Pinkgothic played:

Francisco Ahlgren and Thomas Bennett

Rage and fear both pounded in his skull as a merciless headache as he leant against the window sill in the hotel room in Dakar, staring out at the ocean as if he could see. Like a vicegrip, it threatened to suffocate him, but he stubbornly kept breathing, steady in it. Teeth ground against each other lightly but tensely.

In the bathroom hovered a manifestation of death that would split his flesh and splinter his bones if he knew of his state, the poison weakness that threatened to hollow him out.

Miscalculated.

The word repeated itself across his thoughts and simultaneously summarised them. He had miscalculated, and it seemed like a gutwrenching euphemism of a careless game of life.

It was more shock than damage that his citizens had to deal with, admittedly. He was already a few phonecalls into assessing the situation. A corner of the island had experienced minor flooding that would take significant time and effort to undo, and the airport had taken enough damage that they'd cancelled incoming flights. He felt trapped, exposed and vulnerable, as if the fact he'd given his name when he'd booked the room meant someone would come tonight and slit his throat. The thought was more vivid than usual, with the news placing him into a smouldering focus.

The hypocrisy of what he heard was a special kind of venom that threatened to paralyse him with blank rage. How they all suddenly feigned to care, simply because the attackers were a common enemy: The faceless, the underhanded, the evil. Between the lines, mockery: 'Is this what you subscribe to, Francisco? Anarchy? This would never have happened if they played by the rules you don't agree with.' Missing the point, still, deliberately, sickeningly - as if he were at all opposed to international agreements, rather the specific ones lauded by his peers. 'We think your people are human beings, too. We do care.'

He was managing to keep his calm enough not to feel violently ill.

It didn't help, though; whether his nation was licking its wounds or not, he had to talk to Bennett. If this was Europe's doing - as he dreaded - he would have to proceed with caution. He could grovel, he could beg, but if he overdid it, it was an invitation to do it again. No amount of righteous anger over the situation was going to help him, for he, like Bennett, was simply a playing piece in a larger, more complex game of political malarkey that no one truly controlled, but everyone was ultimately forced to play their part in.

Simply put, Francisco's part now involved getting in touch with Bennett.

Staring out of the window, he'd battled with himself for the last five minutes, an eternity for his tortured soul, trying to come to terms with the situation, trying to rein in the sheer terror he felt at his own helplessness. Simultaneously, he had to decide how to approach Bennett, when his every fibre rebelled against it - less afraid of the man and more of what he himself was capable of, and how likely his rage was to bubble up and smash all hope to keep the situation from escalating.

He could simply write him, apologise for the transgression, explain his motives, and carefully word the enquiry as to Europe's involvement in the strike as not to stick out like a jarring non-sequitur.

He could fumble for the telephone and try and smooth out his voice enough to speak to him, pick up on the subtleties of tone in the other man, connect, but essentially say the same things.

Or he could hope Bennett was pacing, waiting for him to give him a sign, to meet him virtually, interface with the lushly vivid detail of something almost genuinely face to face, and make it personal.

Absolutely none of the avenues were options.

His left hand tensely dragged fingernails across his scalp, trying to knead through it to supply some kind of psychological anchor.

He pushed himself away from the ledge, bringing his left hand's thumb around to the centre of his forehead, pushing itself soothingly against the skin thinly layered across his skull between his brows. The distant sound of running water subsided - and it was then that he felled a decision.

*

There were over a dozen new e-mails waiting for him, floating before him in neutral colours, oblivious to their emotional sting.

Bennett. Bennett again. The entire tail end: Bennett, uniformity of sender addresses punctured by a single mail from Gary.

A sliver of cowardice manifested and lashed out his hand to Gary's e-mail, gut queasy. At least he could write him, that spelt good things for his survival, but what would it contain?

> francisco, :-)
>
> hey, you're probably being torrentially flooded by
> bennett's e-mails by now, so I thought I'd just give you
> a heads-up... I'm okay!! sort of. :o) got a serious
> chewing out... but I'm not about to be executed for
> treason or something like that... probably fired, I
> guess? kind of can't tell right now, going to wait for
> bennett to calm down. I'll keep you updated!
>
> regards,
> - gary

...god bless the bastard and his outlook on life. 'I'm not getting executed for treason, so everything will be okay. Just letting you know! Bye!' It wrenched a chuckle of half-genuine, half-bitter amusement from Francisco, encased in that virtual shell as he was.

