No I in Team
"He who fights with monsters should look to it that he himself does not become a monster. When you gaze long into the abyss, the abyss also gazes into you." —Friedrich Nietzsche.
2. Stryker's Offer
Location: Bunker Five, Secret Weapon X Facility
Somewhere in the United States of America
13:00 HRS
Eighteen hours after arriving at Bunker Five, James had washed, changed into clean clothes provided by Stryker's people—which just happened to be his exact size—and had been fed a hearty breakfast. Those three little acts made him feel about ninety percent more human than he had the night before, when he'd been tired, tense and hungry. Now, the animal within slumbered, content that it had been fed and allowed a chance to sleep for eight hours without having to worry about waking up in the bottom of a trench being riddled by stray Viet bullets.
He could sense the same sort of peace settling over Victor, too. Safe places were a rare commodity, to be treasured until they had to be abandoned. Bunker Five was certainly safe, but that safety came with a price, and it wasn't a price James was sure he wanted to pay. Not yet. He still valued his freedom too much to sign it away on a dotted line for basic creature comforts.
"What did you think of the training you saw?" Stryker asked. He opened his office door, admitting the brothers into the spacious, windowless room, and then took a seat behind his desk. When he invited both men to sit in the chairs at the front of the desk, they did.
James thought back to earlier that morning. Stryker's tour of the base left no stone unturned. He'd shown them state of the art training facilities, an excellent medical room, the communications equipment, security lockers, on-site barracks for the normal soldiers and extensive outdoor practice areas, mimicking both urban and rural battlefields. Today's 'training' had consisted of two teams, playing a classic game of capture-the-flag. Team one had consisted of David 'Agent Zero' North as Red Team leader, with Fred Dukes on his side, against John 'Kestrel' Wraith, the Blue Team leader, followed by Chris 'Bolt' Bradley and Wade Wilson.
Of course, the game was a classic, but mutant powers gave it a special twist. Because of John's teleportation ability, Zero set himself to guard the Red flag, practically sitting on top of it, and sent Fred to retrieve Blue Team's flag. Three against two didn't seem fair at first, but as Logan watched, he realised that the teams were actually very evenly matched. Each one of them had been armed with paintball guns—because you couldn't have your prized mutant soldiers actually shooting real bullets at each other; they might actually cause some damage—and had also been allotted a weapon of his choice. Zero stuck with the semi-automatic paintball pistols, and seemed to scorn any weapon that might bring him in to a mêlée. Fred Dukes, meanwhile, had chosen a grenade launcher. In-keeping with the non-lethal tone of the game, it only fired paint grenades, but a paint hit to the body counted as a kill, and the grenades were not as easy to avoid as bullets.
Wade Wilson's weapons were a pair of wooden katanas; he didn't even seem to realise he had a gun at all. He could move the katanas so fast that they intercepted incoming paint bullets, sometimes deflecting them back to their source, which meant Fred had to move around whenever he was shooting at Wade. John Wraith had opted to upgrade his smaller paintball pistols to a full rifle, and settled in to assault Zero's position, hoping to overwhelm Red Team's leader through sheer force. Chris Bradley, who was Blue Team's flag-keeper, had two metal rods as his weapons, which at first had confused James, because Bradley didn't seem the type of guy to go wading into the middle of a mêlée. The purpose of the iron rods became apparent, however, when Fred managed to slip past Wade and make a run for the Blue flag. Bradley planted both metal rods in the ground, and focused his attention on them. James had both felt and smelled the static in the air, right before Fred ran headlong into an invisible forcefield and bounced back off it.
"Electro-magnetic barriers," Stryker had commented to James and Victor with a self-satisfied smile. The three of them were watching from behind a concrete observation shelter. "Taxing for Bradley to create and maintain, but capable of stopping men and bullets."
"Impressive," James had replied, feeling a new surge of appreciation for the smaller man's power.
