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<blockquote data-quote="Captain Claymore" data-source="post: 2129875" data-attributes="member: 12634"><p>PART FIVE</p><p></p><p>5:00PM - Buck Rogers Coffee, Downtown.</p><p></p><p> Paused at a rose-red light, Rakov pulled a canvas bag out from under his bench seat. It rattled only slightly. Within, a 10-inch convex mirror and a couple of small glass vials of paint were cushioned by several packets of fine powder. Other items of various shapes and densities served as nothing more than ammunition. Rakov chose his "tools" so that they looked like a junk collection. He hoped that once all this song and dance was through, he could get more spy-like equipment for his mission. <em>If I'm still alive.</em></p><p></p><p> Long traffic minutes later, Rakov parked his truck at the curb a block up from the coffee house. Closing his eyes, he envisaged a unique flower in his mind, royal blue with an enormous number of petals. Each of these fanned out, making an arrangement like a dandelion. A push of will and the petals flowed around him, scattered in a sphere around his physical body. Unseen to most, these wisp-thin fragments of force would help protect him from harmful, fast-moving objects. <em>If the sniper is favoring low-caliber today.</em></p><p></p><p> Snapping his eyes open, the telekinetic then slid the canvas bag to his door as he got out. Tossing it over one shoulder kept one of his hands occupied, weighed a lot, and made him look like an amateur. The Russian-American smiled, slammed his car door with his free hand, and checked over his shoulder to ensure that the top of his bag was open.</p><p></p><p> He scanned around as best he could, approaching the front door of the sci-fi themed cafe. Not for the first time, the agent wondered what intel had in his file. This looked like just the sort of place he would like to relax. <em>If I had a death wish.</em></p><p></p><p> As he had figured, the place was packed. Suit pants, slacks, dresses and jeans all danced around each other within - their owners 'unwinding' with a little liquid caffeine. From the minute he stepped foot in the cafe, Zoryn realized Catherine would have to be a real amateur if he had any chance of spotting her.</p><p></p><p> The cafe wasn't as over the top as he feared. Movie posters and light, seventies space decor made the place sort of look like that bar in the first Star Wars flick - if it were packed with alien yuppies instead of wretched scums and villains. As he waited in line for a drink, he watched the crowd behind him through the reflection of a framed poster on the wall. The poster was a large picture of an actor in a stupid white outfit and holding a laser gun, above his image read, 'Star Wars owes it all to Buck Rogers.' Yeah, this place was classy.</p><p></p><p> Absently, Rakov ordered a large house coffee and tipped generously. He moved away from the counter to find a seat with a view. After sliding his canvas bag under his chair, the telekinetic scanned the walls and ceiling for precarious-looking, dangerous objects. Now where are the windows, the kitchen door, the restrooms?, he wondered to himself.</p><p></p><p> As prepared as he could be, the agent settled back and sipped his coffee. Adrenaline gave his stomach a sour turn as it prickled through his system, stronger than any refined stimulant. For all his training and his peculiar power, Zoryn Rakov felt uncertainty. This city held mysteries and dangers: the supernatural lived here. And killed here.</p><p></p><p> The agent's eyes worked the room in long, slow sweeps. <em>Cooper.</em> Rakov's mind returned to his predecessor. <em>What were his talents? Where did he err? Did he leave a message somewhere, or with someone?</em> Shifting uncomfortably and using his power to brush his hair ever so slightly back behind his ears, Rakov realized that even if he did find a thread, even if he did follow it through this maze, the minotaur itself might be holding the other end.</p><p></p><p> For the moment, he would wait to see how smart his new ally was.</p><p></p><p> All the corner seats were taken. The best he could do was a table against the back wall that looked to separate the kitchen from the dining area. This only left two tables to his back, and if he turned the chair to face away from the wall he had a 180 degree arc of the main traffic areas. He sat down - setting his bag on the little tabletop - and sipped his coffee, trying to affect the air of a man waiting for a friend. He occasionally glanced to the door, the windows - nothing too obvious.