7 - The Plan

"You're not the first to get yourself into this mess, Ferguson." The wolf growled at me, whether with disgust or pity. "Thing is, you're just a bit feistier than most of the others."

Others. Every single instance of that word made my blood boil. How many others were down here, anyways? This secret of an operation, yet as open as it was, more than me were bound to come upon it.

"For the record, we ain't trying to kill you."

I stopped walking, which prompted him to pause and look back at me. "Are you seriously trying to sell me on that, mutt?"

The wolf growled at the word, but kept his composure. "First of all, it's Pavel. Second, I ain't selling you on nothing, boy." He walked up to me, staring me down from a foot higher. "We don't do murder... unless it's mandated by the Council." He drew his claws and bared them in front of my face. "These don't come out unless Mickey or Charlotte give me the say-so, got that?"

I narrowed my eyes, matching his stare. "And when's that, Pavel?" His name felt weird when I said it, like it didn't belong to him.

A second of silence, and he spoke. "When Mickey or Charlotte have decided that you're no longer of any real worth - to the surface or otherwise, boy." He turned, shoving his claws into the pockets of his suit. "Now, come on. Stafferson don't like people being late."

I hesitated for a second, then continued walking.

Several minutes of walking passed. We crossed through a number of hallways, trying to stay out of sight of the other patrons of the bar. Here and there, Pavel would pause, tell me to hide, and watch as people moved from restroom to backroom to parlor to pantry - none of which managed to catch a slight glimpse of me; or, if they did, their eyes (or ears, or antennae, or otherwise) did not betray them. Once they left - usually after being frightened by Pavel - he checked, then gave the command to move. This happened several times before we arrived at a hallway with a door at the end.

Pavel turned to me. "This is Stafferson's private room."

I raised my eyebrows. "'Private room'?"

Pavel grinned, showcasing his row of sharpened canines. "No meeting in the public office. Mickelson's order. Too many witnesses, he says."

My blood chilled. Witnesses. So, the order was given, then. "I assume, then, Melissa is in there as well?"

Pavel shrugged. "I got the order to take you down here, sight unseen. No questions, no details - they told me, 'get him down there, then go.' Anything else, Stafferson will tell you herself, boy." And with that, he sauntered off, leaving me in the dim hallway, staring at the oak door.

A minute of contemplation passed. I was alone; I could bolt out of here, make it back home. Fuck the patrons and fuck Mickelson; I'd make it before they'd catch me.

I looked back at the hallway I came from. Aside from the hallway lights and the sounds of the nearby parlor, it was dead silent and pitch black. Pavel had moved fast enough to get back to his other duties, whatever they were. As far as I could see and hear, I was alone. For a minute, I squinted at the dark, almost making out what could be mistaken for a pair of eyes; nothing, however, came to me or emerged from the shadows, so I turned back to the door.

On the one hand, I could've left immediately; however, the more I thought of it, the more unlikely it seemed. Mickelson had pretty much saw to it that I wouldn't be leaving easily - if he allowed Pavel to leave as soon as I got to the hallway, he might've also made sure to leave an extra guard in the cellar to catch me.

That, and he's been keeping data on me; he might know where I live, exactly. Which isn't the best thing for someone who has it out for your family to know about.

With a deep breath and heavy feet, I walked over and pulled open the door.

The room was larger than I expected for her. It seemed almost a carbon copy of Mickelson's office, just with the desk arranged against the wall and the cabinets built inside it, allowing for more movement and more guests. Which, considering this was supposed to be her 'private room', doesn't exactly make a lot of sense, but then again, I'm standing here, deep below the earth, in a secret bar, staffed and maintained and visited by fairytale creatures, all of them probably wishing to put a bullet in my head - sense has flown out of a window and was probably shot by a skeet shooter at this point

Standing in the center of the room was Melissa and Leigh, both heads turned towards the new arrival. Melissa was holding a thin folder - just handed to her by Leigh, I assume - and was in the middle of leafing through it.

Leigh looked at me, eyes tired, then turned back to Melissa. "Right. You have your orders. Mr. Mickelson wants it done quick and clean; otherwise, no payment on this one." She turned around and walked behind the desk, crouching and fumbling through the drawers.

I walked next to Melissa, who handed me the folder. Forms, detailing the information of one "A. Buchanan." Forty-six, divorced, no kids, owner of a small motel just outside Yuma. Medical info, business records, travel - unlike the previous reports, this one was in-depth, almost a clinical study. They wanted to keep full account of this guy, whatever his importance. I kind of feel bad for him, whoever he is.

