Aberrant: In the Beginning - Micheal Peters

[Michael Peters]

Immaculate Heart of Mary Church, Washington DC, U.S.A

5:00pm, March 22rd, 1998

It was much later than usual by the time Michael Peters left the church. The Immaculate Heart of Mary was an old building, a gothic homage to the impassive construction techniques that the Christian faith once used to humble its parishioners.

Michael tiredly waved to Father Phil as he walked down the wide steps to the street. He had stayed much later after evening mass to help prepare the font for some baptisms that would be happening tomorrow.

"Damn, the lunch specials going to be up. Guess I'll go whip myself up some lunch at the house." He muttered to himself "I have got to stop these late masses."

Michael flipped his suit-jacket over one broad shoulder and loosened his tie and began to briskly walk home. For a man in his early fifties, he was in impeccable shape, owing mostly to his constant physical activity. As he moved into the neighborhood, he found himself smiling at the picturesque nature of the community. The smell of the freshly cut lawns, the green grass, the soft whisper of lawn sprinklers and the light of the setting sun lighting the tops of the houses with a yellow halo. The only thing missing were the picket fences.

His pleasant musings were interrupted by the approaching sound of feet pounding the pavement. Michael glanced back and moved to the side of the sidewalk as a group of joggers, all wearing the local college colors, ran past him.

"One side old man!" an anonymous voice crowed, elicting chuckles from the rest.

Michael felt a quick flash of anger that he quickly smothered, running his fingers through his silvering hair irritatidly. The young people these days... they had no idea how easy they had it. A smile rushed to his lips at the stereotypically "Old Man" thought but faded as he considered the retreating backs of the college running team. They were basically good kids... just some of them had cold eyes. Eyes that reminded them of the bad times years ago. He distantly heard one of the joggers call out something to a pair of young girls they passed, making them jump. More raccous laughter followed.

Feeling a sudden chill, Michael put his jacket back on and continued his walk home.

[Titan]

The mailman was just coming down the steps from Michael's house when he arrived home. He did a dramatic double-take, then chuckled as he reached behind him and pulled the mail out of the box.

"Hey, Mr. Peters. How they hangin?"

"Hi, Rodney," Michael replied wryly, "It's not how they hang, but the fact that they continue to hang at all."

Rodney laughed, and handed the mail over.

"Here's your mail, Mr. Peters. Mostly junk, couple of bills."

Michael pulled out a letter from the City Board. He held it up and showed Rodney.

The mailman shrugged, "I dunno, Mr. Peters, everyone on the street, and half of Baltimore Ave. got 'em."

Michael began to open the letter. Rodney waited, curious.

Michael read aloud: "Dear Sir. As you may be aware, the Route 50 bypass funds were approved in last month's City Board meeting. We are excited about our growing city! The planned route for the bypass will run along some existing street paths, but the widening of the pavement will preclude residential zoning. Therefore, according to section c-222.14 of the City zoning law, we hereby exercise our right to eminent domain...what the hell?"

Rodney shook his head, incredulously.

"Man, that sucks. They're kicking you guys out of your houses so some politician's flunky can save ten minutes on his commute? That really sucks, Mr. Peters," he said, " How long are they giving you?"

Michael regarded the paper in his hand. "Says July," he responded.

Rodney settled his satchel more firmly on his shoulder.

"That really sucks, Mr. Peters," he said, "I liked this route."

[Michael Peters]

Michael muttered something non-commital at Rodney, ignoring the sympathetic words the mailman spoke. As quickly as he could, knowing his hands were shaking, he unlocked his home and moved inside, slamming the door.

Walking into the center of the living room, he stared at the official-looking notice through eyes begining to blur with tears of rage. Grimacing suddenly he clenched his hand, crushing the paper.

"GOD DAMN IT!" He yelled, swinging his fist in a backhanded motion at the contents of the end-table. Bent brass bookends, three encyclopedia's and a glass swan tumbled to the carpet. Adrenaline poured through him as he stalked to the overstuffed easy chair and dropped into it, not feeling the gash bloodying his knuckles as he threw the crumpled ball of paper across the room.

He pounded the arm of the chair twice in rapid succession before the anger began to drain out of him. His head in his hands, he listened to the roaring of his pulse and concentrated on his breathing, sucking in long breaths.

