Chapter Text
You may cry, as long as no one is watching.
Your father's voice was stern, brooking no objections. You stood on this side of the observation room's thick glass. An eight-year-old, still utterly fragile girl. And in there, strapped to a gurney with heavy belts, a patient writhed in agony the result of yet another one of your father's aggressive experiments.
Tears rolled down your cheeks, brought on by an instinctive, childlike pity for someone else's pain.
Your father never laid a hand on you. Grief hadn't turned him into a tyrant, but rather into the most ruthless pragmatist. The man rested his broad, heavy palm on your shoulder, forcing you to look straight at the convulsing man.
— Who do these tears help? Him? You? — he asked, looking right over your head. — Tears are like blood. Predators can smell it.
You sniffled, trying to suppress a shiver, and leaned closer to the glass. You never had what people call a normal childhood. While other girls played with dolls, you sat on the floor of his office, surrounded by tomes on anatomy and behaviorism, asking questions that made the nannies' blood run cold. Your father didn't have to break your nature; you gravitated toward his world all on your own.
After your mother withered away from a severe illness, your father completely buried himself in his work.
— Softness killed your mother, — he said dryly. The pain in his voice flickered for only a split second before vanishing beneath a mask of absolute control. — I don't have a son to pass my life's work and my name to. Which means, it will be you.
He turned you to face him, forcing you to look right into his calculating, gray eyes.
— Look at this world, — he nodded toward the window. — It will devour any woman who dares to be weak. If you act the way they expect a woman to act—showing compassion and yielding—men will crush you on your very first day.
His fingers tightened on your shoulder just a fraction.
— Read their fears. See their vices and motives before they even open their mouths. And if you need to cry...
With a hard, dry finger, he wiped the moisture from your cheek.
— ...do it only in a locked room. So that no one sees.
You shifted your gaze from your father back to the patient behind the glass.
— Yes, Dad.
Fifteen years later. Sinyala, Murkoff Corporation.
— Leave all personal belongings, electronics, and metal items in locker number forty-two. Take only your pass, — a voice droned monotonically from the other side of the bulletproof glass.
A young guy sat behind the registration desk. You couldn't really make out his face: the lower half was hidden by a thick medical mask, and his eyes were concealed behind thick-rimmed dark glasses. He didn't even look at you, mechanically shuffling some forms.
You smoothly placed your small duffel bag onto the metal surface, asking no unnecessary questions. And even though anxiety throbbed deep inside you, outwardly you remained flawlessly cold. Your father would be proud. And there was good reason for the anxiety; the last forty-eight hours had felt like a surreal fever dream. Right after the reading of your father's will, two men in sharp suits had approached you. You were literally shoved into a black sedan, barely given a chance to pack your things. Then came a long flight on an unmarked private jet, another car ride, and hours of rattling off-road. The only thing shedding any light on the situation was a hefty folder of employment documents and a sealed envelope the notary had handed you along with the keys to your father's office. A letter written in that familiar sharp, sweeping handwriting:
If you are reading this, my contract is complete. I gave the best years of my research to this project. Now, by right of blood and name, this place is yours. I spent my whole life forging you into a weapon for this exact purpose. The man who fancies himself the master of the facility right now is blinded by his own ego. His system is crumbling, and the attack dogs can already smell the fear. The German cannot be trusted. Do not cross him. Do not disappoint me. And remember the golden rule.
Even from beyond the grave, your father had managed to dictate your fate, tossing you right into the thick of a cold, corporate meat grinder. Well, at least he left the bank account. A definite plus that somewhat offset the massive minus of the corporation.
You kept only the thin contract folder and a white plastic badge in your hands. The metal locker door slammed shut with a harsh clang.
— Step through the metal detector. The elevator is behind you, level minus three, administration sector, — the masked guy threw out, still completely indifferent. — They are already expecting you.
You adjusted the collar of your strict blouse, spun on your heels, and, measuring every single step, headed straight for the steel elevator doors.
The elevator car shuddered, and with a guttural hum, the mechanism pulled you deep underground. After a while, the doors slid open. Level minus three greeted you with a muted light that stood in stark contrast to the hectic hustle of the upper floors. Two armed, silent operatives were already waiting for you at the exit. In total silence, they escorted you down winding corridors to a massive, unmarked door.
Inside, the room felt more like solitary confinement or an interrogation cell than an executive office. Bare concrete walls, a heavy stainless steel table right in the middle. The only source of light was a single overhead lamp, illuminating only the tabletop and two silhouettes sitting across from it in the gloom.
Two men sat in the thick shadows. Their faces were hidden; all you could see were the expensive fabrics of their suits, their cufflinks, and their steepled fingers.
— Take a seat, — the voice of one of them was dry, utterly devoid of inflection.
You pulled out a chair and sat down, maintaining perfect posture, resting your hands on the table.
