When they meet for the first time he is no longer the Chameleon.
He isn't sure exactly what he is anymore. Not a spy, not a villain. No one's younger brother. The face he wears hardly resembles himself, flat and smooth with skin that peels in patches to reveal new pigments underneath. Wide, inconsistent eyes that were once a particular shade of brown he no longer recognizes. He hasn't noticed any pattern or reason behind them yet, shifting green to amber to blue to black to any number of possibilities nature has to offer.
Dmitri Smerdyakov still shaves his head to hide the mismatched hair that grows, one in a collection of self-inflicted deformities. He's given up the mask that made him anyone and he rarely bothers with the clothes he wore to borrow other people's lives.
Not that it doesn't tempt him. He isn't sure if he should throw them away or not. They ride the line between nostalgia and an emergency exit.
No. That isn't true.
In the end, he couldn't escape his trap of flesh or his name.
It would be easier to be nothing. He can only be himself.
Dmitri is not a spy or a villain. He has traded all impressions of elegance for hand-me-down sweatshirts that have lost their scent. He tries to cover himself and he tries to keep comfortable. Everything is a little too big, dull enough to sink into the background the way he likes.
His apartment is also oversized. Mostly white and undecorated. He feels small inside, but he knows he can leave whenever he feels like it. He's just not sure if there's anywhere else to go.
Not if he wants to stay out of Ravencroft at least. Going back would not be the same as going home, but that's tempting sometimes too.
He hates being noticed in public. No one comments, no one is rude enough to ask if his condition is a mutation or something else. He goes through the motions of conversation when he has to then scrutinizes his answers in hindsight, second guesses commitment to this word choice or some small piece of information divulged. What was once so simple has become an obstacle course, fighting the urge to improvise a lie and keep his identity secret. Studying reactions for a hint of the disgust that would twist across Sergei's lips, the contempt that signified he's made an irredeemable mistake.
Mostly people seem curious. He doesn't want to be an object of curiosity.
All he wants is to disappear. He doesn't want to think about tomorrow and he doesn't want to think about yesterday.
Dmitri has been carefully building a world of routines and repetitions to hold onto when he can no longer look at himself in the mirror, when his voice falls short and he wonders if he's lying by omission every time he introduces himself. He returns exhausted at the end of days spent at a desk when running for his life was once ordinary. He has had enough of danger. The unknown weighs him down, directionless, whenever he closes his eyes to sleep.
When they meet for the first time he is his own stranger.
The doorbell rings.
Dmitri's head jerks up. The book he'd been reading, a mystery, he puts beside him quickly. If necessary he can get out through the roof or fire escape. Answering with or without a knife are both unpleasant prospects for different reasons, and he considers not answering at all. There is no one to expect. The few friends he has at this point don't know his address. He hadn't thought anyone else would bother finding it.
He gets up. He takes a knife after all. Not like the ones he used to use, designed for this kind of thing. Just something light and sharp, kept in a rack on his kitchen counter.
He opens the door.
Immediately he finds himself swallowed from the waist down in a burst of fog. The figure waiting is tall and thin, black like shadows folded over each other from head to toe. Galaxies dance under his skin. With a dark suit, an eye pinned between pyramids to his lapel, and a purple segmented tie, he gives the impression of nothing so much as a cosmic stage magician taking up business.
The figure has no face. His head is smooth and glassy, featureless save a single eye engraved in white at its center.
"GREETINGS, DMITRI SMERDYAKOV," booms the figure, gesturing with spider-like hands to flare fog up in what can only be deliberate spectacle, "YOU MAY KNOW ME AS THE MASTER OF ILLUSION, LORD OF DIMENSIONS, ATOMIC CONSCIOUSNESS AND SEER OF STARS, THE IMMORTAL AND OMNISCIENT KING OF MATTER–MYSTERIO!"
Dmitri blinks. The knife does not move.
Several moments pass, fog hanging uncertainly between them.
Mysterio brings a long finger up to his cheek and taps it once, deliberately. "YOU LOOKED DIFFERENT BEFORE. I DO HAVE THE RIGHT PLACE, DON'T I?"
"Should I know you?" asks Dmitri, his feet planted firmly behind the threshold.
