The Centre Cannot Hold
by Kirayoshi
The Falcon Cannot Hear the Falconer
[reviews]
Chapter Three
The Falcon Cannot Hear the Falconer
"Well if you told me you were drowning,
I would not lend a hand.
I've seen your face before my friend,
But I don't know if you know who I am.
But I was there, and I saw what you did
Saw it with my own two eyes,
So you can wipe off that grin,
'Cause I know where you've been,
It's all been a pack of lies.
I can feel it coming in the air tonight,
Hold on...
And I've been waiting for this moment for all my life,
Hold on...
Can you feel it coming in the air tonight,
Hold on...
Hold on..."
--Phil Collins
"In The Air Tonight"
In his room in a sub-basement of the Centre, the tortured young man known only as Angelo squirmed in his chair, his eyes staring wildly from behind his nest of black curls, constantly darting back and forth between two different computer monitors, his mind absorbing every image, every word like a sponge. Images of vampires flashed across the monitors at lightning speed, interspersed with sites and details from a small California college. "Monsters," he muttered to himself. "Monsters are out there, monsters out to get Jarod, out to get Miss Parker..."
Angelo was a testimony to the intellectual acumen of the Centre, as well as to its utter disregard for human life. A child prodigy, Timothy was taken by the Centre as an infant, much as Jarod was. Through various exercises, up to and including massive shock therapy, Mr. Raines had succeeded in boosting Timothy already preternatural empathic traits, at the cost of the young man's mind. His mind was now attuned to the minds he had encountered before, feeling what they felt on a subconscious level. But his own mind was erratic, conflicted, unable to hold any linear thought or even regard himself as a distinct individual. The Centre's experiments succeeded in destroying his mind. Where once there was an entity named Timothy a human being capable of laughing, loving and dreaming, there now stood the hyper-empath known only as Angelo, only capable of serving the ambitions of others, with no capacity for any ambitions of his own.
He sensed intuitively that Jarod was in great danger, probably greater than any the pretender had ever known in his chaotic life. What endangered him was more than Centre politics, more than Miss Parker's relentless pursuit, more even than Lyle's insanity or Mr. Raines' white-hot hatred of the entire human race. He sensed that Jarod would soon come face to face with true evil, and that knowledge was driving the already unstable empath further into a downward spiral.
A sudden sharp latching sound broke his concentration, and he spun in his chair, glancing behind him. The grating over the ceiling air vent hinged open, and then fell clattering to the floor. A black-clad figure dropped feet-first from the vent, landing in a crouching position on the concrete floor beneath him. The figure turned his head toward Angelo, removed the ski mask that obscured his face and smiled. "Hello, Timmy," he greeted him knowingly.
Angelo craned his head at three different angles, sizing this new visitor up for ten whole seconds; the wavy gray hair, the hard-worn expressive face, the authoritative spread of his shoulders. All this and something oddly familiar overlaid across his face. "You know Jarod?" he asked. "You seem a lot like him."
"I should," the visitor answered, "I'm his father. Call me Major Charles. Jarod sent me to break you out of here. Don't worry, Timmy, I have some medicine that Jarod recommended for you. We'll make you better again."
The mention of Jarod's name sent Angelo into a more violent seizure. "Jarod's in trouble," Angelo shouted as he backed away from the Major, his head twitching from side to side, his eyes darting furtively back and forth like a jungle animal trapped in too small a cage. "Something's happening to him, something evil's going to happen."
"Yes, yes," the Major spoke in soothing tones as he approached the frightened young man, "Jarod told me himself. He's up to his eyeballs in something big. And knowing him he's having the time of his life. Now, let's get you out of here before..." Almost as if on cue, alarm sirens keened, and flashing lights colored the dark room a vivid red. "Damn and blast," Major Charles muttered under his breath. "Lyle's goons will be here in a minute! Quickly, Timmy, we have to get up the vent!" Charles stood under the vent opening and held his hands three feet above the floor palm-up, his fingers interlaced.
