This little part before the chapters is where I'll explain the changes from what Twixter, amazing writer they are, has put down. The biggest is that MC is 27 years old, and a Green Beret. THERE ARE REASONS. THERE ARE GOOD REASONS.
First, the explosions during the rescue point to someone with a basic working knowledge of demolitions work being part of the rescue team, meaning MC or Monika. While it could have been Monika, I can't see her being considered for any job involving explosives, given all of her mental problems. That means it's MC who made the bombs. However, MC has to get the explosives, and the cultists having them seems very overkill. They're religious fanatics into human experimentation, not doomsday preppers waiting for the apocalypse. Also, that might draw some attention, bring some ATF investigators poking around, which the cult would not want. Not even a little.
So MC has to get the explosive on his own. Stealing it from the military is out–they tend to be good about that sort of stuff–and I doubt that MC would know illegal arms dealers stateside, in both Twixter's headcanon and mine. So getting it from a friend who happens to be working for some PMC or something that can be a little loose with explosives works, but it's not like the friend would just give it to MC if MC didn't have a background a guy like that could trust. Plus, that guy would need to be fairly senior.
And since PMCs try to recruit ex-military, and really love special operators, it's not inconceivable for our explosives supplier to be a former special operator now in a senior position. The question then becomes "Who do special operators trust?" And that's people they've fought with, meaning other special operators. Also, the Dokis need to learn the art of war, and two 22-year olds probably wouldn't be able to teach them much other than point and pull trigger. So MC became a Green Beret, since a big part of their job is training up local allies, such as the Afghan National and Local Police, Syrian rebel groups, and even South Vietnamese troops back in the '60s and '70s. Then, someone needed to patch the Dokis up, so he became a medic. And he also became a sniper, because there's some long-range (500m+) shooting in a later chapter that's skin-and-bones right now.
And if you're not sold on the whole Special Forces thing, this is the version called the Bloody Vengeance Cut, where the cultists find out exactly how the Dokis feel, and I couldn't think of MC to realistically be that good at brutally killing people without a military background. So, yeah.
Other changes are Natsuki's height and weight, to bring them up from where the reports have them. Natsuki's height is listed as 42–I'm assuming that's inches, meaning she's 3'6". That's absurdly small. In North Korea, where everyone's starving, the average adult woman is 5'2". Canonically (DDLC, not PL), Natsuki is 4'9". I knocked off two inches due to her not being able to bake while having to deal with the cult. 55 instead of 42. A foot and change taller.
Quick disclaimer: This chapter is the chapter that leads you into the revenge. Like how in John Wick, you got 20-30 minutes before Keanu starts dropping bodies. Except way longer.
Quick glossary: Omega teams are groups of special operators detailed to the CIA. This happens so that the military can operate in areas that would otherwise be restricted. It's legal because it falls under the CIA's mandate of global intelligence gathering and occasional paramilitary intervention. While not conducted by an Omega team, the mission to kill Bin Laden was launched under CIA authority, to allow a strike into Pakistan. The process is known as "sheep-dipping". Miramshah is a major town in the tribal areas of Pakistan, which are a hotbed for terrorism.
This whole thing has been about a week in the making, so I've been editing as new content gets posted. As such, there might be some discrepancies I missed. Please point them out. Any feedback or questions would also be welcome.
Enjoy the show.
23 Jan 2018
Well, this is my last journal entry for a while. Maybe forever. Might as well recap everything in one nice long entry. Though, you, dear reader, might not like me very much. Nor agree with what I'm about to do. Well, done. Talking about future events is weird.
So I would like to start by saying they all deserved it. All of them. No exceptions.
Not that I think you disagree, if you know what the cult is. Be hard to think that every death I'm about to cause is unmerited, in light of what they are. Unless you're one of them, in which case go fuck yourself with a blowtorch.
Christ, where to begin. There's the first time I met Monika, the time I heard about why she was the way she was, the first time I laid eyes on one of the girls. The plan to get them out, preparing, gathering information, tools, and anything we might need. Can't talk about the execution of that plan. Not yet. That won't happen for another half-hour.
The second one. Let's do that one.
At this point, I should introduce myself, in case you don't already know who I am. I'm MC, 27 years old, born and raised in Brooklyn, and a retired Special Forces Medical Sergeant. I was born in 1990 and was eleven when I watched two planes crash into the North and South towers. About a month later, I watched grainy night-vision footage of Rangers jumping on Objective Rhino during the invasion of Afghanistan in 2001. I wanted to be one of them, and set about achieving my goal. My parents, naturally, though that joining the Army was a perfect way to die stupidly, and wanted me to become a doctor. I, however, made a quite reasonable compromise, and became a combat medic.
After eight years and four deployments, one with the 82nd Airborne, two with the 75th Ranger Regiment, and one with the 5th Special Forces Group, I retired. Figured I'd use my GI bill money to go to a community college, maybe try to go to med school and be an actual doctor.
That was the plan, anyway.
I was living with my parents until I got a reply back from the schools I'd applied to, and not four days after I was back home there was a high school reunion. I decided to show up, see who came. And, well, Monika did. Monika had shown up halfway through freshman year and hadn't made many friends, other than me and a relentlessly cheerful girl who drove me insane. We'd become pretty close, but never dated, since we had more of a brother-sister relationship. Also, she had issues. Panic attacks, depression, suicidal thoughts. I didn't feel the need to add stress to that. After I left to join up and she went to college, we'd stayed in touch, though not that closely.
Anyway, I showed up, found Monika, and we talked. We made plans to get lunch at her place Saturday, and that was when I found out why she had the mental issues she did.
I came up, and she'd made soup. It was just chili from a grocery store, but it tasted like the best damn chili ever. Period. Monika can cook. We got to talking about our lives, some projects she was working on, how I was doing, that stuff.
