Headquarters Allied Air Command
Ramstein Air Base, Germany
30 June 2015
1646 hrs local (1546 hrs Zulu)

The table at the room's center is larger this time.  Group Captain Grant Mewes cannot decide if this is a good sign, a bad sign, or a test.

"You begin to understand the constraints under which we have required your unit to operate," the speaker says.

It is not inflected as a question but Mewes feels that treating it as one is probably safest.  He closes the folder in front of him and folds his hands atop it.  "I believe so, sir.  Evidence from Admiral Rickover's program and the Miami incursion," as well as the asylum in Belize, he thinks but does not add, "suggests that sudden total exposure to the invaders or their technology can be... destabilizing."

"This is a truth best revealed in layers," the speaker agrees.  "Your personnel are to be commended, Group Captain.  Their recent results were beyond our expectations, and that is not a statement this committee makes lightly."  He shrugs.  "It is unfortunate that the China Lake cache was compromised and removed before White Cell's arrival, but the recovery operations in Florida and Belize have more than made up for that loss."

Despite his professional demeanor, a thrill runs through Mewes.  "Sir, if I may ask: the Mark Eleven?"

The speaker chuckles.  "It has been reunited with the Observation Squadron Fifty-Four survivors in a secure location.  The legacy program's continued efforts are a welcome boon.  Rest assured, your unit will be the first to know when their results are operationalized."  He turns a page on the notepad before him.  "Now to personnel matters.  Stárshiy Leytenánt Vasliyev will continue the search for Captain Brackney."  He turns his head to the left and the NATO AIRCOM commander twitches.  "The Office of Naval Intelligence's Policy Liaison Group is hereby disbanded.  Its personnel will be given the option of Task Force Forty-Seven recruitment or reintegration into ONI conventional commands."

A noncommittal, "yes, sir," seems Mewes' safest option.

"This committee is well aware of the possibility that the Group's compromise was deeper than just its commander, Group Captain," the speaker says dryly.  "As they say, keep your friends close."  He makes a throwing-away gesture with one hand.  "As for Grey Cell, Commandant Durand is approved as the unit's commander.  You will find the paperwork for his new rank on your desk when you return to Incirlik.  I leave it to you to determine whether to backfill Corporal Crewe's position until such time as he is able to return to duty.

"At this time, we have no immediate operational tasking for your unit.  Our sources are developing several promising leads, but for now, you are on stand-down."  The speaker chuckles and coughs into his handkerchief.  "You will authorize leave... for those willing to take it.  I suspect some of your personnel will be more intent on research..."
This message was last edited by the GM at 22:36, Sun 04 Mar 2018.

National Ignition Facility
Livermore, CA
3 July 15
1218 Local

"The only reason, Mister Dacovetti is it, that I agreed to this meeting is because I hold your former principal investigator in such high regard.  I don't have time for non-sense."  Professor Jurgen Krause sits in his office, one with actual windows that display the high level regard his coworkers at the National Ignition Facility hold him in.  Somewhere to the west, through the windows, San Francisco hides over mountains that block the cool coastal air from making its way into Livermore.  A non-disclosure agreement that practically requires a DNA sample and the willingness to imprison the man's grandchildren should he fail to live up to the conditions contained within sits unsigned on the keyboard of his computer.

The wound on Michael's arm, while almost healed, is stinging from the sweat he generated walking from his car in the parking lot into the highly air conditioned structure.  Or it is the disheveled appearance of the man's office that is making Michael's skin crawl.  Printouts of papers and stacks of books occupy every flat surface excepting two chairs.  The second only because Michael took it upon himself secure an Area of Operations for his ass to occupy while Dr. Krause delivers his verbal onslaught.  "You know what we do here, yes?  We are pushing the edges of fusion research and you are here...to take up my time?"

If there is a phenotype of brilliant scientist that does not contain the behavior of the sixth grade playground, it must be exceedingly rare, Michael muses.  It's akin to watching SEALs and Green Berets argue who the best operators are, when the answer is they are all unique and beautiful snowflakes who need to shut up and inflict violence.

"I am aware of your mission here, Doctor Krause," Michael intones.  Eyebrows of titanic proportion raise in a satisfied arc before returning to the starting grid coordinates on an aged face.  "This is what brings me here."

"You are a military man, yes?" Krause interrogates.  When he receives a nod, he continues.  "Our weapons division is down the hall.  All the bombs you could want."

"I am not interested in fusion bombs," Michael answers.  Well not yet.

"No?"

"No."

"Then why are you here?"  Kraus demonstrates a slight up tick in curiosity.  From zero to one on a ten scale.  "My lunch is getting cold."  A ham and cheese sandwich is presented in a faintly threatening manner.

"Your paper in PNAS."

"Which one."  A satisfied demand, not a question.

"Ferrous impregnated nanoscale carbon scaffolding as a potential storage solution of deuterium plasma captured in inertial confinement fusion." Michael gets it out all in one breath.  "I found it fascinating."  He lets it sit there for two thirds of a second before interrupting the intake of breath that signals Kraus is about to pontificate on his own greatness.  "It's also wrong.  Not totally.  But wrong enough."

"Out," Kraus says, face going red.

It becomes apparent to Michael that after being shot at by directed energy weapons from an alien spaceship, dealing with an angry German professor is on the same level as being barked at by a Chihuahua.  He doesn't move.  Instead, "the scaffold needs to be octagonal, not hexagonal.  Ferrous materials won't cut it either. Titanium rendered inert, I guess.  Finally, He³ seems to do the trick better than deuterium."

Wheels turn in the professor's mind as his eye glow cloudy, rage at being called out by an inferior displaced by a question and mental models as real as a plasma storage scaffold.  While Kraus is distracted, Michael reaches into his backpack: past the encrypted laptop, behind the tool kits and extra magazines for the weapon strapped under his coat, and finds a small black case.  He puts it on the desk carefully, fully aware of the critical nature of the item.  The box's contents require the two hulking men standing outside the door waiting to crash the scene should anything go sideways.  It takes a thumbprint and a keycode to open the box.  Michael's long fingers go through the motions required to bring out a thick black cylinder the size of two C batteries stacked on top of each other.  Strange markings have been covered by black electrical tape leaving only a three prong connector visible at the top.

