Only mere minutes after the words leave Agent Turner's lips, a large stealth chopper drops out of the sky, hovering a few feet over where he stands. As a ladder drops down in front of him, Turner grabs his flapping trenchcoat and shakes his head. Grabbing ahold of the ladder, he takes a glance at his watch, swearing as he becomes aware of the time.
Over an hour... he thinks. They keep getting longer...
Swiftly, the agent of the MCCA ascends the ladder and takes his seat within the helicopter. As the machine lifts off again, Turner is handed a pair of headphones, which he slips over his ears. Silence...
A voice invades his senses from the earpieces he wears. "Where to, Agent Turner?" Turner looks slowly up to where the pilot is seated and says "O'Hare."
"Any particular reason?" the pilot asked.
"Business..." Turner said, turning his attention to the window.
THUNDER MEMORIAL AIRPORT...
"I don't believe this," I mutter, running my hands through my hair. "This is just too much..."
"I'm sorry, Charles," my collegue Walter Curie says to me quietly. "These things aren't meant to happen..."
"Walt," I say, holding up my hand to stop him, "stop with the apologies and the pat answers. I don't need them. What I need is a cure... I trust you're working on one?"
"I'll do what I can, Charles, but I'm not certain if I can promise anything. The metagene is an acknowledged genetic mutation and a cure would mean an obvious reversal of that mutation, which, to this point, has been scientifically impossible." Walt said, explaining to me, as if I didn't know. "Besides, if Dr. Knell knew that you were..."
"I'm going to trust you with that, understand?" I say, grabbing the small man by the shoulders. "You have a softspot in your heart for us freaks, so I expect you to help me out here. You know how Zach and I feel about guys like me, so keep this down. He's got me working with the MCCA, which is bad enough..."
"I know, Charles, I know..." Walt said, hanging his head. "Listen, though. You realize that metahumans are humans too, right? They're not just freaks of nature, you know."
"Call them what you want, Walt," I said, hefting my satchel over my back, "but you and I both know the truth. I'm a freak who doesn't deserve to live. You know it, I know it, and, if Knell knew it... well, then, we can both be sure that I'd get what I deserved."
I smiled a bit at my little joke, but, seeing that Curie didn't find it at all amusing, I quickly shut up.
"Dr. Curie," I said, extending my hand, "it's been a pleasure."
"And you as well, Dr. Walker." We shook hands, smiled at one another, and I turned walking toward the plane, not even bothering to look back.
ONE HOUR LATER... O'HARE ARIPORT, CHICAGO
Agent Turner was growing restless. He had been sitting in O'Hare airport for about an hour now. The flight had been delayed, and now he was stuck waiting. The sign he once held now sat propped up by his foot. A half-empty cappuccino sat on a small table beside him as did a small book.
Becoming more and more bored, Turner picked up the book and began to read.
quote:
A prince ought to have no other aim or thought, nor select anything else for his study, than war and its rules and discipline; for this is the sole art that belongs to him who rules, and it is of such force that it not only upholds those who are born princes, but it often enables men to rise from a private station to that rank. And, on the contrary, it is seen that when princes have thought more of ease than of arms they have lost their states.
Rubbing his chin in thought, Turner removed a pen from his breat pocket jotting a quick note in the margin of his book. In scrawled hen-scratch, it read "Think arms, not ease..."
Turner's concentration was quickly broken by the nearby clearing of a throat. Looking up, Turner took in the sight of a slim man, black hair, blue eyes, about 5'11, with a slight five o'clock shadow. Putting his pen back into his pocket and marking his place in his book with his finger, Turner raised an eyebrow.
"Can I help you?" he asked venomously.
"I sure as hell hope so," the man said wryly, "otherwise, you've got no business with that sign..."
Turner glanced at where the man was pointing. Sure enough, he had indicated the sign that now sat at his feet.
"You're Dr. Charles Walker?" Turner asked, closing his book.
"That's me," Walker said, holding out his hand. Turner rose, picking up his coffee and sliding his book into the pocket of his trenchcoat. He walked on, not even taking Walker's hand.
"So, who are you supposed to be?" Walker asked, falling into stride beside Turner.
"Name's Agent Turner," the trenchcoated man answered curtly. "I'm the MCCA agent assigned to brief you on your new assignment."
"Brief?" Walker asked. "I was told 'assist'..."
Turner leered at Walker out of the corner of his eye, then focused his attention forward. "Whatever..."
"So," Walker said after a moment of awkward silence, "you like Machievelli?"
"What?" Turner asked, not bothering to even look at him this time.
"Nicolo Machievelli," Walker said, obviously. "You were reading his book... The Prince?"
"Oh... yeah... he's alright..." Turner said. As the two passed the baggage claim, Turner stopped and turned to the man beside him. "You got any luggage?" he asked.
"Nah," Walker said. "It's being shipped in later. I prefer to pack light..."
"Good man," Turner said, making his way toward the doors. As they walked outside, a large black car pulled up to the exit, allowing the men to approach. Turner opened the back door and motioned Walker in.
"Well? What are you waiting for?"
