Disclaimer: Refer to 1: Prologue.
Warning! This chapter contains explicit use of coarse language and other potentially offensive features. Please be prepared should you choose to read it.
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Meetings
Jazzy saxophones and light percussion mingled wonderfully with the hearty chatter present in La' Pierre's Bar. The atmosphere was one of savvy elegance, having more than half its patrons wearing jewelry of intricately crafted nature. People numbered many, holding champagne glasses and toasting without caution; and the lobby glittered, shining like stars the brilliant stars at night. La' Pierre's was a bar for the glamorous and of course, the wealthy.
Like a blemish on treated skin, a lone woman sat shakily at the bar counter, her elbows rooted to its surface to keep her collapsing body upright. At her side, a queue of empty liquor glasses told tales of her night. The woman's name was Izabella Neider – Izabel to her friends, if she had any. Quietly, she took a gulp from her seventh glass, eyes betraying no sign of stupor over their panda-like eye bags. A hapless lad approached her, uninformed of the happenstance of unfortunate events synonymous with the act.
"Wow, you look like a heart which needs savin' t'night!" said the young man. He wore an attire of high expense. Behind him, a pack of similarly dressed men cheered shamelessly on. "Wanna' talk 'bout it? Cordon Bleu on meh'." Hopping onto the neighbouring seat, he planted a pair of bills on the table and slid them away. The tender eyed him suspiciously, but took them without question anyway. He had an unpleasant disposition which betrayed arrogance through his sanctimonious smile, pushing his intent into the realm of the obvious: He was on a whore hunt. "Name's Taylor," he announced.
"Hi, Taylor. Thanks for the drink but I'm kinda' in a bad mood right now. So, could you, say, piss off?" scoffed Izabel, her voice leaking venom. Roars of jeers aroused from Taylor's spectators, prompting him to lift a finger in their faces in a universal sign of contempt. The music pulsed deeply in the background as he buried his failure, and then took another shot.
"Harsh! Won't gimme' a chance?"
"Nope."
"None at all?"
"Zip, nip, nadda." She took another sip from her glass, hoping he would sense her impassivity.
Taylor grunted, clearly frustrated. A different approach, he knew, had to be taken to win him his reward. Edging close to her, he whispered into her ear: "Listen. I know you're just lookin' for a fuck ere'. Drinkin' yr'self silly an' all. I don't wanna' go home feelin' lonely tonight so I tell you what: Throw me one and I'll give half a grand. Gotta' deal, sweety?"
Izabel rolled her eyes. "Sorry, Taylor. I'm not cheap enough for you to stick your 'S' sized penis into. Go find a real whore over at Hillerton."
Laughter belittling the previous tenfold erupted from his friends like a volcano. Taylor was stunned. His face flushed a crimson red, overloading from embarrassment and anger. He raised an arm at her, fist curled up like a rock. "Why you lil' bitch!" he thundered, bringing down his blow on the apparently oblivious blonde.
But another caught his before impact.
"Is there a problem here?" asked the owner of the intruding hand. Subtly, he squeezed Taylor's hand, smirking as he spotted an attempt to hide a wince. Taylor shook his head pleadingly and the man released his grip. He grunted before rejoining his acquaintances, all now giving the man equally baneful stares, but the man ignored them. He took a seat at Izabel's side and beckoned the tender for whisky. The melodic tune of the in-house band saturated the bar's atmosphere once more.
"Captain Heroic saves the day," Izabel remarked satirically.
"You were going to bag him one if I was a second late, weren't you?"
Izabel snorted. "You know me too well." The man did not comment.
For awhile, they said nothing save taking the occasional sip of their respective drinks. Izabel had tried to catch a glimpse his eyes, but the gleam on his spectacles made that task impossible. She assumed that he was staring at the display of liquor bottles in front of them, as she had been doing for the past several weeks. What merit it held, she did not know; but certainly, it was better than facing the world – the world which was presently besieged by aimless conflict. He broke their silence by telling her she had been short listed for 'the Guardian programme', but she objected the nomination, taking little more than three seconds to express her reluctance.
The man eyed her deviously. "Izabel, Isaac has been gone for a month. It's time for you to move on."
"Shut up."
"Face it. He's gone."
"Shut up, Hendrik." Rougher this time.
"He's not coming back and he won't want to see you in this state either, Izabel. You have to move on!"
Izabel snapped. "Shut the hell up, asshole!" she yelled. "I haven't mourned and cried enough, okay? Doesn't having a pussy entitle someone to a few months for self pity anymore?" She paused, realizing what she said was absurd. She lowered her head in defeat, cupping her face in her skinny hands. "Sorry," she said. "I'm drunk," and began to sob.