After about an hour, she had a panic attack and just curled up right into a ball. It was a bad one. Tears, whimpering, chills, sense of impending death, feeling like she'd lost control. Bad. Very bad. I tried to reassure her, calm her down, but nothing worked. After thirty minutes and change, it ended.
"You okay?" I asked. "Do you need me to get you anything?"
"No," she said, wiping away tears. "You know, I haven't told you why I'm like this."
"Do you want to tell me?" I asked. "If you don't, that's fine. It doesn't matter."
"I don't know. Maybe. It's pretty fucked up." She sniffled.
"Hey, we've been friends for, what, eleven or twelve years now? Whatever it is, I'm pretty sure I can handle it." I was sure. I figured that if you've seen someone's head just kinda explode, you can handle anything.
That's not exactly true.
"Are you absolutely sure?" Monika looked anxious.
"Entirely. I don't think there's a single thing you could do to make us not be friends."
She looked at the ground. "That's not true."
"Yes, it is," I said. "Monika, whatever bad experience you went through, it's in no way your fault. You don't deserve any blame for it."
She opened her mouth as though to say something, then shut it. She sighed. "Are you sure? It's–it's not good."
"I'm sure," I said. "Look, you and me both know that talking to someone about your problems helps take the weight off your shoulders. You don't want to talk to a therapist, fine. Talk to me. Worst-case, nothing changes."
"Okay. I guess," she said.
"Start at the beginning. Go from there. Just let it flow," I said.
"Well, there was a cult."
I'm not going to go into details. They're not mine to share. But the basics were enough to make my blood boil over. Monika's family used to be part of a cult that was all about the idea of a "third eye". Basically, people who could open their third eye could suppress pain and hunger, and simply hurt people. The cult called it "transcending worldly concerns". The thing was, there had to be trials. Pain and suffering had to be overcome. Resisted. Channeled into raw aggression. But you couldn't do that with adults. The responses were too ingrained. Adults were just too used to reacting in certain ways that just wouldn't cut it. Like, say, trying to just make it stop. So the testing had to start early.
With children, usually three years old. Four, sometimes. All girls, since apparently boys couldn't make it work. I didn't really know why. Some religious thing, according to Monika. Which, yeah, is pretty much what I've been told by the cult.
Monika had seen what happened when one of them managed to run. The guards had cornered her. She could see cuts and bruises all over that girl's body. She could hear the girl's screams, pleading for it to stop. She saw the girl snap, go completely insane, and kill sixteen people with nothing but her hands. She saw the girl pull the intestines from a cultist's body. Saw the girl gouge another's eyes out and rip out his throat with her teeth.
Monika and the girl were both twelve years old.
Her mother plotted their escape for a year and then did it. Got a dead-of-night divorce and got right the hell out. They went from West Virginia to Albany, hitching rides the whole way. Monika went to a foster family, who informed the FBI, who were stonewalled completely and left with a dead investigation. Everything after that, well, you know that.
"Do you think saving some of the others would help?"
"H-huh?" Monika looked at me. "What do-what are you saying?"
"I mean," I said, "We rescue some of the other subjects. Get them right the hell out of there."
"I-I couldn't do it. I mean, um, well, look at me. I'm pathetic." She looked at the ground.
"Wh-no, you're not," I said. "Pathetic is old people rapping. Y-you, however, are somehow not, like, completely catatonic after what you went through. That in and of itself makes you much stronger than lots of people I've known. Seriously, out of a like thousand people, maybe, um, one could deal with what you went through. And besides, they'd be pretty screwed up, y'know. Look, if you don't want to go back, I get it. Really, I understand. Not a lot of people can go back and face their fears. I don't think I could. But someone has to help those girls, and it might as well be us."
She looked at me. "You mean it?"
I smiled. "Fuck yeah. You're stronger than you think you are, Monnie. Superman's got nothing on you."
She frowned. "No, about helping them. Are you sure you'll do it?"
I'm not a big believer in vigilante justice. I think it causes more problems than it solves, most of the time. But this was an exception. The FBI couldn't do anything. The girls were stuck. Hurt every day. Nobody coming to save them. Probably lost all hope, ready to just give up the ghost and die. And given what I'd heard, that might be preferable. Well, okay. This was a worthy cause.
I nodded. "Okay. We'll do it, I promise."
She smiled, a little shakily. "Okay. We'll do it. We'll go save them."
So, yeah. That's how the ball started rolling on this. A Green Beret, a cult survivor, and a hell of a motive. But how did we even get to the point of blowing shit up?
Well, that's complicated.
I told my parents I'd found a college down in West Virginia, where the cult was, that looked like a good place to attend. I moved there with Monika in late January. She got a job doing set design for a theatrical company while I got a job as an EMT. On the cult's website, I looked for ways to join directly and help with the experiments. The plan was simple: try and sneak one of them out, to have some proof to show the FBI. No ordinary members could go in the experiment buildings, so I had to be security or a doctor. Doctor it was, since I figured it would give me the extra freedom to poke around.
Two months after moving, an opening appeared, and I took it. I'd showed interest on the website's discussion boards, and shared the fact that I was an EMT. They gave me the job, and I took it. I got the location, and was driven there for a job interview.
My interviewer's name was Doctor Libitina. All I was told was Doctor L, but his full name was in the medical reports I saw later. He said his name was unpronounceable. He was so full of shit. Anyway, the interview went like this:
"Do you care about the third eye?"
"Yes."
"But do you care?"
"Totally."
"And you'd do anything to help us develop carriers?"
"Yep."
"You're hired."
I still have no fucking clue how I got that job. No, really. An EMT is now a qualified doctor? I didn't mention my military background. I just said I had a philosophy degree. They took that as an answer for eight missing years on my resume. Even still, I don't know what the hell prompted them to hire me.
My first day working, they eased me in. They gave me an office and a computer. No Wi-Fi. I got access to the complete medical records of all the subjects. I started reading.
It was bad.
It was very bad.
