Chapter 6: Cutting Losses

…..

Sometimes, there is nothing to be gained from a horrible experience. There is no mystical lesson, no great secret that makes the pain and loss all worth it.

Sometimes, all there is to be learned is that life can be savagely, bitterly unfair.

…..

"His winnowing fork is in his hand, and he will clear his threshing floor, gathering his wheat into the barn and burning up the chaff with unquenchable fire. For those of you who have never bothered to pick up your bibles- your one ticket out of the hell you're descending into, day by day with your drugs, your witchcraft, your orgies, and your rebellion, that was Matthew 3:12."

"So, yes, God offers redemption. But there will come a time, which is fast approaching, when he will separate the good from the wicked, and burn the wicked with hellfire, purging them from his kingdom! Maybe, just maybe, there's hope for… God help me, I don't know. Five? Ten of you, tops? Maybe God can see something I can't- you ALL look like chaff to me, and it was my recommendation, after having my daughter backstab me so viciously, that Sir Father, God's holy knight in the war against disobedience, simply burn all of you, so that the children already here, who MIGHT have a shot at redemption, wouldn't be tainted by you, you, the rebellious children, who spurned the message of God to the point that this became necessary!"

"But he said 'No, Wellfields. We will punish them, and punish them harsher than ever before, but the repentant will be spared.' That's God's love there- refusing to let one grain of wheat be burned up with the chaff."

"Oh, right, sorry. Love. You wouldn't understand that term, would you? Maybe it's easier to compare love to lust, something you all understand intimately. Love is caring about someone as a person, regardless of how much money they spend on you or how good they are in bed. Love is trying to help someone even when your gut instinct says they're beyond all hope."

"Maybe… maybe I'm all out of love, honestly. I poured all my love into Faith, and where did it get me? I was driven from my hometown by the enforcers of her head pimp, Satan himself. So yeah, I'm human. Maybe with no opportunities to backstab, with no easing up whatsoever, a few of you can be redeemed, but right now, I can't feel it."

"I really do hope you prove me wrong."

-Speech given by Matthew Wellfields to the children of his congregation at Rod and Whip's "Disciplinary Center".

…..

Sir Father watched from behind a two-way mirror as Wellfields made his speech.

He had expected just another lunatic, another bible-thumper who didn't really understand the concepts of perpetual punishment, that the only contribution he or his congregation would make would be some extra labor and the 'training dummies' they had brought in.

Instead, he'd found someone who was willing to sacrifice his own daughter- innocent of the deeds he'd accused her of, for the sheer purpose of encouraging perpetual punishment of more 'innocent children' as a pre-emptive measure. Hell, the man had managed to convince his congregation to give up their jobs, homes, and luxuries, all for the sake of condemning their own children to what most countries would consider 'torture'.

And even now he hammered at the last vestiges of the children's confidence and hopes, telling them that they deserved this, and only through unquestioning acceptance of the punishment to come could they ever be saved, making his speech with such a passion and fury that several times, Sir Father forgot he was dealing with a consummate liar, the stereotypical false prophet of yore.

Maybe Wellfields channeled his own guilt into his sermons. Maybe he was just a world-class bullshitter. Whatever the source of his power, he got the job done.

Goabes stood at his side, awed. "So, what'd I tell you, sir?"

Sir Father said nothing, just watched as the now demoralized teens, adolescents, and children were herded off with stun-guns and blows.

It had been a day of successes. First, the capture of Veronica Miles, one of his most hated naysayers, and her child. Then, the first real signs of a neoidentifiable child- Barry Wilkins, willing to sell out his own brother and his girlfriend, not out of a desire for reward, but a desire to punish his brother. Granted, it might be that Barry was just a sadist- but Rod and Whip needed sadists. And his parents were already doing perpetual punishment of their own; they would be easily trainable.

That left just one issue, and that was Calvin Halgins.

Ordinarily, a single child was beneath his notice. But his child had broken free, twice now, retaining confidence each time and bragging about his escapes on his blog.

He had sent two of his best to remedy that.

…..

Veronica Miles remembered being offered a cup of coffee as the officer spoke to her about filing charges against the psychotic woman who assaulted her daughter, a brief feeling of dizziness, and nothing more.

When she awoke, handcuffed and shackled in a pitch-black cell, she initially wondered if she had somehow made the officer feel threatened, and he had tazed her, arrested her. On the cold stone floor, with no window to look out of, not even a barred window on the door- she was, for all she knew, alone and forgotten.

Then she heard screams.

Children's screams. The sounds of something striking flesh. Pleas for mercy in young voices. Sobs and blows. Angry, harsh barking and sadistic laughter.

A child's pleadings grew louder and closer, and suddenly she knew- a boy, maybe eight years old, was being dragged towards her cell. Laughter, horrible, adult laughter- then snapping noises. Screams that pierced her hands as she clamped them over her ears to block them out, thuds reverberating through the floor and the walls. Crunching noises…

They were stomping on a little boy.

The boy's screams turned to coughs and gasps. Then, aside from a few more sickeningly wet thumps, there was silence.

"Don't make them like they used to, do they?" asked a male voice.

Laughter.

They were laughing about killing a little boy.

Veronica curled up in a horror, too terrified, too nauseous to cry, to do anything but hug her knees.

The best case scenario, she realized, was that she died and went to hell. That her beautiful baby girl was still on earth, and she was in her own tailor-made hell.

She couldn't bear the idea of this all being real and on earth.

…..

Barry held the device in his hands, letting himself get used to the weight of it. Heavy. Definitely would break bone if he swung it. He flicked his eyes from the baton-like weapon to the victim before him- a girl, black hair, wounds all over her… Four? Five? He didn't know the exact age, the name, or what crimes these people thought the girl committed that warranted what would happen next.

And, unsurprisingly, Barry found himself not caring at all.

The man named Harry had explained the situation to Barry in unflinching detail after he had been separated from his parents- and more regretfully, his brother's beating. Rod and Whip didn't trust children- case in point: his brother, who Barry wholly agreed deserved to have anything wet beaten out of him, because, in Barry's mind, the asshole deserved to be beaten to a pulp for breathing oxygen that other people could use. To prove that Barry himself was not of the category Rod and Whip despised, he had to administer punishment without questioning why.

