So, I am in possession of classified government intelligence. Illegally. And there are some bombshells in there—if it’s real, that is. I mean, someone went to a lot of trouble to secure something that might be fake, but the possibility remains.
The implications regarding Logan—his cover may have been blown after discovering sordid details about The Awakening—suggest the circumstances surrounding his arrest and Erasure are not what they seemed. But if the connection between The Awakening and Saxon Warband is real, that’s a big story. I hadn’t questioned The Awakening deeply until now, but if this is legitimate evidence of their support for Saxon Warband and that they manipulated Vandal Savage into committing atrocities for pro-Erasure propaganda, it’s clear they’re far from righteous.
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The Awakening has surged in prominence over the past two years, winning public goodwill with an almost theatrical zeal. They’ve championed reforms for Erasure recipients, providing resources and advocating for laws that ensure these individuals get a clean slate and basic human rights, even after their humanity has been questioned. Public opinion has shifted notably; according to a recent Gallup poll, more people now view Erasure as a positive and beneficial process than those who don’t. It’s far from unanimous, with passionate debates on both sides, but the shift is significant.
The Awakening’s PR campaign has been meticulous. They’ve altered the discourse, replacing terms like “Erasure victims” or “patients” with “recipients”—a subtle but powerful shift that suggests a gift rather than a punishment. They’ve essentially rewritten the narrative to depict Erasure as a beneficial opportunity for reform, conveniently ignoring that it's a forced procedure when given as a sentence.
There used to be videos circulating, showing people shackled and screaming as they were about to undergo Erasure surgery. Those videos have vanished from the public eye, undoubtedly suppressed by The Awakening or a similarly influential entity.
So while society is coming around to the idea of Erasure, not everyone sees it as a sovereign remedy. The guy who accosted me and Logan at the Erasure clinic seemed like an asshole, but he was serious about exposing The Awakening. I could do without him individually, but I’m sure there are others working on the piece.
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I stride up to a glass building downtown bearing the name Washington Insider. They’re not the Post, but respectable enough to warrant a visit.
Taking a deep breath, I walk inside with determination. It’s a modest office buzzing with a serious, if somewhat frenetic, energy. I saunter up to the front desk, lean an elbow on the counter, and try to sound casual. “What does someone do if they have a huge scoop?” I ask conspiratorially.
The receptionist, a young woman with perfectly round glasses so low on her nose they look like they might fall off, glances up at me. She can’t be older than 24, but she has her hair in a severe bun with pencils criss-crossed through it and a sweater with a collar that looks like it came from a doily. The effect of the geriatric sexy librarian vibe is disarming. “In regards to what?” she asks, her eyes large behind her lenses.
I hesitate, feeling the absurdity of my question. I lean in, “I’m kind of scared to say it out loud now. Do you have, like, an anonymous tip line or something?”
“Here in person?” She peers at me over the top of her frames, eyebrows furrowed sardonically.
“Okay, I realize now that sounds dumb. It’s just that I met this guy who said he was working on a piece, and I guess I figured I’d be able to pop in and say I’ve got intel, except I didn’t get his name, and he was kind of a dick anyway… I’ll just see myself out.” I turn to leave as quickly as I came, feeling my neck flush with embarrassment. I hadn’t thought this through; I need to regroup and come up with an actual plan.
Just as I’m about to leave, I hear a familiar voice coming from behind the desk. “Well, look who decided to stop by!” The guy from the clinic calls out with mirth in his voice, much different from his startling brusqueness the first time we met.
I consider ignoring him and walking out, but the woman at the desk says dryly, “He wants to leave an anonymous tip.”
“Hey!” I protest, whipping around.
The guy, exuding confidence, says, “I’m great at keeping tips anonymous. I won’t tell anyone the tip you’re about to give me is from you.” His teeth when he smirks are startlingly white set against his honey-colored skin. He has a classic Hollywood masculinity—Cary Grant or Clark Gable energy.
“I was actually just deciding this was a bad idea.” I turn to leave again.
“Hey, I guided you here, you might as well—”
“Actually, if you remember, I dropped your card on the ground,” I shoot back.
“Yeah, that was a sick burn,” he chuckles.
“Anyway, you’re probably an intern if you were doing grunt work like that. This is above your pay grade,” I say, my voice steady.
“Confident! I love it. I will have you know that I only make occasional brief appearances at clinics before I am inevitably removed from the premises. I don’t have time to charm. Anyway, I’ll introduce you to the head of the investigation, then.” The guy extends his hand. “Marcos Rios.”
“Phoenix,” I reply, shaking his hand warily. “Is the head here today?”
Marcos grins and waits a couple of seconds to let it sink in. “Oh, come on, that was a good moment, don’t make me spell it out.” Damn.
