๐๐ฉ๐ฆ ๐๐ข๐ณ๐ณ๐ฆ๐ฏ ๐๐ข๐ฏ๐จ๐ข๐ณ
Pedersen stood anticipatorily at the back wall of the hangar, pacing uneasily. He was about to meet not just his replacement, but his predecessor. He'd never spoken directly to Chamberlain, per se, but he'd seen him. Heard him. Obeyed his orders. Pedersen often prided himself on his obedience, and he hoped that Chamberlain remembered him as a good soldier. A loyal agent. But most importantly, a worthy successor to his mantle. It was this that concerned Pedersen. What if Chamberlain thought him unworthy? Unfit to fill in his boots? What's more, who would continue to fill in the position if both Heads of Security were present? Would Chamberlain return to his past life and leave the role to Pedersen, or would Chamberlain remain Head of Security and Pedersen would leave the Armament Society? No, it wouldn't come to that. In the worst case scenario, Pedersen wouldn't leave the Armament Society, he'd simply be repositioned to a lower ranking role. It wouldn't even be degrading. Besides, whatever happened, he was certain that the Suit had his back. He spent a great deal of time in the Converse contemplating, thinking back, reflecting. He realized that his doubts about the Suit were petty. He'd known the Suit for a substantial amount of time, and from what he could see, he was a rather honorable man. Those tales of brutality couldn't be true. The Suit even hugged him warmly upon his return. A sentimental man is no brute, at least according to Pedersen's point of view.
Pedersen twiddled his thumbs, heaving in a deep sigh. In the distance, he could already spot the jet's outline if he squinted, and he could hear the distinct roar of the jet engines. Gradually, the plane levitated over to the crevice before rapidly careening through the doorway, skidding to a halt on the hangar floors. Pedersen hurriedly scurried towards the jet's side as its door opened to reveal a staircase. He straightened as Chamberlain descended slowly down the staircase's steps, a man in a velvet suit following closely behind. Pedersen perked up and approached him, extending his hand.
"Hi, there, Sergeant Chamberlain. Do you, uh, remember me? Agent Pedersen, the Norwegian?"
Chamberlain took off his sunglasses, storing them away in his pocket, shaking Pedersen's hand with a firm grip.
"Ah, Mr. Pedersen. The Suit tells me that after I left, you took my position. And you did quite well, too. I heard about that trip you took to Afghanistan. Even the military gawks at what happened."
Pedersen looked at his feet, unsure if he was blushing behind his bushy beard.
"Well, surely you know the cause of our success. It's the Suit. You can't succeed without a good leader. Someone strong. Someone you can trust."
Chamberlain placed a hand on Pedersen's back, unable to reach his shoulder.
"Hey. Sidebar?"
The two walked into the corner of the room, speaking in hushed voices.
"What is it?" Pedersen asked.
"You said that you trusted the Suit. I can't blame you. He'll lure you in like that, seem pretty decent. Soon enough, he'll have you thinking he's your friend. But the truth is, you can never trust this guy. He is brutal, and he is dangerous. He's a few eggs short of a dozen, you know what I mean? Anyway, if you truly wish to know the truth, some old files will tell it a lot better than I can. Go down to the archived file storage and look for one labeled "Armament Society: Success Criteria." Trust me, you'll find your answers there."
๐๐ฉ๐ฆ ๐๐ถ๐ช๐ต'๐ด ๐๐ง๐ง๐ช๐ค๐ฆ
The Suit sat bolt upright in his chaise sofa, panting heavily. Everything that had happened was a blur, but he remembered some of the hazy details. Jonas, the fight. How could he have missed such a simple punch so spectacularly? And what's more, to be defeated by a singular punch to the solar plexus? It was a significantly damaging punch, but surely it couldn't knock him out. He spent months training day in, day out to resist pain. To become invulnerable. If this punch was all it took to incapacitate him, then his training was all for nothing. The Suit wearily rose to his feet, lumbering over to his desk and uncapping the lid off of a bottle. He popped an Advil into his mouth, washing it down without water. He sighed, lowering himself into his chair. His computer monitors were emblazoned with the one thing he'd been obsessing over; the doomsday clock. Right now, the Armament Society had fourteen hours until the black hole's final singularity. The one that would rip the Earth apart and completely decimate the solar system. The one that would be the end of humanity. But right now, he couldn't focus on that. Lately, his mind had been out of balance. There was something off. Something sparked when Jonas first returned, and he didn't have a clue as to what had happened to him. Suddenly, he'd lost focus. Lost control. But the important thing was that he knew exactly what to do to resolve it.
