Gears of War: A Grievous Redemption

This is my first fanfiction on this site, and is also my first Gears of War story. It can also be found on www.fanfiction.net. The chronology in this story diverges from that of Karen Traviss' books, so you have my sincere apologies for any discrepancies, and I only ask that you bear with with me. I'm pretty new to this format and the website's regulations, so I'm going to ask that if anyone wishes to edit this piece, please contact me for permission.

In writing this, I am attempting to tie into the collectibles found in playing Gears of War 2 to the main storyline, and am trying to interconnect the past and the present - in order to explore the reasons behind E-Day and its aftermath.

A couple of quick questions from the newbie:

How do I categorize this fic in the fanfiction category? Any suggestions will be appreciated.

How do I delete a category that I have accidentally created?

Premise

This story takes place shortly after the flooding of the Locust hollow and the end of the second game. The COG, together with some survivors, have relocated to Orsorum (Orsa) Island.

Chairman Prescott believes that they have effectively eliminated the Locust, and is reluctant to believe otherwise. Colonel Hoffman maintains his doubt. Marcus Fenix shares similar concerns with Hoffman and is also facing daemons of his own. The conversation he had had with the Locust Queen before the destruction of Jacinto plagues him still, as he tries to come to terms with the possibility that his father may have played a significant role in the Human-Locust war.

CHAPTER 1
Circa 3010

'''Pendulum Wars  Kubrick Clinics and Laboratories'''

“Dr. Wright? Dr. Wright?” called out the woman from the doorway.

She grabbed attention from the middle-aged man at his desk; his head turning towards her. Jesus, he looked older than she remembered, she thought. And given that the hiatus lasted a mere month – that was saying something. But it wasn’t simply his hair that had aged – that was the one constant that had remained since the beginning of the project – the gray replacing the black had noticeably spread; akin to a web of silvery roots growing and expanding along his head. His eyes appeared listless, and his cheeks; sunken in and hollow.

“It’s not as all bad as that, is it?” chirped the man, slightly irked that she found him so adversely noticeable. He couldn’t quite label her steady gaze as impertinence, but her wordless insinuations were sufficient to warrant annoyance – at least on his part.

She shook her head – glasses nearly falling off the bridge of her nose – flustered and embarrassed. “Oh...no, sir. Of course not.”

“You couldn’t lie to save your life, Eliza.”

She shut her eyes, abashed and a trifle mortified. Dr. Wright waved a dismissive hand in the air. “Never mind, never mind. I’ve just been more preoccupied lately. Too much to worry about without having to think about good looks and all.”

“I’m sorry to hear about your wife, doctor.” said Eliza; extending an invisible olive branch to appease her superior’s temper. “I – well, I never thought they would re-take Hyrme. The city had some pretty good defenses.”

“Apparently they weren’t good enough.”

“Yes sir – of course. But I am sorry nonetheless.”

Dr. Wright grinded his teeth. He had no reason to be agitated by her words, but he felt particularly cantankerous today. A nasty little habit he was seeping himself in as time wore on. He nodded – the only acknowledgement he could think of to give the discomposed woman. Sympathies aside, there were other matters to attend to. “Why are you here?”

“I’ve finished the sequence analysis and comparisons.”

“On what? The rat cell lines? I told you to have it analyzed in the embryonic tissue – didn’t I?”

“Yes, sir. I managed to get the homologous sequences together – they lined up quite well.”

“And the gene insertions?” questioned Wright. “Was there any evidence of uptake? Did they reject them?”

“Yes, sir. I mean – no. We’re saw cell differentiation, proliferation. Basically, the samples exhibited the same processes as the control blastocysts. The cell lines developed normally.”

At this, a gleam of hope, curiousity and interest played across Wright’s eyes. The same eagerness carried through to his voice as well. “And what about the live samples? The rats?”

Eliza smiled, pleased and relieved to see him happy – if only for a brief moment. “All grown into adulthood without any marked genetic defects, except for – ”

“– except for what?” interrupted Wright, unable to contain himself.

“They are especially aggressive. We can’t keep the males in the same cage. We first thought that they were in heat or something, but not anymore. The females aren’t as docile either – but they’re not nearly as bad as the males. We also observed rapid hair growth. Basically everything that is keratin-based; the hair, claws...show a remarkable rate of development.”

“You don’t say...” murmured Wright, grinning. He had anticipated such an outcome, but was obviously pleased at its nature.

“Well, the reason I came down here, sir...and mind you, I didn’t want to have disturb you in the middle of your work, but it couldn’t be helped. You didn’t respond to our messages and calls, so we had to pause before we proceed to stage three. We need you to give us the go-ahead.”

“Human trials,” muttered Wright. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Ten years ago – this kind of trial would never have been possible. There would be protests among the ethicists in the scientific community, organizations of repute would have withdrawn any funding for the project – and it would have come to a deadening halt. All their speculations and plans would be for naught; his unfinished work would have left him hanging – with what-if scenarios plaguing him for the rest of his natural life.

But the Pendulum Wars had changed all of that.

Their victory-starved military were desperate. And, like all desperate men, they would try just about anything. Even if it meant looking to the masochistic ways of exploitation. Even if it meant that the ones being exploited were human beings. Eagerly and voraciously, they sought to nullify what they believed to be the asinine and dogmatic morals that surrounded science. Impositions that ethicists – both past and present – had put into place were just that. Obstacles that prevented them from winning their war. They set about removing such road blocks, followed by the propagation of several projects conjured by very capable think-tanks. There no longer was any red tape. No pending approvals. If it meant a successful conquest – then governmental councils asked no questions. Just get back there and get it done. This was no time to contemplate matters of conscience.

And get it done, is what he did. Well not quite yet, mused Wright. There was one last thing on their agenda.

“You have my complete approval, Eliza.” he said.

She took in a heavy breath. “We have a limited supply of cryogenic embryos, sir. We can do one round of experiments, but in order for us to have reproducible results – in order for us to make certain we have some positive data, we’ll need a larger stock.”

Unfazed, Wright thumped his fist on his knee. “Leave that to me, my dear. Go ahead and get this underway. You shouldn’t have to be worrying about your supplies – that’s my job. The task ahead isn’t going to be easy, so you’d better get started. I will find you some new embryos.”

She nodded, smiling, and walked away.

An hour later, Wright sat in the same chair, staring at the computer screen. A lengthy list gazed back at him. He reached out for a pen and paper inside his drawer and began to copy down something from the list. Upon finishing, he read out quietly to himself. “Rachel Leeves, Susan Treicel, this is not a world fit to bring a child into. But I’m working on that. Consider this a favour – a favour to your unborn children. They’ll never have to see this nasty mess we made. Never.”

