The sun was beginning to set on the western horizon, creating a silhouette of the skyline outlined in bright red and gold while the violet curtain of evening crept slowly across the eastern sky. It was the perfect time of day, the intensity of noon had long since faded and everything was illuminated in soft orange light. Rush hour traffic had cleared away and only a few pedestrians bothered to be out this late, walking their dogs and their spouses. A warm breeze blew a stray plastic bag into the path of a middle-aged man as he stoically marched along, the foot of his polished hickory walking stick--he disliked referring to it as a cane. He pinned the fluttering trash to the sun-bleached sidewalk, bent to pick it up, and then deposited it into a nearby trash bin.

The man had the appearance of any local businessman, though it may have seemed odd for a businessman to be out and about on foot at just around eight-o-clock in the evening. He wore a fitted black suit and tie, unremarkable, though the fedora that crowned his white hair gave him the appearance of someone who belonged to a slightly different time period. He paused for a moment near a park bench and withdrew a rolled cigar from his inside jacket pocket, lit it, and took a long draw. Exhalation produced a small white cloud of sweet-smelling smoke that swirled about his shoulders before dissipating. He continued on his journey, puffing away like a steam engine until he came to the entrance of a mirror-sided high rise at which point he extinguished the cigar before letting himself into the building.

He was greeted cheerily by a young woman with short auburn hair who seemed to be managing the front desk. She looked up and smiled as he entered, "Mr. Smith, how was your walk?"

"Superb, Ms. Hamill." Smith tipped his hat, "Have they arrived?"

"All but two, from what I know their flights were delayed."

Smith grunted his acknowledgment. He flashed his identification and she pressed a button, the elevator dinged. "Always a pleasure," he nodded as he boarded and the doors slid silently closed behind him, and pressed the button for the seventh floor. His watch read 8:11 PM, the meeting for orientation of the new recruits was to begin at the half-hour mark.

By now, those who had arrived would have had time to settle in to their respective apartments, perhaps even caught a nap to counteract the jet lag. Smith disliked afternoon naps, he preferred to get up early and if he was to nap it must be before noon. He supposed it was his age, but if he napped in the afternoon he would be awake all night long. And that's no fun alone… he chuckled at the thought, then shook his head.

The board room, #703, was dominated by a long black table. There were small paper nameplates in front of each seat, and there were only enough seats for those who were supposed to be present. Aside from the cards were shiny new laptop computers, one to each name, and each embossed with the B.U.C. logo. Smith took the seat at the head of the table after fetching himself a steaming cup of coffee from the convenience stand in the corner of the room. He waited patiently, watching the steam curl up from the ceramic mug, as the recruits filed in one at a time. He waited until all but the two delayed were accounted for before taking a last sip of coffee, clearing his throat, and introducing himself.

"Thank you all for coming today, first off I would like to commend you for coming so far on so little information," he spoke in a pronounced English accent, taking time to look each person in the eye, "My name is Nicolai J. Smith, and I am the Director of this association. I hope to answer any questions you may have, but before we launch into the orientation I would like you each to introduce yourself to the rest of us. Somehow, reading place names just seems so impersonal." He nodded, "Now, who would like to go first?" His piercing grey eyes probed the faces in the room. "Biermann," he said, turning to the man on his right who had arrived several days ahead of the rest, "Seeing as you've been appointed head Detective, it seems only right."

Over the last week Biermann had uprooted his life and moved to Minneapolis, all for a job that seemed only too interesting. The Bureau of Unconventional Crime had sent a letter to Biermann offering him a job as one of their detectives, it had been delivered to his hotel room in Paris. He had told no one where he’d be staying, not even his partners knew where he was. The only person that knew he was in Paris was the man that hired him to collect information on his wife’s activities, which was child’s play.

The man was not wrong in suspecting that she was hiding something, she’d been having an affair with his business partner. Biermann was paid, a large sum of money, to find this information that the man could have had anyone find out by simply following her. Biermann was a private detective, he never advertised himself, people simply talked about him after he’d fixed or ruined their lives. Or, at least, that’s what he counted on them doing. They’d bring up, that they’d had a private detective investigate someone, in conversation with their mates and then pass on the information to a future client.
~
Biermann opened the letter that he’d just received. It was from the BUC…The BUC?… he opened it and began reading. The Bureau of Unconventional Crime… Independent of any government… Please board United flight 264 from Charles de Gaulle Airport in Paris to Minneapolis… He reached into an inner pocket of his vest and procured a mobile phone, he touched the screen and brought it up to his ear.

“It’s me,” He waited for a reply, when none came he continued, “Your wife is currently engaged in an affair with the man who’s office is two doors east of yours in your workplace.” Biermann hung up, without waiting for a reply, he couldn’t care less. He dialed another number into the screen and brought it back to his ear.

“Jonathan, it’s me.” This was one of his partners, “I’m leaving, please refer all of my cases to Alphonse.” He hung up the phone and went to the desk in the room. How could they know that I’d be here? They must’ve been following me for a days… Either way, I’ll find out nothing without going there and seeing the BUC for myself.

“Biermann,” He’d heard his name and stopped looking around the room, subtly, wondering where the cameras were hidden. “Seeing as you’ve been appointed head Detective, it seems only right.” Biermann looked around the room, attempting to decipher what he could about the people in the room, though he couldn’t find out anything that wasn’t obvious.

“My name is Alexander Biermann,” he spoke with an incredibly slight German accent, “I’m half German and I was a private detective before I received my letter from the Bureau of Unconventional Crime. It was most interesting to me, so I came. Though jet lag is horrible, I came from Moscow you see, so when I arrived I was most incredibly tired. Though I’ve had a chance to explore the building and may help those who may still be confused after orientation.”

