Lester Dawes was surprised when the offer came to join the Epitome Division of the Office of Paranormal Security. He had only been working with the OPS for sixteen months and in the Cabinet level organization the Epitome Division was the detail every agent with ambition sought to be part of. It was autonomous of the larger bureaucracy, and its director, Mr. Epitome himself, answered only to OPS Secretary Evan Milliken and the President himself. The Epitome Division could assume jurisdiction over any OPS investigation, like it had during the Thresh case that introduced Lester to the super hero who ran it.
There was some grumblings in the Washington headquarters when word came down about the promotion that it was all politics, and that it was being done in a clumsy bureaucratic attempt to foster diversity in the organization. Lester had been hearing that kind of spite since college. The move was good for his career and good for his family. Persephone, Virginia was the town that the Epitome Division was located in, and the burgeoning city was regarded as one of the best places to live in America by magazines that kept track of those things.
But there were drawbacks. One was the hours. Mr. Epitome expected a lot from his operatives, often calling them in to work weekends if he felt it was necessary. Lester was a bit of a grind but even he liked a day off now and then. Another issue was that being around a superhero could be very dangerous. Darneisha, Lester’s wife of four years, put it succinctly:
“I don’t want to see you on the six o’clock news being held hostage by Lord Lethal because he thinks he can get to Mr. Epitome through you.”
“Won’t happen: there is no Lord Lethal,” Dawes had answered a bit too cheekily.
“I’m just saying,” Darneisha continued from across their kitchen table, “There is a greater chance that something could happen if you take this job. You wouldn’t believe the statistical data on the potential risks those people whose occupations involve them in metahuman affairs face,” Darneisha Dawes was an insurance actuary.
“What are the odds I get hit by cosmic rays and grow a second set of nuts?” Lester smiled.
“Second set?” his wife countered, then reached across the table to grip one of his hands in hers, “Lester, I think you’re right and this is a great opportunity for us. You would get to do good things for good money. And Persephone isn’t too much further from where my office is than here in Washington. But you know better than I do these superheroes live in a different reality. Normal people like us get caught up in their adventures and are chewed up and spit out. Just remember that.”
*****
Lester’s first adventure with Mr. Epitome came two weeks after moving into his brand new office. He was looking at a police report from Toronto about an unsolved murder that could be tied to the assassin known as Spoilsport (Number 8 on the OPS’s Ten Most Wanted list and a known client of Factor X). His partner rushed in.
“Grab your gear, Lester. We’re up.”
The slight, bespectacled man looked past the young woman addressing him into the hallway. Many people were rushing by, arms filled with laptops, evidence bags, and communications gear.
“Looks like everybody’s up. What is it?”
Abby Germain answered, “Two planes blew up about ten minutes ago; one outside Louisville, one over Chicago. Reports say we might have thousands dead.”
“Oh, god.”
The tall blonde waited while Lester waited to gather his own field pack, “We’re heading to Louisville in the Epitome Express. The plane went down in a rural area, but they’re saying debris scattered for miles. We need to start interviewing witnesses and keep the crime scene intact.”
“All eight of us,” Lester mused ruefully, “Where’s the chief?”
“Meeting with Director Soames in D.C. We might be on our own there for a while.”
Lester didn’t look forward to dealing with the locals in Kentucky. People were very territorial in law enforcement when they wanted a case. The two agents left Dawes’s office and took the stairwell to the roof.
“You’re going to love flying on the Epitome Express, Lester,” Abby grinned, “When we start zooming around at MACH 4 you'll feel like Buck Fucking Rogers.”
******
The Epitome Express was a VTOL gunship used by the super-criminal known as the Idiom before Mr. Epitome captured and arrested her three years ago. It could carry up to eight passengers and two pilots and once had enough firepower to scrap a tank column. And Agent Abby Germain was right: it was a thrill to ride.
Lester’s exaltation immediately dampened when he saw the crash site. Twisted metal and scorched earth littered the forested area. Fire engines, EMS, police, and civilian cars were pulled over on the dirt roads that wound through the woods. A trio of helicopters, two police, one a local news station’s, were hovering over areas where there were major impact sites and trying to direct people on the ground to them. Fires blazed here and there, and smoke hung over the entire horrific tableau.
