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The Wraith

Ten Years Ago

Agony.

Pure, blinding, mind-numbing agony. All of his senses were aflame, and they all said the same thing: He was in pain. Blood poured down his mouth and the open wound. There was a dull feeling to his sense of hearing that faded as he realized he was drowning out his own screams. He lifted a hand to the open wound, feeling nothing but blood and sinew. To make matters worse, his jaw felt as if it was threatening to fall apart. In hindsight, he would later recall that it, in fact, was falling apart, and would have had he not intervened as quickly as he did. Grabbing a needle and thread, he began to pull the torn flesh together. Each push of the needle, each pull of the thread hurt like hell, but he knew he had to do it.

When he was finished, he looked at his handiwork in the mirror. It would do for now, but when he got his hands on HIM, the man would pay. Dearly.

Present Day

Ben was dressed in a business suit, with a vest. He smirked at his image reflected from a nearby shop window, but winced at his scar. None of the five women he'd ever loved had even seen him shirtless, though they knew it was all scars from the neck down. The one on his mouth, inescapable in his civilian identity, was the only one he'd ever displayed merely because he couldn't show his face without it. Despite having been cleaned of blood, it still looked as disturbing as the night he'd received it, and thus, it needed a cover story as much as he. Though it was not the most....angry of his scars, he was proud of it, in a sense, given how skilled the man from whom he received it was. His pride for it, though, did not mean he would display it as proudly as a soldier did their medals.

Currently, he was on his way into the city, having just come from years abroad in London. Ben was in the airport, to be exact, and he had just come from baggage claims and was walking into the customs line. His suit was in his carryon, and as he rarely used weapons, he was cleared. Oddly though, he was pulled aside into the security booth by an abnormally tall, well built man in his late twenties. The man was the first to speak. "Hello Mr...Hoffman. Welcome to Greenfield, I just need to ask you a few questions."

Ben nodded, sizing up his tactical advantages as the man fired off his introduction in a clipped, well practiced, yet bored tone. He has the height, but he's favoring his left leg more so than his right. Target the knee first, bring him down to a more level field. The build is a little slimmer though, so he may be a more agile fighter. It continued like that even as he answered the man's questions, diverting at least 50% of his attention to combat analysis at all times. Then, it happened. The guard got up and gave a vague "I'm going to get some water." before getting up, faking to go to the door as he gripped the holster of his Glock. Ben reacted quickly, barely giving any time for thought as he gripped the hand, putting pressure on the web between thumb and pointer finger, to the point he drew blood. Yanking upward, he slipped easily into a thumblock which he used to segue into bouncing his adversary's head against the steel desk. Instantaneous loss of consciousness.

Walking out with his suitcase, he calmly slipped into the crowd and walked out the airport. The Wraith had come to Greenfield.

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