Minutes passed before he looked up. Still seething, he stood and walked into the kitchen and removed the first-aid kit from the cupboard above the oven. With quick, practiced motions he dabbed the gash with disinfectant and wrapped his hand in a thick bandage. After splashing some water on his face he moved back through the living room towards the door. His eyes averted from the picture of his wife on the wall, he opened the door, slammed it behind him and he moved down the sidewalk. In his haste to get the rage out of his system, to get away from the source of his anger, for the first time in years, he forgot to lock his house.

[Titan]

Michael walked to the Metro station. He rode on the Metro to Arlington. He walked around the cemetary for an hour or so, visiting friends, and calming his mind. It was just a house. Where he had built a home for he and his wife.

But just wood and brick, after all. Nothing irreplaceable. Except the memories. Carrying Genevieve across the threshhold on their wedding night. Building the first fire in the fireplace, forgetting to open the flue, and he and Gene running around the house opening windows. Her laugh, in every room. Watching her die there.

He must have made his way back to the Metro at some point, because he looked up, and found himself back home. His front door was wide open. He began to get a bad feeling.

The letter from the City Board was on the floor where he left it. Most of his belongings were, in fact, right where they were when he left. Except, of course, his TV and DVD player. And his desktop computer. His books had been pulled out of the shelves. He walked back to the bedroom, in a daze.

Every drawer was out of the dresser. His wife's jewelry, gone. His stereo, gone. And...and...

Someone had taken a dump on his bed.

As he contemplated the sheer meanness of this act, he heard footsteps approaching the bedroom. He began to fill with rage.

"Police! Come out of there with your hands over your head!"

[Michael Peters]

Face bright red with anger, Michael, put his hands on his head.

"My name is Michael Peters. This is my home." He turned around and faced the bedroom door, waiting for the policeman. As the footsteps approached, his eyes caught the sight of the old pearl-inlayed cigar box Genevieve had bought him on their wedding day. Panic filled him as he remembered the firearm inside. Forgetting himself, he rushed to the closet and knelt where it had fallen. The smell of shit signified how it had gotten there. Whoever had defecated on his bed had pulled his bathrobe from the closet to clean himself, and had knocked the box from the shelf.

His pulse thundering in his ears, he opened the box. The old colt revolver was still there. Lifting it out, his eyes fell on the ingraving on the inside of the box: "For my Michael. Always a straight shooter." Smiling suddenly, the rage leaving him, tears began to flow down his face.

Thats my Gene. Always able to take the sting out of me.

He stood, about to put the show-piece back in the velvet inlined box when a panicked voice sqwaked.

"Suspect on location!! Gun, Gun, Gun!"

Michael spun, suprised out of his daze by the shout. As he turned, the colt loosely held in his hand pointed roughly in the direction of the officer. The young man, already nervous and excited, fired.

The strangest thoughts crossed his mind, as he felt the burning warmth in his chest. " It doesnt hurt as much as it used too. "

As his eyes darkened, he heard another voice. "Damnit! You shot Mr. Peters! We need a paramedic here!"

Everything faded... the sounds, the pain... his heartbeat...

Then there was light.

[Titan]

The doctors worked for hours to repair the damage to Michael's lung and heart. He died twice on the table, but was successfully resuscitated both times. By morning, he was in the ICU, still critical but expected to live. His chest was swathed in bandages. Tubes brought fluid and drugs into his body, different tubes took wastes out. A machine did his breathing for him. Another machine kept his heart beating.

The officer who shot Peters was suspended pending an investigation. A lawyer friend of Michael's, who also attended IHoM, was busy putting together a blitzkrieg against the city. Having a local man, well loved by his neighbors, a war-hero for crying out loud who works with nuns to take care of orphans- having that guy get kicked out of his own home, then shot by a cop inside that home after he was robbed! That, friends and neighbors, is a PR nightmare for the District. And Michael Peters had all kinds of friends. Not just lawyers. Immaculate Heart of Mary was a big church, it was in a large diocese. The bishop had been called, and prayer was the furthest thing from his mind right now. No way the city was gonna do this to Mike Peters and just walk away.

When the light wave hit the eastern seaboard, Mike didn't see it. While the crackling blue energy passed over the hospital, he slept in an anasthetic-induced haze. While the light illuminated the District of Columbia, outshining the sunrise and stopping traffic, Mike's body just concentrated on pumping oxygen through the system to keep it alive.

