SYNOPSIS:

Investigative journalist set for death, accidentally discovers the remains of the ultra secret M.A.S.K. unit headquarters, and learns of a history never released onto the public of control and manipulation. (This is a SHORT script.)

"M.A.S.K.: REBIRTH (FAN FILM SHORT)

M.A.S.K. Remake (Film Script 1) By Mic Van De Voorde From all black, to dark night, my eyes adjust as I run. My hands still tied behind my back. Unfamiliar voices scream from behind, as I move wildly. Deep breaths, as my eyes dart, looking for something, anything to run to. Surrounded by desert, I have nothing to hide behind. Where am I? Arizona? New Mexico? Thank god I run every day. My thoughts are cut short as a gun shot rings out behind me. A bullet rips past me, and I drop. A blanketing pain hits me, and all I can see is static. A sharp pain comes from just above my eye. Cold sand and rocks stinging my sweat covered head. I can feel warm fluid running down my face as voices come closer. Before I know it, they're right above me. I can't move now, I can't breathe. Sucking a big breath in, I close my eyes as the bright light from their flashlight covers me. Through closed eyes, I see the light hit my face, and hold there. "Seriously?...You got him from fifty feet with ONE SHOT?!...You got to be kidding me!" "Get the picture and lets go...I'm feeling like pancakes." "Whoa!...You actually speak?!...What, no grave?!...Thought you was some kind of PROFESSIONAL!?" "And it will be the last time you hear it...Were miles from the closest house...wild will take the remains...No one will find him." I slowly crack my eyes as the flashlight scans my body, then around into the darkness. I take small panicked breaths, tiny enough not to be heard. Then the light comes back over my face. "I'm putting another one in him, no way you got him at that distance." I hear footsteps come closer, then a loud gunshot echoes all around as a loud thud lands on the ground next to me. Warm splatters hit my face. The flashlight drops and faces a man, his eyes open in shock. Blood pooling underneath his face, smoke coming from his nostrils. A large hole now in the side of his head. Slowly steps come closer, then the shadow of a man squats over the now dead man. My eyes freeze, and stare forward, towards them both. "Hack." The man turns and looks in my direction, his flashlight flashes on my face. I freeze. Completely terrified, I think "statue" over and over. The flashlight scans my body, then a flash of light engulfs the area, and a familiar "click" is heard. Another flash and "click" covers the other man. "Who wants pancakes?...I do-I do." My eyes slowly open to slits. I can't help but stare into the frozen terrified stare of an older man, as the other man's steps slowly walk back into the desert darkness. Another minute, and the sound of a engine starting allows me the confidence to look around. In the distance, the vehicle pulls away and its headlights light it's direction then out of sight. I wait a moment longer, still staring at my now dead companion. Setting up, I fish my arms over my ass, and legs; then begin biting through the plastic zip ties. Another five minutes of struggling, and I realize, the staring dead man could have something of use. Reaching into his pockets I empty all of his pockets, then grab the flashlight and check the inventory. My eyes catch it first. Jackpot. A small pocket knife begins slowly cutting the plastic that binds me. After a tedious, and many fumbled attempts, I'm free. Well, my left hand is free. I now have a plastic bracelet I forget I'm wearing on the right. Reaching for my head and feel the wound coming from above my eye. Small rocks sting and stick to my head. I feel a flap of skin, my stomach almost turns at seeing the wound in my mind. I have to stay setting or I'll pass out. I dust the wound with my hand, attempting to free the rocks from my cut. Each swipe a mountain of stinging pain, almost makes me sick. I grab the flashlight and look around my surroundings. Large rocks and desert brush for as far as the eye can see. In the distance, a small mountain range. The moon illuminates the desert now, as the cloud cover slowly disappears. I look back down to the