Flashpoint

[Terry316]

i posted something here before, months ago, but that was just a bad idea altogether. that was a comic, and i was turning it into a novel. bad. so, here's a book, full-blown book, i'm posting it all over the web, i need critique badly, please.




based on a true story

...sort of...





(Unknown Sender): 02:34: I know you're there.
(Unknown Sender): 02:37: Answer me.
(Unknown Sender): 02:42: I know you'll be looking for me.
Don't bother trying to trace this. You won't find anything. I don't
trust anyone anymore...I can thank you for that at least.
(Unknown Sender): 02:45: I just wanted to tell you something
before I leave for good.
(Unknown Sender): 02:50: You were right.
[(Unknown Sender) cut communications]





F L A S H P O I N T



































Prologue
==========

June 27
23:13
U.S.A. New York, NY: Route 42
Apartment #108


The door to the trashy apartment opened slowly, the creak of the rotted wood filling the room. The light from the hallway left a bright rectangle on the wall, obstructed only by the slouched shadow of a figure walking through the doorway. The door closed, extinguishing all light and leaving the room in darkness again, save for the moonlight shining through the wall-sized window. The owner of the apartment, not bothering to take off his shoes or worn brown jacket, trudged across a floor littered with crumpled papers, beer cans, and torn files stamped "Confidential" and collapsed on the small bed in the corner farthest from the door.

Parker Searson did this out of habit, knowing full well that he would never fall asleep tonight. Right on cue he roused himself up, sat at his console, and stared at the blank monitor for a few moments before switching it on. He looked much older than he should have. Only 23, with brown unruly hair and unshaven face, he looked like a regular man his age. . . until you saw his eyes. His eyes were blank, refusing to yield any hints of his thoughts or feelings.

His console booted up, and he summoned the same file he always did. Why can't I understand it? It's the last thing still standing in my way. . .


"Still obssessed with that?"

Parker unglued his eyes and spun around to the dark corner of the room, to the sound of that unforgettable voice. Jonathan Fields stepped out of the shadows and into the moonlight shining on the floor. He was a shorter man wearing a brown leather jacket and a striped turtleneck underneath, with thin red hair, a mustache and a slight beer belly that was balanced out by solid muscle.

"How'd you get in here, Jon?" Parker asked him with no real curiousity in his voice. Always getting into places you don't belong.

"Don't have much time, so let's ask 'why' instead." Jon opened the fridge and helped himself to a beer.

"Whatever it is, I'm not interested. Get out. I'm tired," Parker said, switching off his console and getting off his seat.

"I've got a job for you, Parker," Jon said as he sat down on the rolling chair that Parker had just dismounted.

"Got one already." Parker slumped face down on the bed once more and blindly pointed to the door as rudely as possible.

"Not anymore."

Parker rolled over to glare at him. "Now I'm really kicking you out, Fields."

Jon merely rolled his way over and threw a folder at him. "It's a government operation. Purpose is monitoring potential threats to homeland security." Jon swallowed another gulp of beer. "Spying, if you will," he admitted as he wiped his mouth.

Parker cocked his brow. "Counter-terrorism?" He laughed cynically. " What's left to terrorize?"

"It's a little more than counter-terrorism. . . but I can't tell you the details now," Jon hinted, peeking through the window as Parker read through the file.

"Operation: Flashpoint. . . ? This is all legalized, all the right signatures. Secretary of Defense, Intelligence, even the Chancellor. They're all for it. The whole Alliance. What do you even have to do with this, Jon? You got out of this area years ago," Parker said, reviewing the file.

"That's what you think. What everyone thinks. I help run this operation. Make sure it goes smooth-like. But. . . we're having trouble decoding some of the data we're intercepting. We could use your skills, Searson." Parker noted the professional distance Jon achieved by using his last name.

"I can't even decode that blasted sequence on my console, what makes you think . . ." Parker trailed off as he read something on the file. He glared at Jon. "This is top secret information."

"Which is why you have no choice now, Park." Jon smiled sadly as his hold-out pistol came smoothly out of his sleeve and into his hand, aimed at Parker. "Come on, you had to have seen this coming."

"I don't want any part. Just leave, I won't tell anyone. I wouldn't want to. I don't want to be involved," Parker said firmly.

Jon just chuckled. "I'm afraid you don't fully understand the circumstances. They know I came to see you. So they know that you know. And secrecy is absolutely crucial. You're already involved, old buddy."

Parker threw the file away from him in anger, sending papers wildly through the room. There was an awkward moment of silence that seemed to go on for minutes. Jon sat morosely in his chair.

Finally, Parker spoke. "So what happens now. . . ?"

"Well, if you refuse, there are two options. I could shoot you now. It would kill me inside, but don't doubt I would do it. Or. . . I could leave, and you go on with your life until you are unexpectedly met by someone that lacks our rich history. If you accept, you come with me, and you disappear. Any record of your existence is erased until the operation is closed. So what do you say, Searson?"

Parker put his head in his hands and rubbed his eyes. Go or die. And it could be a very, very long time before this 'operation' was closed. Parker only knew one way to face this decision:

"Does it pay?"

