Director Collins was lounging peacefully in his office, a bone-china teacup resting on a saucer upon his knee. Bill Maxwell, leaning up against a wall beside a picture of five mismatched individuals (a stern middle aged man with a service revolver by his side; a strapping, cheery man with an aqualung slung over his shoulder; one frumpy fellow in a shabby overcoat and hat, a notepad in his hands, and a nervous look in his eye; a rather stunning but plainly dressed woman, in all outward appearance no more than a suburban housewife; and a small, slip of a girl, her face glum, and wearing the most awkwardly large hat one could imagine. A legend along the bottom of the photograph read: Philip Gerard, Michael Nelson, Karel Kolchak, Mrs.Samantha Stevens, Anna Bertrille, August 1976), was far less at ease.
“Are you sure about this, C? I mean, this bunch you’ve targetted...”
“Marvellous, aren’t they?” The Director said cheerily, taking a quick sip from his cup. “I just hope Mister Cranston has young Eve ready to go.”
“That’s the least of MY concerns,” Maxwell noted anxiously, “...this woman you’ve sent Donovan to find, for instance...”
Collins waved in a soothing motion. “Easy, Maxwell. I know how you feel about her...kind, but trust me. Her abilities will...”
“What about the Humanidyne girl?” Maxwell said, interrupting, “...DiNallo? She’s got the TK ability, plus training, plus experience...”
With a frown, Maxwell noticed that Collins was already shaking his head, even before he’d finished talking. “Too high profile,” he replied, “...especially with her connection to Mister Bukowski. No, I’m convinced that what’s called for here is a slightly...off-centred approach.”
“Off-centred? Try half-baked. I don’t know if I trust this character you’re bringing in today, either.”
“Really? He IS a Government agent, Bill.”
“By accident, not by training,” Maxwell countered, “...by training, the man’s a common thief.”
“Yes,” Collins agreed, staring into his teacup at the leaves remaining, “...a trait which may come in handy. Start thinking outside the box, would you Maxwell?”
“Ahh, don’t get all ‘outside the box’ with me, you old ghoul. So who’s gonna lead this menagerie in the field? None of them’s got what I’d call the right background for command.”
Staring for another, contemplative moment into his teacup, the Director set his saucer down on his desk, noiselessly. “Some old friends of mine are holding an annual get-together this weekend,” he said, easing back further in his chair, “...I’d be going myself, but, well, duty calls. Donovan and the girl will be recruiting our field commander there. You should be happy with this one, Bill. He was with us back on Victory.”
Maxwell’s eyes lit up as he leaned over to see the security file Collins was sliding across the desk towards him. The Victory group was...well, that was the dream team, wasn’t it? They were what the whole League program seemed to have been building up to all those years. His mind was wheeling through the past, and the possibilities. Steve Austin, Mark Harris, Michael Knight...hell, even Andrea would be a...
The light in his eyes flickered quickly out when he saw the face on the dossier. “...figures. Why do I even ask?”
“I couldn’t imagine. Must be terribly frustrating for you.”
“You know, the Foundation’s been making good noise with some of their operatives. I could make a few calls...”
“Intriguing as that proposition is, Maxwell, no thank you. Call me jaded, but I have never been as impressed with everyone else at the prospect of a talking automobile. No, I think this group will work out just fine.”
After a moment of private grumbling, a thought came to Bill Maxwell. “Didn’t you say you had six lined up? That’s only five. Who’s the odd man out?”
Collins narrowed his eyes and stared at his desk. “What you mused before, about why you ask these things? It was good advice.” Without moving, Collins shifted his gaze towards Maxwell. “You don’t want to know, Bill. It would upset you.”
Before Maxwell could begin to argue, the buzz of the intercom cut him off, and a female voice issued forth.
“Director? Mister Fawkes is here, sir.”
Collins smiled, rising from his seat. “Give me one moment, Tiffany. Bill...you won’t worry too much, I trust?”
As the men shook hands, Maxwell allowed a slight smile to ease onto his face. “Let’s call it friendly concern, okay? Listen, if you need any help...”
