It had been a night of pleasure and material indulgence. Dinner was at Dorsia's, one of the most exclusive and expensive restaurants in New York. After their third round of after-dinner drinks, Peter Bateman and Robin Davis took a limousine back to Bateman's penthouse apartment. Davis had never been to Bateman's penthouse, but she was amazed when the limousine stopped at the Carnegie Hall Towers. The concierge greeted them politely as Bateman summoned the private elevator. They laughed together as they rode the elevator up to the penthouse. When Bateman finally opened the front door, both of them froze as Mindshadow stood in the doorway, levitating a foot off the ground with an expectant look on her face.

"Hello Peter, welcome back."

Bateman blinked before he remembered. Of course, how could he forget? Mindshadow was his patron and owner. He owed her everything. Shaking his head and smiling, he took Mindshadow's offered hand and gave her a long passionate kiss, not even noticing that he was levitating off the ground.

"Peter what are you doing?" Davis demanded with stunned surprise.

Bateman turned around and coldly sneered at Davis. "You'd better leave now. I had a good time, but I've got more important things to take care of now."

"Peter, what are you saying?" Davis shook her head with confusion. She looked at Mindshadow and turned pale. As she stared, she could feel her will drain away into nothingness. She wanted to leave, run away or slap Bateman for his sudden betrayal. But she couldn't do a thing; she felt like a puppet ready to be directed by its master.

You will now leave, Robin, Mindshadow telepathically intoned into Davis' mind. Mindshadow then narrowed her eyes ever so slightly. But before you do, why don't you strip?

Davis nodded blankly and proceeded to remove every last article of clothing. She stood nude and helpless under Mindshadow's gaze.

Now go downstairs. The concierge will see to your needs.

"Yes, Mindshadow," Davis whispered submissively.

With that, Davis obediently entered the elevator. As the doors closed, Mindshadow extended her will downstairs and issued her commands. Ordinarily, a nude woman would cause quite a ruckus in the building's lobby, even at this time of night. But once Mindshadow's will caressed the minds of everyone in the lobby, they would understand. No sense causing a commotion in her new home so early, Mindshadow reasoned. Davis would be quietly taken away by cab and deposited into a mental institution indefinitely. She had considered simply killing her but that was just too quick and easy, not to mention messy. By the time Davis reached the hospital, her mind was so thoroughly scrambled, she was catatonic, but inwardly completely aware of everything she had once been. And would remain that way for the remainder of her life.

With that little chore taken care of, Mindshadow levitated around the gigantic penthouse and nodded with approval. Occupying the top three floors of the Carnegie Hall Tower building on East 83rd street and Madison Ave, it overlooked the Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis reservoir in Central Park and was one of the most expensive apartments in the heart of Manhattan. She had scouted several of the most exclusive penthouses and mansions in the Manhattan area before choosing this one. Of course, the decor was a tad on the male side, something easily taken care of. Mindshadow eyes swept through the varying rooms, telekinetically altering the molecular configuration of the contents of the penthouse. Like magic, furniture, wall papering, chinaware, pictures and other items shifted and assumed new forms more to her liking. With that done, she willed Bateman to sit down on the newly created Italian leather sofa.

As Bateman's body relaxed, his mind was being subtly altered and realigned. Mindshadow took a few extra seconds to look things over; she wanted to get his mind obedient, but not mindlessly so. Unlike the bimbo she had just condemned to lifelong insanity, Bateman had skills, contacts and knowledge that were useful to her and she wanted them preserved. It took a more subtle touch than she had previously employed. It wasn't difficult, but it did demand her attention. A few seconds later, Bateman opened his eyes and smiled at Mindshadow. He would obey her telepathic commands, not notice her using her powers, but would be able to make decisions based on his knowledge and experience. It also meant leaving his social schedules alone; something Mindshadow rarely afforded her mind slaves. But Bateman's social schedule included high-powered business executives, judges, senators, lawyers and other major players in the world of high society. More people who would make excellent slaves for her purposes.

"So, what's going on tonight?" Bateman asked. His manner was animated and reasonably natural Mindshadow judged; any casual observer would have believed his desire to help her to be genuine, rather than the result of a telepathic suggestion.