Reaching into his breast pocket, Hendrik pulled out slovenly folded piece of tissue and dropped it over Izabel's unkempt hair. She wiped her tears behind the cover of her free hand. He waited for her to calm herself, and then said, "You'll want to take the candidate I got for you."
"Try me," she said, relatively calm again.
Retrieving his wallet from his trousers, he extracted a hand-sized photograph from its black leathery compartment and slid it to Izabel over the counter. Izabel's eyes widened. Picking up the photograph, she stared at it in awe, jaw left hanging. Hendrik waited on her patiently again, not making a sound till she passed her trance.
"I'll take him," she declared with a stern face.
"Knew you would," Hedrik smirked. "I'll bring you to see him after this."
Izabel simply nodded, turning her attention back to the display of bottles before her. She did not know if what she was about to do was right, but rather than muse, she chose not to care. Crinkling the ice in her glass, she could not help but feel that the music at La' Pierre's had became a notch less annoying.
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Their journey took them along the beach. It was a cloudy, moonless night, one which made the usually sparkling ocean appear stagnant and lifeless. They had been on the road for close to an hour. Izabel sneezed, having received the caress of an ice cold sea-breeze. She pulled her cardigan closer to her chest and folded her arms, holding on for dear life. Peering at the view through the side window of the convertible, she remarked to Hendrik how it felt so… desolate.
Hendrik stole a glance at her. "Sorry," he said, choosing to ignore her remark. He flipped a switched and a canvas roof slowly covered them with a mechanical hum, leaving only a tiny hole for air. When they came to a junction, he steered off the main road onto one laden with sand.
They came to a ruined fence. Hendrik drove on, caring little for the earth-stained signboard bearing the words: "ENTRY PROHIBITED. Military Zone. Trespassers will be shot on sight." He moved slowly from that point, taking great care not to drive into cracks of negligence and dirty piles of debris. A series of proud Aegean pillars flanked their path, standing solemnly as they always had from ages long past, albeit with significantly less grandeur. There were no bullfrog croaks, no grasshopper whistles. The place was almost completely barren, save the occasional rain-starved tree which rustled with passing gusts.
Hendrik halted in front of a wall – the wall. Even though she had come upon it countless times, Izabel still looked upon it wondrously, as if having her virgin encounter with it time and time again. It was ancient, with marks of age decorating its countenance head to toe. Its façade had been, thankfully, spared from the artistic well-wishes of bored vandals. Within it, a handful of concrete crosses stood tall. Lodonia was once a Christian chapel.
"Please surrender ID and thumbprint for identification," called a robotic voice, breaking the long silence. Hendrik extracted a glossy plastic card from his breast pocket and inserted it into the machine's feeding cavity. Then he pressed a thumb against the emerald display. The machine glowed erratically: blue; velvet; red and finally, emerald again. A large 'CONFIRMED' appeared in bold over the display and his card was dispensed. "Welcome, Doctor Loussier," it said. The automated gate before them moved slowly with a creek of age, withdrawing to the left for the convertible to pass. Hendrik entered the compound.
Izabel remarked on how the air still smelt as stale as ever, and Hendrik nodded in agreement. He drove toward the large, shallow bunker in the middle of the compound. Even though it was two o'clock in the morning, light from the surrounding run-down buildings was still abundant: some flickering, some not. A series of moss covered tubes smoked drowsily toward the sky, working woefully to ensure a steady power supply for the facility.
He drove down an entrance in the side, leading to a spiral which circled downward. Finally, they arrived at the underground car park. Hendrik parked his car in a dimly lit corner and killed the engine. A wave of queasiness overcame Izabel upon her exit. The air was smacked with hints of oil and fetid garbage. She found her car sitting lethargically in the lot she had left it a full month ago under a veil of dust and grime. She sighed – the time it would take to clean it up was not going to be short.
"You still remember where your office is, don't you?" questioned Hendrik as they walked toward the lift lobby. Izabel rolled her eyes – 'duh'. "Good," he smiled. "I'll meet you at the stairs in ten. Better wear your lab coat too. Chilly out there tonight."
Silence reigned in the lift, them avoiding each other's gaze and observing the embellishment on the sides. It stopped with a 'ting' and they made their way out, walking in opposite directions along the brightly lit corridor. She walked with her head down, staring dreamily at the symmetrical pattern woven the velvet floor. "Ah," she exclaimed softly as she came to a dirty woolen carpet, and bent down to slip her hand under it, extracting a card from beneath. Standing up, she faced the door and inserted the card into the cavity present above the handle. Three blood red diodes turned green with a beep, prompting her to enter.
