Archive of Our Own ^beta

A row of townhouses on a cul-de-sac street. Kids played outside as their parents enjoyed their Saturday morning indoors.

"Honey, are you seeing this?" John called to his wife, staring open-mouthed at his television screen.

"No, what's the matter?" Benji said from the kitchen. "I'm making Jell-O for after lunch, does that sound good?"

"Get out here and look at this!" He yelled, standing up as he watched the shaky camera footage playing on the morning news. Benji bustled over, placing fresh-cut roses in a vase for the coffee table. She gasped.

"Late last night, millions of eyewitnesses reported the Venture Technologies, VenTech, skyscraper ripped away from its position in Columbus Circle, Upper Manhattan. A minor earthquake was felt as shockwaves from the building's take off ripped through the city, being felt as far away as the Hudson Valley and northern New Jersey. Without a single warning, water mains ruptured and the electrical grid went down, affecting millions. A huge crater was left behind as the skyscraper, I repeat, a skyscraper ascended into space.

"The Columbus Circle MTA subway stop was obliterated when the building pulled free, the structure weakened from the rupture that caused it to implode. Only a few survivors escaped - mainly people who were just entering or were already leaving the station. Reportedly, Tophet Tower is on the verge of collapse for similar reasons. One airplane, Delta 402, was departing from JFK airport and the pilots were forced to make a sharp turn to avoid crashing through the flying building. It landed near Ellis Island, and the New York Coast Guard is already out rescuing passengers and crew. More pressingly, reports are flooding in to the studio that the skyscraper is dropping massive amounts of debris across lower New York, Pennsylvania-"

The flower vase dropped from her hands as Benji turned to John. "Where are the kids?!"

"Oh, God! I told them to get some fresh air!" He sprinted outside.

The screen-door slammed shut as Benji stood frozen amongst the scattered roses, broken glass, and water seeping into the carpet. The report kept playing.

"Shattered glass has rained down, slicing through people's bodies as it gained momentum with gravity, and has caused two deaths and fourty-nine injuries. We have video - here - a woman was walking her mutated dog in her neighborhood while Facetiming a family member when she and her pet were flattened by an HVAC unit weighing over a ton. We have more video of-"

The door flew open with a bang.

Her heart leapt into her throat before she saw John with their three children. "Oh, thank the Lord," she said, falling to her knees.

"Mommy! What's going on!"

"Why can't we be outside? Is it because the shooting star?"

"It's a building," corrected her oldest as the children crowded around her.

Benji held them close as John knelt down. "It's visible-?"

"Yeah! You can see it like the Moon in the day! It's so shiny!" The youngest cheered. She looked fearfully at her husband.

"Should we-?"

"C'mon, kids, let's go to the basement!" John stood up, tugging the two little ones over to the door leading downstairs. She turned to the eldest.

"Honey, go grab Sylvester, he should be in the dining room."

He nodded and ran off to find the tabby cat. None of that mattered as concrete slabs and a giant steel beam crushed their townhouse row. The gas stove, which had been cooking pasta for lunch, exploded; the remains of the homes caught fire.

.................

"Are you in position? Over."

"Yes, ready on East, over."

She looked at her partner. "Think we'll have to deal with the big guy?" He shivered.

"Dear God, I hope not. I'm surprised they haven't swooped up the target already."

She nodded, shifting her crouch amongst the leaves. "Good thing too. We may have a chance at getting him in the court system this time."

"And getting people justice," her partner added.

"Yeah did you see what fell on that one neighborhood-"

"Cut the chatter, team. I'm giving the go ahead."

Out in front to her left, a megaphone blared. "THIS IS THE F.B.I. THADDEUS VENTURE, COME OUT WITH YOUR HANDS UP."

Her partner scoffed. "Yeah, like that'll work."

"YOU HAVE ONE MINUTE OR WE WILL ENTER AND PULL YOU OUT."

She tapped her finger on the side of her gun barrel as the time ticked down. Fourty seconds passed until the door opened. It wasn't the target.

"Oh shit," whispered the man next to her. It was Samson. She grimaced.

The murderer once killed twenty of her colleagues in one fell swoop; who knows how many undercover agents had fallen to him. Did he get demoted to troops? Lose his special 'license'? Reportedly, he gets warnings from his superiors. Nothing else. The O. S.-goddamned-I. What did the F.B.I. get from their sister organization? A pat on the back and a shrug.

Samson took his sweet time coming down the porch steps. Standing in the front yard of the dilapidated house while only wearing pajamas and holding a cup of coffee. Held in a loose grip at his side was his thirteen-inch knife. He took a sip from his mug as every gun aimed at his head. He wiped his mouth.

"Who's the commanding officer here?"