3025

'''Fifteen years later '''

New Hope Research Facility

Her breath came in short, ragged gasps. The nurse, although she preferred to call him the reaper, helped her lean against the soft pillow, and then placed an oxygen mask over her nose and mouth. He was alright, really, unassuming and quite gentle. But her interactions with him were almost always confined to her illness. There was no inane chit chat about life, about boys, about nothing. There were just her diseased spasms, and his attending to them. She was certain then, that no matter how long fate kept her weak heart thumping, that when her time came, his would be the last face she would look upon.

After adjusting the elastic that held it in place, he stood upright again and smiled kindly down at her.

“Give it a few moments,” her reaper said. “Try to think of something soothing – like a waterfall.”

Now when was the last time she had ever seen a waterfall? she thought, annoyed. She scowled, the expression invisible under the mask. Never, she replied to herself. And she had doubts that she ever would.

Her reaper gently stroked her thinning hair and cooed something that chafed her demeanor even more, before walking away to attend to other matters. With a hiss-click, the door shut behind him and she was left alone again with her thoughts. But her thoughts today had become hackneyed and dulled. She had learned from a young age that dependence on the others here for entertainment, and even answers to puzzling questions, was futile. Therefore, she had become her own interrogator, and in turn, the only person around to give her answers.

Some days it was enough to make her scream from boredom. And other days, she was simply too exhausted to be cathartic. At this moment, her eyelids grew steadily heavier, and soon, her mind wandered into the ever-changing realm of dreams.

This was one of those days.

She awoke with a start, yanking her mask off. Almost immediately, her door opened, and her reaper stumbled in, alarmed. Damn, she thought angrily. I must have screamed again.

“Ruth? No, no, don’t pull off your mask. Settle down. Settle down....” he said, coming to her side.

And then without warning, she lashed out with her feet – still entangled in the bed clothes – kicking him in his stomach. The blow must have been quite powerful, for he was pushed a good several yards from the bed. The mask was on the floor now, and with determined strides she came near him.

Her reaper lay on his back, too disoriented to push her away again. She took advantage of his vulnerable position and pinned him to the floor with her weight. She struck him hard on his right cheek - bone hitting bone, and then, without pausing, she did the same to his left – but with her opposite hand. She maintained the violent pattern of blows, until she felt herself being dragged away by powerful hands.

She had no fear, no remorse. No shame, that is, until she saw the bloodied man before her – lying unconscious on the floor. Words began to make sense again, and everything around her seemed to quiet down into normalcy.

Until she felt a biting jab on her arm before everything went black, and silent.

3026

'''Six months later '''

New Hope Research Facility

His forehead lay pressed onto the cold window pane, and his eyes were closed. He remained standing in this fashion for several moments. Opening his eyes, he saw past the steady rivulets of water running down the glass outside, and into turbulent thoughts.

His mind saw what his eyes could not, and he felt himself relive the children’s suffering once again. He'd imagined that after several years, all matters of empathy and morality would be nothing but blunt instruments to be discarded lightly. But it was just the opposite. He felt the emotional repercussions multiply tenfold; it had weakened his resolve considerably. It was not his will to do so, because sometimes he believed that his conscience was beyond his control. It demanded his attention to deeds he should never have been party to. If there are such things as ghosts, he thought, I can believe that now. He supposed that he had unwittingly resurrected them himself. And from then onwards, their daemons plagued him incessantly.

Many of their voices were eerily distinct, but mostly, it was their sickness, and the sounds thereof that haunted him. Subjects one through twelve and – no, he reminded himself – they had names. Joshua and the others had often experienced heavy, laboured breathing. Their weakened immune systems had given way to sporadic bouts of lung infections. He could hear their raspings for air in his head; often due to the development of chronic bronchitis or tuberculosis caused by different mycobacterial strains – as little hollow intakes of air. Like unplayable, deformed wind instruments.

And the breathing difficulties were only the beginning.

The hair loss began around five to six years of age; they looked like veteran cancer patients who had undergone several treatments of chemotherapy. But of course, it wasn’t cancer that was killing them. It was themselves. And he had helped bring about that self-destruction. He, and the other scientists – past and present. They had wrought something that he was now certain that nature would not let them get away with.

He remembered the skin discoloration as well. Melanin production – the pigment found in mammalian tissues – was dangerously low. The children could not risk going outside. Exposure to the harmful UV rays of the sun without sufficient melanin could result in mutations, skin cancers. He recalled many a day where one of them would gaze longingly through tinted windows, rub their aching joints unconsciously, and ask to go outside.

No, you can’t, the orderly would answer, not unkindly. You know what will happen if you do.

Some of them insisted on it, one short day in the sunshine could surpass a lifetime spent within closed doors, they believed. But they weren’t making decisions. They weren’t calling the shots.

We were, he realized. ''Because we knew what was best. Because father always knows best''.

Turning his eyes away from the window, he stared at the framed photograph on his desk. He picked it up and looked at it; obvious tenderness in his eyes. In it, he was smiling, his arm around a young disheveled boy of around twelve. The boy’s blue eyes were striking – discernable even within a photograph, and it held all the hopes, dreams and anticipation that youth could bring. He was wearing his uniform, with badges impeccably pinned to his suit, boots shiny and new, a clean-shaven face – everything in place except his hair.

The man laughed quietly, and ran his hands through his own unkempt, dark hair, briefly musing on such similarities. He was trying to search for the good in this boy, the man he would become – his son – something to mirror his own. But he couldn’t help but feel that for all his efforts, his son remained the better man. He wouldn’t have made the same mistakes. He couldn’t. He would see to it that the sins of the father would not be passed down to the son.

Putting the photograph down, he picked up a small tape recorder on his desk and turned it on.

“''Marcus, I don’t know where to begin. If you were here, you would tell me to begin at the start. But you see, it’s more complicated than that. It all came about from noble intentions. Or so we were told, I suppose. A very simple goal. War is horrible. And the only thing that could overshadow war would be if we brought it on ourselves''.” He paused; too many thoughts trafficked through his mind. His words sounded muddled and tumultuous. He breathed in, trying to regain his composure. After a moment, he sat down in his chair and continued.

“''When Helen Cooper refined the lightmass process – I was ecstatic. Well, more relieved than ecstatic. I thought that this – a renewable source of energy – not nuclear, not cold fusion – was our saving grace. You must understand, son, that it was a virtuous act, another deed that stemmed from benevolence. It was meant for progression and not for destruction. But I suppose altruism – for all of its benefits – is not immune to corruption.''

"I never could understand why Sera didn’t work with our developing neighbours. If we took that imperative first step – we would have been the perfect model for our compatriots. We would have shared, and shared alike. But, you see, Marcus, near-sightedness was our undoing. Self-preservation demanded that we stockpile imulsion; I believe we coveted it unlike any other limited resource in the past. We also underestimated the smaller nations. We were too busy basking in the rays of this new discovery to recognize what we had deprived them of. We did not foresee how desperate they would become, how they would band together to take us down.

