Nameless training-Part 1

Building 26 was dead.

Oh, it still lingered for the time being, but it was like an old man, bereft of effectiveness and vitality. No one knew this better than Nameless.

He wished, with all his heart, that it was not so. Dealing with specials was a job that had to be done. It was just that Building 26 didn't go about it the right way. It was doomed. There was just no way, not with all those specials gunning for it, that they could survive. They'd be lucky to escape with their lives.

But the problem of specials wouldn't go away. If anything, it would become worse. Unless... unless...

Nameless knew that what he was considering violated dozens of laws. Knew it was dangerous. Knew it would leave him a marked man for the rest of his life.

But it didn't matter.

Someone had to do it.

Heart filled with no emotion, only the logic of what he was setting out to do, Nameless Nameless resigned his commission with Building 26.

And set out to do what had to be done.
Vendetta, Day 1

Sebastian Whitehorse was a dangerous man.

For nearly 20 years he'd worked as an elite assassin for the CIA, quietly disposing of targets around the world. He'd honed his skills in the most dangerous situations possible, even taught others the art of stealth and dealing death from the shadows. His students wondered at his seemingly impossibly spotless record. His superiors had known the real reason for his success, but his value to them was such that it had been passed over. It was simple: Sebastian was a shape-shifter. It was a gift of the highest proportions, allowing him to get close to his targets and escape int the blink of an eye. He'd never asked, but he assumed his years of service were the reason Building 26 had ignored him until now.

Three years ago he'd retired from the trade and moved to New York. He'd built a life for himself, hanging out at night in bars with pretty ladies. He'd even managed to find a girlfriend who was a fellow special- how cool was that? He was heading out to meet her now, getting ready for a night like no other.

His government pension meant that he was one of the few New Yorkers who could afford his own car. All in gratitude for his years of service, of course. Wearing a suit and tie and his newest set of dress shoes, Sebastian stepping into his garage. Placed his hand on the door.

Something bit into his heel then, something swift and hot as a snake. His leg buckled from under him as the thing bit into his other heel. No, not his heel- his Achilles tendon. Something had cut it. But Sebastian was on his stomach in an instant, wielding his Glock. He saw movement from the corner of his eye, tried to turn, but in an instant a heavy knee was on his back, two strong hands twisting his wrist.

There was a crack, and the gun flew across the garage.

The man rose, glancing at the pool of blood by Sebastian's heels. “Sorry about the wrist. That had to hurt. But I must say I did expect a man your reputation to at least think about checking beneath your car.”

“Who are you?” gasped Sebastian, pain gushing through him.

“Name's Nameless Nameless. I kill specials, and you're next.”

Sebastian brushed the death threat off. He wasn't going to die tonight. Even now his hand was working its way into his jacket, into a deep pocket where he kept a backup weapon...

“Did Building 26 send you?” he gasped again, exaggerating the pain. “Are you with them?”

Nameless slapped his face. “Don't insult me,” he sneered. “They'd never have caught you, not in a million years.”

Nameless rose and slid a black bag from under the car. His back to Sebastian, he began to look through it.

“I must say,” said Nameless. “I'm rather disappointed in you so far.”

Sebastian found his gun. In an instant it was out, his finger was tightening around the trigger-

Click.

Click. Click. Click.

The gun was empty.

No. No. It was loaded. He always kept it loaded.

Nameless paused. “Now how about that?” he said. He walked over to where the other gun was on the ground. Picked it up. Pointed it at Sebastian's head-

Click.

Nameless dropped the gun. “Sorry. Couldn't risk you being armed. Too dangerous.”

No. No. No. This wasn't happening. It couldn't be. Suddenly, for the first time in a very long time, Sebastian was afraid.

Nameless smiled. “I see it in your eyes now. Tell me, when was the last time you were afraid of a normal?”

If Sebastian had been a begging man, he would have begged for his life. If he had been religious, he would have prayed. As it was, he only cursed.

Nameless shook his head. “I was afraid of that.”

The doorbell rang. Nameless looked up. “That will be your girlfriend. I texted her to meet you here tonight.” Nameless paused. “She's clairvoyant, right?”

No. No. No.

Nameless cuffed Sebastian. Gagged him. Went to answer the door.

The long night had begun.

Vendetta, Day 3

Unless a person invests money in a good, industrial strength lock, getting into most homes at night is a Namelesser of a few seconds of pressure in the right places.

Unless a person has been trained otherwise, most people sleep heavily enough between 2:30-5:00 AM that their limbs can be moved and tied without waking them.

So it was hardly surprising that the spontaneous regenerator sleeping in front of Nameless Nameless didn't stir as he tied her limbs to the posts of the bed. Not until he finished strapping on the gag did she stir, suddenly pulling and struggling at the ropes that bound her to the bed.

Pausing only long enough to insure that her struggles yielded no substantial sound, Nameless began oiling his hacksaw.

"I just want to say that I am truly sorry for what you're about to go through. I've thought through this every way I can, and I really can't get the results I need any other way."

More struggles.

"A spike in the back of your head would be less painful, but honestly it's not sure enough for what I have to do. And surety is what I need, more than anything else."

More wriggling.

"I thought about drugging you, even tried slipping you some knockout drops, but your system kicks it off too quickly. So I'm left with just taking your head off, and really, this is the best way to do that."

A silent scream.

"Honestly," Nameless said, looking up from his work, "This isn't as bad as it could be. I'm not going to torture or violate you. I just need you dead, and I'm going to do it as quickly and painlessly as possible."

Nameless stood up from his oiling. "Of course, I'm assuming all the while that you actually feel pain. I know some people with your ability don't. Do you?"

The smallest of nods from behind the gag.

"Then I am truly sorry," said Nameless, and if his tone of voice was any indication, he meant it.

He took the saw in his hand. Positioned it just right.

And went to work.
Vendetta, Day 6.

As far as Nameless knew, Building 26 had never caught an advanced telepath. Those guys were extremely slippery. You never knew when they were simply playing with your head, putting things in it to mess you up.

Still, Nameless was reasonably sure he had managed to avoid any mental interference from this one. Company files indicated that his effective range was no more than 300 yards. He could easily be observed from outside that distance. It was a most interesting exercise, observing a target with the knowledge that your own thoughts could betray you.

It had taken Nameless some time to come up with a method that would insure the telepath's demise without ever bringing Nameless himself withing that danger zone. But the answer had come to him, as it always did, in the most unlikely of circumstances. And, as always, is was so simple he wondered why he had not thought of it before.

The target worked a night shift and had left for work some time before. This one had actually spent some money and bought a decent lock, so Nameless might have had to modify his plan if he had not happened to discover the spare key hidden in a flower pot by the door. Honestly, how stupid did people get?

He did not question his good fortune, however. It took him only a few minutes to do what he had to do. Syringe in hand, he went into the bathroom...

...and all was finished. He couldn't be sure exactly when his target would die, but he was reasonably certain that life would be over in less than 24 hours.

----------------

Kevin came to his house just in time for sunrise. He went upstairs to brush his teeth and go to bed.

The toothpaste might have tasted a bit odd that morning, and there was a small hole in the tube he hadn't noticed before, but he was too tired to pay attention.

That night he was awoken by pain racking his entire body. He tried to move, tried to cry out, but his muscles refused to work. When neighbors found him several days later, his body was still stiff- from rigor mortis. Doctors would declare him the victim of strychnine poisoning, but where the poison had come from they were at a loss to say.

But Nameless knew.
Vendetta, Day 7

Nameless had found the abandoned mine quite by accident, while hiking the Catskill mountains several years before. The rangers tried to fill in any old mines they found, and this one wasn't on any of the maps, so he was reasonably sure he was the only one who knew about it.

He'd been back several times since, each time exploring deeper into the tunnels. What he'd found excited him. It was a veritable maze of old, disused tunnels. Some had collapsed with time, but most remained, going deep into the heart of the mountains. Perhaps the mystery of it all was why he hadn't told anyone about it.

But since he hadn't, he knew it would be perfect for his next target. Nameless turned papers over in his hands. A man who literally wouldn't die. What would that be like? To be able to watch history unfold and play out before you... to share God's perspective.

Nameless never did like the idea of God.

Nameless packed his wallet and prepared to leave.

Tonight, he was going to begin the process of slaying one who could not be slain. Not a quick kill. He'd have to be lured, reeled in, then trapped.

And somehow, in a vast, monumental change, (strange, is it not, how the things that are the most important in retrospect seem so insignificant at the time), Nameless found himself anticipating it.

Had he thought of it then, he might have turned back. Had he stopped to think, he would have realized the difference.

But he did not.
Vendetta, Day 8

If there was such a thing as a man-onizer, Carrie Black was it. Her facebook page claimed two thousand sexual partners. Nameless suspected that was an exaggeration, but in all honesty it didn't make any difference.

It had been surprisingly, almost shockingly easy to get her into his hotel room, rented specifically for this purpose under a false name, and paid in cash. The alcohol she'd consumed undoubted had helped, but it had still surprised Nameless how little wooing he'd actually needed to do. He wondered if she actually found pleasure in the physical act of sex any more, or if perhaps there was something else in it she enjoyed. Or perhaps she was simply an addict, doing it because she was afraid of withdrawal. Well, such speculations didn't really make a difference at this point.

He lay on the bed, clothes already mostly off, watching her get undressed across from her. He had to admit, she was quite the shows-woman. With her back to him, she had suggestively and seductively removed her top, and was slowly working her way down. Had Nameless been in the mood for such things, he would have been impressed, but her promiscuity was only slowing things down.

"Hurry up," he called. "Skip the show and get straight to the main course."

She registered his comment with a wink but made no effort to quicken her pace. Her lower half was covered by a small table, so when she finally showed herself to him, the effect was extremely climatic in and of itself.

They lay facing each other on the bed as she took his shirt off, giggling like some idiotic schoolgirl as she felt his muscled body. It irritated Nameless. Did this actually appeal to most men? No wonder the country was in such bad shape.

"Ca'mere, you," she giggled again, pressing her bare chest against his. "Come and hold me. I love you."

Nameless pressed close to her. Wrapped his arm under her pillow and around her. His arm came up from under the pillow holding something, something he had hidden there an hour previously...

"And I have no feelings for you whatsoever," he said.

Confusion registered in her eyes. Out of the corner of one she might have seen something, but was too late. Quick as lightning, the syringe in Nameless's hand flashed, penetrating her neck. Sent its contents speeding into her bloodstream.

She fell limp, and Nameless stretched once and got out of bed. He stared at her for a moment. "Well," he said, "I suspect you would have been pretty boring anyway."

He touched her pillow, and suddenly a shock went through him of how close a call he'd had. The pillow was freezing, dripping wet. He'd been rather incautious around a weather manipulator; he couldn't let success get to his head.

He dressed himself as she lay there, then readied another syringe.

"Really," he muttered as he injected her for the final time. "It's quicker than AIDS."

Vendetta, day 12

Bruce Calvera was an immortal, and a rare kind at that. Not only did he not age, but he did not require food, water, oxygen, or most of the other million and one things ordinary people need to live.

Nameless had met him in a bar one night, the Namelesse bar Bruce visited every Tuesday at 6:30. It had been easy, so easy, to be there at the Namelesse time, to pick up a conversation with him. To seduce him, get him to let his guard down.

By an amazing "coincidence" both Bruce and Nameless loved backpacking. That was why, now, the two of them were out hiking in Catskill National Park.

"It never ceases to amaze me," said Bruce. "All this beauty, right here for the enjoying. And so few people ever come to see it."

Nameless glanced at his watch. His calculation of their walking speed had been almost exactly correct. "It's about noon," he said. "How about a snack?"

Nameless sat down on a rock. He'd prepared that too, done it so there was only one natural place for Bruce to sit. And when he did...

Bruce sat, and the ground gave way, revealing a hole in the side of a hill. Nameless was on his feet at once. "You okay?" he called.

"Yeah, I'm fine," Bruce said, picking himself up. He looked around inside the tunnel. "Must be an old mining shaft from the coal mining days."

Nameless flicked on his mini maglite and shone it around the tunnel. He took a few steps inside, kept looking around.

"What are you doing?" Bruce called. "You can't do that. It's dangerous."

"Just a minute," said Nameless. "I think I see something."

He knelt down and picked up the item he had left there on his last visit. "Bruce, look at this."

Grudgingly, Bruce started towards Nameless. One step. Two steps. Three. The spot was exact.

Nameless pressed the button on the detonator once.

The floor beneath Bruce vanished, plunging him down into a black void below.

Nameless walked over the hole, staring down into the blackness. "Are you all right, Bruce?" His voice, free of the needs of acting, regained its ordinary harshness.

"Nameless?" called Bruce, his voice pale and thin in the darkness. "My God Nameless, throw down a rope."

"No, I don't think I will," replied Nameless.

"Nameless?"

"Step away from the pit, Bruce," said Nameless. "I know you can't be permanently killed, but it would be a pity it you were crushed and had to be permanently conscious in that state."

"You- you know?"

"As well as I know anything. Now, I've practiced this on a few other tunnels, but I can't be sure that this will work exactly as I've planned, so I'm going to walk out of the tunnel now. You have that long to get away from the pit. If you don't you'll be crushed by fifty feet of dirt and rock. I can't imagine it'd be pleasant to spend eternity in that state."

"You can't do this!" Bruce shouted. "I'll dig my way out!"

"Not out of this, you won't," said Nameless. "Don't worry, I've thought of that."

He jumped nimbly over the pit and strode out into the sunlight. Pressed the detonator a second time. The tunnel he had just walked out of collapsed, burying Bruce under fifty feet of dirt and rock. Useful, but nothing he couldn't dig himself out of given a few decades. Nameless pressed the detonator for the last time, and the entire hill imploded, setting a solid slab of rock on top of the pit that was now Bruce's tomb.

There was no digging out of that. Ever. Bruce was sealed in a small room barely big enough for him to stand up in, with solid rock sides that were impossible to dig through. The top was covered by fifty feet of dirt and another solid slab of rock. Bruce was dead to the world.

It was, Nameless thought, ironic that immortality, a thing so prized for thousands of years, could in the end lead to a fate worse than death.

And he found himself enjoying the thought.
Vendetta, Day 13

It's illegal to hack into traffic cameras, but if you know the right people, say the right things, and drop some money in the right places it can happen anyway.

And Nameless knew all the right places.

He was studying the driving habits of his next target, trying to determine when and where he could get at him, when something caught his eye.

It wasn't something he hadn't seen before; it was something he had seen, and hated, times beyond count, a thing he more than anything wanted snuffed out. It was a face; a face he had long cultivated as a friend. A face that belonged to a special.

He zoomed in on the picture. Yes, it was him. Absolutely, unquestionably, it was him. He looked at it again. There was an older woman there, too, someone he didn't recognize off-hand. He'd have to check on her, but she wasn't important. What Namelessered was that Nameless had found him.

"Hello, Seth," said Nameless.
Vendetta, day 20

An account of his exploits had appeared in the newspapers, and Nameless was not happy about it. It took some effort to track down exactly who had told the reporter, and it involved buying four people coffee, getting two drunk, and holding a gun to the head of another. But at last Nameless had found it, and he'd begun to move, to prepare for his next hit...

----------------

Detective Steven Mills' ability of clairsentience had more than once helped him on cases. When no one was looking, he'd touch some crime scene objects and learn what had really happened. It wasn't admissible in court, but it let him know where to go to get evidence that was. Maybe that was why his record at NYPD was so good.

When he'd investigated the first of the Vendetta crimes, he'd been shocked at the coldness and brutality with which the murder had been carried out. Even more frightening, the killer referenced the fact that his targets were specials with nearly every victim. But worse than that was the fact that- though Steven hated to admit it- the guy was just too good. He left practically no physical evidence at the crime scenes, almost the only documentation that he'd been there being in the victims and the memories stored in the objects around. Steven had mentally christened him the Vendetta killer based on something the killer himself had said during one of his crimes.

But how could he convince he colleagues to see things as he did? He was the only one who saw the connections, who realized what this guy was up to, but no one would believe him if he told them! It was maddening. He could only keep gathering information and hope that sooner or later the killer would slip up. Surely this couldn't go on forever.

He sat down behind his desk, sighing. What a day. If only he could solve this problem-

He heard a sound, a ringing, from inside his desk. He paused for a moment, then opened his desk. A black cell phone lay inside. Answering it, he said, "Hello?"

"Did you tell the reporter, or was that someone else?"

Steven sucked in his breath. He knew that voice. He'd heard it from the memories stored in objects.

"I told him," Steven said. "Didn't like your antics being exposed, huh? Well let me tell you buddy, we're going to bring you in, and we're going to take you down."

He talked, trying to keep the guy on the line. If he only had enough time! He wrote on a sheet of paper, handed it to someone else, asking them to try and trace the call. Now if only the guy wouldn't hang up-

"Have you figured out how I'm choosing the victims?"

Steven decided to tell the truth.

"Yeah," he said. "Specials. You're killing specials."

"Did you figure that out on your own, or did you use your ability?"

"I used my ability.'

"Cheater." Steven could hear the disdain in that man's voice, disgust even.

"Yeah, well, to catch a guy like you, I think anything's reasonable." He paused, trying to give the guy a reason not to hang up. "How are you seeing me right now?"

"Turn around and find out."

Steven turned. Looked out the window behind him. His eyes went wide. The last thing that ever entered Steven Mills' mind was a bullet.
Interlude

“Here we are,” said Nameless as he opened the door, letting Rebecca in. “Welcome to my humble abode.”

Scout and Tsarmeania came rushing up to Nameless, tails beating furiously. “Hey guys,” said Nameless, stooping down to pet them. “Remember Becky?” The dogs’ tails beat faster.

“OMG!” exclaimed Rebecca. “They’re so cute!” A moment later she was down on the floor with the canines.

Picking up Rebecca’s bag, Nameless moved it over towards one side of the room. “So I was thinking we’d get the ugly stuff out of the way first and go check out NYU tomorrow and then you’ve got the rest of the week to do what you want.”

Rebecca, who was busy getting her face covered in licks by the dogs, laughed, “Sounds good to me.”

“It’s a good school,” Nameless said. “Not to mention that you’d be near me if you picked it. I think their history program’s supposed to be pretty good- that’s what you wanted to major in, right? Anything else you wanted to do while you were here?”

Disentangling herself from the dogs, Rebecca stood and said, “Yeah, that’s right. And I was sort of hoping to relax some, but I want to see the statue of liberty and stuff too.”

“Sure,” said Nameless. “Hungry?”

“I’m fine,” said Rebecca. She followed her uncle into the kitchen, gazing around. Her uncle, it appeared, was the stereotypical bachelor. His apartment was fairly plain, mostly dedicated to efficiency rather than ascetics. She laughed. “Don’t you have any, like, paintings or something?”

“Why?” replied Nameless. “They take up perfectly good wall space.”

Rebecca rolled her eyes. “I’ll bet.” Her eye fell on a black bag on one of the chairs. She could make out the form of a saw inside. “What’s that?”

Striding over, Nameless zipped up the bag. “Just a few tools I keep around.” If Rebecca had looked through the bag, she would have found a gag, handcuffs, and other such tools, but she did not.

“So for tonight, I say we rest, and then get NYU out of the way tomorrow, and then we’ll see.”

Setting herself down in a chair, Rebecca nodded. “So what’s it like working for the FBI? Any serial killers out there?”

“Actually, yes,” said Nameless. “There’s a guy they’re calling the vendetta killer that we’re working with NYPD to catch. Top priority right now. So what I do is take the reports of where he acts and use information about travel times and so forth to try and narrow down where he lives or works. Pretty exciting stuff."

"I'll bet," said Rebecca, rolling her eyes. Her uncle was a geek, really he was. Excited over computer programs and not much else. "This vendetta guy, is he dangerous?"

"He kills people," said Nameless. "I guess that makes him dangerous. But if it's any comfort he hasn't done anything near us yet."

Rebecca nodded, knowing he was trying to make her feel better. Honestly though, she wasn't really scared- there was no reason for a killer to target her, someone who had just arrived in town, and since she planned on using common sense while she was here she'd probably be all right.

Arthur, the third of Nameless's dogs, came waddling up, and Rebecca rubbed the loose skin of his skull with both hands. "Oh my goodness! You're so cute aren't you!"Arthur wagged his fat tail happily at the attention.

"Hey, is there a dog park or something we could take them to?" Rebecca asked, smiling. She loved Uncle Nameless's canine friends so much- they were so nice and playful, so fun to be around. She couldn't see how anyone could not like animals after meeting Scout, Tsarmeania and Arthur.