"What is that?"

Dacovetti fixes him with a stare.  "What is your best hypothesis given the contents of our conversation?"

"No..."

"Sign the fucking papers Doctor Kraus." The Task Force is going to love this guy.

Incirlick Air Base, Turkey
08 July 2015
1123 hrs local (0923 hrs Zulu)

Grant Mewes can't look at Sabah Boulos without a flicker of barking mad scientist running through his head.  It's probably unfair, but the combination of North African mannerisms, Coke-bottle glasses, general ill-kempt demeanor, and fussy precision makes it hard to ignore.

Mewes pushes the comparison out of his mind - again - and looks over his own reading glasses at Boulos.  The little Libyan has been wheels-down in Turkey less than twenty minutes, storming into the task force commander's office with a couple of dragooned security personnel dragging heavy Pelican cases.  "All right, Doctor.  What do you have that couldn't be sent over the planet's most secure network?"

Boulos smiles, eyes glittering.  "Never send a report when you can demonstrate before the funding committee."

Despite himself, Mewes laughs.  "Fair enough."  He leans back in his chair and spreads his hands in invitation.

Boulos extracts a laptop from his messenger bag, opens it, and spins it around on Mewes' blotter.  A video is queued and paused.  The RAF officer braces himself and taps PLAY.

The scene is a room in Boulos' nanomaterials lab in Sassari, viewed through a four-way split from multiple synchronized cameras.  The professor himself is at one end of the room, attired in lab coat, safety goggles, and electronic hearing protection, and - mental note, find out who the hell authorized him for that - an AK-74.  At the room's other end is a mannequin hanging from a scaffold, clothed in what appears to be a pale green latex t-shirt.

Screen-Boulos clicks off the Kalashnikov's safety, chambers a round, and takes aim at the mannequin.  Fortunately, he's firing single shots, so his unpracticed stance doesn't send a line of automatic fire up the wall and into the ceiling.  He fires ten rounds into the mannequin's chest from a range of ten meters.  Then he safes the rifle and sets it in a nearby swivel chair - heedless of the effect the hot barrel is having on the pleather - before removing his PPE and detaching one of the cameras from its tripod.

That camera's view wobbles as Screen-Boulos walks it over to the mannequin.  On closer inspection, the dummy is wearing something - perhaps conventional soft armor - beneath the shirt.  Mewes is certain, based on the mannequin's jerks during Boulos' fire, that all ten rounds hit (miraculously), but there's evidence of only three penetrations in the shirt.  Notably, as Screen-Boulos brings the camera closer, two more rounds are lodged in the shirt - and as he pans down, fragments of two or three more glitter on the floor.

Mewes looks up at Real-Boulos, who's vibrating and grinning in a thoroughly disturbing manner.  He's vaguely proud that he keeps his response to, "explain, please, Doctor."

"Em."  Boulos sits back, visibly collecting his thoughts.  "The humanoids - the Attars, yes?  This is their subcutaneous armor.  We don't need to grow it so thin if we're not implanting it."

"You... can cultivate it?"

Boulos nods vigorously, still grinning.  He gestures to the Pelican cases.  "I brought samples."

Mewes stares at the cases for a long moment to avoid further eye contact with Boulos.  Then he looks up at Boulos' escort, who's parked himself against the wall.  "Aviateur.  Please find Chief Bannon and, hmm, any of our shooters who happen to be hanging about.  And call to reserve the firing range for this afternoon..."

Incirlick Air Base, Turkey
09 July 2015
1422 hrs local (1222 hrs Zulu)

"I fucking hate Michael," Dr. Jeanette Ghosten, PhD, hisses through clenched teeth.  The lab here in Turkey is top-notch.  The research staff is a brilliant, if unconventional, mish-mash of border line mad-scientists that are playing on the edge of reason.  There are benefits in the form of the pleasant smelling Australian hovering just next to her right arm who is actually competent in the lab and quite fun to bounce ideas off of, even if his drinking buddy is her lamentable ex-boything.  She won't demean all men by referring to him as anything as respectable as a "boyfriend."

"Who?"  Branham smiles that infuriating half smile of condescending glee that only a septuagenarian three quarters out of his mind could manage.  He's standing next to, well leaning, a counter across from Jeanette, staring with her at a white board of equations and a computer plugged into what looks like a lump of flesh.

You weren't meant to hear that, she practically sighs.  After knowing the man for six days, she knows he's not going to stop digging until he gets an answer to his question.  He's either going to refuse to move on or keep pestering her until she caves.  Again.  Hell, he'll pester her after she answers the question anyway.

"Michael Dacovetti.  Technical Sergeant, United States Air Force.  The guy who pulled you out of that hole in the Atlantic."
"New Jersey?"  Branham's head tilts a few degrees.  "Why?  He strikes me as harmless.  Sharp, but not as sharp as he thinks he is."

Crit sucks in a deep breath that explodes in low laughter.  Jeanette nods, "You've got that r-"

Branham smiles again and his eyes go flinty.  "Unless you were sleeping with him?  Before your...upgrade to the the man towering over you now?"

Crit's laughter chokes for a second, then bounds out even louder.  Jeanette hates herself for finding it pleasing.  Hates Michael for getting her into this mess of problems that she can't solve.  Not can't.  Just need to figure out.  She's here because she can figure it out.  She's the best after all.  Isn't that what she's been told over and over since she came here.  "You think that's funny, do you?" she snaps at Crit but her heart really isn't in to it.

"Ace," Crit smiles.

Jeanette shakes her head.  "I'm surrounded by the insane.  Michael got me into this, which means-"

"It's not his fault.  You said 'yes.' And you might find sanity is overrated.  At least for this."

"'This' doesn't make any damn sense."

"You're thinking wrong."

Jeanette blows an errant lock of hair out of her face.  "And how should I think about this?"  Venom drips.

