Liberty or Possessions Chapter 8 My Violent Heart
Liberty or Possessions Chapter 8
My Violent Heart
Chapter 8 Song by the Amazing MasterPenguin: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SMVubqtwOJE
Warnings: Violence, Gore, Torture (Physical and Psychological), Language, Blood Disease Transference, Mentions of: Drug Use
The pain in Oliver's hand rivaled the pain in his head. He pulled at the bandage furiously in an attempt to remove it and get the offending piece of metal from his palm, but it was futile. The bandage, whatever it was, would not separate from his skin and Oliver could only sit with the burning sensation driving him quickly into a panic. They were going to make him into something he did not want to be, and from the looks of the situation there was no way he would be able to escape.
Oliver had begun to finally feel safe when Maria believed him. He thought that he could have done something to help them, even if he was just a civilian assisting Molious in their war against the Government. He would have had the chance to right the wrongs done to the world, and even, maybe, one day, become a moving force in freeing Sweden. Unfortunately that had all gone out of the window once Molious had been attacked, and if Sinclair was not just blowing smoke, it would definitely not be an option once they had transformed him into one of their soldiers.
Sinclair had let just one little glimpse through though. He had said that Mikkel had escaped them-- that he had woken from the drug dreams and got away from their mind-control. Oliver knew he had to think of a plan quickly and hold it close through whatever horrors the Government was about to put him through. He knew he would have to remember to escape after they were done with him.
The scientists gathered objects as Sinclair moved beyond them and to the far wall of the room, wiping his hands still. Two of the men grabbed syringes with long needles and Oliver recognized one of the contents as Opal. The other vial held a clear liquid, and the third scientist set about forcing Oliver's head back against the chair. He looped a strap around Oliver's forehead, which left him entirely immobile. Still he struggled, twisted and pulled at the bindings as he shouted for them to stop, to think about what they were doing. There was no way he would get out of the binding without help, and some cynical part of Oliver knew no help would be coming. Molious had been destroyed, probably, and those still kicking around were more than likely disorganized and not exactly looking for Oliver. He honestly was not even sure if he wanted Molious looking for him.
The Government had captured him, not killed him. They had thought that Oliver had gone AWOL somehow, and bringing him back to them was only due justice. However, after talking to Sinclair, Oliver was positive the Government did not think he was the soldier version of himself. Still, from Sinclair's tone and sudden action, Oliver had a feeling they were going to try and make him exactly that which he was not. They would make him into the enemy of Molious, and if someone did not get there to save him before the scientists jammed the needles into his flesh, Oliver feared that it would be too late. However, before the threat became reality, the room went dark.
The dark was not the same dark that had been in the Molious base, because seconds after the electricity cut a backup generator kicked on. The emergency lights had been painted over in red as a sign to the occupants that they were not running on grid power and, probably, were not exactly safe. The men with the guns grew nervous quickly, and it was obvious that the scientists were hesitant to proceed as well. They all stopped where they were and did not continue to move toward stabbing Oliver full of whatever chemicals they wanted to. Instead they looked around, much like the soldiers, and the air of confusion and heightened alertness was almost palpable. Even Oliver paid more attention to his surroundings, falling still and silent. Sinclair had moved to the door, giving it a hearty tug that ended up being futile. Apparently with electricity failure came the sealing of the doors. Oliver did not want to be stuck in the same room as Sinclair, the three scientists, and the five guards, but as long as the power was out, it seemed like they would postpone their experiments.
"Really shouldn't have come after me, Sinclair," A voice sounded through the silence. No one had dared speak when the anxiety level of the room was so high, so when the voice spoke loud and clear, everyone jumped except for the guards that immediately began searching for the source. Oliver had jumped as well, or as much as he could with the restraints still tightly fastened around him. He gasped a bit to make up for his lack of physical movement. Still his eyes shifted quickly in their sockets, attempting to locate the source just as all the others. Oliver had the feeling that he knew the voice, though distorted through echoes; he knew it was Mikkel’s. What he did not know was whether it was a good thing or not that he was there.
It took several seconds for anyone to find their voice, and the first one to do so was Sinclair, but when he spoke it was only to the reddened shadows that were cast about the room. There was no body, no person to address directly, and so he did the next best thing, which was to speak to the air itself. The scientists had backed off from Oliver, grouping up around the door instead of hanging out near the center of the room. The soldiers slipped inward from their positions on the outer edges of the room as well. They clung to the light, which was a natural human reaction and not one from their training. If they were in the light, they could not be hurt; monsters could not get them. It was flawed logic, and yet still they turned their guns outward, scanning for movement, for any sign of the intruder that spoke down to their boss.
"And who, exactly, would think I came after them?" Sinclair's tone did not waver, it even sounded a little annoyed, but as Oliver looked at him, though his face hovered in the red shadows, he could see a hint of fear. He knew, as Oliver knew, that it was Mikkel. However, unlike Oliver, Sinclair had certainly pissed Mikkel off. Laughter, dark and menacing, much like the voice, echoed from all corners of the room. The guns of the soldiers rose and tried to track the sound, but found no target. There was not even the fleeting shadow of Mikkel moving about in their space.
"Oh, you know. You know who I am, and, more importantly, you know what I am. You know everything, after all, Sinclair." The voice seemed to move from one part of the room to another. It seemed to be everywhere and nowhere at the same time. Everyone strained to follow it, but unless the speaker had inhuman speed and agility, they were tracking a ghost. Mikkel had not been with Molious, Oliver tried to reason with himself. He had been gone, and he had managed to elude Sinclair. There was no way he was dead, and that meant he was actually there. He was there with them, and he would even the score as a man of flesh and blood.
"Then I will have to guess you're Mikkel Boedker, correct? I assume you found the present I left you after your little stunt. Like it? Paid for by the United States’ Government." There were tones in Sinclair's voice that made him sound superior as he spoke to the shadows. He did feel superior since he had finally hit Mikkel where it hurt after years of trying. He felt a gleeful pride at that, and yet the scientists did not seem to share it. They all sent him confused glances, cautious and scared. They knew something, but did not share it with the room. Oliver's emotions, though, ranged all over. Mikkel had found him, but there was no telling what that meant. Possibly being seen bound and captured, Mikkel would believe him and rescue him. They could find those from Molious still alive and counter attack with the information Sinclair had leaked during his showboating. Or Mikkel could take that opportunity and do what he wanted to do to Oliver since the younger man had uttered his name. Neither would have been outside of the realm of possibility even with as little as Oliver knew about this Mikkel. He was dangerous, hot-tempered and able to fly off the handle at any moment. Oliver decided his best choice would be to remain silent until the dust settled on the situation.
"'Present'? Oh, no, Malcolm Sinclair. What you gave me was freedom. It was the severing of the last string that held it all together. Everything that kept me tied is gone, and now there is nothing stopping me."
"Who do you think you are?" Malcolm shouted to the darkness, cool blown for at least that one moment. "You are nothing! A roach to be crushed under heel and that’s it!" There was silence after that, one that lingered and encroached on the circle of red light. It dragged on, longer than Sinclair liked, so he called to his soldiers and signaled them to move. He wanted Mikkel found and killed and, for the first time, he seemed uneasy.
