Subjectivity: Chapter Twenty

Hurried footfalls were the common scene when regarding Vadim Alkaev. The crunch of gravel and poor quality dirt below him sounded noisily, though he ignored it and merely kicked up more of the mixed substance as he hastened his pace. His brown eyes remained fixed forward, never leaving the destination a distance away, for the reality to his sides was one that could not be shouldered easily. He could feel their sad, broken gazes upon his person as he passed by, sense their extended hands, pleading for food he did not have to give, for medicine he could not supply. The refugee camp was dying, and it had brought the young Slavic man to hysterics late at night many times. Dressed akin to a NELO guard, he wore torn white cargo pants, grey combat boots, a sweat-stained white sweatshirt, a grey utility vest over it and finally a thick jacket adorned with the flag of Norway on the shoulder. Slung over his back was a rifle, a precaution that had been forced on him by a concerned Marcella, who had admitted that she did not enjoy it either. Scoffing quietly, he frowned at the memory; she had not delighted at the concept of carrying a lethal firearm, but forced it upon him all the same. He had shot soldiers, rather he had killed people, and it was yet another aspect that tortured his mind. Vadim could see the faces of unknown friends and families in his mind, tear stricken and miserable as they swore vengeance against their fallen compatriot’s killer, against him. He did not fear them, for in truth part of him welcomed their vengeance. ‘Kill me, I cannot keep living like this,’ he begged them silently.

It was then that his self-restraint failed him and looked to his left to find yet a group of children, filthy and emaciated, seated upon the ruins of a shredded tent. They shivered violently against the biting twilight cold of a northern European winter. His feet, against his own attempts to keep moving, stopped their march forward, and he faced them. Two girls, looking to be no older than fifteen and twelve respectively, and a young boy appearing to be twelve as well, held their hands out toward a small indoor space heater. The heater held upon its surface a small screen which flashed the outline of a battery in red, indicating the unit was soon to run out of power and shut off. “Sir, have the rations arrived from Melbu?” Vadim withered at the question from the younger girl, not wishing to answer and merely leave. He pitied them, he both sympathised and empathised with them, but he could do nothing to ease their suffering. No supply trucks had arrived from the local towns on Hadseloya in weeks, and it had taken a terrible toll. Recalling Adymn’s count from roughly a month prior, there had been twelve thousand refugees and now there were five thousand less. Such had a macabre silver lining, for the camp was now more spacious, but it also made note of the dire straits they faced. “I don’t want extra, really, we’re just so hungry, it hurts…” The child admitted after she returned her gaze to him.

Vadim slowly stepped over before falling to a crossed legged position next to them, joining their circle. “I don’t know, I’m sorry,” He admitted in a composed tone. Though his efforts to ignore the suffering around him had failed, he knew that he could not show weakness in the presence of the Subject children who had been so abruptly stolen from their comfortable beds and happy lives to be secreted away in the night as NELO’s great towers fell around them. The young man’s eyes drifted away from them, recalling the horrific sight of the Central Administrative Building being destroyed. It was as though the building had been buffeted by an impossible wind and snapped two thirds up, the top third falling forward and collapsing into the building before tumbling downward and shattering into millions of pieces on the bloodstained courtyard before the building. As the ferries had escaped at full speeds, resulting in a deluge of vomit from sea sick children, Vadim had seen the housing complexes collapse downward upon themselves, and it was then that he had felt bile rise in his own throat. Not for the heaving waves below, the ghastly smell of so many sick individuals, or for the sight of it all, but for the knowledge he knew: one of the largest emergency shelters was below one of the residential buildings, and it would surely have been crushed by the fall of the building. Rending himself of the unwanted memory, he looked back to them, “We’re all very hungry, and I know many of your friends aren’t with us anymore, but you have to be strong,” he looked to each of them, “All of you. Otherwise their deaths will have been in vain.” Offering a sad smile, he spoke again, “Their pain is over, so we should be happy for them.” Placing two fingers on the collar of his jacket, he spoke into a concealed transmitter: “Marcella, Adymn, can you come to me in the east district? I’m about five minutes in on the main path.” Those seated with him cast curious looks to him, but he only offered a small, reassuring smile, and cast his gaze down the path.

A few minutes afterward, two figures hurried forward. Marcella was similarly garbed to Vadim in one of the remaining protective uniforms, whereas Adymn, having given his own to the former male, wore a thick parka, jeans and a large turtleneck sweater. The two jogged down the path, kicking up dirt and gravel with each step and before long they stood before their seated friend and his cohorts. “We came as quickly as we could, is something more wrong in this nightmare?” Adymn spoke glibly, and received a disapproving scowl from the ever kind-hearted Marcella who seemed to take offense at his negativity. “Sorry, Marcella, I haven’t slept in three days, it’s starting to get to me.” Vadim took the opportunity to distract the two and motioned for them to sit, offering his hand to the younger of the two, the Moroccan woman Marcella. She took the hand and lowered herself to sitting with her legs extended before her. The more casually garbed newcomer Adymn took a seat next to his Russian counterpart, offering his friend a weary, if meaningful smile before turning his attention the three children before them, who gave the new arrivals questioning looks. “So, Vade,” he began, using a painfully familiar nickname. “Vade! Wake up, you’ll be late for school!” The long silent voice of Leonas Pyktis echoed in Vadim’s mind and he felt misery well up in his heart with renewed vigor. He had endeavoured to not think of his beloved friend, given the raw emotions such memories wrought, but given the accidental usage of the nickname that Leonas alone had reserved uttered by a new, though dear, friend, was an agonising thing.

