All disclaimers can be found in the author's notes back in the first chapter.
-- Subversion --
The discordant whine of a monitor fizzed into silence, punctuated by someone's fist slamming against their desktop. Nobody bothered looking to see who it was: not only did the layout of their stations make it difficult to see their coworkers clearly enough to spot the cause, but it seemed such a trivial matter in light of the fact that their project was spiraling further out of control.
Another test subject lay dead in the center of the laboratory. One less chance to redeem themselves… and one more reason for the commander to consider terminating the project and all connected with it entirely.
Frustrated scientists took note of the time and cause of death before slipping from their seats and leaving the room. Spending any more time here would just be a waste: people below their station handled what little remained to be done, and their leader's ire would only be raised further by anything that could be interpreted as slacking off.
Doctor Kelley waited until most of her coworkers had left before rising; hanging back without appearing to hesitate while the rest of the stragglers filed out. Her movements were carefully chosen, and nobody appeared to notice how she failed to follow.
Once the door shut behind the last of her associates, Kelley turned back around. A flick of the wrist returned the dimming ceiling lamps back to their former brilliance. Polished black shoes beat a harsh tattoo against metal tiles as she approached the center of the room; she ignored the sound, studying the corpse before her with cold, professional interest.
This had been a person at some point: a young male, still more boy than man. Short-cropped dark hair hung in messy disarray around his face, its features retaining some of the childish roundness that should have smoothed away with age, holding the promise of becoming something moderately attractive… a promise that would go unfulfilled now. By this point in the process, any old scars and blemishes caused by reckless play had been erased, repaired and replaced, leaving behind no visible marks of this individual's past.
All of this was noted with clinical disinterest by the woman, for it meant nothing to her before or now. Kelley wasn't one for meaningless speculation: hard facts and truths were much more important. She only cared for what directly related to her investigation.
For example, since all physical imperfections were wiped out during conversion, any marks she might find on the body would be suspect. Gloved hands ran over the preternaturally smooth, cooling skin, seeking flaws. When none came to light immediately, she rolled it over to check other areas: Kelley saw no reason to be gentle. The only caution she showed was to ensure she didn't damage the husk and ruin any clues she might find.
Yet her probing fingers discovered nothing. No unexplained marks, no mysterious injuries, no defects were to be found.
(…Of course, if there is a saboteur, they'd be careful not to leave anything that can be easily traced.)
The scientist's lips pressed into a thin scowl, and she shook her head once in self-disgust.
(If. How delusional. Like there's any reason to doubt, now…)
Cyborgs didn't just malfunction without reason. When coupled with the fact that all of the recently deceased subjects were in the same base… part of the same project….
The first loss was attributed to an unforeseen malfunction, a late-stage rejection. Those weren't nearly as rare as the organization would have liked, so the explanation was easy to accept.
When the next one died, suddenly, there were murmurs of concern, naturally, but general consensus seemed to be that it was bad luck. Who could have foreseen that equipment would fail?
By now, however, it was painfully clear there was nothing coincidental about it. With each incident, the whispers and distressed mumbles of her colleagues grew louder. Though she had yet to hear any public discussions of their theories and speculations, Kelley figured several were growing increasingly convinced that the project was somehow cursed, or some other superstitious nonsense.
The more practical members, meanwhile, were just as apt to decide that the flaw lay somewhere in the project itself -- an error had been made somewhere in the past, and if they were able to discover and repair that… While Kelley had her own personal doubts about that theory, she certainly wasn't going to dissuade anyone from tackling that angle. If they turned out correct, and preserved everyone's lives in the process, then more power to them.
However, until they found a solution…
"Hey, what are you doing there?!"
Kelley jerked reflexively, barely managing to resist the impulse to spin around immediately to confront the source of the shout behind her. That would only serve to make her look suspicious; in this tense environment, that was the last thing she needed. Instead, the scientist pivoted slowly, schooling her expression into a composed mask as she stared down the new arrival.
"I was examining the deceased," she reported truthfully.
"Aa…ah, D-Doctor," stammered the newcomer.
Kelley sniffed disdainfully, recognizing him as one of the low-class workers that toiled far beneath her station. Drudgery and clean-up fell to his kind; technology was better dedicated to higher matters, more efficient soldiers and weapons and the like. That meant their presence was necessary… for the time being. That didn't make her any more tolerant of him.
"I'm s'pposed to dump that thing…uhhh…" He gave her a wary look, cocking his head to one side while clumsily amending, "…once you're done, I guess…?"
Glad her dark glasses hid the way she rolled her eyes at his prattling, Kelley shook her head once and turned back to the body. Another quick examination proved to be in vain, much to her displeasure: as she turned it onto its back she heard the man shift his weight and cough nervously.
"I'm done," she declared tersely, turning and heading straight for the door without sparing so much as another glance in his direction.
He waited for the portal to seal shut behind her white-clad figure before letting out a sigh, blunt features scrunching up in disgust.
(Damn scientists; think they're so much better…)
Just because he didn't know how precisely how everything here worked around here didn't give anyone that did the right to look down their nose at him. His services were just as important -- wasn't like any of these high-and-mighty scientists were willing to waste any of their precious time dealing with the trash their experiments left behind…
Switching off the overhead lamps brought the lighting to a more manageable level. Another annoying trait all doctors apparently shared was an obsession with too many damn lights. Had to be those dark glasses they kept wearing: otherwise they'd all be blind by now…
And it wasn't like he couldn't comprehend why they needed everything so bright when they were working -- delicate operations and all that crap -- but he didn't get the reasoning behind the excess. There was such a thing as overkill, after all…
He didn't need so much light when it came time for him to go to work. He didn't need to see everything quite so clearly.
