Intervention

99AE

Lucerana

Prevailia

Alexander Bloodworth

Intervention

 

 

                This limo smells nice.  Sort of like freshly squeezed lemons.  The PRD knows how to make a limo smell nice.  It’s too bad Alicia is missing out on this, she loves lemon scented things.  Although knowing her, she might have gotten a bit overwhelmed with big guy Moses over here and tried to take him on.  I wouldn’t try to mess with Moses.  He looks like six plus feet of pain. 

                I do feel awkward in this limo though.  I’m off to meet with a leader of a foreign country.  I didn’t know I am qualified to do this, nor did I ever expect to be in this situation.  Ever.  I guess now I can say I have met a foreign leader.  Not sure where that fits in on a résumé though. 

                “Hi! Who are you?” asks an eager little voice.  A  little girl sits next to me.  Why didn’t I see her before?  Why does this limo smell like lemons?  What is going on here?  Why is there a little girl sitting next to me in this limo on the way to meet the Decorian President!  Ugh this day!

                “Um… my name is Alexander Bloodworth.  I’m a detective,” I reply a little hesitant, a little confused.

                “You’re a detective?” she asks, her eyes widening with excitement.  Her eyes, they’re green.  Like, really green.  It’s almost mesmerizing.  “That is so cool!  I wish I were a detective! Then I could go solve crimes and mysteries and stuff!”

                “Someone should lay off the caffeine,” I say.  I shoot a look at Moses who sits across from me as if to say ‘help me out man; I have no idea what’s going on right now.’

                Picking up on my facial expression Moses responds, “This is Mr. Rexrode’s daughter, Marcia.  She and Mr. Rexrode flew into Lucerana earlier this morning to deal with this little incident. Marcia wanted to see the city, so she came out with me when I came to get you.”

                “Yup, that’s me” says little Marcia, “I’m eight years old!”

                “Marcia, calm down,” says Moses, “This is a grown-up situation”

                “Geez Moses, I’m eight years old, you don’t need to tell me what to do!” snaps Marcia.  Moses puts his hands up for a second as if to say, ‘oh well, I tried,’ and then slouches back in his seat. 

                “So I bet being a detective is fun, huh?” asks Marcia energized, turning back to me. 

                “Well, of course it is, why would I choose to do something I don’t want to do?” I reply. 

                She looks at me skeptical for a second.  “Choose?” she asks.  I don’t see how this is a point of confusion.

                “You know, like when I was your age, I wanted to be a doctor.  But as I grew up, I decided that I liked being a detective more, so I went to school to do just that,” I explain.  It doesn’t change her confused expression.

                “But when you turned fifteen, didn’t they tell you that you were going to be a detective?” she asks.  Now I’m confused. 

                “No, who’s ‘they?’” I ask.

                Moses across the car cracks a tiny smirk.  He seems to do that a lot.  He’s like a statue that keeps breaking character.  “In the PRD we assess children throughout the educational process," explains Moses. "It determines what profession they would best fulfill.  When they turn fifteen, they receive a profession.  Then they receive an educational track to best prepare themselves for that profession.”

                “So in a roundabout way, they have their lives decided for them,” I conclude.  I feel a bit offended.  But why should I be?  It’s not my freedom they’re taking away.  Is it just the idea of taking away that freedom?  I have to remember, this is a different culture I am dealing with.  I can’t let my ethnocentrism cloud my judgment, let alone my attitude. 

                “Yes and no,” Moses replies.  “They assign individuals based on the academic performance and psychological nuances they exhibit.  The assignment is less of someone else deciding as it is the child’s fate.”

                “But if I wasn’t making the decision, then it’s quite likely that I wouldn’t be a detective.  I’m considered the best detective in the LPD,” I argue.  That’s a true statement.  Mine and Alicia’s decision to become detectives surprised a bunch of people. 

                “Oh really?” asks Moses, “If the decision wasn't up to you, what do you think you would be?”

                “All my teachers and professors through college said I’d make a good leader, a politician," I explain.  "But I never wanted to deal with that false persona, the façade that was necessary to win public approval.  But I still wanted to make a difference where it counted.  Police and detective work called to me.  It called to my sister as well.”