Humor.

Jon burst out laughing, relieved that his old friend had lifted the tension off the situation. He holstered his gun. "You bet your ass it does. More than you can imagine."

Parker got up headed to the closet. "Give me some time to pack my things and I'll be--"

Jon interrupted hastily. "Nope. Everything you need will be supplied. All you need to do is follow me."

Reluctantly, Parker walked out the door, followed by his old friend Jon Fields, feeling he was somehow about to get into something way over his head.

Again. . .

[Terry316]

Chapter 1:
Orientation
==========

Date: ???
13:18
Location: ???
Bunker 12


Parker opened his eyes. . . his room was dim. No moonlight shining from his gigantic windows. No noise. No car horns, voices from the walkways below. All the things he was used to living with. He felt a strike of fear shoot through his body and his thought processes stopped dead, something that is very disturbing for a person like Parker Searson. He bolted upright on his bunk and looked around the room. It was square with metal sheeting against the walls. There was a single unlit console on the far wall on a desk, as well as a chronoscreen reading 13:19, a medium-sized cooler and an unoccupied bunk opposite to his. There were glow rods lined along where the ceiling met the walls, causing the dim light Parker noticed when he woke. Then there was a hatch-like door, with an Alliance logo that had a prominent lightning bolt over it. How'd I get here? Where is here. . . ?

Parker got up and realized he was wearing a sleeveless white undershirt and pants with pockets on the side and each leg ending in drawstrings. This was not what he was wearing last, when. . .

He let out an exasperated sigh as he remembered the night of Jonathan's unexpected visit. Parker felt around his neck to discover a chain that, when followed, led to a dogtag. It was labeled with his name, and "Decoder: 067". Then he caught sight of his wrist. Parker noticed he was wearing a paper band around it, and there was a large bruise. They had taken his blood. . . Jon didn't exactly tell me I'd be subject to involuntary medical antics. . .

Parker got up, momentarily shocked by the cold metal floor against his bare feet, and wrenched the door open to cautiously poke his head into the corridor outside. He left the door slightly ajar, not sure if it would lock itself upon closure, and ran down the corridor quietly leaning into his weight with each step. All along the ceiling were unlit siren lights and, Parker noticed with much dismay, active security cams. He was in some kind of station. A very empty station. He didn't see anyone, not even Jon. He continued down the hallway to an intersection.


Suddenly, a cold chill cascaded down Parker's spine, and a siren started blaring, lights now bathing the hallway in red. Parker looked down the corridor to the right and barriers began slamming down from the ceiling one after the other, separating segments of the corridor from each other. He looked down the hallway where his room was, and the same was happening there. He could hear the doors thud into locking positions, and before he knew it, a wall came down directly behind him followed quickly by a wall in front of him, cutting him off from the hallways behind and in front. Parker was frantic and fearful, but unlike most people, fear does not hinder Parker. It only makes him ever more focused and alert. With two directions cut off, and the right corridor's barriers quickly rushing toward him, there was only one way to run now.

Parker tore down the corridor to the left in a flat run, abandoning stealth and trying to outrun the lockdown looming behind him. The intersection he was once at was now blocked off from view. He came up to a left turn, heart racing, beginning to perspire, eyes wide with fear. He rounded the corner to find a corridor lined with doors, all of them closed shut. At the far end of the corridor Parker could see the distant barriers slamming down towards him. He desperately tried to open one of the doors, hoping against hope the room inside would lead to another section instead of trapping him. The door wouldn't budge. He tried another one. It remained stubbornly in place, and in a few seconds he'd be stuck in this corridor. What the hell is going on?!

The next door he tried flew open without him even shoving. He rushed inside to find a large room with various people sitting at tables, eating. And staring at him. Laughing. Parker had another unsettling sensation of blank thought, as a solidly built man with whiskers and black hair tied back in a pony-tail got up with his tray, cracking up. "That never gets old." He walked to the far side of the room, dumped his trash and deposited the tray into a slot. That never gets old? That was a joke?

This room was a cafeteria, and he had just been the victim of an elaborate and outrageous prank. There must have been fifteen or so people in the room, including Jon who was just starting to regain his breath from laughing. Parker was just about to go over and have a little chat with Jon, when another man walked into the room from behind. He had light brown hair and a broad, friendly grin. He looked lighthearted, but something about him commanded attention. A casual but firm sort of obedience. He clapped his hand down on Parker's shoulder and chuckled.

"Don't worry kid, we won't poke fun at you for too much longer. But you should have seen the look on your face!" He said as he imitated Parker's dubious expression. "Hooo, I've gotta apologize though, Rich is the one who usually does this kind of stuff, not me. I felt obligated to hold up the tradition in his absence. Follow me, we got stuff to talk about." The man guided him back into the corridor, which was now mysteriously absent of any barriers. They walked down the corridor, the man's heels ringing against the floor, and into a room that was presumably his office.