He sucked in a quick breath, holding it in his throat as he felt memories rage in the back of his mind. The many times the Russian Subject and Leonas had walked to school, the former offering lewd banter while the latter chided and gave snide remarks in return. Their conversations, the untrained ear, would seem to be hostile and verging on argumentative, but they had known better: it was how they spoke, for they knew that they cared deeply for each other and thus could speak in a manner so brusque. Feeling a cool hand over his own, Vadim’s mind returned to the present day, and was infinitely glad for the distraction, for he could feel the wet warmth of tears having formed below his eyelids. “Right, sorry, lost in the past,” he chuckled a fake laugh, and only received cryptic stares of skepticism and confusion. “I know we don’t have any more food to give out, but at the very least, if we can’t keep people from freezing to death, then what use are we staying here?” The Subject asked his fellows, and the two nodded in agreement. “I thought you two would see it that way.” Vadim stood then, and unzipped his shimmering jacket, which was composed of artificial fibres intended to keep in the heat, though expunge any sweat to stop hypothermia from setting in. Slipping the heavy garment off his shoulders, he stepped over to the youngest of the three silent children.

The young boy had been staring at Marcella since her arrival, but now turned his attention to Vadim who stood over him. Worry clouded the child’s eyes, but was quickly abated as he found the heavy coat slung over his shoulders and wrapped around his person, “Thank you!” He spoke finally, having been totally quite thus far. The boy’s voice was dry and indicative of mild dehydration, nevertheless the child slipped his arms through the sleeves, though his hands remained inside them, due to its size. Grinning widely at his benefactor, and received a hand on the head, before their attention was diverted. Adymn hopped to his feet and threw off his coat and with a flourish cloaked the older teenage girl in it, and the latter embraced him tightly, speaking her gratitude nigh silently. Marcella had also placed her own jacket around the shoulders of the younger girl. Though cold, the three young adults were warmed by the gratitude of their young counterparts and for a long, peaceful moment, the wretched reality of living in a starving refugee camp was abated. The older of the two Subject girls craned her head upward and her mouth parted in silent awe. Following her gaze, the oldest of those gathered, Vadim, gasped quietly. The sky was lit with brilliant ephemeral streams of magnificent colours: green, red, violet, blue, and many others mixed in, floating calmly in the sky. “Oh, wow…” The young boy said quietly, and all six merely sat there, observing the nigh mystic aurora borealis. Waving back and forth with incredible slowness, time itself seemed to slow for those gathered.

“Beautiful…” The word escaped Marcella’s mouth in barely a whisper, and she found Vadim staring at her, a kind look in the young man’s sad eyes. It had not escaped her notice the true agony that he carried with him; the tears that he shed in his sleep, or the apprehension he held toward growing close to another. He eventually returned his sight to the sky above, his mouth laden with a peaceful visage, as though the simple beauty of the scene had healed his heart of some of its woe. She then turned her attention to Adymn, who sat cross legged with his back hunched forward and his hazel eyes wide with wonder. She had seen such thing in her life before, but to those who had lived closer to the equator, as she suspected Adymn had, given his American citizenship, had not seen them and since their Russian friend was in fact a Subject and his genetic code only indicative of someone from the Slavic regions, had never seen the aurora borealis either. It was the former, Adymn, who broke the silence, shivering involuntarily and looking to the others. “We should get back,” Marcella offered, “With any luck a transport might make it through and we could have some food for these people.” The serenity of the moment was then broken at the reminder of the starvation of thousands. Vadim’s gaze fell to her, and he merely nodded. With such, the three older individuals stood and brushed themselves off, “You three, when you’re ready to sleep, go find a new tent, and if you can’t, come to me, I’m in the thirteenth tent down on the north road, right on the edge.” The oldest of the younger three nodded, and the dark skinned woman offered them a genuine and heartfelt smile, “I hope you know how brave you are, all of you.”

