CIA Academy of Espionage

Washington, DC

Hammond Quadrangle

December 19th, 2017

1100R

Mike POV

I was feeling pretty good.

My exams were over, I was to head home for winter break the next day, and Ben was coming with me. Sure, 2016 was the only winter break we didn't spend some time together—considering he was hanging out with the Hales—but tomorrow, we were about to bring the cool back to Alexandria, with my brother showing up too.

The boys were gonna be back in town!

But for the time being, I was fooling around with some of my classmates on the Hammond Quadrangle, fighting with snowballs and snow forts—courtesy of the snow that fell last night. We dramatized it as much as we could, hamming it up with stage pain and SpongeBob SquarePants quotes ("Score one for the boys back home!"). And of course, being the miscreants we were, we started chucking snowballs at people passing by, with it escalating to an all-out war between factions unknown.

All in all, just a certified me-and-the-boys moment.

I wondered where Ben and Zoe were. Yesterday, while we were studying together in the Vandenberg Library, Ben suddenly got a text, apparently from Alexander—something about career counseling, since they were in their last year of school. I hadn't heard from them since. Maybe it just took them a long-ass time, or—due to their operational experience—they had discussions with some important people in the CIA.

Having seen enough weirdness at this point in my life, I was fairly certain anything was possible.

After waving goodbye to the rest of our friends, Nate and I proceeded to head back to Armistead, yakking all the way. We ended up becoming friends sometime after the guy named Warren—Nate's old best buddy—defected to SPYDER. While he could still be a real potato head at times (resulting in the "Potato Head" moniker sticking), he'd become more confident and competent—physically and mentally. He had an affinity for aquatics and if I wasn't mistaken, he could probably rival Chip and come close to Jawa in terms of swimming skills.

"Iowa, huh?" I asked, shedding my headgear upon entering the dormitory. "Isn't that just Nebraska Premium?"

"Har-de-har-har," Nate mock-laughed, shoving me lightly. "My uncle and his family live there, so we're flying up to visit for Christmas. It's weird, really... the CIA accountants were in my direct family, while my extended family's wild."

"Yeah? In what way?"

"My uncle was a SWCC ("swick")—basically the Navy SEALs' aquatic taxi driver—before he became a farmer. My grand-uncle was a cop for damn near all his adult life in New York—tangled with the Mafia too. My other grand-uncle was a doctor, doing some humanitarian shit in some of the most dangerous places on Earth—always strapped though, and even fought his way in and out of tricky situations, getting called the 'Surgical Shooter.' My great-grand-uncle: Marine rifleman in World War II, no introduction needed. As for my cousin over in California, she flies the airplane that drops smokejumpers—basically the special forces of firefighting. She's a little cuckoo, but we love her... say, come to think of it, her husband's a smokejumper and just as crazy as her... no wonder they fell in love."

"Holy shit. And hey, just how long have your cousin and her husband been married?"

"Three years, dated for two before that."

"... and it took you this long to figure out that their similar levels of insanity drew them together?"

"One: I didn't meet him until a month before the wedding. Two: I don't get to see them often. And three: I'm not a girl, okay? I'm a dude, and as you know, us dudes aren't known for our emotional perceptiveness," Nate rattled off, the last point rather sarcastically. "Plus, who the hell do I look like? Zoe?"

"Hey, speak of the devil!" I exclaimed as we turned a corner for the stairs, running straight into my girlfriend. "Yo! Where were you? You two left me high an—"

"Mike..." she choked out before hugging me tightly, something that caught me off guard. She was a huggy person, yes, but the expression on her face was a far cry from her normal cheery disposition. And were those... tears?

"Whoa, what's wrong? What happened?" I asked, holding her by her shoulders and looking at her.

"Mike, it's... I..."

"Easy there, Zo. C'mon, what happened?"

"Th-there was an operation last night and early this morning. That's why Alexander called us."

"Ah, shit. It's always you two. But where's Ben?"

"He... he..."

"Oh, shit! Don't tell me he's injured again!" I gasped. My best friend had an unfortunate knack for getting in trouble, having seen more action (i.e., combat, blood, and death) in his six-ish years with the Agency than most officers in their whole careers. "Dammit, that guy has the absolute worst luck. What're we talking? Concussion? Laceration? Fracture? Gunsho—"

"H-he's gone, Mike... he's gone," she tearfully interrupted.

"What the hell do you mean, 'he's gone?' What does that mean?"

"I mean... he's d-dead, Mike. We were raiding a small ISIL cell with the feds and his team was ambushed. Th-thirteen men—twelve FBI agents and B-Ben—were... killed."

