Orelov was grateful for his, mostly useless (in most situations), Quirk whenever he was up in the crow´s nest, behind a scope. His Quirk, "cushioned ribs" allowed him to take a pretty strong punch, maybe even a super-strong punch, without breaking his ribcage, but most importantly, it made lying down on hard surfaces comfortable. It had made him a successful hunter in his childhood, and when the war had started in Uzbekistan, it had made him a sniper for the rebels, one of the countless militias worldwide that called themselves the "Quirk Liberation Army". The real QLA had probably fought a hundred years back, and copycats had appeared in almost every shithole in the world ever since, firing up angry kids with Quirks to fight against whatever authority was around. He had his share of atrocities committed, his share of horrors witnessed, a full account of how a man can lose innocence and hope, and a complete lack of interest in making the world a better place. He had seen it all go to shit, had found that no cause was big enough for all, not fighting for "good" or "justice". So, he fought for money.
And at the moment the money was good. Good enough to buy whatever would keep him out of the present, away from the memories and the nightmares. Through his nose, up his vein or from a glass bottle, it didn't really matter much. Anyway, he was expected to concentrate on the job at hand. His boss was meeting the representatives of some other group and expected some trouble. Apparently, the boss had lost some contacts recently and that made him paranoid. Orelov didn't care much, the boss was the source of his orders, but he had someone above, going up an unknown number of levels, up to some shady shit. The boss was some sort of businessman on his day job, maybe even a CEO. Again, Orelov didn't give a shit. The job was to protect his ass in a meet on neutral ground, a rural estate in Pakistan, about an hour away from the port of Karachi.
The other group arrived on a military transport helicopter, escorted by two gunships, which circled around before allowing the main heli to land. The helicopters were marked with green camouflage and had red flags with swords on them on the doors. From the helicopter emerged an officer and a squad of commandos in heavy combat armour and submachineguns. The commandos had no apparent Quirks, and judging by the insignia they bore, Orelov knew why. The Mountain Brigade of Ndege Mweusi´s Hunter-Killer Regiment, perhaps the most ruthless group of Quirkless people on the planet. A broken skull with blood pouring from the eye sockets, within a black triangle, on a red background. The Hunter-Killer Regiment was five thousand men strong, and from those, the best, handpicked elite hundred, were the Mountain Brigade. The name itself wasn't particularly intimidating, perhaps something had been lost in translation. The crimes against humanity the group had committed put most of the horrors Orelov had witnessed to shame. The boss was dealing with scum of the worst kind.
The boss was understandably nervous. His own bodyguards were outnumbered. The businessman´s Quirk, the ability to find loopholes in accounting logs and opportunities in the stock market, would be very little defence against ice cold killers like the Mountain Brigade. Orelov was pretty much screwed if the African warlord´s men went violent. He might kill the entire squad with two magazines of his anti-materiel rifle, but the gunships could turn the crow's nest into dust. Or he could shoot the pilots and be killed from the ground by the commando squad.
Orelov looked through his scope at the meeting. He had no way to know what they were talking about, he had no skill at lip reading. The Mountain Brigade officer was confident as he approached the boss. He dwarfed the businessman by a foot and was twice as broad. Orelov put a bead on the officer´s head, just between the eyes. The boss gave the officer a folder with papers, some sort of blueprints. One of the commandos handed over a briefcase to one of the bodyguards. The bodyguard checked the contents; full of diamonds. The officer and the boss shook hands, the commando grasping it hard enough that the businessman´s hand looked broken. The officer gave a hand signal, waving his hand around an invisible axis, telling the men it was time to leave. Orelov sighed in relief. It was one thing to go to a shady deal expecting it to go wrong, and another thing entirely to do that with Ndege Mweusi´s best troops. The three helicopters left, and after a short wait, the boss called him down. They were heading for the airport, back to Singapore. Their own helicopter, a civilian model painted white and blue, was a few minutes away, to save them the trouble of going through the evening rush hour on Karachi. He allowed himself a smoke break before going down to join the others. The smooth menthol flavour was one of the only things worthy of being sober.
