress walked off.

"Do you come here often?" Dasch asked.

"Once or twice a week," said Brand picking up the menu, "Nice and quiet here."

"It is," Dasch said. "Nice place for sure."

"Alright," Dasch said. "I've thought about a few things."

"And," prompted Brand.

"I was thinking way back to the other murders since I've come here. I may be repeating myself, but what were the significance of that ring?"

"What ring," muttered Brand, "We should have found a ring at each crime scene, but found neither. On those video tapes, they were both wearing them. But neither body had one."

"But apparently," Dasch said as the drinks arrived. He paused. "Thank you m'am" Dasch said as she put down the drinks. "Are you ready to order?" she asked.

"I'll just have a chicken and avocado sandwich please," said the incompetent detective.

"That sounds good," Dasch said. "I'll have one too."

The waitress jotted the order down and walked off. "You were talking about the rings," said Brand, eagerly seeing potential glory.

Dasch leaned closer. "Apparently, from what Donald told me, Sardo took a ring from the premises for some reason, behind your back"

"I couldn't see the Captain doing that," said Brand, "Although it adds a new dimension to the Donald killing."

"But he did, and that's the problem. It was even brought up in Donald's interview."

"I have seen the interview transcripts," said Brand, "I'm sure it didn't"

"It was," Dasch said.

"I admit we have been somewhat sneaky on occasion, because of this whole mess going on down here in your country, between the murders, the shadow, and possible issues with corruption." Dasch then took out a portable communicator. The portable communicator looked similar to a video phone. He flipped it open. "I can prove it to you."

"Prove it," said Brand.

He then talked into it quietly. "Please securely transmit the file number I will send you to this communicator. Security level clearance Dasch Alpha-two nine Beta three zeta four."

"Stand by sir, checking voice for confirmation. Okay, cleared. Type in the file ID."

Brand remain skeptical but was distracted by the arrival of the sandwichs. Dasch put the communicator aside as the women puts down the sandwhiches. "Thank you, m'am," Dasch said.

The waitress walks away. Dasch then types in a fairly lengthy code. He then puts the communicator onto the table, and turned the video screen in front of him. The audio was turned down, but enough for them to hear. Listening to the interchange between Donald and Sanderson, Brand failed to see the releavance, until they reached the ring. His jaw dropped, "That is not good."

Dasch looked at him curiously. "What do you mean Brand?" he asked.

"I think it means that the head of the murder squad is a murderer," said Brand, "His military training, his allegainces, his inside knowledge; no wonder I couldn't catch him."

Brand paused. "But this doesn't prove murder, it doesn't even prove that he's a liar. But it isn't good for Captain Sardo, thats for sure."

"Alright." Dasch said as he closed it. "This also means that we can't trust anyone in your organization, which is what I thought in the first place. This is really why I wanted to get our team in there."

Dasch took a bite out of his meal. "But there is another question I must ask. I heard comments that you had conspiracy theorys about the murders being a coverup for an attack on the ball."

"I'm inclined to think I was mistaken," said Brand, "But it strikes me that the only person with the answers is Sanderson."

"But here's the thing Brand. You might be right. This may have been a conspiracy. It more than likely did happen. I would really like to know where you got those ideas from? Maybe they aren't so 'foolish' as other people may have said."

"Just a hunch," admitted Brand sheepishly, "Plus imagine the boost to my career if I was right. But I can't imagine Sanderson working with Palmer; he may be a lying murderer, but he isn't that low."

"I have a hunch too. What if it's not Palmer we're looking for?"

"After what happened at the ball? Are you kidding?" said Jason Brand.

"Just think about it for a second Brand! What if it's possible that Palmer's actions were actually planned for, as a coverup? Even if Palmer was doing it just to be a jackass?"

"He happened to break out singing, distracting the guards at the vital moment," said Brand.

Dasch snapped his fingers. "Exactly. They could have used his singing as a conveinient decoy."

"Too convenient," said Brand, but then resigned the point, "Perhaps he is innocent. Reality is we'll never now."

"Yeah. I can't see him being the murderer. But I do think that he is hiding something. What that is, I don't know."

He drank a bit of his coffee, and put the cup onto the table. "I also heard that you were also conspiracy theorying that evil elements were planning on destroying the presidency and conquering the world. Where did you get those ideas from?"

Dasch looked genuinely interested. He was hoping that Brand didn't feel silly about his comments.

"Well the Moralist left continually plot," said Brand, "The left know it, Rickhart knows it; heck even I know it. The only person who doesn't seem to know it is the President himself."

"And once the left get some power here," continued Brand, "They will want more and more. That's just the left's way."

"And the unfortunate thing about President Grey, or at least, from what I think, is that he is blinded by his belief that democracy is perfect, and uncorruptable," Dasch replied.

"He is blinded by his faith in man," correct Brand.

Dasch nodded, and took another bite of his meal. He then leaned forward. "Did you ever investigate the murder of Justinian's wife Kerria?" Dasch didn't mention that he recieved the police report a while before. He read up on what it said a little while before.

"Fraid, not," said Brand, biting into his sandwich, "I was on another serial killer case at the time. He got the bullet in the end."

"I heard rumors that all the suspects were eliminated. Isn't that suspicious?" he said.

"All the suspects were eliminated in that case. I find that suspicious, especially noting your lead investigator." He took another sip of coffee.

"Sanderson was still a DI back then," said Brand, "And he wasn't involved in the case either."

Feeling that this was a dead end, Dasch cut the subject. "The conversation we've had. I hope for the safety of your life, that you keep silent unless absolutely necessary."

He bit into the remaining food left on his plate. "But what will we do about Sanderson," said Brand, "I can't believe I have worked with such a sicko."

Dasch took another bite. "Wether he was the murderer, or just an accomplice, we must approach with caution. No offense, but you're just a DI, and like you said, no one would believe you if you said the President lived in the White Palace, and if you tell too many, chances are they're going to move against you and silence you." He paused. "Like they did to Donald."

"We need more evidence," said Brand, "We need to link him to this; that'll prove it."

"Right, and this is where I need your help."

"I can only do so much as I'm a foreigner. You on the other hand, don't you have anyone else that would help you?"

"What do you need me to do?" asked Brand.

He drank his coffee some more. "If there is a chance without getting caught, perhaps you should check out Sanderson's notes. Or if it's risky, check out any shredded papers he may be throwing out."

"I've never heard of someone documenting a murder," said Brand, "Then destroying those documents."

"True, but if there were clues, then maybe that's why you couldn't find any?" Dasch took the last bite of his meal, then pushed the plate aside. He sipped more of his coffee.

"He keeps his office locked," said Brand, "But at least we know who leaked to the Daily."

"Right. But doesn't he throw his garbage outside of the room after locking up? Including shredded papers?"

"He puts it in the big bin we all use," said Brand.

"Perfect then. You could sort through it sometime, putting some into a bag, then sorting through it. As long as they don't see you take some out, it shouldn't be too bad."

"How do I know that I'm even getting his rubbish," pointed out Brand, "It will be shredded after all. You scavenge if you want, I won't."

Dasch nodded. "Very well. Any way I can get ahold of the stuff?"

"That two metre box in front of the Murder Squad building," said Brand, finishing off his latte.

"Thank you Brand. He finished up his coffee. "I think things are clearer now. I'm hoping to find out how this situation is unfolding."

"Well I shall see you at the office tommorow," said Brand, grabbing his sandwich, "Nine thirty start."

He then stood up and walked off with the sandwich. Dasch pulled out what little Haren he had, counted out the Harens, and placed the amount on the table. He then got up, thanked the waitress, and left.

Monday 9:25am

Brand entered his department to note incredible cheer. “What is going on?” he demanded, “Did Palmer die in his sleep?”

