Edited: 2/28/16
Chapter 11 – Public Relations
"Misdirection is the key element. We can create a space where we give them something to look at to take their mind away from what they really should be seeing." – Chris Conti
The shower, still woefully cold, hadn't improved Megan's depression. Living in the facility, surrounded by all the reminders of death, and watching as soldier after soldier leave only to return in body bags had taken its toll on the young doctor. "This place is cursed," she confessed to the still air after she slipped out of her room. The bland industrial walls felt like they were closing in on her, and Megan knew if she stayed there alone, it would only increase the crushing depression threatening to swallow her whole.
Her restlessness took her far outside of the inhabited areas of the facility. The shadows sprang to life after she turned down another faceless corridor. Megan didn't see the slight figure who stepped out of the darkness. Luckily for her, the agent of Death failed to see her in turn. Instead he moved with terrible purpose towards the brightly lit havens of humanity that once again infested the bloodstained facility, overlooking the sleepless woman who wandered the dark halls.
Silence made the building feel like a long abandoned tomb, and the low squeak of her sneakers on the cement floor was unnaturally loud as she walked. Megan shivered at her morbid thoughts. It was like being in a scary movie, and any moment she'd round a corner only to be confronted by a wall of shambling corpses hungry for brains. "There's nothing to be afraid of," she whispered, flinching when the distorted words bounced and echoed down the barren hall.
Turning, Megan hurried back the way she came. Her imagination was running rampant, and she knew if she wandered around much longer she'd end up bumping into someone and screaming like a scared little girl. It was bad enough to be a female in a male dominated field, and even though the Matron was the undisputed head of her Department, that didn't mean her staff held Megan in such high regard. She'd learned a long time ago that the only way to make it in a field like hers was to be better, stronger, and braver than the men. It was stupid, but true. Women couldn't be as good as the big boys. No, they had to be better to earn any sort of respect. Trembling and whimpering like a frightened child was no way to earn respect in a place like this.
All thoughts about women in the work place came to a screeching halt when Megan spotted the first orange clad body lying in a wide pool of crimson. Red bionic eyes cataloged the image with burning clarity, and it scorched itself into her unwilling brain with gruesome detail. The way the slash across the man's throat was surgically neat, the edges slightly parted, showing the smoothness of the knife stroke. How the papers the lab tech had been holding were scattered in a flurry around him when they fell from his startled grasp, and the look of surprise on the young man's face, as if death caught him unaware.
Megan choked when she swallowed the scream trying to claw its way out of her throat. A small whimper broke free, and she clapped her hand over her mouth before the rest of the scream could follow. There was no guarantee that the killer wasn't close enough to hear her. She paled when the absurd, yet horrifying thought that this was the work of unsettled spirits filled her mind. Don't be stupid! There's no such thing as ghosts, and even if there were, they wouldn't wander around cutting people with knives. Shaking, the young Doctor forced herself into motion. This wasn't the work of Weapon X, she'd bet her reputation on it. The death wound was too precisely executed.
Assassins? Perhaps competition out to steal the Weapon before we subdued it? With careful steps, Megan skirted around the vivid pool of fresh blood. She could try to run away, but that would be a death sentence. Even if she managed to escape the facility, what would she do then? I don't even know how to camp without an RV, she thought, and nibbled her lower lip indecisively. Leaving the facility wouldn't be an escape. If the weather didn't kill her, then Weapon X would. The devil you know, or the devil you don't, she mused, forcing herself to keep moving.
More bodies appeared, each killed with the same deft knife skills as the first. Every death was disturbingly tidy, and each victim died before they could raise an alarm.
Bile burned the back of her throat when she found Tom. The sandy haired guard looked untouched, and where it not for the unnatural tilt of his head where he lay slumped against a wall, she would have thought he was unconscious. Kneeling, she reached out and gently placed her fingers at the base of his throat. "Please be alive," she begged, but before she could feel for a pulse his head lulled to the side bonelessly. Broken.
Megan's chest tightened, and she silently cursed when her cheeks remained painfully dry. Before she lost her eyes, she hated crying above all things. But now, looking down at a life cut short and a face that had offered her more than one charming smile, Megan bitterly wished she could.
A dry sob broke from her chest. The grating sound was enough to jar her back to her senses. "I'm sorry," Megan breathed, uncertain of what she was apologizing for. There was nothing she could have done to save him. Yet, he deserved an apology, and she was sorry. Sorry that he was so very young, and the shiny newness of him hadn't worn off. He should have been out with his friends, going to college, making something of himself. He shouldn't just be another corpse feeding this evil place.
Sitting back on her heels, Megan reached out eased the service pistol out of its harness. Tom wouldn't need it now. With dark resolve she stood, a new determination stiffened her back while the fear and horror became a background buzz, easily ignored in favor of cold purpose. The sharp tap of her shoes on the blood splashed floors marked her passage through the death shrouded halls. Dead bodies were ignored, no longer causing her steps to falter as she made her way to the lab.
The Matron would be there, she'd know what needed to be done. It never occurred to her that the Matron might not be able to handle what had come hunting them in the darkness.
"Dead. The Director sends his regards, but regretfully wishes to inform you that your services are no longer required."
Megan froze, her hand out to push open the cracked door when the words washed over her. It sounded like a corpse brought back to life. The words held a terrible, gaping emptiness that couldn't possibly have come from a living throat. There was no infliction, no hint of emotion or hesitation. That thing had killed everyone, yet it spoke with such bland indifference it might have been talking about paint drying, not the blood of countless men splashed over the floors. Megan's hand squeezed tighter around grip of the gun, and she fought not to shove the door open and start shooting. Fear held her rooted to the spot even after the Matron's voice joined the dead one, proving she was still alive and in grave danger. Still, she couldn't move. All the terribly neat corpses she'd seen flashed in front of her mind's eye. How could she ever think to come out on top against a killer like that? Something that could blow through a facility, leaving only death in its wake, as unstoppable as a hurricane?
A quiet wheeze, and the sound of a body hitting the unforgiving floor broke her paralysis. Throwing caution to the wind, she pushed the door open and brought the gun up. Bang! The sound was like captive thunder in the enclosed space, and Megan's eyes widened in shock when she saw the slender boy stagger back, one pale hand reaching up to cover the hole in his chest. Surprise flitted over his blank features as he sank to his knees, blood poured from between his fingertips, and a streak of crimson slipped from his lips when he gasped.
