Gregory Marsh was smoking through his
fifth cigarette this evening, and his lungs were kind enough to signal that
this was, indeed, not one of the better ideas that he came up with in his life;
however, instead of just putting out the burning mixture of tobacco and tar, he
just simply kept on puffing it away - not that he could have helped it, though!
The events of yesterday have already managed to upset him to the point where no one could have ordered him to stop.
He gazed down at the busy and pulsating-with-life streets of Boston through his office’s wall-sized windows, watching as the cars whizzed by on the road, dictating an eerily relaxing order and system into the otherwise chaotic-routines of this world; he shook his head, and turned away from the sight that both disgusted, and fascinated him at the same time.
Marsh paced over to his mahogany office-desk, swearing to himself as he could not spot the remote-control to his television, which was probably hidden under the unorganised pile of documents and paperwork that his secretary was too incompetent to sign or complete anyway, in his opinion.
After shoving off a mountain of reports about what the eggheads in the labs began to refer to as the “Anomaly”, his hands finally crashed into the familiar shape of the remote switch; picking it up with a victorious grin, he placed his finger on the red button, and applied physical pressure to it, which, almost magically, has managed to bring his television to life.
Seconds after seconds of flicking around on multiple primitive and irrelevant “teleshop” and music-channels, Marsh has ultimately found what he was searching for in the first place - the evening news.
The newsreader has one of those typical, way too simply forgettable faces, his freshly cut hairstyle making him appear like a failed politician; if Gregory would have been in a more casual mood, he might even have considered smiling at the person’s appearance.
However, since he was not ever near such an emotional-state, our man just simply began to listen to the reader’s monotonous, irritatingly-self-confident voice.
- Breaking news at this hour; international search-parties have successfully managed to recover the wreck of the recently disappeared InterNat Airlines Flight BR82 - the unsuccessful-politician kept a dramatic pause, something people only do on television nowadays - By this time, it is all too clear that the cause of this tragedy was a terrorist-attack occurring on-board, which, unfortunately, was left unstopped by the two air-marshals on the aircraft - at this note, Marsh has grinned again, satisfied with the fact that, these days, a sizeable bribe could distort the news in any way, shape, for form - A variety of known groups have already claimed responsibility for the attack, however, none of these public announcements were yet accepted by the government officials - the newsreader has switched the papers in his hands for new ones, and diverted onto a different news-topic as he carried on - And now, back to the medical report of a female, who has appeared to have died of a form of haemorrhage just this morning... - at this point, Gregory was not interested enough anymore, and decided to press the red button on the remote again, this time, turning the television off.
Apparently, his plans have worked out as they were supposed to; however, once again, the “Anomaly” slipped out their hands - for yet another time.
Luckily enough, the PSRI’s scientists have already reached a form of pinnacle in their research, and were able to send that pesky little CIA-lass’ consciousness to the other side; and even though this used such a massive amount of their resources that they will require at least eight weeks to recover from this type of a sudden power-usage, on the bright side, they have not got busted by the CIA for the business and scientific-projects they have conducted inside this very building - which were, of course, of... legally-questionable nature, for the most part.
Even if the government-crooks would come to dig around here, well... half of them were already on Marsh’s payroll, and the other half did not possess enough determination for such a lengthy and demanding investigation anyway.
He threw the remote-control back on his desk, and retrieved his cell-phone from his suit’s inner-pockets; he, with a speed only a real phone-addict could have applied in real life, dialled a number, pressed the “call” button, then waited for the familiar beeps to pass by as he waited for the individual he was ringing to answer the call.
Eight seconds later, a male voice spoke into their side of the call, to which Marsh was quick to respond to.
- Oswell, do me a favour - he requested from the receiver - Tap into the TSA’s systems, and falsify an inspection- and invitation-document for one specific... - Gregory dug around his brain for the correct name - ...Samuel Broyles, please; when you are done, send a report up to my office. You have three hours - and, with this, Marsh has ended the call, and playfully threw his cell-phone in the air, catching it before it would have achieved a dangerous velocity towards the ground.
The next step in his plan was to recruit, or, more “acceptably”, enrol Markson’s old TSA-supervisor (and personal friend) into their own lines; because, after all, who was better to hunt down a soldier, if not his own, ex-comrade?
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