Post by Cold on Apr 7, 2022 0:35:17 GMT
There are few things the man they call Cold finds as frustrating as air travel. It's not due to any particular flaw with the planes themselves, of course. He recognizes that they're an incredible invention, and that it's practically unfathomable how one can travel between every major city in the world in a matter of hours, when it might once have taken days or months. But for Cold personally, it's incredibly inconvenient. He much prefers to travel by land, or if possible, by sea.
The problem is simple. Cold was once a convicted supervillain, known to the world as Wintertide. And though he's been out of the clink for more than a decade, he's still on plenty of federal watchlists. They can't stop him from flying, but at the same time, he's essentially carrying a deadly weapon with him at all times- a mind that can freeze the blood in your veins solid. So whenever he flies somewhere, he has to be seated next to an armed security guard. Sometimes they're trigger-happy psychos who tell him in no uncertain terms that they'd love the opportunity to blow his brains out. Other times they're hapless idiots who just want to hear his 'war stories,' such as they are. But rarely are they the type who can just shut up and wait for the flight to be over, as Cold prefers.
Unfortunately, the man he's flying out to meet was rather insistent about him taking the fastest possible route, short of translocation. But at least he paid for first-class tickets. Not that it's much comfort when Cold has to sit next to someone so large his gut is practically spilling over into the next seat, nevermind the fact that the seats in first class are quite a bit more generous than in coach. Cold can sense the vast amount of fluids sloshing around in the security guard's gut. Half-digested hamburger and cola. It would be easy, trivially so, to freeze it into a hard lump. But he doesn't do that sort of thing anymore, no matter how much satisfaction it might provide in the moment.
If nothing else, the flight is at least short. Millennium City to Chicago. When they finally touch down, Cold is the first one off the plane, not bothering to respond when his companion wishes him a farewell. He'll be taking a train back home, that much is already certain.
For now, however, the luxury accommodations continue, as a hired driver is waiting for him outside the airport. Cold straightens the collar on his signature white coat, and steps into the car. Plush leather seats, tinted windows, the works. Even a complementary bottle of ice water. Maybe that's someone's idea of a joke. Cold doesn't bother asking the driver questions. He can recognize a lackey when he sees one, though he only ever ran one job with 'minions.' He hadn't been willing to spring for personalized uniforms, so he'd just bought them all matching blue parkas and wished them luck.
Though he's been on the right side of the law, such as it is, for years, Cold can't quite stop thinking of things like a supervillain might. It's a useful trait- helps him get into the heads of his targets. And it's definitely preferable to thinking like a hero does. If that was how Cold operated, he'd have martyred himself a dozen times over already.
After forty-five minutes or so, the car pulls up outside a large, anonymous office building. The driver opens Cold's door and gestures him out without a word. No directions are necessary- Cold knows where to go from his invitation. The whole thing is very mysterious, but he can appreciate a bit of theatricality. Presentation is everything in their business. It's why he goes around in a monochrome outfit. Even total anonymity is a form of presentation, and it certainly seems to be what this client is going for. 'Client' is the right word in this case, even though Cold isn't sure exactly what he's being paid for yet, other than to come out here and talk to somebody.
The receptionist check's Cold's face against his computer's database, waves him through the metal detector disinterestedly, and returns to his magazine as Cold steps into the elevator and taps the button for the top floor. Thankfully, the elevator is music-free. After a minute or two, the elevator stops, and the doors slide open to reveal a large, empty room that resembles an office of sorts- except for the fact that it's missing all of the furnishings that one would expect to find in one.
"Mister Cold, I presume," the office's lone occupant says coolly.
"That'd be me," the cryokinetic replies gruffly. Something about the client's tone, posture, and bearing sets him on edge.
"Excellent. I am Kingmaker. I represent Solutions International. We are a corporation that represents various smaller agencies, such as your own Cold Solutions. Our purpose is to put clients in contact with contractors who can best serve their interests. To that end, we employ detectives, assassins, magicians, specialist surgeons, and countless others. A group which I would like for you to join."
