Participants:
| Scene Title | The Playbook |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | After the fall of Pollepel Island, a darkness spreads. |
| Date | December 20, 2011 |
Before the sun has even risen, a single green-hooded desk lamp illuminates an otherwise dark office. Faint shades of pink burn at the forested horizon out the office windows, cast muted shadows in purples and reds on the far wall. Seated at the mahogany desk, Andrew Mitchell stares into a gray folio laid atop other assorted paperwork in front of him. The seal of the Presidency is stamped on its surface.
Soft clinks echo in the glass Mitchell holds in his free hand, with a half finger of whiskey diluted by melting ice. He sips from the glass, sets it down on a cobalt coaster and unties the string binding the folio closed. Dark eyes sweep over the contents as he opens the front flap, spreading a few photographs out to look at side by side. With one hand over his mouth, Mitchell stares long and hard at the images.
One, a tall blonde woman in a shark gray suit photographed getting in to a black sedan. Sarisa Kershner.
One, a younger blonde woman in an orange winter parka with fur trim photographed outside of a snowy research station. Clara Francis.
One, a black-haired woman in an olive-drab jacket holding a cell phone up to her ear in a crowded market. Sabine Hazel.
One, a mugshot of a man who needs no description. Sylar.
Mitchell exhales a sigh through his nose, leans back in his chair and rests his elbows on the padded arms. His hands steeple, resting in front of his mouth. Those burdened, dark eyes look out the window to the pink horizon in the distance.
He closes his eyes, pulls in another slow breath.
Camp David
Catocin Mountain Park
Maryland
"We can't ever let this come to light, you do realize?" Mitchell lays spread fingertips down atop the photographs. His attention alights to a figure standing outside of the glow of the lamp. "But," he looks back down to the photographs and sweeps them all aside, off of his desk and into the trash. "We have to appreciate the position they've put us in."
Leaning forward, Mitchell's chair creaks and he folds his hands together at his mouth. "The office of the President must react swiftly, resolutely, and without hesitation against the extant threat that each and every one of their kind represents. We have a duty to protect the people from the less than one percent of the population that could bring this nation to its knees."
Scowling, Mitchell rolls his tongue over the inside of his cheek. "Tell Georgia that she has whatever resources she needs to ensure we stay a step ahead of the curve, and inform General Moritz that we will be taking off the velvet glove. Our nation is now in an active state of war, with itself."
"I can't believe it's come to this." Mitchell leans back in his chair again, sighing into a hand that comes to rest over his mouth as he looks at the sunset. "I will be the second president in American history to preside over a civil war. The first black man to hold office in this nation, and…" his mouth works between a severe frown and bared teeth. "If we pull out of this," his eyes flick to his guest. "If our country survives, one way or the other they will be teaching school children of the choices we make for generations to come."
"They will," Mitchell's guest admits, approaching the desk. "New York is just the start, Mr. President. The world is watching us, seeing the example we set. But if we give our enemy even an inch, they'll drag us for a mile until we're dead." Mitchell's guest pulls another gray folder from under his arm, offers it out with a gloved hand toward him.
Mitchell looks up to his guest, then down to the folder with CLASSIFIED stamped across it. His dark eyes flick up again, and then he reaches for his whiskey to take another sip before unwinding the string tie holding the folio closed. As Mitchell looks down at the contents, his eyes narrow and expression changes to something more wary. "Where did you get this information?"
Mitchell's guest cracks a smile and reaches up to scratch where a scar on his face cuts into his beard. "We had a contact, before the Irishman was taken out of the picture. Delivered this to us, and I took the initiative of adding everything from Apollo to it."
With a deep breath, Mitchell draws a photograph up from the folio of a gray haired man in a black suit with wire-rimmed glasses stepping out of a black sedan, a wolf's-head cane gripped tightly in one hand. Mitchell turns the photograph around and lays it in front of his guest. "This man was a genocidal lunatic." His brows pinch together in a momentary break in his otherwise stoic facade. "What are you insinuating?"
Mitchell's guest leans down over his desk, hands coming to rest and the corners to bring his scarred face into view. "What I'm saying, is that Daiyu Feng gave us something that we're going to need after today.
With one raised brow Mitchell asks. "And what is that, Mister Sadaka?"
Khalid Sadaka leans up off the desk and motions down to the documents.
"A new playbook."