The past six months had been full of new experiences. This was one of them. Most of them hadn't been the most pleasant. Though not the worst, Stuart couldn't help but have his internal organs squirm a little as all eyes turned on him to introduce himself. Apparently introductions would be given in an anticlockwise direction. He hadn't been in a group of people remotely relevant to his life that didn't know his name for the best part of a decade. How times change.

He wondered what part of him had expected that a group of strangers on the other side of the Atlantic might recognise him. Foolish. He had, of course, spent the most prominent part of his career ducking the spotlight and telling journalists what to write - until they stopped listening to him, anyway. Even the realistic part of his mind, that one he tried to listen to above all others, hadn't imagined he might have to give his own introduction. He wasn't a big shot any more.

At least, he supposed they wouldn't read the British tabloids' version.

He had arrived almost a week prior. There was hardly any real inclination to stay in the UK and he was grateful to leave, truth be told. Even, yes, to America. What was it again? That land of the free, home of the brave, and a place where the interntationally disgraced could tacitly get off an airoplane without being assaulted by the press. He had, in the third week of the trial, bought a pint of milk from a local cornershop and seen his face on the front page of every newspaper on the rack. The following day, he read an article with comments supplied by the same shopkeeper that served him, claiming that he was "tired-looking" and that he "must be guilty". It was hardly a consolation that twelve men, good and true, had acquitted him of all charges when his name and picture were in every paper. Especially when he was indeed tired, and technically actually guilty.

The newfound quietness, not one the Englishman traditionally associated with the United States, had been a welcome reprieve, but a painful reminder that things were, indeed, newly quiet. He'd had one quiet phonecall with his mother since he arrived at the BUC and, other than that, he'd basically stayed in his appartment, emerging only for the purposes of acquiring food. Still, provided accommodation and a decent paycheque (if not quite his previous eyewatering salary) - could be worse. The appartment was rather nice, too. Once he had his affairs sorted, and his bank balance slightly healthier-looking, he'd had every intention of finding his own place in anticipation of a dungy cupboard with half a bed in it and a loud snorer next door, with a well-sexed lothario on the other side. It was spacious and roomy and the sofa was almost obscenely comfortable, to the point where he wondered what the point in the bed was at all. The porter had politely indicated that it was a little bare but he should feel free to decorate it so that it felt like home. He'd smiled, and equally politely said that he might well, with no real intention of doing anything of the sort. A vase of flowers and a commercially mass-produced Banksy scribble did not a home make. Home was not simply a dwelling. Home was not having to introduce oneself to a room of strangers. Home was knowing the name of the person that made your tea for you but not actually having to bother asking them.

He sipped his coffee. The moment of truth.

"I'm Stuart Front. I don't know if you follow British news, but, yes, I'm that Stuart Front. Anyhow, I'm formerly the Press Officer and personal adviser to the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom," he paused, and tried to gage the other faces in the room before pressing on quicly, "So I have a little experience in the field of press relations and being an all-round people person. I could natter for hours with graphs and charts about polls and people's interests and social demography but don't worry - I wouldn't do that to you," he smiled. A feeble, self-depricating joke, inoffensive but just enough to put a tiny pinprick in the tension, "Anyway, I've been here since Tuesday, so I'm also happy to give a little tour if anybody would like one."

He turned, with the rest of the room, to the chair on his right.

Tak, tak, tak!

With each shot Alex let the slight recoil of her M4 absorb into the pocket of her shoulder as she drilled bullets into the targets before her. Green, man shaped and sized chunks of plastic flew up from behind berms of dirt at odd intervals and she swiveled the muzzle of her carbine around smoothly to meet the assault of faux-foes. The rhythm of it came as natural to her as breathing and she always found it comforting to perform the task that had long since become muscle memory for her. In days where she often found herself stuck in a windowless office at a desk, it was nice to come out to the range and remember what it was like to do soldiering. Hell, it was one of the few times she actually wore her fatigues anymore as CI agents completed most of their duties while in business casual attire. She almost forgot how it felt to have more pockets than she knew what to do with.

She went through three more magazines of ammunition and a whole slew of little green enemies before the tower safety called a cease fire on the range. Lexi looked up from her rifle sight to see one of her colleagues striding purposefully down the firing line, eyeing each soldier as he searched for her. She groaned audibly and contemplated making a run for it, but duty and a bad case of not wanting to get inadvertently shot made her think better of it. So instead she pushed herself up from her prone position and waved the man to her.

“What’s up, Easdale?”  She asked with a nod of greeting at his approach, “You’re interrupting me and these fine Joes’ range day.”

“Not sure what you did, Cooper,” he shrugged as he watched her clear her weapon and then lead them back down the line, “But the brigade commander wants to see you. Now. He didn’t seem happy.”

Lexi sighed. “The Colonel is never happy; it’s his job.” That seemed to be her consent to go, however, as she handed her rifle off to a private and started to un-velcro her body armor.  She tossed it in Easdale’s trunk before hopping into the passenger seat of his sedan so he could take her to the brigade headquarters. It was only a five minute drive and after promising to drop off her extra gear at the office, Easdale left her to face their boss alone.

As she entered his office she gave a crisp salute. “Special Agent Cooper reporting as ordered, Sir,” she announced with all the proper courtesies that the army dictated. He returned it in that lazy, vertical way officers had and then waved her to stand at ease.

“You’re wearing ACUs?” he asked incredulously, staring down her dirtied uniform, “Sometimes I forget you’re in the army, let alone a Sergeant First Class.”

“I was at the M4 range, Sir… Special Agent Easdale said you needed to see me,” she reminded with an even tone. She didn’t come here and miss out on all her shooting fun just to have a chat with a full bird.

