We were driving towards the location, the engine humming softly in the background. As we approached, there were no destroyers to clear our path. It was up to us, the strike team, to navigate through. We parked the car a short distance away and embarked on a silent journey through the forest, our footsteps muffled by the damp ground. The scent of pine and earth filled the air as we made our way for about a kilometer.
And then, there it stood before us—our target. The building loomed in front, an imposing structure reaching five stories high. It was a sprawling complex demanding our attention. We knew we would need a substantial amount of explosives for this mission. With a nod from me, we sprang into action, adrenaline coursing through our veins.
My task was to circle around to the back of the facility, seeking a gas pipe to plant the explosives. Each strike team member had their designated spot, working in pairs, but I ventured alone. Stealthily, I maneuvered my way to the rear of the building, shrouded by the shadows of the night. As I prepared to set the first bomb, a sudden prick pierced the back of my neck.
Instinctively, I pressed a button on my collar, activating the communication device. "This is Flea leader; abort the mission, I repeat, abort, retreat, we got hostiles."
Panic surged within me as I plucked the dart from my neck. It was empty, but its contents were now coursing through my veins. The acrid scent of the sedative wafted up, its potency undeniable. I couldn't decipher its full composition, but it didn't matter. The distress signal had been sent, and I began my retreat, leaving the explosive ready to detonate.
Fury welled up inside me, my emotions exposed for all to see. I retreated into the shelter of the woods, but to my dismay, my legs refused to cooperate. They felt heavy, unresponsive. And then, a sinking realization - a muscle relaxant. I tried to harness the power of rage, but it provided little help. My only hope was adrenaline, if only I could get it from my pocket. But my arms remained feeble and inept.
I detected movement from different directions. Suddenly, a dull thud echoed through the air, and a silver net, weighed down by its burden, soared over me, knocking me off balance. The muscle relaxant took hold with relentless force, rendering me helpless.
And then, he emerged - Sark, as expected. He approached me, circling around to stand behind me. A cold, metallic object pressed against the back of my neck, followed by searing pain and then nothingness.
Sark's satisfaction was palpable as he observed the scene. Omega now held complete control. The sharp snap of the target's neck echoed in the air, momentarily quelling her raging fury. The momentary respite allowed them to subdue and restrain her effectively.
Sark had spent countless hours studying this woman, understanding that her rage was crucial in controlling her. The intensity of supernatural rage surpassed that of ordinary anger, turning beings like werewolves three times stronger and three times more savage. Yet, it was this very rage that made everything possible.
Even silver bullets, typically effective against supernatural creatures, proved futile against her enraged state. No anesthetic or sedative could subdue her, resulting in brutal fatalities for anyone who dared to stand in her way. Sark had meticulously analyzed security camera footage, diligently studying the rage of supernatural creatures and uncovering methods to control it.
By snapping her neck, he could reset the rage, allowing the newly developed rage-suppressing drugs to take effect. The next step was collecting the enzymes. The subject was escorted indoors and securely bound to a scaffold. As soon as her heart began to beat, a substantial dose of rage inhibitor was injected directly into her vein, continuously dripping to maintain its effect.
The subject's liver was extracted, and a specialized collector resembling a disc filled with slender needles was attached to it. The liver was plated with platinum, causing the enzymes to seep gradually into the waiting needles. A permanent platinum coating was applied, ensuring the enzymes' rapid acceleration within 24 hours.
Even at this stage, the subject had already amassed a healthy collection. Meanwhile, the subject underwent dialysis, skillfully extracting the enzyme from her bloodstream while maintaining appropriate levels of sedatives. The dialysis apparatus monitored the target's drug metabolism, continuously adjusting the sedative concentration to meet preset requirements.
The target served other purposes beyond collecting enzymes. Sark made certain that she was secured to the upright rack, thoroughly inspecting her condition before ordering additional X-rays. The scientists diligently extracted things like knives and explosives from beneath the target's skin, a development that greatly pleased Sark.
