How did I not suspect that those words would leave this man's lips? 

I settle back against the mattress, as upset as I am, I know better than to explode in front of someone who holds the fate of my friends in his unknown clutches. Marcello seems calm. I trust him as much as I can trust a stranger. There is a way to play this that would safeguard my friend's safety and keep my abilities out of the establishment's hands. 

David Malcolm doesn't look at me, but I can see his pulse is pounding in the crook of his neck, giving away that he was terrified beneath that careful façade, perhaps praying that he can trust his future in my youthful hands. 

Must I be forty before people take me seriously? 

"Mr.Malcolm was it? I had an acquaintance that you remind me very much of." I inquire.

A modern-day Mr. Balan, but this man was not nearly as overweight and smelled much more like a box of men's cologne than cigar smoke and deception. 

"Can't say I quite trusted him, either, though," I mutter.

"You can trust me." He reassures me smoothly. 

My expression showed him the errors in his words, and he decided on a different approach. 

"I ain't askin' for ya trust. I'm askin' ya ta think about what I'm offerin' ya. It's a free pass ta keep doin' ya work — but ya keep us in the loop." 

The loop? 

"Keep us in the know, ya know?  Marcello says ya files got lost — we gotta get you a new I.D. tag. You coulda just saved this city, ya know? People's gonna want a name." The longer he talks, the more he reminds me of Eddie, and that accent begins to come through. 

I stare directly ahead, watching the scene flicker across the television screen that hangs overhead. Some drama, I suppose, where a woman is standing defiantly in the face of a rather concerned-looking gentleman. Television hadn't been something that had caught my attention before. It was hard to understand; people were trapped in a contraption, but they weren't actually there. 

Books played in real-time, Rhea tells me. 

I needed to play this right, I couldn't make the same mistakes of the past. I had to be one step ahead of this man. "I wish to speak to your master."

"My master?" 

Marcello chuckles at my terminology. "Nicolas has a funny way of speaking; he means your boss."

"The president?" David demands, bewildered.

I nod. "If that's who is above you, then so be it." 

It's David's turn to laugh, holding his stomach as if I'd told him an exceptionally good joke. I find little humor in our circumstances.  

"You save more than a city, and hey — maybe you get to talk to the president. But we still don't know what the hell you are, Nicolas. Lemme give ya some advice: start makin' more reasonable demands, before someone decides you're just a clown and stops givin' a damn.

You're lookin' at serious jail time, and I don't think it's clickin' for ya just how bad it is. I'm tryin' to be nice here. I don't gotta work with you, but I want to, 'cause I think you got somethin' special. Somethin' this world needs, the way things are goin'. 

If it weren't for Marcello vouchin' for ya, I can promise you this: you'd be layin' on a dissection table right now, so we could figure out what the hell's inside you that makes you tick. Now. Let's not waste more time." He smooths his hair over, stiffly moving his hand over the greasy-looking locks. 

His thinner face makes me envision him as a rat, maybe a snake if he had a better bone structure.

  No, I prefer the image of a rat much more. 

"You willin' to work with us? Look, ya don't gotta come to my church or even shake my hand. All I'm askin' is for you to tell us what your plans are, and—"

I narrow my eyes. "And what? Give you a chance to make it look like your idea?"

Marcello stands, walking over to put his hand on David's shoulder. "Dave, Nic is not a kid. He's just short, a little lean, but he's almost thirty. I've seen him work; you will get much farther with him if you tell him what's up." 

I nod towards Marcello, offering the slightest smile. I knew I liked that man, despite his assessment of my stature. 

David nods to his men, dismissing them. Once they leave, he leans forward towards me and rests his elbows on his knees to fold his hands and collect his thoughts. This man couldn't be compared to Mr. Balan; the fat man was way too confident for his own good and always had a trick or two up his sleeve. 

This man, David Malcom, was not the orchestrator of this plan. He was merely doing his job, and he was speaking above his pay grade, I could see it clearly on his face. Besides, I didn't much care for his relaxed posture. It was disrespectful, to put it mildly. 

"I wouldn't say we were tryin' to claim the idea as ours, exactly... but yeah — the goal was to make it look like we were closely involved. People are scared, Nicolas. Real scared.

And I gotta be honest with ya: I think we backed the wrong horse in this race—the government's lookin' weak. If we don't act soon, and I mean soon, there ain't gonna be much of a country left to fight for. Hell, maybe not even a world

We're runnin' outta time to fix this, and what you pulled off today? That might be the answer we've been lookin' for. Marcello says we're on the same side — and look, maybe we are.

All I'm askin'... is to be allowed to fight for the cause right there next to ya. That's it. You don't gotta like me. Just let me help." 

I ponder this, flicking my gaze towards Marcello, who shrugs in response. It's a toss-up, truthfully; we could have an excellent relationship with the financial backing to do whatever we please, or we could be signing our rights away to be disposed of when this is all over. 

Swallowing, I pull my eyebrows together to put on my politician's face. 

"I'd like to see a written document, signed by your master, that says exactly what your expectations are, and I will have my own. I want to build a working relationship with you, Mr.Malcom, in which we promise not to lie to each other. 

As long as we do that, I believe a form of agreement can be reached. I don't much care for being lied to." I turned my attention to where my cuffs had been. "I'd like to get up, your men aren't going to shoot me?"

David chuckles, "No funny business, otherwise you're free to move."

I rub my wrists as I stand, cringing at the discomfort in my lungs. "This is not nearly painful enough. Do you have healers?"

David raises an eyebrow. "Morphine... yeah. And like I said — you were already almost healed when we found ya. Pretty damn interestin', to say the least.

