Fate

John spent his time divided between the designated field - walking the perimeter, taking soil samples and making extensive notes - and his barn on Thunderbird Hill making calculations and running experiments on the soil. And his dogs. Every day he spent the morning with them, running the course he’d prepared.

Gordon split his time between helping John and his own aqua farming. He’d almost perfected his pain-relieving plants but they wouldn’t be ready for this year’s competition. They still needed tending though. The rest of the time he spent looking after the farm in general, taking over the jobs his older brothers would usually do to free them up.

Alan helped out Gordon around the farm and running errands, making sure that his brothers ate and generally feeling a little useless.

Everyone knew Alan hadn’t yet found his place, his role…whatever you wanted to call it. He really wanted to do what Scott did. He’d been so much more than a big brother to Alan, he’d been the only Father Alan had had for most of his life.

He was man enough to know he hero-worshipped Scott, but Alan knew that he needed to find his own way. Creating new fuels to help his brother go even faster was all well and good, but that was something both John and Virgil had both done before him, his second-eldest brother introducing him to the process once he was old enough not to blow the barn up…more than once.

Alan needed something that was going to be all his. He just had no idea what that was going to be.

‘Alan?’ ‘Yes, Grandma?’ ‘I need your help a moment please.’ ‘FAB, Grandma.’

Sally Tracy smiled as her youngest skidded into the kitchen. Just like his eldest brother, Alan couldn’t do anything less than top speed, and he threw her a sheepish grin. She tutted but said nothing more, asking him to grab a box from the storeroom.

The storeroom was in the basement. It was neatly stacked but not somewhere Alan usually went. He found it creepy…but he’d do anything for his Grandma. The box she wanted was easy to reach but up high, and he used what looked like a sturdy box to stand on.

It was not a sturdy box and with a yell Alan unbalanced and fell, the box his Grandma wanted and a couple others falling with him.

No one heard him, though, and with a sigh he twisted around and began to stuff things back into boxes, glad that there was no one around to hear him curse. Why did they have so much junk? He shoved a photo album back into a box but a picture fell out.

Alan glanced at the photo and froze.

His phone rang and Scott broke off from his discussion of tactics with John. He frowned when he saw who was calling.

‘Grandma? Is everything alright?’ ‘I’m sure it’s nothing, Scott, but I asked Alan to bring the box of labels up from the basement. He’s been gone a long time.’ ‘FAB, Grandma. I’m on my way.’ ‘Thank you.’

Scott knew that their Grandma couldn’t leave the kitchen. Her various dishes needed constant attention and so he loped over to see what was going on with his youngest brother.

He froze at the bottom of the basement stairs. Alan was standing there, holding a picture in one hand and just…staring at it. For some reason it made Scott’s heart stutter.

‘Alan? Al, buddy?’

But Alan didn’t say anything for the longest while. Scott approached slowly but still he wasn’t acknowledged. Gently he removed the picture from Alan’s hand. He couldn’t help the gasp that escaped him and finally Alan moved.

‘Scotty? Is that…is that Mom?’ ‘Yeah.’ ‘I never knew she rode rodeo.’ ‘I guess…I guess we just never talk about it. By the time Gordon was born Mom had retired, but when John, Virgil and I were growing up it was Dad who looked after us mostly, Mom was always on the rodeo trail. She’d be home maybe one or two months maximum spread out throughout the year apart from when she was pregnant.’ ‘Was she good?’ ‘Oh man, Alan, I wish…I wish you could have seen her! She was like lightning on hooves. She had a turn of speed I’ve never seen anyone else have on a horse, she was a real Cowgirl. I think there should be some old footage in one of these boxes…’

Scott broke off and began rummaging around the boxes and eventually held up a vid-disk with a soft smile. Grabbing firstly the box their Grandma wanted and throwing his arm around Alan’s shoulders they made their way upstairs.

After handing over the box of labels they moved to the den and settled down. While Scott set up the vid Alan called the others and pretty soon they were all sitting on the large sofa – Alan in the middle with Scott on one side and Gordon on the other, John on Scott’s side and Virgil on Gordon’s. And the video played.

They whooped and cheered along as Lucille Evans topped the bill. They watched their Mom riding, roping and racing far into the night until there was no more to see.

And Alan turned to his brothers, eyes alight and excitement clear.

‘I know what I want to do!’

He beamed at them.

The door to the office opened and the PA invited the gentleman inside. A tall, bald man with sharp cheeks and a sharper stare stepped inside. His dark silk suit glistened against the light yet blended in amongst the mahogany walls on either side of the door. A man the good Doctor has known for only a year, yet with all he has done for him, he knows that this relationship ends with either his death or his own.

He was rather hoping that it will be many, many mutually beneficial years before that happens.