The oldest of the three Subject children stood then and embraced Marcella tightly, and she returned the gesture in earnest. “Thank you,” the younger of the two spoke, “We’re so grateful, really.” Releasing Marcella, the latter placed her hands on the younger’s shoulders and nodded, silently accepting the kind praise. With that, the group of Subject children and their de facto caregivers parted ways. Adymn, Marcella and Vadim set off down one of the small paths made between the closely placed tents, the silence of the night overbearing. Following the death of their cohorts, many refugees moved inward, leaving their own tents for ones closer to the centre in hopes of receiving food quicker and thus the outskirts of the camp were deathly still. Only a few tents were alight with the illumination of flashlights, and those let forth only hushed whispers as the three walked by. Comfortable silence was the hallmark of their trek to their own tent, for none of them wished to interrupt it. Instead they were each content to stare at the night sky which continued to give a magnificent show of waving ribbons of light and colour, dancing across the horizon with a slow waltz that seemed eternal.  The steady crunch of gravel and dirt was the only sound made as they walked, though before long it was replaced by the rustling of tents, hushed conversation, and the sounds of the simple industry one might find in humans in a refugee camp. Social dissidents, men and women supposedly guilty of crimes they did not commit and many other adults made the central areas of the refugee camp their home, for they found security in being so far in. Only the former NELO employees ventured out into the vast reaches of the camp where children roamed unchecked. Reports and stories alike of children breaking into rival barbaric clans had risen and that they had gone to such lengths such as murder had arisen, but none of the three compatriots paid such things much heed.

Were such things true, there would be precious little anyone could do about it without seriously injuring children, for their only means of crowd suppression were the security weapons pilfered during the NELO exodus, or as many had come to call it, the White Exodus, in deference to the swaths of people, adults and children alike, donned in white clothing fleeing the island of Neo-Palmyra with maddened abandon. The reality of their escape had come to bear during their voyage across open seas, when the overcrowding of the ships saw a backing up of sewage systems which were not designed to handle such large amounts of waste, and moreover the depletion of food and freshwater supplies within the first day. As Vadim, Marcella and Adymn arrived in the centre of the camp, the latter of the three spoke up: “I need to check in at the C.A.T to make sure that the sick aren’t being robbed again. Vadim, when I’m done, would –“ his words were cut short as the ground abruptly rumbled incessantly. They turned to face the source of the commotion, and Vadim felt his face grow pale at what lumbered toward them. Two sets of heavy metal tracks trampled tents and people alike with ease as the armoured vehicle’s many horizontally protruding antennae fell into alignment. Arcing electricity ripped between the antennae before finally creating a circle around the vehicle. After a short pause, the electricity was released in a wave, and all things that touched it simply ceased to be, leaving a circular area of nothingness.

“Get back! Everyone get back!” Vadim shouted at the top of his lungs, turning to face the centre of the camp, he found many had taken it upon themselves to flee: “Run! Get away! Go to Melbu! Get the hell out of here!” He cried desperately and retrieved the rifle he had restrung on his shoulder, releasing the safety. Marcella’s kind demeanor was lost in that moment as he dark eyes narrowed in hatred and she drew two handguns, marred with the indicators of lethal neurotoxic bullets, and loaded them. Adymn too drew from his back a similar weapon to Vadim’s, however his had no barrel and instead two thick prongs which, upon the release of a safety switch, crackled. “I though the Pacific Union banned Tesla Detonators!” It was a truly sinister technology wrought by the Chinese during their civil war in the twenty third century: using a system of tesla coils, the Detonator collected the energy in a ring, amplified it, and sent it out, simply annihilating all in its path. Though simple in design and entirely feasible since the late twentieth century, few had been so callous as to weaponise the technology. However the young Subject looked to his own weapon, indecision wracking his mind. ‘I can’t kill again, and I can’t stop this thing,’ he realised to himself. “Adymn! Marcella! Run!” The two of them ceased in their own steady backing away from the lumbering machine before them and stared incredulously at Vadim. The hulking tank grew ever closer, and the ring of electricity had slowly begun to reappear, adding credence to the necessity of fleeing.

“We’re not going anywhere, Vade.” Adymn spoke sternly, his gaze set on the Subject as he stepped to him, placing a hand on his shoulder, squeezing it firmly. Offering a steady smirk, he spoke again: “You’re not alone in this. If we die, we die together, protecting your – protecting our family: protecting the Subjects.” With that, he released the Russian and the three raised their weapons once more. They would fight to the last to slow the murderous onslaught of their attacker.

~*~

Cavernous and opulent, much akin to the Prime Chancellor’s tastes, the Hall of Discourse was little more than a farce. Concentric circles of tables and chairs rounded the majority of the room, however they gave a wide birth to a central circular table with thirteen seats, one of which, parallel to the entryway, was much more ornate and grand. The chamber echoed with the hushed conversations of various congressmen and onlookers; however the atmosphere of the large room remained tense and uncomfortable. For Evan Westerburg, though, it was merely another Chancellor meeting where he, his eleven useless counterparts, and the ever dramatic Prime Chancellor met to discuss the Republic’s various business of the day. Having already taken his seat to the right of the Prime Chancellor’s seat, Chancellor Westerburg silently remarked on how the times had changed. Once, long ago, he was a rebel officer, issuing ruthless orders to men and women in the interests of keeping America out of the Pacific Union, and now he sat upon the most powerful council in the same Union’s successor bloc, the Trans-Pacific Republic. He was no politician, though Westerburg assumed that he had been chosen specifically for that reason; it was his shrewd and militant mind that were his draws, and with him in charge of the twelve militaries, the national representatives felt more comfortable. ‘Idiots,’ the Chancellor of Defense thought to himself, smirking grimly. ‘The day they think I have any power, or themselves for that matter, is the day that they are crushed by Laevan.’

