Happy 4th of July!
Chapter 7: His Last Mission/The King Under The Mountain
Several Centuries Ago
The sounds of cicadas. The smells of ocean air and fish. They are finally in Japan, after a speedy twelve-hour flight. If Mercer had proper muscles, they'd be aching; as it is, he's always feeling refreshed.
Complaints and groaning abound on the jet-lagged company. The bulk of the soldiers do not share his feelings.
Down below, Mercer sees the sheer scope of Blackwatch's operations, the result of additional Congressional funding and sanction: an entire airport had been created in the middle of nowhere. There is only one road, though. A dirt path leading up to a manned gate. The rest of the airport isn't fit for tourism either. Speed and a low-profile were prioritized over quality during construction. Mercer can guess why: the 'airport' itself can easily be removed from sight and dismantled.
The rumors Alex had heard, piloting the plane during the trip, mainly concern the facility they are all bound to go to. The men had said it was fully prepped and prepared in a few months. To Mercer, it is almost like they'd planned everything out already. If he wasn't suspicious before, he damn well is now.
Even with those he had consumed, the information was compartmentalized to hell and back. Thankfully, he doesn't need to kill any more soldiers in order to infiltrate the facility. He is to remain with the main facility convoy. A task awaits him. Colonel Rooks wants the 'pilot' to understand how and where to land on future occasions. Despite supplies mostly being transported by truck, key personnel and shipments will require a stealth helicopter.
…Understanding the stealth screening and elevator controls is one of Mercer's objectives. It's been handed to him on a platter by his enemy. Never has he been so grateful for his twisted abilities. This is his in. Before anything will be created, he'll slice the tumor from the source.
Captain Cross had put in his own work swaying some of the men most open to him, but the D-Codes were too loyal and indoctrinated. It had paid off, still. Half of the force is on 'their' side. It makes other objectives easier. Mercer's priority is the scientists and what samples they have already started to develop. Everything else, everyone who shoots at him later, can come next.
By the time he's through, nothing will be left of Blackwatch or Gentek's legacy.
Cross is in front of the convoy with Colonel Rooks. All their trucks and equipment are in single file. He's been debriefed on new developments during their ride to the facility, troubling ones. He desperately needs to reconvene with Alex. The view slips from his churning mind—he can admire the scenery when it's time to rest. Iva Valley is infamous for its natural terrain and lack of modern infrastructure. Those features also keep out prying eyes.
Many of the D-Codes forgo the trucks completely, leaping from ravine to ravine, scouting for any hints of intruders or spies. The men in the convoy differ majorly: there are those with the Three Kings' patches and those without. The former are more sullen. The latter do not notice; they chat normally. The divide isn't apparent to most soldiers, unless they pay close attention. For all the paranoia Blackwatch likes to instill into operatives, the camaraderie among fellow soldiers makes them lax. But Cross' people know they'd be shooting their old friends soon.
…The convoy takes a break with the sweltering weather beating down on them. Rations and water are handed out as operatives drift into familiar groups. Captain Cross makes an effort to bolster resolve for his troops. He knows what they'll be sacrificing: loyalty, oaths, even themselves. As Cross makes his rounds in the makeshift camp, Colonel Rooks stays to coordinate with the bunker over the radio. A skeleton crew is already in place.
Cross is suddenly tapped on the shoulder. Turning around, swiftly to see who snuck up on him, his eyes widen. He recognizes who the other man is: the pilot he and Mercer had agreed is their best option. He locks eyes, feeling the weight of regret and command push him down further. The pilot's irises shift from a dark brown to a vibrant blue.
It is most definitely Mercer.
"Lieutenant Bakugo…it's a pleasure. That was some steady flying, even through the weather." Cross starts up some small-talk. It's the most he and Mercer can do, here. Regulations, born out from fear and paranoia of that man, prevent them from leaving line-of-sight. Or earshot. But they're both old hands at this game. They've devised a code of sorts. A simple one. All that's required is understanding the true context.
Mercer-in-disguise says, "I've had many teachers. I wouldn't be who I am today without them." All of Mercer's teachers were consumed during the Manhattan outbreak. Some of them were Gentek scientists, of course.
"Naturally, son. Those who came before gave us the knowledge and wisdom we use to reach greater heights. And it's our duty to help those who come after. Perhaps you'll enjoy teaching one day, eh?" Translation: those deceased scientists had students and peers, publications—censured, but distributed—and connections. Not all perished in Manhattan.