Those that remembered MIke once the light had passed further west, knew instinctively that today would be a bad news day for Michael Peters. People were going to be talking about something else, today. Most, however, forgot.

By the time Michael Peters awoke, the news stories had begun.

[Michael Peters]

Washington General Hospital, Washington DC, U.S.A

4:59pm, March 23rd, 1998

Michael awoke, choking. He thrashed weakly for a moment, utterly disoriented, before he was able to grab the plastic thing on his face and pull. He kept his mouth as wide as he could as he carefully pulled the tube out of his throat.

Coughing weakly, his throat burning and dry, he looked around the room. Heart monitor, bag of clear liquid in his arm, tube in his throat, no flowers in the room. That meant either he hadn't been here long, or he was a lot less popular that he thought he was.

Experimentally, he tried to sit up, only to collapse back with a pained wheeze at the sudden explosion of pain in his chest. He prodded the thick wadding of bandages with his left hand, feeling the dull ache spread from his groin to his neck at the pressure.

"....hello...?" he whispered through battered vocal cords before dissolving into a fit of coughing.

After what felt like hours of hacking up pieces of glass, he continued to explore his wound. After many minutes of delicate poking, he was certain he had only been shot once. He moved his arms around, rotated his shoulders and twisted on the bed, pleased to find that the nest of hornets he felt was now living in his sternum wern't pissed off at this. He had probably been shot low in the chest, and the fact he wasn't dead meant that his ribs had probably done the job God had intended them to.

The constant "beep beep beep" of the heart rate monitor was really starting to get on his nerves. He needed to get the hell out of there. He took another look around. He needed to remove the IV in his arm, get the catheter out of him, and find something to support his escape.

His eyes fell on an old-man walker someone had left next to the heart rate monitor and he grinned. No goddam civie hospital was going to hold Michael Peters. He was going to get out of this room, have a huge glass of water, have a normal human piss then find the police. Someone had to pay for breaking into his house.

With single minded determination, he got to work.

[Titan]

Michael stalked down the hall of the hospital. He passed a waiting area, where visitors and hospital staff alike ignored that he looked just like he rose from his deathbed. They were all watching the television. He jabbed the walker in front of him. Again. Again.

His guts seemed ready to fall out of him. The wound had come open some, and Michael decided that he was a little worse off than he had thought at first. Moreover, his head felt like it was ready to fall off. Still, he forced himself forward.

Someone would pay for this, for all of this. Justice would be served. Michael was not...necessarily...a vengeful man, but lines had been crossed, and an example would be set.

He made it into the elevator before blood trickled out from under the bandage across his chest. He rested on the other arm of the walker as the elevator descended. His body throbbed, but his head seemed cracked. For the first time since he awoke, he began to doubt that he would make it home. He set his face, and jerked between the opening doors.

He slipped on the freshly waxed floor, halfway to the main doors. He caught himself, barely, but with a price. He felt something in his left side tear. It didn't matter. He could still keep moving. He watched as the doors rocked and swam from side to side. He took a shaky step, then another. The daylight from the doors filled his vision. He would harden up, keep moving, get vengance. Another step. The world rocked. Light.

***

[Michael Peters]

Kor Park, Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam

6:43am, March 24rd, 1998 (Local Time)

Michael awoke with a gasp that dissolved into a low-animal sound of pain. He writhed on what felt like dirt, pressing his palms into his eyesockets, desperately trying to alleviate the deep throbing pain in his head.

Eventully, he slowly opened his eyes, finding himself looking at the bark of a tree.

Where the hell am I? Did they think I was dead and dump me in the hospital garden to fertilize the damn plants?

Gripping the trunk, he pulled himself upright. He leaned for a time with his head pressing against the rough bark, catching his breath. The wide overhanging branches of the tree concealing his from sight, Michael felt his headache change from a stabbing pain to a dull throb. It wasn't much of an improvement but when compared to being shot... he stiffened suddenly in suprise. His fingers probed his chest, smearing dark earth onto his hospital gown. There was no pain. His head was the only pain he felt.

Incredulous, he ripped away the blood-stained bandages, ignoring the sting of the tape, and stared at himself. Pristine flesh. Not even a scar.

"What... the... hell...?"

