Two Months After the Miami Incident - Secure Conference Room, Office of the Director of National Intelligence Director-designate Amanda Foster sat in the waiting room outside DNI Cartwright's main conference facility, trying not to let her nerves show. She'd just been confirmed by the Senate as the new Director of the Defense Intelligence Agency, making her one of the most powerful intelligence officials in the country. At fifty-two, she'd spent thirty years in military intelligence, rising through the ranks with a reputation for brilliance and uncompromising integrity. She'd run operations in Afghanistan, managed the intelligence apparatus for two combatant commands, and had been read into more classified programs than she could count. She thought she'd seen everything. The door opened, and a young aide gestured for her to enter. "Director Cartwright is ready for you now, ma'am." Foster walked into the conference room and immediately understood this wasn't a typical briefing. Every major intelligence director was present: DNI James Cartwright at the head of the table, CIA Director Sarah Webb, NSA Director Michael Torres, FBI Director Raymond Chen, and Secretary of Defense Harold Smith. The Director of the Secret Service was there too, along with the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. This was the entire top tier of the national security establishment. "Amanda, welcome," Cartwright said, gesturing to an empty chair. "Please, sit. Coffee?" "Thank you, sir." Foster sat, accepting a cup from an aide who then quickly exited, sealing the door behind him. The room was a SCIF—a Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility—designed to prevent any electronic surveillance. "I assume you're wondering why we've assembled everyone for your first official briefing," Cartwright said. "The thought crossed my mind, sir." "We do this for every new director. It's tradition at this point—a rather unpleasant tradition, but a necessary one." Cartwright opened a folder in front of him. "Amanda, over your career, you've been read into dozens of classified programs. Black budgets, covert operations, special access programs. You have TS/SCI clearance and access to some of the most sensitive information in the government." "Yes, sir." "What we're about to tell you goes beyond all of that. This is Omega clearance, which I believe is your first. There are perhaps fifty people in the entire world who have access to this information. After today, you'll be one of them." Foster felt her pulse quicken. She'd heard rumors about Omega clearance—whispers in the intelligence community about information so sensitive that even presidential administrations weren't fully briefed until necessary. "The program is called Echelon," Cartwright continued. "And it centers on one man: Perseus Jackson." He slid a photograph across the table. Foster picked it up. It showed a man who appeared to be in his mid-thirties, fit and unremarkable except for his eyes, which held something ancient. "Perseus Jackson," Cartwright said, "was born in 1583. That is not a typo. He is currently four hundred and forty-two years old." Foster looked up sharply. "Sir?" "I know how it sounds. I had the same reaction when I was briefed. But it's true. Perseus Jackson is, for lack of a better term, immortal. Or at least extremely long-lived with regenerative capabilities we don't fully understand." Foster looked around the table. Every director was watching her with expressions that ranged from sympathy to amusement. They'd all been through this moment. "You're serious." "Completely serious," CIA Director Webb said. "I've met him personally. Multiple times. The man is real, his history checks out—we have documentation going back centuries—and he has been involved in American military and intelligence operations since before there was a United States." Foster set down the photograph, her analytical mind trying to process this. "How is that possible?" "We don't know," Secretary Smith said. "He's never let us study him medically. He's been offered, politely, to participate in research, and he's politely declined. What we do know is that he ages very slowly, heals from injuries that would kill a normal person, and has accumulated four centuries of combat experience and tradecraft." "He's been at Agincourt," Cartwright continued, pulling out a timeline. "The Thirty Years' War. The English Civil War. He fought in the American Revolution—on our side. He was at Gettysburg. Both World Wars. Korea, Vietnam, every conflict in the Middle East. He's been knighted by two different English monarchs. He was canonized as a saint by the Catholic Church in 1734. He speaks at least fifteen languages fluently. And he has saved American lives and advanced American interests more times than we can count." Foster was quiet for a long moment, processing. "And the DIA knows about him because...?" "Because military intelligence has worked with him for decades. He's provided intelligence, conducted operations, trained special forces personnel. Your predecessor worked with him directly on three separate occasions." Cartwright leaned forward. "Amanda, Perseus Jackson is simultaneously one of our greatest assets and one of our biggest problems." "Why is he a problem?" "Because he doesn't answer to us," FBI Director Chen said. "He's not an employee, not an asset we control. He helps us when our interests align with his, which is often, but he has his own agenda. His own moral code. And sometimes, he takes matters into his own hands." CIA Director Webb picked up the thread. "We believe Perseus Jackson is also the international assassin known as La Cebra. We can't prove it definitively, but the circumstantial evidence is overwhelming. For over a decade, La Cebra has been eliminating high-value targets—war criminals, terrorists, cartel leaders, human traffickers. People who deserve to die but are beyond the reach of normal justice." "Vigilante justice," Foster said. "Exactly. Which creates a moral and legal nightmare. On one hand, his targets are objectively evil people. On the other hand, he's conducting extrajudicial killings across multiple countries