Luis nods, "Sounds like the best shot we have for the moment. We could also go ahead and take a few weapons out of Simmon's arsenal by officially getting my gear checked out."

"Sounds like we've got a good few ideas for our first moves, then," Hugh says. He turns to Kadi and indicates a quiet corner of the room. "Mind stepping into my office, Sergeant Major?"

"Yes, Sir," she nods.

"I'll keep it brief," Hugh says quietly. "We're the people you'll be relying on when the next firefight rolls around. We all have to trust each other to cover our backs. Negative emotions and bad blood get in the way of that. Confronting us all together was an open invitation to get the team to gang up against you, and then that had to be defused. Until they're more comfortable with you, I recommend you come to me first and we work together to get your ideas into the debate. Less bruised egos that way. Questions?"

"Understood, Sir. But I stand by my assessments of this unit's weaknesses and the need to assess its members sensitivities to them when probed by someone outside their comfort zone."

"Yeah, and the point was taken, that's clear," Hugh replies. "But if I had a choice, I'd rather let someone we'll never see again pose those questions so we get the catharsis without the awkward feelings towards a potential foxhole buddy afterwards. Getting us to think through our shit is good, making us hesitate to trust you isn't. This shit's nerve-wracking for all of us as is and I'd rather not have everyone on edge around you."

"Sir, if I was trying to deep six the 815, I'd hardly be forcing castor oil on you all on my first day. I'd look on this as an extension of trust based on what I've read about you all and an operator's gut feeling that I can be so frank and not be concerned about the team's lack of professionalism moving forward. But I will be mindful of being less brusque."

"Great," Hugh says. "Kindergarten dismissed."

Hugh turns away from Kadi and towards the rest of the room, raising his voice accordingly.

"Anybody in the mood for pizza?"

With the basic outline of the plan sketched out, the rest of the planning meeting composed of determining who goes where and talks with who, and working on a unified message to present to the leaders in the military, legislature and executive departments of the US government. The general gist of hammering home Task Force 815's track record, the risk of throwing it away based on nebulous charges of "lack of loyalty" and "ignoring Earth" and replacing them with decision-makers far away from the front lines who believe that they can shock-and-awe the Imperium into leaving Earth alone instead of toppling the corrupt regime altogether are all agreed on. Concrete plans are made as to who's going where and saying what to whom as the meeting ends, and the team returns to their MP-chauffeured SUVs so that those that are hungry may eat, and more importantly in the case of the severely jet-lagged 815, those who are tired may sleep.

---

Barnes walks back into her office and collapses into her chair. There was a time when she would be more concerned about her political career than about whatever cause of the week she was being paid to represent, but as she flips through the correspondence she missed during the planning meeting, Samantha Barnes cannot think of anything more important than keeping the GRHDI and Task Force 815 in the game, not her standing in Washington's power circles, not her contacts in the Pentagon and elsewhere, not even her own career. Sometime over the last year, this had gone from being a chance to ascend to a Cabinet seat and really shape policy, to her own front on the war against the Imperium. She had grown to like Brinai and Bello, despite their loose-cannon approach to things, and losing control to the Department of Defense would almost certainly doom her friends to being cut off and annihilated by the Imperium in short order. She wasn't just fighting for Earth's survival anymore, but the lives and freedom of trillions of people throughout the galaxy.

Throughout the galaxy, Barnes laughs to herself. What a horribly grandiose way to put it, even if it is true. She paged out to her assistant's desk in her outer office. "Emily, thanks for sticking around. It's time to call it a night, go home, I'll see you tomorrow."

"Yes, Miss Barnes, I'll be here bright and early," Emily replied, and took off her headset as she finished uploading a file to a secure website, then shut down her desktop for the night. As she headed for the elevator, Emily pulled out her cell phone and sent a short text: Meeting recording delivered, Verrill to visit tomm, will pretend to have changed sides. Observation cont.

----

The team has been set up in a series of rooms in one of the more luxurious hotels near the Mall, but there's far more on the team's minds than simple sightseeing. Dinner is ordered in and consumed, and before long, the weight of the distance the team has travelled over the last two days (ironic, given the light-years the team is used to travelling) and the stress of the job to come bears down on everyone. However, there's little else to do tonight but relax and prepare for what's to come.

---

In his hotel room, Luis is catching up on some of the unending stream of paperwork to read. The hotel balcony looks out on the lights of DC. On the patio table, a set of improvised paperweights hold down stacks of documents against the breeze. Luis finishes a report on the estimated impact of the war with the Imperium on GDP, and shuffles it onto one of the stacks under one of the hotel water glasses.

Arketta, for her part, has spent the better part of the last half hour alternating between sitting on the bed and muttering to herself in Imperial, and pacing around the room, muttering to herself in Imperial. When she hears Luis ruffle the pages of the report as he slides it back into the stack, she walks out onto the balcony and sits down next to Luis. "Can I ask you a question?" she asks, her use of Imperial in flagrant disregard to previous discussions about appropriate language.

