- 00 -

“So what you’re saying, is that the eigthy-third president, the one before Bohm, was really the last Uni-states president?”

“Of course! It all makes sense!” George Durell exclaimed on his cellphone, looking nervously out of the window.

“But Bohm just got elected,” his friend said at the other end of the line, still incredulous of George’s theory. “If it would have been the case, Bohm wouldn’t have been president of the Uni-states in the first place. He would have announced something else entirely. Actually, his view of the Uni-states is exactly what it should have been, like it once was.”

“No, no! It’s happening, you’ll see. There never was an anti-Authoritarianism party in the U-S. Not officially. It just arrived last year, at the beginning of the campaigns. They’ve covered their tracks pretty well, but I was able to find some proof of their deceit. And now, it’s coinciding with the widespread rumours that the last thirty years of U-S governments were nothing else but authoritarian, even if that too is false. Sure, it wasn't great, but not to the extent broadcasted by this AAP thing; we both know that, we’ve been living these said years. They’re planning to destroy the old government with a new one that is supposed to be ‘installed by the people’. Just like Cyrillia and Zhongguo. They plan on bringing down the Uni-states, and replace it with their own concoction. Listen, I can’t stay on for too long, I don’t have much time left, I have to run away from here; I’m being followed by a desert military-type car, it’s been on my tail three times already, I haven’t got long left!” George looked out of the window for the hundredth time, clearly panicking.

“George, there’s no conspiracies, it’s just your paranoia,” his friend sighed. “You’ve drank too much fluoride water, it’s messing with your brain; you’ve read the researches on that. Switch to distilled water, and you’ll see that it was just toxins-related paranoia.”

“Really? Then explain why is Bohm’s Counsellor related to the.…”

A silence ensued.

“George?” his friend called back. “George, are you alright?”

George froze as he watched a flying sand-colour sport car hover towards his flat and then stopping right in front of it. A slender figure got out of it, and strolled elegantly to his porch. He began to shiver, and quickly ducked below his window.

“It’s them, again!” he whispered frantically. “The same car I keep on seeing! It’s the MIB!!”

“George, listen to me, they don’t exist,” his friend sighed with exasperation.

“That’s not true,” a woman’s Britannian voice coolly interrupted.

George jumped and squealed upon seeing a tall and athletic woman standing in his living room.

“They do exist, but I’m not one of them,” the woman continued with a playful smile on her lips.

She had long platinum-blond hair tied up in a bun, revealing an elegantly chiseled face and bright turquoise-blue eyes; her sleeveless blue marine top covered completely her chest, joining a silver plate that covered all of her neck; her midriff was protected by another silver plate, reaching to her hips, from which hanged a gun holster on one side, and a sword scabbard on the other side. Blue marine tight pants joined knee-high silver stilettos with four inches heels, adding to her height.

She raised her right hand and pointed a heavily modified handgun toward George’s cell phone. With no warning, it became burning hot in George’s hand, pushing him to drop it in surprise.

“Electromagnetic frequencies,” the blond woman explained, getting closer to George, like a lioness getting closer to her prey. “Under the right frequency, metal heats up; it also fries up the electronic chip.”

George tried to put on his best defiant face, and said with a trembling voice:

“Wh-what you’re gonna do, kill me?”

“Don’t worry, you won’t feel a thing,” the woman replied in a chilling voice, still playfully smiling.

George squealed and ran to hide behind his couch. The woman sighed and set her gun to a specific setting; she pointed it to the squealing couch, and pressed the trigger. Although nothing at first seemed to happen as there were no bullets nor shots fired, a short scream was heard shortly after, followed by choking, breathless noises. The music of death ended brutally at the sound of a heavy thud.

“Sorry, lied about feeling no pain,” the woman mischievously whispered as she holstered her gun.

She walked to George’s computer while putting on glove. She took out of her pockets a small memory card, inserted it into the computer, and copied its contents. She was thorough as she hacked into his personal files, Interweb history and mailbox. With a little programming, she managed to make the copied files look native to George’s computer before closing down the whole thing. She then sent a thought to her boss.

“Yes?” Randall answered.

“Target eliminated,” the woman announced. “The coroner will see nothing but a simple heart attack, brought by years of bad diet. Files linking him to an Authoritarian cell were uploaded into his computer, with links to his friend as well. His surviving friend will be taken by the police for complicity in hate propaganda and all incriminating files they had against you have been taken care of. Basically, you won’t be bothered by them anymore.”

“Perfect. Keep up the good work, Ysadora.”

“Don’t I always?” Ysadora Dawn smiled, leaving her target’s house and entering into her car. “Randall, one more thing, if I may.”

“What is it?”

“People are starting to be suspicious in ways that we can’t control or eliminate without confirming these suspicions.”

“Humans will always be suspicious; it’s in their nature. They must find something to blame for their problems; we give them one. Rather, we give them a dozen for their choosing.”

“I know, but one day, they’ll get to us, and after, they’ll get to the big boss. We need a decoy, a living and willing target who’ll take the blame for our activities.”

“A scapegoat?” Randall thought, interested.

“Exactly. There was a time when one wasn’t needed, but with the plan as advanced as it is now, we can’t take any more chances,” Ysadora reasoned.

“A good idea, but who will be willing to play and crazy enough to wear the clothes of the devil, to be responsible for our plans against modern society?” Randall sighed.

“Who wouldn’t do anything for money, power, or immortality?”

“Even those things won’t stop a traitor from betraying us, especially if the opposing party matches or outbids our offer,” Randall replied, emphasizing bitterly upon saying ‘opposing party’.

Ysadora didn’t need to ask who he meant by those words, as they dealt with that annoyance for so long, never able to get rid of it.

“Let’s just keep an open eye for such an opportunity,” she instead said.

“Indeed. It is a reasonable suggestion; I’ll ask my secretary to search for any psychological profile which will match those of a willing scapegoat.”

“Thank you, Randall; now I’ve gotta go. Take care,” Ysadora wished him.

“Don’t I always?” Randall replied, mirroring her own words.

His voice faded back to null in her mind, as Ysadora started up her car, gaining altitude. Though the cars had about two kilometers of altitude to fly in the cities, there was still an invisible rule which seemed to state that each hundred meters, more or less, there was a specific lane, and no car could fly in-between these vertical lanes. All but Ysadora, who gave no care or thought for human rules. All she was thinking about now was who would be a voluntary scapegoat. Hadn’t she been important to the Society’s mission, she would have volunteered, as she would willingly give her life to protect Randall. She owed him too much; but such was not the circumstances. Randall Redspear was the king, and he trusted only her as his knight and champion; all they needed right now was the bait to take the attention away from their operations.