04-19-2016, 07:51 AM
Should I feel shame that I have only fleeting remains of human memory? Given the world I lived in and the harsh life of flesh I endured, I'd say remember the smell of my mother's bosom is irrelevant. The life I had was cold and made of steel. One moment, Borodino, and the next, I was waking up as something... new. Something better than anything else that had ever been born or forged or designed.
One person's arrogance is another person's high expectations. The Germans took a soft boy and made him into a walking war machine.
Their only mistake was not lobotomizing me the moment they dragged me into that facility.
Idiots.
---
Following the fall of Borodino, Nicholai and a truck full of other young POWs had been taken to an underground facility in Berlin. Unlike the majority of buildings in the city, this complex was not designed to test new bombs, guns, or missiles. It served a far grander part in one of the many secrets hidden in the German Empire, for it was the location of the Cell Program.
Only Kastaha Adolv and the staff of scientists and researchers had any knowledge of what went on in the facility. Security was so important that the staff not only lived on the premises, but they had also been declared dead in order to prevent their families or friends from having a chance to find out about the studies: Advanced nanotechnology and cybernetics all aimed toward creating the ultimate weapon.
The Cell program had began in 2095, preceding Germany's invasion of France by a few weeks. It hadn’t been until forty months later that the team of geniuses and engineers managed to craft a workable design for a series of cybernetic augmentations and surgical procedures with the aim to craft the perfect organism for war.
Coined as Cell Alpha, the project was a success and saw completion by December of 2103. The base used was the star of his military division—only twenty-three years of age and already a Lieutenant. Unfortunately, age ended up causing instability in his organ systems.
Infuriated by the test results, the staff took another two years before they ‘perfected’ the next model. In an effort to counteract the problems that arose with the first model, Cell Beta’s base was a ten-year-old boy.
Although there were no biological problems with the model, Cell Beta’s impressionable mind wound up being an issue that caused the soldier to go insane upon realizing he had been turned into a ‘cold, metal monster.’
Cell Gamma, the third member of the series, was completed a year and a half later. The base used was aged twelve years, and although the test results were a success, the model proved insufficient in all but the most basic of scenarios. Cell Gamma’s inability to adapt and deal with situations other than direct combat led to the model being declared a reject like his predecessors.
The forth in the series—Cell Delta—was the facility’s current project. While the actual ‘shell’ was complete, the scientists lacked the biological base they required. Unwilling to use German children in an effort to prevent the possibility of stories leaking about the government stealing children, Kastaha had ordered that child POWS be used for the testing. With the issue of mental control fixed since Cell Beta, the issue of a conflicted base was no longer a handicap.
"So is this the kid?" the head operative, Dr. Gustaf Garon inquired to a nearby member of his staff. The two gentlemen where standing in an enclosed glass catwalk above the containment area.
"Yes," the scientist answered. “He outperformed all the other prisoners. Furthermore, he also shows what seems to be a genetic resistance to gamma radiation”
"That is possible?" The bewildered man shot back. For someone who knew every inch of the human body and its workings, Gustaf wasn’t familiar with anyone being resistant to gamma radiation.
“He seems to have a previously unheard-of sequence of DNA that appears to code for a polymer that neutralizes the radiation. Believe me, Doctor; we’ve tested the boy several times. We’ve even had him hooked up to an irradiated IV, and the cellular degeneration was still only three percent.” By this point, Dr. Garon found himself staring through the one-way glass at the unconscious boy with a faint smile.
“Tell me more about him, Krowley,” the man ordered casually—glancing down at the unconscious boy in question.
"Name is Nicholai Immanuel Volkov,” the assistant read from a clipboard. “Height is one hundred forty-seven centimeters; weight is fifty kilograms; ethnic background is seventy-five percent Russian, twenty-five percent Polish; blood type A."
"Age?" Gustaf asked.
"He’s thirteen. He was born sometime in 2095,” the scientist replied, glancing up from the clipboard at his superior once he had finished.
"Put him in cell block A before he becomes conscious," Dr. Garon uttered, taking the clipboard from his associate and ushering him from the hallway.
"Yes, sir!" the scientist remarked, nodding once before departing to the containment room a level below the glass hallway.
Nicholai awoke and was quick to his feet. He had been at the compound for nearly a week, and in that time, he had never found a single shard of solace. Each and every day had been filled with its own assortment of grueling tests and painful experiments. There were other kids in the building with Nicholai who had conveyed similar stories about capture, but a majority of them were beginning to vanish.
Although he only had an elementary education, the Russian boy had learned enough from his short military training to know a German installation when he saw one, but this place was unlike any prisoner camp horror story Nicholai had ever heard. He surveyed the area he was in—a small glass white cell. It was a vast departure from the almost communal area that he had lived in for the last few days.
Groaning slightly, the boy pulled his torso up off the padded floor of the cell and ran a hand across the line of needle wounds that adorned his right arm. They were the by-product of the numerous tests and chemicals that had been administered to him.
Once he made it to his feet, Nicholai reached up and placed a hand against the bruise he had received from another of the prisoners. The confrontation had been forced upon the two by their German captors. Unfortunately for the other boy, Nicholai had snapped his neck in the span of half a minute.
Glancing to his left, the Russian POW noticed that there was another boy in the cell next to his. Walking up to the glass wall that separated the two rooms, Nicholai pounded on the transparent surface with one of his bruised fists in an effort to get the boys attention.
"Where are you from?" the preteen asked. The other prisoner was speaking god awful Polish with what sounded like a British accent.
"Russia," Nicholai replied, frowning slightly as he took another glance around the prison block. “My name is Nicholai Volkov, who are you?”
“My parents called me Samuel until they were gassed, but names are not important here,” he mumbled erratically.
“Where are we?” Nicholai inquired, arching his eye at the boy’s eccentric mood and behavior.