The crash happened forty minutes ago and the bedlam was already in full swing.
The OPS pilot landed the hi-tech vehicle in one of the forest’s camping areas, sending port-a-lets and picnic tables flying as it touched down. After the dust caused by the Express’s repulsor engines settled, the agents disembarked. When clear, the ship activated its powerful anti-grav thrusters again, and soared skyward, back to the Persephone office to pick up more men for the monumental task ahead of them.
Dawes watched as the team’s field leader, a burly, balding man, took command, “Who do I need to talk to here?” flashing his OPS badge and approaching a knot of surprised men in park ranger uniforms.
“Take your pick,” one of the men answered, “There are police from the state barracks up the highway, the local sheriff, and the fire chief of Jefferson County is here too. I’m sure some NTSB guys are on their way. Are you from SPUD or something?”
“No, I’m Special Agent John Koskivo from the Epitome Division of the Office of Paranormal Security. Believe me; you’re lucky it’s us that showed up and not those clowns. I want you to start spreading the word to every man, woman and child here that this is an open crime scene. Everything is evidence. Nothing is to be disturbed. Do not bring those fire engines into the woods. Do not go tramping through here looking for survivors. There are no survivors. The way you help is by stepping back and letting us handle it.”
The ranger was a man with fifteen years of experience and unused to taking orders, especially from an outisder who had come in late, “Look, buddy-“
“No you look: in ten minutes my boss, Mr. Epitome, the Star Spangled Splendor himself, is going to be swooping down here like the wrath of God. He is NOT going to explain to me the correct procedure of maintaining the security of a crime scene; because he knows I know how to maintain the security of a crime scene. He’s going to ask me, ‘Which fool decided it was OK not to listen to you and contaminate evidence?’ And I’m going to point to you and any other turd that pisses me off in these next ten minutes. That sound good to you, Ranger Rick?”
The man looked like he wanted to put a bullet right in Koskivo’s head, but he turned to his men, “Get on the radios. Tell everyone to pull back,” then he looked back at the source of his anger, “They aren’t going to like it.”
“Let me talk to them,” Koskivo grunted, “I’m a real leader of men.”
******
Mr. Epitome arrived when Agent Koskivo predicted he would. After landing the borrowed SPUD sky transport he met briefly with his team, and then set to work.
Within his mind’s eye he carefully divided the crash site into a perfect grid. With his heightened senses and speed Epitome searched each square in the area, putting out the occasional fire by shattering trees and stamping the remaining kindling. When finished he would allow the OPS agents to move in and collect the evidence he found or call for an EMS unit in to retrieve a body. It was an operation that would normally take days for a full contingent of National Transportation Safety Board investigators to complete. For him it took six and a half hours.
When finished, he asked for his OPS team, the NTSB field commander, and the heads of the local fire and department units to gather in the “command center,” which amounted to a tent with a video conference hook-up to the director of OPS, Aaron Soames, in Washington.
“What do you have Mr. Epitome?”
“This is what we’ve been able to confirm: at 11:36 Eastern Standard Time WestAir Flight 204 out of Buffalo Niagara International Airport exploded over Jefferson National Park in Louisville, Kentucky. It was a huge explosion. All 136 people on board the plane were lost. No witness reports seeing the plane in any distress before the explosion or any outside factors that could lead to it’s being destroyed.
“I have not detected any trace chemicals that could have caused the plane to explode. We have three witnesses claim it was the front of the plane that came apart first, so I doubt its fuel related. There wasn’t enough fuel left in the tanks to cause such a fireball anyway. Does any of this correlate with what you’re finding in Chicago, Aaron?”
The broad faced former FBI agent who now commanded OPS nodded, “Yes, except for the time and lack of explosive agents. Too soon to tell there, but I’m sure its going to be the same story. You know, we checked with the FAA, and the Flight 204 should have been over Louisville when it exploded. There was a brief delay at take off. Whoever caused these planes to blow up expected them to do so over populated areas.”
