I have to admit, partying has never been my strong suit. Oh sure, I’ve been to one or two keggers in college, but I was usually studying too hard in my quest to become an FBI agent to waste my time like that. And yes, I did have a Sweet Sixteen party. It was interrupted by my father stumbling through the front door with a parking meter hoisted over his shoulder. Did I mention that he was naked? There were a variety of charges against him that day.
But I’m not mad at my father any more, we reconciled just a few short weeks ago and now we have an understanding: he accepts me and my life as an FBI agent and I accept that he stays dead.
So how do I party? I guess it would be easy to just drink it up like a stupid freshman girl at her first frat party. I just can’t get myself to do that, though. There must be another way.
Well, let’s see, the CIA does have a stockpile of Methylenedioxymethamphetamine that they’re just waiting to use on the right evil dictator. Maybe I can just get my old spook pal Jonesy to score me a little.
Here’s another idea, the FBI has its own stockpile of Lysergic acid diethylamide and a fair amount of Dimethyl sulfoxide. Maybe I can get a little of that, mix the two, and then brush it on, say I dunno, maybe some of the glasses and lawn furniture at the party. As everyone knows, people will absorb the DMSO through their skin and then get the effects of the LSD.
Now that that’s done, I’ll just slip into something a little more comfortable (actually, it’s really not that comfortable, but the FBI Handbook on Partying and Getting Excellent strictly recommends something like this for parties. I’ll drink a beer, too. None of those foofoo drinks for me. Maybe after a couple hours, I’ll crack out the shots of Cuervo.
“Hey, are you a robot or an alien?” I heard a voice just as I reached the party.
“What?”
“I said, are you a robot or an alien?” It was West, that teenager. I thought I got him off my back after that earlier challenge but he often seems to be hovering around close by. “The FBI Agent in you’s gotta be a robot, but I bet you’re one sexy alien mama when you take the badge off.”
“Robots? Aliens? What are you talking about?”
“Don’t you get it?” he slurred slightly and shifted back and forth. “It’s a metamaphor. Either you’re a programmed and soulless robot or you’re a freaky outsider, free-thinking alien.”
“I’m neither,” I answered. “My name is Agent Audrey Hanson, I’m an FBI agent.”
“No no no, you don’t get it,” West replied. “So are you a Stormtrooper or an mutant?”
“What?”
“You know, are you a Starship Trooper or a Colonial Marine?” he asked.
“Aren’t they the same thing?” I asked.
“Argh no, don’t you get it?” He threw his hands up. “Dalek or a Cyberman?”
“Well, I’m a woman.”
“Cadillac or dinosaur?”
“Aren’t you the kid who watches people through their bedroom window?” I countered.
“What? How do you know that?” he sputtered.
I leaned in close to him. “The FBI knows all.”
“Pfft, you don’t scare me,” he answered as he stumbled away. “Stupid robots.”
“Hey baby, you’re a sweet little thing,” said another voice. It was that mutant with the funny eyewear.
“Cyclops, right?” I reply. “You know, you’re looking pretty good yourself.”
Did I just say that? Must be the Heineken talking.
“You’re the one who’s looking real good,” he added. “That dress is really you.”
“Really?” I answered. “Aww, you’re such a sweetie.”
“I’m not really much for the party scene,” he added. “When I’m off duty, I like things quiet.”
“I know what you’re talking about,” I nodded. “Maybe when this is all over, we can get together for a cup of coffee.”
“I’d like that,” he grinned. “Yeah, that’d be nice.”
“Cool,” I said.
“Cool,” he said.
I leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. He grabbed me in his arms and we kissed. Deeply.
“Hello Mr. Tongue,” I said as we pulled away.
“Aw Jean!” Cyclops howled.
“Huh?”
“Jean, why did you have to die!” he cried as he clasped his hands to his head. “Then why did you have to come back?”
“I’m, uh…”
“Maddie, why’d you have to be a demonic clone of my dead girlfriend?” the mutant blubbered as he dropped to the ground. “Why’d you marry me then turn evil after I ran away? Why? Why?”
I quietly stepped away as he curled up into a ball, sobbing.
“Hey, Aubrey,” Bennet stepped up towards me.
“That’s Agent Hans—” Aw what the heck, it’s a party. “It’s Audrey.”
“Got it.” He tapped his nose with his forefinger. “About our little deal when you, er, we take down Sylar.”
I looked around quickly. Are we being watched? No, I think we’re OK.
“What about it?” I asked.
“I haven’t been entirely honest with you.” He leaned forward and whispered. “I’m not just a paper salesman. My company’s really a front and I’ve got plenty of experience killing.”
“Really?” I asked.
“Yeah, I usually go for the head.” He tapped my forehead with his index and middle finger for emphasis. “You might say that when I say that I’m a headhunter, I mean it in a more literal sense of the word.”
“Uh huh,” I answered. I’m not sure where this is going.
We looked at each other silently for a moment. Then a moment more.
“Ah,” he grinned and pointed at me.
“Ha ha, you got me,” I laughed. “You got me.”
“Ha ha, yeah,” he joined the laughing. “I got you.”
“Ha ha, you’re a funny guy,” I laughed as I punched his arm.
“Ha ha.” Bennet stopped laughing and looked at me. “What do you mean funny?”