“You and I have been selected from among the sea of filth,” the boy responded in a manic, almost exhilarated tone. “One of us gets to become the base for the Cell Delta program.”
"The what?" Nicholai asked, leaning against the cold glass wall and slowly sliding down to the padded floor.
"This facility exists to pump out super soldiers, and one of us will be chosen,” Samuel giggled, his eyes wide with frenzied anticipation.
“Super soldiers?” Nicholai asked, his question more or less an astonished gasp.
"Oh god yes,” the other prisoner responded with a euphoric sigh. “One of us will taste immortality…become an unstoppable force of cybernetics.”
"How do you know all this?" Nicholai asked as the preteen began to pace around his cell.
“I was one of the three picked for Cell Gamma, but I was too young at the time," the boy screamed, slamming his fists against the reinforced glass. “I’ve been rotting in this transparent prison for nearly two years now. I have been waiting all this time for my chance. I shall have immortality!”
"Why would you want to be picked?" Nicholai asked, putting a hand to his forehead. The wound had since healed up, but it was still coated in grim and blood from not being cleaned. An infection was on the horizon, but Nicholai had more important things. “You’d be a German lapdog…”
"Screw the Germans. I want the power you idiot...the power would be unimaginable!" the kid sounded irritated. "Unimaginable power," he screamed, collapsing to the ground and moving into a fetal position. For the rest of the night, Samuel continued to mutter to himself in both Polish and what sounded like English.
The next morning, Nicholai was awoken by the sound of footsteps in the hall outside his glass prison cell. In the adjacent room, Samuel was still awake—his insane eyes glued on the three people approaching the duo of glass cells.
"Are these the two potentials?” The man in the center of the trio asked. A smile spread across the aged scientist’s face as he tapped a pen on his clipboard.
"Yes, Dr. Garon," one of the men answered. “These are the two: A Russian POW and the surviving reject from the Cell Gamma project.”
“It has to be my turn!” Samuel shouted, jumping up from his position on the floor and running up to the transparent door. “I have to qualify by now…I’ve been working nonstop to becoming the best. I have to be chosen! I deserve it!” The British prisoner rambled, his breathing frantic and insane.
“We’re sorry, Samuel,” Dr. Garon replied. “Nicholai here has just tested far above you. There’s always the next program, and if you show the same initia—”
“Fuck you!” Samuel exploded, slamming his fists against the glass wall of his cell until his knuckles started to bleed. As Nicholai watched in silence, the third scientist opened his door and motioned toward him.
“Come on, son,” he remarked with a grin that made it easy for Nicholai to see through the façade of empathy. As the man drew closer, the wiry Russian teenager eyed up his options.
“Back away from me,” Nicholai hissed—his voice silent in comparison to Samuel’s insane screams.
“We’re not here to hurt you, son,” Dr. Garon uttered from the hallway.
“I won’t become a slave,” Nicholai growled, lunging forward and taking the scientist by surprise. With a swift motion, the war-hardened teenager managed to bring the feeble man to his knees. “Back off or I’ll kill him,” Nicholai replied, tightening his hands around the man’s neck.
“He’s expendable,” the doctor replied, gesturing toward something that was out of Nicholai’s field of sight. A few seconds later, a number of armed men in army fatigues came rushing into the room.
Fueled by adrenaline and terror, the Russian youth snapped the scientist’s neck and pushed his limp body toward the four soldiers pilling into the prison cell. As the guards were knocked backwards by the body, Nicholai took a running step forward and vaulted over them.
In the other cell, Samuel was livid with rage—his bloodied fingernails scrapping against the indestructible glass of his cell. Ignoring the sounds behind him, Nicholai darted down the white hallway. He had almost got to the corner when his hopes came crashing down around him.
[i]Phhhhht[/i]
Nicholai let out a feeble scream and reached up behind his head for the source of the pain. With another whimper, the teenager wrenched the small dart from the base of his head and brought it around to his eyes. As Nicholai tried to continue, the tranquilizer took effect and brought him to the cold, stone floor.
Ten minutes later, Dr. Garon and a handful of his assistants stood around the sedated child. In the corner of the large operating room, a number of other scientists stood with notebooks and pencils in their hands.
Smiling proudly, Gustaf turned to one of the four nurses and pointed toward the stereo system mounted against one of the room’s white walls.
“Track number four, please,” he replied—his voice muffled by the protective mask he wore over his nose and mouth. Nodding her head, the woman walked over to the machine and pressed a number of buttons before her efforts were rewarded with the declaration of an elegant symphony from the speakers that adorned the walls of the operating room.
Dr. Gustaf Garon let out a sigh and took a step away from the operating table. He casually dropped an ensanguined scalpel into a metal dish of sanitizer liquid as he observed the specimen lying unconscious on the metal gurney.
Slowly but surely, the procedure was nearing its inevitable conclusion. Unlike the last three operations, this one was turning out to be far more complex. Even with five assistants and four nurses, the upgrading was going at an agonizingly small pace.
“How is the work going?” The voice came from an intercom near the door. It was one of Dr. Garon’s superiors, undoubtedly calling to heckle and chide him. Sighing inwardly, the bloody surgeon walked over to the device and ordered one his nurses to press the button for him.
“It’s going well,” the doctor replied with a beleaguered sigh. “It’s taking a little bit longer than I would have imagined, but the end product is going to be fantastic.”
“Good. We’ll expect it to be finished by the end of the day,” the authoritative voice grunted before shutting the channel and spilling the maddening roar of feedback into the room.
“We’re taking a break,” Garon growled, turning to face the interns. “Would you like to ask any questions about what you’ve seen so far? After all, some of you will probably be working with me to build the next model.”
