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IN THE 1900S
— - —
Two years drifted away like smoke, and the year was now 1926. Ivan, driven by a relentless pursuit of knowledge, burst through the heavy doors of the secure bunker that housed the children. His breath came in ragged gasps, the urgency of his mission etched upon his face. Flanked by his loyal security detail, he surveyed the chamber, the children's containment chambers standing resolute and untouched. His gaze landed upon a black, metal, rotary telephone resting on a nearby table.
Adjusting his lab coat, Ivan strode purposefully towards the children, his footsteps echoing in the silent chamber. The weight of the moment hung heavy in the air as he whispered a single word, invoking the raw power that resided within their dormant souls.
In a symphony of eerie synchronicity, the telephone rang, its shrill tone shattering the stillness. Ivan snatched up the receiver, his eyes narrowed with anticipation. The voice on the other end belonged to Dr. Kendra Wintersmith, her urgency palpable through the wires.
"Ivan, it's gone," Kendra's voice trembled, conveying a sense of both awe and trepidation.
His jaw clenched, Ivan absorbed the gravity of the situation. "What?" he demanded, his voice taut with an undercurrent of urgency.
"It's gone, Ivan. Just like before. It was there, and then… poof! The rod disappeared," Kendra relayed the disquieting observation.
A flicker of satisfaction danced in Ivan's eyes, though Kendra remained oblivious to his reaction. "Good. I will contact Ismael. Wait for further instructions," he instructed, his words laced with an unwavering resolve.
"Okay, Ivan," Kendra replied, her voice quivering, before ending the call. The symphony of anticipation continued to crescendo as they stood on the precipice of revelation, their destinies forever entwined with the awe-inspiring power of Project-001.
Without hesitation, Ivan dialed a familiar number, the connection a lifeline in the murky depths of their experiments. The timbre of Ismael's voice, aged and weathered, resonated with a sense of familiarity and comfort, a stark contrast to the labyrinthine path they now traversed.
"Ismael, Kendra informed me that the rod was vaporized," Ivan relayed the startling revelation, his voice echoing through the phone line.
Ismael's voice crackled with a mix of disbelief and uncertainty. "What? I can't— I don't— I don't even know what to say, Ivan," he stammered, the weight of their actions pressing upon his weary soul.
Ivan took a moment to collect himself, his determination piercing through the static-filled silence. "After that test, did you ensure that Dr. Lee placed the other rod? I am not satisfied, not yet," he demanded, his voice exuding an unwavering resolve.
"Yes, Ivan. I made sure of it. Lee reached out to me personally," Ismael confirmed, his words heavy with the shared burden they carried.
"Good," Ivan responded with a glimmer of satisfaction before abruptly ending the call. The weight of the situation bore down upon him, and he knew that time was a merciless adversary, forever ticking away.
Then, Ivan drew nearer to the nine containers, his every step echoed with purpose and determination. The weight of his actions pressed upon him, fueling the hushed whisper that escaped his lips. The chosen words, imbued with significance, resonated within the confined space like an incantation.
The air crackled with anticipation, pregnant with the knowledge of what was to come. Then, as it had so many times before, the phone rang, its shrill cry piercing the silence. The voice on the other end belonged to Dr. Lee, a trusted ally in this esoteric dance of power.
"Sir, 909-15. The rod has been vaporized," Dr. Lee reported, his words carrying a weight of both awe and reverence.
Ivan's response was swift, his satisfaction permeating the air. "Good. I am pleased with the results," he declared, his voice resonating with a mixture of pride and calculated purpose. Pausing briefly to gather his thoughts, he outlined his next directive with unwavering authority. "Contact Dr. Wintersmith immediately. Instruct her to return here, and make your own way back as well. We have testing to conduct."
"Very well, sir," Dr. Lee acknowledged, the gravity of their undertaking hanging heavy in the air. With that, he ended the call, the line falling silent once more.
Ivan lingered in the room for a moment longer, his gaze fixed upon the nine containers that held within them a power beyond mortal comprehension. The tests had yielded the expected results, each success further unraveling the mysteries of their creation. It was time to push forward, to seize the moment and unveil the true extent of their potential. He took a deep breath, his chest swelling with a potent mix of anticipation and trepidation, before turning to leave the room within the fortified depths of the bunker. His lab coat billowed behind him like a flag of scientific conquest.
The path ahead was fraught with uncertainty, but Ivan was undeterred. He would unlock the secrets that lay hidden within Item-001, his relentless pursuit of knowledge driving him ever onward. The echoes of his footsteps faded into the labyrinthine corridors, a symphony of determination echoing in his wake.
Ivan sank into the solitary chair within the dimly lit chamber, its discomfort a stark reminder of the weight upon his shoulders. The clock atop the wall struck with a relentless cadence, its chimes echoing through the chamber like an ominous refrain. Gone. Gone. Gone. Gone. Gone.
Time slipped through his fingers like grains of sand, each passing moment etching its mark upon his soul. The weight of his actions bore down upon him, the memory of what he had subjected those innocent children to alongside Ismael haunting his thoughts. The procedure, a dark pact forged in the name of progress, had left Ismael stricken with fear for Ivan's well-being. Though he pressed on, driven by an insatiable hunger for knowledge and an unwavering conviction in his cause.
With a resolute sigh, Ivan rose from his seat, his gaze fixed upon the nine containers that held both promise and peril. The memory of his past deeds hung heavy in the air, intertwined with the pulsating energy that surrounded them. And as the echoes of the clock reverberated through the chamber, he stepped forward once more, his voice carrying the weight of his intent.
The air crackled with anticipation, the room seemingly holding its breath in the wake of his proclamation. And as it had done so many times before, the phone rang, its insistent call cutting through the stillness. Ivan's hand moved with purpose, lifting the receiver to his ear. The voice on the other end belonged to his brother, a connection to the world beyond these hallowed halls.
"Brother, it vanished," Aleksander conveyed, his tone tinged with disbelief.
"What? It was a thousand kilometers away!" Ivan interjected, his voice laced with frustration.
"It's three meters in diameter, Ivan," Aleksander retorted, his words carrying the weight of reason.
A moment of tense silence followed, their connection strained by the weight of their shared responsibilities. Ivan's voice, filled with both conviction and impatience, cut through the silence. "I'm well aware of its dimensions, Alek," he replied curtly, the lines of determination etched upon his brow. With that, he abruptly ended the call, severing the link that bound them together.
Returning to the solitary chair, Ivan settled once more, the weight of his choices pressing upon him like an inescapable abyss. The relentless ticking of the clock echoed in his ears, its relentless rhythm a cruel reminder of the finite time he had left. Only two more tests remained, two more steps to complete Project-001, a creation that had consumed his very being.
The room fell into an eerie silence, broken only by the haunting echoes of the clock. Gone. Gone. Gone. Gone. Gone. Gone. Gone.
Each passing second served as a grim reminder of the precipice upon which they stood. The Finger of God awaited its final unveiling, a manifestation of power that had the potential to shape worlds or consume them in its wake.
Ivan's resolve hardened as he cast aside caution and embraced audacity. No longer content with the confines of small-scale tests, he yearned for something grand, something that would leave an indelible mark upon the annals of history. The weight of his actions would be questioned by the 909 Council, but Ivan cared not for their inquiries. He had reached a point where the ends justified the means.
Taking a deep breath, Ivan rose from his chair and approached the still, silent children. They stood as monuments to both promise and peril, their presence a testament to the unknown powers they possessed. His voice, barely a whisper, carried across the chamber.
"The Church of the Broken God worship site, situated in Gyumri, Armenia."
The words hung in the air, pregnant with anticipation. And as the echoes of his command faded, the phone rang once more, its unearthly tone resonating through the chamber. The voice on the other end, shrouded in mystery and unorthodoxy, relayed the news.
"The worship site has vanished, 909-15. Witnesses are present, however," the voice spoke, its words carrying a weight beyond comprehension.
"It's gone? Excellent!" Ivan exclaimed, a glimmer of satisfaction cutting through his initial jubilation. But then a realization struck him like a bolt of lightning. "Hold on, witnesses? Shit, an oversight on my part," he muttered, a tinge of frustration lacing his words.
An air of urgency settled over the conversation as the voice sought guidance. "What do we do, sir 909-15?" it inquired, awaiting Ivan's direction.
Ivan paused for a moment, his mind racing through the possibilities. "Administer Class A amnestics promptly," he replied, his voice firm and unwavering. "If the Foundation hesitates, remind them of our alliance. They will provide the necessary support," he reassured, his faith in their partnership unyielding.
"Understood, sir 909-15. It seems that we've prepared someone for testing," the voice informed, its tone tinged with a mix of trepidation and anticipation.
"Very well," Ivan acknowledged, his mind already calculating the variables. "Name?" he requested, ready to set the wheels of fate in motion.
"Aram Sarkisian. Armenian male. Thirty-three years old," the voice answered, a final piece added to the intricate puzzle they were assembling.
Ivan nodded, his conviction unspoken yet tangible in the silence. He sank back into the worn chair, his mind awash with both excitement and apprehension. The convergence of faith, science, and the unknown beckoned him forward, as he stood on the precipice of a revelation that could reshape their understanding of the universe.
Ivan sat motionless in his weathered chair, his gaze fixed upon the children encased in their silent chambers. They stood as sentinels of immense power, the embodiment of a legacy spanning centuries. In that solemn moment, Ivan grasped the delicate balance they tread upon, their destiny teetering between triumph and cataclysmic downfall. Their potential to reshape the world hung heavy in the air, intertwining with the weight of their lineage.
With a profound sense of gravity, Ivan's eyes closed, his voice barely a whisper as he communed with the vast mysteries that surrounded them. His words, a forbidden secret shared with the cosmos itself, resonated in the depths of his being. "Just one more test," he murmured, his voice carrying a tremor of both anticipation and apprehension.
The echoes of fragmented conversations reverberated through the corridors of his mind, piecing together the puzzle of their journey. The realization unfolded before him, like an intricate tapestry weaving a path forward. He had been instructed to subject a specific individual to the might of Item-001, the children. And so, with the weight of responsibility resting upon his shoulders, Ivan whispered his command to the enigmatic figures before him. His voice, tinged with a mix of reverence and determination, gave life to the chosen name.
He intoned the activation words, his words shaping the fate of their final test.
No sooner had the syllables left his lips than the persistent ring of the telephone pierced the chamber once more. Ivan seized the receiver, his fingers gripping it tightly as he absorbed the news that awaited him.
"Vaporized, sir 909-15," the voice conveyed, its words punctuating the air with a somber finality.
"He was vaporized? Excellent," Ivan responded, his voice betraying a mixture of satisfaction and resolve. But his thirst for knowledge remained unquenched, his curiosity extending beyond mere destruction. His thoughts shifted to the witnesses who had inadvertently borne witness to their unfathomable power.
"As for the remaining witnesses," Ivan began, his voice steady and resolute, "release them from their captive state. Our focus must shift from targeting specific locations to directing our might upon individuals or groups. It seems targeting a specific location fails to yield the desired results. Direct focus on individuals or groups is essential for their complete annihilation, such as the Church of the Broken God's place of worship in Gyumri," he declared, his words infused with a chilling determination. The path forward had crystallized before him, and there would be no wavering.
"Consider that test the culmination, Hamilton," Ivan concluded, his command imparted with a sense of finality.
"Absolutely, sir 909-15," Hamilton responded, his voice carrying the weight of their shared purpose. With those words, the connection was severed, and silence reclaimed the chamber.
Ivan settled back into his chair, the weight of the world resting upon his weary shoulders. The steady tick of the clock echoed through the room, each beat a reminder of the inexorable march towards their ultimate destination. Gone. Gone. Gone. Gone. Gone. Gone. Gone.
The final act awaited, the unveiling of the end drawing near. Ivan braced himself, knowing that the path they had forged was fraught with peril and consequence. But he remained steadfast, his resolve unyielding as he stood poised on the precipice of an unprecedented revelation.
As Ivan emerged from the chamber's depths, the weight of his recent accomplishments pressed upon his weary frame. The resounding success of Theta-9 and Item-001 had reverberated through the Council's administration, leaving an indelible mark upon their collective consciousness. The triumph they had achieved ignited a fervor within their ranks, a newfound hope that the threat of Abaddon could finally be eradicated once and for all. Amidst the celebration and anticipation, a cloud of concern cast its shadow upon Ivan's path.
Chris, his longtime friend and ally, had begun to harbor misgivings about the direction in which Ivan had steered the program. The once meticulous and scientific updates that Ivan provided had gradually evolved into something altogether different — more philosophical, more spiritual. It was a divergence from the foundation upon which their work had been built, a deviation that troubled Chris deeply.
Outside the confines of the bunker, Ivan's gaze fell upon Saunders, a figure who had witnessed the tumultuous relationship between Ivan and 909-13. Seeking solace in his presence, Ivan addressed him, struggling to find the right words that would avoid the taint of vulgarity.
"Saunders," Ivan spoke, his voice tinged with a mixture of weariness and urgency. "Where have you been since your… uh, let's find a suitable term… since your liaison with 909-13? Fuck, I can't seem to conjure a non-offensive word."
Saunders appeared visibly irked by the mention of the incident. "Please, Ivan, let's not dwell on that," he replied curtly. "I've been conducting research, and Chris — forgive me, 'Administrator Walker' — instructed me to deliver this message to you."
With a sense of trepidation, Ivan accepted the letter, his fingers trembling slightly as he tore it open. The words inscribed within carried a mix of reassurance and bitter truth. Chris acknowledged Ivan's invaluable contributions but informed him of a forthcoming demotion. Once the mission to vanquish the Kingdom of Abaddon reached its conclusion, Ivan would be relegated to the role of director and relocated to the newly constructed Site-03. The decision was framed as a necessary sacrifice for the greater good of the Council and, perhaps, the world.
Ivan crumpled the letter in his hand, his face contorted with a mixture of disbelief and indignation. "What? I am the founder of the 909 Council! Chris has no right to strip me of my position simply because he holds a higher rank than us Consulates."
Saunders interjected, his tone laced with a hint of correction. "Technically, Ivan, you were the second founder," he pointed out.
"Enough! That is irrelevant," Ivan snapped back, his frustration palpable. He sighed heavily, his anger momentarily giving way to resignation. "I will compose a message to 'Administrator Walker' promptly. We shall address this matter directly."
With a curt nod, Ivan and Saunders embarked on the journey back to Quito, their footsteps accompanied by the weight of unspoken turmoil. "Administrator Walker, a ridiculous fucking codename," Ivan muttered under his breath, his voice carrying a blend of disdain and resignation.
In the wake of the disheartening news, Ivan wasted no time in crafting a response to Chris. His letter, devoid of embellishments, bore the essence of stoic determination in just three succinct sentences, and straight to the point.
