Unfriendly Eyes I - Feedback

[11:6. b2-b4 White Pawn threatens Queens Knight]

I hate the rain, I hate the heat and the hot rain that soaks my skin, starting at the shoulders and working its way down to a clammy pool at the small of my back. I hate the way it soaks through my shirt, turning the thin, white material into greaseproof paper, transparent, sticky and inflexible to the touch.

"Sights cold, subject is away from the window"

I hate the hot perspiration covering my body, running into my eyes and dripping from my nose into my mouth. I really hate seeing it drip from the nose of the shotgun-wielding maniac standing above me, fortunately I can barely hear what he's ranting on about because the ringing in my ears hasn't gone away yet. I hope that iron taste in my mouth isn't blood.

I hate seeing police officers in black, tactical gear. There's only one thing scarier than seeing a black-clad storm-trooper carrying a pick-axe handle into battle with protesters, and that's a faceless storm-trooper carrying a suppressed assault weapon into a house to deal-with-guard-animals. You can't see their faces, you can't gauge their reaction. You can't tell when fear and hatred will push them over the edge into seeing you as the enemy, not part of the team.

He steps in through the ruined door, checking his footing and the danger-zones in the room. Moving like a pro. His pistol is at the low ready, so he can see everything. Both hands locked on the grip, elbows slightly bent.

Like I said, there's nothing I like to see more coming to rescue me when a warrant-serve goes badly. When some PCP'd-up nut job is standing over you with a twelve gauge, shouting and screaming blue murder as he reads the charges. When you've made your peace with your maker, and a trooper comes through the door behind him, and instead of putting three in his back like any sane person, he actually shouts a challenge to him.

"Freeze. Drop the gun. Do it! Now!"

I can see the lack of comprehension in the PCP fiend's eyes. He has no idea what was just said to him, but he can feel the drug burning through his veins, telling him he's invincible. He starts to turn, shotgun coming up slowly from where it dangles out of one meaty paw.

[12:6. c5xb4 Black Pawn takes White Pawn]

Three high velocity hollow-points take him in rapid-succession. Chest, neck and face, the officer's gun rising as he pulls the trigger as fast as thought. The PCP-fiend thinks he can keep coming. He still thinks he's going as his soon-to-be corpse hits my legs, pinning me down, and gushing blood all over my Sunday-come-a-warrant-delivering pants.

He's going nowhere.

I can hear the metallic voice of the tactical officer has he thumbs his radio with his weak hand.

"One Subject down, officer is safe, front room clear. Breach!"

From other windows I can hear the rest of the team coming in the hard way, they know there are only two people in the apartment, but they're not taking risks.

Or Prisoners.

I can hear the rattle of a suppressed weapon as one of them catches sight of our target, Vincenzo, a small-time dealer who recently graduated to beating a streetwalker to death.

We came here to arrest them, but both of them are dead now. His friend made his choice for him. SWAT doesn't like it when people point guns at them, or their friends.

Then I hear the hiss over the tac-radio.

"Shot missed, subject two exiting rear of the building, who's on backstop?"

There's a confused gabble as three or four voices try to use the same frequency at once. Then a clatter from the back, terminated by one loud bang. Somebody just used an un-suppressed weapon. That either means the bad guys, or...

The radio hisses to life again;
"Subject two is down and injured on the back lot, somebody call the paramedics."

She got him.

[ Black Queen takes White Pawn]

I love the black-clad storm-troopers, but more than that, I Love her.

[ Black Queen Falls Back, Behind Knight]

I catch up to her in the car, she's already sitting in the passenger seat, sun-visor flipped down, powder puff in hand.

I was going to crack a joke about powdering her nose, when I noticed the bloody tissues in her lap.

"You're driving, take me home."

There are many times I've wanted to hear her say that, but today isn't one of them. She's hurting, but she wont show it.

"You took a hit back there."

A statement more than a question.

"Yeah, The rabbit caught me by surprise, backhanded me into a trash-can, knocked my primary away. I pulled my backup and shot him. Bad shot."

"Yeah? He was alive last time I saw, where'd ya hit him?"

"Left cheek."

She isn't talking about headshots either. I wince, shake my head and whistle.
She grins, holds back the tears a little longer. I pretend not to see the moisture gathering at the corner of her eyes. I know she doesn't want me to see.

I let her off into her drive, spend a few moments to make sure she gets in, inhale her perfume, wave, and pull away slowly.

The rest of the afternoon passes in a blur of routine paperwork and unrequited want.

