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[color=67a383][s] G R E E N   A R R O W[/s][/color][/center]
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The dead man’s prison is a sterile building somewhere in the United States of America. He doesn’t know where exactly. The only reason he thinks it’s in the country is the commute; when his jailers come to lift him out of limbo to spread misery in their name, getting there, wherever it may be, never takes long. Always by air, always short, always somewhere in the United States. Logistically, it makes sense. But even then he can’t be sure. Dead men do not get the luxury of knowing. 

He’s been dead for three months now, and his jailer is back with another mission. The Rat, he calls him, for no reasons other than that he’s a small man and he hates him. The Rat walks into the small concrete square where the dead man spends most of his days and throws a file onto the desk. A single fluorescent tube casts harsh white light on them both. 

The Rat is dressed for a day at the office. Thick mustache, combed hair, cheap dress shirt and pants, leather shoes. His face is soft and bookish, but behind their large wire frame glasses, his eyes give him away. The dead man doesn’t have to look at the file he’s brought to know what’s inside. 

Ruined lives. Lives yet to be ruined.

Usually both.

“You know the drill,” says the Rat. “Time to roll.”

“What is it this time?” 

The dead man lies on the cheap, hard-as-brick single bed they’ve given him. Hands behind his head, ankles crossed, feet dangling over the edge. He doesn’t look at the Rat. Won’t give him the satisfaction.

“You’ll be happy to know that it’s all in that file there.”

“Yeah, well. Between reading and a messenger, I’ll take the messenger,” says the dead man, “So I can shoot him later.”

“Cute.”

The dead man ignores him, keeps staring at the ceiling. He knows what comes next.

“We’ve got another hunt for you,” says the Rat. “Hickville, West Virginia. Whole place went silent a few hours ago. No one can make contact with anyone inside; state troopers that went in aren’t responding, either. Satellite and air surveillance are turning up squat, ‘sides the town looking even worse than usual. Frankly, we’re going in blind—but state police requested Agency involvement on suspicion of meta activity, so, we’re getting involved.

“You’ll be going in with Poindexter. You’re to find out what’s happened and if a meta’s responsible. If it is, you bring them in. If not, you report back and we leave it to the locals. Any questions?”

The dead man uncrosses his ankles and stands. He takes his time walking over to the Rat. Towers over him. Doesn’t bother to hide his contempt.

“No.”

There’s no explanations, no one to blame—not yet. But three months he’s been dead. Three months, he’s been a pawn for the Agency. He’s done enough of their dirty work to know where this leads.

Ruined lives. Lives yet to be ruined.