Thursday Night PUBG Final Score

As team - For Women: 1 First place

As team - For Men: 2 Second place

Thanks to my team mates :-)

Chapters

Belfountain, Brimstone And The Grange
Just Like Old Times
Suburban Radicalization
Jensen's House
Workshop Wrest
Dronified
Gun Nuts Or Nun Guts
We Who Guard The Line (May 13, 2025 10:30 PM EST)
Idyll And Mighty Michigan (May 14, 2025 1:30 PM EST)
Over The Top (May 16, 2025, 5:00 PM EST)

Please be patient with this story as a lot of research is required and is an on going effort as I write this.

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Shhhh! Digital Media

Brian Joseph Johns

Opening Notes And Dedication: This story is being written ahead of Episode 11, where Stanton is situated 150 kilometers from Tel Aviv as he transports two prisoners to the city off the coast of the Red Sea. This story takes place back in Stanton's home of Canada and continues from where Episode 11 ends, perhaps a week or two after it finishes.

We can assume that Stanton lives through his experiences after the failed attempt to prevent the detonation of a nuclear warhead and spur World War III. However, that story is far from over, and will be prevalent in this one as well.

This story, is dedicated to the Veterans of the armed forces, all of whom need a voice most when nobody will come to their defense.

This story starts out with a lot of levity, hope and innocence and then very quickly delves into territory that few have ventured.

This story takes a journey into the depths of the most secretive and vile aspects of humanity in North America, let alone one that may be spreading to other parts of the world and is based upon real activity and material evidence in society. Like most of the storyline connected to the Butterfly Dragon episodic series: Two Butterflies and Night Boat, this one delves into the war against abusive collectivism.

It explores the giant game of dodge ball that society is and has become, where nobody wants to be the last one in possession of the bad pile, and everyone wants to be the last one in possession of the good pile. The very forces that form the basis for the motivations of the majority of people in the world and one often used to manipulate them without their knowledge and whose manipulation is part of a complex chain used to manipulate others further down the chain according to the concept of polarity.

It explores how veterans and others whose lives have been compromised are exploited and destroyed by these same forces, and the literal force behind it all that maintains that game and which is devouring society as we speak.

Reader discretion is definitely advised and this applies more so to this story than any other story I've ever written.

There will be parts of this story that might be triggering for some readers. I only hope that I am a worthy tour guide, when taking you into the depths of the most dismal aspects of humanity.

I cannot stress highly enough that reader distretion is advised.

Now, keep in mind that this story and every story on this web site is written by a 57 year old male Scorpio of 6 feet in height and about 175 lbs of weight, with a pale complexion, dark head of hair and green eyes who supports this site and runs the business that its based upon on an income of $343 dollars a month, give or take about $100 and all of that while I am being stalked by an abusive cult, who have been attempting to steal everything on Shhhh! Digital Media from me and attribute it to others.

Thankfully, I am not homeless, but I've been there in my life, thirteen years ago.

I've been victim of at least two attempts at sextortion despite the fact that I am not a womanizer and have never cheated in a relationship or been abusive. I am not a sex offender either as well and have done nothing to deserve such treatment. The people doing this are and have likely been switching my identity with that of other people to clean them off, using my identity to do so.

Brian Joseph Johns

Shhhh! Digital Media Presents:

The Butterfly Dragon: We Who Stand On Guard - Episode 12

Belfountain, Brimstone And The Grange

The morning sun stood at a height of thumbs up from Stanton's measure, which he estimated to be roughly ten o'clock in the morning as he held up his fist with his thumb pointing high, the blade of his hand at chin height and a foot out from his face. The sun with his hand's position was perched atop his thumb, indicating the time to him.

He looked down at his dash as he drove and checked it, finding it to be ten o'two exactly.

"Big deal," he said aloud as he drove, reaching over and turning the up the radio.

"...now here's a classic for all of you out there setting up for the May Two Four..." the DJ announced, sounding to be in his mid-twenties, causing Stanton to both laugh and smirk, though it was hard to tell if it was out of admiration or jealousy.

"...I'm sure you're dreading having to play this, but thank you all the same 'cuz its a classic. Us old timers will give you your radio station back after this one..." Stanton said aloud in response, tapping his hands on the steering wheel as he drove.

[Let It Roll Down The Highway - Bachman-Turner Overdrive]

The dash-phone began ringing through the speakers.

"Hi honey," Stanton answered the phone via voice recognition, already knowing who it was.

"Hi Dad. Look, Anthony and I are lost..." Jennifer told him, sounding somewhat panicked.

"Even with the GPS?" Stanton asked her, perplexed that his daughter whose math and geometry average surpassed his own had somehow become lost.

"...Anthony had it uninstalled. Said it interfered with the natural biofield of Mother Earth," Jennifer told him.

"And did it?" Stanton asked her.

"Dad. He's my fiancé. If he says that it interferes with the Earth's biofield, I support him entirely," Jennifer replied to him.

"Alright honey. That's fine, but tell me? What does Mr. we should build houses with living walls think now that you're lost?" Stanton asked her.

"Look Dad. I know you better than that. I think you know a way we can get unlost and even without the extra hardware that interferes with the biofield," Jennifer said, turning to Anthony who sat in the passenger seat, as she reminded Stanton that she knew him just as well as her mother.

"Look. I don't know anything about Anthony's biofeelers, but I can tell you this honey. Find the sun. If its to your left, you're driving south. If its to your east, you're driving north. You're looking for Belfountain, just west of the conservation area. If you see a sign for Brimstone, you've got to head back west a bit, so that means taking a right turn..." Stanton explained to her.

"We just passed the Grange..." Jennifer told Stanton.

"Was the sun on your left or right?" asked Stanton.

"My right..." Jennifer responded quickly.

"Then you're going the right direction honey. Take the next left, and then the next right, and continue until the second driveway on your right. I'm a few clicks behind you honey. If you get lost again, just stay put and I'll find you and your biofeeler loving fiancé," Stanton assured her.

"You're awesome Dad. Thanks. See you soon!" she said to him, blowing him a kiss through the receiver before hanging up.

[Fathers And Daughters - Michael Bolton]

"What are Dads for?" Stanton replied, intending it for her as much so as his deceased wife.

Just Like Old Times

Stanton stopped his F-150 of a monster truck just behind his daughter's Equinox. Ahead of their vehicles were several others, perhaps six in all. A few pickups. An SUV and two sports cars, stretching up a vast driveway leading up to a large house. trees

When he stepped out of his truck, his daughter got out of her Equinox and Anthony out of the passenger side, Jenny by that time running to greet him.

"How are you love birds anyway?" asked Stanton, looking to Anthony in a most intimidating manner.

Jennifer gave him a peck on the cheek, then ran back to grab Anthony's hand.

"Good to see you Mr. Stanton..." Anthony greeted him, not quite as intimidated as he had been the last time they'd met.

"How are your biofeelers?" Stanton held out his hand, gripping Anthony's firmly but cautiously so as not to break any bones.

"...Uhhh. Its biofield, and its important, but it might take some time for some dinosaurs to catch on..." Anthony responded to Stanton, drawing a smile from him.

Stanton tapped the shoulder of Anthony's black blazer firmly with his hand, clearly amused that he'd risked such a remark.

"That's the spirit. Now just a word of warning Anthony. These guys? They're the real deal. We go back a long way and we've seen stuff together. A lot of it. You have my respect. You've already earned it, but be careful with these guys. They gave a lot for their country, and some of them weren't appreciated the way they deserved to be. Remember that when you're speaking with them," Stanton reminded Anthony, more with insight than intimidation.

"Wait... wait! Let me get a picture of you guys... together," Jennifer pulled her phone and coaxed Anthony and Stanton together.

Stanton's solid frame dwarfed Anthony's, but he shrunk himself just enough and threw his right arm around his daughter's fiancé, then holding his left hand above his brow, effectively cutting off the details of his face from the photo, without ruining the moment for either his daughter or Anthony.

Jennifer gave him another peck on the cheek, for she knew the value (and risk) of such photos. She remembered similarly how difficult it was for her mother to get them when she was a little girl. If her mother had gotten just one photo with her father depicting even just the tip of his nose alone, never mind the rest of his hidden face, she'd be elated.

They ventured up the driveway and to the house, hearing music from around the other side and towards the backyard. They rounded the side of the house and then found their way into the backyard, where a number of tents were setup, most of them covering tables for food and drink, the remainder for those who slept in them.

It was Stanton who rounded the corner first, and upon recognizing the squad leader of fireteam Canuck, his best friend while in boot camp, he threw out his hand for a shake, but was greeted by a hug from a bear.

"You have not aged a day since the last time I saw you Ray," Stanton backed away from the giant man's paws long enough to breath.

"And you've grayed every day since the last time I saw you!" Ray responded to Stanton.

"A compliment coming from you. Graybait," Stanton responded.

"Ahhhh! You still remember that?" Ray patted the back of the man who'd had his many times.

"How could I forget?" Stanton replied.

"Sandy? This is Bradley Alexander Stanton. This is the man who single handledly took out the entire battalion OPFOR* during a training exercise without firing a single round," Ray told his wife with a big smile on his face.

"One and the same. A pleasure to meet you Sandy. This is my daughter Jennifer..." Stanton stepped forward greeted her.

"Pleased to meet you," Jennifer smiled as she nodded.

"And this is her fiancé Anthony," Stanton introduced his son-in-law to be.

"Nice to meet you," Anthony added nervously.

"So how did Stanton take out the battalion?" asked Sandy, now curious about story.

"Well, he added a few hot peppers and some magnesium he scraped from a Willy Peter into the battalion morning coffee supply," Ray explained to his wife.

Anthony suddenly shifted uncomfortably. Jennifer then nudged him lovingly to help him regain his composure.

"Who is Willy Peter?" asked Sandy.

"Willy isn't a person. Its a type of grenade," Ray explained to her.

"He put a grenade in their coffee?!!!" Sandy looked at them in shock.

"No honey! He scraped some magnesium from the thermal fuses into it, effectively turning the OPFOR's entire supply of morning coffee into a laxative," Ray laughed as he told the story.

Sandy's expression contorted into a mixture of amusement and horror as the rest of them laughed, with the exception of Anthony who instead shifted nervously once again.

"Those were the good old days," Ray smiled as he recalled.

"Honestly, I should have thought that one over more carefully because when they caught me, the CO put me on latrine duty for two months. The first week of that was pretty rough let me tell you on account of the fact of all the ammunition I gave them with the laxative..." Stanton smiled, shaking his head as they laughed.

"Would you like some coffee...?" asked Sandy awkwardly of them.

"That would be great," Stanton responded.

"Thank you, we'll get it," Jennifer added.

"Its in the coffee urn. The cups are there. There's some sugar and cream beside it. Help yourself. Breakfast is going to be ready in a few minutes," Sandy assured them.

"And don't let Stanton near the coffee..." Ray told Jennifer, who burst out laughing.

Shortly after they got their coffees, they were joined by the three occupants of the tents who after having cleaned themselves up in the basement shower, sat beside them at the table as breakfast was served.

"Stanton. Long time no see partner," a large burly muscular man with a thick beard and short cropped hair offered his hand.

"Randalson. Good to see you again. How's Betty doing?" Stanton asked him.

"She's a lot better, thanks for asking. A bit sore every so often, but she's a tough and spirited girl, that one," Randalson took a seat beside his old squad mate.

"Stanton old buddy. Look at you... still the same old clean cut poster boy of a soldier," a man with a slicked back head of long gray hair tied in a pony tail sat across from Stanton after they shook.

"Now you're gettin' dirty Hunter. How've you been keeping?" Stanton greeted the loader for their squad's fireteam.

"Same old, same old for an old vet like me. Sandy, you didn't let Stanton near the coffee, did you?" asked Hunter, examining his cup of coffee very carefully, rousing laughter from the table.

"Give me a hand, will ya?" asked a third arrival, a handsome fellow with a brush cut and a real hombre mustachio.

"Sure thing Denver," Stanton responded, sliding his chair out and standing beside the man, who then slid an empty chair beside them to sit down, leaning against Stanton as he did.

"Where's your leg?" asked Stanton.

"On the cooler just outside of my tent," Denver said to him.

"I got it partner," Stanton responded, quickly dashing over to the cooler and grabbing the prosthetic from it.

He handed the prosthetic to Denver, who then went about fastening it to the socket and joint situated just above his missing left knee.

"I hope you cleaned that thing, cause it was certainly stinky when you took it off last night," Richards remarked to Denver, then smiling at Hunter and winking.

"Its funny you should say, 'cause I did happen to clean it, with that bottle of fifty year old Scotch you brought with you... Great disinfectant let me tell you," Denver responded with a smile.

"That wasn't Scotch. That was my urinal..." Randalson laughed.

"Do you mind?!!! We're trying eat here and there's ladies at the table. Besides, you should know better than to try to one up Randalson," Stanton summarized their sentiment as the table chuckled, Anthony more so uncomfortably than anything.

"Thank you Stanton, but I think we're all on the same level here..." Ray added, drawing a smile and a light slap on the wrist from his wife.

"So is someone going to introduce us to the rookies?" Randalson asked before taking a sip of his coffee.

"Gentlemen, this is my daughter, Jennifer..." Stanton introduced his daughter.

"I've heard so many stories about you guys. Nice to meet you," Jennifer said to them as all three men stood to greet her.

"None of them were true. Unless they were flattering of course..." Randalson responded.

"And then even less so..." Denver came back.

"...if they're about Denver that is..." Randalson added.

"So who's the strong silent type beside you?" asked Randalson, who often did most of the speaking.

"Gentlemen, this is my fiancé, Anthony," Jennifer introduced her beau, who then stood up and shook hands with them.

"Whaddaya think? A pencil pusher?" asked Hunter.

"Naaaa. His index finger is too weak. A computer guy maybe?" Denver added.

"An artist perhaps?" Randalson did his best to help Anthony save face, though Anthony became more and more flustered.

"I'm an architect. I design living, breathing spaces," Anthony explained to them.

They sat silently for a moment, and then slowly, their laughter rose in volume as Anthony stood somewhat defensively.

"...what the heck is a living breathing space anyway?" Denver said.

"...he designs tents for crying out loud!" Hunter added, nearly in hysterics.

Stanton knew fully well what was going on, but he had to keep silent. This was something that Anthony had to deal with himself.

"I design the interiors of a whole new breed of condominiums and I'm one of the most sought after such designers in the region! I certainly don't make little of what you do or did for a living, so kindly don't do so that to Jennifer or myself!" he responded, actually raising his voice substantially as he faced them.

Stanton looked to them and nodded.

"Anthony, it is a pleasure to meet such an architect as yourself. I humbly apologize for my behaviour and the behaviour of my fellow soldiers here. I guess we were just rrying to make a point," Randalson stood, apologizing for their behaviour after which he seated himself.

"Where's Jensen?" asked Stanton.

"Honey? Why don't we take Jennifer and Anthony on a tour of the house?" Ray suggested, his wife catching on quickly, standing up with her husband.

"That's a great idea! Are you up for that?" asked Jennifer and Anthony, who was still on edge.

"Sure! Come on honey. Lets go see the house," Jennifer grabbed Anthony's hand and the four of them left the table, venturing over to the house, leaving Stanton and his old unit mates to talk.

Suburban Radicalization

"So what happened?" Stanton asked again.

"He's... gone, Stanton," Randalson replied.

"What do you mean... gone?" Stanton pressed Randalson.

"Exactly what it sounds like. He's gone. Six feet under. Fertilizing the garden. Gone," Randalson said as a solemn silence invaded the table.

"Jensen was the toughest of the bunch of us. Nothing could stop him. What happened to him? Cancer? Heart disease?" asked Stanton, completely in shock over the news.

"None of the above..." Denver shook his head negatively.

"You know how the song goes. His kettle boiled over. They pressure cooked him, just like we pressure cooked poor Anthony there, though that is certainly not our style, nor is it how we do things. We take that oath we swore when we signed up very seriously. I had to make sure he wasn't one of them..." Randalson explained to them, then looking to Anthony who like Stanton was in shock.

"One of who?" Stanton asked Randalson, now completely puzzled.

"They. Them. They're the only pronouns we have to go on at this point in time, Stanton, and they're taking us out, all of us, one at a time," Randalson explained to Stanton, doing his best to remain calm.

"The news kept it quiet on account of the fact he was a former Tier 1, like you. Retired, but he was one of their former heavy hitters," Randalson continued.

"We only found out on account of the fact that we still have contacts. One of ours gave us a copy of the official report," Hunter told Stanton.

"It was bad Stanton. He blew up. Lost it totally. Took out four civilians. Three of them with rap sheets a few clicks long, but civilians nonetheless. The fourth victim was an innocent bystander. No record. Just in the wrong place at the wrong time," Denver told Stanton.

"You're telling me that the most solid guy of our team went ballistic?" Stanton could still not believe his ears.

"That's what the report said. A clean record for years, without any problems or hiccups on the mental health front, and then from a year ago, he suddenly started having issues. Hearing voices. Talking to himself. That kind of thing. He got checked out both physically and mentally and passed with flying colours. Its even on his report that his physique was like that of a thirty year old athlete. We're talking about a sixty three year old man... the guy was freakin' tough as nails..." Hunter continued explaining the situation to Stanton.

"The report says that in the community suburb he lived, that people in the community started reporting his strange behaviour. Talking to himself when he was out shopping or generally in public. Occasionally, loud rants. Most wrote it off as mental illness, but again, he passed every test they threw at him, but this is where things start getting really strange," Randalson told Stanton.

"There were several unauthorized changes made to his records. With his health record for instance, somebody had changed his blood type from AB, what it had originally been, to A. Some of his other records simply disappeared, including civilian records of his service, which DND sometimes does for discretion's sake, so we can ix-nay that one... sort of. Records of his blood transfusions after his injury during Operation GREENSTRIKE. His records of activity at the library, not to mention a few of his social media accounts and emails, both of which were allegedly secretly monitored by an unknown party. They even altered records of his family history and religion, apparently falsely recording in his record that he was a Jehovah's Witness, which strikes us as strange seeing as they don't allow their members to join the military," Hunter told Stanton.

"We're talking about a former Tier 1 operator here, Stanton," Denver leaned forward with his elbows on the table.

"If there was anything strange going on, he would have reported it. There'd be a trail," Stanton suggested to them.

"That was our first thought too. So we looked into it. We called up a buddy in the courts, who drew up a subpoena to gain access to Jensen's internet and phone records. That's how we found out about the email and social media account tampering, but to even get that, we had to jump through hoops with both his internet ISP and his phone carrier. In both cases, his file numbers were swapped with that of another customer, meaning that his phone activity seemed to originate from someone else's phone, and vice versa. Same with his internet activity. They essentially gave us someone else's records and history of activity, but with his client contact information. The old switcheroo,"

"We eventually managed to gain access with another subpoena, this time the feds taking the ISP's and phone carrier's hard drives, in order to get at their client record and figure out what was going on that led to a former Tier 1 operator's records being switched with that of a forty-two year old man receiving disability benefits on account of mental illness," Randalson explained to Stanton.

"Someone was messing him up, very seriously, and sweeping the evidence under the carpet. Swapping the records was definitely a smoke screen," Hunter told Stanton.

"One day, three months and two days ago, he woke up. Donned his kit, and never came back. He left his home at five in the morning, packing a nine and a SMiG. He drove a suburban block away and entered a lowrise known for being very troublesome in the community, then gaining access, pretending to be a security guard. He then verbally confronted his victims in the hall and went weapons free on their asses. One of them was packing his own modified Glock, and managed to plug Jensen twice. Near fatally once in the neck, and once in the chest, breaking one of his ribs on account of the fact of his kevlar. Jensen finished him and then bled to death in the hall," Denver finished the story.

"Did he leave a note or message? A social media post? A statement of why he did it?!!!" Stanton pressed them even further.

"No. Either that, or whoever was monitoring his accounts stripped all the data clean, picking the bones dry, and leaving nothing for anyone to go on," Denver shoved the last piece of his toast into his gullet.

"We did some checking with the local legion, backtracking some of their records and managed to find other similar cases, most of them involving Special Forces and other specialized mission critical operators. Vets who died under the same or similar circumstances, but that trail was way too big for us to follow, with our limited resources. I mean we know a lot a guys, but even that has limits," Randalson told Stanton.

"They changed the records of his religion? Why the heck would someone do that?" Stanton seemed perplexed.