Melissa's eyebrows were raised, giving the thought that she was feeling the same way. A rustling and thud from the desk brought us out of our invisible conversation and turned our heads toward Leigh.

She had placed two handguns on the desk; Smith and Wesson, unloaded and polished to a bright silver hue. Ammunition boxes were placed nearby; .40 S&W, standard, two-hundred rounds worth. A hand popped out from behind the desk, as Leigh pushed herself up. She hefted up a shotgun, black, pump-action from the bar, and placed it on the desk. From her pocket, she produced a box of shells.

A minute of silence before Melissa finally decided to speak, pointing at the firearms. "Are those for...?"

Leigh nodded, then sat down, taking a clipboard from the desk. "Smith and Wesson Model 4006, cleaned, stock, two with one-hundred allowed." She pointed her pencil at the guns. "Remington Model 870, cleaned, stock, one with fifteen allowed."

Melissa swallowed hard. "A-are we gonna... need these?"

Leigh sighed hard. "Mr. Buchanan has proven in the past to be ridiculously uncooperative with our demands, despite our polite demeanor and... the benefits of working with us. Thus, it should be assumed he might resort to lethal force, should our agents show themselves on his premises again." She wrote something on the clipboard. "These weapons have been reprimanded from California Highway Patrol officers. We don't want any activities to result in exposure."

A switch flipped. "Wait, if these are government weapons, would firing them result in..."

"The American government has deigned to allow a few officers to take the fall, should any incidents arise." Leigh spoke, with such a coldness in her voice.

Melissa placed a hand over her mouth, muffling a gasp. "You mean, if he fights back and we're forced to... kill him..."

My forehead furrowed at the thought. "We have a patsy in the officers."

Leigh looks at me, stopping her writing. Her eyes bled a cold air, almost like she was trying to stare daggers through me. "A job needs doing, Mr. Ferguson. A bullet finds a victim. A corpse needs a killer. A newspaper needs headlines. And people need a word." She turned her head back to her clipboard. "In this case, you need a way to pay off your debts."

"My grandfather's."

"Your debt. You're the only one who's in a position to do so." A look of realization came over her, and she reached into her pocket to pull out a box. "Oh, you will also want to have these."

I hesitated, then walked over to the desk. Melissa followed behind, unsure of everything. I picked up the two pistols, handing one to Melissa, then pocketed the other one. I gripped the shotgun in my arm, testing the pump and opening the well. Nothing - it was clean for them moment. Slinging the weapon over my shoulder, I looked over at Melissa, who was aiming the pistol at the wall, unsure of how exactly to hold it or whether or not it would explode right there and then. After a minute, she assumed a stance, pointing the gun toward the ceiling, trying to look like the wingman gunner in an action movie.

I turned towards Leigh, and within a second, I withdrew the pistol from my coat and pointed it at her, point-blank and aiming at her forehead. She didn't flinch, merely staring up at me. Her eyes caught me - cold, unfeeling, uncaring. Whatever happened, it didn't matter at all to her. She opened her mouth.

"The gun's unloaded, you know."

I smiled and pressed the trigger. A click confirmed it. "Just testing." I replaced the pistol and looked at Melissa, who's face had gone slightly pale and who had widened her eyes. Turning back to Leigh, I spied the box on the desk. Picking it up, I studied it.

Specialty .40 S&W rounds, 'enhanced'. I opened it, revealing ordinary ammunition cartridges covered with a magenta band. I raised an eyebrow, picked a cartridge, and studied it in the light. An almost-faint, light shine glimmered around them, as if it was seeping into the air. Placing the cartridge away, and putting the box in my coat, I looked back at Leigh, who was smiling.

"Enhanced."

"With iron. The bullets are tempered silver coated in a thin iron shell, allowing for an anti-magic weapon that works cleanly."

Melissa walked up to the desk, nervous. "Are we really going to need cold iron for this, Ms. Stafferson?"

Leigh looks at her, her smile warming considerably. "Hopefully, Buchanan will decide to cooperate this time.  If not, at least you two should be equipped to deal with all threats that will be presented in the situation." She waved her shooing us away. "Now, away. Nathaniel will be waiting outside with the last thing you'll need."

And with that, we turned away and walked outside.