Foolish, IX thought when his knees met the unyielding floor, and his life blood fled his body at an alarming rate. He knew of the woman, and saw her with the Matron during his reconnaissance missions. It had been sheer foolishness not to locate and dispose of her before confronting the Matron.
His power tingled along his nerves. He could feel it pooling in his chest, trying to dam the flow of blood. The power seemed to buzz with a question, wanting to be put to use, to escape to a safer place to mend the damage. Flexing his power enough to disrupt the electricity and give him the much needed darkness would have been effortless. Emerald eyes locked on the woman as he felt his strength begin to wane. As long as she lived, the mission wasn't complete, and that was unacceptable.
Calculations flashed through his mind, and he permitted his body to slump forward. Playing the child wouldn't work with this one, for all that she was female. No, she'd seen the truth of him, and wouldn't be fooled by the lie. Each breath was shallow enough to appear non-existent, and he waited in perfect stillness for human nature to work in his favor.
Megan's hands shook so hard that she almost dropped the gun. Her heart trembled in her chest when she registered what she'd done. I killed him, oh God, I'm a murderer. Those thoughts were followed swiftly by another, more frightful one. What if he isn't dead? As much as she loathed the thought of taking a life, Megan recognized the fact that the crumpled form had slaughtered everyone in the facility. If it hadn't been for luck, he would have killed her too.
With a lurch, she forced her body into motion, approaching the fallen Weapon. This must be the one the Matron was talking about, the one who was throwing off all the attempts at capturing Weapon X. Laying in a growing pool of his own blood, it was hard to recognize the threat the small male posed. He just looked so tiny and broken. Holding her breath, Megan reached forward with one foot to nudge the body onto its back. The gun had stopped shaking and remained pointed at the limp form as it rolled, ready to shot again if the boy twitched.
At the apex of the roll, his right hand flicked out with such calculated speed her optics couldn't register the move before it was too late. Glass shattered, and was joined by an unearthly howl of agony and the crack of another gun shot. IX continued his roll, avoiding the bullet, but not the sharp chips of cement that bit into the left side of his face before he was out of range.
Megan's violent screams ripped through the room, and she clawed at the small throwing knife imbedded in her left optic. Her nails raked over flesh, painting her face with blood. The initial wound hadn't had enough strength behind it to prove fatal, but when her anguished shrieks reached a new pitch, and the flesh around both eyes began to smoke, IX realized that the metal of the blade had disrupted the circuitry of the implant. The blackening skin began to bubble and hiss as it was cooked from the inside out by the malfunction.
With a final desperate howl, she turned and ran, crashing headlong into the door that had closed behind her when she'd first entered the room. Twitching, the silent body collapsed, only the dark bottom of the hilt showing in the hole where her optic had once been.
Staggering to his feet, IX closed his eyes and focused. A crackling wave of power erupted from him, ripping through the room, causing screens to explode and frying the electronics, plunging the room into darkness. Biting his bloody lip, IX turned on his heel and vanished.
"Are you certain the S.T.A.R.T Team is the best choice, sir?" the Voice inquired, pulling up the personnel files for review.
"This is the perfect opportunity for The Special Threat Action Response Team to gain experience and demonstrate to the Public that they are safe in the hands of the team," the Director stated, and by having an outside department bring the 'renegade' project in, no one will question the validity of Weapon X's malfunction.
With a click of the mouse, he pulled up the first file. "By allowing them this opportunity, we are giving them legitimacy and experience. This will be the first time they've gone on a true mission, and success will bolster their belief in themselves, as well as sooth the public over the mutant menace."
"Of course, sir."
Ice blue eyes lined in the wrinkles of old age glittered with the sharpness of a much younger man while he studied the file. Weapons IX and X were proving more valuable than he'd imagined. First by eliminating the Null Program in a legitimate manner that the board would accept, and now by giving the START team a chance to prove their worth. Even though the team was mostly a publicity stunt to ease the minds of the average Canadian in a world that had become riddled with overpowered beings, they were still highly trained individuals. With the proper seasoning, they would be a valuable strike team. They just had to get their feet wet first before other departments would be willing to risk implementing them.
The entire project was crafted with the Public in mind. Each of the five member team was chosen for both their skills, and the impact their image would have on the team as a whole. After their formation, they had become as popular in Canada as the original seven astronauts had been in American. Much like those fabled heroes of outer space, this team was perfect.
First was the Commander. Angus Trent was a brisk, square-jawed man that leant the entire team a futuristic air due to the fact that he'd been recruited from the Lilliputian astronaut corps. As one of the first Canadians to venture into space, Trent gained automatic notoriety and was considered one of the country's largest heart throbs.
The second-in-command had been chosen not only to please the French-Canadians, but to add an air of intrigue to the team. Marcel Le Quont was something of a rogue with a checkered past that spanned time spent in the French Foreign legion as well as numerous public liaisons with young starlets, celebrities, and recording artists. His love life had become almost as legendary as the team itself. Much of his spare time was spent in the company of a famous Australian film star, and the two were often spotted drinking to excess at exclusive parties. In spite of his scandalous life style, or perhaps because of it, he was well loved in his native Quebec.
Opening another file, the Director held back an amused smile. The woman could put most men to shame, and the fact that she was the tallest member of the team made him grin. Some men might have felt insulted by the manly woman, but the Director had outgrown such macho foolishness, and he believed that she helped keep the rest of the team humble.
Sarah Blake was the politically correct choice, giving the team its obligatory female member. However, she was far more than a skirt to appease the liberals. Prior to joining the team, she had been a liaison between the Canadian Royal Navy and the U.S. Navy. This experience made her the choice candidate for being the first female to enter the Navy SEALs training. In spite of public outcry and doubt, she completed the program with honors. From there, Black continued to peruse feats of strength that most would never accomplish. She climbed Everest, ran with the bulls in Spain and swam not only the English Channel, but the Amazon as well.
Charles Drum, the youngest member, was also the only member of the team who was a mutant. After being recruited out of the Joint Task Forces Two he was tested and found to have a mutation that gave him phenomenal speed and near supernatural reaction time. This mutation served him well in hand-to-hand combat, and he'd mastered a number of martial arts before joining the military. During testing, the scientists deduced that Drum could anticipate an attack on an unconscious level, giving him the ability to dodge any projectile shot at him.
