Within fleeting miles of the military base, was the slightly unsettling echo of a roaring automobile engine. The sound drew closer, until swirving around a crooked curve, the luxury vision of a standard black Cadillac came into view; the reckless driver slammed the breaks, in-turn causing the tires to squeel, and immediately brought the vehicle to a halt. The car turned into the front station of the outer-gate to the military base. A TAF Guard took a solid, prepared step toward the car window.
"Identification, please."
A pale, slender hand slipped out of the front window; it held a wallet, retaining a picture of the visitor. "I have an appointment with the Director of the NPA: Mister Lebrun."
The guard took the wallet, and phoned in with his comm. Minutes passed as the guard compared the picture and the visitor's face in the car. "Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Hatchet." The guard handed back the wallet, before punching in a code to open the electronic gate.
The base itself was a sprawling complex with multiple buildings enclosed in the walls and fences that stretched around the property, occasionally dotted with angry yellow signs warning would-be trespassers to keep back at least five hundred meters without proper clearance. The central building was long and low-lying, appearing to be of only one, perhaps two stories, with a few plain windows and no exterior markings. It was decidedly unremarkable.
Visitors were directed past the outer guard station toward a second barricade, where heavily armed members of the military police waited to receive visitors. It used to be that visitors could walk into the appropriate building and pass through security there alone, but after the attack on Government Center, security measures had changed, and visitors were now required to pass through the military police, obtain an escort, and then enter the appropriate building. It was a convoluted process that Admiral F?ti? Say?lgan would not have chosen had he been in the position to make the decision.
But Say?lgan had never been overly concerned with security.
At nine-thirty in the morning, most military personnel were already attending to their duties, and relatively few people meandered across the grounds of the Terran military headquarters, except for the military police and a few civilian officials temporarily housed on-base. Of those who were visible, the majority of Ft. Veritas?s present occupants appeared to be fairly young men and women in combat uniforms, with a few odd guests in Western business attire. But the dust their footsteps stirred was the same. It was quiet in the morning, with only the low murmur of private conversations here and there, perfunctory and entirely without greater emotion.
After being received at a second station, two guards searched the car with metal detectors for any hidden explosives; under the chassis, in the trunk, under the hood. The armed guards made furter examination of the visitor's identity, before the Cadillac was escorted to a parking space; a follow up search of the inside of the car was conducted.
Upon stepping out of his vehicle, Hatchet casted a neutral stare upon the place. Nothing of interest, but something of great value, was harbored inside Ft. Veritas. In accordance to this particular visitor, the subject of approval was that great value.
Another guard approached Hatchet. He held out a sturdy hand up to Hatchet. "I need you to stand still, while I search your person for any weaponry."
Hatchet simply nodded, but the rumbling of anyone's hands over his frame was deplorable. "Alright, you're clear. Please follow me." The guard escorted him to the entrance of the Haima building. Upon arrival inside the building, Hatchet had to turn over his personal belongings, all of which only included his wallet, and a yellow envelope containing business documents. He stepped through a metal detector, and his belongings were scanned through an x-ray machine.
"Now, please sign in, and we'll provide you with a visitor's badge." Yet, another guard stood at his fore-front; a female guard. She handed Hatchet a clip-board, and pointed at two lines at the bottom of the page. "Please, initial here, and sign there." Hatchet's signature was broad and distinct; a sign of eager confidence, or blatant arrogance.
His eyes darted about at all the surrounding personnel, as he proceeded to smile quite politely. "Is that all?" he asked, with a hint of irritable sarcasm in his voice.
?Director Lebrun is in room B-140,? said the guard, indicating one of the elevators in a set of three with matching polished silver doors. ?You?ll need to take the elevator one floor down and walk down the hallway; the door will be on your right.? At this point, he would be permitted to proceed without an escort. The lighting in the hallways was standard, institutionalized fluorescent bars that shone harshly on the pale-colored, monochrome tiles. Standard government fare, with the seal of the Terran Armed Forces mounted on the otherwise plain, unadorned walls.