โโโ
The Suit pushed past a set of quebracho wood doors, stepping into a dimly lit, circular room, its only source of light being a faint glow behind a hatch. Quebracho wood was often known to be the "axe-breaker", but it did not provide nearly as much security as the Armament Society's trademark tungsten doors did. Nevertheless, the Suit couldn't be bothered to switch them with something more resistant, since the room it guarded had contents that couldn't be considered invaluable, compared to some of the Armament Society's more hefty goods. In fact, it was a room that originally was not on the Warren's blueprints, and was subsequently constructed under direct orders from the Suit himself. He considered it his sanctuary, the only place where he could decompress and enjoy a modicum of peace.
The Suit gently removed his sunglasses and bowler hat, setting them down on a table near the doors. He subsequently undid the buttons on his jacket and stripped down to his boxers, lifting the hatch on the floor. Underneath it, concealed by the hatch, was a circular pool of water, lit by sky-blue neon lights. His sensory deprivation tank, aptly dubbed his "isolation pod." A place where he could detach himself from the whirlwind of thoughts and concerns he had as the Armament Society's longtime director. He lowered himself slowly into the pod's water, floating effortlessly on the water's surface. The hatch automatically slammed shut, with the lights flickering out. The Suit closed his eyes and drew a deep breath, feeling his chest rise and fall. As his thoughts dissipated, he gradually began to lose consciousness, slipping away into the misty darkness of his thoughts.
The Suit sat bolt upright, dressed in his trademark jet-black suit, bowler hat and sunglasses. He rose to his feet, straightening the creases in his spotless white dress shirt. The needles on his watch began to rotate furiously, a grey blur obscuring the numbers on the clock. He stood in the midst of an inky, wintry space, encapsulated in shade, save for an incandescent spotlight shining directly over him, casting a lanky shadow on the ground. A circle of light radiating in the murk. The Suit casually stepped out of the spotlight's radiance and began to wander around, removing his sunglasses to see better, until he came across another spotlight. One that flickered to life directly in front of him. However, this spotlight cast a Gargantuan shadow, one that reflected off of the massive person standing in the light. Isak Pedersen. Tall, muscular, hairy, broad-chested. The Norwegian towered over the Suit, heaving a deep breath.
"Min venn, you lied to me."
The Suit staggered. He stood up straight, looking Pedersen directly in the neck.
"I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about, Mr. Pedersen. Do you mind explaining why you're here?"
"Stop the act, Suit. You know exactly why he's here."
The Suit paused as Pedersen evaporated into nothingness, turning to face another spotlight. This time, the shadow in the circle was more akin to that of the Suit himself, slim and lengthy. Jonas approached the Suit, a smoking cigar in hand.
"What are you doing here?" the Suit said through gritted teeth.
"Well, you know why. You entered that pod to know more about yourself. To cut through the noise. This is the first step. You're so oblivious that you couldn't see it blatantly staring you in the face. The reason that I keep appearing and disappearing here and there is because... Well, I'm never really there, per se."
"Whatever do you mean?"
Jonas chuckled.
"Do I have to dumb it down further for you, Suit? I'm not real. I'm a figment of your imagination. An alternate persona that you created to cover up the pain."
The Suit shielded himself, stepping back. He began to breathe heavily, recoiling in fear.
"No, no, that's... that's impossible. It can't be. You can't be... What?"
"It is. Look, see for yourself."
Jonas and the Suit both shifted their glance to a hovering screen, illuminating the darkness and displaying a multitude of scenes. The Suit in his office speaking with himself. Several other scenes depicted him doing so in other places, and even one of him in his office landing a strike to his own solar plexus. The Suit cowered in shock, still in denial.
"No, you were there. Go to a different angle. It'll show you. Trust me."
"Argh, just face it, Suit!" Jonas bellowed. "I'm not real! I'm in your head. The reason we're communicating here, now, is because... you have to end me. You have to heal."
