.|. COHERENT COMICS PRESENTS ----X----------------------------------------------------------------------- '|` =====, ======== ====. ===. ======= ======= // // // )) //|| // // ===== // //===< // || //=== //=== // // // \\ //==|| // // `===== o // o // // o // || o // o ======= o Superhuman Tactical Resources and Affiliated-Field Experts original concept by Dave Van Domelen development by Marc Singer and Terrone Carpenter Issue #14, "Nobody's Perfect" (a prologue to THE PYRAMID SCHEME) by Marc Singer Copyright 2000; a Legacy House production ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- [Cover shows Dan Tracey staring into a mirror. Rebus is staring back out.] ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- [April 29, 2024. McLean, Virginia. STRAFE Headquarters.] The top brass at STRAFE had warned her twice before about "sightseeing," but Jen Kleinvogel figured they were just being paranoid. STRAFE Headquarters was an open secret, known even to the area residents, and Jen didn't think she was giving anything away by arriving and departing in her own inimitable style. Besides, it was a beautiful spring morning...and she was out of New York...and she could fly. That was all it boiled down to, really: the sheer joy of watching the ground tilt and fall away under her, feeling the wind ripple through her clothing and her long, strawberry blonde hair. She loved soaring up, seeing the entire city spread out beneath her, identifying neighborhoods by their local landmarks. From this high up, she could tell just how close together everybody really was. And then zoom down in it, practically dive-bomb her own headquarters, watch the neighborhoods and streets and buildings spring up around her and then stop...send her own hair flying around her in a tangle, and she'd laugh and spin and try to undo it, a little bit dizzy by the time she landed in one of STRAFE's interior courtyards, still giggling because she'd been *flying* and it was one of the great loves of her life. The only one it seemed she could ever fully enjoy. Dan Tracey stepped into the courtyard, and Jen suppressed her laughter, but not her smile. "Hey, Dan." "Good morning, Jen. Listen, I need to talk to you about something." "You're not getting after me for flying in, are you?" "No, of course not. It provides good practice." Dan's paranormal ability made him the peak of human perfection, mentally and, especially, physically; but he believed in pushing himself anyway. "No," he said, "I mean your hair." Jen was still trying to untangle the knots, but she kept smiling. For some reason, her hair was practically the first thing he'd noticed about her, back when they were students at the Academy. "Not mad because I changed shampoos, are you?" Dan raised an eyebrow, apparently not getting her joke. For a perfect guy, Jen thought, he could be awfully humorless. "No," he said, "I'm concerned about its liability in combat. It could blind you, or worse, get grabbed or caught in something. A more aerodynamic haircut might be in order." Jen blinked at him. "Dan, you're not serious..." "I'm absolutely serious. Jen, this team has been *devastated* by the Conclave of Super-Villains. I've got Tony and Lana taking therapy, along with Agent M, to recover from Mr. Strings. I'm sending Teller on a milk run so he can decompress a little. And you..." He paused and smiled at her, as if he finally remembered he was talking to an old friend. "Well, you're a rock, Jen. But I need everyone in peak condition if we're going to take down Rebus." "I understand that," Jen said, "but I think maybe a little personal latitude..." "I'm not asking anything of you that I wouldn't demand of myself, Jen." His own perfect, near-black hair had been shorn into a crisp new military cut. "Rebus wouldn't allow us any latitude." Dan nodded to her and marched back indoors. "Funny thing," Jen muttered. "I didn't think I was talking to Rebus...." * * * * [May 3, 2024. STRAFE Headquarters.] Jen ran her hand over her scalp. The new haircut still felt funny, bristly, and she kept seeing phantom locks every time she turned her head. Jen thought the haircut gave her a pixieish, retro-90s look, like those old pictures of her mother. Relics from the days when gods walked the earth and everyone was terribly successful and crazy. It was a quiet day around STRAFE HQ. Tony was in therapy, Lana was playing with her son, Teller was going on his "milk run" down in South America, and Jen hadn't spotted Dan in a few days...so maybe, she