Hunted|Haunted - Chapter 4 - Nexialist and Bond

— ...in any case, that's it. And I wanted to ask you for advice, or help, really. Because as of now I'm out of ideas.

Stanley finally finished laying out his problem, nursing his whiskey. Scotch. He never liked bourbon as far as Bond knew.

— Huh.

Elisabeth “Bond” Slackjaw thoughtfully hums, sipping her tea, considering. It's a good tea. Better than most of the cheap garbage they serve in this bar, at least. There's literally nothing that stops her from helping out an old friend, except for some caution she gained after years of living in Nario's criminal underbelly. She doesn't lose anything, hopefully, as Stanley always keeps his word and would never narc on her. But what can she gain?

— You want me to help, mate, but what can you give me in return?
— We knew each other well, don't we, Beth? We learned together, worked together.

Stanley smiles a lopsided smile. Then sighs. He looks exhausted.

— Look. I'll give you anything. Anything you ask. Anything you want. Any possible favour. Just... Please.

There's that familiar tinge of desperation in his eyes. Familiar to Bond herself. She'd seen it in her own eyes in the mirror for quite some time. Until those eyes became cold and angry. Until Beth's eyes became Bond's.

— Give me my life back.
— Hm...

Beth considers it. Really does. She, unfortunately, is not that smart. To help here, one would need to be on the level of a government agent, criminal mastermind or at least some kind of science genius. However...
At the next thought, Bond feels the corner of her mouth lift in a very, very slight smirk. She drinks her tea and puts the cup on the table, saying slowly and in a thoughtful tone.

— Well, I myself can't help your situation.

Seeing how Stanley frowns, she continues.

— However... I know one guy, who is exactly the kind of person you'd want to hire for this. If you are keeping your words as well as back then, I suppose I could arrange for a call.

Stanley nods quickly, relief evident on his face. He gestures with a hand over his mouth.

— My lips are sealed.

Bond smirks somewhat wider. Stanley might not rat her out, but it still can be a risky operation. Anything can become risky, of course, but she felt a weird degree of responsibility for the safety of the person, who she was about to page.

— Let's hope they are. Else, they will be welded together shortly.
— Whoa.

Stanley raises his free hand in a “hold up” gesture.

— Calm your horses. I of all people know that snitches get stitches.

…

His day begins with awakening from what seemed to be dreamless sleep. Very rough awakening. He wakes up in the dark, to a headache of the impossible magnitude. It takes him a minute to realise that he's in his hideout, and the loud noise he woke up from is someone calling him on the phone. His vision swims, so it takes him an arduous few seconds to reach for the phone and bring it closer to his eyes, hissing in pain as the light of the screen burns too brightly. When he finally registers who's calling him, he waits one more second, before finally answering the phone, putting it to his ear.

— You called at the fuck off AM, the person you try to reach is currently unavailable. You may leave a message after the signal. Beep.
— If you answered when you're fucking paged, I might have.

Bond sighs from the other side of the line. He has half a mind to cut her off and throw the phone into oblivion.

— Now, before you hang the phone, I wanted to say that this time I got a job for you.
— Mhm...

He blinks sleepily, thinking of dozens of reasons he can refuse anything she offers.

— Can your bartering wait for... Two hours? I was in the middle of my nap.
— You can get your beauty sleep later, this is both serious and pays well.

This would be interesting, really. If he wasn't tired as a working horse and didn't have migraine size "fuck".

— Also, someone's gonna owe you one for this.
— Everyone owes me something, this is nothing special...
— This one might interest and surprise you.
— Realy?

He chuckles a dry chuckle. Almost coughs, but is able to contain it. His throat feels sore. Damn it, he needs some tea... Or water…

— Does it pay beforehand too?
— Tell your price.
— First, tell what's the fucking job.

Fine. He'll hear it. But at first he needs to see if this is worth getting out of bed.

— Five words or less.
— Identity stolen from a hitman.

Wait what.

— And the bitch still lives?

His voice was raspy still, but he knew that Bond picked up on his incredulous tone.

— "The bitch" is still unknown and can't be traced. They are widely unpredictable and have stolen equipment to match the identity. But not the skills. And the customer wants their rep untarnished by the sloppy, random kills made by the thief.

Hm. Okay, it's definitely worth looking out for. He sighs, but sits in bed, stretching.

— Aight, gimme a minute, I'll call you back.
— We'll be waiting.
— I know, now fuck off.

He finally hangs up the phone and stands slowly to his bed. This phone's encrypted, so no need for throwing out the SIM. He just puts it on the table and goes to the bathroom. Quick cold shower, a shave – stubble is too itchy for his liking, and brushing the teeth. He tries not to look in the mirror, which shows his face even if he painted it three times over with spray paint and markers and Bond's lipstick and whatever, and it's just a chaotic mess of graffiti and hopes now. No matter what he does, he can still see his gaunt face with sharp features. Pale but still somewhat tan skin clings to his skull too tightly. Dark brown, devoid of life, eyes stare out of eye sockets at the world around him. He's not really sure if it's him hallucinating or if he just has a good memory.

Speaking of hallucinations, time to chew some meds. Because this light breeze of a touch on his shoulder is definitely a hallucination again. One of the more painful ones, too. He tries to ignore it as best as he can, opening the drawers and looking for something to ease his mind. Finds a bottle of pills and quickly scans the label on the bottle. Yeah, these will do. Else he'll have a meltdown and be no good.

He swallows two pills and forces them down his throat. Drinks the water straight from the tap, not bothering to get a cup. Refuses to acknowledge a silhouette in the corner of his vision as he turns to go towards the closet.
A few minutes later, he won't be bothered with that.

He turns on the computer on the way there. Fucker's the best he was able to buy, steal and otherwise find parts for, that's for sure, however it still takes its bloody time with all the audacity of a king. He sighs, muttering a swearword under his breath as he opens the wardrobe and stares inside, through it. He can't find it in himself to care what he wears today, actually... So, sweatpants, socks, a t-shirt and a hoodie – it's fucking freezing in this hellhole.

The mask he picks up from the table. It's a sleek metallic frame with neon lights attached to it – good for keeping his identity hidden. It also warps his voice well enough that it's unrecognisable, which is good too.

He puts the mask on. He ignores the silhouette in the corner of the room.
It isn't real. Isn't real.

Nexialist finally turns his phone on and, as he sits more comfortably in the chair, calls Bond back.

— Alright, mate, let's talk business.