Chapter 15: Lab Rat
Rictoberg Grand Palace of Vienna
It was one of the most ambitious architectural projects of the late twentieth century. Headed up by Cornelius Rictoberg the Third, the multibillionaire banker and art-house exhibitor had spent a significant fortune refurbishing an old mountaintop cathedral into a mansion fit for a family that essentially outlived their rivals in the Hapsburg dynasty. Over the years, it had been utilized by his family and descendants as yet another weekend retreat, appreciating a vista as scenic as it was expensive.
Of course, the wayward lamb of the Rictoberg family had other interests in the building. Ever since she was a young girl, some of her happiest memories of her childhood had involved playing in the catacombs beneath the manse, a place to hide her comic books and plot her ascension as Ultra-Princess of Humanity. Upon inheriting it after her twenty-fifth birthday, she once again returned to the catacombs, this time remake it into something more to her tastes.
Melanie watched the body intently as Aleksandr looked over the readings. Every fiber of hair, every pore, every cell had come from the DNA of Melanie herself. The result; a perfect copy of a young adult Melanie Rictoberg, sans one critical ingredient to which they would amend tonight. "Begin phase five," Melanie announced. A surge of electricity jolted through the body, lurching it up as radiation began coursing through the bloodstream.
Aleksandr wiped some sweat from his brow. Hopefully, this test would go significantly better than the last few trials they had done. Earlier, upon his arrival, he had suggested that they use an animal like a cat or a rabbit for the initial test runs. Melanie had been adamant that this procedure was for humans specifically, and supplied her own test subject for the initial results. He had learned the hard way that when Melanie wanted something, Melanie got something.
Melanie ran to the computer, the center of a mass of machines hooked up by cables to the slab of meat on the table. This particular obstacle had stumped her for years, the transfer of data to brainwaves, a field of study that carried with it titanic implications about learning and development. Melanie still wanted to go further. Personality, memories, behavior, talent, these were the things Melanie wanted to carry over, to transfer to her newest and immortal body. She was not going to spend eternity semi-conscious in some gelatinous vat. What good was eternal life without eternal youth?
"Readings are getting awfully close to the red," Aleksandr warned as he watched the toes began to curl.
"She can take it, I made her, it's my blood in her veins," Melanie muttered to herself as she watched the newborn corpse begin to gasp involuntarily. Melanie felt the grin creep on her face as she watched her younger body's eyes begin to flutter open. "Yes… YES!" she cried out climactically. Aleksandr was trying to keep all meters under control. Futilely.
Blood erupted from the mouth of the corpse, its heart having exploded, followed by the eyes. As blood poured from every orifice, the cold flat-line filled the room. Melanie stared at her ruined body, the shock having worn off to be supplemented by disappointment and irritation.
"Take thirty-eight," Markovich muttered under his breath.
"SHUT UP!" Melanie screamed.
"We haven't made any progress in a month. Perhaps we should scale back the final experiment until we finally have all variables accounted for…"
"I will not spend my utopic future in an iron lung!" Melanie hissed. "Move forward with the next body. We were this close, I just know it!"
Markovich grabbed the corpse under his arms and dragged it to the pit. The experiment being what it was and causing what it did, even the organs of each body were left unsalvageable, denying them an opportunity to make back any form of profit. Instead, the blonde corpse joined the several few dozen of her sisters in the pit, the picturesque cadavers all-resting on many deformed monstrosities that had been the results of Melanie's first tests from her "guest and friend."
"Perhaps a good sleep would do us some benefits?" suggested Markovich.
"Coffee, meal, then we try again," insisted Melanie, accepting no argument, as was par for course.
Aleksandr groaned. "…I'll take the usual," he relented.
"While we wait, I think I'll get Walter to surrender that ungrateful little bitch. Perhaps a few more test-runs on the conscious transfer process should prove amusing," Melanie insisted.
"Maybe we can also find a spider and pull its legs off. It will be just as enlightening," Aleksandr couldn't stop himself.
"What did you say to me?" Melanie turned to him, staring him down.
"Just admit what it is. Baseless torture. Don't dress it up or try to justify it scientifically. For once, just do me a favor and admit you are only using her to indulge your petty sadism," Markovich spat.
"Or what?" Melanie sneered. "You'll think less of me?"
"I already regard you as a jailer, and discussions on morality bore me as ever," Markovich growled. "But don't pretend you have any deeper or more benign interest in that woman other than your indulgences. I should have let Kovalenko have you, it's like you two were made for one another."
Melanie's body heat began to soar. "Ready the next test subject, now! I will personally oversee her internal biometrics myself."
"And stop calling your meat-suits "her." They are inanimate sacks of skin, bone, and organs. If you wanted to give birth to life, you should have used that bit between your legs years ago," Aleksandr taunted.
Melanie shrieked as she stormed up the stairway. Aleksandr groused to himself as he sat in the lab. The honeymoon period was over, as was his gratuity over having been rescued from Her Majesties finest. Sometimes, he almost found himself missing the days when Melanie would try to retire for the evening by groping and molesting him in a desperate attempt at seduction. Almost.
