[CW: Series] The Man Named Agent (Updated 4/21/2016)

[Combat]

(Authors Notice: Hello, welcome to my newest short story, specifically written for Reborn. This is the first legitimate story of written for a non-academic audience that isn't for family. If this first story is well received, I would like to expand on expand on it by writing more stories taking place in the same universe, Also, I would like any sort of feedback, even if it rips my story apart and spits on it's grave, since it may help me improve my skills as a writer. If you have a few moments, writing anything can really help me in the long run. I will be posting a separate thread for the series for any feedback you may have, so for the sake of keeping everything together, please post it there. Also know, that this story uses dark humor, so if you aren't into that kind of thing, I suggest you leave. I would call this PG-13 if you are concerned. Anyways, I hope you enjoy my story. -Combat Medic

Link To Feedback: http://www.pokemonreborn.com/forum/index.php?showtopic=20311)

The Man Named Agent

Chapter One

In the far off distance, a bell rung, striking eleven to announce the time to the world. People, bundled up to avoid the cold night air, walked briskly by a dimly lit bar, eager to get underneath some blankets and to drift off into the realms of sleep. The bar stood there, with a dimly lit lightbulb illuminating the stained “Open” sign, waiting for customers of any sort to enter it, though all of the locals knew that the bar was shady on even the best days. Inside it, ancient lamps tried their best to keep the bar bright, though for better or worse, the stains that it had been given over the years were unnoticeable in the shadow. Two figures could be seen in the bar, the bartender, who had distracted himself by cleaning a glass, and Mike, who was sitting alone at a sticky booth.

Mike was in his early thirties, though anyone who would have given him a glance would have guessed he was in his forties. His skin was barely pink, since he rarely got to work outside, and was covered with scratches and scars. His eyes had large shadows under them, and his face was unshaven. If one would have spotted him on a street corner, one could have assumed that he was a bum, though he was anything but. Mike wore a light blue windbreaker over his uniform, as he was required to never show his uniform in public, that did not complement his unkempt hazel hair. Mike, taking a huff from his cigarette, taped his foot impatiently, waiting for his contact to show up.

Mike didn't have to wait long, as the dulled ring of a bell brought him back to reality as the door to the bar opened. Wiping his face, Mike narrowed his eyes to look at the new comer, trying to confirm the identity of the stranger. The stranger was notably tall, standing a head and a half taller than Mike, and was covered head to toe in winter clothing. Signaling the stranger to his booth, Mike said "Jeramy, over here." Jeramy quickly shuffled over to the booth, carrying a small gust of cold wind with him as he did. Quickly taking his place across from Mike, Jeramy removed the scarf that was covering the majority of his face and asked "What the hell do you want Mike?"

Mike stared at his companion for a moment, before grumbling out "Yeah, well it's good to see you too sunshine. I need your help." Jeramy let off a dry laugh, and most likely stared daggers into Mike, though Mike couldn't tell since he hadn't taken off the googles that he had worn to protect him from the cold. "Six years Mike... It's been six years, and now you call me... To ask for help... God man, you are unbelievable." Mike starred at Jeramy, remaining silent, daring him to continue. "I've been trying to put my life back together Mike. We both know..." Jeramy trailed off, before checking to see if the bartender was listening. The barkeep had begun to occupy himself far across from them, wiping down the record machine that appeared to be long broken. Hushing his voice, Jeramy said "We both know I'm a wanted man... Working for bio-terrorists is generally frowned upon, and yet, you call me here, to help you. What the hell is so important that the big bad Mike can't handle by himself?"

Mike stared at the man he once saved, before he revealed his right arm, which had been hiding underneath the table. Placing it roughly upon the table, Jeramy flinched at the sight of it, or what was left of it at least. Mike's arm had been sliced in half, ranging from where his hand should have been, all the way to where the joint that would have connect the humerus to the rest of his arm would have been. The stump was warned in snow white bandages, which clashed against the dirty interior of the bar. Mike stared at the remains of one of his limbs, before saying "This, is why I called you."

Jeramy blinked a few times, awe struck by his comrade's change, before saying "Christ Mike, what hell is the agency working on now. I know you guys work on some freaky stuff, but damn... What the type of creature ripped your arm off?" Shaking his head, Mike muttered "This wasn't one of the subjects, if it were, I wouldn't have called you. No, this was one of my ex co-workers." Jeramy blinked a few times, whispering "And I thought the occasional "experiment lotteries" we're bad... What happened?" Mike gestured to the bartender, and yelled out "Two of the strongest things you've got." Waiting, the bartender approached them, holding a platter with two mugs of booze in one hand, and an instructional booklet for a record player in another, which had taken his full attention to the point that Mike couldn't even make eye contact with him. Taking a large chug from his drink, Mike said "It had started like any normal day."

"My shift had been going well for the first few hours, escort a few subjects to a chamber, escort them back, make sure no egg heads get ripped apart, the usual. About twenty minutes before lunch break, and everything went to hell. One of the entities broke out of its cage, and was ending scientists left and right. So, I grabbed my gun, and went to find it. It was then, when I met HIM..." Mike took a large drink from his mug, and Jeramy quickly followed suit, before asking "Who?" Mike laughed, before shaking his bad arm and saying "The guy who took my arm, that's who. He was a guard too, and was probably following the sane orders to terminate the subject that escaped. So, we teamed up, two guns were better than one after all. In hindsight, I should have just shot him, right then and there... Anyways, we ran off to find the subject, but it ended up finding us." Mike looked at Jeramy for a moment, before saying "I should mention this is classified information, but the entity we were after looks like it was made entirely out of meat. Anyways, meat man got the drop on us. Somehow the thing snuck behind us, and was planning on doing... Something to us, the higher up wouldn't tell us what it does to its victims. Anyways, the thing is behind me, and my fellow agent spins around and... Well, that bastard starts blind firing. No duck, no get out of the way, nothing. He starts to unload his shot gun on us."

Jeramy furrowed his brow, and signaled for his comrade to stop. "Wait... You came to me, because you got hit by some friendly fire? Man, what?" Mike slammed his fist upon the table, before saying "Well yeah, but there more! That guy shot my arm off, but face it, it's the fact that he kept firing! After the first burst, meat man started to run away, but he kept shooting! My arm might have survived the first round, but four rounds later, and now I'm Captain Hook!" Jeramy could see the veins on Mike's forehead were close to popping, though he still asked "And then?" Mike, taking another swig of his drink, said "I cussed him out before I got taken to the medical sector. Because of him, I'm missing an arm, and he only got fired! He should fry for that!" Jeramy could tell that Mike's emotions had taken ahold of him, and with a shrug, said "God Mike... You called be to help you get revenge? Do you even know his name?"

"Agent."

"What?"

"The guy just goes by Agent. He thinks he's so cool with a nickname or something."

Jeramy looked at Mike, before shaking his head. "So, a man named Agent shot of your hand, and now you want revenge. The problem is, you don't even know where to find him since he left the foundation. And you want me to help you?" Mike nodded his head, taking another drink as he finished up his beverage. "If I don't get him Jeramy, he'll get me... I'm sure of it! So come on, help me out... Please..." Jeramy looked at the wreck that was the man he had once called his friend, reduced to three fourths of the man he once was. "Fine, I'll help. You saved my ass back in the day, I guess I owe you one."

