Sins Of A Mother
Highland Park, FEMA Facility Sub-Level, Uplink Room...
Disbelief.
Agony.
Denial.
Anguish.
Fury.
Fury so pure and livid, that Yelena felt like her nerves were on fire. Her shriek of rage mixed with sorrow, rose into a crescendo, creating a resonant frequency through her sonic transducer implants, bursting several capillaries in her cheeks and mouth, sending blood seeping past the corners of her lips, and down her cheeks from her eyes, as all the lights above, burst in unison, plunging the server room into a near-darkness. Her dark eyes alive with fury bordering on berserk, as she smashed the terminal's VR unit into the floor. Over and over again, until the device was nothing more then a twisted mass of plastic and circuitry.
With a brutal roundhouse kick of her left cybernetic leg, she ripped the uplink terminal right off it's base, bolted to the workstation, sending it crashing into the far wall hard enough to explode in an electrical discharge and a shower of sparks, broken glass and silicone circuitry. The far wall caught a brief fire, as the silicone burned out.
She then sunk to her knees, supporting herself on the foot of the workstation where the terminal stood a moment ago. Her expression held nothing but hollow despair.
"Ty... eto byl ty! Ty sdelal eto! Ty ubil moyu sem'yu…" - she wheezed in her native tongue, the words like venom dripping out of a suddenly-shattered bottle.
To her own ears, her newfound voice sounded… like an echo of a distant past, through a dark tunnel. At the end of that tunnel, the woman saw the scenes that etched themselves into the chasm of her psyche, bridging it, dragged up to the surface by what she saw in the purgatory of denied memories, that she accessed through the Killing Floor.
Segmented.
Sequestered.
Sacrosanct.
Denied, through multifaceted conditioning so diabolical, pervasive, methodical, cynical, and complete, that even the most ruthlessly detached aspects of her killer instinct, simply refused to accept it as fact. It made her sick. But there was no escaping the evidence of her own recovered – reintegrated - memories.
The worst part was… Namir wasn't even the instigator. He was just the executor. A tool they used, for the job. He may have been the one who killed her brother, her younger sister, her mother, her father, and her grandmother. He may have been the one who shot her just below her heart, having her watch… and survive.
But he wasn't the one who locked down her mind afterwards. He wasn't the one who had her mutilated, butchered, violated, and turned into a cyborg, then fed a steady diet of psychotropic medication mixed with neurogenic restructuring treatments, amplifying her latent rage and desire for revenge, into a razor-sharp scythe of death, while suppressing the details leading to it.
They were. They turned her into a weapon. Worse, they did so without her ever realising it, for so many years. They hijacked her mind, ravaged her body, denied her any semblance of a life. Made her into a monster. And made her enjoy being one, through a level of psychological and psychosomatic manipulation that defied belief.
He was simply the one they charged with maintaining it. Honing it. Perfecting it.And like a good little doggie, he obeyed orders of his masters. All to protect his own wife, and two children.
She saw it all, in there. The blackmail, the way they had him over a barrel, for almost two decades.
The Tyrants weren't the brainchild of Jaron Namir. He was simply the first… test subject. Patient Zero. The first attack dog they bred. Trained. Leashed. Enslaved to their will.
But that fact, only made Yelena's fury spike further.
Hypocrite! The only one of us, who was ever WEAK, was YOU! Because you couldn't say no to them. No wonder you never let us see it... You coward!
All of his claims of mental segmenting. Expulsion of emotional attachments. Purging of psychological weaknesses. His entire philosophy of strength through detachment, that he made every Tyrant recruit adopt and assimilate. Yet he himself was anything but detached. He allowed them to use his care for his family, as a leash. To turn him into their lapdog. And make him do what he did, to her entire family. To Barret's wife and son. To Saxon's unit.
All a lie. A coping mechanism. He never segmented. He never detached. He just pretended he had, to keep appearances. And because of his weakness, she had everything taken from her. She and every other member of the Tyrants, since.
So you get to keep your family, by slaughtering mine? You get to play your little fantasy of being a good father and husband, and pretend you kept a moral high ground? At our expense?
No, Jaron. Not anymore.
At that moment, Fedorova's expression changed. From despair, to a mask. Empty, hollow mask, as she slowly stood up, wiping her face. All the fury drained out of her, replaced by icy resolve. Yet her eyes flashed with an emotion that scared even her. That made her sick to her stomach, but also giddy with anticipation. She knew what she had to do.