Downstairs, Jamal Morrison Lebrun was waiting in an austere conference room with a yellow legal pad and a blue ballpoint in front of him sitting in front of the notepad. He sat in a stiff, plastic chair at a long, plastic table, his posture slumped awkwardly to the right, and only his left hand sat over the yellow pages. He looked through his glasses toward the door, waiting for the visitor who was coming. It was about 9:40 in the morning, according to the clock mounted on the wall.
Hatchet nodded to the guards, as the female guard clipped on his visitor badge. "Why, thank you." he replied, however the woman simply turned away and went about her other duties. Hatchet gathered his things, and made his way to the elevator. On the way down, his finger stroked the edge of the yellow envelope; there was no soothing elevator music to calm the nerves. With each stride down the hall-way, the lights over-head cast an eerie shadow over his person; he was already an unsettling figure to boot. His heels clicked their way to the conference room entrance; B-140, the number was etched into his mind. "Ah, here it is." Hatchet straightened the top of his tie, before entering. It was a habit whenever he was placed in an anxious situation. His time was now.
He placed a warm palm on the door-handle, and pushed through, letting the door close behind him. Hatchet was an exceptional looking man, aside from the scar curling up on the left corner of his mouth, and perhaps the pale skin; his mutli-colored, protruding eye balls, and outlandishly dyed hair might've added to his visual flaws. They weren't flaws in his mind, though. A man in media had to sustain a colorful appearance, and personality. So, upon this encounter, one could tell it was the meeting of two opposites. The dark-skinned, and quite obviously older man seemed to hold a more bland taste in personal attire, than Hatchet; Hatchet's slick black suit, and contrasting red dress shirt definitely contained a more flaring attitude. "And, you are Mister Lebrun, I assume?"
?Jamal Lebrun, yes,? replied the older man with what might have been the hint of a nod as his gaze flickered toward the newcomer. His words were formed with obvious effort, with only half of his mouth moving as he spoke, careful to enunciate each individual word, which resulted in a slow, lilting cadence to his speech. Lebrun gestured with the hand atop the notepad for Hatchet to approach, and with great effort, rose from where he was seated, offering his left hand for the younger man to take while his right arm, motionless, hugged his body. Even standing, Lebrun?s posture was off-kilter, slumped to the right, and his one step toward Hatchet more of a shuffle. Perspiration gathered about his forehead, along his hairline.
?It?s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Hatchet,? he said, ever cautious in articulating each syllable. Lebrun wore a pinstriped navy blue suit and pressed white shirt, though he didn?t have a tie today and the top button of his dress shirt had been left undone. What hair he had left had been rapidly receding, and was now almost entirely gray rather than the dark brown it had been before. ?Can I get you anything to drink? There?s coffee, tea, water.? Each time the Director spoke, his voice took a quiet, grating quality that betrayed the effort required for him to form speech.
"No, it is my pleasure Mister Lebrun," Hatchet replied with an overly satisfied grin upon his face, and yet there was a hint of false pity in his eyes toward the condition of the elderly man. Hatchet made a much more youthful tread to catch Lebrun's hand. He released an anxious chuckle, as he hastily gripped Lebrun's soft, aging palm. "I do believe a cup of tea would be fine. I'll also have to trouble you for a glass of water, too, if you don't mind. I have a sensitive tongue, when it comes to heated assortments." Hatchet released Lebrun's hand, and slipped into a hard plastic chair, which sat on the corner side, next to Lebrun.
Lebrun turned slightly toward the doorway. "Adam?" he called in a raised voice, and a younger man appeared a few moments later, dressed in a somber, ill-fitting suit. He might have been a young intern. "Would you please fetch this gentleman a cup of tea and a glass of water?" Adam responded in the affirmative. "Thank you," said Lebrun, easing himself slowly back into his seat with considerable effort.