That was it. The Suit snapped out of nowhere, hurling himself at Jonas, catching him off guard. He mercilessly began to beat on Jonas' face, again and again and again. The Suit drew back once more, but stopped himself. His knuckles were caked in blood. Jonas' face was smashed in. Battered. Bruised. Broken. The Suit gasped, stepping over him. In front of him, another screen had come to life, this one behind bars. In the distance, it depicted a dystopian city, red and black. The Suit stretched his fingers out and began to reach for it, when-
The Suit panted, regaining his consciousness. He was in the tank again. So close to finally uncovering the hidden secrets of his obscure past. Now those secrets were lost. For now.
๐๐ณ๐ฎ๐ข๐ฎ๐ฆ๐ฏ๐ต ๐๐ฐ๐ค๐ช๐ฆ๐ต๐บ ๐๐น๐ฑ๐ฆ๐ณ๐ช๐ฎ๐ฆ๐ฏ๐ต๐ข๐ญ ๐๐ข๐ฃ๐ฐ๐ณ๐ข๐ต๐ฐ๐ณ๐บ, ๐๐ข๐ฏ ๐๐ข๐บ๐ฆ๐ฏ, ๐๐ฐ๐ณ๐ธ๐ข๐บ
Pedersen stalked down the laboratory's corridors and bridges, striding past scientists and agents with great impatience. He'd shaved his beard, leaving only a thin, brown stubble, dressed in an ornate, navy-blue suit, dotted with a picturesque maroon tie. It was a rare sight when Isak Pedersen was dressed in a suit, and it was predominantly for urgent occasions. But for this particular occasion, he wasn't going to be visiting as the Armament Society's Head of Security. He was going to visit as Isak Pedersen. The Asbjorn. Pedersen pushed past a set of hafnium doors, wading into an ocean of drawers. Rows and rows of cabinets, neatly labeled in gold, from October 1998 to August 2022. The Armament Society liked to keep track of their missions, keeping record of each one in a filed report. Pedersen flashed back to what Chamberlain had said to him, recalling his exact words; "You want to know the truth about him? Go ahead. Everything's laid out in a report. One of his secret files, labeled 27A. It's hidden amongst regular old files, but this one details everything he's done. The secret to finally exposing his crimes."
Pedersen eyed the file, flipping through folders in an open cabinet. He tore open the folder and ravenously read through the page. Paragraphs of nearly unintelligible writing, written in the Suit's trademark handwriting. Ornate and indiscernible, maintaining the sense of conundrum that the Suit so cherished. Pedersen's eyes stopped when he encountered an intriguing sentence. One that read, "The contents of this entry have been strictly straightforward. Now, I will document the more far-fetched aspects of this recount. All subjects have been satisfyingly weak-willed to Mr. Broderick's mind control techniques, which mean that their minds are subject to direct hypnotic suggestion. This is yet another step toward the correct direction in Project: Vassal. Despite ensured success, any record of this project will still be cremated, with the only evidence being this entry. All subjects have been sufficiently complacent towards the telepathic instruction, especially Mr. Alden, who seems to be experiencing a unique case of post-traumatic stress disorder following the fabricated memories we implanted in his brain. The only subject to resist instruction would be Mr. Adelram, whose will somewhat refuses to acknowledge dominant control and is still ignorant to the telepathic instruction we implanted. Nevertheless, I haven't a doubt that we will fix this minor issue. After all, the Armament Society has never failed in executing a project, especially one of this level of great importance."
Pedersen paused. If what the page said was true, then the man he knew as the Suit was a liar. A fraud. A false hero who was not worthy of his trust. Chamberlain was right. The fate of the world shouldn't have been handed to a cunning phony. Their experiences meant nothing. Now, the only person that could save the world was him. However, the only option was to risk the Suit's wrath. Pedersen reached into the pocket of his jacket, brandishing a minuscule vial shimmering with yellow radiance, gradually melting into purple. Their option was not to destroy the black hole. The best option was to commence a worldwide exodus.
