His head buzzed as if reverberating to the sound of an alarm. He didn’t know how long he had been out or how he had gotten there. Hell, he didn’t even know where there was. He had been stripped bare of the tools of his trade: his jet black body suit, night-vision goggles, and most importantly his weapon, all were gone. It was morning, of what day he couldn't say, but he knew he didn't have time to contemplate the mysteries of his current situation.
Sam crept forward to the door. Given the choice, he'd prefer to slip a tiny fiber-optic camera under it to get a peak at what was on the other side. Unfortunately, he didn't currently have that option. Gripping the doorknob tightly, he slowly turned and opened the door just a crack. For a moment he thought how much smaller his hands looked without his slick, black gloves covering them. The room beyond appeared empty, and after a minute of waiting, he gingerly opened the door the rest of the way, slinking into the small hallway on the balls of his feet. In spite of the calm, he didn't dare risk detection and dodged quickly into a doorway adjacent to the room in which he had awoken.
His mouth was sour, and dry. "Drugged," he thought. It would explain the spotty memory and the taste in his mouth; some knock-out compounds were known to leave a residue in the mouth as the drug worked its way through the victim's system. He found himself crouched before a bathroom sink. He slowly stood and reached for the light but caught himself. No, he couldn't risk anything that would draw undue attention. He fumbled in the dark, feeling for the faucet knobs. He turned them, ever so slowly, to start a steady and relatively quiet stream of water. His pupils had sufficiently dilated now, and he could make out enough details of the room around him to make due. He silently cursed his reliance on technology: high tech gadgetry had made him soft. Fortunately, his extensive covert ops training had prepared him for almost any situation.
Sam swallowed again. The taste was really starting to get to him. He hesitated a moment and then grabbed a nearby toothbrush. He'd suffered through worse things than using a strange toothbrush on his pearly whites. Still, he had to be stealthy about it. He snatched a nearby tube of toothpaste and deftly pinned it to the porcelain. With a flick of his wrist the cap was off, and applying a gentle but firm pressure, he coaxed the minty paste from its refuge. Now for the tricky part. Sam slowly raised his loaded and cocked toothbrush. He kept his hand close to his body, out of sight from any but the most prying of eyes. As his hand rounded the corner of his chin, he suddenly struck out and plunged the brush between his lips. Quietly and efficiently he had overcome his unsuspecting mouth. "Shhh, quiet," he thought. "This won't hurt a bit, I promise."
Moving the brush around, Sam was able to quickly subdue his Halitosis. He held the brush firmly and rotated it in a slow circle. He was waiting for a telltale jiggle--almost a vibration--in the handle to let him know he had unlocked the food particles from his gums. He smiled a crooked smile out of the corner of his mouth, thinking of his past victories against plaque. "Hit them when they least expect it." His Third Echelon training had served him well in the battle against Gingivitis.
Spitting the last of the foamy toothpaste into the sink, Sam brushed a hand over his cheek. His trademark five o'clock shadow was quickly approaching 6:30, but he didn't really have time for a trim. He cupped his hands under the tap and splashed his face with cold water, both for hygiene and to shock his senses. He dried his hands by running them through his hair. Felt a little longer than usual, but without a light he couldn’t see the mirror to confirm it. How long had he been out?
Inevitably during an operative's career he finds himself on a mission during which the unrelenting call of nature takes hold. Agencies are acutely aware of this fact and usually provide catheters or field diapers (affectionately known as "Government Coverups" or "The Poor Spy's Thermal Underwear") to their men and women in service. Fisher had neither of these "luxuries" but knew that any distraction could lead to disaster if the situation got hot. Sam slinked over to the nearby commode, and lifting the lid slowly, prepared to exercise "The First Freedom."
He aimed above the water along the side of the bowl. It was an old covert ops trick that they didn't teach you in the manual: by hitting the bowl at a shallow angle and avoiding striking the water directly, you minimized noise output. Some of the recruits in the training program even made a game out of it: the challengers would all drink a specified quantity of liquid (in some cases, a diuretic) and after holding it for a predetermined length of time, were required to release it as quietly as possible into a bugged stall. The stall in question was equipped with an ultra-sensitive decibel meter and a thermoptic camera to keep an eye on the competitors while preserving their modesty.
Time passed and Sam looked down to check his progress and aim. A strange thought struck him just then. He couldn't be sure on account of the darkness, but he was certain something didn't look right. The sexy salt and pepper gray Sam sported along his temples had some cousins down south. He couldn’t see them now, not that he really paid them much attention, but he had a certain familiarity with that general region that would make him, in most respects, an expert. He put it out of his mind, though, dismissing it as a trick of the dark as his task wound to a close. To be on the safe side he gave "the little spy" a shake for good measure and could almost hear Grímsdóttir's voice in his head saying, "If you jiggle it more than twice, you're playing with it."