The girl on the ground- mouth stitched shut, hands and feet bound with tape, he didn't know, but not knowing who she was or what she'd done, Barry found, gave him very little pause or compassion.

Barry had no friends.

For all his feints and tricks, the techniques that kept his mother and father blind to his deeds for so long did not work on the teachers or the students he was made to attend school with. One betrayal here, a few mean-spirited pranks and frame-jobs there, and suddenly Barry found himself the hated one who was barely tolerated by teachers, openly hated by his peers.

"I try to climb but they always pull me down with them." He muttered. He smacked the rod against his palm slightly, looking at the bound girl with disgust.

A woman, fat, her face distorted as if someone- something?- had tried to tear it off several times, sporting new bandages, looked to him and then Harry in impatience.

"He's not going to do it." She growled. "I told you, these shits, they talk about obedience, and…"

Barry brought the baton down in a two handed stroke on the girl's left knee. The reflexive attempt to scream ripped at one of the stitches, and the woman's criticism fell silent, her left eyebrow raised.

"Trying to figure out where to start." Barry explained, and Harry, the woman, and two other adults- armed with rifles bigger than himself- gave 'ahs' of comprehension.

Barry knew, in his heart, that it wouldn't matter if he freed the girl, somehow miraculously fought off the guards, and helped the kid escape. The girl would hear about him. How he tried to get ahead. And she'd join everyone else in dragging him down.

It wouldn't matter how much charity he did, how many people he helped. These assholes, so much like his brother, acted with so much indignation when people like himself got tired with waiting for opportunity to knock.

There was only room for so many at the top. Therefore it was only reasonable that to climb up, one had to knock others down, and ensure they stayed down so that they would not challenge him when he reached the peak.

The girl before him didn't seem to grasp this truism, rolling in pain, looking at Barry with half-accusation, half-pleading eyes.

Even with her lips stitched shut, the girl seemed to want to scream "why?"

Barry looked up. "How do you turn this thing on?"

The torn-face woman beamed. "Press the button on the base twice. That puts it in 'subdue' mode. Don't press it more than twice, or the shock will kill her too quick." The instructions reminded him of the saccharine tone his teacher's used to describe how to solve simple addition problems.

Barry did as told, and the baton's striking head crackled with electricity. The girl now looked panicked as Barry advanced.

Harry excused himself. "He's got it under control, then. I'll be back, just need to see how the… less obedient son and his bitch are doing."

Barry felt himself smile at the vote of confidence, and decided to answer the question the girl couldn't ask.

"Because I can." He said simply as he raised the electrified weapon.

After spending several minutes calming himself down, Jason made an assessment of his current situation.

Chained to the wall of a dimly lit concrete room, featureless save for one light bulb and , his right arm on fire from being dislocated, gashes and bruises all over, glasses broken, circumstances could only get worse if he stayed. As much as the three hours long drive, replete with several grown men using police batons to beat him, had left him desiring unconsciousness, the experience had left him, surprisingly, less broken in spirits and more filled with an intense desire to see each and every one of the persons responsible for his anguish dead.

From outside, wails of children. Some his age, some younger. It took less than a second to piece together that he was not the only one being singled out for torture, and despite his own agony his stomach churned with a vicious hate- death was too good for whatever bastards were behind this hell, but he would see to it that at least a few died horrible, horrible deaths.

His body readily reminded him he was not in any shape to go on such a rampage.

His mind, however, noted, that the captors had been called away as they had been clamping the cuffs on his wrists, they had not tightened them quite enough.

Staying in this position was suicide. Leaving probably was too, but maybe he could mess with whatever plan they had.

Removing the left cuff was easy enough. The right however, was a long and arduous task. Every twitch brought fresh agonies, and when he finally pulled the limp limb free, his face was soaked with tears from the pain of the endeavor.

Now came the task of rotating it back into its socket. He balled up his blood soaked shirt, jammed it into his mouth, and set to work.

Several times he screamed, his cries muffled by the self made gag, and twice he felt his vision blur, a black morass at the edge of his vision threatening to consume all conscious thought, but through the haze of pain, he rotated the limb back in place, slamming his shoulder into the wall-

There was a pop, white hot pain drove him to his knees, his throat, thankfully raw, could not produce more than a rasp…

Then, mercifully, miraculously, the pained dulled to a persistent ache. It spoke of damage, perhaps permanent, but it was not intolerable.

Footsteps got his attention, and he made a split second analysis, returning to the manacle, sliding his wrist through, pretending to be bordering on unconsciousness, head slacked forward…

Several moments later, his cell door flew open.

From the top of his eye, he saw his captor- military fatigues. Shaved head. Looked like he had a brick shoved deep into his rectum, and was holding what appeared to be a submachine gun.

Quick mental calculations gave him a theoretical idea of how dire the situation was. The man likely had a radio, so even if Jason did manage to run out of the room and evade gunfire, he'd face more similarly armed persons. If he waited, the man was likely to escort him to further torture or flat out kill him.

The man pointed the gun barrel an inch, at best, away from his forehead. "Wake up, you four-eyed piece of-"

Jason slipped his hands free.

Used the shackles as gymnast rings to lift himself up, ignoring the staggering pain in his arm and the fact he didn't think the plan would work…

Kicked the gun, and, as he dropped, grabbed at it-

For a brief second, he stood there, gun leveled at the bald man, face now bearing something more befitting a deer caught in the proverbial head lights-

Jason fired one shot, and the man's head jerked back before slumping to the ground.

The radio on his belt crackled to life. "Dammit Matthew, you're not supposed to kill him before we begin ransoming!"

Jason searched the cooling corpse for additional ammo, finding two magazines, cramming them into his pockets. The realization that this was harder than all his video games made it look gave him a brief moment of amusement despite his dire predicament…

"Matthew, come in! Is the prisoner still alive?"

Jason had exited the door as the radio voice grew more and more panicked.

…..

