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Chapter or Story 
Chapter or Story
9/?
By RRP
Mr. Parker strode down the hall, Oxford heels clicking on the hard floor, demanding respect, and invoking fear with nothing more than a steady beat. He was headed for the infirmary- various reasons in mind.
He needed to talk to his daughter, after he found out what was wrong with his son. A Sweeper, whose name he had not even bothered to ask for, had come to him less than fifteen minutes ago saying that Lyle had been found unconscious in his office, and was in the infirmary.
Mr. Parker opened the door to the room Lyle was supposedly in, and found Lyle sitting up on the bed, legs dangling over the side, and a doctor talking to him.
"What happened?" Mr. Parker questioned in a deep, stern tone. The Doctor rose from the physician's stool he had been sitting on.
"Mr. Parker! Mr. Lyle here, apparently blacked out. We're running some tests to find out if it's anything serious, but I doubt it's more than stress or lack of sleep."
"It's nothing, Dad." Lyle assured him, in a weary voice.
"Like hell it's nothing, Lyle. You passed out. I want to know why!" Mr. Parker shot back. The doctor cringed noticeably at the words, and stepped in hurriedly.
"The tests have been labeled top priority. They should be back in the morning. Meanwhile, we'll just keep him here overnight."
"Good." With that, Mr. Parker left the room, the tapping of his shoes echoing back to the two remaining in the room. The doctor turned to Lyle, and sighed as he shook his head.
"Sounds like a great father." He commented sarcastically. Lyle quickly glanced up at the ever-watching red eye in the wall, before replying.
"Yeah. Great father."
"About what you where about to say, before he came in..."
"CFS." Lyle answered promptly. "I believe I have chronic fatigue syndrome."
"I've heard of it, but unfortunately, there's no way to prove it. It won't show up on any of our test results. I can't really prescribe anything for it, either. Except rest. Lots of rest." The doctor set the chart he had been holding down on a near-by counter top, and walked to the door. "I'll be back in the morning." He switched off the light, and left the room.
The only source of illumination was a constantly blinking red dot in the corner.
Patrick typed lazily on the keyboard of Jarod's laptop, bored and with nothing to do. Major Charles and Jack Ryan were engaged in one of their continually running conversations about airplanes, something Patrick easily could have joined in on, but didn't feel like doing. Emily had taken the kids outside, and Ben and Sydney had relocated the chess board to the porch so they could play and help Emily at the same time.
Jarod, Master-Copy, had left for the grocery store three hours ago, and Patrick guessed that he had long finished shopping for food and had fallen prey to wonders of a toy-store on the way home.
Then, so suddenly that he nearly fell off his chair, and idea struck him. He opened another program on the computer, and began typing furiously. Time passed, and still he typed. Jarod eventually returned, and people begin going in and out of the kitchen with bags of food. Patrick didn't notice when the boys began battling in the living room with brand new toy lightsabers, or when they clambered upstairs with plans to use the bunk bed as the Deathstar. Nor did he notice the girls squealing and playing with a new dollhouse.
Patrick did notice, however, and briefly acknowledge Jarod, when the Master-Copy stopped to read over Patrick's shoulder. Without more than two words, Jarod understood what Patrick was doing, and had another laptop set up within minutes. As it booted, he searched the grocery bags, and pulled out the object of his hunt with a grin. He tossed one of the two items to Patrick, who paused long enough to catch it, read the label, and mutter, "Funny," before opening the PEZ dispenser modeled after the clones in a Star Wars movie. Jarod laughed, and opened his own- the bounty hunter, and slid the candy in, before becoming serious again.
Soon, the sound of two men typing filled the room, and an occasional word of question or answer accompanied the clacking of the keys. Major Charles and Jack Ryan began putting the food away, their conversation never breaking.
"Deletion header?" Jarod asked at one point.
"Done."
"Erase command?"
"Go for it."
It wasn't until Emily asked them to move so she could set the table that either man was again aware of the time. They moved the laptops to the couch, and resumed their typing. Emily shook her head in amazement, but said nothing more. The identical looks of concentration on their faces told her that both her brothers were busy, and that the work was important.
The kids were ushered in to eat, with a softly spoken order to remain quiet. The grown-ups ate after the kids had been sent back upstairs to play until bedtime, and plates were set in front of Jarod and Patrick. Emily thought for a few minutes that they hadn't even noticed, but at the same time, both of them reached out and stabbed a mouthful of beef stroganoff without even looking at the plates.
They continued eating in such a manner, typing with one hand, and the plates were soon empty. The dishes were done, the kitchen was cleaned, another chess game was played, and the kids were asleep before Jarod and Patrick looked up from their screens and blinked.