"Can't see myself as a professor, sir. Too many students, they'll just blend together—I'd want to know them, person-to-person." Nearby, a couple soldiers with certain patches tense up at what the 'pilot' says. They know enough to put Mercer's identity together, but not enough to guess at the true conversation.
"There's always standouts in each group. Geniuses, social butterflies, hard-workers." Translation: Cross says some of those scientists are good. Really good.
"…Perhaps I'm being unfair. Blackwatch skewers my perceptions. Everyone here is exceptional. I've enjoyed the company on the trip." The sincere compliment takes back some of those within earshot, and they relax.
"Then you'll enjoy the facility, lieutenant. We've got some bright people already there. Maybe you'd like a chat with some of them? I've heard—and this is between you and me—that our bosses are mighty impressed with them. There might be a show-and-tell in the near future." Translation: Cross says that Mercer doesn't understand how good the scientists are; they're in the bunker and are already on the cusp of achieving a breakthrough.
"Sounds exciting. Is security prepared to handle the event?" Mercer says. Translation: his hopes for a clean coup have gone down the drain, like the errant vial crashing to the ground in Penn Station. Both of them have a deadline. They need to choose—should they wait or try to grab the research first?
"The defense systems are fully operational. You and the other soldiers will receive a briefing when you arrive, on its workings, but you wouldn't mind if I gave you one now, would you son?"
"No, sir. I appreciate it, sir."
"Smart choice, lieutenant. Wouldn't want you accidentally plastering yourself on the walls. Security isn't willing to take chances with the nature of the…experiments. They've learned some lessons after Manhattan. With the money thrown at them, they've been able to put them in practice. Fingerprints, passwords, retina scans—none of that really matters. Oh, you'll encounter that here and there. We wouldn't want to get sloppy, now would we?"
"…Of course not, sir." Mercer takes the subtle jest in stride, along with the more important details. Cross hides his own pleasure. Some humor helps the mind.
"Exactly, son. But to get to the point, most of our systems will require a two hundred and fifty six bit encrypted DNA sequence. In other words, blood is what matters. Let the programs worry about storing it digitally. When you enter the facility, the doctor there will take a blood sample and you'll be registered for your appropriate clearance."
"I've never liked needles," Mercer says, asking subtly.
"Don't worry, lieutenant Bakugo. The doctor's good." Translation: Cross says the doctor is one of theirs.
And with that, nothing more is said. They enjoy the quiet silence. Soon, the break ends. All that's left is the end of the road.
They have to move the soldiers and equipment sequentially. Mercer sees how the exposure makes Captain Cross uneasy. Everyone does double-time loading the elevators, which reach deep into the earth, all the way to the facility.
As one of the few officers, Mercer is on the first one down. Glancing back, he sees Captain Cross in the middle of the men and Colonel Rooks himself bringing up the rear.
…Enough time for a little exploration, then. The first bunch of soldiers wear the King's Men patches, and they evidently know who he is. They give him space despite the cramped quarters. Even with the truth, it doesn't change the fact that many of their friends in Blackwatch were killed in New York. By him personally. But they're professional enough to not let it show past the stiff postures and silent judgment.
As soon the elevator halts and the doors open, the soldiers immediately leave, in a sudden rush to put away vehicles and equipment. Mercer holds back a chuckle. It's tragic, but he'd rather laugh than despair at the lack of trust. At least, to anyone not named Cross. He's not some monster straining against his leash.
Still, everyone pays extra attention to their duties, ignoring his languid walk. The facility is open to him. The doctor above-ground made sure of it, including him when taking samples of blood from the entire convoy. It's amusing in a weird way: millions spent on developing new technologies, political factions in Congress throwing their weight behind Blackwatch, and the security's all subverted by a handful of people. The weak links in any system.
Or the strongest, when it comes to doing the right thing.
The funding's most obvious in the sparseness of the place. It's massive and reminds him of a parking garage, stripped of spirit to pure utilitarianism. There's no markings. No human touches. It's absent from even the symbols militaries and secret organizations love to plaster everywhere.
…Mercer's back in front of the elevators by the time Captain Cross arrives, with the majority of the soldiers. Casually, he falls into step beside him. There'll be another briefing soon, here, with everyone in attendance.
"Real cozy accommodations, sir." Mercer says to Cross under the cover of soldier and machine clamor. Asking: did you notice what I noticed?