Now, sitting in Stryker's office, the Major's eyes on his, he realised the officer was waiting for a response, and cast his mind back to the question. Before he could think of a reply, however, Victor spoke up.
"They're children, playing at child games. Balls of paint? Capture the flag? Have any of those boys even seen a single bar-fight?"
"Bradley's pretty green," Stryker admitted candidly, "but the others have all seen action in one form or another. I'll be honest with you Victor, James. The men I've assembled are competent enough at what they do, but they don't fully understand, yet, what it means to work together as a team. These 'games' they play aren't just to teach them tactics and get them thinking like soldiers, but to help them form bonds with each other. Like the kind of bond that you two share. I need you. Both of you, for your skills. But it's more than that. I can only train them to a certain extent; they need somebody who is like them in order to complete their training and lead them."
Victor laughed heartily. "You want us to command your team of mutants?"
"No." Stryker subjected Victor to a long, penetrating stare that made Victor pull his teeth back and bare his fangs in a half-snarl, half-smile. "I couldn't give you a command post like that, Victor. Not after what you did in Vietnam. A pardon, yes, but not a promotion. My head would roll if I even attempted it. But you, James… you have more experience fighting wars than any man I know, and more experience of being a mutant than anyone else on this base. I've read your file. I know you can keep a cool head in a hot situation. Join us. Lead my team. I'll make sure you're amply rewarded."
"Speaking of rewards," said Victor, "you mentioned something about 'special privileges.' What does that involve?"
Stryker shrugged. "It's quite simple. Everything you could ever need or want will be provided. Food? Not a problem. Women? Easily done. Want to train with a new weapon? We'll make it happen. Learn to pilot a helicopter or a plane? We'll show you how."
James could see the hungry gleam in his brother's eyes, so he spoke up before Victor could jump in and accept the offer for the both of them.
"Fine words, Major," he said, leaning forwards and resting his arms against Stryker's desk, purposely letting the man see his hands, reminding him of the claws which lay beneath, "but all you've given us so far is the icing. What about the cake? What is this 'special' team of yours supposed to do?"
"Whatever is necessary to protect and preserve our great country." Stryker's words were immediate and automatic, like some television advert spurted out by the American propaganda machine. "I'm not going to lie to you, James. In a world of black and white, Team X, as it's been code-named by the military, will be a shade of grey. For now, its activities will include anything and everything that regular soldiers can't handle. Situations which are too dangerous for non-mutants to go into. That could range from everything between infiltrating high-profile drug cartels, to securing sensitive information about the Soviets. Everything we do will be strictly classified, and only a few select generals will have access to any information regarding Team X and its members." Stryker smiled. "Plausible deniability, you understand."
"I understand. It's black-ops."
"Is that a hint of distaste I hear in your voice?"
"Probably," James said, feeling dirty just thinking about it. "I'm a soldier. A fighter. I'm not a spy, and I don't want to be one. I don't want some ridiculous code-name like 'Agent Howlett' and a life of luxury to make me go soft."
"I'm not asking you to be a spy, James," said Stryker. "I'm asking you to lead men. Train them, be responsible for them, and ultimately make sure they know how to follow my orders. In return I offer you, and your brother, a safe place to stay when you're not on missions, the freedom to operate without the restrictions tied around regular soldiers, and a good salary with a generous benefits package. I'm giving you the chance to make a difference, James. A chance to help protect your country from all threats, whether external or internal. A chance to be with others like you, who won't look at your abilities with fear and won't heap scorn onto you for what you are. A chance to be who you were meant to be. What do you say?"
At that moment, James felt himself torn. Opportunities like this were rare, and accepting Stryker's offer would mean accepting a completely new way of life. No longer running, hiding, fighting simply to survive. Now, he could have a higher goal to aim for. But it would also mean accepting the leash, and he wasn't entirely sure who was holding the leash. His first thought had been the US military, but the things Stryker spoke of—spying on the Soviets, protecting against 'both internal and external threats'—well, that had the smell of the CIA all over it. Very confusing, and not at all reassuring.
