Unbreakable

Chapter One – A Last Attempt at Success

The Facility was clogged with the thick, false pretence of overly-pungent bleach. The disinfectant clung to the pristine white walls, choking the back throats of the man within despite the white masks, but still it was unable to quench the thirst of the rot deep within the building. A hum, like an echoing bout of annoying flies circling overhead on a particularly hot day, swamped the location, filling the room with the powered dominance of generators.

Tapping his clipboard with the half-chewed pencil, his brow set tightly in an undecipherable scowl, Baxter Stockman growled like a frustrated animal. Scowling at the numbers, flicking through the flowcharts and hastily scribbled notes, he cast a dour stare up at the large cylinders bubbling with emphatic amber liquid. The glass had been scratched and worn, but thankfully it held the stagnant supply at bay.

"Doesn't add up…" he muttered, tucking the pencil behind his ear and walking back to the mess upon the examination tables. "Why won't it work?!"

Glaring over the pink and blue mess, he placed his clipboard down by a neat portion of the covered table, poking at the pieces of exploded flesh and tissue with his gloved finger. The disturbed skin flopped over, the nerves giving one last twitch, and another aggravated growl was brought forth from Stockman's lips.

"Stupid! Absolutely stupid!" Peeling off the glove, abandoning his clipboard, in three quick strides he found himself leaning over his computer, too eager to sit. Flashing documents, flickering charts and a video documentation giving a step-by-step synopsis of the operation were all minimized to leave his complicated, mathematical diagnosis.

He stroked his chin, much like a mad man with hungry eyes. "Tissue samples… skin cells… pigmentation…Argh! The brainwaves, again! Stupid! Absolutely st-"

"Is there a problem, Stockman?" A commanding voice asked, the sound sweeping the room and seeming to place pause in the humming generators.

With a yelp, Stockman jumped back, almost tripping over his own feet as he used the chair as a clutch to brace himself upon. The hungry eyes dimmed from their confidence, as if shy now that the newcomer stood by the automatic doorway, gun loosely in hand.

"Bishop," Stockman whispered, the sound swallowed under the newcomer's thin, deceiving smirk. "You startled me."

"I would not take it as that you are slipping, Stockman; it's just that I'm rather good at what I do." He chuckled, the gun still held in his right hand as he made his way down the steps. His dark sunglasses hid his eyes, and Stockman wondered silently whether he would be able to stand up to the man if he could see them. It was always said that the eyes were the path to a person's soul; but just thinking about the black pit where Bishop's once resided gave Stockman chills.

"Er…" he faltered, pulling at the collar of his lab coat and swallowing, beads of perspiration marking his forehead. "You came for something?"

"A progress report. Nothing you should fear," he let the last word drag itself off his tongue, stopping to raise an eyebrow towards the chaotic metal examination tables. "So long as there is progress, of course. I am rather tired of waiting, as you most assuredly understand."

Something akin to fear began to prickle its way along Stockman's nerves, slipping up his spine and forcing his stuttering tongue to stammer something out before that military stare was brought back his way. Rushing to meet Bishop across from the slab of metal, he grimaced at the chunks of meat and carcasses hanging through the cuffs.

"O-of course!" Gulping again, feeling it catch in his throat and coughing twice to clear his oesophagus, he tried for a stronger approach. "You'll have to excuse the mess. The last subjects put up an uncanny fight, but it was still not quite enough for me to collect enough data, or, thusly, to even complete the actual experiment."

Bishop was unimpressed. "I am not keeping you alive to merely experiment, Stockman. I want results, and I want them now. Your delaying what is appearing to be the inevitable is most upsetting to me, Stockman."

"I… I, er… well, you see, the fluctuations in the brain matter and the inconsistency of the brainwaves mean that, although a link is able to be established, the nervous system and the primary organs are attacked by severe dehydration alongside involuntary muscle spasms and therefore-"

"Stockman, are you wasting my time?"

