Big Bang 2013: Have Hatred and Gravity Won - Prologue
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Prologue
Misha’s eyes were crystal blue in the bright halo of the makeshift dental lamp. He dried one last coat of enamel on the back tooth of his patient and adjusted the light to scrutinize his work. “Bitchin’ craftsmanship,” he proclaimed, reaching for a mirror to set in front of his friend’s face.
“Hurts like a bitch.” Ross swung his leg over the side of the couch and sat up to look. He cupped his chin in his hand and flexed his mouth with a crack of his jaw, “You’re good,” he complimented, peering at his reflection.
“It’s why you love me.” Misha kissed his friend’s cheek.
In a dark corner of the room JD rustled some papers and dropped his booted feet from the dusty table they’d been resting on. His eyes were rimmed black with lack of sleep and lines pulled taut in his pale face. His once shiny brown hair was salt and pepper and he sported a beard to cover the scars on his face. He gave Misha a tired smile. "Do you want to run through it, or shall I?” he asked. His fingers unconsciously stroked the handgun by his side. None of them were comfortable hiding out in this rat-hole, in a country torn apart by civil strife. Despite Monkota being wedged between Canada and America, there were few similarities to their neighbors, and none of its warring factions welcomed strangers.
“I got it,” Misha assured their leader.
Ross disconnected the battery, and bright light faded to black. The sudden gloom was lit only with oil lamps. Ross sat opposite JD and grabbed a beer from the cooler on the floor.
JD grabbed it out of Ross’s hand. “Oh no, that tooth has to set for two hours.”
Ross scowled.
Misha explained, “The veneer is solid, so there’s no chance of the usual tests picking it up. Avoid x-rays under any circumstances. It will be tough to crack. It will hurt like the real thing and bleed. Once you’ve cracked the tooth open, this baby will transmit for an hour and every single minute of it increases your risk of detection. You have to be in position and real sure."
JD took over, “There are rumors of underground hide-outs and tunnels, so we need to be in and out, quick and clinical. Once we're gone, we were never there. Our client, Quintas, wants President Padalecki alive, with as many of his government as we can manage, but he'll settle for just Padalecki. Everyone else is collateral, and we're not being paid for a head to head siege. Hell, I only have one gunship and two pilots.”
“I thought Quintas had his own army,” Misha looked confused.
“He does, and they'll be on our heels, we're simply smoothing the way.”
Ross gave a wry laugh, “Let me guess. He doesn't trust them, and he needs to be sure President Padalecki is publicly discredited, before putting his head on a stick.”
JD shrugged, “Quintas is a politician.”
“He's an egotistical mobster,” retorted Ross.
JD leaned forward to study the green eyed man who still cradled his jaw. “If you want out of this mission you can say so, and we'll get a replacement, with no questions asked, and no repercussions. We've all got our secrets. Don't ever think I don't know yours. This doesn’t get personal, do you understand me? Personal is what gets us killed.”
Ross grimaced. Of course JD checked him out. His fluid mastery of the accent of the closed-bordered nation was a huge red flag, and his forged papers would be obvious to an old pro. “Quintas is a crooked bastard. More even, than most politicians. Padalecki is a monster, and the Revolutionaries destroy anything that hints at wealth. Monkota is a mess. It's not like it can get worse.” Ross was uncharacteristically vehement. If their mission happened to coincide with some of his personal goals, then he thought it was no business of JD's. He could keep it professional.
"Wow!” Misha gasped, “I don't think I've ever heard you speak so many words. Is there anything you want to get off your chest?”
“Bite me!” Ross looked back at JD. “So, location? North East corner of the ranch - what's there?”
“Best information we have, it’s living quarters. Your cover puts you in the perfect place, and keeps you in close contact with the target.”
Misha swigged his beer. He looked concerned. “Ross is an indiscriminate man-whore, and we've all been asked to take one for the team, but I can't say I'm comfortable with this.”
Wide green eyes glared at him over a freckled nose, but there was a hint of a smile, “What did you just call me, Nerd?”
“Hey, not complaining, we've all benefited. I think you're the only reason Danni doesn't ask for a pay raise.” Misha put his hands up in surrender. Ross laughed. Misha was the unit clown, but there was some truth in it.
JD lit a smoke, took a long drag and then spoke in his low, gritty drawl, “The President doesn't fuck his slaves.” He huffed a smoke ring and then continued, “According to our sources, he generally keeps to the ethics of the slave-charter. You'd hope so, he made it law. Ross will get his beauty sleep, and he won't starve. Padalecki likes his man to be impressive, loyal and quiet. His slave sees every secret of his. In theory, he's the President's last defense. Course, the last two years, Padalecki has become hellish unpredictable, and it is a recent vacancy. Still, I have no doubt Ross will cope.”
