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his office. He kept his finger firmly on the power button to his batteryless phone. Holding the power button would drain any power it may have left in it. They needed power to track the phone – even if it were only running on fumes.
        Lots of chatter rustled outside of the door. It felt like a routine power-down drill, but Jason was short on time, since the rest of the department hadn’t been alerted to any drill.  He had entered his agent passcode into the computer. No way they weren’t going to know it was him.
         The intelligence engineers in their cubicles outside of the door questi oned. “Yo, what’s going on?” one guy just outside of his office asked.
         The muffled commotion outside of his cherry oak office door grew to a rumble.
         He continued to listen.
         "Where is the power box?" One analyst said.
         “Don’t do anything without letting Upton know.” Another responded.
         Immediately, the captains of the floor sprung into action the way they had been trained.
         In Jason’s head, he weighed his options. What to do? What excuse when they realize—if they realize—it’s not a drill.
         Jason’s realization grew -- he had no excuse. If it were some employee under his rank coming to question him it would be no problem. If it were one of the 4 or 5 men over him, he may, very well, be in trouble.
         Jason crouched back down to the floor, crawled back under his desk and slowly plugged one of the plugs back in; he heard a knock at his door.
        In a haze of confusion, his mind indecisively suggested an array of responses. W ho’s gonna know it was me? He thought. I’m second in command in this particular department.
         Authority is the way out of this. 
         Jason bounced up from behind his desk, banging his elbow on the side of the chair, nearly tipping it over. He dusted himself off, tucked in his shirt, straightened his slacks, and walked his calm, authoritive, stride to the door. He swung the door open. It was one of the analysts positioned under him.
         Before the officer could speak, Jaso n said, “Not a drill – possibly a malfunction; probably a hacker. I'll fix it. Tell the guys I’m on it, then go back to your station."
         He went back into his room and plugged the computers back in. When his computer rebooted, there wasn’t a single item on the desktop besides the picture of the DHS seal. Jason stared at the screen as the computer finished rebooting.
         Then, seemingly, in nonchalant fashion, centered at the bottom of the screen, a peaceful but threatening message rested: "Computer tracked and contents seized."
         Jason gathered his blazer, and briskly exited his office. As he walked by the cubicles he addressed the analysts on the floor.
         "There may have been a breach, I will be back. Leave your computers off. I repeat: leave your computers off."
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    
     
    VI
     
    Connecticut Courthouse
          Protest crowds chanted outside of the courthouse in front of a parade of speakers who took a microphone and tearfully purged their traumatizing rape accounts in front of hundreds.
         Police in military gear encircled the crowd for blocks. Putters of UAVs filled the sky in every direction.
         Czyra Michaels, a young teen from New York City, was no stranger to this sort of activity. He was associated with The Unknown Hactivists.
         He sought out injustice via the internet and harassed the accused until he got what he saw fit as justice. This time, a town that continually hid rape crimes that their star high school football players would commit.
         “We’re not going to tolerate injustice, anymore.” One masked woman shouted. “Sports does not trump what really matters in this world. You let these boys get away with way too much – we’re tired