“Does he always look like that?” Emile asked in a stage whisper, pointing toward their guide.
“Who, Azzy? Some kind of telepathic thing. He looks like any other norm, but you only see him the way he wants to be seen,” Drake explained. “He likes to spook folks.”
Azrael led them to a waiting room crammed with people, brushing past them all with calculated disdain. Opening a metal fire door, he gestured them into what appeared to be a viewing room for an operating theater, excusing himself with the explanation that he had other business to which he must attend. The room was occupied by nearly a dozen people. Most were working with laptop computers that sat open on fold-out desks. The sound of keys rhythmically clicking overpowered the muffled sounds of conversations coming from the occupants. Drake barely noticed them, though, his gaze instead drawn downward through the heavy glass windows to the sight in the room below.
Stripped of his signature Prussian blue uniform, the figure of Patriot lay in silent repose on a long table, his massively muscled frame connected to machines by a series of wires and tubes. A veritable army of medical personnel, most clad in all-encompassing biohazard gear, scurried around the theater likes ants at a picnic. Each had a job to do, and Drake had little concern that they were putting forth their best efforts. Still, it stung him to see the valiant hero in such a vulnerable state.
At the rear of the room stood a man in worn denim jeans and a weather-beaten leather jacket, his arms crossed defiantly in front of his chest as he stared unblinking at the events in the room. In contrast to the doctors in their heavy suits, he seemed unconcerned with his own safety. Pale green eyes drifted up and scanned across Drake and Emile for a moment, then returned to watching the controlled chaos in the theater.
“Agent Drake. Over here.” The voice was that of Colleen Hart, and she did not sound happy. Drake turned away from the window, working his way through the cramped aisles behind Emile.
“Good. You made it,” Hart said with a frustrated sigh. She looked up and down at Drake’s battered form, then flicked her eyes to the woman draped over his shoulder. “Get yourself a girlfriend while you were out?”
“Like I’d want one of you slick-skinned apes,” he shot back with a scowl. ”She’s a prisoner.”
“Oh, nice. Bring a prisoner into one of the most secure -" Hart began, but her retort was interrupted by the steely voice of the French booster as he spoke to her for the first time.
“Be silent, Hart, and take me to see him,” Emile commanded. The edge of hostility in his voice was so apparent that Drake looked reflexively upward to see if the skies would split with yet another bolt of lightning. The room fell silent at once, every eye turning to the confrontation that threatened to explode. Not one person present had ever heard anyone address Hart in such a manner, and all knew the mood she was in. The very air itself seemed to hum with a tension that neared a palpable level.
A door at the far end of the room opened, admitting a tanned man in his early twenties. His arrival was enough to shatter the building moment of stress in the room and the others there returned to their duties. Running a hand through his ebony hair, the man approached Hart. He shook his head from side to side, eliminating any need for spoken words. Hart muttered a curse and dragged Emile past the newcomer and through the door. A moment later, they emerged inside the operating theater, though neither had donned any kind of protective gear. At the door, the green-eyed man turning to examine them as they arrived, then returning to what was, apparently, a security post.
“What’s the word, doc?” Drake asked, directing his query to the man who had just come in. Tired eyes met his yellow orbs without flinching. Though they had a hint of the legendary ’thousand-yard-stare’, there was a strength in the eyes, and he showed practically no surprise at Drake’s appearance.
“Bad. As near as I can guess, he’s suffered a complete systemic shift. The antibodies in his system are at war with one another. It’s like he’s trying to stop himself from infecting his own body. Damnedest thing I’ve ever seen,” the man marveled. His voice was gruff from lack of sleep. He grimaced as he saw the wounds on Drake’s chest.
“Yeah, they hurt, but they’ll go away,” Drake said, noting the direction of the man’s gaze. He tried to change the subject back to its original area. “Can’t y’all just give him some medicine or something? I mean, damn! This place is a government joint, right? There’s gotta be some penicillin or some such laying around.”