Angelo nodded once, and stepped onto the offered hands, allowing Charles to push him upward into the vent. Once he saw Angelo's foot disappear from view, he jumped upward, grabbing the edge of the opening, and strained to lift himself up.
"Uh, uh, uh!" the voice behind him chided like honeyed venom. "On the floor, Major, hands where I can see them."
Major Charles let go of the ledge, landing on his feet and holding his hands over his head. "Isn't this rich?" Lyle smiled darkly behind the .9 millimeter he had aimed at the Major's heart. "You have no idea how pleased I am to see you here."
"Believe me," Major Charles snarled, "the pleasure's all yours."
Lyle shrugged off Charles' comment nonchalantly. "Let me guess; your son the lab-rat sent you to rescue Angelo from the big bad Centre, right?"
"Something like that," Charles answered.
"Silly rabbit," Lyle commented. "You should be aware that the Centre no longer wants Jarod alive. Mr. Raines has ordered the Centre sweepers to kill Jarod on sight now. Such a shame, the loss of a son. I think you'll agree with me that no father should live to see the death of his son, so..." he squeezed the trigger slightly, just enough to cock the hammer of his pistol. "No hard feelings, right Major?"
Charles shrugged his shoulders and said, "Oh, I dunno." He twisted on his right foot, and shot his left foot out with blinding speed, impacting Lyle's right wrist with his heel. The gun skidded on the floor and under Angelo's computer desk. "I'll bet that felt pretty hard," Charles added as Lyle tended to his broken wrist. His hand thrust forward and grabbed Lyle by the throat, pinning him like a chloroformed moth to the wall. All civility faded from his features, as a righteous rage fired his eyes.
"Y'know, Lyle," he hissed at the hapless Centre official, "As much pleasure as I would derive in pummeling you until you're just a greasy smear on my fists, I just don't have the time, and neither do you. Right now, my advice to you is to start shredding. Every Centre document you have, turn it into confetti. Ethan, my other son, remember him? He hacked his way into the Centre mainframe just this afternoon, and he's downloaded a few hundred Centre files. All the crooked deals that the Tower's made with the Triad, the Yakuza, the Russian Mafia, Al-Qaeda, practically every nation that has a hate-on for the States, plus enough video footage of the Centre's torturing of children in the Pretender project to keep Oliver Stone busy 'till Judgment Day. I have no idea how you're gonna keep your face off of 60 Minutes! Plus that little detail I read about your predilection for raping and slaughtering young Asian women. I can't wait to see that on the networks." He let go of Lyle's throat, just long enough to slam his fist into Lyle's left temple, knocking him out instantly. "That was for Jarod."
Charles heard rapid footsteps down the hallway, and knew he didn't have more than a few seconds before Lyle's sweepers started shooting. He rushed back to the vent and jumped, grabbing the ledge with his hands. He felt hands grabbing his arms, and smiled as Angelo helped pull him up, until he could shimmy all the way into the vent. "Thanks, Timmy," he panted slightly as he finished pulling himself into the vent. Just as he cleared his foot over the vent, he could hear scuffling feet, and the distinct bang and whiz of a bullet flying below his foot. He scurried behind Angelo, barely evading as bullets pierced the vent wall behind him. "We have to get to an outside shaft, one that leads out of the building before they initiate lock-down sequences!"
"This way," Angelo whispered tersely, taking a sharp turn as the vent branched to the left. "I know a way out of here."
"Lead on," Charles nodded, as he followed the younger man down the dark metal tunnel.
(())
Under the house lights of the Rialto Theater, Jarod sat silently in one of the back row seats, ticking off the items on his checklist; Shelly, the aspiring actress he had paid to assist him in this 'simulation' was ready in the lobby, he had tested the DVD player and the digital projector twice to make sure they worked properly, and he had memorized the layout of the building perfectly, especially the locations of the exits. He knew in his heart of hearts that Miss Parker would make an attempt to apprehend him. She was nothing if not persistent. And predictable.