A few people scowled, but more agreed with Brand. “Better,” said DC Morrell, “Not only are we licking those Socialists like we did those Cultist scum; but the government has gone caught former Chancellor Vanstone. We finally caught the Conservative bastard.”

Brand grinned a little, “I bet the Terror Squad going to have some fun with him.”

To that there was a general nodding, “Hear hear.”

Earlier, During The Night...

Dasch walked into the command plane, and dropped two plastic garbage bags full of paper shreaddings onto the desk in front of the head CSI reviewing the Donald case. "And what's this, sir?" he asked.

"I need your team to reassemble these paper shreadings. I don't know what we can find, but I'm hoping to find another clue in these. Assemble your entire time if you need it, which at the size of the shreddings you have to sort through, I presume you'll need it."

The CSI's eyeballs opened at the pile. Dasch walked out of the room. "This doesn't get out to the Farminans, do you understand?" Dasch said as he left.

--------
Monday 9:27am

As Dasch walked into the office, he could hear them talking about the former Chancellor. As he walked up, Dasch nosed into the conversation in between the pause. "Hey, Who is Chancellor Vanstone, and what is going on with him?"

Brand turned to him. "He was a Chancellor under Justinian, but fled the Battle of Aston into the desert. The military tried to hunt him and his followers down, but couldn't. He was later connected to the very first ShadowStrike, seen as a key organiser."

"I see," Dasch said, nodding, still unsure on who he was exactly, but at least not completely unaware.

Brand remove his coat and his hat, placing them on the hat stand, “Commander Dasch, perhaps you would like to come into my office.”

He walked over towards a door labeled ‘D.I. J.Brand’ which he opened and walked in.

Dasch nodded, and followed Brand into his office. As he walked in, he quietly asked, "Want me to shut the door?"

“The door shuts itself,” said Brand pointing to the quietly self closing door.

“Now about yesterdays revelation,” he continued, “It implicated Captain Sardo; but what happens if Sardo believed the same lie as Commander Donald did?”

"Then I'm not sure," Dasch said sheepishly.

“I’ve also been wondering about the leak,” said Brand, walking over to his chair, “The DCI would certain have the resources and the contacts to do that.”

As he sat down, he gave his desk an accidental thump, knocking a framed photo onto the floor on the far side of the desk, “Blast.”

"Here, let me pick it up for you," Dasch said as he leaned over and picked up the picture. The glass was cracked, but he could see the picture of a woman in it. "Is this your wife?" he asked.

“Yes,” said Jason Brand, “That’s my wife Melissa. She’s very tasty isn’t she, quite a dish.”

"Yes she is quite a dish," Dasch said, intentionally using his just learned Farminan speak. He put it back on the table, and sat back down. "You lucked out with her."

“Back to business,” said Brand, slightly adjusting the picture, “I was wondering if a leak could be a weak link in Sanderson’s armour. The media is always plenty happy to open its mouth.”

"Very possibly. Now how can we exploit that weakness to reveal it?" Dasch said, shifting his body to sit properly.

“I was wondering what ideas you had,” said Brand, slightly adjusting the picture, “I have a list of papers that had photos from our investigation here.”

Dan Rickhart walked along the corridors of the White Palace; how he hated hospitals. The Palace however was very different. Even when no music played, the soft tune of violins could be heard. Every wall had Justinian’s collected art, with a few minor pieces added by Tobias.

How good it was to be free of the prison of the white, of cleanliness to cover the stench of death. Hospitals pretended to be something they were not; something Rickhart despised. Farmina never hid its dark side, and that he appreciated. More than that, Farmina showed light and dark were two sides of the same coin; a truly fascinating philosophical point. Rickhart appreciated that honesty too.

Today he could beautiful Mozart playing, over the top of Tobias Grey and James Sarck sword fighting in the library. Despite Sarck’s strength and youth; he would no doubt lose to Grey’s refined technique, taught by the very finest.

“Ms Pession,” called out Rickhart, spotting the elderly housekeeper, “On the night of the ball, I seem to have lost my best trousers here.”

“The blood soaked ones?” asked Ms Pession.

“That would be…” began Rickhart, before getting cut off.

“Right mess they were,” said Ms Pession, “One would think the owner had been murdered.”

“Well I haven’t,” said Rickhart firmly, “Now would you mind…”

“Now I must admit they were a nice pair of pants,” interrupted the house keeper, “Well as nice as a commoner’s trousers comes.”

“Ms Pession, my trousers,” said Rickhart, firmly.

“Well, after they were removed for something less blood soaked,” began Ms Pession, “One my staff brought them to me, asking what to do with them. I said they were very nice pair of pants, well as nice as a commoner’s trousers comes.”

“Get to the point Ms Pession,” said Rickhart, trying not to lose his temper.

“I’m getting then, Chancellor, no need to rush,” responded Ms Pession, sounding clearly upset at the implication she was wasting time, “Then I noted that there was so much blood on the pants and I said that you would think the person wearing them had been murdered.”

“Ms Pession! Where are my trousers?” demanded Rickhart angrily.

“Well I never,” said Ms Pession, “Don’t get angry at me just because you can’t keep your pants on. Their in the laundry, I you must know.”

Rickhart bolted down over to the staircase, quickly down and first turn on the left. Next thing he was in the laundry, as were twenty different pairs of black suit pants. Observing a pair far longer than the rest, he grabbed it, his hands noting the feel of the material. Pulling the trousers out of the pile, he observed the unfolding pants carefully. Definitely his; but they had been washed. Desperately Rickhart shoved his hand into the pocket and removed the note.

There was hope, with signs ink through the paper. But hope quickly faded. Here and there words survived, or letters. But the meaning of the message was gone. The vital word was gone, “…killed Kerria.” He tried to read the note from memory; but haze blocked out too much. He could see the words, but not read them. With the help of the surviving note he could break part of the blur, but the essence of the message; and the killers name was hidden. His hopes and dreams of solving the mystery were shattered.

Rickhart sighed resignedly; he had the day off and he could certainly do with a fix. Might as well go home, to get the pleasant strength chemical induced.

Then Ms Pession stepped into the laundry, “Well I never Chancellor Rickhart. I personally wash all that blood out of your pants, and you don’t even thank me. Well I never. Don’t expect any favours out of me again.”

Dasch thought about it for a moment. "Hmm...if the media had the leak, then wouldn't they know who leaked it?"

“Good thinking ninety nine,” said Brand, “I suggest we go to the Herald, they seemed to have the story first.”

He grabbed an old copy of the Herald in which the story was broken, “We can take my car.”

“Alright. Bring some money if you can,” responded Dasch.

Brand felt it is an odd request, but already had his wallet on him, so didn’t bother responding. Brand handed Dasch the newspaper, saying nothing, but the article and the author, Jane Marley were clearly circled.

Brand grabbed his hat and coat and led Dasch down to his car. After a brief ten minute drive, they were at the Herald building. “Well Lord Commander, would you like to show us how its done?”

"Gladly," Dasch said as they walked up to the door. "I said money because of they don't say it willingly, then we can bribe them. Or we could just simply threaten charges...that would work too." He opened the door, and walked up to the front desk.

As the two men walked in a receptionist smiled nicely and asked, “Good morning gentlemen, how can I help you?”

"Hi there, could we speak to Jane Marley please?" Dasch said politely.

“Ms Marley doesn’t have any meetings today,” said the receptionist, “And she doesn’t like unannounced visits.”

DI Brand opened up his wallet and showed the receptionist his warrant card. The receptionist paused for a moment then said, “Floor three, room six. Take the elevator on the left.”

“After you Lord Commander,” said Brand.

Dasch nodded a thank you as he walked to the left to the elevator, and pressed the button. A few moments later, the elevator arrived, and he walked in with Brand. As the door shuts, Dasch looked towards Brand.

