The elevator ride stopped at the ground floor of the tall lonely Berlin skyscraper. Patrick and Emilio finally left through the building's majestic lobby. As they walked out, well-placed and invisible snipers were there for only protection. Any lesser man would have been worried by this weird string of events, but Emilio was smiling from ear-to-ear. Both friends were walking through the night streets of Berlin, heading to Emilio's favorite burger joint. Emilio felt as though he'd finally begun to piece together part of the puzzle before him, if that made any sense. That was, at least, a great start. The Jester was the right man.

His relentless internal chronometer informed him that it was nearly three in the morning. The air had remained humid, though it had turned cold. In the distance, the Secret Service was doing what it did best: worry.

As he and Patrick walked through the dark night, Emilio would occasionally fire off a jaunty wave of the hand to any who recognized him in the darkness. They made their way to the Johnny Rocket's burger franchise. Emilio loved to walk the paved Berlin streets placing his toes on specific sets of rocks. There was a reason, somewhere locked in his mind. At night, the images of multiple assassination attempts generated by his strange mind were somehow muted and less menacing. With each step, images juicy burgers and greasy fries replaced the flashing scenes of blood splatters.

“I deserve this,” he mumbled.

“You do,” confirmed his friend.

Emilio was, in Patrick's humble opinion, more than just an exceptional man. He was also a friend. Patrick would take a bullet for him if necessary; he knew deep down there was a higher reason Emilio was President. The Electoral platform clearly worked. It was designed to elect the best candidate, that being defined as the person most capable of protecting the human race against even the most esoteric and unpredictable threats. Emilio was, without a doubt, that person. He knew Emilio relied on more than intelligence, though he certainly had an abundance of it. He had a gift. After years of working for the man, Patrick had reached the conclusion Emilio could touch the future, even if that sounded ridiculous.

The men walked for five peaceful minutes.

At one point, Emilio stopped mid-intersection. He had a tendency to migrate into his own reality when faced with a truly challenging issue. Patrick grabbed the President gently by the wrist and helped him back and onto the sidewalk. A story in his mind was slowly talking shape. There was Electoral, these creatures, the Visconti, Sophie, Laurent, the upcoming games, and God knew what else. Emilio felt deep down there was alien life on mars, the sand he had just seen. He was nearly sure of it. If this was the alien invasion he had previously feared, this business with the globes was mild. His sixth sense refused to let him believe the situation was that simple. No, something much bigger was at play.

He reached into his coat's breast pocket and pulled out the folded pieces of paper given to him earlier by the SAC scientists. He read them. Most were rather technical. One stood out. "Find what is truly unique about Sophie, find the cause of her power and you will find the source of your problems.” The words struck a chord with him. Yes, this was correct. He put all others in a garbage can and folded the last piece in four.

The President finally arrived within sight of the restaurant, along with a small crowd of Presidential fans he'd collected in his wake as he'd passed. The external decoration of the famous chrome-covered American franchise was inspired from a wagon of the Trans-Siberian express. The interior, visible through the large front windows, included a shiny stainless steel bar, stools covered in equally shiny red false leather, and old 20th-century menus on the walls.

The effect was akin to walking into an old 1930's Kentucky diner. The original Marilyn Monroe would feel right at home, Emilio mused. The menu was the real deal: whipped cream on lemon pie, coffee in thick white mugs, right down to the ubiquitous large glass sugar dispensers. Even at three in the morning, this place was packed. Outside, security was controlling the crowd. Because of the frequent Presidential sightings, tourists from all over the world flocked to this place in hope of catching a glimpse of Emilio. Tonight was their lucky night.

The crowd went wild the moment the tired winner turned the corner. Mothers pushed their children for a closer look. The President was kind; as he made his way in front of the line, he shook the hand of everyone. He even kissed a baby that was still up at this late hour. What better place to visit at this hour for a jet-lagged family from Japan? Most of this crowd had seen the Presidential Challenge earlier, and having been freshly reminded why this man was their President, they were understandably starstruck. Emilio knew how to give a formal, polite salutation in most languages; that always proved helpful.