He checked his Mickey Mouse watch again; ten minutes before his special audience was due. He sat back and prepared himself mentally for the evening, knocking back another piece of candy from a Pez dispenser. As the sweet artificial cherry flavor hit his tongue, his cel-phone rang with a distinctive tone he had programmed into it a few months ago; the five-tone melody from 'Close Encounters of the Third Kind'. He lifted the phone to his lips and responded, "Jarod here."
"I got Timmy out, Jarod," Major Charles announced quietly. "We're at the safe-house."
"Thank God," Jarod breathed. "You have the medication for him?"
"I have it here at the safe-house, Son. I also have Emily, Ethan and Debbie here with me. Ethan and I have been going through the files he downloaded from the Centre. I still can't believe even Mr. Raines could be planning this."
"Believe it, Dad," Jarod intoned angrily. "I've read the Initiative file from cover to cover. That's why I'm doing this. I can't just run from the Centre anymore. One way or another, it ends now."
On his end of the connection, Major Charles breathed anxiously. "I'm afraid that Mr. Raines agrees with you on that score. I had a run-in with Lyle while retrieving Timmy. He informed me that Raines handed out a 'shoot-to-kill' order on you for all sweepers. He wants you dead."
"Nice to know he cares," Jarod harrumphed. "Look, you just stay safe, and keep the others safe. And tell Ethan and Emily that I love them. You've done so much already. I can't ask any more from you, Dad."
"You don't have to, Jarod," Charles chuckled. "I for one will take immense pleasure in helping to bring Raines down."
"So will I, Dad. So will I. You take care. I love you, Dad."
"I love you too, son," the Major answered. "And watch your six, Jarod."
Jarod chuckled as he hung up his phone and sat quietly in the darkened theater. Things were moving so rapidly that Jarod had barely enough time to mentally prep himself for his confrontation with Miss Parker. He took the time to sit down and center himself, to prepare for the battle to come.
Alone with his thoughts, he reflected on something he had once asked Sydney during one of their chases, a question that had continued to haunt him every day of his life since he first escaped the Centre;
"How many people died because of what I thought up?"
*****
February 17, 1975;
Inside the windowless metal-walled room, Sydney looked on as a thirteen-year-old boy stared determinedly at the folder full of charts and diagrams, his mind racing in circles as he digested the information before him. "Sydney," the boy asked the distant yet kindly doctor. "I don't understand the purpose of this simulation."
"What is the matter, Jarod?" Sydney asked.
"The question involves evolutionary patterns, and whether humanity or a new evolutionary offshoot would survive," Jarod passed his notes and writings across the table to the psychiatrist, "but it seems that the results Doctor Raines wants would lead to mutual destruction. No matter how I work the sim, the results are the same; nuclear exchange, total destruction."
"Hmm, so if your notes are correct, neither homo sapiens nor a hypothetical homo superior would survive a future evolutionary leap." Sydney rubbed his chin, pondering Jarod's predicament. "I have a question, Jarod. Is the only option conflict?"
Jarod lifted his head, thoughts running through his head, developing like photographs, revealing new possibilities, opening closed doors. "Yes," he breathed, taking hold of his notes again, "cooperation instead of warfare. There would be distrust at first, but if both species could reach an amicable solution..."
"A foolish prospect," a gravelly voice echoed from the doorway. Jarod and Sydney turned around and gazed at the frail yet intimidating form of William Raines, dragging his oxygen tank behind him. Jarod fought the instinct that he felt whenever he saw Mr. Raines, the almost primal need to hide behind Sydney, and faced the unpleasant man.
"After all," Raines continued in a voice that always reminded Jarod of a croaking frog, "Cro-Magnon man didn't cooperate with the Neanderthals, did they?"
"No," Jarod observed, "but neither Cro-Magnon nor Neanderthal man had a nuclear arsenal."
"Rocks and stones or tactical warheads," Raines dismissed Jarod's comment out of hand, "the idea is still the same. The strong must survive. And with dwindling resources around the world, this requires the strongest side to strike first and strike hard. I would advise you to remember that in the future, Jarod." The wizened man hobbled away, closing the door behind him with a cold latching sound.