The place had been just liked she remembered it. Stacks of folders and assorted documents were left idly in a corner, beatified by an enormous collage of old photographs stuck to the wall overlooking them. A golden picture frame stood poised on her laminated wooden desk. In the picture, a man and woman smiled jovially with the twinkling Mediterranean Sea in the background. One had been her, in a state of joy she had long forgotten, and the other was a man – the man who was her lover.
Isaac, she thought, placing a hand over her mouth. Nostalgia overwhelmed her and she felt tears threaten to spill, but now was not the time. She was going to be late. Forcing them back, she picked up her white lab coat and made haste for the bunker's front entrance. It was time to meet her new assignment.
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Hendrik pushed his spectacles up the bridge of his nose. "You're late," he said. Emerging from the shelter of the warmed bunker, a freak gust caught her by surprise and her teeth betrayed a brief chatter. Quickly, she buttoned up her overcoat.
He handed a jet black ruffle bag to her, and simply said: "Your 'survival pack'." Izabel took a peek at the contents under her low-battery torchlight as they walked. There were admission and instructional documents, a GPS tracking device, a service pistol and bullet magazines – the regular inventory of a field operative. However, a suspicious black device in a tight plastic wrapping caught her eye. It appeared like a joystick with a large, bright red button on one side and a smaller, blue button on another. The blue button had a protective cover over it, indicating that accidental pushing was undesired.
"What's this remote control thing?" she asked Hendrik.
"They got a capsulate device planted somewhere in their frontal cranium. Red button's for frying a few brain cells. Blue one's for termination."
"What? We actually plant bombs in their brains?"
"Can't be helped. I'd rather do them the favour than them return it to me," he paused, musing for a second. "Your call, of course."
Izabel did not complain. She had little objection against such exorbitant safety measures, having witnessed first hand the destructive capabilities the institutes' charges. Yet, she did not think of it as right. Hypocritical? Perhaps. But war decreed she needed some way to put gruel on her plate, regardless of how. Money, a nice possession to have in times of peace, was no more useful than firewood with the blessing of inflation. She was lucky to have her job, and only a threat from The Fates would make her consider resignation.
They entered the worn down building and hanged their coats on a line of undone screws left protruding from cracks on the discoloured interior wall. On a rickety old desk, a pair of boot-clad feet were crossed, their unshaven owner dressed in an odourous, dirty uniform, soundly asleep. Upon his belly, a magazine laid open, its covers featuring a pair of unclothed ladies, displaying their assets in false ecstasy. Izabel cringed in disgust. Slowly, they made their way up a flight of stairs in tip-toes, saving the occupants from incessant floorboard creaking. Finally, they came upon the door with a rusty metal panel, the characters 'AUL10388' etched upon its surface. It was left slightly ajar.
Hendrik knocked on the door gently. "Fuck off," said a voice from the inside. It was the voice of a child. Undeterred by the juvenile's display of rebellion, Hendrik opened the door with a casual swing and a dusty paperback landed on his head, dropping to the floor and landing again in a messy posture. It was a trap of mockery.
An earthen jug filled with water sat stoically on his tea-table, accompanied by a similarly coloured chipped cup lying askew. A flickering naked light hung dangerously from the tattered roof, its occasional failure blending elegantly into the room's gloom glory and stench. How could anyone survive in such a place, Izabel did not know. "Told you to fuck off, Specs. I can tell it's you from your bloody smell," said a boy lying on the solitary bunk. He lied on his side facing a wall, one hand holding up his head of cyan shaded hair, the other held a paperback for reading.
"Number 10388," Hendrik said, unfazed. "Henceforth, you shall be under the guardianship of Doctor Izabella Neider," he paused for response. None came. "She will be the single agent who determines your schedule and punishments. You are obliged to comply with this arrangement."
The boy snorted repulsively. "First you make me kill the others, now you give me a nanny? Thought I had till Saturday to sleep around."
Hendrik merely shrugged. "Failure to comply shall force the administrative board to consider your termination…"
The boy threw his paperback against the wall with a violent force. Gathering to his feet, he turned, and with demonic speed, he charged at Hendrik with eyes red from feral rage and fists curled into balls, screaming, "Shut the fuck up, yer' son of a bitch!"
But suddenly, he stopped. "Arrrghhh!" he screamed. He dropped to the ground, tugging at his hair and squirming in agony. Tears formed at his eyes and urination soaked his pants – his body had given up all restraint. Veins appeared vividly upon his skin, screaming from convulsion. It was Izabel, holding down her red button. She let go, and came up to get a closer look at the one she had tortured. Through the perspiration and heavy panting, she saw a face once so familiar to her. She thought of Isaac and swallowed hard, trying her best to hold back tears once again. And then she said: "You sure have a filthy mouth there, kid. I want you to clean it."
