[u][b]Harmon Rottlage[/b][/u] --- [i]Wide awake, waiting like a target Listening for things I cannot see Insects flutter up against my window I don’t like the way they look at me[/i] --- Harmon’s just sitting there now, mouth agape, ‘staring’ at a screen full of flickering static. The television had long stopped showing anything that could hold his interest. He’s sitting there, on the end of the bed, wrapped in his blanket, watching static. He’s relaxed. Why would anyone disturb him? [i]He[/i] would. There’s a knock on the door. Harmon’s startled, and the television screen stutters and goes black. The light flickers but corrects itself. Harmon slowly rises from his bed and examines the door. More knocking. He can’t see whose outside – either they have no electronic devices with them, or they were protected by advanced anti-meta hardware. So… whoever they were… they were most likely NEST. Harmon picked up his camera, slowly made his way to the door, and reached for the handle. “Social services!” The door flies open with a kick, smacking Harmon in his head. He doubles back, falling onto the floor, against the nightstand. He scrambles for his camera, breath pounding through his lungs as he aims the camera at the hulking figure standing in his doorway. The man walks inside, his combat boots caressing the floor with each step. There’s this sense of gross pride to his walk that leaves Harmon all the more fearful. A tall, bulky man dressed in layers of warm, NEST-issued garbs, covered in a plated jacket. He’s fair-skinned with a shaved head, the light brown of his hair still peeking through around the top. His ears are large and pressed against his head a little. The rest of his features are… average. But his dark brown eyes are barely open, squinting gently, dead focused on Harmon. And his smile. His horrible, disingenuous, downright [i]perverted[/i] smile, that he [i]never[/i] dropped. “Harmon?” He says in a calm, playful, antagonizing tone. “Remember me?” He did this to Harmon every time he was assigned to “collect” him. Tested his memory, berated him when he couldn’t come up with the correct answer. Harmon tried to build up that little shred of memory of this man that was always left when they plucked his head clean, but… it was never enough. And thus, he was always at the man’s whim. This time, however, he would try. “Y-y-… yes…” Harmon mutters. “Yeah?” The man replies, “What’s my name then, H-H-Harmon?” The stutter is intentional, and mocking in tone. He had a tendency for that, [i]mocking[/i] people. Harmon mustered every shred of mental willpower he could and focused on the man’s name. “I-… I, G-…” He stutters, the man mouthing Harmon’s words along with him, still smiling, timing him. Harmon’s thoughts are rapid now, beaming from letter to letter. It’s… it’s something starting with an F, right? No, an S, there’s an S in there somewhere… “Fr-… Fri-fra-… Fr-“ Harmon says, trailing off as he desperately attempts to find the right letters, his fear beginning to overpower him. The man wasn’t having it, though. “Time’s up!” He calls out, before rearing one of his boots and kicking Harmon straight in his gut. He quickly brings his hands over the spot of impact, keeling over, dropping his camera on the floor. “It’s Frank, Harmon.” The man says, keeping up that god-awful smile. “[i]Saint[/i] Frank.” Harmon would have gotten it eventually, but Frank didn’t want to give him any glimmer of confidence. He knelt down and picked up the camera, examining it, aiming it downward at the poor, deranged meta-human. “Ah…” He says, turning, scanning the room with the device. “Any new home movies, Harmon?” Harmon, of course, didn’t respond. Frank aimed the camera at Harmon once again. He could see himself through the lens, still keeled over, clutching his gut. “Heh… really starting to disappoint me, buddy.” Frank says, before promptly tossing the camera against the wall, breaking it into a few assorted pieces. “Ņ͜͢͝O͏̸̀.̴̢̨́͝” The blinded Harmon calls out, his head shifting a little, attempting to get up off the floor. Frank promptly placed his boot on the meta-human’s shoulder and forced him back on the floor. Harmon’s on the verge of non-existent tears, now. He switches over to the television to see around the room, but all he can see is Frank standing over him while he’s on the floor, off-screen. “Want to know why I’m here, Harmon?” Frank questions softly. There is, of course, no response. Only short, fearful breaths. “There’s been some very unfortunate things happening around here lately. Shootouts, gold thefts, gangs picking up their paces… really bad stuff. And it’s all happening around Christmas of all times, now-“ He pressed his foot against Harmon’s back, making sure he was staying down. “You [i]know[/i] how I feel about metas breaking laws during my favorite holiday, right Harmon?” Again, no response. “Well, anyway…” Frank continues, “I was just minding my own business over at the NEST Base when one of my boys brings all of this up with me, and… well, I got to thinking. Who sees everything that happens in the Dead End? Who records everything in his head and leaves it ripe for the picking later?” He waited for a response, of which there were none. Again. He knelt down and got as close to Harmon’s head as he could before he quietly said to him, “[i]It’s you, buddy. My favorite pal.[/i]” He gently removes his boot from Harmon’s spine and grabs his left arm, hoisting him off the floor. “So, here’s the plan, Harmon. You… me… and two of my boys. We’re gonna take a ride down to the Base, and you’re gonna tell me anything [i]interesting[/i] that you’ve seen, or read, or heard lately. That sound like fun, buddy?” Harmon’s practically limp, letting Frank lead him out of the room. “C’mon, c’mon. Black Fall isn’t known for its candy-asses.” The agent says softly. He takes a split-circle device from his waist and clamps it around Harmon’s neck – a nullifying collar. His vision goes black, away from all the devices in his room. He feels a numbing sensation as Frank takes him across the upper walkway, like bags of sand slowly pressing against his head. “Snow’s beautiful in this afternoon light.” Franks says, “Wish you could see it.” They reach the stairs, which Frank promptly shoves Harmon down, confident that the snow would cushion his fall. It did, but… not too much. He lands on the bottom step, sprawled out on the ground. “Oh, no!” Frank calls out in a feigned manner, “You slipped.” Harmon doesn’t respond. Not because he’s afraid this time, now he’s unconscious. Frank descends the stairs and takes a quick look around. There’s no one else around the Motel, probably all huddled inside, waiting for this to be over. There’s a few people across the way, though. Watching. Judging, most likely, as well. Frank never cared, they could judge all they wanted. He was just having [i]too much fun[/i]. He reaches the bottom of the stairs and grabs the unconscious Harmon’s left leg, dragging him across the snow to the armored truck with two other NEST agents standing by for him. “Bet you wish it was that [i]lizard[/i] instead of me, huh?” He says mockingly. There’s a light trail of blood stemming from Harmon’s nostrils that quickly disappears under the snow. “Open her up, Jackson.” Frank calls out. The agent standing by the back of the van opens one of the doors to the containment section. Frank lifted Harmon up and tossed him into the back – a relatively easy feat given the poor thing’s measly weight. Jackson climbs in and props Harmon on the side bench. He sits on the opposite, rifle [i]needlessly[/i] at the ready. Frank shuts the door and adjourns to the passenger seat of the truck. “To the Base, Wills.” He says to the driver, nudging his shoulder. The agent nods and starts the vehicle. They’re off, into the night streets, headed out of the Dead End and towards the Arcadia Heights, all the way to the NEST Base. Frank left Harmon’s door open this time. Intentionally. Everything he’s gathered up to now is ripe for the taking.