The Evil That Came

Part 7: Strings Attached

Victoria awoke to an unfamiliar sensation—a discomfort she couldn't quite put a name to. Her body was aching, her chest throbbed like a drum, and her head pounded like a jackhammer. But having never experienced sickness, she was at a loss for words to describe them.

The night was eerily silent as she stumbled towards her parents' room. She clung to the walls for support, clutching her chest as if it were about to detach from her body. But just as she reached the door, her body betrayed her, and her world plunged into darkness.

Victoria's mother, Amnika, heard the loud thud outside her bedroom door. A viscous black fluid oozed from Victoria's wounds, staining the hard, porous tile. Her mother, a hospital worker at Traverse Park Clinic, A clinic funded by the O'Dunn Foundation, knew the chaos of emergency rooms, and she knew that calling a standard ambulance would result in Victoria being hauled off to a government quarantine zone- a place many Robos entered but few returned from.

She tried the clinic's emergency line, but it was down. In a moment of pure, motherly instinct, she remembered the business card tucked in the back of her badge—a card Greg O'Dunn had handed her personally during a clinical audit months ago. He had told the staff, "If you ever see something that doesn't make sense, call me. Not the military help line. Me."

Amnika, with a shaking finger, dialed the private number 

"Hello, who is this?" Greg's voice was groggy, awoke by the sound of his phone floating around his wrist. Greg heard a worried and desperate voice on the line.

"Mr. O'Dunn? It's Amnika... from the clinic. My daughter, Victoria... she's bleeding black. She hurt her head, and she's not breathing right. Please, the military will take her if I call 1011. You said to call you."

Greg heard the name and rushed to put on his shirt. The "strings" of fate he had been pulling for years had finally snapped tight. "Stay there. Don't move her. I'm coming." Hurling down to the address that  Amnika had given him. 

When Greg arrived in a nondescript black HUV-car, bypassing the community's main gates. He didn't waste time on pleasantries. He bandaged Victoria's head, scooped her up, and signaled for Amnika to get in his car. 

In his private lab, far from the prying eyes of "big brother" General Alden's surveillance, he lay Victoria on a bed reserved for DSR research. He administered a viscous purple liquid—a specialized compound designed to stabilize Pui-born cellular membranes.

Amnika stood there in the corner; her tears unshed but welling. Not human tears—something else. Her shoulders were hunched, her hands clasped, and her gaze was intense. Greg recognized the same unwavering, intense stare the children of Pui had given him when he cradled Victoria as a child.

"You did the right thing," Greg assured her. "Hospitals are swamped, even with humans. And if the military had picked her up, they would have treated her like a biohazard, not a patient with dignity. Why didn't Zoran help you?"

Amnika chewed her lip and shifted her weight. "Zoran... he gets away from himself sometimes. He is typically home, but sometimes he wanders out doing who knows what. He probably didn't notice she was sick. Why can't we take her home now that she's stable?"

"I'm sorry, Amnika. This is not normal for your people to have this illness. I'm not risking infection in the community. Go home and get some rest," he said. "Victoria will be here, and I'll send word when you can visit."

Amnika nodded, gratitude in her eyes. As she left, Greg returned to the lab, where Victoria lay—a mystery waiting to unravel. He adjusted the monitors and studied her vitals.

Victoria awoke the next day, her mind clouded in confusion. A chill ran down her spine as she realized she was alone. Where am I? How did I get here? She was in an unfamiliar environment—a white room filled with equipment, with a transparent door at the far end. A strange, metallic beeping echoed through the room, adding to her growing sense of unease.

Suddenly, the sound of footsteps echoed from behind the door. Fear gripped her, and she quickly hid under her blanket. As the footsteps grew louder, she cautiously peeked out from her hiding spot, only to recognize that the figure behind the door was someone she had only seen on the holoscreens.

 "Greg O'Dunn? Am I dreaming?" 

Greg let out a hearty laugh. "DSRs don't dream, Victoria. You should know that!" His voice was booming, echoing off the cold, white walls."

Victoria met his gaze, "That's not true. We do dream," she replied, her voice trembling slightly but certain.

The smile on Greg's face vanished instantly. He didn't just look surprised; he looked like he'd been hit. If the children were dreaming, their psychic abilities were awakening. "Really? I'll have to look into that." He exited the room sharply, leaving Victoria to the hum of the machines.

"What exactly am I looking at here?" Matilda asked, placing her hands on Greg's shoulders as he leaned over the microscope.

"A death sentence," Greg replied. "It's a flu strain, but it's been weaponized. It's got protein spikes designed to latch onto DSR DNA."

Matilda leaned closer, her breath warm against his ear. "It's a good look on you," she murmured, her lips curving into a playful smile. "Your mind is being so focused on this, and although I love how your mind works, I'd like to see what you can do with your hands ."

Greg swallowed hard, the tingling of goosebumps rising on his arms as her lab coat brushed past him. He cleared his throat, trying to stay professional. "We need to run checks on all DSRs. If this is spreading, we have to quarantine."

"I should call the General's office," Matilda said. "They have the logistical power to—"

"No military! Alden, he--" Greg's voice was venomous as he stammered. He towered over her, his finger jabbing the air.

Matilda shook her head and cut in. "What is your issue with Alden? I've always noticed a weird energy between you two."

"That's none of your concern," Greg snapped, his face morphing into a mask of forced concentration. As he turned away to look at the flu strain. He remembered the glow of the floating astromap over the oblong table as General Alden gathered the top military brass, including Greg, to discuss a new operation order (OPORDER). 

"We have these two opposing forces in quadrant four over the astrobelt." General Alden looked over at the intelligence officer who provided the BLUF or bottom line upfront to give General Alden the rundown on what was going on around the asteroid belt. "These two opposing colonies are fighting over the right to an Astroid that sits in the center of their operations." The intelligence officer continued, "The United States has a seventy-five percent claim over the asteroid. We propose sending an occupation line of troops to safeguard our percentage. If we send our space force team for procurement. We recommend encouraging a team of psychological operators to influence the colonies and the US against the opposing side."

 General Alden smiled, his eyes brightening at the suggestion from the middle-aged intelligence officer. Greg looked over at the General, sickened by the idea. His stomach was turning somersaults as the grim, silent, creeping feeling of revulsion rose. 

Greg turned around after a stunned silence between them, he started, "I was around that table, Matilda. I was in the decision-making room with them. 

I saw the plans for our country's dominance over others. They started half of those wars, Matilda, and pointed fingers at others for their mess.

As he stepped down from his chair, he stood closer to Matilda and, in a low tone, said. "Plus, General Alden and his goonies are pulling all the strings, not the Commander in Chief, contrary to widely held belief. He has no power, and the president is too busy smiling, lying, and shaking hands with other diplomats and leaders as just a facade for our ugly intentions. So, I have every reason to be skeptical."

Matilda gave Greg a puzzled look, sighed, and left the room.

As Matilda exited the room, she couldn't help but glance back at Greg. His figure was silhouetted against the blinding white of the room, his face a mask of militant focus. She knew there was more to the story—more to Greg's distrust of General Alden. For now, she decided to respect his privacy. But she didn't stop wondering. As she walked down the hallway, she knew there was a war brewing between those two men—a war that Victoria was now caught in the middle of.