His face dropped into seriousness. “Ah yes, that.” Papers shuffled on his desk before he found a memorandum with a sealed letter attached. “I have here a memo signed by General Chapman himself stating that you are to be released from active duty immedia-“ He held up his hand to silence the protest that was just about to leave her lips, “Let me finish. You are to be released from active duty immediately IF after reading this letter you want to be. The order apparently came down from people with much larger pay checks than either of ours combined.”

Lexi cocked an eyebrow and slowly took both the order and letter from her superior’s hand, looking like she suspected they would try to bite her. She read the memo over twice, meticulously, before her curiosity to see just what this was all about got the best of her and she opened the letter. The woman’s face schooled into one of stoicism, but her heart pounded in her ears at the short missive contained inside the plain envelope.

“You have one day to decide.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*

And decide she did. Alexandria Cooper, staunch patriot and professional warfighter for a decade, packed her duffels with only a quick goodbye to those who were her brothers and sisters-in-arms and headed for Minnesota. She had been the best damned counterintelligence agent the army had, but her scope had been limited and she wanted to test herself in even deeper espionage waters. Hell, she thought as her eyes swept across the plush meeting room, what better place to start than in an organization most people didn’t believe existed?

She smiled and took a drink from an almost comically large, obnoxiously colored energy drink. Plain old coffee just couldn’t do it for her anymore, so instead she made due by drinking a sugar-caffeine concoction that would have thrown a lesser person into glucose shock or a heart attack.  Even after consuming over half of it she didn’t seem fazed, however, and instead maintained a relaxed, almost bored posture as she observed the men seated around her.

The amount of information one could surmise about a person by just watching them for a bit was amazing.  Posture, what they did with their hands, pitch and carry of their voices, creases in foreheads and manner in which their brows set, the dilatation or constriction of their pupils, the twitching of the small muscles around the mouth and eyes… all of these things plus a hundred more little clues helped Lexi piece together a person like a complicated little puzzle of emotion and mannerisms. She was so accustomed to assessing people this way, in fact, that she hardly made a conscious decision to do it anymore. It was almost like a manipulator’s security blanket; the more she knew about others the more effectively she could coax them into doing what she wanted.

So when it was her turn to introduce herself, the lone female of the group gave a smile that crinkled the corner of her eyes and remained leaned back in her chair so as to put off a disarming air about her. “I’m Alexandria,” she made sure to emphasize the last two syllables of her name to distinguish herself from the Alexander who’d introduced himself first, “Cooper. But you can just call me Lexi or Cooper to avoid confusion. I was -up until three days ago- a Sergeant First Class in the army and had been in for ten years. Four of those were spent as an interrogator and the last six as a counterintelligence special agent. I have a handful of combat deployments to Iraq and Afghanistan, more non-combat deployments than you can shake a stick at, and bopped around doing a lot official and… not-so-official work for the DoD.”

Done with her enthusiastic, if not somewhat intentionally vague introduction the woman gestured to the next in line to begin as she grabbed back up her source of caffeine and took another drought.

Fort Leonard Wood is located deep in the Ozarks. What few towns are nearby have such picturesque names as Devil's Elbow and Big Piney, which really should have tipped Danny Crowley off as to what he was getting into with this one.

Actually, the chaplain reflected, the nickname Fort Lost in the Woods should have done the trick.

It had looked like the usual kind of hoodoo case. A dark-haired woman in a red dress staring through the perimeter fence, tears streaming from her eyes, seemingly disappearing when called to. A lot of people on-base talking about ghosts was bad for morale, of course, so the MPs asked for a CID specialist. And so, as always, Danny Crowley was called to have a look around, to figure out whether they were dealing with ghosts or simply a disturbed woman. That meant combing the woods for any sign of her, which meant a few more pairs of eyes, which meant a few low-level MPs with him. Which meant grumbling and whispering as they hiked through humid, itchy woods.

Danny didn't care.

"What kind of trees are these? These are very pretty," he called back to the men following him. The question was met with shrugs. "I'll have to look that up. Beautiful country around here." He touched the very slight amount of perspiration on his forehead, as compared to the other dripping men. "God has blessed us with a gorgeous day," he said with no discernible trace of irony. "Even if we find no trace of this woman, just this nice walk in the woods makes it all worthwhile."

He turned as the peaceful Missouri summer day was interrupted by the sound of someone crashing heavily through the brush towards the group. While the rest of the men tensed in confusion, Crowley merely smiled. Maybe that would be their mystery woman, in which case they would have very quick results.

However, rather than a weeping woman in a red dress, it proved to be a rather out-of-breath woman in ACUs waving a sealed envelope. "Captain, sir," she panted. "Message for you, sir. Confidential."

"Well, it's a good thing you were able to catch up to me, then. Thank you," Crowley said casually and pleasantly as he took the sealed envelope from the corporal. Tearing it open, he pulled out the tersely written letter within and looked it over. The messenger and MPs noted a split second of confusion and possibly shock on his face, but he recovered well. He always did.

"Well, then," Crowley said absently as he finished. "I suppose you should all report back to base. She'll lead you back through the woods," he said with a wave to the messenger. "My replacement should be taking over tomorrow and the search will resume."

"Your replacement, Captain?" one of the MPs asked quizzically.

"It appears I'm no longer serving in the United States Army," Danny Crowley said. With a shrug, he removed his tan beret and wandered off into the trees. "God's plan, I suppose."

* * *

The last few days had been a whirlwind. A flight from Waynesville to St. Louis, then from Lambert to Minneapolis. It didn't seem right to continue wearing his uniform, so Crowley had taken the time to buy a few changes of his other uniform: black pants, black shirt, white tab collar. He was no longer Captain Crowley, but he was quite satisfied with being Father Crowley.

