Chapter 42: The Making of Monster

Three months after the congress, the lab still had the flowers.

Most of the floors emptied by early afternoon on the weekends. The main corridors lost their weekday traffic.

Security lights shifted to half-power. The only consistent sounds were the low hum of climate control and the occasional soft close of a distant door.

Dr. Amara arrived in the late afternoon as she always did.

She was Simeon’s sister. Old, with hair catching the white of age, wrinkled till to her shoulder length. She carried a small paper wrapped bundle held carefully in one hand.

The paper was plain. Inside it, the stems of fresh pink roses were kept from bruising.

She never announced her presence. The weekend security detail knew her schedule.

The elevator took her to the research floor without requiring a second clearance. Zavian’s office sat at the fat end of the wing.

The door was unlocked. She opened it like she was used to it, and stepped inside.

The room was orderly. Clear desk except for a closed notebook and a single flask near the window.

The previous week’s rose stood in it with softened petals and faded colours. She set her bundle down, removed the old stems cleanly, emptied the flask, rinsed it at a small side sink, and refilled it with fresh water.

Then she unwrapped the new roses. Pink, soft roses with only three or four stems.

She placed them in the flask, adjusted on that leaned too far, and stepped back.

Amara remained for a moment, looking at the desk, the chair, the narrow view of the grounds beyond the glass.

The door opened behind her.

"Goodness, you’re early," Zavian stood in the doorway with a thick folder tucked under one arm.

Amara turned around with a smile.

"Really? Or maybe you’re late?" She said.

"I live here," he replied and placed the folder on his desk.

His eyes went toward the glass flask, the fresh roses stood upright beneath the afternoon light.

"You replaced them." He said.

"They were dying," she replied.

"That is generally what happens to flowers but that does not mean you keep changing them on a regular basis...and did you take your medications?" he asked.

"I was...going to, you know there’s a whole queue for these on weekends," she said.

"Sure, you forgot to take your meds," Zavian concluded, and reached out for the drawer in his desk.

"No, I did not," she replied.

Zavian took out a small medicine container that sat neatly beside several arranged notes in his drawer.

He walked toward her, placed it in her palm.

"Day by day, you’re beginning to sound like my brother," She said, accepting the medicine.

"That is so unfortunate for you. He always took care of your meds," Zavian replied, turning around.

"Is that why you always forget water while giving me meds? Just like him," She smirked.

"*Ahem*" Zavian coughed. "I was going to bring that to you."

"Surely, how can Zavian forgetting something? Sounds almost impossible."

"Exactly," Zavian nodded, walked toward the small side cabinet, took out a glass, filled it from the filter and handed it to her.

Zavian waited until she finished.

"There," she said.

"..." Zavian nodded.

Amara placed the glass down and looked toward the folder on his desk.

"More reactor work?" she asked. "How long will you work on it?"

"As long as I don’t succeed," Zavian answered without hesitation.

She walked toward the desk and rested on hand against the edge.

"You know, your old man used to say the same thing," she said.

Then footsteps sounded in the corridor. They were heavy and more than a pair.

Zavian’s eyes moved toward the door as the footsteps approached. Amara glanced that way with mild curiosity, still half-dwelled in their conversation.

A clean and professional knock resounded across Zavian’s office.

Amara walked up, and opened the door herself.

Three people stood in the corridor. One she knew.

The senior director of Barak Corporation alongside Amara, Gayne Mark. Beside him, a man in a dark suit with a thin folder. Behind them, four individuals in unmarked tactical clothing.

The people in the back looked like private security, not lab’s personals. Definitely not someone who Amara had cleared for access.

"Director Mark," Amara said. "The floor is closed.

"We just need a moment with Dr. Zavian," Mark smiled.

"On whose authority?" Amara asked back.

The man in the suit opened the folder and held out a single page.

"Transfer order. Effective immediately, Dr. Zavian’s research and person are reassigned under interim national research jurisdiction. The authorization is signed by the congressman himself," the man said.

Amara took the page. She read it and checked the signatures.

"This lab is privately held, so this might not be valid under our structure. You have no operational authority here," she said.

"The order stands," The director nodded once, as if she had made a reasonable observation.

"I own this facility," Amara replied.

"I am aware," Mark said and stepped aside.

The tactical personnel moved forward.

Before even Amara could register or move back. The man raised a sidearm, and pointed a Glock at the center of her brows.

*Bang*

The shot was single and flat in the enclosed office.

"Now the facility is mine," Mark completed his sentence.

Amara’s body fell to the ground. The page in her left hand settled on the floor.

Zavian was already moving. The shot was still ringing in the small office when he dropped to his knees beside her.

His hands found her shoulders, then the wound at her brow, then the side of her neck, searching for a pulse even knowing that nothing could save her from the shot.

"Amara--" Her eyes were open, but they were not looking at him.

He pressed harder, as if pressure alone could reverse what the bullet had done. His mind tried to do what it could.

"No..no..no...stay—just-look---at me," his voice had lost its usual cool. It came out thin as he shifted his grip and tried to lift her head.

A shadow moved behind him in that very moment.

Dark fabric dropped over his head, smelling of dust and oil.

"NHOO!--"

The world vanished into black as his hands felt the death of her body.

Foreign hands locked around his arms and hauled him backward. His knees left the floor, he twisted once, still reaching for the place where she had been, and the hold only tightened while it dragged him as he screamed.

"Haah---!" The scream tore out of him in the present. Marcellus jerked upright in the bed as if something had hauled him by the chest.

His throat locked as if he had been choked, he gagged once, hard, then dragged in a breath.

He wasn’t wearing any shirt, the sheets around him were twisted, sweat ran in clean lines down his sternum and spine, soaking the mattress beneath him.

His hands were still shaped for pressure, clutching the sheets.

For a moment, he had forgotten he is Marcellus now. He looked around the room as the world seemed different, and felt his own body.

But when the realization hit.

"I hate this," he growled under his breath as his chest felt like collapsing inward of all the anger and grief he had suffered within a few moments.

He banged his fist against his chest once, and grunted.

"Ugh---Fuck!"