"I don't know. We were hoping that you, with your cushy one-twenty a year job might be able to tell us. Help us find out. If not for us, then for Jensen," Randalson pleaded with Stanton.

Stanton looked over to their tents for a moment and then back to them. They looked like they were well attended to, but had bags under their eyes and it was easy to see that the stress was wearing on them.

"How long have you guys been living here?" he asked them.

"We moved here a week after getting the news about Jensen. We've been here ever since," Randalson admitted to Stanton.

"Money troubles? Rent? I could throw you guys a few grand each if you need it. To get on your feet? Its the least I could do for you. Brothers and armed," Stanton looked to them.

"Brothers and armed," Randalson, Hunter and Denver closed their hands around Stanton's, in a four man shake.

"Wouldn't help Stanton. I think this is where our story ends. Right here, living in tents in Ray's back yard," Randalson looked to Stanton, then looked down.

"What's up guys?" Stanton pressed them again.

"The day we got the news about Jensen, we started experiencing the same thing. Hearing voices, at first, only at night. Our neighbours verbally harassing us with our secrets. I mean, secrets that only we knew. People following us," Randalson looked to Hunter and Denver.

"You guys too?" asked Stanton, looking to each of them in turn and then back to Randalson.

"They're hunting us, and sweeping us under the carpet. One person at a time," Hunter told Stanton.

"How've you been since moving here?" asked Stanton.

"Much better in some aspects, but there's still the fact that every time we go into town to resupply, we get the follow us everywhere treatment," Hunter told Stanton.

"Not only that, but at night, even out here, we still hear the voices..." Denver's voice drifted off, tired and weary, having fought a battle they were obviously losing.

Jensen's House

As they opened the door, the sound of heavy machinery broke free from behind the door. Dave opened the door for Elena and they walked into the utility room, one after the other. Stanton had been repairing one of the transformers and was closing up his toolkit when they'd arrived.

"The first May Two Four you've spent away from us, and you didn't even have the courtesy to come speak to us this morning and let us know you were alright. I mean, for all we know, you could have been trapped under your pillow, rendered unconscious by a killer hangover and unable to move!" Dave scolded Stanton as he stood up from the cement floor, brushing the dust from his pants.

"We were worried sick about you!" Elena said to him, putting her hands on her hips for effect.

"Is that so? I could just as easily say the same thing you know. How are you two? Was it a good one for you?" asked Stanton.

"Good would be a huge understatement. We had so much fun without you, that we're already making plans for next year without you," Dave told him.

"Yeah, I had a good time as well. Got to see some old friends and do some catching up. I think that sometimes when we get caught up in our own lives, we fail to remember from where we came. I got a chance to address that, and even brought Jennifer and Athony with us to boot. A good time was had by all," Stanton smiled at them as he wiped his hands with a rag.

"You have time for cold one?" asked Dave.

"Yeah, a few of us are going over to the Fox And The Forest, to help us with our Tuesday evening blahs," Elena added.

"Carol's coming. So's Hanna. She aced her exams apparently so we're taking her out for a beer. Come on hotshot. Whaddaya say?" Dave asked him, patting him on the shoulder.

"I'd love nothing more than to join you two, but I have a prior engagement," Stanton replied.

"Is it a side job? I could help you with it, if it would make it possible for you to join us. I think Carol and Hanna would love to have you there," Dave seemed perterbed that Stanton wasn't going to join them.

"No, this is something I have to do on my own. Can I take a raincheck on that?" asked Stanton, giving them his favourite line.

"This is a once in a lifetime deal that you won't want to miss. I'm buying... Going... going..." Dave counted down, though Stanton seemed unamused.

"Gone! I guess you're out," Dave shrugged, looking to Elena who also shrugged.

"Can't blame us. We tried," Elena added, both of them still trying to sway him.

"You have fun tonight, and give Carol and Elena my best," Stanton said to them.

"You got it hotshot. Good luck with your prior engagement... I guess we'll catch up tomorrow. Come on Elena, let this lump on a log lay low," Dave led them out the door and back to the employee change rooms.

Stanton in the meantime packed up his tools and stowed them in his locker before washing up. He then headed out to his truck and drove off, heading over to the highway.

The trip took about forty-five minutes in all, and brought Stanton down to the Lawrence Avenue East and Markham Road area and into a quaint suburban development, where he found Jensen's split-level bungalow home.

He parked down the street a bit from the house, taking off his golf shirt and replacing it with a black button down and a red tie. He then walked down the street to a local strip mall, where he ran into the corner store and grabbed himself a pack of gum and a real-estate newspaper. He then walked back down the street, continuing past his car and onward to Jensen's house.

Miraculously, the house was still wrapped in police tape, though there was nobody to be found on site. It would likely remain in that state for another few months given the complex nature of the case. Stanton rang the doorbell, just to make it look good, keeping the real-estate listings prominently his hand, even pulling a pen from his pocket and making a note on them. He then examined the front window and walkway carefully before walking around the house and examining it from the outside to test the waters.

He gave it a few more minutes and when no neighbours came out to inquire of his presence, he made his way over to the back door, where a police lock had been placed on the door. He pulled his keychain and retrieved his master key, using it to unlock the police lock, then quietly slipping into the darkened home. When he was inside, he pulled an LED light from his pocket and used it to illuminate his surroundings.

The first thing he noticed was the smell of dust, much of which had accumulated over the course of three months, despite the forensics work that had gone on inside. There were several tracks through the dust, maybe one or two people having returned to the home in the last week. Probably fulfilling special requests by the forensics team.

He knew that the forensics unit was very efficient, and that they likely got every piece of evidence there was to be scraped from the home. However, Stanton had a distinct advantage. He too was a Tier 1 operator at one time, not to mention being one of Jensen's closest friends twenty years earlier. As a result, Stanton knew exactly how Jensen thought and hence what to look for and where to look for it.

The first thing he noticed was that the house had two water heaters, one of them quite large for a home this size and that the investigators hadn't gone near either of them. He knew something was amiss.

He made his way to the larger water heater, examining it thoroughly and finding that it was powered but there was no heating element in it. He also noticed that it was poised on a casket and bearings, and found that it could be rotated quite easily, which is exactly what he did. He turned the water heater, around and on the second pass, he noticed that it had a handle and a large door. He used a tool from his keychain to unlock the door and opened it, searching the contents within.

There were a series of shelves, each of which were stacked with computer hardware, including four hard disks on a magnetic medium of 8 terabytes each, and two SSDs of 2 terabytes each. There were several other pieces of specialized hardware that he'd seen before, including two modified SDR* dongles, a folding high gain antenna, a series of three military class radio direction finders and a laser range finder. On the bottom shelf, was an old CRT based fourteen inch flatscreen, and equally as old, a fifteen inch LED screen.

"What the hell was he doing?" Stanton asked himself aloud.

Stanton lowered himself to the bottom shelf and examined the safe, feeling around the top of it until he found what he was looking for. A sticky note on top of the safe, which he retrieved carefully without ripping it.

There were a series of numbers written across the page:

2, 3, 5, 7, 11, 13,

17, 23, 29, 31, 37, 41,

43, 47, 59, 61, 67, 73,

79, 83, 89, 97, 101, 103,

107, 109, 113

R1, L2, R1

"Primes..." Stanton examined them, recognizing the pattern immediately.

He looked to the safe, and then to the numbers, realizing that the safe's last possible number was 113, the highest prime listed on the page.

"113, that should be the thirtieth prime if I'm not mistaken..." Stanton contemplated aloud.

He then counted the whole numbers on the page, finding that there were only twenty seven.

"I'll be darned... what are the missing primes?" he asked himself quickly looking through the list and figuring them out one at a time.

"19... 53... 71... That should be it. The ones at the bottom are the turns I need to do to open the safe..." he said aloud, then trying to numbers from lowest to highest.

He pulled the handle on the safe and had no luck with it.

"Let's try descending..." Stanton tried again with the same numbers and once again, the safe wouldn't open.

"Middle low high..." he said to himself, turning the dial for the last number and feeling a distinct click from within the safe.

He pulled the handle and the safe opened.

"Jensen... you old devil you..." Stanton smiled as he examined the contents.

There were two flash drives, each 256 gigabytes. There were several notepads with a series of what looked like navigation points commonly used by the military while orienteering, including elevations.

Stanton pocketed the notepads and the flash drives, also grabbing the SDR dongles and the folding antenna.

"What's with the old monitors?" Stanton asked himself, grabbing them both, one in each hand and walking over to an electrical receptical and plugging them in.

They were both extremely bright, having the contrast and brightness nearly cranked. On each of the screens was a test pattern that Stanton immediately recognized.

"These are TEMPEST honeypots... What the heck was he doing with these?" Stanton asked himself aloud, now extremely perplexed by this mystery.

"I've got to get all this kit back to my workshop and figure this out there..." Stanton said, leaving the utility room and heading to the stairs to the main floor.

When he arrived at the top of the stairs, he checked the laundry room, and then the adjoining garage for a something he could use to carry everything. He was delighted when he found an empty dufflebag in the garage, and brought it with him back into the house, throwing it down the stairs, then going down the hall to examine Jensen's office.

The computer and laptop were both gone, Stanton clearly seeing the dark patches on the desk they'd previously occupied, the rest of the desk bleached by the sun. They'd likely been taken by the digital forensics team to be thoroughly scraped for any and all data. Even deleted and orphaned files could be found and they might still be on the disk and holding information pertinent to the investigation.

Their absence however, did nothing to help Stanton, so he instead searched the drawers, finding an address hand written on another sticky note, in Jensen's own hand writing, and a note with another series of numbers, this time not the code for a safe, but a series of frequencies, one of which Stanton immediately recognized as the phone line carrier signal of 2600 hz.

When Stanton was confident he'd found everything in the office, he searched the kitchen, the living room and then the main floor bathroom, finding nothing of consequence and much the same in the bedroom, though Stanton knew he'd find little there. He himself spent little time in his own bedroom and Jensen assumedly would have been the same.

Satisfied with his efforts and the material evidence he'd found, he then returned to the basement and loaded the dufflebag with all of the contents he'd taken from the hidden water heater cache he'd uncovered. He then cleaned the scene of fingerprints, and returned the water heater to its old position, keeping the door hidden from any prying eyes.

The dufflebag, had managed to fit both monitors, the hard disks and the rest of the hardware that didn't fit in his pockets. He lifted it, and carried it over to the back door, exiting through it and returning the police padlock to where it had been.

He then made his way around the house (cautiously) and then to the front of the house, miraculously not drawing the attention of the neighbours. When he arrived at his truck, he observed that someone across the road had been watching him as he deposited the bag in the truck.

Stanton quickly waved to the man who'd been walking his dog, flagging him down as he ran over to him.

"I'm so sorry to bother you, but could you tell me if there have been any other real-estate agents canvasing on this street? Perhaps you're in the market to sell?" he asked the man, being very insistent.

The man, somewhat older than Stanton adjusted his steel framed bifocals on his face as he eyed the younger man.

"No. I'm happy with my home. Did you check down the end towards South Leeds Crescent?" asked the man, seeming to have remembered having seen a few for sale signs one street over.

"Its different zoning there and I'm looking for something that is zoned as commercial/residential. The home office market it booming right now so if you want to make a load of money, perhaps you might change your mind about selling?" Stanton really pressed the man.

"No, no. I'm quite alright. I've still got a few good years left you know. I was just curious to see someone poking around here. There's been a lot of that over the last few years, with this world getting so darned bizarre and all. Just me and McDougal here, our one television. A book case and a stove for a good smattering of cream of cauliflower soup every once in a while..." the man said to Stanton, now seeming to be enjoying having someone with whom to talk.

"You've seen other people poking around?" asked Stanton.

"Well yes. With that fellow and the shootings and all. But there was some pretty nutty stuff going on here before that. You know, these communities have changed a lot over the years but there's something that's makin' all kinds of younger people nutty I'll tell you. Anyway, it was nice talking to you. I've got to get McDougal here back home and get him fed before he gnaws at my ankles," the man laughed at his own joke, a smile stretching across his face as he gestured to the plump and buggy eyed Chihuahua on the end of his leash, the dog looking nearly as old as he.

"You have a good night Sir, and thanks for the help," Stanton said goodbye to the man, feeling somewhat saddened to know that the poor guy probably had nobody with whom to speak.

He returned to his truck and got in and started his journey home.

Workshop Wrest

Stanton got out of his truck and used the remote to open the garage door, leaving the second door closed. He then went to the passenger seat and grabbed the dugglebag, hauling it to the side of the garage that contained his workshop after which he closed the door.

"Now, lets see what we can uncover here. What the heck were you doing old friend?" Stanton laid the hard disks out across a work table, then setting up the monitors beside them. He examined the SDR dongles and found that they were both USB 3.2 based.

"Lets see if I have something I can use to get these going..." Stanton ran into the house and into his office on the main floor. He though about using the laptop from his desk, but decided against it given the fact that it had most of his important information despite the fact he'd gone to lengths to protect it. Instead, he chose to rummage through the closet, where he found two older laptops from the previous year, both of which being more than capable of utilizing the SDR dongles and with the right cables, the hard disks too.

He brought the laptops to the garage and from there, plugged them in. He then went through his cable drawer and found enough USB cables to hook up everything he'd need to in order to get the whole rig working. After about ten minutes of fiddling with the cables and various configurations, he managed to get everything plugged in and working.

His first order of the day was to examine the contents of the hard disks, which he went through one by one, examining the files within. What he found in the larger disks was that they had been used as some sort of multimedia drives, storing high-res video information, most of which seemed to be gotten from the output of one of the SDR dongles.

The recording was that of another computer monitor, though the image looked slightly grainy and occasionally was scarred by interference.

"What's this? Was he doing Van Eck Phreaking?" Stanton asked himself, looking closely at the video.

When he got frustrated by the laptop's relatively tiny screen, he once again rummaged through his cable drawer, retrieving an HDMI cable, connecting it to the laptop and then to his large screen television in the garage, which he'd use during hockey season. He setup the display and a few moments later, the laptop display appeared on the eighty-five inch screen on the wall and in 8K.

"That's better..." Stanton remarked, happy with his progress thus far.

He could see now that the image from the SDR dongle was clearly the intercepted emissions of a computer monitor that had been within range of the high gain antenna when Jensen had recorded it.

The image on the screen however was that of another SDR and corresponding software. It too was eavesdropping on the electromagnetic field of another monitor somewhere else. Stanton examined the screen carefully and realized that the second SDR was eavesdropping Jensen's own computer, other than the one he was using to eavesdrop.

The screen had Jensen's email client open, and a list of his most recent emails were on screen. Whoever was using that second computer, was actually spying on Jensen, and unbeknownst to the him, Jensen was spying on him.

"Alright... this is starting to make sense. So Jensen starts to suspect that someone is eavesdropping him. Maybe keeping him under surveillance. A valid concern given the fact of his having been a Tier 1 operator. There's probably a lot of people who'd pay dearly for information linking him to the operations in which he took part, and his real identity," Stanton reasoned, given the unique circumstances of Jensen's situation.

"What if these guys surveilling him are cops?" Stanton had to examine that possibility.

He went to his bookshelf and looked through it for a specific file folder where he'd stashed the operations and service manuals for various surveillance tools used by the Police forces of the world. When he found it, he searched through it and found a Stringray, and then a REAPER operating and service manual.

"STINGRAY is strictly for monitoring cellular data... Not really applicable here..." Stanton filed the manual and began looking through the REAPER manuals.

"REAPER is used for WIFI and CAT-5/COAX/RJ-45 cable eavesdropping... Again, not applicable and from the looks of it, I'd say this second spy isn't a cop. Or a fed. This is a civilian or possibly a security contractor or private investigator..." Stanton reasoned, once again examining the video image for signs of anything that might indicate the identity of the spy.

The one who was spying on Jensen's devices.

The one who had no idea that he was being spied upon by Jensen.

Stanton fast forwarded through the video until he arrived at a point where the video image changed substantially. On the screen now was Jensen's accounting software. What he'd used to keep his books, for he was running his own business as a digital communications consultant. He'd started his military career at the age of eighteen, training in SIGINT, signals intelligence and had earned a degree as a communications specialist from the Armed Forces. He was then contacted by JSO and TACCOM who scouted him as an operator, given his exempliary record of performance, rivaling even Stanton's and from there, he was running operations at the age of twenty-three.

Jensen had taken his skills and qualifications and recycled them into a lucrative career by the time he'd retired from the Armed Forces, banking most of his money for his future retirement.

Stanton thought about calling Richards, but then opted against it, given the fact that he had no way of knowing how secure Richards' devices were. If this group, whomever they were, was tracking them, if he contacted them from his phone, said group might latch onto him which might compromise his entire unit, not to mention JSO, no matter how secure his own phone was.

Encrypted or not, if the phone carriers were already compromised, that made all the encryption in the world useless, especially if some punk working for the company was feeding information about clients to contacts outside of their company, much the same as with ISPs. They were only as secure as their employees, and that was the weak point in any communications infrastructure and perhaps a tall order to expect given the pressure of the scope of today's problems. How secure is an employee that's paid eighteen dollars an hour Stanton reasoned.

The worst case scenario though was that the carriers and ISPs were already compromised by ideological groups of some form. People who'd share client information, and information on enemies of their ideology with other members outside of the company, which given what Richards, Hunter and Denver had explained about Jensen's situation, lined up very well with the facts, but that did not answer who the guy spying on Jensen was. Was it even related Stanton asked himself.

Stanton then focused on some of the other video files, scanning through them hoping to find anything linking the person spying on Jensen with an identity. It was after scanning the eleventh video that Stanton discovered something that put more of the pieces of this extraordinary puzzle together for him.

The video taken of the one spying on Jensen, was now focused on the output of the TEMPEST honeypot monitors. The test pattern very, very clear in the video and image, and it was at that moment that Stanton realized what Jensen was up to.

He checked other parts of the screen and found that the radio direction finders had triangulated on a location and given the fact that there were three of them, that was enough to narrow down the location of the eavesdropper to within a couple of meters. Jensen had used the honeypots to locate the eavesdroppers, because he'd added a plugin to his SDR software that included image recognition, meaning that he could scan tens of computers per minute in an area, and know which of them were utilizing Van Eck Phreaking, simple because the plugin would recognize the test pattern image on the TEMPEST honeypot monitors.

Once he had a match, the radio direction finders and the laser range finder could be used to locate the eavesdropper. Both their grid location, and their altitude and that would have been enough for Jensen to know their exact address. Given a Tier 1 operator that information, and that would pretty much signal the end for them.

However, that still didn't account for the anomalies on his case file. His having heard voices. His talking to himself. His apparent mental breakdown, despite his having passed both physically and mentally.

"Jensen, being a former operator, had access to protected medical facilities, licensed and approved by the Armed Forces, so nobody could tamper with his tests, but that might not be the case with the others..." Stanton examined the situation.

"For instance, what if they had used a medical facility, or blood clinic for blood tests, such as testing for the presence of narcotics or disease. If this group, whomever they were had infiltrated a privately run lab, the infiltrator could selectively switch lab test results between clients. They could return false results to discredit their enemies or detractors or even obscure their clients' identities on the fly to keep the authorities at bay or from catching on to the real issue at play," Stanton put another piece of the puzzle in place and realized that this might be much wider spread than it at first appeared.

"Broken telephone. If the authorities were keeping overwatch for Jensen, and this group managed to get in between, and obfuscate their ability to keep track of him, he'd have been cut off without even knowing it, while they could have misled them, while the group conducted their psyops against Jensen, secretly breaking him down until... No matter how he tried to signal his overwatch that something was wrong, they'd never get the message because of the interference of the group obfuscating the channel being used for the message..." Stanton once again found another trail, though he realized that he was speculating far too much and not validating what he'd surmised thus far.

For this progress, he needed to start narrowing things down. Then, he remembered the note with the address on it.

He pulled his phone and activated hi-security mode, and then searched anonymously for the address on the note.

"That's the address where the shootings occurred. Where Jensen went ballistic," Stanton said as he realized that it was the lowrise building around the corner from Jensen's house.

"What's the connection?" Stanton asked himself as he sat on his favourite stool, then slowly leaning over onto the workbench and falling into a troubled sleep.

Dronified

It was a sunny morning in May, a Tuesday at that as a jogger ran along a park trail, a Labrador tagging along behind him. A reflection shone brightly from the domed roof of the nearby botanical gardens, prompting the jogger the pull his sunglasses down from his forehead to cover his eyes.