"Never mind this simulation for now," Sydney collected the notes from a stunned Jarod. "Perhaps in the morning you will find a fresh perspective."
*****
"Well," Jarod muttered angrily, reflecting back on that evolution simulation, "now I know how many people have to die because of what I thought up. Six billion and counting."
"Mr. Witherspoon?" A sweet voice chimed in Jarod's ear, shaking him from his dark thoughts. Jarod turned to greet the young girl he had hired to aid him in his 'presentation'. "I just saw a car pull up to the curb. I think the guests are here."
"Thanks for the heads-up, Shelly," Jarod answered. He got up from his seat and smiled at the young brunette. "Let's get into character."
(())
Miss Parker stood outside the door of the deserted theater, noticing the signage over her head; "The Rialto". She noticed the number N. 221 over the door and nodded. North 221 Upriver Drive, as Jarod instructed. Glass panels on either side of the front entrance bore etched art deco borders, while a tattered poster for "A Nightmare on Elm Street" was still pinned behind the display glass. The old movie palace had clearly seen better times. She glanced above the box office, seeing the lettering on the marquee;
"NOW PLAYING: 'MISS PARKER AND THE VICIOUS CIRCLE' & 'THE CENTRE'
Miss Parker rolled her eyes in disgust. Another one of Jarod's games, she thought disdainfully. "Let's get it over with," she barked silently toward Broots and Sydney. "The sooner I'm out of this burg the better. This whole town gives me the creeps."
Sydney and Broots silently filed behind Miss Parker and entered the old theater. The lobby was left dark except for some sporadic fluorescent lighting over the entrance and over the abandoned concessions counter. "I'd say that Jarod wants us over there," Sydney quipped and pointed toward the counter.
"I hate being manipulated," Miss Parker groaned.
"So naturally," Broots commented, "you work for the Centre."
"One more word," Parker intoned menacingly at the hapless computer geek, "and the first thing out of the mortician's mouth when he views your corpse will be, 'I've never seen anything like this before'." Broots swallowed hard and remained silent. He followed Miss Parker and Sydney as they approached the counter. The first thing they noticed was that while the rest of the counter was vacant, with no stock of Good-n-Plenty candies or Jordan almonds in the candy case, the popcorn machine was up and running, dumping a steady stream of yellow fluffy popcorn into the base below.
As the three of them approached the empty candy case, a pretty young brunette in a red and white striped blouse stood up from behind the popcorn machine. "Hi," she greeted the three, waving cheerily and generally making Miss Parker want to throw a brick at her. "I'm Shelly. You must be friends of Jarod."
"Not in this lifetime," Miss Parker muttered. Sydney immediately cut her off, feeling the need for diplomacy. "Yes, we're acquaintances of Jarod."
"Here," she smiled sweetly as she opened the popcorn hopper and measured out the golden snackfood into three brightly colored cardboard tubs. "Popcorn's on the house tonight," she announced as she passed the tubs across the counter. Broots grabbed one tub, while Sydney quietly accepted his popcorn.
"I'll pass," Miss Parker answered coldly.
"Suit yourself," Shelly answered, stepping out of the counter area, and walking toward the main auditorium. "The movie'll be starting in a few minutes, so if you'll follow me," she glanced approvingly at Broots, causing his face to redden and his breathing to catch in his throat.
As the three of them followed Shelly into the theatre, Miss Parker caught the brunette's eye and whispered loud enough for Broots to hear, "You'd better give my balding friend an aisle seat. He's got the bladder of a chipmunk." Broots fumed at his constant tormentor, wishing not for the first time that he had the backbone to tell her off.
He then sadly acknowledged, again not for the first time, that if he did she would in all likelihood rip him a new one.
The three Centre operatives filed into their seats, Broots munching his popcorn once he hit his seat. Miss Parker tapped her immaculately manicured fingernails against her armrest, contemplating numerous imaginative methods of murdering Jarod. Sydney glanced at Miss Parker with a scientific detachment mixed with mild amusement.