Taking a last puff, Orelov threw the cigarette butt on the tower´s concrete floor. He slung the rifle on his back and began to climb down the ladder on the tower´s outside wall. About half way down, he saw one of the perimeter guards join up the team around the boss. It was Ilyias, a merc from Chechnya, with a shielding Quirk on his left arm. Something about him seemed off, but the others didn't seem to notice. Orelov continued climbing down and saw Ilyias raise his left hand as he approached the boss. He was a bit too close to the boss, thought Orelov, as a wave of air was shot in his direction. Its strength was overwhelming, and he lost his hold on the ladder, falling the last three meters on his cushioned ribs. Getting back up, he saw Ilyias stab the boss with a knife. The Chechen threw himself to the floor as the bloodstain on the boss´ chest turned his white suit red and he collapsed. Another shockwave sent the rest of his guards flying off their feet. The first to get up, a young Japanese punk with a healing Quirk, named Josuke, tried shooting Ilyias down, but the Chechen melted away to reveal a short woman in a sneaking suit, who used her dagger to control Josuke´s rifle and direct it away before he could hit her. The assassin disarmed the young punk, using the knife as an extension of her arm. She flipped it over in her hand, to an icepick grip, and punched Josuke on the throat with the pommel.
Josuke was down, but Miklos and his twin Sebastos were on the assassin immediately, trying to use their bear claws against her. But the twins were lumbering and slow, and the assassin was lithe and nimble, and she cut at them precisely, the two falling down with little bloodloss.
Orelov aimed the anti-materiel rifle at the assassin´s centre mass. At this distance, he was unlikely to miss. The crosshair centred right above her heart. The assassin started to move, but she was too slow. There was movement on his left side, very fast, a blur of green. Orelov pulled the trigger, making the minute correction to the assassin´s trajectory. A meter away from the crosshairs, a man of medium height and athletic build held the assassin, bridal style. He was wearing a green jumpsuit with black and white highlights, with a few armour plates in some places. Judging from his face, he was a young adult, or maybe a teenager.
Orelov switched his aim instantly, the crosshair now on the teen´s chest. The kid raised his gloved right hand and flicked his finger at Orelov. The shockwave sent Orelov flying and made him miss, but he recovered quickly. Against such an opponent he had little hope of using long range attacks, so he switched on the spikes on his boots, anchoring him to the ground, took out his stun baton, and advanced. The teen gently lowered the assassin onto the ground and charged at him. Orelov had twenty years of experience brawling against men with defensive Quirks, like skin hardening, offensive Quirks, like arm spikes, and mutant types, and most long-range Quirk users weren't too challenging up close. This kid could manipulate the air, apparently, and with no distance to move the air he would have no chance!
Orelov attacked, deliberate strikes of the stun baton hitting his opponent on the arms and legs. The kid caught most blows with the armour on his suit, and the rest blocking with arms and legs. Then he got a bit closer, and kicked, his bright red shoes connecting with Orelov´s ribs. A normal human would have been incapacitated, this kid was damn strong. Orelov renewed his assault, meeting with more and more resistance. The kid used a swift kick to his kneecap to bring him down, an elbow to the back of the head, and a knee to the face. Orelov had taken beatings from actual bears, so it wasn't enough to kill him, but goddamn, he was not in a good way.
Behind, the assassin was fighting against Stavro´s shovel hands and Asa´s eye laser. It seemed she had the upper hand. Orelov got in closer to the kid in the green jumpsuit and used both hands to smash the stun baton on his head. It gave him an opening to slip on his brass knuckles and do a combination of jabs to the kidneys, an uppercut to the diaphragm and a hook to the left side of the face. The punches to the abdomen had little effect, but the punch to the face had some rather instant consequences: he found a knife stuck in his thigh, thrown by the assassin. She shouted in English "Don't fucking touch my Izu-Izu!" The kid, who apparently was named "Izu-Izu", used the moment of distraction to pull his arm back, energy glowing around him, and shout in a heavily accented English "Detroito Smash!" as he punched Orelov in the chest. The rural estate flew past him, and he was dragging along the highway, three hundred meters away. His clothes were torn, his limbs were too hurt to move, and the only thing that had saved him from dying was his padded ribs. He felt consciousness slip away and everything faded.