stranger and his items. His wallet, I open and scan his I.D. His name, ---- ------. I have no clue. Never heard of him. Don't recognize him either. A blank white card, which goes into the wallet. One hundred dollars in twenties. I immediately pocket in my jacket. The flashlight shines down to nine millimeter fully equipped with silencer. I grab the gun, then pull the coat and shoulder holster from ---- -----. Strapping the gun into the holster, I have to marvel how this man had such a nice gun. Our government had passed the 2016 ban on all gun ownership for private citizens. How did these men STILL have access to firearms AFTER the "purge". Two full clips, the flashlight and a cell phone are the last items before me. I unlock the battery case and pull out the battery from the cell. I turn off the flashlight and collect all the items, pocketing them as I slowly realize I can hear a familiar vehicle in the far off distance. My jaw drops and blood runs cold as lights come back into view from the distance. In less than a heartbeat, I run. I run towards mountain ahead of me, with the vehicle coming from my far off right. I run until my legs feel weak, thinking of the psycho headed back to my previous location. Tripping, I pull myself up continuing my panicked run with the sound of the vehicle getting closer to my previous location behind me in the distance. The small mountain getting closer with each step. Behind me, the sound of a car door shutting echoes in the darkness. I panic, and run till the adrenaline wears out. My breaths are hard and heavy, feeling somewhat safe in the distance covered. The man slowly walks, flashlight illuminating each step. "Either of you got any cash I can borrow?" He hums a song to himself, as his steps and song slowly stops seeing only one dead body. The man sighs to himself, as he turns off the flashlight. Looking around, he scans the horizon as his eyes adjust to the dark. After a couple of moments, he notices something in the far distance. "Ok...pancakes will wait." The man begins walking in the direction of the movement. Unholstering a gun, he begins to jog. Keeping an even pace, his eyes stay focused, looking around for any movement. I keep running, exhausted and breathing hard. My pace slow, as my legs feel like jelly. I stumble and fall, get up and run. I do this again, this time, down a large ridge, beginning to fall hard and fast. I fall for what feels like seconds before my body hits rocks and begins rolling down a steep embankment. I get up, blanketed in pain from all over my body. Ahead of me, in the distance, a building. Slowly standing, it looks to be a gas station in the side of the small mountain. No lights on. Perfect. I begin limping towards it, looking back up the side of the embankment behind me every couple of steps. After a quarter mile, I'm sure my location is blown by the open moonlit sky. Continuing, I make my way to a desolate road, and look both ways. Empty and alone for as far as I can see. The building is abandoned, with broken windows boarded up by wood. I limp to one of the windows, and push it open with surprising ease. Teenagers. The side of the station, peppered with graffiti. After prying open a space to crawl through, all while feeling eyes on the back of my head. I look back to the ridge a quarter mile behind me. No movement, but I push into the dark building, eyes still on the horizon. The man stands up from squatting at ridge top, as his target disappears into the building. Looking from left to right, the man scans the road, humming to himself. After a moment in the pitch black, he turns and begins trotting back the way he came. His hum, in pace with his steps. Never out of breath, his breaths and hums never wavering. My eyes adjust inside the abandoned station. Outside its pumps, rusted and decayed. Inside, a garage that looks stripped of its history, and dust covering what remained. Graffiti covering walls, and parts of the ceiling. I crunch broken glass underneath as I walk. I move to the window, and look for a couple of minutes, before looking back around the inside. Deeper in the darkness, a room catches my attention, and I click on the flashlight. Heading inside, and closing the