                “Ah,” Moses says, “Politics?  I wouldn't count it out yet if I were you.  It may still be your fate.”

                “What do you mean?” I ask.  I don’t like this fate stuff.  I don’t like the idea of predestination.  I prefer to think that I can choose my own fate.

                “They said you were better suited for politics, and you ran away,” answers Moses.  “Now you are on your way to meet with a foreign leader about an international issue.  It sounds to me like you’re not choosing politics, politics is choosing you.”

                “Yes, but this is just one case.  At the end of the day, I will still be a detective,” I argue, though I can’t help but consider his point.  It scares me.

                “I wouldn't count it out just yet,” says Moses.  “I feel the events of today, won’t end with today, and you may have a bigger part than you now realize.” 

                Why do I feel like there are people around me who know too much about what is going on, and seem to be okay with the course of actions.  Is this how people become conspiracy theorists?

                “Perhaps,” I reply “But hopefully I can avoid it.  I’d rather my actions not be responsible for an international fiasco.”

                Moses smirks and looks away.  Somehow I get the feeling that he knows something I don’t.  I feel like I’m a pawn.  Freaking paranoia.  I might need a shrink after today. 

                “Sooooo…. You got to choose to be a detective?” asks Marcia who was quiet through the whole conversation between Moses and I.

                “Yup, that’s right,” I reply.

                “That sounds weird,” Marcia answers, “But I like weird.”

                “What do you mean? Weird?” I ask.  I feel at this point I’m just making small talk.

                “I mean, life can just be boring at times, you know?  It’s like, you go to class every day and you have the same peanut butter and jelly sandwich for lunch.  And that’s boring.  But then on the weekend, you can have anything you want.  You don’t pick the peanut butter and jelly, you get fun stuff like sushi.  The stuff most people look at and say eww.  I like that stuff.  It’s different.  You’re different.” 

                For an eight year old, Marcia has a unique outlook on life.  Perhaps some good advice I could use.  Perhaps this kink in my routine is a blessing rather than a curse.  Perhaps this case is a necessary diversion from my norm, the break from my PB and J.  Talking about food has got me hungry.  What time is it?  I look down at my watch.  11:13.  Damn.  I guess time flies when you smell burnt carcasses all morning.  It’s a good thing my mouth has a filter on what I think about.  If I said half the things that popped into my head, people would look at me differently.  

                “So I’m different because I chose to be a detective and that’s good?” I ask.

                “Yeah,” answers Marcia.

                “So, if you got to choose what you become when you grew up, what would you choose to be?” I ask.

                “Hmm,” Marcia starts to think, “I guess I would want to be an actress.  Like those ones in the movies.”

                “Why an actress?” I ask.

                “Because an actress can be anything,” explains Marcia.  “One day the actress can be a fashion model, the next they can be scientist.  I know it’s all pretend, but I think the good actresses become the roles, they don’t just play them.  If I were an actress, I could have a chance to be anything.”

                Who would have guessed so much insight could come out of a little kid?  “Marcia, you have a unique outlook on life,” I say.

                “Thank you,” she replies.

                “Can you do a favor for me?” I ask.

                “Sure, what?” Marcia answers.

                “Don’t ever change,” I say, “The world needs more people like you.  No matter how old you get, no matter how much the world changes, stay just the way you are.”

                Marcia looks and ponders my words for a few seconds.  “Okay,” she nods with approval.  Was I as open-minded as her when I was her age?  I can’t remember.  I wish I could still think like that.  I think growing up involves destroying our individual and unique outlooks on life.  Along the path so many dreams get crushed that everyone begins to think alike.  We need diverse and open thought. 

                “We’re here,” states Moses as the limo stops.  The chauffeur walks around to the back door and opens it.  Moses exits first, then myself, with Marcia behind me.  The limo has taken us to the Decorian Embassy, as that seems to be the most logical place to meet a foreign president. 

                The embassy looks impressive.  Whether this boast is honest or not is hard to determine.  The PRD tends to keep its internal events internal, so judging its strength tends to be difficult.  Maybe if I were a native Decorian, I could better judge, but I might be forced to biasedly judge. 

                The architecture makes me feel inferior.  I’m sure this was intentional to make the great PRD seem more intimidating in the purpose of foreign affairs.  Even if this power boast is a bluff, it makes it a bluff you don’t want to call, just for the sake that it might not be a bluff.