6 - The Past

"Henry Ferguson." Mickelson repeated to me, facing the desk. "Never seen a better shot at pool. Granted, that didn't mean much when everyone was drunk, but it was something."

The two bodyguards were now standing in front of the door, right behind us. Uncomfortable stares. Aggressive thoughts. They were ready to break us in case we tried to run for it.

"All them horse-bets and twenty dollar shot nights catch up to you, though." He turned back to me, the receipts in his hand. He flicked through them, then set them aside on the desk. He walked behind the desk, opened the drawer, and withdrew another pile of receipts. These, he threw to Melissa, who caught them as awkwardly as possible.

Flipping through them, her eyes turned wider, almost the size of plates. She looked at me, then at Mickelson. "What the hell? Are you fucking serious?!"

"And that's the drink and betting tab, princess." Mickelson went, pulling out another pile of receipts. "I got one here for... protections."

Melissa dropped the receipts, pulling her hands to her face as she closed her eyes. "Damn it, Dad... the hell were you doing?"

Mickelson smiled. "Honestly? Your mother."

Melissa gave Mickelson a hard stare. "That's not funny."

"It is, when you've got two new employees that far in-debt." He grinned, his smirk dominating his face again, and motioned towards me. "Shit, at the rate inflation hits, I can piss on city-boy, here, and the only words out of your mouth would be, 'Good thinking, sir.'"

A moment of silence. The only noise in the room was the sound of the big brutes behind us breathing. For a minute, I contemplated trying to draw the blade.

Finally, he continued speaking. "So, here's what's going on now, and what's been going on since you two knew how to breathe, kids." He sat down, and withdrew a pad of paper from below the desk. Taking the pen from the desk, he started writing. "Your families owe me money. A lot of money." He grinned. "Now, I'm being pretty lenient when I offer you this job."

Offer. Cute. He's trying to make this out to be a legitimate job.

"You see, the Council doesn't exactly like losing any money. Especially if it was on a... unprofitable business proposition such as..." He waved his arms, trying to encapsulate the entire bar in one motion. "This." He pointed at me. "None of which was helped by a certain horse-betting drunk."

I frowned. "And you loaned the money to him, knowing that?"

Mickelson replaced the pen. "Your grand-pappy knew how to grease people up, boy." He threw the pad at me; I managed to catch it in time. "I hope you got the same qualities and skills - else, you gonna be having a hard time around here."

I took a look at what he wrote on the notepad:

" Duties: Cleaning, Service, and anything else demanded by Mickelson and/or associates whom are labeled as such. Payment: Held, until full loans have been payed off ~ salary dependent on quality of service, with increases/decreases dependent on service performed."

 Vague. No singular job, no singular boss. No real payment, just nonsense weasel words. Perfect way to get some workers to consider, and some to walk away.

He knows that this is his territory, his game, his arena. It's just a question of how much of us he can own within five sentences or less. I intend to walk away, but Melissa might end up losing more than she earns through this.

"Now, Miss Faelin, I'm going to need you to meet with Miss Stafferson in the other room." He held his hand out, and Nathaniel jumped to open the double-locked door. As he held the door open, Melissa kept a hard stare on Mickelson. He placed his hand on the table. "You see, I... overheard the discussion you and our associate had in the backroom a while ago and..." He looked away for a minute, pausing, then continued. "I must have a clear discussion and debriefing with him."

Melissa looked to me, her eyes softening, then she turned and walked outside. The bodyguards followed her, and soon Mickelson and I were alone in the office. Another minute of silence passed before he spoke.

"So. You... know."

The hair on my neck bristled again. Somehow, he managed to get our conversation.

"Miss Faelin meant well when she was telling you about the world underground. But the problem is..." He stood up, and walked behind his chair, moving to a cabinet behind him that was shrouded in the dark. "She doesn't understand the... standard operating procedure that is required when someone on the surface learns to look."

I gripped the switchblade in my sleeve. The blade was sheathed still, but I can probably get it out quickly enough.

I contemplated those words as he searched for his files. Standard operating procedure; this has happened enough before, for there to be a proper response. From what I saw in the backroom, it's already happened three times before.

He withdrew a manilla-colored folder, filled with forms. Shutting the cabinet door, he walked over to me and handed the folder to me. Taking it, I opened it up and beheld what seemed like a mixture of police reports and psychiatric evaluation forms. Each was filled with writing, all of it supposed to be mad, supposed to be crazy.

The name at the top of forms was all the same: Henry Ferguson, signed in cursive script.

