Part Five, or Blackjack and Typhlo Have A Serious Problem
Taking a last look at the room that had housed him for nearly eight months, Cyrus turned and closed the door behind him. It was the middle of winter, and although he was inside, the sensation of a chill went through him from a glimpse at the window, and he pulled his jacket tighter. The garment had been his uniform jacket, and one of his only possessions upon being committed. The G that marked it was gone, removed and discarded as a compromise and purging.
He had no need for Team Galactic now, he said, and meant it sincerely. Of course, that the lining of the jacket still contained a length of the Red Chain was his reason for saying so, but there was no need for anyone but himself to know that. In the meantime, he would play their game.
He was starting to enjoy it. The time he'd spent with Cynthia was freeing, even though she kept insisting he had no further responsibility but what she had hired him for. But she was right about one very important thing--he needed to know more about the world if he had any hope of recreating it. He had acted in haste back then.
"Should we go?" he asked her as she stood waiting by the nurses' station.
He had no need for Team Galactic now, he said, and meant it sincerely. Of course, that the lining of the jacket still contained a length of the Red Chain was his reason for saying so, but there was no need for anyone but himself to know that. In the meantime, he would play their game.
He was starting to enjoy it. The time he'd spent with Cynthia was freeing, even though she kept insisting he had no further responsibility but what she had hired him for. But she was right about one very important thing--he needed to know more about the world if he had any hope of recreating it. He had acted in haste back then.
"Should we go?" he asked her as she stood waiting by the nurses' station.