This was impossible, theres no way... he parted the branches and found himself in a city park. A winding stone path found its way between exotic flower beds and large-leafed trees indentical to the one he found himself under. Wincing as the sunlight burned into his light-sensitive eyes, he moved down the path towards the sound of traffic, self-consciously holding the back of his hospital gown closed.

Clearing the edge of the park, the path meeting a sidewalk, a large sign advertised a restaurant... in Vietnamese.

"What the hell?" he said again.

Cars passed by him, gawking asian faces staring at the American. His hospital gown was dirty and blood-stained, his hair was wild and his eyes were wide with suprise. He looked like an escaped mental patient.

"Excuse me... sir?" A voice said behind him in Vietnamese.

Michael spun in suprise to see a light-blue uniformed police officer a few feet away. The mans hand was on the butt of his gun. A sudden chuckle burst out of Michaels mouth, startling the officer.

Wouldn't that be grand? he thought I get shot in my own home by a cop, almost die, heal perfectly then escape to Vietnam to be shot by a cop.

"Yes... um..." Michael dug in his mind for the language. He hadn't spoken it in over a decade. "Good afternoon, officer...um..." He saw the nametag on the mans uniform read "Huk" "Officer Huk. My name is Michael Peters... from America."

The policeman stared at him, not speaking.

"Sir... where am I?"

The officer stared at him a moment more before replying: "Mr. Peters, you are in Ho Chi Minh City."

Michael stared at the police officer, panic and confusion overwhelming him.

"Ho Chi... I'm in Saigon? In Vietnam?" A brief bark of laughter escaped him again "Thats rediculous. I was in a hospital in Washington DC maybe an hour ago!"

Officer Huk pulled a small radio from his belt, his eyes not leaving Michael.

"This is Huk. I need some backup here. There's a crazy man outside Kor Park." He spoke directly to Michael again "Please sir, have a seat."

Michael sat down on the sidewalk, dumb with shock and misunderstanding. What the hell happened to him?

What the hell was going on!?

[Titan]

Officer Huk was more nervous than he looked. Discreetly, he unsnapped his weapon and removed it from the holster. The American looked more than confused, he looked dangerous. The park was busy at lunchtime, and Huk estimated the risk that the half-naked man posed to the public safetey.

He saw with relief that the man was easing to the sidewalk. He approached him again slowly.

"Mr. Peters? A ride will be here shortly, to take you to the police station. You will be comfortable there while we call the American embassy, and straighten this mess out."

Michael glanced up at the gentle words and saw the Vietnamese Officer approaching him, weapon drawn.

[Michael Peters]

It was going to be a long, long day for Michael Peters. After being driven to the Precinct House with officer Huk, he was hustled into a tiny room with a table and two chairs and promptly abandoned. The station was complete and utter bedlam. Michael was hearing people yelling about national disasters, something about a space explosion, the Mekong Delta river dropping a foot in the last hour, and the mobilization of the Vietnamese Military to keep the peace.

Michael sat there, as hours passed, bored out of his skull. He had turned off the lights in the interrogation room to ease stabbing feeling behind his eyes and was beginning to compare the migrane to his recent gunshot wound. On the Michael Peters Scale of Pain, the headache was starting to come out ahead.

Resting his head against the cool wood of the table, he didnt notice the increase in noise as the door opened. He did notice when the lights came back on.

"Ow, Dammit, turn those off!" He barked in Vietnamese "My heads killing me!"

The lights clicked off. Michael raised his head and inspected the entrant. He was a tall man in a formal suit, his hair thinning with age and stress. He might have been muscular once, but the years were loosening him up. He wasn't looking at Michael, but was examining a clipboard in his hands, using the light coming from the window in the door.

"Michael Peterson?" He asked in 'who cares' tone, in English.

"Its Michael Peters. You're from the embassy I assume?"

"Yes. I'm the liason that works with the Vietnamese when there are problems with immigration. How long have you been in Ho Chi Mihn City?"

Michael bristled at the mans tone. He was treating him like a criminal.

"As far as I know, only a few hours. Last I remember before waking up in the park was an elevator in the Washington General Hostpital in DC." Michael slid accross the table the paper ID bracelet the hospital had tagged him with. The man didn't move to take it.

"Yes, the police told me that was your story. I'll try to contact Washington, see if they can pull some medical records... it'll probably take a week or two. Until then I'll talk to the consulate, see if maybe we can get you some accomidations..."