Branham takes on what the good doctor of biophysics as come to label his 'pontification pose.' Here is comes.  Oh goodie.  "No.  Thinking wrong.  You are trying to mimic human thoughts.  The system responds to alien thought.  The patterns are different.  The language and thought constructs literally different from foundation to propagation.  Like the actions of New Jersey versus Melbourne with the motion of the ocean."

"He can tell I surf," Crit intones with another grin and a shrug.

Jeanette looks over her shoulder going red.  "I'm sure that's what he meant."  She turns back.  "And around here he goes by 'Cambridge,'" she hooks a thumb at the surf-god.

For the first time, she sees Branham actually look confused. "That makes no goddamn sense."

"You make no goddamn sense."  Her hands fly up into the air and shake.  "Thought patterns can be mimicked with the proper electronic signals.  It's not the language, it the medium.  Electrons should, in the proper field, interface with this apparatus-"

Branham shakes his head "That's what their thought is.  An interface." and plunges his hand into the flesh on the desktop.  Immediately the computer begins to register a signal, the pointer moving, drawing.  It shouldn't occur.  It should take an actual recording of someone's ECG or a direct hook up to have an effect.   A picture slowly starts to form, words: 'Ha, Ha, Ha.'

"God I hate you."

Yerkes National Primate Research Center
Emory University
Main Station, Basement Wing Bravo
Atlanta, Georgia
4 July 2015

”EEG looks good.  All vitals normal.  You may begin,” Doctor R. John Paulson said through the hastily setup intercom system.  Everything about the current test, which was being conducted in what had been a basement storage area just a week ago, could be described as hastily setup.  From the two National Institute of Health Division of Police Guard Force Operations Branch tactical officers standing outside the wing, to the expedited upgrade of the good Doctor’s security clearance, which involved not only a mountain of paperwork, but a full scope polygraph, a painful and exhausting exercise that at one point Paulson had threatened to walk out of.  The grant money that had been promised kept him in the room.

”Sorry mate,” Cooper said, as he locked eyes with the chimpanzee in the cage.  An exact meter of space separated the Australian and the African primate.  Slowly, Cooper Williams started shift his thoughts and deepen his breathing.  In the next room, Paulson’s EEG readings started to change.

”I’m seeing the effects,” Paulson said.  How the hell are you doing that, was left unsaid.  Paulson was fascinated and somewhat terrified by the SCI compartment he’d been read in on three days ago.  Where did they get this guy?  An Australian with an amazing and awful power.  That’s all Paulson knew about Petty Officer Cooper Williams.

The EEG patterns quickly changed from slightly abnormal to borderline lethal.  ”Stop, stop!  That’s enough,” the Doctor slash facility Director said.  PETA already wants to burn this place to the ground.  If anyone ever found out about this…. half of Atlanta would march with pitchforks and torches.  Paulson watched the alpha, beta, theta, delta waveforms.  Some returned to normal, some did not.

”Alright, this one’s still alive.  I’ll take him up to imagining for a MRI if you want to take a break,” Paulson said.  Cooper took two breaths to clear his mind before he spoke.  ”A break sounds good.  I’m coming out.”

”The cafeteria is closed because of the holiday, but we’ve got vending machines up on the first floor.  Some glucose might help with recovery.  It’s a mandatory substrate for brain activity in humans as well as primates.”  Paulson had come to primate research from a background that included Harvard Medical school and board certification in Internal Medicine and Infectious Diseases… for humans.  He could see that the Australian was more fatigued this time around than he had been after previous sessions.

”Thanks Doc.  I’ll grab a Coke or something.  I hear that this isn’t a Pepsi town,” Williams said with a nod and a grin.

”Indeed it is not,” John Paulson said.  Somehow it was heartening to know that someone who could wield such a terrible power had a sense of humor.
This message was last edited by the player at 17:33, Sat 17 Mar 2018.

La Rambla
Barcelona, Spain
7 July 2015
1620 Local

"'The Tensile Strengths of Metal?' Dare I hope you are branching out into safer work?"  Magdalena laughs softly from her spot in the sun.  The couple sits at a sidewalk cafe. Wine glasses half-empty, sausage, bread and cheese, arrayed across a simple wooden table.  Tourists stroll by smiling and the locals move through, kids on skateboards, lovers holding hands.  Michael loves this place.  Loves that no one looks twice at his beautiful glowing wife, belly large with the growing form of their daughter, and her glass of wine, believing that she knows best and knows when to stop.  A population that believes there are no simple answers other than love and family.

He allows himself a small smile and tips the math heavy book at the table, displaying a wide array of graphs and equations.  "I was considering a job in sales," Michael says.  Lena can't see that the smile doesn't quite reach his eyes, obscured as they are behind red iridium.  It's easier to play along with the joke than to answer in hard truth: this is possibly the least classified thing I could be reading right now.

"Sales?" Lena laughs behind a hand, music dancing into Michael's ears.  "Heaven forfend, with all your technical training and special skills?  Sales my love?"

Run script: Normal husband.  The thought orders Michael's brain, reminds him to be here and now.  Forty eight hours with his wife.  Any more and she would become suspicious and he would go insane.  He can't fall behind.  Won't fall behind.  The waiter strides by, self importantly heaping scorn on a few tourists he dared to order incorrectly, and Michael wonders what the plump suited ape would say if Michael were to casually mention that he was currently the world's leading expert in plasma weapons and that everyone's experience would be much improved should the waiter just calm the fuck down.

"Sales, no," Michael finally shakes his head slowly and closes the book, tapping the cover twice with his index finger.  "An interesting question at work.  Some rare metals with odd effects."  Plasma storage.  Yes, one could call that interesting.  He puts the book into his backpack next to a large bag from the Apple Store, and a smaller bag from a rather specialized electronics dealer that has a small storefront around the corner from this cafe.

"My father wonders why you will still not work for his brother.  He says you could make us all rich."

"He only says that because you believe it and tell him that constantly.  Besides, you're already rich," Michael returns, picking up his wine glass and gesturing.  It's too old a conversation to even be an argument.

"Yes, well.  I like to find talent a home.  You could be rich?"

