Lord Allo
Squad Stories: The Return 3/3
The dull glow of a few dozen screens, both television and computer, blare down their light on a figure sitting calmly in the observation room of Belle-Reve. His fingers type rapidly at the keyboard in front of him. Various external hard drives and wired devices of his own making lay in disarray across the desk among tape recorders, a flyswatter and a dozen empty bottles of various liquors.
This is Michael Patten: Aka, The Answer. He’s been in this chair for four days and hasn’t noticed it yet.
He’s talking to himself.
Answer, under his breath: What they fail to realize is the tenuous nature of our universe. How many times have we tipped over the brink? There’s been shifts long before I started seeking . . . answers. Three separate smiling men, endless crises, the ticking of doom while a blue god smiles, and our agencies patrolling the net, like Komodo dragons stalking the high-watermark. What was our world before? What has it come to? Where is it going . . .
Waller, making her presence known: Hopefully Patten, your world will be taking a shower soon. Faraday tells me you’ve been of here for four days.
Answer, still observing the screens: Time is immaterial when there’s work to be done.
Waller: Or time’s the only thing that matters. What I’m paying you better be worth it. *She gazes across all the screens, taking in everything at once until her eyes stop on a small television screen showing a Robot punching the silhouette of a man in what could have passed for his face.*
Waller: Also, what are you watching?
Answer spins around: My dear director, of course it will be. Or rather, of course it is. In the alleged four days I’ve been here, I’ve seen to it your security system is airtight. Suffocatingly so. Nothing, short of The Bat with an extra two weeks at his disposal, could get through these cyber-doors. And even then, I’ve installed a number of bat traps. Also I happen to be watching the 60’s Doom Patrol show. Not voluntarily, mind you. For some reason it seems to be on every channel. It’s damn perplexing, and it’s causing me to miss Ancient Aliens.
Waller: Hm. A simple yes or no would have sufficed, but it sounds like you’ve delivered. We’ll see how long it is though until it’s tested. Then you better pray you’re as good as you claim.
Answer: Madame, there is no need for prayer in the world of cold hard numbers.
Waller: For your sake, you’d better hope not. Hit the showers when you’re done, and let Murph know if there’s anything you’ll be needing. We’ve got a mission coming up, so I need you bright-eyed.
Answer: There is one thing I need, a copy of Kafka’s Metamorphosis. Not to read, mind you, the paranoid, scratchy prose, but because that disdainful novella still measures an eight-point-five millimeters thick, which is just enough to counteract the surprisingly uneven floor underneath this desk to my left, here.
Waller, leaving: Take it up with Murph. Or just use Amazon.
Answer, returning to his monitors: Amazon, the river of mediocrity? Not likely. Help me Franz.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
In his private quarters, Colonel Rick Flag polishes his gun. Systematically he disassembles and cleans it. He checks everything is in working order, then deftly snaps it all back into place. He’s been at this, repeating the process for a solid ten minutes. He’s frustrated, and the shooting range is full.
Doctor Karin Grace enters. She’s tired, but not depressed. She has a better handle on their situation than Flag does. She used to love him, but as time has worn on, Flag has worn down. Karin has watched him crumble, and pities him more than anything.
Rick Flag is a good soldier. Rick Flag wants to be anything else.
Karin, sitting down next to Flag: Rick, please, relax.
Rick, taking a deep breath: Karin I . . . I want to apologize for my outburst earlier. It was uncalled for and out of line.
Karin: Rick c’mon, you don’t have to apologize to me. You don’t have to apologize to anyone. It was hardly an outburst. I don’t necessarily think the best use of our talents is fighting movie props to cover up a group of black-ops convicts either, but that’s what we’ve been hired for.
Rick, setting down his gun and standing up: That’s what pisses me off so god damn much. Convicts. There’s no reason for it. There’s no sense. Agents like us are already sworn to secrecy. Relying on that human refuse is a liability in itself. Do you think Captain Goddamn Boomerang can keep a secret?
Karin, still seated: No, but that’s not the point, Rick. The point is this what we signed on for. This is our duty. It’s just another job, and eventually when these scumbags get themselves wiped out, they’ll call in us. They’ll call in the real professionals.
Flag, beginning to strap on his gear: We’ll see, Karin. Probably best that you go get Jess and Hugh. We roll out in two hours.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Digger and Floyd have chosen their bunks in the guardroom. Digger by the door, Floyd in the corner. Digger’s telling wild stories about his time with The Rogues.