"How often does that trick work for you?" he said, in amused curiosity.

“Only criminals and lawyers dare mess with a police officer,” said Brand, “But I repeat myself.”

The lift door opened and the two men stepped out. Brand noted door number six and knocked firmly.

“Come in,” responded a sweet, feminine voice on the far side.

As Brand opened the door, a middle aged lady was revealed, “I’ve been expecting you.”

Dasch gave an akward look. "You have? How so?" he asked as he walked into the office.

“The receptionist called me and told me to cops were on their way up,” said the journalist, “Take a seat, I’m Jane Marley. Chief crime reporter for the Herald. So how can I help?”

"Yes," Dasch said as he took a seat to the right of Brand. "I was hoping that you could help us with an investigation."

“Ask away,” responded Jane Marley, “Sooner I get rid of you, the sooner I can get back to work.”

---

Meanwhile, DCI Sanderson was most annoyed. He had already told Rickhart ‘no’, but the old man continued to hassle him at home on his morning off. “Jamison, can Dan not understand a simple answer?” asked Sanderson.

Captain Sardo glared Sanderson, “Chancellor Rickhart was quite clear that his path is the best. He has sent you this.”

Sanderson was passed a note, which he took cautiously. Opening it, he felt rage and uncontrollable fear. He could feel his pistol in its holster.

The note was three simple words, “It is inevitable.”

"From what is public knowledge, you posted an article based on leaked information."

"Its all in the article," said Jane Marley, "I can't help you beyond that."

"But that is not why we are here." Dasch said. "We are here, to find out who leaked the story."

"Like I'd tell you that," said Marley, "If leaking wasn't confidential, no one would leak."

"Alright then," Dasch said. "Then are you willing to live for the rest of your life, knowing that you wouldn't give out the crucial information that would break the case that would otherwise risk the lives of millions of Farminans, and to save this country?" Dasch was partially bluffing, but with his days from playing poker back at home, he grew a very good poker face.

"How could I save millions by naming the leak," said Marley, "I doubt he has any more information on your serial killer."

"But we will never know until you tell us." he said, deeper than before.

"Look perhaps you should spend more time chasing serial killers and less time hunting leaks," suggested Jane Marley.

"Well, how about this," Dasch said. "What if we give you first dibs on the news for this case once we confirm our suspicions about this individual?"

"Destroying my own source barely seems like a block-buster story," commented Marley.

"But what if it leads up to the destruction of the Shadow?"

"I have trouble believing that," said Marley, "A great deal in fact."

"Well," Dasch said. "You can protest about freedom of the press if you want, but if you don't tell us this, due to this case's severity, I have no choice but to arrest you for [Whatever the crime is to withhold information to prevent an arrest]. That is, if you still refuse to listen to our offer."

Marley smiled and shook her head, "I don't take blackmail well."

Dasch sighed. "Alright...I'll tell you. We suspect that your leak is the serial killer himself."

"Oh," said Marley, "Can I still get an exclusive if I confirm or deny a name?"

"Like I said before, yes."

"What name am I confirming or denying?" asked Marley.

"Sanderson."

"Yes," said Jane Marley resignedly, "My God, I never thought him capable. What type of nut leaks their own crime?"

"We've got him," said Brand standing up, "By george we can't prove murder, but we can get him for corruption. Let's go!"

"Wait..." said Dasch. "Jane, do you know anything else?"

"I think this is a lot deeper than Sanderson."

"I'm afraid not," said Marley, "The truth will consume us all."

Dasch nodded. "Thank you Jane." He got up to leave.

As the two men left the office, Brand said, "DCI Sanderson has the morning off. I suggest we try his home."

"What were you planning? Dasch asked, curiously.

"We arrest him then hammer the truth out of him," said Brand, "We have him for corruption; that'll be life."

"Or..." Dasch said, smiling. "We could bargain with him for a lighter sentence to find the ringleaders, if that is the case.

"[I]We need DPP for that, but we can promise a good word," said Brand, stepping into the lift.

"We better be going, and talk to the DPP then," Dasch said as he pressed the button to go down.

"We should get Sanderson first," suggested Brand, "We can hold him for 24 hours, so thats plenty of time. I better call back to the squad to put an arrest warrant of the DCI."

"Do you have the authority?"

The lift door opened. "Yes," said Brand, "If I'm not no one is."

As they began to walk out the door towards the car, Brand pulled out his mobile, dialled a number and began to explain the situation to the person at the other end.

"Who are you speaking to?" Dasch said curiously.

Brand hung up once he reached the car, "The admin at back at the murder squad. I warned them if the DCI goes to work early, he is to be arrested."

Brand unlocked his car, "Now lets get the bastard."

"We better move quickly though," Dasch said. "I still don't know how deep this goes."

Brand sat down and began the ignition, "We're about to find out. Its been a real trail of bread crumbs, but I think we've come to the end."

10:30am Sanderson Estate

Jason Brand’s car came to a violent halt outside a pleasant suburban house, “We’re here.”

Brand got out the car and withdrew his pistol. After Dasch he emerged, he locked his car and proceeded towards the house. He knocked twice, then rang the doorbell, but there was no response. “I hate this part,” said Brand, preparing to kick the door down.

Then he had a better idea and simply turned the handle, “Lord Sanderson, we are coming for you, come out with your hands up.”

Again there was no response, so Brand called back to Dasch, “Lord Commander, we have a search to conduct.”

Dasch nodded, drawing out his Falcon Magnum. He flipped on the laser sight, and looked inside, moving slowly inside.

Brand was already down the corridor to the left when Dasch was in the house. His foot steps were replaced by a sudden silence, followed by Brand’s voice; startled, horrified and weak, like it had been when Dasch and Brand first met, “Commander Dasch I think you should see this.”

Dasch slowly walked down the hallway, and looked over the edge, gun drawn. What he saw was horrific...

“My God,” said Brand, kneeling over the black dressed, red covered body, “The DCIs murdered Captain Sardo. Three bullets; two in the chest and a third in the head; just like with Donald.”

To say that there was a bullet in Jamison Sardo’s head, would be hard to satisfy; as his head seemed splattered all over the hall.

The pool of blood was wide, soaking the legs of Brand’s trousers, “I didn’t like the bastard, but he didn’t deserve this, just for knowing about Sanderson.”

Brand wiped his eyes, “I trusted one and hated the other; it seems I got it the wrong way round.”

Dasch lowered his gun, but kept his arms out with the gun in his hand, still looking for signs of anyone else. "What is Sanderson's cell phone number?" Dasch asked, shutting off the laser sight, nad putting his gun back into the holster.

Brand got out his mobile, but it started ringing before he could find the number. He promptly answered and said, “I understand” and “I see” a number of times, as well as something about forensics coming to the Sanderson Estate.

He said “See you soon” before hanging up. “Lord Commander,” said Brand, “We must return to the Murder Squad.”

He promptly paced towards the front door, still dripping in blood.

"Wait," Dasch said. "Going like that might incriminate yourself. What do you have in mind, or has that already been cleared?"

“I should probably get cleaned up,” noted Brand, “But Sanderson has just walked into the Murder Squad building, soaked in blood; repeatedly yelling ‘It is inevitable’. No one knows what ‘it’ is, but he’s been arrested for corruption and they will be adding Sardo’s murder now.”

“First home for a bath,” said Brand, “Then onwards to success and promotion.”

"Alright, but drop me off at the station first before you go. I wish to speak to him personally."

“Very well,” said Brand, “You can deal with inevitability, but I won’t be gone long. I’ll organize the formal interview on the way.”

---

Ten minutes later, Brand stopped in front of the MIS building, “Just follow the signs and use my keycard; no one will raise any questions.”

In Brand’s voice was still some suspicion of the foreigner, but he was a detective, it was his job to be suspicious, especially after betrayal from a long time companion.