When he arrived at the paved asphalt walkway, he paused at an intersection to allow a heavy set older lady in an electric cart to drive by, a basket on the rear of her device filled with groceries from a nearby market. As he went to proceed, a small prop driven drone flew by his face with a berth of less than a foot from his nose. He jumped back, startled by the drone as his Labrador started barking at the device, which by the time they'd reacted was already a good distance away from them.

Fifty meters away at the other end of the park sat a teen on a bench, a virtual reality headset on his face and a remote control in his hands. From his perspective through the virtual reality headset, he was looking through the camera of the drone and flying it in first person perspective as if he were a tiny pilot aboard the device.

He navigated it along a path, dodging and weaving around pedestrians as he flew the device, startling people along the way. When he arrived at the sidewalk at the far end of the park from where he was, he stopped just short of a collision with a muscular looking fellow with a shaven bald head, in a military style khaki shirt and khaki shorts. The man looked to the device, startled by its sudden appearance and he began ranting at it.

"I know you're following me you f*ckers and when I get my hands on you..." he yelled at the drone, which slowly backed away from him, still watching him before it turned around and began back in the direction of its owner.

The bald man continued walking along the sidewalk, cursing and ranting to himself as he strode, a teardrop forming in the corner of his eye as he fought the urge to cry.

As he walked, the people around him mostly avoided him, some of them watching and listening as he ranted, others cautiously fearful of him, not sure of what to make of the situation. In the area it was common to see those under the effects of narcotics or the various substances that were common in the dense urban sprawl near the southern center of the city, so most people just ignored him.

Others who knew better, watched him silently for they knew exactly what was happening to him for they'd been witness to it many times over. A new person would arrive in the community, usually fairly healthy and confident, looking to start a new life perhaps after having had a rough episode in their life.

The locals would at first be curious about the arrival, perhaps testing them to see if they might be undercover cops or even secret agents as the paranoia associated with the arrival of a new face set in. This superstition would work its way up the ranks from those whose lives were the closest to street level. The addicts. The dealers. The sex trade workers. The thugs. The down trodden and directionless. Those whom life had generally kicked the crap out of, and left them there to fend for themselves. They would be very curious about such new arrivals, mostly remaining cautious unless their presence interfered in their micro-economy.

Then there were those who'd managed to stay clear of such activities. Those who lived in the downtown core and were of mostly low income but hid behind the power of their numbers, which protected them mostly. Then the local business owners and their employees. Those who eeked out an existence trying to build a better community, while their employees mostly stayed clear of the trouble of interfering in the hidden economy. Seeing no evil. Hearing no evil and certainly speaking none of it.

Then there was the infrastructure. Those employed by the city and local unions to maintain the community, mostly amused by the other layers, and certainly a power to be contended with, many of them exercising that power in cruel and unusual ways. Taunting people with their ambulance sirens and generally fighting the battle of colour symbolism quite visiously for their various teams, not much different than the street gangs that did the same.

They were generally the top layer. Sometimes kind and supportive. Sometimes cruel and intimidating. Certainly another gang like any and walking very closely between the line of unity and criminal racket. They were a power that most feared and they knew it, but there was an even more predatory power than theirs, however much more disciplined and secretive and one that nobody dared speak of, let alone challenge, for it was the real power that held the city in its clutches and perhaps, the entire province, country or even the continent. What most didn't know was that it was consuming the entire world.

The bald man continued along the streets, still ranting to himself. A hidden dialogue with an audience greater than that of a movie theatre, let alone a stadium of concert goers, for this audience was in itself part of the collective known as Mentis and the Millions of Minds. A name that was inaccurate, given the fact that it was in the billions. A small percentage of this collective was the captive audience of the bald man, hearing his words as he ranted both nearby from the park he'd just passed, and as far away as the Mediterranian and still yet further in every direction from where he paced the globe.

He passed a woman, quite attractive which was often a very painful experience for him, for they'd often cower away from him or give him extra distance out of fear, and he felt this right to the core of his very soul. As if he were the monster in someone's dystopian vision of society. His hidden audience fully aware of this and amused by it as much so as he was in pain by the same.

A man in a blue shirt and jeans on his left nodded to him as he passed, though the bald man had never met him. The nod wasn't intended for the bald man though. It was intended for the masses of Mentis who were watching the world through the bald man's eyes and listening to his surroundings through his own ears. Perhaps like a he was a solitary man on a ship sailing the sea, with thousands of stowaways unbeknownst to him. Like a walking camera or perhaps even more so like that boy's drone, he had been dronified by Mentis and his collective.

He crossed the street and arrived at a post office into which he stepped, almost bumping into someone as they left. When they heard him ranting, they dared not confront him but rather avoided him entirely for they immediately knew that he was another victim of the top level predator in this and most communities and that soon, he would probably either be in great danger himself, or a great danger himself.

Most of the people had seen this sort of thing happen before and at first when Mentis had arrived, there had been those who stood with the afflicted, defending them and attempting to help them without knowing fully against what they were standing. Those who did often found themselves subject to the same fate shortly thereafter, and it only took a small handful of such people as a sacrifice to send the message to the rest that you'd better not mess with Major Tom as the song went.

The bald man went up to the counter, somewhat joyed to find that there was no line and that he'd timed his trip well.

"How can I help you, Sir?" a red haired lady in her mid-thirties asked the bald man.

"Hi, I'm here to pickup a package?" he told her, handing her a slip.

She examined it, and then turned and went into the back room through a set of doors and returned with an cardboard envelope, placing it upon the counter.

"Can I have your ID Mr. Dunn?" she asked him, a stressed look grew upon his face.

"Uhhh. I'll show you my ID, but you can't have my identity!" he responded to her, triggered by the ambiguity of her statement and with good reason.

If he'd given her his ID without saying anything, he'd have left the post office and everyone from that point on would have treated him as if he were someone else other than himself, on account that he'd literally given her his ID, rather than simply having shown it to her. Mentis often played upon the ambiguities of language as part of his psyops and gas lighting programs against his targets.

He'd have gone out into the community and without his status as a veteran, a very, very important piece of his green. Without that green, Mentis would have replaced it with another version of green, and the people of the community who numbered amongst Mentis' membership would have enforced that upon him despite whether it was applicable or not.

Mr. Dunn as it stood and before he'd encountered Mentis, was astute and quite polite and mentally stable, even regarded as being a gentile as well despite his being a warrior. He had been a professional, an equipment operator for mobile radar deployments and along the DEW* line, and was a skilled technician as well. He'd taken seriously his oath, and had protected the rights of his fellow citizens many times over, during his duty and as a veteran. Yet, and thanks to Mentis, this had never been reciprocated to him by his fellow citizens, for many of them had helped Mentis to do this to him.

It had started out with his identity being taken from him every time he left his home and by the residents of his apartment building. He'd find that as he was leaving, that he would be followed by one or more persons, who would purposely pass him in the halls, and from that point, he'd be treated as if they were him and he were them.

He'd venture out into the streets (he didn't drive and couldn't afford a vehicle given his support benefits) and from there, the harassment would begin. It would generally come from people he passed in the street, each of them providing a small piece of it, and each piece providing a small piece of weight. By the time he'd passed a hundred people in the streets, that weight would begin to get heavy upon his psyche.

When he'd get to his appointment, the receptionst would be the first to deny him of his own identity, and that might trigger him or it might not. In the early days of years previously, it stressed him but generally didn't go much further than that. As time went on though, the more he let it happen, the greater the weight would become, not to mention that by the time he'd get home, his neighbours on either side of his apartment would contribute to the harassment punishing him for someone else's deeds.

This would often go on for weeks at a time until he'd eventually boil over, perhaps yelling at his neighbours and punching the walls. Perhaps stepping out into the hall and pounding on their doors. Of course, they'd use that as an excuse and report it to security and it would result in a log entry against him.

On other days, he'd come home and step off of the elevator, and there, right in the middle of the elevator lobby on his floor (the tenth) would be a couple in the depths of ecstacy as they enjoyed each other's company the the public walkway between the elevator and his apartment.

If he didn't say anything about it, and just ignored it, he'd spend weeks being harassed about having hired hookers and receiving fellatio in common areas. His neighbours would treat him as if it were him, when in fact they were simply protecting a vast and secretive sex trafficking network in the area, and one that was protected under Mentis watchful eyes.

If on the other hand, he said something to them, there would almost always certainly be a physical confrontation, which once again would result in either a log entry against him, sometimes with it being recorded that it was he that was the hooker's customer and the other fellow had reported it, or the security to whom he'd reported it would take his identity, and leave him with the identity of the hooker's customer. It seemed that even those charged with protecting the building had their biases in favour of Mentis and the sex trafficking as well.

Eventually, he just stopped reporting it and did his best to bear the weight when it arrived and it always did despite his never having taken part in such activity before.

He then began encoutering situations in the community where ever he was required to show identification that he'd lose his identity much the same, simply by how the person who'd asked for it had worded it. If they'd said:

"Can I have your ID?"

as had the clerk in the post office, and he hadn't corrected her, he'd have been treated once again as if he were someone else, losing his most important green. His veteran status, which would be taken over by someone else in the community, often not being returned to his person for several weeks.

So when he'd heard her, he was triggered and responded in such a way to protect his identity and to prevent perhaps weeks of harassment and torture.

What he didn't realize, despite how astute he was, is that they were slowly conditioning him to react automatically, for Mentis' goal was the eradication of individual consciousness and what better way to eradicate it by constricting a person's options towards the ends of automation rather than effective decision making. Independent thought was the enemy of any collective and it was no different with Mentis.

He reached into his pocket and retrieved his Veteran's service card and his passport, which he then placed on the counter before her.

"Veteran's card? No more Quantum Physics..." she said to him as she took his identification and scanned it with the photocopier.

He felt the stress rising again, and began ranting to his invisible audience.

"The reason that she did that is because I ordered a scientific paper written by Bryce Maxwell and Stephen Briggs. So basically she was letting me know that she knew that I ordered a paper written by Bryce Maxwell, and that I was not taking his identity with me..." Mr. Dunn ranted aloud, the lady smirking at him as he did.

"Rat! Sign here!" she said to him quietly.

He signed the receipt and she gave him the package.

"Thank you. Have a nice day," he said to her.

"Thank you taken. Have a nice taken!" she responded, turning her back to him as she organized the shelves and their shipments.

He grabbed the envelope and left, continuing his rant to the invisible audience as he walked.

The trip home was not so nearly as stressful as long as he continued to rant. Any time he'd calmed down enough to appear civil and mentally stable, a few people would harass him as they walked by, triggering him again into a rant, hence keeping the illusion that he might be mentally ill. He'd demonstrated that he knew a significant amount about how they operate and had already revealed information about their activities.

When Mentis faced such a threat, the collective often enacted a program of gas lighting that was designed to give people the impression of narcotics use or mental illness on the part of their target, which in most cases would lead to anyone happening upon the intel he'd collected about Mentis, falling upon deaf ears. Who would take seriously the muttering rant of a lunatic or one who has cried wolf once too often?

Mentis would also take extra precautions that included taking everything Mr. Dunn had revealed and attributing it to one of their own members. That way most people would regard the information as having come from a different source, and then would accuse Mr. Dunn of having taken it from them, rather than the truth of the matter which was that they'd taken it from him.

These were the advantages of having dronified Mr. Dunn. Of their having connected to him like a naturally occurring WIFI of the body, and hijacking his own eyes and ears against him and his efforts. Everywhere he went, they could see and hear what he saw and heard. They'd know that he'd ordered this scientific paper a week earlier, and they'd known when and where he'd be picking it up from. Mentis effectively knew everything about him because they were always with him as they had been with Jensen from the first time they'd connected with him.

Jensen had gone a completely different route. He'd struggled with figuring out how they were spying upon him all of the time and everywhere he'd went, but it had never occurred to him that anyone could hijack the human senses remotely. Being a Tier 1 operator with a side specialization in signals intelligence, he'd gone the technological route of investigation when Mentis had started his gas lighting program against Jensen, leading him on a wild goose chase that never truly found resolve but instead ended with Jensen murdering a drug dealer, two of his customers and an innocent bystander in a shootout, which served Mentis purposes just fine for in Jensen's case, the end had justified the means.

Mr. Dunn arrived at his building and used his key to enter the lobby, where he encountered a security guard, who examined him upon entering the building and said nothing, taking special notice of the envelope in Mr. Dunn's hand.

Mr. Dunn then got on the elevator and went up to the tenth floor, arriving only to find a couple engaged in sex act as was often the case in the building, given the extensive sex trafficking network being operated from within. What Mr. Dunn didn't know was that the reason that the activity was happening in the elevator foyer was because the ring leader had been warned by an insider that the authorities had caught onto them, and that there was political pressure to shut them down, despite the fact of Mentis' protection. Hence, most such activity had been ejected from the apartments where it usually occurred and was now occurring in the public spaces indoors and in front of residents, but residents who said anything would often suffer a similar fate as was Mr. Dunn.

Mr. Dunn was too close to figuring out the nature of what was going on for him to risk it all by confronting the John and the working girl servicing him, so he instead said nothing and simply went to his apartment, unlocking it and closing the door behind him.

He then went over to his computer desk and logged in, checking his email and finding the usual array of spam and a few contextually sensitive emails that were connected to Mentis, for their subject lines referrred to the items he'd shown at the post office, one of the emails' subject line being an article about how to protect your Veteran Service Card and Passport from identity scams such as photocopying. The second email was an advertisement for first person drones, much like the one he'd seen in the park that had started his ranting for the day, not to mention the stress of the fact that he suspected that he too was a sort of drone, hence why he'd ordered the scientific paper that he did.

He opened the envelope and withdrew a booklet with a shiny cover and about fifty pages of typing on it. The title read:

Information Fields, Mirror Neurons And Consciousness: A Study Of The Human Nervous System

By Bryce Maxwell PhD., Stephen Briggs PhD. and Zheng Ni Wong M.Sc

He spent the next three hours reading the paper, which was remarkably well written and despite its advanced topics, was digestable for even a layman on the topic like himself. However, as he read the paper, and realized the implications of what it discovered, he came to the horrific realization that he was no longer alone. That his privacy had been violated in the worst possible way and by a biomagnetic collective that had been using his senses in much the same way as the boy in the park had been using his first person drone.

He picked up a pen from his desk and wrote a statement on the front of the booklet:

I've been dronified...

He then got onto his email client and began composing a message to former Calvin Randalson

Mr. Dunn realized that everywhere he'd gone, that his stowaways were with him the entire time, leaving him no peace or privacy and ensuring that their rule was enforced everywhere. It was exactly as he had suspected and despite the sense of hopelessness that he felt, he also felt a deep sense of relief. Like he'd solved the deepest mysteries of the universe but had found that the truth was simply far too much to bare. He'd never be able to take part in society the same way as others ever again for this hidden collective would know everything about where he went and what he did.

If he'd managed to find employment despite his recently acquired disabilities of the symptoms of stress induced psychosis, they'd know everything and would not long after sabotage his employment, possibly sabotaging his work or setting traps for him. If that didn't work, then they'd stalk his managers until they too had no choice but to fire him.

He never work again. He'd never have the confidence of having earned his way. He'd never be able to touch the soft of a woman's skin or caress her bussom without an audience of eyes whose numbers he had no way of estimating seeing and knowing, possibly putting her at risk too.

There would never be another moment to enjoy, not to mention there would never be a point.

Mr. Dunn put the booklet on the desk and went to the fridge and pulled out a bottle of whiskey, grabbing a glass from the cupboard.

He then poured himself a glass, full to the top and drank the entire cup down in one gulp, pouring another thereafter.

When he reached the third glass, he turned on his stereo and listened to the radio and an old song, that would be his last.

[A Day In The Life - The Beatles]

Mentis however knew that this would be Mr. Dunn's last night, as many of the collective had watched the entire thing unfold first hand, for it had been a thrill many of them had wanted to try with the dronified people in their possession.

With Mr. Dunn, they'd gotten just that chance and a front row seat to his last moments.

The moment he went to the closet and dug through his toolkit and to a hidden compartment where he'd stashed a Glock-18 not unlike the kind the police carried. He then checked the barrel, cleaning it thoroughly first and then the chamber, before loading the magazine and chambering a single round.

He poured himself one last glass of whiskey, savouring it more so than the others he'd consumed and his hidden audience watched with baited breath as he consumed his last drink.

His vision slightly blurred as he sat back in his chair and held the barrel beneath his chin, hoping that the round would pierce the bottom of his skull sever his brain stem rather than simply lodging in it and leaving him to die a slow and painful death, drowning in his own blood.

They all watched through his eyes in anticipation of the final moment, for the thrill would be theirs and all without the risk, which would fall entirely in Mr. Dunn's lap. They crossed their fingers in hope that he'd not close his eyes and that they'd get a full glimpse before and after.

Mentis had been many places, connecting to drug addicts, to sex trade workers, to jet fighter pilots, to everyone and anyone they could in order to get front row tickets for such once in a lifetime thrills. Be it conception or suicide, marriage proposals and murders, paedophiles and rapists from the first person, in addition to being top level predators in society and its most dangerous nemesis, they'd also been its most voracious voyeurs.

And so, with his eyes open, Mr. Dunn slowly squeezed the trigger.

The hooker had just finished servicing her customer in the hall outside of the elevator, when they both heard a gunshot, which sounded like a muffled and somewhat liquified POP! from an apartment a way's down from them.

They got up from the floor, and silently left the building, not telling anyone what they heard.

Gun Nuts Or Nun Guts

The unmarked black sedan pulled up outside of the twelve floor lowrise in Regent Park, Toronto, Ontario, Canada, parking the other marked cars in a drive way located at the back of the building. A red headed woman in a jacket and slacks stepped out of the driver's seat, her partner, much taller than herself got out of the passenger's side.

"Only two of them so far..." Halmand remarked.

"Any signs of a forensic van over there?" asked Tricia, as she checked the other side.

"That's a negative," Halmand told her, stepping over a distance to get a better look before circling around to return.

"Good. We might have beat them to the punchline..." Tricia responded.

"Care to fill me in on the details yet? Its a suicide... not our usual callout," Halmand responded.

"Eyes only. You have your orders Inspector," Tricia responded as she made her way around to the front entrance of the building.

"Thanks partner. Thanks alot. Last time I buy you a caramel macchiato for breakfast. All that sugar's clearly gone to your head," Halmand smirked at her.

"You know the saying. RHIP," Tricia responded.

"I know, I know. Rank has its privileges, but we're both Inspectors. Come on, as peers at least?" Halmand replied, knowing that one all too well.

"You heard me Inspector. Get me a filet o'fish for lunch and I might cut you some slack," Tricia smiled as they rounded the corner, arriving at the front door to the building.

A tall man (even taller than Halmand) wearing a ripped t-shirt and a pair of baggy pants blocked the first door into the building, a second security door lay beyond. He looked at them, his eye whites appearing stained as if with tobacco or some other more potent substance, his pupils dialated.

Upon seeing Tricia and Halmand he sneered.

"More babylon... f*ck..." he stood his ground as Halmand took point, the man blocking the door taller than him by two inches.

"You goin' in? Let me in..." the man started shuffling his feet from left to right nervously.

"We can't exactly walk through you big fella..." Halmand responded, neither backing off nor escalating the situation.

The man gave Halmand a long stare, obviously in dire need of something he could get inside of the building, though Tricia and Halmand were not there to look into such matters just yet.

Being very experienced in matters of the street, he held his ground a moment longer, knowing that if he maintained vigil over the door and that it was him that let babylon through, that he was still in charge because babylon was forced to wait for his permission rather than vice versa, meaning that none of the secrets contained within the building would be revealed inadvertently to any of the babylon pigs that had arrived that day to contend with dead army man's body.

This was the way of the street as much so as it was a secret way of the world, and a way about which few were aware. Ownership was a form of information control, and information, including the meaningful coincidences of the universe that revealed the secrets of those who failed to maintain ownership, obeyed these secret laws.

However, Tricia and Halmand were not your usual run of the mill officers of the law.

"Sure. I'll let you in..." Halmand replied with a smile.

The man looked at him skeptically, and then stepped aside, allowing him access, fully believing that he had the illusion of control.

Halmand opened and held the door for Tricia, who responded, taking a peek at the female security guard inside of the lobby through the locked door.

"Thank you Inspector, but she's more my type..." Tricia said to Halmand.

"I feel rejected..." Halmand turned to face the taller man, shrugging as he did, the man remaining behind Halmand closely.

Tricia then turned to the digital door guard system and typed a six digit code into the keypad.