The houselights abruptly shut off, and a single beam stabbed through the darkness, projecting bright light onto the screen. The eerie pipe organ chords of Bach's "Toccata and Fugue in E Minor" assaulted their ears as the black and white image of a gothic castle came to flickering life.
"Tonight, lady and gentlemen," Jarod spoke in the stentorian voice of a college professor behind the lectern as he plodded the stage in front of the screen, "the subject is monsters. Something we all know about, having faced our share from within and without." Miss Parker squirmed in her seat, wishing that Jarod would just get to the point of this exercise. "From the earliest days of the Neanderthal, much of humanity's psyche has been shaped by nameless fears, primal dreads. During the last few centuries, we've even turned these fears into entertainment." As Jarod spoke, he withdrew a remote control from his pocket. The movie image changed, displaying a series of familiar moments from famous horror movies:
Bela Lugosi strode the halls of his Transylvanian castle, pausing at a window as unholy howls echoed from outside. "Listen," he beckoned to Jonathan Harker. "The children of the night. What music they make!"
Boris Karloff beheld his bride, who screamed horribly at the sight of the creature who was to be her mate.
Lon Chaney howled balefully at the moon, the curse of the Wolfman upon him.
"Even now," Jarod added, "as we head into the twenty-first century, we still enjoy the adrenalin jolt of fear, as these images play upon our most primitive drives." And the scenes of cinema horror continued:
Sigourney Weaver huddled in fear as the Alien who had murdered her crew now stalked her through the dead spaceship.
Robert Englund pursued his hapless teenage victims through a twisted dreamscape, his knife-tipped gloves scraping sparks off the railings as he passed.
Tom Cruise snarled at Brad Pitt, bearing his fangs and shouting, "Do it! End her suffering and yours! But do not doubt you are a killer!"
"Very cute," Miss Parker grumbled, her patience worn to the nub. "What's this got to do with anything, Genius?"
Jarod regarded his constant antagonist with an amused smirk. "So you don't go in for the heavy drama, huh? Maybe you prefer the documentary style." He clicked the remote in his hand, and the scene changed again. A grainy black-and-white videotape image of a young woman, college age or thereabouts, trapped in a sewer, a rifle in her hands. Suddenly two creatures emerged from the darkness and descended upon the girl, dark skinned and vicious creatures of muscle and horn, hatred and hunger. She fired the rifle at the monsters as they closed in on her, only to watch the weapon sputter and misfire. She threw the worthless weapon aside and faced the creatures unarmed.
Broots blocked his eyes with his hand, while Sydney clenched his teeth and Miss Parker sat riveted in her seat at the unfolding battle. They had expected to see the young woman murdered in some gruesomely Hollywood manner. What they got instead was quite the opposite, as the young girl executed a series of devastating kicks and jabs, dispatching the two monsters efficiently. After she eliminated her attackers, she looked around, her eyes darting back and forth, searching. She located the camera that recorded her battle and moved toward the lens, her face set in an expression of grim determination, calm rage.
"Professor Walsh?" she announced, her voice dripping in venomous sweetness. "That simple little recon you sent me on — wasn't a raccoon. Turns out it was me, trapped in the sewers with a faulty weapon and two of your pet demons. If you think that's enough to kill me, you really don't know what a Slayer is. Trust me when I say you're gonna find out."
The Pretender smiled at the surprised expression on Broots' face. "Not what you were expecting, was it?" Jarod clicked 'reverse' on his remote, scanning the image as it moved speedily backward, and stopped it at the moment the two demons attacked. "None of that final scene," he informed his audience, "was Hollywood special effects. The demons were real, as was the danger to the young woman. But this woman is hardly ordinary. Her name is Buffy Anne Summers, and she is a Slayer."
Miss Parker smirked sharply. "Slayer," she punctuated the word with a disdainful sigh. "You're finally having that nervous breakdown we all knew was coming, right?"
