Macho Side Story #1: Macho in the Beltway

@6:32 PM EST

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Macho Side Story #1: Macho in the Beltway

Macho Volume 1: https://www.nuubco.com/product/macho-volume-1/

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Transcript

Macho Side Story #1: Macho in the Beltway

Macho gripped the steering wheel like it had personally offended him.
His Dodge Charger rumbled down I-270, engine growling under the weight of his frustration. It was barely 6:15 a.m., but the brake lights already stretched like a red snake all the way toward the Capital Beltway. “Every damn time,” he muttered, jaw clenched.
A Baltimore resident, Macho wasn’t built for D.C. mornings. The traffic, the smugness, the endless merging—it all rubbed him raw. Back in Fort Detrick, he had space, silence, and a punch clock that made sense. But today, he was ordered downtown, into the belly of the beast.
“Special briefing,” they’d said.
“Level 5 access required,” they’d added.
No further explanation. Just a secure packet dropped on his desk, no return address.
He swiped at the dash to skip the podcast and went straight to silence. Macho didn’t need noise to think—his own thoughts were loud enough. He’d been with the Strategic Innovation Directorate long enough to know that when a black SUV shows up outside your office with your name already pre-typed on a manifest, you don’t ask questions. You just show up.
As he crossed into D.C. proper, the skyline came into view, washed in cold gray light. Somewhere behind those glass façades and brutalist bunkers, someone was waiting to brief him. And Macho didn’t like being briefed—he liked giving the orders. But this was different. This was above his pay grade, above even the weird tech projects he’d seen buried in Fort Detrick’s lower levels.
He rolled past a checkpoint near L’Enfant Plaza, flashed his credentials, and was waved through. Inside the underground facility, deep beneath the mundane surface of the city, he stepped into the elevator marked simply S.I.D – Sub-Level 3.
The doors closed behind him with a pneumatic hiss. Silence again.
Somewhere below, in a cold-lit conference room, men and women in dark suits would be waiting with a stack of encrypted files, digital projectors, and faces that didn’t smile. Something was coming—a project that would reshape his understanding of war, science, or maybe time itself.
He adjusted his collar and cracked his neck.
“Better be worth the damn traffic,” he growled to no one.
The elevator began to descend.