FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

The AdvAnTAGE Project

By

Mantrid Brizon

Episode 05: A Third Option

“That's unfortunate..." The Old Man murmurs, holding the phone to his ear. “How did they manage to leave without raising an alarm?"

“The lead technician, a Mr. Avery Keyes, tampered with the system from his office terminal. As they're all interconnected it wasn't very difficult; he installed much of the hardware and software in the facility. Without the fear of alarms, the doctors anesthetized a nurse and carried the specimen out in an old carrier crate. They... Bluffed their way past the soldiers, sir." Agent Sharpe replies.

“Credit where credit is due!" The Old Man cannot help but chuckle. “As for Mr. Keyes, we'll deal with him in an appropriate manner. Now that construction has finished, have him shipped to the White Facility..."

“Of course, sir."

“And transfer out those soldiers, too!"

“Yes, sir."

“What about the gate guard? He's an original staff member."

“Scott Becker, sir. Upon initial questioning, he claimed that he never noticed any animal carrier and didn't find it suspicious that the doctors were leaving together. Unfortunately, there were no cameras on or near his kiosk to verify his story. I've already made arrangements to resolve that issue."

“Good! Pay this Mr. Becker a private visit and confirm his story." The Old Man instructs, a sinister air in his voice.

“Yes, sir. As for the doctors and the specimen, they couldn't have gone far. I've already ordered their bank accounts frozen, though Dr. Burnheart made several substantial withdrawals from various ATMs in town. Two grand won't last them very long. I've also ordered their passports to be placed onto the blacklist and prepared a statement to issue to police departments nationwide. I estimate return of the specimen by twenty-four to seventy-two hours."

“Not so fast, Agent."

“Sir?"

“In this particular instance, I think it would behoove us to back away." The Old Man reiterates.

“... I'm sorry sir, but I can't imagine a positive outcome from allowing two key research staff and the first successful specimen to roam freely."

“I'm not asking for your opinion, Agent..."

“Of course not, sir. I just... I'd like to understand why you're asking me to stand down, sir."

“Fair enough. They care for the specimen, Harriet, otherwise they wouldn't have risked an escape. They won't risk further exposure, nor will they go public. At this stage, they know that would likely result in a public outcry that would see Harriet destroyed and their life's work ruined. We cannot allow that, but I don't believe they would, either. This project is far too important. No, Agent, I believe they'll hide her away and safeguard her." The Old Man explains.

“So what are my orders, sir?"

“Allow them access to their bank accounts but keep a watchful eye. Ensure that they feel the pressure to stay hidden, but don't push them too hard. I don't want you to lose them. I'd like them to remain available, as I'm sure we'll require their services in the future. That being said, all future AdvAnimals should receive the prototype RFID chips. I'd hate for us to 'lose' any further specimens."

“Understood, sir."

“Keep me appraised, and prepare for reassignment. More Agents and new staff will precede your transfer. Good day, Agent Sharpe."

“Good day, sir."

Hanging up the phone, the pale, suit-wearing man stares at the receiver through the mirrored lenses of his sunglasses. Turning his head, he looks to Director Chen, who nervously bites on a thumbnail. She turns her eyes toward him, slumped back in her chair. Alone in the Director's office, the deafening silence surrounds them. They stare blankly at each other for a long while, as though neither could remember how to communicate.

“Well?" Director Chen finally asks in a soft, nervous voice.

“More Agents and new staff will be arriving soon. I'll be reassigned shortly thereafter." He replies.

“Oh... D-did your bosses say anything about me?"

“No, Amy. I'm certain you'll be alright."

“Oh! ... But what about you?" She asks with worry in her voice.

“... Have a goodnight, Amy."

Stepping out of her office and carefully closing the door behind him, Agent Sharpe makes his way down the hall. He turns a corner, passes the nurse's station and enters the nursery. There he finds several of his men, standing on either side of Avery Keyes. The lead technician sits in a wheelchair, handcuffs locking his wrists to the armrests of the chair as he stares with fearful yet defiant eyes at the pale, blonde-haired man-in-black.

“You can do whatever you like, b-but I don't know jack-shit." He grumbles, doing his best to sound insolent.

“Of that I'm certain." Agent Sharpe flashes a sinister grin. “And we will do what we like... You're being transferred, Mr. Keyes."

