LOG: Maverick - Day One, Late Evening

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There is a hole in David North's mind. Shaped like a Greek letter.



David North, tired and exhausted, rested his head against the mirror of the hotel bathroom. The scent of bleach invaded his nostrils, wafting from the tub where he was letting his clothes soak. He'd already scrubbed himself down, paranoid of contamination.

Contamination of what? Everything was a blur. Only if he relaxed and just let instinct take over would things come back into focus. Trying to think hurt. Don't think, act.

Jederman. Ermoedet jederman.

David's eyes snapped open, washed-out blue irises barely visible behind his wide-open pupils.

Kill everyone.

Of course. Standing order when your cover's blown, he reminded himself. Eliminate every contact, every risk. If that means yourself, so be it.

"I don't have any contacts," he mumbled, crouching naked on the tile, hands to his head. "I don't know my cover, I don't know my name..."

Arkady Russovich. The blonde albino. He knew. Knew his name, his address. Whatever block David's memories were held back by, Arkady was the key.

Reaching up to the sink, David turned the water on as hot as it would go, scrubbing his hands obsessively. Arkady was poison, he knew that. Had he breathed him in? No, the blood would already be seeping through his skin, he knew that. But there was something more to remember. Something about himself...

Looking up at the fogged mirror, David North pressed a fingertip, drawing a short horizontal line, then curving up, around, and down, then straight again.

Omega. The end.

His blurred face stared back at him from beyond that enigmatic Greek letter. There was another one, something else...

He reached out, crossing two lines over the omega. Chi. X.

Weapon X.

Slamming backwards into the wall as if hit by a linebacker, David rolled his eyes back in his head, moaning loudly. Everything was a blur again: the Stazi, the team, Moscow, Berlin, Tokyo, the feel of a pistol in his hand, his protective mask over his face as he felt the blood spray over his eyes, Arkady Rossovich, Omega Red, William Stryker, the program, oh god the program...

Logan. Find Logan.

Grabbing his tan suit, now bleached closer to a bone white, David mechanically blotted it with a towel, putting it on still damp. He needed to be moving.

His Initech access to the national Lexis/Nexis database would still be active, he could get to it from anywhere with a broadband internet connection. Eleven years of data processing as a cover would suddenly come in handy, he thought with a smile.

I was born Cristophe Nord, to a German father and a French mother. I am forty-three years old this year. I was - I am one of the finest counter-espionage agents the East German government has ever produced.

David blinked twice, the smell of the bleach fading as he walked out onto the city street. The pieces of the puzzle were beginning to fall into place, but he still couldn't see the big picture. But he knew that Logan could. The stocky Canadian was always the backstop for their missions, that much he remembered. Something went south, Logan got in touch with Stryker, they'd bring in the cleaners, everything would be okay.

Arkady Russovich was alive, and that meant something had gone seriously, seriously south. And if North was still alive after eleven years of deep post-hypnotic cover, that meant there was likely no program left. No more Weapon X. Nowhere to run.

He was a wild horse, loose from the herd. A maverick.

Logan would know where to run.