Conversation at the Wagon Wheel
"Y'all were a great crowd, thanks once again an' be sure t' tell your friends about us. Good night from the Cajun Devildogs!" GW waved from the stage as he and the band wrapped things up for the night.

They'd had a good crowd in the club tonight. The Wagon Wheel liked to have them around about once every six weeks, drawing in homesick Louisianans as well as music lovers and curious tourists who wanted to hear an authentic Cajun band. A number of the patrons in the crowded bar were familiar faces, fans who showed up wherever they played.

One person who definitely was not familiar was the tall man with salt and pepper hair dressed in a suit and looked distinctly uncomfortable in the boots n' sawdust environment.

Markowitz was not precisely uncomfortable, it was just that he'd never seen quite so many pairs of broken-in boots in one place at one time before. Give him the jazz clubs of New York any day. He couldn't wait for this portion of his assignment to be over so that he could get back to a city he was more at home in.

But he applauded right along with the other spectators, deciding that it maybe wasn't so bad. His untouched beer was sweating through the paper coaster in front of him, and he glanced at his watch quickly before rising from his chair. His opinion of the music aside, this was not technically just an evening out. Work always called, especially for something this important.

"Mr. Robichaux," he said, hovering on the edge of the small crowd of autograph seekers who had gathered near the stage. To show the badge or not to show the badge? This was not Wolfram and Hart, and he didn't want to cause a stir. Besides, the suit was enough to indicate that this was not a usual hang-out for him. Markowitz indicated the table where he'd been sitting with a tilt of his head. "When you get a minute, I'd like to have a word with you, please."


GW nodded, a frown appearing briefly on his face before he returned his attention to the small group of fans clustered around the band. It took him most of a half hour between chatting with fans and helping the rest of the band pack everything up before he finally 'had a minute' to approach what had to be a representative from Homeland Security.

"Don' tell me you guys have t' wear suits all the time like the FBI?" GW asked with a curious smirk as he sat down across from the agent, fresh beer in hand. The agent may be on duty, but GW's workday had just ended.

The corners of Markowitz's narrow lips turned up in an answering smirk, and he pushed aside his own beer since he wasn't drinking it anyway. The next time a waitress swung by the table he'd ask for a glass of water.

"Not all the time," he deadpanned. "We don't sleep in them. Its hell on the fabric. Besides, the Fibbies have lousy taste in clothes. Ever see a picture of J. Edgar Hoover in a suit? There's a reason he liked dressing up in ladies' fashions."

He removed his notebook from the inside pocket of his suit jacket, flipped it open. "I know you've already served your country once," he told GW in a vaguely distracted fashion. "But from what we can tell about your military record, you're exactly the sort we need for this project. Someone who can teach other recruits about combat and how to protect themselves against the hostiles. Have you had any civilian experience as a hunter?"

GW almost choked on his beer at the agent's comeback to the joke, and he raised his opinion of the other man up a notch. Anyone with such a sense of humor couldn't be all bad even if he worked for Homeland Security. The crack on Hoover had been particularly good, he had to admit.

He listened carefully to the other man's statement and felt his hackles rise just a bit. Markowitz hadn't said he assumed that GW would join up, but that was the vibe he was getting. The Cajun took another sip of beer and nodded, biting back a condescending retort. "I grew up in the country, hunting is part of the culture down there. Been hunting since I was six."

The former marine leaned forward. "Like you said though, I've served my country already. I did six years active duty with the Corps. I've got a good thing goin' here as a civilian, why should I join up again? Convince me."

"I think you're aware that I wasn't talking about game hunting." The agent's tone was patient, holding no rancor. Conducting an interview in a setting like this called for discretion, so he could understand what seemed like an attempt at a dodge. A server with a half-full tray of glasses wove her way past their table, and he asked for a bottle of water.

"Like I said, you've distinguished yourself with your military service," he said once he'd finished uncapping the bottle. "And while this wouldn't be the same as your little vacation in the Middle East, its nothing you aren't familiar with. I understand you were also stationed in London for a time, working out of the embassy with the Marine contingent there. This would be more like....diplomacy work. No fighting unless its necessary. At least not without proper training."

He took a drink of the cool liquid, shrugged one shoulder. "My superiors have given me some leeway to answer questions, since I can only presume that you have them. Is there anything you'd want to know beforehand?"

So far GW hadn't seen a compelling reason for him to return to government service. "I do have a few questions. What authority are you acting under to start this program? Is it legal? What are you going to do to folks who refuse to cooperate? I'd never be able to look my momma in the eye again if I ended up working for a place that ended up like Abu Gharib, or like Gitmo."

He wasn't interested in working for something that was like the secret police from the Soviet block in the bad old days of the Cold War. If it turned out like that he'd do everything he could to destroy it, look what happened to Russia when the KGB got their hands on the government.