"WHAT?!" Michael yelled "TWO WEEKS? It cant take that long! They're going to take my house! Some stupid Eminance Grise law or something! I need to get back there now!!"

The man smugly stared at Michael, probably happy to have some authority at last.

"I'm afraid thats just not possible. With the chaos out there, getting such a small request out will take some time. Also, I'm sure they have their own issues in the States as well, with all the disasters. It is going to be two weeks at the very least Mr. Peterson."

Michael felt the pain in his head bleed away as his temper built. It had been a bad couple of days, and he wasn't about to be stonewalled by some limp-dick beaurocrat.

"That is unacceptible! I was robbed, shot, woke up in friggin' Vietnam and I have to sit here while my house gets bulldozed to make way for some... some superhighway?!"

Michael stood, slamming the chair back into the wall. He was pleased to see the smirk on the mans face fading.

"No way! I fought FOR my country in THIS country and all I get is a 'nice story Mr. Peters' it'll take weeks to get you home, sorry about your house'?"

The embassy man was frozen in shock, his eyes widening.

"Well FUCK YOU! You either find a way to get me home faster or I..." Michael stopped as he realized he could now read the mans nametag: Nathan Moors. A soft yellow light now suffused the room, increasing in intensity slowly. His headache began to return, a dull throb behind his eyes, mirroring his heartbeat.

Moors turned and ran out the door like Michael had attacked him, slamming it behind him hard enough to rattle the glass. Michael stared at his hands in shock... the glow was coming from him. From his skin. It gave off no heat... it was just a pleasant, golden light. To Michael, it looked like purified candle light. As he watched, the glow slowly faded, leaving the room dark again.

Michael pulled the seat back to the table, gritted his teeth against the pain, and began to pray. He focused on the words, using them to anchor his attention... trying to look past the pain and the confusion.

"Our Father... who art in Heaven... hallowed be thy name..."

The simple prayer he had learned as a child relaxed him, calmed him. With his eyes closed and his head in his hands, he didn't see the warm glow fill the tiny room again. Or the faces of the Vietnamese police crowding around the door, trying to look into the observation window, their mouths agape with awe.

[Titan]

Quiet meditation and prayer had made Michael contemplative. He started recognizing changes in himself, beyond the loss of his wounds. He would swear that his arms were longer. The hair on the back of his hands seemed much darker than it had of late. His headache was fading, and he was hungry. Felt like he was starving, in fact.

After an hour or so, he was getting impatient.

[Michael Peters]

Michael was ravenous. The pain in his head may have faded with the candle-glow, but that just made him more aware of his other problems. He hadn't eaten since he had left the church, and that felt like days ago.

He stood, moved to the door and opened it it slowly. Someone had left a white collared shirt and blue trousers in a neatly folded pile in front of the door, Michael picked them up, went back into the interrogation room and changed out of his dirty hospital gown. He felt much more human.

Exiting back into the barely controlled chaos of the Vietnamese police station, he looked around the main area. All the officers seemed to try not to look at him directly, only taking furtive glances out of the corners of their eyes. No one stopped him as he walked towards the front doors. With a final look around, somewhat incredulous that no-one was going to stop him, Michael shrugged his shoulders and stepped out into the street.

Someone had stuffed a handful of VND currency into the left pocket of his pants. Michael walked away from the station, feeling almost faint with hunger. He held up one hand, stopping a young man on the street.

"Excuse me... is Mother Hoa's still around?"

The kid looked Michael over "That old run down place near the outside of town? Yeah, I think so. Why'd you want to go there?"

Michael struggled to understand his words. Too much damn slang and abbreviated words. It was just like English.

"Its an old place of mine. I haven't been there in years. I'll give you a couple dollars to take me there."

The teen shrugged and nodded.

"Sure. Follow me, Grandfather."

Michael grinned at the honorific and followed. He didn't notice the black sedan across the street.

"Thats him!" Nathan Moors said, pointing excitedly at Michael "He was glowing!"

The two American agents in the car nodded. They wore dark blue suits with sunglasses. They both had the same close cropped hair and suspicious bulges underneath their jackets.

"We'll follow him for now. Take him if he shows any abnormalities."

The taller of the two agents left the car and followed Michael at distance.