And now, here he was, sitting in the briefing room of an agency he didn't know existed two days ago with a bunch of strangers. He listened to their introductions with interest, making a mental note about each person and paying close attention, before eyes settled on him. Smiling beatifically, Father Crowley stood.

"Hello. My name is Father Daniel Crowley. I was formerly a chaplain in the Army Rangers," he said with a nod to the woman who had mentioned she had been a Sergeant First Class. "I also spent a year or so in CID, working on cases of a somewhat suspect nature. I feel very blessed to be included on this team, and I look forward to getting know each of you. With your permission, I would like to lead us in a brief prayer." He bowed his head, waiting to see if anyone would follow suit.

“Oscar… Oscar, can you hear me?” Nathan was sitting at a desk, behind glass, gauging the electric probe he’d put in Oscars brain. Oscar consented, of course. Nathan usually wouldn’t do anything that broke ethic codes, though usually he could do what he wanted with written consent. He’d had a neurosurgeon install the probe in the Limbic System, so he could re-visit the experiment conducted by James Olds in the fifties.

He heard the door open behind him, looking at the reflection in the glass, he saw that it was a student. His hand shot backward to silence her before she began to speak. “Oscar, can you hear me?” The boy nodded. “What do you feel? Nod once for pain, twice for no difference, and three times if it feels really good.” He put it in simple terms so Oscar would understand him. He nodded three times and Nathan switched off the power.

He turned around in his chair, “Yes?” He was looking at the student now.

“You have a letter Mr. McCoy.” She took a few steps forward and handed him the letter.

“It’s Doctor McCoy if you don’t mind,” He took a look at the letter, “Who’s this from?” She had already left, no doubt to give other professors their mail. Bureau of Unconventional Crime? “What?” The letter was apparently from an organization that answered to no governing body and wanted Nathan to tie-up his affairs because his flight left in forty-eight hours.

He set the letter on his desk and returned to his work, “Oscar, you may leave, we’ll schedule you to have the probe removed.” He booted up his computer and began documenting the experiment. He then opened a word processor and titled the document, “The Olds Experiment Revisited.”

Later, at home, Nathan made a phone call to the NYPD, he had a few contacts there. He’d asked about the BUC, they’d heard of the organization, that’s all that Nathan needed. He began drafting his resignation letter.

--

“Taxi!” Nathan waved his hand outside of Minneapolis St. Paul International Airport. A yellow painted car with the distinguishing ‘Taxi’ sign on the roof stopped for him. Nathan opened the back door and climbed in, bringing his one carry-on with him. He gave the driver the address specified in the letter.

The car came to a high-rise building and stopped. Nathan paid the man and climbed out, he extended the bag so it rolled behind him as he walked. Torrents of rain fell in sheets, it seemed to be night, McCoy quickly made his way into the building. The glass doors slide open for him. "Ah, Mister McCoy, is it?" The woman at the reception desk greeted him.

"Doctor McCoy if you don't mind." He presented his letter and she informed him that his apartment was on the twenty-fourth floor.

--

You'll be meeting you fellow team members at eight-thirty pm, Nathan remembered the receptionist telling him. He glanced at his watch, 8:16pm. He made sure he was dressed in the same clothes he'd worn to work - slacks, sneakers, collard shirt and a blazer. He made his way down to board room #703 and took a seat at the long black table, ignoring the laptop in front of him. Mr. Smith told everyone to introduce themselves, Nathan ignored everyone until it was his turn and he noticed the rest of the people in the room looking at him.

"Hmm. My name is Nathan McCoy, you may call me Dr. McCoy. I'm a psychologist," He clicked his tongue against his teeth, "Before this, I was the head of the department of psychology in New York University. Though, to be fair, I hardly ever directed it. I spent most of my time there revisiting old psychological experiments." He shifted in his seat, wondering how much detail he should go into, having decided that some may be skeptical of the ethics of some of his experiments, he figured that he'd cover something else. "I've been asked by the NYPD to help them solve cases in the past, I guess that the BUC saw that and wanted me." He thought that that was enough. He gestured to the next person and everyone redirected their gaze.

Javier walked into the office, Mocha in hand has on his desk he viewed the tan file folder. A white male, a bit overweight with a badge labelled “Chief” was near to the desk.

“What’s this Chief?” Javier said, drinking the Mocha.
“ You got another assignment Mendez, somewhere in Minneapolis is what I read from the Memo, other than that the rest is closed and only for your eyes” stated Chief, has he nodded to Mendez
“Pack up’ ya stuff, your always welcomed here Mendez” The Chief Smirked has he left Mendez’s office.

Javier was somewhat surprised; he placed his mocha onto the desk, before reviewing the file. Javier skimmed through most of the info, and looked to the plane ticket. Overall, it was pretty interesting to read the background other information. Javier spent the next few hours packing up his goods, before waving the last good byes.

=========

It was rather uneventful on the way to Minneapolis. The flight was of decent time, not that long but however Javier felt tired. The only eventful thing that Javier did was a buy a bottle of aged Whiskey at the airport. He arrived in Miami in 4 PM, before he was greeted by a man in a Grey Mercedes. The Male, the driver nodded to Javier has he opens the door, Javier placed his luggage down, has he sat in the car. The Drive was also uneventful, Javier refused to commit to any small talk has he was busy on his mobile device.

Once there, Javier grabbed his stuff and made himself home, before he viewed another folder. In the folder was the time of the orientation and the stuff in the apartment. A brief overview of the BUC as well, also with a map of the BUC. Javier made himself at home by making a quick cup of Joe, and having a sip of a whiskey. Which he bought at the airport earlier.