“What’s the purpose of the exhaust openings on his feet?” One of the interns asked. Dr. Garon smiled faintly and picked up a small metal prod from a nearby countertop. With it, he pointed to the boy’s modified feet: The toe bones had been fused together and plated in a few layers of Validium.
“Along with the stabilizers,” the doctor remarked, pointing toward what seemed like nothing more than a dense pad of metal attached to the back of the boy’s feet. “These two exhaust ports,” Garon added, pointing to two small exhaust openings on the undersides of Cell Delta’s feet. “Serve to increase mobility and reduce friction drag.”
“Well d’uh,” another one of the interns interjected, laughing at his associate. “And the cylinders built around his shins serve as, like, uh, shock absorbers and springs to increase his leg strength…r-r-right, Dr. Garon?”
“Precisely, Nicholas. They will allow Cell Delta to run as fast as a sports car and leap a few stories with the utmost ease. In the same sense, they’ll prevent his legs from breaking should be ejected or fall from high heights.”
“And the sleeves of Validium around his knees shield the new joint work we did on him,” one of the doctors replied, pointing toward the black pads of metal that encased Nicholai’s knees. “The joints allow him 360 degree rotation, and the ability to detach his limbs at whim. The same work was done to his elbows and wrists,” the man added, pointing to the boy’s arms.
“Why did the right arm take so long?” One of the interns asked, jotting down notes.
“With Cell Beta, one of the major problems was the absence of an innate weapon. He had the power and fortitude, but he had problems dealing with a lot of firepower on his own. Because of that, we designed a weapon for the Cell Gamma model that would be part of his systems,” Dr. Garon explained.
“Fascinating,” one of the interns muttered—his eyes never leaving his notebook as he scribbled word after word of information.
“Cell Gamma’s weapon served too clunky, but in the months since, we’ve designed a model that can be stored within Cell Delta’s arm. It takes in electrons from the atmosphere and charges them en masse. Once condensed, they can be funneled through the barrel and fired. The resulting energy can pierce even the highest grade metals,” Dr. Garon continued.
“Why not mass-produce this technology and use it for the war effort? After all, this weaponry would surely decimate our foes with the utmost ease, Doctor,” one of the interns remarked.
“Forty million dollars went in to producing just one of the devices that creates and maintains such energy,” Gustaf answered, his voice laden with an almost annoyed satire.
“How involved was the thoracic work, Doctor?” Another intern questioned, gesturing with his pencil toward Cell Delta’s still unfinished chest. With a smile, Dr. Garon took a step toward the operating table and looked down into the boy’s opened chest.
His sternum had been temporarily removed, and his ribs had been peeled away from the underlying organs. The lungs had been surgically cut out, as Cell Delta would not require oxygen to sustain his life processes. The heart had been left intact, as it served as an excellent foundation for the model’s central processing unit.
“As you can see,” Dr. Garon remarked, using the metal prod to push aside a flap of epithelial tissue blocking a number of nanofibers. “The chest serves as the epicenter of Cell Delta’s numerous processes. All of the nanofibers laced throughout his organic body converge here,” he uttered, pointing to the heart.
“Why leave all the blood vessels if Cell Delta won’t need them?” An intern questioned, prompting Dr. Garon to smile and clear his throat.
“It saves us the work of having to waste precious time reinforcing all of the wiring. Using the arteries and veins of this boy, we have a template to utilize in what would otherwise be an exhausting process,” Dr. Garon explained—grinning as he basked in looks of wonder on the young faces of the interns.
“What follows next, Doctor?” One of the students inquired.
“We will reassemble the bones, seal up his chest, and then plate his entire thorax in a coat of Validium,” one of the surgeons answered.
“We should start that process now,” Dr. Garon added, gesturing with a simple motion of his head for one of the nurses to restart the surgery’s musical accompaniment.
Hours passed as Dr. Garon and his associates sweated and toiled over the operating table. In that timeframe, they had managed to bring the procedure down to its final phases.
“So close,” one of the surgeons muttered, dabbing away blood splotches from the face of Cell Delta’s base. On the other side of the table, they were stitching up the skin around the teenager’s left temple.
Down on the other half of the steel gurney, the remaining scientists were either fashioning Validium ore throughout the young Russian’s outlying tissues or coating any of his exposed tissues that were already woven with the material.
“Is the cranial guard complete?” Dr. Garon asked, glancing over his shoulder at a duo of nurses polishing something on a countertop.
“Yes, Doctor,” they answered in tandem, turning around to show the doctor a black helmet. Stepping toward them, Dr. Garon took the device from them and observed it with a silent reverence.
“What is that for, Doctor?” One of the interns inquired softly.
“It functions, primarily, to shield the cranium from damage,” the doctor explained, shifting the helmet so the students could observe all of it. “These devices here,” he added, pointing to two small bumps on the sides of the guard. “Serve to amplify Cell Delta’s hearing capabilities to almost forty times that of a normal human,” Dr. Garon concluded, walking over to the operating table and placing the helmet down next to the boy’s head.
“Is the brain intact for the same reasons as the heart, Doctor?” One of the interns asked, tapping a pen against his notebook.
“For the most part,” Dr. Garon answered. “We’ve adapted most of the normal functions of the brain to work in tandem with the cybernetic systems. Such as memory storage, data processing, and al—”
“We’re all done with the fabrication work, Doctor,” one of the other scientists suddenly interjected, placing one of his tools on a nearby table.
“That was done rather quickly,” Dr. Garon replied, an uncharacteristic look of shock on his weary features.
“Well most of us were present for the last two procedures, so we’re quite good at this,” one of the scientists said with a soft laugh. Dr. Garon chuckled himself and then picked the helmet back up from the table. With the utmost degree of tenderness, he slid the helmet down over the boy’s head of hair until it locked into place.