[Titan]

He finished his third platter of rice with cucumbers, bean threads, and slices of hot pepper in nuoc mam (a local fish sauce). The Vietnamese diners at Mother Hoa's, looked on, visibly impressed. A number of wagers were being placed on whether he would order a fourth. Odds seemed to be in favor.

Two Americans sat down at the table, across from Michael. He was not terribly surprised. He had watched them watching him for the past hour. They seemed ill at ease, unsure of what to say. He didn't make it easy on them.

Finally, the one on the right spoke.

"Mr. uh Peters," he started, then paused. He looked at his partner for help. The partner took over.

"Mr. Peters, we've had a complaint. From the American Liason to the Vietnamese Police. He, uhm..." He trailed off, unable to finish. The first one, courage restored, chimed in.

"Mr. Peters, we'd like for you to accompany us, please," he said.

Michael looked from one to the other. Spooks. He was as sure of it as he was his own name.

"Where?" he asked.

"To the embassy," the agent replied.

Michael almost laughed aloud. Exactly where he had wanted to go in the first place. He pushed himself away from the table. The agents started, hands darting inside their jackets.

"Let's go," Michael said.

Looking at each other sheepishly, the agents dropped their hands and nodded.

*******************

Michael sat up front with one of the agents. The other sat in the rear.

"I thought that I was supposed to ride in back," he said, bemused.

The agent driving shook his head. The one in the back snorted.

"Protocol calls for an agent in the front, and one in the back. You always see it done wrong on TV and in movies."

"Why is that?" Michael wondered aloud. The agents were loosening up as they talked. He wanted to keep them talking.

"Because-" The agent broke off as his cell phone rang. He reached into his jacket, pulled it out. "O'Brian." He listened for a long moment. Glanced at Michael. "I have Peters in custody, we are en route." Listened for another long moment. "I understand." He hung up the phone.

"Change of plan." He turned the wheel of the car sharply. Michael was pressed into the door of the car, as they U turned in the intersection. The car sped back down the street.

"What is going on," asked Michael.

"Can't say, sir," O'Brian said, formal once more. Then he grinned at his partner in the rearview.

"Mostly because I don't know. Just... hold on, okay?" The car swerved around a truck filled with caged chickens.

Michael...held on.

[Michael Peters]

Michael Peters was starting to feel better. Sure, the throbbing behind his eyes seemed to constantly threaten to jump back to crippling levels, but with a full stomach and finally feeling like he was getting somewhere, he began to relax.

"So gentlemen, where are we headed?" Michael asked. The buildings the car were passing became large commercial buildings about 10 blocks back.

"We're taking you to the Ho Chi Minh International Airport."

Michael grinned, his face turned towards the window. This was better than he could have hoped. Somebody, somewhere must have pulled some strings. Within the next hour he'd be on some trans-atlantic flight back to Washington... then he can see about his house. Things were looking up.

The airport wasn't very busy. Weekday plus national disasters equals not many people trusting air travel for a few days. The agents parked the black sedan and Michael stepped out. The agent in the back followed. Approaching them were two caucasian men: One was tall in a charcoal suit, the other was around 5'6'' wearing jeans and a buttoned t-shirt.

The one in the suit extended his hand to Michael, a conciliatory smile on his face.

"Hello Mr. Peters. I'm with the W.H.O...." He pronounced it 'who'.

Michael shook the mans hand, somewhat dumbfounded.

"The Who? What the heck would you want with me?"

[Titan]

Originally Posted By: Michael Peters

Michael Peters was starting to feel better. Sure, the throbbing behind his eyes seemed to constantly threaten to jump back to crippling levels, but with a full stomach and finally feeling like he was getting somewhere, he began to relax.

As he lay back, he allowed himself to think on the events of the last hour,strange as they were. First O'Brian hung the U, and swerved around the chicken truck. He wouldn't tell Michael anything at first, then admitted that he didn't know what was going on.

When the car eased into a space a half-block away from the Chinese Embassy, Michael was confused.

"What are we doing?" he asked.

O'Brian pulled his cell phone. He dialed a number, pointedly ignoring Michael's question. He listened for a moment, then:

"It's O'Brian." He listened again. He looks sharply at Michael, and said, "But, ma'am, I have Mr. Pe-" He looked at Michael, open-mouthed.

