"We are all chess pieces. Some of
us like to pretend we are not—like
most of the inhabitants of this manse—
but pawns in a larger game we are.

A game that’s played, ironically, by
the very people who now lead us,
direct us, and ask for our hope and
devotion.

I’ve seen this before. I’ve seen this kind
beatification, this twisted cult of person-
ality. I saw it in the ‘Boz, on the faces of
the Republika Srpska Army, in the para-
military death squads under Arkan and,
God help me, I see it right here. Some
of these people actually think a few of
these folks could walk on water.

How do I feel about it? Scared. Lethargic.
Uncaring. All of the above. Take your pick.
It depends on the day and time and when
I last took my meds.

Above and beyond all the petty little per-
sonality cults, though, do you honestly
think I trust all of the people here at the
Institute? I’d be a fool if I did. We all
have our agendas, however benign they
might appear to be at first blush.

Even me.

Some people, however, are more open
about it than others…

…but it’s not the honest ones I worry
about….

…it’s the quiet ones…"

Saving 991029 to the hard drive...
Encryption?

Saved.

Xavier’s Institute for Higher Learning
1407 Greymalkin Lane
Salem Centre, NY
29 October, 1999
11:58 hours…

"Is everyone here?" Hank said, glancing over our heads in the crowded War Room, his glasses perched precariously on the edge of his nose.

"I, uh, I think so," Roberto said, craning his neck to look up and around. "At least, all of the X-Men are. Paige?"

Henry glanced over Guthrie who, up until that point, was engaged in a largely hushed conversation with one of my other team mates, Illyana Rasputin. "Hmm?" she said, quickly looking up. "Oh! Oh yeah, Ah got ‘em all, Hank," Paige said with a slight flush to her pale cheeks. "You go on ahead with th’ briefin’."

Blue Team’s tac-leader and administrative head of the Institute, Henry McCoy, sighed. "It should come as no surprise to everyone who’s been watching the news of the last twenty-four hours what our main brief will be this morning."

"Ellis," Logan said, cupping his hands to light a cigarette. A few people—most, I noted with displeasure, X-Men—nodded in agreement. Guess my people were too busy watching VH1 last night, huh? I shook my head, disheartened. Kids…

"The massacre at Ellis Island is getting front page news across the nation," Henry said, "and, indeed, around the world. An editorial in the London Financial Times roundly slams the MLA-GC splinter group which carried out the attack." He looked up with a slight grin, an expression I found almost feral…you could actually see his canines… "One can always count on London to make a nice, proper statement regarding terrorism. Fine piece, actually." He frowned, surveying our faces. "I’d like to open up the briefing to a roundtable on the consequences of this. I’ve a few ideas but…there’s no use in me doing anything else but trying to facilitate here, so…"

"Basically," Samuel Guthrie, Paige’s elder brother and tac-leader of the X-Men’s Gold Team said, smacking his fist into the open palm of his opposing hand, "what it all comes down t’ is this: do we or do we not track these bastards down an’ bring them t’ justice?"

"That’s not how we work," Drake said, from in front. I focused my eyes on him. "Look, Sam, I’m as mad about all of this as you are. I mean, we—to say nothing of the cantonal authorities—look like a buncha fools here. But Charles didn’t set us up to be a hit squad—"

"Ah don’t think Ah like th’ th’ tone of that accusation, Bobby" Samuel said venomously. "When did Ah say anythin’ ‘bout bein’ a ‘hit squad’, huh? And y’all know how much Ah, of all people, respect what Charles has tried t’ set up here and th’ Dream he espouses…but enough’s enough." He slit his eyes, skewering Drake. "There’s a line that’s been crossed. Killin’ innocents is when we have t’ stop, step back, an’ reassess ouah normal modus operandi…which is t’ be as reactive as possible it seems."

