Brain Problem Situation

The Washington, D.C offices of the Federal Bureau of Investigation was always, always a busy place. Hoover knew it, and the fact always brought a smile to his face. Who would've thought it, huh? After years of being disrespected, being kicked around by the big boys, being compared to mercenaries, like the Pinkertons, who would've known? Who could've known, that the Bureau wouldn't just survive its critics, it would thrive!

Hoovers lips curled up into an awfully happy smile. He knew a thing or two about surviving. Men, and sometimes Women, would come and go, but he always stayed the resolute rock of the Bureau. Because they did everything. That meant they were in everyone's backyard, and some people, it didn't make them feel safe.

Finally, after perusing and meandering through he halls, in a purposefully random way, Hoover found himself at his office, with nobody behind him. He opened his office door, and sat down in an overstuffed, purple office chair, a chair that was the same one he'd sat in on his first day. It wasn't because the chair was anything special, or sentimental, far from it. He hated the lumpy piece of shit. But replacing it? God, that would mean going through to a contractor, or god forbid an outside company. Absolutely unacceptable.

He thumbed through the brand-new pile of papers that had been thumped upon his oak desk that morning. The smell of fresh ink flicked into his nose, and he made a face akin to a baby being presented with an unfamiliar old aunt. Most of it would be a complete waste of time, or worse, sabotage. Maybe an uppity (negro? hooligan?) tried to assault some decent member of society, which seemed to be happening more and more these days, with these groups out there.

Hoover sighed, and stumped out his cigar. What happened to the good old days. Before all this uppity business got started. Why didn't these people know all the things the FBI did for them? They never knew how to be thankful. All their mothers taught them was how to complain. Hoover briefly entertained the thought of having his secretary draft up a press release, but then dropped that thread of thought for the cats to play with. That'd never work out again.

His train of thought was stopped by a buzzing speaker.

"Mister Hoover, your two o' clock is ready for you."

----

His people took him down to one of the lower levels. They had a few facilities like these. Where Hoover, or an aide, or some random agent who happened to look tough, could take anyone new to power and show them what the goods were. Today, though, there was somebody waiting for him. A smallish man, with an ill-fitting suit and sunglasses. His hair was a short flat-top, with perky ears poking from either side. He held a briefcase, and stood behind a flat surface covered in documents.

Hoover looked down at the black and white photographs spread on the table in front of him. One, the first one, the biggest one, was a crater. A hot, fresh crater, out from Utah, if the caption was being honest. Inside of it was something like a Sputnik capsule. With antennae and a small, probably red, hammer and sickle embossed in the metal. Second photo was men in radiation suits pulling a small animal out of it. Third one was all the men melting out of their masks.

He tapped the third one with his cane. “What is this?”

“It’s the future, director. ”

“You act like you think I was impressed?

“Beg your pardon?”

“This is, uh, this isn’t something, something that came from a film reel, leaping from the silver screen, or anything. It’s a device made by National Socialists, or plain’ old Communists, and you’re trying to upsell it.”

“But, it is the future. It’s not just-”

“Well, sorry, but I’ve got to be more pragmatic. Just tell me what it does, without the sass, and how much you want for it.”

The man sighed, and opened his briefcase. "Well, we want... we want you to look into it. We're on the same side here. The President is v-"

Hoover waved a hand. "Don't talk to me about Presidents. They come and go, don't they? I've seen a couple in my time, and I don't think this'n will be the last. Now, what do you want from us?"

"Well... well, if you'll look at these papers, you can see for yourself. The, uh, well, everyone who's see it thinks it's a pretty significant... event."

Hoover looked up from the sheaf of papers, to the man, then back to the papers, and frowned loudly.

"This is a hell of a thing, isn't it?"

"Yes, it is."

"I've got the people for this, just the office. I'll get started, right away."

---

"So, this is the, uh, Unusual Incidents Division?"

"Unit, sir."

"I'm supposed to-"

"Brief them, sir. Up until now, the mission they've been on has mostly been retrieval, and testing. We've got some good stuff that Boeing's been using, from their research.

(he gets down there, sees some of the stuff they've recovered, gives some talks to one of the agents)

“You can never be too careful in this day and age. Have you seen the hearings? It’s much, much worse than we thought. That’s why your mission is so, so important, both to me on a personal level, and to this nation.”

----

Jules withdrew the wire from the hole. "I got him, but something's up."

His wife looked at him, frowning. "What do you mean, something? Are they onto us?"

"Probably not, but we're not the first ones to get here..."

"What?"

"See for yourself, love."

She peered into the small hole he'd drilled, and her eyes widened. "Putty?"

"That's right. We're not the first ones to go through this rodeo."

"So... do we tell Semenov?"

"I think we're going to keep this to ourselves, for now. We're going to walk out, and we can discuss this over tea later. Okay?"

She nodded. "There weren't any problems taping it, though?"

Jules chuckled. "Don't forget that I'm a professional, hon."

He withdrew his cable, and with that, they departed the damp basement. There was work to be done, dead drops to accomplish, a busy day and night ahead of them.

----

J. Edgar had restless dreams that night.

As he floated in the violet void, the elementary school teachers casually circled through the childhood pets, all mashed together into a single mass of paws, ears, and one compiled face embodying cute friendliness. It was panting at him, and the pants were asking for his math homework.

A floating tongue manifested itself, slobbering all over the loose leaf. "Did you catch them, daddy? Did you catch the bad guys?"

Hoover groaned. "I'm working on it, honey. I'm working on it."

Then, he woke up.