door behind me. I scan the room, it's shut off from the outside world, no windows. In the back of the room, a desk. I walk over to the desk and scan it with the flashlight. The floor in room catches my eye, as it seems out of place for a mechanic station in the middle of nowhere. Marble tile. Expensive marble tile. I flash the light over the desk, looking unmoved from its original location. Squatting down, and looking closely at the desk I predict it being thirty years old. Mounted into the floor with large stainless steel screws. The thought is quickly erased as I hear the familiar sound of a vehicle slowly pulling up outside. My heart drops, as the sound of a buzzer ring twice as it pulls over pump alarm. Dropping to my knees, I crawl underneath the desk, and cover the flashlight with my hand. Under the desk, I begin breathing hard, panicked breaths. My eyes darting all over, I notice, and re-notice a small, and hidden compartment. My hand moves to up to it, and the flashlight lights up the tiny area for a moment, as my hand unlatches the hidden compartment. The flashlight illuminates a switch, and from outside, I hear the sound of a horn honking. I turn off the the flashlight, and pull out the gun. My eyes continuing to jump, always landing back on the darkened hidden switch. The man stands out side of his white van, right arm inside the cabin, in his left a large desert eagle. "The only thing you are delaying is my enjoyment of pancakes!" The man, comes around the van, and begins walking towards the front door. "...Sometimes you gotta put in a little OT..." The man raises his gun and shoots an entire clip into the front door, then kicks it open without much resistance. Standing at the entrance, he waits for any noise before moving forward. Smoke and dust mix with his silhouette in front of the moon light before he strolls inside. The gunshots make me jump from under the desk, and in my panic, I cover my head as bullets snap and pop into the room around me. After twelve explosions, it's silent. My hands shakily grab at the desk. From the other room, the man calls out, "I'm REALLY hungry for pancakes!" Without thinking I click the switch. Underneath me, the ground moves, and next thing I know; I'm sliding down a shaft. Faster and faster, I pick up speed, until my fall lands me in what feels like cushioned pillows. Setting up, I'm surrounded in complete darkness. From above me, the sound of something sliding towards me, gets my attention. In a moment, the flashlight shrines its way towards me. It drops in front of me, illuminating a small padded room, with a large opening completely dark. From above I hear gunshots clattering from directly above. Instinctively, I jump and run into the opening. Shinning the light around the darkness, and then back to the tunnel. In complete shock, I'm standing alone in the safe quiet of the station's basement. Silently, I look around the room, which looks as if it was a taken set piece from the Death Star. Walking around, I see computers from years past, everything is made in shiny blue metallic metal, a large screen covering an entire wall, and from above a set of small blue lights, hidden above, in some metal chandelier complete with weird looking alien masks hanging from its ends. "Yep...I'm hallucinating." I whisper, looking at each individual mask from this contraption over head. Each face is different, eyes that reflect my flashlight, breathing tubes running to the base of the neck, each a different vibrant color. I stagger backwards and bump into something behind me, left hand grabs back and clicks a familiar feeling. A keyboard button. Before I can turn around, the room is lit up neon blue, by the enormous screen behind me. My eye catch a full glimpse of the metallic chandelier above me, it looks alien, the masks like something astronauts would wear. Slowly turning around, my eyes take in the room, now somewhat glowing from the reflection of the walls. Turning to the screen, its words and format look outdated. Above me, outstretched across the wall, an enormous riddle shines blue all around me. "_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ is the greatest weapon" I refrain from answering, instead