Mike cheered, before saying "Bartender! Another round of drinks on mehh..." before is speech suddenly became slurred. Blood began to pour out of his mouth as Jeramy began to cry out Mike's name, though he too began to sputter in a similar manner after a quarter of a minute. The two men fell to the floor, which was not unusual for this bar in particular, though it usually wasn't liquid humanity that was pouring from their mouths. After a few moments, both men lay upon the filthy ground, still, one covered in clothing, the other missing his arm.

At thus posit, the bartender exclaimed "Got it! We just have to plug the record player in!" With a click, the plug to it clicked into the outlet, and the voice of Elvis Presley began to fill the bar. Looking over at the two dead men, the bartender shook his head and muttered "And I thought drunks were bad." Walking to the door, the bartender quickly flipped a switch that, snuffing out the light bulb that kept the open sign illuminated. Walking over to the still warm corpses, the bartender sat there for a moment, before addressing them. Looking at Mike, the bartender said "You really shouldn't have called my mother those terrible things. How rude." Turning to what remained of Jeramy, he said "Black really doesn't suit you." The man stood there for a moment, before reaching into Mike's pockets. After a few moments of rummaging, the man pulled out Mike's wallet. Pulling out a twenty-dollar bill, the man threw the piece of paper on the table, before tucking the wallet back in. Turning around, the man flicked the nearby light switch off, remarking "It's always nice to tip about twenty percent."

Pushing his way through the door, the man briskly made his way towards a nearby parking lot. As he paced forward, the man began to untie is tie and remove the bartender jacket he had been wearing, revealing a dark black suit underneath. After a brief search, the man found his car, and quickly entered in and started up the heat. As the engine began to purr, the man sat back and smiled, before pulling a clip board out from behind him. On it, a large list of names was written out in pencil, with several names crossed out. Thumbing down, the man paused at the name "That dude who called mom those unflattering names" and with one brisk stroke, crossed it out. The other names on the list ranged from gang leaders, to know war lords, to someone only referred to as "Her Majesty." Putting the clipboard back, the man then pulled out his phone, which was flashing with a notification. "Go to the PTA meeting. Also, make up some kids for the PTA meeting." Sighing, the man knew he had to put this behind him, and began to rummage through his glove compartment. In it, was a name tag. Grabbing a pen, the man quickly scribbled on it, before attaching it to his suit. Backing out of the parking lot, the man used the rear view mirror to check how he looked. His suit was clean, and the name tag fit on him perfectly, reading out loud...

"Hello, my name is Agent."

Edited April 21, 2016 by Combat Medic

[Combat]

Chapter Two

Samantha stared blankly at the screen, rereading the email over and over. The small screen of her personal computer quietly hummed at her, as the email stared back, unmoved by her look of shock. Her eyes scanned the words, trying to find a contradiction or a mistake in its message, something to encourage her from the reality that was slowly setting in around her. Like a monk who had taken a vow of silence, Samantha slowly moved her mouse curser onto the small X on the top of the screen, wordlessly deleting the browser as she came to the dreadful realization...

She had just lost her part time job.

The email was a typical human resources vomit of lingo and apologies, and could have just told her that she was fired, but managed to make it worse by trying to soften the blow with words she didn't even understand. She had been working as hard as the other employees, but as per usual, she had gotten into an argument with the wrong customer, who knew the right people to complain to. Now, Samantha was out of the job, and needed to start rethinking her foreseeable future. Looking about her room, Samantha crinkled her nose, clearly dissatisfied with the air fresheners she had bought, as they had begun to mix with the fumes of whatever her exterminator had used from earlier in the week. Samantha's house had become infested with termites, so the exterminators had fumed her house, and although it was habitable once again, the lingering stench had yet to evacuate.

Turning back to her computer, Samantha reopened her browser and quickly opened a link, changing the page to a social networking site, "Chit Chat." Chit Chat was the leading website in random online conversations, linking two strangers together in a matter of seconds. Figuring that she deserved a day or two off, Samantha decided the best way to start her extended vacation was to vent out her frustrations on random strangers. Signing in as her net self, SamIAm, Samantha clicked on the generate conversation button. The page changed, placing her in a chat room. A second user logged on, and quickly posted...

Agent A: Hello.

Samantha looks at the user name, regarding it with some respect. Most people on Chit Chat had weird video game or anime references in their names, but this one seemed mostly normal. Plus, it didn't have the word “wolf” in it, which was a plus. Quickly typing back, Samantha responded;

SamIAm: Hello!

There was a moment of figurative silence, before;

Agent A: ASL?

Samantha pondered how she should answer for a moment, questioning if she should tell a random stranger her age, sex, and location. She knew that most people usually lied about their information, so was it even worth it? Plus, she had learned the hard way that telling people on chat rooms that she was a girl had... Unfortunate results. Instead, Samantha typed;

IAmSam: Let's face it, we both know there's no way to tell if we're lying or not.

Agent A: Fair enough, it's not like I can double check anymore.

IAmSam: Anymore?

Agent A: Yeah, I used to work for the NSA, so I had access to gadgets that let me check people's information.

Samantha shook her head, clearly annoyed with her chat buddy. She had dealt with the blatant liars before, and this guy was no exception. Before she could send off a witty retort, her chat buddy asked;

Agent A: So, how's your day going?

IAmSam: Well, I've had better.

Agent A: ???

IAmSam: I just got an email about getting booted from my job, so now I'm unemployed.

Agent A: Damn. I feel for you, there's nothing worse than losing a job.

IAmSam: Have you ever lost a job?

Agent A: Plenty I suppose, though I'm never one to get fired. I just stop coming into work.

Samantha tilted her head at the odd comment, trying to get a read on her chat buddy. Before she could get an elaboration though, she received another message;

Agent A: So, where did you get fired from?

IAmSam: I got fired from Joja. What did you mean by you stopped coming in?

Agent A: I just stop showing up, plain and simple.

IAmSam: What kind of job just lets you do that?

Agent A: "Lets" is a relative term. They don't really smile upon that, so I wouldn't recommend it.

IAmSam: Can you give me some examples?

Agent A: ...

Agent A: Alright, let's see. I've worked as a butcher, a baker, a candle stick maker. I once worked as a lawyer, an exterminator, a bus driver... Hell, I worked for the FBI for a while.

Samantha rolled her eyes, clearly unhappy to see the tall tales coming back. She thought she had been making progress with her messenger, but now, they were back to the lies. Before she could give them a sarcastic "suuure," her chat buddy typed;

Agent A: You don't believe me, do you?

IAmSam: Well, it's not often that you meet someone who’s for both the FBI and the NSA.

Agent A: Did I mention Argus?

IAmSam: Argus?

Agent A: Shit... Wait... You don't have that here. Never mind.

IAmSam: What?

Agent A: Yeah, you can work at more hardcore places pretty easily, you just need a nice smile and a really, really good fake ID.

IAmSam: You used a fake ID to work at the FBI?