[2:1. Nb8-c6 Bring On the Night]

There are many things we find we can deal with, armed with a bare minimum of knowledge, a gun and a good eye. We don't fight the darkness directly with fifteen small packages of explosive, leaden death. We fight it's servants, we fight those who would blow out the lights, open the doors and let the monsters in. If we miss, and they open that door, then we make sure we save the last one for ourselves.

A wise man once said something about looking into an abyss, he was right. I wonder about us some times, I wonder whether we actually can make a difference, whether some of the things we do just make things worse. I question some of my own actions, and their motivation.

I look at the little package of lead and death in my hand and wonder whether it would just be easier to eat it, and let somebody else carry the load.

Instead, I go back to the low-emission monitors in front of me. I've heard of Van Eck Phreaking, but I'd notice anybody who got close enough to do it to me. I don't think anyone will, my van isn't that interesting.

I'm in a quiet back alley, near her house, my vehicle has changed, and it's not traceable back to me. I'm not on the clock any more. I'm working for my other friends now. The friends that cost me my old life when they found out about my hobbies.

I have new instructions, they want me to break her. I don't understand why. If they wanted more people I could point them at vice cops who take coke and party favors, SWAT officers who carry out hits for the mob, evidence-room officers who've taken bribes to lose things.

People like me.

But instead they want me to find something on her and use it to push her past breaking strain. They want me to break the only good thing I can see from my lowly position. I hate them for it.

I've tried looking for the normal things, trashed her bins, checked her phone bills, credit card records, records at her ISP, all of those things, nothing, no bills from escort agencies, no rentals of politically incorrect movies. Nothing in her ISP's proxy. No records at the pharmacy for restricted drugs, no signs of large deposits into her checking account. Surveilling the neighbors reveals the same, nothing.

None of the things that mark me and my friends as out of the ordinary.

I have to be more creative with her, she's not like my other two victims, she's not already tarnished. I have to create her downfall, not merely record it.

In the end my controller finds the answer for me, a routine piece of Intel comes down the line, triggers a response, and I'm allocated to the mission. This is what I've been waiting for.

You are cordially invited to a
Night at the Opera.
Dress; Black Tie.

RSVP
Mr. Donovan

It appears that one of the more influential citizens of our fair town has been making extremely favorable deals of late, so favorable that they've made our financial and legal experts pale. That and his interest in esoteric knowledge implies that he's stumbled across something. Or vice versa. Some surveillance is called for, and we've been assigned to the case. My friends have arranged for the SFPD to become interesting in his (imaginary) money laundering activities.

A few days of legwork on the streets, in expensive restaurants, and we have a profile of our boy, he's a fixer, he sells information and a variety of products to various people, and takes his cut, he seems to have a lot of friends in high places. He gets preferential treatment on city deals, and in the courts, people have sued him for his business practices, and despite some pretty solid cases, technicalities have always got him out.

He's certainly got something on somebody. Maybe everybody.

Rumor has it he has an ability to get people to do things they don't want to do, without threatening them. Perhaps he tapes things, and uses them later.

One said: "He just has a way about him, he can make you do things you don't want to. Didn't go into any more detail, seemed a little shaken.

That must have been what interested my friends, they must have noted something special about this guy. A certain bouquet.

They're not telling me everything, but that's OK, I try not to tell them everything either.

We need to do a closer sweep.

[ Black Queen moves to a commanding position]

I'm dressed to the nine's for the evenings work, the full outfit including tall boots and peaked cap, I get to be a chauffeur for the day. My suit is augmented with a thin layer of Kevlar and a trauma plate over my heart, just in case. The car's wonderful, a joy to drive, an expensive Japanese number with all mod cons.
It'll be reported as stolen from the dealership. She thinks I'm borrowing it from a friend in the vice department.

I turn up outside her apartment again different car, different outfit, as per SOP. My heart is running like a nervous date picking up his prom queen. I honk the horn, then step out and open the back seat as she floats down the drive towards me, a vision in a black evening dress. She looks like she might be ready for a night at the opera.

I know she's not ready for a Night at the Opera.

A wink and a hint of perfume as she sweeps past me, her long-gloved hand in mine as she turns, sits and swings her leg in, a hint of black stocking-top visible at the split on the dress.

"Are you hard?"

It's _my_ voice.

"No, no space under the dress."

"Tooled?"

"Just a little one."

"Hand it over, you know it won't be of any use."

She grimaces, and swirls the dress away from the edge of her thigh. I turn away as she fiddles with elastics and poppers.