“I won’t hesitate to call. I’ll either be here, or in Arizona. Take care, Bill.”
“You too,” Maxwell said, turning towards the door, “...and try not to piss Smith off TOO much, willya? Play nice.”
Collins only grinned in response as Bill Maxwell left his office. The next moment, he touched a finger to his intercom again. “You can send the gentleman in now, Miss Welles.”
After a brief pause, the office door swings open, and a beautiful woman with sharp eyes is motioning for a well-dressed man to enter. In his early thirties, his hair carefully sculpted, the man seems distrustful. Collins notices, and regards it as a rather wise move on his part. He smiles.
“Darrien Fawkes?” He says with a smile, extending his hand in greeting, “...I’m Barnabas Collins. Have a seat.”
HARMONY, NEW ENGLAND
Simon Donovan had driven all night to reach the sleepy-looking town of Harmony. It had given him a lot of time to review his briefing data and orders, which were curious in places, but that was what he expected. Bluebook hadn’t been his first choice of ops...he had been hoping for an IMF position, until the Agency had been given control over the program. Donovan didn’t want to work for the Agency. Nothing against Tom Gage, but the SD-6 situation was just too troublesome to get near. No, Donovan would stick with the bureau. Though he was already starting to miss the Secret Service. Among other things.
Pulling his car over to the side of a road, Donovan rechecked the address he was hunting, and his file on the girl who was supposed to be there. This was the right address, no question...the house didn’t look like much from here, little more than a shack. Probably all she could afford, Simon realized. And it was also probably the last place anyone would look.
Donovan looked at the photo. She was quite beautiful...too young for him, of course, but still easy on the eyes. She looked quite happy in the picture, along with her sisters. From what he’d been told in his briefing, however, he doubted very much she still felt so peppy.
After half an hour of waiting patiently in his car, Simon Donovan finally got the opportunity to test his theory, as he spotted his quarry turning a distant corner and walking up the street towards the dilapidated collection of walls she was calling home these days. She carried a paper sack filled with groceries, and her head sagged downwards, like someone who didn’t want to be seen. She was skinnier than in the photos...probably not eating very well. Simon waited a few minutes for her to reach her door before exiting the car, and jogging briskly across the street to meet her, just before she got inside.
“Excuse me!”
The girl turned as she fumbled with the door, seeming quietly alarmed at the sight of the sharply-dressed man with short greying hair running towards her. He was an older man, and handsome, but a stranger to her. And as a rule, she didn’t much trust those anymore.
“Hi there,” he said, hopping up to meet the girl at her doorstep, “...can I help you with those?”
Pointing towards the bag of groceries, Simon Donovan put on his most accessible smile, one which was not returned. Instead, the girl seemed to stare right through him for several seconds, with a disturbing intensity.
“Thank you,” she finally said, shrinking back inside the house, “...I’ve got it.”
The girl was about to shut the door in Donovan’s face when he lurched forward, as benignly as he could manage, and held it open. “Begging your pardon, miss, but...if I could just have a minute of your time? I have something I’d like to...”
“I’m busy,” came the reply, as the girl rapidly retreated into the house, Simon Donovan still wedged in the open doorway. He took the opportunity of her withdrawal to let himself fully in, letting the door fall shut behind him.
“It’s really kind of important, miss...Willis? Is that right?”
There were several moments of uncomfortable silence before Miss Willis reemerged, standing with arms crossed protectively around her at the opposite end of the hallway. Simon made no move to approach her.
“I’m Holly Willis,” she said quickly, “...who are you?”
Progress, Simon thought with a smile. “Simon Donovan. Charmed, I’m sure.”
Still no smile in return. “...that makes one of us.”
The girl wasn’t happy about him being here, from the tone in her words. That was understandable. “Holly, I’m here to make you an offer. I promise, I mean you no harm...”
“I know,” she fired back, which made Donovan a little curious. Still, he persevered.
“Holly...I’ve been sent here to offer you a job.”
