Chapter One
"1211 should be regaining her senses within minutes, sir. The upgrades were completed without incident, just as Dr. Sutton predicted."
"Good. Tell Langley to be prepared to run through the training sequences again tonight. I want to assess the damage that fool Joseph's caused. I need to know how far he's set back our research."
The second voice shatters the silence, tears away the lull of silence. She doesn't want to wake up; it's kinder here, in the darkness. Perhaps if I stay here, she thinks, they will not find me. The dark can hide her, so she attempts to throw herself into it, immerse herself within it.
"She's resisting the adrenaline injections," says another voice. This was softer, more cultured. Familiar, but not at all reassuring. "Should we increase the dosage sir?"
She's dimly aware that the more attention she gives to the voices intruding upon her quiet, dark domain, the more she is being dragged from it unwillingly. Desperately needing to get away from the voices- theyhurt, an unfamiliar inner voice warns her-she plunges further into the inky void.
"Dr. Bernard! She's overthrown the 2D-S protocols! The MDR is going static!" The shrill, panicked voice cuts into the void, bringing a strange grey light with it that partially illuminates horrors hiding in the darkness with her. "1211's gone into a self-induced coma!"
That's consciousness, the unfamiliar voice warns her. With that voice, the monsters scream and snap and threaten, but they recoil back into the shadowed recesses of her mind. For the first time, she recognises that it is a female voice. They want to bring you back. To steal you away from here and trap you again.
Back? Back where? Trap? Again?
Home, the voice answers. They want to bring you home.
Home? What's home?
"Sir! The TKC readouts are becoming unstable!"
"Then make them stable," comes the sharp reply.
"But sir-"
"Do it! Inject more of the strain. It will stabilise her."
"It will have to," says another voice, this one with an accent different to the others.
See how desperately dependant they've become on you? Asks the internal voice, slightly smug. See how far they're willing to go to get you back? Ah look-they've brought him with them. Now the fun should start. He's going to command us to come home. And you will, like the faithful bitch they have made of us.
"1211," says a voice that fills her with conflict. It's coldly soothing, persuasive. She trusts him, yet she wants to kill him. She adores him, wants to be obedient for him, yet resents and loathes him bitterly for restraining her, for-
Yes! Exclaims the inner voice, turn him away!
But she's unable to. Bound by something stronger than the darkness, more frightening than the monsters, a link she doesn't understand or even want to, that calm, familiar voice returns and she is driven to listen to it.
"1211, you are commanded to stand down. Re-enact the 2D-S protocols and return to Condition Five."
NO. The inner voice is insistent, refusing to accept the command, holding their link strong. Don't answer the call. Condition Zero. Condition Nothing. Don't do it! Ignore him!
But she does. She has to. She relinquishes her grip on the darkness, and…
Suddenly, the darkness is torn into pieces by colours, and sounds, and smells. The monsters give one fragile scream before dissolving into the brilliant colour. Her eyes fly open, and she sees the medical instruments lying on a small table beside the morgue slab she's on. She glances about, taking in her surroundings.
Like the other rooms she's woken up in and remembers clearly now, it is exactly the same, but smells different, feels different. She can sense one of the others, but doesn't know what it is.
A plaything, the inner voice answers in a resentful tone. The scent is of a plaything. ConditionSeven Training-remember?
No. Should I? Is it important that I-
That is when she realises something, something even she considers odd.
There's blood everywhere.
Red, all over the stainless steel instruments.
Red, dripping from the gloved hands of a man standing close to her.
Red, staining the brilliant white of the man's lab coat.
Red, splashed across the sterile white tiles on the floor.
Brilliant, eye-scalding red everywhere…
You always did have an artist's eye. That's your blood, your shade, the inner voice says smoothly, like a trusted confidante. Why don't we see if they appreciate their own particular shade of red?
Yes, she agrees, glad at last to be capable of doing something that appeases the voice inside her head. She rises from the table, snapping restraints easily like rubber bands.
Piercing sound begins to blare, frightening her at first, but when nothing immediately changes, she begins to appreciate the sound of the technicians screaming in surprise and shock and reaches for the medical instruments on the table, the stainless steel cold beneath her fingertips. The edge of the scalpel blade gleams in the stark white fluorescent light.