I woke up, my body tightly bound to a cold, metallic scaffolding, forcing me to stand. A sharp, pulsating ache emanated from my right side. A clear sign of enzymes had been collected from my liver. My head felt sticky, as if coated in some unknown substance, and my thoughts were sluggish, hindered by the heavy medication coursing through my veins. I couldn't sense my usual surge of rage, which was deeply unsettling.
Before me, a table revealed I had been subjected to X-rays, and any possessions I had were now gone. Naked and vulnerable, I found no solace in the fact that Mimosa and Mirella were sound asleep, unable to offer any help. Metal restraints tightly held me in place, rendering any attempts at escape futile. I despised the fact that the drugs dulled my anger.
Suddenly, Sark, accompanied by an older man, entered the room. The man's appearance reminded me of James Eckhart from the Beverly Hills series, though his demeanor lacked any semblance of kindness.
"How do you like my new rage suppressant? I find it quite effective," he sneered.
Sark spoke to me clinically and coldly, "Don't worry. You'll have plenty of use for it. But first, I thought you might be bored, so I've arranged some entertainment for you, lasting at least three weeks."
Sark departed, leaving me alone with the sinister man who approached me with disdain, treating me as if I were nothing more than an insignificant insect.
"Yeah, that Damon fared much better marrying my daughter, Petra. You're just a freak," he spat. "But luckily, I have a purpose for freaks."
Dread filled me when I realized that Damon's new wife was the daughter of this malevolent pharmaceutical tycoon. Well, unless the girl was oblivious to her father's sinister activities.
"You wouldn't believe how much Damon raves about you, your anger, your performances, and those intriguing things beneath your skin," he continued, taunting me. "Damon has no clue who I truly am. No, I'm just the manager of a large yarn factory. Quite the disguise, isn't it? Not that you'll ever be able to reach me. Damon won't care about my actions with a little more marital bliss with Petra. He'll even defend me against you because he's so blissfully happy with Petra. They're meant for each other. As for you, you're nothing more than a cheap, insignificant bitch who failed to give Damon what was rightfully his. Damon and Petra might even welcome a new addition to their family, something else you denied him. Judging by the look on your face, you know it's true. That is if you ever escape this place."
The man swiftly exited the dimly lit room, his footsteps echoing against the cold concrete floor. Two men silently entered his place, their heavy boots creaking with each step as they rotated the rusted metal rack. As the rack turned, it forced me to face a large, dusty window. A sudden realization washed over me like a chilling breeze – the window was nothing more than a deceptive two-way mirror. The unsuspecting occupants of the adjacent room remained oblivious to the prying eyes observing their every move.
I couldn't tear my gaze away as a rack, identical to the one I was trapped in, materialized within the room. My heart sank as I noticed only one member of my strike team attached to it. They had been caught, ensnared in this twisted game.
It was Burt, Ben's son, his boyish face etched with determination. Despite his youth, Burt insisted on being part of these dangerous missions, a fact that would surely infuriate Adam, our leader. Adam knew Burt well, and his vibrant spirit had endeared him to many, including Murdock and Magnum. Burt was not just a hacker, but had proven himself as a skilled driver on previous missions. And now, he had fallen into this trap, and I couldn't escape the guilt gnawing at me.
Suddenly, the room filled with an eerie silence as Sark, a sinister figure, appeared before me. He was dressed casually in a simple tee shirt, his gaze fixed upon the monitors attached to my friend–the beeping EKG, the pulsating pulse oximeter, and the rhythmic respiratory rate displayed on the screen. Without hesitation, Sark took a gleaming knife in his hand and made a shallow cut, the blade gliding across Burt's flesh. It wasn't a deep wound, merely a surface cut, but the pain etched across Burt's face was undeniable.
Burt, despite his youthful appearance, had already faced immense loss. His mother's death had driven him to return to the field, seeking solace and purpose. And now, he was caught in this nightmare, a pawn in someone else's twisted game. The realization hit me like a punch to the gut — this was our entertainment for the next three agonizing weeks.