No, now he had been locked in the basement for three weeks and counting, Melanie's lack of progress and her own mortality frustrated her to no end, leaving her with few outlets. If this was how she treated her lab partner, there was no telling how the staff above managed to endure her tirades. As far as they were concerned, it merely came down to an heiress struggling to come to grips with her mid-life crisis. If only, Markovich thought as he stared at the pit, they understood.
Some distance away from the manse, which still overlooked the countryside in an ominous manner, a truck pulled into a cliff-side villa. Walter Schuler stepped out, cracking his neck as he left his assault rifle in the passengers seat. Another day running security in the safest city in Europe. He glanced up at the manse, then down at the city it overlooked. Once again he missed Australia, all his friends back in the service and his twenty-mile backyard. At least this job had some perks.
As he reached the door, the aroma of curry entered wafted into his nostrils. Ignoring the brief pang of guilt in his heart, he entered to see his maidstress putting the finishing touches inside a pot. Parisa looked to him, her eyes brightening. "Welcome back."
"You seem surprised," Walter deadpanned as he sat by the table.
"You aren't usually back this early," Parisa shrugged. "And you don't smell like alcohol."
"Ha-ha," Walter groused. "I was planning on it, but all the bars have been loaded up with the Ossani."
"The Italian Mob?" Parisa asked as she let the pot simmer.
"Looks like they're setting up some fronts in town, bought up some of the pubs and restaurants while the authorities to turn a blind eye."
"Should we be worried?" Parisa asked as she gathered some plates.
"Nah, old Ossani and Rictoberg are like this," Walter held up two fingers together. "As long as she gets her cut, we won't have a problem with them. Which honestly suits me just fine. I think I got a good look at Ossani's bodyguard. Kept giving me the stink-eye while I was on patrol. Of course, why the Italians are entrusting camel jockeys-"
"Excuse me?" Parisa interrupted, humorlessly.
"…People of Middle Eastern descent," Walter placated. "as bodyguards is not something I think I'll get used to."
Parisa eyed him suspiciously. "I'd have thought sharing your bed with a Persian would have enlightened you, culturally."
"We all have our weaknesses," Walter confessed.
Parisa had been "gifted" to him after having saved her from throwing herself from the manse rooftop. The woman had been raving about torture and abominations in the basement, begging Walter not to return her to her custodian. So Walter, having kept the suicide attempt to himself, offered to buy Parisa off of Melanie, who merely responded to not believe anything she said and that she had "lost out on her gateway to immortality." Walter was not the least bit curious about whatever Melanie busied Aleksandr with, so he brought the poor woman to his villa.
After about a week of locking herself in the guest room, Parisa slowly began to open up to Walter. She told him Melanie had rescued her from a familiar gang of Serbian mercenaries, the details of her captivity Walter could only dare to imagine, but had obviously begun to chaff under Ms. Rictoberg's sunny disposition and congenial personality. So, Mr. Schuler assured her that she was under no obligations to service him like her last captors, and if she ever wanted to leave, there were some duffel bags in the basement loaded with cash. After finding out he was serious, Parisa was grateful for his honesty and candor, but didn't want to risk infuriating Melanie more than she had, so she opted to become Walter's housekeeper, a position that slowly morphed overtime into a girlfriend-like role, with everything that it entailed. As time went on and her trust in Walter deepened, her personality slowly began to recover, returning to her original temperament before her captivities.
After the meal, Parisa began gathering the plates while Walter headed upstairs for an early night. "So early? The game's on tonight," Parisa offered.
"Oh, right. Sydney got eliminated, so I don't really care. Besides, Melanie's got me running errands all day tomorrow, so I'm just going to call it a night and take care of it early in the morning."
"That reminds me," Parisa spoke up before he reached the stairs. "Has Melanie said anything about me since…"
"…She may have indicated that she wanted you back in whatever project she's running," Walter admitted.
Parisa gulped.
"And I may have told her that you haven't been feeling well these past few weeks. Wouldn't want the bug you're carrying to infect her science equipment," he added as he climbed the stairs.
Parisa exhaled, resting her hands by her side in relief. Walter never had to go as far out of his way to protect her like he did, but the effort was appreciated nonetheless. He was a good friend. She owed it to him to tell the truth. Not just about Melanie, but about herself. She had a plan to leave this terrible place, but couldn't… wouldn't do it alone. They had enough money. They could find somewhere safe. Walter seemed to have a strange affinity for Australia, and it seemed as good a place as any to start over again. As long as she knew what to do, the future only looked bright.
She heard the basement door open up. Parisa froze, clutching the plate she was washing tightly. She turned just in time to see the muzzle of a gun pointed towards her.
"Listen good," the voice growled. "Play along and this all goes well. First thing's first, call Jon down here. I really need to speak to him."
Parisa, eyes widened in fear, nodded. She turned her back to the intruder, taking a few deep breaths. "…Beloved, can I please speak to you?"
