Post by Franklin on Sept 16, 2009 15:54:20 GMT -6
DIVISION confiscated material. EYES ONLY.
Springfield, Massachusetts
Commonwealth of Massachusetts State Police Department
CMSPD
Criminal Investigation Division
Recorded Interview of Suspect
“James Dean” [likely an alias]
Cold Case File: EE1-THX22
Recording Begins…
“Look, Kid. This is will go a lot easier if you just tell us your real name.”
“How do you know I didn’t?”
“James Dean? C’mon, I was born at night, but not last night.”
“That’s the only name you’re getting.”
Officer Rourke, ran a hand over his receding hairline, and settled heavily into a chair. The Detectives had hit a stone wall with their suspect, but they hoped that Rourke would make some headway. The Uniformed Officer was known for his relationship with the people on his beat, and James Dean had been pegged as ‘good people’ by the Officer, so finding him with two dead men and a bag full of cash had thrown the Beat Cop for a loop. He sighed, “James, why are you doing this? I still don’t think you’re one of the bad guys, but if you don’t start talking no one can help you.”
“Your Detective friends are ready to hang me. Why do you think any different?”
“Insinct.”
“What if I told you your instincts are wrong?”
“I’d say you’d be lying, but I wouldn’t know why.”
“You don’t want to know.”
“Try me.”
Officer Rourke regarded the younger man across the table from him. He was good looking, he’d spotted that early enough; rugged, blue eyes, dark hair – in a better world he’d be an actor or model or something like that. He knew how to handle himself, possibly ex-Military, they had a certain way about them, a certain demeanor that said ‘I’m no stranger to trouble’. Rourke had seen James smile and talk a Street Gangster out of a fight, and if the Kid weren’t such a recluse, he’d have had the Widow Robinson, a rather hot number only a handful of years older than James himself, eating out of his hand. The Veteran Uniform felt the weight of James’ gaze, and saw something in those eyes that didn’t belong in the eyes of a man less than Fifty and who had seen terrible sh*t. Officer Rourke then had a sudden realization, another of his gut instincts, but something that only just occurred to him. James could more than handle himself, James was dangerous.
The younger Man was too relaxed for someone arrested of a crime, innocent or not. To confident in his space, and he had been that way since he arrived. He had told the Detectives rather cryptically, ‘You can’t keep me here’. And not with an indignant tone, but with a factual one. It now made Rourke wonder what James was waiting for, and why he’d let the Detectives rough him up a bit. Rourke himself was a former Marine, by his estimation, both of those men had been close enough to be handled by James, if his gut was right.
After what seemed a long time, James finally nodded, “Alright, but I don’t know how much time we have.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’ll see. I’ll try to keep you safe, but I can’t guarantee anything.”
Rourke frowned, “What are you talking about?”
“You’ll see.”
“So you said. Alright then, let’s hear it. All of it. If you think I’m taking a risk, at least give me a fair shake.”
James nodded, “You’re taking a risk by just talking to me.” He paused, “My real name is--” [At this point in the audio/video recording, there is a slight warp in the air near the microphone on the table, and the name is obscured. The perp turns away from the camera, to hide the motions of his lips.] “—and I am on the run. Not from the law, like you’d expect, but from a secret government agency called The Baldur Division.”
“Like the Norse God?”
James nodded, “Yes. They are under the direct command of a group called Project Ragnarok, that has existed for over a hundred years, dating as far back as the ‘declassified’ Stargate Project.”
“So you’re ex-military?”
“Not really. My Father was a Navy SEAL, and – I was trained by The Division.”
“So you’re a Secret Agent?”
“Yes and no. Should I finish?”
Rourke nodded, crossing his arms across his chest. “Go ahead.”
“The Division’s primary purpose is to cultivate, collect, train and oversee as many Psionic assets as they can. They have grown them, bred them, created them in test tubes, and through breeding programs. They have ‘reconditioned and reprogrammed’ them, all with an eye towards having the edge in the Invisible War, and infiltrating various strata of the remaining infrastructure of the Government; they believe they are saving the World for Humanity, or that is their claim.”
Roarke sighed, “So what’s all that got to do with you and the two men we found dead?”
“Did you ID the bodies?”
“No. We ran into a Federal flag, and are sending the evidence and identifiers up the pipe.”
“That seem normal?”
“No. Do you know how they died?”
James nodded, “I do. I never touched them with my hands.”
“What?”
“See? You don’t believe me.”
“I didn’t say that…just…tell me more.”
“The Division has been successful, very successful. Do you understand what I mean by the word ‘Psionics’?”