Smiling contently, Dr. Garon took a moment to observe his handiwork. His eyes fell to the ‘Cell 04’ insignia that had been fashioned onto Cell Delta’s chest plate. Exhaling quietly, the weary man ran a hand down the boy’s right arm. There was no visible flesh anywhere on the body except the face—all that could been seen was the Validium ore that had been heated up and painted over tissue. Beneath the layer of metal, the skin had been woven with even more ore.
All this served to protect the intricate nanofibers and wiring that drove Cell Delta’s processes. The end result was a remarkable infusion of steel, skin, and science. The entire operation had taken fourteen hours, and with swift motion, Gustaf Garon removed his blue, latex gloves in an elated fashion. Turning around to face the interns, he removed his face mask and smiled proudly at the students.
“Complete,” he muttered as the nurses began to clean up the bloody tools and other messes that the surgeons had created over the course of the operation.
“There’s nothing else that remains, Doctor?” An intern questioned as Dr. Garon turned away from the table and glanced at some monitors attached to the unconscious teenager.
"We just need to program him,” the scientist replied. “That way, we can ensure that Cell Delta won’t be affected by his organic base,” Dr. Garon answered, turning away from the numerous monitors to face the students.
“Dr. Garon?” One of them asked, looking over the man’s shoulders to get a look at the computer screens.
“Yes?” The doctor asked, furrowing his brow at the intern’s odd behavior.
“Should those readings be so erratic?” On that note, Dr. Garon’s eyes widened to the point of blatant terror. They’d had to up the anesthetic on several occasions based on readings of the boy’s brain waves, but the data had spiked passed the red zone. This could only mean…
The Russian boy woke up to a screaming in his head—a heartless, mechanical noise that pulled tore him from the peacefulness of the unconscious state in which he had spent the last few hours.
As his eyes opened to the world, Nicholai instantly felt that something was wrong. His hand shot up and found the cold steel that had replaced what had once been his chest. Thoughts surged through the boys mind as pulled his upper body away from the surface of wherever he had been put.
“What is this?” Nicholai demanded, lifting one of his black, metallic hands to his face. Horror spread across the youth’s visage as he tried to process what had happened, but despite his urgency, nothing came to him.
As Nicholai drowned in his terror, he picked up on the sound of breathing next to him. The noise was like a pin drop, but he heard it as if someone had set off a shotgun next to his face. For reasons the teenager could not explain, reality simply seemed move easy to comprehend. Everything was more vivid to him—he could smell the men before he turned to see them.
“What am I?” Nicholai whispered, placing one of his hands against his head and realizing that there was steel where there had once been hair. “What have you done to me?”
“N-n-nothing,” one of the men replied, taking a step away from the crowd of scared people. “You have been upgraded,” the blood-covered surgeon replied.
“Cell Delta,” Nicholai remarked, staring down at the gray steel that covered his legs. The words of Samuel reverberated through the teenagers mind as he shifted his legs over the edge of the gurney. Sliding off the elevated surface, Nicholai landed on the linoleum floor with a duo of metallic clicks.
“You’re not finished yet,” the same man from before stammered as Nicholai tore away a few chords that were connected to various points on his body.
“Finished?” Nicholai asked, turning his attention toward the man. “By that, you mean that I haven’t been programmed into a German slave?” A smile spread across the young Russian’s face as he lifted up his right arm.
As the group of men and women watched, the black gauntlet that covered Nicholai’s hand and wrist began to whirl and break apart into small segments—revealing the bones beneath. The teenager looked on in surprise as the small shards of black metal converged in the form of a gun barrel.
“That isn’t what we mean at all,” the man replied, his voice more high-pitched in lieu of the weapon now being pointed at him.
“What do we do now, Dr. Garon?” One of the younger German’s whimpered as Nicholai gazed upon his weapon.
“Die,” the Russian teen snapped, pointing his weapon at the man and frowning as a flash of light filled the chamber. A heartbeat later, a concentrated mass of energy shot forth from the cannon and punched clean through the man’s sternum.
Screams rang out from the crowd as they tried to rush toward the operating room’s sole exit. With a remorseless fury, Nicholai killed every last one of them, save for the fellow who had been named by his comrades. Much to Nicholai’s chagrin, Dr. Garon managed to escape.
“I think I can live with this,” the teenager murmured, lifting his hand up to his face as the gun broke down and shifted back into a hand. Nicholai began to laugh as he took his first steps toward the exit of the operating room.
Although he wasn’t used to his new feet, the boy’s staggered gait managed to carry him across the room. With a clumsy finesse, Nicholai made it over the bodies and into the hallway.
As he lurched out into the corridor, the escapee let out a gasp and fell to his knees. There was something whizzing around in Nicholai’s mind. The Russian teenager gritted his teeth as the exhilarating sparks surged through his brain. The electricity coursed through the boy’s young mind—infusing him with a bizarre power.
It took Nicholai all but ten seconds to realize what he was feeling. It was that power…that unimaginable force whose potential had driven Samuel to the brink of insanity.
“I like this,” the teen muttered as he stood up off the metallic ground. “I am Cell Delta!” Nicholai shouted, lifting his hands toward the ceiling as a smile broke out across his youthful features. In that moment, Nicholai the boy ceased to exist as the he accepted the fate that had been thrust upon him.
Just as Delta was basking in his birth, an automated voice spewed out from a nearby speaker.
"Warning!” The female voice declared. “A breakout is in progress. All guards take up positions. This is a Level 9 Emergency,” a groan escaped the boy’s voice as he made his way down the hallway with a confident, flawless stride.
Delta casually marched over to the nearby elevator and depressed the call button. After a few moments, a message flashed up on the small screen above the call button. Leaning forward, the teen read the message aloud.
