[SG] A View Of Genocide: The Ballad of Richard Less #1 (1/2)

[Whistling in the Dark]

June 2, 1997
Alliance Command Headquarters
Somewhere Near The Center of the Earth

     Andy Awesome continued studying the tactical map. "It's happening," he
said. "It looks like the ULA forces are moving out of their East Russian
buildup and crossing the Sea of Okhotsk."
     "That tracks our intelligence," Trashman said. "They want to get as
much coastline as they can, to cut off the Lady's supply lines before they
really get into it in Asia."
     "Yeah, but it can't work," Unorthodox Girl said. "We know
Genny-Annidots needs her repeaters to boost her powers. And we know they
don't have good ways to string them over water. They'd need a transmission
station on the mainland to make it work."
     "Another assault by Arsenal, Artifact, Incendiary and Stigmata?"
Dangerousman asked.
     "They're spread thin. I'd expect if they all showed up in the same
place we'd hear about it." Andy sounded concerned.
     "Well, if they don't have something they're about to get spacked,"
Unorthodox Lass said. "The Russians, the Japanese, a few rogue American
ships, the Australians, the Chinese... it's so multicultural there's a
chance the Olympics will spontaneously develop in the middle of the
coalition fleet."
     "We should be out there," Exemplar said. Her voice was hoarse, her eyes
ragged. She hadn't been sleeping well. None of them had, after the horrors
they'd seen in the Fall. But with Dangerousgirl having vanished, her beacon
cutting short in the first hours of the conflict.... "We should be
supporting them."
     "We don't dare tip our hand. Not yet. Not until we can do significant
damage. We can't let them suspect what we're up to."
     "Which is why Mike and Summer's merry band of transforming motorcycles
has been left out to dry?" Frigid Girl asked. "We should at least be
resupplying them. How long do you think they can keep up a partisan action
without--"
     "We can't," Andy said, for what felt like the thousandth time. He felt
like a little more of himself died every time he said it. "The ULA's core
asset, not counting Psybernet, is their precognitive. We have to keep
Scholarman close if we're going to be able to subvert that, and if we make a
*single* move, even in support of Team M.E.C.H.A. or the others... they'll
lose confidence in her predictive abilities. We have to stay down here, let
our operatives fill us in where they can, and cultivate our mole further. If
one tenth of what he's told us is true--"
     "Wait -- we have movement. A single figure, launching off the forward
ULA ship. Looks like a fire trail." Superuser worked controls, enhancing the
resolution. "I don't recognize him--"
     "Her," Figuremaster corrected. "That's definitely a girl. Fire and --
wait, is that a radiological alarm?"
     "Incendiary, maybe? Has Arsenal started wearing white?" the Masked
Bruce cocked his head at the display. "I could swear I've seen that--"
     "...no..." Exemplar whispered. Trashman jerked his head towards her.
     "Perhaps they've managed to reassemble the Nubermachine. We know
they're--"
     "Oh my God," Trashman said. "Oh, Dianna--"
     "Wait -- what's going on," Superuser asked.
     "It's *Dani!*" Exemplar said, grief and horror in her voice.
     Dangerousman's eyes grew wide, and he turned to the display. "Those
bastards," he muttered, fist clenching.



                         THE LEAGUE PRESENTS

                          A VIEW OF GENOCIDE

                      The Ballad of Richard Less
                                  by
                           Eric Burns-White
                      Struggling Against History