The girl snickered disdainfully. “I’ve got a job...”
“Yes,” Simon said, pulling a small notebook out of his back pocket and flipping it open, “...you’re a checkout girl at a local pharmacy, correct? That’s...satisfying work, is it?”
Now she was starting to get suspicious. “It pays the bills,” she said, unfolding her arms and letting them hang by her sides, “...who ARE you?”
Time to play the hand, Simon decided. “Unlike you, Miss Willis, I’m exactly who I said I was. I’m Simon Donovan. I work for the United States Government.”
‘Holly’ took a step backwards. Her fingers started to twitch. “You what? I don’t understand...what are you doing here?”
“It’s okay, Holly, I...” Simon tried to take a step forward, but found he could not. Something...an unseen wall of force, or something...barred his way. The situation needed defusing, fast. Simon decided to stop being subtle.
“Prudence...”
He spoke the word softly, but it hit the girl like a hammer. She stumbled backwards again, only now a look of genuine fear was playing on her face.
“...Prudence Halliwell. That’s your name, isn’t it? Prue for short?”
Simon took a step forward, as the wall of force seemed to have dissipated. Prue was backing up, and looking frantically about her in every direction. She was scared.
“You...oh God...you can’t BE here! How did you find me??”
Simon waved his hands in what he hoped was a soothing way. “It’s all right, Prudence, there’s nothing to be afraid of.” He wasn’t convincing her that easily, however.
“Who else knows about me? Who have you TOLD??”
Before he could answer, the girl flung her hand out in front of her and Simon Donovan felt his feet leave the ground, and he sailed through the air until he was slammed painfully against the hall ceiling. He winced, having rather hoped it wouldn’t escalate this far. Still, despite his poor tactical situation he was optimistic. They didn’t call him Agent Sunshine for nothing.
“Your sisters are safe, Prudence,” the words were a little difficult to squeeze out, pinned as he was to the chipped paint of the ceiling, “...the terms of your deal with the Source are still intact. They’re safe...I promise.”
Prue froze, maintaining her concentration to hold Donovan in place with ease, but now fixing him with that same disturbing stare as before. Donovan held his breath for what seemed like minutes, until eventually he felt the pressure lessening, and he drifted back down to solid ground. He steadied himself and coughed a few times before straightening up and looking down the hall. Prue was eyeing him with caution...but the fear was gone.
“You’re telling the truth,” she finally said, “...I can feel it.”
Simon raised an eyebrow, mentally revisiting his intelligence data. “My briefing on you didn’t mention anything about you being a sensitive,” he said. Prue smiled shyly, the first such sign of life Simon had seen in her.
“It’s only developed recently...I don’t know why, it just...wait a minute.” Prue’s eyes shot wide open. “You...had a BRIEFING on me? And you know about...about why I...”
“Sort of,” Simon admitted, “...we still have some holes in our intelligence. We know you were forced to fake your own death, and that your sisters are to have no knowledge that you’re alive. Nor can you have contact with them. And we know that all of this has something to do with the ‘Source’. Which, if you had asked me six months ago, I would have guessed was a place you buy jeans. But I have ‘Source’ written down in my notebook here, and really smart people have told me it matters, so I know it’s a little more important than that. And the briefing was actually only partly about you. They talked about other stuff, too.”
Simon gave Prue a moment to take all this in...he was happy that he had impressed her. He couldn’t move things with his mind, but he had his moments.
“So...have we been exposed, then?” A note of worry crept back into Prue’s voice. “As witches?”
“Not exactly,” Simon explained, “...you’ve been discovered. By people whose job it is to discover things like that. But we have no interest in exposing you.”
“Then what..?”
“Just what I said before, Miss Halliwell. I’m here to offer you a job.”
There was silence then, not quite uncomfortable, where Prue seemed to be letting things sink in. Before long, though, Simon noticed her glancing about her, at the walls of this rotten old house, the way small children look at a favourite blanket. One that protects you from the monsters outside.
