by Nathan Wall
“Take your son and be gone.” Using the table to hold himself up, Azrael stood on shaky legs. The Queen nodded and slowly lifted her son from the table before leaving the room.
“I am sure you weren't completely condemned until that last bit there,” Zeus said, walking over to the King. He stood over the groaning body. “What shall we do with him?”
“Leave him to rot for all I care.” Azrael stood in the large archway, overlooking the garden and the great wall that surrounded the palace. As night fell over the sky, he quickly manifested his armor over his entire body. “I have a feeling you should leave.”
“Very well,” Zeus nodded, picking up the King, “but I would like to deal with this beast in my own manner.”
“What are you going to do to him?” Azrael turned his head to look at Zeus.
“Rebuild him and make him a slave to the moon,” he replied, his armor stretching across his body in a subtle glow. “Damn him to walk the earth like the animal he is.”
With a crack of thunder, Zeus was gone. However, Azrael knew others were on their way. The ground rumbled, opening large vents of steam which forced their way from the Earth. The palace walls crumbled and piece by piece the lavishly decorated ceiling fell to the floor. Six transparent glowing oval shapes appeared in the room. Inside of them, ghostly faces assembled. The pink light vanished and the remaining Archangels stood at attention.
“I warned you to not seek your own vengeance,” Gabriel seethed, his armor flaring in anger. “We must do as instructed at all times and seek counsel with the Father when we feel disobedience welling up inside of us. You know the punishment we are instructed to deliver.”
“I do,” Azrael nodded, “and I accept it.”
“Then why do you stand before us in full armor?” Michael's soft, yet blatantly imposing voice made an entrance. His armor was the most beautiful of all, though that wasn't always the case. It was almost transparent, always shining with grace; the exact opposite of Azrael's. Michael’s aurascales radiated pure white with no blemishes. Etched onto the back plate of his armor, like a delicately painted canvas, was the design of an eagle with spread wings. His facial armor also resembled that of an eagle which was another way for Michael to show his affinity for the creature. “I can feel your torment.”
“Can you?” Azrael shook his head in frustration. “You know nothing of the burden I have been instructed to bear.”
“They cry to me too.” Michael instructed the others to lower their weapons and offered his hand out. “They wonder why and the answers I cannot give them.”
“Yours is an offering of peace and tranquility. Mine is never anything of the sort.” Azrael pulled away, stepping back to the top of the staircase. “You cannot begin to comprehend the horrors I have burned inside of me. It is as if I have a soul forever corrupted.”
“Blasphemer,” Gabriel accused. His body erupted in a translucent red flame.
“Calm yourself, Gabriel, or you will answer for your wrath.” Michael’s hand shot up in Gabriel’s direction, blowing out the flames. His brother flew back a good ten yards. He turned to Azrael. “Careful of what you say. You know we are not gifted with a soul.”
“What if he is right, Michael?” Osiris asked, walking over toward their leader. His colors shone silver and green. “We cannot deny that we are built with emotions inside of us that we both cannot explain and are not conditioned to control. I dare say that I have felt love for those under my wing.”
Michael turned around, looking at his fellow Archangels; each the most powerful and revered of their kind. Some of them were entrusted with areas on Earth they're to protect with a legion of Angels beneath them to assist with that purpose. Then there were those who collected the souls of the dead, and finally the one who acted as the messenger of God.
Michael addressed his brethren, raising his hands in a calming fashion. “It is the upmost test of dedication to our service. Believe me. I am here for each one of you, just as you are there for those beneath you. Together, with the help of our Father, we can conquer anything...”
“You have lost touch with your inner self since taking up the helm vacated by Lucifer and spent less time among the humans,” Vishnu interrupted, his armor retreating.
“This is a rebellion, Michael.” Gabriel pushed himself from the ground and slowly rose. “A second war of pride.”