Misha narrowed his eyes at JD, “The President had to replace every single slave after he fled his official residence. It doesn't show much care for them.”
Ross interrupted, “He doesn't care. He simply keeps to his own guidelines. The guidelines are general. They don't include the many ways of disposing of inconvenient obstructions, especially the human ones.” There was undeniable bitterness in Ross's statement. Misha and JD simultaneously quirked an eyebrow at him.
JD growled a question, “Is there something you'd like to add to the file, son?”
Ross shook his head, “No, Sir.”
Ash flicked to the floor from JD's cigarette. He watched the smoke curl lazily into the air and dance in the flickering light before inhaling another long drag. “Hm. Studies show that ninety percent of self-sold slaves think they will cope with their new status. There's a temporary high at the start of training. It's a rush to see so much money when there's been nothing. They're getting free meals, hot water, relative safety from the chaos outside; everything they've been lacking, or scared of losing. Then, the collar goes on.” JD stubbed his cigarette out against the scarred wood of the old table. “Ninety-five percent of all self-sold slaves get beaten at least twice in the first four weeks, because they can't keep from back-talk. It's human nature, son. Losing your freedom ain't so easy.”
There was a pause as Ross missed a beat to digest the information, “Back-chat. I can do that.”
“Or, you could choose to be one of the five percent. A tongue isn't just for talking,” Misha commented.
“It should look real.” Ross retorted.
JD shook his head. “As long as Padalecki thinks his secrets are safe, so is Ross's tongue.”
Ross licked his lips. Long lashes flicked over vivid green eyes as he slowly blinked and regained his control. He squared his shoulders. “How do we know I’ll be chosen?”
JD leaned forward to speak, but Misha interrupted, “Who wouldn’t want that ass?”
Ross laughed, “Seriously, Misha?”
JD gave an exasperated growl, “It’s fixed. Your name is Jensen Ackles. You are self-sold with pro-President sympathies. Your training was quick, willing and easy, and your sister is Padalecki's insurance. When you negotiate your loyalty price you should aim for half your slave price. Any less, and the President gets jumpy. We do want you to keep your tongue. Any more, and he'll pass you over as greedy. Your life is between these covers, so learn it well.” He flicked a file to Ross, who nodded his acknowledgment, opened it and started to read.
part one
Prologue
Misha’s eyes were crystal blue in the bright halo of the makeshift dental lamp. He dried one last coat of enamel on the back tooth of his patient and adjusted the light to scrutinize his work. “Bitchin’ craftsmanship,” he proclaimed, reaching for a mirror to set in front of his friend’s face.
“Hurts like a bitch.” Ross swung his leg over the side of the couch and sat up to look. He cupped his chin in his hand and flexed his mouth with a crack of his jaw, “You’re good,” he complimented, peering at his reflection.
“It’s why you love me.” Misha kissed his friend’s cheek.
In a dark corner of the room JD rustled some papers and dropped his booted feet from the dusty table they’d been resting on. His eyes were rimmed black with lack of sleep and lines pulled taut in his pale face. His once shiny brown hair was salt and pepper and he sported a beard to cover the scars on his face. He gave Misha a tired smile. "Do you want to run through it, or shall I?” he asked. His fingers unconsciously stroked the handgun by his side. None of them were comfortable hiding out in this rat-hole, in a country torn apart by civil strife. Despite Monkota being wedged between Canada and America, there were few similarities to their neighbors, and none of its warring factions welcomed strangers.
“I got it,” Misha assured their leader.
Ross disconnected the battery, and bright light faded to black. The sudden gloom was lit only with oil lamps. Ross sat opposite JD and grabbed a beer from the cooler on the floor.
JD grabbed it out of Ross’s hand. “Oh no, that tooth has to set for two hours.”
Ross scowled.
Misha explained, “The veneer is solid, so there’s no chance of the usual tests picking it up. Avoid x-rays under any circumstances. It will be tough to crack. It will hurt like the real thing and bleed. Once you’ve cracked the tooth open, this baby will transmit for an hour and every single minute of it increases your risk of detection. You have to be in position and real sure."
JD took over, “There are rumors of underground hide-outs and tunnels, so we need to be in and out, quick and clinical. Once we're gone, we were never there. Our client, Quintas, wants President Padalecki alive, with as many of his government as we can manage, but he'll settle for just Padalecki. Everyone else is collateral, and we're not being paid for a head to head siege. Hell, I only have one gunship and two pilots.”
“I thought Quintas had his own army,” Misha looked confused.
“He does, and they'll be on our heels, we're simply smoothing the way.”
