October 25, 2009 [17]

Martha wandered through the cave. Or was it a maze inside a funhouse? It must be both? Because she could hear the moaning of Joe's ghost but also carnival music, while mirrors, warped to obscure her image, lined the stone walls.

As she continued down the winding path, a red glow steadily grew until she was blind to anything else. Suddenly, a giant white spotlight burst through, illuminating the wall in front of her.

Within the spotlight and sitting on the ground of the cave was Sammy, the child Martha had saved in the zoo so many lives ago. He was exactly as she remembered, save for his size – even sitting, she could tell he was ten feet tall, if an inch.

"Beckett."

Then she saw that he was cradling a monkey – no, a Silverback gorilla, proportionate as if fully grown but shrunken to fit the boy's chubby arms. The tiny gorilla hooted, pointing to something on Martha's left. She turned to see another funhouse mirror, squeezing her reflection beyond recognition.

"No, no, no. Shhh," Sammy corrected the gorilla. "That's a secret."

"Beckett."

But the gorilla continued to point and hoot at the mirror. Martha looked again and it began to straighten, the waves in the glass flattening to her line of vision until the image of Robbie Drake became clear and unmistakable. Martha's heart raced as they stared into one another's eyes. She walked to the mirror and Robbie followed perfectly as if-

"Agent Beckett!"

Martha opened her eyes to another red light, but instead of a cave, she sat in the cabin of a military transport flying over the Pacific and toward Hawaii's main island; instead of staring into Robbie's carnivorous eyes, Junior Agent Nan Rochana, black hair slicked and tucked into the neck of her black, kevlar enforced bodysuit, stood expectantly.

"You told me to wake you when we were twenty minutes out," Nan said.

"Thanks," Martha yawned, rolling the tightness out of her neck.

"I do not know how you can sleep, considering where we are headed."

Martha smiled. "With enough practice, you can make your brain do almost anything you like."

"Well then. If we survive this, you will have to teach me."

"We're going to survive, Nan," Martha assured.

Nan's concern was, without a doubt, justified. This was going to be dangerous and Martha couldn't actually guarantee her safety. But what else am I going to say? Nan was, after all, a first-lifer, and as Martha advanced further into immortality, she had to remind herself of their fear of death, more and more often.

"Permission to recite the mission, Ma'am?" Nan asked.

"Not necessary, considering I wrote it." Martha stood and crossed the cabin to retrieve her parachute. Wearing the same bodysuit as Nan, she barely felt the weight of its bulletproof material. The CIA's Research and Development had certainly come through with this design – with a little help from an agent who's seen the year 2060.
"Permission to recite it anyway, Ma'am?"

"Knock yourself out," Martha said.

"Upon entering the airspace of the northeast corner of the compound, Agents Beckett and Rochana will airdrop, landing as close to the perimeter barricade as possible to keep within its surveillance blindspot. From there, we will follow the schematics your asset provided to the maintenance entrance, 1.8 kilometers south-southwest. Once inside, we will pass through the sanitation room and on to the maintenance elevator where one, possibly two armed guards will be stationed. After we neutralize the guards, I will climb down the elevator shaft one and a half flights, access the air duct, and maneuver to the opposite end of the server room to provide cover. You will take the elevator proper down the full two flights and... confront the target." Nan paused and Martha handed her a parachute. As Nan strapped it to her back, she asked, "You are certain he will be there?"

Martha nodded. "I'd bet my life on it."

"We are betting many lives on this mission," Nan said, the gravity behind her eyes a distant memory to Martha.

"Five minutes out!" the pilot's voice alerted through their respective earpieces.

Martha spoke into her watch. "Copy that, Tom."

"Do me a favor and make this court martial worth it, ya' hear?"

"Will do, good buddy. But after you drop us, find an airstrip and lay low. I don't want you in the air if this goes sideways."

"Roger that."

Martha knew Admiral Tom Hogan wasn't actually concerned about a court martial. It was his family, twenty-four grandkids included, for whose freedom and safety he'd spent his adult life fighting to defend. That they were in such danger and Martha's intel so compelling convinced this lifelong patriot to abuse his rank and steal the prototype stealth aircraft for the sake of this unsanctioned mission.

Martha and Nan strapped night vision goggles over their eyes then reached up to grab hold of support beams running the length of the cabin. A yellow beacon at the top of the cabin began to flash, accompanied by a harsh, barking alarm as the cabin door slowly gaped.

"On the Admiral's word!" Martha shouted to Nan over the rushing wind.

She looked at her junior agent, chest heaving anxiously, and contemplated everything that had transpired to get them to this point. Once upon a lifetime, this had all been Martha's idea – our cosplay life – including the espionage theme. And after some hesitancy, he had agreed on one condition...

"We're live!" Hogan called.

Martha and Nan shared one last glance before diving out into the inky, night sky and plummeting toward their target: the villainous James Quinn.

It had been a life without apology. When they gave her an IQ test, Martha broke their scale. When they enrolled her in high school at the age of nine, she held her head high and aced whatever they put in front of her.

She was a protégé, a genius, and later, a (super)naturally gifted fighter and linguist. And through it all, she had one goal – to climb the ranks of the United States Central Intelligence Agency and wait for... whatever James would cook up.

Meanwhile, James had kept a lower profile – initially, at least. He received straight A's and perfect test scores, but avoided Martha's Doogie Howser-esque spectacle.

He went to Stanford where he accelerated the Silicon Valley tech boom then made millions 'betting' on tech stocks and selling off just before the crash. Those 'earnings' would bankroll QuinnTech Industries – 'Where the Possibilities Are Quinnfinite' (eye roll). There, he consistently stayed two steps ahead of Apple, Microsoft, or any and all competitors.

Through his innovations, TED talks, and humanitarian aid, he gained a cult of personality. Truly, he was the last person anyone would suspect of holding the world hostage – anyone except Martha, of course. Not much of a scoop considering it's the whole premise of our LARP.

Then, a year ago to the day, the viruses began.

Their appearance was low-tech retro – a fuzzy loop of Adam Sandler standing next to Chris Farley and singing "...got a bad case uh da gout..." – but their code was flawless. Whatever they targeted – dating sites, financial institutions, the NRA – they destroyed without one bit of digital DNA to trace.

Worst of all, there were no ransom demands.

Then a month ago, one of them took down the CIA. More concerning than the act itself – which was, by itself, quite concerning – was the message accompanying it:

"In one month's time

Comes our last crime.

For the next case of gout

Will take EVERYTHING out."

Panic... Chaos...

No one doubted the threat's credibility. Experts (saintly James Quinn included) speculated on the fallout that shutting down hospitals, supply chains, and power grids would have. Gun sales skyrocketed. Billionaires pooled together impotent ransom funds. The Pope pleaded for mercy. But the Gout Virus Hacker (moniker courtesy of cable news) ignored them, letting the days on the calendar tick by.

Martha knew that outing James was never really an option. The public's trust in him was unprecedented. Every year, marketing firms would release their poll results and every year he'd break his own record, leaving Tom Hanks and the rest in his dust. And even as she accumulated scraps of hard evidence linking James to the hacks, she knew there were alibis waiting to drop; countermeasure traps ready to spring.

No, he'd thrown the gauntlet. October 25 was their anniversary and The Gout, their secret. It was to happen tonight and it was to happen here. And whether he went to jail and she was credited with saving the world or he covered up his guilt and she was convicted of treason, Martha didn't care.

If she stopped him on this day... she would win.

Author's note:

So which would you chose:  Super Spy or Evil Genius?  I don't know if I could stomach being an Evil Genius, but it does look fun...

Thank you so much for reading!!!