“We’ve tried. Patriot’s body, as I said, seems to be battling against itself. But whenever we’ve managed to get any meds into him, it’s like his whole system just gets together and wipes out whatever we put in.”
While speaking, the man laid a hand on Drake’s arm as if he were trying to comfort the big booster. His skin paled for a second and he dropped to his knees. A gurgling sound came from his throat as tremors passed through his body with the force and speed of a gran mal seizure. The fabric of his shirt darkened with blood across the upper edge of his chest, and with his free hand the man grasped at his own back in sudden pain. His fingers came away tipped with crimson.
Drake looked down at the man, then gasped as he saw his own wounds begin to close and recede before his eyes as though by magic. At the same time, he felt a fresh sense of vigor flowing through his veins, and the sudden removal of all of his fatigue and pain was like a bucket of ice water thrown into his face. With horror, he realized that the young man was literally absorbing Drake’s wounds and making them his own. He reached to the hand that clutched at his scaled arm, planning to disengage the grasp, but before Drake could contact it the hand slipped free, falling limply to the floor where the man knelt. Blood dripped from the youth to pool on the floor, and tears ran freely down his face.
“What the hell?” Drake asked, dropping his prisoner across one of the desks and crouching before the man. “What did you do?”
“Heal…healed you,” gasped the man. He looked up at Drake through a veil of tears. “So much pain.”
“Yeah, no shit. Why the hell did you do that?” Drake was stunned at the way the exchange had taken place. He no longer felt even the most minor ache or discomfort, and this man, who looked young enough to be in high school, had taken it all upon himself.
“It’s what…what I do. I heal people.”
The casual manner in which he had stated that, combined with the willingness he had shown to help Drake when he did not even know him, left Drake with no need to ask if he had tried to help Patriot in the same way.
“Francis Drake,” he said by way of introduction, reaching out to help the man to his feet. “You need to sit down.”
“Terence Marks,” replied the man. His eyes squeezed shut tightly and his jaw clenched for a second. “It’ll pass. Always does. It just takes, you know, a little time.”
Drake looked around the room for a moment, then leaned in close. “I owe you, doc,” he said in a voice little more than a breath, guaranteed to carry no further than the ears of the man to whom he spoke.
Hart chose that moment to re-enter the room, stepping back in from the area of the operating theater. She was alone, Emile having remained behind to stand in silent vigil with the brown-haired man in the leather coat. She paused to light a cigarette before approaching Drake.
“I see you’ve met Splicer,” she said with a wry grin. Smoke streamed from her nostrils as she reached up to rub at an eye with her free hand. She pointed to the woman sprawled across a chair like a piece of meat. “So, you want to tell me about her?”
“Who knew I was bringing Emile up here?” Drake asked in response, crossing his arms on his chest. The scales rustled like sandpaper as they touched.
“Well there were a few of us, but the information that Emile was coming was highly classified. Compartmentalized knowledge, Agent Drake. You know how it works.” She paused to take a drag on her cigarette.
“Yeah, I figured that much. But who knew I was the one bringing him?” Drake asked. He leaned against the
window in what looked like a casual pose. Hart raised an eyebrow at the inquiry.
“That would be me,” she said.
“Anybody else?”
“No. Just me.” Hart pursed her lips for a moment, then shrugged her shoulders. “That’s all.”
“Just you.”
“Yes, just me. Why do you ask?”
Drake nodded as though pieces of an enormous puzzle had fallen into place. “Because that chick there,” he said, pointing down at the woman with a thick green finger, “knew who I was and that I was the one who took down Aquatica. And if you’re the only one who knew I was coming this way…” He let the sentence hang for a moment. Hart looked puzzled, shrugging her shoulders again as she tried to work out where Drake was going with the statement. She did not have long to wait.
“Then it means you set me and Emile up to get hit,” Drake snarled. With a sudden, explosive movement, he slammed his hands forward and grabbed Hart by the shoulders, hoisting her bodily into the air, then slamming her back against the glass of the enormous window. His jaw snapped open wide, the sound of the joints disengaging echoing as deep-toned clicks in the suddenly silent room. His head tilted to the right as his mouth opened wider than Hart could have imagined possible and then swept forward in a rush.