Orelov awoke on a hospital bed next to the twin mercs, Miklos and Sebastos. Bandages covered their arms, but they seemed mostly fine. A white-haired man in a non-descript dark suit sat beside the bed. "Ah, you´re finally awake, Mr. Orelov. You will be glad to hear that your contract hasn't expired, you have even been given a bonus, for, let us say…bravery on the field of battle. But I am sorry that you can´t spend it just yet, as the company needs you in Africa. Another of our executives is in peril as well, and your resolve gave us a good impression." "Well, what the fuck, then Africa it is." "Great, in that case allow us to speed up your recovery with some of our own staff." The man´s gaze made Orelov´s spine chill. If he didn't accept, he was sure he´d be offed faster than he could say "Nurse, help". And now there was no doubt, the company that hired him as a merc was very much tied to the web of some pretty big player. He had a hunch it was Pestilentia´s group, and that was pretty fucking unsettling. The creepy white-haired guy finally left. Orelov blinked as the light was turned on to the side, he looked that way and saw that he was in a completely different hospital now, and he was completely alone. A cold feeling ran down his spine. When a doctor and a pair of nurses came to check up on him, he saw that their eyes were completely dead, lifeless. Their words were mechanical, robotic. Their movements were unsettling. But they gave him medicine that would cure him, so he pushed the thoughts out of his mind. Sleep came easy that night, and the dreams were very vivid, he could remember all when he woke up the next day.
He had been in some sort of school, urged on to an office. The place was grey and drab, the architecture reminiscent of the Soviet buildings in Uzbekistan he had seen when he was young. A symbol on the staircase reminded him somehow of the Mountain Brigade, even if the shapes were different, the feel was the same. The office was well furnished, but dusty, abandoned. The heavy door closed behind him. The desk was bisected by glass, the type used in prison for visits. On the other side he could see a dark outline, a person, he couldn't tell if a man or woman. The shade motioned to the chair on his side. Orelov sat down. "You are just a pawn in a little game I have set up, your role to play is minimal. Don't worry your little brain with it all, I might just tell you everything in due time. Serve us well, Vasily Orelov, and you may live a life with no regrets." The voice was at the same time dangerous and comforting, alluring and revolting. The shadow dissolved into nothingness, and Orelov awoke. What a weird fucking dream, he thought.
A week later he was discharged from the hospital, cleared of all damage except for a few bruises. He didn't see any of the other mercs again but was scooped up by company men and put on a plane bound for South Africa. On arrival, he was met by a typical family man in khaki pants and a guayabera shirt. His new boss. Some sort of charity guy? The new boss had a firm handshake, an American accent, an easy laugh and seemed the kind of guy one would want as a neighbour. But there was a dangerous feel to his stare, even if his whole appearance was nothing but ordinary and reassuring. Orelov got on the four-wheel drive SUV the new boss motioned to, and they started a two-hour drive away from Pretoria, into the South African countryside. It was a pretty landscape, he admitted.
They finally made it to a small village, a campsite marked with "Helping Hands NGO" logos commanding the hillside to the north. Doctors and volunteers were all around, some staff members setting up a stand to deliver food to the villagers. They drove past that, and into the high fence of the campsite. Modern prefab buildings and state-of-the-art medical tents made up the camp, with a two-story structure at the centre, a big label saying "Lab 1" on the wall. The new boss walked him through the Lab building, to a small office filled with diplomas, photos and awards. "Please close the door behind you, Mr. Orelov."
Shutting the door and taking a seat, Orelov waited for his new employer to speak. "They told me you were the only survivor of the attack on the Singaporean. I need you to tell me all about it." He hadn't been the only survivor, the only casualty had been the boss, then again, maybe the assassin had finished off the rest in the hospital after he was moved. He told the philanthropist as much, who replied "Hmm, indeed. What about the attack itself?" "There were two perps, both young, a guy and the killer. I couldn't really concentrate on their faces or identifying them. The male had some sort of strength enhancing Quirk, the female some sort of disguise, she impersonated one of our own to stab the boss. Both are veteran fighters, even at their young age. They could have killed us plenty of times over, the kid´s punch in the end was no joke, I think he only punched me that hard because he knew it wouldn't kill me. And he was holding back."
"If they strike again, can you deal with them?" "Gimme a good hiding spot and I´ll kill ´em for you" "Good. I think they might be after me next. Fucking All for One, dead and still his revenge follows." "All for One? THAT guy?" Orelov knew about All for One, every criminal did. This boss had pissed of someone like THAT? "I was sure our partnership with end up wrong for me, so I acted first, and sent a hit squad of my best guys with the last delivery we made three years ago. It wasn't personal, just business, and my guys failed. They were probably horrifically killed. All for One called me and said it was business as usual, but he knew what I had done." Well, if anything, this philanthropist had balls. Bigger ones than his brain. "Boss, may I say that was fucking stupid?" "I know it was" "But didn't he die for real last year? Was that assassin still getting paid with her employer dead?" "I guess, Mr. Orelov. And thing is, I really don't want to die. I know I´m a huge scumbag, kidnapping kids with useful Quirks is a pretty direct path to hell, I´m sure. But I´d like to see my kids graduate, at least, so please help me." "I don't give a fuck about your sob story, boss, I just want cash for booze. So, don't worry, they won't get the jump on us this time."