"Yes, ma'am. Two hours. Yes ma'am." He hung up.

"What was that about?" asked Michael.

"You're not- never mind. We sit here, and watch the Embassy. That's all you need to know."

"But what are we looking for?" Michael asked.

"It's not- ah, there it goes..." O'Brian said, looking over the steering wheel. The gate to the embassy had opened, and a limousine was pulling out. It turned in the direction away from them. After a moment, O'Brian pulled out after them.

"What's going on?" Michael asked.

O'Brian looked over, exasperated. He looked back quickly, and focused on following the limo. After a moment, he spoke.

"You and all the questions! Ok, here's what I know. It's not all that sensitive anyway. About an hour ago, a plane landed at Ho Chi Minh International. This limo went to meet it, and picked up a package, which was brought to the Chinese Embassy. Our boss called me, and told me to watch for the limo and follow it to see where it goes."

O'Brian looked over again briefly.

"Happy?"

The limousine pulled up in front of an impressive building. There was a statue of some Vietnamese doctor out front. The driver went to the back, and opened the door for a 50ish Chinese man in an expensive suit. The man was quickly flanked by security. He walked into the building, carrying an attache' case.

The agent in the back seat leaned forward, pointing.

"Do you see that?" he asked.

"What?" asked O'Brian.

"The case is handcuffed to his wrist. Something important in there."

Michael was starting to think that maybe they were putting him on. He looked at the agents, trying to see if they were serious. They certainly seemed to be.

"So... what do we do?" He asked.

"We wait." O'Brian said.

"Ok... hey, what is this place?" Michael asked.

"Disease Control Authority. Now, please shut up," he said, pulling out his phone yet again.

********************

After about forty minutes, when Michael had decided that stake-outs kinda sucked, the Chinese man and his guards re-emerged. He didn't need eagle eyes to immediately see that the guy no longer had the case. The agents exchanged looks. O'Brian spoke briefly into his cell, then started the engine.

They pulled away. They didn't follow the limo.

Originally Posted By: Michael Peters

"So gentlemen, where are we headed?" Michael asked.

******************************

Michael shook the mans hand, somewhat dumbfounded.

"The Who? What the heck would you want with me?"

The man laughed.

"No, Mr. Peters, my name isn't Roger Daltrey. But you can call me The Seeker. Not the Who, the World Health Organization. I am Dr. Simkins, this is my associate, Mr. Black. We are here to invite you to our testing facility in London."

"London?"

Mr. Black spoke, "Yes, Mr. Peters. Perhaps you haven't been following the news, but people like you, people with abilities beyond the human norm, have been appearing all over the world. Your impromptu 'checkout' from George Washington University Hospital was on CNN, Fox, MSNBC, Al Jazeera... when you showed up on a American Embassy query in Vietnam less than 20 minutes later, we were contacted. We are trying to catalogue this phenomenon, and asking for participation from those affected to that we can determine exactly what is happening. Several of those affected are even now on their way to London to help us in our investigations."

"We do," interjected Dr. Simkins, "however, want to assure you that your participation is voluntary, that we will happily give you a ride home, if that is what you wish."

[Michael Peters]

Michael considered the situation. Although deeply he wanted to be home, to fix what had happened there and prepare for what was going to happen there... what was happening to him was more important.

Forgive me Genevieve, I know it's our home... but what good is it without either of us? Who knows, I might keep on waking up on different continents.

"Well Dr. Simkins, Mr. Black, you got yourself another 'affected'. All I seem to have is a comforting glow and some serious narcoleptic transportation problems. Lets not waste any time."

Michael gestured towards the airport terminal, a smile coming to his face at the prospect of answers.

"Shall we? Fortune favors the bold after all. No point in delaying it."

[Michael Peters]

Michael had been assured that the flight to London from Saigon would be fairly long, so he had availed himself of the facilities. Michael couldn't remember the last time he had been on a plane that had its own shower in the cabin, but he made full use of it, removing the last last stubborn bits of dried flaky blood on his chest along with what felt like days of grime and sweat. As he watched the blood swirl down the drain into what ever resivoir tanks held the run-off, he realized that that blood was the only proof of the gunshot wound he had suffered.

At least that wound. He thought to himself I've been shot more than once.