Despite the name of Mr Gaat, the Doctor knew that it was an alias, for extremely wanted criminals are not normally permitted to invest in projects like this one. No, the Doctor was not stupid, even if he did care who he was or how he acquired his fortunes. This man was known to the GDF by another name.

The Hood.

Yet the Doctor knew better than to address him as such.

The good Doctor rose from his desk and wore his best smile on his face, one he’s spent years perfecting when dealing with businessmen, since convincing wealthy people to part with their money is an art few possess and yet is so horrifically necessary to stay afloat in the science world.

“Mr Gaat. So good to see you again, sir. How is everything?” he walks around the desk and holds a hand out for him to shake.

A gesture he does not return.

“Spare me the pleasantries, Doctor. You know why I am here.”

Ah yes. The Board of the Foundation for Research into Alzheimers, Dementia and Other Deteriorative Conditions had been informed of this particular investor’s lack of patience and wanted the good Doctor to step in and prove that everything was on track - and provide some additional reasons to continue funding them, whilst he was at it.

“Yes, well. Your support in our research has been invaluable, I think you’ll be impressed with our progress.”

“I hope so, for your sake, Doctor.”

The journey from the office to the lab isn't a long one, but there is such a stark difference between the dark yet warm, welcoming environment of the upstairs offices and the starkly clinical and bright cellars where our research is conducted.

“The latest drug has been a phenomenal success,” the good Doctor explains as he straightens out his lab coat, “our subjects are responding very well to them, exhibiting changes in behavior a lot quicker than previously -”

“Doctor, I am not a patient man,” he sternly interrupted, “I do not appreciate your efforts to draw out suspense. I want to see the fruits of your research. Otherwise you will find me a very unhappy investor.”

“If you insist, Mr Gaat.”

Pulling out the ring of keys from his belt loop, he unlocks the first door into the… private areas. As much as the Foundation for Research into Alzheimers, Dementia and Other Deteriorative Conditions has advanced into the modern age with technologically advanced locks and facial scanners, there truly is nothing quite like an idiotic, foolproof lock and key.

Beyond this first gate is an armed guard, who watches the both of them carefully as the door is closed and locked behind them.

“You'll forgive me for our security measures, Mr Gaat,” he explains, making his way to the bio scan at the other side of the antechamber, “utmost care must be taken with our line of work.”

The man simply grunted in the affirmative as he waited for the second door to be unloacked.

A few seconds later and they're through. The hustle and bustle of the upper levels replaced with an eerie silence, save for distant footsteps.

The walls are stark white with no features on any of them. Absolutely no recognisable markings on any, even the door he closes behind them. No windows. No signs. No numbers. Not even colour. Just a black door and a white wall. Can't risk any escapees figuring out where to go.

They’ve never had an escapee, in large part because of this overabundance of caution.

These first few doors are to the staffing areas, the chemical storage room, and a few laboratories that develop the drugs we work with.

Beyond these doors are testing chambers. Each of them have their own control room, and five isolation cells under their control. Not a sound is heard out of any of them, the soundproofing is state of the art. And that's a good thing too, quite a lot of the acquisitions like to create a scene.

We have room for 50 cells down here, but currently, only a fraction are in use. This is what Mr Gaat's future investments will provide for.

And the good Doctor knows exactly what will help him secure years of funding from this man.

“Our newest acquisition may be of some interest to you,” leading him through the fifth door on the left, the guest raises an eyebrow at the comment.

The colleagues of the good Doctor within the lab all turn to look at me as we enter, before silently turning around and focusing on their work. They know not to be intrusive with questions whilst he is with such a valued client.

In the control room are the relevant documents and histories of every subject brought into these cells in specific. These subjects are all quite far into their treatment, and do not need as much guidance as the ones further down the corridor.

Reaching out, he pulls the file for Subject 22-031, and passes it to the guest, “here you are. The file for Subject 22-031.”

He makes my way to the empty computer and started tapping away at the keys, bringing up the video feed for Subject 22-031.

“The occupant of this cell.”

Said occupant is in a sorry state. Its hands are restrained high above its head with thick manacles. Its head lolled down, limply sagging in its restraints. The Subject is shirtless and only wearing black shorts for what little modesty we allow it to have. Dark hair matted and sweaty, skin pale and clammy with bruises dotted around like a painting on a canvas, yet methodically applied for maximum effect. A thick, heavy collar is tied tightly around its neck, the soreness clearly visible beneath.

If it wasn't so sleep deprived one would be able to see those umber eyes that spent so long defying the treatment we were providing.

The esteemed guest is staring at the figure on the screen, which he takes as the cue to begin.

