Consequences Are A Double-Edged Sword
Whumptober 2025 prompt. Day 11 CAN YOU GET THROUGH ALL THE PAIN INSIDE YOU?: Hidden Injury | Laceration | Forced Reveal.
Joe McClaine sat on the edge of his seat, spellbound. The story Mister Weston had just told, how Joe – Joe! – could save the world by stealing a Russian fighter plane and fighting his way out of Russian Air Space was the most exciting thing he had ever heard.
He and the lads at school played at spies during lunch, but now Mister Weston was giving him the opportunity to actually be a spy. And a super spy, a ‘Most Special Agent’ – even better than James Bond!
His heart sank when Mister Weston said that he needed his Dad’s permission to work with Uncle Sam. He knew before his Dad reacted what his answer would be, and Joe alone wasn’t startled when his father hit the sofa repeated, yelling “No! No! NO! No!” He knew it was rude, but he couldn't help pleading: “Dad, you’ve GOT to let me do it!”
“Keep out of this, Joe! Go outside!” His father’s words stung. How many times had he been praised for being responsible and grown up? And now, here he was being offered a responsible and grown-up job and his father was refusing to let him do it, and treating him like … like a baby!
He knew he had no choice but to obey, but he didn’t have to do so gracefully, and he sulked his way out of the room.
Leaning up against the padded door, he strained to hear what was being said – yelled, really – in the room he had just left, but he could only hear snatches of words: “ever since Mary died, he’s meant everything to me!” “And no boy ever had a better father!” “Try to see our side!” “Out of the question!” “ - to me: the opportunity is here to prevent war!” “Find someone else!” “To save human lives!” “Joe’s life!” “- make new discoveries!” “JUST HOLD IT, WILL YOU!”
It got quiet after that, and Joe couldn't hear anything much. It seemed a long time before he heard another voice, Uncle Sam calling out, “Joe!”
Sheepish, he opened the door and stepped just inside the room. He had eyes only for his father. “Can I do it, Dad? Can I work with Uncle Sam?”
His father looked sad as he answered, “I suppose so. If you’re sure you want to?” Joe knew that his father really wanted him to answer no; no, he didn’t want to work with Uncle Sam; no, he didn’t want his father to be sad. He seemed to collect himself a little as he added sternly: “But don’t come crying to me if you get hurt!”
Joe was all smiles as he replied, “Thanks, Dad! Thanks, Uncle Sam!”
After all, he was going to be the hero. And everyone knows heroes never get hurt – not properly hurt, anyway.
High in the rafters of the theatre, the operative lay in wait, observing the crowds through the scope of his powerful custom-made sniper rifle.
He stifled a curse, knowing that it would get a sharp reprimand from the voice in his earpiece. And there was that strange sense, almost like double vision, part of him was unsettled by the notion of his language being censored, and the other part reassured by it.
He was too close to one of the powerful spotlights, and the heat was making him sweat. He rubbed at his forehead with his shirtsleeve, trying to prevent the sweat obscuring his vision. In doing so, it shifted the glasses he wore, shifting one of the arms away from his temple.
The second the arm of the glasses left his skin there was a moment of clarity, and Joe McClaine felt a momentary flash of panic – what on earth was he doing with a gun? He didn’t know how to shoot!
The moment passed, and Joe realised what had happened, and he settled the glasses more securely to his face. He would have to remember to mention this in his debriefing report. His father would probably want to redesign the glasses to prevent it from happening again.
Joe McClaine disappeared again under the BIG RAT template of Sergio Pereira, the famed Portuguese sniper. A veteran of the Global War and one of the handful of marksmen in history with the distinction of having a confirmed sniper-on-sniper kill, and well as the record for longest distance for a confirmed kill Pereira also had bodyguard training and had been in the security detail of the President of the Portuguese Republic before the office had been rendered obsolete with Portugal’s entry into the Congress of Europe under the Triumvirate.
It was Pereira’s instincts and skillset that were screaming now – warning that there was something wrong. The information provided, that a terrorist, inspired by the historical example of John Wilkes Booth, was intending to assassinate the American President at the theatre tonight.