Luis stretches his neck and looks up. "Sure," he says, also in Imperial. "What's bothering you?"
Arketta takes Luis' hand. "Do you want me to become a US citizen? Would that be all right with you?"
"It's all right with me," Luis says. He squeezes Arketta's hand gently. "The question is if you're doing it because you want to, or if you feel like you're being made to."
"I do want to, or rather, I did before Simmons attacked me on Atea." Arketta shakes her head. "After that, it doesn't seem like your people want me to be one of them. I have read about the men that founded your country, and their ideas are amazing and daring and are what I believe to be right and true with the same passion I believed in the Emperor's Scarlet Banner before, but now that I have seen the way your people have forgotten about those ideals? I'm not sure."
Luis sighs and looks down at the table, "Yeah, me either sometimes. This whole Simmons thing leaves a bad taste in my mouth too. It doesn't feel like the sort of thing my country should be doing, and it's not the only thing that feels that way. But I can't give up on it, you know? If this isn't any better, what hope can I have for the Imperium, or for the end of this war?" He rubs his forehead, and looks up at Arketta. "If I saw America from the outside, I'm not sure I could blame you for being reluctant to call it yours."
Arketta nods. "Well, what matters is who is really representative of your country. Simmons and the people like him, or people like you, or Hugh or Angel or Davis? Because if Simmons is what your people are really like, what are we doing here?"
"I'd like to think it's people like us," Luis says, "or like Barnes and her people at GRHDI, but people like Simmons can have a way of making themselves seem more common than they are. The issue is that they're often doing what they think is legitimately the best thing for the country or the world, like we do. If we don't want them to be representative, we have to make sure that we convince them, or at least don't allow them to convince others." He shakes his head. "And that's the issue. The only sure way to have this country stop being the one I wish it could be is to stop fighting for it to be that one."

Arketta smiles. "So, in your own very roundabout way, what you're saying is that I should apply to become a member of your nation so I can be another voice for people like us."
Luis grins. "I guess so." He waves his hand over the table. "You want to use that ability to make sense of padded statements to help me get through these reports?"
Arketta leans over and gives Luis a deep and passionate kiss. "Sure thing. We'll finish this up, so we can focus on other things," she whispers.
Luis enjoys the kiss for a minute, then pulls back. "Now that sounds like an agenda I can get behind."

----

Ngawai was twice as tired as everyone else, and barely managed to stay awake through her cheeseburger and fries (she's still unenthusiastic about the traditional variety, but the sweet potato fries at the hotel are met with more approval) before changing into her nightclothes and passing out in the king-sized bed in their room. Swims-the-Black and Davis are sitting out on the balcony, sharing a bottle of scotch while Swims finishes his second steak, and looking out over the silhouettes of DC's buildings at night.

Swims-the-Black ruffles his fur in a wave of color as a breeze blows over the balcony, and wraps his coat tighter. "Your capital seems to be as welcoming as ever, Garrett. At least this time, we are all the curiosity, and not just me."
"Last time, we were just laughed out of every office in Washington, the time before that, people were still trying to understand that the Imperium existed," Davis replies. "Now, things are different. We've got a lot more friends here, and the whole team is different now."
Swims grunts a quiet laugh. "That must be what it was, then."
Davis looks over at Swims. "What what was?"
"Oh, when the new woman, Kadiatu, when she was pressing the team on being too Imperial for our own good, I was half-expecting you to jump up on the table and bark the speeches that you do so well, you know the ones." Swims stands up and adopts a straight-backed, puffed-out posture. "The 'We are just one small part of the galaxy' speech, or the 'We need the Bashakra'i as much as they need us' speech," he says, emphasizing his signs with sweeping dramatic gestures and bright color shifts across his fur. The wherren sits down and takes another drink of his scotch as Davis smiles at his friend's charicature. "No grunting and posturing as she attacked whether or not we should be trying to stop Simmons at all?" Swims smiles as he needles Davis. "I didn't know what to do without you standing your fur on end and growling across the table at anyone who dared say that you've become too Imperial to think straight."
Davis shrugs. "Like I said, I didn't need to. Hugh, Luis and Angel jumped right in there for me. They didn't try to blame, back down from or deny our affection and affiliation with the Bashakra'i or the culture of the galaxy, they stood up and said that we're proud of what we are, and that Simmons is wrong for using it to say that we're too far gone to know what's the right thing for Narsai."
Swims nods. "You are proud of them."
Davis smiles. "Yes, a bit."

----

The view from the balcony was majestic. The National Mall was spread out right before him, important buildings and monuments placed close enough that he could see people file in and out of them and pick out the grooves on the columns. Just beyond that was the water, glowing gold as the sun sank, and the budding trees. Zaef heard that they were a lot more beautiful when the leaves fell, though he couldn't imagine why. Leaves falling meant the tree was dying and needed to be replaced soon. Nevertheless, it was a scene that could've been woven on a tapestry in the Pillar Room, elegant in its simplicity and humility.

