Chapter Twenty-Two

Staten Island, Inter-Guarda outpost... virtual reality

Behind closed doors, and an impenetrable sound dampening field, Volkard Rand was sitting in a Neural Subnet chair, convening with Lucius DeBeers, on the aftermath of the Archives incident.

The round table was empty of everyone but the two of them, their avatars circling it like a pair of boxers eyeing each-other, with the table being the only thing in the way of them going at each-other's throats.

"When were you planning on telling me the Council had a sleeper inside my office?! Is my word worth so little now, Lucius, that I am to be disrespected like that?" - Rand snarled, jabbing a finger across the table.

"Not a sleeper, my friend. At least not our sleeper. An opportunity, which I chose to take advantage of." - DeBeers raised a hand in a placating gesture, though his tone was cold.

"And a test of your own awareness, of course. I've known about miss Bekrios being compromised by the Collective, for a long time. And sharing it with you – well. Had I done so, and had you confronted her about it, her Collective contact would have caught on, and aborted the operation. Plus, I preferred you to remain focused on your work on laying the foundations for the Act. Instead, we have killed two birds with one stone; and no, I don't just mean her and her brother. We have replaced her with an identical-looking asset, who has taken her identity, and her place in being 'extracted' from the country, to hopefully meet with other Collective agents, before being debriefed. Whether by the late miss Bekrios's handler... likely Kelso... or someone higher up the chain within the Collective – either will benefit us." - the silver-haired eminence paused.

"The tale of woe she will have to tell them, about her 'brother' being murdered while she 'barely escaped', will only solidify her cover and allow her deeper integration into the Collective. While our acquisition of the Collective's codes from your captive was useful, Janus has likely changed them by now, preemptively. We have listened-into several of their communiques, from various parts of the world, and have been unable to pinpoint the nexus. Only some of the relay outposts and front-entities, which are being raided as we speak, across Europe and Western Asia. We're entering a more involved phase of our war with Janus and his minions."

Rand glared, but nodded. It made sense. What didn't make sense was of course, the virtual elephant in the room.

"Why didn't you coordinate your assets' attack on the Archives, with my own?! We could've finished Fedorova off, then and there, if you'd have let me know! After all your insistence on me handling this, you send two – two – assets behind my back, to deal with her? I'm sorry, which part of her being the best, that ever came from Triaxis, escaped your notice? You said so yourself, back then, when you insisted on her being inducted into the Tyrants! Where did you get off thinking that two Shadows were a match for her?! Yes we've made some improvements to their setup, since their debacle in Dubai, but still... Limited experience, and a few modern toys, against her decade of augmetic integration, training and real-world experience? There is a reason I-" - before DeBeers cut him off, impatiently.

"Yes, yes, your personally-picked Inter-Guarda minions and whatever... else... you might have that you may have neglected to bring the Council into." - emphatically, before he continued, as Rand's face twitched slightly.

"But you miss the point. The attack's main purpose wasn't to kill the rogue. Granted, it would've been useful... but making her suspicious of her new allies, will do for now. Specifically this Panama cell she seems to be working with. Given what we learned from miss Bekrios, before we replaced her. Have Fedorova divide her attention, between wondering what's going on back there; is Anna Kelso scheming to dispose of her, and her efforts against you. Seeds of mistrust like that can grow into very useful trees, down the line." - he paused, significantly.

"And of course, give the media their weekly dose of terror-scare, from the demented hanzers. Did you see how nicely our friend Morgan has spun it, in the news? Especially on the eve of Act's ratification... a Collective attack on the USA National Archives!" - with a wink.

Rand glared.

"What if she overreacts and kills my son in response?! Did you ever think of that? Cornering and annihilating her with overwhelming force would have precluded even a possibility of that! Not to mention served the same purpose, in public perceptions." - slamming a fist on the table – which of course, phased-through the holographic image.

"And in the process, turned New York into a security-zone? Possibly even necessitating a curfew, or martial law, given the calibre of our rogue? Giving the Collective a real reason to strike, given how important she is now, in their ranks? Just imagine, the public fallout, and potential for exposure. On the cusp of the Act's ratification? Such sledgehammer-approach is not feasible at this time, and you should know that, Volkard. Besides – she would lose her bargaining chip, if she did that." – DeBeers countered easily.