“Sure. I read a few comics. Mental powers, and what not – telekinesis, telepathy, ESP all that junk, right?”
“Right. Now, imagine an entire Agency of people with those abilities. Called Men in Black quite often, since the Forties.”
Rourke whistled, “That would be something.” He frowned, “If it were real. How many different kinds can there be? How much trouble is a spoon-bender, really?”
James smiled slightly, “More than enough,” He paused, “The Division comes in what they called Three Basic Types; Psychokinetics or basically the Mind over Matter group – Field Agents had a bunch of names for them; Pee-Kays, Peeks or Teeks, Tee-Kays, sometimes females were called ‘Carries’, males were called ‘Uries’ for Uri Geller, y’know? Combat Teeks were called –“
“Combat? As in they could fight with their minds?”
James nodded. “Yes.”
“Jesus.”
“Maybe. No way to know just how he walked on water over two thousand years later.” James shrugged, “Combat Teeks were called ‘Neos’, either gender.” He leaned back and went on, “Then there’s the Telepathic group, which is what it sounds like, mind readers, memory erasers, that sort of thing. They were sometimes called Scanners, though that term gets reused a lot…they’re like Police Band Scanners…some can listen to thoughts for a mile around, waiting to hear keywords, names, phrases. I used to call them Radio-heads or Tuners, like ‘tune in tokyo’. Others we called Viruses, like a computer, they can plant thoughts, memories, hypnotic suggestions. They can’t directly dominate a person, but they could convince you shooting your wife or neighbor was a good idea.”
“I can’t – that’s insane. You can’t make people just go against their own beliefs like that.”
“You’ll see.”
“You keep saying that, why?”
“Because it’s true.” James held up a hand to stop further questions, and went on. “The real Scanners, watch events. They’re Clairvoyants, they can see things in motion, predict where you’re going to be, alter the course of things by ordering a recovery team to turn left rather than right, or to put down a good citizen before he can help their target – because they’ve seen that good Samaritan will help their quarry escape. Precogs, Postcogs, Remote Viewers -- I’m sure you’ve heard of – predictors, soothsayers, seers, spotters, eyeballs, satellites. Psychometry – touch detectives, snoopers, snoopies. There’s others, people with enhanced senses, people that can track you like an animal, hear your heartbeat from the other side of a door – hounds, wolverines, hunters.”
“And that’s a psychic power?”
“In a way. It uses more of their brains then you and I do for our senses.” James met Rourke’s eyes. “What time is it?”
“About six o’clock now, why?”
“One of the men you found is a precog, while I – talked – with him, he let slip that his gift worked in roughly five hour increments, and that he already saw me being collected at the police station.”
“Collected? What the hell are you saying?” Rourke got to his feet, “I’m getting tired of this double-talk, James. I’m trying to be reasonable—“
James cut him off by lifting the Uniformed Officer, all two-hundred and fifty linebacker pounds of him, off the ground with little more than a look. “I told you. I was one of them. Now I’m not. They don’t like that.” He set him down on his feet, “And they’re coming for me.”
Rourke was stunned into silence for a long moment, and then, “No, sh*t, this is a Police Station, they can’t just –“
“Have you been listening to me at all? I’m not the only Neo in the world.”
“Neo?” Rourke then understood just how dangerous this man that called himself James Dean was. “You can’t be serious, I--” He couldn’t continue as he recalled the recent demonstration. “We can help you, we’re local policemen, and we’re not federal.”
“No, “ James gestured and Rourke felt himself pushed into a corner. Then he watched as the metal table, previously bolted to the concrete floor, was torn from its moorings and laid on its side to provide him with cover or some kind of barricade. “Keep your head down.”
A moment later, the door was thrown open, and those same Detectives that had smacked James around earlier, came in with pistols drawn. Rourke could see their expression, they didn’t seem like themselves, and drawing on a suspect like they were was totally out of protocol. James raised his hands, as one gestured for him to go towards the door. They both moved behind him, but Rourke saw that one was about to make a mistake. One of the two burly detectives poked him with the barrel of the gun, after that, it was like a scene out of those old Bourne Identity films. James put them down with just his hands, and when both men were down, Rourke watched in awe as an auto-pistol floated inside the door and opened fire on the room. “Look out!” He cried, as bullets pinged and dimpled the metal table he was hiding behind.