"And take us down...they almost did. I suppose desperation begets desperation, and this is where my work comes in. We needed something greater than imulsion, greater than lightmass bombs to squash our enemies.

"I...hope you can forgive me for what I did...for what I’m about to tell you. And coward that I am, I also hope that when you hear this, I will not be with you. I cannot bear to see your face. You will rightfully be ashamed of your fool of a father. We tampered with nature, Marcus. We were...are...playing god. And we were arrogant enough to believe that we would be successful.

"It sounded good at the start – just like I said before. To my credit, I suppose I wasn’t told the whole truth, but I had my suspicions. And I should have acted on them. I should have turned my back on it all. But I was too ambitious and too full of myself to resist the opportunity to do this kind of work.

"Dr. Samson told us that it was time for an era of peace. And that something drastic had to be done, and that we were the only individuals courageous enough for the undertaking. He told us that our children’s children would never know the hardships of war if we were successful. But we had to sacrifice in order to achieve this. It would be a worthy sacrifice, of course...but painful nonetheless.

"We ate into his lies greedily. We were given the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to prove our mettle. We wanted...we – oh, God, what have we done, Marcus? What have we done?"

His voice broke down, and he paused the tape. How could he tell his only son that he had helped destroy his future? How could he bear the shame of it?

Tomorrow, he told himself. ''I can finish this tomorrow. I haven’t the nerve for this anymore''.

Chapter 2
1 week later

He brought in the platter of food as silently as he could. Glancing sideways at the solitary window, he noted that the first rays of dawn were already prying their way inside the room. Amber-glowing light was cast upon a heavily stocked bookshelf, and was expanding further inwards – just touching the foot of the occupied bed. He laid the platter to rest on a small end table, and drew the dark curtains across – abruptly shutting out the light. A momentary spasm of thought or conscience roused him; he remembered how the other rooms weren’t even allowed the luxury of curtains – the windows were framed by cold, rigid steel shutters. But she was an exception to the rule. Come to think of it, he wondered sadly, she was an exception to a lot of rules.

“Ruth?” he called out softly, as he began to open a small carton of milk, pouring it into a glass. “You awake?”

A voice – small yet firm – came out from under the bed covers. “I’m sorry, Carl.”

Her reaper sighed. “We’ve been through this already, kiddo. You just needed to vent your anger. Water under the bridge. Come on now, sit up like a good girl and eat your breakfast.”

“But I’m sorry. I...I feel like it’s not going to go away. Or stop.” She sat up slowly, grunting as she did so. The arthritic-like pain in her joints could not be assuaged in the mornings, she had learned. Each movement her body had to make was conducted delicately. Frequently, she felt like the protagonist in a cheesy action movie – the one who had seconds left to diffuse an explosive device – and more often than not, she felt like she was both the diffuser and the bomb.

Her slow and steady movements did not go unnoticed by her reaper, and he smiled wanly. “You want the cortisone shots? I also have some Valium here...” he reached into his pockets, pulled out a small, translucent bottle of pills, and presented it to her.

Ruth shook her head. “No thanks. I don’t think steroid injections or sedatives are particularly...receptive to my condition.” She sighed. “You know what, though?”

“What, Ruth?”

“You’d think that Dr. Doom would have put two and two together already. He administers the shots, and then hours later I have an episode.”

He shrugged nonchalantly, remaining silent, arranging the food on her bed tray.

She continued. “I think he knows. I think he does it deliberately and he keeps count of it; he must be tabulating damn statistical scores...” her voice tapered off into silence. She caught her reaper looking at her patronizingly. “Oh please, Carl,” she said, “I’m not that big of an imbecile. He’s no more trying to cure me than, than – ” Ruth paused to find the appropriate words, “ – than when Dr. Frankenstein thought he was creating blessed life.”

“Dr. Samson isn’t Dr. Doom and he isn’t Dr. Frankenstein, Ruth. He’s trying to help you kids out. The cure for your sickness isn’t something that can be conjured out of thin air. Your medication has to go through numerous rigorous trials – it’s the harsh truth – but it’s the truth nevertheless. They’re working their asses off to help you guys out. Give you a second shot at a normal life.” he explained.

“Like the normal life he gave Adele, you mean?” asked Ruth, looking him squarely in the eyes.

He remained silent, a little at a loss for words. Adele’s death had had a particular impact on Ruth – who had not been close to any of the other children. Carl had surmised that she had taken to Adele’s unassuming nature, given the fact that she had asked nothing from Ruth save for companionship. It was a friendship that was short-lived, however, as complications from her treatments worsened, leading to her eventual death.

“They did what they could,” muttered Carl quietly.

“They did what they wanted, Carl!” exclaimed Ruth, her voice rising. “They kept increasing the dosage even though she was getting sicker! They were studying how her body responded to increased medication even though it was the medication that was killing her!”

Carl sucked in his teeth and let out a breath. “Adele died because her heart was operating at thirty percent of its capacity,” he paused briefly, as if considering something. “Besides, where did you come up with that bullshit conclusion anyway?”

“''She told me. She showed me''.” Face red from the exertion, Ruth reached over to her bedside table, and despite considerable pain, her hands fumbled around in the drawer, eventually pulling out a modest little notepad. “She was smart, Carl. She wrote down everything whenever she could. And she hid it from Samson. And the other nurses. And then, when she knew that whatever hope she had left in her life had been obliterated by these devils who work here, she gave it to me.”

Carl swallowed. “Why are you showing it to me?”

“Because you have a mite more of a conscience than the others here. Or that’s my hope, at least. Or maybe because I don’t want to end up like she did. I’m sick of being attended to by doctors telling me what’s in my best interest. I want to take charge of my own fate, I want to die the way I choose to die. I want to go out in the sun and feel some real warmth, I want to know what it feels like to be in love, I want to know what it feels like to hit a home run, I want to see waterfalls and I want to eat pepperoni pizza, and I want to run. I want to run away from this place – so badly you have no idea. You know...the worse part of this is...it’s that I feel like this place was meant to be my tomb even before I was born.” With that, she fell back into her pillow – exhausted and spent. As she stared at her food before her, she spoke quietly, and with diminished ardour. In fact, her outburst seemed to have left her feeling dry and hollow. She held out the little notepad towards him.

“Take it. Show it to your Dr. Samson. Burn it or read it or whatever.” She shut her eyes and tried to catch her breath. “Besides, how can I leave this place anyway?” She let out a bitter laugh. “I can’t even walk to that door without falling over.”

Carl stepped out of the small cafeteria and walked out the back door, into the open. He stared at the dumpster to his left and then turned his back on it, pulling out a cigarette from his pocket and lighting it. As he inhaled, he felt the warm smoke spread into his lungs, anticipating the calming lull of the nicotine as it took effect on his frayed nerves.