"Despite the most devoted agent's cautions, precise reactions, and torture techniques, prisoners making escape attempts will be an unfortunate reality for the foreseeable future until we can vastly accelerate the will-breaking process. To this end, any suspicion of an escape attempt in progress or being planned is to be treated with the utmost severity. Disciplinary actions for being overly cautious against a perceived escape attempt and shooting a prisoner will be far more lenient than allowing an escape plan to come to fruition."

"In the event one perceives, hears of, or witnesses in progress an escape attempt, notify security and attempt to terminate the escape. If killing is necessary then do so, but, if possible, Rod and Whip prefers such rebellious guests be captured alive to be made examples to the others."

"A successful escape breeds hope among the children inside and those outside. Hope breeds more escape attempts. Do whatever it takes to quash any attempts at escape."

Rod and Whip Instruction Manual, "Worst Case Scenario survival guide"

…..

The complex Calvin arrived at was not unlike some maximum security prison in the middle of the wilderness. They had driven past several checkpoints with ten foot high barbed wife fences and armed guards, guard towers, and patrol vehicles that looked to be like golf carts refitted with mounted machine guns. The main building, a massive concrete monstrosity, was without adornments, markings, or, he noticed after a brief glance, many windows. Only certain portions had any visible means of letting in sunlight whatsoever, others were completely closed off.

Psychological torture.

The car pulled into a massive garage after yet another security checkpoint, all four agents exited the car, as did Calvin.

Calvin's exit, however, given his fly form, was much less obvious.

Flying was an exhausting ordeal, but he managed to land on one of the agent's shirts and crawl under the collar as they began their march inside. Judging by the groans and cries of pain, the man named Clyde whom Calvin had crippled was being carried in as well.

Calvin's hitchhiked ride stopped with a jerk. Another jerk.

A deafening "AT EASE." Calvin put together what was happening- the agents had stopped, saluted someone. Sir Father, maybe?

Calvin needed some time to adjust himself so he could hear without being deafened- he didn't wholly understand how flies could hear, or if his own current physiology was akin to a real flies, but eventually, he found a positioning of his forelegs just so to dampen the deafening indoor voices.

"-Agent Gene is dead. Calvin Halgins escaped into the woods-"

"Goddammit-" was that the superior, now, speaking?- "how the hell does one kid overpower two men- what the hell was retrieval doing-"

"…combed the forest. We found some vomit, no other traces of him-" another agent explained, but he was cut off-

"Let me get this straight." The superior grunted. "What we're dealing with is a thirteen year old blogger who throws up when he kills someone, no formal combat training, no history of violent behavior, and you're telling me a home retrieval op, police switch op, and prisoner retrieval all failed? For fuck's sake, he! Is! One! Kid!" there was banging on something- a wall?

"We will continue searching-"

"You're damn right you will. Sir Father wanted him to make a televised recantation today. Find him in 24 hours and MAYBE you'll get off with just demotion."

So that wasn't Sir Father talking. That at least he knew. Why the hell, though, would someone want him to make a public apology for an obscure blog posting? Calvin's post had gotten quite a few hits, sure, but it wasn't a national sensation…

…or maybe the point was that he had evaded the standard method of capture and talked about it, and this was nothing more than an overreaction.

More chillingly, Calvin pondered, the series of events: home invasion, sleeper agents in the police, and kidnapping and being forced to make a public recantation among God-knew-what-else could very well be standard procedure.

His 'ride' spoke. "Clyde is alive, sir. He says Calvin wanted him to relay a message to Sir Father-"

"What message?" There was a tone of impatience.

"He said," and there was a very distinct air of disbelief from his ride- "that if Sir Father messes with him, his family, or any more kids, he'd kill him."

There was a snort. "Cocky son of a bitch. FIND. HIM. You two. Get Clyde to medical. Tell them to spare the anesthetic, we don't waste that on failures-"

Calvin flew out from his host's collar and into a nearby bathroom, the surrounding area, as best he could tell, some sort of massive garage for the cars these people used. The method now was simple, at least in his mind- Sir Father's authority appeared to be absolute. Ergo, all he needed was to look like Sir Father, and he'd be able to cause, at the very least, enough havoc to start releasing prisoners.

It suddenly struck Calvin how tired he was. Nerves. That was all. Nerves, and the ordeal of what had happened all these last few days. No time for rest, he had a job to do.

The Transmogrifier Gun, now conveniently fly-friendly, would help him. So it was more uses of it than he liked in a month or year. This was a special case. He would let the historians berate him and his actions, should they ever come to light, right now he had kids to save.

But even as he used the gun to revert to his normal form inside a bathroom stall, Calvin felt a twinge in his gut, a horrible feeling something was terribly wrong…

Of course something's terribly wrong. These people are torturing kids, and I'm going to stop it.

Damn fatigue and impossible odds. Damn reason and the fact he had no idea of the layout of the building, or where the kids were, or how many people were in here, or how well armed they were, or…

Calvin suddenly decided to stop thinking. It was making the twinge worse.

He pressed the barrel to his head. I am Sir Father.

Click.

Nothing.

For a moment panic set in, until Calvin realized, stifling a nervous laugh, that of course, that wouldn't work- he didn't KNOW what Sir Father looked like.

Okay, okay, fine. I am dressed like one of those agents. Jacket, gun and holster, and adult.

Click. Nothing. The twinge hurt.

Maybe he needed to get a better look at them- back to fly form-

Click. Nothing. The twinge made him stagger now.

In a horrifying moment of despair as he tried to decipher why, of all the possible times, the Transmogrifier failed him now, several reasons crept into his mind. One was the possibility that the iron-clad mentality of these torture-addict adults was such that it nullified the gun's power. He dismissed that, the gun worked fine when he was escorted by two phony cops. The second, he was too stressed, and needed clarity. Bullshit, the gun worked even when he was in a state of panic, if a bit haphazardly.

Finally, in a moment of crystal-like clarity, he understood. The gun ran on some sort of ammo. The ammo came from Calvin. And whatever that ammo was, he was out. The twinge in his stomach was just like an empty gun clicking helplessly.

Amidst the panic was a ray of hope. He recalled he hadn't eaten in a long time, and he was thirsty. Maybe that's all he needed- some food and caffeine. Even sadists needed to eat.