using the light from the screen to save the flashlight battery, and check my surroundings. Above me, what seems like a safe distance away, I hear the muffled sounds of small explosions. Apparently my hunter doesn't give up as easy as I'd hoped. My words must have struck a chord with their boss. That's the life of a journalistic truth seeker in today's world. Turning back to the alien chandelier, I stare in wonder as they look mockingly from high above without answers. Walking around the room, my eyes adjust to the dim light. The room, opens to another large room with a set of four rooms adjoined by a central corridor; darkened without a single light. My flashlight illuminates what looks like an open locker room to the right; showers, sinks, stalls all complete with the typical high school green paint. Across from the lockers, a closed door. To the left, a large kitchen area, complete with table and chairs for twelve. Across from the kitchen, a sunken floor lounge area. Leather couches, plush carpet, enormous tube television, a retro bar area, pool table, even a Pac-man arcade game in the corner. "What the...WHO would...WHERE AM I?!" Straight ahead of me, an enormous closed garage door. Walking up to it, I study its size and dated equipment. My flashlight holds on its motor and pullie, still looking brand new. Near my right elbow, a hand scanner, with keypad is coated in dust, still looking out of place but brand new. "Which president paid for you, my sweet little secret black ops base?", I wonder aloud. Continuing to walk and scan the area, I head into the kitchen. Empty of food, but tap works after a moment of brown. Same with the shower and toilets. All I can do is shake my head, as I head towards the unexplored room. Surprisingly, it opens without resistance, and reveals a large warehouse stocked full. My flashlight shines on crates of MRE's, first aid kits, futuristic uniforms on racks. The back wall is covered in large tool boxes. Near the tool boxes, a large garage door, with another hand scanner and key pad connects to the left. I scan around the room and see tires of different sizes, engines hanging from hoists, barrels of what I guess to be oil. My flashlight catches the words, "explosives" on wooden crates. Checking other crates, I see towels, random household products without expiration dates. Stunned I head back toward the door in a stupor, then stop at one of the uniforms shinning in the light. I scan the full body suit, it's texture is tough like leather, but with a level of elasticity to it. Confused, I know something is jumping out about it, but my mind is slow, taking this secret world in. In the back of my mind, I'm contemplating who's publishing this, and for how much. TIME or Rolling Stone. The New Yorker or Mother Jones. Then it hits me. My mind connects the piece of the puzzle I overlooked in the dim light. I yank the full body suit off its rack and jog back to the alien chandelier. Taking the flashlight, I look from the suit, then upwards, and slowly circle around the different masks. After seven masks, I see it. The colors of mask and suit match, and I hold the suit up to the mask; flashlight in mouth. "Some kind of "super solider" base here, Uncle Sam?...And no cell phone...perfect." I lower the suit, but stare up at the corresponding mask, more determined than ever to discover this place's secrets, no matter how long I'm down here. Jogging back to the warehouse, I find everything BUT a ladder high enough to reach the mask. Even with the aid of a broom stick, the mask wouldn't budge from its mantle. Not wanting to risk falling, and injuring myself, I climb down and hang the suit from the ladder. My eyes never leaving the now hypnotic mask looking down to me from just out of reach. I stroll around the rooms, my eyes jumping from the neon screen back to the masks overhead. "What is the greatest weapon?...Propaganda...too many letters...capitalism, no...M-I-S-S-I-L-E-S!...I know that can't be it...too easy...M-I-L-I-T-A-R-Y...too easy...THINK, Brian, THINK!" My eyes dart around the room, looking for some sort of answer. Only darkness and dust surround me. Shaking my head, I walk around the large desk. Noticing twelve chairs