The door unlocked and Halmand opened it for her.

"I guess you've gotta have the golden touch..." Tricia smiled as she went through the door.

Halmand then quickly stepped through the door, closing it before the taller fellow could get in.

"You lied babylon!" the man spit on the door, a loogie landing on the glass and sliding slowly down.

"No I didn't. I let you in the first door. You know the saying. RHIP?" Halmand smiled at the man, keeping his teeth hidden.

"Another day in the hood. Did the other officers go upstairs?" Tricia smiled at the security guard as she asked her the question.

"The security guard held her tongue for a moment, not seeing a patch on their uniform or any sign of them being police. She then wondered if they were from another jurisdiction, which might be problematic for the local power structures functioning in the community. Even the security wanted the secrets to remain where they were, and not to attract the attention of those beyond the borders of the neighbourhood.

"Under who's authority?" asked the security guard.

"We're insurance evaluators. We have to evaluate a claim related to a suicide, which alters substantially the payout. We need to speak with the police on this matter?" Tricia presented a business card, which had essentially been issued as cover.

The security guard examined the card carefully, looking for any signs of tabs indicating that it was merely a cheaply printed ruse of some form. She then looked at their suits, and then returned the card to Tricia.

"They're on the tenth floor," the security guard told her.

"Thank you," Tricia responded, Halmand pressing the button to the elevator.

The elevator arrived shortly thereafter and Tricia and Halmand stepped in, careful not to stand in the spilled pop on the floor.

It was a short walk from the elevator to the apartment, where investigators were still evaluating whether or not a crime scene needed to be setup.

Tricia entered the apartment first, a uniformed officer greeting her.

"This apartment is off limits..." he said to her as she stepped forward, showing her badge to the officer.

"What now? PSU*?" he said, examining the badge carefully, handing it back to her when he realized who they were.

"It appears to be suicide. Male. Around sixty years of age, though the poor guy didn't look it. What was left of him anyway. No note. Just a strange booklet on the desk with a hand written note. We contacted his email host and we're still waiting for access..." the officer told Tricia.

"We're taking over. Federal authority. Call the email carrier and cancel your request. If they ask, tell them that you no longer need access. Nothing else," Tricia ordered him.

"If you say so. I still think the poor guy just drank a bit too much. Probably struggling with depression and..." the officer continued, very much wanting to offer his input.

"Thank you officer. That will be all," Tricia walked down the hall to the bedroom that Mr. Dunn had setup as his home office, cringing slightly at the smell of a five day old body.

The piece was on the floor, laying on its side in a pool of dried blood, the padded chair in which the body sat upright soaked. The victim's gaze remained upward at an angle, looking towards the top of the nearby window, his eyes dried and covered in a milky-gray film.

"Under the chin... Hard to say if it killed him right away. Nine parabellum, though they don't look jacketed. Probably just shattered his his skull without entry and the poor guy just bled to death..." Halmand noted, leaning down on his haunches to examine the body.

Tricia picked up the booklet, reading the title.

"It seems his interests intersected with some of our consultants..." Tricia flipped through the book, then showing Halmand the cover.

"I'll be. Might that be related to why we're here?" asked Halmand, suddenly realizing the connection between this case and their previous case load.

"It might be. It might not be..." Tricia replied, examining the introduction of the booklet.

"He's a veteran... Look at this," Halmand said, holding up a framed photo of the man from when he was much younger, adorned in his full uniform.

There was a tap at the front door, and a familiar face stepped into the front hall.

"Wakey wakey!" Ed Farnham announced his presence, Somboon following behind him with a toolkit.

"Oh good, you brought your sidekick did you?" asked Tricia of Farnham.

"Like you said, but I'm still at a loss as to why you need a digital forensic specialist for a suicide?" Farnham asked Tricia as he walked down the hall to the office.

"Who you calling sidekick, red top?" Somboon asked her sarcastically.

"It was a compliment, not an insult," Halmand covered for her.

"Look, I need you to get into that computer and get access to... Mister Dunn's email here. We need to see if he sent anything before he took the short way home..." Tricia requested of Somboon.

"Sure, no problem red top. I'll just use my superpower here to get access..." he said, stepping carefully around the body and the pool of dried blood to gain access to the keyboard and mouse.

He then moved the mouse and the login screen appeared from out of the darkness.

He hit a key combination and a command prompt appeared. He then typed a few commands, creating a new account, which he then elevated to administrative access and logged in, removing Mr. Dunn's previous account password. He then logged out of the newly created account and logged in password free to Mr. Dunn's account.

"There we go. All done... Pun intended," Somboon clicked the mouse and opened the browser.

The browser's email client appeared and a list of recently received messages filled the screen.

"Looks like we can commicate with the dead. Perhaps he'll let us in on who put him up to this?" Tricia said as she examined the list of emails, looking carefully at their senders and their subject lines.

"Mouse is a little bit laggy... so's the computer..." Tricia told Somboon as she navigated the interface.

"Let me see that..." Somboon asked her, taking the keyboard from her and navigating to another command prompt.

He typed a few commands, and a list of processes filled the screen.

"There's a RAT!" Somboon cursed.

"A ray? You mean like an informant?" confirmed Tricia.

"No. A RAT! A REMOTE ACCESS TROJAN. Somebody's been remotely controlling this guy's computer... Oh damn! They even have access to the microphone! Shhhh!" he said, putting his index finger over his lips as he warned them.

Everyone went silent as Somboon played a game of cat and mouse with the hacker on the other end of the connection.

Tricia and Halmand watched intensely as Somboon isolated the trojan, and cut off the remote attacker, obtaining his IP address and MAC address by the time he'd finished.

"Got him. He's with the same ISP as Mr. Dunn here. From the looks of this IP address, he's part of the same address pool too. Probably in the building. If we can find the apartment, we can get material evidence using his MAC address, which will hold up in court..." Somboon assured Tricia as he took a photo with his phone of the log he'd just spit out on the screen.

"On what grounds could we even charge him? I mean 184 subsection 5 isn't exactly the deterrent it used to be..." Halmand explained to Somboon.

"I don't know. Maybe he knows something..." Somboon wanted his assistance to make a difference.

"Thanks for your help Somboon. If you hadn't caught that, our whole case might have been blown before it even started..." Tricia expressed her gratitude.

Farnham gestured frantically for the others to follow him. He led everyone out of the apartment and down the hall to another elevator in a closed foyer, isolated from the other apartments.

"Shouldn't we do a bug sweep? I mean if somebody was keeping an eye on this guy, this case is looking more and more like that other one we did across town... where was that...?" Farnham said to them as he tried to remember the location where they'd busted an illegal surveillance ring being run by sex traffickers.

"...Dunn Avenue..." a look of shock crossed Farnham's eyes.

"That's a coincidence..." Somboon suggested.

"Is it?" Halmand posed.

"Farnham's right. We should get a bug full team in on this. Setup a crime scene, and do a bug sweep. Have everyone remain silent and use notes to communicate until the sweep's done," Tricia told them as they got in the elevator and made their way back to their cars.

Something struck Tricia as strange, as she recalled the list of emails that Mr. Dunn had sent before his death, one of which was:

Sender:

sontant.garyson@vetmail.org. (Mr. Avery Dunn)

Subject:

Need help with surround sound and camera system. Any undertakers?

The email struck Tricia as being odd. For one, the recipient's name seemed eerily familiar, perhaps even cryptic, though the subject line seemed just like any support request made to a mailing list.

She'd known that vetmail.org was a free email service which intended to help veterans by providing them with military class encryption and privacy, all for free to those who could prove their service to their country.

Tricia wondered if military class encryption could over come the risks posed by a REMOTE ACCESS TROJAN, so she asked the only man who could answer that question for her.

"Somboon? Is encrypted email protected from a RAT?" she asked him as they arrived at the ground floor.

"On the host end? Yes. On the client end? No. The RAT was on the Mr. Dunn's computer, which means that whosever was operating the RAT, could see whatever was on Mr. Dunn's screen including his emails. If Mr. Dunn left his computer on, then the hacker could remote Mr. Dunn's keyboard and mouse to open the email and read it from the screen through the RAT's control interface," Somboon explained to Tricia.

"So if he suspected that he was under surveillance or was aware of it, he'd have likely tried to code all of his communications to his friends to let them know he needed help, right?" Tricia suggested.

"Makes sense. Its the age old question in cryptography. How do you send message to someone else that nobody else can decipher without pre-arranging some kind of hidden code?" Somboon explained to her.

"If you know each other before hand, you can devise a code without someone suspecting. Right?" asked Tricia.

"Can you? I mean if someone is really watching you, chances are they're watching for anything like that..." Somboon surmised, considering her question carefully.

"So you'd use communications in a context that sound like they're intended for a group of people, but maybe specifically encoded for a specific person..." Farnham suggested as they walked back to their cars.

"Maybe. Who knows until you're in that situation, and in the case of Mr. Dunn, I mean, how low do you have to drop to decide that the best way out is the short way home? I mean, when you're at that level, can you even trust anyone and if you could, how would you tell the difference between their communications to you, and your own paranoia about the situation? Especially if you've been traumatized and sensitized to such reactions?" Halmand reasoned, having a bit more of a background in behavioural science.

"He was sixty... right?" Tricia asked Halmand.

"That's what his ID said. Born June 29, 1964. The sign of the crab. A softie with a hard shell. Written all over the poor guy's end..." Halmand answered her.

When they got to the car, Tricia pulled her notepad, and began writing lists of words frantically.

"What are you doing?" asked Halmand.

"Its an anagram. The email..." Tricia said as she wrote out another rearrangement of letters.

"What email? You mean from upstairs?" confirmed Halmand.

"You're not going to believe this..." Tricia pulled Halmand aside.

"What, we're not good enough to be part of the insider's club?" asked Farnham.

"Eyes only. Thank you so much for the help, gentlemen. I'll give you two a shining report," Tricia blew a kiss to Somboon.

"Where's mine?" asked Farnham.

"You're a married man!" Tricia responded to him.

"I wasn't talking to you!" Farnham responded to Tricia, winking at Halmand.

Halmand waved with his fingers to Farnham as they got in their car.

"So what gives?" Halmand asked her.

"The email address. Its an anagram. Its a real email address, but its also an anagram..." Tricia explained to him.

"For what?" he asked her.

"Stanton. Stanton Gary On. Stanton Garrison. Someone who knows Stanton, and is sort of a garrison from the same force. He was sending a message to Stanton. I'd bet my left hand on it," she told Halmand.

...

Stanton sat at a table in the Fox And The Forest, a restaurant/bar that many of the power plant workers called their home away from work away from home.

Dave sat with Carol, beside them sat Hanna, who'd recently crested the age that allowed her to join her parents for a drink. Not only that, but she'd also aced a couple of exams which would likely set her up to be able to freely choose her university.

Elena sat beside Stanton as the waitress arrived to take their dinner plates away.

"Would you like anything from the bar?" asked the waitress of their crowd.

"Get another drink for Hanna here, and we'll join her for one more," Dave ordered theirs.

"Make mine a Shirley Temple please and thank you," Carol corrected the order, opting for the non-alcoholic drink, as she was driving.

"I'm fine thanks. I've gotta drive myself, not to mention, I've got a few cold ones waiting at home," Stanton thanked the waitress as he pulled his wallet and dropped his credit card on the table.

"Oh... no Stanton. We've got this. Really, this is for Hanna, and we're so glad you showed up for this," Carol stopped him.

"Can't turn down a lady," Stanton returned his card to his wallet, and pocketed them both, getting to his feet.

"Leaving us already?" Elena asked him.

"I've got to. I've still got a night's worth of looking up parts to do for tomorrow's maintenance sweep. Hanna, congratulations. I still can't believe that we used to go out with your dad and your little brother and play ball in the park all those years ago. You've come a long way and I bet your parents are real proud of you," Stanton ruffled her hair.

At that moment, Stanton heard a television at the bar, noticing a photograph of someone he'd not seen in years. Someone at the bar requested the bartender to change the channel, causing Stanton to run over to the bar.

"Wait! Leave it there!" he ordered the bartender, clearly not taking no for an answer.

"....Veteran Gary Matthews was found dead in his home today, he'd been dead for a week when Police found him, Police having listed his death as suspicious, not to mention they indicated he had ties to a group of militant survivalist preppers known as the Mighty Militia, who gained infamy when it was found that they were associated with a ring connected to the Fundamentalist Latter Day Saint movement. Mighty Militia is known for their violent activism against gun control legislation, leaving investigators wondering if there might be a connection in Gary's death, though Police have not yet commented further on the matter. This is Norman Ross reporting for CBC Evening Edition..." the videographer finished his report.

Dave by that time had caught up with Stanton at the bar.

"What gives big fella? Anything I can help with?" asked Dave.

"Gary and I go back a ways, though something's not right. Gary was never a member of anything like that..." Stanton seemed stressed by what he'd seen on the television.

"People change over time, Stanton. Maybe he went a different direction?" Dave suggested, having no experience in the subterfuge that oftened confounded life.

"Maybe. But I don't think he did. Look, I've gotta go. Thanks a lot for dinner and it was real nice seeing your family again. I'll see you tomorrow. Coffee?" Stantons suggested.

"Did you hear that? Mr. I'm too good to sit with the common folk here is lowering himself down to our level and has offered to have coffee with us!" Dave said to Elena a few tables away.

"I say we give him a reprieve..." Elena winked at them both.

"Then morning coffee it is. See you tomorrow big fella," Dave shook with Stanton, the latter leaving the restaurant and driving home in his F-150.

...

When he got home, he immediately went to the garage where he still had the equipment setup from the previous week.

He turned on his laptop and sat down in front of the large screen, opening his emails to see if he had anything he'd overlooked. When he was certain he'd checked every single one, the thought occurred to him to check his spam folder.

He quickly navigated over to it, and found a mountain of unopened emails. Mostly spam, but amongst them were some overlooked emails he'd missed.

One of them was from Gary and sent to an account that Stanton had not used in years, but the email was sent by Gary under the assumed name of Mr. Dunn, which explained why he'd probably missed it.

Sender:

sontant.garyson@vetmail.org. (Mr. Avery Dunn)

Subject:

Need help with surround sound and camera system. Any undertakers?

Stanton read the subject line, and realized that his message had been a cry for help.

Help with surround sound and camera system was a code they'd used during operations they'd taken part to refer to surveillance as conducted by unknown or clandestine parties. It was one thing to find oneself in the lens of a security camera, but when one found themselves in the lens of a camera or microphone whose operators were unknown, it was a very different situation.

He'd missed the one email that might have saved Gary's life.

And now, he had to look into Gary's situation as well, realizing that the veteran bodies were beginning to pile up.

Someone, or something clearly didn't want them around. Enough so that they'd dirtied Gary's history by associating him with activities that did not sound like the Gary that he knew at all.

Most people who upon hearing of such an association would simply write Gary off as a Gun Nut. Someone fascinated by weapons and killing as the stigmatic cliché often painted those who worked with them, or even members of the military as means to discredit them.

Jensen on the other hand had been painted as a Jehovah's Witness, which certainly would not have been the cave, given the fact that they abhorred the military and barred their members from membership.

"So they paint Gary like he's a gun nut, and probably did so to discredit it, meaning he knew something and they didn't want people to listen to him or take him seriously," Stanton said aloud to himself.

Stanton searched the internet for the rules of the Jehovah's Witnesses, stopping and reading when he found what was termed: the second witness rule.

"So these guys require two witnesses when reporting a crime, but they don't deal with Police... meaning that the Police likely don't deal with them, or hold some kind of grudge on those grounds... a tribunal justice system that doesn't deal with Police..." Stanton thought aloud.

"If Jensen was labeled a Jehovah's Witness, then that means that nobody would listen to him unless he had a second witness and considering that whoever did this to him, isolated him, that would be pretty darn difficult... They labeled him that way so nobody would believe him..." Stanton discovered a connection between how this racket, whatever it might have been, was silencing the people it targeted in the very communities they were being radicalized and murdered.

"Just like they did with Jensen, they basically discredited Gary. No matter who they went to for help, they were probably turned away, despite the fact that neither of them are Jehovah's Witnesses and neither of them are Latter Day Saints or with the Mighty Militia..." Stanton surmised.

At that moment, his phone rang.

"Hello?" he answered it despite the fact that it was an unlisted number.

"Stanton? Long time no speak. I take it you've safely adjusted to life after Tel Aviv?" asked Tricia, who knew that he'd been deployed to the region but not entirely sure of where.

"Well you know how it is with holidays. A bit of sunshine, a bit to drink, helps the body and mind to think. Though I have to tell you, the sunshine there is a bit bright," Stanton responded with his cover story, hinting at what he'd witnessed.

"So I've recently heard. I just called you to give my condolences about your friend? Mr. Dunn?" Tricia confirmed that she was on the same page as he about Gary's situation.

"Thank you, but I'm afraid that you've got the story about Avery wrong. He was never with the Mighty Militia, not to mention he was never a gun nut out to make nun guts if you catch my drift. I've had two close friends die by violence recently, albeit their own, and saw a long list of other similar tragedies. Mr. Dunn wasn't LDS, FLDS or a JW and neither was Alan Jensen, who I'm sure you've heard about?" Stanton asked Tricia.

"The shooter from that lowrise in south Scarborough?" Tricia confirmed that they were referring to the same person.

"One and the same. Now I looked into that situation, as much as I'm seeing what happened to Avery Dunn. Both men seem to have had their history and records altered in order to discredit and silence them. I mean, who would take a gun nut seriously, except in the arena of the threat they posed if found to be unstable, or better yet, socially engineered that way," Stanton asked her.

"Look. I don't want to get into this right now. I just called to see if you're available tomorrow?" Tricia asked him.

"We've got to do this sooner or later. People are dying. Honestly, I think we have a much bigger problem than we currently know brewing in society and if you're not seeing the pattern... we're in big trouble," Stanton advised Tricia.

"I'd say I have to agree. Would you like to have a coffee tomorrow? Around 6 AM? Should give you plenty of time before work," Tricia suggested.

"What choice do I have?" Stanton asked her.

"None at this point. Neither of us do until we figure this out. Meet me and the Rouge Hill Timmy's," Tricia replied.

"See you at six. Speaking of, watch yours. Your six I mean. I think we're in dangerous territory, even on our home field," Stanton told her.

"I have to say that I agree. You too. Keep your six, and I'll see you then," Tricia hung up.

Stanton then began to put together a list of notes in point form highlighting the topics that he wanted to speak about with Tricia.

As much so, Tricia from her home in suburbia did the same.

We Who Guard The Line

Stanton walked out of the Timmy's, a tray of two extra-large coffees and a box of donut bites in hand. He made his way down the walkway towards the end of the parking lot, the sun perched atop of the nearby canopy of trees that hugged the land as much so as following its curves into the Rouge Hill valley.

When he arrived at the black unmarked sedan parked beside his own F-150, he got in the passenger side and took a seat beside Tricia, closing the door once he had his legs in.

Tricia had turned herself and was leaning against the driver's side door, facing Stanton for their meeting, her notepad in her lap as she accepted her coffee from Stanton.

"Thank you Sir. You're a gentleman and a scholar," Tricia said as she removed the tab on the lid, taking a sip of her piping hot coffee.

"Thanks, but I'm a liberated man. You're buying next time," Stanton responded, drawing a chuckle from Tricia as he opened his coffee and set the donut bites in the space between their seats.

"So lets compare notes. Gary Matthews, who according to our records had been struggling with a variety of issues, including a personality disorder and the tell tale signs of other more serious mental health issues, a veteran with experience handling and maintaining firearms of the restricted variety ie military class weapons, an alleged - I'll give you that one though I'm going to need to confirm that - member of the Mighty Militia - a private military organization known for attracting preppers, survivalists, gun nuts..." Tricia was interrupted.

"...firearms enthusiasts... the label you used could just as easily apply to you in some circles..." Stanton corrected her, pointing at the Glock-18 concealed under her blazer, sitting in the holster beneath her left armpit.