You'd've never thought that the place was built on a fucking swamp.

Zaef sits down and starts sharpening his knives again. He's not expecting trouble, not at the moment. Simmons has the advantage on them here, and he knows that. He's not going to risk his high ground on a hit when he could just humiliate them and exile them to Atea-let them die a slow death, as it were. He looks over the nearby rooftops. Being prepared can't hurt.

Everything here is a veneer, he muses. The smiles the team wore as they flew in this morning were fake, hiding the tension, the anger, the betrayal. Simmons hid his agenda and prejudices behind a facade of well-intentioned extremism, a "zealous" concern for his country. His backers surrounded their intentions with armor made of paperwork and meanings that could only be pieced together when you read the whole thing three times. Even the city itself; a capital that looked small and quiet, almost quaint compared to Napai, yet the threat it carried was no less, just more subtle, more subdued.

The knife slowly scrapes the whetstone as Zaef's frown deepens. Well, he can play this game too. He's done it before. Becoming Arena Champion was all about showmanship, in and out of the fight. Smiling for the cameras, posing for the crowd, talking with the fans, it all comes easy to him now. Even before the Arena, he had to wear the mask of a normal Imperial citizen, easily cowed and placated.

But that doesn't mean that he likes it.

----

Breaking away from the swarm of activity that followed the team's departure from GRHDI was difficult, but the late nights provide opportunities for Kadi to make an excuse and slip away. The Metro takes her to a non-descript office building in downtown DC, where the large man with suspicious bulges in his jacket lets her into the building. The building is shot through with long white-painted halls, all identical, and it's only with the help of pre-delivered instructions that she finds the proper meeting room.

"Welcome, Warrant Officer Aaronovich," one of the plain-suited men at the table says. She'd never seen any of them before, and the feeling in the room says that this wasn't the time to be asking for names. "Take a seat."

She sits down, crossing her legs and folding her arms, surveying the anonymous faces; Five white, two black, one Hispanic, all male. No women. Bloody typical. "Evening. Love what you've done with the place. I was under the impression we weren't due to meet until tomorrow."

"We were, but then we got a report from one of our associates in the GRHDI offices," another one of the white men at the table says. "It seems you and 815 had quite an argument."
"It was a simple probe exploring their psychological territory. Given the time table it needed to be executed boldly and took advantage ofthe outsider's perspective as a painful but necessary analytical tool. In short, your rabid lap dog has them worried."

This time, one of the black men speaks. "And what did you find out besides that? What are they planning to do to save themselves?"
"Eviscerate Simmons as a myopic reactionary whose rabid ultranationalism runs counter to the good of mankind and by extension your national interest," she answers. "And in all likelihood, it's a case they will be able to make successfully. From what I've seen."
"Then what do you plan on doing to sabotage it, Aaronovich?" one of the white men asks.

"Absolutely nothing," she answers. "My role is as an independent assessor to avoid the taint of partisan backstabbing. White-anting and espionage are down to you and the agents you've secreted into the GRHDI."
"We brought you onto Task Force 815 to serve a purpose, Aaronovich!" one of the black men shouts. "Those alien sympathizers are more interested in making nice with the natives than saving this planet, and it's your job to make sure we can get them out of the way. Are you going to do your job?"
"In return for participation in 815, the UK agreed to assess whether the task force had been compromised and if so to what extent. That assessment is still on going. Any weaknesses your people possess is no concern of mine, and neither are your internal squabbles, up until the point where they threaten to compromise my mission. Any attempt to do so will be fought."

There's a menacing silence in the room as the men sitting before her run through their mental options, and one-by-one realize that short of killing her before she leaves the building, there's little that they can do to stop Kadi from outing their attempt at sabotaging 815 if they cross her.

"What you do after I complete my assessment is a different matter. If the task force is compromised by insurgents, 5th columnists or traitors, the UK will do its utmost to assist you in taking them down."
"Then what do you think of 815 so far?" the first white guy, the one who welcomed her into the room, asks. He sounds as exasperated with this exercise as the rest of them look. "If they're even slightly compromised, we can at least use that," he tells the rest of the group.

"I found Sergeant Stanhill's augmentation troubling. On the face of it he willingly mutilated himself yet it turns out he was forced to undergo the procedure as part of maintaining operational cover and in doing so followed organisational directives to acquire alien technology. As soldiers we accept that we may well be wounded and maimed in battle, circumstances in which we will find ourselves forced to rely on prosthetics. As members of special forces, we accept we will be placed in situations that ordinary soldiers will not Do we become more or less by replacing parts of ourselves with devices capable of more than our own flesh? You may find success in emphasising that Stanhill's surgery may not be an isolated event, and tailoring your strategies appropriately, depending whether or not you think it's a good idea to hack bits out of troops and replace them with chrome."

