Commission Co-Chair General Fredericks, [CLASSIFIED], [CLASSIFIED], CIA Deputy Director of Metahuman Operations Greg Joseph
Location: [CLASSIFIED]
“Next you’ll tell me Tucker Carlson is going to be the next Avenger.”
There was a low rumble of laughter across the half-lit room, at the metal framed wooden conference table between the two halves.
“Jesus Christ, give me that over a mutant like Maddow.”
Some smirked wider than others, but all showed at least some level of amusement at the low muttering the oldest man in the room, a man with the green uniform of a US Army officer in service dress uniform, the gold on his shoulders denoting a three-star General.
“Does this mean I have to stop undressing her in my mind like I did when she was on Fox?” Another man, wearing a dark suit with US flag pin under a thick, bushy salt and pepper mustache, asked to another round of chuckles from the table. “Right? No accident she always wore button up blouses, right?”
“Have you seen how tight her suit is? Who needs to undress anything about that in their mind.” A clean shaven, tall, lanky man of silver hair and sharp facial features snorted the critique out, shaking his head at near smirk.
Of the youngest in the room, it was almost no surprise the man in his late 40s, blue suit, blue tie, US flag pin, tie loosened and face wearing a day and half’s growth tried to veer the conversation back where it started. “Some of the analysts in the Agency worry. We really want a metahuman front and center with a past we don’t know much about?”
The older man with the dark suit and the thick mustache gave an impatient groan, however playful, “Greg, we know who she is: she’s a country mouse who will do almost anything—or anyone—to get her success and her spotlight. She’s a fucking Broadcast Journalism major from Florida State, how deep do you think this girl goes? You’ve seen the video of her and the former Senator. She’ll do what she needs to do to get make us happy and succeed.”
“…that don’t bother you? Her mother set that up. The Senator, at the time, had the gulf stream pilot film it without her knowledge.”
“Smart woman,” the uniform said, after a sip of a drink of brown liquor held in a heavy-based, crystal, Scotch glass. The room rumbled in low laughter again. “We know what her father did. We know she bounced back, and used what God gave women to claw her ass out of that nothingness. You don’t make it from that to national platforms if you’re some traumatized, scared, little girl. Hell, I respect what she did on some level, and I think if we keep her head on straight we can count on her continuing to do what she has to do to survive. We give her what she wants: we make her feel like the spotlight is on her, we make her feel special, like she’s the princess of the Commission and it’s metahuman strike force. I’m on board with it, Hal and his NSA boys are on board with.”
It was the other old man, with the mustache, and the voice like gravel, that leaned forward in his chair and took on a more serious tone, “Look, Greg, all we need from your X-Desk is what you’ve got on Krakoa. We want to brief them both, her and the black kid, the soldier…the fuck was his name?”
“Deacon,” the three-star General recited, like a General that knew his troops. At least, the important ones.
“Right,” the NSA man with the mustache continued, “And he’s active duty, so his ass is ours, anyway. We’ve been watching them, both, and we think he can help us with her. Maybe she trusts him, maybe she’s just a lonely woman and likes a young soldier. So we give them the brief, and we manage them both. If we’re lucky they both work out for the Project.”
Greg Joseph nodded, his brown eyes looking tired all of a sudden, even as he looked up and smiled, “Well I all we need is a little luck for the Commission…” And he trailed off, the sarcasm of the comment getting a quick laugh from some. His hands came and pressed upon the surface of the table, “Whatever the Commission needs, I’ll have my people forward over the SIPRnet. It’s not as much as we’d like right now, but—”
The three-star at the end of the table patted down at the air, slowly, as he nodded slowly, the authority of his voice a gentle thing in the moment, “Of course, Greg. No one expects anything else yet. I’ll be there at the brief to cover any holes. Don’t worry.”
Ripley Ryan, SGT Troy Deacon
Location: Pentagon Lower Levels, Washington, DC.
