The Turing Test

Fandom: Fake News/ Real News RPF
Title: The 28th Amendment VI: Coyote Lives Forever
Rating: R
Characters: Anderson Cooper, Keith Olbermann, Jon Stewart
Summary: Moving forward, moving on. Everyone does what they have to do to get by.
Warning: graphic violence, major/minor character death.
Note: Thanks to sarken, enamourednhmrd, fnordine, and raineblack007 for most excellent betas.
Disclaimer: Any similarity between the fictional version of the person portrayed here and the actual persons is purely coincidental. This is a work of fiction. This is not an attempt to defame the character of said person on the basis of libel, as the work is FICTIONAL (and NOT an intently false statement created with the express purpose of misleading others about the actual character of said person).

Any mention of 'The Daily Show', 'The Colbert Report', 'Viacom', 'Anderson 360', 'Countdown' any associated entities, or any copyrighted material pertaining therein is reasonably protected by the Fair Use Rule of the United States Copyright Act of 1976 and is not intended to infringe upon any copyrighted material.

Original Posting Date: 5 September 2008



Anderson Cooper, ex-journalist turned anti-Christian terrorist, made the top of the FBI’s most wanted list today. Cooper, widely rumored to be gay, is wanted for planning terrorist bombings in concert with CLUMSY and the Cedar Army as well as for providing weapons and explosives to countless other terrorists.” - Bill O'Reilly, Fox News, 5 July 2014

Vermont has called for the Congress to form an Article V Convention to propose a 29th Amendment to the Constitution repealing the 28th Amendment. They have also called for the impeachment of both the President and Vice President. Sources say that certain individuals in the Vermont government are discussing secession if their demands are not met. -Shepard Smith, Fox News, 24 August 2014

***

"I'm coming with you," said Rachel.

"You have to stay here in case something goes wrong," said Anderson. "If I don't free Keith, or if we don't make it back, I need you to continue to agitate for the release of political prisoners."

"Anyone can talk to TV pundits. I want to come with you. You're going to need the help," Rachel insisted.

"Jeff is going to come with me, I need his plane. It can't be more than two of us," replied Anderson. “I promise,” he said, looking her in the eye, “I’ll bring him home.”

Anderson left the Farm quietly. He had said goodbye the previous night after dinner, and left the house before dawn broke. He wasn’t at all surprised to find Rachel waiting at the strip they used as a runway. Jeff was there too, already in the plane.

“Come back to us,” Rachel said, engulfing him in a hug and pressing a kiss to his cheek. “I’ll be waiting here when you get back.”

Anderson nodded and climbed into the plane as Rachel watched. Jeff revved up the engine and Rachel waved in the cold morning air as the little plane trundled down the makeshift runway and finally sprung into the sunrise.

***

Anderson didn’t recognize the man at all. Not until they were shaking hands and Jon looked at him and said, “It’s me.”

“Jon?” Anderson asked, stunned. The man might not look the same, but his voice was unmistakable. He looked over at Jeff and he looked as stunned as Anderson felt. He pulled Jon into a hug and was surprised when the other man tensed under his arms.

“Stephen is dead.”

The sentence hung in the air, but Anderson did not let go of Jon. He looked so much older: his hair had gone totally grey and wrinkles lined his face. He might have pulled off the look if it wasn’t for the aura of sadness that hung over him.

“I’m sorry,” Anderson murmured as Jon got a hold of himself.

“Cops thought we were protestors. It was a couple of months back,” said Jon.

They stood there together until Elizabeth ushered them into dinner where the third member of Anderson’s ad hoc rescue committee was waiting.

“Cody,” said Anderson with a smile. The newcomer shook all their hands as Anderson introduced him. “This is Cody Greer. He’s going to help us rescue Keith,” said Anderson. He’d known Cody for years and his ongoing employment at the FBI was the lynch pin of Anderson’s plan.

“On our way back, we’ll swing by and pick Jon up.” Anderson turned to look at him, “You’ll be over the border in no time.”

“I’m not leaving,” said Jon, shaking his head. “I need to be here.”

“Are you sure?” asked Anderson, perplexed. “Come home with me. Rachel is there, and Steve. Half your cast and crew. They would want you to be safe.”

“Stephen is here. I’m not leaving. End of story,” said Jon.

***

Anderson had been a patient man; cautious even. It took him almost four years to develop a plan to rescue Keith. A plan that would meet Jeff’s approval. One that was likely to actually get Keith out without leaving all of the rest of them dead.

His plan was foolproof. Twenty more minutes and former Agent Cody Greer would walk Keith right out the front door of ADX Florence. Twenty minutes and Keith would be free.

It was the longest twenty minutes of Anderson’s life. Staying perfectly still, hoping his plan truly was as foolproof as he thought.

The minutes passed: ten, twenty, twenty-five.

