Infiltrating the Feminist Resistance (closed for Britwitch)

Jason showed up at his boss's office at nine sharp, promptness being a habit drilled into him long since. The agency insisted on professional attire at headquarters, so he was dressed in a navy fitted suit and tie. Just shy of six feet, the demands of his job kept him in excellent shape. At 32, he might not be at his absolute peak anymore, but if his reflexes had slowed a touch he more than made up for it with preparation and a quick resourcefulness. "Ah, Desjardins, you're here. Good," his boss Alex said. He gestured to the uniformed man to his right. "This is General Brix. He'll be joining us this morning." Jason gripped the general's hand, the two men testing each other's strength briefly. "Sit down, Jason," Alex went on. Jason flopped into a low-backed grey chair across from his desk. Get to the point, Alex, he thought. There was only one reason he could be here: his next assignment.

"Jason, you know you're a top operative," Alex began. "What we have in mind for you is a dangerous operation, but it's absolutely crucial. You're aware that we've been dealing with various rebel groups as we try to regain control over the country. We've finally got most of the eastern part of the US taking orders from Washington again. We'll deal with the west in due time, but we need to make sure the new government has a handle on things closer to home first. These rebel groups are mostly minor nuisances: little feminist groups that can't accept the way things have changed, but not a serious threat."

General Brix broke in at this point. "But there's one exception. Over at the White House we call them NERA for Northeast Rebel Alliance, though intelligence reports suggest they call themselves daughters of Diana or something like that," he snorted in derision. "Some kind of girl power nonsense. The fact is, though, they're a threat. As you know, we've just managed to get New York City back under our control, which is crucial to rebuilding our economic base. Wall Street has always been male-dominated and that part of the city is sympathetic to seeing the reconstruction of a male order, but the city is still full of feminists and women who are clinging to the old ways. NERA's got themselves established in upstate New York, and the last thing we want is them stirring up trouble in the city. We've considered a military operation, but frankly, we don't have the strength in the area to both keep a hold on New York City and send enough of a force upstate to deal with these feminist rebels. And that's if we knew where their base was, which we don't."

Jason nodded. "So that's where I come in."

"That's where you come in," Alex agreed. "We need intel at a minimum, and if you can find some way to break their organization, that's even better. What do you know about the Dominatrice?"

Jason shrugged. "Not much. Heard of her, of course. She's the leader of NERA, I take it?"

Alex replied. "That's what we think. Here's what we've got on her." He passed over a slender file, which Jason opened to find a single sheet of paper. "To be honest, we don't know if it's actually a real person or just a title for the leadership in general. We know nothing about who she really is, if she even exists. We're fighting blind here, Jason. We need hard intel."

"Got it, sir. You know me. I'll find out what I can."

"There's more," the general broke in. "We suspect NERA is getting some support from the Canadians: money, weapons probably. They deny it, of course, but they make no secret that they're sympathetic to women's rights. NERA is right near the border there, so it makes perfect sense. If you can confirm the links, so much the better."

"Yes, sir," Jason responded.

"So there's your mission, Jason," Alex continued. "Find out everything you can about NERA: where they're headquartered, what kind of strength they've got, and who's in charge. If you can manage to kill--or better yet, capture--the Dominatrice, great, but the intel and getting you out in one piece is more important so don't go doing anything foolish. And evidence to connect them to the Canadian government is another priority. We'll work out the operational details."

"There's just one more thing, Desjardins," the general said, giving him the staredown. "How do you feel about men resuming their rightful role on top? You're not a feminist sympathizer, are you?"

Jason knew he had to tread cautiously. Alex wouldn't let him lie outright, but the general obviously wanted a certain kind of answer. "No, sir. Former President Reynolds led us down the path to ruin in 2027. I think some jobs are best left to men." He carefully didn't specify what those were. "What's most important is bringing the civil war to an end and restoring some order and unity. I'm loyal to the current government, sir. I'll do my best to help take down NERA and the Dominatrice, whoever she is. You can count on me, sir."

The general nodded slowly. "Good." He stood up. "I'll leave the details to your department, Alex. Good luck, Jason." He left.

"Do you know what you're getting into, Jason?" Alex looked a little anxious. "I know you've been in some tight spots, but this bunch can get nasty. Don't take them lightly just because they're women. We've tried to keep this out of the news, but there have been a number of male kidnappings in their territory. Some just disappear, but they let some of them go. With their balls cut off and tattoos on their stomachs that read, 'Male chauvinist.' If they find out what you're doing, killing you might not be the worst thing that could happen."