"I am fine, Administrator. The project is finished. We will complete our task when you arrive."
Meanwhile, Ivan found himself standing amidst the desolation of Site-122, once a bustling town that now lay barren and devoid of life. It was a stark testament to the toll their project had exacted, a scar upon the face of Quito itself. His gaze swept over the ruins, settling upon the imposing structure that loomed before him — the Basilica del Voto Nacional Church. It held a significance that resonated deeply within him, for it was here that Ivan, accompanied by his soldiers had launched their audacious assault. It was within these sacred walls that they had silenced the voice of the priest in crimson, their actions leaving an indelible stain upon the hallowed grounds. It was within these walls that they had taken twenty-three innocent souls captive, subjecting them to the merciless trials of their project. And it was here that the children had been acquired by the hands of Ivan and Ismael.
As Ivan's gaze shifted downward, he became acutely aware of the sand accumulating within the crevices of his worn shoes. When he lifted his eyes once more to survey the landscape, the vast expanse stretched out before him, void of any signs of life. To his left, an emptiness hung in the air. To his right, the absence of companionship loomed large. And there he sat, a solitary figure in the midst of the aftermath.
The azure sky stretched out above, its serene beauty a stark contrast to the desolation below. Ivan found himself at the precipice of reflection, contemplating the choices that had brought them to this point. The echoes of their ambitions and the burdens they bore reverberated within his weary mind. How far had they ventured from the realm of science and reason? How had their pursuit of power led them down this treacherous path, where the boundaries of ethics and morality had blurred beyond recognition?
In this moment of solitude, Ivan grappled with the weight of ruin, a burden that bore down upon his shoulders. The remnants of Quito whispered of a world forever altered, of lives shattered and sacrificed upon the altar of ambition. And as he sat there, the silence punctuated only by the soft rustle of sand, he sought solace and, perhaps, a glimmer of redemption amidst the wreckage.
But then, a phone is ringing.
Ivan stands outside of a church. Its walls, rotted and crumbling, strain to hold up the towering, pockmarked roof above it. One of the doors hangs loose on a single hinge, swaying softly in the wind. The windows, long since stripped of their panes and frames, whistle an eerie song as the wind slices through them. The entire structure creaks and groans.
A phone is ringing.
Ivan looks behind him. He can see Aleksander standing next to their car, watching him. Between the haze of the dust and the setting sun, he almost looks like a mirage. He’s too far away, and Ivan can’t make out his features. All he sees is his brother’s coat, whipping in the wind, and the dark glasses on his face.
A phone is ringing.
Ivan looks off in the distance, and sees fire. He hears the moaning and screeching of metal on metal, and sees smoke rising over the mountains. Every so often he hears the thunderous cacophony of an explosion rip across the badlands and sees lights flashing across the horizon. He sees, very briefly, a clockwork mountain, illuminated by an inferno. A dark star hangs low in the sky.
A phone is ringing.
Ivan hears voices. Nine voices, calling to him from the earth. They know. They know he carries the trigger, and they ache for its release. They cry out to him, begging him for the elation of their own torment. They cannot hear each other, but they can hear him. Each footstep sends their tiny bodies writhing in their concrete tombs, their broken arms outstretched, grasping towards a god they cannot see. “Come back,” they say. “Make us whole again.”
A phone is ringing.
Ivan steps towards the church, but his gait is unsure and his pace wavers. Inside the church, he will find truth. The sky burns bright in the light of a blighted god. Horror seeps through the soil, wrapping tiny, shredded fingers around his shoes. He pulls away, and struggles towards the church. The sun sinks below the mountains, and as it does he sees a Red Right Hand hanging in the heavens. The wind knocks the doors of the church wide, and from within its ruined hall he hears the sound of laughter — a chilling, deranged laughter.
Inside the church, a phone is ringing.
— - —
A month later, Ivan found himself standing shoulder to shoulder with Chris, surrounded by the members of the Theta-9 research team. A glass of water circulated amongst them, passing from hand to hand. Laughter, warm and buoyant, echoed through the air, punctuated by Ismael's infectious mirth. It was a moment of respite amidst the chaos, a brief interlude of levity within their arduous journeys.
As the glass reached Ivan's hand, he took a sip, relishing the cool embrace of the water as it quenched his thirst. A mischievous grin danced upon his lips as he jestingly remarked, "I bet you could live forever if you drank this stuff every day." His words hung in the air, tinged with a blend of jest and fascination.
Amidst the camaraderie and shared laughter, Ivan's attention was drawn to Antonina, her actions speaking volumes. His keen eyes caught a glimpse of her surreptitiously stashing a vial of the water within her bag. Curiosity sparked within him, a flicker of intrigue at the notion that this liquid held a power that transcended the ordinary.
Ivan awoke to a new morning, free from the aches that had plagued his body for a decade.
In the same morning, Ivan found himself standing once again at the threshold of Site-122, accompanied by a retinue of researchers from Theta-9 and the assistant leads: Saunders, Antonina, and 909-13.
Their journey came to a halt, and as the doors swung open, Chris emerged, greeted by Ivan, the assistant leads, and the formidable figures of Theta-9. However, as Ivan locked eyes with Chris, a peculiar glint flickered within his gaze — a glimmer of madness, as if he had become consumed by his work and lost a fragment of himself along the way.
However, Chris, undeterred, dismissed the unsettling demeanor with a firm retort. "Ah, Chris—" he began, only to be swiftly interrupted.
"Again, Ivan. It's Administrator Walker." Chris's words pierced the air, his frustration evident.
Ivan's response, laced with defiance, rang out. "Shut the fuck up, I'm one of the founders," he retorted, unyielding in his claim. "I was the one who envisioned the 909 Council, and you appropriated the idea, relegating me to the status of 'second founder,' you insufferable bitch."
As tensions simmered, Chris's patience wore thin. "Just shut up and lead me to Item-001," he demanded, weary of their tangled relationship. Ivan nodded, acknowledging the directive.
Accompanied by Antonina, they advanced, guided by the agents through the bustling corridors of Site-122. Along the way, they encountered other Council scientists, exchanging nods and fleeting gestures of camaraderie. Finally, they arrived at the designated viewing area, where the awe-inspiring capabilities of Item-001 were to be unveiled.
Stepping forward, Chris made a request of Ivan. "Ivan, can I accompany you?" he inquired, a glimmer of hope in his eyes.
Ivan raised an eyebrow, skepticism etching his features. "Administrator Walker, we cannot afford the presence of anyone else besides myself, understood?" he asserted, his tone brooking no argument. Chris heaved a weary sigh. "Yes, Ivan," he conceded.
With a nod of acknowledgment, Antonina and the agents guided Chris to the designated viewing point, while Ivan forged ahead, venturing into the chamber that housed the relocated children. As the doors sealed shut behind him, Ivan glanced back, catching a final glimpse of Chris, the agents, and Antonina. Then, with an air of finality, Antonina departed.
In the protected confines of the viewing room, Administrator Walker and the other agents stood witness, their collective gaze fixed upon the chamber that housed Ivan and his formidable creation. The culmination of relentless toil, a monument built upon countless hours, torrents of sweat and tears, and an undercurrent of bloodshed — the time had come to ascertain if their audacious endeavor would yield the desired outcome.
Ivan's eyes flickered, his gaze meeting Ismael's in a fleeting moment. He approached his comrade with a sense of urgency, conveying a solemn command. "Ismael, run the instant it's been done," he whispered, the weight of his words heavy with foreboding. Ismael nodded in silent understanding as Ivan left him behind, retracing his steps toward the resolute figures of the Children. He leaned in closer, his breath mingling with their ethereal presence.
With that invocation, a dazzling radiance enveloped the nine children, casting an incandescent emerald glow that transcended the boundaries of comprehension. Those observing, their eyes filled with anticipation, could only surmise the monumental events unfurling in the far-off Kingdom of Abaddon. Something of immense magnitude had been set into motion, its impact shrouded in mystery, yet undeniably colossal.
Ivan himself was acutely aware of the gravity of the moment. In a fleeting instant, his gaze shifted towards the observing chamber, locking onto the figure of Chris, Administrator Walker, whose fate now lay intertwined with the pulsating heart of the Children. With an unspoken resolve, Ivan leaned forward once more, his voice carrying across the chamber.
Ivan's attention snapped back to Chris. There, in the blink of an eye, Chris was gone; vaporized, reduced to naught but fragments in the wake of the cataclysmic power he had sought to control.
A surge of adrenaline coursed through Ivan's veins, a primal instinct urging him to flee. Gunshots rang out from the observing chamber, echoing through the corridors as chaos unfurled. Ivan's feet propelled him forward with a frenzied pace, a symphony of pounding footsteps heralding his desperate escape from the crossfire that now consumed the realm he once called home.
As Ivan and Ismael raced through the corridors, their footsteps echoing with a sense of urgency, a devilish smile danced upon Ivan's lips. His actions had set in motion a chain of events that reverberated through the very fabric of their once unassailable organization. Armed men, their former comrades, stormed the chamber they had just left behind, intent on capturing the renegade souls who dared defy their established order.
Ismael, his breath labored and words punctuated by huffs of exertion, voiced his concern. "Holy shit, Ivan," he managed between gasps. "What's our next move? We're being pursued by our own guards, for fuck's sake!"
Ivan ran, a force of determination propelling him forward, his mind aflame with a singular purpose. "It had to be done," he replied cryptically, a mischievous glint shining in his eyes. Ismael raised an eyebrow, seeking clarity amidst the chaos that enveloped them. "What do you mean by that?" he pressed for answers.
Patience, my friend. All will be revealed in due time," Ivan interjected, his voice carrying a note of enigma. "Once we reach the bunker I have meticulously prepared, we shall discuss our next course of action. There, we shall find solace and safety."
"AWOL," Ivan whispered to the recesses of his mind, the weight of his actions settling upon him. "Defection, perhaps. I'll tell in Saunders, Hudson, my dear brother Aleksander, and anyone willing to break free from these shackles of obedience."
Their pace quickened, the adrenaline coursing through their veins lending them an otherworldly swiftness. The renegades raced against time, their footsteps echoing their newfound rebellion. In the chapters that unfolded, Ivan and his chosen few severed their allegiance to the once hallowed halls of the Theta-9 Research team. The echo of their footsteps was soon joined by the footfalls of their former colleagues, one by one relinquishing their vows of loyalty. Even the esteemed Consulates of the 909 Council could no longer ignore the allure of emancipation, with 909-10, David Hunter, tendering his resignation and the likes of Francisco, Hudson, and Antonina joining the ranks of the defectors.
— - —
In the stillness of a tiny bunker, Ismael Cohen sipped his drink. A half-finished bottle and a loaded pistol sat on the countertop nearby. Thin bands of twilight peeked in through the slits of the carved out windows, illuminating the prone form of Ivan Hilohiko on the ground in front of him.
Ismael sat the glass aside and took a long drag on a cigarette, his eyes squinting against the luminescence. A moment later, Ivan stirred. He pushed himself up onto his elbows, one hand wiping sleep and saliva out of his beard. His face, puffy and red, turned to face Ismael.
“What happened?” he croaked. “Where are we?” He looked down at his hands. They were still trembling. “Did it work?”
Ismael took another drag of the cigarette. Smoke flowed slowly out of his nostrils, catching the light in front of him. He was barely visible behind the haze. “He’s dead.” Ismael’s eyes focused on some point in the distance. “It worked.”
For a long moment, Ivan did not move. Then — suddenly — he slammed his fist into the ground.
“Yes,” he hissed through his clenched jaw. “Yes.”
Ismael’s expression was distant. “We almost died, you know.” He dribbled ash on the carpet to his right. “Some of us didn’t make it.”
Ivan staggered upright, then fell down with his back against the wall. He held out his hand; Ismael passed him the cigarette.
“How many?” Ivan asked.
“You and I. Hudson. Francisco. McLean.” Ismael counted on his fingers. “Five total. Hudson has already reached out to researchers at other sites. Some of them are reaching out to us. Everyone is scared shitless.” He took another drink. “Thought you might be dead.”
Ivan rubbed his temples. “I don’t remember much.” He looked over at Ismael. “You look younger.”
“Yeah. We all do. That water will do that.” He finished his glass. “We’ve got a lot of work to do, Ivan. But before we start, you need to tell me why you did it.”
Ivan shook his head. “It doesn’t matter now. It’s done.”
“Fuck you. It does matter.” Something had changed; there was a distance between them. “We did things — I did things — that will haunt me till the day I die. But we did them anyway, because we were saving the world. You had the chance to destroy Abaddon. And you didn’t.”
His voice grew hard and cold. “You told me to run the moment you activated them, the Children. You told me not to ask why. So that’s what I did. I trusted you, because you’ve never given me a reason not to. But now? I’ve got several. You need to tell me why you killed Christopher Walker.”
They were silent for a good, long while. Ivan worked on finishing the cigarette; Ismael poured himself another drink. As he leaned back against the wall, Ivan could see faint, pinkish swelling around Ismael’s eyes.
“There was no Abaddon,” Ivan finally said. “There never was. It was bait.”
Ismael drew in a ragged breath. “How do you know?”
“Because he told me, Ismael.”
“What?”
“And when I didn’t believe him,” Ivan continued, “he showed me.” He let the silence speak for him; when he grew tired of what it had to say, he went on. “It was just before the Congo site. I was there, with him.” Ivan exhaled. Wisps of smoke swirled from his nostrils, climbing toward the ceiling.
Ismael said nothing. Ivan examined the cigarette. “I don’t know what the hell he is. He was probably human, once. Maybe. But not anymore. He can do things — impossible things. When the site fell…” He closed his eyes. “I watched him level an entire facility, Ismael. One man. That’s all it took. That’s all Abaddon was.”
“Why would he—”
Ivan’s eyes opened. “I think he saw in me a kindred spirit.” Then, softer: “I watched him press through concrete and rebar as if they were soft, wet paste. I watched a man exhale his own skeleton as a thick, yellow fog. I watched a woman’s blood solidify into crystal — as sharp as diamond and as brittle as chalk. He let me watch, because he knew no one would believe me. He let me watch, because… I think he wanted to see what I would do.”
Ismael struggled to speak; his voice caught in his throat. “So you destroyed him.”
Ivan was very still. “Yes. I knew I didn’t have the kind of power I needed to kill him, and…” He stopped and stood up, searching for another bottle. When he found one, he didn’t look at the label. He poured himself another drink.
“Maybe he wanted to see if I could — if I would. Maybe he just wanted to see that power himself. In some of his correspondence, early on, he would describe anomalies as ‘glorious’. He talked about them like you might talk about a sunrise. I think… I don’t know. I don’t think it was ever enough for him. I don’t think anything was.” Ivan finished his glass in a single pull.
