CONTENT WARNING
Graphic description of dead bodies and invasive medical procedures.
As soon as the plane came to a halt inside the hanger, Bobby and Syd lowered the stairs. A military-style cargo truck pulled up a few minutes later. Several men started piling out, and Bobby started barking orders. "Get up here and help us get these bodies in the truck. We've got to get them secured before they've revived."
That task taken care of, Bobby started to move down the stairs.
"Wait, where the hell are you goin'?" Syd demanded.
"To do my job, shithead," Bobby shot back with clear irritation in his voice from the bottom of the stairs. "And you should do yours. Get the bodies in the truck, then get in the driver seat. Don't leave without me. As soon as I'm done passing instructions to the mechanics, we need to haul ass, so keep these knuckle heads in line and get the job done."
"Who are you calling knuckle heads?" came the German-accented voice of one of the mercenaries from the truck who had already started making his way up the stairs.
"You, Carl. Now shut up and get to work."
Carl grumbled, but moved into the airplane while Bobby moved to speak with the mechanics. Three more mercs moved passed Syd into the airplane to retrieve bodies.
"Syd, nice threads. You are moving up in the world, no?"
Syd sneered at the small, stocky Russian with dark features. "Shut the hell up, Aleksey. This job fucking sucked. Tell me I'm going to Hawaii, then Bobby keeps us holed up in the damn motel room the whole time so we don't blow our cover. Then I have to act like I fucking care about whether those freaks want a soda or a damn package of peanuts. And these 'threads' are fucking uncomfortable. Can't wait to get out of these prissy ass uniform. I mean seriously, what kind of actual man signs up to wear one of these and wait on other people?"
"Syd, Syd, Syd, you are looking at this all wrong. To start, the bosses trusted you with a very important mission. Second, I hear that stewards get lots of girls. The ladies like a man in uniform."
"Really?" Syd queried in surprise.
"Of this I am very certain." Aleksey nodded sagely.
"Well," Syd smiled a little, "silver lining or some shit like that, right? Would be nice if this uniform came in handy for something. Alright, let's go haul off one of those freaks. If we're not in the truck and ready to go when Bobby finishes he's gonna be pissed and then it'll be all our asses."
"Of course. Lead the way."
The sharp sound of the cargo truck horn let Bobby know Syd and the others were ready to move out.
"Now, repeat your instructions back to me."
The Venezuelan finished taking a long drag on his cigarette, before blowing out the smoke in an annoyed huff and rolling his eyes. "We make repairs, we clean the plane, we wait for further instructions. There is something else?"
"No. There's nothing else."
"Good, then get the fuck out of my way."
"With pleasure," Bobby snarked. Jogging over, he hopped in the back of the cargo truck looking briefly with distaste at the bodies on the floor before taking a seat on the edge of one of the two benches. He leaned down, banged twice on the bumper with his palm, and let out a loud, sharp whistle.
Syd threw the truck into gear and hit the gas. The small truck roared down a pothole pitted road, swerving back and forth as he dodged holes and cracks in the long abandoned surface. In the back, Booby and the others clung to the metal benches that had been welded to the sides of the interior. On the floor between the benches lay the bound bodies of Germany, Italy, and America.
Each nation had been slain by a single gunshot to the head, a method centuries of warfare had proved to be effective in temporarily incapacitating the national personifications, as it took longer for their supernatural healing factor to repair the damage to the brain than any other organ. America had been the only one to see the gunman, so it was likely that neither Germany nor Italy had any idea what had happened.
The truck rolled to a stop under the small overhang attached to the tall, windowless monolith they were using as their base of operations. Another guard stepped out of the metal double-doors and approached the vehicle.
"Bobby," the tall Jamaican greeted, "good to see you. I heard you came back with some extra luggage. So which of these are we takin'? They're ready inside." Turning, he motioned to a pair of orderlies who rolled a stretcher up to the truck.
"This one here," Bobby said, kicking America's lifeless body. "Carl, you and Yosef get him on the stretcher. What about these two, Marcus?"
"They finished their 'accommodations' right before you came. Just over in the decontamination building."
Carl and Yosef reached the front of the truck with America's body and dumped him unceremoniously onto the stretcher. The young Nation's body hit the padded surface with a sickening thud, his head lolling lifelessly to the side. The bullet had torn its way through the side of his head, leaving a gruesome path in its wake. A trickle of blood and other remains slowly began to leak out, rolling down America's tanned skin to the red vinyl surface of the stretcher.
The orderlies strapped the body down and began to roll the stretcher into the building. "Later man. I gotta escort the body all the way to the docs."
"Later Marcus." He watched as Marcus and the orderlies disappeared into the main building. Leaning around the edge of the covered truck, he hollered at Syd, "To the decontamination building. They've set up a holding area for our other guests."
Syd stepped on the gas and quickly drove the truck around the corner of the building to a second smaller structure. As he reached a small loading dock, he spun the truck around and back up to the loading zone.