Javier walked into the establishment, changed into a grey hoodie and a pair of jeans, with white Puma Sneakers. He sat on the chair has he viewed the laptop, listening to man pointed at the front of the table, before he began to speak

“Name’s Javier, Javier Mendez. Detective in Miami PD, served under the Vice Unit. I prefer to keep my introductions short, since there’s probably are more pressing matters to attend to.” Javier leaned back a bit on the chair, his arms on the arm rest.

Smith gauged each person in the room, listening patiently to everyone’s own introduction. Learning nothing he did not already know, but it would be beneficial for them to get to know each other. A veteran detective, a politician, an army sergeant, a priest, a psychologist, and a policeman. He made a few comments as they went around, and bowed his head respectfully when Crowley offered to say a prayer, though he had never been a very religious man himself.

He gave a nod to Javier, and thanked them all again for their participation. He indicated the computers before each individual, flipping open his own. “These are yours to keep so long as you remain under the employment of the BUC. Your individual passwords are located on the underside of your name cards, though you may change them as you see fit. These computers are all on the same secure network that you may access at any time, anywhere. These are solely for work purposes, all internet searches are anonymous and cannot be traced. You are free to use your own electronics for personal purposes, they will be able to connect to this building’s network which is for your convenience and that of guests. You may take these with you when you leave here today. The database on each includes a detailed job description which I will go over with you today, but you may refer to at any time, as well as a detailed map of the building and services.”

He picked up the stack of papers beside him and passed them around the table. “Please sign this, it is an agreement to keep confidential everything you learn of this organization and in this organization and a list of your rights as an employee here.” He waited as the stack was passed around and returned to him with two left over, and once everyone had signed the document he moved on.

“As you may already know, the Bureau of Unconventional Crime is an internationally independent group that specializes in the investigation of particularly difficult cases worldwide. We have permanent and temporary bases in many different countries, the Minneapolis base is an example of a permanent base.

“As one of our investigative teams you each have access to all B.U.C. case files and records, most of which you can access through your computers. By the way, all saved data and internet histories are backed up to the main hard drive in our Center of Operations. In the event your computer is lost or stolen you will be able to remotely access an internal self destruct to protect any information stored on it. Please do not hesitate to use this mechanism if you believe your computer has been compromised.

“Moving on…” Smith seemed to refer to some notes on his laptop screen, “While I shall assign you to different tasks, your general purpose here is to gather and analyze information regarding certain cases. These cases are submitted to us from various governments and federal organizations and you are liable to be working on more than one case at a time. Field work requires that you be in good physical condition, able to be on your feet for an extended period of time, able to traverse distances on foot... Some specialized work will require honed skills.

“Mendez, Crowley, and Cooper; since you have had previous combat training I would like you to report to the training ground on floor 36 tomorrow morning, there are a few skills you may need to know. All of you are free to use the gymnasium at your leisure.

“Concerning your living arrangements, you are of course free to come and go as you please, but all outside guests are unauthorized unless you have received prior consent from myself or Miss Hamill, whom you met when you entered the building.”

He paused, took a sip from the steaming coffee mug, tipping it back all the way to drain it and placed it back on the table with a flourish. He closed the laptop and rose from the chair. “Now, if you will all follow me I would like to show you where you’ll be working.”

The Center of Operations was located on the twenty-first and twenty-second floors. They stepped out from the elevator onto the former and were greeted with a large room that must have spanned nearly the width of the building. Individual office spaces lined the walls and above them was suspended a viewing deck on the upper floor with stairs leading up to it. The center of the room was dominated by a computer station and desks. There was a kitchenette located on one side and bathrooms on the other. There were enough sofas placed in strategic locations for the whole team to each have one to themselves. In fact, as a whole, the C.O. seemed to have almost been designed for its occupants to live relatively comfortably for some time. Office supplies, printers, copiers, two 3D printers, miniature lab stations. Anything you might think you would need could be found. There were even drawing pads, and a couple of easels with blanks canvases along with an array of water-color and acrylic paints. And a ping-pong table.

Smith led them up the stairs and it was revealed that beyond the overlook which spanned half the room was a lounge with floor-to-ceiling windows that offered a lovely view of what remained of the sunset. The luxurious carpet was color-coordinated to match the furniture.

“I believe a comfortable working environment greatly aides productivity. At least, it beats a cubicle.” Smith chuckled. “You’re all free to come and go from here as you please, but be aware that no one besides yourselves, Miss Hamill, and I are authorized to use this part of the building. You’ve all received the elevator key required to access this floor. Do not lose it.”

They adjourned to the same board room, where Smith provided them each with a carrying case for the laptops. He checked his watch and let out a long low whistle. “Well it’s late. You’re all dismissed and you may explore the building as much as you like. Save for you three,” he indicated Javier, Daniel, and Alexandria, “I’d like everyone to report to the Center of Operations tomorrow morning at 8:00 AM. Thank you all for your patience, and have a good night.”

The group mingled for a few minutes after Smith's departure, taking in the grandiose Centre of Operations and making slightly maddening small-talk. Stuart's reaction was slightly muted if only because he had previously been shown the C.O, glorious though it was. As the relative 'expert' among them, he offered, managing not to grit his teeth, to boil the kettle in the kitchenette to the side and make the drinks. Rather than take an actual drinks order, he simply shouted over his shoulder across the huge room to each of the team in turn, asking them what they wanted. There was one primary cupboard, well-stocked by the BUC, and a slightly bizarre-looking stack of nine cupboards arranged artfully to the side like an installation piece. One for each member. The BUC had also kindly arranged, if slightly underwhelmingly following the top-of-the-range laptops, for each member to have a nice white mug with their name written on the side in inoffensive black lettering. Checking the correct drink was in the correctly-named recepticle, he turned to his own. The tea had been infusing for a few minutes, and he gave the bag one last vigorous stir before squeezing the teabag against the side of his own mug and flicking it expertly into the bin.