                “Follow me,” says Moses.  He walks up the stairs in front of us.  Stairs are a common architectural technique to convey importance.  If you have to climb stairs before entering the building, the building seems more important.  Regardless, I follow, and Marcia prances behind me.  I say prances because there is certain lightness in her steps I don’t see in the others around here.  Maybe it’s because she grew up with the intimidating structures.  Either that or she is too innocent to know they are intimidating. 

                As we enter the building, I can’t help but notice the heightened security.  Lots of armed soldiers stationed everywhere, wearing Decorian military uniforms.  The ceremonial kind though, not the practical camouflaged ones they would fight in. 

                We come to a checkpoint right inside the doors.  Sort of the security you might see at airports.  I assume half the stuff on me, I’m not allowed to take in.  For example, my gun.  As a member of the LPD, I am required to carry one while on duty, though, fortunate as I am, I have never found it necessary to discharge it on duty.  Sure I’ve had my share of brawls and fist fights, but never have I needed to shoot a suspect.  I’m grateful for that.  I only wish to solve the crimes and bring in suspects, not bring judgment upon them. 

                Moses and Marcia pass through the checkpoint unchecked as presumably, they would not be a security threat.  They belong here.  I however would be considered a security threat.

                “Place any metal objects you have in the box,” says the lady behind the machine.  I am sure is some kind of sophisticated metal detector.  I start emptying stuff into the small box.  My badge, my keys, etcetera.  I place my gun in the box.  The lady gives me a funny look and has her finger on a button.

                “It’s okay,” says Moses from the other side of the checkpoint, “He’s a detective.  As long as he doesn’t have it on him, he’s fine.”

                After a second, the lady takes her finger off the button but she doesn’t relax.  I continue to fill the box up with anything that might set off the alarm.  I fiddle through my pockets and toss a bunch of loose change into the box.  But fiddling through my pockets, I find something else as well.  A little glass marble.  It’s one of the three that were in the package this morning.  I don’t remember putting this in my pocket.  Strange.  Guess it can stay there though. 

                I finish filling the box and proceed to walk through the metal arch.  It will tell if I can still do enough damage to this place before the hundred or so armed guards can put enough holes in me to please a colony of male rabbits.  No lights buzz, so I guess I am no longer a security threat.

                “You will get your belongings back when you leave,” says the lady, stowing them somewhere behind her.  Fair enough I guess.  I wouldn’t be allowed to bring a gun into the same room as Murphy Patterson, so the same applies with Christian Rexrode as well.  It is surprising how naked you can feel while still wearing all your clothes. 

                I follow Moses up to the second story of the embassy.  I’m starting to get tired of the inferiority complex this building has.  I get it, you have power.  You don’t need to keep shouting it at my eyes. 

                We come to what I presume is the office in which I will be meeting with Rexrode.  As we approach, the door opens.  Out of the door comes a thin and gaunt man dressed up like a Decorian general.  I’ll assume he is a general for the moment.  As he enters the hallway the air gets cold.  That’s odd, as well as unexplainable.  There was definitely a temperature drop just now.  Is that physical or just psychological?

                “You would be here,” he scoffs at me. 

                “Me?” I ask to make sure he was referring to me, “I don’t believe we’ve met before.”

                “You’re Maxwell Stone's useless baggage,” he scowls, “Your uncle is an ungrateful a*****e.”

                “I don’t see how that’s my issue,” I reply. “But given the introduction, I think that insult is better placed elsewhere.  My choice is to the person who calls people's family members useless baggage.”

                “I guess it runs in the family then,” he scoffs, turns, and makes his exit down the hall.  As he leaves, I can feel the warmth return to the surrounding air.  Who was that man?  A Decorian general as he knows Max I think.  I assume he is a bit of a misanthrope. 

                “Right in here,” Moses directs, towards the door the abominable snowman of a general just exited.  Foreign leader time.  Alright.

                I walk into the room.  Everything is no longer on a power trip.  This room is modest.  I don’t know if that is because Rexrode doesn’t have an office at the embassy, or if he is just a modest man. 