The receptionist, observing our exchange, quips wryly, “Are you guys flirting?”
Feeling my face heat up, I quickly remark, “I bet the Post isn’t this unprofessional.”
Marcos laughs, not shaken in the least. “There’s no joy in that dreary dungeon. They’re so focused on competing with the Times for Pulitzers that they lose sight of the fact that they’re humans. Follow me.”
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I’m reluctant, but I allow Marcos to lead me to a small, beige-colored conference room in the office building, the air thick with anticipation. The single light in the middle of the room casts shadows on the veins in Marcos’s arms. He’s trim, but he fills out his short-sleeve button-up. His fit build reminds me of my own body, which I’m never quite satisfied with despite my consistent efforts. I try to hide my scrawny arms under the table, self-conscious.
I attempt to apologize for my behavior at the clinic, but I sense that Marcos is eating it up, a glint of amusement in his eyes.
“I was actually impressed with your feistiness,” Marcos responds.
“My feistiness?” I grimace.
“Go ahead, what have you got,” he prompts.
I hesitate, my nerves creeping in. “I think it’s big.”
“Firsthand?” Marcos inquires, leaning forward, his eyes turning sharp.
“No,” I admit, “but—”
He cuts me off with an eye roll and sits up, a look of mild annoyance crossing his face. “Is it real?” he asks patronizingly.
“Hear me out!” I exclaim, desperation in my voice. I offer basic details about how I had been led to the USB and give a brief overview of what it contains, although I omit details about my connection to Logan and the full extent of the drive’s contents.
Marcos is unconvinced. “You’re telling me you stumbled upon this USB that just so happens to have potentially explosive content? Forgive me if I think that’s a bit of a stretch.”
I take a deep breath, acknowledging his doubt. “I know how it sounds, but I swear it isn’t a wild goose chase.”
He glances at me, still uncertain, but tempered by a hint of curiosity. “Alright, let’s say for a moment that it’s legit. Why come to me with this?”
“I didn’t know who else to trust,” I admit. “I need help verifying it, and I thought someone here might know what to do.”
Marcos listens and rubs his chin thoughtfully. Clean-shaven but with a faint dark shadow still visible. “So you’re saying you have no firsthand knowledge, but you believe what’s on here is real because of... what, intuition?”
“It’s more than a hunch,” I insist. “The person who left it kind of made it a big ordeal to get to.” My mind flashes back to the lock box blinking green with my fingerprint. “They wouldn’t do that for nothing.”
Marcos’s eyes narrow, his skepticism giving way to consideration. “Alright, you’ve piqued my interest. But understand the stakes. If this is real, it’s not just a story—it’s potentially a game-changer. I’m not willing to take unnecessary risks based on a hunch.”
I nod and sigh, the weight of the situation sinking in. “That’s what I figured. So here I am. I don’t know what to do with it.”
Marcos leans back and closes his eyes, contemplating. “We’ll need to handle this carefully. Proof is crucial. And we’ll need to protect you, just in case.”
His words fill me with a mix of anxiety and relief. “I don’t know what that means, but I think this stuff is the real deal. I would very much like to learn the truth.”
The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.
Marcos nods. “First step, let’s get a look at that USB.”
I’ve been keeping the USB on me at all times, paranoid that my house will be raided by someone who knows it exists, although it’s doubtful anyone does, other than the person who left it. I hesitate briefly, then whip it out from my front pocket and hand it over.
Marcos finds a laptop and spends several minutes perusing the contents of the drive. His face is scrunched in concentration, but his forehead is strangely unlined. “Do you know these people? Logan Waite or Van Nguyen?” he finally asks.
“Logan Waite is my brother,” I answer tonelessly, feeling a lump in my throat.
Marcos looks up at me, his eyebrows still knit together. He catches my use of “is” instead of “was” and probably makes the connection to the “Zombie” I was accompanying when we first met. Instead of asking directly he says tactfully, “Is he okay?”
My eyes well with tears. “Later,” I reply, waving my hand dismissively. The past few days have been a blur, and I haven’t allowed myself a chance to grieve. Can you mourn a loved one who hasn’t died? Now is not the time.
Marcos gives me a brief pat on the back, unexpected but oddly reassuring, then moves on. “Okay, well I’m going to assume your brother didn’t leave this for you.” He glances at me; I do not protest. “The only other name we have is Van Nguyen. Whoever left this could have obscured the names, I think it’s telling that this one is on here.”
“So Van is, what, like Logan’s handler?” I ask.
“That’s CIA, but not so different in practice.”
“So is that our first lead?” Excitement creeps into my voice.