She grit her teeth as her superior, Agent Thompson, briskly walked towards the mass murderer. License to kill, her ass. Any F.B.I. agent got more than reamed out for multiple civilian deaths, much less friendly fire. She disliked her boss, but the man deserved to keep his head attached.

"Agent Samson," Thompson barked, striding up to the man. Jesus, he had to look up at Samson to look him in the eye. From where she was situated, it looked like a fly before a swatter. "You better produce your charge, now."

Samson said nothing to his fellow officer, instead lifting his gaze and sweeping it across the gathered F.B.I. forces.

"This is an O.S.I. matter," the man loudly said. "You have no business here."

Thompson spat on the ground and drew his gun. "Your General can kiss my ass. There's been nothing filed saying so, and from where we stand, your man rained down holy hellfire on the American people the past day-and-a-half. It would have been kinder to line up these people and shoot them than dropping concrete on their heads from the upper atmosphere. You go on and bring out Rusty, NOW!"

From where she was situated, she couldn't make out Samson's face, but his disposition was displeased. "I'm sure there just been an error in the paperwork, Agent-"

The porch door slammed open. She and every agent jumped as a large man charged out gun first. He bellowed a garbled war-cry and thundered down to Thompson and Samson in his briefs and boots. She saw a hideous blue V tattooed on his face and rolled her eyes in disgust. Today's briefing had included a photo of Courtney Haines.

"IF YOU THINK FOR ONE STEAMY HOT MINUTE, NO, SECOND-" Haines trumpeted, aiming his gun all around. Samson, helping for once, put his hand on the man's shoulder, muttering something quiet in his ear. Haines straightened up and calmed down immediately. "Oh, so you guys came out here for nothing, then?"

Thompson grew red in the face, and she creeped a bit closer for a better view.

"No! Not for nothing! We are mandated to bring Thaddeus Venture into custody. We," Thompson flung out his hand to gesture at the agents gathered, "are not leaving until that skinny little shit is in the back of our van!"

Samson crossed his arms. Haines hooted and slapped his knee, leaning on his friend for support.

"That is just," Haines mimed wiping a tear, "you're a real cut-up, Agent. But as I'm sure as pie you and I both know that the Venture family has been under O.S.I. contract since the sixties, and neither you nor the local authorities can touch the man."

Samson nodded. "The bureau has no claim to arrest Venture, never has, never will. Not so long as he's under guard."

She smiled as her boss laughed in their face. "That's just it, boys: Venture wasn't under guard officially during this whole fucking fiasco. And," he swung to face Haines, "Venture hasn't been under contract since the nineties. Neither clause applies."

Her smile grew teeth as the air shifted. Those damn flunkies looked worried now. Her partner chuckled. "Sir has got them on the ropes now, doesn't he?"

The three asses devolved into a booming argument.

"Now look here-"

"What don't you understand-"

"I'm not sure that's technically-

The porch door opened again and she re-aimed. Rubbing at his eyes in a silky, pink, matched pajama set was Venture.

"What's with all this hubbub, Brock? I thought you," he yawned on the porch steps, steam curling out of his own mug, "I thought you said you were dealing with it." The man fixed his glasses and froze rigidly. "Oh, um, maybe I should-"

Samson yelled, "GET INSIDE!" as Agent Thompson screamed, "GET HIM!"

Herself and her partner closed in the with West flank as the main group of agents fired non-lethal sedative darts. When she glanced back at her boss, he was being tossed by the throat at a squad - rolling them down like bowling pins. Real gunshots rang out as one then two agents screamed. Haines clearly didn't have the same compunctions they did.

Venture's coffee went flying as he fell back in haste. He scrabbled up the porch steps, dodging darts from the West. Samson was working his way through the swarm of agents and darts, barely held up as he went after his ward. One courageous sonofabitch jumped the mountain's back.

She pumped her legs faster and vaulted the porch railing.

Venture's hand was on the door handle and pulling it open, but it was stuck in the jamb. She heard him yell, "Goddamnit!" and scream as she tackled him. She reached around for her cuffs but they were missing. She swore.

"CUFFS! I NEED CUFFS!" She shouted, tearing out her throat. Haines screamed and ran at her for a dozen feet before being tackled by her partner. "DOES ANYONE HAVE GODDAMN CUFFS!"

"Pops, what's going - holy shit!" She heard from the screen door and when she looked, two wide-eyed faces were staring out.

"Stay inside!" She barked.

Venture squirmed underneath her and yelled at her. She ignored him and called for cuffs again. Samson was flinging agents out of his path - she'd swear she heard a bone snap - and was closing in fast. If he got to her, she'd be killed to keep the worthless scum she sat on out of federal hands.

Handcuffs dropped onto Venture's back. She breathlessly thanked the agent to her left for the assist. Grabbing Venture's skinny wrists was a challenge as he did his best impression of a worm, but she got one and then the other. She began to read his Miranda rights.