"Miss Parker," Sydney snapped, "please." The senior Centre operative glowered at the psychiatrist and slumped into her seat. "Jarod," Sydney spoke gently to his former charge. "You must understand, the footage you've shown us is certainly unusual. Even by the standards of what you've seen since you first escaped from the Centre."
"Believe me, Sydney," Jarod answered grimly, "you ain't seen nothing yet!" He pressed another button on his remote, and the image changed to another black-and-white video image of what looked like a laboratory. A woman in her late thirties, wearing a white medical jacket over her clothes, stood over a covered body on a slab, muttering to herself. "So. All right. Fine." She paced around the lab, plotting with a fanatical resolve. "If she wants a fight, we'll give her one. Won't we, Adam? I've worked too long. Too long...to let some little bitch threaten this project. Threaten me. She has no idea who she's dealing with."
As she ranted, she turned away from the slab. She didn't see or hear the movement behind her, as the body removed the white sheet that enshrouded him and rose from the slab. The thing was humanoid in shape; two arms, two legs, head, two eyes. The resemblance ended there; the figure was far more massive than any human being could be, all muscle and sinew. His limbs and torso were laced with suture scars and seemed mismatched, like some modern-day Frankenstein monster. Broots felt his bile rising in his throat as he noticed what looked like a disk drive jutting out of the thing's chest.
"Once she's gone, Riley will come around," the doctor muttered to herself. "He'll understand. It's for the greater good. He'll see that. And if he doesn't...Well, first things first. Remove the complication and when she least expects it—" She was completely oblivious to the creature, who was now standing behind his creator. With lightning swiftness, he placed his hand behind her back, and a spear-like claw shot out of his arm and through her body. She screamed in pain as the spear impaled her, and with the last of her strength turned her head to face her murderer. "A-adam—" she gasped, her last breath escaping her body as she fell to the floor like a discarded rag doll."
The thing stood over the corpse, asking only one word; "Mommy?"
Jarod clicked his remote once more, freezing the image. "Notice anything funny about this picture?" he asked his audience.
Broots snickered half-hysterically. "What, you mean besides the woman being killed by a cross between Frankenstein and Wolverine?" Miss Parker jabbed at his shoulder hard with her fist, shutting him up quickly.
"I was referring to the deceased, Broots," Jarod announced. "You knew her, didn't you, Sydney?"
"Indeed I did," Sydney answered darkly. "Although I certainly don't brag about it. Maggie Walsh, one of the Centre's top scientists. Certainly one of their most unscrupulous. Raines told me that she had retired."
"Raines lied," Jarod answered. "Which is pretty much par for the course, isn't it? Doctor Walsh was, up to the moment of her death, the senior member of a paramilitary organization called The Initiative, whose stated goal was to capture, study and kill supernatural beings. Vampires, demons, werewolves, that sort of thing. The Initiative is openly operating under the jurisdiction of the United States Army, but what most of its members don't know is that they are secretly being backed by the Centre. By Mr. Raines himself."
"And you expect us to run with this?" Miss Parker harrumphed skeptically.
"Trust me, Miss Parker," Jarod answered, "I didn't believe at first. However, actually being attacked by a vampire one night did have the effect of converting me very quickly. The blonde girl in the previous footage, she saved my life. That's how I first discovered the existence of Slayers, and once I downloaded the information from the Centre's mainframe, I discovered a great deal about what goes on here in Sunnydale."
Jarod withdrew a manilla folder from behind the stage curtain, and held it in front of the three Centre operatives. "All the information I discovered about the Centre and their connection to the Initiative is right here. One-hundred-seventy-eight pages, including the personal files of Mr. William Raines, outlining his plans for the Initiative and the monsters they now hold in captivity." He dropped the folder to the floor with a dusty thud. "When I leave this theater...and trust me, Miss Parker, I won't be leaving with you...I'm leaving this file behind for you to read. And when you've read it, you'll have a hard decision to make."
Sydney found himself almost frightened of Jarod; his attitude wasn't as casual, wasn't as cavalier as he had remembered from their past history. He seemed determined, more focused than he had ever known the young man to be. He even seemed a little afraid, an emotion that Sydney never even knew Jarod could experience. "And what decision is that, Jarod?"