Sark continued his sadistic ritual, slicing into Burt's flesh again and again. Hours stretched on, the atmosphere heavy with dread and despair. Sark knew precisely when to stop, when the damage inflicted would be fatal. He left the room briefly, but not before making sure I could witness the torment of everyone in the adjacent room.
Burt's body, already ravaged by Sark's relentless attacks, was now subjected to the injection of many syringes filled with adrenaline. The room itself seemed to be visited by a malevolent presence, a fear demon that permeated the air with its suffocating aura.
My friend, trapped and helpless, was slowly succumbing to a painful demise, his every breath wracked with agony. There was nothing I could do but bear witness to his suffering, my heart heavy with helplessness. Once again, I was powerless to stop one very dear person from dying in front of my eyes.
Time seemed to stretch endlessly as Burt's oxygen saturation, initially at a healthy 99, plummeted. Once strong and resilient on the EKG, the steady rhythm of his heart faltered, beats irregular and missed. Burt's breathing grew slower, each breath becoming intermittent, a desperate struggle for air. Gradually, the EKG traced a devastating decline, descending into a flat, lifeless line. My friend, my comrade, succumbed to death's icy embrace.
In that harrowing moment, Sark reentered the room, his presence sending shivers down my spine. With a cruel grip on Burt's hair, he raised his head, exposing his vulnerable neck. The glint of the knife in Sark's hand was sickeningly vivid as he mercilessly slashed my friend's throat wide open. Surprisingly, there was little blood, the flow restrained, as if even the wounds themselves were reluctant to release his life force.
Every day, Sark carried out his sadistic routine. I watched in horror as he mercilessly tortured one of my fellow strike team members, ending their lives by slitting their throats. The sight of it left me feeling sick to my core. As the days went on, a deepening bruise spread from my armpit to my hip, causing a constant soreness. The pain was unbearable.
During Sark's weekly sessions, I was forced to experiment with new drugs, keeping me in a constant state of medicated haze. It was after one of these sessions that Damon entered the room, kissing Petra passionately right in front of the very spot where my friend had been killed. I watched as Sark shook Damon's hand, the two of them exchanging jokes. It was then that Petra revealed a shocking truth to Damon. I had been imprisoned here for three weeks already.
"Damon, you should know that Daddy has found a cure for your sterility," Petra said with a sly smile. "He has extracted a miracle enzyme from your ex-lover, thanks to Sark. With these capsules, you can finally have a baby. Just one capsule a day for ten days."
Damon's gaze shifted towards Sark, a mix of gratitude and suspicion in his eyes. "Is Mimi here? I thought she was in another facility," he questioned.
"She's in holding," Sark replied. "We can't afford to take any risks. You know what she's capable of. I won't put anyone's life in danger, even if it's for the greater good."
Damon nodded, determination in his voice. "Mimi cannot die. Do whatever you need to do. I have the authority to oversee her medical care, so I'll sign the consent form myself."
I was left dumbfounded. Damon had not only betrayed me by handing me over to the medical establishment, but he was now actively participating in it. Thankfully, Bran and Adam had been cautious about this entire situation, but soon, Salvatore would come to understand the truth.
Damon entered the dimly lit room, his gaze scanning my naked body strapped to the cold, unforgiving rack. The stench of unwashed skin hung heavy in the air, mixing with the wild look in my eyes, a result of Sark's merciless slaughter of my friends three weeks prior.
I winced in pain, my senses dulled by the medication coursing through my veins. Damon approached me with a clinical detachment, his fingers brushing against my emaciated side. I could feel the tightness of the shackles, constricting as my body wasted away.