Come to think of it, why wasn't he hearing Grim, or Lambert for that matter? He reached for his ear and felt around it gently. It seemed unlikely that anyone would be aware of his subdermal implant, let alone remove it. Perhaps his handlers were being blocked, either actively or by chance. "Guess I'm on my own," he thought. "Can't say I'm disappointed--it was getting a little crowded in there."
Sam spent the next several minutes exploring his habitat. When it became clear he was definitely alone, he relaxed a little (which, by all outside accounts, would have been an unappreciable change) and began thinking of what his next move should be. Rummaging around he was surprised to find some clothes to fit him and although he wasn't exactly thrilled at the prospect of doing his work in "civvies," he relented to the fact that it was at least a step up from doing it naked. He grabbed a baseball cap that had been discarded unceremoniously on the floor and donned it, wearing the brim as low as possible. After a few more minutes he had procured a wallet, car keys, and an id badge, all likely belonging to his assailant. On a nearby dresser he found a pair of glasses and slipped them on to complete the disguise. "Weak prescription," he though, not noticing any significant change.
Exiting the domicile proved trickier than he would have expected. Leary of using the main exit, Sam slowly made his way out a sliding glass door that opened onto a third-story balcony. If he had the right equipment he'd simply repel down to ground level but instead he was going to have to do it the old fashioned way. Lifting one leg over the balcony, Sam stole a quick glance down. His head swam and he gripped the railing tight with both hands, clutching it as if for dear life. "Side effect from the drug," he reassured himself. "Guess we're using the door. Peachy."
Retracing his steps, the Echelon agent ducked out the main door and into the blinding sunlight. There was no use sneaking, he had no shadows in which to hide. Making his way into a parking lot, he looked around at the cars parked near the building. Glancing down at the pilfered keys in his hands he noticed a stylized Toyota "T". Looking back up he was face to grille with a blue Toyota Celica. Sam was more of a Range Rover type guy, but it was better than a swift kick in the nuts. He tried the key and luckily it fit.
Sam instinctively knew where to go, though he wasn't sure how or why. Sometimes the thoroughness of his training surprised even him. Since his assailant didn't appear to be present and had left several personal effects behind (wallet, keys, etc.) Sam figured it best to try to find out more about this individual. It was a risky endeavor, but it was the only thing he had to go on until he reestablished contact with Lambert. Besides, it could be fun. He wondered how Sarah was and if she understood the importance of his absence.
Bypassing security at the facility was appallingly easy. Sam pulled forward and proffered the badge he had found. He strategically placed his thumb over the photograph of its original owner. He figured this would only buy him a few seconds and knew that he'd have to act quickly as soon as the guard realized it was a ruse. Sam planned to open the door into the guard while he still had the element of surprise and knock him unconscious with an ice scraper he found behind the driver seat. He would then vault himself over the now open door and swing from the overhang above the entrance to the guard shack, leveraging his full weight into a kick aimed at the chest of the second officer. With any hope the force would disable the second guard before others in the gatehouse beyond had even noticed. He took a deep breath and prepared to spring into action.
Instead, the on duty officer waved Fisher through without giving his badge a second glance.
Sam was, naturally, a little disappointed. Still, it made things easier on him this way. He proceeded on to the lab and made his way toward a research building in which he hoped to find some answers.
Sam parked close in case he needed to make a quick getaway. He surveyed the parking lot before him and then opened his door and ducked into a roll, deftly closing it behind him as he went. He ran, crouched, from car to car, taking care not to be seen. As he passed into the open expanse between the last row of cars and the building's entrance, he took note of a number of cars parked in the fire lane. "Man, I hate when they do that," he thought. "You're able-bodied individuals; you can walk the extra five feet." The words seemed strange to him. Sure, he agreed with the sentiment, but how often did he see it happen. It's not like Third Echelon has a big lot out back where all the agents park their Aston Martins and Ospreys.
The lobby to the building was largely enclosed in glass and although entering through it would certainly lend him credibility (in the sense that he might actually belong there) it also made him an easy target. Sam sidled up to the building and laid his back to the wall. The smaller the profile, the better. He began the agonizingly slow journey along the circumference of the building, hoping that he'd find a ventilation duct, access hatch, or unguarded rear door by which to gain entry. As he toiled, employees came and went. "It's a good thing I'm hugging close to the building," he thought, aloud, "or else I’m sure they'd have spotted me by now." A middle-aged engineer walked by at that moment and shot a curious glance in Sam's direction. It was almost as if they could hear him. Sam froze briefly, and then proceeded on.