He sat down at his desk, opened his drawer and pulled out a pair of shoes, offering them to a very perplexed Parker. He hesitated before accepting the shoes, pondering why he kept them in his desk, and then slipped his feet in. The man spoke up. "You could probably use a sweater too. Your nipples look rock hard."

Parker fidgeted a little in his seat.

The man continued. "Let's cut to the chase. I'm assuming Fields already filled you in on a bit, so any questions?" He said in a monotone uninterested voice. What happened to that lighthearted grin?

"Yeah. How about 'Where the hell am I' and maybe 'Who the hell are you'?" Parker couldn't hold back the dry tone that sneaked into his voice.

The man stared at him blandly and then sighed. "Okay, I guess Jon didn't fill you in so much. For starters my name is Michael Reeves, and I am the Head Administrator of this facility." Reeves said as he gestured, indicating the space around and beyond them. "This facility is Flashpoint Station. What we do here is very important Parker. The work we do is essential to the security of our nation and its civilians. That being said, we are in the U.S.S.R., to be specific, Siberia. Undetected in the middle of nowhere, buddy. The function of this station is to intercept the coded communication data that has been flowing to and from the Soviet Union via satellites in recent years, decode it, and send it to the Alliance's Intel Branch. The International Alliance has been desperate to stop this war for nearly a century."

This took Parker by surprise. "The war started in the 1990's. . . "

Reeves winked at him. "Well, the real war did. I'm talking Cold War era, bud. For almost 50 years the two powers have had each other under ferocious surveillance. That's how the United States had the time to react and form the Alliance before Russia's secret assault that launched good ole' World War III. What do they teach you kids in those schoolbooks?"

Parker was taken aback by his condescending tone. Parker couldn't have been much younger than Reeves.

"That's besides the point though. The Alliance set up this operation so they could finally get the upper hand on the Commies and squash 'em. We're stationed in the heart of the Union's waveroutes for best reception. This is a secret installation, it's cloaked from vision and radar, it's heavily armed. . . no need to worry. So. Since Jon tells me you're so handy with code sequences, you've been recruited to decode some of the more difficult signals. It's just like a job. Get up, eat somethin', get to your station, and start monitoring and decoding. Once your shift is over, you compile your report, and send it over to your old pal Jon. Simple, huh?" Reeves ended his rant.

"Yeah. . . simple. . ." Parker said quietly."

Now get to the mess room, chow down, and read these over. It's your introductory file. Everything you need to know is right there." Reeves said, sliding a folder across the desk over to him and dismissing him. When Parker didn't leave immediately Reeves shot him an annoyed glance. Parker took the hint and left. He did as he was told and went for lunch. There were now only five other people left in the cafeteria, and he noted with dismay that Jon had also disappeared. Parker got a tray and put some rather distasteful food on it. He sat down, opened the folder and was yet again taken aback when he read the contents of the front page. . .



LAWS TO LIVE BY
~Decoder Edition~
==============================

Common Manners
---------------------------------------
Following these rules of etiquette will make you, and everyone around you, less pissed. Offenses to these rules will result in a firm warning. After that, you get to sit in the corner with a dunce cap until your lesson is learned.
1. Be friendly. No one likes to work with a sourpuss.
2. Always respect your superiors. We are your God.
3. Keep your space organized, or we will organize it for you. You don't want that.
4. Personal hygiene is a must. Shower, or we will do it for you. We really don't want that.

Break Under Penalty of Death
----------------------------------------
Our operation is that of utmost security. We can't afford any stupid mistakes. Offenses to these rules will result in immediate death.
1. Get to your station ON TIME. Monitoring is handled by shifts, and if there is even the smallest gap between coders, countless data would be missed, some of which could be coordinates to bomb our sorry asses off this tundra.
2. Never alter incoming data. If we find an inconsistency in the data we receive, we will track down the culprit and deal out the appropriate punishment.
3. You do not exit this facility. Ever. You will leave when the operation is closed.
4. Do not interfere with any of this station's functions.
5. Do not contact any unapproved outside signals.

Breaking ANY of the last 5 aforementioned rules will result in execution.

Live by the Laws or Die by the Consequences.
=================

Parker lost his appetite halfway through the list. At first he had been waiting for some reassurance that the grave warnings were all jokes. Then he realized that the death penalty was very real. Jon failed to mention his life would be in danger, as he seemed to do with a lot of crucial information. Also in the folder was a map of the compound, a list of staff members and promotion tips, and his schedule. It had taken a while to happen, but it finally hit Parker that this was his life now. For who knows how long. But hey, it's for a good cause. . . right?

Parker forced himself to finish his meal, which was less than average. The water tasted metallic. Parker decided he couldn't expect more from a bunker sectioned off from the rest of the world. How do they even get their stock of food in the first place?

His current train of thought was interrupted when the very muscular man with the black ponytail who was laughing it up earlier came by and sat across from him. He had an unshaven face much like Parker's, which distracted from his large defined chin, and hands that tell you you'd never want to go up against him in an arm wrestling match, let alone a fist fight. Parker decided to ignore him. However, the man extended his muscular arm to offer a hand to Parker.

