Jimmy gets a promotion. It's just one of those days.
Late evening, September 30, 2008



He's called into Lindemann's office even before he's given the opportunity to have a fucking shower or change his clothes, and he can smell that rotten shit-for-brains Patton's brains (shit for brains, they smell bad, get it? HUR HUR.) on his skin, spattered on his clothes, and there's some vile, disgusting red stain on his stomach from where Patton's head (or what was left of it, HIGH FIVE THERE, ROBERT DOWNEY JUNIOR, YOU ARE THE MAN.) had lolled when Jimmy had dragged him out of that equally disgusting hotel room. Plus, the techs had taken like, 98% of his blood to save that asshole. Asshole. He gets to come back to life and I get to stand around like a wounded damsel with a fucking bruise under my wicked-ass tattoos. Fr srs. Do not want.

It also doesn't help that his German kind of sounds like an eel getting strangled by a mongoose or something, and if they think they can haul his skinny old ass in here after dealing with UGH and SPLOOSH and BRAINS, then Jimmy doesn't give a shit if he loafs in one of Lindemann's expensive chairs. Gore-be-damned.

"We've decided to promote you," Lindemann says, turning in his chair. "In light of the events of earlier today, as well as your special... ability," Which they have on record, documents and samples and DNA, what the fuck, right? "Myself and a few others have decided that you will take Herr Patton's position, now that he is... indisposed, so to speak."

"You mean, while his grey matter gathers itself back together, right?" Jimmy's words are stilted, badly accented, but he understands German better than he speaks it. He knows what's next, who's next. He's going to have to finish Patton's job. What the fuck.

Herr Doktor Lindemann slides a case across the desk to Jimmy. "Inside is your laptop, the files you will require, and a list of names. Your kit will be delivered to your loft shortly. If you could take care of this posthaste, we will make sure it was worth your while."

With that, Jimmy's dismissed to do whatever it is that he needs to do. And he needs a shower, some clean clothes, a beer. Many beers. "Danke," Jim mutters, ambling out of the office.

It's only after spending nearly an hour under blistering hot water that he slouches at his computer desk, flipping the iMac open to look at the tasks.

Robert John Downey Jr - intuitive knowledge
Jessica Marie Stam - aleuranthropy
William George Zane - telepathy
Robert Cory Bryar - pyrogenesis
Gerard Arthur Way - naga, inherent snakelike traits, constrictor
Franklin Anthony Iero - gorgon
Ryan Phillippe - adaptability
America Georgina Ferrera - weather control
Taylor Kitsch - kinetic energy

**The above are scheduled for immediate termination. Please see to it that this is taken care of. ~TL

Great. Killing people. He hasn't even finished unkilling stupid fucking Patton, and they're sending Jim after more people. He carefully shields his thoughts from Rebecka, wondering how the fuck he can get out of this mess. This wasn't what he signed up for. The first name on the list makes him stop. Maybe he can talk to Downey, or Phillippe. They're powerful, right? Maybe they have some kind of sooper-seekrit plan to take down these people who, at one point welcomed him, made him feel less like an anomaly, and now want him to turn around on his own kind (like they're some kind of neatokeen specimen, tarantulas or scorpions or something like that) and kill them. And he's sure that at least one of the people on this list would like to know that Patton's been unkilled. Hm. Where to start. Judging from the majority of the addresses on the shitlist, Jimmy thinks he'll start at the ground floor of Downey Enterprises and work his way up to the top.