— Your father was... an outstanding scientist and visionary, — the second man spoke up, his silhouette appearing slightly bulkier. — And a highly useful partner to the corporation. He assured us that you are his greatest creation. Given the circumstances, we decided to listen to him and invited you here to take his place.
A leather-gloved hand emerged from the darkness, sliding a thick cardboard folder stamped with a red 'CLASSIFIED' seal across the metal surface toward you.
— 'Invited'? — the corner of your mouth twitched ever so slightly, betraying your irony. — A highly diplomatic term for a visit from two mute operatives, a forced car ride, and a one-way flight with no right to pack.
One of the men in the shadows shifted slightly, but you didn't let him respond, continuing in a steady tone:
— Murkoff prefers to skimp on manners when it comes to efficiency. If you've resorted to such a radical 'invitation', it means the program is bursting at the seams. So let's skip the foreplay. And since we're cutting to the chase, why am I the one plugging this hole? Where is Dr. Wernicke?
In the dim light, you could see the first man's fingers interlock tightly. It clearly pissed him off that a young woman—whom he viewed merely as a useful inherited asset—dared to dictate the tone of the conversation. Especially with such snark.
— Dr. Wernicke is occupied with... more fundamental phases of the Morphogenic Engine. What you will be working with is Project LATHE TWO. And that is Dr. Easterman's diocese.
The heavyset man chuckled, slightly cutting through the heavy tension in the air.
— You are definitely your father's daughter, — a hint of something akin to approval slipped into his voice. — The same vicious grip. We've granted you full access. Open it.
You smoothly pulled the folder toward you and flipped open the heavy cardboard cover. Inside was the chronologically arranged history of Easterman's downfall. The first document was an old, nearly scrapped report.
— Project LATHE. Phase One: Limbic Aggression Therapy, — you read aloud.
On paper, it looked like a typical government contract. But, reading between the lines of the excerpts from Easterman's personal diaries, you immediately spotted his true motive. He didn't give a fuck about the Cold War. You turned the page, stumbling upon the statistics.
— Phase one drowned in blood, — you stated, staring at the numbers. — A massive body count and irreversible brain damage due to aggressive drug regimens. And phase two... The Reagents are initially healthy, yet worthless people who are cheaper to house. And to break their psyches down to the foundation...
You fanned the glossy photos out on the illuminated tabletop.
— ...he decides to deploy defective assets.
Your finger glided over the photographs. One showed the madness-twisted face of a man in a modified police uniform. Another featured a terrifying woman with a maniacal grin and a puppet on her mutilated arm. The third was just some hysterical manchild with a shotgun... and so on.
— He uses uncontrollable sadists, while hiding behind tinted glass, playing the invisible deity, calling himself a father to mask his own gross incompetence.
You looked up again; yeah, you were used to analyzing out loud, but they needed to understand exactly who they were dealing with.
— You want to know if his star players can be fixed, or if they're a lost cause?
The first man nodded slowly, reluctantly, in the gloom.
— Exactly. Your verdict, — the second one replied instantly.
— They can be made to work for us if we hijack the triggers. I need to personally evaluate each Prime Asset and observe the Reagents' reactions. And for that, I'll need full administrative access. To their files, to the therapy protocols, and, most importantly, to the control panel for their behavioral inhibitors. If Easterman can no longer keep his attack dogs on a leash, then I'll take the leash.
The first man, who had been sitting stiffly and tensely, slowly leaned back in his chair. The lamp's light barely caught the movement of his chin.
— Mmm... What a cocky little statement, — he sneered with blatant skepticism. If you could see his whole face right now, it would be plastered with a sickeningly arrogant smirk. — Dr. Easterman spent years trying to train these ugly mutts, and even under him, they regularly snap their chains. What makes you think they won't bite your hand off, and snap right along with that little leash of yours? And then they'll rape you—tear off that delicate blouse, wipe their snot on you, and blow their load inside it... the very second you try to yank on it. You've got daddy's theory backing you, but this... is practice. Are you entirely sure you can handle this level of shit?
You weathered his filthy tirade without so much as batting an eyelash.
The heavyset man sitting next to him raised a hand placatingly, cutting off his colleague. Unlike the first guy, he was clearly well-disposed toward you.
— Leave it, — he said, softer but with undeniable authority. — That cockiness is backed by brilliant, cold analysis. She sees the system's vulnerabilities just as clearly as her father did. Easterman has gone blind from his own grandeur, and right now we need someone with exactly that kind of clear vision.
He leaned forward again, resting his massive, intertwined hands on the edge of the lit tabletop.
— You'll get everything you're asking for, — his tone shifted to hard business. — Full administrative access. As of this moment, you have the right to pull any Prime Asset or Reagent from trials for personal clinical evaluation. Without prior approval. Your directives will override Easterman's current schedule.
From out of the dark, from the gloved hand, a small, flat object slid across the metal. It stopped squarely in front of you, right next to the folder. It was a matte black keycard with a gold chip and the Murkoff Corporation logo engraved on it.