"Indeed, lieutenant. The facility is better than I expected…Blackwatch has certainly improved in its fortification capabilities." Cross shares Mercer's discomfort. The facility is too well made, too sturdy. Even before New York, Blackwatch couldn't build this fast. It's another mystery to unravel. But first, the two of them have to keep their eyes on the prize. Answers can come later.
They watch the soldiers prepping the bay. Mercer knows, with all of his memories, that a good chunk of them are doing sloppy work. He mentions that to Captain Cross.
Cross grimaces. "We've had a lot of casualties recently, son. Too many senior or veteran soldiers dead. Congress wants to fill our ranks, but the branches are reluctant to send their best. They see us as a threat to their funding. Nevermind the billions they receive annually. There's nothing to do but grab some warm bodies and build a new group around a solid core." The captain looks pained at that. Even though he's a traitor by technicality, he's military through and through. The declining standards must hurt him right where his rank is.
"Have there been any…culture issues?"
"…Yes. The new men, especially. Some of them might be unfit for this company."
A sudden clang announces the last arrivals, ending their conversation. The group that arrives marches to their own triumphant score, boots pounding the floor and engines roaring. At the front is Colonel Rooks, the poster-child of the military man, flanked and guarded by the last detachment of D-Codes left in the world. But not for long. They're burly, heavily armored, and more deadly with the new additions to the gear: someone finally had the bright idea to give them vehicle guns and rockets if they're so strong. No more hand-to-hand combat. Machine guns and modified weapons were their new doctrine.
They make for an intimidating sight. Alex is already calculating how to kill them.
Colonel Rooks shouts for attention. His roar echoes throughout the sparsely-filled facility, all the louder for its emptiness. The last soldiers pivot into the formation of waiting men and wait.
"Parade, rest." Mercer spreads his feet by a foot and interlocks his hands behind his back, like everyone else. "This facility is your home for the next three hundred and sixty-five days," Rooks says. "It has no name, because it does not exist. You will not find it on any map. Secrecy is our highest priority. Our orders come straight from the Commander-in-Chief and Congress. You will follow them exactly. There is no margin for error, mediocrity, or slacking. Do you understand?"
"Sir, yes, sir!" the soldiers say. Mercer joins in, amused as Captain Cross subtly eyes him. His ears are good enough to notice only half the room responds with heart. Rook paces, unaware, his controlled demeanor uplifting his fellow soldiers, and just his fellow soldiers.
"We held the line in New York. The line here is these doors. Nothing gets to the elevator. Inside or outside. Do you understand?"
"Sir, yes, sir!" Mercer subtly eyes Captain Cross as both yell those words. He finds the speech deeply ironic.
"In a week's time, you will come to understand that this facility is our last fortress. The soldiers beside you are your only allies. Your only family. They need you. Blackwatch was devastated by the Outbreak and Alex fucking Mercer himself. But now we face a new threat. An entity codenamed ZEUS." Colonel Rook pauses. His face is pained. He twists around in a remnant of a soldier's funeral march, escorting the valiant dead. "I have received word…that the detachments not with us have been wiped out by ZEUS."
The grim news ripples through the assembled soldiers. Many of them—bereft of the Three King's patches—cry out, breaking decorum, stomping their feet in anger and vengeance. The veterans stand still with a deadly edge, but Mercer knows they feel relieved to have picked the winning side. So far. Just like he knows that many of those angry newcomers have goosebumps, fearful and understanding their luck to be here. For now.
Captain Cross, the D-Codes, and Mercer himself are the least reactive, though he too puts on an external display of grief.
Colonel Rooks lets the display occur for a moment, before his gaze hits every corner of the room. The soldiers melt back into formation. Gracious, he doesn't rebuke them with words. Mercer can guess why. The outpour increases the social cohesiveness of the group and boosts their morale for a time. Rooks will have to correct their discipline soon, however, when he drills them. It's a fine line to walk, when locked inside a secret facility with an army for the next year.
"…There's enough circumstantial evidence that we believe it may have been the work of Alex Mercer. But enough speculation. Make no mistake. We are the last people America can truly depend on. ZEUS is our number one threat to the facility. We will ensure the entity does not survive a visit here." No defense can win against someone already inside, Mercer thinks. "About, face." Mercer turns around with everyone else, stolen lifetimes executing the movement perfectly. Colonel Rooks walks to the new front, escorted by D-Codes. "Forward, march. Follow me."