The men in the room become steadily less interested as it becomes clear Kadi isn't going to dish about how 815 took a collective piss on a US flag or had secret meetings with the Emperor. "Well, that about does it, Warrant Officer. Anything else?"
"Yes. Your concern about 815 having a lot of off-world friends that you don't is valid not because the task force is loyal to them over you, but because those friends have more reason to be loyal to the taskforce over your agenda. Regardless of 815's innocence or guilt, it's clear that even at first glance that burning them should be your option of last resort. Cultivate them as an asset, let them bear you fruit you can plant in your own soil."

The secret cabal of powerful men seated at the table are barely listening to Kadi at this point. It's obvious that whatever they wanted to hear from her, this wasn't it. "I think we'll be just fine without alien assistance, Warrant Officer. Thank you for your time," one of them says, and they all go back to reading their notes as they wait for her to leave.

Kadi shrugs. If these tools want to sacrifice what they have before they've secured its replacement, she's not going to persuade them otherwise. Which could be a problem. She gets up, committing those faces across from her to memory. They may well have to be dealt with at some point, and now her superiors will have an idea of who to look for if that happens. "Well, toodle pip then."

In the morning, aside from the remarkable breakfast buffet (complete with omelette and waffle chefs), the first thing that greets the team is that morning's Washington Post, with a very surprising headline:

ASTONISHING CHANGES REVEALED IN TASK FORCE 815

The subheading reads, New photos show drastic changes to members of Task Force 815, raises new questions of Imperial capabilities, and underneath that is a blown up high-resolution picture of Hugh, Luis, Arketta and Zaef in the foreground with Davis, Ngawai, Angel, Swims-the-Black and Kadi visible behind them. It must have been taken by the cell phone of one of the people in the GRHDI building, and they're all looking up at what must have been the elevator floor lights, waiting for it to arrive, and the picture (and the article) are clearly centered on the team's garb and Luis' new eyes. The article seems more bewildered and intrigued by this strange new Imperial technology than afraid, the first time that something that's truly far beyond what Earth is capable of has been put in the public eye. Speculation as to what this could mean for Earth, and what it means the Imperium is capable of, fills the rest of the article.

The hotel, not surprisingly, has a comprehensive collection of the day's newspapers, and while the New York Times and the Los Angeles Times are running with a similar story on their front pages as well, while the Washington Times and other more conservative papers are focusing more on the corrupting influence the Imperium has had on Task Force 815, a military unit already considered to be spoiled by too much exposure to the galaxy at large. Robot eyes, strange new clothes, where will it all end?

Davis is obsessively combing the pertinent articles from every paper on hand while Ngawai is merely content to skim the pieces. Arketta just took one look at the photo on the front page, and after turning red with anger and embarrassment, gives Luis a sympathetic look and waits to see his response before making her own.

Hugh's down at the buffet line, loading up on coffee and carbs. It's too bad he hasn't read the papers, but at least this way he'll not be tempted to hate-feast on the strangely dry pancakes on offer.

And before you ask, yes, he does get the military discount, didn't you see the uniform yesterday?

Angel spent the night alone. Not 'without the company of an impressionable would-be capitol hill staffer' alone. Active, noone remembers seeing him after check-in alone. The first concern any sane administrator would have about that, involving the words 'mini-bar' and 'expense account' prove unfounded.

Chewing on the top of a blue berry muffin, he grunts. "Look at that. Made the front page."

Luis and Arketta make their way downstairs in the morning. Luis goes right for the buffet--how do they make hotel bacon so bad for you but too tasty to turn down, anyway?--so it's Arketta who's the first to see the headlines of the papers Davis and Ngawai are already looking over. When Luis returns, Arketta's looking at him, and not in scolding for the proportion of eggs to bacon on his plate. He looks down at the paper.

"Son of a bitch," he groans, He sets the plate down with a clatter of silverwear, and reaches for the New York Times. "What is it this time?" he asks Davis even as he starts skimming.
"Nothing too bad, they're mostly focusing on what other kinds of Imperial technology might be possible." Davis slides a copy of the New York Post over. "They, on the other hand, are asking if the Emperor can remote control you to kill the President."
Luis grimaces, "Guess I'd better talk to Barnes about that inspection quickly." He frowns at the picture, "Whoever took this was close. I think GRHDI has some plants from Simmons' group in it."
"Or whoever else is in that building," Ngawai says. "Noticed a lot of name plates in that lobby. Probably saw us, figured they could make a quick pile of lats with a picture."
"Maybe, maybe not," Luis says. "The first thing we were talking about in the meeting was trying to get Hugh into Simmon's good graces to know what he's thinking, you want to bet Simmons had a similar desire?" He scans the opening paragraphs of the New York Post article, and grimaces at what his parents are going to say when they see it.

