unimatrix

*looking for characters and the plotline. Specifically whether or not they are back in time or stuck in an alternate reality* A flash and burst of thunder hit the room as the space dispersed allowing the three bodies to materials. The slight pressure wave knocked over foam cups of coffee and moved empty folding chairs in the medium sized room used for young couples Bible Study on Sunday mornings at the Faith Fellowship Church. The nineteen in the room sat stunned as the three mysterious strangers appeared seemingly out of thin air. Oddly no one screamed or shouted, but the blast wave had to have been heard by others. "Don't think I'll ever get used to that," Penelope Bennett said softly with only a hint of her Italian accent. She grew up in Italy, her mother a native and her father a US Air Force Colonel at Aviano. All three were as disoriented as those in the room. Penelope's olive, Mediterranean skin glowed a bit as she checked to make sure her long, think jet black hair was still pulled back and secured. "Oi, that was bloody awful," Alan Blevins complained with his trademark Bristol accent. “How often do ya do that?” Belvins added shaking it off like a bad, but short, hangover. He was the tallest and stockiest of the three built on the frame of a 5' 10" rugby player. He still had a boyish round face with a ruddy complexion and short brown hair. Alan looked around at the shocked and overwhelmed room full of people. Hector Clark Schroeder jerked his neck to the side cracking a few of the bones loud enough everyone could hear. "Well," he began looking around the room at the faces still in shock. "People are alive, that's a start." He drew constant, deep breaths trying to focus. Everything was fuzzy, a side effect of their mode of transportation. "Where the bloody 'ell are we?" Alan asked. "When is a better question," Penelope offered meekly. "Well," Schroeder said still holding the quantum field manipulator in his hands. "Both are damned good questions. We just made a quantum jump, or shift, or something like that...the guys with white lab coats were still debating which exactly." "What's the difference?" Alan shrugged. “Either way it feels like I drunk too much.” "Not a clue. But we either went backwards in time or we punctured a membrane and ended up in another universe. Either way, though, we're still alive and that's all that counts," Hector said. Hector was an American with a good mix of Nordic and German blood. Although his once bright blond hair had faded into more of a sandy color in his twenties, his blue eyes remained as bright as ever. "Clark?" a familiar voice beckoned from behind the 5' 8" tall 32 year-old man. Hector stood there frozen for a moment as his mind processed the voice. It was female. With a look of frustrated horror he snapped around and scanned the faces. "Joanna Daugherty? "Joanna Fletcher now," she replied with a gulp. "This is my husband, Kendall." "Ah," Hector said really not sure what to say as he noticed she was expecting. His mind went completely blank. As many quippy remarks as he made, there were even more times when his mind would just suddenly empty leaving him standing like a fool in front of a group of people. "You two know each other?" Penelope asked. Alan turned around and recognized the face, "Wasn't that the bird you almost married?" "Yes," Hector began but his voice began to quiver with uncertainty, "Maybe. Depends...if we're back in time or..." "In another universe," Alan completed pulling out his mobile. He tapped a couple keys and a few seconds later, Hector's cell phone began to range. Schroeder tapped his ear bud to answer, "GCTS." "The mobiles still work, that tell us sumth'n?" Alan's voiced seem to echo. Once into Hector's left ear and then a split second later from the ear bud in his right ear. "Maybe," Hector said hanging up. "Or we've slipped into a world that is almost exactly like ours." "Except that everyone seems to still be alive," Penelope offered. "Alright, who's the Prime Minister?" Alan asked the room. Hector huffed, "Your talking to a room full of ordinary ignorant Americans." He paused a moment. "We are in America, right?" "Yeah," Joanna replied extremely confused. "Bush is president, Tony Blair the Prime Minister of England?" Hector continued the quick interrogation. "The UK, Prime Minister of the United Kingdom. Not just England, mate," Alan corrected. "Yeah," Joanna nodded cautiously. "If our mobiles work, why didn't they ring us?" Alan questioned. "You know the other us, that is if we've traveled back in time." He shook his head, this was all too much to get his mind around. Alan left the heady work to Penelope and Hector. Penelope understood all the details including how to do the math. Hector understood, but never cared about the math. "Okay, that is a bloody good question," Hector commented as he thought about it. "I don't have a clue." Hector straightened up and tried to stand as tall as he could, partly to try to make himself as superior to Kendall as possible. It was male bravado at it's finest. "What's the date?" "June twenty-fifth," someone in the room answered. "We could call Apex," Penelope suggested. "Yeah, and they'd haul us in for interrogation. What a lot of bloody good that will do," Alan said grabbing his pack of cigarettes from his inside coat pocket. He began to smack the bottom of the pack. It helped him to think. "Don't suppose we could go and meet ourselves, do ya?" "We could warn ourselves. If it is the twenty-fifth, then we have four days!" Penelope remarked. “But?” Hector asked. “But there is any number of causality paradoxes and,” Penelope shook her head. “And we just don’t know. I mean, come on, we’re talking time travel. We’re smart enough that one doesn’t mess with time travel.” “Apparently not, luv,” Alan offered. "Four days still what?" the Small Group Leader asked. He was an older gentleman about fifty-five, silver headed, with reading glasses. The three strangers looked at each other. "Should we tell 'em?" Alan asked the others. Penelope made a quick fake cough, “Causality?” "Well, we do know what will happen if we just stand here," Hector reminded his two companions. "Which is?" the Small group leader asked again. Hector cocked his head slightly and gazed out into depths of