Seeker

[Michael Vellas]

A son. Dead, it seemed. So that was the man's connection to the Atharim. That was more than enough reason enough to hate them. He wondered if the American really thought him similar to his son. Surely not if he was a good kid. Perhaps it was for the best, in a way. His son would never have to become a killer, and his father's memories would remain sweet.

Talk of family drew Michael's thoughts to his own. He had not contacted them in a long while. Not since he had told them he was alive and well in Moscow nearly 3 years ago. The pain of separation had been replaced with purpose a long time ago. They were good parents and had given him fond memories but it was best they knew as little as possible.

He was not sure what the American was getting at exactly, but it seemed he wanted to discuss something further. Filling himself with more of the raging river of power, Michael spun nets of warding, pausing for a moment to focus. It was largely redundant, people were passing constantly, but he could find no pattern of an ambush, so he returned his attention to the American.

"Very well,"
he said, standing with the man.