Oliver did not know the past that Sinclair and Mikkel shared, but from the familiar, yet hostile tone they traded, Oliver assumed it was one stained with blood. There was obviously something about Mikkel that Oliver and some of the occupants of the room did not know. There was something dark that could chill the elitist man, and Oliver assumed that that was bad for all of them, not just those on the Government’s payroll. He remained still and silent, only breathing when his lungs burned. He did not gasp nor pant, but held every lung-full until the oxygen in it depleted. He would exhale slowly, nearly silent in the tension, and repeat only when necessary. He wanted to break free, but that would only remind everyone he was still there. He had to wait, be patient, and, most importantly, remain scared.
The soldiers slowly moved, guns and flashlights raised and aimed as they scanned back and forth. The room was not huge, but it did take a tense minute for them to look for Mikkel in the darkness. They did not find him, however, and after turning back to look at Sinclair, waiting for another order, Mikkel spoke again. It seemed to permeate from the walls themselves, and with the search completed, it gained a new level of eeriness.
"You know what those bullet holes did to me, Sinclair? No, they did not just kill my comrades. They tore the last parts of compassion from me. There's nothing left, Sinclair, but you and me." As Mikkel's last words rang out from the entirety of the space, something dripped from the ceiling. It hit one of the soldiers, streaking down the side of his face and under the collar of his shirt. He reached to touch it, wiping it in a smear, and looked at it. Suddenly he turned, and then the other's followed. They scanned up the walls and to the ceiling, but the only thing they found was a patch of red. Blood, Oliver realized. There was just a smear of blood where there should have been a living body hanging on to the light fixtures. No more than a second later the room turned into a flurry of activity. Though the soldiers still remained staring up at the ceiling, scanning again for Mikkel, Sinclair and the scientists had a different reaction. They turned and ran, but by the time Oliver looked over, the race had already finished. Sinclair seemed to have locked himself in the biohazard tube, and was at the door near the far end. He pulled roughly at the door but could go no further, trapped in the thick glass-walled tube. The scientists, almost at the same time, repeatedly pressed in key combinations on their side of the chamber, shoving each other out of the way to continuously attempt access to the glass box. However, nothing worked, and though they pleaded with Sinclair, he did not let them in. That, Oliver thought, probably meant bad news for him as well, and though he had no idea what they ran from, Oliver understood it was more than likely not a fate he wanted.
"Let me go!" He pleaded loudly, but with everyone predisposed it fell on deaf ears. Even though he spoke Swedish, and that had been a big problem before, no one batted an eye toward it. They all just simply ignored Oliver.
"We look the same, you and I," Mikkel's voice came again, and though not regarded with the same rapt attention that the scene had previously given the occupants of the room, it was still heard. Oliver turned to look back toward the soldiers, following both the voice and the action. By that point two of the soldiers had blood smeared on their faces, rubbed off by their own hands that had since returned to gripping their guns. They had returned to looking for Mikkel, single-mindedly hoping to find him, kill the intruder, but everywhere they turned in the darkness came up with nothing. "But you know, Malcolm Sinclair, how far apart we really are. It's not rank either, is it? They don't know yet, but they will. They will know soon enough, and when they do, it will be too late."
The scientists knew what the soldiers did not and their panic made that more evident than ever. The change, the one happening just below the surface of the two soldiers smeared with blood, had not been immediately evident externally, though. It left them the same on the surface, same faces, same eyes, and same desperate desire to complete their mission. Then, suddenly, they dropped their guns, which smacked against the chests. They moved toward their remaining comrades, and they shoved their blood-slicked hands across the faces of their fellow soldiers. The three that had not been changing recoiled and, after just a moment of analyzing the situation, turned their guns on their once allies. They were infected as well, all five, but the incubation period gave the three untransformed soldiers time to react. They opened fire on the two soldiers that attacked them and, riddled with bullets, the two died face up on the floor. Their blood, the infected blood, pooled around them and Oliver watched in muted horror, slowly understanding.
"You can put them down, Sinclair, but for every one of us, there are thousands of more potentials. You make us with every drug you feed us. You make us with every needle in our skin. You make us everywhere, and when you try to put us down, we make more of ourselves." Mikkel taunted darkly, his tone sending a shiver up Oliver's spine. If he just stayed still, Oliver thought, quiet and unimportant, then maybe he could live. Maybe, he prayed in a mantra, he could live another day.
"You can't leave us out here with Berserkers!" A scientist pleaded to Sinclair, and though the jargon made no sense, Oliver understood. Sinclair had simply been remaining quiet, watching as the scene unfolded from inside the safety of the biohazard tube, but he was spurred into speech by the accusation.
"You made them you fuckers!" He accused back, apparently not someone who took blame from lesser-ranked personnel lightly. "You made him!"
"On your orders!" The one scientist countered. "You woke him up! You… you can't…" But the rest was never delivered. The three soldiers still alive had transformed, and their new drive spurred them into action. They scratched and bled on the scientists that too late thought to arm themselves. It would have been possible, in the minutes leading up to the transformation, for them to have killed themselves. They would never have had to feel the clawing rage, the soul-destroying need for violence, but the soldiers held them stationary. They did not let the scientists hurt themselves, and though desiring death over becoming Berserkers, the scientists also knew that they would never have to feel again after the disease took control. However they wailed and begged all the same, and Oliver could only remain seated-- staring and shaking. What finally snapped the moment, made Oliver look from the scene that he did not understand and yet feared, was the sound of boots hitting the floor. Slowly Mikkel emerged from the blackness into the red light, his gate purposeful yet victorious. He smiled, but it was not happiness that made him do so. It was a dark, miserable insanity.
"You hear it, don't you? You hear it eating inside of you, and you can't stop it. Lab rat, I once was, but no longer. Now I have them all, Sinclair. Now I'm their master." Oliver did not know who they all were. He did not understand anything Mikkel spoke about, or what he witnessed, but it happened all the same. No guns turned on Mikkel, and slowly the screams of the scientists faded into the eerie silence that had hung over them all before. The soldiers released their grips on the scientists and the six, all seemingly emotionless, turned to look at Sinclair. They did not blink; hollow yet entirely focused eyes that had only one target. Mikkel's eyes, though, did not perch solely on Sinclair. There was one moment, just a fleeting second that Oliver thought for sure had not actually occurred, that Mikkel looked at him. It was a glance that was just a slight shade off from the glare he leveled on Sinclair. With Oliver it was not victorious, nor was it as spiteful. It was more simply acknowledging than any real emotion. It made Oliver's stomach jump in his throat and his heart beat faster. He did not want to die.
"You have three soldiers and three scientists, Boedker. I hardly call that an army." Despite it all Sinclair tried to remain on his throne. He wanted Mikkel to bow before him, to remember his place, but all he got was Mikkel's hasty approach and the solid smack of the ex-soldier's hand on the glass shield of the biohazard tube. Sinclair recoiled despite himself, despite knowing that even the bullets from the long forgotten guns wrapped around the shoulders of each soldier would not break the barrier that was saving his life.