There was that double-vision like sensation again, part schoolboy admiration for the derring-do of Booth, and part contempt for the amateurish conspiracy.
The sense of movement behind him made the operative pause. It had been confirmed that there was no reason – no legitimate – reason for the theatre staff to be this high in the theatre during the production. All the lights and rigging had been set during the dress rehearsal earlier in the day, and was controlled from the electronics booth at the far end of the theatre, disguised as a decorative panel in the ornate room.
Of course, that didn’t rule out an illicit tryst or interloper intent on watching the performance without paying from the inconvenient angle.
The sense of movement came again, and the fact that it was so silent and stealthy made it extremely unlikely that the cause was a shirking employee or a tightfisted theatre fan.
He ran the scenario. There was no way that the interloper had failed to spot him. His position near the light was intended to mask him from the view of people coming from the opposite angle. To anyone coming from behind him – which was supposed to have been covered by Sam Loover and his team of agents (‘Americanos tipicamente incompetentes!’ was the contemptuous thought competing with a childish sense of betrayal) – he would be exposed and illuminated.
Breathing in deeply, holding it for a count of five, the operative threw himself over onto his back, rolling to the left away from the spotlight. Aiming the rifle down the length of his body, he found himself looking at a black-clad and utterly average-looking man. Average height, average build, average colouring, average features. This was a man custom made to be invisible and forgettable. And it was – unmistakably – a custom job: the only distinguishing feature was the faint scar of a facial reconstructive surgery.
Whoever this assassin was, he was no amateur in the style of the historical American Booth.
They both froze – the assassin and the sniper in the body of a nine-year-old boy. The assassin was too far away to make use of the wicked knife he held poised in his hand, and the operative was far, far too close to use the powerful rifle he had aimed at the chest of the other. The bullet would pass through him, but it was too high of a calibre, too powerful a rifle, and any shot that was fired would continue out of the assassin through the roof, and could potentially kill someone in the crowded streets beyond.
That scenario was a far cry from the discreet and invisible operation he was tasked with.
Slowly, the operative eased one hand from the rifle, and pulled out the much smaller, and equally silenced firearm he had been issued with. The small pistol was still powerful, but ideal for this kind of scenario.
Carefully bringing the pistol to bear hidden by the bulk of the sniper rifle, he counted silently to five, and simultaneously shifted the rifle to clear his line of fire, and pulled the trigger.
His aim was a little off, the weaker body of the nine-year-old the operative’s consciousness found itself in was enough to send the shot wide, but it still embedded itself in the assassins shoulder as the man threw himself forward.
The operative brought the rifle up to block the assassin’s lunge, and break his charge long enough to roll away, and take advantage of his small size and lesser weight to dance out across the weaker joists that the assassin could not follow him on.
“Give me the rifle, boy.” Even the voice was average and unremarkable. Generic American accent. Not too rough, not too smooth, not to loud or soft, not too jargonistic or slangy. Utterly average.
“I don’t think so,” he responded, taunting the man as he cautiously moved back along his supporting beam, daring him to follow.
If the operative could keep him occupied, keep him distracted enough to lead him to Sam Loover’s support team they could take him alive. Maybe learn more about the organisation that had hired him – because this man was clearly a contacted mercenary, either that or, more worryingly, the organisation behind the assassination attempt to better organised than they had been led to believe.
The assassin followed him, keeping to the main supports as carefully as the operative was keeping to the weaker joists. Several times it looked as though the man was contemplating throwing the wicked looking knife, but something stopped him. The operative risked several looks around him as they continued their dance in the rafters, but never saw anything. But still the sense remained that he was being herded to a specific destination.
The operative sought to maintain control of the dance, trying in turn to herd his quarry towards the trap he was setting while avoiding the one set for him. It was a dangerous game, but it had the advantage of ‘running down the clock’ – ever second they wasted in this game was a second sooner that the American President would leave the theatre.
And then time ran out. So intent had the operative been on keeping himself away from the trap that the walls provided, he had missed his opponent’s true destination for him – the large and heavy bulk of one of the theatre’s curtains. With only two directions for him to go, and every way supported by the main rafters the assassin could easily traverse. Somewhere, off to the side, came a soft bleep! as a piece of machinery received a command.