I glanced over at Savij, not two arm lengths from me who, upon catching my gaze, rolled her eyes melodramatically. I responded with a chuckle. We’d both seen this divide before…and were bound to see it again…and again…and again. It almost seemed as if the elder residents of the Institute were living in another world, while the younger ones saw something quite the opposite of their compatriots. Some, like Scott, didn’t go peacefully. His brand of work ethic still permeated most of the first and second classes of the X-Men, even though it had, for all intents and purposes, cost the team lives. Others, like Henry, straddled the divide with almost beatific grace. Hank knew there was a growing chasm between the generations under his charge and he did whatever he could to stretch himself across it.

Which is why I figured he’d be one of the next to go. How far can a man stretch himself? Hank, I feared, was going to find out. The hard way.

I glanced down at my wrist, twisting it around to get a good look at my chronometer—not an easy task when you’ve still got these ridiculous braces on. 12:04. This was going nowhere fast and I had Salvation-duty at the bottom of the hour. Personally, though I loathed being hooked up to the Salvation unit, I would much rather that than to hear these people bicker on and on endlessly.

Gingerly, I leaned over to Savij. "I’ve got di-duh-duh-duty at 12:30 so I’m guh-going to cut out of here before the real fighting starts," I said, figuring it was best to tell someone before certain other individuals—like Emma—started asking questions I didn’t feel like answering right now.

"Want some company?" she asked, peering back at me. "I mean, I know you’ll be hooked up to the unit…but you can still talk, right? And I can help direct the scans, right?"

I blinked several times before I realised what she was asking. No one had offered to sit, side-saddled, with me on the Salvation unit before. It just wasn’t done. I mean, I suppose it was technically possible…but why would you want to do it? As for Sav…I really didn’t know her very well. Hell, I think the only people I knew to any extent were Emma and Moshe…and isn’t that saying something? One was trying desperately to be my shrink and the other was another war vet with just as many problems upstairs as I did. He just hid them better.

My brows met at the centre of my forehead. "Uh, yeah, sure," I said. "Are you certain, though? I mean, there are b-b-b-b-buh-better things to do than—"

"Than this?" she said sotto voce, gesturing at the still-bickering Sam and Bobby. "I think I’ll trust my instincts on this one, Dom. Let’s get out of here!" she smiled, half-chuckling. Before I had even a chance to put in a word edge-wise, she’d already grabbed—well, delicately grasped more correctly put—my hand and started backing out of the War Room.

I was, of course, mildly apoplectic.

We were in the centre of the room so we had to muddle our way through about a half dozen of our various compatriots…including a rather stern-looking Paige Guthrie, who positively drilled me with her eyes. "Hiya chief," I half-whispered. "Duty calls."

"Uh huh," she said, nodding sceptically. "Which duty was that?" Her eyes pointedly browsed over Savij’s more-than-a-hand-shake-but-less-than-holding-hands-gesture.

I blinked, feeling a warm rush rise above my collar. "It’s ngh-nuh-nuh-not what—"

"I think he needs some company," Savijinia said, nonchalantly. "After what he’s been through lately, wouldn’t you think that a prudent course of action to take? I was even going to help him narrow down the scans, since Dr. McCoy is trying to take as much burden off of his wrists as possible." She smiled. "I can manipulate the controls while he provides the raw mind power to work the unit. Simple…and bereft of any ulterior motives, I assure you."

Paige, six years my junior but still, annoyingly, technically in charge of me, cocked her head sidewise. "Ah really want t’ believe that one, Dom…how ‘bout you?"

I held up my hands…which meant, of course, lifting Savij’s too since she hadn’t let go and didn’t look like she was going to, either. You’d think she’d have the sense… "Hey, chief, I’m on the luh-level here. It was her idea, nuh-nuh-not mine. I simply told her to k-k-k-keep Emma—" and you "—off of muh-my ass, okay?" For a moment—one which, of course, stretched on and on and on—I thought Paige was going to do something stupid. Like order me to stick around until twenty-five after or something (the Salvation Room being, of course, right outside the War Room). Had she done that very foolish of moves, I probably would’ve had to’ve walked out anyway, thus undermining whatever credibility I had left with her. Nothing personal, mind you, but my days as a working drone are over and no twenty-three year old kid’s going to tell me when and when not to report to duty…especially when the only alternative is to listen to the same old argument over and over and over again…

But, Paige surprised me. "Get out of heah, you two. No playin’ nooky in th’ unit, ‘kay? Ah ain’t gonna clean up th’ mess…" Beside her, Illyana chuckled.