Conveniently, Captain Cross and 'Lieutenant Bakugo' are near the rear of the column. Cross' men surround them, an island to plot conspiracy.
Colonel Rooks narrates on the facilities in the tunnel. He has no fear of being ignored. His voice echoes, reaching every soldier over the drumbeat of boots and engines. They pass the barracks, armory, and infirmary: all furnished in more utilitarianism. The aesthetic pervades every square inch. There are offices for scientists and NCO personnel. Hints of personality or personal touches are absent there, too.
Rooks points out defensive emplacements every so often. The turrets are all pointed to the company's final destination.
…The tunnel is very long. Most of it is endlessly bare. Mercer gets why this facility is large enough to accommodate tanks and vehicles: easy transportation for soldiers; and an invader's nightmare going through long, open hallways.
That thought plays on repeat in his head. Back near the elevators, the facility was shining new. But the more they walk, the duller and grimier the tunnel gets. Almost like it's getting older and older. As though most of it was built years ago.
But his suspicions have to wait for another time.
They arrive at the airlock. A sign in big, bold text denotes it as 'AIRLOCK 1'. Colonel Rooks calls them to halt. With his eagle-eyes, Mercer sees Rooks use his keycard.
Heavy, grinding sounds emit from the doors. No alarm. There's no need—nothing's going to sleep through the racket. Alex isn't even sure if he can crack them open by himself. But he can always go around: drilling through the tunnels or walking in with Blackwatch.
Frosty winds meet them as the massive doors finally halt, opened wide. The airlock is cold and stinging with decontamination procedures. They're packed together like sardines, but every soldier and vehicle fits inside.
It makes Alex uneasy. As much progress as he's made rediscovering his humanity, the press of the crowd like a New York subway before…everything isn't comforting. Captain Cross catches his eyes and sends a reassuring nod.
The column soon spaces out again, as they make their way further into the facility. Civilian personnel dart in and out of rooms, some in lab coats, pressing themselves to the side when the large group passes by. Mercer hears quiet conversations above the din of boots and wheels. The shine of the new home has worn off, and bored soldiers talk and voice their opinions.
"Nothing is getting in or out, believe me. You'd need an army and some of God's angels to break into this place," one voice says.
"Give John some spicy gumbo and we'll be hoping Satan breaks us out."
"Fuck off," a third voice says. "I hope ZEUS sneaks in and makes all your socks wet."
"Ain't nobody coming near here but a stray hiker." The second voice is very sure of himself.
…The talks stop as their final destination appears, an awed hush filling the column. The end of the facility opens up into an area the size of a sports stadium. Underneath bright white, fluorescent lights, the empty space is filled with tanks, golf carts for quick travel, and swathes of scientific equipment. Mercer spots tubes in protective enclosures, command consoles running watchdog services, quarantine squares, mobile decontamination rooms, and a laptop in the back giving six coded messages for a simulation. At the entrance, a nearly-overshadowed, motley group of scientists present themselves.
Surrounded by screens of men, Captain Cross and Alex exchange a glance: this is what I meant, Mercer, the scientists are doing good work. And yet, this is too fast. The construction, the aged material, the progress, all of it. Alex goes through possibilities like paths down a maze, shifting left and right between truths he doesn't want to believe and secrets he doesn't know.
Cross had said Japan agreed to host Blackwatch for some would-be defense weapon. A futuristic technology without nukes. Alex…believes that, in a different way now. He doesn't think they're so naïve. But there's something he's missing, he knows that.
He doesn't know enough to unravel the truth. And he doesn't want to risk spending more time.
"So when does the exciting afterparty start, fireworks and all?" Mercer says to Captain Cross, quietly, asking the important question: When do we kill half the room?
"After we hear the quarterback's speech, lieutenant. The shiny equipment looks impressive. But I'm betting the presentation's going to bore you." Translation: hold until they've received updates from the scientists. The sterile lighting reflects across Cross' steely jaw, teeth grinding together. Mercer knows that Cross is exercising patience. The captain doesn't like this anymore than he does. It's not adding up, and for a man used to being on the other side, the turnaround is grating. They need to know more. Reluctantly, Alex concedes with a nod that listening might be the better choice.
…Colonel Rooks spends the better part of ten minutes giving introductions and an orientation. The previous ones were about safety and security. This one concerns living underground for a year, with only health-mandated visits in the sun. Rooks especially emphasizes culture and camaraderie. It's not a bad speech, Mercer admits.