"No my friend, your son is a crucial piece on her chessboard now, as long as she's intent on rescuing her little terrorist confederate. But I don't expect you need reminding of that, given how tight a leash you seem to be keeping on the local police, in pursuing the case more vigorously themselves. No... you have that covered, at least. I expect your real ire is with being kept out of the loop." - it wasn't a question, as he eyed the younger man evenly.

"You should've trusted me. After all we did together." - Rand bit out, without meaning it. Instantly, he grimaced slightly, wishing he worded that different, but it was too late. His emotions spoke before he did.

DeBeers gave him an indulgent smile, as one might give a naive child.

"Perhaps I will, once more. After you earn it, once more, Volkard. And a good beginning would be, to stop reacting, to miss Fedorova's moves, and start anticipating them. I realise young Owen's abduction is – unpleasant – to deal with, and has likely impacted your judgement lately, but there is only so much impulsiveness the Council will tolerate. You will deal with this, but you will do so quietly. Without drawing undue attention. Also, you will better screen your own employees, from now on. And no, not by inserting your penis into them." - significantly, before his avatar vanished.

Leaving Rand's avatar alone in the chamber, to literally tremble, in rage, as his expression twisted into a silent snarl, at the unfettered condescention he was subjected to. With great effort, he forced his indignation down. No matter how much he might loath DeBeers lately, the man was right. He was losing the plot, here. And given the precarious position he was in, both regarding Fedorova being after him, and his future as a member of the Five... impulsiveness was a luxury he couldn't afford.

"Sir? We need to talk." - Michael Zelazny fell in step beside Rand, as soon as he exited the chamber.

The augmented soldier's expression was uncharacteristically dour, for him, as Rand motioned him to go ahead.

"What's the deal with that auged-up chick I've seen around the base lately, sir? She's not Inter-Guarda, and every time I've asked her anything, she just points me to you. Calls you 'Volky'... pretty informal, I should think? Also seems a bit... uhm... slow. If you know what I mean. Spends most of her time in that lab on Level Three, with that doctor lady that came in a few days ago. No identity check-in, no DNA scans on record – it's like those two are ghosts, and the kind of credentials they have is way above my pay-grade. Some of the guys are starting to get curious. And I can't say I blame 'em."

"A personal associate." - the bald man assured him, "You needn't concern yourself with her, Commander, and I assure you, she isn't here to either supplant or challenge your authority. Let's just say that with recent events, and Fedorova on the loose in the city, I felt it necessary to bring in some more – specialised – assistance. She answers directly to me, and the doctor in question is someone intimately familiar with her special – maintenance – needs."

"Special maintenance... you mean, some kind of experimental aug-setup?" - Zelazny persisted, "Just by visual assessment, I can tell she's way beyond even a milspec S-grade asset. Isn't that kind of enhancement supposed to be illegal, these days? Plus, I couldn't help but notice she looks a little like Fedorova. I mean, I didn't see the rogue that well, back on the Queen in the rain when we exchanged fire, but she's got the same figure and-" - before Rand interrupted him.

"You're beginning to exceed your clearance, Commander. That will be all. Now. I want a full report on what your men saw in Hell's Kitchen so far. Then we can begin to correlate that with the police report of the AI van they found, not far from the Archives." - in the kind of tone that made it clear the subject-change was not optional.

Zelazny's eyes narrowed, clearly not quite ready to drop it, but he nodded.

"Fine... It seems missus Rand has taken a more active part. She was observed with a middle-aged individual, near the Hilton. They may have booked there. Intellicam ID lists him as one Brent Radford. They were in the company of a local man, ID'd as Gilbert Renton. He's got a police record, mostly minor infractions and drug abuse."

At this, Rand gritted his teeth, even as Zelazny continued, "With all due respect sir, can't you tell her to stay out of this-" - before he was interrupted.

"I can tell you've never been married, Commander. Especially not to a woman like Aria. She doesn't take well to being kept out of the loop, even when necessary. And she loves Owen. I want your people to keep observing. Do not interfere, unless she's in danger. If she felt the need to bring Radford in on this... well, frankly, I'd rather have him, sniffing around, then those idiots in the police. He's a... known... variable. A private detective. And a resourceful one." - the man's eyes going remote, remembering the Illuminati reports he'd seen, about Radford's involvement with David Sarif.

