From the lingering traces of Phobos’ influence to the ghoulish specters that arrived in Nevada with the discovery of Dissonance, Nexus City is filled with echoes of history that reverberate throughout the once sprawling metropolis, now home to nothing but squabbling hordes of bandits and Nexus Core personnel that were either cowed or brainwashed into serving a dead man. Tricky detests them all, but the Nexus idiots hold a special place in his hateful little heart by virtue of their shared history, so not a single thought is spared for the gaggle of agents he dispatches on his way to his old office.
Nostalgia is not the reason for his being here today, but he allows himself a moment to indulge in it regardless, soaking in the familiarity of the room while fondly recalling how freeing it had been to trash the place and disappear off the grid with a new name and a new purpose. His only regrets are that he did not do it sooner, and that he did not finish off more of his colleagues by the time he did. Not that it would have made much of a difference anyway, what with Nexus still churning out clones for their stupid battle against the equally stupid Mr. No-Jaw, who just so happens to be standing in the doorframe connecting his and Stacker’s old office.
“THE PRODIGAL SON RETURNS!!” From the walkway above, Tricky throws up his hands in a mock celebratory gesture, equal parts clown and ringmaster. “WHAT TOOK YOU SO LONG?! WERE YOU WAITING FOR ME TO ROLL OUT THE RED CARPET??” Cackling, he lurches forward and grips the railing, which rattles in his trembling hands. “ACTUALLY, FOR YOU, I JUST MIGHT!”
he remembers this place all too well, and for hank, that’s saying something.
it’s funny — he’s usually so quick, able to memorize an opponent’s moves and respond to them with very minimal exposure. such streamlined combat ability requires not only experience, but also intelligence, required both to store all that information in his head and use it to cook up the perfect counterplan in mere seconds. though it’s sometimes assumed that he’s a mindless killer, or that he has some sort of mental issue which has prevented him from learning to speak ... for the most part, no one questions hank’s cognitive abilities. no one who wouldn’t live to regret it, anyways.
it wasn’t always like that, though, and he knows this much. he’s forgotten a lot from when he was younger, and he’s not entirely sure whether it’s because of how repetitive it was and how easily it blended together, or if his psyche had made some deliberate effort to delete what he went through. it doesn’t particularly matter, though, so he elects not to think about it ... basically ever. unfortunately for hank, it matters now, and spending so long avoiding the pressing issue of where the fuck he came from ( as his teammates so often put it ) has rendered him unable to deal with the sudden confrontation of his past. this is where he came from, right here. it’s too clear now. he has missions and objectives like always, of course, but he keeps getting distracted just like hank wimbleton never would, caught up in his own head as he recalls things that he had spent so long repressing. he can’t remember what he’s supposed to be doing right now, for example, and he also can’t find it in himself to care.
after all, he remembers this spot, for as ... neglected as it may appear now. he remembers when he lost his jaw, and when he was starving, and when a desperate hunt for food lead him to what he’d so briefly thought was some sort of friend. he’s learned a lot since then, but can’t help but think back to it every once in a while: the first time he had been betrayed. he’d learned he couldn’t trust anyone — he still knows he can’t, but he still feels a pang of guilt as he remembers how violently he’d been forced to treat the first grunt who’d shown him any semblance of kindness. hank has done so much worse than that incident, both before and since, and he recalls now that the orderlies had done more than return the favor on hoffnar’s behalf. it’s been a long time. he’s sure that old scientist is long gone. despite all of this, hank still feels guilty, a feeling that lingers right up until a distraction snaps him back into the present.
hank turns his head to focus on the clown above, eyes narrowed behind red lenses. if he had two proper sets, he would grit them — but as it stands, he must suffice with clenching his hands into steady fists before he retrieves one of the many weapons presently on his person. he may be distracted, he may not feel like fighting to the death for no good reason other than how that’s what must be done; and yet, just like no excuse was good enough when he used to be trapped here, no excuse is good enough now. he wishes he could offer some sort of snarky response, a desire which haunts him consistently during interactions with certain enemies of his, the clown being a shining example of such. unfortunately, all he can do is growl and flip the guy off, about as far as he can go to show that he does not appreciate being taunted. yeah, hank, that’ll show him.
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