A strange tone rings from Davis' slacks pocket, and he pulls out something that looks odd in Davis' hand: a smartphone. He taps the screen and takes the call. "Yes, hello Samantha, I was wondering when you were going to call. Yes, we've seen the headlines. Yes, I agree, we need to get out in front of this." He nods and passes the phone over to Luis. "Barnes wants to talk to you."
Luis accepts the phone, "Morning, Samantha."
"I assume you've read this morning's headlines?" Barnes is all business on her end of the line.
"Yes, though not much more than the headlines yet," Luis says, "Was I was thinking I need to see some respectable docs, you know any?"
"What for?" Barnes asks.
"If we can get some reputable data on my implants, something from a group without an axe to grind that certifies the equipment is...not harmful, not mind control, not a bomb, whatever, that'd take some of this off the table," Luis says.
"From who?" Barnes asks. "The only people on Earth who have any idea about how Imperial technology works are the Bashakra'i consultants we have. We show that to our technicians, all they'll be able to tell us is that it's terribly complicated."
Luis frowns at that. "Mmm. Kills that, then. And if it's checked by 'aliens,' then nothing changes on the PR side, I guess. What we need to do is get ahead of this stuff, if they're going to take this into the public realm."
"And I know how to do that," Barnes says. "Be in New York tomorrow. I've got you booked with Jon Stewart again, and the Sheen can give your gear a scan beforehand."
Luis nods, trying to keep the grin off his face, "Sure. Will a Sheen scan really prove anything to the people who are scared of any alien tech, especially after their trick with the web a while back?"
"Probably not, but they're the only ones who have no reason to work with the Imperium and can understand what was put in your head." Barnes sighs. "This whole thing is a Goddamn mess. Be in New York, and wear your good suit, Luis."
"Yes Ma'am," Luis says.

Barnes hangs up and Luis hands Davis back his phone. "So, what did she say?" he asks.
"And what are we going to do about...about this?" Arketta adds, waving her hand at the stack of newspapers.
"Sounds like they have the same answer," Luis says, "To work the PR side of it and answer the accusations, I'm going on the Stewart show." He runs a hand over the back of his head, feeling the skulljack with his fingers. "The Sheen will rescan me before that, go over all the implants in-depth, and give me a clean bill of health. It won't sooth everyone, but those who it won't are probably beyond convincing no matter how we go about it. Other than that, I don't know how this is going to change things."
"It's not going to change everything overnight, but it'll give us a chance to prove that we're still human, still backing Narsai, that our heads are still in the right place," Davis says. "Just be yourself, Luis. That's what people are worried about, anyway."

"I thought there was an embargo on that word," Kadi, kitted out in gym gear, drops unannounced into the seat next to Angel. The observation is made nonchalantly like she couldn't care one way or the other about it.

Very noticeable against her skin is a frothy milk moustache from the half-empty glass of breakfast smoothie in one hand. In the other is her tablet computer, it's screen displaying a page from a comic book.

"And reading the newspaper at the breakfast table would get my Daddy bonked on the head," Hugh says, arriving with a plate that holds a bell pepper-onion omelette and way, way too many fried sausage links. "The FDA recommends at least one serving of 'no worries' with breakfast, and that's one government agency I trust all the way. So kill the politics and eat something, dammit."

Finishing the muffin top, Angel tosses the rest, muttering something about the federal budget. He gives Hugh's plate a skeptical look for a moment.

"Are those real eggs? From a chicken, not some godforsaken box?" He stands, quickly vacating the seat next to Kadi in favor of the buffet line again.

Five minutes later, he returns, having procured a ham-and-swiss omelet. "How come its always Luis who gets to go on TV. Next time you come up with some complicated fucking plan Davis, toss that into the mix, will you?"

Davis shrugs. "Hey, I don't mind, but I'm sure Samantha is looking for someone else to put on TV, Angel. Do you want Meet the Press or Rachael Maddow?" He gives Angel a sly smile.

Angel chews a bite of omelet before he replies. "Do you really want me Meeting the Press Davis? Really?"

Davis' smile gets wider. "I don't know, I think it would be interesting to see how long it takes before you stare David Gregory into being unable to look directly at you."

Hugh had just enough time to wolf down his breakfast before changing into his uniform and walking down to the car park and climbing into one of the fleet SUVs, ready to drive off to Langley for his morning meeting with Simmons. As he's buckling in, there's a knock on the heavily tinted passenger window. Hugh pushes the button to roll down the window, and reveals Swims-the-Black, dressed in his color-change cloak over a large dark tunic/shirt, and presumably pants and his favorite sandals.