There was no response upstairs. The intruder stood behind Parisa, holding her close as they maneuvered towards the stairway. Right before they reached the stairs, the intruder stopped and slowly turned around behind them, Parisa still in front. Just as expected, the breaching charge on the second floor went off, blowing a hole in the bedroom floor that lead right to the kitchen below. Herr Schuler dropped from the resulting gap, landing on the floor with expert precision, his pistol aimed in front of him towards the intruder and his hostage. His eyes widened in shock as he saw the familiar face.
"Long time, no see, Jon," the voice spoke as she drew a second pistol to place under Parisa's jaw to supplement the one trained on her ex-lover.
"…Kavya?"
Saeed Hassan watched over the tables as the small army of capos and enforcers were served drinks. Andre Ossani, seated at the head of the central table, took a moment to rise as he clinked his glass. "Everyone, may I please have your attention?" he spoke in Italian, the polite tone masking his true authority, which revealed itself as the several dozen hardened criminals acquiesced to his wishes.
"Thank you. These few months have been eventful. With all the borders closed, I'm surprised you all were able to make it." The smattering of laughter that erupted throughout the table brought a smile to Ossani's face.
The man had a quaint, unassuming appearance and demeanor, which his sharp intellect and cunning had practically weaponized to take control of the Sicilian underworld, and had thoroughly branched out to every corner of the continent from Lisbon to Budapest. Right now, he was celebrating the acquisition of new territories in Austria. Recently, he had read an upcoming headline which would label him "the Julius Caesar of Organized Crime." A pity the title would never make it to print, and the writer was no longer around to protest, he thought as he glanced at Saeed.
"After months of hard work and sacrifice, I am proud to officially announce that Vienna, from this day forward, shall be the new headquarters of our new eastern European branches. And the man who I have chosen to lead these new expansions has been briefed towards the new realities he is about to face. Gentlemen, please, let's all hear it for Alberto Bertinelli!" he toasted as the rest raised their glasses. The man of the hour didn't respond in kind, staring into his glass as his thought went out to his last five predecessors all gunned down in various battles against the Stalingrad Bratva. Despite Ossani's encouragement, Austria and Hungary were still contested areas, as far as the Sicilians saw it. This wasn't a promotion, as far as he was concerned. This was a death sentence.
Not that he was fool enough to contest that with Andre, himself. This agreement came about thanks to a request by one of Andre's most trusted allies. Melanie Rictoberg had lately requested some… extralegal assets and support. A large portion of Ossani's revenue depended on keeping Melanie happy, so if she wanted a sizable gang of Italian mobsters standing shoulder to shoulder with her garrison of private security, he didn't have the heart to argue.
As the toasting and soaking commenced, Andre beckoned Saeed to approach him. His bodyguard leaned down towards his employer. "How long do you think poor little Alberto will last until I need to replace him?" Andre whispered mirthlessly. Saeed said nothing. "Agreed," Andre nodded. "I hope his wife had made peace with being a widow. Comes with the job. You wouldn't happen to know of any quiet shoulders she could weep upon?" Saeed grinned. Mrs. Bertinelli was a woman he had fancied for quite some time. Had taken to fancying her on and off over the past two years. Along with Mrs. Silvestre, Mrs. Ricci, Mrs. Romano, and Ms. Ossani (What father didn't know wouldn't hurt him.)
"How well do you think Bertinelli's boys did securing the district?" Andre asked as he began carving into his meal. Saeed said nothing. "I thought as much. Moretti tells me that a handful of Ivan's are held up in a boarding house on the north side of town. Send them our regards, if you will?"
Saeed made his way through the dining hall, giving an affectionate clap on Alberto's shoulder as he left. Climbing the stairs, he brushed through some of the staff as they climbed down to service their new guests. Reaching the top floor, he looked out of the main window towards the road. The town didn't officially have a curfew, but Ms. Rictoberg's security was usually very active at night, and people had long since learned to stay out of their way. So it was rather surprising to see the massive frame looking into the restaurant as several other smaller figures darted down the street.
Saeed stared down the stranger. The man had to at least have stood a head taller than the Libyan, and his frame alone doubled Saeed's. He grinned at the hitman as he strode away. This clearly wasn't a tourist, Saeed thought to himself as he looked for the back door. To his eternal lack of shock, the guards posted there had been killed, and the perpetrators immediately jumped him. If they had been armed with more than knives, it might have been a fair fight. Four had died before they recognized the caliber of warrior they were dealing with, two others overestimated their abilities, and another was killed trying to flee. The last found himself clutching his meat inside his ribs as Saeed stood over him, realizing that the man wasn't Russian.
He spoke in a language Saeed didn't understand, in a tone he didn't care for. Saeed wasn't paid to speak, let alone interrogate, so after dispatching the last survivor, he took notice of the package lying on the ground. He picked it up, shook it, and noticed the ticking. Rolling his eyes, he placed it under his arm, heading off to find the big man and return his package like the Good Samaritan he was.
Jon felt his throat clench as Kavya dug her gun into Parisa's throat. The last time he had seen her, he'd watched as the tears and terror welled up in her eyes after he made his move. Both had seemingly long since vanished from her. Kavya just stared at him with contempt, any friendliness and camaraderie having bled out on that rooftop in Alexandria.