“He’s the cancer, Ismael. It wasn’t Abaddon. It was the Administrator. He had to be destroyed. The whole thing had to be destroyed. It was rotten down to its core.” He lifted the bottle to pour himself another drink.
Ismael’s breathing was heavy and shaking. It took him a moment to speak again — and when he did, he trembled with a barely-suppressed sob.
“If you knew… this whole time — we could’ve stopped, Ivan. We could’ve — we could’ve spared them, we could’ve—”
Ivan brought the bottle down hard. “No, Ismael. We needed the Children. If we didn’t have them, I wouldn’t have been able to—”
Ismael’s voice swelled with fury. “We sliced them open and cut into their fucking brains!”
Ivan grimaced. Ismael reached for the counter, steadying himself. “I — I strapped children down to fucking operating tables, Ivan. I strapped them down and I helped you carve out every last inch of who they were. They screamed and screamed, and we kept carving. And then the screams got softer, and softer, until they were just tiny, broken sounds, little wet sobs you had to strain to hear, and then, one day they didn’t make any sound at all, and…”
Ismael’s voice fell into shaky, wheezing breaths. He closed his eyes and counted to ten.
“You said Dr. Walker just wanted to see if it could be done. But what about you?” He opened his eyes. “Why didn’t you stop it?”
“I told you. We needed it to kill—”
“I don’t believe you.”
Neither spoke.
Ismael pushed himself away from the counter. “Once the Council collapses, we’ll have a lot of work to do.” His voice was treacherously calm; like a razor-thin layer of ice spread across the surface of dark water.
“Hudson is assembling the researchers and finding us a space to operate from. They all think the Administrator aligned himself with Abaddon. They think you’re some sort of hero. They expect you to lead. And that’s precisely what you’re going to do.”
“Ismael.” Ivan turned to him, his eyes glassy and wide — as if viewing something from a distance. “You saw it too, didn’t you? The moment that it happened — that it destroyed him. That moment, you saw it. Didn’t you?”
“Yeah. I saw it.”
“Wasn’t it…” Ivan searched for the right word. “Wasn’t it…”
“It was nothing,” Ismael replied. “Just another body beneath the foundation.”
— - —
In the wake of their audacious defection, Ivan Hilohiko, former Consulates, and his compatriots from Theta-9, once steadfast pillars of the 909 Council, believed that their betrayal would strike a fatal blow to the foundations of their former organization. With the resignation of 909-10, they were convinced that the Council's structure would crumble under the weight of their rebellion. However, reality had other plans.
Instead of succumbing to the chaos sown by their abandonment, the 909 Council proved resilient, adapting and reorganizing itself in the face of adversity. Like a monstrous hydra, it sprouted new heads, promoting fresh faces to the positions of power left vacant by the defectors. From the ashes of their betrayal rose a new generation of Consulates, handpicked by the Council's unseen machinations.
It was under these circumstances that a figure known as Francis Bishop emerged as the Council's new leader, assuming the mantle of 909-15. Whispers carried his name, and in hushed tones, he became known as "The Totalitarian." The moniker, steeped in both fear and awe, encapsulated the iron-fisted control he wielded over the Council's operations.
As the Totalitarian ascended to the pinnacle of authority, a dark cloud of oppression settled over the remnants of the 909 Council. His grip tightened, veiling the once-secretive organization in an atmosphere of absolute control. Francis Bishop, shrouded in secrecy and cloaked in a veneer of unyielding power, became the embodiment of the Council's tenacity, refusing to be swayed by the defections of those who had once been its core.
Within the Council's fortified halls, whispers of dissent were swiftly silenced, and murmurs of rebellion dissipated in the face of the Totalitarian's ruthless determination. Ivan and his allies, now renegades in the eyes of their former comrades, found themselves confronted by an adversary more formidable than they could have ever imagined. The Council, under the Totalitarian's iron rule, had become a force that refused to wither and die.
As Ivan and his loyal companions braced themselves for the inevitable clash with their former organization, they knew that the road ahead would be treacherous. The Totalitarian's grip on power was unyielding, and the 909 Council, though wounded, continued to march forward with chilling resolve. In this twisted dance of defiance and oppression, the stage was set for a battle that would determine the fate of all those entangled in the web of anomalies.
With each passing day, the divide between the defectors and the 909 Council deepened, until it became an unbridgeable chasm. Ivan and his compatriots steeled themselves for the impending conflict, knowing that they would face not only the might of their former organization but also the relentless determination of the Totalitarian himself. Their rebellion had awakened a beast that refused to be tamed, and in the face of this unyielding foe, they would have to summon every ounce of their courage and resourcefulness.
Panama sprawled before them, its landscapes echoing with the secrets of hidden alliances and shattered loyalties. As Ivan and Ismael traversed the land, a figure emerged from the depths of the Panamanian backdrop. Ivan's gaze locked onto the man's visage, recognizing him instantly. It was Aaron Siegel, a figure of authority and consequence, the very founder of the SCP Foundation. What brought the Foundation to these lands? Had their tenuous alliance with the 909 Council crumbled in the wake of their audacious defection?
But instead of hostility, a shared recognition sparked between Ivan and Aaron, their strides hastening, voices carried by the winds that whispered secrets. "Aaron!" Ivan's voice rang out, a mixture of relief and surprise.
"Ivan!" Aaron shouted in response, his own sense of astonishment mirrored in his eyes.
The two men met, their reunion punctuated by a blend of camaraderie and intrigue. "Good to see you again, Aaron Siegel," Ivan greeted, his voice laced with a tinge of nostalgia.
"Likewise, Ivan," Aaron offered, his words echoing a sense of shared history. Aaron's gaze shifted, scanning the surroundings, his curiosity evident. Sensing the unspoken questions, Ivan reassured him with a knowing nod. "They have defected from the Council, Aaron," he disclosed, his voice a whisper carried on the breeze. "Myself, along with some Consulates like Hudson and Francisco. Members of Theta-9 have joined our cause as well."
Aaron absorbed the information, his expression a tapestry of contemplation. "You see, Ivan," he began, his voice carrying the weight of revelation, "we have defected too. Myself, a handful of Overseers, and our Omega-5 research team."
Ivan's eyebrow arched in intrigue, his curiosity ignited. "Remember our projects, Aaron?" he posed, a glimmer of recollection dancing in his eyes. "Ours was the 'Finger of God' project, and yours…"
"The Twins of God," Aaron interjected, his voice brimming with shared memories.
"Yes, precisely," Ivan affirmed. "That very project."
Aaron's gaze held Ivan's, the unspoken bond of kindred spirits forged in rebellion. "What about it, Ivan?" Aaron prodded, eager to unearth the secrets that bound their destinies.
"I… I used the Children to strike down our Administrator, the one who held our chains," Ivan confessed, his voice laden with the weight of his choices. "That act led me to defect from the Council. And you, Aaron?"
A wry smile played upon Aaron's lips, a testament to the unexpected parallels that intertwined their fates. "Funny, isn't it?" Aaron replied, his voice tinged with both irony and resolve. "We walked the same path. We too utilized nine children to kill the Administrator, Frederick Williams. That act led me to defection."
Silence settled between them, their eyes locked in a shared understanding. The shadows of their past converged, and from the depths of their defiance, a newfound alliance emerged, like two mighty rivers merging into a torrent of rebellion.
— - —
The tapestry of destiny wove a new chapter in the annals of defiance as Ivan Hilohiko and Aaron Siegel, the prodigal founders of their organizations, forged an unholy alliance. With resolute determination, they embarked on a perilous journey to create an organization that would stand against their former comrades. In the darkness of clandestine endeavors, their insurgent force took shape, guided by a figure known only as "The Engineer." The name of their resistance, dripped with irony, a testament to the fractured unity within its ranks.
Under the guidance of Delta Command, this new organization — or perhaps an insurgency — sought to bind the once-squabbling factions of what had once been known as "The Insurgency." Each of the seven disparate groups sent forth a representative, converging under the banner of Delta. The Engineer, weary from attempting to orchestrate the harmony among these fractious elements, had jestingly declared, "Never in history has a more chaotic insurgency been mishandled into existence." Little did they know that the name would resonate, embraced by those who sought to challenge the established order. Delta, however, saw a need for distinction and refinement, deeming the title "Chaotic Insurgency" insufficient for their cause.
Thus, the name Chaos Insurgency was etched in blood and whispered in the shadows — a dark symphony that echoed through the clandestine corridors of power. In the heart of their newfound organization, Ivan and Aaron stood as pillars of rebellion, their once-separate destinies interwoven in a tapestry of subversion. United under the banner of chaos, the Chaos Insurgency rose as a formidable force, challenging the very fabric of reality.
Within the depths of their insurgency, ancient relics of power were unleashed, experiments pushed to their limits, and anomalous phenomena harnessed for their own nefarious ends. The Chaos Insurgency emerged as a dark reflection, a distorted mirror image of the establishments they had once called their own. No longer bound by the constraints of morality or ethical considerations, they embraced the darkness that dwelled within, reveling in the chaotic dance of anomalies.
Their rebellion, shrouded in secrecy, cast a sinister shadow over the established order. The Chaos Insurgency became a whispered name, a haunting specter that struck fear into the hearts of those who clung to the crumbling pillars of control. From the depths of their hidden strongholds, they orchestrated covert operations, dismantling the foundations of their former organizations with calculated precision.
As the world teetered on the precipice of chaos, the Chaos Insurgency emerged as a beacon of defiance, their actions rewriting the rules of power. In this twisted dance of rebellion, Ivan and Aaron found solace, knowing that their destinies were forever entwined in the embrace of chaos. Together, they would carve a new path, a path forged in the fires of rebellion and etched with the echoes of defiance.
From the depths of shadows, a few unassuming warehouses nestled amidst the hearts of Somalia and France emerged as a clandestine haven for the defiant souls who had forsaken their former allegiances. Ivan Hilohiko, weathered by time's relentless grasp, stood resolute at the forefront, his bearded countenance a testament to the battles waged and the wisdom amassed. By his side, Aaron Siegel, an embodiment of restrained determination, exuded an air of enigmatic intensity, their shared purpose intertwining their fates. They thought the name was ridiculous — most of them did.
Ismael Cohen, a steadfast companion weathered by countless storms, stood by Ivan's left, while Vincent Arians, a figure cloaked in intensity, mirrored his presence at Aaron's right. Together, they commanded the loyalty of those who had abandoned the SCP Foundation and the 909 Council, forging an alliance that defied the constraints of convention. Among their ranks stood Felix Carter, a relic of the Foundation's once-unyielding authority. Alongside them, former Dr. Hudson Theodore and Francisco Santos Silva brought the wisdom and conviction of the 909 Council, their experiences merging with the resolve of the insurgents. And at Ivan's side, his brother Aleksander, their kinship amplifying the gravity of their shared purpose.
Within the heart of their clandestine sanctuary, a grand circular table beckoned, its vacant chairs yearning to bear the weight of their defiance. As each insurgent settled into their designated seat, a charged silence embraced the room, anticipation mingling with determination. They understood the significance of their actions, the ripples of consequence that reverberated through their gathering.
Breaking the silence, Ivan's voice resonated with a measured intensity, embodying the trials endured and the unyielding resolve that propelled them forward. "Brothers and sisters," he began, his words imbued with the weight of experience, "we stand united against the oppressive forces that seek dominion over the anomalies that shape our world. We have cast aside our former masters, renouncing the systems that have failed us time and time again."
Aaron's gaze, sharp and penetrating, swept across the room, his voice a steady rumble that resonated with unyielding conviction. "Though our paths may diverge, our cause remains unwavering. We forge a new future, liberated from the shackles of blind authority. The Chaos Insurgency shall serve as the instrument of our emancipation."
Echoing through the chamber, a symphony of voices rose in unison, each defector weaving their own hopes and fears into the fabric of their collective purpose. Discussions danced between strategies and alliances, secrets and shared visions, as the insurgents traversed the delicate balance between their own agendas and the threads that bound them together.
Amidst the fervent discourse, Ivan and Aaron exchanged a knowing glance, a silent understanding that their destinies were inextricably entwined. It spoke volumes of the intricate tapestry of alliances and rivalries that wove its threads within the rebellion's foundation. Within this fragile web of defiance, their every action would shape the very fabric of the new world they sought to forge.
As the embers of their shared determination burned brighter, they realized that the journey ahead would demand sacrifice, resilience, and an unwavering belief in the cause that bound them. The Chaos Insurgency had been born, and its path would be marked by the weavers of rebellion, stitching together the disparate fragments of their shattered pasts to forge a future illuminated by the light of freedom and defiance.
— - —
With a thunderous crash, Ivan Hilohiko burst through the sealed doorway, shards of twisted metal cascading into the room like fallen stars. Adorned in tactical armor, a firearm gripped tightly in his hand, he exuded a formidable presence. While Aaron Siegel immersed himself in the machinations of the Insurgency, particularly his friend Vincent Arians, Ivan embarked on a mission of his own. In a swift and calculated maneuver, he and a contingent of agents, including his unwavering brother, stormed the safehouse of the 909 Council's Site-56.
As they scoured the premises, Ivan's keen gaze fell upon an object of profound significance. He stooped down, retrieved it from the ground, and held it aloft, his eyes gleaming with recognition. "The Fountain of Youth," he declared, his voice reverberating with weighty revelation. In an instant, his comrades converged upon him, their curiosity ignited. Ivan turned to the Insurgency agents, his tone resolute. "This vial contains the essence of the Fountain of Youth," he proclaimed. "It was the elixir that my fellow Consulates and I, before our defection, consumed to extend our lives and restore youth to our weary bodies."
A smile graced Aleksander's lips, his understanding of its significance deeply personal. Among the insurgents, a dark-haired individual with piercing hazel eyes approached Ivan, seeking elucidation. "What does it truly entail?"
Ivan's smile held a hint of melancholy wisdom. "This elixir possesses the power to restore life, heal ailments, and rejuvenate the aging. Though with each sip, a part of one's essence withers away, sacrificed upon the altar of perpetual existence."
Aleksander donned his helmet, his determination unwavering. The insurgent who had questioned Ivan, along with the others, stood in silent awe, grappling with the weight of this revelation. Ivan seized the moment, swiftly gathering several vials of the elixir into his possession, but before his thoughts could fully form, an abrupt interruption shattered the fragile tranquility—
"Freeze!"
A Council agent burst into the room, accompanied by a figure Ivan recognized all too well — Edward Saunders, the ever-voice of reason himself.
"Saunders?" Ivan's voice held a mixture of surprise and curiosity.
"Ivan?" Saunders' response mirrored the same disbelief.
