[M] Roswell: 1947 (IC)

[Nope]

“You Sure it aint that hussy at the bakery?”
Jacob’s sister, Winnie, was a heavyset, dark haired Brooklyn bombshell with the heavy accent to match. Over the telephone, George could hear the clutter and snap of various makeup as Winnie applied the morning’s circus mask.
“How do you know that? You dont know that. He could have had her a hundred ways to Sunday by now.”
Georgia cringed at the crass language and replied, “Shes to vulnerable. She only recently lost her husband, and Jacob isnt one to take advantage.”
“Well, that sure is right. Hes to much of an idiot to see an opportunity.”
George didnt see the use of a vulnerable woman as an ‘opportunity’. And despite his sister’s words being meant as a jab, they actually reminded Georgia of the respect she had had for him. Jacob wouldnt have used an ‘opportunity’. He was to good of a person.
So maybe what he said was true.
He was just to stressed, with her job, with his job, with a relationship, with a marriage on the horizon, and a home to pay for. Maybe it was just to much for the fellow. He was always a bit of a mouse.
“Well listen dear-” Winnie’s voice grew faint as she pullled her mouth from the receiver and yelled over her shoulder, Im on the phone! YOU get your brother off the roof! She came back and said, “These damn kids, I swear Georgie. Anyway, listen dear, We’re here for you. Me and Robert and the kids. My idiot brother will get his head back on. He’ll come back, if he knows whats good for him.”
George plucked at one of her nails. “You think so.”
“I know so! Who else is gonna want someone who looks like him?”
Winnie disconnected shortly after, sighting the old woman next door that wanted to use the phone. Winnie was a talker. She didnt need another complaint with the phone company about her usage from the rest of the apartment building. But before she did she said, “Why dont you go out? Women shouldnt work as much as you do. Its not good for the complexion. Go somewhere. See the sights. Get some air.”
“Where would I go?”
“I dont know. New Mexico? I heard some stuff was going on down there.”

Her words reminded George a of recent radio broadcast. She’d not thought to closely on it, but now she was intrigued. Once the phone call ended, she dialed into the operator and asked for a connection.
“You didnt go into work today.” The voice on the other end said, gruffly.
Georgia smirked, “You dont have to be so obvious about it, Colonel.”
“So New Mexico?”
“Are you tapping my phone now?”
“Do you not trust your government, Miss McClaire?”
Georgia laughed, “Not a bit, John.”
The gruff voice chuckled, unconvincingly.
“So whats going on in New Mexico?”
“There is nothing in New Mexico, Miss McClaire.”
“Colonel, I know you know I know, and we know each other to well for games. If there is nothing in New Mexico, then there should be no disagreement with my traveling there.”
“Taking a vacation, Miss McClaire?”
“Yes, Colonel. I would like a vacation to New Mexico.”
Silence stretched endlessly on the other end of the line and, except for the buzzing of the connection, she would have assumed he’d hung up. She waited, patiently.
She’d met Colonel John Roster during her time in France. He’d been injured in an exchange, and after treatment, had resumed his post in operations. He’d then moved into the secretive section of the government that devised maintained covers and those party to them. He knew from the beginning that Georgia knew she was being monitored. He offered her little explanation or detail for the particulars, but she knew enough.
And unlike most of his targets, she never pretended to follow the ruse. She claimed she had nothing to hide, and no secrets burning to be told. And so she openly expressed her comfort with him and his ways, and it was left at that. For whim and the destruction of monotony, Roster played along with the girl’s games.
A few minutes later, his voice came back to life,“I hear Roswell is lovely this time of year.”

[Storm]

Having finished her shift at the café, Samantha starts changing out of her uniform the café owner provides her. She smiles while changing, provides, such a subjective term. The disgusting pig still is worried that she some day will disappear and sell her uniform for rice. Rather it is at Seoul Intelligence Service or Nowhere USA, those that think they have control of her are the same. The sun has already brought another dusk to this nowhere, nothing town. She slips into her leopard print dress and flat heel shoes while fixing her hair. Looking in a dusty mirror outside her locker, she retouches her lipstick and adjusts her hair. She still feels the months of researching American women's Dress and customs she was ordered to do was a waste of her time, she after all was to portray a refugee, but her command, the clueless men demanded she more mimic American women.