Agent A: Of course not! I used a fake ID to work for the NSA and the CIA. The FBI was one of the first places I went to, so I didn't have a record.

Samantha chuckled, amused by the shenanigans she was witnessing. This guy or girl was good a spinning tales, so for the moment, she figured she may as well play along. Quickly typing, Samantha said;

IAmSam: Anywhere else you worked for that I should know?

Agent A: Probably not. The less you know, the better.

IAmSam: What? Are they going to kill me?

Agent A: That depends, they might just brainwash you, or make you an indentured servant. Really depends on who "they" are in this conversation.

IAmSam: Let's say... Worst case scenario.

Agent A: The "They" in a worst case scenario would probably kill one of your ancestors, therefore erasing you from existence.

IAmSam: Damn. Does that hurt?

Agent A: I couldn't tell you, the bubbling noise usually drowns out any screams, if any.

IAmSam: You know that leaves me with more questions than answers right?

Agent A: Yup.

Samantha shook her head, her grin slowly decreasing as she reread the posts. Sure, this guy was a good liar, but now the novelty had begun to wear off. Instead of simply leaving the chat room, Samantha said;

IAmSam: You know how crazy you sound right?

Agent A: Trust me sister, you don't know crazy.

IAmSam: Try me.

Agent A: S̨̀͒̽̑ͪ̎́̕͏̫̞͎͉̪̝̼̪͞û̡̌ͧ͌̄ͥ̏̽̉̐̀̀̚͏̢̥͙̘̲͔̙g̠̙͇̝͈͕̪͚̭̋̇ͪ͂̈́̌͒̀ͤͧ̎̿̅͑͋͘͠a̝̤̲͓̗̠̲̣͙̙̻̳͈̜ͮ͋̉̇ͪ̾̓̏̾ͧ̑̉̑ͣ̉͌̐̚͢͠ͅͅr̺͍͇̤͉͙̟̪̗̞̣͓̣͚̹̘̒ͭ̓ͬͮ̓͆̂̀̚͘͝ͅ,̡̛͖̩͕̱̅̄̇̉̏̈ͣ͟͠ͅͅ ̧̡̙̖͉̝͖̰̬̱̲ͣ̇ͨ̾́̌̓ͨ̉ͪ̈ͩ̀̕s̡̥̬̲͙̤̣͍̼͕̠̤͍͈̰͌͒̆̉͘͜͠ͅp͉̯͕̜̰̩͓̥̫̬̗͎̼̙ͭ̆̈͊͌̓̊́ͮ̌ͮ͊ͬ̕ͅͅi̢̖͎͙̞͉̣̻̬̣̺̰̖̙͕̣̤̹̞͋̊̐ͬ̔͌̆̂͒̈́ͭ͆̽̓̊̓̋̃̀̕c̋ͣ̐͌̿̅̒́̀͏̰̺̖̖̭͝e̴ͩ̃̔̃̐ͨ̍̅͗҉̦̟̻͚͇͓̠̟̲̬̪͎̤̣͇͍͘͠ͅ,̸ͫ͊ͩ̏̇̎ͦ̒͌̑̽͊̉̾ͦͭͮ̀҉͈̼̥̼̲͟ ̵̠̥̩͇̺̘͚̑́̌͆̄̈́ͯ̏ͭ͒̎͋̕͜a̸̵̵̧̪̖̖̦̝̜͚̫͇̥͖̝̥̺̯̥ͤ̒͐̋̊̀̍̅̈͡ņ̷͕̪̗̮̖̭̳̮̗̞͚̬̙͕̖̹̩̄͒̃̐͑͋ͥ̌̑ͭͫ̑̿̐̐̏̀̚͝͠ͅd͎͉̣͇͕̜̲͙̣̝̪̫̞͎̤̜̎̀ͪ͒̍ͫͮ̋͌̾ͥ̀͘͝ͅ ̬͇̬̮̜̻̟͙̗̠͕͇̺͙̩̗̗̭̤͋̊̒̎́̾ͫ̓̎̾̅ͯ̾̉ͮ̈́̉͢͠e̷͓̩̞̙͙̬̲͇͍̠͎̮̦̫̙ͯ̓ͧͤ̔̓̂ͭͬ̚͘͠v̧̘̭͇͓̖̺͇̪̞̝̏͑ͭ̅̽͌̍ͤ̂ͯ̐̚͘̕ȩ͓̺͔̠̥ͦ̊͐͘͢͡ͅr̢̲̼̖̹̥ͣ͋ͦ̿̑͗̔ͯ͐ͬ̔̿͘͟͡yͪͤ̌͛̍͆͐͑ͣ͂̄̾͂͟҉̘̪̰̭̭̝̱t̷̴͉̮̹̜̤̹̱̬͙̦̤͈̀ͥ͛͒͒̎͒ͮ̎ͭ̚͡͠͡ͅh̨̧͍͖̹̰̼̩̭̙͍͈̼̰̤̙̼̞̎̂̏͂̊̌ͪ̅͒͆̀͋͑́͟͞i̸̙̻͎̬̻̫͔̼͉̫̎̔̏͜͡͝n̵̨͓͍͈̠͗ͪ̽̿͂̑̆̔̎̽ģ͔̣̫͍͇̗͎̟͖̝͎̼̗ͨ̓̆̓̎ͬͧͩ̈́͜ ̌ͥ̐͂ͦ̅͆̑͒ͯ̉͑̒ͬ̇̿͏̨̞̞͙̬͕̰̩n̸̫̤̯̙͉͉͇̦̯̥͕̏̽͑͛ͦ̓͒̇ͮ͛̇͛͂̇̓͐̿́̕͝ỉ͑̌͋̋͐ͥͮ͒҉̩͙̝̝̥̯͈͇̟͖̙̞̠̹͘c̶̜̦͓̜̳͕͍̳̒͛͂́̎̕͟ͅͅe̴͔̣͍̗̣̟͙̗̬͓͖͓͉̒ͣ̏̊ ̎̌ͦ̎̋͊̈́̅̐̅ͭ҉́͜҉̝̤͍̝̳̼̙͇̬̺̺̱͢T̸̴͉̝̮͇̝͎͑̅̆͗̑̇̊ͨͥͭ̀̿̈́ͨ̀ͤ̐̃ḣ̰͖͓͚̻̹̝̱͋͐͛͆͆̓ͮ̐͌̔̐̀̿̔ͬ̆̂̀͟͞