“Hi, yeah…can I have a Skinny Vanilla Latte with almond milk? Thank you,” She said, smiled, and handed the middle-aged woman wearing the barista apron behind the coffee stand her phone to scan. Tucked away into the corner of an intersection of underground walkways, Ripley found herself just a little surprised, and more than just a little relieved, to find the coffee stand after being directed into a part of the Pentagon she had never even thought about before.
The woman scanned the phone, and Ripley shuffled off to the side, tugging at the designer grey linen, silk lined, blazer jacket over the white button-up she tucked, with matching slacks, and a darker grey leather belt with silver, square, buckle, and gray suede pumps on her feet with a slight heel. Somehow, she thought she’d feel more confident in the super suit, but she really hadn’t wanted to be that kind of spectacle on her first major visit to the Pentagon.
It was pure relief when she saw the taller man in his own Army uniform walk out from the crowd. Another polite smile and an attention snatching wave motioned from a momentary tippy-toes to make herself tall enough to stand out from the moving torrent of bodies, suited and uniformed, that made their morning commute to the deeper sections of the Pentagon.
She almost shouted his name, but a moment before, his eyes caught her, and his direction changed to angle towards the direction of her, and the coffee cart. She nearly jumped when her heels touched back on the shiny floor of the walkway, and there were two people just feet from her, staring at her, with handsome smiles. She knew one was Navy, and one was Marine Corps, both O-4’s given the rank insignia on their different colored camo uniforms. She’d been up half the night learning every uniform, every insignia.
Some people could say what they want about her, she had always been an incredibly hard worker.
“Hey there, Ms…Ryan?”
The bright smile of the social media and cable news starlet came out, as her right hand combed back her blonde hair behind her ear, her shoulders dipped, and she gave an enthusiastic nod, “Yes, that’s me.”
“Ms. Star, I know you’re not in your suit but…can we still get a picture?”
For half a heartbeat, Ripley felt her stomach sink, even if the sensation was gone just as fast, and her radiant smile never budged an inch, her body never seeming to tense for a moment. She was polite, charming, and inoffensive…but in her head, for that half-beat, she wished she would have worn the suit. If these two were disappointed, they couldn’t have been the only ones.
Her mistake. “A picture with two patriots? Absolutely, thank you both so much for your service!” Her tone got a little higher, a little softer, a little more feminine. After the selfie of the three of them taken by the Navy officer, they thanked her and moved on, leaving her to pick up her drink and sheepishly approach Troy, who had stopped to wait for the scene. “Hey, sorry…part of the gig. Ready for this? This is my first ‘brief’, I’m sure you’ve had plenty.”
He did not answer immediately due to having his dark browns affixed to the back of the heads of the military officers that had just taken a selfie with Ripley. Sometimes it was strange for Troy to realize he was buddy-buddy with someone considered a celebrity on two fronts.
As his eyes returned to Ripley, a slight smile formed in greeting her. His face was clean-shaven, an appearance he had put aside for weeks. It was a slight perk he indulged in now that he was not required to be in uniform five days a week. His adorned service uniform was set up to perfection. Every ribbon in its place, and every crest perfectly set in line. Despite not being particularly fond of wearing it, he made sure the damned thing looked good. The left side of his chest was lacking "candy" compared to what most had here but the 82nd Airborne Division deployment medal drew a few passing eyes. None of which he particularly cared for. At the end of the day, he simply considered himself another sergeant in the sea of uniforms.
“Not like this. The roster is a lot higher up the totem pole than what I'm used to.” There was a hint of stress in his voice even as he tried to hide it but the rubbing of his jaw was a tell. To think a guy who wouldn't hesitate combat was a little nervous about receiving a briefing. He bounced back as he quickly attempted to change the subject “And no need to apologize. Wouldn't be the first time… and won't be the last,
Ripley Ryan,” Troy said as he put some flare into her name just to tease her. “Just try not to drink that too fast. Caffeine and meeting brass don't always mix well from my experience.” He nodded in the direction of the conference room, so they could start walking. Tardiness didn't mix well either.