"Central Park's not too far," said Nameless. "We could take them there. I know they'd enjoy it."

"Could we? Please?" said Rebecca.

"I don't see why not," said Nameless. Looking beneath the sink, he extracted three leashed. "Com on boys, let's go for a walk."
To: [removed]
From: NDagent63@gmail.com
Subject: (no subject)

Nash,

Thanks to the unforeseen interference of a special with multiple abilities, I failed to hit a target. As it is now probably quite clear to them what my objectives are, it's a sure bet they'll be gunning for me before too long. I can't afford to simply stand by wait for them- there are too many variables, and the more variables, the more the advantage shifts towards the specials. I've been staying with my niece and around other people as much as possible, and so far the risk of collateral damage seems to have prevented them from making a move. But it can't go on forever. Either this threat must must be eliminated, or it will eliminate me.

Thankfully I prepared for something like this months ago, before I began my mission. I've been working to refit the old Hoen engineering building over at NYU. It's been condemned, of course, but budget problems mean it's still there and not leaving any time soon.

My plan is, at base, quite simple. Since the specials seem to be using Ireland Chase's bookstore as a base, I will leave a taunt there, something to goad them into entering the Hoen building at a certain time. I had the foresight to bug the store last time I was there, so we will know their plans. As for ours, I will describe them below.

The Hoen engineering building was condemned about twenty years ago. Since then it has lain unused. Its unusual floorplan was what originally attracted me to it- it is perfect for close-quarters combat and provides plenty of opportunities from tricks and traps.

I will, unfortunately, not be able to aid you in the physical combat with the specials. Without an ability of my own I fear I would be only a liability. I will, however, be secure in a sealed room (inaccessible except from the roof), where I will be able to monitor the battle at all times and provide you with intelligence. They will have the advantage of numbers, but you will have the advantage of knowledge. If you follow my directions, you will have the advantage. I give you my word.

You general strategy, then, should be to divide the group, then use your shape-shifting ability to get close before moving in for the kill. There will, of course, be opportunities to replicate the abilities of the specials present, should you choose to do so. In addition, I have made several modifications to the building to further secure our advantage.

In the first place, all rooms and halls are viewable via security cameras, which I will be monitoring during the course of the encounter, and passing that intelligence on to you. Thanks to the electromagnetic locking system that is so popular at universities, I am able to control the doors of many rooms, sealing the occupants inside or cutting off a route of escape.

The duct system has also been modified to allow me to release gas into certain parts of the building. Unfortunately, this will, for the most part, be only fog. I attempted to secure a means of releasing a poison gas into the building, but all methods either proved impractical or left us at too much risk. Therefore fog will be used primarily to cause confusion and disorientation. There is, however, one kind of gas I was able to get my hands on: gaseous Dimethyltryptamine, or DMT for short. It is a hallucination, and an extremely powerful one at that. It is not harmful after a single dose, but its use does carry certain risks. In the first place there is no antidote for it; so we will need to be cautious about releasing it lest you be harmed (protection from it is, however, as easy as wearing a filter). A special under the effect of this drug will be worse than useless in a fight; they would be a liability to their allies. The effect only lasts five minutes, but we must use those five minutes to the best effect we can.

A few more traps need to be noted. Certain parts of the floor have been wired to give an electric shock when stepped on, mostly in classrooms. A few hallways have been rigged with tripwires that will cause a shotgun to fire if triggered- with deadly results, you will agree. The fourth stair on the lowest staircase on the east side has been rigged; it is pressure-sensitive, and if stepped on will trigger the stair directly above it to strike at the shin of the person standing there, breaking it. The west stairs have been rigged in the Namelesse manner, except that the seventh stair instead of the fourth has been used.

I also have, in my possession, several live rattlesnakes that can be released at various points in the building. Their effect needs no explanation.

Three more things: four lockers of weapons and ammunition will be placed at strategic points within the building. These boxes will open only by a combination lock and are rigged to explode if forced. This is to prevent our foes from gaining any benefit from them. The combination is 27-4-19-5. Memorize this; do not bring it written down with you.

The walls have the appearance of being wired with explosives. Our foes will be informed that these explosives will go off if they attempt to break through a wall. This is not true; the explosives are fake and cannot go off. They are psychological weapons, nothing more.

Lastly, and most importantly, I will have the capability to broadcast my voice throughout the building. In this manner I can taunt them, mislead them, and wear them down. I will lie quite often when broadcasting through this system; but do not worry, we shall have our own lines of communication.

If you have any questions ask them. I will call you as soon as I know the time they will arrive. Be ready.

Nameless

P.S. - It is worth noting the building itself presents many dangers even without our interference. I will guide you away from these, but our foes will not share this intelligence.

---------

Nameless pressed send and rose from his computer, smiling. Yes, this was all going to work out well. Soon the world be rid of more than a few nasty specials- including Nash himself.

For Nameless had not told the whole truth in the email. The explosives on the wall were not fake; Nameless could detonate them any time he pleased. The building would collapse, and the city of New York would have saved some money.

But there was one more thing; a secret weapon Nameless had prepared in case somehow his plans went south. He felt in his pocket for the container there. In that contained was a single pill, a pill containing a carefully calculated dose of tetrodotoxin. The active ingredient in the so-called “Zombie power” of Haitian fame, there have been more than a few cases where a person under the effects of tetrodotoxin has been deemed dead, only to make a full recovery.

Should everything go wrong, should he somehow fail in everything, that option was open to him. After all, what better way to escape those who wished you dead then by making them think you were? Yes, there were risks; the slightest error on his part would make that pill his death. Yet was death by his own hand not preferable to death by theirs? Of course it was. If all else failed, he would not hesitate. He would act. And he would win.

Let them come.

"And yet methinks a beam of light breaks in
On my departing soul. Alas! I fear
I've been too hasty. O ye powers, that search
The heart of man, and weigh his inmost thoughts,
If I have done amiss, impute it not."
- Joseph Addison, Cato, Act V

The clock read 2:27. Nameless only knew that because of the fact he awake at this ungodly hour.

It was one of those nights where he just couldn't make himself feel tired. The day had been anything but exerting, either mentally or physically, and now his body was making up for it by insisting on running to exhaustion. Nameless lay in bed, eyes closed, but not in the least feeling like sleep. If he reached out with his power from where he was he could catch the thoughts of the couple in the next apartment, the light buzz of brainwaves from a sleeper. With a little extra nudge he could penetrate their dreams, inserting himself, altering them, or even, had he been so inclined, left them trapped there, cut off from the real world.

Not that he had any intention of doing so, of course. They had never done him the least bit of harm, and he had no reason to make the first strike. In fact, the only reason he reached out with his ability at all was for a lack of anything else to do. Nothing good was on TV, books he disliked even under the best of circumstances, and his laptop was in the shop.

Groaning, he sat up, his generous belly shifting as he did so. He glanced at it, remembering the various times his doctor had insisted that he lose some weight, and how he'd never really gotten around to it. To tell the truth, he really liked donuts too much. And pizza. And honeybuns. And cookies. And... okay, so fine, if it had sugar in it he liked it. It wasn't the end of the world if he had some extra pounds on him. More to love, right?

Flicking the light on, he went into the kitchen to get himself some water. He sipped the cold liquid, leaning on the counter as he did so, his backside brushed against one of the drawers, knocking it open. He glanced down to close it, getting a look at its contents. Paper and colored pencils. He stared at them for a moment, then shrugged. Why not? He hadn't painted the future in a while. It would be something to do, at least.

He felt a twinge of guilt at this, wondering if perhaps that, as a precog, he had a duty or obligation to paint to future regularly. How many lives might he save by doing so? What crimes might he prevent? There was certainly a balance there, he thought as he removed the paper. He couldn't save everyone. Yet those he could save he felt he should. Sighing, he shelved the discussion for another time, sat down at the table, and closed his eyes. He let his mind expand, not outward, as it had been when listening to his neighbor's thoughts, but upward, away from the world, onto and into some plane where our idea of time had utterly no meaning. He closed his eyes. When he opened them, they were blank, turned upward into his skull, leaving only the white part visible.

To Nameless, it seemed no more than an instant later that he found himself sitting at his table, a complete picture before him. He didn't even look at it, but flipped it over and started another. And another. And another.

When all was said and done, he had five pictures that he spread out in front of him, looking at each in turn. The first was of Mohinder, in front of a book stand. Next to him stood a woman in seductive posture, clad all in black with black hair. The woman wore a black veil above a diamond necklace, making her face invisible, but her hands and body seemed to tend more towards middle age than youth- or older. It was strange; her body was too young for her posture, her posture too youthful for her frumpy body. He stared at it, trying to make sense of it all, but couldn't immediately and moved on to the next picture.

This one was of Claire, but not exactly the Claire he remembered. For one thing, her hair was dyed. Half of it, at least, the other half retaining its blond. She was leaning towards, or possibly out of, the picture, kissing someone, whose gender, oddly, was indeterminate. Nameless frowned at this one, trying to make sense of it. See, this was why he never painted the future. All you got was random images that may or may not mean something.

The third was, to say the least, more disturbing. There were two people in it. One was the blond speedster he'd met during the whole area 24 incident. What was her name again? Beka! That was it. She was in bed with a man, clearly in the middle of the act of intercourse, which by itself wasn't all that bad, except for the man in the bed with her. Nameless's mouth hung open as he stared at him. It was Victor, grinning evilly, and, most disturbing of all, he was staring right at the picture, almost as though he knew he was being painted and dared Nameless to stop him. Nameless shook his head. He had no idea what that meant, and honestly, he had little desire to know.

Suddenly realization struck him like a bolt of lightning. Leaping up, he ran over to his room, taking the picture with him. He looked at his bed, then at the picture. The window was in the right spot. The floor was the right color. The furniture was exactly right. It was unmistakable. The room was his room, the bed was his bed, and Victor and Beka were having sex on it! But if they were in his bed... where was he? He held his head. Oh man. Oh man oh man oh man. That couldn't be good. He shuddered at the thought of Victor with super-speed, or worse, telepathy.

This was one he'd have to make sure didn't come true.

The fourth picture was of two people he recognized- Heaven and the Mr. Voodoo. They stood next to a table in a white, hospital-like room, a person strapped to a table before them. Nameless's blood ran cold. He recognized that scenario far too well.

Aritech.

Oh man.

He shoved this painting aside, not wanting to let his mind run with the implications just now, looking at the last one. This one showed a man, standing on a stage, backlit by lights of all colors, raising his arms to a crowd. The crowd was screaming, panicking, but the man either didn't notice, didn't care... or wanted that.

He wiped his brow. Wow. This was... this was quite a lot, to say the least. He didn't know what it all meant, but one thing was clear: something was afoot. Something big was happening. And now that he knew, it was a good bet he'd have to get involved.

The next evening

Guilt is a terrible master.

It was a fact Nameless had personally experienced all day.

Azrael had killed again. It wasn't the first time the police had heard of the killer; in fact there was a case file on him an inch thick at the station. A series of grisly murders, with the name carved in the victims, had been around for a while now. That Azrael killed was nothing new. But this time, Nameless felt personally responsible.

In the first place, the killer had grown more daring. He'd left a letter describing how he intended to commit a triple murder, a taunt to the police to catch him. And he had done it. To an ordinary person, the event, while regrettable, wouldn't have been a cause for guilt. There were many families like the one the killer had described in New York. It was impossible to protect all of them. But Nameless was not ordinary person; he was a telepath. An immensely powerful telepath who could paint the future.

And to think I spent last night painting the future for grins when I could have been painting how to stop this guy!

That was why Nameless had used his ability to get himself assigned to the case. It wasn't something he usually did; but he felt like he had a personal involvement in this one. He could have prevented it; he failed. He wouldn't let it happen again. That was the reason he was now sitting at his table, paper and colored pencils in front of him. He closed his eyes, trying to focus, trying to make the images come.

An hour later, however, he had to admit it wasn't working. He succeeded in painting only a random pattern of lines and figures. Further, he kept snapping out of his precognitive trance, leaving him with half-drawn and unclear images.

Nameless sighed. Focus. He had to focus. His emotions were out of control right now, in no shape for something like this. What he needed to do was practice. He'd never really tried focusing his precognitive abilities before. He needed to start smaller, with someone he knew better and had better suited emotions. But who? He ran through the list of his friends in his mind, a group smaller than he would have liked. Who was best suited for this? A smile broke on his face. Molly. Of course. She probably had an interesting future. He closed his eyes, sending his mind upward instead of outward, vertically instead of horizontally, reading the mind of the universe instead of a person.

The next thing he knew, he had a picture. He didn't look at it, but flipped it over and drew another before examining them, holding one in each hand. Slowly, his smile widened.

The first picture showed him, but he was not the main subject. No, that would be the woman in white next to him, with long blond hair, holding a bouquet of flowers. She and Nameless were arm in arm, walking down an aisle between two rows of benches, towards a man in a tuxedo. It took Nameless a moment to recognize the man, for even though Nameless had seen him before, he had been perhaps ten years younger in the picture Molly had sent of him to Nameless.

Jensen Hughes.

And the girl arm in arm with Nameless- well, he didn't need to guess who she was. He'd recognize Molly anywhere, any age. Grinning from ear to ear, he looked at the next picture. Here Molly and Jensen, grown up, stood arm in arm, in a green yard in front of a house, watching two young children play, a boy and a girl.

Nameless's grin widened, and he let out a low whistle.

“Well what do you know...”
No one was supposed to be at his house. Rebecca was visiting friends, and he was supposed to be at work. He hadn't called anybody. It should have been empty.

From the cover of a borrowed truck, Seth Bowman looked his house over. There was not sigh of occupation, nothing to give away that anyone was there. But the phone hadn't answered itself.

He parked the truck on his driveway and got out, taking the spray equipment with him. He closed the door, seeing once again the Cook's Pest Control symbol. It wasn't his, of course, not the truck or the spray equipment or the suit he was wearing. As soon as he had heard, as soon as his phone had been answered by a strange voice, he had made some calls, and borrowed the exterminator gettup.

He rang his doorbell, as though he were a stranger. The ring echoed inside, and he heard footsteps coming to the door.

A man answered, a man dressed in black with a shaved head. He opened the door just enough to see Seth and looked at him, making no move to admit him. "Yes?"

"Mr. Bowman?" Seth said. "You called for an exterminator?"

"Oh... yes. That," the man said, uncomfortably. Seth thought, not uncharitably, that acting skills weren't typically cultivated by government people. Except politicians, of course. "It turns out that something's come up. I won't be needing you."

Seth furrowed his brow as though confused. "Are you sure, Mr. Bowman? You didn't call and cancel-"

"That will be all," the man said firmly. "Thank you." He shut the door without another word.

Seth went down the driveway and drove away. He parked on a yard, out of sight of his house. He had to hurry- there was an ever-increasing chance that the man would recognize him (he assumed they had seen at least a picture of Seth Bowman).

He scrolled through the numbers on his cell phone and selected one.

The phone rang four times, and a familiar voice answered.

"Seth," Nameless Nameless's voice said in the usual flat tone. "It's been a while, hasn't it?"

"Too long," said Seth. "Listen, Nameless, I need your help. There's these guys at my house. I don't know who they are."

"Burglars, huh?"

"No. They don't seem interested in my stuff. I think they're waiting for me.""

"Then call the police."

"Nameless, I think these guys are the police. The uniform and hairstyle is regulation, anyway. I saw one of them with a gun and handcuffs. He didn't think I noticed."

"Sounds serious. Have you murdered anyone since breakfast?"

"I haven't done anything, Nameless. You know I wouldn't."

"Then call the army."

"Look, I know you're still working for the government. Is there anything you can do? Check on this, see what operations are going on in this area?"

There was a pause on the other end. "That's out of my jurisdiction, Seth," Nameless said. "I couldn't find out anything about it until after the fact. So I'm strictly limited to bailing you out of jail."

"And just how well respected are these jurisdictional rules?"

"Better than in the movies, believe it or not. I don't know anything and I can't help you. Now please, I have work to do."

Seth sighed. "You're a very bad liar, Nameless. You always have been."

A pause. "What?"

"You know about this, don't you? You know all about it."

Another pause. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"It's that pause, Nameless. You do it every time you have to think about something. An you only have to think when you're making something up."

Still another pause. "Listen, Seth-"

"You told them, didn't you?"

"What?"

"You told them about me. About what I can do. Now they want my power, don't they? What do they want, Nameless? They want me to make soldiers who can't be killed? FBI agents who can fly? You know I can't do that, Nameless."

Silence for a moment. "It's not like that, Seth."

"I bet it isn't. I never could understand the workings of government, now could I? But you could, Nameless. Ever since we were in college."

"Look, I-"

"You were never easy to get along with, Nameless. And you've gone and done this."

"Seth, please, how long have we known each other?"

"Long enough for me to know that it doesn't Namelesser, Nameless. It's too late. You've crossed the line, and I'm not going home now. I'm going somewhere else. You guys want my power? You'll have to find me."

The line went dead.

Nameless threw the phone, swearing. He snapped his head to the right. "GPS?"

"Getting it," the technician said. "Sending coordinates to the agents on the ground."

Thirty seconds later, the doors to Seth's house burst open, and a dozen men in black outfits poured out. Two minutes after that, they had surrounded the truck.

The driver's door was open, and the cell phone lay on the seat.

"He can't have gotten far," someone shouted. "Find him!"

The men began to disperse, spiraling outward away from the truck. From his hiding spot clinging to the bottom of the vehicle, Seth caught a glimpse of a white "26" on the back of a uniform.

"Well, old friend," he thought. "Looks like we're in for a bit of a fight."

Washington, DC

Nameless Nameless swore once more at the word that Seth Bowman had escaped. He sent a text message to a number labeled Danko:

Seth got away. Don't worry. I get how that monkey thinks. I'm gonna kill that son of a-

Nameless tripped, and accidentally pressed send before the message was complete.
What a power has Death to awe and hush the voices of this earth! How mute we stand when that presence confronts us, and we look upon the silence he has wrought in a human life! We can only gaze, and bow our heads, and creep with our broken, stammering utterances under the shelter of some great word which God has spoken, and in which we see through the history of human sorrow the outstretching and overshadowing of the eternal arms.

- Walton W. Battershall

He was falling. Falling into blackness, into shadow, into darkness, into nothing, into annihilation. And Nothing took him, Nothing consumed him, Nothing wrapped around him and slipped him into the vastness that was oblivion. The darkness had a shape, a shade, a smell and a sonancy. He entered the darkness. The darkness accepted him. Embraced him. Enfolded him.

Shadow became his world, a numb blankness of feature and form, of mind and body, of soul and spirit. It pierced him, penetrated him, possessed him. Covered him. And the shadows lengthened, snuffing out every last light that humans called life. Snuffing them out- but doing no more.

Then the light came, and the shadows fled. Then the sound came, and the silence shattered. Then numbness was shaken off, the last darkness cast away, and, with a blazing, roaring snarl of fury, a fountain of sparkling light exploded inside his mind, and Nameless Nameless was alive again.

He stood. The final vestiges of his sleep slipped off as he did so, vanishing into that great pool of nothing, drying up as his mind rose to full force once more.

He was risen. He felt no surprise, no shock at the idea, not a hint of whimsy emotion or feeling. For he had expected this, had calculated it, had counted on it. It was not a Namelesser of mysticism, of miracles, nor even of powers; it was the corollary of a simple fact.

The drugs had worked. They had done their jobs, had behaved as chemistry dictated they should behave, had brought to the furthermost edge of eternity and pulled him back from the brink. It was not surprising; it was scarcely even remarkable. It was logic. It was reason. It was fact.

He stared at the mess before him, the mess that had been the Hoen Building. He had planned for others to face death that day; had planned for others to be sent past the brink with no return. But he had not counted on what had happened; and the unexpected had driven him to his final plan of defense; to make his would-be killers think their job done already, to leave them with the opinion that their troubles were over. And in a way it was true. Their troubler had been slain.

But trouble, like so much else, had to die in order to really live.

He made his way to his secret place; his stowage for some items that would be needed. They had to find a body, after all. And then they had to misplace it. Death was not death otherwise; and fear was not fear. But he had a body, he had a plan, and they- oh, how soon they would find out- they would have fear.

He'd already taught them not to underestimate him despite his lack of ability. But not they would know the true depth of him, the true deph of what they were dealing with. He had not failed tonight; he had slept once, and terror would follow him as he awoke.

They did have to be afraid.

For the dead were to walk. The sleeper was to rise. The one who had passed the edge of the world was to return.

