DoFP: Empty Men 2/?
Tapestry, malfam@mindspring.com
Disclaimer: Empath, Masque, Sebastian Shaw, Robert Kelly, Ahab, Emma Frost,
Charles Xavier, the Summers family et al, Caliban, and Moira MacTaggert are all
copyright Marvel. Seizure is mine. I think that's it for this chapter, but don't hold me
to that. PG-13 for language and some general ickiness.
Author's Note: First of all, special thanks to Redhawk for supplying some much-
needed Empath dialogue when I got stuck. Dare you to guess which parts. ;)
Secondly, I've added annotations for this thing, since I've encountered a little
confusion so far. The page is at
http://www.fortunecity.com/rivendell/zelda/98/dofppage.html , and I apologize for
the banners in advance. This page should be updated whenever a new chapter comes
up, so keep an eye on it.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Champagne, evening dress, and caviar...it was difficult to believe a place like
this could still exist in the world they had created. But here they were, the top dogs of
the government's branch of the mutant control agency, drinking the night away as if
there was nothing outside this room.
Manuel stood in the shadow of an enormous decorative plant, sipping his
champagne. He was drinking a bit too much, as he was beginning to develop a habit
of doing, but that hardly mattered. There was no one here he would wish to talk to,
especially not while the mandatory red M was pinned to the lapel of his tuxedo. There
was the occasional mutant here and there, true, but mostly those associated with the
Hound program. Masque, for example, who was responsible for physical
modifications in the subjects, was sulking in another corner, glaring at the soiree as if
it bore him some personal repugnance. And, with Masque's misshapen features and
sour nature, it might as well have.
Neither of the two would have been there at all had it not been for Ahab's
express orders. This party was directly related to their area of expertise, after all, and
anyway, it reminded them of who was in charge. There were few things Ahab
treasured more than the opportunity to make his subordinates uncomfortable, and this
was turning out to be an excellent opportunity.
All around him he could feel the brush of emotions. Amusement, curiosity,
distaste, apathy, lust...they were all there, in one capacity or another. He did his best
to ignore the sources -- it was easier that way. He dared not exercise his influence
over any of these people, not with Ahab watching him. But someday, someday
soon...he hailed the waitress for another glass of champagne.
His eyes were, almost inexorably, drawn towards a young technician. He'd
forgotten her speciality, but he had long since ceased to care. He knew her as one
who despised mutants, and took special pleasure in her position in the Hound
program. She glanced his way, and her disgust rolled over him like a bitter yellow
wave before she averted her gaze. The emotion (was it his, or a reflection of hers?)
was mutual. She was one of the few technicians who had volunteered for the
program. She took a very real, very personal delight in her role in the degradation of
mutantkind, and regarded him, and all mutants, as something less than human.
Well, Manuel could vent his frustrations on her, at least.
Ahab frowned upon the use of his powers against subordinates, but only on
paper. As long as Manuel's antics did not escalate the suicide rate, the man could
have cared less. And surely interoffice flings were not against the rules...
But not with himself. Even through the pleasant haze of vindictiveness and
alcohol, Manuel was certain about that. No, there was a better way...
His thoughts fell again on Masque. The man was a sharp shard of hatred and
loathing in the midst of the party, and his opinion of Manuel -- and indeed, all mutants
who did not harbor the same sort of horrible disfigurement as he -- was less than
friendly. Manuel had often heard him laugh when discussing his work on the Hounds,
gloating about how he had twisted yet another normal mutant, reveling in the petty
victory torturing the helpless afforded him...
Yes. Manuel made up his mind immediately. He reached into the pretty young
technician's mind and stoked a lust, parallel to her hatred of mutants, and directed it
towards Masque. It was surprisingly easy. The woman froze for a moment, stricken
by the unfamiliar sensation, then immediately made for Masque. There was nothing
delicate about the woman's overtures, and Manuel made sure Masque's response was
appropriate. After scarcely two minutes the two departed, doubtless searching for
somewhere more private, and Manuel allowed himself some smugness that, thanks to
his manipulations, it was unlikely the sour mutant would be able to muster sufficient
emotion to complete the transaction.
Strange. It was the sort of job that would have delighted him in his days with
the Hellfire Club, but somehow it left him oddly empty.
"Well, de la Rocha, I see subtlety is no longer a priority."
Manuel turned to see Sebastian Shaw, Black King of what remained of the
Hellfire Club, standing a little off to one side. He could feel disapproval sleeting from
the man like silver pins.
"I do not need chiding, Sebastian," Manuel said, draining the last of his drink.
"My mutancy is well-known, unlike some. They made no secret of their hatred for
me."
Shaw shook his head. "Sometimes, boy, discretion is the better part of
survival. I will speak to you again when you're in a more receptive mood."