"...let me finish please...known to attract firearms enthusiasts amongst other fringers of society, unemployed, anti-social and with several strikes against his record in the community as established by logged incidents, reaches a low in his life, perhaps struggling with issues related to dietary health and hormones, not uncommon for men that age given symptoms of thryroid disease of which I was informed by the Chief Forensic Examiner twenty minutes ago, opts for an early exit using the Glock-18 he had stored in a sealed and locked firearms container in his closet. This much is what was available in the press release and is now public knowledge. What isn't public knowledge is that Mr. Matthews decided to take his life after reading a scientific paper written by Bryce Maxwell, Stephen Briggs and Zheng Ni Wong. The scientific paper itself was in booklet form, which he'd picked up from a local post office a week earlier, and after having read it, and consumed three quarters of a bottle of Rye Whiskey, he wrote the statement and I quote: "I've been dronified..." :end quote on the cover of said booklet, and then proceeded to compose an email whose address was an encoded anagram that only people who knew the recipient would be able to decipher, sending it to a certain operator... ahem... whose agency of employ is maintained as one of this country's most protected secrets, and then Mr. Matthews takes his own life. The booklet is material evidence in my possession but once again, we'll get to that once we've heard what you have to share," Tricia put a check mark next to the first item on her list.

Stanton nodded upon hearing the first item on her agenda.

"First, we'll deal with what I know about Gary, comparing it point by point, my having trained with him when I first signed up. Insofar as the personality disorder and other mental health issues go, I can't really comment on that, as a lot of time has passed since him and I trained together, but I can tell you that under the duress of mission critical pressures and under live fire, he kept it together and never once succumbed to combat anxiety or what we call operator lockup. That's when a team member's stress peaks and they essentially enter into a state of shock. He made the cut, and like most of us that did, he was solid. Dependable. His life outside of training was seldom spent speaking about or idolizing firearms, though he certainly enjoyed hardware, and that much is apparent because after his tenure as an operator, he went on to become a radar tech from what I heard. Even had some time on the DEW line. By that point, I'd lost track of him, though as it is with most of the guys with whom we've trained, we'd know of each other's well being via soldier's intuition. A kind of connection that bonds the guys who trained and operated closely together," Stanton began to explain to her.

"Now insofar as him being in possession of a firearm with a license for concealment, that's the case with most of us that trained for mission critical operations. Its dangerous being out in the field, on call or on active duty, and despite the best efforts to maintain anonymity and protect one's identity, one needs security for the worst case scenarios. Fortunately, most of us who ran mission critical ops, did so in the interest of the people of the region we ran those ops, and that affords us a line of respect and a line of protection, but even the best protection needs a backup. From the evidence I've been able to collect regarding Alan Jensen's case, it appears that there is an organized social movement against those who run with the military. Both those of us on active duty, and those of us retired, though that impression arises largely from the cases involving what you referred to as fringers. Guys who by one means or another were slowly whittled away to the edges of social acceptability. Systematically rocked back and forth between some invisible dualistic paradigm designed to induce the symptomology of personality disorder, mental illness, or even substance abuse... and I say that at the risk of stepping into the precariously shaky ground of conspiracy..." Stanton explained to Tricia, pausing for a moment as he kept a close eye on her facial and body language.

Even he needed to monitor closely the people with whom he dealt in the case that risk arose when discussing matters involving active duty, more so as a means to ensure he was doing justice by those whom he represented than anything else, for Tricia and her partner had proven their merit to him on more than one occasion already.

"So you're saying that you believe the trail presents the possibility that these men were systematically radicalized? That would certainly line up with the association of a group like the Mighty Militia, which at this point is very plausible in the case of both the individuals you've mentioned. Is there something you're not sharing with me?" Tricia too was was astute when it came to reading interviewees, wondering if Stanton's protective nature in both of these cases wasn't linked to something a bit more ideological than professional.

After all, it was her job to be certain of such things.

"No. Not in the sense for which your digging. Some military fringers find their way in that direction because lets face it, when your life is largely spent training and in the field, your entire circle is a group of men who play with guns from the perspective of an outsider whose never been faced with having to protect the fragility of the structure of the society around them. It both hardens you, and streamlines your social circle and every aspect of your life from that point forward. You eat, sleep and breath the military life and mission perfunctory, and lets face it, on the outside, and yes, there is an outside, there are not a lot of people who can relate to that kind of focus and the necessity of having a solid and secure social circle with whom to throw off steam and what a lot of us who've found the balance call: keeping your eye on the ball. All of this around us that you see. All of it everywhere, is only possible with the safety and security of those ideas. Look at how close it came for a group of people several thousand clicks from us near the Red Sea to losing all of that in the blink of an eye. What keeps that region stable is that everyone living there knows the value of stability when living in the midst of such a polarized people. Politically and ideologically and those people on both sides of the fence labour their whole lives towards those ends, as neighbours and adversaries while other groups of people engaged in the ideological aspect of their mutual societies fight a war that's been brewing since 6000 BC, when a bunch of nomadic people got together and formed a city in the midst of blazing heat and blowing dust. They've been fighting over that tract of land in the name of ideology ever since, while the people upon which the power is built, toil to work the land, get married, have kids, feed their families and enjoy some semblance of meaning in their lives, all of them knowing that its their shoulders upon which this ideological platform of who should get to control that tract of land is. Every conflict in the region stems from this idea and the audience for it around the world is immense. Its the big show for many people. However, the further that you get from that place and those people who've been fighting that war in one way or another since almost 6000 BC, the less you'll be likely to find conflict that prevents societies from being built and that takes young men and women, and readies them to defend that stability. The divide between those who give their lives readying themselves to defend their way of life and those who don't, also gets bigger the further away you are from that region. Forget the ideological aspect, because this is about something that has to do with being hardened to the point you're ready to defend the way of life of the people around you, and the distance between that and those who've never had to defend anything in their life..." Stanton said to her insightfully rather than attempting to incur conflict.

"That sounds a bit prideful. Maybe even arrogant. Maybe that's a similar social factor in these cases? An attitude..." Tricia was cut off.

"Oooohhh... don't go there..." Stanton said to her, shaking his head.

"No. Hear me out. Maybe that's a psycho-social aspect that's been bred into people like yourself that when confronted, boils to the surface, coming out in different ways depending upon the person..." once again, it was Tricia's job to explore these aspects, especially in a series of connected cases whose similarity was continuing to rise with other such cases.

"No it isn't. Its the difference between how some people use the opportunity which they've been given to enjoy and explore their innocence, while those who've voluntarily or involuntarily lost it become the line of defense that protects those who haven't. From what I'm seeing in these cases, which are rising by the way, it seems that amongst the innocent, there is a rising sentiment seeking to erode the people who've sacrificed their lives to defend it. There's wolves amongst the sheep, maybe showing the sheep how they too can become wolves and run with their pack," Stanton said to her firmly.

She contemplated what he'd said, weighing it.

"You don't mean that in the ideological sense. I mean in terms of religion, right? This isn't a sermon I hope?" she had to confirm, for aspects of this case had gotten precariously close to the ideological grounds on the borders of religion.

"No. It isn't a sermon at all and I'm not using the anecdote of wolves and sheep in the sense of any religious text. Think of it as a reflection of society, amongst those who've been afforded the gift..." this time it was Stanton who was interrupted.

"...the right..." Tricia corrected him.

Stanton nodded affirmatively and in agreement of her correction.

"...the right to enjoy their innocence, perhaps for the entirety of their lives, with that right protected by a line of people who'd be willing to give their lives to protect it. In the midst of these people enjoying their innocence, there's a growing number of wolves hiding behind the power of collective, and their taking the innocent, those who've rarely if ever had their values and their innocence challenged, and bringing them into the pack, telling them that those of us who stand on guard are not the solution, but part of the problem. It starts with the soldiers, and then spreads..." Stanton presented an idea that had revealed itself to him upon examining the mountain of data that had been collected by Jensen.

"You realize that there's a risk involved with even entertaining this idea, right? I mean, taking the line... I mean the front. We're here. You and I. Behind us is what we're protecting. In front of us is what we're protecting it from. Whatever that might be. We're protecting the people behind us. We're the line. And you're proposing that we take that line, and get rid of it, and instead grapple with the idea that its no longer there. That the line is now on both sides of us, and that what we were protecting those behind us from, is now moving freely amongst us all. That's a dangerous idea and one that if explored without objectivity and discipline, stands to undermine everything upon which is built what you just said arose out of the fact that society is founded on the stability of being protected from... chaos. From that conflict that's been with us since the first time we picked up a stick and used it to smite something trying to kill us..." Tricia reasoned with Stanton on his theory, explaining to him the dangers involved in exploring or even entertaining such possibilities.

Stanton paused silently as he considered her words carefully and their implications.

"I'm an investigator. I have to deal with hard facts and evidence. Not idealism, rather objectivity," Tricia stood her ground, defending what she believed and trained to protect.

"Then we've encountered something very important here. A point of weakness in the line that protects us from what's out there what might get in here. When we're standing on guard, we're looking out into the distance for that threat from which we're defending the line, while you're looking to piece things together after they've happened, ignoring the connection between linked cases that have a common denominator that indicates the wolves are on both sides of the line now," Stanton too held his ground, for he was defending what he believed in and how he'd trained to protect it.

"The point is that we're a part of what we're protecting too. The moment that we separate them, is the moment that we forget what we're protecting. Now getting back to your objectivity, without discarding my propensity for keeping my awareness focused upon what's lurking about in the distance, I can vouch for the fact that neither of these men were members of or shared the ideology of something like the Mighty Militia. They were guys that were very much a part of this society too and I believe that they've been systematically ejected from it and that its happening to more and more of us. Like cancel culture on steroids. Our guys are being marked for exclusion and systematically ejected from society in such a way that leaves the onus on them. The trail of evidence is being altered to fit this idea and to reinforce it, and from what I'm hearing from you, you might be protecting it, which puts me and my brothers in a precarious situation. Now, what's this scientific paper that Gary was reading?" Stanton let her know that he was now being cautious and that they might have arrived at a point where the systems that they both represented exposed a weakness in their line of protection.

Tricia nodded, jotting something down on her notepad, which Stanton both respected and ignored.

"Its a scientific paper as I stated, written by Bryce Maxwell, Stephen Briggs and Zheng Ni Wong, based upon their work on a series of experiments where they explored the theory that the human nervous system is capable of behaving like a WIFI of the body. That certain individuals and groups are capable of connecting to one another via bio-electric phenomenon, which they measured with a high degree of accuracy, and that these effects were coupled by instances of..." Tricia stopped as she tried to recall the terminology, flipping through the book which she picked up from the dash.

"...I arranged for a conference call between us and the authors. I called them last night and let them know that when we got to this part of our discussion, that I'd be calling them to speak with us... Give me a second..." Tricia used her dash computer and setup a conference call, dialing each of the three co-authors in turn.

The phone began to ring through the speakers of the car.

"Mr. Maxwell?" Tricia greeted Bryce.

"Inspector Camden? Good morning. Just enjoying my morning coffee here in my office. We're on then?" asked Bryce.

"We certainly are... just give me a moment to get Doctor Briggs and Zheng on the line..." Tricia tapped the touch screen and the phone once again began ringing.

"Hi. We're all ready here. We're both close enough to the speakerphone that you should be able to hear us..." Doctor Briggs greeted Tricia.

"Great. Glad you could join us for this. We're going to make it quick and to the point. I've got another specialist here with me..." Tricia introduced Stanton.

"An electrical engineer. Pleased to make your acquaintance. Stanton. Bradley A, at your service," Stanton introduced himself.

"An electrical engineer? Great! You should have no problems wrapping your head around this..." Bryce encouraged.

"That's certainly what we're hoping," Stanton agreed.

"If you could just follow my direction here, I'm just going over your book with Mr. Stanton, and perhaps the best approach would be to sum up the end effects first on the scale of interpersonal and social aspects of your paper, and then you can delve into the science involved if Mr. Stanton has any questions for you. Alright?" Tricia confirmed with them.

"That's a good start. Stephen? Would you care to explain the concept on the human scale?" asked Bryce, handing their talk over to him.

"Certainly. Alright. The general gist of the paper on the scale of interpersonal dynamics is that two or more bodies can be connected similarly to the same way that a wireless camera and microphone can be connected to a WIFI hub or directly to another computer, like the kind you use for security and the internet, and that the entirety of the human sensory experience can be shared between people through these connections, including what we've termed as the mind's eye thanks to a phrase used by composer Jann Hammer, which could best be explained as the lens through which we review our thoughts and memories as a form of cognition directed by our conscious and sometimes unconscious mind," Doctor Briggs explained to Stanton.

"Let me grasp this. You're saying that two or more people can become interconnected and share sensory information? That if I was connected to Tricia here for example, that she could see, hear, smell and taste everything that I was experiencing by way of the same associated senses?" confirmed Stanton.

"That's correct," Doctor Briggs agreed.

"Its important to note that similarly, the mind's eye can also be shared, though from our research, we found that this phenomenon seems to be centered around cognition, and that cognition functions similarly for both the senses, combining and merging sensory input into an existential experience, and for the mind's eye, which is like the cognition of recorded experiences in the form of memories..." Zheng added.

"In a functional explanation, a group of people well versed in the methods used to achieve the connections necessary for these phenomenon, one person can be a source of sensory input for many others... and at the same time..." Bryce added.

"...like a drone... a camera drone, correct?" Stanton immediately grasped the concept, a chill running down Tricia's and his spine when they recalled the note that Gary had written on their book before taking his life.

"Correct. Very much so. We were able to confirm this both at short distances in the lab, and at distances of greater than forty kilometers, between two and then eventually as many as six subjects in controlled experiments, as Tricia requested us to explain to you," Bryce confirmed.

"The mind's eye that you described. What did you find about that in your experiments?" asked Stanton.

"We found that with willing subjects, that is those who consented and were following our instructions, that of two connected subjects via the WIFI of the body, that subject A could actively lookup the memories of subject B, so long as subject B was actively concentrating on or thinking about such memories at the time, and that illustrates the mind's eye hypothesis, that states that memories are recalled in much the same way that sensory input is combined through cognition and stitched together to become existential experiences, without the necessity to understand the underlying dynamics of how memory is arranged in the brain and nervous system, or the functioning of individual senses," Doctor Briggs summed up for Stanton.

"Could these effects be abused? Used for malicious purposes in the hands of such threat actors?" asked Stanton.

"Most certainly. Especially when combined with other invasive psycho-social techniques and social engineering. There are certainly applications for this in the field of human information extraction ie interrogation, not to mention mental conditioning, to either positive or negative yield," Doctor Briggs told Stanton and Tricia.

"Radicalization?" asked Stanton.

"The evidence would support it. Consider that the person to person connection includes the potential to alter the signalling of the human hormone system, ie the endocrine system and that the endocrine system is the source of homeostasis in the human body. The balance of hormones that yield calm and rational behaviour. Altering hormone levels can drastically alter behaviour, especially with regard to aspects of instinctual behaviour, such as the fight or flight response," Doctor Briggs answered him.

"Can you give me an example from your experiments?" asked Stanton.

"Sure. In one experiment we established a connection between two people and verified the connection using a criteria we developed. Once having done so, we told subject A to close their eyes and relax, while subject B watched emotionally moving videos and images. Cuddly animals. Bunny rabbits. Kittens and puppies playing and the such. We also showed subject B particularly thrilling movies such as being on an amusement park ride, or the first person view of jumping out of an airplane for a sky dive. We generally went for experiences that offered the most thrill and were highly likely to trigger hormone production in the person watching those movies and images. What we found was that in all of the cases where subject A and subject B were connected, that subject A experienced an alteration in their homeostasis associated with the movie or image being watched. That is, subject A experienced the same thrills that subject B experienced by watching those images. Now based upon this fact, our findings indicate that both positive and negative hormone production is affected in these ways, and that when larger groups are connected, again we tested up to six, that the effects upon hormone production can cascade between all subjects or be concentrated onto one from the other five, and that these effects stack. We didn't test stress or anxiety inducing experiences for obvious reasons and moral implications, but our experiments suggest that risk exists. Another experiment proved that the same effect could be achieved when subject B was given medication, in this case benzodiazepines, which cause the subject to experience euphoria. We found that in the case of both connected pairs of people and with groups of six, that those connected to the subjects who took the benzodiazepines, all experienced similar hormone production as those who physically took the medication, and that blood and urology tests showed negative for the signs of the medication in those who didn't take the medication. In other words, the people connected experienced the effects of medication where hormone production was altered. We suspect that the same effect applies with narcotics. One other issue we hypothesize is that subjects experiencing withdrawal symptoms from substance dependency have a sort of weaponized endocrine system against those who have no substance dependency issues, given the vast difference in homeostatis. To sum up what I just explained. Yes, these connections could be used in many ways. Certainly for healing, but also there's the potential for misuse," Doctor Briggs explained.

"Can you give me a few hypothetical examples of misuse involving two or more connected people?" Stanton requested of Doctor Briggs.

"Sure. I'll keep this in layman's terms. Group A have significantly different levels of homeostasis as a result of long term substance dependency, lets say of the opioid class, meaning that they're dopamine levels are significantly reduced and require them to consume large amounts of opioids in order to achieve the levels of dopamine that give them a high. Group B have no substance dependency and healthy levels of homeostasis. If group A connects to group B, there is a very significant chance that group B will experience the same symptomology as group A in terms of the hormones associated with withdrawal from opioids, not to mention symptoms such as extreme headaches or migraines and significantly reduced levels of dopamine production. When that connection is eroded, which occurs naturally over the course of one to several days if not pursued again by either party, group B's hormone levels return to their healthy levels and they no longer experience debilitating symptoms. Therefore, group A could theoretically use this effect as a form of extortion, demanding payment to avoid the negative effects, or forcing victims to pay others who have healthy homeostatis to cure them. The potential for abuse is significant and very possibly already a factor in society," Doctor Briggs explained to Stanton.

Stanton looked to Tricia, who now seemed a little more receptive to what Stanton had been speaking about earlier.

"How is this connection achieved?" askd Stanton.

"At this point, according to our experiments and our having formulated a framework of methods, it seems to occur as a result of the expression of extreme emotion, that is stimulating a highly active nervous system in one's own body and directing it consciously at another, again, either positively or negatively over a course of time which in some cases, took days for us to achieve while on the lower end of the scale it could take as little as little as seconds. Some of our test subjects also exhibited the ability to project this ability to connect at a distance. Part of our study was related to examining reported cases involving harassment, where individuals subjected to said harassment were affected in terms of hormones by their harassers, in some cases leading to criminality. These connections therefore can be achieved through both positive and negative means and do not require consent, though resistance decreases the likelihood of success. In cases involving ten or more active harassers against one subject, we found that no matter the resilience of the subject, that they could be worn down by such groups, again leading to criminality in one particular protected case that Inspector Camden might have the authority to discuss with you in greater detail than can I," Doctor Briggs replied.

"Its based upon the magnetic field emanating from the nervous system, but also involves quantum entanglement which we believe to be connected to certain classes of cells we isolated, known as mirror neurons, because as you know being an electrical engineer I'm sure, that a current flowing in a conductor produces a magnetic field and vice versa. A magnetic field passing through a conductor produces a current. Now the nervous system is essentially an information system, and all of the electrochemical current and magnetic fields associated with the nervous system are information rich. They carry information related to the functioning of the body, including the endocrine system. Given that information is biologically encoded and that the biology between two nervous systems in mammals at least is very, very similar and certainly so in the same species, the information encoding is essentially very close to being compatible across bodies. Insofar as the hormonal effects are concerned, some people are more sensitive than others, and this has little to do with willpower and more to do with the body's growth over time and biology, as well as acclimatation in highly volatile enviroments biomagnetically. So some people are very sensitive to it, while others are very resilient to it," Bryce explained the electrochemical aspects of the phenomenon to Stanton.

"Thank you very much for your information. You've been most helpful and its been a pleasure speaking with you," Stanton said bid them farewell.

"Bye! Glad we could help," Zheng smiled as she bid them farewell.

"It was our pleasure to be of assistance," Doctor Briggs said goodbye.

"We'll be going now if that would be alright?" Bryce asked them.

"Certainly. I'll call you if we need more from you. Have great day," Tricia disconnected their calls.

"Dronified. Both Allan and Gary suspected to the point of paranoia that they'd been placed under constant surveillance. The evidence fits. We're dealing with something else here. Its not an issue of disgruntled socially deviant veterans. These guys, like many other people I'm willing to bet were purposely targeted and systematically destroyed, and it seems that there's collaborators as well, helping whomever to achieve these ends. They might not like it when we start taking a peek under their carpets if you get my drift," Stanton leaned forward in his seat, clearly upset by how this evidence all fit together.

There was a protracted silence amongst them as Tricia organized her notes, carefully folding the free bits of paper and inserting them into the notepad, to which she clipped her pen and then pocketed in the inside of her blazer.