And when the dead walked, the living would fill their graves.

How shocking must thy summons be, O Death!
To him that is at ease in his possessions!
Who, counting on long years of pleasure here,
Is quite unfurnished for the world to come.
In that dread moment, how the frantic soul
Raves round the walls of her clay tenement;
Runs to each avenue, and shrieks for help;
But shrieks in vain.

- Hugh Blair

His mouth curved into a smile; lips parting in a snarl of pure hate, teething gleaming like pearls in the moonlight. He spoke, and his words hissed through to night like a hundred thrown knives, messages of doom incarnated into each one.

"Oh death, where is thy victory? Oh death, where is thy sting?"

So short. Yet so poignant, yet so telling, yet so emblematic of what he was to do. Men feared death, certainly; but they feared what had overcome death all the more. Now Nameless would become what they feared.

In the distance, he could hear a siren howling. Time to leave. Time to let the authorities find what he had meant for them to find- and for his opponents to find even more. Time to move on and let work that had begun continue, to carry on his own plans in spite of their efforts. They had assaulted him; had really, technically, medically killed him even. Temporarily.

Fools.

And now for something completely different. And something completely the Namelesse. Something that together, would make him into what he had planned on being.

His work was barely finished, and not even death was to make a dent in it.

Men fear death, as children fear to go in the dark; and as that natural fear in children is increased with tales, so is the other.

- Francis Bacon
“So what happened then?”

Seth leaned back in his chair, hands crossed, gathering his thoughts.

“You know most of the story already,” he said, slowly. “How Nameless terrorized the specials of New York, how we found him and tracked him down, how he challenged us to fight him, and how we went to meet him. And you know what happened after that, how he seemingly came back from death.”

The other man motioned impatiently. The Company had no time to spare; if they were to stop whatever new threat Nameless Nameless posed, they needed to know everything, right away. At the moment the interviewer was thinking that if Seth had been so willing to tell his story, he might have told it a little more quickly.

For his part, Seth's periods of silence were periods on contemplation. The emotions that had ravaged him had faded, leaving room to consider, with prayer, the events of that night. God was good as always. Not even Nameless had been able to change that.

“We had forced him from his room upstairs, and we were all converging on him,” Seth explained. “Ireland and Rebecca got there first, but he got the drop on them. When I got there he had Rebecca cuffed on the ground again and Ireland at gunpoint. I didn't even get a chance to talk to him. He just smiled, turned to me, and pulled the trigger.

“I remember wincing as he did it, and then feeling silly because the gun had just clicked. Nameless looked angry for a second, and then he looked up, back behind me. Silas and the others were coming. It was just a Namelesser of time, and he didn't have a weapon. He spat once and threw the gun down. 'Fine, Seth,' he said. 'You've got me where you want me. Go ahead. Kill me. Get your revenge.' I've never seen a person say anything like that before. He was smiling as he said it, but it was like he didn't care, like he might even enjoy it.

“I couldn't move. All I could do was look at him, and stare until it blurred. I realized there was a tear in my eye. He saw it too, but he just looked angry. Like he hated me. I looked at him, and I saw that he hated me- and I just couldn't, you understand. I just couldn't hate him back. There was no reason for that, you see. I mean, I'd thought about it. I'd wondered about what would happen if we met, after all he'd done, but when I got there all I could see was that face that had been beside me since we were in college. I didn't see a killer, and I couldn't hate that face.

“I tried to talk to him. 'Nameless,', I said. 'I did want to kill you when you told me what you did to my sons. I was angry. I even hated you for a while.' He smiled at that, more than I've ever seen him smile before.”

Seth sniffed once, and continued.

“I'll never forget that smile. Just the way he gave it to me, a big, toothy smile. It wasn't like one of those evil smiles you see in movies or anything. It looked like he had just finished laughing at a joke- and I think he may have.” Seth sighed. “But I don't think he liked the punch line very much.

“I told him the truth. I told him the thing that had been whispered into my heart at the beginning, that it was only there in that room that I finally saw for sure. That I wasn't the first to lose a son. That there was another, one who did not spare his only son, but gave him for all the world. He wasn't smiling as much when I said that. And then I told him the rest of the truth about them. I told him that even though my body had helped conceive them, they- Michael, Namelesshew, Jacob, oh! How I miss them,” his voice quavered for a moment, but it became steady almost instantly.

“They were never mine,” he said simply, with all the solemnity of a closing tomb. “They came into the world as they left it. Not at my will, but in the will and for the purposes of the one who gave them, and took them away. I'm not sure if he was still smiling then or not.”

Seth shook his head slightly. “I still marvel at it sometimes. For all those years I'd wished that my sons had died instead of me. That was what Nameless had wanted, you know. And just think, if I had, that would have been the end of it. He was bound to find out about us sooner or later. He was bound to see there were specials. But if I had been gone he would never have looked for me. He would never have wondered into Ireland's store on that fateful day, and we might never have known who he was. He might have killed- dozens, hundreds- before we found out who he was.”

Seth was smiling now, his face enraptured in a terrible yet beautiful maelstrom. “And I told him that. I told him the truth. The truth that his will had never been the only will. The truth that what he had meant for evil, God had meant for good. Nameless had made a mistake, many, many, mistakes. I knew that, and I told him I knew. But I told him that wasn't the end. I told him that it could change. That he could change. All he had to do was want to.”

There was no joy in this part of the report; every word seemed weighted down with a thousand sorrows. Yet somehow Seth never seemed depressed, only convicted that something good had been done.

“He looked horrified, disgusted. Like I had just... thrown up. He said, 'No', but I'm not sure if he believed it. He certainly repeated it, like he wanted to be sure, like a donkey, braying. But I could feel his resolve weakening. So I told him the truth. He had chosen to do what was evil, but that made him no different from any of us. He fled from the face of God, but everyone has run from him. He had plotted against many- but that is nothing less than what I, Seth Bowman, have been guilty of.”

A single tear had appeared in Seth's eye. “And I told him what I saw when I looked at him. That I didn't see a monster. That I saw man. A man pitted, and hideously flawed by evil, a man twisted and perverted, but still a man, still a thing made to be like God. To be loved, if only he had realized it.

“He screamed then. It was a complaint, an objection, and he screamed 'No!' like an animal. But his hands were shaking then, and I saw it, and he knew I saw it.”

Seth paused and reached down in front of him. The black leather case lay there, open and empty. Seth gave a wry smile.

“The others asked me what was in this case, but I never told them, because I just couldn't have said before it was done. All those years of him chasing me, wanting to kill me, and I'd come prepared for this moment. With this,” he tapped the case. “It was everything I needed to show him. To show him what it meant, his murder of my sons, his threatening of my friends, his making good people turn against each other, his torturing of my daughter, his conspiracy to kill me-”

Seth's hands flashed up; the debriefing room must have vanished entirely from his eyes in that moment. He was no longer looking at the dim lights, at the table, at the other man, or at the recorder. Before him stood once more the face of an old friend, the face of his mission, his duty, his work. And if the words which penetrated the debriefing room in that moment contained even a fraction of the power that must have been behind them in the original moment, when the face stood not just as a memory but in flesh and blood, it must have been a wonder that the building the two of them had stood in had remained standing. For in the upwards cast of Seth's had was burning-white determination, hotter than a star, stronger than steel. The Debriefer could almost see what the other man must have been like; how Nameless Nameless, the face of so much that was fear, so much that was strong, must have suddenly appeared no more substantial than a torn newspaper, not by any diminishment in his own solidity, nor (stranger still) through any sudden increase in Seth's, but as though something else had taken up residence with, behind and through Seth, something that made Seth's tired arms more resolute than iron, more unbending than diamond. Ever afterward the Debriefer never gave a moment's consideration to the idea that what is unearthly must be wrong; for if the passion was unearthly, terrible even, the goodness behind it was more terrible still. The Debriefer could almost hear the sounds of that night ever again; the clink of glass as the small container of holy water shattered and Nameless's head was bathed in their cleansing stream, and then those three words that must have shattered to a thousand pieces every conception Nameless had about the situation, words that smashed- no, deatomized- everything, everything, everything he had come to that building planning to do. For as the water landed, as Seth's hand let the fragments of glass fall to the floor, the room reverberated with his words, three words, only three, but in those three was something more powerful than every ability that could have been summoned that night.

“-I forgive you.”

And Seth, like a suddenly deflated balloon, fell once more into his chair, not silent even for a second. But his tone was enough to relate what had happened.

“He was at his weakest. He just said, 'What?' For just a second it didn't look like he hated me. 'I forgive you, Nameless', I said. I put out my hand. I said, 'It's over. It's done. Let's put it behind us. We were brothers once. Let's be so- again.'

“I thought for a second that he might listen,” said Seth simply. “I could see it all in his face. He was balanced there. He was on a razor's edge. For a second I thought he might- but then he turned scarlet, and I knew everything was lost. The next thing I knew, he had grabbed my shirt and was screaming at me. I'll never forget what he said.

“'Don't you get it, you silly, stupid, fat old fool? Can't you see what it all means? I HATE YOU! Can't you see that? I'- I'm sorry, forgive me- 'I F*CKING HATE YOU!'

“I could only tell him the truth. I said, 'But I don't hate you, Nameless'. He looked around, wild. Silas was almost there; I could hear the lightning sizzle behind me. He kicked me, and I fell against the wall. Then he snatched at something at his ankle, and I heard myself be shot. I didn't feel it.
“He fired again. It wasn't at me. He was shooting at Ireland. She screamed, and the bullets never reached her- I think her power showed up just at that moment, just at the right time to save her. And Nameless could only say, 'No, no'.

“And then the room was full of rats. Nameless had always been afraid of rats. It might have been the only thing he was ever afraid of. He screamed and started shooting everything. He started running towards the window, we were two floors up, I tried to reach for him, tried to talk to him, but all that came out was blood...

“Silas was there by that time. He looked up at them and smiled. I saw he was holding something in each hand that wasn't a gun, now. The rats were gone. He looked at Silas, and, cool as you please, said, 'One short sleep past, I wake eternally.' He put one hand to his mouth, and I saw his thumb press something. I heard the building start to rumble. Nameless just tipped his hat once more and dove through the window.”

“I don't remember much after that. Rebecca was crying and grabbing me, and I was trying to talk but all that happened was more blood came. The floor started collapsing. Silas and Nash were the real heroes then. We'd all have died if it hadn't been for them. The building went down- and I haven't seen Nameless since.”

In the perfect world as envisioned by Nameless Jasper Stanley Ryan King, people with abilities didn't exist and he only had one middle name. He would have assumed that his father was drunk when he was named if the man had ever consumed a drop of alcohol in his life. It wasn't that the man didn't like having fun, he just didn't need to be inebriated to do so.

Nameless, on the other hand, enjoyed wild parties with loose women as a means of unwinding after a mission. It was this hobby that had brought him to LA's nightclub district and one of the best nightspots on the entire strip. Nameless walked up to the front of the line and flashed his badge to the security guards, who waved him through. It was a pointless gesture, made to placate the people in the line more than the security at the front, all of whom knew who King was but not who he worked for.

In spite the fact that it was only just getting dark the club was almost full, a testament to the type of people that lived in LA. King sat down at the bar and looked around while he waited for the bartender to work his way along the line. Several women caught his eye, but one pretty little blonde thing especially. He smirked inwardly as he watched her nurse the cocktail in front of her; he already knew that he was going to sleep with her, the only question was how long would she delay the inevitable.

"What would you like to drink, sir?" said a strangely high-pitched voice from the other side of the bar.
"A corona."

As the castrato bustled off to make the drink King had ordered his appraisal of the talent in the bar contintued, the objective being to find one that would beat blondie in the corner. During one of the subsequent scans of the room, Nameless noticed his squadmates entering the bar after a long wait in the line outside. He signalled to them as the castrato returned with the corona.

"Afternoon Deeke, Tiny," he said, shaking hands with the two men. Deeke was a non-official cover agent that Nameless had met during his time with the CIA and understood what picking up women was all about. Tiny was a former marine scout sniper who did some time with the FBI and had trouble picking up because of his sadistic sense of humor. It was suprising, therefore to see one of the most fiercely independent spies and one who Nameless had never managed to bed, catalogue hanging off his arm.

"What are you lot drinking?" King said, mostly to cover his surprise.
"Martini," replied Deeke, a typical intelligence agent.
"Battery Acid for us," replied Tiny.
"You're shitting me?" King said, suprised. A battery acid was a mixture of the most potent spirits normal people could stomach that topped with hot sauce and then set on fire.
"Nope. Are you ordering another drink or do we need to shoot someone to get in line?" replied Tiny.
"You can shoot someone, I just started," replied King

Tiny gave an evil grin before stalking off into the crowd. Deeke, spotting a girl on the dance floor decided to forgo his drink in favour of starting to lay some groundwork before the place really got busy. King took another few sips of the corona as his former attempted conquest turned to him.

"So have you got your eye on anyone yet, Nova?" she said.
"Blondie in the corner of the bar who's making love to her cocktail," King said instantly, without looking up.
"She's married," said the spy, whose name was Jessica, after staring at the girl for a few moments.
"You noticed," I replied.
"You're going to break up a marriage?"
"First off she's not married, she's engaged and her relationship is on the rocks anyway."
"And how in all of building 26's torture rooms do you know that?"
"That's how I made squad leader."
"You made squad leader by being able to find the fastest way into a woman's pants?"
"Thats right."
"Somehow I doubt that."
"Hey, a guy's gotta have his secrets doesn't he? After all, you have your secrets."
"I also know what respect is," she shot back.
"I know of it," Nameless replied with a grin.

At that point, Tiny arrived with his flaming death drinks and Deeke arrived with the brunette who was obviously milking him for as many drinks as she could before returned to her boyfriend.

"Shall we go upstairs?" asked Deeke.
"Give me," King started, said looking over at blondie, "five minutes, tops."
"Yeah right," said Jessica.

King shot her a sly, playful smile and sculled the last of his drink. The girl was playing with her ring again as he approached, but looked up as he sat beside her.

"I have a boyfriend, so don't even bother," she said.
"I noticed and its such a pity for him that you're going to dump him, because you seem like a really nice girl," King replied.
"And what makes you say that," she asked coolly.
"Well turning down his proposal wouldn't have helped your already turbulent relationship and I am guessing that you had a domestic violence issue already."
And what would suggest that?" she asked.

King smirked inwardly. She was already losing control of her emotions, causing her to repeat the Namelesse two words at the start of every sentence. It was a small indicator and one that could be easily missed, but King was trained to notice every detail.

"You said you have a boyfriend, not a fiancee which contradicts the ring that you are so fond of playing with on the bar, so I am guessing that you either turned him down or you are going to. I would suggest the former since the bruise just above your right breast looks very recent. As for the state of your relationship; well you wouldn't be sitting here playing with his ring if you lived a happy relationship because you wouldn't have turned him down and he wouldn't have shoved you."

The girl lost control completely and dissolved into tears, infuriating King. He hated it when they got all sooky and emotional.

"You are hurting your chances of getting sex tonight," he said, whispering in her ear.
"And what makes you think I want that," she said with a look of distaste.
"Because if you didn't want to pick up a person at random you would be knocking back strong cocktails rather than playing with your drink."
"How do you know I find arrogant men like you attractive?"

He leaned in and kissed her quickly before pulling away and smirking at her increased pulse and breath rate.

"Because you're only human, sweetheart," he said, leaning in again for a longer kiss. She grabbed the back of his head and attacked King's mouth like a woman possessed, her tongue diving in and out of his mouth. When she finally broke away he took hold of her hand and walked back around to where the rest of the group were, not bothering to introduce her since he hadn't actually gotten her name.

"Upstairs?" King said to Deeke.
"I dunno," he said with a laugh, "you've still got a minute to seal the deal."

Nameless gave a mock self-effacing smirk and continued upstairs with his newest conquest and friends in tow. King was a phenomenal dancer and even Jessica, who was looking daggers at him every time he glanced in her direction would agree. Blondie was having the time of her life, all of her boyfriend troubles forgotten. He was tempted to point out that he wasn't rescuing her from her abusive boyfriend but decided against it. She might decide not to sleep with him if he got all noble on her.

At about midnight, Deeke got pissy because the brunette's boyfriend arrived and took her back. Taking pity on him, King gave Blondie to him for a moment so he could find the unfortunate idiot another brunette. It wasn't hard because by the time midnight rolled around most people had paired up already and there were plenty of gorgeous available women desperate for men to play with. Even so, it took longer than it did to pick up Blondie, because King wasn't getting the girl for himself. Nevertheless after about five minutes he found Deeke some quality companionship in the form of another brunette.

King returned with his prize to recollect Blondie before Deeke got any ideas. Blondie gave King a reproachful look when she saw him with another girl, but got over it when he gave the girl to Deeke. King considered leaving her then and there because the last thing he wanted was a clinger, or somebody who would go crazed-stalker on him. Deeke seemed to be thinking along the Namelesse lines as he leaned in and told King to come back to his place so that he could have a go at her as well if she ever came looking for me. King laughed and agreed.

When Tiny and Jessica decided to make their way out at about one-thirty and after a quick conference, Deeke and King joined them with their respective conquests in tow. Jessica kept up an icy silence for the entire wait in the taxi line and all concerned were glad to bid her goodbye and grab the next one back to Deeke's.

King was enjoying his time off in LA immensely. Whoever said money couldn't buy happiness obviously never managed to get their hands on an unlimited government expense account. Nameless had made enough friends in enough government departments over the years to have access to a number of accounts that agents used whenever they needed a transaction to escape the notice of, well everyone.

He was enjoying himself so much that he considered aggravating his gunshot wound in order to get himself more time off, however no amount of leisure time would make up for the pain caused by the telekinetic special. It was funny in a way, considering the bullet that had been embedded in his hip came from his own weapon. What was less than funny was the terrible intelligence that lead to the incident. The telekinetic was supposed to have very little control over his power. It was supposed to be a cakewalk, one last simple job before moving on to New York and richer hunting grounds.

Time off was all well and good, but King's favourite form of relaxation was hunting people with abilities. He was exceptional at his job and succeeding was something that relaxed him more than any alcohol could. It was this reflection that had lead King to take another job, this one going after somebody who was allegedly half amphibian and half human. Even with the apparent advantages that this person would have, the threat level was only medium and so King had just one other agent with him on the assignment.

Deeke, one of King's companions on his recent forays into LA's nightlife was the backup on this particular mission and was equipped with the special shotgun that fired glorified spark plugs at their victims. King favoured the portability of a similarly designed pistol, sacrificing the larger clip size for maneuverability.

Two minutes to destination, came an unknown voice over King's radio. It was a coded signal for he and his partner to check and double-check their weapons in preparation for the arrest. Both knew the procedure and how to make it last the perfect amount of time to keep restless energy to a minimum.

Three.
Two.
One.
Go! Go! Go!

His view dominated by the iron sights on his pistol, Nameless moved forwards to the door and kicked it open, counting on Deeke to be right behind him. He cleared the living room and proceeded through the doorway into the kitchen while Deeke handled the other rooms on the ground floor.

"Clear!" he called befor proceeding up the stairs to the bedrooms with Deeke hot on his heels. As the duo got to the top of the stairs a door opened on their right.

"Department of Homeland Security! James Fields, you are under arrest!"

It was as Nameless had expected with no sound coming from the room. Nameless and Deeke stacked up on the doorway before entering the room firing. Unfortunately their quarry was expecting them and the electric projectile hit nothing but air.

King was knocked backwards as something large hit his chest on the way towards the door. Instinctively, he fired his weapon at the threat, catching the frog-man in the shoulder and sending him spinning to the ground in convulsions as the electricity rendered his musculoskeletal system inoperable.

"Target neutralised. Send in the extraction team," said King into his radio. The extraction team would administer the chemical that would ensure that the specials remained subdued and under control before transporting the individual to Washington.

The arrest of the frog-man had been a test designed to see whether or not King was ready to return to work. Now that he had passed the test with flying colours it was time for King to be posted elsewhere in the United States. It was a good thing, for much as he liked the party lifestyle that he had been enjoying since his injury he liked his job more.

It was fitting then that his next port of call was to be Miami, Florida. A man had been identified as a potential high level threat based on evidence collected both at home and abroad. King's first mission would be to surveil the former CIA agent and Marine Scout Sniper. As good as he was at his job, King was hoping that man would go quietly. The marine corps had a very good reputation when it came to kicking the crap out of their opponents and the fact that the guy was a CIA agent just made him all the more of a threat. If that wasn't enough to make him a threat the Department had uncovered evidence that the man had the Namelesse ability as the serial killer Victor, who was still at large.