One of the security guards pushed the silver door open. The little bell rang.

"Monika, Bella-Mia, I have arrived!" yelled Emilio as he walked in. Emilio loved to pretend he was a regular on some cheesy comedy show from the last century. Monika was tall, loud, and sounded like everyone's prototypical loud and eccentrically amusing aunt.

"Cutie!! There in a second!!" came a joyous shriek from the kitchen. The extravagant ritual was part of his charm. Every seat was now filled, with the exception of the booth in the back, where one man was sitting alone.

A tall brunette stalked out of the kitchen wearing a cute maid costume. In her right hand, she was holding a green pad of paper. In her left she held a round pot of lukewarm coffee. That was how Emilio liked it.

The President was not satisfied with words. He walked over, placing a casual hand on the shoulders of two diners on adjacent stools at the bar, bent, and kissed the waitress on both cheeks. No patron had ever complained of his physical contact. To the contrary, the pair of diners who Emilio had just leaned on looked fit to burst into tears of joy. Emilio, at times, and especially with the public, was like the brother every family looked forward to seeing at otherwise boring family gatherings.

"Coffee on me!" he yelled to everyone in the restaurant. "I won!" The patrons needed no more; they gave him a generous round of applauds. He took a bow.

"It's three darling, I am not making nine pots of coffee for all these losers," Monika reeled off in her playful sardonic fashion. Emilio knew he could offer all the coffee he wanted, he would never see the bill. Everyone was taking pictures. Emilio pointed at the people outside the diner, "Coffee for them too!" He loved making people happy.

There was a booth in the back permanently reserved for him. The restaurant owner figured having a "Presidential Booth" was more than worth losing a single table over. On the wall above his booth hung a framed photo of Marilyn Monroe, the original one. There were two police officers sitting at the counter, on their break. A man wearing a white lab coat was waiting for Emilio and Patrick in the booth. Judging by the number of empty creamer cups next to his coffee, he'd been waiting for hours. Patrick was used to these forced encounters when Emilio was around.

"Don't blame me, Jimmy, this is the guy who delayed me." Emilio's thumb pointed at Patrick. Both men slid in the booth.

"I'm fine, sir. More than happy to wait," said the man. "No one slept tonight at home, they watched you and then the escape and now the interview." To the scientist, waiting in this famous private booth under the watchful eye of the restaurant's patrons was rather exciting. He saw their sidelong glances and whispered conversations, all of which virtually screamed “Who is this mysterious man, and why is he sitting in the President's booth?” Jimmy had vacillated between feeling like an elite secret agent and the movie star who played him. It had been a diverting couple of hours either way.

The diner's shift manager arrived holding two menus and a basket of fries covered with chili and awful-looking cheese. He placed the menus in front of Emilio's guests and the fries in front of the President. Everyone knew what the President would be eating; this was only his appetizer.

Emilio grabbed the bottle of ketchup and squeezed some over the fries. Patrick cringed. The man had disgusting eating habits. The President looked up. Patrick and Jimmy were staring.

"What?"

"Ketchup on cheese?"

"Did you just defeat a gazillion people? I didn't think so. I get to eat what I want."

"If you're so good at everything else, how come your table manners and eating habits are so bad?"

"They gave me etiquette classes, I can fake it when I must. The experts say this is stress relief and a form of minor rebellion in the face of overwhelming responsibility," Emilio summarized with an impish grin. That explained why they rarely organized official dinners, Patrick surmised.

"No wonder the King of England refused to eat with you."

"Sir, you wanted to talk to me?" asked the man in the lab coat, surprised by the candor of both men.