"OH," says Mysterio, "NOT IN THE SLIGHTEST. VERY FEW OPEN THEIR EYES TO MYSTERIO, PILGRIM OF SPACE AND TIME. MYSTERIO, HOWEVER, MAKES A POINT OF KNOWING ALL THE MOST IMPORTANT PEOPLE IN THIS CITY. BESIDES," he leans forward, overtly conspiratorial, "I'VE HEARD MY FACE IS EASILY FORGOTTEN."
Not a forgettable face–declarations like that require humility. Easily forgotten, possibly distorts observation as well. His methodology could be anything. "I've quit acting," says Dmitri flatly. "If you're looking for a performance I'll have to disappoint you."
"ACTING?" the man who called himself Mysterio replies, voice lifting in what sounds like amusement. "THAT'S RATHER TAME FOR A CHAMELEON."
Dmitri's grip on the knife tightens, just in view at his side. "What do you want?"
From the way Mysterio doesn't even glance at the blade, it can be assumed he is unobservant or profoundly indifferent. Instead, he claps his hands together at his chest once, sharply. The air clears in an instant. "MYSTERIO" he says, "HAS COME TO OFFER THE PRIVILEGE OF A MOST RARE AND GLORIOUS JOURNEY. MUNDANE LIFE HARDLY SEEMS LIKE AN APPROPRIATE ENDING FOR A SUPERVILLAIN OF YOUR STATURE. TOGETHER YOU AND I CAN VENTURE TO THE FARTHEST REACHES OF OUR GALAXY ENCOUNTERING STRANGE BEASTS, EXOTIC LOCALES, PRICELESS ARTIFACTS MANKIND CAN HARDLY BEGIN TO COMPREHEND, AND A ROYAL WELCOME BY QUEEN VERAN–"
"No."
And just like that, the door is closed.
When they meet for the first time he is no longer Quentin Beck.
Beck, by all accounts, never should have amounted to anything. He was a perfectly ordinary man facing perfectly ordinary struggles for his age. A vessel, an incubator of sorts–the flesh that birthed an idea.
You see, years ago Quentin Beck came to know the universe. And what the universe was was a great myth that grew and split like a nerve, traversed endlessly by gods and heroes and all of their enemies. A myth that sent patterns rippling across continents, echoing between the stars–allowing those bold enough and bright enough to set themselves apart. A myth that came with the promise of something more. It was, above all, a status quo binding adherents to life and power and memory. Everything Quentin Beck craved like a drowning man craves breath.
And so from Beck, Mysterio erupted into being.
Mortality was transcended, became concept. Technology gave way to mystery. Held together by a collection of divine favors, acts calculated to join him to the fabric of every culture in reach, he built himself through history. A force to drive the stories, their heroes, their villains, shaping reality unseen. Moving pictures across dimensions, the world become a stage with him leading players using a deft hand and words so subtle he often avoided notice altogether.
Mysterio made himself more than a villain, more than a part to be beloved or despised. Mysterio made himself the audience and director together, a master of creation. With the planets themselves as props and countless lives acting in a narrative with no script, one could argue that it was something like godhood.
When they meet for the first time he remains, as ever, the man behind the curtain.
Who needs Quentin Beck?
People seldom give the George Washington Bridge due reverence. Framed by memory it seems smaller, quieter, simpler in structure. Rarely mentioned are its double levels, thrumming to the steady pulse of traffic. Rarely mentioned is its height.
The form Mysterio wears now is more an avatar than anything–a container for his mind in human shape. To someone whose pupil can swallow stars in immensity, this monument is nothing.
But the sun is dipping below the horizon, and the air is cold, and bodies are such small, fragile things.
Mysterio sits with his feet dangling over the tower's edge and tries to remember what it feels like to be bound by gravity.
Dmitri Smerdyakov is no source of amusement. Not polite, not patient, not exciting. Nothing like the persona he used professionally. But once he'd finished storming down the street and menacing a few pigeons, Mysterio had to admit–it was only to be expected.
The Chameleon was a master of subterfuge, a unique obstacle for Spider-Man to overcome. In other circumstances, maybe his career could have gone on indefinitely.
It wasn't that kind of story.
Mysterio wanted to orchestrate a tale of predators and prey, hunters and tricksters, spirits and animals and men. In a way, he succeeded. But ultimately symbols were the masks ordinary people wore, and there was nothing glorious in Sergei Kravinoff's quest to cut them down.
There was nothing glorious in what he did to his brother, either.