“In case of code red emergency all elevators will stop functioning,” the cyborg declared, sighing as soon as the last word had escaped his lips. “Now that is just annoying,” he added with a laugh as a screen suddenly flashed up on his field of sight.
“Engage hacking module?" Delta muttered as his right index finger suddenly twitched. As he observed, the tip of the digit split apart and a tiny drill-like apparatus extended forth, tethered to a remarkably tense wire.
A giddy cheer escaped the boy’s mouth as the drill whirled and then drove clean through the plastic button. A wave of electricity coursed through Delta’s body as the sound of the elevator descending brought a smile to his already beamish countenance.
Just as he was starting to enjoy the rush, the wire with the hacking module pulled out from the control panel and vanished back into the tip of Delta’s finger. A heartbeat later, the elevator door opened with a rather out of place tone, and the boy stepped inside the small, almost annoying illuminated chamber.
Delta began to sway back and forth as he watched the number designating his floor slowly decrease. Turning his attention to the control panel, Delta pressed the button that his internal display had highlighted for him. With a clichéd ting, the doors slid shut and the elevator began its ascent toward the surface.
The Russian youth began to sway back and forth as he watched the red number designating his current floor slowly decreased. Just as it seemed things were working in Delta’s favor, the elevator came to a grinding halt on the seventh level of the installation.
"Level 7,” Delta remarked. “This isn’t what I need,” he groaned, pressing the button in a manic effort to make the elevator move. After a few seconds of mad clicking, the boy let out a frustrated growl and lifted his right hand. In a matter of seconds, the hand had shifted back to its gun form.
Another message suddenly flashed up on his display, informing him of the charge feature inherent in his weapon. Aiming the gun at the door, Delta smiled as it began to hum and the energy inside began to give off a dazzling white light.
“I wonder what this’ll do,” the upgraded youth giggled as the ball of energy erupted from the barrel of the cannon mounted on his arm. Instead of the tennis ball-sized shots that he had used to dispatch the fiends behind his transformation, the shot was easily the size of a basketball.
Upon striking the metal of the elevator door, the energy sizzled as it burned a path straight though the reinforced material. Bringing the barrel up to his face, Delta blew away the resulting smoke as the weapon returned to being his right hand.
Feeling powerful, the cybernetic teenager took a step forward and wrapped his black, metal fingers around the melted steel. Issuing a single grunt, he flexed his artificially enhanced arms and pried the doors open wide enough that he could slip through.
The three people that ran the facility had watched Delta escape and exit the elevator.
"This is horrible," the man was tall, thin, tan, and middle-aged. His name was Romea Kruxinburgh.
"I think we know," the second man replied. He was small, stout, and middle-aged. He was Erwin Kelinstien.
"He means it is worse because Cell Delta is beginning to understand his abilities," the third member of the triumvirate was Catherine Stenslin, tall, young, and attractive.
"D you know what Kastasha will do to us if she learns of this?" Erwin said with a voice laced with fear.
"She would have you all killed!" the three scientists slowly turned to see the wiry, wily Empress of Germany.
"Greetings Empress," the three said, bowing.
"Don't, 'greetings empress' me, I know what is going on here. How could you idiots let that thing escape!" she yelled.
"What thing?" Catherine asked. Kastasha walked up to Catherine, picked her up by her shit, and slammed her into the wall.
"Fucking Cell Delta! If any of our enemies were to get their hands on it, it will screw us all big time. I'm leaving, I'm giving you an order to terminate Cell Delta at all costs before we invade Moscow."
"Yes, Empress," the three said as Kastasha left with her heavily armed entourage.
"We have no choice, the security won't stop him. We will have to reactivate Cells Alpha, Beta, and Gamma," Romea said.
"I'll go reprogram them now," Erwin replied.
"I'll assist you," Catherine said. With that the three scientists went to work.
Delta turned down yet another corridor and was greeted by at least a dozen heavily armed security officers.
"Halt! Drop your weapon!" the officer in the front yelled.
Delta looked at his burst gun and then at the man.
"Do it! Drop your weapon!" the man repeated. A new message appeared on Delta's internal display, 'Powered burst now online'.
Delta's right hand actually slid up into his forearm with a click, and then the burst gun widened and slid down completely around his forearm. The burst gun had doubled in size.
"Blast him!" the man yelled. The twelve men opened fire with their plasma rifles as burst energy began to pile up inside but not like the charge function. More energy piled as the plasma rounds pummeled Delta.
Delta was forced to a knee as the plasma punished him. The burst energy was pilling up rapidly and immensely. The energy was so high that Delta's entire right arm was gyrating, and soon the burst energy was visible in waves, pouring into the burst gun. Delta smiled and fell on his face. This stopped the fire as the men grinned.
The leader, the man who ordered the attack, turned and grinned widely at his cohorts. "Go inform Erwin, we have destroyed Cell Delta,"
As the man barked orders, Delta got to his feet and bent at the knees. Delta shot forward, pushing right through the lines of men and then turned to face them. The back line spun as soon as Delta unleashed the Powered burst. The white light enveloped the seven men of the back row. They screamed in agony as the white light faded.
The seven men had been reduced to charred skeletons. Their skin and clothes had been immolated by the intense heat and energy. The bones fell to the ground and the remainder of the men except the leader dropped their guns and ran.
"I'll fucking kill you!" the man screamed, raising his rifle.
Delta shot out and violently ripped the rifle from the man's grasp. Then another message popped up on Delta's internal display, ' beginning assimilation of...M-950 plasma rifle to system database...complete...preliminary testing commencing'.
Delta let the rifle drop to the ground as the burst arm began to change again. The gun reverted to its normal form first. Then it flipped down and locked onto Delta's wrist. The other end opened outward and locked onto itself. Delta's wrist joint popped up at several points, and several small bars slid out to lock the burst gun into place.
"What are you?" the man muttered.
