“Tonight at five o’clock, see the man that was responsible for the destruction of Memory property in the park across from the museum. This is a tape you need to see to believe. Tonight on the channel five news at five!” General Marcus Tyler nearly spit the water he was drinking all over the television set. His eyes were wide and his complexion had become quite pale.
He had already seen the footage, but here he was seeing a small clip of the very same footage. He was at a loss as of what to say since he thought the problem solved. Apparently he was wrong. It was no more than a minute after the first teaser clip was played, did his phone start to ring off the hook. He had a sinking suspicion as to who it was and he knew he wouldn’t want to answer it. His hand was shaking slightly as he grabbed the receiver and brought it to his ear.
Before he could even say “Hello?” The voice on the other line screamed into his ear. “What in the living hell was that Tyler!?” General Tyler winced, it was his superior.
“I’m not too sure sir," He said with as much conviction as he could. “We confiscated the tape. He must have made a copy.”
“No kidding Tyler, next you’ll be telling me that the sky is blue and rain is wet!”
“Do we have time to stop this?” Tyler asked gritting his teeth.
There was silence on the other side of the phone.
“Sir? Do we have time to stop this?”
“No, the tape has already been played on the east coast. The uproar from this tape is going to be big Tyler. I want you to get in contact with the boys in Washington, talk to Edgar Millen he’s the head of a special department of the C.I.A. This is all top secret Tyler, I know I don’t have to tell you that, but keep this under your hat.”
Before Tyler could answer with a “Yes sir," The line went dead.
General Tyler was used to this type of secrecy, but he was old, much older than when he dealt with the Nazi’s in World War Two. He sat forward and looked at the magazines on his coffee table, his eyes roving over each cover. There was a fishing magazine, a political magazine, a weaponry magazine, and he nearly laughed as his eyes roamed over the last magazine; a scientific magazine which had an article that read “Evolution, is it happening to humans sooner then predicted?” He had seen his share of hatred during the second war, and even more in the war in Vietnam. Yet he sighed as his memory drifted back, before Vietnam, before Japan was all but eradicated, to when he knew an agent that risked his life to save a woman that he barely knew. A young woman named Granidine, who was rescued from the Nazi’s, and he shook his head.
“The Chimera Project," He said flatly to no one in particular. He had been waiting for that secret to come back and bite him.
* * *
“So you think there are others?” Dessa asked as the wind whipped through her hair. She had to almost scream for her company to hear her.
“I don’t know!” Chance yelled back.
The car lurched forward and then sputtered once and then again. The look on Chance’s face was a mix of indignation and disbelief. After the destruction of his last car, he had vowed to buy another and fix it up just like the last one. The problem with his new car, a 1979 Camero, was that no matter what he did to the engine it always seemed to spew black smoke at him and sputter and then die. This was one of those times. He pushed hard on the gas and ground his teeth as they pulled around a rocky section of the freeway. Chance shook his head as he saw a rest stop just a mile away. Someone up there likes me, he thought as he pulled off into the parking lot of the rest area.
The wind wasn’t any less harsh when they stopped, but it was at least a place that they could stretch and gather their thoughts. Chance popped the hood almost as soon as the car had shut down, a great plume of black smoke met him as the hood opened, and cursed loud enough for Dessa to hear him over the roaring wind. He had moved to the trunk and was looking for something when Dessa moved next to him.
“This is a hunk of junk you know?” She said with a smile.
Chance looked up at her and was about to yell and scream about how it was a work in progress, but her smile stole the bluster from his ire.
“All works of art have to start somewhere," He said calmly.
“Yeah I guess so, I mean even Da Vinci had to start with a piece of garbage before he painted the Mona Lisa," Dessa stated sarcastically, and then quickly moved out of Chance’s reach.
Chance frowned at her and stepped back, his hands covered in grease, wiping them off the best her could with a dirty rag. The rag had been used so often as a grease rag that he was doing more harm than good in his cleaning attempt.
“Well, I can fix it, but it will take a while. Our trip is going to be delayed.”
“Isn’t that a pity?” Dessa said from her safe distance.
Chance looked at the young woman and cocked his head sideways. Dessa had been very stand-offish since earlier that morning before they headed out toward Montana. He figured it was because they slept in separate beds once again, but he wasn’t going to make a big deal about it and didn’t understand why she was either. Over the last few months, he had grown more comfortable with Dessa, to the point that he could sleep soundly with her in the room, but that comfort had almost cost him. The last thing they had done went horribly wrong and he almost caused her to be hurt. It was then that Chance realized how far past his rules he had truly stepped. He hadn’t taken on a job since the Glance hit almost a year and a half before, his life seemed to revolve around information and this “Chimera Project” and that was all he could think about.
