Episode 2, Part 11

Orbis reacted as if he had been punched in the gut. “WHAT?”

 “Huh?” ROM asked. She had been standing next to Orbis, nearly started out of her skin at his reaction. “Where’s da Lincoln Bedroom?”

Mirrorball replied quietly. “The White House.”

“The mutha-fuckin’ WHITE. HOUSE.” ROM was sure she hadn’t heard it right.

“In the guest suites, to be exact,” Mirrorball replied.

“Oh, shit,” Bang gulped. “Ooooooooh shiiiiiiiiiiit.”

“Where’s that vodka?” Paine asked weakly.

“Right here,” Scepter said, handing him the bottle.

Paine didn’t even bother with a glass and took a deep swig right from the bottle.

“Gimme,” ROM said, doing the exact same thing. “Now, you,” she commanded to Mirrorball. “Get up. Lemme at it.” She motioned to the computer. Right now, she far preferred its company to humanity’s.

“Sure. Where’s that booze?” He hand to giver her credit—she recovered fast.

“Out,” Scepter said. “Getting the gin…”

“How much sauce does he have here?” Bang wondered out loud.

Scepter tossed the bottle to Mirrorball in one of those unnerving examples of being blind but knowing where everybody was in the room. “I spend my day helping people with their problems. And, Madre de Dios, you’d be amazed. Sometimes my characteristic tranquility needs a little help.”

ROM undid a pouch on her belt, pulled out a needle attached to a USB cable, linked the ports, and jammed the needle into her arm.

“It is so freaky to see her do that,” Paine muttered.

ROM’s eyes flashed and glazed as she extended her mind into the computer.

 “What’s she looking for?”

ROM replied, her voice strange and far away. “Jus’ checkin’ a few things.”

“I think we can safely say that a conspiracy is underway, here,” Orbis observed, turning from ROM. “Merryman’s death. My informant’s death. The picture of Vagabond as a child naked and bound in the White House during Bush #1. Talk about having something to hide.”

“No wonder somebody wanted this buried,” Mirrorball acknowledged. “No wonder Vagabond buried it.”

“If he’s from Germany, where’s the accent?” Tug-of-War asked suddenly.

“He was 6. Probably just lost it between then and now,” Paine responded. “My grandparents say my parents don’t sound anything like they did back when they were in India.”

            “You know, Vagabond lashes out like a kid,” Mirrorball added. “Like he never matured. He’s older now, but no one ever, you know, raised him.”

            “He’s older than all of us combined,” Tug replied. “God. A human trafficking ring?”

“This is bigger than Vagabond,” Paine groaned in a sing-song voice. “We just uncovered the cover-up of the century.”

“Guys…” ROM muttered.

A breath of reality, or, at least, practicality, came from Mirrorball, always the most level-headed of them provided he wasn’t he wasn’t in a fight at the time. “But what, really do we have to go on?” he asked. “A photo of a tied up kid who looks like Vagabond on what looks like the bed in the Lincoln Bedroom. Maybe it really is Vagabond. Maybe not.”

“It is the Lincoln bed,” ROM confirmed, out of nowhere.

“What?” Scepter asked.

She held up her tablet computer. “I compared photos. The one you have and the official one from the White House. Had my computer to a compare and contrast. It’s the exact same bed.”

“And there you have it,” Tug finished. “Lady and gentleman, we have a conspiracy.”

“And all the other corroborating evidence is either being swept under the carpet or lying cold in the city morgue,” Orbis muttered.

“We don’t need to convince a court,” Bang reminded him. “All we have to do convince Vagabond. And even if he’s repressed it all, that photo should jar something. Best case scenario? He remembers everything and goes off on his merry rampage. If it really is a dead end, no harm done. We tried.”

“Guys?” ROM asked.

“Oh, come on,” Paine exclaimed, exasperated “What, we just sit on this and tell nobody else except Vagabond? He wasn’t the only one kidnapped! How many human trafficking rings traffic one human? There must be dozens of kids! We have to go to the authorities. If not the SFPD, why not the FBI or Interpol? Hell, the German Embassy! I doubt he ever officially became a citizen.”

“Hey, does that mean we can report him to Immigration?” Bang asked hopefully.

“YO! HONKIES!” ROM shouted.

“Excuse me?” the Mexican-American Scepter harrumphed.

“Yee-ha!” Bang gabbled, starting. “What is up with you?”

“We got shit comin’ fast!” ROM said. Her fingers were a blur over the keyboard.

“What are you talking about?” Paine asked for all of them.

“I hacked the SFPD—“

“You what?” Orbis yelled at her. “You…that’s—“

“That’s my computer!” Scepter shrilled.

“You,” she said to Scepter, “relax yo’ ass. I covered my tracks. You,” she said to Orbis, “don’t get all moral! You stole evidence.”

“Busted,” Bang said, looking at the officer.

“Touché,” Orbis muttered, beaten.

“A SWAT team is coming here!”