A chill ran down my spine as I processed her words. It didn't make sense. Ben survived beatings, gunshot wounds, explosions... and now, Zoe was trying to tell me that he died on what sounded like a relatively simple raid—something the average SWAT team could handle. It was like hearing those stories of soldiers surviving combat in the Middle East and ultimately getting killed by a damn drunk driver or addict mugger. It wasn't right.

"No... that's not true," I muttered—though whether to myself, or to Zoe, I didn't know. "That's impossible!"

"Mike, I—"

"No, nonono! It's gotta be—a, a, a fake! It's gotta be a fake! Fake forensics report, right? I-it's a fake forensics report! That sonuvabitch Hallal did it!"

"Mike, that worked because he was supposedly blown up. I... I saw the body. Erica saw the body. Alexander did. Cyrus did. We all saw the body. The medical examiner—both for the county and our guy in the Agency—confirmed it. Mike, he's gone."

"HE IS NOT DEAD, GOD DAMN IT!" I shouted, making her jump away in shock. "HE DOESN'T DIE! HE DOESN'T!"

"Mike, LISTEN!" she screamed back, now visibly crying in grief and frustration. "KILLED IN ACTION! I SAW THE DAMN BODY! WE ALL DID!"

"THEN YOU'RE WRONG!"

"Guys, guys, GUYS!" Nate intervened, stepping between us. "Mike, bro—"

"SHUT UP! HE'S NOT DEAD! HE ISN'T!" I shouted, shoving past him and into the stairwell. As I stumbled up the stairs, going for my room, Zoe's words continued to swirl in my head.

He's gone...

We all saw the body...

KILLED IN ACTION!

"He's not dead, he's not dead, he's not dead, he's not dead," I chanted to myself, still in disbelief. All I could think of doing was getting to my dorm room as fast as possible, as I'd left my cell phone there to charge. Before long, I'd reached my floor and had quickened my pace, frantically jamming my key into the lock before shoving the door open. I grabbed my phone and hit Ben's contact, calling him.

"You've reached Ben. Leave me a message, please," his voicemail prompt cordially replied after a few rings.

"C'mon, c'mon, c'mon," I hissed, trying his number again. Delusional, perhaps... but desperate.

"You've reached Ben. Leave me a message, please."

Again...

"You've reached Ben. Leave me a message, please."

And again...

"You've reached Ben. Leave me a message, please."

And again...

"You've reached Ben. Leave me a message, please."

"You've reached Ben. Leave me a message, please."

"You've reached Ben. Leave me a message, please."

"You've reached Ben. Leave me a message, please."

Okay, so he isn't picking up and Zoe saw a body... that wasn't Ben's body. It was a fake... yeah, that's it, it was a fake. Lots of guys in al-Qaeda and ISIS are middle-classers with technical, bachelors, and advanced degrees, right? They're not idiots, they're smart—skilled, educated AQ members pulled off 9/11, not a bunch of random-ass Taliban—they must've taken him to get more information on "the infidels," right? "Know thy enemy" and all that shit?

But the more I tried reasoning with myself, the crazier it sounded. Where could the terrorists get the body? Did they have connections with a morgue? But what were the chances of doppelgangers existing? How did two medical examiners get fooled?

"You asshole!" I hissed in increased frustration as I threw my phone on the bed, only to lock eyes with a small collection of photos I'd tacked on the wall, three in particular. The first was my family and I at my Bar Mitzvah. The second was my little friend group on the day Chip and Jawa graduated—even with Erica in the picture, as I'd forgiven her bullshit by then. And the last was an old photo of Ben and I, back in the old days when he was a skinny-ass nerd and I was effectively his second older brother.

Ben was never able to stand up for himself pre-Spy School—even when he gained the will, he lacked the physical ability—so I (sometimes in conjunction with his actual older brother) often found myself getting into fights with the jackasses that bullied him. Despite the stereotypes, few of his assailants were jocks—I befriended most of them, so they left him alone—instead being literally every other variety of popular and semi-popular kid. And in the event that mean girls were bullying him, I'd coordinate a counterattack through other girls or simply prank the tormentors to the point of tears (which, let's be real, took almost no effort—so I pranked them until I became their worst nightmare).

As a result, I found myself in front of the principal and other administrators often, but usually got away with small or medium levels of punishment. My mom would sigh in exasperation and patch up any wounds I had while my dad and brother laughed their asses off, got me ice cream, and gave me pointers on how to fight better. But for me, all I cared about was that Ben—my brother from another mother—had some justice.

This sense of protectiveness never really faded, only becoming stronger after the disastrous events of Operation Fox Hunt, in which Ben was captured and tortured by Joshua Hallal. The images of a bloody Ben in Alexander's arms, alongside the unconscious Jawa and badly bruised Chip, still haunted my dreams from time to time. More than anything, I remembered the feeling of helplessness when I couldn't provide any sort of medical assistance to my friends, and could only watch them suffer. It would be the catalyst for my near-obsession with medicine in my following years in Spy School, as I did everything I possibly could to prepare for the instance a teammate went down.