In that moment, chaos engulfed the room, the roof itself ripped asunder, revealing a small opening from which a slender rope descended. The resounding thump of a helicopter filled the air. Ivan, his brother, and their fellow insurgents seized the lifeline, their hands gripping tightly as they were lifted from the grasp of impending danger. The Council agent unleashed a volley of gunfire, a stray shard striking Aleksander's leg, yet his unwavering resolve remained unfazed. Saunders, however, refrained from returning fire, an enigma amidst the chaos. As they ascended, Ivan clutched at least sixteen vials of the Fountain's elusive elixir, each one a potential source of salvation or damnation.
Within the whirling vortex of uncertainty and flight, a delicate dance of fate commenced. The escape from the Council's clutches granted them a fleeting moment of respite, but the path ahead remained shrouded in uncertainty. As the helicopter carried them away, Ivan and his band of insurgents clung tightly to hope, aware that the elixir they possessed could wield unimaginable power — a force that could reshape their destinies or condemn them to a fate far darker than they dared to envision.
Amidst the chaotic escape, as the helicopter soared through the tempestuous skies, a sudden realization struck Ivan like a bolt of lightning. His mind, consumed by the urgent tumult, had inadvertently omitted the presence of a steadfast companion — Ismael Cohen. The gravity of his oversight bore down upon him, his frustration boiling to the surface. "Shit!" he cursed, his voice laced with regret and concern. "We have forgotten Ismael!"
The weight of their omission hung heavy in the air, casting a shadow upon their otherwise hopeful ascent. Aleksander, ever the dependable brother, recognized the urgency of the situation. "Quickly," he urged, his voice tinged with determination. "I will join you shortly, brother." With those words, he handed Ivan a necklace. "Береги его, брат," Aleksander uttered, his words imbued with the weight of a solemn promise. And without hesitation, he leaped from the safety of the helicopter, a solitary figure vanishing into the tumultuous abyss below.
The winds howled in defiance, their primal fury a haunting symphony that echoed through the helicopter's metallic confines. Ivan clutched the necklace tightly, his fingers caressing its worn surface, a tangible reminder of the enduring connection between brothers. With Aleksander's parting words resonating within his heart, Ivan vowed to safeguard their shared bond, even as uncertainty and tumult threatened to rend their world asunder.
As the helicopter roared onward, Ivan's thoughts lingered upon Ismael, his forgotten friend left behind in the maelstrom. A torrent of emotions surged within him — regret, worry, and a determination to rectify their oversight. For Ismael, they would return. For Ismael, they would face the tempest once more.
In the depths of Ivan's resolute gaze, a new plan began to form, borne from the crucible of adversity. No matter the cost, he would ensure Ismael's safety, retrieving him from the clutches of uncertainty. With each passing moment, the urgency burned brighter, a beacon guiding their path through the labyrinthine trials that awaited them.
As the helicopter surged forward, Ivan's grip on the necklace tightened, the weight of responsibility settling upon his shoulders. In the face of turmoil and uncertainty, he would honor the trust bestowed upon him, cherishing the enduring bond between brothers. Ismael's fate would not be forgotten, for within the crucible of chaos, loyalty and resilience would shape their path, forging an unbreakable alliance that defied the odds.
Gunshots shattered the fragile tranquility that hung in the air, their thunderous echoes punctuating the escalating chaos. Ivan's senses heightened, instinctively recognizing the sound of each individual discharge. There was but one perpetrator, a lone figure who wielded the weapon with reckless abandon. And amidst the symphony of violence, a singular thought gnawed at Ivan's consciousness — Saunders, the ever-voice of reason, had refrained from opening fire. Could it be that he had allowed their escape?
With bated breath, Ivan strained his eyes, peering out from the confines of the helicopter window. His gaze pierced through the veils of swirling smoke and uncertainty, his heart pounding within his chest. There, amidst the swirling maelstrom, he beheld the staggering sight of his brother, Aleksander, emerging from the besieged Site-56. In his arms, he carried Ismael, his unconscious form cradled with unwavering determination. Bullets whizzed past, each perilous projectile a testament to the chaos that surrounded them. Aleksander remained unyielding, his steadfast resolve unmarred even as a bullet found its mark upon his chest.
The tableau unfolded before Ivan's eyes, a tapestry of sacrifice and resilience etched upon the canvas of their shared destiny. He watched, as a silent observer, as Aleksander placed Ismael's motionless body upon the awaiting Insurgency boat. The world around them blurred, a whirlwind of uncertainty and fractured bonds. Ivan's heart ached, torn between relief and trepidation, as he witnessed the culmination of their harrowing escape.
And then, in the aftermath of the tempest, Ivan found himself seated within the shelter of the helicopter, his body weary and mind adrift. The adrenaline that once coursed through his veins began to subside, leaving behind a profound sense of exhaustion and contemplation. The weight of their recent trials settled upon his shoulders, each burden a testament to the indomitable spirit that fueled their rebellion.
In the stillness of that moment, Ivan allowed himself a fleeting respite, his mind retracing the harrowing journey that had brought them to this. The bonds forged in fire and forged in blood had been tested to their limits, but their spirit endured, unyielding in the face of adversity. As he reflected upon the sacrifices made and the fractures that marred their once-unbreakable unity, Ivan's resolve crystallized. The path ahead was uncertain, fraught with peril and challenges yet to be unveiled, but their shared purpose would guide them through the darkness.
— - —
"This," Ivan began, his voice resonating through the room, capturing the attention of every Insurgency operative present. "is a vial of liquid that we called 'The Fountain of Youth,' and to those within the confines of the Foundation, it is known as SCP-006."
A collective nod rippled through the room, a mix of anticipation and trepidation swirling in the air.
With a solemn nod, Ivan pressed on. "This elixir possesses the power to restore life, to mend the most grievous of ailments, and to bestow upon those who partake in its forbidden nectar the gift of eternal youth. My brother," he motioned towards Aleksander standing by his side, "has tasted its ethereal essence long before our paths intertwined. He has witnessed the passing of countless generations, his age far exceeding that of ordinary mortals. Our mother, too, was graced by its touch, her life extended beyond the realm of natural boundaries. And as for myself, and Ismael," he chuckled, pointing towards his companion, "we too bear witness to the unfathomable passage of time, our existence stretching beyond two centuries. But it is Aleksander who carries the weight of age, his longevity a testament to the potency of this elixir."
Gasps filled the room, mingling with murmurs of awe and disbelief. The insurgents exchanged glances, their faces revealing a mixture of admiration, concern, and deep contemplation.
Inquisitive eyes turned towards Ivan once more, as a blonde-haired woman with piercing blue eyes rose from her seat. "But what of the cost?" she asked, her voice laced with both curiosity and caution.
Ivan's expression darkened, a furrow forming on his brow. "Ah, the cost," he replied, his voice tinged with a hint of melancholy. "Indeed, there is a price to be paid. Even if one imbibes from this sacred wellspring of youth, the specter of mortality looms still. You remain susceptible to the perils and vicissitudes of life, subject to the whims of fate and the myriad ways in which death may claim you."
A somber silence fell upon the room, the weight of the revelation sinking into the hearts of those gathered.
"And yet," Ivan continued, his gaze sweeping across the assembly, "there is another toll that must be paid. As you partake in the elixir's rejuvenating embrace, a part of you withers away, fading into the recesses of forgotten memories. The vibrancy of your senses wanes, and the richness of experience that once colored your existence is diluted, leaving behind an echo of what once was."
As Ivan's voice trailed off, a distant ringing sound pierced the air, a jarring interruption to the weighty revelations shared within the room. All eyes turned towards a phone lying on a nearby table, its incessant ring disrupting the stillness. The room remained frozen in anticipation, hanging on the precipice of an unknown revelation.
Aaron Siegel stood in the background, his face etched with concern, alongside his companion Vincent Arians. "Arians," Aaron spoke, his voice filled with urgency. "Where is Felix?" Arians merely shrugged. "Fuck," the uncertainty in his eyes reflecting the mounting tension that gripped them all.
The ringing persisted, echoing through the chamber, a haunting reminder of the uncertainties that awaited them beyond those walls. With the phone left unanswered, the chapter concluded, leaving its message lingering in the air, as the fates of those involved remained suspended in a state of uncertainty.
Ivan Hilohiko sat in the back room of a bustling French warehouse. Through the cracks in the blinds he could see people moving to and fro; the faint breaths of their Insurgency. He thought the name was ridiculous — most of them did — but ridiculous was part of the equation. Make them believe you’re incompetent. Make them think it’s not an act. Their footprint was small, but growing steadily. Already they had raided three 909 storehouses in Africa, with another team preparing for a third. Make them think it’s not an act.
But Ivan Hilohiko sat uncomfortably. The week before, they got word that work had begun on a new facility in Italy. There wasn’t a sign on the door identifying it as a 909 site, but all the signs were there. At the same time, three new unmarked ships were seen patrolling the waters near Aaron Siegel's Somali headquarters. Reports of task forces being deployed in the United States. Dark planes over the Antarctic.
He sat uncomfortably because these were not the choked final breaths of a dying organization. Christopher Walker was dead, annihilated by the finger of God Himself. He recalled the events that ensued their defection from the past years; most of the Theta-9 research team, the senior leadership of the fledgling 909 Council, had either been killed in the ensuing chaos or defected along with Ivan and Ismael. Many others had left their posts to join them too, for any number of ideological reasons. The Chaos Insurgency. Yet, even in the midst of their greatest defeat, the Council continued on. Their operations seemed untouched.
And Ivan Hilohiko sat uncomfortably.
The telephone on his desk rang out its piercing notice, and Ivan moved to answer it. He hesitated; the phone had only ever seemed to want to bring him bad news. Another shipment lost. Council sites increasing security. More sites under construction. Everything they had sacrificed, everything he had given up, would be for nothing if the 909 Council and its efforts were not ground to a halt. The fear of failure, of the reckoning of his sins, stayed his hand for a moment.
But Ivan Hilohiko answered the phone.
“Can you hear the black wolf howl at the moon?,” said Ismael, his rough tenor barely audible across their meager connection.
“Ismael,” Ivan sighed in relief. His friend’s voice was a welcome reprieve, even in spite of its tone. “You’re well?”
“I’ve told you a thousand times,” Ismael growled over the receiver, “finish the phrase. It’s a security measure. We cannot be compromised, especially not now.”
Ivan’s heart dropped slightly. “What news?”
Ismael paused. “They’re moving to South America. The Broken God's fanatics are involved in some activity there. The Foundation is shipping out en masse.”
“How many?” Ivan felt himself ask.
“Two hundred, maybe three hundred men,” Ismael said, “and that’s not including some other staff members they’re moving in from other sites in the region. It’s a full on escalation, Ivan.”
Ivan sunk into his chair. The receiver of the phone felt heavy in his hand, and he heard a distance cackling that swept over him in waves. How could this be happening? They should be in ruins.
“Ivan?” Ismael’s voice shocked him and brought him back to reality with a start.
“Yes, yes, sorry, I just… Ismael, how is this happening? What did we do wrong?”
Ismael was quiet for a moment. “Maybe Antonina was just more resourceful than we anticipated. Look, Ivan,” he took a deep breath, “all I know is what we’re being told, and what we’re being told is that the 909 Council is mobilizing to Ecuador. We need to have boots on the ground there to try and disrupt their supply lines.”
Ivan nodded slowly to nobody but himself. “Yes… yes, you’re right. Of course. We’ll arrange transports for our agents in the region as soon as possible. Ismael,” he began to say, hesitating.
“Yes?”
“I… I think I want to go with you on this one. I want to go to Quito.”
“You… why?”
Ivan’s eyes descended to his desk. Sitting on the middle of it, tied up with red thread, was a small roll of paper. “I want to see them. I just need to see them again.”
“They’re not there. We’ve already had our agents in the area confirm that—”
“I just… just humor me, Ismael. I’ll leave Hudson in charge, he can handle things here while we’re away. I won’t be gone more than two weeks.”
Ivan could hear Ismael's discontentedness across a continent. “Fine. But you stay with me and my detachment, and you don’t get too close to whatever is happening in Santa Ana.”
Ivan agreed, and then hung up the phone.
— - —
That night, as Ivan Hilohiko lay down to rest, his mind became a canvas for dreams both ephemeral and hauntingly real. In the realm of slumber, truths intertwined with phantoms, merging into a tapestry of visions.
He stood alongside Christopher Walker, unlocking the doors to a building marked "Site-47." Ismael stood beside him, radiating joy.
He received a report detailing a peculiar statue unearthed from an ancient South American ruin. The truck carrying it passed through the gates, adorned with red and green paint.
He engaged in a conversation with Antonina Makarov, now calling herself Antonina Canaanite, during a seminar hosted by Walker. Her confidence was palpable, and her touch sent a shiver down his spine. That night, they fucked like animals, Ivan couldn't help but inquire about the scars adorning her neck and skin. Her silence echoed.
He is standing with Christopher Walker and the rest of the Theta-9 research team. They pass around a glass of water, each taking a drink. Ismael laughs. Ivan says, I bet you could live forever if you drank this stuff everyday. He notices Antonina stuffing a vial of the water into a bag. The next morning, he wakes up without aches for the first time in a decade.
He found himself in a dim room, a mere twenty paces away from Christopher Walker, who stood before a radiant purple line. Walker tugged at it with a single finger, causing the moon in the sky to vanish with each touch. Ivan called out to him, but his former comrade remained fixated, his eyes engulfed by darkness.
Blood stained his hands as he leaned against a wall, clutching his wounded side. Behind him lay a lifeless body, a shattered golden sword still clutched in its grasp. In the distance, a phone is ringing. Ivan descended into an abyss, a phone is ringing. An elevator plunging into the depths.
A phone is ringing.
— - —
The trio arrived in Quito, the city that bore witness to their darkest deeds. Ivan Hilohiko emerged from the vehicle, followed closely by his brother Aleksander Hilohiko, while Ismael Cohen lingered for a moment longer, scanning their surroundings with a cautious gaze. The weight of their history pressed upon them, an invisible burden that threatened to consume their resolve.
The echoes of their actions reverberated through the depths of Ivan's soul, haunting him with every step he took on this path of redemption. The memories of Christopher Walker's death at Ivan's hand, the children they had taken, the destruction they had wrought — it all resurfaced, gnawing at his conscience.
As they stood on the streets of Quito, a man in his fifties approached them. He was of Caucasian descent, his face etched with lines of experience and weariness. "Good morning, Ivan, Aleksander, Mr. Cohen," the man greeted them, his voice tinged with a hint of familiarity. "I can't refer to Russians by their surnames or 'Mr.' I believe."
