Participants:
| Scene Title | Four Years Gone |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Two old friends comisserate on the passing of the Four Year anniversary of the bomb, and their plans to come. |
| Date | November 8, 2010 |
Raven Rock Mountain Complex
Liberty Township, Pennsylvania
Ring.
Ring.
Ring.
It's in the dark that the phone rings, a steady chiming that pierces the night right up until the moment the light flicks on beside the bed. Rolling to his side and fumbling for his cell phone, Andrew Mitchell paws over it, sliding it off the nightstand along with his reading glasses, setting them on the bridge of his nose as he inspects the number.
"Drew," is murmured from the other side of the bed, a woman's voice half awake, "what time…" then a huff of breath, "Jesus Christ it's midnight, we just…" Rolling onto her back, Mitchell's wife lays one arm over her eyes, trying to shut out the light, "nevermind." Her husband slides off of the edge of the bed and pushes to his feet slowly, offering an apologetic look over his shoulder.
"Mitchell," he states into the receiver on accepting the call, slowly stalking across the carpeted bedroom floor with a scuff of bare feet, towards the glass door to his office. "Mnhmm, alright. One second, let me get somewhere private." One weathered hand reaches out to turn the latch as he steps into the private office, turning around to shut the door behind himself.
"Alright, fill me in."
DHS Facility, Battery Park City
New York, New York
"I just got off the phone with my superiors, we have confirmation of Carmichael's death."
Settling down into his office chair with a creak of supple leather, the Deputy-Secretary to the Department of Homeland Security, Gregory Armond rubs one hand over his brow. "Pierce is running the show right now while Parkman is incapacitated. I heard from contacts down in Baltimore that Carmichael's body showed up at the safehouse, I don't know how he was found but he was. Dead, sir, completely. Looks like he got killed trying to escape."
«What about Agent Martin?»
"Just like you planned, Martin got himself killed. We kept an eye on the safehouse he was using, he's a non-issue now. What do you want me to do with Cristabella?" Closing his eyes, Armond continues to massage at one of his temples, then reaches inside of his jacket and retrieves a pill bottle, popping off the top and then popping the bottle up to his mouth to take one oblong, white pill onto his tongue.
«Get rid of her, we don't have to uphold our end of the bargain any longer with Carmichael out of the way.»
"Allllright," is lazily replied into the phone with a roll of Armond's eyes. "About how long did you say Carmichael told you this shit-storm was supposed to last? Because last I checked outside my window it was still World War III out there, and I'd really rather not have to tell my wife and kids they have to stay in Florida permanently."
«Carmichael's estimate on the triggered phrase was eight to sixteen hours maximum before it began to wear off. If we're fortunate it will fall somewhere between then. I'm staying at a secure facility until the situation clears, which I imagine will be week's end. You'll have your appointment to the position of Secretary by then.»
"We really lucked out, didn't we?" Armond opines as he swallows down that pill, dryly.
«How do you figure?»
"Parkman, going absolutely ballistic like he did. He was a good cop," but that much seems to be derisively leveled by Armond, "but he was a terrible Secretary."
«Fortune favors the bold» Mitchell quips. «By the time the sun rises, Greg, it's going to be a different world than the one we left. We finally have our Pearl Harbor, finally woken up the rest of the world the rest of the way. We're going to be able to do anything now, have anything. We can finally make this country safe again.»
"Amen to that," Armond murmurs as he reaches forward, picking up a bottle of scotch which is already missing its cap, tipping it back and taking a sip directly from it. "Hey, Andrew…"
«Mmn?»
"Tipping one back to Elise and Nadia," sounds like he may have tipped one back before, "we're gonna make these fuckers pay, Andrew. I swear to God, we're gonna' make all of them pay." The scotch sloshes around in the bottle before its set down, clunking softly on the table as Armond leans forward to rest it there.
«Get some sleep, Greg.» It's a polite way of saying put the bottle down.
"Eventually," is Gregory Armond's apathetic response as he leans back in his chair, watching the orange glow of fire out of his office window. "Eventually."
«By this time next year, the world will be begging us to line them all up against the wall.»
There's a snort, rough and coarse from Gregory as he rubs one hand over his mouth and jaw. "Yeah… yeah. You sleep well, Andrew. Tell Tanya I said hello for me, okay?" There's a brief pause, not long enough for Mitchell to say his farewells yet. "Oh, and… Andrew."
«Yes?» sounds a little more impatient.
"Human is First."
«…Human is First.»
Click.