space-time, "The end of the world, mate." “Hey, that’s my bloody line,” Alan objected. “Although you do have a pretty good accent. You almost could pass ‘fer English.” “Thank ya,” Hector answered with a hint of sarcasm. Penelope looked at Hector with a look of terror on her face, “You’re making jokes?” “Of course, natural defense mechanism,” Hector retorted. The room was filled with gasps and whispers. Could these strangers be telling the truth? Several members began flipping to the end of their Bible to begin another frantic study of Revelation. "Do trumpets sound and...." one of the group asked. "Not exactly...and no horsees either," Hector interrupted. Something occurred to him. "Where are we exactly?" "Earth," someone sarcastically mocked. "More specific, please," Hector retorted. "Faith Fellowship Church," the Small Group leader told them. The three strangers' faces all instantly drained when they heard that name. "What?" Hector stood there slack jawed and still gazing into nothingness. He shook his head, "No, no, no, this can't be a coincidence." “I agree,” Penelope suggested. “I mean let’s say we’re wrong and we’re in an alternate reality or whatever. Given the fact that our mobiles appear to work is…well infinite that we would have landed in one that is damn near our.” “Infinite?” Alan questioned. “Yeah. There is an infinite number of universes, so we think, that are almost like our, an infinite number that are nothing like ours, and an infinite number that don’t even have life,” Penelope said. Alan gave her a perplex looked and scratched his head. “How could there be an infinite number of each. I mean that’s…infinite.” “Exactly,” Penelope answered with gusto. Hector just looked at the pair and shrugged. Alan looked around, "So if this is that Church than The Key is here. I mean in The Key is in this bloody build'n?" “Key?” the Small Group Leader. “Yeah,” Alan answered. “Wee lass, about eight. Totally evil.” "Assuming we only went back in time," Penelope reminded the pair. “Wait a minute, I thought we’d settled on back in time?” Alan said. “No I was just laying out…” “Okay, let’s go with what we know,” Hector interrupted. “It’s four days in the past, no matter the universe, and we’re in a Church. The Church with the Key. And if the Key is here…” "We could stop it,” Alan’s ruddy face lit up, “We could stop it right here and now!” "Assuming, again, that we are just back in time," Penelope said. She stood there glancing back and forth between the looks on Alan and Hector's faces. They were intent on stopping what they were witnessing back in their own time, or universe. "Okay assuming there is no such thing as fate and we can prevent it, you two aren't seriously suggesting?" She paused, as did the rest of the room as Penelope waited for an answer. One she knew she was not going to like. Hector nodded. "Like Allan said, we can end this right here." "Or we can try and help her!" Penelope objected. Hector shook his head, "Um, yeah, we tried that last go around. How exactly did that end again?” Hector waited for an answer, but Penelope just shrunk away. “Yeah, thought so,” Schroeder mumbled to himself. “No we have a chance to end this, I say we take it." Hector turned to the Small Group Leader, "Is there supposed to be a healing service this afternoon?" "Yes, Ms. Shelton's daughter has been having some problems," the Small Group Leader began, "Shame, poor girl." "Shelton? Becky Shelton?" Penelope asked her eyes growing even wider. "Yes, why?" the Small Group Leader asked as a sudden shudder came over him. "The Key," Hector growled. “That answers that.” “The fact that the device brought us back to here, I mean this place at this time,” Alan began. “That can’t be bloody luck.” “Well if Penelope were Irish, maybe,” Hector offered deadpan. “But I agree. It’s not coincidence. Penelope sighed, "Just for the record, you're talking about shooting down an eight year old girl in cold blood." "It's her or everyone else dies," Hector reminded her. He paused a brief moment to take a slight gulp. His mouth was dry with a metallic taste in it. It was like just having a cavity filled at the dentist. Penelope turned to Alan for back up, but he was shaking his head. "Sorry, but Hector's right. We have to stop this." "And we are still assuming that we're back in time, right?" Penelope said again just to ensure her two partners understood the ramifications of what the Quantum Field Manipulator might have done. "Because if we're wrong..." "One person dies," Hector countered. "If we're right billions will die." “And if we’re wrong, could you live with that?” Penelope countered. “Having see how things otherwise play out, oh yeah,” Hector answered without hesitation. "And we still have no way of knowing that for sure," Penelope pleaded. "Time _could_ be fluid." "Or fate could be fixed," Alan countered. "I'd rather we try." He turned and looked at Penelope, "Sorry, luv, but I agree with Hector." Penelope shook her head, "I will not shoot an eight year old child down in cold blood! Not when we have other options that have not been exhausted. Last time we only had hours. Now we have days. And if it fails, we have that device." "Only works once," Hector sighed. The brilliant purple crystals were a dead dark purple now. Signs that the power source had been depleted and there was no way to recharge it that they knew about. "So that means we have one shot, and I'd rather play it safe." "I'm not shooting the girl," Penelope sternly objected. “Never said you did,” Hector argued. "So plan?" Alan asked trying to change the subject before his two companions got into one of their shouting matches. "Simple," Hector began firmly, "Find the cheerleader, kill the cheerleader, save the world." "Just like the TV show!" Kendall smiled. "No that's save the cheerleader, save the world, mate," Alan corrected. Kendall shook his head, as did several others in the room, "No it's kill the cheerleader, save the world." The trio of strangers looked at each other again questioning where exactly they were. "See," Penelope crossed her arms. "Not so sure are we?" "And they could be shitt'n with us too," Alan remarked. "No, the tag line for Villains is kill the cheerleader, save the world," Kendall said with a straight face. No one else in