Year 2035

Hank Burroughs both loved and hated his job.

He led a life that most would consider to be exciting, or at the very least intriguing. He perceived it as very boring. Imagine. He could have been in Africa right now, excavating ancient artifacts, if only he’d chosen archaeology as a major. Instead, he was currently stuck in New York City as a criminal psychologist.

Granted, he was one of the most successful and acclaimed criminal psychologists in the country, but at the end of the day, he was still a balding, overweight forty-something with a penchant for drinking and excessive swearing. Often he wondered if he was as dysfunctional as the people he treated.

That was impossible, of course. Lots of people were balding, overweight forty-somethings. Plenty of people had no social life. Then again, plenty of people were like his brother – married, wealthy businessman, good-looking, with a wonderful kid. Hank would be jealous if he didn’t dislike his brother so much. It wasn’t the huge apartment, or the compulsive spending, or the happy face John and his wife Maria plastered on during difficult times. He could live with those, especially when they offered to help him pay the rent every now and then.

His main issue lay with Leslie.

Leslie herself was not the problem. At fourteen years old, Hank’s niece seemed to have a far better grasp on life than her peers. She was incredibly smart (it seemed to run in the family), and her kindness wasn’t lost on anyone who met her – though she did pack quite a punch. The fact that they ignored her potential, passing her off to anyone who had the capacity to “put up with her,” made Hank’s insides boil.

Hell, she wasn’t annoying to be around; why the hell would they care? She kept to herself. Hank was perfectly content to let her loaf around his office every weekday after school. She read books, or chatted with the (rather attractive) receptionist, Gloria. Gloria, the redheaded wonder. Slyly, he leaned back in his chair and stared out at the receptionist’s desk, where he could see her typing away at some letter to the psychiatric ward at St. Vincent’s.

Today was Tuesday. Almost halfway through the week… not that it mattered. No doubt they'd have some government emergency on Saturday morning, totally ruining his weekend. Damn it. He'd been planning to go to that thing that that woman had invited him to. The woman from the convention. He'd had to wear a suit to that convention. A snort escaped him at the memory. He took a rather long sip of his coffee and glanced at Gloria once more.

Maybe I should call the lady and cancel…

The phone rang, and flinging up her hands in exasperation, Gloria answered it. He could see the color drain from her face, leaving every freckle apparent to his view. Frowning, Hank stood, hearing his joints pop in the process. He wandered over to the desk just in time to hear Gloria say, “Yes, sir. Yes, I’ll inform him; it’s my job. Thank you, sir. Goodbye.”

“I’m getting too old for this,” Hank said with a wince, hearing his back pop again as he raised his coffee mug to his lips.

“You just might be,” she replied, eyes wide as she gazed up at him. “Jennings is out.”

He choked violently, the hot fluid nearly coming out his nostrils. “What?”

“It gets worse.”

He blinked once, finally caught what she was implying, and then shook his head. “Shit no. After fifteen years? Shit no.”

She sighed, biting her lip in desperation. “You’re the only one, they said. Government orders. They’re bringing him over.”

“Two years in cryofreeze, Gloria. That’s standard sentence. Any more than that and they’re completely batshit; nothing I can do for them. He’s been in for fifteen. He’ll have to go to the loony bin.” He paused. “Besides, I’m supposed to go the prison.”

“Well, tell that to them,” she responded wryly, though her face was still pale. Her brow rose at the security footage. “They’re here.”

“Fucking hell,” he snapped, pulling at what little hair he had left. The elevator doors swung open, and he could see his patient (along with a multitude of security guards and police) approaching down the hall. Quickly, he asked, “Is Leslie coming today?”

“I was just about to call her at school and tell her not to come.”

He closed his eyes in relief. “Good. Wish me luck.”

Not many words could sum up Mordecai Jennings, but “monster” definitely fit the bill. He’d brutally slaughtered his victims with his bare hands, snapping their spines completely in half and stuffing them in their bedroom closets, their eyes and ears placed in their dead hands. Most of the victims of his rage had been people he’d known, or with whom he had had some kind of association.

He was huge. His 6’6”, 280-pound frame was secured by a straitjacket and chains, said chains held by three men almost as large as he was. Black hair fell into equally ebon eyes; eyes so cold and brutal that any sane person would flee at the mere sight of them. His last murder had been at age twenty-five. He still looked the age after cryofreeze, but considerably more gaunt and pale.

Cryofreeze had long since replaced the death penalty. The government, feeling it would be a more beneficial alternative, gave all of those convicted of first-degree murder a two-year sentence in cryofreeze. While it sounded painless enough, anyone who'd been in cryofreeze swore up and down that it was a fate worse than death. Shutting down all natural processes, from aging to metabolism, and unable to move or breathe, the victim was trapped in a kind of sadistic hell with only their thoughts to comfort them.

It caused more emotional trauma than healed, and Hank wasn’t fond of the system – but it was the system, and Hank tried to treat each patient with equal amounts of forbearance. Too bad Mordecai was a special case.

Damn it, he’d spent years treating people like Mordecai. He was a professional. There was no reason he couldn’t be perfectly civil and move on with his life after the escapade was over. Approaching them carefully, he said, “Mr. Jennings, I’m Hank Burroughs, your psychologist.”

Mordecai gazed down at him briefly before speaking, amusement lacing his voice. The sound, cracked and harsh from years without use, sent chills down Hank’s spine. “I’d shake your hand, Dr. Burroughs, but under the circumstances, you’ll have to forgive me.”

I’m a professional… my ass.