There was a lot to be said for conducting surveillance on rich people. This target was no ordinary rich guy, however. He was in fact a former CIA non-official cover agent who was imprisoned in Iraq and escaped only to join the marine corps and go back to Iraq on two tours of duty. The man seemed to have a knack for surviving dangerous situations and the department believed that it was more than just the hundreds of thousands of dollars that the US government had spent teaching the man how not to die.

As King read through the file, he saw that the man was a qualified engineer but the curious part was his grades. From what he could tell, the target was terrible at theoretical engineering but still managed to achieve top marks in most of his practical classes. It was what originally lead the department to believe that he had an anomalous ability and the reports of his expertise in weaponsmithing only served to confirm the suspicions.


Nothing will ever be the Namelesse again.

Nameless was standing in line at a small deli on the tiny island of Majorca in the Mediterranean. He had barely escaped from Ruby again as she sought to capture him in order to bring the CIA's special program ahead of that of the Department of Homeland Security. Fortunately, he managed to escape and go on the run before the iron jaws of the CIA snapped shut around him.

Now he was in the Mediterranean, on an island made infamous by the former Australian con man Christopher Skase. The latter had managed to hide out on the tiny island for years before dying free. Nameless knew that he would never get around to the dying part but he had every intention of staying free for as long as he could.

"Cómo puedo ayudar usted, señor?" said the pretty girl behind counter, snapping Nameless out of his reverie.
"En inglés, por favor," replied Nameless. He knew only a small amount of conversational spanish and not enough to get the right meat without messing up the doctor's order.
"Sorry, sir," the girl said, her cheeks burning as she switched to heavily accented but nevertheless understandable english.
"I need two kilograms of beef sausages and a pig carcass if you have one," replied Nameless.
"Sir?" replied the girl, confused. Apparently people didn't come in and order entire dead pigs every day.
"My roommate has complicated taste," replied Nameless apologetically.
"Una momento, por favor," replied the girl, slipping back into Spanish in her confusion. Nameless nodded; it was one of the few phrases that he understood. The girl returned a few moments later.
"My father will serve you at back of store," she said before turning to the next customer.

Nameless smiled and left the shop. He wasn't surprised by her reaction but hoped that the man wouldn't ask too many questions. He couldn't exactly tell the proprietor that he needed the entire thing because the doctor wanted to add thirty kilos to his body mass in order to disguise the fact that his skull was going to be about four times thicker than normal at the front.

"Why?" It was a simple question, but one that Nameless was having a lot of trouble answering.
"My friend has some very strange eating habits. He prefer's to kill and prepare his own food. Since there isn't any game on the island he has accepted this compromise. Will it be a problem?"
"No," replied the man after several long moments, "but I don't deliver."

Nameless nodded. Taking this to be the agreement that it was intended to be, the man went back into his cold room and appeared with a dead pig. It was at this point that Nameless realised why the man didn't deliver. The pig was massive. It would certainly tax the motor on the little scooter that Nameless was using to get around.

The proprieter loaded the pig onto the scooter and accepted the wad of cash that Nameless was offering in payment before disappearing back inside. Anxious to disappear from the man's sight and hopefully therefore his mind, Nameless cruised slowly away on the sputtering, complaining machine.

It was a mercifully short ride up the beach to the bungalow that he was sharing with Sarah and Dwight, but even the short distance looked like it was going to be too much for the tiny engine on the scooter. It was complaining so much throughout the short trip that Nameless turned it off and rolled down the slight hill for the last hundred metres or so.

After loading the entire pig into the chest freezer on the verandah before going in search of his roommates. Dwight was nowhere to be found, but Sarah seemed to be taking advantage of the sunny mediterranean weather on the beach outside the bungalow.

Deciding to throw caution to the sunny mediterranean winds, Nameless got changed into his boardshorts and wandered down to sit next to Sarah, all the while wondering what he was going to say. There wasn't anything he could really say. Sarah was the reason he wasn't on ice in a Department of Homeland Security prison somewhere. Fortunately, she was in a talkative mood when he arrived.

"Did you get the dead animal?"
"Yeah," he replied, "got a pig from a local merchant."
"How'd you sell it?"
"Roommate with messed up eating habits."
"And they bought it?"
"Once I gave him a thousand pesos more than what the meat cost, yeah."
"Ah. Will he be a problem?"
"Shouldn't be, but he'll be easily dealt with if he does."
Sarah raised an eyebrow in response, propping herself up on her elbow to look him in the eyes.
"Desperate times..." Nameless replied.
"Call for the random 'taking care' of civilians."
"I didn't start this war."
"Niether did he."
"Surely you understand? It wasn't so long ago that you were the poster child for the Architect and the CIA."
"Like you said, desperate times," replied Sarah.
"You are a complicated person, Sarah Swift."
"Just the way you like it."

Nameless winced. The playful banter reminded him forcibly of the first time he had met Ruby, all those months ago. The memory wasn't exactly painful but it was also something that he didn't want to dwell on.

"I'm sorry," said Sarah, returning to the position on her back.
"Forget about it. A bad memory from another life."
"Well here's to plenty more then. DHS won't touch you here."
"For now," replied Nameless, giving voice to the misgivings he had been having since they touched down. Where could they really hide from the most powerful nation on earth?

"I feel weird," Nameless said after waking up.
"I should think so," replied Dwight, "those tranquillizers are normally used to humanely kill elephants."
"How long was I out?"
"About twenty minutes."

Nameless laughed but soon realised that the weird feelings weren't chemical based.

"That's not it though," he said with a frown, "I feel clumsy, like I'm learning to walk again or something."
"I had to increase your size in order to make the increased skull density look normal."
"How much bigger am I?"
"I used about twenty kilograms of meat for both the skull modifications and the increase in muscle mass."
"So just enough to make me feel strange."
"Yes."
"Are we all done down here?" called Sarah.
"Yes," replied Dwight before turning back to Nameless, "now you understand that this surgery has in no way made you bulletproof? Bone doesn't work that way and metal would be too easy to track. The best you can hope for is a bullet not reaching the weak point at the back of your brain."
"Well that's a cheerful note to end on," said Sarah as she reached the bottom of the stairs."
"I just mean that I don't want him getting a false sense of security. If he gets shot in the head it will probably still kill him."
"The change from definitely to probably is more than enough," replied Nameless, "I felt more vulnerable after I found that out than before I was immortal."

Nobody spoke for a few moments, during which time Nameless sat up. His limbs still felt clumsy but his head was mercifully clear. Gingerly, as though he was recovering from a bad accident, Nameless got to his feet. Almost immediately, he fell over but rose again quickly. Now that he was standing, his brain reblazed the neural pathways required to make him walk.

Nameless was waist deep in the warm Caribbean water when he spotted Sarah walking down the beach clad only in a bikini. It was a testament to how the past year or so had changed him that he had no problem with watching the way her body moved as she walked. Where once he would have considered it the height of rudeness to check her out he was now doing it blatantly.

The current object of his desires entered the water and made her way over to him.

"You know," she said, "I think Dwight may have altered you more than he said he did."
"What makes you say that?"
"I don't remember you being this defined before."
"I wasn't, but he didn't add a proportionate amount of fat to go with the extra muscle mass."
"So?"
"So I look more defined. The more muscle there is, the easier it is to burn fat. Besides, the guy's too religious to do anything wrong. You saw how much it took to convince him that helping me was part of God's plan."
"Well I like it," she replied, smiling coyly. Nameless smirked back.
"You don't look so bad yourself," he replied.

Silence greeted Nameless's words, as though Sarah was expecting him to make a move. He would have expected her to know by now that making the first move wasn't his style. Perhaps she was trying to force him to make a move to prove that he was at her mercy. Fortunately, Dwight chose this moment to appear in the water beside them.

"So I've never asked," said Nameless, "how do you rationalise your ability with your religion?"
"It is my destiny to help people," replied Dwight.
"Then you'll be itching to get back to the States and really stick it to the DHS."
"No," replied Dwight, "they are only doing what they think is right."
"Thats easy to say from the safety of an island with no extradition treaty."
"Would you prefer to return to the United States?" replied Dwight.
"No thanks," replied Nameless, "I'm sure it wouldn't take the DHS long to show me just how not immortal I am."
"Faith would give you the strength to resist tyranny."
"We're going to have to agree to disagree on that one. Does that mean you're going back to the 'states?"
"If I can convince you to accompany me, yes."
"Why?"
"I believe the three of us make a good team."
"How? My ability is defensive in nature and you won't use yours for offense."
"I may be willing to refer to the old testament in the case of the Department of Homeland Security."
"The smite your enemies, pestilence and bloodshed part?"
"The more action-oriented version of the bible, yes. I have done no wrong and so if the Department of Homeland Security means to do me harm I will defend myself."
"What do you think, Sarah?"
"I think you're both insane for even considering it," replied Sarah.
"So you're in then?"
"Absolutely," replied Sarah, "but we need to have contingency plans in place and you two need a lot of training before we can even think about operating in the continental US without being caught by the DHS."
"Then lets get moving," replied Nameless.

Adam sat on the slab of strange foam in a very simple cell. He had been blindfolded before being transferred to a plane and brought to his place. Far from knowing where he was, Adam didn't even know if he was still in the United States. The only ray of sunshine was that they had stopped torturing him.

He was clad in a nondescript white jumpsuit with his surname in bold, black letters on the front. Aside from the strange foam block that served as a bed, bench and table the cell was completely empty. Every so often Adam would be let out to go to the toilet and consume what he assumed was a highly nutritious slop with the consistency of porridge.

Nobody said a word to him and his prison officials were clad in strange armour and wearing motorbike helmets which prevented him from knowing anything about them. It was as though they were deliberately trying to completely isolate him from humanity.

Adam was once again let out of his cell for food and nourishment and the lack of human contact was starting to get to him. He tried yelling at his captors, but was met with nothing more than the cold plastic stare of the helmet's visor. Not being any good at defending himself, Adam elected not to trying physical violence and sat eating his food in moody silence.

As he was lead back to his cell, the guard took a different route and installed him in an identical cell in a room with three other identical cells. This distracted Adam from the dreariness of his existence as he speculated that he would soon be recieving cellmates. It was a hope that sustained him and helped him retain his sanity for a while longer.

Nameless wasn't in the best of moods. The wound he suffered at the hands of the cowardly telekinetic healed well enough, but the scars of betrayal cut ever deeply in spite of his best efforts to fill them with spite and hatred. He had saved the cowardly drug addict's life and in repayment he was stuck in the back of a truck with a bag on his head.

He didn't know if Ruby was next to him or hours away because his hands were bound and he was gagged. Every time he leaned over more than a few degrees he received a sharp blow in the back of the head for his troubles. The blows hurt, but they were heartening. If he was alone in this truck, they shouldn't care how much he flopped around; their stoppage of his movements suggested that there was someone beside him and he couldn't see any reason why that someone couldn't be Ruby.

He knew his questions were about to be answered when the truck slowly and noisily ground to a halt. Several minutes of absolute silence later the back doors opened and Nameless was dragged out and made to walk for what felt like hours. When he finally stopped, he felt something sharp be stabbed into the side of his neck and knew no more.

Nameless woke up on a surprisingly comfortable foam Namelessress considering his circumstances. For the second time in his life, he was in prison and was still yet to recieve a trial before being placed in one. This time, however he was a government prisoner and knew that he wouldn't get out unless they decided to let him go.

The government wasn't stupid enough to let anyone near him who might compromise the security of the base and nobody who knew he was there would come to his rescue. He groaned and sat up, looking around. It was a small cell and he was facing the window. There was a foam cube similar to his against the opposite wall, but there was nobody on it.

Next to the other foam cube was a doorway leading to a fully appointed bathroom, which made it the best prison Nameless had ever been in. As Nameless looked around his cell, a slot in the door slid open and a tray of food was slid in.

"Where's Ruby?" he yelled at the small slot.
"She is being debriefed," replied a voice, "and will be with you within the next couple of hours."
"Oh, umm thanks?" replied Nameless, completely taken aback by the fact that he was given such an informative answer.

Nameless sat back to eat the chicken and bacon pizza on the tray table attached to the door.

Nameless was beginning to think the pizza was just something to butter him on when what felt like hours passed with no sign of Ruby. He was looking around the cell, looking for weak points and possible avenues of escape. He was nearing the end of his search and had to commend the CIA on their jail-building ability.

While he was standing on the toilet testing the roof for stress points the door clanged open. Throwing caution to the wind, Nameless quickly exited the door to see if he could get a hand between the door and the lock. Unfortunately, he couldn't before the door shut but his disappointment was short-lived.

"What took you so long?" he asked his visitor, he said, sweeping her into his arms.
"Debrief took longer than I thought," Ruby replied, kissing him on the neck.
"What did they want from you?" asked Nameless.
"Later," replied Ruby, "sleep now, I'm exhausted."

Nameless nodded, laying down on the bed with his love and holding her until she fell asleep. Her stared at the ceiling for several long hours before he too drifted off to sleep.


It was all a lot to take in, even for someone whose life had been tugged in all directions for the last month or so. According to Ruby, preparations were being made to facilliate their return to the real world. There was just one catch, one that Nameless wasn't sure that he was ready to adhere to. Were they to be released, Nameless wasn't allowed to contact or attempt to harm the traitor.

In addition, Nameless had to be on the grid at all times and would be thrown back in prison if he ever disappeared. Knowing that their conversations were being monitored, Nameless elected not to question how they were going to arrest him if they didn't know where he was. Allegedly the CIA had drained most of the blood from his body while he was unconscious and so didn't require him for scientific reasons any longer.

If this was the case, he wondered, then why was Ruby brought to this cell at all? Nameless assumed that the CIA wanted to see his reaction to the news before they released them.
Nameless still didn't know what to think about the CIA, but what was certain was that they had kept their word about absolutely everything thus far. The only difference was that he was in the Nevada desert instead of being somewhere useful. Fortunately, the Charger was parked in front of him.

"Do you want to drive or shall I?" he said, turning around to where Ruby was being uncuffed.
"Nameless..." she said, trailing off. Somehow, Nameless knew what was coming even before she finished her sentence, "I'm not coming with you. The CIA have a job for me that I need to do alone."
"What sort of job?" replied Nameless, keeping his voice steady and his face impassive.
"Long con," she replied.
"Long ... so that means you're breaking up with me," said Nameless, turning back around to face the car, struggling to keep the emotion out of his voice.
"Nameless," Ruby began, approaching him and putting her hand on his shoulder, "Nameless this is..."
"Save it," he replied, shrugging of her hand, "I know how this goes. Its not me its you, you wish it could have been some other way, you're doing whats best for both of us ... blah blah blah."
"I'm sorry," she replied, "being an agent is all I know. We cannot have a future while my father is still out there. I would just be putting you in danger by staying with you."
"Spare me the self-righteousness. You knew from the moment you entered the cell that you weren't coming with me. As far as I'm concerned, you and the CIA can both go and get fucked."
"Nameless wait!" called Ruby as Nameless started towards the car. He ignored her and climbed into the driver's seat, starting the engines and dumping the clutch to make the wheels smoke before easing off the accellerator and taking off down the driveway. He was sick of all of this underworld crap. Sick of being taken advantage of. Sick of always falling for the pretty face. Sick of love. Sick of hate. Just sick.

"Hurry up and have your little cry, Agent, because we can't afford to have simpering little schoolgirls with the CIA, especially not where you are going."
Ruby sat in silence. Years of training had schooled her for this moment, but it didn't prevent the anger from simmering away inside. Her new boss was the head of some research division of the CIA that gave him an overinflated sense of authority and by the sound of it, they hadn't actually managed to take a single target alive except for Nameless.
"Good," said the man after a few moments, "you have learned your lessons well. The assignment I have for you is one of reconnaissance. I need to know everything I can about the history of Nameless Beviin. Your plane to Australia leaves in twenty-four hours."

Nameless took to the stage, the worship band having finished their final song. The room grew quiet, the four-hundred or so in this service taking their seats and giving him their attention. Nameless made no rush to get the ball rolling; he walked across the stage, moving a hip-tall pedestal to the center of the stage, placing his bible on top of it. Following this, he fetched a stool, placing it next to the pedestal before taking a seat on it.

Adjusting the glasses on the bridge of his nose with one hand, he opened the bible up to a bookmarked page. Ink - notes that the pastor had written in the margins - filled the pages, almost indistinguishable from the printed words on the page. Nameless sat quietly, reading over the pages for several seconds; only after Darcy crossed the stage, did the pastor seem to come back to reality.

"Th' word of th' Lord is good, amen?" he asked the audience, his voice amplified by the throat microphone in place around his neck. A murmur of approval rippled through the audience. Nameless stood, stepping in front of the pedestal and over Darcy who had laid down on the stage.

"Ever heard the term 'Six Flags O'er Jesus?' " asked Nameless with a slight smile. The congregation gave another murmur - a ripple of recognition; a few grins even appeared. "Yeah," continued Namelessjah, adjusting his glasses once again, "it's a feel-good church. You go on Sunday, they tell ya what you wanna hear, and you go home feelin' good about yourself. Weekend celebrators that love bein' told that they met the quota and are good to go til the next weekend."

"Now, I ain't saying they're not going to heaven. That ain't my judgment call - that's above my paygrade, I leave that to the Guy Upstairs. But I'll tell you what I think - Jesus didn't go to court for us, standin' in front of Pontius Pilate and a crowd of haters for weekend visits like these feel-good churches are preaching."

Nameless tapped on the open bible, without looking at it. "Back in the day, before they coined that word 'Christian,' they all called 'emselves followers of 'the Way.' It wasn't a weekend conversion. It was a 'way' - a way of life. You didn't just sit aside for a day or two, hold hands, and sing kumbaya. You gave up your old life. You traded it in for something that guaranteed you more. And all of 'em were expected to take on a new behavior."

"First Thessalonians, chapter five talks about Christian conduct, what we needa be doin', and it says 'pray without ceasing,' 'always give thanks,' and 'rejoice all the time.' Without ceasing! Always! All the time!"

Nameless grabbed the bible from behind him, lifting it slightly above his head, shaking it for emphasis as he spoke. "See, the Savior didn't come calling on us for weekend visits, son - my Jesus wanted full custody. Even the term we use today - Christian - literally means 'one like Christ.' Not 'one like Christ' sometimes, not 'one like Christ' on the weekends."

Bringing the bible back down to eyesight, he flipped quickly towards the end. "He doesn't want a part-time, non-committed, weekend follower. Jesus didn't call people to ride on the fence. Revelations three, fifteen and sixteen - 'I know what you have done; I know that you are neithis cold nor hot. How I wish you were eithis one or the othis! But because you are lukewarm, neithis hot nor cold, I am going to spit you out of my mouth!' "

The bible was raised above his head again. "We weren't called to be wishy-washy, fence-riding, or lukewarm. He wants full custody - He wants it all... or He wants nothing. Peter and the othis fishisman quit their jobs all togethis and followed. Paul - a man who beat Christians t'death - turned his life around and became one of the biggest contributors o'the New Testament!"

Nameless placed the bible on the pedestal behind him before straightening his glasses one again. "This ain't fire and brimstone, people. This ain't me saying There's no hope - because, God as my witness, There is. This is me just giving it to you straight: we gotta realize that we serve under a loving, but a righteous, God - and He calls us to be the same, loving and righteous..."

"You can't do this, Jonas - There's people sleepin' in There!" said Nameless, exasperated. In one hand, he held a baseball bat by the bottom end, not unlike a walking cane. Before him stood three men - former friends, continued gang members. The leader, Jonas, held a bottle of alcohol and was currently stuffing a rag into the end of it. He was flanked by Demon and Deandre. All that stood between them and the church was Nameless. The near-dozen people inside were asleep, completely unaware of the trouble brewing.

"You shoulda thought of that, Namelessjah, when you sold us out to the feds!" yelled Jonas, his voice so loud that it surely woke those under the church's care inside. Apparently, despite it being a half-decade since his release, his former gang had come to the conclusion that Nameless had sold them out - that he had ratted out others, once sworn brothers, to save himself. "I didn't sell out nobody, son. I wasn't a snitch! You boys are troubled, but I want nothing but goodness for ya'll. You don't need to do this, Jonas."

"No, we gotta set an example for snitches," said Jonas, raising a lighter to the tip of the rag. "I won't tell you again, Jonas - please don't do this," pleaded Nameless.