_As if he would have spoken to me here anyway,_ Manuel thought sourly.
Shaw, a prominent supplier of government technology, had not yet been exposed as a
mutant. Manuel deeply suspected that Ahab had, at one point, been fully aware of
Shaw's genetic status, but had either decided to overlook it or had forgotten it. The
latter was entirely possible; Shaw's telepathic aide, Tessa, was still around,
somewhere, and the woman was nothing if not competent. Perhaps she had managed
to pierce Ahab's vaunted telepathic shields.
Whatever the reason, Shaw continued to enjoy all the benefits of both high-
priced businessman and government supporter. He and Robert Kelly, one of the
President's closest advisors, remained good friends. Somehow the Black King always
knew how to come out on top.
Nonetheless, he was, if not friendly towards, then at least on speaking terms
with Manuel. Manuel had been the closest thing his colleague Emma Frost had ever
had to a protege, and perhaps Shaw felt some lingering sense of responsibility
towards him. It was unlikely the man held any actual affection for him, but these days
Manuel took what he could get.
He set his champagne glass on a ledge, his appetite for drink gone. Maybe
now would be a good time to leave. He'd put in an appearance, after all, perhaps he
could beg off for the rest of the evening. It was unlikely Ahab would agree to it, but it
was preferable to waiting for sobriety to overtake him.
He left his corner and began to mingle, scanning the party. Ahab was nowhere
to be found, of course -- that would have been too convenient. Well, perhaps that was
for the best. That way no one would notice if he slipped out.
As he made for the door he noticed a discreet crowd in the corner. The
emotions emanating from it were a mingling of disgust and fascination, not necessarily
out of place here, but unusually concentrated.
Manuel edged forward, trying to catch a glimpse of what had captivated the
crowd, and was surprised to see an unfamiliar face. The man was definitely a mutant -
- he wore the dress uniform of the Executive, and the mandatory red M. Even despite
all this, his genetic status was undeniable. The man was hideous; his head was bulbous
and deformed, his body obviously withered even beneath the starch of the uniform.
His right hand held a crutch, and beneath his pantleg there was a faint suggestion of a
brace. He was being discreetly -- but quite obviously -- cornered.
Somewhere deep in the bowels of Manuel's tattered pride a tiny worm of
anger stirred at the touch of the mutant's red-gold flush of shame. The empath had
been left with blessed little dignity thanks to Ahab, but he had begun to abhor seeing
the same degradation done to others. It took little effort to dispel the crowd's interest
in the mutant, and within moments they had dispersed.
Even this, though, left Manuel with no feeling of satisfaction. Instead he found
himself thinking about the hounded mutant. Why didn't he stand up for himself? If he
were one of the Executive then surely he was an alpha-level. Why didn't he defend
himself? Had the man no pride?
_But then,_ Manuel thought, with a sort of dull resignation, _who am I to
judge? I submit to Ahab's taunts and demands like a beaten dog. Who am I to
question a man's pride?_
As the thought ran its course, Manuel felt a brush against his psi-shields. He
knew who it must be. He responded with a sense of dull inquiry, and immediately
wished he hadn't. The resulting psilink, though light, scraped across his consciousness
like rusty nails.
:I am Seizure,: the mindvoice said, and Manuel felt his eyes gravitate back
towards the speaker. The man was even uglier now that he had a clear view of him;
one of his eyes bulged while the other remained a mere slit, and his nose was snubbed
and skewed against his greyish face. Manuel could not help but suppress a shudder of
revulsion.
:I am Manuel Alfonso de la Rocha,: Manuel replied. Across the room, the
withered form nodded its head.
:The empath,: rasped the voice, harsh as steelwool. :Thank you.:
And with that, the contact was gone, and their eye contact broke. Manuel
could not say he was disappointed. The psitouch had been grating, almost painful --
nothing like the cool, crisp touch of the White Queen, or the soft, osmotic presence of
Dawn. Seizure was obviously a psi not used to casual conversation, which wasn't
unusual -- the Executive had been chosen for their offensive skills, not their expertise
in communication.
Unfortunately, Manuel's careless act of benevolence had ruined whatever
chance he might have had to escape. While he had been distracted, Ahab had arrived.
He was dressed in a standard controller's uniform, which was actually a step up from
the turtleneck and slacks he generally wore. Sadism, it seemed, bowed to no dress
code.
Someone tapped a glass with a spoon for attention. It was hardly needed --
Ahab's presence was all it took to quiet the room.
"Let's not mince words," Ahab said once all eyes were upon him. His ever-
present five o'clock shadow and slightly wild hair made him seem oddly intense, even
had he not had the benefit of an obsession one could drown in. "You have been called
here to witness the next phase in mutant tracking and apprehension. As you well
know, for almost a year now we have been developing a method for creating mutant-
hunting Hounds -- genetically and psychically altered beings programmed to aid
Mutant Control Officers. Tonight I have been authorized to announce that there have
been two successful Hound converts, both of which have completed their first hunt."