“Have the authorities found anything at Buffalo?” Epitome asked while removing something from one of his belt’s pouches.
“Not yet. The New York State Police is helping us conduct a search of the area, but we can’t lock the airport down forever. And we don’t a have a clue as to what to look for. Any theories?”
Mr. Epitome held up a piece of debris the size of a fingernail to the camera for Soames to see, “This was from the inner hull of the plane. Blast markings seem to indicate it was close to the explosion. No chemicals, but there are microscopic organic particles imbedded deep in this piece, and the hundreds of pieces like it. I’ve pushed my microscopic vision to the point that it’s given me a migraine and I've identified it as human cellular material.”
“So some passenger was at ground zero of the explosion?”
“Or some passenger was the explosion, Aaron,” Mr. Epitome rubbed the back of his neck, “It’s not an unheard of ability in the field of metascience. There used to be a villain called Willy Pete in the early 90s who could detonate himself like napalm, and then reform himself. His powers wound up killing him. My guess-and it is a guess,” he looked warningly at the various law enforcement officers in the tent, “is that one or more of the passengers spontaneously combusted with the explosive power of a couple hundred pounds of TNT.”
Soames was about the say something when the video screen skipped and crackled with static. Soon his image disappeared, replaced instead by the face of the most famous law enforcement agent on Earth: Colonel Dan Drury, agent of SPUD.
“Hate to interrupt your pow-wow, gents, but Big Chief One Eye’s got something for ya.”
*****
“Our office in Cairo got this disc about four hours ago. We wanted to beam it in on encrypted channels, so no nosy reporter types picked up the feed. Take a gander.”
Again, the image on the screen changed. Instead of Drury a figure covered head to toe in segmented black armor filled the screen.
“Now the Americans have experienced terror from the skies. Just as they sent weapons to destroy my people, I have sent one to destroy theirs. One that is unseen and unstoppable,” he gestured a gauntleted fist at the camera, “I am speaking to you now, America. You thought you were safe from the fear that grips the world. Not anymore. You are not out reach from the venom of Emperor Scorpion,” the feed ended.
Emperor Scorpion was in reality General Moskar Kufadalla, ruler of the North African nation of Sybia. From his desert stronghold he launched scheme after scheme to expand his power base, often hiding behind Soviet sponsorship when America’s own super agents sought to take him down. Finally back in 1985 the United States had enough and bombed the terrorist mastermind to what had been until now oblivion. After his death a core group of military leaders took over the country, and not wanting any more trouble from America, gave up on their former leader’s expansionist schemes.
“It can’t be him. No way has that egomaniac kept quiet for nearly two decades,” Soames announced, “Have you shown this to the President, Colonel?”
“He’s the man who signs my paycheck, Soames. Of course I showed it to him first. But we’ve got another problem. The disc has twenty six different translations on it. So we’re guessing there are a lot more of ‘em out there, just waiting for mass consumption. Scorpion wants the world to know what he did," Drury worried the unlit cigar in his mouth, "Any pearls of wisdom before the shitstorm hits, Epitome?”
‘None for you, Colonel Drury,' the Exemplary Man thought, 'Not now, and hopefully not ever.’
******
From a barstool in Albany the Magnificent Blastard watched the television coverage of the crashes in Chicago and Louisville with a growing sense of satisfaction. He decided to stop drinking out of fear his inhibitions might loosen to the point where he would giggle at the barrage of heartfelt testimonials from each and every insincere politician and media whore they put on the screen.
His fellow patrons were predictable after the Emperor’s pronouncement.
“I knew it. I knew it was one of them.”
“Asshole has no idea who he’s messing with.”
“This is war, God damn it. War.”
The Magnificent Blastard had to leave before the false bravado in the room caused him to bust a gut. Through their tears the Americans were still talking tough. It was typical. He paid his tab and wandered out into the cold night air. Strangers smiled at him knowingly as he walked to his temporary home, as if he and these people had shared some experience by witnessing this tragedy; that some communal bond was being formed between all the people of America because these two planes went down. The Magnificent Blastard wondered how this community of grief would react when their fellow man started exploding right in front of them.
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