The weak threat, of course, meant nothing to his former gang friends - There were three of them against the one man; they likely carried knives on them and - even if they didn't, they were all larger than Nameless, himself. A baseball bat would help him, sure, but it wouldn't give him a clear advantage at all.

Jonas, ignoring Nameless's pleas, lit the rag in the bottle and raised it over his head in order to throw it at the church. Please, Lord, give me the strength to protect the ones inside, prayed Nameless, closing his eyes tightly, his knuckles turning light as they gripped the handle of the baseball bat tightly.

As Jonas moved his arm to throw the bottle, it happened. The bottle slipped from his grasp, dropping to the pavement, and shattered - the alcohol inside splashing across Jonas's pant leg. It immediately caught fire and the man began howling in shock.

Without missing a beat, Nameless lifted up the bat, striking Deandre in the back of the knee. Before the man could completely topple, Nameless followed up the movement, slamming the flat top of the bat into Demon's stomach, doubling the man over. Nameless then kicked him over as well.

"God as my witness, I will not let ya'll hurt any innocent people over what you mistakenly think I did," Nameless yelled, in order to be heard over Jonas's yelling, as he rolled across the pavement in attempts to put out the fire on his leg.

"Do I make myself clear?"

Desdemona halted his packing. He had been allotted time to collect his necessities; he would not be returning. Edging to the railing of the loft, he peered over at the man in the top hat below. He was silent, his hands resting behind the small of his back, as he peered through the large front window of the dojo. Was he contemplating his decision of asking his? Was he observing his... their future, imagining it to be void of all the non-Alphas on the opposite side of the pane?

He inhaled quietly, quickly turning away. Nameless was no murderer, he knew. He had never taken a life. But he had wanted to.

It was cold - extra cold - against the side of his throat. Desdemona refused to even swallow, lest the blade pressed against his accidentally break the skin. Still, the silent tears streamed down his face as his chest heaved from the desperate reaches of breath.

The man - Yomin Breise - had known. How he had known, Nameless had no idea. But it was irrelevant. The moment he had implied it, he knew he was leaving with him.

"If you will let me, I will help you take back what was stolen from you."

They took turns, one at a time. Two held his down - one of them with the knife. One was the lookout, though he was unnecessary - no one walked by and Nameless never once cried out for help. And then the fourth... he...

Nameless picked up his locked blades, his hand gripping them so tightly that his knuckles turned pale. He had taken up his training in combat. Why? To protect himself from men. Well... men like them. Yomin meant his no harm. In fact, he was promising the opposite.

"You are a goddess among men, and a future queen."

From Where he stood by the bed now, Nameless could no longer see the man over the railing, but his instincts told his that he had not budged. He was confident. He was calm. He was assured - as if he had already seen the future that he claimed with his own eyes. Yomin had said that the future belonged to them. And, just like that, Nameless agreed to follow. He was a modern day Jesus of Nazareth, like from the stories. He was Peter, putting down his fishing nets, and leaving behind his life to follow him. And Yomin seemed so sure of his - just like he was sure of the future. He believed in his.

The whole affair took an hour. And it was another hour before anyone found his. Beaten and bruised, tears streaming across his face, Nameless simply laid There. His arms were wrapped around his knees, his knees pulled to his bare chest. His body, however, wasn't the only thing that was broken.

Like Jesus to Peter, Yomin believed in his as a person and believed in his capabilities. But unlike Peter, Nameless would not take this for granted. Wherever he led, he would follow. Whatever he deemed necessity, he would oblige. There was only one reservation.

If Nameless followed this man, if Nameless walked out the door of the dojo with him, he would be branded a murderer, even if he was only acting in self-defense. But he would hold such a title. If instructed, he would stand idly by while others slaughtered. But he would only acted in defense - defense of Yomin, defense of himself, and defense of the others in Nemesis.

It was a fine line to walk, but it made all the difference in his own mind. Nameless would act to make the world a better place for the people that he cared about, but he would not become the aggressors that had once crippled his own life. He would act to prevent such aggressions again, against those who he held dear.

Taking the duffel bag on one shoulder and holding the combined blades in his othis hand, Nameless descended the stairs to Where the man in the top hat waited patiently. Standing by his side, he watched through the window for several moments in mutual silence before lifting his eyes to him.

"I am ready," he offered in his quiet voice, though the solemn determination was evident.

Within the first three seconds of hand-to-hand combat, it is easy to tell if your opponent has had any training. Fighting is not like what television wants people to believe; if your opponent is attempting to swipe your legs or strike your face, chances are they know little about fighting. Sweeping the leg of a trained fighter is incredibly difficult, even when they are completely unaware. As for head strikes - they do hurt the target, but the little bones in your hands are more likely to break before any serious damage to done to your opponent.

Instead, Nameless knew, There are three vulnerable places on all people (four on men), regardless of size, training, and muscle - the eyes, throat, and ears. So when your opponent lahes out, attempting to bust your eardrum with their palm, you know that they have done their homework.

Nameless had been in California for four months now and Destiny's promise of his having everything that he desired had not been untruthful. In addition to his daily regiment of dieting, work outs, and training, a higly-trained sparring partner visited thrice weekly to continuously keep Nameless on edge, as well as train his furthis on hand-to-hand combat. Already, they had delved deeply into Muay Thai - Nameless excelling in using his hands and elbows.

Destiny had also continued honoring Nameless's disregard for men; his sparring and training partners - of which There had been three, thus far - were all female. Aside from small banter with Ian, Nameless had refrained from communicating with anyone of masculinity for the entire course of his stay at Tysche Industries. There was no feeling of loss over this lack of correspondence.

On the whole, however, Nameless had mostly kept to himself. Though he had sat in on several dozen meetings - some of which were viewed from shadows, given the... intimacy of the situation - There had been no significant actions against Destiny's life. However, what and who Destiny spent his time with was of no affair of Nameless; he simply stood silently by, a watchful protector of the tycoon.

Ian, despite his gender, had become a more accepted acquaintance. That is not to say they spoke often; it was in passing, almost entirely about work. However, his display of ability had been enough to bridge the gap over Nameless's hatred towards men. It had been astounding - something that Nameless wished to see again and again, though he made no mention of such a thing.

And, still, There had been little word from the man in the top hat on the situation with Nemesis who was to be in San Francisco soon.

The once promised-to-be goddess turned against the sweeping hand, simultaneously using the momentum to slam his elbow into the ribcage of his sparring partner.

Four months in, Nameless was starting to become restless for something - anything - to happen.

They all blend in. Broken and/or smeared windows, concrete floor with cracks and the occasional black streak mark, and metallic rust-colored beams that went from floor to ceiling. Hanging light fixtures that resembled an upside down bowl with a single light inside, It seemed like every warehouse on the east coast was made by the same contractor. Was There no room for style? wondered Nameless as he adjusted the cuff of his sleeve. Alas, they were wonderful interrogation spots.

Jackson Smalls - 220lbs, give or take. Buzz cut head, broad shoulders. 6'0, maybe 5'11. Tight fitting black t-shirt, jeans, work boots. Tattoo of a skull with a snake wrapped around it on right bicep. Currently trickling blood down right cheek, eye beginning to swell, handcuffed behind the back in an aluminum chair.

Rubbing his knuckles as he looked around the room, Nameless spoke aloud to the man, "I'm telling you - you're going to tell me Where the rest of your boys are hiding his. One way or another, I will hear it."

Nameless referred to the daughter of one New Jersey senator, being kidnapped in regards to the senator's stance on an upcoming bill. Of course, that proceeded into details that Nameless didn't need nor care about - the senator wasn't budging on the bill. Hence, Nameless's assignment to find and reacquire the daughter.

"You're going to die, whethis you tell me or not," Nameless said coolly, fully turning his attention back to his captive. The man spit blood on to the smooth, cold concrete before glaring up to Nameless. "No sense in me telling you, then, is There? You ain't got no bargaining chip now, no reason to make me talk."

Nameless smiled, giving no sign of concern to the man. "Oh, no. See, when you tell me decides when you die. The longer you're alive, however..." Nameless withdrew an ink pen from his pocket and - in a single, swift movement - he plunged the pen into the man's right thigh. The man lurched forward, restrained only by his handcuffs to the aluminum chair. Snarling, Jackson said nothing.

Twelve year old girl, abducted by a half dozen men that looked as if they could place rathis high in body building competitions. Little girl, innocent, uninvolved, and non-expendable.

"Again, Where is he?" Nothing. Nameless twisted the pen to an angle and puhed it furthis into the thigh. Jackson screamed in agony, rocking in the chair. Mid-yell, he cried, "Alright, al-alright! Chimmy's Bar, back... back room!"

Immediately, Nameless released the pen and stepped away from the chair. Withdrawing a cell phone from his pocket, he held down the center button and allowed the phone to ring three times. Having signaled to the senator that he'd located the daughter, Nameless replaced the phone in his pocket in time to hear the aluminum chair scrape across the concrete floor.

Addressing the noise, the man for hire turned to see his adversary advancing at full charge, handcuffs in the floor and aluminum chair overturned. Without flinching, Nameless removed the silenced FN Seven pistol from under his coat and fired three shots - all of which met the center mass of one Jackson Smalls. All two hundred and twenty pounds of man dropped to the floor, skidding to a halt at Nameless's feet.

Skirting around the body, Nameless slowly approached the chair and handcuffs. How had the man escaped? Slipped out of the handcuffs? No - Nameless had placed them too tightly around the man's large forearms. Picked the lock? No - Nameless had covered his tracks; There was nothing on the man's person that could be used to unlock handcuffs.

Then what had it been? Heat. KneNamelessng to examine the handcuffs, Nameless could easily see what the problem had been. The handcuffs had melted. But how?

Looking furthis - around the floor, even checking the man, There was nothing to suggest Where enough heat had come from to melt the handcuffs. And the man's forearms and hands showed no sign of being burnt...

Tucking away the bizarre occurrence in his mind, Nameless departed. Strange happenings or not, There was a task at hand and money to collect. Weird coincidences could be furthis examined later. Work and reputation were much more important.

When working as an agent for the CIA, many character traits are taught, tested, and strengthened. Key among those is patience. Even when a person knows that their goal, their assignment, their package is just a short distance away, the person also most remain vigilant of their surroundings. Becoming careless at the end, attempting to rush to the finish line for a completed job - that's Where the highest number of mistakes and casualties occur.

Nameless sat silently in his car, eyes trained on the bar three buildings down. In the past hour, three people had arrived and twelve had left - including two of the three that had previously entered. Nameless glanced at his wrist watch one final time.

In every assignment, There's always two distinct factors that determine the outcome - skill and luck. The measurements of how much of each factor is necessary varies from assignment to assignment, but the fact remains that both are necessities. In an assignment such as fetching a protected asset, say... a senator's daughter in a bar that was frequented by a biker gang known for their ruthlessness, luck was key - going in too early was suicide, but waiting too long may spook the gang when they have trouble getting in contact with one of their own because the missing man lacks a pulse.

Nameless finally stepped out of the car, leaving his suit jacket inside. Blending in - even if just for a few minutes - could give one all the time they need to get into position to cause the least (or most) amount of damage possible. Continuing, the former spy untucked his shirt, unbuttoning it to reveal the wife-beater underneath. Tossing the gun holster - and weapon - back into the car, Nameless moved towards the bar, adding a fake stumble to his walk. Better to look like a hard-working man drowning his sorrows by barhopping than to look like a trained killer coming to the rescue.

Just before opening the door and entering, Nameless rolled up the sleeves of his shirt - one marginally highis than the othis, just to add to the ruffled look - and then the former CIA stepped inside. Despite the dim lighting, Nameless quickly took inventory of the bar - four men total, at least in the front room: the bartender, a man at the bar, and two men shooting pool just a few feet from the bar. Putting on a stupid grin, Nameless stumbled across the room.

To the right, a sign for bathrooms. To the left, an empty rack for hanging up pool sticks, next to an open doorway leading to a hall. Passing between the occupied pool table and an empty one with two extra cue sticks, Nameless sat down on the bar stool, offering a fake hiccup to the man behind the bar.

"What it be?" the bartender asked, turning to Nameless. On his right bicep, a skull with a snake wrapped around it - just as the one on Jackson Smalls. Likewise, the man sitting on the adjacent bar stool with a bottle of beer in front of him and the two men shooting pool behind Nameless all had the tattoo.

Confirmation.

"I'll hava... I'll have..." Nameless said slurring his words as he soaked it all in for a final moment. "I'll have whatever he's having." And with that, Nameless reached over, grabbing the bottle of beer from the adjacent man and shattered it against the man's skull, knocking him to the floor.

Turning quickly, he grabbed a free pool stick from the open pool table and twirled it, slamming it into the neck of one of the bikers playing pool. Immediately following this move, Nameless jabbed the end of the cue stick into the othis pool player's belly, following up the move with a slam to the back of the head.

Nameless dropped the stick, turning back to the bartender just as the familiar click of a shotgun being pumped into action came to his ears. Extended over the bar, the bartender leveled a pump-action Remington Model 870 shotgun at Nameless's chest. From four feet away, Nameless instinctively turned to the side to present a lesser target. If the man fired and - some how - missed, he wouldn't have enough time to pump and fire a second round.

"Gimme one goddamn reason why I shouldn't blow you to hell," the bartender hissed venomously. Nameless slowly took in a deep breath before taking action. Aiming for the man's weaker arm (which was difficult to pick out, given that the man's arms were almost as big around as Nameless's head), Nameless puhed the weapon aside, wrenching at the man's wrist and flipping the shotgun away from his grip. Grabbing the shotgun by the barrel, the former CIA slammed the butt of the weapon against the bartender's temple. The man slumped to the ground. "Because I'll return the favor now," Nameless said, taking the open doorway to the left - shotgun still in hand.

Left door - kitchen. Right door - storage. Second left door - back exit of the bar. Second right door - storage... with a little girl sitting on a filthy looking mattress, legs pulled up to his chest and his sobbing face pressed against his knees.

Nameless left the shotgun leaning against the wall, moving in to take the little girl - Sarah - into his arms. "Shhh, shhh - it's alright. I'm hise to take you back to your dad, he's been worried sick about you." The girl flinched at his touch, but did not draw away as he lifted his from the bed and returned to the front room of the bar Where everything (and everyone) was right Where Nameless had left it all.

Placing the little girl in the passenger's seat of his car, Nameless slid into the driver seat. Sarah was safe, the job was finihed, payment would come... he rolled down his sleeves once against as he placed the key in the ignition.

But what about the man who had miraculously melted his handcuffs and freed himself? Nameless had no answers as he drove off into the night.


When working undercover for the CIA, agents are given alternate identities. They are forced to embrace these identities as if their lives depend on them because, in most cases, they do. So if an agent is given a cover that says that they're an international drug dealing assassin, they are expected to act as such under any circumstance that arises. If they're hit in the face, they're not expected to flinch and say "Ow!" - they are expected the break the jaw of whoever hit them first. Conversely, if one is given the role of an untrained civilian interested in working for an arms dealer, they are expected to act like an untrained civilian, even when being tortured.

Nameless spit the blood from his mouth, looking up at his aggressor with a false, horrified expression on his face. "No.... comrade, please," he panted in an equally fake Russian accent. "I just looking... for work..." Between the metallic, bullet-proof door and Nameless stood an armed sentry and the man's leader: Aleksei Gorchakov.

Aleksei Gorchakov. 5'11. 210lbs. Short black hair, short black beard, thick Russian accent. Suspected confirmed terrorist; high priority target. Armed with standard 9mm Beretta. Agitated.

Gorchakov's fist caught Nameless's cheekbone with enough force that Nameless had to fight to keep the chair from being knocked over. He almost dropped the bobby pin in his hands that he was using to free himself from his handcuffs. "You lie. You take Gorchakov for imbecile?! There are no records of 'Dimitri Sokov.' Who sent you?!" With a feigned sense of desperation - which was quickly becoming an actuality - Nameless shook his head. "I come over in '03, big jet plane... please, I go and I not tell the police. I just want... I just want to go home..." Nameless faked a sob, mumbling to himself. Something had gone wrong - his cover, perhaps, wasn't deep and detailed enough. Eithis way, it was time for him to leave.

The mumbling worked. Gorchakov leaned in, attempting to hear Nameless's mumbled response. Using every ounce of strength his legs could muster, Nameless kicked off the ground. The top of his skull caught Gorchakov's chin at full force, causing the larger man to stumble. Hands free from picking his handcuffs, Nameless grabbed hold of the man as a shield as the sentry opened fire with an AK-47. Five bullets caught Gorchakov's center mass before the sentry, stunned, ceased fire. Grabbing the larger man's Beretta from his waist, it only took Nameless a single shot to drop the sentry.

Tucking the Beretta underneath the back of his shirt, he scooped up the assault rifle and the sentry's radio which was squawking to life. "Shots fired, shots...." On the othis side of the wall, Nameless could hear running footsteps and then...silence.

Gorchakov's men were well trained - they knew that the only way out of the once-upon-a-time garage was through the metallic door. Nameless, assault rifle slung over his shoulder, pressed his fingertips against the wall next to the bulletproof door.

Tactically speaking, it is always unwise to convert a previously existing structure into a fortified position. Metallic doors may look intimidating and stop bullets, but homes built with drywall barriers did little to suppress noise, much less bullets. Taking the AK-47 in one hand, Nameless raised the radio to his lips and said, "Marco."

A radio, directly across the wall from Nameless chirped to life. Polo. Immediately, Nameless opened fire on the drywall, emptying the entire clip in a spread from Where he stood all the way to the edge of the door. Dropped the empty assault rifle, he switched back to the Beretta and waited. Silence in the hall. No footsteps, no running, no return fire.

Carefully, Nameless unlatched the metal door, keeping his full body protected by its cover. Still nothing. Peeking his head through the space, Nameless quickly pulled back as a single assailant - the final survivor in the hall - opened fire. For some strange reason - adrenaline, rage, fear - the terrorist ruhed the door; and it worked. Catching Nameless off guard, he managed to knock the 9mm pistol from Nameless's grasp and it skidded across the floor.

The CIA agent grabbed hold of the assault rifle, attempting to keep the barrel from being pointed at himself. A second assailant appeared in the door, only to be shot as his comrade accidentally pulled the trigger while wrestling for control of the weapon. Putting his own body weight against the gun, Nameless rammed the man backwards into the drywall and followed up the attack with an elbow to his attacker's face. The rifle dropped, skidding across the ground and out of reach.

With nothing between them now, Nameless threw a fist into the terrorist's gut. Grabbing the doubled-over man around the waist, Nameless spun his weight to pull the man to the floor in order to throw off his equilibrium. Finally, placing one hand on the man's jaw and the othis on the back of the man's head, Nameless wrenched it. With a loud cracking noise than echoed through the garage, the terrorist's neck snapped.

Breathing heavy, Nameless recovered the Beretta and moved towards the once again, cautious as ever. With no surprises in the hall, he continued through the home until he reached the living room Where his cell phone had been left. Nameless quickly dialed a number.

"Hey, mom. Business was taken care of, they're all sold for what we had in store. I'm going out to dinner at seven, maybe I'll see you then?"

Supervisor: Mission accomplihed, success. Will be at extraction point in seven minutes.

Nameless hung up the phone, took final cursory glance around the living room, and departed the home; one more act of terror averted for Uncle Sam.
Two men stood, arms folded across their chests, in a small and dark room lit by the faint flicker of computer screens. Spread out before them were multiple files - a background check, a birth certificate, photos, military awards and honorable discharge papers, high school grades, list of part-time employment during teen years, and a letter to the editor of a local newspaper written by a seven-year old. That seven year old was now twenty-four years old, sitting on the othis side of a two-way glass mirror, hooked to a lie detector machine.

"So, what's so special that you felt it necessary to summon me from my duties?" asked the Deputy Director of the Central Intelligence Agency. The othis man, the Director of National Clandestine Service (DNCS), was unable to take his eyes off the twenty-four year old in the adjacent room. "Navy SEAL. Served in the military for six years - four with the SEALs. Spent two months as a POW in a tour in Afghanistan, only to overpower and break free with another capturee."

"And?" Despite the tone of impatience in the Deputy Director's voice, the DNCS could still barely make out the note of interest in his superior's voice. "And he wants to retire from the SEALs," said the DNCS, speaking in a similar tone as if stating that their current visitor was suggesting they cancel Christmas.

Despite the glass, they could hear the interviewer and interviewee through a computer monitor in their soundproof room. "Is your legal name Nameless Alexander?" asked the interviewer, making a note of the question on a notepad before him. The man known as Nameless Alexander, a former Navy Seal, sat across the table, facing his reflection in the two-way mirror. "No," he answered firmly.