Mindshadow made a casual gesture with her hand, and a computer diskette materialized out of thin air. "On this disk, you'll find the policy numbers and beneficiaries for 301 people." The diskette levitated and inserted itself into Bateman's personal computer. "Contact the relevant companies and have the money channeled to a bank account for me."

"You want it sent to an off-shore, anonymous numbered account, right?"

To avoid taxes and identity issues  Bateman's mind informed her. Excellent; he was able to offer meaningful advice, despite being hypnotized. She wouldn't have thought of that herself; her experience in global finance was only slightly better than the educated layman. "Yes. You're thinking of the Caymans Red Trading Company?"

Bateman smiled an insider's smile. "We have an understanding."

Mindshadow mentally gave her consent and let Bateman get to work. Well, it wasn't a great surprise. Bateman had to be doing some shady dealings to afford a spread like this. His mind revealed some details of money hiding, illicit bank transfers, tax evasion, and insider stock trading, all of which were way beyond her personal understanding. Not that she minded; in fact, his experience in such matters would prove to be exceedingly useful in the months to come.

"State Farm Insurance, this is Bob Hewlett, how may I help you?" the speakerphone identified.

Bateman read off the first entry of the list. "This is Mrs. Fairchild. I need to make a claim on a life insurance policy, policy #20208456821."

As he spoke, Mindshadow's thoughts casually reached across the city and whispered compliance into Hewlett's mind. A second later, the voice replied, "Yes, Mrs. Fairchild, I have that ready. I'm very sorry for your loss."

"Could you please have the money wired to an account? Cayman's Finance Corporation, Account #214-321-35." Bateman's speech was dry and professional. It wasn't his loved one and Mindshadow's mental instructions made it clear that he needn't bother feigning any emotional response.

"Yes of course. We'll have that money out to you first thing in the morning."

"Thank you very much." Bateman disconnected the call and nodded. "You realize, of course, they're going to close Mr. Fairchild's policy."

"Don't worry about it," Mindshadow assured as she referred to the address on the policy and reached out once again. "As we speak, Mrs. Fairchild is cursing her late husband's name for being so complacent about not getting around to purchasing life insurance. If she ever finds such a policy, she will be unable to see it or acknowledge its existence. If anyone attempts to suggest that she does have insurance, she'll deny it vehemently." Mindshadow then raised an eyebrow and smiled. "If they press, she'll kill them then commit suicide."

Bateman nodded and started to dial the next account. As he did, Mindshadow indulged in some Ben & Jerry's Chunky Monkey Ice Cream from his freezer. She didn't need the food; she had learned how to channel energy directly from her mind to her body's cells, but she still enjoyed the sensations nonetheless. Relaxing also gave her a chance to review her overall plan in life. When she first abandoned high school, she had originally intended to just use her massive telepathic hypnotic powers to simply enslave the world. But a simple look out the window revealed the futility in that plan. Powerful though she was -- she could control several city blocks with a single thought -- the world was too big and there were simply too many people. Moreover, her recent research of the world's known metahumans revealed enough powerhouses where such a plan was likely doomed to failure. Folks like the Royal Elite and the Protectorate would no doubt oppose such a plan -- for differing reasons -- and although she judged her chances against either of those groups to be fairly decent, given the right setup, she couldn't very well afford to take that chance. In addition, the thought of having to manually direct and command six billion people was simply out of the question. Chaos would erupt and although Mindshadow could care less about individual tragedies, destroying an entire world's economy and social system was out of the question. She wanted to control the world intact, not the shattered remains. Too much heavy-handedness would ruin the enjoyment of a lot of things. Including this very tasty ice cream.

Fortunately, another option occurred to her as she was collecting information on her last plane trip. The fact was, the people of the world were already enslaved. Of course, most of them didn't realize or acknowledge it. But the truth was most of the wealth in the world was owned by a relatively small number of people. Political power dictated the fate of billions with a signature and the media dictated truth, regardless of the facts. Control enough wealth, political power and propaganda, and one effectively controlled the world. And all of these could be acquired by enslaving the right people.