The my cheeks burned, if anything, even brighter than before, though I doubt they could hardly tell that. Thank God I took after father more than mother… I opened my mouth to say something but Savij squeezed my hand firmly.

"Don’t worry," she said, coyly. "You’ll find the room spotless upon shift change…whatever may happen therein."

Paige almost choked. Illyana had the good enough nature to merely snicker lewdly. The Russian leaned forward and mock-whispered: "Dah skorigh vstryehchyee, drolya."

I ran my hand through my hair, shaking my head incredulously. I will never, ever understand the female mind.

As we strolled out of the War Room, Savij regarded me with her emerald eyes. "What did Illyana say? Do you speak Russian?"

"Enough," I groaned inwardly. The Serbs were, of course, good Orthodox buddies of the Russians and I learned enough of both Serbo-Croatian and Russian in the ‘Boz to make due when I needed to…which, during my tenure there, was every bloody day. "She said, more or less, ‘See you later, lover-boy’." I regarded the Srivijayan with scarcely contained mirth. "You’re going to be the death of me yet, Savij, you know that?"

She never explained her quixotic smile and was silent all the way to the Salvation Room.

"Salvation.

It began, many years ago, as a monstrously
inefficient and rather clunky piece of delicate
neurotech called ‘Cerebro’ and, later on, under
the loving tutelage of Katherine Rasputin and
Magnus, it became something quite a bit more.

In a way, it represented one of Magnus’ few
rhetorical victories here, or so I’m told. It was
certainly a tool Charles Xavier wouldn’t’ve
dreamt of and represented a sharp change in
direction for the Institute as a whole.

But I’m sure Emma, had she been in on the
design of it, would’ve loved it…"

Saving 991029 to the hard drive...
Encryption?

Saved.

"You’re early," Moshe chuckled mirthfully, without turning around, as we strolled into the room. "Does this mean I get to leave sooner…or are you here to tease me, Dom—hello!" he interrupted himself, startled, finding me not quite alone…and still holding hands with Savij. The Israeli looked me up and down behind the glimmering mirrored surface of the Salvation helm. "Uh…hello Savijinia. Didn’t quite expect to find you here…"

She smiled. "You mean, you didn’t expect to see me with Dominic, correct? Seems that’s the unanimous impression this morning." I fought the urge to explain but, really, what was there to explain? And why the hell should I be the one that had to do the explaining…especially when I, myself, didn’t know what the hell was going on?!

"Oi!" Bar-Lev chuckled heartily. "Well, well, Dominic! It seems you’ve caught quite the marlin this morn! And, better yet, the day is still young!"

I could’ve strangled the ex-commando right there and then. "I didn’t catch anything, Moshe," I grumbled, "and get your goddamned mind out of the—"

"Boys, boys," Savij cooed. Yes, cooed. She stopped me in mid-sentence and even got Moshe looking at her…through the thick mirrorshades of the helm, of course. "Let’s make this a standard shift change and save the rest for later, shall we?" I think we both nodded in assent. I certainly did. I wasn’t paying attention to the Israeli, though. I didn’t want to see his smarmy smile.

"Tov!" the bastard clucked as he slipped his head out from under the helm, allowing his long, brown payot—sidelocks—to spill out and down his cheeks. He grinned cheekily…just as I figured he would. "Good, good! As I said, Dominic…nice catch." He passed the helmet to me with mock dramatic flair and bowed deeply at the waist. "Time, I suppose, for a shift briefing, eh?"