— Your office is on level minus two. It's adjacent to the medical block and has its own isolated interrogation room, — the first man added dryly. He was still doubting you but had been forced to bow to the decision. — We'll see... how this all ends. If you get torn to pieces during your... personal meetings, the corporation will not bear any responsibility for it.
— I'll keep your touching concern for my well-being in mind, — you replied with icy irony, swiping the keycard and the folder off the table in one fluid motion.
— Welcome, — the heavy man said from the shadows.
You stood up, turned around, and marched toward the exit.
Once you were alone, you closed your eyes for a couple of seconds and took a deep breath. Something inside—that thing called intuition—was telling you this was just the warm-up. There were far less predictable conversations waiting ahead.
Opening your eyes, you twirled the matte keycard between your fingers and headed for the elevator. Level minus two.
Your new office was boring, gray, and chilly. A massive metal desk in the center, rows of empty shelving, and a built-in lab station against the wall: a microscope, a centrifuge, racks with clean test tubes, and a stainless steel sink. Tossing the document folder onto the desk, you walked over to the wide window that took up half the wall and yanked the blind cord with one hard motion.
The plastic slats rattled open. Behind the tinted glass, a panoramic view of the medical sector's lower level opened up. Nervous, frantic work was already boiling over down there. Dozens of employees in white lab coats and hazmat suits were scrambling between glass containment boxes and control panels.
But your sharp gaze instantly locked onto Dr. Easterman in the crowd—the man you'd have to deal with for the coming years, assuming he didn't drop dead first.
Against the backdrop of this chaos, Easterman was darting around like a cornered rat. His suit jacket was unbuttoned, his tie askew. He lunged from one glass box to another with jerky steps, snatching tablets right out of the hands of bewildered assistants, jabbing at the screens furiously, screaming something right in their faces, and immediately sprinting off again. Total hysteria had taken him over.
You impassively crossed your arms over your chest, watching through the tinted glass with cold satisfaction at these pathetic attempts to hold onto what was irreparably slipping through his fingers. Waltzing down there right now, into the very epicenter of his failure, and slapping your card down on the table... it would be the perfect kick to the balls. A direct, ruthless hook that would smear not just his pathetic pride, but his massively inflated ego.
Your gaze automatically swept over the gloom of your own office. In the far corner, right up by the ceiling, the massive grate of a ventilation shaft was wrenched out of place. It hung crookedly from a single bent bolt, swaying ever so slightly. Given the sirens wailing below and the flashing red alarms, someone agile and desperate enough had just crawled into the comms system to escape the guards, or was holding their breath right now, in the dark, watching you. You reached for the cord and snapped the blinds shut, cutting the room off from Easterman's hysterical circus down below.
But the second you started to turn around...
A shadow lunged from your blind spot. A sharp jerk slammed you back-first into the wall. The impact hit so hard it knocked all the air out of your lungs with a hiss, and the back of your head smacked dully against the concrete. A foreign hand dug into your collarbone with a vice grip, crushing the collar of your expensive blouse, while a piece of sharpened blade pressed tight against your pulsing carotid artery—hard enough to leave a stinging scratch.
— You even flinch, bitch, and I'll gut you, — a raw, hoarse voice hissed right in your face.
Standing in front of you was a woman in a dirty, torn medical gown. Her heavy breathing carried the copper stench of blood; she had already killed someone recently. You had no fucking clue who she was. You probably hadn't gotten to her file in the dossier yet. But there was nowhere to retreat.
She was wearing some ridiculous, makeshift goggles. Her eyes darted wildly around, and her thin lips were pressed into a bloodless, frantic line. You definitely hadn't expected a twist like this. Some patient had broken out of the block, crawled through the vents, triggered a massive fucking red-alert clusterfuck across the whole facility, and was now standing in your own office with a shiv to your throat. Oh, the irony.
Now it was crystal clear to you why Easterman was darting around down there like a scalded bastard. She had viciously and spectacularly fucked his entire prized security system. Your initial anger at the invasion of your personal space gave way to a cold, carnivorous curiosity. She was worth a closer look.
— Hell of an entrance, — your voice came out low, dropping almost to an intimate half-whisper. — But let's use some logic here. You slit my throat, and the automated systems will go into total lockdown and seal every single entrance and exit here. Not worth getting your hands dirty...
You held your breath for a couple of seconds, trying to catch her thought process in the air and anticipate her next move. Without taking her piercing gaze off you, she brought a bloodstained finger to her bitten lips and whispered:
— They should have killed me when they had the chance.
You didn't move a muscle until she broke the distance. Only when the pressure vanished did you slowly—so as not to provoke her again—raise a hand and touch your stinging neck where the rusty metal had left a red line. Smoothly adjusting the crumpled collar of your blouse, you threw a quick glance at the still-closed blinds—the red-level alarm continued to howl down below.
— I have no intention of stopping you from escaping.