e̼̦͙͈̠̠̞̩̫͉̥͚͒̐̍̋ͮ͛̆̔͗ͯ͞s̸̨͖̱̱͔̘͖̘̫̺͇̩̫͔̼̣̟͆ͬ̓̄ͩͧ͂̌͑̃̐̂̀͗̓̔͡ę̡͋͗̉͒ͦ̋̓̊ͣ̿ͥ̓͐͒ͫ͋҉́҉̰̪̤͔̣͕̼̩̗͇̙̺̗̹̪͖̗͍ ̢͍̺̞̻̖̙̫ͮ̅̽̑͂̅̍͑̃̇ͫ̓ͤ́̀ẃ́ͦ͑̔̓̈ͧ̿ͧͨ͋̃ͯ͊̍́͏̴͞͏̲̳̫̮̙͙̜͔̻e̋͋̀̋̋̎̇ͧ̇́҉͍̼̯͎r̷̨̫͓̤̝͓͇̱̖͖̩̠̲͈ͮͬͣ͐̾̽̓͂̑ͣ̿̈́́͟͝ę̷̨̼̞̯̽̋͋̇͌̑̊̌ͦ̅ͭ͒̈́̚̕͡ ͮͬ̍͊̃ͮͭ̊̎͛͏̮̩̻̀͞t̘̰̮͓̫̺̺̝̳̣̪̺̺̩̳͖͒ͦͦ̕͞hͪ̂͒̀̄̓ͤ̾̿̄ͪ̿҉̸͈͇̯̯̝͚̣̲̟̱̺͙̥͇́͜͝ͅĕ̢͎͇̥̠̺̫͍̞̜̖̦̗̗͉͙̇̄ͩͮ͟͜ ̶̢̜̼̫̯͓̙̤̠͔͖̹̯̗͈̹̺̏͆̐̾ͫͪ͆ͨ̈́̉̓̾̌ͭ̚͢i̧̘̞͕̣̬̺͉̥̲̿͗̊̒̓̓̕̕͡n̢̡̙̙͙̰̜̮͕ͨ͛͆̌̔̋͒͂̔ͣ͑̍̽ͯ̂̑̈̏́̚̕͟g̔͛ͮ̇ͬͮ͗̓ͥͯ̅̑̋͌͏̶̤̜̖̪̲̳͉̳́͠r̷̸̴̡̟͎̬̙̪͍̳̮ͪ̾́̓̔ͯ̀̕e̶̢̗̭̩̝̘̤̦͖̻̤͍̲̹̮̹͛͗ͮ̂̃̔ͮͭ̈ͤͩ́̚͝͞d̶̢͇̗͍̝̹̞̙͕͚̼̼̗̹̰͈͈̿̃͂̑͗͛͒ͭ́̑̐̓ͨ̽̔͐̽ͫi̡͇͇̗͙̩̺̓́̅̏ͧ̈́̎̓ͮ̐̀͡ḛ̸̙̣̟͓̼͙̈̋ͩ̏̓n̡̨͑̏ͪ̑͂̋ͭ͛̇ͪ̚͏̵̡̣̗̠̜̭̥̝ͅ t̵͓̦͈̫̯̣̻͎̗͖̰̳̙̖̮̱̠̰̤̎̇͆ͧ̌̈́͜s̷̵̮͔̻̺͔̼̖̮̲̖̝̗̹͓̻̹̰͂͛ͤ͐ͯ̔̌̎̄̓͗̊͐̃͑̇̉ͅ ̛͖̱͉̖̖͍̼̞̺͍̙̫̗̯̲͈̣̈̈́̈́ͪͬͪͨͭͫ̇̿̃̊̋͆͛͢c̞̭͇̫̬̭̪̺͉̥̹̺͓̪͔ͭ͌̒ͫ̇̌̉ͭͫ͘͞h̷͑͗̎͊̎ͧ͑ͨͨ̆͏͏͇͖̠̥͔̭ơ̭̤͔͚̥̣̘̰̐ͣ̿͒͐͋̒̔̓̆̉̏ͫͥ͒ͭ͆̚͢s̢̛͔̜̤͎̠̣͓̬̻̤̭̫̩̗̞ͭ̏ͣͥͮ̄̚͘͢͞e̜̪̬͍̰͚͖̲̪̮̊̈́͌́ͩ́̋̌̄̓̍̄͢n̸̞̳̠̫͔͚̪̖͖̠͖̦̩̜͊̾̒̈ͮ̓͐ͥ̃ͫ͊ͫͮ̒͊̊̏́̊͢͢͡͡ͅͅ

