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The AdvAnTAGE Project

By

Mantrid Brizon

Episode 10: Pandora's Box

Lifting a cup to her lips, a young woman takes a careful sip of steaming hot coffee. She sits at a booth in a tiny, hole-in-the-wall diner, which she'd seen as she drove along the desolate highway. She's been driving for a long time, and needs something to help keep her awake, as she's nearly at her destination. Glancing through the plate glass windows, sections of which glow with the neon signs that decorate the facade, she looks upon the gleaming asphalt, damp from a recent rain.

It would almost be serene, if not for the incessant clicking of keys. Like nails clawing at the back of her head, a young man sitting at the booth beside hers types away on a portable computer. Though she tries to ignore the ceaseless clicking and clacking, she finds herself gritting her teeth. With a frustrated sigh, she slowly turns around in the red vinyl booth, looking over her shoulder at the only other patron in the establishment.

“Ahem... ... AHEM!" She clears her throat.

The man pays her no attention.

“Excuse me, mister... Hey!"

“Huh?"

He continues to type away, pausing only to pull a CD in a thin, jewel case from a pack that sits beside him.

“I'm sorry, but could you please stop whatever you're doing?" She asks.

“Why?" He replies, placing the disk onto the laptop's CD tray.

“Because I said. Because it's annoying."

“No."

His curt response catches her off-guard. She blinks and raises her brow, her eyes growing wide.

“Uh, I'm sorry?!" She snaps at him.

“You heard me just fine." He says, continuing to type away.

“I'm making a long drive to get to my new apartment in New York. You see, I'm going to the State University of New York where I'm going to be studying liberal arts! What are you doing that's so important, huh?!"

“You couldn't possibly comprehend."

She scoffs and shakes her head. Never has anyone been so abrupt and condescending to her before.

“All you're doing is typing symbols on a screen! What could that possibly do?!"

“See answer 'A'."

“Listen here, you arrogant little sh-"

“I was here first, so either buy your coffee to go or shut up and leave me alone."

“... Asshole." She grumbles, before climbing out of her seat.

As the barely twenty-year-old woman storms out of the diner and makes her way back to her Mercedes-Benz, she kicks the front right fender of the late model, black Ford Mustang, which presumably belongs to the rude man inside. As her tires squeal, the lone employee approaches her empty booth.

“Scared another one off, Donnie?" The middle-aged man smirks.

“This use to be a quiet place. That's the second customer you've had in six hours." Donnie replies, still typing away.

“Well, at least she paid for the coffee. Did you want another Coke, or maybe some sweet potato pie? It's real good this time."

“No thanks, Reggie."

“Alright, but when you finish working on whatever the hell that is, and you become a rich programmer like Bill Gates or whatever, remember where you spent all your time." Reggie chuckles.

Donnie's subtle nod is all the response the older man needs. As he clears the table, Donnie continues his work, preparing his newly finished software for the final test. With the mysterious file loaded onto the CD, so that he never needs to leave it on his hard drive, Donnie opens 'Twilight Time', his latest decryption software. He takes a deep breath as he prepares himself, typing the location of the file he wishes to decrypt in DOS prompt. Every previous effort for the past year has been failure after failure, but the thought of reading the file that caused him so much pain always overwhelms him.

As his heart begins to race and his temperature rises, he presses the 'Enter' key. Twilight Time begins to run. The hourglass turns over and over again, a little bar of seemingly random letters and numbers flashing in bold, green text as the program uses every known encryption, and even new combinations based on old systems. His fingers tap nervously on the counter as he feels his core muscles spasming; he literally shivers with eager anticipation. Suddenly, the hourglass and the text disappears. His screen now displays a pixelated full moon.

“Heavenly shades of night are falling. It's twilight time. Out of the mist your voice is calling, 'Tis twilight time." The voice sings to him.

He sits up so fast that he feels a twinge in his back, and a foot bangs the pillar that holds up the table.

“Ow! Holy shit... It worked!" He chuckles with bewilderment.

His fingers type away as he opens the decrypted file, now displayed in easily readily English script. His eyes grow wide as he learns the truth of “Spec-#0941".

“Oh, God... I need to show this to the Horsemen."