He glanced to Victor, saw his brother give a very slight nod. No surprises there. Though the animal was strong in Victor, and he could be perfectly happy roaming the wilderness, hunting and killing his food, he was also quick to see opportunities which might prove beneficial. It was at Victor's suggestion that they joined the ranks of soldiers fighting in 'nam. By that time, James had had enough of wars, but Victor wanted more. He always wanted more.
Perhaps it would be nice to work black-ops for a change. On a battlefield, being covert was not a large factor in the success of a mission. Open warfare relied more on superior numbers and superior fire-powers. Attack, defend, retreat… a familiar dance, and one that he had done countless times over his hundred and thirty or so years. War didn't change. Oh, the faces changed, and the technology changed, but once you knew the steps, you could dance that dance with your eyes closed. At least if he was working black-ops, he wouldn't have to watch wave after wave of men slaughtered as they charged valiantly to their deaths across the battle-field. That one had gotten old around No Man's Land, 1914.
James looked Stryker straight in the eyes, meeting the Major's steely gaze. "If I do this—if we do this—there's something I want."
"Name it," Stryker said, no hesitation or delay.
"A bar. In the rec room. Fully stocked at all times. I like to have a drink when I'm relaxing."
The Major hesitated. "Our studies have shown that alcohol has a negative effect on both physical and mental performance, even in mutants. We want Team X to be at the top of their game, not half hammered when they go out on missions."
"There'll be no drinking in the three days before any mission. And I'll make sure they don't drink too much when off-duty. Anybody who doesn't know his limits will have to answer to me," James said with conviction. "Lead from the front and by example, right?"
There was a moment of silence as Stryker considered his request. Then the man stood up, and offered his hand, first to James, then to Victor. "Welcome aboard, Captain. You too, Victor."
James shook the man's hand, but he knew it wouldn't be that simple. There would be papers to sign. Non-disclosure, data-protection, and all sorts of other fine-print that he cared little for. Now, though… it was done. For better or worse, he was a part of Team X. And not just a part of them, but their leader.
"So what now?" Victor asked. "We get uniforms and new tags?"
"Indeed," Stryker agreed. "Over the next few days, we'll sort everything out for you. Of course, you'll have to undergo medical exams, so we know exactly what we're investing in, but all standard procedure. I'll have uniforms sent to your rooms, and tags cut and stamped as soon as all the t's have been crossed and the i's have been dotted." He glanced at his watch. "For now, I think you should join the team in the rec room; they should be sitting down to lunch at any moment. Oh, and I'd be grateful if you didn't mention your promotion to them just yet, James. I'd like to announce it later tonight, before lights-out."
James nodded and stood, Victor following him. He didn't know whether Stryker expected him to salute, but as he wasn't wearing a uniform or tags, he didn't bother. There would be time for standing on ceremony later. Right now, there was lunch to be had.
o - o - o - o - o
The delicious aroma of hot food wound its way through the corridors of Bunker Five, and though it had only been six hours since he'd tucked into a cooked breakfast of bacon, sausages, eggs and toast, James felt his mouth watering. Fighting in the trenches, a man had to subsist off rations, and he was lucky if a dead pigeon fell from the sky—as long as it was an enemy pigeon, of course—because there was good eating on a pigeon, if you'd gone hungry long enough. That sort of deprivation taught a man to appreciate the simple things in life, such as a plate full of hot, cooked food which hadn't come from a can and didn't taste like old boots.
Even if he hadn't known where the rec room was, his nose would have taken him to it. He could tell, whilst he was still three or four corridors away, that today's lunch was steak. The rich smell of it permeated the air, coupled with a weaker smell of vegetables; carrots, potatoes, peas, onions… and gravy. Mouth-watering, meaty-flavoured gravy. He could almost taste it.