The assassin lunged, knife held out, as the curtain started rolling it’s weighted bottom end holding it straight and stiff as it came off the roller, descending towards the stage.
The operative held his place until the last possible moment, before twisting away, arm upraised. There was a brief burning sensation, but the operative shunted the pain away, years of training taking hold.
The assassin, crouched down and aiming low to try and stab his much smaller opponent, was off balance, and had no time to recover. He overshot his mark when his target shifted, and the knife bit into to the thick, stiffened material. The downward force of the curtains weight and its descent was nowhere near as slow as it appeared from the ground level.
Off balance and off guard, it only took a small pressure to his back – which the operative gladly supplied – to send the assassin plummeting to the hard stage.
The body which hit the stage headfirst with a sickening crack! wrought hysterical screaming from the plays’ leading lady, and caused the leading man – who had risen to fame by starring as the action hero in popular Hollywood movies – to keel over in a dead faint.
Fortunately, the operative saw as he wearily surveyed the scene, the primary set of curtains, sweeping in from the sides, had obscured the drama from the audience, although there was consternation at the ruckus heard from the stage-side of the curtains as the leading lady’s hysterics and the ruckus as Sam Loover’s forces swarmed from the wings to take control of the scene.
“Agent 90, evac protocol 3. Debrief will take place once returned to Base.”
“Roger. Agent 90 commencing evac.” The operative turned to make his way back across the scaffolding, when a sharp in his arm and side brought him to a halt. A quick investigation at by the light of the spotlights showed that the assassin’s knife had hit it’s target, albeit briefly. There were twin slashes from a sharp edged blade on his inner arm and the side of his chest.
A grimace, and the operative quickly retrieved two bandages from his personal kit, lifting his shirt and wrapping the injuries as tightly as he could manage before resettling his shirt. It wouldn’t hold up to scrutiny, but there was a jacket stashed just by the access door he had used, and it would cover up the slashes, and blood stained fabric. The sniper rifle was tucked where the jacket had been, to await retrieval by the World Intelligence Networks regular forces.
It wasn’t ideal, but it would protect him from unwanted interest by random civilians, until he could get back to Base and seek appropriate medical treatment.
The operative slipped out a side door of the theatre, and dodged his way through the excitedly chattering throngs that were spilling from the theatre. There, parked exactly where it was supposed to be, was the experimental jetcar of Professor Ian McClaine.
The Professor watched as the operative sprang into the passenger set of the car, and secured the door, fumbling with the harness. “He’s here,” the Professor spoke into a discreet headset. “We’re returning home. You can do the debrief there. It’s well, past time he was in bed.” He removed the headset and turned to the operative. “Joe, you can remove the glasses now.”
Thankfully, the operative pulled the glasses away from his face, before folding them up and placing them carefully in the special case the Profess – Dad – held out to him. “Thanks, Dad.”
“Are you okay, Joe? It sounded like there was a fight up there,” his father fussed as he quickly engaged the vehicles drive capabilities, and pulled carefully out into the traffic.
“Yeah, the assassin didn’t have a gun. I guess they figured they could get one off the security onsite and use that to pull it off.” That was the last of Sergio Pereira’s insight as the effect of the BIGRAT’s brain impulse transfer faded away.
His father glanced at him in concern. “And are you okay? Did you get hurt in the fight?”
Joe opened his mouth to tell his father about the cuts, but a memory rose suddenly. His father’s words on the day he became Joe 90, WIN’s Most Special Agent: “Don’t come crying to me if you get hurt.”
Joe settled back into his seat. “Yeah, Dad. I’m okay.”
The rest of the trip had passed in silence, Joe was truly exhausted, and the knife wounds were further sapping his strength. But while his body was still and quiet, his mind raced. Pereira’s assessment of the injury stayed with him, as some things sometimes did. Joe, or rather Pereira, knew that the cuts were serious and needed a doctor’s attention.
But Joe also knew that his father was not pleased by his work with Uncle Sam and WIN, and would use any excuse he could find to stop his tenure as WIN’s Most Special Agent.