"I could stand to get out of this hotel for a few hours," Swims grunts. "And you could use the backup."
Hugh briefly weighs the consequences of taking Swims with him. If Simmons's people are watching, it won't play well to shuttle a Wherren around. On the other hand, they might be swayed by Hugh saying that helping out a friend is just good cover. And on the third hand, a tiny voice shouting "Fuck that bullshit!" implores him to stop the Machiavellian doublethink and just be a decent friend. The voice wins.
"Get in," Hugh says. Swims opens the door, climbs in and says nothing while he adjusts the seat and Hugh pulls out of the lot, aiming the car across the Potomac.

----

Clearing security at CIA headquarters with Swims-the-Black is an interesting affair, mostly because he's too big to step into the backscatter X-ray machines, and the security officers have to settle for wanding him and a patdown by a conspicuously large officer. Once both are cleared, Swims follows Hugh as he follows the directions he was given to Simmons' desk.

At the doors to the section of hallway leading towards Simmons, Swims-the-Black stops. "I think it would be best for your cover if I were to wait here. I will be close by if anything happens, and if you do not come back this way in one half hour, I will let the others know."
Hugh nods. "I will be back." He straightens his tie, flexes the fingers on his right hand, and then walks into the lion's den.

Through the doors lies the standard office arrangement of cubicles in the middle of the floor, with offices and conference rooms occupying the walls of the perimeter. The main thing differentiating this cube farm from any other in Corporate America is the decor: instead of cat pictures, motivational posters and comic strips, there's photos of soldiers posing in deserts and cities, posters from classified operations, and intel charts.

Hugh walks around the perimeter to the anonymous numbered office he was told is the lair of one Walton Simmons, and knocks on the door. A few seconds later, the door opens up and Simmons smiles on the other side. "Hello, Hugh, come in." Simmons stands aside and opens the door to let Hugh enter.
"Hello yourself, Agent Simmons," Hugh replies, but leaves out the litany of further insults his brain insists on feeding down to his vocal cords. "Corner office, huh? Only the best for our movers and shakers."
"Pretty soon, it'll be a corner office with a view of something other than the building twenty feet away," Simmons says, and takes a seat. "So! What brings you here, Hugh, and looking so sharp? Reconsidered my offer from Atea?"
"On the money," Hugh says in reply to Simmons's grin. "You were right. This ship is sinking and it's time to start heading for the lifeboats. So, as it turns out - I am for sale."

Simmons nods. "Well, see, the problem is, you said a lot of not-so-nice things back on that shithole, and I'm afraid I'm going to need more than just a few good AARs from you this time, Hugh. We know that Barnes and Davis are planning something, and we could use a man on the inside, someone that can turn things to our advantage. And, well..." Simmons shrugs and gives Hugh a shark-toothed smile. "I'm just not so sure that you're the right man for that job."
"I'm the only man you're getting, Simmons, and you know that," Hugh says. "That kinda makes me the right man for the job by default."
"Still, I'm not so sure that you can be trusted, that your priorities are in the right spot," Simmons says. "Do you have anything that you can give me, right now, that'll prove you're really on the right side here? Or are you still closer to that walking piece of shagpile out in the hall than to your own species?"
"That I got the Wherren to come with me here should tell you something in itself, Simmons," Hugh replies. "The mood in the team isn't the best, but they still trust me. So I can get you what you want. But one, I don't know what exactly you want - you're so hard to shop for - and two, I want to see something solid before I start carting in the secrets here and end up getting it from both sides. A man in my position can't afford to be generous."
"Traitors can't afford to be choosy, either," Simmons says, his eyes narrowing. "You give me something actionable, something I can move on today, right now, and then I'll get back to you about what I can tell you about our plans. You're still in the dog house after Atea, Hugh, and I just don't know if I can trust someone like you."
"Don't give much of a shit about your plans, Simmons, I assume they're clever and I leave it at that," Hugh says. "What I want is to be sure that this is backed by someone whose office has a better view than this. I mean, you've shown up a few times with the whole g-man routine, but given that I know zilch about you, who's to say you actually have the backers to offer me anything?"
Simmons' glower doesn't let up. "It is. I do. That's all you get to know for now. Now, give me something or get out, I have another meeting coming up."
"I can give you someone," Hugh says after a moment's pause. "You're aware of Aaronovich, yeah?"
"Not her," Simmons answers before Hugh finishes his last word. He folds his hands on the desk. "Anything else?" There's a knock on the door. "Or are we done here?"
"I'll just summarize for my benefit: I'll get you actionable intel on a team member other than tea & crumpets. And we'll see what that's worth to you. Right now, I don't have anything else, but that's fine. I'll be back."
"I'm sure," Simmons says.

