Chosen One Protective Services

Cyrus Colfax did not like Dallas.

Part of the reason for that was stupid. When he'd been flown back Stateside, a burned and bandaged husk of a man who was only sane due to a mix of army-sanctioned amphetamines and heroin, he'd flown into Amon Carter field. There'd been a situation-normal-all-fucked up(SNAFU) at the field, and he'd been left in his wheelchair, waiting for a medical escort home that never came. Eventually the drugs wore off and he remembered screaming until he blacked out, with everyone in the terminal lobby staring at him like he was a freak. He remembered pleading with them for help, or trying to anyway, and nobody moving.

That was just geography. Just shitty luck of the draw he'd ended up in that field, embarrassing himself. Could have been any other stop along the way. So maybe that wasn't entirely fair to Dallas.

But the fact that absolutely everyone he'd met in his life that had come from Dallas was either a raging asshole or about as competent as a blind sniper, was a pretty fair reason to hate Dallas in Cyrus' book.

And unfortunately, special agent Rodney Burrows was no exception. He seemed to be doing his level best to take home the gold medal in both the raging asshole and the ludicrously incompetent categories.

“All I'm saying, is that if you don't need the wheelchair, I don't see why we had to drag it in here,” special agent Rodney Burrows whined, fanning himself with a sheaf of papers as sweat rolled down his brow and tried to assault his blinking, narrow eyes. “I get it, you just got it 'cause you needed out of the army, but this ain't the public. You don't have to sit in it to sell your act none.”

Cyrus glared at him. He thought about trying to explain to the man that just because he felt good enough to stand and walk around sometimes didn't mean that was how it was all the time. Sometimes he couldn't, and then he needed the chair that he'd spent hours padding and arranging to keep the pain down to manageable levels. He considered trying to explain that his fried and battered body could go from one state to the next in a matter of minutes, or sometimes seconds, and he couldn't always predict an oncoming episode.

But Cyrus knew that special agent Rodney Burrows didn't want to hear it, would probably think he was lying or making excuses. And he had a sinking feeling that good old Roddy was probably going to think that about everything he said, and that his errand in this building was futile.

But damn it, he had to try. Rusty was god knew where, with god knew who, doing god knew what. And that was too much god for any man to handle by his lonesome, especially one who'd lost most of his faith somewhere south of Seoul.

So Cyrus settled for just glaring at the man as he bustled around the hot room, one of many in the blocky, fortresslike compound that was their Dallas headquarters. A cheap ass nicked and banged up wooden desk that had probably been surplused from world war two sat between Cyrus and the agent, and a lazy ceiling fan muddled the air through the single open window on the end of the room. File cabinets lined the walls, and a bucket on the floor stunk of muddy water mixed with asbestos, probably drippings from the large stain on the ceiling above that indicated a pretty serious leak from all the recent rain.

It took the agent a long few minutes to set up his steno pad and arrange pens next to it, one by one. It took a few more minutes for special Agent Rodney Burrows to uncase and plug in the big metal case that held a reel-to-reel tape recorder, a fancy new piece of equipment that distracted Cyrus as he studied it. He'd never had the funds to afford one of his own, and he'd only read about these newer models in magazines. This one, you didn't need a microphone to record things, you could just talk at normal speaking levels and it would pick up everything. That was pretty impressive to Cyrus.

“Okay, we're ready to start,” special agent Rodney Burrows said, running his fingers through his Brylcreemed hair, and wiping them on his tie. “This is your last chance to back out, friend.”

“I'm not going to back out,” Cyrus told him. “I'm ready.”

“Your funeral,” special agent Rodney Burrows shrugged. Then he started the tape recorder, and cleared his throat. “Special agent Rodney Burrows speaking, on June fourteenth, nineteen fifty seven. It is...” he consulted his wrist watch. “...Two minutes past three o'clock in the afternoon. I am here taking the statement of one citizen Cyrus Conklin—”

“Colfax,” Cyrus whispered.

“Carfax, sorry. Cyrus Carfax. Please identify yourself for the record, and state your date of birth, social security number, and current place of residence.”

