Mark hardly paid any attention to the beginning of his tour. He still reeled from Frieda’s demise and viewed every room in the base with a suspicious glance. He stayed apart from Whyte, although he was still forced near the front of the group. Oliver held onto him for support, which didn’t exactly ease his comfort as much as it kept his antsy squirming to a minimum.
Little phrases trickled through, which may as well have been white noise. Whyte boasted about the Overwatch bases and research stations scattered throughout the world, their mercenary forces, and their business ventures for companies and countries. “Built it from the ground up myself. Solid investments in corporations and adapting to the changing market. That’s the key.” All this filtered into one of Mark’s ears and out the other as Frieda’s frightened begging. Residue bits and pieces of information were left behind that he paid no heed to.
When he finally returned to the present, they were passing the sleeping quarters. Whyte was discussing their contracts for various countries. “Yemen finally came around and employed us recently, thanks to the SN91. If only the U.S. would be as cooperative. Oh, yes. You’ll be rooming with Oliver and Lionel.”
“We’ll be bunk buddies!” Oliver shook Mark’s shoulder.
The first pressing question on Mark’s mind was why he had never been told about Overwatch. However, he arranged the phrasing more diplomatically to Whyte. “How come Rooke never said anything about Overwatch?”
“So as not to be connected,” Whyte said. “I have shares in companies all over the world. If I can help it, I keep each company separate and distinct from the others as much as possible. Helps minimize any potential damage to them from situations like Golden Springs. You’re part of a special group.”
“I am?”
“Yes,” he said, as they passed by several medical rooms. Briefly he indicated them as, “the medical wing.” In room eighteen, horrible screams slipped out that sounded like Emeryl’s. “You’re one of the few people who know that I run Overwatch directly. It’s the only one that I personally oversee. You’re also one of the few people to have come here. Rooke never even knew where this base was, much less set foot here.”
“And here is?”
“In the Pacific.” That’s all Whyte would say on the subject.
Eventually, they arrived at a section of research laboratories. Men and women in white coats were studying various kinds of liquids, and it all reminded Mark of Rooke Pharmaceuticals. “Germ warfare and medicine have been a tremendous help in securing contracts and also with finances,” Whyte said as they entered. “Be careful in here. Don’t want to have a contamination leak.” Mark’s arms snapped to his side and he made himself thin, maintaining his distance from all the equipment.
An older doctor greeted them. Her skin stretched taut across her face, forcing her lips into a permanent smile. “Hello, Mr. Whyte.”
“Dr. Sullivan, how goes everything?”
“Well, Dr. Yonkers,” she said, pointing to a younger, already-balding man typing on a computer, “and I are still working on the formulas.” She guided Whyte to the computer, pointing at the screen. They were almost out of Mark’s hearing, but he caught snatches of Rooke’s name. He assumed they were studying the SN91 or the strength-invulnerability formula that Rooke had created. Perhaps both. Whyte nodded and hummed at first, and then turned away from the screen after a few more moments, annoyed and in deep discussion with Sullivan.
Mark thought he heard “we need another sample” above the bubbling beakers next to him. Perhaps “not enough DNA” as well, but he was still experiencing flashes of Frieda’s crying to be released. “Not much chance of that,” Whyte said, walking back to the group. “Keep on it.”
“Yes, Mr. Whyte.”
On the last part of their tour, Whyte pointed out the cafeteria and the elevators. Mark memorized the exact location of the latter, a difficult task, as one metal hallway looked the same as the next. He planned to sneak to the top of the base later. Could find a boat or something and get out of here.
By the tour’s end, it was late in the evening and Whyte released Mark. Oliver took the opportunity to introduce him to the last two members of the group: a rough woman with a permanent expression of disgust and battle scars etched on her face, and a serious man who scratched his goatee; both seemed unimpressed with Mark and his power.
With a flourish of his hand, Oliver said, “I give you Sheila and Anton. She can make herself a suit of armor with nearby dirt and rocks. Very heavy, but she manages well enough,” he said. “And Anton here can manipulate electricity. Give him a quick peek, Ant.”
