“He only needs us to deal with the red tape. In a fight you’re basically his gun caddy,” Archer said. “Keep your head down and keep handing him weapons. There’s nothing Franks can’t kill once he puts his mind to it. Plus, he’s like a tactical genius, but I figure that’s just because he’s been doing this for so long nothing really ever takes him by surprise.”

Grant leaned forward conspiratorially. “Franks killed a Great Old One.”

“That’s supposed to be impossible.” Strayhorn frowned, probably thinking back to his training. “You can’t kill a Great Old One.”

“He did have help,” Archer said.

“Pitt?” Grant snorted. “That jackass?”

“Well, him and Isaac Newton, but if anybody knows Franks well at this point it has to be Owen Pitt.” Archer looked back at Strayhorn. “Sorry. That’s a long story.”

Strayhorn seemed intrigued. “We’ve got a long flight. Look, I’ve heard Franks’ legends, every recruit has. He’s supposed to be like the most intimidating guy ever, but come on . . .”

“I once saw Franks beat a werewolf to death with its own arm. He was like that how come you keep hitting yourself bully from elementary school, but with more blood. Only Franks didn’t actually say that, because he’s one humorless motherfucker,” Radabaugh said. “If the Frankenstein origin story isn’t true, then it’s a pretty elaborate cover, because the real Franks is some sort of supernatural scary-ass killing machine.”

Now that they were telling stories, Grant didn’t want to be outdone. “I’ve seen them open him up for field surgery after he’d been injured. He’s got extra hearts, like a relay system, and he can turn them on and off as he needs them. He doesn’t have ribs like we do. It looks more like they stuck an armored vest inside his chest to keep his guts in place. I heard Franks even has extra brain tissue grafted along his spine, like backing up a hard drive, in case he gets his brains blown out. He might look like a man on the outside, but he’s not.”

“No kidding?” Strayhorn was nodding along. Even in an organization made up of professional liars, the others were just too earnest. Archer didn’t know what his introduction to monsters had been, but it must have been something good, because Franks’ story didn’t seem to shake him too badly. “So what’s he like as a person?”

“Person?” Archer snorted. “Don’t make that mistake. He’s the scariest thing you’ll ever see. Franks is like the definition of does not give a shit. He’s cold. He’s got extra hearts, but he doesn’t have a heart. There’s just something not right about him in the head. I mean he’s smart, and he’s freakishly rational, but he’s just not wired like a real person. When he looks at you it’s like he’s doing math. I don’t think he gets people either, or he does get us, but he doesn’t care. When you’re talking to him, you get this feeling that you’re talking to a fucking space alien wearing a human costume, and he’s just looking at you with his blank eyes the whole time, and you just know the only reason he doesn’t murder you is because you’re not worth the paperwork. . . . I’d call him a sociopath, but that’s too humanizing.” Archer realized that the other three were staring past him toward the ramp. “He’s here, isn’t he?”