I hold my hand out, after a few seconds a small but heavy, leather package is placed in it. I flinch a little at the warmth of the soft leather. I turn back to catch her deftly flick her dress back down. I might have caught a slight smirk at my expense. I'm never sure when she's playing with me. She has no idea how I'm playing with her.

"That all?"

She nods her affirmative and that's it; off we go.

The drive is short and smooth, sodium lights glint on the bonnet. I try to keep my eyes on the road. It becomes difficult to avoid looking back in the mirror, I can see her dark eyes staring back at me, daring me to say something.

And, I'm too scared to say it. I switch the radio on, the Oldies station is playing the Police. Me and Sting both.

[ White Bishop threatens Black Queen]

As we pull through the gates, the doormen check out our invitation, I'm not sure where my friends got it. They have their ways as I have mine.

The guards are definitely hard, but their bulk makes it difficult to see just what else they're carrying under their bulging suits. They glance over the invite, spending more time on her. She ignores them. I try to.

Then we're through, and up the long, gravel drive, slowly calmly.

We pull up, I wave off the doormen as one scurries forward to open the passenger doors. That's my job. I shut down, step out and head towards the back of the car, scanning the people out front for threats, memorizing faces for the paperwork. Both sets.

Approaching the door, and knowing that I'm out of her eyeline, I take a moment to savor the view before pulling it open. She slides out, demurely, nods at me and then fixes her gaze on the bright lights and beautiful people within.

She's confident and gorgeous, and she thinks she knows what to expect. She thinks she's prepared for anything. I know just how small she is compared to what we might be going up against.

I'm not prepared for what we have to face.

The car drives itself round to the rear lot where a dozen other limo's and classic cars await. I park up and try to make myself inconspicuous.

[ Black Knight takes White Pawn]

There are only one or two cars left when they come for me. I have the window rolled down, radio on and a magazine spread out on the wheel. I've been checking the clock for an hour now, and she hasn't turned up, or paged me, we must have been blown, how badly I don't know. I'm prepared for most human possibilities.

He thinks he's so smart, dressed like a guest, but you can't mistake a gorilla in a suit for anything else. He has his keys in his off-hand, jangling them about, trying to attract my eyes and my concentration to them, instead of the bulk of his strong hand in his jacket pocket.

My mirror's give me a good field of view, I can see him going a little wide as he moves up to the car next to me.

"You waiting for somebody buddy?"

"Yup, a lady"

From his pocket, I hear a muffled, metallic snick. A long double-trigger pull drawing back the slide. That ups the ante, I have to be fast now.

"That's nice, at least you had something to look at on the way here."

I can see his right hand start to pull out of his pocket, he doesn't want to put a hole through his suit and set fire to it. How genteel.

I tossed a coin before I started to read. He was lucky, sometimes blind fate does favor humanity. My left hand comes up, knocks his hand to one side, my right extends out of the window towards him, when I feel the resistance of his coat, I pull the trigger.

40,000 volts shorts his nervous system out, despite the padding of his jacket, fortunately for me, he took his finger out of the trigger-guard, the gun doesn't go off. He slides bonelessly to the floor.

Odds are the security camera's watching, but whether the guy on the other end of it is, is another question. I reach across to the glove compartment and pull out my headgear, they might already have got my face, but the dark-grey, mottled balaclava will help conceal me in the shadows.

Out of the car and into the trunk, I pull out the backpack and take out my first piece of gear. An HK assault weapon; an MP5-PDW with a screw-in suppressor and SEF trigger group. I unfurl it and attach the aircraft-aluminum can to the barrel threads. Lock a magazine into the well and charge the weapon.

The hard man will come round in a while, so II stuff some rags in his mouth, seal them with duct tape and give him riot-tape bracelets on his hands and ankles before putting him in the trunk. I load up my back-pack and lock my arms into the CQB stance our SWAT teams use, then advance towards the building at a slow jog. His backup might already be on the way.

His wallet has a swipe card, which gets me in the tradesman's entrance.
Appropriate.

Security is lax in this place, most of the guests have long since gone home, I pop a few pro-plus to keep me alert, and hopefully not _too_ jittery. Through the corridors, looking for stair-ways. I couldn't get plans for this place, somebody removed them from the planning department.

I pass one of the waitresses, she doesn't make a sound when she sees me, smart girl. I toss her some cuffs and then push her into a cupboard after she's applied them and her mouth is taped up. She'll be found later. She'll live, probably.

Up the stairs backwards, sweeping the landing behind me for threats, checking each step, making sure of my footing. The place is enormous and the furnishings are expensive, I have an idea how he got them. I've been doing some reading of my own, old files, with little green stickers on them.

