For A Better World, Part 1

Bandaging a serious injury is always messy. When one is not a doctor, it becomes an annoying process of trying and retrying. And when it is your own injury it adds a whole new dimension of interesting to the equation.

Anyone who had not realized this before would have come to these same conclusions after watching a tall male in his late thirties. He was attempting to mitigate the bloodflow from his right stump with his remaining hand.

Having finished with this unenviable task, the man tried to light a cigarette with his shaking hand and found it much more difficult than he had expected. He gave it up as harder than it was worth, and gave himself up to the contemplation of the pain. Inevitably, this led to thoughts of revenge. His state of mind was not enhanced by his surroundings, which he was beginning to notice again. Then he passed out for the third time.

He was pulled back to consciousness by a pain cocktail of throbbing and stabbing pains with some nausea thrown in, apparently for good measure. He blinked, vaguely surprised to find himself in such a shabby hotel room. He froze at the sight of a second figure. It took him three full seconds to realize it was himself in the cracked mirror, which he could see from the bed. The room was dimly lit by a single bulb in a cracked lampshade. He looked around but saw no luggage, just a gun and a small black briefcase. Memory came storming back.

Tiring of all this, he pulled a phone forth from his pocket -- very carefully, with his left hand -- and called a number.

 ----

Elsewhere in the city, a phone began to ring into the special kind of silence produced only by despair. Mark (we mention no surnames, for his is a classified existence) fumbled for his phone. He was director of the Scientific Solutions Task Force, which entitled him to a large office all to himself. Even so, his agents had been speaking in hushed tones ever since the incident. They all liked the director, and his moods set the standard throughout SciSo.

"Hello?"

"Greetings, Mark."

Mark waved meaningfully to his subordinates, who got busy.

"I'm sure that you're feeling upset right now --"

"Why would I be upset?"

Mark wasn't sure how to answer that one. There was a bit of silence.

"Oh, yes. The matter of the hand. I remember now. You can put me down on my next performance review as highly disgruntled."

Mark was happy as long as he kept talking. His agent gave him the thumbs up sign, indicating that the tracing of the call's origin had begun.

"You stole the Object, and anything that comes from that is your own fault, as you well know. You also know I would do anything to get it back, which is why you called. What are your terms?"

"Well, I don't have any. I was thinking you could maybe let me keep it, and me and the agency go our separate ways?"

Mark almost laughed and almost cried. "Is that a joke? That is not an acceptable compromise."

"No, I didn't think so. That'll be all, then, I guess."

Mark tried to say something to hold him on the line, but it was too late. Mark whirled around to his agent. The agent held up his hand.

"No worries, boss. We got him. It's only about seven and a half miles from here."

Mark smiled for the first time since the theft of the Object.

"Get a team together. I don't want anyone shooting him out of hand, but the most important concern is the Object."

The room became a rush of activity and orders, as Mark strode hurriedly but with determination to the armory.