There was movement behind Ahab, and an assistant stepped into the spotlight.
He was holding a leash attached to a very reluctant young girl. It was Rachel
Summers, Ahab's first Hound.
"As you can see, the initial process makes them somewhat docile," Ahab said
calmly as Rachel cowered before the crowd, her eyes wide with fear. Ahab gave her
an absent-minded pat on the head, fingering her bright, buzzed hair. "However,
Summers here is the prototype. We expect that, in time, Hounds will be able to
interact in society without a handler. We find mutants with psychic power to be
preferable, but we have also had some success with those who possess heightened
senses. This particular Hound is a telepath, and it is very likely its power will increase
with age."
_Especially considering she's only fourteen years old,_ Manuel thought acidly.
He cared little enough for the X-Men, but Rachel had been his first assignment. She
had screamed and fought, her psychic defenses surprisingly resilient. She had
manifested her powers early, and it seemed that Xavier had taught her to reinforce her
natural defenses. He remembered that the first time he had sat down beside the girl
she'd surprised him with a telekinetic hammerblow so powerful it sent him flying right
out of the observation room, and he'd required several weeks' leave to recover from
the cracked ribs. Ahab hadn't let him retaliate. Rachel was...special, he had said, and
so she had turned out to be. In the months it took to condition her, Manuel had
become familiar with every facet of Rachel's psyche. Her love for her mother and
father had been stripped down and redirected towards Ahab, which, perhaps, was for
the better. Both parents had been killed in the initial raid on the X-Men's mansion.
As for Ahab, he seemed to reciprocate the emotion, as much as someone as
fractured as he was able. It had occurred to Manuel that Ahab saw her as something
like a bonsai tree; something to be nurtured and protected, but never allowed to grow
free. He had been present for every moment of her conditioning, and had developed
some of the more sadistic techniques himself. He treated the girl like a prize
bloodhound -- which, in many ways, she was.
Of course, Manuel thought as Ahab continued to list the merits of the Hound
program, what he hadn't mentioned was that only one in three mutants became
successful trackers. Well, roughly. They had two Hounds and five...things. Mutants
who hadn't even lasted past the initial breaking, and which Ahab still kept around as
berserkers or guinea pigs. It seemed that a certain kind of mind was needed for the
current Hound process: one strong enough to survive the conditioning, as Rachel
was, or one already used to being a tracker, like the other one...
Ahab's lecture wound down, and Manuel could taste the audience's reactions
as the applause began. Most were...well, "pleased" wasn't the right word, but there
was a general feeling of muted enthusiasm. A few fanatics were almost dancing with
excitement, and many of those funding the program were at least vaguely satisfied to
see their money well-spent (the fact that their contributions were deductible had
nothing to do with it, Manuel was sure). A small part of the audience was frankly
disturbed by the display, and Manuel wondered which were or would be supporting a
bill to ban such procedures in the future. Surely some of them were already involved
with resistance groups. Perhaps there was hope for the future yet.
However, there was one small, almost conspicuously violent pocket of
agitation in the crowd. Manuel recognized the flavor of the telepath, Seizure, on these
emotions, and automatically turned towards where he had last seen the man. He was
not clapping along with the rest of the crowd. Indeed, he was staring at Ahab and
Rachel with a look of sheer horror on his face.
_He can't possibly be surprised,_ Manuel thought, his lip curling with disgust.
_How long did he believe that mutants could earn a respite by hunting for the
government? As soon as Ahab has developed some practice that will make me
obsolete, I'll be finished. So will the Executives. The only reason they allow us our
position in society is because there is, at present, no way around it._
Manuel glanced at Ahab. He was smiling that cold, cruel little smile that made
shivers crawl up the empath's spine. For a moment his gaze shifted to Manuel, smug
and mocking, and then it was turned to Seizure. Manuel flinched. He knew that look.
"This is what's in store for you," it seemed to say. "This is your future, and you and I
both know it."
Seizure held Ahab's gaze for a long, shocked moment, then abruptly spun on
his heel. He hobbled out, clutching his crutch like a lifeline, and was gone far faster
than seemed possible. Manuel wished he could do the same, but Ahab had seen him.
He would know if Manuel left, and find some way to punish him for it later. So,
Manuel improvised. He headed straight for Ahab, doing his best to look utterly
neutral and businesslike. As a student of Emma Frost, it was what he did best.
"Yes, Manuel?" Ahab said as Manuel stopped a respectable distance from the
man.
"I wish to inspect the kennels," Manuel replied. "Your speech is done, and I
feel the need to do something...productive."