̷̟̯͕̞̼͚̦̗̺͓̳̬͎̜͕͖̦ͫͧ̔̔ͩͣͪ̓̆̈ͩ̆́̀̚͢͞ͅ T͌͛̍͊̐͌ͮ̅̋̈ͧ̔̑̌ͩ͌҉͉͇̮̻̬̟̖o̵̶̧ͩ͆̒̓͂̊ͩ͋̂̈͐̇̑̋̿̆̏̿ͤ̕҉̥̱͚̘̟ ̢̧̖͚͚̬̪̩̟̺̥̖͍̼̖̫̲͔̪̘̬͂̐̋͑͂̆ͣ̇ͤͤ͛͑̿ͦ͌ͫ͒̀͢ç̴̧̢̬̖̩̙̘͍͎ͤ̃̿̓̈ͫ͆̈́̈́̚͝ŕ̶̷̨̯̗ͯͦ̄̏̄̕͟ͅͅẹ̶̸̛͇͔͖̜̠͙̭̮͍̖͈̍̀̐͒̈́̿̅ͤͬͪ̅̿̄͛ͬ͒ͧͫ̋a̶̛̭̥͉̗͚̭̻̬̫̞̩̮̟̫̖͐̾̌̅̓ͬͦ͛ͧ̎̚ͅt̴̼̞̦̱̒́̿ͭͥ̏̎̍̏ͣ̒ͥ͒́̚̚͟e̶̝͖̘̙͕͇̰̹͓̯̺̳̘̩̝̼͖͑͌̋̀͂͑ͣ͊͝ͅ ̧̛̺͔͙͉̞̿͛ͫͧ̍ͣ̽͗̅̍̍̋ͮͧͮ̌̏̀͟͝t̴̋̑ͯ̈́̉̔ͨ̉ͭ͆́̇͊́̚̚͜͝͏̗͓̙̗̫͖̻̫̬̻̹͇̖̪̀h̷̼̙͉͚͈̫͉̻̪͍͕̥͓̖̠̫ͥ́ͨͯ͊ͪ̍̔͑ͪͪ͘̕ȩ̷̡̜͚͈̰̉ͩ́̋͛̽ͣͪ́ͫ̎̊ͬͬ̈ͯͦͮ́ ̑̌͂ͣͦ͏̮͎̼͚̥͇͙̳̹̳̤̼͈ͅp̡̡̡̹̘̹̥͇̺̞͉͔͔͉̣̙̪̈́͑ͤ͆ͨͥͥͪ̐ͪ̃ͧ͐̚͘͢e̵̗͈͙͚͖̮͎̪̻͈͓̺̝̿̂̑͂̈́̏̀ͮ̍̀̕ͅr̸̨̗͙̬̜̭̩̼̳̾͐̋͑ͮ͂̄̑̓ͯ̐̈́ͩ̊̕͟ͅf̷̡̖̮̥͕̼͈͍͕̦̲̦͇̯̯̪̔ͬ̔̑͂ͣ̇̊́͆̓ͬ̑ͤe̴̛̹̲̼͉͖͓̝̞̰̬̗͎ͧ̓ͬ̂̆ͫ̑ͤ̊c̨̧̤̯̻̙̾̈́͗̒̀̑͛͋ͣͧͨ̚͞͡t̴̷͍̤̘͕̘͎̍̐̄ͭ̇͌̔̇ ̢͚̺̼͇̭͙̺̑ͩ̈́̂͋̈̍̀̀͝lͥ̾ͫͩ̏̃̒͋̑͒ͮ͏̸͚̫̗̼͙̗̝̲̖ỉ̸͕̰̤͕̫̟̼̳̤̣̙͍̭̰̼̙͙̲̙ͯ̉̓̾̏̽̌̚͘͡t̴̬͎̪͔̹̰͚͈̬͌ͧͥ͗̽̊̀ͩ̈́͋͗̅̅̓̎ͪͮ̇̾͞ţ̧̰͇̥̞̙̗̬̹͔̾̒ͪͨ̋ͥͯ̒͢͡l͆̀̒ͪͥ̓̐̇ͩ͊̌ͦ̓ͣͣͫ̏̚͏҉̸̧̯̭̞̼̦͚͙̪͉͔͕̮̹ͅͅě̶̛͇̗͔͕̜̜̫̥͎͙̟̻͛ͤ̌͟ ̇͐͂̽̚̚͞͏͏̭̦͎͈̯̠̙̫̣̳͓͈̙ͅǧ̴̨̞̺͚̻͍̭͕͈̫̱̰̩͎̫͈̯ͧ̊̀ͣ̽̏͆͛̚̕͜͡ͅi͂́͂̐ͭ̈ͤ͋҉̷̭̲͈͓̘̱̣͈̖͖͓̥͍̬͔̪͠ͅr̿̐́ͩͣ̑̏̎͋҉̷̧̢̱̳̗̣̞̱̣͉̦͜l̶̢͓̘̗͍̳̭̀͌̃̂ͬͦ̕̕s̳̫̬͕̳͔̼̻̝̩̙̼͓ͬ̇̎̊ͫ̇ͤ͑̚͘͘̕͝͝ ̶̷̵͇̤̱̦̞͔̪̼̣̟̪̲̦̾̽̐ͦ̐ͥ̏̏̍͂ͩ̒̒B̨͎̗̖͕͎̬̰͙͔̥̭̖ͯͮͨ̆̂̃̊̍́ͬ͌ͫ̈̒͗̕͟ͅṳ̵̲͓̦̬͓͖̱̩͔̭̉̏̔̈̓ͤ̑̆̀ͨ̂ͪ̂͜͜t̴̢̄͋̉ͫ̋ͦͨ̐̉ͣ͠͠҉̦̦̥̜̗̪͍̲͍̙̻̺̭̰̬ ̸̷̺̲̖̬̝̦̥̤̗͚̱̻̫̜͕ͣͭ̄́̅ͤͯͤ͑͂ͅP̊̅̃͗͒̀͊̃͐͗ͪ҉̴̢̱̖̤͖̝͔̣͓̲̳̘̰̟̣͈̱ͅr̸̢̢͓͓͓̮̜̝̟͈͚̭ͤ͒͂ͨ̈ͤ̐ͤ̇̉͑̂͂͑ͬ̃́o̷̘̰͔̮̐͗ͧ̅̌ͫ̓ͫ͒ͫ͜͟ͅf̢̡̨͖̺̠̺̝̳̤͈̭̣̦̠͕̹̪̰̠͆ͣ̎̽ͨͥ́̆ͦ͑͛ͫ̾͠e̢̧̱̝̫̭̯̩̙̟̖̪̐̓ͦ̇ͩ́͘͞s̵̲̦͔̹̻͇̰̗͚̘̅͒ͯ̉͢s̉ͥ̑͌͆ͭͯ̉̑͊̊̀ͩ͊̚͏̰̜̝̘̬̭͢͜o̥͎̜͚͖͈̥͉̲͓̫͇͛ͨͤ̋ͥ͋ͨ͞ͅr̛̠̱̯̪̗͓̰̫͚̼͖͎̞̖ͪ́̊ͤ͊ͣ͂̒ͨͦ̿̓ͦ͒͌ͬ̂̚͘͜ ̸̻͔̮̤̱̹̜͈͈̲͔̳̥̼̠̉̇̈̈̍͛͛ͮ͆ͣ͆͗̈̽̋̓͒̑̐͝Ư̵͍̼̟̩̣̺̩͓̺ͧ̓ͥͬ͊ͯ̆̂͑͌̅̆ͨ̾̚͡͠t̖̪̥̻̱̬͔̖̹͓̩̱͕̙́͒̄̔ͨͤ͒ͭ̓ͩ̀͝o̡̫̮͓̖̘͔͕̘͎̟̺͚̎̒͑̈́̋̌̒͛͟ͅņ̧̬̜͍̤̬̰̦̲̫͉̻̃̉͆̐̑͋͌́̃̋̇̌̾͗̽̍̀͢͠i̴̟̺͈̹̥̺̝͍͇̙͍̰͚̖ͦͯͣͣ͆̆͂̓̈́͑ͫ̇̏ͦ͐̆ͯ̿̒̀͜͜͜u̢͑̈́ͯ͐͆̅ͧ̀̂̇̃̚̕͡͏̹̹̯̟̰̺͔̭̮m̸̭̰͕͇̣̲̭̜̻͇̳̓̉̓ͨ̌̍̽̈̌͒̓̓̌͋̒͊̚͟ ̻̺̹͇̬̱̪̼͚͉̥̹̳̙̉͒̐̀̕ͅa͔̠̦̘̣̣̠̼͇͎̺̯̫͒̍ͩ̆͑̂̋͌̒̿ͬͥ̃͐̋̍̕͟͝c̋̋̈́̀̍͏̸̣͇̯͖̱̖̤̺͓͎̭̤̻̻̘̗̫̠̕͢͡c̀̊͑ͬ͒ͯ̌͑̈́̋͒̂ͧ̚҉͉̜̣̳͕̰͓͎̻̀ͅi̡͑̆̏̂̾ͧ͑̇̆͋͛͒ͥ͒̌̑̾͐̚͏̧͙̯̺͙͔̦̬̙͖̥̣̲͞ḑ̣̰̣͔̣̺̼̠̗̦̙͓̗̩̰̱̖̱͂ͯ̈́ͯ̎̀̈́̊̃ͥ̒͡e̴̛̾̎͆ͦ̓͛̑̓͒͑ͤͨͯͮͮ͐ͣ͟҉̵̠̟̫̙͖͈̹͍͉͖͚̘̣nͨ̃͗̒̀ͧͨ̋͐ͭ̓͗̐ͦ̀͏̲̩͙͙̥̮̩̪̩t̓͌́̌͋͊̈̅̐ͩͤͦ̊ͭ̚͏̶҉͎̤̰̼̼̟̲̜a͗̈́ͩ̇̎͏̶̸̱̹̳̗͔̰͙̰̟͍͟l͎̭̝̱͔̻̱̯̱͙̞̟̬̲̉ͤ̈͑ͮ̕l͛̒ͨ͛̋̃ͫͥ̀̍͛͒̓̉̅̅ͯ̈҉̷̷̦̼͖͔̖͈̦̮̬̘y̢̛̪̬̝̪̲̘͉̫̙͊̂͋͑ͩ̄ͧ̚̕͡ ̸̢̹̳̳̣̩̫̝ͥ̇ͦ̈́ͭ͌̇̐ͮ̈́̉͂͡á̷̡̡͇̻̲̲̪͙̬̞̬̠̰̤̞͚̹̭̯̯ͮ͒͐ͣ͐ͯ̍̂͆͛̃̉ͥͩͯ́̚dͧ̇ͤ͊ͪ͛ͥ̄̎ͥ̾̿̔̆͏҉̸̦͇̣̰̥͘͠ḑ̋̆̂ͫ̕͡͏҉̠̘̭͉ë́ͮ̄̉̃ͯ̎̀ͪ͗ͣ̓ͫ̍ͩ̒̀̅̅͏҉̴̧̠͕͕̫̼̘̞̬̹̹͓͍͖͓̯̱͈̀d̨̧̲͉̥̫̾̐ͫ̈́̅ͦ̄̃̐͑ͩ͆͆̋̚͝͞ͅ ̪͇̼͙͙͖͒͊ͦ͗̅̔͒ͥ͋͘͜ą̴̛̯͎̺̰̪̓ͤ̈́́͌̆͂͐̈́n̸̡̼͚̜̫̝͔̫̞͉͕͉̫͇̞͊͐͊̽̓͋͊ͩͨ̊͑ͨ̉͌̕͢ ̡̛̝͍̘̰͇̼̞͕͇͔̺̞͕̙̣̤͚͚͆ͭ̓ͦͭ̆ͣ͒̾͞ͅẽ̡̖͇̳͉̳̞̜̼̠̩͖͈̫̞͑̄͑̑̎̎̄͊͢͟͝͡ͅẍ̵̗̰̻͚̩̞̻́ͧ̊̓͂ͬ̊̌ͪ̀̍͂́̏ț̴̸͖͎̖͓̗̌̆ͧ͒̑̋̐́ͥͮ̈́ͧͩͬͯ͊̂ͮ̐ͅr͉̣̖̤̗̥̭͙̻̪͔͈̠ͬ̇ͨ̌̑̿̿ͯ͌̓̃̓̚͜ąͩ̍ͣ̇̃̋̾͂́̚̕͢͏̥̩͖̹͇͔̯͍̳̺̪̭̜̮͖͉̮ ̷̵̛̞̫̼̩̰̜͎̳͚̮̠́̌̓̕ͅi̢̛͚̝͎̤̩̤̱̬͓̝͇͓̜͈̗̦̞̮ͪͣͬ͗ͫ̋̿̋͆̽̾̅͡ņ̼̮̘̫̟̩͚͍͔̂̿̾̀̐ͤ͑͒̑͊͐̅͢͝ͅg̨̛̦̻͖̯͙̯̪̻͕̥̪ͨ͌ͫͫr̛͔̪̞͓̳͖̮̞̣̻̤͇͙͕̭̫̂ͣ̾̋̓͑ͥ͘ͅͅȇ̢͛̉͏̧̝͈̝̦̙̤̝d̸̳͓̹̙̟͖̰͍͔̱̩̰͖̩̘̣ͩ̆̇͋̽͛́ͥ͌̍͟ͅi͚͕̞̟͎̹̟̦͚͎̝̖͕̭̱̣͍̝̻̿̓ͪ̓̿͐̉͗͊͌̂̀͞ḛ̡͕̹̦̤̪̩̙͉̩͐̀ͪ̇ͩͣͣ͊́ͮ̌̽ͤ͊͟nͩ̀ͪ͋̓ͤ̑͛̇ͬ̽͒̚͏̧̝̪̬̯̙̠̞̼̤͔̜͔̻͔͕̝̩͢ͅt̴̼͓͓̱̯̝̠͔͖̬͇͖̞͇͕̽̎̽̽͆͗́̂ͩ̅͊̒͞͞ͅ ̶̧̠̤͔̜̜͇̼̙̿̓͑ͪ͂͑ͩ̊ͪͅ ̶̴̝̪̺̪̻̪̗̣̄̍ͧͧͣ̌̇̓͛͑̒͒͒ͪ̋ͤ͆͒͜t̸͙̳̰̻̰̠͕͓̠̮̠͕̗̱͋̍̍̕ͅȍ̷̷̱͇͕͙̝̲̰͈͉͓͈̬̘̱̬͛ͥ͋̇͗̍͐͛ͮ͛̑̚͘ ̛̩̫̼̫̪̭̺̱̪̻̠̗̹̭ͤ̍̆̌̌̄͝ṯ̛̠̠͉̪͚̪͈͉̼͈̱͈̼̇ͨͬ̈́̾́͟ͅh̰̖̦̹̭̰̖̜̲͉̮͕͔͌̈ͫͮͥ̃̈́ͪ̇͂́͢͝e̸̢͉͈͓͙͕̝̞̰͌̆ͪ̑̀̇̓̽͐͑̒͒͞͞͠ ̢̡̬̤͈̳̮̫͚̠̝̖͓͑ͧ͌ͦ̉ͪͧͯͩͭ̾̏̀͠ͅc̶̵̡͎͙͖̳̱̮͖͓̟͇͓͖̪̫̼̗͔̝̦͆̌̒ͨͫ͂ͥ̐͑͆͊̓̒́͆͂͑͞ơ̸̗̣̤͇̼̦̲̞̖̣̘͙̰̮͇̬͔̥̈̏̂ͦͦ͑̍ͯ̿͑͠͞n̡̥̰̜͚͈̭̝͙̬͔͈̿͑̊͆͆̑ͦ̓͗͋͗̔͟ĉ̨̧͙͙͚̖͖̘̯̯̱̀̓̃ͬ̋͊͊̆̉͋ͩo̵̸̧̩̘̺̗̙̗̭͇͍͊̔͊ͨͣ̃͐̑͋̆̌ͨ̓ͧͩ̄̔ͣ͘t̨̪̗̹̙̼̠̗̙͖̹̭͎̄ͤ̎͋ͤ̾̾̈́͠ͅi̸̛͍̰͚̞͓̘̰͚͓̐̽ͨ͋ͣ͗͗̑̅̍͟͝o̸̟͇̗̟̙͆̃͂͒̏͛ͪ̅̄͆͑̃̑ͬ͝n̶̡̛͔͙͍̖̰̱̭̮̘̐̑ͭ̚͘ͅ ̭̼͈͓͍͔ͭ̅ͫ͑ͬ͐́̍ͦ͊̒̂̑̑̿̊̎͊́́͘͝ͅ-͌̃̂͌ͫ̃̿̀̉̀͢҉̢̤̤͈̫͎̖̠̗͖-̧̏ͬ̐̀̾̒҉̭̠̹̬̭́ ̙̖̘̭̲̖͖ͣ̑ͬ̈́͆͂̊̄ͦͥ̏̀̚͝Ç̴̶̱͚̙͕ͮ͗̈́ͮ͆ͨͮ̈̇͗͊̎ͥ̄̕͢h͌̊ͥ̑̔̽͡҉̡̙̪̮̫̱̳̗͉͖̹̭̱͉̭̬̩̟̀͞ͅeͥͨͭͪͩ̃͊̚҉̴̸̻͍͖͓̖̪m̸̢̻̼̳̥̰̘̩̱̜̐̄̓̇́ͯ̿̕͘ͅi͋̄̆ͧ̓͆̾̈̇ͧͣ̋ͭ̄ͯ̐̓̚҉̢͙̦̙͇̪̠͖͍͓̰̖͉̬͔̬̤͙̟c̴̨̝͈̝͉̟͚̺̬̮̪̞̱͆̔̊ͩ̒͋ͫ͛̽̅̊̒̇ͥ͞͝ͅä̴̶̧̠͓̟͍̻̗̦̮́̃̈̓̕͝ͅͅͅl͐̀̒̄̓ͣ͋̓ͩ̈́ͥ̌̓̈́ͪ̓҉̴̶̩̬͍̼̳̫̟̗͚̹̠̫ ̡͖͖̣͎̰̪̣ͥ͒̑̀͑ͯ̒̓ͫͯͫͩ̂̀X̷͚̬̗͈̻̖̥̻̤̟̱͙ͧ̓̋͐͒͒́́ͅͅ ̡̢͎̰͉̟̝̖̼̀̉͌͊ͥ͊ͩ̓ͥ́̀̚T̨ͯ͒͌̈́̐̅ͪ̓̑̄ͨͨ̿͋͂̔ͩ͢͡҉̪̖̮͎̘̱͓̙ḩ̷̛̰̭̤͙͎̻͈̺͚̭̙͔͙̱̼͖̣ͭ͂̓̓̒̊͆̇͗̈́ͨͩͪ̓̀̃̈ͅͅu̵͉̣̳̻̞̹͇̦̠̮̰͉ͮ́̓ͬ̿̎ͤ̇̔͋͌̂ͩ́s̸͚̺̫̯̙͕̥͎̗͍͕̣̳̟͇̈́̌̎͐̄̋,̷͕̙͔̖̮͖̮̰͍̬̺͖̞̠̫̤̈͌̂ͣ̑̉̊̔̐̍͝ͅ ̴̡̝͍̙̟̼̔ͦ̐̓͊́̂ͫͩ̈ͪ̎́͠T̸͉͈̰̦̹̗̦̪̘̘ͩͭ͗͗͟͝h̶̯̞̫͈̲̞̩̝̳̫̱̣̳̖̪͍͉̹̫̄ͧ̓͊͗ͬ̂ͨͧ̔̀ͧ͑̽̓̓̔̚͢e̡͉̫̥̻̥͖͇̩̝̰̝͎̞͎̘̘͓͗̌̃̑̓ͧ̆ͩ̌ͮ̋̑̾̚͝͡ ̯̟̲͙̝̫͇͈̙͔͙̘͎̱̩͖͍̒͑̋͑̐ͭͦͣ́̐͌̈́̆̆́̀͟͞P͕̩̤̮̭̓ͤͧ͐̽͑̎̐ͥ̈́͂͐ͫ̀͢ơ̵̯̰͔͖̲͔̙̘̠̺̲̙̯͖̒ͫͦ̄́̚͜ͅw̵̨͕̱͓͖̼͔̰̲̺̺̑̊͑̊̅̀̅̓̓e̶̙͚͔̲̥̔ͩͧͪ͒́͡͡r̶̢̩̟̤̺͎͎͕̪͇̰̣̜̻̖͆ͧ̓ͪͤ̑͐̇̍̚͠p̶̶̛͕̺̫̻͍̘̦͔̺͚̪͇̰̈́̿͌̅ͪͨͦ͒͛̇̾̈́ͭ́u̘͚̘̘͔͔̫̣͍̲̜̯̻̺̜̜̬̮̳̓͊̿̔̽ͦ͒͂̃̆ͣ̉́̚͜͜͝f̷̨͔͙̗͈̻̦͉̖͎̹̍ͨ̅ͩ̑̉̀͆ͥ̋̎ͥ͗ͮ͊͞f̛̹̳͚̭̳̳̙̼͈̦̰̍̿́͊̓̽̈́̅̚̕͢ ̨͛̌̆̓̊̈́̈̈́̅̂̄͒̔͒̾͑͑͢͢͏̪͈̖̜͎̗̜͔͕̠̦̝̩Ģ̵̨̮͎̪̮̬̫͙̫̳̞̎̒͊̑ͣͯ̈́͑͐ͮ̓̓̐ͅͅï̉̿ͥͨͧ̏҉͏̶̶̬̭̳̘̤̤̦̀r̢̯̣̰͖̬̰̱̬̣̖̥͖̭̹̉̀ͥ͛̑̆̽̌͘͠ľ̨̬͉̦̬̹̯̤̞̠̙̻͈̳̖̠̞̜̎ͪ̅ͯͩ̃̔̏̽͡s̢ͣ̂̊͛ͬͩ̉̆̍ͧ͐́́ͧ҉͕͕̹̝̼̳̬͉͟ͅͅ ͮͩ͊̿͘͞͝҉̧̲̰̦̙̤͈w̴͔̺̪̠͇̠̻̟̲̩̻̜ͦͪ̋̋́͘͡ͅę̬̺̪̜͍̙̼̭͓̫̫̰͚̠̺̣ͩ͑̄͋̊̿͌̄̒̍̎̌̀͘͞r̨̅ͨ̅͛̅̾̈̈̒̋̒̚͝͏̸̞̬̣̤̫͎͔e̡̨̮̭̼͇͓̱̼̼̝̳͓̳̤̙̼̭͙͌̏̋͑͛͂̎́͢͡ͅ ̵̴̨̡̝̖̫̣̣̝̫̥̬̮̙̫̘͇͗͂͋̓ͯ̊̈̚ͅb̵̨͊̃͒ͪͣ͌̅͗̐̌̾̿ͮͪͣͯ̕҉͖̹͎̪͓̩̥͍̖͓̬̹͔̝̯ǫ̛͊̒̈́ͯ͐̋̚̕͏̞͚͓̟͠r̵͛̅̎̃ͤͥ̈ͧ̔͛ͯ̊͗̿̄̊̀ͮ͞҉̲̗̗̩̭̺ņ̇̇̓́̄̃̆̈̎͊̋́̚͡҉҉̗̙̼̼̳͓̺̲̱͉̩͉̰̼͚̪̲̮ͅ