"N-no!" His eyes flashed from the gun to those suffocating glasses once more, and suddenly he wished he could see Bishop's eyes, if only so he could try to understand exactly what the man was thinking. "No, I'm most certainly not."

Bishop's mouth was a hard line, giving nothing away. "Explain to me the problem. I haven't the time to locate a scientific dictionary, so spare me the details and give it to me simply. What is the issue?"

Stockman took a deep breath, reaching for his clipboard; using it as an excuse to keep his hands busy as he pretended to flick through the pages he had long ago memorized. "Well, each of the specimens you brought in has been physically healthy, so there are no problems with the physic of the samples, however their brain function is undeniably inconsistent. The two brainwaves completely bypass each other, and unless consistency is achieved the serum is unable to take effect. I call it the Irregularity Disposition."

"I am not interested in what you have named your failure, Stockman, just tell me how I am to fix it."

"I would suggest bringing me two samples of equal strength; n-not physically, though. These specimens would have to be on equal telepathic wavelengths if the subconscious is to be controlled."

"And how exactly am I supposed to identify two specimens of equal brain function?" Bishop growled, the gun finally returning to its holster as he crossed his arms.

"Well… you, er… you can't. See, that's the tricky part."

As Bishop snarled, preparing to reach for his gun and end the misfortunate waste of millions of dollars, Stockman ducked behind his clipboard, completely trembling.

"There is another way!" he squeaked out, peering over the top of his notes. Bishop paused, and Stockman seized his chance. "As long as the specimens are of equal calibre mentally, or," he stressed the word, "if they're both at such a physical peak beyond plain healthy, they should be able to endure the treatment long enough for me to stabilize them without their bodies destroying themselves."

"So you are suggesting I bring you two athletic specimens?"

"Not just athletic. They'd have to be on a similar wavelength and have things in common if they're to have any chance of surviving the harnessing power of the serum. For that to work, there has to be some similarities; an in depth understanding of the other, if you will."

"You're really testing my patience, Stockman."

Stockman wanted to believe that the reason his eyes were watering was because of the overly-strong bleach, not the gun pointed between his eyes. Despite Stockman's shaking, even though he tried his hardest to fight the subconscious action, Bishop held the weapon with a steady hand, his finger gracing over the trigger unnervingly.

"Now, listen to me carefully, as I won't be repeating myself again. I am going to dispatch to you twelve of my finest men, and you are going to lead them to your chosen choices. You have one last chance to impress me, Stockman," he lowered the gun, turning his back on the whimpering scientist and the disgruntled mess of body parts. "I will not tolerate another report of failure."

The whoosh of the automatic doors, followed by the loud droning beep that signalled the locking mechanism, ensured Stockman that he was in fact alone once more. Left to the entrapment of the overpowering stench, the deafening hum of machines, and the insufferable glare of the artificial lighting, he tried to regain every breath that had fled from him at once. Chest heaving, his mouth full of saliva whereas only mere moments before it had been bone-dry, he threw the clipboard down and ran his hands through his hair, tugging tightly as if it could solve all of his problems.

Staring about the room, he found his eyes drawn to the overly-cluttered desk space where his computer taunted him with his mocking results. The line graph was made up of the latest subjects' results. For the first forty five minutes all had been well; the lines interwove and crossed, but by the first hour a spike had pivoted uncontrollably off the screen; one line shooting upwards, the other dragging down, and destruction had overtaken the situation, leaving the subjects to come to a splattered, unsatisfactory end.

"Where am I going to find two subjects strong enough to…" he trailed off, unable to finish. A sultry smirk wound its way upon his sallow lips and his tongue dashed out to lick them feverishly. His eyes darkened, as if something inside had sucked out all the light and replaced it with a malnourished blackness, so deep it seemed to break all rational thought.

"Oh," he grinned; a warped man's chuckle escaping him. "I think I have the exact duo in mind."