"Very well," Ahab said after a moment. Manuel exhaled. Apparently his
employer had decided that he'd made his point for the night.
"Well?" Ahab snapped, abruptly turning towards the aide, "Return Summers
to the kennels. De la Rocha will accompany you. That is all."
"Yes, sir," the aide said, saluting. Technically, Ahab did not have any military
rank to speak of, but it was better to be safe than sorry.
Rachel was eager to go. She had already pulled back from the crowd as far the
leash would allow, and was straining to go farther. Manuel absently sent a wave of
calm towards her, and she eased a bit.
He and the aide left the party in silence, Rachel padding a little before them.
The girl's alert green eyes scanned the hallway continuously, eager to please. She
probably wasn't even aware of the tiny ball of resentment and rage that burned deep
below her conscious thoughts. She had a particular hatred of Manuel, which he had
let pass untouched. He felt that he had earned her loathing.
"More special treatment from Campbell, eh?" the aide said as they walked
through the hallways. "Between you and his sick obsession with Red here some of the
boys think we know why we never see him with a woman. Tell me, de la Rocha, how
many pieces of silver does your pretty white ass go for these days?"
Manuel stopped walking, as did the man. Rachel, sensing the tension in the
air, pulled away.
Manuel turned to the aide, his perfect Spanish features twisted in a hateful
grimace. "Just *pray* that there's always someone else there to kiss Campbell's ass.
Because you really don't want to be in that position. Do you want to know what it's
like, boy? Do you want to feel what he feels when he breaks another mutant? I could
arrange that. I could make that the *last* thing you ever feel. So how about showing
a little fucking gratitude, okay?"
He could feel the aide's through his developing headache, and small wonder.
Manuel was rarely inclined towards verbal abuse, especially when it was so much
easier -- and more difficult to detect -- to simply press the emotional buttons. Tonight
it no longer seemed worth the effort.
They continued on in silence. After what felt like an eternity, they reached the
kennels. It was a dark, filthy hall lined with cells, each equipped with an observation
window. Scarred faces watched him as Rachel was returned to her cell, their eyes
haunted and ravenous. One, a massive, craggy mutant called Caliban and Ahab's only
truly successful Hound besides Rachel, turned away. Manuel had heard that Caliban
had been a tracker for a group of subterranean grotesques called the Morlocks, then a
servant of Apocalypse. It made sense -- Caliban had been astonishingly easy to
condition. Previous programming had formed a virtual roadmap for Manuel to follow.
It had hardly taken any time whatsoever.
The other faces, on the other hand...Manuel shuddered. There was no trace of
sanity in their eyes. Their emotions were primal and chaotic, full of pain and
undirected rage. They were rarely bothered. The last time a guard had attempted to
remove one from its cell he had been ripped in half. It had taken Manuel, two other
psis, and a dozen guards to get it back under control. Ahab had been mildly amused.
The aide deposited Rachel in her own cell, a little apart from the others. It had
no window. Instead there was a small sliding panel high up on the door, and another
panel near the ground where food could be inserted. It seemed almost as if Ahab were
trying to keep Rachel all for himself, even in darkness of the kennels.
Wordlessly, Manuel sat down in the cracked plastic chair that was the
kennel's only furnishing. The guards barely noticed him. They were talking to the
aide, voices lowered in some private joke. It was about him, no doubt, but he couldn't
seem to muster the energy. Somehow the party had left him very, very tired.
Ironically, the turbulent emotions of the Hounds soothed him. They, at least, were
straightforward.
He closed his eyes and leaned back, the Hounds' dull, empty need washing
over him. He reached out, smoothing the raw pain of isolation and rage. He turned
their despair into contentment, their pain into pleasure. He knew he was working
around Ahab's directives; the Hounds' longing for human contact was an integral part
of their conditioning, and the unbearable isolation of the kennels served as an
incentive to obey human commands. The anger was something to be turned towards
their targets, as it tended to make them keener on finding them -- or, in the
berserkers' cases, to killing them. Manuel's influence would have to fade with his
departure, but at least until then he could give the creatures some small manner of
peace.
Why did he do it? He wasn't sure. Guilt, possibly. As his control had
increased and he had learned to more effectively separate the emotions of others from
his own, Manuel had learned to empathize with the human psyche, especially a broken
one. Perhaps it had been MacTaggert's accursed nagging while he had been at Muir,
or his repeated exposure to mutant rebels, transient though their loyalties were.
Or, the more cynical side of himself said as he watched Caliban's scarred face
slack with bliss, perhaps all those noble ideals were wishful thinking, and he simply
enjoyed the measure of control he held over these pathetic beings. He controlled so
little in his life, after all -- didn't he deserve something?
Pushing his empathy to its limits, Manuel sighed and wished for another glass
of wine as he gave the Hounds the peace he himself would never feel.