Then Doctor Murray Smith is given the stage. The white lights emphasize the bags underneath his bloodshot eyes. His lab coat looks two sizes too big, hanging off of his gangly figure. And the man has a nervous twitch in his left pinky—Alex had seen him move it whenever Colonel Rooks mentioned possible VIP visits.
"Blackwatch must have been working those poor boys and girls hard," Cross says with some sympathy. His voice is a whisper. "Turnover is always rough on those left to pick up the slack."
"True, sir. They should consider asking for a reposting."
"Wouldn't we all, lieutenant."
Mercer and Cross stand in comfortable silence as the scientist begins talking. Immediately, it's clear the man was hired solely for his technical skills. If Mercer is feeling kind, he'd say the man is better talking face-to-face. But in front of a crowd, the man is painful to listen to. His voice is monotonous, alternating only to be too loud or too quiet. There's too many filler sounds. And the terms aren't at a vocabulary meant for the average lay-person.
But Mercer isn't there to embarrass the man, whose pinky is shaking like a leaf. He listens carefully to the gems hidden in the poor speech. The soldiers, both Cross' men and Rooks', have much less tolerance. They're in the practiced posture of professional boredom. The jargon goes straight over their heads. The men are smart, but they don't spend their free time reading dissertations.
Mercer has. Did. His own pedigree and consumed knowledge makes him in a league of his own. It makes him wonder what black box Blackwatch pulls these scientists from. He consumed the ones he could without notice, but maybe…he should consider a different approach. Like finding their recruiters and encouraging retirement.
"This is…quite intriguing, sir. I think you're going to lose the bet."
"We never agreed formally on that, son. And I'm afraid I don't understand what's so great about this speech."
"It bores you, sir?"
"A bit."
"Don't worry, sir. You're near the exit. Some soldiers might be jealous."
At those words, Cross glances at Mercer, shadows dancing across a blank, dangerous look etched on his skin. In the light, Bakugo's face appears heroic with a fiery gaze and slightly mad grin. Alex is up in serious bloodlust about ending everything now.
"Let's try to make it an orderly exit," the captain says.
Mercer doesn't respond. Doctor Smith is closing his speech. For the first time, his words are clear. His left pinky settles down. The scientist is unaware of the enemies in his midst, instead glad to end the presentation.
"…In recap: preliminary experiments under these unique circumstances and equipment have yielded results beyond expectations. The data on mammals with a close DNA relation to humans has proved promising. Ahem, we at Blackwatch regret the tragic sacrifices of those animals, and promise that their last days were spent in great luxury." Mercer sees the man crane his neck to the side, mouth: sentimental Congress policies. "We are now ready for human trials. By retrieving pieces of ZEUS' DNA across various battlefields, seeing it evolve over the duration of the outbreak, and comparing it with the corpse of the construct Elizabeth Greens created, we have been able to create a synthesis of both subjects. The test subject has been disposed of, but the modified Redlight virus had an observable increase in mutations and speed in hijacking the host's body, compared to before. With enough time and funding, we can one day create a soldier suited for any job or conflict imaginable."
Colonel Rooks starts clapping politely, soon with everyone else joining in. Mercer looks up, seeking refuge in the simplicity provided by light, that simple banishment of darkness, before locking doused-maniac eyes with Cross.
"You want orderly…sir?"
"Yes."
"Alright." And with that, Mercer marches out of formation. The first step is like a drum. The second, third, and fourth give it a warrior's beat. He's near the back. He's going to the front. No one stops him.
A change ripples in the room, slowly. Each foot dims the applause. Columns he passes turn their gazes to him. Half of the soldiers are placid, because Mercer walks with purpose. An agent of Blackwatch interrupting a presentation must have something important to say. It's happened to him before, on the other end.
Cross's men are all razor-focused now. The island that surrounded Cross and Mercer also surrounds the exit. And other things—the vehicles in the back, technicals and trucks.
The captain had positioned his men like a man in an alley preparing his knife. But he's hesitating. He wants everything done 'orderly'. The D-Codes aren't the reason. Mercer is confident he can take care of them with minimum casualties. It's the betrayal itself.
When Mercer reaches the front, Colonel Rooks is waiting in silence. Puzzled, but wearing a serious façade. His shadow bridges the gap between them.