The final member of the team was a counter-terrorism expert and START's Chief of Intelligence; Willi von Trakker was a twice-decorated member of the JTF-2, and prior to joining that organization had served in the Royal Canadian Mounted Police's Special Emergency Response Team.
All five members of the team were known celebrities in Canada, whose names were spoken in both awe and reverence by the country's youth. Closing the files, the Director sat back and smiled. Yes, he'd handpicked the team well, and now they were coming to fruition. Even though there was nothing linking him directly to START, he'd recognized the need for such a response team when the problem of Mutations had become public knowledge.
Leaning back with a low sigh when his spine crackled in protest, the Director waited for the show to begin.
After watching Tiny slaughter everyone and then burn them all to greasy cinders, Thomas didn't know what to do. He couldn't be the only one to return to Second Chance. The citizens were hungry for blood. If he returned now, after his escape to inform them that the rest were never coming home, they would tear him apart.
Trekking out of the valley and back to civilization wasn't impossible, but doing it without the proper equipment would be suicide. Straightening his shoulders, he accepted what had to be done. If Thomas wanted to survive, he would have to return to the cave and lay low for a while. Then he could sneak into the town and gather enough supplies to make the hike. Assuming he didn't take a knife in the heart the second he stepped into the cave, or end up being gutted by the Wildman for trespassing, it was the best plan he had.
"Right, instead of slow suicide I've opted for the fast approach," he said to the bitter wind, refusing to acknowledge the hysterical edge the words held. Night was closing in, and the temperature began to plummet back into the negatives, informing the native that the need for shelter was becoming vital. Steeling his frayed nerves, Thomas began climbing. He forced his gaze to remain forward, refusing to look at the scorched stone that was the only remnants of friend and enemy alike.
When he'd first met the pair, he had foolishly believed that the Wildman was the more dangerous. Now he knew the truth, Tiny was Death in human form. When that one decided your ticket was up, that was it, game over, end of story. I hope I never find myself in his sights, Thomas thought with a shudder, knowing that he'd already been the small man's target on more than one occasion, and it was a miracle he'd survived as long as he had.
The cave was cold and empty by the time he reached it, and to his disgust, he was grateful to find it so. Maybe they'd finished whatever it was they were meant to do here, and were gone for good. In his gut, Thomas didn't believe it, but it was a nice thought, and it helped chase away the certainty of death that seemed to hang like a dark cloud over his head. The side of the cave was still stocked with dry fire wood, and at some point, the Wildman had dug a trough into the hard stone, and filled it with clear water. Thomas scouted out the small living space before returning his attention to the fire pit. Before long, the damp chill of the cave was replaced with gentle warmth, and the soft glow of firelight.
He spotted his worn backpack tucked into the shadows and retrieved it. Digging through the pack, he found a couple of MRE's missing, but there were enough left for a few days. Thomas was about to rip open one of the packs of sludge when he heard the sharp crack of Tiny's freaky transportation method. "Shit," he cursed, dropping the pack and scrambling backward.
Glazed green eyes locked on his face, and Thomas stiffened at the dead look they held. A fine tremor tingled down his spine when the glitter of a throwing knife winked in the firelight between blood soaked fingers. Tiny took one step towards him, his arm raising in slow motion to throw. There wasn't a Wildman to intervene this time, and Thomas opened his mouth already knowing there were no words to halt the blade.
It wasn't often that the Canadians asked for support from the U.S.A, but these were damned strange times, and it made for odd bedfellows. Captain Peter Mondellow drained the rest of his bland coffee before tossing the paper cup into a plastic lined box next to his seat. Bloody eco-jerks, I want Styrofoam back. Who cares if the crap doesn't disintegrate, it keeps my fingers from being scorched. Grunting, he rubbed his red fingertips against the smooth controls to ease the mild burn. How he hated the hoops the military had to jump through to satisfy all the PR bastards.
"Captain Mondellow, you have the all clear. The aircraft is provisioned, refueled and ready to roll. All that's left are the guests of honor, and they're crossing the tarmac now," Lieutenant Benteen's voice crackled through the speaker.
Glancing down at the tarmac, Mondellow said, "Here they are now, thanks for the heads up."
"It has been an honor to aid members of the United States Air Force, sir."
"At ease, Lieutenant. I must say that I'm impressed with the fully automated airstrip. We were able to get the craft refueled and stocked in record time."
"Efficiency is my religion, sir," Benteen replied, pride shining in his tone.
"Perhaps after the mission I can convert you."
"Sir?"
"You know, go out have a couple drinks, find a few lovely ladies to share our company," Mondellow said.
"That would be…interesting," Benteen replied, opting not to mention his unique condition which rendered his bar days long past.
Signing off, the Captain stood and gave a languid stretch. "Well, I suppose I ought to go down and welcome the celebs," he told his co-pilot.
A baritone laugh met the words. "You should have left earlier if you wanted to be part of the welcoming committee. Mary Pat, Lisa, and Radar Ruth have already departed and are no doubt swooning at their feet while we speak."
Stifling a disgruntled snort, Mondellow climbed down the metal stairs to greet the new comers who were being fawned over by the three female officers of his twelve-person crew. They didn't even notice his arrival. Instead, their mooning eyes were locked on the black-clad figures striding like conquering heroes over the wind swept tarmac.
After spotting the rank on one of the men's uniforms, Captain Mondellow nudged his way past the ogling females and saluted. "Captain Peter Mondellow, United States Air Force Special Operations Command."
"Commander Trent," the man responded before offering a salute of his own. Once all the introductions were finished, the team joined Mondellow on his exterior preflight check. While they conducted the inspection, the Captain was able to observe the Canadians.
After the inspection both of the aircraft, and the team was complete, Mondellow decided the commander of START was perhaps the most disappointing. A name like Angus Trent conjured the image of a mountain man with massive lumber jack arms and a gruff personality.
Instead, the Commander wasn't tall or well built. In fact, he possessed delicate patrician features. The neatly trimmed mustache gave him an effete air, and he had the aloofness that women seemed to go crazy for. The man was more interested in the mission at hand than the females who fawned over him.
