Zarga walks into the command room with the device in between his fingers and takes a seat with the others at the circular bench. He tosses the key to M-21. "I don't know what you want to do with that; I've already uploaded all the information to the lab computers." He leans back, throwing an arm behind the the seat and crossing his legs. "There was a lot of data I don't understand—I'll leave that to Frankenstein when he gets back—but there were also locations of several other bases connected to the research facility and the identities of several seemingly high ranking officials—not many, but enough to get started." Zarga sighs and rubs his fingers across his forehead and eyes. "I can't believe this is happening. I can't believe I'm here again."
M-21, raises an eyebrow, his arms resting on his knee. "Is that really surprising?"
The noble drops his hand to stare at the ceiling for a second. "No," he says. "Of course not." He straightens. "I swear, if I get fired for this…" he mumbles under his breath.
Urokai, with a huff, stands and briskly walks over to the central computer projection. Quickly, he retrieves the lab computer data and looks at the stars. "The closest base is here." He points to a small blue dot on the projection.
Raizel's eyes roam over the map. "We can get there within two hours," is his estimate. He looks down, and quietly, "If they do not give us what we need, we may…obtain a few hostages." He glances bashfully away.
They all pass a beat of silence with surprised eyes on Raizel.
M-21 chuckles. "Makes sense."
His cell is sterile and just cold enough to be uncomfortable. It only takes him five and a half steps to get from one side to the other. Frankenstein sighs and continues counting his steps between the walls, the same number over and over again. He pauses to look up at his reflection in the one glass wall, brushes his hair back neatly, pulls out a pair of bright green lashes from a pocket, puts them on, then resumes pacing.
A knock on the glass. "Mr. Frankenstein," says a tender, soothing voice, like wind whistling through a forest canopy.
"Please, just 'Frankenstein.'"
"How are you finding your accommodations?" The woman in blue asks.
"Absolute luxury," he says flatly. "But, if I may make a suggestion"—he raises his arms, showing off the shiny power dampening cuffs accented with bright orange—"these things don't really do anything for me; you might as well take them off. They're not my style, you see."
She only gives him a small smile. "Denied. Mr. Frankenstei—"
"Just Frankenstein."
"Frankenstein, I won't pretend Lexda does not value minds such at yours. We've had our eyes on you for some time. Our access to souls has been rather limited; people generally aren't very willing to sell them—"
"I can't imagine why."
"However, you've done much research on and weaponized them to an astounding degree."
A sour look crosses Frankenstein's face. "Is that what they're saying? That I did that?" A joyless chuckle. "I suppose they're right..."
"And integrated them into Lexda technology, a prospect of fantastic promise. The corporation would gladly overlook your previous…behavior for your resources and experience." Then, with a particular note of cheeriness, "We are all on the brink of something great."
"I'll have to consider it," Frankenstein responds tightly.
"It would be a shame to waste someone like you." Her eyes are wide and optimistic.
Frankenstein smirks. "Again, flattering."
Zarga groans as he takes a seat on the floor next to their newly captured insider. He leans back against the wall. He'll have to get both his suit and his gun repaired after that episode. Probably have to find a new job too, if anyone would be willing to hire him if word gets out about their little heist. He takes a sip of coffee from the blue eggshell patterned mug—Frankenstein's mug he found in a cabinet—and rolls the bitter taste around in his mouth. It's not that he particularly enjoys the taste of the drink and it's not as if nobles are affected by caffeine, but something about leisurely and tiredly sipping a hot, dark, bitter drink brings him a vain sort of peace. "Believe me, we're not evil. We're just trying to get our friend back. Just tell us what you know and we let you go."
The man—though Zarga isn't completely sure—shifts away from him as best he can with his hands and legs bound. He glances at the badge on Zarga's chest. "This is outside your responsibilities as a cop."
"Yep." Another sip. "I really shouldn't even be here. Everyone on this ship is an idiot. Except for…no, nevermind—he doesn't know what he's doing." A soft, sympathetic look passes over Zarga's face as he looks down at the coffee. "So, are you ready to cooperate?"
The captive does not say any more.
They both perk up at the sound of swift footsteps. Raizel walks into the room closely followed by a vaguely concerned Urokai. "Sir Raizel, are you sure? Maybe you should rest."
"I am fine." He turns to the two on the ground and approaches. "This will not require much exertion from me." He stands tall before the man and looks down, eyes of authority, of honest determination. He kneels. Their eyes are level.
Raizel presses his lips together in a tight line for a moment, brows almost furrowing, considering. An anxiety flutters in his chest. "I apologize. This is beyond my rights and an unjust use of my powers." Gently, he reaches forward to brush the man's hair from his eyes. Raizel's eyes are glowing, piercing, and guilty. He breathes in. "You will reveal to me all you know."
His powers are grand, grandiose, the remnants of a now long gone history, like the artifacts of an empire. Resistance greets him in the man's mind, but with a casual push, Raizel exerts his dominion upon him and his knowledge, like a crashing wave. He holds governance over minds and blood, or at least, he was meant to.
Once, the Noblesse might have breached another's mind for the notion of a justice he had been taught—been assigned to defend. An invasion of such privacy was reserved for criminals, reserved for judgment, and to a noble, privacy of the mind is only second to privacy of the soul. Those powers were not meant for Raizel, but now, he finds himself using them anyway, and he is terrified.
The lab building is arrogant in its architecture, arches and lines sweeping into the sky as the whole structure spirals upward as if to demand attention from the heavens itself to justify its own existence. The soldier—the same one from the Commander's side—guides Frankenstein inside and to the appropriate lab.
