Fate

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.

They were slightly concerned when they discovered the house was all locked up and still no paternal figure in sight. Scott was all for breaking in to make sure their dad hadn't collapsed. Only EOS’s quickly relayed medical read out from Jeff's smart watch had stopped Scott from kicking in the glass in the back door. A quick check on the GPS data from the same smart watch advised them to look in the nearby town. EOS would have told them this sooner, but she hadn’t wanted to interrupt Gordon, who was pointing out why smashing the glass of the back door was the most stupid option, since there were at least three more easily accessible entry points in the old building which would make much more sense. They were all more than a little worried that the squid seemed to have cased the joint. Virgil asked EOS to add those ingress points to the maintenance list, he would rather the old place was a bit more secure than a revolving door. 

The walk into town used to take them about 50 minutes, and even with adult strides, it was deemed both too much effort and too slow, from different parties in the group. Virgil disappeared into a storage shed, and much as Alan might have been hoping for hover bikes, the triumphant cry from Virgil only unearthed a pile of their old bicycles. 

Alan groaned, and John quickly bagsied the one with the least punishing looking saddle. A quick brush down and the application of some grease to the chains soon had them road worthy enough. They set off quickly before Alan could lose patience at Gordon, who kept suggesting the youngest ought to ride the little kiddie trike, and inflict some lasting damage in retaliation. 

Scott had nabbed his own old bike, nobody was stupid enough to try and part him from what had been the pride and joy of his early teens. Holographic stickers and a metallic paint job. Thank god Jeff had believed in buying things with growing room, as they had to shove the seat up as far as it would go. John had taken possession of their mothers old bike, complete with wicker basket, he could appreciate the importance of a sprung seat and a relaxed upright ride. His old bike had been passed down to Alan, who thought the racing bike with his dropped handlebar and million and one gears was the best thing since sliced bagels. Virgil had been left with Jeff's old bike, and he glared at anyone who looked like they were about to laugh at the inelegant hop he had to do in order to get his leg over the high central bar. Even with the intervening years, Virgil hadn’t quite caught up, and a few hasty adjustments were required with a wrench. 

Gordon had been so preoccupied chasing Alan around with the kiddie trike, that he was left with the choice of either said kiddie trike, or an off road mountain bike with squeaky suspension and a cool neon paint job. Scott claimed it had been their grandmothers, but the rest couldn’t be sure he wasn’t just pulling their legs. There was no contest really, the neon colour scheme called to him, and despite all the short jokes, the kiddie trike would have left him a cramping mess before they got even half way to town. 

They managed the journey in good time, right up until they hit traffic. Traffic! In this quiet backwater? 

“What’s going on?” Scott asked, no demanded, with the confidence of someone who was used to having answers provided when he asked. 

“How the hell should I know?” John called back from his position in the third row of bicycles. Which was unexpected enough to make Scott screech to a stop. It was just as well that they had slowed right down in the stream of traffic, because Virgil nearly swerved into the back of him. 

“Aggh!” Virgil braked hard, “it’s obviously for the car show!”

“Car show? What car show?” Scott failed to see what was obvious. 

“The one Dads been organsing!” Virgil's legionary patience was getting tested, Scott looked blank. “Bet you’d have listened if John said it,”Virgil grumbled as he pushed a little more forcefully on the pedals.  

“Maybe it's for the car show!” John shouted up from where he had slipped to the fourth row of bikes while he had been conversing with EOS from where her portable drive was cradled in the wicker bike basket.