“My name is Cyrus Colfax, and I was born on the twenty-fifth of October—”

“It works better for the records if you go with the month first,” special agent Rodney Burrows broke in.

Cyrus caught his eyes and glared. The agent just smiled back, unfazed.

“I uh, I was born on October twenty-fifth, nineteen thirty two,” Cyrus said, looking back at the tape recorder. “My social security number is... ah, hang on.” He rummaged in his suit pockets.

“You don't know your number?” The agent sounded incredulous.

“No, I don't have one. Mom decided they were the mark of the beast and I haven't had time to fix it properly, yet. But I've got a serial number, got that when I enlisted...” he dug out the card, supplied his number and address, and a few other small details as the agent thought of them.

Finally special agent Rodney Burrows seemed satisfied. “Okay. Why are you here, Mister Carfax?”

Cyrus let that one slide. His correct name was being recorded, so if Roddy buddy got it wrong from here on it, no big deal. “I'm here because my brother has been kidnapped.”

“Allegedly,” special agent Rodney Burrows interrupted.

“I'm alleging that, yes. Because it's what happened,” Cyrus said. “My brother, Russell Colfax, was playing outside with his other brothers, when—”

“No, hold on, we can't just jump to that,” special agent Rodney Burrows whined. “You have to say the date it happened, uh, allegedly happened, first!”

There was a silver lining to special agent Rodney Burrows attitude. And that benefit was that the man was irritating Cyrus so much that he could ignore his growing, itching pain and discomfort from his wasted body. The fury was distracting him, and giving him motivation to finish the damned thing and do it well on the first take, so that he would never have to see special agent Rodney fucking Burrows ever again in his life.

“June first, nineteen fifty seven,” Cyrus growled. “That's when—”

“No, remember, you have to say the month first, then the day... oh wait, you did it right,” special agent Rodney Burrows interrupted. “Sorry, never mind. Go on.”

Cyrus resisted the urge to throw the guy through the window. It took a lot of resisting. He gave the details, then told the man what he'd seen through the window. The agent listened, nodding every few seconds like one of those sipping bird toys his buddy had picked up in Japan on his layover. And every time Cyrus glanced up to catch his eyes, he saw that special agent Rodney Burrows was staring past him, probably at the clock on the wall. Just marking time, until he could finish up and go home, probably. Cyrus knew the type, had marked special agent Rodney Burrows the second he'd rolled up to the door, and the man had whined about helping to carry his chair inside.

Well, that was fine. He wasn't the sort of person who could help with this mess anyway. But to get to the people who COULD, Cyrus had to play this little game. He knew how it worked. He'd seen enough of how the game was played to win it, even if he hated doing it.

So when he finished describing how the wizard-looking fucker had just up and disappeared with his brother, he threw in the part that really mattered, the part that had the best chance of actually getting something done.

Also, the first actual lie.

“I believe that the man was an agent of communist factions,” Cyrus said to the tape recorder.

Immediately, special agent Rodney Burrows sat up, his narrow eyes widening, and his mouth slack. “Wait, what?”

“I believe that my brother was taken as leverage against myself,” Cyrus said.

Special agent Rodney Burrows frowned at him. “But why the hell would the Russkies want leverage on a discharged cripple?”

Oh, oh, this man needed four knuckles in the nose. But Cyrus breathed hard, gripped the table, and reminded himself that Roddy boy didn't matter. “I'm working on something. For the army. It hasn't been assigned a classification yet. I can't talk about it.”

All technically true, except for that last part. Nobody in the army knew he was trying to develop a new night sight. Nobody there would give a shit if Cyrus talked about the invention he was making to sell them. But Cyrus would be damned if he told Roddy baby that.

“Why are you... what are you doing here, if you...” special agent Rodney Burrows blinked, confusion starting to grow on his pale face. “Why doesn't the army have you locked down, tight?”

“Because I'm not in danger right now,” Cyrus said. “My security's much better now, than it was when Rusty got grabbed. But my brother is in danger, and I'd like it if he were found before the ransom demands showed up.”

“Does local law enforcement know?” Roddy asked.