The shortest member of the team was Marcel Le Quont, with features more rugged than the Commander's. His chin was pronounced, and his nose had clearly met something hard on more than one occasion. Thickly muscled arms blended naturally into a heavy barrel chest. Unlike the Commander, he flirted outrageously with the woman, and watched them all with his dark, intense eyes.
The woman outstripped all the men when it came to height, even Mondellow had to look up at her. Sarah Blake was slim-hipped with delicate barely-there breasts. Her arms were long and gangly under her flight suit. Her face was a slim triangle of fine bone, looking at odds with the strong body, and her most defining feature was a pair of penetrating green eyes that seemed to strip a man of his flesh to look inside his soul. As a former member of the Navy SEALs, Mondellow wasn't surprised to see Sarah's hair had been cropped off to mere stubble.
Willi Von Trakker was quietly aloft. The blond rarely looked anyone in the eye and Mondellow recognized him as the intel puke on sight. No matter the service, intelligence officers all had that weedy rabbit look about them.
Of the lot of them, Charles Drum was perhaps the most charismatic. The compact man was a ball of raw nerve endings that never seemed to still. Every movement was graceful and controlled, but there was something about the man that felt like a tightly wound spring ready to explode into action at the slightest provocation.
After observing them all together, Mondellow couldn't understand why the woman all flocked to the coldly aloft Trent, and passed up on Drum. Ah well, I guess it's the same as it always was. High school forever.
Perhaps their admiration could be attributed to age. At forty-four he was easily double that of any of his flight crew, but this was the first time he'd felt old by comparison. Drawing the team's attention, he motioned them towards the aircraft.
Mondellow straightened his cuffs and lead the way up the ladder and into a compartment the size of a small room. Clearing his throat, Mondellow spoke. "The craft you're standing in is a modified version of the C-130 Hercules. It is one of the most versatile cargo aircraft in the world. On your right, there's a twenty-five-millimeter Gatling cannon. That bad boy can lay down over eighteen hundred rounds of ammunition from an altitude of twelve thousand feet in less than a minute."
One of the men gave a low whistle. Moving forward, Mondellow showed them down a long corridor. "Your gear is located here," he pointed to a stack of crates. "While in flight, you can prepare for your mission in the compartment."
After grabbing a pair of crates each, von Trakker and Le Quont headed for the prep area.
"At the rear of the aircraft, you'll find the forty-millimeter Bofos gun, and a hundred and five-millimeter Howitzer that fires out of the side of the fuselage." A bold grin curved Mondellow's lips. "Your government demanded a bird with firepower, and the U.S Air force delivered, wouldn't you say?"
"Indeed. The aircraft is perfect for this mission, and your crew appears well versed in its use." Commander Trent replied. "I would prefer to avoid the backup firepower if possible. We'll know more after we bail out in either case."
Frantic activity bustled around the two stationary men. "My apologies Captain, but I'm going to have to cut the tour short to help my men prepare for the upcoming mission."
Captain Mondellow gave a shallow nod of agreement. "Very well, sir. The airship will take off in five. We'll arrive over the designated search area at oh-three-hundred hours."
Clink. The small but lethal blade slipped from the assassin's fingertips and fell to the ground an instant before he collapsed. Thomas tried to swallow, but it felt like his throat was clogged with cotton balls, and it took the native a few seconds to comprehend that he'd been spared. Again.
The low gurgling breaths jolted his thoughts back into gear with a near audible pop when he realized the small man hadn't killed him because he was wounded. Part of him, a larger part than he cared to admit, advised him to let the killer bleed out. The short man was bound to be the death of him, and by not acting, he was saving his own life.
No. Thomas couldn't repay a life debt by standing aside and allowing the one who'd saved him to die. "Hold on kid, you'll be all right, just hold on," Thomas sighed, bent over, and picked up the startlingly light male. He was signing his own death warrant, but there were things in life more important than dying, and Honor was one of them. Setting his burden down on the makeshift pallet, Thomas stifled a gasp when he saw the bullet wound in the narrow chest. Blood gurgled sluggishly from the hole that was too close to the boy's heart for comfort. How in the name of the west wind is he still alive?
Ripping the shirt off, he used the torn material for a compression bandage, thankful that the boy was unconscious and couldn't feel the pain. Blood soaked his hands, but there wasn't more he could do. Without surgery, his chances at survival were non-existent. Thomas's time in the war had taught him a great deal about field dressing wounds, and what a man could and couldn't survive. The bullet had damaged Tiny's lung and probably nicked the heart. Studying the pale bloodstained face, so frighteningly young looking, Thomas cursed under his breath. He knew that the kid had been screwed around with by the Government, and was little more than a killing machine, but knowing he was going to die hurt. Somehow, the brat had grown on him.
Hazy emerald eyes snapped open, almost making Thomas jump back. He fought down the urge, and continued to press down against the bandage. "Sorry kid, I know it hurts like a son of a bitch," he attempted to sooth, and wondered if he was about to get a short knife between the ribs for his effort.
Instead, the boy didn't appear to notice him. IX, report.
"Operation Obsolete was successfully completed. A cleanup team is needed on site. I sustained damage during the final altercation," each word held the bubbling rasp of a lung wound, but didn't have the pinched quality that Thomas was familiar with, signifying the extreme pain he knew the other man had to be in. He kept perfectly still, not wanting to draw the assassin's attention in any way. How he was in contact with his superior was unclear, but the native didn't doubt that was the case. Best to play least in sight, and not end up getting a kill order dropped on his head by reminding Tiny that he wasn't alone.
All of the targets were neutralized?
"Yes, sir."
Estimated recovery time?
"Six hours." A harsh cough sent a spray of blood over Thomas's chest, and he wondered if the boy was giving an estimate for how long he would survive the fatal wound. Six hours is a stretch, I'd give him two, three tops. They'll have to move quick if they want to patch him up before he's lost too much blood. "I will be ready to finish the second half of the mission then."
Thomas gaped, not believing what he was hearing. No way. There was no possibility he was walking away from a wound like this in six hours. Hell, without surgical intervention, he wouldn't be walking away period.
Acceptable. Report in when the second phase is complete.
"Yes, sir."
The conversation appeared to be over, and Thomas offered a weak smile when the small man's full attention fell on him. He didn't back away, instead he remained in his kneeling position, pressing both large hands down on the bloody cloth that had once been a shirt.
