Red Twilight: Long Distence Runners

Chapter 11

Broken Messiah

Marks stands atop the Towers; it's early evening. The night is bright; the sky burns with wind and lighting. A wall of rain is strewing in the east. Marks looks to the top of the radio tower. He leaps to its highest point and teeters at its peak, balancing on one foot. The wind is brisk as the rain pours upon him. His eyes close and his arms outstretch into the heavens. The sky opens and a white reflection of Marks falls from the stars and into his outstretched arms.

The air grows heavier as the angelic apparition passes through the metallic devil. As a perfect paradox, the two stand back to back, the metal demon rain-drenched, eyes turned to the sky. The white shadow is cleanly dried and a chalky warm white in opposition to the cold black that is the other, his eyes turned to the ground.

The white angel locks its hands around the demon and whispers to his opposite, "Hello again, Vigeta."

Marks tries to look to his shadow but can't seem to spot him again. "Am I dreaming?" Every movement is matched with equal and opposite one.

"No, you are Vigeta. You are me, as I am you. We are one broken into two. But still we are imperfect."

"I'm finding this hard to believe," Marks replies.

"We are injured. That injury is making it difficult for me to maintain my hold in this world. There is a solution to this problem. I anticipated that this could happen, and so at the time of your birth, I created a partner for you—Nuku."

Marks lifts his head further; his eyes drift close as he thinks back, struggling to remember Nuku . . . her voice, the soft touch of her nose to his face, the slick c.a.r.e.s.s of her back to his hand, the affectionate kiss of her tongue. Yes, Marks remembers Nuku; he remembers her absence from his dreams. At such a time, it seems even a monster can shed a tear of loneliness.

The reflection continues, "If all is as I anticipated, Nuku is waiting for you on level B-6."

Marks looks to the earth that seems miles away. "B-6? That's the overflow lockers. Place is a scrap yard. It would take a man a hundred years to search that place."

The shadow nods. "A man yes, but not you. Nuku will be drawn to you and you to her. Find her, Vigeta. Then we will have our revenge."

"For what?"

"The perversion of a lifetime's worth of work. Have no fear, you will understand soon." The reflection let goes of Marks, and he falls from the tower. Marks makes no attempt to brace himself for impact; instead, he allows himself to fall back to the roof. Somehow, something allows him to land without sound, and with catlike grace, he lands, standing on point like an exquisite French dancer, then lowers himself back onto flat feet. The red of Marks' eyes flares as he looks to the door. A new power begins to flow through him; the false spirit within him still has command, but once again he can hear his own thoughts. Who am I? What am I? I most know!

* * *

The Canteen is the tower's on-site diner; everyone goes there from time to time. It's fast, it's cheap, and the atmosphere is a far cry from that of the rest of the tower. It's warm, it's quiet. Everyone from sales associates to the executives find themselves gathering around for grilled steaks and ice creams on Friday, and today is that day exactly.

Rhys has chosen to take this opportunity to unveil his department's latest toy. He wheels a dolly with a blanket thrown over it to the table his superiors dine at. Amongst them are Shaun Clawed, the president and owner of the Tower, Allen Wesker, newly appointed head of development, and AC Dem-Row. His position in the tower is unclear to Rhys, but it is clear he holds some power over the others at the table.

"Ladies and Gentlemen!" He pulls down the blanket, revealing a cyborg with rubbery-looking skin and a body that looks like it was chiseled out of stone. It has a handlebar moustache and squared off features. "Tank-6000S !" Rhys jumps excitedly, pointing at his creation.

Shaun is the first to reply as he sits stunned by the sight. "It looks like the governor of Minnesota?"

Allen speaks up next, "And what per say is this, Dr. Rhys?"

"This is Marks," he stutters, "for the most part." He rolls his hand uncomfortably. "Really it's more like a rough draft. We ran mechanical synopses and diagnostics on Number 52757 which was clearly modeled after the T-3.h. With some, let's just say weird modifications, we tried to make a copy of him, of it, but there were, uhmm, things in there we just didn't know what were so made some substations. Number 52757's memory, is, are encrypted in language I simply don't understand, so I had my staff add some simpler protocol systems. We tried to write a logic program. That didn't work so well. We ended up programming him with a defense department tactics network . . ." Rhys trips over his tongue, trying to find a simple way to explain what he has.

Shaun looks confused for a moment. "Why couldn't you make him like Marks?"