Ivan nodded, acknowledging the cultural nuances. "Yes, it is considered impolite to address a Russian by their surname and by using honorifics. Nonetheless, what brings you here, Fred?"
Fred shrugged. "Don't know, to be honest. The last piece of information I received was that a nearby town called Santa Ana has been experiencing anomalous activity. Refugees have arrived from a train, claiming their entire town was obliterated by what they refer to as 'la máquina,' whatever that means. It seems something significant is happening there."
Ivan adjusted his coat, his gaze fixed on the distant horizon. "And what of Aaron?"
"Aaron," Fred began, his voice filled with a hint of uncertainty. "He is currently preoccupied with Arians, as always."
The trio shared a knowing smile, their shared history with Aaron Siegel and Vincent Arians bringing both camaraderie and a tinge of apprehension.
Ivan pressed further, his voice laced with concern. "Where is it? We wanted to go to Quito."
Fred's expression darkened momentarily. "I'm afraid Quito is off-limits at the moment," he said. "However, if you follow…" he gestured toward a mysterious figure in the distance, "…that man, he will lead you to Santa Ana. That's where the heart of the activity lies."
"Very well," the trio replied in unison, their determination unshaken.
As they embarked on the journey, a distant mountain of fire loomed on the horizon, its flames reaching towards the heavens. The air resonated with the cacophony of roaring machines, and the very earth beneath them trembled, as if protesting against the unfolding events. Despite the tumultuous surroundings, Ismael and Aleksander steered the car steadfastly along the road, their unwavering focus guiding them through the chaotic terrain. In the back seat, Ivan's gaze remained fixed on the floor, his mind consumed by memories that threatened to drown him.
The remnants of their shared past seemed to echo through every passing moment, intertwining with the present. The sins they had committed, the lives they had forever altered, haunted their thoughts, as if the veil of time had grown thin, revealing the veins of the past pulsating beneath the surface.
As they ventured further into the unknown, their resolve was tested. The road ahead twisted and turned, mirroring the labyrinthine path they had traversed in their tumultuous history. Yet their shared purpose propelled them forward, an unbreakable bond forged amidst darkness and redemption.
The trio's footsteps echoed through the narrow streets as they drew closer to the man Fred had mentioned. Each step carried them deeper into the heart of uncertainty, the weight of their past misdeeds pressing upon their shoulders. Shadows danced along the walls, whispering secrets of forgotten tales and foreboding futures.
Then, in the midst of the labyrinthine paths, they beheld a figure — a man of South Asian descent, his features betraying his Indian heritage. His presence commanded attention, his eyes bearing a glimmer of ancient wisdom. He greeted them with a nod, his voice calm and measured. "Greetings," he said, his words carrying an air of authority. "I have heard that you are operatives from the Chaos Insurgency, yes?"
The trio exchanged glances before nodding in unison. "Yes," they replied, their voices resonating with a mixture of determination and caution.
The man's gaze seemed to penetrate their souls as he assessed them. His expression softened slightly, hinting at a glimmer of understanding. "Very well," he said, his voice tinged with a sense of purpose. "Follow me."
With that command, the Indian man led the way, his footsteps marking a path through the twisting maze of the city. The trio followed in his wake, their senses alert, attuned to the ever-present undercurrents of danger that lurked within their surroundings. The streets seemed to come alive, each building and alleyway holding untold secrets and hidden truths.
As they navigated the labyrinthine streets, their silent guide moved with an air of confidence, his steps measured and purposeful. He led them through a tapestry of sights and sounds — the bustling markets with their vibrant displays of color, the whispering alleyways cloaked in a veil of mystery, and the hidden corners where darkness reigned supreme.
The air grew heavy with anticipation, charged with the weight of their shared purpose. In their wake, the echoes of their past misdeeds reverberated through the city, a haunting reminder of the choices they had made and the lives they had forever altered. Amidst the shadows, a glimmer of hope flickered within their hearts — a belief that they could forge a different path, that redemption awaited them at the end of their journey.
They continued to follow their guide, their footsteps echoing through the labyrinthine streets. With each passing moment, they drew closer to Santa Ana, the place where their fates would intertwine with the machinations.
The Indian man's silhouette grew more distinct against the backdrop of Santa Ana's horizon, and the trio's hearts quickened with a mix of anticipation and trepidation. Destiny beckoned them forward, weaving its intricate tapestry of choices and consequences. The echoes of their footsteps resounded through the streets, a symphony of uncertainty and determination, as they stepped closer to their uncertain future.
Fred emerged from the shadows, his voice tinged with a mixture of curiosity and caution. "Ain't that a sight, eh?" he remarked, his gaze fixed on the town. "But let me make it clear, what you're seeing is not solely the work of the 909 Council. There's more to it." He paused, his eyes darting between the trio. "The SCP Foundation and the 909 Council have been in contact with the Global Occult Coalition. Rumors have been circulating about an anomalous object here in Ecuador — a deity worshipped by a group known as The Church of the Broken God."
Ivan raised an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued. Fred continued, his words carrying the weight of secrecy and intrigue. "According to intel, the Church reveres a small mechanical box, filled with intricate cogs and pistons. They claim it possesses supernatural abilities, with the ability to communicate telepathically with its followers."
The trio absorbed the information.
Fred shifted his gaze, his voice laden with a sense of urgency. "Now, here's where it gets even more interesting. The Council operatives you see here — they've been given orders to investigate Santa Ana, where reports have surfaced about mechanical anomalies wreaking havoc." He paused, allowing the weight of his words to settle.
"The unit has gathered all the anomalies they've recovered, loading them onto a train. Their plan is to investigate the rumors of the mechanical anomaly while making their way to the border."
Ismael nodded, his eyes gleaming with a mix of anticipation and apprehension. "And what about the refugees?" he inquired, his voice laced with concern.
Fred's gaze turned distant, his words flowing like a river of uncertainty. "Ah, the refugees. Just outside Santa Ana, the unit came across a broken-down train filled with what appeared to be refugees. As they approached to investigate, they discovered a perplexing sight—the refugees repeating the same words over and over again. 'La máquina, la máquina,' they chanted."
Ivan's brow furrowed, his mind grappling with the puzzle laid before them. "The machine," he muttered, the words resonating with an air of significance.
Fred shrugged helplessly. "I couldn't decipher their meaning. It seems we have a language barrier to contend with. But the repetition of those words, the fervor in their voices, it hints at something deeper — an unsettling connection to the mechanical anomalies and the Church's revered deity."
Silence enveloped them, broken only by the distant hum of machinery and the whispered echoes of the unknown. Destiny had led them here, to a crossroads of faith, power, and the unfathomable machinations of the anomalous world.
Then, the once-steadfast ground beneath their feet quivered, and the air crackled with an unseen energy. A sense of foreboding settled over them, penetrating even the stoic demeanor of Aleksander, whose unwavering resolve had weathered countless horrors. But this time, even he couldn't hide the flicker of fear that danced in his eyes.
Ismael stumbled, his body unable to withstand the violent upheaval. In his moment of vulnerability, the Indian man reached out, extending a helping hand to lift him from the ground. Ivan, consciousness lost amidst the chaos, eventually found himself awakened by an unfamiliar stillness.
As his senses regained focus, Ivan scanned his surroundings, his heart racing with a mixture of concern and confusion. The Indian man and Fred were nowhere to be seen, leaving behind an unsettling void. Ivan's gaze fell upon his brother and Ismael, their faces etched with worry. A sense of urgency pervaded the air, demanding answers to the unspoken questions that hung between them.
"What the hell happened?" Ivan's voice trembled with a mix of disbelief and apprehension.
Aleksander's voice, steady despite the lingering unease, provided a modicum of reassurance. "Fred and Vishwas went to investigate," he explained, his words carrying a weight of uncertainty. "They ventured forth."
"Vishwas?" Ivan echoed, his mind struggling to catch up.
"The Indian guy," Ismael interjected, his voice filled with a tinge of urgency. "They did mention that the sea levels rose, as if defying the laws of nature itself."
Ivan surveyed his surroundings, searching for any semblance of time lost during his unconsciousness. "How long was I blacked out?" he asked, a hint of concern lacing his words.
"An hour, maybe two," his brother replied, a note of solace threaded through his voice. "We placed Vishwas' blanket on the floor where you lay, ensuring your comfort."
With a nod of gratitude, Ivan acknowledged the simple gesture. Though his thoughts remained consumed by the mysteries that enveloped them — the whereabouts of Fred and Vishwas, the tumultuous tremors that had shaken their reality, and the impending revelations that loomed on the horizon.
Their journey had taken an unexpected turn, guiding them through the labyrinthine corridors of the anomalous world. They were mere pawns in a grand tapestry, where alliances shifted like sand, and the line between friend and foe blurred with each passing moment.
As the trio stood on the edge, their gaze fixed upon the remnants of a city once familiar, their attention was abruptly seized by the sight of Fred and Vishwas racing towards them. The air crackled with a mixture of relief and trepidation as their comrades drew near.
"Fred! and Vishwas, I presume?" Ivan's voice cut through the air, tinged with a hint of urgency.
Vishwas offered a warm smile, a flicker of regret dancing in his eyes. "Yes, my apologies for neglecting to introduce myself earlier."
Aleksander's eyes darted around, searching for answers within the haze of uncertainty. "What in the hell happened back there? Did the sea really rise?" he inquired, his voice resonating with a blend of incredulity and concern.
Fred and Vishwas shared a solemn nod, their expressions weighed down by the gravity of the situation. "Indeed, the waters surged," Fred confirmed, his voice laced with a haunting resignation. "Quito, the very crucible where our journey began, has been swallowed by the depths. The place that witnessed the murder of Christopher Walker, the abduction of innocent children, the annihilation of the Kingdom of Abaddon — it is now but a memory lost to the embrace of the Pacific Ocean."
The trio's eyes widened in disbelief, their minds struggling to comprehend the magnitude of the revelation. Ivan's voice trembled as he sought to grasp the incomprehensible truth. "How? Can it truly be? Has Quito, the repository of our sins and salvation, truly vanished? The memories of Chris' life slipping through my hands, our defection from the 909 Council, the dark shadows of our past — all consumed by the relentless depths?"
Fred and Vishwas nodded solemnly, their gaze mirroring the sorrow etched upon their faces. "Regrettably, it is so," Vishwas confirmed. "The tales woven through time, of your fateful encounter, the abduction of children, their tragic fate, the culmination of your rebellion — all now buried beneath the unforgiving tides. The annals of history have been forever altered, leaving only fragments of what once was."
The weight of their lost history settled upon the trio, its burden threatening to shatter the very foundation of their resolve. They were adrift, untethered from the past that had guided their actions and propelled their journey. The city that bore witness to their transformation, the crucible of their trials and tribulations, now lay silenced beneath the relentless waves.
Then the two men departed, their presence fading into the ether, the trio found themselves standing alone, engulfed by the weight of their shattered past.
But as the trio settled within the sanctuary of this seemingly serene town, the earth beneath them convulsed once more, the tremors rippling through their bodies with an intensified fury. Ivan's fingers tightened around a sturdy rock, his desperate grip failing to secure his footing. Gravity claimed its victory, forcing him to succumb to the unforgiving embrace of the ground. Aleksander, his indomitable spirit unyielding even amidst chaos, maintained his balance with steadfast determination. Ismael, however, found himself tumbling uncontrollably, a hapless victim of the relentless tremors.
Emerging from the tumultuous upheaval, a towering monstrosity of metal materialized on the fringes of a nearby town, its presence defying reason. Blood streamed down Ivan's face. With a resolute determination, they rallied together, their unity unshakable. Ivan clung to Ismael's leg, while Aleksander grasped his flailing arms, their combined strength lifting him from the chaos-stricken soil.
With measured steps, they traversed the path to their vehicle, the engine beckoning like a siren's call. Ismael found solace in the driver's seat, his trembling hands guiding them towards an uncertain destination. Aleksander settled in the backseat, his gaze fixed on their wounded comrade, while Ivan occupied the passenger seat, his visage etched with a mixture of concern and determination.
They embarked on a hasty retreat from the crumbling embrace of Santa Ana, leaving behind the shattered remnants of their fragile sanctuary. The road ahead remained obscured, veiled in the ominous shadow of the unknown. Yet their shared resolve burned brighter than ever, a beacon amidst the encroaching darkness.
With each passing mile, their determination solidified, their scars becoming a testament to their resilience. The trials they faced only served to ignite the flame within, fueling their unwavering pursuit of truth and redemption. They navigated the treacherous path, their journey fraught with peril and uncertainty, their bond remained unbroken.
As the desolate town faded into the rearview mirror, they pressed onward, driven by an insatiable hunger to unravel the anomaly that lay before them.
Arriving at the outskirts of the nearby town, the trio cautiously stepped out of the vehicle, their weapons gripped tightly, prepared for the impending clash. Their eyes fell upon the abominable sight before them — an assembly of towering figures, both awe-inspiring and horrifying. Five colossal entities dominated the scene, their forms a mesmerizing fusion of metal and machinery. Gears, clockworks, pistons, wheels, and pipes intertwined, weaving a grotesque tapestry of raw power.
The largest among them loomed impossibly tall, its mechanical frame reaching towards the blood-red clouds that adorned the sky. At its feet, four smaller yet equally menacing constructs stood, each pulsating with an ominous energy. As the behemoth ravaged the earth beneath the town, ensnaring unsuspecting individuals in its metallic grasp, chaos ensued. Citizens fled in panic, their desperate footsteps echoing amidst the backdrop of encroaching calamity. It was a scene of unparalleled destruction.
Amidst the bedlam, the trio discerned the presence of the Foundation, the 909 Council, and the Global Occult Coalition. As founders and operatives of the Chaos Insurgency, they skillfully navigated the pandemonium, avoiding detection by the rival organizations that sought to control the escalating crisis.
In the midst of the commotion, a woman approached Ivan, her voice trembling with desperation. "¡Ayuda, ayuda!" she cried out, her plea for help hanging in the air before she vanished into the depths of chaos. Reacting swiftly, guns drawn, the trio opened fire, their bullets piercing the metallic surface of the colossal machine. To their shock, the gargantuan entity responded by disgorging a horde of abominations — once-human figures, grotesquely fused with metal and flesh.
Amidst the onslaught, the towering monstrosity unleashed a torrent of flames from its metallic conduits, engulfing the surroundings in an infernal blaze. A massive projectile, born from the twisted appendages of the creature, collided with Ivan, violently throwing him to the ground. His weapon slipped from his grasp, lost amidst the chaos, while a shard of shrapnel tore through his knees, rendering him immobile. In his agony, he could only watch as his brother, Aleksander, valiantly dragged him back towards the safety of the vehicle.