Driving in his car as fast as he can, he races down the desolate highway. Turning the wheel hard as he slams on the brakes, Martin nearly crashes his pearl white, '95 Lexus LS 400. Pulling into the long driveway of the old farmhouse, he skids to a stop on the dirt and gravel drive. Now a legal adult of eighteen, Martin Foster dashes up the steps of the home he's purchased for his friends, Louis Jagger, Jack Kelley and Connor Tully. The trio live there, rent-free, while Martin maintains an apartment in the city.

Over the last twenty months, they'd done exactly as Louis wanted, using Donnie Harper's contacts and methods to harvest money from stolen credit cards, before investing it in the stock market. With Louis' and Connor's skills as hackers, they've caused several stock changes through market manipulation, benefiting greatly from their work. Martin, the most business savvy of the bunch, acts as their front, controlling the group's finances and maintaining their properties.

Meanwhile, the others continue their work, trying to uncover Unifact's secrets. They've kept in touch with Donnie via hidden message boards, a secret network that only a select few know about and even fewer can access. Now, Louis, a nervous and jittery man who rarely, if ever, uses a telephone, out of sheer paranoia, has called Martin over.

“We've got a new movie for you! You have to check this one out!" He chirped.

That was a code established long ago. Martin knows that they've discovered something big, and though he's not nearly as adept with computers as his friends, they've always included him in their work. Impulsively setting the alarm as he reaches the front door, he pushes it open so fast that he nearly falls inside, tripping over the threshold. No sooner than he stumbles in, he finds himself staring down the barrel of a forty-five.

“Woah! Easy there, killer!" He holds up his hands.

“Sorry." Jack flips on the safety. “You didn't announce yourself. I got worried it might've been... Them."

“That big?!" Martin's eyes bulge.

Jack merely nods his head, slipping his pistol into a holster on his belt.

“Where'd you get that, anyway? You're younger than me."

“Gunny." Jack replies, motioning for Martin to follow him.

“That crazy arms-dealer?! You finally met him?!"

“Well, no. We did a dead drop. I thought a 1911 would be a good start to the collection."

“Oh... Wasn't he in 'Nam?"

“Yeah. He reminds us in every other message he sends." Jack chuckles.

“Look who finally made it!" Connor chirps, leaning against Louis' desk.

“Took you long enough." Louis turns around in his computer chair, leaning on an armrest. “We thought they got you."

“No such luck, boys. What's going on, anyway? You actually used a phone!" Martin chirps, grabbing a nearby folding chair and sitting down, the backrest facing his chest.

“Check this out. We got something from Donnie." Louis begins, turning his chair around and facing his work station.

“Oh, yeah?"

“Oh, yeah!" Connor nods.

“Looks like he finally finished it. We're getting ready to run 'Twilight Time'." Louis continues.

“It probably would've been done months ago if he'd have let me see the code." Connor boasts.

Typing away on his keyboard, Louis follow Donnie's instructions to the letter. As the computer's speakers belt out the song, they find themselves looking at a perfectly readable .txt file. Opening the file, they stare in shock. It's dozens of pages long, and seems to compile many reports into one. Though brief and riddled with scientific and medical terminology, it very clearly describes the process of developing a creature through human-animal hybridization. The final report is dated only a few days before Old Mr. Hapcock was murdered.

“Report #092.

Author: Director Amy Chen

Subject #0, dubbed 'Harriet' by the staff, is growing steadily and appears healthy. She does not appear to suffer any defects as a result of her parentage, and Dr. Burnheart is certain that she will survive the birthing process. The others are now being grown, using Dr. Burnheart's method. The varying animal ovum do not seem to affect the process in any way, allowing for wide varieties of creatures. Batch #001 is expected to be as successful as Subject #0. End of report."

Reading the final report over Louis' shoulders, Jack drops his half-full can of Dr. Pepper.

“Hey! Don't splash my equipment!" Louis barks.

“Yeah, yeah... What the fuck is that talking about?!" Jack points at the computer screen.

“You read it, same as we did." Connor replies.

“Human-animal hybridization... Jesus Christ..." Martin reels, running his fingers through his hair. “Now I get why they'd waste his folks."