When he led Victor into the rec room, he found the majority of the team seated and just about to tuck into their food. There were three empty spaces at the table, and James noticed Fred standing by the kitchen counter, apparently flirting with a pretty little blonde thing wearing an apron and a small white hat. Her smiles were coy, her eyes come-hither; she clearly enjoyed the attention.
"Hey boys," said John Wraith, when he saw the brothers, "we saved you seats."
"Thanks," said James. He took the chair beside Bradley, leaving the chair beside John for Victor, and the one beside Zero for Fred.
"So you got the grand tour, huh?" asked John.
James nodded, and eyed up another cook—this one a man—as he approached the table with two more plates laden with food. One was deposited in front of James, and the other in front of Victor. Each plate held three steaks and a small mountain of vegetables. Victor tucked in immediately, but James glanced to the dark-skinned teleporter.
"I'd start on the steaks, if I were you," John said quietly, his voice not carrying beyond the table. "If Fred sees even a moment of hesitation, he'll have that steak from under your nose faster than you can say 'medium rare.'"
Bradley snickered; he was already halfway through his first steak, though James was surprised the kid could polish off one, much less three.
"The geniuses in the government's covert nutrition department figured out the optimum amount of protein required for an active male's diet, then arbitrarily doubled it for mutants," said Wade, as he stabbed his fork into one of his steaks. "If the team gets any bigger, Stryker will need to add a slaughterhouse to the base facilities."
"What makes you think we're staying?" James asked him.
"Stryker wouldn't be feeding you steak if you hadn't accepted his offer."
"I assume you're to be our new meat-shields?" Zero asked, his eyes narrowed as he watched the brothers eat.
"I think Stryker's going to debrief everyone later," James said evasively. Victor chuckled. From the kitchen, the sound of laughter came, and James glanced at Fred, who was seemingly ignoring his plate in favour of the woman.
"Hey, you two, get a room or something," Wade called. "The rest of us are trying to eat over here."
Fred shot him a quick glare, then said goodbye to the woman and picked up his tray, joining the rest of the team as he slid his large frame into the seat beside Zero. "You're gonna ruin my chances if you keep embarrassing Gina like that," Fred warned.
"James here was just telling us that he and Victor have accepted Stryker's offer," said John, recapping the conversation for his team-mate.
Fred nodded, and sheared off a large slice of steak. "Good. Be nice having someone else on the team who doesn't mind getting their hands dirty."
"You got your tags yet?" Bradley asked.
"Not yet," said Victor. "Stryker mentioned something about a medical, and paperwork. I stopped listening at that point."
Wade grinned wickedly. "Let me give you a piece of advice for your medical. Whatever you do, don't clench. Nurse Watson has huge man-hands, and she can grip like a vice."
John Wraith shook his head, and suddenly looked a little less hungry. Bradley and Fred were also grinning, but not Zero. James suspected the man possessed no sense of humour whatsoever, and about as much personality as a shoe. But not an old shoe, all beaten and well-worn, with tell-tale signs of years of care and cobbling; a new shoe, straight from the box, smelling of polish, and uncomfortable to walk in for the first fifteen or twenty miles. In other words, a shoe that was too clean and a pain in the ass—or the heel—to boot.
It was, James decided, time to get to know his team-mates a little better. If he was to lead these men, he needed to know what drove them, and what made them tick. He needed to know how they would react in any given situation, and which of them would need a touch of discipline.
"What did you all do before coming here?" he asked. "And how long have you been in the team?"
"Almost three months," Bradley spoke up first. He toyed with a carrot on his plate for a moment as his eyes glazed with memory, and sure enough, Fred glanced at one of the smaller man's untouched steaks. "I was between jobs, looking for anything that would keep me afloat. I don't know how Stryker found me, or how he knew what I am and what I could do, but he made me the offer, and it was too good to turn down. To be honest, I wasn't sure what to expect, and I didn't think I'd fit in. I mean, me. In the military? My mom, may she rest in peace, would never have believed it. Sometimes, I can barely even believe it. But it's not that bad, here. Stryker pushes us hard during training, but he treats us fair. It's better than anything I got out there."
