The Pineapple Apparatus - The 1425 Presidential Election

[Overthinkers]

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The following is a dramatization of real events surrounding the 1425 Presidential Election in Overthinkers. Many of the incidents recounted here are real, but the specific individuals and their involvement may be exaggerated, misrepresented, or made up entirely.

 

 

Spoiler

OOC: Foreign involvement is permitted–discuss with me beforehand, though.

 

[Overthinkers]

Every seat was filled at the rally, but few were truly in use as the crowd stood cheering for Councilor Duncan Wedge. 

Though Wedge was a native of Occida and a resident of Cangham, Anders had proved to be the right location to formally launch his presidential campaign. The One Direction Party had seen the most success in the southern districts of Overthinkers, and the working folk who loved their message the most had come out in force today. “New Direction,” they chanted intermittently. 

“And I have made it clear,” Wedge continued, “that I do not seek this position out of any personal ambition. Overthinkers has seen great growth under the current establishment, but those years are long past. It is time for the old guard to step aside.” He paused while the crowd applauded. “They speak of progress, but for rural Oertin, there has been only stagnation. Aurum makes the decisions, Aurum gets the profits.” 

The clapping became a roar. Wedge, easily the most animated man in the Dome, was conducting them like an orchestra. Now he held up his hand, as if seeking permission from the audience to continue his speech.

“For years, I have fought for your rights in the Council, and for years I have been brushed off, same as many of you here today. But your support today makes it clear. We will not be intimidated–”

There was a distant pop. Wedge stopped abruptly. A streak of red began to appear above his temple. The legislator began to collapse as his staffers and security rushed to his side. “Medic!” someone called out, faintly audible over the still-hot microphone.

The crowd erupted again, but now in panic, realizing what was occurring. Some ducked for cover, others tried to fight their way to a clear flight path. Security officers poured out into the courtyard, but were uselessly switching between trying to find the shooter and trying to keep the mob in order. Wedge was quickly swept off stage as an ambulance pulled up behind it.

A single figure, seated in one of the front rows, had been standing motionless as the chaos unfolded around him. Finally he stood up and began to make his way on stage, walking towards the podium. No one intervened.

He quietly leaned in to the microphone. “We will not be intimidated.”
 

[Overthinkers]

one

“...Anders District Police have stated that they have identified a possible suspect, but will not be releasing any details at this time. OSCAR¹ is also on site working with local authorities.”

Jeromy Alemas was realizing he really needed to find a hobby. There was no point in retiring if all he was going to do was continue analyzing global geopolitics. Normal people did not spend their days trying to simulate international incidents. At least now he could do it with a drink in hand.

The TV anchor droned on. “The Wedge campaign administration have released multiple statements, most of which say the same thing–Councilor Wedge is alive, but they cannot state his condition. Sources close to the candidate have declined to comment.”

That was a bad sign. Alemas took another sip. Wedge was a fraud and a bigot, sure, but a broad-daylight assassination would cause more problems than it solved if it succeeded. It was already turning into a considerable mess in the interim.

It was like clockwork. President Auguste, followed by every party leadership, put out statements condemning the act, calling for swift justice, and sending thoughts and prayers to Councilor Wedge and his loved ones. Every available OSCAR agent descended on Anders. ODP had held two press conferences since yesterday, rallying their voters around their new martyr. 

On second thought, “mess” might have been a naive descriptor. A more conspiratorial mind would think whoever attempted this was getting exactly what they wanted. Alemas did not like that thought. 

The doorbell rang. Alemas jumped up to answer it. He caught himself. No, he had had the camera system installed for a reason. For Grayson’s sake as much as his own, but it was pointless if he didn’t use it. He found the security panel and checked the feed.

A solitary woman was at the door, clearly trying very hard to be inconspicuous. Despite the baggy clothes and baseball cap, he could tell she was younger–younger than him, at least. A big Falcons logo was emblazoned on the hat, indicating awful taste in rugby teams.

There could have been few more suspicious people at his door, but Alemas was bored enough to take a risk. He pushed the mic button. “Be there in a moment.” 

Sliding over to the bookcase, he opened a hidden compartment and retrieved a stun gun. He then tucked it behind him as he went to answer the door in person.

“What do you want?” he asked.

The woman looked him directly in the eyes. “Special Agent Samuels?”

Immediately he tensed. Anyone who knew about that could only be bad news. But he held on to his facade. “What do you want?” he repeated.

“I need to talk to you.”

“If you need your ex killed, you’re in the wrong place.”

“It’s about what happened in Anders.” She continued to stare him down.

“You should be talking to the district police about that, not…looking for a special agent.”

“They won’t listen to me.”

Oh gods, she was a theorist, wasn’t she. “Well then. I hope you can find who you’re looking for. He doesn’t live here.”

“Don’t—”

“Ope, excuse me,” intervened Don, the mailman. “Package for you, Jeromy. They wanted you to sign for it.”