"I've got a one time offer for you, but you'll have to play hooky. Want to buy a reprieve for Jensen and Gary on the issue of their alleged membership to the Mighty Militia?" Tricia asked of Stanton.

"I'm not a big fan of them myself, especially where there's overlap with groups or ideologies that condone child marriage or protect child and sexual abuse. With that absent in their midst and from their perspective, as preppers, they're just looking after their families and their future, despite being a little gun crazy and social with only their own. With what you're suggesting, has membership to private organizations become criminal in this country too? Do you have plans to start arresting Girl Guides and Cub Scouts next on your agenda?" asked Stanton, who himself had spent the entirety of his life agnostic.

In his business, there was no room for ideology or zeal. During training, it was common to eliminate those who'd signed up with the mission of converting their fellow soldiers to any system of belief, especially amongst the top tiers. Hazing was the usual method of convincing such recruits that if they truly believed in their god and religion, that they'd live by it and keep it to themselves. Shape up or ship out.

In Stanton's perspective, their beliefs were a yardstick by which one measured themselves, and nobody else. If they saw another soldier wearing the symbols of their common belief, then perhaps away from official business, such soldiers would discuss their beliefs, but not while under official business.

When it came to laying his brothers to rest, they would honour those lost with their presence, but the rest was between themselves and what they believed and nobody else. Stanton was strongly of the idea that groups participating in beliefs that presented themselves overtly were simply doing so as a form of social marketing and a platform for furthering peer pressure to increase their revenues by drawing more members.

Most such beliefs and ideologies operated on a business model. The bigger they were, the bigger their treasury and real estate holdings. Not so bad a model under which to operate for a business, but not so much for any group selling the idea of a creation myth, a way of life and an afterlife and all three as truth or reality. Stanton thought this was the case especially where it exploited the socially vulnerable like the sick and the poor, or manufactured them in the name of crushing humility as a form of aggressive conversion.

When one was thrust into the depths of the pit, and convinced that it was a supernatural power in the form of a deity or god that put them there, they were essentially much more dependent upon and malleable to the people who'd put them there. In most cases to which Stanton had been witness throughout his life, it was simply a group of people using that impression as a form of power over others and as a secretive means of conversion. However, there remained an inherent danger in society if that illusion was suddenly lifted and masses of people became aware that they'd been duped, that the foundations of society might suddenly become unhinged.

Stanton was observant and had seen real situations where the randomness of causality had been violated while the harmony of being was somehow elevated, without a single person or human power structure in sight to achieve such an anomaly. Those moments, the way he saw it, belonged to whomever they'd been revealed by causality at the moment they'd occurred.

Given the nature of what it appeared that they were up against and with what Bryce Maxwell, Stephen Briggs and Zheng Ni Wong had explained to him, that any group, small or large who possessed such means to forcibly connect others to their collective, in the absence of a better word, could violate all of those ideas and essentially play god without the knowledge of those who'd been forcibly connected by such a group. The power of a group having complete awareness of a person was certain to be exploited for social gain and the only exception as far as Stanton was aware should be at the behest of the person whose privacy was at stake, via the sanctity of a select romantic partner and one's immediate family, entirely dependent upon their impermanent approval. It could be given one moment and vetoed the moment after.

Given the nature of Stanton's life and work, secrets were a must. Boundaries had to be maintained. The risk and danger of his activities and operations becoming the knowledge of the people he knew and loved was far too great, but the risk of those same secrets becoming the knowledge of a collective were beyond measure. Not just to him and his family, but to the very safety and structure of society.

With the direction that the evidence was pointing at that moment, it appeared that very thing happened with Jensen and Gary aka Mr. Dunn (which also begged the question as to why he'd chosen that alternate identity). Stanton had done the same thing with one of his hidden email accounts, using a name that secretly encoded his, while embedding a clue as to its purpose. Gary it seemed might have followed suit.

"We wouldn't arrest the Girl Guides or Cub Scouts themselves, but certainly those who'd violate them. Back on topic, if you don't mind? On the issue of helping your deceased brothers, you'd accompany Halmand and I to their stomping ground, the Mighty Militia and we'd be entering into their territory for a brief meeting with someone who's in charge of managing their membership roster. They know us already. We interviewed several of them with the permission of the State Department of the United States a decade and a half ago in a related cross-border case, back when I was a rookie. They'd probably be more willing to speak with you, a veteran amongst other affiliations to which I'm not privvy. If the evidence fits and we're able to get a confirmation and some copy to back it up, I'll have the association of the Mighty Militia struck from their records," Tricia offered Stanton.

"How'd it get there in the first place?" Stanton demanded to know.

"When we first arrived on the scene, a pair of cops were already on scene and had begun the process of determining as to whether it was a suicide or foul play. When we got a first look at the scene, we discovered evidence that the apartment was secretly under surveillance by an unknown party and were forced to immediately vacate before we'd had a chance to fully scour the place. We had to call in a bug detection team to ensure that the apartment was secure before we could allow forensics or any other investigators onto the scene. This is occurring more and more in private residences that become crime scenes, where a resident has no idea that they've been inflitrated by neighbours or others who've inserted wireless devices to spy on them from neighbouring houses or apartments or by outright clandestined organizations from vans and cars parked nearby. Our case would be dead in the water if a those connected to the crime were privvy to surveillance they'd taken during our scouring of the crime scene, not to mention compromising all of the officers involved. Both uniformed and plain clothed. We didn't find any evidence confirming Gary's association with the Mighty Militia on our first sweep, but apparently it was found after we'd come a second time, after the bug sweep, leaving the possibility that someone with access to the apartment between our two attempts to setup a crime scene might have gotten in an planted the evidence in the form of gun magazines, newsletters from the Mighty Militia, and a membership card as well. We'd be going there to confirm its authenticity," Tricia explained to him.

"And if I don't?" asked Stanton.

"Then the records of both of those men, Jensen and Gary remains the same given the lack of evidence, and both of these cases will likely be closed in a matter of a week and there'd be nothing, not a thing that I could do to stop that," Tricia negotiated with him.

"Alright. They'd do the same for me. When do we leave?" asked Stanton.

"Follow me. We'll go pickup Halmand, and catch a chartered whirly bird to Michigan. Bring your passport, or at least the passport of the identity you'd want to be known as..." Tricia joked with him.

"Alright then, my Alfred E. Neuman passport it is..." responded Stanton with a joke of his own.

Idyll And Mighty Michigan

Stanton sat in the back compartment of the Sikorsky UH-60, staring out of the window in admiration of the Ontario/Michigan scenery as they flew across the Canadian-United States border over Munuscong Lake.

The trees were by this time already lush with leaves and vibrant energy of spring permeated the air. Long gone were the large population centers they'd left to get there, with the closest being Detroit almost due south of their position and not much farther, Toronto which lay south east.

Tricia sat across from Stanton, she too admiring the view while Halmand sat on the other side of the copter with his own window, peering far to the south.

An LED display affixed to the same wall that separated the cockpit from the crew cabin illuminated, indicating that they were beginning their final descent before landing and that they should if they weren't already, buckle up and don their headsets.

Stanton pointed to the sign, and Tricia nodded, already knowing the drill. All three of them were already buckled up but they'd removed their cumbersome headsets to fully enjoy the view in comfort.

"You're back with us again I take it, over,?" asked the pilot through their headset.

"That we are. What's the situation? over," responded Tricia.

"We're approaching the LZ just west of Carlton Lake. From the looks of it, they're already there to meet us. We'll be touching down in about two minutes. The temperature's seven degrees celsius, and the wind is ten kilometers an hour, west to south east. I'd suggest wearing a light jacket or sweater, over," the pilot advised them.

"We're getting an actual landing? That's luxury. I usually have to use the fastrope from these birds, over," Stanton responded.

"Not today, though you might want to use the bug repellent. I hear that the black flies can be pretty nasty this time of year, over," the pilot advised them, though Halmand had already opened the medical cabinet and applied some to his exposed face and hands.

He then tossed a plastic bottle to Tricia, and then one to Stanton so they could do the same.

A few moments later, the helicopter came to a rest on a paved stretch of land just off of one of the rural roads. A small detachment of armed men stood a distance from the helicopter waiting for them while another casually dressed group of similarly armed men stood across from them.

Stanton opened the sliding door, stepping down from the helicopter onto the weight rated tarmack, turning to see if Tricia needed a hand. She assured him that she didn't which he already pretty much suspected. Halmand followed her and all three gave a thumbs up to the pilot, who returned it, the blades winding down as the walked away from the giant bird.

"Agent Brent Carver. American Secret Service. This are Agents Zachary Tyler and Joyce Armstrong of the U.S. Customs And Border Protection Agency. We've been informed that you're here as part of the investigation of crimes that occurred on the Canadian side of the border, and that according to the current conditions of our extradition treaty with Canada, we are to assist you with regard to your activities here today, reminding you that any attempt to apprehend or otherwise arrest a suspect would be a violation of the terms of our extradition treaty, without the proper court approved processes and paperwork. Are we in understanding? asked Agent Carver.

"Most certainly, Agent. Thank you for coming to meet us here. Our business today is purely to conduct an interview with a member of the Mighty Militia, who've already agreed as you can see," Tricia waved with her fingers to the waiting members of the Mighty Militia, who were very careful to remain on their private land, given the fact that they were in possession of armaments that could not be otherwise bore in public.

"We just need to see some credentials first, namely your badge numbers and passport numbers please," Melissa requested of them, pulling a scanner from her belt.

"Just hold the badge here first, and then the passport, making sure that the serial numbers of each are visible..." Melissa requested as she held up the device, and scanned each of their identity documents in turn.

"Thank you very much. I take it we don't need to search you for any weapons, concealed or otherwise?" asked Agent Tyler.

"We left our sidearms in the bird, where they'll remain until we return," Tricia responded firmly.

"Very well. We'll be accompanying you for your protection, though we're not required to be present during your interviews. We will however be close by in case you, or the gentlemen you're interviewing decide not to play by the rules. Do I make myself clear?" asked Agent Carver.

"Perfectly," Tricia nodded to Agent Carver.

"Alright. Lets make our way into Idyll," Agent Carver gestured for them to follow him to their utility vehicle.

He gave a thumbs up to the members of the Mighty Militia, who nodded and headed over to their own vehicles, getting in and starting them.

"Its kind of like being on base during a deployment," Stanton remarked to Tricia.

"I don't I've ever seen so much hardware in one place in all of my life," Halmand added.

"Wait 'til we get inside their compound..." Tricia said sarcastically.

"What's Idyll?" asked Stanton.

"That's the name of their compound. Its Romanized, derived from the Greco-Roman word eidos, which means of peaceful form. Its kind of like their version of utopia," Tricia explained to Stanton.

"Peaceful? Their idea of peace seems a bit off. So its basically heaven with guns," Halmand replied sarcastically.

"That it is... And lots of them, because the one thing that heaven needs is firepower..." Tricia replied just as sarcastically as Halmand.

"...and supply and ordnance.." Stanton added.

"That too..." Tricia responded.

They got into the utility vehicle and when they were all strapped in, they followed the caravan of vehicles of the Mighty Militia along a road into the depths of the woods on their way to Carlton Lake and the utopian compound of Idyll.

The stretch of road they traveled along spanned a few kilometers before lining up with the shoreline of nearby Carlton Lake. Tricia, who'd made this same trip before fourteen years earlier noted the many changes there had been since that time. For one, a number of new log cabin homes had been erected along the shore, complete with their own docks for fishing, though that aspect was heavily monitored and controlled by the Mighty Militia. They aimed for sustainability and had often used that aspect of their operations as a marketing tool for their way of life.

As they ventured deeper into the settlement, more and more cabins became visible until they eventually arrived in what appeared to be the center of the settlement. A large gravel parking lot was available for them to park, where they were directed by the militia members who'd just vacated their vehicles. There was a sign welcoming them to Idyll, as well as a sign with several wooden numbers hanging from nails indicating that the population of just under four thousand people.

Tricia got out first, Stanton on the other side, while Halmand followed. The Agent Carver had gone over to speak with several of the militia members, one of whom then ran into a nearby cabin and returned with a bearded man wearing a tilley.

"Inspector Camden...? Its been a while. Time's been good to you since the last time," he said to hair, offering his hand.

"Cal right?" Tricia confirmed, shaking his hand.

"One and the same. I saw the news and I take it you got what you wanted last time. I just hope that this time, its not going to be another stain on the lives of my brothers and sisters here. We lead a peaceful life..." Cal started with her.

"That's obvious from the firepower I'm seeing..." Tricia not being one to back down, responded sarcastically.

"You haven't changed a bit. We've a lot here that needs protecting, and when judgement comes down on us all, and your cities are on fire and burning away and your people are killing each other to find something to eat, we're going to need to protect ourselves and our children. And that day is coming soon and there will be a reckonin'" he said to her, defending his way of life as much so as she was hers.

"Well we're here to prevent all that. Not to vilify your family or take anyone away. We just need to ask you a few questions. We won't be long," Tricia explained to Cal.

"You came a long way for just a few questions. I mean you're talking about my hardware and you come to our land in Sikorsky UH-60? I bet there's enough firepower in there to bring most of us down. We've never had a murder or killin' and that's through more than fifty years of living out here, with our guns and shooting range and hunting expeditions. So I find it a bit hard to believe you're being sincere, for just a few questions..." Cal challenged her.

"Look. I have a man here, a veteran of some honours whose given a lot for his country and he lost some of his brothers when they went postal on some people who were causing them grief. The press is trying to associate the shooters with your outfit, and to pin the blame on the Mighty Militia in order to drum up more political support for gun control laws and to run your name through the gutter alongside those two men who've also both served for their country. Our Minister of Veteran Affairs thought that it was far too important to preserve the good name of the military, and to not allow these cases to be turned around and used politically to garner votes and polarize voters in both our countries..." Tricia explained to Cal.

Cal looked to Stanton, whose eyes remained hidden behind a pair of sunglasses.

"Is what she's saying true?" asked Cal, as Agents Carver, Tyler and Armstrong watched over them on one side, their sidearms holstered, and six militia men watched from behind Cal, each of them packing a mixture of assault and battle rifles from Kalashnikov to the Galil Garm.

Stanton removed the sunglasses from his face and looked Cal right in the eyes.

"I lost two of my own. We were from the same unit. Damn... we were from the same squad for crying out loud. I want to see justice done in this case and I will not have my brothers' names run through the gutter along with yours and your own, just to level up the career of some politician who has never had the where with all to put his money where his mouth is and risk his life defending his country or what it stands for..." Stanton looked Cal in the eyes without blinking, almost looking right through the man into the depths of his soul.

Cal got the shivers for a moment, and then when it passed, he nodded.

"Amen to that... A-f*cking men..." Cal responded, throwing his hand at Stanton's.

Stanton gave him a firm shake, which was fair and square, given what Cal had to offer in the way of reprieve for the deceased members of his squad.

"You have some time for the range? We could speak there? I'd prefer to know that you're the real thing, and not just a paid actor accompanying the mounties who came here with a well rehearsed speech to blow smoke up my ass..." asked Cal, now wanting to make sure that they weren't bluffing.

Tricia and Halmand both looked to Stanton, who kept his eyes on Cal.

"Sure. We could do that. My weapon? Your pick," Stanton gave him a cold gaze.

"Alright. Lets do this. Julian. Go bring me the laptop from my bottom desk drawer. It should be marked human resources... meet us at the range," Cal turned to one of the members of the militia, who then ran off in the direction of a cabin a distance from them.

"Why don't you bring your entourage here and we'll see if your friend here is for real..." Cal suggested to Tricia, as he turned and began in the direction of the shooting range.

As Tricia followed Cal, Halmand looked to her, his eye brows raised in an arch.

"Entourage eh? You're moving up in the world," Halmand said to her and Stanton walked beside them, catching up with Cal.

"We've got your usual run of the mill weapons, not to mention a few of the more exotic ones. We'll stay away from the sniper rifles and stick to hand guns, SMiGs and assault rifles. You think you can keep up?" asked Cal.

"I don't know. I guess we'll find out," Stanton kept his cool.

"You guys up for shooting?" asked Cal of Tricia and Halmand.

"It would be against our regulations for us to partake in it," Tricia responded.

"Awww... you're no fun. I would've loved to see how tight a grouping you mounties are capable of..." Cal said to them, Tricia regarding their little contest as little more than a case of testocerone and penis envy.

They stepped through the front door of the range, which was essentially a wide cabin with a opening and six lanes. It was sophisticated enough though that it had a target sheets and a conveyer to move them into place.

"They really take their shooting seriously, don't they?" Halmand remarked.

"Don't forget that this is the wild west..." Tricia replied as Stanton followed Cal to the armoury.

They stepped through a door into a large room whose walls were covered with glass cabinet, each of which housed several fire arms and variants on particular models. There were the more common handguns such as the Browning HP-35 and the more exotic Walther PPK. There was even a Gyrojet, a strange looking handgun whose ammunition was rocket-propelled rather than explosive cartridge based. There were Rugers, A few Sig-Sauers much like Dina's and an array of WWII Lugers, all of which Stanton had seen and possibly received fire from in the wild.

"The Gyrojet's a unique one, but I find it a bit unwieldy. Its more of a novelty," Cal pointed it out to Stanton, who examined it.

"Designed as a small concealable frame with a greater than average handgun range and accuracy given the propellant based cartridge. Its a very specialized weapon developed for specific scenarios, though its not very effective against body armour. Its quiet though, even without a silencer given its subsonic muzzle velocity," Stanton explained to Cal, holding his finger across his lip as if to say Shhhh!

"Huh. I didn't know that. How about the Walther? You into that?" asked Cal.

"Good for tight spaces, but poor accuracy over ranges that other handguns far surpass. Made famous by a certain super-spy in the movies... Not quite for me, but I'll shoot it if that's the one you're picking," Stanton responded, seemingly unimpressed.

"How about we do the Ruger, and the Sig-Sauer for handguns, and the P-90 for a SMiG. Cheaper on ammo that way, rather than the exotics..." Cal suggested.

"P-90's a solid reliable SMiG. Standard bullpup. Easy to maintain. Let's do it," Stanton agreed.

Cal used his key to unlock the cabinet and retrieved the three firearms, bringing out of the armoury and into the range.

One of the other members of the militia had setup the lanes for their shooting, which allowed them use all six lanes at once in a game they called Succession. Each competitor would start at the lane on the far left or far right, their choice. They'd then fire one round at the target in the starting lane, and proceed to the next lane, repeating the process until all the target had been fired upon at least once.

However, because they were using three different firearms, each of the target sheets would remain unchanged, and the competitor would then proceed to the next firearm, attempting to get the tightest grouping rather than the closest to the bull's eye. The winner would be the one whose grouping across all six targets was the tightest and whose total time was the least.

"I'll go first, just to show you how its played and done. I'm the champion around here in this particular game," Cal said, accepting the magazines that his brothers in the militia had pre-filled for him.

"Alright. I'll start with the Ruger," Cal said, donning his eye protection.

One of the militia men stood with a timer ready to signal Cal.

Cal stepped over to the lane on the far right. He lined up his first shot and slowly squeezed the trigger, pulling it fully when signalled by the militia man with the stop watch.

<POP!>

Cal fired the first and then stepped left to the next lane, getting quickly into position and firing again. He continued until he'd fired at all six targets, at which point the timer was paused.

Cal then accepted a new magazine, loading the Sig-Sauer, then once again moving into position and upon the signal of the militia man with the timer, he fired, repeating the same process.

When he was done, he collected the P-90 from one of the militia men, and got himself into position for his last pass.

The man with the stop watch signalled him and he for the last time, shot all six targets, jumping left to the next lane in succession until he was done.

"Yeah! That was definitely like my best run...ever!" he high fived one of his buddies as Tricia and Halmand watched in amusement.

"Total time... 31.8194 seconds! That's a new record around here!" the militia man with the timer announced, looking to a printed score sheet on the wall that was bound in a fancy frame that included a polaroid photo of Cal.

"Tightest grouping is 7/16th of an inch... securing Cal's score as a new record!" the militia man announced, drawing an applause from several of the other militia men and the women who'd arrived to see their competition.

"If you're the real deal. Who you say you are, you'll get close to that. Maybe about five seconds above my time and greater than, or comparable to my grouping..." Cal nodded to Stanton, who stepped forward to collect the Ruger from the militia man who'd reloaded it.

"That's a pretty tight score, not to mention the grouping... but like in a real combat situation, sometimes you have to learn to think outside of the box..." Stanton stepped up to the third lane from the left and got into position.