thought, it was past time for him to see her new haircut. She ran down the hall to his quarters and knocked lightly on his door. "Come in," Dan said, and she stepped inside. She entered a world of charts and photographs, of books filling the shelves, of architectural prints and lines of poetry tacked to the walls. Dan sat in the eye of the storm, his computer desk covered in sheets of paper. "What is all this?" she asked him. "It's Florence," Dan said, pointing to the map on the wall. He'd marked it with red push-pins and little notes that said "Casa Alighieri" or "Guelf territory." Now Jen began to place the postcards and photographs scattered around the walls: the Palazzo Vecchio, the Uffizi, other buildings in the old, immaculately clean Italian city. "Planning a romantic getaway?" Jen asked, grinning. "Not exactly," Dan said. "I've been investigating Rebus's...Lorenzo Archangeli's...family tree." "Oh, Rebus again." "That's right," Dan said eagerly, mistaking the comment for a sign of interest. "Did you know he's descended from Filippo Argenti? Nasty character, Argenti; Dante sent him to the _Inferno_. The circle of the Wrathful and Sullen. 'Arrogant in his vice / Was that one when he lived.'" "So it runs in the family," Jen grumbled. "I suppose it does. I suspect Lorenzo may have been named for Lorenzo Il Magnifico, though, the Medici ruler of Florence, so I'm learning everything I can about the man and the time period. Rebus is a compulsive code-maker, forever looking for new material to incorporate into his next twisted game. Even if his name and his pedigree are just a coincidence, he'd find the irony impossible to resist." "Well, at least it makes for some atmospheric research." Her eyes flitted briefly over the pictures: a Michelangelo anatomical study of a cadaver; a portrait of Machiavelli; a painting of Savonarola being hanged and burned on one of his own bonfires. She instinctively pulled towards the bright sunlight streaming in through the window...and let out a little gasp of delight. The usual humid Washington afternoon had been replaced by a small sea of low stone buildings with red terra-cotta roofs. She could just make out a break between the buildings where a river flowed. The massive bulk of Il Duomo and its _campanile_ towered over all. "Dan, it's *gorgeous*!" "You like it? I had the Tesla Branch people work it up. A perfect holographic representation of the city of Florence, circa Lorenzo's time. Watch this, the detail is amazing." He ran his fingers under the rim of the windowsill, making unseen adjustments to the hologram. The picture zoomed in past the huge cathedral dome and bell tower, then dove down into the streets of the city center. The window captured every little detail: the garbage festering on the abandoned streets. The ashes and debris left over from the massive fires. And the lone black-robed man, pulling a cart, piling it up with the bodies of the plague victims. * * * * [May 15, 2024. STRAFE Headquarters.] Jen's hand hesitated before she knocked this time; but she steeled herself for Florence, plagues and all, and rapped her fist gently against Dan Tracey's door. She heard a lot of shuffling papers and clinking glass, but the door didn't open. Jen knocked again, and the door still didn't open, and she began to worry. Had Dan's research gotten too close to the truth? What if Rebus had somehow come for him, even inside STRAFE headquarters? She drew back her fist, ready to increase the gravity of her punch... The door flung open. Dan looked as surprised by Jen's cocked fist as she was by his pale complexion and the bags under his eyes. "Dan!" Jen exclaimed. She unclenched her fist. "Are you...I thought you were..." "It's okay," Dan said. "I was just conducting some research." "Lost in Florence?" She smiled nervously. "Not exactly." Dan casually flicked on his light switch. Florence had disappeared. In its place Dan had plastered the walls of his room with fuzzy medieval prints. The tables and bookshelves were cluttered with bottles, flasks, and other ancient implements of chemistry, while sheafs of papers written in Latin spilled onto the floor. The ceiling was covered with loosely-tacked astrological charts, while the concentric spheres of a small wooden orrery on Dan's desk located Earth securely at the center of the cosmos. The only remaining trace of the Renaissance was the classic Leonardo da Vinci drawing of a perfectly-proportioned man standing in circle and square; but Dan had scribbled a plus sign