It was a great, dark, glass-and-steel tower, easily over a hundred stories. From the outside, it could easily be a corporate office. Only when Agent Andy entered could he tell that it was government.
When he entered the middle of the three revolving doors on the entrance facade, he was confronted by a row of metal detectors, conveyor belts, and hardened security guards. The stout agent put his briefcase on one of the x-ray belts while he walked through a set of the state-of-the-art detectors. It beeped, the color-coded scale above it claiming that Andy had more than five pounds of metal on him.
A facially scarred male in a security uniform came up to him. The man straightened his necktie knot and grunted, “Remove any metal objects on you.” Andy, feeling foolish, began to remove his Berreta.
The guards all reacted with haste, each drawing their sidearms or truncheons. Andy, realizing his mistake and feeling even more foolish, pressed the magazine release and quickly flipped the gun around. The metal cartridge clanked on the floor as the guard took the handgun by the handle and jerked it away.
After another guard waved a metal-sensing wand over Andy’s body, the agent was allowed to proceed into the tall lobby.
As Andy’s footsteps echoed across the marble floor, he noticed that the neo-modern clock above the central elevator on the far wall only had ten hours. Unusual.
The shorter agent walked up to a male secretary sitting behind a large marble-topped metal desk. The man was to busy flipping through a Roll-A-Dex to notice Andy, so he cleared his throat.
“You want something?” inquired the suited bureaucrat, straightening up.
Andy sniffled a bit and replied, “I’m Special Agent Andrew Gardner. I was called here for an appointment at two.”
The aging man returned to the Roll-A-Dex. “Gardner . . . Gardner . . . Gardner, A. . . .” he mumbled before pulling out a card and saying, “Ah, here!” Then the secretary typed something into a desktop computer. In a few moments, the man explained with a frown, “Yes, Gardner, Andrew . . . Third elevator on your right. Floor 102. Thirteenth door on your left of that floor. Room 10226.” There was foreboding in the man’s voice.
Andy walked to the elevator, adding, “Have a nice day.” before entering. As soon as the agent pressed the button for the 102nd floor, he remembered that he forgot his briefcase at the checkpoint.
He sighed, wondering if this day could get any worse.
***
Once Andy finally got inside the room, he pondered his mysterious summons. Why was he called to this government skyscraper by the IRS? In Chicago, at that? He rarely even handled the taxes. That was Johnson’s job.
But here he was, waiting for some tax agent with his briefcase full of receipts and documents.
Andy looked at the spacious, modern room. The place had gridded whitish walls, a spotless grey carpet, and some wall-engulfing windows at the far end. A nice view of downtown Chicago from here.
The room sported stainless steel tables and chairs as well as black metal lamps that had been dimmed for effect. One side table had several small steel instruments of unknown purpose on them, while the marble-topped desk at the far left had a closed laptop on it.
Of course, the place was spotless. It smelled more than clean. It smelled sterile. Like Agent Johnson’s room. This room, combined with similar hallways and the marble lobby, proved that this was a building of the future. Even all of the bureaucrats and politicians that Andy had passed on his way to this place seemed to have an air of logic and order about them. Not one had laughed or even cracked a smile. Grim, serious, and clean. Andy appreciated the beauty.
After about five minutes of waiting, the door opened. In walked three physically fit men in black suits and matching ties with white shirts and dark shades. Andy recognized them instantly as Men in Black working for the MJ12.
So it wasn’t the IRS that called him here. But what did the Majic want with little ol’ Agent Andy?
“Agent Gardner,” said the one in the front in the usual humorless voice.
“We’ve met before,” Andy replied with a smirk of recognition. This lead man had been the MiB who met with Team 13 in that bakery in Milwaukee to discuss the true allegiance of the team.
“Yes, we have. I’m Foxtrot Papa Eight Two. I am in charge of Midwest operations.”
“You’re pretty forthcoming about that, for a secret agent and all.” Andy didn’t know why he was being so sarcastic with the MiB. He was probably just ticking this guy off.
“We know you will not betray us. We’ve studied your behavior patterns. Your time in the Marines taught you discipline, and your days in the Bureau of Enforcement taught you subtlety.”
“All right, so you trust me,” Andy retorted. “Nice to know. So answer me this truthfully: why’d you make me come down here with five year’s worth of my incomes and expenditures?”
“Trust is a very. . . volatile matter,” FP82 replied calmly. “While you may be privy to a few of our secrets, others are not. For example: Agent John Pemental has been deemed as . . . reliance-challenged.”
Andy raised an eyebrow. “You don’t trust Bionic?”
The MiB, finally taking a seat, removed his shades. His two partners took opposite positions in the room. “His . . . augmentations make him a subject of much debate among my superiors.” The man paused to put the shades in his suit jacket. “Some believe him to be clinically insane. Others fear that he cannot keep secrets due to his emotionality.”
Andy chuckled a bit and shifted in the metal chair. “You’re saying he’s to wild for you DC-types.”
One of FP82's partners spoke up in an electronic voice. “Yes. Which is exactly why we are going to replace him.”
Andy was floored. Replace Bionic! How? Why?
The seated MiB continued. “Agent Pemental has served . . . well. Unfortunately, he is still considered an escaped mental patient and is thus dangerous. He has been given military-grade weapons, which could result in disaster if he ever experienced any amount of mental trauma.”
“But . . . those mental charges were bogus! You know that. He was put in the looney bin because he saw insanity and lived to tell about it.”
“Recent evidence has also led us to believe that he murdered his mother. And that was before he was bionically altered. He is too high a risk.” FP82 spoke definitively. Before Andy could counter, he looked at one of his associates and nodded. The underling walked over to the door and opened it. In walked another man in a black suit, tie, earpiece, and shades.
FP82 looked at Andy with a small amount of delight hidden under a poker face. “Agent Gardner, meet Agent Pemental’s replacement.”
“Is he another clone?” Andy asked with shock as he observed the new suited man. The Caucasian had buzzed military-style hair, a short beard, and a scar on his chin. He stood with military-style composure, similar to the MiBs in the room.
“No, he is not. Agent Doty is a highly-disciplined agent. He formerly worked for the Special Forces before deciding to transfer to more . . . domestic affairs. He will be all your team needs.”
Andy sighed in defeat, headed for the door, and gestured for Doty to follow him. He didn’t need any more info. His only question on the way home was why Johnson wasn’t called to deal with this.
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