Commission Co-Chair General Fredericks, GEN Fredericks Chief of Staff Lt. Colonel Dietrich, Ripley Ryan, SGT Troy Deacon
Location: [CLASSIFIED]
The Lieutenant Colonel awaiting them was young, for what she had seen of Lieutenant Colonels; her immediate guess was mid to late thirties. His hair was a soft brown, his eyes a light blue, and skin pale enough with a reddish tint, suggesting he at least got outside from time-to-time. He greeted her very politely, downright friendly, before being professionally polite with “Sergeant Deacon.”
Ripley found herself twitch.
It’s Construct, she wanted to correct the Air Force officer, some pettier part of her bemoaning the fact that even the Air Force wore the same camouflage she saw nearly everyone wearing. It made her think of Carol Danvers, and that wasn’t the pleasant kind of thought.
But ‘Construct’ wasn’t his metahuman alias. Troy didn’t have one, yet, but it seemed as if it crossed a line for the officer to treat Troy like he was just another E5 in this building. They would be risking their lives on missions that would break and shatter most humans. It was something Ripley would keep to herself, for now, until Star had the kind of clout to do something about it.
Instead, she flashed a pretty smile when the officer motioned to seats in the middle of the conference room. The air smelled recycled, overly purified, and though she had little doubt that had something to do with the building they were in, it didn’t help put her at any kind of ease.
“Two minutes,” the officer said, and Troy stood up. Mid-sip of her coffee, Ripley blinked, and slowly followed the example. Why were they standing? What was two minutes? It was Troy who leaned over to whisper at her:
“General Fredericks is two minutes out.”
Oh. Of course, she knew people stood when a CEO entered a conference room, so it made sense. But something about that, too, didn’t sit all too comfortably with her. Or…maybe she was just anxious, and nothing was sitting well with her?
“AT-TEN-HUT!”
Troy snapped to attention, while Ripley took a sip of her coffee and stared at the eyes of the three-star General in Army service dress uniform. He was clean-shaven, with a thin mustache. His skin looked that of a rough-old bastard, like the type she’d known growing up in Texas. He sat at the end of the table, staring at her before facing the podium, and the Air Force officer at the podium. A screen descended from the ceiling as the door was closed by someone on the outside.
“Ms. Ryan, Sergeant Deacon. Thank you for coming, we’re here to give both of you information regarding the mutant threat, and their new homeland. Colonel?”
The younger officer nodded, as Ripley and Troy sat again, “Yes, Sir. The first thing we should be aware of is the island itself; this is a sentient, living, island. We aren’t sure if it’s a mutant, we only know it has formed some kind of mutually beneficial relationship with the mutants. It’s allowed them to grow fauna from which they produce three drugs,” the screen activated and the three drugs, and their names, appeared. “Odd as it is, their names really are ‘Human Drug L’, ‘Human Drug I’, and ‘Human Drug M.’ You’ll often see these abbreviated by the Hellfire Trading Company, the commercial face of this operation by the mutants, as H.D.-L, H.D.-I, and H.D.-M. Each comes in synthesized pill form. L extends human life by five years, assuming a natural death. I is an adaptive, universal antibiotic. So far the Hellfire Trading Company has resisted efforted by the DoD to obtain large enough quantities to make it operationally significant for our forces. M is a general cure-all for diseases of the mind, from Neurodevelopmental Disorders, to Schizophrenia, to even Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder—the mutants have shown a willingness to allow the Department of Veterans Affairs to purchase larger quantities of this, though not enough to give to all. The mutants have used these drugs as a ‘carrot’, it’s how they got their UN vote giving them sovereign nation status. And speaking of that diplomatic status…”
There was a slight narrowing of Troy's eyes in contempt. The schemes of international relations were matters he was rarely keen to, so the hearing of pharmaceuticals that could help so many as a bargaining chip did more than just bother him. It was a good thing he had been hardened to maintain his composure.