There were only three left alive–Sayori, Natsuki, and Yuri. No, I don't know their last names. They were left out of the reports. Yuri had been initiated into the project when she was three. Sayori, age six. Natsuki had been there since she was two. They called them "carriers". Like they had a fucking disease. It was used as the word for what they were everywhere, even in the research notes.
The notes. Fuck me, the notes. Things like "The following occasional behaviors have been noted and should be ignored in future examinations: Abnormal loss of weight;" and on, and on, and on. The injury histories weren't much better. They'd started detailed ("3 Feb 05: Slash, 5mm deep, lower chest. 3 Feb 05: Cracked rib (3). 3 Feb 05: Broken nose) and ended as just a simple list ("9 Oct 16: 27 knife slashes in various locations, 6 closed-fist strikes to the face, 2 4.5 milliamp electric shocks").
There were pictures. I looked. I wish I didn't. You'll find them on the computers. Don't look. You'll wish you didn't.
What really made it worse was that it wasn't just physical violence, though. No, see, that would be too fucking nice, right? Because, hey, we're already kinda like a concentration camp, so why not go all the fucking way?
Natsuki was on motherfucking starvation rations. She was 55 inches tall and weighed in at 87 pounds. For reference, the average American girl is 10 years old at that height. At 16, they're 64 inches tall and weigh 120 pounds–ten inches taller and 30 pounds heavier. Yuri wasn't even allowed to move one goddamn inch, or the guards on her cell would storm in and chain her up and make sure she couldn't. And Sayori was isolated for fucking days on end, which might explain her attachment to her cow plush and music box–people need companionship, and if it's not other people, you get Tom Hanks and Wilson.
I should have just done–Well, what I'm about to do–as soon as I could have. The planning for what you're looking into only took a few days.
My schedule was simple: I could live outside the complex, and showed up Monday through Wednesday, plus Fridays and occasional weekend call-ins, from eight in the morning to midnight. Later, if I had to patch one of the girls up. As far as staff, there were a whole bunch of other doctors–ten or fifteen, plus maybe fifty nurses, but Dr. Libitina was in charge. He dreamt up all sorts of new ways to torture the girls, sadistic motherfucker that he was. The head of the guards was Mike Davis, who basically knew enough to schedule regular patrols, keep his guys disciplined, and not completely fuck up. There were maybe another sixty guards. There was also a helicopter on-site, an AgustaWestland AW139, piloted by some random guys who apparently were retired Coasties. The whole cult came under the leadership of a Mr. Scott Harriet, a "religious visionary" who intended to spread "enlightenment".
As far as testing, I did my best to never have to hurt the girls. Ever. If I could, I found some forms that needed to be filled out. Or a new piece of medical equipment that the facility might need, worth checking out, and it had to be in person. Or I'd be wandering around, noting something down in a notebook, looking busy. Couldn't avoid it forever, though. It was starting to get suspicious.
About three months in, one of the doctors–Doug Jones, a small, skinny guy from LA, a real sadist, guy actually enjoyed the experiments–had me come with him, right at the end of my shift. "Routine experiment," he said. He wasn't lying. That's what made me nervous. "Routine experiment" meant "Horrifying torture even the motherfucking SS would balk at". "Routine experiment" was code for "We're going to beat a teenager who has no idea what life without beatings is until they die or become completely insane." And if I was going with Doug, I was taking part. I did not want to take part.
Room 110, Wing A. Sayori's. She'd been isolated for a week this time. Two security guards filed in beside us. I noted mentally their gear–batons and a sidearm with two spare magazines, no body armor–as well as the number of guards on the way here, their positions, the doors, anything that might be useful for a rescue. Doug handed me a knife. "Cut her," he said. "Do it."
I would like to make it very clear before I continue that my options were clearly hurt her or die. At the very least, I'd be kicked out, with no way of helping. One man storming the castle works for Hollywood, but not real life. And the planning for a rescue attempt was still in its infancy, anyway.
I raised the knife and stalked closer to Sayori. She trembled in fear, knowing what was about to happen. Tears pricked my eyes, and I blinked them back. Do it. Do it now, I thought. Before they step in and do something worse. I mouthed I'm sorry. Then I slashed at her.
I don't think that I'll ever be able to forget the screams.
I don't think that I'll be able to forgive myself for causing them.
I handed the bloody knife to Doug, forced a smile on to my face, and stormed out to go home. Monika had texted me. She'd be working late. Okay. Good. Good. I had time. I walked to the motor pool, said goodnight to the guard, slipped into the car, and sobbed for a while.
I drove home to the old abandoned warehouse we called home. Well, it wasn't that old, the roof didn't leak, and it was in overall great shape, except nobody knew who owned it, so it was assumed by everyone who came across it that nobody did. We'd gotten locks to keep the drifters out, and that had been that. The place still had water and electricity, so that was nice. Air mattresses, pillows, sleeping bags. A table and two chairs. A broken-up old couch. A washing machine. A few space heaters for winter. An old TV from the turn of the century. A few books. A camp stove with propane. Cutting boards and knives, laid out on a longish table. The place still had electricity and running water, so we had a microwave and a fridge, and a sink and a bathroom. No shower, but we had a tub of sorts. Some extra plywood, nails, and tarps. A dresser we used for plates and silverware. My Xbox and some games.
Wasn't much, but it was a place to plan. And it was an hour's drive from the compound.
We had a corkboard, with pictures, names, dates, and faces all connected by various colors of string, each meaning something different. There were notebooks, filled with information on guard patrols, the construction of the place, what the guards carried, locations of various places of interest–Wing A, the offices, helipad, armory, fuel tanks for the buildings, guard towers, and the parking lot–and notes on the girls, what they would need, medically speaking, to help them recover.
