The Second

Prologue

Pure white engulfed the empty hallway as the lights flared on, expelling the dreary darkness that had descended. A tall, proper man flung his white lab coat around his baby-blue buttoned-down shirt as he quickly trotted down the hallway. His mangled, wiry hair was secured tightly underneath a protective cap. He wore perfectly fitting circular spectacles that clung to his face, covering his beady brown eyes.

His pace quickened and each step on the cold floor echoed through the silence of the empty corridor in the bowels of the building, deep underground. The floor was slate grey and the walls had a fresh coat of eggshell paint. The ceiling above was constructed out of buzzing square lit panels that illuminated the hallway.

The light was so bright, almost blinding after his hours spent tirelessly researching in his dingy office on the fourth floor of Narcladea Industries. The professor found it abrasive enough to trigger one of his usual migraines.

He pinched the bridge of his nose and lifted his spectacles to rub his tired eyes, but to no avail. He strutted down the hall until he reached the glass double-doors with their magnetic locks. He lifted his gaze from the freshly polished linoleum floor to study the mechanical keypad.

Fingers traced patterns as he typed in a series of characters and numbers; the palm of his hand resting on the black rectangular scanner. A neon green line slid down from the top, scanning the intricacies of his palm, noting each line and wrinkle until a small ding sounded and the doors of glass in front of him slid open and granted him access into the lab on the other side.

The chamber was dimly lit, and the lights did little to lift the blackness. The room was mostly empty except for a large cupboard, a few cabinets lining the back wall, a desk with a flickering desktop computer, a silver tray housing a whole host of metal instruments, and a few beeping, buzzing machines surrounding the centerpiece of the room; a white bed raised above the ground. The sheets were sprawled about and sliced leather straps hung loosely off the thin, inch high railings. A recently discharged pistol lay haphazardly in the middle of the mattress.

The room was as quiet and cold as a morgue. Nothing stirred except a tall woman who slowly stood, wobbling on her weak legs. Black, wire-frame glasses gripped her nose and she clasped a clipboard with white knuckles between her arms.

"Geraldine, do my cameras deceive me?" The professor snapped.

"P-Professor, you've finally arrived," Geraldine greeted him shakily as she pushed her glasses back up her nose with her index finger. He noticed trails of still-drying blood staining the floor but ignored it. In his work, it wasn't an unusual sight.

"Is it true?" the Professor barked again, dismissing her reception. "I think I've found a way to produce the correct serum without mistake every time, but I need our test subject. Where is she?"

"I-I'm sorry, sir," Geraldine replied impishly.

"I said, where is she? Speak now!" he insisted angrily.

"W-well... you see, the specimen... she sort of... she," Geraldine mumbled.

"Out with it, I haven't all day, girl," the professor cut her off impatiently. A small bead of sweat formed above her brow and slowly trickled down her cheek.

"It... it's true," Geraldine squeaked sheepishly. "She escaped earlier. I've dealt with the situation and she will be retrieved presently."

Anger coursed through the Professor's blood, sizzling in his veins. Realization and desperation collided within him, adding to the flurry. All his years of research and he had finally found the perfect test subject in the most unlikely of places. He'd spent ages testing, and she had escaped with the click of a finger. His hopes, dreams and aspirations for the image of his better world were slipping between his fingers, all because of the incompetence of others.

"Geraldine, I'm very disappointed," the professor said quietly, pacing back and forth. He peered down at her with a misty glare hidden by his spectacles. "What if word got out about what we have been doing? What we've been developing? What if she talks, goes to the papers or the press?"

"She won't," Geraldine insisted diffidently. The professor shook his head, exhaling slowly with a sigh. Geraldine knew the severity of her mistake and knew the cost. This wasn't a time to take second chances. Not when they've come so far... gotten so close.

The Professor stopped pacing and turned to stare at the shaking woman. He raised his arm and smacked her across the face with the back of his hand to placate his anger. His wedding ring cut a thin gash down her cheek, drawing blood. Geraldine let out a small squeal as she pressed her hands to her burning face, rubbing her skin to sooth the pain that crept its way across. She gazed up at him through her glasses like a frightened puppy.

The Professor grinned through pearly teeth as he removed his glasses, narrowed his beady eyes and stared deep into her jade pupils menacingly.

"That's quite alright darling," he replied in a soothing yet eerie tone. Although his words seemed sincere, a hint of malice laced them. "We all make mistakes. Even I do."

"You do?" Geraldine took the bait.

"Indeed. Like hiring you, for example, you incompetent fool!" The Professor's sudden change of tone from calming to piercing cut through the air like a sharp knife.

Swiftly, in one fell swoop, the Professor reached over onto the raised bed and seized the pistol lying on top of the messy and crinkled sheets. He placed it between her bulging eyes and pulled the trigger, blowing her brains out without even blinking. Geraldine crumpled into a heap on the floor limply, red blood oozing out of the open wound in the middle of her skull.

"I'll tell your sister you send your regards when we next meet," the Professor snarled tonelessly as he pocketed the pistol, walked over to the glass double-doors and sealed the room shut, skulking away down the corridor.