                               Part One


October 20, 2007
The Combat Zone
Boston, Massachusetts

     Cairi stared at the broken down man in the Hawaiian shirt. "You're
Richard Less," she said.
     "Glad to see you underwear perverts are recruiting for intelligence,"
Less said, stumbling back into the apartment. Pizza boxes, ash trays,
newspapers, food wrappers and books fairly covered the floor. Along one wall
were a good six computers with ancient faded CRT monitors. Three televisions
were on the far wall, one tuned to CNBC, one tuned to Fox News, and the
other tuned to Boomerang, which was showing a Yogi Bear cartoon. Yogi's
volume was turned up. The other two were silent with closed captioning
turned on.
     "You're Richard Less," Cairi repeated, still stunned.
     "You bring me any gin?" Less asked Roger as he typed on one of the
computers.
     "Why would I bring you gin?" Roger asked.
     "Polite kid would bring a guy gin."
     "I thought you drank scotch."
     "Did you bring me any scotch?"
     "No."
     "Then we're right back where we started, only I'm out of gin."
     "You're *Richard Less.*"
     "Damn, she's swift on the uptake, ain't she? She should at least take
off her shirt."
     "We need some information--" Roger started.
     "We all have needs," Less cut in. "We need life. We need hope. We need
oxygen. We need food. We need fucking gin. Do I have any gin? No. Life sucks
sometimes." Less looked back at Cairi. "So, do I call you Incandescence,
Hellfire, Matchstick, Ms. Richards, Cairistiona, Cairi, or 'Not Christina
Ricci?'"
     Cairi blinked. "Wha-- how... how did you know that?"
     The man smiled a wicked smile. "I'm Richard Less, Firecrotch." He
looked at Roger. "Seriously. Get me some fucking gin.""