Hart’s terrified scream sounded in the viewing room as rows of gleaming teeth closed down on the tender flesh of her throat.
Chapter Nine
Hart’s scream of terror was a thunderous blast in Drake’s ears as he felt his teeth begin to pierce her skin. He could freely smell the sudden burst of Emergence-heightened pheromones from the woman as she attempted to use her abilities to deter his attack. His head grew fuzzy as the chemicals invaded his system. He knew that he should be biting down, but at the same time he wanted nothing so much as to release her. His hands clenched tightly on her shoulders, then flexed open and closed once more. Struggling to maintain his focus on closing his jaws, he found himself asking why he was doing this to her.
Before he had a chance to answer that thought, the giant window to his side shattered inward with a crash and he was suddenly flying backward across the room along with a thousand shards of what was supposed to be shatterproof glass. His head turned and he was looking into the sad green eyes of the man from downstairs. They slammed into the rear wall of the room and broke through in a shower of concrete and sheetrock dust. In pain, and furious at being robbed of his prey, he roared aloud and snapped with his jaws. They came together on the hand of the man and Drake yelped in shock at the flash of white-hot agony that ran through his muzzle. At least two of his teeth cracked from the assault. It was like biting into steel, or worse.
“Biting won’t work,” the man said calmly. Still in flight, he released Drake without any warning and the reptilian booster fell to the floor before his wings could come into play.
Rolling across the thinly-carpeted floor, Drake crashed through some kind of cabinet, spilling vials and jars of chemicals to the floor. Noxious fumes and tendrils of oddly-colored smoke rose where several of them mixed on the floor. Seemingly unharmed by the trip through the wall, the man touched down softly onto his well-worn boots. He gave Drake a half-smile.
“Gonna play nice now, pal?”
“Not so’s you can tell it,” Drake said in a low growl, lips peeling back to expose his teeth. Blood ran from his gums in a ghastly display. He reached to his left and gripped the frame of a small table, then threw it toward the man in the leather jacket. As the table flew through the air, Drake charged behind it, drawing back a ham-sized fist.
The table exploded into splinters as the man swatted it aside. He did not have time to retake a guard position before Drake was on him. A scaled green fist slammed into his jaw with staggering force. The man was knocked backward and to Drake’s left, blasting through a wooden lab table with a granite slab atop it. Water spurted upward as the faucet attachment ripped free of the pipes which supplied it. Shaking off shards of glossy stone and brushing wood splinters from his jacket, the man stood up, giving no other sign that he had even been struck. Drake, however, was not so fortunate. His first two knuckles broke audibly at the impact and his wrist felt as though he had dislocated it. He howled in sudden pain.
“Just stop, man. All right?” pled the man. He stood without any attempt to engage Drake. “Give it up. I don’t want to do this.”
Drake’s legs flexed and he leaped forward, claws gouging long rents in the floor. He reached forward with his uninjured left hand to grapple with the man. Calmly, as though he had little concern for the ferocity of the attack, the man grabbed the extended hand and spun in place, using Drake’s own momentum against him and slamming the booster headfirst into the nearest wall. Concrete broke again and dust rained down from the battered wall. Acoustic tiles fell from the ceiling, exposing plastic-sheathed cables and matte grey metal ventilation shafts.
Drake struggled to regain his footing. Multiple images of his opponent swam in his vision and his ears rang painfully. Powdered concrete particles spun lazily in the air, fouling his nostrils. Snuffing to clear them, he hooked a plastic chair with his tail and flung it forward, missing the man by nearly a yard. If he could keep the man at bay for a moment, he could recover and launch a fresh attack. He drew in a slow breath, tasting the chemical change in his mouth that signaled his breath weapon was ready.