Rhys becomes defensive of his work. "Frankly! Marks is . . . was a mad genius, and I can't mimic that! OK, so my robot can't think, it doesn't walk and talk like Marks can. But given my limited parts catalog, at least I came up with something, sirs."

Allen questions, "And what is it you have created?"

"Tomorrow's law enforcement officer."

Dem-Row looks impressed. "You made a toy cop?"

"Well, at the moment, this one is programmed to be more like a bodyguard, but yes that was the idea, with your permission, sirs."

"I still don't get why he looks like that," Shaun adds.

"Well, it was the feeling of myself and the majority of the staff that Jessie Ventura the biker turned civil servant just kind of screams bad a.s.s cop."

Allen throws in his two cents. "What about that Austrian boxer turned soap opera star—"

Rhys cuts him off, "You're talking about 'Mr. Mom.' No, not a chance would I have allowed that."

"Why? It's just cosmetics'."

"When I think security, romance novel heroes just don't come to mind," Rhys argues.

Shaun adds, "He did star in that movie about time travel in the late seventies.

I did like that."

Dem-Row interjects, "On a more important point, did you at least try to find a way to read Marks' code?"

"I asked Officer Summer to go to his flat and look for any notes he may have hidden there."

All eyes turn to the back corner of the half-circle-shaped booth to a middle-aged women with short blonde hair with black and red highlights; she is dressed in a blue blouse and skintight leather biker pants. Dem-Row looks at the toned woman. "Did you see anything of interest at Dr. Karingson's home?"

Summer reaches into her b.r.e.a.s.t pocket and withdraws a notebook. "That would depend on what you consider interesting." She flips through a number of pages looking for her notes. "After entering Dr. Karingson's home, the first thing to catch my eye was a chain drawn across the door that would lead to the second-story stairwell. Also in his living room, there seems to have been a vinyl player. Examining his records, the gist of his collection was made up of Tchaikovsky musicals. The bas.e.m.e.nt was completely empty aside from a hundred pounds of dry cat food. Entering the second floor, the bedroom housed a strange collection of 480 pink plush rabbits, as well as a wall scroll of a dancer with a signature in the lower left corner. It appeared to read: 'The Black Swan, Swan Lake 1978.' In a treasure trunk hidden under his bed, there is an opera mask with long bird feathers flowing down the cheeks and a Tutu cut for a feminine man." Summer closes her book and looks at the group for approval.

Dem-Row leans in. "And the code?"

Summer breathes deep in frustration. "I didn't even see a computer in Dr. Karingson's apartment, nor a TV or a radio or any other electronics outside of his record player."

The small twisted-looking Dem-Row claps his hands on the table and rolls his eyes in irritation. "Mr. Rhys, can we talk in private?"

Rhys nods and mumbles, "Yeah." The old man and the young doctor disappear into the darkness of the bar, leaving the others and the new metal monstrosity behind.

Summer jokes around with the others a bit; the last thing Rhys hears as he is being almost dragged away is "You know, that monster is almost cute."

Dem-Row grips Rhys firmly by the forearm and whispers to him, his voice turning deep, almost inhuman, "Rhys, you are Dr. Karingson's predecessor. That being the case . . . where is Tail Vixon and her child?" Dem-Row's eyes shift to a darkened purple.

"Who?" his voice filled with naivety Rhys whispers back.

Crow struggles to maintain his calm in the face of his so-called friend's incompetence. Being a god, hiding amongst men has one inescapable drawback. No one knows you and no one can hope to understand you. If there were one thing outside of man's betrayal of god that could be accountable for their downfall, it would be the unspeakable loneliness that they must all feel today. Cravixs may have found a remedy for his suffering, at least a temporary one, and the Vixon child is the key.

* * *

Marks wastes no time in finding his way into the lower levels to began his search for his beloved Nuku, but as fate would have it, time is shorter than he would have liked. A voice on the intercom demands his attention in the upper floor labs. "Right now it would be dangerous to let on that I'm aware of the mind control device I was installed with. Best to act normal."

* * *

As Marks returns to his office, he takes note that Rhys is inside, already sifting through stacks of papers; he looks finicky. Marks sneaks in; he folds his hands into a diamond. "Good evening, friend," Marks leans in to whisper in his ear. Rhys screams as he drops what he is doing to face Marks.

He takes a moment to catch his breath, then speaks, "Evening, Marks" Marks reaches around Rhys and begins sorting the piles of clutter Rhys has dropped.

"You seem distressed. Is there any way I may be of assistance?" Marks rolls his eyes to Rhys.