A few days passed. Mosquitos were a fucking annoyance, and he was constantly taking meds against malaria, the water supply was pretty much non-existent, the locals were just as likely to beg him for money as to stab him in the back with a shard of glass, and the news were not good for this side of Africa. Ndege Mweusi was pushing south again, raiding parties of Hunter-Killer Regiment soldiers and militia groups alike burning their way through, paving the way for tanks, planes and helicopters. The US armed forces were engaging the warlord on all fronts, supported by the smaller militaries of Europe and Asia, professional Heroes and humanitarian groups helping the civilians where possible. Russia and China might have swayed the tide against Ndege Mweusi, but they were not willing to cooperate with the Americans; Chinese expeditionary forces had even taken cities from Americans instead of fighting the warlord´s troops. And the other mercs whispered about Ndege Mweusi acquiring new weapons. That had to be related to the documents his last boss had delivered to the Mountain Brigade. He hoped it wasn't nukes or biochemical weapons; that shit was nasty.
Sunsets in Africa almost made it worthwhile. He paused his lookout to see the sun go down. It made him want to sing about the circle of life. He would have to switch to night vision soon. An explosion a few kilometres away brought his eye to the scope. It seemed two gangs were clashing in the nearest village, angry teens throwing superpowers at each other. The light was fading fast, but it was still too bright for his night scope. Another explosion in the other village, a bit louder this time. Gunshots, more offensive Quirks, what could only be extremely loud cursing. It was well outside of the effective range of his rifle. The .75 calibre round might make it all the way, but not hit whatever he intended, and at the distance it was like firing a mortar. One of the doctors walked up to him, offering a cold water bottle. He didn't know the woman too well, but her smile was kind, and he was a bit thirsty, so he took the bottle. He took a long gulp of water and got back on the scope. He had a good shot on most windows, and the tents showed the shadows of the people within. The boss was sitting in his office, reading some papers. With the scope, he could read as well as if he had been there. "Mweusi takes another city from the Chinese PLA on push southwards" Keeping the boss´ window uncovered had been his idea, he could easily kill anyone approaching. And a .75 round would put down pretty much anyone.
He took another swig of the water bottle. With no running water, they depended almost entirely on bottles. Maybe if these people didn't kill children with Quirks out of fear and ignorance, a few could get together and fix their damn situation. He felt his right foot go a bit numb and kicked a bit to get some sensation back. Lying down for 24 hours straight was bound to make his legs cramp at least a bit, even with bathroom breaks. His left foot started feeling numb too, and his fingers started cramping. What the fuck was happening? Was this a stroke? He couldn't move his hands anymore! He kicked with his whole leg, trying to get himself to a kneeling position, get a doctor for first aid. Maybe the one that had given him the bottle was nearby, he could make it. His thoughts were panicked, he tried to concentrate and not think of his grandfather clutching at his chest when he died. He managed to get on a knee, his arms floppy at the sides. He tried to stand, put his leg gave way, making him fall on his back. The doctor was rushing his way to help, a medical bag on her hands. "Help! Help!" he managed to grunt. He didn't feel any pain on his chest, but he was too afraid to think about that. The female doctor knelt beside him, taking a syringe from the bag. Was it empty? "Here, here…" She slid the needle into his vein. It was a large needle, the kind used for blood samples…The doctor took his blood with the syringe. It was painful, Orelov had always been afraid of syringes. "Why?" he managed to ask? "Quirk stuff, I guess. I didn't think I´d say you here, so good to see you again!" her voice was young and energetic, at odds with her middle-aged face. She placed a cotton with rubbing alcohol on the vein and pulled out the syringe. She put on a band aid with a teddy bear on his arm, and then removed the needle from the syringe, putting it back in the bag. She then drank his blood. "What the fuck" Orelov managed to say. Before his eyes, the doctor was replaced by himself, as he had seen himself in the mirror a day ago. The scrubs the doctor had used had melted into his fatigues. He was pushed to the side, not feeling anything from the neck down, his voice caught in his throat. He watched himself take position at the anti-materiel rifle, aim, and shoot directly into the boss´ window. He heard yelling and panic. His doppelganger rubbed its shoulder "I think my Quirk wasn't that good at making the padded chest, friend! It hurt like a bitch!" His face melted away in dark grey goo, and instead of himself, he was face to face with the assassin. "Was good seeing ya again, friend! Toodles!" The assassin rushed into the camp, disappearing into the night behind a prefab module. In a few seconds, he was staring down the barrels of his team mate´s rifles. It was good that a bit of control was returning to his limbs, as he could raise his hands in surrender.
