Lost Time Incident

December 15, 2004

Agent of K.I.L.L. : Chapter One - A New Day DIES

Rick Carver was an agent. He worked for a super-secret organization that was answerable only to the President... if even to him. There were entire administrations where the organization didn't hand in a single report. Not even a budget report. If they needed funds, they forged checks or infiltrated funded Congressional committees. They robbed the richest class of criminal and blackmailed the important and the corrupt (and sometimes both.)

The funds were required for years of undercover projects, all of them dedicated to keeping America safe and free. Carver had put in many years working for K.I.L.L. In all the time, however, he had never settled on a nickname. He had toyed around with a few: Rick Carver, the Spy Stabber. Rick Carver, the Invisible Killer. Rick Carver, Man of a Thousand Knives.

None of them stuck.

Which suited the super-secret organization he worked for, which was known among its highly-trained and deadly employees as K.I.L.L. Agents of K.I.L.L. were supposed to be able to blend in anywhere, strike at any time, then slip away. Having a colorful nickname made you memorable. And in this business, being memorable could get you killed.

Carver had a framed cross-stitch hung in his office at K.I.L.L. that read "MEMORABLE LEADS TO MEMORIALS." It was the only cross-stitch pattern he had ever completed. Being a secret agent doesn't leave a lot of time for hobbies. His life was dedicated to furthering the aims of K.I.L.L.

None of the agents of K.I.L.L. knew what the acronym "K.I.L.L." stood for. None of them had a security clearance high enough. Only one man in history had clearance that high and that was the founder of K.I.L.L. He had been killed. Presumably. Nobody had seen the body, but they had seen some grainy photos. The secret, if it had died, died with him.

Here is what Rick Carver would tell you about himself if you were to ask him:

". . ."

Rick Carver does not talk about himself to strangers. And he wouldn't know you.

His mother, however, would talk to strangers and she would tell you that he's a very nice boy who unfortunately likes playing with knives. She believes him to work in sales in Emeryville, California.

But on a fine, cool California December morning, Rick was actually creeping through the halls of a hospital in Mexico, a moustache glued to his upper lip, a clipboard in his hand. He and his favorite knife, Kamehameha, had a date with a double-agent named Ruiz.

The door to room 118-- in Spanish, "cuarto 118"-- was ajar. Rick, unquestioned during his unguided tour around the Mexican hospital, was not surprised at how easy this mission was turning out. After all, an agent like him trains for years to be able to blend in to any environment. Given five minutes, Rick could pass for anyone from an overdosing pop star to a heretic priest. His Mexican doctor disguise allowed him free passage so far. And if all was well with the universe, why wouldn't it reward him with an open door?

It should be said at this point that Rick Carver had seen more violence and betrayal, more seediness and trickery, than most. And that sort of thing is hard on a man's mind. An agent has no choice but to mentally prop up his sense of purpose with whatever means are available. A number of agents become devout Catholics and can be seen garroting Communists with specially-crafted reinforced rosaries. Others kill without fear of retribution, sure in the white fire of their adopted atheism that they will never feel divine retribution.

So Rick Carver's belief that the universe is a multidimensional feeling organism that lives in everyone so as to experience itself from multiple perspectives throughout the framework of time is no crazier than what you might hear from some of the other agents at K.I.L.L.

So Rick believed that since he was a part of the ALL, that he would occasionally receive lucky breaks and that this was proof that he was on the right path. If, however, things weren't going his way, that was merely a purification process used by the universe to refine him and make him a more worthy vessel of his sliver of the ALL.

You know what? It doesn't even matter. These are private and irrational thoughts. What it comes down to is this: Rick felt lucky the door was ajar. It meant he wouldn't have to strain his disguise-assisted invisibility to pick the lock or kick in the door.

Rick Carver, his hands in his labcoat, his right hand on the familiar hilt of Kamehameha, walked through the door. And there in the hospital bed, watching a telenovela on a TV in the corner, was Ruiz. The traitor. Ruiz glanced at Rick, his eyes registering the labcoat and the moustache, then returned to the telenovela.

On the TV screen, an attractive actress wearing a cut off shirt yelled angrily at a handsome man in a suit. Rick glanced at the TV and recognized one word in the tirade: mentiroso. His Spanish wasn't very good.

"That guy's a liar, huh?" said Rick to the reclining Ruiz. "There's nothing lower than a liar, is there... Ruiz."

"Por que habla en ingles?" answered Ruiz.

"Huh?" said Rick. "Oh, why am I speaking English?" Carver pulled Kamahameha out of his pocket.

"You know what, the language barrier, that's not important right now. What is important is... I'm here to do your bloodwork." Rick smirked at his own pun.

"Que?"

"Bloodwork! I'm... I'm going to cut you!"

Ruiz seemed to notice the knife for the first time.

"Oh." he said.

Posted by Michael at December 15, 2004 07:30 PM