Tapestry, malfam@mindspring.com
Disclaimer: Empath, Masque, Sebastian Shaw, Robert Kelly, Ahab, Emma Frost,
Charles Xavier, the Summers family et al, Caliban, and Moira MacTaggert are all
copyright Marvel. Seizure is mine. I think that's it for this chapter, but don't hold me
to that. PG-13 for language and some general ickiness.
Author's Note: First of all, special thanks to Redhawk for supplying some much-
needed Empath dialogue when I got stuck. Dare you to guess which parts. ;)
Secondly, I've added annotations for this thing, since I've encountered a little
confusion so far. The page is at
http://www.fortunecity.com/rivendell/zelda/98/dofppage.html , and I apologize for
the banners in advance. This page should be updated whenever a new chapter comes
up, so keep an eye on it.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Champagne, evening dress, and caviar...it was difficult to believe a place like
this could still exist in the world they had created. But here they were, the top dogs of
the government's branch of the mutant control agency, drinking the night away as if
there was nothing outside this room.
Manuel stood in the shadow of an enormous decorative plant, sipping his
champagne. He was drinking a bit too much, as he was beginning to develop a habit
of doing, but that hardly mattered. There was no one here he would wish to talk to,
especially not while the mandatory red M was pinned to the lapel of his tuxedo. There
was the occasional mutant here and there, true, but mostly those associated with the
Hound program. Masque, for example, who was responsible for physical
modifications in the subjects, was sulking in another corner, glaring at the soiree as if
it bore him some personal repugnance. And, with Masque's misshapen features and
sour nature, it might as well have.
Neither of the two would have been there at all had it not been for Ahab's
express orders. This party was directly related to their area of expertise, after all, and
anyway, it reminded them of who was in charge. There were few things Ahab
treasured more than the opportunity to make his subordinates uncomfortable, and this
was turning out to be an excellent opportunity.
All around him he could feel the brush of emotions. Amusement, curiosity,
distaste, apathy, lust...they were all there, in one capacity or another. He did his best
to ignore the sources -- it was easier that way. He dared not exercise his influence
over any of these people, not with Ahab watching him. But someday, someday
soon...he hailed the waitress for another glass of champagne.
His eyes were, almost inexorably, drawn towards a young technician. He'd
forgotten her speciality, but he had long since ceased to care. He knew her as one
who despised mutants, and took special pleasure in her position in the Hound
program. She glanced his way, and her disgust rolled over him like a bitter yellow
wave before she averted her gaze. The emotion (was it his, or a reflection of hers?)
was mutual. She was one of the few technicians who had volunteered for the
program. She took a very real, very personal delight in her role in the degradation of
mutantkind, and regarded him, and all mutants, as something less than human.
Well, Manuel could vent his frustrations on her, at least.
Ahab frowned upon the use of his powers against subordinates, but only on
paper. As long as Manuel's antics did not escalate the suicide rate, the man could
have cared less. And surely interoffice flings were not against the rules...
But not with himself. Even through the pleasant haze of vindictiveness and
alcohol, Manuel was certain about that. No, there was a better way...
His thoughts fell again on Masque. The man was a sharp shard of hatred and
loathing in the midst of the party, and his opinion of Manuel -- and indeed, all mutants
who did not harbor the same sort of horrible disfigurement as he -- was less than
friendly. Manuel had often heard him laugh when discussing his work on the Hounds,
gloating about how he had twisted yet another normal mutant, reveling in the petty
victory torturing the helpless afforded him...
Yes. Manuel made up his mind immediately. He reached into the pretty young
technician's mind and stoked a lust, parallel to her hatred of mutants, and directed it
towards Masque. It was surprisingly easy. The woman froze for a moment, stricken
by the unfamiliar sensation, then immediately made for Masque. There was nothing
delicate about the woman's overtures, and Manuel made sure Masque's response was
appropriate. After scarcely two minutes the two departed, doubtless searching for
somewhere more private, and Manuel allowed himself some smugness that, thanks to
his manipulations, it was unlikely the sour mutant would be able to muster sufficient
emotion to complete the transaction.
Strange. It was the sort of job that would have delighted him in his days with
the Hellfire Club, but somehow it left him oddly empty.
"Well, de la Rocha, I see subtlety is no longer a priority."
Manuel turned to see Sebastian Shaw, Black King of what remained of the
Hellfire Club, standing a little off to one side. He could feel disapproval sleeting from
the man like silver pins.
"I do not need chiding, Sebastian," Manuel said, draining the last of his drink.
"My mutancy is well-known, unlike some. They made no secret of their hatred for
me."
Shaw shook his head. "Sometimes, boy, discretion is the better part of
survival. I will speak to you again when you're in a more receptive mood."