Until we're all fighting aliens.  That revelation should be a rather stunning display of global market fragility.  Should make the Black Swan of 2007 resemble a gentle summer breeze.  "What's yours is mine," he says instead.

"My heart, Michael."  Lena leans across the table and kisses her husband gently.

"Did you decide on a name?"  Michael asks, ready to change the subject.

"Ariadna," Lena intones after a pause.

Michael exhales.  "The girl who lead Theseus out of the labyrinth."

"Someone, love, needs bring you home."

Homestead Air Force Base, FL
2 July 2015
0920 Hrs Local

Task Force 47 is packing up, redeploying really, from their acquired operating facilities recently on loan from the United States Air Force.  In a small side office, what used to be some maintenance chief's little nook of solitude, two men stare at each other across a battered steel desk.  Two cups of half consumed coffee sit on the vinyl surface, cooling to the ambient humid temperature.

"Well Staff Sergeant Martinez, you seemed to have stepped in it here."  Chief Bannon casually ignores the manilla file face down on the desk next to his coffee cup.

"You say that like it's a bad thing, Chief."

"It might be, son.  Grey Cell here is the big leagues and you strike me as a AAA player."  It is said without contempt, like a pitching coach pulling a player out of the game when the count has turned against him.

Martinez, for his part, leans back and crosses his legs, not rising to the challenge.  Instead he stares and cracks a small smile that causes Bannon to scowl.

"Something funny, Saint?"

"Negative Chief, just waiting for you to say 'call me Snake,' is all.  Give you an eye patch..."

Something passes behind Bannon's eyes, Diego isn't sure what.  "That joke got old around the time you were expelled from the womb."  The Chief Warrant Officer stops again, studying Diego.  "You a religious man, Saint?"  He continues when the PJ nods.  "I see the crucifix around your neck.  How does your faith square alien invasion?"

"Well Chief, there are things in creation beyond the knowledge of men.  Seems to me it's an awful big universe and God probably got bored after a while. But you'd have to ask the Pope for the official stance."

That earns the PJ a chuckle. "You've got no problem with the whole 'Thou shall not kill?'"

"Once upon a time, I hear it was 'Thou shall not murder,' and murder only applied to those in your tribe.  These bastards seem like they're pretty far outside of our tribe."

"Humans?"

"I'm sure Major Graph answered that question on behalf of my Old Testament skill set."

"Your cocky, Martinez.  I'm not sure if I like you or if I want to choke you."

Diego does laugh at that.  "Common enough response, Chief."

Bannon leans forward, drawing Diego in to an intense, if appraising glance.  "Here's the level, Diego.  Grey Cell is down a medic.  Durand says you performed well in Belize.  Graph give you glowing recommendations, although I'm skeptical about anything I hear from anyone above O-3.  You had the fortunate or unfortunate expereience of being read into the whole fucked up history of the last 70 years in that underground bunker and the thought of putting you back into the world of the light with that knowledge in your skull makes my head hurt."

"So I'm joining your Task Force."

"You are joining our Task Force.  You will be assigned to Grey Cell to fill Painter's role.  I'd tell you not to fuck it up, but you know that."  Bannon takes a sip from his coffee and doesn't grimace when the paint remover crosses his tongue.  "You have four days of leave authorized.  Then your ass is on a plane to Turkey for a week to finish your orientation to Task Force 47.  Then we're sending you back CONUS to Maryland.  Your going to spend six weeks or so working 16 hour days at the University of Maryland's Shock Trauma Hospital.  We want you to be the best.  Graph says you can be.  Is he right?"

A nod confirms Bannon's question.  "He's right Chief."

"I'm glad you didn't say you were the best.  You haven't seen the best yet and when you do, it's going to be so classified that leaking it will make your head explode.  Get the fuck out of here Sergeant.  Before I make up my mind about choking you."

DIA Rendition Site, Croatia
5 July, 2015
0900 Hrs local

"You want to do what?"

James isn't surprised by the response.

"I want to show him some movies. Classic sci-fi, mostly."

The gatekeeper, a US Navy Intel staffer seconded to TF47, starts to open his mouth, then stops, literally biting back what likely would have been a sarcastic response. Canting his head slightly, he finally asks, "Why?" The interrogative is delivered with a certain sharpness.

"He can't talk about where he's from or what he's doing here, or he'll self destruct, right?"

"Correct, more or less."

"I'd like to see if hypotheticals- fictions- can bypass the kill switch conditioning response."

The gatekeeper's eyes narrow, his chin slowly dips towards his chest. "Go on."

"It's a trick we- the FBI- sometimes use during interrogations. You pose hypotheticals. 'If someone were to rob a bank, what's the best way to do it?' Some suspects, especially the narcissists, are eager to talk about their crimes, but they don't want to incriminate themselves. So, a lot of times, they'll play out hypotheticals, 'what if' scenarios- it's autobiographical, of course, but deniable, so they don't see the harm in it. Some of them even get off on it. Remember that 'If I Did It' book that O.J. Simpson put out a couple years back? Like that. My idea is that I show him the flicks, then talk about how like, or unlike, pieces of the fiction are to his reality. Start with 'yes' or 'no' type questions, and then open it up from there. He's probably too cagey for it to work, but I think it's worth a shot."

"You know that you're calling it 'he' now, right?"

"Yes." James doesn’t bother to explain why. [More on that later.]

"Ok, so, hypothetically, what would you like to show it?"

"I thought we might start with 'Jurassic Park'."

"'Jurassic Park'?"

"Yes. These things identify with dinosaurs- his 'self-portrait' sketches were very 'lizard man'. Perhaps if they see how humans- fictional ones- relate to dinosaurs, complex reptilians- different species- both positively and negatively, it'll open some doors."

A subtle shake of the head. The gatekeeper is doubtful."Okay," he draws the word out, "Then what?"

"After that, I'm not sure; maybe 'They Live', 'V'- the one from the '80s, if I think he's ready for that."

The gatekeeper is quiet, expressionless. James takes it as a hopeful sign- perhaps the gatekeeper is seriously considering the admittedly unconventional proposal. James takes a chance, trying to seal the deal.