Brand passed Dasch his keycard, “I’ll be back for the interview; it begins in twenty minutes. Goodbye Lord Commander, I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

"Will do, thanks," Dasch said as he shut the door, then walking into the building.

--------

Dasch looked into Sanderson's cell, then looked over at the DC in the room. "How long has he been like this?" Dasch asked.

“He calmed down after we got him in cell,” said the DC, “Before that he was just repeating, ‘It is inevitable’, as though it was a warning; but more a revelation. His screaming made me cold. It made me feel that a new reality was coming about. That the old order was being swept away, silently and subtly. That the truth was coming to destroy us all, to replace us. It was inevitable; because it was already happening! But enough of my delusions, he fears something certainly; like one can fear being trapped by destiny.”

"Alright, give me a minute with him," Dasch said.

The DC walked off to attend to their paper work, leaving Dasch with the important prisoner. Dasch looked into the cell. He could see Sanderson sitting on the bed, cradling himself. It seemed like he had gone mad.

"Graham, I need to talk to you." Sanderson said nothing, as though in quiet contemplation.

"Graham, listen to me." Still Sanderson said nothing. Dasch looked around on the floor, and found a small piece of gravel. He then flicked it at Sanderson, hitting him in the shoulder.

"Oww," said Sanderson, before continuing to muse over his thoughts.

Dasch nodded his head. "Graham, we can think about this together."

"No we can't," said Sanderson, "You don't understand. It is inevitable."

"I know it is inevitable. I know that change is inevitable. But you have to talk to me about this, so that way people are more ready."

"It is inevitable," warned Sanderson.

"What is inevitable?" Dasch asked quietly.

"Many things," said Sanderson, "It."

"And who has been telling you that 'it', is inevitable?"

"The thinker," said Sanderson, "He who sees the Golden Path. He who fears the Dark Path."

"And who is the Thinker? Does he have a name?"

"It is inevitable," explained Sanderson.

"A name?"

"Fear," responded Sanderson, either being purposely obtuse or suffering a badly fried brain; perhaps both.

"Where can I meet the Thinker?" Dasch asked, still calm.

"It is inevitable," answered Sanderson.

"I want to hear what the thinker has to say. Where can I meet the thinker?"

"The Thinker will come for you," said Sanderson, "He fears you."

Dasch looks into his eyes. "Fears, me?" he said. "Why would he fear me?"

"It is inevitable," responded Sanderson.

"Why would he fear me?" Dasch repeated.

"The Dark One hunts you," said Sanderson, "The Thinker's secret. The Thinker fears the Dark One. Our little secret. Those of the Golden Path; the Thinker lies to."

"And who is the dark one? Me?" Dasch was silently amused at the fact that his Messian uniform is in dark greys and blacks.

"It is inevitable," commented Sanderson.

Dasch sighed. "Who is the dark one?" he repeated.

"He who will sweep away the old order," responded Sanderson.

Dasch thought about it. He could end up sweeping away the old order, if the 'old order' was corrupt as he feared.

"Who did Captain Sardo work for?" he asked.

"There is no Sardo," said Sanderson, "No Sardo, no murder."

"I know there is no Sardo. He's gone now. But I mean before. Who did he work for when Sardo existed?"

"No Sardo!," yelled Sanderson angrily, "It it inevitable"

Then Dasch had an idea. "Rickhart. Who is he to you?" He thought perhaps he could test a long-naging hunch of his, since even before the original war ended.

"It is inevitable," said Sanderson.

"Who is Rickhart to you?" he repeated.

"It is inevitable," responded Sanderson.

Dasch paused. "Is Rickhart the thinker?" he said.

"Fear the Dark One," said Sanderson, "Not all is inevitable."

Dasch smiled. That sounded like something to him. He decided to try it one more time. "Who is Rickhart to you?" he repeated.

"It is..." began Sanderson, when a pair of guards walked up to Dasch.

"We have to take him to the interview room," said one openning the cell and dragging off Sanderson. Sanderson called back, "What fool confesses to a crime he does not commit? The Dark One hunts you. He wishes to use you, and destroy you."

"Can you give me another minute?" Dasch asked as the guards moved in to take Sanderson.

"No," said the guard firmly, "DI Brand was clear on the interview time."

"Alright, but I wish to go with him."

"Mr Brand will see you before the interview, he just arrived," said the guard.

Dasch nodded. "I will meet him there." Dasch knew that with Sanderson betraying the 'Thinker', he was afraid that someone would try to assasinate him now. As the men left and Dasch kept them in sight, he reached into his pocket. He took his communicator and pressed a button.

'Transmitting...' a computer voice chirped. He would deal with the recording when he needed it. He knew he would.

He then follows the men.

DI Brand stood out the front of the interview room where he chatted joyfully with a DC and DS from his team. “Well that is interesting,” said Brand, “I said that Mr Vanstone would be full of interesting facts, didn’t I.”

“Yes you did, guv,” said DC Sarah Sims, “This’ll rock the White Palace. They’ll have to rethink their targets.”

“And no doubt Palmer will use it for more political mileage,” added Sims, “Sound something like ‘Moralists can’t even identify the enemy without getting it wrong.’ If the bastard didn’t make screwing over the average person part of his agenda he could actually win.”

Brand shuddered at the thought of a Palmer presidency, the only thing worse would be if the Shadow won the presidency. Then Brand pondered, perhaps President Shadow wasn’t as bad as President Palmer.

Dasch walked up to Brand as the former DCI is lead into the interrogation room. "You will find him hard to talk to, but if you're persistant and you don't make him angry, you should find out what you need." Dasch said.

“Err, Lord Commander,” begun Brand, as the other two detectives walked off, “That thing.”

He placed his fingers on his forehead as though to explain it, “That camera. We are going to be having a little unofficial chat, since ‘somehow’ I managed to tell Sanderson’s lawyer the wrong time for the interview. So can we get rid of it.”

"Actually, I don't have the camera on me right now," Dasch said. "By the way, what were you meaning when you were talking about Vanstone?"

“Mr Vanstone has been spilling the beans,” said Brand, “Apparently the Shadow is having his strings pulled by someone higher up; the Puppeteer. These guys must love fancy names. Apparently Vanstone worked for another of the Puppeteer’s agents called the Laborer who is in charge of keeping remnant conservatives loyal to the Puppeteer’s plans. And that about summarizes it.”

Brand put out his hand, “I’ll have my swipe card back, please. All metal objects should be left outside the interview room and placed in the secure blue wall safe.”

With his spare hand, Brand pointed to the open safe, where a wallet, car keys, a pistol and a watch sat.

Brand pulled out some sort of scanner and waved it over Dasch’s head just to check, “Never know who you can trust.”

Dasch nodded. "I understand your fears." Dasch said, as he took off his sidearm, car keys and his communicator. He then handed Brand's swipcard back. Only his recollection would be his evidence now.

Brand sealed the safe and entered a code. He then slid his swipe card through the lock; opening the interview room, “Let us begin quickly Lord Commander.”

Graham Sanderson sat quietly in his white plastic clothes, before greeting the two men solemnly, “It is inevitable.”

Brand closed his eyes for half a second before taking a seat. He heard the door lock behind Commander Dasch, “Now, Lord Sanderson, I ask you to confess to all your crimes. We will tell the DPS you were truly helpful.”

“It is inevitable,” warned Sanderson.

“Confess!” roared Brand.

“What fool confesses to a crime he did not commit?” questioned Sanderson, with some annoyance.

"Brand, like I said, you won't be through him if you are angry to him. Stay calm and be patient." Dasch shooked his head. "You have to ask him the right questions, but some he won't answer like that."

He then paused, then turned to Sanderson. "Graham, who murdered Sardo?"