A field around James crackled with energy, as bullets bounced off some kind of field. He protected the Detectives he’d just put down, and held a hand out to the firing weapon. The weapon quivered in mid-air, and then James turned his hand and the magazine fell out of the weapon. Rourke could see the shadows of two men framing the door, and James rose from his crouch and gestured towards the one-way glass that separated the interrogation room from the observation room. The cop’s eyes widened as the glass first rippled, bowed out, and then shattered into countless shards – all of them seemingly floating in midair once the glass was pulled free. One man dove into the room, a gesture of his own sent a chair flying towards James, who ducked beneath it, almost dropped to the floor, and made a gesture of his own.
The shards of glass shot across the room with shot speed, Rourke thought that they might as well have been fired out of cannons. The glass shrapnel, because that was what it had become, buried themselves into flesh and bones and eyes, and the black-suited man was no longer moving.
The other man slid something into the room, which immediately exploded with an ear-piercing shriek that actually forced Rourke to cover his ears and curl into a ball. He forced himself to peer around the side of the table, and saw James engaged in a nasty hand-to-hand struggle with the other man in black. The think making the noise was only a few feet from the table, and whatever it was, seemed to be stealing the upper-hand away from James. The cop felt blood on one of his hands, a burst ear drum, he was sure, and the pain was excruciating, but after another glance to James, who was getting worked over in the opposite corner, he crawled out on his belly towards the device.
James noticed him, and fought back desperately, trying to keep the Division Agent’s attention on him. He focused enough to drop a single Telekinetic punch into the other man’s gut, and was punished for it with a right and left combination that had his lips bleeding. Rourke pulled his gun, reversed the grip, and shattered the device with the butt of his pistol’s grip. James sagged against the wall as the Agent spun around to see Rourke with a snarl, he went for a pistol in a shoulder rig, and then was suddenly shoved across the room and into the concrete wall with bone-crushing force. He did not move again.
The young telekinetic, whose real name was not James Dean, staggered back up to his feet, and took the pistol from the Agent. He reached up both hands, as if he were grabbing the bars on cage, and pulled down a ceiling vent cover with the power of his mind. He reached up again, and turned to Rourke. “Stay hidden.” And then he disappeared into the vent. Sliding along faster than a man should have been able to belly crawl. Rourke heard a clatter, more gunfire, and then the building went dark.
/END recording
Encounter Collateral Damage:
Suspect Escaped
Casualties: 7
-4 Federal Agents
-3 Police Officers [2 Detectives, 1 Uniformed]
Springfield, Massachusetts
Commonwealth of Massachusetts State Police Department
CMSPD
Criminal Investigation Division
Recorded Interview of Suspect
“James Dean” [likely an alias]
Cold Case File: EE1-THX22
Recording Begins…
“Look, Kid. This is will go a lot easier if you just tell us your real name.”
“How do you know I didn’t?”
“James Dean? C’mon, I was born at night, but not last night.”
“That’s the only name you’re getting.”
Officer Rourke, ran a hand over his receding hairline, and settled heavily into a chair. The Detectives had hit a stone wall with their suspect, but they hoped that Rourke would make some headway. The Uniformed Officer was known for his relationship with the people on his beat, and James Dean had been pegged as ‘good people’ by the Officer, so finding him with two dead men and a bag full of cash had thrown the Beat Cop for a loop. He sighed, “James, why are you doing this? I still don’t think you’re one of the bad guys, but if you don’t start talking no one can help you.”
“Your Detective friends are ready to hang me. Why do you think any different?”
“Insinct.”
“What if I told you your instincts are wrong?”
“I’d say you’d be lying, but I wouldn’t know why.”
“You don’t want to know.”
“Try me.”
Officer Rourke regarded the younger man across the table from him. He was good looking, he’d spotted that early enough; rugged, blue eyes, dark hair – in a better world he’d be an actor or model or something like that. He knew how to handle himself, possibly ex-Military, they had a certain way about them, a certain demeanor that said ‘I’m no stranger to trouble’. Rourke had seen James smile and talk a Street Gangster out of a fight, and if the Kid weren’t such a recluse, he’d have had the Widow Robinson, a rather hot number only a handful of years older than James himself, eating out of his hand. The Veteran Uniform felt the weight of James’ gaze, and saw something in those eyes that didn’t belong in the eyes of a man less than Fifty and who had seen terrible sh*t. Officer Rourke then had a sudden realization, another of his gut instincts, but something that only just occurred to him. James could more than handle himself, James was dangerous.