Neither looked particularly in the mood for entertaining Mark. More on the verge of lashing out, and their thoughts seemed elsewhere. Anton bowed out of the offer. “Thanks, but I should probably get to bed. Big day tomorrow.”
“Right you are,” Oliver said, searching for and grabbing Mark’s hand. “Tomorrow then. Mind escorting me back to our room?”
Reluctantly, Mark guided him, hoping he could sneak back to the elevator after Oliver fell asleep. Unfortunately, Lionel followed them, walking ahead. No, not walking. His feet shuffled silently above the floor, his toes draping against the metal and distorting upon touching it.
“Don’t mind Sheila and Anton,” Oliver said. “They’re real down to earth people and are de-lighted to have you on board.” He nudged Mark’s ribs and chuckled.
“Were Sheila and Anton close to Frieda?” Mark asked.
“As close as can be. We were brothers- and sisters-in-arms.” He dragged his fingers on the wall. “A group of elementals within the group. Electricity, earth, wind, fire.” He thumbed himself. “All we were missing was water. Now wind, too. Don’t suppose you have any hidden water or wind powers?”
Mark shook his head, and then remembered it was Oliver. “No.”
“Shame. I liked Frieda though.”
“She was a screwup,” Lionel commented.
“That she was, but she did try her best. She could really blow up a party.” He elbowed Mark, grinning.
“We had to carry her on every assignment.” Lionel turned back and eyed Mark. “We better not have to do the same with you.”
“Nah, the way Finster told it, Mark’s a stalwart guy. ‘The Wall,’ from what I hear. Nice name,” Oliver said while Lionel snorted. “Heh, I still miss Finster, too.” They entered their room and Mark led Oliver to one of the two bunk beds pressed against either side of the wall.
“You knew Finster?” he asked.
“Knew him? We were thick as thieves, we were!” Oliver ducked his head and sat down on the bottom bunk. He removed his sunglasses, folding them up. Only then did Mark see his eyelids. They were nearly a transparent orange, the fire behind them raging and ready to rush out, as if to consume Mark and expose the Achilles’ heel of his invulnerability to the world. Mark shivered and averted his gaze.
“And thick as Neanderthals,” Lionel said.
“We always had a blast on our assignments before he was assigned to Rooke,” Oliver said, ignoring him. “Never did expect him to die like that. But it’s bound to happen in this job. Just another part of nature.” He grabbed a roll of masking tape and tore off two pieces, taping his eyelids down.
“What’s that for?”
“So I don’t wake up and burn another hole through the bed,” he said, lying down. Mark checked underneath the top bunk and gaped at the charred spots on the bars supporting the mattress. He gulped. “I get nightmares sometimes.” The tape didn’t seem sturdy and despite adding a couple of more layers to his lids, they already peeled at the corners. What if they came off? Dying might be a part of nature, but Mark didn’t want that to be the first thing that happened in the morning.
He checked the other bunk as Lionel floated to the top, staking his claim. Lionel lay down on the top mattress, his back dispersing and flattening him. He rolled over to Mark, daring him to consider taking the bottom bunk beneath him.
“Do you, uh, have anything sturdier to use for your eyes?”
he asked Oliver.
“What, like a pair of special glasses to block the fire?” He chuckled. “I wish. It’d be nice to open my eyes once and not incinerate everything. But being able to incinerate everything is a pretty cool trade-off.”
“Why not sleep on the top bunk if you have problems burning a hole in it?”
“I sometimes roll off the bed. Relax,” he said, patting Mark’s leg, “you’ll be fine. Worst you’ll get is falling through the mattress anyway, right?”
Mark searched the rest of the room, wondering if there was anything else he could sleep on. Other than a shared bathroom, a desk, and a closet, the room was pretty sparse. “Not quite the same as your own apartment,” Lionel chided. Mark couldn’t raise suspicion, so he carefully climbed onto the top bunk above Oliver and set himself down on the thin, stiff mattress, afraid the tiniest movement would trigger Oliver to open his eyes wide. He turned his back to Lionel and stared at the wall, willing himself to fall asleep and not dwell on being burned to a crisp at any moment.
Rogues of Overwatch Page 5