Rime

(Continues from 217.)
The room was cold. In truth, he hardly felt it. He sat and rested, letting his body recover and breathe from the constriction of the armor, of the apparatus, of the mask. His breath frosted in the air, and the windows frosted at the edges – long fingers reaching and rising for each other. It was too warm for them to ever reach each other.
I, the doctor, watched him through the glass, typing away as I looked over the report. The wire transfer had been clean, prompt, and nearly impossible to trace. I traced it anyway, learning our employer's name and business. I had no intention of using it – one minor crime lord was no different to me from another, and no corporate office was much better. I learned simply because I needed to know – one trap sprung was one too many. I created my own traps and dead man's switches on the web and set my work to rest. This mission might be the last – no will and testament for the promising young doctor. I wasn't young anymore. I was out of promises. I had to make due with conditional vengeance.
I pressed the intercom button for my son's room, “How are you feeling?” I asked.
“Unharmed,” was the answer. The young man turned to look through the glass and nodded once – a habit he'd picked up from me. In the early years, he hardly moved. “There were no significant threats.”
“I see...” I took a note of it, turning my attention back to the screen. “What were your impressions of the Tiger's position skills? I'll need to consider how this impacts your rankings.”
“Class 2 General, maybe Class 3 Specialized in close combat. He was unable to visualize my direct harm, as per your projections. To rate his ability, the damage to the property was significant. He was...elevated, physically. The term?”
“Desperate, son. He was in a state of desperation, and rightly so.” My hands had paused, but the doctor in me forced himself to continue to write, to string together the recording with a fair analysis. The work was dry and distant, turning the brutal deaths into clean and efficient statistics. He was wiping away the sin and the pain of it. He was purifying the event, at least in my mind. It calmed me. “What was your impression of your performance, compared to your past missions?”
“Marginal improvement in response. Strength remains stable. Defenses remain stable. Speed marginally improved. I was cold.”
The doctor stopped and I felt myself return. “Son?” I tried to keep the surprise out of my voice. I kept the fear deep down. The guilt, perhaps he would hear. It was unlikely; my son was not empathetic. “Excuse me, repeat that?”
He responded. “I was...very cold. There was a 3 to 4 degree difference from the previous mission. It caused a degree of shivering, even within the armor's insulation. Father, it was...uncomfortable. Is that the word?”
I watched him, my computer momentarily forgotten. “And...describe discomfort to me, son. Can you do that?” Hope and the bare teeth of terror were crawling up my throat.
My son tilted his head slightly. The display was almost reptilian. Cold. He was always so cold. “Discomfort is a state of physical or emotional discontent, often caused by some internal or environment factor. Common sources of discomfort include hunger, thirst, pain, and emotional distress. Is that definition acceptable?”
I let out a soul-deep sigh and slumped in my seat. The fingers of frost were reaching closer, nearing the center of the glass. “...That's a good definition, son. Thank you. I'll note it in my report.” I turned off the intercom.
“Perhaps it's time for a stronger apparatus...I'm sorry, son, but we don't have the luxury for emotional...distress.” The doctor went back to his work. He had to prepare for this next mission. They had to be ready.
My son was coming home.
My son was speaking, but the doctor did not hear him. “Doctor...does the cold ache?”