Anna Dobinek was very pleased with the results of her pair of assets. Invaluable intel on Ndege Mweusi, a briefcase full of diamonds, two targets down, and the only witness remaining used as a scapegoat, after a shady crew of criminals had killed the survivors of Toga and Midoriya´s first mission. The prime suspect was Pestilentia. Stellar work, the budget needed relatively low, and the operations completely deniable. She felt a bit of remorse now that she knew Midoriya a bit more, in case they would have to disavow him; the kid had a heart of gold, and she knew making him the scapegoat was pretty much a crime on itself. But so far, they had no reason to throw the pair under the boss.
Texas Red was pleased as well, his brainchild was working perfectly. He had told Anna that it was a bit of a competition between his project and the R&D Director´s, which was a bipedal tank they were readying for deployment against the forces of Ndege Mweusi. And so far, The Director had been most impressed by Texas Red´s project.
At the moment, they were taking back the teenagers to the Florida base on the jet. Toga had been extremely satisfied to end her posthumous mission with no extra collateral damage and had immediately fallen asleep after take-off. The real mission began now, Anna knew, and she thought the two deserved some rest. Midoriya was using the sat phone to call his mentor, All Might, and inform him the operation had been successful and they were both safe. Two weeks of operation. They would have some time for R&R and then deploy in Europe to follow on Pestilentia´s leads.
A bit of delay, result of the media coverup, obviously, surrounded the news broadcast of the first target´s death. The new headline was completely fabricated; "CEO of multinational company dies in a helicopter crash in Pakistan." The article went on to describe how the businessman had been on vacation in Karachi when his vehicle was caught by turbulence and fell. The only comments doubting the official story suspected terrorists or the Pakistani government. And one or two blaming aliens. Anna snorted at that. It was a bit too much, even in a world as weird as this.
Midoriya had finished the phone call, so he went back to the seat next to Toga. "Good call, kid?" she asked him. "Yeah! All Might and mom had a great time and got home okay, I told him all that I could about the mission." All Might was cleared by Texas Red, so they could trust him to keep quiet. "You should catch some sleep; the flight is rather long." South Africa to Florida, with a refuelling stop in Morocco, all while avoiding the no-fly zone above Ndege Mweusi´s lands.
She checked on the rest of the personnel on the plane: Flight Plan, Anderson, and the pilot. The pilot was doing some routine checks, Flight Plan was reviewing some intel, Anderson was asleep with a facemask on, so strong scents wouldn't wake her up. Her fellow agent was a light sleeper, so it helped her get at least a bit of shut eye. Anna could empathize, her night vision had screwed up her sleep cycle since childhood and she appreciated the opportunity for uninterrupted sleep when possible.
Using her laptop, she checked the status on the rest of the team. Led by Csaba, the team were performing some long-range recon in the Ukrainian border, following a lead by an informer in a local militia. Apparently, the militia had been hired to move a large package by truck and were moving it south in an armoured convoy.
While Midoriya and Toga had hunted down their targets, the team had tracked down the convoy, watched it closely, and even managed to get inside the militia camp one night. Their latest update confirmed it was some kind of bomb, but it emitted no radiation, so at least it wasn't a nuke. The infiltration team had acquired the manifest, and it had originated in a Russian factory, abandoned twenty years earlier. It was the biggest proof of Pestilentia moving his shadow hand they had ever gotten. A short break and then once more into the breach, it seemed. Csaba reported he would keep shadowing the bomb and disable it if possible before it reached its destination. Anna was quite pleased with how well her team was performing, even without her leading them.