the room made any gestures. Either they were all in on the joke, or it was true. "The plot is that these people have super powers, but they have to do a terrible things and maybe end up doing the right thing," Kendall attempted to explain. "It's all a bit..." "Ironic," Alan remarked. "I was going to say complex," Kendall shrugged. "And this is a Christian Church, right?" Hector asked the Small Group Leader who simply nodded. "Evangelical?" Again a nod. "And I'm guessing Conservative?" Again a nod. Hector turned around to Joanna, "Okay pardon me if this is rude, but there are a greater things at stake. My father died before college?" "No, your mother," Joanna said. "Stroke, then heart attack four months later." "That's right, your mum is dead," Alan remarked. "Yeah, spot on," Hector said. "Sorry, I didn't know," Penelope offered with a gentle hand on Hector's back. She knew that his mother was dead, but he never bothered to say what had happened and she never pried. It was none of her business. "So far," Hector continued, "And I proposed to you in the park on a warm spring day by that big hill on tax day?" "Yeah," Joanna said adding under her breath, "Not exactly the most romantic." "We broke it off that December?" "Yes," Joanna answered. "Why do you need to go through this." "Lived in the same apartment complex?" "Yes, I lived to buildings over," Joanna said. "Ring was one and three quarters round cut?" "No Princess," Joanna answered. "Is that right?" Alan asked. "Yeah," Hector answered. He was varying his questions, some true, some false, and some partially true. It was standard interrogation technique they had all learned. "Went to DC on spring break." "Yes," Joanna said blushing. Hector looked at his two companions, “Good enough for me.”

Short intro I wrote...to what I'm not exactly sure yet. _word_ = word Oddly formated for text submission else where maybe in the future. ### Carl Marche sat on one of the three curved benches that ringed the observation dome. It was a small area, just large enough for about four grown men. He sat with his MacBook Pro playing Willie Nelson's version of _Blue Skies_ at full volume. It was loud enough to echo in the small room, if a little wiry and high pitched. Laptop speakers lacked the depth of bass to really make music come alive in his opinion. The dome was fixed atop the dorsal spine of the ship and the only windows. Well technically a material the alliance dubbed Crystalline, but they were thick and transparent. Every ship had such a location where one could chart stars manually as a navigational back up. "Blue Skies," Major Jessika Wilson's voice pierced the serenity. She remembered the tune well. Marche looked around and finally down to see her head poking out of the open pressure hatch in the middle of the round room. She took a few more steps up the ladder and sealed the hatch behind her. She was familiar with the tune, but not this cover. "What version is this?" "The Willie Nelson one." Jessika winced. "That's an odd choice, didn't think you liked him?" "It's a decent version. Not the one I wanted, but the best iTunes had," Marche replied. "I'd brought an extra glass if I knew you were coming up." "Brought my own," Jessika smiled. Marche poured a solid double shot into her juice glass. Not proper bar wear, but close enough. "So, don't want to drink in front of the preacher?" "Don't want to drink in front of your husband?" Marche shot back. He sat there and took another sip. "I'm not worry about what the preacher thinks. After all I'm a whiskey-palian after all." The hatch opened again. This time it was Ben. "What's going on up here? Skip's holding a Bible Study session. The military guys are joining in, so is Andy." "We're hav'n an Episcopal Bible Study up here mate," Marche raised his glass in a mocking toast. "Although since we were fresh out of sacramental wine, figured whiskey worked just as well." "You drink'n?" Ben snarled. "Go get 'ya self a glass, mate, and come join us!" Marche encouraged. Ben stood on the ladder tempted. His father-in-law would probably not say anything, but if his wife ever found out, there would beconsequences . Of course they would have to rescue or at least pay the ransom first for that to happen. "You two have fun," he said sealing the hatch as he left. Marche and Jessika sat in silence for a few moments. It was awkward. Marche took another sip. "He's gunna come looking for ya." "Who?" "Your husband." "Let him find me," Jessika snipped. "So how is married life?" Marche asked half jokingly. "Good," she instantly replied. Marche snorted, "Ah, that's a conditioned response if I've ever heard one." Marche took a quaff emptying his glass and pouring another shot worth of whiskey in his glass. "What is that supposed to mean?" The room was dark, save for a dim ring of blue lights around the hatch. It was hard to see any facial expressions, yet Marche could see her face in his mind all too clearly. "You aren't fooling me." Marche waited for aquick retort, but silence. From her at least. The first few bars of _A New Ending_ from the Star Trek X sound track began to play. The first few bars was Blue Skies before transitioning to the classicTNG theme. He liked TNG and especially DS 9, but never watch the later trek series. Heck he did not even see 10 in the theaters. He waited for it to come to The Movie Channel that was part of his digital satellite subscription to finally watch the movie. May not have been the best movies ever, but the soundtrack scores were gold. At least in his mind. "Fitting theme," Jessika attempted to change the subject. "Why didn't you ever call one of your ship's Enterprise?" "Because," Marche began, "Never found one deserv'n of the name." "Better than _The Immortal Cartographer_." Jessika took another ship. "How did you ever come up with that one?" "Random name generator," Marche answered. "And what do you call it in the Air Force now?" "Star Ship Six." "Star Ship six?" Marche mocked. "Oh, that's bloody original. Even for the military." The both shared a chuckle at the notion. "But back to the topic at hand, why did you say yes?" "To what?" "The mission, the rank," Marche said beating around the bush, "Him." Jessika sat finishing her drink. "I think I'll have another," she frowned. Marche poured