Turning her attentions back to the present, Mindshadow helped Bateman finish off the list of people on her computer disk. The task took a few hours. Once that was done, Mindshadow telepathically put Bateman to sleep with instructions to finish laundering the money when he awoke the next morning. She then phased through the picture window of the penthouse and flew south. Her next stop would be land of sunshine and oranges. However Mindshadow was thinking of a different kind of commodity; one that would serve her purposes for the future.

Miami. It was the Super Bowl of crime. An international city where pro-Castro and anti-Castro forces battle each other, where cocaine tainted most of the currency, and where drivers who flick on their headlights to get the car in front to move risk being mowed down by machine-gun fire. Mindshadow slowed her flight as she approached the city limits. She had used her telekinetic force bubble to nullify air turbulence, which made the flight comfortable, but also made it difficult to gauge her precise speed. However, it must have been impressive -- it had taken less than thirty minutes to get here from New York, which was an incredible feat. Mindshadow had never actually timed her maximum flight speed and truthfully she was a little intimidated, as she didn't have any formalized piloting and navigation skills. The flight itself had been effortless; she was sure she could have gone even faster. But the last thing she needed was to be crushed into jelly, bubble or no bubble, slamming into an unplanned obstacle.

It didn't take long for Mindshadow to find the DEA HQ in downtown Miami. With over fifty percent of the illegal narcotics in the US passing through the city's ports, it was by far the most important Division in the nation in terms of drug interdictions. Here, drug busts under ten kilos were considered small potatoes and busts that would have been considered epic anywhere else were usually routine here. With intelligence shared with the FBI, the NRO and the NSA, it was the primo source of information about the Cartels in South America. If there was anywhere that could provide Mindshadow with the information she wanted, it would be here.

Mindshadow came to a hover above the roof of the main building. It was the middle of the night, but she knew that law enforcement offices never really slept. As she got within a few hundred yards, she could feel thought patterns within the building. It was too late to be janitorial services, and the patterns she was sensing were too complex to be such simple-minded people anyway. A quick cursory scan confirmed that they were security and night shift personnel. That meant caution was called for. Not for the people, but because of the cameras. Although she could easily use subliminal suggestion on the minds of hundreds or even thousands of people, one security camera would reveal her presence easily. She reached out with her mind again, homing in on the clusters of thought patterns as a guide. Inside the main security monitoring station, the eyes of the night watchmen all went blank in unison. By unspoken command, they each deactivated their cameras, video recording devices and alarms, and then resumed their surveillance. That they were now surveying screens of video snow was not a concern to any of them.

With the building's eyes under her control, Mindshadow then slipped through the molecules of the roof and came to a hover on the executive floor next to the Director's office. As expected, the desk was cleared of any sensitive documents, but a little telekinesis took care of the locks on the desk and wall safe. Inside was mostly administrative trivia, but some of the documents detailed information on a strategic level. Names, locations, and methods of the major players, satellite photos, ongoing operations, and financial trails levitated out of the proper places and arrayed themselves before her eyes. She looked at the array of documents and frowned. While she was far smarter than her formalized education would suggest and had a passing knowledge of basic government policy and business principles, she was still out of her depth here. Heck, only a few weeks ago, she was still a JV high school cheerleader. Well, darn, she sighed. She would need someone else's expertise to summarize the details for her and come up with a battle plan.

She pulled up the Director's personnel roster and read a list of agents. Beside each agent was their relevant personnel information. She took the time to briefly look over their evaluations; she needed people who were fairly middle-of-the-road. Not a superstar, who's change in behavior was likely to be noticed, but not a marginal slacker who was likely to be terminated at the next round of government layoffs. Fortunately, well over eighty percent of government employees fell into this list. She pulled out three names, each from a different division. Each man was single so there would be no wives to worry about, though of course, there might be the odd mistress. This was Miami, after all. Once she picked out her chosen, she telekinetically pulled out some paper from the printer drawer and then willed the molecules of the loose sheets to flow and change, using the briefing documents as a template. In a few seconds, the printer papers were an exact copy of the briefing documents, down to the color and texture of the paper. That handled, she replaced the original documents, closed the office and passed through the building's exterior walls.