But he didn't know where food would be. Or where the kids locked in here were. He had assumed, stupidly, in retrospect, that the gun would solve everything for him- he would break in, break out the kids, and the gun would do the grunt work with nothing needed in return. Hadn't it been draining, in the past, when he had used it repeatedly?

As he looked for a way out of the situation, he found only more and more obstacles. If he left the restroom back into the garage, he'd be found out instantly. Staying in the restroom would have him found out eventually.

Even if he DID manage to make it to some food, he wasn't sure it would be enough to power the gun- it was just a hunch.

For a moment, Calvin felt like praying to whatever God was listening for a miracle, then, bitterly, he realized he'd been given a miracle already- a gun that shaped the world around him as he saw fit. Now that miracle was squandered, the result of a hasty decision to make an assault on this base he knew nothing about on his own.

Some part of Curtis, prior to this point, had wanted reconciliation with his family.

That eventually, wounds could begin to heal.

But when he was brought to this hell, this prison-slash-torture factory, and his own mother began kicking Chutney in the stomach simply because the man had suggested it would teach her a lesson, after his father ripping the hat he gave him at birth up in front of him and decking him until he spat two teeth and a mouthful of blood, the part of him that wanted reconciliation was dead.

His father slammed a fist into his chest, and he coughed, spitting blood. Tied to a chair, he could do nothing to roll with the blow.

His father's words were hazy, hard to make out. Plenty of swearing. Plenty of blaming him for making him resort to this. In the brief respite between pummeling, Curtis found it ironic that his father seemed to expect repeatedly punching him in the face to make him pay attention.

His mother was more silent, stomping and kicking on Chutney, who had asked her repeatedly to stop- Diane put an end to her talking with a strip of duct tape. Over and over, she slammed her foot into Chutney's stomach, knocking her over, still bound to a chair herself, continuing to savagely stomp on her neck and ribs-

She was smiling.

The woman Curtis once thought capable of no evil was smilingas she kicked his lover to death.

A hard right hook across his jaw exploded his world into a fireworks display made of pain, and he saw his father's snarling face. The man was psychotic. Best case scenario, these people had given his parents some sort of drugs, had messed with their minds somehow…

More likely, they'd both just snapped.

Resting against the wall of the cell was the man whom Curtis recognized by voice- his father, during the trip here, had called him Harry- he smiled and watched as if taking in some sort of classic play.

Another punch.

"Why are you making me do this?" Greg asked, backhanding Curtis. "Do you think we enjoy this? Having to break you down so you'll obey for once? Do you think we like hurting you?"

Curtis glared at him, one eye swelling, and gave an honest answer. "Yes."

Harry shifted. "Maybe it's time to give him an idea of just how much his smart mouth is going to cost him." He drew a pistol from the inside of his jacket, a .40 automatic, handing it to Diane.

Diane looked horrified. "But you said-"

"No, no, not on him, on her." He jerked his head towards Chutney, who looked at the weapon with terror, suddenly trying desperately to get free despite her injuries.

Diane hesitated, looked to Greg, then to Harry.

"It's the only way he'll learn. He doesn't care what his disobedience costs him. That's apparent. But maybe, just maybe, having his fuck-ups cost him his masturbation alternative will get the point across." Harry cooed with all the sincerity of a therapist.

Diane slowly took the pistol, cocked it, leveled it at Chutney.

"Don't." Curtis pleaded. "Don't do this."

Diane looked at Curtis, eyes that once held compassion (or something resembling it) now filled with something cold and alien. "You brought this on yourself, and her. Don't act like you don't deserve this." She looked up at Greg. "Make sure he watches."

Greg obligingly grabbed Curtis' head, wrenched it towards the scene, and pulled back on his right eye, making sure he would have to watch-

Harry smiled…

And then as if some deity had said "Fuck this shit", a boy with a SMG burst into the room, blinked, and fired on Diane, catching her in the shoulder…

She screamed, fell, dropped the gun. Harry and Greg both made a mad dash for the weapon, and the boy sprayed the gun again. Greg took two rounds to his leg and went down with a yelp and a thud. Harry caught two in his chest and one in his throat, grabbing at the gaping hole in his neck as he fell to his knees.

The boy looked up. He was blonde, bloodied, with a pair of mangled glasses on his face. Couldn't be older than Chutney or himself.

Curtis found his voice. "Get the gun-"

The boy grabbed the pistol, walked over to Chutney, untying her quickly. She staggered to her feet, limping, but eventually she and the boy managed to get Curtis untied as well.

Curtis rose to his feet, slowly. His jaw ached, but a quick assessment confirmed he didn't have any broken ribs. Chutney seemed the worst off, leaning on him for support.

The boy spoke again. "We need to get out of here." He drew several deep breaths, he had been running, it seemed. "If it wasn't already obvious."

He was too calm for this, it was as if the kid was trained for this sort of thing- but then he would have more muscle to him, so the only other possible explanation was that he had been mentally preparing for this sort of thing for a long time…

He handed the pistol back to Curtis. "Check the guy for any spare clips and let's go." The voice was flat, strained dry of emotion, as if the boy were trying to fight off the urge to break down in the midst of this lunacy…

Curtis hesitated for a mere second before rolling the corpse- Chutney shuddered and turned away- and searched it, finding two clips. The boy scanned the hallway for any immediate threats, waving impatiently for Curtis and Chutney to follow.

However bizarre the boy's intervention was, questioning it could wait until they found a way out, afterlife or otherwise.

Gunfire snapped Calvin out of his despair.

Shouts of alarm. Screaming. Chaos. If ever there was a time to attempt this recharge theory, now was it.

His prayers had been answered.

A cursory scan of the garage he had stepped out of confirmed everyone was running to somewhere else in the compound, and, not wasting any time, he took to dodging and flitting behind anything available for cover lest he be spotted, making his way across…

A break room. Yet another sign of a loving god-

Dashing inside and ravaging the refrigerator in a frenzy that would put a starved wolverine to shame, Calvin drank everything not a condiment or liquor and devoured several sandwiches, chicken legs, and just about anything that wasn't spoiled in his rampage, feeling the twinge in his stomach lessen until it was gone entirely.

At the very least, he would die full and hydrated…

Rapid footsteps. It was now or never.

He drew the gun, pointed it at himself.