                “Ah, Alexander Bloodworth,” says Rexrode from behind his desk looking up over the rims of his glasses.  “I see Moses found you alright.  Please, come in, take a seat.”  The thing that strikes me the most about Rexrode is his inconstancies.  He comes from a country that flaunts its power, and yet he chooses this modest study to meet with me.  He also appears much older than he is.  His glasses exemplify the idea of an old wise man, but he’s only in his late forties. 

                “I apologize about General Vinogradoff,” he says as I sit down, “He is not pleased with the fact that I hold the power to go to war.”

                “Who?” I ask, “That man who just left?”

                “Yes, General Yaroslav Vinogradoff,” Rexrode  explains. “He is the supreme general of the Decorian Army.  He is upset because he wishes nothing but to go to war with whomever.  But then again, if you spend your whole life dedicated to an art, how would you feel if you were never able to partake in it?  I guess it’s just a good thing I hold the keys to that engine.”  Rexrode pauses for a moment, as I assume he is pondering his own point.  “But of course you would know, considering your uncle holds a similar position in your own country.”

                “Max always tells me he’d prefer to die without ever doing his job,” I reply.

                “Does he now?” asks Rexrode laughing, “Well, reluctant leaders are often the best leaders.”

                “Why do you say that?” I ask.

                “Well,” begins Rexrode, “The cruel truth about leadership is it comes with power.  People who crave power often work their ways into leadership positions to obtain power.  But it’s the power those people are after, not the well-being of their followers.  Thus reluctance shows character, that the leader is not there for power, but to lead.”

                “Are you a reluctant leader?” I ask, “Just out of curiosity.”

                “Ha! Are you kidding, when I was younger, I wanted nothing to do with this damn country,” he scoffs.

                “Sounds like some grade A patriotism right there,” I sarcastically reply.  Rexrode seems non-professional, at least in this setting.  I’m getting a lot of personality here.  I think that’s a good thing though. 

                “Is it though?” he asks, slouching back in his chair, “I tell you what, and this is off the record, but the only reason I’m here is because of my name.  Now I’m sure you know this, but my family built this country.  In one hundred and fifty years of history with nine presidents, seven of them have been Rexrodes, myself included.”

                “Sounds like a big weight on your shoulders,” I say.

                “You have no idea,” he replies, “The sad truth is I tried to run away.  I didn’t want to run a country I disagreed with.  But then things got worse.  You don’t get this kind of news here in Prevailia, but it got bad.  I can’t go into details, but if I hadn’t stepped up and fought my way into office, you wouldn't have been assigned that case this morning.  We’d be at war.”

                “Ah, so now we get to why I’m here,” I say.

                “I see you understand the reason you’re here,” Rexrode states.  “The malicious burning of the Decorian research facility here in Lucerana.”

                “Well, I’ve gathered that much,” I say, “But that’s about it.  So I guess now you get to spew some international politics my way and stuff about how I’m entangled in future events and things like that.”

                “Do you talk that way to everyone?” he asks.  I realize now that my tone and choice of vocabulary are unbefitting of the situation.  This is a foreign leader and I am speaking casually. 

                “Only if they let me,” I reply. 

                “I guess that’s on me then,” Rexrode states, “You are correct about all that.  I guess what I need from you now is what you can gather from the case at the moment.  The details will help me decide what to do with all this.”

                I pull the notepad out of my pocket.  It’s a good thing they didn’t need this, as much of a threat a pad of paper can pose.  “Is there anything in particular you need, per say?” I ask, “I assume you are not particularly concerned with methods as much as you are with the suspects and motives.”

                “That would be a correct assumption,” he answers.

                “Right,” I reply thumbing through my notes, “From what I can tell so far, this is most likely the work of someone outside the facility.  It can't be an internal event.  There was likely more than one individual planning this.  They're likely part of some pre-established group or organization.  This group also would have to have access to impressive equipment to pull off such a feat.  On why this act of arson was necessary, there are two plausible theories at the moment, neither of which you’ll like.  The first is that the group has a malicious stance against your country.  That’s never a good thing.  The second is that the group in question knew the research happening in the facility and wished to destroy it.  Either way, I understand that you view either of those scenarios as attacks on your country.  Which is why I am here, is it not?”

