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Georgetown University, from across the Potomac. 3:30 AM. The spires that we've all seen on TV so many times before are prominent as always. However, the camera shifts its focus a bit more westerly than usual. Behind the spires, to the west of the dorms, past the construction and the parking lots, is a high ground on campus. Up there is the football field - rickety bleaachers and Astroturf, this is Georgetown after all. However, slightly closer to the river than the football field is a small white dome. Upon closer inspection, this appears to be an observatory. An observatory? At Georgetown? Precisely. On the high grounds of West Campus, there has been an observatory for over 170 years. It's one of the oldest in the United States. And very few students on the Hilltop, to say nothing of the general public, know about it. In some ways, it's a reflection of what has happened to the rich traditions at Georgetown. With the coming of the "modern" era, tradition gets shunted by the vast apathetic majority to the dustheap, about as relevant as those things that go on in Dahlgren Chapel... masses, I believe they're called? But I digress. Not all at Georgetown forget about the traditions. The tunnels beneath Main Campus, possibly stretching as far as Capitol Hill -- no one knows for sure. The symbols of keys found in unobtrusive places throughout 37th and O Streets. There are groups that preserve the traditions. Many of them are underground -- "secret" societies, about which little is known, and little of what is known is true. These secret societies are made up of Georgetown undergraduates and alumni. However, they are not the only secret about Georgetown. Remember, this is Georgetown. This is the school that produced George Tenet, Director of Central Intelligence. This is the school so influential at the CIA that the unofficial colours at Langley are blue and grey. This is the school that could have been the basis for the movie The Skulls... only Georgetown actually knows how to keep secrets, unlike a particular university in New Haven, CT. This is a place where politics stains the walls like the Angel of Death sweeping down on the Egyptians in the book of Exodus. In short, this can be one spooky place. As it is this night. Our camera concludes its slow zoom in on the Observatory. Hexane is seen, standing... no, not in black robes, but in a sober, conservative business suit. Hoya approaches in the same, motioning to the shadows, where three men appear to be there... one man in the center supported by two flanking. All three are indistinct.

Hexane: What the hell did you do to him?

Hoya: A simple drug cocktail. Sodium pentathol and some barbituates.

Hexane: Not the wisest consideration if you're concerned about his health. He motions into the shadows.

Hoya: And if I'm not? The barbituates will wipe out any memory of this evening. And the SP...

Hexane: ...truth serum. When applied in the proper dosage, I should say.

Hoya: You don't think I know the proper dosage?

Hexane: Good point.

The two both take out cellular phones, deactivate them, and leave them on the ground resting against the white wall of the observatory.

Hexane: So why are we out here tonight?

Hoya: This is the second trial. The Inquisition. He can't lie, because he doesn't know he's being questioned. If he passes, he goes into the third trial, which is ironically the easiest to go through, as well as the easiest to fail. So, we work.

Hexane: What do we ask about?

Hoya: Anything we want. You simply can't push too hard. You exercise someone on this much SP, and the barbituates will start to wear off. He can't remember anything from tonight. And if we have to pump more barbituates into him, they'll knock him out, and we're done. So be wise.

Hexane: You got it. To the man in the shadows. What is your name? A toneless mutter from the man in the shadows. Hexane leans in, to where his face is concealed as well by the shadows from the arc lights and the dome of the observatory.

Hexane: What is your name? Another toneless mumble. But this time, Hexane nods, and turns back to Hoya.

Hexane: Having read the file at least to this point, he's not lying at least.

Hoya: Good. My turn... ...What is your greatest fear? Another toneless mumble. One of the men propping him up (forgot about them, didn't you?) speaks up.

Goon #1: He says, "Failure."

Hexane: Typical answer.

Hoya: But probably true. Lord knows, with the talent roster here, there are enough people slipping down through no fault of their own...

Hexane: Is that some kind of shoot, dude?

Hoya: Of course not. It's simple business. Why do you think we work so hard to stay at the top? And don't call me dude.

Hexane: Oops... sorry.

Hoya: A better question... why do you wish to join us? A slightly louder toneless mumble. Hoya leans in closer, and prods the middle figure. Another, identical response.

Hoya: ...interesting...

Hexane: What did he say?

Hoya: "If you can't beat 'em, join 'em." At least he's honest.

Hexane: He kinda has to be.

Hoya: (to the middle figure) Why else? He leans in again.

Hexane: And?

Hoya: He says that he's sick of the ruling caste here, as he called them. Namely Messrs. Hagan and Bartlett.

Hexane: Good point. And what are we?

Hoya fixes an "interesting" expression on Hexane for a moment. Half impressed, half annoyed.

Hoya: Their worst nightmare. Regardless. It's late, let's get a couple more questions in, then call it a night.

Hexane: Agreed. We've got to get out to Onslaught soon.

Hoya: Tell me about it. What with your match against Falstaff and all... He trails off.

Hexane: You alright?

Hoya: Fine. Just thinking about some history. Especially about me and Tony. I mean, we made our careers here. Burleith is just to the north, you know. We used to work out behind you, in the Field House. We all lived on campus, at one time or another... I mean, more than anything else... this is home.

Hexane: (motioning to the observatory) And this?

Hoya: The past. Never forget the past. Never... never forget...

Hexane: You wanna get out of here?

Hoya: Nah. Let's wrap this up.

Hexane: Question.

Hoya: Of course.

Hexane: Does this have anything to do with... those seven belt buckles... Silicon Toad... the Southern Gentlemen.

Hoya: Absolutely nothing. Let's finish this. Turning back to the two men holding up the third. One last question.... well, first, what's the drug status?

Goon #2: Should be loopy for another hour, max.

Hoya: OK, after this question, you go with barbituates. Needle, ankle shot, straight into the vessel there. Knock his ass out and get him home. Check for tell-tales... you never know with some of these people here. And report in to me as soon as you leave.

Goon #2: Of course, Hoya.

Hoya: Ok, final question... why?

Hexane: Is that it?

Hoya: Yeah. Why?

The man in the middle's head sags against his chest. No answer. No atonal, inaudible croak. Just... silence.

Hoya: He's done. Get him out of here.

The three retreat into the shadows. Hexane and Hoya remain, walking on the soft grass, alone.

Hexane: Well?

Hoya: Well, what?

Hexane: Did he pass?

Hoya: Proceed to the beginnings of the third phase. I'll be checking in on it. We'll see how things check out there. Then we'll make our move.

Hexane: Sounds good. G'night.

Hoya: Night.

Hoya stands, half visible, half in the shadows from whence he seemed to come, as Hexane walks off, gets in the back of a car, which takes off down the hill, toward the half-destroyed parking lot, and out, into the greater world. Hoya just stands on the top of the hill, watching, waiting, as the camera zooms back into the night, finally fading to black.