Recoil/Origin
From Unofficial Handbook of the Virtue Universe
Part One: Delivery
Robert Walter Hildebrandt..."Bob" to his friends...was pretty darn well irritated as he drove cautiously down the dirty King's Row street. It was one thing for any driver to be asked to deliver in this neighborhood, but Bob was a 68 year old retiree. He had worked for 40 years as an evidence room clerk at the local police station. He'd only taken this job due to the fact that his pension just wasn't cutting it any longer...and besides, retirement was boring. His wife's prescriptions would drive them into the poor house unless he could earn a bit more. Freddie Pastone was good enough to give him a delivery job at Big Tomato Pizza, but Bob didn't feel too appreciative at the moment. Freddie had gone on vacation and left his idiot son Joey in charge for a couple weeks. Bob would just have to put up with it.
He read the numbers as he drove along the row of abandoned business fronts, broken down brownstones, and empty, weed-filled lots. "1174.. 1176... 1178... 1182?? What? How could I have passed it?" Bob muttered under his breath. He circled the car around, parked, and got out, pizza in hand. As he walked past 1182 towards 1178, he noticed a small side door on the solid but weathered brick building. Above the door in the shadows, he saw the number, "Ah-ha...1180...here we go."
Bob knocked upon the door. It felt and sounded much more solid than it had looked at first glance. No answer. He tried again. Still nothing. He grew impatient. "Hello, Big Tomato Pizza. Anyone home?"
Bob gave up. He didn't need this crap. As he turned to make his way back to the car, he heard a series of metallic clicks. The door opened slightly, creaking heavily on it's hinges. "Hello?" Bob called out, "Big Tomato Pizza..." He pushed the door a little. As it opened, he saw a dimly lit, all white room. As his eyes adjusted, he noticed the floors, ceiling and walls were all covered with large tiles of some sort. "Umm..Big Tomato...hello?" he called out, becoming increasingly nervous.
"In here!!" an English-accented voice called out, nearly giving Bob the heart attack that wasn't due to arrive for seventeen more years. He entered the next room. It was much larger, but tiled like the first one. There were a couple modern-looking black leather chairs and several metal work tables along the walls. Upon the tables were a number of maps and electronic doohickeys organized into neat piles, folders marked with such words as Confidential, 5th Column, JFK, Iraq, and Council, and a few metal cases of some sort. The walls behind the tables were covered with various newspaper and magazine clippings, heavy black drawn lines connecting seemingly unrelated topics. Also upon the tables were framed photos of a woman and a couple strings of rosary beads. It was these little symbols of sentiment put Bob slightly more at ease.
Suddenly, through a darkened doorway at the far end of the room, came a man. "Hey there, old timer!" the man said, grinning.
"Um...hello...?" Bob said with a puzzled tone, "that will be $13.96."
The man in front of him was about six feet tall, with a medium build...but extremely well-toned and strong-looking. He was shirtless, heavily tattooed and was wearing what looked to be some sort of black martial arts pants and large fuzzy green Oscar the Grouch slippers. He had messy brown hair and thick-rimmed black glasses which, upon closer inspection, didn't seem to be holding any lenses.
Bob was once again slightly nervous.
"All right, one sec...lemme get some cash for you..." the man said, turning toward a set of drawers under one of the metal tables. As the man knelt down, Bob noticed what appeared to be two Glocks tucked into the back of his pants.
Bob started to sweat.
Without turning to look, the man said calmly, "It's okay Robert, they aren't for you." There was a strange metallic sound to his voice. No longer nervous, Bob suddenly felt very much at peace. Looking around the room, he focused more closely upon the picture frames, taking notice that they all seemed to be filled with various magazine-clipped photos of Winona Ryder. "That's strange..." Bob thought, "...but who am I to judge? This guy is a friend."
"Hildebrandt...now that's a good German name," the man said, unrolling a large wad of cash and pulling out a twenty dollar bill. "Okay, here you go, Bob old boy. For the pizza, plus tip." Bob took the cash. "Thankyou very much, sir." He said, happily turning towards the door. "One sec, Bob." the man said, walking over to the dazed delivery man. He stuffed the rest of the large wad of cash in Bob's front pocket. "You will keep this under your mattress and use it wisely."
"...I will keep this under my mattress and use it wisely" Bob repeated in a distant monotone. He started to drool.
"You just delivered a pizza to an elderly lady named Gladys. She's quite nice...smells of cookies."
"...I just delivered a pizza to an elderly lady named Gladys....she's quite nice...smells of cookies."
"You will tell Joey Pastone to piss off if he tells you to deliver to this or any other similarly dangerous neighborhood again."
"...I will tell Joey Pastone to piss off if he tells me to deliver to this or any other similarly dangerous neighborhood again."
"Okay, you can go now, Bob." the man said cheerfully, "Take care of the wife." He turned to the drawers once again and pulled out a bottle of vodka.
Bob returned to his car. Driving back to Big Tomato Pizza, he thought of the nice old lady to whom he'd just made his delivery. "Poor Gladys...what a terrible neighborhood to have to live in."
Part Two: The Offer
"Now that was an interesting trick," said a low, accented voice from the shadows of the next room, "Is that new? I don't recall having seen you do that before, Simon." Lucius Nigel Lord stepped into the room where Bob the delivery man had just been, accepting a shaken martini from his friend, Simon Madrox.
"Mmmm...yes...new...only works on the weak-minded...so far..." Simon responded distantly, his mind apparently elsewhere at the moment as he opened the pizza box. "What the...? I ordered extra cheese..."