and a minus sign over the man's eyes, turning Leonardo into Rebus. Jen didn't need to say anything; her silence was sufficient to elicit an explanation. "Florence was a dead end," Dan said. "I should have realized it from the Conclave's first crime, when Rebus arranged for them to kidnap him as Lorenzo Archangeli. He was symbolically destroying his old personality, subsuming it completely in the new." "So why the alchemy?" Jen said, stepping into Dan's room with the utmost caution. "Sheer luck. I came across a reference to a _rebis_...the product of an alchemical wedding...and realized that the 'Rebus' identity has been a double-entendre all along. So I'm researching the alchemy, seeing what he could have in store for us. Right now I'm guessing he plans to conduct his own chymical wedding, a symbolic union of opposites intended to represent a philosophical or even theological awakening...." Dan stopped himself and a slight blush played across his pale cheekbones. "Sorry, I'm rambling." "No, it's fascinating...but I was going to ask if you wanted to go out on the town tonight." She added, "With Tony and Teller. And me too, of course. And we might even pry Lana away from Carl for one night." Dan didn't answer, and embarrassment prompted Jen to fill the silence. "See, Adams Morgan has finally gotten repopulated, mostly by African refugees, and the Ethiopian places are supposed to be terrific..." "Hm? Oh, I'm sorry, Jen, I just realized that through the legendary connections to Hermes Trismegistus, this alchemy goes back a lot farther than the Middle Ages...now I'll have to rethink *everything*...." His gaze surveyed the room, clearly sizing up which materials could stay and which had to go. "No, I'm afraid I can't go out tonight." Then he leaned over his orrery and became absorbed in the structure of the planets. By the time he said, "Thanks for the invitation," Jen had already left the room. * * * * [The Lion of Ethiop restaurant, Washington, DC.] Four agents of STRAFE sat around a table made from a wicker basket with a wide, shallow concave bowl set into the top. On the bowl, piles of heavily-spiced meat and vegetables had been heaped onto a plate made of light, spongy bread. The food was delicious, but Lana Smith wouldn't eat much of it...nor would Jay Teller stop running his mouth about his latest adventure. "No, honest," Jay was saying, "the carnival performers were international super-spies." He talked while he ate, displaying mashed-up beans and carrots for all to see. "They had fire-eaters, and jugglers...and they were led by this midget..." "Sorry, Jay." There was no sorrow in Tony Drake's voice. "I'm not believing this one." "*Damn*, I knew I should have brought a camera! Anyway, it'll probably be a cold day in hell before the Combine sends me to work with Arc again, but the job was worth it. What a crazy time...hey, Lana," he said, ripping off another piece of bread and using it to stuff more food into his perpetually- moving mouth, "aren't you hungry?" "Gee," said Tony, "I can't imagine why she would've lost her appetite." He glanced over to Lana, to see how the joke had gone over. He'd been doing that all night, sending jokes up like little trial balloons, trying to see if any bad blood remained between them. It was a drastic departure from the Tony Drake of three months ago, Jen thought: the Tony Drake who'd hated Lana every chance he got for things she had done under the control of Mr. Strings. The Tony Drake who'd hated her so much, he nearly became a puppet of Mr. Strings himself. Now *he* was the one trying to earn back *her* good will. When Tony reached across the table and mopped his napkin across Teller's mouth, he seemed to earn it. Lana burst out laughing...the first time any of them had heard her do that. "Awright, awright," Teller said, shoving Tony's hands away. "I get your friggin' point. But Lana, I'm serious. Eat something." The young woman was still rail-thin. "The Strings ordeal is over." Lana quietly replied, "I guess old habits die hard." "If you don't watch it, you're going to fade out completely..." Teller's eyes lit up. "Hey, that could be your new codename! Change it from Burnout to Fadeaway!" He looked to Tony and Jen for approval, or adulation. Jen raised an eyebrow. "And you're claiming Arc said she *loves* you?" Tony carefully finished chewing a mouthful of lentils and said, "I told you not to believe him." "Teller's little 'joke' does remind me of something, though." Jen reached under her chair and opened