Carl and Yosef grabbed Germany roughly while Aleksey and Nathan dragged Italy's body out of the back of the truck. Syd leaned back against the driver's seat, watching through the side mirror as the guards worked. When the bodies and Bobby were clear, he didn't hesitate to pull away. He had other orders to carry out now that the cargo had been delivered. Maybe if he was lucky he'd get the opportunity to come back and have some fun with the captives. Freaks deserved to suffer for what they'd done to the human race.
Italy and Germany's limp bodies left a streak of red as they were dragged by the ankles through the winding corridor to what had been a decontamination chamber. Fully aware that the Nations would regenerate from the deadly wounds, the guards were quick to bring them to the makeshift cage that had been erected at the end of the decontamination showers. The guards tossed Germany, then Italy, into the makeshift cell and slammed the door shut, locking them in and laughing as they did so. Really, the Nations should thank them when they woke up. Imprisonment was a much better fate than what the other one was going to go through.
Dr. Marje Jenkins took care to scrub extra carefully. This was an unprecedented opportunity and she didn't want to accidently contaminate the test subject by being careless. She took care to clean under her nails, between her fingers, and well up her arms, counting out the minutes in her head. Her squeaky new sneakers still had their out-of-the-box smell, which was impressive considering the deep decontamination they'd undergone a few hours earlier, and her yellow scrubs inspired her to be as bright and cheery as they were.
The surgical team was assembled and briefed, only waiting for her to get started. This was her time, her moment to find her inner peace, so she knew she would be calm and mentally prepared for the long examination they were about to undertake.
The peace and quiet of the temporary scrub room shattered when the door suddenly slammed open.
"How much longer will it be before you get started?"
Marje narrowed her eyes and took a deep breath. There were times she envied the Americans. Forgoing hereditary nobility was suddenly a deeply attractive notion. "I will be ready when I am ready, Wally," she insisted, looking over her shoulder with a cool expression. At least someone had gotten the blue blooded idiot to sanitize himself before he barged in. He almost looked intelligent in the blue scrubs. A pity his appearance didn't match reality.
"That's Lord-"
"Lord nothing," Marje interrupted with a dismissive sniff. "I dare say your dear doting father would have words to say about you taking on airs you have not yet earned."
"You lowborn cow, how dare you?" Witless Wally looked positively shocked by her statement, as though no one had ever stood up to him before. Well, she supposed it was possible.
"Careful, Wally boy," she sang, stepping back from the sink. She held her hands carefully in the air, mindful not to let any water roll down onto her surgical attire. "Your father practically begged me to come help with this little project of his. He may have placed you in charge of this little soiree, but I think we both know who he'll heed in the end. Mind your manners and perhaps I'll fail to mention to him how disrespectful you've been." With that, she swept out of the room and into the surgical suite.
A nurse stepped forward and quickly dried her hands with a sterile towel as another appeared to help her glove, gown, and mask herself, taking care with each step to avoid any possible microbial contamination.
Finally, she was ready. Taking a deep breath, she stepped forward and, for the first time, truly got to see her test subject.
It was astonishing how human it looked. If she'd passed it on the street, it would have been noticeable only because of its unusually good looks and brilliant blond hair. It had a distinctly traditional, masculine skeletal structure as well as a strong, well toned musculature - distinct without being overwhelming.
"Recorder on?" she asked, glancing at one of the nurses, who nodded back. "Excellent. Preliminary examination should note that the subject is a match for its culture's conventional standards of physical beauty and strength. It could be beneficial to survey other members of this species and see if there is a pattern of appearance and culture.
"Subject presents as a human male, age late teens or early twenties. No noticeable physical abnormalities. Subject has extensive scarring on its torso and limbs. The scarring would likely not be visible when wearing conventional Western clothing."
One of the other doctors cleared his throat. "The records of the previous subject also noted extensive scarring, particularly around neck. Given what we know of this species's powerful regenerative healing ability, scarring should not be possible."
"Agreed," Marje noted. She studied the subject for a few more moments, looking for anything else that stood out before they began the detailed examination. The subject, named simply America, was completely naked. Sweeping her eyes up from its toes to its head, she paused, frowning slightly. "Bring up the photos of the gunshot wound," she ordered. Stepping forward, she turned America's head one way then another, noting how small the wounds were.
A computer monitor was rolled over and the photos the guards had taken of America's body appeared.
"How long ago was this?" she demanded, eyes going wide.
"49 minutes ago," the nurse stated after quickly checking the Nation's chart.
"Incredible," Marje breathed. "Quickly, measure the wounds and get a sample of the tissue," she ordered. "It's astonishing how quickly the cells have regenerated. Without interference, I imagine it would be alive and conscious again within another hour."
"The subjects in Austin revived much quicker," the other doctor noted.
"Yes but they were already dead when they were shot." Pursing her lips, Marje mentally reviewed the briefing she'd been given when she joined the project. "Those shots were also less damaging as a result of smaller caliber munitions," she added. "This was deliberately damaging. We will want to compare the regeneration rates once America revives."
Nodding in satisfaction, Marje gestured towards the waiting anesthesia technician. "Get it prepped," she ordered. "The moment it starts to show signs of consciousness, dose it."