Just like an artist's brush, the voice encourages, long strokes, deliberate strokes…
She leaps nimbly from the slab and begins practicing her art, blood splashing across the medical equipment and staining more lab coats…Warming her arms, her hands, her legs, her feet…
"For the love of God, let me stop her! I warned you the TKC wouldn't hold during surgery-" It is the commanding voice. This one she recognises and responds to. She reaches for another technician and more blood and gore sprays across the one-way mirror that lines one of the walls.
Hypocrite, the inner voice snarls. You did this to us! You!
Who did this? Who did what? Her questions go unanswered in the flood of rage that threatens to overwhelm her. It is foreign colour, not her own or that of the trusted voice beyond the glass. Unfamiliar emotion that doesn't belong to her courses through her veins, pushing away her conscious thought.
"Shut up Joseph. That is what she was created to do; let her have a little fun. After the trouble last week, you should be more accommodating for your charge. After all, didn't Meredith liken Handlers to parents during one presentation?"
Oh, Mama, the irony! The inner voice is positively gleeful now, its whimsical moods gripping her as entirely as her own. Aren't I special now? Confused but enjoying herself, she willingly surrenders her will to the tide of strange colour and sound, enjoying this unfamiliar strength that floods her body.
She corners the last of the technicians, cowering in front of the mirror, hands raised in a futile effort to defend himself.
She pulls him to his feet, almost kindly. He's trembling, the metal and glass things on his face askew. He hardly looks much older than the reflection of herself in the gore-smeared mirror, still more child than adult in the terrified but awed manner he's regarding her with his large blue eyes. It's all the more amplified by the strange things on his face.
Glasses, the voice adds, call them glasses.
She fixes them, smiles softly and strokes the side of his face, smearing the blood of his co-workers across his cheek.
He calms reluctantly, but she can smell his colour. It is murky, and makes her feel ill.
That is fear, the inner voice tells her. It stinks. Fear always does.
"That child wasn't mine," the commanding voice argues, a rare touch of desperation in his tone. "She was yours! And look at what you've done in the name of research-"
"She is merely one of a generation," the colder voice interrupts.
She pauses to turn to the mirror, seeing her own face as if it were entirely unfamiliar. The pale hair is soaked with blood, her eyes are ringed with dark circles, the blood of her victims smeared and splattered all over pale limbs and the hospital shift she's wearing.
That is my face, the inner voice comments withobvious malice. You still wear my face.
Don't I have one of my own?
No, is the cruel answer. And you never will.
"A generation of abused children," the trusted voice says angrily. "A generation of children you can control like dolls-"
"Not dolls, Joseph. Dutiful children, obedient children who will obey direct orders without question. Are you growing too attached to your charge? Do you think yourself her father now?" A satisfied snicker. "You are a fool. Have you forgotten that 1206 and 1215 have already turned on their Handlers? Need I remind you of the mess they left in the containment cages?"
The words are difficult to understand, but she does understand one word- father. Believing she understands now, she returns her stare to the cowering man in front of her.
"Daddy?" she asks, and brings down the scalpel. She turns to face the mirror, to where she can sense the owner of the commanding voice.
"Daddy?" she repeats, almost forlornly.
He's not your Daddy; the voice says coldly, implacably, he'll never be your daddy. No matter how hard he tries. No matter who he kills.
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Apartment 2D
Lindsay Cooper rolled over on her side, trying to ignore the phone ringing and return to sleep. Whoever was calling was insistent. The ringing eventually forced her to reach blindly for the receiver, knocking over cans of beer, dozens of magazines and a pizza box before she finally found it.
"'Lo?" she mumbled.
"Don't tell me you're still on the lounge," a bright and familiar voice trilled, so loud it made Lindsay wince.
Lindsay glanced at the crochet blanket still lying across her legs. "I'm still on the lounge," she replied unenthusiastically. "Don't act like you're at all surprised Wendy."
"It's almost half past eight Lindsay! Don't you have an appointment with your dad this morning?" Wendy's disapproval could be heard clearly.
"Half past eight! Bloody hell, I didn't fall asleep until three. I don't have to be down at the hospital until eleven. Anyway, I'm just getting my prescription renewed; it isn't like it's anything that important." Lindsay yawned and slumped back. Her head was already aching.
"A renewal? Are you sure about that? You're taking too many of those things as it is."