a large shopping bag she'd been toting around all night. "Whether you go by Fadeaway or just plain Lana Smith, we thought you should have this, in honor of your service in New York. It comes with Colonel Hendrick's blessings." It was a regulation STRAFE leather jacket, tailored to fit Lana. It had the usual circular patch, but with no emblem inside; instead, the thick black outline on the right edge of the circle gradually shifted into a dotted line on the left edge. Lana held back her tears as she accepted the jacket. She seemed nearest to crying when Tony helped her put it on. "This is so...I don't deserve this...you've already forgiven so much...." Tony couldn't tell if he felt terribly moved, or like the lowest piece of slime on earth. Both were churning around in the pit of his stomach. "It's...it's a two-way street, Lana," he said. "You more than earned this, and we...I...did some things that need forgiving, too." Lana looked up and pulled Tony into a very tight, very unexpected hug. After his initial surprise, Tony gently patted her on the back as well. The scene apparently impressed Teller enough that he skipped his customary wisecracks. Jay simply leaned over to Jen and said, "This is amazing. I wish Grind were here to see this." "So do I," said Jen. * * * * [June 17, 2024. STRAFE Headquarters.] "...so that's why I think it best that I don't accompany you on this mission," Dan concluded. He pushed back from the table and stood up, as though planning to leave the strategy room in mid-briefing. "Captain Tracey." Richard Hendrick was clearly shocked...his new skin grafts, normally all but undetectable, were pulled back by his wide eyes and stunned expression. His face looked like it was wrapped in very tight pink plastic. "Captain Tracey, I don't think it's wise to send the team without their field leader." "As you yourself told us, Colonel Hendrick, this is a routine mission and I'm confident they can handle it by themselves. I recommend that Lieutenant Kleinvogel serve as acting field leader while I work on my profile." While Hendrick tried to think of a response, Dr. Ellen Cortes of Tesla Branch approached the conference table. She leaned in close over one of the fluorescent lamps built into the table, the only lights in the briefing room besides the large holographic projection of the Somalian detention camp. "Captain Tracey," she said, "you haven't heard the technical specs for the gear we designed for this mission..." "That's because I won't be going on it, Dr. Cortes." He started to leave, then snapped his fingers. "Oh, but I could use a new window display; the Chaldean one isn't working out. I'm thinking of something in Lower Egypt around the time of the Old Kingdom, Fourth or Fifth Dynasty." Finally noting everybody's confusion, he looked around the room...and seemed to find a sympathetic face in Jen. "The alchemists were simply an interim step. Hermes Trismegistus leads all the way back to Thoth and Egypt...which I should have seen months ago, considering I deduced Rebus worships the Egyptian pantheon. But," he chuckled, "I guess we all make mistakes. If you'll excuse me, I have some important research to continue." With a curt nod, he marched out of the briefing room. Dr. Cortes was the first one to break the silence. "I don't believe it," she said. "I don't believe it! I go on all those missions with him, I risk my neck for him in Haven and in New York, and he doesn't even *notice*!" Jen cleared her throat. "Ah, Dr. Cortes, I think Dan has been under a lot of stress lately..." "Sure, apologize for him! *You're* still his little friend. Well you can have him, Kleinvogel! Just see if he's worth it." The young scientist gathered her papers and stormed out of the room. Jen couldn't quite tell, in the darkened room, but she imagined everybody else was staring at her. Particularly Tony Drake, whom she was positive still had some kind of unspoken crush on her. "Really," Jen said, "it's not like he's *mine*..." "At this point," Hendrick barked, "I don't think anybody wants to claim responsibility for that boy. Okay, people, we are running this assignment one short...." * * * * [June 21, 2024. A camp twenty miles outside Mogadishu, Somalia.] Gunfire crackled through the moonless African sky. Lana had killed the camp's generators and lights, so the corrugated tin huts and barbed-wire fences were lit only intermittently by the muzzle flashes of the warlords' automatic rifles. The cover of darkness was just about the only advantage