And now, that sense of utter failure had returned as I stared at the photo of us midair as we leapt into the pool, laughing like idiots. My best friend, my little brother... he wasn't coming home.

"STUPID BASTARD!" I shouted, yanking my nightstand clock from its socket and throwing it at the picture with a resounding "bang." "YOU ASSHOLE! YOU'VE SURVIVED GOD KNOWS WHAT, AND YOU GET KILLED BY SOME PUNK-ASS JIHADIST?!"

What happened next was a blur. I heard wood and glass breaking as I continued to hurl curses at the photograph in a rage. He wasn't supposed to die. He couldn't die. He wasn't even old enough to drink, barely enough to smoke.

"YOU SONUVABITCH!" I raged as I finally punched the wall in sheer frustration, putting a dent in it and shooting pain up my fist and wrist. Screaming in what was either pain or anger, I clutched my hand as I continued to curse my now-dead best friend.

He's gone...

Leaning back against the wall, I slowly sank to the floor and quieted down, my enraged yells reducing to hopeless mutterings. If anyone walked in right now, they'd think I'd gone mad. And in all honesty... I think I had.

"You... you left me, you asshole," I mumbled, looking at the opposite wall where the photos remained, mementos to a time long gone. Tears pricked at my eyes as the rage melted into despair. "I thought we were gonna stick together... you were my brother, you stupid... you damned..."

He's gone...

I was angry at the terrorists that took my brother away from me, angry at the CIA for sending him in to die, angry at Ben for continually getting himself into stupid messes. I wanted to set the world on fire. I wanted to find the bastards that murdered him and hurt them in every possible way, killing them slowly... but it was out of my hands. Before I could stop myself, I broke down in quiet sobs, wanting nothing more than my best friend back—I was willing to spill any amount of blood, sacrifice anything, even my life. But he wasn't coming home.

Not anymore.

Zoe POV

I wanted to go after him, but Nate held me back, insisting that Mike needed some time to process the information himself. In the meantime, he sat me down and asked me to help him clarify a few things about the situation. Thanks to his abduction by SPYDER back in 2015, Nate knew a thing or two about the batshit insane things that can occur when the CIA is involved.

I couldn't say too much due to operational security, but I told what I could: Ben had been killed during a joint FBI/USMS/CIA raid, along with a twelve-man FBI SWAT team. He hadn't been blown up or anything—something that could probably lead to a falsified forensic report, given Joshua Hallal's defection—but shot. We saw the body and the medical examiners confirmed it was Ben's. After it was all said and done, Nate comforted me the best he could, though I could tell he was mourning too—he considered Ben a friend too.

After a while, I finally decided enough was enough, and slowly made my way up to Mike's floor. As I walked down the hallway, deserted of any other students—as all others had left for Christmas break—I found his door and softly knocked it. Eliciting no response, I tried again, before finally opening the door myself.

What my eyes beheld horrified me to no end: items tossed everywhere, broken glass on the floor, nightstand toppled over, cracks in the wall... but worst of all was Mike, sitting against the wall with a bloody hand and his head hung low. Slowly, I stepped over the debris and knelt to his level, with him slowly looking up in acknowledgement.

Long gone was the cheerful, almost to the point of happy-go-lucky, Mike. His eyes were sunken and red, his face was wet from sweat and tears, with the lack of his usual smile only worsening the image. I could feel the frustration, rage, and despair radiating off of him, for I felt much the same... but for now, we needed time to process.

Without a word, I leaned into him and embraced him in the hopes of delivering some sort of comfort, while also selfishly hoping for some comfort of my own. I didn't want him to be alone, but I didn't want to be alone either. After a few moments, he returned the hug, his breathing deep as he tried to steady himself.

And there we remained against the wall, locked together, as we grieved the loss of Ben Ripley—a boy that wasn't just our friend, but family.

Cyrus POV

Thunder boomed in the distance as the rain poured down on us. We'd anticipated rain, but not the lightning—though thankfully, it was further away from us, and the minister continued on with the service, undeterred.

There at the funeral, four days after his mortality, we gathered to bury Ripley. There were no more than twenty of us: Brezinski, his family, Zibbell, Mackey, Alex, Erica, myself, and a small assortment of Ripley's neighbors and friends from his normal life and the Academy. There were some missing, of course—Schacter and O'Shea, his friends, and Catherine, who practically thought of him as her own son—with the observation only saddening me further.

