A florescent light flickered overhead as Special Agent, Benjamin Carson, squinted at the spreadsheet on his monitor. The line he was staring at remained the same. 'Wilson P. - Mariot - 3400 - 5/9/22 - coc.' He scrolled through the pdf file on his computer to see if there was any video evidence to substantiate the claim. When he failed to find anything more explicit than an ill-shot photograph of the man standing on top of a balcony, he added a 'non-urgent' note to the cover letter and shipped it off to his liaison at the DEA.

Well, a copy of it, anyway. The original would be kept on a server in the FBI's branch office until Nathan Bennit stopped sending them his weekly 'Retain' command. At that point, it would be going to... Benjamin double checked the hashtag he'd attached to the file. Albany, New York. Huh. That was the third one today. Channel Five News must be getting pretty popular. It seemed like everyone was mailing them their insurance package on the off chance they kicked the bucket.

'Must be because they're so small,' Benjamin mused to himself. 'It's hard to believe they'd be on the take when they're barely a ten-man team.' Of course, in his experience, a compact organization actually made it easier for a conspiracy to take root. No one ever said the clinically paranoid had a surfeit of common sense, though. For them, large forces were anathema; who cared if they were biased, so long as they weren't in the service of 'Them?'

In this case, 'Them' would be New England's political establishment. Mr. Bennit didn't seem like the sort who'd believe in the crazier conspiracy theories. Not like... Percy Winkle... who was convinced the government was reading his mind with the help of the 5G cell network. Benjamin skimmed the next insurance policy for 'proof' and was unsurprised when it terminated in a mass of hyperlinks leading to various websites. Citing third parties was common practice for the lunatics using Black Coral. Customers who were legitimately worried they'd be killed often possessed hard data.

'Not always, though,' Benjamin acknowledged as he glanced over the next set of claims. Gang allegations could be lethal, despite their nebulous nature. Nikolas Wells wasn't offering the most concrete accusations about his competitor; however, it'd still go to the NGIC for review. Then, depending on whether or not it'd compromise the operation's security, it might be cleared for wider dissemination. Not that Nick would ever learn about the breach of privacy; as far as he was concerned, Black Coral still had his back.

Him and everyone else who was willing to spend three grand for a grey market, escrow service. Benjamin selected the next file buried in his inbox and got halfway through a diatribe about how there were aliens infesting Ms. Mascotti's neighbor when a pen rapped against the wall of his cubicle.

"One moment," he called out while he extricated himself from the database. "I just need to redact all of my paperwork."

A light-hearted voice drifted over the divider. "You know, no one actually follows that regulation, right? Antoine isn't going to bust you if I see three lines and a watermark."

Benjamin inspected his empty desktop before resting his pencil beside the edge. "I'd rather not take the chance. I didn't get this far in life by being sloppy with my workspace. ...There, you're free to enter."

His co-worker chuckled as he ducked between the polyester planks. Forty-two, and carrying only half of those years in his bearing, William Moore reminded Benjamin of the younger field agents, who infiltrated the collegiate drug trade. The only difference? His coworker's jawline was a bit too cut to let him masquerade as a drunken freshman. No package store clerk would ever look at his face and think 'this man is under twenty-one.'

"...He sure does act like it, though," Benjamin muttered as William leaned against the off-white divider.

"What was that?" the older agent asked him, his attention flitting from his phone. "I missed the bit at the beginning. Is IT giving you trouble again?"

Benjamin rubbed the inflamed divots, where his glasses had cut into his nose. "No, sorry, I was just thinking aloud. I feel like I've been staring at these reports for so long that they're starting to fry my filter."

"Heard," William grunted as he bobbed his head up and down. "They've had me working with the Revenue Department since early last November. If I have to see one more spread sheet before I get back to work on Monday morning, I'm going to burn through all of my sick leave and take the rest of September off." The nascent grin pulling at his co-worker's lips suddenly fell a little flat. He rubbed the back of his neck. "Ah, speaking of which: Jennifer in Accounting told me about your brother. That's a tough break, man. If you need anything..."

Benjamin declined the offer by reflex. "Thank you, but no. It's.... well, I don't want to say, 'it's not that bad,' but it's not 'my condolences' bad. Supposedly, the worst is past."

William slumped in relief. "Good - that's good. I'm glad he's doing better. After I heard some of the horror stories coming out of New York, I was worried I was stepping on a land mine."