"I am the End!" With that, a stream of plasma rounds exploded out, blasting straight through the man's chest. The man collapsed lifeless, and Delta turned to see a surveillance camera.
"You can't stop me!" Delta said. He continued to smirk at the camera as his burst gun reverted back to normal.
Delta made his way down the cell blocks and paused at one of them. He looked to his left to see the kid that was in the cell next to him.
The kid had a look of anger and astonishment as he realized Delta had been picked over him.
"Cell Delta," Delta turned to see a person. The person seemed to be young, but he was still a lot older than Delta, perhaps eighteen or nineteen. He was outfitted in a fashion similar to Delta. Except, he had no burst gun, and he had a lot more body armor than Delta.
"Who are you?" Delta demanded. The man grinned a toothless smile. He had a helmet that covered all of his face except his eyes and mouth. Even his cheeks and nose were covered by extensions.
"I am Cell zero-one, Cell Alpha," the man said, pointing to the insignia on his chest. Delta laughed at himself for not noticing it, "I am the first Cell."
"And you are here why?" Delta said.
"To terminate your processes," Alpha replied.
"Bring it," Delta said with a grin.
One person's arrogance is another person's high expectations. The Germans took a soft boy and made him into a walking war machine.
Their only mistake was not lobotomizing me the moment they dragged me into that facility.
Idiots.
---
Following the fall of Borodino, Nicholai and a truck full of other young POWs had been taken to an underground facility in Berlin. Unlike the majority of buildings in the city, this complex was not designed to test new bombs, guns, or missiles. It served a far grander part in one of the many secrets hidden in the German Empire, for it was the location of the Cell Program.
Only Kastaha Adolv and the staff of scientists and researchers had any knowledge of what went on in the facility. Security was so important that the staff not only lived on the premises, but they had also been declared dead in order to prevent their families or friends from having a chance to find out about the studies: Advanced nanotechnology and cybernetics all aimed toward creating the ultimate weapon.
The Cell program had began in 2095, preceding Germany's invasion of France by a few weeks. It hadn’t been until forty months later that the team of geniuses and engineers managed to craft a workable design for a series of cybernetic augmentations and surgical procedures with the aim to craft the perfect organism for war.
Coined as Cell Alpha, the project was a success and saw completion by December of 2103. The base used was the star of his military division—only twenty-three years of age and already a Lieutenant. Unfortunately, age ended up causing instability in his organ systems.
Infuriated by the test results, the staff took another two years before they ‘perfected’ the next model. In an effort to counteract the problems that arose with the first model, Cell Beta’s base was a ten-year-old boy.
Although there were no biological problems with the model, Cell Beta’s impressionable mind wound up being an issue that caused the soldier to go insane upon realizing he had been turned into a ‘cold, metal monster.’
Cell Gamma, the third member of the series, was completed a year and a half later. The base used was aged twelve years, and although the test results were a success, the model proved insufficient in all but the most basic of scenarios. Cell Gamma’s inability to adapt and deal with situations other than direct combat led to the model being declared a reject like his predecessors.
The forth in the series—Cell Delta—was the facility’s current project. While the actual ‘shell’ was complete, the scientists lacked the biological base they required. Unwilling to use German children in an effort to prevent the possibility of stories leaking about the government stealing children, Kastaha had ordered that child POWS be used for the testing. With the issue of mental control fixed since Cell Beta, the issue of a conflicted base was no longer a handicap.
***
"Yes," the scientist answered. “He outperformed all the other prisoners. Furthermore, he also shows what seems to be a genetic resistance to gamma radiation”
"That is possible?" The bewildered man shot back. For someone who knew every inch of the human body and its workings, Gustaf wasn’t familiar with anyone being resistant to gamma radiation.
“He seems to have a previously unheard-of sequence of DNA that appears to code for a polymer that neutralizes the radiation. Believe me, Doctor; we’ve tested the boy several times. We’ve even had him hooked up to an irradiated IV, and the cellular degeneration was still only three percent.” By this point, Dr. Garon found himself staring through the one-way glass at the unconscious boy with a faint smile.
“Tell me more about him, Krowley,” the man ordered casually—glancing down at the unconscious boy in question.
"Name is Nicholai Immanuel Volkov,” the assistant read from a clipboard. “Height is one hundred forty-seven centimeters; weight is fifty kilograms; ethnic background is seventy-five percent Russian, twenty-five percent Polish; blood type A."
"Age?" Gustaf asked.
"He’s thirteen. He was born sometime in 2095,” the scientist replied, glancing up from the clipboard at his superior once he had finished.
"Put him in cell block A before he becomes conscious," Dr. Garon uttered, taking the clipboard from his associate and ushering him from the hallway.
"Yes, sir!" the scientist remarked, nodding once before departing to the containment room a level below the glass hallway.
***
Nicholai awoke and was quick to his feet. He had been at the compound for nearly a week, and in that time, he had never found a single shard of solace. Each and every day had been filled with its own assortment of grueling tests and painful experiments. There were other kids in the building with Nicholai who had conveyed similar stories about capture, but a majority of them were beginning to vanish.
Although he only had an elementary education, the Russian boy had learned enough from his short military training to know a German installation when he saw one, but this place was unlike any prisoner camp horror story Nicholai had ever heard. He surveyed the area he was in—a small glass white cell. It was a vast departure from the almost communal area that he had lived in for the last few days.
Groaning slightly, the boy pulled his torso up off the padded floor of the cell and ran a hand across the line of needle wounds that adorned his right arm. They were the by-product of the numerous tests and chemicals that had been administered to him.
Once he made it to his feet, Nicholai reached up and placed a hand against the bruise he had received from another of the prisoners. The confrontation had been forced upon the two by their German captors. Unfortunately for the other boy, Nicholai had snapped his neck in the span of half a minute.