Another rasping breath whispered between bloodstained lips, but the ominous rattle sounded less pronounced than it had when he'd first began applying pressure. "That is no longer necessary. I have stopped the blood loss. The rest of the healing will require time to accomplish."
"The rest of the…" A spike of wood, longer than most knives and soaked with his blood, the slick scar that was all that remained of an injury that should have killed him. "Oh, uh…right." Feeling foolish for having forgotten, Thomas sat back on his heels. He hesitantly pulled his hands away, expecting the blood to being flowing again, even though he'd experienced Tiny's healing ability first hand. "Are you going to be all right, Tiny?"
"IX."
"What?"
"My name is IX," came the tired reply.
"Nine? Are you joking? What happened to the other eight?" Thomas sputtered.
"That is classified."
Thomas rolled his eyes at the familiar answer, and couldn't help giving the injured man a fond smile.
"The target was reported headed due east after the failed attempt at capture by the Weapon Null program. We will begin grid searching from the last known location," Captain Mondellow informed them. "We'll notify you when the target had been spotted."
"Roger that," Trent replied before heading back to the compartment that held his team to finish the final preparations. Cool eyes inspected the team and gave a sharp nod of satisfaction when he saw they were prepared to make the combat jump into the landing zone the moment the target was acquired. Their helmets were open. It would only take a second to flip down the visors, pressurize their Stark Industries Flex-Shield combat survival suits, and activate the optic display located inside their helmets before making the jump.
Each member who would be engaging the enemy directly also wore a High Altitude Wing Kite. Blake, Drum, and Le Quont sported ebony wings to blend into the night, whereas Trent's 'wings' were made of opaque sheets of plastic containing fluorescent gasses. When triggered, the wings would explode into brilliant illumination.
The HAWK harness system was a highly developed personal flight unit designed by the Strategic Hazard Intervention Espionage Logistics Division, known by most as SHIELD. All members of the team were required to master the HAWK before they were fully integrated because of the extreme versatility of the system. It was the most advanced tool in use for insertion into a hot landing Zone because the user was able to control both the speed and angle of decent. That made the HAWK more reliable than parachuting into danger zones.
After being fitted into their battle armor and rigged with HAWK, the members of START strapped their weapons of choice over forearms and on their backs. Every mission utilized specialized weaponry tailored to the task at hand. For Weapon X, they broke out the full arsenal.
Commander Trent's penetrating gaze double checked each member's gear, and he noticed their posture still held a hint of nerves after the preparation. "All right team, from the top." Low groans met this declaration, but the nervousness began to dissipate when they focused on their individual tasks.
"Right. The four of us will descend on Weapon X from all angles," Le Quont started.
Nodding, Trent added, "Then I'll drop in front of it and blast it with the flash attack. That won't put it down, or even hurt it, but I'm hoping it will be disorientated enough for-"
"Me to strike," Le Quont interrupted, tapping his holstered weapon.
"And I open fire in tandem from a different direction," Blake added, stroking the butt of her gun with one gloved hand.
"Together, we'll nail Weapon X with chemical heat. Two to four darts if possible," Le Quont said. "We have to be careful when firing these bad boys."
"Precisely," Commander Trent agreed. "This cannot be stressed enough. We can't fire the Boiler off at random and risk friendly fire. One slip, and you'll be a ketchup packet in under thirty seconds. Is that understood?"
"Yes, sir!" They chorused in unison.
"All right, after the darts take effect, I'll dive in and blanket it in the variable-frequency stun net. That will stun Weapon X," Charles Drum added with an excided bounce.
"If we manage to stick it with four to six darts, even Weapon X's accelerated healing factor will strain to keep up, and might even be overrun," Trent stated. "Between the Boiler and the shock net, we should be able to render the target docile. I'm hoping we'll get lucky and render it unconscious."
"Unconscious would be best," Le Quont added.
"Damned straight," Drum agreed.
"If we are unable to bring it down using the darts and net, what's the plan?" Blake asked.
"Each of you are equipped with secondary weaponry, I highly suggest you utilize it," Trent stated, and glanced out the tiny window at the dusky sky flecked with stars. "Should that fail, then whoever's left standing will paint the mark with lasers and call Willi. The gunship will rain hell down on Weapon X. There won't be a hangnail left of the beast to regenerate."
The inner lights of the compartment dimmed to a sullen scarlet when Willi Von Trakker's voice crackled through the team's headsets.
"The target has been located," he declared. "Weapon X is traversing the easternmost side of the mountain."
Excitement flared in the intelligence officer's words, and sparked equal emotion in the rest of the team. Adrenalin was dumped into their system, joining the excitement when they were struck with a single thought.
This time, it was real.
"Weapon X is in the open. He's entered a level plateau that will prove optimal for the mission. I'm sending the coordinates to your HUD's now," Willi informed them.
"Pressurize now," Trent commanded.
With swift efficiency, the team closed their visors, and listened to the long hiss that indicated pressurization was successful. The GPS navigation located in the helmets flickered to glowing green life, showing a detailed map of the terrain, and a white blip marking Weapon X's position.
"Open the hatch," came Trent's sharp command over the headsets.
A loud pop, followed by a hiss sounded before the hatch in the floor slid open. Night wind roared into the compartment and buffeted the black suited warriors as they engaged in a final gear check.
"Are we ready?"
The team faced him over the gaping hole, and gave him a thumbs up. Through her visor, Trent saw Blake smile weakly. All the training in the world couldn't stand in for the first engagement with a real target.
"See you on the ground," Trent said, before he stepped calmly forward, and fell through the opening to be swallowed by darkness.
Weapon X studied the open terrain and knew this would be the field of battle. His body ached in protest against the orders to deliberately hold himself back, but he would follow IX command. Once he saw his little mate again, he was going to give him a sharp nip as punishment for putting him in this position.
The dull throb of engines in the sky alerted him, and with a guttural snarl he unsheathed his claws. Darkness held sway over the cold landscape, untouched by the absent moon, and even the stars were obscured by drifting clouds. The world seemed to hold its breath in anticipation. Drinking in the frosted night air, X sought his prey's scent, waiting for the attack.