Mikkel's palm had been cut, blood seeping out from the center. Slowly, methodically, Mikkel dragging his hand down and smeared his blood across the glass. His blood had somehow changed the soldiers, and it remained on the clear barrier as a reminder to Sinclair that he was mere inches from experiencing the same horrific transformation.
"Fire, Sinclair. I buried it under the drugs, but now I remember. I remember feeling it, hearing it. Sensing how you destroyed those that took after me, but they did nothing wrong, Sinclair. They were made monsters by you, and yet you destroy them without a second thought." Mikkel paused, shifting a little as if unsteady on his feet. Really he bobbed and weaved to keep Sinclair's image on the other side of the red tint. He wanted to see Sinclair covered in blood, in his own blood. He wanted him to feel the transformation, the pain and madness that came with it, but it would have to wait it seemed. “They can’t feel, Sinclair, but I could. I could feel every inch of their burned flesh, and then you went and woke me up.” Slowly Sinclair smiled, not the expression Mikkel expected or wanted, but the mild surprise did not show on his face. Instead he glowered deeper, eyes set into a permanent glare at Sinclair.
"The first," Malcolm mumbled before he shook his head, smiled more, and repeated it louder. "The first: Mikkel Boedker. We did a lot of tests back then, you know. After we started to figure it out, when some of your comrades suddenly went Berserk, we started to wonder, but we could never tell where the infection started." Malcolm paused and then shook his head, laughing more. "No, we could never tell where the bloodline had started, but it had been you, just like we suspected." It was Sinclair's turn to slam his hand on the glass, eyes hard and unblinking as he studied Mikkel. He still considered him the lab rat, just a test subject to the man in the suit.
"Tell me, Boedker. Tell me if it hurt when we burned them. When we cut them up, bled them. Tell me it killed you when you felt their bodies fall, because I want it to have hurt you so much to feel your children die under our knives and under our napalm." Mikkel did not take the bait, instead letting the man rant. Yes, it had hurt him, and he had buried it. He had not known why he hurt, why he felt their heat and their blind rage as, even in their dying moments, they tried to make more Berserkers, but with the Opal gone, with his supply well beyond the point of used up, he knew what the pain had been and where it had been hidden.
Mikkel had made himself forget all of those years ago. He had bled on his fellow soldiers after being wounded, and those men would eventually go into blind rages and need to be killed. Before the Government had figured out that they had accidentally made the Berserkers, Mikkel had been one. The drugs, the same cocktails that had allowed Mikkel to function, were the only things that could keep the infection from spreading. It was the same regiment for all the soldiers, but what it could not cure were those already infected. Mikkel could always feel the rage under his skin, ever since the day in the restaurant with Sidney, but he had never known why until he sat with Maria's long since dead body and read her journal. Slowly he knew why, even though nothing in the woman's book had prompted it. He had burned through his Opal overdose from the day before and as the rage grew more, as his blood boiled with a need for revenge, Mikkel could slowly feel all of the Berserkers. He knew exactly what it was in the moments that followed. Every needle he had used which had been reused by a junky had transferred the disease. Every Berserker that walked into a club and bled on the patrons made more. One of the voices out there, one of the inhuman shrieks that came to Mikkel in those moments and drove him to madness had been Mia’s. He knew, then, what he had to do.
"You have no idea what you made me, Sinclair," Mikkel said easily, voice distant from his own conscious thoughts. "No idea what you created and tried to control all of those years ago, because what I am now, Malcolm Sinclair, is so much more than any of you could fathom." Mikkel turned to walk away from the glass prison that held Sinclair. He moved to a sink and washed his bloodied hands. He dried them and began to bandage the wound before Sinclair finally found his voice.
"You think you could ever compare to me?" He shouted, the volume muted by the glass, but the tone ringing loud. Mikkel had made him mad, seething mad, and Sinclair did not know what to do with it. Oliver continued to remain still, wide-eyed and scared where he sat, but none of the dead-eyed monsters in the room looked at him, not even Sinclair. Only Mikkel's eyes found him and though red-rimmed, glazed, and holding a dark rage behind the mask, there was something else behind them. It was something Oliver could only possibly describe as seeing for the first time. A strange awed bliss that never managed to get to the rest of Mikkel's face.
"No, there is no comparison, Malcolm, because the only things the same between you and I are skin and bones. Everything else is different, and you know that. You…" Mikkel turned to look at the enraged man, really look at him with a leveled glare. "You are mortal, and I know I'm not. There are so many of me now, Sinclair, and you will grow old. You will lose the will to care after so many years of looking over your shoulder, and when you finally go home, you will find us there." Sinclair knew the implication of Mikkel's words and could only remain stunned. They had been careful to not let the Berserker disease spread back to America. There was no traveling to America without a blood test, and those showing positive were immediately quarantined and killed. All research on it was conducted in the Scandinavia countries, and they did every measure to not let it spread. Mikkel's words, though, rang with the chance that they had already missed someone, that someone had already arrived on America's soil and began the infection there. Malcolm Sinclair knew he would have to make calls, find out the threat level, but at that moment he knew more than anything that he would need to get out of the room.
The two warring men were at a stalemate. Malcolm could not get out until the power turned on, and there was always the chance that Mikkel had infected others on his way in. Sinclair, therefore, would have to essentially sit tight until soldiers cleansed the building of all infected. Mikkel, on the other hand, could not get to Sinclair until he let himself out. It could be hours, and each second drove Mikkel further into the madness of the disease. He might have been the first, the alpha Berserker, but that did not make him immune. Without the drugs, he was a dead man walking, and though being forced off of them since the previous day had aided his plan, he knew much more time and his body would give in.
Mikkel's thoughts returned to the scientists and soldiers. They would be killed, Mikkel knew that, and they were his burden, his mistake, but they served his purpose with loyalty. They were the final ground soldiers: the last that Mikkel would ever make, he tried to promise himself. He wanted no more innocent blood on his hands, no more mistakes to labor under. He closed his eyes and turned away, not wanting to see their actions, as they understood his wish. Like rabid dogs, unable to determine friend from foe without Mikkel’s distinguishing, they threw themselves at the glass of the tube. They punched and scratched, breaking nails and shattering knuckles on the partition that would not break. Some smashed their faces on the glass, howling and screaming in their breathless rage, yet not from pain. Their last mission was to get Sinclair at any cost, but Mikkel knew it would be futile. Sinclair would be safe in his glass prison that day, but one day he would get what he deserved. One day he would feel pain he had not known to exist, and only then would Mikkel let him die.
Oliver shook in his restraints, breath shaky and labored as he watched the terrible sight, the gore streaked on the glass with every movement. The Berserkers would beat themselves to death, leave blood and bits of themselves scattered about in an attempt to infect more, but they would follow their order to the end. They were mad and incapable of emotion at the same time, purely working on impulses that came between the noises that plagued their brains. Mikkel's body broke Oliver's view and slowly, frightened, Oliver looked up at the man.