_As if he would have spoken to me here anyway,_ Manuel thought sourly.
Shaw, a prominent supplier of government technology, had not yet been exposed as a
mutant. Manuel deeply suspected that Ahab had, at one point, been fully aware of
Shaw's genetic status, but had either decided to overlook it or had forgotten it. The
latter was entirely possible; Shaw's telepathic aide, Tessa, was still around,
somewhere, and the woman was nothing if not competent. Perhaps she had managed
to pierce Ahab's vaunted telepathic shields.
Whatever the reason, Shaw continued to enjoy all the benefits of both high-
priced businessman and government supporter. He and Robert Kelly, one of the
President's closest advisors, remained good friends. Somehow the Black King always
knew how to come out on top.
Nonetheless, he was, if not friendly towards, then at least on speaking terms
with Manuel. Manuel had been the closest thing his colleague Emma Frost had ever
had to a protege, and perhaps Shaw felt some lingering sense of responsibility
towards him. It was unlikely the man held any actual affection for him, but these days
Manuel took what he could get.
He set his champagne glass on a ledge, his appetite for drink gone. Maybe
now would be a good time to leave. He'd put in an appearance, after all, perhaps he
could beg off for the rest of the evening. It was unlikely Ahab would agree to it, but it
was preferable to waiting for sobriety to overtake him.
He left his corner and began to mingle, scanning the party. Ahab was nowhere
to be found, of course -- that would have been too convenient. Well, perhaps that was
for the best. That way no one would notice if he slipped out.
As he made for the door he noticed a discreet crowd in the corner. The
emotions emanating from it were a mingling of disgust and fascination, not necessarily
out of place here, but unusually concentrated.
Manuel edged forward, trying to catch a glimpse of what had captivated the
crowd, and was surprised to see an unfamiliar face. The man was definitely a mutant -
- he wore the dress uniform of the Executive, and the mandatory red M. Even despite
all this, his genetic status was undeniable. The man was hideous; his head was bulbous
and deformed, his body obviously withered even beneath the starch of the uniform.
His right hand held a crutch, and beneath his pantleg there was a faint suggestion of a
brace. He was being discreetly -- but quite obviously -- cornered.
Somewhere deep in the bowels of Manuel's tattered pride a tiny worm of
anger stirred at the touch of the mutant's red-gold flush of shame. The empath had
been left with blessed little dignity thanks to Ahab, but he had begun to abhor seeing
the same degradation done to others. It took little effort to dispel the crowd's interest
in the mutant, and within moments they had dispersed.
Even this, though, left Manuel with no feeling of satisfaction. Instead he found
himself thinking about the hounded mutant. Why didn't he stand up for himself? If he
were one of the Executive then surely he was an alpha-level. Why didn't he defend
himself? Had the man no pride?
_But then,_ Manuel thought, with a sort of dull resignation, _who am I to
judge? I submit to Ahab's taunts and demands like a beaten dog. Who am I to
question a man's pride?_
As the thought ran its course, Manuel felt a brush against his psi-shields. He
knew who it must be. He responded with a sense of dull inquiry, and immediately
wished he hadn't. The resulting psilink, though light, scraped across his consciousness
like rusty nails.
:I am Seizure,: the mindvoice said, and Manuel felt his eyes gravitate back
towards the speaker. The man was even uglier now that he had a clear view of him;
one of his eyes bulged while the other remained a mere slit, and his nose was snubbed
and skewed against his greyish face. Manuel could not help but suppress a shudder of
revulsion.
:I am Manuel Alfonso de la Rocha,: Manuel replied. Across the room, the
withered form nodded its head.
:The empath,: rasped the voice, harsh as steelwool. :Thank you.:
And with that, the contact was gone, and their eye contact broke. Manuel
could not say he was disappointed. The psitouch had been grating, almost painful --
nothing like the cool, crisp touch of the White Queen, or the soft, osmotic presence of
Dawn. Seizure was obviously a psi not used to casual conversation, which wasn't
unusual -- the Executive had been chosen for their offensive skills, not their expertise
in communication.
Unfortunately, Manuel's careless act of benevolence had ruined whatever
chance he might have had to escape. While he had been distracted, Ahab had arrived.
He was dressed in a standard controller's uniform, which was actually a step up from
the turtleneck and slacks he generally wore. Sadism, it seemed, bowed to no dress
code.
Someone tapped a glass with a spoon for attention. It was hardly needed --
Ahab's presence was all it took to quiet the room.
"Let's not mince words," Ahab said once all eyes were upon him. His ever-
present five o'clock shadow and slightly wild hair made him seem oddly intense, even
had he not had the benefit of an obsession one could drown in. "You have been called
here to witness the next phase in mutant tracking and apprehension. As you well
know, for almost a year now we have been developing a method for creating mutant-
hunting Hounds -- genetically and psychically altered beings programmed to aid
Mutant Control Officers. Tonight I have been authorized to announce that there have
been two successful Hound converts, both of which have completed their first hunt."