A landmine wasn't a bad way to put it. When Benjamin had been called by Doctor Lavigne to serve as his brother's surrogate, Devon had been missing his right hand, and there'd been talk of taking his leg. Something about the burns reaching the bone and what it'd mean for his recovery. Benjamin... hadn't really been listening very well by that point. The shock of seeing so much charred flesh had driven him straight to the trash can before he lost his lunch all over his shoes. In between the dry heaves, he'd informed the doctor that he trusted her judgement. The only thing which mattered to him was whether or not his brother would pull through.

Devon... hadn't been of the same mind. Once he'd woken up and seen how much she'd had to cut away, he'd thrown a bit of a fit. Words had been said. The nurse assured Benjamin that it was mostly the drugs talking, but...

"Let's drop the subject," Benjamin suggested as he struggled to shake off the recollection. "Instead, how about we discuss why you decided to stop by. Are you here for something in particular, or did you just want to blow off the last few hours of your shift? I'll confess, I was hoping to bury my troubles in the backlog; however, it's hard to get excited when we're not being paid by the hour."

William ignored the man's disapproving frown. "Straight to business, huh? I can respect that. You and the boss are a lot alike in that respect. I won't lie, there is something we need to talk about, but I don't want to throw it at you if you're still feeling a little..." William made a whistling sound and passed his hand over his head.

"Please," Benjamin insisted. "It'd be a relief."

"Sure. In that case, Antoine told me he needs to see you 'at your earliest convenience.' He didn't use that terse, flustered tone, though, so I think he actually means it. If the big man's too much for you right now..."

"No," Benjamin reassured him. "I'll speak to him in a moment."

William hovered by the entrance and then patted the file cabinet propped up next to his printer. "Alright. I'll trust you to give your brother my best, then?" When Benjamin responded with an agreeable-sounding hum, William retreated from the cubicle, social obligations fulfilled.

Benjamin paused and re-examined his previous thought. No, he was being unkind. William could be cavalier, but he wasn't an asshole. If his only intention had been to go through the motions, he could have just sent a card. All it would've taken was a quick jaunt to the commissary. In fact, he probably could have signed one the few that had already been passed around. There was no reason to let Devon's temper tantrum taint the rest of his morning.

A manilla folder containing the recent security protocols joined the evacuation map in his desk drawer. Benjamin gave everything one last spot check and then headed for the frosted window abutting the rest of the office. Antoine's door was closed. Benjamin rapped twice on the bullet-proof glass and then let himself inside once the lock released a soft buzz.

Deputy Assistant Director Hertz barely glanced up as Benjamin shut the door behind him. "I understand. I can have it on your desk before four p.m. this Friday. Yes, all three hundred pages. Alright. Let me know how it turns out." He returned the handset to the phone's cradle with a click. A kink in the cord was looped around his coffee cup and almost sent it toppling to the floor. "Sorry about the wait," Hertz apologized before motioning for his colleague to have a seat. "Based on your trepedation, I assume that Moore relayed my message?"

Benjamin sidled into the tall, leather chair, curious about the state of his face. "I... can't say I know what you're talking about, sir. Agent Moore was a little vague. Do I have a reason to be worried?"

The Deputy Assistant Director studied him until Benjamin began to doubt his own assessment. Were the difficulties in his personal life bleeding through into his professional conduct? He almost wanted to fetch a mirror, so he could find what Hertz had seen in his expression.

"Perhaps, I was mistaken," the elderly man admitted. "There's so much scuttlebutt running around that I lose track of who knows what. Regardless, there's a few things we need to cover, the first of which is your work on Black Coral."

"It's been commendable," Hertz asserted, cutting off Benjamin's incipient dismay. "I want to extend my thanks - and the appreciation of the Bureau as a whole - for the extended hours you've been willing to put into the project. I understand that it hasn't come at the best time, given the state of your brother's health."

Benjamin coughed into his fist. "Fidelity, bravery and integrity, sir. It is all there in the motto."

"Even still," Hertz replied. "You've gone above and beyond the call. Because of that, and because I'm aware of the operation's reputation for being a meritless, fishing expedition, I want you to understand that what I'm going to say next is in no way a criticism of your conduct or your character."

"But I'm being reassigned," Benjamin guessed, his lips twisting into a wry smile.

"Yes. You and everyone else currently employed on the project. If that's not clear enough to reassure you, then I'll say it plain: Black Coral's being shut down. It's always been a low priority for the office as a whole, and the recent surge in financial uncertainty has caused our superiors to kill it off early."

