Dodge This! (Reptilian Conspiracy Thriller)

[Molly Mirthless]

Having grown up with The Matrix and The X-files, the wilder side of conspiracy thrillers have always been a guilty pleasure (I mean, people actually believe this shit, man- that's scary), and I've always wanted to try my hand at writing one.

So! Here it is!

Drawing from The Matrix, The X-files, UFO and Ancient Astronaut conspiracies (hello, van Daniken), Indiana Jones, Conspiracy X and Dark*Matter, and of course Assassin's Creed, I present Dodge This!, a scifi action-thriller romance with globe-trotting heroics, themes of abuse of power, the eternal struggle between tyranny and freedom, the strengths and failings of violent revolution, the futility of the concpiratorial mindset, how much of a fucking moron David Icke is, and last but far from least, how hot it would be to be rescued from certain death by a latex long coat-wearing badass assassin.

~o0o~​

(Bare with me- I'll be a bit organizing everything.
Note: uses AI and photoshop art.

 

[Molly Mirthless]

Seattle, Washington. Tuesday, May 12, 2026. 22:47 PST.

Rain hammered the warehouse district with the kind of cold persistence that turned the Puget Sound into a study in grey. Water streamed through gaps in rusted metal, pooling on concrete that hadn't seen maintenance since the tech boom killed whatever industry had operated here decades ago. A playground for urban explorers, and a perfect breeding ground for crime.

The agent moved through the abandoned building with practiced silence, boots finding purchase on debris without disturbing it. Handmade, British, custom reinforced toes and heels. Solid. Reliable. Surprisingly stylish.

Third floor. Northeast corner. Once an office, the window offered good visuals.

Sightline confirmed.

A typical operative would have brought a rifle. Maximum distance, maximum control, clean shots from three hundred meters and gone before the bodies cooled. But the agent had never been typical.

Two pistols emerged from shoulder holsters- matched pair, black-finished, angular lines that suggested they'd been designed by someone who thought conventional firearms lacked ambition. The pistols were custome pieces, based on FK BRNO Field Pistols, Czech engineering, with modifications no armorer outside certain circles could replicate. Custom hypertech suppressors added weight to the barrel, made them look even more like props from a film that hadn't been made yet.

The agent checked both magazines with movements worn smooth by repetition, then holstered them again. Close-quarters work, then. Personal.

Across the gap between buildings, light spilled from ground-floor windows of another warehouse. Newer construction, or at least maintained. The kind of place that appeared on no commercial listings, that neighbors learned not to ask about.

A high-powered monocular was removed from an internal pocket, adjusted, and used. Visual assessment: six figures. No, seven. Four standing, armed. Two more by the door—perimeter security, shifting weight like amateurs trying to look professional. And the seventh, zip-tied to a chair in the center of the space.

The target.

No. The objective.

Civilian. Female. Early thirties by appearance. Wearing—the agent's expression didn't change, but something in the stillness suggested restraint—pajama pants with a pattern that might be moons or stars, difficult to tell at this distance. Fuzzy slippers, ears flopping as she shifted in the chair. A hoodie with some kind of cartoon skeleton.

Not dressed for action. Taken from her home, then.

One of the armed figures was talking, hands gesturing with the theatrical fervor of someone delivering a speech they'd rehearsed. The seated woman's expression cycled through confusion, fear, and- the agent noted with faint surprise- irritation.

The agent's fingers drummed once against a thigh, then stilled. Waiting.

The armed figures were fanatics. The tattoos visible even at this range confirmed it- religious iconography, dense text, the kind of permanent commitment that marked true believers. They would monologue. They would explain. They would give the bound woman a chance to repent, to understand, to accept her fate.

Fanatics always did.

The agent could wait. Would wait, until the speech reached its peak and attention turned inward, focused on salvation and damnation rather than the perimeter they should have been watching.

A rifle would have been safer. Cleaner. Snipe from the window, never even entering the building until all targets were down. More professional by any standard operational doctrine.

But they'd stopped caring about doctrine somewhere around the third decade of service.

Also, they would have to kill all six in a very narrow window of time, before any had the opportunity to scatter for cover, and by the time the agent had made it into the other building, multiple targets could have escaped; worse, the objective could have been terminated.

Unacceptable.

Down the fire escape, across the street, and through the unlocked side door. The target building had a catwalk overlooking the warehouse floor that would provide ample opportunity for further reconnaissance, if needed.

Across the city, in tunnels that predated the current street level by more than a century, servers hummed. Screens glowed. A voice would be speaking into a headset, monitoring, coordinating, preparing extraction routes and emergency protocols.

But here, in this moment, there was only rain and patience and the weight of matched pistols in leather holsters.

One of the armed figures pulled a phone from his pocket. Checked it. Nodded to the others.

The agent's hands remained loose, ready. Not reaching for weapons. Not yet.

Below, the speaker was reaching his crescendo. Arms raised. Voice carrying even through glass and distance. The bound woman said something sharp enough that even without audio, the body language read as profanity.

The agent's lips curved, barely. A human gesture, quickly suppressed.

Professional. Focused. Ready.

Soon.

But not yet.

Not yet.