You find it odd that the man who claims to hold the cadaver of an alien being—a Surgeon, whatever that might be—runs a diner in a quiet little town called Franconville. At Electra's urging, you instruct your team of agents to wait a minute or so up the road. You and she enter the diner alone.
The man behind the counter, Rufus Brooker, glances at the two of you with some curiosity. "Mr. ., Ms. Jones?" When Electra nods, he chases his few customers out the door. "Diner's closed until lunch, folks! Hygiene spot check!"
You and Electra sit at the counter, and Rufus pours you each a coffee. After a brief introduction he says, "So, you've tested the alien fragment I sent to Ms. Jones here, and you know I've got a bona fide alien, extraterrestrial, outer-space man. This is how I got him: I found him, pure and simple. I was out taking one of my nightlies—my nightly walks; I do that—and I happened across this shiny black fella, just writhing and squirming at the end of an alleyway, not far from here."
He pauses, takes a mouthful of coffee. You wait, wordlessly, for him to go on.
He does. "So, I go to help him before I really see what he is—but then, of course, when I get a bit closer, I step back, 'cause it's pretty disgusting. And he shouts out in pain, and he says, 'Those bastard longfinger Surgeons, they've got their filthy blood inside of me!' Or words to that effect. Then he dies. And I figure, a company like MetaHuman Incorporated—he pronounces it MeetaHuman—well, they're going to pay a lot of money to get their hands on something as strange as that. They are, or one of their competitors are, at any rate."
"That depends on what you've got," you say. "Tell me again, what's your price?"
Rufus takes a little square of paper from his shirt pocket, unfolds it, and slides it across the table toward you, facedown. You open it, and nearly spit out your coffee. It's an enormous amount. Yes, MetaHuman can afford it—but you'd notice the loss.
"That ain't all," says Rufus, with a crooked smile.
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