STRAFE had anymore. Jen had expected the warlords to panic when Lana killed their power; she hadn't expected them to run straight for the pens and try to kill all their prisoners. Refugees from Khadam and the territories under its influence had been swarming into central and east Africa for months, ever since the CSV moved into town. But now that the Conclave was making noise about taking over its host country, the refugees were pouring out faster than bordering countries could contain them; and when they poured into a country like Somalia, they got captured and conscripted into labor camps, where they were forced to build roads and bases, so the warlords could expand into more countries, and capture more people, and build more bases.... Officially, the North American Combine and the United World were sending STRAFE on a mission to "support the redevelopment of fledgling democracies in the African political sphere"; unofficially, they were removing the warlords so the refugees could be encouraged to take their place and form some sort of expatriate counter-revolutionary movement against Khadam. Jen figured any counter-revolution would end up in a massacre that would make the Bay of Pigs look like a fun day at the beach...but the warlords were enslaving and killing thousands of innocents, and Jen wouldn't cry too much over removing them. You had to find the silver linings to keep any sort of a conscience in this business, Jen reflected. And sometimes you had to look pretty damn hard to find them. But now the frightened warlords were trying to kill the only innocents in the whole mess. Jen changed her team's plan, flying Tony and Teller out of their safe hillside perch and dropping them off in front of the refugees' holding pen mere seconds before the warlords got there. Now Teller was in a shooting match with the gunmen, using Tony's invulnerable body for cover. Teller dropped a killer with every shot, but there were dozens more in the compound. Jen was strafing the warlords from above and behind, her antigravity aura so dark against the blank black sky that they never saw her coming. She'd drop down, clothesline one or two, and then pop back up before they could draw a bead on her. Her shorter hair still felt strange, barely moving in the wind behind her...but, Jen grudgingly admitted, this length was a lot more practical. Hovering over the camp, she tried to banish all thoughts of Daniel Tracey from her head. The warlords were charging Teller and Tony in a kamikaze rush now, letting the guys shoot a couple of them, planning to drag them down by sheer mass. Jen howled and dove down at several times normal gravity and velocity, trying to tackle the whole lot of them. She felt a few bones crunch underneath her, but then the other killers were on top of her, grabbing her and Teller and Tony, raising guns... A shockwave rocked the camp as the garage exploded in a ball of flame and corrugated shrapnel. Lana must have detonated the bombs she'd placed in all the aging jeeps and APCs. The warlords were momentarily blinded and deafened; STRAFE's flare-compensation goggles and padded helmets protected them from the same aftereffects. Teller raised his guns and started firing, jumping and ducking and spinning in a pinwheel, casting bullets in every direction. Tony and Jen stood still, almost shellshocked, while the soldiers fell around them. It took Teller a couple of seconds to realize he was clicking the triggers of two empty guns, and all of the warlords were dead. Panting, he dropped both pistols and leaned against Tony. "Oh, Christ," Teller said, "we needed a close-combat guy tonight." "We needed to not get into this situation in the first place," Tony said, surveying the dead bodies scattered everywhere. They were both dancing around the subject, but Jen knew exactly what they needed. * * * * [July 7, 2024. STRAFE Headquarters.] "A little sanity. That's all I'm asking for." The four agents were having lunch together in the commissary. They had taken to doing that a lot since their night out in the Adams Morgan neighborhood...Jen and Tony and Teller eating otherwise worthless cafeteria fare while Lana fed her son the fairly bland fare that was the first step up from pureed baby food. But lately, Jen noticed, the only things bonding them around the lunchtable weren't all that pleasant. The rest of the commissary was still buzzing about the CSV's brutal takeover of Khadam, and Solar Max's equally brutal attempt to destroy it. Teller, however, was