He blinked a few times before he accually woke up. The buzz of the incandecent lights and the sting of the darts was still fresh with his sences. The room looked so plain, so metal, so... official. He thought he was dead but Duane Bannts was infact in the custody of the FBI and more officialy, the WUP, or the world united police, the highest governing body in the world as far as policing was concerned. A couple tugs of his arms allerted him that his arms were tied behind his back; and the chair he was sitting was less than comfortable.

His mind was throbing and the usually supressed glare of the incandecent light was even more extremely irritating to his eyes. He could feel it, his weapons had been taken away from him, so had his trench coat. He was in a tank-top and his pants, they pretty much patted him clean, he cursed to himself greatly as he struggled in the restraints. Whatever they were, they were obviously made for mutants because he couldnt exactally break himself out Being that he is not quite superhuman but definately stronger than any mortal man, that was quite the feat.

Looking around the room calmly he first noticed a mirror, which he obviously knew was a one sided window. Who know's who was looking at him from behind that wall, whoever they were .They were going to have hell to pay. He noticed three cameras, one above the door, and two in adjecent corners of the room. All watching him with their beaty mechanical eyes. He felt a deep stinging pain, the sedative was still wearing off, he couldn't exactally talk, and moving just made him feel weaker, so he decided to sit still for a bit. Maybe he'd figure things out if he was patient with it

Wondering just what the fuck was going on, he couldnt really hide the fact that he was indeed curious. He wasn't dead. When they tried to capture him they sedated him so they obviously took him somewhere. Those S.W.A.T members were assigned to capture and they obviously got their mark. He was one of the deadliest assassins on the planet and he was captured as if he was a stray dog running from the dog pound man. He felt almost humiliated, regardless of the fact that they caught him because of his own carelessness. He didnt know what he had planned and that was why he was most uncomfortable.

He continued to look around, there was a table off to his right. And then he blinked, one of the cameras twitched, his awareness was somewhat back because he was feeling that familiar paranoia he usually was accompanied by. It came naturally with a life of hunting people, for various reasons. It was like a mercenaries sixth sence, his awareness of his surroundings was almost something, like the force or telepathy or something. And his was going off, he had to get out of there, he didnt know what was going on, all he knew was that the S.W.A.T team definately finished their job.

He looked over as the door opened, a few men entered the room, one in a rather official millitary suit with numerous medals. Clearly this man had served the world in some way, shape or forum. The other two men that accompanied him were just two armed soliders. The man had a folder in his hand, he put it on the table and was staring at Duane. The man was obviously in his late 50's, he had the cold eyes of a veteran. And the cold stare of someone that had seen and done things that only his kind of person could imagine. The same kind of stare that Duane had.

He paced silently for a few moments. His steps echoed throughout the room. His two armed soliders stayed at the sides of the door, at attention, obviously just for insurance measures, but Duane was in no position to put up any kind of resistance given his current condition. The two men just kind of looked at eachother before the man who seemed to be a general or something spoke up. "I hope you know why you're here?"

Duane tried to talk, it wasn't very strong so making a point wouldnt really help matters. "Not exactally, I didnt really do anything."

The General laughed. "Dont even joke about that. Do you want me to read off the list?" He grabbed the folder and pulled off a rather thick stack of papers. "This, Mister Bannts, is just the crimes you've committed over the past 10 years. Ommiting any murders or such that we've had to sweep under the rug on your behalf."

Duane looked. "You're pinning me now for something I did 10 years ago?"

The general's rather good natured look became quite stone cold within a matter of moments, sitting on the table beside Duane he shook his head. "Its a fair bit more complicated than that. See Duane, as far as your friends, family and the public are concerned. You're six feet under. You died in that explosion of the team mutant x building."

Duane blinked "Bullshit!"

"Read this..." he pressed a button and Duane's hands were free in time for him to catch the newspaper, surely enough, his paper was in the obituaries. He was dead alright. He couldn't believe it. They faked his death... but why. "Why did you do this?"

The General stood up and nodded as he resumed pacing about the room. "Duane, let's cut the crap here. You have two options." He turned to Duane. "The world as you know it. Has its share of problems, as you know. But mutants aren't the only things that have grown in the past years. Werewolves, Vampires, Zombies, things that were so fucked up they were only supposed to be in the movies. They've emerged too... and the WUP had the problem under control. But we've lost so many men and the costs are becoming too high."

"So you want me to take the fall, and just die to make you guys look good?" Duane said with a snerk. Being a fallout boy was never on his resume.

"Not exactally... lets face it 'Kindred'. You're the best at what you do. You've lived this long. Evaded the authorities for this long. Hell you layed dormant for a good 6-7 years and still continued to do your job. You've got one hell of a resume going for you." The General spoke in a matter of fact tone, saying these things like he was reading statistics rather than giving praise.

Duane just smugly grinned. "Well, I dont like to brag..."

The General cut him off and continued, "Duane, we want you to head a division of the WUP, called "Operation: Smite" A division specially made of the best of the best. Soliders, Mercenaries, Mutants, a small group designed to take out these emerging new threats."

Duane blinked "What exactally is in it for me?"

The general smiled. "Well, its that, or you can go to one of our many high security prisons located in the deserts of africa. And spend the rest of your life being the bum buddy for some murderous tank of a mutant named Dougie."

Duane shook his head. It wasnt exactally like they were giving him much choise. "So you're blackmailing me to lead this suicide team of yours..."

The General shook his head. "Dont think of it as blackmail Duane, think of it more as, getting a second chance. We could put you away for life Duane. And we have the technology to make that life sentence really, really, long."

Duane sighed, he didnt like the options. "What's the catch then..."

The General nodded. "Another fantastic question. Well you see, you wont be allowed to talk to any of said friends or family, since they all think you're dead. Its within the publics best interest that you remain that way. You'll be required to get a, makeover of sorts."

Duane raised an eyebrow. "A makeover?"

"Yes, first of all you'll be required to cut off that hair of yours."

Duane shook his head right there. "You're not touching a fucking lock of my hair buddy..."

"Unless!" The general spoke up. "You want to sleep in a steel cot for the next 50 years of your life I suggest you listen. You'll be required to cut off your hair. You'll be given a tattoo, nothing too typical like a barcode or some sort of insignia, we do require however that the tattoo is a sleave that goes on your enitre arm. And we require that you have a certain chip put inside you, A locator chip that will simply let us know your location at all hours."

Duane didnt like the sound of this at all... "So let me get this strait. You're gonna turn me into some skin head, tattooed buffoon to lead your Zombie Smite Squad and you expect me to cut off the hair..." He looked simply relaxing in his uncomfortable chair. "Let me keep the hair, and its a deal. You want me as the leader obviously im more valuable to this 'program' then you're letting on."

The General would've had his retort except a man in a similar suit walked into the room. "General Lassiter, can I have a moment with you..."

The two rather uniformed men stepped out of the door and Duane smirked. "So... you two guys feel tough with your guns? With the worlds deadliest man in this room? Huh?" He stood up and made a gesture. The two guards drew their guns and pointed them at Duane. "Whoa! Im just joking around guys... chill."

"General Lassiter, we just recieved this... I figured since you were organizing this new division, you'd like to see this."

General Lassiter took the envelope, and slowly read the peice of paper, dropping it at the end with a look of surprise on his face. "Holy shit...."