</p><p></p><p> Rakov would have said that he was in a highly aware state, which is why the old man came as such a surprise. The grey tweed of a vintage-looking business suit stepped into view, three feet in front of his face. He looked up to find a friendly looking, grey haired man of maybe sixty - grey fedora and black cane in one hand, coffee in the other - looking right at him.</p><p></p><p> "I'm terribly sorry to bother you but..." He motioned with his hat hand at the full dining area, "... there seem to be no other tables available. Would you mind terribly if I sit here?" This time he motioned to the unoccupied chair on the other side of Rakov's table.</p><p></p><p> As the man was speaking Rakov realized that he was right - there were no empty tables and few empty chairs. He was still a little flustered at having not seen the man approach.</p><p></p><p> Rakov pushed the other chair out with one leg. He nodded and said, "Take a load off." The agent could not quite decide whether the old man had snuck up on him intentionally or he had sunk himself into a daze. Whichever, I doubt that cane gets much weight put on it.</p><p></p><p> "What's your poison?," Rakov asked, lifting his own cup slightly. "I go for house coffee. Affordable. Let me guess yours." He paused, wondering how small this town was. Perhaps this old man knows some gossip. Probably sees and hears a lot, sneaking around like that. "Latte?"</p><p></p><p> The man looked mildly baffled, "P-poison? He looked down at his cup and chuckled, "Oh yes, poison... right." He took the offered seat and looked around, "This is actually my first time in this establishment. That being the state of things I thought I'd best stick to the basics. I too chose the... 'house' coffee." He said the word 'house' like it was an unfamiliar term.</p><p></p><p> The man took a sip of his coffee, pulled a white kerchief from his coat pocket and dabbed his chin. Half peering into Rakov's open sports bag, he asked, "Are you involved in athletics? I was very fond of sporting events in my younger days." Once more he sipped and dabbed, before reaching into his inside pocket - causing Zoryn a moment of alarm in doing so - and pulling out an ornate pocket watch. He flipped the watch open, read the time, and put it away while glancing about the room once more.</p><p></p><p> "Watching or participating in sporting events?" Rakov asked. He suspected the former. The agent shook his head, "I'm not into baseball or anything. Tai chi. More about internal energy. And only worth watching when a fight breaks out."</p><p></p><p> Rakov smiled; this inscrutable old man's odd ways reminded him that he had his own agenda. Still, he's friendly enough. Offering his hand, he said, "Oh, and I'm Rakov. Zoryn Rakov."</p><p></p><p> "A bit of both actually. I played a mean game of shinty in my youth. Later, I both taught, and watched my boys in whatever sport they happened to take a fancy in." By the way the man said 'boys' Rakov got the impression he wasn't speaking of his own children.</p><p></p><p> He smiled at the mention of the oriental art. "Ah, I do so love the teachings of Chang San Feng, though in one thing you are wrong Mr. Rakov. His forms are a joy to watch - and perform - whether engaged in defense, or simply used in meditation and exercise."</p><p></p><p><em>Shinty?</em> Rakov thought. Aloud he said, "To each his own. I find forms sterile and restrictive."</p><p></p><p> Once more the gentleman scanned the room. Zoryn couldn't tell if he was being paranoid, or if the old man was paranoid of something. The man's next words cleared that up however.</p><p></p><p> "By the way... in case you were wondering, your associate has already made her confirmation."</p><p></p><p> Rakov went still.</p><p></p><p> "She just placed a note in your vehicle down the street." He carefully took another sip of his coffee, then dabbed at his chin. His friendly manner hadn't changed in the least.</p><p></p><p> Listening to the old man's revelation, the agent chuckled aloud. "One thing I do admire is your patience. Perhaps that's a perk of old age, or maybe just a facet of whatever uncanny abilities you possess." <em>To go along with your poor social graces,</em> he added mentally, half hoping those abilities included mind-reading.</p><p></p><p> Rakov gulped down the rest of his coffee. "Quite satisfying. Now, at your leisure, would you care to broach a topic such as... why you're here?"</p><p></p><p> Either the old man was good at hiding his reactions, or he couldn't read Rakov's mind - his expression didn't change even slightly at the agent's mental insult.</p><p></p><p> "Yes of course you are right. You are kind to call it patience. Others have called it doddling and with good reason I fear. You're no doubt wondering why I know what I know about you... and how much I know."