"Let's just say things are piling up in my life." Rhys quickly tries to change subjects. "Marks, did someone named Tail Vixon ever work here?"

Marks carefully examines the question. "I don't recall anyone by that name working here, no. But I do know who you would be referring to." Rhys looks surprised. "And I would be willing to speak of her." Marks shoots a sharp glances.

"At a price."

"What do you mean?"

"There is a gambler's term that I think fits here well. The term is tit for tat. What it comes down to is we both need something that the other player has and so we agree to or not agree to assist each other. If one player gets what they need, then in the end both players have what they want. If they fail, then that means that they failed together. Do you understand?"

"What do you want, Marks?"

"I'll start. If you lie, I lie. If you tell me the truth, I'll tell you the truth. Am I Marks Karingson?" Marks asks, sounding almost joking at first but then seems deathly stern.

Rhys laughs. "Of course, you are."

Marks steps in uncomfortably close. "You are mistaking."

Rhys understands the mistake he made. "No, you are a cybernetic life form called M-52757-Vigeta. You were created by Marks Karingson as his last invitation before dying in a fire several months ago. But you knew that already?"

"Your turn, ask a question."

"Why can't I reproduce your work even with your notes?"

"If you had my notes, you could. Marks Karingson, I, fought in World War II. There during war, I, we, found the usefulness in coding s.e.n.s.i.t.i.v.e information. What you found on my computer and in my home made up only half the notes on my larger, more important works. My turn. When you repaired my body after Allen tried to microwave me, did you make any alterations?"

"Uhmm, yes. At the request of management, we added a tracking bug to your spine, a radio receiver to your head, and a kill switch to both your arms and your c.h.e.s.t cavity. If I understand what we're doing, that makes it my turn. Why did you ask me a question you knew the answer to?"

Marks grins at the potential of the statement. "I needed to see your 'tell,' so I asked a question I knew you would lie about. I can see your heart beating, I can hear your lungs popping, and your body temperature, I can feel it from here. I know if you believe what you are saying. I would wager you can't do the same of me. Now why did you ask me about Tail Vixon?"

"I just wanted to know." Rhys is sweating; anyone with half the intuition to try could see he is lying. "Where are your notes, Dr. Karingson?"

"I gave them to a former apprentice of mine named Mercedes. Do you have the code to deactivate the kill switch?"

"No, that software is solely in the hands of management."

"I believe you."

"Dr. Karingson, where can I find Mercedes?"

Marks grins, closing his eyes, knowing well that his partner will never understand how far astray he has fallen. "2650 Marmoreal Ave. and Veteran Drive, plot number 176. Ask the caretaker to show you the way."

"You have to tell the truth, right?"

"Yes. By any chance have you seen a black cat with a red collar walking around the labs?"

Rhys starts to think more critically, beginning to understand the nature of the game Marks is playing with him "No, I have seen no cats walking around the labs. Did Dr. Marks Vigeta Karingson die in a fire here in the Towers?"

Marks nearly laughs out loud, noticing that Rhys is starting to play along with him. "No, Marks was shot and killed trying to escape from the tower after learning of Allen's betrayal of his trust. Allen Phillip Wesker had been stealing from Marks and falsifying his research. Allen had also knowingly been sleeping with Marks' wife Ako Karingson. Seeing the marriage was a sham to begin with, this was forgivable. The theft on the other hand was not. Have you made any attempts to copy my memories or protocols into any other formats?"

Rhys nods, still somehow stunned by the story. "I tried to copy your protocol onto a security bot my staff had constructed. Why did you try to run? Why not report the problems to someone up the ladder?"

Marks raises one hand and with a single finger points to the tiled ceiling. "I feel the answer to that may be over your head."

Rhys shakes his head, offended. "You don't think I can understand?"

"No, I don't think I said that. I think I said the answers are over your head." Marks pulls out the chair at his desk and climbs atop it. He reaches up, pushing aside a tile, and lowers from a hidden compartment a stack of compact discs. Each and every disc is labeled with a score of slashes and dashes. Marks thumbs through them, pulling out a discreet-looking disc almost as if by instinct. "I feel what you are searching for maybe here."