Two emails isn’t a great number. Rickhart received hundreds of them a day. Most were unimportant and uninteresting. But these two were special. One brought a tear to his eye and one helped solidify his suspicions.

Captain Sardo was dead by Sanderson’s hand. Rickhart hadn’t foreseen this and felt guilty because of it. Another death to his name, “I killed a friend.” He even felt a single miserable tear on his cheek. How he hated what the world had become. And the new world had dragged him into it.

The other email spoke of Vanstone’s testimony. It confirmed the Puppeteer. Rickhart smiled, that matched his intelligence, including net chats between Palmer and someone he suspected was the Puppeteer. It was more proof linking Palmer and the Shadow.

The pain ate Rickhart; but relief from the needle eased it.

---

“No Sardo,” declared Sanderson.

Brand glared, then grabbed Sanderson around the throat, “Enough with this cruel act.”

Sanderson gave a very serious look, then said sternly, “It was I.”

Dasch nodded. He didn't think that would have worked. "It was you?" Dasch said. "And you're not mad then..."

“Yes,” nodded Sanderson.

“And who else have you killed?” asked Brand.

“It is inevitable,” responded Sanderson.

“I thought we got past this silliness,” said Brand, clearly annoyed.

“What fool confesses to a crime they did not commit?” asked Sanderson.

"Then what are you guilty of?" Dasch asked.

“Killing Jamison,” said Sanderson, “But the pieces still move.”

“What in blazes are you talking about?” asked Brand.

Sanderson responded, “Who do you trust? Either of you could have been working with me. Is someone lying? It is inevitable.”

With that the door gave a slight whoosh as was it opened for Sanderson’s solicitor.

“DI Brand,” said the lawyer sternly, “How dare you interview my client before I have seen him?”

The lawyer placed down a steaming warm mug of coffee before Graham Sanderson, “DI Brand I think we need a little chat in your office about misconduct.”

Brand stood up and left the room with the lawyer closing the door behind him.

Sanderson looked over to Dasch, placing a hand under the table. “Lord Commander, you will need this,” he said, passing Dasch two interlocked rings that had been stuck to the bottom of the interview table, “It is inevitable.”

Dasch felt the rings, and slid them into his pocket. He then looked up at Sanderson.

"We've been investigating the rings for a while, but do you know anything about them, and if you do, what do they mean?" He tried to say it in a way that didn't give away to the recorder of what he said.

Sanderson slurped up his coffee quickly. “The rings belonged to those two boys, the murdered ones,” said Sanderson, “The Dark One murdered them. What fool confesses to a crime he did not commit?”

Sanderson stood up and walked around to where Commander Dasch was sitting, “I received a message today.”

“It is inevitable,” he roared, bringing his coffee mug into the table.

As it shattered Sanderson grabbed a large piece and lunged at Commander Dasch in a single swift movement.

It was like you could hear Rickhart’s trap slamming shut.

Dasch jumped at the cup breaking. He got up from his chair just as Sanderson grabbed a piece of cup. Sanderson had a look of fierce determination and hatred, as he lunged at Dasch. But Dasch kept cool, partly from his training, and partly because of something that Sanderson had no clue about;

AJ Dasch was a former member of the special forces.

Just as Sanderson lunged at Dasch, Dasch did a quick angled block, hitting his armed fist aside. As Sanderson slammed into Dasch, Dasch shoved him in the back, while tripping him with his leg. Sanderson maintained his balance, pushing the shard of mug into Dasch's hand. The shard goes into Dasch's hand, making Dasch yell in pain. He then steps a couple of steps back, and kicks his weapon hand. Sanderson jumped back as well, still holding the shard of mug in a white gloved hand, pulled it along his neck, slashing the jugular. As blood splurted, Sanderson fell to his knees, whispering, "Checkmate." There was a sound of blood gurgling in Sanderson's throat, and then he died, falling to the floor. In his last breath he threw the shard to Dasch's feet. Dasch quickly moved his foot away from the shard, to keep it from touching him. He then stepped over the shard, and walked to the door. He tried to open it with his undamaged hand, but it was locked. He yelled. "Help!" There was no answer, as the room was sound proof.

Minutes later, the door opened and Brand entered, "My God."

Then he yelled back. "Guards, guards!" he yelled. Sanderson's lawyer glimpsed the mess and stepped back. Brand walked up to Dasch, "What the hell did you do to him?"

Dasch then showed him his bleeding hand. He spoke calmly. He hid his fear well. "I didn't. He did. I think he just killed himself to make me look like the killer."

"My hand was cut when he lunged at me." He lifted his wounded hand. "Check the wound, it's not the type that I can do by myself."

Brand checked the wound, but wasn't convinced, "Perhaps this is what Sanderson warned about." He moved his hands down Dasch searching him, before feeling the two rings in his pocket, "Could you please remove those?"

"Ah, yes." Dasch said. "Check the bottom of the table for adhesive. He stuck them onto the bottom of it, and then gave them to me when you were gone." He then took the two rings out. "These are the two rings from the crime that was taken by what we assume to be Sanderson or Sardo."

He then took the two rings out. "These are the two rings from the crime that was taken by what we assume to be Sanderson or Sardo."

"Check it," said Brand and one of the guards checked under the table.

"No adhesive," said a guard, "He could have hung them from a bolt I suppose."

"AJ Dasch," said Brand, "I'm arresting you for the unlawful killing of Graham Sanderson. You are entitled a lawyer."

"Cuff me," Dasch said. "I'll call one of my lawyers, but first I must ask you to do something with my hand."

"We don't need to cuff you, you ain't going nowhere," said Brand, "Simon, take the Lord Commander to the medical officer. She'll patch him up."

The guard called Simon oblidged. DI Brand decided it had been a very long day. Before Dasch was moved out of the room, he turned to Brand. "Let me ask you something DC Brand."

Brand looked away from Dasch, "What?"

"I've only been in this country for about two months. I've been here on a mission of peace. I've know everyone personnally in this country for two months, since that is the case, and since I've been so involved in the investigation of these murder cases, especially with the murder of Donald, what would I have to gain to murder Sanderson? What motive would I have to kill the man?"

"Thats what we'll investigate?" said Brand.

"That's what you need to investigate. I'm an innocent man. I know Sanderson was working for someone. He mentioned about the Dark One, the Thinker, and how there will be something big happening soon, and how it will be inevitable. I think I was set up, because I think I was learning too much, and they think of me as a threat to their plans."

"Go get your hand patched up, so we can search where you are staying," said Brand.

Dasch nodded, and turned around to be lead out of the room. At the moment, he was more concerned with the equipment he had brought with him. Fortuntately, no one could hack into his communicator as it required both a code and a voice-analysing system to access the secret files. He was also concerned with his pistol, as it was one of the most powerful handguns in the world.

But he was most worried about Alana. Would he ever see her again?

Whatever the case, he still had his health ring on from the ball. The scanner didn't detect it, he guessed because of how little electricity it used, and how it only checks vitals every thirty seconds. It probably scanned during the gap.

As he walked into the first aid station, he thought about the book of the Shadow. It was analysed and scanned into the primary database, so he wasn't too concerned about it being lost, but he was more worried of them finding out. If they saw the book in their hands...there would be hell to pay.

Or the paper clippings...

Tuesday 10:00am

Sanderson was dead. Sardo was dead. Rickhart hated death, it made him feel old; and age made him weak.

“Commence recording,” said Rickhart getting down on one knee.

The camera man commenced the digital camera and Rickhart looked as formal, subservient and yet powerful as he could.

“Force Commander Ackvick; Lord Commander, you are no doubt aware about the arrest of Commander AJ Dasch. This is a most humiliating position to be in. I find the charges against him trumped and unsubstantiated. The weight of evidence says he is not guilty.