He looked at Dessa again after dropping the greasy rag into the trunk and then slamming it shut. She was definitely agitated, but he couldn’t deal with it now. She would just have to understand.
Dessa moved closer after he had closed the trunk, but still kept her distance. She was watching him closely, watching his movements, how he acted toward her, toward their situation, and even how he spoke, she was trying to get into his head and see what was going on. How though, could she get in to his head without being obvious?
“Chance, I need to talk to you," She heard herself saying before she could stop herself.
“About what?” Chance asked feigning ignorance.
“About us," Dessa moved to the planter that was surrounding a dying set of flowers that had been dedicated to someone for some insignificant reason and sat down.
Chance took a deep breath and tried to prepare himself for what he knew was coming, but he found that all he could do was think of fixing the car and heading back out on the road.
“There is nothing wrong with ‘us’," He stated flatly.
But there was something wrong and he knew it. He didn’t want to be cliché and say; “It’s me, not you," but it really was him. His rules had been all but shattered, the rules he lived by, hunted by, and stayed safe by. They were meager remnants of what they used to be. He had gotten close, very close, to Dessa and that broke his main rule. Keeping distant from people, never crossing the line of friendship. Not only had he crossed that line, but almost erased it completely. The only way he knew how to get back over that line was to pull back from Dessa and his relationship.
“If there isn’t anything wrong, then why the two beds?” She asked bluntly.
Chance was honestly taken back by the boldness of the question. Was that all she cared about? He doubted it, but it seemed to be the catalyst of her frustration. He didn’t want to tell her it was because he wanted to get back on track with his life and the rules he lived by, so he said nothing.
Saying nothing was one of the worst things he could have done.
“Do you not care!? Is that it?” Dessa screamed at him, suddenly on her feet.
Again he was silent, seeing this burst of anger from Dessa was alarming. How long had this been bottled up? He didn’t know if she would try and strike him so he took a small step back, shifting his weight slightly so he would be ready if he needed to duck or move aside.
“Say something!” Dessa shouted at him again.
Chance frowned but nodded. “I do care.”
“Then why the cold shoulder all of a sudden. Just because of one near death experience? Do you know how many times I have narrowly avoided death because of what you taught me!? I’m an assassin for Pete sake!”
“I know you’re an assassin Dessa," Chance said sternly.
“Then why!?” Her eyes were wet with tears; Chance could tell she was holding back a wellspring of emotion. He also knew better than to break that dam holding it back.
“Because I don’t want to see you hurt again," It was a simple answer, and mostly true.
Dessa’s eyes widened and then narrowed quickly, her range of emotion quickly changing from surprise to seething anger.
“Hurt! Why wouldn’t I get hurt!? My parents were murdered when I was fourteen, the only companionship I had after that was you! The one person that I cared about turns on me, and then I’m stuck half way across the country letting that frustration build. Then to top it all off, when I get that companion back he pulls away and treats me like a stupid child again!”
Chance stepped back again, this time out of shock more than anything. He had forgotten all about her parents up until that point. The time he had spent training a young woman to kill as efficiently as he could, seemed to take up the entire memory of their time together. It was in this moment of recall that Chance remembered something important and why he made a promise to protect Dessa. It was why he had created the rules. Dessa still didn’t know, and he wanted to keep it that way.
“I do care Dessa that is why we can’t be lovers," He said as compassionately as he could.
Dessa looked as if she could be knocked over by the next lightest gust of wind. “Then what are we doing here?”
* * *
“Is this for real Chuck? I mean this footage we’re about to show. No one could survive a charge of electricity like that," Bobby Wilmac looked over the pages in front of him, shuffling them over and making sure he was prepped for his reports.
“It is what it is," A voice came over a loud speaker.
“Have we had it checked out, the tape I mean. This can be some kind of hoax and I really don’t want to have to publicly apologize for a mistake someone else made," Bobby emphasized “someone else,” not wanting to be the scape goat for a mishap in the research department.
“Yes, it was checked out. The boys in the research department said that the tape was one hundred percent legit," The voice of the producer sounded annoyed more than anything having to explain the legitimacy of their findings.