I opened the door. Monika wasn't home yet. Wouldn't be for another hour. I collapsed onto the couch, took out my phone. We were ass-deep in the sticks, but I had service. My parents had texted, asking if there was anything they could do to help me get into the college, since they weren't interested in taking me on halfway through the year. I texted them back, telling them I appreciated the offer. A couple of guys I knew from my old Ranger platoon and A-Team had called, asking how I was doing. I left messages saying I was doing just fine, not to worry about me. I had a text from a SEAL buddy of mine, a guy I'd worked with in my Ranger days who had co-founded a PMC, offering me a job. I texted him back that I wasn't interested right now, but maybe later, and did he want to grab a beer sometime? I got a reply back in about a minute, saying sure, any time you're down. I said I'd try to find some time, and turned my phone off, alone with my thoughts.
I must have sat there for an hour. Thinking about the knife. The blood spatters on my jacket, currently in the wash. What Monika would say when she found out. How badly it would hurt her, regardless of the circumstances. About how I'd promised to help end the suffering, and just ended perpetuating it.
The door opened, and Monika stepped through, paint on her hands. "Hey, MC. Long d–MC?" I turned and looked at her. "What's wrong?"
I sighed, shook my head, and smiled, though I didn't feel like smiling. I felt like taking Doug and stabbing him in the face with the kitchen knife resting on the table. I felt like burning the whole place down, Dr. Libitina and all the guards with it. I felt like telling Monika, Oh, nothing, I'm fine, it's just that I did the exact opposite of what we're here to do today. But I didn't.
Instead, I asked a question. "Am I cooking tonight?" She shook her head. "Okay. I'll set the table." Yep. the table. Focus on the table. Hard, thickish wood, doesn't bend, doesn't break easily. Focus in on that. Just do what you need to do. Just walk to the dresser. Go get the forks, knives–"Do we need spoons?"–nope, she's shaking her head. Just get two plates, two cups. Now fill them up with the bottled water from the fridge–you know it's safe, there's no lead. Just ask Monika if she needs help–"Nope, I got it." Get the napkins you forgot. Try to think about something, anything than what you did.
"MC?" Monika said, a question in her voice.
"Yeah?" I replied, a little nervous.
"You didn't answer my question."
I stayed absolutely quiet for a few seconds. "We're going to rescue them, right?" I asked. "Tell me all this isn't for nothing."
"MC?"
"Just–just promise me I'm not doing this for nothing, o-okay?"
Monika didn't say a word. Then: "We will rescue them. I promise." Silence hung in the air.
Then I smelled smoke. "Christ, the bacon!" I yelled, then hopped up and ran for the stove.
Dinner was uneventful. We ate in silence, occasionally broken by me talking about how good the food was and asking about a project Monika was working on. We went to sleep, then woke up when we needed to, headed to work when we had to. I only had to show up Monday through Wednesday, plus Fridays, and the occasional weekend call-in. Today was Thursday. I had the day off.
I didn't really know what to do. So I decided to shoot some targets, clear my head. That usually worked. I'd bought a gun, a Glock 19, for self-defense, in case the cult got a little suspicious and tried to close a loose end. I had bought a box of 100 rounds not long ago, so I opened it and loaded three magazines. Smacked one into the gun, chambered a round. I put the other two in one pocket, the Glock in my waistband, stuffed earplugs in my ears, and walked outside, grabbing a few empty cans on the way. I like to shoot, mostly because I'm really good at it. Running, swimming, general fitness, I wasn't much above the unit average when I was with the Rangers, and that didn't change with the Green Berets. I was good at being quiet and camouflaging myself, side effects of being a sniper, but shooting is where I really excelled. I can pick my teeth with an M16 and iron sights at a thousand yards. Not really sure why. Talent and lots of practice.
I stood one can on a stump, counted out ten one-yard paces, then turned and drew, firing twice, a clean, efficient double-tap. Bang-bang. A second and a half to turn and draw, another half to shoot. Just like that. Still got it. I walked over, picked the can back up, stood it on the stump again. I repeated the process. Bang-bang. The can flew, two holes, one right above the other, exactly where the brain stem would have been. I set up two of the cans this time. Bang-bang, bang-bang. An extra second that time, eaten by the traverse and second double. I set the cans back up. Bang-bang. Doug's head exploded. Bang-bang. Dr. Libitina's face caved in. I emptied the rest of the magazine into both cans, Bang bang bang bang, then switched the empty for a fresh 15-rounder and hit the slide release.
I noticed I was breathing hard. Jesus, I thought, what the hell? I needed to cool down. I took the earplugs out of my ears. Walked back inside and grabbed a beer out of the fridge. Sat on the couch, opened it, and drank. I finished it, then I pulled out my phone. My SEAL friend from before was in town. Did I want to get a beer with him?
Well, it beat drinking alone.
Joe Savone and I had met in 2013, when I was still a Ranger. He'd joined up because of the stories he'd read about Vietnam, strikes deep inside Laos and Cambodia and the North. We'd worked as part of a CIA-run Omega team doing operations in the tribal areas of Pakistan. A few raids, some recon, the occasional battle-damage assessment for drone strikes. An assassination, once. They'd taken two six-man teams of SEALs from SEAL Team Six and thrown them together with a Ranger platoon. It worked great, and we'd become pretty close. He was a little older, had served for a little longer, but we were still close.
"Hey, brother!" Joe's not a big guy. The opposite, actually. I'm a biggish guy–5'11 and 195. Joey is pint-sized, 5'7" and 160 pounds. He was–is–one of the toughest people I know.
"Hey, man. How've you been?" I asked, sitting down at the table with him. He smiled.
"Doin' fine. Just got promoted." He sounded happy.
"Oh?"
"Yeah. You're looking at the new Operations Director for Crimson Hawk Tactical Solutions!"
"Ah, really? That's great!" I say. Crimson Hawk was–is–pretty much the new Blackwater, just without the major scandals. Maybe they'll actually go a while without one of those. Most of what they do is training up locals. Joe had gotten out two years before me, and signed on with Crimson Hawk before they really took off, so he got a relatively senior position, but not that high. It sounded like he'd been doing great there, really thriving.