A howling wind broke the silence, and Weapon X wheeled around, sensing eyes on his back. His lips pealed back into a fierce snarl when a bat-like creature dropped out of the sky in front of him. Bringing his arms up, he feigned a swipe, forcing down the instinct to inflict a killing wound.
Commander Trent whipped to the side in time to avoid the attack. Using the sensors in his right glove, he activated the twin repulsion units to slow and halt his decent. With a crisp snap, the rigged wings unfurled in front of X's startled face. Snarling, the Weapon lashed out again, but the man was just out of reach. The commander appeared to hover on wings of opaque plastic before triggering the reaction. Light, more brilliant than burning phosphorus, seemed to explode out of the wings like a giant flashbulb. White luminescence bathed the wind swept plateau, making the snow glitter like a field of diamonds.
In seconds, the light drained from the wings, leaving undeluded darkness in their wake. Unfortunately, the damage had been done, and X's night vision was destroyed. He was effectively blind. His eyes watered in reaction to the attack, and all he saw was flashing white from the light still bouncing around behind his retinas.
Discarding sight, Weapon X focused on his other senses to track his prey. It was a game he and IX often played for the amusement of their trainers. They would be placed in the training ground, and the lights would be cut out to force them to hunt in total darkness. The bouncing light in his head gave it a new twist, but it was in essence the same game.
The mechanical hum of miniature jet engines caught the Weapon's attention. Closing his eyes, X focused his full attention on the sound. The strike had to be timed perfectly. The whine passed over his head, and he lashed out. Adamantium flashed, and the squeal of escaping gas met his ears when they tore a violent path through the right wing. With a grinding pop, the wing collapsed. Cursing, the winged man lost control and spun before crashing into a snowbank fifteen feet away.
Grunting in disgust, Weapon X turned away instead of pursuing the kill as he normally would. It didn't matter, he'd caught the buzz of more wings cutting through the night towards him. He whirled at the sound of a soft metallic ping. The large muscles in his back jumped in reaction when something pricked them. A second cut smoothly into his throat before a third hissed by his right ear.
Reaching up, he plucked the small dart free and tossed it aside with a rasping growl that could almost pass for a laugh. How often had the scientists attempted to use tranquilizers on him? Every attempt, with every know drug and a few that were invented with him in mind, had failed. Pathetic, if that was all they had going for them, then losing to them would be an insu-
Pain bloomed like a terrible rose at the site of the injection before it ripped through his bloodstream, leaving purest torment in its wake. A howling scream was wrenched from his barrel like chest when the gut-churning agony reached a pinnacle he'd never experienced before, not when the scientists experimented on him to test his regenerative capabilities, not when the burning man's breath had stripped him of his very flesh. The whole world was defined by the waves of catastrophic agony.
Gasping, X tried to scream, but a jet of boiling blood erupted from his throat to fan over the pristine snow. He fell to his knees, and savored the deliciously cold ice that turned to steam under his broiling flesh.
Each dart was filled with a compound that attacked the human hemoglobin once it was introduced into the bloodstream. The reaction was violent, forcing the cells to come to a fast boil within the system, effectively turning a victim's own blood in to hot oil, destroying everything in its path. The nasty little cocktail was the result of years of research by some of the top biochemists in the world.
The Boiler was instantly fatal to the average human, but START realized that it was unlikely to have the same effect on something like Weapon X. Their main goal was to incapacitate the Weapon long enough to give them a window to secure it.
After what felt like eternity, the pain began to subside when his healing factor conquered the poison. In seconds, the scalding heat dissipated, and his cells repaired themselves.
Two more darts sped out of the darkness to sink into his flesh, but now all he felt was a minor burn at the injection site that quickly faded. His body had learned the makeup of the compound, and broke it down before it could react with his blood.
Standing, Weapon X threw his head back and roared a challenge to the man infested sky.
With a sputtering cough, the jets on Marcel Le Quont's harness died. The HAWK harnesses had a limited fuel tank, so that wasn't unexpected. However, dropping directly in front of the infuriated Weapon just after the effects of the chemical wore off, and his vision cleared, was not part of the plan.
Bracing himself, Le Quont struck the snow and fell into a fighting stance. The discarded harness flitted to the ground behind him like a dying moth. He brought his gun up to fire another dart, but before he could pull the trigger, savage claws slashed over his chest, following the line of his arm, and bisecting the gun. It took all Weapon X's skill not to do more than surface damage. Blood, hot and sweet, arched through the air in an impressive spray.
Le Quont staggered back with a guttural cry. His uninjured arm coiled around the chest wound as the remains of his weapon fell from numb fingers. Stumbling, he fell to his knees, and bowed his head in anticipation of the finishing blow. Before Weapon X could take a step forward, Blake dove out of the sky. Her booted feet slammed into the back of X's skull followed by the full muscled weight of the woman, plowing him into the ground face first. Sarah rolled with the fall, and shot to her feet in front of Le Quont, her secondary weapon already drawn and firing into Weapon X's broad back.
"Now Drum!" She shouted into her headset.
A net that shimmered like spider silk fell from the sky and draped over Weapon X's fallen form. Over a thousand volts of raw electricity tore through his body, locking his muscles. He could have broken free, but forced himself to fall limp save for the jolting that made his body twitch and thrash under the relentless current.
His breath exploded out of his chest in a harsh woof when Drum's booted feet crashed into the middle of his back, and it took everything X had not to throw the man off. While X was distracted by the one on his back, Blake dove forward and plowed her knee into the back of his neck. Her hands locked in his hair to control his face. A precaution that served her well when he attempted to whip his head around to sink his teeth into her thigh.
The power of the net didn't touch the team, whose armor had been fitted with a base rubber to ground them. Drum knelt on the weapon's back, expertly riding the bucking motions, his mutation compensating for X's every attempt to unseat him. Commander Trent waded into the mess and flung himself across the back of the Weapon's legs, carful to keep out of the path of the extended claws.
"Get those restraints on him now," Trent snarled, his right arm jolting in agony when one of X's leg's crashed into it, fully dislocating his shoulder from the impact. Moving with the speed of a hungry mongoose, Drum's gloved hands darted through the gaps in the net and forced the Weapon's arms behind its back. Shackles that had been designed specifically for this mission bit down on the limbs, locking them together from elbow to wrist, incapacitating the claws that made X so deadly.
