The click of the door's latch wasn't quite drowned out by the electronic chaos of Murdock's arcade game. The lanky man, kneeling on his bed and stretching his arms incredibly far over the footboard to reach the controls, crinkled his nose at the timing of it all; he was halfway through the last level, and now he'd have to start over from the beginning once again. Rather than argue about leaving, - he had been warned about the plan over the phone, after all, though it was a bit earlier than when Face had predicted - Murdock sent the tiny plane ramming into one of the game's walls while blowing raspberries. The characters and lights were replaced by the familiar 'Game Over' screen as he turned toward the doorway with a playfully pouting face.
"Took me three hours to get there, Faceman, and now my pilot's-"
How he hadn't looked over at his visitor until that moment, Murdock couldn't be certain - most likely his new medication, dulling his usually paranoid senses - but his childish expression dropped off as the spindly man in an ill-fitting suit, who certainly was not Templeton Peck, adjusted his cuffs and looked at Murdock with a professional coldness. Murdock straightened and stiffened, still kneeling on his bed, but suddenly ready to jump into action if need be. His room was tensely silent besides the subdued beeping and whirring of his video games against the far wall.
There were no nurses surrounding the man and firing frantic questions at him as they usually did with Face; in fact, the entire hallway seemed incredibly quiet - it should have been lunchtime, with dozens of patients tottering around and making as much noise as possible. Murdock began moving off the bed and into a standing position, slowly and deliberately keeping eye-contact with this uninvited stranger. There was a pause, neither of the two men moving, then with a casual, fluid motion, the light-haired man placed a hand into the folds of his suit jacket, searching for something. He got no farther than that before Murdock had a grip on his wrists tight enough to cut off the circulation, the pilot now close enough to just about bump noses with the stranger.
"Now, let's not try anythin' funny." Murdock's eyes were sharp, dark, and dangerous, competing with the newcomer's dull but intelligent green ones. The man's mouth was in a firm line until that move by Murdock; then it quirked into an entertained smirk.
"Robert Creery, CIA. At ease, Captain. I'm simply here to talk business."
Murdock released enough tension on Robert's right hand for him to flash the badge he had gone for in his jacket's inner pocket, showing he was in fact who he claimed to be, and the pilot grudgingly backed off, his hands shoved into his pockets frustratedly. Despite the loose slump of his shoulders and his blank expression as he stood rocking on his heels, Murdock was anything but relaxed or trusting of Creery simply because of his identification. The Vegas incident was still too fresh in his mind, crushing what little amount of trust he had continued to hold in the agency he served years before.
Silence scratched at Murdock's skin as the uninvited man sized the pilot up with a critical eye. The quiet unnerved him; as a resident of the VA hospital, he was used to constant sound from the other patients, often the shuffling of slippers on the linoleum in the hallway, mindless singing from those on antidepressants that day, or more often the sounds of people fighting back in the warzone they had returned from decades ago. Whatever authority this 'Robert Creery' had - and whatever portion of it he had decided to share with the nurses - it was enough to incite this chaotic institution into a quiet usually reserved for the dead.
This was an old CIA tactic, one that had been old even when Murdock had come into the Company on the bottom rung, but nonetheless effective; stay silent and let the target spill their guts before you opened your mouth. Murdock kept a steady gaze on the blonde man, his lips pursed slightly as he made his own inspection while waiting for the silence to be broken. Robert Creery was clearly a man who operated in the crowds and working class; his shoes were worn up to the front of the toe, a fine layer of dust on the laces. His suit pants were short, leaving his socks exposed around his ankles. In contrast, his cuffs were rolled up once and crudely pinned by his cufflinks, sending creases all the way up his sleeves - something that would have made Face's skin crawl and perhaps turn a light shade of green. Speaking of, his escape should have taken place two minutes ago. Where was Face?
"Quite the setup you have here, Captain. More like the military than they intended for crazy veterans, probably, but it suits your needs, doesn't it?"
Those green eyes were locked on Murdock's face now, but not his eyes; men like Creery, full of the Company's teaching, always looked at the entire face when they spoke to someone. It was so much easier to spot telling twitches that way. Murdock swiped his tongue over his front teeth and pulled a small smile that contrasted his cold, clipped tone. He didn't have time for games today; especially not with the Company's equivalent of a carrier pigeon.
"My contract's up, Bob. That's all ya need to tell your handler."
Murdock's smile stayed firm on his lips, but Creery, blocking the door, quirked an eyebrow and let his smile fade into his typical neutral expression. He fiddled with his cufflink again - Murdock began to question whether Creery was truly a working-class agent, or if his attire was brilliantly staged; the Company was obsessed with hiding the smallest detail that could expose them, even on a trip to the VA to talk to an unhinged resident.
"We need someone working independently from our operation. But, of course, our specific brand of training would be required for what we need done."
Creery took a smooth step forward, once again reaching into his inner jacket pocket; Murdock stiffened again, knowing exactly what the man was about to present him with.