Alemas gratefully disengaged from the prior encounter and took the tablet to sign. He was equally confused by the parcel, however. He was not expecting any orders. It was an unmarked box, less than 20 centimeters deep and high and 30 wide. Maybe Grayson had something coming? No, it was definitely addressed to “Jeromy Alemas”.

He exchanged the sign tablet for the package. “See ya,” Don said cheerily. He stopped to acknowledge the woman. “Pardon again, miss.” The courier then resumed his rounds.

This left Alemas alone with the crazy girl again, but he had played off worse outs. “Sorry, I need to go in and unpack this.”

“Okay.” She did not seem interested in leaving.

“Have a good day.” Alemas gently closed the door in her face.

He suppressed a loud swear as he deposited the mystery package on the kitchen counter. In his past life, he had known Dalimbari with more tact. No use dwelling on it, though. Now, about this box…

A few swift strikes with a knife revealed the contents.

A single, fresh pineapple.

Now Alemas was truly scared. This was the second reference to his long-buried past to appear in the span of a few minutes, and it could not possibly be coincidental. Had the woman at the door arranged this?

He checked the camera again. She was still outside, waiting.

Defeated, he returned to the door. “Alright. Come inside. I’ll hear you out.”

~<(*)>~

“Thank you again, Agen–”

“ ‘Jeromy’, please. I left the badge and name behind for a reason.” He finished setting the customary hospitality coffee and turned on the machine. “And I think it’s only fair you tell me who you are.”

“Meade. Bryn Meade.” The guest had declined to sit down and was simply standing ominously in the kitchen doorway.

“And you’re with…?”

“Myself.”

How enlightening. If she was a foreign asset, they weren’t sending their best. “If you insist. Alright then, what’s the deal with Anders.”

“Everything,” Meade began, unfazed by Alemas’ condescension. “ODP wouldn’t have a hope or a prayer in this election under normal circumstances, right?”

“Sure.”

“So why would anyone try to assassinate their candidate?”

“I don’t know.”

“Exactly. It only feeds their little persecution complex, right? Second. You can see on the footage just how many cops were on scene and how quickly they responded. How’d anyone get through all that?”

“You tell me.”

“And most of all. The way the shot was timed right after those iconic ‘final words’. You couldn’t have scripted it any better. And the guy getting up afterwards to repeat it, as if a man had not been shot in broad daylight in front of him? What was his deal?”

“You mean to tell me it’s an inside job, then.”

“I think it was fully staged, and either something went wrong or Wedge is playing up being hurt. You couldn’t buy this kind of media attention during an election year.”

The coffeemaker chimed to indicate it was done brewing, providing a natural break in the conversation. “Cream or sugar?” Alemas asked, pouring the first cup. 

“Neither, thanks.” Meade accepted the mug from him.

Alemas dumped a heaping tablespoon of sugar into his coffee and a splash of milk. He was dying to ask about how this woman had found him. Casual conspiracy theorists didn’t have the wits or resources to track him down. A ranked, competitive conspiracy theorist would have a better story. But anyone will show their hand if you act like you’re not playing, he reminded himself. And the pineapple on the counter continued to perplex him.

“Okay then, suppose that’s true. What does any of it have to do with me?”

“I should think it has to do with all of us, given that it’s a presidential election.”

“But I said at the beginning. You need to take this to authorities. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do about it.”

Meade’s demeanor had still not changed. “And I said they weren’t listening, even when I showed them the website.”

“I’m sorry, the website?”

Meade produced an eyePhone and began furiously tapping. “Here. There’s this old tech forum that they’re using to send messages. They’re in code, but I’m dead certain it’s an underground network.”

GeekApparatus.sg, the banner said, in full 1400s web design glory. The thread itself was recent, ostensibly about what must have been a new Zoranian video game. Alemas had never been current on that sort of thing. And the posts themselves seemed barely coherent.

“The fourth stage takes *wayyyyyy* too long,” one user complained. Another quoted that post, adding, “There is a new pizza parlor down the street, actually.” A third user opined, “I like Frodo. How’s yours?” followed by a string of low-resolution emoticons.

“I don’t unde–” Alemas started to say, but was interrupted by realization. The syntax of these messages was familiar. A lot like something he had learned 15 years ago. No, that was it. The words were different, but it was her code.

Alemas swore under his breath. There were too many coincidences happening in short succession today. 

“What is it? Do you know it?”

Alemas composed himself. “I…ahem, it’s vaguely familiar, yes,” he hedged. He found himself glancing back at the pineapple.

“So it is something,” Meade concluded.

Some of the pieces were coming together. Yes, based on how they split, this wasn’t an unreasonable outcome. But gods, even she had higher standards than ODP. What was her game? And how did this alarmingly intense “Meade” fit into it? Were they working together? Were they dragging him into it?

They knew where he lived, and by extension where Grayson lived. Did he have the option to stay out of it?

“You’re the only person I know of who’s able to get to the bottom of this,” Meade pressed. “If I’m right, and they get away with it, all bets are off for the next six years.”

Alemas took a long, slow drag of his coffee. “So be it. Where do we start?”

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1. The Overthinkers State Crime Administration & Registry, the nation’s highest law enforcement agency.