The next slide showed a list of countries and their official diplomatic status with the island nation of Krakoa, at the top was a short list of nations with irregular relations with the mutant nation, “Not all nations accepted the drugs as a pay-off. Notably Iran, Madripoor, North Korea, Latveria, Russia, Brazil, Santo Marco, Terra Verde, Venezuela, Honduras have all rejected the drugs, and voted against Krakoa in their U.N. vote. Wakanda abstained, along with their three Economic Protectorates; Azania, Canaan, and Kenya. Only Russia, Latveria, Madripoor, Brazil, Venezuela, and Honduras voted against Krakoa for political reasons. The rest have stated they did so for ideological reasons. For most of the world, Krakoa is a sovereign nation with full diplomatic status. For those listed, Intelligence tells us there are under-the-table, perhaps black market, dealings for the drugs to get into the hands of the elite of those nations, except for Latveria and Wakanda, both Lord Doom and King T’challa state their nations have no need for the mutant drugs.”
The next slide showed little more than an image of Krakoa from sat-imaging, “There’s very little information from here. Their governing body is a council of mutants, we believe it’s a nine- or thirteen-person body. We know Charles Xavier, Magneto, and Emma Frost are on it. We believe the super-villain Apocalypse is also on it, as well as former X-Men Storm and Cyclops. It’s possible, given recent intelligence reports, that Sebastian Shaw is also on it. Rules seem fairly simple; no humans are allowed. We aren’t quite sure how hard a rule this is, as mutants have families, sometimes even non-mutant children. Defenses are likely both from technology and the island itself, in the air and in the sea, as well as we believe constant telepathic monitoring, given the sheer number of telepaths on the island.”
“They have more telepaths than any other metahuman population in the world,” stated the Three-Star General, giving the two metahumans a long look before moving his eyes back to the Colonel.
“Yes, Sir, they do. And our government believes they have the most powerful telepaths, as well. It’s a dangerous situation, as we all heard Charles Xavier in our heads when Krakoa was announced to the human population of the planet. The X-Desk has been busy collecting data while the Commission begins drafting a response. General.”
Fredericks looked back at Ripley, staring for half a beat of her caffeinated heart, before moving his eyes to Troy, “The two of you will be part of that response. Officially, you will be a Rapid Response Team assigned to the Commission. Orders will be issued for you, Sergeant. Unofficially, you are both being evaluated for Project Thunderbolt. Other metahumans will begin to join your team. We will dispatch you when a metahuman response is required on US soil. For now, you both stay on US soil and US air space. Questions?”
Ripley took a much longer sip, and let her eyes dart to Troy who cleared his throat.
“Sir.” Troy immediately stood from his seat at attention, his face emulating the epitome of confidence as he looked directly at General Fredericks. “The briefing gave-” Instinct made him think twice before addressing Ripley casually by simply using her first name. “-Miss Ryan and myself have a good idea on the situation and some aspects on the way ahead with this team being assembled. With that being said, what's the actual mission for this team? If this team is the response to Krakoa, what kind of response are we talking about here?” Troy kept poised, knowing his questions could easily be snuffed out or met with hostility.
“The hope is this task force becomes to your nation’s government what it used to be able to depend on the Avengers for. I understand that’s a tall task. So, for now, we’re simply looking to build cohesion and education. Education in factions you’re likely to run into, like Krakoans. Or Avengers. Or Latverians. Or Orchis, and so on. We focus on smaller pairings, let each of you gain a level of comfort. In time, the full team will begin to operate together. Miss Ryan, over there,” he said, motioning with a flat hand, “is one of our powerhouses. Do what you can to support her, find ways to compliment each other in theater. Right now I can tell you that the team leader is Colonel James Rhodes, War-Machine. When you’re both ready, you’ll meet and familiarize yourselves with him. For now, you’re a two-person rapid response element. When something happens that may warrant metahuman response, you will be called. Is that plain enough, Captain?”
Captain? Troy couldn't even hide the bewilderment he felt from surfacing on his face that he had kept so stoic. His next thought was that perhaps the General had gone a few years past his cerebral peak and was mistaken.