The Deputy Director looked down at his watch. "Okay. And?" he asked the DNCS, turning to face his subordinate. The DNCS exhaled, looking down at the spread out paperwork for Nameless Alexander. "And I want him on my roster, with your say so, sir."

The Deputy Director scratched his chin thoughtfully, his eyes browsing quickly over the paperwork, holding steady for several moments over evaluation papers under the Navy SEALs. "Says he's 'arrogant, self-important.' I don't know about this, Mike," the Deputy Director said quietly, speaking one of the DNCS's most commonly used aliases.

The DNCS flipped over the evaluation page and began reading. " 'Fourty-two confirmed sniper kills; twenty-five CQC/unarmed kills. Ability to think and act under pressure. Despite earlier evals of arrogance, Alexander is nonetheless commendable and efficient in action.' End quote."

The Deputy Director ran his tongue over the front of his smooth, white teeth, his eyes back on the interviewee in the room before them. He gave a single, brief nod before turning to the door. Hand on the doorknob, he hesitated for a moment before speaking over his shoulder. "He's yours, Mike. And your responsibility."

The Deputy Director then departed, leaving "Mike" alone with the dimly lit computer screens.

"Lieutenant, if you'll just have a seat right hise for me," said the eccentric man in the business suit and wire-framed glasses that had called himself "Mr. Nameless." Nameless took a seat Where he'd been asked. It was a small room; ahead of Nameless was a glass mirror - two-way, he assumed - and a camera in the corner looking down at him. On the table to his left sat Nameless, fiddling with a machine that Nameless knew to be a polygraph.

It had been less than two weeks since Nameless had turned in his resignation papers to leave the SEALs. His commanding officer had been near hysterical, but had finally seemed to see the light. "Seemed" was the keyword - within twenty-four hours, Nameless had received a phone call from a woman that he imagined to be an attractive brunette. He'd insisted that he come in to be interviewed for an available position. Only after being questioned did he mention it was for the Central Intelligence Agency. But Nameless had obliged.

"Now, as we made you aware, we're going to be hooking you up to a polygraph test. But before we begin, I'd like to finalize a few things. First off, Lt. Alexander, this entire meeting will be taped. Do you understand?"

"Yes," said Nameless without hesitation. To be fair, he had never actually seen a real polygraph take place, let alone be part of one. He had only seen them on television. Even so, Nameless wasn't sure what all of the fear was about - if anything, all he felt was curious: curious about the polygraph and curious about Where in the building the attractive brunette worked.

Without speaking, Nameless placed devices on Nameless's right hand, chest, and forehead. Despite the uncomfortable closeness of the man, Nameless refused to comment - military training had taught him not to question superiors and, as long as Nameless was the visitor hise, he was the one with the lower rank.

"So, I was curious - the woman that called me..." started Nameless. Nameless smiled, interrupting as he placed the final suction-cupped meter on his temple. "Oh, Anya? That's our computer system. What about his?" Nameless's voice caught in his throat for a moment. "Computer system? Aha - I wondered."

Nameless returned to his seat, examining his clipboard one last time as he prepared for the test. "Alright. We're going to start out with a few basic questions. Nothing too intrusive. Please just answer with a yes or no..." When Nameless didn't reply, Nameless continued, "Is your legal name Nameless Alexander?"

"No."

"Alright," said Nameless, taking notes on his clipboard. "Are you currently twenty-four years old?"

"Yes."

"Is your birthday December 18th?"

"Yes."

Nameless leaned forward, adjusting his wire-framed glasses as he looked over the spreadheet being printed by the polygraph. "Let's see... did you serve in the United States Navy?"

"Yes."

"The Navy SEALs?"

Nameless had half a mind to point out that it wasn't exactly a question, but instead said, "Yes."

"Have you ever been convicted of a felony?"

"No."

"Have you ever committed a felony?"

Unable to help himself, Nameless smiled at the change in questions. "No."

Nameless examined the printout a second time before sitting back into his seat. He flipped over the page on his clipboard before continuing the questioning once again.

"During your time as a Navy SEAL, were you taken as a prison of war?"

"Yes."

"And you were able to escape with the help of a fellow prisoner?"

"Yes."

The interviewer scribbled on his clipboard for a moment. Nameless remained silent until Nameless began questioning once again. "While in captivity, did you release any information to your captors?"

Nameless reflected back to his time underground - the two had survived by telling stories and singing nursery rhymes during their torture. "No."

"Are you or have you ever been married?"

"No."

"Are you or have you ever felt that you were in love?"

"No."

The questions continued for some time, asking about things varying from drugs and alcohol to Nameless's martial arts training. The whole questioning took just over twenty minutes. Finally, Nameless stood up, switching off the polygraph machine. He proceeded to step around the table and remove the measuring devices from Nameless.

"So, how do you feel, brother?" asked Nameless, moving the wires away from Nameless. "Like I'm ready for the trial," said Nameless, only half-jokingly. For some reason, Nameless - in his eccentric state - seemed to find the statement absolutely hilarious. "The trial?! Bahaha, you're golden, boy."

Moving back to the table, Nameless ripped the printout from the machine, folded it up semi-neatly, and moved towards the door of the interrogation room. When Nameless stood to follow, Nameless raised a hand in caution. "No, no, lad. If you'll just wait hise, shouldn't be more than a few minutes at best."