her another double worth of whiskey. "Why did you offer to help them? You could have said the hell with it. In fact " "It's Bellerophon," Marche snapped. "The whole grudge thingy." "You know how to hold those," Jessika said sardonically. "You should now," Marche answered with a grin. "So I do," she said softly. She paused a moment before getting back on topic. "I thought you killed him?" "Three forty-five long colts to the chest and two of those were at point blank range," Marche answered. "By all rights. Trust me, you would have liked my reaction when he showed up on a random summer night." "Oh, would I have now," Jessika said coyly. She paused a moment. It was her turn to answer. "Well the brass thought that the chance to bring back advanced technology that even the Alliance doesn't have would be a good thing." "Not what I asked," Marche said. "Why did _you_ say yes?" Jessika paused again as the expression on her face tightened. The Alochol was starting to have an effect on her Five-four, hundred thirty pound frame. "Because you asked," she admitted with a hint of sadness in her voice. Marche hesitated a moment. "Thought so." "And the other answer is," she said holding her breathe for dramatic effect, partially thanks to the whiskey. "I don't know." "Ah," Marche smirked. "You always were a cheap date." Jessika reached over and gave him a playful slap to the shoulder. "That's sexualherassment and I don't have to take it!" Marche offered sarcastially. "Why did they choose that word, I mean, her-ass..." Jessika shook her head. "Dunno," Marche answered. "So let's hear it." "Hear what?" Marche asked. "What you think about my husband Andy." "Well," Marche began, "I think you joined that church, was the youngest person in your small group, and pretty much everyone else was married. So they encouraged you to date this guy, you did, and now I think you wonder what could have been." "It's not that way at all," Jessika blasted back. "We're one in the same," Marche reminded her. "No we're not. I have a worth ethic. Hell I have an ethic period," she snorted. "You know I would have joined the Project eventually. I just wanted sometime away," Marche told her. "And when would that have been?" Jessika growled. Marche shrugged as he sighed. He had no answer. "Still, doesn't mean bad decisions can't be undone." "No some of 'em can't," She told him. "We're living proof of that. There are some things you just can't go back and undo." "This ain't one of 'em," Marche said. "And you know it." "Andy and I don't believe in divorce," she firmly told Marche. "We took an oath before God." "One he broke to someone else before," Marche said bitterly. "That was different. She mounted up a ninety-thousand dollar credit card debt in his name!" Marche looked away for a moment. It was just long enough to keep himself from saying something totally insanely stupid as opposed to just stupid. "The reason being is that you two have the same group of friends, but the kicker is if you ever did leave him, you also would have to leave them. After all, he was their friend first. And being alone is something you can't face." "You grew up alone, an only child, you never had siblings," Jessika snarled. She rose and marched to the hatch. "I leave you and your darkness alone. It's fitting."Her glass was empty as she tried to toss a drink at Marche. It was instinct and he got the message, if not the satistifing. Angerly she pulled the hatch open, carefully grabbed the ladder's sides and slide to the deck below. Carl sat there for a moment and finished his drink. Slowly he rose to his feet and walked over to the hatch and paused. He glanced down the rabbit hole. She was gone. He kicked the hatch close and returned to his laptop. Lightly he scrolled thecurser, selected Blue Skies and started the playlist again from the top. He sat as _Blue Skies_ played once again as he poured himself another double.

Yup. I made my husband wait around because I knew something was coming. I'd missed it twice before in the cinemas, not knowing it would be there. Yeah, I agree on that point and forgot to write about it. I work in post production, video special effects, CG animation, so I know a thing or two about budgets and what can happen. To answer your question in the spoiler: I think there will be a 4 in years to come also. But I think Orlando Bloom has indicated he doesn't want to do any more. Jonny Depp was more like "If they make one, great...if not, it's been fun." And Kiera...who knows. So it will likely be a Sparrow/Barbosa tale with the rest of the characters and a few new ones. They could still have a lot of fun with Barbosa and Jack.

I went and saw it with my family this afternoon (group in town for the holiday). So seeing it twice in less than 24 hours is a new record for me and a movie. Anyway, I thought the same thing the first time through. I have to ask did you stay for the extra scene at the end of the credits? If not, the Wikipedia entry has a description about it. The scene is interesting, but does bring a finality to my books on one of the plot lines. Bruckheimer as said this is the last one. But he's a business man and after a few years off, if there is money to be made, he and Disney will be back. He's hinted that there could be a "spin-off" including some of the characters. Clearly POTC4: The Fountain of Youth is left wide open. So I think there will be more movies in this universe. Now upon seeing it for a second time here is my view. Knowing to take the potty break during the Davy Jones/Multiple Jacks scene helpped. (Curse the buckets of soda they sell) Anyway, the plot is much less confusing the second time around. Personally I like the ellusions to the previous Pirates films. I got several more lines and stuff the second time around. However, I do have a couple complaints. One is the major battle...it's not the drag down fight with armada vs. armada and Beckett's final scene to me wreeks of they ran out of FX budget... (of course I do video post-production stuff for a living...so I tend to nick-pick.) And I did read that Pirates 3 almost didn't make the release date because they couldn't get all the CGI finished in time. So there may yet be a huge fleet battle scene in a Super Ultra Deluxe DVD/BD format around Christmas.

