That Maverick With The Dog

by Dan The Man

5. I Know You Know

5 - I Know You Know

Brian felt muted, he felt weak. After they entered his kitchen, the suited thug and him, he would have cleared away the dish with the stale apple pie from the table himself. But the agent beat him to it, and cleared the table with a careful sweep of his arm. Then he turned to two other investigators who were busy taking dust probes from the air conditioner.

"Ahem. Excuse me, gentlemen. Could Mr Fisher and I have this room for ourselves for an hour or so? It's something confidential, you understand."
The two agents looked at the exasperated countenance of Brian and nodded, and silently began collecting their probes.
After they shut the door behind themselves, the kitchen was immersed in a stifling silence.

Fitzgerald took seat on the opposite side of the table, and looked at Brian in an expecting way. Brian, on the other hand, just sat in a huddled pose, looking at the dish with squinted eyes, as if he were completely oblivious to his counterpart.
Before the moment of silence grew too long, Fitzgerald harrhumped and started the conversation.
"Well. Mr Brian Fisher. What can I say about you?"

Brian remained silent.

"A nice home you bought yourself here. How many years was this ago? Twelve?"

Brian looked on the ground, wound up in thought. 'When will he finally start the torture?'

"Ah well. Not important, I can always look it up in the registry. Are you feeling content at the moment? Are you happy with your existence, your overall situation?"

Brian closed his eyes, as he thought how his life would continue from now on, dogged by secret agents and amoral scientists, black vans and black helicopters, just like in the movies.

“Let us talk about the things that worry you right now, Mr Fisher. Or may I call you Brian?”

Finally, Brian spoke up. For all the anxiety, he hated it to be patronised in such a way.
“No, you cannot!”

“Okay, okay. I won’t call you Brian then. But let us talk about your familiar situation for now.”

“My familiar situation.”

“Exactly. I mean, your house, it is big enough to house an entire clan, right? Do you have a big family?”

Brian looked down. What was there to say but,
“No. I am the only one left.”

Fitzgerald knew that, but he wanted to hear it out of Brian’s mouth. Also concerning his daughter. Hadn’t he told Helen that she were dead, too? When he talked to ‘Dashie’, hadn’t she implied that he knew she was merely gone away?
“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that, you know. See, I haven’t got a family too big either. I have a sister and a niece, and that’s about it really. However, my little niece, she had always been a bit like… like a daughter to me. Do you know what I mean?”

Brian didn’t even look up. But his eyebrows betrayed that the it still irritated him somewhat.

“Yes, I know how I would feel if my little niece would… simply disappear from one moment to the next.”

That was when Brian looked up. He eyed the agent with much contempt and hatred, enraged by his all-too-simplistic attitude towards the disappearance of his loved one.
He shook his head, slowly but forcefully.
"You don't. You have no idea how it is to lose your family."

Fitzgerald listened up.
"How come? What makes you think that?"

Brian clenched his fist under the table. Not necessarily out of anger, but out of spite, out of frustration, out of pure, undistilled anxiety. If this man had come because of Dashie, if he had seen the album, then there was little more to lose. It was over.
And if that was the case, Brian wanted to take the first step. The last thing he wanted to do now is to show weakness. He wanted to wear his Dashie with pride, a secret longing that he had beared for the entire length of her life and absence.

Because no matter how it could be twisted and turned, no matter what Celestia, Hasbro or sanity and reason told him otherwise, he knew and felt just how much Rainbow was his daughter, his work, his responsibility and legacy.
Carrying these words in his head he raised a hand at the agent.

“Cut. It. out.”

This even came to a surprise to Fitzgerald himself.

“Stop playing your little mind-games. Stop beating around the bush. You’re just wasting your time.“ His hand shook lightly under the adrenalyne.
“I think… I think we both know why you are here. What you want from me. I think I can clear your conscience when I say that you can spare us all these little nice euphemisms and small talk. I think that you have seen it already. When you searched my house. Burglary my ass, who were you kidding? Maybe that wannabe-Mata Hari who stalked me in the town and played psychologist with me?!”

Fitzgerald, still taken aback by Brian’s snap, changed his approach quickly. ‘Two can play the game, smartass.’
“Alright, Mr Fisher. Enough about you. Let me tell you a bit about me.”

Brian wanted none of it. Winged by his swelling pride of desperation, he cut him off again.
“No. No! Just cut it out.”