"You've put on some weight, Jon," Kavya stated. "Didn't think you were one to get soft."
"Let her go," Jon retorted. "You have a problem with me, you can just leave her out of it."
Kavya stared down at the trembling woman in her arms. "How did you give me away? I presume "beloved" tipped him off? Clever," she complimented as a tear streaked down Parisa's face.
"You have an issue with me, take it out on me! Take the damn money or take your shot, just leave her the hell alone!" Jon growled.
"I saw," Kavya nodded. "It's a lot. I don't really blame you for planting one in my kidneys and then blowing my ears out," she sarcastically deadpanned.
"I didn't want to kill you," Jon tried, fruitlessly, to explain. "I knew Desmond's guys could stabilize you after I left."
"DON'T YOU GET IT?!" Kavya screamed. "I TRUSTED YOU! I gave you my trust! I gave you my life, my body, my confidence, and you just shit on all of it! You don't get to make up for what you did to me, and you don't get a chance to try and justify it!"
"Then take your revenge!" Jon said as he dropped his gun. "GET ON WITH IT!"
"…No," Kavya stated as she released her hostage. Parisa all but collapsed into Jon's arms, sobs wracking her body. "Walter, who is she?" she mewled.
Kavya just stared at him, egging him to answer the woman.
"…Kavya, listen closely," Jon began. "I want you to grab every duffle bag you can carry, get in the truck, and get to the train station. There should be a guy named Desmond Lockheart waiting there. Tell him you're a friend of Jon Waylon, and you have information on Melanie Rictoberg."
Parisa looked mortified. "Walter, what are you-"
"If this woman is here, Desmond isn't far off, is he?" Jon asked Kavya. She didn't say anything. "The only reason you would come this far if it isn't to shoot me, is to get your hands one something. Or someone."
"…Well, no one can accuse you of being stupid," Kavya admitted. "We're here to extract Markovich."
"Finally putting one in his head?" Jon suggested.
Kavya finally looked away. "…No."
Below the cliff, a series of explosions rocked Vienna.
Markovich had reset the lab, purging it of any contaminants and drawing yet another clone body from the vat. Melanie had essentially turned a significant swath of the catacombs into a garden of her flesh and blood. Each body grown and molded into a replica of Melanie in the prime of her overly fetishized youth. After seeing the fortune she poured into maintaining her body now, desperately trying to remain twenty-six forever, it really shouldn't have shocked Markovich to see the depths of her desperation to escape the clutches of Thanatos. Yet he found himself marveling at the overlapping levels of fear and ego on display as he carried the teenaged body to the table.
He sat by the table, looking over the body. Here he was, stuck at an assembly line of vanity. His army had been thoroughly destroyed or driven into hiding; his own government disavowed him once they realized he was under the thumb of a powerful civilian. Melanie had enough power to keep the governments at bay, and with the collapsing of the European Commonwealth; the notion of extradition was little more than a sick joke. Still, he had to marvel at the irony. Melanie had succeeded where the UN, MI6, and Soviet reformers had failed. Locking him up, condemning him to a life of trying to animate slabs of meat for the rest of his existence, forced to contemplate his actions and decisions.
Melanie stormed back down into the facility, barking orders up the stairway. "I want the garrison back on high alert! Establish a perimeter around the manse. Disregard the city; leave it to the police and Ossani if they're that desperate! Now take care of it!" she screeched as she slammed the door.
Markovich barely looked up. "What's the deal?"
"None of your concern," Melanie hissed. "We are taking care of it."
"A riot?" Markovich asked. "Since when were you concerned about the little people?"
"Just a stupid fucking turf war, nothing that concerns you or me," Melanie hissed.
Markovich went back to his duties, but the cogs had already begun to turn. Vienna was run by the Ossani, the biggest mafia family in Europe. Engaging in a turf war with them was practically guaranteed to be suicide should one find themselves lacking the resources and manpower. And the only organization with enough of both to do it was…
"Melanie, I believe I've managed to isolate a mechanical issue with the neuro-transfer device."
Melanie looked to him, her previous foul temper beginning to cool. "Now? I figured we had streamlined the design optimally three months ago."
"Nothing major, just a minor, eh, "tweak" that could pay off in the future. Looks like a power coupler that keeps interfering with the EEG. That's probably why our readings are off by such critical margins."
"It's always the littlest things," Melanie muttered as she went over to inspect it. She undid the console, looking over the wiring. "Where is it?" she asked.
"It's not under the console. It has less to do with the machine, and more to do with the maker."
Aleksandr threw his entire body towards Melanie. He grappled with her, forcing and dragging her body into the coffin-like device. Shoving her into the chamber, he sealed it tight as she pounded and clawed the door, screaming at him.
Aleksandr had to work quickly. This was going to be the only opportunity he had to escape and reconnect with his allies. But first, he had to do something. First, he had to make a statement, show Melanie where he stood when it came to her hopes and dreams.