"You said the rules are that you have to hit each target once with each piece, right?" confirmed Stanton.

"Yep. Them's the rules..." Cal replied, looking a bit concerned with Stanton's starting position.

"You also said that you have to hit the targets sequentially, correct?" Stanton confirmed.

"Correct..." Cal agreed, now a little nervous.

"But not where you have to do it from..." Stanton turned and aimed the Ruger at the target furthest to the left from the third lane from the left, waiting for his signal.

There was a silence in the range as the man with the stop watch signaled Stanton to start:

"Go!" he yelled.

<POP!><POP!><POP!>

In the first three and a half seconds, Stanton had hit all six targets near their center of mass, changing position only once.

The militia man collected the Ruger from him and handed him the Sig-Sauer and started once again from the same position.

"Go!" yelled the man with the timer.

<POP!><POP!><POP!>

Again, all six targets were struck in their center of mass, and only three point two seconds had gone by, Stanton only changing position once.

"Now, given the stability of the P-90 platform and its bullpup configuration, I can further adjust my tactics to compensate for the fact that when I aim, I'll have to do so with my whole upper core and shoulders. So instead of moving to another lane, its far more efficient to fire in-place with this particular arm. Given the longer barrel, its accuracy will far outshine that of the handguns... like this..." Stanton got into position at the third lane from the left and lined up the first target.

"Go!" the militia man yelled.

<POP!><POP!><POP!><POP!><POP!><POP!>

The look on the face of the man with the timer was rather grim. He looked to Cal and then to Stanton with serious concern, and then back to Cal, who by that time had gone over to see what the problem was.

"That can't be right. That's impossible..." Cal smirked and then looked to the targets.

"Tightest grouping?" asked Cal of the man checking the target sheets.

"Uhhhhh... zero I think... He pin holed all of his shots on two of the targets..." the man held up a pair of the sheets Stanton had just shot.

Both targets sheets only had one hole, meaning that Stanton's shots from all three arms had entered the same hole.

"Time... Nine point three..." the man with the timer announced.

There was an awkward silence for a moment, and then Cal himself slowly began to clap. As he picked up pace, the others from the militia joined in, soon everyone in the range was clapping.

"That's the best shootin' I've ever seen..." Cal shook his head in disbelief.

"I'm sorry I didn't take you at face value... but comin' here with the Feds and blowing sunshine up my ass like that? I had to be sure..." Cal held out his hand again to Stanton, who gripped it firmly this time and shook hard.

"Well. That's the range for you. The targets remain still and they don't shoot back. I wish it were like that in the rough. Unfortunately in the case of the reason that we're here, our real enemies aren't using firearms. They're twisting this and this against us..." Stanton said to Cal, tapping his head and then his heart.

Cal once again nodded, having acquired a deep respect for Stanton.

"It was an honour. Alright people! That will be all. We're going to need some space here to talk if you don't mind. Charlie? Clean up the casings and return the guns to their cases. Now, about your questions. Lets get that looked after..." Cal began walking towards his office in the range when one of the militia men approached Stanton to take a polaroid of him.

He quickly blocked his face, as if deflecting a bright sun.

"Its for the high score! You want the credit for that, don't you?" asked the man who'd only moments ago been operating the timer.

"Naaa. Keep the score without a photo. Put the unknown soldier up there instead..." Stanton suggested, joining Tricia and Halmand as they followed Cal into his office.

"That was some good shooting, Sir," Agent Carver remarked as he followed them.

"Certainly was. I'd bet he's done some time on the range..." Agent Armstrong added.

"Glad you're on our side. We'll be out here, watching your back if you need us," Agent Carver, Agent Tyler and Agent Armstrong took their places alongside the door.

Tricia, Halmand and Stanton stepped into Cal's office, closing the door behind them.

"Now, what is it you're after?" asked Cal, leaning back in the chair behind his desk.

"We need to know if the two men we lost in the shootings we talked about have any affiliations with the Mighty Militia. As I stated, a lot of politics is at play here, and we don't want the lives of our veterans to be a currency in these matters on either side of the border. That would set an awful precedent for the future, and how veterans are treated with regard to such matters," Tricia explained to Cal.

Cal nodded again and grabbed the laptop that he'd had delivered to the desk by one of his militia men. He opened it and powered it up. The device woke from its slumber and after Cal had logged in, he was presented with a software interface to the package he'd used to track Militia membership and the standing of existing members.

"What are their names?" asked Cal.

"Matthews, Gary J. and Jensen, Alan G. Tricia told Cal, who then began typing in his search of his records.

"We have a few Matthews here, and two Jensens, but I can tell you personally that they're not your guys. They're all alive and well, not to mention there's only one of them older than thirty," Cal confirmed for them.

"Is that all?" asked Cal, a little perplexed that they'd spend all that fuel for a flight up into Mighty Militia territory.

"No. That's not all. But that's most of what we're looking for. In any of your recent recruits, have you had any cases of paranoia or anti-social behaviour without a connection to substance abuse or clinically diagnosed mental illness?" asked Tricia as Halmand and Stanton listed carefully.

"Anti-social behaviour...? That's a good one..." Cal began laughing at her question.

"I'm serious..." Tricia maintained her composure.

"Inspector Camden? We're practically the poster children for anti-social. We're pariahs here, so you've described about three quarters of us already with the anti-social moniker. Mental illness? We run into that occasionally and I have to tell you, that most people who've been crushed by big city life that find their way here to our flock... well... nature heals. Its part of the great work... They come here... bent out of shape... and then a few years down the road, and they're of sound mind and at peace with themselves..." Cal folded his hands across his stomach as he leaned back in the chair again.

"...and guns..." Tricia added, just to remind him who she was and why she was there.

"...yes... and guns... They're definitely at peace with guns..." Cal smirked at her distastefully.

"Any who've spoken of being under constant surveillance? Maybe having experienced problems in their community with being followed?" asked Tricia the million dollar question.

"Now that is a damned good question. Yes. We get those too. Every once in a while. Of course, when someone flees a community to come to us, we get a little suspicious. I mean, chances are that if you're running from something, there's a reason. Maybe it was something you did. Something you said. Something that tipped off the people around you to get rid of you... Maybe they're into kiddies..." Cal began.

"That's ironic that you'd mention that, considering that the previous time that we talked, fourteen years ago, it was in connection with just such a case. Someone closely associated with your organization. Someone who'd married a number of minors, in violation of the laws on both sides of the border? So tell me, what is it that you do with such people who come to you seeking shelter from the storm?" asked Tricia.

"Look. If you're asking if we harbour sex offenders or paedophiles? No. Definitely not. However, there are some of us who bend towards the old ways. Where a man was a provider and if in good financial standing and a pillar of the community, could acrue more than one wife as need be. Sometimes, these wives were a bit young... But that's a symbol of fertility and in line with the word..." Cal began, suddenly feeling uncomfortable having to defend the way of life of his ideological ancestors.

"Lets skip the sermon and get to your point," Tricia was firm with him.

"Back before we had this land and these laws, it was common to see young women as wives, and some of us here still cling to the old ways, though it is strictly forbidden and we spoke about this last time we talked Inspector Camden. Are we speaking about the case of your two deceased veterans or are you here to chastise me about our lost traditions?" Cal challenged her, suddenly regretting having let them onto their territory.

"Don't take it that way. We're in sensitive territory here and we're looking for answers to solve a problem that's leading to otherwise healthy and fit citizens becoming ticking time bombs, and unfortunately given the pressures often faced by our veterans, it seems that whatever it is might be starting with them. Like the same guys who taught me to shoot like that," Stanton quickly interjected.

"What do you do with the people escaping these situations that I've just described? Please just answer the question?" Tricia asked him again.

"If, and I emphasize if, through our background check we find that they're a risk to our women or children. Sex offenders and the like, we send them packing. We don't want the trouble, not to mention the publicity... If however there's a possibility that they can be rehabilitated... we take a chance, though we're very harsh to those who offend in our midst," Cal's eyes became almost as intense as had Stanton's when they first met.

"So you're saying that there are some who don't fit into the criteria of being previous offenders who remain and have the symptoms we just described? Complaints of being placed under surveillance? Being followed? Being harassed?" confirmed Tricia.

"Yes. There's a few. Maybe three who came here recently, that had no prior criminal record. No history of sexual offenses. Just generally forced out of society for whatever reason... There are those who are essentially used as substitutes you know? Sent packing with the blame for the actions of others, probably just to wipe someone else's slate clean?" Cal suggested.

"Can we speak with any of them?" asked Tricia.

"You could if they were here. Two of them left with a group of friends for a fishing trip a few hundred clicks from here at another one of our compounds but maybe there's one still here. A woman, in her mid thirties. Came to us three years ago from Detroit, pretty worn out from her experiences. She hitch hiked to get here, walking the last forty clicks on foot on account of the fact that she claimed that the driver of her last ride was one of them, as she put it. We thought it was mental illness initially, some of our older members claiming that she was inhabited or possessed..." when Cal reached the last word of his statement, he was interrupted.

"You mean like somebody else being inside of you?" confirmed Stanton, who looked to Tricia and then Halmand.

"I guess, kinda. A long time ago, they used to treat such cases of our particular denomination by way of torture. Corporal punishment. Psychological torture. Making the victim so uncomfortable that whatever else was inside of them would be compelled to leave them..." Cal explained to them.

"How would you evaluate as to whether they were possessed or not?" asked Tricia, pushing their line of questioning forward.

"Their behaviour mostly. I don't know because this sort of thing only happened a long time ago. We abolished it a few years before I was old enough to know about it, but I heard we had a case back when I was a toddler. Apparently they tortured the victim so much that they fell into a coma and died. A number of our members were taken from us and imprisoned for life for their part, and the rest of us abolished those aspects of our denomination and so Eileen, the woman who arrived three years ago, was allowed to stay. She took about a year before she could trust anyone again. Triggered very easily by justa about anything we did or said. She spent her first six months indoors, not speaking to a soul... except for her adoptive family, who tread very carefully during that time for her benefit. Six months later, she emerged from her cabin like she'd been hibernating or something, and she was mostly fine from there. Still some flashbacks occasionally, but I think she didn't go with them on the fishing trip if you'd like to speak to her? Assuming that you don't press her buttons like you tried to press mine," asked Cal of Tricia, looking at her accusingly.

"I had no idea I was offending you. Yes, we would like to speak with her," Tricia requested of Cal.

"Sure thing. I'll have someone fetch her and bring her here..." Cal retrieved a hand shortwave digital radio from his belt, and radioed one of his fellow militia men.

"Billy? Its Cal. Could you go have somebody fetch Eileen for me and bring her here to the back office in the range..." Cal requested of his peer.

"Is she in trouble?" asked Billy.

"No. Not at all. We just have some guests here that would like to speak with her. It will only take a few moments," Cal assured him.

"Alright. On my way. See you in a minute..." Billy's radio cackled and terminated their conversation.

Seven minutes later, there was a knock on the door.

"Enter and be reckognized..." Cal responded to the knock.

A tall rotund man in a baseball cap, hunting vest and khaki pants opened the door.

"You need her now?" asked Billy.

"Yeah. Let her in," Cal requested.

A thin but well toned woman stepped through the door. Her long dark hair fell gracefully across her sleeveless shoulders, a khaki day dress clung tightly to her, revealing a woman with a fit body who enjoyed both her farming and her gardening enthusiastically. She had a light tan across her shoulders from working under the sun, though her face was as pale as the moon, A fact that Tricia, Halmand and Stanton marked up to her likely wearing a large brimmed tilley while she worked, which they noted in case they had to find at some point in the future. This was the way of their observations.

Tricia for some reason, instantly found within herself an admiration for the woman. It was apparent from Cal's story that she'd been through a lot, but upon seeing her in person, it became clear that she'd landed on her feet and remarkably well.

"Eileen. These are Inspectors Camden and Hamland..." Cal began.

"Halmand... I'm Halmand," Halmand corrected him.

"...Inspector Halmand. This remarkable piece of work here is Bradley Stanton. A veteran and one hell of a solid shooter," Cal introduced them.

"Its a pleasure to meet you Eileen. Why don't you take a seat and if you're willing, could you answer a few questions for us..." Tricia asked of the lady.

"This doesn't have anything to do with the Agents outside your door, does it Cal?" asked Eileen cautiously.

"No. They're here to make sure we treat our guests fairly..." Cal assured her.

"And to make sure his guests treat him fairly..." Halmand added.

"That too..." Cal nodded to Eileen.

"So its alright if I talk with them?" Eileen confirmed with Cal.

"Inspector, we have a culture of distrust towards authority you understand. And so we tend to drive it home, especially with our new recruits... not to speak when there's heat around. The only reason that you're here and that we're still speaking is because you did us fair fourteen years ago, keeping us out of that whole mess, while making us better people. Regardless, we have to protect ourselves. So Eileen is just being protective of us. You can speak with them. They're alright," Cal assured her.

Tricia kept an eye on Cal for a moment to make sure there wasn't some other hidden dynamic at play. When she was confident that no such dynamic existed, she turned her attention to Eileen.

"How long have you been here with Idyll Eileen?" asked Tricia.

"Its been about three and a half years?" Eileen responded as Tricia observed her carefully, giving Tricia her baseline without dehumanizing her.

"Do you like it here?" asked Tricia, once again watching her carefully.

"Yes. Very much so. I really found something that I love to do. In the city, I never had a garden... so I never had a chance to try it. But here, I spend most of my day working the fields to make sure we've got a good harvest every year, and working the garden to keep me grounded, I really love growing sunflowers and watermelons, and I've managed to get quite good at it, not to mention, the kids really love it when its harvest time..." Eileen explained to Tricia, a smile stretching across her face as she spoke of her experiences, looking into the distance as if reaching for something close by while avoiding something else much darker at a distance.

A fact that both Tricia and Halmand noted, while Stanton observed that she was overjoyed at having sound a semblance of meaning and purpose.

"You came from a situation that was a bit difficult. Are you feeling safe enough to answer some questions about it?" asked Tricia.

"I almost forgot about that... that was a pretty rough time... but I think I can manage," Eileen replied, once again breaking eye contact as she pondered, then returning it when she'd come to an answer.

"Did you have problems where you lived? With neighbours, or the community?" asked Tricia.

"No. I didn't at least, but they did. With me," Eileen responded again, looking into the distance at nothing in particular except perhaps a distance memory.

"Can you describe the kinds of things you experienced?" asked Tricia.

"A lot of verbal bullying... not just from one person, but many... they'd accuse me of things that had nothing to do with me..." Eileen's eyes started to wander, as if she was looking for a way out.

"How many people? Who?" asked Tricia.

"All of my neighbours and sometimes people on the street too. They'd just speak to me through the walls, accusing me of things. When I went out... they'd follow me and do pretty much the same..." Eileen answered Tricia, after which she took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

"At any time during these experiences did you feel like you were being watched or like the people doing this to you could see and hear everything you saw and heard?" asked Tricia.

Eileen looked at Tricia in shock, shaking her head slightly.

"I thought nobody knew about that! When I tried to tell some people, they tried to lock me up. Told me not to speak to anyone about it. When they let me go, everywhere I went, they took my name from me... I'd be given someone else's name... and treated like that person... Then, when I started working at a local grocery store, they started giving the credit for my work to the person who had taken my name..." Eileen explained to Tricia.

"These people took your wallet you mean?" confirmed Tricia.

"No. They took my name, and everyone in the community treated me as if I wasn't myself, but I was instead another person. I think that someone else was walking around wearing my name and my identity too. When I went to the Doctors to get checked out, I found out that a bunch of things in my medical records had been changed. My blood type. My menstration history. There were even records of my having contracted sexually transmitted diseases that I've never had. Even a pregnancy..." Eileen explained to Tricia.

"What about your government records? Your tax history and your social security number? Did anything happen with those records?" asked Tricia, knowing that their system was much different than the Canadian system and Ontario where she lived and worked.

"No. My tax history was unaffected... but things like medical records and my library history were definitely altered..." Eileen began to shrink in her chair as she thought about it.

Tricia looked to Stanton, who nodded to her, putting up his hand.

"Go ahead..." Tricia allowed Stanton a question.

"When you were experiencing these situations of feeling like you were being watched or that other people could see and hear everything you were seeing and hearing, did anything happen to confirm that for you?" asked Stanton of her.

"Uhhhhh... yes. I'd be reading a book sometimes and one or more of my neighbours would immediately began using statements taken directly from the book and the exact part I was reading..." Eileen explained to him.

"Were you reading an ebook, like from a phone or tablet?" asked Stanton.

"No. It was a paperback. I remember it clearly too. The words they chose to mock me about were very rarely used in spoken language. I think the word that stuck out most was circumspective. It was used in a court room drama I was reading. They spoke it in mockery of me as I was reading it, using the word several times to harass me. Maybe even to scare me and let me know they could see everything I saw. It was like they were reading over my shoulder, but I was lying down on my bed in my apartment and on my back... so how could they?" Eileen asked them.

"They used to interrupt my private time too. I don't really like talking about this with men around..." Eileen paused as she looked at Tricia.

Tricia turned to face Cal, and then Halmand and Stanton. The three men looked at each other, and then Stanton nodded.

"Lets go. But just for a minute," Stanton told them.

Halmand kept his silence while Cal watched Eileen carefully as he opened the door and let the other

two out into the range, following them and closing the door after himself.

Tricia looked at Eileen for a moment and lowered her voice.

"Your private time. I take it you mean the time that you use to relieve pressure, right. Relieve stress?" asked Tricia.

"Self love. Yes. They often used to interrupt that. It was like they were trying to rape me through the walls... and when I was my most vulnerable. Like I couldn't get any relief at all. They'd do this when I was in bed or having a bath. They seemed to be obsessed with it... and this took on a very scary aspect when I learned they could see out of my eyes and hear through my ears..." Eileen explained.

"Men did this?" confirmed Tricia.

"Both. Sometimes men. Sometimes women. Sometimes light skinned, like me, sometimes dark skinned. Like they were see-sawing me between extremes... and using that to build pressure, which without peace... or self love... I couldn't release the pressure... the weight..." Eileen explained to Tricia, who despite having to appear almost like a machine absent, of emotion or sway, knew exactly what Eileen was speaking about.

"Are we done on the private bits?" asked Tricia of her.

"I think so. Its really hard to speak about something like that..." Eileen nodded to Tricia.

"You're doing fine," Tricia assured her.

"Alright! The men may return!" Tricia yelled and a moment later, there was a knock on the door to confirm they'd heard correctly.

"Enter..." Tricia confirmed.

They filed in and returned to their respective seats, each of them remaining silent, Cal suddenly dropping a pen with which he'd been playing.

"Sorry..." he said awkwardly, bending over to pick it up.

After he'd returned to his seat, Eileen finished her testimony.

"This went on for a two years, getting more and more aggressive with each day... until I burst one day in public... I began swearing and ranting and crying... stomping my feet. I remember that it was raining. The people walking by me were all harassing me as they walked by. Each person contributing a small piece of it... and that over time those small pieces eventually became too heavy for me... and I exploded in a scream and tears... yelling at them to leave me alone. They just ignored me and walked around me," Eileen explained.

"Did you report these incidents to the authorities?" asked Tricia.

"Yes. I tried to. But when I did, I found out that somebody had already reported the incident of my nervous breakdown, and it turned into a situation that was very detrimental to me. I ended up in a holding cell for a day and when I was let go, I was put under community watch as a risk of suicide, meaning that the very people who abused me now had access to me twenty-four seven without interference. If I reported them, I'd likely have gone back to the holding cell. So one day, I decided to save up my money, and I called in sick, but instead I left home with a knap sack of clothes, toiletries and the money I'd saved and I never looked back. I took a bus as far north from Detroit as I could afford, and hitch hiked to a town, where I found a sign on a lamp post about the Mighty Militia, and so I walked there..." Eileen told them her story.

"Would you write down your full name and social security number if I gave you a sheet of note paper? We could use this information to help us with our case, and maybe, though I'm not promising anything, we might be able to help you with yours," Tricia explained to Eileen.

Eileen looked to Cal, who put his finger on his chin as he thought about it for a moment. Tricia looked over to him accusingly, but by that time he'd returned an affirming glance to both Tricia and to Eileen.

"Alright. But don't share it with them..." Eileen agreed, accepting a piece of note paper upon which she scribed her name and social security number, then handing it back to Tricia.