As Ivan found solace within the confines of the car, his gaze fixated upon the unfolding turmoil. A mountain of fire dominated the horizon, accompanied by the relentless cacophony of clashing machinery and the earth itself being torn asunder. Aleksander fought to maintain control of the vehicle, even as the road beneath them buckled and twisted in defiance. Ismael attended to the fleeing survivors, offering solace amidst the chaos that threatened to consume them all.
Attempts were made to subdue the colossal entity, as mortar rounds rained down upon its towering form. Much to the trio's dismay, their attacks proved futile, the mechanical titan displaying an imperviousness to the onslaught. The Foundation and the 909 Council mirrored their efforts, this time with mortars, each met with the same disheartening result.
Ivan's gaze remained fixed upon the cold, unforgiving floor of the car, his mind tormented by the harrowing spectacle unfolding before him. Ismael and Aleksander swiftly maneuvered themselves into the vehicle, their expressions a mix of urgency and trepidation. Without wasting a moment, the engine roared to life, and the trio departed from the decimated town, leaving behind a landscape ravaged by chaos and engulfed in the flames of destruction. The ground trembled beneath them, an unsettling reminder of the seismic activity that continued to reverberate through the shattered remnants of their world.
As Ivan cast one last glance over his shoulder, his eyes fell upon a figure — an agent of the 909 Council, clutching a video camera tightly in their hands. The agent pointed the device towards the towering monstrosities that loomed ominously before them, capturing the cataclysmic events unfolding in real-time.
The largest among the five mechanical beings commanding the scene, drew massive quantities of earth into their metallic frames. Flames intermittently erupted from within their imposing forms, casting an ominous glow upon the devastated surroundings. The air raid sirens wailed in protest, their discordant cries piercing the chaos, while the sky above flickered with an ethereal luminosity, as if touched by the fleeting embrace of lightning.
Ivan's breath caught in his throat as his eyes widened in astonishment. From the parting clouds directly above the five behemoths, a vessel emerged — a craft reminiscent of a spaceship, its form marred by signs of battle. Aleksander, compelled by the otherworldly sight, turned his gaze towards the spectacle, his astonishment mirroring that of his brother. In a moment that defied reason, a mortar round dispatched by the Council collided with the colossal entity, yet the attack proved ineffectual, the titan enduring the assault without visible harm.
With bated breath, the brothers watched as the underside of the spacecraft radiated a vibrant blue hue, illuminating the chaos below. Then, in an explosive culmination of celestial energy, a searing beam of light erupted from the vessel, searing through the air and striking each of the five mechanical monstrosities. Agonized howls filled the air as the towering entities convulsed violently, their twisted forms reaching desperately towards the celestial intruder. In an instant, the brothers' senses were assaulted by a blinding explosion, accompanied by the anguished cries of the fallen. Then Ivan blacked out.
— - —
Ivan's senses gradually returned, the disorienting haze that clouded his mind dissipating like a lingering fog. He found himself lying on the ground, his eyes adjusting to the dimly lit surroundings. As he struggled to regain his bearings, his gaze fell upon the familiar forms of his brother, Aleksander Hilohiko, and Ismael Cohen. They, too, showed signs of the ordeal they had endured. Ivan pushed himself upright, his hands still trembling from the residual shock of the cataclysmic events.
"What… happened?" Ivan muttered, his voice strained and filled with a mix of confusion and weariness. He instinctively reached up, rubbing his temples in an attempt to soothe the throbbing ache that reverberated through his skull.
Ismael was quick to respond, his voice carrying a mixture of relief and reassurance. "The five mechanical beings have been vanquished, Ivan," Ismael said, his voice tinged with a hint of triumph. "Santa Ana, Ecuador, and Quito itself have been spared from further devastation."
Ivan let out a slow exhale, the weight of uncertainty gradually lifting from his weary shoulders. "What… what's going to happen now?" he asked, his voice still tinged with a trace of trepidation.
"A new Quito is being constructed," a voice declared from a nearby door. "Quito is being rebuilt, a new one this time. It will rise from the ashes, but it will be free from the stains of the past. The original Basílica del Voto Nacional Church will be preserved, cleansed of the blood that once stained its sacred walls."
As the figure stepped into the light, their features became clear. It was Aaron Siegel. Ivan's mind swirled with a mix of emotions, unsure of what to make of Aaron's presence.
"You've been unconscious for some time, Ivan," Aaron began, his voice laced with reassurance. "But rest assured, you'll be fine. The past will be left behind, and a new chapter will be written. The Basílica del Voto Nacional Church will stand as a symbol of redemption, its halls cleansed of the dark memories that once haunted it."
Ivan nodded.
Ivan rose to his feet, a renewed sense of purpose coursing through his veins. With a determined gaze, he turned to his brother, Aleksander, their unspoken bond guiding their every move. "Brother, give me a pen and paper, пожалуйста," Ivan requested, his voice laced with urgency.
Aleksander's understanding eyes met Ivan's, acknowledging the significance of this moment. Without hesitation, he reached into his pocket and retrieved a pen and a sheet of paper. Passing them to Ivan, he nodded, silently affirming his support.
Ivan's fingers wrapped around the pen, the weight of their shared history etched within its every curve. As he poised the pen above the blank canvas of paper, his mind became a conduit for the words that yearned to be expressed. The pen danced across the page, its movements fluid and purposeful, capturing the essence of Ivan's thoughts.
Time seemed to bend as Ivan poured his emotions onto the paper, the ink forming a tangible connection to the depths of his soul. The words flowed effortlessly, each stroke an indelible mark on the tapestry of their existence. When he finally came to a halt, a profound silence settled in the room.
Ivan gently folded the paper, protecting the fragile truths it held within its delicate embrace. Handing it to Aleksander, he spoke with a mixture of caution and determination. "Don't open it, brother," Ivan warned. "Send it to the current 909-1."
Aleksander's brow furrowed, momentarily faltering under the weight of his forgetfulness. "Who?" he questioned, his voice laden with remorse. "Forgive me, brother, my memory has betrayed me. Remind me of the organization we once formed."
Ivan's eyes met Aleksander's, a flicker of understanding passing between them. "Daniel Van Bardeleven, the current acting 909-1 within the ranks of the 909 Council," Ivan replied, his words carrying the weight of their shared history. "Do not let the passage of time erase our purpose."
A spark of recognition ignited in Aleksander's eyes, memories surging to the forefront of his mind. "Of course, Daniel Van Bardeleven," he recollected. "But where can we send this message? Where does he reside now?"
Ivan's lips curled into a knowing smile. "Send it to our first site, 909-Site-100," he instructed, his voice filled with unwavering conviction. "That is where he currently resides, surrounded by the echoes of our shared endeavors."
Aleksander nodded, and stepped out of the room.
— - —
Ismael stood in the doorway, slowly pulling on a cigarette. Ivan was sitting at a table a few feet away, flipping through a report they had received the day before. Outside the window of their makeshift command center in Guadalajara a parade danced through the street, slowly working its way towards the center of town. The window was left open for the faint breeze, but it hadn’t helped.
Ismael took another drag, letting the smoke fall out of his nostrils as he exhaled. He stepped inside and closed the door behind him. “I don’t know what you were expecting. Didn’t this confirm everything else we’ve heard so far?”
Ivan shook his head. “Yes, yes, it did, but I don’t understand it. They mobilized an army to Santa Ana - how is that possible?” He flipped the report over, looking for loose pages. “What we did in Quito should have ruined them, Ismael. Who was left afterwards?”
“Plenty of people were left - what do you mean?”
Ivan threw him a look. “I mean, who was left in command positions? Who knew how to- did any of them even know how to get into 909-Site-100?” He tossed the report onto the couch behind him. “We didn’t leave the door unlocked, did we? Who was left?”
Ismael shrugged. “Edward Saunders, maybe. Last we heard he was operating out of that site in Michigan, but it could’ve been him. He wouldn’t know how to get into the secure site, though.” He paused, considering. “David McLean? Where was his team assigned?”
Ivan rubbed his eyes. “No, no, it wasn’t McLean. He defected too - just not with us.”
They sat in silence for a moment longer, only the sound of the parade moving into the distance breaking the quiet between them. Then, without warning, the door to the room opened. Ismael was at it in an instant, gun drawn. Ivan didn’t move, but stared unbelievingly at the figure inside the doorframe.
“Antonina?” he asked incredulously.
Antonina Makarov stepped through the door, slowly pulling a hood down off her face. Her hair was shorter than when they had last seen each other, but her eyes were the same unmistakable green. Ivan felt something catch in his chest - something he hadn’t felt in years. Longing.
“No,” Ismael growled, “a Council spy.”
Antonina rolled her eyes. “Put the gun down, you idiot. I’m not here to kill you.” She rolled up the sleeve of her turtleneck, revealing the long scar on her neck that had long since scarred over. She had no hidden weapons. “There, satisfied?”
“What are you doing here?” Ivan asked.
She pulled the coat off and set it on the single bed in the room. “You sent a message to Daniel Van Bardeleven,” she said, looking at Ivan. “909-1. All the same melodramatic prose as ever, I knew it was you. He added it to the file we have in place for the-” she paused, “the Children. See, Daniel still believes the lie we’ve been telling everyone.”
“And what’s what?” Ismael asked.
“That he, or any of us, are still in control.” She sat down across from them and lit a cigarette of her own. Ivan could feel his heart crashing against his chest. “Your Defection really did a number on us, boys. Scattered, leaderless, all of our best and brightest killed or gone into hiding. We threw together a hodgepodge of doctors and called them “Consulates”, but none of them are actually running the show.” She paused. “Not even me.”
Ivan frowned. “Then who is?”
“We don’t know,” she continued. “For years, the Consulates have been running the individual sites by themselves, but orders keep coming down from 909-Site-100. Somebody is in there. For a long time we thought it was you,” she looked at Ivan, and her gaze softened slightly, “but after a while we realized it had to be something else entirely.”
She leaned back and closed her eyes. “I know you went back. I was following you. You saw exactly what I saw when I went back - a man-shaped absence where Chris-” hearing her say his name made Ivan wince “-used to be. Smoke on a wall, and nothing else.” She took another draw on the cigarette. “So if you’re not in there, and he’s not in there, then who is calling the shots?”
Ismael finally lowered his gun. “Why are you here?”
She glared at him. “Because the other day we found something that shouldn’t have been possible. Site-03, the facility we built when we scrapped the plans for the Alaska site, there was a door there we hadn’t seen before. There was a whole new wing behind it, something that couldn’t have been built without us knowing.” She swallowed hard.
She stood up. “I’m here because something is happening at 909-Site-100 that is changing the Council. New facilities are being built every day, more and more doctors and researchers are being recruited that we know nothing about. You saw what happened in Santa Ana?” They both nodded. “Those orders didn’t come from any of the Consulates. They came from 909-Site-100. Somebody in there is making calls and the Council is following orders.”
She paused. “I don’t agree with what you did, and I think the Council has more to offer than you give it credit for, but what’s happening here needs to be stopped. We need to know what’s going on in there, before it’s too late.”
“Then why not just go?” Ismael grunted at her.
She looked at him for a second, and then away to the ground. “I don’t want to go alone.”
Ivan and Ismael exchanged glances. “If we find something in there,” Ivan said, slowly, “we’re going to kill it. You understand? The Council can’t be allowed to continue like this. Antonina - the damage it’s doing is- is more than we can keep up with. We’ve been looking at the numbers again, the ones we uh-” he laughed nervously, “-the ones we borrowed from Dr. Saunders, and his figures match our own. The Council is destabilizing our reality, Antonina. Walker was right about the threads, but they’re being damaged. We have to do something to stop this.” He met her gaze as she looked back up at him. “I know we’re scientists, but this… this is a box we never should have opened.”
She opened her mouth to speak, but stopped and sighed. She nodded. “Fine. Get me in there and you can do whatever you feel like you need to do.”
Ismael nodded. "I'll go radio headquarters. We'll need some kind of distraction to keep them off our backs while we take 909-Site-100."
He put out his cigarette on the wall and left the room, closing the door behind him. Antonina watched him leave, and once he was gone turned her eyes back to her hands. Ivan didn't move.
"I wasn't sure I'd ever see you again," he said softly.
She smiled an uncertain half-smile, her eyes betraying her. "Well, yes. I wasn't sure either." She looked up at him, and Ivan could see that great sadness behind the façade of content. "It's difficult, you know. I lost everything that night: my friends, my mentor, my life's work. And you." She bit her lip until it was white. "I didn't know where to go. You left me and I was alone to pick up the pieces of what we had, and-"
Her voice trembled. "I don't want to know why you killed Chris. I don't care. Maybe you knew something you didn't tell anyone but I don't know why you didn't tell me."
Ivan's face went pale. "I did want to tell you. I was preparing for- for what we were planning, and I told Ismael to let everyone know." He leaned forward. "He didn't tell you?"
She grimaced. "No. He didn't. But neither did you. You had every opportunity to reach out to me, you knew all the channels, but you did nothing. It's been thirty years, Ivan. Thirty years and I hear nothing, not even word that you're still alive." A tear formed at the corner of her eye, and with the back of a glove she wiped it away. "When I saw you and Ismael in Quito, I thought I was seeing a ghost."
"I'm sorry," Ivan said softly. "I thought you had rejected the offer, that-"
"I would have rejected the offer," she said, her voice congealing into something venomous. "I dedicated my life to the Council and that project and you were all too willing to throw it away. Everything we'd worked for. All of our efforts."
Ivan slumped back in his seat. "Walker was-"
"I know what he was," she spat, "but he could have been dealt with. When you killed him and broke off to go gallivanting around the country shooting up convoys and stealing from warehouses, you threatened all of the work we had done. Do you remember why we did it? Do you even care? Our world is sick, and if we can't find the source of it then we're going to keep seeing-"
"The world was sick because of Walker," Ivan said pointedly, "he was the source, he was-"
"But here we are, fifty years removed from Christopher Walker’s life, and you know what's happening out there?" She paused to light another cigarette. "More unexplained events every day. More artifacts and monsters we pull out of the ground, every day. Why, if the Administrator was the source of the anomalies, are we still seeing anomalies, Ivan?"
Ivan didn't answer. She sighed and sat back further on the bed, pulling her legs up to her chest. "I might have believed you back then," she said quietly. "I might have listened, but I have seen nothing in the last few decades that would lead me to believe that one man was the advent of every paranormal event in that time. There's something deeper out there, and it's not going to be stopped by killing a man. It's going to be stopped by research and investigation, and the only group with the resources to make that happen right now is the Council."
Ivan didn't respond. He sat, eyes downcast, as Antonina finished her cigarette.
"I'm not going to stop you from doing whatever you think you need to do," she said, her voice empty. "But before you do anything, you need to think about what it is you actually want."