Frederick finished his response as he dug into one of his coat pockets and tossed the silver bars, still in their Vanguard packaging. “Personnel is doing the paperwork and will deliver you a new I.D. A large one-time additional uniform allowance has been processed to you, please get within regulations in no less than two days. Make sure you give Colonel Dietrich, there,” a quick nod to the Air Force officer in the room, “your ‘codename’ before the end of business. It’s good to have an Enlisted man on such a team, but for a variety of reasons it’s better to have an O3 on the team, and former Enlisted is about as popular as Enlisted, according to the people who care about these things. You’ll have additional Commissioned orientation in the following few weeks. Miss Ryan?”
Her eyes perked up to him.
“You go with him to this orientation. You’re an observer, but maybe some of it rubs off on you, as we’ll need you to have some familiarization with this unique culture. You’re both dismissed.”
“Yes sir! Thank you sir!” Troy looked like a deer in headlights despite his strong and enthusiastic tone.
Ripley didn’t say a word. Not until she, and what remained of her coffee, were outside and Troy was closing the door behind him as he stepped into the smaller corridor that branched off the main through-way on this particular sub-level of the five sided building. “…congratulations? You don’t look super thrilled.”
Troy wiped down on his face with a single hand as let loose a sigh while the other held the packaged captain rank. He wasn't sure if he felt relief or stress at the moment. Perhaps both as he was trying to take everything in at once. He was just glad his face hadn't been dripping with sweat. All his time in combat hadn't prepared him for anything like this. “I don't even know how to feel. Shit.” He gave her a look of uneasiness. “This type of thing doesn't happen to people like me… But then again, I guess it does when you can do things I can. It's just-” A collection of multicolored constructs appearing to be several excited uniformed soldiers in a partial box formation.
“Speech! Speech! Speech! Speech!” “Stop!” The constructs immediately shattered into thin air as quickly as they appeared. Troy knew those soldiers, as well as the moment they were reenacting. It was his first promotion ceremony when he made Private First Class. Among them was Specialist Bates, Specialist Dell, Private Boone, Private Wells, and his squad leader, Sergeant Santiago.
“I really need to find a way to keep that shit from happening.” He let loose another sigh before continuing. “As I was. A lot's happening, fast. That's all.” He gave Ripley a forced smile with a swift upward head tilt “How do you feel though? I was trying to take some of the attention off you. Not an easy thing to do by the way.”
Ghosts of willpower and ‘hard’ light, energy projection. They were all people he knew. Or, given the reality of soldiers, at least had known at some point. ‘As I was,’ he said, like a drill instructor giving the Pavlovian whistle to a recruit, forcing deep breathing, relaxing the anxious, unsettled, mind. Ripley Ryan would know trauma when she saw it for the rest of her life. Any survivor would. The last of the coffee was her excuse for science in the moment, giving her mind a moment or two to process. When she finished, she weighed the empty cup in her hand, staring at it, as she gave a few, slow, nods. “Yeah,” she finally said, her big blue eyes looking back up to him.
Whatever the briefing was, it wasn’t what it was presented as. No powerful man ever gave her adulation without some goal in mind. And she had never seen large promotions without motivations, without strings. Though few people in the world would believe it, Ripley Ryan spent more time and attention on the journalism aspect of her degree than she had the broadcast aspect. By the time she got to college, she was already a professional at looking pretty, saying the right things at the right moments, and making those around her feel comfortable.
It’s time to learn more about this General Fredericks, and the Commission.The walk from where he stood outside the conference room, to the trash can stationed in the corridor just ten feet away, was enough time for her mind to finish, and her reporter’s mind to solidify in determination. Now when she walked back, it was the comforting, radiant smile of the pretty Texas blonde and the easy charm that came with it. “I’m good, Troy…c’mon, there’s a Ramen shop not far from here I used to frequent when I worked the Hill. Beer and steamed gyoza always slows the world down. It’s near the metro station.”
The metro station, and more importantly, she thought, Locker 1011.
