by GoozX and Chewy Walrus
Turner:
Black. Everything is black.
Why? Why. What the fuck?
Someone else is here. "Hello?" I ask. At first there is no answer, so I ask again, "Hello?"
Mr. Stevens, you don't exist.
"Excuse me? Who are you? What do you mean?"
You will know who I am, in time. For now, seek the truth. Seek what they are keeping from you.
"They? The MCCA? What do you mean? Wait, you..."
Everything is black again for a second, then my eyes snap open. I was only out cold for a few seconds, but it felt much much longer.
"...Asshole..."
I get to my feet and look around. Things are done here, and my assistance is not needed. I take out a small device and press it before bringing it up to my mouth.
"Pick-up, usual spot."
Only mere minutes after the words left Agent Turner's lips, a large stealth chopper dropped out of the sky, hovering a few feet over where he stood. As a ladder dropped down in front of him, Turner grabbed his flapping trench coat and shook his head. Grabbing hold of the ladder, he took a glance at his watch, swearing as he became aware of the time.
Over an hour, he thought. The blackouts keep getting longer.
Swiftly, the agent of the MCCA ascended the ladder and took his seat within the helicopter. As the machine lifted off again, Turner was handed a pair of headphones, which he slipped over his ears. Silence.
A voice invaded his senses from the earpieces he wore. "Where to, Agent Turner?" Turner looked slowly up to where the pilot was seated and said, "O'Hare."
"Any particular reason?" the pilot asked.
"Business," Turner said, turning his attention to the window.
Dr. Charles Walker:
Thunder City Memorial Airport:
"I don't believe this," I mutter, running my hands through my hair. "This is just too much."
"I'm sorry, Charles," my colleague Walter Curie says to me quietly. "These things aren't meant to happen."
"Walt," I say, holding up my hand to cease his speech, "stop with the apologies and the pat answers. I don't need them. What I need is a cure. I trust you're working on one?"
"I'll do what I can, Charles, but I'm not certain if I can promise anything. The metagene is an acknowledged genetic mutation, and a cure would mean an obvious reversal of that mutation, which, to this point, has been scientifically impossible," Walt says, explaining it to me as if I didn't already know. "Besides, if Dr. Knell knew that you were..."
"I'm going to trust you with that, understand?" I say, grabbing the small man by the shoulders. "You have a soft spot in your heart for us freaks, so I expect you to help me out here. You know how Zach and I feel about guys like me, so keep this down. He's got me working with the MCCA, which is bad enough."
"I know, Charles, I know," Walt says, hanging his head. "Listen, though. You realize that metahumans are humans too, right? They're not just freaks of nature, you know."
"Call them what you want, Walt," I say, hefting my satchel over my back, "but you and I both know the truth. I'm a freak who doesn't deserve to live. You know it, I know it, and, if Knell knew it... well, then, we can both be sure that I'd get what I deserved."
I smile a bit at my little joke, but, seeing that Curie doesn't find it at all amusing, I quickly shut up.
"Dr. Curie," I say, extending my hand, "it's been a pleasure."
"And you as well, Dr. Walker." We shake hands, smile at one another, and I turn, walking toward the plane, not even bothering to look back.
One hour later, O'Hare Airport, Chicago:
Agent Turner was growing restless. He had been sitting in O'Hare Airport for about an hour now. The flight had been delayed, and now he was stuck waiting. The sign he once held now sat propped up by his foot. A half-empty cappuccino sat on a small table beside him, as did a small book.
Becoming more and more bored, Turner picked up the book and began to read.
"A prince ought to have no other aim or thought, nor select anything else for his study, than war and its rules and discipline; for this is the sole art that belongs to him who rules, and it is of such force that it not only upholds those who are born princes, but it often enables men to rise from a private station to that rank. And, on the contrary, it is seen that when princes have thought more of ease than of arms they have lost their states."
Rubbing his chin in thought, Turner removed a pen from his breast pocket, jotting a quick note in the margin of his book. In scrawled hen-scratch, it read, "Think arms, not ease."
Turner's concentration was quickly broken by the nearby clearing of a throat. Looking up, Turner took in the sight of a slim man, black hair, blue eyes, about five feet and eleven inches tall, with a slight five o'clock shadow. Putting his pen back into his pocket and marking his place in his book with his finger, Turner raised an eyebrow.
"Can I help you?" he asked venomously.
"I sure as hell hope so," the man said wryly, "otherwise, you've got no business with that sign."
Turner glanced at where the man was pointing. Sure enough, he had indicated the sign that now sat at his feet. "You're Dr. Charles Walker?" he asked, closing his book.
"That's me," Walker said, holding out his hand. Turner rose, picking up his coffee and sliding his book into the pocket of his trench coat. He walked on, not even taking Walker's hand. "So, who are you supposed to be?" Walker asked, falling into stride beside Turner.
"Name's Agent Turner," the trench-coated man answered curtly. "I'm the MCCA agent assigned to brief you on your new assignment."
"Brief?" Walker asked. "I was told 'assist'..."
Turner leered at Walker out of the corner of his eye, then focused his attention forward. "Whatever..."
"So," Walker said after a moment of awkward silence, "you like Machiavelli?"
"What?" Turner asked, not bothering to even look at him this time.
"Niccolo Machiavelli," Walker said, obviously. "You were reading his book... The Prince?"
"Oh... yeah... he's all right," Turner said. As the two passed the baggage claim, Turner stopped and turned to the man beside him. "You got any luggage?" he asked.
"Nah," Walker said. "It's being shipped in later. I prefer to pack light."
"Good man," Turner said, making his way toward the doors. As they walked outside, a large black car pulled up to the exit, allowing the men to approach. Turner opened the back door and motioned Walker in. "Well? What are you waiting for?"