The younger Man was too relaxed for someone arrested of a crime, innocent or not. To confident in his space, and he had been that way since he arrived. He had told the Detectives rather cryptically, ‘You can’t keep me here’. And not with an indignant tone, but with a factual one. It now made Rourke wonder what James was waiting for, and why he’d let the Detectives rough him up a bit. Rourke himself was a former Marine, by his estimation, both of those men had been close enough to be handled by James, if his gut was right.
After what seemed a long time, James finally nodded, “Alright, but I don’t know how much time we have.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’ll see. I’ll try to keep you safe, but I can’t guarantee anything.”
Rourke frowned, “What are you talking about?”
“You’ll see.”
“So you said. Alright then, let’s hear it. All of it. If you think I’m taking a risk, at least give me a fair shake.”
James nodded, “You’re taking a risk by just talking to me.” He paused, “My real name is--” [At this point in the audio/video recording, there is a slight warp in the air near the microphone on the table, and the name is obscured. The perp turns away from the camera, to hide the motions of his lips.] “—and I am on the run. Not from the law, like you’d expect, but from a secret government agency called The Baldur Division.”
“Like the Norse God?”
James nodded, “Yes. They are under the direct command of a group called Project Ragnarok, that has existed for over a hundred years, dating as far back as the ‘declassified’ Stargate Project.”
“So you’re ex-military?”
“Not really. My Father was a Navy SEAL, and – I was trained by The Division.”
“So you’re a Secret Agent?”
“Yes and no. Should I finish?”
Rourke nodded, crossing his arms across his chest. “Go ahead.”
“The Division’s primary purpose is to cultivate, collect, train and oversee as many Psionic assets as they can. They have grown them, bred them, created them in test tubes, and through breeding programs. They have ‘reconditioned and reprogrammed’ them, all with an eye towards having the edge in the Invisible War, and infiltrating various strata of the remaining infrastructure of the Government; they believe they are saving the World for Humanity, or that is their claim.”
Roarke sighed, “So what’s all that got to do with you and the two men we found dead?”
“Did you ID the bodies?”
“No. We ran into a Federal flag, and are sending the evidence and identifiers up the pipe.”
“That seem normal?”
“No. Do you know how they died?”
James nodded, “I do. I never touched them with my hands.”
“What?”
“See? You don’t believe me.”
“I didn’t say that…just…tell me more.”
“The Division has been successful, very successful. Do you understand what I mean by the word ‘Psionics’?”
“Sure. I read a few comics. Mental powers, and what not – telekinesis, telepathy, ESP all that junk, right?”
“Right. Now, imagine an entire Agency of people with those abilities. Called Men in Black quite often, since the Forties.”
Rourke whistled, “That would be something.” He frowned, “If it were real. How many different kinds can there be? How much trouble is a spoon-bender, really?”
James smiled slightly, “More than enough,” He paused, “The Division comes in what they called Three Basic Types; Psychokinetics or basically the Mind over Matter group – Field Agents had a bunch of names for them; Pee-Kays, Peeks or Teeks, Tee-Kays, sometimes females were called ‘Carries’, males were called ‘Uries’ for Uri Geller, y’know? Combat Teeks were called –“
“Combat? As in they could fight with their minds?”
James nodded. “Yes.”
“Jesus.”
“Maybe. No way to know just how he walked on water over two thousand years later.” James shrugged, “Combat Teeks were called ‘Neos’, either gender.” He leaned back and went on, “Then there’s the Telepathic group, which is what it sounds like, mind readers, memory erasers, that sort of thing. They were sometimes called Scanners, though that term gets reused a lot…they’re like Police Band Scanners…some can listen to thoughts for a mile around, waiting to hear keywords, names, phrases. I used to call them Radio-heads or Tuners, like ‘tune in tokyo’. Others we called Viruses, like a computer, they can plant thoughts, memories, hypnotic suggestions. They can’t directly dominate a person, but they could convince you shooting your wife or neighbor was a good idea.”
“I can’t – that’s insane. You can’t make people just go against their own beliefs like that.”
“You’ll see.”
“You keep saying that, why?”
“Because it’s true.” James held up a hand to stop further questions, and went on. “The real Scanners, watch events. They’re Clairvoyants, they can see things in motion, predict where you’re going to be, alter the course of things by ordering a recovery team to turn left rather than right, or to put down a good citizen before he can help their target – because they’ve seen that good Samaritan will help their quarry escape. Precogs, Postcogs, Remote Viewers -- I’m sure you’ve heard of – predictors, soothsayers, seers, spotters, eyeballs, satellites. Psychometry – touch detectives, snoopers, snoopies. There’s others, people with enhanced senses, people that can track you like an animal, hear your heartbeat from the other side of a door – hounds, wolverines, hunters.”