Let me summarize the evidence and charges. The Unlawful Killing of Graham Sanderson, he was alone with Sanderson at the time of death, and the murder weapon contained his blood and prints. Owning of Unlawful Materials, we found a copy of the Shadow’s History of Farmina in his Command Plane. The Murder of Commander Donald, he disappeared from the ball for the appropriate period of time to conduct the killing. Also noted is the Shadow’s mark, as per the book. Conspiring with a Terrorist Agency, no evidence not already mentioned. Withholding Evidence, he had the rings of two murder young boys. Public nuisance, he was recorded rummaging through public bins.”

Rickhart sighed, “Despite my personal feeling this is a waste of time; mud sticks, especially on high profile suits, the Farminan politician James Palmer being a prime example. If this continues, Dasch’s reputation will be ruined. I have talked to my counterparts and all charges will be dropped. Not a single word will be breathed to the media. The government shall give Dasch the glowing praise he deserves and all these silly accusations and evidence shall be forgotten. We have a single term; that he is returned to the safety of your lands as soon as possible. I ask you Lord Commander, for a prompt response.”

Rickhart gave a hand signal to cut the feed and send it. Soon, soon Ackvick would define the future.

Ackvick got the telegram, and he was not amused. He sat down in front of his own cameraman, and prepared his statement.

"Alright, we will gladly take Force Commander Dasch back. He has gone through too much as of far. However, I have a counter-term. I want another one of our Force Commanders to take over. The Force Commander to take over will be arranged shortly."

Ackvick sighed. This was definitely not a good day.

Rickhart reviewed the footage and then respond with his own message, “Lord Commander, I accept your offer on the term that you plan a gradual withdrawal, as the Arandior situation calms down. Rickhart out.”

He set up another message.

"I will accept those terms." Ackvick said to the camera. But he didn't say how soon we had to withdrawl... he thought to himself. So he figured two men a month should suffice.

Epilogue

Chancellor Dan Rickhart walked outside Commander AJ Dasch’s cell. Chancellor Rickhart was a tall, imposing man, still relatively fit, despite his age. “I have seen this, it was the only end. I stand here and you say…” said Rickhart, his voice deep and fearsome as ever.

“You set me up?” Dasch said matter-of-factly.

“I was expecting you to quote Sanderson, then ask that question,” said Rickhart, “Can we do it again?”

“If you’re trying to tell me to say ‘it’s inevitable’, then fine. But it’s also inevitable when I find out the truth of what’s going on here,” responded Dasch.

“The truth is beyond even my grasp,” said Rickhart, “But I bring you good news. You shall be going home soon Lord Commander. To your wife, to safety away from this hellhole.”

Dasch sighed, “Thank you, but I feel that if we leave here, Farmina is lost.”

“If you stay here, you are lost,” said Rickhart, “I have come to realize that people’s first duty is to themselves, and to their family.”

“That is true,” Dasch said, “But you also have to realise that there is a major coup that I bet is aiming to overthrow the President. And we’re the best chance this country has.”

“There is no alternative,” said Rickhart, “I must carry this weight, not you.”

“Also, this is our secret,” said Rickhart, “Captain Sardo murdered Commander Donald. I must profess that I also killed your friend. For that I hope you can forgive us.”

Dasch lunged at the bars, hands grabbing onto the bars, “You goddamned bastard!”

“He meant a lot to me! Why the hell did you do it?!” asked Dasch.

“To save you from a fate worse than death, to save you both,” said Rickhart, “There is no other way. The proof of inevitability is seen by your presence here.”

“And what do you mean by a fate worse than death?!” asked Dasch.

“You don't want to know,” warned Rickhart wearily, “Let me leave you with these words. Even in death there is love. Even in inevitability there is hold hope. Love and hope are the centre of all things. Faith in your fellow man, brings both these things.”

Dasch sat back down. He glared at Rickhart but said nothing.

Rickhart pressed the key into the lock and turned it, Dasch was a free man.

He got up and walked by him. As he walked by, he said something that sent a mild chill down Rickhart’s spine, “It is inevitable.”

Rickhart repeated himself, trying to maintain confidence, “Even in inevitability there is hope.”

Stalemate.

---

President Grey lit his cigarette. Commander Dasch was going. It seemed the truth would never be known. With the election around the corner, Dasch had tilted the balance, just enough in Palmer’s favour to make him a possible, but not plausible president. The Presidency would be completely secure if Dasch hadn’t bumbled into things.

As Grey puffed away, he couldn’t deny it; it was his own stupid fault, it always was. Dasch had raised his suspicions of Rickhart with the President. Grey couldn’t believe it; but something ate at him, something hadn’t been right.

Grey threw his cigarette aside. Of all the courses that he could have taken to find out about Rickhart, he chose the most stupid. He had made a deal with the Shadow! He allowed a number of the Shadow’s operatives to enter Farmina just before the ball. Oh, the Shadow had kept his end of the bargain, investigating Rickhart, only to discover nothing useful. But the Shadow had used his operatives at the ball to disastrous effect; throwing balance back into the electoral contest.

Dasch and his suspicions could have ruined everything. Tobias Grey pulled out another cigarette; they didn’t solve the problems, but they eased the pain.

---

The room was dimly lit, the large television on the opposite side of the room quite a sight. A young waiter, in a tight white and black uniform that left little to the imagination placed down two glasses of very fine scotch on the exquisite glass table. “Thank you,” said Rickhart picking up the drink and taking a brief sip, before turning to his host, “I bring President Grey’s thanks for your support in the Parliament. It has been invaluable.”

Rickhart’s voice was not that of someone giving thanks, but of cold neutrality, hiding a deeper hatred and resentment.

“I was more than happy to help the President, after all it massively improves the chance of my victory,” responded his host.

Jamie Palmer was not unlike Rickhart physically, both strong and tall, although he was not quite as tall; but far more buff and far, far younger. His skin was softer, lighter, like that of a beautiful woman. His hair was a rich red not a dull grey, and it was combed with less conservatism than Rickhart’s.

Jamie Palmer sat down and took a grape from a bowl on the glass coffee table, “I sense your hand in what happened to Commander Dasch.”

“You are correct,” said Rickhart, but not elaborating further.

“Commander Donald?” asked Palmer.

Rickhart took a large sip of his scotch.

“Answer me!” instructed Palmer, his voice deep and dark, as though a poor imitation of Rickhart.

Rickhart looked around at his extravagant surroundings. Lord Palmer was a very wealth man, everything was very exquisite, very post-modern. Not to Rickhart’s taste; but Rickhart couldn’t afford his own tastes; and he certainly couldn’t afford this.

“What about what you promised me?” demanded Rickhart, returning his attention to Jamie Palmer.

Jamie Palmer sat indifferently for half a minute, then crossed his legs, flicked his hair out of his eyes and took another sip, before saying in his very camp fashion, “Answer my question Mister Rickhart.”

Rickhart glared; he hadn’t been called Mister in for nearly a year. But he also knew he was in a corner. “You have me in check,” said Rickhart, alluding to chess, his favorite game, “I killed Commander Donald, well I tried. Sardo finished him off.”

Rickhart paused, before yelling, “Now tell me who my father is!”

“You talk of chess,” said Palmer, his tone mocking, “But I am playing poker.”

Rickhart turned bright red, suspecting the hidden meaning of the words, “Do you know who my father is or not?”

Palmer smiled, but Rickhart could see past the pleasantness to the cruelty. Palmer’s lips moved slowly, his voice burning Rickhart’s tainted sole, “Maybe…or maybe not. That’s for me to know…and you to find out.”

“I know too much,” hissed Rickhart, “Tell me the truth or I destroy you. I have had enough of your games. I wished I had never got involved.”

Jamie Palmer didn’t take well to being threatened. He put his glass down and picked up his remote. He pressed a two buttons and then the massive television displayed security camera footage from moments ago. But it was the sound that was vital, “I killed Commander Donald.”

