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Lucian
The Institute is the one place on the east coast I wish I could set fire to and watch burn. Doing so would certainly spare the country of half its psychopaths. A chill settles across my nape as I walk the halls that, just a few years back, bore witness to my suffering and torment. Now, the place merely serves as somewhere for the Collective to meet, but I don’t think I’ll ever fully erase the harrowing images of my time spent here.
The idea was to prod me into an aggressive state, so they wouldn’t have to explain away a false-negative result in my DNA. By rejecting my sadistic tendencies, I essentially discredit the entire organization, since my lineage represents the most well-studied of any member. There are so many samples of my DNA, sperm, and stem cells stocked here, they could probably begin generating my clones. Unless they already have, and that’s the nature of this otherwise useless meeting.
I reach the door to Friedrich’s office. After a couple knocks, it swings open, and the man himself stands there, wearing a smile that could house a small village.
“Lucian, wonderful to see you! Thank you for making the trip up.” He ushers me inside the office, patting my shoulder as I pass. Prick wouldn’t dare lay a hand on me the way he did when I was sixteen, with as much as I’ve filled out over the years. Not to mention the funding he’d risk losing, if he did.
My unpredictable nature likely puts him on edge, too.
Good.
Nowadays, it’s only a careful placement of his hand on my shoulder. Cautious responses.
Gesturing toward one of the chairs in front of his desk, he makes his way to the other side and falls into his own.
“I’m assuming you have something important to discuss, as you’ve requested face-to-face, rather than a Skype meeting.” I lean back in the chair, wishing I had a drink to numb me from the science bullshit he’ll undoubtedly spew in the next ten minutes.
“You know I don’t trust meetings held over the computer.”
Of course I do. And I was swept over with a metal detector at the front entrance, to ensure that I didn’t have a recording device on me, including my phone. Since it’s not my first rodeo, I left that in the car with the driver I hired.
“The purpose of this is to let you know that I did look into Mr. Boyd’s family history,” he started. “And it does seem he has an incarcerated twin. But the interesting piece in all of this is who he murdered.”
“And who might that be?”
“Their biological father. Who also had a criminal record for assault and the murder of their mother, when both boys were quite young.”
“That sounds like one messed up family tree.”
“Indeed. Which makes Patrick a very curious specimen. I’d love to pick his brain about what he remembers of his childhood.”
I’m sure he would. Literally, with an ice pick. “I take it my vote no longer holds any weight.”
Hands in the air, he smiles and shakes his head. “Now, I didn’t say that. We don’t have baseline studies on him, so much of the data will be inconclusive, anyway. It’s more curiosity on my part. Was Amelia his only offspring?”
I shrug, already beyond my limits of boredom. “As far as I know.”
“We’ll verify that, of course. For now, I’m going to observe before making a decision about him.”
“And this is what you requested an in-person meeting for?”
“Of course not.” He rises up from his chair and shoves his hands into the pockets of his lab coat. “Come with me. I’d like to show you what your generous funding has provided.”
With a quiet huff, I follow him out of the office and down the hallway, toward the elevators I took to get up here. Once inside, he pushes the button to the bottom floor of the institute. A place where all the magic of this shit-show goes down.
The research department.
The doors slide open to a too-bright hallway, where fluorescent lights leave me squinting.
He leads me down the white hallways, with white doors and white tiled floors, that smell of potent disinfectant. “Have you considered more extensive surgery on your scars?” he asks over his shoulder.
Prick. “No.” I gave up on trying to remove all traces of my accident. If nothing else, it serves as a reminder that I am not, and never was, as invincible as I liked to think.
“Shame. I know a surgeon, if you change your mind.”
“Thanks. I’ll let you know when I give a shit.” The irritation of having made this trip has seriously soured my mood.
The smile he flashes me is fake and oozing contempt. Our benevolence toward one another is separated by a thin layer of bullshit.
A loud throaty scream brings me slamming to a halt in front of a door whose small, square window shows a dimly-lit room on the other side. I catch sight of a figure crouched in the corner, shaking and scratching at the walls. A girl, given the long, disheveled hair that sticks up around her head and over her shoulders.
Curiosity pulls me closer, until I’m standing at the door, staring straight in. From what I can see of her profile, the girl’s lips are moving, but all I can make out is quiet mumbling through the door. I knock, and she pauses her scratching of the walls, where long streaks of red, which must be blood, indicate she’s rubbed her fingertips raw. When she finally turns to look at me, I frown back at the familiar face.
“Melody Lachlan.” Friedrich moves into my periphery as he stands beside me. “Daughter of--”
“Daniel,” I interrupt, studying the girl, as she resumes her scratching. “I know her.”
A flash of memory dances through my head, of a warm summer day at her parents’ estate. Her father owned a chain of luxury hotels, and had invited my family to a charity event at their home. I was only eleven at the time, which would’ve made her around seven. While our parents mingled, she took Jude and I out to the garden, where an elaborate cage housed a bright and colorful bird. The moment Melody stuck her finger inside, the bird flew to the fleshy perch, and I watched as Melody nuzzled and kissed her pet. She was the most gentle creature I’d ever met, always kind and vibrant. Smiling. Unlike most girls born into wealth, she was grounded and genuine.
“What happened to her?” I can’t peel my eyes away from the dirt streaked up her arms and across her face, mixed with what I guess is blood.
“Her father asked that we run some tests on her, seeing as we didn’t have much of a family history gathered on him.”
From what I understand, the man was a self-made millionaire, who my father often jabbed as nouveau-riche.
“In doing so,” Friedrich continues, “we stumbled upon a trigger that led us to believe she may have been assaulted, or abused, at some point.”
Melody slams her palms against her ears, screaming as she rocks in the corner. It’s possible her father could’ve hurt her.
“What will you do with her?” I ask.
Friedrich sighs, and tips his head, still peering through the window. “Well, she’s certainly not fit for release at this point. We’ll continue to run tests.”
My own experience tells me they’ve no intentions of curing her mental state. “What is the nature of these tests?”
Friedrich’s cheek twitches as if he might smile. “In order to study a subject's propensity for violence, you must prod them a little.” He points toward the corner opposite where Melody sits, and I follow the path of his finger to a pile of birds scattered on the floor, their heads detached from the bodies. At the sight of white droppings across the cement, I lift my gaze to the birds perched on the ceiling rafters above. About a half-dozen colorful birds, like the one in the cage all those years ago.