It had been a moment of disappointing tact that had him use his own respective mug; one of the few things he had bothered to bring in his suitcase had been his own cup, a proper teacup of colossal proportions, with the epithet 'He who must be obeyed' embossed on the side. While an accepted law of those offices flying under his flag in Westminster, he presumed it might be considered too aggressive a joke for a group of perfect strangers, or, worse, taken as literally as it was meant. It was his ninth cup of identical design. He had frequented eight different departments in his final role in Westminster and had his PA make it known that his tea was to be delivered to him in no other recepticle, and that nobody else was to use it. It was a running joke, that he encouraged, that each of those cups was The Chalice of Dread. The ninth Chalice of Dread was a replacement for the sixth, which had been thrust into the computer monitor of its resident department. It was an unfortunate incident in which the Secretary of State lost, in order, a memory stick containing the exclusive records of the UK's sex offenders, the screen of the aforementioned computer monitor, and, shortly after, his job. For his own part, Stuart lost his temper and, as a result, the sixth Chalice of Dread. Its replacement was bought, in an act of outstanding toadying, by the Defence Secretary's replacement. This was the one that Stuart had bought to America. His lips grazed the top of the capital 'S' of his name as he sipped his tea. It didn't taste right from a mug. Or perhaps his tea-fu was under par. Could go either way.

He joined the others for only a moment before a smartly-dressed young woman exited the lift. She looked slightly tired, to no great surprise at this late hour (they really did work all round the clock), but professional nonetheless. She addressed the group.

"Evening everybody," she said, "I'm Alice, from the IT department."

There was a rustle, which she pre-empted, "IT is a little different here. Most things are. You'll get used to it. Anyway, as new agents, I've had to do a bit of a spot-check on you all. We like to know everything, but, often, so do the people we're dealing with. Some of you," she looked proudly at Biermann, "Have done an excellent job of keeping a low-profile. Most of the rest of you worked for the state in one form or another. You, well, don't exist any more. You're still citizens, don't worry, but I could Google each and every one of you and you just won't be there. There's not one photo of any of you on the internet. Anywhere. Nix. Nada. Except Mr Front," her eyes lingered on Stuart, somehow glassy and steely at the same time, "As a non-US citizen, it has taken a little more effort to erase you, but we're nearly there. If you'd like to follow me for a moment."

Stuart shrugged, and followed her into one of the offices adjoined to the C.O. It wasn't the biggest, but was as plushly furnished as the rest of the floor and filled with leafy plants, whose sunlight-deprived existences were somewhat baffling. Alice shut the door, and locked it.

"These are soundproof, so, don't worry," she said, gesturing to the sofa nestled underneath a canopy of green. It faced an enormous display screen connected to the computer, at which Alice was furiously typing, the actual monitor obscured by her head, "I thought I'd deal with this privately, to spare you the embarrassment. It appears to have been quite the sorry saga."

"You could say that," Stuart bristled, his grip on the mug tightening slightly. A photograph of himself outside the courthouse loaded on the display screen.

"But the BUC is magnanimous, and Alice is a genious, and between us, Alice and the BUC are able to make all this go away. The online stuff, at least - and who keeps newspapers these days? In a couple of minutes, all of this will be gone."

Tabs were frantically loading in the browser, each an article from a different newspaper, and every one about Stuart. Many of them used the same grim photo.

"Everything?"

"Everything."

"That's not possible," he said, resolutely.

"What did I tell you about Alice being a genious?" she said, spinning round in the chair, "Each and every one of these articles, each and every grim photo of you online - all of those are going to vanish."

"What about government records? I worked for the bloody government," he said, "They keep track of these things."

Alice snorted in a particularly unladylike fashion, "Yeah, they owed us a favour. Besides, we know perfectly well that the information was safe. You took care of that yourself, as you know, Mr Front."

He shrugged, "You have to have a nuclear option in this game."

"Indeed you do," said the woman from IT, "And Mr Smith has told me to explain to you that we can go nuclear, too. Look, this stuff is shady, Mr Front. I'm not an expert on British law, but the way you work is shady by anybody's book. Phone-tapping, hacking, bribery, blackmail..." she telegraphed his protestation, "No, don't worry. We like shady. We do all that stuff ourselves and want the kind of people that knows how it goes."

Ah.

"We like people like you. We are people like you. And the thing is with people like us, is that we know what people like us are like, Mr Front. Even if we weren't the kind of people that can make people disappear, and I'm not saying that we are or that we aren't, or whether or not we rig trials, but even if we didn't do shady, we can drop the Stuart-bomb. There's enough dirt here to put you in jail for... well, I do IT, not maths. You get my point. There's more than one way to skin a Stuart, anyway."

"I trust that you won't," Stuart smiled with his mouth and gave a different expression with his eyes. She did not flinch.

"All I'm saying is, we know what you're like, and we'd like you to take your confidentiality form thingy seriously. Now, come here and let's delete you from the Matrix forever - apart from in our own records, of course. Put your hand on mine," Stuart gingerly approached her in the chair, and crouched slightly to be roughly her seated height. She booted a programme named 'Fairy Godmother'. The only things visible on-screen were two illustrations of a plump woman in a ball gown with a wand and a man in a suit that Stuart recognised as himself. These were situated either side of a big red button in the middle.

"One little click," said Alice, and together they clicked the big red button. The illustration of Stuart exploded - with slightly more gore than perhaps was necessary. Text dropped from the top of the monitor that read 'Stuart Anthony Front is gone forever'.

"Just like that?"

"Just like that," Alice nodded, "As I said, you're still on our records, so I can't really stop the others from looking you up if they want to. I suggest you make a good first impression."