"Thaddeus S. Venture, I am placing you under arrest for criminal damage to property, illegal use of super-technology, domestic terrorism, and mass murder. My name is Special Agent Grayson with the F.B.I. and you have the right to remain silent." As the second cuff cinched in place, the man gave up, growing limp. She glanced over and saw Samson had stopped in his tracks, staring at her in shock.

She grinned.

"Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law." Grayson stood up and dragged the man to his feet.

"OW, hey!"

Venture's complaint fell on pleased ears. She continued. "You have the right to an attorney, and if you cannot afford one, one will be appointed to you before questioning, if you wish."

Hopefully, he'd be too obstinate to get one.

"I'LL SAVE YOU, DOC!"

Her and Venture sharply glanced over in time to witness Haines throw away her partner. Speckled with darts, he leapt towards them. She stepped back with her detainee, but Haines laid hands on Venture and began a tug-of-war.

"Hatred! Get off me!"

"SIR! Let GO or be charged-" tug, "-with obstruction-" tugging, "-of justice!"

"Obstruction of justice my twee-diddly-dee scrotum!" Haines colorfully yelled. "I was with him! I was with Doc! He ain't no terrorist! Let the man go!"

Grayson stared over his broad shoulder at Samson. The man grew downright morose. She ordered, "Courtney Haines! Put your hands in the air!"

"Hey, wait a minute, you haven't even finished arresting me! You can't start arresting Hatred!" Venture protested. Haines also complained,

"What the hell are you talking about!"

In his moment of confusion, the man let go of Venture. She jerked his scrawny frame away from the ex-agent/ex-villain/ex-bodyguard. Behind Haines, an F.B.I. agent approached holding a taser.

"I AIN'T GOING NOWHERES WITH YOU!" Haines bellowed.

Grayson nodded. Haines spasmed and fell to the porch floor. The other agent shocked him again and pulled out their handcuffs. She resumed her own arrest.

"Don't resist as resisting-"

"-may be an additional charge', Christ, are you thorough," Venture scoffed. She scowled and pushed him forward, carefully side-stepping a twitching Haines.

"Walk towards the van, slowly," ordered Grayson.

As she frog-marched Venture down the steps, an upset voice called from behind, "Daddy!"

"Don't worry, boys," Venture called over his shoulder, directly into her ear. "Daddy's going to have a friendly chat downtown - just listen to Brock while I'm out." His head swiveled to glare at said man as they walked past. "You can manage that much, can't you?"

The scowl Samson gave them both was legendary. She had read of glares that put you six feet under, but never seen one that merited the metaphor. It was deeply satisfying.

"Yeah, Doc, I got the boys," Samson grumbled. Beside him, Thompson beamed at her, hand rubbing at his throat while blood streamed from his nose. He gave her a double thumbs-up. Good news for her end-of-year bonus, it seemed.

The back of the paddy wagon opened and she helped the man inside. He was light as a feather. All this trouble for so slight of a man. From a man so small. She moved away as three agents carried an unconscious Haines and threw the man in whilst he still convulsed. With a grin, she slammed shut the doors and slapped the metal.

"Get them out of here!"

When she turned around and looked at the chaos, her satisfaction faded. Agents were holding up colleagues, limping back to the vans driven here. She saw more than one field medic kit and someone was shaking out a body-bag.

She marched up to her boss and Samson and got right in the big man's face.

"You're a disgrace to this country, and your 'Office of Secret Intelligence' is a clown show. None of you have ever done anything for anyone and I hope you die regretting everyone in service you killed just because you could." She spat on his bare feet, since the jackass wasn't wearing shoes.

Samson's hands shook, reaching for his strapped knife. Blood was on his thigh where it rested.

"Agent," her superior warned her, but she spit again, on Samson's other foot.

"Everyone you killed to keep that wretch safe and now he's going thirty to life. Hope it was all worth it." She spun on her heel and walked off to help clean-up.

Sure, mission accomplished, but the day wasn't over yet.

.................

"-misuse of super-science, who do they think they're talking to? Do they even KNOW what super-science is? It's all a misuse!"

Hatred blinked his eyes open and mumbled, "Illegal use..."

Doc stopped yammering to say, "Oh good, you're up. Maybe you can be of some help now."

His brain hurt like hell. Friggin'...he hated sedative darts. "I'm pretty sure that agent lady of yours said it was 'illegal use' of 'super-technology', not super-science, you know, in general."

His ex-charge harrumphed, shifting uncomfortably with his hands behind him. "I don't see how that technicality matters, the point is this is all baloney. A big, fat pile of deli-fresh baloney. When my lawyer gets here, they're in trouble, the whole damn lot of them."

"Your lawyer? You even have one of those?"