With a somber tone, Damon spoke, his words accompanied by the faint sound of a platinum drip dripping. "Mimi, you must find calmness. Your life is precious, and your actions harm only yourself and those around you. Your enzyme saves countless lives. You are performing a vital service to humanity." He paused, his gaze filled with concern. "I don't wish to see you suffer, so I provided Mr. Sark with five large bags of the most potent velvet I could create. They will attempt to synthesize it. Mimi, please try to adopt a more positive attitude. Mr. Sark is gathering all the enzymes he requires. I granted him permission."
Interrupting him, I spat out my response, my voice filled with anger and defiance. "Damon, your permission holds no power anymore. Bran has revoked it. Colin is now my medical guardian, and he will never approve. And as for your approval, it means nothing to me. Leave, get out. I never want to lay eyes on you again. If you encounter Adam, relay my greetings and inform him that the strike team is in position among the stars."
Damon glanced at me briefly, unaware of the coded message hidden within our words. He would unknowingly reveal the truth - that everyone but me had been captured and killed and that I remained a prisoner. Before leaving, Damon turned back and spoke his last words.
"Did you know, Mimi, that Petra thought you were such a badass legend that she would name our baby Mimi if it were a girl? I don't agree. You are a bitter freak who doesn't know her own best, even when it comes to a silver platter. You are Mimi; you always have been a soulless killing machine, a soulless freak, and I'm done trying to make you better."
I laughed, the sound echoing through the dimly lit room. Damon came closer, his eyes cold and piercing.
I said in a low, dangerous voice, making sure no one in the other room could hear, "Damon darling, how are you going to train a Petra? She won't heal, can't take a flank, a couple of stabs in the wrong place, and you're a widow."
Damon's smile twisted into a cruel expression as he replied in a creepy voice, sending shivers down my spine, "How did you think I was going to train Elena, baby? My blood is helping, oddly enough, to endure, but don't you worry about it. If the need ever arises, I'll find you. Too bad that song won't scare you anymore. A little fear might do you some good. Did you know they have a fear demon here? How would you like that?"
Disgusted, I spat in Damon's eye, the warm saliva landing on his cold, emotionless face. He retaliated by forcefully pressing his hand on my side; the pain causing me to black out.
When I regained consciousness, he was gone, leaving me alone with my thoughts. I couldn't help but wonder how Adam would react if Damon delivered that message to him. And just like that, Damon revealed to Adam that he had been in contact with me during my captivity. Oh, yeah, yeah.
Sark continued his drug trials, and Damon no longer came to visit. Petra did. "Daddy, how is our guest?" she asked innocently, her voice tinged with curiosity. "Daddy Damon just took the last capsule." Her questions continued to flood in. "When am I pregnant, Daddy? What are you going to do to that freak next? Daddy, try this and try that."
Overwhelmed, I felt like a test subject, subjected to endless experiments. And then, it happened. I underwent an antibiotic test. I had been infected with the most resistant bacteria in the world, a horrifying threat to humans that could kill them without fail. The bacteria thrived inside me, and I was subjected to many antibiotics, each one bringing its own set of symptoms: diarrhea, vomiting, rash, fluctuating white blood cell count, and platelet count. Eventually, the bacteria were eradicated, but I couldn't determine if the antibiotics or my resilience saved me.
Afterward, they delicately inserted tiny amoebas into my brain, each time using different drugs. Remarkably, the result remained the same - the amoebas vanished after a period. Exhausted and frail, my body had dwindled to a mere 23 kilos. Then, the grim process of autopsies and collecting tissue samples began.
My liver had been extracted multiple times, leaving me with a sense of emptiness. Desperate for a breakthrough, they attempted to administer a velvet through an IV, but it triggered a severe allergic reaction, causing me immense distress.
Despite my sedated state, Damon visited one final time. I was lying on the bed, sedated up to the eyeballs. I had a padded blanket over me, so my skeleton state would not be obvious.
He gently caressed Petra's belly and whispered, "That's right, Mimi, take revenge on the nurses once more. From now on, you'll be sedated whenever you misbehave, you monstrous creature. Oh, Mimi. Right now, I can't help but despise you."