Still, the client doesn't turn from the window overlooking the city. Cold folds his arms, and finds a spot on the wall to lean against. Slowly, he focuses his attention on the glass, and begins to subtract heat from the moisture on its surface, frosting it over slightly, and obscuring the client's view.
"Rest assured you have my fully attention, Mister Cold," the Kingmaker says with a dry laugh. "Believe it or not, this is the least impersonal way in which we can interact. You see, I suffer from a rather unique condition, which causes me to perceive time in reverse. I use an alias because I haven't been named yet. From my perspective, I was born at an advanced age, and will die on the day of my birth."
Cold scoffs.
"Why bother with all of this, then? You already know what my answer is going to be, don't you?"
"Yes. But don't think that you're entirely without agency here, Mister Cold. I could have waited until you were just starting out, in risky financial straits, and offered to bail you out. Made you the proverbial offer you can't refuse. Instead, I ask now, when you're perfectly secure, as a measure of respect for you."
The room's temperature noticeably drops.
"Or maybe it's just more convenient for you, since the alternative would mean waiting for a decade and a half from your perspective."
The Kingmaker laughs again, passing a hand over the frosted glass to clear his view.
"Quite so, Mister Cold. You're rather astute."
"I try," the ex-con replies. "So if you've seen the future, and the past is a mystery, why are you doing all this? Just to make money?"
Cold can understand wanting to make money, of course. It's been his primary motivator in life. But something about this man screams 'higher purpose.' Or at least that's the impression he's trying to cultivate.
"It's simple enough, Mister Cold. I was born into a better world than the one I'll die in. And that world came to be, thanks to actions I will undertake. Or, from your perspective, that I have already undertaken. Solutions International provides me access to the people I need to make certain things happen."
"And that includes me?"
"It most certainly does, Mister Cold. So, what's your answer?"
Cold laughs bitterly.
"Do you really even have to ask?"
"That'd be me," the cryokinetic replies gruffly. Something about the client's tone, posture, and bearing sets him on edge.
"Excellent. I am Kingmaker. I represent Solutions International. We are a corporation that represents various smaller agencies, such as your own Cold Solutions. Our purpose is to put clients in contact with contractors who can best serve their interests. To that end, we employ detectives, assassins, magicians, specialist surgeons, and countless others. A group which I would like for you to join."
Still, the client doesn't turn from the window overlooking the city. Cold folds his arms, and finds a spot on the wall to lean against. Slowly, he focuses his attention on the glass, and begins to subtract heat from the moisture on its surface, frosting it over slightly, and obscuring the client's view.
"Rest assured you have my fully attention, Mister Cold," the Kingmaker says with a dry laugh. "Believe it or not, this is the least impersonal way in which we can interact. You see, I suffer from a rather unique condition, which causes me to perceive time in reverse. I use an alias because I haven't been named yet. From my perspective, I was born at an advanced age, and will die on the day of my birth."
Cold scoffs.
"Why bother with all of this, then? You already know what my answer is going to be, don't you?"
"Yes. But don't think that you're entirely without agency here, Mister Cold. I could have waited until you were just starting out, in risky financial straits, and offered to bail you out. Made you the proverbial offer you can't refuse. Instead, I ask now, when you're perfectly secure, as a measure of respect for you."
The room's temperature noticeably drops.
"Or maybe it's just more convenient for you, since the alternative would mean waiting for a decade and a half from your perspective."
The Kingmaker laughs again, passing a hand over the frosted glass to clear his view.
"Quite so, Mister Cold. You're rather astute."
"I try," the ex-con replies. "So if you've seen the future, and the past is a mystery, why are you doing all this? Just to make money?"
Cold can understand wanting to make money, of course. It's been his primary motivator in life. But something about this man screams 'higher purpose.' Or at least that's the impression he's trying to cultivate.
"It's simple enough, Mister Cold. I was born into a better world than the one I'll die in. And that world came to be, thanks to actions I will undertake. Or, from your perspective, that I have already undertaken. Solutions International provides me access to the people I need to make certain things happen."
"And that includes me?"
"It most certainly does, Mister Cold. So, what's your answer?"
Cold laughs bitterly.
"Do you really even have to ask?"