As he strolled over to the cadaver, he shot a glance at his trapped captor. "Melanie, I would love nothing more than to open your throat and watch you bleed out, but as it stands, time is something of the essence. Besides, I hope you will allow me to demonstrate just how I feel about this Sisyphean effort to not become the bitter crone you've always been spiritually. Observe."
Aleksandr immediately began to apply the electrical current throughout the body, surging it past the maximum safety levels. The body squirmed and writhed as its nervous system activated, appendages curling as it choked on half-taken breaths. Markovich turned the nobs to the highest level, snapping them off as he hit the final capacity. The body jolted upwards and shot its eyes open as the surge activated its brain. She began to scream.
Markovich watched in shock as the body, its convulsions snapping it from the restraints, fell to the floor as she began to pant. Cautiously, he approached the newborn as she took several heaving breaths. As he did, he grabbed a scalpel from the table. He gripped it tightly as he hovered over her brittle frame. She turned to look up at him, eyes widened in fear and confusion. "…Fa…ther…"
"Get everyone not on essential duty down to the city now! I don't care what Melanie says; I'll take the heat for it! If we lose the city, we lose the manse, and we lose our paychecks, so get going!" Jon screamed into the phone. He slammed it on the receiver, shaking as he listened to Kavya applaud. "Fantastic performance, Jon. You're always at your best when you're stabbing someone in the back."
"You have a clear shot at the manse. Good luck," Jon said as he watched the caravan of security cars speed past his villa.
"Thanks. We're going to need it," Kavya said as she gave Jon a now unloaded pistol. "I'm going to need someone with first-hand knowledge to navigate that oversized summerhouse."
"This wasn't part of the deal," Jon hissed.
"The only alternative you are getting is a hole through your cranium! Quit complaining and help me clean up the mess you made!" Kavya snarled as Parisa climbed out of the basement, two duffel bags of cash on her shoulders.
"At least make sure I can see her off," Jon asked.
"Two minutes, Jon, or I eliminate both of you," Kavya growled as she counted off her rounds.
Jon walked Parisa to the car, helping her get the money into the back seat. "Why is she doing this?" she asked.
"I made a decision a long time ago and am starting to pay for it now," Jon admitted.
"Who is she? What did you do?" Parisa asked as she got behind the wheel.
"She was my…" Jon averted his eyes. Parisa groaned. "Nevermind, I can guess."
"Let's just say I have a debt I need to clear before I can even think about any kind of future," Jon relented.
"She's going to kill you," Parisa hissed.
"I don't think she will," Jon shook his head. "Not her style. Besides, guaranteeing your safety is all the leverage she needs to make sure I behave."
"Wal… Jon," Parisa breathed. "…I…"
"Save it," Jon said as he glanced over at the assault rifle in the passenger seat. "Keep that on hand, you're going to need it."
"I don't know how to shoot that thing!" Parisa panicked.
"You don't need to. All you need to do is point and that should send the message," Jon said as he pecked her on the cheek. "Now get going. Don't stop until you hit the… where is Desmond staying?" he turned back to ask Kavya. "The Grand Regional," Kavya answered, fittingly a hotel near the airport.
"OK, I… I guess I'll see you soon," Parisa replied.
"Just take care of yourself, you got enough to worry about," Jon said as he pounded the roof. As the vehicle peeled off, Kavya joined Jon at his side. "So it isn't that you can't value other people, it's just that you decided not to in Egypt."
"Lay off," Jon groaned. "I'm not doing this because I expect you'll forgive me. I'm doing this for her and myself."
"Bit late to grow a conscience," Kavya stated as she readied her submachine gun. "Well, it's now or never."
"You sure you're OK with this?" Jon asked as they approached the manse.
"I'm armed, you're not," Kavya spat.
"Not what I'm talking about," Jon replied.
Kavya said nothing.
Saeed watched from the rooftops as the mercenary troopers from the castle pushed into the city, driving back the criminals who had sprung up an impromptu insurgency. He watched as a security truck slammed into a fleeing getaway car after the latter's occupants firebombed one of Ossani's fronts. Gripping the package under his arm, he strolled along the rooftop as the sounds of sirens, screaming, and gunfire erupted below him. Seeing as the safe house had to have been cleared out by the time the attack commenced, Saeed settled for trying to find the large Chinaman and returning his package.
He glanced down at the fight below him, the sights and sounds reminding him of the conflicts in his hometown that he gave anything to flee. Here, there was at least an attempt to pretend human life had some inherent value, settling for garrote wires where suicide vests would have sufficed back at his home.
He watched as three shifty-looking easterners threw out a package similar to the one he had under his arms. It detonated the moment a security truck drove over it; killing all on board before they even had a chance to realize it. Saeed watched as several Russians peaked out of an apartment and fired rockets at another truck as it drove by, missing and hitting another residential. He sniffed in disgust. What was the point of violence if you couldn't be professional about it?