Marks loads the disk into a player on the desk. A faint sounding voice comes over the speakers as Marks fast forward through half the tracks, skipping what he believes to be unnecessary. "Three months ago, I had begun making copies of all my work in triplicate. Two copies would be made in electronic format and a final in longhand. The first copy would go to processing and from there no doubt to HR and Development. They too will make copies. The second will be on the RHD in my office, the final within books that I have scattered about within the floorboards and ceiling tiles. The first file I copied in this way was chemical CON2. Official status, experiment suspended, chemical proved fatal in 70 percent of test subjects. Remaining 30 percent suffered a wide range of other side effects, including sudden appearance of ulcers, rapid decomposition of cell structure, difficulty birthing, urinating, and sudden loss of lucidity. I had recorded the original formula here in my private journal. If all had been as it seemed, my notes should match that of the notes on record in Development. My notes did not match those in the archive center or on my laptop. Second test INT-23, status: experiment expired. All findings on this compound were ordered under lock and key, I found the directors' copy hidden under B-list. Experiment was still live. I was cut off. Test three project Tail-01. Tail is unique and all my intuitions tell me it should remain that way. I requested the project shut down. Tail should remain with me. What happens when science loses its sensitivity? What happens when 'should we' is replaced with 'could we?' I have become the father of two abominations. I am an abomination. I am told that my will has been done. The experiment on Tail has been aborted. I find that I have been lied to. Not only has the project not been shut down but Tail has been placed in liquid oxygen suspension and she is pregnant! Furthermore two more Tail(s) are in development. This time one was allowed to be male! Time and time again, I am lied to! My experiments have not failed. I am simply meant to believe they have! I have begun one final project, one that will never be allowed into the hands of others that are without vision, one that will amend for this injustice. Shaun, Allen, Ako, they have stained my soul black. I am their Darin Gray, their Black Swan! So be it. They will hear my swan's song! And as I fall, so too shall they! My love might have saved the world from unending devastation, instead my hate shall purge their lives! Whoa for me for I shall drink off the life's blood, and with it I shall become everlasting! I need no more proof of this foul play. My notes have been altered, my findings falsified, my work marginalized. And for what? So my medicines can become drugs? So my machines can become weapons? So my beloved can become . . ." Marks pauses the disk and looks at Rhys.

"I know why you ask me about Tail. Shaun wanted her to become a disposable soldier. But without the original to make copies with or me to program the synthetic uterus, it is useless," cold and concise, he explains.

Rhys feels overwhelmed; everything seems to add up in some strange way. Marks is telling the truth about everything. His employer is a murderer. His best friend is a robot masquerading as a human. He is building alien life forms in the bas.e.m.e.nt. It is all too strange to be a lie. "What was INT-23 and CON2 meant for?"

"It's not your turn." Marks laughs. "But I'll play along. INT-23 was designed to be a memory rejuvenation supplement. It was going to make people smarter for all intensive purposes. CON2 was a solvent for regenerating dead muscular tissues." Marks covers his eyes for a moment. "It's predecessor CON1.96 was acutely successful with one minor drawback. It allowed tissue to continue to grow even outside its host. We deemed it a monumental failure in ourselves and never published the work."

Rhys gasps, trying to imagine all of what he could imply, then snaps himself out of it long enough to deliver a message, "Doctor, a delivery arrived for you. It was sent down to 'the clean rooms' and is awaiting your evaluation." "Delivery?" Marks stands, awaiting more information.

"Nebraska State University sent it. It's some kind of virus."

"Is it live?"

"I didn't look at it. Not after what you brought in the other day, I'm not touching a thing you bring into this department."

Marks nods and takes his leave on course to see his latest toy. It's an unfortunate diversion, but perhaps a key to a fascinating lore.

Up till a week ago, the clean rooms were reserved for the storage of s.e.n.s.i.t.i.v.e medical equipment. But today it has been converted to look almost like a prison. A dozen rooms fill the first corridor, each housing a terrible and beautiful monster. Marks walks between them without fear. Their cries echo loud and clear—screeching, howling, hissing. The smell is that of a barn, the sounds that of a jungle, the appearances the soft ambience of a well-maintained office, Marks himself a perverted ringmaster of death barely more human than the devils under his wing.

In the medical office awaits Marks a coffin-looking device with stainless steel finish. Inside awaits a strange green jelly within a glass tube, hidden there under it a child with skin that looks like marble and hair to match. Marks finds a physician's note inside with the child's name and vital statistics recorded on it. "Lizzet Jacob?" Marks grins. "I can't wait to see what you're made of."

Marks works for a day and a half tirelessly before Rhys comes looking for him. Marks holds his hand up to his friend to halt his progression. "Is your environmental suit sealed?" Rhys nods. "Make sure the air vent is clear please." Rhys looks down at the oxygen can on his hip and nods again.

