Chapter 3

Chapter 3:

My phone buzzes beside me. A message. From David Hill. Kronus. ‘Meet in the dark room, you know the one.’

The dark room. My old office. Officially it doesn’t exist. It wasn’t part of the original building; only added later when they realised high-level officers need extra privacy. I guess Kronus gave me this office. It’s one of three with hatches that lead directly into sub-level 17. I pull down a bust on the wall and a keypad is revealed. I punch in the code: 1946; the year we opened P.I.E.G. An easy code to remember. I step into the elevator. I haven’t been to this base in years. I remember a conversation I had with another founding member. My wife.

“Can we get this elevator cleaned?” she said, wrinkling her nose, leaning against the wall.

“It’s meant to look dirty,” I said. “Secret bases are always dirty.”

I laughed.

She didn’t.

“Vivian wants me in Atlantis,” she muttered. “Says it’s urgent.”

“Vivian thinks everything is urgent.”

“She thinks I’m wasting my potential.”

I glance at her.

Really look at her.

Memorise it.

“You are,” I say. “You married me.”

That gets a smile.

Small. Real.

“Pretty sure it was the other way around.”

“It was an equal venture.”

“Carl said I should’ve taken your name. ‘More ladylike.’ What does he know about women?”

“Carl said that?” I shake my head. “Your name is better.”

“Names can’t be better.”

“They can.”

She watches me now.

Really watches me.

“…You’re being weird.”

I look away.

“Ok,” she says after a moment, softer now. “We should take some time off.”

She glances down at the photo in her hand.

Our son.

I don’t look at it.

“After the next mission,” I say. “I’ve got something in Russia.”

A pause. Too long. 

“…Micheal?” 

I force a smile and step toward the opening doors

We were so sure. We loved each other.

Wiping my tears I step out. 

I scan the damp basement. Wet paperwork from 30 years ago contrasts the new holograms Cronus is standing behind. Cronus is a tall man; his stature is straight as a pencil and he’s in good shape for a man in his 60s. He has slicked back, blonde hair with perfect jawbones. He’s holding a file; the front of it reads redacted. He has a fearful look across his face — almost nervous — his usual actor smile facade is replaced with genuine worry. 

“Atlas.” He states, stepping toward the desk. He places the file down and steps back.

“What is this?” I ask, picking it up. The page yearns to be opened. “May I open it?”

“Yes.”

I flip the yellow file over to see a name. Tui Tavita ‘Oceanus’ Anahera. “This isn’t right.” I say, reading the short description. “I know Tavita. He isn’t… He hates Atlantis with every fiber of his being.”

“We have reason to believe this is correct information. Sourced from his personal guard.”

“Tui Tavita would never go to war. Not against the rest of the world. Pacifica doesn’t have an army. They would never join Atlantis.”

“They don’t need an army. They have control of the Pacific just by inhabiting it. They don’t need to go to war. And that’s what the file states. ‘We have observed a meeting between Tui Tavita Anahera and Grand ruler Alfríkr Hendrikxsson. We believe in an attempt of war by Atlantis, Pacifica will give up all territory and succeed from war.’ That’s why we need to eliminate the Grand Ruler of Atlantis.”

“Pacifica is scared. We need to get rid of the thing they’re afraid of.”

“Exactly Atlas.”

“When am I going in?”

“Not now. Go to Pacifica first and ask what Tavita thinks about the idea. He won’t approve of it but we need some sort of communication.” Cronus usually isn’t this blunt. He’s afraid.

“Ok. I’ll get gear and take a sub.”

“No need. I’ve got a plane prepped on the south runway. And taking a sub would mean going all the way down past Chile and back up — we haven’t got that much time before Atlantis gets the news you slaughtered one of their civilians.”

“Ok.”

I make my way through the damp halls. I step into the elevator. 

The polished steel makes a mirror on the walls. 

I look at myself. 

Really look at myself. 

What am I doing? Why am I doing it? I trip backwards. 

Memories flash through my mind. World War One. Two. I can’t remember. What am I doing? Memories are constantly combining. I try to compose myself but I just scream “WHAT AM I DOING?!” What is happening!? My memories are escaping me faster than I can think. I can’t think.

The elevator lights fade and water fills up. The walls leave and I’m left suspended in the black.

“Help… me” I gasp in desperation.

“No.” 

I take a deep breath and the black fades out.

 I grab on the ambulant bar and pull myself up. My teeth grit and I stand up straight. 

I compose myself and the elevator doors slide open. Who said that? Who said No? I can’t make mistakes when everything rides on my back. Atlas. My burden. I have a job to do. 

I open the door. Natural light rushes in and blinds me. I walk onto the huge tarmac and my eyes adjust. I instinctively shiver in the cold. “Tarmac’s closed,” a man shouts from the radio tower.