"Yes. Patrick, meet Jimmy Lin, head of one of the groups. The one on the sixth floor." Emilio was talking in code. Floor six in the building was one of the only two floors outside of his security clearance. "James, this is Patrick Martin, the supervisor of my Jester." He was referring, of course, to the charming serial killer currently getting himself wasted on Scotch in the Tower's prison basement.

The men exchanged glances.

"I'm here to make an unorthodox request.” Coming from a politician, that meant "illegal." Emilio dove into the basket of fries alone. "Imagine a forest in Africa filled with lions. I am trying to find the location of the lair, ascertain their numbers, and then neutralize them from a distance. To do that, I find a sheep resourceful enough to do the job. Let's say I tie the sheep to a post and wait, observing it from a distance. I have two people," Emilio said as he pointed at the men, "in charge of observing my sheep. The last thing I need is interference. Obviously, strange things will have to happen." The men were listening carefully, unsure where the President was going with the analogy. "Even if the sheep leads a flock of birds to the lions for slaughter, you must not help the birds or even the sheep as a matter of fact." Both men were silent. "I want no interference, is that clear? You have to trust me on this. Got it?"

The men were confused. The analogy, which had been a bit shaky to begin with, had just broken down completely. Still, neither Jimmy nor Patrick were stupid, and they thought they could see what the President was getting at in the main. Only so much could be said in public, given their adversaries and the necessity for informational control. Emilio was pushing it as things were. Suddenly, all the waving, hand-shaking, baby-kissing, shouting, and general crowd-collecting made sense. Emilio wanted this to look like a post-victory PR stunt, and he wanted it loud in here.

"Got it?" repeated the President. They nodded. "No, really." The President knew they were still confused. His voice dropped to an intense, barely audible whisper. "You will babysit my killer. You guys will see him do things no one with a sane mind will want to see. I don't want you guys to forget the big picture here. Aside from mass extermination, you are to stand down." In what must be a record time, the plates arrived on the table.

"Emilio, I don't get it," said Patrick.

"My God! Really? I am asking a serial killer to sniff out what I think is a group ready to do some really desperate, really nasty things. Trust me, my Jester will not play by the rules, and frankly, anyone playing by rules is doomed to fail. For the Jester to have a chance, I mean a chance, I don't want you guys interfering. Short of letting him actually do what I'm trying to prevent, you must trust my choice in picking him and the rules of engagement I have him operating under. Which are basically none."

They looked at Emilio with blank stares. “I don’t want to let him loose but I need him unrestrained.” They understood that Emilio had given Maltais a blank check to kill innocents, and that the man's involvement was part of what had become a cruel numbers game. And now they'd been unambiguously told to simply let it happen. Patrick understood, finally, why Emilio had been more kind and patient with him these last two hours. “Sadly, there is no safer roads. Your technology Jimmy will help. Send Patrick with him.”

The blank stares continued.

There were a couple of television sets attached to the ceiling on mounts. Aside from the general décor, these were the only visible anachronisms in the restaurant, and the only technologically based ones at that. Probably another reason that Emilio had chosen this location for this little tête-à-tête. The waitress put her phone down, and with a small remote, she turned the channel to CNN. The screen was blinking with red letters.

Resuming Live from Mars

Exclusive from the Electoral Center

The Interview of the Century: Georges Vouvelakis

Father and Creator of Electoral

On the television, Milly Wong and her large guest were sitting in chairs that appeared to be floating high above the Martian landscape. Milly Wong was broadcasting live from the Electoral Center. Every voice in the diner felt silent. This was now about Sophie and her father; at least someone was reporting from where she was and that was sufficient to everyone. Emilio knew the girl was hypnotic, but this was more. This was her show now. The real world on earth vanished as billions of enraptured individuals tuned in. The President looked up at the screen. He was resisting the urge to lose himself to the magnetic charisma of the girl. She was unique. She had power, a power he needed to understand.

In the meantime, he would, at last, enjoy the burger he had labored so diligently for, while watching the most important televised event ever broadcasted.