</p><p></p><p> His face grew a bit more serious as he looked directly at Rakov, "Let me assure you - as much a stranger can - that I am not your enemy. My knowledge of you and the others is mostly abstract. The tomes from which I read are filled with importance... but less so with detail." Again he looked at his watch. "I am here, Zoryn Rakov, to tell you that the forces with which you battle are the same I have been fighting for a long time. The same forces that your predecessor fought." His face went very serious, "Indeed, the same forces your father first aided... and then battled in the twilight of his life."</p><p></p><p> He grew distant for a heartbeat - as if focusing on something unseen - turned to look towards the hallway, and then continued, raising a hand to forestall any words Rakov might be ready to speak, "Once again my time has run out." He looked once more at the young agent, "The answers to your mysteries begin at Saint Sebastian's Church this very night Mr. Rakov."</p><p></p><p> He stood and placed his hat on his head - looking at the crowded room as if seeking vipers among the faces. "I as much as named us allies a moment ago, which unfortunately means we have the same enemies. I would suggest you finish your coffee and leave this place." He tipped his hat and stepped to the hall and around the corner, out of sight.</p><p></p><p> Agent Rakov was still standing at the entrance to the labyrinth and something had just tugged on the string. Whether it was the bull or not, there was only one way to tell.</p><p></p><p> Rakov stood, grasped his canvas bag and tossed his empty cup at the trash a dozen feet away: a clear miss corrected by an unseen droplet of force. <em>He talks about Cooper and my father like they're old fishing buddies. And ancient tomes foretelling how to fight the good fight. Oh, I will.</em></p><p></p><p> Moving swiftly and directly through the crowd, the agent exited through the front door and proceeded down the street to his Ford. The sun still peeked above the western buildings. At least half an hour to sunset. Time enough to get a message to my "associate." Rakov cranked open the driver-side door so he could take a look at the note for him.</p><p></p><p> It was within the pages of a Northport Herald newspaper, handwritten along the top border of the inside front page. <em>Just like they taught us,</em> he thought to himself.</p><p></p><p> The message was simple and direct, 'Riverwalk, 8th Street Bridge. You can walk from here.'</p><p></p><p> He kept reading while he sat behind the wheel - in case someone was watching. <em>In case that strange old man is still around.</em> Then, after making a casual scan of his surroundings, he threw the paper on the seat next to him and started up the engine.</p><p></p><p> He whispered, "Sorry Miz C, there's been a slight change of plans" as he pulled out into the heavy traffic and headed for his motel.</p><p>____________________________________</p><p></p><p> By the time Rakov arrived back at the motel, twilight was upon him. He grabbed his fold-out map off his truck's bench seat and tucked it into the his back pocket. Once inside his room, he flicked on a light and singled out a suitcase, from which he removed a small calculator-like device. He sat at the small, round dining table and, while stabbing the coder's keys, transcribed his message from the device's LCD.</p><p></p><p><em>Now to get my goodbye note to the waiting Intel agent.</em> Rakov had some doubts that she was still at the meet. Then again, she had experience, and, likely, patience. Rakov, however, was fresh out. <em>Every passing minute, I feel like I'm sinking deeper into this... badness. So I want everything the Underground knows on the old man and what he said about my father. I want them to know, too, that I am outside their immediate control. Though I have given them a solid failsafe option. I'm going into that church tonight, and staining myself with whatever horror I have to, so that this time, for sure, the good guys can win.</em></p><p></p><p> Rakov grabbed a hooded jacket from an open suitcase and stepped outside. The night had deepened. <em>Well, this does save gas money, he thought.</em> Walking around, he found a spot where no windows faced. He pulled his hood up, checked the map and summoned the wave that would crest under him. So doing, he flung himself into the air, gaining speed. Finding an altitude that would make him hard to discern, he cruised toward the river. He would go to it, follow it to the right bridge, and meet his contact. <em>She and the others, they need to stay out of my way while I take up this fight.