without authorization or oversight." "So why don't we stop him?" The room fell silent. Several directors exchanged glances. "That," Cartwright said slowly, "brings us to the Echelon Protocol." He pulled out another document, this one stamped with classification markings Foster had never seen before. "In 1947, shortly after the CIA was founded, President Truman authorized the creation of a special protocol regarding Perseus Jackson. The reasoning was simple: Jackson had saved the country numerous times during World War II. He'd provided intelligence that changed the course of battles, conducted operations behind enemy lines, and had personally saved the lives of hundreds of American soldiers. Truman decided that Jackson was too valuable to risk losing." "The protocol," Secretary Smith continued, "states that Perseus Jackson is not to be detained, arrested, or held by any federal law enforcement or intelligence agency under any circumstances. If he is detained, he has authorization to activate a code phrase that triggers an automatic response." "What kind of response?" Foster asked, though she was starting to suspect the answer. "A specialized unit called Ghost Ops—which falls under JSOC—is immediately deployed to his location. Their mission is to extract him, by force if necessary. Anyone directly involved in his detention faces severe consequences, up to and including prosecution." Foster sat back in her chair. "You're telling me that if an FBI agent arrests Perseus Jackson for murder, a military special operations team deploys to break him out?" "Yes," FBI Director Chen said flatly. "It's happened three times in the last six years. Each time, it nearly caused an interdepartmental crisis. The last time was with my own agency— CIA arrested him, and we had to storm Langley to extract him." "Actually, we didn't storm it," Webb corrected with a slight wince. "Ghost Ops walked in the front door and we let them take him. But the point stands—it was a disaster." "Why does this keep happening if there's a protocol in place?" Foster asked. "Because," Cartwright said heavily, "for decades we kept the information so tightly classified that field agents had no idea Perseus Jackson was off-limits. They'd see a suspect, run an investigation, and try to arrest him without knowing they were about to trigger an international incident. Directors knew about the protocol, but we failed to communicate it down the chain of command." "That's been fixed now," NSA Director Torres added. "We implemented a database flagging system last year. Perseus Jackson's name and all known aliases are flagged in every federal database with a clear warning: Do Not Detain - Contact Director. Any agent who sees the flag is required to immediately call their director and stop the investigation." "And if they ignore the flag?" "Federal prosecution. We made it very clear that ignoring the flag is a career-ending move at minimum, and potentially criminal. Since implementation, we've had about twenty flags triggered, and every single agent has followed protocol. The system works now." Foster absorbed all of this, her mind racing through the implications. "So the DIA position is... what, exactly? What am I supposed to do with this information?" "Three things," Cartwright said, counting on his fingers. "First, if Perseus Jackson's name comes up in any DIA investigation or operation, you immediately shut it down. No surveillance, no investigation, no contact unless he initiates it. Second, if he reaches out to the DIA for assistance—which he occasionally does—you give him what he needs within reason. Third, you make absolutely certain that everyone in your agency who might encounter his name knows about the flag and knows to call you immediately." "Do I have authorization to brief my senior staff?" "Your direct deputy only, and only if necessary. The wider your staff knows, the more likely it leaks. The flag in the database should be sufficient for most situations." Foster nodded slowly. "Has anyone tried to... recruit him? Bring him officially into the fold?" Secretary Smith actually laughed at that. "Multiple administrations have tried. He always says no. He values his independence. He helps us on his terms, not ours. And frankly, after four hundred years, I think he's earned the right to choose his own missions." "What about allies? Do other countries know about him?" "Our closest Five Eyes partners—UK, Canada, Australia, New Zealand—are briefed on the protocol. They have similar flagging systems in place. Israel, France, and Germany know he exists but have limited information. The Russians and Chinese definitely know about him—they've encountered him in the field—but they don't know about the Echelon Protocol specifically." CIA Director Webb leaned forward. "Amanda, I want to emphasize something. The reason we brief every new director personally, like this, is because Perseus Jackson situations are unique. There's no playbook except 'leave him alone.' At some point during your tenure at DIA, his name will come up. An analyst will find a connection, or an operation will intersect with his activities. When that happens, you need to shut it down immediately, no questions asked. Don't try to investigate further, don't try to understand what he's doing. Just close the file and move on." "Even if he's committing crimes?" "Even then," Webb said firmly. "I learned this the hard way. My agents arrested him on suspicion of being an international assassin. They were right—he probably is an international assassin. But it didn't matter. The cost of pursuing that case would have been catastrophic. Sometimes, Amanda, the pragmatic choice is to look the other way." Foster was quiet for a long moment. Everything in her training, her entire career, had been about upholding the law, following regulations, maintaining order. What they were describing was the opposite—a sanctioned exception to every rule. "I need to ask the obvious question," she said finally. "What happens when he dies? This protocol can't last forever." "The protocol dies with him," Cartwright said. "There's no succession plan because there's no one else like him. When