"-Especially this 'Special Agent Grayson'," the man mockingly said, making faces at the name. Then he rolled his eyes. "Of course I have lawyers, plural, Hatred. Where on earth have you been? Where have you worked the past six months?"

Hatred tried to sit up, but his back kept sliding down the metal wall. "Yeah, VenTech, I'm aware, Doc. Didn't you fire all the V-Tech lawyers, though? Like, three weeks ago?"

Doc's shoulders drooped. "I'm, I'm sure I can re-hire them, I have their numbers somewhere-"

"-somewhere like your office in the tower that just smashed down?" pointed out Hatred.

"Oh, go be a buzzkill somewhere else, if that's all you're going to do," the man retorted, peering down at him. "If you're so smart, why don't you come up with a lawyer or, better yet, a solution to this mess!"

He frowned deeply, irritated at his boss' attitude and how much his back hurt. "I'm sure the O.S.I. will take care of this," he assured Doc.

"They better," he muttered. "For all the grief they've caused me over the years, keeping me out of jail should be the least that they do."

Hatred felt like he was missing something here. "You mean, besides all the other times?"

Doc glared at him. "WHAT other times?" A knock hit the divider between the drivers and them, and both of them jumped.

"Keep it down back there!"

He hissed at Hatred, "What other times?"

"Well, you know," he tried to whisper. "Like when Hank called the cops on the compound? I heard you ran into L.A.P.D. too, got away scot-free there. Or that other time when you turned a bunch of call-girls into Spanish flies? And Brock killed them?"

"They weren't Spanish flies," Doc shot back, "I manufactured a, quote unquote as I can't exactly make finger quotes, a so-called 'Spanish fly', and used its juices to make an aphrodisiac that turned them into super-ugly bug-whores that yes, Brock killed."

Hatred flexed his toes. His calves were cramping up something fierce. "I think you're missing the point here, Doc." He rolled onto his back, hands be damned, so he could look at the man's face. "Every other time you 'mass-murdered', quote unquote, the O.S.I. always called ahead or sent down a darn intern to clear up the whole whatsit. This'll be no difference, I'm sure of it."

"None of those times ended with me or us hogtied and trussed in an F.B.I. van, Hatred," Doc remarked. "Well, Brock and I were in the backseat of a police car that one time, but he was on the lam and still." He glanced away before looking back. "You really think this will be nothing?"

"A big fart," he agreed, "this is just, whatchamacallit, a bureaucratic screw-up. A bunch of bruhaha from these clowns 'cuz they're spitting mad they've never pinned you before, so now they're leaping on you like, I don't know, like a bunch of chimps on a little girl's face."

Doc's nose scrunched up. "I'd like my face to not be ripped off by chimpanzees."

"You know what I mean here," grunted Hatred.

"Yeah," Doc said. "I guess so." For a few blissful seconds, the only sound was the muttering of the driving officers up front. Then he asked, "How do you think the boys are doing? They probably enjoyed watching their old man get carted off."

"Did you even hear them? I swear, Dean was squealing like a stuck pig watching you get cuffed. And Hank? I mean, he did just run away I wouldn't be shocked if he didn't care at first. Deep down, you gotta know that boy loves you, though."

The man scoffed. "Keep telling yourself that, Hatred. Why, I would be surprised if Hank wasn't just beside himself with joy. At least Brock is keeping a handle on things."

.................

"Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god, what do we do?! Are we next?! They just took out Hatred and Pops like they were the garbage!" Brock snagged Hank by the collar.

"Stop pacing and sit down. You're not going to jail. Neither of you are - so quit screwing around!"

Reproached, the kid dropped down on the couch. One problem managed, he turned to the other. "Dean, stop texting people, don't let anyone know about this. Give it here." He held out his hand.

Instead, Dean clutched his cell phone to his chest. "What! So what? Have you seen the news? All the damage caused? Rebar and, and, elevator counter-weights just dropped from the sky. There's an untold amount of injuries and even deaths!"

He dragged a hand down his face, trying to fight past the lingering drowsiness from the sedative darts.

"I am aware, Dean. Just quit it. The O.S.I. will handle things. They always do. Nobody," he stressed, glancing at Hank, who was holding a pillow, "nobody is going to jail."

He wasn't sure about that. Hunter had been willing to shoot the tower to smithereens to avoid the surrounding area being pulverized. Even with VenTech landing as gently as a megaton skyscraper could, the resulting dust had nearby towns under air pollution warnings with the closest town hurriedly evacuated. And the less said about Manhattan, the better. Hunter was unlikely to let the O.S.I. take the fall considering it would put a giant spotlight on it, revealing the organization as a national failure. Even Treister was pissed when he ordered clean up on Rusty's more public messes. He'd heard enough third-hand bitching about how much money it took to keep everything out of the news cycles.