"You didn't go to the desk for check-in this morning," Rhys explains with a hint of concern in his voice. "I didn't see you at breakfast either."

Marks nods as he is working on transferring chemicals from a beaker into a Petri dish. "I never left the lab. Also, it dawns on me that I haven't eaten in weeks. I simply watch you eat at meals."

"You're not wearing your hazmat mask?"

"Yes, the explanation to that should be self-evident."

Rhys moves in close. "What are you working on now?" Set on the table before Marks is a line of cups filled in part with a translucent jelly; one by one, Marks adds to each cup a drop of a coppery red liquid, then vacuum seals the dish with a cellophane lid.

"The package that arrived yesterday, it was another sample of the Gekks virus. It seems to have squired from the anticipated evolution. I'm attempting to artificially grow the new strand in order to better understand it."

Rhys places a hand on Marks' arm in order to speak more indemnity. "If it evolved, how can you tell it's even the same thing?"

Marks smiles at his friend. "Because so did ours."

Rhys pulls Marks down to eye level. "How did ours change, Marks?"

"After leaving the body of subject zero, it broke into three strands. I'd be happy to show you." As if by the will of Marks, a projector lowers from the ceiling and the lights dim. Rhys stares on in absolute horror as the screen begins flipping through a sequined cl.u.s.ter of images: the first canting a single-cellular organism with a syringe-like growth clearly used for impregnating healthy cells and no doubt scrambling their code to make them alike. On a second, the same virus has traded in its stinger for a fan-like blade likely granting it greater speed. The third has what looks like air pockets on its sides to allow it to move through air. The last has mandibles. This one doesn't infect; it kills.

"Marks, is this as bad as I'm thinking it is?"

"Worse likely," Marks replies with a strange exhilarated smirk.

"How bad can this get?"

"I would say cataclysmic." Marks begins readying an experiment.

The door to the lab opens again; the young and bold Allen Wesker walks into the lab. "Dr. Karingson, there seems to have been a mix-up in transporting. The protein cell delivered to pharmaceuticals was—"

Marks cuts him off, "No, there was no mix-up. I sent you a dead protein sample. Anyway, I'm happy to see you, old friend. I seem to be having some troubles with my OS. Would you mind taking a look at it for me?" Marks points at the desktop in the room.

Allen begins moving to the computer. "Why would you send us a dead cell?" As he reaches his hand down to the keyboard, a phantom salute starts to phase into the monitor, and a voice comes from the speakers crackling through the white noise.

"Hello, friend, are you taking good care of Nuku . . . ?" Allen's first instinct is to smash the computer, then kill Rhys and Marks; he pulls away from the keyboard instead and keeps his cool.

Marks looks over. "Is something wrong, Allen?"

Allen looks over. "I don't do IT anymore. We'll call someone from Tec-support to look at this."

Marks offers Allen a sharp glance out the corner of his eyes, lighting almost courses between them as Allen can feel Marks' gaze. "No works go unsuffered, dearest friend."

Allen's teeth grind as he struggles to maintain his facade of control. "Nonsense, old wizard. A prized dog never plays fetch, a Broadway performer never does birthdays, and the president never answers his phone. Why should I waste my time with such trivial games?"

Allen is deathly envious of Marks; even after death, it seems he continues to mimic his old master. Marks can see right through Allen; it is clear to him that Allen saw Marks' new metal body and sought out to recreate himself in the same image: Allen's eyes are bionically enhanced as is his muscular structure. His arms and legs have both been rebuilt to make him the paragon of humanity. Allen is almost more metal than man. Marks find this amusing.

"Regardless of your personal feeling, I need the proteins," Allen demands.

"That's not going to happen. The virus isn't leaving this room under any earthly circ.u.mstances I can control."

"And why would that be?"

Marks picks up a blood sample out of the cooling chambers. "I'm glad you asked." He adds the blood to one of the dishes. "Allow me to demonstrate. I'll use an almost randomly chosen person's blood for this example. Allen, watch closely." The blood inside turns clearly cancerous; it grows, expands, and spills out onto the floor, cold dead blood fueling the sickness enough so as to give it an almost human-like form on the ground. A semi-human leach forms with legs but no head or arms, a dozen eyes and no nose; in moments it is the size of a child and crawling about on the ground. "Dr. Rhys, would you please hand me the silver nitrate?" Rhys fumbles over handing the bottle to Marks. Marks uncorks the bottle and pours the contents onto the monster. The demon on the ground hisses for only a moment before bursting into flames. "I trust you understand my concerns now?"

