Tales of the Parodyverse

More of the Search of Factor X (you can skip Part One if you read the previous stuff)


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killer shrike
Wed Jun 11, 2003 at 10:32:44 pm EST
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(I guess there's a little blood and guts at the end, but it isn't any worse than your average X-Files episode).
Part One:

“So what’s he like?”
Agent Frank Gardener gave his new partner a dismissive glance, “You’re asking me this now when we’re five minutes from his office? Dawes, we’ve got to work on your timing.”
“Well, OK, it’s a dumb question,” the smaller man tugged on his shirt cuffs absently, “How about this: any last minute advice before we go in there?”
“Yeah. Be professional. Don’t explain too much. He’s going to ask all the right questions anyway. Or he might not ask anything, if the case file is complete. You give good case file, Lester?”
Lester Dawes was going to give an answer that involved Gardener’s mother, but the man was his superior, and Agent Dawes wasn’t yet sure how much friendly banter their working relationship could take.
Gardener pulled the car into the parking garage. Rolling down the window, he held up his security card to the monitor and announced, “Agents Dawes and Gardener, Office of Paranormal Security. Mr. Epitome is expecting us.”
There was a moment delay before a response came, “OK, Agent Gardener, you and Agent Dawes are cleared. Please don’t drive forward until the security gate has completely risen.”
After clipping his ID back on his jacket Frank Gardener turned and looked at the rookie agent squarely, “Just remember, Lester, Epitome’s a genius with supernatural senses. He’ll know as much about you as any man who can’t read your mind can know. Don’t act oblique like the CIA spook you were trained to be, and this briefing will run itself.”
*******************************************************************
There wasn’t much to the building Mr. Epitome operated out of. It was three stories above ground, and the top level was the hero’s living quarters. That only left two levels for offices and labs. No jet hanger, no trophy room. Not even a robot receptionist. It was a superbase contracted to the lowest bidder.
Mr. Epitome’s office was equally underwhelming. There was a carpeted meeting area and kitchenette that Dawes and Gardener were ushered past on their way to the chairs in front of Epitome’s desk, where Dawes finally saw something out of the ordinary from all the other offices in all the other federal buildings he had taken meetings in the past eight years: a plaque that read “Work Makes Us Free.”
Epitome himself, with his tie and shirtsleeves, looked typical. He was tall and in shape, but there were laugh lines and a prominent widow’s peak marring his looks. With his Jerry Garcia tie and tailored shirtsleeves, Mr. Epitome looked more like the aging office stud at an insurance claims office than one of the most powerful men on the planet.
“Agent Gardener, good to see you,” Epitome stood up and reached across the desk for a hearty handshake.
“Likewise, sir. This is my new partner, Agent Lester Dawes.”
Epitome locked eyes with Dawes and smiled, “Yes, Agent Dawes,” another handshake, “One of my researchers worked with you at Langley: Elise Rackliffe. Do you remember her?”
Lester did. She had done some pretty sharp work helping the Agency locate missing uranium fuel rods in the People’s Republic of Mokistan, “Yes, sir. She’s got a gift for finding the paper trail.”
“She had some nice things to say about you,” Mr. Epitome sat back down, “She said if you thought this Thresh case had a connection to Factor X, then it did. So tell me how you did it.”
The slim agent gave his superior a sideways glance. Gardener avoided eye contact. Lester realized he was on his own, “How I made a link between Thresh and Factor X. Well, to begin with, sir, it wasn’t just myself who worked on this case.”
“Oh, I know. I’m sure it’s all in the file in your briefcase. Everyone will get the credit they deserve. But you’re the one who made the trip so let’s hear it.”
“Sure. How I… we, how we made a link,” was Gardener laughing at him? “between Thresh and Factor X. OK, Thresh already had a dossier with OPS. Bare bones stuff. Conjecture that he’s some type of mutate shark guy who works with some pirates off the coast of the Philippines. They harass fishing boats for protection, raid some smugglers. Nobody really cares. But, one month ago Thresh sinks a Korean cargo ship. Seoul tells us that these pirates went to the shipping company and threatened they would do it and that they would keep doing it unless their demands were met. Money was one thing, and access to their boats was another. I think these guys were trying to set up a smuggling operation of their own.”
“Just a point of interest, Agent Dawes: in that part of the world there are traditions of men who turn into sharks. We might be looking for a lycanthrope, not a mutate.”
Dawes nodded and leaned forward in his chair, “I guess in this world anything is possible. We certainly don’t have any backstory on this guy. Anyways, the reason I think Factor X is connected to Thresh is because of HOW Thresh took apart that ship. Thresh always used a big sword, nearly six feet, in his previous attacks. It was one of those curved swords, a scimitar. You know, like a thresher shark has its tail, Thresh has his sword. But when he took down the Korean ship, he had a different sword. A sharper, stronger one. He cut through the hull of this boat, which weighs around 20,000 tons, with his new sword.”
Mr. Epitome was now smiling and nodding, “And you think Factor X supplied him with the sword?”
Lester was enjoying himself. All those tedious weeks spent waiting for faxes from Seoul and having them translated, sifting through eyewitness accounts and agency briefings, and writing reports to convince his superiors of the case’s merits had taken him to this endpoint: getting the smartest man in the world to agree with him.
“We think the sword is made of impenitrium, sir. We know Factor X bought some raw impenitrium last year. We’re thinking it was the stockpile that got swiped from Fort Halsey.”
“Do you have any idea who stole it?”
“Uh, no, sir. Not yet. The Atlanta office has that case. Where Factor X got the impentrium is unknown. We do know he’s been taking bids for it since this spring, and that we know contacts of Factor X did smuggle something to Manila just two weeks before the attack, and a day before these pirates made their threat to the Koreans.”
“And your evidence that the smuggled item was a sword?”
“When the Philippine police captured the smugglers, they got the ship’s manifesto. One unaccounted for item was listed as two meters long and weighing 245 kilograms. Going by pictures of the cuts in the ship’s hull, and then calculating the blade’s width and length, we figure a sword of those dimensions forged from impenitrium would weigh approximately 245 kilograms.”
Mr. Epitome put his elbows on the desk and steepled his fingers. He seemed to be waiting for more.
Gardener filled the void, “We know the case is largely circumstantial, sir. We can’t conclusively prove Thresh’s sword is impenitrium. The only way to do that is to capture him….”
“You understand my concern, gentlemen. It could take weeks for me to track Thresh down. If your theory is incorrect, and there is no link between Thresh and Factor X, well that’s time and resources wasted. X sells technology and weapons to enemies of our country. He’s the big fish I want to catch.”
“There is more evidence in the case file, sir.”
“Yes, I read it when you first came in. The money trail is pretty flimsy. It doesn’t really add any more to what you gave me in your excellent summary, Agent Dawes,” he sighed and looked at his watch, “I have to give the Director my decision on whether or not to get involved in this operation after lunch. Leave the file here with me and you can get some food downstairs in the commissary. I’ll look at it again to see if my X-ray vision caused me to miss any key points. Then we can call Director Soames and tell him together.”