Hertz pulled a drawer open before tossing a navy-blue folder onto his desktop. "Here," he grunted. "This packet contains the decoupling procedures you'll need to go through as well as the instructions for how to schedule your debriefing. Needless to say, this is the sort of thing the Bureau would prefer to handle through the administrator's office; however, the recent chaos has caused your out-boarding to become a little more slapdash than we'd like. Read it over. Don't sweat it too much if the paperwork takes a few weeks to clear."

Benjamin removed the document's cover letter and skimmed the table of contents. "I'm not seeing much here about my upcoming responsibilities. Is there any word on where I'm headed next?"

"Unofficially?" Hertz equivocated with an amused grimace. "I heard from the grapevine that you're going to be temporarily reassigned to a new initiative in order to figure out where all of the money's being sent. Whether you'll be working with one office or another will depend on how the interdepartmental jockeying shakes out. As things stand, everyone's scrambling for manpower, and you all will be low-hanging fruit: expect to get shuffled around a lot until the fires are finally extinguished."

Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

The Deputy Assistant Director seemed apologetic even as he told Benjamin to pack his bag and march. The young agent wasn't surprised; Antoine Hertz was a known workaholic, who had a reputation for expecting his subordinates to put in a commensurate effort. If he'd merely demanded twelve-hour shifts, there might not have been as much pushback. Hertz slept in his office, though, instead of going home to his wife. There were weeks when he'd hang a suit behind his desk because the one he was wearing would start to smell by Wednesday. Benjamin liked to think of himself as a reasonably dedicated public servant, but he still enjoyed having a life. If the old man was looking sympathetic... well, that didn't say pleasant things about his future.

"I see. And we're sure this is final? There's no hope of putting a word in with anyone further up the chain? Willing as I am to do my duty, I'd hate for my 'temporary' assignment to stretch the definition of the term."

Hertz snorted, numb to his co-worker's plea. "Oh, there will be a feasibility review, you can be sure of that. Banking on it going somewhere, though, is a different story. No, sad as it may be to say, I don't think Black Coral will be approved by the bean counters again. We've billed the public for too many man-hours, given the gems we've managed to produce."

A coarse chuckle snapped Benjamin out of his funk. "Oh, buck up, boy! It's not all bad news. Some of those insights have been quite noteworthy. So much so, that a few agents from the TSC have been asking after you. Once we're done here, you're to give them a presentation on a couple of files that have passed through our hands. From what I've heard, the Assistant Director wants an in-depth breakdown on how common certain key-word searches have become. If you play your cards right, it might be a good opportunity to avoid accumulating too many frequent flier miles on the Bureau's behalf.

Benjamin twitched at the suggestion. "This isn't about the election, is it?"

Hertz shrugged in reply. "Not unless Roswell has become a new slang term for our southern border."

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Despite Hertz's insinuation that the TSC were all desk jockeys, they sure flew up awfully quick to hear Benjamin's report. D.C. to Albany was a three hour round trip; for them to arrive before his shift was through meant they must have been waiting on the tarmac.

"I'm special agent, Denoia; this is special agent, Leclark. We understand you have some files, which might be related to our work?"

The three men stood in a small, sound-proof conference room on the third floor of the CID's field office. Known as the Criminal Investigative Division to most people outside of the Bureau, the agents within normally spent their day tracking narcotics shipments before finishing up with the odd embezzlement scheme. Benjamin's role was a little less 'hands-on;' as a junior member of Criminal Intelligence Section II, he was often tasked with preparing the reports that would be read by the men inside this room. For him to actually be leading today's discussion threw him a touch off his stride.

He laid his hand on a plush backrest and wondered if it'd be appropriate for him to take a seat. "That was... an iconic introduction. Do you practice that line a lot?"

The two agents exchanged a weary glance. "I suppose so," Denoia admitted before dragging his chair across the rug. "The car rides can get rather dull."

A faint hint of five-o'clock shadow clung to his cheeks as his lips parted in a grin. At least ten years younger than his wan companion, Denoia was still passionate enough to enjoy the small talk; whereas Leclark looked like he might fall asleep.

"It's one of the perils of the job," the old man opined while girding himself against the Bureau's decor. "I'm sure the CCRSB has its own petty rituals for when the hours start to stretch."

They'd be better off asking William; Benjamin had never been prone to such foibles. "Perhaps. In the meantime, I'm sure you're both acquainted with this one. If I could get your signatures, here and here, gentlemen?" Benjamin passed the two a non-disclosure agreement for the material he was about to reveal. Technically, they were already cleared to handle intelligence of a confidential nature; however, the Bureau insisted upon a physical record, in addition to the electronic security checks the pair had previously undergone.