“T-transferred?" Avery mumbles.

“Yes. We're taking you to the White Facility. Once there, I'm certain you will remain useful."

“Taking me where?!"

With a nod of Agent Sharpe's head, the other Agents begin their work. As one kneels down and unlocks the wheels of Avery's chair, the technician begins to wriggle and writhe. Avery's horrified expression, as the other Agent produces leather straps, seems to bring the unnerving men a modicum of joy.

“Hey! N-no, wait! B-but I have a family!!!" He shouts as an Agent holds down his legs and straps them to the chair.

“You should've thought of that before assisting in the theft of Unifact property, Mr. Keyes." Agent Sharpe speaks casually as he adjusts his dark sunglasses.

“No... No, you can't do this!"

With his legs strapped down and wrists cuffed to the arms of the chair, Avery thrashes about like a fish out of water. It does him no good. One Agent removes a strange mask made of a black, leather-like material. Moving around the chair and standing behind Avery, he quite violently pulls the mask over the technician's face.

“No! Noooo!" Avery rapidly shakes his head from side to side.

The buckles draw tightly, his screams now thoroughly muffled by the leather cover. Two holes for his nostrils allow him to breathe, but nothing more. Tears seep from his eyes as he cries through the mask, his meek, whimpering pleas going unanswered as he's wheeled away by the Agents. It won't be long before he's loaded into a white, windowless and unmarked cargo van and driven to the White Facility, a new and secretive lab built and operated solely by the council whom they serve, Sovereign Six. Even Agent Sharpe feels a tinge of regret, however small it may be. Sometimes death can be a blessing. As Agent Grey heads for the archway, following the Agent who pushes the wheelchair, Agent Sharpe extends a hand.

“Sir?"

“Apologies, Agent Grey..." Agent Sharpe begins, straightening the tie that he'd bumped out of place. “I'm being transferred. Should there not be an Agent slated to replace me and my position as Chief of Security for MiLab, I'd prefer it if you acted as my replacement."

“Thank you, sir!"

“Careful..." Agent Sharpe replies in his eerie monotone. “That almost sounded happy."

“Apologies, sir." Agent Grey replies in an equally unnerving monotone.

With a soft sigh, Agent Sharpe walks past Agent Grey and down the hall.

“Any new orders, sir?" Agent Grey calls out to his leader.

“Get some rest. Tomorrow we have work to do." Agent Sharpe replies, never once looking back or slowing his pace.

“Understood, sir."

Sitting in the car with the widow down, Carol glances toward the afternoon sun. It's a clear, blue sky, sparsely inhabited by the fluffy, white clouds. The warm rays radiate through the vibrant leaves of the whispering trees and cascade over the softly rolling hills. The Michigan farmland is picturesque. She feels a stirring and glances down, her lips curling into a little smile as she gazes upon the sleeping baby. Little Harriet coos and turns her head before jolting again and slowly opening her eyes. They're so vivid, so beautiful, like turquoise pools. The wind brushes her wheat colored fur and flips an elongated ear over her face, disturbing and upsetting the infant.

“Oh! Sorry, Button!"

Carol swiftly but gently moves her ear away from her face and rolls up the window, guarding the child from the wind. Harriet calms down, though she still stirs, as though trying to become more comfortable in the woman's arms. Carol glances toward Kyle, who pulls the car over and onto a soft berm. He lifts up a road map that he'd left resting on the center console.

“So... What's the plan?" She asks.

“I'm not sure, yet. Maybe the upper peninsula? More secluded, less people. That might be the best option for a hideout."

“Maybe."

“I wish we could've taken out more money before they locked our bank accounts though. Had I known we'd be fleeing from government agents, I'd have left a suitcase full of Benjamins tucked away in my bedroom closet. Those bastards must be right on our ass." Kyle murmurs, glancing into the rearview mirror.

Just then, a loud chirping startles the occupants of the car. Kyle swiftly reaches into the breast pocket of his light jacket only to find his Motorola MicroTAC Ultra Lite cellular phone. He flips open the phone and answers it before the noise reawakens Harriet.

“Hello?"

“Hello. Could I speak with Mr. Burnheart, please?" A woman's voice begins.

“Speaking."

