Rattlesnake's Prologue: "The Return"

[SA Dr. John Clark]

For all intents and purposes, the operative bearing the alias of "Agent Clark's " current "life"--such as it is--started on a slab in the NCIS morgue. Lucky thing Dr. Mallard didn't start cutting five minutes earlier...

He heard a voice in the darkness: "Oh no, not another one of ours," Dr. Mallard was lamenting. "And you, my good fellow, had so much potential... I know how you grieved for Director Shepard, but I hope this wasn't a foolish effort to join her in the ground." He opened his eyes, to see Mallard and the Autopsy Gremlin preparing their tools, getting ready to make the first incision, at which point he found voice and muscle control again, and screamed... "AAAGH PutitdownPutItDownPUTITDOOOOWN!!!!!!!"

Fortunately, he had the presence of mind to start stringing words together quick. "I'm terribly sorry about this, Doctor; I remember all too well what happened to poor Agent Todd the last time you had someone do one of these."

"But... you're DEAD..." Ducky managed to stutter out, obviously perplexed. "You had no heartbeat, no brain activity, in your terms 'flatlined', for three days." Locking eyes with the elder man despite the blinding lights in Autopsy, the former corpse replied "Yeah, I don't understand the how of it either and I really didn't deserve it and the chance should've gone to someone far better than I, but what matters is I'm back and I have unfinished business to resolve and five years to do it in or I go back to Hell for good. Are my personal effects down here, at least my glasses and skivvies, or do I have to make my way out of here blind and buck naked?"

"Funny... Director Shepard left you out of that fateful trip to Los Angeles to protect you, and if she had lived your 'Project Lazarus' would have gone far more smoothly... the irony is, it appears her death only ensured yours. I'll call Jethro--I know he'll want some words with you, and I believe you had some matters on your mind with him when you last left us."

A few minutes later, Gibbs walked in, with a box that the younger man hoped at least had enough clothes to make himself decent. "You're lucky McGee and Ziva thought you'd be back someday and wouldn't let anybody clean out your locker. Speaking of, Ducks pronounced you dead, so why the hell are you here?"

"Old friend, I don't have a clue about how it happened and I don't particularly care; my only concern is making sure I've fully embraced Rule Five before you have a chance to Gibbs-slap my brain out through my eye-sockets."

"'You don't waste good'--smart call," the old Marine said approvingly. "Almost smart enough to overlook your Rule Twelve violation, but Jen was a grown woman and could make her own decisions."

"Um, yeah... there's some old business about that little debacle--on both sides," he started. "She ordered me to stay here with you and McGee, and I can't shake this belief that if I had disobeyed that order, or gone rogue and taken some vacation-time to slip out to LA and guard her flank, that she might either still be here or have at least had a bit longer to put her affairs in order." At which point, the hammer fell on the slap he was dreading.

"She was trying to protect you--if you had been there, you could have been a distraction that would've only let her killers finish the job and get to us here without any warning, or you would have died with her." And Ducky pitched in, "Her life was drawing to a close while you hadn't even hit your prime yet, and she knew it. Psychologically, it could also be that she wanted you to remember her as she was up to then, not having to watch her deteriorate... it could be said that her death was in some ways as merciful for you as for her."

"Um, thanks, I think..." was all the onetime "Grim Reaper" could reply. "But then there's the matter of cutting me out of eliminating those responsible for her death," to which the reply was another Gibbs-slap. "Rules Ten and Eleven; you would've been personally involved, and you should've walked away when she said 'Stay'."

"But then there's Rule Fifteen," he responded. "Where was the team backing you up? Even if it had only been as support or covering your flank--" only to be cut off with "I had a team, one I was working with when you were in grade-school." And then, uncharacteristically, Gibbs's tone softened. "Look, you still have a lot to learn about life--let Jen rest in peace, and even though it'll be hard, you have to try to move on. There will be other relationships and other women out there, and we've all had a first heartbreak, just yours was more spectacular than normal. You have to let her go... Stop blaming yourself, the ones who really deserve that blame are all dead anyway."

And then it was on to important business. "We can't shelter you from your ex-colleagues at NSA anymore, Vance won't play ball there. I'll see to it that your paperwork goes through to confirm official death which should keep 'em off you, then I'll call Fornell and see if he can find you sanctuary and a new identity over at the FBI. Ducks, Palmer, let's give the man some privacy to make himself decent," he said as they stepped outside...


[END PART ONE, two more to follow at current plan; part two being spinning up his new life as a Probie at FBI Division Six and part three being reestablishing contact with the BAU--Admin, feel free to move to Memories if you feel it more appropriate but there's gonna be some RP interaction teed up]

[SA Dr. John Clark]

>FBI HEADQUARTERS, WASHINGTON, DC

True to his word, Gibbs called Fornell, who put the undead operative in touch with an balding senior SSA he only introduced as "John"--an old, high-level friend of Dr. Reid's who fortuitously had some sense of humor about being asked if anyone had ever mentioned he looked a lot like veteran actor Michael Ironside. Quickly, the younger man brought his prospective sponsor up to speed about the situation that had set him up for a double-cross by his superiors at NSA, the fact that hackers like Penelope Garcia weren't the only ones on "lists" and that he believed Spencer to be in grave danger from the same people who had twisted him into an assassin supreme, then deemed him a "failed prototype" and set him up to die at the hands of people he had worked closely with and thought of as friends. Having the evidence helped, as he was able to produce a copy of that list he (keeping to himself that the actual hacker was an artificial-intelligence of his creation) had hacked out of the mainframes at Ft. Meade; a list that he had highlighted two names on: the long-forgotten name he had been born with what seemed like so many lifetimes ago, bearing the ominous label "SUBJECT UNSATISFACTORY: DESIGNATED FOR TERMINATION", and farther down the page Dr. Spencer Reid, FBI BAU, with a just as ominous "EXCEPTIONAL CANDIDATE: SELECTED FOR ACQUISITION". Once they were securely in a SCIF "bubble room," he outlined the details of what had been done to him, and what could be expected to happen to their mutual friend if "acquisition" for Project Mindbender were allowed to happen: either Spencer would be psychologically bent and mutilated into something he never would want to be and repeatedly sent into the field until his skill and luck ran out, or more likely he would be unable to deal with the strain, labeled just another "unsatisfactory subject" and quietly eliminated. As a typical "acquisition" used NOC (Non-Official Cover) personnel, in Reid's case this would make anything done to him "Assaulting a Federal Agent," and thus a matter for the FBI to take very seriously, doubly so since the target was a member of the elite Behavioral Analysis Unit.