He appeared unconscious for a moment, but motioned his lips eventually. The boy smirked with his eyes still closed. "I'll do it if you promise not to use your new toy on me."
"I don't think so. How 'bout you promise to clean up and I won't use it?" Izabel was never one to be pushed around in a tango of words.
The edges of his smirk dived downward. "Fine. Beats getting nothing."
With a series of cracks, he tried to rise to his feet, arms supporting him as he laboured against bodily pain. His body wavered for a moment, but he retained his posture and then shook his head, trying to rid his drowsiness. Upright, he limped towards his pile of damp clothes left uncared for in a corner, intent on replacing his soiled outfit.
Hendrik watched the boy toil on for awhile, eventually finding the ordeal of little interest. "I'm going to check on my charge next door," he said. "Don't forget to fill in the administrative papers. And make sure you get some sleep tonight."
"Kay," Izabel nodded. "See you tomorrow."
With that, he left the room. The boy spat rudely as he did. "Thank god you're my nanny," he told Izabel. "I'd have died trying to strangle that guy."
Izabel's eyebrows rose in curiousity. "You know him?" she asked.
"Hell yeah! Put me in a cage with some others and made us duke it out. Only I got out moving," he said, changing his pants with ill-regard for privacy. Izabel did not flinch. "I pray for the one who gets him as nanny."
Izabel could not help but notice the how he seemed to neutral toward her. It seemed surreal, considering the fact that she had just made him stain his pants. But then again, what would they know about embarrassment or manhood? They were probably pre-occupied fully with the daunting task of staying alive. She asked him if he disliked her.
The boy rolled his eyes and snickered at the apparently moot question. "Lady, you're an angel compared to the other dic- I mean, 'care-takers' around here," he said. Then he raised his shirt and showed her his belly. "Your toy is nothing compared to what did this."
Izabel had to bite her lip. Upon his skin, scars were aplenty. They came in a multitude of shapes and sizes, crisscrossing like Chinese calligraphy. "Got nineteen so far," the boy boasted. She noticed an ugly black spot on his shoulder. It was the mark of a cigarette burn.
Letting go of his shirt, he recovered his old paperback and resumed reading, caring little for hospitality. She motioned to his tea-table, studying a stack of volumes neatly placed in a corner. They were fairy tales, carrying titles such as 'Snow White', 'The Three Little Pigs' and 'Beauty and the Beast'.
"If you're wondering why I'm reading those cartoon books, it's because I don't have a di- erm, a 'dee-tionary'," he said, lacking reason to face her in conversation. "This is all I can read."
Of course, Izabel thought. You're never been to school, have you? She felt pity swell up inside her and swallowed, wanting to do something – anything – for him. "Tell you what," she said. "Let's make a few 'deals'."
"Spill it."
"Firstly, you never disobey me; and I'll never send you to the slammer."
"If it doesn't involve those 'experiments', I'm cool."
"You've passed that stage, kid," she reassured him. "No more kill games."
"Cool. Next?"
"You promise to write stuff when you're free, and I'll teach you to read."
A hyena's laugh left his lips. "Even better."
"Finally, you address everyone in the facility respectfully, and you get a ration card everyday."
"Wow! You are great!" he scoffed, trying to hide his actual excitement.
"Good," she said in a mock chirpy tone. Replacing her punishment device in her ruffle bag, she extracted a folder and a pen. "Now, you need a name."
The boy paused for a moment. "I've never had a name. White-coats call me 10388. The others call me 'Little Bluey'."
"No good," she shrugged off. Then she remembered the panel nailed to his door. A-U-L. "How about Auel?"
"Whatever you like," he replied indifferently, stretching his supporting hand sideward to elaborate his thought on the matter.
She wrote down the name with her surname next to the marker titled 'Name' and stowed the material back into the bag. "That's all then, I'll see you tomorrow at eight. Meet me outside the mess hall." She made for door, but before she could close it, Auel called out to her in what seemed to be a pleading tone.
"Wait," he yelled, still not turning to face her. "I want to make one last deal."
Izabel's eyebrows rose in interest. "Shoot."
"I've been reading this book here called 'The Ugly Duckling' for about three days now. And I feel– how do you say," he paused, "well, I just feel something."
He remained silent for a moment, but Izabel waited. He was letting her into his world already.
"So can I, er, call you 'mother'?" he asked sheepishly. "And I'll do my clothes without no one telling." Izabel was taken aback. Pondering for a moment, she weighed that it could do little harm, if not none at all.
"Sure," she said. "Good night, Auel."
"Good night, mother."
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A/N – I'd like to credit Marching Madly Onward's piece entitled Gamma Glipheptin as my inspiration for writing this story of my own. Thanks to everyone who reviewed ;). Lots of thanks to my beta-reader + editor maskerade.