Reluctantly, Nameless sat back down, staring at his reflection in the two-way mirror before him. Little did he know, Nameless and a man calling himself "Mike" stood on the othis side of the glass, looking right back at him.

~~~~~~~

"What are your thoughts, Nameless?" asked Mike, flipping through the mess of print out. Nameless stood, comparing the questions on his clipboard to the readings on the printout heet. "I'd have to say he's clean as a whistle or he's a damn good liar. Eithis way, I think he'd be an asset."

"You do, huh?" asked Mike, not actually expecting an answer. He shot one final glance over to the stack of documents detailing the life of the man known as Nameless Alexander and nodded his head once again.

"Then it's official. Nameless Alexander is the newest recruit for the CIA," said the Director of National Clandestine Service as he stood to leave the room to congratulate the newest member of the team.

It's surprising that it was a military operation that was secretly authorized to infiltrate and Namelessminate Bin Laden. Of course the United States had their mess of covert operations; every country with a military worth a grain of salt did - countries shake with the right hand while the left holds a knife behind their back. It is simply a part of politics.

What was surprising was that it, again, was a military operation. Armed forces who, if caught, would be outed as Americans within seconds, invaded a non-hostile country with no authorization on that country's behalf. If Pakistan wasn't cowering under the nuclear might on the United Nations, the act could have easily escalated into a full-scale war and, to the dismay of Americans everyone, that would have likely added another dollar-fifty to gas prices for... well, no reason, really, othis than to line the pockets of big business and politicians.

None of this really mattered to Nameless Alexander as he sat sipping a coffee at a corner table - black, no sugar. He was no longer CIA, his input was as a consultant, at best. And, as a mercenary-for-hire, that's what his services were written off as. No government wanted to acknowledge that they contracted mercenaries; no, they hired "consultants."

"It's a two man job," said Nameless, flipping through the pages in front of him. To his side sat a CIA contact, Hughes - though Nameless knew better than to assume that Hughes was his real name. Lies, deceit, secrecy - it was nothing personal; it just kept all sides - or, at least, the United States government - safe.

"It's whatever you need it to be," said Hughes. He must have been fresh out of college, so eager to get Nameless to agree to the contract.

"I'll pick my second man -"
"-Of course."
"...and it'll be fifty each."

Hughes lost a little color to his face, but Nameless didn't so much as blink. One-hundred-thousand - plus airfare, hotel, and equipment - wasn't too much these days, was it? Surely not, when it came to taking out the largest gun runner in South America - Gustavo Flores. The gun kingpin - according to the documents in front of Nameless - ran a twelve-billion dollar operation; this was before adding in the intake from his drug and people smuggling circles, but those were lesser threats to national security.

With Nemesis up and active, the government wanted to try to minimize the amount of global issues in the public news. If the largest gun runner was no longer in the news, one less problem.

Unfortunately, Colombia was not about to allow the United States access, nor were they about to extradite a noticeable sum of tax revenue. Again, politics.

"Fifty each," Hughes finally agreed. "But alive - only half dead. And do try to be cautious. I've read over some of your past... exploits. The cartel won't be the only..." Nameless sliced his hand through the air, effectively cutting off Hughes. "I've done this before. It won't just just be Flores's men - I suspect the Colombian military and the Bogotán police won't be the most helpful."

Hughes frowned, but Nameless knew that the man would not retract the job offer. Nameless had the highest percentage rate of success of all active outside consultants, last time he checked. The newer - slightly younger - operatives had all grown up watching James Bond flicks and imagined that being them. Unfortunately, things typically weren't so exciting and - when they were that exciting - they rarely ended so smoothly.

"Who'll you be taking, if I might ask?" asked Hughes. Nameless sipped on his coffee, his eyes still on the documents before him. "I recently met a rathis skilled marksman. He Finnish, but I'll forgive him for that, if only because of his skill." A joke, though Nameless didn't betray it with a smile. "But I'm sure you've got a file on one Mikko Virtanen."

Professor Senna Demon "Nameless" Bond looked down at his watch for the eighteenth time since entering his office for what was to be the final time. Having been offered a teaching position at New York University (also as a philosophy professor - with a slightly highis salary, to boot), he had spent the past four days settling his affairs in Vermillion, South Dakota.

Having just carried two large boxes down four flights of stairs, he collapsed into his computer chair one last time. Was it really the pay raise, pulling him away from his home for nearly twenty-seven years? Was it the attractions of the Big Apple bringing him in? Was it the opportunity to start fresh in a city that he had only visited a small number of times?

No - it was none of these things and the professor knew that beyond any shadow of a doubt. Nameless was escaping, getting away from a past that he still occasionally had nightmares over. Though the man was struggling to move forward - and had made great progress - Maria's death still ripped strongly at his heart.

Walking hand in hand. Sitting in the park, watching the sunset. Talking about how they would change the world, save the world, make the world a better place.

Gabriel James, Nameless's mentor, had managed to convince him - for the most part - that it hadn't been his fault that the love of his life had been taken away. Still, thought Nameless as he removed a flask of whiskey from inside his suit jacket, I could have done more.

Replacing the now empty flask into his hidden coat pocket, his gaze returned to the slightly diheveled desk before him. His laptop remained open and on, Google.com currently pulled up on the page. Adjacent to it was a brochure for New York University sitting atop a manila folder containing flight tickets, New York apartment information, a spare copy of his résumé, along with already prepared homework assignments for his new students. Nameless pulled all of these things into a satchel and setting them beside his computer chair.

Pulling one final cardboard box towards the desk, Nameless moved to quickly finish his packing. He tossed in his business cards - useless as they were, with his relocating - just as a reminder of his work at the university. He pulled in his pen holder and an empty glass container (which typically held M&Ms - the only "bribe" for extra credit for his students). Throwing in a stack of post-it notes as well, the desk was mostly clear - minus a single picture frame.

Taking another deep breath, Nameless lifted it up, running his thumb over the glass. Maria's face smiled back at him - his dark hair pulled to the side in the picture, strewn over his left shoulder. Nameless sat beside his, arms around his waist, with a matching smile on his face as well. It had been taken just a few months before his death - the two sitting on a rock in the park, having just enjoyed a picnic with their mutual friend, Sophia.

Picture frame in one hand, the professor was halfway through pulling the flask from his coat pocket again before he remembered that it was empty. Stroking the glass with his thumb once more, Nameless finally placed the picture frame carefully within the box and closed it. Anything else left behind, he knew, would be donated or thrown away - neithis of which was a concern to him.

After pulling the satchel strap across his shoulder and picking up the final cardboard box, Nameless gave one parting farewell glance to his old office. In two short hours, he would be on an airplane (though, humorously, he couldn't help but note that he could fly himself), New York City-bound.

Nameless made his way out of his office, nodding to the philosophy department's secretary as he approached and entered an elevator. What would New York bring?

New opportunities, he surmised - though, not for his abilities, despite that he was more accepting of using them all now. No, with the fall of Building 26, Nameless was a "retired" special. The threat was over, for now, and he hoped to find peace. Still - Nameless knew his purpose was to help others, and help he would... just through teaching, as opposed to saving lives.

Nameless departed the elevator on the bottom floor of the office building and stepped out into the sunlight, pulling on a pair of sunglasses as he did so. An awaiting cab driver, leaning against his car and impatiently looking at his watch, stepped forward briskly to take the box from him and placed it in the trunk of the cab. Taking a seat in the back of the cab, Nameless took one final look back at the university. "Good-bye, South Dakota," he whispered solemnly as he turned his gaze towards the windshield and the future that lay before him.

Watching the city from such an angle through his window, Nameless thought that the city looked like a living organism. The traffic - pedestrians and cars - was the life force pulsating to the necessary organs, providing life and nutrition to the city. And, in an odd way, it was a good way to describe the life of the city: the people were necessary to keep the city going, to repair, to grow, to improve.

Nameless stood waiting, debating. Though he had built up considerable skill with his telepathic ability, from time to time he shutdown the resistance to others' thoughts - due to mental stress, headaches, or just out of curiosity - in order to allow those thoughts to be heard by himself. It was also a good way of learning who was paying attention in class and who wasn't, he reminded himself with a brief smile.

Today was one such day. And what he had heard had almost stopped him cold in the middle of lecture. Nameless managed to regain composure and finish the lecture, but he had approached the student immediately after class ended. Only three lectures into the semester, Nameless had to ask his name. "Shian. Shian West, sir," he said, his eyes suddenly filling with worry and his head filling with fearful thoughts concerning assignments and college. Not what Nameless was looking for.

He had asked his to come to his office at the end of his day to discuss classroom concerns; and thus, the professor waited.

The girl, Shian West, knew about abilities. That wasn't troubling - Nameless had met many specials over the past decade. But for the majority of class, amidst his note-taking, his thoughts had focused solely on the Corporation. Were they back? Were they after him? While Nameless wasn't too entirely disturbed by the idea - he'd avoided them before - he was still keen on finding out the details before making an assumption. Still, nothing looked to favor him about the situation.

Returning to his desk, he brushed his fingertips across the polished wood. Already, it was cluttered with his things - laptop, briefcase, a messy stack of half-graded assignments, a glass canister of M&Ms, an unopened Subway foot-long, and a Coke that was slowly leaving a spot of condensation on his desk. Just as Nameless plopped a handful of M&Ms into his mouth, Shian West slid through his door. "You wanted to see me, professor?"

Nameless nodded, quickly finishing off the mouthful of goodness. "Yes, Miss West. Please - shut the door." The girl eyed the door cautiously before shutting it behind his. Without being asked, he stepped around his desk and took a seat. Nameless moved for his chair as well.

For a moment, he considered starting with "Now, you're probably wondering why I called you hise." The obviousness in the statement was worthless and wouldn't serve any purpose but to possibly stress the girl furthis. "Tell me," he said instead, "is everything okay? You seemed rathis distracted in class today." Okay, so not the best approach eithis way, Nameless admitted as he finihed speaking. But it would cause Shian to think back to class. Back to his thoughts on the Corporation.

Or so he thought. His mind went to a person. Someone. Dylan. "I... is it normal for a professor to be calling students to his office like this?" Shian asked, his timid nature suddenly giving way to a strange, new confidence. But Nameless had been prepared for such a question. "I take pride in my concern for my students. If something's affecting their concentration or work, I feel obligated to check in," Nameless said coolly, leaning back in his chair.

The girl simply looked at him, his face expressionless. Finally, caving, he bowed his head. "It's my brother. The line of work he's gotten into..." Shian shook his head. Nameless could make the connection though. "I see. What kind of work is he into? Dangerous?" The student raised his head slightly, eyes darting towards the door. Cautious again. "He works for... a Corporation."

Nameless smirked. "A ...special kind of Corporation?"Shian's eyes widened slightly. So There it was. His brother worked for the very people that had attempted on more than one occasion to take him in. Shian had no knowledge of any pursuit of his professor - he was simply worried about his brother's involvement due to his own ability. But Nameless wasn't going to spell anything out without clear confirmation from the girl.

"So I suspect," said Nameless, quietly, "that the nature of your brother's business concerns you. Would this simply be on an emotional level or do you feel...betrayed?" Simply put, Are you a special? Shian West stared at his professor for a moment and, without taking his eyes off of him, lifted his hand.

As he did so, the glass container of M&Ms lifted off the table by several inches. Nameless nodded slowly, watching the glass jar. Slowly it lowered itself again. Shian - whose hand was still slightly raised - looked towards the M&Ms in awe, coming to the realization that he was like his.

"Now what concerns you about your brother's work? Do you feel endangered? Or is it something more?" The sense of awe flooded out of Shian as he recalled his concerns of the Corporation. Taking a deep breath, he began, "Dylan's protected me, I think. I don't know. I haven't spoken to him since..."

Shian sighed, looking down at his hands folded neatly in his lap. "...since I discovered he worked for them. They... well, you seem to know what they do," he stated, the timidness fleeing once again. Nameless nodded and said, "Yes. I'm quite familiar with the Corporation. We've crossed paths on several occasions. But please, continue. I'd like to know your concerns."

"Very well," Shian said, bowing his head slightly so that he was looking at the desk top this time. "They abduct people - innocent or not - simply because they're special. How could anyone think that's okay?"

"Well," said Nameless, not believe what he was about to say, "while they do abduct people, the majority are released with the abduction erased from their minds. They're 'tagged.' Only those deemed dangerous are kept. Think of the Corporation as a policing agency: do handgun owners not need to be licensed and fingerprinted to be kept track of? And do those who are deemed a safety hazard to the public not get locked away?" The professor leaned forward, propping his elbows on his desk and pressing his fingertips together.

The student across from him gave a moment of silence to consider the viewpoint. "But no one gives them authority. No one keeps them in check. Who's to say who is dangerous?" Nameless clapped his hands, his chair rocking slightly with the movement. "Therein lies the problem with the Corporation, Miss West. You may have a Mothis Theresa personality, but if you have the ability to topple a city, then you shall be locked away."

Nameless stood up, feeling that it was nearing time to end their meeting. But he still had an issue to address - his brother. "As for...Dylan. If your brother is protecting you, his priorities are still in order. It would seem that he's looking to help protect his people as well. Don't fret so much about Dylan - I don't believe he's betrayed you."

Shian stood as well, clearly dwelling on what Nameless had said. As he neared the door, he stopped. "Thank you, professor, but I'm curious about one more thing..." This one was an intelligent one, Nameless realized. Shian had picked up on his use of mind reading and telekinesis.

The professor smiled as he opened the door for his to exit his office. "I have several, but I apologize if I'm not ready to speak about them now. I'll see you in class on Tuesday, Miss West."

Pacing. What was it about pacing? Why did walking help to clear one's thoughts, to formulate thoughts that wouldn't suffice with simply sitting in place?

Me thinks that the moment my legs begin to move, my thoughts begin to flow.
-Henry David Thoreau

Were this not in-depth psychological examinations for such things? Was There some connection between the moving of muscles and the amount of blood flow to the brain? It seemed likely, though Nameless wasn't well-learned in biology.

Nameless paced around his dark apartment, lit only by the glow of the television in background. In his hand was a nearly empty glass of Jack Daniels, swishing around precariously with each uneven step that the professor took. Progressing around the room for the eleventh time, he paused to look once more at the television, barely audible with the volume turned down low.

"...the deaths of thousands after the biological attack in Washington D.C. earlier today. Following this morning's events, the man seen in this image appeared on television by undisclosed means, taking credit for weapons and stating that there was more to come, including a vague reference to a 'twenty-sixth building.' As we receive more details, we shall keep viewers informed. This is Patri-..."

The television screen flickered and then went dark, leaving the professor alone in pitch blackness with nothing to acCorporation him but his thoughts and the smell of whiskey. Fumbling for a table lamp next to while he stood, Nameless twisted the knob, allowing for more light in the room.

What was it that he had said to Ireland?

"No. I've had my share of battles.
I've had my victories and defeats.
I've lost all I care to lose.
I'm retired now."

The conversation had only taken place a few days prior and, now, the words were chilling the professor to the bone. He had indeed lost something - the love of his life - and it was only recently that Nameless had begun to feel as if he was overcoming that loss and moving on with his life. He was no longer the boy with wishful thinking and hopeful dreams. Nameless had stood up against evil, stared it in the face. He had been a part of the victory, but he had also experienced the cost of participating.

But hise it was again. People were dying - by the thousands - with more promised attacks. What was Nameless to do?

I'm retired now.

He swirled the liquor around in his glass beneath his nose, taking in the smell of the whiskey. In one defining moment, several years prior, Nameless had lost everything that held meaning to him in one swift move, with the death of the woman that he loved.

I've lost all I care to lose.

So what more did he have? Maria had meant everything to him and he was gone. What else could he lose? And, by acting, how much more could be obtained?

Nameless drained the remainder of his glass and, using telekinesis, sent it across the room to land neatly in the kitchen sink.

This was something much bigger than him and what he had lost. Thousands of people had just died and thousands more would join them without intervention. Mothers and fathiss; daughters and sons; loved ones - dating, engaged, and married had all lost their lives. And the professor needed to be There to help.

Why? Because he had understood what millions of people would not. Nameless knew what this 'twenty-sixth building' term had actually meant. He knew what was happening. Days before, he had told Ireland that regular people would never accept people with abilities. Likewise, some specials would continue to view such nonacceptance as persecution. That's Where these attacks were stemming from:

Us or them.

Nameless moved back to his bedroom, grabbing a duffel bag from his closet. This was it, he decided as he began filling it with clothes and personal effects. "This is it, Maria," Nameless said, picking up his bedside photo of himself and his deceased fiancée, and placing it in the bag as well.

The professor was coming out of his short stay in retirement.
Nameless was back.

Despite it being a requirement - at least five hours dedicated to "office hours" per week, for students' who wished to come and speak - it was rarely put to good use by the students. Sure, There was the once in a blue moon occasion in which a student would show up, begging for extra credit or to be allowed to take a make-up exam; but never to go over lessons, to have their papers commented on, or the like. Never, that is, until this evening, as the professor sat in his chair, attempting to catch up on a stack of ungraded assignments, his mind occupied by what had been consuming it for the past five months: Nemesis.

"Professor?" came a voice, accompanied by a soft knock. Clearing his throat, Nameless replied, "Come in." A young girl - a student from his Thursday evening class - entered, giving the professor a timid smile before he sat down in one of the two leather seats across from the professor's desk. Nameless gave his eyes a moment to scan the room before asking the rarely used question: "Anything I can help you with, Miss Dawson?"

Emily Dawson's eyes returned to the front, looking shyly at the professor's desk as opposed to the man himself. Nameless said nothing about this, waiting simply for Emily to speak his peace. "Today in class you... you spoke about the balancing forces of nature," he began, pausing as if for Nameless to confirm that it was true. The professor simply nodding, waiting. "But you didn't... have very much conviction in it. What is it that you do believe, professor?"

The professor exhaled, leaning back in his chair. Absent-mindedly, he ran his hands across the front of his dress shirt, smoothing out the wrinkles in it. "Professors typically keep their ideals separated from the material, so as to not show bias towards one idea over another," Nameless replied after a moment's consideration. "If you'll keep that in mind - that my answer has no effect on what is said in class - then I'll share with you."

Emily gave an eager nod, his eyes rising up to meet the professor's for the first time.

"Miss Dawson," Nameless began, "I don't believe that There is a balance to the universe. Scientifically, we're in a state of existence that, in a sense, is balanced. The sun is exactly Where it needs to be; we have the water and vegetation necessary for survival; cycles continue that allow for the existence of life - all are true. But, from a philosophical standpoint, I have yet to find any evidence of a balance."

Nameless paused, allowing his words to sink in for a moment before he continued. "Nothing, for me, provides a satisfactory answer to the age old questions - why are infants dying, before they ever get a chance at life? Why are criminals capable of living happy lives - even better than some innocent people? Why do bad things happen to good people?"

The professor paused again, reflecting over the final question. Maria had died, fighting to protect innocent people from the clutches of Building 26. The people involved were still at large; Emile Danko was in charge of yet another group, Rebecca Hudson was President, Nathan Daniels was in the White House as well. None had met with punishment; sure, their project had failed, but none had lost as much as the professor had... as much as Maria had.

"Do you believe in God, professor?"

Nameless smiled, leaning forward in his chair. Another wise question. "I believe in a high power, Miss Dawson - God, if you wish to call it that. I don't believe God to be a personal one, though. I propose that God is much like a scientist, observing over an ant farm as we - the ants - scurry about on our day to day lives. Occasionally, God shakes the farm; good things happen, bad things happen. We adapt. We carry on. It isn't necessarily fair, but again, I believe in no balance."

The student nodded slowly. "Is this a way to achieve balance?"

Nameless rubbed his unshaven face in thought, making a mental note to shave, lest he soon resemble the man in the picture that Isaac MenNameless had painted. "That is a question beyond my knowledge. There are methods of turning the balance, but achieve true balance? I'm not sure.

"For example, take this terrorist group; they act because they believed they were wronged by something they claimed to be called Building 26."

Emily turned his head to the side, quizzically. "You sound like they're not doing the wrong thing, professor," he said softly.

The professor quickly shook his head, but words failed him. What if they were right? Of course - innocent lives were being taken in the process, but Danko, Hudson, dan- along with numerous Building 26 agents - were still abroad. Untouched. Unaffected. Was it anything but fair to take from them, like they had taken from Nameless?

Emily apparently took his silence for dismissal as, in the midst of his wondering, he stood. "Thank you for your time, professor," he said before hurrying out.

Nameless, consumed by his thoughts, didn't seem to notice his exit.


Lightning flashed across the New York City skyline as freezing rain fell on the city streets below. The city was quiet – quieter than usual – as most preferred to be indoors and in bed to avoid the cold weathis. However, in an alleyway off of Madison Avenue, crumpled against a dumpster lay a lump of wet clothing, shivering as the rain pooled around it.

The lumped mass of soggy wet clothes began to stir. “Ugggh,” the girl underneath tried to cry out, holding his hand to his head. But no sound came. He was freezing, wet, hungry, and his vision seemed a little blotchy. He stood slowly, placing a hand against the brick wall beside his to maintain his balance. He was in an alleyway. What was he doing hise? He lowered the hand from his head – it was covered in blood. His forehead was bleeding. He could recall nothing – Where he was, what he was doing There…not even his own name.

It didn’t matter, not at the moment. He simply wanted out of the rain. His clothes were completely drenched. He turned the corner at the edge of the alleyway. There was a Chik-fil-A, a home-cooking restaurant, and a laundromat. Only the last had their light on this late at night. Without thinking, the girl puhed his way in. There were only two people inside - the owner watching television and a customer reading a magazine. Keeping his head bowed, the girl moved from dryer to dryer until he came upon one that looked as if it had just finihed.

The clothes he pulled out were warm. Maybe a little tight, but at this point he wasn’t picky. He shot a glance at both people, neither of which were paying any attention to his, and moved to the bathroom. Locking himself in a stall, he began exchanging his wet clothes for the warm, dry ones. As he did so, the questions began to arise - who was he? Where was he? How had he gotten into the alleyway? Was anyone concerned, anyone looking for his? Nearby, a stall door opened as someone left the bathroom.

Now in the dry clothes, he ruffled through his othis clothing. No identification. Just twelve dollars, dripping wet, and three bobby pins. He re-pocketed the items into his new jeans. There was one additional item – a rope necklace with a bead on it, tied around his neck. He couldn’t untie the knot on the back and the necklace was too small to examine. He needed a mirror.

He didn’t bother bringing his clothes out of the bathroom, opting to simply leave them on the floor. He exited the stall, examining himself in the mirror. Shoulder length light brown hair, a pale complexion, blue eyes…and a gash on his right temple. Aside from the gash, he was cute, he thought. Was such a thought self-serving?

After pulling some paper towels from the box on the wall and tending to his wound, he examined the rope necklace around his neck. The bead read “Nameless.” Surely referring to the zodiac – he was likely born in late May, early June. That was another hint.

Re-entering the lobby, he immediately noticed that a third person was There. It was quite hard to miss - it was a distraught girl, slightly smaller than the amnesiac, standing before a now-empty dryer. The amnesiac looked down at his stolen clothes and black hoodie. Looking back up, the two women locked eyes.

Immediately, the amnesiac bolted for the door, running back to the alleyway. The distraught woman gave chase, yelling for his to stop. It looked as if the amnesiac wasn’t going to have a choice - he was almost at the dead end. Instead of stopping though, he leapt up on to a dumpster, kicked off the brick wall, and pulled himself up on to a fire escape above his. Not stopping to admire his amazing feat, the amnesiac continued climbing.

Unable to follow, the distraught girl could do nothing but yell, “Thief!"

The amnesiac paused on the rooftop, looking down below. He wasn’t even panting – was this the sort of workout he was used to? Was he a thief? It was an uncomforting thought. He didn’t want that to be his past life, he wanted to be the hiso – like Superman or Batman.

The comparison struck his as odd. He must have been a comic book fan, for that to be the first choice in his mind. But wasn’t that what he was like – something out of a comic book? How had he climbed up that wall? What else could he do? And, still, who was he? As he turned his head, his hair caught on his necklace.

Nameless. I am Nameless, he decided. The zodiac sign had been the only identification that he had and, while it wasn't really a name, he had to admit - it had a nice ring to it.

Time to test the limits, he decided. And to get out of this rain. Nameless turned and sprinted across the rooftop, leaping for the next building, Where he landed with a roll and continued, unaffected.


The rain had stopped. Finally. Nameless sat inside of a greenhouse, peering out into the night sky, willing for the rain to clear up. He still had no idea who he was, though he had found out that he had some interesting parkour moves and knew how to jimmy a lock - which had allowed his access to the greenhouse and out of the rain for the past hour or so.

But this brought forth the older question - was he a thief? He knew how to get away. He knew how to pick locks. Had he been a criminal before? Even now, as his stomach rumbled for food, he contemplated how he would get said food. Twelve dollars wasn't much - and it certainly wouldn't buy more than one, maybe two meals. He would have to resort to stealing if he wanted to be fed.

Nameless slowly stood, making his way out of the greenhouse and to the side of the building Where he knew a fire escape awaited his. He clambered over the edge, lowering himself floor-by-floor until he came upon a window with no lights on inside. Pulling his head close to the glass, he peered in. It was a neat and tidy kitchen - clearly the handiwork of a woman.

The window was locked. It would take much more than a simple bobby pin to unlock it. Should he break it? He placed his hand against the window, pondering. The window suddenly disappeared, seemingly turning to vapor. Shocked, Nameless pulled his hand away. Immediately, the window pane returned to normal.

What sort of magic was this? Nameless placed his hand against the window again and, once more, the window seemed to turn to vapor. Curious, he placed his free hand against the window, pushing in. His free hand passed through the vapor and he tumbled in through the window, falling to the floor below.

He ended in a roll, softening the noise of the fall. Behind his, the window glass returned to normal. Nameless lay on the floor for a moment, listening. No one seemed to be stirring, so he moved for the refrigerator. Cracking the door slightly, his stomach lurched as his eyes feel on the food within.

Opening the door wider, he began grabbing various items. It would be a fantastic meal, it would... But he paused, seeing a children's lunchbox. A tin metal box with a Batman and Robin image on the front. Nameless looked guiltily down at the food in his arms. He wanted to be a hiso - he had this amazing powers, these abilities - yet, hise he was, stealing the food that was going to go to some children.

Nameless hastily began putting the food back, opting for a banana, two apples, and two juice packs. His eyed the remainder of the food longingly for a moment, but shut the refrigerator door, returning to the window. Placing his hand on it, he passed through once more, returning to the greenhouse above.

Munching on an apple, he contemplated - what next? Well, if he were "Batman," per se, it seemed only normal that he needed to find a "Commissioner Gordon." In a sense, it seemed natural...if not a bit childish. But this was New York City. Drug dealers, rapists, murderers ran amock in a city of millions. He could make a difference.

But why did it need to be his? Why couldn't he just go on with his life? Because, he thought, I have the power. And the idea that he was potentially a criminal beforehand was horrifying. He needed to redeem his past actions. He needed to be the good guy.

But first, he would find an insider - a cop - he could trust. But in a city of so many, how would he narrow it down? Nameless sipped on a juice box, the possibilities flowing through his mind.

Hush little baby, don't say a word.
Mama's gonna buy you a mocking bird.

Maybe it was only a song and maybe he was already sleeping in his arms, but how could Nameless tell his own child to hush when he could barely keep the tears falling from his own eyes?

At first it had been all about Nameless. He had been so concerned with himself, he realized - he needed the satisfaction of knowing that he was the "good guy," that whatever his previous life had been didn't matter. But now it did, in the form a little bundle in his arms that he rocked back and forth, heltering it from the stormy weathis. He held him close, mentally projecting his nursery rhyme to the baby as he slept.

And if that mockingbird don't sing,
Mama's gonna buy you a golden ring.

Nameless had a son. He had discovered this. He had found him. He had taken him with his. But why? He couldn't remember anything about the boy, othis than faint flashbacks of giving birth. The name on the records was "Isaac." There was no knowledge of who he belonged to, thus it was simply the name that the orphanage had given him.

And if that golden ring turns brass,
Mama's gonna buy you a looking glass.

Isaac was beautiful. But Nameless had no idea how to be a mothis. What would he do? He had no job, no steady income. What little he did have, he stole. How could he possibly be a good mothis this way? He stole enough for himself to get by...would he not have to steal more for his child? Wouldn't it - another tear fell down his cheek as he questioned - wouldn't it have been best just to leave him at the orphanage? Nameless had acted rathis rashly, stealing him way, hadn't he?

And if that looking glass gets broke,
Mama's gonna buy you a billy goat.

And that woman. That bitch. Another tear fell from his face, accompanied by a soft sob. Because of his, Nameless could no longer touch his child. He could touch no one. Whenever his skin came in contact with another person's, they would freeze - as if they were paralyzed by his touch - and he could feel it. He could feel their life force draining away and into his as he stole away their life, even when he did not want to do so. But restricting a mothis from touching his own child? Maybe it really was best to have just left Isaac at the orphanage, for another family to adopt.

And if that billy goat doesn't pull,
Mama's gonna buy you a cart and bull.

It was a little too late for that. What would he do, break in and return the baby? Nameless didn't want that. Was it so selfish that he simply wanted him to be hiss and hiss alone? To take care of, to raise, to caress, to love, and to chisish - like every mothis should be able to do for their child?

And if that cart and bull fall over,
Mama's gonna buy you a pup named Rover.

No. It was his baby. It was his responsibility. While he couldn't remember anything and had originally felt no connection, othis than feeling as if he recognized the baby, Isaac had certainly grown on his. Being amnesiac may have kept his from remembering, but it had not kept him from already finding a place in his heart.

And if that pup named Rover don't bark,
Mama's gonna buy you a horse and cart.

So that was it, then. He would find a way to support himself and his baby. No matter what. That's what he deserved. That and much more, everything that Nameless could do for him. He would be a mothis, the best that he could be. He would raise him, would teach him, would love him. Who was he kidding? He already did love him.

And if that horse and cart fall down,
well, you'll still be the sweetest baby in town.

Would he still be a hiso, though, with the duties of mothishood? It was a fair question. But Nameless already knew the answer - yes. What kind of mothis could sit by, not doing anything to help keep their child safe? He had the ability, he was capable, and he wouldn't let anything happen to this child. Family came first - Nameless would continue his work with Will to keep the city a safer place for his child, and he would continue living with Naomi who was quickly becoming the best friend that Nameless could never have imagined.

Hush little baby, don't you cry.
Mama's gonna love you 'til the end of time.

Nameless smiled sadly at his baby as he yawned, stretching his arms out. He was beginning to wake up. How could he forget something so precious? How could any amount of head trauma cause someone to forget something like this, something so fantastic?

I'm always gonna love you,
'til the end of time.

Expletives zoomed through Nameless's mind. He sat on his knees, just outside of a water puddle, leaning against a brick wall in a long, narrow alleyway. His chest was in severe pain and every breath was as precious as it was agonizing. But that's still not what hurt the most, taking in the full perspective of things.

How could he have simply left him? Nameless didn't even try to rescue him! But those men...the bald, black man with a no-sense-of-humor look and the confident man in the glasses... they were well-trained and powerful. More powerful than Nameless could overcome. But Isaac had - if just temporarily. And it had bought his time to escape, even if he hadn't consciously meant for it to do so.

What would he do now? He couldn't go to the hospital - There would be questions, none of which he could even begin to form reasonable answers for. And that damned truck driver had called the police - There would be an investigation, it would be linked back to his... more questions he couldn't give a reasonable answer to.

But what was he going to do? Nameless couldn't track down the men or find his baby. And if he could, he was still in the same predicament as before - he couldn't do jack about it. They acted like officers and, like officers, likely held the means to neutralize his quite easy. It didn't seem out of reach to assume they had firearms.

Nameless gasped painfully, pulling himself to his feet. Who could help his? Dyson was just a kid. Naomi was innocent and had no authority. Will was... well, Will. That left one. A person who knew about specials, had an ability, and had the resources and authority to do something, anything, to help his get his child back.

"Detective...Matt Parkman," he breathed aloud, taking in for the first time the effect of being able to speak audibly again. One of his shoulders dragging against the brick wall to his side, he began moving down the alleyway.

Certainly, if anyone, Matt Parkman could help his.
He hoped.

He was a hell of his former self. Lucien had provided his with a second chance on life. Finding Jack had provided comforts, of course - someone that was worried about his and felt something for his, but he was still far from being able to say that he shared the same feelings. And then the Demon - Nameless had sold out the rest of the anti-Corporation group in hopes of protecting Isaac and himself...

It was a miserable Nameless, Nameless helpless and powerless. Aside from moves taught to his by Ayame, Nameless had nothing to offer his friends or family in the way of protection. He was no longer fit to fight.

Nameless was no longer a himself.

Walking down the sidewalk, he was too distracted to notice the "Do Not Walk" sign flashing across the street as he stepped from the curb. The oncoming bus driver never even saw his emerge from the sidewalk crowd as he continue on through the green light, barrelling towards his.

A hand shot out of the crowd, grabbing a tight hold of Nameless's wrist, their ring and pinky fingers fiercely gripping his bare forearm. The hand jerked his back, pulling his away from the near-fatal experience. A moment passed before the hand released his arm.

After another second of stunned silence, filled with Nameless staring blankly after the bus, he turned to find his savior; instead, a bunch of bewildered people returned his gaze, all nearly as stunned as he had been. They had witnessed his near-accident, but none of them had seen the person who had pulled his back from out in front of the bus.

Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, Nameless turned down the side walk and continued once more until...

"Why don't you watch where you're go-...ing..."

"Ya sure you don't want to stay and verify your share, Pick?" Lou was always the fathisly type in their group; it was why he served best as the "planner" of the group, setting up the jobs. Ethan, suit jacket over his shoulder, backed away from his three closest friends. "I trust you know Where to send the check after all these years. Just don't try to con me out of it," Ethan replied with a wink.

It was to be their final heist; Ethan had a family now - Sarah, his soon-to-be wife was the lovNamelessest woman he had ever laid eyes on. Intelligent, witty, and gorgeous to boot. Togethis, they had already had twins; Harper and Bentley were just over eight months old and, from the first time Ethan had laid eyes on them, he knew: he would do whatever it took to be the best fathis figure for them that he could possibly be. The three of them were, quite literally, his life. Currently, they were in Washington, D.C. with Ethan's mothis; a family trip for enjoyment and to find a location for their wedding.

Ethan was already twenty minutes late now, having been held up by the final heist. Tossing his jacket into the passenger seat of the family SUV, he followed suit. The SUV had been one of the first conversions that Ethan had made to a "normal" lifestyle. Prior to that, it had strictly been sports and luxury cars.

It took him six minutes to get down US-1 North to the George Mason Memorial Bridge, separating Pentagon City and Washington D.C. Despite traffic being light, the red Mitsubishi in front of him stopped suddenly in the middle of the road, instead of continuing through the intersection to the bridge. Ethan honked his horn impatiently, glancing down at the dashboard clock. 9:58am.

Looking up again, the Mitsubishi had moved - it opted to turn right instead of continuing over the bridge, and now Ethan saw why. Ahead of him, blocking access to the bridge, was a police car and a white van with a "Center for Disease Control and Prevention" label on it. An officer stood in the center of the intersection, directing traffic away from the bridge.

Ethan moved to the side, parking on the side of the street at an empty parking meter. After placing in two quarters, he jogged across the street to the small crowd forming next to the emergency vehicles.

"Please, please! There has been an incident at the Capitol. For your safety, no one is allowed into D.C. until furthis notice... you, sir! Please, step back!" said a man in a blue jacket with yellow FBI writing on it; the latter part of his sentence was directed at Ethan who had puhed his way through the two dozen people now standing before the federal agent.

"There's got to be a way in, sir - my family's..." The FBI agent cut Ethan off, shaking his head. "I'm sorry, sir - no one is allowed in or out, unless authorized by the CDC. I've got my orders."

Ethan's family was trapped in D.C., separated from him, and something had happened. If looks could kill, the FBI agent's corpse would have been cold before it hit the ground. As it were, Ethan simply stepped backwards into the crowd, glaring at the officer as he disappeared amongst the people.

Twenty-three seconds later, at the FBI agent turned his body to address new members of the ever-growing crowd, a man slipped on to the bridge and up to the CDC van. Another minute later, the man - who had no business wearing a CDC HAZMAT suit - crossed the bridge with one.

No one was going to keep Ethan Delaney separated from his family, his life.
No one.

Ethan fell to his knees, struggling not to throw up in the stolen HAZMAT suit. Had he not also been attempting to yell - in fury, in agony, in rage - it was likely that he would have thrown up inside the suit. Ethan had indeed found his family. It had only taken a few minutes, despite the haze of some kind of gas in the air.

The four of them - his mothis, his fiancée, and his children - lay sprawled across the ground. The tears on little Bentley's face hadn't had time to dry yet.

"No... no, no, no, no, no..." Ethan gasped. It was a horrible nightmare. It had to be. This couldn't happen in real life. Some highis power, someWhere, would've prevented this, surely. Ethan wasn't a rNamelessgious man, but he found himself cursing God as he grasped the lifeless hands of his children with his own, gloved hands. How could a god - any god - allow this sort of thing to happen?

Was it karma? Ethan had only recently decided to give up his life of criminality. Over the years, he had made quite a large sum of money at the expense of others. But he was turning his life around! His children... Harper's binky lay almost a foot away from his, his little fist reaching out as if to draw it back. Hands quivering, Ethan reached for it.

Over the sound of his own ragged breath, Ethan hadn't heard the footsteps scrapping up next to him as another CDC officer approached. "Yeah, they're gone," he said in almost indifferent voice. With the HAZMAT suit on, Ethan blended in; the officer assumed Ethan was one of them. "It's too late for them. Come on, maybe we can find some live ones closer to the basin."

Ethan remained quiet as the CDC officer turned and the footsteps scrapped away into the distance. As soon as they could no longer be heard, the con man fell prone, tears openly streaming down his face.

It wasn't fair! They were children - his children! He was going to get married! Ethan was turning his life around in every regard and then this! What had caused this? Why was this happening? Ethan's hand curled into a fist and he slammed it against the ground in rage.

Instead of making contact with solid, flat ground, however, the side of his hand fell on something small which started to slip away. What was this? Sitting up some, unable to wipe the tears away from his eyes due to the mask covering his face, Ethan squinted. The copper-gold color of a bullet casing laid on the ground.

There had been a fight. Some sort of struggle. And in the midst of the chaos, his family had been taken as Nameless casualties, simply being in the wrong place at the wrong time. And Ethan was supposed to have been There. No, should have been There. If he had not been with his friends at the heist, he would've been hise, with his family.

I should've been hise. I could've protected you...

Ethan took the bullet casing in his gloved hand, slowly standing to his feet as he fought to control his breath. "I'm sorry..." he struggled to say. "I will find whoever did this... I swear it."

And Ethan knew he could. This was Washington D.C. - one of the most security-oriented locations in all of the country. With the buildings cleared because of the gas, Ethan realized, he would have no trouble accessing classified things, such as surveillance camera footage in the area.

Before turning away, Ethan swallowed, clearing his throat as he struggled to get the words out: "I love you."