Because you have a mite more of a conscience than the others here. Her words rang loudly in his mind.

“Come on, Carl,” he told himself aloud. “Get a grip. It’s just work. It’s a job. Put it on the backburner – shift’s gonna be over in a few hours.”

You don’t seriously believe they’re helping these kids, do you? This time it was his voice that he heard. It was his mite of a conscience. I mean, seriously, you’ve gotta be one dumb fuck to be taken in by that.

''But I signed a non-disclosure agreement. It’s a binding contract. I do what they tell me to do, I ask no questions, and it pays the bills.  You’re party to some twisted shit, Carl. Makes no difference whether you’re the executioner or the doctor taking the dead man’s pulse. Either way, you’re helping them pull the switch.''

“Shit.” he muttered aloud. More thought didn’t seem to be required. Angry and nervous now, he yanked the half-burnt cigarette out of his mouth and threw it onto the ground. He stepped on it hard, extinguishing it.

He turned around and made his way back into the building.

5 days later

A voice on the small intercom chirped to life, and the man approached it with a handful of papers.

“''Dr. Fenix? There’s an orderly here to see you,''” it said.

He put his papers down on his desk and spoke back into the communications device. “Ah hell. Not now, Kelly. I’ve got a lot of paperwork here that needs to be turned in first thing Monday. Besides, tell him to send in his complaints to HR. I can’t do anything about it anyway.”

“''He says it’s a private matter, doctor. He’s not going to discuss it with HR''.” replied the voice.

“Can’t he discuss it with his shrink? His priest?” asked Fenix, hopefully.

“Uh...no, sir.”

He sighed. Realizing that the back-and-forth banter only served to waste more time, he relented. “Alright. Send him in.”

Carl walked into the room tentatively. His apprehensions did not go unnoticed by the older man, who gestured for Carl to take a seat on a sofa against the wall. His visitor did so, placing his hands on his lap.

“You want something to drink? I have some scotch...” offered Fenix, believing that perhaps a little alcohol would put the man at ease. The younger man shook his head, turning down the offer. Fenix raised his eyebrows questioningly, and smiled. “I’m not going to bite, son. What’s on your mind?”

“It’s not you, doc. Well, I suppose in a way it is. I can’t put what I’m about to ask you in a nicer way, but I need to know something. Is what I say going to stay within this room? Because if it isn’t, I need to know now.”

Fenix sat down in a chair opposite him. “The receptionist said your name is Carl Riviera, right? Can I call you Carl?” The other man nodded. “Now I don’t know the nature of what you’re about to tell me, Carl, but if it has anything to do with the patients, that would be something you would want to inform Dr. Niles Samson about. You see – not many of our staff are aware of this, save for Dr. Samson and some others – but I’m resigning from my post. As of three months from now, I’m not going to be working here anymore.”

“That’s why it has to be you, doctor.”

Fenix shook his head, perplexed. “Me? For what? I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“Are you going to repeat what I’m about to say to anyone else? I need to know.” insisted Carl.

A beat. Fenix closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose thoughtfully and tiredly. “I don’t see how I’m better than anyone else here, but...yes, you have my word. Unless this information threatens anyone’s life, then it will not leave this room.”

“What about your receptionist?” questioned Carl nervously. “She knows I came into talk to you.”

“Kelly can be trusted. And I won’t tell her what we talked about anyway. We can always just make something up. But what’s all this about? You caught me at a particularly stressful time...there’s a lot of data I need to organize for the guy who’s replacing me. Is what you have to tell me so important?”

Carl nodded. He’d thought a lot about what he was going to say, how he was going to say it. His envisioning and planning came at the cost of a lot of sleep, and his nerves were not the better for it. He knew about Adam Fenix; the other nurses and orderlies spoke well of him. But Carl had needed more reassurance than what congeniality and modesty had to offer. He needed loyalty and he needed someone who was willing to sacrifice. Their work, well-being, safety and their way of life – these were but a few chips that they would have to place on the table.

The man he had visualized taking into his confidence was certainly not the one he had decided to choose. But things hardly work out as planned, and perhaps his choice would serve to fool others, just as it had fooled him.

He had observed Adam Fenix before – and what he had mistaken for lethargy and inattentiveness, he had now inferred to be pangs of conscience. The doctor no longer administered the prescribed medication to patients himself. He would skip scheduled visits, misplace medical files, and in one instance had even written in incorrect – but markedly reduced – dosages for the terminally ill patients.

No reputable doctor would play his hand so carelessly, unless of course, he had wanted to lose. And Adam Fenix was no blockheaded simpleton. Carl had then concluded that if the man had indeed felt some remorse, an abrupt resignation resulting from that guilt would come under considerable scrutiny and suspicion. He had to be shrewd about it – there was no other alternative. The lack of attention to his work and his patients was but an act. In his charade, Doctor Fenix was not a team-player anymore. And the best thing for him was to resign himself to retirement; give himself a dignified exit. Or that was what his colleagues were made to believe.

Of course, Carl’s deductions could have been dreadfully wrong. And he could present his case to the good doctor only to have him run back to his superiors with this traitorous news. But the past few days of moping and strategizing had finally broken Carl’s threshold of tolerance, and he had to drive on his instincts or throw in the towel entirely.

There was nothing else for it, he guessed. Well, here goes, he told himself.

“The patients...the kids here,” he began, “they’re being tested on.”

“Of course they are. They’re ill.” said Fenix. “We’re here to fix the problem and find a cure.”

Carl noted that the man’s voice lacked conviction. He seemed to be stating something for the purpose of it simply being on the record. The younger man seized this possibility and continued. “What I mean to say is...the people who started this research – and I don’t mean to insinuate that you began it, although you have to admit that both you and I have helped perpetuate it – were never looking for a cure. They’re using the children here as instruments. Or maybe they’re just refining them to be what they want them to be. Do you understand me?”

Adam Fenix stood unnaturally still. It was as if he was dealt a hefty blow. The others feel it too, he realized. Well, some of them anyway. He had believed that leaving this place to its demise – and he was sure that it would come – would close the book on what he had done, what he had seen. But that wasn’t enough, apparently. The coming of this orderly seemed to be an advent of some larger conscience. As if fate was extending him an opportunity to fix things, even if it seemed a little too late.

“Yes, I understand.” he answered quietly.

