Snapshot (фотография)

XXI

"Has its death been confirmed?" The woman at the head of the table spoke up, her face shrouded in darkness. The men on the sides of her seemed to quiver slightly, shrinking down in their seats like children. She waited for one of them to talk as the silence choked them all.

"Speak." She commanded them, and a file was slid down from the other side of the table. The rustling of papers seemed to fill the room as they all sat, tense.

"Noire's death has been confirmed by DNA testing. It does not know any methods beyond what we have taught it, so the possibility of it having survived is low."

A beat of silence rang through the room before a quivering hand threw what seemed to be an article of clothing on the table. It was bloodied and ripped, the black seemingly absorbing all light as it melded into the table and offered no highlights other than the reflection of light off of the blood. A piece of technology sparked, the voice of a woman speaking out in calming Russian tones.

"Awaiting instructions, Peyta." Though they did not know it, it was Karine, who had been captured with Peyta. A sharp intake of breath seemed to be in unison as they awaited for the woman's response. A mechanical creation, one for comfort. Why would a creature need such a thing? Perhaps they had failed in eradicating humanity, the weakness. Loyalty was due to them, and them alone in their minds. They had let Noir live, even after failures, as a mercy.

"Peyta..." She mused. "It thought itself human?"

"That gave us an opportunity to strike. It was devolving quickly back to weakness." A man down the other side offered. He didn't want to think otherwise. They knew that Noir would either end up as their greatest success or failure, just like those before it.

"Or perhaps the opposite." They trembled as one under the implication that their training might be turned against them. Humans are unpredictable, especially one who doesn't know who he is. He will stop at nothing to figure out what it means, searching for the knowledge and tearing them down with him.

All he knew was killing; That was all that they had taught him, truly. There was a thrill to it, one that rang louder than fear. It had all come back to them, the constant fear of discovery, the drudgery of work, the ever-present threat of war and destruction at the slightest mistake. They'd forgotten it in their lust of the power that they had held.

There was something beautifully grotesque to these minds of breaking someone so much that you can build them back up to something new. Something aberrant but stunning, that takes your breath away to watch your legacy throwing everything into flames.

There was a possibility that he had survived, that he had risen from the ashes. Their hubris did not allow such a thing, as their minds were consumed with the idea that one of their greatest projects had been destroyed. All the effort, and none of the pay-off. Various successes and misdirections that had turned out to be fruitless.

The men did not realise that they did not create, but rather destroy. Humans are capricious, reaching for survival and selfishness. They exist merely for their own concupiscence and greed. They seemingly cannot fathom the world that they have created, and the solutions that they bring about merely to impress themselves, even if it is not right. But the funny thing about humanity is, even if something isn't right, if it means giving up control, it is wrong.

Humans have marched out of rage and grief, and they kill out of anger and sadness, contrasting emotions that hold hands. Life is not a series of cause and effect based solely on our own choices. It's an amalgamation, an intricate tapestry of our decisions and the decisions of those around us, weaving together and reacting to one another. Perhaps in another world, Peyta could have lived a normal life, free of strife. Perhaps in another world, they would not continue to ruin the lives of others.

"We must find another candidate. One that will not rebel." They had moulded Noir from the ashes that they had gotten him from, but clearly it was not enough if he had begun to show humanity. Perhaps it would be better to create a creature that would not remember anything else, one that would not know anything else. They had the asset's DNA, and that of various successes that had turned into failures when they had gone a different way. It would be easy to find a willing surrogate or wet nurse. If it was raised from birth, it could come to love the cause as its own. After all, that was all it would know.

"Use the chair." The woman instructed. "Get a younger creature. Make sure that it knows nothing other than our cause." Silence reigned again, with the tapping of writing utensils and the tenseness of shoulders.

"Dismissed." With various sycophantic bows, the men murmured the name she had chosen and with a quick salute to the cause, they flurried out of the room. She remained stiff, snapping her fingers at the man in the corner, who walked like a soldier, his eyes forward and his muscles tensed.

"Madame?" He spoke. She gave a sharp and small smile as she handed him a small piece of paper with a code written on it. The messenger's fingers turned white from as he grasped the letter. It was small, barely weighing anything, but it was heavy with implication and the pressure.

"Deliver this to our friends, гоблин?" He felt his lip beginning to curl with revulsion at the command phased as a request. As a victim of such things himself, the goblin lived day to day as a disposable. He, too, had longed to rebel, to figure out where he came from. They did not allow such a thing, and gave him no opportunity to discover mercy.

"Yes, Madame Viper." The Red Room would officially open once more, and Stark would be their target.