Dennis Griffith finished his second beer of the evening as Conan O'Brien pranced around on television making a fool out of himself. He would stop at two beers; it wouldn't do his career any good to report into work with a hangover. As a third year SAC, he was responsible for coordinating interdiction efforts with the other law enforcement agencies. It wasn't a bad job; the travel was a perk, provided a decent middle-class house in the suburbs and he was good at what he did. But it didn't stop him from feeling a general sense of dissatisfaction. The truth was, the drug war was an impossible one to win. So long as the US continued to play by the rules and its opponents did not, they could never do anything more than sting them. And so long as the demand was here in this country, the Cartels and their willing accomplices here in this country's organized crime syndicates would continue to have unlimited funds to operate. With that thought, he grunted and tossed his empty can into the wastebasket. Before it reached it however, the can came to a halt and floated above the basket as Mindshadow phased into the room.

"Don't they teach you government workers to recycle?" Mindshadow gently chided.

"M-mistress Mindshadow!" Griffith gasped and dropped to his hands and knees.

Mindshadow sighed and shook her head. Force of habit, she knew. One she would have to break if she didn't want to be publicly noticed too soon. And like Bateman, she needed Griffith's expertise more than she needed her ego stroked, enjoyable though that may have been. She looked deep into Griffith's mind, gestured casually and made a few adjustments. As she did so, the groveling expression on his face changed to one of willing acceptance and he got back onto his feet.

"What brings you into town so late?" His voice was casual and nonchalant. As if seeing a gorgeous supervillainess floating in the middle of his den wasn't anything unusual.

"First, I need you sober." With that, Mindshadow telepathically willed energy directly into Griffith's brain. His eyes bulged and his face winced with pain as the alcohol of two beers was burned from his system. "Sorry; first time I've tried that." She then gestured and the thick folders of information appeared out of thin air and levitated in front of Griffith. "Now, take a look at this," she commanded.

Griffith sat down at his dinner table, spread out the documents into different piles and looked them over. As he mulled over the materials for the next few hours, Mindshadow amused herself with some of his neighbors. Nothing major; this trip was for business, not fun. Still, it was such a pathetically mediocre neighborhood, she couldn't resist. By morning, the local police would have a few ugly domestic squabbles to break up. She wondered if any of the children she had slapped and beaten would be relocated, but soon lost interest when Griffith indicated he was ready.

"These satellite maps are thermal imaging maps we get from NRO. Most of these dots are campfires, but some are remote sites the Cartel uses to process cocaine. Time-lapsed computer photography and chemical vapor analysis helps narrow the field down." He then went to another stack. "This is a list of the major players down there, including enforcers, production people, and money guys. It's like a freakin' business down there. They've got timetables, balance sheets, profit-loss reports, the whole nine yards. And make no mistake; a lot of the Columbian law enforcement is in their hip pocket. Those that aren't live in fear of their lives."

Mindshadow looked at one of the conventional satellite photos, showing a gigantic hacienda on a hill. It was quite impressive, she admitted to herself -- even more decadent than her New York penthouse. More to the point, the photo showed lots of men carrying sub-machine guns and patrolling the area at regular intervals. Well, men with guns were no threat to her. "Who runs the show down there?"

"There are two major players that we know of." Griffith pulled out a picture and set of documents and maps of a burly looking man. "Meet Omar Sosa Borjas. He's the boss of a major cartel with warehouses along the Mosquito Coast in Nicaragua. It's a popular staging area for Peruvian and Columbian cocaine runners and Borjas gets a cut of everything that goes on down there. Here's his home; located on the top of a hill south of Bogata. We believe that he's got a cushy deal going with Maxmillian Powers in New York, but proving it is damned near impossible."

"Max Powers?" Mindshadow asked. He was on Bateman's list of hot VIPs in New York City. Supposedly he was a philanthropic donator to many of the charities in the Upper East Coast, and a powerful financier. Definitely on Mindshadow's short list to enslave. "Go on," she waved.