“There is no pride here, Gabriel. That is what you do not understand.” Azrael clenched his fist and ground his teeth together. He walked up alongside Michael and looked him over. “I do not expect Gabriel to understand as he is always in the presence of our Father and has that ultimate connection. But you, Michael… You are not our leader just because you cast Lucifer out, but because we knew you could see the best inside all of us and know our true intentions.”
“I do, Azrael.” Michael nodded, wrapping his arm around Azrael. “And that is why I am going to ask our Father to save your seat among us so that one day, when you finish out your sentence, you can rejoin us with His forgiveness.”
“No. His star should be cast out of the sky forever. It is what is just,” Gabriel said, shaking his head.
“He should not be cast out at all,” Thor yelled at Gabriel, his weapons manifesting. “I do not want to see us lose another. I will not stand for it...”
“Neither will I,” Vishnu added.
Azrael nodded, closing his eyes. Lightning struck down on top of him, forming shackles around his feet and wrists. Michael placed his arms on Azrael's shoulders and then reached inside of his torso. After a few moments, he removed a gray egg-shaped stone larger than two handfuls. It was made up of millions of tiny squares from the same material as the Angel's second skin-like armor, differing only in color.
Michael twisted the stone, briefly opening it, and made certain the glowing blue center was still intact. He reformed the stone and then let it go, allowing it to hover in place. He moved his hand over Azrael's face and little slate-gray aurascales flowed from the stone, washing over Azrael's body. The shackles from the chains twisted harder into Azrael's flesh, fusing with the bone. The gray pieces stuck to his skin and formed a layer three feet thick, encasing his entire body in an oval.
The ground shook once more as the remaining Angels looked at each other. Michael knew this debate would have to be settled at a different time. There was also the matter of where Zeus had vanished. A pink light washed over the Angels and they disappeared. The ground opened up and the cocoon with Azrael inside was swallowed as the palace collapsed in on itself.
Episode 1
Having spent the past four years as Sanderson’s assistant, Lian became sort of a cigar aficionado. In the first three months, without reading his mind, she grew to know the differences in cigars and what they said about Sanderson’s mood.
The Rosado type cigars were lighter, almost pinkish in color, and produced a spicy smell and taste. He smoked those when he had a new idea. It was usually beneficial to listen.
The Maduro was a dark tan, tightly wound cigar with a sweeter scent. Usually, Sanderson smoked those when he was in a good mood, which was hardly ever.
Today it was the Oscuro. A dark, almost black cigar, the Oscuro produced a robust smell, leaving Lian to feel as if she'd been punched in the chest, serving as a warning that Sanderson was irritable. After months of waiting for the new subjects to be ready for the Double-Helix procedure, Sanderson had more than enough reasons to be nervous and irritable.
The bonding process had only been successful a handful of times, costing countless lives which Lian knew to be of little consequence to him. The Double-Helix program wasn't the idea he originally set out with. His original goal was much grander, and though she tried to pry into his memories, Sanderson kept that part of his past locked away. All she could see were echoes about some kid he called Subject 21. This kid wasn't like the new guys being brought in here today.
“Stop snooping or you'll regret it.” Sanderson didn't bother looking at her and continued to smoke his
cigar. She knew he was telling the truth. People like her—gifted ones—were all just a means to an end for him.
“I'm sorry,” she replied, folding her hands together and looking out the double-paned window to the procedure chamber below. She could see her eyebrow length bangs were frizzier than normal, so she pulled them back and rolled them into her layered shoulder-length ponytail.
“The subjects are ready.” Dr. Shah's voice made a quick, fuzzy entrance through the intercom.
“We’ve got to wait for Elliot,” Sanderson replied, leaning back in his chair and relighting his cigar. He sighed heavily and wiggled his nose, which she knew him to do when frustrated. Much like the time when she was nine and accidently crippled a platoon of men with her screaming. He's only recently let that incident go and that happened seven years ago.
