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Spartan Son(2)
Posted By: Frensa Geran<frensageran99@hotmail.com>
Date: 15 May 2004, 5:35 AM
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Chapter 2.
I stepped in and smelled the fresh, sterilized air, feeling my nostrils sting at the purity.
"Welcome to ONI Mr. Jason." The female secretary said, sitting at her desk, as if waiting for me.
"We got your call." She said, "Something about a prototype we created...years ago?"
"Yes." I replied, lifting a bag I was carrying up onto her desk, giving a good, dramatic clunk. "I was wondering if you knew anything about this."
I could tell right away her nervousness. Her hands began to sweat, and she bit her lip thinking of what to do next. "Interesting..." She said, grabbing a communicator out of her belt.
"Mr. Johnson." She said over the radio. "Mr. Jason, son of John....thee John is here to see you."
After waiting a moment or so, a panel of the wall to my right slid open, and stood at the doorway a chubby man in a skin-suit, with the ONI insignia on the front. He stepped up to me like a Grandpa, grabbed me by both sides of the head, twisted it around until he finally let go with a hearty laugh.
"Not the best resemblance." He said. "But no one is perfect."
"I need answers."
"Answers?"
"Answers."
He cleared him throat, "Step into my office."
As I walked in I first thought it was somewhere far, far off, as it did not resemble ONI's cold, metallic structure at all. Rather, it was cozy. There were wooden walls and even a fire across from his desk. "Cozy, eh?" He said, taking a seat across from me.
I immediately opened my bag, lifting (without much ease) my father's helmet, and placing it on the table ever so gently. Johnson looked like he'd seen a ghost. Just what I was hoping for. The shiny head piece rested on the table, sending an eerie silence through the room, finally broken by a nervous sip of tea by Mr. Johnson.
"What...do you wish to know?" He said bitterly.
I stood up and began pacing the room. Johnson sat there shaking, expecting me to lunge at his throat with fury. If we lived in a fair world, he would've been right.
"My Father was found dead. You know this, yes?"
"Yes."
"He was allegedly the victim of his own sadness. He committed suicide, correct?"
He paused: "Yes."
Like the ancient tiger I lunged towards him, pushing him to the floor, sending him end over end until he was finally below me, unable to even struggle.
"LIAR!" I shouted, spitting in his face.
"We.....we had no choice! We were just following orders!" He whimpered.
"Orders from WHO!?"
"I...I don't know. I just get a message, and I just follow it! I'm just following orders!"
By that time his inability to provide a straight answer had led me to point the end of my dagger to his head. "Well if there's anything of interest for me to know..." I said, twisting the blade.
"He knew too much!" He shouted angrily. "He shouldn't have stuck his nose where it didn't belong!"
"Knew too much of what!?"
Silence. He stared blankly at me. With a stern yet quiet voice, he lifted his head and whispered into my ear, "If you don't want your Father's fate, walk out that door. Play with fire, and you might get burned"
I slit his throat, and his last words were a gurgle of blood. I walked out of his office quietly and took the elevator to the top. When I arrived in the jungle, large clumps of rain splashed my blood soaked clothes, leaving them an evil red.
Before I could leave, I was stopped by Sheila Marks, the woman who met me as I entered. "You want information on your Father's death." She said with a matter-o-fact voice.
"Yes." I replied hoarsely.
She walked up to me with a delicate stride, as if she walked on air. Taking out a card, she placed it in my front pocket, and patted my chest as a goodbye. I took out the card and read it:
NEW MOMBASSA, AFRICA. THE GRUNT'S HEAD CAFÉ. NOON, SUNDAY.
Come alone.
Instead of looking back, I looked forward into the light coming from the end of this natural tunnel of canapé. My Hog was still there, now a bit more drenched than when I left it. With my foot on the gas, I sped out of the peninsula with a roar of anger, wiping the blood off my wet face.
To this day I cannot remember what I felt as I drove home, to an alone house. I looked to where my Father lie, I looked to where I used to swim, him watching silently as usual. I lastly looked into his closet, a suit of armor, minus the helmet hanging from the wall, as a testament to the battles he fought and the lives he had saved.
I was not going to let it all be in vain. Whatever happened I was going to find out. Whoever was involved was going to die. I was Jason, Spartan 117. Next stop, New Mombassa.
To Be Continued...
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