She lead him back out into the main O.C and addressed the group again, "Right, I'm going to bed. Welcome to the BUC, everybody. I'm sure I'll see you again. From now, as Mr Smith will have told you, the only people with clearance to get to this floor are himself, Miss Hamill, and yourselves. Then again, I'm in the IT department. There's nothing we can't do," she paused on that note, "Sleep tight!"

And like that, she was gone. Stuart sipped his tea. It had gone slightly cold. His cheeks hurt, too. He had been doing a lot of smiling.

Erased..? Biermann was certain that he'd never been searchable on the internet to begin with, perhaps Alice, who must've had Smith's permission to enter the room, simply said that to make it seem to him that they were able to find something on him... Biermann realized that he didn't really care, he began scanning the room for the cameras.

He'd spotted, at least, three in the conference room though he was sure that there were more. A camera... He'd spotted one. So the BUC is going to watch us in here... I imagine that only Smith is permitted to review the footage... Alice had taken Stuart with her.

Now why would she do that? It's clearly because she wants to tell him something in private, but what..? Biermann left the room and took the elevator to the apartments. Along the way up, he thought. She'd just finished telling everyone that they'd been deleted from the internet... Then she said that they were having trouble deleting Stuart from UK servers... Why would she not mention anyone else? Biermann was certain that if he searched for Doctor Nathan McCoy, being the former psychology director at NYU, he'd find him on a UK server - something about a psychology conference, no doubt. But why would the UK fight against the deletion of Stuart Front..?

Biermann had reached his apartment, he passed the living room and made for the bedroom. Perhaps he has criminal charges... A government official with criminal charges was not unheard of... Perhaps the charges were non existent... He'd made it to the bed and tucked himself in. So if the charges were not charges... What am I saying? If the charges were never there then they couldn't be called charges... So... Mr. Front was a Press Officer? Controlling the press? Perhaps manipulating the press... So he'd make the press say what he wanted them to say about the prime minister? So he'd threaten them and such? Sure, let's go with that. Alice called him aside to talk to him about the way he'd get people to do what he wanted.... Biermann fell asleep, he hadn't changed his clothes.

Three hours north, just outside the city of Duluth…

It was right around three A.M., a lone figure passed silently over the stony shore of Lake Superior. He hiked along a trail to a rocky precipice overlooking the water, and stood still for several minutes, face upturned to the starry sky. The only sound was that of water breaking against the rocks several meters below. The man breathed deeply, taking in the serenity of the scene, the peace.

He stepped forward, just a little too far, and slipped. Without even a scream, he tumbled over the edge, and slammed his head on the jutting edge of a boulder. And that was the end of him.

~ ~ ~

Smith awaited the assembly of his team anxiously, his impatience made apparent by the constant tapping of his fingers upon the arm of his chair. It was 7:56 and he'd already had two cups of coffee, which may have only added to the middle-aged man's jitters. He looked as sharp as ever, although one couldn't help but think he was dressed either for a wedding or a funeral, with no color to break up the somber black of his trousers, jacket, and tie. As soon as everyone had arrived--including the three he'd singled out for training, for the current state of affairs had suddenly changed--he arose from his seat and began pacing the room like a caged lion. He didn't even bother to apologize for the short notice to Daniel, Alexandria, and Javier.

"This morning the body of a man was found on the shore of Superior, shattered on the rocks. There is no sign of struggle, no indication of suicide, and no real reason to suspect could play but…" he paused for emphasis, "But for the fact that in the last two weeks three such deaths occurred in the same location, each victim apparently fallen from the same ledge, and each with the same number of bones broken. The first two were perceived as accidents, and when the third occurred I was notified by the Duluth Police Department after their investigations turned up nothing. The significance of the fourth victim is that he is-- or was-- a member of the department and head of the team directing the investigation. They believe he died only a few hours earlier, in the wee hours of the morning.

"I have emailed each of you a copy of the police reports, but as of now our information on the situation is limited. Mendez, Crowley, Front, and Cooper I've booked you a suite at the Radisson. I want you to leave in one hour, pack for at least two days, you'll be taking a company car. The police have been notified of your involvement and are willing to work with you, but distance yourselves as much as possible from them until you've scoped out the situation with fresh eyes. I'll be calling you on video tonight so you can tell me what you've found."

Smith paused mid-step and pulled a rolled cigar from his pocket, lit it, inhaled, and exhaled a cloud of white smoke. Hamill always scolded him for smoking in the building but he had temporarily forgotten. The air filters would take care of it anyway. He sighed and the deep furrow in his brow lifted. He pinched the bridge of his nose as if he had a headache.

"Biermann, McCoy; you're staying here with me, there's something else I need you to help me with." He dismissed the others to prepare for their trip. A three hour drive would give them plenty of time to discuss the reports he'd given them. To the doctor and the detective he said, "We're going to take a trip to Fairview Hospital to speak to a patient. He was one of our agents working undercover investigating a drug ring. Phillip Moore. Feel free to look him up, although I doubt his history will be of any help. He seems to have lost his memory and the doctors believe it to be a result of a drug overdose, though they have failed to identify what kind of drug could have such drastic effects." As Smith explained this, his expression once again became grim. It was apparently a very serious affair.

~ ~ ~

A short time later they were pulling into the parking ramp. The receptionist was skeptical of the three men wanting to visit Moore, but Smith calmly and convincingly explained that he was the man's godfather and the two with him cousins. He'd even picked up flowers on the way to complete the facade. They were admitted to Moore's room. It was very clean and white, as inpatient rooms tend to be, and there was already a bouquet of colorful flowers on the bedside table.