"This sounds like a matter that falls under Division Six--do you know them?" John asked, and the operative nodded, replying "Special ops unit. Originally accountable only to J. Edgar himself, could go anywhere and do anything on their own say-so, quite possibly the direct inspiration for the Men In Black."

"Good, you've done your homework. Division Six has a vacancy, and once this is referred to them they'll need a specialist. You already know most of the players on both sides, so you're perfect despite your personal involvement. You'll only be Probationary until you graduate from the Academy--even this is a departure from Bureau policy, but your file says you graduated FLETC while with NCIS, so most of that should transfer and you should be a full Special Agent soon. There's been talk about starting a Distance Learning program so we can start training promising candidates while they finish their degrees, and I think we can squeeze you into that as a test-case. Quantico's getting ready to graduate another HRT class in a couple weeks--if you can qualify with that class, you can still carry those old .45s."

As they walked through Headquarters's facilities, they passed an armorer's workshop where worn-out weapons were being assessed to determine if they were worth repairing or should be scrapped, and something caught the prospect's eye. He examined it closely; it was one of the very first "Chicago Typewriters" the Bureau had acquired back in Hoover's day, and while worse for the wear on the metal, the wood stocks and grips were just as good as the day they were hand-crafted in Remington's shops seven decades ago, and it was love at first sight. "What's this? You can't just scrap this; it's not just a gun, it's a piece of FBI history! If nothing else, it should be at least cosmetically refinished and put into a display case here. Look at these dates and Bureau markings--no less than Hoover himself or even Melvin Purvis may have carried it!" The older man examined the weapon, gave it a quick heft to see how it felt in his own hands, and asked the armorer on duty what was planned for it. "Scrap, sir," the man answered.

"Not anymore. You have a Thompson armorer's certificate, don't you?" he asked the recruit, who answered affirmatively. "Good--you make a persuasive argument, so if you can restore it to safely operable AND pass HRT with it, you can make it your primary weapon through your career with the Bureau. Once you're out, we'll figure out what kind of display it gets depending on what you can find of its history," John said. Turning back to the armorer, he ordered, "Case it up, and fill out the paperwork to transfer it to Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency, with Mr. 'Clark' here as the courier," and suggested to his charge that they should break for lunch; he knew a couple of places in DC Metro that were surprisingly affordable for their quality. "By the way, when you get that Typewriter running again, I want a checkout on it," he snuck in.

Finally, the paperwork was started, and in a couple of days it would be time for the assassin once known as "the Grim Reaper" to shed his old skin and reveal the new one of "Probationary Special Agent 'John Clark'" to the world. The intervening time, though, was going to be a lot of fast and frantic work, and not just in gunsmithing... Dr. Mallard had observed that going from 'cadaver' to 'field ready' was going to require a lot of physical therapy, and referred him to a specialist; case-notes had already been delivered to the office of Dr. Emerson Tomlin, with an appointment scheduled first thing in the morning.

"One last thing," John warned. "If these vermin break through you and get to my young friend, I will personally put you right back on your Dr. Mallard's slab--and you won't be coming back this time." To which the new recruit responded, "You won't have to--if they get past me, it means I'll already be dead, and there won't be enough left of me for another 'Lazarus Miracle.'"

[SA Dr. John Clark]

>MacARTHUR MEMORIAL & ARCHIVES, Norfolk, VA
The memorial was almost empty, as the time drew close to closing; staff on duty recognized the agent from long hours researching for a thesis in their archives, and he was told to take as long as he needed. Expressing his appreciation and assuring them he would be out soon, he proceeded directly to the General's crypt and silently waited for the shade of his long-dead mentor from beyond to take notice of his presence.

"Son, you never did learn to fight your wars small, did you?" the apparition asked with a chuckle as he faded into view. "No, sir," came the response. "What do I do now? I've been betrayed and marked by my own," the student asked, and Douglas MacArthur's spirit replied "You do as you always have, the same thing as I did in the same situation: your duty, as God gives you the light to see that duty. Lee would say 'You can do no more; you must do no less.' Also, George asked me to tell you, and I quote, 'go through the bastards like crap through a goose.'"

Laughing, the young man asked, "Ahh, good ol' Georgie! How IS Old Blood and Guts over on the Flipside, anyway?" and the two ghosts, one covert operative and the other actual paranormal entity, exchanged small talk for a few minutes, getting caught up on events since their last meeting.

"I see you're carrying my old .45," the General observed. "Take care of it, and it will protect you as it did me--pardon me, I do hate to be abrupt, but my Jean is waiting and I had better hurry home to her."

The agent replied "Not a problem, General. Thank you for your time, Sir," and snapped to a military-perfect salute, which the old ghost returned before vanishing into the ether from whence he had appeared. "Well, I have my orders," the disciple observed to himself as he quickly purchased a few corncob pipes in the gift-shop and then vanished into the exiting visitors at last-call.