"So, do you mind telling us more simple minds what exactly you've spent the past," Major Charles paused to look at his watch, "seven hours, fifty three minutes, doing?" The tone was dry, yet humorous, and Jarod smiled, as Patrick yawned.
"Patrick should name it. It was his idea."
"Tro-" The word was cut off by another yawn. "Trojan. We're calling it the Trojan Program."
"What is it?" Jack Ryan questioned, eyebrows raised.
"It's a virus. We put it on a disc, ship it to Mr. Parker with a note that says it's from the Triumvirate, and as soon as he puts it into his computer, it starts." Jarod answered.
"Starts what?" Sydney asked from the chess board. Patrick turned around to make eye contact.
"It will latch on to every other computer in the network, making it impossible to stop even if the computer is turned off. It will delete everything the Centre has stored on computer- it will virtually erase every hard drive they owned that's hooked up."
"Powerful program." Major Charles whistled. Jarod and Patrick nodded simultaneously.
"What of the files not in the computer, Jarod?" Sydney's brow furrowed, and Jarod sighed.
"We'll burn them, I guess. I know it's asking a lot, Sydney, to give up your research, but-" Jarod trailed off, and every eye in the room was locked on Sydney, waiting for an answer. Sydney looked down at the chessboard, and sighed. He moved a piece forward, and muttered,
"Checkmate." He looked up at Jarod. "Go ahead."
"Welcome back to the Bureau!" A tall, dark haired man of brown complexion, chimed as two men walked through the door of the large office. Three others around the room looked up from their paper work and conversations and waved or cheered, "Welcome back!" Being the general cry and often punctuating the mix. One of the men who had entered the room clapped and nodded, turning around to face the second fellow.
"Thanks." The second man nodded, and gave a tired smile, as he raised a hand for silence. "Throw a party later. Where is he?"
"In the back." The first man answered, shrugging his shoulder towards a back room.
"I've got work to do, guys."
"Sleep, Rand. You look like hell." Someone chorused, half in jest, from across the room.
"Yeah, thanks, Lloyd. You too." The second man, obviously named Rand, returned, as he walked with a firm and purposeful step towards the back room. He stopped, only feet from the door, and turned.
"God, someone get me my gun. I was beginning to go into withdrawal without it." A black shoulder holster was tossed through the air, and someone placed a silver, gleaming 9mm in Rand's hand. He held it for a moment, treating it as if he was regaining a limb. He sighed in relief, checked the safety, and slid it in the holster.
He opened the door, and entered the room.
Gregory Lloyd was a fiery little red-headed Agent with a undying sense of humor. He was usually the noise and pep of his group of Agents- a group of seven, all working on the same project- but now he was silent, and listening. The object of his attention was the back room Special Agent Jon Rand had gone into nearly fifteen minutes ago.
Actually, it wasn't just Gregory Lloyd, it was all of the five Agents currently in the main room. They had continued to go about their business, until about two seconds after Rand had gone into the room, there was a long, drawn out and amazed, "Good God! You're with the FBI?"
Since that first phrase, many interesting things had been loud enough to hear. Curses, ravings, rants, breaking wood, the sound of a gun's safety going off, going back on, silence again, more curses.
"Who got the decaf?" A voice from behind them asked loudly, as the body the voice belonged to entered the room. In unison, five men turned and said,
"Shhh!" There was absolute silence, then the door of the back room opened. Rand stuck his head out, and looked at the five men who appeared to be studying his every movement, and the bewildered sixth of the group, holding trays with cups of coffee, while he blinked. Rand shook his head,
"Back to work, guys." The door closed, and chaos erupted.
"Who would order a decaf?"
"It's not mine. Let me see the latte."
"What latte? This latte? This one's mine."
"Is not. Come on, Frank, tell him the latte is mine."
"Oh, shutup Simon. Stop griping and drink it black like a normal Agent. Let Allen have the latte for once."
"Aaron! Do something!"
"Come on, Simon. You work with the FBI, and you can't stop a coffee theft? If you can't act like an Agent, than act like a citizen and sue." That brought laughter, and the coffee was rightly and justly distributed, the decaf ending up on Jon Rand's desk.
It was a clear, cloudless night, the deep navy canvas of sky splattered with the magical glow of stars- the exact opposite of the stereotypical setting for tension and plot. On a night such as tonight, one nearly expected to see a handsome man in a cape ride by on a horse, or a field to fill with singing elves and mythical creatures.
But instead, the night sky shone down upon a huge, imposing structure on a Delaware hillside. Within it's dark, shadowed halls, and dimly flickering bulbs, it held a hell unlike any other. Patrolled by a rigid staff of men who were comfortable holding loaded guns, and occupied by such monstrosities and unusual people the rulers of the sub-kingdom saw fit to keep from the rest of the world.