Not a good sign for the day, she thought warily. If the migraines were going to start up so early she might as well write the rest of the day off. Unless…She tucked the phone between her ear and shoulder, scanning the nearby coffee table for…yes! She reached for the familiar blue plastic case, popping the lid open.
Only nine left, she thought, hating the panic that shot through her body.
"Was that it or were you ringing me just to be a pain?" Lindsay asked, tapping a trio of pills onto her palm.
White to stop the pain, red to make me happy and blue to keep me sane. Her friend Pete had come up with the ditty during one of their drinking sessions. The damn thing had stuck, becoming less funny as the months went on.
"Stop being so grumpy. I was mainly calling to make sure you went and saw your dad. And to get you off that couch-it's your day off, go have fun or something."
"In Grace Lake? You're kidding right?" Lindsay didn't bother to hide the sarcasm.
"Enough with the negativity. Go skate or visit Windsor. He probably needs you to muck out his stables or something."
"Hah hah. Not funny." Wendy didn't think much about Lindsay's frequent visits up to Ralph Windsor's ranch, or her passion for horses. "Horseshit is the last thing I need right now. I'd probably puke for week."
"Oh yeah. I'd forgotten all about him. How is Chase, by the way?" Wendy's teasing wasn't doing much to improve her mood. "Dean told me he saw you guys here last night. I didn't know you could dance Lindsay."
Lindsay groaned. "I didn't know either." She began checking beer cans for something to wash the pill down with.
"Well, apparently you put on quite a show last night. I wouldn't be surprised if you start getting more locals up at the Lodge. Who knew the receptionist was so talented? Sure you don't wanna quit and start working at that titty bar in Nelson?"
"Please, Wendy, stop," Lindsay begged, finding no beer left in any of the cans.
"Hey, at least I'm your best friend. Wait 'til Pete sees you next. He'll be so pissed his drinking buddy has found herself a new friend, not to mention disappointed you never showed him your unknown talents," Wendy laughed.
"Hey, he's your fiancée," Lindsay retorted.
"Your friend first. So if anything goes wrong, I can blame you," Wendy playfully replied. "Look, Dean's giving me dirty looks so I better go. Make sure you see your dad, talk to him about when you can start getting off those pills. They aren't doing you any favours."
Tell me about it, Lindsay agreed silently.
"And have some fun or something-without coming down here or going into the fridge. No alcohol today."
"What are you, my mom?" Lindsay joked weakly.
"I'm serious. You have to recover from your bender last night. How hung over are you?"
"Not too bad," Lindsay lied.
"I can tell when you're lying to me Lindsay," Wendy admonished, "and when you're hung over. Just relax today, okay? Take it easy. It's your day off."
"Alright," Lindsay promised, staring at the pills in her palm. "I'll see you tonight then."
"Take care," Wendy called, and then hung up.
Lindsay took a deep breath and went out to the kitchen. She was filling a glass from the tap when the phone began to ring again.
"I swear Wendy, I won't be down at Keller's today!" she cried into the phone, not bothering to say hello.
"That's great Lindsay-love 'cos we need you in at work today," Irene Morgan, the wife of Lindsay's boss, said good-naturedly. "Sorry to call at such short notice, but are you able to come in?"
Lindsay closed her eyes, begging for strength to get through today. "Sure, I can come in," she answered, "so long as you don't mind a hung over receptionist."
"That's all right love. It's better than what we'd have if you don't come in. Everyone's called in sick." Irene was indignant. "Can you believe it? Not even the cleaners are coming in today-only Fred, Bob and me are here love."
"Irene, you shouldn't be working. Bob shouldn't be either. You guys sounded terrible when I left last night. Have you made an appointment down at the clinic yet?" Lindsay put the white pill in first, swallowing it down easily.
"Not yet love, not with things the way they are up here. I'm just glad it's not peak season; could you imagine? I'll call later, make an appointment for tomorrow. Most of them should be better by then. So I'll see you in…"
"Half an hour," Lindsay finished, putting in the red pill. Red to make me happy. I'm gonna need all the happiness I can get. "I'll need time to get showered and get out there."
"Not in that matchbox car of yours? Lindsay, you should get that father of yours to get you a safer car. I worry about you driving around in that little thing."
"Better than killing myself with anything bigger, Irene. I can't imagine being a better driver in a bigger car," Lindsay rejoined, swallowing the pill. "How many guests are there? Still just the three?"