It had been many weeks since the Prime Chancellor had bothered to attend a Chancellor meeting, and it had been even longer since he had been mentally present in one. A black project that not even Evan himself knew of had taken Laevan’s attention, one that the latter man held in such high regards he had it pursued in the Gherkin Alpha; the same building they were in. Nevertheless the former Union President had called the meeting of the Chancellors and with great urgency, no less. Nonetheless the official in charge of Defense let his gaze drift around the spacious room, sending a withering, one eyed glare at the numerous congressmen and women filling up the far, rounded rows of seating. At the central table, he made note of the Chancellor of Wellbeing’s arrival, who had once served as the Representative of Canada in the Pacific Union. Ever present in her visage was the look of defeat, of a woman who knew her country was being sucked further dry by Laevan’s ambitions and expensive projects. The One City, though a stroke of genius in its public support and private funding, had cost an inordinate amount of taxpayer money, and much of it had come from areas where Laevan did not expect to meet resistance, such as his own home nation of America and thus by proxy, Canada. Next, the Chancellor of Finance arrived, seating himself to the left of the Prime Chancellor’s seat. This man, little more than a frail twig of a person, in the former soldier’s mind, was one that had been, like the rest of them, handpicked by Laevan to serve. He was quiet and quite good at finding money for his assigned duties, but beyond such he was reputed to be a deviant and Westerburg himself had been forced to silence witnesses who had learned of the financial man’s indiscretions. After roughly twenty minutes, the Congressmen were settled, and all twelve Chancellors sat, all waiting impatiently for the arrival of the famed leader of the Trans-Pacific Republic, Doran Laevan.

What confused Chancellor Westerburg the most was why the public supported Laevan. He had suffocated democracy in its sleep, a saying imparted upon him by a Russian General, enacted convoluted taxation that, though was at the behest of the trans-federal government, appeared to be the doing of domestic level governments, converted the press to speak nothing but good things, and many other actions that one might find questionable. It was then that the familiar sound of slow steps could be heard. Turning his head to see the predictable figure of Prime Chancellor Laevan approaching, applause filled the room from the Congressmen and Congresswomen from afar, and the man gave a sparing of waves and smiles before taking his seat next to Westerburg, offering the man a small, forced smile and a curt nod. The others exchanged various veiled looks before focusing their attention upon the new arrival. Clearing his throat, those who had not yet given their attention the most powerful man in the Republic silenced immediately and offered sheepish looks of embarrassment. “Thank you for coming, everyone,” Laevan spoke with an uncharacteristic calmness as he continued his thought: “I am aware that I have been largely absent as of late in my governmental duties in this council, and for that I apologise.” The Prime Chancellor folded his hands before him, the glint of the seal of his office visible on his left hand’s middle finger. A black phoenix emblazoned upon a circular background of red and light grey  crossed on 45 degree angles. “Nonetheless, I have been in close contact with our friend, the Chancellor of Defense, Evan Westerburg, on our fine nation’s next step into the future.”

Expectant looks thinly veiling concern and distrust were focused upon him as he spoke, and the man continued to hold a calm visage. Such was worrying to the aforementioned Defense executive, for when Doran Laevan was calm, all was certainly not well. In truth he did not know the man at all, but he had presented himself as an expressive and passionate individual on many occasions, thus for him to act so reposed was disconcerting. “We are all struggling to grapple with our nations’ greatest woes, and they all hold to one similarity: violent elements are revolting against the Chancellery.” With a few taps on the screen embedded into the sturdy table before him, four projections came into being before the many chancellors and their observing Congressmen and Congresswomen. “This was video taken in Hong Kong, a week ago,” Laevan explained before one final tap on the screen was given and a video sequence had begun. Thereupon the translucent screens Chancellor Westerburg saw what he knew too well to be going on. Within the immensely crowded downtown of Hong Kong, between buildings whose massive structures stretched into the clouds, was a human barricade in front of city hall. Many of them held signs that depicted Laevan with a red circle of prohibition over his face, while others displayed short sentences such as ‘We want freedom NOW,’ ‘TPR = Totalitarian Punishing Regime,’ ‘Republic of hate go home,’ ‘Hong Kong free and safe now’ and so on. However they were met by a larger crowd, not of soldiers or police, but instead fellow citizens. Though they did not hold signs or give any indication to political affiliation, their loyalties were clear as they shoved violently against the protestors. Laevan tapped the screen before him once, and audio was added to the video. Cacophonous shouting of swears and slander could be heard before a single gunshot sounded, and the harried crowd separated to find an older man of the protesting line crumple over, dead.

