Déjà vu
For Wesley Scythe, Chief of field operations for the Department of Exo-Human Affairs for the upper Midwest region, life was anything but boring. Veteran of the South American wars where he led a unit of men that became known as Chimera unit, who controlled some of the first armored battle suits known as Warframes. Retiring from the Army Wesley eventually joined the DEHA in hopes of preventing mutants from becoming the mad men that his unit had once hunted in the South American jungles.

Brought to you by the voices inside Nuuan’s head

Chapter 1

Wesley Scythe, Wes as his friend and close acquaintances called him, grimaced as he saw the name on the paperwork that his secretary Yvonne had placed before him on his desk. “Thomas Blaine,” Wes muttered with disdain as he picked up the folder and opened it to begin his review. ‘Damn troublemaker’ Wes thought as he flipped through the pages looking for any means he could find no deny the man’s promotion. Unfortunately being an active member of the Church of the Untainted was not grounds that he could use to justify stopping the young man’s promotion to a field operative.

Not wanting the anti-mutant bigot out in the field Wes continued to study the man’s performance evaluations with a keen eye. It wasn’t that he disliked Agent Blaine, Blaine was actually a very personable person, polite, courteous and by the book. But that only applied to normals, around mutants Blaine acted as if they were a contagious rabid animal that should be put down.

Wes had spoken with his friend and boss Al about agent Blaine’s assignment here in the Des Moines office and they both agreed that Blaine was probably a ringer, a spy for the main office in New York. Reports that Al send always stated the obvious, even though Des Moines was the largest city in Iowa, it was Iowa for god’s sake and who really gives a crap if some kid on a farm has the strength to pick up and carry a combine out of a muddy field? Face it, Iowa is nothing more than a massive corn field with a handful of cities and towns spread around to break the monotony.

The whole mentality of Iowa is farming, and great colleges. City life is even more laid back than in the large cities of other states. For the most part people do not judge others by their appearances, no it is too easy for a man wearing muddy coveralls and smelling like pig manure to be the owner of a multi-million dollar farm. Wes was reminded of a boy he had investigated several years ago who had gotten him arm caught in a grain auger. The auger had all but turned the boys left arm into hamburger from the elbow down to his hand. Wes choked back the bile that rose as he remembered the pictures the doctors had shown him, although by the time the accident was reported to his office days later the boy’s arm had almost completely healed.

Wes filled out the paperwork and gave the boy a temporary ID right there in the hospital. Then made an appointment for the father to bring the boy in for testing and so the boy could receive his permanent DEHA ID. The boy’s father was not impressed that he and his son would have to take a full day away from their farm, but knew the necessity of it and they made their appointment. Wes could only imagine the armed troops and power armor that would have been dispatched in someplace like Atlanta or New York and for what? Scare the boy into trying to run or resist? Destroy several city blocks for no other reason than gung-ho anti-mutant operatives with a chip on their shoulder and itchy trigger fingers? Tossing the folder back onto his desk in disgust after he could not find anything to red stamp the agents promotion papers, “I’ll look at it with fresh eyes on Monday,” Wes groaned as he pushed his chair back from his desk, got up walked over and retrieved his jacket from the coat rack by that stood beside the open office door.

Seeing her boss walk out of his office, “Going to the gym?”

“Yep,” He smiled at her while moving his right arm like he was lifting weights, “Figure on a doing a few reps before I head home.”

Yvonne giggled at the inside joke, her boss did in fact keep in shape but this was not what he intended to do tonight. When Yvonne had first started as his secretary a few years ago she had overheard a conversation between her boss and their director Alvin Lassiter better known as Al. They had said something in her presence about twelve ounce curls and not knowing anything about weight lifting she mistook it that it was some kind of weight lifting they did after work. Eventually they let her in on the joke and it became their own impromptu office code. “Maybe I’ll see you there,” the look on her face became mischievous, “I could do for a little work out myself, heaven knows it has been awhile.” Knowing that her version of a workout was dragging Wes out of the bar, taking him home and riding him for all he was worth.

~o~O~o~

Wes had found this little hole in the wall pub almost 30 years ago and it had become his Friday night home away from home. Not because the beer was colder, or the selection was better, it was mostly due to the laid back, home away from home atmosphere. When Wes found it, it was a much different place though. It was a struggling little neighborhood pub that had fallen on hard times, mostly due to the less than desirable patrons that had slowly ran off the regular neighborhood customers that only sought a quiet place to sit and discuss life over a cold adult beverage with friends.

Wes had been out walking, something Wes often did when he needed to think. Wes was not even paying attention to where he was walking as he pondered his next move. Currently living off what he had saved during his military career, Wes needed to find something to do, some job that he could enjoy and pay the bills with. But so far the jobs he had applied for did not want him, Wes knew that with his background he could easily join any of the law enforcement agencies around, maybe even the FBI if he wanted but Wes had his fill of violence in the military and wanted to get away from that life. It wasn’t that he felt he could no longer do that, it was that he felt that he was not making any difference at it and Wes wanted to make a difference.

The very core of his being nagged at him that he not only needed to make a difference, he felt it as a responsibility. It was true that the last few years in the military as an instructor he did make a difference in keeping those young men and women he trained alive, but for what? So they could go to the next conflict that governments started and fight people just like themselves who had been trained to follow orders without question. He thought it would be best to let the politicians and religious nuts that stared the wars fight them themselves. Maybe, just maybe, if they shed a little of their own blood they might be more inclined to find another means to resolve their conflicts.