"Name's Vince. Vincent Chambers." He said in a heavy. . . Scottish accent? English, Australian? Parker couldn't tell. But he realized while he was trying to determine the answer he had left the man's hand hanging.

"Fine, keep to yourself." Vince said both hands pulled back in a defensive gesture.

Parker apologized hastily. "Sorry. . . I'm just. . . uhh. . ."

Vince put on a broad smile. "Yeah I know, still green around the ears. 'Know how that feels. I only came in around week two of the operation, but there were enough people already involved and experienced for me to feel. . . a bit out of sorts. Don't worry though, everyone here is real friendly."

"Really?" Parker tried to look like he was interested. Frankly, he didn't care about how friendly everyone here is. I don't want to be here at all. Something occurred to Parker and he reached for his introductory file.

"Oh yeah, of course. That over there is Trey Higgins." Vince motioned over at a table where three men were sitting. He pointed at an awkward seeming young man with shaggy reddish brown hair. "We just call him Higgs. He's the youngest one here, maybe like nineteen, but he's supposed to be a bloody genius. Tha's why he's in charge of Interception and works for Security. Though he doesn't often pay much attention to what people say so he's kinda clueless sometimes."

"Ah." Parker muttered as took another look at the compound map he drew out from the file.

"Next to Higgs is Liam Banks. He works in Interception." He pointed to another young man maybe in his mid-twenties, bleach blond hair and what Parker thought were freckles, but could have been acne. "He's real friendly. Talks a lot too. Now the guy sittin' next to him is a total jackass, I'm not gonna lie." He had red hair, slouched shoulders and a troublemaker's grin. "Brad Treborn. Runs the machinery down in Data Central. He's alright, but something just tells you he never learned to grow up. I like him all the same though." Vince trailed off a bit as his eyes focused on something else. "She doesn't though." Parker looked up from his map in time to see a woman just getting up to leave as a few of the guys chuckled. She had straight shimmering blond hair that ended just below her shoulders. She glanced over at Vince and he immediately shoved the hand that he had once been pointing at her to his side, embarrassed. Then she stared at Parker with a look that pierced right through him. In a half second it changed into a warm and welcoming gaze, and she came to greet him. Strange.

"Hello. Samantha Harding. I am the Co-Administrator here." She said in a very professional voice as she offered her very professional hand. Parker didn't make the mistake he made with Vince and accepted the handshake quickly.

"Hey. So it's you, Jon, and Reeves?" Parker asked casually.

"At the moment, yes . . . " She glanced at the chrono on her wrist. "See you around," she said abruptly and walked out in a confident gait. Vince eyed him carefully for awhile.

"Just so you know, you don't get any special treatment from that one. So don't get your hopes up."

Parker found what he was looking for on the map. "Yeah don't worry about it," he said as he got up, closing his file. "I've got to go, nice meeting you. . . Vince?"

"Uhh, yep. Yeah, anytime pal!" Vince called as Parker left the room. As he traveled down the narrow, dimly lit corridors Parker tried to find his way to the area labeled "Administrative Wing" on the map. If there's one place he's hiding, it'd be here. When he rounded the corner that led to his destination, he was surprised to see large blast doors instead of a regular entrance. Ah. . . that's not intimidating. How am I supposed to find --

As if the universe was bending to his will, the blast doors opened and Jon Fields walked out. As soon as he saw Parker, he took a backward glance as if he wanted to go back the way he came. Parker didn't give him that chance.

"Jon! You've got a hell of a lot to explain 'old buddy!'" Parker shouted, visibly upset.

Jon continued walking past him. "Look, Park, I know you're angry but --"

"Angry?? Yeah, I'm angry Jon." Parker followed him, keeping pace. "I wake up in a giant metal crate in the middle of nowhere, find bruises on my arm, and to top it all off, I'm running a damn marathon in my bare feet only to find out my boss is a complete lunatic!" Parker's anger was starting to shake his hands. He quickly clamped down on his emotions, and the shaking ceased.

"I can explain all of this, just-- " Jon tried to say.

"Okay Jon, go ahead. Explain everything. Here's one: why did you take my blood?" Parker demanded. He stopped walking and so did Jon.

Jon smiled at him a little. "Just think of it as insurance," he said cryptically.

Parker gave an exasperated sigh. "Fine, you know what? Forget it. You don't want to answer any of my questions. Alright." He turned away from Jon and walked down a different hall. As he walked, Jon called after him.

"You just ask too many questions!"

Parker kept walking, not looking back, not saying a word. How is this happening? What am I, a slave to them? If they want me so bad they better give me some damn answers. Or. . . they might find out I'm not as useful as Jon claims. He kept walking. Halfway down the hall, he couldn't control his anger anymore. He screamed in rage and kicked the metal wall viciously. He immediately regretted the action, and limped all the way back to his bunker.

Since his first shift didn't start until tomorrow, he tried to drown his frustration in pointless antics. He toyed around with his new console, discovering that there was an astounding number of sim programs installed. Entertainment for the personnel? How unusual. Parker spent the next hour or so constructing a virtual space navy fleet. With a homeship, three capital ships, several frigates, countless fighters, and a sufficient amount of probes, salvage crews, and repair shuttles, he decided his fleet was impressive enough. Parker doubted he would ever find the time to put his fleet into action, but he still enjoyed putting it together and programming formations. Not to mention it made Parker forget what he had been so upset about.