"Lieutenant," Rooks says quietly, clasping his hands behind his back. A faint tone of questioning is in his voice. Dr. Smith takes the opportunity to fade into the group of scientists.
"Sir. I believe there's something you need to know." Mercer says, voice pitched to every ear underneath the earth. A part of him enjoys the dramatic theater now that he has to play it.
"Report." Rooks raises his volume to match Alex. The colonel is frowning. He can no longer screen the information from the men, whatever it may be. The act is petty and satisfying.
"You have…failed your mission. Sir."
"…Lieutenant?"
"The current mission." He tilts his head in mock-concern. "To make this place a last bastion against ZEUS. A last bastion to experiment with the Redlight virus. You have—failed, sir."
…Mercer lets his disguise fall slowly. Horrified silence. He grows into a figure just taller than Rooks.
All at once, every soldier cocks a gun or heavy weapon. Horrified silence. Half of them, Cross' men, are pointing at their fellow soldiers—rifles for humans, heavy weapons and turrets for the D-Codes.
Mercer's tendrils leisurely re-assemble clothing, muscular, and bone. Spikes, armor, and claws form in gruesome seconds, as soldiers watch with their hearts in their throats. The only sounds audible are the echoing roars of vehicles in a closed room.
And another man marching to the front. Captain Cross' stride is impeccable. The steady thump of boots on polished stone draws more eyes than the panicked soldiers—who have no idea why they have guns pointed at them—or the wrathful colonel. He's the only one in motion for agonizing seconds. Mercer is staring at Rooks with a wild grin. Rooks stares at Mercer in despair then in professional grimness.
"Alex Mercer," Rooks says, matter-of-fact.
That too cracks when Captain Cross stops next to Alex and stands side-by-side. Rooks' face twists and warps, transcending grief to rage in heartbeats.
"Traitor."
Captain Cross takes the condemnation without flinching. "Colonel Rooks," he says, "you and your men are asked to surrender. You have violated the Constitution. You have violated local law. You will be detained as prisoners until other accommodations are available."
"You fucking betrayed—" Rooks pauses. Mercer is disappointed—he would have liked to hear the man yell and scream. But instead, the colonel forces himself to look around. The bright lighting shows frightened soldiers and the turncoat looking right back. Alex can guess what he's seeing: Blackwatch agents.
"You," Colonel Rooks forces the vitriol down his throat, "were the best of us, Captain Cross. An example to every soldier and Blackwatch agent. Don't tarnish…your legacy this way. Your men's. Where did this disloyalty come from? You know what America does to traitors. Your men must know that their families will bear the brunt of retribution. Always outsiders. Always the stranger from a bad name.
"Look at the soldier next to you." Rooks turns to address the lost half of his men. "The one you would fight. Kill. Look into his eyes. Do it! Do you see a burning hatred of America? Do you see a disdain for its people? No! It's love for our country. He feels the same way you do. The entire room feels the same way you do. Don't let Alex Mercer trick you like he did Cross." The hate is clear to Mercer—Rooks doesn't believe Alex tricked the captain. But the men love him. So Cross is portrayed as a fallen hero. "Do what you want to do. Do what your fellow soldiers want to do. What everyone wants to do besides ZEUS. Side with humanity."
Overall, Mercer thinks, it's not a bad appeal for an improvised and sudden speech. Colonel Rooks is trying to fight against the takeover—coup, really—by subtly starting a new one: the most important step, always, is convincing people that the majority are on one particular side. It's a catch-22: if enough people believe it, it becomes true. And if it's true, it's because enough people believe it. Rooks is trying to shepherd them by establishing a common ground, then portraying his side as the logical conclusion.
But Captain Cross has the truth and hardened veterans. And of course, a superstar witness. Mercer lets the two of them battle with words, content to play the silent terror with amusement. "I am siding with humanity. Blackwatch has not. The US government has not." Captain Cross turns away from Rooks. The light casts the paternal affection for every soldier in stark view. Even the ones with a gun to their heads. Especially them. "The virus which ravaged New York City did not come from a foreign lab. It was not a foreign terrorist attack. It was not a natural disaster. It was not foreign or natural—because it was the product of our own government.
"They tested it on tricked soldiers and unaware civilians." Captain Cross' voice is sincere in its anger. Light casts his shadow far. Mercer discreetly adjusts a light stand with a tendril so that it stretches to the first column, larger than any man. No one notices the subtle creak, besides the scientists. "They wiped away an entire population to hide their sins, when the monster they sought to chain turned against them. Do you believe…they learned their lesson? When the town they destroyed lies in ruins?"
