A Soviet's Struggle

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Schröder’s impatient claw tapped on the mahogany coffin with a rhythmic click, his baby blue eyes gazing at the intricate designs marked throughout the wood used, the delicate details of gold and ivory etched in accent along its hinges, exterior, and handles. He tilted his head, studying the name etched on a bronze plaque, which was desperately hanging precariously onto the top of the coffin’s exterior from years of wear. The man grunted, lifting his head to the sound of his office door creaking open, turning quickly to see whom entered.

Ms. Moore; and in her hands - the serum.

Underneath his mask, Schröder cracked a wicked smile. Without speaking a word, he waved his hand, ushering his comrade to come closer to discussion; which Chairman Moore obliged with no resistance - bobbing and weaving to and fro from between taxidermied displays, each face plastered with a new kind of pain or fear.

As she approached, she handed Schröder a single vaccine, its Zircon Hue lighting up the area around his fingers as he took it eagerly.

“Does it work?” He asked, lifting the fluid to the industrial light above and studying the peculiar liquid.

“I’ve done my fair share of tests on a few subjects you’ve given me permission to handle. I’ve tweaked what I could, but there is still…. complications.”

“What kind of complications?”

Chairman Moore got visibly uncomfortable at the question, a reaction that gave Schröder a most inquisitive thought.

She opened her sewn mouth for a moment, hesitating on empty words. Through grit teeth, the scientist lowered her voice to a mere whisper, each word licking Schröder’s ears beneath the mask like venom.

“They have your intended effects.” She started, glancing to the coffin between them. “However, there are vile mutations. I’ve tried several modifications since what happened with the Gorilla a few weeks back. It seems to be too strong for me to chemically alter. The most I’ve managed is the pain and how painful it is.”

“The transformation still takes place?”

“Yes.”

“Is it similar to the Gorilla?”

“It’s erratic.”

“In what way?”

Ms. Moore hesitated again, staring at the name on the coffin. She let out a deep exhale for composure, stood upright, and looked Schröder in his inquisitive eyes.

“Some subjects became more like the host than others. Some grew fur patterns, some got tumours. The wings that grew on the Gorilla have not been replicated since him. One thing stayed common between all of the subjects, however.”

“And that is?”

“They all went mad.”

Schröder exhaled, gripping the vaccine in a clenched fist and stuffing it in his breast pocket.

“Well, I’ll hold onto this one for now.” He smirked, turning away for a moment to look to his desk, which sat undisturbed at the end of the room. “In case you lose the rest.”

He then turned away, passing taxidermy as he made his way to the desk, taking a seat behind it in a black leather chair, fashioned out of reptilian skin. Ms. Moore stood put, watching him get comfortable and awaiting instruction with patience.

“And,” Schröder asked, clearing his throat and folding his hands on the desk, taking joy in the newfound comfort. “What about my Hunters? Either one of them crack?”

Moore shook her head: “Not from what I’m told.”
Schröder huffed, unfolding his hands and placing one against his cheek, using the weight to hold his head as he sucked his cheeks inward and tapped his weary foot in a quickened pace.