[Agents of Chaos]: Side Stories: Interview: Agent Green, Part 1

 

 

"So, you're THE Marcus Di Liberi. Winner of three fencing championships and five time competitor in the nationals, retired at the age of 24."

 

The interviewer whistled, clearly impressed.

 

But on the opposite side of his stainless steel desk, a young man nodded, not particularly engaging with his awe-stricken tone. It wasn't the first time the man received this kind of celebrity treatment, and he knew it certainly wouldn't be the last.

 

"So, do you still fence? Or have your skills rusted since then?"

 

Mark shifted his hands. "I haven't touched a sword in a while." He admitted, "But I'd still rank within the champion leagues."

 

It was a matter of pride to add that last remark. but the interviewer didn't seem to notice. Flipping to the next page, the questioning continued.

 

"And you decided to apply here today for... A stable income?"

 

The disappointment was palpable, not only in the interviewer's voice, but his face as well. 

 

"Yes sir." Was Mark's only response.

 

"Well. I suppose that's quite alright. Now, let's see here... You've applied for the administrative position? Are you sure? A young, fit man like yourself would surely do well on the field."

 

He shook his head. "The administrative work appealed to me."

 

The interviewer was now frowning. Whatever expectations he had made of this 'former fencing champion' had clearly been betrayed. And Mark couldn't exactly blame the man for having them in the first place.

 

Mark HAD once been a young man of great dreams- back when he was in his prime.

 

He HAD once chased accolades- chased the desires to prove his physical capabilities, and all aspects represented the spirit of youth. But those days were long gone, ever since that day-

 

Yes, he could remember that day clearly.

 

.      .     .

 

The summer sun beat down on the stadium glass ceiling, whistles echoing from the arches as people cheered for their district's champion, the shrill alarms announcing the defeat of competitor after competitor. There were a sea of people watching, cameras affixed to the contestants' movements, large screens showing close ups of terse expressions as each round began and ended with the usual procedures. It was all pretty much routine to Mark... Up until the last bracket.

 

Where his career would find its end.

 

See, everyone up until this point had been a familiar rival- some of whom he had even practiced with, back when Mark was still learning the basics as an eager student. But this one was... new. Not in a "foreign district" kind of new, for even around the world, there were only a handful of experienced fencing masters, but new as in, "a stranger who seemed to drop out of nowhere", or as the casters liked to put it, "the underdog."

 

"Aha, but do you think he'll be any match against Di Liberi?"

 

"I don't know, he's a world class champion- a three time, back-to-back winner at that!"

 

"Look at that composure, you don't see that every day!"

 

"You know what, no matter what happens, I think he can go home proud of the fact he got to face Di Liberi-"

 

It should have been as good as won.

 

The new face sauntered up to the piste, yawning.

 

Really, the audacity of this one... Mark couldn't tell if he should be impressed or irritated, but he let out a deep exhale and took up his position on the opposing side.

 

"Salute!"

 

They tipped their sabres to one another, and then to the referee, as per courtesy, but there was something sloppy about the way the competition carried himself. Like he really couldn't care less for the etiquette.

 

"En garde..."

 

The referee raised his hands. In the corner of Mark's eye, he could see the straps of his opponent's gloves barely latched closed. Was he really just going to compete like that?

 

"Prêts..."

 

Mark's eyes narrowed at his singular target. Now he could see the cord loosely dangling off the other fencer's lamé. Was he really so negligent as to not even bother with that?

 

"Allez!"

 

Mark sprang into an experimental attack, aiming to knock the other's sabre to the side. He wanted to test this... this miracle of a slob, who somehow managed to worm his way into the championship. And surprisingly, it took no effort for him to redirect the other's blade-

 

"POINT TO DI LIBERI!"

 

This had to be some kind of joke.

 

How did someone of THIS low caliber enter the championship.

 

They reset to their starting position, waiting on the referee once more.

 

"En garde..."

 

"Prêts..."

 

It couldn't be that this guy... was throwing the match?

 

Something about the way he rolled his ankle and stretched his neck just screamed, "I want to go home."

 

"Allez!"

 

Mark continued his careful approach, and just like before, he drove his sabre across the other's handle and hit true to the other's chest. Like this, on and on, the first round went in Mark's favor. It was so obviously one-sided that even the crowd began feeling uncomfortable celebrating past the 4th point.

 

"Well, I guess that beginner's luck is starting to wear out." The announcers began to chuckle. 

 

"Looks like he's out of endurance. But let's see what his coach has to say to him."

 

In the corner of his eye, Mark saw a man wearing a gray cap and the usual black jacket. Except, Mark was fairly certain he knew all the top coaches around the world- and this man was another unknown face.

 

"Really?" The opponent suddenly perked up after his mentor waved him over.

 

An affirmative nod.

 

"Why didn't you say so?!" Suddenly his demeanor completely changed.

 

And then the second match began. They saluted each other, but now there was something unnerving about it.

 

What was it? Nothing had really changed- the unclasped velcros and loose cord were still swaying with the opponent's movements- yet Mark could sense that this round would not go nearly as smoothly as the first.

 

"En garde... Prêts... Allez!"

 

And before he knew it, the world went dark. And then, a beep.

 

The stadium was silent.

 

"P... Point to Kallen."

 

When Mark's senses caught up to him, he recognized the shadow in front of him had been the mask of his opponent- Kallen- nearly taking up his entire central vision.

 

He nearly fell to his knees from the sheer shock of it all.

 

"Reset!"

 

But there was no time to process anything.

 

For the rest of the second match, barely could keep up. If it wasn't the absurd amount of speed in Kallen's movements, then it was the uncanny reflexes that allowed the other to twist away from Mark's blade, while striking him all the same. At one point, Mark had cornered him to the edge of the piste, ready to strike the other out, when Kallen dropped like a ragdoll and somehow scooped a riposte on the way down. It was like... fighting a reed in the wind. 

 

There was no way- Mark refused to believe- that a human was actually capable of rationally coming up with such absurd techniques.

 

Three points turned to twelve, and twelve became twenty-four.

 

Victory: Kallen of C-Corp.

 

And that was what ended his career. Not the loss by itself, but a loss to a complete stranger with no known history in fencing. Worse than all of that, however, was the acceptance speech that villain proclaimed on the stage, holding the medal and flowers of honor that Mark honed his entire career preparing for.

 

"Well, the Boss said he'll buy me a new console if I won, so I want to leave as soon as possible."

 

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