There was movement behind Ahab, and an assistant stepped into the spotlight.
He was holding a leash attached to a very reluctant young girl. It was Rachel
Summers, Ahab's first Hound.
"As you can see, the initial process makes them somewhat docile," Ahab said
calmly as Rachel cowered before the crowd, her eyes wide with fear. Ahab gave her
an absent-minded pat on the head, fingering her bright, buzzed hair. "However,
Summers here is the prototype. We expect that, in time, Hounds will be able to
interact in society without a handler. We find mutants with psychic power to be
preferable, but we have also had some success with those who possess heightened
senses. This particular Hound is a telepath, and it is very likely its power will increase
with age."
_Especially considering she's only fourteen years old,_ Manuel thought acidly.
He cared little enough for the X-Men, but Rachel had been his first assignment. She
had screamed and fought, her psychic defenses surprisingly resilient. She had
manifested her powers early, and it seemed that Xavier had taught her to reinforce her
natural defenses. He remembered that the first time he had sat down beside the girl
she'd surprised him with a telekinetic hammerblow so powerful it sent him flying right
out of the observation room, and he'd required several weeks' leave to recover from
the cracked ribs. Ahab hadn't let him retaliate. Rachel was...special, he had said, and
so she had turned out to be. In the months it took to condition her, Manuel had
become familiar with every facet of Rachel's psyche. Her love for her mother and
father had been stripped down and redirected towards Ahab, which, perhaps, was for
the better. Both parents had been killed in the initial raid on the X-Men's mansion.
As for Ahab, he seemed to reciprocate the emotion, as much as someone as
fractured as he was able. It had occurred to Manuel that Ahab saw her as something
like a bonsai tree; something to be nurtured and protected, but never allowed to grow
free. He had been present for every moment of her conditioning, and had developed
some of the more sadistic techniques himself. He treated the girl like a prize
bloodhound -- which, in many ways, she was.
Of course, Manuel thought as Ahab continued to list the merits of the Hound
program, what he hadn't mentioned was that only one in three mutants became
successful trackers. Well, roughly. They had two Hounds and five...things. Mutants
who hadn't even lasted past the initial breaking, and which Ahab still kept around as
berserkers or guinea pigs. It seemed that a certain kind of mind was needed for the
current Hound process: one strong enough to survive the conditioning, as Rachel
was, or one already used to being a tracker, like the other one...
Ahab's lecture wound down, and Manuel could taste the audience's reactions
as the applause began. Most were...well, "pleased" wasn't the right word, but there
was a general feeling of muted enthusiasm. A few fanatics were almost dancing with
excitement, and many of those funding the program were at least vaguely satisfied to
see their money well-spent (the fact that their contributions were deductible had
nothing to do with it, Manuel was sure). A small part of the audience was frankly
disturbed by the display, and Manuel wondered which were or would be supporting a
bill to ban such procedures in the future. Surely some of them were already involved
with resistance groups. Perhaps there was hope for the future yet.
However, there was one small, almost conspicuously violent pocket of
agitation in the crowd. Manuel recognized the flavor of the telepath, Seizure, on these
emotions, and automatically turned towards where he had last seen the man. He was
not clapping along with the rest of the crowd. Indeed, he was staring at Ahab and
Rachel with a look of sheer horror on his face.
_He can't possibly be surprised,_ Manuel thought, his lip curling with disgust.
_How long did he believe that mutants could earn a respite by hunting for the
government? As soon as Ahab has developed some practice that will make me
obsolete, I'll be finished. So will the Executives. The only reason they allow us our
position in society is because there is, at present, no way around it._
Manuel glanced at Ahab. He was smiling that cold, cruel little smile that made
shivers crawl up the empath's spine. For a moment his gaze shifted to Manuel, smug
and mocking, and then it was turned to Seizure. Manuel flinched. He knew that look.
"This is what's in store for you," it seemed to say. "This is your future, and you and I
both know it."
Seizure held Ahab's gaze for a long, shocked moment, then abruptly spun on
his heel. He hobbled out, clutching his crutch like a lifeline, and was gone far faster
than seemed possible. Manuel wished he could do the same, but Ahab had seen him.
He would know if Manuel left, and find some way to punish him for it later. So,
Manuel improvised. He headed straight for Ahab, doing his best to look utterly
neutral and businesslike. As a student of Emma Frost, it was what he did best.
"Yes, Manuel?" Ahab said as Manuel stopped a respectable distance from the
man.
"I wish to inspect the kennels," Manuel replied. "Your speech is done, and I
feel the need to do something...productive."