"Don't look," Mikkel told him quietly, just above a whisper. Oliver took another ragged breath before he squeezed his eyes shut and prayed. He did not want to be changed-- not by the Government and definitely not by Mikkel. He wanted to be Oliver, just himself, and swore to god that he would do anything to make that happen. He would do anything asked of him ever in order to just make it out of that room as himself still.
Mikkel's hands worked on the restraints, careful to keep the blood from Oliver's skin. He freed Oliver's head, followed by his left hand, and instructed Oliver to free his other hand as Mikkel worked the straps off of Oliver's legs. He told him again not to look, not to listen to what was happening just ten feet to his left. He did not want Oliver to see more than he already had, even though he still had some doubts about the younger man.
Once Oliver was free, Mikkel pulled him from the chair and pushed him toward the darkness where he had emerged minutes ago. Oliver felt lethargic, lightheaded almost, but soldiered on because he knew that the last place he wanted to be was in that room for even a second longer. He moved in front of Mikkel until he reached the far wall of the room where he stopped. There was no way out unless Mikkel could suddenly phase through walls, which, honestly, would not have been the weirdest thing Oliver had seen that day. However, Mikkel stopped as well and dropped to one knee, lacing his fingers together with his palms up. He looked back toward the scene and Oliver followed his gaze, regretting it instantly. One of the soldiers had beat his brain in, head lolled to look at them with dead, unblinking eyes from where he had collapsed on the floor. Another solder had broken that one's leg off at the knee, using it as a bat to try and break the glass. None had lifted their guns, too mentally primitive to remember to use them.
"Don't look!" Mikkel all but shouted, and Oliver turned back to look at him with wide eyes. The older man shook visibly, sweat on his brow that shown red in the tinted light. Oliver understood Mikkel's stance and shifted to put one foot in the cradle of the older man’s hands. He hoisted Oliver up, and it took no more than a fraction of a second for Oliver to find a narrow opening at the top of the wall. He squeezed himself in and twisted, reaching down to help Mikkel up. Mikkel grabbed a hold of him with his uninjured hand, grasped the ledge, and slipped in along side Oliver. He took point once more and they crawled through the tiny space.
Eventually the crawl space narrowed more and Oliver could no longer turn around. The passage slanted downward and they both moved along in silence as the sounds from the room slowly faded to nothing. Eventually there was light ahead, the same ominous red glow they had left, and within another minute they were out of the ventilation system and into a room. Oliver gasped and tried to back peddle when he saw what waited for them. Two soldiers had turned on them when they heard the noise, but did not advance. They wore the same red-rimmed gaze that those in the room had, and Oliver knew they were Berserkers. However, upon seeing Mikkel they did not attack. They simply stood there, slightly off balance and swaying, slick with red sweat just like Mikkel. However, unlike Mikkel, theirs bordered on black. Oliver knew within seconds what it was. It was not sweat, but blood that seeped from their pores.
"What…" Oliver began, but Mikkel did not have time to deal with it. He grabbed Oliver by the sleeve and pulled him from the ventilation shaft, dragging him to the door. They moved quickly, occasionally passing more Berserkers that began advancing only to stop once they saw Mikkel. Oliver had figured out in the room that there was some connection, some reason that Mikkel could walk into a room full of them and not be hurt, but upon seeing the reactions of other Berserkers, Oliver finally pieced it together. He was their leader, and through some connection they knew.
"Did you… did you change them all?" Oliver asked, a bit meekly with the fear raging through his system. Mikkel did not answer right away, but when he did it was hard.
"Not all of them, just a couple. They did the rest themselves." There were some dead bodies on the floors as well. It was impossible to tell if they were Berserkers or normal soldiers, but Oliver could only assume their deaths were violent and without mercy. Another cold shiver crawled up Oliver's spine as he thought about all he did not understand.
"So, what, Mikkel? You're… you're one of them? A monster?" Mikkel grit his teeth, biting back something that felt like rage but held much more. It was instinct, and not just Oliver's insinuated attack on Mikkel's being, that pushed him to turn around and tear the boy apart. He swallowed it down and balled his fists a few times to try and ward it back. It did not work as well as Mikkel hoped.
"Oliver, please…" He began in a clipped tone, but Oliver did not take the hint.
"No! Mikkel, just tell me! Tell me what's going on!" Mikkel spun, grabbing Oliver by the throat and shoving him to the wall. For a second, maybe even just a fraction of one, Mikkel saw what Oliver could be. He could be the best, a walking virus just like him. He could dose him up just the same, keep him around for that moment when they could finally rip Sinclair apart, but the heaviness of Maria's journal in his pocket reminded him of what Oliver really was.
He did not believe it, not all of it, but Maria had made sense to him back in Molious when he read the pages over her long dead corpse. Oliver probably really did not know about their world. He really seemed to have no clue what was going on there, and that was basically impossible. Even those that were rich, living high on the hog, knew what was happening in the lower sections. They, however, just did not care. Oliver cared too much to be one of them. He was not on drugs, and instead of it basically killing him to not get the regimented hit of Opal that soldiers received once every three hours, he thrived in his sobriety. He could not have been from there, too honest and pure to have seen what everyone had seen when America stormed in and took over. He could not have been part of Mikkel's world and yet there he was. In that moment he knew that Oliver was something much more than the Berserkers, and much more than the Government.
"Oliver, I'm doing everything in my power to not rip your head off right now, so if you can just stop your fucking questions until I'm ready to fucking answer them, that would be really nice of you." Mikkel's voice held more than a hint of restrained fury, rage boiling just under the surface as he tried very hard to not crush Oliver's windpipe under his hand. If the boy really was a hockey player, as he said, he could have thrown a punch to get Mikkel off of him, but the fact that he did not actually showed more about the young man than action would have. A soldier most definitely would have lashed out at Mikkel, so the fact that Oliver stilled his fists proved that he had been whom he had said all along.
Oliver nodded slowly, fear on his features that Mikkel both enjoyed and regretted. He needed to get them out of there and find some Opal before he could not hold back the demon inside him any longer. With some difficulty, Mikkel pulled back from Oliver, letting the younger man touch his neck where Mikkel's hand left a white outline of itself. He swallowed and coughed lightly, but he remained silent which had been all Mikkel asked of him. Flexing his fists a few more times in preparation for the final push toward getting the much needed drugs, Mikkel nodded to Oliver, turned, and began to move. Oliver's footsteps were the only thing Mikkel needed in order to know that Oliver had taken his request seriously and was still following him.
Mikkel thought Oliver might chose to run away, which probably would have been better for both of them. If he were smart, if he recognized the violence in Mikkel's heart, his best choice would have been to run the other way and never look back. Instead he followed Mikkel step by step, and Mikkel found himself hoping it was not out of some duty to the other Mikkel with his face that made Oliver do so.