Seeing human beings beaten empty over a lifetime with no hope for escape was not a masterpiece. Seeing children violated in mind and body to the point that they couldn't take ownership of themselves was not art.
Kraven the Hunter's death was necessary to ensure the survival of the city. No one would follow him. Mysterio's work would be preserved.
If delivering an acceptable ending to Spider-Man's first villain took extra effort, so be it.
Dmitri still isn't sure if he belongs anywhere. Unwanted child of Russian immigrants, costumed criminal, now just one more set of legs traveling back and forth over the sidewalks. Civilians assume that villains act against them out of hate. Occasionally that was true, but not for him.
For all that Dmitri keeps home close to himself, there is something comforting in being swept away by New York City. A sea of people who will never remember you, the similarities more important by far than superficial differences. You could be a bureaucrat or a beggar or Norman Osborn himself. There's room.
Sergei once compared it to a cage, complained about not being able to see the sky properly. The sky has never offered Dmitri much protection. Life climbs buildings and burrows deep into concrete, rockets through subway tunnels and hesitates at crosswalks. Society is a system that can be adapted to, a puzzle with possibility the prize for solving it.
The real cage was invisible. Sergei placed him inside long ago, and Dmitri carried it with him everywhere. Now Sergei is dead and the door is open.
But that's the problem with invisible cages. You never know when you're free.
He almost died there.
Revisiting the weeks before that is a blur. Dmitri followed the warped path of his memory, avoided sleep for dreaming, shut his mouth to invasions of food or drink, presented himself through distorted faces and tried to separate skin from bone when he felt (imagined?) teeth pressing too-familiar under the surface. Falling at the bridge Dmitri doesn't remember breathing, his throat full of Peter's laughter.
He didn't have time to scream when the web snapped his arm.
It took time for things to get better. Surrounded by doctors, stripped, drugged, restrained, questioned–the hospital sent him into a panic, as much as he was capable of panic at the time. He was never awake for very long, never completely sure what was happening. To call Peter's return a relief would be putting it lightly. He showed up, unmasked, a few days in. He didn't stop showing up. It was an apology, Peter explained, and a desire to actually save his life. To be the hero he needed. Even after being transferred to Ravencroft, Dmitri understood he was no longer alone.
Those visits reminded him that the world was big. Not limited to the beige halls of the institute, the walls that hid him from the world. Knowing that the city was waiting helped.
Regardless, winter still isn't his favorite season to be outside. Dmitri adjusts his scarf to cover his nose, absently contracts gloved fingers. Almost numb.
The trees at Abingdon Square are bare as he passes by, but the park isn't empty. Near the entrance, a dark figure sits on a bench. One leg is folded over his knee, on it resting an ancient comic book. Glancing, it seems to contain a bubble-headed robot fighting aliens or something equally ridiculous.
Although the eye fails to look up, Dmitri suspects on some level that he's been noticed.
He doesn't stop.
He doesn't quicken his pace either.
It becomes a regular route for him. He's not completely sure why–curiosity perhaps. Maybe routine, maybe anxiety. Whatever it is, it sits at the back of Dmitri's brain like a scab he can't help picking again and again. Longstanding bad habit of his.
Mysterio is there without fail. Not in the mornings, but when the sky dims and the remaining sunlight takes a copper glow on the way home, his bench is inevitably occupied. Usually Dmitri catches him reading, twice with a paddleball, never so much as offering a glance. But it's a very pointed, deliberate avoidance. One and a half weeks in, it's gone on long enough.
He walks over, leans lightly against an armrest. Enough distance not to be touched.
"It's cold out," says Dmitri mildly, keeping both hands in his pockets and his shoulders relaxed. Looks in a sideways glance instead of offering his full gaze.
Mysterio only hums lightly. His fingers linger at the edges of today's comic. This one has a T-Rex.
Hard to be intimidated by someone like that. Especially when, suit or no suit, it was obviously someone with bony elbows and countable ribs.
"Do you have someplace warm to go?"
This time, Mysterio does look up. His pupil doesn't move–instead, he lifts his whole head. "MYSTERIO," he declares, "IS WARMED BY THE HEAVENLY FIRE OF EVERY SUN AND STAR IN EXISTENCE."
For several moments, Dmitri finds himself without an answer. "Alright," he says eventually. "Still. It's going to be dark soon. There must be somewhere better for you to spend your time."