There was someone Mr. Epitome had to contact before Director Soames, but to do that he needed a secure phone line. He picked up the cordless in his study and dialed out.
“Sir?”
The voice that answered was mechanically altered, “They finished already? What do you think?”
“I think going after Thresh is worthwhile. He can lead us to Factor X.”
“Do you think you can find this freak, Mister Epitome? I don’t want you out there working on your tan and wasting the taxpayers’ money.”
“Yes, sir.”
“It’s a bad idea letting you out of the country. I like you close. Who knows what ideas those foreigners might put in your head?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Shoot, boy, you are humorless. Go hunt Thresh. Kick his scaly ass for the good ole’ USA. But it’s X that needs to be brought to heel. By this time next year I want to hear that egghead calling me sir,” the phone went dead.
Mr. Epitome put the phone back in its cradle. In a blur of superhuman speed he went to his refrigerator and removed the food whose expiration date would come up within the next two weeks. While waiting for the garbage disposal to do its job Epitome decided the entire apartment needed a good cleaning before he left, and took a minute to mop, dust, and vacuum. He then pulled out his luggage and packed several of his uniforms and some toiletries. Finally, he took off his shirt and tie and began suiting up for the work he did so well.




Part Two:

Some numbers to consider:
Most of Thresh’s attacks had taken place off the eastern coasts of the Philippines Islands, between eight and (in the case of the Korean freighter Chinju) 450 miles out to sea. This made the possible search zone 707,200 square miles. That could be reduced considerably if Mr. Epitome concentrated on the shipping lanes in the area.
Thresh came up under the vessel at a speed estimated at 120 knots, given the amount of distance he traveled between coming into view on sonar and reaching the ship. He carved a 295 foot gash in the Chinju’s 19 millimeter reinforced steel hull. It took seven and a half minutes for the boat to sink at a loss of 11 men and $136 million.
It would seem such a success would inspire the shark man to further attacks on large vessels, but it hadn’t happened in the past sixty days. One reason was that cargo freighters, large passenger ships, and oil tankers had avoided the area or simply stayed in dry dock since the sinking, limiting the number of targets. As to why Thresh hadn’t left the area to hunt in more fruitful waters, Mr. Epitome had a theory:
“Sharks navigate mainly by electro-reception. They have pores called the ampullae of Lorenzini which allow them to detect currents given off by the earth’s magnetic field - and living organisms. I think Thresh gets around the same way. He knows this area well, so he won’t leave it,” he told the chief of his Science Division, Doctor Wanda Benoit.
Wanda nodded. Most of her boss’s hunches were right, but it was hard to figure why any of this information mattered.
“I want to design some tech that can create fluctuations in electric currents. Constructs we can set in the water and monitor remotely. If we can play hob with Thresh’s electro-reception, maybe we can flush him out.”
It was now time Dr. Benoit to assume the role she had perfected in her ten years of working with the Office of Paranormal Security’s in-house superhero ; that of Doubting Thomas. She sighed, “Same two problems as always, sir. Not enough time, not enough money.”
The Exemplary Man smiled and tapped a forefinger to his temple, “My brain computes models better than any software we have, Doctor. I’ve got a couple Beta runs processing now. As for financing, you’d be surprised how much money is available for the war on terror,” he stood up and waited for the older women to do the same, “We need to go downstairs and brief your crew on what we’re doing.”
“Sir, how long do you think this will take?”
“I don’t know,” Mr. Epitome seemed slightly embarrassed, “Your daughter has a game tonight?”
“Yes, sir,” and some of us don’t subscribe to your twisted little Teutonic platitude, she added internally.
He reached behind his head and pulled his cowl over his face, “I’ll try to have you out of here by five.” Mr. Epitome gestured to the door, “After you, Doctor.”
Doctor Wanda Benoit gave her superior a resigned smile and stood. Jillian was going to start tonight too…