</em></p><p></p><p> From his vantage hundreds of feet above the city, by the half moon's white light, Rakov had a good view of the storm clouds approaching from off the ocean. His ears stung - even under his hood - from the unobstructed winds that moved above the buildings of Northport. He had his hands in his pockets, knees slightly bent as he ascended just far enough to get a bearing and find the river.</p><p></p><p> Thirty minutes later - cold and feeling the strain from the extended use of his powers - he descended on a quiet patch of grass alongside the riverwalk. He knew from his recent reconnaissance above the location that Catherine Haul was sitting on a bench forty-five feet beyond his current location. There was no one else within a quarter mile - that he could see - which meant that if he hurried, he might get out without even a pedestrian witnessing his meeting.</p><p></p><p> The fact that she WAS Catherine Haul was only an educated guess. It seemed rather unlikely that any other lone woman would be sitting alone in the dark, shivering and glancing nervously around as if waiting for someone. <em>She's an Intel agent, go easy on her,</em> Rakov thought to himself.</p><p></p><p> He straightened his jacket and stepped lightly through the bushes, coming up behind her from the riverside. One more glance up and down the path, then he coughed lightly, attempting to keep her from screaming as he closed the last bit of distance between them. She jumped, but thankfully didn't scream. Regaining her composure quickly she half stood, then seemed to think better of it and lowered herself back onto the bench, offering the space next to her.</p><p></p><p> "Mr. Rakov... I'm Catherine Haul, please, have a seat." The same voice from the phone.</p><p></p><p> She had long red hair that was currently tied back in a functional braid. Her eyes seemed dark, though it was too shadowy to tell their exact color. By her attire, Zoryn guessed that her cover was more domestic than professional. She wore tennis shoes, blue jeans and a red blouse under a light leather jacket. The makeup was sparse and conservative. Despite her casual appearance, Rakov decided that she was attractive.</p><p></p><p> After processing her appearance, he brought his mind back to the message he had for his fellow agent. One more survey of the area and he sat down.</p><p></p><p> "My apologies for keeping you waiting. Good show, by the way." Rakov slumped down on the bench and smiled wanly. "Can you tell this is my first assignment?" <em>First assignment and I'm going from a federal agent to a... what? Member of a warrior cult that operates out of a church?!</em> The young man shook his head and glanced over at the female agent.</p><p></p><p> "Details are here." Rakov handed her the small slip of motel stationary. Coughing, he tore off the motel address information at the top. "Anyway. The short version is that I'm out of the fold, and you're off the case." Rakov floated to his feet, just to make his point. He had some understanding of his limits, and while he was nearing them, he had to remind Miz Cathleen Haul that she could not play this game in the manner he could.</p><p></p><p> "You're a great field agent, but you're human. And you've been made by at least one supernatural. Meeting's over." Rakov nodded, looked around and sank back down onto the bench.</p><p></p><p> She looked around anxiously when he said she had been made. After his little demonstration, and final words she made several half-starts at saying something before finally settling with, "You're the field agent, not me." She held the paper up, "I'll take this and process it before any further comments." Again a pause, as if deciding how to proceed. "... The number you used is no longer valid. Does this contain how I can reach you?"</p><p></p><p> He put his hands in his pockets and looked up the path, "It's all in there, but you won't be reaching me." He turned to look down the path the other way. "Like I said, you're out... I'm out." He smiled to take a little of the sting out of his words. She was fighting to remain professional, but Rakov could see that she was a little confused. "Look, don't worry, just pass the message on... and maybe I'll see you around."</p><p></p><p> It was the best he could do. Assuaging her fear of failure was not the important thing here. One day in Northport and he had already made contact with suspect elements; elements that referenced his missing predecessor, his father and the agency he worked for. Based on his first day, Rakov decided that Miz Haul's feelings ranked fairly low on the list indeed.