“You think they're still doing stuff like this? You think they're still working on this project?" Connor turns to the others.

“Hell yes. With a report like this, you know those scientist types wouldn't just stop." Jack replies.

“This is years old by now. Subject Zero is probably living in a cell somewhere, with all of their other Frankenstein experiments." Connor remarks.

“You did it, Donnie. You found something bigger than Playboy and Hustler combined." Martin murmurs.

“Now that we've got it... What should we do with it?" Louis asks.

The young men look amongst each other for a moment, contemplating their next move. Rising from his computer chair, the Agent nervously gulps. He isn't able to maintain his persona as he makes his way toward The Old Man's private office. He wouldn't dare approach him in such a manner, but this development demands The Old Man's attention. He knocks on the door, standing as still as a statue, waiting on the other side of the cherry wood barrier.

“Come!" The Old Man calls out.

Opening the door and stepping inside, the nervous Agent holds several sheets of paper, still warm from the printer.

“A new field report, Agent?"

“Something like that, sir... Sir?"

“Yes?"

“We have another leak."

“Oh?" The Old Man raises a brow.

“It's bad..."

“What do you mean, 'bad'?"

“The stolen report compilation on Specimen #0941... Someone finally cracked it."

“What?!" The Old Man slowly rises from his chair, his expression that of pure shock.

“It was posted to the internet, sir, on multiple message boards. Within one hour of the upload, it received nearly 1,000 total downloads from a half-dozen sites." The Agent explains.

“That many?!" The Old Man gasps.

“Yes, sir."

“Computers are becoming more common, it seems... Can we plug the leak?"

“Even if we did, sir, we'd have 1,000 computers to reformat and likely twice the witnesses to silence." The Agent sheepishly explains.

“Well... That's unfortunate, but it was bound to happen eventually. Perhaps we can spin this in our favor? Call our usual people and have them come out with a story about hoax government documents?" The Old Man seems to think aloud.

“I don't think that will work this time, sir."

“Where's your imagination? Of course we can spin this! We always do!" The Old Man scoffs.

“Even if we did, we'd only be directing more attention toward the subterfuge. There are too many names on those reports, too many facts that can be verified. In time, enough people will know that it isn't some well-made hoax but the real thing. I'm afraid at this stage, there's nothing we can do, sir..."

“Nonsense! If CNN tells them that it's a load of hogwash then those morons will believe it, so long as they keep hearing it. Even the people who watch FOX will come around, when we give them their script; a watered-down version, of course, but they always tow the line. How many wars have we started over nothing, but with Network support we see an influx of volunteers into the armed forces? Public perception is everything, Agent. Hmm... I wonder... Perhaps it isn't all bad!" The Old Man rubs his chin.

“Sir?"

“How old are the first batch of AdvAnimals? The ones made in MiLab?"

“Not quite twenty-two-months-old, sir... Why?"

“Oh, good!" The Old Man chirps.

“It is?" The Agent raises a brow.

“Oh, yes! Those fools just played right into our hands!" The Old Man chuckles. “Contact Agent Carter and prepare him for a new assignment. We'll send our best Agent to visit the targets. It's time to collect Subject Zero..."

The Old Man flashes a sinister grin, returning to his seat and preparing his computer.

“Understood, sir!"

“Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some Network Executives to call!"

Alone in their modest home, Carol Burnheart plays with little Harriet. The toddler pushes a toy car along the carpeted floor, humming in her squeaky voice, simulating the motor.

“Uh-oh! You'd better slow down or you're gonna crash right into me!" Carol says, pushing a little toy school bus.

Harriet pushes the car faster, clicking the metal together.

“Oh no! Eek! It burns! Save the poor children!" Carol teases.

Little Harriet giggles, looking up at her mother, her rabbit-like ears flopping back.

“That's okay." Carol reaches out and brushes the hair away from Harriet's eyes. “You have great insurance."

Harriet smiles as her mother softly strokes her furry cheek, then uses a finger to caress the top of her snout before gently tapping her nose.