It was then that chaos broke out. Westerburg could not be sure, but it had appeared to be a woman in her thirties that punched one of the counter-protesters in the face, knocking the man back, before she was clubbed across the face with a discarded sign, and collapsed in a pool of rapidly increasing blood, laying eerily still. The individual who had shot the elderly man, looking to be a businessman of some mild repute, was overpowered immediately and his weapon wrested from him before he was brought to the ground and brutally kicked repeatedly, coughing up blood and curling up in vain against the unrelenting pain being wrought upon his body. His weapon, now held by a fellow counter-protestor, rung out four times and four of the protesting line fell, two clutching their midsections while the other two had been shot in the head, smattering blood and gore across their fellows. Screams of horror and outrage echoed anew and the new gunman was disarmed before his weapon was fired into the counter-protestors multiples times before likely running out of ammo and being discarded. Nonetheless the violent brawl continued, and the amount of brutalised human beings huddled, alone and bleeding, on the pile continued to increase, the cries for the counter-protestors to stop growing louder and being repeated in many languages before, with the angered slam of a palm on one of their panels, the Chancellor of Wellbeing cut the video’s stream and the council chamber became deathly silent. “I will not watch anymore of this, Your Excellency!” She spoke, her voice tormented.

Laevan shook his head, and with a few more commands given to his own console, a new video had begun to play. “This is from Sydney, Australia,” and with a cool look given to the woman who had just spoken, he turned his attention to the video. Set not in a bustling downtime, but instead in a light rail transport station, sparsely populated. A few commuters sat on slatted metal benches while others stood nearby. However of note a single middle aged woman stood, clipboard in hand and a poster on the wall behind her, explaining she was gathering signatures for a petition for Australia to secede from the Republic, siting mass taxation in low income communities and supposed corruption in government officials only acting as pawns of the One City or themselves. She approached a few of the commuters, all of which ignored her, and although there was no sound, the last person she spoke to, a young man looking to be a high schooler, had begun to argue with her. Exaggerated arm movements, knit brows, and a stiff poise gave the indication he did not support her cause. The woman herself looked to be no more amicable, however with a shrug of her shoulders, she turned to return to her post. It was then that her clipboard was smacked out of her hand and to the ground, countless unsigned pages being scattered across the ground by the offending teenager.  Furious, she silently exclaimed her frustration against the young man, wagging a finger in a scolding manner. As she bent over to begin picking up the pages, the offending male used the opportunity to deliver a painful kick to the throat, silently shouting at her.

The woman lay in head, holding her throat and spasming as she coughed. Though her attacker had not filled his lust for violence and instead kicked the woman in the stomach, sending her onto her back, her throat already having begun to bruise. Laying precariously close to the ledge that sat next to the tracks below, the young man advanced on her, and with such the video shut off. “I will spare you the details of what happens next, but you can imagine. This kind of citizen action is going to stop, ladies and gentlemen,” Laevan commanded firmly, his signature attitude slowly coming to bear. “We are not in the business of allowing citizens to run rampant and disturb the peace we are trying to achieve.” Looking around the table, he moved his attention to the more distant and numerous members of the Trans-Federal Congress. “Members of Congress, I’d like to meet with the Chancellors alone. Question Period will be in three hours.” A tense moment passed before the many members of Congress slowly rose to their feet and had begun to leave. Minutes passed with the shuffle of feet and the sound of dress shoes clicking noisily on marble tiles. Chancellor Westerburg traded glances with the Chancellor of Infrastructure, a portly man in his sixties who had been a rival claimant for the Prime Chancellery in the eyes of the public, however had rescinded his desire to take such a position after being offered a position as a Chancellor, given the unlikelihood of there even being an election.

As the last members of Congress left and the doors were shut, Laevan looked at each of the twelve Chancellors before speaking. “Allow me to explain something, Chancellors. Human nature is a dangerous element, one that neither religion, science nor politicians can control. It is a constant that man is a violent and unpredictable species. Thus I propose, instead of giving them a shining ideology or beautiful poem to follow, why not instead maintain peace through control? Control of everything, to end war and violence forever.” Heavy silence fell over the thirteen members then, and none seemed capable of either approving or denying what had been said. Sparing a glance to Evan Westerburg, Laevan quirked a grey brow before continuing his thought; “We have now a means of achieving such.” Such a declaration only increased the worried atmosphere, “Rather, we have roughly eight million means of achieving this ideal; for peace in the Republic and eventually the world.” The number was a familiar one to all those gathered, for it represented the amount of Subjects in the Trans-Pacific Republic outside of the children of the now destroyed NELO. Westerburg himself opened his mouth to speak after clearing his throat, though was interrupted by a raised hand from the executive to his right. “I understand your confusion, Evan,” Laevan begun, glancing at the man to his left, the Chancellor of Finance, Kim Thomason, who merely nodded in approval. “Nevertheless, this is the best plan with regards to our national security, finances, and human benefit. Now, as you all know, we do not recognise Subjects as human, and instead merely a product of experimentation. However Subjects have an intrinsic use to them through certain adaptations made during their fetal growth cycle.” It was then that Laevan focused his attention on Evan Westerburg, looking to him to explain.