Marcos raises one eyebrow, skeptical. “You can’t possibly think I’ll let you do any investigating.” His tone borders on condescension.
“Look, I don’t care about protection. I have nothing to live for right now. I need this.” When his look shifts to concern, I realize how my words sound, and I rush to clarify, “I’m not suicidal! I just mean I have nothing important going on right now and I wish I did.”
Marcos looks unconvinced.
“Ask the lead of the investigation, I’m sure he has the power to make exceptions,” I say, looking at him deadpan. That earns an amused nod of concession. I rub my hands together, smiling. “So how do we find SSA Van Nguyen of the FBI?”
Marcos taps his fingers on his lips, concentrating. “Well, the FBI isn’t going to let us waltz in and request a chat with an agent without cause. We’ll have to be strategic.”
I nod, although the adrenaline I had been feeling at the prospect of chasing a lead is leaking out, and trepidation is creeping in. Of course, it wouldn’t be that easy. I’m silent with anticipation.
“Okay,” Marcos says, sitting up with a decision. “We’ll need to gather some information on Van first. I have a Bureau-adjacent contact who might be able to give us a start. From there, it will be on us to figure out the whereabouts and, hopefully, make contact.
“So we can’t just give this person a call and say we have a huge scoop?” I shrug.
He looks me in the eyes, an amused smile playing on his lips. “Unfortunately, no. We have to assume someone might be monitoring this person’s calls. And we don’t know yet if Van will be spooked when we make contact, or if we can even trust them in the first place.”
“You said you have a contact? That’s cool. How do journalists get contacts?”
“Oh, just here and there.” His eyes light up as he pulls out his phone and makes a call. “Hola, Flaca,” he begins. “Qué? No estoy gordo! ¡Estoy ponchado!” His grin widens. Whatever the person on the other end says makes Marcos blush. He laughs and switches to English. “That was four years ago, you need to let that go!” After another response, Marcos gets down to business. “Okay, I wish I had more time to reminisce, but I do have a favor to ask.”
While he talks, my mind wanders. I’m proud of myself for having made it this far. For keeping it together long enough to find the USB and begin vindicating Logan—hopefully making peace with him and getting closure in the process. Despite my initial impression of him, I’m glad to be here with Marcos. I admire his ability to think quickly and take charge. It makes me feel safe.
Marcos finishes his call, takes a deep breath and slaps his knees. “Alright,” he says, pocketing his phone. “Viviana has some access and will see if she can dig anything up. I’m planning on meeting up with her in about an hour. Care to join?”
“I don’t want to third-wheel, it sounds like you guys know each other well,” I answer, hesitant.
“Third wheels are great! They provide balance and stability. We could probably use a chaperone anyway.”
I raise an eyebrow at him. “Mmhmm, I bet you could.”
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We arrive at Viviana’s apartment, an eclectic yet tidy space, brimming with art on the walls and an impressively organized collection of books on shelves. Viviana herself is stunning. She must be close to 40; her warm brown hair, streaked with gray, lends her a sense of weight and confidence in its naturalness. She’s dressed in bike shorts and an oversized t-shirt, effortless and casual, but wearing makeup in a way that suggests she’s trying to make a good impression.
“Flaca!” Marcos beams as he steps inside.
Viviana looks him up and down. “Mmm, you are ponchado,” she says, running her fingertips lightly over his forearms. “Since when do you have so much time to work out?”
“I make time,” he replies absently as he walks in and looks around. “This is nice.”
“Hi, I’m Phoenix,” I say, leaning forward and waving from the doorway, not wanting to enter uninvited. “I hope I’m not going to be interrupting.”
“Phoenix! Marcos mentioned on the phone you’d be coming. It’s a pleasure to meet you—please, come in,” Viviana says warmly, guiding me in with a gesture. She motions to a couch for us to sit on, then gets us glasses of water before sitting down herself. “Well,” she looks between me and Marcos, “let’s see what you’ve got.”
I must look skeptical, because Marcos reassures me, “Don’t worry. I have complete faith in her.” I don’t know either of them, but I trust Marcos’s judgment instinctually enough to hand over the USB once again.
Viviana inserts it into her laptop and brings up the contents. "So, you’re looking for a Van Nguyen?" she asks, dubious. "That's like searching for John Smith."
Marcos agrees, "We know it’s a common name, but we have to start somewhere. What can you find that might give us a lead?"
Viviana nods thoughtfully, opening up a browser and scrolling through some sort of database. "Well, there are hundreds of Van Nguyens in federal records alone. We'll need to narrow it down. Anything specific about this person? Gender?”
“Just that they’re an SSA in the FBI and have a connection to Logan Waite,” Marcos answers.