Playlist by the Amazing MasterPenguin: https://8tracks.com/masterpenguin/liberty-of-possession
Chapter 8 Song by the Amazing MasterPenguin: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SMVubqtwOJE
Master Post: http://z4rf3.livejournal.com/16531.html
Chapter 9 The Warning: http://z4rf3.livejournal.com/18712.html
My Violent Heart
Chapter 8 Song by the Amazing MasterPenguin: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SMVubqtwOJE
Warnings: Violence, Gore, Torture (Physical and Psychological), Language, Blood Disease Transference, Mentions of: Drug Use
The pain in Oliver's hand rivaled the pain in his head. He pulled at the bandage furiously in an attempt to remove it and get the offending piece of metal from his palm, but it was futile. The bandage, whatever it was, would not separate from his skin and Oliver could only sit with the burning sensation driving him quickly into a panic. They were going to make him into something he did not want to be, and from the looks of the situation there was no way he would be able to escape.
Oliver had begun to finally feel safe when Maria believed him. He thought that he could have done something to help them, even if he was just a civilian assisting Molious in their war against the Government. He would have had the chance to right the wrongs done to the world, and even, maybe, one day, become a moving force in freeing Sweden. Unfortunately that had all gone out of the window once Molious had been attacked, and if Sinclair was not just blowing smoke, it would definitely not be an option once they had transformed him into one of their soldiers.
Sinclair had let just one little glimpse through though. He had said that Mikkel had escaped them-- that he had woken from the drug dreams and got away from their mind-control. Oliver knew he had to think of a plan quickly and hold it close through whatever horrors the Government was about to put him through. He knew he would have to remember to escape after they were done with him.
The scientists gathered objects as Sinclair moved beyond them and to the far wall of the room, wiping his hands still. Two of the men grabbed syringes with long needles and Oliver recognized one of the contents as Opal. The other vial held a clear liquid, and the third scientist set about forcing Oliver's head back against the chair. He looped a strap around Oliver's forehead, which left him entirely immobile. Still he struggled, twisted and pulled at the bindings as he shouted for them to stop, to think about what they were doing. There was no way he would get out of the binding without help, and some cynical part of Oliver knew no help would be coming. Molious had been destroyed, probably, and those still kicking around were more than likely disorganized and not exactly looking for Oliver. He honestly was not even sure if he wanted Molious looking for him.
The Government had captured him, not killed him. They had thought that Oliver had gone AWOL somehow, and bringing him back to them was only due justice. However, after talking to Sinclair, Oliver was positive the Government did not think he was the soldier version of himself. Still, from Sinclair's tone and sudden action, Oliver had a feeling they were going to try and make him exactly that which he was not. They would make him into the enemy of Molious, and if someone did not get there to save him before the scientists jammed the needles into his flesh, Oliver feared that it would be too late. However, before the threat became reality, the room went dark.
The dark was not the same dark that had been in the Molious base, because seconds after the electricity cut a backup generator kicked on. The emergency lights had been painted over in red as a sign to the occupants that they were not running on grid power and, probably, were not exactly safe. The men with the guns grew nervous quickly, and it was obvious that the scientists were hesitant to proceed as well. They all stopped where they were and did not continue to move toward stabbing Oliver full of whatever chemicals they wanted to. Instead they looked around, much like the soldiers, and the air of confusion and heightened alertness was almost palpable. Even Oliver paid more attention to his surroundings, falling still and silent. Sinclair had moved to the door, giving it a hearty tug that ended up being futile. Apparently with electricity failure came the sealing of the doors. Oliver did not want to be stuck in the same room as Sinclair, the three scientists, and the five guards, but as long as the power was out, it seemed like they would postpone their experiments.
"Really shouldn't have come after me, Sinclair," A voice sounded through the silence. No one had dared speak when the anxiety level of the room was so high, so when the voice spoke loud and clear, everyone jumped except for the guards that immediately began searching for the source. Oliver had jumped as well, or as much as he could with the restraints still tightly fastened around him. He gasped a bit to make up for his lack of physical movement. Still his eyes shifted quickly in their sockets, attempting to locate the source just as all the others. Oliver had the feeling that he knew the voice, though distorted through echoes; he knew it was Mikkel’s. What he did not know was whether it was a good thing or not that he was there.
It took several seconds for anyone to find their voice, and the first one to do so was Sinclair, but when he spoke it was only to the reddened shadows that were cast about the room. There was no body, no person to address directly, and so he did the next best thing, which was to speak to the air itself. The scientists had backed off from Oliver, grouping up around the door instead of hanging out near the center of the room. The soldiers slipped inward from their positions on the outer edges of the room as well. They clung to the light, which was a natural human reaction and not one from their training. If they were in the light, they could not be hurt; monsters could not get them. It was flawed logic, and yet still they turned their guns outward, scanning for movement, for any sign of the intruder that spoke down to their boss.
"And who, exactly, would think I came after them?" Sinclair's tone did not waver, it even sounded a little annoyed, but as Oliver looked at him, though his face hovered in the red shadows, he could see a hint of fear. He knew, as Oliver knew, that it was Mikkel. However, unlike Oliver, Sinclair had certainly pissed Mikkel off. Laughter, dark and menacing, much like the voice, echoed from all corners of the room. The guns of the soldiers rose and tried to track the sound, but found no target. There was not even the fleeting shadow of Mikkel moving about in their space.
"Oh, you know. You know who I am, and, more importantly, you know what I am. You know everything, after all, Sinclair." The voice seemed to move from one part of the room to another. It seemed to be everywhere and nowhere at the same time. Everyone strained to follow it, but unless the speaker had inhuman speed and agility, they were tracking a ghost. Mikkel had not been with Molious, Oliver tried to reason with himself. He had been gone, and he had managed to elude Sinclair. There was no way he was dead, and that meant he was actually there. He was there with them, and he would even the score as a man of flesh and blood.
"Then I will have to guess you're Mikkel Boedker, correct? I assume you found the present I left you after your little stunt. Like it? Paid for by the United States’ Government." There were tones in Sinclair's voice that made him sound superior as he spoke to the shadows. He did feel superior since he had finally hit Mikkel where it hurt after years of trying. He felt a gleeful pride at that, and yet the scientists did not seem to share it. They all sent him confused glances, cautious and scared. They knew something, but did not share it with the room. Oliver's emotions, though, ranged all over. Mikkel had found him, but there was no telling what that meant. Possibly being seen bound and captured, Mikkel would believe him and rescue him. They could find those from Molious still alive and counter attack with the information Sinclair had leaked during his showboating. Or Mikkel could take that opportunity and do what he wanted to do to Oliver since the younger man had uttered his name. Neither would have been outside of the realm of possibility even with as little as Oliver knew about this Mikkel. He was dangerous, hot-tempered and able to fly off the handle at any moment. Oliver decided his best choice would be to remain silent until the dust settled on the situation.
"'Present'? Oh, no, Malcolm Sinclair. What you gave me was freedom. It was the severing of the last string that held it all together. Everything that kept me tied is gone, and now there is nothing stopping me."
"Who do you think you are?" Malcolm shouted to the darkness, cool blown for at least that one moment. "You are nothing! A roach to be crushed under heel and that’s it!" There was silence after that, one that lingered and encroached on the circle of red light. It dragged on, longer than Sinclair liked, so he called to his soldiers and signaled them to move. He wanted Mikkel found and killed and, for the first time, he seemed uneasy.