Look, I'd recommend stickin' around a few more days. Enjoy the comforts of the facility — food's not bad, beds are warm. While you're here, we'll draw up some agreements, bring in a few officials for you to meet. Real polite-like.

These are excitin' times, Nicolas. For the first time, there's a real glimmer. A shot that we might actually stop this thing. That maybe... just maybe, we could save the damn planet." 

It's hard to hide my lack of enthusiasm as I come to terms with the fact that I will be forced back into a position I thought I had left behind. Things don't change; no amount of advancements would free the people from their lust for leadership and rule. It might as well be me, a man once said, the one who should lead is the one who doesn't want it. 

"Can I see them? My friends?" 

David hesitates. 

"Rest. They have healing to do as well. Once we make arrangements, you'll see them soon enough." 

I'm well-versed in the nuances of a lie that wasn't a lie. There will be plenty of time for arguing when the proper paperwork arrives. 

So, I spend my downtime as one must in this day and age. I try to find some sport in the art of watching television, as there is not much else to do other than feel sorry for myself that the man I consider my husband has been unfaithful. Amid soap operas and dramas, I find escape to be nearly impossible. 

Finally, I decide on the news, and I watch the interestingly dressed woman give an announcement on the state of New York City. She shows footage of the city, cleaner and more open, with people actively moving around in the streets, as opposed to the shuffling bodies that seemed barely alive.

The sun, for the first time in many years, was shining down, and it seemed everyone was eager to get outside and bask in it. A fountain, crusted over in grit and grime, spouted a single stream of water as the camera pans out—hope, life, restoration. 

It makes the corner of my mouth turn up; it was worth it. 

"It would seem we have a red-haired man to thank, though no identity is known; we have received word from officials that he is being treated for injuries sustained in a misunderstanding." The woman reports. "All we have to say is 'Thank you' to this mysterious person who some are saying was sent by God himself. As soon as we know more about the situation, we will keep you updated. Enjoy this day, New York, hopefully, the beginning of a new."

 Anonymous.

I like the sound of that. No known identity, no way to track it, much like these ridiculous shows I've been drowning my brain cells in. Sometimes, the hero would hide their identity; maybe that was the right thing to do. I didn't want the glory; I only wanted to help people and then live whatever was left of my life. 

When the door opens, I jump, only to exhale roughly when it's only Mr.Malcom. 

"Good morning." I greet cooly. He nods, pulling up a chair to sit next to me.

"I hope you're feeling better?"

I nod back, "I was just watching this news station, I believe it's called. They're talking about the rain. Seems things are going well. Temperature is down by ten whole degrees." Attempting to mask the enthusiasm in my voice, but it isn't easy to contain my excitement about changing this city for the better. 

"I was hoping you'd be watching." He smiles, grabbing the remote to turn off the TV. "How do you feel about all of this?"

How do I feel? 

It's hard to think around my heartache. The one person I want to share this with isn't here, not that I wish to see him. It kills me that all I can do is envision that proud expression as I relay my accomplishment, how he would look amused and smile along with me.

 His questions and his retorts were as valuable as his assistance at times. His experience, his lack of empathy, and yet his quest for fairness and freedom. "I'm ready to get back to it. There's a lot to do. I assume the paperwork is in order?" 

Mr.Malcolm places the packet in front of me.  "Simple contract; I can read it to you if you like." 

Another reason to miss my warlord. My English isn't the best. I hesitate, glancing up at him.

"I'd like to see my friends; excuse me if I don't trust you to read it to me correctly. I have an advisor amongst them." 

The sigh confirms my fears were correct. "You're nothin' if you ain't persistent. You really care about those things, huh? Look, I can only swing the release of two of your lycans — no more, no less."

Digusted, I toss the papers back into his lap."That wasn't the deal."

"That's the deal, Nicolas. We can't just hand everything back on a silver platter — gotta protect our own asses, ya know? You pull through on the next mission, then maybe we can talk about lettin' the other two go. But for now? Two's pretty good, considerin' they're illegal." 

Glaring at the bedsheets, my chest heaves; how much can I take? How long can I be the diplomat when I want to shout at this man to stay out of my way? 

"Nic." Mr.Malcom places the papers quietly back in my lap. "I'm tryin', alright? Givin' you two is already a stretch. It's my neck on the line for this. The other two stay here 'til you finish your next task. It's your call when that is. Then they get returned to you. We gotta build trust, Nicolas. You gotta be in us, and we gotta be in you."

Always a catch. "I need to see them." 

He shuts his eyes, cursing, sliding his tongue under his lower lip, and sucking his teeth as he fists his hand into his palm. Finally, after a long moment, Mr.Malcolm nods. "Ten minutes." 

Walking through the large, bright, and white hallways, my body feels stiff from lying down for so long. Everyone is in white, save for us; my clothes are more of a set of lavender pajamas, if I could refer to them as such a thing. The soft texture is welcomed; I must admit that I much preferred the softness of modern clothes to what I wore in my previous life. 

  Distant eyes, vacant expressions, some being pushed in rolling chairs, the staff here gives me the creeps. 

Who would I choose?

"This isn't cutting into my time, is it?" I demand. 

Mr.Malcolm chuckles. "You're a clever man, Nic."

"Nicolas will do fine." I corrected him. 

"My bad. No, it starts once we get there." Getting into the elevator, I shut my eyes and ground my hands against the metal as we descended. Small spaces made of metal weren't a strong suit of mine; diving back into the depths of the earth was an even less comfortable prospect. 

He doesn't comment on my tension, and I count the seconds as the elevator begins to slow. Almost too quickly, I rush out of the metal box into another equally bright hallway. Mr.Malcom motions for me to follow him, and we stop in front of a large, shiny steel door. 

"Here we are. Ten minutes. Select your two and press the button on the wall."