Sanderson never liked to hide his disdain for Elliot, even though they'd been partners since before Lian was born. If it were up to Sanderson, the process would be started in Elliot's absence, but unfortunately, the powers-that-be have backed his one-time friend. They wanted the Double-Helix to fail, hoping it would force Sanderson to recreate his original theories. Theories and tests that he swore long ago he wouldn't ever produce again.
He took a quick look through each of today’s subject files. Patient One was named Aaron and showed great problem solving skills while in the program. Patient Two was Edward, the best tactical fighter of the three. The third was Tucker, a bit of an enigma his entire time in the program, rejecting most of the fake DNA sequences which were implanted time and time again. Sanderson tried his hardest to get him thrown out of the program, but again the greater design was for the Double-Helix to fail.
Lian stepped closer to Sanderson's chair and snooped over his shoulder, reading the files. She didn't know why he forced himself to read their charts and learn about their personal lives if the outcome of the tests was already a foregone conclusion. She'd seen it several times and knew that Sanderson expected the same results. So why torture himself?
The door to the observation room opened and Elliot walked through. He wore a tight black suit, a white button-up shirt, a black fedora, and Wayfarer sunglasses. He was a good eight inches taller than Lian, which didn’t say much considering her petite five-foot frame.
Two other men followed him into the observation room and stood behind his chair. One was African and the other from Northeastern Europe. Both were tall, brooding fellows. They had the typical security guard clothing and accessories with wires spiraling out of the ears and all. Their main purpose was to serve as Elliot’s psychic blockers. They looked at Lian, their eyebrows frowning with little smirks accompanying them, and shook their heads at one another.
Everyone showed contempt towards her and her powers until they crossed her. They all underestimated the ability of this teenage girl until she crippled their bodies and turned them into vegetables. Lian decided to let this visual show of disrespect slide off her back. This night was far too important for Sanderson for her to take out her own personal grudges.
“Where do we stand?” Elliot asked. His Midwestern accent didn’t fit his demeanor. Lian always thought he looked like a New England pretty boy; someone better suited for ballroom fundraisers rather than corn-picking farm work.
“We were actually waiting for you,” Sanderson replied, the dim light shining off his bald head. He put the cigar back to his bushy mustache-covered lips. The tip glowed a light shade of orange and then turned red as he exhaled.
“Let’s get started.” Elliot leaned forward and pressed his index finger on the intercom button.
“Yes, sir,” Dr. Shah's heavy accent married with the white noise from the intercom to form a sort of whistling static-engulfed buzz.
The observation room overlooked two other rooms. To the right, the scientists monitored the patients over tiny handheld computers. They also made sure the catalyst remained in a frozen state. It was very important for the catalyst’s core temperature not to climb above sixty-three Kelvin. If the nitrogen was to no longer remain at a solid state, then the catalyst might achieve breach.
In the other room, separated by thick concrete and steel walls with armored windows scattered in, were three tables with iron locks. Numerous cables, tubes, and chains surrounded each table. Inside a dozen men stood with guns. A few doctors waited to monitor the subjects up close. Three men were escorted into the room, each only wearing a pair of shorts. They were strapped onto the tables and given a sedative to put them out.
“If this series of tests goes to hell, I’ve been instructed to personally pick out the next batch of subjects and continue with my own process.” Elliot leaned toward Sanderson and smiled smugly. “They want your original work. This shotgun approach doesn't last long. We can't churn them out fast or efficient enough, and re-administering the dose every two months slows things down.”
“I don't care if we burn through a thousand lives. I'm not changing the way I do things. As severe as the loss of life may be, there isn't a better option.”
“Good thing I call the shots then.” Elliot smirked and looked at his pocket watch.
“The subjects are ready for infusion,” Shah indicated, looking up from his post and nodding. He directed the other scientists to extract the cells from the catalyst.