Glancing to his left, the Russian POW noticed that there was another boy in the cell next to his. Walking up to the glass wall that separated the two rooms, Nicholai pounded on the transparent surface with one of his bruised fists in an effort to get the boys attention.
"Where are you from?" the preteen asked. The other prisoner was speaking god awful Polish with what sounded like a British accent.
"Russia," Nicholai replied, frowning slightly as he took another glance around the prison block. “My name is Nicholai Volkov, who are you?”
“My parents called me Samuel until they were gassed, but names are not important here,” he mumbled erratically.
“Where are we?” Nicholai inquired, arching his eye at the boy’s eccentric mood and behavior.
“You and I have been selected from among the sea of filth,” the boy responded in a manic, almost exhilarated tone. “One of us gets to become the base for the Cell Delta program.”
"The what?" Nicholai asked, leaning against the cold glass wall and slowly sliding down to the padded floor.
"This facility exists to pump out super soldiers, and one of us will be chosen,” Samuel giggled, his eyes wide with frenzied anticipation.
“Super soldiers?” Nicholai asked, his question more or less an astonished gasp.
"Oh god yes,” the other prisoner responded with a euphoric sigh. “One of us will taste immortality…become an unstoppable force of cybernetics.”
"How do you know all this?" Nicholai asked as the preteen began to pace around his cell.
“I was one of the three picked for Cell Gamma, but I was too young at the time," the boy screamed, slamming his fists against the reinforced glass. “I’ve been rotting in this transparent prison for nearly two years now. I have been waiting all this time for my chance. I shall have immortality!”
"Why would you want to be picked?" Nicholai asked, putting a hand to his forehead. The wound had since healed up, but it was still coated in grim and blood from not being cleaned. An infection was on the horizon, but Nicholai had more important things. “You’d be a German lapdog…”
"Screw the Germans. I want the power you idiot...the power would be unimaginable!" the kid sounded irritated. "Unimaginable power," he screamed, collapsing to the ground and moving into a fetal position. For the rest of the night, Samuel continued to mutter to himself in both Polish and what sounded like English.
***
The next morning, Nicholai was awoken by the sound of footsteps in the hall outside his glass prison cell. In the adjacent room, Samuel was still awake—his insane eyes glued on the three people approaching the duo of glass cells.
"Are these the two potentials?” The man in the center of the trio asked. A smile spread across the aged scientist’s face as he tapped a pen on his clipboard.
"Yes, Dr. Garon," one of the men answered. “These are the two: A Russian POW and the surviving reject from the Cell Gamma project.”
“It has to be my turn!” Samuel shouted, jumping up from his position on the floor and running up to the transparent door. “I have to qualify by now…I’ve been working nonstop to becoming the best. I have to be chosen! I deserve it!” The British prisoner rambled, his breathing frantic and insane.
“We’re sorry, Samuel,” Dr. Garon replied. “Nicholai here has just tested far above you. There’s always the next program, and if you show the same initia—”
“Fuck you!” Samuel exploded, slamming his fists against the glass wall of his cell until his knuckles started to bleed. As Nicholai watched in silence, the third scientist opened his door and motioned toward him.
“Come on, son,” he remarked with a grin that made it easy for Nicholai to see through the façade of empathy. As the man drew closer, the wiry Russian teenager eyed up his options.
“Back away from me,” Nicholai hissed—his voice silent in comparison to Samuel’s insane screams.
“We’re not here to hurt you, son,” Dr. Garon uttered from the hallway.
“I won’t become a slave,” Nicholai growled, lunging forward and taking the scientist by surprise. With a swift motion, the war-hardened teenager managed to bring the feeble man to his knees. “Back off or I’ll kill him,” Nicholai replied, tightening his hands around the man’s neck.
“He’s expendable,” the doctor replied, gesturing toward something that was out of Nicholai’s field of sight. A few seconds later, a number of armed men in army fatigues came rushing into the room.
Fueled by adrenaline and terror, the Russian youth snapped the scientist’s neck and pushed his limp body toward the four soldiers pilling into the prison cell. As the guards were knocked backwards by the body, Nicholai took a running step forward and vaulted over them.
In the other cell, Samuel was livid with rage—his bloodied fingernails scrapping against the indestructible glass of his cell. Ignoring the sounds behind him, Nicholai darted down the white hallway. He had almost got to the corner when his hopes came crashing down around him.
[i]Phhhhht[/i]
Nicholai let out a feeble scream and reached up behind his head for the source of the pain. With another whimper, the teenager wrenched the small dart from the base of his head and brought it around to his eyes. As Nicholai tried to continue, the tranquilizer took effect and brought him to the cold, stone floor.
***
Smiling proudly, Gustaf turned to one of the four nurses and pointed toward the stereo system mounted against one of the room’s white walls.
“Track number four, please,” he replied—his voice muffled by the protective mask he wore over his nose and mouth. Nodding her head, the woman walked over to the machine and pressed a number of buttons before her efforts were rewarded with the declaration of an elegant symphony from the speakers that adorned the walls of the operating room.
***
Slowly but surely, the procedure was nearing its inevitable conclusion. Unlike the last three operations, this one was turning out to be far more complex. Even with five assistants and four nurses, the upgrading was going at an agonizingly small pace.
“How is the work going?” The voice came from an intercom near the door. It was one of Dr. Garon’s superiors, undoubtedly calling to heckle and chide him. Sighing inwardly, the bloody surgeon walked over to the device and ordered one his nurses to press the button for him.
“It’s going well,” the doctor replied with a beleaguered sigh. “It’s taking a little bit longer than I would have imagined, but the end product is going to be fantastic.”
“Good. We’ll expect it to be finished by the end of the day,” the authoritative voice grunted before shutting the channel and spilling the maddening roar of feedback into the room.