Parker shut his console off when he was through and explored around his room a little more. It seemed as if each cooler unit in the barracks was stocked with personal rations. He grabbed a drink and a ration from the fridge and rummaged around the drawers in the desk. There were a few books, so he picked out an aged Asimov and sat upright on his bunk until he no longer had the awareness to follow along with the words. He dejectedly dropped the book on the floor, slapped the light switch on the inside wall of the bunk down, and drifted off into dark void.

[Terry316]

/supersadface. feedback?


Chapter 2:
Work Ethic
=========

Date: July 1
5:42
Location: Soviet Union, Siberia
Bunker 12


Parker hugged the cold ground silently. . . motionless. . . tried to meld in with the night on the side of the hill. The autumn breeze stroked his bloody, ash-ridden face that helped hide him in the darkness. He inched his head up a bit to see over the trench. All he could see behind him was an empty field cast in darkness.

"Parker. . . ?" she said next to him weakly, clutching his shoulder.

He put a finger to his lips. "Be quiet. . . save your breath." he whispered. Parker shifted his rifle from his right shoulder to his left. He kept scanning the field from the ground. He could see movements around the tree lines. Were they refugees or enemies? He needed to find an opening. He had to time it perfectly.

"It hurts. . . Parker. . ." she whispered desperately.

"I know, I know, you'll be alright soon. Just hold on, I just need to. . ." Parker stopped whispering as he heard a noise behind him. He tightened the grip on the rifle resting on his back, and with the other he clutched her side. He sat there and waited. . . listening to a soundless void. His heart didn't dare pump so loudly. . . calm. . . in control. . . listening. . .

The boot came down on the dry leaf.

Parker whirled around and fired behind him, using the violent flashes from his automatic rifle to aim in the darkness. The two men behind him writhed in pain as the bullets tore their chests apart, spraying blood, and collapsed on the ground, both cursing him and pleading for life in Chinese, life racing away from them. Parker wrenched her up by the hand and they started running at full speed up the hill. But she started to fall behind. She had trouble keeping up with his rapid pace, she didn't have the energy to run the steep incline. He tightened his grip on her hand until they got to the top of the hill. In the distance Parker could now see the bombs go off in the hills, warping the sky and clouds, bending the trees back from the force. With each explosion it seemed as if it were daytime instead of night, putting him in plain sight. Below them was an open field that ended in a dense forest. All I need to do is reach a tree line, I'll have all the cover I need. We can get away.

Parker wrapped her arm around his neck and took off down the hill. She was silent, but he could hear her sporadic intakes of air. Hanging by a thread. Gunfire rallied off behind him, the fellow soldiers of the men he just killed. Bullets nipped at the ground around him, and zipped by his head by mere centimeters. A bullet pierced straight through his leg, causing him to falter. He let an outburst of pain escape him, screaming in agony. No, I can't stop! She can barely run as it is. It's up to me. The tree line was twenty meters away. We'll be safe there. Parker kept running and dragging her along at his side, his injured leg sending searing pain all throughout his body. He absorbed the pain, used it to make him stronger and faster. She was losing blood fast, and her consciousness was fading away. But the tree line kept getting closer. We're going to make it.

A small fission bomb lands in front of the tree line and implodes on impact. The sound causes Parker's hearing to stop working altogether, the space around him ignites into blazing fire, ears bleeding and eyes swimming, Parker falls to the ground. He lies there, trying to keep low and avoid the inferno. His failed hearing is invaded by the sound of the sirens. . . those terrible sirens. As his consciousness leaves him, his hand searches frantically for her, as he realizes with a strike of fear --

"PARKER!"

The chrono unit's siren was blaring mercilessly into Parker Searson's ears, as he jolts awake in a cold sweat, heart racing, her voice resonates through his memories. Parker looks at the chrono on the wall in his bunk to see he has less than ten minutes to get down to Data Central. Parker tried to stand up, then immediately grabbed his trash can and vomited. He had bolted upright, and his uneasy stomach couldn't handle that. . .

Parker shook it off. Leave me alone.

He got up and ran to the showers, took a five minute cold one, dressed and ran down to Data Central. Running full speed down the hall he could still hear her call his name. Again he tried to wipe his mind of the dream. This time it worked. Parker followed the colored bars painted on the walls that would lead him to his destination. As long as the green bar ran along the walls he was on the right track.

Soon enough, after a few hallways and an elevator, he reached a door which shot up automatically, leading to a smaller hallway bathed in green light with windows lining the right side. On the other side of the windows was Data Central, a gigantic domed room with countless monitors everywhere and a giant machine in the middle that led up in a column through the ceiling. He walked to the end of the small corridor, opened a door, and walked down the metal steps that led down to the main floor of the room. There were three floors to the room. Floors, meaning metal grate walkways circling the inside of the giant dome, and catwalks leading to the machine column in the center on each floor. As Parker reached the ground floor, someone called his name.