Hatchet slapped the yellow envelope of business documents atop the table. He crossed his legs, and smiled. "Now, what I have in mind might be a familiar format to you, but even the most exercised tactics can have a profound effect, if utilized with the most efficient means." He finally slipped his index finger under the fold of the envelope, and pulled out a slender stack of papers. Imprinted on the first page in solid black ink were the letters 'C.J.N.' Underneath, they specified said abbreviation; Chat-Jack Network. This specific set of documents described the strategies and goals Hatchet retained for the company.
Hatchet released an inflated sigh, before he finally made the proposal. "I would like to be acknowledged and supported by the Terran National Government, Mister Lebrun." He collected the stack of papers, and neatly aligned them, before finally sliding them over the table to Lebrun. "If you read through this list here," He outstretched his finger to the center of the top page. "You'll see I have various associates already under my supervision. You might also be interested to know they have taken the initiative to gather a reasonable amount of reports regarding the Wing City community. One such place being the infamous 'Gambit's Bar', has also been included in those reports."
Hatchet's black brows flicked up in a bout of pride of his own presentation, before flashing Lebrun a small grin; subsquently he retracted his hand, and bridged his fingers atop the table. "This is to show you my company will be focused on a variety of subjects, and make reports on a myriad of events on Terra." He paused for a moment, and glanced away from Lebrun. "The efforts of gaining these reports are also described in that set of documents. The fact I am providing you with a copy of such a profound aspect of my company should say you have my full credibility and cooperation." The information regarded details about how his employees gained such conclusive information; one notable aspect might have been the act of approaching subjects without their knowing.
Adam reappeared in the doorway, bearing a glass of water in one hand and a steaming cup of tea in the other. It was a good, dark tea, and he carried both toward the table where the two men were seated, placing them in front of Hatchet. "Your water and tea, sir," he said, and then departed from the room again. Once he was theoretically beyond earshot, Lebrun turned back toward Hatchet, his hand reaching for the papers that Hatchet had slid across the table toward him, spreading them farther apart from one another so that he could read them more closely. His eyes moved from left to right over the pages, absorbing the information while Hatchet spoke.
"Right now, we're not lending government sponsorship to any media sources," said Lebrun, speaking at the same slow pace as he had maintained throughout the conversation, his gaze flickering back toward the other man seated across from him. He seemed to be frowning, though it was difficult to tell because he could only flex the muscles on one side of his face. "It's possible I could be persuaded otherwise, but the Terran government has never had a state-sponsored media company in operation before, and there would be significant political backlash and accusations of state censorship and propaganda, which could hurt not only Terra, but also the Rightist party."
Lebrun slowly shook his head, as much as he was able to do in his present condition. "Mr. Hatchet, I'm not much of a politician, and I'm not sitting in any particular seat of power within the Rightist Party. I honestly cannot tell you why the Prime Minister asked me to have this meeting with you, Mr. Hatchet," he said, almost in an apologetic tone. "But I'm happy to listen to whatever you have to say." His finger pointed at one of the pages that Hatchet had given him, though the movement itself was less than coordinated and Lebrun's finger nearly missed the point that he had intended to indicate.
"This is very interesting material you have, a very interesting network. I wonder if perhaps the network of associates working for you would be able to use their skills to support Terran policing or intelligence operations as well from an analytical and human intelligence perspectives," said Lebrun, his frown turning from apologetic to thoughtful as he looked at Hatchet again, leaving his finger resting on the page.
Hatchet provided the young man, Adam, a brief nod of thanks for retrieving the beverages. There was little sentiment behind it, of course. Hatchet returned a prevailing gaze to Lebrun; there was a slight gleam of intrigue along his smiling eyes. He took this moment to adjust his seating position, consquently un-crossing his legs, and perching his elbows atop the table. Two lithe, ivory fingers slipped through the loop-hole handle of the tea cup, and Hatchet took a quick sip; he lifted the cup with such grace, and precise coordination. The warm liquid caused his tongue to riggle out, and lick his pale lips. He silently deemed this to be a satisfactory tea. Upon setting the tea cup down, Hatchet cuffed a hand over his chin.