"So, he was a crazy bastard."

Mickelson grinned, flashing that stupid toothy smile. "The first psychologist to interview him ran out of the room screaming. They needed four officers and a cane to restrain him when they questioned him about the report."

"Why?"

"Because he was drunk and a sore loser."

"No, I mean, why all the forms?"

He seemed to not understand the question for a minute. "People... are very unsure of what they see, especially of it startles them enough. You grand-pappy definitely was frightened - the difference was, he was too drunk to care about forgetting it." He walked to the desk and studied the receipts. "The Council doesn't like the people up above knowing about the people down below. Frightens some, makes converts out of others."

"Who."

He turned his head in my direction. "Who, what?"

"Who is and isn't?"

He chuckled before turning his head back to the table. Moving the receipts around, he continued. "Believing the Council, everyone isn't. We're all just one big pot of normal." He picked up a receipt, studied it for several seconds, then threw out to the side. "'Course, reality is, magic hides a lot of things. Fur, ears, scales, eyes, noses... just gotta know the right glamour, and you can be human from dawn to dusk."

Melissa's ears. Leigh's height. Nathaniel's skin. Things that can be hidden.

"Most of the people that hide never try to become important. Too much risk. Paparazzi are persistent bastards and glamour doesn't hold up under the flash of a bulb. At least, not long enough." More receipts get thrown off the table. I'm wondering now if the chance can be taken. "New spells, new illusions, new magic. Combine that with new tech, and you'd be surprised who is and who isn't."

Irritating. "My question stands, Mickey."

"Everyone is and isn't. You want specifics? Look at alternative news. 'New world order, Illuminati members, secret lizard people running the government'. It's crazy, but the crazy ones always speak when they know for sure." Turning back to me, he was grinning. "Granted, things aren't as connected as they seem, and never as large, but size ain't the issue here." For a minute, he looked to be thinking. "Also, I seriously have no idea why reptilians keep going into politics."

The words held in the air for a moment before he kept going. "Plus, no direct answers. The Council doesn't like when I spill highly-confidential government secrets. And considering how nosy and curious the U.S. population is, that's a simple precaution." He turned to me, holding a large receipt form. Probably the full bill, to hand off to Leigh when I'm supposed to leave. "The Council, by the way, is the Council of Human and Nonhuman Relations. Despite essentially being HR for fairy tales, they're probably the most important governing office when it comes to the underground. See, people like thinking of stories as stories - something else, somewhere else. No one wants to see a man made of bees show up at their door, wearing a trench-coat and offering the latest in affordable vacuum cleaners. So, we keep it under the rug."

The door opened behind me as if on cue. Leigh walked past me and handed a folder to Mickelson. "The files on Faelin, Ferguson, Sanderson, Mitchell, and Guzman, sir. Faelin will be held until her father receives word." Taking the folder, Mickelson gave me a look of smug pride, before facing Leigh. She continued. "Also, Ms. Charlotte would like to know when the Council should be notified of Ferguson's... arrival. I'm sure the Senator wants full knowledge of the situation."

He chuckled. "Of course he would. Tell Mr. Cameron that we have the situation under control and that negotiations are being made. Be vague if you can, Ms. Stafferson. We need to account for all possible outcomes and consequences in this case."

Consequences. Like an experiment, a thought bubble easily popped and discarded. This man's telling me much, but he's not meaning any of it.

Leigh turned to look at me, then handed me a pen. I hesitated before taking it. She smiled, then proceeded to leave.

Mickelson spoke. "Leigh Stafferson. Smart young woman. Been working for me for a decade." He looked through the folder for a minute, then moved to the back. "Now, Mr. Ferguson, I must request that you leave me. I have a phone call to make and messages to send, and you have an appointment with Stafferson." Before he walked into an unseen door, he turned to me, with a hard look in his eye. "And no, you never had a choice or a chance. That blade of yours doesn't work when you're trying to cut through bureaucracy." And with those words, he walked through the dark door, and disappeared with a click.

I stood there in the office for a second, then returned the blade to my inner coat pocket. A loud knock on the door startled me. It opened, and the werewolf walked in, his displeasure evident on his face. "Come on, Ferguson. Stafferson's waiting." He motioned to the hallway.

With no more real questions, a whole mess of ideas in my head, and an aching chest, I followed the mutt out into the hallway.

Despite all this, I had a shred of hope that I was somehow safe. That, hopefully, this works out for me.