"He still might not be able to really talk, but we can monitor his vitals, see what scenes elicit physiological responses, make inferences from there. I won't push him too hard."

The USN intel man flashes James a cross look; it's purely cover- he's about to break.

"I'll even bring the snacks," James adds, flashing his winningest smile.

-
This message was last edited by the player at 22:08, Sat 24 Mar 2018.

Paris, France
14 July 2015
Bastille Day
2130 Local

"So Sébastien, you're looking well. Are you still in Guyana?" Jerome Durand had a class of champagne in his right hand. Like his brother he was wearing a dark suit, the tailoring of which suggested that the Total Oil executive had not purchased it off the shelf in a department store. His wife, Cintia, was standing next to her husband.

Seb took a sip of his own champagne. It was the first time for some years that he had been in Paris on le 14 juillet, France's National Day. Attending his father's Bastille Day party had been mandatory. At least he had been able to persuade Lucile Barthez to come with him. More than one head had turned when he'd walked in with the dark haired DGSE officer and Durand knew that they hadn't been looking over at him. Even if his own suit wasn't exactly shabby.

Technically he could have been in uniform rather than a suit, for he was now Commandant Sébastien Durand. A Major in NATO parlance. Although he was the only person in the room that knew that. Even Lucile didn't know.  And besides, it was all a little...sudden. And probably highly irregular. Appearing as an instant Major would have raised all manner of questions, and so that would remain a secret, just like all the rest of Grey Cell's activities. Durand hadn't even really thought about it much, other than a few quiet moments when he had reflected on the circumstances that had led to it. The memories of kneeling over Kowalska's prone form on the Florida highway were still raw.

"I've spent some time in the US recently." Sébastien said in response to Jerome's question, answering truthfully, albeit in a reply that lacked any elaboration.  Jerome knew that Seb worked for DGSE, would expect his younger brother's answer to have more than a whiff of vagueness. Lucile Barthez was on Seb's left. They'd been at the party for over two hours, long enough to mingle, make small talk with the guests, among them Politicians, Diplomats, soldiers. Durand had spent twenty minutes talking to an Admiral that he had know from his time in the Fusiliers-Marin. His thoughts were now turning to getting out of there, to getting back to Barthez's place and getting her out of her dress. "I'm not sure what's next." His shoulders formed a brief shrug.

I'm not sure what's next. That was a lie. He'd be spending more time in Croatia, at the blackest of black sites, interrogating...what? A man? It wore a man's face, but it wasn't a man, it was an alien, hiding behind a human facade, came from another world. And then there was all the other things that Grey Cell had to deal with in the aftermath of Belize. Oh, didn't I tell you that aliens exist Jerome? And they have not come in peace.

Jerome nodded. Perhaps he was even interested, although Seb doubted that.  Five more minutes of polite - and only slightly forced - conversation with his elder sibling and then Seb thought that it would be time to make a move, to get out of here, enjoy the rest of the evening with Lucile. Before Jerome could reply though the noise level in the room increased slightly, a sudden ripple of conversation coursing through the room as heads turned towards the door, Cintia Durand exclaiming breathlessly. "Sarkozy is here."

Like much of the rest of the room, Seb's head turned towards the door as the former President of the Republic made his entrance, accompanied by the instantly recognisable figure of his wife. And as he drained his champagne flute Commandant Sébastien Durand wondered if that meant that the number of people in the room who knew for sure that alien life existed had just doubled.

Or maybe not.

Handing the empty flute off to a passing waiter, Durand turned to Lucile Barthez, slipped his arm around her waist, whispered quietly. "Shall we get out of here?"

"I don't think they have organic here," James reports apologetically, as he slams the tray shut. He doesn't divulge that 'here' is a DIA black rendition site in rural bumfuck, Croatia.

The Attar's accommodations remind James of Hannibal Lecter's cell in Silence of the Lambs. Instead of stereotypical metal bars or the solid steel door of a Supermax solitary unit, this cell is fronted by a single, transparent pane of thick bulletproof material with small air holes near the upper edge, and a multi-locked door inset. To the right, set in the concrete jamb, a sliding tray for food and other necessaries. Instead of the old stone masonry of the film's asylum basement, the rest of the enclosure is constructed of reinforced concrete of indeterminate, but assuredly impressive thickness.

The Attar, who calls himself Vahid Rostami (his earth alias, apparently), reaches into the slot on its side of the barrier and removes the plastic bottle of orange juice.

"This is fine. Thank you."

He is courteous and receptive to courtesy.

"Today, we're going to try something a little different." James explains as he sets up the laptop. It is perched atop a rolling cart outside the cell, facing in, again, reminiscent of a scene from Silence of the Lambs.

James couldn't get a good read on Vahid's responses to Jurassic Park. The Attar has the affect control of a World Series of Poker champion. Since his kind could only willfully simulate human facial expressions, he didn't display the involuntary tells- micro expressions- that can reveal hidden emotion or the degree of truthfulness in a statement which most humans unconsciously do. The heart rate monitor and thermal imager indicated that the bits where humans were getting chomped seemed to excite him. James had missed it at the time- he was too focused on studying Vahid's face- but the surveillance video revealed the Attar shifting ever-so-slightly in his chair during scenes where humans and dinosaurs shared positive or cooperative interactions. In humans, that subtle adjustment in posture would signal emotional discomfort. When asked if those scenes bothered him, Vahid answered, "Yes." When pressed on why, he replied, "The film's portrayal of that particular human behavior is inaccurate. Humans are invariably hostile towards those unlike themsleves, especially those that are more intelligent."

James: "Why do you say that- 'invariably hostile'?"

Vahid: "The training."

James: "What about experience? Your interactions with me?"

Vahid: "You shot me. Multiple times. That is hostile behavior."

James: "Fair point, but you shot at me first. What about now? Our talks. Movie night. The O.J."

Vahid: "Subterfuge."