“I know what you’re feeling, Miss Halliwell,” he said softly, “...I understand the kind of pain you’re in.”
Prue shot him a sharp glare. “How could you POSSIBLY know?”
The words came out angry, but even as she said them Prue realized she’d made a mistake. Her new gifts notwithstanding, she recognized the lonely pallor in Simon Donovan’s eyes when she looked at him this time. She’d seen it in her mirror a thousand times over the last year.
“How...” She stumbled over the words, not sure how to ask this question. “Why did you..?”
Simon just shrugged, acting as indifferent as he could. “It was necessary,” he said simply, “...kind of a rite of passage. It was how I got this job. I knew it was coming...I just didn’t think it would be so soon.” Simon swallowed, pausing momentarily as he remembered certain details of his ‘rite of passage’. And all it entailed.
“That’s what you do when you die, though,” he finally continued, “...you leave behind people you care about.”
Prue’s fingers clenched and unclenched anxiously. Simon had really hit a nerve with that last comment...she’d probably been doing her best not to think about things like that for a long time now. So had he.
“How...” She paused, taking great pains to compose herself. Donovan watched her closely as she did so. She wanted to break down, he knew she did. But she wouldn’t let herself. She was strong. Whoever had sent him for her, he realized, had been right in choosing her.
Finally reclaiming her voice, Prue continued. “How do you deal with it...” she asked, shaking just a little, “...how do you LIVE with it?”
Simon bowed his head for just a second, as he thought about that. He recalled, briefly, a little brother he had left behind, and a woman who could have been...something. In different circumstances. He raised his head again and looked at Prue. Halfheartedly he grinned.
“It helps to keep working,” he said honestly. “I won’t lie to you, Miss Halliwell...”
“Prue,” she corrected, “...call me Prue.”
“Sorry...old habit. But...the thing is, we can’t give you back what you’ve lost. Our people have examined the contract you made with this ‘Source’, and it seems to be pretty solid. What we CAN do is offer you a purpose. You were one of the good guys, once. We want you to be one again.”
Prue seemed to genuinely consider that, and Simon took the opportunity of her consideration to sweeten the pot. “We can also provide you...if you like....with intelligence reports on your sisters’ activities.”
A quick splash of worry shot across Prue’s face, which Simon quickly played down. “It’s okay...it wouldn’t violate the contract. And I imagine you’re pretty worried about them by now, aren’t you?”
Simon could notice the first signs of emotion in Prue’s voice when she whispered ‘yes’ in response. He smiled.
“And,” he added, “...there’s also a significant pay raise involved, from what I’ve been told. Not that something like that would be a motivating factor to you.”
This time Prue returned his smile, cautiously. “What would I have to do?” she asked, and this time Donovan didn’t have a direct answer.
“Afraid I’m just a messenger,” he answered, “...we’d have one more person to recruit, then I drop the both of you off in Arizona. After that...well, as they say, the sky’s the limit.”
For a minute, Prudence Halliwell thought long and hard on this intriguing, if awfully vague proposition. In the end though, Simon Donovan’s personal prediction ended up being the correct one.
“Mister Donovan,” Prue said, with an air of hope she hadn’t spoken in for year and more, “...I think you’ve got a deal.”
“...can’t DEAL with all this red tape crap that’s going on!”
Darien Fawkes gestured wildly in his seat across from Director Collins, having successfully gotten himself quite worked up over what he perceived as the current inequities of life. Behind his desk, Collins merely grinned, and listened.
“I mean, one day we’re rolling along good as can be, saving the world, bopping with Chrysalis and what not...the next minute, BOOM! We lose our funding, the fatman vanishes, everything’s getting ‘restructured’ and ‘reevaluated’, and now I don’t even KNOW where Hobbes and Keep and Monroe are, and now here I am talking to the creepiest guy I’ve EVER met, and can you just tell me what the God-damned story is??”