As she walks from the back room toward the front door of the diner, she goes through her same routine. In a sweet tone, she says to the front counter girl now there

"Good night, be back tomorrow at work."

Jackie laughs telling her "Sammy, much better, but try to say it like this, Good night, I will be back to work tomorrow."

She had gone to great lengths to work people into 'teaching her' the language. Service members were the easiest targets. The intel she gathered wile she was 'learning' this language was almost too easy. The things their little group often talked about around the little china flower. She replied "Good night... I will … be back to work … tomorrow?" intentionally with a hesitant tone.

Jackie walked over with a smile "Yes Sammy, you are doing so much better, good night sweetie."

With that, Samantha put on her purple trench coat already feeling a storm brewing. Growing up in rural Dae Gu, she could determine approaching storms far better than what the radio said. Stepping out into the street, she starts toward her small room she is currently renting. That was her intent, as the sky opens up with a down pour, she quickly runs over to one of the bars close to the motel. As she enters, she removes her soft pink handkerchief from her purse and daps her face dry. She takes a moment to replace the handkerchief and take out her compact taking a moment to touch up her makeup, after all, it was her job to be the ideal refugee. Setting the compact back in her purse, she starts a casual glance around the bar.

As she looks around the bar, James is an obvious bean in the rice bowl. She allows her glance to pass by the man who fits into this town as well as ice cream and vinegar. With the cursory glance she doubted he was from the Army Air Corps, she figured more FBI, perhaps even from the War Department doing an inspection of the nowhere base in nowhere USA. What he was, a gold mine of intelligence, something if she could gain the information that might be in that man's head, she could leave this god forsaken nothing town in nowhere USA.

Samantha knows that directly approaching this man would be as subtle as throwing a rock through a window, She will have to work this over time, ideally he would be the one to make first conversation with her. Samantha reaches in her purse and removes her perfume, a gentle floral scent. She sprays a sparing amount along her neck replacing the slender bottle back in her purse.

She starts toward the stools near James, ensuring to pass behind him, fanning her face as she passes allowing the scent to linger in the air around the man that has her intrigue. She sits at he stool several spots away from him, ensuring she is close enough for him to hear her figuring if he was at the minimum with the US FBI, that he would be attentive of those around him.

The man behind the bar asks "What ya have Sammy?"

Still fanning her face, she replies "Beer … and some... wrench fries."

The man laughs "Got it, and Sammy hunny, that is French Fries."

Samantha softly smiles "Thank you, try to remember next time, French … Fries." not looking toward James, if he were paying attention, the last thing she was going to do way blow it by looking in his direction. No, this man did not give off any of the vibes of others she caused to make contact with her, this man, the brief observation she made, was clearly going to be her most challenging target. The chess board was set, she set the pieces in motion, how will this new game play out.

[Nope]