"Calm down," said Brock. He grabbed the remote, clicking the power button. The news flicked on the television screen showing a video of VenTech tower's ascent to space. He turned it off. "I don't know, read a book or something. I got some calls to make."

He sat down Dean next to his brother and left the house. On the porch, he pulled out his pack of cigarettes as he opened his O.S.I. jPad. He called Hunter and got call denied. He tried again: same result. Brock frowned as he inhaled deeply, smoking half the thing in one pull. He dialed Shore Leave next. The call rang and rang and rang, and finally was picked up.

A familiar mustache filled the screen. "Heyyy Brock. Call you back later?" His colleague looked off screen and yelled, "Just a minute! Sorry, Brock, this is just," he cringed deeply, "a really bad time right now."

"Don't hang up!" quickly said Brock. Shore Leave remained connected, waving away someone off-screen. "I just," he inhaled. "What's the read?"

"The read on things? Well, this book is awful, full of messy icky inter-office politics, and some intra-office shit out the wazoo. I'd read a different book if I were you; this one's snowballing downhill faster than you can say 'supercallifragillistic expialadocious'. Personally, I'd put down the book."

"Jesus," Brock groaned, sitting heavily on the porch swing. He pinched his nose bridge. "Is Hunter-"

"Oh, I'd avoid talking to Hunter if I were you," Shore Leave stated before looking away and mouthing something. His colleague turned back to him. "Hunter is seriously P.O'd about your guy, I'm not even going to SAY the name out of fear of summoning the storm. I wouldn't hold out for sunshine any time soon. There's no way this doesn't turn torrential for you and yours."

He let the jPad fall onto his lap and looked out over the porch railing.

The tree line blocked it out a bit, but he could smell the chemicals and the burning that the skyscraper dropped down on the old compound site. The emanating dust cloud was spreading up and out, moving with the cross winds. Even now, he saw the wildlife rustling as it fled the scene, moving through the front yard and out yonder.

"Fuck."

"Yeeaah, that sums it up. And not to run out on you, but I gotta run. I'd prepare for any outcome here, Brock."  Shore Leave hesitated before saying, "Take care of yourself. Ciao!"

Brock lit another cigarette, burning through it before lighting another. And another. He crumpled up the pack when it was empty. He stuffed it in his pocket, standing up, and cricked his neck. He went inside.

.................

"Face the camera."

FLASH.

"Face your right."

FLASH.

"Face to the left, now."

FLASH.

"Alright, place your fingers and thumb here."

"Is this almost over?" Thaddeus complained. The agent handling his intake frowned.

"No."

He sighed. Hatred was grumbling as he went through the same treatment a step behind. "I'd like to call my lawyer, now."

"We'll get to that," promised the intake agent. "You'll get your damn phone-call when we're done here."

We, we, we. What grammatical horseshit. What point was there in using the royal we in this situation? Thaddeus scoffed and walked where he was pointed, doing as he was told. As always.

After more rigmarole, he was finally brought over to a landline. His processing officer told him to make it snappy. He rolled his eyes. At least his hands were cuffed in front of him now, having them behind his back put a serious ache in his wrists, like they needed it. Having the phone in hand, he hesitated over the keypad. Who could he even reach out to in this situation? It wasn't like he had the O.S.I. hotline memorized.

Briefly, he thought of calling Orpheus and asking his old tenant to magic him out of here. Like the tightwad would do that, or even could do that. Magic, Thaddeus scoffed at the thought. He dialed in Brock's number, praying it hadn't been changed from the decade-old one he remembered.

"Doc? Is that you?"

"Brock!" A breathless laugh spilled out of him. "I'm in a bit of a pickle, well you know that - wait, how did you know it was me?"

"It was call collect."

"Oh, right. Um," he paused, uncertain of the lay of the land. "Are you going to come help me out? I need some kind of lawyer, if you'd go to the Tower there should be a whole rolodex of phone numbers for this sort of...thing."

"'Go into the Tower' - Doc, did you bang your head? It's on the verge of falling over."

"Riiight...err, well, can you send one of the O.S.I's lawyers down here? Or anyone? Someone from the office to sort out this...fucking kerfuffle?"

"I can try, but no promises."

He jerked the phone away to stare at it. His eyes darted around the room's grey walls. "Seriously, Brock?! What do you mean, 'no promises'?" His voice grew louder as he went on, "I shouldn't be on the hook for THIS!"

The intake agent shot him a dirty look. He turned the other way to escape the glare.

He hissed, "I have no idea how the HELP-pods did this! You called me, you know I was shocked to look out my bedroom window and see above the stratosphere!"

"I know, Doc," Brock soothed him over the phone. "Just try to hang in there, you got Hatred with you, don't you? I'll try to work something out for you. Don't worry too hard, it'll make you look more suspicious."