“Hi! This is Jenny, with National City Bank. We're calling to let you know that there was an error and your account was locked by mistake. It seems like you made a few too many withdrawals last night and it confused our computer system. We've taken care of that for you!" The woman chirps.

“... Okay."

“We're sorry for any inconvenience, and we hope to enjoy your continued business! Did you have any questions for me, Mr. Burnheart?"

“Uh... No..."

“Alrighty! You have a wonderful day!" She exclaims before hanging up the phone.

He pulls his phone away from his ear and twists his wrist, closing the flip-lid with his chest. Carol raises a brow as he slowly returns the phone to his pocket, sets the map aside, and begins to drive. A moment of silence stretches on and on.

“Well? Who was that?"

“A lady from my bank..." He glances toward her. “They unlocked my account... Said it was 'an error'."

“An error? What does that mean? We saw what happened when you tried to make that fifth withdrawal. It nearly ate your card. You mean to say that wasn't caused by those creepy, suit-wearing freaks?!"

“I don't know." He shrugs. “But we still need to be careful. We're sailing through unknown shores, and there be monsters..." He murmurs, pressing harder on the accelerator.

Pulling the black Trailblazer into a parking space, the Agents gaze upon the brick-and-mortar structure. The two-story tall apartment complex is rather old, built to serve as low-income housing back in the 1950s. The long, slender strip of apartments, their front doors facing the parking lot, are mostly empty. Few still live on this side of town, now that many of the nearby shops have closed and the only factory has moved their business to Mexico. The rest of the town's businesses are service oriented, maintaining the community, but only just.

As the other Agents step out of the car, Agent Miller, the driver, remains behind. He sits in silence, carefully scanning the surrounding area for any witnesses. Agents Sharpe, Carter and Grey make their way toward door #3. Beyond this door is the apartment where Scotty Becker resides. They'd given the humble security guard nearly twenty-four hours to cool off, but as the sun creeps closer to the horizon it's time for the Agents to pay him a little visit. Hopefully, their sudden appearance will shake free any memories that may have sequestered themselves in the abyss of his mind.

With a wave of his hand, Agent Sharpe Directs Agent Carter toward the front door. Removing his lock picking kit, he swiftly turns the door knob with his gloved hand and gives it a push. He freezes. A chain holds the door shut. Casually returning his lock picking kit to his suit-jacket pocket, Agent Carter removes another device, a strange piece of folding metal. Pulling the door until it's nearly shut, he uses a hook at the end of the device to carefully slide the chain to the far end before popping it free. With the door now thoroughly unlocked, and without leaving any trace of forcible entry, the Agents push it open and step inside.

They immediately note a familiar and pungent smell. They walk across the hardwood floor and climb the wooden steps, moving almost silently in their polished, black dress shoes. The putrid stench, like iron and old meat, grows ever stronger. Entering Scotty's bedroom, the Agents are unsurprised by what they find. Sitting atop his bed, his back against his headboard, Scott Becker's head is blown apart. His face is unrecognizable, and most of his skull is missing. His hands clutch a cheap, top-break shotgun. The single-shot weapon leans to his right, resting over a gently bent arm.

“It appears he was lying after all..." Agent Sharpe speaks in a low growl.

Agent Grey glances toward a nightstand and finds a Ziploc sandwich bag, spattered with dried blood and containing a slip of paper. Putting on his black, latex gloves, the Agent opens the bag and unfolds the note. Without uttering a word, he presents it to Agent Sharpe, who glances at the note.

“I thought I was guarding important research, some medical breakthrough that would better the world. Maybe I was, but now I know that whatever they've done at MiLab isn't worth it. I can't live not knowing, but I don't think I could live with the truth, either. God save the innocent children. To whoever finds this note, expose Unifact's evil." He reads aloud.

“That's unfortunate..." Agent Carter murmurs.

“Can you copy his handwriting, Agent Grey?"

“Yes, sir. I received top marks in calligraphy."

“Good. Find identical paper and draft a new note. Something about his miserable social life and unhappiness with his career." Agent Sharpe twirls a hand as he casually issues his order.

“Yes, sir."

Agent Grey drafts a new note, the handwriting indistinguishable from Scotty's. Placing the new note in the Ziploc bag, he returns it to the nightstand, setting it in the exact same spot as he'd found it. With that, the Agents take their leave, the rest of Scotty's residence unmolested by their presence. As they enter the black Trailblazer, Agent Sharpe lets out a little sigh.

