Renegade Reborn

Part 1

Ren hurried toward the doors of the J. Edgar Hoover building, slipping through and darting into a closing elevator. It snapped shut with him alone inside, and he used the opportunity to teleport down, down into the deeply buried levels of COBRA, the Covert Operational Battlefield Reconnaissance Authority. At least, that was its official name. On paper, it was a tiny little subdivision of the National Security Branch. In reality, it was a somewhat larger paranormal ops section. And it had made a deal with Ren.

Ren sighed as COBRA's special elevator opened up, giving him some semblance of normalcy. Two small men in suits were waiting for him, sunglasses hiding their eyes as they looked up at him. "Mr. Malachai?" one said uncertainly. Ren nodded. "Could you please follow us to the briefing room?" Ren nodded again and followed the agents down several hallways, until they reached a plain wooden door. The other agent opened the door and gestured inside. "Have a seat right in here, sir. The Director will be with you in a moment." Ren didn't say a word as he entered the room and sat on the uncomfortable metal chair.

They're unnerved, he thought. He could feel how twitchy they were through the closed door, smell the tang of sweat, hear them shifting and their heart rates accelerating. They had their hands on their guns, too. The steel and gunpowder was sharp in his nose. He could hear their thoughts as well. His aura was making them both nauseated, and neither one trusted him one bit. They wanted to get the Hell away, and fast.

Ren heard them both snap to attention as someone else approached. He saw the door open, and an older man stepped in holding a huge file. Ren tested the air. This one was nervous, too. A kind of excited nervous, though. Huh? But there was no smell of perspiration, and he stank of death. Interesting.

The older man sat down across from Ren and pulled his sunglasses off, tucking them into his breast pocket. Ren cocked his head as he studied the man's blood-red eyes. Curiouser and curiouser, he thought. I've never encountered anyone like this. But he's not human, whatever he is. The Director opened the file, which was marked with Ren's name- his real one- and flicked through it. "We have a lot of information on you, Drakos," the Director remarked. "Unfortunately, we have no idea what parts are true. Some of the stuff we've got is so unbelievable, not even the most gullible p-ops put any weight on it." Ren leaned back, tilting the chair on two legs, and swung his boots onto the table, crossing one over the other. A quick dig provided him with a name, and he replied, "Well, Ragnar- I hope you don't mind if I use your name, since you already have mine- I have had an interesting life, it's true. But what does that have to do with what you want from me?"

Director Ragnar was seriously on guard now with the use of his undivulged name. He's trying to place my accent, Ren found. He won't get an exact match. Ancient Atlantean was fairly unique. "You...were in my head," Ragnar said slowly. Ren nodded and clapped twice sarcastically. "How? No one can get inside my head." Ren snorted. "You're young. Your shields may be strong to others, but not me." Ragnar frowned. "Young? How old are you?"

"Old. Very old. But there are older."

"How old is 'very old'?"

Ren sighed. "Can we get on with this? You saved my daughter, and I'm grateful. But I'd like to pay that debt off ASAP because...well, I just don't like owing people. So I'm supposed to be doing something for you. What is it?" Ren held a serious hatred for debts, because most of the time the repayment was something he detested doing.

Ragnar stared at Ren, carefully studying him from the top of his inky-haired head, down his obscured face and leather-and-jeans clad body, to the black jump boots on his feet. "We've never been able to photograph you," Ragnar finally responded. "We either can't find your location, or, if we stumble across you out in the field and manage something, you come out looking like an indistinct glowy blur." Ren shrugged. "What can I say? I didn't want to be recorded." Ragnar nodded. "Yes, it can provide problems for immortals, I know. The threat of recognition in a future where you shouldn't exist. I understand. Forgive me for asking, but would you mind taking off those glasses? I'd like to see your face."

Ren considered. Ah, to Hell with it, he'd do it. No real reason not to when asked so politely...right? Ren reached up and pulled off the aviators, allowing the Director to see his heterochromatic blue and silver eyes. Then, just for effect, he let them glow solid white for a moment as he put the sunglasses in his breast pocket. The white eyes were a new thing, courtesy of his recent upgrade. Being the Fourth Horseman had also not only made him a bit taller- height always accompanied power in Ren's world- but completely altered his true form and abilities. And he now had an immortal steed, Mortis, bound to him. Kind of literally, bound to him. The horse, when not an actual equine, was a sentient stallion tattoo somewhere on his body.

Ren tuned in to Ragnar Halvarsson's thoughts, detecting surprise, curiosity, and a little fear. Hmm, he thought. That's not a bad mix. Ragnar coughed and frowned a little. "Thank you. Now, for the first part of your debt, we would like to speak with you regarding your background, power level, and current status within the paranormal community." Paranormal community? thought Ren. I didn't get that memo. Since when has there been a 'paranormal community'? He grimaced at having to answer questions about himself, something he mostly hated doing, and then nodded. "Yeah, sure, fine. What else?"

"Well, first off I'd like you to explain the circumstances of how exactly you incurred this debt."

Ren sighed and moved his feet to the ground, propping his head up in one leather-covered palm. "You see, it went like this..."