"You have twenty-four hours, Sydney," Jarod stated bluntly. "Twenty-four hours from right now to decide whose side you're on; the Centre, or humanity."
Miss Parker started to chuckle derisively. "Who's writing your dialogue, Jarod, George Lucas?" she snorted. "Man was a crock of bulls-"
"This isn't a game anymore, Miss Parker!" Jarod yelled lividly, silencing the startled woman. "Our little game of 'I Run, You Chase' is over, as of right now! I'm through running! Here in Sunnydale, I'm making my stand. The Centre must fall. I've already set things into motion; files have been hacked, information has been leaked, all of the major news services will be converging upon the Tower like vultures on roadkill."
Sydney and Broots swallowed hard, and even the preternaturally chilly Miss Parker felt a damp sheen of sweat forming on her brow. "You realize, Jarod," Sydney warned the young Pretender, "that you may have just used up every dram of good will Mr. Raines ever had in him."
"He's already ordered his sweepers to kill me on sight, Sydney," Jarod answered calmly, causing the aged psychiatrist to gasp loudly. "Don't worry, I don't plan to go down easily. But what about the three of you? Do you go down with the Centre, or do you stand with me?"
"Why are you asking this, Jarod?" Broots asked frantically. "I mean we've been dogging your tail since you first broke out of the Centre."
Jarod approached the computer hacker with a sorrowful expression. "Maybe because you're the only three people in this world outside of my family whom I respect? After all, Broots, you're a good father to Debbie. Sydney, you've been like a father to me, sometimes defending me against Raines while I was under the Centre's care. And you, Miss Parker, I still remember the sweet young girl who gave me my first kiss. So maybe I still think of you as friends. Or maybe because I believe the three of you already know how evil the Centre truly is. You Broots, you've witnessed the backstabbing and constant power plays by Raines and Lyle first-hand, yet you still work for the Centre. Sydney, Raines sent his sweepers to kill your brother, and kept you from your son for most of his life, yet you still work for the Centre. Miss Parker—" He leveled an accusing finger at the woman had doggedly pursued him for the last six years. "You saw a video recording of Mr. Raines putting a bullet in your mother's brain, and you still work for the Centre."
Miss Parker wanted to scream, to shout, to fire a stinging comeback to silence Jarod, but her throat remained blocked by a bitter lump and her jaw seized up in impotent rage. Jarod nodded once; he knew he had them. He clicked his remote once more, turning off the projector, and strode to the center of the stage. "You have twenty-four hours to decide once and for all whether you side with the Centre or against them. And Heaven help you if you decide wrong. Because I certainly won't." He took one last bow and smiled at his audience. "The clock is ticking, people. Tick, tock."
The velvet stage curtain suddenly closed in front of Jarod, and Miss Parker jumped out of her seat. "Don't just stand there, you idiots!" she barked at Broots and Sydney. "He's getting away!"
"Give it a rest," Sydney answered irritably, placing his popcorn tub to the side and lifting himself from his seat. "You didn't really think that Jarod would have set up this demonstration without planning at least four alternative escape routes? He was long gone the second the curtain fell." He glanced back at the stage, and noticed that the manilla folder was still on the stage floor in front of the curtain. "Come on, let's find out why Jarod was so desperate for us to read about this Initiative."
He approached the stage, with Parker and Broots closely behind him, and picked up the file. Opening the file, he noticed the cover page, bearing the unmistakably frail handwriting of William Raines' signature.
"The first thing Raines wrote in his journals regarding the Initiative," he muttered aloud as he faced Parker and Broots, "was a quotation from Nietzsche." He shuddered slightly as he recited; "I teach you the Superman, the Lightning from the dark cloud. Man is something that shall be overcome."
And as a darkness deeper than night descended over the theater, a team of sweepers patrolled the streets of Sunnydale, with orders to kill the renegade Pretender and the three operatives who had chased him across the country for six years.