"I see," He blinked in thought for a moment, subsequently staring down at the table to escape his present engagement. He redirected his attention to Lebrun, and waved a hand in particular at the seasoned man's conclusion of apology. "I shall have to succeed at another means of funding for my company, then. However, your proposal has caught my interest, Director. I have full capability of utilizing my people to provide for such a means. The news is simply 'public intel,' after all. There is no reason I can't provide covert intelligence to the TNG." Hatchet retrieved another sip of his tea, before sipping his water to cancel the warm drink. "If it is permissable to you, I would like to still establish a more public face with the people of Terra. Since, you have clarified the TNG cannot provide financial support, then I am assuming a private sector company with annoymous TNG functionality will be the basis for CJN?"
Lebrun managed a gesture that might have been a nod of some type or another. In any case, it conveyed the measure of acceptance or affirmation that he intended to communicate. "Yes, that's correct, Mr. Hatchet," he said, continuing in the same slow manner of speaking as he rested his gaze on his guest. "It wouldn't be very good for the public to know that the government is utilizing private resources to gather intelligence and compile analysis on potentially sensitive subjects. And I trust you would endeavor to ensure that no young, intrepid reporter seeks to publish any kind of expose of the types of activities that you will be undertaking?" He sat nearly completely still in his seat, the old man's eyes concentrating energy that was lacking in his voice and mannerisms.
A trifling chuckle escaped Hatchet's lips, as he shook his head. "No, Director, I can assure you all circumstances will be handled with care and caution throughout this whole operation. I am very vigilant of the people I surround myself with." A spry smirk came about his face. "However, I find being the snake in the grass, yourself, induces clearer results when it comes to researching people in general, Mister Lebrun." Hatchet was confident to voice such an opinion. He let his finger curl about the tea cup's handle, as he stroked its curve every now and again. He finally lifted the cup to recieve another taste. "This is exquisite. What flavor is it?" Hatchet nodded his chin down at the tea cup.
"It's an Arabic tea," Lebrun replied. "The recipe came from Arianne Drulovi?." He allowed himself a half-smile, the most he could manage in his condition, as if in gratitude to the intelligence director for her recipes. "I've been drinking her recipe for close to five years now," he said. "It hasn't yet disappointed a visitor. I'm very glad you like it." Lebrun paused a moment before continuing. "But yes, it's good to hear. I don't mean to suggest anything, but I hope you understand that I have to ensure that all of my bases are covered before proceeding in this matter. Now, Mr. Hatchet, I do need to ask you about day to day operations. How do you envision your people collaborating with ours?"
"Drulovi?..." Hatchet repeated, seeming to be curious of the name. He replaced the tea cup atop the table. "Ah yes, Drulovi?, the chief of intelligence. I have read some very revered articles pertaining to her in this recent year." Hatchet trailed his index finger in a small figure-eight pattern over the table; it was not a sign of boredom, or anything of the like. His finger snapped up from the table to appoint his thoughts, as he was lost in them for some two seconds. "Well, since I will be heading the company, and gathering the aforementioned funding on my own, then I will expect you to take note of the fact that I will not recieve any instruction from the TNG as an order." His brows raised, as if to signify that he retained some impeccable wit. His tongue drew a most emphatic tone, in regards to Lebrun's question. "Though, I understand the TNG's TIB holds the greater means of prowess and direction when it comes to the composition of intel, than a new, branching intelligence operation. You can be sure, if I need to contact you for assistance, I will immediately do so." He motioned his hand this way and that, while making his speech. "And in regards to updating the NPA, and you personally, Director, a status report can be expected every month, which will feature the highlighted details of my progress."
