Agent Finds a Warrior

Glancing beyond them through the glass door Zora saw why. A man was dragging his way up the sidewalk and he was the picture of homelessness.

She guessed him to be in his mid-fifties, but he looked older, because of the characteristic hopelessness mirrored across his face and features. Admittedly he looked rough, his clothes were stained and tattered and his messy beard and greasy hair looked like they were the breeding ground for more than one objectionable entity of vermin, but that was no reason to turn him away.

The man had to push his own way in past the doors as the two doormen hovered to either side in extreme objection of attitude. One of the doormen quickly walked off, probably to get someone in authority to intercede.

The man's progress across the floor was painful to watch, as he dragged one leg behind him, even as he muttered unintelligibly to himself as his head jerked around as if it had a mind of its own. He was a clear picture of mental unstableness on one good leg.

He stank. It was bad and despite herself Zora felt herself start taking a step back along with the rest of the people in the foyer.

She hated bad smells like his, because they reminded her of too much of her past. The man was halfway across the foyer vestibule, when he started to hack on phlegm that seemed caught in his throat. He sounded as if he was choking to death!

Zora rushed to a water dispenser along one wall and poured a cup of it fast and hurried out to the man who was now down on one knee straining for his next breath.

"Here take this!" Zora said holding the water to his mouth, even as she tried to not breathe through her nose.

His eyes rose to hers and shock went through her as she thought projected, "Elon?"

"Pretty good disguise for thirty minutes of prep time don't you think?" He responded with by way of her thoughts.

"What's that smell?" Zora asked.

"Don't ask." Came Elon's reply.

He took the water from her and miraculously his throat cleared. He then pulled himself up with a grip on her hand looking to the world as an arthritic old man. He then started hobbling onward toward the sanctuary mumbling as he went. The cup fell from his hand and water sloshed onto the pristine marble floor, which he ignored as he left muddy imprints through the spilled water.

All of those gathered in the foyer pressed back as he made his way through them toward the sanctuary in a general attitude of disgust.