#hayword

“You think there’s a rat, and you think it’s me.” Griffin shook his head and trained his eyes to the wall, the diplomas and plaques of recognition that littered the navy walls.

“Director Hayword, I don’t know what more I can do to prove my loyalty. When I came here, I was under the impression that this organization understood how ancestry works; you can’t control it. I have no more choice in being born a Marshalls than you have being born a Hayword. I didn’t choose to have my family’s power passed down to me, and there is nothing I can do about it. I came here to change things and make a new legacy for my family.”

The short speech was rote, almost memorized from having to repeat it to trainers and co-workers constantly. As much as it got under Griffin’s skin, he refused to leave the Corps. They would have to drag him out kicking and screaming. The words might be rote, but each was tried and true, proved time and time again with endurance and determination. Griffin had vowed as a teenager that the Marshalls family name would be dragged out of the mud, even if he had to do it himself. Even if no one would believe him until it was completed. Even if he had to stop and clean off the dirt slug from other trainees and supervisors.

Director Hayword raised his hands in submission.

“Griffin,” he stated, drawing his eyes back to the man. It was exceptionally rare for the Director to use first names. “I apologize if I gave you that impression, that was never my intent. You are one of, if not my best agent that I have. I would never question the loyalty that you have shown us, and I am consistently impressed with your work ethic and determination. I have asked you here because I need a person on the inside, and you are my best option.”

Griffin set his jaw. He hated having to be on edge, ready to defend his position at every turn. Typically, he was always on the defensive, he rarely had to deal with the awkward aftermath of defending himself from someone who wasn’t attacking. However, there was still a thorn in that rose.

“You want me to go undercover because I’m the one they already expect to turn,” he stated coldly. Director Hayword nodded, that shimmer of guilt growing. At least Griffin could take comfort in the fact that Hayword felt guilty. It was a few steps removed from an actual apology, but he would take what he could get.

God, he didn’t want to. He didn’t want to give anyone the satisfaction – even false satisfaction – of watching him change sides. He could see it now, the smirks and raised eyebrows of every training leader that just screamed, I knew it. Just a matter of time.

“I will on the condition that I made a recording that will clear my name that can be played publicly.”

The slightest nano second, the smallest shift of the muscles in Director Hayword’s forehead. Surprise. Invisible to the naked eye, but not to a Marshalls. Hayword’s nonverbals were almost screaming at Griffin, tattling information like a bratty kindergartener. The shift of his chest from a sore back, the way he favored his left side likely due to an old injury, the way his eyes focused that just screamed nearsighted. Every emotion that ran through him was clear, easy to read. It was laughable to try to lie to a Marshalls, best to just cut your losses and leave the conversation with your deception trapped behind your teeth. Griffin doubted that this was a stipulation he was expecting, but it compulsory.

“Of course.”

~~

The video starts abruptly. The location nondescript. A man with dark hair in a military cut, dressed as if ready for active duty in black cargo pants, combat boots, and a dark navy unbranded shirt. He sits in a metal folding chair, elbows leaning on his knees, hands clasped together. He eyes the camera directly, not focusing on the lens but looking directly though it to the audience watching.

“My name is Griffin Bryan Marshalls, and I am an active Directive Agent in the Advanced Proficiency Division of the Defense and Investigational Federal Corps. Badge number 62774257.

At the request of Director Andrew Hayword, I will be going undercover in the Southwest Syndicate to infiltrate and gather intel. I was chosen for this position due to my family’s reputation and history. If any of you have met or worked with me, then you know that I do not respect or value my family’s name. I do not condone their actions and history, and therefore have moved to distance myself from them in every possible way.

As much as I wish to distance myself from my family name, it gives me the unique opportunity to infiltrate this syndicate and dismantle it. I understand the implication and the risk that are associated with my decision.

I plan to do my job and do it well. I know that there have been rumors and suspicion of my intent in the DIFC and I want to make a clear statement. I have never, and will never, condone the actions of the Southwest Syndicate or any groups that are affiliated with it. Family allegiance means nothing to me when they associated themselves with these criminals.  

I plan to play my part in taking them down, and that will include actions that go against my personal morals and the DIFC code of behavior and ethics. I will act against the DIFC and their interests. This is nothing more than a painful means to an end.

My decision is grounded in my desire for the greater good. To keep others safe. Regardless of what happens to me undercover, I will not loose track of the goal; to keep our citizens safe. I will not fail. I will not falter.

In the event that I do not return, I have given clear directions to Director Hayword to make this video public. My family legacy does not define me, as it does not need to define any individual. We choose what path we take.

Subfero Suscipere Superesse.”

Before the footage cuts off, as distant as faint whisper on the wind, a breathed response to the call from behind the camera; Oorah.  

~~~

Griffin was pissed. Pissed that it took him years to get into the corps. Legal emancipation from his parents at sixteen, bills and documentation proving he hadn’t relied on them for at least two years before he could join recruitment. Every test, every mark had to be perfect. No, not perfect, better than perfect. Never a hair out of place, always so far above reproach to stave off any rumors or speculation. Two years to get into basic training, two to get through it, four before he got a permanent placement. Three years in the Advanced Proficiency Division before they even came close to trusting him.

What did it take to get an invite to the Southwest Syndicate? Go to a bar, buy a beer, and complain to the bartender about his job. He didn’t even need to lie about the dirty looks he got from his coworkers or the way that none of his supervisors trusted him. Shit, he probably would have done this even if it wasn’t part of his assignment, minus the audible complaining and mentioning his last name.

He wasn’t even done with his second beer before the blond haired, tailored suit sat in the stool next to him and paid for his third. Griffin almost rolled his eyes. Too easy.

The only thing that he had to lie about was his current standing with the DIFC. They needed him on the inside of the Southwest Syndicate, not some sort of double – triple? – agent playing both sides like an overly complicated James Bond character. He just said he was fired for bogus reasons. Made the chip on his shoulder clear, and wished it wasn’t so close to home.