For a moment, he hung there, avatar mirroring his appearance perfectly, subtly paralysed, fingers of his right hand playing across the numb skin of his left arm's elbow in absent-minded motion. Then he broke through his passivity, pushing out past the fear that he'd unwittingly basked in, and drifted a hand almost gracefully to beckon for the content of the first of Bennett's e-mails.

> I want to know what the hell you think you're doing. I
> don't care if you think you can get away being more
> elusive than the Pope, or if you think just because you
> own a sovereign nation you're beyond instruction. I swear,
> if I don't hear back from you as soon as you've set down
> wherever you are, I'll make you regret the day you were
> born.

His lungs numbly ached as if the words had punched the breath out of him. 'Regret the day you were born'. A fresh anger boiled in Francisco's blood, eating up his right side like an acid leaving tension in its wake. He struggled for breath, then forced himself to focus on facts, swallowing consciously and dismissing the writ with a flick of his wrist.

He brought up the next, dated two hours later.

> Francisco.
>
> It so happens I've spoken to Gary and it seems he all
> but outright asked you to do this.
>
> Is there a word for what you've done, I wonder? If you
> were European, I'd say 'treason' would be apt, but of
> course you sidestep that. 'Declaration of war'? That's
> probably a bit high strung.
>
> Anyway, I promise I'll come up with something - just so
> we're on the same page.
>
> Oh, in case there's any doubt, I still expect to hear
> from you.
>
>
> Cheers,
> - Thomas Bennett

The very fact there was a marginally more formal frame to this letter suggested the man had either calmed down... or turned to colder blood. It was hard to read between the lines. It was thick with contempt either way, but what flavour of contempt was he looking at? The bitter, resigned contempt of someone who acknowledged he'd lost the game, or the more cunning flavour of reckless intent?

Pressing his lips to a thin line, he repeated the earlier motion, dismissing the e-mail in favour of the next, half an hour after the second.

> Francisco,
>
> for the record, you're vexingly hard to find. Well done.
> Just thought you might want to know that. Leave a card
> next time, would you?
>
>
> Cheers,
> - Thomas Bennett

The next was dated six hours later, dead of night for Bennett, perhaps barely scratching at dawn, and about one hour after the reported attack on Dark Arcadia. His heart hammered in his chest as he opened the e-mail.

> Francisco,
>
> we need to talk.
>
>
> - Thomas Bennett

He closed his eyes. Of all neutral, minimalist e-mails to write, what had possessed Bennett to pick that one for such ambiguity? Or was it deliberate? 'I know what you're confronted with and until I hear from you I will revel in the knowledge that you don't know for sure what my involvement is'?

With a bitter, almost hardened expression, Francisco dismissed the e-mail.

'All right, Thomas,' he found himself thinking, venom curling itself about his spine. 'We'll talk.'

*

There was no background music to drown out the sound of his own heartbeat as he waited and rocked absent-mindedly in his seat within the depths of The Conglomerate, waiting for Bennett to find his invitation in his inbox, with that single-use key to join him in his chat session.

The fact that ten hours had passed since Bennett's early morning e-mail did nothing to dampen a swift reaction. The softly pulsing beacon of light in the white room denoting Francisco's wait extinguished abruptly, and Thomas Bennett blinked into existence like a sudden shadow, glaring daggers, both hands curled to fists, taking only an instant to find Francisco with his gaze.

Francisco cut through the silence before Bennett had a chance to launch into rant: "Are you behind the attack?" He had no pretence of diplomacy to hide behind, voice cold.

Bennett's anger fluctuated noticeably, dropping to bearable levels for a moment, the emotion wrestling with one of confusion. "...ignoring for a moment that it's a laughable inversion to demand justification from m-"

"Did you? Did you ask to attack Dark Arcadia?" Francisco repeated, cutting across the complaint with what he felt was a tangibly waning patience.

