Brennan McCade

  12 A.M. on a Tuesday night. Philbert’s Bar, only ever a weekend hotspot, entertained a lone customer. A man with white hair, and a green hoodie with the hood resting around his shoulders. Brennan McCade, Philbert’s most consistent regular. Most days, he could be found sitting at the same booth he occupied at the moment, drinking his favorite brand of whiskey, and never short on payment.

  Shaun, Philbert’s friend for the last 20 years, was running the place that night. He journeyed from table to table, wiping down every surface before he grabbed his broom and concluded his nightly routine with checking all the inventory for the next day. Stock orders had been more scarce in recent weeks, but still necessary.

  The bell above the bar door jingled as Brennan finished his whiskey and signaled for another. His sixth in two hours. The alcohol had to affect his brain, however. The newly entered patron walked swiftly over to Brennan’s booth, ignoring Shaun when he asked what she wanted.

  She sat down without looking up, barely acknowledging her companion. Straight to business as always. “We...they did it to him. They actually pulled it off.” She tapped her hand rhythmically and forcefully on the wooden table.

  Shaun emerged from behind his counter and set down a new glass for Brennan, filled to the brim with dark liquid. Brennan took a sip from his fresh drink and returned it to the dark laminate, the lone floating ice cube clinked against the glass.

  He paused, savoring the smoky flavor before responding, “Part of me hoped it would fail. But, of course, I knew it wouldn’t. Gibson has too many resources, too much invested in this. They would just try again if it failed with him. At least it was him and not someone else.”

  The woman shifted on the booth seat. “It reeks in here.”

  Brennan chuckled, “you said that last time you were here.”

  She huffed, “and I was right then, too.”

  She waved Shaun over and pulled out several large bills. “Why don’t you take the trash out? And take your time doing it?”

  He looked to Brennan for an answer, who nodded, and he happily pocketed the money and walked to the back.

  Brennan and the woman wait until they hear the door close in the far side of the kitchen. She looked into Brennan’s refulgent, green eyes for the first time since arriving, “What now? Is it time to make your move?”

  Brennan stared at the black, powerless screen of the television.

  “No, not yet. Gavin isn’t ready. He hasn’t seen the things that he needs to. He’ll need more time to become himself.”

  The woman shook her head emphatically, “That’s your problem Brennan. You’re too cautious, saying it isn’t the right time for whatever. Things go wrong when you wait around too long.”

  He gave a wry grin, “Because it usually isn’t the right time. The world has its motion, as does everything in it. Impatience is a young person’s game.”

  “Brennan, you’re only in your forties. You aren’t exactly ancient.”

  “Accurate. But each one of those years counts as double for most people.” He paused and stared at his drink before speaking softly. “Particularly my last two.”

  “Yeah, right. I suppose you have a point.” She looked down at the table and resumed her tapping, more restrained this time. “Anyway. What should I do?”

  Brennan slammed back a swallow of his beverage, downing about half of it, “Keep an eye on him, keep me apprised as to what’s going on in his head. We need to know what’s happening with him as often as possible. And when he’s ready, I’ll approach him myself and make him see any truth he hasn’t found out yet about Gibson. It has to be at the right time though and needs to be handled with a gentle hand. This isn’t exactly a normal circumstance, even by modern standards.”

  The woman stood up from the booth, taking her glasses off to rub her eyes, “We may not have the luxury of time. With Vitam Post Mortem so far progressed, your deadline has been pushed a bit too close for comfort. And the bodies are piling up, Brennan. The cost might outweigh the benefit if we wait too long”

  If you come across this story on Amazon, it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.

  Brennan stood up as well, finishing his drink as he does, “There is enough time. There is always enough time for whatever needs to happen. I know you’re trying to clean your conscience but I need you to trust me.”

  The woman gritted her teeth at Brennan. “My conscience isn’t what concerns me. I’ve made peace with my history. Like you have any room to talk. This isn’t about atoning, for either of us, it’s about doing the right thing with the aftermath of our failures. You might understand a little better if you could climb out of your bottle for five seconds.”