Marvin surveyed the land before him. His military issue binoculars were cracked in one lens thanks to an ill fated night when he’d lost power and tripped over the bag of supplies on the floor.
But through them, he could still see the night sky. He could see the stars, the vast expanse of navy blue, and the brown of sandy cliffs in the distance. He could see all of this, and yet nothing. “Come on baby. Something. Something.” He swung the binoculars left and right, scanning the sky.
He’d worked a long shift at the movie theatre, barely paying attention to the reel he’d been placed in charge of. Some romance junk that had little to do with his interests. Instead, he’d used the time to edit a comic he;d hand drawn in his magazine. Hidden Intelligence had no budget and only a handful of readers, most of them using as material for more ‘Marvin the Martian; jokes.
“They’ll all see.” He muttered to himself.
He felt himself losing the wind to stay alert. The shift had been a double to hopefully make up the funds needed to pay his rent, as the entirety of his last check went to typewriter ribbon and canned SPAM.
Marvin’s eyelids fluttered. He pulled the binoculars away and rubbed at them. He ran his hands roughly down his cheeks, the stubble of a growing beard pricking at the soft underside of his fingers.
“One more hour.” He said to himself, “One more.”
He yawned, stretched and pointed the lenses once more to the sky. “I feel it. Tonight is the night. Tonight is-” He yawned.
Without looking, Marvin reached toward the thermos cap of coffee he had sitting on the rock. before him. His fingers brushed the rim of it, and as he moved to grip it, the cap tumbled from its perch, spilling the hot liquid over his fingers.
Marvin yelped, dropped the binoculars, and sucked at his burning flesh.
As he did, the sky burst to light..
Marvin gapped.
A thunderboom of sound startled him to attention
He scrambled for his camera. But by the time he’d lifted it to his eye, the event was over.
Through the lense, he scanned the sky, then the ground.
Nothing.
There was an itch that was burrowing deeper under his skin. An itch to follow whatever it was, where ever it had landed. In a flurry, he began to gather his equipment. If he hurried, he could catch it while it was hot. Whatever it was, it had to have landed somewhere. Somewhere close.
“Wait.” The land was to dark to see more than ten feet ahead. The land before his was rocky, and filled with pits and loose sediment. He wouldnt get a hundred yards without breaking a leg.
He’d have to come back in the morning.
“Oh I will!” He shouted into the distance, “I will baby! Just wait! Im a comin'! Papa's a comin'!"

[Enigma]

"What was that?" Johanna demanded, spinning around with the thermos of coffee. Was that thunder? It sounded like an explosion - but from where? And what? It was a bit late to be using a quarter stick to remove tree stumps. It didn't sound like it came from underground, and nothing was burning that she could see towards the hangers.

She bolted for the motor pool office.

"Sergeant?" one of the girls gasped as she stormed in.
"Did you hear that?"
"Hear what?"
"The explosion!"
"We didn't hear anything," someone else protested.
"Take this!" she demanded, passing the thermos to the nearest warm body. Taking the phone off the hook, she dialed the number for Headquarters.

"Officer of the Day," a bored voice answered.
"This is Sergeant Wainwright at the Motor Pool. I want to report hearing a loud noise outside, like an explosion...."
"On the flight line?"
"No, I think it was off-base..."
"Off... oh for...."

There was a click and the line went dead.

Johanna muttered a German curse under her breath and hung up. She turned and glared at the other girls.

"Looks like we're in for a night," she said.

[Nope]

Georgia packed a bag. She dressed professionally, going so far as to add a dab of rouge. Leisure travel by flying was picking up quickly among the public. So far, it was an occasion of grandeur, dressing nicely, hair appointments, makeup counter visits...all to sit in the air for a couple of hours.
Or maybe everyone just wanted to look nice in case gravity won out.
All we could recover was a hand, but by golly was it a fine looking hand.
George chuckled at the thought.
She left a message with the doorman that she would be away. Only a few days, she had said. She asked him to hold her mail for her return and to take any phone messages that might come through. She said she would call with a forwarding number once she arrived.
Georgia knew somewhere in Roswell there had to be a hotel. She wasnt gunning for the RITZ but something without roaches in the tub was all she would need.

Despite being a Pastor’s daughter, or perhaps because of it, she hadnt grown up in glitz and glamour. She had been comfortable, for sure, and perhaps more comfortable than she should have been during the Great Depression when her father had been needed more than ever, and yet they’d eaten more meat than anyone else in town. Maybe even more than anyone else in the state, save the Governor.
God is giving us a gift for our hard work and dedication to him,. Her father had said over a dinner of chops and greens one night.
What about everyone else, daddy? They dont love him enough to eat?
The Lord provides. And the Lord taketh.
Surely God wouldnt let them starve!
Who are you to question His will?! I will not have slander at this table!
Georgia rarely ate after that. Instead, she saved her meals and took the scraps from dinner, along with the left overs and had given them to their house keeper, a soft spoken person of color, to distribute among the shantytowns and Hoovervilles.
If God had given them food, he intended it to be shared. Just as Jesus had.
And that was the day she stopped listening to her father.
In fact, she stopped listening to most people.