I saw Pirates 3 tonight. Walked out very impressed with the last hour or so. There were moments that I was shocked the writers actual took the course they did. Very surprising, especially for a Disney film. The first 90 minutes or so was confusing, taking a bathroom break didn't help. A lot of things go by really fast and it is hard to keep track of who is doing what, where, when, how... Also, be sure you sit through all the credits. There is a scene at the very end you do not want to miss. That being said, there was a couple things that did irk me. Please see the spoiler for more.

The next installment can be seen here: http://docs.google.com/Doc?id=dhc4ww8g_0c696h4 Fair warning that it has more R rated language.

I've used Gmail for quite a while and decided to tryout their online word processor. I'm quite impressed. The drawback is that you have to be online to use it, but if you are working on anything that requires working with others via the internet, I've found it to be a godsend. Much easier than any version of Office. And you can always save as a RTF, OpenOffice, or Word format.

merken - to notice...learned a new German verb today. It's not one that I remembered off the top of my head. It's a solid translation in my book. I do work in translating German to English (mainly patents and such/technical writing) and I probably would have made the same grammatical mistakes going from English to German. Mainly because my last grammar class was in 2000, so it's a little rusty.

Carl is a main character in another set of stories I'm working on to submit to Writers of the Future contest. Since I normally write from about 11PM to 1AM after a long day of work, I got things cross ways in the brain. Real Life has been busy the past couple weeks. I sold off my old laptop and got a new one and it's taken a while to get everything I need installed and transfered from DVD backups. Now with a fresh install of pages....

The Camry halted on the tarmac of the small private airport a few miles from the college town. It housed the school's small aviation program as well as several private planes. A single King Air 350 sat with both props thumping through the air on idol. The small ladder hanging off the aft of the cabin reminded Crosby of the small ladders on the back of a boat. He felt like he should be curled up into a ball getting ready to leap out of the water like carp rather than hopping into the back of the waiting plane. The cabin was dark save for the dull, soft, blue light emanating from the cockpit. Crosby quickly ascertained there was another body in the dark. The sweet smell of perfume or cologne hung in the air. He took one of the seats in the back of the plane. There was one other figure in the cabin, occupying one of the front four seats. Crosby noticed the cockpit had two pilots. Considering there were two in the cockpit, this plane had to be rental, not an Institute plane. Normally Institute aircraft flew with a single pilot. Quickly Joshua fastened his seat belt and placed his laptop back in between his seat and the empty seat to his right. The whine of the propellers increased as the outer door was shut. Crosby watched the security guards dash back towards the car. They would probably head back to the Salon and pick up the old woman. That was assuming she had reached a reasonable deal with Mr. Rollins and the shampoo girl. If not, there would be a tragic accident reported in tomorrow's paper. Carl looked at his watch. The hands were barely visible with a dull ghostly pale green arms. It was just past seven in the evening and it was dark outside as the plane taxied to the runway. Seven hundred miles at just over three miles per hour meant they would be at the target by 10PM. That was assuming the plane was fully fueled and there were no other pick ups on the flight schedule. The four blades on each engine began clawing for the air in front of them as the pilot gave the craft full power and released the brakes. He could feel the acceleration gently nudging him in the back of the plush, but well worn, leather seats. They were comfortable, certainly better than commercial, but felt more like his high back office chair than anything. From inside the cabin, the props sounded reminded Crosby of the Stuka dive bombers from documentaries on the History Channel. Probably because they used the same archive of aircraft sound effects, but still that was the image that came to mind as the craft lifted into the air. He enjoyed waiting for that moment when lift and gravity struggled to dominate the aircraft until lift, hopefully, won out. He kept his head cocked towards the window, but his eyes trained on the figure hiding in the front seats. They were comfortable in the air and at their cruising altitude of fourteen thousand before the figure got up and walked back towards Crosby. The movement instantly caught his attention. He flicked the safety down on the P22 still in his pocket. The silencer was in the bag, but he did not need to be quite here. The figure was silhouetted by the light from the cockpit blocking out just enough that Joshua bet himself that it was a woman walking back. If so, she was about his height, maybe taller, and a trim build. He noticed the hesitation in each step and wondered why as the figure sat in front of him. "I know your name," a slightly raspy, dry, voice told Crosby. He paused a moment has his mind scrolled through it's database. It was extremely familiar as he responded, "Auf Englische order Deutsch?" He offered with a confused look. The switch to German was on instinct as he tried to place a face with the voice. He was bad with names. Partly due to his training to look at faces, memorize every scare, pore, lash, for instant recall. That was his training. Names were not important and often times it was best not to know the name, just the face. Names were easy to forge, but faces required a little more work with a