"Parker Searson, you were thirty seconds away from being late. Now come on, we have to walk and talk now." The man walked around the machine, and towards a large door labeled "Wing B" and palmed it open. Parker followed as they walked down the large corridor on the other side. It had metal grating as flooring, and light was shining up between the slits in the metal. "My name is Daniel Teller, I'm your supervisor for the first few weeks. I need to teach you what your job is, and how to do it." Teller said, little bits of light dancing on his face from below the walkway. Parker nodded. "Just back there was Data Central, that is where we house the satellite interceptor. That large machine you saw?"

"Yeah." Parker said

"Good, I don't want to have to repeat myself. We use that to intercept the Soviet transmissions and copy them. In the wing we're headed to, which will be your lab, you will decode this copied data into something sensible, then mail it to the Admin wing at the end of your shift, okay? You've got to keep your eyes open, and don't make any mistakes. Good luck." Dan timed it perfectly as they reached the end of the corrider to Wing B. As it opened, there was a smaller room similar to Data Central, but without the giant machine. The perimeter was lined with consoles, the floor covered with wires and cables, which led to a circle of consoles in the center of the room. There were decoders operating most of the consoles already.

Dan tapped Parker's shoulder before he turned out of the room. He pointed at one of the consoles. "Number 6. That's you. You should be able to take it from there. Orson!" He shouted at a Cuban man sitting at console 1. "Give him the run-through." And with that he left. Parker took his station, and booted up. The man named Orson walked toward his station. He had close-cut black hair, and a thin mustache. He was wearing the same uniform as Parker, a dark green jacket with the Flashpoint logo on the back.

"Alright, Searson. Since you're such a technical genius I'm surprised you'd need my help." He said, sounding almost bitter. Sounds like he feels second rate. "The software isn't anything difficult, just open the interception files and use the translation program to decode it. Teller and the others in Research have sufficient technology to provide the key code, all you have to do is apply it to the incoming data. There shouldn't be any problems." That last part almost sounded a like a threat.

"Thanks, I think I've got it. " Parker assured him.

"Great, don't be afraid to ask questions. If something's holding you up you can't take too long. " Orson said, still standing over Parker.

"Yep. . . got it." Parker said.

There was a pause as Orson remained motionless. "I'm right over there at Console 1 if you need me." He pointed to it, as if Parker didn't know what the number 1 looked like.

". . . I'll keep that in mind."

"Alright. . . good." He walked back to his station. Finally.

Parker waited a moment, and then the system's inbox received the surveillance data. Parker opened it, and as he prepped the software, he began to explore his console station with his introductory file Reeves had given him as an instruction manual. His station had three monitors in it, with a keyboard in front of him, and four control panels. Two panels for each side monitor. The main monitor was split into two windows. The top window was the encoded transmission as received from Interception, and the bottom window is where Parker would punch in his commands to the software key and decode it. As he decoded it, the final translation would appear on the monitor to his right, the completed version he would include in his daily report. After his shift, he would use this monitor's control panel to send his report to the Admin wing. The monitor to his left housed the audio recording of the coded transmissions, so that way he could actually hear if he made any errors in the conversation as he pieced it together. It had several tracks for different tones of voice, and detection software for all kinds of interference identification. It had a graph of the voice fluctuations so it could match it with voice patterns in the mainframe's profile records. If anyone important showed up, he would know.

And so Parker began. The coding came down across his top screen in streaming columns, and as it did the software decoded most of it off the bat. Once the entire transmission was loaded however, and the key program translated all it could automatically, it was time for Parker to get to work. Not once did he question why he was doing this. If he did that. . . well. . . he just didn't. He knew he'd get frustrated with his situation again. The primary translation finished, and Parker didn't see how it helped. He played the track voice, and couldn't make much sense out of it. It was a jumbled mess interrupted by spurts of white noise. The scrambled code appeared in his bottom window.

[--->]Mst s acgi0 0ts ydy\tipset om n,ud ssdat runo0016esf89rn.euI expeca e i531hiIo ciut o ficery etam190e e .tsl ,ismosyg ytzaasyoa 4ve enekeetto othvo r67xy uronhe.c r oha o24toh orcol eneus 305tesru lglmu itxd tinfesep108.reoo kfn iitI uR r 8 615eewe trof n rmI nuvu np42 aam s Imtau c dtooe is[/END]

Parker's head hung low. This was going to be tough. Parker went about entering the program, trying to rearrange the letters and enter the included coding numbers to retrace the coding sequence, follow the trail to find out what the coding pattern is. After roughly twenty minutes he came up with:

[TRANSLATE]> Mst s Rackin, Its yss\te pset draft n, ud ssdat 6due89rn.euI expect [you in my office]e i[noon]1hiIo ciut o icry future190e e .tsl ,company.[extra care to attend this meeting] ytzaasyoa 4ve [resolve] othvo r67xy un[pleasant methods] he.c r oha o24toh orcol eneus 305tesru lglmuitxd tinfesep108.reoo kfn iitI uR r 8615eewe trof n rmI nuvunp42[/END]
[ EXECUTE--?]