“Agent Carter?" He suddenly speaks up.

“Yes, sir?"

“I'll soon be reassigned. In my absence, I'd like you to lead the watch detail. Track down the subject and her caretakers."

“Yes, sir."

“Keep an eye on them. Nothing more. On occasion, allow them to realize the futility of their efforts." Agent Sharpe continues.

“Understood, sir."

“Where will you be reassigned to, sir?" Agent Carter asks, a subtle hint of emotion in his voice.

“That's a good question... Hopefully somewhere above ground." He murmurs.

The other Agents cannot help but glance amongst themselves. They know that this failure is on Agent Sharpe, who was entrusted as Chief of MiLab's security. Perhaps The Old Man has cause to second-guess that decision? None say a word, merely waiting for Agent Sharpe's instructions. However, as they approach the main road leading back to town, he still hasn't given Agent Miller any instructions.

“Where to, sir?"

“Hm? Oh... Back to town. I'd like to browse through the Doctors' homes. Maybe get a good lead on where they might be heading... Before it's no longer my responsibility." Agent Sharpe speaks softly.

“Yes, sir." Agent Miller quietly replies as he activates the turn signal.

Enduring a silent, discomforting drive, none of the Agents speak a word to each other. As they turn the corner to enter the upper-middle class neighborhood where Dr. Burnheart's home is located, they see a swathe of police. They surround the house of the Harper family, whom they'd obliterated the night before. Why are they still there? Agent Sharpe had assumed that the absent, teenage son would've called later on that night, upon returning home. Was he staying with friends and delayed? In either case, they cannot afford to be seen by the police, though they could easily influence them. Sometimes it's better to avoid confrontation altogether, even if it can be steered in your favor. Agent Sharpe leans closer to Agent Miller.

“Turn around and drive to Dr. Addis' home. We'll start there, and give them some time to clear out."

“Yes, sir."

Turning around in a neighbor's driveway, Agent Miller takes them back to the main road and continues on. Unable to remain silent any longer, Agent Grey gently clears his throat.

“You know, sir, we've already asked Dr. Burnheart's bank to contact him..." He begins.

“I know." Agent Sharpe mumbles.

“He owns a cellular phone. If he has it with him, we can track his signal..." Agent Grey continues.

“I know that, too." Agent Sharpe grumbles.

“... We don't need to do any of this, sir." Agent Grey persists

“Humor me." Agent Sharpe growls, glaring at his cohort.

“Yes, sir..."

As the black SUV turns down a residential street, they pass by many homes. A boy stands in an opened garage, setting up a folding table. He sees the distinctive vehicle from the corner of his eye and stands tall, turning toward the blacked-out Trailblazer.

“Huh... I didn't know you could tint windows like that." Louis murmurs.

The side door of his family's home swings open and Connor emerges, valuable cargo weighing down his arms. Jack and Martin quickly follow behind, equally laden with electrical equipment and components.

“We can set up in this area." Louis points to the folding table in the corner of his nearly empty garage.

“Is your mom going to be okay with this?" Connor asks, carrying a computer inside.

“Yeah. She's fine with it."

“I wonder if she'll feel that way when we're all wanted criminals." Martin quips, setting a computer atop the card table.

“All we're doing is setting up a computer lab in my parent's garage. This is exactly what everyone would expect us to do. Come here, tinker with electronics, play some DnD, fight the man. Just another weekend!" Louis retorts.

“If we're going to be doing that activist stuff, shouldn't we have a cool group name?!" Connor exuberantly asks, stretching out his spindly arms.

“Like what?" Jack raises a brow, bringing in a monitor.

“How about... 'The Fist', 'cause there's five of us!" The boy chirps.

“Donnie's MIA, so there's only four of us, and that's kind of a dumb name, anyway." Jack chuckles.

“Hm... How about... Q-Base! 'Cause we're like Q from 007, but it's also computer code! Double meanings! Or 'The Rectifiers', because we resolve situations and the stream of information will only go one way! Huh?! Yeah?!"

“Eh... Maybe we don't need a name." A cringing Martin replies, opening a duffel bag full of cables.

“Pfft... You guys are no fun." Connor pouts.

“We won't need a group name, not until after we get phase one in motion." Louis interjects.

