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.
He didn't get that luxury for long.
"Bad day at the office?" came a cheery voice to his right.
Without even turning to look, Rogue raised his arm and pulled the trigger of his weapon. It was mostly out of reflex - there had been break-ins in the past, and Night Rogue was not a man who took chances. But he knew that it was basically a pointless venture - the metallic schwing and crackling noise was more than proof of whom the speaker was. The bat-like figure didn't evem flinch from his seat as his deflected shot rocketed over the scientist's heads, making them scream and drop for cover before exploding against the far wall.
"And where," growled Night Rogue, "have you been?"
"Out and about," was the reply - the other didn't seem fazed at all by having been shot at. "Doing a little field work, getting some fresh- whoa!" The newcomer, entering the room, had seen the results of the experiment, now being eased out of the tank with what looked like an oversized spatula. It was a neccesary precaution - the last person who'd been splashed with the fluid the deceased subjects left behind had joined the body in the incenerator.
"What happened here?" The new arrival sounded as if they didn't know wherver to be horrified or amused. "Did you guys have a marshmallow-roasting party and not invite me?"
Night Rogue was not a man given to sighing or groaning. Those were for men who put too much weight into the frivoloties of human expression. He had other ways of broadcasting his emotions - less theatrical, overwrought ones that got to the point much quicker. And one of those was to click his tongue, sharply and deliberately, in a manner that suggested he'd just tasted vinegar or raw coffee. Behind the mask, it sounded like the click of a rifle being cocked.
"Two-Point-Eight, they said." His voice was a low, steely rumble, ice-cold and monotone. "And for a moment, I thought we'd finally make a breakthrough. There was a reading - one I'd never seen the like of before. But his... physiology was less than ideal. Not even a Two-Point-Eight could have coped with a body ruined by sloth and indulgence." He shifted in his throne, which creaked ominously beneath his weight.
A tutting came from the other person as they strolled down the stairs to inspect the corpse, which had since been placed upon a wheeled stretcher. The blade of a sword-like weapon - the one they'd used to deflect Rogue's paranoid attack - glinted ominously as they approached. The thing looked as though it had been cobbled out of spare parts from a scrapyard - there even seemed to be some kind of a valve unneccesarily bolted to the side of it. Yet as the stranger lifted it and poked the charred, half-melted corpse with the tip, the scientists backed away as if afraid it would leap out of the hand that held it.
"Must be a shame," continued the newcomer's voice. "All these experiments, all these failures. Just so you can find the threshold where the human body can actually use that wonder-tech you've been dreaming about so much. And what have you got to show for it, aside from a bunch of near-uncontrollable supermutants who need a cattle-prod to learn to take orders? Or this dingy little basement?" he added, gesturing around the laboratory with his weapon. "Or this bunch of no-hopers who only follow you because their moral compass would make Herbet West weep with-"
"Does this conversation have a point," interrupted Night Rogue, "or did you just come here to annoy me?"
The stranger heaved a mechanical death-rattle of a sigh and turned to the scientists who were watching the exchange.
"You see what I gotta put up with?" they asked, gesturing to the seated figure. "He's hopeless, absolutely hopeless! No respect for the fine art of conversation - treats everything like a data entry form. If you're not giving him the information he wants right this second, he just doesn't wanna know. I can't take him anywhere - it's like going out to eat with a fussy kid who just wants chicken nuggets all the time!"
Night Rogue growled quietly - another of his subtle emotional cues.
"Alright, if you must know..." The red-clad figure raised their hands placatingly as they returned to the throne. "I've been out and about, like I said, and got a bit nostalgic. I ended up somewhere which seemed to ring a few bells, so I did some digging. And I think I got something that, if you'll pardon the sappy language, is gonna make all your wishes come true. Something's that's gonna blow the concept of Hazard Levels outta the water and into the open mouth of a passing pterodactyl."
As the figure approached the throne, the light played off their armour, flashing on those parts of it that happened to be coloured a sickly bluish-green - visor, chestplate and some of the piping on the arms. They adopted a casual pose halfway up the stairs, one foot higher than the other, leaning forward and an arm propping the body up on one thigh. The emotionless, visor-covered gaze was directed at the recumbant Rogue, who's head was titled as though he were deep in thought, not looking at the other figure. There was a decidedly pregnant pause.
And then the announcement came like a sniper bullet to the head.
"I found the files."
With a speed that made the scientists jump from it's suddeness, Night Rogue's head snapped up to look at the other. When he next spoke, his voice was a sharp and demanding hiss.
"Are you sure?"
"All of them," was the almost-smug reply. "Every last one of the Doc's original papers - all in once place. There's even the electronic backups that we thought were long gone. Probably the last copy of those in existance. And, what's more," added the other, holstering the sword over one shoulder in an easygoing gesture, "I know where they're kept."
The scientists, suddenly very interested, began to shuffle closer.
"And where is this place," said Night Rogue, slowly, as if talking to a small child, "that meant you couldn't have just recovered these extremely important items yourself?"
The stranger told him.
There was yet another pause.
And then Night Rogue stood up. He did not do this often, and in response the scientists shrank back as he towered over them, visor glinting in the half-light of the laboratory lamps, the pistol-like weapon clutched in one hand. Over the years, those loyal to Faust had quickly learned that him getting out of his throne at any point was a bad sign. Whenever it happened, it usually meant that either somebody was in trouble, or he was going to make somebody's life - or what remained of it - a living nightmare.
This looked to be the latter.
"Well, then," he said, and there seemed to be a tinge of malicious triumph. "This should prove interesting. You scientists, continue with the disposal of that body - and be quick about it. Once you're done, find me a squadron of Guardians and about half a dozen SMASH and bring them to me outside. If what our friend here says is true, then this is our chance to achieve victory in one decisive blow - the final extinction of our last great enemies."
And he turned and left the room without further word, his boots clanking ominously on the floor. As the scientists returned to their work, the other rose from his position on the stairs, chuckling sardonically as he followed in the wake of his peer.
"God, his speeches need work!"
INTRODUCING
BLOOD STALK
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