knife. "We'll stick to English," the voice answered. The sounds of a paper shuffling filled the cabin as she reached over to the side of the aircraft and extended the small table. It was larger than a tray table on a commercial airliner, but not by much and certainly not for two. "So the summer at Middlebury wasn't for the benefit of reading Herr Nietzsche?" Crosby offered with a mild grin. "And the doctorate in philosophy?" The familiar voice finally clicked. It was Alyssa Acevedo, a PhD candidate he knew vaguely from the weekly Stammtisch at the Central Diner. Her German experience consisted of the summer program at Middlebury in Vermont and a semester of a 300 level grammar class. Yet, she spoke the language better than Crosby and Crosby was the one with a German Major as well as more than a year working in the country. "It has come in handy," Alyssa said reaching up for an overhead light. "The Germans are so much deeper..." "Than us in the western hemisphere," Crosby cut the woman off. "I know, we've had this discussion before. His holiness Immanuel Kant, Hume, Hegel, et. cetera." "You know something about Phenomenology?" "Not really. The first time I heard you say that was your area of study, my first thought was the Ghost Busters," Crosby admitted. "Is there anything to drink on this plane?" Aylssa sat with her elbows on the table with a blank look on her face for several seconds. She was not exactly sure how to answer to his remarks. Her exposure to him had mostly been through his dossier, a few conversations at the Stammtisch, and some run ins at his favorite local coffee shop. "There is a fridge up front. They have a selection of soft drinks, cookies, nuts, and liquor in the little bottles." "Wonder how much those cost," Crosby grumbled sliding out of his seat and walking up to the front of the plane search for the fridge. He bent over to open the small micro-fridge and look at the selection of drinks. The yellow-green can was a Sierra Mist. He preferred Sprite, but this would do. Just before he shut the door, his eyes caught the little bottles of Sutter Home Merlot. He grabbed two and a plastic juice glass from the dispenser above and walked back to his seat. He set the cup in front of her and tried to pull off his best impression of an European waiter. "A wee bottle of Merlot fur die lady?" Crosby smirked pouring the cup half full before screwing the lid firmly back on the bottle and setting it on the floor before sliding back in his chair. "Thank you," Alyssa gazed up at Crosby's steely gray eyes. If eyes were truly the gateway to the soul, than his was a solid wall of graphite. It sent a chill down her spine. She remembered one the statements in the brief about Crosby: Four Kills, without hesitation. "Are you sure..." Pssst. The can released a burst of air quickly followed by the familiar click-clack of a soda can popping open. The lime green can came into sharp view on the table. "...That we should be drinking?" she finished her thought. "Are you armed?" Crosby asked. "No!" Alyssa answered slightly taken back by the question. "I've never even shot a gun." She hated guns. Part of the reason her parents came to the United States was to escape the gun violence in central and south America. "So what is it, exactly, that you are doing here?" Crosby answered. "You aren't working for The Institute, so who is it?" Alyssa slowed leaned back in her chair fading from the glow of the overhead lamp. Her eyes darted back and forth behind her thin glasses as her heart began to flutter slightly. "What do you mean?" She asked genuinely confused. When offered this job, it was during a family retreat back in their home country. A friend of her father's offered her the chance to attend graduate school with tuition and living expenses paid. "Well," Crosby said taking a quaff of his soda, "For starters you know my name." "Yes," she said. "You introduced..." "What is my name?" Crosby asked staring directly into her eyes. He couldn't see them in the shadow directly, but glared where he thought they should be in the darkness. Alyssa gulped. She had a bad feeling about this as she meekly gave, "Joshua Trent Crosby." Crosby cocked his head slightly, "So it is." "What is The Institute?" Alyssa asked. Crosby snorted. This was not the first time he had ran across these types. Throwaways he called them. People hired for observations at a distant, informants, spies, not actual agents. Often they worked for other agencies, usually three letter agencies ending with 'IA'. The first consonant changed depending on the week. Crosby sat there and shook his head, "NOCs." "What?" "Nevermind," Crosby stated. "What do we have about the target?" "Okay," Alyessa answered opening the first plane folder. In contained a picture of Crosby's former professor and several documents. The one on top caught his eye as he snatched it. "Itinerary," Alyssa said. "He usually wakes at six in the morning and is at the University by Seven on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, Nine on Tuesdays and Thursdays." "What about grabbing him tonight?" Crosby asked. "We should land by ten." Alyessa shook her head, "The FSO has his house staked out." "Really?" Crosby said squeezing his clef chin. It was an instinctual motion for him, especially with something was perplexing. And this fit the bill as the look on his face shifted to one of concern. "How do we know this?" "FBI has been watching them," she said pulling out a memo allowing Crosby to glance at it for just a brief moment. "Then why haven't they done anything," she asked sensing the question was on the tip of his tongue. "They are..." "Diplomatic security of a foreign nation. Under immunity until they actually do something wrong," Crosby said. "And they know the FBI must be watching them else they would have placed a couple bullets in his head already." "You sure?" Alyessa asked. "Yes. Quite. They've been rather efficient at the