“During their fetal growth stage, Subjects are implanted with a sort of microchip that controls the chemical balance of their brains; a function otherwise controlled by the mother in a human’s birthing process.” The tone of the room seemed to improve drastically as he spoke, as opposed to the tense and worried apprehension the Chancellors held for Laevan. “This control switch can be accessed wirelessly from already existing GPS satellites in orbit at any time, thanks to the efforts of our friends in the Laevan Foundation, under the directorship of Galvin Laevan.” Looking around for a moment, he caught the distrustful stare still held on Laevan by the Chancellor of Wellbeing, and Evan cleared his throat to get her attention, and she reluctantly obeyed. “You all know that our police forces and military are stretched thin keeping the peace. These Subjects can be deployed all around the world to keep order without wearing a uniform. It will strengthen our claim to authority if we make it look like the people are behind us.” With a slight smirk, the man straightened his back and continued, “After all, Subjects do look like people, so why not use them to make a vigilante force to keep the peace?” It was then that the Chancellor of Wellbeing, Glenna Croft, could take no more and stood, her chair being noisily pushed back. Seeing the look of angst so clearly spread across her visage only served to amuse the embittered military veteran, and so Westerburg merely smirked, “Something on your mind, Glenna? Or do you have to take a piss?” A few stifled chuckled echoed from the others, for it was no secret that the woman had ill rapport with the government for her stance on Subjects under the Ehrhardt administration.

Clenching her fists at her sides, the woman held herself rigid with anger. “I won’t allow this government – no, I won’t allow you, Doran, to do this anymore! Haven’t enough people died already? Innocent civilians have died right alongside the Subjects you hate so!” Looking to the others, she sneered with pure hatred. “And you all are no better; allowing this monster to take over for my dear friend Bill. William Ehrhardt was a good and honest man who loved these countries and people and I won’t let you undo everything he’s done!” She shouted, in near hysterics as she moved a hand under her jacket, procuring what appeared to be a handgun. A few gasps echoed and many of the Chancellors fled from their seats, stammering back, save Laevan and Westerburg themselves, the latter sitting there to watch it all unfold with thinly veiled enthusiasm. The weapon shook in her hand as she focused her attention on the Prime Chancellor. “Doran! You should have never existed!” A gunshot rang out, and it seemed as though time slowed to a stop in the aftermath. Chancellor Croft fell forward onto the conference table, the weapon she had held discarded in favour of supporting her figure, her other clutching her stomach. To his left, Westerburg’s eyes opened in surprise to find Laevan, gun in hand, aimed at the woman. “Damn you, Laevan…” Croft murmured as she collapsed to the ground.

“What right have you to deny my existence?” Doran questioned before holstering his own weapon under his jacket and rising to his feet. With a slow, poised gait, the man made his way to the doors, before knocking twice, the sound echoing noisily in the room of shocked elites. “The Chancellor of Wellbeing is dead,” he spoke to one of the guards who had opened one of the doors to attend to the Prime Chancellor, “Clean it up, please.” With that, the door closed, and he turned to face the Chancellors, one of which had fallen to a knee at the side of the fallen Croft, while others had amassed hesitantly on the far side of the council chamber. “Power is the key to peace. Power to control everything that can be controlled and we will have this,” he explained coolly, regarding the still warm corpse of his colleague. Westerburg, still seated at the desk, looked over his shoulder at the man as he spoke. “We’re moving into the future,” He commanded in his signature, grand tonality. “If you stand in the way of peace, you will be destroyed. The Subjects are the key to peace, and I will use them as I must.”

~*~

“Stephan.” The name was spoken calmly, but a flurry of unknown emotions roiled under Roe’s composed exterior, unbeknownst to the former. To the latter, however he knew how his hands trembled, his stomach felt as though it was ready to expunge its contents, he had begun to perspire, and he felt his eyes involuntarily widen. It was a shock to them both, and even the blond man’s incredible self-restrain buckled under what he could only describe as joy. ‘I am joyful?’ Roe questioned himself, looking down to his palms, which he turned to stare at. Looking back up to Stephan, he questioned why such was the case, for his closest friend looked to be in shambles: emaciated with discoloured skin that was stretched taught, and with eyes that, though once bright and cheerful, had been dulled and pulled down by large bags, indicating poor sleeping habits. His once wavy brown hair was matted, filthy, and stuck out awkwardly in some places, fighting against the grease collected. However it was the smile Stephan Tharros held that beguiled his miserable appearance, and the tears that collected at the corner of his eyes. ‘Why am I joyful? He looks terrible. I am truly no better than they who trap us.’ Nevertheless, against his own volition, Roe rose from his seated position, and having changed from his bloodstained experimentation garb, he himself looked as pure and uncontaminated as he had been presented to Stephan the many months ago when they met.

