Served Cold

Standard disclaimer applies; not my characters or settings or backgrounds. But they are my words.


Morden waited patiently. He was very good at waiting. His associates had been in contact; pressure had been brought to bear. Eventually he would be on his way again; alive, powerful, a player in the great game.

He was a happy man, that was what that Centauri lackey of Londo's didn't seem to understand. Morden had gotten what he wanted. Now all he was trying to do was to help others; help them understand what they wanted, and help them take it. Briefly, he considered trying to turn the new Security officer in charge. The idiot probably only wanted a hot meal and a cold beer. There wasn't much to work with there.

Sheridan didn't understand either. For a moment his smile slipped as he thought of the human Captain who held him prisoner. The man clearly wasn't sane. Obsession like that was so unhealthy. Sheridan wasn't a big picture type of person, though perhaps he could be taught. Morden shrugged. It wasn't up to him. What mattered was that he would soon be free to continue his appointed tasks. Glancing side to side, he discreetly reached out to his associates. It was reassuring to feel their mental presence. Conferring silently with his two watchers, they briefly flickered in and out of his peripheral vision. He was never alone, even when they could not actually be with him in the flesh. They had made sure of that.

Ancient and wise, shrewdly pragmatic, they understood the new situation immediately. Sheridan would regret this little venture. He was becoming a problem, and problems existed to be solved. Luckily one possible remedy was now apparent. A faint sheen of perspiration appeared on Morden's elegantly curved upper lip, but still he smiled.

He wondered if those implants hurt as much coming out as they did going in.