A horrible sort of understanding appears on many of Rook's men, a sort of violent and instinctual denial. In some ways, it's fortunate Cross and Mercer waited until after the scientist had finished presenting. Dr. Smith had mentioned some keywords: human trials and a disposed test-subject. That sort of language isn't forgotten in a day, let alone minutes. And sort of language makes it easier to jump to certain conclusions. Especially when it was true.
"No. They learned nothing. New York City wasn't the first damn containment breach. Years before, Blackwatch abandoned its central tenet—to stop all foreign and domestic biological or chemical threats—the day command failed to take responsibility for their own unethical experiments. Blackwatch abandoned it twice-over, the day General Randall, fearful and desperate at Blackwatch's failures in New York City, launched another attack: a goddamn nuke. At you." Captain Cross meets the eyes of certain, 'bad culture-fits'. "Yes soldier, even you. You were—and are—worthless to the monsters who run Blackwatch. Your family is not cared for. Colonel Rooks says families will be treated worse for birthing traitors? General Randall would have killed them, along with every civilian, military personnel, and Blackwatch itself just to keep himself safe for a little longer. The Outbreak would have never stopped." He lets the silence linger for a moment.
"Is this what we have fought and died for?"
Half the soldiers don't answer. They're silent. But that doesn't matter—the "No, sir, no!" from the veterans disperses it. And Rooks' coup with it—his subtle, feeble wool about the majority is shattered. The roar is in every ear. The roar comes from the stronger half of the room.
"Did we all sign up to serve a single man, a king?"
"No, sir, no!"
"No! We joined because we understand that the individual should sacrifice for the sake of all. We understand that Greene shouldn't have escaped from a skyscraper in the heart of Manhattan, before Penn Station, when one of us would have been thrown in a bunker cell with no keys. And we understand that our superiors created an entire biological weapons program in one of the most populated cities in the world."
"…They failed their duty, of course. They sought to wipe the slate clean. And they would have succeeded—if it weren't for Alex Mercer, our enemy at the time. He saved the city. He tore out the heart of the infection almost single-handedly. He was the one who enacted justice on war criminals and violators of humanity when no one else would."
Mercer sees the speech ripple throughout the soldiers. For the first time since getting on-stage, he believes the quiet approach may actually have been the best choice. Cross' veterans are resolved. Rook's men are wavering. Some have already given up. They were at a disadvantage to begin with, and now they lack the morale to push through.
"Mercer stopped the outbreak. I helped him stop General Randall from killing us all." Captain Cross turns to Colonel Rooks. Says: "Colonel Rooks, I must ask you again. Stand down. My men know their path is right and are in better position. Yours doubt the cause, are outgunned, and surrounded." In truth, the normal soldiers are effectively neutralized. More and more are giving up. It is the D-Codes that Mercer has his eyes on, along with a significant chunk of Cross's men aiming at the hulking threats. As if seeking to dispel the last bit of tension, the captain says, "And of course, Alex fucking Mercer is on my side."
…Colonel Rooks clenches his fists. Mercer sees the grimace in the man's face as he chews his tongue. Weighs his options. Then the fire in his eyes douses. Rooks' entire body loses its fight and sags. "All units, stand down." The words are met with slacking bodies and the multitude clicks of gun safeties. "Captain Cross, if I may?" Cross nods, relief visible in his eyes. Mercer knows this is what he hoped for. And privately, Mercer's glad that it worked out. It's the…humane approach. "This operation is over. You are relieved from our original mandate. Your new orders are to scrub the facility and wipe our presence clean. High command will be informed that ZEUS got here before we did." Underneath his booming voice, the resigned tone of Colonel Rook's voice seeps through. "Captain Cross will provide more details."
"Yes sir," Captain Cross says, light illuminating the barest hint of a smile. "If we're going to do this, Colonel, we'll do it properly. This facility will be rigged to collapse. An avalanche will be engineered to completely seal it off. High yield explosives from the armory are required. The investigation team will receive a report about ZEUS and find no inaccuracies."
The veterans take over from there. They direct the soldiers they previously held at gunpoint, who obey with a trust that will never be recovered. And a disbelief that it's all over. The D-Codes are tasked with transporting supplies. Eyes hidden by a shadow covering the top half of his face, Colonel Rooks turns away slightly. He addresses Cross: "I hope you're ready for the consequences of your actions."