That was when he saw another truck barreling down the street, its driver ducking as she swerved through the narrow roads. Saeed was taken by how attractive this one was, not looking like an Austrian native, but rather someone from his own homelands. That woman wouldn't be out without a good reason, and her desperation was evident. Saeed figured perhaps she was in need of a guardian angel, if only for the fact that doing so would put him on the opposition against others who would seek to do her harm, and he could charge Ossani for going past his death quota. And if the woman found some way to thank him, who was he to complain?
Two security officers patrolled the darkened halls, occasionally speaking into their walkie-talkies to try and get back into contact with Melanie Rictoberg, who had seemingly vanished half-an-hour ago. Hansel yawned as Herman tried once more, to no avail. Growing frustrated, Herman looked towards his partner and shrugged. "You feel like joining the rest of the boys downtown?"
"Not a chance," Hansel replied, "Walter said those who were on essential duty should stick around, remember?" he said as he checked his watch. "Nightcap sounds good right about now, huh?"
"I guess," Herman responded as he noticed something out of the corner of his eye. "Halt! Who goes there?" he shouted as he pointed his flashlight towards the figure. His eyes widened at the sight as Herman rubbed his to guarantee what he was seeing. Before them stood a naked blonde woman, her dull eyes staring ahead as she cautiously approached them. Her lithe, pert body gave the two the most ominous sense of déjà vu, were it not for the fact that it was literally a naked blonde woman approaching them.
"…Awaiting data," she announced as she came to a stop before the two officers.
"Who are you?" Herman asked in shock.
"Do you really care?" Hansel asked as he approached the woman with a grin on his face. "She looks cold. Why don't we get you somewhere warm and private?"
Herman was about to respond had it not been for the butter knife that pierced his jugular. Hansel turned back just in time to see Melanie's guest of honor charging him with a twisted-up lab coat, which he proceeded to wring around the officer's neck as he wrestled him to the ground. The woman watched dull awe as her father struggled to strangle the life out of the third person she had ever seen in her life. The man was bigger, though, and apparently stronger, managing to get enough breath to power his way out of father's grapple. She turned her attention to the other man, on his knees as he clutched the utensil buried in his neck.
Markovich had been weakened by his captivity, subtlety. Melanie had overseen his diet and exercise, denying him opportunities to make an escape on his own. The officer, if he couldn't put him down now, was going to return him back to his prison, and Melanie seemed like a fan of that particular book from that one horror writer. Already his knees began to hurt as the officer began beating him in the ribs.
Suddenly, the officer's body seized up before going limp. Markovich looked up to see her standing over the body, fist above his neck, the knife staining the lab coat wrapped around his throat.
"…Are you well, father," she deadpanned.
Markovich caught his breath as he stood up, wrapping her up in the tightest hug he could muster. "You are a beautiful woman."
"Is my name to be "A beautiful woman," Father?" she asked.
Markovich groaned. This body was proving to be a fast learner, but she still had to be taught every step of the way. "No, just… how about… Olga," he explained, using the first name that popped into his head.
"I am Olga," Olga repeated.
"Fantastic," Markovich exclaimed as he took the lab coat from around the officer's neck and draped it back over Olga's body. "Now again, what do we say to anyone who stops us?"
"You are a kindly man of God who seeks only to reform a fallen woman from destitution," Olga recited.
"Very good," Markovich nodded.
"That's just flat out hilarious," another voice called out. Markovich looked down the hallway to see a familiar face staring back at him.
"DON'T COME ANY CLOSER!" Markovich snarled as he got behind Olga, bringing the bloody knife to her throat.
Kavya snorted, training her weapon on him. "Contemptible to the last, Aleksandr. And predictable."
Markovich felt a sharp blow to his shoulder, causing him to release his "hostage" as the double agent forced him to the ground.
"You know, it's almost a shame I'm not getting the chance to kill you," Jon announced as he dragged Markovich back to his feet.
"What?" Markovich announced as Kavya grabbed Olga by the arm.
"We cut a deal with some old acquaintances. Getting you out alive and in one piece is our end of the bargain. So shut up and come with us."
Desmond stared out at the muted skyline of Vienna, watching as explosions slowly crept past the rooftops as tracer rounds pierced the air. Another day, another warzone, this one finally in Europe proper. That being said, with the dissolution of the European Commonwealth, the odds of a proper investigation and accounting of the events that were about to transpire were almost nil. Good enough for him.
He looked back at the lounge, watching as Boris poured himself another whiskey while Nikita barked orders in Cantonese into the phone. "…Tseng is reporting all vital objectives have been seized. We have the city locked down for the moment."
"How long can we hold?" Desmond asked as he lit up another cigarette.
"Long enough for your assets to complete the job," Boris spoke up.
As was usually the case in espionage, mortal enemies were working side by side towards a common interest. Despite the disavowal from the mainline political party in Moscow, Markovich was a singularly influential and connected individual. He still had friends within the criminal element and less scrupulous factions of the military and intelligence communities. Markovich's work had been secretly evaluated, and a few powerful people came away with the conclusion that his research was not only guaranteed to survive post-nuclear societal collapse, but vital for the very notion of civilization continuing. Desmond did not agree, but with the offer of releasing information on the trajectory and telemetry of the nuclear missiles pointed towards the British Isles, he really didn't need to.