The agents skimmed the legalese and then jotted their names at the bottom. "Thank you," Benjamin said as he collected the documents. "Now, I believe you had some questions about Black Coral?"

Leclark set his briefcase down atop the table and withdrew a plastic binder. "Yes, though before we get to that, I'm afraid it's our turn to wear out your wrist. If you don't mind?" He handed over a thick packet of his own with a substantially higher security clearance stamped across the front.

Benjamin paused and stared at the intimidating watermark. "I was under the impression that CODE-WORD level material could only be conveyed at a limited number of facilities. This room isn't rated for a secret that sensitive."

"Those considerations are strictly for physical documents and electronic data," Leclark patiently explained. "This CDA simply covers whatever is revealed by our conversation. Hopefully, it will help us avoid the hassle of talking around certain topics."

"I see." Benjamin frowned and read the contract's stipulations with much more care than either of his peers. After the first few pages all seemed to be in order, he began initialing where appropriate. "I have to admit, this is making me significantly more concerned about the files you wanted to discuss."

"Reservations are understandable," Leclark agreed. "I'm sure there's an incentive within your section to take what you hear with a grain of salt. Unfortunately, several of the public's claims are more credible than our superiors would care to admit. The best the three of us can do is avoid the legal fallout."

Leclark picked up the packet as Benjamin slid it over. He flipped through the stapled pages to ensure everything was copacetic. "Thank you. This satisfies the obligations we owe the rest of the Bureau."

Benjamin licked his lips. "Of course. Now, is there a place where we should begin?"

Leclark sighed. "I was hoping to address the rising incident rate over the last two years; especially as it corresponds to the urban versus rural divide. Sadly, we'll have to start by picking your brain about the reports that can be geolocated to the D.C. area." He tapped his pen against the tabletop in a rising, staccato beat. "Are you familiar with the interdepartmental review, which the Director ordered on the first of the month?"

Benjamin searched his memory. "You mean, the CYA panel inspired by the 9/11 reforms?"

"That's the one," Leclark confirmed after softly clicking his tongue. "The two of us were given fairly strict orders before our superiors shipped us off. I believe the Assistant Director's exact words were: 'The capital comes first. Then, the big cities. Then, the little ones. We'll cover the small towns if they're still standing in a month or two.'"

That was... about what Benjamin had come to expect after his meeting with Antoine Hertz. "I suppose we'd best work quickly, then" he conceded with only the slightest trace of guilt. "In any event, as of noon today, there have been seven hundred and ninety-three separate incidents which fit the criteria you provided. Of those, one hundred and eleven appear to be only loosely related, and within that dataset, half can likely be excluded, given the popularity of our search parameters. While I'm not familiar with how many of these cases originate from D.C., I do have a fairly good memory, and I would guess it's somewhere south of twenty. One moment."

Benjamin unlocked the tablet, he'd brought in with the rest of his paperwork, before mousing over to the archival tags. Part of his job was to identify pertinent markers within each file, so it wasn't difficult to summon a list containing the ones which referenced the city. "If what I'm seeing here is correct, I believe we have just shy of a dozen. There may be a couple of others, but they'd require more investigation to say for sure."

"Which one topped the pile in terms of relevancy?" Denoia asked.

Benjamin squinted at the screen. "A Mr. John Weisman's. It's a pseudonym, of course. We have him logged here as Carey Neels, though that's also just a best guess based upon the network traffic of the McDonalds where he uploaded his claims. As for the contents of his deposit, he's alleging that there's an organization of influence peddlers, known as the Hoffman Group, who are leveraging their personal wealth on behalf of an extra-terrestrial government. The group is successful, well-established and - according to Mr. Neels - responsible for the abduction of at least thirty people over the last ten years. Naturally, when we looked into the disappearances he cited, most of the missing citizens were semi-public figures, whose safety was quite assured. At that point, his claims were dismissed, and we assumed he was attempting to defame them through the actions of a third party."

Denoia had begun taking notes about halfway through the explanation. "And this individual made explicit mention of the Offal Sea?"

Benjamin scrolled down. "Yes, him and twenty-two others, although none of those were in the D.C. area."

"I can't say I'm surprised - the cells in the capital are more organized than most of their peers. If this is an attempt to implicate the Hoffman Group, then we wouldn't see much redundancy." Denoia glanced up from his pad. "Out of curiosity, when did this accusation take place? The summer of 2020?"

