Right now, a cluster of analysts were working on an anomalous weather pattern. It might be something, but it might be nothing. Only time would tell. Everything about the room said professional operation with a dedicated staff; all except for one man sitting at a desk in the corner, his boots kicked up on the table, and a cowboy hat pulled down over his eyes. If it wasn’t obvious enough he was sleeping, his snores echoed through the room.
The snores went unabated for over an hour. Despite the glares and side glances of the analysts, no one got up and did what everyone wanted to do: kick his size fourteen boots off the table and yell at him to shut the fuck up.
It was nearly quitting time by the time the man stirred. One second, he was snoring peacefully, and the next he snorted awake and tipped up his hat. The clack of heels on linoleum echoed across the room a second later. Whether it was some magical ability, or sheer, dumb luck, the analysts weren’t certain. The man swung his legs off the desk and leaned back in his chair, awake and alert. He was still casual, and borderline unprofessional, but as the clacking came closer, it looked like he’d been doing his job.
The clacking reached a crescendo, and everyone scrambled to look busy. “Vernon, with me,” a sharp voice called out.
Slowly, Vernon got to his feet, stretched his back, tipped his hat to the analysts, and followed the receding sound. This had happened enough times that the analysts had little hope Vernon would be punished for sleeping on the job. Not that Vernon cared. Anyone could type away on a computer and make a decision about data points, but very few could do what he could.
He followed the heels as they marched out of the room, down a short hallway, and into a corner office with a view. In the room with the threat board, without windows, and accompanied by nothing other than mild conversation and the hum of technology, it was easy to forget the building sat in the center of one of the most heavily populated cities in the world.
New York City spread out before them. Technically, it was the East River and where Brooklyn and Queens met across the river; but it was still one hell of a view from one hell of an office. The suite was tastefully decorated with modern furniture that toed the line between utilitarian and lavished. It was all sturdy wood and neutral patterns. There was the typical “I love me” wall, where the office occupant had hung pictures of herself with important people, awards, recognition for her past military service, and other items of recognition that meant a lot to her.
Vernon had been in here enough times to know his boss had been in the shit more than once. For every picture of her with a President or Prime Minister, there was one of her in a war zone. There were also a few of her after bagging rogue supernaturals. Those prints were not safe for work.
The one thing he never saw in the office were pictures of a family. Hell, he wasn’t even sure if the Director had a family. Word on the grapevine was that she’d been born government issued.
“Sit,” the Director commanded as she took her own seat behind a large desk.
Vernon sat and made sure to look Evelyn Winters in the eye. She was human, an extraordinary human who’d been through a hell of a lot more than he had; but despite her icy blue gaze, he knew for sure she couldn’t stare into the depths of his soul.
“Still,” he fought down a shiver as she studied him.
Director of the United Nations Worldwide Registration Response Division, Evelyn had been in Army Intelligence before she finished her commission at the end of Vietnam. She took a lateral transfer into what would one day become the NSA. People had taken note of her skills in the late Seventies. By the Eighties, she’d been promoted to a senior intelligence official in the Reagan Administration. Then the Revelation hit, and the world got turned on its head. She’d been instrumental in America’s response to its newfound citizens, and problem children. She’d been assigned to the CIA, and was in line for the Director position, but her talents were needed elsewhere. The campaign to get the WRA passed and ratified throughout most of the world was difficult, and America needed someone it trusted to steer the ship. Someone else could lead the CIA, but her experience with the supernaturals in the early days after the Revelation made her perfect for the newly minted UN position. A relentless campaign had secured her the desk she was currently sitting behind, and she’d held it ever since.
All that wisdom and experience sure as shit seemed like it could pierce Vernon’s soul. “What can I do for you, ma’am,” he broke the silence with his relaxed southern drawl that told everyone within earshot he was a Texas boy.
“You can act like you give a shit,” she snapped back, as she pulled a loose strand of her silver hair behind her ear.
Evelyn wasn’t much to look at. She was in great shape for someone pushing seventy-five, but at 5’3” she wasn’t physically intimidating. Anyone who knew anything about her past knew she’d used that to her advantage. She knew where plenty of bodies were buried, and had put several there herself. She was also a bit of a tight ass and rigid. She was an old dog and