Floyd doesn’t particularly care, but he listens anyways.
He’s lost count of which cigarette he’s on.
Digger: . . . And then he made ‘em eat his own laser Kaleidoscope! Ahahaha aw strewth, those were the good ole days. Things were simpler then. Now look at us, convicted killers yesterday, G-men today. And not too bad a deal if I say so m'self.
Floyd hangs his one picture, suspended by a thumbtack, on the wall. Satisfied, he shoves the rest of his luggage under his bunk.
Digger: Hey now, *he withdraws a small dartboard from his gear* Fancy a cuppa defeat?
--------------------------------------------------------
Waller is marching through the halls of Belle-Reve. Meeting with Patten always makes her feel ill for some reason. She think it’s his odor.
The monstrous and strange denizens behind the bars of the penitentiary are oddly quiet for once. She counts it as a blessing.
Amanda Waller has a headache.
Waller, into walkie talkie: Faraday, get Bend, leash him, and send him to the conference room. I’ll gather our other agents.
Faraday: Can do, boss.
Waller pockets the walkie talkie, takes two Advil, dry, and approaches the guardroom door. She opens it to find Digger and Floyd scuffling. Floyd’s got a dart four centimeters from Digger’s eye.
Digger: Alright, ALRIGHT, I relent y’great git! Get offa me!
Waller: ENOUGH, both of you. Don’t make me regret any more decisions.
Sheepishly, they both stand.
Waller: Floyd. Put the dart down.
Floyd chucks the dart over his shoulder where it sticks perfectly in the center of the board, disrupting the other darts already there. Pinned by the darts to the center of the board is Floyd’s cigarette.
Waller: Digger, admit you probably cheated.
Digger, grudgingly: Yeah alright, I tried t’swindle ya.
Waller: There, that’s settled. Now get yourselves ready and report to the conference room. And if there’s any fighting on the way there I’ll lock you both up myself. *she leaves*
Digger: Bloody hell, that was a fast turn-around. Looks like we’re about to meet our new Suicide Squad. And I wasn’t tryin’ to cheat y’know, was just a gag.
Floyd: Just shut up and get ready.
Squad Stories: The Return 3/3
The dull glow of a few dozen screens, both television and computer, blare down their light on a figure sitting calmly in the observation room of Belle-Reve. His fingers type rapidly at the keyboard in front of him. Various external hard drives and wired devices of his own making lay in disarray across the desk among tape recorders, a flyswatter and a dozen empty bottles of various liquors.
This is Michael Patten: Aka, The Answer. He’s been in this chair for four days and hasn’t noticed it yet.
He’s talking to himself.
Answer, under his breath: What they fail to realize is the tenuous nature of our universe. How many times have we tipped over the brink? There’s been shifts long before I started seeking . . . answers. Three separate smiling men, endless crises, the ticking of doom while a blue god smiles, and our agencies patrolling the net, like Komodo dragons stalking the high-watermark. What was our world before? What has it come to? Where is it going . . .
Waller, making her presence known: Hopefully Patten, your world will be taking a shower soon. Faraday tells me you’ve been of here for four days.
Answer, still observing the screens: Time is immaterial when there’s work to be done.
Waller: Or time’s the only thing that matters. What I’m paying you better be worth it. *She gazes across all the screens, taking in everything at once until her eyes stop on a small television screen showing a Robot punching the silhouette of a man in what could have passed for his face.*
Waller: Also, what are you watching?
Answer spins around: My dear director, of course it will be. Or rather, of course it is. In the alleged four days I’ve been here, I’ve seen to it your security system is airtight. Suffocatingly so. Nothing, short of The Bat with an extra two weeks at his disposal, could get through these cyber-doors. And even then, I’ve installed a number of bat traps. Also I happen to be watching the 60’s Doom Patrol show. Not voluntarily, mind you. For some reason it seems to be on every channel. It’s damn perplexing, and it’s causing me to miss Ancient Aliens.
Waller: Hm. A simple yes or no would have sufficed, but it sounds like you’ve delivered. We’ll see how long it is though until it’s tested. Then you better pray you’re as good as you claim.
Answer: Madame, there is no need for prayer in the world of cold hard numbers.
Waller: For your sake, you’d better hope not. Hit the showers when you’re done, and let Murph know if there’s anything you’ll be needing. We’ve got a mission coming up, so I need you bright-eyed.