                              * * * * * *

November 4, 1996
Racine, Wisconsin
Motel 8

     The room was non-smoking. That was part of protective coloration.
Everyone knew Less smoked like a chimney. It was *American* to smoke. Anyone
looking for Less would automatically look in the smoking rooms first. And
they'd probably look somewhere other than Butt Ugly, Wisconsin while they
were at it.
     Richard Less had survived six administrations, angry werewolves,
countless firefights, and a pissed off Dangerousman. He would survive this
too. Though he would be damned if he knew how.
     There were two double beds in the room, each with a red and orange
paisley bedspread. The carpet was burnt orange. The television was tuned to
the Today Show. There was a USA Today sitting on the bed next to Less. He'd
bought it from a machine outside the Denny's where he'd eaten breakfast. A
breakfast where he'd sported a black and white check polyester sportcoat and
brown slacks, a brown tie and a pink shirt. His ever present sunglasses had
been forgone for a pair of horn rims. His hair was messed up, just slightly,
and it looked like he was balding. Hide in plain sight. No one looked twice
at a dork -- at some guy who probably sold air conditioners on commission.
That's how modern tradecraft worked. No one suspected the mediocre.
     "SPY AGENCY REVELATIONS ROCK CONGRESS, WALL STREET" the newspaper said,
with a file picture of Robert Unethical on the cover. Two months it had
been. Two months since the house of cards that had been the
Mega-Intelligence Bureau had collapsed. And yet, new 'revelations' on the
M.I.B.'s practices and information could still make the front page.
     Two months, living on the road. Living off any number of secret bank
accounts and forged credentials. Richard Less knew how to survive.
     There was a knock at the door.
     Less's eyes flickered to the door. "Yeah?" he called out.
     "Mister Less?" It was a female voice. Cultured.
     Less's guts turned to ice. "Huh?" he said, hand shifting into his coat.
     "Mister Less, I know you just reached for your gun. Please don't shoot.
We just want to talk."
     "Wrong apartment," Less called, slipping the nine millimeter out. 
     "Mister Less, you're not going to shoot."
     "Wrong apartment!" he repeated. "I'll call a cop!"
     "No, you won't," the voice answered. Male voice. "Please unlock the
door and let us in."
     Less considered. If the yahoo outside the door were from the government
-- *any* government -- he'd have backup. If he was a cop, there'd be cops
with tear gas and considerably worse waiting. If he was a hero....
     ...best to assume it wouldn't be a hero. Regardless, he had to know how
his cover'd been blown. That meant letting them in.
     "Okay," he called out, replacing his gun in the shoulder holster. He
had other weapons to hand if he needed them. He got up, walked to the door,
worked all the locks and moved the chair he'd braced under the doorknob, and
opened the door up.
     A man, 50 something and balding, with a slightly reddish nose and a
bulbous face, stood outside. He wore a good suit. One that screamed money.
Behind him was a beautiful woman -- brown haired, half Asian. Hmong, if Less
judged right. And she was wearing a toga, of all things. "Hello, Mister
Less," the man said. "My name is--"
     "Adrian Wollstonecraft," Less answered for him. "Head of Wollstonecraft
Aerospace. That must be the erstwhile Alanna Gordon behind you, or does she
only go by Oracle these days?"
     Wollstonecraft arched an eyebrow. "How do you know these things?"
     Less snorted. "Come on in. I don't have anything for guests, I'm
afraid." He stepped back into the hotel room.
     "I'm not sure you have 'anything' at all, Mister Less." Wollstonecraft
spoke lightly, like any businessman who held all the cards. "I'm sure you
have cover identities and secret bank accounts spread across the world, if
all you wanted to do was disappear. But you've never been one to just
disappear, have you?"
     "At the moment, we're having a minor administrative setback in
operations," Less answered, just as lightly. "It should be resolved quickly
enough."
     Wollstonecraft snorted. "Resolved, the man says. You can't expunge a
secret that's been revealed, Mister Less. Not when the whole world knows it.