As Hugh stands up to leave, the door opens to reveal Bob Russell, Davis' ex-boss, former attempted glory hound on the Whiirr mission, vetoer of the mission to Hedion and proud member of the suspect list of possible conspirators against Task Force 815. "Hey! Captain Hugh Verrill, what are you doing here?" Russell asks, a big grin on his face.
"Leaving, apparently," Hugh replies with a grin. "You have a good one, Bob."
"I would have thought that you 815'ers would have been a bit more shy about poking your heads around these parts," Russell says, "but I passed that big mangy dog of yours out in the hallway. Tell me, Hugh, you familiar with how things work in Texas?"
"I hear the BBQs good, but I ain't buying it."
"Well, you know how we deal with people that aren't welcome where I'm from?" Russell leans in close, smile still on his face. "We politely let them know that they'd better think twice before showing their faces around our piece uninvited again. Is that understood, Captain?"
"You and Agent Simmons should discuss your differences in hospitality, then," Hugh replies. "A good day to you, Sirrah, I must away."
"And a good day to you too, Captain," Russell says as Hugh shuts the door behind him.

As Hugh walks back through the double doors on the other side of the cube farm, Swims-the-Black stands up from the bench. "How did it go? What happened?"
"Let's go," Hugh says. "We'll talk in the car."

----

Hugh and Swims-the-Black quickly make their way out of the main building at Langley and head down to the parking garage. Their hurried exit draws a lot of attention, but none of it seems unduly hostile. The parking garage is dimly lit and quiet at this time in the morning, and the click of Hugh's dress shoes and the flapping of Swims' sandals is all that can be heard.

You both round the corner towards the SUV, and as Hugh pulls the keys from his pocket, Swims-the-Black spots a black figure rush towards him in the reflection of the car next to him! He barks "Attackers!" as his fur flashes red and he raises his arm to defend himself, and catches the balaclava-disguised man's arm as he tries to bring a metal baton down on Swims' head. Hugh, distracted by Swims' attacker, doesn't catch the second man sneaking up behind him. All he knows is suddenly his head explodes into a shower of sparks, stars and pain, staggering him forwards.

Hugh knows he's got no time to waste on orienting himself. He takes the whack and turns the stumble forwards into a roll. Yeah, landing on his back won't win him the grappling contest or let him weather the beatdown that might ensue, but those aren't his plan, either. What he is doing is removing himself from the attacker's reach - and hopefully buying enough time to draw his pistol and double-tap the son of a bitch.

If they wanted to keep this quiet - tough. Hugh knows that right now, his best chance is to go loud.

Swims-the-Black roars, and grabs his attacker around the neck. The man has a brief moment where he realizes maybe attacking the big Wherren in hand-to-hand combat wasn't such a good idea, before Swims' Alef-ka training kicks in, and he lifts the solder off the ground, slams him down onto the car behind him, leaving his arm still hanging over the side. There's a kre-CRACK as Swims forces his arm to rotate around his back the wrong direction, and blows the joint out of its socket. The man starts screaming, and rolls against the rear window of the car, holding his shoulder.

Hugh's pistol clears its holster, and as he takes aim at the masked attacker, the man has just enough time to shout "No -" before Hugh double-taps him straight in the ten ring and drops him to the floor, dead right there.

Hugh picks himself off the ground. Gun still aimed at the dead attacker, he fishes for his cellphone - he might not be a tech wiz, but Stanhill got him one with a nice big CAMERA button. After a moment's confusion over which of his two filled hands to use, Hugh pulls the dead man's mask off with his phone hand, then takes a step back and starts snapping pictures of his face.

"Swims!" Hugh barks in English, his hands too full to use Whirrsign. "You see anyone else coming our way?"
Swims runs back around the corner, pokes his head out and looks both ways before running back. "No, we seem to be alone, which is good because I will need privacy for this."

While Hugh takes a couple more shots, Swims-the-Black grabs the still squirming and moaning attacker under his unbroken shoulder and pins him against the wall, elicting another scream of pain. "Who sent you?" he says with his free hand.
"I don't speak Wookie, you alien freak!" the soldier shouts.
"Hugh, come here and translate my words for this worthless pile of dung," Swims says. His vocalizations are low, and his fur is rolling with a patchwork of red and orange.
"Alright, here's the deal," Hugh says as he walks over. He rips off the man's mask. "First, smile." He shoots a few more pics of the man's face. "Second, if you don't tell us who you work for in the next five seconds, my friend will rip out your arm and I will kneecap your sorry ass with my gun here. Five."
"Fuck you!" the man screams, the effort spitting sweat and saliva at both Hugh and Swims-the-Black. "Cody Stecker, Sergeant, 213-54-0021!"
"Well, Sergeant, should I have you court martialled for following unlawful orders at the bare minimum, or do you want to go with the cops for assault with a deadly weapon? You know what? Let's call 911 and ask them. Because I guarantee you, whoever's backing you can't shut down the cops before the wrong people start asking questions."
Stecker laughs through the pain. "Check your phone. No bars, fucker. No one's coming to help you, and I'll see your ass in Leavenworth after you get the death penalty for treason and murder, and they put down Fido here for being a menace."
"Likely story, Mr. Ninjapants," Hugh answers. "You know what, I'll just take a few more pictures of the scene, then we'll march your ass right up to the front desk and demand they call the cops. What do you think is gonna happen? Can your guys hush that up?"
Stecker smiles. "Try it and find out." He spits in Swims' face.
Swims wipes the saliva off of most of his fur, then looks at Hugh. "I'm going to knock him out now."
"Go ahead, ain't exactly sparkling conversation," Hugh says. "Say goodnight, Gracie."
Stecker panics. "Wait, what -" is all he manages to say before Swims' massive right hook knocks him clean out.