"I always am, sir."
Mercer loses the transformation, once more Lieutenant Bakugo. "For what it's worth, Rooks, this was the right decision. I'm…glad we don't have to fight."
"Are you?" Rooks doesn't wait for an answer. "It doesn't matter. I didn't do this for you or Cross. I'm doing it for them." He nods at the young, loyal soldiers. "I won't have them join the ones you murdered in New York." And with that, he begins to march back to his men. Captain Cross joins him after a heartbeat. Mercer watches with a faint smile.
"You can't do this!" A shout rings out among the scientists. Mercer looks back in curiosity. A handful of soldiers are directing them to destroy their research. An unfortunate corporal is the target of one irate scientist. "Do you know how many hours we spent? How many days went without sleep? You fucking military goons all but chained us to our work like slaves and now, when we finally succeed, you want us to fucking destroy it?"
"Sir, I won't ask again."
"You fucking—" the scientist is cut-off by Dr. Smith squeezing his right shoulder.
"Let me talk with the good men," Dr. Smith says, voice less nervous with armed soldiers than when those same soldiers were bored with his presentation. The angry scientist stomps back to the equipment. The sound of a laptop smashing to the ground rings out, drawing attention from others. Dr. Smith smiles placidly at the curious folk, before addressing the ones in front of him. "My…understandably angry colleague is merely concerned for his future. Our futures." Raising an eyebrow, Mercer finds himself invested in the little drama playing out. "We left good jobs on the promise of exciting research and large grants. And those were true. For a time. Now what do we have to show for it? We cannot simply put our work on a resume for private companies. Nor can we do so for other secret government agencies—if I am understanding your intentions correctly?"
"You are, doctor, " the corporal says, voice calmer now.
"Good sir, you must see then, the dilemma we face: how are we to answer the gap in our resume and publications—"
"This was supposed to be my ticket! My big chance to carve my name into history! I was supposed to finally be someone!" Many stopped and stared at the fight, the corporal pushing Doctor Smith aside and marching up to the hysterical scientist. "There was no one left but me! All those assholes and cunts who thought they were so much better than me. I'm alive and they're not. This was supposed to be my magnum opus." He was crying at this point. The soldier gently tried to take the briefcase from the lead scientist and was suddenly stabbed in the neck with an empty syringe. He gurgled and collapsed as the syringe stabbed him right in the artery and throat. The crazed scientist in one swift motion unfurls a briefcase.
—Mercer sees it happen too late. The deranged scientist has a full syringe in one hand, and an empty briefcase with 'Prepared for Human Testing' stickers in the other. His hair is disheveled and a mad grin stretches from teeth to teeth.
Then he injects it right into his heart.
Mercer was too slow, but the guns weren't. They shot as soon as he stabbed the injector into his heart.
"Engage! Engage!" The corporal says, panic high in his voice. Six rifles click off their safeties, point, and unleash a hail of bullets. One ricochets and knocks out a ceiling light, casting the dark shadows across the squad with the sound of sparks
The demented scientist jerked back and was thrown to the ground as a hail of gunfire smashed into him. He was peppered with bullet holes and one of his limbs was hanging on a few strands of sinew. However, the syringes were depressed automatically. Mercer knew damn well it wasn't the end. He was living proof.
Soldiers crowded forward-
—Foreign tendrils burst from a still-beating heart chest, seeking opportunity-
—And six soldiers were impaled through the eyes, along with a barrage of wicked sharp tendrils following to fully pierce them. The tendrils immediately pulled back. It started to unpack and expand itself, a terrible form emerging. Then a dozen fluorescent lights are shattered. In the cocoon of darkness, Mercer sees the creature unfurl like a grotesque flower.
The rounds echo in the cavern, even if the words don't, and they say enough. Every soldier yet inside drops what they're doing, and readies their weapons. Some mount the technicals. Two run to get the D-Codes and heavy explosives, yelling into their radios.
One hundred rifles shoot, ripping up each petal. A rain of blood showers down, every drop poisonous to the five soldiers it lands upon. They scream in pain and hysteria. Someone launches a rocket. Mercer sends up a dozen tendrils behind the missile.
As the shooting started, the writhing viral mass compressed, segmented, and exploded outwards. A rain of malformed creatures, some the size of dogs, began the killing.
Soldier's bodies were hijacked or dragged to the main growth.
It was Penn Station all over again.