"That would be appropriate," I sighed, saddling up to the unit as Moshe slipped up and out from behind it. "What’s going on in the world, today? I assume you’re r-r-r-r-ruh-running all the traditional checks…"

"Absolutely," he nodded. "And, in addition, paying closer attention to the lower P5-band, where we’d be expecting pyrokinetic activity. Those monsters who attacked Ellis yesterday…" he shrugged. "I thought it might be of some help."

"Nothing?" Savij asked, pulling up a plush chair to my side as I slipped the helmet over my head. Sensing the heat of a human head, sensors immediately sought out sixty-two pressure points on my skull and delicately affixed themselves to the skin. Thinner than the thinnest of optic fibres, they slipped in through the pores, probing deeply, seeking out neurochemical contact with my synaptic knobs…

[INTERFACING…]

The Israeli sighed. "Nothing unusual, no," he said in thickly accented English. "Just the regular cross-section of pyrokinetics. I had a problem bouncing a few of my probes off the Lunar Mares, though, so there’s no telling what I may or may not have missed."

[INTERFACE COMPLETE.]

[LOADING WETWARE…]

[SALVATION v2.4…]

"Too easy to hide such a t-t-t-trace," I said, slurring slightly as the 55 terabyte computer known as Moses analysed my sigma patterns, chose the proper interfacing network and proceeded to crank quite a large amount of wetware programming data into my brain… "Upper ionispheric duh-disturbances or even suh-sunspot activity could throw off Lunar bounces. Salvation wasn’t that finely tuned and, even if it were…there are ways to hide things. You shu-should know that, Moshe."

[LOAD COMPLETE.]

[PROCEED WITH SCAN?]

"Auto-engage, nominal parameters," I whispered, allowing Moses to do a few warm-up scans before Savij and I got down to the real business. It wasn’t unusual for Salvation operators to spend ten to twenty minutes catching up with each other, comparing techniques or otherwise bullshitting. After all, a job like this, one where you risked your most important organ daily…let’s just say, the stresses were unique and called for unique ways of unwinding after a shift.

You know, come to think of it, I wonder why, considering my state of mind, they allowed me to pull this duty?

Well, at least I’m not like Moshe. I hear Post-Traumatic Stress Syndrome’s a bitch…

"I know, I know," Bar-Lev sighed. "But still I thought that, perhaps, maybe I could accomplish something, anything. I feel like a fifth wheel here half the time, anyway, so…" He shrugged.

"Not everyone is blessed with flashy parabilities or even those that can be used often and with the confidence that they won’t cause irreparable harm," Savij said. "I’m certain, one day, we’ll find a way to make yours a bit more palatable to some of the more…ah…puritanical elements of the Institute." She winked, causing Moshe to chuckle in spite of himself.

"I doubt it," he shrugged, seemingly nonchalantly…but I knew him better. "But that’s all right. It’s not as if I cannot use them…I just have to be pretty damned selective on whom I use it on. Makes me that much more leery and considerate of combat actions, that’s for certain."

I nodded. "Cuh-cuh-cuh-considering your history and how your powers manifested themselves initially, I c-c-c-c-can quite imagine that would already be at the forefront of your mind, my friend," I said, reminding myself of those late nights after we’d initially come to know each other. Over quite a few drinks, his story and mine would come out. To this day, I’m not sure who got the rawer end of the deal…if, indeed, one should even compare. Special ops is one thing and I knew what I was getting into when I volunteered for it. But Moshe was thrust into counter-insurgency at the last moment, something he was completely unprepared for. Contrary to popular perception, commando actions and counter-insurgency operations were not two sides of the same coin. It took two different kinds of personalities to do them effectively. Moshe had one…and not the other. He’s been suffering for it ever since.