Palmer stopped the security camera footage there, “Now you see your problem Daniel. I can destroy you and I have proof. You have suspicions. I will win the Presidency; and the Moralists will be forced into coalition with me. The Liberal-Moralist government. I think I shall make you Chancellor for Sanitation.”

Rickhart burnt with rage, and pulled out of his jacket a stack of papers, “Records of internets chats between you and Puppeteer; referring to the Shadow. You worked with terrorists, you lying treacherous bastard. You’re act at the Ball was a purposeful diversion you bastard.”

Palmer grabbed papers, “I also made sure that the Shadow’s men and Rellian Peters had everything they needed to launch their attacks. It was all me.”

He then placed the records over an incense burner, “And these prove nothing. You can’t prove the other person is the Puppeteer and you definitely can’t prove what we were talking about. You probably can’t prove that I was even involved in these conversations.”

Rickhart felt like stabbing Lord Palmer; but self control got the better of him. “You smug git,” muttered Rickhart, “How much of this was planned?”

“That would be telling,” said Palmer seriously, “But the Puppeteer is very far sighted. He has seen everything that has and will be. You think you are far sighted; moving people around like chess pieces. We are all the Puppeteer’s chess pieces. The difference is that he, unlike you, can play poker.”

“Who is the Puppeteer?” asked Rickhart.

“He is dead,” said Palmer, “He wrote out the game plan, before he died. The end game is already written.”

That didn’t make sense to Rickhart; Palmer had been talking to the Puppeteer just last week. Could this master planner, really have finished the game and died within the last week? Could everything he had accomplished been the result of the Puppeteer moving him around.

“You worked with the Cultists,” noted Rickhart, “That means they are pieces into the Puppeteer’s game.”

Cultists and the terrorists had similarities but striking differences. Cultists preached the destruction of the Moralists and the restoration of Justinian. The terrorist preached the destruction of democracy and the restoration of conservative autocracy.

“The Puppeteer calls me ‘the Politician’. He calls the master of his terrorist arm ‘the Shadow.’ His chief of the Conservative remnants is the ‘Laborer’. The master of the Puppeteer’s finances is ‘the Accountant’. The master of his militia is called ‘the Firestorm.’ But to the question. He has another operative, one called ‘the HateSpeaker.’ The HateSpeaker made the Cultists at the command of the Puppeteer and now controls them to the Puppeteer’s design,” explained Palmer, before rewinding and replaying the small section of security camera footage as a blunt warning.

Rickhart could now see the pieces moving around the board: terrorists, soldiers, Cultists, politicians, rebels; all as the Puppeteer had foreseen. But Rickhart couldn’t see the endgame. He couldn’t comprehend his enemy and how he moved the pieces. How and why; that was what Rickhart needed to know.

“What is the endgame?” asked Rickhart.

“The Palmer presidency,” responded Palmer.

Rickhart pondered for a moment; the terrorists and Cultists had propelled Palmer’s cause. The Ball had been a disaster for Grey; the first Shadowstrike made the Moralists look weak, and in Arandior, Palmer used the Cultist revolt to look like a tough man; not to mention to remove Arandior’s vote, an area sure to vote Grey over Palmer. But would the Puppeteer settle for a Liberal president; even one as twisted as Palmer. Rickhart doubted it; Palmer was just a piece, like the Shadow, the Cultists and Conservatives. Dan Rickhart couldn’t help feeling the game was bigger than anyone imagined.

Rickhart had never felt so weak in all his life. He didn’t know what he was trying to prevent, and moves he made were no doubt the moves this grand player wanted him to make. Every step he made would bring him closer to defeat. How he needed to understand what he was fighting against!

Rickhart decided to play his final card, “Does your precious Puppeteer know about your sick little tastes?”

“Chancellor Rickhart, you are as guilty as me,” said Palmer gently, “How will you ever forgive yourself for what you did to those two boys?”

Rickhart looked like a kettle coming to the boil, “How dare you!”

“What fool confesses to a crime he didn’t commit?” mocked Palmer.

“Who told you about that?” demanded Rickhart.

“The fool who is a genius,” said Palmer, answering both his own and Rickhart’s question, “But also the fool who is responsible rather than guilty.”

Rickhart grimaced; in the language of riddles Palmer was correct, and both men knew it. He stood up before seizing Palmer by the collar and with all his might, throwing him against the nearest wall. Palmer responded with devastating force, delivering a firm uppercut into Rickhart’s gut. The aging strong man stumbled back and the younger, fitter, Palmer maximized on the opportunity.

He grabbed Rickhart by the shirt and slammed the elder man with all his might into the wall, pinning him securely. Palmer brought a knee up between Rickhart’s legs, followed by a savage head butt. Rickhart spat blood over Palmer’s designer suit, not out of spite, but necessity, yelling at full volume, “Only I know what you did to those two faggots you sick bastard.”

Palmer’s eyes bore into Rickhart’s soul, “You killed them. You hated the victims. You wanted to teach all the queers a lesson and succeeded. You used our victims for your anti-fag agenda, getting Sardo to make the defectives leak to the media. You explained forensics to me. You collected the second ring. You hampered the investigation with gags. You confessed; to prove how tough you are, even to yourself. You even provided me with drug to enhance the pain.”

Rickhart maintained enough self control not to smile or frown. Silently he said to himself, “I can play poker you smug fool. The drug limited pain, not enhanced it.”

He was glad he had at least done that for Palmer’s victims. But he couldn’t escape the fact, that he had killed them, through Palmer for his own ends. He couldn’t escape part of his involvement was to defeat homosexuals, and to get his father’s name off Palmer. Rickhart acted out of necessity and inevitability; Palmer was going to kill anyway with a brutality never necessary. Rickhart had tried to gather evidence by siding with Palmer and failed. Palmer had shown Rickhart that there was death and then there was death. “If I go down, you go down with me,” warned Palmer, before head butting Rickhart again.

“I killed them,” responded the bleeding Rickhart, “But you murdered them.”

“I must ask,” said Palmer, pausing to twist Rickhart’s arm, “This game you played with Donald and Dasch; why play it at all?”

Rickhart said nothing for a moment, then answered, “They are meddling fools. They bumbled. They could have destroyed everything. Especially when they found evidence implicating me and my men in your atrocities.”

Palmer held Rickhart still, “That is the truth; but there is more to it.”

Rickhart sighed and answered, “For all I feared the Messians; I feared for them. Commander Dasch is a healthy, good looking young man. You couldn’t help yourself, I could see it in your eyes; your foul lust. I knew exactly what you planned to do; just like you did to those two boys. He would have been your biggest prize yet.”

“You sacrificed Donald to save Dasch. How noble,” mocked Palmer, bringing his knee into Rickhart’s gut, “Or is it that you sacrificed Donald to save yourself?”

Rickhart remained silent; he wasn’t sure of the answer himself, he had sacrificed the Messians to save himself. But he honestly feared for Dasch; the answer was undoubtedly both.

Suddenly Palmer’s calm, cool façade snapped. Palmer looked truly furious; his eyes filled with rage, “How dare you deprive me!”

With all his might Jamie Palmer grabbed Rickhart by the face and smashed his head back into the wall, “You do not look bad for your age Chancellor, I think I shall take you instead.”

Palmer brought his face right up to Rickhart’s; gliding his tongue through Rickhart’s blood soaked face, licking Rickhart’s blood, “Sweet Daniel.”

Rickhart struggled but could do nothing. “Don’t resist Daniel,” warned Palmer, as his tounge retracted from another long lick, “Close your eyes and enjoy the ride.”

Rickhart closed his eyes but continued to struggle, as Palmer sank his teeth into Rickhart’s neck. Palmer’s mouth snapped shut and Rickhart screamed in pain as a chuck of his dislodged flesh rolled around in Palmer’s mouth.