And in a thought- half the amount of time it took for the guards, holding shotguns and rifles, to burst into the room and give collective expressions of surprise and disbelief, the room was minus one spiky-haired boy and plus one errant moth flittering around the lights.

They left as quickly as they had came, and Calvin reverted himself quickly.

He felt alive now, the twinge replaced with a sense of energy and power. He wasn't sure what was causing the uproar, but he was sure he could make it infinitely worse.

Now that he knew his reserves of power finite, he would have to use his powers judiciously and wisely- anything too extreme would drain him too quickly.

He ran out into the corridors, already realizing, as three men in civilian clothes and bulletproof vests turned to aim their sub-machineguns at him, that he didn't have any plan whatsoever as to how to extricate himself- let alone the other kids- out of this mess.

Smiling and waving with his left hand at the confused guards as he, with his right hand stashed in his pocket, gripping the Transmogrifier pistol, he decided he would improvise.

It seemed as good a plan as any as the three unfortunates' guns backfired, clicked hopelessly, or exploded, sending the wielder sprawling and bloody. The one who's gun merely refused to work gave chase, only for, with another quick squeeze of the Transmogrifier, have his spare clip of ammunition suddenly start cooking off, an unexpected event that had him dancing and flailing as his own ammo seemingly tried to kill him and his allies.

He broke into a run, and any guards who gave pursuit were felled by freak accidents- sometimes it was ammo misfiring, other times, simply tripping. There wasn't time- or energy- for anything fancy.

He had just finished prematurely detonating a fragmentation grenade one guard was preparing to heave at him, turning away as tell-tale screams and splatters filled the corridor, when he found himself staring down the barrels of firearms.

This, given how the day was going, was not surprising in and of itself.

What was surprising was who was holding them- a blonde boy about his height, and a black teen a good foot taller than him. Both look like they had endured savage beatings. Behind them was a black girl who was bleeding from her lip, her eye swollen shut, a mixture of fear, shock, and rage.

When, after five seconds- or five days, Calvin was unsure of time, as adrenaline pumped through him- they lowered their weapons.

The blonde boy, glasses smudged with blood, spoke first. "I need to reload-"

Calvin gestured to a pile of bodies he'd left in his wake, noting with equal parts admiration and horror how quickly both rapidly reloaded their weapons using the spare ammunition they found on the bodies.

"So," The black boy spoke, reloading his pistol, "I'm guessing you're not on their side."

Calvin glanced down the hallway, checked for any more guards. "Nope. Idiots tried to pick me up this afternoon." It wasn't wholly a lie, there was indeed an abduction attempt. He just found it wise to not try and convince two armed teens that he had a magical pistol that allowed him to reshape the world like so much clay.

"Then why aren't you fucked up like us?" growled the blonde boy. The insinuation was very clear, that he was on their captor's side.

Calvin went with a simplistic answer. "They took their eyes off of me for a second. That's all I needed." Again, not wholly a lie. If they had paid better attention, his plan never would have worked.

The white lie had its intended effect, the blonde boy smiled grimly and gave a nod of approval. "You're going to need a gun." He tossed a pistol and its clip to Calvin, who caught them, hesitated a moment, then assembled the weapon, cocking it. The gun was powerful, heavy, more likely meant as a military issue sidearm than any civilian.

As the three loaded up, the girl with some reluctance, Calvin switched the transmogrifier pistol from his right pocket to his left. For the gun to work, these newfound allies would have to remain unaware of its use.

"I didn't catch your names." Calvin spoke, gaining their attention as they finished their grim work.

"Curtis." The black boy replied, rejecting a shredded flak jacket as too damaged with disgust.

The black girl, staying near Curtis as he found a vest that wasn't too damaged, and put it on her despite her insistence he should wear it, spoke after it was set it place. "Chutney."

The blonde boy found some grenades that had survived the explosion and clipped them to his belt haphazardly. "Jason."

"Calvin." He caught another clip tossed to him by Jason and shoved it in his right pocket- knowing the way things were going, it would be imperative he have quick access to the gun.

Without a formal decision of leadership, the four began running down the hallway.

…..

If there was anything Mary hated more than the meddling idiots who rebuked her for her righteous punishments of this generation's trash, it was being interrupted in a punishment session.

Moreso when she was teaching a very rare, very precious example of what a child could be- should be- on how to properly punish someone who had willingly and knowingly abetted those naysayers and protectors of miscreants.

The girl was more or less on the verge of death after her protégé, Barry, had learned how to most effectively use one of her more favorite tools- a combination of taser and baton weapon the majority of R.A.W. called the "Shock Club". It was an ingenious tool, capable of dealing painful concussive blows, along with even more agonizing shocks, which could, depending on the need, be merely powerful enough to stun, or, should the need arise, kill with one well aimed strike.

But Mary did not feel so merciful as to let death come quickly, nor did her student.

Previous attempts at neo-identification, the process by which R.A.W. could hypothetically convert children into the ideal, obedient child who did not need pain as a motivator had all failed miserably- such candidates had tried to escape at the first possible opportunity, or, worse, aided those they were assigned to break down.

But here was an exception to years of research and testing, a child who not only obeyed the command to punish his fellows, but willingly aided- and effectively so- in bringing a near-escapee to justice. She had heard the Curtis punk would have gotten away, if not for Barry's mentioning that he had a girlfriend- who, on retrieval, happened to have the hotel number Curtis was staying at.

They boy had proved a means of coercion, torture, and retrieval all in one fell swoop.

But her teaching- what little she needed to do, besides point out minor things, like where to strike, frequency of blows- was interrupted by the blaring of alarms and sirens and staccato bursts of gunfire.

The boy shared her frustrations, irritation showing in his face. "So, what do we do in this situation?" He had a fair amount of sweat from using the stunclub, albeit he had not complained of fatigue- rather, he had enjoyed the labor.

Her initial response was to tell Barry to keep hammering away, but for all she knew the gunfire was from a S.W.A.T. team.

She made up her mind. "You get her to her cell, lock her in-" she tossed him a blowtorch- "weld it shut. Take a gun."

