Hunter went to San Gerado State wearing his usual trench coat, black shirt, dark pants, dirty pair of sneakers and a cross bones ring on his right middle finger. It was what he liked to call his 'anti-social' look, the kind of outfit he wore on assignments that didn't require him to get too friendly with people. It was a look that tended to drive people away, but still allowed him to sit comfortably in a room full of people and not stand out too much.

He was taking a backpack with him to class containing two pens, a notebook, a book on Archaeology appointed to him by the course's curriculum, and most important of all, a canteen of rum.

Hunter was one of the first ones to arrive in the stadium seating style classroom that was so typical of universities. He sat in the back and watched the other students come in, studying them. Most of them were young, skinny, nerdy type men and girls. Some of them fit the Archaeology type very well: wide eyed and excited about being there, while others looked like they still needed some time figuring out what they wanted to do in life. For once, Hunter was grateful he was working for the Agency and was glad he didn't have to decide what he wanted.

The teacher of the class, a bald middle aged man with a serene look, entered the classroom with a bundle of books and papers under his arms. He set his things down on his desk, greeted the students closest to him, and began to write on the blackboard.

The students, who during the teacher's entrance had been engaged in various casual conversations about homework and plans for the weekend, quieted down as soon as the teacher started writing. They all opened their books and readied their pencils.

Hunter followed the example of the other students, but kept an eye on the door for any sign of Jack Philip's arrival. He checked the time and saw that Jack was already 6 minutes late.

"Alright guys." The teacher said. "I hope you've all done your homework, because I'm going to open today's lesson with a question." The teacher smiled at the class. He enjoyed the mixed expressions of excitement and fear.

"Who can tell me who who built the great pyramids of Egypt, and how?"

There was a moment of tension in the room, as each student wondered who would speak first. A goofy looking guy in a football jersey lazily rose his hand. The teacher pointed to him.

"You, quaterback."

"Aliens built it."

A chorus of light-hearted laughter rang through out the room, which was extended by Hunter's own hysterical wheezing. He slapped his knee and banged the back of his head against the wall, which naturally drew everyone's attention.

"New guy!" The teacher called out, pointing at Hunter. "Mind telling us?"

Hunter wiped tears from his eye, sat up straight and cleared his throat.

"Commissioned workers, not slaves like most people think. They were paid very generously to stroke the pharaoh's cocks. Sorry, I meant their egos."

"Could have said it without mentioning the Pharaoh's penises, but yes, that is correct. Now can anyone tell me how they were made?"

A nerdy looking girl rose her hand and explained the entire process of the pyramids' construction, from the making of the stone blocks to the way in which the workers got the stones to the top of the pyramids. Hunter studied the other student's faces to see if anyone contested her explanation in favor of the popular conspiracy theory brought up by the class clown. Everyone seemed to agree with her, which meant two things. One, that the conspiracy theorists spreading Jack's story around weren't in the class. Two, that no one knew the actual truth: that the pyramids had been built by super humans infused with alien DNA.

The teacher praised the nerdy girl's explanation. He was about to resume his lesson when suddenly, Jack entered the room.

Jack did not look at all like the cheerful young man Hunter had seen in the photograph. His face was pale and thin, devoid of health and good rest. His hopeless eyes seemed to sink back in his skull, and the way he hunched only enforced the air of hopelessness surrounding him.

The class became completely quiet, and even the teacher's cheerfulness seemed to fade away.

"Mr.Philips." The teacher said, with a shade of pity. "Please, take a seat."

Jack dragged his miserable self to the front row. He took a seat and hunched over his books, forcing himself to pay attention to class.

Everyone in the class ignored Jack's sorry sight, everyone except for Hunter. He studied his target with great interest, wondering just what exactly had he experienced and how that experience had affected him.

Jack remained quiet during the entire duration of the class. He wrote down only the most important things the teacher said, but for the most part, he remained still and ignorant of the people around him.

When the class was over, Jack was the first to get up and leave. He took long strides out the door, avoiding the possibility of anyone speaking to him.

Hunter hung in the back of the class room waiting for the other students to leave. When they were gone, he walked up to the teacher to introduce himself.

"New guy." The teacher said, smiling at Hunter.

"Matt Townsly." Hunter said, shooting out his hand. Mathew Townsly was the name in his fake ID. "I liked your class."

The teacher, very pleased with the comment, shook Hunter's hand.

"You're the transfer from Arizona, right? Do you have any questions about today's class?"

