It's quiet in here. So quiet that the only thing I can hear is the air hissing through my nostrils as I breathe in and out. Breathing is supposed to be soothing, I suppose -- all those swamis and zen masters and whatnot can spend hours or even days doing nothing else. It's supposed to bring enlightenment or inner peace or something. What a load of crap. I've been sitting here waiting, waiting, waiting for at least an hour now, and frankly, I'm bored. There's nothing to look at but the walls, and that's getting kind of tired, if you know what I mean. The least they could do is pipe in some music to this place. Maybe some Death Metal tunes, so I could get in the right mood to have my brains splattered in a thousand different directions. Too morbid, you say? Come on, people, I want my cancellation to have some style! Greg Hillinger's departure from the universe ought to be an event -- the kind of thing that people sit their grandkids on their knees and tell tales about while the kiddies gape in awe. Or would, if anyone ever got to have grandchildren around here. But no. No poignant soundtrack to my demise, no nothing. Just me, waiting in this frigid little room with nothing to do until they finally get around to sending someone in here. I'm hurt -- no, wounded, really -- that making sure I'm dead and gone isn't more of a priority for the powers that be. What, Housekeeping's on their lunch break? Of course, the problem might be that they don't know I'm still here. A certain someone was supposed to have taken care of it already. Yep, that's right -- Seymour Birkoff, dweeb extraordinaire, actually came in here to pull the trigger. I gotta say I was a little surprised -- I didn't think he even had the balls to look me in the eye, much less put a bullet in my skull. To be honest, I was even kinda impressed -- you know, the boy growing up to be a man, and all that. But then he disappointed me again, and reverted back to the hapless dork we all know he really is. Yeah, little Seymour had his big chance for revenge, and he ran away, like a little gray mouse. Squeak, squeak. Back to his comfy cage with the exercise wheel inside. That's all he'll ever be -- a teeny rodent in wire-framed glasses, whose only ambition is sneaking a little slice of cheese from the pantry when his owners aren't looking. What a loser. See, that's the difference between a nerd and a genius. A nerd is happy with what he has -- a genius reaches higher. Of course, sometimes when you reach too high you wind up falling on your butt -- but isn't that better than never even trying? Hell, yeah. Anyway, since Seymour turned into a quivering mass of chopped chicken liver, they're probably gonna send in one of those anonymous goons in black to do the deed. Or maybe if I'm lucky, the big Ops'll do it himself. Hey, I deserve that much respect, you know? After all, I did single-handedly make his life miserable. But I know him. He's petty. He's gonna let some nobody cancel me just to prove that I'm beneath him. Like I'm some first-year op still sucking on my thumb, instead of the brainiac who hacked into his precious Gemstone file. Ha. It amazes me that such a puffed up bag of hot air even got to be in charge of anything, but I guess it goes to show you the cream doesn't always rise to the top. Yeah, yeah, I'm mixing metaphors. Tell me something I don't know. It's my last few hours on the planet, so I'll mix all the metaphors I want. So�how the heck did I get here, doing the countdown to oblivion, you might ask? Well, that's a darned good question, kiddies. What it boils down to is this: Seymour was lucky. I was unlucky. Hey, don't laugh -- it happens to the best of us. Yeah, okay, so maybe he found the freaking Cardinal, and I found�well, Center. Oops. So I made a mistake. Big whoopdeedoo. I was busy, you know? Running Oversight's computers, eating a pineapple-anchovy pizza, and writing the proof for the Unified Field Theory, all while trimming my nails. I got distracted. Okay, okay, sending an alert to Red Cell wasn't the smoothest move in my repertoire, but how was I to know those morons would spill everything when they got captured? Aren't the chief bad guys supposed to resist interrogation, even a little? Jeeze, even the so-called terrorists are wusses. My little old grandmother with osteoporosis could have held out longer than that. Oh, well. So now I'm just moments away from being the late, great Greg Hillinger. Big fucking deal. Why would I want to get old, anyway? No one who gets old in this place has any fun at all. I mean, look at George, for crying out loud -- his sorry excuse for a life is beyond wretched. The man does nothing but obsess over being stabbed in the back by someone or other, when he isn't popping painkillers for his arthritis, that is. And then there's Operations and Madeline. Sheesh, those two are sick. Don't even get me started on that topic. Um, now, who else is old around here? Oh, yeah, Walter. You know, if someone short-circuited his power tools and fried that pony-tailed skeleton to a blackened pile of ash, it would be doing him a big favor. I mean, how pathetic is it when some old geezer thinks the chicks are hot for his Geritol-enhanced bod? It's like the Rolling Stones going on tour again -- the perfect argument for euthanasia. But back to me. I am my favorite topic, after all. Am I afraid to die? Naaaah. All prodigies peak early, anyway. Would I really want to be a balding fifty-year-old coasting on past glory while I twiddle my thumbs? No way. Live fast and die young, as they say. My only regret, really, is that no one around here truly appreciated me. George? He should be kissing my feet. Hell, I saved his wrinkled ass when old Opsy-boy had him nailed to the wall by his nut-sack, but now he won't give me the time of day. Seymour? He's got just enough brains to have a tiny inkling of what I can do, but the problem was he could never admit he'd met his better. Jealousy, jealousy, it's so unbecoming, even in geekboys. But besides those two, no one else had a freaking clue -- I operated on such a high level, it was like I was the only Homo Sapien in a cave full of Neanderthals. I was building integrated circuits while they were still beating on stumps with stone axes. The only one around here who was ever halfway decent to me was Nikita. It's pretty funny, actually, since I never did anything for her. Not that I minded -- in fact, I took advantage of her soft spot for me to save my skin whenever I could. Oh, wipe that disapproving expression off your faces -- like you would have done any differently. If someone inexplicably helps me, who am I to ask her why? Huh? The thing is, she tried to help me get out of this place. To go back home to my Mom. If I'd taken her -- and everyone else's -- warnings seriously, I might have lived long enough to see thirty. And Mom wouldn't have had to lose the only family she had left. You know, when I think about that part, this really sucks. Really. Fucking. Sucks. What? No, those aren't tears welling up in my eyes. It just looks like it. And no, my voice isn't choking up. I think there must be something in the air -- it's giving me an allergic reaction. I'm Greg Hillinger, after all, and I'm not afraid to die. I'm not, I tell you. You don't believe me? Yeah, well, fuck you. Hey, the door's finally opening! Who will it be? Drumroll, please�oh, look! It's Anonymous Goon #37! You know him -- he's the one with the broken nose, the protruding brow, and the big, hairy hands -- hands that are gripping a nice, shiny Glock right now. Damn, here I just gave him my friendliest grin, and it's like he's too stupid to reciprocate. Spoilsport. Ah, now he's aiming. At least we'll get this over with soon. Well, boys and girls, it's been real fun. Do I have any last words? Yeah, as a matter of fact, I do. Tell Seymour, if he hears funny noises when he's all alone in the middle of the night -- it's me, haunting his ass. Muahahahahahahaha. Later. Or maybe not.