At last, Fisher found the way in he was looking for. Along the side of the building was a loading bay likely used to load and unload any number of highly illegal, dangerous, or contraband items. It was surprisingly poorly guarded, just a single individual hanging over a railing enjoying a smoke break. Sam approached him cautiously. "If I climb up this ledge into the dock, I can get behind him and give him an elbow to the head," he thought. "Then I'll just turn off the lights in here and drag the body over and no one will ever find him." Sam clambered ungracefully up onto the cement patio that jutted out from the dock when the smoking man addressed him.
"Were you talking to me?"
Sam froze again, perched on his haunches. The individual just stood there, looking in his direction, but there was no radio chatter and as much as his ears strained to hear them, Sam did not catch the distinctive squawk of an alarm klaxon. He had to think fast, if he was spotted now, his mission could be over. Abandoning his earlier plan, Sam rolled sideways into a crouched run and ducked behind a nearby trashcan. His heart pounded in his ears but he knew he had to be completely silent. He waited a moment, what seemed like a proverbial hour, and listened. The coughs of the man on the dock broke the tension--Sam knew he was safe; the employee had gone back to his routine.
Still half-squatting, Sam slipped out the double doors separating the loading dock from the rest of the building. A quick look around revealed no one else in the hallway. Sam straightened his posture and slowly made his way to a nearby stairwell. He had a sneaking suspicion this guy's office was on the second floor--the clandestine types always are. Gingerly he made his way up one flight, then another, stopping to put his back to the wall at the top of the stairs. He peaked his head around the corner and spied a long hallway flanked by offices on either side. Fortunately, no one coming, but he felt confident that as long as he stayed there with his back to the wall no one would see him, even with his head completely exposed.
Sam took a deep breath and quickly dashed through the doorway. He positioned himself alongside one of the office doors, back to the wall once again. He knew he would have to call upon his training once again to get him through a tight situation. Bracing himself, Sam initiated a "SWAT Turn," moving across the open doorway while simultaneously spinning his body in a full circle. Covert Operations Manual pg. 9: The SWAT turn is a highly trained Special Forces movement that makes you almost invisible. Sam smiled slightly at a job well done. Inside the office a curious worker raised an eyebrow.
Sam repeated this feat all the way down the corridor, looking for one office in particular. Numerous times doors opened or curious employees poked their heads out of offices across the hall. Sam just shook his head. "Poor slobs," he thought. "They have no idea. This is just too easy." After backtracking, he came to an office bearing the same name as the one on his id tag. It was empty and the lights were off. Sam's lucky day.
Of the three desks occupying the office, it was easy enough to spot the one belonging to the assailant. In a bit of fortunate vanity, the individual had a picture of himself on his desk. It was quick Photoshop job--his head pasted on the body of L.L. Cool J. "Delusions of grandeur," thought Fisher. He hunched over the desk and began quickly attempting to access the computer there.
PASSWORD: _
Sam glanced around for clues. Lord of the Rings calendar. Dancing hula girl. Picture of self with L.L. Cool J's body. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out the man's wallet. A few dollars. Star Trek credit card. No pictures of loved one or other indications of having friends or significant others. "Hmm, how about...."
PASSWORD: SoV3ryAlon3_
Jackpot. He was in. Now to find some information on this character….
"You programming in the dark, now?" came a voice from the hallway. Sam froze again. He recognized the man, though he wasn't sure how, or from where. Must have been in a dossier Grímsdóttir sent to him before his OPSAT was taken away. A name came to mind.
"Grim Weasel?" said Sam, tentatively. He wasn't sure where the name came from, probably a codename chosen by the C.I.A. They had a habit of picking ludicrous monikers for agents, contacts, and marks alike.
The gentleman seemed to ignore the uncertain nature of the response. "So what's with the lights, Kato? You spend the whole weekend playing Splinter Cell again?" Sam watched helpless as the man known to him only as Grim Weasel reached out and flicked on the light switch. Fisher was paid to be a ghost and now he had been made. Without input from Lambert or Echelon he had to call all the shots--the government would disavow any knowledge anyway. He pulled open a desk drawer and grabbed the first lethal instrument he could find. Propelling himself forward, Sam cocked back the stapler and prepared to exercise "The Fifth Freedom."
Thank you both for reading it. It was long and mostly nonesensical. And thank you Grim Weasel for not hiding my stapler after threatening to kill you with it.
Sam Fisher awoke with a start.
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