"To an extent, it is," he admitted with a half-shiver. "I don’t think I’ll ever forget Ramallah… But, even so, I still cannot just blithely drive people psychotic at my leisure, especially when there’s seemingly no way to reverse the process. That places a severe limitation on my utility to the Institute, forgetting the moral and ethical implications for the moment,…at least as far as Charles and Henry are concerned. With Magnus, though, and maybe even Sam and Paige, I cannot tell."
I turned my head towards Savij. "Can you roll up on the P5-band for muh-me?" I asked, politely. "M-m-m-might as well s-s-start up where Muh-Moshe left off." Then, I swivelled back towards the Israeli. "They’ve been there, even if it wasn’t in the bush with the rest of us, but they’ve been there. Magnus, in particular. I think we can trust them. Hell, the f-f-f-fact that we’ve got S-S-Salvation tells you something. I’m not sure about Israeli jurisprudence, but duh-d-d-do you have any idea how muh-many American laws and s-s-statutes we’re breaking using this thing?"

Moshe smiled wryly, his blue eyes twinkling. "When you live in a garrison state, little things like privacy rights are swept under the carpet when necessary. The public never seems to mind. What choice would they rather make? Military censors or bus bombs in Tel Aviv? Not a difficult choice, I think."

I nodded. "Ditto…but we’re a bit s-s-softer here. The threat duh-doesn’t loom as luh-large." A sigh escaped from my lips. "Anything else you can think of that we sh-should know?"

"I logged a few new contacts—about fifty of them or so—mostly in Russia and in Eastern Europe," he said. "Those damned leaky reactors again. Just for further notice, not many of them looked all that promising. Those maladaptive mutation strains, mostly. Besides, they’re babes right now. We’ll see in a few years. Other than that…how do you say it?…zippo?"

"That’ll do," I chuckled. "Or ‘zilch’."

"Zilch, yes, that’s what I was thinking of," he nodded, grinning through his beard. "Well, I guess that’ll about do it for me, then." He headed out of the room. "Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, Dom!"

"That wouldn’t leave muh-muh-much for the imagination, then," I whispered under my breath, hoping Savij hadn’t heard me. If she had, she paid me no mind, fine-tune adjusting the band scanner to the search parameters I’d requested earlier. "Okay," I sighed, louder this time. "Here we go…"

"Engage interactive parameters on my muh-mark…"

The Non,
14 miles SSW of Charleston, West Virginia
13:06 hours...

"Well, well," I said, understating my profound sense of incredulity. "Now when’s the last time you’ve seen something like this?" Gingerly, I pushed the communiqué across the marble table to Assistant Director Richmond. I watched his eyes play over the header and following analysis…and then widen.

"Jesus…"

"Interesting, isn’t it?" With carefully-constructed aplomb, I pulled my cigarette case out of my vest pocket and opened it up, extracting a small parcel of my only public vice. "If I recall correctly, the last time Palembang even attempted an insertion-extraction team was back in…oh…Sixty-Two during the brief Aksai Chin War between China and India. What we have here," I leaned over to tap the communiqué, "is something that’s almost unprecedented. It’s a landmine waiting to be detonated."

Richmond, ever the naïf, frowned. "I don’t get it, sir. How different is it than any other nation—"

"The location," I said, glancing over the placard that identified me as, simply 'The Director'. "And what they’re after. Think about it from an operations security perspective, my boy. We’ve been monitoring Xavier’s little disciples for over a decade now. Now, do we have the statutory authority to do so?"

"Well," he blanched, "I’d always assumed—"

I lit my cigarette, taking a moment to pull a deep drag off of it. "You assume too much. To answer my own question: yes. We do have the statutory authority to monitor the Institute. But the tricky part is that there are only four people in the government who are cleared to know that. Two of whom are in this room. None of them are in the Executive Branch." I exhaled into the air. "Getting a little warmer in here yet, Richmond?"

"A bit," he admitted, nervously darting his eyes from side to side. "Sir, this entire operation skirts—"

"Richmond," I interrupted, "our entire agency skirts the thin envelope that separates the legal and illegal; ethical and unethical. Jericho, though, unlike other intelligence agencies, wasn’t designed to be cognizant of those distinctions. When Eisenhower put us into commission, we were designed to ignore them. Now this," again, I tapped the intercept, "presents us with a unique problem. We’re sworn to protect the borders of our nation from all enemies, foreign and domestic. I’d say the Srivijayans are acting a bit antagonistic by doing this, wouldn’t you think?"