Ten inch needles slowly prodded into the catalyst through pre-drilled holes in the slate-gray metal shell. A platelet rich sample was extracted. Shah placed the tubes in a drawer that opened up to the other side of the wall. There, the doctors pulled out the vials and attached each onto a gun-shaped syringe. Oxygen masks were placed over the patients’ mouths and noses in order to steady their breathing. Their necks were swabbed and the three doctors put the needle up to the necks of the men strapped to the table in front of them.
“They’re ready,” Shah said through the intercom. “Administer the dose.”
“Let’s pray this works.” Sanderson finished off the remains of his chunky cigar and stomped it out with his boot.
The coarse white gel flowed from the syringes and through the needles implanted into the bone marrow of the subjects. Aaron convulsed until he was as rigid as the table he was lying on. Tucker's arms grew as a wave-like formation moved in his abdomen. Blood dripped from his eyes and mouth as his skin tore apart. Like Black Cat Fireworks, his bones cracked in rapid succession.
“Blood pressure is through the roof,” Shah called out through the chaos. “The nanites are showing cellular manipulation in Subject Two.”
The men strapped to the tables convulsed as their features started to change. Their faces began looking alike, yet different at the same time. Lian didn't fully comprehend the process and she wasn't meant to. She was only meant to stand next to Sanderson, look on, and participate in all of the grueling things he did. She closed her eyes and turned her head so no one could see her face.
“Now entering Phase Three.” Shah made sure everyone kept to the same time table. Suddenly, the process stopped and the subjects made their descent back into an idle state. Subjects One and Three's features returned back to the way they were before. “Stand by as we scan their vital organs.”
Another machine glided over each subject and a light quickly flashed over them, giving a detailed image of what happened inside their bodies.
“DNA sequence is still the same.” A woman pushed the scanner closer to Subject One's body. “His organs have ruptured.”
“And what of number two?” Elliot pushed the intercom.
“Please, may he be alive,” Sanderson whispered to himself. He leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees and rubbed his forehead. “Bring in the healers. Let’s see if we can’t save Subject Three.”
Two boys escorted by security guards walked into the test room. While the scientists examined Edward, the boys tried to heal Subject Three. They placed their hands onto his chest, closed their eyes, and chanted. The corpse moved slightly, but the healers quickly pulled away, screaming in agony.
“He's beyond repair,�
� grunted one of the boys.
“Subject Two is intact, but there is no heartbeat, and there appears to be no breathing.” The doctor turned and looked up at the observation room.
“I’m not picking anything up,” Elliot’s African guard informed him. “He’s dead.”
Sanderson stood and walked over to Lian. They both looked at each other and she shook her head, disagreeing with the other psychic. Sanderson spun on his heel and slammed his fist onto the intercom.
“Get the hell out of there right—”
Before he finished his sentence, Edward opened his eyes. All color had vanished from them. His pupils were cat-like and his skin pale. His fingernails doubled in size, quickly hardening. He flexed, showing drastic muscle growth. Pearly white fangs emerged from his smile. He broke free of the shackles and gashed a doctor’s face with his hand.
The guards opened fire, but Edward was far too fast for them. He jumped forward, springing off one of the adjacent walls, and landed on top of one of the guards. He bit into the guard and drained him of his blood, quickly healing his own wounds. He grabbed the guard’s machine gun and mowed down everyone still in the room.
The complex was now on high alert with an overbearing siren sounding off. He looked up toward the observation room and took a step closer before stopping. Lian looked directly into his eyes and tried to latch onto his mind, but he quickly stepped back and punched through the metal door that was meant to keep him in the procedure room.
“Can you shut him down?” Sanderson slammed his fist into the window and looked at Lian.
“No. He’s too fast. I’ll have to touch him.” She put her hand to her temple and grimaced.
“You have messed this up for the last time, Bill.” Elliot stood and stuck his finger into Sanderson's chest. “Let me know when you’ve caught your latest debacle. I want Subject Two—this Edward—alive so we can study him.”