"Eh, I gotta wear a suit and tie more, deal with more red tape and gold braid, but it's more cash, so I can't complain too much," he said. "I'm still doing good work, and while it's not exactly the door-kicking I'm used to, it's pretty important. I'm actually down here to see about opening a training facility, talk to the FBI about a contract to train their local SWAT guys." He sounded really excited.
"Sounds like things have been going well for ya," I said. A waiter came over, and we ordered drinks–Jack and Coke for me, a whiskey cocktail for Joe.
He smiled. "They have." Then he got serious. "Look, if you ever need a job, I'm right here, okay? I still owe you for Miramshah." I started to protest, but Joe kept on going. "Yes, I do, okay? And even if you don't want to go into the field, you can always test out some new toys. Work in procurement. Right? Just something to get you on your feet."
The drinks came, and I took a sip while I stared at him. "Joe, I have a job."
He looked surprised. "Oh?"
I chuckled. "Yeah. I'm doing some medical research." My face must have darkened, because he gave me a look that said what even is your job, really? Why is it giving you that look? "It's for a cancer drug," I said. "They need nurses for IVs, stuff like that. Not real happy work, not all that complex, but the checks cash."
Joe scoffed. "Really? MC, that's a waste of talent. You were Special Forces, a Ranger, a damn good combat medic. And you're doing–what? Glorified palliative care? Come on. Don't you wish you could do something actually worth your time? You were one of the elite, and you're wasting your time on that?"
"Hey, it pays well," I said, defensively. It did. The cult had serious cash. Enough to buy a $12 million chopper, and construct a multi-million-dollar medical facility, and enough to pay me five grand a month for–well, not much. But enough.
"I'm sure it does," he said. "But let's be fair: are you really using everything you've learned? Are you wrapping head wounds and doing blood transfusions? Doing long sniper stalks in the bush, you and a rifle for hours, then the shot, when it comes? Nice quick hard-and-fast raids? All the stuff you could be doing? Don't tell me you don't miss it." I stayed silent. Joe checked his watch. "Look, if you ever get tired of nursing, give me a call, okay? You have my number. I gotta go talk to the FBI." He called the waiter over and paid for both drinks, downed his in one big gulp. "See ya 'round, MC."
"See ya 'round, Joe," I said, smiling and waving. I felt somewhat exploited, coming in to have drinks with a friend and then getting the recruiting pitch. Well, Joe was a suit now. It was to be expected. I finished my drink and left a decent tip for the waiter, then walked out to my car and drove back home.
God, why did he have to bring up Miramshah? It was years ago. He doesn't owe me anything, I thought. Probably part of his play. Make it out like he's being charitable, make me feel like I'm lucky to get that deal. Unless he's serious, in which case he's an idiot. And all that shit about "What I could be doing". Doesn't he get that I got out for a reason?
Whatever. I drove home and slept until six, when Monika got home and it was my turn to cook.
Not much changed after I had those drinks with Joe, except now I had to carry out the routine checkups. You know, reflexes, weight, vision, pain tolerance. Usual tests for a 16-year old. I also had to record the results of Dr. Libitina's twisted experiments. After eight more months, I thought I had enough information to start planning the escape.
It was a simple plan: Monika would pretend to be one of the nurses, and get one of the girls to my office. From there, we'd give her a new set of clothes–not much, but enough to keep the guards from recognizing her long enough for us to get to the parking lot. Then we'd get the hell out.
As I drove up the road, Monika in the passenger seat, I thought about how it finally felt like everything was coming together. We'd finally get to rescue one of them. Everything I'd done finally had a point. I drove up the road, nodded to the guard, and drove on through to the parking lot. Monika kept her face covered up with a scarf, to make sure nobody recognized her. I thought that since it'd been almost fifteen years since she was last there, she wouldn't be recognized, but she wasn't taking any chances. I didn't blame her. Given how terrified of the place she seemed, I thought she was brave enough just going inside. Pine trees passed us by as I drove into my parking space and locked up the car.
We walked inside, and I saw her look a little panicky. We got to my office without incident, though, and as I locked the door behind us, I heard her say, "So you just accept this?"
I turned and looked at her. She pressed on. "The fact that people are suffering? I would have left already."
"Well," I said, "Everything we've worked up to finally starts here. You remember exactly where her room is, right?" I'd decided to get Sayori out. She was in Room 110, Wing A. All the other rooms on the first floor were empty. All the test subjects in them had died a long time ago, well before me and Monika got here. I saw Monika give a slight nod. "Good," I told her. "I'll be waiting. You know what we're doing, right?"
"Y-yeah," she stuttered. "Bring her here, sneak her out. Got it." She looked terrified. I grabbed her shoulders and leaned in, staring into her eyes.
"Just breathe, Monika," I said. "I believe in you. Go save 'em. It's time to be a hero. Both of us." I hugged her. "You can do it," I told her.
She gave me a confident smile and strolled out of the room. As soon as she was gone, I press-checked my Glock, made sure I had a round chambered. Because while I didn't expect to get into a shootout, it's always good to be prepared. I stuck it back in the holster attached to my belt, by my back, and waited.
I heard two knocks, and saw Monika, looking very panicked, with Sayori and a security guard. Shit. Shit. "Oh! Hello, Steve. Good to see ya," I said in my doctor voice, trying to get rid of him. "I got what I need, you can go now." No such luck. Steve shook his head.
"It's protocol for security to be with the carriers at all times," he said, a chiding tone in his voice. Like I should have known. I should have. Shit. That fucked everything up. "I cannot leave her side no matter what you tell me, doctor," he said, sounding almost apologetic. I sighed, like I was annoyed, and proceeded with the check-up, like it was a normal day. Simple tests. Eyesight, height, weight, reflexes. I could feel Monika reading the checklist over my shoulder. I finished all the tests, and came to the last one.