As the anesthesiologist set to work, Marje moved away from the computer and stepped up to the surgical table. "We'll begin the examination at its feet," she ordered. "Make sure the camera is rolling."
Lord Wallace Arterbury threw himself into one of the chairs in the makeshift conference room. That woman had no right addressing him that way! He scowled, trying to decide how to put her back in her place. She wasn't wrong that his father had sought her out for this project. But that didn't mean she wasn't replaceable!
"Sulking does not become you," an accented voice suddenly interrupted.
Stiffening, Wallace suppressed the urge to snarl. Out of everyone on the island right now, Tosetti was undoubtedly the most dangerous. That danger, however, also made him an invaluable ally. "Doctor Jenkins is disrespectful," he muttered, casting a dark glare at the small TV displaying the live feed from the surgical room. On it, a sudden spurt of fluid suddenly shot into the air. He turned away with a shudder.
"I am sure she will learn her place," Tosetti responded blandly. The mercenary couldn't help but chuckle inside, although no sign of his amusement crossed his swarthy face. Disrespectful? Hardly. He imagined Jenkins had put the little princeling in his place.
Like Wallace, he turned his attention to the surgery feed. The morbid, violent acts being performed on the lower levels didn't bother him, however. No, he had seen and done far worse. He didn't enjoy inflicting violence but instead admitted that, sometimes, it was necessary to achieve his goals or the goals of his employers.
"We've received word that the American government just did another check on our guests' flight. Happily, our agents again reported that all is well." Tosetti chuckled. "The false tracking information is also holding up."
"Good," Wallace replied with satisfaction. He mulled over the information, turning it around and around in his head. "Send word for the agents to extract themselves as soon as possible," he ordered. "It would be terrible for them to be caught when either the Americans or the Japanese realize that the flight will not, in fact, be arriving on time."
"Of course, sir." Tosetti pulled out the satellite phone he was using to maintain contact with Command and quickly gave the order. Wallace might be a prick but at least he didn't needlessly throw away lives.
Once the call was concluded, he sat back to watch the procedure. "I don't suppose," Tosetti began after a while, "you could elaborate some on why these beings are such a threat?" He cast a glance at Arterbury. "I am, of course, perfectly content carrying out your orders but I must confess to a certain amount of personal curiosity at the sheer amount of vitriol your organization holds for these beings."
Wallace turned away from the TV to face Tosetti directly, secretly pleased to have an excuse not to monitor the ongoing medical procedure. "These beings, as you call them, are manipulating the governments of this world to attain great personal power. They have Kings and Emperors at their every beck and call and think nothing of throwing human lives away to settle their own petty disputes."
A dark expression crossed Wallace's face as a memory of a derisive, insulting creature with thick eyebrows arose. That arrogant little prick had never hesitated to insult him or his family, casting nasty barbs at them while lurking under the protection of the Crown.
Grabbing a folder off the table, he tossed it at the mercenary. It landed on the table in front of him and continued to slide, the contents dragging out behind it.
Tosetti picked at the documents, skimming past the charts and reports, ignoring them in favor of the photos. The black and white images showed a very similar scene to the one playing out in the surgery room down below.
"These records alone are proof that they are not the selfless angels they portray themselves to be." Wallace sniffed, putting on an air of arrogance so he could pretend the records hadn't made him vomit. "Even Russia, a dutiful, biddable Nation by all accounts, had to be restrained for the vivisections and autopsies Chairman Lenin ordered be performed. He fought and even killed those he claimed were his own people to try and escape. Resistance. Defiance," Wallace continued with a small amount of satisfaction, "these are what they display all while claiming to be perfectly loyal and obedient. And that shows us their true nature. Deceitful, faithless, disloyal - only concerned with preserving their own skin. Whatever magic or science they have used to bind themselves to us . . . we will discover it and we will end it."
"And why this one?" Tosetti asked, dropping the photos and picking up one of the medical charts. "You have three of them. What made you pick this one to start with?"
"This one is different from the others." Wallace glared briefly at the TV. "He didn't attach himself like a parasite to the American government and only made himself known to them after the Austin operation."
He took a moment to stew. Austin had been the first operation he'd planned for the organization. It was infuriating how his father had insisted he was at fault for the mistakes made by the servants. He'd had them, the most powerful and influential 'nations' on the planet, lined up and ready to die while Godefroy kept the feds in Austin running around in circles with his carefully planned nonsense. Then the so-called America had stepped in and upset everything. He'd killed the soldiers they had distracting the federal officers, he'd slaughtered the men holding the nations, and somehow even blew the brains out of the snipers guarding over the entire operation!
Wallace took a deep breath, consciously loosening his hands from the tight fists he'd clenched them into. "We need to know how this one is different, if at all. Why and how did he remain separate from the American government? Is he the same as the others or is he somehow different?
"Besides," Wallace continued, "We also don't know for certain that the kill method we've developed is actually effective. We were so close to confirming it-" There was the anger again, a spark of white hot anger at how the American had made him look like a fool. "But the operation was ultimately a failure. This," he made a sweeping gestured towards the TV, "will help us better understand our enemy. And with that knowledge, we will end them once and for all."