"I LIKE THIS PLACE," says Mysterio. "IT SUITS MY PURPOSE."
Dmitri turns, watching his companion. "What sort of purpose would that be? You aren't an actor. Not like I was. Are you?"
There is a sound, possibly a snort. "HARDLY. MYSTERIO GIVES DIRECTION TO OTHERS." A beat. Then, "…EFFECTS ARE MY SPECIALTY."
The silence doesn't break.
Dmitri tries to keep his expression as neutral as possible.
"ILLUSIONS, MR. SMERDYAKOV," exclaims Mysterio at last, exasperation dripping from every word. "ALTHOUGH MY EXPERTISE IS HARDLY EXCLUSIVE."
"Dmitri." It's an automatic correction, and it earns a nonverbal response. Slight tilting of the head, might suggest a question but might suggest something else. Without expression the gesture is ambiguous. Uncertainly, Dmitri adds, "The rest is a mouthful."
"ALRIGHT," answers Mysterio. "DMITRI THEN."
He lowers his eyes. Tries to keep himself innocuous, posture withdrawn. "…I don't suppose you're working with anyone I know."
"MYSTERIO IS NOT KNOWN FOR TEAM-UPS."
"Right." Dmitri shifts his weight, considers looking again then decides against it. "…You still haven't told me your purpose, you know. For coming here every day, for… why did you find me?"
"AH," Mysterio says.
Dmitri finds his fingers closing around the back of the bench, not like an anchor but a shield. If a particularly useless one.
"I," the voice booms, "AM A STORYTELLER. INCIDENTALLY ALSO SPIDER-MAN'S MOST AMAZING FOE. MY CURRENT PLOT REQUIRES THAT THE ARC OF YOUR LIFE ENDS BETTER THAN IT STARTED."
When Dmitri exhales it's through his nose. More forceful than expected. He becomes acutely aware that his body hasn't completely recovered yet, that he's thin with a shoulder that aches and muscles that haven't gone through real exercise in about a year. Even if that wasn't true, he is completely unarmed against an alleged super villain who operates through perception. Dmitri finds himself bracing as he runs through old striking positions and points of impact. "So you're here to kill me… without making a mess?"
"WHAT?" asks Mysterio, "NO. NO, WHERE DID YOU EVEN GET THAT IDEA? YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO BE HAPPY."
Dmitri's grip loosens abruptly as his brow knits. "…Happy." The word comes out flat. Although he means it like a question, it doesn't sound like one.
"YES. ANYTHING LESS WOULD JUST BE UNSATISFYING."
For a long time, he can't find anything to say. "This…" he replies in a voice that feels foreign. "…my life now is already more than I've ever had. It's my own business."
"BUT IT ISN'T ENOUGH," says Mysterio. Whatever else he might be (entitled, insensitive, oblivious, insane) he doesn't seem malicious.
It counts for something.
"You have no way of knowing that," says Dmitri. Privately, he wonders. In the pit of his stomach something twists and he drops his hand, stands upright. "Even if you did, it isn't for you to decide."
"HMPH." When he turns, he finds Mysterio with his arms folded. The comic is closed. The eye is trained on what appears to be a random building.
Dmitri considers walking away.
Instead, he catches himself admitting, "I don't know what would make me happy right now anyway."
Mysterio remains mute, holds his position even if the childish rigidity seems to fade.
"Why does it matter to you?" asks Dmitri, "I'm finished." He hesitates, searching. In trying to avoid notice from most people, there is a chance he's made himself a target for others. The weak and pathetic tend not to be choosy. "…I have a boyfriend, you know."
Untrue.
Again, Mysterio cocks his head, leans back. Dmitri wishes he'd blink. "THAT'S NICE."
"I'm not the kind of person who cheats."
"VERY CONSIDERATE OF YOU," says the black-glass man, "BUT I FAIL TO SEE HOW IT RELATES. NEEDS OF THE FLESH HOLD NO RELEVANCE TO MYSTERIO. I AM BEYOND SUCH CONCERNS."
"Oh," says Dmitri. "Good to know."
In the lull that follows, he focuses very hard on rolling a pebble back and forth with his shoe.
"YOU CHANGED THINGS," says Mysterio at last. "YOUR SURVIVAL MEANT THAT SPIDER-MAN COULD NOT SEE THE WORLD THE SAME WAY ANYMORE. BY AFFECTING THE HERO YOU AFFECT EVERY PERSON HE TOUCHES."