I head towards what must the master bedroom, checking all round me as I move slowly. Surprisingly the door handle turns in my hand, and I step back as the door swings open.

[ Black Knight takes White Pawn]

The room beyond the door is even more palatial, a living room, officer, and gym rolled into one seamless whole, full of taste, and full of money. Expensive liquor sits on expensive, antique furniture next to expensive toys underneath expensive hanging art.

There's another tough barring my access to the next room. His eyes take in the SMG and the mask, he hurls his drink to the floor with a crash and lifts his hand back up to his jacket. Should'a just dropped it, wasted motion cost him the last fractions of a second he might have left.

My finger squeezes the trigger, and the PDW kicks some, the can chatters. It's not really silent, but it's certainly not going to go downstairs through this thick carpeting. I stick to full-auto in case, letting three or four rounds walk up his body. He's wearing armor, so the rounds didn't kill him, just give him one hell of a beating.

I step closer and drop my off-hand from the gun to give him a goose with the tazer. One of the rounds appears to have gone through his armor, the last one, so it's high and he's in trouble. I can't take the risk and give the gift that keeps on giving, riot-tape jewelry.

He stains the carpet, alcohol mixing with blood mixed with alcohol, it'll be murder for the help to get out.

[ Black Knight pushes Forward]

I push the next door with my weak hand, staying tight in against the wall, and then step back away from it, pie-ing my way round the corner. There's a bedroom beyond, tastefully decorated in early twenty-first century S&M dungeon. A large four-poster bed with mirrors above it forms the centre-piece. Around the walls are a variety of implements of torture/sex, depending on your preference. There are video camera's on tripods, pointed at the bed.

I get that tight knot in my stomach again, what exactly has he done to her?

My eyes track round the room, finding three targets, he's in a chair to the side, sat wearing only a robe. At his side is a bottle of wine, and a half-burnt cigar.

She's on the bed, still wearing the dress, there's a broken bottle in her hand, and a fine misting of blood over her face and right arm.

For a moment I think its hers then I see the other figure on the bed, a guy dressed in cotton and blood. Sporting a heroin chic look, he's probably a rent-boy, cuffed to the four posts, and covered in small cuts and blood. Worst of all is his face, the mouth locked into a rictus grin of too-much-pleasure, tears flow from eyes that flick around, looking for release or rescue while he mouths "more" to her.

She's cutting him again. The look on her face tightens my stomach even more; she looks like she's enjoying it.

"Welcome."

His voice goes through me, and the muzzle swings his way, my thumb depresses the button for the flashlight forearm, to blind him and make sure I can see everything he does.

"Turn the flashlight off, it hurts my eyes."

And I do!

He blinks a little, pale lids covering bloodshot eyes, and then takes a sip from his drink.

"You will not shoot me."

And as I squeeze the trigger - to send a long burst through the flimsy wrap and out the other side of his torso, damn the consequences - I find I can't. It's what I guessed, he'd learnt the power of suggestion, he could control people's bodies, make them do whatever he wanted. Damn, I was overconfident, should have shot him first, now I've killed us both.

I can feel his will entering my mind, deciding what I will and will not do, locking portions of control away from me.

"Drop the SMG. Stay where you are and watch the show"

The HK hits the thick carpet with an expensive thump. I find myself turning towards the bed, out of the corner of my eye I see his thick lidded gaze follow me and then flick back to rest on her.

"Cut him, more cuts on his chest, I think."

The bottle dips and a dagger of glass lovingly caresses his torso. He screams, thin and high.

"Shut up." Rent-boy keeps screaming, "Shut up I said!"

The screaming stops, but I can see him straining against his bonds, and it gives me an idea. Carefully I try to turn my head to look at him, my eyes move, then my neck, just a little. I moved. I hope he can't read my mind, hope he doesn't know what I'm considering, can't hear my mind race through the possibilities.

[ Black pins his own Queen and Knight]

My right hand comes down to pocket of my jacket, withdraws the pocket pistol there and thumbs off the safety, almost without thought. I had to move fast, gain his attention and act before he could stop me.

I slowly and deliberately turned my head, focussing my concentration, brought my right arm up and placed my fist against the fleshy part of my forearm.

"Hey Ass-hole!"

He turns his head, his mouth purses and he sucks in air, eyes narrowing as he prepares to exert his will on me. I can feel him in my mind.

I pull the trigger.

Blood splashes my face, more on the carpet beyond, broken nerves scream.
Feedback.

There are three screams.

One is mine, I know that, I can feel the air leaving my lungs.