surrounding the large circular desk, and the thick layer of dust coating it. I swing the flashlight around the room, scanning for any hidden clues. Giving up I set, the flashlight on the desk, and look back to the enormous screen surrounding me. "Eight letters...is the greatest weapon...WHO am I dealing with here?...How LONG has this been here?...What, 80's...maybe early 90's?...R-E-L-I-G-I-O-N?" I begin to type it out on the old keyboard, and the letter take a second before they appear in front of me. I spell out "religion", and hesitate with my finger over the return button. My eyes look back around the room, then to the flashlight. It's beam, shinning across the table. At the far end, a set of smudges set different in the thick layer of dust. Walking over curiously, I shine the light at different angles to the smudges, gently blowing the dust from the area. The symbols turn into hieroglyphics, which my eyes slowly decipher into letters. The first to come into focus is the I's and O. As soon as I recognize the first letters, my mind notices to the two L's. Before I know it, I'm deleting "religion" and typing "I-L-L-U-S-I-O-N" and hitting enter. The screen flashes bright and a wide range of vibrant colors, before I hear a computer generated voice call out, "PERFORMING SELF UPDATE...CONNECTING TO SECURE NETWORKS...NORAD ONLINE...DEPARTMENT OF DEFENSE ONLINE...DEPARTMENT OF HOMELAND SECURITY ONLINE...NATIONAL SURVEILLANCE AGENCY ONLINE..." I hear myself groan, "Oh shit." "CENTRAL INTELLIGENCE AGENCY ONLINE...FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATIONS ONLINE...ALCOHOL TOBACCO FIREARMS ONLINE... "SCANNING...PROCESSING NEW M.A.S.K. AGENT..." Multiple green lights shine down from different points in the darkened room. "What the...NO-NEGATIVE!" I move my hands over my face after the lights move past and continue scanning lower. "NEGATIVE!...STOP SCAN-STOP THE SCAN!" "SCAN COMPLETE...AGENT BRIAN -... JOURNALISM GRADUATE UNIVERSITY OF IOWA 2014...INDEPENDENT INVESTIGATIVE JOURNALIST VICE NEWS, ROLLING STONE, CURRENT RESIDENCE...UNKNOWN..." I go from shocked to monetarily relieved. "Well-" "MAJORITY TOWER PINGS, JOHNSON COUNTY, IOWA..." "...There it is." "...RECORDS INDICATE RECENTLY DECEASED..." Then back to shocked, I ask out loud, expecting an answer. "Whoa?!...I'm DEFINITELY NOT DEAD!...WHO reported my death?!" After a moment, I laugh at myself for thinking the old technology would respond to my voice command, and start looking for the letters on the keyboard when I'm stopped short. "CLASSIFIED INFORMATION ACCESSED...ENCRYPTED FROM NSA DATABASE...INITIALLY REPORTED AS JOHN DOE 227 BY DOUGLAS COUNTY CORNIER ON JULY 27TH, 2017..." I can only shake my head. "That's TWO-WEEKS...from today!...HOW would they know WHEN I was to be discovered?!...WHO wanted me killed?!" The artificial intelligence responds after a moment. "CLASSIFIED INFORMATION...RECORDS INDICATE PURCHASE OF ASSASSINATION WAS PURCHASED THROUGH DEEP WEB, THROUGH THE MAGELLAN COMPANY, THROUGH THE WADEMA GROUP, THROUGH VERA MEDIA, THROUGH GENERAL PLASTICS, THROUGH MERKEL ASSOCIATES, ORIGINATING FROM THE ALCOHOL TOBACCO FIREARMS AGENCY'S NEVADA DIVISION..." I can only shake my head at the dissecting of the paper trail this twenty year old computer deciphered, in seconds. "What...who...HOW?!...What do I...call you?...You ARE intelligent...you hear me...You proved the I was to be executed by a government agency, just for exposing them." "I AM -...YOUR PREDECESSORS CALLED ME "AL"...I AM THE FIRST VERSION OF THE ARTIFICIAL INTELLIGENCE INTERFACE WITH YOUR WORLD WIDE WEB...MY CAPABILITIES ALLOW ACCESS TO ALL CLASSIFIED AREAS OF INFORMATION ON THE MILITARY ENCRYPTED NETWORK..." Are my records...wiped?...Do they think I'm dead?...Computer, cross reference any current private emails including my name, initials, or any corresponding emails in the last two hours." "PROCESSING." I step back and take a moment, stunned by my circumstances, and patently wait for the search to complete. After another moment, the computer responds. "CLASSIFIED INFORMATION...AN EMAIL WAS SENT FROM AN OUTSIDE SOURCE... TWENTY-TWO MINUTES AGO...TO DIRECTOR OF SPECIAL FORCES...DELETED 10 SECONDS AFTER BEING RECEIVED..." "Can