“Good. I’ve been trying – ever since I started work here – to make out what the hell happened to these kids. I’ve never seen anything like it before. It makes stage IV cancer look like a common cold. I thought it was some kind of hybrid virus. But most viruses are contagious; and as far as I know, no one who’s worked here caught what those kids have. No precautions were even enforced to prevent spreading. If it was just the immunity problems like lung infections and swollen joints, I could accept some bullshit story of a mutated...something. But the random violence – I don’t see and I can’t see how it fits in. One of the doctors tried to tell me the kids were having epileptic seizures. I told him, ''come on, doc, I’ve been in this business for twelve years now. I know an epileptic seizure when I see one. And this ain’t no muscle spasm.'' He looked right back at me and told me to just do my job and leave the diagnosing to them.

"Doc, those kids are dangerous. About six months ago, one of them beat me unconscious. I weigh a hundred and eighty pounds, and this kid, she weighs ninety. I work out four days of the week. She’s bed-ridden for a good portion of the day, heck, a good portion of her life. Now you tell me that there’s nothing strange about that."

“What are you saying, Carl?” asked Fenix, with hesitance. “You want to lock these kids up within padded walls?”

Carl leaned forward. “No. I want to help them.”

“Why?”

“Because I have evidence that whatever shit is being done to them, is being done willfully and deliberately. They might be doing testing here, but these tests are the furthest thing from a cure. We have no right to – if you’ll pardon my language – fuck with their lives.”

“Where’d you get the evidence from?”

“Adele. One of the patients who died last year. She kept a journal detailing every symptom, every anomaly. I’ve read it. I have it.”

“She could be hallucinating – some of the stuff we gave them are pretty strong sedatives.” fumbled Fenix.

“You and I both know that’s bullshit. And you know what? I think you know. Maybe you didn’t know all along, but you sure as hell know now. That’s why you’re quitting.”

“But what can I do, Carl? I don’t pull the strings around here. I can’t tell Dr. Samson what to do – I can’t stop the research – ”

“No. No, you can’t. But you could help them get out. There have got to be at least twenty of them taking this torture. And I’m certain that now at least one of them is aware that there is no cure, no hope for something better.”

Fenix rose from his seat. He walked slowly to his desk and absently rearranged a file lying on it. ''What was the point of doing something now, anyway? We’ve already wrought enough damage'', he thought. And he wasn’t the man for this kind of job. Glancing to the right side of his desk, he studied the back of the photo frame of him and his son. He turned it so as to face him, and his shoulders drooped.

“What did they do to them?” came out Carl’s voice from behind him.

“Son,” breathed out Fenix, “you really don’t want to know. In fact, it would be better for you if you didn’t. I can tell you though, that eighteen of those twenty children are not going to make it this year. We can’t save them all.”

“Okay.” acknowledged Carl. If their history had to be kept in the dark for the sake of their future, then so be it. And if eighteen of them would not pull through, then that was all the more reason to save the rest. “If what was done can’t be undone, then we have to do what we can for the two that remain.”

“It’s more complicated than that. They’re the only ones who’re responding positively to the treatment.”

“So what?”

“So...everyone is going to be focusing on them. They’ll be watched more often than not. There will be more tests, more observations. We can’t just say we’re taking them to go to the bathroom and then make a break for it!” responded Fenix, frustrated.

“Then what do you propose we do?”

“We have to point them in another direction. We have to show them what they want to see.” replied Fenix. Schemes and strategies began to come to life and orient themselves in his mind. He sat back down. “But first,” he began, “I need to know everything recorded in that journal. Our patients – children though they may be – are unstable and violent. We need to know what we’re going up against on both sides. If we can’t save the kids from themselves, then this whole plan goes up in smoke.”

Carl leaned back into his seat. “Okay. But I think...I think I’m gonna need that glass of scotch now, doc.”

Circa 3043

15 years after E-Day

''He moves about the Locust Palace – one of the many homes to the locust Queen – with considerable ease. He knows where he came from and he knows where it is he’s going to. Four drones guarding the entrance to an antechamber acknowledge his arrival and they step aside. He is a stark contrast to the other occupants here; his face is pale and his skin is smooth. Theirs is a mottled gray, the epidermis uneven and tough – like leather.''

''He smiles at them as he walks by, and they return the gesture with nods. The antechamber could be called cavernous but it is certainly no cave. The ceilings and pillars display ornate engravings; rich in texture and sometimes symbolic. He has little or no concept of the allegoric nature of the carvings, and it makes him all the more eager to discover their origins. But the Queen, let alone the locusts, does not fully trust him yet. They have had many a conversation about battles and wars; the battle at Ephyra is brought up frequently, but when thoughts turn to history and culture, she grows distant and a little impatient.''

''This time he suspects that she will perhaps talk with him about their previous conversation. The Queen detests the imulsion that surrounds her people and her land. He, on the other hand, does not. He is aware of the dangers, but he has always been successful at quelling the response of fear to ignorance. After all, it was he who had devised the concept of lightmass explosives. Even she couldn’t deny its effectiveness. But she was...''

''He pauses in mid-thought, as the Queen approaches him through a side entrance, escorted by one of her High Priests and a member of the elite guards, the one she calls Skorge. In the length of time that he has known her, Skorge was a frequent companion – not in the friendly sense of the word, but more as a protective symbol – and yet, he never participates in any discourse with them. Perhaps he doesn’t need to, he realizes.  “Adam,” speaks the Queen, addressing him with the utmost composure.''

“Your highness.” Adam bows, before the Queen gestures for him to arise.

“I do not feel like sitting down today.” The tough tendrils emerging from her spine move about slowly in the air, each one akin to a cat twirling its tail. “Would you like to walk with me?”

“It would be my pleasure,” he responds.

“Good. I would like to hear about your son today, Adam. He intrigues me. If he is anything like his father, then he would have my utmost respect.”

''Adam nods and moves beside her. They begin to walk, side by side, towards the doorway in the room.''

He woke from slumber later than he would have liked, given the nature of his dream, and breathed out slowly. He tried to tell himself that dreams were the stuff of nonsense, that his subconscious was probably working overtime. But their exchange with the Queen back at Nexus so many weeks ago had left him with uneasy and unanswered questions. Her referral to him being Adam Fenix’s son unnerved him. Furthermore, and more frightening, was the manner in which she had spoken of his father. Was that respect in her voice, he wondered?

He shook his head, still drowsy.

Wakeful consciousness brought with it a pounding headache, and a dry feeling at the back of his throat. He swung his legs over the side of the rickety cot and held his head in his hands. It felt like morning, but dawn brought no consequence.

He never did like looking at the time – over the years and the battles, keeping track of ticking minutes and hours only counted for something if there was a goal to be reached. But in between, it never seemed to matter that much. A lot of things didn’t seem to matter that much. War was war and to analyze it and dissect it could leave one feeling breathless and a little crazy, to say the least.

The dead were the lucky ones, anyway.

“Marcus?” called out a familiar voice from outside the room. “You up?”

“Am now.”

His friend came into the room, wiping his wet face on a small towel. “They’re asking us to do some recon tonight. You up for it?”