Something was wrong. Anderson couldn’t figure out what, but he knew. Then Cody ran straight past where Anderson and Jeff were waiting, dragging Keith behind him. The sound of gunfire, followed by a bullet lodging itself in his calf reinforced the idea. Anderson fell to his knees and Jeff stumbled beside him. Suddenly Jeff’s head was gone and his body fell beside Anderson, blood and grey matter pooling around them.

He could see Keith looking back, trying to tug away from Cody as the agent pushed him into the van. Anderson knew nothing Keith could say would turn Cody around and he breathed a sigh of relief. He would gladly pay this price.

***

Anderson had known, intellectually, that capture was a possibility, but he’d thought that either success or death would be more likely outcomes. He’d fully expected the soldier to walk up to him and put a bullet in his brain. Instead he’d been cuffed and tossed in the back of a military truck. He wasn’t sure what happened after that, he’d passed out from the pain and the blood loss.

Now he was in a dank prison cell. It was empty except for a stainless steel sink-toilet combo and a cement ledge Anderson assumed was supposed to be a bed. People came in and asked him questions, demanded answers, but he mostly ignored them.

Sometimes the questioners kicked him, hit him, but the violence was sporadic: more because his interrogators were angry that they couldn’t get him to talk and less because they were trying to use pain to extract information. He wasn’t sure why they weren’t interested in his information. He’d braced himself for torture when he was captured but none was forth coming. Even now they must have wanted him more for his famous face then his brains.

He was just a face to flash up on the television, to say: look here, this is the scapegoat, the man who caused all your pain. Look at us take care of him so that he may never hurt you again.

“I’m your duly appointed public defender, Kyle Tallmadge,” said the short, balding man in his cell. Anderson wondered how long he’d been there. He hadn’t noticed the man enter. Tallmadge was the first person not to begin with a barrage of questions, so Anderson paid more attention than he normally would have to what the man was saying.

“A military tribunal will be hearing your case later this afternoon. You’re charged with treason, terrorism, conspiracy to commit terrorism, sponsoring terrorism, conspiracy to corrupt America, and several lesser charges including sodomy,” said the lawyer, and Anderson considered tuning him out again. “If they find you guilty, and they will, the sentence will be the death penalty.”

They gave him a suit. Not as nice as his usual wardrobe, but it would do. They shackled him and then led him out of his cell and to the makeshift courtroom.

He could see from the hall that there were cameras in the courtroom. From the looks of it, they were recording now for a later broadcast. Probably to give them time to edit this sham of a trial into something that seemed damning. Anderson hoped his mother wouldn't see this, even though he knew there was no way to prevent it. He wished he could go home to her now.

Anderson took a deep breath and followed Tallmadge into the courtroom.

***

A teenaged boy looking professional in khakis and a polo looked up when Kieran O’Neill ushered Jon into the small front room. His lip ring caught Jon’s attention as he looked Jon up and down before grabbing his walkie-talkie and saying in to it, “Someone is here to see you.”

He nodded Jon and Kieran into seats to wait. It didn’t look like a super secret Underground hideout. In fact it resembled the waiting room of a dentist office. Jon shook his head; he didn’t know what he was expecting when he asked Kieran to bring him here, maybe a garage or a musty basement.

Kieran sat calmly, as self-possessed as any fifteen year old Jon had ever seen, while Jon sat and fidgeted. Kieran had lost three siblings to the Regime; before that he’d been a sophomore at the school. He’d helped Jon peel potatoes and tended the plants on the roof of the church too many times to count. He’d served at Stephen’s funeral mass. Now he was going to help Jon get his revenge. It wasn’t hard to figure who to ask; the CLUMSY kids had taken to wearing brown scapulars. Kieran had been the one to explain the Jon what those brown scraps of felt were.

It had been harder to convince Kieran to bring him in. He was old, the teen said with a wrinkled nose, and possibly crazy. Jon wasn’t arguing with either descriptor: he did feel old and slightly crazy.

After waiting what seemed like an eternity, Jon was ushered into a back office.

“I’m Aaron,” said the young man behind the desk. “If you really want to help, we’ll take it. We need all the help we can get. Kieran vouched for you and we’ve all heard your story anyway.”

Jon nodded.

“We’ll start small and see how you do,” said Aaron. “Deal?”

“Deal.”

***

Jon’s first job for CLUMSY was easy: he passed messages at the church. Just getting folded scraps of paper from one person to the next.

It was three weeks before Aaron would give him a real job. It was still just a messenger gig, but this time he had C4 instead of paper. It worked the same way: someone would come to the church for dinner, code and counter-code would be exchanged and Jon would hand over an extra doggy bag.

Jon wasn’t sure how Father Mark would feel about CLUMSY running explosives through his church. He guessed it wouldn’t be a positive response, so he never mentioned his new job to either Father Mark or Elizabeth.