Oliver did not know the past that Sinclair and Mikkel shared, but from the familiar, yet hostile tone they traded, Oliver assumed it was one stained with blood. There was obviously something about Mikkel that Oliver and some of the occupants of the room did not know. There was something dark that could chill the elitist man, and Oliver assumed that that was bad for all of them, not just those on the Government’s payroll. He remained still and silent, only breathing when his lungs burned. He did not gasp nor pant, but held every lung-full until the oxygen in it depleted. He would exhale slowly, nearly silent in the tension, and repeat only when necessary. He wanted to break free, but that would only remind everyone he was still there. He had to wait, be patient, and, most importantly, remain scared.
The soldiers slowly moved, guns and flashlights raised and aimed as they scanned back and forth. The room was not huge, but it did take a tense minute for them to look for Mikkel in the darkness. They did not find him, however, and after turning back to look at Sinclair, waiting for another order, Mikkel spoke again. It seemed to permeate from the walls themselves, and with the search completed, it gained a new level of eeriness.
"You know what those bullet holes did to me, Sinclair? No, they did not just kill my comrades. They tore the last parts of compassion from me. There's nothing left, Sinclair, but you and me." As Mikkel's last words rang out from the entirety of the space, something dripped from the ceiling. It hit one of the soldiers, streaking down the side of his face and under the collar of his shirt. He reached to touch it, wiping it in a smear, and looked at it. Suddenly he turned, and then the other's followed. They scanned up the walls and to the ceiling, but the only thing they found was a patch of red. Blood, Oliver realized. There was just a smear of blood where there should have been a living body hanging on to the light fixtures. No more than a second later the room turned into a flurry of activity. Though the soldiers still remained staring up at the ceiling, scanning again for Mikkel, Sinclair and the scientists had a different reaction. They turned and ran, but by the time Oliver looked over, the race had already finished. Sinclair seemed to have locked himself in the biohazard tube, and was at the door near the far end. He pulled roughly at the door but could go no further, trapped in the thick glass-walled tube. The scientists, almost at the same time, repeatedly pressed in key combinations on their side of the chamber, shoving each other out of the way to continuously attempt access to the glass box. However, nothing worked, and though they pleaded with Sinclair, he did not let them in. That, Oliver thought, probably meant bad news for him as well, and though he had no idea what they ran from, Oliver understood it was more than likely not a fate he wanted.
"Let me go!" He pleaded loudly, but with everyone predisposed it fell on deaf ears. Even though he spoke Swedish, and that had been a big problem before, no one batted an eye toward it. They all just simply ignored Oliver.
"We look the same, you and I," Mikkel's voice came again, and though not regarded with the same rapt attention that the scene had previously given the occupants of the room, it was still heard. Oliver turned to look back toward the soldiers, following both the voice and the action. By that point two of the soldiers had blood smeared on their faces, rubbed off by their own hands that had since returned to gripping their guns. They had returned to looking for Mikkel, single-mindedly hoping to find him, kill the intruder, but everywhere they turned in the darkness came up with nothing. "But you know, Malcolm Sinclair, how far apart we really are. It's not rank either, is it? They don't know yet, but they will. They will know soon enough, and when they do, it will be too late."
The scientists knew what the soldiers did not and their panic made that more evident than ever. The change, the one happening just below the surface of the two soldiers smeared with blood, had not been immediately evident externally, though. It left them the same on the surface, same faces, same eyes, and same desperate desire to complete their mission. Then, suddenly, they dropped their guns, which smacked against the chests. They moved toward their remaining comrades, and they shoved their blood-slicked hands across the faces of their fellow soldiers. The three that had not been changing recoiled and, after just a moment of analyzing the situation, turned their guns on their once allies. They were infected as well, all five, but the incubation period gave the three untransformed soldiers time to react. They opened fire on the two soldiers that attacked them and, riddled with bullets, the two died face up on the floor. Their blood, the infected blood, pooled around them and Oliver watched in muted horror, slowly understanding.
"You can put them down, Sinclair, but for every one of us, there are thousands of more potentials. You make us with every drug you feed us. You make us with every needle in our skin. You make us everywhere, and when you try to put us down, we make more of ourselves." Mikkel taunted darkly, his tone sending a shiver up Oliver's spine. If he just stayed still, Oliver thought, quiet and unimportant, then maybe he could live. Maybe, he prayed in a mantra, he could live another day.
"You can't leave us out here with Berserkers!" A scientist pleaded to Sinclair, and though the jargon made no sense, Oliver understood. Sinclair had simply been remaining quiet, watching as the scene unfolded from inside the safety of the biohazard tube, but he was spurred into speech by the accusation.
"You made them you fuckers!" He accused back, apparently not someone who took blame from lesser-ranked personnel lightly. "You made him!"
"On your orders!" The one scientist countered. "You woke him up! You… you can't…" But the rest was never delivered. The three soldiers still alive had transformed, and their new drive spurred them into action. They scratched and bled on the scientists that too late thought to arm themselves. It would have been possible, in the minutes leading up to the transformation, for them to have killed themselves. They would never have had to feel the clawing rage, the soul-destroying need for violence, but the soldiers held them stationary. They did not let the scientists hurt themselves, and though desiring death over becoming Berserkers, the scientists also knew that they would never have to feel again after the disease took control. However they wailed and begged all the same, and Oliver could only remain seated-- staring and shaking. What finally snapped the moment, made Oliver look from the scene that he did not understand and yet feared, was the sound of boots hitting the floor. Slowly Mikkel emerged from the blackness into the red light, his gate purposeful yet victorious. He smiled, but it was not happiness that made him do so. It was a dark, miserable insanity.
"You hear it, don't you? You hear it eating inside of you, and you can't stop it. Lab rat, I once was, but no longer. Now I have them all, Sinclair. Now I'm their master." Oliver did not know who they all were. He did not understand anything Mikkel spoke about, or what he witnessed, but it happened all the same. No guns turned on Mikkel, and slowly the screams of the scientists faded into the eerie silence that had hung over them all before. The soldiers released their grips on the scientists and the six, all seemingly emotionless, turned to look at Sinclair. They did not blink; hollow yet entirely focused eyes that had only one target. Mikkel's eyes, though, did not perch solely on Sinclair. There was one moment, just a fleeting second that Oliver thought for sure had not actually occurred, that Mikkel looked at him. It was a glance that was just a slight shade off from the glare he leveled on Sinclair. With Oliver it was not victorious, nor was it as spiteful. It was more simply acknowledging than any real emotion. It made Oliver's stomach jump in his throat and his heart beat faster. He did not want to die.
"You have three soldiers and three scientists, Boedker. I hardly call that an army." Despite it all Sinclair tried to remain on his throne. He wanted Mikkel to bow before him, to remember his place, but all he got was Mikkel's hasty approach and the solid smack of the ex-soldier's hand on the glass shield of the biohazard tube. Sinclair recoiled despite himself, despite knowing that even the bullets from the long forgotten guns wrapped around the shoulders of each soldier would not break the barrier that was saving his life.
