"Doctor, would you mind stepping outside for a private chat? There's something I'd like to ask you," Hill said in a low voice, just as Director Weaver had hoped.
"No problem," Ray replied with a casual shrug.
Hill glanced at Director Weaver, who immediately understood her intent and gave a subtle nod of approval.
A moment later, the two of them were standing alone in the hallway outside the office.
Before Hill could even speak, Ray gave her a wry smile and said,
"Let me guess — you think I'm not cured yet?"
The bluntness of his words threw Hill off balance.
She had planned to approach the subject delicately, cautiously — but with Ray putting it so plainly, she saw no reason to beat around the bush.
"I didn't mean it like that. It's just… what Agent Weaver said earlier did make some sense. Your decision was rather unexpected."
"So, you do think I'm still ill, don't you?" Ray pressed again, skipping any attempt at clarification.
"Well…" Hill hesitated, clearly uncomfortable.
How was she supposed to answer that? Of course she had doubts. But saying it outright seemed a bit harsh — and Ray wasn't exactly giving her much room for diplomacy.
As she searched for the right words, Ray went on,
"Let's put it this way: technically speaking, you're not wrong. I wouldn't say I'm fully cured."
"What?" Hill blinked, confused. "But earlier you clearly said…"
Ray shook his head with a small laugh.
"If I remember correctly, I said I was 'pretty much recovered.' I never claimed I was completely fine, did I?"
Hill thought back. That was, in fact, what he had said on the plane.
Because of that phrase, and because Ray had seemed perfectly normal the entire time, she and May had simply assumed he had made a full recovery.
That was why she had told Director Fury that Ray was fine — and Fury hadn't doubted it either. He'd spoken to Ray himself and found nothing unusual.
Back when Dr Raymond first broke down, even his dominant personality was incoherent and confused most of the time, rarely showing any signs of normalcy.
Maybe he had calmed somewhat during his stay at Clockwork Psychiatric Hospital, but there were still moments of odd, unpredictable behaviour.
The Ray standing before her now, however, showed none of that. It made perfect sense that no one had noticed anything strange.
Still, this line of reasoning was clearly a semantic trick.
Most people would understand "pretty much recovered" as "basically fine." No one would interpret it as "still ill."
It was wordplay. And Ray knew it.
When he had said it, he'd genuinely believed he was well enough. But when Director Weaver suddenly asked him to choose a division, he remembered something crucial:
His actual knowledge of psychology was… severely lacking.
Even though he had inherited a good amount of memories from the original Raymond, most of them were hazy and unprocessed — he hadn't had time to internalise them.
It was like having watched a slideshow of someone else's life.
Sure, that was enough to get by in casual conversation. But teaching classes? He'd be exposed instantly.
If he had a few months, maybe he could properly absorb the old Raymond's expertise.
But since his arrival in this world, only three or four days had passed. He hadn't even had time to finish reading his own system's instructions, let alone study psychology.
Then he came up with a solution.
If he couldn't teach psychology for now… why not teach something else?
After all, his Deadshot persona was a top-tier assassin, a mercenary, and a master of firearms. He could handle any weapon with ease and was fluent in modern combat tactics.
Even someone like Black Widow or May would struggle to match him.
If he used the Deadshot persona to teach at the Operations Division, it would be effortless — in fact, it might even be overkill.
The only problem was: how to explain this sudden skill set?
That's when another idea came to him — pretending to be a mutant.
The more he thought about it, the more plausible it seemed.
Even on Earth in his original world, there were plenty of unexplainable things. In a world like this one, filled with superpowered individuals, it was practically mundane.
If he could convince others that his alternate personalities were part of a supernatural phenomenon — something like Legion — it would save him a great deal of trouble.
People try to dissect what they don't understand. But once you give them a plausible narrative, they tend to stop digging.
Even the inexplicable becomes acceptable if wrapped in a story.
If he could present himself as a mutant, capable of manifesting detailed, functional alternate personalities as a power, then everything would make sense.
And right now was the perfect time to test that narrative.
Noticing Hill's discomfort at his semantic games, Ray pressed on:
"I get that this explanation may sound like a stretch, Hill. Truth be told, I've been struggling with whether to tell you at all… because once I do, I'll never be able to live a normal life again."
"Hmm?" Hill sensed something strange in his tone.
"What if I told you… that what happened before triggered something inside me — some hidden ability? Would you believe that?" Ray asked, slow and serious.
"A mutant?" Hill stared at him in disbelief.
"A what now?" Ray answered, feigning confusion.
The performance had officially begun.