Perseus Jackson finally dies—if he dies—the Echelon Protocol will be deactivated and archived. Until then, we manage the situation as best we can." "Does the President know about this?" "The President is briefed during the transition, usually within the first month. President Martinez was briefed six months ago. She had the same reaction you're having now." Foster looked down at the photograph again. The man staring back at her had eyes that had seen the Spanish Armada, the French Revolution, the atomic bomb. Four centuries of human history, all contained in one person. "This is insane," she said quietly. "Yes," Cartwright agreed. "Welcome to Omega clearance. It doesn't get less insane from here." "Any questions?" Secretary Smith asked. Foster had about a thousand questions, but she focused on the practical ones. "If he contacts the DIA, what kind of assistance does he typically request?" "Intelligence mostly," Cartwright said. "Satellite imagery, signals intercepts, background on targets. He's very good at what he does, but he doesn't have access to our collection capabilities. Sometimes he'll ask for logistical support—transportation, equipment, that kind of thing. It's always reasonable, and he never abuses the privilege." "And we just... give it to him? No oversight, no accountability?" "There's oversight," Secretary Smith said. "Every request is logged, and we review them quarterly. But yes, essentially, if Perseus Jackson asks for help and it's within our capabilities, we provide it. The return on investment has been worth it." FBI Director Chen spoke up. "Amanda, I know this feels like we're operating outside the law. And in a sense, we are. But Perseus Jackson has been on the right side of history more often than most nations. He's stopped genocides, saved countless lives, and taken out some of the worst people on the planet. Is he a vigilante? Yes. Is he operating outside legal frameworks? Absolutely. But he's our vigilante, and the alternative—having him as an enemy or losing him entirely—is far worse." Foster nodded slowly. She didn't like it, but she understood it. The world of intelligence was rarely black and white. It was shades of gray, and Perseus Jackson was perhaps the grayest shade of all. "Alright," she said. "I understand the situation. I'll make sure my people know about the flag, and I'll handle any Perseus Jackson situations personally." "Good," Cartwright said, visibly relieved. "Welcome to the club, Director Foster. I'm sorry your first major briefing had to be this one." "How often does his name come up? Should I expect regular contact?" "It varies," Webb said. "Sometimes months go by with nothing. Other times, you'll get three flags in one week. It depends on what he's doing and where he is. Just remember: when it happens, don't panic, don't investigate, just shut it down." "And don't try to meet him," Torres added. "Some directors get curious and try to arrange a face-to-face. He doesn't like that. If he wants to meet you, he'll reach out. Otherwise, maintain professional distance." Foster stood, and the other directors stood with her. Cartwright walked her to the door. "One last thing," he said quietly. "Everything you heard in this room stays in this room. You can't discuss it with your staff except your deputy if absolutely necessary. You can't write about it in memoirs later. You can't tell your spouse. This is Omega clearance, and it stays Omega." "I understand, sir." "Good. And Amanda? For what it's worth, you're going to do great at DIA. This Perseus Jackson thing is an anomaly. Don't let it overshadow the actual work." "Thank you, sir." Foster left the building and walked to her car, her mind spinning. She'd come in expecting a briefing on DIA operations, budget priorities, maybe some classified programs she'd take over from her predecessor. Instead, she'd learned that the government was protecting a four-hundred-year-old immortal vigilante who had been fighting wars since before the Pilgrims landed at Plymouth Rock. She got in her car and sat there for a moment, staring at nothing. Then she started laughing. She couldn't help it. The sheer absurdity of it all—the fact that this was now part of her job, that she'd have to manage situations involving a man who had met Shakespeare, fought Napoleon, and was probably out there right now doing God knows what in God knows where. Her phone buzzed. A text from Cartwright: "I know. It takes a while to process. Take the rest of the day. Start fresh tomorrow. And remember: if his name comes up, call me." Foster texted back: "Understood. Question: does he actually flip a coin all the time like in the reports?" The response came quickly: "Yes. Ancient Roman coin. Don't ask him about it—he gets annoyed." Foster laughed again and started her car. She'd been in the job for less than a day, and already she was learning the quirks of a four-hundred-year-old asset who didn't like being asked about his coin. This was going to be an interesting tenure.

That Evening - Somewhere in Eastern Europe Perseus was sitting in a safe house in Bucharest, cleaning his weapons after a successful operation. His phone buzzed with an encrypted message from a number he recognized— one of Cartwright's burner phones. "New DIA director briefed today. Foster, Amanda. Career military intel. She took it well. Laughed at the end, which is a good sign. Thought you should know." Perseus smiled and typed back: "They always laugh. It's either that or have an existential crisis. Glad she chose laughter." "She asked about the coin." "Of course she did. They always ask about the coin." "I told her not to ask you about it." "Good. Last director who asked got a twenty-minute lecture on Roman monetary policy. Nobody enjoyed it." "Stay safe out there. And try not to do anything that makes Foster's first month too exciting." "No promises. But I'll try." Perseus deleted the messages and went back to cleaning his weapons. Another new director, another round of introductions to the insanity of his existence. At least this one laughed. That was a good sign. The ones who didn't laugh usually lasted about six months before requesting a transfer.