Shawn Dunleavy stands before the white-haired boy with his hands clasped behind his back.
He's terrified, sure — Shawn's always terrified these days, what with the debtors — but more powerful than that is the crushing weight of relief. Finally. Finally, he's gotten through all the rounds of background checks and physical tests and puzzles. Finally, he's face to face with Near himself.
Do I have to kill him? he'd asked Mello.
No! Jesus. Mello had scowled. That's my job. You just stay there, play nice, and get me as much information as you can.
Okay, good, Shawn said. Because from your description, he kind of sounds like… a kid.
He's seventeen, Mello said huffily. And dangerous. Don't ever let your guard down.
Near certainly doesn't look seventeen. Shawn twists his fingers together. He's infiltrated plenty of departments before; he thinks he knows this structure already. America's best dogs of the state, running laps around some businessman who doesn't know jack about the real world. He'll be on his guard, sure, but he doesn't think Near will be the threat here.
"You've been accepted into the organization," Near tells him. "Congratulations."
"And as such, you'll be given a new name," Near says. "I'm sure Lidner has briefed you as much."
"Yes, sir." Conners had been renamed John McEnroe, for instance. Maybe Shawn would get a Henry? He'd been told that he looked Henry-like before.
"Hmm." Near tilts his head. "I think for you… What about Ill Ratt?"
"We all need to make sacrifices in this battle," Near informs him, raising the arm of the robot figure he's holding in one hand. "I'm sure you won't mind, Mr. Ratt."
Oh god. Oh god, he's figured Shawn out already. What the fuck kind of name is a sick rat?
"Yes sir," Shawn manages weakly.
"Excellent," Near says. "Please, head down the hallway in that direction. We have an instructional video set up."
Shawn turns. In the corner of his eye, just for a split second, he's sure he sees Near smirk.
Oh, Mello's going to kill him.