James has to stop himself from smiling. He doesn't have a good answer for that, so he cues up today's video file and presses play. He'd downloaded the 'V' TV miniseries, originally broadcast in 1983, from a bit torrent site. The similarities between the fictional visitors and the Attar were pretty obvious- hostile extraterrestrials, reptilian in their authentic form, arrive on earth, disguising themselves as human, secretly bent on planetary conquest. James, however, is more interested in the differences.

The 'Visitors' were here for our water, and to eat us. What are you here for, Vahid?

-
This message was last edited by the player at 23:29, Sat 24 Mar 2018.

Homestead Air Force Base, FL
Quarantine Hanger 47G
3 July 2015
1920 Hrs Local

Aw Crap.

"Did you touch the navigation control console directly, Chief Omdahl?" Darnell Hawkins' words reverberated in her mind for a moment.  The memory of the discourse in the Chief Tech's office were vivid and fresh, down to the calendar on Hawkins' desk.  Hannah had vehemently disavowed any such interaction with the equipment.  It was against protocol.  Besides she knew better.  She was simply part of a group that were tasked with the preliminary measuring and categorizing of the various alien artifacts that had been so meticulously stored and preserved along with the men in Belize.  It all needed to be collated and labeled before getting transported to back to the base in Turkey.

Hannah took a deep breath as she stood just outside the threshold of the outer door of the containment airlock leading to the room with the equipment that had been removed from the Belize site.  Even though her hands were steady, Double Down could feel her heart pounding and the perspiration beading on her forehead.  She pulled off the Tyvek hood from her suit and stripped away the heavy gloves to press the heel of her palm to her right temple for a moment.

The indentations on the otherwise-smooth control sphere were just the size for the over-sized fingertips of a four-foot tall humanoid dwarf.  Or normal human's fingertips.  In some ways, it looked just like someone had gotten overzealous in making a chromed bowling ball.  If the chrome were actually a heretofore unknown metallic alloy.

Aw Crap. Hannah mused silently, flexing her hand almost instinctively, It had actually been quite soft to the touch.  Not cool by any stretch of the imagination, but not warm either...

Her mind drifted for a moment.  Drifted to the man that Diver had introduced her to:  Dr. Gellner of the Rhine Research Institute.  The lithe army aviatrix had already been pushing herself to see if she could focus her efforts with respect to whatever this 'sixth sense' might be.  Hannah wasn't sure if she liked the fact that someone actually believed her when the discussion turned to what could only be a parapsychological phenomenon.  Simon Gellner seemed a slick fish to her; it had caused her to purposefully miss a number of the standardized tests that had been administered.  The Zener cards had been easy to see for some reason; but, those things have been refuted as truly viable, objective technique for a very long time.  Still, in a restful, relaxed state - her target rate was ... statistically above average, to put it mildly.  Any expanded spatial awareness was harder to test (not that Gellner didn't try) - especially since Hannah had wanted to keep what she knew about it uncertain.  But she couldn't hide her intense interest from herself.  For an aviation junkie and a high-speed pilot like herself, knowing what was around the next bend would have been absolutely invaluable; so, of course she was interested.  Jesus.  Really f**king interested.

But, at this very moment, she was suddenly ravenously hungry.  Normally, Double Down didn't have much of a sweet tooth.  But, a candy bar or something sugary sounded really good to her right now.  Ever since Australia, she'd get these cravings; though her weight seemed fine.  Which meant to Hannah that her metabolism was cranked up by something.  Her swimming and physical regimen hadn't been modified appreciably; so, she was unsure of what exactly might precipitate such things.  "God," she muttered to herself, "I really hope that the mess hall is still open..."  Maybe she should talk with Diver - a swim would be good, too - but then remember that he was off-site; visiting some guy name.... Paulson, a primatologist or some such.  Her auburn hair swished as her pony tail came free for a moment and she tried to clear the mental cobwebs from her vision.  Her mind felt unsettled, she'd been practicing enough meditative techniques to recognize that much.  Techniques that Crewe had pointed her towards - along with some books by the 14th Dalai Lama.  She'd never have pegged Painter to espouse such things, but then there was plenty that she was certain she didn't know about her fellow Grey Cellmates.  Be nice to talk with Crad...  Hannah sighed, but she didn't think that she could get off base tonight.  Double Down would have to visit with Painter in the morning.  And check up on Dancer (or what was left of her), too.  The thought of the latter still made her a touch queasy.  Still, it had to be done.  Tomorrow.

That settled in her mind, she quickly changed out of her sealed suit and checked off with the guards stationed at the perimeter of the building, before trundling off towards the base commissary.  After a couple of hundred meters, her footfalls slowed and then faded into silence.  She reached out to steady herself and then sat down at the bench she'd just passed.  Hannah sat bathed in the late evening sun for a long moment, her hands were moist with a sheen of perspiration for second time in just a handful of minutes.

"Did you touch the navigation control console directly, Chief Omdahl?"  Unbidden, the insightful Chief's words intruded on her mind once more.  It was such a simple pointed question.

Aw Crap.

The debriefing with Tech Hawkins was scheduled for the fifth.  Double Down shuddered slightly, unsure of what it all meant.  That... that meeting with Hawkins isn't for another two days, part of her brain noted with a vague remoteness, even as another part of her mind recalled the minute particulars of that meeting with a stark vividness that couldn't possibly be simply hallucinated or imagined whole cloth, what the hell is happening?  The potential answer frightened her like nothing ever had.

When the meeting two days later with Chief Tech Darnell Hawkins of Green Cell went exactly as she'd remembered envisioning it, Hannah was frightened even more.

Incirlick Air Base, Turkey
July 25th, 2015
0714 Hrs

It is in all things, Dacovetti thinks, a dive worthy of all those consumate professionals in the European Premier League.  One moment, he's on a rare team run with most of his Grey Cell teammates (the Saint still getting exposed to a significant number of traumatic injury cases CONUS-side.  The next moment, the technical sergeant is on the ground holding his ankle as the rest of the team stand around him, perplexed expressions written on all of their faces.  The incident rate of professionals twisting their ankles on training runs is fairly non-significant.  Durand sighs.