In one smooth motion, she reached up to the nose-ring piercing she had, for years now. Since shortly after that day. She ripped it out, tossing it aside. The gush of blood from her nose, and the spike of pain, felt like a relief. A punctuation mark, signifying the end of a chapter of her life.
Fair was fair.
Knightsbridge, London, England… two weeks later, early afternoon
Dressed in a casual white turtleneck in place of her chest thermoptic armour jacket, the sleeves of which reached down to her wrists, accentuating her curves, and a pair of bell-cut grey jeans, that did a good job covering most of her cybernetic leg structure, Yelena Fedorova might have almost passed for a regular person, if not for her tiptoe-like, artificially-graceful gait, and her unnatural height. Yet in the sea of passerby, many of them augmented in one way or another, she didn't stand out too much, as she stepped out of a taxi. If anything, she looked like an augmented supermodel, if not for a rather prominent scar at the base of her nose, that might have been a result of a piercing being forcibly removed.
"Thank you." - she nodded to the cabbie, with a rather pleasant smile, in a heavily-accented, but smooth English, pulling out a PDA from a purse over her shoulder, and transmitting a dozen credits, as payment for the fare. One could just catch a glimpse of a forged ID chip, in there as well.
Her hairstyle was somewhat different too, as she began letting the hair grow on the shaved side of her head, while the unshaved side was now adorned with a couple of braids, reaching down past her shoulder. Also, her hair was dyed cornstalk-blonde, instead of her natural jet-black colour. A pair of stylish mirrored shades completed the look, covering her dark eyes.
"My pleasure." - the cabbie replied with a smile of his own, before the taxi sped down the street.
Leaving the woman standing on the sidewalk near Hyde Park, looking down the block towards the end of the street. Her smile vanished, replaced by that same hollow mask, as she made her way down the street, turning a corner. Her stride that of someone with a very clear destination.
Walking down another street, she passed by a Picus screen on an adverti-stand, where Eliza Cassan was relaying news about some sort of an incident in South China Sea, a reported site of a Belltower staging base, the name of which was 'classified', according to the anchor. She nodded to herself. She may not have had access to most of her intel sources anymore, but she could put two and two together. And she remembered the briefing she received prior to Montreal, which also included statistical projections of Jensen's likely movements, according to the profiling made on the man, as well as Zhao's report, which was made available.
Rifleman Bank Station? Someone's been busy… but if he stumbled on that lead, it won't be long before he pays Jaron a visit at the Ranch. You're quite a little crusader, mister Jensen. I just hope you did your homework in advance. And I hope you find what you're looking for. Even if it may not be all you expect...
She put the speculations out of her mind. But she felt for him. They were two of a kind now. Both wounded by powers beyond their control. One of them looking for justice.
The other, for vengeance. It was far too late for justice, in Yelena's case. Years and years too late. A part of her that was her newfound conscience, knew that what she was about to do, was wrong. That Laya Namir and her children, didn't deserve to die for her husband's crimes. That she had a chance to end the circle of suffering, here and now. That killing them, wouldn't bring her family back. That they were all victims of those she couldn't reach. The Illuminati.
That was the problem, though. She couldn't reach them. It frustrated her to no end. Despite all of her expertise, experience, and training, she was powerless to punish them for what they did to her. For what they conditioned, used her to do, to so many others. They operated over and above everyone and everything. As bloody as her own hands were, they were clean, compared to theirs. She was fortunate enough to have evaded their scrutiny, at all. For the time being.
But she had to punish someone. Someone had to pay. Pay for her stolen years, her stolen mind, her stolen sense of self. Her stolen family.
The five-storey townhouse looked as it always had, to the woman's eye. An unassuming, nondescreipt apartment building, it's moss-covered, weather-worn exterior belying the secrets within. She was here so many times, with the rest of them. Playing the part. Following orders. Feeding Jaron Namir's ego, as he maintained his disgusting pretense of a committed family man, keeping his family home in the same place where he planned all of their atrocities. Keeping his loved ones carefully shielded, from his other self. Now, that shield would fall. His little world of cowardly denial would collapse in on itself.
As one of Namir's closest confidants, she knew all the security codes for the building. It was a very simple matter to disable the outer proximity sensor grid, and DNA trace-scanners at the door. In fact, she and the other Tyrants were unofficial bodyguards, for Namir's family. That is how deep the man's arrogance and entitlement went.