Twisting, he moved lower, and smoothly turned his head aside when the extended claws attempted to cleave his face open. Using his unnatural speed to duck and dodge, Drum was able to bind Weapon X's legs at the upper thigh, knee, calf, and ankles. "Still got the front end?" Drum asked.
"Ye-," the sharp crack of bone on bone sounded and she cursed before another thump was heard when she drove his face back into the ice sheathed stone. "Yes. He's secure. Willi, send down the cage," she barked, growling under her breath when X's head twisted again beneath her hand. Even now, beaten and rendered helpless, he still fought the hold.
"Roger that," Willi's voice crackled over the radio before the sound of chopper blades became deafening. A square cage, five feet by five, descended from the open belly of the air craft. It landed with a dull thump in front of them. "Also send down a medevac team for Le Quont."
"Commander, can you open the cage?" Drum asked, deftly avoiding another jerk of the claws. Now that they were trapped behind him, dodging was effortless. Trent stood, his face paled when the move jolted his dislocated arm, but he gave a firm nod, knowing that Drum was trying to get him out of the way without insinuating that he wasn't fit enough to finish the mission. "Blake, on the count of three, let go. I'll take the front, you get his legs, and watch out for those damned claws. Just because he can't swing them around anymore doesn't mean they aren't dangerous."
Blake rolled her eyes at the protectiveness in his tone before she leapt on his count. Moving faster than the eye could follow, Drum sprang forward. Cold metal snapped shut around X's throat, so tight he could hardly breathe under the pressure.
"Bloody hell," Blake grunted as she hefted her end of the Weapon. Together, she and Drum managed to manhandle X into the cage, and long before it was over they were both cursing their injured teammates for leaving all the heavy work to them.
"Come on….Blake…you always could out lift me in the…gym," Le Quont huffed while he was strapped into a gurney. Blood loss made it hard to focus, but he couldn't help teasing her after all the shit she gave him during their workouts.
"Yeah, yeah," she grumbled, and slammed the door closed. In the cage, Weapon X kneeled. Chains bolted into the bottom of the cage were now connected to the collar, forcing him to bow over his knees. More chains were linked to the arm maniacs, and the shackles around his legs. He was bound so tightly he could barely twitch.
"The weapon has been secured and is locked down. Take it up," Commander Trent ordered, and gave a grim smile of satisfaction when the cage rose into the air.
"That's a wrap people. Let's get the package delivered and get patched up," he finished, pride shining in his tone.
Magic formed a warm ball in his chest, and under its gentle persuasion, torn flesh and shattered bone knitted together with unnatural speed. Just like when IX had been a defenseless child, that inner power rose up to protect its vessel from wounds that would have snuffed out his life. Closing his eyes, IX focused on the power. His skills in healing were rarely tested due to his extensive training, and this was the worst injury he'd received. While X had marked him, even in battle testing, the larger male would pull his blows, leaving only minor damage behind.
Sinking into his body, IX studied the power, learning its flavor so that he could better control it in the future. It was different from when he healed others. This power wasn't a beam of power that could destroy as easily as it created. No, this was more like a soft rain that soaked into the damaged flesh and left healing in its wake.
He felt the power drain away once the healing was finished, slipping back into his core to sleep until it was needed again. A rich warm scent greeted his return to consciousness, and IX sat up with slow grace. Stretching, he felt his newly healed muscles creak under the movement, but felt no lingering pain.
Thomas stared in shock at the youth when he sat up and began to unwind the bandages. As the hours passed, he'd become certain IX would die. He had to die. No one, besides the Wildman, could survive taking a bullet to the chest without medical attention. Shaking his head, he could only blink when the pale, whole chest was revealed. Only a slight dimple remained to mark the near fatal wound. "How?" he breathed.
"That is classified."
"You know what kid? That answer is getting old fast."
IX didn't appear to be fazed by his words. Instead the small male looked to the fire. There, a small collapsible pot that had been stashed in his bag simmered among the flames. "Hungry?" Thomas asked, hoping he could distract the assassin with food, thereby prolonging his life a little longer.
"Yes," came the bland reply. IX stood and padded over to the fire to sit across from the hunter.
"I've already eaten, so the rest is yours," Thomas offered.
Nodding, IX used a stick to hook the handle and draw it out of the fire. "This is good," IX stated dryly. Cooking meat over the fire had been good, but this was better still. Thomas frowned. Sure the food was better than the MREs, but not by much, he thought, before realization dawned.
"What, didn't they ever let you eat real food kid?"
"My meals consisted of a proper balance of nutrients to facilitate my training and growth."
Disgust wrinkled Thomas's nose. "That sounds about as appetizing as cardboard." IX didn't respond. He hadn't known food could have a flavor prior to leaving the facility, but he decided that he preferred flavor to the non-flavor of his usual fair. There, his meals had been as bland as his personality, untouched by spice or anything else that wasn't deemed necessary to his survival.
IX scraped the last bite of stew out of the bottom of the pot before he set it aside and stood. Sucking a breath between his teeth, Thomas watched the assassin wearily. The pounding of his heart eased a bit when the kid didn't pull one of those wretched little knives out. Instead, the youth walked past him without a word and headed for the mouth of the cave. Thomas tried to call out, and ask where IX was going, but self-perseveration locked his throat around the words. He didn't know what the kid was up to, and IX wasn't going to tell him, but asking might remind the small male about the knife he'd almost pinned Thomas with when he'd first appeared.
No, Thomas was willing to sit back in silence, and not question why he was still breathing. That seemed like the best way to maintain that state of existence.
IX stepped out of the shadows and into Thomas's cabin. Glancing around the Hunter's living place, he found a field pack and went through the cabin packing up those things the man would need to survive. Once finished, he vanished again, and appeared on the edge of the little village.
He set the bag aside, and pulled one of his daggers out. Without flinching, IX laid the blade across first his left palm, then his right, cutting a deep slash in each. He could feel his magic well up to heal the wounds, but redirected it instead to focus in the blood that now dripped into the snow. Holding his hands out to the sides so that the blood could flow unhindered. He began pacing with slow, deliberate steps around the cluster of homes, leaving behind a trail of magic laced blood in his wake.
