~EARTH ZF-025, WORLD OF BUILD~
Undisclosed Location.
Night Rogue sat upon his throne, and idly watched the latest experiment.
It was one that he'd seen repeated countless times before. It had gotten to the point where, every time he closed his eyes, he could visualise the steps in front of him as clear as day. From the selection of the specimen, to dragging them into the tank, to the pre-test checkups to determine their physical health... The only differences would be in whom they had selected for that day's experiment - their age, ethinicity and appearance, wherever they struggled and screamed or went with quiet, defiant dignity. And even now, that variation was starting to get a little stale as far as Rogue was concerned.
But then again, science was based on repetition. And all were necessary for Faust.
This one, the scientists had assured him, showed promise. Initial tests had given a possible Hazard Level of 2.7 or 2.8, and therefore a high resistance to the Nebula Gas - the foul substance they pumped into their tests subjects. There had been poor batches in recent days, dragged off the street or abducted as they took ill-advised shortcuts from work to home or wherever, and few had reacted well to the gas. Some had perished immediately, the husks of what was left being carted away to a now well-used incinerator, and others had simply undergone the standard mutations. But Faust were so close now, and they couldn't afford to waste a chance that was given them - a Two-Point-Eight just might be what they wanted.
The figure in the tank, a middle-aged man with sparse curly hair who screamed into his oxygen mask and tugged at his restraints, didn't look like a Two-Point-Eight. He looked more like he belonged on evening television, driving expensive cars and spouting slightly racist remarks. But the men buzzing around him in their gas masks and white hazard suits seemed eager to see what would come of this one. And as much as Night Rogue wanted to have just shot him in the head, he couldn't ignore the possibility that this man would survive the tests. Who knows? Perhaps they could finally achieve what they had been searching for all this time...
One of the men, holding a clipboard, looked up at Night Rogue and threw a thumbs-up at him.
By way of answer, the armoured being nodded in idle acknowledgement.
That was the signal.
Switches were thrown, levers were pulled. A mechanical whining sound began, signalling the activation of hidden generators and fans initiating their unique and dreadful function. Most of the men crowded around the glass tank, watching in fascination as the sickly green gas was poured into the confining space, enshrouding the man within. The muffled screams rose in pitch, but none took notice, more interested in the readings and measurements relayed via dials and gagues on the side of the apparatus. A familiar scenario, yet one with it's own appeal of morbid mystery - would would emerge from the awful, genome-altering fog this time? And would it need to be disposed of or coralled, like so many others?
The whirring of the machines grew louded. The shouting protests of the victim grew more frantic, often bordering on agony. The scientists flitted their attention from the dials to the tank and back again, never leaving the side of their unfortunate test subject. The one with the clipboard began hastily taking notes, but the
scratching of his pencil was drowned in the hissing of valves and hum of
machinery. The bat-armoured figure in his throne didn't move, but seemed to watch expectantly.
Suddenly and unexpectedly, a light flared within. Bright blue, shimmering, radiating with an almost cosmic brilliance. It flickered like the errant fire of a dragon, or perhaps St Elmo's Fire over a swamp, coiling and lashing this way and that as if trying to find some avenue of escape. The scientists gasped, and one of them pointed at a particular gague and measurement that, up until now, hadn't been acknowledged by anyone at this moment in time.
All of this caught the attention of the seated Night Rogue, who leaned forward, eyes fixed intently on this new incandescance.
For some reason... it seemed familiar to him. Something in the dancing, flickering flame seemed to stir something within him, something that he thought he'd cast aside long ago in the relentless pursuit that lead him here. Where, he wondered, had he seen this before, if not in a long-forgotten dream? Where had he seen this light in the past that he had long discared before taking up this new identity? Where did it come from, this light, where-?
And then the tank exploded.
For a moment, the air was filled with evil-smelling smoke, and the choking, acrid scent of burnt flesh filled the air. By the time the air conditioning units turned themselves on, filtering the foul smog out of the room, two of the scientists were writhing in agony on the floor, pierced by glass shards. The remainder were staring in horror at the blackened, gurning skeleton that remained of their subject, half-melted flesh still clinging to it. A greenish, watery slime slopped in the tank around the corpse.
Night Rouge, after a moment of silence, slumped back into his seat. The only outward sign of emotion was a tightening of his grip on the pistol-like weapon that he always carried. He was quicker to respond to this development than his subordinates, who stood frozen as if they'd glimpsed some terror from beyond the void.
"Burn it," he commanded. His voice, modulated into a deep and almost iron rumble, was loud enough to startle his scientists into action. As one, they began to scurry, looking for the tools they required to safely dispose of this latest failure, whilst the wounded began to drag themselves away so as to not impede their comrades. Medical attention would eventually be supplied, but it was not on the forefront of priorities here at Faust. People died here all the time. It was a fact of life.
And in his throne, Night Rogue sat like a silent and watchful gargoyle, consumed in his own thoughts.