Another beat.
"RETIREMENT DOES NOT MEAN YOUR LIFE IS FINISHED, DMITRI."
"I don't want to go back," he says. "It didn't agree with me."
"YOU WON'T," the villain assures him. "UNDOING CHANGE ACCOMPLISHES NOTHING. IT WOULD BE TIRESOME. CHEAP. BUT YOU ARE IMPORTANT NONETHELESS."
"You can't be serious," says Dmitri. This prompts no response. When he continues, his voice is quiet enough that he wonders if he'll even be heard. Much less listened to. "Look. I'm not interested in being used."
"YOU HAVE MY WORD," promises Mysterio. Maybe it's wishful thinking, but he imagines there's a ring of solemnity.
For now, it has to be enough.
Mysterio was born in New York City. Beck, however, was not. He isn't sure if he should be calling east or west his home or if he even still has one these days.
Long before the ascension, Riverside raised him with its orange groves and mild weather, malt shops and railroads. He didn't own a bike as a kid (with Dad dead before the second war and Mom supporting them both, it was more important for her to have it), but Betsy used to let him balance on the back of hers while she rode down the street. Later Mysterio would learn to go faster, farther, higher–so easily it became mundane. Back then, though, he was exhilarated.
Betsy never left. She was a beautiful girl, blond curls and blue eyes, the kind of smile that dimpled her cheeks and a waist you could almost wrap your hands around. When he got his second camera (the first, a gift from Uncle Vinnie, was too expensive to keep) she watched like he was working magic. They used to visit each other at all hours of day and night, speculating about spaceships and dinosaurs, robots and Karloff's latest thriller. It was, she confided, a relief to have someone to escape with. Neither of their families did well after the economic crash, but with too many brothers and sisters she'd been forced to accommodate liquor too. Being away was better.
Mom used to hope they'd get married. And for a while, getting lost in first kisses and each others' arms, it crossed his mind. But the novelty wore off, and she was only his friend Betsy whose company was precious but no longer enticing. When Beck rode off with a neighborhood boy to seek his fortune in Hollywood she was there to kiss his cheek goodbye. While he didn't make her wedding years later, she did seem glad when Quenty stopped in for a late congratulations.
He'd arrived in time for the golden age of film, and by rights that should have made him great. But it didn't.
The neighborhood boy left him after a night of drinks and forgotten conversations. Rick had seemed so perfect then–actor with a sculpted face, sun-dark skin and sandy hair. Strong enough to help with equipment without being asked. His teeth were straight and his voice hypnotic and he didn't even look Beck in the face when he told him not to come back. Someone like him would only get in the way, make success harder for them both. It wasn't worth it.
For years, Beck had no idea what he did wrong.
Not so with Ray Bradhaus. Hypocrite of a director who sold himself to Mephisto and called it his masterpiece, who had no qualms about telling young protégés exactly how arrogant, ungrateful, and deluded they were. Dreaming of enchantments and celestial travel while ignoring the fickleness of this world, this industry where anyone who'd made it in deserved reverence and respect and the security of a good paycheck. Beck who was new, who knew nothing, had no right to speak about issues like that when he couldn't even keep both feet on the ground.
Hollywood robbed the world of color. So Quentin Beck turned his eyes elsewhere and walked away.
L.A. had been a golden city, crowned by palm trees overlooked by hills. New York was glass and steel and streets clogged with cars You had to move fast, talk loud, be someone who knew what to do. Someone other people looked up to.
And in some ways, that was manageable. His cousin Terry followed him out. People seemed to want his company. It shouldn't have been lonely. But company came cheap and work was seldom recognized and Beck knew, deep down, that he was not someone worth remembering.
New York could swallow you, if you let it.
To make Mysterio required sacrifice of all kinds. Giving up Quentin Beck was one, and as a result he became untouchable. When nothing was personal, there was no reason to feel small. Power came from magic and figments and ripple effects.
Not choices.
But slight of hand is different from lying, and when it comes to other lives there are no shortcuts. You can't snap your fingers to undo a crime, change reality. There must be truth in experience or it becomes meaningless.
Sometimes choices are necessary.
People died because the very rules that gave immortality to Mysterio made Kraven invisible, allowed him to act for years unchecked. A tyrant given free reign under status quo, overruling villains and destroying heroes in their infancy.
No more.