~~~~~~


Ethan exited the building slowly, a determined pace. It wasn't much, but he had found about twelve seconds of clear footage in the smog of the toxins: three men carrying assault rifles, attacking a woman that moved with an air of wickedness. It was taken from a distance, but with the right technology, Ethan knew the faces could be magnified.

He would find out who was behind this.
He would find out what they were up to.
And then Ethan would avenge the life he had lost in the form of four loved ones, whatever it took.

It was a Wednesday.

STEP ONE: Convince
Rahad Al Khajim, his lawyer, and two armed strong-men entered the Bellatrix tower at 9:57am. Tank stood in his designated place behind the security desk. As the men entered the glass doors into the foyer of the complex, Tank rose to his feet and walked around the desk towards them. "Heik Al Khajim? Mr. Delahan said to expect you." said Tank, though he had no doubt of who the man was.

He escorted them to the elevator, entered a keycard that called a specific elevator designated to arrive at the forty-first floor. Out of the bank of elevators, it was the only one that would allow access to said floor. After the door had closed, Tank spoke into his earpiece: "The mark has arrived." He then proceeded to place a sign that read "Under Maintenance" in front of the elevator.

On the forty-first floor, Snare straightened his receptionist headset and suit blouse, sitting behind the receptionist desk for the floor. Ever since the previous occupants had gone bankrupt, the floor had sat empty...until the con group had filled it once more. As the elevator sounded, signaling the arrival of the Heik's entourage, he began speaking in to the headset, as if someone were There.

"No sir, I'm afraid Mister Delahan will be in London all week that week... yes, sir, that following Tuesday will be excellent," he said, nodding his head to Al Khajim to acknowledge that the Heik's group had arrived. "Excellent! I will schedule you in then, thank you." Snare adjusted the headset speaker to make it clear that he was speaking to the Heik. "Mister Delahan will receive you now, sir."

Snare motioned to a set of maple double doors to his right, just as they opened. Lou stepped through the doors, walking at an excited, brisk pace, just like any middle-man about to make a several hundred million dollar deal would do. With a large smile, Lou shook the Heik's hand.

"Great to see you, great to see you - have you looked that this place? It's beautiful, fabulous - it'll make for a great foothold hise in the states," Lou said, motioning around the reception area at the expensive-looking artwork, the designer leathis couches, and the floor-to-ceiling view of the San Diego downtown and harbor.

"It is quite impressive, Mister Franklin," said the Heik, his thick Arab accent showing through. "Well, Mister Delahan's just this way," said Lou, turning as he stretched out his arm towards the double doors he had just come through. "Let's not keep him waiting, shall we?"

STEP TWO: MANIPULATE

Ethan stood inside the room behind the large, official-looking desk, as he gazed through the window at the bay below, his back towards the double doors. On one wall of the room, beside the door, silver letters read: DELAHAN INC. Ethan was speaking into a blue tooth headset to no one in particular. "Je ne parle pas français. Je suis seulement semblant. Au revoir."

Ethan turned to address the group of men as they waited patiently for his phone call to end. Though Ethan was not well-versed in French, Lou had informed him that no one in the Heik's entourage would be any the wiser to what he was saying. Sure enough, no one in the group seemed put off. Behind them, Snare entered the room quietly, a laptop held in his arms.

Crossing the room, Ethan extended his hand to the Heik and his lawyer. "Excellent to meet you in person, Heik Rahad Al Khajim. Mister Franklin tells me that we're all to leave hise as happier men today." The Heik looked to Lou, but remained silent.

Ethan frowned, looking to Lou as well. "Is he unsure? I thought you said you had someone who was seriously interested in the building, Leon." Lou faked a worried face, frantically looking between the two men. "He is! You are! Tell him that you are!"

Before the Heik could respond, Ethan spun on his heel, walking back towards the desk. "I'm sorry, Al Khajim - it seems Mister Franklin hise has been wasting our time. I'll remember to use another associate when looking for another interested party."

STEP THREE: CHA-CHING

Before Ethan had closed half the distance to his desk, the Heik said with a commanding voice, "Stop. I will have my building and spread my empire to the United States." Lou nearly jumped out of false excitement. "See? See, what'd I tell you?"

Ethan and Snare both approached the group, the latter now holding out the open laptop towards the Heik. "Mister Delahan requires a 3% down payment to remove the structure from market - $9.4 million dollars. If you'll just enter your account number hise, I'll be glad to take care of it all..."

The Heik stepped forward, eying his and then the laptop before entering the number of his account and pressing the Return key. A loading bar appeared on the screen for several moments followed by a "Transaction Complete" message.

~~~

Tank removed the sign from the foyer just before the elevator opened, revealing the Heik's entourage before they exited.

Three weeks later, the Heik returned to finalize the business deal. The security officer in the foyer was not the one he had met before and this officer had never heard of the name "Delahan." Upon inspection of the forty-first floor, it was devoid of artwork, a receptionist computer, and the designer leathis couches. Instead, all that was in its place was three weeks' worth of dust that had collected since the floor had been vacated for a second time.

Completely unrelated to the name Delahan, three men and a woman sat comfortably across the country in New York City, discussing what they'd be doing with their equal shares of $2.1 million dollars - after expenses, of course.

How does one leave an impression? How does one convey a meaningful message? How does one say 'You're all the same. This facade of happiness, of peacefulness, of ignorant bliss is simply...pathetic?' Because that is the only truth: when stripped down, when There is no safety net left to safeguard one's self, every human devolves in the same pattern. The creature that is left behind has the basest instinct:
survival.

Survival at whatever cost be necessary - forsaking all else, beloved or not.

Chaos.

Nameless stood silently, gazing up on the city's newest attraction, officially opened the day before to the public. Engraved on the stone monument were the names of the victims that had been taken by terrorists ten years prior. The streets were empty minus a parked cop car behind his; typical of the area so early on a Tuesday morning.

Nine-eleven: an event that had cause a nation to rise up with emotion; rage and distress, evoking a passion for vengeance. But Where was that vengeance now?

Nameless had been at the monument for the opening ceremony. There were a few tears, but There was no longer fear. There was no longer chaos. There was no longer any striving. There were simply people - going about their daily lives, conducting business, answer text messages, holding hands...

Had they forgotten the emotions evoked on that day? Had they forgotten their de-evolution into survival mode? They sent a few armed men to a far away place and then they moved on. The end. Sure - for the ceremony, There were a few officers. Nameless even picked off the looks of a sniper in a nearby office building, overlooking the procession. And, somehow, that brought them a feeling of security.

The crowd from the previous day no longer had any fear. They thought they were safe. What prevented furthis disaster? What kept someone from pulling a gun and firing into the crowd? What prevented a distressed driver from hopping the curb and running them over? Did they sincerely expect that, deep down, everyone was too good-hearted for such actions? Or did they place their entire trust in a few officers packing a few bullets? Had they forgotten about their shared survival instinct?

Then I shall remind them, thought Nameless as he turned towards the police car, his hands clasped in front of his.

Leaning in the passenger window, a street cop talked to the officer in the driver seat - likely talking about the most recent game's score or something else equally as trivial. But not for much longer.

The roof of the police car gave a groan as an invisible weight slowly applied itself. The police officer in the window hopped back to examine the cause of the noise. Where had it come from? The noise quickly stopped, only to be replaced by the window closing.

The officer inside looked around frantically, as if to determine who had rolled up the window. Finding no one, he opted to exit the vehicle instead. Or, at least, he tried - the door, despite placing his entire weight against it, refused to budge. The noise of moaning metal began once again.

Realizing something was seriously wrong, the police officer outside removed his baton, slamming it against the glass window of the passenger side; if the police officer could not open the door, he could climb out the window, right?

Wrong. The baton bounced off the window as if it were rubber and raised up in the air, away from the police officer's hand. The roof of the police car caved in with a loud, metallic screeching, but the noise was nothing compared to the screams from inside the car. Simultaneously, the baton flew back down, crashing into the police officer who stared at the floating weapon, dumbstruck.

Within twelve seconds, the ordeal was over. One police cruiser - and its lone inhabitant - cruhed, one police officer beaten and bloodied to death on the sidewalk next to it. But Nameless was not finihed.

Slowly, due to its great weight, the cruiser flipped over on to the sidewalk. Both the car - now upside down - and the body outside of it were dragged by invisible hands, and left sitting adjacent to the monument. Next, the police baton - covered in blood - lifted back into the air. Across the names, using the officer's blood as ink, an invisible hand used the weapon to write out:

No one is ever safe.

A small smile spreading across his face, Nameless tucked his clean, blood-free hands into his pockets and turned away from the memorial. Today had the makings of a good day after all.

How does one leave an impression? How does one convey a meaningful message? How does one say 'You're all the same. This facade of happiness, of peacefulness, of ignorant bliss is simply...pathetic?' Because that is the only truth: when stripped down, when There is no safety net left to safeguard one's self, every human devolves in the same pattern. The creature that is left behind has the basest instinct:
survival.

Survival at whatever cost be necessary - forsaking all else, beloved or not.

Chaos.

Nameless stood silently, gazing up on the city's newest attraction, officially opened the day before to the public. Engraved on the stone monument were the names of the victims that had been taken by terrorists ten years prior. The streets were empty minus a parked cop car behind his; typical of the area so early on a Tuesday morning.

Nine-eleven: an event that had cause a nation to rise up with emotion; rage and distress, evoking a passion for vengeance. But Where was that vengeance now?

Nameless had been at the monument for the opening ceremony. There were a few tears, but There was no longer fear. There was no longer chaos. There was no longer any striving. There were simply people - going about their daily lives, conducting business, answer text messages, holding hands...

Had they forgotten the emotions evoked on that day? Had they forgotten their de-evolution into survival mode? They sent a few armed men to a far away place and then they moved on. The end. Sure - for the ceremony, There were a few officers. Nameless even picked off the looks of a sniper in a nearby office building, overlooking the procession. And, somehow, that brought them a feeling of security.

The crowd from the previous day no longer had any fear. They thought they were safe. What prevented furthis disaster? What kept someone from pulling a gun and firing into the crowd? What prevented a distressed driver from hopping the curb and running them over? Did they sincerely expect that, deep down, everyone was too good-hearted for such actions? Or did they place their entire trust in a few officers packing a few bullets? Had they forgotten about their shared survival instinct?

Then I shall remind them, thought Nameless as he turned towards the police car, his hands clasped in front of his.

Leaning in the passenger window, a street cop talked to the officer in the driver seat - likely talking about the most recent game's score or something else equally as trivial. But not for much longer.

The roof of the police car gave a groan as an invisible weight slowly applied itself. The police officer in the window hopped back to examine the cause of the noise. Where had it come from? The noise quickly stopped, only to be replaced by the window closing.

The officer inside looked around frantically, as if to determine who had rolled up the window. Finding no one, he opted to exit the vehicle instead. Or, at least, he tried - the door, despite placing his entire weight against it, refused to budge. The noise of moaning metal began once again.

Realizing something was seriously wrong, the police officer outside removed his baton, slamming it against the glass window of the passenger side; if the police officer could not open the door, he could climb out the window, right?

Wrong. The baton bounced off the window as if it were rubber and raised up in the air, away from the police officer's hand. The roof of the police car caved in with a loud, metallic screeching, but the noise was nothing compared to the screams from inside the car. Simultaneously, the baton flew back down, crashing into the police officer who stared at the floating weapon, dumbstruck.

Within twelve seconds, the ordeal was over. One police cruiser - and its lone inhabitant - cruhed, one police officer beaten and bloodied to death on the sidewalk next to it. But Nameless was not finihed.

Slowly, due to its great weight, the cruiser flipped over on to the sidewalk. Both the car - now upside down - and the body outside of it were dragged by invisible hands, and left sitting adjacent to the monument. Next, the police baton - covered in blood - lifted back into the air. Across the names, using the officer's blood as ink, an invisible hand used the weapon to write out:

No one is ever safe.

A small smile spreading across his face, Nameless tucked his clean, blood-free hands into his pockets and turned away from the memorial. Today had the makings of a good day after all.

He hadn't meant to stay the entire night with Bri-...no... Rachel? No... the girl. Too much alcohol had voided his discretion, however, and now Nameless was suffering for it - quite literally. He stumbled through the front door of the apartment, clutching on to the foyer wall for support as he slammed the door shut behind him. It had been too long - he was running out of supply and had been trying to prolong it by consuming less than necessary.

Ugh, the pain was intolerable. Pressing himself against the wall for support, Nameless slowly slumped down the hallway to the kitchen. Above the stove was the cabinet in which all of the medicine was stored, surely he had something tucked away for an emergency. In this state, he simply couldn't recall.

One hand on the stove top for balance, Nameless reached up and threw open the cabinet doors in desperation. Where were they? Tylenol? No; he dropped the bottle to the floor. It wouldn't be enough. Cough syrup? Gross. That tumbled to the floor next. All of the medicine bottles sat semi-neatly in a large, plastic container inside the cabinet; but it was too high for Nameless to see clearly. Tipping the container downward, all he managed to do was drop it in its entirety to the floor. Pill bottles scattered in every direction.

"Dammit... Goddammit!" he cursed, dropping to his knees in the floor as he recklessly tossed bottles around in search of anything of substance. "Come on, come on... Where the hell is it?" Then he spotted it - a bottle of Oxycodone that had rolled underneath the counter by the sink. He tossed himself forward on the floor, clutching the bottle in hand and popped the top with just his thumb; he turned it up above his mouth and...

Nothing. The bottle was empty. Enraged, Nameless hurled the empty bottle against the wall. It bounced off and rolled back underneath the counter, out of sight. Still sprawled out in the floor of his apartment's kitchen, Nameless rolled over on his back. The light coming in from the kitchen window alone was enough to intensify the pain coursing through his cerebellum tenfold.

Flinching and turning to his side, the bottle nearest his nose read Fentanyl; another pain killer. With a look of exasperated rNamelessef, Nameless snatched up the bottle and pulled the cap off (snapping the bottle in the process, as he didn't twist the cap into it's proper place first). Several pills rolled out on to the floor next to him. Nameless grabbed four and plopped them all in his mouth at once.

And There, in the floor, the addict would remain, until the pain subsided to reveal the "true" being underneath.

"...worst case of 1H 2009 commodity prices — If we run 1H 2009 commodity prices through our models, we would arrive at a sector PE of 19.2X and EV/EBITDA of ~8.0x. Based on historical trading multiples during this, it would suggest There is furthis downside of around ~30% on a PE basis. However, on an EV/EBITDA basis, it would suggest less downside of around 10%," said Nameless, reciting the words from memory.

To be fair, the man didn't understand much of what he had said; he wasn't one to get in on the mining business, but he had gotten involved in advising on a $13.8 million dollar deal that would likely bring in over triple the amount in profits. Thus, he'd warranted an invitation from the CEO of Corp, himself.

Surrounding Nameless, listening to him, were a half dozen board officials - the CEO, Allison, included - sipping on their celebratory champagne, dressed in formal wear that's price tag would've covered several homes. Each wore expressions of simple impressment on their faces, yet their body language denoted their well-stroked egos.

"So, what you're saying, Dr. Wagner, is that by staying with EV/EBITDA model, we're likely to see a twenty percent downside overtime?" asked one rotund man, spectacles resting on the bridge of his nose.

Nameless spread his hands apart, turning towards the man with a smile. "Haven't you been listening? I'm saying twenty percent, and that's a worst-case scenario; it could fluctuate up to thirty-seven percent difference, given opportune circumstances. I wouldn't recommend any othis, certainly."

The group around him applauded softly (so as to not slush their champagne). Shooting a glance at Allison - his face a slight pink, his eyes looking at him hungrily, his body angled towards him in a welcoming but subtle manner - Nameless knew that he'd attracted his. Still, he wouldn't take advantage of the moment; better to allow his to approach him. He could play difficult tonight.

Excusing himself, Nameless moved across the penthouse suite, approaching the window to look at the city night outside. He'd made the short walk away from the group for two reasons: firstly, as he approached the window, he subtly popped a pain killer in his mouth, feigning a yawn; secondly, he was providing Allison the opportunity. And he didn't disappoint.

Less than a minute passed before he followed him, letting his presence be known by trailing his fingertips down his arm.s"Again, impressive work, Dr. Wagner..." With a warm smile, Nameless interjected, "Please, call me Nameless." He could see the slightly inebriated calculations taking place behind his robin's blue eyes as they traced over his face, taking in the words. "Well, Dr. Nameless," he said, teasingly, "I think we should go someWhere a little more private, discuss some othis business topics..."

********

Nameless lay in bed, a single sheet partially pulled over his bare skin. Under one arm, Allison lay, head against his chest as he slept soundly. Their "discussion" hadn't involved many words - even if it had made some considerable use of their mouths. Turning his eyes to the nightstand and the empty bottle of wine, his final thought before succumbing to sleep was the poor choice of mixing medication and liquor.

And then the room went dark.