Pain tolerance.
I took a switchblade out of my pocket, an old Microtech that still worked for me, and clicked it open. For a second, I toy with the idea of just whipping around and killing Steve, cutting his throat right open, but we wouldn't get very far even if I did. Not in broad daylight. Sayori backed up into the corner, squeezing her cow toy tight, whimpering. I swallowed hard and moved towards her. I could see Monika starting to panic in the reflection off a mirror above Sayori. "N-no! Please! No more!" she screamed. Behind me, I could feel Monika start to break down, and then Steve took two strides, grabbed Sayori, and everything went straight to hell.
"Listen to him!" he yelled, as Sayori buried her face in the toy–Mr. Cow, that's what she called it–and cried. Steve ripped Mr. Cow out of her hands. Sayori cried even harder, screaming "N-no! Mr. Cow, no!" in between sobs. Steve grabbed her by the arm and started dragging her out of the room. She struggled, but it didn't matter. "Sorry for the inconvenience, doctor," Steve said on the way out. I turned, and saw Monika sobbing, tears streaming down her face, quivering. Oh, no. No, no, no. Not here. Not now. This is the worst possible time. She vomited, and I rushed over to her, trying to hold her up as she coughed and gagged.
"Monika! Monika, can you hear me!" I shouted, as she collapsed, mumbling semi-coherently. I threw one of her arms across my shoulders, and started taking her to the exit. Everything was going fine, until a guard stepped in front of the exit to the building. "What are you doing, doctor?" he asked.
"Well, I'm taking her to the hospital, so I can figure out just what the hell is causing this." He shook his head.
"Sir, she's gotta stay right here. I'll have someone down to diag–" He fell silent as he saw the look on my face, which I'm sure was suitably murderous.
"Y' listen here, motherfucker," I hissed, in the thick Brooklyn accent I reserve for when I'm with close friends or really angry. "I'm takin' 'er to an actual hospital, and you keep try'na block me off, I'm gonna force feed ya yer own goddamn nut sack, not that ya got one. Now get your fat ass outta the way." He recoiled like I'd slapped him, and I stormed past, Monika still in full panic mode, got to the parking lot, put Monika in the passenger seat, did her seatbelt, then got in and drove the hell out of there. I kept one hand on her shoulder the whole time, just holding her up so she didn't fall.
After about an hour, she woke up. I felt her sit up, and relief washed over me. "Thank god you're okay–"
"Did you get her out of there?" she asked.
It must have been that the self-loathing I felt was clear on my face, because she was instantly livid. "You DIDN'T?!" she yelled, angry enough to make me flinch. "That place is HORRIBLE, MC! A-and you just LEFT HER?! How COULD you?!"
"Monika, calm down," I said, placatingly. "I'm going back in there tomorrow, with a revised plan I came up with while trying to wake you up." I didn't actually have a new plan. But I needed her calm.
"Good," she spat out. "Because I don't want those poor people to suffer any longer. Even if it takes us years, I'm getting them out of there. Starting with the girl from today."
I kept driving in silence, trying to figure out a new plan that would work. It was clear that the guards sent everything right to hell. With the guard in the room, I couldn't make any moves, since he was right there. So I'd need to kill him, hide the body, get the girl straight out. But then what? There's still a dead guard, and the only way to get the other two was a flat-out assault.
Maybe an assault isn't a bad idea, I thought. But how to get in? And how many troops could I get? Joe would be down. Maybe two or three Green Berets I knew. Not great odds. Yet again, it was an impossible task.
Unless. Unless I could hit them from inside. As a doctor, I'd be able to enter without raising suspicion. Monika too, with the nurse uniform. Nobody else. Bringing the hardware in would be tough, but doable. What was hardest would be making sure every guard wasn't beelining for Wing A, since we'd have to demo the doors. Have to blow up other targets. The helipad, armory, the fuel station, the propane heating tank, all sizable explosions. The four guard towers, if I could. Maybe a few of the cars in the motor pool. Can't take Monika. She was capable, and certainly willing, but there's a big difference between a retired Special Forces sergeant who's been keeping up his shooting skills and a civilian who's never shot a gun before. Therefore I'd have to plant the charges on my own. That'd suck, but was workable. Need a gun for the other guards. Not the Glock 19 I had. Handguns are concealable, but not quiet enough. Suppressed, the 19 would be 125 decibels. Thunderclaps are 120, making my Glock about three times louder. Not ideal. I'd need something much better. Any suppressed submachine gun would do. I'd ask Joe. It'd be a tough sell, but he did think he owed me for Miramshah, so that might work. I'd also have to get the C4, fuses, and blasting caps from him.
How to fuse the C4? While demolitions are for the Engineer Sergeants in the Special Forces, we all knew the basics, and I wasn't going to have to do much other than rig the demo and set the fuses. The real question was how to rig them. Command-detonated or time-fused? Command-detonated would give me the diversion on command, but time-fused would give me a predictable window of time to work with, allowing me to coordinate with Monika. Command-detonated would be also easier to coordinate, since I'd be guessing and checking with the time fuses, because you can't initiate those remotely, so I'd get a bunch of scattered explosions at different times. Maybe command-initiated timers? Yeah, let's do those. Coordination. Military radios would be ideal, PRC-148s or -152s, but those were too big. Small walkie-talkies would do the trick. I could get them from Radio Shack, plus earpieces. Split the other two hostages. I'd get one, Monika could get the other. What about the first hostage? I'd sneak her out to a van I'd use to get the rest out, that I'd have to steal, then double back. How am I going to do that? I could have Monika get a guard about my size to move the hostage, then I'd take his uniform. Just get some normal clothing for the hostage. Can Monika get a hostage on her own? Maybe, but the guards would come rushing, and she'd have to fight them off. Best not to chance it. I'd double back to her position after I got the second.
