Renegade Reborn

Part 3

Ren sat back in the metal chair. "So before you start questioning me, what is COBRA? I mean, the Gibborim's got a major profile on you, but I've never really paid any attention to it."

"We are the United States government's paranormal and supernatural division. We recruit specially talented agents and soldiers and supernatural beings from all around the world. Our primary interest is finding out all we can about these other entities and containing any threats to mankind."

Ren nodded. "So you want to fluff out my folder now, am I right?"

"Yes. We have an opportunity to gain information on one of the world's most elusive beings, and we're taking it."

He grinned and folded his hands behind his head. "I pride myself on being elusive. Ask away, then."

The Director nodded and pulled out a notepad and pen, then clicked on a recorder.

"Full name?"

"Drakos Malachai."

"Aliases?"

"I usually go by Ren. Prefer it, actually. As for aliases, I've used more names than I can remember."

"Ren, then. Okay. What year were you born?"

"Thirteen thousand two hundred seventy-four B.C. Summer solstice."

Halvarsson's eyes bulged. "Over fifteen thousand years ago?"

Ren nodded agreeably. "Fifteen thousand two hundred eighty-six years, to be exact. Right after the Flood." The Director gulped and wrote on the pad.

"Ah, where were you born?"

"Atlantis."

"Atlantis? The Mythical Isle?"

"Not mythical. Very real. And a haven for demons and Fallen."

"Where is Atlantis?"

Ren sighed. "When I was born, it was where all the Greek philosophers theorized. The Atlantic. Now, it's no longer on Earth."

"What happened?"

"I sank it."

The Director's eyes widened. "You...destroyed an eighth continent?"

Ren shrugged. "I was angry. I would have been successful, too, but my father got together a circle of thirteen demons and barely moved the island to another plane of existence. The portal's under the Bermuda Triangle, if you're interested."

Ragnar's pen moved furiously. "Well," he muttered," that answers the question of your power."

"Oh, that was back in the nine thousands," Ren remarked cheerfully. "Things have changed."

"Your power has grown?!" the Director nearly shouted.

Ren nodded. "Biggest growth came recently. Now I'm Death."

"I'm sorry." Ragnar frowned. "Did you just say that you're Death?"

Ren nodded. "Death, the Pale Rider, Fourth Horseman of the Apocalypse. Also got the Mark of Cain."

The Director cringed. "Let me get this straight. You're death in human form. The Rider of the Apocalypse who will be responsible for about a quarter of the world's population come Armageddon time. And on top of that, the Mark of Cain means that anyone who attacks you is repaid sevenfold. Am I right?"

Ren nodded, grinning. "That's me. Although I'm not the Grim Reaper. That's my friend Azrael."

Director Halvarsson looked almost ill as he asked, "What types of powers do you have?"

"Teleportation, telekinesis. Object manifestation. Shadow manipulation. Extremely high-level destructive angelic energy and hellfire. Very highly enhanced senses, strength, agility, and speed; mental radar, mind control, time travel, minor time manipulation. Minor manipulation of my own body. Very fast and effective healing and regeneration. Precognition. Wing manifestation. I also have a secondary form with increased physical attributes. Oh, and did I forget to mention- complete control and power over death, mostly the causing of it?"

Director Ragnar had been scribbling the whole time, growing paler and paler with every power mentioned- not that he hadn't been white to begin with.

"Military experience?" the Director inquired.

Ren's voice was level, but he winced a little as he listed his doings. "I've fought demons continuously for the last eleven thousand years, and I was the general of all Atlantean forces for nearly a millennia. I have battled in every major or semi-important war in world history, and ever since this country became our base, I've fought in almost every American war from the Revolutionary to Iraq, mostly in special forces or intelligence. I have a four-star general rank in the Army, the Marines, and the Air Force, and I'm an Admiral in the Navy."

Was that...respect in the Director's eyes? Well. Ragnar nodded at him and finished writing in his pad. "Will you consent to physical and psychological evaluations?"

Ren paused for a while on that one. What would they get, digging around in his head? He finally acquiesced with a brief nod. "We'll construct a false history for you, so that any humans digging through our records will find something. You'll be free to look through it afterwards. That all right with you, Ren?"

"Yeah, sure. Make it a doozie."

"We'll need to make tags for you. You have any objections to us using 'Drakos Malachai'?"

Ren shook his head. "Nah, I guess not. But put 'Renegade' on the other side."

The Director wrote down a note. "Every COBRA field operative carries and wears a mask to hide their identity. Each mask is unique; you'll get a chance to design yours later."

"Good concept. What are the masks constructed from?"

"Titanium nanosteel, ceramic nanocomposites, and Kevlar-reinforced leather."

Ren grunted. "I assume the faceplate is bullet-resistant?"

"Extremely."

"Nice."

Ragnar put his pen and pad away abruptly and gestured to Ren as he stood up. "This way, please. The doc's over in another section." Ren stood and followed the Director out the door and down the corridors. Boy, are they going to have an interesting physical with me, he thought, half amused, half apprehensive.