</p><p></p><p> He stood up and she followed suit. He briefly debated pulling a superman and exiting upwards, but by the look in her eye, he had already demonstrated her shortcomings enough. He flashed one more friendly smile, turned, and walked up the path. The agency would send him a new contact, and this time hopefully one with the talents necessary. In the meantime, Zoryn Rakov had spiritual matters to attend to. <em>And here I thought church was a place to find solace from your troubles.</em></p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Captain Claymore, post: 2129875, member: 12634"] PART FIVE 5:00PM - Buck Rogers Coffee, Downtown. Paused at a rose-red light, Rakov pulled a canvas bag out from under his bench seat. It rattled only slightly. Within, a 10-inch convex mirror and a couple of small glass vials of paint were cushioned by several packets of fine powder. Other items of various shapes and densities served as nothing more than ammunition. Rakov chose his "tools" so that they looked like a junk collection. He hoped that once all this song and dance was through, he could get more spy-like equipment for his mission. [i]If I'm still alive.[/i] Long traffic minutes later, Rakov parked his truck at the curb a block up from the coffee house. Closing his eyes, he envisaged a unique flower in his mind, royal blue with an enormous number of petals. Each of these fanned out, making an arrangement like a dandelion. A push of will and the petals flowed around him, scattered in a sphere around his physical body. Unseen to most, these wisp-thin fragments of force would help protect him from harmful, fast-moving objects. [i]If the sniper is favoring low-caliber today.[/i] Snapping his eyes open, the telekinetic then slid the canvas bag to his door as he got out. Tossing it over one shoulder kept one of his hands occupied, weighed a lot, and made him look like an amateur. The Russian-American smiled, slammed his car door with his free hand, and checked over his shoulder to ensure that the top of his bag was open. He scanned around as best he could, approaching the front door of the sci-fi themed cafe. Not for the first time, the agent wondered what intel had in his file. This looked like just the sort of place he would like to relax. [i]If I had a death wish.[/i] As he had figured, the place was packed. Suit pants, slacks, dresses and jeans all danced around each other within - their owners 'unwinding' with a little liquid caffeine. From the minute he stepped foot in the cafe, Zoryn realized Catherine would have to be a real amateur if he had any chance of spotting her. The cafe wasn't as over the top as he feared. Movie posters and light, seventies space decor made the place sort of look like that bar in the first Star Wars flick - if it were packed with alien yuppies instead of wretched scums and villains. As he waited in line for a drink, he watched the crowd behind him through the reflection of a framed poster on the wall. The poster was a large picture of an actor in a stupid white outfit and holding a laser gun, above his image read, 'Star Wars owes it all to Buck Rogers.' Yeah, this place was classy. Absently, Rakov ordered a large house coffee and tipped generously. He moved away from the counter to find a seat with a view. After sliding his canvas bag under his chair, the telekinetic scanned the walls and ceiling for precarious-looking, dangerous objects. Now where are the windows, the kitchen door, the restrooms?, he wondered to himself. As prepared as he could be, the agent settled back and sipped his coffee. Adrenaline gave his stomach a sour turn as it prickled through his system, stronger than any refined stimulant. For all his training and his peculiar power, Zoryn Rakov felt uncertainty. This city held mysteries and dangers: the supernatural lived here. And killed here. The agent's eyes worked the room in long, slow sweeps. [i]Cooper.[/i] Rakov's mind returned to his predecessor. [i]What were his talents? Where did he err? Did he leave a message somewhere, or with someone?[/i] Shifting uncomfortably and using his power to brush his hair ever so slightly back behind his ears, Rakov realized that even if he did find a thread, even if he did follow it through this maze, the minotaur itself might be holding the other end. For the moment, he would wait to see how smart his new ally was. All the corner seats were taken. The best he could do was a table against the back wall that looked to separate the kitchen from the dining area. This only left two tables to his back, and if he turned the chair to face away from the wall he had a 180 degree arc of the main traffic areas. He sat down - setting his bag on the little tabletop - and sipped his coffee, trying to affect the air of a