Ross gave a wry laugh, “Let me guess. He doesn't trust them, and he needs to be sure President Padalecki is publicly discredited, before putting his head on a stick.”
JD shrugged, “Quintas is a politician.”
“He's an egotistical mobster,” retorted Ross.
JD leaned forward to study the green eyed man who still cradled his jaw. “If you want out of this mission you can say so, and we'll get a replacement, with no questions asked, and no repercussions. We've all got our secrets. Don't ever think I don't know yours. This doesn’t get personal, do you understand me? Personal is what gets us killed.”
Ross grimaced. Of course JD checked him out. His fluid mastery of the accent of the closed-bordered nation was a huge red flag, and his forged papers would be obvious to an old pro. “Quintas is a crooked bastard. More even, than most politicians. Padalecki is a monster, and the Revolutionaries destroy anything that hints at wealth. Monkota is a mess. It's not like it can get worse.” Ross was uncharacteristically vehement. If their mission happened to coincide with some of his personal goals, then he thought it was no business of JD's. He could keep it professional.
"Wow!” Misha gasped, “I don't think I've ever heard you speak so many words. Is there anything you want to get off your chest?”
“Bite me!” Ross looked back at JD. “So, location? North East corner of the ranch - what's there?”
“Best information we have, it’s living quarters. Your cover puts you in the perfect place, and keeps you in close contact with the target.”
Misha swigged his beer. He looked concerned. “Ross is an indiscriminate man-whore, and we've all been asked to take one for the team, but I can't say I'm comfortable with this.”
Wide green eyes glared at him over a freckled nose, but there was a hint of a smile, “What did you just call me, Nerd?”
“Hey, not complaining, we've all benefited. I think you're the only reason Danni doesn't ask for a pay raise.” Misha put his hands up in surrender. Ross laughed. Misha was the unit clown, but there was some truth in it.
JD lit a smoke, took a long drag and then spoke in his low, gritty drawl, “The President doesn't fuck his slaves.” He huffed a smoke ring and then continued, “According to our sources, he generally keeps to the ethics of the slave-charter. You'd hope so, he made it law. Ross will get his beauty sleep, and he won't starve. Padalecki likes his man to be impressive, loyal and quiet. His slave sees every secret of his. In theory, he's the President's last defense. Course, the last two years, Padalecki has become hellish unpredictable, and it is a recent vacancy. Still, I have no doubt Ross will cope.”
Misha narrowed his eyes at JD, “The President had to replace every single slave after he fled his official residence. It doesn't show much care for them.”
Ross interrupted, “He doesn't care. He simply keeps to his own guidelines. The guidelines are general. They don't include the many ways of disposing of inconvenient obstructions, especially the human ones.” There was undeniable bitterness in Ross's statement. Misha and JD simultaneously quirked an eyebrow at him.
JD growled a question, “Is there something you'd like to add to the file, son?”
Ross shook his head, “No, Sir.”
Ash flicked to the floor from JD's cigarette. He watched the smoke curl lazily into the air and dance in the flickering light before inhaling another long drag. “Hm. Studies show that ninety percent of self-sold slaves think they will cope with their new status. There's a temporary high at the start of training. It's a rush to see so much money when there's been nothing. They're getting free meals, hot water, relative safety from the chaos outside; everything they've been lacking, or scared of losing. Then, the collar goes on.” JD stubbed his cigarette out against the scarred wood of the old table. “Ninety-five percent of all self-sold slaves get beaten at least twice in the first four weeks, because they can't keep from back-talk. It's human nature, son. Losing your freedom ain't so easy.”
There was a pause as Ross missed a beat to digest the information, “Back-chat. I can do that.”
“Or, you could choose to be one of the five percent. A tongue isn't just for talking,” Misha commented.
“It should look real.” Ross retorted.
JD shook his head. “As long as Padalecki thinks his secrets are safe, so is Ross's tongue.”
Ross licked his lips. Long lashes flicked over vivid green eyes as he slowly blinked and regained his control. He squared his shoulders. “How do we know I’ll be chosen?”
JD leaned forward to speak, but Misha interrupted, “Who wouldn’t want that ass?”
Ross laughed, “Seriously, Misha?”
JD gave an exasperated growl, “It’s fixed. Your name is Jensen Ackles. You are self-sold with pro-President sympathies. Your training was quick, willing and easy, and your sister is Padalecki's insurance. When you negotiate your loyalty price you should aim for half your slave price. Any less, and the President gets jumpy. We do want you to keep your tongue. Any more, and he'll pass you over as greedy. Your life is between these covers, so learn it well.” He flicked a file to Ross, who nodded his acknowledgment, opened it and started to read.
part one