“I will now tell you why I’m even here. If I were you I would like to goddamn know, so shut it. And listen.”
Brian lowered his hand concedingly. Yes, he also wanted to know, and badly so.

“Well, Mr Fisher. I may not have to explain to you what FIS stands for.”

Brian shook his head.
“Fuck it smile?

“Very funny. Federal Intelligence Service.”

“Aha?”

“I have a profession that has two main tasks. Finding people. And finding out people. First the former, then the latter. Do you know why I found you, Mr Fisher?”

Brian didn’t move or speak.

“You lived in Fort Pleasance, on 15th Avenue from October 1994 to December 2014. You moved away after the bombings occurred, is that correct?”

Brian lowered his eyebrows.
“The bombings?”

The agent grew slightly impatient.
“Mr Fisher, Even though it is, strictly speaking, my duty to find persons of interest, the responsibility that springs from that is a far far bigger deal, a part of a far far bigger picture.
It is the safety and the wellbeing of this country, Mr Fisher. It is my duty to prevent and seek out enemies of the state, whether domestic or otherwise. People who mean harm, who are a threat to the integrity of you, of me, of innocent families and this country as a whole.”

Brian hesitated. He had no idea what his counterpart was on about. He was certain, that he would be questioned about Dashie, not about some terrorist conspiracy.
“What are you talking about?”

“The 2014 Pleasance bombings.”

The sonic rainboom?
Now it all started making sense to Brian. Hadn’t he heard something about that in the news back at the pub?

'The greatest example of EMP-based terrorism of all times.'

“You mean the big blast? Isn’t it all…” he nearly let out a raspberry, “…long barred already?”

Fitzgerald lowered his eyebrows.
“If it were, I wouldn’t be here, wasting my time with you.”

Nigh absent-mindedly, Brian nodded. He saw the agent’s point, but he couldn’t help but wonder what the big deal was about. Rainbow had performed a truly wonderful physical phenomenon, one that made that one day probably one his life’s highlights. And, as he remembered it, the affair was quickly dropped when the investigators ran into multiple dead ends.

Right after Rainbow has descended back onto the ground after her rainboom, Brian had grabbed her, under the influence of a strange emotional cocktail of euphoria, shock and pride. He literally packed her under his arm, and made his way back to his safe home, wading through a sea of glass shards and loose twirling paper.
Locking all doors, lowering all the blinds, he hid his Dashie, still shaking and breathing heavily from her accomplishment, from the sirens of passing police cars and fire engines. He thought a long time about turning on the TV, especially when Rainbow was around.
He was too afraid of the effect it could have on her, seeing her accomplishment on air... her pride could easily turn against her. It would intimidate her. Brian was therefore much relieved when he found that the TV, as well as the radio, were similarly affected by the blackout.
Rainbow did not see the on-the-scene reports from Chapel Park, the political speeches of the mayor and the head of state, the sessions of the investigative board and the scenes of mass panic from the capital in the following few days.
Neither did Brian, and he was remotely glad that he didn’t. If he would have, it would have been uncomfortably close to lying to Rainbow for him.
But now, this petty ignorance had ultimately caught up with him.

“The ‘big blast’, as you call it, cost the lives of no less than eight people. Wounded another 300. Started a fire in a power station. It caused seven digit collateral damage. It was far from as innocent as you think it was. You may take it as a joke, but, as every joke, someone is at the butt end.

Brian sat still, unsure what to say.

Eight people?

Eight?

He wished he had known as little about it as before. He felt guilt boiling up once more.
Dashie, she was his responsibility, his legacy.
He should have known better, even though he was just a fickle teenager back then!
He knew that the sonic rainboom would have happened sooner or later. He should have moved outside the city. He should have come here earlier. It would have been safer for both Dashie and for him.
And now, this agent was sitting opposite of him, looking at him with a scrutinising glare.
Brian kept thinking of what he should tell him. After all, there was absolutely no hard proof that either Dashie or he had anything to do with it. What did they want to tell him? That they got their facts from a children’s TV show?
They didn’t have anything. No evidence at all.

“So?” Brian stuttered.

“So?” the agent spat out.
“So? Is this all you have to say to that?”

“What do you want from me?”

The agent retrieved a small, book-shaped electronic device from his jacket. He placed on the table to his right. Pushing a small button, he initiated a small red light on top of the box, and another push of a button set off an electronic beep.
He folded his arms again, and looked back at the frozen Brian.