"Yes, but Director—!"

"But, in order to gain control of the situation…we might have to blow our operation against Xavier’s. And that, my friend, is quite a step to take, to even contemplate." Through the blue-grey haze of my smoke I studied my protégé’s face, watched the turmoil light him up like a lamp. He really, really ought to gain a bit more control over his emotions if he’s to survive in this business. We don’t have time for such wasteful displays of conscience. I ran a thumb along my lips contemplatively. "Tell me something Richmond. If you were in my shoes…what would you be doing right now?"

"We don’t have much of a choice, sir," he sputtered. "We’ve got to stop the Srivijayans from—"

"Nonsense," I interrupted, waving. "There are larger issues here. I thought you already understood that. Do I have to spell them out for you?" I sighed in mock melodrama at his look of utter exasperation. "Very well. Right now, Xavier’s little disciples are doing more good than harm. We keep an eye on them like we would any other potential threat to domestic tranquillity and all that rot. But, other than that, they’re harmless…in a naïve sort of way. There are larger fish to fry in the mutant cantons than within the hallowed halls of Xavier’s Institute. The Srivijayans, on the other hand, are not some Third World nation. We’re not talking about their poorer cousins, the Indians. We’re talking about a Permanent Member of the Security Council. Every operation taken against them should be considered with as much circumspection as we would if it were directed against Moscow instead of Palembang."

I leaned back into my chair, taking another drag off my cigarette. "This entire operation they’re mounting is extremely out of character for them…which has me more than curious. It has me positively excited," I said. "This isn’t a cross-border raid against Malay separatists on behalf of their cozy friends in Bangkok, or hot-pursuit strikes for Manila deep into Mindinao or the Sulu islands we’re talking about here, Richmond. This is an almost unprecedented stretch for Palembang. They want this girl…and I can’t help but wonder why. But if we tip our hand now, we disrupt our entire scope of operations against Xavier and we risk exposing other targets as well. And if either the House or Senate Select Committees on Intelligence get wind of this… Well, it won’t be pretty. None of them are cleared for one one-hundredth of what we do inside here. In short," I crushed my butt into the ash tray. "If I were you thinking about if you were me…I’d let this one play out. The risks of direct interference are, for the moment, too great. The national security of the United States does not benefit from exposing our monitoring schedules."

He blinked, incredulous. "I don’t believe this. We’re going to sit on this?! We’re going to let them come in—"

I nodded. "Absolutely, my boy. Absolutely. We’re going to sit tight…and monitor. That is what we do best." I flicked at the intercept. "And if and when the time comes to take action…we’ll take it. But until then," I peered down at him. "We watch."

Richmond’s jaw dropped. I chuckled. "In God We Trust, my boy," I said, recalling the tongue-in-cheek unofficial motto of the agency from my younger days. "All Others, We Monitor…And We’re Working on Him."

"I take it then," he said, nervously clearing his throat, "we're bringing in assets from Chi Division, yes? To monitor the situation, that is?"

"Of course," I nodded. "The smaller the number, the better. One should suffice, but two if you must." I slit my eyes. "Anyone you have in mind, off-hand?"

Assistant Director Richmond nervously stroked his thin, greying goatee and focused his attentions inward. "That all depends, I suppose, on the outcome of the assigment," he said delicately, enunciating each word carefully. "I mean--that is--is the asset to be someone with plausible deniability...perhaps even a bit of expendibility? I've--I've a few names in mind...if that's what you want, Director."

"Actually," I smiled briefly around my cigarette, "that's precisely what I had in mind. On the off-chance things go...badly...I want the option to terminate the action with expediency. I don't want to have to send in anyone else to clean up a mess that's already been FUBAR'ed. Whomever he or she is, rig 'em for executive purgation."

"You don't want the agent killed? But I thought--"

"And that's you're problem, Richmond," I groused, leaning back into my chair, lacing my fingers before me. "You let me do the thinking and you handle the rest. We'll both sleep better that way, knowing we're not stepping on each other's toes."