Doctor Chey turns from watching the large glass dome containing some sort of rapidly spinning lightning situated on heavy machinery. "Glad you could make it, Frankenstein," she says. "I hope EX-7 didn't give you too much trouble."
"A guard and the cuffs? You don't trust me?"
She smiles. "Of course not."
"Hey, Old Man."
Frankenstein turns.
"You never called." The man with the red hair chuckles, putting his hands in the pockets of his lab suit as he walks over to him. "Didn't even ask for my name, how cold."
"I'm sorry, do I know you?"
He shrugs. "I guess not really. Call me Don." He puts out his hand.
Frankenstein takes it.
"I'll fill you in on what's going on, Frankenstein." Doctor Chey grabs a tablet from a nearby counter and pulls up some data. "As you likely know, souls have been shown to exhibit a spatial and temporal distortion similar to those created by some warp technologies. Recently, there's been a discovery of an artifact, a spire"—she navigates to a photo of said spire, and Frankenstein recognizes it—"that, upon further investigation, is a sort of relay once commonly used for ships. However, this one doesn't work on anything with mass. But, do you know what is massless and can still take physical form?"
"Souls." Frankenstein knows them well.
"Absolutely. At their core, souls are information, a peculiar way to store vast data. We wonder if perhaps this spire could be a part of a system that forms a sort of 'cloud' for souls, rapidly teleporting information from one place to another across star systems. In particular, it seems to respond to noble type souls."
"Noble physiology is also noteworthy," Don adds, leaning against the lab bench. "Their bodies aren't entirely physical, formed from information that is available to the soul. If they know a form well enough, they can probably take it, including the inorganic—we've seen soul weapons before—meaning that transportation of the soul can equate to transportation of whatever form the soul can take." Don smiles. "This, you might guess, is rather valuable. If we are able to move between the physical and nonphysical—mass and massless—and still preserve information on a large scale, it would a breakthrough, especially for intergalactic travel."
"You've managed to give Gilgamesh a soul, or souls, according to our reports. I'm sure you understand why we find your work valuable." Doctor Chey places the tablet back down on the table.
"Of course."
The lights cast a warm, moody glow on all the surfaces: the tile floors, the lacquered wood tables. His eyes, usually a deep red, shimmer like an orange fire under this light as his gaze sweeps the establishment. There are only a few people here at this hour, chatting softly, sipping soft drinks, bright hair piled high and brashly on their heads. They don't spare him a glance.
A man walks into the diner, his skin patterned and shifting like an octopus, eyes shaded by a pronounced brow. Raizel wonders for a moment if he can be human but senses no soul from him. "You came alone?"
Raizel nods. The service bot slides him his glass of sweetened juice on the counter. Raizel takes a sip and the man, with much weight, takes the seat next to him. Even sitting, he towers over Raizel.
"So you're the one who's been asking all the questions lately. 'Polite and hospitable to a fault,' my cousin told me." He rests his elbows on the counter and looks over to Raizel, eyes efficiently running over his body. "You're smaller than I thought. Human?"
Raizel gently shakes his head. "A noble."
Something in the man's eyes brightens. "Ah, one of those…soul people. Dangerous." He gives him a lopsided smile, like the moon. "But I don't mind a little danger."
Raizel continues sipping his juice, unable to determine the man's motive as he usually is able to do with creatures with souls. He gets to the point. "What do you wish for in return for your information?"
"If I'm not mistaken, you and your crew are in possession of Gilgamesh. I'd like to have a look inside. Simple as that, honey." The alien leans in closer.
"You will not take it."
"I won't."
Raizel drops his gaze and considers in silence for a moment. He looks up in surprise when he feels a broad hand inch over his hip to his lower back. He understands the gesture well enough.
The man's eyes are lidded. "Perhaps we should go somewhere with a little more privacy to discuss details."
To Raizel, touch is intimate, perhaps even sacred. It has only ever been Frankenstein who has shared this intimacy with him, eons ago, and Raizel still remembers well their shared heat. He closes his eyes and breathes out, wondering if this is forgivable. He is aware of what kind of mood can be induced with physical intimacy, perhaps even one that would favor his own motives.
His eyes once again catch his now pursuer. "Perhaps we should," Raizel says quietly as he gets up from his seat. He waits for him at the door.
The man is rough, and memories of endless, heated encounters and pleasant things in the old Lukedonian mansion resurface, and Raizel finds himself missing them. He is rather used to being rough and being roughed up; it was always like a game, and Frankenstein enjoyed his games.
He speaks to Raizel in a lull, his voice a low, sleepy rumble, talking about both things that don't matter and things that do matter. Once or twice, he says more than he should, and Raizel is a careful listener as he pulls the covers a little higher on his bare skin.
When he at last mumbles himself to sleep, Raizel sits up, takes a tiny, flat pin device from the band on his wrist, and with bated breath, presses it into the shifting skin of his bedwarmer's arm. It slides under and disappears, and Raizel is quick to wipe away the single drop of blood left behind. Silently, he shifts out of the bed, cleans, and then dresses himself. He slides open the balcony glass, walks out, and leaps from the 28th story of the hotel.
He raises his wrist phone to his ear. "It is done," he informs them.
"Alright," M-21 says. "In a few moments, we'll have live updates on his location as well as audio. According to the last guy, he's supposed to be a pretty big deal, overseeing some important projects for the corporation. If they're not planning on killing Frankenstein and are instead going to use him for something, he probably has a clue." He lets out a an amused hum. "Good job, Raizel."
Raizel blinks at this. He cannot help but let himself smile. He does not know what to say.