Thaddeus scoffed. "Tt. As if a washed-up ex-bodyguard slash receptionist is going to help me out. The people here think I'm some serious criminal! But," he paused, catching his breath. "Thanks, I guess. I'll keep my eyes peeled for, well, whoever you send."

The agent came over to him, pointing at her watch.

He jerkily waved her off with the handcuffed hand not cradling the receiver to his ear. "Alright, I'm getting Oscar awards played off here, so, please, send someone. And soon."

"Working on it now, Doc. Keep your head down, and don't answer any questions. I'll see you."

The phone clicked. If he wasn't so used to Brock hanging up on him, he'd be seriously miffed. Okay, he was a little miffed. Where's some TLC when you need it? He hung up the phone and turned around, lifting his shackled hands.

"Alright, I'm finished. Take me to your leader, or cell, or whatever." His comedy was not appreciated, and he was pushed out the room and down the hall. He was directed to a freezing room with a, presumably double-sided, mirror, one lackluster metal table, and three bare chairs, two on one side. He was sat down on the single chair and had a metal chain looped around his handcuffs.

"Really?" He flexed his wrists, causing the metal to clang and jingle. "What do you think I'm capable of that merits this? Where's Hatred?"

"Haines is to be questioned separately. You'll be met with shortly," said the agent, avoiding the real question, before she left the room. Thaddeus heard the metal door THUNK as it locked behind her. He sighed, and settled in for the long haul.

.................

An ornate, white-enameled and silver ringed telephone rang.

She let it keep ringing as she swigged down a finger of tequila. It stopped finally and she sighed, relaxing back in the leather winged-back armchair. She looked out the window, enjoying the crystalline blue sky. Not many cities could boast so little pollution - she loved New Mexico. She swung her feet up on her expensive, post-modern executive desk before pouring herself another drink.

The phone rang again, jumping on the hook. She shouted, "Eleanor! Why aren't you picking that up!"

Her overly tall paralegal/receptionist poked her head in. "It's not going through the mainline, it's on your personal number."

"Oh! Thanks." She smiled. And frowned, "oh shit," she said, leaping to grab the receiver before it stopped ringing. She picked the phone up and sat down on her desk, straightening her suit.

"Jamie deGuile, Esquire, speaking. Who do I have the pleasure of speaking with? Samson! Long time no parlay, how's the old ball and chain doing? Got himself a real ball and chain? No kidding! Of course, I've seen the damage, I think half the globe has seen the footage. Did you see the story out in Pennsyl- right, right, no! I got it." She grabbed a pen and fished out a legal pad.

"T-h-a-d-d-e-u-s, what on earth was Jonas thinking with that name, the Lord was not paying attention that day. Or the past week apparently. Well, he needs the mercy now more than ever, I say. You don't say? Obviously, I'm taking his case, I can't think of a single lawyer in the country who would, honestly, the damage this time around is simply stunning. Literally, that one school in Tennessee got a generator dropped on it. Alright, alright, I forgot, I'll save my jokes for your boss. Wait, are you serious?" She frowned. "Why would I even do this if I can't téte-a-téte with Hunter? No longer interested, sorry, Samson.

She hung up the phone and slid off her desk, brushing away any dust from her slacks. Jamie sighed as the damn phone rang again. She groaned and wrung out her neck. Reluctantly, she answered it again.

"Make it fast, buck-o."

.................

"I don't think that's how it's played."

"What do you know? I'm going to capture your pawns."

Ben rubbed Rico's head as he sat on the hall stairway, watching the two little Ventures attempting to teach themselves backgammon. Dean had unearthed the dusty game from where he had tucked it under a bookshelf years ago and promptly forgotten about it. He looked down at his watch - a new one since he gave Hank that piece of history - and shooed away the man-baboon.

Walking down, he stepped on each stair's creak and the young men's heads whipped around from where they sat in the living room. Ben stopped in the archway, scratching his beard. He considered the front door. Samson had come and gone hours ago, claiming a need for real phone service. More likely he needed more serious alcohol than Ben had around the house.

Looking back at the twins, matching sets of brown eyes watched him. Not wary, but expectant. He asked them, "You guys want dinner?"

Dean jumped up with a loud "YES!" whilst Hank muttered about the game and started to collect the scattered pieces. Ben frowned.

"Alright, well," he went into the kitchen, turning on the lights by the pantry, "let's see what I've got. There's...canned tuna?" Dean, who had trailed behind him, scrunched up his face. "I don't know why I have it either. Okay, beans? Baked beans?"

Dean glanced over at his brother still in the sitting room, but Hank had sat down on the couch and was ignoring them. He turned back to Ben and shrugged. Ben shrugged back and kept digging through his stores.