It was "extra care to attend this meeting" that allowed Parker to fill in the rest. It was his longest portion that he had decoded, and within it he had enough of the coding pattern that he was able to enter it into the program and apply the pattern to the entire message. In a few minutes, he had the full translation after he transferred it from Russian:


[TRANSLATE]> Mr. Renkin, I assume you realize your draft is months overdue. I expect you in my office tomorrow noon to discuss your future in this company. I suggest you take extra care to attend this meeting, lest I have to resolve to unpleasant methods.[/END]
[EXECUTE--?]

It wasn't anything very special. All that work for nothing. It was the owner of FutureTech. Industries, a major source of the Soviet's military resources and supplies, sending a threatening message to what Parker supposed was one of his secretaries. He could only assume the 'draft' was something that the boss should have been doing himself. Such things were common in corrupt companies. As simple and irrelevant as this was, it took twenty-five minutes for him to decode one simple message. If it's going to take me that long to decode something as simple as that, I'll never survive in this hellhole.

Surprisingly, however, Parker got the hang of it by the next transmission. Finding the patterns became easier. It was just like a logic puzzle. Once you find one piece of the answer, the other pieces start falling into place. However, as he progressed, the messages got more and more bizarre.

[TRANSLATE]>He's gone. 6:00 sharp.[/END]

The voice recognition program matched it with Judge Agatha Pewter, and it was directed toward Prosecutor Piotr Wright. A slightly more interesting scandal in the Russian judicial department, but still nothing the Alliance could use in the war. He wouldn't be able to send in anything like:

[TRANSLATE]> The celebration has been rescheduled General. The arrival time is now at 1800 hours. [/END]

Not only was the message painfully short, but entirely useless. As Parker ran his frustration around in circles within his head, a voice piped up from behind him. "Look for keywords." it said. Parker turned around to meet eyes with a young man roughly the same age as he, with a large forehead and wide eyes, casually sipping a cup of coffee.

"Keywords?" Parker asked. The man nodded.

"Like 'coordinates' or 'supply lines.'" he said. "It makes things a lot easier. Helps you find what we're looking for in this mess." He took another gulp and pointed to a prompt bar at the top of the left screen. As if an afterthought, he introduced himself. " I'm Ulrich Butler. . . we're next door neighbors." Parker nodded. He hadn't taken note of anyone in the room, he just sat down and got to work.

"Nice to meet you." Parker took a backward glance toward Console 1 and Ulrich stifled a laugh.

"Yeah, Orson might flip if we don't get back to work. Cryin' shame can't have a chat. Have a good one." Ulrich headed back over to his station. "Keywords!" He reminded Parker. Why not give it a shot? Parker touched the prompt bar and typed in a few select keywords like he suggested. 'Coordinates.' 'Supply lines.' Parker was content with that, but then thought of something else. . . he reactivated the prompt bar and typed in 'Flashpoint.' There wouldn't be anything of relevance. . . he started scanning. After he had translated two more transmissions he was satisfied that he had enough to compile his report for the day. The first had been from the commander of the troops in western Siberia trying to inch in on Pakistani territory. The commander had sent a request for emergency supplies. They were running low. The second, oddly enough, was the reply to that message. The message held the very route the supplies would be taken. Perfect information for any attempt to lend relief to the struggle in Pakistan. Parker opened up for one more message and then he was going to wrap it up. Instantly, he received another transmission.

Holy. . .

The message was gigantic, and it had some of the most complicated encryptions Parker had seen in a while. . . It was going to take some time to decode. A lot of time. He tried to start. Parker's eyes were barely holding up. He'd been staring at this screen for hours. Too many hours. His shift was over soon, and he hadn't made any progress. It was a literal wall of text. Parker managed to translate a word here in there, but mostly useless conjunctions and pronouns. There's no way I'm getting this done now.

"Five minutes! Shut down and prepare for switch over!" Orson called out. Parker's heart leapt into his throat, and he didn't know why. He had an inexplicable feeling that this message was extremely important, and he couldn't lose it. Parker ripped the text off of the program, then closed it. Parker didn't even know if he could access his personal files from this system. Parker accessed the mainframe and tried to get into the personal files. It was password restricted for administrators.

"Three minutes!" Parker became more distraught. He was irrationally upset. It's just a simple transmission! No, it's not, and you know it. Parker learned to listen to his gut feelings a long time ago. Down to the line, Parker decided to save the text to the specific console he was using. He accessed the rip, burned it onto the console files, encoded it, and smacked an encoded lock on it. Just when he cemented the password lock and saved it, the console shut down.

"Zero! Get your asses out of here!!" Orson shouted. Everyone in the room vacated it, and made way for the new stream of coders who were about to set up shop. Parker thought about what would happen to the countless streams of code that were being missed now, then decided the other coding rooms must be taking care of that, and Parker wonders for the first time just how large this station is. He walks the corridors leading away from Data Central. Middle of Siberia. This place could be miles long, and who knows how deep. From what I've seen there's only three or so levels. . . maybe I'll have to look into this later. What am I supposed to be doing now? Parker's thoughts were interrupted by an accidental collision with someone else as a result of his absent-mindedness.