Brian glanced at the thing, and then blinked with his eyes nervously.
“What is that? What is that supposed to be?”

“What do you think?” He folded his fingers.
“I would like to inform you that this conversation will be recorded from now on.”

Before Brian could spit out another exasperated ‘What?!’, he was overturned by another wave of cold, vibrating shock. What does he still want?

“Is… this supposed to be an interrogation or something?”

Fitzgerald began without as much as flinching.
“When were you on the 26th of October, 2014?”

“Now wait a second! How come you think I’ve got anything to do with it?!”

The agent looked at his recorder, and then back at Brian. Sarcastically, he answered,
“No one actually. I’m baffled as to how you came to that conclusion.”

“What do you want from me then?! Come here and play your Gestapo games, asking where I was and what I did? You think I’m a terrorist?”

“No. But you are a ’witness’.” He looked at a piece of paper.
“The police of Fort Pleasance was requiring any and all witnesses to the detonation to attend questioning. You were seen at the scene of the crime, directly underneath the epicenter of the detonation, at the time of the detonation.”

“S..so?!”

“Why didn’t you come forward? Your observations could have been vital to clearing this case.”

Brian knew why he didn't come forward.
All the painful denial he was now demonstrating, it was all in vain. He couldn't have made it more clear to him just how much it actually was his fault.
He just wished that the agent would simply go away and never return. He was tired of lying and denying everything.

'Dashie.' he thought.
'Where are you? Do you appreciate what I do for our secret? What, what would Applejack say?'

Fitzgerald watched on. Brian was as guilty as a 3 dollar bill. He also saw how Brian was wearing down, unable to keep the charade up for any longer.

"Brian. I know you don't want to do this."
He put his pen down. His voice was still serious, still demanding. But he tried to see reason.
"I know you want to talk about it. The guilt, the implications, what lead up to this event. You know why we came. What I want."

Brian closed his eyes.

The agent had him.
What counted now was solely Brian's statement of what happened back then.

What version would he go with?

Would he go with the quote-unquote truth?

The truth that he made amends with his life as an upright citizen, that he accepted money and explosives from a second-generation radical islamist cell, or maybe an previously unknown fifth column group, an organisation interested in shutting down all power in the city, and that he was the closet sociopath solely responsible of initiating a fantastically powerful bomb in a industrial city's suburb?
The truth that everyone would like to jump at and bathe in? The truth his superiors were solely interested in hearing after twelve years? The truth that could go into a criminal register just as every other conventional crime?

Or... would he go with the truth as it actually happened?

That truth that would clear him, him and his conscience, but reveal that he had nurtured and fed and raised a creature that was beyond this planet, a highly motivated but naive sportsmare, who proudly and confidently triggered a fatal natural phenomenon never heard or recorded before in this reality?
A mighty blue-coated pegasus pony as it could only be thought up by a toy producer? A creaure that might overthrow the very definition of the word 'reality?'
The truth that no one would want to hear?
Or acknowledge?
Or even merely accept?

"Brian, I would like to give you the choice."

He turned the piece of paper upside down and slid it towards him. His pen swiftly followed.

"Either... I want you to write me a list of names, adresses, the whole lot."

Brian stared limply at the paper's blank backside. he looked up, murmuring,
"Of whom?"

"The one who was your contact, the one who supplied you with the explosives, the one who gave you your instructions, the one who supplied you with the electrophysical know-how, the one lent you the rocket or registering balloon... give me 'their' names."

Brian's hand flinched under the table. He was appalled by what the other one expected from him. He knew this was all nonexistent, the contacts, the plot, the attack... the agent just had subtly begged him to let his fantasy play, just so he could hold on to his own perception of what was real.

Brian felt remotely pitiful for the agent, in a very awkward, backhanded way.
This man never experienced what Brian experienced. Just like everyone else. Like the barkeep, like the psychiatrist, like his parents, like his friends. Just like all of the other reindeer.
It was cynical approach, yes, but it was still true. They never talked to cartoon characters, but he had.
And Brian had a feeling they could all see that. Perhaps they, in one way or another, now knew that he was not just a mental case.

A sudden action of the agent snapped Brian out of his thoughts.
One click of the button, and the agent’s red button on the recorder stopped working. The humming stopped.
Glancing at the door behind him and out the windows, Fitzgerald continued,
“Or,… go on. Tell me about your Dashie.”

(You May Want To Play This.)