“Are you sure about this, Louis? I mean... This path seems awfully familiar." Jack remarks.

“I told you already, we can't decrypt that file with the junky computers we currently have. We need better hardware and software and that means that we need to gather the capital first; we need a revenue stream. Using my new-to-me Atari Portfolio, I think I can run similar or identical software, and I already have some of Donnie's old contacts to get the card numbers we need. We won't do it on his scale – twenty-thousand is pushing it – but we can at least build up our tech, and in time, we can figure out what the hell is on that file that's worth killing over." Louis explains.

“And you're positive we can get away with this?" Martin presses him.

“Of course! I learned all of this fraud stuff from Donnie." Louis says, plugging the computers and monitors into a power strip. “You were there half the time but you just weren't paying attention. Your eyes tend to gloss over when he and I talk tech."

“I'm usually too busy thinking about pus-"

“We know, you Jock wannabe." Jack grumbles, interrupting Martin as he tosses a spare power strip toward him.

“Woah!" Martin steps back and catches the power strip like a football. “Don't be mad because I've got smooth moves."

“And a little dick." Jack chuckles.

“Hey, three-inches and wet is better than a dry foot-long, you know?" Martin smirks.

“Will you two shut up? I'm losing my train of thought." Louis says as he types away on an old keyboard.

“I wonder what Donnie's up to right now." Connor remarks as he slumps back in a folding chair.

Looking away from his magazine, the clerk focuses his attention on the dinging bell. A young man has just walked in. His eyes carefully scan the surroundings. Approaching the desk of the small-town motel, the young man clears his throat.

“I'd like a room please."

The clerk raises a brow and scans the man standing before him. With an average build and unassuming features, he doesn't look like much, nor does his voice have an air of masculinity to it. If he didn't know better, he'd swear this person was a teenager.

“Identification, please."

“Sure!" The young man chirps.

Reaching into his back pocket, the man pulls out a wallet. It's not a childish, Velcro wallet with a chain or funny patterns sewn onto it but made of classy, black leather. Retrieving a card, the young man presents his identification, and to the surprise of the clerk, it appears to be a valid driver's license.

“Huh... You don't look eighteen."

“Yeah, I get that a lot. I once had a girl at a gas station call the cops on me because she thought I must've stolen my own car." The young man chuckles. “So, please, could you not waste my time? I've been driving all day and I'm pretty tired."

Retrieving another card, the young man presents it to the clerk, who finds himself looking at a genuine Visa credit card. Thoroughly convinced, the clerk swipes the card and collects a room key.

“Donald Faster... That name sounds awfully familiar."

“Yeah, I get that a lot, too." The young man smiles.

“Here you go, Mr. Faster. Enjoy your night."

“You, too."

Leaving the office, the young man hops inside of a bright red, 1989 Ford Mustang and backs into the space nearest his motel room door. As the young man removes a backpack and a few duffle bags, the clerk loses interest and once again returns his attention to his magazine. Entering his motel room, the young man sets the bags atop the mattress and takes off his backpack. He sets the shaved key, which he'd used to steal the car, onto the nightstand. With any luck at all, he can meet with a contact tomorrow to have legitimate plates put on the car.

He locks the door and chains it shut but pauses as he examines the room's security measures. Unsatisfied, he drags a chair away from the cheap table near the television set and jams it beneath the doorknob. With a loud sigh, he takes off his jacket and throws it atop the table before heading into the bathroom to check his bandages. Taking out tomorrow's clothes and a wooden box from a duffle bag, he places them strategically, preparing his room for a quick escape. The small pistol that he removes from the box takes residence atop the nightstand, next to the light and the digital alarm clock. The duffle bags and backpack sit near the door, atop the chair that he'd jammed beneath the knob.

Retrieving a set of framed photos, he sets them near the weapon and takes a moment to gaze upon the images. As he lies down on the bed, his icy blue eyes stare at the ceiling. After a moment of struggle, doing his best to avoid the act, he succumbs. The young man rolls over and lies on his side, looking upon the photos. He sniffles as the tears form, the saltine fluid running from his eyes and dripping onto his pillow.

“I'm so sorry... I never should've... ... One day, mom and dad... One day I'll make them pay for what they did to you. I promise you that... I love you." He says, before turning off the light and trying to sleep.