Wraith nodded, agreeing with that sentiment, then eyed the brothers as he spoke. "Dukes and I got here around the same time, almost a year ago now."
"I was in the army," said Fred. "Figure Stryker heard about me when I stopped a tank from crossing my company's lines."
"How'd you stop it?" James asked him.
"I stood in front of it."
"Oh."
"I got a medal for it, but the rest of my company never looked at me the same, after that. Stryker's offer seemed like a no-brainer. Can't say there's been as much action as I was expecting, but if the military want to pay me for sitting around on my ass for eight hours a day and occasionally shoot guys with paintballs, who am I to complain?"
"What about you, John?" said James.
"I been a lot of things," Wraith replied evasively. "When Stryker found me, I was taking some time out, doing work on a ranch in Wyoming. Figured out my teleporting was a good way of rounding up horses. I didn't wanna come at first, but Stryker promised I'd be impressed. Like Fred said, we haven't done much so far, other than some training and tests of our abilities. Sometimes I miss the wide open plains, but I make three times as much being here as I did on that ranch, and I have a feeling that the team's now complete, so I expect things will start getting a little more interesting around here now."
"What about you?" James asked Wade.
"Glad you asked. You see, in my real life, I'm actually an international movie-star. But, disillusioned with the fame and fortune and masses of women throwing themselves at my feet, I decided to leave it all behind. I travelled around the Far East, and within five years, became a master of every single martial arts form I could find. For a while I let the wind carry me as it would, hiring my services out as a mercenary, and from time to time I was even known to take a bounty or two. But sometimes, a guy needs something a little more stable than the life of a merc, so six months ago, when Stryker found me and told me he needed an actor to play the part of a good-looking, wise-cracking mutant soldier, I read the script then jumped at the chance. Can't say I particularly miss the fame, or even the fortune, but the masses of women? Yeah, I definitely miss those. Living in a bunker full of men for six months will do that to you."
"Is there one part of what you said that's even remotely true?" asked James, as Victor scoffed at Wade's tale.
Wade looked him in the eyes, his face poker-straight. "Every single word."
James shook his head, and turned his questioning gaze to David North.
"Four years," said Zero. "That's how long I've been working with Stryker. As for what I did before that… I'll let you know if it ever becomes part of your business."
"Let me ask you a question, Zero. When you were little, were you one of those kids who was picked on in the playground?"
Zero merely looked at James, eyes full of cold disdain, and for a moment, James wondered if North would be foolish enough to start something. But then the door of the rec room opened, and his nose was tickled by the scent of perfumed soap. Turning his head and breaking eye contact with Zero, he saw a woman wearing a nurse's uniform step into the room carrying a tray between both hands.
"Good afternoon, gentleman," the woman said, offering both James and Victor—as newcomers—a welcoming smile. "Your dessert is ready, courtesy of the medical team."
She began putting small plastic cups on the table in front of every man, her copper-haired head bobbing up and down with each cup she placed. James picked his up, and saw four different coloured pills inside it. He turned, to ask her what they were for, but the door was already swinging closed behind her, the clicking of her heeled shoes growing quieter as she disappeared down the corridor.
"What's this?" he asked aloud, waiting for one of the team to answer.
Wade smiled, and picked a red pill out of his own plastic cup, setting it on the table. "This pill makes you larger." He then selected a blue pill, and placed it next to the red one. "And this one makes you small." He seemed to sense that James didn't believe him. "Go ask Alice, if you don't believe me."
"Who's Alice?" asked Victor. Bradley snickered quietly, but said nothing.
Wade ignored the question, and set a yellow pill on the table. "This is the one they use to control our minds."
"And the green one?" James queried. He didn't believe a word Wade said, of course.
"Haven't figured the green pill out yet," said Wade, turning the small green capsule around in his fingers. "Possibly a placebo."