Hatchet released a sigh from the brief speech, before perching his elbows back on the table, and bridging his fingers right underneath his chin; he relaxed his chin atop his hands. He had kept solid eye-contact with Lebrun for the duration of his sentences. His lips parted once more. There was no room allowed to instigate another question. "As for contact..." His words developed a slightly childish accent. "...There should only be reports phoned in by me personally, as well as mention about all other issues, unless noted otherwise." A mischievious grin curled over Hatchet's lips, before his expression returned to its less-than-solemn figure. "As I said, I am quite cautious of people. There are no 'good' people in the Multiverse, Mister Lebrun. I'd have to say there are only interesting people. Such as, your friend, Drulovi?, for example. I don't realize even half the aspects of her life, but she has left such an impression on you, to which you still drink her same recipe of tea." There was finally a pause to Hatchet's dragged out bantering, and lone conclusion of the general population. He simply chuckled, and took another sip of his tea. He found it to be an interesting sense to have an imprint of Drulovi? left in this experience, even though she was not present.
"That's fine, Mr. Hatchet," said Lebrun with the smallest of nods. He had spent much of the time during Hatchet's long-winded speech reviewing the material he had been handed earlier, with the one finger sliding heavily across the paper as he read, emphasizing each individual line. "We'll be able to function well together, I think." He allowed a small sigh to escape, and leaned back in his seat. "And it's a good recipe. Has nothing to do with her." He indicated the cup of tea with his eyes, not feeling particularly motivated enough to actually nod or point toward it. "Though you are right. Arianne is an interesting dinner companion."
"Might I ask what the NPA would regularly expect from an operation of this type?" Hatchet glanced over Lebrun with anticipation. He set the glass tea-cup back on the table; the cup was almost empty. Hatchet spared the Director a partial smile. "I want to stake my self on good standards, after all. What would the TNG want from something like this? Anything specific? Perhaps.." He smirked in a roundabout manner. "...the secrets of some spiteful member in parliament, or the latest on Terra's intergalatic enemies?"
"The Rightist Party, as I understand it," said Lebrun, "has turned its attention primarily to our foreign enemies, as well as our foreign allies. There are certain entities, corporate or otherwise, that have attracted the attention of some of my colleagues in Parliament. It would be advantageous to collect any information on them as you might, particularly in regards to offensive and defensive capabilities. I understand that the TIB is currently engaged deeply in that regard, but the TIB is also notorious for its reticence to share information with the rest of the TNG."
"I see." Hatchet nodded his head with a rare solemnity. "Companies such as Tech Con, for instance? Is that one you might be referring to?" He lifted a finger to the lower collar of his jacket, and began to stroke the edge of the folded cloth. "For any organizations you wish to have investigated, Director, it would be greatly appreciated if you could provide me with any intel already gathered on the subject."
"I'll be sure to provide any information that we have," said Lebrun, fighting the urge to allow his heavy lids to slide downward. He maintained eye contact, blinking slowly at Hatchet. "I will have one of my staff send any relevant files or documents by the end of the week. If you have any questions, I would be more than happy to help. I'm afraid, however, that I have another meeting that I must attend shortly. Please let me know if you need anything, Mr. Hatchet."
Hatchet's pale hand found its way to the glass of water, and he retrieved a final sip, before the glass was set down; a flicker of a smile curled at the corner of his lips. Hatchet gave nod to the hint of 'no comment' on his query about the Aschen corporation. He realized it would most likely be disclosed in the forwarded intel.
"That sounds excellent. You have my word, this project will not go unfinished." Hatchet finally stood, and stretched; his shoulders rolled, and a subtle click and crack of joints could be heard. He stepped away from his seat, before striking a hand in-front of Lebrun for him to shake.
"I'll be looking forward to our future, Director Lebrun." Hatchet let his eyes waver over the sleepy old man.
The old man offered another nod, extending his hand slowly to take the younger executive's hand with his own, his fingers trembling a bit with the movement. "I'm glad you came to speak with me today," Lebrun said in his gravelly voice, gaze alighting on Hatchet as a faint smile appeared on about half of his face, the other half disappointingly immobile. "It's been good speaking with you."
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