“My sweet little Button..." Carol sighs. “I wish I knew why you can't seem to talk. If we still had access to the lab, I'd-"

Ring, ring, ring! Carol glances over her shoulder at the telephone mounted on the wall of the kitchenette. Collecting little Harriet, whom she always guards like a mother hen, she makes her way into the kitchen and picks up the phone.

“Hello?" She asks, just a Harriet pushes a toy car against her cheek.

“Good afternoon! I work for Devlin Siding Company, and I was wondering if-"

“I'm sorry, but I'm not interested." She says before abruptly hanging up the phone.

As she returns to the floor of the living room, the door unlocks and swings open. Kyle rushes inside, a half-dozen paper grocery bags in his arms. He swiftly closes the door with his foot and peeks through the small, diamond-shaped window.

“Look, Harriet! It's daddy!" Carol presses her cheek against Harriet's and points at Kyle.

“Eee!" Harriet squeals with delight, clapping her little hands together.

“How are you, honey?"

Kyle rushes past Carol and Harriet and sets the bags atop the bar counter.

“Well, hello to you, too." She murmurs.

He begins to unpack the groceries, but something is amiss. He's visibly distraught. Carol rises to her feet, leaving Harriet on the floor to play with her toys.

“Honey? What's wrong?" She asks in a soft, soothing voice.

Resting a hand on his forearm, Carol finally commands his attention. He pauses as he pulls a jar of peanut butter from the grocery bag. He looks toward the concerned woman and sets the groceries aside. Shifting his body, he leans in and embraces Carol.

“I'm sorry. I'm just seeing them again."

“Already?!"

“It seems like every few months those suit-wearing freaks start popping up. I saw one today. Just to make sure that I wasn't making a mistake, I stared at him; I made sure he knew that I knew, you know?"

“Yeah, I know." She murmurs, softly nuzzling his cheek.

“Maybe... We should move again?"

“Ugh! How many times, Kyle?!" Carol whines.

“I don't know. Until they stop?"

“Do you think they'll ever stop, Kyle? Do you really think that one day we're just going to find a place where they won't follow us?"

“I don't know! I'm just trying to do what's best for our family."

“I know you are. I married you for better or worse, but I feel like there are limits. Some fine print that says we should only be permitted to move five times in one year." She quips.

As they debate about their future living arrangements, Harriet hobbles her way along the floor. She bumps into Kyle's legs and tugs at his pants, distracting him.

“Hey, sweetheart. How's my Button, hmm?" He speaks sweetly as he picks her up.

“Mmm!" Harriet coos as he gives her a hug.

Carol cannot help but smile at the sight.

“She can always tell when there's a problem. She becomes cuddlier when you're upset, like she wants to make you happy." Carol remarks.

“Well, it's working." Kyle says with a little smile, gently bouncing Harriet in his arms.

“That's our Button." Carol lovingly pets Harriet's head.

“Yeah... I'm sorry, Carol. I just worry about us, you know? I just love you both, so much. I don't want to lose you, and I don't want to lose our little Button."

“I know." Carol coos, kissing him tenderly. “Why do you think I married you in that cheap little drive-through chapel?"

“Because we're on the run from government agents?" He quips.

“Well, that, and because I really love you. If you think we need to move again, we can move. Your instincts haven't failed us yet." She replies, hugging him and nuzzling Harriet's cheek with her nose. “I still get to complain, though."

“Agreed." Kyle's smile widens.

“Oh! Did you get the test?"

“Damn! I'm sorry, babe. I saw that guy and I completely forgot."

“Honey! I'm late! If you knocked me up, that's something we need to know about!"

Carol pulls away and takes the car keys from a small ceramic bowl sitting atop the bar counter, then heads for the front door.

“Where are you going?!"

“I'm just going to run to CVS and buy a pregnancy test. Five minutes!" She replies.

“It takes longer than that to get to town."

“I'll drive fast!" She smirks.

Carol opens the door, but before she can step outside, she stops dead in her tracks and gasps. Kyle, hearing his wife, looks away from Harriet to see what's bothering her. He stares in shock and horror. Standing before Carol Burnheart, his eyes covered by his mirrored sunglasses and his face as expressionless as ever, is none other than Agent Sharpe.

“Mrs. Burnheart, I presume?"