holding forth on his other favorite subject. "Have you guys seen his room lately? Jen?" She shook her head. "No, you don't need to. You can imagine." He turned to Tony and Lana. "He's replaced all his furniture. He sleeps on a wooden bed-frame with a little wooden head-rest for a pillow. The walls are covered with hieroglyphics, and I think he *painted them himself*. He's lost it, guys." Lana tucked Carl into his high-chair and replied in her customary quiet voice. "I wish you wouldn't say that about Captain Tracey...about Dan." "Lana, I know you're giving him the benefit of the doubt because he did the same for you. But even you have to admit, he's not doing his job as our leader." Teller resolutely ignored the elbow Tony was jabbing into his side. "And he hasn't been, ever since Manhattan. He's let our morale slide all to hell, while he worries about everything under the sun except us and our well-being, and...Drake, will you stop elbowing me...?" Teller finally turned around and bit his lip as he saw the tall, dark- haired figure stride into the commissary. "...Dan?" Jen looked up too, seeing something strange and unfamiliar in his face. She hopped up and ran from the table, grabbing Dan before he stepped into the cafeteria line. "Dan?" She wanted to make sure he was okay, make sure he wasn't hurt, make sure she hadn't really seen what she thought she saw. "Dan, are you...?" Dan Tracey turned around and she saw him. Wearing an eyepatch. "Oh my God." Jen let go of him, and ran. "Jen? Jen, wait up!" Jen could hear him running after her. She sprinted down the hall, narrowly dodging office workers and scattering their paperwork everywhere. But she knew no matter how fast she ran, Dan would catch up. He was perfect; he was inhuman; he was... He was putting his hand on her shoulder, pulling her gently but firmly to a stop. "Jen," Dan said, sounding more worried and more human than he had in weeks, "Jen, what's wrong...oh." He reached up and snapped the eyepatch off his face. The eye underneath was fine, and as blue and crystal clear as ever. Jen wasn't sure that comforted her much. "What are you *doing* with that thing?" she asked. "It's part of my profiling. I realized that Rebus, with his strictly typological model of the world, may be forcing himself to think differently now that he's only got one eye. More directed, more focused, less lateral thinking or ability to assess relative..." "*Dan*!" Jen's shout brought everyone in the hallway to a stop, then sent them all scuttling into nearby offices, trying not to overhear the mounting argument. Only Teller, Tony, and Lana, who were creeping tentatively out of the commissary, stuck around. "You don't have to think like Rebus!" she screamed. "You don't have to *become* Rebus!" "Jen, I...I'm sorry." He belatedly tucked the eyepatch inside his jacket pocket. "But he's a dangerous foe and we need to..." Jen stepped foward, levitating herself a few inches so she could stare Dan in his face. She noticed that even from this close up, he didn't have a single pimple or pockmark. "Dan, who is the biggest danger to this team right now? Rebus?" She jabbed him in the chest. "Or *you*?" For once, Dan was at a loss for words. "Jen, I, I..." "Who's destroying this team with fear? Who's taken our leader away when we most need one?" Now Tony was trying to pull Jen away from Dan, muttering something about how he didn't think this was the right time or place, but she shrugged him off. "Who," she said, "is *driving Dan Tracey insane*?" Everybody took a step away from her. Everybody but Dan. Even Jen flinched as he opened his mouth to speak. "You're right," he said, and everybody finally exhaled. "You're right, I've been taking this study too far...neglecting my other duties..." "Dan," Jen countered, "maybe you shouldn't worry about those other duties either, you know? We're not in the field right now and we don't need a leader who's on 24-7. We need someone who can joke around with us." Teller nodded. "Someone who makes us all feel included and encouraged." Tony and Lana nodded. "Someone who makes us feel..." She touched down to the floor again, stepped back a bit, ran her fingers through her hair. "We need the guy who figured out how to reprogram the security cameras back at the Academy so we could have beers right there in the training room. We need the guy who made Teller study every single night until he passed the History exam..." She smiled at Jay. "Barely. We need the guy who thought it would be a cool idea to