"Final offer, I got lots of pasta. Like, five opened boxes of pasta. I don't know what's up with that. And I got marinara. Might be some parm in the fridge, maybe." He started grabbing the different items and placing them on the counter. Dean sighed.

"Yeah, that sounds good," agreed the young man.

Ben nudged the pantry door closed with his hips, hands laden with different noodles. "Great, because I was leaning towards this anyway. Get out the big pot, second cupboard to the sink, bottom left. No not that one, the other one. Fill it with water, add a little salt."

He heard the faucet turn on, and then Dean said, "Um! Mr. Ben? Is your water supposed to be that color?"

"Shit - no, no it's not." Ben dumped brown water from the pot. "And how many times do I got to tell you, it's just Ben."

Dean asked, "Why's it like that?"

Ben's face twisted up.

"The shock from the Tower probably knocked loose a pipe or two. Nothing for it," he sighed. Glancing at Dean and then over at Hank, he grimaced. He wasn't really expecting to babysit tonight, but it wasn't as if he didn't need dinner as well. "New plan: I'll go get a pizza. Dean, will you feed Rico? His food is in the freezer, you can pop it in the microwave for a few minutes and let him at it."

"What does he eat? An omnivorous diet since he's part..." Dean tripped over his next words, "human? Or just baboon food?"

"A bit of this, a bit of that. Mostly, he's my compost garbage disposal - baboons are naturally omnivorous," Ben explained as he went to grab his coat. "'Opportunistic feeders' is what the zoologists call it. They're foragers, so mostly nuts and berries, but they eat meat, too. Gave him a crab leg once, he loved that."

"Pops does love shrimp," said Dean absentmindedly. Ben waved his hand.

"He comes by that naturally. You should have seen your grandfather cater his parties, half the table was a big ice bucket of shrimp and different cocktail sauces. Only the other clone has baboon DNA in him."

Dean nodded as Ben slid on his flip-flops. "Yeah, I can feed him. Just pop it in the microwave?"

"Yeah it's in a ziploc bag, you can't miss it. Cooks in about two minutes. Hank," he called out. The young man looked over. "Get your shoes on, we're going into town for a slice."

Hank brightened up. "Can we go to Leonardo's?"

He was a Dominic's man himself, but, "Sure, why not?"

"Well, what are we waiting for!" The teenager (were they still at that age?) got to his feet and was out the door before Ben could say another word. He raised his eyebrows at the sudden liveliness, but Dean laughed before thanking him for taking Hank.

Ben shook his head. "No need. Boy was making this place more depressing than it already is. See you in a bit, kid."

.................

"That sure is a lot of blood," Hank commented, looking at the backseat. Old Ben Potter shrugged - he sure did that a lot - as he changed gears.

"Didn't get a chance to clean up. Going to be a hell of a lot of bleach wipes. Put your seat-belt on."

Grumbling, Hank buckled up and looked out the window. "It's like, twenty-five minutes from the compound to Leo's, how long is it from your place?"

"Less than that - I live closer to the main road."

Wow. Taciturn much?

He slumped in his seat. Hank picked at some stain on his shirt, feeling like he was going to jump out of his skin. Outside, he watched the tall pine trees give way to long fields before more clumps of pines. Against the night sky, a random bird flew pass a cloud.

"Soooo-"

"Fifteen minutes."

"I wasn't going to say that!" Hank protested. "Um, how long have you lived out here?"

Ben glanced at him. "Longer than your dad's been alive, at least."

"So, what, like fifty years? You don't look more than sixty-five."

The man laughed as the van jostled. "I've never looked my age."

Hank rolled his eyes. "Uh huh. You were, what, one of Grandpa's Boy Brigades?"

"Hardly," Ben snorted. The first traffic light grew near, swinging with the wind. It wasn't lit. "Hmm."

"I've never seen it like that," said Hank, creeped out. "It always has, like, the longest red light ever."

"Yeah, I got a bad feeling about this." Ben drove through without stopping, and as they got closer to town, none of the streetlights were on. There were very few cars parked in any driveways either.

Hank rolled down the window and stuck his head out. None of the houses had any lights on and there were no people walking the streets, nothing was as it should be on a Sunday night. Eventually, Ben pulled into the parking lot of the shopping plaza where Leonardo's was located. The whole place was deserted. Every shop sign was dark. Close enough to the pizzeria now, not even the neon CLOSED sign was visible through the window. 

"Hmm," Ben said. "I think getting dinner just got a whole lot harder. Crap."

.................

"Guys, I'm back!" Gary yelled as he kicked the front door close behind him. He hefted two bags of take-out and put them on the kitchen counter.

Sheila appeared and started taking containers out from the bag. "Thanks for picking this up, what do I owe you?"