Officially, Ripley was on a school trip when his class was attacked by a mugger. The mugger—a desperate addict—got violent, shooting Ripley, with police quickly responding and killing the gunman... but the kid didn't make it.

It wasn't the gut-wrenching pain I felt at the funeral of my wife, my father, or my fellow SAD operatives—especially since I wasn't as close with Ripley as Alex, Catherine, or even Erica—but there was still plenty of frustration, anger, and sadness. I'll admit, I was fond of the kid. We'd gained somewhat of a mutual understanding after the Christmas vacation two years ago, with me sharing my own backstory and advice. I hoped that he'd take the lessons from me, a man who was so far gone, and avoid taking the same self-destructive path. He had... but that didn't keep his life from being cut short.

As the steadfast minister continued the service, I glanced at the other figures in black. Most of the grief could be found in the Brezinski family—they knew Ripley the best, after all. Zibbell was similarly distraught. My son and I flanked my granddaughter, with Alex's stoicism matching mine. Erica, meanwhile, looked as though she was trying not to get emotional. But unlike her father and I, she hadn't succeeded—it was cold and rainy, but that wasn't what was making her tremble. And while her face bore makeup, she looked as though she hadn't slept in days... probably shed tears too.

It sounds odd, but I think she was still in shock—mentally speaking, at least. And I supposed it made sense. Operation Steel Tiger was a relatively routine affair, after all... and Ripley had already survived so much. I didn't see it coming. Compound the fact that she might've still harbored affection for him... well, it's a big mess that I don't know how to handle.

Mr. and Mrs. Brezinski said a few words for Ripley—they were his legal guardians, after all—before their younger son stepped up. Michael composed himself before looking out at the group.

"So... we're all here to say our goodbyes to Ben. Where the heck do I even begin?" he muttered, barely loud enough for me to hear. "He was born some months after me, with our parents introducing us to each other not long after. We were buddies before we could even walk, with our friendship continuing over the years. For me, he wasn't just my best friend, but the little brother I never had... we stuck together in damn near everything—we gamed, we joked around, we broke bread together... heck, we even got into a fight together at school. Usually it was me covering his behind, but he started giving me a hand too. We still argued and fought as friends do, but it... it worked out."

He sniffed, seemingly holding back tears, before continuing—his following words shaky.

"Dammit... what I'm tryna say is... Ben, the rest of my life is gonna suck a lot more now that you're not here, providing your common sense and all that... I also planned on getting you to help me with my taxes, considering that you're a frickin' nerd."

That got a few laughs, even a brief one from him.

"But, man... you save me a seat, okay? 'Cause I swear, when I get up there, Imma punch you in your nose for leaving me... for leaving us."

Desolation had mostly overtaken him, but he still had some anger, as it seemed.

"I'll... see you when I see you. Love you, brother," he finally choked out before stepping back towards his family, wanting to escape the attention.

After the minister said a few more words and a prayer, the casket with Ripley's body was buried, right alongside the graves of his father, mother, brother, and sister. It was a cruel twist of fate: the kid lost his family, only to be reunited with them in death... far sooner than he should've been.

BENJAMIN RONALD RIPLEY

BELOVED SON, BROTHER, FRIEND

JUNE 16, 1999 - DECEMBER 19, 2017

"I DON'T KNOW, BUT I CAN FIND OUT."

The quote was certainly fitting—both with his family's gravestones and his own personality. Ripley was not the best officer-in-training I'd ever met—his tradecraft and paramilitary skills were barely more than adequate—but I respected his humility and willingness to take advice from others. His strength, as it seemed, wasn't so much a singular skill (surveillance, sniping, and whatnot), but fusing those through a team and bringing people together, ensuring the sharing of ideas. It was no wonder he managed to bring together an odd group of friends.

As his grave was filled and everyone said their final goodbyes, I made a plan to squeeze every last bit of intel out of the men we'd captured on the raid, even if I had to break the rules. If and when any new terrorists were uncovered, I would ensure that they were found, probed, and terminated—if not by our operators, then by the death penalty (providing the bureaucrats weren't wusses).

The blood would not bring Ripley back, but it still needed to be spilled. I would do it myself if need be. He deserved that much,

Death comes for us all. It's something we all are well aware of, yet we still find difficulty accepting it when it comes, especially for our loved ones. Mourning is a natural reaction (which varies from person to person) to such loss, but somehow, it's still hard to deal with.

Of course, since Mike wasn't involved in Operation Steel Tiger and Ben is his best friend, the death hit him the hardest. His (and Cyrus's) response may be on the dark side, so to speak, but it feels appropriate. The optimistic side of me believes that—especially after what was established in OHC—that Cyrus had some fondness for Ben.

Feedback is always appreciated, good or bad. Thank you as always for reading.

Until next time,

- ADF-2