past year or so. Knocking off reporters for printing bad press against the new premiere," Crosby said. "You mean president?" Alyssa corrected. "How about Iron Man of Russia," Crosby smirked. It was all semantics. "The only thing the KGB replaced was their initials," Crosby carped. "He's former KGB, back when they were still called KGB, and runs the Kremlin like the good old days of Iron Russia," Crosby told the young woman. "So they need someone like me to go in there and get the professor out of the cross hairs." Crosby picked up the schedule of the professor and studied his projected itinerary for the next day. He was beginning to get a really bad feeling about this operation. There were a lot of red flags, not the least of which were the fact that the target was being watched by both Russian and US Federal Agents. One waiting on the other to make a mistake. Not to mention the fact that walking onto his alma mater was not the wisest of ideas. While the all the students he knew were long since graduated, there were still more than a few professors he knew around the hundred acre campus. It was a small private liberal arts college, now a liberal arts university after a recent name change, and it was nice to walk around campus with professors addressing you by name. But now, that intimacy was a liability. Run into one of his old professors and suddenly the local authorities had a face and a name. Another reason why he began to question this operation. "Okay then," Crosby said looking at the professors teaching schedule for that Wednesday. "We'll extract him at Zero nine zero nine." Crosby quickly formulated a plan in his mind. "In the middle of the morning?" Alyssa questioned. "While he is teaching a class?" "Yes," Crosby answered. "I'll go to the campus at eight forty, get off at University Park and walk to the building. There should be a gob of kids walking to class. I'll use them to blend into the campus. The car will drive around and arrive out front of the building at nine fifteen where we'll tuck him into the back of the car and drive back to a waiting air plane at the airport. Then it's off to where ever." "Simple," Alyssa said. "Simple is always better," Crosby said. "At least in the planning stages," Joshua said adding under his breath, "It's the execution where everything goes wrong." "I thought you would want to scope the place for a day or two," Alyssa shrugged. "Why? I spent almost every day of my life on that campus for four years and a summer. I remember how it was," Crosby answered. "Was being a key word," Alyssa sternly shot back. "Maybe so, but this reduces the chance that anyone makes me," Crosby said pulling out his cell phone. He scrolled down the list choosing M. Bower from the list. "What are you doing?" Alyssa challenged. "We can't use those..." Joshua made a mouthing motion with his free hand has his phone connected. She snarled at the man about two years younger than the twenty-nine year old graduate student. "Who are you calling!" she demanded. Crosby continued to ignore her. "Martin, this Josh Crosby." Crosby nodded as Alyssa could hear the sounds of an excited voice on the other end. It was just gibberish to her thanks to the noise of the two props. She could not make out what the voice on the other end was saying, only Joshua's side of the conversation. "Well, I'm coming in tonight," Crosby told his old friend. "No, one business. Still remember your Blackweather stuff?" Alyssa sat in her chair completely out of the loop. What was blackweather? Some code word? She had been approached to send a monthly report to an email address about Crosby. At the beginning of the semester, she got an SMS message with an address to send her tuition bill too. So far it was a different address each semester, but a few days later she would check with the business office to discover the bill had been paid in full. In addition, she sometimes found a plain envelope in her mailbox at the Philosophy department filled with several hundred dollars in cash. "Right, Six. Yeah, just a second," Crosby said pulling the handset away for a moment. He looked over at Alyssa, "We have reservations?" "Car and Hotel," she answered. "University Plaza." "Thanks," Crosby mouthed silently before returning the small, black, candy bar style phone to his ear. "University Plaza...yeah, across the street from Darth Vader tower. Midnight or will the Misses let you out?" "Darth Vader tower?" Alyssa said softly aloud. "Right. Can you make five AM at Koffee Haus?" Crosby asked the man on the other end. "I don't plan on it, but I smell a goat rope." "Who was that?" Alyssa asked. "A friend," Crosby asked. "A friend? How can you trust?" "Simple. He has a bigger price on his head than mine. Plus he was executive protection. I'm not," Crosby told Alyssa. "In fact I really have a hard time figuring out why they picked me for this assignment." "And Blackweather and Goat rope?" "Blackweather is a PMC, private military company," Crosby explained. The institute preferred ISI as their contractor of choice on certain operations. But the PMC's tended to be big and messy sledgehammers. This situation required something smaller and more useful like a claw hammer. Something that could be carried anywhere, not draw attention, and pry into things as well as be a blunt striking tool if required. "Mercenaries. I remember reading about them and Katrina," Alyssa said. "Read The National I take it?" Crosby raised an eyebrow. Alyssa shook her head in awe. Crosby had read the same article in graduate level military policy class. But she did not need to know that. It kept her off kilter and that is what Crosby wanted. "Well they provide private security services. I had a friend that was once employed as a bodyguard in executive protection. He has experience trying to prevent what I'm going to attempt to do," Crosby explained. "And goat rope?" "Let's hope you don't find out," Crosby answered.