"Fuck you, no," Bennett spat, but he'd lost his edge to conflicting emotions, uneasily standing where he was, unwilling to sit or even uncurl his hands. "I don't endorse that," he continues. "And I haven't reported your little stunt to any of my superiors," he adds, voice bristly at the edges, but simultaneously assuring. "Though I would be disappointed by a generous margin if they were that trigger happy." A contemptuous but simultaneously subduedly horrified and concerned gaze drags itself across the Archon. "...it's not bad, is it? The news says it just shook you up a litt-"

"A few casualties," Francisco informs, willing the taste of bile back down and wrenching his thoughts back on track, only to begin to methodically establish the original topic: "I'm not here to ask for pity, I just wanted to know if it was your doing or..." He trails off, staring at Bennett. Off-topic or not, the sheer relief that the timing was coincidence rather than malicious intent threatened to overwhelm him, and it took some effort to simply nod slowly. "I'm glad it's not," he says, simply, proud that his voice didn't even hint at cracking, tense little smile sitting on his face, remnant of what had been rage and almost twisted itself into a hateful version of shame. Almost. "I'm sorry for assuming it was," he adds, slowly nodding again, more to himself, slightly numbly, before taking a deep breath and finally concluding with: "But, yes, no pity. We're not here to discuss the acts of those barbarians - just this single instance."

Bennett was silent. Even with body language and tone perfectly preserved, it was hard to tell exactly what he thought - whether the emotion he held for Francisco at that moment past the obvious, unbudging contempt was a form of respect for the topic change or a pity at the perceived coldness that must have driven that decision.

Francisco swallowed, finding some of his more natural composure through the action, and some of the tension in his shoulders dissipated, allowing him to lean forward slightly in his seat and sit less rigidly, folding his hands in his lap. Apparently it was his prerogative to talk - if not outright his responsibility. He considered it latter, really, especially since the last thing he wanted to do was revert to a discussion about his nation's state with this particular individual - it was hard to shake the distaste he felt even now that all rational basis had been stripped from that emotion, and no amount of being aware of the discrepancy made his rebelling gut shut up.

That didn't make it any easier.

"I understand I probably look like a phenomenal pisspot to you," Francisco allows himself the colloquialism, tone soft, apologetic, but not grovelling. "And I should probably have left an explanation, but I thought that might jeopardise the entire plan."

"I think stealing the project's greatest asset out from under our noses while abusing our trust in you counts as being a 'phenomenal pisspot', yes," Bennett bluntly retorts, voice hard.

The tension jerked back into Francisco's shoulders, only a fraction removed from manifesting as an outright cringe. His eyes close and he grimaces, before he peels them back open with some reluctance, forcing himself to look at his conversation partner. He was usually good at that - looking people in the eyes, maintaining a mutual gaze, not threatening, simply unspokenly intimate. Right now, there was too much coming together to maintain that habit without faltering.

"I... honestly wouldn't call it stealing, because- hear me out: I assure you I have every interest in letting Ian *remain* an asset to you, even if that is from a distance. I even believe there's a better chance he will be, now." Of course, that made for a daring statement. "I've listened to Gary critically and attentively," he explains. "And I got the distinct impression the project brickwalled any opportunity it had to make Ian an asset. I think it milked it for all it was worth and then hit the point of eternal mutual dissatisfaction two weeks prior to my interference."

"...'dissatisfaction'," Bennett echoes the word with an almost incredulous, bitter amusement. "The man is a psychopath, Francisco," he comments, dryly. "And you let him out of his cage."

Well. That was undeniably true. "I suppose this is where you expect me to utter some drivel like 'The ends justify the means'," Francisco injects.

"I *expect* you to-" Bennett began, then let his mouth clack shut abruptly, not quite able to finish the sentence as intended. Instead, he picks up the thought in a different fashion, contempt and bitterness meshing into a potent venom: "...actually, to be perfectly honest with you, I don't expect anything, simply because the only sane option would be to return him and I can't see how you'd accomplish that."

"Give him a chance," Francisco says, with surety.

"Francisco, I gave him about four or five distinct chances. I think I had an admirable patience for his whims. He's a spoilt brat who thinks God shat him out as something extra special, and this somehow entitles him to go around torturing and killing people." A pause, then a twisted, dark little chuckle wrenches itself from Bennett. "Oh, wait - I forgot who I'm talking to."

The curt snarl whipped across the silence between them, a graceful tension flowing into Francisco's form as if a part of him honestly contemplated attack. He did no such thing, of course. "I have a low tolerance for bullshit at the moment," Francisco speaks, all deference extinguished in favour of something far more comfortable. "You didn't put him in that room to keep him on a moral leesh, you put him in there because he was going to get vocally involved in public affairs," he points out, demonstrating his knowledge. "Furthermore, he hasn't broken any of your laws, since there's ironically nothing in your jurisdiction that even acknowledges his methods - but he has broken ours, and I assure you, if he chooses citizenship and we have means to prove any of what he's done, he will be put to trial. That's more than you can say of yourself."