Wraith gave an amused snort, his dark eyes scanning the possibly-former-mercenary's face. "You're so full of shit, Wade." Then, to James, "They're supplements. Vitamins and minerals. Do you think any of us would take them, if they did any of the crap that Wade claims?"
Wade winked at James, then downed all four pills at once, swallowing them without water. "Unless the green one is a narcotic. You know, get us addicted to taking them. Ever wonder what would happen if we just stopped?"
"Yeah, we'd get one hell of a nagging off Stryker."
Around the table, the rest of the team took their pills too. James glanced at Victor, who merely shrugged and swallowed each pill in turn. James followed suit, because he could hardly object to vitamin supplements. He didn't think Stryker would be stupid enough to try to poison his men with something dangerous. No, they were far too valuable as assets to be messed with in that way.
Once the pills were out of the way, the meal continued. Bradley seemed wrapped up in his own thoughts, and though he was sitting with the group, he didn't seem like a part of it. Not yet. That was the first thing James would change, once he'd been given leadership of the team. Every man needed to feel like he belonged. Every man needed to have a place. He wouldn't leave anybody behind.
Sitting opposite Bradley, Wade chattered tirelessly, to himself, or to anyone who would listen. It was mostly nonsense stuff; occasional comments about his life as a mercenary, and speculation about what might be in the green pill, but there was little James could do about that. The lies about his past seemed harmless enough, though he did wonder if Wade truly believed the things he said.
Like Bradley, Fred was quiet, but mostly because he was concentrating completely on his food. He didn't speak as much of the others, and James suspected that if it weren't for his mutant powers, he'd be a reliable and competent rank-and-file soldier, the type of unexcitable man who could be given a command and trusted to follow it.
John Wraith, sitting opposite Fred, seemed to have regained his appetite, and had tucked back into his lunch. But even though he gave the appearance of concentrating on his food, his eyes were never still. He was a watcher, James realised. A man who sat back and let others do the talking so that he could watch them and judge them for himself. Not a bad trait, and Wraith seemed personable enough, but James resolved to watch him closely, just in case the friendly nice-guy thing was just an act.
Zero had the seat beside Wraith, and like Bradley, seemed to set himself apart from the group. But where Bradley did it with introversion, Zero did it by holding himself with an an air of aloof indifference which did not invite conversation. He, like Wraith, watched everybody as he ate, but there was a coldness around his eyes which James did not like.
Beside James, Victor sat polishing off his place. He, as always, smelled like a roiling soup of barely concealed emotions, a taut spring of restrained violence that might snap at any moment. Victor's animal instincts were strong, and he sometimes struggled to control them. At times, it seemed that he didn't want to control them. That he wanted to give himself over to the animal side, and revel in fighting and killing. But that would have to change, if Victor wanted to make this life worked. He couldn't go rampaging during sensitive missions. He would have to learn control.
James looked at them all. A scrawny introvert, a loud-mouthed mercenary, a slow but dependable soldier, a teleporting jack-of-all trades, an arrogant sharp-shooter and half-animal–half-man with a vicious violent streak. This was what he had to work with. This was his team. And from now on, they would be his life.
o - o - o - o - o
Major William Stryker finished writing his report, and filed it away in the cabinet behind his desk. He'd have it wired over to his superiors in the morning. It wasn't urgent enough to worry about now.
He turned back to his desk, his eyes falling upon the picture inside the wooden frame. A smile curled the corners of his mouth as he looked at the people in the image. His wife, Sarah, looked as beautiful in the frame as she did in person. Her long brown hair tumbled down her shoulders, her smiling face lit up by some inner radiance. In her arms she carried Jason; he, like his mother, had a mop of brown hair, and he grabbed a fistful of his mother's locks in his still-chubby toddler hand. That picture had been taken five years ago; Jason was seven, now, and top of his class in school.