"Very well," Ahab said after a moment. Manuel exhaled. Apparently his
employer had decided that he'd made his point for the night.
"Well?" Ahab snapped, abruptly turning towards the aide, "Return Summers
to the kennels. De la Rocha will accompany you. That is all."
"Yes, sir," the aide said, saluting. Technically, Ahab did not have any military
rank to speak of, but it was better to be safe than sorry.
Rachel was eager to go. She had already pulled back from the crowd as far the
leash would allow, and was straining to go farther. Manuel absently sent a wave of
calm towards her, and she eased a bit.
He and the aide left the party in silence, Rachel padding a little before them.
The girl's alert green eyes scanned the hallway continuously, eager to please. She
probably wasn't even aware of the tiny ball of resentment and rage that burned deep
below her conscious thoughts. She had a particular hatred of Manuel, which he had
let pass untouched. He felt that he had earned her loathing.
"More special treatment from Campbell, eh?" the aide said as they walked
through the hallways. "Between you and his sick obsession with Red here some of the
boys think we know why we never see him with a woman. Tell me, de la Rocha, how
many pieces of silver does your pretty white ass go for these days?"
Manuel stopped walking, as did the man. Rachel, sensing the tension in the
air, pulled away.
Manuel turned to the aide, his perfect Spanish features twisted in a hateful
grimace. "Just *pray* that there's always someone else there to kiss Campbell's ass.
Because you really don't want to be in that position. Do you want to know what it's
like, boy? Do you want to feel what he feels when he breaks another mutant? I could
arrange that. I could make that the *last* thing you ever feel. So how about showing
a little fucking gratitude, okay?"
He could feel the aide's through his developing headache, and small wonder.
Manuel was rarely inclined towards verbal abuse, especially when it was so much
easier -- and more difficult to detect -- to simply press the emotional buttons. Tonight
it no longer seemed worth the effort.
They continued on in silence. After what felt like an eternity, they reached the
kennels. It was a dark, filthy hall lined with cells, each equipped with an observation
window. Scarred faces watched him as Rachel was returned to her cell, their eyes
haunted and ravenous. One, a massive, craggy mutant called Caliban and Ahab's only
truly successful Hound besides Rachel, turned away. Manuel had heard that Caliban
had been a tracker for a group of subterranean grotesques called the Morlocks, then a
servant of Apocalypse. It made sense -- Caliban had been astonishingly easy to
condition. Previous programming had formed a virtual roadmap for Manuel to follow.
It had hardly taken any time whatsoever.
The other faces, on the other hand...Manuel shuddered. There was no trace of
sanity in their eyes. Their emotions were primal and chaotic, full of pain and
undirected rage. They were rarely bothered. The last time a guard had attempted to
remove one from its cell he had been ripped in half. It had taken Manuel, two other
psis, and a dozen guards to get it back under control. Ahab had been mildly amused.
The aide deposited Rachel in her own cell, a little apart from the others. It had
no window. Instead there was a small sliding panel high up on the door, and another
panel near the ground where food could be inserted. It seemed almost as if Ahab were
trying to keep Rachel all for himself, even in darkness of the kennels.
Wordlessly, Manuel sat down in the cracked plastic chair that was the
kennel's only furnishing. The guards barely noticed him. They were talking to the
aide, voices lowered in some private joke. It was about him, no doubt, but he couldn't
seem to muster the energy. Somehow the party had left him very, very tired.
Ironically, the turbulent emotions of the Hounds soothed him. They, at least, were
straightforward.
He closed his eyes and leaned back, the Hounds' dull, empty need washing
over him. He reached out, smoothing the raw pain of isolation and rage. He turned
their despair into contentment, their pain into pleasure. He knew he was working
around Ahab's directives; the Hounds' longing for human contact was an integral part
of their conditioning, and the unbearable isolation of the kennels served as an
incentive to obey human commands. The anger was something to be turned towards
their targets, as it tended to make them keener on finding them -- or, in the
berserkers' cases, to killing them. Manuel's influence would have to fade with his
departure, but at least until then he could give the creatures some small manner of
peace.
Why did he do it? He wasn't sure. Guilt, possibly. As his control had
increased and he had learned to more effectively separate the emotions of others from
his own, Manuel had learned to empathize with the human psyche, especially a broken
one. Perhaps it had been MacTaggert's accursed nagging while he had been at Muir,
or his repeated exposure to mutant rebels, transient though their loyalties were.
Or, the more cynical side of himself said as he watched Caliban's scarred face
slack with bliss, perhaps all those noble ideals were wishful thinking, and he simply
enjoyed the measure of control he held over these pathetic beings. He controlled so
little in his life, after all -- didn't he deserve something?
Pushing his empathy to its limits, Manuel sighed and wished for another glass
of wine as he gave the Hounds the peace he himself would never feel.