Hunter asked a couple of questions he had thought would peak the teacher's interests. He listened patiently to the teacher's explanations, doing his best to look interested. When infiltrating any big institution, like a school or a college, Hunter knew that the first step was to befriend the staff. It often gave him vital information.

"Who was that guy that arrived late?" Hunter asked casually once he was done keeping up academic appearances. "Looks like something bad happened to him."

"Yeah, that's Jack. He's my best student. He wasn't always this quiet, he used to be very active and participant in class."

"What happened to him?"

"He lost his girlfriend on the 4th of July. Car accident, very sad. I hope he can overcome it, he has a bright future ahead of him."

Hunter thanked the teacher for his time and walked out the door. He had learned something: Jack wasn't telling the truth about what had happened to most people. He felt relieved. The less people that knew about the truth about aliens, the less people he would have to track down and kill.

During break, Hunter followed Jack around the campus to see what his routine was like. Jack wandered around for a bit, drifting through places like a ghost, haunting the people around him. Most looked away from him and ignored his presence. He had officially become the weird guy in college.

After the aimless wandering, Jack sat on the college's lawn to study. Hunter sat in a place just out of his sight so he could keep an eye on him. An hour passed. Then two. Hunter yawned and took a sip from from his rum canteen. If he was going to sit around doing nothing all day, he would do it drunk. He was about to take another sip when a group of guys approached Jack.

It was a group of three men, all overweight, and all eccentric in the way they dressed. They all wore jackets with multiple pins and patches on them, all related to aliens and conspiracy theories. Classic green aliens, flying saucers, things related to Stanley Kubrick films, and such phrases like: "Don't drink from the tap!" and "The government funded 9/11!"

The conspiracy theory club greeted Jack and talked to him.

"Bingo." Hunter said quietly, observing the way Jack spoke with the theorists. He looked less stressed than he did during the class, even showing signs of comfort. Whoever these guys were, he seemed to trust them.

The guys sat down with Jack and started talking. Jack was very interested in what they were saying. He sat up straight and looked at the guys attentively as they spoke.

Hunter knew it wouldn't be of much use to him to not know what they were saying, so he decided to approach them. He stood up from the bench he was sitting in and casually walked their way.

"Couldn't help but notice your little Stanley Kubrick moon landing patch there. He was the one to film and direct the landing, but do you know who wrote it?"

Jack and his group of friends looked up at Hunter, surprised at his sudden appearance.

"Arthur C. Clarke." Hunter continued. "Kubrick and Clarke hated each other's guts after they made 2001: A space odyssey, but the government was so impressed by their work that it hired them both. They had no choice but to work together again."

"Nuh huh." A conspiracy theorist with a goatee said. "Andy Warhol did the moon landings. They got Kubrick to direct the discovery of the lost city of Atlantis, but they scrapped it at the last minute. The special effects weren't good enough."

Hunter had to suppress an eye roll. The Andy Warhol theory was created to throw people off Kubrick's scent, and the actual truth. Man was more than capable of going to the moon in 1969, but didn't have the authorization from the galaxy committee of space travel. Lot's of paperwork had to be done to ensure mankind wouldn't be using it's space age technology for evil, only for science.

The first moon landing in July of 1969 was indeed filmed by Kubrick, and there was more than enough left over footage to forge a second landing in November of that same year. It was only a year later that the United States government got the authorization to go to space, which led to the first real moon landing in 1971.

"What's your name?" Asked the conspiracy theorist with an ear ring.

"Matt." Hunter answered.

"Why do you seek the truth, Matt?"

"Because I want to, got a problem with that?"

Hunter brought out his canteen and took another sip of rum.

"Is that tap water?" Asked the conspiracy theorist with a colorful flying saucer shirt.

"It's booze dip shit."

The group was taken aback by Hunter's answer.

Hunter smiled at his work. He had found that treating people too nicely got people suspicious, while acting like an asshole drew people towards him. It was reverse psychology at it's finest.

"I ask again, why do you seek the truth?" The one with ear ring repeated.

Hunter shrugged. "It's a stupid story."

The conspiracy theorists leaned in with interest.

"Trust us." The one with the goatee said. "We've heard a lot of 'stupid' stories, and they always turned out to be true."

"Alright." Hunter sighed, looking down with an expression of sadness on his face. He found that theatrics were a big part of storytelling. He waited until he was sure he had everyone's attention to begin.