A swirl of light and a rush of air, and the pedestrians on the sidewalk were gawking at the tall blond man, dressed in ragged jeans and t-shirt, who had dropped out of the sky and was now walking casually into the Galleria. He wandered aimlessly, peering through store windows and at the brightly lit signs with a semi-curious gaze as he walked.

He put one hand into his frayed pants pocket, feeling the roll of bills that his "handler" had pressed into his hand when told he wanted to go out for some air. About 1000 dollars, Peter knew, which was about a twentieth of what the DeVries recruiter, a pleasant-faced man called Mike Dooley, would get as a bonus if he signed the English nova up to work for his agency. Peter's mind drifted as he wandered, remembering the conversation that had just taken place.

"Hey, no problem if you want to go out, Pete." Mike had said, smiling his million-dollar smile and clapping the larger man on the shoulder. "Here, get yourself some nice clothes, huh? On me. And see a movie, have something to eat. You've been locked up long enough without me doing it to you too, haven't ya big guy?"
Due to the tall nova's dreamlike state and his quiet, one-word approach to speech, Mike had taken the approach of handling him as though he was a bit slow, and it had worked. When he had got the call from an EMT contact about a big quiet nova found about 50 miles east of Houston, curled up and dying of malnutrition behind a gas station, Mike had pulled every trick in his large book of tricks to get to the nova first.
He had quickly assessed the nova as "not being all there" and had gentled him into coming to the Houston D.V. headquarters about 5 minutes before the Utopia rep had even got to the hospital. Five minutes searching of the news files on Mike's OpPhone as the nova wolfed down a huge meal had revealed the big guy to be Peter Nord, one of the first Novas to publicly erupt on N-Day, only to be shortly thereafter locked away for murder. Further research as the De Vries para-physicians poked and prodded the indifferent Mr Nord had turned up his prison records and his psych profile, which was currently being evaluated by the professionals at Praetoria. Short version, Dooley was happy to hear, was that ol' Pete was a big tough bastard and apparently rational. Seeing the dollar-signs before his eyes, almost able to taste that bonus, Dooley was a happy, happy man.

Peter didn't care about working as an Elite. He didn't care about NOT working as an Elite. He didn't particularly care about anything. But they had fed him and apparently wanted to help him to help them. He pondered this as he moved through the crowded mall. Dooley talked to him like he was a special needs student or something, but even that didn't raise more than a slight flicker of indignation in the back of Peter's mind.

He stopped outside a clothing store, looking at the clothes on display, but his eyes caught sight of a reflection in the window. Summer-blue eyes seemed to accuse him from under a ragged mop of blond hair, a short but unkempt golden beard on his chin completing the bum look, if bums came from Valhalla or Olympus.

Meeting the stare of those eyes, Peter felt a surge of anger and loss twist in his gut, the first real feeling he had experienced in ten years. He had subconsciously avoided mirrors in the prison. He struggled with himself, hands clenching as he resisted the urge to shatter the glass that mocked and accused him. Instead, he turned his back to the window and slumped down, sitting on the floor and resting his head back against the toughened glass storefront as his eyes filled with silent tears.

How long he sat like that, he didn't know. The murmurs of passers-by as they stared at the shabbily-dressed man were like stage-whispers to his heightened sense of hearing. His tears were exhausted now, as though wrung from the fabric of his soul, and he slowly got his legs underneath him and stood up, conscious of the looks he was getting.

"Excuse me, sir?" It was a guard, mall security, with one hand on his radio as he looked at Peter a trifle nervously. Wiping some stray tears from his face, the nova realised he felt sharper, more awake somehow, as though the tears had carried some of the poisonous lethargy with them as they trailed down his face.

"You can't sleep here, sir. Do you have a residence you can go to?" The guard's fear was rising as he took in some of the bum's features: clear skin under the grime, well-built, handsome beyond words despite his raggedy appearance. The guard was on the verge of freaking out as the big man ("Nova! His mind screamed at him) just looked at him, giving no reaction to his words. "Ah... do you want me to call Project Utopia or something?"

"No." At first, Peter thought he had thought that, but then he realised from the look on the guard's face that he had spoken. With a deliberate effort, he forced more words out. "I'm... fine. Just a little tired. I'm not going to cause any trouble for you. I just need to go in there and shop." He pointed at the clothing store.

The guard was uncertain, but the guy seemed different now, like the lights were on and someone had just gotten home. "Well... alright then." He backed away slowly, then turned and headed for the control center. Peter turned and walked into the store.

Thirty minutes later and he was back on the promenade, bags in hand. He hadn't changed into his new clothes, having caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror in the fitting rooms. A shower first. Reaching the street, he pulsed a command to his node and soared upwards, sparks of light dancing around his form as he headed back to the De Vries headquarters.

More than an hour later, showered and groomed, wearing clean new slacks and a short-sleeve shirt, the arguably more impressive Peter Nord was looking across the table at Mike Dooley, who fidgeted slightly under the cool blue gaze. Something had happened in the last couple of hours, Dooley surmised. The dummy had woken up. Or something. Now the recruitment officer was being appraised with a fierce intelligence behind that sapphire stare as he made his pitch. Now he felt no need to talk down to the large nova; quite the opposite.

"So, Mr Nord. We can offer you training in using your nova abilities to their best. We also offer you a variety of contract work to suit you. Your background is in bodyguarding, we found out. Well, we can give you work in that vein. You're photogenic, you got that accent, you could easily pass off for an escort rather than muscle, which sometimes folks want from their protective details." Dooley glanced at the prospective recruit, who regarded him expressionlessly. The beard was still there, but Peter no longer looked scruffy. Instead it made him look fierce, as if a Viking had shopped at Gap and was currently debating whether or not to pull out an axe and go to work. Mike went on with his pitch. "But there's a problem: it's not everyone that can afford a nova bodyguard. You might be awhile between contracts. If you'll agree to it, we can enter you into our Elite program with De Vries National Tactical Solutions. Once you pass through that training, you'll be ready to take on ANY job you damn well choose. More work equals more cold hard cash, and as a combat-trained Elite, you can write your own paycheck for civilian contracts like bodyguard work."

"How much will I earn?" Peter's voice was a low baritone, his large hands clasping behind his head as he looked straight into Mike's eyes. The recruiter smiled: once they started talking money, he was pretty sure they would go for it. No-one paid like De Vries.

"During initial training, a small stipend only. We'll feed you, cloth you and train you, and you'll get some money to spend on weekends. I think it's currently 1000 dollars a week. We consider it a small investment to keep our Elites happy, since they can make themselves and, let's be honest, us a lot more money once they get through boot camp." Mike started to wind up the sales pitch. "Pete, De Vries can give you a home, a job, and a brotherhood of guys ( and some girls) just like you. We won't tell you how to run your private life like Utopia do. We won't nanny you or make decisions for you like Utopia do. And anytime you want to leave us you can, unless you're in the middle of a contract. We won't hound you or blacken your name the way Utopia does to those that leave the Project. We're business people, and it's a GOOD business to be in, and we're the best IN the business. So what do you say?"

Peter Nord stood up and moved to the conference room window, looking out at the night sky as he pondered the offer. Dooley didn't hold his breath, though he felt like it as the blond nova stared for what seemed an eon at his reflection. Finally, Peter turned back to him and said the four little words Mike loved to hear:

"Where do I sign?"

((Continues to Mending ))