"I see." Allen steps out of the room as Marks trips the fire surpassing system to put out the dead monster on the ground that now closely resembles a charred marshmallow. Allen watches his old teacher and his dog work for only a moment from the doorway before reaching down onto his hip and pressing a button on what looks like a grange door opener. Marks' body is flooded with electricity, and he arches his spine in an unnatural way as he howls and collapses on the floor. Allen steps back into the room and looks at Rhys. "Marks is to be disassembled at once.

Do you understand?"

Rhys looks up, aggravated into action. "That's a negative, Commander."

"He is clearly insubordinate. Marks is dangerous, and it seems that the control chip you installed in him is not functioning. Now shut him down permanently."

"Turn him back on and take your sorry a.s.s out of my lab!" Rhys grabs Allen by the cuffs of his suit and shakes him. Allen is clearly not intimidated by the tiny lab worker but complies anyway.

"Very well. But this incident will be logged."

* * *

In the following days, Marks works tirelessly, toiling day and night to find a way to fight this abomination of a virus. But as it would turn out, in spite of his efforts to keep the Geeks virus under wraps, a monsoon of complications have arisen, forcing the buildings into emergency lockdown mode. Ren is the name of Claw Co.'s director of environmental services; she is a short but tough-looking old woman. She unlike most of the other employees of the company likes striped shirts, blue jeans, and red leather boots. A clear sense of urgency in her step, Ren smashes open the door to Shaun's office, failing to notice the group of others surrounding the CEO as she marches up to the desk proclaiming, "It is time to leave, now! Call off lockdown and get everyone away from the towers!" Shaun, Officer Summer, AC Dem-Row all look to Ren. Ren's eyes roll from side to side, looking at her fellow members of management "Why are you still standing there?! Get moving!"

Shaun looks at her. "Is there something you would like to say, Ms. Videll?"

"Yes, boiler E is malfunctioning, and I can't get down to it to fix it."

Summer nods in understanding. "Floors B-1 through B-8 are all locked due to contamination regulations. I sent a team of UBCs to try to contain the problem but no call back yet."

"Contamination?" Ren asks.

Shaun slides a stack of photographs across the table, showing her strange ant-like monsters with spider claws and scorpion-like tails with erect skeletons crawling on the walls and floors taken from security cameras. "Ms. Videll, do we have any alternative to that previously discussed?"

"I went to school with a bunch of flyboys. We had a pretty standard joke about boilers. If you get confused as to whether you're looking at a hydrogen bomb or a water heater, remember this. A bomb needs a detonator to explode."

Shaun's head drops to the table as he undoubtedly gets the joke. "A water heater doesn't need a detonator, only a faulty pressure gauge," he mumbles to himself. "Could you fix it if you were able to access the bas.e.m.e.nt?" He looks up.

Summer interjects, "I just told you a UBC team couldn't get down there. You can't send a civilian."

"Hey, I'm not that bad of a brawler myself," Ren explains.

"Then you and the security droid Rhys built can escort her," Shaun retorts simultaneously.

Dem-Row looks at Ren. "What happens if the boiler reaches critical mass when you're down there?"

"Then I take a saws-all to the primary water main and drown the thing."

Summer shakes her head in disbelief. "And us?"

Dem-Row cracks a smile. "Necessary evil! I like the way you think."

"I'll see myself dead before I let that thing take out the tower."

Shaun raises his head finally. "Could it really do that?"

"That depends, if the blast is contained under our feet and is localized to just the unit. Yes, it will take out this building and maybe the two parallel to it. If the chain reaches the other four units we're talking six blocks vaporized and slash damage the another three."

Shaun leans on his desk. "Let me get you a gun then. I trust you know how to use one."

"Of course, look up my 'arcade' scores. The shooting rank has me down for a dozen honorable mentions."

Shaun complies, opening the records on his computer. "Most hours logged in, in a week. Most confirmed kills." Summer escorts Ren out as Shaun is reading. "Most friendly fire? Wounded a partner during training ops?" Shaun picks up the intercom frantically. "Summer, don't give Ms. Videll a gun! Please."

* * *

Marks steps out of his lab and locks the door after filling out his daily logs. He takes a moment to check on his specimens and records changes to his test subject. Once confident that all is as it should be, Marks goes to continue his search for Nuku.