Mr. Epitome and his technical team finished the EPBs (Electromagnetic Pulse Buoys) a bit later than expected. He had to be sure that the devices didn’t interfere with the electrical systems of any passing ships. Then came a scary moment when an investigator from the Department of the Interior attached to the OPS got wind of the devices’ specifications and demanded a briefing out of concern for the indigenous species which might be affected by the disruptions. Epitome admired commitment to duty in his country’s regulatory agencies, but this man had to realize there was a war on, and the other side didn’t care about the migratory patterns of green sea turtles. He told Secretary Wobishawl as much in a video conference that would end with the request being tabled and the investigator being transferred to Anwar a month later.
The trip to the Pacific went smoothly. Mr. Epitome rendezvoused with the USS Fletcher, a Spruance class destroyer that had been patrolling the area of interest and he soon placed the two dozen EPBs in what he theorized were ideal locations. Then he waited.
The sailors didn’t see much of Mr. Epitome. He did mess with them (many were surprised the Paragon of Power needed to eat) and attended church service but mostly he stayed up on one of the observation platforms, where he checked the EPB monitors and scanned the ocean with vision described by one scientist as “Hubblesque.” When asked by a lieutenant what he thought about during his monotonous watch Epitome gave a sly smile and replied, “Probably the same thing you do, but with somebody else in mind.”
Mr. Epitome’s trap was finally sprung six days in. A mid-sized vessel had been spending a great of time circling the perimeter of one of the EPBs. It was about eighty miles off the starboard side, well past the horizon. Mr. Epitome was ready to contact the captain to get the ship turned and the helicopter ready for take off when the signal from the buoy went dead.
Mr. Epitome grabbed his oxygen mask and leapt to the deck of the boat. “Ensign Theriel,” he shouted to a sailor, “Tell Captain Benes to get a strike team ready and send the Seahawk to the coordinates of Buoy 11. Remember, 11!”
The young man looked as Epitome set himself up in a runner’s stance at the stern of the boat. He gave the ensign one last look, “I’ve never tried this from a ship before.”
He ran the 560 feet of the Fletcher in two seconds, building up enough speed to shoot off the prow of the boat and across the water. He cut rightward towards his target and accelerated. It would take ten minutes to intercept the target.
Mr. Epitome was six miles from the boat when it finally appeared on the horizon. . His senses allowed him to observe the four men on board arming themselves. Epitome was about 500 yards out when it became obvious Thresh knew he was coming, because Thresh’s sword broke the water line right in front of him.
Twisting in mid-stride, Mr. Epitome was able to avoid having his lower left leg sliced off but he could no longer keep his balance. His body skipped across the water like some novice water skier still holding the tow rope. Epitome shot through the fiberglass hull of the fishing boat, not capsizing it but collapsing a good portion of the upper deck.
Unhurt but disoriented, Mr. Epitome picked himself up out of the debris in time to see his foe make a second attack. Using his powerful legs Thresh had gone underwater, then crashing upward he vaulted onto the boat himself, covering the distance in seconds.
Thresh was a head taller than Mr. Epitome, and twice as broad. He had muted grey skin and eyes that seemed to be all pupil. His mouth stretched from one side of his head to the other. When opened, it revealed several rows of triangular teeth. Brandishing his impenitrium sword (good work, Agent Dawes) above his head, Thresh advanced on Epitome.
Mr. Epitome grabbed Thresh’s sword arm by the wrist and twisted. The limb bent and Thresh dropped the blade. Epitome punched his larger opponent where his nose should have been. That knocked Thresh off balance, giving Epitome a chance to kick him square in the chest. The force behind the blow was enough to send Thresh into the water. Mr. Epitome fixed his oxygen mask to his face and dove in after him.