A wave of vertigo struck Benjamin at the casual corroboration of the informant's outlandish claims. He swallowed around the lump in his throat. "No, the spring of '22. We weren't fully operational until after the fall election."

"Then, we'll need the report in full, biased as it's likely to be." Leclark wrote down an official extension, where Benjamin could leave the file. "You said there are more like this?"

"Yes," Benjamin confirmed, his mind moving faster than his mouth. "One from Chicago with the proverbial fingerprints removed. Another authored by a Miss Mel..."

Leclark cut the agent's panic attack off while it was still building up steam. "We'll get to those later," he reminded him, and then motion towards his notes on the table. "Let's focus on the case in front of us before we start skipping ahead."

Benjamin clenched his fists until he could regain his nerve. "...Of course," he agreed with a dry swallow. "I believe the agent investigating Mr. Neels claims gave an interview. We can begin there."

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

When Benjamin got home that evening, there was another message waiting for him on his answering machine. He closed his eyes in exasperation. When he opened them again, the display was still flashing like the burning gaze of Sauron himself. He hit the button to play the recording before he could chicken out. Devon's voice slipped from the tinny speakers.

"Ben, it's your brother. I know I said some shit at the recovery ward, but you don't get it: I need you to be straight with me. This isn't the time for us to be splitting hairs about what paragraph five, subsection B, says in the damn manual. I know - that you know - more about what's going on than what you've been telling me. If we keep playing these stupid games -"

He ran out of time and the message automatically cut off. According to the log on the LED screen, Devon had called him back about three minutes later.

"...no, I don't need any - Ben, it's Devon again. Listen, for once in your life, just meet me halfway on something that isn't which board game we should play with mom and dad at the home. It's not like I'm asking for the secrets to Fort fucking Knox. The mayor should be telling us this himself. We're the ones getting blown to kingdom come every time -"

"...every time one of these damn things morphs out of the fucking ether. Do you have any idea how many of my friends have gotten hurt, since this snafu's kicked off? Would you care to guess how many of them have died?! Just... climb down from your ivory tower and help me do some real police work. You know, the kind that's more than pushing numbers around for -"

There were eleven more messages waiting to be heard. Benjamin didn't need to listen to the rest to be able to guess their contents. Devon had never been the most reticent about removing the 'stick Ben keeps up his ass,' and the drugs he'd been proscribed by the hospital certainly hadn't helped him hold his tongue. Not like Benjamin could; there was a reason why he'd made the cut at Quantico while his brother had quickly washed out.

"Damn it, Devon." Benjamin pushed his glasses up onto his forehead and rubbed the bridge of his nose. It was almost funny: before today, he really hadn't known much more about what was going on. Certainly not as much as Devon had been insisting. "I'm a data analyst," he muttered sarcastically. "This isn't the CIA. What exactly is he expecting? Little grey men from mars?"

Benjamin bit back an angry laugh. It turns out, aliens would have been a pretty good guess. A shame this wasn't the cinema, where no one ever suffered any consequences for letting the secret slip. Somehow, Benjamin got the impression that his story would end a bit differently if he decided to spill the beans. It might have been all of the paperwork he'd been forced to sign. They'd really made an effort to spell out the potential charges in painfully simple terms. Words like 'ten-year sentence' had made a frequent appearance. 'Capital punishment' too.

Benjamin liked to think he loved his brother, but prison was a bit much. "I hope he realizes that I have to disclose all of this. I can't just ignore an attempt to massage me for information."

Especially, since Benjamin's phone was monitored as a matter of course. He might be able to get away with hiding Devon's plea if they'd had this conversation in person; however, he didn't have a shot, when the man left a paper trail half a mile long. It'd all go better if Benjamin covered his bases.

His briefcase made a soft wheeze as it was compressed against the kitchen floor. Benjamin dug his work phone out of the side pocket before making a request to the Bureau for them to send him the relevant paperwork. He didn't expect much to come of it.

'Has to be done, though,' he reminded himself. It was the same story with Black Coral, despite finding another one of Hertz's 'gems.' There were rules to be observed - checks and balances upon the system they called civilization. If they ran around doing whatever they pleased, the end result would be anarchy. Some people enjoyed that level of chaos because of the opportunities it afforded them. Benjamin wasn't one of them: he'd prefer not to live like a beast.

The phone rang. For a second, he feared it was Devon; however, the device's electronic wail was coming from his jacket, instead of the wall. It was the office. He picked up after the third chime. "This is special agent, Benjamin Carson. ...Yes, Deputy Assistant Director. ...Yes, I'll need several copies -" The wheel ground on.