We stared at each other from across the sweeping divide of my marble desk. It had always been like this between us; that palpable tension, that friction that was always present. The difference between idealism and ideology, methinks. We're not as far apart as we think...but far enough apart to be mutually ill-at-ease in each other's presence. "Trajan," I said, finally, trying to coax a reaction out of him.

"Director?!?" he sputtered, momentarily taken aback. "Rhys-Salisbury? Surely you're not seriously--"

"He's Chi, isn't he?" I said dismissively, crushing my cigarette into the ashtray. "And also just enough of a loner to be autonomous on the off-chance he gets in over his head. We don't want anyone in there who needs to be nannied constanstly, do we?"

"No, but--!"

I slit my eyes. "Then what's you're problem, Richmond? I've just saved you endless hours of mental turmoil pouring through personnel files. What, with your predilection for vacillation, heaven knows how long it would've taken to get anything done." I laughed humourlessly. "Lighten up, Richmond. Trajan is a perfect candidate. Tough enough to do the job, weak enough to be manipulated and, should we need to, expendable enough to be purged. Unless you can think of a better asset in--" I glanced at my chronometer "--twelve hours, I suggest you start pre-brief immediately. I do believe he's in rejuv from his last assignment, yes?"

Richmond winced. "Los Angeles, yes. Fine, if you think he's the right one...but I have my worries about him. Not about his ability to get the job done...but about our ability to contain him should things go wrong. He's something of a rebel."

I reached over to my cigarette case, pulling out my last cheroot before snapping the metallic container shut with a CRACK!. I brought my lighter to the tip...flick!...inhale. Exhale...slowly. "You just let me worry about that, Assistant Director. It's your job to make sure it doesn't come to that contingency." With a snap of my wrist, I dismissed him, watching as he uncomfortably rose from his chair, wiping his damp palms on his pants, vacillating between wanting to say something...and taking the more judicious (and safer) course of keeping his damned mouth shut. "Ciao," I smiled impishly to his receding back as the door closed behind him.

"Open File," I commanded the empty air.

[CODIFEX?]

"Rhys-Salisbury, Trajan Essex Viscount Owen."

[PRIORITY CODE REQUIRED TO ACCESS ALL FILES FROM CHI DIVISION. PLEASE CONFIRM IDENTITY.]

"Director's Override," I responded, taking another drag from the 'root.

[PASSPHRASE?]

"'Waters of Lethe, let me forget, all of the things I should--for God's sake--regret..'"

Trajan Rhys-Salisbury scrolled before my eyes in full three-dimensional glory; vital statistics, personality assays, and various ephemera splashed across the air dancing a foot above my desk. In many ways, this man was precisely the antithesis of what we here at Jericho look for in HUMINT assets. He's a loner, from a long line of rebels and rugged individualists. Three of his partners have died while assigned to him. He's a regular magnate for entropy. Well-heeled and connected to the upper-echelons of high society in South Carolina, the bastard also thinks his family's money makes him unbuyable. Of course, I smiled to myself, there are other things money cannot buy and other levers you can use on those whom you feel you feel you have no levereage on.

I tapped my index finger on the edge of my desk.

"Tag file for purgation protocols. Director's Over-ride to wipe all trace action."

[WORKING...ACCOMPLISHED. PROTOCOLS ARE PREPARED FOR YOUR USE AT YOUR LEISURE, DIRECTOR.]

"Thank you," I said absently to the artificial intelligence, thumbing my lower lip. Not yet, my dear lad. Not yet. We'll use you as bait. First for the Srivijians...and then for the X-Men. A juicy little fly for the spiders to snatch.

I swivelled my chair around, rubbing my temples. These next few days would be long ones.

Long ones.

