Sunday evening rolled around, and Lois was sitting in the War Room of the White House: ten floors underground. There was more reinforced concrete around her than in all the sidewalks in Manhattan, more high tech gadgets than Akibahara, and access to enough offensive weapons to wipe out entire nations.
She really wanted to flip some of the switches—the ones that required keys, codes, and were covered by big, red, plastic covers. Instead, she looked at her half-eaten Caesar salad, and pushed a crouton around.
“Have we got a face for this?” She asked, too tired to scream.
“Yes. We have three candidates who would require slight surgical modification to look, and sound, like President Chillum.” The slight, bespectacled, man from MJ-13 replied.
“We cultivated a small Al Fatwa group in Borneo, just in case something of this kind came up.” The Director of the CIA added.
“So, we’ve got a face, we’ve got bodies, and we’ve got story.” Lois stabbed at an olive that refused to stay still.
“You, Poindexter,” she said, pointing at the representative of MJ-13, “make one of the candidates a deal.”
“What sort of deal?”
“He consents to the surgery, plays the part in the raid on their ‘headquarters’, and we fake his death. He gets a new face for free, and we set him up with a nice villa in Croatia. Toss in $100,000 a year for the rest of his life.”
“That’s very generous, Ms. Nasen-Hedges. What should I do if none of the candidates is willing to play the role?”
“Well, Mr. Poindexter, then you get to do what you and your little friends do best.” Lois sneered. Majestic-13 was not her favorite organization (they’d ruined some of her favorite fantasies about extra-terrestrial life) among all the groups she had to deal with.
“Ah. Kidnap. Brainwash. Do what we were planning to do in the first place.” The man she called “Poindexter” smiled, but the mirth never reached his eyes. “Speaking as a good American, our method would cost the taxpayers less than bargaining. It wouldn’t even be necessary for the ‘face’ to survive the raid.”
“You’re a sick motherfucker.” This came from the Director of the NSA.
“No, Director. I am a practical patriot.” Poindexter smiled again.
“What I want to know is how POTUS got out.” The head of the CIA wondered out loud.
“Did you read the autopsy reports on the two men we lost?” Agent Davis asked him.
“Their hearts were crushed. There were no entry or exit wounds.” Lois answered for the Secret Service. “Before you ask, it means that their hearts were destroyed from the inside.”
“Ah. Fairies.” The Director of the CIA said. “That explains everything.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
“What doesn’t it explain, Mr. Tool From The Mysterious Majestic Group?” The NSA director snarled.
“Why Tol Agarutha would bother creating an event of this kind.” Poindexter said, and adjusted his horn-rim glasses.
“Honey badger don’t care.” Lois whispered to herself. “Honey badger don’t give a shit.”
“The answer is simple.” Dwight Davis spoke from Lois’ side of the table. “To create chaos, and make surrendering the artifact less and less attractive. I suspect he wants to make a new deal.”
“Hmm. Do you think they’d be interested in coming to work for us?” Poindexter grinned. “I like how this being thinks!”
“All right. We’ve got our plan. We’ve got our story. All of you fucktards, get out and make this shit happen.” Lois said, sounding more like her usual self.
“You,” she pointed at the MJ-13 representative, “kidnap, deal, brainwash, or whatever. I don’t care, as long as one of these three patsies plays the game. I want this operation completed in 48 hours.”