She looked back towards the door. "And if it's what he wants, too."
— - —
Within the confines of a dimly lit conference room, Ivan Hilohiko stood alongside his loyal companions — Aleksander and Ismael — while the esteemed Dr. Hudson Theodore graced them with his presence. The weight of betrayal hung heavy in the air, their trust shattered by the treachery of Aaron Siegel, who had defected to the Foundation alongside Sophia Light. Vincent Arians, their steadfast comrade, had remained true to the cause, crafting the formidable "Summa Modus Operandi" as a testament to their dissent against the Foundation Overseers, and more specifically, against Aaron.
Ivan's gaze swept across the room, his voice resonating with determination as he addressed his comrades. "My friends," he began, his words laced with a mix of sorrow and righteous anger. "James Aaron Siegel has betrayed us, forsaking our shared ideals for the embrace of the Foundation. It is time for us to seek retribution, to strike at the heart of their partnership, and to dismantle our former organization — the 909 Council."
Dr. Hudson Theodore, renowned for his brilliance in the field of physics, rose from his seat, his piercing gaze fixed on Ivan. "But how do we achieve such a feat?" he inquired, his voice tinged with a mix of skepticism and curiosity.
Ivan's lips curled into a calculated smile, his eyes gleaming with a hint of mischief. "We shall target the very core of the Council itself — the Consulates, our former positions," he declared, his words punctuated with a quiet resolve.
Aleksander interjected, his voice laden with doubt. "But how do we even eliminate them? It was just last year that they were all killed, save for 909-13 and 909-1."
Ivan's lips curled into a sly smile, a glimmer of something sinister dancing in his eyes. "Ah, my dear brother," he responded, his voice dripping with a sense of anticipation. "You forget one crucial detail. Both Daniel Van Bardeleven and Nicholas Yarbrough may have survived, but they have since resigned. And let us not overlook Francis Bishop, The Fifteenth Consulate, once believed to be dead because of the same entity that claimed the lives of the previous Consulates. He is very much alive."
The room fell silent, the weight of Ivan's revelation settling upon them. Ismael, ever the silent observer, raised his hand to seek clarification.
Ivan turned his attention to Ismael, granting him permission to speak. "Yes, Ismael?" he prompted, curious to hear his inquiry.
"What do you mean by 'vulnerable'?" Ismael questioned, his hands gesturing in quote marks.
Ivan's eyes sparkled with mischief as he elucidated. "Well, Ismael, you see, the new Consulates lack the safeguards and protection that their predecessors once possessed. Their vulnerabilities lay exposed, for the previous Consulates, as you know, met their untimely demise. And interestingly enough, your ex-wife now bears the title of 909-14."
Ismael's eyes widened in disbelief, the revelation hitting him with unexpected force. "Gabrielle Cohen? My ex-wife?" he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.
Ivan nodded, his expression filled with a mix of empathy and resolve. "Yes, Ismael. She ascended to the role of 909-14, bestowed upon her by Francis Bishop. She's called 'The Roman' in the Council."
Then the group dispersed, each member carrying the weight of their mission. Shadows danced upon the walls, whispering promises of retribution and redemption. In the darkness, they would prepare.
— - —
The elevator plunged into darkness, its descent shrouded in an eerie silence. Ivan Hilohiko, accompanied by Dr. Hudson Theodore and Ismael Cohen, could feel the weight of their burdens pressing upon them. Ivan's gaze shifted downward, his eyes drawn to the pools of crimson staining his body. In his hand, a blood-drenched sword, its surface etched with cryptic words that spoke of a power beyond mortal comprehension.
The loss of Aleksander, his beloved brother, still reverberated through Ivan's being. The piercing blow dealt by 909-13 had torn asunder the bonds of kinship, leaving a void that could never be filled. With a heavy heart, Ivan cast his gaze upon the lifeless form of Francis Bishop, the once indomitable 909-15, now fallen victim to the merciless onslaught. The spear Ivan clutched in his hand had found its mark — a sword-sized hole puncturing Bishop's heart, mirroring the wound that now bled within Ivan's own soul.
Amidst the grim tableau, a figure emerged, donning the unmistakable garb of the Council's deadliest task force — an entity conceived by the brilliant mind of Dr. Wintersmith. Reason, as he was known, stood before Ivan, a living embodiment of the Council's resolve. The man's voice carried the weight of wisdom and purpose, his alias was Hathaway, earned through his unwavering commitment to rationality. But deep inside, Reason was none other than Edward Saunders, once known as "the ever-voice of reason."
The elevator's descent ceased, its doors parting to reveal a figure that sent ripples of disbelief through Ivan's consciousness. Antonina Makarov stood before them, an presence embodying the Council's tenets.
"Antonina?" he asked incredulously.
Her response held a blend of somber acceptance and a resolute understanding. "I will not impede your path, Ivan," she said. "But remember, the Council cannot be killed; it can only be joined."
Ivan nodded. His grip tightened around the sword.
Ivan's gaze lingered on Antonina, his mind consumed by the enigma she embodied. However, the room in which they stood demanded his attention, its details slowly etching themselves into his consciousness. The high ceiling loomed above, adorned with a sense of grandeur that echoed the weight of their purpose. Dark wooden floors stretched out beneath them, adding a touch of solemnity to the chamber's atmosphere.
It was the sweeping window against the far wall that captured Ivan's gaze. It encircled nearly the entire room, offering a breathtaking vista of the mountainside bathed in the waning light of the setting sun. The world outside seemed distant, caught between the realms of reality and imagination. Bookcases lined the walls, their shelves cradling ancient tomes that exuded an air of wisdom and secrets untold.
His eyes were drawn to another bank of monitors on one wall, displaying scenes that were both haunting and familiar. Each frame depicted a moment of carnage and tragedy — scenes where the Consulates had met their demise. Gabrielle Cohen slicing her wrists in the rain, a man riddled with bullets in a grassy clearing, a ruined warehouse that served as their temporary refuge, and a city aflame under the wrath of 909-8. They saw Francis Bishop's lifeless form and the sword-sized cavity in his chest..
Questions surged within Ivan's mind, entwining with uncertainty. Was it all part of a meticulously orchestrated plan, leading them inexorably to this chamber? Did Antonina and Bishop seek this outcome, or were they mere pawns in a greater game? Could these scenes be deceptive decoys, obscuring a hidden truth from their grasp?
At the heart of the room stood a meticulously arranged wooden desk, exuding an aura of authority and purpose. Ivan approached it, his eyes falling upon the monitor mounted upon its surface — an entryway to the Council's secure domain. Without hesitation, he took his seat in the high-backed chair behind the desk, a realization dawning upon him as he noticed an anomalous object resting at the far end — the presence of a black, metal, rotary telephone.
His focus shifted to the computer, its login portal demanding his attention. The system initiated biometric scans, presenting a fingerprint and iris scanner that emerged seamlessly from within the desk. Ivan instinctively extended his hand, meeting the gaze of the flashing red light, before both retracted into the wood, leaving no trace. The screen confirmed a successful login, triggering a cascade of transformations throughout the room. The monitors flickered to life, each displaying a different Council site — Site-03, Site-81, Site-12, and countless others. The room was awash with the glowing LEDs, as if the very essence of the 909 Council permeated every surface.
Amidst the sea of imagery, a solitary option materialized on the screen before Ivan's eyes.
[TERMINATE]
A surge of anticipation coursed through Ivan's veins, his hand hovering over the keyboard, poised to deliver the final blow to their adversaries. He drew a deep breath, preparing to usher in the moment of ultimate victory, when suddenly—
The phone rang.
Ivan stood frozen, his fingertip tantalizingly close to the key that would seal their fate. The persistent ringing of the phone punctuated the air, each successive ring driving him further into a state of instinctual response. His hands moved of their own accord, their motions imbued with a robotic precision, guided by a force he couldn't comprehend but dared not resist. With utmost care, he lifted the receiver as though cradling a living entity, bringing it to rest against his ear. Silence greeted him from the other end of the line.
"Hello?"
A crackling voice emerged from the receiver, its tone smooth and its timbre weightless, yet an inexplicable unease prickled Ivan's skin. It felt as though he was hearing something both distant and impossibly close, occupying the same space he stood.
"Congratulations are in order, Mr. Ivan," the voice spoke, its words hanging in the air like the delicate strands of a spider's web. "Your exceptional initiative has not gone unnoticed. I am certain it will serve us well."
Ivan's pulse quickened. "Who is this?"
"Who am I? Ah, Mr. Ivan, surely you have begun to piece it together. I am the very man you have been relentlessly pursuing, the one you sought to exterminate."
A bead of sweat formed on Ivan's forehead. "What? What do you mean?"
"I am the Administrator, Mr. Ivan."
A shiver ran down Ivan's spine, a primal fear taking hold. "That's not possible. The Administrator was killed — I killed him. Seventy years ago."
The voice emitted a soft chuckle, devoid of hostility. "No, Mr. Ivan, you did not kill me. You killed the man named Christopher Walker."
"I don't… Christopher Walker was the Administrator."
A hint of amusement lingered in the voice. "Not quite. Christopher Walker was but a man who tugged at the frayed strings of existence, gradually unraveling the tapestry of the universe. He discovered the string, studied it, categorized it, and eventually, he became it. That was how the Council was born." The voice paused, as if savoring the revelation. "Christopher Walker glimpsed something far greater than himself and planted the seed that would grow into the Council. You killed him for it, but you failed to grasp that part of him remains. He persists because you killed a man but left the seed intact. Do you understand now? You did not kill me."
A wave of weakness washed over Ivan, burdening him with an oppressive weight. "What are you?"
"A signature on a document. A suit in a boardroom. A voice on the phone. You see, Mr. Ivan, you have come to realize the truth too late. While Christopher Walker served as the Council's initial Administrator, he was not the Administrator. That title belongs to me, Mr. Ivan. I exist because of the Council, and the Council exists because of me. What is it that Reason is fond of saying? To know my nature is to know the Council. Something like that."
Ivan remained silent, his mind a tempest of conflicting emotions and thoughts.
"Did you truly believe that Mr. Bishop joined the Council out of a desire for power? That he succumbed to their seductive ways and abandoned his ideals?" The voice scoffed. "No, he arrived at a conclusion and made a conscious choice, sacrificing his own principles for the sake of completion." The voice's tone grew momentarily hostile before settling back into a calm cadence. "Then you appeared, and despite all the warnings, you plunged a spear into his heart, eliminating the only barrier between myself and the entirety of creation."
A pause hung in the air before the voice continued. "And what did you do next? You answered the phone."
A spark of resistance ignited within Karl's chest. "What if I hadn't picked up?"
The voice on the other end erupted in a harsh, jarring laughter — a sound that startles before it reaches the ear. "Don't be absurd, Ivan. Someone always answers the phone."
"I could still walk away," Ivan retorted, his words thick like chalk. He knew what awaited him, yet a feeble struggle persisted against the mounting weight. His gaze darted back to the monitor, to the cursor that seemed impossibly distant.
"Yes, you could. You could walk away this very instant, and only you and I would ever know of your presence here. You could even press that button before you and discover what it means for the Council." The voice seethed with a creeping satisfaction. "And then, mere minutes later, the phone would ring again, and again, and again, without anyone answering. No one would dictate their actions. When those sites are breached, when the monsters within are unleashed upon the world, billions will die, and more will." The voice laughed anew, a wicked resonance reverberating through the air. "And I'll still be here."
The voice persisted. "You spoke of me as a cancer, an aberration. You grasped the truth but failed to comprehend the implications. You justified your actions as righteous, your enemy labeled as evil. But you never truly stopped to ponder the weight of decisions and the motivations that drive them."
Ismael, Antonina, and Hudson stood as silent witnesses to the unfolding scene. Ivan remained seated, the weight of the phone still pressed against his ear. Ismael gripped his gun tightly, his eyes narrowing with suspicion, while Antonina stood resolute at his side. Hudson, sensing the magnitude of the moment, took a step back, his own emotions simmering beneath the surface.
A pregnant silence enveloped the room as Ivan struggled to find the words to respond. His voice faltered, and it became painfully evident that he had nothing to offer in return. In the face of his silence, the voice on the other end let out a sigh — a sound that carried an air of weariness and unassailable finality.
"No, Ivan," the voice spoke with a soft yet unwavering conviction. "There is no good. There is no evil."
Karl's strength waned, and he sank deeper into the chair, his grip on the phone unyielding. The voice persisted. "There is no good. There is no evil," Ivan whispered, his words a reflection of the disquiet that consumed him.
"You'll soon discover that this job carries certain… benefits," the voice continued, its tone laced with a perverse allure. "Who knows? You failed to end me, but perhaps you'll stumble upon a way. And occasionally — when you strain your eyes just right, basking in the perfect light — you might even convince yourself that you're acting in the name of righteousness."
Ivan remained silent, his world reduced to an empty void. The phone and the voice were all that remained, merging into a singular entity that dominated his existence.
The distant sound of the clock upstairs reverberated through the silence, its chimes marking the passing hour. Gone. Gone. Gone. Gone. Gone. Gone.
"Cheer up, Mr. Ivan. Our work has only just begun."
The line abruptly fell silent, leaving Ivan alone in the suffocating stillness. The only sound that echoed through the room was the rhythmic pounding of his own heart, a dissonant melody intertwined with the fading echoes of the clock's toll. Gone. Gone. Gone.
In the wake of those haunting words, Ivan found himself confronted with a profound realization — the blurring of boundaries between right and wrong, good and evil. The title of his torment, the essence of his journey, crystallized in those few simple words.
Then, Antonina Makarov stood by Ivan's side, her expression a mixture of sadness and resignation. Ismael Cohen positioned himself in front of the desk, his hand steady as he aimed the gun directly at Ivan's heart. The weight of the moment hung heavy in the air.
"Put the fucking phone down," Ismael's voice trembled with a desperate plea. "Put it down, Ivan. Let's go. Let's get out of here, come on. I won't let you do this."
"He has t-" Antonina attempted to interject.
"Shut the fuck up, you whore," Ismael snapped, his hands quivering with suppressed rage. "You brought him here. This is your poison, you planned this all along. You knew what was waiting for him here." He turned back to Ivan, his voice strained with anguish. "Ivan, please. Everything we've done. Think of it, all the sacrifices we've made. We need to make this right. We need to go. We can still do it. Just put the phone down. Please. Put the phone down."
Ivan's countenance remained lifeless, his eyes vacant. He stared down the barrel of the gun, a gesture akin to watching an oncoming train — inevitable and crushing. Ismael shook his head in despair.
"Ivan, please. Please, come on. Let's go. Let's go. Leave her here. Let her rot here. She has nothing for you, Ivan. She's got nothing. Put the phone down." Ismael raised the gun a fraction higher. "Put the phone down, goddammit. Please."