PSYNIK

NAME: Moshe David Bar-Lev

AGE: 29

HAIR: Brown

EYES: Brown

BIRTHDATE/PLACE: 1 July, 1970/Tel Aviv-Yafo, Israel

HEIGHT: 5'11"

WEIGHT: 176 lbs

STATUS: Generation X (Active)

Summary: Moshe Bar-Lev is the grandson of the great Israeli tank commander, Gen. David Bar-Lev, better known for his defensive works along the occupied Sinai Penninsula that held the Egyptians partly at bay for nearly two weeks during the Yom Kippur War in 1973.

Like all Israelis of his generation, Moshe was called up for mandatory military service upon the age of seventeen, seeing action mostly in the Security Zone of southern Lebanon, fighting Hizbullah terrorists and, generally, attempting to stay one step ahead of a bullet. Upon the end of his first term, however, he saw no prospect for employment that held his excitement as did the adrenalin-surges of the Army. So, rolling the dice, he became a career officer, volunteering for recruitment into one of the hush-hush dark worlds of the so-called 'Avenger squads', commandos specifically trained to track down operatives the state has deemed so dangerous that they need be silenced...permanently.

It was during this time, no doubt, that Moshe's demeanor and personality were affixed. Linked to the hyper-charged world of skulduggery and spying, he became something of an adventure addict and, by his own admission, he was always on the edge of being suspended. With each mission he took more and more chances and with each chance came the greater probability of failure or worse. It was inevitable, he felt, that he would have eventually destroyed himself in a glorious self-immolation of arrogance had it not been for Operation Crown of Thorns.

The uneasy peace that followed the signing of the Jerusalem Accords in mid-'98 between the Palestinian Authority and the State of Israel was broken when, in a freak accident, Palestinian Authority President Yassir Arafat was killed in a car crash. Always paranoid--to the point where entire competing intelligence bureaus were carved out to prevent any possible putsch--Arafat left no immediate successor...and the Palestinian Authority quickly fell into disorder and, inside of a week, anarchy.

Israel, reluctantly, moved in, dusting off an old operational plan to retake the PA in case of preemptive declaration of a Palestinian State that never came about. Moshe was recalled from Rome to emergency service in the action to recapture and cut off the Palestinian enclave of Ramallah. It was here, in the heat of battle, surrounded and outgunned, that Moshe's mutagenic parabilities, long dormant, rose to the surface.

Bar-Lev has two primary parabilities--though possibly more lurk behind a rather impressive obfuscation field--: first and foremost is his ability to induce neurochemical reactions in the human mind...always of a maladaptive sort. In short--he drives people insane. Originally limited to undifferentiated schizophrenia, with some practice, Moshe has been able to adjust neurotransmitter and serotonin levels to duplicate the effects of most any mental aberration. A frightening power to say the least, made even more so by the fact that it is not, to my knowledge, reversable.

Secondly, possibly as a byproduct of his primary ability, the Israeli has an innate understanding of neurochemical and psychological processes. He is, frankly, a natural psychiatrist and, with some training, would make a world-class therapist. There is some indication that this ability might've surfaced earlier in his life under the guise of him doing better-than-average psychological profiles of his targets using scant or circumstantial evidence on hand.

PSYCHOLOGICAL PROFILE (Emma Frost): Moshe, unfortunately, suffers from Post-Traumatic Stress Syndrome due primarily to his experiences in Ramallah, where he drove a crowd of nearly a hundred Palestianians stark raving mad. According to the classified mop-up report, they allegedly tore themselves to pieces before his shocked eyes. That, if anything, would be more than enough to make him leery of his powers.

In spite of this, I've often found Moshe to be of quick and acerbic wit. Disarmingly charming, he can quickly shift to bloodthirsty in a heartbeat if the need is there. Most of the time, though, he plays the bon vivant, the life of the party, drowning his problems in a sea of alchohol. I fear his best friend and companion since arriving at the Institute, Dominic, certainly doesn't help him with his nascent alcoholism. Between the two of them, they make quite the mess.

This one bears careful watching, if only to see how well he's coping. But, to be frank, he's already self-diagnosed his disorder and is dealing with it the best way he can. That doesn't mean, however, I cannot offer my help. If only he'd ask for it.

Which, for the record, isn't likely to happen.