"Hey, you got pus for brains? Eh? You hear me, eemo?" his enemy said obnoxiously. Enemy. . . why am I thinking like that already?

"I‘m sorry, I was just--" Parker started feebly, taken off-guard.

"J-j-j-ust what? Just trying to find your balls? Better quit while you're ahead, freshmeat." Parker recognized him as Brad Treborn, from Vincent's little introduction, and he was taking advantage of Parker's disorientation. Parker's anger began to well up. No. Calm down. Use your anger, don't let it use you. No one else was in the corridor. If this turned ugly, there'd be no support for Parker. He could either end it now, or take precautions to make sure it didn't come to that.

"What's wrong with you? You didn't soil yourself did you? Look I've never been good with kids, I won't change you if that's what you--"

“Yeah buddy, big and tough. I’m sure that on the inside you’re just a lonely little kid who just can’t seem to play nice with the other children. Bugger off before I put my knee in your face.” That was good. Keep calm, threaten him, but don’t seem out of control. Leave room for him to salvage his dignity and back off.

Treborn's face flushed with rage, and his muscles clenched up, preparing for hostile movement. Parker's senses flared to the imminent attack, suddenly his mind was wiped clean of any previous thought, hyper-alert, paying attention to every detail. In a total of two seconds, Parker observed Treborn's concentration of body weight and how he would attack. Parker tensed his leg muscles and prepared to shift his weight backwards and down to sweep his leg into Treborn's right knee, dislocating it, then as his limp body falls, redirecting his weight forward to bring his elbow down on--

"Treborn!" Someone shouted.

Parker was brought back to normal consciousness and cursed silently. He was about to shut him up permanently, and part of him wanted to do so very much. The man who found them had jet black hair and a champion's smile, which was currently grinning sardonically at Treborn. "Can't find anything better to do than come on to the freshies? We've always suspected, but Liam was convinced otherwise--"

"Shut it, Andrews." Brad shot back. Parker stayed still and watched the exchange. Let someone else take him down. Observe the interactions between people at his new home.

"Maybe you should go make yourself useful." The man said sternly, grin suddenly disappeared from his face. "If that's within your abilities."

"Kiss my ass, none of you seen anything yet." And with that Brad Treborn departed, but not before stealing a malicious glare at Parker. Sure, it looked like Brad had been gracious, but Parker knew the man named Andrews had won from the very beginning. His first words cut deep at Treborn's pride, which must be a very prominent attribute. Everything that came out of Treborn after that was just an attempt to save face. The man rested his hand on Parker's shoulder. His smile was back.

"You should be more careful who you run into, Searson." He said. "Some of the people here aren't nice, and they're here for that reason exactly."

"How do you know my name? I only got here yesterday." Parker questioned. They both started walking down the hallway, continuing the direction Parker was headed when he had his collision."

"Oh you've been here for longer than that, whether you were conscious or not. There's been quite a bit of talk about you actually. The higher-ups were desperate when they brought you in. The jealous ones call you 'our only hope.'" So most of them knew who he was. Interesting. No doubt they planned this from the beginning. Spread word, get morale up, or low in some cases. So far, Parker had spent all day analyzing the administration's intentions for him. He didn’t like them so far.

"So everyone knows my name. What’s yours?“ Parker asked.

"Win. Win Andrews. I just work in maintenance. Keep things in tip-top shape." Win said modestly.

"You're useful to have around, I can say that. Thanks a lot. If you hadn't come around, Brad wouldn't have walked away like that. . ." Parker drifted off there. Would it have come to that? Would he have really followed through? When was the last time he had to destroy another human being?

"No problem. Isn't it time you ate? You should probably get to the mess." Win told him, as he stopped at a junction.

"Nah, I've got to look into something back at the barracks. I'll see you around though, Win." Parker waved as he parted ways with Win. He realized that Win was the first person he met here that he genuinely liked. Parker opened the door to his quarters and booted up his console. Once he was in, he tried to access the mainframe, which, to no surprise, was blocked from personal computers. However, Parker's account was classified as a Coder. He may not be able to access the mainframe, but he could possibly bypass into the Data Central files. After a little work, Parker hacked his way into the files. He only had to bypass one block, and while this would probably make his superiors upset, nothing like this was included in the Rules.

Parker got into his saved file, decoded it and entered the password. He ripped the text off and opened it in a notepad. He didn't have any of the necessary programs on his personal computer to decode it, but he could at least stare pointlessly at its mystery. It has a government code in it. A high one. Anything less wouldn't be led off by double zeros in it's frequency number. Why does this matter so much? Parker knew why. Something about it had been bugging him. And deep down he knew, but he ignored it. Maybe he was afraid. Maybe he just didn't care. Maybe he wanted it to happen in spite of his jailers. But whatever the reason, it was all because of that last keyword Parker entered.

Flashpoint.