There is a lone elevator that runs all the way from the top floor to the lowest bas.e.m.e.nt Marks chooses to employ. Stepping in, he is met by Ren, Summer, Tank, and a handful of men dressed in UBC outfits all armored and ready for combat. Summer sidesteps to make room for Marks in the lift. "Evening, Doctor."

Marks pivots to face front. "Storage please." Ren reaches over and taps the button which seems to have already been lit up.

Summer taps Marks' arm. "You know about the lockdown, right? No one is supposed to leave their rooms till quarantine is lifted."

"And yet it seems we are both here?"

"Do you have a sidearm, Doctor?" one of the UBCs asks.

"Don't suspect I'll need one."

The same man reaches onto his hip and presents Marks with a 9 mm mec-gun. "Just in case."

Marks takes the gun and hides it in his inside coat pocket. "That is exceedingly kind of you."

Summer confronts Marks. "There are giant ants downstairs. Do you . . . ?"

Marks interjects, "Madralock, yes, shot for the heart. The head is empty, and should the fangs coming out of the side of their necks happen to sting you, do us all a favor. Shoot yourself."

Ren looks at him. "What?"

"The stinger of a Madralock doubles as a s.e.x.u.a.l organ. One stinger injects ovum roughly 2.75 seconds after grabbing someone, the other ejaculatory fluid five seconds after contact is made. There is around a fifty-five minute incubation before the Mandralock eggs hatch and become its lavaric state," Marks explains.

Ren shakes her head in disbelief. "I would ask . . ."

"Don't. The answer wouldn't benefit you."

The ride is slow and tense. Before the doors open, Ren and Summer take a few moments to brief the team, Marks being accidentally recruited. When the doors open, Tank is the first out, followed by two UBC members—Tank with a tactical shotgun held before him one-handed, the soldiers with assault rifles held at high ready position; Ren, Summer, and Marks are hidden at the center of the formation.

The walls look like cold red stones; there is exposed piping and wires stretched across the ceiling. The temperature is nearly unbearably hot. Clouds of steam fall from above and dew saturates the walls; the corridors are thin and claustrophobic.

Summer whispers to Ren as they're walking, "It's hotter than hell down here."

"The heaters are trying to vent. The overflow or the cooling system is casing most of this."

"So what are these over our heads right now?"

"Half of them are intake pipes, the rest heating pipes."

"What happens if we punch a hole in one of them?"

"Intake, nothing. The other, it gets a hell of a lot hotter. The pipes up there are carrying water sometimes over three hundred degrees, pressurized."

Tank replies, "New mission parameter understood. Protect human targets, eliminate hostiles, do not damage infrastructure."

Ren jokes with Tank, "How is that difference engine working for you?"

"Functional."

(A difference engine is a program written by Claw Co.'s staff of engineers deigned to appoint values to objects and allow their security systems to analyze possible threats and filter out unnecessary data. With more time, this may even allow for more complex protocol to be added, maybe even becoming a learning program.)

"You're a great conversationalist."

The party encounters a crossroad; Ren points "that way." Their progress is impeded. A set of spider-like claws jump out of the ventilation ducts, blocking one path. The road back is barred by a breaking water pipe and boiling water spilling into the tunnel hundreds of gallons at a time. Chaos ensues as six mutated semi-insectoids drop from unseen places. Tank wraps on arm around Ren, lifting her onto his back, proclaiming, "We must move." He turns to carry her down what he anticipates being the safest path. Tank is intercepted by a monster wearing fragmented armor with the UBC patch on it. He slaps the monster with his shotgun; he then blasts it once and marches away briskly whether or not the target is neutralized being insignificant.

"Priority target must be protected."

The UBC creates a ring to cover each other, opening fire in nearly all directions to clear out the beast. One drops in front of Summer; Summer raises her .45 Wilby magnum (semiautomatic pistol), her first blast resulting in a massive blood spray. She is the first to find the Mandralocks bleed liquid fire. Her leather jacket bursts into flames; she quickly strips out of it and stands bladed, pushing the monster with six more shots to the c.h.e.s.t, attacking with ferocious vengeance, following the monster to the ground and firing one more time for good measure.

The ants attack as one would expect—with overwhelming numbers. The soldiers manage to suppress their attacks for some time with controlled fire. Marks turns his attention on the mandibles coming out of the wall from their intended path. Fearless, he ducks under a claw swipe and steps into the beast's shadow. He draws the mec-gun from his coat and fires three bursts into the shaft. The monster spider grabs at him. He steps in too close to grip and fires three more rounds; the monster retreats.