“And that’s a psychic power?”
“In a way. It uses more of their brains then you and I do for our senses.” James met Rourke’s eyes. “What time is it?”
“About six o’clock now, why?”
“One of the men you found is a precog, while I – talked – with him, he let slip that his gift worked in roughly five hour increments, and that he already saw me being collected at the police station.”
“Collected? What the hell are you saying?” Rourke got to his feet, “I’m getting tired of this double-talk, James. I’m trying to be reasonable—“
James cut him off by lifting the Uniformed Officer, all two-hundred and fifty linebacker pounds of him, off the ground with little more than a look. “I told you. I was one of them. Now I’m not. They don’t like that.” He set him down on his feet, “And they’re coming for me.”
Rourke was stunned into silence for a long moment, and then, “No, sh*t, this is a Police Station, they can’t just –“
“Have you been listening to me at all? I’m not the only Neo in the world.”
“Neo?” Rourke then understood just how dangerous this man that called himself James Dean was. “You can’t be serious, I--” He couldn’t continue as he recalled the recent demonstration. “We can help you, we’re local policemen, and we’re not federal.”
“No, “ James gestured and Rourke felt himself pushed into a corner. Then he watched as the metal table, previously bolted to the concrete floor, was torn from its moorings and laid on its side to provide him with cover or some kind of barricade. “Keep your head down.”
A moment later, the door was thrown open, and those same Detectives that had smacked James around earlier, came in with pistols drawn. Rourke could see their expression, they didn’t seem like themselves, and drawing on a suspect like they were was totally out of protocol. James raised his hands, as one gestured for him to go towards the door. They both moved behind him, but Rourke saw that one was about to make a mistake. One of the two burly detectives poked him with the barrel of the gun, after that, it was like a scene out of those old Bourne Identity films. James put them down with just his hands, and when both men were down, Rourke watched in awe as an auto-pistol floated inside the door and opened fire on the room. “Look out!” He cried, as bullets pinged and dimpled the metal table he was hiding behind.
A field around James crackled with energy, as bullets bounced off some kind of field. He protected the Detectives he’d just put down, and held a hand out to the firing weapon. The weapon quivered in mid-air, and then James turned his hand and the magazine fell out of the weapon. Rourke could see the shadows of two men framing the door, and James rose from his crouch and gestured towards the one-way glass that separated the interrogation room from the observation room. The cop’s eyes widened as the glass first rippled, bowed out, and then shattered into countless shards – all of them seemingly floating in midair once the glass was pulled free. One man dove into the room, a gesture of his own sent a chair flying towards James, who ducked beneath it, almost dropped to the floor, and made a gesture of his own.
The shards of glass shot across the room with shot speed, Rourke thought that they might as well have been fired out of cannons. The glass shrapnel, because that was what it had become, buried themselves into flesh and bones and eyes, and the black-suited man was no longer moving.
The other man slid something into the room, which immediately exploded with an ear-piercing shriek that actually forced Rourke to cover his ears and curl into a ball. He forced himself to peer around the side of the table, and saw James engaged in a nasty hand-to-hand struggle with the other man in black. The think making the noise was only a few feet from the table, and whatever it was, seemed to be stealing the upper-hand away from James. The cop felt blood on one of his hands, a burst ear drum, he was sure, and the pain was excruciating, but after another glance to James, who was getting worked over in the opposite corner, he crawled out on his belly towards the device.
James noticed him, and fought back desperately, trying to keep the Division Agent’s attention on him. He focused enough to drop a single Telekinetic punch into the other man’s gut, and was punished for it with a right and left combination that had his lips bleeding. Rourke pulled his gun, reversed the grip, and shattered the device with the butt of his pistol’s grip. James sagged against the wall as the Agent spun around to see Rourke with a snarl, he went for a pistol in a shoulder rig, and then was suddenly shoved across the room and into the concrete wall with bone-crushing force. He did not move again.
The young telekinetic, whose real name was not James Dean, staggered back up to his feet, and took the pistol from the Agent. He reached up both hands, as if he were grabbing the bars on cage, and pulled down a ceiling vent cover with the power of his mind. He reached up again, and turned to Rourke. “Stay hidden.” And then he disappeared into the vent. Sliding along faster than a man should have been able to belly crawl. Rourke heard a clatter, more gunfire, and then the building went dark.
/END recording
Encounter Collateral Damage:
Suspect Escaped
Casualties: 7
-4 Federal Agents
-3 Police Officers [2 Detectives, 1 Uniformed]
