Neo Washington

Chapter 3- Lazarus

    A few pieces of debris rolled down the deserted streets of the city's residential sector. After a corporate raid, nobody dared walk the streets, as nobody was truly innocent. In a back-alley dumpster, the bloodied and broken form of mercenary John Packer was vaguely concealed and completely silent. As far as any passersby would know, he could be dead. Fortunately for him, the few that still inhabited these alleys were no mere passersby. Deep green light peered out from the shadow of a tattered hood, as a figure shrouded in black stood over the body. The only part of the figure that protruded from beneath the heavy cloak was an arm- padded in makeshift armor- that gripped tightly onto a black and orange glaive. The blade rested in the floor, the way that it dug in making it apparent that its owner was leaning on it out of choice. John clung to his last shreds of consciousness, glancing at the lofty figure with a trace of a sigh as several similarly dressed figures emerged from the shadows around them.

"Of course..." he muttered quietly, before slipping under.

Vision slowly returned to John as he stirred in an uncomfortable bed. Glancing around, he found himself in a dark, gothic-looking room: exposed brick arching around the ceiling with engravings in some of the walls. A few clumps of moss hung from the architecture, moisture dripping from some unknown source. Once he could keep his eyes open for more than a few seconds at a time, he willed his HUD into existence. The light blue display stuttered and jumped for a few moments, attempting to calibrate to his barely-conscious mind. Rolling over onto his right side, John saw something he'd hoped to never lay eyes on again, and something that made him sit bolt upright. A brown hood draped over the visage, but neon blue still shone through in slits, a gaze that chilled John to the bone, even after all this time. The plated metal beak that protruded from the shadows of the hood was made a ghostly hue by lights on either side of its base. The red leather padding of the figure's body shifted, the occasional tattered piece of brown swaying as it did so, and the hand moved to its head. A sound rang out of escaping air, as the mask unlocked and was removed to reveal a wide smile on a scarred face. Various jagged lines streaked across the man's withering skin, the grin an almost unnatural addition to the image, and one that made it all the more unsettling.

"Packer," a German accent-riddled voice escaped his lips, "excellent to see you're awake."

"Mauser." John groaned out the doctor's name.

"I have to say, old friend, you haven't looked this bad since I took your arm."

"Thanks." He chuckled.

"It took a lot of resources to bring you back from this one," he began, "Most of your bones were broken, and your central nervous system was heavily damaged, not to mention the splintered bones shredding your muscles. Fortunately for you, we live in an age of enlightenment. Your bones have been repaired and strengthened, your nervous system is better than ever, and your muscles are coming along nicely."

John braced for the next part.

"Unfortunately for you, we do not live in an age of charity. This procedure was an investment, and we hope that it will have a good return. Put simply, you owe us."

"Surprising," John sighed, voice positively dripping with sarcasm, "What do you want?"

"Straight to business, I see."

"Owing you's bad for my health. Talk."

Mauser chuckled loudly, "See, it cost us resources to fix you, John. We intend to get those back, tenfold, and we intend to do so with your help."

"Are you forgetting the shit I pulled? I'm at the top of their list, Erik."

"You were at the top of their list." Mauser corrected. "The whole world is celebrating or lamenting the death of John Packer: the one-armed warrior."