Arlington Cemetery, 7:00 PM
Klaus von Lichter, heir the the dread name of Count Untergang, glanced down at his handheld computer, noting the time while he waited for his contacts to arrive. His father's own hood, that of his father before him, clung snugly to his face, white lenses concealing his alert eyes. Upon his body was a black combat harness, and underneath, the soft magenta uniform that could save him from any bullet, blade, or dart. Every so often, his phone would vibrate within his pocket, giving him the coordinates of his family's prized, deadly heirloom.
38.9517° N, 77.1467° W. The CIA.
His face fell once again, disappointed that his prize hadn't been moved.
Truth be told, Klaus bore no ill will towards the Central Intelligence Agency. It was possible that they had murdered his father, but he'd been inclined to doubt that. It would take more than what they had to offer in order to kill Otto von Lichter, he was sure of that much. However, what did concern him was the fact that they'd clearly acquired something that should belong to him, and him alone.
When he reached the age of six, he'd become acutely aware of his father's illegal activities. Even more fascinating was the manner in which he went about performing them, donning the family's purple hood and publicly matching his own intellect against that of various adventurers, challengers of his madness and power. As it stood, Klaus respected said adventurers far more than his sinister relative, but one aspect of his own father's escapades had consistently mystified, horrified, and impressed him in equal measure.
His father had in his possession what could only be described as a Death Ray.
Said weapon was truly terrifying to behold, as young Klaus had on several occasions. It had multiple settings, each displaying varying degrees of power output. As of yet, he'd had little idea of how the thing actually worked; he was unable to tell whether it projected intense heat, or if it actually disintegrated its target through sheer concussive force. He'd seen it used more than once, sometimes on an inanimate target, other times on a living, breathing human being.
Was it traumatic? Absolutely. Did he hate the weapon? Yes. But that didn't change the fact that he needed the thing back. It would only be a matter of time before the CIA managed to crack the genetic encryption that prevented it from being used by anyone but his dear father, and while it was true that they had other weapons of destruction (in fact, they would likely be far more efficient than a simple laser gun), the fact of the matter was that Klaus had no desire to see his own father's specific design used for murder.
And to that end, he'd need to track it down. That part had been easy; included alongside the family's traditional rapier and his father's last letter was the code needed to lock on to the Ray's tracking device. He'd merely entered the fifty-digit code into his phone, and it'd locked on instantly to the weapon's location. He was planning on coming to America anyhow, so stopping by to pick it up from wherever his father had stashed it seemed like a walk in the castle courtyard.
Imagine, for a second, the look of dismay upon his face when he identified the specific location of the device. He had been lounging in his seat aboard a Boeing 787, regular clothes overtop his ever-present protective uniform. The stewardesses and passengers alike walked by him, oblivious to his criminal ties, to his unique upbringing; but to him, the world stopped as he realized that there would be no way he could retrieve the Ray alone. Images of it being used widespread flashed throughout his mind.
After the dramatic sinking feeling in his stomach had passed, he'd taken the time to come up with a plan. He leaned his head backwards, took deep breaths, and opened up one of his father's many journals. Placing his earbuds in his ears, he pored over the small, leather-bound novella, flipping through the hand-bound pages until he came to the chapter regarding a particularly famous league of assassins.
Painstakingly translating the words onto a napkin, he deciphered the Middle Eastern text, closing the book with a satisfied thump and leaning back in his seat once more. Ripping up the napkin, he'd disembarked as naturally as any other passenger at landing, collecting his luggage and leaving Dulles Airport to explore Washington DC.
Now, one week later, he'd finally manged to contact what seemed to be the actual League of Shadows. Ordinarily, the cemetery was never undefended, and always under the heaviest of surveillance, but his contacts had assured him that being detected would not be an issue. Their connections were uncanny, their powers seemingly limitless; while he appeared calm, he was truly intimidated. Within his action-oriented uniform, he kept a firm grip on the Gottschwert, his signature sword, the one that had supposedly been passed down for generations. The blade itself was retracted, but with his grip on the hilt, Klaus could instantly teleport himself to anywhere in a short range should the need arise.
At his feet was a bottle of fine burgundy wine, brought along as an act of trust. He was nervous, terribly so, but he didn't show it, aside from a constant tapping of his booted foot. In his other hand, he held an apple, one he'd absentmindedly picked from a nearby tree only an hour before. It didn't even occur to him that he was holding it, but he was squeezing it, eyes darting back and forth. He'd identified himself as Count Untergang II in his address to them, not Klaus von Lichter.
He squeezed the apple once more.
Soon enough, I'll have it back, and Otto will be unable to kill from the grave.