"You think they can dig up something we can follow up on, sir?" - Zelazny frowned. Rand nodded.

"I think they haven't decided to visit the Kitchen for their health, no. They are staying there for a reason."

"Why not just ask them?" - the cyborg pointed out. Rand shook his head.

"Not over a phone. Too much potential for eavesdropping, if Fedorova has the means at her disposal. Or whoever else besides Lexi, that she may be working with. Communications blackout stays in place. And my wife doesn't have an encrypted line she could use to stay in contact with me. We never anticipated a need for it... an oversight, it seems." - he sighed, then looked at Zelazny.

"Have your people find out which room she's staying in. Then we can use the hotel's mail service to deliver messages." - he ordered.

Jamella's temporary quarters, at the same time...

It was remarkable, what a proper nights' sleep could do, following a hardy meal, and a bath. Not to mention a visit to the base's infirmary, where the young hacker was given a full examination, and something for the pain. Unlike the 'doctors' at that horrible place she was locked in, who were a party to the rape and torture, the medical staff here was considerate, even... gentle. Whether it was spontaneous, or on direct orders from Rand, given how important her well-being was now... the young woman appreciated it.

Not that it changed anything. Not that it had any hope of undoing what was done to her. But Jamella refused to even allow her mind to dwell on it. Each time it did, she simply forced herself to think about something else. Anything else, as tears came to her eyes, which she angrily wiped off. Building a wall, around it. Impenetrable, iron-hard barrier. The first – compartment.

She remembered, what she asked Yelena. How did the woman get there, how did she become damaged. She remembered Yelena's reply, how she wasn't ready for the answer.

I don't need to ask anymore.

The girl decided. But at the same time – she also decided that she wouldn't allow it to define her. To damage her. But deciding something, and sticking to it, were different things entirely. She could see it. She could see how easy it would be, to begin giving in to the rage, the violation pulsing within. How comforting it would be. How catharthic.

How damning.

She was under constant scrutiny. Not for a single moment while outside of her quarters, was she ever left alone. Whether by the Inter-Guarda troops, or not-Yelena, someone was always watching her. The only place she had the illusion of privacy, was in here, and the girl wasn't naive enough to assume that the place wasn't crawling with listening devices and possibly even hidden cameras.

They were taking no chances. Watching TV, and the aftermath of the incident at the Archives last night, she couldn't help but wonder, if Yelena had something to do with that. The notion that it was a terrorist attack by the Collective, was absurd, and she could only roll her one eye at that.

We're the favourite pin-to group, of course. Especially over here in the States, where ARC isn't a factor. But why in hell's name would Janus or any of us give a shit about the Archives?! Much less enough to set fire to the place, and shoot up some guards?! Nothing in there but citizen records and a bunch of who-knows-how-old history books and documents. We can pull down personal information a lot easier, then having to breach into those central servers there. Local nodes, precinct records, even personal computers... it's all connected, and all a lot more vulnerable to penetration, spoofing and DDOS then a central node like the Archives. Hell, if they didn't watch my every move, I could probably take this TV apart, connect the transceiver unit to my dataport, and use it to slice into the local network from right here in this room.

She thought, turning off the TV, and stretching on the couch, only in a pair of too-wide male slacks and a simple tank top, barefoot. It didn't make sense to her. As she did, her gaze fell to one of the curtain-holders near the window... at the top of it, there was a soft glint of a camera lens, just peeking between the folds of the curtain. She smirked.

There's one... who knows how many more. Not a bad hiding spot, actually.

Suddenly, there was a knock on the door. Her smirk turned venomously sarcastic. How polite of them.

"The fuck do you want?!" - she snapped, not even looking at the door, as she sank deeper into the couch in a very irreverent, splayed-open posture, deliberately meant for the camera in the folds, to convey that she didn't give a shit, that she was being watched. Hell, she suspected that whoever was on surveillance duty was probably having a good jackoff, right now. Loser...

~"It is Me! Wanna play game, Jeml?"~ - the simplistic, happy, childlike tone of not-Yelena came through the door. It made the young woman roll her human eye, as her cybernetic one was running a detailed scan of the camera between the curtains.