“Daniel,” whispered Palmer, “The more you will struggle, the more it will hurt.”

Rickhart pushed back against Palmer, but it was in vain. He could feel Palmer’s hand slip into his trousers, going down there.

“Stop,” yelled Rickhart, his voice full of anguish.

Palmer removed his hand and used it to grab Rickhart by the throat, slamming him again against the wall, “I can do what I want. I will have you. All shall fear I.”

“I.” That one word stole Rickhart’s attention. It meant something greater. Now he could see past the blur, he could read Cardinal Borusa’s note. Excited by the revelation, he blurted, “I killed Kerria.”

James Palmer released Rickhart, stepping back in shock at what he thought was Rickhart’s confession. Rickhart saw his chance. In a single swift movement he leapt forward at Palmer, elbowing him in the chin, before firmly kneeing the younger man in the gut. As Palmer stood shocked, a fist hit him firmly in a jaw, throwing him to the floor; before Rickhart slammed his foot into Palmer lying on the floor.

Rickhart put his hand in his trouser pocket and produced the two real rings (not the fakes given to Dasch), throwing them next to Palmer, “Goodbye, Lord Palmer.”

As Rickhart moved towards the front door with all staggered haste, Palmer leant across the floor, picking up the rings, slipping them into his pocket, before calling out, “John, come here please.”

The bleeding Rickhart reached the front door, when a young man dressed up all in the posh, but tight household staff uniforms came down the stair and walked briskly past him. A very young man, he would have been barely finished school, if finished school at all. Rickhart turned around to see the pained Palmer gaining on him and the young man approaching Palmer from down the hall. The young lad was fit, but not excessively muscular. It seemed to be the profile of all Palmer’s house staff; though this was the youngest looking one Rickhart recalled.

Palmer spoke calmly and quietly now, “John, do you think you could go to my quarters. I could do with a little lie down.”

John clearly understood what Palmer was talking about; as Rickhart watched dirty smiles slip on both their faces. As John turned away, Palmer briefly grabbed the young man’s rear causing a small giggle from John, before he hurried upstairs. The thought of the evil of sodomy the two men would commit sickened Rickhart. Damning their souls so openly, yet it seemed so appropriate for a beast like Palmer.

Rickhart opened the door and stepped out into safety. Palmer then turned to Rickhart, his voice truly pleasant, speaking loudly down the hall, “Lovely young boy. Very tasty young boy, quite a dish.”

But as Rickhart closed the door, Palmer chilled Dan to his old empty heart, “Why he’s so tasty I could eat him right up.”

---

Days later, Jamie Palmer sat quietly behind a plain blue curtain. The noise outside was loud and impatient. How everything had depended on the Shadow again. It had depended on the Cultists. It depended on the Puppeteer’s brilliant planning. Palmer also knew it depended on him. The Liberal Block wanted hear and he would speak. But it had to be the right moment; the moment when everything fell into place.

Then he heard the booming voice from the stage, “May I present to you, for his official address, James Palmer, President-Elect of the Democratic Republic of Farmina!”


The stage was set…

Messian Epilogue

"Please be seated and buckle up into your seats."

"This is Captain Rogers, we're entering the landing circle over Francisco-Angelas International Airport. Like the digital voice said, please buckle into your seat in preparation for landing."

Dasch barely noticed the Captain's voice. He had been feeling dozey since the flight started, and he hadn't even bothered to unbuckle after takeoff. He had way too many things on his mind. He could see it so clearly, the plots going on in Farmina.

He could still feel the pain from his hand. Even with the medical treatments given by the doctor in the Messian command plane, his hand still hurt. The glass went all the way through his hand. The doctor said that if it was a few millimeters closer to the main nerve route, he would of lost the function of his hand. That said, the muscle damage was quite severe. He would have to have it operated on soon after he made it back home.

But Dasch was thankful, regardless of what was goiing on in Farmina, that he was going home. On afterthought, he realised that he was still in no shape to do much there. His thinking was completely wasted. The murder of one of his best friends affected him more than he ever realised. He had a ton of built up emotions inside of him, ranging from sadness from the loss of Donald, to the frustration of the lack of progress in Farmina, and up to Rickhart's murdering of Donald. His other murderer was dead, and he was thankful of the vengeance, but Rickhart was still alive, and not arrested for his crime. He hoped to deal with the man. When he [Dasch] said it was inevitable, he meant that it was inevitable that Rickhart would pay for his crime.

But if the world was that black and white, then the Farminan crisis would have been done long ago. He knew that something big was going on. There were three figures. Rickhart was the obvious corrupted one. He would have to deal with him. Grey on the other hand, he was starting to think about him. Something suspicious on afterthought. He would have to look at that.

And then there was Palmer. He seemed to be quite strange. He also seemed to act somewhat 'gay', which didn't bother him in the least as he didn't care about such things in his nation, but in a nation like Farmina, it was rather peculiar. As well, he seemed quite power hungry, and he had no idea what Palmer had planned. He was worried about the whole Farminan situation. Ackvick told him that Grey didn't believe that Democracy was corruptable, but he could see right through it. Although his system wasn't perfect, he could tell when corruption was going on.

"Sir?"

Dasch opened an eye. He could see a steward looking at him.

"We've landed."

Dasch nodded lightly, as he moved slightly, then leaned forward. "Thanks m'am." he said politely. He had a lot on his mind, but he was finally at home. He stood up as the woman walked down the isle, and he grabbed his suitcase from the overhead storage bin. He took it down, and walked out of the plane. He walked down the airplane bridge, thinking about all the things that have happened, then he saw something that made him forget everything in his mind, at least for now...

"Alana!" Dasch yelled. He ran up to her, and rushed into her waiting arms. He started to cry. "I've so missed you..." Dasch said as she comforted him. "Me too..." she said. Through blurry eyes, Dasch saw what he could recognise as his friend Ackvick. He was walking towards him.

"Glad to have you back, Alex." Ackvick said sympathetically, putting his hand onto his shoulder. Dasch slowly looked up at Alana. He blinked, and wiped the tears from his eyes. He then fell onto a knee.

"Are you okay?" Ackvick asked in concern, getting down to check.

"I'm fine," Dasch said, looking up at Alana, taking her hand. "Alana, will you marry me?"

Alana got down, and held his hand. "Yes, I will." she said. She then stood up. "Everyone! I will marry this man on his knee! You hear me? I love him and I'm going to marry him!" she yelled. A loud applause from passerby in the airport fills the terminal, as she pulls up Dasch. "Told you that I would make a show for the crowds," she said, kissing him.

"Alana, I..."

She put a finger into his mouth. "Shh...I know you don't have the ring on you. I don't expect you to. You can give it to me back at home."

Dasch smiled. "Telepath." They giggled, and embraced again.

"Sorry to cut you off," Ackvick said, "Dasch, you may take as much leave as you need," he said.

Dasch nodded. "Thanks," he said. "I should only need a week or two," he said.

"Now we better take you to the hospital to fix your hand," Ackvick said.

--------

Force Commander Snyder looked at his brand new datapad. He was just promoted to Force Commander after a decision between the Force Commanders, and passing the lengthy test. He liked his new position. He missed Donald, he was a good man. But those quibbles aside, he was quite comfortable in his seat. It gave him the chance to think about things. Things were going exactly to plan. He just needed to gain influence with the rest of the military.

He leaned back into his chair. Everything is going to plan... he thought, chuckling to himself. Things were fitting in perfectly. Except for one thing.

He picked up the phone. As his hand hovered over the phone, he thought about the Admiral. Admiral Gillespie, his good friend. He was talking to the Admiral about his plans, and the Admiral didn't like his ideas. He would pay for his ignorance.

He dialed into the phone. He would have to be removed. That way, the plan could continue...