Swims lets him hit the floor, and he pats the saliva and debris from Stecker's clothes off of his own. "Do you want to take him to security now?"
"Indeed we are," Hugh replies. "We need witnesses. If we wait for whoever they send here, that's only a couple guys who might be in their pocket to begin with - that makes a body or two easy to disappear. So, you grab Stecker, and we're taking the quickest route to the front desk. If I get reception on the way, I'm calling 911, too." Hugh smiles. "I feel like raising a stink."
"I couldn't agree more," Swims says, and hoists Stecker over his shoulder.

----

As they approach the garage entrance again, the sight of Swims-the-Black following Hugh with an unconscious man dressed all in black sends the security team into high alert. They charge out from behind the desk, guns drawn.

"Put him down!" one of the officers shouts. "Do it now!"
Swims raises his arms as much as he can with a man on his shoulder, and keeps his hands still. "Hugh, talk good now," he implores him.
"Put him down, slowly," Hugh says, raising his own hands. "My name is Captain Hubert Verrill. This man tried to kill me in the parking garage. Please contact the authorities."
Swims-the-Black slowly puts Stecker down on the floor, and the security team steps closer. "Step away from the body!" the officer shouts.
"I am, I am," Swims grunts and takes several steps back with Hugh.
One of the officers rolls Stecker over and checks his pulse. "He's still alive. Call for paramedics."

The lead officer turns to Hugh. "You, tell me what happened, now."
"We were here on official business with Agent Walter Simmons," Hugh says. "We left his office about fifteen minutes ago and made our way to the garage to get our car. Inside the garage, we were attacked by this man and another man, both armed. We defended ourselves. Seeing that this man needed medical attention and we had no cell phone reception inside the garage, we decided that we needed to find someone who could call for paramedics and the police. And...we seem to have managed that."
"And where's the other one? Did it kill him?" the officer says, nodding at Swims.
"My friend - his name is Swims-the-Black - did nothing of the sort. I have my issue sidearm with me. I used lethal force in our defense." He pauses for a moment. "The second attacker is dead. Our attempts to lend first aid were not successful."
"Oh. Sorry, sir," the officer says to Swims, who simply nods in reply. "All right, just wait here until the police arrive and give your statement."

"What the Hell went on down here?" a voice shouts, and Hugh, Swims-the-Black and the security officer all turn to see Bob Russell walk out of the elevator. "Officer, are these two giving you any trouble?"
"There was an incident down here, sir," the security officer says.
"I can see that!" He walks over to the unconscious man. "Well, shit, that's Cody Stecker, he's one of the field agents in my office! Bob Russell, lead case officer for off-world operations," Russell says, stepping over to the little group. "Fine soldier, 2nd Rangers. What'd he do down here?"
"Unless he was testing a new CIA dress code," Hugh says, nodding to Stecker's black getup, "I'd say he tried to jump us, Bob."
Russell smiles. "Well, I highly doubt that, Captain Verrill. Maybe he just got confused by your big friend there, thought you needed some help. He left here with another man from my office, Lance Byer. Where is he?"
"Captain Verrill says he shot and killed the other man in self-defense, sir."

Russell's face darkens immediately. "Is that so." He glares at Hugh and Swims-the-Black for a second. Swims says nothing, but glares right back, the tips of his fur a deep red. "Make sure the police get a full statement from these two. I want to be damn sure that they don't get away with killing one of the Army's finest."
"Be seeing you, Bob. Nice talking to you again," Hugh says.
"Count on it, Verrill," Russel says, and storms off towards the elevators.

The security officer walks away to lead the group going back to get Byer's dead body, leaving Swims-the-Black and Hugh alone.
Swims sighs. "This is not going to even be as easy as Garrett thought it would be, it seems."
"God, I wish I'd gotten Bob talking about knowing those two guys recorded," Hugh replies. He checks his phone for reception. "Now I just gotta figure out how to send those pics to Davis."
"Do you think he can reveal some new information with their identities?"
"That, and I'm pretty sure they're gonna try to make this phone disappear," Hugh says. "And if we can keep a few balls in the air and force them to react, that's usually when the dumb mistakes we love to capitalize on happen."
Swims-the-Black nods. "Agreed." He puts a hand on Hugh's shoulder. "Are you all right, Hugh? Killing one of your own -"
"He ain't one of my own," Hugh says, anger coloring his voice. "And there's nothing wrong with me that seeing Russell and Simmons go down won't fix."