Samantha recoiled backwards at the sight of the corrupted text. Her surprise, had come from the fact that it was impossible to paste anything into Chit Chat, as it was made to prevent malicious links or other less reputable things from entering. As she stared at the text, Samantha tried to make out any discernible language, but as she stared at it, a strange feeling of dread began to wash over her.

IAmSam: What the hell?

Agent A: I wouldn't stare at that for too long, most people get headaches by looking at it.

IAmSam: What the hell is that, how did you get past the paste filters?

Agent A: That, is the prayer of the seventh insect god, and I didn't paste that. I transferred it orally.

"Enough..." Samantha said to herself, grimacing at the screen. This guy was obviously trolling her at this point, and she was ready to end this little conversation. Going purely random was just a cheap way to get laughs, and after giving the strange text one last look, Samantha moved her mouse towards the X button.

Agent A: Wait Samantha.

Samantha froze. Seeing her name on the screen was a little frightening, and a part of her brain told her to just press the button, but her arms refused to respond.

Agent A: I'm sure you want to leave now, but we need to talk.

Agent A: You coming here, meeting me, this isn't a coincidence.

Agent A: I've spent weeks planning this, coming to your house, setting up a program on your computer.

Agent A: Don't you find it odd that you still can smell the fumes from the fumigation?

Agent A: That was me, using the time to modify your computer. The smell is just a couple of dead fish I threw in the air vents.

Agent A: By the way, you should probably get a different exterminator to take care of your termite problem.

Agent A: But back on subject, I've put a lot of time, and a lot of effort to get here, right now.

Agent A: I mean, I even changed your user name from SamIAm to IAmSam.

Agent A: So... I need to ask...

Samantha leaned in, as sweat had begun to form on her brow. She wasn't sure who she was dealing with, but one thing was for sure, whoever she was chatting with had been in her house. The smell of dead fish was now unmistakable, and the fact that somehow, her user name had been switched was obvious by looking at the history of the session, so whoever she was chatting with had been inside her house and had some sort of hacking capability. The part of her that wanted to leave also wanted to call the police, but a morbid curiosity had taken hold, so she gingerly typed;

AmISam: What?

There was a period of silence, as Samantha tried to ignore the fact that her name had been charged again, before Agent A responded by saying;

Agent A: Is your refrigerator running?

Agent A: Then you better go catch it.

Agent A Has Disconnected

Samantha sat there, awe struck, as she stared at the computer monitor. She reread the posts, trying to make sense of what had just happened, to no avail. Then, in a fit of emotions, Samantha screamed.

-------------------------------------

Four Days Later

Location: J Edgar Hoover Building, Washington DC

"So he's made no other contact with you Ms. Glawson?"

Samantha shook her head, holding her small cup as coffee as the agent across from her nodded. "You're lucky, this is the first time he's ever gone to such length to contact someone. Often times, he's a lot less discrete." Agent Harson looked at the copies of the exchange between Samantha and "Agent A," sighing at the lack of information. The FBI agent reread the text, which was largely identical to the original exchange, except for the corrupted text, which had been redacted for safety reasons.

"Who... Who is he?"

Agent Harson sighed, shaking his head. "Almost everything we know about him is classified, and even that's minuscule compared to the amount of time that's he's been active... What I can say, is that he was one of us... For a time, but according to your exchange with him, you already knew that." Samantha stared into her coffee, silently contemplating. "We're going to put you under witness protection A. It's a lot more... Secure, than the average witness protection. You'll be safe. He doesn't have any information on your location." Samantha looked at Agent Harson suspiciously, before he added "We created this program specifically to combat him, after he left the bureau." The two sat in the debriefing room, silently, before a knock at the door caught Harson's attention.

"Sir, it's time to transfer her." A heavily set guard said. With a nod, Harson motioned for Samantha to follow the guard, which she did without another word. Harson stood in the now empty room, before piling the papers together and slipping them back into the folder marked "Agent Encounter: Number Five Seven Two B." Slipping the folder into a brief case and locking the contents in, Harson set off out of the room, pulling out a cell phone. With a brisk tap of the buttons, Harson put the phone to his ear.

The sound of his subordinate, Agent Jackin, picking up his own phone entered Harson's ear. "Agent Harson, sir! What do you need?" Harson tried to contain his sigh, wishing Jackin would drop the sir habit he had picked up in the military. "We've just sent Ms. Glawson to the safe house, and I'm preparing to send in my interview with her to the director. Have you made any progress with the unintelligible text?" Agent Harson could hear the sound of paper being shuffled through from the other side of the receiver, before Jackin said "Unfortunately Agent Tethers hasn't been able to make any progress on this "puzzle" as he calls it. I will keep you posted, sir."

Harson sighed, knowing full well that the chances of them deciphering the text was slim to none, though he knew that they had to try. "Alright Agent Jackin, that's all we can hope for. One last thing. Have you contacted the others with the news of his latest appearance?" There were a few seconds of silence from the other side of the phone, before Jackin took a deep breath and said "No sir, I have not. I lost the file on who we contacted with information on "Agent," and was unsure of who that entailed." Harson sighed once again, before responding "You don't need a file for the ones we contact Jackin... It's everyone. CIA, MI6, even S.H.I.E.L.D. We tell them all." Harson could hear the sound of Jackin vigorously nodding from the other side, before an excited "Yes sir!" ripped through the head set, before Jackin dropped the phone and began to sprint off, ready to contact every agency he knew. Harson stood still, a small smile crossing his face as he contemplated his subordinate's excitement, before Harson reached his office. Grabbing a few files on unrelated cases, Agent Harson passed by the black mamba that had taken up residence on his chair. Not noticing the deadly snake, Harson left his office, as the snake sat there, staring at him, contemplating if he was a threat that needed to be bitten.

The cleaning staff would discover the snake later that day.

-------------------

Several blocks away, the man named Agent lathered the soap in his hands with intensity, trying to make sure they were clean. Agent had heard that reptiles carried all sorts of diseases, and after dropping off Mr. Bity, he wanted to make sure he was safe. As he began to wash the soap away, Agent looked at the manila file that he had left next to the sink. The file was marked with the FBI's logo, and after drying his hands, Agent grabbed it. Pushing his way through the bathroom door, the smell of fast food hit him, and he quickly took his seat at the booth. Opening the file, Agent began to talk to himself as he began to read the files contents. "Knew about them. Knew about them. Didn't think they would care. Knew about them." Pausing for a moment, Agent reread a statement, before adding "Huh, so the Free Masons are real here." Paging through the file, Agent lowered his eyebrows, shaking his head.

At that very moment, Agent's waitress appeared, carrying his burger and fries. Looking at the annoyed man, the waitress said "What's eating you hon?" Agent, not taking his eyes off of the file, replied "Oh I'm just a little unimpressed. I figured I had made a bigger splash in the world, but it seems like I've only got a fraction of the attention I had assumed I would get." The waitress, not noticing the FBI logo on the folder, said "Well I'm sure you'll be able to keep making waves if you keep working at it honey. Here's your burger and fries." Agent closed the folder and thanked the waitress, saying “You're right. I mean, Rome wasn't built in a day." The waitress left him, after giving him one more encouraging coo, and at her departure Agent added under his breath "At least, not the Rome you know about." Turning to his burger, Agent slid the folder in front of him, using in to catch the grease that fell out of his burger. After a quick meal, Agent slid the remains and wrappers onto the tray, and quickly lifted them to the trash can. Dumping the food and the folder together, Agent quickly returned to his table and threw a hundred-dollar bill onto it, before heading for the door. With one hand, Agent pushed the door open, and with his other, rang the "If You Liked The Food, Ring Me" bell. Outside, Agent looked at his watch, noting that it was one in the afternoon. Agent smiled, knowing that he had about three more hours until the city went into full lockdown when they discover the snake. Hailing a cab, Agent entered and said "Take me to the Washington Monument. I've always wanted to see it, and I'm kind of on a time limit."