“Where’s Tory? She’s crazy if she thinks I won’t start this broadcast without her," Bobby said without even looking up from his papers.
“She’s on her way, five minutes E.T.A.”
“Wonderful," Bobby said uninterested.
Bobby looked at his watch and took a deep breath, pulling the tissue paper from around his collar and smoothing down the grey suit coat he was wearing. Rubbed his face roughly and then opened and closed his mouth a few times, making sure he could correctly annunciate the words on the teleprompter. He ran a hand through his slicked back blond hair and finally ran his finger over his overly white teeth.
“One minute to air Bobby," the producer announced over the P.A.
Tory ran into the studio, her brown hair pulled back in a tight ponytail, her horn-rimmed glassed balancing dangerously on the end of her nose and seemed to bounce closer and closer to falling off with each step she took. Tory Simone was in her mid-twenties and this was her first job as a broadcaster, her pressed professional attire showed volumes about how badly she still wanted to impress the higher ups.
“I’m here!” She called out as she barely had time to slide into her seat next to Bobby before the music started to play; introducing the start of the five o’clock news. The green screen behind them would show the New York skyline at night, giving the two broadcasters a more professional look, even if it was on one of the smaller stations.
“Here they are," A voice over announced excitedly. “Your action news anchorman; Bobby Wilmac and anchorwoman; Tory Simone! Channel seven’s action news team at five!”
* * *
“This evening we have some footage that might disturb you in our top story.”
Bernard Greer sat back in the leather office chair; the hinges creaked under the weight of his large frame. Bernard wasn’t overweight; on the contrary, he was trim for his size some even called him lean. Standing closer to eight feet than seven, Bernard lived up to his nickname; Bear, for he was as tall as a grizzly and as cuddly as a teddy bear. He weighed just over three hundred and fifty pounds, though no one had ever told him he needed to lose weight.
“There was a small incident that happened on the west coast over six months ago. Memory California seems to have been visited by a ‘Super Villain’ of sorts. You’ll never guess what happened to a small jungle gym in a park.”
Bernard leaned forward, his eyes glued to the television set. There was a small screen that popped up in the upper right hand corner and started to show a grainy, shaky, poorly shot home video. The small screen then widened to take up the whole screen with Bobby Wilmac narrating over it, saying exactly what was happening.
“You can see here, this transient made his way into the park late one night and headed towards the kid’s area of the park. Was he looking for a play to sleep for the night? Or was he looking to do something more sinister. The man, described as looking like a vampire bat, walks over to the kids play set and then as you can see here, he grabs the bars. This wouldn’t be our top story if it didn’t have something more than this. He seems to be talking to himself and then as you can see here, he seems to have closed his eyes and his hands start to spark. You can’t see it from the distance here, but the sparks are actually coming from his hands!”
Bernard sat back his eyes glued to the video; he was watching the stranger produce electricity with the anchorman barely audible over his own thoughts. He absently ran his fingers over his jaw line and winced slightly as his fingers dug into his flesh. His finger traced the three small slits that were well hidden by his thick beard. He had been told by his mother that they were a birth defect, a one and a million shot that he would be born with a deformity like this. Bernard held his breath and the slits opened up and let the air in his lungs out. He closed his eyes and traced the identical slits along his jaw on the opposite side and frowned. He didn’t want to explain them anymore, so when he his puberty he started to grow a beard, the hair didn’t seem to affect his gills or his breathing under water. That was the thing that always bothered him; if they were just a deformity as his mother told him, why were they functional?
Bernard stood up and turned off the television, he had heard enough. He pulled on his jacket and then looked at his watch. His eyes widened and he started to get ready to leave faster than normal. He was late to work! Bernard was the boys swim team coach, and they practiced almost every day during the season. After the season was over, the boys that didn’t graduate swam in the local pool where Bernard just happened to be the head life guard. He was more than qualified and he proved it to himself every time he passed the display case on his mantle. The case held his four Olympic gold medals! He was the first Olympic swimmer that had facial hair that didn’t cause drag. He broke three world records that year and was the talk of Detroit for the next few years.
He had kept to himself after that, the spotlight not being his forte, and quietly retired from swimming al together. That didn’t stop him from coaching of course, or interfere with his second passion. Bernard was a “Gearhead” and loved to tinker and fix up any vehicle that had an engine, running or not. He didn’t work at a garage or any mechanic shop, but he did have steady paid business that came from his own garage, and that business was enough to pay for the house he was in and allow him the free time he needed to coach and be a life guard.