The water around was still rife with bubbles from the earlier actions of the two superhumans. Sound waves reverberated in Epitome’s skull, creating a maze of signals impossible for him to react to.
Thresh didn’t seem to have such problems. Coming up from beneath his quarry at top speed, he struck, sending Epitome shooting up out of the water like a champagne cork. When he came back down it was into the grip of his enemy. Opening his impossibly wide mouth, Thresh bit down on Mr. Epitome’s shoulder and dragged him beneath the water again.
The bite punctured the skin, clouding the water with blood, but the true damage to the attack was that it destroyed the hose to Mr. Epitome’s oxygen mask. Thresh was diving down hundreds of feet, his arms squeezing out what little air Epitome had in his lungs.
Wiggling an arm free, Mr. Epitome jabbed at Thresh’s broad head. He felt the shark man’s teeth shatter against his bone and muscle. The pain forced Thresh to let go.
Now able to use both arms, Epitome attacked Thresh again, pounding him with blows that would shatter granite. Thresh pushed Mr. Epitome away with a sweep of his arm, then kicked upward back towards the surface. “Good idea,” the hero thought, and followed.
Mr. Epitome was halfway to the surface when Thresh met him again, this time with his sword. He swam by and slashed madly. The blow hit home, slicing a wicked gash across Epitome’s abdomen. Mr. Epitome managed to stifle a scream, knowing it would waste precious oxygen. Thresh, moving swiftly as a torpedo, jetted out of sight.
Huge plumes of blood rose from Epitome’s midsection. His intestines were rupturing. If he didn’t get to the surface he was dead; killed far from home by some low rent thug with base motives and no snappy patter. After twelve years of service this would be a very bad death. With one arm wrapped around his torso, he gamely made his way to the surface.
Given the fact Thresh’s turn radius was especially wide, Mr. Epitome had time to climb onto the boat before he could attack again. Thresh’s men fired their rifles at him, screaming in Vietnamese. Epitome ignored their efforts and waited for Thresh to show himself.
The deck gave way as Thresh tore through the hull of the boat. Debris flew everywhere. Thresh was covered in splinters of fiberglass as he hacked away at the boat’s structure in full bloodlust. Mr. Epitome pounced, landing hard on Thresh’s shoulders. Using both hands he pried the sword free from Thresh’s grasp. There was a mad struggle across the wreckage as the two fought for possession of the weapon. Thresh managed to ram his clawed hand up into Epitome’s wound. Epitome howled in agony. Thresh took a moment to lick the gore from his talons. It would cost him.
Mr. Epitome kicked himself away and to the sword. Grabbing it, he turned and faced the still feeding Thresh.
“Smile, you son of a bitch!” he snarled, and drove the blade through Thresh’s head.


Despite being nearly killed and losing Thresh as source on Factor X, Mr. Epitome was pleased with the operation. First, it came in under projected budgets in terms of both man hours and actual cost. True, he was going to have to avoid active duty until his body healed itself, but Mr. Epitome was planning on taking a weekend off anyway.
Second, the men captured with Thresh were willing to talk. Terrified by the battle that destroyed their boat and tempted by generous considerations for sentencing by the Korean authorities, their testimony confirmed the identity of an Indonesian exporter suspected of being involved in X’s smuggling operation. As for their own leader, Thresh, they claimed he was some kind of shark spirit that possessed those who had committed especially cruel things while young. Epitome conducted some of the interviews from the Fletcher’s infirmary as it sped towards Guam, and could tell they believed it.
Finally, Epitome savored the memory of the battle. It had been years since he had faced any real challenge on the battlefield. Lately he hadn’t even needed to throw a punch. Beating Thresh might not mean as much as stopping Factor X, but as fish go, he wasn’t one you’d throw back.


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