“Ah hell, Dom, doesn’t really matter if I am or I’m not, does it?”

Dom smiled and threw the towel onto his own bed. “No, guess not.”

Marcus rose from his bunk and pulled out his boots from underneath it. “Any reason why they want us this time? Can’t Hoffman get some others to handle it?”

His friend shrugged. “I’ve learned that asking questions never really puts me at ease anymore. Least of all from Hoffman. All I know is, we have two washed-up reavers on the south beach. I guess he thinks that they’re starting to up the ante now – sending in reavers. Boats are probably more of a target – trying to get to us by air is probably their next move.”

Marcus shook his head. “Fucking locusts.” He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to ease the tension within. “Dumb as hell, but they’re persistent. I’ll give ‘em that.”

Dom rifled through his duffel bag, pulling out some of his body armor – a tattered yet usable Kevlar vest, and started to adjust the blade plates inside. “Look at it this way. We’re somewhere that’s hard to touch. One way in and one way out. At least this way we can see them coming.”

“I don’t enjoy being cornered.” responded Marcus. “That’s all.”

“Who does? But we don’t have much of a choice. To be frank, man, I think this idea of Prescott’s was pretty good – ”

“ – Prescott didn’t think this one up, Dom.” interrupted Marcus. “He’s got too much cotton for brains to think of backup plans unless he’s up for re-election – and that won’t be anytime soon. It was a fallback option the COG must have thought up years ago. Prescott just got handed the uniform and baton from brass that have long since died, and now he’s just in the position to take credit for it.”

Dom sighed and smiled. His friend’s disdain for politics and the people who bent to its manipulations were beneath his contempt, and he wasn’t afraid to voice it. Dom, on the other hand, was more or less immune to political metamorphoses. “Prescott or not, without this island to go to we’d be screwed. Admit it. I mean, where would we go?”

“Elingrad is still standing.” muttered Marcus, unwilling to concede so easily.

“The place is a ghost town. And there, we gotta worry about emergence holes, aerial attacks...it would be Jacinto all over again. No, it would be worse,” corrected Dom, “They could sink Elingrad within a day.”

Marcus grunted and stood up, stretching his arms. “Orsa is no picnic either.”

Dom pulled out another set of armor and threw it towards his companion. “But it’s the only picnic we can have. And I don’t know about you, but I’ll take it.”

Marcus began to strap on his armor and turned to Dom, smiling and relenting for the first time that day. “I never did like settling for less, but I guess it’ll have to do. This isn’t paradise island, but it’s been a long time since I’ve been able to sleep for eight hours straight.” He thumped his comrade on the back. “Come on, Dom, let’s go grab something to eat.”

Chapter 3
By the time they reached the southern tip of the island, dusk had settled into night. It was cloudless, however, allowing for the moonlight to illuminate paths before them. The flora on the island was a refreshing change from the decrepit and derelict buildings of Jacinto or Montevado. There were no sunken cities, no sporadic fires, no emergence holes, no stranded camps, nothing that could attest to the fact that they had been engaged in a long and bitter war. The island itself seemed like a sanctuary of sorts, a remnant of peace that only aged, battle-hardened men could allude to.

The two soldiers, driving along in silence, took in this tranquility with quiet unease. It was difficult to attune themselves to it, seeing as how it was such a contrast from the turmoil they had been immersed in on the mainland.

Dom felt his muscles tighten whenever something moved, and he frequently caught himself glancing down at his radar screen to ascertain whether they were in danger or not. And each time he did so, he breathed out in relief. It was another false alarm.

His anxieties did not escape his companion, who – without grinning but with humour in his voice – spoke. “You might want to get out your shotgun now. I thought I saw a raccoon to our right.”

Dom heaved out another sigh. “Yeah, yeah. I get it.”

“Just relax, will ya?” encouraged Marcus. “You were harping all this morning about this place. And now that you’re out and about, you’re jumping at rats and squirrels.”

“Hey, you don’t look so thrilled yourself,” Dom nodded over at him.

Marcus grunted in response. True, he did feel as if this little peninsula was destined to be another casualty of war, but it wasn’t that which unnerved him the most. He felt cut off, collared into a corner. Sooner or later, the Locusts would discover their position. And then the situation would present itself as a terrific chance for the Queen to win this war once and for all. Everyone in one place at one time.

It would be like killing hundreds of birds with one stone.

He was dead certain that she would like that. Hell, she would revel in such a fortuitous opportunity.

Marcus turned right along the beaten path and tried to set his concerns aside. At least for the moment, he consoled himself, we only have two dead reavers. It was a step-down from the four damaged boats that had washed ashore three weeks ago. And anyway –

“Can reavers make it this far?” questioned Dom suddenly.

Marcus, disturbed from his sullen reverie, asked, “What?”

“How do you think the reavers made it all the way here? It’s gotta be a hell of a long haul from Jacinto. Or Nexus even.”

Marcus shrugged. “Beats me. Maybe they have stopover flights.”

“Yeah,” chuckled Dom, “At least the Locusts must be getting some good use out of their frequent flier miles.” He wiped some mud off the radar screen. “But seriously though, how can they?”

“I don’t think they could. That’s why they’re dead on the beach.”

“Does this mean that they know where we are?”

“You mean: does the Queen know where we are,” corrected Marcus.

“You don’t seriously think she survived that?” he asked, incredulous.

“She hauled ass out of Nexus fast, Dom. Whether it was in their plans to sink Jacinto or not, she had no intention of going down with the ship. You take my word for it – she’s as alive as you and me.”

Dom found it hard to resign himself to this disturbing concept. But he realized that to dismiss the thought entirely would be foolish. “Okay. So supposing she’s still in charge, do you think she knows where we’re at?”

Marcus shook his head. “Nah. Believe me, if she knew, she’d come at us full force. And she wouldn’t be wasting time. She probably sent out some scouts.”

“Kinda dumb, though, dontcha think?”

“How?”

“If we flooded the hollow, you’d think that she would give some thought to sending out her reavers and men – knowing that a lot of ‘em probably won’t make it back.” wondered Dom.

“Which can only mean one thing – she’s either pretty frantic about finding us or we only made a little dent in their plans by flooding the hollow.”

Dom frowned. He would hate to think that the truth lay in the latter reason. Jacinto was a costly price to pay, even if they eradicated a good portion of the Locusts. But if the COG were to discover that their hordes had hardly been diminished, all that they had thought they knew about the Locusts would be proven to be false. And all their theorizing and surmising could crumble like a poorly-constructed sand castle.

It was painful just thinking about it.

“Man, I just hope she’s desperate. Least that way, maybe she’ll trip up.” he concluded.

“I hope so too, Dom.” responded Marcus, as he hit the gas harder and drove into the foliage.