His own satellite phone buzzed to life. Desmond answered it, pacing in front of the window as another explosion rocked downtown Vienna. "This is Bloodhound calling Dogcatcher, do you read, Dogcatcher?" Kavya spoke over the line.
"This is Dogcatcher, are you in possession of Mongrel?" Desmond replied over the line.
"Mongrel has been subdued, we are proceeding towards the Pound."
Desmond motioned his head towards the brothers, who promptly left to intercept his team and pick up their associate.
"…I'm sorry it had to come to this, Bloodhound," Desmond spoke over the line. "I know what collaring the guy meant to you."
"…Price we pay in our line of work," she replied, flatly.
"…Is Terrier at least behaving?" Desmond asked.
"…An asshole through and through," Kavya replied. "Looking forward to throwing his ass into a dark hole and ditching the key."
"… I don't believe maximum security offers conjugal visits," Desmond joked.
"Eat shit, Dogcatcher," Kavya replied as she shut the phone off.
Desmond laughed for a bit. He looked at the three passes by his suitcase. Reinstatement was out of the question for Jon at this point, and he damn well knew he didn't deserve it, but for what little it was worth, he felt the least he could do for the stupid bloke was offer him an opportunity to serve out his sentence in a location of his choosing. Serving under Melanie had to be a most punishing situation, in any event.
Saeed watched as the truck slowed to a stop. The woman, checking to see how clear the coast was, stepped out. He noticed that by now the jitters commonly seen in civilians during warzones had vanished completely from her body language. She calmly strode out around the hood of the truck, fished out the assault rifle from the passengers side, and began a confident march through the dark alleyways.
Perplexed and bemused, Saeed continued to follow her, keeping to the shadows as he leaped and crawled along the rooftops above her.
The woman continued with her assured awareness of the situation around her, stopping right as trucks drove by or hit squads prowled the area. Saeed watched as she darted across the road the moment some Chinese gangsters had their backs turned. He was about to follow when a familiar frame exited one of the buildings as she darted away. The large Oriental was speaking on a satellite phone, in a clipped tone that indicated he was speaking to partners. Saeed's eyes darted between the target of his ire and the object of his lustful curiosity. A real dilemma he was facing. So, he did as what passed for his heart told him to do. Placing the package on the rooftop, he stuck his finger in his mouth, popped it out, and felt the currents of the wind. Satisfied by his theatrical calculations, he punted the package onto the hood of a nearby jalopy. The sudden impacts seemed to have ignited the process within the package prematurely, as the resulting explosion ended up killing two gangsters, wounding a third, and embedded shrapnel into Big Boy's arms and back. As he screamed in pain and for the survivors to pluck out the wounds from his body and carry his massive frame to safety, the overlooking jester of misery reprioritized his attention and continued his pursuit of the vexing woman.
The security truck pulled up at the bridge over the Danube, right as the Ural made it from the other end. Boris climbed out, sub-machine gun at the ready. Nikita glared at the other driver as she climbed out of her end of the vehicle. From the back, Jon threw out the bound Aleksandr onto the ground, grabbing him by the scruff of his neck as he hauled him towards the Russians.
"This piece of shit is your problem now," Jon growled as he shoved Markovich into Boris's arms. Markovich tried to vault himself back to the security truck. "SHE BELONGS TO ME! YOU HAVE NO RIGHT!" he cried as Boris began to drag him to the truck.
"What are you going on about?" Boris asked, miffed at the lack of gratuity. He then noticed the blonde woman sitting in the back seat, eyes wide and seemingly vacant. "Who the hell is she?" Boris asked.
"SHE'S MINE!" Markovich sobbed as he pointed towards the girl. "SHE'S MY WORK! SHE'S MY CHILD!"
Boris stared at the two agents across from him. "The girl is a witness to an ongoing international criminal investigation. Or evidence," Kavya explained as Boris dragged Aleksandr to the Ural.
Jon made his way to the passenger's seat. Getting in, he found himself looking forward to and dreading reuniting with Desmond. A part of him figured he had a nice six-foot deep plot of land waiting for him back home, courtesy of Her Majesties government. Not that he deserved better, after all, he turned his back on his team for money he never managed to enjoy. He watched as Kavya kept giving the Ruskies hell about how Blondie was out of their jurisdiction and even if she wasn't she was never part of the deal in the first place. Seeing Markovich scream and whine and beg was satisfying as all hell for Jon. And it must have felt positively orgasmic to Kavya.
He looked in the rear-view mirror to Blondie. She just sat and stared as Markovich was dragged further and further towards the back of the Ural. He had no idea what or who this woman was, only that both Melanie and Aleksandr both really seemed to want to get their hands on her, therefore giving him all the more reason to keep her from them. Then he noticed a familiar figure approaching the security truck from the back. Holding a familiar assault rifle.