The photograph smelled like fresh ink, most likely printed only hours before this meeting. The background was a grassy commons locked in by low and sprawling buildings; they reminded Murdock of the cookie-cutter capital buildings that were in every state, or the courthouses designed to impose a historic and elegant power on their surroundings. People in the typical tourist attire milled around in the background, but it was clear which figure was the subject of the picture: a man sitting at a table in the foreground, talking to what seemed to be a local news reporter. Everything about the man was sharp and polished, and his sunglasses obscured a large amount of his face; the most prominent feature left exposed was the man's wide mouth with thin, terse lips. His fingers were interlaced as he spoke to the woman sitting across from him, his shoulders stiffly pushed upward in a pose that spoke of a self-empowering monologue taking place.
"James Lester; you wanna take out one o' the most powerful lawyers in Virginia?"
Murdock's voice was taut with disbelief as he looked back up from the photograph that Creery was still holding out to him calmly. The CIA operative raised an eyebrow at Murdock's emotional reaction, but did not retract the image of the lawyer.
"It would be a relatively simple operation for someone of your skills, Captain." Creery spoke with what Murdock would almost label an eager tone. "Mr. Lester has recently given us reason to see him as an adversary of the CIA, and therefore an enemy of the State."
"But ya need someone who won't lead the FBI back to you if the 'relatively simple operation' didn't work out like you planned, right?" Murdock pulled his shoulders up and back, raising himself up to his full height, which was a good few inches taller than the agent in front of him. "What'd he do anyway? Catch whiff of some of the Company's secrets? 's about time someone caught on!"
With a quick motion, the pilot violently snatched the photograph from Creery's outstretched hand and crumpled it, relishing in the sound of new paper being twisted and distorted in his fist. The ball of paper was then shoved into his jacket's pocket as Murdock finally moved toward the door, anger pulling his facial features inward. The operative allowed Murdock to push past him and grab the door handle, jerking it open and revealing a startled Face, his hand raised to knock on the door that had just been thrown inward. The conman had large, trendy eyeglasses on that matched his vested outfit. The two friends blinked at one another in surprise for a moment, then Face's gaze shifted past Murdock to look at Creery, who was once again adjusting his cufflinks with a calm air. He glanced up from his fiddling and seemed to just notice the new man at the door, and so made his leave. A ruse, of course; he had probably picked up the sound of Face's designer shoes on the linoleum long before he reached the door.
"Nice speaking with you, Captain. We'll finish our conversation at a more convenient time." He brushed past Face and made eye-contact with Murdock once more as he turned the corner of the hall, his shoes clipping on the floor authoritatively.
"Murdock," Face spoke with the inflection of a reprimanding mother, "who in the hell was that?"
Murdock still had his hand on the door, gripping the handle like it was a gun. Career had let him get away far too easily; the Company always pressed until they got what they had come for. The tall man looked at his friend's inquiring face, and licked his lips before pulling them into a grimace.
"Mah new shrink; he was making his rounds to visit his patients and scope out their rooms. Guess he's one o' those new-age types that swear the angle of your bed makes ya nuts."
The two men both turned and began walking toward the main entrance in tandem, Face pulling an expression of empathic pain at the thought.
"New age, huh? That explains the state of his suit. Pucci would be rolling in his grave."
The front desk of the psychiatric building was unoccupied. Face sauntered past without pause; he had never been one to look a gift horse in the mouth. Murdock, on the other hand, stopped in his tracks and stared dumbly at the empty chair, unattended coffee mug, and idling computer. Helga was supposed to be on duty today, and that woman treated the VA like Fort Knox during a dragon raid; she would never leave her post of her own accord. In fact, the entire hallway was silent and still.
"Murdock," the conman was at his side now, a hand on his shoulder, "B.A. will have two fists with our names on them if we don't get going! We have a long ride ahead of us if we want to take that new job Hannibal found."
Murdock followed Face down the hall and out the door toward the waiting black and grey van in the corner of the parking lot. Obviously this job was time-sensitive; B.A. never came to pick him up if he had the choice, and Hannibal didn't like having the entire team in one easy-to-find location at the same time. Murdock threw one last look at the VA as he climbed inside the van and joined the rest of his friends, noting the snappy grey Pontiac pulling around to the far side of the building. When he was finally settled in his usual seat and the van began merging into the thick Los Angeles traffic, Hannibal lit his signature cigar and took a few deep drags before speaking.
"Alright, gentlemen, some scumbag lawyer has been taking money from people who can't afford it. A few of them talked to Mr. Lee and their story checked out, so it looks like we're going to Virginia to poke some holes in Mr. Lester's operation. You okay, Murdock?"
Face glanced at his lanky, and now very pale friend, then waved his hand dismissively and spoke up before the pilot could get enough air in his lungs to breathe, let alone answer.
"Murdock's new therapist was harassing him when I got there; something about changing the entire layout of his room."
Hannibal made a vague noise of understanding, nodding his head once as smoke billowed from his nose.
"Billy probably won't appreciate the change; dogs tend to be touchy about that. He'll adjust, Murdock."
B.A. grumbled as the subject of conversation turned to Murdock's invisible companion, trying to ignore the crazy man entirely. Murdock took a deep breath and pretended to pet Billy - he had left the dog back in his room to guard it from Company rats, but the team didn't need to know that - as he pulled a hopeful smile.
"Thanks, Hannibal."
The photograph in his jacket pocket felt as heavy as lead.