Hurried, bare footsteps sounded on the carpeted floor as the ragged looking young man hurried to Roe before embracing him tightly, and burying his face in the Subject’s shoulder. Joy and misery, fear and hope, relief and jealousy roiled within Stephan, and unlike his stoic counterpart, he could not, and indeed would not let such things be restrained anymore. Holding Roe tight, he pushed away his own self-loathing for needing to both to be comforted and to comfort the other and instead merely enjoyed the overwhelming relief that it was to see the blond man safe and alive. Once more, he felt tears press at the edges of his eyes, but the Greek ignored them, letting them flow. “You’re okay,” Stephan spoke to the other through a crackling voice, “Thank god, you’re okay,” he affirmed, not releasing the other. His words were less for the Subject and more for himself, he needed to affirm that Roe was alive and well, and that this was not a horrid dream or trickery imposed on his weakened mind. In truth the unclean male had not given much thought to his own wellbeing following the fateful night when he recalled the recitation of Invictus, and instead despaired without repose over the wellbeing of those he cared for. In truth he was not so naïve as to forget that the two of them remained prisoners, but it was a joyous scene to know that Roe had not been killed or tortured beyond understanding for an unknown and nefarious purpose.

Roe grimaced as stitched wounds were compressed, but found his actions not of his own accord. However it was not akin to their previous meeting, where, against his own will and through the Phoenix Cloud, the future Gherkin scientists were able to coerce him into nearly killing Stephan, and instead a foreign and powerful persuasion he could not identify. His arms wrapped around the strangely thin friend that clung to him with both joy and relief, returning the gesture in earnest. He had always hated contact with others, considering it the hallmark of those who were weak enough to require such physical intimacy, but in that moment, he could only feel the foreign happiness that filled him upon seeing Stephan alive. Roe could feel the lesions and welts on the natural-borne man’s back, and could smell the months of not bathing, which was more than rank. Nevertheless, it was as though the stress and misery from the months of non-sedated experiments, the endless stream of foreign and dangerous chemicals into his body, the blackmailing to use the Phoenix Cloud, all of it had been washed away.  Amidst the flurry of unknown emotions and sensations, Roe felt a strange wetness trickle down his face, and looked up, expecting a leak. However he found no such imperfections in the ceiling, but did find his vision obscured. ‘I am crying?’ He questioned silently, raising a hand to wipe away a stream of tears. Perplexed by the newfound sensation, the Subject was unable to comprehend how such a thing had occurred. Doing his utmost to not worry his compatriot, he wiped them away and released the other, and for a long moment the other did not do the same. Eventually, however, Stephan did release him, and merely stared at Roe with weary eyes, which now held a glimmer of hope in their verdant-sapphire depths. “How are you here, Stephan?” Though it was not the first question that had come to his mind, the Subject felt it to be the most important to know.

Stephan only laughed, though, too amused at the seemingly irrelevant question raised. It was the first time he had experienced happiness in a long time, and all the horrors of the past, for a brief moment, were laid to rest and instead of focusing upon their dread reality, he merely rejoiced in the joy he felt. The brunet’s laughter eventually did die down, and he wiped at his eyes and shook his head from side to side. “After all this time, that’s what you ask me? Not what’s happened to me, or where are we, or anything? You haven’t changed a bit.” Smiling brightly, Stephan placed his hands on Roe’s shoulders, “And I’m very glad to see you haven’t changed, especially after what happened.” Seeing the veiled pain in the Subject’s eyes, he shook his head once more, “I know as well as you that what happened then wasn’t your fault. Don’t carry that burden of guilt with you, Roe.” Letting his hands drop to his sides, he looked around the room, “As for how I’m here, a sympathetic guard here, Sonya Volkov, took me here as a little detour.” It was then that the door to the small apartment-style room opened, and there stood the aforementioned guard and her larger companion, Ludwig. “Speak of the devil.” He quirked a brow, surprised to see her. “Miss Volkov, is everything alright?” He questioned as her stare, hurried and seemingly concerned, moved between the two of them.

Shaking her auburn tresses of hair from side to side as she indicated her answer to be ‘no,’ she spoke. “No, our superior is demanding to know what’s taking us so long, and they found out you two are here. They’re sending soldiers here to come and get us.” Frustration built in Stephan then, for he was so terribly tired of having to run and hide, to cower and scheme, and moreover to play the game of war with monstrous people that put innocents to the sword in the name of ideology. ‘Why must we play their game?’ Stephan questioned angrily, ‘Why do so many have to die?’ Looking over his shoulder, he found an undesired sight. Roe stood silently, a thoughtful look in his eyes. Having a fair understanding of the inner workings of the Subject’s mind, the young Greek was sure that his plan involved self-sacrifice to some degree. ‘Who made you like this, Roe? Why do you not value your life? So many others do; Vadim, Emiliyia, I do, and even this woman, Sonya.’ His on mind raced to think of a plan, but escape was impossible, and he refused to allow any to sacrifice themselves. Enough people had died in the name of freedom from Laevan, and many more had been silenced in other means.