man waiting for a friend. He occasionally glanced to the door, the windows - nothing too obvious. Rakov would have said that he was in a highly aware state, which is why the old man came as such a surprise. The grey tweed of a vintage-looking business suit stepped into view, three feet in front of his face. He looked up to find a friendly looking, grey haired man of maybe sixty - grey fedora and black cane in one hand, coffee in the other - looking right at him. "I'm terribly sorry to bother you but..." He motioned with his hat hand at the full dining area, "... there seem to be no other tables available. Would you mind terribly if I sit here?" This time he motioned to the unoccupied chair on the other side of Rakov's table. As the man was speaking Rakov realized that he was right - there were no empty tables and few empty chairs. He was still a little flustered at having not seen the man approach. Rakov pushed the other chair out with one leg. He nodded and said, "Take a load off." The agent could not quite decide whether the old man had snuck up on him intentionally or he had sunk himself into a daze. Whichever, I doubt that cane gets much weight put on it. "What's your poison?," Rakov asked, lifting his own cup slightly. "I go for house coffee. Affordable. Let me guess yours." He paused, wondering how small this town was. Perhaps this old man knows some gossip. Probably sees and hears a lot, sneaking around like that. "Latte?" The man looked mildly baffled, "P-poison? He looked down at his cup and chuckled, "Oh yes, poison... right." He took the offered seat and looked around, "This is actually my first time in this establishment. That being the state of things I thought I'd best stick to the basics. I too chose the... 'house' coffee." He said the word 'house' like it was an unfamiliar term. The man took a sip of his coffee, pulled a white kerchief from his coat pocket and dabbed his chin. Half peering into Rakov's open sports bag, he asked, "Are you involved in athletics? I was very fond of sporting events in my younger days." Once more he sipped and dabbed, before reaching into his inside pocket - causing Zoryn a moment of alarm in doing so - and pulling out an ornate pocket watch. He flipped the watch open, read the time, and put it away while glancing about the room once more. "Watching or participating in sporting events?" Rakov asked. He suspected the former. The agent shook his head, "I'm not into baseball or anything. Tai chi. More about internal energy. And only worth watching when a fight breaks out." Rakov smiled; this inscrutable old man's odd ways reminded him that he had his own agenda. Still, he's friendly enough. Offering his hand, he said, "Oh, and I'm Rakov. Zoryn Rakov." "A bit of both actually. I played a mean game of shinty in my youth. Later, I both taught, and watched my boys in whatever sport they happened to take a fancy in." By the way the man said 'boys' Rakov got the impression he wasn't speaking of his own children. He smiled at the mention of the oriental art. "Ah, I do so love the teachings of Chang San Feng, though in one thing you are wrong Mr. Rakov. His forms are a joy to watch - and perform - whether engaged in defense, or simply used in meditation and exercise." [i]Shinty?[/i] Rakov thought. Aloud he said, "To each his own. I find forms sterile and restrictive." Once more the gentleman scanned the room. Zoryn couldn't tell if he was being paranoid, or if the old man was paranoid of something. The man's next words cleared that up however. "By the way... in case you were wondering, your associate has already made her confirmation." Rakov went still. "She just placed a note in your vehicle down the street." He carefully took another sip of his coffee, then dabbed at his chin. His friendly manner hadn't changed in the least. Listening to the old man's revelation, the agent chuckled aloud. "One thing I do admire is your patience. Perhaps that's a perk of old age, or maybe just a facet of whatever uncanny abilities you possess." [i]To go along with your poor social graces,[/i] he added mentally, half hoping those abilities included mind-reading. Rakov gulped down the rest of his coffee. "Quite satisfying. Now, at your leisure, would you care to broach a topic such as... why you're here?" Either the old man was good at hiding his reactions, or he couldn't read Rakov's mind - his expression didn't change even slightly at the agent's mental insult. "Yes of course you are right. You are kind to call it patience. Others have called it doddling and with good reason I fear. You're no doubt wondering why I know what I know about you... and how much I know." His face grew a bit more serious as