Jack of Harts

Each of my pilots came to Wolfenheim under a pseudonym. John Smith. John Jones. Jackie White. All very common names, I assure you. Most common names in America, if you’re wondering. Who would ever question a collection of such fine American names? John Anderson was the fourth, and unlike the other three, I knew exactly who he was from the very beginning. He had commanded the fighters that flew off Los Angeles for years, and retired upon seeing the disgraceful court martial that ended Olivia’s career. His first step was to find a truly obnoxious new outfit for his civilian life. Then he went to a barber and got some new hair. And then he walked up to me, assaulted my poor eyes with his new outfit, and informed me he was joining Wolfenheim. He didn’t ask to be part of the project. He didn’t volunteer. He simply gave me his (new) name, showed me his absolutely perfect (faked) ID, and told me he was joining. It is times like this that make me wonder if my people truly understand who is in charge around here.

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