Mikkel's palm had been cut, blood seeping out from the center. Slowly, methodically, Mikkel dragging his hand down and smeared his blood across the glass. His blood had somehow changed the soldiers, and it remained on the clear barrier as a reminder to Sinclair that he was mere inches from experiencing the same horrific transformation.
"Fire, Sinclair. I buried it under the drugs, but now I remember. I remember feeling it, hearing it. Sensing how you destroyed those that took after me, but they did nothing wrong, Sinclair. They were made monsters by you, and yet you destroy them without a second thought." Mikkel paused, shifting a little as if unsteady on his feet. Really he bobbed and weaved to keep Sinclair's image on the other side of the red tint. He wanted to see Sinclair covered in blood, in his own blood. He wanted him to feel the transformation, the pain and madness that came with it, but it would have to wait it seemed. “They can’t feel, Sinclair, but I could. I could feel every inch of their burned flesh, and then you went and woke me up.” Slowly Sinclair smiled, not the expression Mikkel expected or wanted, but the mild surprise did not show on his face. Instead he glowered deeper, eyes set into a permanent glare at Sinclair.
"The first," Malcolm mumbled before he shook his head, smiled more, and repeated it louder. "The first: Mikkel Boedker. We did a lot of tests back then, you know. After we started to figure it out, when some of your comrades suddenly went Berserk, we started to wonder, but we could never tell where the infection started." Malcolm paused and then shook his head, laughing more. "No, we could never tell where the bloodline had started, but it had been you, just like we suspected." It was Sinclair's turn to slam his hand on the glass, eyes hard and unblinking as he studied Mikkel. He still considered him the lab rat, just a test subject to the man in the suit.
"Tell me, Boedker. Tell me if it hurt when we burned them. When we cut them up, bled them. Tell me it killed you when you felt their bodies fall, because I want it to have hurt you so much to feel your children die under our knives and under our napalm." Mikkel did not take the bait, instead letting the man rant. Yes, it had hurt him, and he had buried it. He had not known why he hurt, why he felt their heat and their blind rage as, even in their dying moments, they tried to make more Berserkers, but with the Opal gone, with his supply well beyond the point of used up, he knew what the pain had been and where it had been hidden.
Mikkel had made himself forget all of those years ago. He had bled on his fellow soldiers after being wounded, and those men would eventually go into blind rages and need to be killed. Before the Government had figured out that they had accidentally made the Berserkers, Mikkel had been one. The drugs, the same cocktails that had allowed Mikkel to function, were the only things that could keep the infection from spreading. It was the same regiment for all the soldiers, but what it could not cure were those already infected. Mikkel could always feel the rage under his skin, ever since the day in the restaurant with Sidney, but he had never known why until he sat with Maria's long since dead body and read her journal. Slowly he knew why, even though nothing in the woman's book had prompted it. He had burned through his Opal overdose from the day before and as the rage grew more, as his blood boiled with a need for revenge, Mikkel could slowly feel all of the Berserkers. He knew exactly what it was in the moments that followed. Every needle he had used which had been reused by a junky had transferred the disease. Every Berserker that walked into a club and bled on the patrons made more. One of the voices out there, one of the inhuman shrieks that came to Mikkel in those moments and drove him to madness had been Mia’s. He knew, then, what he had to do.
"You have no idea what you made me, Sinclair," Mikkel said easily, voice distant from his own conscious thoughts. "No idea what you created and tried to control all of those years ago, because what I am now, Malcolm Sinclair, is so much more than any of you could fathom." Mikkel turned to walk away from the glass prison that held Sinclair. He moved to a sink and washed his bloodied hands. He dried them and began to bandage the wound before Sinclair finally found his voice.
"You think you could ever compare to me?" He shouted, the volume muted by the glass, but the tone ringing loud. Mikkel had made him mad, seething mad, and Sinclair did not know what to do with it. Oliver continued to remain still, wide-eyed and scared where he sat, but none of the dead-eyed monsters in the room looked at him, not even Sinclair. Only Mikkel's eyes found him and though red-rimmed, glazed, and holding a dark rage behind the mask, there was something else behind them. It was something Oliver could only possibly describe as seeing for the first time. A strange awed bliss that never managed to get to the rest of Mikkel's face.
"No, there is no comparison, Malcolm, because the only things the same between you and I are skin and bones. Everything else is different, and you know that. You…" Mikkel turned to look at the enraged man, really look at him with a leveled glare. "You are mortal, and I know I'm not. There are so many of me now, Sinclair, and you will grow old. You will lose the will to care after so many years of looking over your shoulder, and when you finally go home, you will find us there." Sinclair knew the implication of Mikkel's words and could only remain stunned. They had been careful to not let the Berserker disease spread back to America. There was no traveling to America without a blood test, and those showing positive were immediately quarantined and killed. All research on it was conducted in the Scandinavia countries, and they did every measure to not let it spread. Mikkel's words, though, rang with the chance that they had already missed someone, that someone had already arrived on America's soil and began the infection there. Malcolm Sinclair knew he would have to make calls, find out the threat level, but at that moment he knew more than anything that he would need to get out of the room.
The two warring men were at a stalemate. Malcolm could not get out until the power turned on, and there was always the chance that Mikkel had infected others on his way in. Sinclair, therefore, would have to essentially sit tight until soldiers cleansed the building of all infected. Mikkel, on the other hand, could not get to Sinclair until he let himself out. It could be hours, and each second drove Mikkel further into the madness of the disease. He might have been the first, the alpha Berserker, but that did not make him immune. Without the drugs, he was a dead man walking, and though being forced off of them since the previous day had aided his plan, he knew much more time and his body would give in.
Mikkel's thoughts returned to the scientists and soldiers. They would be killed, Mikkel knew that, and they were his burden, his mistake, but they served his purpose with loyalty. They were the final ground soldiers: the last that Mikkel would ever make, he tried to promise himself. He wanted no more innocent blood on his hands, no more mistakes to labor under. He closed his eyes and turned away, not wanting to see their actions, as they understood his wish. Like rabid dogs, unable to determine friend from foe without Mikkel’s distinguishing, they threw themselves at the glass of the tube. They punched and scratched, breaking nails and shattering knuckles on the partition that would not break. Some smashed their faces on the glass, howling and screaming in their breathless rage, yet not from pain. Their last mission was to get Sinclair at any cost, but Mikkel knew it would be futile. Sinclair would be safe in his glass prison that day, but one day he would get what he deserved. One day he would feel pain he had not known to exist, and only then would Mikkel let him die.
Oliver shook in his restraints, breath shaky and labored as he watched the terrible sight, the gore streaked on the glass with every movement. The Berserkers would beat themselves to death, leave blood and bits of themselves scattered about in an attempt to infect more, but they would follow their order to the end. They were mad and incapable of emotion at the same time, purely working on impulses that came between the noises that plagued their brains. Mikkel's body broke Oliver's view and slowly, frightened, Oliver looked up at the man.