“Lovely night for a stroll.” Marcus quipped, a scowl on his face and boltok pistol in hand.

And it was indeed. The moon seemed more radiant than ever, its silvery light dancing off of the water’s surface. The gentle swishing sounds of the waves were rhythmic and soothing. That, coupled with the aroma of distinct salt-tinged air, permeated their senses in a manner through which they had forgotten they possessed.

For a split second, Dom’s memory brought back the acrid smell of charred bodies to the surface, and he hastily submerged this venomous knowledge. Why is it, he wondered, that he couldn’t enjoy brief moments of peaceful solitude without having to rouse memories of darker beasts? Was this just another idiosyncrasy that he should chalk up to human nature? He couldn’t quite respond to such musings, so he continued walking down the stretch of shore, staring up ahead into the distance.

“Command, are you there? This is Delta.” came out the gravel-like voice beside him, a little quieter than usual.

“Affirmative,” came out the tinny voice of the dispatcher.

A small emotion within Marcus had hoped to hear the familiar voice of his friend and guide, Anya Stroud. She had been a constant throughout their missions; the planting of the lightmass bomb and the sinking of Jacinto. Despite the fact that she was physically absent during their battles – big and small – there was a certain strength about so simple a connection, something he realized that he had taken for granted all the while. He couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed to note that she wasn’t on the other end this time. Not to mention that this fashion of self-awareness made him feel slightly more irritated than usual.

“We’re at the site. You got a bead on our location?” he said, eager to get this little excursion over with.

“''Affirmative, Sergeant. You want to head about two clicks due...north-east of you. Once you find them, radio in and let us know what you find. Command out.''”

Dom, who had paused walking, turned around. “Wish they let us have JACK. I’m about done with having to write reports in triplicate. Makes me feel like I have a desk job.”

“Hey, I’d take a desk job over what we do,” surmised Marcus, as they proceeded to pace forward towards their destination.

Dom laughed, clearly entertained at the idea. “Yeah right! You might be a lot of things, Marcus, but you’re sure as heck not that guy in a cubicle, going at it nine to five.”

“We’ll never know now though, will we?”

Dom shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe a month from now every Locust will die from skin cancer and us COGs will go into retirement.”

Marcus’ face broke into a slight grin. “Don’t have faith that we can pull it off ourselves?” he asked. “Think we’ll have to wait for tumours to finish them off?”

“That...or some kind of plague specific to Locusts.” responded Dom, very aware of the possible irony of his statement. “If Locust numbers haven’t been decimated by now, frankly, I think we’re screwed.”

Marcus glanced at his friend. “You going pessimistic on me?”

“No…I’m going realistic. This place – maybe it only delays the inevitable, know what I mean?” Dom cast his eyes down, some truths were too hard to stomach. “But, we do what we can do, right?”

His companion remained silent. He figured that if words of consolation felt contrived, then more often than not, they were contrived. And then it was better just to keep his trap shut.

Even through the soft glow of the moonlight, the large, dark humps weren’t quite discernible. The mass – which lay several yards away – gave off a distorted silhouette; it was uneven and unearthly. But most importantly, Marcus reminded himself, it remained unmoving, and hopefully – quite dead.

Upon closer inspection, the pair noted the splayed-out legs and tendrils of the huge beasts, their face shields in place, but armor absent. But it was difficult to see anything in this light, so Marcus decided that he ought to start searching for the more obvious and accessible clues amongst the bodies.

“You see anything alive under them?” he asked.

Dom pulled out a small thermal sensor from his bag and bent over, running the device alongside the body closest to him. With negative results from the first, he began a similar procedure on the second. A few minutes later, he looked back up at his companion and shook his head.

“I don’t see anything here, either,” muttered Marcus.

“Armor’s missing.” noted Dom. “Looks like they had no carry-on luggage either,” he said, pointing at the absence of weaponry of any type.

Marcus set his jaw tightly. “These are scouts. I’d bet my life on it.”

Dom paused, the gears of thought running furiously in his mind. Arriving at a conclusion he wasn’t sure he liked, he spoke nonetheless. “Scouts are supposed to report in, aren’t they?”

“Yeah...” began Marcus, starting to see what his friend what getting at.

“Then they should have homing devices,” finished Dom.

“Yeah. They should.”

Dom crinkled his forehead and swore. He suddenly turned to his friend, hopeful. A few weeks before, some gunboats – empty and passenger-less – had washed up ashore. If no devices were on board, then there was a solid chance that they would find nothing here either. “Did we find anything on the boats that came in a couple weeks back?”

“No. But the mines got to the boats before we could. Whatever homing beacons were strapped onto ‘em got blown to bits.”

Dom frowned and sat on his haunches to get a closer look at the face plates on one of the reavers. Marcus stared at one in turn, and then came over to his friend’s side. “Could be anywhere. Hell, it could be in their gut for all we know.”

Dom scrunched his face in disgust. “I thought these things smell bad on the outside...” he began.

“...Nothing for it, Dom. We gotta cut ‘em open. I’m gonna call it in first.”

As Dom stood up and groaned, dreading the loathsome task before them, Marcus started speaking into the radio strapped to his shoulder. Command didn’t seem nonplussed about it – but then again, he thought – they weren’t going to be the ones doing the slicing and dicing. After a few more questions, and much to his relief, however, they concluded that someone more able and knowledgeable about Locust and reaver anatomy would be sent in. On hearing the news, Dom’s concerns were allayed and he cheered up considerably. He zipped his bag shut, and sat on the ground.

“You know, I heard that there’s crabs in these waters,” he said.

“You don’t say.” Marcus sat down on the sand.

“She loved crab,” mused Dom, more to himself than to his companion.

Marcus said nothing, realizing that despite the closure Dom found on Maria’s whereabouts, she was hardly the farthest thing on his mind. Recently, he’d noticed that Dom had difficulties speaking her name, and whenever she was the subject of conversation, it never lasted quite long and seemed more of personal reminiscing than anything else.

“Baird can’t stand seafood, though. Especially crab.” muttered Dom, predictably shifting their discourse elsewhere. “Told me how he’d eaten stuffed crab a while back. We were holed up at this empty bar one time – behind a counter – we had Locusts closing in from one side, and a couple of bullets hit some glass behind us. And then he turns to me and tells me that he’s allergic to crab meat. Told me that it makes him break out in hives – and then says seafood has too much mercury.”

Marcus couldn’t help but laugh.

Dom shook his head in disbelief, chuckling at the memory. “I told him that if he could single-handedly win this war, we’d start a campaign against mercury in seafood. And if he couldn’t, he should just shut up and fight.” He smiled again and looked out into the water, musing.

