Sometimes, in the dead of night, Mitchell Hundred, when he was in the silent dark of his cabin, could actually speak candidly. Adrian Maskin was a front, and since the attempt from Edward, he pulled everything. No media appearances, no radio. No nothing. No net interviews. He had internet, of course, but that's because the area was wired for it, but he wasn't paying for it, he didn't have to. He just commanded it, of the machines, and the data opened and flowed.
He tried to remain untraceable. His old mansion, it was already on the market. He was here. He'd never left much of a trace, anyway. He'd cleared out what he could, burned the rest. Adrian Maskin had to be a ghost. He had to vanish.
So he did. Mitchell had gotten surgery again. He'd had to. People were looking for Adrian Maskin, not the man who looked somewhat like the ex-Mayor of the City, minus the eyes and the hair, and the odd scars. The only thing of Maskin left were his books, and he would not stop with the writing. Mitchell didn't like being threatened, he didn't abide by assassination attempts. He was used to this, although this is the first one he'd felt honest to god fucking fear for his life.
And in the woods of New York, the state, he tried his goddamned best to write, and not think about the attempt on his life. He thought about his enemies, Edward now among them, in the ranks with Pherson, was he even around anymore? He didn't know. He was glad he didn't know.
He dictated to the lone machine from his past sometimes. Cut off from the rest of the network, it had taken the role of his jetpack, and the old communicator from days long gone sat in the middle of his living room, silent, as if he were waiting for the old network to be reactivated.
open;
Sometimes, in the dead of night, Mitchell Hundred, when he was in the silent dark of his cabin, could actually speak candidly. Adrian Maskin was a front, and since the attempt from Edward, he pulled everything. No media appearances, no radio. No nothing. No net interviews. He had internet, of course, but that's because the area was wired for it, but he wasn't paying for it, he didn't have to. He just commanded it, of the machines, and the data opened and flowed.
He tried to remain untraceable. His old mansion, it was already on the market. He was here. He'd never left much of a trace, anyway. He'd cleared out what he could, burned the rest. Adrian Maskin had to be a ghost. He had to vanish.
So he did. Mitchell had gotten surgery again. He'd had to. People were looking for Adrian Maskin, not the man who looked somewhat like the ex-Mayor of the City, minus the eyes and the hair, and the odd scars. The only thing of Maskin left were his books, and he would not stop with the writing. Mitchell didn't like being threatened, he didn't abide by assassination attempts. He was used to this, although this is the first one he'd felt honest to god fucking fear for his life.
And in the woods of New York, the state, he tried his goddamned best to write, and not think about the attempt on his life. He thought about his enemies, Edward now among them, in the ranks with Pherson, was he even around anymore? He didn't know. He was glad he didn't know.
He dictated to the lone machine from his past sometimes. Cut off from the rest of the network, it had taken the role of his jetpack, and the old communicator from days long gone sat in the middle of his living room, silent, as if he were waiting for the old network to be reactivated.