"Don't look," Mikkel told him quietly, just above a whisper. Oliver took another ragged breath before he squeezed his eyes shut and prayed. He did not want to be changed-- not by the Government and definitely not by Mikkel. He wanted to be Oliver, just himself, and swore to god that he would do anything to make that happen. He would do anything asked of him ever in order to just make it out of that room as himself still.
Mikkel's hands worked on the restraints, careful to keep the blood from Oliver's skin. He freed Oliver's head, followed by his left hand, and instructed Oliver to free his other hand as Mikkel worked the straps off of Oliver's legs. He told him again not to look, not to listen to what was happening just ten feet to his left. He did not want Oliver to see more than he already had, even though he still had some doubts about the younger man.
Once Oliver was free, Mikkel pulled him from the chair and pushed him toward the darkness where he had emerged minutes ago. Oliver felt lethargic, lightheaded almost, but soldiered on because he knew that the last place he wanted to be was in that room for even a second longer. He moved in front of Mikkel until he reached the far wall of the room where he stopped. There was no way out unless Mikkel could suddenly phase through walls, which, honestly, would not have been the weirdest thing Oliver had seen that day. However, Mikkel stopped as well and dropped to one knee, lacing his fingers together with his palms up. He looked back toward the scene and Oliver followed his gaze, regretting it instantly. One of the soldiers had beat his brain in, head lolled to look at them with dead, unblinking eyes from where he had collapsed on the floor. Another solder had broken that one's leg off at the knee, using it as a bat to try and break the glass. None had lifted their guns, too mentally primitive to remember to use them.
"Don't look!" Mikkel all but shouted, and Oliver turned back to look at him with wide eyes. The older man shook visibly, sweat on his brow that shown red in the tinted light. Oliver understood Mikkel's stance and shifted to put one foot in the cradle of the older man’s hands. He hoisted Oliver up, and it took no more than a fraction of a second for Oliver to find a narrow opening at the top of the wall. He squeezed himself in and twisted, reaching down to help Mikkel up. Mikkel grabbed a hold of him with his uninjured hand, grasped the ledge, and slipped in along side Oliver. He took point once more and they crawled through the tiny space.
Eventually the crawl space narrowed more and Oliver could no longer turn around. The passage slanted downward and they both moved along in silence as the sounds from the room slowly faded to nothing. Eventually there was light ahead, the same ominous red glow they had left, and within another minute they were out of the ventilation system and into a room. Oliver gasped and tried to back peddle when he saw what waited for them. Two soldiers had turned on them when they heard the noise, but did not advance. They wore the same red-rimmed gaze that those in the room had, and Oliver knew they were Berserkers. However, upon seeing Mikkel they did not attack. They simply stood there, slightly off balance and swaying, slick with red sweat just like Mikkel. However, unlike Mikkel, theirs bordered on black. Oliver knew within seconds what it was. It was not sweat, but blood that seeped from their pores.
"What…" Oliver began, but Mikkel did not have time to deal with it. He grabbed Oliver by the sleeve and pulled him from the ventilation shaft, dragging him to the door. They moved quickly, occasionally passing more Berserkers that began advancing only to stop once they saw Mikkel. Oliver had figured out in the room that there was some connection, some reason that Mikkel could walk into a room full of them and not be hurt, but upon seeing the reactions of other Berserkers, Oliver finally pieced it together. He was their leader, and through some connection they knew.
"Did you… did you change them all?" Oliver asked, a bit meekly with the fear raging through his system. Mikkel did not answer right away, but when he did it was hard.
"Not all of them, just a couple. They did the rest themselves." There were some dead bodies on the floors as well. It was impossible to tell if they were Berserkers or normal soldiers, but Oliver could only assume their deaths were violent and without mercy. Another cold shiver crawled up Oliver's spine as he thought about all he did not understand.
"So, what, Mikkel? You're… you're one of them? A monster?" Mikkel grit his teeth, biting back something that felt like rage but held much more. It was instinct, and not just Oliver's insinuated attack on Mikkel's being, that pushed him to turn around and tear the boy apart. He swallowed it down and balled his fists a few times to try and ward it back. It did not work as well as Mikkel hoped.
"Oliver, please…" He began in a clipped tone, but Oliver did not take the hint.
"No! Mikkel, just tell me! Tell me what's going on!" Mikkel spun, grabbing Oliver by the throat and shoving him to the wall. For a second, maybe even just a fraction of one, Mikkel saw what Oliver could be. He could be the best, a walking virus just like him. He could dose him up just the same, keep him around for that moment when they could finally rip Sinclair apart, but the heaviness of Maria's journal in his pocket reminded him of what Oliver really was.
He did not believe it, not all of it, but Maria had made sense to him back in Molious when he read the pages over her long dead corpse. Oliver probably really did not know about their world. He really seemed to have no clue what was going on there, and that was basically impossible. Even those that were rich, living high on the hog, knew what was happening in the lower sections. They, however, just did not care. Oliver cared too much to be one of them. He was not on drugs, and instead of it basically killing him to not get the regimented hit of Opal that soldiers received once every three hours, he thrived in his sobriety. He could not have been from there, too honest and pure to have seen what everyone had seen when America stormed in and took over. He could not have been part of Mikkel's world and yet there he was. In that moment he knew that Oliver was something much more than the Berserkers, and much more than the Government.
"Oliver, I'm doing everything in my power to not rip your head off right now, so if you can just stop your fucking questions until I'm ready to fucking answer them, that would be really nice of you." Mikkel's voice held more than a hint of restrained fury, rage boiling just under the surface as he tried very hard to not crush Oliver's windpipe under his hand. If the boy really was a hockey player, as he said, he could have thrown a punch to get Mikkel off of him, but the fact that he did not actually showed more about the young man than action would have. A soldier most definitely would have lashed out at Mikkel, so the fact that Oliver stilled his fists proved that he had been whom he had said all along.
Oliver nodded slowly, fear on his features that Mikkel both enjoyed and regretted. He needed to get them out of there and find some Opal before he could not hold back the demon inside him any longer. With some difficulty, Mikkel pulled back from Oliver, letting the younger man touch his neck where Mikkel's hand left a white outline of itself. He swallowed and coughed lightly, but he remained silent which had been all Mikkel asked of him. Flexing his fists a few more times in preparation for the final push toward getting the much needed drugs, Mikkel nodded to Oliver, turned, and began to move. Oliver's footsteps were the only thing Mikkel needed in order to know that Oliver had taken his request seriously and was still following him.
Mikkel thought Oliver might chose to run away, which probably would have been better for both of them. If he were smart, if he recognized the violence in Mikkel's heart, his best choice would have been to run the other way and never look back. Instead he followed Mikkel step by step, and Mikkel found himself hoping it was not out of some duty to the other Mikkel with his face that made Oliver do so.
Playlist by the Amazing MasterPenguin: https://8tracks.com/masterpenguin/liberty-of-possession
Chapter 8 Song by the Amazing MasterPenguin: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SMVubqtwOJE
Master Post: http://z4rf3.livejournal.com/16531.html
Chapter 9 The Warning: http://z4rf3.livejournal.com/18712.html