"Don't worry about it, I used Monarch's card."

"Smart," she commented. Gary placed paper plates on the kitchen table before looking at her.

"Has...has he seen-"

"-No," she interrupted. "That's how it'll stay."

He raised his eyebrow. "That's not going to last long at all, I'm surprised he hasn't even figured out something is off. Peng Yuan was like the only restaurant open for miles."

Sheila's shoulder tensed and she rested her forehead against the upper cabinets. "I know, I know. I just. I don't know what to tell him, and until I do, I'm not going to."

"Is it really wise to let it wait that long? It'll be worse if he figures it out himself," Gary pointed out.

"Who figures what out?" The Monarch asked, flitting into the kitchen. He kissed the side of Sheila's hair before scooping up his order of General Tso's chicken and fried rice. He sat down and stared down Gary, who could feel his hands grow clammy.

"Nothing, boss! Just-"

"We were talking about how Manolo will react when he learns we don't need him anymore," Sheila smoothly cut in, bringing over her own meal. Gary stepped away, thankful for the respite. Behind him, the Monarch scoffed.

"We haven't needed him for ages. The house got finished like, in the fall. An extra four months paying and for what? Good riddance, I say," the man said around a bite of food. Gary brought his beef lo mein to the table, scooching out his chair.

"What! I thought you liked him! I gave him some boxing lessons down in the...what did we decide to call it? Not the Egg Sac, right?"

The Monarch scowled with his cheeks puffed out. He swallowed roughly before saying, "No, I was firmly out-voted."

"Yeah, it's gross," Sheila said gesturing with her chopsticks.

"So, what is it going to be? asked Gary, looking between the couple. The Monarch grumbled into his piece of broccoli. "What?"

"I said I don't know, Mister Number Two. Why don't you give me a list of names and I'll pick one?"

He grinned. "Sure, I'll work on it tomorrow, boss. Anyway, do you guys want to watch the X-Files tonight? There's a re-run playing on channel eight."

"I do like Mulder," Sheila mused. "I could open a bottle of red."

The Monarch looked between the two of them in disbelief. "Unfair!" He banged a fist against the tabletop. "Out-voted again!"

"What, did you have a better idea?" Sheila asked, sparing Gary from asking what was so wrong with the show. The Monarch wilted.

"Well...no," the man griped. "I mean, I was thinking, the two of us," he bonked his two index fingers together, "upstairs...?"

Gary blushed as Sheila smiled.

"We can still have sex later, honey-bunny. It's not all that late. We can watch a few episodes and leave Gary to watch the rest."

Yeah, more like so he can imagine the two of them bare-backing. He willed down an erection. Not at the dinner table. He squeaked, "Great."

"It's settled then," the Monarch declared. "I'll go turn it on."

"Getting to it faster doesn't mean time will go any quicker," Sheila laughed as her husband ran out to the living room. Gary stuffed another bite into his mouth and avoided eye contact. She thought out loud, "I guess I'll go find where that wine is. I know I put it away in one of these cupboards-"

A wordless scream startled them both. Gary and Sheila looked at each other.

Fuck.

They rushed over to where the Monarch was standing in the living, gripping the remote with such force the plastic creaked. On the television screen, the news showed a brief clip on replay: It was Rusty Venture being manhandled out of a paddy-wagon and into a non-descriptive building by F.B.I. jackets; the reporter said it was the main Colorado office in Denver.

"Sweetheart..." Sheila trailed off, glancing at Gary. He grimaced. She touched the Monarch's shoulder, but the man whipped around, pointing a finger at the screen.

"WHAT! THE FUCK! IS THIS!" The Monarch screeched. "That man is MINE, you said he was MINE!"

"I thought the O.S.I. would step in," Sheila soothed. "They always have before, I don't why they haven't now."

"I'm sure they still can," Gary reasoned, inching closer. "Like, they can do whatever they want I feel like." Sheila frowned at him, and he tried to side-step. "Besides, they still have to convict him, right? Nothing is a done deal yet."

The Monarch threw the remote at the television, cracking the screen. He stormed off upstairs and, a few seconds later, Gary heard the master bedroom door slam. He heard more muffled screaming. He sighed.

"Shit. That went well."

Sheila pinched the bridge of her nose. "He's going to be a fucking nightmare tonight. Can I rain-check on you for Scully and Mulder?" She placed a hand on his arm. Gary blushed.

"S-sure," he stuttered. "We can watch it anytime, I'll just DVR it. Save it for later, y'know?" Sheila smiled at him, squeezing his bicep before letting go.

"Thanks, you're a real gem, Gary," she said walking to the steps. "I don't know what we, what I, would do without you." She disappeared behind the banister. He rubbed the back of his neck.

"Hah yeah...anytime." He looked down. "Oh, come on."