๐๐ฉ๐ฆ ๐๐ถ๐ช๐ต'๐ด ๐๐ง๐ง๐ช๐ค๐ฆ, ๐๐ฉ๐ฆ ๐๐ข๐ณ๐ณ๐ฆ๐ฏ
The Suit reclined in his seat, staring in disbelief at his computer monitor. A security camera presiding over the record room, zooming in on Pedersen's chiseled face. His eyes were embroiled in a deep focus, poring over an opened file. The Suit recognised his own handwriting, his opus. A clandestine report he had written years ago, detailing one of the many experiments he had conducted while his agents and employees were oblivious. The Suit thought for a second, the gears in his mind visibly turning. Pedersen couldn't have found the file on his own. The only other person who knew of its existence was Sergeant Russell Chamberlain.
The doors to the Suit's office burst open, and Chamberlain marched inside, hands in his pockets like a sulky teenager.
"You summoned, Suit?"
"Sit," the Suit said, gesturing for Chamberlain to take a seat behind his desk, opposite from the Suit. He brandished a china teapot from underneath his desk, as well as a pair of ornate teacups.
"I hear you like oolong."
Chamberlain nodded, watching the Suit pour the steaming liquid into his teacup. He gently picked it up by its handle and held it to his lips. The Suit uncovered a shot of brandy, drizzling the liquor into his teacup.
"What's the reason you called me here, Suit? A lot of us are occupied with our magnificent endgame. Your plan."
The Suit chuckled.
"Actually, I'm more concerned of Mr. Adelram and his apparent protege. It seems he's taken Mr. Alden under his wing. You know, he's rather dangerous when he's free. His mind's uncaged. Who knows what he's capable of."
"You do. Of course you do. The Eidolon was simply a way to guilt-trip Mr. Adelram into complying with our operation. You remember Project: Vassal?"
"Oh, the glory days," the Suit said in a reminiscent tone. "The director and the Head of Security helping the Armament Society evolve. Mind control is theorised, but not many scientists act on this theory. Well, except for me. It's a shame I can't remember what we did back then. It's unusual, I usually have pinpoint memory."
Chamberlain worked his jaw. He knew what the Suit was doing. He was toying with him. Somehow, he knew Pedersen had stolen the file. He couldn't get away with this. For now, he had to play the Suit's twisted game.
"You don't need to. You wrote a report, remember?"
"Yes. Yes, I remember that. I wrote that report by hand. And, Sergeant Chamberlain, you were just a footnote. Something unnecessary. An accidental addition to the report. Yet somehow, this accidental addition managed to pull off a heist. A stupid, poorly executed heist, but still surprising. I never assumed a man of great honor such as you would be embroiled in a malicious plot to overthrow me. The Head of Security... it's unprecedented. I placed my faith in you, Russell. But alas, people disappoint."
The Suit rose from his seat, pulling up his sleeves. With a sigh, he rolled his neck in a circle and stared down at Chamberlain from behind his sunglasses. Chamberlain rose to face him, his fists clenched. The two were in a position to fight, until Chamberlain stopped. Choking, he held his neck with his hands, coughing blood from his mouth. The Suit stood and smirked as Chamberlain fell to the ground with a thud, his mind swimming. Severe nausea took over his body, impairing his vision. His throat swelled with a throbbing, agonising pain, his mouth now filled to the brim with blood.
"You... you put something in my tea," Chamberlain said, still choking, barely able to breathe. The Suit kneeled beside him, resting a hand on his forehead.
"Ooh, I'd say you're coming down with a fever. But chances are, you're not. You see, that's Polonium-204. When ingested, it's lethal and impossible to stop. The best thing to do now is curl up and die. But, hey, at least it's not the apocalypse that kills you," the Suit said with a maniacal chuckle. He continued to laugh hysterically as Chamberlain gradually began to lose consciousness, the Suit mercilessly kicking Chamberlain's ribs. He'd done it. He'd lured Chamberlain into his office, only to fall right into his trap. That was one rebel gone. Then, he would deal with the next. The Suit eyed the computer monitor, squinting at the looped footage of Pedersen. He didn't feel betrayed anymore, no. What he felt now was pure, white-hot anger. He gritted his teeth and vowed to unleash his fury, to make Pedersen pay dearly for his mistake. After all, he did cross the Suit's line. What's next for him was the end of the road.