he looked directly at Rakov, "Let me assure you - as much a stranger can - that I am not your enemy. My knowledge of you and the others is mostly abstract. The tomes from which I read are filled with importance... but less so with detail." Again he looked at his watch. "I am here, Zoryn Rakov, to tell you that the forces with which you battle are the same I have been fighting for a long time. The same forces that your predecessor fought." His face went very serious, "Indeed, the same forces your father first aided... and then battled in the twilight of his life." He grew distant for a heartbeat - as if focusing on something unseen - turned to look towards the hallway, and then continued, raising a hand to forestall any words Rakov might be ready to speak, "Once again my time has run out." He looked once more at the young agent, "The answers to your mysteries begin at Saint Sebastian's Church this very night Mr. Rakov." He stood and placed his hat on his head - looking at the crowded room as if seeking vipers among the faces. "I as much as named us allies a moment ago, which unfortunately means we have the same enemies. I would suggest you finish your coffee and leave this place." He tipped his hat and stepped to the hall and around the corner, out of sight. Agent Rakov was still standing at the entrance to the labyrinth and something had just tugged on the string. Whether it was the bull or not, there was only one way to tell. Rakov stood, grasped his canvas bag and tossed his empty cup at the trash a dozen feet away: a clear miss corrected by an unseen droplet of force. [i]He talks about Cooper and my father like they're old fishing buddies. And ancient tomes foretelling how to fight the good fight. Oh, I will.[/i] Moving swiftly and directly through the crowd, the agent exited through the front door and proceeded down the street to his Ford. The sun still peeked above the western buildings. At least half an hour to sunset. Time enough to get a message to my "associate." Rakov cranked open the driver-side door so he could take a look at the note for him. It was within the pages of a Northport Herald newspaper, handwritten along the top border of the inside front page. [i]Just like they taught us,[/i] he thought to himself. The message was simple and direct, 'Riverwalk, 8th Street Bridge. You can walk from here.' He kept reading while he sat behind the wheel - in case someone was watching. [i]In case that strange old man is still around.[/i] Then, after making a casual scan of his surroundings, he threw the paper on the seat next to him and started up the engine. He whispered, "Sorry Miz C, there's been a slight change of plans" as he pulled out into the heavy traffic and headed for his motel. ____________________________________ By the time Rakov arrived back at the motel, twilight was upon him. He grabbed his fold-out map off his truck's bench seat and tucked it into the his back pocket. Once inside his room, he flicked on a light and singled out a suitcase, from which he removed a small calculator-like device. He sat at the small, round dining table and, while stabbing the coder's keys, transcribed his message from the device's LCD. [i]Now to get my goodbye note to the waiting Intel agent.[/i] Rakov had some doubts that she was still at the meet. Then again, she had experience, and, likely, patience. Rakov, however, was fresh out. [i]Every passing minute, I feel like I'm sinking deeper into this... badness. So I want everything the Underground knows on the old man and what he said about my father. I want them to know, too, that I am outside their immediate control. Though I have given them a solid failsafe option. I'm going into that church tonight, and staining myself with whatever horror I have to, so that this time, for sure, the good guys can win.[/i] Rakov grabbed a hooded jacket from an open suitcase and stepped outside. The night had deepened. [i]Well, this does save gas money, he thought.[/i] Walking around, he found a spot where no windows faced. He pulled his hood up, checked the map and summoned the wave that would crest under him. So doing, he flung himself into the air, gaining speed. Finding an altitude that would make him hard to discern, he cruised toward the river. He would go to it, follow it to the right bridge, and meet his contact. [i]She and the others, they need to stay out of my way while I take up this fight.