Girolamo Nazzaro was very used to waiting. His line of work had him travelling all over the world, and one can´t be impatient at a plane travelling full speed across the ocean. He was, however, not in the habit of being kept waiting by self-important bureaucrats, receptionists, or waiters. This particular waiter had taken fifteen minutes to even start approaching to take his order. Nazzaro had almost left the restaurant. He wasn't meeting any contact tonight and had no reason to stay and be insulted in this manner. "Just give me one of these." Nazzaro said, pointing at the menu. He wasn't about to validate the sad excuse of a waiter with another word in his language. His Quirk may allow him to learn any language on the planet in matter of minutes, but that didn't mean he liked the nasal tones of this foreign tongue. Romance languages flowed freely through his lips, but some dialects just left a bad aftertaste.
The waiter left, muttering some derogatory remark about Nazzaro. If the waiter spat on the food, his family might just have a series of cruel accidents. Nazzaro took a deep breath, adjusted a lock of long, white hair that had fallen in front of his eyes, putting the lock behind his ear. He reached into his briefcase, taking out a leather-bound novel, Moby Dick by Herman Melville. It might be the fourth or fifth time he had read this novel, it felt like an old friend, in a way. He managed to read a few pages, before his phone rang. It was the Ukrainian contact, Zadornov. "Nazzaro here. Speak." "The box is two days away. All good here." "Good, then I can enjoy my dinner with peace of mine. Good day to you, Vladimir." He hung up the phone. Every contact on it was an underling; as Pestilentia´s second in command, they all answered to him first. If the boss contacted him, it was through different, more secure means.
Just two days ago, the boss had asked for a face-to-face meeting. Nazzaro hadn't seen Pestilentia in person in a year, and that had been an emergency meeting after All for One, their ally and partner, had been killed in battle. So, it had to be important.
His food arrived with little delay, redeeming the restaurant in his eyes ever so slightly. The quality wasn't perfect, but it would do. He left quickly, meeting his driver at the entrance and leaving for the hotel. At midnight he would depart to St. Petersburg, to meet the boss, and a comfortable bed before wouldn't hurt.
The journey itself was uneventful, as thousands of other trips had been in the fifteen years he had worked for Pestilentia. Thinking about the years made him realize his birthday would be soon; a good time to visit mamma and the rest of the family back in Napoli. A proper plate of pasta would always soothe his soul and give him energy for another year of running the underworld. The driver´s third eye was wide open to drive in the dark, the extra photoreceptors enhancing his view and hand-eye coordination. A non-descript town house in the outskirts was their destination. Arriving just before dawn, Nazzaro ordered the driver to wait and got off the car. The house had started its life during the reign of the Tsars, then turned into government property for the Soviets, and after the beginning of Quirks and the Cold War had become privately owned again. The architecture was grand and imposing, and the old KGB sigil still adorned some parts of the structure, as did the family crest of the Krasnov family.
The guard outside the door let him in, and a butler escorted him to the study. The room was extremely old fashioned, elegant, and most inviting. Sitting on a mighty armchair was a clean-shaven, grey-haired man of average build, with a refined nose, strict eyebrows, and piercing eyes behind sleek glasses. He had a ledger in his hands, the lamp behind him casting shadows across him. The only thing that hinted at the man having a Quirk was the red colour of his eyes.
"There you are, Girolamo. I trust you are well?" "Yes, sir." "Good. Now, I called you here for a reason, as you know. Care to take a guess?" "The girl murdering our business partners and lackeys?" "Indeed. Very perceptive, that is why you climbed so high. I´m afraid I had to let those murders happen, any attempt to protect the dead would have only caused more setbacks. As you can see, our plans still move along smoothly anyway. So, allow me to explain who exactly we are dealing with." He showed Nazzaro the ledger, it had photos of a blonde-haired girl at various stages of childhood. And a recent digital picture, clipped on to the page, showing the same girl, now a teenager, among All for One´s League of Villains. "These days she goes by "Himiko Toga". The dead were people who had fucked with All for One at some point. She was made a sleeper agent for the League and activated by All for One. Why don't you fetch us some drinks, and I tell you the whole story, put your mind at ease about the situation?" Nazzaro nodded, and walked over to the kitchen, asking for a bottle of the boss´s favourite and two glasses.
"In my old age I have gotten chatty, Nazzaro. I fear I may even become one of the monologuing villains in time. Anyhow, here´s the whole story behind this…"