As the attacker opened up upon the security truck, Kavya turned around to return fire. This gave Markovich all the time he needed to wriggle free of Boris's grasp, dart towards the security truck, and wrenched the back door open to Olga. "Don't worry, father is here now," he tried to say in a placating tone. "Just come with me and everything will be OK!"
As he yanked Olga from the back seat, a strong hand grabbed her by the foot. "Where do you think you're going?" Jon growled as he ducked under the bullets perforating the truck. Olga found herself in a tug of war between Aleksandr and this Jon fellow. She tried to reach her arm into her lab coat pocket and fish out the knife she had smuggled when the other woman appeared behind her father and slammed his head against the side of the truck.
"For the last time, Markovich!" Kavya screamed. "You! Are not! Going! To fuck! This! operaAAAAGHH!" she gurgled as a bullet tore through her neck.
"KAVYAAAAA!" Jon bayed as he released Olga. Markovich took his "daughter" from the truck, shielding her body with his as they rushed to the Ural, who didn't waste a moment peeling away from the bloodbath after their passengers were loaded.
Jon crawled out of the ruined truck and cradled Kavya's body as she struggled to breathe. "Stay with me, you're going to be fine," Jon tried to lie. Kavya, in pain and shock, stared up at the Aussie. She took her hand into his, lacing her fingers along with his as they had done countless times across the world. She gripped his with all she had. Only a few moments later, the light finally left her eyes.
Jon rested her body against the concrete bridge, took up her weapon, and pointed it towards Parisa as she set another magazine into her weapon.
"…WHY?!" Jon gritted through tears.
"…I'm sorry to tell you this, beloved, but Parisa died six years ago," the Persian woman explained. "She was killed in Melanie's initial experiments, and her DNA was harvested to create a more… malleable individual. A few years later, after you joined up with Melanie, she saw an opportunity to have someone keep an eye on you."
"…I thought you were suicidal!" Jon screamed.
"Orchestrated by my master. Your character indicated you'd take me in to further protect me from further abuse. All resulting affection, both physical and emotional, was done to further ingratiate myself into your trust.
"…So you're just a husk? Like the girl?" Jon growled.
"…The answer to that is yes and no," Parisa explained. "That girl is potentially Melanie's greatest creation, a creature of unlimited potential. Compared to her, I am but a prototype, a good little servant who is loyal and humble," she continued without an ounce of resentment. "But even I have ambitions. I really did want to run away with you, Walter, but that won't happen with Aleksandr and the girl missing, she won't be in a forgiving mood. And though I truly do care for you, well, better you than me," she concluded.
Jon found himself in a standoff with a vicious husk that murdered his closest friend. Jon wanted nothing more than to empty Kavya's weapon into the clone, except perhaps simply dropping the weapon and letting her finish him off. Jon was a man who wanted nothing more than to fight discovering that he now had nothing left to fight for.
The blade pierced Parisa's liver as the hand gripped over her mouth. Jon watched as the Ossani bodyguard dispatched the clone with a few more deliberate strikes on her vitals. As the husk dropped to the road, dead before hitting the asphalt, Saeed shared a look with Jon.
"…Who the fuck are you supposed to be?" Jon asked, numb to the situation.
Saeed said nothing.
"…Why did you get involved?" Jon asked, a little louder.
Saeed said nothing.
"…AND WHY IN THE FUCK DID YOU NOT COME SOONER?" Jon shrieked.
Saeed said nothing. He looked at the ruined body of Kavya, the distraught remains of Jon Waylon, and then down at the corpse of the sixth clone of Parisa, whose original body was laying mangled and deformed at the bottom of a pit. Perhaps it was situations like this that made him not care for people so much? As Jon abandoned any attempt to reason with Saeed and began sobbing over Kavya's body, Saeed himself made his way back to his boss, his curiosity sated.
Olga stared at her father as he escorted her to the aircraft. His demeanor had changed ever since they escaped. He was laughing and joking with Boris all the way to the airport, deflecting any and all questions about just who the strange blonde girl with him was. She was feeling cold, her feet and legs exposed to the elements. And her stomach was making the oddest sounds.
As they approached the aircraft, a man with hair above his lip approached her father.
"Desmond, I cannot thank you enough for your generosity!" Father explained, happily. "To put such petty differences behind us is truly the mark of-"
"Where is my fucking team, Markovich?" the man growled.
"Ah, yes, the traitor and the slut! Well, last I saw them, a third party was taking the opportunity to eliminate them. Occupational hazard, you understand?" Father tried to dismiss the query.
The mustached man nodded. "Yes, comes with the territory."
"So you aren't going to hold me responsible for their loss. A surprisingly rational move from you, agent! I couldn't be more impressed!" Father beamed. It was the last time he'd ever smile with those teeth. The mustached man set himself upon her father, beating him in the mouth with a suitcase as tooth after tooth snapped and broke. The other two men who her father had been talking to intervened, pulling out their weapons and driving the mustached man away. As her father began to spit up the few teeth that still hung in his mouth, Olga took a moment to go over everything she had learned in her first hour of life. Although there was still much to process, she felt like she had learned everything there was to know about humanity.