Wes found himself walking past a small run down bar that was just off the road enough to provide a small parking lot in front of it. The white painted exterior was faded to a light gray. Two large plate glass windows, one on each side of the recessed entrance help neon signs of various beer brands. The side wall facing an alley between the small pub and the next building had a couple of places where some vandal had been creative with a can of spray paint. That wall also bore several places where fresher paint had bene applied, possibly to cover up earlier graffiti.

Eight motorcycles were parked against the front of the building, five to the left of the entrance and three on the right. All but two were what Wes thought of as rice rockets, various Japanese brands that one had to lay on top the tank to ride correctly. Of the other two, one was or what was left of a Harley-Davison. From the looks of it, the only thing left that was Harley was the engine. Everything else appeared to be a mismatch of components and parts bolted or welded on. The last was one of the large Honda gull wings that had been stripped of the faring, windscreen and side bags. It has also seen better days.

“Hey got a light?” Wes heard, shaking him out of his thoughts.

“Sorry, don’t smoke,” Wes looked toward the group of young men all wearing leather jackets, some of which were leaning up against the motorcycles lined up near the bar’s entrance. The one who had spoken to him sported a bright orange Mohawk that stood straight up from his head in spikes, reminding Wes of a rooster’s comb.

Wes continued to walk at his normal pace as Rooster boy and one of his friends, who had so many facial piercings Wes had to wonder if he was safe outside in a thunderstorm, ran over to him.

“NO light huh?” The same man asked.

“Like I said, I don’t smoke,” Wes repeated not stopping.

“My buddy asked you a question!” the other grabbed Wes by the arm and spun him so he was facing the pair, “Its impolite to just walk away like that.”

“It is also impolite to grab someone off the street,” Wes spoke softly, trying his best to hold his temper at the thugs that were trying so hard to intimidate him. “Also I have answered his question twice now. So if you don’t mind I’ll be on my way and both you hoodlums can go back to taking shit until one of you gets up the nerve to say how much you want the other to do you up the ass,” Wes grinned.

“You calling us faggots!” The smaller of the two that had initiated contact shouted as he pulled out a blade and did his best to imitate how someone opens a bali-song in the movies.

“You should relax your wrist more when you do that so it doesn’t look so awkward when you open it,” Wes grinned, knowing the thug had no real training in the style of knife he was brandishing. “It should come easy to someone with a limp wrist like yourself and your buddy here.”

“Motherfucker, that’s it!” The knife wielding punk held his right hand forward, knife pointing at Wes, ”Hand over your wallet and we might let you live!”

“You don’t want anything to do with what I have got partner,” Wes knew he was going to hate himself for this tomorrow, but he could not stand by and let these miscreants get away with this kind of crap.

“Oh yea fucker, you think your bad enough to take us both?” The larger punk chimed in.

Realizing there was only one way to go about this to his own satisfaction Wes continued to goad the street punks, ”Look why don’t both of you go back to drooling over each other’s cocks until one of you drop to his knees and sucks the other. That way no one gets hurt.”

“That’s it man!” the smaller punk swung his knife at Wes’ ribs but the blade only met empty air.

“Rule one,” Wes grinned, “Do not advertise your intentions to your opponent. I could see your whole body tense up as you began that movement from your shoulder. Way too easy to see it coming and get out of the way. Now try again.”

The larger punk with all the facial hardware lunged at Wes, only to have Wes duck under his outstretched arms and hit the thug in the groin, taking the thug to the ground balled up in pain. “Lesson two, protect your venerable areas.” Pretending to ignore the punk with the knife Wes looked down at the fallen one, “Don’t worry your buddy can kiss them and make it feel better later.”

“ARRRAGH!” the rooster combed punk screamed as he lunged at Wes with the knife, falling into the trap. Wes easily side stepping while grabbing the knife arm in his left and tripping the punk at the same time. Wes followed the punk to the ground, Wes’ knee struck hardest, but was cushioned by the knife wielding punk’s groin. “You forgot lesson one! Jesus H jumping up and down curly headed Christ, talk about advertising your intent. A blind man could have seen that coming.”

Reaching over Wes picked up the punk’s knife before folding it up and stuffing it in the punks back pocket, “You need to keep this put away so you don’t hurt yourself with it.”

During the short instructional engagement several more of the bikers had filed out of the bar to watch. Most were content to stand back near their motorcycles and watch. None seemed to be inclined to come to either of their friend’s aid, the smaller one who had drawn the knife appeared that he would need medical attention too.

Surveying the surrounding area, Wes saw this place was conveniently nestled it what would be otherwise appear as a quiet neighborhood. Curtains were drawn tight in the windows but Wes could spot many people trying to peer out and see what was happening without drawing attention. Wes had seen this type of behavior so many times in his past he cringed. But then it was locals peering out of their homes terrified of the war that had come to their village. The faces he saw in the windows here were no different, these people were terrified of this gang of thugs. Wes made his decision, got up and walked toward the bar.

A few years later, after the place had been cleaned up, it was once again full of the neighborhood locals and others that had heard of the outstanding food and atmosphere. Wes still came in on Friday nights even after he had moved out of the small apartment above the bar into a house he had purchased in the same neighborhood.