His family. His pride and joy, even though he didn't get to see them as often as he liked. He would do anything for them—anything at all. They were why he had accepted this assignment. How could he sit idly with his family, knowing that their very way of life was under threat? Communists weren't the only enemy faced by the American people, but they were one of the oldest, and the largest. There was no open declaration of war between the United States and Russia, but there didn't need to be. The Cold War had started the moment World War 2 had ended.
When his superior officers had first told him, five years ago, that he'd be working within a 'unique' area of the military with 'special' weapons, his first thought had been chemicals. Nuclear weapons possessed by both world super-powers were just for show, designed to keep either side from ever considering using them. Chemical weapons, however, were an entirely different beast. You could employ a chemical weapon to target a small area. It could be done covertly, with no indication of where the weapons had come from.
But the world of chemical weapons research was not to be his fate after all. No, the government had something even more controversial in mind: Mutants. People whose genetic code had mutated, either randomly, or due to radiation exposure, or due to the force of evolution. There had always, in the history of the human race, been mutants. People born with too many digits, or not enough; people born with mis-shaped limbs; people born attached to their unseparated twin; people born with degenerative conditions. In the past, mutations had often been devastatingly painful, and often resulted in the death—or ostracism—of those suffering from such flaws.
As humanity had evolved, however, as society had changed, so had the nature of mutation. Yes, some people were still born sick, or with the wrong number or shape of body parts, but it seemed that evolution was getting better at picking favourable traits. It still wasn't perfect, of course. Some mutants still looked like freaks of nature, with weird-coloured skin, or unnatural appendages. The team he had assembled were not those sorts of mutants. They could 'pass' as normal people, as the phrase went. Passing was good. Stryker felt more comfortable around mutants who looked like people. He didn't know if he could work with someone who looked like a lizard, or a cat, or any other sort of beast. That sort of thing just wasn't right.
A knock rang out through his office, originating from his door. Stryker sat down in his chair, and then called, 'Enter.'
The man who stepped into the room was Doctor Cornelius, the lead scientist on the Team X project. Cornelius had been with Stryker right from the start, and seemed to find the mutants thoroughly fascinating, from a genetic point of view.
"I hope I'm not disturbing you, Major?" Cornelius asked.
"Of course not, Doctor." He'd already noticed the two brown personnel files in the man's hands. "Please come in. Have a seat."
"Thank you." When Cornelius was seated and comfortable, he placed the files on the desk, and slid them across to Stryker. "I've finished my preliminary analysis of our new recruits. I thought you'd want to take a look."
"Yes, indeed." Stryker opened both files side by side, and glanced over the biography info. It had been five days since James and Victor had accepted his offer, and their files had grown considerably in size since then. Medical work-ups, psych-analyses, personal history… everything he needed to know about the two men was at his fingertips. The personal history reports were somewhat incomplete, but that was only to be expected. Both mutants had lived for well over a hundred years already, and written records became less reliable the further back in time they went.
There was a lot of data in the files. Too much for him to absorb immediately. He glanced up at Cornelius. "Give me a summary of what we've got."
"Well, as you already know, subjects Six and Seven"—they were James' and Victor's designations for the medical teams—"are half-brothers, sharing several genetic markers on the Y-chromosome. This in itself is fascinating, as it implies that the tendency for genetic mutation is passed down by the father, rather than the mother."
"Yes, very interesting," Stryker said, though he did not share the doctor's enthusiasm. That information was irrelevant to the Team X program. "What else?"
"Both men are endowed with impressive healing abilities, though it seems subject Six has a slightly faster healing rate than subject Seven. This may be a small trade-off, as when we measured muscle strength, we found that subject Seven was slightly ahead of subject Six. Both men show unnatural bone formations. In the case of subject Six, this manifests as 'claws' which emerge from between his metacarpal bones. I suspect they are vestigial, perhaps intended to be extra fingers that never formed properly. The act of drawing his claws does cause some minor pain, but his body rapidly heals the damage done. Subject Seven does not possess the claws; rather, the individual bones of his fingers are longer than those of a normal man, and he lacks a normal human nail. Instead, the elongated bones serve as a sort of semi-retractable nail. He also possesses the same claw-like nails on his feet." Cornelius nodded at the files. "The, ah, psych team have done very detailed reports, and are included within the files, but most of it is clarification of what was already known about them."