“Agent Drake!” shouted the voice of Colleen Hart. It was distant and tinny in his ears, but he turned to look at her. Four images of her stood framed in the hole that he and the man had made in the wall. Drops of blood still ran down her neck and she seemed a bit unsteady on her feet, though not so much as Drake himself. Though mindful of the opponent behind him, Drake took a step toward Hart, intent on finishing what he had begun in the observation room.
“Good night, sweet prince,” said an elfin figure as she stepped up beside Hart. She wore what looked like a cheerleader’s outfit of red and green over bright blue leggings, and her hair was a brilliant orange in color with blue stripes that ran the length of the hair down to her shoulders. Her hands were outstretched and she had a triumphant look on her face. Everything Drake saw began to spin, and he staggered as he tried to take a step forward. The floor, the ceiling, the walls, all intermixed in a spiraling display that caused his stomach to surge. His arms felt leaden and his breath came heavy in his chest as he forced himself to take another step. The sensation of falling became more pronounced and he vomited noisily onto the rubble that littered the floor. The effort of being sick forced him to his knees, and he was unable to stand again as the room became little more than a carnival ride of flashing lights and spinning walls. His eyes rolled back in his head and he fell to the floor as everything went black.
*****
“Mister Drake?”
The voice was a whisper in his right ear, a tiny fragment of the outside world that encroached on the pleasant senselessness in which he had been floating. It demanded his attention nonetheless, and he flicked open an eye. The sudden shock of staring into the overhead lighting was like an ice pick through his brain, and the lid hastily slammed shut.
“You’re all right, Mister Drake,” said the voice. It sounded male, Drake thought, and young. Slowly, he rolled his head to the side to see who was addressing him, allowing the eyelid to reopen when he felt it safe to do so. Still, he was hesitant after the agonizing first attempt. The light still hurt, but not as much once he had prepared himself for it.
The young man that Hart had referred to as Splicer was beside him, seated in one of the uncomfortable chairs that Drake had seen throughout his entire association with government facilities. He had a book on his lap, and Drake tried to see what it was. The angle was wrong, though, and all he caught was a glimpse of something he could not make out.
“It’s nice to have you back,” Splicer said, reaching to switch off the harsh fluorescents above them. The room remained lit by a series of smaller incandescent lamps situated at various points in the room.
�
�Where the—“ Drake began.
“You’re in one of the auxiliary laboratories,” Splicer said, waving away Drake’s attempt at speech. “I’m staying here for a few days while we try to figure out this whole thing. I’m not one of the favored few, so I don’t get the prime housing.”
“Hart?”
“Alive. Not happy, but alive.”
“Not happy, huh? Well, one out of two ain’t bad, I guess,” Drake said. He sat up smoothly, recognizing the object he was on as a lab table of some type. It was then that he realized just how easily he had moved. He looked down at his right hand, remembering vividly the broken bones. It looked fine, and he flexed it experimentally.
“You’re healed,” Splicer told him flatly. His face clouded. “It damned near killed me, though, so please don’t do anything rash. I have better things to do than repair someone who goes a couple of rounds with Annihilator, you know.”
“Annihilator?” Drake asked, mouth falling open. He struggled to remember what he knew about the legendary booster, but was unable to recall what the man looked like. The video footage he had viewed in the past all showed a leering psychopath in a calf-length black duster, not the tormented face he had seen on his assailant. “That was… No wonder he beat me so easily,” he mused, gnawing thoughtfully on his lower lip.
“Yeah. He calls himself Ian Calder these days, like it makes people forget who he is or what he did. Director Hart’s got him guarding Patriot. Fox in the henhouse, I say. Anyway, she figures if anybody can get past him, they weren’t going to be stopped. I guess you fired him up when you tried to eat her.”
“Well, I wasn’t gonna eat her so much as just chew on her a little,” Drake said absently, still trying to wrap his head around his current situation. Patriot, Elementaire, and now Annihilator. He suddenly felt very small and far out of his league.
Firedrake - Volume 1 Page 9