A chime sounded at the door.
"Eldir, Yasna, go wash for lunch!" - a plump, pleasant-looking early middle-aged woman called out, then went to open it. Usually, the sensor grid would announce in advance of any arrivals. But she assumed it was one of her husband's... military associates... that sometimes would pay a visit. But it was strange… this was the first time one of them came on their own.
As soon as her gaze fell on the tall woman standing outside, she frowned in some surprise. The woman's hair colour and overall styling was unfamiliar, but the figure, the way she carried herself… she was about to open her mouth, when the arrival cut her off.
"Shalom, Laya. How are the kids?" - in a distinctly accented tone, that Jaron's wife had never heard before. She had never heard this woman speak, but was always unnerved by her hollow, dark stare. This time hidden by those mirrored shades. And that underlying sense of… quiet anger?
She tensed.
Her surprise must have showed, as Yelena favoured her by a mirthless smile.
"Yes. I am not mute. Not anymore. No thanks to your husband." - not even pretending to hide the undertone of boiling anger. Then, without giving the poor woman a chance to say anything, she gave her a hard shove.
With a gasp, Laya went stumbling to bang against the back wall, with a moan of pain. Yelena used the opportunity to step in, and quickly lock the entrance behind her, again using one of the security codes she knew.
"I have no idea what… you're talking about." - Laya Namir gasped, "But Jaron will not look kindly on what you're-" - she gasped, at the sight of a short, curved blade, suddenly appearing in the tall woman's hand, as it slid out of her left sleeve.
"I'm counting on it." - Yelena growled softly, her tone full of mixed emotions… as she inscribed a clinical, precise, deep slash across the woman's throat in a blur of motion almost too fast for a human eye to follow. With a gurgle, and a spray of blood from both severed carotid arteries, Laya collapsed to the carpeted floor, clutching her throat, her life leaving her, in wet, choked off gurgles. She cast an imploring look at the taller woman, seeing only her own reflection in those mirrored shades.
One of the two children – a boy of around eleven years of age, came rushing in from the lobby.
"Mom! MOM!" - he screamed, throwing himself to hug his dying mother, holding an arm out, as if to ward off the killer. Without hesitation, her hollow expression not changing, fully committed to her grim task, Yelena reached out to grab his outstretched hand, pulling him inward, as she slipped the blade between the child's left-side ribs, right into his heart. The boy was dead instantly.
Not giving the two victims another glance, she stepped into the lobby, then to the living room, where the screams and pleas of the girl were coming from.
Silent tears streaming down her cheeks. But her step didn't falter, as she quickened her pace, gripping the screaming, pleading, hysterical girl by her hair as she tried to run upstairs, stabbing the blade into her temple, then slashing it sideways-out.
"Dlya moyey sem'i." - she whispered.
Three murders. Six seconds. Letting go of the girl, the aquilline woman went to the bathroom, to wash off the blood from the blade, before it vanished back into the sleeve of her turtleneck. She took off the shades, looking herself into the mirror, seeing the face of a stranger glaring accusingly back at her. Then the face of a little boy in Detroit. Finally, the face of Eliza Cassan. All of them reflecting the guilt and loathing, that she felt.
I am what he made me. What THEY made me. You don't just shut it off! You DON'T just move on! NO! They started it. I'll finish it.
She glared back, then turned her head away, before slamming a fist into the mirror, breaking it. A keening sound, full of angst, pushed itself deep out of her throat.
Then she moved on, upstairs, towards a false segment of wall that she knew led to the secret areas, and a comms centre, complete with a dedicated encrypted line directly to Omega Ranch, among other Tyrant bases. And Namir's personal terminal there. Then she started typing a message.
~"Jaron. No more pretense. You took my family from me, seven years ago. I just took yours. Laya. Eldir. Yasna. All of them. And I showed more mercy then you did. I didn't make them suffer, and I didn't make you watch. Come and face me. Or wait there for Jensen to find you. Be a good little lapdog, at Zhao's beck and call. Either way, you're next. And then I'll move on, up the line. I have no masters anymore. And I'll make them pay. For all of us."~
She knew that in all likelihood, the mail would be intercepted by the Illuminati SigInt software, which routinely monitored Tyrant transmissions. She knew that it might give them another avenue down the line, of potentially tracking her. But she didn't care. She wanted them to KNOW, of her defiance. Of her rebellion.
She wanted them to know, that they were next.
THE END