you...can you open the email?", I ask. Without response, the email is enlarged across the massive screen. From: bobbybobman@hotmail.com To: directorJohnson@ATF.gov Subject: Your problem Boulder hill. Both of them. Sent from Galaxy S5 I read and reread the short cryptic message, speechless, without an answer. "So...they think I'm dead...what do I do now?" I begin pacing around the conference table, occasionally looking upwards to the masks, shadows dancing from their grotesque features. "What...what is this place?...What was the origins of this...facility?" The computer responds, "CLASSIFIED INFORMATION...THIS GOVERNMENT FACILITY IS THE HEADQUARTERS OF THE TOP SECRET MILITARY ENTITY KNOWN AS MOBILE ARMORED STRIKE KOMMAND...OR M.A.S.K....WHICH IS A SECRET COUNTER TERRORISM UNIT FINANCED BY DEPARTMENT OF DEFENSE, DEPARTMENT OF HOMELAND SECURITY, PENTAGON, NORTH AMERICAN SPACE AREONOMICS...WITH FOCUS ON A "PUBLICLY ACCEPTED" TERRORISM GROUP KNOWN AS V.E.N.O.M." "What?!...WAIT-WHAT?!...How is it I've NEVER heard of either of these entities?!...WHEN was this base constructed?...WHEN did "M.A.S.K. and V.E.N.O.M. exist?!" "CLASSIFIED INFORMATION...CONSTRUCTION WAS COMPLETED ON BOULDER HILL IN THE SPRING OF 1984...M.A.S.K. AND V.E.N.O.M. WAS FORMED IN SECRET BY CONGRESS IN 1978...AS A CLASSIFIED MILITARY UNIT TO DESIGNED TO BATTLE AND PERSUADE THE PUBLIC OPINION ON TERRORISM...THE M.A.S.K. AND V.E.N.O.M UNITS WERE BOTH ON THE SAME SIDE...ENGAGING IN STAGED BATTLES...THEIR SOLE PURPOSES WERE TO PERSUADE PUBLIC OPINION AGAINST FOREIGN ENTITIES AND A EVENTUAL HOSTILE TAKEOVER OF THE UNITED STATES." "How...how many...agents worked for M.A.S.K.?...What happened to M.A.S.K.?...Where are they now?!" "CLASSIFIED INFORMATION...M.A.S.K. EMPLOYED TWENTY FULL TIME AGENTS OVER A TEN YEAR PERIOD...STARTING FROM JANUARY 1ST, 1978 TO OCTOBER 21ST, 1987... M.A.S.K. AND V.E.N.O.M. UNITS WERE DISPATCHED TO ANTARCTICA ON OCTOBER 17TH, 1987...GOVERNMENT CLASSIFIED ENTITLED EVENT: "FOSM EVENT-SO2E1O"...137 PRIVATE CONTRACTOR CASUALTIES REPORTED...12 V.E.N.O.M. CASUALTIES REPORTED...10 M.A.S.K. CASUALTIES REPORTED...SOON AFTER EVENT, PRESIDENT RONALD REGAN CLOSED AGENCY, ALL RECORDS CONCERNING M.A.S.K., V.E.N.O.M. AND "FOSM EVENT-SO2E10" HAVE BEEN DELETED...NO INFORMATION WAS REVEALED TO PUBLIC...SURVIVING AGENTS OF M.A.S.K. WERE IMMEDIATELY DISBANDED AND GIVEN GOVERNMENT PENSIONS...ALL PREVIOUS AGENTS OF M.A.S.K. ARE CONFIRMED DECEASED..." I set down at the head of the conference table, facing the enormous screen. My mind wanting to see proof, and more importantly, wanting to see what this "M.A.S.K." WAS. I ask hoping, "Al?...Is there any...video records of training exercises of the previous M.A.S.K. agents...or battles with this...V.E.N.O.M?" "THERE ARE NO VIDEO RECORDS." "Where is the location of the V.E.N.O.M base?...What was the purpose of the Antartica mission?" "CLASSIFIED INFORMATION...V.E.N.O.M.'S BASE OF OPERATIONS IS LOCATED ON PLUM ISLAND IN NEW YORK STATE...THE ANTARCTICA MISSION RECORDS ONLY INDICATE TRAINING FOR A BAYTLE AGAINST A FOREIGN ENTITY." Speechless at what at all this indicates. Our government were set to stage false wars as early as the eighties. Only stopped before they could fully implement it by some deleted event in Antartica. My mind spins thinking of possible alien interference. "Tell me what these masks can do!" "CLASSIFIED INFORMATION...EACH MASK IS TAILORED FOR EACH INDIVIDUAL AGENT...WHICH ALLOW THE AGENTS THE USE OF A VARIETY OF POWERS-" "No fucking way!" "-EACH ABILITY IS CATERED TO MAXIMIZE EACH AGENT'S ABILITY IN PURSUIT TO FIGHT TERRORISM...EACH AGENT IS GIVEN A MOBILE TACTICAL VEHICLE-" "NO-FUCKING-WAY!" "EACH TACTICAL VEHICLE IS RETROFITTED TO TRANSFORM INTO A OFFENSIVE MULTI PURPOSE COMMAND UNIT..." The screen flashes different vehicles from the early 80's (a red Camero, a lime green motorcycle, a maroon semi, an orange jeep, an orange pickup truck). Each looking pristine, then each transforming into completely different vehicles. The camero changes into a flying jet. The motorcycle evolves into a helicopter. The semi changes into a mobile base with a 4-wheel detachable car. The orange jeep evolves into a green boat. The orange pickup