Answer: There is one thing I need, a copy of Kafka’s Metamorphosis. Not to read, mind you, the paranoid, scratchy prose, but because that disdainful novella still measures an eight-point-five millimeters thick, which is just enough to counteract the surprisingly uneven floor underneath this desk to my left, here.
Waller, leaving: Take it up with Murph. Or just use Amazon.
Answer, returning to his monitors: Amazon, the river of mediocrity? Not likely. Help me Franz.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
In his private quarters, Colonel Rick Flag polishes his gun. Systematically he disassembles and cleans it. He checks everything is in working order, then deftly snaps it all back into place. He’s been at this, repeating the process for a solid ten minutes. He’s frustrated, and the shooting range is full.
Doctor Karin Grace enters. She’s tired, but not depressed. She has a better handle on their situation than Flag does. She used to love him, but as time has worn on, Flag has worn down. Karin has watched him crumble, and pities him more than anything.
Rick Flag is a good soldier. Rick Flag wants to be anything else.
Karin, sitting down next to Flag: Rick, please, relax.
Rick, taking a deep breath: Karin I . . . I want to apologize for my outburst earlier. It was uncalled for and out of line.
Karin: Rick c’mon, you don’t have to apologize to me. You don’t have to apologize to anyone. It was hardly an outburst. I don’t necessarily think the best use of our talents is fighting movie props to cover up a group of black-ops convicts either, but that’s what we’ve been hired for.
Rick, setting down his gun and standing up: That’s what pisses me off so god damn much. Convicts. There’s no reason for it. There’s no sense. Agents like us are already sworn to secrecy. Relying on that human refuse is a liability in itself. Do you think Captain Goddamn Boomerang can keep a secret?
Karin, still seated: No, but that’s not the point, Rick. The point is this what we signed on for. This is our duty. It’s just another job, and eventually when these scumbags get themselves wiped out, they’ll call in us. They’ll call in the real professionals.
Flag, beginning to strap on his gear: We’ll see, Karin. Probably best that you go get Jess and Hugh. We roll out in two hours.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Digger and Floyd have chosen their bunks in the guardroom. Digger by the door, Floyd in the corner. Digger’s telling wild stories about his time with The Rogues.
Floyd doesn’t particularly care, but he listens anyways.
He’s lost count of which cigarette he’s on.
Digger: . . . And then he made ‘em eat his own laser Kaleidoscope! Ahahaha aw strewth, those were the good ole days. Things were simpler then. Now look at us, convicted killers yesterday, G-men today. And not too bad a deal if I say so m'self.
Floyd hangs his one picture, suspended by a thumbtack, on the wall. Satisfied, he shoves the rest of his luggage under his bunk.
Digger: Hey now, *he withdraws a small dartboard from his gear* Fancy a cuppa defeat?
--------------------------------------------------------
Waller is marching through the halls of Belle-Reve. Meeting with Patten always makes her feel ill for some reason. She think it’s his odor.
The monstrous and strange denizens behind the bars of the penitentiary are oddly quiet for once. She counts it as a blessing.
Amanda Waller has a headache.
Waller, into walkie talkie: Faraday, get Bend, leash him, and send him to the conference room. I’ll gather our other agents.
Faraday: Can do, boss.
Waller pockets the walkie talkie, takes two Advil, dry, and approaches the guardroom door. She opens it to find Digger and Floyd scuffling. Floyd’s got a dart four centimeters from Digger’s eye.
Digger: Alright, ALRIGHT, I relent y’great git! Get offa me!
Waller: ENOUGH, both of you. Don’t make me regret any more decisions.
Sheepishly, they both stand.
Waller: Floyd. Put the dart down.
Floyd chucks the dart over his shoulder where it sticks perfectly in the center of the board, disrupting the other darts already there. Pinned by the darts to the center of the board is Floyd’s cigarette.
Waller: Digger, admit you probably cheated.
Digger, grudgingly: Yeah alright, I tried t’swindle ya.
Waller: There, that’s settled. Now get yourselves ready and report to the conference room. And if there’s any fighting on the way there I’ll lock you both up myself. *she leaves*
Digger: Bloody hell, that was a fast turn-around. Looks like we’re about to meet our new Suicide Squad. And I wasn’t tryin’ to cheat y’know, was just a gag.
Floyd: Just shut up and get ready.