The second is his, he drops the wine glass to clutch his left arm, pale face etched with agony. He's not used to pain like this.

"Fucker!"

The third is hers, a battle-cry, she springs off the bed, covers the distance in three long strides - despite the heels - hits him in the side of the head with the broken bottle. He goes down, and she kicks him in the face. He isn't going anywhere.

Pain kicks in and my vision starts to tunnel. I thought I'd avoided the artery.
Maybe not.

[ Black Queen Takes White Bishop]

Vision and consciousness return to find me propped against the bed, the rent boy has bled or passed out, I can see his unmoving hand dangling off to the right of me. My wound is bound with what appears to be a pillow-slip, it hurts quite a bit. None of my weapons are within reach.

Our target is kneeling in front of his chair, a bag has been tied over his head, and he's wearing my riot-tape. So tight I can see blood leaking from one ankle.

She's sat on the chair behind him, makeup smeared where she's wiped the blood from her arm and face, a discarded towel lies bloody to one side. She has a handkerchief in her hand, wrapped around my friend's drop-gun, the one I never told her about.

She looks up, eyes bloodshot and misty.

"You're awake then?"

I nod my agreement to the obvious.

"You knew, didn't you? That's why you brought all the hardware, this gun in a ziplock, barrel reamed and the serials filed off. You knew he could do.... What he did... what I did."

I nod again, ashamed to speak, afraid my voice will betray me.

"How can we go to trial with this?"

"We can't, he'd wouldn't even spend a night in the cells."

I can see the hate warring in her eyes. She knows that there's no way we can ever discuss this night with anyone else. No way this would ever be taken as anything but an admission of our own insanity in court. I can see her cop's sense of right and wrong overpowering her sense of duty.

Finally her shoulders slump and I know she's mine.

"Get out of here, I can do this alone."

"You need me." I retort.

"No, get out."

Her right hand flips the cylinder of the gun open, upside down, unspent cartridges falling to the floor. Her left hand opens the bag, grabs a wet-wipe, picks them up one at a time, cleans them and fits them back into the gun. It's never been fired before, there are no ballistics records anywhere. Her eyes meet mine, and I can see her pleading with me to stop her.

I can't. She has to do this herself. In front of me. So I KNOW.

The gun comes up of it's own accord, her left hand staying put, fingers curling reflexively into talons. Her body is shaking, but her gun hand is still, vibrating in counterpoint, destructive interference leaves it as steady as a rock. Front sight halfway between her face and his.

Her makeup is streaked now, tears welling up in her eyes. She'll do it, I'm sure now, and the excitement is a lump in my chest. I'm going to break her. She'll be mine now. She'll understand me, we can face reality together. Together.

She pulls the trigger. The noise is loud in the enclosed space, but not painfully so. He jerks back, something splashes across my face. The back of his head.

"Help me get him out of here. We have to hide him."

She's mine now. She's there's too, I've sacrificed her to them. Like I did myself all those years ago.

[ End Game]

I'm back outside the apartment, heart in my throat hands balled into fists as I watch on thermo, the active-infrared cutting through the apartment wall hazily.
She's sat on the bed now, she's been crying. She's sprawled on the bed, something in her outstretched hand. I'm trying not to think about what it is.

I've watched her try to control her rage and shame for the last hour or so, I remember what it was like, and I want to go to her and comfort her, but if I do.
She'll know. She'll realize I did this to her.

A snuffle, and her right hand flicks out, closing the cylinder, I know that it is now. My face is up against the screen, praying that she doesn't go through with it. Not with the same gun she did him with, not with anything that can tie us in...

She reverses her grip on the gun, holds on tight with both hands and throws her head back, right thumb inside the trigger-guard. Not normal for a woman, to leave a mutilated corpse. But then she's anything but normal.

I'm out of the van and at her front door when I hear it.

A single word.

"No."

She moves quickly, gets to the door before I can get my stunned self back in the van, the light from the back attracts her, and she walks out barefoot.

"What are you doing here?"

My mouth flops like a fish out of water.

"I said. What are you doing here?"

She looks like an undead avenger, face streaked, eyes red. Clothing and hair in disarray, and then the revolver comes up, unwavering.

I've broken her, I know she can do it.

I have some explaining to do.

I have to save myself before I can save humanity.

Published by arrangement with the Delta Green Partnership. The intellectual property known as Delta Green is TM and is a COPYRIGHT of the Delta Green Partnership, who have licensed its use here. The contents of this document are COPYRIGHTS of the respective authors, excepting those elements that are components of the Delta Green intellectual property.