From limbless men of short stature, to ghost-like men brainwashed until even the idea of a memory was lost to the void. It's cement floors and multiple levels hosted machines and technology beyond humane use, so evil in themselves that one would shudder simply to look upon them.
Cycloptic eyes of blinking maroon hid in the corners, watching and remembering everything. What some of those eyes in the wall would see on this night, however, would soon be erased so none but those who had survived the holocaust would know of the structure's horrific tale of truth.
On every level of the building, in every storeroom, office, file housing, camera storage, at precisely 1:44 am bombs went off. The building shook with the power of the multiple explosions- and people, guards, began running to find the source of the earthquake.
What they found, and were forced to tell their superiors later that morning, cost them their lives- any record the Centre had on film, or paper, was gone.
"I can't believe this!" Lyle quietly listened to his father rant and rave about the unexplainable explosions the night before. "Even the storage rooms in other states! Gone!"
"I heard." Lyle nodded, hoping to calm his father down, before more died. Already, the Sweepers who had brought the news were in the morgue.
"This is absolutely ridiculous! I want you to get to the bottom of this, and fast! This is a severe, severe blow to the Centre. Without those records...it instills fear in me, just to think of it. Decades of research, lost forever, and for what? We don't even know!" Mr. Parker slammed a hand upon his desk, and sat down. A black, charred area occupied the area in which his file cabinet had once sat. Almost every room now held the black, tell-tale scar.
"Sure, Dad. Meanwhile, you want to move Miss Parker? What if the explosions go on?"
"We're not moving her. She's not ready, physically or mentally. I've got teams sweeping for more bombs, and they haven't found any more yet." Mr. Parker said firmly, shooting Lyle a warning glare. Lyle shrugged.
"Whatever. Just thought it was in the best interest of whatever project she's involved in."
"Of course you did! And who said she was in a project?"
"All the evidence points to, Dad. Why else keep her here, and not a hospital? What's the plan, anyway? You know me. Can't wait to get involved." Lyle plastered a smirk upon his face, and Mr. Parker smiled.
"Maybe later, Lyle. I don't want you to dive into this too soon. Meanwhile, you've got a bomber to catch."
Aric Joel held a hand up to his nephew, and playmate, Charlie- motioning for silence. Charlie froze, and cocked his head inquisitively. Aric Joel, meanwhile, leaned toward the kitchen door.
"What is it, AJ?" Charlie asked in a low whisper. Aric Joel made eye contact with Charlie, the boy he truly considered his best friend, his brown eyes solemn and serious.
"I heard Jarod say something." Aric Joel replied in the same whisper. In sync, the boys crept towards the door, and put their ears against it. A split second later, they both heard a muffled bit of a sentence.
"Now that Sam's dead..." Aric Joel's spine went ramrod straight, his eyes opened wide in shock, and he backed away from the door, his mouth moving but no sound coming out. Charlie stepped towards him, concern written on his face.
"AJ?" He asked, forgetting to whisper. A toy lightsaber clattered to the floor, and Aric Joel was gone. Charlie yelled after him in a near panic, as the door was flung open, and Aric Joel fled outside. "AJ!"
The kitchen door opened, and Jarod stepped out to investigate the noise. He scanned the room with his eyes, and saw Charlie near the door, standing and looking out, arms limp at his sides.
"Charlie?" The little boy turned to him, tears streaming down his face.
"You should have told him..." He accused. "He didn't need to find out that way." The words of wisdom coming out of such a small boy startled Jarod, the shock doubling when he realized what Charlie was talking about. Emily appeared behind Jarod, and knelt down.
"Come here, baby. Jarod will find him." Jarod nodded, gulped, and grabbed his coat, as Charlie flew into his mother's open arms. Jarod stepped out the door, and shrugged the coat on. It wasn't too cold- not quite cold enough to snow, but there was a nasty wind-chill. He couldn't see Aric Joel anywhere on the landscape before him, yet reasoned that the boy couldn't have gotten far.
He was walking around the house when a car pulled up in the driveway- he only stopped long enough to make sure it wasn't a Centre car. He had no idea who would be coming to the house, and on what business, but his first priority was to find Aric Joel. Jarod cupped his hands around his mouth, and yelled.
"AJ!!! AJ!!!" There was no reply. Jarod stomped his feet to try to stay warm, and continued searching. Then, he heard another yell.
"Over here!" The person, a man, sounded strangely like Broots. But it couldn't possibly be Broots...Jarod had sent Broots and Debbie to Washington State. He followed the voice, nevertheless, and saw two things that amazed him- the first being Broots in black slacks, white shirt, and a trench coat that looked suspiciously government style. The second being...