Stepping out of the shower stall, into the adjacent changing room, he found that someone had left a pair of dark bluejeans and a black button up shirt emblazioned with some "Aeon" logo on the breast pocket, where the 'A' and 'E' were pushed together. With the clean clothes and the shower, Michael felt great... minus the pounding behind his eyes, but he was getting used to it.

Moving back into the cabin proper, he took a seat facing Mr. Black and Dr. Simkins. The doctor spoke first.

"I hope the clothes fit you, Mr. Peters, we had very little time to guess your measurements."

Michael smiled "It fits fine doctor, and please, call me Michael, or Mike."

"Very well Mike, and you may call me Arthur."

Michael looked at Mr. Black, but no similar removal of formality was forthcoming. He looked back at the doctor.

"Arthur, do you have any Asprin or Ibuprofen? My head has been pounding for hours."

"Ah!" Said the doctor, as if he had been expecting this question "Yes. I have something for you." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a clear orange bottle with two pills in it. "It's called adrenocillin. It will help your headache."

Michael took the offered bottle and shook the two pills into his hand, looking at them. "Adrenocillin? Like penicillin? I dont think I have an infection, doc."

"Please, trust me, this is exactly what you need." He smiled reassuringly.

Michael shrugged and dry-swallowed the two pills. "I'm willing to give anything a shot at this point."

There was a moment of silence between them.

"So... how long is this flight?" Michael asked

Mr. Black made his first contribution to the conversation. "Six hours, give or take. It's a direct flight."

Michael grinned "Well then gentlemen, I think I'm going to avail myself of some cuisine." He picked up a menu off of a sidetable and opened it. His eyes widened as he saw what was available. "Steak? You can get steak in the air?"

Arthur laughed "Yes, you can. And let me assure you, its not re-cooked and re-fozen meat. There is a kitchen up there." He gestured towards the front of the cabin.

"Well great! I'll just notate here..." He ticked off the items on the menu he wished and then put the menu aside. "I'm feeling pretty hungry."

The rest of the flight was fairly nondescript. Michael ate his food, a normal portion this time, then caught a few hours of sleep before the airplane touched down in Heathrow Airport. After clearing customs, Mr. Black signing some things to allow Michael to pass through, the three men entered a dark blue sedan. Mr. Black drove, Michael and the doctor in the back.

Another long drive ensued, some dull rock/pop playing quietly over the radio. What little conversation there was was trivial, and only involved Michael and Arthur. Finally, they reached the compound. When Michael stepped out of the car and got his first look at the place, he let out a low whistle, impressed.

"Wow. This place is huge! Are those tennis courts?"

Dr. Simkins laughed and patted Michael on the back.

"Yes they are. There is a full golf course on the grounds as well. Now come inside, I'm sure you're anxious for some answers."

Feeling exitement starting to build in him, Michael walked towards the double-doors of the house.

[Titan]

Now, this story will continue in the Æon thread...

*****************************

Continued from the 'Æon' thread...

You follow the figure as he streaks across the sky. You are aware of another flyer who has followed your lead, but he falls away fast crossing the Atlantic. The figure's re-entry from orbit skips him across the atmosphere, and you follow, alone, as he crosses the Americas like a comet, and continues falling over the Pacific, lower and lower. He looks to come down close to Hawaii, and it is all you can do to keep up.

[Michael Peters]

Wind screamed in Michaels ears as he strained to follow the man-shaped blur that had scooped up Shelby. His wings lay flat against his back again, they were apparently more for balance than speed.

I guess at these speeds, having my wings out would cause more drag then thrust. He mused Then again, I dont even know how I'm flying at all.

Michael had no idea how he was pulling this off, but much in the same way an infant knows how to right itself, he seemed to instinctually know how to move correctly. In fact, it felt like a itch being scratched that he didn't know he had, or a good stretch after being immoblie for a long time. It felt glorious.

As the other flying man continued to pull away, beginning a long curved descent towards Hawaii, Michael strained for every last erg of energy he had, but he knew he was reaching his limit.

[Titan]

The man who caught Shelby as he fell, flew in a long curve towards Hawaii, then accelerrated with a flash. And he was gone. As you scan the horizon with your new vision, you see distantly the man has reappeared far to the west, bearing Shelby's blackened form. He descends quickly. Although you are starting to feel weaker, you can easily make it to where they are landing.

[Titan]

This story will continue in the 'Titan Omega' thread...