Writing off the fall as a byproduct of fatigue would be trivial.  There are bags under Michael's eyes, the result of hours of coffee and RedBull fueled research and training.  Hours consumed with constructing the theories necessary to operate and recharge plasma weaponry. But those weren't the only hours he spent.  There were more, late night hours and a few short trips to see his wife, one of which that wasn't. That's what he wants to talk about now.

"I appreciate the concern," Michael says while holding his decidedly non-injured ankle.  The scrapes on his hands from the fall hurt more than anything else.  "But I don't need it.  I'm fine.  I would appreciate if you all keep standing there like we're trying to figure out if I can walk, though."

That elicits the confusion he expects.

"Yes, very secretive.  But my risk analysis suggests that not even Bannon can hear us out here, and after Florida, I'm not taking chances."  Michael rubs the ankle and makes a brave show of trying to stand.  "We need to have a conversation about the possibility of further leaks and the possibility of losing this war.  We need to have a fall-back plan.  We don't have to do it all now, or right here in this particular moment.  But the time is coming."

Michael walks around, limping slightly and trying out his ankle.  "In the last couple days I put a bag in each of your lockers.  Inside the bag is a burner iPhone, powered down and waiting for your use, should it become necessary. The phone has numbers for each of us, without names, in alphabetical order of last names. The bag itself is a Faraday Cage, blocking all electromagnetic signals in or out to keep it sterile.  With any luck, we'll never need them."

With a few hops, Michael tests out his ankle.  "Hey, I seem to have recovered nicely.  Thank you for your support."

Incirlick Air Base, Turkey
July 25th, 2015
0715 Hrs

Hannah stood in the circle around Michael listen to instructions, but with more a thousand yard stare involved.  She's engaged, but trying not too look too interested.  Still, she nods at the appropriate times with her lips pressed into a tight moue after she exhales deeply.

The lithe army aviatrix pointed to one of the more distant ridges, "Sounds like we need to step up our training and fitness routines."  She and Cooper were already swimming on a regular basis, but the pool was hardly private and not an ideal activity to speak freely.  More outdoor runs.  Lunch constitutionals, perhaps.  Field testing of equipment.  There were plenty of opportunities to be constructed.

Towards the end of Michael's ministrations, Double Down did kneel beside Dealer.  "Hawkins," the auburn-haired pilot noted with more than a touch of frustration, her volume just loud enough so that the rest of the group could hear as well, "suspects something; she's far too perceptive for our own good.  And I still don't know which side she is on."  She'd met with the elder VO-54 survivor several times, Darnell having been assigned to oversee a number of Hannah's research efforts on the control systems and deciphering whatever could be found.  And she did feel a certain connection or kinship with Hawkins.  But, to say the least, Hannah found the retired linguistics officer subtly unnerving at the best of times.  Personally, Double Down suspected (nay, expected) that the Chief has some form of second sight, like what she and Cooper were developing.  But, Hawkins had far more experience, potentially; another had had 40 years to further refine any abilities.

She wanted to say more - and possibly should have said more.  But, now probably wasn't the time.  And honestly, Double Down didn't know what to say.
This message was last edited by the player at 00:23, Fri 15 June 2018.

Headquarters Allied Air Command
Ramstein Air Base, Germany
01 August 2015
0801 hrs local (0701 hrs Zulu)

"As you were," Group Captain Grant Mewes says.  The ten men and two women wearing four nations' flight suits drop back into their seats as he strides to the podium.

Mewes takes a moment to survey the room.  He's read their dossiers and watched their interviews but this is the first time any of them have met him in person.  He sees the British contingent react to his own insignia, doing a poor job of concealing their curiosity as to why a rotorhead is about to address them.

"Good morning," he says.  "My name is Group Captain Grant Mewes, RAF.  I am the commander of NATO Task Force Forty-Seven.  You are here because you are among the best of your respective nations' air combat aviators and, with one exception, you are rated Typhoon pilots with a minimum of two thousand hours in type."

He clicks the remote in his left hand and the screen behind him flicks to an organizational chart.  "To this point, Task Force Forty-Seven has been a human intelligence and direct action unit with organic support, technical, and research components.  It is not, as you have been briefed previously, a joint aggressor training squadron."

Mewes pauses again to make eye contact with each member of his audience in turn.  "Your incorporation into the unit marks a major expansion in the scope and nature of our operations.  Should you accept this assignment, you are certain to be engaged in air combat against the most advanced craft currently operating on this planet.  You are here because the Typhoon is the world's best dogfighting aircraft and the task force requires that capability."

The screen shifts again and the lone Australian in the room curses as he recognizes a frame of his own gun camera film.  Mewes ignores the not-entirely-unjustified interruption and continues.  "This was recorded on April twenty-third of this year by Flight Lieutenant Mullins, then operating a RAAF Super Hornet.  It is the first documented air-to-air engagement between fourth-generation fighter aircraft and aerospace craft of extraterrestrial origin..."

Academia Ghetto Club
Split, Croatia
30 July, 2015
2100 hrs local

Grey Cell- the cour group- sat around a couple of patio tables pushed together. The meeting place was a local club, wedged into a small castle-like compound in Split's bohemian Old Town, with dual-level, indoor and outdoor seating. A Velvet Underground cover band plays inside. Loud, but not too loud, the evening's weeknight clientele a mix of arty locals and hipster tourists. It was a place where law enforcement (even- especially- undercovers), foreign agents, or extraterrestrials would stick out like white sharks in a blue dolphin tank. Perfect for a little happy hour get together with colleagues.

"So our foreign friend- interesting fellow- man..." subtle emphasis, "... of relatively few words. Course, he couldn't say a whole lot without his head exploding, but we did talk quite a bit about film- sci-fi, specifically. Spent a lot of time watching movies and TV together.

"Couldn't tell us..." a nod towards Seb, "... what he and his pals are up to in these parts, but he could tell us why they aren't here."