"Fall back," the captain of the team orders as he notices his ammo running low and imagining everyone must be facing similar concerns. "Jefferson, what do you have?!"

"Two clips!"

"Andrew!"

"Last mag!"

A third fighter yells out, "Out of standard! Switching to concussive." "Where are Videll and Dylan?!" the captain orders.

The merc called Andrews calls out, "Videll ducked, left with the 6000-S! No copy on Dylan!"

"Copy that, Soldier! I want a phalanx at my twelve! Get small and get fast!

Follow that droid!" the captain yells.

Jefferson pivots, turning his back on the north tunnel "You go it, Wirlly."

Marks is drawn deeper into the east west corridor by a shady motion. Marks drops his gun and lays chase. Summer yells out, "I'm going after Marks!" She swoops down, picking up Marks' discarded gun. Marks is far faster than Summer and quickly vanishes from sight.

* * *

Marks encounters a water pump connected to the boiler that has been cut open. He kneels down and finds a vial taken from his office shattered on the ground.

Marks' head lifts as he attempts to understand what he is seeing. There is only one logical solution. Climate control wasn't malfunctioning; it was sabotaged. Marks' body courses with lighting as he is struck by the power of the kill switch again.

"How many times do I need to kill you, old wizard?!" Allen screams at Marks approaching from behind.

"I loved you! Everyone loved you! I wanted you to love me! I wanted to be like you! I wanted to be you!" Allen picks up a piece of piping and begins to smash Marks across the back with it repeatedly.

"You were perfect! You never aged! You had the admiration of women! Men! Even Shaun! For my whole life, everyone compared me to you! Even my family thought I should be you!" Allen upper-cuts the defenseless doctor, throwing him onto his back. "I've been to see the musical 'Lohengrin' thirty-seven times with you. Did it make me a better person?"

"You were just so good I had to kill you! But now you mock me! In death, you are still you! And I'm still being told how perfect you are! You're not real! You're just a toy! A meaningless hunk of scrap!"

Marks opens his eyes and looks up at Allen. "I'm sorry you feel that way, Allen." Allen steps away from Marks in maddening horror as the estranges doctor sits up.

Allen grips the iron tight and smashes it across Marks' face one more time.

"You're not real!"

"Ha!" A voice comes from down the hall followed by a gunshot. Allen crouches confused for a moment, then runs away. Summer comes rushing to Marks' aid; she helps the should-be elderly man to his feet. "Marks, please tell me what is going on."

"Allen Wesker has poisoned the water in the building. I think he diluted the Gekks virus and with intent of letting it loose in the air conditioning system."

"And the Man-dra whatevers?"

"Only the beginning of our problems," Marks explains, finally straining his back ready to continue the chase. "Summer, you must take the others and escape. Save whoever you can." "And you?"

" . . ." Marks never does respond.

* * *

Shaun sits in his office, head still down. "What the hell went wrong?"

Dem-Row beside him sits back in his chair, and years melt away from his face; his skin becomes blue as ice and shimmers like glass. His eyes go sharp and shimmer a gem-like purple, his nose twists slightly straighter and his jaw bone rises, giving him an elongated look. His voice growls deeply "Hell? . . . No, it's more like holy vengeances."

Shaun jumps to his feet. "Oh god, . . ." "Yes," Adam Crow replies.

"You're?"

"The Avatar of the Cravixs, Adam Crow."

Shaun howls a barbaric war cry as he grabs one of the many blades hanging from his wall and thrusts forth at the demonic entity. "Really? Again?" Cravixs twists his head slightly to one side. Shaun flies at one wall, then at another, then from floor to ceiling several times. Shaun is at last allowed to fall to the ground exhausted. Crow's lips curl into a devilish grin; he folds his hands into a diamond and all lights vanish from the tower, then all at once every door slams shut and locks.

"Shaun Clawed, you can keep your life if you want it, but my thirst must be quenched. Give me your dreams." Crow kneels before the CEO and wraps his lips around his. With that motion, Shaun's eyes go wide as his life force is drawn from his body, not enough to kill, but more than enough to wound. "Your feelings will fill my veins for days to come." And with that one swift motion, nightmares all around the towers come to life. From deep within the minds of the tenants, hell begins to spawn.

"All suffering be unto you, for you are wed to the truest of evils."