WARNING! Some gore at the very beginning, if you don't want to read it, I've underlined it, so just skip past. Otherwise, go forth my readers!

Prologue

A man watches from above, his eyes glinting excitedly. His plaid dress shirt is meticulously tucked into khaki pants, and he is draped in a starched white lab coat. A sharp-edged clip-board resting on his arm is thick with lab reports, medical records, and observation notes.

5:36. Convulsions. Head wound, just off the forehead. Bullet wound in the shoulder. Possibly fractured wrist. Patient occasionally sobs. Shocks administered for each outcry.

"P-Please!"

And the girl screamed again as she was shocked. The saw came down, roaring and ripping into the air. It bit into her palm, and shredded its way down to the bone. The blade drew back up, leaving torn skin and a pool of blood in its wake.

"No!"

Below his earlier observation notes, the doctor wrote down "5:37. Deeply cut palm. Heavy blood loss. Head wound gone. Wrist straightened. Bullet is beginning to come out of shoulder."

Just as his pencil touched down to his clipboard to jot down the girl's scream on a separate chart, an announcement was heard overhead.

"Doctor Biscelli, to room 107 please. Doctor Biscelli to room 107."

Doctor Biscelli sighed, putting down his clipboard and holding down a finger on his control panel to speak into a small microphone.

"All right boys, clean it up. Move patient R into the observance room. Remember to mark down the time...wouldn't want any mishaps like last time."

The other two doctors, who had been performing behind the bullet-proof lab glass, nodded. One moved to the wall, pressed a red button, and watched as the girl they had earlier been leaning over dropped below the ground, presumably into another lab. They removed their masks and pulled off their gloves, and the doctor who had earlier pressed the button moved over to a mop and bucket in the corner, eyeing the bright red patch of blood on the floor, where the girl had been, disgustedly. It was the only blemish in the bright, chromed room.

Doctor Biscelli slipped his thin-framed glasses into his breast pocket and strode down the long the hallway of the third floor's lab. He caught an elevator and shot down to the base floor. It was not often the doctor wound up on base level—his quarters were on level seven, like all other head supervisors; all department head meetings were held on floor two; the cafeteria was on floor six, along with the showers and guest rooms. No, the base floor was strictly business: the base floor was Director Rische's floor.

The closer he came to room 107, the more nervous he became. His heart beat like shoes in a dryer—heavy, loud, sporadic. What was needed? Surely he hadn't forgotten to submit his weekly lab report for patients R, S, or U? Had he, or one of his workers, harmed a piece of valuable lab equipment? He ran through various possibilities, all seeming more unlikely than the next. He was Frederick Biscelli; he did not make mistakes. That was why he was here.

But then again, Director Rische was very moody. As the boss of the entire organization, he could easily fire anybody who got in his way, or so much as blinked too loudly. It was not unheard of for a scientist every now and again to go missing and never be heard from again. But a department leader of a level-C classified project, such as Frederick? Never.

He stopped at the end of the first floor's hallway to straighten out his coat, fix his hair in the reflection of a window, and calm his nerves. He was not in trouble. Even if he was, he could easily deny everything. Couldn't he?

Knocking soundly on the door, twice, earned him silence. The doctor stared at the rich mahogany door anxiously, debating with his raised hand whether he should knock again. But just as he was about to lower his fist on the wood again, a throaty growl came out.

"Enter."

He turned the golden knob quickly, stepping in with a self-assured smile, which dropped immediately upon entry. The cold metal against his temple gained pressure with its cocking. He glared forward, raising his hands above his head.

"I suppose you're the CIA, or FBI? Something along those lines, yes?"

"I regret to inform you, Doctor Biscelli," said a man dressed in all black, stepping forward, "that we are much, much worse."

The man was the one who had called for Frederick to enter. He wore an eye patch, something that would have been comical if not for his deathly serious appearance. His black trench coat spoke the name "suspicious," and the pistol in his hand did not communicate otherwise.

"Where are they?"

The doctor tilted his head, faking ignorance. "Come again?" The gun pressed harder against his head. He shot a sidelong glance of annoyance at the brunette woman holding the weapon.

"The children!" growled the man. "Known in your data bases as patients A through Z."

Frederick allowed a short bark of laughter escape his thin lips. "You must hold some faith, sir, in thinking there are still so many. Twenty-six children? We lost two alone last week!"

"How many do you have left?"

"I'd say just around three. We are, however, planning on getting rid of two. We've basically perfected our serum-"

"I didn't come here to hear you brag. What I need, Doctor, is for you to come quietly and give us the kids."

"About that-"

Frederick ducked below the gun and slammed his hands against the wall. Just as a carefully-aimed arrow lodged its way into the back of his neck, high-pitched alarms went off throughout the building. As the dead doctor slumped to the floor in a head, the button on the wall was revealed.

"Damnit!" the man shouted, turning to his troops. "Search every room, every floor. We need these kids alive! And seal off the exits; nobody gets in or out!"

"Yes, Director Fury!"

"These kids aren't dying on my watch..."