The March Conspiracy

[Craines]

A man clothed in a fine Bretonian suit entered the room where the press conference was being held. He was an old man, stooping slightly, and came out to be about 5 foot 3. His face had a beautifully managed beard, reaching down to the breast pocket of his suit. It was a fading shade of maroon, entering gray, but that did nothing if not amplify the effect it had. This was a man of wisdom.

His head was bald, however, and the light glinted slightly off of it. His eyes were cold and calculating, and the creases on his face betrayed his age, along with his beard. His life was one of constant paranoia, and it had apparently taken its toll on him.

Moving to a chair near the back, the man sat and watched the proceedings. The Bretonian Police were trying to cover their own backsides, and were trying, and failing, to hide the fact that they had no idea what was really going on. The man allowed himself a sly smile, hiding behind his manicured facial hair.

Finally, the Speaker of Bretonia informed everyone that there were to be no more questions. Rising from his seat, the man walked nonchalantly towards the Chambers of Office, near the back, while the reporters hustled and hurried out of the door to get the interview onto the holovids and newspaper. Reaching the door to the Chambers, the man opened them a few inches and slipped in.

"Hello, Director McTraland," the man said. His voice was oily, uncomfortable to hear and yet hinted towards great power. "I believe you know who I am?"

McTraland looked about his office, and seeing that there was no one, beckoned the man to sit in a chair before him. "This is our first, uh, our first meeting, no? Um, I think that that is for the best, because as you know, it is often, um, best to not be in a situation to have to contact you because..."

"Stop. Talking. Now," the man said, his eyes closed and his fingers massaging his temples. "You are a blundering idiot, someone who deserves to be killed and chopped up into little tiny rich-people's food. But you are also a powerful man... assuming that you decide to cooperate. Otherwise... well, let's say there are worse ways to die than being ground into meat, yes?"

McTraland blanched, his face a shade of white reserved for parchment. His knuckles grew white as he gripped the arms of his chair ferociously. "Whatever you, uh, whatever you say, sir. Yes, whatever you say, and want, sir."

"Good. Now, I believe you can adequately handle this little problem? Cover it up, hire some bombers, I don't care. Just make it," he cracked his neck, "disappear." The man looked into the trembling eyes of McTraland. "I am Richard Walters. I work for SD6. And know this: we are powerful. So powerful, in fact, that if you manage to make this into a blunder, you will become akin to the ether that Terra Firma was once convinced filled space. Do I make myself clear, fool?"

"Yes, of course, sir! Crystal clear, sir. As clear as..."

"You really must learn to shut the hell up sometimes, McTraland. I mean, honestly, just saying, 'Yes sir' would have sufficed. But no, you have to bumble on and on. If I have the displeasure of ever entering this godforsaken office again, I expect two things. One, that this problem has been handled correctly, and two, that you are better at your job. There are many men we can hire to replace you, McTraland. You are expendable."

"Yes sir, sorry sir."

"Good. Now, I'm going to leave. I have other things to attend to, as I suspect you do as well. See this woman?" Walters removed a holographic image of a young woman. "She is your new secretary. She is also your liaison to us. If she is injured, found dead, et cetera, be forewarned that your life will become forfeit. She is move valuable than one thousand of you, and I expect that she be treated as your immense superior. Do I make myself clear?"

McTraland visibly jumped at this last sentence. Walters was a powerful speaker, to be sure, and the effect of thirty years of interrogation techniques was having full impact on the poor official. "Yes sir," he managed.

"Good. I will be leaving now. Miss Sara Cora is your new superior. Obey her like the Queen. Adieu."

As Richard Walters left, McTraland exhaled. He had only been told, in small detail, that a mysterious organization used that man to act as their messenger. Still, he hadn't been expecting... that. It was as if the Devil Itself had crawled into his office. McTraland took out a flask of whiskey, and gulped furiously at it. He wanted to forget all about the encounter, and the bottom of a glass seemed the quickest way to do it.

---