go catch Triton..." "...And thereby indirectly started all this CSV nonsense in the first place." Jen gasped and stammered for an instant, but only for an instant. The rage was at her back now; the right words came to her with ease. "You're doing it again. Placing the whole weight of the world on your shoulders just because you think you're perfect." Dan was truly horrified. "Jen, I *don't* think I'm..." "Yes. You. Do. And you have every reason to, Dan...that's your power. You're..." She looked at him, head to toe and back up again. "God damn it, you're *perfect*. *Physically* perfect. Intellectually too, I guess. But *emotionally*..." "Is this going to become an armchair psychology hour?" Dan said, icily. Jen did something she'd never done before; she ignored him. "You don't want to admit you're perfect," she told him, "don't want to seem conceited. And you do that by blaming yourself for every single thing that goes wrong in the world. That way your body and mind are unblemished but your record isn't. Well, I've got some news for you, Dan Tracey: "There would be a Triton and a Rebus and a Conclave without you. C.J. would still be Burnout without you. You are *not* the cause of all the problems of the world, and you are not their cure either. You're *not perfect*, and in fact you're killing your own team. "So what are you going to do about it, Dan?" Dan Tracey stared at her for a long minute. The other STRAFE members leaned closer, afraid to miss anything. Dan stared at Jen and opened his mouth and spoke. "Horse shampoo." They all had to think about that one for a moment. Teller was, of course, the first one to speak. "*What*?" "Horse shampoo. That special mix they developed to use on horses. I still remember the aroma. That's what you used to use, Jen, at the Academy. When your hair was long." "And impractical?" she said, suppressing a smile. "And impractical," he announced, curtly. "Although, to tell you the truth, I did like it better that way." "Oh my God," Teller gasped, "he's human!" "What can I say?" Dan said, turning to address Teller but winking at Jen. "Nobody's perfect." * * * * [Later that evening.] This time the knock was at Jen's door. She opened it, spilling light out onto the darkened hallway, to see Dan standing outside. Behind him, a large handtruck was overflowing with boxes and furniture. Jen leaned up against the doorframe. "Hey." "Hey," Dan said, with a slightly forced calm. "I, ah, don't suppose you know anyone who's looking to buy a full Egyptian bed set?" Jen laughed. "No, I don't think so." She looked at the boxes behind him. "So you're getting rid of all of it, huh?" "The furniture, the holograms, all the unhealthy immersion tools, yes. I'm keeping anything that might actually pertain to his schemes." He patted an edition of a Pyramid Text copy of the _Book of the Dead_. "That's all going downstairs into a special missions room. A Rebus Room, I guess. Something with a door I can close when I need to." Suddenly, Dan's voice changed; the cool professionalism disappeared, replaced by something else entirely. "Jen, I'm so sorry..." "Forget about it. Really." "No, Jen, I mean it. I've thought about what you said and it was right...*all* of it." His blue eyes stared at her; his voice nearly cracked like a teenager's. "And Jen? Since it is okay to be imperfect, I'd like to try something else a little crazy. Something completely foolish, like... like admitting I'm tremendously attracted to one of my teammates." Jen blushed. "Does...um...does Teller know?" Dan leaned back against the other side of the doorframe and sighed. "Thanks a *lot*, Kleinvogel..." Jen silenced him with the touch of a hand to his cheek. "How long have *you* felt it?" "Four years, three months, two..." He caught her wry smile. "Let's just call it forever." Dan leaned forward and kissed her. It was too restrained, too short, too dry...another failing for the perfect man. But it still made Jen's heart race and her breath quicken and every muscle in her body seemed to lift up off the ground and sing. Just like when she was flying. * * * * Down the hall, Tony Drake saw the scene in the doorway and stopped. He quietly turned around and slipped back down the dark hallway, trying to forget whatever it was he'd been planning on saying. THE END ========================================================================== NEXT ISSUE: Rebus sends a deadly game as THE PYRAMID SCHEME begins! ==========================================================================