Joshua Crosby sat in the office staring at a new Flash intro template for the Silver Scissors Salon website. It was a decent job working with Mr. Rollins while in graduate school. The money paid his weekend bar tabs and it was a simple job for the skilled computer nerd. He got twenty percent per job for designing web pages for some of Mr. Rollin’s wealthy clients that walked through the salon. “Bring up the new client,” Mr. Rollin’s raspy voice called out to his shampoo girl and assistant. It was also the cue for Crosby to hurry up and finish the splash page before closing. Whatever Josh did, it was never fast enough for the spunky fifty-year-old man. Rollins had made millions chasing a buck, but mostly from cutting rich women’s hair. The middle-aged woman sat down in the styling chair adorned with lion heads at the top of each post with leopard print cushions. Mr. Rollins began asking questions of how his new client wanted her hair done. Rollins had spent over thirty years in fashion and beauty. He spent three days a week jet setting to New York or LA for fashion shows and speaking engagements while his wife’s job as a Math professor kept him in his small rural hometown. Crosby sat typing away at the computer until he heard the woman’s voice and the accent. Instantly a picture formed in his mind’s eye as his typing slowed to focus on the conversation. Josh was not positive sitting in the darkened office, but the accent was fairly unmistakable. He was almost certain he knew the voice. “No color, just a cut then?” Mr. Rollins asked his new client. A consultation before any cut and color was standard with all his clients. The two began to discuss various options in greater detail before agreeing on a style. “So where are you from?” “Not around here,” the Woman answered vaguely with a thick accent. “I was in town with an old associate of mine and thought I needed a refreshing look at my age. Your name was mentioned as the man to see about such things.” Quietly, Crosby reached over to his laptop bag and opened the top flap pulling out his Walther P22. He always kept the weapon on him with the suppressor zipped away in an inside pocket. Joshua Crosby preferred small caliber weapons. Usually they held more rounds with less recoil. He knew killing a target depended more on where you it them as opposed to the sheer size of the bullet. Crosby loaded the magazine filled with ten rounds of subsonic ammunition and screwed the suppressor tightly to the threaded barrel. He peeked out of the door. The shampoo girl was busy sweeping the Pergo floor for the night as Crosby nonchalantly moved across the row of styling chairs and sat down to the left the woman with the pistol across his lap. “Get that webpage done bud?” Mr. Rollins asked in a strained, raspy voice tired from a day of talking. Crosby glared over at the woman flicking the safety down with his left thumb. The metal chink was unmistakable as Mr. Rollins looked over seeing the pistol pointed at his new client. “The Walther is unnecessary,” the Woman directed at Crosby without so much as a blink in the mirror. “If I wanted you dead, I would have sent someone.” “Right, you’re an actuary,” Crosby snarled. “After the goat rope that was Hamburg, you’ll excuse me if I don’t take any chances. The only thing that is worse than damned lies are statistics.” Crosby continued his icy stare through a period of uncomfortable silence. His left ear heard the frantic pecking of a mobile keypad from the other side of the room. Josh rolled over pointing the weapon at the shampoo girl. “Put it on the floor and kick it over here.” She began to shake in shock and fear as the woman glanced over her way, “Please do as he says. He’s not shy about pulling the trigger.” The shampoo girl dropped her cell phone and kicked it towards Crosby’s chair. He took careful aim and fired a single shot into the device. His thumb reached for the safety flicking the level back up to the safe position. “That is unless you really have found God at that church you attend.” Crosby ignored the woman as he motioned for the shampoo to walk to the other side of the business. It would allow him to keep a keen eye on her, Mr. Rollins, and the woman sitting calmly in the chair. “How’s your doctoral studies coming along?” the woman asked Josh. “I heard you finished in the top ten of your class at law school. Bravo.” “What do you want,” Crosby growled. The woman paused, “Never were one for small talk.” She reached down to her oversized Coach bag and pulled out a sealed envelope. The Woman stretched out her sagging, wrinkled arm dangling the package in front of Cosby. Crosby let her arm remain in mid air for several seconds before taking the package and holding it up to his ear. “Well at least it’s not ticking.” The woman glanced over at Crosby for the first time and groveled slightly. “Travel documents,” the old graying woman told Crosby. “Travel documents?” Crosby questioned. “Yes,” the Woman said. “Bottom line is that the institute could use your help.” “Bottom line?” Crosby quipped. “Is that all you really think about. After all that is what the institute pays you for and frankly I’m surprised the Institute wants anything to do with me after Hamburg.” “Hamburg was an unfortunate mistake, but you did get the wrong man,” the Woman blasted. “I seem to remember reading about a time when mistakes were even erased. Letting the man go was the mistake on your end,” Crosby noted looking over the forged passports and bundles of cash. “You’re far too young to remember the cold war,” the Woman blasted at Crosby. “But there was a time before politics ruled. And letting him go was not our call.” “But old enough to read about it,” Josh countered. He took a few moments to thumb through the seven bricks of 100-dollar bills, two thousand per brick. “So why me and why now?” Crosby demanded. “Dimitri Aleksandrov,” the woman coldly said. “Doctor Aleksandrov?” Crosby questioned instantly recognizing the name and photo. “What did he do to warrant a visit from The Institute?” “We don’t pay you to ask questions, but while we are on the subject what do you know about the new Soviet premiere?” the woman asked Crosby not catching the slip of the tongue. “Former KGB and the new Iron man of Russia. His critics seem to disappear,” Crosby answered. “Just like in the good old days of the Kremlin. Although I think the term Soviet premiere is a bit…melodramatic.” “Since when did you start being so damned politically correct?” the woman sniveled. “Since I started graduate school with a department full of bloody liberals…and not the good European kind,” Crosby smirked. “So you’re sending me because I had him for two classes in undergrad.” “And he’s the one who recommended you to the institute. We have reason to believe that your former professor is on the hit list. Your job is simple: get to him before the Russians and extract him,” the woman ordered. “You don’t have a lot of time.” “Back up?” Crosby asked. The woman hesitated a moment. “Great,” Josh lamented. “And I suppose the local assets...” The Woman interrupted, “You are the local assets. Don’t screw this one up. There is a car waiting for you downstairs and a plane on the tarmac.” Crosby calmly walked back over to the office, gathered his things and began walking past his boss and the shaking shampoo girl. “And the two loose ends?” Crosby asked looking at Mr. Rollins and the shampoo girl. “Let the actuary deal with them,” the Woman smirked. “Oh, and Joshua, don’t screw this one up. It’s your only chance at redemption.” Crosby nodded as he exited the building. A single ash grey Toyota Camery was idling in the parking lot with a driver waiting for the young man to enter. --------------------------------------------------------------------------------- I working on the remainder of the story tonight and tomorrow. Hopefully will have something ready. C&C welcome.