Collins leaned immediately forward, causing Darien to lean quickly back. The director grinned. “The story, Mister Fawkes, is simple. As I’m sure a man of your perception already knows, after the events of September 11th, the United States government has been tidying up it’s ridiculously overlapping and unwieldy intelligence system. So many operations stepping on each others toes...Control, Echo, DXS, UNCLE, your own little ‘agency’...the field is being streamlined, Mister Fawkes. You’re one of the assets that has been, momentarily, lost in the shuffle. Luckily, I have found you.”
Darien leaned back nervously in his seat. “Lucky me,” he said, “...so what’s the score?”
“The score is,” Collins gloated, “...you work for me, now. And I have much, much better uses for you than that bloated ‘official’ ever did.”
For a moment, Darien cast a suspicious eye on Collins. His usual radar of mistrust was going off. “And what if I don’t want to work here? No offense, of course...”
“None taken,” the Director replied, “...and the ‘what if’ is twofold. First, of course, there’s the small matter that you’re a government agent. You don’t actually have a legal CHOICE to refuse. You could try and disappear, naturally...or unnaturally, as the case may be...but I wouldn’t advise it.”
By instinct, Darien checked his exits. “And the second..?”
Collins’ smile faded to a grim line on his face. “The second, mister Fawkes, is that much to your horror, despite how impossible and unfair it may be, you have recently noticed a small but very, very distinct shade of red creeping into that tattoo on your wrist.”
Darien blanched, unconsciously grabbing his tattooed wrist, wondering how this grinning ghoul had known. He hadn’t told anyone...not yet. Not until he could figure out what it meant.
He knew what it used to mean, of course. Quicksilver poisoning. Disorientation, madness, death. It wasn’t supposed to happen anymore. He was supposed to be cured.
“It’s happening slower than it used to, correct?” Collins asked, but didn’t wait for an answer. “It was clear for over a year when you noticed the change beginning. And your instincts were correct, Mister Fawkes, the old counteragent you used to take would indeed be ineffective. I’ve seen your med reports.”
Darien tried to stammer out an argument when Collins glared at him. “Work for ME, Mister Fawkes, and I can have the best medical minds on this and several other planets do everything possible to solve the innumerable problems posed by that troublesome gland in your head. Once I’ve gotten my own use out of it, naturally.”
There was an awkward moment of silence in the room then, before Darien finally calmed his shaken nerves and settled back down. “You’re a real charmer, Collins. Most people would at least buy me dinner before screwing me like this.”
The director laughed at that. “Such melodrama! Be honest now... you didn’t really WANT to refuse my offer. I know your type, Mister Fawkes. You claim to high Heaven that you just want to live your life unmolested, just want to be left alone. And maybe you never DID want any part of all this....but it’s in your blood now. Something I happen to be rather an expert on. You’re what we in the business call an ‘adventurer’. A rare breed, to be sure. But you’re just what I need right now. And you’ll be well compensated, believe me.”
From his chair, Collins could see that he had struck a chord in Darien’s heart, somewhere, but he hadn’t completely won yet. “What about Hobbes?” Fawkes demanded, “...and Claire?”
“Your companions are gainfully employed, Mister Fawkes...elsewhere, for the moment. Behave yourself, and perhaps I’ll see what I can do about getting you all reacquainted. Well?”
Instead of the anticipated argument, all Collins got was a hearty shrug. “What choice do I have? Though I should warn you, I’ve been with the Bureau before, and it didn’t exactly stick, you know? So what’s the deal? Am I working alone?”
Collins shook his head. “Hardly, Mister Fawkes. Part of your team is already being assembled. YOUR first assignment,” he said, sliding a security dossier across the desk towards him, “...is to gather the others. Here’s where you’ll find them.”
With a rising sense of ‘what have I done?’, Darien took a look at the sheet, whose main feature was a pedestrian bit of spacial photography. It centred on a white orb amidst a black backdrop. Darien didn’t have to read the legend or study the telemetry to know what he was looking at. He only had to slump into his chair and come to the realization that he had just agreed to travel to the moon.
“Aw, crap,” he mumbled sullenly, “...I hate long trips.”
