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Date Posted: 17:33:39 12/10/06 Sun
Author: JayBee
Author Host/IP: 69-12-241-161.dsl.dynamic.sonic.net / 69.12.241.161
Subject: Succession, Part Three, Chapter 19.1
In reply to: JayBee 's message, "Succession, continued (thread getting long)" on 16:40:25 12/08/06 Fri


Paul strode into Munitions, hands shoved into the pockets of his thick wool jacket. At first, Walter didn't seem to notice Paul's approach; he hunched over a narrow worktable, muttering to himself as he connected a mass of hair-thin wires to each other. But as Paul reached the table and came to a halt, Walter straightened up and grinned.

"Well, if it isn't Section's number one dispatcher of bad guys. I suppose you're here for your weapon, huh?"

"That might help, yes," Paul remarked dryly. "Killing them with my bare hands can be fun, but it's a little time-consuming."

Walter strolled over to a cabinet, withdrew a pistol and belt, and plunked them heavily onto the table.

"Here you go, then. We wouldn't want you to have too much fun out there. It's against the rules, you know."

Grunting in thanks, Paul strapped on the belt and reached to pick up the pistol. He was about to holster it when he stopped and frowned in surprise. He lifted the gun and scrutinized it intently, turning and aiming it in several directions.

It looked all right: a standard P220, normal grip, nothing custom. He'd used that model for years, depended on it, to the point where it functioned like an organic extension of his own body, as if it were made of nerves and flesh instead of metal and screws. This one, however, felt wrong somehow. Unnatural. Alien. Like a stranger, instead of his best friend.

"What did you do to this?" he asked, puzzled.

"What do you mean?" Walter raised his eyebrows questioningly.

"The weight's off."

"Oh. That." An embarrassed look flashed across Walter's face. "New ammo. It's a little lighter."

"That's going to throw off my aim."

Walter lifted his shoulders in a weak shrug. "You'll get used to it."

Something about Walter's attitude -- a blasé indifference that seemed more forced than genuine -- inflamed Paul's annoyance into full-fledged anger. Walter knew full well what a problem such a change could cause, if not phased in properly. If he thought he could get away with playing dumb, he was insulting Paul's intelligence.

Paul leaned forward across the table, his face so close to Walter's he could feel the other man's breath against his skin. "This isn't the time to be screwing with my gear, Walter," he growled. "We're undermanned as it is. I don't want to have to worry about getting my shots off fast enough, too." He glared until Walter looked away, red-faced. "Now, give me some of the old clips. I know you've still got some around."

Walter stepped back, but tightened his expression and shook his head. "No can do, amigo. Adrian's orders. Budget cuts, or something."

Adrian's orders? Amazing. Was there anything left she wasn't interfering with?

"So Adrian's choosing our ammunition now? When was the last time she even touched a gun?" Unable to suppress a sneer of disdain, he scoffed, "She probably thinks dum-dum bullets are manufactured by high-school dropouts."

Walter wrinkled his face and glanced around nervously. "You might want to lower your voice a little when you start talking like that."

Paul snorted. "I hope she's listening. She needs to know there are some things better left to experts. Why, that old--"

Walter seized Paul by the arm and pulled him sharply forward. Leaning in toward Paul's ear, he whispered, "Look, I can't help you with the ammo. But I slipped a few extra toys into the van for you. Comprende?"

Startled, Paul nodded. He should have known. Walter was no fool, after all, despite the simpleminded appearance created by that idiotic counterculture act he insisted on putting on. The man couldn't have survived longer than anyone else in Section merely by luck. No one's luck was <i>that</i> good.

Anyway, some extra toys? Interesting. He'd have to remember to pay Walter back for the favor. Come to think of it, he owed the man several. Well, he'd get around to taking care of that one of these days.

Walter released his grip on Paul's arm.

Paul straightened his jacket and cleared his throat. "Yes, well," he said, deliberately loudly, "I still don't like it, but I'll deal with it."

Walter winked. "Atta boy."

As Paul finally holstered his pistol and turned to leave, Walter returned to his work. Paul paused, staring at the tangled mess of wires that Walter had started untwisting.

"What the hell <i>is</i> that?"

"This?" Walter chuckled. "It's part of that project Madeline's working on. You know, remote controlled brains or some nutty thing like that."

Some nutty thing like that. Walter always had the most eloquent way of expressing his opinion.

"So does it work?"

"Damned if I know. My job is to make sure this component responds to the radio signals properly. The rest of it's not my problem."

Easy for Walter to say. Recruiting the scientist to do the work in-house hadn't been his idea. Nor would it be his failure if things went wrong. That, however, was not a thought Paul wanted to dwell upon.

"Speaking of which," Paul said, "have you seen Madeline lately?"

"Sure. We meet every so often to coordinate the work on this thing."

"How is she?"

Walter frowned, looking confused. "How do you mean?"

Paul felt his face warm in a sudden flush. He ignored it. "She's been so busy with that project lately, I never see her. She's not even doing my profiles anymore. So, I was just wondering whether…uh…how she was doing, that's all."

The confusion in Walter's expression gave way to sympathy. He smiled cheerfully. "She seems fine. Same as ever, anyway. It's hard to tell with her, you know?"

Paul nodded slowly, frowning with barely concealed disappointment. Walter couldn't tell him what he really wanted to know, even if he could somehow bring himself to ask the real questions: Had she asked about him? Did she miss working together as much as he did? Did she miss him the way he did her?

Unable to voice these thoughts, he channeled his frustration toward another target.

"Adrian has Ottmar doing the profiling for my missions," he complained. "He's useless. His profiles need to be completely rewritten, but I don't have the time to fix them all."

"Ottmar's new. He'll get better."

"I don't have time for him to get better," he snapped. "Madeline knows my strengths and my weaknesses. She knows how to write profiles that work for my teams. But instead, I've got an incompetent profiler, my team's been cut in half, and now I don't even have decent equipment. How the hell am I supposed to do my job?" He stopped, suddenly noticing that he was clenching his fists, and tried to calm himself. "Next thing you know, Adrian will start reassigning the handful of team members I have left. If that happens, I might as well just shoot myself in the head and get it over with."

"Look here," said Walter, his tone stern, like a chastising uncle, "I know you had things set up the way you like them. But life goes on, and things change. You've just got to roll with it."

Oh, lovely. Walter's homespun wisdom. That was just what he was in the mood to hear.

"I'm all in favor of change, Walter," he said irritably. "My problem is with people who don't know the difference between good change and bad."

Walter laughed amiably. "Well, when someone makes you God, you can arrange the universe any way you want. Until then, you'll just have to deal with the bullshit like us lesser mortals."

Feeling his mood lighten somewhat with Walter's jibe, Paul allowed a slight smirk. "Oh, when I get to be God, I'll do just that. Trust me."

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