When he reached the start of the circle, he allowed the magic to heal the self-inflicted injuries before entering the town again. Like the Lord that once stalked Egypt, snuffing out the lives of the first born, IX moved with grim purpose through the town. Only, for Second Chance, there was no lambs' blood to bar his entry, and it wasn't just the first born who would feel his wrath.
An hour passed as he slipped from home to home, killing with such quiet grace that partners who shared the same bed didn't wake when their loved one's blood spilled. Standing over a cradle, Weapon X looked down at the sleeping infant whose thumb was snuggly secured between plump lips. Her parents had made the journey into death already, and their blood dripped from the knife onto the small pink teddy guarding the child's sleep.
Like a serpent slipping into an unguarded nest, his knife lashed out. The sharp blade sank deep, piercing the fluttering heart with such precision the child's life slipped away before the pain woke her from gentle dreams. Weapon IX's orders had been clear, no member of Second Chance was to survive the night.
As silent as a ghost in the wind, he moved on to the next house.
The Librarian sat back in his worn armchair and filled his pipe. A blazing fire warmed his small cabin to a cozy level, and a small lamp at his chair side table cast enough light to read by. Groaning softly, he shifted in his chair again. His bones creaked in miserable protest against the season, and complained bitterly about their lifestyle. Living out here in the middle of nowhere was for the young, but he was too set in his ways to leave.
Cold air sliced through the fire heated cabin and snaked down his bent spine. Turning, the Librarian could only watch as his door creaked open fully, and revealed the blood spattered youth on his door step.
Seeing the light, IX had left this home for last. He couldn't risk an alarm being raised and the citizens waking.
"You're the other one Thomas talked about, aren't you boy? The knife thrower that was with the Wildman the day Thomas shot him," the Librarian's voice didn't shake, but it was rougher than normal. The boy inclined his head.
"I am."
"I see. I suppose our menfolk weren't enough payment then?" When the posse hadn't returned, no others were sent. The blow to the community had been great, and they couldn't risk further angering the Wildman.
Weapon IX studied the old man. "It is not a question of payment. It is about national security. This community interfered in matters greater than itself. Because of that, it became a liability that cannot be tolerated."
The Librarian shuddered at the dead tone, and knew he and the boy were the only living people in town.
"Thomas was right then. Fires spread, and even the innocent burn," he said forlornly before closing his eyes and taking a deep puff on his pipe. He didn't flinch when the knife slid over his throat, adding his lifeblood to the boy's stained hands.
Cleaning the knife, IX slipped it away and headed outside to finish the task. He returned to the place he'd left Thomas's pack, and turned to face the town. Drawing in a deep breath, Weapon IX opened his eyes and focused.
"Burn."
A dragon of flame was born, and gave a triumphant roar before it flung itself into the heart of the small village. More beasts broke off, devouring everything in their path, feasting on homes, books, and bodies with equal greed. Sweat dotted IX's forehead, and he poured his magic into the blood ring he'd constructed to contain the hell fire. His green gaze burned with the wicked flames while his own inner power gave them life. Then he felt the shift, and the drain cut off.
Now the fire took on life of its own, independent of its creator. The roaring pillar of flame ripped through the land, leaving desolation in its wake before it crashed into the blood barrier and was halted.
IX swayed when the savage power snarled, lashing out at his protection, but his strength held.
"Enough," he gasped, and began closing the circle, herding the fire back into the center of the town. This was the largest fire he'd ever conjured, and magic gushed out of him like blood from a severed artery. His shield fluctuated, and almost shattered when the enchanted fire fought for control.
"I Said Enough!" IX shouted and slammed his hands together. With a crash like thunder, the shield collapsed in on itself, snuffing out the flames in one crushing blow.
IX fell with the shield, his power drained to near fatal levels.
After IX left, Thomas decided to slip back into town to get his supplies. It was time to move on. Even if the town forgave him, and took him back, Thomas would never feel comfortable living there again, knowing he'd failed to save the idiots on the mountain from themselves.
Hiking down the mountain in the dark hadn't been pleasant, but Thomas made good time. His feet hesitated on the trail when brilliant golden light bloomed out of the darkness. So much light. It was brighter than the fires the fat man started were. Dread filled Thomas's heart, and he broke into a stumbling run. When the trees broke up enough for him to see, his legs gave out, sending him tumbling into the snow.
Still his head remained up, his dark eyes wide with torment as he stared at the towering mountain of fire that engulfed the town. At the base of the fire, a tiny figure stood, arms outstretched, commanding the demon flames in their hellish task. Then those delicate hands slammed together, and Thomas was blown off his feet by the backlash of power.
Blood trickled into his eyes from the shallow gash on his forehead, but Thomas didn't notice. He staggered to his feet and ran. Again his feet faltered, almost spilling him back to the ground when he saw the shattered, blackened stone where a village once stood. There weren't even the burned out husks of homes to show that this place had once been inhabited. Shaking, he turned away and almost tripped over the crumpled heap on the ground.
Thomas stared down at the fallen boy, hate boiling in his veins. He snatched his hunting knife out of its sheath and leaned over the murderer, resting the blade directly over the treacherous heart. Lips pealed back, the native leaned forward to plunge the blade home.
"God damn it!" he shouted. Ash, the ashes of everyone he'd known here, fell around them, and he couldn't do it. He couldn't kill the boy who looked so childlike in his unconsciousness.
The one who'd spared him again. Putting the knife away, he glanced around and couldn't keep the surprise off his face when he spotted his travel pack. A quick look through the pack showed everything he would need to travel. Why? Why me and not them?
Bending over, he slid his arms under the limp weight and hefted the child-like killer into his arms.
Weapon IX woke to the familiar comfort of the cave. Deerskin had been draped over him, and though the fire had gone out at some point, the cave held enough warmth to keep him from freezing. Glancing around, he found no sign of Thomas, and wondered what possessed the Hunter to bring him here.
Dismissing the mystery, IX closed his eyes and spoke.
"Weapon IX reporting."
Acknowledged, continue.
"The mission is complete. The settlement known as Second Chance was destroyed, and all citizens of the town neutralized," he stated. The village banished Thomas before the kill order was, he was no longer a citizen. He thought, rationalizing his reasons for not executing the man, or reporting his existence to his superiors.
Roger that, a transport will arrive at your position in oh-eight-hundred. Out.
Closing his eyes, IX let the darkness claim him for a few more hours.
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