"I'm always careful. That's why I'm still alive."

These days, everything was a lie.

She had a job that she didn’t go to. She had a husband she didn’t love.

That wasn’t perhaps a fact restricted to those in her position, sadly a lot of marriages ended up being somewhat less than the fairy tale that the participants had first thought they would be, but unlike those other unfortunate unions she’d only known her husband for the last six months, five of which she’d spent as his wife, although the date on their forged wedding certificate told of a marriage lasting far longer than half a year.

A woman living on her own could be suspected, should be watched. A woman with a husband was surely under his control, surely docile and unthreatening. And so, in the eyes of the law, she was married.

In the current climate having a private life as a woman was a rare and complicated thing, for her it was a matter of life or death.

Susanne hadn’t always lived this way. Up until the last election she’d been a school teacher, happily living her life. Single, but contentedly so. Her older sister was the driven one in the family, involved in the local political scene, and it was her sister that had forced her to change everything about the way she lived.

When it all went wrong for the female led government, it was those like her sister that paid the price. She’d run for local office and been elected, fairly and squarely, by her constituents. Just as they’d checked her name on their ballot papers, they’d turned on her the moment the momentum began to swing the other way.
The police report of the incident that ended her term in office, and her life, said it was death by misadventure. Everyone knew that she’d been murdered.

That evening, for example, Susanne was running a book club for women. The texts they were allowed to read were heavily censored by law these days but reading the material they were allowed, with one of the women’s husbands present to make sure things didn’t take a turn for the militant, meant they were on the radar but not a worry.

The women that gathered talked about many things, none of them relating to the book of the week. The ‘husbands’ that joined them were sympathisers and kept watch, every marriage in the room was as fake as the club they were a part of.

Just like everything, it was a lie. But these days to lie was the only way to stay alive.
Determined to get justice for those that had killed her sister, Susanne had joined the local resistance movement, the NERA. The shadowy figure that they followed, whose pseudonym was whispered warily by men in power, was protected by secrets and lies just like everyone else. The book club, the baking group, the walking organisation…all of them were fronts for the resistance and the Dominatrice who spear headed it all. No one knew who she truly was, and those that did lived lives of permanent worry.

One day Susanne would have justice for her family, until then she would fight the silent fight against everything that was wrong in her country.

Walking from her apartment to the meeting place, the local church hall, Susanne made sure to walk slowly and carefully. Not wanting to attract attention to herself or to where she was going. Making sure she smiled at acquaintances on the way. To an onlooker she was a contented looking young woman. Dark brown hair in a high ponytail that hung down her back and with intelligent hazel eyes, she had a pretty face and a slim figure. A figure that was slimmer since the stress of joining NERA had taken its toll but still feminine.

She could have found a husband, she was sure, easily enough but she needed one who could help her. Who could lie for her. Who, if needed, would die for her and the cause.
She hated lying but she had no choice.

Taking her seat in the club she smiled and idly flicked through her copy of the allowed text until all the other 'members' were there.
The sole man in the room checked the outer door was locked and then came back in with a solemn expression and nodded, prompting Susanne to rise to her feet, smiling at the other women sitting on the plastic chairs that formed a circle in the middle of the room. Every single one of them had a copy of the same book on the laps, and not one of them had read a page.
"Good evening, ladies." She said softly, her voice gentle and kind, the perfect voice for a school teacher. Her expression growing a little more stern as she continued. "Now, reports say they're increasing patrols in this part of town after last week's action so we'll make this as brief as we can."

“Maybe we’re overthinking this,” Jason had said.

By this point Alex and Jason had planned enough operations together to be familiar with each other. Freed from the demands of protocol, they fell into an easy give and take of ideas. Jason moved his chair closer to Alex's desk and took out his phone to keep notes.

"I was thinking a cover as a truck driver would work," Alex began. "We know NERA has been hijacking trucks in the area, so we send you in with a truck from some drug or medical equipment company, chances are good they'll capture you."

Jason shook his head. "No good. What if they don't stop me? Or what if someone else does? I'll have to drive up from New York City, and from what the general said most of the state has to be considered hostile territory. Plus, if I'm just a truck driver, what good am I to them? I have nothing to offer them. I might keep my balls, but I won't get into the inner circle."