Barry took the implement, a pistol and began dragging the girl without so much as a question as to why Mary would ask such a bizarre task when it would seem his time would be better spent helping fight off invaders. To another, it would seem he was simply following the ideal that a neoidentified child should obey without question.

Mary smiled, knowing this wasn't the case, as she loaded her own firearm, an MP5. Barry instinctively understood the reason for such a task.

The girl had to suffer and die, miserable and alone, without hope of rescue. To allow her to be saved at the last moment would give the children of the world- and their parents- some idea that there was refuge from Rod and Whip's death warrant, a failure that could not be tolerated, no matter what the circumstances.

They would all learn there was no escape from the consequences of their actions.

…..

Jason was an analytical man.

He knew that their situation was hopeless, and that the best they could do was to take as many with them before they were gunned down. That there was going to be no deus ex machina to save them, no cavalry coming to aid them.

So when the yellow-spike haired boy named Calvin joined them, he thought he was merely offering him a chance to die fighting.

But then, peculiar things, things he didn't have time to study as bullets flew, began to happen. Ordinarily, he would have chalked them up to luck.

But after the third guard trying to chuck a grenade blew himself and several others up, after the sixth gun pointed at them jammed, after the fourth shutter door slammed shut, blocking incoming gunfire, and the fifth fire sprinkler set off over the heads of someone trying to shoot at them, he began to doubt these were coincidences.

Maybe God was on their side. Maybe the place was shoddily built, and had poorly trained brutes who had no idea what to do when their prisoners fought back.

That didn't explain several other things, however. Like how Calvin jogged as opposed to running for his life. How his shots always seemed to be the ones that really seemed to hurt the guards in their way. And Jason was quite sure that the gun he had handed Calvin carried 13-14 rounds.

He had fired 16 before he stopped to reload.

Later. He told himself. There would be time in the afterlife to discuss the hows and whats of the situation. Maybe he was just losing his mind as his world fell apart bullets at a time, trying to find mental refuge in understanding things that no longer mattered, trying to find some prove of a higher power working for them…

"We need to get out of here-" he gasped as he ducked more gunfire. Calvin glared back at the pursuing party, fired once.

There was an explosion- grenade. Lucky shot- no way he could have done it intentionally.

"There's a garage down that way." Calvin spoke, ducking to avoid returned fire. "I really hope one of you knows how to drive."

Curtis fired several rounds into a man wielding a shotgun before the attacker could let off a shot or cry of surprise, and emptied his clip down the hallway Calvin had been shooting in what must've been a very effective display of suppressive fire- there was silence after he finished firing. "Let's go, let's go-" he muttered, jamming another clip in, his last one. There were, apparently, no arguments as to the plan of action.

They broke into a run, a sign indicating that the garage- and with it, cars- were close by.

Almost there-

He allowed himself a moment of elation as he rounded a corner- they would get out, tell the army, the FBI, the CIA about this place, bring every soldier with a gun crashing down on their head-

Those thoughts of self-congratulation fled when Curtis yanked him, hard, back behind a corner as something screaming flew by his face, crashing down the hall with a deafening bang.

It took him a moment to realize what'd happen.

Rocket launchers. The lunatics had rocket launchers to deal with children.

He laughed hoarsely. If he was going crazy, then all the better!

The world had gone fucking insane already!

…..

Curtis held his rifle with a death grip, teeth clenched.

They were advancing on their position, the heavy footsteps and shouting gave no false pretenses about that.

He looked to his left- there was an oncoming group of three with guns, laying down fire that made him, Chutney, Jason and the spike-hair press themselves into the wall to avoid being hit.

This was it. Death was imminent.

He was about to say something appropriate for last words- a "Nice knowing you" to the guys, a final kiss to Chutney-

WHAM. WHAM.

Heavy steel shutter doors slammed down in front of both groups, met with swearing and howls of rage.

A miracle. A freaking, honest-to-Jesus miracle.

"New plan, fall back-" he shouted, and no one gave any disagreement.

But where to fall back to, that was the question.

Rockets exploded behind them as their attackers tried to punch through their own defenses.

Their reprieve would not last long-

WHAM. WHAM. WHAM. More shutter doors falling down behind them. More swearing.

Whether it was providence or someone herding them into a trap, he didn't care.

The four ran down the only path available as the explosions and banging grew louder.

…..

Sir Father wanted an explanation for why a day of triumph was fast becoming a nightmare, and he wanted it several minutes ago.

It started with being told that the boy named Calvin had escaped retrieval. That alone soured his mood considerably to the point he was certain he was going to have to execute the surviving agent, Clyde, to make an example failure was not tolerated.

Now his fortress was going mad.

Reports had started with the guard sent to break the Jason Fox kid being found dead. Then the breaking of the Wilkins boy being interrupted with the death of Harry, one of his top recruiters, in which both the Wilkins boy and his girl were lost, presumably to the actions of Jason. Now reports of malfunctions of security systems and firearms as the three rampaged around the center only added to his misery.

Emergency shutters meant for keeping out intruders or preventing escapes were being turned against them. Cameras were being shut off, sprinklers being activated, grenades exploding prematurely…

He was going to flay the quartermaster alive for this shit. There was no reason for this kind of atrocious equipment failure…

But as he demanded security footage of the three escapees, it struck him-

This had never happened before.

Oh, escape attempts had been made, but those were brought down in a matter of minutes if not seconds with crushing efficiency. Reviews of footage of the last escape suppression were so efficient that they were used as tutorial tapes- a how to guide for new R.A.W. members.

And even gross negligence of the weapons stocks didn't account for the security systems going haywire. He recalled, briefly, that Jason Fox's first retrieval attempt was a disaster- the boy repelled three agents with makeshift weapons and sustained only minor injury.

A horrible thought hit him- what if Jason was doing all this? What if he had some gadget that could manipulate the security systems, a device that could cause malfunctions in grenades? At the moment it all appeared that some divine force was guarding him and his accomplices, but what if the boy was actually some sort of prodigy who could create devices that allowed him to sabotage things from a distance? But the boy had been checked when brought in, and aside from a watch there was nothing remotely electronic…

The clicking of an active camera feed got his attention. There they were, Curtis, the Wilkins kid, Chutney, the bait the neoidentified Barry had suggested, Jason Fox, another kid…

"Waitaminute…" he growled. Blonde spiky hair? It couldn't be. No kid was that stupid, that naïve, that foolhardy-

"Identification of the Halgins brat, NOW." He demanded.