A self-powered miniature Zuikkor model, not a part of whatever internal grid in the building. Recent retrofit, likely on it's own dedicated feed. And not an Intellicam. Standard camera, with no ability to flag false-visuals... Jamella pursed her lips, shadows of an idea forming in her mind – before she focused on the arrival again.

Must be nice, to be retarded... you don't have to remember most things done to you. Ignorance really is bliss.

The girl was tempted to snap something obscene back, but... she hesitated. The doppleganger, despite making her slightly – nervous – around her... was still someone who took her away, from her tormentors. Who punished them. Under orders or not... conditioned or not... and Jamella didn't forget how – considerate – she was towards her, when she didn't need to be. How she didn't want to hurt her. That wasn't orders, or conditioning. That was simply the strange woman's... natural inclination, most likely.

"Umm... sure, come in!" - she finally glanced at the door.

It opened, to admit the tall, whipcord-frame of the lookalike. Even now, Jamella marvelled how similar, yet – different – she looked, to Yelena. There was none of the measured, graceful movement that she'd become used to seeing, from her. None of the coiled readiness to strike, none of the gliding, almost... ethereal quality... to her presence. Quality that at the same time, inspired awe, and latent fear.

In it's place, was the stiff, utilitarian, robotic motion of a machine. There was no doubt the doppleganger had a lower centre of mass, and wasn't quite as tall, as Yelena. To Jamella's eye, now in bright lighting – about 8-10 centimetres shorter. She seemed more planted, more... solid... on her feet. And they were feet. Not hooves. But in that solidity, the fluidity was lost. The ethereal, otherwordly grace was gone. The biggest difference were the eyes, however.

Yelena's deep, black, shaded gaze was... well. Words were scarcely sufficient to describe it. It was at the same time; forbidding, yet inviting, mesmerising, yet hollow, penetrating one to their soul. Shifting with her moods, making one lose themselves in it. Without even trying... or maybe with trying, on purpose, for all Jamella knew... the cyborg woman's presence was off the scale. She enticed, denied, intimidated, or appealed... at will. No wonder her former subordinates called her a medusa.

The doppleganger... it was like she wasn't there. Those two bright blue implants staring soullessly ahead, like twin sapphires. Expressionless. Shallow. They changed the entire feel, of her face. In place of Yelena's exotic aquiline countenance, there was almost... homely quality to it. No makeup. Some faded scarring. The woman was far from unattractive, but... there was not even a hint of appeal there. And that dumb-looking smile and vacant, autistic expression certainly didn't help. She very much looked like a robot with some skin on top.

"Hi Jeml! You better now? Umggh... You no hurt no more?" - the smile widened. Jamella forced herself to smile back. It came up somewhat brittle, but she was pretty confident the nuances would be lost on her visitor, who so far only took things at face value.

"I'm alive. Better... is a relat- umm... I mean, yeah! I'm better then I was back there, that's for sure! I... don't hurt no more." - deciding to keep her sentences simple. The last part was, of course, a lie.

"Good! Me happy you no hurt!" - the straightforward sincerity in that simple voice took some of the brittleness out of Jamella's smile, as she continued, "Look what I bring! You uggh... you play dominos?" - she hefted a brightly coloured flat box she was carrying, images of rectangular pieces on it, for the young woman to see.

"I guess... I did when I was a kid. Been a while since I've seen a full set." - the hacker admitted. The woman gave her a toothy grin – Jamella noticing that the missing tooth was replaced.

"Yes! Full set! No piece lose! I have it for long time. Wanna play?" - bouncing eagerly, before she squatted down on the carpeted floor, opening the box and spreading the pieces out.

Try as hard as she might, not to see it... Jamella couldn't help but be reminded of an enthusiastic child. Almost against her will, her smile turned fully genuine. There was something infectious, about her visitor's simple innocence. Despite the conditioning, despite the hell she no doubt went through.

So far removed from her own current angst... or Yelena's unrelenting, unforgiving nihilism and buried rage, even when she was trying to be positive. Even during their most carefree moments, back in Antigua... there was always that undercurrent. That emptiness, right below the surface. Like she couldn't bring herself to ever be truly happy.