It shut Bennett up.

"You see, I'm quite interested in practical applications of our little joint venture," Francisco continued, tenting his fingers idly, letting his lips curve up lightly in hint of a smile. "Which is why I don't want to jeopardise it. Very honestly, I'm not stupid, Thomas."

"Don't cross me," Bennett narrows his eyes.

"My nation just got attacked. I have a very realistic gauge on threats at the moment," Francisco points out casually. "I wouldn't try it." He inhales exaggeratedly, then allows himself a quiet, drawn out exhale. "But to be frank I have no desire to," he backpedals a bit. "I have no issues with you, Thomas. Frankly, I understand why you're upset and I'm more than willing to make amends. But if we want to play the ad hominem game, I come exceptionally well armed."

Bennett glowered daggers, then evidently found his voice and the topic, both, pushing the conversation back onto its prior track with verbal force. "You don't want to jeopardise our 'joint venture'? You don't keep him on that leash, you're jeopardising it."

"Oh, come on, Thomas, what's he going to share with people, honestly? That the project exists?" Francisco's face scrunches up, incredulousness in every fibre of his demeanour. "It's metaphysical hogwash to the masses, and he's the only real proof they have," he chuckles.

"Assuming you as informed as you let on, you should know what he's planning. The moment he becomes an integral and necessary part to solve that 'trapped online' shenanigans, he's a verifiable phenomenom of his own, and then they *have* their proof," Bennett hisses.

"Ignoring for a moment that I actually have the great fortune of having one of family affected by those 'shenanigans'," Francisco retorts with a sarcastically saccarine tone. "Let them. Honestly, Thomas, let them, there are troves of people on this planet who think they've seen God, who boast astral travels, who believe themselves of all people to be bestowed with the knowledge of future events... wheat from the chaff?" He raises both arms in a theatrical shrugging gesture, smiling. "Just imagine how many self-important people will suddenly flock in on the opportunity to say 'I told you so!', only to be laughably discredited? And then, bogged down with the inane, the hype will fade." A hand sweeps as if to brush the thought aside gently. "Additionally, we have an agreement, Thomas - the agreement is that once we can truly test, verify and track astral capabilities, that my nation can make use of it. You and your project know fine well that this means making it available to the public by necessity, even if it won't be publicly *announced*, but rather simply... openly sitting there in our databases waiting to be found by whoever searches for them." He clasped his hands together, taking a deep breath. "Before we find a way to verify, test and track the astral, Thomas, I assure you, no one else will, either. After we find a way to, it's public anyway." A pause. "So, I hate to be the one to break it to you, but there really are no secrets that Ian could possibly reveal to anyone." He tilts his head. "None."

Bennett stewed. It wasn't as if he hadn't discussed similar topics with Gary Whelan before, but the problem with their conversations was that the psychologist, while also an extremely good friend of his, was also his inferior in project rank. That was not to say that Bennett didn't listen and give those concerns any thought - it was more that he simply wasn't used to having to shape his objections into words.

"Does that answer your questions?" Francisco dares to puncture the silence.

Bennett drew himself out of his awkward persisting tension, adopting a certain grace of his own. "That'll be all," he announces, a fake, brittle cheer wrapped tightly around his rage. Certainly, it wasn't the mature way to act, and he'd much rather keep a moral high ground, but right now he desperately needed to leave before he did something he'd regret. Like speak. Actually, no, speaking seemed like a good idea - it was one thing he knew he could get away with on short notice. With as cold an insincerity as he can muster, he says: "I'm sorry your nation suffered as it did." The pause that follows is not quite long enough to denote completion, and instead morphs into another sentence: "Presumably, terrorism might be solved if fewer governments released the terrorists."

"Thank you for your touching concern," Francisco responds, tone neutral, smile persisting. With an alien serenity, he lets himself sink back in his seat, staring less at Bennett than listlessly through him. "I'll stay in touch," he promises, only to raise his left hand and gesture goodbye with a single polite swerve of the flat of it.

Bennett grimaced - and then swiftly and wordlessly disconnected, wishing that divide permanent, but knowing himself not to be that lucky.