Oh, I'm sure that the culture of shadows that populated your little kid's
club will regroup and reorganize. Maybe together, maybe separately, but
that's what they do. But everyone knows about Extra-Special Agent Richard
Less now, don't they?"
     "Special Special," Less corrected, voice still amiable, even as he
considered what force to apply. Shot to the neck with the pen on the desk
would handle the man. Oracle was a graduate of the Nubermachine, which meant
she was likely a Beta class threat, but there had been no reports of the
woman exhibiting any physical--"
     "You're not going to stab Mister Wollstonecraft in the neck with a pen,
Mister Less," Oracle said. "And you can't kill me, no matter what you might
try. I will never die. I have foreseen it."
     Less paused, looking at Oracle. Adjusting his plans. Resizing the
situation. It's what he did. "You don't think I'll find a safe harbor?"
     "Like I said," Wollstonecraft said. "You can disappear if you want to.
You can stay invisible for weeks. Maybe months. Maybe even longer. But the
price of invisibility is influence. You were an important man, Mister Less.
You have been involved with black ops, with high level circles of power,
with Presidents and Directors, for years and years. And that's done now,
isn't it? Your ability to advance the American Agenda... to spread the cause
of American Hegemony across a globe that so desperately needs it... is
gone."
     "But you're here to change all that?" Less asked. "You're here to offer
me a job, to put me back at the center, to give me a new chance to fight for
the ol' Red, White and Blue?" He snorted. "What kind of idiot do you think I
am?"
     "I'm sure you don't want us to answer that question," Oracle said,
lightly. Less hated paranormals.
     "Mister Less, the world needs order. Rational, secular order. The kind
of order you have imposed upon the world for your entire career."
     Less half-smiled. "So you want me to work for the Unimaginable League
Amoral? Mister Wollstonecraft, I may -- *may* -- have certain faults, but a
lack of patriotism isn't among them."
     "Nor would it need to be, Mister Less. The core values we would espouse
would be American ones. In the end, you would be spreading that American
Hegemony on a global scale. The world would be united. The world would be
*American,* at last."
     "Roulette and the Murder Twins are French. The bloodskin's an alien.
The eyeball's Canadian. Doesn't sound terribly American to me."
     "Nimbus, Artifact, Seraphim, Incendiary, Goldenrage and Oracle here are
all American. I'm American. And more to the point, look at our cause and
intention. We don't subscribe to religious beliefs or the concept of Divine
Right. We aren't beholden to outmoded concepts of socialism or the cult of
mediocrity. We are, if anything, the ultimate Meritocracy. There is nothing
more Capitalist than the superior rising up to dictate to the inferior."
Wollstonecraft smiled slightly. "Besides, we have a trump card in our
argument."
     "What's that."
     "Oracle has foreseen our victory. We're going to *win,* Mister Less.
We're going to beat Europe, Russia, China, India, Pakistan -- and the
Awe-Inspiring Force." Wollstonecraft smiled an infuriating smile. "And
there's nothing more American than that."
     "We will win with or without you," Oracle said, "I have seen both
paths, and they're both clear. But it would be easier -- and the resulting
new order would be stronger and better administered -- if you are with us."
Her lips crooked into a beautiful smile. "Or you can continue to move from
backwater to backwater, sleeping under ugly bedspreads and avoiding notice,
like a cockroach who refuses to die. If you'd prefer that, anyhow."
     Less looked at the woman, then back at the man. He considered his
options. A good poker player played the cards he was dealt. He changed the
odds where he could, paid attention to earlier hands, kept track of things,
and bluffed like a son of bitch... but the time came when you had to fold.
Otherwise, you'd never be dealt a fresh hand of cards.
     "Okay," he said. "I'll need to make some calls from a secure line."
     "Calls?" Wollstonecraft asked, arching an eyebrow.
     "It's impolite to show up at a party without a few gifts for the host,"
Less said. He took the horn rims off, tucking them in his pocket, and
smiled, ever so slightly.