The man occupying the bed was sitting up, reading a handmade card covered in what looked to be children's pictures and handwriting. He was thin, not emaciated but definitely under weight, made even more gaunt looking by his high cheekbones and the dark circles under his eyes. He had dark brown hair, long that fell to just above his shoulders, and what appeared to normally be a neatly trimmed goatee had become somewhat overgrown. He was slow to react to the three men who entered the room. It wasn't until Smith sat in the chair nearest the beside and put his hand on the man's arm that his hollow eyes shifted their focus from the card to him, and then drifted beyond Smith to examine the others.

"Phil." His eyes flickered back to Smith and there was no sign of recognition on his face. Phil smiled slowly, a weak attempt to be hospitable to his guests.

"S-sorry. Do I know you?"

"Yes, it's me, Smith. We used to work together. You don't remember?" Moore shook his head. "And I visited you last week, you don't remember that either?"

Moore hesitated, and something flickered in his eyes. "Yeah…" he said slowly, "Now that you mention it, you are kind of familiar."

"You were pretty wrecked, I wouldn't expect you to recall all the details. Phillip," he seemed to be intentionally saying the man's name, as if to remind him what it was, "I want you to meet Nathan McCoy and Alex Biermann, colleagues of mine."

"Do I know them?"

"No, you've never met."

Moore extended a bony hand in greeting to the two. He seemed to be genuinely good-natured. Smith nodded for them to come forward and sit down as well, they may as well be comfortable. "Is it okay if we all just chat for a while?" Smith asked, and Moore nodded his assent. He cast a glance at his companions, encouraging them to engage as well.

"Oh, a roadtrip! How fun!" Crowley said excitedly. It was a blessing indeed- a chance to do some good in the world while at the same time getting to know his new teammates over the drive. Admittedly, it was only a two hour drive, but that'd be plenty of time, right? Cooper, Front, and Mendez. New friends sent by God.

Slathering lox onto a bagel and pouring a cup of tea, Father Crowley returned to his quarters, humming along to music only he heard. Grabbing his old Army duffel out of the closet, he tossed it onto the bed and began to pack. Choosing clothes was not terribly difficult for a member of the clergy- it was black with white collars the whole way. A pair of combat boots- by the sound of Smith's description, there'd be some outside work done. Toiletries, of course. With a sigh and shake of the head, he included a box of 9mm ammunition, a gun-cleaning kit, and the handgun he just been issued. They had offered him a wide selection of firearms, and he had gone for continuity after trying out several different sidearms at the range the night before. The Army had called it an M11. Civilians called it a SIG P228, so Father Crowley supposed he would call it that. This would be a bit of an adjustment.

With that, Crowley next packed his real weapons- a well-worn Bible, a crucifix, a vial of holy water, his Army-issued communion kit. Should he encounter whatever lay on the other side of reality, he felt more confident in these tools than any firearm.

Packed, Crowley made sure he had a few other necessities. His wallet, resplendent with the badge he had been given just last night. A Sony laptop computer, neatly tucked into a shoulder bag. And, of course, a handful of jazz CDs for the drive, unless his companions would prefer silence.

His bags packed, Crowley carefully shut off the lights and locked his door before taking the elevator down to the parking garage. There, he politely waited for his comrades to join him.

So. To recap: a guy had jumped off a thing. And another guy jumped off the same thing. And another. And another.

Stuart scratched his head. In his field, he had never really felt out of his depth, even when drowning. This wasn't his field. He accepted the report and tucked it under his elbow. Preliminary scourings were pointless. The devil was, as they said, in the detail.

Before the road-trip, he returned to his appartment to pick up a few things first. A few shirts, a change of trousers and underwear; the usual. A single jacket would do, and a tie on the off-chance. He wasn't in the habit of wearing a tie; unlike all the other Westminster bods who could at any given time be thrust under the spotlight to obfuscate, blame, grimace or gloat and so must always be in nothing less than a conservative suit with a patterned but bland tie, Stuart's own particular position, one behind the camera rather than in front of it, required no such frills. He had taken every opportunity to dress less formally than those around him as a mark of pride.

He didn't have much need for anything else. This case (even the notion of working on a 'case' seemed unusual) was unlike anything he had worked on before and he had no idea what it might require. Was he supposed to take a kettle on the off-chance it might come in useful? Obviously not. His laptop, the case files, and a memory stick would do, as well as his earset. Holding one's phone to one's ear was an anachronism in the modern world. That wasted hand could be used to send an email, brainstorm on a whiteboard, or, more often, gesture to somebody who was actually there. It was much more efficient to be telling two people at once what to be doing. Still. He wasn't the boss here.

Then again, the actual bosses, this Mr. Smith and the eldest in their group, Biermann, weren't technically going to be there. Why shouldn't it be him?

The true competition, he supposed, was Javier. He'd had relevant experience, as a detective, he supposed, but the meeting last night, comfortable clothes like he'd walked in off the street? That was the first rule of PR; look impressive. Even Stuart had worn a tie to greet the team. In his head, he visualised a mind-map and scrawled into it words like 'presumptive' and 'upstart'. He stopped. All those words had been attributed to him not too long ago.

So, Lexi. What about her? Demographically speaking, she was 'the girl' on the team. While her own achievements were obviously relevant and important, demography never lied. While he'd spend the best part of his career hammering home to stiff-faced suspender-wearing white middle-aged men that young, gay, black, Muslim women were people with talent and a vote as well, it didn't change the fact that women's lib only applied out of context. Lexi would always be the female one, and without a tremendous force of character, that would be her lot.

And finally - the lift reached the garage - there was the priest. And there he was, and wasn't he perky? Mentally kicking himself in the same way one kicks themselves when a mad bag lady sits next to them on the bus. Was there really nobody else there yet?

Biting his mouth into as benevolent a smile as he could, he approached, hoping, ironically, to God, that he wasn't led in another bloody prayer, "So, are you ready for the off?"