Wheeling his disposal cart up beside the operating table, he set about his task cleanly and efficiently. First came preparing the body for transport, which basically translated to wrapping it in the black sheets always stocked in the bottom of his gurney. He'd had enough practice that he didn't have to look too closely while working.
It was junk, meant to be shipped off and scrapped. Not like this cyborg was worth anything now. Didn't bear thinking about.
He'd just finished wrapping it up and was about to dump it into the transport when he heard the whoosh of the door opening behind him. A quick look over his shoulder rewarded him with the sight of the same woman standing there. Valiantly containing his aggravated sigh, he turned to face her, leaning casually back against the table.
"What's the problem?" he asked as cordially as he could muster. "Forget something?"
"Yes."
One side of the worker's mouth curled up into a lazy smirk at that. So much for infallible doctors. Wasn't like there was a shortage of faulty machines 'round here, but to hear someone actually admit they'd made a mistake… a rare opportunity, indeed.
"Ya know, if you'd been a little faster to realize it, woulda saved me a bit of time," he commented mildly as she approached, reaching back to pat the bundle of plastic lying behind him. "Think ya can handle unwrapping it on your own? I…"
"That's not necessary."
Eyebrows rising into his hairline, he looked quizzically at the doctor, stepping back automatically once she reached the gurney. Much as he scoffed at the dark glasses all the scientists wore, he had to admit -- privately -- they did a decent job of making her expression hard to read beyond the typical sternness.
Curiosity piqued, he watched her run one hand along the neatly wrapped bundle, tapered fingers tracing spidery paths in the dark plastic. While it was careful, there was nothing truly gentle about the stroking; that didn't surprise him, nor did the air of possessiveness of the gesture.
When her other hand closed over the back of his neck and squeezed, that took him off guard.
It felt more like a vice than fingers: no woman's hand could possibly be that thick, let alone have the width to wrap completely around his throat. But then, that hardly registered in his mind, overridden by the shock of suddenly losing the ability to breathe.
Instinctively scrabbling to free himself, his scrabbling hands brushed against needles instead of the flesh he expected. Reason fled completely in the face of blind panic, and he tried to scream, but no sound came out before his throat closed off completely, shut by a lance of white-hot pain--
A smile remained frozen on the scientist's lips as the porter stopped flailing around, his bulkier body supported by nothing save the cuff round his neck. Slowly, delicately, she loosened her grip, drawing out reddened thorns from the abused flesh. After wiping her hand off on the back of his shirt, she admired her handiwork for a moment.
(Crude, but effective,) Mimic thought appraisingly.
The shapeshifter turned to the bundle in front of her. Making a thin slit in the plastic, she peeled it back to admire the still, bloodless face of the cyborg inside. Slender fingers ran along the rounded cheeks, coming to rest lightly against the closed eyelids.
She smirked, sparing a glance over to the worker's slumped body and his slack, dull features. Dropping her hand down to the torn wrapper, she pulled it sharply up so that it gave way with a loud rip.
Several minutes later, a nondescript janitor wheeled his cart along the maze-like corridors of the base, seemingly paying no heed to the occasional coworker or scientist he passed. In turn, nobody spared him more than a fleeting glance: too absorbed in their own routines to take notice of some lowly worker.
All in all, Mimic was quite pleased with how smoothly her plans were proceeding so far. There was something highly gratifying to see these pretentious fools go about their business, panicking at each new setback they faced without ever realizing what was behind it.
Bad luck, faulty equipment, sudden malfunctions… so many different factors were seemingly to blame for all the problems they were having advancing their little project. Nobody considered the possibility of a phantom sabotaging the process.
As far as anyone knew, their shapeshifting assassin had died when the cyborgs reclaimed their captured ally.
It certainly wasn't as if they could go back and investigate the ruins easily. Since that base had been hidden underwater, it would take months to sift through the wreckage -- and countless other tasks took precedence over that. Technology was easier to replace than salvage, especially from a watery grave… far better to let it rest and focus on more promising business.
It all worked out so, so nicely for her in the end. So long as she was careful, and didn't blow her cover by moving too quickly…
So amusing, just how clueless and helpless the scientists were turning out to be as a whole. Even the suspicious ones remained stuck on the wrong tracks.
Reaching her destination, Mimic opened the door and pushed her burden into the adjoining room. As the portal resealed, the false janitor headed directly for the incinerator. A few keystrokes triggered a shaft that swung out with considerable protest, squalling in an unholy fashion.
The horrible dissonance made the blunt features spread into a cruel grin.
With an almost surreal grace, the hefty caretaker hauled a tightly wrapped bundle out of the cart. The chute groaned at the weight of the parcel, but was more than wide enough to allow its burden to slip through.
Fire-tinged air rushed out in its wake, waves of intense heat sweeping out to sting the exposed skin of his face. Instead of closing the duct right away, however, he stood there basking in the fierce glow, watching the huge bundle get swallowed by the inferno.
Everything was falling nicely into place. Soon all that would remain was ensuring the base was ready to receive her guests properly… Before that, however, all the trash needed to be disposed of.
Nobody could interfere with her plans. All the loose ends would be tied up nicely before she brought them back into the equation.
And then…
She sneered, casting one last superior look at the pitiful remains smoldering before her before slowly easing the hatch shut. Anticipation coiled and flared deep inside, kept in check by common sense and reasoning. She could wait… because everything had to be absolutely perfect first. Completely perfect…