                              * * * * * *

October 20, 2007
The Combat Zone
Boston, Massachusetts

     Any day I wake up where I don't have a man in ray-bans standing over my
head with a Gat pointed at my eyeball is by definition a good one, but that
doesn't mean the days stay that way. It takes me a few minutes after I wake
up for that sandpaper feeling on the back of my eyeballs to start, and on a
*really* good day I'm in the shower by then. Today I'd been up for a couple
hours and already eaten half a pizza, and I still hadn't actually showered.
For four days. So you know, the day wasn't going so hot.
     The dead kid had gone out to grab me a bottle of Beefeaters. I'd have
asked for almost anything else, but honestly this kid wouldn't know gin if
he was belted with a bottle in whatever coffin he'd woken up in, so I'd take
anything that smelled like juniper and like it. That meant he'd get
Beefeaters, because it looked British and he'd heard of it. That left me
with the chick, and that was always trouble.
     "You're the Hawaiian," she said. "The one they can't out because of
some pact."
     "Something like that," I said. Honestly, you think they'd expect this
in their line of work. I'd spent the better part of thirty-five years
dealing with white-hair, white-knuckle shit that made Tommy Lee Jones rich
off the movie rights. Naturally I'd run into the odd occult pact or two in
my time. "Pays to have a few outs, I always say. You play poker? 'Course you
play poker. Everyone fucking plays poker now, thanks to fucking television,
only they play Poker for Dummies and call it Hold 'em."
     "Roger thinks you have information we need."
     "Seriously, you know what's fun? Get a pile of internet poker players
into a room. Lose like three Hold 'em hands to them, then dare them to play
a couple rounds of five card stud. Not even seven card. Five card. Then
proceed to make them squeal like the poor little bitches they are. So do
your panties have asbestos in them or what?"
     She didn't look happy. She hadn't looked happy from the moment she made
me, which was why I kept needling her. It's fun to make the little heroes
rile up. "I know what you did," she snapped. "Maybe Roger's--"
     "Hey, when you were in Heaven, could you watch us in the shower?"
     "...what?"
     "Seriously. When you're tripping over clouds and shit, do you get the
private lives of the living on basic cable?"
     "It... it wasn't like that at all. Why do you think--"
     "'Cause I'll tell you, a setup like that? That's a spy's wet fucking
dream right there. Be able to go anywhere, do anything, see any shit you
want to, and never get caught? Richard Helms just got wood thinking about
it, and he's been dead since ought two."
     The chick stared at me. "You're horrible," she said, under her breath.
Like she was the first one to decide that. "I've never seen anyone so--"
     "You were dead for eight years, six months and twenty six days, not
counting the time you spent dead and not knowing it. Before that, you were
on fire and on the run from Satan and before that you were in Mermaids with
fucking *Cher,* and *I'm* the most horrible thing you've ever seen? I'd be
flattered but honestly, you're just not paying attention, sunshine."
     "No one's supposed to know any of that. No one can even remember--"
     "Honest to Christ, you descended back to Earth on Easter Fucking
Sunday? *Really?* I mean, Christ knows I'm not a religious man, but--"
     The chick's hair began to smolder and her eyes began to glow. "I've had
just about enough--"
     I turned on her, pointing straight at her nose. That's a trick, you
know. You point at their nose, and they thing you're pointing straight into
their eyes. They automatically adjust. Freaks them out, and they don't know
why.  It's like staring right where their nose and eyebrows meet -- they
feel like you're staring dead into their eyes but they can't manage to stare
into yours, and that screws with them on a subconscious level. Works on dead
fire angels and dumbass kids alike. "You say you know what I did," I snap.
"But you haven't followed my life. You haven't seen what I've seen. You
never even saw me take a shower. You don't know anything about me. You just
know what you've been *told.* Which means you don't know anything at all,
charcoal nipples. Trust me -- I used to be in the information business."
     She didn't flinch. Well, she saw St. Peter up close and personal -- I
suppose being pointed at wouldn't freak her *too* much. "What business are
you in now?" she asked, trying to sound tough. Which works pretty well when
you can melt steel in your hand, but honestly -- she was no Dangerousman.
     "I'm retired. I'm not in business. I putter." I walked for the kitchen.
"Jesus, how long does it take to buy one god damned fifth of gin. Kappy's is
just--"
     "No wonder they named you 'Dick,'" the chick muttered.
     "Don't ever call me Dick," I said cheerfully. "It's not healthy."
     "Not healthy? What, are you going to kill me again?'
     I turned to look at her, and I smiled. I liked this chick. I whistled
sharply. "Leverage!" I shouted. "Leverage! C'mere boy!"
     The cutest damn dog who ever lived ambled out of my bedroom. Seriously,
he's like half beagle and half cocker spaniel, which means he's both brain
dead and pure floppy ears and brown and white spots. Nancy fucking Reagan
melted when this dog ran through the room once. The chick might be dead but
she was alive enough to coo, even involuntarily. It's genetic.
     Leverage bounded up to me, all dumbass enthusiasm. I reached down and
scratched behind his ear. "You like him?" I asked.
     "Yes--" she said, almost without meaning to.     
     I'm damn good at growing guns. Seriously, you watch a film of me
sometime. I'm like the Lance Fucking Burton of not having a gun in my hand
and then having a gun in my hand. This one was my Glock. I fucking love that
Glock -- it's like a bigass chunky business card that says "I'm going to
fucking kill you" in your hand. "Good to know," I said, pressing the barrel
into Leverage's skull.
     The chick froze. Every muscle tensed. Her eyes bugged. She didn't even
catch fire.
     Leverage panted, all stupid tongue and ears, so fucking happy to be the
center of attention.
     "Here's how this works. If you ever, *ever* call me Dick again, I will
shoot this dog in the head. If you fail to correct your friends when *they*
call me Dick, I will shoot this dog in the head. If you do not work
tirelessly and ceaselessly to reinforce to everyone on the fucking planet
that my name is Richard Less and no one ever calls me Dick, not once, not
even to *themselves,* I will shoot this dog in the head. Do you believe me?"
     "You're insane," she breathed.
     "Do you believe me?"
     "...yes."
     "What's my name?"
     "...Richard."
     "What do *you* call me?"
     "...Mister Less?'
     I pulled the gun away from Leverage's skull. "Outstanding."
     "Hey!" the dead kid said, bounding into the room with a telltale brown
paper sack. "I got Beefeaters. I hope that's okay--"
     The chick grabbed the dead kid's shirt and dragged him back to the
door, no doubt to talk about what a crazy dog-abusing psycho bastard I was.
I grinned, and scratched Leverage behind the ears again. "Who's daddy's
little bargaining chip, huh?" I asked, and the dog wagged like crazy. "Is it
you? Yes it is. Oh yes it is."


[THIS IS THE END OF SIDE ONE. PLEASE PROCEED TO PART TWO. THANK YOU]