How could two - basically indentical people... be so different? Is it just the fact that – this one – doesn't really understand enough, to be angry? Is she mentally impaired enough to simply not see it, or care? Is ignorance truly bliss? Or is there more to it then that? Even back there, when she was beating the shit out of those two pale freaks, the rage didn't seem... natural. It looked – conditioned. Forced. Imposed on her. With Yelena, it's the opposite. When she's happy and carefree, it seems – forced. Like she's pretending, for our sakes. Her rage is natural.

Jamella wondered, uneasily.

"Sure. Let's play!" - squatting down opposite to her.

Early afternoon, Hell's Kitchen... a small apartment above the Underworld club

"Wash your hands and come to the table. Or you will not eat." - Yelena glanced at the sullen figure in the bedroom, sitting on the makeshift bed with hands rubbing his face. Even in the dim light of a single lamp, Owen's eyes looked bloodshot and haggard, his cheeks streaked with dried tears, his lips cracked.

In the apartment's small kitchenette, she had just finished making scrambled eggs and bacon. Hardly a proper lunch, but... it was one of the few dishes she knew how to make well. And it was all she managed to buy, earlier when she went out, without drawing too much attention.

The apartment itself was scarcely larger, then the studio flat she occupied back in Gorelovo two years ago – but unlike that dillapidated place, this one wasn't on the verge of falling apart due to moisture or simple neglect. It was less furnished however, with only a simple table, some chairs, and a pair of cots serving as beds. No storage space, no wardrobes, just a minuscule shower cabin and a cracked mirror over a sink with no warm water, and a separate toilet. A kitchen with a combined stove/fridge, and a single bedroom where both cots were set up.

Still, it had heating, was relatively clean, and it beat the basement – or the water treatment facility below.

Billy had come through, arranging a meeting with a Jaxer representative and his escorts, earlier today, in one of the club's back rooms. It went mostly smoothly. The rep himself was a rather sophisticate-talking, natch black man in a suit, and a garish golden chain around his neck, with the kind of 'high class gangster' feel that wasn't dissimilar from some of the higher-positioned Bratva lieutenants she dealt with. The escorts made up for it, a pair of heavily augmented bruisers, one of them a former heavyweight AFC fighter, the other; his loudmouth, heavily tattooed girlfriend, one of the 'playing tough' types. Conversely, she always made sure to stay just out of Yelena's reach.

As was the case with the Bratva, Yelena had to – demonstrate – a few things, to be taken seriously. Unlike the Bratva, these guys didn't take nearly as much persuasion, in that regard. And it was a pretty clean fight... that guy didn't suffer from the same inferiority complex the Bratva thug did back then, so it didn't devolve into a bloody mess like it did then – despite his girlfriend's goading – before the rep put a stop to it.

And also, this time she had the benefit of her reflex-boosting, to make it much more one-sided. Despite the man's massive strength and weight advantage, and heavy-duty augmetic arms, he just wasn't fast enough, to keep her from countering and getting inside his guard at will. Small wonder – dedicated reflex-boosting implants were strictly limited to high-end milspec designs, even in the old days; and especially today, with high-end augmentation being increasingly regulated into oblivion.

The actual negotiations were... something that Yelena still wasn't sure how it would play out, if she stayed here for too long. She managed to convince the representative, that she was here on behalf of the Sankt Peterburg chapter of Bratva, to establish a potential supply line for Neon. She knew that Neon had yet to find it's way across the Atlantic to the USA, so it was a plausible enough gambit to make. The rep wanted to see a sample, but she managed to convince him that one would be on it's way in the coming week, after she 'reported back' to her handlers, with good news on the collaboration.

It was a calculated risk – since there was no doubt the Jaxers would try to corroborate her story through their own contacts in Europe. She could only hope Igor would play along, once it reached his ears. And it was a real potential business opportunity. Spur-of-the-moment one, but... he never struck her as the type not able to adapt fluidly.

For now however, her gambit worked. The Jaxers allowed her to move into this apartment, with only a nominal rent-fee of five thousand credits, which she was easily able to cover with the money she had on her. And her being – available – to them, in case things came up that needed handling discreetly. Her ability to cloak had left an impression – not to mention her skill in combat.

In short – it was very similar to her early arrangement with the Bratva, as Yelena anticipated it would be. Getting Rand junior here, didn't prove too difficult, after she again impressed on him what would happen if he even tried, to call for help.