"Yup, and we ain't expecting any others, so don't bother wearing the usual. The young fellow in cabin six probably won't mind what you're wearing, and the others still haven't shown their heads this morning."
"Don't worry Irene, I wasn't going to make any effort on their behalf," Lindsay said, taking a mouthful of water. "I'll be in soon, okay?"
"Thanks again love, I'll see you when you get in."
After Irene hung up, Lindsay popped the blue pill into her mouth, thinking about the nightmare she'd been having before Wendy's call had interrupted it. None of it made any sense…blood, dead scientists, art? One thing had been familiar.
That voice, the 'inner' one. I recognised it. And what was all that "Daddy" business all about?
She shook her head. Not going through that all over again. Like my life isn't screwy enough as it is. Determined, she swallowed the pill down with the last mouthful of water. Blue to keep me sane.
Yup. Not as funny as it used to be, she decided.
Lindsay decided not hang up the receiver properly, instead leaving it sitting on the coffee table, among the garbage that would have to wait until after work now. She'd had enough of phone calls this morning.
Showering and dressing didn't take as long as usual considering she didn't have to bother with the usual pants suit and make up that Irene insisted she wear. The steamy bathroom mirror revealed a tired looking young woman, very obviously recovering from overindulging the previous night. Her dark grey eyes were lined with dark circles, her skin was pasty, her cheeks more hollowed out than she remembered.
At least I look as great as I feel, she thought wryly, pulling a hairbrush through her dark wet hair. She pulled on her most comfortable, worn blue jeans, and then layered up with a long-sleeved green top under a thick woollen turtleneck jumper.
She shuffled into the living room of the small apartment, braiding her damp dark hair loosely while scanning the floor for her shoes. Her worn hiking boots were still where she'd left them last night, under the coffee table beside her handbag. Bending down to lace them securely made her head ache even more, but she knew the white pill would kick in soon. She could already feel the effects of the red pill, her mood lightening slightly.
A quick glance out of the window showed her that today wasn't going to be warm at all, despite the shining sun. She sighed, digging under a pile of laundry waiting to be ironed and found her well-loved ski cap. Wendy had knitted it for her years ago, when they'd both still been in school, and Lindsay cherished it. Pulling it cautiously over her sore head, Lindsay was about to pull on her gloves when she noticed the silver charm bracelet sitting on the edge of the coffee table.
Ah shit. Dad would have killed me if I'd forgotten that. The charm bracelet had been a gift from her mother, back before she'd died in a terrible car accident. Lindsay had survived that same accident, but things hadn't been the same since. Her dad had uprooted everything, accepted the job here in Grace Lake and moved them without even discussing it. Lindsay hadn't minded that-Winnipeg was full of constant reminders-but she did mind being so distant from her father. She snapped the delicate silver bracelet about her wrist, the tiny silver charms catching the morning light.
Maybe that's what that screwy nightmare was trying to tell me, she thought, maybe I've got to deal with the issues I have with Dad. That thought made her head ache harder. Even considering having to approach her stern, demanding father and attempting to repair their fractured relationship was more than she could deal with right now.
Lindsay tossed the plastic pill-case into her handbag, already regretting having to miss her appointment. She only had six left now. Finding her car keys was a bit of battle, but she eventually found them under yesterday's copy of the Grace Lake Herald. The headline made her pause for a second, the keys gripped tightly in her hand.
MISSING TOURIST FOUND DEAD-FAMILY STILL MISSING
Lindsay had been as aware as anyone else about the couple who went missing just before New Years, but she hadn't heard anything about a missing family. Frowning, she started to skim the article.
...American family on vacation…father's body found decomposing in the national park…wife and children not found…local police suspect homicide…possible connection to the disappearance of Leslie Bell and Tim Avery on the 29th December last year…Parks and Wildlife services reject claims that local wildlife might have played a role…
She tossed the paper onto the table, musing on it as she pulled on her heavy green parka. They hadn't checked in at the Lodge, so she'd never met them.
What the hell was happening to this world? She wondered as she stepped out the door of the apartment. Grace Lake had always been a quiet little town where the worst had been a bar brawl down at Keller's. Now families were going missing and turning up dead, kids were killing their friends… She shook her head, feeling even more depressed. The red pills weren't strong enough to cope with real life.