                Rexrode sits and ponders for a few minutes, his demeanor has definitely changed.  This is more serious now.  “I’m afraid it would have to come to this,” he mutters to himself. 

                “Come to what?” I ask.

                “I’m going to make a few decisions you won’t like,” he says looking me in the eye.  “I’m going to use my power to take this investigation away from you and make it an internal matter.  Then I’m going to make sure what they conclude is this was the work of a Decorian or some Decorian group to keep the matter local.” 

                “So in other words, scapegoating an innocent person?” I ask, “Is this how due process works in the PRD?”  He’s right, I don’t like that decision at all.  Even if that case was starting to bug me, I can’t help but cringe at framing someone else for something they didn’t do. 

                “Listen, I don’t have many other options,” explains Rexrode, “My senate is blowing up about this.  If they find a reason, they can demand I go to war.  Only I have that power, but they have the power to replace me at any time.”

                “So what this comes down to is maintaining your power?” I ask, “What was all that crap about a reluctant leader again?”

                “As long as I am in power, I can keep war from happening,” barks Rexrode, “Do you know who the Senate’s next choice is after me?  It’s Vinogradoff.  I don’t think you want someone in this office who would declare war for the sake of playing war.  This isn’t an option.  So before you start preaching your ideals about justice, just ask yourself, is one person worth starting a war over?”

                I sit and ponder for a moment.  I see the predicament now.  I just wish I could be okay with the solution.  “I understand the situation,” I begin, “I wish I didn’t have to know about it.  I entered this profession because I wanted to make sure justice came to the right people.  And so far I’ve been able to deliver that.  But here and now I know that justice fails to exist, and there’s nothing I can do about it.”

                “Sometimes high ideals must be set aside for the sake of practicality,” Rexrode explains.

                “I guess we all become hypocrites some day or another,” I respond, “So why was it so necessary that you meet with me to tell me this?  Why not just pull the plug from me without this meeting?”

                “The purpose of our meeting was not to inform you of my decisions,” says Rexrode, “Earlier I met with Murphy Patterson.  He told me he made sure to assign you to this case.  When I asked him why, he said that if anyone in this police department would make sure the right people come to justice, it would be you.  Why Murphy Patterson is keeping tabs on local detectives is a mystery to me.  But he did mention that you wouldn’t stand for something you thought was unjust.  Unfortunately, injustice became our only option.  So the reason I meet with you now is to ask, can you let go, even if you know doing so will lead to a false conviction?”

                Hesitation can be a sign of weakness, but I think in this situation, it is more a show of strength.  As now I hesitate to answer the question with a forced response.  “Yes, I can step back,” I answer. 

                “Good,” replies Rexrode, “That’s what I needed to hear.  I am sorry it had to come to this.”

                “I am too,” I say standing up, “And as long as I remain a detective on these streets, I hope I never have to meet with you like this again.”

                “And I the same,” he replies, “But don’t think this will be the last time we meet.  I have a feeling some people have big plans for you.”

                There we go with the ‘part of something bigger’ thing.  That’s all I’ve been hearing today.  This feels like one big set up. 

                As I leave Rexrode’s office, I can’t help but feel defeated.  Strange, earlier this case frustrated the hell out of me and I wanted nothing to do with it.  Now that I’m off it, I’m even more frustrated, though I’m reluctant to see how Alicia will take this news.  It won’t be good.

                “Alex,” calls a voice from down the hall.  I turn to see an excited Marcia scurrying down the hall towards me.

                “Hello,” I say as she tackles me. 

                “I wanted to give you a hug before you left,” she says embracing me.  I see Moses down the hall, watching.  He cracks a small smile. 

                “That’s sweet,” I say, hugging her back.

                “Will I get to see you again?” she asks.

                This is a hard question to answer.  “I don’t think so,” I reply. 

                “Why not?” she asks stepping back, pouty.

                “Because I’m afraid the events that would bring me to see you would be bad ones,” I explain.  “And as entertaining as you are, it’s best that those events don’t happen.”

                “Well, it doesn’t have to be tomorrow,” she says, “But eventually I guess.”

                I stop and think a moment.  How do I respond to this?  “If you show the effort, I will match it,” I reply, “I just expect to meet the same Marcia I met today.”

                “Promise,” she asks.

                “Promise,” I answer.