"Matthew D." (propatria) wrote in repose, @ 2016-09-25 15:05:00 |
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Entry tags: | *log, cat dubrovna, matt devlin |
Log: Area 52 Military Facility - Cat/Matt
Who: Matt and Cat
What: Matt is in supersoldier jail. :(
Where: The Facility. Area 52
When: After this.
Warnings/Rating: None.
Owen Theodore Devlin, ALIAS Matthew Devlin, ALIAS The Soldier, presented both a problem and its solution.
His very existence was only a rumor. He was a story agents told one another, late at night, staring down a barrel or canoodling in semblance of courtship while waiting for a target to arrive. Ghost stories for ghosts - did you hear the one about the guy no one's ever caught? The one who doesn't die? Active for seventy years. Bet you wish you had that kind of record. Bet you wish you'd live that long.
Rumor said he was a tool of the Russians, then of the Chinese, then of anyone with money enough to buy the best assassin in history. Rumor said it might be a woman under that mask, that the metal arm from stories was a fake, or that he had two metal arms, or that he was a robot, some early model cyborg by a rogue government. At least three presidents, six prime ministers, and senators and celebrities numbering in the dozens under his belt.
Some of it was even true.
But the man sitting in the facility's high security wing was more than a ghost. He was a blight on the record of US intelligence. He was a wrong that needed correcting. More than just a liability, he was blackmail.
The woman who had come to tell Matt his own story laid flat a short, thick stack of papers. She produced a group of photographs, and turned them to the man on the other side of the table. He was dressed in a heavy white shirt against the chill so deep in the earth, feet in harmless socks, pants without a drawstring. The fabric had been cut away to expose his left arm, gleaming under the light in this stark room.
It could have been worse, here. Cold, yes, and far enough underground that he would never be able to fight his way through to the surface alive, but the cell had a small battery powered television, warm lights that followed the cycle of the day outside, and a bed with a blanket. It was empty, the walls a flat grey, but it could have been worse. Some people, he was sure, had to stay here for a very long time.
His hair was loose and lank, and he was unrestrained. On his right wrist was a plastic clasp, flush against the skin. At any moment, the agent on the other side of the table, (neat as a pin, he thought, nice green eyes) could press a small button on the table and administer a heavy dose of sedative through the needle inside the clasp, recessed and waiting. Freedom of movement, humane treatment, and protection for everyone, including himself. After that scene outside the mayor's apartment, no one was taking chances.
She tapped the photographs, and unspooled the story.
It started when a rogue researcher found the file. Thick as a paperback novel, labeled in cyrillic for the SOLDAT project. What was a cold-war era narrative of medical torture doing in this facility's files?
It took time to find out more. Most of the men and women who knew were already dead - one of the last had been killed in his own front yard by a bullet to the head only six months ago. When the story came to light, it was ugly as post-911 intelligence gathering got. Matt had come back to the United States through an underhanded trade, one valuable asset in exchange for full immunity for a small band of Russian scientists and military men. Most of them are dead now, surprise. Those few people at the top of the CIA and FBI who knew of the soldier's existence had, in one swoop, acquired a top-tier weapon in the fight for Freedom. They allocated a facility and staff to keep him, and used him to move politics in the direction they saw for the world.
The government was not in a mood to expose unsanctioned wetwork, plus a thorough list of violations of the Geneva convention. Yes, these had been the actions of a few rogue individuals who saw themselves as chiefs of the world's police force. Of course. But their exposure would be catastrophic. Were a public trial of the Soldier to take place for his many crimes during the cold war and after, his file would surely be entered into evidence. It was foolish to think there were no other copies. That plus his testimony could mean disaster. Depending on what he remembered - what did he remember? Nevermind, a discussion for another time. Plus, at any time, someone with the right information could turn him into a weapon and aim him at anyone they saw as an enemy.
So Owen Devlin, he was a problem. The solution, for him and everyone else, was cooperation.
The agent stacked her papers and photographs. He had a visitor, she said. Someone wanted to see him.
His expression hadn't so much as flickered while she told him her story, but now he looked. There were windows on either side of the reinforced doorway. At night they were rendered opaque (a trick of technology fogged them and made it impossible to make out anything on the other side) but they were clear just now, and he could see whoever was in the hall.
He wondered if the man who tried to take his life from him had a nice warm cell too. He wondered, if he agreed, if he would get to find out.