"The other fellow you'll want to meet is José Fidel DeLorenzo." Griffith pulled out another folder with maps, surveillance pictures and charts. "He's another big-time drug lord that has his offices mostly in Honduras, Columbia and Nicaragua. DeLorenzo's rumored to have the Columbian Army in his hip pocket, and he's got a big hate for Borjas. Goes way back as far as any of us can tell. We also believe that Generallissimo Juan Hernandez is giving him support as well."

"If he's got the Colombian Army and General Hernandez working for him, then how does Borjas survive?" Mindshadow wasn't a fool; no group of bully-boys from the Cartel could stand up to a face-to-face battle with a trained, professional Army, even the Colombians. Adding Generallissimo Juan Hernandez and potentially Los Soldados would make it overkill.

"Because Borjas has most of the fascist militia working for him," Griffith explained. "Manuel Marulanda and a lot of FARC get their money from Borjas' organization and they provide him their armed support. That and his connection to Maxmillian Powers gives him an inside track to the US market."

Mindshadow took a moment to look into Griffith's mind because she was a tad embarrassed that she only understood about half of what Griffith said. FARC, she learned, was the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia, that country's largest rebel army numbering 15,000, and they essentially ruled their own demilitarized zone in southern Colombia. "So, how often do they fight?"

"Both organizations are having an uneasy truce right now. Borjas and DeLorenzo both hate each other, but they're both businessmen, and blood is bad for business. DeLorenzo runs the north half of Colombia; Borjas runs the south. Of course there are several smaller members of the Cartel on each side, but those are the two big fish."

"Can you show me where both of these men live?"

"Sure." Griffith pulled out a large map of Colombia and made two marks. "DeLorenza lives here, and Borjas lives here. Both of those villas are huge though and armed to the teeth. What's more, they're both usually on the move and they both have smaller homes they can stay from time to time. Nailing them down can be tough."

Mindshadow thought about that carefully. To an extent, she could find virtually anyone she wanted by scanning large areas for thought patterns -- it was how she mesmerized several hundred people across the nation out of their life insurance policies without leaving New York. But in those cases, she knew almost exactly where to reach. She couldn't blanket an entire country yet. "Is there any way to get them to show up at a specific place?"

"Well, they meet from time to time to discuss business like export quotas, wholesale prices, production, and enforcement. The NSA's monitored their meetings by eavesdropping on their cell phones and landlines. But these meetings are held randomly. We don't know when they schedule it."

"Hmm... they meet to discuss business. What if things were going bad?"

Griffith shrugged. "I guess it depends how bad."

Mindshadow leaned forward and smiled. "Whatever it takes."

In Manhattan, Mindshadow sipped her cappuccino and smiled. Three DEA SACs now served her will. In addition to Griffith who worked for the DEA's Intelligence Division, she had enslaved Robert Green and William Karns from the Operations Division. They would be useful tools in the weeks and months to come. Even now, they were already at their jobs in Miami. In addition to their normal duties, they were looking over some files to update the information she had received her last night. They would also provide her solid information and influence on current and future DEA operations, and how to counter them. Influence she would put to good use.

At home, Bateman had already left for his day job, where he would let her know the next time that he had one of his high society gatherings for her to attend. She thought about making him quit his day job, but he told her that much of his contact information came from his connections with the company. After thinking it over, Mindshadow gave her consent. She'd have to take his work schedule into consideration, something of an annoyance. She would have to give some thought about enslaving a few more brokers to serve her.

She closed her eyes to relax a moment before she took a moment to admire the sunrise. She could have gone directly south, but she wanted to touch base back in New York before heading to Columbia. Bateman had left her a printout of her newly laundered insurance money, totaling nearly $200 million. Not bad for a start, but it was chump change in the grand scheme of things, and she couldn't very well keep crashing planes again and again; people would stop flying. Fortunately, other sources beckoned, and her trip to Miami had proven quite fruitful.

She sighed, emptied her cup, and admired the commanding view outside her penthouse. Below, literally millions of people swarmed and toiled at their pathetic little jobs, trying to scratch out a living for their meaningless lives. How easily she could control them. And one day she would. She smiled and looked forward to that day. The day that this view and all it represented would truly be hers.
 

Home      Gaming Guidelines        PC Roster        NPC Roster