“Sonya, was it not?” Roe spoke finally, stepping past Stephan and facing the woman who only nodded. The latter male felt dread creep up his spine as the Subject asserted himself, knowing too well the latter had a plan that would surely void his own claims to safety in the instance. “Fight me. If we brawl, they will believe you responded to a call about a rowdy experiment. They shall not kill you, since you were merely responding to an undesirable situation, and nor shall they kill me, for I am too valuable to them alive.” Receiving a quizzical look from Stephan, he elaborated. “Prime Chancellor Laevan’s elder brother, Direct Galvin Laevan of the Laevan Foundation is leading a research project. You see, in every Subject’s brain is a microchip that controls chemical balance, since such things are normally regulated by the mother during fetal growth. This chip, given the right stimulation, can heavily influence the behaviour of a Subject.” Looking forward once more, he continued his thought. “It’s a simple science that has existed since the late twentieth century, ever since anti-depression medication was perfected. Nevertheless, these microchips can be accessed by Laevan via satellites in orbit now. However it takes a powerful mind to coordinate eight million tasks at any given time, one that has been honed from before birth, and even then, only a scarce few can manage the load. Only a Subject can be perfected to this degree before birth, and only among Subjects can one with a relatively undeveloped conscious perform such tasks. The common people refer to such unique specimens as nearly Nobodies, or Class Nine Subjects. Among Class Nine Subjects, a few have this capability.” Looking back to Stephan for a moment, he nodded, seeing the look of despair, a visage too familiar in such sad times, appear on his face. “I am one of these people. I can use this to prolong all our lives until something can be done.” Returning his attention to Sonya, he narrowed his gaze. “Now attack me Sonya! And do not hold back.”

A small smirk grew on the Russian woman’s face. “You’re an impressive person, Roe Speremus. Prepare yourself, then. I am no slouch, but then again, I hear neither are you.” She wasted no time, and with two steps forward, she launched a punch at the slender man’s face. Roe was quick, as she had predicted, and deftly parried her attack, knocking her arm away with his own forearm and delivered an open palm strike at her chest. Having fought often for her brother Ivan, and her own safety, in Polyarny, she had expected such and lurched backward, before finding a leg slide against the ground, catching her by the ankle and sending her sprawling onto her back. Roe did not relent, however and, in a pseudo-somersault, brought his other leg down to crush her ribs. Stopping an otherwise bone breaking heel being sent into her chest with her hand, she grabbed the oncoming foot and set her attack offer balance by pushing it back, and delivered a punch square into his chest. Roe stumbled backward, the air knocked out of his lungs. Shock was laden on both Stephan and Ludwig’s faces as they watched the two, with seemingly expert prowess, battle with hand to hand combat. “Do not underestimate me, Speremus.” She warned as she closed the gap between the two of them to send a fist across his temple. Though the Subject was wiser than such, and he lurched back, suddenly not wounded whatsoever, and caught her by the wrist with his left hand, before spinning it around and holding the limb behind her back.

“You would be unwise to consider me weak. I have trained in hand to hand combat in NELO,” Roe spoke with utter calm. Going to dislocate her arm as he had done in the cafeteria so long ago, he was halted as Sonya grabbed his own wrist, and spun herself back around, before the two separated once more, holding themselves at a distance, cautiously observing the other. “Impressive, alas, you cannot best me.” With his monotone voice already left where he stood, the Subject swept out a leg, catching his female counterpart off guard and sending her down. Though it was not his intent to let her fall, and instead returned his grasp to her forearm before. Strength unknown to his moderate figure, Sonya was thrown overhead and into the ground, knocking the air out of her lungs and leaving her stunned and still on the ground. Her grey gaze, stormy and angered, stared up at the cold azure eyes of Roe, and the two held each other’s countenances in a strange display of both veiled hostility and respect. Nevertheless, she rolled to the side as the Subject grew tired of the strange stand-off and went to deliver a brutal kick to her side, though his opponent was quicker than he had expected and rolled away, before pushing herself to a stand and backhanding the blond across the face roughly with a clenched fist. Staggering to the side, he grunted, wiping the blood from his mouth.

However his counterattack was interrupted as the open doorway was abruptly filled with heavily armed guards, pointing rifles at all those in the room. Releasing her, she stepped away, and the Subject raised his hands in the air, motioning for Stephan to do the same. “Do not shoot. Stephan and I will comply with your demands.” Again, with a complete absence of emotion, the blond man spoke and, as the guards looked between each other, he spoke again. “I commend your soldiers, here.” Motioning to Ludwig and Sonya, he continued, “Upon arriving here as I attempted to escape, they were able to stall me long enough to be capture; a well-made ruse.” Giving a knowing stare to Sonya, he returned his attention to the guards. “In fact, I would very much like to return to my duties with Director Laevan. The Phoenix Cloud requires my presence, does it not?” 

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