Another standard stranded ground level operative.
Brown coat. Brown shoes. Brown hat.
Taps out a Lucky Strike. Fingers falter. Drops the cigarette in some filthy water. Fishes it out. Lights it. Does it all the time. Good tech in a lighter and wet stuff burns fine.
"I'm waiting for my contact," he mutters to the bar patron standing next to him on the sidewalk. The bar crowd bugs the hell out of him. "I hate when they insist on meeting in public."
Smokes the cigarette. Keeps the puddlewater vapors away from the edge of his esophagus and lungs, shuts down the filthy taste and smell at cortex level. Goes back into the bar. The bartender slides him another glass of rye. Doesn't pay. Stands motionless, arms folded, focuses on keeping at least a four foot buffer between himself and the drunk masses. After a while a man in a grey suit walks out of the throng and they stand face to face. Three looks him over. Well trained musculature. Very calm. Average height. Hair cut very well for his features. Certainly under 30.
"Secret Squirrel, right?" the man says.
Three returns a blank look.
"That's what this is, your costume, right? Secret Squirrel."
"Oh. Hm. Right."
"I had a couple favorite episodes," says the man in grey.
Three feels that faint tingle in his skull and realizes that he's about to be queried for passphrase. Feels the indignation.
"Yellow pinkie, five's a crowd." the young man offers amiably.
Three jabs his finger at the man's face. "I'm the one who should be confirming your identity like a dangerous paranoid," he hisses.
The man flinches, eyes flaring. He doesn't say anything.
Three sighs theatrically. "Uh. Submarine... rotations... What is it... predicate uncommon riptides." Looks pleadingly into the man in grey's eyes. "You're going to have to give me a break, man. They did a real number on my memory."
"Don't sweat it. Close enough." He glances right and left. "I hate when they insist on meeting in public."
"I want to go to the station next time," Three says.
"Not up to me, you know."
"You can tell whoever. What's the, what's the, why am I here?"
"We need you to assassinate someone. They said you'd know who."
Three frowns. "They said I would know? I don't - " he doubles over, howling in pain, presses the heel of his hand against his eye. Slowly rises back to his full height. "Okay. I know."
The man in grey bares his teeth. "That didn't look so pleasant."
"I want tech for this," Three hisses. "I'm not using my own equipment."
"I thought you might say that," the man says, "take this." He hands him what looks like a severely beat up Lenisker Corps issue pistol. Some neurotoxic flechette load. Whatever. "Just to warn you, that's going to probably detonate a few seconds after the kill's made."
"Stupid. Fine." Three snatches up the weapon. "I'm not doing this again."
He storms out the door.
Exactly twenty minutes later the contact finishes his beer and walks out of the bar. Three is standing there waiting for him.
"That's finished," he announces.
The man in grey stops short, looking a bit surprised. "Of course it is."
Three tosses the pistol back to its owner. "Had to disable the self-destruct circuit in the middle of the firefight," he says while it's in the air.
The contact catches it. "I, uh, I figured you wouldn't have a problem with that," he says, off-guard. He looks the weapon over, checks the chamber, holsters it.
"Yeah," Three grunts. Taps out a Lucky. Drops it in the puddle. Fishes it out and lights it. "You're, uh, listen, there's no way that you work for who you tried to make me think you work for. You think I could manually disable the auto-destruct circuit on a legitimate-" Shakes his head. "Moron. I hit the snooze button on that piece of junk. The Great Alarm'll never wake me up, bub."
The false contact looks down at his holster in shock as it explodes into neurotoxic shrapnel. It doesn't quite put him in two pieces.
"Well... I hope you weren't actually my contact."
Flicks the cigarette butt towards the twitching form. Walks away.