10th October
14:59 GMT
Three hours.
I hear the beeping of his heart monitor before I even enter his room. Viewed objectively, I suppose that the Sundown Nursing Home isn't such a bad place to end your days. Good staffing levels, most of them speak English reasonably well, well maintained facilities and grounds, good equipment for those residents whose bodies aren't quite as functional as they once were… I used to find places like this an uncomfortable reminder of where I would eventually end up myself, but since I don't age any more I feel a more… A detached curiosity.
Three
hours, though.
I give the nurse checking the target of my visit a nod as he leaves the room, having finished his hourly checks. Since I gave the place advance warning of my visit he doesn't look totally shocked, but suddenly encountering someone like me at close quarters is never going to be a
relaxing experience. He steps back to allow me access and I nod and smile in thanks before ducking slightly to pass through the doorway.
Three-. Three
hours.
I pause just inside the door to visually inspect my target. 'Death warmed up' would be a
generous description. His face and hands are shrivelled, due to the fact that he can barely eat and struggles to keep food down when he does. There are drips in each arm, an oxygen mask over his face and a catheter plugged into his penis. He's got
some hair left, but it's a far cry from the thick black locks he had during his prime. That said, I can still see glimpses of his distinguished former self; his Roman nose is as distinct as ever, as are his strangely pointed ears.
No one is really sure
how old he is now; the best guesses I was able to dig up suggest somewhere between seventy and eighty. Ring scans say that he's mostly European, most likely with a single Middle Eastern grandparent. The rest of his genes come from all sorts of places. One of his lungs isn't original; British Secret Service legend has it that not only did he insist on remaining awake during the operation but he also strapped an explosive collar to the necks of the chirurgeon's family to detonate if anything went wrong.
And then there's the
rest of the damage. Scars from bullet wounds, shrapnel wounds and chemical and fire burns litter his skin. But the
really nasty stuff is underneath all of that. Neurotoxin build-ups in his synapses make him shake whenever he tries to move, and their effect on his brain has made speech almost impossible for him. It also -and a
ring scan confirms what medical staff only
suspected- leaves him in constant pain. It's amazing that he's still alive, really.
And I'd feel more sympathetic if I hadn't
just spent three hours-!
I walk around to the side of his bed,
take a solidly-built chair out of subspace and sit down, facing him. He'd been watching me from behind lidded eyes since I opened the door, but now he abandons the pretence and opens them a little wider.
"Three
fucking hours." He keeps watching me. "Three hours, just…
Staring at it, written on a piece of paper. I knew there was a joke there somewhere. I've studied Batman's files on the Riddler, the Joker, Catwoman… Even
Cluemaster. I'm not
unused to people using thematic false names. Film characters…" I narrow my eyes. "
Bad puns."
I
think he's trying to smile.
Git.
"So this is where you ended up, Mister 'Near'." I make a show of looking around. "Not bad, I suppose. The SIS still think you died during your retirement job in Qurac… Those who don't think you're living in a mansion somewhere, laughing at them. They never came anywhere near
here, and I'll freely admit that I had to cheat to find you."
"Hruuuuh."
It comes out as a pained
wheeze, the intent behind it too indistinct for my rings to identify a clear meaning.
"I doubt that you've heard of me. My name's Grayven. I'm an alien from planet Apokolips." I wave my hands and shake my head. "I
know what it sounds like in your language, I didn't pick it."
"Hruh."
"Oh, I'm sorry. Dreadfully rude of me.
Here." Two orange cables
extend from my ring and attach themselves to the back of his neck. "There. That should make speaking to me a little easier."
"Well done."
The voice is based on one of the few surviving recordings of his natural voice. One of the many ways he used to vex people was subtly changing his own accent, apparently at random. Combined with his compulsive lying, it made it impossible to even
guess at his point of origin.
"You covered your tracks expertly-"
Three hours! "-but I.. had access to technology that you simply didn't have the means to counteract."
"Employer?"
"Why does that matter?"
"Credit. Curiosity. Dying."
"I work for myself, for the most part. And, hm." I make a point of looking him over,
then generate a transparent construct image of the injuries afflicting his body. "
Yes, I do believe that you
are." I frown. I know that he's going to lie to me, but I have to
ask. "Why
here?"
"Planned retirement after Qurac. Wanted time to write memoir. Too injured."
"Ah, yes. I
thought that the last few assassinations lacked your usual
precision. So you already had.. some sort of evacuation plan, ended up back here and…" I look him over again. "I suppose the life takes a toll."
"Your intention?"
"I understand that you made a point of targeting criminals because you found that fighting police and..
mid-tier superheroes was too easy. Having seen the weakness of some of the secret identities they use, I suppose that I can see where you were coming from." I sit back. "I am.. engaged in certain
work that could use a man of your talents. The pay is good, the opportunities manifold and the work… I think that you'll find it
fascinating. The world has only gotten
madder since your retirement."
"H
ruurh."
Nearly a laugh, and the less damaged left side of his mouth curves upwards a little.
"And medical technology has come on
such a way. For those with the right connections." His eyes narrow a little. "Patching your failing corpus up would be the work of a few moments. If you're interested. Alternatively, you may elect to remain here… And die in considerable pain in perhaps two years. Or if you consider your life's work to be over, I am willing to kill you. It would be quick and painless."
"Now, I
realise that working for other people isn't really your thing. But I
do hope that you'll consider it anyway. You would be working mostly under your own direction and with considerable freedom in how you pursue your objectives. I will consider your obligation to me for healing you repaid in full for two years of your time, for which you would also be compensated conventionally as well. If you were planning on parting company with me in the not too distant future, having access to my intelligence resources would be a considerable advantage."
"Any initial thoughts? Questions? Queries?"
"Targets?"
"Your first target will be the government of Kahndaq. We want the current lot
gone, replaced with people a little less… Self-absorbed. For much of your first year I imagine that you'll be doing the same sort of thing: removing governments and reorganising failing states. Obviously I don't expect you to rely purely on the application of force. You'll have other levers of power to pull, we're trying to create
stable states, not chaos. Once
that's taken care of, we're also building a space fleet…"
"Space fleet?"
"I'm afraid that I can't give
all the gossip to someone on the outside. Now, I
know that you're
easily quixotic enough to turn me down just to see if I come back, but I've got a rather fun signing-on bonus if you give me an affirmative answer
now." I
take a dossier out of subspace. "Some truly
disturbing information on the British elite. I should warn you: this has a pretty short shelf life."
He tilts his head back a tiny bit, considering.
"Accepted."
"Glad to hear it, Harold." I raise my left hand. "
Welcome to the team."