"The times have changed," Markowitz offered. "With a different person in the Oval Office, some headway has been made with regard to relations with possibly unfriendly entities. The order to begin this project was approved directly by the President. I wasn't there when the papers were signed, but its all legitimate. As for the legality of it, I'm not exactly sure of what you mean. We're talking about vampires and demons here, not your average illegal immigrant. Some of the...people...who attended that meeting technically no longer exist." Another lift of bony shoulders.

"I'm not really at liberty to fully discuss what happens to those who refuse to become part of the program. But I can say that it will involve being detained for questioning and possible rehabilitation. Again, that doesn't seem like it should be a particular sticking point. We're not the Nazis, Mr. Robichaux. And its a tricky situation. Which is why we aren't planning to go public. The general population isn't ready to deal with the things our recruits would be facing."

"I'm not talkin' about horned demons or vampires," GW wanted to make that clear. "I'm talkin' about people who are perfectly normal, pay their taxes an everything, they just have somethin' 'extra'. Magic or supernatural talent or what have you." Meredith came to mind immediately, as did the women in his family. He regretted the way things had ended with Meredith, the two of them had just drifted apart and she had never been around much.

"It's a slippery slope Agent Markowitz, and I don't wanna see innocent folks gettin' hurt over the government gettin' a bee in it's bonnet all the sudden."

"Well, I guess it depends on what 'something extra' means." The older man made quotes in the air, leaning forward a little. "The government's always known that there are individuals born with certain powers. Telekinesis, pyrokinesis, psychic abilities, you name it, we've looked into it. And there are those who...acquire their strengths and deficits along the way. Vampires. Lycanthropes. Magic users. Forget alien colonization and mind control from space, most of the real dangers are right here on earth."

He paused long enough to drink some water, sat back a little. "The problem is, most of the stuff I just mentioned is unpredictable at best. At best. There was a private study a few years ago, very hush-hush, that says the average magic user can siphon off enough energy from almost any source at all to perform spells. Depending on the individual, that could be a lot of power in unschooled hands. Without proper instruction and training, it'd be like giving a fifteen-year-old access to nuclear missiles. You wouldn't hand someone a loaded gun without showing them how to use it, would you?"

Despite the alarmist rhetoric, the agent's expression was solemn, even grave. Markowitz was too old to be a zealot. But there were things he believed in about his work, things he felt this project stood for. Saving lives, for one thing. "Like I said, its tricky."

GW was still skeptical, but Markowitz raised some good points. How did the average magic user learn how to work their art? His family might be unique for all he knew. The younger women studied at the feet of their elders, an apprenticeship for all intents and purposes, throughout their teens and early twenties and gradually developed their skills in a controlled manner. What happened to the odd kid who discovered magical talent without that family structure to provide context and framework?

Someone had to be the voice of reason in this outfit, the person reminding the Powers that they too were mortal. Why not him?

The idea of the government snooping on his female relatives just because they had some supernatural gifts though....it just didn't sit right with him, they had a system going already that worked for them and didn't need Uncle Sam coming in and mucking things up.

Markowitz took off his glasses, folded them between his long-fingered hands. His eyes were dark and sharp above his hawkish nose, and they focused on GW's face across the table. "We're at war, Mr. Robichaux," he said in a low voice. "And its a war you'll never hear soundbites about on CNN. The other side is pretty unorganized, but so are we. This...effort has been made once before, but the wrong people were given control." The agent hadn't been involved with DHS during that time, but he'd heard stories about the Initiative. He hoped that fiasco wasn't going to repeat itself.

"We're on the same side here. I know 'government' pretty much equals people becoming suspicious of our motives, But with a combined effort, we' can establish order and save lives." He gestured with the water bottle, watching the contents slosh back and forth.

"Who knows? It could be a mitzvah."

GW nodded. "All right, you got me." He hoped he was doing the right thing here, getting involved with Homeland Security, but the Agent did make a good point about the country being at war. He'd served his country in wartime once before, and it seemed he would again.

Hopefully they'd have a better outcome to this one.

"What is it exactly you'd want me to do? Would I have to give up the band?" He wasn't sure what was expected of him, was this a full time or part time assignment they wanted him for?

"Not right now, no." Markowitz shook his head, indicating the now-empty stage. "Depending on what happens down the road, who knows, but for the time being you can go about your normal routine. After your orientation you'll be given a partner and some names of contacts, people for you to try and bring into the program. You'll likely be reporting to me, at least at first." He removed a card from his identification wallet and handed it to the Cajun. "My office and cell phone numbers. Welcome to Project Integration, Mr. Robichaux."

The agent extended a hand across the table for a shake, giving himself a restrained pat on the back. Leave the bullying to Sparrow and Purvis, his job was to talk to these people and make them see reason. That was the only way this was going to work.

Note: This takes place the Friday before Holy Week
Agent Markowitz was written by Stargazer