  Brennan leaned against the booth, crossed his arms and smiled at her, “My mind is the most sober it’s been. My eyes were opened for me after I held them shut for too long. But even my vision is limited and needs to be informed. That’s why I’m trusting you. Please keep trusting me. Gavin will succeed, I know this for certain. Gavin is now primed to be a key to our salvation. A key for every newborn’s salvation. Someone that knows much more than either of us has shown me. Have some faith.” He cocked his head to the right. “Now, you better go. Our friends’ break is over.”

  The woman held his tired but firm expression. An old memory stirred within her mind, shaken loose by the white-haired man’s hope. She took a breath, nodded, and turned toward the door. She paused with her hand resting on the handle, about to say something, but changed her mind. The kitchen door swung open for Shaun.

  Brennan relaxed, greeting him with a warm smile, “I think I’m ready to close my tab.”

  Gen

  In a cold room, at a cold desk, in a cold, black chair, sat a cold woman. The room was bright from the blue glow of the wall of monitors, some of which were tuned to news broadcasts, some were security footage from the Shard, Gibson’s headquarters in Rinovo, others were hidden cameras throughout the same building, known only to the woman who placed them there. And the final three monitors were dedicated to three individuals, their vitals, their location, even a live feed of what they were seeing at any given moment.

  The desk loomed in front of the monitors and was completely dustless, with nothing else but three keyboards, a mouse and pad, and an open folder to the left of the keyboards lying upon its metallic surface. The desk was bordered by filing cabinets on either side, all placed within the centimeter of each other and not one was minutely misaligned.

  The black chair rested on a floor free of any scuff or blemish, the feet a\were coated in fabric so it could slide without scratching anything.

  The woman was black haired, pale skinned, blood-red lips, and one white, murky eye, contrasting its brilliant blue mate on the other side of her beautifully eerie face. A white lab coat hung over her trim and wiry physique. Her name was Gen.

  Gen observed her creation, her child, on his first mission since she restored him. His movement was stiff, like an athlete at his first practice after breaking a limb. But that would change as he rediscovered himself, what he could do, became himself once again. Gen rested in the confidence that she never failed in her work, only her subjects failed her. But Gavin, he was perfect. His body, his mind, his power, they all made him the most perfect creature she had seen besides herself.

  His file was exposed before her, detailing every recorded and relevant aspect of his existence. His birth certificate, his report cards, every transcript of every phone call or text he made, every piece of information that could be accessed. She studied it once more even though she had every detail memorized. She knew him even better than he did. She could predict what he would choose to wear each morning, what days he would even have breakfast or be too busy and have to skip it. She could foresee the ebbs and flows of his moods like predicting the tide. She knew the man intimately. She loved him and she longed to see him become what he was destined to be. Shaped in her mold, by her hand, and by her will.

  Gen smiled with anticipation as she watched Gavin get ready to make his move on the newborn he was pursuing, simultaneously watching archive footage of his previous missions on another screen. He moved so elegantly, so precisely, like a watch that will never stop ticking. Whip trained him well, as he often did, but it was Gavin’s own value that made him perfect. And only a fraction of his potential had been tapped. With her help, he would see the world unravel in his hand. And together they would stitch it anew.

  With a sigh, she reminded herself of more pressing work at hand and raised herself from her chair. Her reflection caught her in the polished surface of the desk, forcing a gasp at the hideous reminder of her failure to remove her own flaws. The one remaining symbol of her mortality, her abhorrently milky left eye.

  She exhaled slowly, reminding herself of what she was about to be able to achieve through Gavin, and turned from her monitors. Once through the door, she stepped into the main body of her lab. She walked confidently over to the machine in the center, a half-reclined chair with titanium restraints and a headset connected to dozens of wires and with many protruding needles. She ran her fingers across every line and groove of the machine as she smiled. A part of her masterpiece and her hope.

  She stood straight and took a moment to take in all the other devices organized around the room, each in its own precise location. She inhaled deeply, thankful the stench of blood no longer lingered.

  She turned towards one of the three exits, the one on her left, with deliberate strides. As she closed the door from the other side, she faced the simple metal door and observed the sign that ran across it. Her fingers traced along its lettering, recalling the first time the entrancing stranger spoke those words to her. Vitam Post Mortem. She afforded herself one last smile and left for her bedchamber. Yes. Gavin would be the key to her salvation.