Alex pursed his lips. "All right, you've got a point. What's your idea? You want some coffee?" he offered.

"Sure." Jason leaned forward, drumming his fingers on the wood surface of the desk. "I'm still thinking. It needs to be something where I'm useful to them, both so they won't want to kill me and so they have reason to want to take me to their headquarters. It's not like I'm just going to stroll into the place. Odds are I'll get captured by the foot soldiers. I need to give them a reason to take me to the higher-ups. What about communications tech?" he suggested. "That has to be useful to them. They'll be concerned about maintaining safe communications and not letting you guys listen in to everything they're saying." He grinned.

Alex looked doubtful as he rang for the coffee. "I don't know, Jason. Yeah, it would be exactly the kind of skill they need, but you have no way of knowing who they've got. They've managed to stay under the radar pretty well, which suggests they already have specialists working with them. You're pretty good, but you can't bullshit someone who's really an expert. Once they find out you're faking, you're dead."

They went back and forth for a while, both proposing ideas and then poking holes in them. Finally, Jason rubbed his eyes with a thumb and forefinger. "Maybe we're overthinking this. Why don't I just be myself?"

Alex nearly spit out his coffee. "You want to walk into NERA headquarters and tell them you're a spy? Are you fucking out of your mind?"

Jason didn’t smile. “Not exactly what I meant. I’ve still got my Marine tattoo. Your guys can do a little fake dossier, if they check. Take it up through my Marine days and my discharge, but make it more recent, like right around the takeover. That’ll explain my military background and it’s a cover for some of the skills I have. They’ll definitely want to talk to ex-military.”

Alex didn’t look entirely convinced. “How are you going to get caught?”

“I don’t need to get caught. I’ll join them. You said yourself they’re attracting attention. Just the kind of outfit a disgruntled vet with a grudge would look for.”

“And why would you have a grudge?”

“My sister. She was a local official: town council, state representative, something like that. Part of the female wave in 2024 and blamed for the collapse in 2027. She got killed during the takeover.” Jason carefully didn’t say “coup.” “That’ll explain my grudge against the government and why I’d want to join the feminist resistance. I can even feed them some old information to prove how useful I can be. Nothing that would hurt us, of course, but as a way to gain their trust.”

Alex looked at Jason thoughtfully. “You do have a sister, right? How’s she doing.”

Jason met Alex’s gaze without blinking. “She’s fine. Now do we have a plan or what?”

His superior nodded briefly. “We’ll need to work out the details of course, but what you propose seems workable. We can put together a bio and news posts for your sister easily enough. The sticky part is going to be making contact with them. Not like they’re going to reveal themselves to a stranger who’s just shown up. But I’ve got an idea that might help. We’ve got some idea where they’ve been active. We’ll put you there and you’ll have to attract some attention.”

At his small apartment Jason took a long shower, the heat of the water loosening muscles that had begun to stiffen after a punishing workout. Alex had brought a couple of other ops staffers in to solidify the details and had finally released Jason when they had a workable cover. From past experience he knew Alex would want him to have his story down cold before letting him go, but there was pressure from on high to get moving. A week, two tops and Jason would be heading into upstate New York, trying to make contact with the resistance.

He preferred it that way. Alex could get like a mother hen, fussing over details, wanting everything to be perfect. Jason knew it didn’t matter how much time you spent perfecting things at HQ; once you were out in the field, it never worked out the way you planned. That was when he was at his best: just he and his objective, relying on his own devices. He never enjoyed spending much time at home, which is why he only kept a small apartment with the bare necessities. His job didn’t leave much room for real relationships, and his last fling had been with a Justice Department lawyer who’d seen the writing on the wall pretty quick. “There’s nothing for me here, Jason,” she’d said with a sad smile, just before she left for California. She was right, he knew. It didn’t bother him that much. It never did.

Before, there had been his sister. He missed Kathi sometimes, when he let himself think about her. This wasn’t going to be one of those times, he told himself, shaking his head and sending water droplets scattering as he stepped out of the shower. Grabbing a towel, he rubbed it over closely cropped dark hair. His focus had to be on the job. He never let anything get in the way of the job.

He wrapped the towel around his waist and moved to his bedroom, studying himself in the mirror. He was still fit and muscular if not quite as chiseled as he used to be. His fingers traced over some old wounds. Every scar had its story. The whip mark from Egypt. The gunshot from St. Petersburg. The stab wound from the alley in Shanghai. That’s what happened when you lost focus.