He considered, and rejected, telling Uncle Sam about the injury during his debrief, and asking him not to tell his father. Sam Loover had been his father’s friend for much longer than Joe had been alive, much less his son, and there was no chance that Sam would keep the secret.
By the time Ian McClaine eased his experimental vehicle into its garage, Joe knew what he had to do. If he couldn’t tell his father, and he couldn’t tell Uncle Sam; that meant that he could not rely on outside help to treat his injuries. At least, he couldn’t rely on physically presence outside help…
Deep in his father’s laboratory was the BIGRAT, the source of all Agent 90’s expertise and knowledge. And among the recorded Brain Impulse Records on file was that of a celebrated doctor. Surely there was the knowledge and skill Joe needed to treat his injuries.
It was easy enough to operate the BIGRAT, while his father had been perfecting the design, he uploaded his own knowledge into Joe’s mind many, many times over. Joe hadn’t realised it at the time, but slowly he had began to realise that he understood the inner workings of the machine. Certainly he could program the machine and upload one of the stored tapes to his own mind.
With a plan in place, all Joe needed was the time to pull it off, so when his father insisted he got straight to bed after a very light supper Joe didn’t argue. Bidding his father good night, he went to his bedroom, and put himself to bed, closing his eyes and feigning sleep. It was only half an hour before his father came to the door to check on him, as was customary. Joe knew that after that, his father wouldn’t disturb him until morning – plenty of time to put his plan into effect.
Tiptoeing gently down the hallway, Joe avoided the creaky floorboards by long experience sneaking to the kitchen, but tonight he deviated his path, turning instead to the entrance to his father’s laboratory.
As the elevator gently came to a stop, Joe stumbled. Huh, I must really be tired, he thought. That wasn’t surprising, though. Most Special Agents didn’t have to go to school for the day before going on their missions.
Entering the BIGRAT chamber, Joe went immediately to the drawers that held the Brain Impulse Records. It was easy to find the recording he wanted, filed as they were by profession.
Joe quickly loaded the recording into the machinery, and set the machinery on a timer to activate. Hurrying to the seat, he stumbled and only just made it before it retracted into the sphere to commence the upload.
As the multicoloured lights flashed their hypnotic patterns around him, Joe felt his body become leaden, and his eyelids were heavy. It was strangely hard to keep awake, and Joe worried that he would fall asleep before the process finished – he had no idea what effect that might have.
It was with a sense of relief that he noticed the bars of the sphere slowing down, and as the seat slid forward to exit the space, World Health Organisation Administrator and Medicens Sans Frontiers Surgeon Doctor Edward Wilkie stared in consternation at his – entirely unfamiliar – body. That was a lot of blood, was his final thought before unconsciousness claimed him.
Ian McClain was pacing his living room impatiently when Sam Loover finally arrived.
His old friend barely stepped through the door when he was grabbed and physically hustled toward the elevator to the laboratory, with a growl of “I want a word with you.”
As the elevator doors closed, Sam turned to his friend. “Mac, what’s the problem?”
“What’s the problem? What’s the problem!? My nine year old son just got into a knife-fight with professional assassin, is what the problem is!”
Sam sighed. Mac had never been happy about this arrangement, no matter how enthusiastic Joe was, and remained, with the work he was doing. And now Sam had to regularly calm his old friends’ tantrums and scruples – all while pretending he wasn’t regularly plagued by doubt as to the wisdom of using Joe. But he had set all this in motion when he had told his bosses of the invention and its potential, and now he had to live with the consequences.
“Mac, I know – this operation didn’t exactly go smoothly…” he broke off when he realised his companion wasn’t listening to him. Mac was staring at the floor and his face had gone deathly pale. “Mac, what…?””
Mac pointed at the floor. “Blood,” he whispered. “There’s blood on the floor.”
Sam felt his heart drop into his shoes. “Joe didn’t report injury,” he said, lips numb.
“No one else could get in here,” Mac snapped. “It’s got to be Joe!”
The elevator slid to a stop, and Mac charged out before the doors were fully open, Sam close on his heels.