Glancing again at Owen, still sitting on the bed, she scowled.

"Or you can stay hungry. Your decision. Don't expect warm meals often." - noncommitally with a shrug, as she set the table, with two plates, and began doling out steaming portions. Then she poured two glasses of apple juice, that she also bought earlier.

The boy was silent, as he glanced at the table – and the cyborg woman didn't need any special skill at reading body language, to notice his longing gaze at the plate. No wonder – aside from that small pack of jerky yesterday, he hadn't eaten anything in over 24 hours now.

He twitched, before speaking up...

"What - what's the point? Wh-when you... you say you're... g-g..." - he paused, choking briefly, "...gonna kill me... anyway." - looking away again, on the verge of more tears.

She shook her head with gallows humour.

"So your idea of protest, is to starve until that moment? What is the point of that? When I do kill you, it will be quick and painless. Death by starvation is far worse."

She meant it. Whatever torments Yelena had in mind for his father – Owen didn't deserve any of it. He would die – the score had to be settled. But he didn't need to suffer, before he did. His mother – she would make that decision when the time came. His father... was a different matter.

She had tortured people before, in ways that would make the Spanish Inquisition weep. Men especially. In ways that transcended agony, that surpassed hellish. She had spent countless hours, fantasising of ever more imaginative, diabolical ways to make people suffer, during her years in the Tyrants. For Volkard Rand... that wouldn't be enough. His death would only come, after he couldn't physically, emotionally, and mentally suffer, any longer. Until he was a broken, withered shell, and useless to derive any more satisfaction from.

"Maybe I don't care, huh?!" - Owen growled. She shrugged again.

"Maybe you don't. Very well, I will eat your share too." - deadpan, reading right through his bluff, making it as if she was going to scrape his part into her plate.

"N-no! No wait... I... uh... I'm starving! I'll... I'll go wash my hands!" - he hastened, getting off the bed and stomping over to the bathroom to do so, and also splash some water over his tear-streaked face.

Yelena watched him... biting her lip.

"It isn't personal. It's just something that is necessary." - quietly. The withering glare she got in return was telling.

The meal went in silence, for the most part, Owen still treating her to that glare, as he ate like there was no tomorrow. He wasn't kidding – he was famished.

"Is... it it gonna make you happy, to kill me? Is... uh... is it gonna bring your folks back?" - he asked, shuddering.

"No." - she replied, holding his gaze evenly.

"Then... wh-why do it?"

Yelena shrugged, taking another mouthful. Then she shook her head.

"If you have to ask that... I can't explain it to you." - she paused, "You people... you... westerners. You do not believe in anything. You have no... no standards to hold on to, no traditions to cherish... no frame of reference, to understand, what it means to close a circle. You don't believe in revenge, and it's sacred place in a healthy society. You're trained to demonise it. Abhorr it. Think of it as something evil, something... uncivilised. You put your notion of civilisation, above doing what needs to be done. ESPECIALLY where family is involved! Where blood, calls for blood." - she rose her voice slightly.

The boy's face was blank, clearly not understanding, as he shrunk back from her slightly, clearly unnerved by the anger.

"S-sorry – I didn't meant to... to..." - he trailed off, looking away.

"You sue each other into oblivion, instead of settling disputes like people of integrity should! Your notion of family is at best – a lip service. You divorce each other all the time. You let go, of wrongs against you. You forgive, forget, abstain, restrain. You don't love without reservation, you don't hate without restraint... you don't hold anything affirmed, or sacred. Not God, not family, not anything or anyone else... except money. Bling. Flash and pomp." - Yelena carried on hotly, disgust dripping from her lips, then paused, watching him press into his chair in open fear.

"You're too civilised, to understand. To understand what you father and his friends did to me! And for that, I feel sorry for you." - she finished, suddenly rising from the chair.

"Finish up! Now." - she intoned sharply.

Just then, there was a ringing on the door. In an instant, Yelena had a Zenith in her hand, flattening against a wall, out of direct line-of-fire from the doorway. Listening hard.

"Who is it?" - she called, motioning for Owen to be quiet.

~"Uhm... it's Gil. Billy told me where to find ya... umm... we need to talk!"~ - came the familiar voice beyond the door, carrying within it an equal measure of hesitation and determination.