“I’m taking a jet!” I yell back at him.

“I was told to not let anyone on the tarmac, homie.” Homie?

“Well I have to go to Pacifica.”

“Go in a sub,” he says drowsily.

“No.”

“Agent, stand down! It is too windy and snowy to fly. The tarmac’s closed.” He just said stand down. Who is this guy? He clearly doesn’t know me. I turn toward the tower. Each step I take sends a shiver through my legs. The stairwell is silent. I knock on the glass door to the tower. He steps over clearly annoyed. “This boy better have a good reason for disrespecting me,” The glass is sound proof but I can read lips. He basically spat the word boy. My fist tightens. Years worth of memories hit me; this isn’t the first, second, or thousandth time I’ve seen it; seen him — he wears plenty of faces.

I know exactly what he is — I know what he needs. 

He opens the door. I step in. Hard. Hard enough to leave him on the ground.

“Give me your badge.” He shakes his head, “You just lost your job.”

“You don’t belong here.”

“I was here before you were born. And I will be here long after you are dead. If I don’t belong here, I don’t belong anywhere”

“Boy” He stares at me.

 I turn back. My face is stone with a smirk. He sees it. He sees his future. And I see his fate.

I grab him by his collar. My right arm draws back. I punch him. The first spins his head. The second breaks his jaw. The third is unnecessary. He hits the ground with a thud that echoes to the ocean. 

My fist loosens. What did I just do? Abuse an employee? Fucking Christ, who was that? Deep breath in, Deep breath out. If I question my sanity I’ll lose it. That’s what I say anyway.

 I glance at his death timer. It changed. That shouldn’t happen. His death was fated 50 years from now. It was green. It’s red. 2 hours, brain bleed from blunt force trauma. I… I killed this man. 

I bend over his body and pick his badge up. Jack Macey, been with us for 2 months. I step over his body. In a moment of respect I place his badge back on his belt.

I unlatch my radio from my belt and change the channel to 1947, I squeeze the side, “effective immediately radio op agent Jack Macey no longer has a job. And please get an ambulance for him.”

“Yes sir,” my personal assistant answers. My assistant is a sharp woman. She’s immortal, like me. I never have to replace her. And she thinks I’m a great boss — also I pay her an exorbitant amount of money. “Would like me to gather information on Tavita?” She asks.

“No need. I know all I need to.”

“You’re invited to the White House annual ball in two days.”

“Cancel it.”

“Sir, you can’t cancel on the president.”

“Yes I can. I’m Agent Atlas Adams.”

“You’re a tightass.”

“That too.”

“A woman called said she was a, Violet Garcia. She said you told her to call you directly. And is she…?”

“Iris’s granddaughter. Yes. She is. And yes, I did tell her to call me for a job.”

“Thought you were finished training the next generation of S.E.A agents,” she jokes.

“I was. I just…”

“Her last name was Garcia and…”

“She was the spitting image of her.”

“Inform Pacifica of my incoming arrival and make an appointment with Tui,” I gain some level of composure and step into the jet.

“Will do, sir. What are your intentions with Pacifica? if you don’t mind me asking.”

“I am going on a mission to assasinate the king of Atlantis. This is not a revenge plot, because I know you like to speculate.”

“Of course sir. Also Interpol is knocking on the door. They’re saying ‘come out or we will be forced to make you come out’ — very cliche — but what shall I do.”

Sigh. “Did they say the charge?”

“Treason against the United Kingdom and the Euro treaty.”

“Treason? What could possibly tie you to treason?”

“First of all, I’m working for a secret,  foreign government agency whilst also working at MI6. Second of all, I relay intel that MI6 kills for, on a daily basis, to aid a secret foreign intelligence agency that actively hunts civilians of foreign countries, some of which happen to be European.”

“We don’t hunt humans.”

“You don’t, and that’s ok. But how much information do you think interpol has on S.E.A to confirm you don’t hunt humans!”

“Fair. Special Agent Athen-Fury, my dagger in the face of a shotgun, you are no longer an agent of MI6. You are only S.E.A use the diplomatic immunity that is given to you!”

“Sir, I don’t need diplomatic immunity. I have a sword! And training from the best S.E.A agent ever!” I can hear a smile, Christ, she really doesn’t waver.

“Alright, I guess I’m dropping into Pacifica unannounced.”

“Guess you are. Have a good day sir!”

“Happy hunting Athena!”

She lives up to the name Athena-fury. I trained her personally. She was special straight out of the academy. I saw a vision for her. The same vision I see for Garcia. Garcia will not go to the academy. She’s too old and experienced as a homeland agent. And that ability. Second to none. Precognition is passed through a few bloodlines. Garcia is a bloodline notorious for precognition and time manipulation. She got it from Iris. She got it from my wife.