***

Aaron was old, at least old by CLUMSY standards. He was twenty-five, and he wouldn’t tell Jon his last name, just that he had been a grad student once in mechanical engineering, before the Amendment. He had a wife once too but she had died early on. Killed by a cop just for being Mormon, Aaron claimed.

Jon sat next to Aaron, letting the other man tell his story. Aaron had supported the Amendment, had welcomed it. He never expected it to turn him into a leader of teenagers, blowing up buildings, publishing compromising photographs, hacking public works and trying to force the government into returning his civil rights.

He had thought the 28th Amendment would bring God back into the public sphere, that school prayer would instill morality into children and save babies from dying. It never occurred to him that anyone would consider him un-orthodox, would discriminate against him for not being Christian enough. It had been a hard lesson for the young man to learn.

“This is a horrible job,” Aaron said to Jon as they looked at surveillance photos for Jon’s next job. “Awful. I’ve buried my wife, and I’ve buried these boys who tried to make a difference, and someday someone will bury me because of what I’ve done here.”

He pushed a set of photos towards Jon. “These are the undercover cops that we know about that are staking out Jen Stryzinski. She makes the plates for our printing press. She’s under so much surveillance right now that I can’t send in anyone that we’ve used before and I can’t make any promises that the cops won’t arrest you anyway.

“If you get caught with them, well, let’s say it won’t be good to get caught with them,” Aaron said. “You ready for this?”

Jon nodded. “I’ve buried too many people to give up now.” He had shoveled dirt on to Stephen’s coffin, burying him deep in the earth, never to walk it again. He could do nothing else for him except provide him vengeance.

“There’s no giving up, just moving on. One foot in front of the other,” replied Aaron. “You don’t look like you belong to the Underground anyway; you’re too old for CLUMSY and not punk enough for the Cedar Army.”

Jon nodded. At least looking old had its advantages.

“What will you do when this is over?” he said as he stared at the photos.

“Over? I can’t believe this will ever be over. As much as I long to throw down my weapons and return home, eat my mother’s cooking, pray with my people for a better world, lay flowers on my wife’s grave, I don’t think I’ll live to see that day.” Aaron bent down and rifled through the photos, hiding the wetness of his eyes. “Try not to get caught. We need you.”

Jon sighed. “Someday, this will all be over and I’ll get to hold my kids again. I won’t get caught.”

***

Jon came back from the job battered and bruised, but alive. Aaron was there to welcome him and then drag him down to the basement to be debriefed. It was a long, drawn out meeting and when it was over Jon was even more exhausted.

“Sit, sit,” said Aaron, who proceeded to hand him a bottle of beer. “I thought you might want one after all that.”

Jon twisted the cap off. “To absent friends,” he said, clinking his bottle of beer against Aaron’s glass of lemonade.

“To absent friends.”

He sat there in the silence with Aaron and thought about everything he had lost.

Kieran popped his head into the basement, interrupting the moment, “Someone’s looking for you.”

“Who?” asked Aaron, getting to his feet.

“Not for you, for him,” said Kieran.

“Me?” asked Jon, startled. Besides Aaron and Kieran, very few people knew he did work for CLUMSY.

“Yeah, he looks pretty bad, you should come talk to him,” replied Kieran.

Keith was waiting with Cody in the front: tired, bloody and gaunt. His eyes flicked back and forth, keeping track of exits and potential attacks. “Jon,” he said too loudly.

“Keith,” Jon replied, his voice breaking. “I thought you were in prison?”

“Anderson came and got me out. He was captured. I don’t know where he is,” said Keith, keeping his sentences short and his rhythm staccato. He looked lost and alone.

***

Jon brought Keith and Cody back to St. Joan of Arc’s for dinner. Keith was eerily quiet through the meal, letting Cody explain what had happened and how Anderson had had backup plans for every contingency. Cody was planning on taking Keith north the next day and handing him over to the Canadian Underground at the border before returning to see if he could free Anderson.

“Come with me,” said Keith, finally breaking his silence.

“I can’t,” said Jon. “I need to stay here and fight this.”

“Fight from Canada.” Keith looked down at his secondhand shoes. “I need… I’m going to need your help.”

Jon looked at him. “Stephen…”.

“I know. God, I know. He’ll be safe here though and we’ll continue the fight,” said Keith.

Jon took a ragged breath. “Okay.” He paused for a moment. “I’ll go, but I need to say good-bye before we leave.”

“Alright,” said Keith.

***

Keith came with Jon to the little graveyard behind the church.

Jon knelt in the soil by the plain wooden cross that marked Stephen's grave and placed a pebble on the small pile of rocks he had left previously. He had made Father Mark promise to tend the grave for him now that he would not be able to.

"I never meant to leave you here."


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