Where am I going to hide Monika? My office won't work. Also, there were plenty of cameras, so they'd see her moving. Hit the security office on the way to the van, park her there, have her wipe the tapes? Yeah. When to execute? Broad daylight was out. There are shift changes every six hours, so those would provide the window for the hit–sometime between shift changes. 1800 hours to midnight, and then 0030 to 0600 hours. It'd be darkest during the latter, but that would cut both ways. But the latter window we could execute right now–no, that's stupid. We need sleep. Have to execute tomorrow. Well, maybe not. It was only ten at night–2200 hours. That left a nice big window to make it work. And we hadn't been up all that late just yet.
"Monika?" I said.
"Yeah?" she replied, turning her head.
"I have another plan that we can execute in–" I did the math–"six hours. And we can get all three subjects."
"Then let's do that one!" she exclaimed.
"There are a few problems," I said. "I'm going to have to kill people. Not just one, either. Lots of people. And we might have to deal with a running gunfight on the way out, but probably not."
"Okay, let's still do it," she said, without hesitation. She really doesn't care if the cultists die, I realized. Only that we rescue them. That's all that matters to her. But there was one thing that did.
"And I'm going to have to call a friend. Not to go in with us," I said, trying to cut off her protests. "But to supply the stuff we'll need."
Silence. "You promise that's it?" she asked. "He's just giving us what we need?"
"I promise," I said.
"Call him," she answered.
I punched in Joe's number, put my phone on speaker, and tossed it on the dashboard.
"Hey, MC, what's–"
"Joe, you remember those low-vis kits you used while we were sheep-dipped?" I asked? "I need one that has a suppressed submachine gun, plus fifteen pounds of C4 and some blasting caps with detonators. Command-detonated or time-fused is fine, but command-initiated timers are best. I also need five medical kits and an emergency surgical kit."
"MC, I can't–" he started.
"You owe me for Miramshah, Joe, and I'm calling it in. Get your ass in gear, I need that kit in–" I checked my watch–"four hours. Meet me in the parking lot of the bar we met at, with the gear, four hours from now."
"Jesus, MC, okay. Will you just tell me what this is about?" he asked.
I glanced at Monika, then looked back at the road. "Son Tay," I said. "Or Operation Kingpin, or Polar Circle, or Ivory Coast, or whatever the hell you want to call it." Monika looked confused, but then she had during the entire conversation.
"You got room for one more shooter?" he asked. "I really do owe you, y'know."
"My fight, Joe. I got it."
"Okay, MC. I'll get it for you." He hung up.
"Son Tay?" Monika asked. "What's that?"
"Special Forces operation," I said. "To rescue American POWs in North Vietnam." I didn't mention that the raid had involved crashing a helicopter into the courtyard of the complex, nor that no prisoners were recovered, despite the ground battle being a clear American victory.
"Oh," she said. "So he knows what's generally–"
"Yep."
"And what about Miramshah? What does he owe you for?" she asked.
Not all that much, I thought. "Doesn't matter. He'll come through."
She looked dubious. "If you say so. What now?" she asked. I checked my watch. 22:18. Time enough.
"Now, I go visit a hardware store."
At 23:30, I walked out of the Home Depot with a sledgehammer, bolt cutters, pliers, and a crowbar, plus thirty feet of nylon rope and a few carabiners, and two radios with earpieces from the Radio Shack just up the road. Joe called. "Hey, I got everything you need. You want to grab it now?" he asked.
I figured it couldn't hurt. "Sure," I said. "See you in an hour." I hung up and walked to the car. Told Monika where to drive, and sat back. We pulled into the parking lot a hour later. I saw him leaning against an SUV and started to hop out, and Monika did too. I looked at her for a second, then shrugged and kept going. I figured she was entitled to meet Joe. She fell in right behind me, and we walked up to him. He held out his hand, and we shook. "Joe, this is Monika. Monika, this is Joe," I said.
Joe smiled. "Nice to meet you, Monika..?" She looked confused. "Do you have a last name?"
She shook her head. "Just Monika."
He raised an eyebrow. "Just Monika?"
"Just Monika," she said back.
"Just Monika?" he asked, amazed, and not in a good way. He looked at me. "Just Monika?" I nodded. "Just Monika. Okay." He popped the trunk. "Here. Fifteen pounds of C4, ten home-made command-initiated time detonators with blasting caps pre-attached, one detonator-slash-initiator, one suppressed submachine gun with plenty of ammo, and some extra goodies."
I smiled. "Thanks, Joe."
He waved a hand dismissively. "Wasn't hard." It was a blatant lie–fifteen pounds of C4 doesn't just disappear–but whatever. "Just don't do anything that'll get me on the news at eleven."
I chuckled. "Wilco." I sensed he wanted to talk alone, so I gave her the bag. "Can you put that in the car?" She walked off, and I turned back. Joe did not look impressed.
"Dude, the hell?" he asked. "What's with this 'Just Monika' shit?"
I sighed. "She's got trust issues. Had a pretty fucked-up life. Not my place to talk about it."
"And her fucked-up life has to do with the whole prison break, right?" he asked. "Are you sure–"
"Look, Joe," I said. "There are a number of things I would do for a sufficiently pretty woman. Killing is not one of them. This is of my own accord. I had to talk her into this."
He sighed. "Okay, MC. Just don't fuck me on this."
"I won't, Joe," I promised.
He smiled. "Good luck!" he shouted, as I walked away, back to the car.
As Monika drove, I kept my mind blank and focused on my breathing, to stay calm. In, two, three, four. It was 0100 hours. We arrived at 0130. It's 0200 now. Monika will be back soon, so I need to finish fast. We showed up. Everyone thought I was burning the midnight oil, getting extra work done. Dr. Libitina either isn't here or asleep, I don't know which. Either way, he didn't confront me about the new nurse's breakdown and me rushing her out. Neither did any of the other guards, due to the shift change. I went right to my office, and she went to get Yuri from Room 114. They'll manacle her up and send her here with only the one guard, who'll be covering her with a gun the whole time. Whatever. I'll manage. I don't know what Joe packed me–I didn't check the bag yet–but I trust him, so I'm not worried.