Moments like those – nightmarish though they seemed – were vivid. Sometimes nauseatingly so. But here...here, everything object was an antithesis of its counterpart on the Locust-savaged mainland. The setting seemed so idyllic that it could only be a dream. That, or it was the calm center to the storm. He gazed at the horizon of the sea as they waited, every now and then looking about himself for the arrival of their locust-expert, but his eyes always returned to the tide before them.

“Dom,” spoke Marcus after a while, disrupting their silence. “You see that?”

Imagining that the man command had sent down had arrived, he turned towards the tree-line behind them. But Marcus was pointing in the opposite direction, out towards the ocean, his gaze fixed on something in the waters. It took Dom a second or two to spot it, but by then it was closer, though hard to distinguish. A lump of something bobbed up and down awkwardly, being carried towards them with the aid of the ocean's current.

Marcus didn’t waste any time. “Wait here.” he instructed, as he ran into the water. The waves sloshed up around his knee-high boots, and he reached and grasped the object, dragging it along the wet sand up and back onto the drier shore.

Dom jogged over to him.

He turned the object onto his back, only to reveal the bloated body of a human, his face swollen and apparently scarred beyond recognition. “Shit.” muttered Marcus.

“One of ours?” asked Dom quietly.

“Don’t think so.” Marcus bent over the body, examining the corpse’s attire carefully. His eyes caught sight of a wet rag tied tightly to the deceased man’s right arm. He untied it with little difficulty and then held it up in the moonlight. “Recognize this?” he asked his comrade.

“Stranded...” mumbled Dom, perceiving the cloth to be something most stranded wore – signifying which group or leader they owed their allegiance to. He took the rag from Marcus, studying it at a closer range. It was pale cream...or yellow. Yes, it was yellow, he decided. He’d seen it quite often, but that was a long time ago.

“It’s Franklin.” said Dom, handing it back, and then corrected himself. “One of Franklin’s, I mean. Gotta be. I’ve seen his guys wear it.”

“They’re using the survivors to get to us.” concluded Marcus. “How many do you think survived?” he asked the question his companion dreaded to put forth.

“I don’t know.”

“Shit. If there are more...”

“I know.”

“Hoffman and Prescott aren’t going to mount a rescue mission for ‘em.”

“They’ll say it isn’t worth the risk,” agreed Dom. “You still wanna call it in?”

Marcus stared at the corpse for what seemed like minutes. Then finally, “Yeah. Let’s call it in.” He jerked his chin at the dead man’s limp body. “Maybe this guy’ll give ‘em a decent enough reason for us to do some scouting of our own.”

“Or maybe they’ll bury him and tell us to shut up.” countered Dom.

Marcus scowled. “We’ll see.”

24 hours later

Command Headquarters

Orsorum (Orsa) Island

The woman nodded in acknowledgement as her superior handed her some papers. Marcus isn’t going to like this, she thought, troubled. In fact, she didn’t know if she approved of it either. It was one thing to sacrifice their stronghold, Jacinto, in order to flood the hollow and Nexus. It was one thing to bring their own and a few survivors to Orsa without much explanation, to provide them with temporary sanctuary, even if for a brief time. But it was another to blatantly disregard the truth – obvious as it was – and keep it hidden from people who deserved to know.

She had tried ever so hard to place herself in their shoes. To send a large rescue mission over to the mainland, ignorant of the precise location and number of survivors, would prove to be a very foolish deed. They would place Orsa at risk, and would pay a bitter price to those who strove to keep it a hidden sanctuary. But no one had even suggested that a large team should be assembled. In fact, only two COG soldiers – namely, Marcus Fenix and Dominic Santiago – had volunteered for this reconnaissance mission. And in her eyes, it seemed a modest and logical offer. If they weren’t going for the purpose of rescuing survivors, at least they could gather information as to how successful their attempt at flooding the Locust hollow had been.

It seemed rational enough. They were cut off from the outside world, and given their situation, perhaps a scouting mission would shed some light on circumstances – be they grave or hopeful. It seemed foolish to place blinders on now. In fact, it seemed so foolish that there was something not quite right about Prescott's decision and his adamant refusal. If she had given more thought to the matter, perhaps she would have concluded that a piece to this puzzle was missing, but her time was strained - not to mention her nerves. No, she surmised, he was simply being hard-headed and near-sighted.

And that, she realized, is why she and Prescott never saw eye to eye. A politician and a soldier could never occupy the same room for a good length of time without coming to blows.

Figuratively, at least.

She walked with determined strides out of headquarters and into the live-in bunkers. Most COGs spent their off-duty moments socializing with one another in the grey rooms; playing cards, reading, gambling, doing whatever they could to occupy their minds and readjust to their new surroundings.

Here, she felt a little more as if she belonged. The camaraderie that blossomed between these men and few women were not constructed from favours, bribes or status. In short, the absence of politics was refreshing and welcome. Everyone here had – at one time or another – felt the burning pain of loss, and maybe, she thought, that was what cemented their bonds.

“Anya!” called out a familiar voice from the side.

She turned to see Marcus approach her, but couldn’t tell if he was concerned or just tired. Hard to read as always, she mused.

“What did he say?” he asked, coming to her side.

She shook her head, no.

“You’re kidding right?” he exclaimed, incredulous.

“I’m afraid not. He says it’s too much of a risk. If one of you are caught, it would compromise our location.” And on seeing Marcus’ frown deepen, she continued, “His words, Marcus. Not mine.”

“Does Prescott honestly believe we’re gonna tell the Locusts about Orsa if we’re caught?”

Anya gave him consoling smile. “I don’t know what he thinks. He just doesn’t want to take the risk at this time. I understand how you feel, but right now – he can’t be budged.”

“Anya, there’s a chance we didn’t kill the Queen. A good chance.” he emphasized. “We have to find out what happened. I’m telling you, if his plan is to wait for the Queen to die of old age, then we’re finished.”

She looked down at her boots and then up again. “There’s nothing more I can do. I’m sorry.”

Marcus sighed. “Not your fault. But hell, I thought he might come around. Had to give it a shot anyway.” His shoulders seem to droop.

Anya studied the disappointment in his demeanor – subtle as it was. “There is one thing though,” she pulled Marcus off to a side, and then dropped her voice lower. “The guy who you and Dom brought in? He wasn’t empty-handed when he died.”

Marcus looked at her with a mixture of gravity and curiousity.

She continued. “I got to take a look at the body before the medical examiner got there. It won’t be recorded in the deceased’s inventory, so no one will know it’s missing. He had this hidden inside his boots. It was strapped to his leg.” She pulled a small object out of her coat and handed it to him.

Upon closer inspection, Marcus saw that it was a small recorder, enclosed within a tightly sealed, transparent plastic bag. “What’s on it?” he asked, looking up.

Anya frowned. “I didn’t have time to listen to the entire thing. But I think it’s important that you do. It’s about your father, Marcus. It’s about Adam Fenix.”