Cyrus recalled Sheriff Buxley, and how the fat man's face had barely moved as Cyrus told him what happened. Buxley barely got off his ass to collect the bribe money that the richer farmers paid him to run immigrant laborers out of town when they tried to find other jobs, there was no way in hell he'd set the band of goons that he called deputies to do anything for the relatively poor Colfax family.

“They know about the kidnapping. But not about the project, or the motive. I didn't know if I was cleared to talk with them about that.”

“Shit. Uh, shoot.” Special agent Rodney Burrows shot a guilty glance at the tape recorder. Now he was on record as swearing, and that mattered to him, evidently. “Why don't we start over, just to make sure we didn't miss any details?”

One and a half hours later, Cyrus' legs were masses of throbbing, aching meat, and his back was cramping something fierce on him. But he had a good feeling, as the pair of burly FBI employees that Roddy boy had summoned manhandled his chair out of the building, and out to the street. Cyrus took it over from there, his muscled, bulky arms flexing as he rolled himself down to where his father had parked the truck. It didn't surprise him to find it empty.

A few minutes of questioning passer-by directed him to the nearest bar. A quarter slipped to a kid trying to hock subscriptions to 'Grit' got the boy to go in and come out, followed by a shame-faced, middle-aged man who was rounder than he was tall, and walked with a permanent stoop.

“Cyrus, my boy!” Steve Colfax said, putting his fedora back over his wispy, receding hair. “Sorry, thought you'd be a little later.”

He stank of cheap gin, probably sold at three times the price he could get it at home because Dallas was horrible. But he was walking straight enough that Cyrus figured he was good to drive, and that was all that mattered. “I'm ready to go home, dad,” Cyrus told him. “I did all I could, here.”

His father pursed his lips, looked backwards to the bar. Then toward the larger buildings, of Dallas' downtown. Cyrus had seen that look before, on his friends who had hit Tokyo for leave. It was the “I want a hooker, but it's gonna take time and a lot of beer to find one that'll lay me for the little money I've got to offer,” look.

It might not have been exactly that, but the old man's devil was firmly on his shoulder, as he started to sound his son out. “I don't know. Maybe we should stay the night? It's a long drive back, it'd be easier to get a hotel. You could have uh, your own room, and—”

Cyrus groaned theatrically, and doubled over. “Ah god, it itches! It itches so bad. Yeah, we can stay the night. But I'll need a sponge bath. Few hours in cold water ought to do it. Can you help me, dad?”

Truth was, he didn't have to pretend too hard. He was at the point of the cycle where it felt like fire ants were starting to get under his grafts.

“Let's get you home, son,” Steve said. “Your mother would give me no end of grief if I kept you from her overlong.”

About an hour later, rolling down the dusty roads, it occurred to Steve Colfax to ask his son how it had gone, and if he thought the agent he talked to would help him out.

“That guy?” Cyrus shook his head. “He'd fail the dietary requirements test to be a marine. That cat would choke and die trying to eat crayons. But if we're lucky, if we're really lucky, he'll take the things I said to someone who doesn't have his thumb stuck up his ass.” Cyrus sighed, and looked out the window.

It was his best shot. And it'd have consequences, if the wrong person looked too hard at his story, and decided to take him to task for it. He was gambling a lot, putting his entire reputation and his future dream on the line on the off-chance that this might pull in someone who could help Rusty.

But he couldn't NOT try.

And hell, if he got in trouble, he could handle it. He still had friends, and a few of them were doing pretty well for themselves. Service had given him contacts and allies, even a few in other countries if he had to escape and lie low.

But to be honest, he hoped it didn't come to that. For all that Texas and his fellow Texans were bound and determined to shit on his hopes and dreams and fail him at every turn, it was still his home. And SOMEONE would need to keep the family going, after Dad eventually drank himself to death or ran off with some dumb young thing who thought a broken middle-aged man was just her kind of sugar daddy.

That was a problem for later, though. Right now Rusty was the problem, and hopefully what Cyrus had done today was part of the solution.

It was, actually.

Though it would take later than he hoped, it turned out that it was.

And Cyrus' life would never be the same.