Stryker nodded patiently, waiting for Cornelius to get to the real reason he was here. Not that his information wasn't important; it was just that there were things of more importance. Things which both Stryker and his superiors wanted to know. Rushing Cornelius to that information, however, would only make the man go defensive. Stryker had learnt long ago to let the doctor work at his own pace.
"I'm afraid, sir, that neither of them are viable subjects." Cornelius continued, his hesitancy disappearing as he reeled off the facts. "Their healing factor is simply too great to be overcome by the technology available to us today. Any attempt we make at altering their base coding would trigger an immediate response from the subjects' immune system. The leukocytes would see such alterations as 'alien' cells and destroy them immediately, making any further attempt at manipulation literally impossible."
"A shame. Either one of them would have been promising. Oh well, back to our original plans."
A knock at the door interrupted Stryker before he could continue, and when he called 'enter,' David North strode into the office, exuding confidence. His eyes flickered briefly over Cornelius, but his expression did not change.
"I'm sorry, sir, I didn't realise you had company," said North. "I can come back another time."
"No, it's okay," said Stryker. North wouldn't have come knocking on his door without good reason. "Doctor Cornelius has just finished debriefing me on our new recruits. Doctor, I'll speak with you further in the coming days."
"Yes, of course," Cornelius nodded.
The doctor left, and Stryker invited North to take his place. The mutant declined.
"I prefer to stand, sir."
"You know, Agent Zero, I was expecting you here before this," Stryker said.
North hesitated briefly. "I wasn't going to come at all, sir. I know full well that you don't owe me any explanations."
"But you'd like one anyway." Both a statement and a question.
There was confusion and uncertainty etched into Zero's face, now—barely visible, but there. Tiny cracks beginning to show in his aloof veneer. Well, it wouldn't do to have his most loyal soldier thinking he'd been over-looked.
"Sit down, Zero," he commanded, and waited until the mutant had obeyed. "You want to know why I chose James to lead the team over you. You need to know it." Again, statements more than questions.
"Sir, I've been with you for four years," Zero said. "And I like to think that I've served you well. That I've done everything you've asked of me. Now, to be told I have to follow the instructions of… that man…" Zero left his sentence unfinished. Stryker didn't need to hear any more. Zero's jealousy of the brothers was obvious, and he seemed to feel hurt that Stryker had picked James, instead of him, to lead the team. It was something Stryker could easily put to rights.
"Zero, the reasons I chose James to be the team Captain are three-fold. First of all, I needed to give him some incentive to sweeten the deal. I could see that he was hesitating; I wanted to give him the illusion that he will have some control over his own future. Second, he's got the necessary experience. He's fought in more wars than either of us has heard of, and the rest of the team will follow him because of that experience. And third, you're too valuable to be made Captain."
"Sir?" Confusion on Zero's face, now. Confusion was good. It kept people on their toes. Confused men were more pliable than confident men.
"If a Captain falls on the battle-field, then chaos can quickly take over. I need somebody, a reliable second in command, to step up and take control should that ever happen. Pretty much anybody can lead people, but it takes a truly great man to step in when the chips are down and bring the ship back on course."
"I see," said Zero. The confusion had been replaced by crafty speculation.
"You're the only one on that team who I trust implicitly, Zero," Stryker told him, saying the words he knew the man wanted to hear, and meaning them. "There will always be a Team X, but its membership… well, let's just say that's open to change. And mark my words, Zero, change will come."
Zero nodded, showing that he understood the implications, and Stryker knew the man would never question his decisions again.