"I think that we're done here?" Tricia looked to each of the men in the room, all of whom nodded in agreement.

"Care to walk us to our ride?" asked Tricia of Cal.

"Sure. I can do that," Cal agreed, getting to his feet.

"Thank you. I can't tell you how liberating it feels to finally have been able to speak about this with someone who didn't try to lock me up as soon as I spoke," Eileen said to Tricia, then looking in turn to Halmand and then Stanton.

"I'm glad I could help," Tricia winked at Eileen.

"Me too I hope," Eileen responded and with that, they filed out of the office and into the range.

"You're finished I presume?" asked Agent Carver of Tricia.

"Most certainly and graciously so. I'm glad that we were able to come to a concensus on a number of issues and if we need your assistance again, we'll be in contact," Tricia shook hands with Agent Carver, and then Cal as Halmand and Stanton followed Agents Tyler and Armstrong back to the vehicles.

Cal caught up with them and walked beside Stanton.

"If you're ever out this way, and feel a hankering to shoot, or just shoot the breeze, you're welcome here any time," Cal assured Stanton.

"I'll keep that in mind. Thanks for helping my deceased brothers in this situation, but I think in the end that it will help us all," Stanton held out his hand once again, giving Cal a good firm shake.

"Inspector Camden. I can't honestly say that your visit was all sunshine and roses, but at least we made some progress," with that Cal turned and left.

"Remember what I said," Tricia responded.

"And remember what I did," Stanton added for Cal as he walked away.

Stanton then turned to Tricia and nodded to her with genuine respect.

"And that my friends is how its done," Halmand smiled, looking to Agents Carver, Tyler and Armstrong.

"I heard that loud and clear," Agent Carver got into the driver's seat, and the rest piled in the utility vehicle to their respective places.

They then drove the ten minute trip to the landing tarmac where the helicopter lay in wait, the pilot finishing an ice cold bottle of cola as they arrived.

"Oh, that reminds me!" Tricia said in sudden realization.

She quickly fished her notepad out and wrote out a copy of Eileen's identity information and gave it to Agent Carver, who read it and seemed perplexed.

"What's this for?" he asked Tricia.

"Could you perform a full background check on her, paying special attention to any changes made to her records that are logged in the administrator's transactions and getting back to me if you find any discrepancies?" requested Tricia of Agent Carver.

"Sure. We can do that. Its about five hundred USD, but seeing as its for one of our own, we'll simply do an information trade instead. When I find something I need, I'll call you and you'll return the favour, all within the confines of the rules of the treaty, agreed?" asked Agent Carver.

"Agreed. If you find any discrepancies in the transactions, I'd look into it if I were you. Backtrack, finding all the parties whose transactions they were and questioning them with regard to the nature of the changes. We might have a clandestine organization that infiltrated infrastructure that is utilizing resources to such effect. The evidence is pointing in that direction, but its a bit early to cry wolf. We're looking into the same possibility on our side," Tricia explained to Agent Carver.

"Stay safe, Inspector Camden. Inspector Halmand. Mr. Stanton, it was an honour," Agent Carver bid them farewell as the pilot primed the rotor motors, warmed up the carburator and completed his flight check.

They got into the Sikorsky and within three minutes, the blades lifted the giant bird into the sky as they flew, the late afternoon sun on their back.

...

Back at Idyll, Billy made his way along the wooden boardwalk to his favourite private spot, where he stopped and pulled a cellular phone from his pocket. When he was certain that nobody was around, he hit the speed dial on a number marked as Salvage and Supply.

The phone rang and a moment later, somebody answered.

"Are they still there?" asked Foller.

"No. They just left. Twenty minutes ago," Billy explained to Foller.

"Did you managed to hear anything?" asked Foller.

"Not a thing. They had Secret Service detail with them as well as the Border Service Agency," Billy responded.

"How long did they speak?" asked Foller.

"For about forty minutes. I'm not sure about what," Billy told Foller, looking around nervously.

"That's all?" Foller seemed unimpressed.

"No, that's not all. They also had some veteran guy with them. Cal thought he was an actor, but the guy just killed Cal's record at the range. He's like some kind of retired special forces guy or something..." Billy explained to Foller, whose laughter began quietly at first, rising until he'd run out of breath.

"Just when I thought things were going so well... and that nothing could go wrong..." Foller caught his breath, dealing with his stress carefully and in a calculated yet chaotic manner.

"He said his name was..." Billy began before he was interrupted.

"Don't tell me... Stanton. Bradly A," Foller made his guess.

"How'd you know? Do you know him or something?" asked Billy.

"I certainly do. Me and him, we go way back," Foller smiled.

"So are we on for my payment?" asked Billy.

"We certainly are Billy my good friend. Check your account tonight, and be careful how you spend it," Foller insisted to the hefty man in the baseball cap.

...

Cal sat in his office in the range, finishing his day's emails when his phone rang.

"How are you Cal? How's you day going?" asked a man on the other end of the phone.

"Harner? Its been a while. What can I do for you?" asked Cal.

"Its not so much what you can do for me as what I can do for you. You're not going to believe this, but I just tagged a call that came in on the honeypot tower we installed, and it originated from inside of your compound from a man named Billy, who's phone number is 1#2975#948. He spoke with someone on a line that I wasn't able to trace. Not given that fact, there are generally only two, maybe three possibilities. One, the guy spoke to a competing tobacco supplier other than our usual Native supplier from the reserve or two, the guy just spoke to a spook," Harner explained to Cal.

"Billy? Is that so. Did you get the call on recording?" asked Cal.

"As a matter of fact, I did. But its going to cost you extra. A thousand, but its worth it. Believe me," Harner told Cal.

"A thousand simoleons huh? Alright, you drive a hard bargain but you have a deal. Send it encrypted to my email using the public key I gave you. Got it?" Cal ordered Harner.

"Will do. I'll be looking for it tomorrow. Thanks for your business," Harner responded, hanging up.

"It seems that we have some unwanted vermin in our midst..." Cal said as he dialed another number on his phone.

Over The Top

Farnham walked the hall between the cafeteria on the second floor, on his way to the offices of homocide division on the fourth. He had a fresh cup of cola in his hand which he'd just opened to take a sip as he waited for the elevator to arrive.

The door opened, and a group of big burly cops appeared from the other side, struggling to retain their hold on a large bear of a handcuffed man, who resisted their effort to hold him fast. His short hair and long beard were what caught Farnham's attention first. He wore no shirt and the man's body was covered in tattoos, some of them artisticly rendered with immense detail, while others appeared to be quickly home made, perhaps with a needle and indian ink by one of his drunken friends.

Farnham's first thought was that the man was likely a biker, for whom they had a warrant but when he got a whiff of the stench of whiskey trailing the man, he wondered if there wasn't more to his story. He backed up to give one of the cops holding the brute some room, when Farnham noticed an insignia on the man's forearm. It was an insignia he'd seen before on men who'd done military service and Farnham's perspective was immediately transformed.

The man suddenly broke free, throwing two of the cops backwards into the wall of the elevator, then charging forward to burst out through the elevator doors and into Farnham himself, sending him backwards into a wall and then to the floor, and covering him in the cola he'd just bought from the cafeteria.

The man stopped long enough to take in Farnham's state of being, and then uttered a few drunken words in his direction:

"Sorry 'bout that. Nothing personal..." the man said to him as the three cops who'd lost hold of him grabbed his arms and wrested him backwards into the elevator again.

Another cop from traffick helped Farnham to his feet.

"Ready to come back to uniform duty yet?" the cop asked him, looking at Farnham's reasonably expensive white shirt, which was now stained with cola.

Farnham brushed himself off and then turned to the traffick cop.

"Do you know this guy?" asked Farnham, pointing to the brute in the elevator who'd seemingly run out of energy as he remained against the wall of the elevator, breathing heavily.

The cops who'd restrained him were as much so in the same condition, sweat pouring from their foreheads as they struggled to regain their breath.

"No, but from the rant I heard from him downstairs, he's a bit deluded. Claims he's a veteran and that he's being treated unjustly and so on and so forth. You know the speal... Like those guys that pretend to be undercover cops. I was doing traffic duty the other day near Dundas and Sherbourne and this guy on the sidewalk tried to bag* me by selling this poor strung out girl some crack cocaine..." the cop went on as Farnham tried to interrupt.

"Hold a second there..." Farnham urged the traffic cop.

"...right there, in broad daylight. So I stopped traffic and flagged the guy down, and went over to him to do a substance check, and he claimed to be undercover. Go figure eh? You know, in this city, they just use that as camouflage so that other citizens protect them during the commission of a those kinds of crimes..." he paused for a moment and then continued.

"I had this one time where there was this guy humping a working girl right outside of the elevators of one of those lowrises in the area. That one that has all the problems with a sex trafficking ring for guys that have a brown fetish. Anyway, I yell at the guy and ask him what he's doing. He gets all bent out of shape and stands up and is like bigger than me. Looks a bit older too. He asks me, how old are you? So I tell him something anyway, and he says: I'm 52, as if he was trying to say he was undercover with 52 division... Meanwhile I've seen the guy on my beat, with a different girl every time... Its wonder how that kind of stuff is still going on!" the traffic cop tried to continue but Farnham finally cut him off.

"Sorry buddy, I'm fishing salmon and you're fishing trout. Fill out the paperwork on that, get the ball rolling and you might get a different beat, or promoted... I gotta go..." Farnham turned to the elevator and tried to boarrd.

"Joey! Who is this guy?" asked Farnham when he recognized one of the cops restraining the brute.

"Whew! He's... drunk for certain, though thankfully he hasn't soiled himself... yet. He's a veteran and a drunk and a bit of a trouble maker too from his record..." Joey responded.

"Where are you taking him?" asked Farnham.

"We've got to book him and throw him in a cell... alone until he sobers up. He'd make mince meat of everyone in holding, cuffed or not. Poor Damien got his nose broke. Right on the scene, trying to cuff him," Joey explained to Farnham.

"I'm coming with you. I want this guy's name, service, regiment and veteran's card number if you could. I've got two cases upstairs, and there's five bodies in the fridge awaiting answers," Farnham explained to Joey.

...

Farnham sat in a chair outside of the cell, his eyes fixated on a photo he held in his hand that had been in the veteran's wallet, one of three such photos of this poor disheveled man from better times.

The first photo, and the one upon which his attention was focused was that of a tall strong man, clean shaven, in his combat kit, a beret perched atop of his head. On each shoulder sat a child, presumably from the Middle East. Taken in Afghanistan Farnham figured. He held the children safely in place, each wearing a big smile and very obviously full of joy, a much smaller but no less poingnant woman in a shall and Muslim headress stood beside him. The four of them caught in a moment that had likely taken place between the dangers of his tour.

The other two photos depicted similarly, a man who was deeply devoted to his tasking and to the people he was there to protect. Again, another family, this time one who'd not lost their father in the fighting. Three children, two little girls and a little boy stood beside the soldier, their mother on one side and their father on the other. All of them were smiling and it was very obvious that this man had not brought death and destruction to the region, but joy, levity and a heart for his duty.

Farnham lowered the photo, his vision now focusing on a slightlier heavier but no less imposing man, sweat and filth covering his upper body, his greasy beard dangling over the edge of the steel bed as he slept off his whiskey fueled escape.

Farnham wondered what it would take to break a man who'd seen live fire and lost friends in the hell of battle. A man who between such difficult and dangerous operations found the time to put smiles on the faces of families.

What on Earth could make the man in these photos, into the man that lay on that steel bed, snoring like a sawmill.

Farnham stood, returning the photos to a small semi-permeable baggie he'd obtained from forensics and pocketed them, before turning off the light and closing the door behind him as he left.

...

fifteen hours later, the door opened and Farnham entered the same room, two coffees in a tray along with a generous bag of donut holes on the other half of the tray. He hit the switch, and the lights flickered to life as the man in the cell sat up, shaking his head after which he rubbed his eyes.

"Where am I?" he asked Farnham, who after taking several donut holes from the bag, squeezed them through the bars, handing them to the man on the other side.

The man accepted them, putting them down on the steel bed beside him, then reaching in an palming several of donuts and cramming them into his mouth simultaneously.

"Is that coffee for me?" he asked Farnham.

"I don't see anyone else here?" Farnham said to him sarcastically.

"What about your partner?" the man asked.

"He's probably playing Pac-Man on CPIC or something like that. He's not an old timer like me," Farnham replied, opening the tray dispenser through which he slid the coffee to the man.

He accepted it, and pulled the tab from the lid, quickly rinsing his mouth with coffee, following it with another mouthful of donut holes.

"So. You've got a home, I take it?" Farnham asked the man.

"No. I've got a place where I sleep and keep all of my stuff, but its not exactly what I'd prefer to call home. Its just a place that I ended up, filed away as someone else's problem I presume," he told Farnham.

"Well, you certainly are now. I mean you broke an officer's nose. Resisting arrest is a fairly serious charge. If you'd have played easy yesterday, you would have simply received a fine for a drunk and disorderly, maybe public mischief. Instead, you chose to take it out on the guys sent there to calm you down. However, the guy who's nose you broke, elected not to press charges on account of the fact that he said it was an accident. That your head bumped his nose while he was trying to cuff you. I happen to know that officer and chances are, he cut you some slack because you're a veteran. His father was in the infantry, too. Reg forces. So I guess he kind of has a soft spot for someone like you, but not everyone does," Farnham explained to him.

"Tell me about it. This world really changed some over the last two decades. Its almost unreconizable now. I can't believe its the same place," the man said to Farnham, who much like the man on the other side of the bars, remembered a much different world.

"So, the question is are you sober? Am I going to have to run you through a breath-a-lizer?" asked Farnham.

"I'm sober. I've got a headache like there's no tomorrow and certainly could use a bit of the hair of the dog that bit me yesterday, but I'm sober. So are you going to put me in general population or whatever it is you call it, or do I gotta hit another one of you?" he asked Farnham.

"So you want to be here?" Farnham confirmed he'd heard the man right.

"I didn't say that. I said I have a place where I sleep and put my stuff, but I don't call it home. Hell would be a better name for it, because that's what it is," the man explained to Farnham.

"Is that a confession? Is there something on your conscience you'd care to talk about?" asked Farnham, now wondering if maybe the man wasn't harbouring a grim secret of some form that was coming to the surface only now in the form of guilt.

"Do I look guilty?" he asked Farnham, looking him squarely in the eye like a man who'd been places Farnham likely couldn't fathom.

"You look... like someone who needs help. You're talking however, like someone who's hiding something," Farnham responded, taking a sip of his coffee.

"I'd just rather stay here. So put me with everyone else and I'll keep to myself. I promise," the man requested of Farnham.

"Do you owe something to someone at your place? Someone dangerous maybe? Drugs? A Pimp maybe? Are thugs bothering you?" asked Farnham, not exactly evaluating the situation as best as he could have.

"You're a bit older than me. You look like you could handle yourself, against a drug dealer or a pimp without issue. Look at me. Do you think that you could handle me? If you come to an honest answer on that, you'll know that a drug dealer, or five of them, or a pimp, or five of them would mean nothing to me. I'd wade through them like teflon coated AP through a sand bag. To answer your question: no. My problem isn't drugs, or prostitutes, or drug dealers or pimps. If it was that easy, I'd have already solved the problem and just done the time," the man said to Farnham, then taking the rest of his coffee and chugging it down like an ice cold pint.

"Alright. Fair enough. So what is it then that would make a man like you afraid to return to his abode?" asked Farnham.

"Fear, is laying in the dirt trying to get yourself as low as you possibly can when some guy on a truck mounted fifty has a bead on your ass, so close that the sand and dirt flying from the impact of rounds feels like stinging bugs. The wood from the trees you hide behind becomes slivers almost as deadly as the rounds themselves, and yet, you still gotta poke your head up, aim your rifle and clip the guy before he clips you. I've lived that very experience. Not just once. Many times. Don't talk to me about being afraid to go to my abode, because I've never been afraid of anything in my life. There's a difference between fear and foolishness, and knowing that difference is the difference between life and death. There's problems at my abode. My problem is a collective of nasty people. Each one of those people taking a little bite out of you, one at a time, until you've had so much that you can't take it anymore, and you blow your lid. Bullets, they kill ya. Words that get inside of your head, they make you crazy and then one day... KABOOM! A bunch of people are dead, and you're sitting in the middle of it, after having gone over the top, asking yourself, what have I done. That is where I do not want to end up, but from what I'm seeing and because of the state of this world right now, that's where they want us! Maybe they're sorting us out? Whatever it is, its wrong, but I don't see any of you doing anything about it, so I think its safer in here. So, if you open that gate to let me out, I might just assault you so they keep me in here where its safe from those people... that collective outside..." the man looked clear through Farnham.

To be continued...

* bag - When the perpetrator of a crime tries to conduct a crime in front of a witness (including on or off duty officers) in order to make them complicit in the crime, and therefore a carrier of the perpetrator's burden.

* DND - Department of National Defense

* PSU - Professional Standards Unit

* DEW - Distant Early Warning

* SDR - Software Defined Radio

* OPFOR - Opposing Force

Credits and attribution:

Artwork: Amy Wong, Wendy Pusey, Ghastly, Birdman, Brian Joseph Johns, Daz3D, Unreal Engine...
Tools: Daz3D, Corel Painter, Adobe Photoshop, Lightwave 3D, Blender, Stable Diffusion (Easy Diffusion distribution), InstantID, Sadtalker, Google Colaboratory, Microsoft Copilot (Windows 11), Hitfilm, Borderline Obsession...
Invideo.IO which was used to produce the ENERTRINSIC INTERNATIONAL INVESTOR PRESENTATION.
Rutherford model representation of Deuterium and Tritium: By Dirk Hünniger; Derivative work in english - Balajijagadesh.
InstantID by: Wang, Qixun and Bai, Xu and Wang, Haofan and Qin, Zekui and Chen, Anthony. Research Paper Title: InstantID - Zero-shot Identity-Preserving Generation in Seconds.
Sadtalker by: Zhang, Wenxuan and Cun, Xiaodong and Wang, Xuan and Zhang, Yong and Shen, Xi and Guo, Yu and Shan, Ying and Wang, Fei.
Research Paper Title: SadTalker: Learning Realistic 3D Motion Coefficients for Stylized Audio-Driven Single Image Talking Face Animation.
Gratitude: Our Mentors, Senseis, Sifus, Sebomnims, lifetime inspirations, family, friends, the Nomads (ask Stanton about that one), the Music, the Movies, the Theatre, the Arts, ASMR, (both YouTube and Bilibili and the many other creators on those platforms), the Gaming and Developer communities and of course, the audience.
Martial Arts (in the words of real experts and at least one comedian): https://brucelee.com (home of the real Dragon and an entire family of inspirations), http://iwco.online International Wing Chun Organization (International presence of a very scalable intensity martial art, protected and developed by Shaolin Nun Ng Mui) and the alma mater of Jinn Hua's own specialized variation thereof, https://iogkf.com International Okinawan Goju-Ryu Karatedo Federation (even Hanshi had his teachers), https://itftkd.sport International Taekwondo Federation (Here there be Taegers), https://tangsoodoworld.com Tang Soo Do World (the path of Grandmaster Chuck Norris), https://www.aikido-international.org International Aikido Federation (how else would Navy Chef Steven Seagal liberate a Nimitz Class Aircraft Carrier from a team of hijackers?), https://www.stqitoronto.com Shaolin Temple Quanfa Institute (The City Of Toronto's own Shaolin Temple), https://www.enterthedojoshow.com Master Ken's Ameri-Te-Do presence (If we can't laugh at ourselves, then we can at least laugh the loudest at others, and other Zen)
Jesse Enkamp: Karate Nerd
Sensei Rokas: Martial Arts Journey
Iaido: Train For Katana Mastery Like Samurai
Special thanks to Aitrepreneur, Mickmumpitz, Hugging Face and the YouTube educational content producers, including those catering to the AI content production pipeline and of course AlphaSignal.
Something to give you perspective: The very first teacher had no formal education, didn't graduate and was self taught, but only because they had no other choice. We do.
Very Special Thanks to our Armed Forces and Federal and Provincial Police Services, who really do Stand On Guard, especially when it comes to the Charter of Rights And Freedoms and the Human Rights Act, and often without being self righteous zealots secretly protecting religious law. True keepers of the peace.

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Brian Joseph Johns

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Friday, May 16, 2025

The Butterfly Dragon: We Who Stand On Guard - Episode 12 (Small Update May 16, 2025 5:00 PM EST)