Georgia carried her bag herself out onto the street, pausing only a moment to stare at the stoop. She stood here when Jacob left. And he stood there.
Inhaling deeply, she turned abruptly in a swirl of skirts and lifted her hand for a cab,
The street bustled as it did every day. And the cries of angry drivers and horns floated in on the air from the metropolis.
“Miss McClaire?”
George turned to the voice. A dark suited man stood in front of a car, a sleek Bentley Mark VI. She nodded and he continued, “Im here to escort you to the airport, on the order of Colonel Roster.”
“Im just fine with a cab, honestly.”
“He also wanted me to relay to you that the government has already paid for this car, and you will be responsible for the waste of funds if this is not used.”
Georgia smiled.John Roster knew her to well.
She allowed the chauffeur to take her bag and place it in the trunk of the car. As he opened the door for her she said, “So they’re not even bothering with discreet anymore, huh?”
“I assure you, ma’am,” The young man said without blinking an eye, “If there is indeed a they, they dont need discretion.”
Georgia gave him an affirming nod before slipping into the back seat.

The car was plush and welcoming, but with the odor of efficiency and authority. The engine came to life with a roar, like a young tiger. She removed her satin gloves and laid then carefully across her lap.
The driver turned into traffic and melded into the city.
George sat back, staring absently out the window. Her mind began to reel into things she would rather not explore.
The trip had been arranged all to quickly. So quickly, in fact, that her head still throbbed dully from the wine of the day before. She’d went through a bottle a day in the two days that Jacob left. And in that span, tickets had been ordered, transportation arranged, and decisions made.
Surely there was more important matters the government needed to deal with than keeping one eye trained on her.
She was a nobody. A nothing. Just a girl that did her duty, as any other American had or would have done.
She sighed.
But she’d seen. And perhaps that was enough. Either way, she’d accepted it, and pretended it mattered not but it did, it was annoying.
Oh well.

They city moved out the window. She suddenly became aware they were passing the Last Crumb and she saw a glimpse of her ex fiance through the window. She craned back in the seat, to savor the extra moments of the vision.
He looked up, at the car, as if he knew.
And then the second was over.
Her heart fluttered. What had she done wrong?
Or had she done anything? It was all a little quick wasnt it? This trip?
Georgia rung her gloves in her hands, knuckles white. What if it wasnt purely his decision? What if there were other avenues at play? She felt her teeth clench. She imagined the things she would say to Colonel Roster. Oh the earful he will get.
And then her hands relaxed. She wasnt the one running the show, as much as she would like to think they were at least acquaintances, their relationship was more like prisoner and guard.
She forced her attention away from it. Turn it off. She looked at the back of the driver’s head. He was young, maybe twenty two, with a strong bone structure and blond hair. His eyes were a steel blue. But no ring made that little silver glimmer on his finger. She wondered why, when he could obviously swoon the heart of any lady. And maybe that was her answer.
“Have you heard much about New Mexico? People are saying some strange things.”
“No miss. I dont believe much in fantasy stories.”
“Its interesting to think about though, isnt it? Life out there. In space?”
The driver was silent for a moment before he spoke. “Permission to speak plainly?”
“Of course.”
“No disrespect miss, but those ideas take away from truth. Society these days is falling apart, too many people caught up in other worlds instead of this one. Its unChristian. Young people will destroy this country if we allow these fantasies to continue.”
Ah. There was her answer to the marriage question. George felt herself smile despite the harshness of his words. “Government work suits you.”
Silence was his reply.

The car pulled up to the terminal. The driver held the door as she climbed ungraciously out of the back seat. He removed her bag from the trunk and emotionlessly offered to escort her to the gate. She waved the idea away. “Im sure theres plenty of you gentlemen milling around. I can make it to my gate.”
He considered her a moment, before giving a terse nod and walking back to the car.
George turned and started through the airport to her terminal. She picked up her tickets from the counter, a women with a helmet of hair and a large mole on the bridge of her nose, and proceeded to her gate.
The airport was going through renovation and renaming. It had replaced several other New York attempts of an airport and had been argued over in more than one state official’s office.
The planes that took off from it and landed were small.
Not so long ago, the majority of flight revenue came purely from spectators. A dime allowed a non passenger to come into the airport to watch the planes take off and land. For a while, the early version of the airport had been crammed full with gaping people. Now, it was quieter, the main attraction losing its interest, and catering more to a high class of civilian gave the atmosphere a ruse of luxury.
Georgia handed over her bags and sat down beside the terminal to await her pass to board. Her stomach gave a twinge of queasiness. Flying always made her anxious, state side in a luxury plane, or in a foreign country’s military contraption, it didnt matter. She didnt have wings. She didnt belong in the air.
But the world moves on. With or without someone. She was to young to be left behind.