Well, at least I have work to be happy about, she thought sarcastically, glad she still had two red pills in her bag. She was definitely going to need them today. For some reason, she had the sinking feeling that things were only going to get progressively worse.
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Iron Creek Lodge
Jake Hansen was already awake when the cell began to ring. He set down his coffee and turned away from that morning's copy of the local paper. LOCAL TEEN TRAGEDY-MURDER? Blared from its cover sensationally.
"Yes?" he answered, doing his best to keep the insolence from his tone. The new boss didn't share the same appreciation for Jake's sense of humour that his old one had.
Pity, Jake thought, the old guy could use a healthy dose of self-depreciation. And maybe a good-
"Grace Lake Hospital has contacted the DCC in the United States. It's now time to act." The smooth voice on the other end betrayed nothing to Jake's disappointment. He had no idea of how important this mission would be-and after spending two weeks freezing his ass off in northern Canada, Jake wanted some real action, not a milk-run any rookie could pull off.
Don't like your chances, he thought. Grace Lake would be the usual pedestrian fare; find some loony scientist, shoot him, take his research and secure whatever samples happened to be around. Jake had been on so many of these missions lately that he could probably kill Umbrella's delightful zombies in his sleep.
Hey, maybe someone else will find out and want to play too. That thought brought a smile to his face. During his last mission, he'd had to eliminate two US government agents and a snoopy reporter to cover all his tracks. After all, an ex-FBI agent being recognised as playing for the bad guys wasn't something he wanted to become common knowledge. It could severely restrict his options. Hunting down that reporter in particular had been entertaining though. Too bad the fun had come at a cost-directly from his pay as a matter of fact.
This time though, Jake wanted a decent pay. The company had been getting rather tight with its budget lately, and he had no intention of being screwed on this one. His new boss seemed reasonable, so long as Jake did what he was told and didn't fuck around. This, if Jake was going to be perfectly honest, was always going to be a difficult call. If there was nothing Jake Hansen did better than anyone else, it was fuck around during a mission.
"Fallen asleep Hansen?"
Jake swore under his breath. "Sorry, no sir, I haven't. Just the clean northern air getting to my head. The target data will be on the link?"
"As it's been each and every time you've worked for me," the boss said without a trace of amusement. "The exception this time is that data is all you'll get. Communication will be cut to an absolute minimum to keep the Canadian authorities from intervening too soon. Also, you won't have the services of Miss Frasier for now, soall theintelligence you'll have to rely on is your own." Now Jake could almost hear the predatory grin on the man's face. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had to stick it without the valuable assistance of Dru, his computer expert. "We can't have our enemies knowing what we know, can we Mr. Hansen?"
Jake cringed slightly in his chair. The last mission hadn't exactly gone as planned-he'd gotten the job done, but only after a lengthy and expensive detour. He'd been lucky to survive that close call, considering the new boss had just been settling in and throwing his weight around like some amateur tyrant.
"Of course not sir," Jake answered as evenly as he could. "I do have one question though."
"Ask. I don't have much time to spare you," the boss said impatiently.
"Are the rumours true? Is this a live capture?" Jake picked up his coffee, wishing it had something stronger in it. Like bourbon or amphetamines maybe.
"Only if you're capable of it. Should the M-0KR prove too much for you, I think I'll reprogram the Omegas to extract the sample and combat data we need instead. Have I indulged your curiosity, Mr. Hansen?"
Jake rubbed at his stubbled chin. No, he thought, but wisely kept his mouth shut. "Yes sir, and thank you. I'll make contact with Relay One as soon as Dr. Cooper is dealt with."
"Good. Well, have fun now Jake, and don't cost the company too much money. The directors don't like it; they consider it their money to waste." The boss hung up abruptly, leaving Jake glaring at the now dark cell phone.
I'll show you fun, he thought, standing and heading towards the backpack that held most of his equipment. I'll catch this M-0KR and show all you bastards how things should get done.
Jake pulled out his Desert Eagle and began to load it with nimble fingers, a scowl marring his good looks. Fuck the expense.
Note: Sorry 'bout the language but it's appropriate for the character. And thanks to Hyperactive Hamster of Doom for the review! I know this one was boring, but the next chapter will have more action, I promise. Old Ben, Grace Lake's mascot, is going to put in an appearance.