Viviana pauses, squinting as if trying to recall something. "Logan Waite... wasn’t he—"
"My brother," I cut in, my voice tight. "They were both involved in this... situation." I twirl my hand vaguely.
Viviana’s expression softens briefly before she refocuses on her task. "Alright. That’s something. Let's see... We can filter by agents with connections to your brother’s case."
As we wait, Marcos paces the room, glancing around at the sundry decor. "How secure is this?" he asks, nodding towards the laptop.
"Perfectly fine," Viviana replies, her eyes glued to the screen. "I’m just pinging a few contacts to see if they can narrow down any Van Nguyens, cross-referencing with Logan."
I watch the screen intently, unable to interpret anything on it but too impatient to focus on anything else. Marcos catches my eye, and we exchange a glance. He gives me a nod. More reassurance.
“I think I have something.” Viviana doesn’t look up, but a small smile rises on her face. “There’s one Van Nguyen, a Senior Supervisory Agent with a transfer in status. His profile's thin—more than I would expect."
Marcos sits back down and leans forward. "Where can we find him?"
"Well, it might be tricky. He’s not showing up on recent logs. He’s in the system, so he’s somewhere. I can give you his last known location and maybe you’ll find someone who can get in contact with him."
I nod emphatically. "We’ll take it."
Viviana scribbles down details on a scrap of paper and hands it to me. Then, looking at Marcos, she says, "I hope I don’t have to warn you to be smart about this."
Marcos only kisses her on the forehead and opens the door to leave.
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It takes two days of anxious waiting before Marcos is able to make his magic work. I spend most of that time alternating between gym sessions—inspired by Marcos’s physique—and counterproductively bingeing ice cream at home out of stress. Finally, I get a message from him, inviting me to meet at a park that evening.
As I approach the small park in the city, I spot Marcos waving. The park is hardly more than a few benches and a fountain. Twilight has fallen, and the street lamps flicker to life; the one behind the bench where Marcos is sitting blinks briefly every four or five seconds, casting eerie shadows that dance in the dim light. “Well,” he says glancing at his phone, “he’s supposed to be here in five minutes. We’re lucky to catch him—he’s been at Headquarters but is scheduled to transfer in the next week or two.” He checks his phone again.
“You talked to him?” I ask, a light thrill in my voice.
“Not directly. But I made contact, and he agreed to meet.” Phone check.
A sudden wave of terror washes over me. Meeting the man who knows intimate details about Logan’s undercover assignment, who might hold the key to understanding his fate, makes me start to hyperventilate.
“Hey, it’s all good,” Marcos says gently. He squeezes my shoulder then keeps his hand resting there. “Honestly, you don’t need to say a word. You don’t even have to stay, I can take care of it.”
I lean into his reassuring grip, then close my eyes and take a deep, controlled breath. “No, I’ll be fine. I need to hear it from him.” I check my phone, mirroring Marcos’s restlessness.
Minutes drag by in a tense silence, while my eyes resist the urge to dart around continuously. Finally, a tall, thin man, a few years older than me, wearing a Nationals cap and a light thermal jacket, approaches confidently and sits beside me on the bench. His composure is unsettling as he takes a casual sip from a huge aluminum water bottle. I feel like I’m on the verge of a breakdown.
“Phoenix?” he asks quietly and looks in my eyes, squinting slightly.
“Van?” I respond, my voice wavering with nerves.
He nods, his expression neutral. “I’m glad you found me so quickly.”
“You left me the note!” I blurt, the realization dawning, and I glare at him, accusingly.
He nods again, expression unchanged. Another sip from his water bottle. “I’m sorry for the subterfuge, but I needed to create a safe trail for both of us. There are many reasons I couldn’t contact you directly. And, I admit, I wanted to vet you, so to speak.”
“Well here we are,” Marcos inserts himself. “You know we can’t do anything with one USB. What are you expecting?”
Van gaze remains fixed on me. “Phoenix, I’m really sorry about everything,” he says, ignoring Marcos. He takes off his cap, revealing cropped black hair, scratches his head, then replaces the cap. “I can’t begin to tell you how sorry I am.”
Questions flood my mind, but I can’t decide which ones are right for the current situation. I just stare blankly, my mouth unable to form words.
“We’re willing to dig in as deep as we need,” Marcos speaks up, pressing on. “But we’re going to need some direction. Point us.”
Van sighs and closes his eyes, still facing me. “Please, give me a minute to offer my condolences to Phoenix. Alone would be best.”
“I’m not moving, but I’ll plug my ears if that helps,” Marcos retorts with a sarcastic laugh.
“You knew Logan well, then?” I ask Van, my eagerness barely contained.
“We worked together directly for years.” A small tear escapes, though his expression remains unchanged. “And there’s something else I should tell you.”