[/i] From his vantage hundreds of feet above the city, by the half moon's white light, Rakov had a good view of the storm clouds approaching from off the ocean. His ears stung - even under his hood - from the unobstructed winds that moved above the buildings of Northport. He had his hands in his pockets, knees slightly bent as he ascended just far enough to get a bearing and find the river. Thirty minutes later - cold and feeling the strain from the extended use of his powers - he descended on a quiet patch of grass alongside the riverwalk. He knew from his recent reconnaissance above the location that Catherine Haul was sitting on a bench forty-five feet beyond his current location. There was no one else within a quarter mile - that he could see - which meant that if he hurried, he might get out without even a pedestrian witnessing his meeting. The fact that she WAS Catherine Haul was only an educated guess. It seemed rather unlikely that any other lone woman would be sitting alone in the dark, shivering and glancing nervously around as if waiting for someone. [i]She's an Intel agent, go easy on her,[/i] Rakov thought to himself. He straightened his jacket and stepped lightly through the bushes, coming up behind her from the riverside. One more glance up and down the path, then he coughed lightly, attempting to keep her from screaming as he closed the last bit of distance between them. She jumped, but thankfully didn't scream. Regaining her composure quickly she half stood, then seemed to think better of it and lowered herself back onto the bench, offering the space next to her. "Mr. Rakov... I'm Catherine Haul, please, have a seat." The same voice from the phone. She had long red hair that was currently tied back in a functional braid. Her eyes seemed dark, though it was too shadowy to tell their exact color. By her attire, Zoryn guessed that her cover was more domestic than professional. She wore tennis shoes, blue jeans and a red blouse under a light leather jacket. The makeup was sparse and conservative. Despite her casual appearance, Rakov decided that she was attractive. After processing her appearance, he brought his mind back to the message he had for his fellow agent. One more survey of the area and he sat down. "My apologies for keeping you waiting. Good show, by the way." Rakov slumped down on the bench and smiled wanly. "Can you tell this is my first assignment?" [i]First assignment and I'm going from a federal agent to a... what? Member of a warrior cult that operates out of a church?![/i] The young man shook his head and glanced over at the female agent. "Details are here." Rakov handed her the small slip of motel stationary. Coughing, he tore off the motel address information at the top. "Anyway. The short version is that I'm out of the fold, and you're off the case." Rakov floated to his feet, just to make his point. He had some understanding of his limits, and while he was nearing them, he had to remind Miz Cathleen Haul that she could not play this game in the manner he could. "You're a great field agent, but you're human. And you've been made by at least one supernatural. Meeting's over." Rakov nodded, looked around and sank back down onto the bench. She looked around anxiously when he said she had been made. After his little demonstration, and final words she made several half-starts at saying something before finally settling with, "You're the field agent, not me." She held the paper up, "I'll take this and process it before any further comments." Again a pause, as if deciding how to proceed. "... The number you used is no longer valid. Does this contain how I can reach you?" He put his hands in his pockets and looked up the path, "It's all in there, but you won't be reaching me." He turned to look down the path the other way. "Like I said, you're out... I'm out." He smiled to take a little of the sting out of his words. She was fighting to remain professional, but Rakov could see that she was a little confused. "Look, don't worry, just pass the message on... and maybe I'll see you around." It was the best he could do. Assuaging her fear of failure was not the important thing here. One day in Northport and he had already made contact with suspect elements; elements that referenced his missing predecessor, his father and the agency he worked for. Based on his first day, Rakov decided that Miz Haul's feelings ranked fairly low on the list indeed. He stood up and she followed suit. He briefly debated pulling a superman and exiting upwards, but by the look in her eye, he had already demonstrated her shortcomings enough. He flashed one more friendly smile, turned, and walked up the path. The agency would send him a new contact, and this time hopefully one with the talents necessary. In the meantime, Zoryn Rakov had spiritual matters to attend to. [i]And here I thought church was a place to find solace from your troubles.[/i] [/QUOTE]
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