Stepping into his garage, Bernard smiled and hit the automatic door opener. The door cranked slowly allowing the sunlight to sweep in and bathed the dark room in its wonderful brilliance. The sunlight caught the paint of Bernard’s current and favorite project. His own car. It was an old Charger, the ugliest brown he had ever seen, but the engine was what made him buy it. It was from original parts and in working condition. When he had first drove it home the cars behind him parted faster than the Red Sea though, since it spewed smoke as badly as a chain smoker with a life time supply of cigarettes. The worst part was; he was no more than two blocks from his house when a cop pulled him over for his smoke screen of blackness that poured from his exhaust. He had received a seventy dollar “fix it” ticket.
After paying the ticket, he spent almost a month fine tuning and revamping the engine. Aside from the ugly dark brown color, the Charger purred like a kitten.
The inside still needed work, the seats were torn and the passenger seat was missing the hinges to keep it bolted down, but that was maybe twenty minutes of work. His favorite thing about the car was the ceiling. It was tiger stripped! It made him feel like he was a teenage again every time he looked at it, even going so far as to hang a set of fuzzy dice from the rearview mirror.
The sun was rising high into the Detroit skyline as Bernard moved to open the door to the Charger. The sound of someone clearing their throat set him on his heels, whirling around, his eyes wide.
“Greetings Mr. Greer," The sun streaming into the garage cause the slender form standing in the opening to be cast in heavy shadow, silhouetted against the bright skyline.
“Hey, Mr. Greer is my Father. My name’s Bear," Bernard said flatly, using the nickname everyone used when addressing him.
“Of course. Bear," The voice sounded amused at the notion of a man being named “Bear” willingly. “My apologies, I hate to hold you from your day, but would you mind if I asked you some questions?”
Bear thought it was odd that a reporter would want to talk to him about anything, so he took a wild guess and was more than pretty sure that this was either a cop or a Federal Agent. “About what?”
“Nothing in particular, just a few things about your swimming abilities.”
That knocked Bear for a loop; no one had wanted to talk to him about his swimming since he had faded from the Olympic spotlight. He was more than a little curious as to why anyone would want to talk to him about that.
“It will only take a few minutes of your time, I assure you. I won’t hold you up any longer than necessary.”
Bear frowned. This guy was way too polite to be a Federal Agent or a cop and that put him on edge. “I’m really in a hurry buddy. I’m late for my practice," He lied. He was late yes, but for team practice no. he was late to the pool, he wanted to get in a few laps before the kids took it over.
“You school team is done for the season," The stranger said bluntly.
“Adult team. Training for the semi-finals," He lied again.
“There is no adult team. Please it will only take a few seconds.”
Bear grit his teeth and slammed the door of his car closed. The sound echoed loudly in the late afternoon and Bear grumbled as he heard something metal clink around inside the door. He had closed the door a little too hard.
He had always been strong, even as a young boy, he was able to move and lift things that other kids couldn’t even get close to moving. It was the start of his nickname, his size just added to the appeal of the name.
“Fine! You got two minutes," Bear grumbled again and stalked back into the house.
As he turned the corner to move into the kitchen, bear nearly jumped back to find someone sitting there already. His black hair was neatly combed to the left, his black suit looked a little too pressed, and his eyes were a little too keen on his every move. The man’s eyes were a deep blue with a hint of green around the edge, they were very off putting, almost as if they were dyed that color.
“Please, sit," The intruder said as he motioned to the chair across from him.
Bear took the seat cautiously and then looked behind him as the other man entered and sat down next to the second one. “My name is Dean Royale, Sergeant Dean Royale. This is my partner Thomas King," He motioned to the first man who had finally sat down. He had a hawkish face, with a pointed nose and hair that seemed to stick straight up, giving him the appearance of an upside down road cone, with bright orange-red hair to boot. Thomas King smiled, and Bear almost wished he hadn’t. It made him look menacing, his lips curling up into a sneer more than anything resembling a welcoming smile.
“What does a Sergeant want with me? I haven’t broken the law in any way have I?” Bear asked, more to get his attention away from Thomas’ smile than any real need to answer any questions.
“No Mr. Greer.”
“Bear!” He interjected before the formal title was out of Dean’s mouth.