Sam barrelled into Mac as the man skidded to a halt just inside the BIGRAT’s chamber. Peering over his friend’s shoulder he saw what had stopped his friend. There, slumped in the BIGRAT’s seat, was Joe, a puddle of dark blood forming on the ground where it was dripping off his right fingers.
Sam pushed past Mac and ran to the boy, long experience making his examination of the boy fast and competent. “Call an ambulance, he’s lost a lot of blood,” was all he said a he lifted the small body to take him to the upstairs levels.
Three hours later, Sam let himself into the small private hospital room WIN had ensured it’s Most Special Agent was afforded in the small cottage hospital. He stood awkwardly just inside the door for a long moment, looking at the small boy lying asleep in the hospital bed, a blood transfusion slowly replenishing the depleted veins.
Slumped in a chair next to him, grasping one of the small hands in both of his, and head bowed, was Mac, his eyes red rimmed and lips moving soundlessly. Sam had an unsettling memory of Mac’s wife Mary lying in a bed just like that, pale and bloodless after the car accident that had cut her life short.
There was no way that Mac wasn’t remembering the same tragedy.
“What do you want?” Mac’s voice was flat and unemotional. Sam swallowed.
“I’ve cleaned up,” he offered, feeling unaccustomedly timid. “I just wanted you to know that you don’t have to worry about that.”
“Cleaning away the evidence doesn’t clear away your guilt,” Mac said in the same flat voice.
“I know.” Sam waited, but Mac didn’t respond.
“There was a tape in the BIGRAT,” Sam offered. “Some WHO Doctor. I think…”
“Joe was trying to treat his own injuries,” Mac said dully.
Sam stared. “Uh, yeah. I think so.” He frowned. “How…”
“He woke up,” Mac said. “A short while ago. He told me. Apologised for the fuss. For not being good enough.” There was a sound suspiciously like a sob.
There was a long moment, before Sam spoke again. “Why didn’t he report he was injured? We could have gotten him medical help sooner.”
There was a rustling from the bed, and Sam realised that Joe had woken up while he was speaking. Mac didn’t answer, so Sam stepped forward. “Joe, how are are you feeling?”
“Tired,” Joe muttered weakly.
Sam tried for a stern look. “Joe, you’ve been told many times – I know because I’ve done it many times – that you’re to report all injuries. Why didn’t you?”
Joe sighed. “Dad would be mad at me,” he said. “He told me, at the start, not to complain to him if I got hurt.” Joe seemed to drift off to sleep, but then he spoke again. “Don’t want him to make me stop. I don’t want to stop helping, Uncle Sam.”
Joe drifted off again, and this time he didn’t wake up.
The two men stared at each other. Sam sighed. “I’ll brief Weston. We’ll buy the BIGRAT from you. Relocate it to a WIN facility. You and Joe can go back to your life before all of this.”
“Joe would never forgive me,” Mac said sadly. “It’s too late, Sam. We’ve got to ride this to the very end. Whatever that end may be.”
Sam lowered his eyes. The guilt was back, gnawing at his heart. But however much it hurt him to see the boy injured and contemplate what the future would bring.
But however much pain the guilt caused him, he knew it was minuscule to what was felt by the father sat at his son’s beside. Both men knew they were responsible for the Joe’s current situation; that they would be responsible for all future pain he would experience.
And both vowed that they would do what they could to avoid all the pain they save him from. And in their hearts, they knew those vows were empty words.
I’ve never been taken with ‘Joe 90’, a nine year old subjected to medical experimentation by his adoptive father – with absolutely zero ethics board overview and exploited by an even more morally dubious Intelligence types. It never sat right with me; granted, I am very far from the target demographic. Nine year old boys don’t tend to worry too much about ethics when there is the chance of grand adventure.
And Ian McClaine’s comment (“But don’t come crying to me if you get hurt!”) at the end of the first episode “The Most Special Agent” is simply designed to come back and bite him on the arse!
The standard disclaimers, I do not own Joe 90. (Although I do own a copy on DVD.)
I do not do this for money, but for my own (in)sanity and entertainment.
