Slayer Anderson
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Full Potential
🕑 Added 2021-01-28 12:47:41 +0000 UTC“Your highness?”
The question was put forth in a wheeling plea for attention, just as the blonde royal liked his supplicants to behave. Clovis, Third Prince of the Holy Britainnian Empire, smiled as he turned and beheld the somewhat portly figure who had spoken. Bartley Asprius was one of his leading advisors and the head of some of his more…secretive projects. The man was boorish, slightly crude, but a loyal soldier and a very good suck-up.
Not that much of this passed through Clovis’ mind as he smiled benignly, “Bartley, good of you to come! I trust everything is going well?”
The military man simpered slightly as he took a delicate glass of champagne, “Very well your Highness; I’m sorry to interrupt your party, but I felt you should know that the project has moved to the next phase and we’re ready for a set of test subjects.”
Clovis raised an eyebrow, but nodded politely to a set of Earls as they passed, his attention still focused on Bartley. “You don’t say, that is good news. I trust you’ve found a good selection from our local population of…expendables?”
Bartely shook his head, “Actually your highness, the psychoanalysts felt that programming would take greater hold on someone who was already loyal to Britainnia. They have advised us against using any elevens.”
The Prince nodded pensively, “Then we’ll have to select from either the military or the citizenry…do we have anyone who won’t be missed?”
“The difficulty in reallocating troops, your highness, is that we’ve had lackluster results on our previous subjects who were from the military and their disappearances were somewhat hard to explain. The scientists would very much like to try civilians for this test set.”
Clovis sighed somewhat dramatically, a habit from his more…theatrical public appearances. “Very well, but do try and take some that won’t be missed. I would rather not have to cover up a full-scale investigation and deal with the bad press.”
“Yes, Your Highness,” Bartley nodded, “I anticipated your agreement and selected a pair of students. They have no family, extended or otherwise, and the girl has medical issues, which will provide us with more than adequate excuse to remove the two.”
“You never cease to amaze me Bartley,” Clovis grinned. “But say no more on the subject. I don’t want to know the details of the horrors you’ll inflict on them or of the people themselves. Come back to me when you have more results, Bartley.”
The soldier saluted at the implied dismissal, reminding himself to be extra careful. While the Prince had just given him carte blanche in fulfilling his expectations of the Black Projects, that was a double-edged sword. The Prince would know none of the details of the operations and could therefore, truthfully say that they had been conducted without his prior knowledge.
Plausible Deniability.
If anything went wrong, it would be on Bartley Asprius’ head, not that of Prince Clovis. Of course, if the results were positive, Clovis would take the glory of the accomplishments and reap the rewards. Bartley would be quietly lauded as he stood by his patron’s side, though, and such was the honor of loyally serving the Empire.
Dr. Orlean Salir stepped into the darkened room and took a long moment to admire his surroundings. Banks of computers set along one wall with an extensive array of hormonal agents, syringes, and anesthetics. IV drips hung along the back wall, their bags full of depressants, liquid steroids, and stimulants that shone wetly in the glimmering light. Standing before him, though, was the centerpiece: two massive cylinders of glass wherein were suspended a young girl and a teenage boy in a bath of green-tinted liquid.
Feeling a positively sinister grin spread over his face, the Britainnian scientist resisted the urge to cackle. “Soooo Lovely. Ah, it fills me with happiness to finally have a proper theater where I may perform!”
He spun, taking in the two stainless steel operating tables laden with precisely sculpted utensils designed to carve and slice the most resilient flesh. Bone saws, scalpels, tongs, and myriad other shining and serrated instruments littered the adjoining benches smelling of disinfectant and sterilization.
Thrusting his arms wide, he grinned still wider, showing a truly gruesome smile to his fellow doctors and surgeons. The men and women behind him did their very best not to flinch or cringe at the sight.
Some of them even succeeded.
“Isn’t it glorious my friends?! I’ve been driven from the homeland, disgraced by my peers, slandered by commoner and royal alike, but…”
The doctor’s eyes flashed, “-But I’m still here. I still have my work, my dreams, my tools…despite them all I’m still here. Why, can you even believe they called me MAD?!”
This time, the collected professionals twitched violently, as if from a physical blow. None of them rallied their courage enough to meet the head doctor’s eyes as he licked his lips predatorily, showing off the scar’s of a Glasgow Smile that stretched back almost to his ears.
“If they want madness,” he continued, “I’ll give them MADNESS!!”
One brave soul stepped forward and coughed politely, drawing the attention of his obvious insane superior. “Sir, our instructions have been to consider the boy the test type and the girl the prototype, names withheld. Would you like to view their health records before we being the preliminary operations?”
“Tut, tut,” The Orlean said, shaking his finger at the man who had spoken. “No, that won’t do at all, at all.”
“Pardon sir, but what-“
“Names.” Running a hand through greased-back hair stained by numerous chemicals of dubious origins, he nodded to himself, “They need names! Anything that I am going to turn into a work of art such as these will be simply musthave a name!”
“Ah,” The man said, for there was nothing else to say other than to curse his luck for being assigned to this particular base…but that would be impolite.
Turning to the boy in the tank, Orlean raised an eyebrow…black hair, somewhat…aristocratic features, gentle-almost feminine face…in short, nothing remarkable. Oh, but he would be…in the meantime, though…
“Test type, I suppose-Ah!” Orlean cried, thrusting his finger in the air as if to say Eureka! “The official name of this project will be Zero, the numerical representation of his unit marking.”
The subordinate doctor nodded, making a note on his pad as he spoke dryly, “And I suppose, to signify that she is the prototype, the girl will be unit ‘One.’”
Orlean slapped his forehead in exasperation, “That’s the trouble with you science-y types! No imagination! A number will do fine for a young man, but not a woman…no wonder you’re still single. No…what type of service is her design intended?”
The man blinked, flipping through his information before nodding. “She’s going to be an interface unit: navigation, intelligence, and information gathering.”
“Navigation,” Orlean said, seizing upon the descriptor. “A navigator of the cybernetic seas, eh? Perhaps, to take a note from Mr. Verne? Her designation will be Nemo.”
The other scientist blinked, “Sir, wasn’t Nemo a man…and a captain, not a navigator?”
Orlean’s enthusiasm dimmed as he gave the other man a deadpanned look. “So, going to be the voice of reason, eh? The voice of…morality? I suppose you’d like to object to my methodology as well as my reasoning, huh?”
He realized too late that he had made a deadly mistake in going a question too far.
“Well, I’ve got a little trick,” Orlean grinned, “A magic trick that always loosens you poor, oh so serious saps up.” Producing a small stick of wood and graphite his mouth stretched horrendously, “Watch as I make this pencil…disappear.”
Soon enough, the man was very…loose.
Lelouch’s mind was blinded by a haze of red agony and apathetic malaise.
Time was fluid and his senses were murky as flares of hot, ripping, pain and almost narcotic numbness that followed. With his brain neither truly awake nor asleep, his muscles could only seize and twitch in vain as the torturous rigors continued.