One guard was quick to respond. "Main identifying factor is spiky, blonde hair, height is-"

There was silence as everyone else realized the described boy was running around, gunning down guards who came after him with impunity.

A minute passed, the only noise breaking the silence the sound of several guards stepping out of arm's reach of Sir Father, who looked- and felt- angry enough to spontaneously combust.

"I want…" he began, suppressing the need to scream his fury, his voice tainted with barely controlled rage "I want the Fox boy dead and autopsied in the hour. I want the two lovebirds nailed to crosses and burned. But I want the Halgins kid alive. I will oversee his breaking personally."

The sounds of frantic scrambling surrounded him as he spoke, eyes locked on the monitors until, as Calvin passed them, they crashed, one by one, for reasons the technicians, scrambling frantically, couldn't figure out.

There was no conceivable reason the boy could have or would have returned. How had he found his way to the compound? Why the hell would he come back?

Jason had planned this all. He hadn't had any devices found on his person when brought in. He had let himself be captured, told the Halgins boy, an active opponent of these places of discipline, where to find this place- how he had found it, he was unsure- told him to bring the necessary device or components needed to break in, and accomplish whatever they had planned to do.

But if they were going to go through the trouble to break in, why were they so ready to escape? They couldn't have just gone in to rescue two people and break out, could they?

It made no goddamn sense whatsoever, but Sir Father vowed that once he had Calvin strapped down, he would find some sense quickly. Or, at the very least, catharsis.

…..

Barry strained as he dragged the now sobbing girl to her cell. Gunfire exploded in the distance. Alarms blared.

He entertained, briefly, the idea of shooting the girl, saying she tried to flee-

No. The girl had to suffer. He would make her see that talking back meant punishment. He would make them all see that he alone had been deemed good.

He savagely kicked the girl in her ribs, making her choke. It was bad enough he'd been interrupted, he wasn't going to tolerate her whining all the way-

Footsteps behind him. He turned, ready to explain himself. Mary had said she'd let others know he was an exception…

There, bloody but unbroken, was Curtis, holding a gun. Chutney leveled a pistol at Barry, rage in her eyes. Two boys, blonde hair, one spiky, the other smooth, held a pistol and sub-machinegun at him, confused.

Barry, to his credit, reacted quickly, grabbing his victim in a chokehold, drawing the pistol, leveling it at her head. The two blonde boys, on seeing this, drew a bead on him as best they could.

"Barry you cowardly sonofabitch!" Curtis snarled.

Barry smiled. He had the upper-hand after all. Curtis wouldn't hurt an 'innocent' girl- not that this would stop Barry from sobbing to the media that his brother had killed her in a drug-fueled frenzy- he could still get out of this…

"Yeah, yeah, I'm a coward. But you know what? I'm going to be alive after this, Curtis. I'll get to watch you and your whore, this girl, and so many more pay for not giving me the respect I deserve!"

"You're working with child molesters." The glasses-wearing blonde boy snarled. "You don't deserve respect-"

Barry jerked his victim painfully, making her cry out, pressing the barrel into her skull. "I think what you meant to say was, 'you're right sir, I'm sorry, sir, I'll accept my punishment, sir!" he spoke in the condescending tone he had learned to love to use.

Three of them glared at him with murderous hate. The fourth, the spike-haired one, stuck his left hand in his pocket, his right hand holding a pistol, slumped to his side. He looked bemused.

"You know that brand of pistol has a bad history of jamming, right?" Calvin spoke, as if talking about the weather.

Barry looked at him in disbelief. Was the boy trying to play mind games with him? Did he think he could psyche him out?

"They have to be cleaned, like, every day, oiled, or else they won't fire. They were recalled, like, a year ago, I think, right after they were put on the market. Bankrupted the company."

Barry blinked. Was the pistol a dud? He hadn't fired a shot- hell, he didn't know anything about guns…

"I mean, you guys saw it-" he turned to the three who now looked at him with the expressions of disbelief and exasperation, "-some of the guns these people use are all third rate knockoffs. You're lucky if they work after a few shots…"

Barry decided it was time to prove the annoying ones's theory wrong, leveled the pistol at him-

click

He felt his eye twitch.

click click

No, this couldn't happen…

Curtis advanced, dropping the rifle, as did the boy with the glasses. Barry frantically backed away, fumbling for the blowtorch, pointed it at Curtis-

"Burn, asshole!" he laughed, as he squeezed the trigger, blasting his brother in the face with what appear to be a gust of air.

The accelerant staggered Curtis only briefly, who shut his eyes reflexively. Barry gave only a weak noise of defeat- they hadn't mentioned he'd need to light the damn thing manually.

Curtis was on him, breaking his grip on the girl, sending the torch out of his hands. Barry felt himself hoisted into the air by his collar, and pain exploded in his back as Curtis smashed him against a cell door.

He'd hoped Curtis would demand answers, ask him why he did what he did, give him time to call for backup. But all he gave was a few muttered curses and grunts as Curtis punched him, again and again, in the face, the stomach, in his crotch. Barry tried to scream, only for Curtis to squeeze his throat with both hands, shaking him and smashing his head against the wall.

As his vision faded, Barry recalled how he always wanted to make Curtis angry, upset, enraged with every taunt, every prank he pulled.

This time he had succeeded all too well.

…..

Calvin watched the brutal beating take place as Chutney scooped the injured girl up, cradling her. He wasn't sure what Barry had done aside from cooperating with Rod and Whip, but it apparently warranted, at least to Curtis, a savage beating the likes of which Calvin had never seen. Even after Barry fell, apparently unconscious, Curtis reared his foot back, swinging it into his groin several times, before he finally stopped, leaving the boy a battered, bloody unconscious heap.

"Jesus man, why the hell-" Jason started.

"He sicced these people on her!" Curtis responded, pointing to Chutney. "He told them to use her to get at me!"