“Bear then," Dean grumbled. “You haven’t broken any laws. We just need to ask you a few questions.”
“Ok, so ask away then," Bear sat back, his arms crossed over his chest.
“I am sure you have see the news report on T.V," Dean asked.
“Of course I have.’ Bear started to reply, but Dean cut him off, not really caring about his answer.
“Do you know the man that is on the tape?”
Bear looked at Dean incredulously. He had never been to California and found that he didn’t need to go to California for any reason other than to go to Disneyland or some other amusement park. Even if he wanted to go, it was just too hot and dirty for his own tastes. “Never even been to the sunshine state.”
“Never? Not even for a swim meet, photo opportunity, commercials or anything you did after your Olympic win?”
Bear had to think, it had been a while since the games and he had done a lot of experimenting and partying in his years after retirement. He was sure though, that he had never been to California, or anywhere near Memory. “Nope, can’t say that I have.”
“What about Miami?” Thomas asked quickly.
“Miami? You go from one coast to the next don’t you? Yes I’ve been to Miami. The beaches are beautiful, and so are the girls if ya catch my drift," Bear said with a slight smile, remembering a very fond memory of a weekend spent in a beach house.
“Ever met this man?” Dean held up a second picture. Bear couldn’t place the face but he knew he had met the guy somewhere before. He had soft features, almost child like, with blonde hair and green eyes; they almost looked like cats eyes. The picture set off a ton of memories that bear hadn’t thought of in years. The Olympics, his gold medals, then he remembered.
The guy was on the USA team, he was a runner, “Fastest Human Alive” they called him. He thrived on the attention where Bear pulled away from it. From what he remembered, the kid was escorted out of the games with an accusation of steroids. The tests were never proven, but his career was over after that. Faded away just like he did.
He tried to hide the recognition, but in the split second it took for his eyes to widen, it told Dean and Thomas all they needed to know.
“Nope, never seen him either," Bear lied again. He wasn’t very good at lying, never was.
“Are you sure Bear?” Dean asked more insistently.
“Yup, never seen him in my whole life," He said with a great wave of his arms.
Thomas looked at Dean and shook his head. He stood up and started to pace behind Bear. “Are you absolutely sure Bear, one hundred percent sure that you never met him before?” He placed his hands on Bear’s large shoulders and tried to squeeze, but as hard as he tried, the pressure points that were there didn’t seem to want to move. He pulled his hands back quickly and waved them, looking over at Dean mouthing the word “Ow.”
“Yeah, when I say I’m sure, I’m sure!” Bear said his voice raised slightly, showing his frustration with the situation.
“Ok Bear, we believe you," Dean said patting the air with his hands trying to calm the large man.
“Any other questions?” bear asked, not even hiding his contempt for the two men anymore.
“Yes, just a couple more," Dean said as he pulled out another picture. It was a picture of bear when he was about seven. It was a head shot, showing him at profile, his gills obvious against his bare skin. “You never told the Olympic committee that you had gills Bear. Don’t you think that that was a little unfair to the other competitors?”
Bear’s hand went instinctively to his jaw line again, his fingers brushing against the sensitive flaps of his gills. “They aren’t gills. It is a deformity I had and still have. I’m a little sensitive about the subject, thus the Grizzly Adams look.”
“Okay, we understand that," Thomas said leaning over his shoulder. “Mind if we take a look?” His hawkish features were inches away from Bear, and he wanted nothing more than to use his tremendous hand to grab Thomas’ face and push it through a door or two.
“Yes I mind!” He growled.
“One last question Bear, then I promise we will leave you to your day," Dean said sternly.
“Ask it and then go.”
“When you were in Miami, free-diving off the reef, why did you refuse a snorkel or scuba gear if those ‘deformities’ aren’t working gills?”
Bear didn’t want to answer; he knew that they knew about his gills. They wanted to paint him into a corner and force an answer from him. He wouldn’t allow that, couldn’t allow that. “We’re done here guys," Bear said as he stood up.
Dean and Thomas looked at each other and then almost in unison moved to exit. Bear watched them leave and then followed them out. His eyes locked onto the black Durango they crawled into, bear thought it looked more like they were slithering, and drove off quickly. Bear moved back to the kitchen and sat down heavily into the chair. He heaved a huge sigh and frowned. Who were they and why were they asking questions about his gills? How did they even know about the gills? Those questions and many more were flowing through his head, all thoughts of catching a few laps before work gone.
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