Vito slumped into the Mercedes passenger seat with a pained grunt, cradling his mangled arm against his chest. The adrenaline was wearing off, leaving behind a throbbing ache that made his teeth clench with every heartbeat.
"Christ, I hate fighting superhumans." he muttered, watching his bodyguard methodically strip off the damaged power armor through the rearview mirror. Sparks still cascaded intermittently from the gouged chest plate as the bodyguard gingerly powered it down. "Give me ten made men with guns any day over one freakshow."
His bodyguard slid into the driver's seat, now dressed in simple civilian clothes. The man's face was utterly unremarkable - the kind that would disappear in any crowd - but his movements held the controlled dynamism of someone used to violence.
"Can't be helped," the bodyguard said in accented English, his voice flat and professional. He started the engine and pulled away from the warehouse without any undue haste. "Sometimes the job requires it."
"Yeah, well, next time the Maggia wants to play games, they can hire someone else." Vito shifted in his seat, trying to find a position that didn't send bolts of pain through his arm. "This remind you of anything?"
The bodyguard was quiet for a long moment, navigating through traffic with mechanical precision. "Training instructor," he said finally. "Department X sent us a one-armed American to upgrade our hand to hand. Part of some interdepartment shuffling- we got his services for a few months, they got a favour from the GRU."
Vito quirked a eyebrow.
"An American teaching Russians in a GRU program?"
"Good teacher. Professional. Showed us some good tricks." The man's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "Same kind of helplessness when he demonstrated combat techniques. You could do everything right and he would still put you down in seconds."
Vito hummed to himself. "What happened to him?"
"Incident during training exercise. Something triggered him - maybe a phrase, maybe just bad timing." The bodyguard's tone remained neutral, but there was something sharper underneath. "Took six guards to subdue him. Never saw him after that."
He turned onto the highway with mechanical precision. "Happy to be out of the Dynamo program. Training was shit anyway - twenty cadets, no suits to practice with. I don't miss the food either. Cabbage soup and black bread for months at a time."
They drove in silence for several minutes before Vito spoke again. "So what you think of the kid?"
The bodyguard shrugged, merging onto the highway. "Has potential. Didn't freeze when things went bad." He paused. "Could use better aim."
"Think he's worth the investment?"
"Can't be helped," the man said, which seemed to be his standard response to most questions. "Time will tell."
Vito raised a eyebrow.
The bodyguard sighed and continued.
"If the kid could scrounge up some proper power armor for me with his skill at finding gear, that'd be nice. I'd have flattened that Cyclone svoloch in seconds with a proper suit. I only got to handle the Dynamo suit in the sims, but what a beauty. This Brand Corporation hackjob"—he jerked his head dismissively toward the trunk—"isn't a patch on it."
With that said, he lapsed back into silence.
Vito rolled his eyes. Getting more than five words at a time out of his bodyguard was like pulling teeth, but the man's professional assessment was usually sound.
Of course, leave it to his taciturn bodyguard to turn a conversation about professional evaluation into another bitching session about equipment. The man had exactly two modes: phlegmatic acceptance, and expressing his longing for high-end power armor.
The Mercedes purred on through the afternoon sun, the two men locked in their own private worlds