And so Mysterio finds himself committed to his own identity for the first time in decades. He resorts to words in shaping others for better or worse. Trying to find worthwhile conclusions to plots he once set in motion, now dependent on who he is and how he's seen instead of what he can do.
He must make himself into something singular again.
The unease that brings, he tells himself, is insignificant.
Dmitri stops by Monday through Friday, usually somewhere between 5:30 and 6:00 PM. He stays for at least half an hour, occasionally more, but stands the whole time. Mysterio finds the whole ritual odd in a mundane sort of way, but company is a victory in itself so he tries not to press his luck.
At first, Dmitri asks questions. Or tries to. Those run out (the answers, it seems, are too much for his mortal mind), and somewhere along the line conversations shift. Mysterio isn't sure if it was some cue on his part or a choice by the former-Chameleon. Hardly a bad thing, whatever the case.
"I saw a dog on the way to work this morning," says Dmitri, and the declaration hangs in the air with no expectation of an answer. "It looked at me. While I passed its whole body shook from how hard its tail was wagging. I ate breakfast during commute today, that could be the reason. It seemed happy though."
"YOU NEVER DEALT WITH ANIMALS MUCH, DID YOU?" asks Mysterio, thinking of Maguire the cat and how Terry used to scold him for sharing Chinese takeout instead of something more appropriate for an animal. When they'd parted ways the creature was practically obese.
Dmitri shakes his head, eyes creasing slightly. It resembles happiness. "No," he says, "I didn't. When I was young I wanted to, but… circumstances." He shrugs. "Sorry. I should try not to talk like this so much."
"WHY?"
"I, ah… I picked it up at New York-Presbyterian." Dmitri weaves his fingers together tightly at his waist. Can't seem to take his eyes off them. "I was sick for a while. Heavily medicated. Couldn't tell which way was up. A friend helped me start using my own voice again. "
For a while, that's all. Mysterio decides not to explain that he knows this friend is Spider-Man, that the hero occasionally gets in touch through ouji boards and skyward rants when matters seem particularly grim. Disclosures like that would risk more than they accomplished.
"Being able to go over what I saw helped," continues Dmitri. Each word is slow, precise–as if its been carefully weighed before release. "Opinions, conclusions… those took longer. Observations seemed like a safe start though. Nobody gets upset about things like that."
"WHAT DO YOU MEAN?" asks Mysterio, tapping the tips of his feet lightly against the ground.
Dmitri appears to shrink into himself, arms tucking at his sides, face barely red behind a white scarf. He folds onto the bench without grace, rests his hands against the seat and keeps them there. "They're nice things to hear about, usually," he says. "Not… they're nothing that could really be argued against either. And I don't have to think. Still. It isn't normal."
"MANY THINGS AREN'T," says Mysterio diplomatically. "ABNORMALITIES HELP KEEP THE UNIVERSE INTERESTING. DON'T LET IT WORRY YOU."
"Thanks, M…" answers Dmitri, glancing first at him then straight ahead. Mysterio tries to follow his gaze. The most compelling thing in that direction seems to be a McDonald's employee fidgeting at the crosswalk. He doesn't understand. "It's nice not to be the strangest person out for once. I appreciate it."
Mysterio makes a sound that resembles nothing so much as a snort without breath. "MY PLEASURE."
"Really," says Dmitri. After a pause, he looks back. His forehead creases slightly. "Do you have another name you use for ordinary people? You know, not so… mysterious." The last word lacks proper volume, but it's admittedly a flawless imitation otherwise.
"WHY," Mysterio retorts, "WOULD I BE ORDINARY WHEN I COULD BE TRUTHFUL?"
Dmitri scoffs quietly, rolls his eyes. "Honestly. Doesn't it embarrass you to say that in public?"
"MYSTERIO HAS LONG SINCE ABANDONED SUCH PETTY BURDENS."
"Fine," says Dmitri, then exhales. "But do you?"
For several moments, he hesitates.
Mysterio is a force, an unseen thing. He has no place taking center stage with other players. His purpose is to be a tool in the background, enabling something larger than himself.
He's always been a part in someone else's story. But with a bigger role, perhaps it's time for a different title.
"BECK."
Dmitri blinks. "Excuse me?"
"YOU CAN CALL ME BECK," he says quickly, "IF YOU PREFER."
Dmitri smiles.
"It's good to meet you, Beck."