Sipping his drink as he slipped into a black leather chair, Lucius glanced about the room, taking note of his friend's interesting "research". "Despite all I have and all I've accomplished...how I envy those of you blessed with such marvelous genetic...gifts. Oh, the things I would do...."
Simon stopped in his tracks, thinking back to a time when his so-called genetic "gifts" didn't seem to be much of a blessing at all....
He had been a quiet but observant only child from a moderately happy home in Baumton, just north of Steel Canyon. His father, Gregor Madrox, was a former Navy Seal and a weapons enthusiast. He had kept many different types of weaponry around the house as his son grew. Simon took rather quickly to handguns, much to his father's delight. Gregor taught his little Simon everything he could about the art of gunplay, despite disapproval from Simon's overprotective mother.
At age twelve, Simon had been diagnosed as being "gen-active"...a term the doctors used rather of the harsher, politically incorrect designation of "mutant". His parents were deeply divided over this bit of news. Simon's mother, concerned about the social stigma attached to having a "mutie" for a child, eventually left the family, never to be heard from again. Simon's father, on the other hand, could only see benefits from the news of his son's genetic condition. Being the consumate perfectionist, he decided quickly that his son was genetically superior...an evolution of mankind, rather than something to be hidden...and indeed....
"I..w...wait...those aren't real memories..." Simon muttered to himself, "Those are the blasted implants."
Lord recognized his friend's obvious confusion. It was a rare but not unmanageable condition. "Simon, why don't you sit for a minute so we can chat? You haven't even touched your dinner." Lucius picked up a slice and took a bite. "Oh...this is good...go on and have some, my friend."
"Well..I...I only order the best, Nigel." Simon said, becoming refocused as he began making a sandwich out of two pizza slices. "Only the best." Lucius had known Simon for years, ever since they'd worked together for British Intelligence in the Special Forces unit doing wetwork operations. In those days, Lucius Lord was known only as "Agent 17". Simon Madrox, if that was in fact his real name, had been "Agent 5". They had gotten out of many close scrapes together...often as the sole survivors of a good op gone horribly wrong...and were both expert marksmen with a preference for automatic pistols, something they'd become quite competative at. Lord was impressed by the younger soldier, as he'd never before met his equal in combat.
Years went by. Lord went on to bigger things, leaving British Special Forces and becoming extremely powerful and infamous within a short number of years. It was during his "Shadow's Hand" organization's raid of a 5th Column base that they by sheer chance met again. It had been a slaughter. The soldiers at the small Column base were no match for the far superior collection of international terrorists. Lord and the Hand took over the base within a few hours. The few surviving 5th Column Obersts were rounded up and after a few days brought before Lord for torture and questioning. Lord looked at the group, who were already bloodied from beatings and thin from starvation as they kneeled before him.
"This one gave us plenty of trouble, boss," the Hand's Lt. Henderson spoke up, pointing at one of the Column officers, "He probably knows quite a lot. Unfortunately, we couldn't crack him...but we know you can."
About to speak, Lord stopped suddenly, shocked. He recognized the man. "Agent 5..." he whispered to himself.
Turning to his officers, Lord ordered, "Take this one to the mess hall and feed him. No more beatings. Kill the rest."
"But sir...with all due respect....they may have information..." the Lieutenant complained. "No worries, Henderson," Lord replied, "I think we've found our ace in the hole, so to speak." Over the next several months, Lord had his operatives deprogram his old friend...but unfortunately the Column had done quite a number on his mind. Nearly everything in Agent 5's psyche was jumbled, missing, or created of false memories. He knew that he had been captured by the Column at some point after being left for dead by his employers, but he barely remembered who he was, much less anything regarding the Special Forces unit or Lucius...or whom exactly his employers had been. Still, his skills were very much intact...and actually much better than they had been. Whether it was some genetic mutation or the result of some experimentation by the 5th or some other clandestine organiztion, Agent 5 could now could now create offensive or defensive telekinetic force bubbles, and his proficiency with pistols...still his weapon of choice...was now beyond remarkable.
Lucius had a plan. Using Agent 5, who was now using the name "Simon Madrox", he would collect information from the inside of the 5th Column. There was an organization by the name of "The Council" who were very interested in the intel and were willing to pay for it. In the end, this plan had made Lucius much more wealthy and had given Simon the revenge he so rightly deserved. Now functioning independently as a mercenary and assassin, Simon was getting his life...and slowly, his memories...back together. Lucius offered him contracts that were particularly difficult or sensitive, when he needed someone he could absolutely trust to get the job done right.
"Simon, I think I have the perfect job for you," Lord said to his pizza-munching pal, "There is a very interesting group of individuals forming together towards my absolute favorite goal of global domination, starting with the infiltration of that pesky Arachnos organization in the Isles. I want to put you on retainer for at least the next several months until we see how it pans out. I'll need you to be my eyes and ears in the ranks. This could be very big, Mr. Madrox...very big."
Simon swallowed the mouthful of food he'd been chewing and took a gulp of his martini. "Retainer, you say? How much?"
Lord pulled a folded sheet of paper from his lapel pocket and handed it to Madrox. Simon looked it over and whistled, "This per week?"
"No, no, dear boy," Lucius smiled, "That's per day."
A wide grin appeared across Simon's typically expressionless face. He stood, offering his hand. "Well, Mr. Lord. I believe that you have just hired Recoil."
