“‘Oh, there’s no use in talking to him,’ said Alice desperately: ‘he’s perfectly idiotic!’”

- Alice's Adventures in Wonderland

Mercygiver stared at the man sitting across from him, debating whether or not to kill him.

On one hand, humanity would probably throw him some sort of parade if he did. It was, perhaps, the only thing Mercygiver could ever do which would secure him a permanent place among the angels.

But on the other… it seemed like it would be such a tremendous bother.

Mercygiver leaned back in his chair. “I think the problem here is that you seem to be under the mistaken belief that I’m still somehow open to being hired.” Mercygiver shook his head. “I’m the one who gives the orders now.”

“I’m not giving you orders, I’m merely informing you that I’m in the need of your services again.” The man replied, looking as bored as Mercygiver. “And you need my assistance in achieving your goals.”

“How so?”

“Because I’m the only man in town who knows where Multifarious is hiding, and who is also morally flexible enough to sell her out to you.” The man casually looked out the window, like this was a bother.

“So,” Mercygiver squinted at this unexpected offer, “I help you with your project, and you’ll help me with mine.” He summarized.

“Indeed.” The man nodded. “We have a long history of mutual cooperation. We’re both in the business of using non-powered people to take on our super-powered enemies. The way I see it, there’s no reason at all why we should have an issue between us.”

“Uh… Boss?” Mr. Jack didn’t seem at all excited about this business opportunity. “Not to tell you how to do your whole ‘crime syndicate’ thing, but…”

Mercygiver held up his hand, stopping Mr. Jack’s nonsense cold. “Very well.” He nodded. “I am open to such an arrangement. But what assurances do I have that this isn’t some kind of trap? ”

The man looked amused by that. “There is no benefit to me in doing such a thing. Your personal difficulties serve as a nice distraction to my other efforts. No matter which of you comes out on top, it really doesn’t affect my business at all.

” He steepled his fingers. “I typically let associates settle their own internal conflicts, particularly if I can’t use it to gain any real advantage.

You and I have worked together in the past, but I generally avoid her.

I find that she lacks imagination. And OCD is even worse. ”

“I’m going to kill her, you know.” Mercygiver told him bluntly, angered by his words for some reason.

The man shrugged disinterestedly. “A lot of people die in this city. Better her than someone I do care about. To be honest, I like you more anyway.”

“ You care about someone?” Mercygiver challenged. “Since when?”

“ I count as someone.” The man crossed his legs. “And I would be so terribly disappointed in myself if you killed me. I really expect better from myself than that.”

Mercygiver approached the window and looked out on the snowy street below him. “You a history fan, my friend?”

“Not really.”

“Do you know where the term "baker's dozen" originates?”

His guest all but rolled his eyes at that, looking bored. “I typically have bigger issues on my plate than obscure historical trivia, sadly.”

Rondel’s eyes narrowed, feeling like that was an insult. He immediately considered stabbing the man to death, right then and there. But didn’t.

For some reason, the words made him sad, but he didn’t know why.

Why did no one appreciate history anymore? Why was it so difficult to talk to people about these kinds of things? Was there no one who shared his interests?

It was very disheartening.

The world simply didn’t understand.

And Mercygiver had grown so tired of trying to make himself understood, that he recognized it was simply easier to make himself obeyed .

Christ… he was lonely.

Things were never perfect with her, obviously. But… but she had been there. To tease him and laugh at his jokes and…

He could at least talk to her. She’d been there to notice his little quirks and share his passions.

But all of that had been a lie.

She’d left him and he was all alone and he didn’t know how to deal with that. She had given him a home and a friend and someone who he thought loved him… and then she’d torn that away from him.

His new plan was to keep the woman around for a while, before finally killing her, just so he had someone to talk to. Granted, most of that “talking” would involve insults and brutal threats of sexual violence, but the basic idea was the same.

Mercygiver was a broken wreck of a man without her.

He’d make her pay dearly for that.

He stared down at the street, hating everyone. Hating the snow, and the cars, and the trees, and the fucking birds in those trees. He hated the cheerful Thanksgiving themed decorations, and the street signs, and all of the couples in love.

He hated every fucking thing he saw.

He wanted it all to die. To know the isolation and pain that he dealt with every fucking day, and then to die.

Miserable and alone.

He cleared the lump in his throat. “From the 13 th century.” Mercygiver informed the man, recognizing that the man didn’t care and wouldn’t understand the metaphor he was trying to make, but he was going to tell him anyway.

Because there was simply no one else around to listen.

“When a statute was instituted in England, which said that bakers who were found to have cheated customers by not giving them what was paid for or by selling bread with too many air pockets, could be subject to severe punishment, including having their hand cut off with an ax. Unsurprisingly, bakers decided that the best way to guard against this was to give people more than they paid for, just to make certain that no one could ever accuse them of not giving their customers the right amount of breadstuffs.” He paused.

“So, you order a dozen of something and they gave you the 12 you ordered, plus an extra one as insurance against you being unhappy and complaining to authorities, and then the baker losing his or her hands.

A ‘baker's dozen.’” He turned around to face the man, making his point.

“Think of that: unscrupulous bakers tried to rip someone off, and they got mutilated so horribly, that 800 years later, you still get an extra bagel, just so that it never happens again.”

They were both silent for a moment.

“People can’t let bad things go, especially when it gives them power.” The man summarized, deliberately missing the threat. “But that’s why our relationship is so magical: because we already dislike each other.”

“Very well.” Mercygiver nodded, seeing no real downside to the arrangement. “I think we can work together.” And if they couldn’t, he’d just kill him. Which would also be a benefit to Mercygiver, so win-win. “Where is she?”

“I still need her for one more part of my project.” The man assured him. “But as soon as the pieces are in place, I’ll let you spring the trap and you can do whatever you want to her, with my compliments.”

Mercygiver wasn’t happy about the delay, but saw no need to press the matter here.

There were other ways to get the information the man possessed.

Easier ways. Mercygiver wasn’t terribly good at waiting.

He’d work his way through the man’s underlings one by one until he got the woman’s whereabouts.

“And the job you need my assistance for?” Mercygiver asked, rather curious.

Montgomery Welles put his top hat back on his head, a slight smile forming on his twisted face. “I want you to blow up the Consortium’s base for me.”