“Brought in three months ago, and is at a stage of its conditioning where its mental walls are breaking down, making it very susceptible to any new ideas. A malleable mind like this means that we can train it into behaviours we want to see it perform."

The good Doctor lifts up the cap over a yellow button and presses it down.

Suddenly the Subject on the screen jolts to life, muscles spasming in the harsh restraints. A cry out is audible, as it is looking around its harsh, empty white cell, its face looking up at the one way glass in front of it.

Pain radiating from its features, the Subject's eye areas are a deep red amongst its pale complexion.

A shock collar is a remarkable tool to keep the Subjects in a submissive state.

“Previously it was under a heavy dose of Mexatonin, which kept it confused for an extended period of time, thus allowing this transformation to the state you see it in now.”

The Doctor left the live feed on screen 1, and using screen 2, was able to pull up the logs from last week, not long after the transition to this stage.

The same Subject, restrained in the same way, except a thick black blindfold over its eyes. The video shows a white-coated researcher making their way inside alongside someone else. The Subject tries to speak, asking who is there, but all this accomplishes is the black-clad figure to land a harsh punch to the stomach, winding it. The researcher repeats the main focus for this stage of the process.

You will not speak unless spoken to.

“In addition to the drugs, we have been forced to use physical punishments, mainly in an attempt to teach it to speak only when spoken to. The subject had an unfortunate habit of trying to speak to my researchers. But we think we have reached the sweet spot, as it were, where it will not speak unless addressed directly”

The glance the Doctor is able to steal from the honorable Mr Gaat is one that makes him very excited. He seems enraptured with the process, and this is good. It’s something the Doctor can use. Something to sink his teeth in to.

And like a vampire, suck the money out of him to keep this racket going.

The Doctor has had quite a few parties interested in the results of this process, but Mr Gaat is by far the most powerful, most influencial, the richest by miles.

Even a fraction of his money would set them up for years. Not to mention the profits from the end products being sold to other wealthy individuals.

Oh yes, this was going to go wonderfully in his favour.

“Sleep deprivation?” he nods at the live feed, where the Subject is already trying to go back to sleep in their restraints.

He nods down at the button, and Mr Gaat does the honour of pressing the same one he did.

Sending powerful shocks into his body once more.

Mr Gaat is most pleased with this, the smile on his face is one that shows he is taking some joy out of this experience. A far cry from the stern man who seemed very ready to deal with him earlier.

“And what do you address him as?” he asks as he leans back away from the screen, the figure trembling from all the pain.

The Doctor simply gestures to the folder. “Its designation is Subject 22-031, but for ease, my researchers simply call it 031.”

He chuckles in response, murmuring something just loud enough for the Doctor to hear, “oh how far he has fallen…”

The Doctor can practically feel the thrill in the air at the prospect of such a happy investor. The board will no doubt be pleased with all this.

All the same. It's almost like Mr Gaat is familiar with this Subject, or rather, who it was before.

The Doctor only gave a passing glance to the Subject’s previous identity because he really did not care to learn who they were. It didn't matter anymore.

What did matter is what they will become.

“I must say, Doctor,” Mr Gaat began, turning back to face him, “all of this is very promising. I would certainly like to see this one through to the end of his training, how about a little demonstration?"

"A demonstration of what it can do when fully trained?” he asked “Well, it of course isn't there yet, but -"

"I completely understand, Doctor. I want to see what you're doing to him now. He's strung up in there waiting, what do you do to him now?"

The Doctor knows exactly what he wants to see.

And he will oblige his honoured guest.

A quick buzz into the pager and barely a minute later, a tall, muscular individual enters the room the same way they all did. Clad entirely in black, a mask covering the lower half of its face, its steely silver eyes staring at its Master.

The Doctor gestures to the new arrival, "Mr Gaat, this is Subject 22-014. It’s already been out on a few successful missions. You may have heard of the assassination of the Swedish Banker in Morocco? Well, that was their handiwork."

And what a spectacular job it did. But a key part of its downtime between jobs is to assist in the training of the new Subjects, which helps to keep its skills sharp.

He raised an eyebrow, "well, she doesn't look like much."

"Just you wait and see, sir," the good Doctor turns from the esteemed Mr Gaat over to the more professional Subject, “go to 22-031’s cell and await my instructions.”

It wordlessly nods, silently moving through the control room, opening the bolted doors, and then unlocking the cell to Subject 22-031.

The figure in the video stirs at the sound.

The Doctor presses the intercom in that cell. “Subject 22-031. Wake up. Time for training.”

Subject 22-031’s legs were trembling beneath them. Shaking their head as 22-014 entered the room and sealed the door behind them, simply standing there, not even having to move to get such a startled physical response from the sleep deprived 22-031.

"N...no..." it calls out, yet no one in this entire building holds any weight to what it has to say any longer.