James takes a sip of his Zmajsko Pale Ale, "They're not here for water, or other resources. They're not here to eat us, or wipe us out. It's not a Predator scenario. They're not refugees. They're not here to fuck, although our friend does have quite a taste for dirty jokes. That's the one thing that consistently makes him smile. Our friend's smaller cousins- the other ones- seem to have a slightly different agenda. The little guys apparently have an interest in genetics, and they're not above taking samples. Our friend's kind don't seem to care at all about that sort of stuff.

"Shit!" James nearly shouts. Shaking his head ruefully, he lowers his voice again and explains, "Planet of the Apes- I totally forgot about that one 'til just now. Different types of apes, with different agendas for the humans. Why didn't I think of that? Well, I guess it's back for round 11 of movie night."

The local Pilsner isn't half bad, a little fruity for James' tastes, but full bodied with a pleasant bitterness. A long swig helps James move on.

"The one thing I could quite get him to rule out conclusively was simple conquest and overlordship. As we already know, this isn't the first time the out-of-towners have visited. You guys remember News of The World?" prompted by a couple of unknowing looks, he adds a bit of explanation for the non-Americans in the group, "Really out-there tabloid. 'Wolf-lady Pregnant with Elvis' Baby'- that sort of thing. Well those 'JFK Signed Treaty with Men From Mars' stories form back in the '80s and '90s might not be so outlandish after all. Apparently, there were several high-level meetings during an earlier visit- some time back in the '50s, probably. Our friend couldn't tell me what they were about, though. He's not real big on exposition or details."

He finishes his beer, sets down the bottle, contemplates ordering another. The night is still young.

"So yeah, we pretty much exhausted all the alien invasion tropes. The process of elimination continues. I guess it's back to the screening room, see what our friend has to say about the OG Planet of the Apes series."

Looking over at Sebastian, James adds, "Did I miss anything?"



-
This message was last edited by the player at 21:32, Fri 13 July 2018.

Academia Ghetto Club
Split, Croatia
30 July, 2015
2100 hrs local

Hannah nodded as she looked around the room with rather feigned indifference.  Of course, she was keeping an eye out for anyone that might be eavesdropping.  Given today's technology, it wasn't ever going to be that obvious, but it made her feel better.

"What did he think of the campy special effects?" the army aviatrix mused aloud, "I mean some of those ray guns are so fake..." Obviously angling towards how any displayed technology that might have elicited some sort of response - positive or negative.  It seemed sort of meta, Double Down mused to herself, to think about recording the alien watching another recording ...

She shook herself from her reverie and took a sip of wine from her glass.  Double Down hadn't ordered anything special, but Hannah's palette wasn't really very refined.  And she cared more about the company than the cuisine.  Besides they weren't really here to drink; so, as much as the wine touched her lips, the level in the glass receded quite slowly.

"I wonder what he would think of the import from Belize," she mused idly, though the auburn-haired pilot knew that would be a really Bad Idea™, in general. "The title papers just went through." Hannah announced, letting them know she just submitted her first report on the Mark XI prototype, "The original documentation was horrible.  Since it was a custom job, every piece had to be listed separately.  Some of it was really out of this world, but not all of it."  She let her companions know that it was cobbled together; like the previous ten prototypes.  But this last one had never had a chance to actually fly.  Yet.  Of course, she'd let everyone see the report (Hannah would never trust her own editing skills); hell, she'd called Dealer in for certain things when she couldn't make head-nor-tails out of, especially since Hawkins was still a touch suspect in her mind.

"But it was the drivetrain that was really out of this world.  You might say the thing had a mind of its own.  Almost."  She alluded to the quasi-organic parts that others had noticed previously with the alien tech and detailed in the report.  But, it wasn't the violation of known physics - the fact that it produced some strange telekinetic field that reduced drag around it which allowed it to corner on a dime while travelling almost at the speed of thought and suspending the effects of inertia while inside the bubble.  No, Hannah keyed on the trigger.  "Everything took a bit, as studying the parts - especially the more intricate ones, required so much mental focus." she narrated tentatively with a glance Cooper's way, "In fact, without that level of focus, it would have been useless..."  She let that sink in for a moment.

After glancing about furtively, Hannah gestured for the others to lean in slightly.  She did so herself, as well, placing a butter knife in the center of the small circular table, facing away from her.  After shaking her head as if to clear some cobwebs, Double Down took in a deep breath and pressed her right hand on her temple, as if nursing a slight hangover or thinking intently.  The knife spun slowly until it was reoriented by 180 degrees, it moved slowly, but deliberately.  "Some party trick, huh?" the auburn-haired pilot prompted, her other hand resting on her lap, "You know magnets under the table..."  Though clearly her reference was to the fact that the concepts espoused in her paper, which were purely theoretical speculation, were not entirely speculative.  Nor were they theoretical any more.

"There's more." Double Down winked and took her hand from her lap and placed it a couple of inches above the knife, "You just reverse the polarity..."  And it leapt into her outstretched hand.  "Pretty cool, right?" she prompted the others at the table, using the knife to butter a roll.  The demonstration was over.  And wasn't necessary new, she'd already approached Cooper, as his situation was closest matched to hers with respect to these phenomena.  And with Painter still convalescing, she'd needed a confidant.  The previous reports from VO-54 had been explicit about psychoses developing in the test flight crews.

Hannah had plenty more to tell the others on tomorrow's morning run, but there was a lot to think about.  There wasn't just the manipulation of physical matter, but sensing it.  Remotely.  Something that Hannah had already alluded to with the others previously; but, now, with all of the alien tech floating around (no pun intended), the situation was different.  Accelerated.  And there was the other stuff - beyond the sensing.  She couldn't dominate people like the aliens were able to, but there was ... something.  Something the ship had shown her.  That the human mind could be 'pushed' into ignoring a thing.  Sort of what Lizard King had seen with their captive; that he simply couldn't think about certain things.  She wasn't nearly as adept at it - but, she was starting to understand the basics of the phenomenon...

Yeah, tomorrow morning's run was going to interesting...

---

[OOC: We don't need to RP the run, but during that time Hannah will try to explain more explicitly what she knows about the alien craft and her hypothesis on how to fly it - which appears to require the pilot be psychic...]