Well, they're here.
I'LL MAKE THEM PAY
I finish scribbling the last four words, putting extra force into them and underlining them, as a guard, Monika, and Yuri walk into the room. I close the journal, put it in a jacket pocket, and stand up, the duffel. "Put her up against the wall," I order the guard. He slams Yuri face-first into it, and she screams.
"Shut up!" he yells. He's my size, so I don't want to get blood on his uniform. I'm going to need it, after all. "You worthless bitch!"
I click open my knife, and Yuri shrieks. The guard laughs. "That's right, you psycho–"
He doesn't finish the sentence, because I grab him by the collar and yank him back as I drive the knife right into his brain stem, at the base of the skull. Instant ragdoll. I lower him to the ground, find the keys to the cuffs, and toss them to Monika, who's looking at the guard's body with grim satisfaction on her face. She goes to work on the cuffs while I strip the guard's body of anything useful. I take his Glock–a 19, like mine–and his two spare magazines. I take the magazines for myself and give the Glock to Monika. I lock the door, and strip the guard.
"What are you doing?" Yuri asks.
I start to answer, but Monika cuts me off. "We're getting you out of here," she says. "And these people aren't going to hurt you ever again."
"But you hurt him," she said. "You killed him."
I look up at her. "Yes," I say. "And he would have hurt you, and I don't plan on letting that happen again."
"Y-you mean that?" Yuri asks. "You really mean it?"
I feel my heart break, shattering into about a million pieces. "Yes," I say. "I really do."
She starts to cry. "Hey," I say. "I have to go now, but I'll be right back, I promise. Fifteen minutes, and I'll be back here. I promise."
She looks at me. "What's your name?" she asks.
"MC. My name is MC," I tell her. I point to Monika. "Her name is Monika. She's going to stay with you and get you changed into some new clothes, okay? I have to go now." I finish stripping the body and shove his clothes and kit into the backpack, which I throw over my shoulder. I yank the knife out of his skull, close it, and put it in my pocket, then walk through the door. There's a single-stall bathroom, and I quickly change in there. I walk out, dressed just like a guard, still carrying the backpack. I quickly walk over to the security room, look around, and knock twice on the door. "Hey!" I shout. "Open up!" The door opens a few seconds later, and I push the guard back into the room and slash the knife across his lower stomach, disemboweling him. He opens his mouth to scream, but I quickly duck past him and slam the knife into his brain stem, just like the first guy, but parallel to him, facing opposite directions, yanking him forwards. I quickly close the door and check myself for blood. None. There's none in the hallway either. Perfect. I drag his body over into a corner of the room and leave it there, then turn and leave the security room, leaving the door unlocked. I walk back to my office and knock, shave-and-a-hair-cut, six-bits. The door opens, and I walk inside.
"Hey. You all good?" I ask Yuri, who's in a nurse's uniform like Monika's. She's wearing the glasses that the cult made for her, that they were gonna give her when she became the person they wanted her to be. Well, they failed. And now they're gonna die for what they did.
Yuri nods. "Okay," I say, "Then we should go." I pick up the bag carrying the C4 and other toys, and the three of us start walking the route to the outside. We pass by the security office and stop. I turn to Monika. "Remember the plan?" I ask.
She nods. "Cover the cameras, don't let anyone in, let you know where the patrols are. Wipe the tapes and destroy the recording devices once the timers start."
I smile. "Okay. You got this." I turn to leave.
"Wait!" she says. I turn back, and she kisses me on the cheek before I can react, startling me. "For luck," she tells me. I blink twice, shocked. "Now go get her out of here. Go!" She waves her hand, shooing us out as she closes and locks the door, and this time, me and Yuri start moving for real. We walk through the hospital unchallenged, because Yuri doesn't look like the Yuri the guards know, not with glasses and a nurse's uniform instead of bandages and chains. We get outside, and make it across the courtyard unchallenged. I see Yuri look around, amazed by simple things like trees and birds and grass, and I can't wait to get the other two out.
We approach the parking lot. Only the one guard there, as usual. I knock on the guard box. "Hey," I say. "Need the keys to the van." There's also only the one van for the cult. Few others have personal vehicles. The guard nods and grabs the keys, and hands them to me, arm outstretched. I grab his arm and slash the knife across his wrist, cutting it down to the bone. Bright red blood spurts out, and I ram the knife into his throat, blade down. He gurgles, blood mixing with air from his cut-up windpipe, and I rip the knife out to the side, slicing open the right side of his neck, destroying his jugular vein, and also slitting a hole in his carotid artery as the end of the blade closest to the hills swings in. Blood hoses out with the beating of his heart, and he collapses in a large pool of his blood. I grab the keys off the ground, turn, and see Yuri looking at me, shocked.
"Jesus, MC," I hear Monika say over the radio. "That–oh my god." She's on cameras for sure.
"Roger," I say, then grab Yuri by the shoulder and hustle to the van. I open the double doors in the back, and get her inside, before shutting the doors behind me. She starts to cry.
"Hey, what's wrong?" I ask. "Are you okay?" She just cries harder. "Come on, tell me."
"Y-you–you killed him," she stutters.
Oh. Right. She saw that. "Look," I say. "I'm not hurting anyone who didn't hurt you. Anyone who did that deserves exactly what they get. I mean–what they did to you, it's unforgivable."
"But you didn't have to kill him!" she shouts.
"Yes, I did," I say calmly. "Because I'm going back for the others, and that will take an hour. He would have noticed when only I got out of the van and did nothing with the keys. So I need you to stay here for an hour, while I go save the others. Okay?"
"O-o-okay," she stutters. I nod, and drop the bag on the ground. I open it up.
It's time to be a fucking hero.