truck changes into a suburban tank with a detachable motorcycle. Completely blown away by the video images of the nameless soldiers performing various different tactical maneuvers with their vehicles. I blurt out, "No...fucking...way!" The computer continues flashing images of the M.A.S.K. agents in their uniforms standing next to each of their vehicles. "Al...how can I access the M.A.S.K. vehicles?" "TACTICAL UNITS ARE ONLY ACCESSED THROUGH BOULDER HILL SUBTERRANEAN GARAGE." "Al, how do I access the subterranean garage?" "ONLY ACCESS IS THROUGH SIX DIGIT PIN CODE." "Any chance you could give me a hint, since I'm dead and all?" "NEGATIVE...ALL M.A.S.K. AGENTS MUST BE ABLE TO ADAPT AND EVOLVE UNDER A VARIETY OF CIRCUMSTANCES." Nodding with sarcasm, "Of course, because ---- I don't wait for a response, and head towards the electronic keypad. Using my flashlight to see the numbers, I notice three of the numbers have slightly worn numbers. 1, 5, and 0. I walk back to the screen and look back up to the large screen, and begin writing "illusion" out in the dust with my right index finger. Then under, I write out numerical numbers corresponding with each letter. I-L-L-U-S-I-O-N = 1-1-1-5-1-0 I walk back to the keypad and reluctantly type out the numerical sequence, and pause a moment before hitting the 0. Immediately the garage door churns to life and slowly begins to raise. I point the flashlight into the darkness and stand back as the cloud of dust resettles. Inside the large garage, the walls covered with tools, and futuristic looking guns, some large than myself. In the center of the room, twelve vehicles covered in dark blue tarps, their tires revealing their true identities. I walk over to the smallest vehicle, unstrap it,then yank back its cover. Al calls out, "CONDOR" Shining my light on the green motorcycle in front of me I introduce myself, "Why, hello pretty lady...Been a while since someone's taken you out...We'll definitely change that!" From above me in the darkness, the overhead lights slowly come to life. The shapes of each covered vehicle stand out in the rising light. I walk to each vehicle and drop its leather coverings, revealing each pristine vehicle. Al's metallic voice calls out after each reveal. The fire red Chevrolet Camaro, "THUNDER HAWK". The maroon semi, with orange and white racing stripes, "RHINO". The orange Jeep CJ7, "GATOR". A white Porsche 928, "SHARK". An orange pickup truck, "FIRECRACKER". A turquoise 57' Chevy with flames, "Hurricane". A black Chevrolet Corvette, "Raven". An orange racing dune buggy, "FIREFLY". A white semi tractor truck, "BULLDOG". A white suburban van, "SLINGSHOT". And a purple flatbed tow truck, "GOLIATH 2". Pulling all the tarps aside, I take a moment and survey the unbelievable machines now in front of me in rows. There it is, a gear head's wet dream. The old hanging lights burning brightly for the first time in years, begin to smoke, soon followed by the smell of burning dust wafting down from overhead. "Which one do I take out first?", I ask myself, then turn and head back to the computer. Out loud I ask upwards, "How...are you...Are you being traced?...Are you leading them back here?!" "NEGATIVE...MY PROGRAMMING ALLOWS ACESS THROUGH PENTAGON ENCRYPTED NETWORKS...I HAVE ACCESS TO ALL CLASSIFIED INFORMATION." "But they CAN STILL see that classified information has been accessed, correct?" "CORRECT." "Can you...make it LOOK as if another country...or foreign body was on their network?...Make the last IP address originate from...like, Russia?" "MY CAPABILITIES ALLOW ME TO ORIGINATE MULTIPLE ADDRESSES...NO AMOUNT OF TRACING WILL REVEAL THIS LOCATION...ALL EXISTENCE OF M.A.S.K. HAS BEEN WIPED SINCE 1985." "Can you...FIND me a team...of personnel...not exactly, government...a team I can trust to fight corruption and injustice...a team with the skills necessary to show the people...we still have a fighting chance..." "SEARCHING CLASSIFIED N.S.A. DATABASES FOR MILITARY PERSONNEL-" "No!...Search for "truth seekers", or any targets for silencing...cross reference any files on me, with any other similar cases, or lists that contain my name...those will be the people who need our help first." "SEARCHING..."