Aric Joel sat in the tree, shivering. He heard people yelling a minute ago, for him, but he kept his eyes squinched shut. He just wanted them to go away. They kept lying to him. His sister was not fine, he knew that much. Everyone always looked worried when they talked about her. Then Sam was dead, and they tried to hide it from him. He heard someone walk beneath the tree and stop. He froze, and hoped they wouldn't notice him. Then he heard an all-too familiar voice.
"Hey, kid. It's awfully cold out here, why don't you come in?" Aric Joel opened his eyes, slowly, and looked down, half-fearing that it was just his imagination.
Sam stood beneath the tree, looking up, a grin tugging on the corners of his mouth. Aric Joel slid out of the tree, down to the ground, and cautiously stepped forward.
"Sam?"
"Yeah, kiddo?" Was the reply. Aric Joel flung himself forward, and wrapped his arms around Sam, daring someone to make him let go. Sam, though surprised, squatted down and Aric Joel buried his face in the Sweeper's shoulder.
"They...they said you were dead." Aric Joel choked out. Sam carefully pulled him away, so he could make eye contact.
"Miscommunication. I wouldn't be too hard on them." Aric Joel's eyes were brimming over with tears, and the small boy found that he was incapable of speech. Sam hesitated, then wordlessly picked him up and started walking towards the house. Aric Joel wrapped his arms around Sam's neck, and sniffled as he once again buried his face in Sam's shoulder.
They returned to the house to find a room full of shocked people, attempting to get Broots to explain a dozen different things at once. Sam almost put Aric Joel down, but when the little boy's hold tighten went he started to bend over, Sam decided against it, and just stepped back near the wall, and stood there.
The noise came to a dead stop when the little red-headed man, one of the two others that had come with Broots, put two fingers in his mouth and let out an ear piercing whistle.
"Thanks, Lloyd." Broots muttered. Then, to the people (who were Jarod, Patrick, Sydney, Ben, Major Charles, Jack Ryan, and Emily), "Listen. Just calm down, and I'll explain myself." Everyone seemed to settle down, and Broots continued. "I'm with the FBI, for starters. I accepted an undercover mission nearly eleven years ago, having no idea what it would hold." That statement brought a bit of laughter from the two strangers with Broots. "Broots is my mother's maiden name. My name is Jon Rand, Special Agent. These are two of my highly dedicated team, Gregory Lloyd," The red head nodded, as if introducing himself without the trouble of shaking everyone's hand. "and Henry Allen." The other stranger, a tall blonde man, nodded as well. "As for Sam. James Frank, whom I left at the Bureau to avoid multiple panic attacks, went undercover with me about eight years ago. You know him as Cox."
"I saw the DSA!" Jarod protested. "It..it..."
"It was a bit doctored, at the end, but the rest was brilliant acting on Frank's part. Sam had no idea, until the moment Frank was about to pull the trigger."
"Then what happened?" Patrick asked, unable to hold in his curiosity. Broots, or Jon Rand rather, chuckled.
"He put the gun in his holster, grabbed Sam by the arm, and said, I quote, 'Let's get the hell out of here. This place gives me the creeps, and it's starting to effect my brain. Two seconds more, and I'll snap.' The real DSA was actually sort of humorous."
"We've got some catching up to do, then. Plan wise." Jarod said after a moment of silence. "One question. What do you want us to call you, now?"
"Rand will work." The man once known as Broots replied. "Let's get to work, then."
Mr. Parker sat at his desk, staring at a single floppy disk. It was labeled, 'Important. From Triumvirate', and nothing else. He had been staring at the desk for a full ten minutes, afraid of what it might hold. A notice of leave? He knew he hadn't exactly been effective lately. A new termination order? For whom?
He finally picked it up, slid it into his computer's floppy disk drive, and clicked the A drive icon. The computer stalled, and a screen popped up. Before Mr. Parker could even react, the blue load bar had filled completely.
"Thank you for inserting the Trojan Program. Have a nice afterlife." A mechanical voice said from the computer speakers. Mr. Parker realized what was happening, and frantically tried to shut the computer down. The screen went black with a defeated beep and sigh, and Mr. Parker gave his own sigh of relief. Two minutes later, his secretary entered the room.
"Mr. Parker? I can't get my computer to work. It says everything is deleted." Mr. Parker's eyes filled with horror, and slowly shifted to the networking box, which his computer was plugged into.
"Rachel?" He asked. The secretary stepped forward.
"Yes sir?"
"Leave right now, and don't look back."
"Sir?"
"It's all over. There's nothing left. Don't look back. You can save yourself." Confused, Rachel turned and obediently left.
Alarms began going off in the building, and people ran helter skelter, trying to find a way out of the mess, or a way to stop it. Mr. Parker stared ahead silently, waiting for the next blow of the storm to hit. And hit it did.
Ten minutes after the virus had erased every single file the Centre owned, the front doors flew open, and SWAT teams and FBI Agents flooded in.