[Nope]

Marvin woke early. His shift didnt start for another three hours. He had plenty of time to roam the desert looking for something that may or may not exist.
“Nothing wrong with that.” He said to himself in the mirror. Stubble had progressed into an epidemic over his face. He rubbed at it, considering a shave, then shrugged. Who was around to care? It wasnt like he had a hot date crawling up his front walk.
He snorted out loud to the empty apartment. “Right.”
Besides, this was his day. He had the possibility of a lifetime. The possibility of truth. Something was out there. Something fell from the sky. He had not been dream, or drink.
It was out there. It was waiting for him.

Marvin pulled a jacket on over yesterday’s shirt and skipped out on a belt. It made his pants sag a little more than they should, but there was too little time to bother with all the loops. He pulled on shoes, masking the scent of socks several days old.
While he dressed, he imagined what he would do. What people would say. He imagined himself a millionaire. A woman on each arm. He would talk to the papers, the press, the media. His voice would be broadcast over the radio.
He’d be given medals and a government escort. No, he’d be an official, advising the president on extraterrestrial matters.
“It was hard work.” He’d say. “It takes a lot of character to know something is out there, when no one else will believe. It takes a big man to keep that kind of faith. Keep a cool head.”
His face would on magazines. He’d look out from TIME, holding a Nobel Prize.
This was his shot. His big time.

Marvin gathered his bag of supplies, filled a canteen with water, took a stale muffin from the counter and left. He shut the door quietly, and observed the hall. The building was quiet.
He waited a moment more, listening, before stepping quietly down the main staircase toward the door.
He slowed even further past a worn entrance on the main floor. Behind the door was the residence of his landlord, the irrefutable Mrs. Connor with her big hair, false teeth, and worn out slippers. If he could just slip past….just slip….
The door swung open violently, and a thick irish accent shouted, “MARVIN!”
Damn. “Morning Mrs. Connor. You look stunning today, look at you.” He looked her over. Her robe was open to a thread bare silk nightie that left not enough to his imagination. He cringed, caught himself, then smiled. “New robe?”
“You know damn well it isnt. Were be my money?”
“I just paid you last week, dearie. Didnt I? All of it upfront.”
The old woman’s eyes narrowed. Marvin continued to smile. “You know me, Mrs. Connor. Im always on time. They should get rid of clocks and just have me on the radio, announcing the time every hour. And it would be right too.” He held up his right hand like an oath.
Her eyes narrowed further. “You got part of that right, Marvin. You are like a clock….CUCKOO!”
SLAM went the door.
“Lucky for you then, you crazy old bat.” He mumbled. Shaking his head, he ducked out the door toward the battered old military motor bike. He imagined it as a shiny new Rolls-Royce. White, with gold trim and white walled tires. He’d roll through town in it, nodding at the people who had called him crazy.
Then he’d buy the ridiculous apartment building and burn it down. Maybe with Mrs. Connor in it. He’d have to see how generous all that money would make him.

The bike didnt start on the first try.
Or the second.
On the third, it billowed a cloud of gray smoke before sputtering to life. He drove it through the city, long since woken with the sun that Marvin had ignored, from his bed, as long as possible.
He drove it out past the buildings and criss crossing roads. He drove past the watered lawns and irrigated trees to the dusty hills and squat, dry scrub bushes.

Once he reached the point he’d been the night before, he slowed to a stop, dropped the bike next to a large rock and began to climb it. Upon the apex, he dug his binoculars from the rucksack and scanned the horizon.
“Where are you baby?” He muttered. “Where are you?”