Jason's look of appalled indignation faded as he looked at the battered heap in disgust. "We should just shoot him-"

Curtis shook his head. "We can't waste the ammo." He took up his rifle again. "How is she?"

Chutney frowned as the girl lay limply in her arms. "Bad. Real bad."

A voice called out. "Hello?" An adult, female. "is someone out there?"

Had they taken to imprisoning adults, too?

Jason snatched up the blowtorch, igniting it properly. "Stand away from the door, we'll get you out." He turned to Calvin and Curtis. "Keep the guns trained on her. Just in case."

It took Jason all of thirty seconds to open the locked cell door, after which he backed away, setting down the torch and picking up his gun again, ready for if the occupant was an enemy…

The woman, however, was clearly not one of the guards they had fought their way through. Disheveled, face tear-stained, while not tortured by her captors as the other three had been, she had not been treated well.

She took one look at the girl in Chutney's arms, and started toward her. "My baby!-"

Curtis had the rifle trained on her as she touched the child's cheek…

"Mama…" the girl coughed.

Instantly Jason and Curtis relaxed as the mother cradled her daughter.

A reassuring scene, to be sure, but time was of the essence.

"We need to keep moving. They're going to catch up with us at this rate."

Jason turned to him. "Okay, okay, but move where? They have the garage blocked off-"

Calvin frowned. "There has to be another way out. I doubt anyone who made this wouldn't have an escape tunnel or something…"

It was a longshot, but at the moment, they had no other options to gamble on.

Calvin's heart sank- there was no way in hell he'd be able to save anyone besides these five, and that was if he was lucky.

Then a desperate thought occurred to him- if he couldn't save himself or the others, maybe he could get out the truth about this place to someone.

…..

At Calvin's advising, the group entered what appeared to be a communications room- computers, fax machines, phones. Jason went to work immediately, getting on the first available terminal as the others barred every possible exit and the woman, who had introduced herself as Veronica Miles, tended to her daughter.

It was suicide, using time to try and bring attention to this place, but escape was going to be a suicide mission in and of itself, and if no one made it, then they should at least make sure someone had an idea what had happened…

He smiled- lists of names, addresses, weapons orders- it probably wasn't even a tenth of what constituted this organization's main dealings, but it would be enough.

Warnings and forbidding screens complaining about insufficient authorization only provided the barest obstacles to Jason as he copied a few critical documents, loaded them into the newly hacked email account, and sent an email to his mother:

"Mom,

People who took me are torturing kids, buying weapons. Call FBI and cops quick. Trying to find a way out of here.

Tell everyone I loved them."

Banging from the door got his attention. Calvin shot him a glance as he backed up, gun trained on the door. "Hurry up man…"

With one final click, Jason sent his last words hurtling through cyberspace.

Now all that was left was to survive.

…..

Sir Father stood in blank shock at the warning the monitors now displayed- someone had sent an email to an outside source.

A quick analysis confirmed his worst fears- the data contained on the message contained information about enough weapons deals, addresses of agents, and the children he'd retrieved to bring at least two countries' worth of armies down on his head.

A death sentence.

There was only one option, and that was to ensure that whoever came here found nothing that would provide concrete links to him and the larger part of Rod and Whip.

The consequences for losing this post to a band of teenagers would be dire- a swift death would be the best he could possibly hope for, given who he had to answer to. The punishments would be much worse, however, if he didn't exercise some damage control.

For a few desperate moments, he tried to find another solution, another means by which to salvage his fortress. Finding none, he crushed his personal feelings into what amounted to a wadded ball of trash, and spoke.

"Inform all agents to begin decommissioning sequences. Leave the training dummies behind."

The two technicians only gave brief looks of shock and despair before making the announcement, trying to keep the depression out of their voices.

Sir Father went over to a console, inserted a key into a failsafe device. Before he willingly offered up his dignity, his home, his honor so that R.A.W. and all it stood for would persevere, he would make sure of one thing, if nothing else.

That the shits responsible for ruining his life would know they had condemned others to die with him.

…..

"My faithful soldiers, you have heard your orders. You are expected to comply, and evacuate. Take nothing incriminating. No weapons. No hard drives. Nothing. You have served well, and if we survive this, I hope to be your leader still. You have my eternal gratitude for helping Rod and Whip further its goal of a world of obedience."

"But now I speak to you, Calvin Halgins, Jason Fox, Curtis Wilkins, Chutney DeVoe, Veronica Miles, and if you can hear me, Hope Miles."

"You six represent the greatest failings of humanity."

"Fox, your perversion of the sciences has led to unbelievable amounts of property damage, even before taking into account the deaths of the agents you caused and the damage you inflict now. That you have escaped imprisonment is perhaps the most damning evidence I have against the coddling government of today."

"Curtis and Chutney, your flaw is that you are like so many others- rebellious, ignorant of your station in life, and willing to kill anyone who stands between you and that which catches your fancy. At some point in life, maybe one of you was salvageable, but not now."

"Veronica Miles, the… blasphemies you have spoken about 'abuse' speak for themselves. I hope you appreciate the new generation of entitled bastards, bitches, and drug-users your speeches and lies will foster. Hope Miles, you were asked a small sacrifice of pain so that others would learn not to lie. You disobeyed. As for your punishment… I will get to that in a moment."

"That brings me to you, Calvin Halgins."

"I do not call myself a god, but you, your son of a bitch, there is no other word I can call you but a devil. You sow chaos and rebellion everywhere you go. You encourage anarchy and disobedience. You openly flaunted your temporary evasion of justice, to encourage among your cult of followers more acts of rebellion. You personally have shot dead agents who had no other goal but to enforce order in a world that craves insanity. Most baffling of all, you defy basic self-preservation by returning here after another escape, just to continue to cause more grief, death, and despair among the people who trusted me to lead them! For the injuries you have done me, I might have one day forgiven you with sufficient penance. But for the sufferings of those under my command, there can be no absolution."

"So your punishment is like the others, and yet not. On your heads I place the deaths of every child in this facility. When you all arrive on the fiery shores of hell, they will look to you as the reason they were denied purification!"

"My hand may be the one on the detonator. But you lot placed it there."

-words spoken over the intercom by Sir Father before activating the self-destruct sequence for Rod And Whip Outpost #32