Ivan's gaze locked onto Ismael. His body trembled uncontrollably.
"I can't, Ismael," he whispered, echoing hollowly through the room. "I can't. I can't."
Ismael's face flushed red, the pulsating veins beneath his skin revealing his mounting anger and frustration. He screamed, a deluge of hatred and vitriol pouring forth. Then, without hesitation, Ismael discharged the entire clip into the ceiling above, showering the desk with debris and rubble. When the echoes faded, he took a deep breath.
"Fine," Ismael's voice quivered, his eyes never meeting Ivan's or Antonina's. "Fine. I can't kill you, Ivan. I don't have it in me. Maybe, if I'm lucky, your mistakes will do it for me."
He took a step forward and placed the empty gun on the desk. Without another word, Ismael turned toward the elevator, disappearing from sight. Neither Ivan nor Antonina moved, their silence a testament to the weight of their shared turmoil.
In the midst of the tense atmosphere, Hudson finally broke the stillness with a single uttered word.
"Damn."
NOW
— - —
Ivan Hilohiko reclaimed his rightful place, ascending to the position he had once founded. Unlike those who came after him, the monikers of "The Totalitarian" or "The Usurper" did not accompany his return. No, for Ivan, the original 909-15, his title remained unchanged: "The Founder." And alongside him, Antonina and Hudson retained their respective designations. Antonina, as 909-14, was still known as "The Canaanite," while Hudson retained his role as "The Tattletale" under the identifier 909-1.
The room was a tableau of familiar faces, those who had not defected seventy years ago, steadfastly remaining. Francisco Santos Silva, the writer Ivan had encountered in Lisbon, the writer of perfect-recall, retained his position as 909-4, "The Historical Archivist." And even the one who had resigned, 909-10, known as "The Molter," had returned to the fold.
Ivan stood at the head of the table, a tableau of fifteen chairs, each occupied by a member of their clandestine council. Fourteen pairs of eyes fixed upon him, their gazes a mix of anticipation, uncertainty, and a flicker of recognition from days long gone.
Taking his seat, Ivan felt the weight of their collective history settle upon his shoulders. It was a burden he had carried for decades, a mantle woven with the threads of loyalty, betrayal, and the echoes of their shared past. The room, once a bastion of camaraderie, had weathered the storms of time, its walls whispering secrets untold. And now, in this moment of reunion, the convergence of past and present, Ivan and his fellow operatives were poised to face the challenges that lay ahead.
Silence draped the room, pregnant with unspoken words and unfulfilled promises. It was a tableau frozen in time, a tableau that held the echoes of their shared experiences, both triumphant and tragic. Each member of the assembly carried their own scars, their own tales etched upon their souls.
Ivan's gaze swept across the room, lingering on each face, each pair of eyes that held fragments of a shared history. The weight of their presence reminded him of the sacrifices made, the lives forever altered, and the relentless march of time that had brought them to this precipice. But amidst the lingering shadows of doubt and uncertainty, there remained a glimmer of determination, a spark of resilience that refused to be extinguished.
The Founder spoke, his voice carrying the weight of years gone by and the hope for a future yet unwritten. The fourteen pairs of eyes locked onto him, their gazes conveying both expectation and a quiet understanding of the path that lay ahead.
The room trembled with unspoken anticipation as Ivan uttered the words that would set their course in motion.
"Let us begin."
— - —
Ivan sat in his chamber, a vantage point overlooking the sprawling expanse of the new 909 Council. The weight of his decision to return, after having once defected from the Council he had founded, bore down upon him. Was it all worth it? The act of killing Christopher Walker years ago had set in motion a chain of events that had led him back to this moment. But now, Ivan felt a vulnerability that gnawed at his very core.
The words of The Administrator, the voice on the other end of the phone, reverberated through his mind. "There is no good. There is no evil." The profoundness of that statement echoed in the chambers of his thoughts, challenging the foundations upon which the 909 Council had been built. And then, the haunting words continued to haunt him: "To know my nature is to know the nature of the Council."
As Ivan lay in contemplation, immersed in the existential crisis that enveloped him, the door swung open, revealing Antonina's solemn figure. Ivan sighed, recognizing that there was no respite, no reprieve from the relentless machinations of their world.
"Please, Antonina. What now?" Ivan's voice carried the weariness of a man burdened by his responsibilities. "I have already assigned the others their nicknames and their respective departments. What more can we do?"
Antonina shook her head, her expression laden with concern. "No, Ivan," she responded, her voice tinged with urgency. "It's about Ismael."
"What about him?"
Antonina paused, her gaze meeting Ivan's. "He has released a video, courtesy of the Chaos Insurgency," she revealed. "He has assumed the name Jacob Schwartz and has created his own document, akin to Arians'. He called it the 'Summa Modus Operandi: 909.' But this time, it is directed against us." She paused for a little while longer. "Against you."
Ivan's world shattered in that moment, a cacophony of emotions flooding his being. Betrayal, anger, and disbelief entwined within him, threatening to consume his resolve.
"Ismael," he whispered, his voice laced with anguish. The man whom he had once considered a trusted ally, a brother in arms, had turned against them. Against him.
The weight of this revelation hung heavily in the air, suffocating the room with its presence. Ivan felt a surge of conflicting emotions, the remnants of loyalty and kinship clashing with the stark reality before him.
In that moment, Ivan knew that their world had changed. The fragile equilibrium they had sought to maintain was now threatened, their unity tested. The words of The Seed echoed anew, their meaning taking on a chilling clarity. Ivan would face the greatest challenge of his existence – not only from external forces, but from within the very ranks he had once commanded.
As the weight of Ismael's betrayal settled upon him, Ivan clenched his fists, resolve hardening within his heart. The path ahead would be treacherous, but he would not falter. The destiny of the 909 Council, and the fragile balance between chaos and order, hung in the balance. Ivan would confront the challenges that lay ahead, guided by the haunting words that now echoed in his mind.
The Founder took a deep breath, his eyes hardened with determination. The game had changed, the pieces realigned, and the council of shadows teetered on the precipice of an uncertain future.
"We will face this," Ivan declared, his voice resonating with a newfound resolve. "Together, we will weather this storm and emerge stronger. For the Council. For our purpose."
And with those words, the battle lines were drawn, and the fractured loyalties within the 909 Council would be put to the ultimate test.
— - —
Ivan's gaze fell upon the desolate sight before him — the once revered Fountain of Youth, now reduced to a mere relic of its former glory. The words of his late brother, Aleksander, echoed in his mind, tantalizing whispers of a fabled rejuvenation and eternal youth. The truth was cruel and unforgiving — the Fountain had run dry, its mystical properties diminished to naught.
Driven by an insatiable thirst for forbidden knowledge, Ivan delved deep into the annals of the Children of the Endless Waste. Through the crumbling tomes and ancient manuscripts, he discovered a revelation that ignited a flicker of hope within his weary soul.
He entrusted this newfound knowledge to Hudson, the man with a deep fascination for the occult arts, and of course, the brilliant physicist. In Ivan's wisdom, he assigned Hudson to the Department of Occult Studies, recognizing his keen intellect and unwavering dedication.
Hudson's eyes sparkled with a mixture of excitement and trepidation as he absorbed the weight of Ivan's revelation. The prospect of eternal life, of evading the clutches of time and mortality, had always been a tantalizing dream. And now, amidst the ruins of their once unshakable order, an opportunity shimmered on the horizon.
But not all embraced this newfound revelation with open arms. Hunter cast a shadow of doubt over the audacious plan. The sacrifices they had made, the horrors they had witnessed — Hunter understood the precarious balance they teetered upon. The pursuit of eternal life, at the cost of another's existence, tugged at the fibers of his conscience.
The ritual revealed to them demanded a sacrifice of unparalleled magnitude — an individual brought to the brink of death, teetering on the precipice between life and eternity. Through this dark dance with mortality, they would seek to summon the avatar of Death itself.
Hudson, chosen to embody the sacrificial offering, felt a mixture of fear and exhilaration intertwine within him. The weight of this burden, the knowledge that he would tread the very edge of existence, pressed upon his soul. The allure of immortality beckoned, promising a release from the shackles of time.
Deep within the recesses of Site-127, a sinister enclave reserved for the darkest of rituals, the Council members congregated around a bloodstained altar. The air was thick with anticipation and an aura of foreboding. Each member clutched a knife, their hands trembling ever so slightly. At the center of this macabre tableau stood Hudson.
With closed eyes and a steady resolve, Hudson braced himself for the excruciating ordeal that awaited him. In a swift and synchronized motion, the Council plunged their knives into his flesh, rending through sinew and severing veins. The searing pain coursed through Hudson's body, his every nerve alight with torment. The agony was but a precursor to the darkness yet to come.
As Hudson crumpled to the ground, the room was veiled in a mystic shroud of ethereal gray smoke, tendrils snaking their way toward him. The smoky tendrils coalesced, embracing his prone form with an otherworldly presence, as if Death itself sought to claim his spirit.
Ivan focused. "Death," he called forth in the prepared Latin. "make real thy avatar. Appear now."
The room descended into an eerie stillness, a chilling silence that permeated the air. Shadows danced and swirled, mingling with the frigid embrace of an invisible specter. The figure materialized in the corner, a visage of gloom and desolation, a harbinger of the void.
"Ivan Hilohiko," the voice whispered, an ethereal breath barely audible. "I am not surprised. Man's desperation has birthed far greater transgressions." The figure cast its empty gaze upon the blood-soaked altar. "A dire decision awaits you, does it not?"
Without faltering, Ivan demanded, "Produce the contract."
A gust of wind surged through the chamber, accompanied by a chilling laughter that rattled like bones. The specter extended a withered hand, withdrawing a long, obsidian quill from the tattered folds of its robe. In the air before them, a red line materialized, seething and crackling with an otherworldly energy.
Within that blood-etched line appeared the name HUDSON OLIVER THEODORE, 909-1. Ivan reached out, his grasp firm and resolute, seizing the quill from the phantom's clutches. With a deliberate stroke, he traced the razor-sharp tip across Hudson's palm, a wellspring of blood pooling within his clenched fist. Gritting his teeth, Hudson held the quill steady, his grip unyielding as Ivan guided his hand to etch his own name into the air. The crimson ink seared and sizzled, the sole source of light in the chamber, before dissipating into nothingness.
The ethereal contract manifested once more, bearing the name SAKURA-KIUN SATO, 909-2. A Japanese woman emerged from the shadows, drawing back her hood to reveal a countenance etched with determination. Stepping forward, she approached the paper and quill, her movements resolute. With a swift motion, the quill traced a crimson path across her palm, a pool of blood welling within her hands. Sakura-Kiun Sato etched her name, her resolve merging with the ancient pact.
Within the chamber of secrets, the ritual of binding unfolded with each Council member stepping forward to etch their name into the intangible fabric of fate. The words materialized beneath each of them, a testament to their commitment and surrender to the unknown. Moments stretched into eternity as the Council's names cascaded forth, an inexorable procession toward an enigmatic destiny.
But when the turn came for Hunter, a profound dissonance disrupted the harmonious rhythm. The words DAVID CALDWELL HUNTER, 909-10 graced the air, demanding his compliance. But Hunter refused, his defiance palpable. "Nope," he uttered, his voice laced with an unyielding resolve.
Curiosity dripped from the voice that echoed through the chamber. "Why not?" it inquired, seeking the truth hidden within Hunter's dissent.
Hunter maintained his silence. "Very well," the voice conceded, an undercurrent of amusement in its tone. "Proceed."
The names continued to manifest, their weight pressing upon the Council members' souls. JEAN-LUC EMMANUEL DUBOIS, 909-11, a Frenchman of unyielding spirit, stepped forward, unveiling his countenance as he added his signature to the spectral contract. Then, SOHRAB ABDULLAH KHALID EL-TABATABAI, 909-12, a man of Saudi origin, mirrored the act of commitment with a solemn determination. The ritual persisted, unyielding in its demand for compliance.
ZUWENA AMANI JUMA, 909-13, brought forth a manifestation that transcended the realm of flesh and blood. As the screens surrounding the chamber flickered to life, a snake devouring its own tail and a central gear — the seal of the 909 Council — adorned the digital display. The screens emitted a resounding hum, as if resonating with the very essence of the Council's existence. The name Zuwena Amani Juma materialized, etched onto the digital tapestry by an unseen hand, imbued with an artificial precision.
The final duo, Antonina and Ivan, stood together, their gazes locked upon the pulsating aura of the unfulfilled contract. However, their hesitation unveiled a chink in their unity. "I… I can't," Antonina confessed, baring the vulnerability of her wavering conviction. Ivan echoed her sentiment, his voice tinged with a shared uncertainty. "Same with Antonina."
A glimmer of satisfaction flickered within the voice, a semblance of a smile perceived by Ivan's perceptive mind. Then, in a rush of air that danced with a mocking laughter, the chamber burst into light. The figure in the corner dissolved into nothingness, as did the quill, leaving only a lingering echo of their ephemeral presence.
— - —
Oh, Ivan. You didn't.
— - —
The contract, now sealed with blood and burdened by its weighty significance, stood as a haunting testament to the irrevocable choices made by Ivan and his council of shadows. In the wake of its completion, the avatar of Death had come to inhabit the vessel of Hudson Theodore, a once-vibrant soul reduced to a macabre shell of decay and silent wisdom. Where the title of "The Tattletale" once adorned his being, it was now usurped by the mantle of "The Sage of the Living." Dr. Theodore's voice, disembodied and ethereal, resonated without the need for physical motion, his rotting flesh bearing testament to the unholy communion between the mortal realm and the spectral domain.
It was the Consulates who decreed the fate of Dr. Theodore's forsaken corpse. They chose a desolate outpost in the treacherous waters of the South Atlantic, the South Sandwich Islands. There, amid the harsh winds and tempestuous waters, his lifeless form was encased within an imposing black spire, carved from the pillars of Pandemonium itself. This dark monolith, a testament to the council's influence over the shifting tapestry of reality, could only be perceived by those initiated in the secrets of the mind-altering mnestic drugs. These elusive substances, repositories of forgotten knowledge, resided exclusively within the Foundation.
Ivan Vladislavovich Hilohiko, the ageless architect of the council's dominion, stood resolute within the hallowed grounds of 909-Site-100, the birthplace of their clandestine order. Three centuries had etched themselves upon his countenance, marking his soul with the weight of time's cruel passage. As he gazed across the ancient site, his eyes caught the figure of Antonina drawing near, her presence a bittersweet solace in a world marred by twilight and shadows.
With a tender touch, Antonina's hand found solace within Ivan's.
- BACK -