“We’re taking a break,” Garon growled, turning to face the interns. “Would you like to ask any questions about what you’ve seen so far? After all, some of you will probably be working with me to build the next model.”
“What’s the purpose of the exhaust openings on his feet?” One of the interns asked. Dr. Garon smiled faintly and picked up a small metal prod from a nearby countertop. With it, he pointed to the boy’s modified feet: The toe bones had been fused together and plated in a few layers of Validium.
“Along with the stabilizers,” the doctor remarked, pointing toward what seemed like nothing more than a dense pad of metal attached to the back of the boy’s feet. “These two exhaust ports,” Garon added, pointing to two small exhaust openings on the undersides of Cell Delta’s feet. “Serve to increase mobility and reduce friction drag.”
“Well d’uh,” another one of the interns interjected, laughing at his associate. “And the cylinders built around his shins serve as, like, uh, shock absorbers and springs to increase his leg strength…r-r-right, Dr. Garon?”
“Precisely, Nicholas. They will allow Cell Delta to run as fast as a sports car and leap a few stories with the utmost ease. In the same sense, they’ll prevent his legs from breaking should be ejected or fall from high heights.”
“And the sleeves of Validium around his knees shield the new joint work we did on him,” one of the doctors replied, pointing toward the black pads of metal that encased Nicholai’s knees. “The joints allow him 360 degree rotation, and the ability to detach his limbs at whim. The same work was done to his elbows and wrists,” the man added, pointing to the boy’s arms.
“Why did the right arm take so long?” One of the interns asked, jotting down notes.
“With Cell Beta, one of the major problems was the absence of an innate weapon. He had the power and fortitude, but he had problems dealing with a lot of firepower on his own. Because of that, we designed a weapon for the Cell Gamma model that would be part of his systems,” Dr. Garon explained.
“Fascinating,” one of the interns muttered—his eyes never leaving his notebook as he scribbled word after word of information.
“Cell Gamma’s weapon served too clunky, but in the months since, we’ve designed a model that can be stored within Cell Delta’s arm. It takes in electrons from the atmosphere and charges them en masse. Once condensed, they can be funneled through the barrel and fired. The resulting energy can pierce even the highest grade metals,” Dr. Garon continued.
“Why not mass-produce this technology and use it for the war effort? After all, this weaponry would surely decimate our foes with the utmost ease, Doctor,” one of the interns remarked.
“Forty million dollars went in to producing just one of the devices that creates and maintains such energy,” Gustaf answered, his voice laden with an almost annoyed satire.
“How involved was the thoracic work, Doctor?” Another intern questioned, gesturing with his pencil toward Cell Delta’s still unfinished chest. With a smile, Dr. Garon took a step toward the operating table and looked down into the boy’s opened chest.
His sternum had been temporarily removed, and his ribs had been peeled away from the underlying organs. The lungs had been surgically cut out, as Cell Delta would not require oxygen to sustain his life processes. The heart had been left intact, as it served as an excellent foundation for the model’s central processing unit.
“As you can see,” Dr. Garon remarked, using the metal prod to push aside a flap of epithelial tissue blocking a number of nanofibers. “The chest serves as the epicenter of Cell Delta’s numerous processes. All of the nanofibers laced throughout his organic body converge here,” he uttered, pointing to the heart.
“Why leave all the blood vessels if Cell Delta won’t need them?” An intern questioned, prompting Dr. Garon to smile and clear his throat.
“It saves us the work of having to waste precious time reinforcing all of the wiring. Using the arteries and veins of this boy, we have a template to utilize in what would otherwise be an exhausting process,” Dr. Garon explained—grinning as he basked in looks of wonder on the young faces of the interns.
“What follows next, Doctor?” One of the students inquired.
“We will reassemble the bones, seal up his chest, and then plate his entire thorax in a coat of Validium,” one of the surgeons answered.
“We should start that process now,” Dr. Garon added, gesturing with a simple motion of his head for one of the nurses to restart the surgery’s musical accompaniment.
***
“So close,” one of the surgeons muttered, dabbing away blood splotches from the face of Cell Delta’s base. On the other side of the table, they were stitching up the skin around the teenager’s left temple.
Down on the other half of the steel gurney, the remaining scientists were either fashioning Validium ore throughout the young Russian’s outlying tissues or coating any of his exposed tissues that were already woven with the material.
“Is the cranial guard complete?” Dr. Garon asked, glancing over his shoulder at a duo of nurses polishing something on a countertop.
“Yes, Doctor,” they answered in tandem, turning around to show the doctor a black helmet. Stepping toward them, Dr. Garon took the device from them and observed it with a silent reverence.
“What is that for, Doctor?” One of the interns inquired softly.
“It functions, primarily, to shield the cranium from damage,” the doctor explained, shifting the helmet so the students could observe all of it. “These devices here,” he added, pointing to two small bumps on the sides of the guard. “Serve to amplify Cell Delta’s hearing capabilities to almost forty times that of a normal human,” Dr. Garon concluded, walking over to the operating table and placing the helmet down next to the boy’s head.
“Is the brain intact for the same reasons as the heart, Doctor?” One of the interns asked, tapping a pen against his notebook.
“For the most part,” Dr. Garon answered. “We’ve adapted most of the normal functions of the brain to work in tandem with the cybernetic systems. Such as memory storage, data processing, and al—”
“We’re all done with the fabrication work, Doctor,” one of the other scientists suddenly interjected, placing one of his tools on a nearby table.
“That was done rather quickly,” Dr. Garon replied, an uncharacteristic look of shock on his weary features.
“Well most of us were present for the last two procedures, so we’re quite good at this,” one of the scientists said with a soft laugh. Dr. Garon chuckled himself and then picked the helmet back up from the table. With the utmost degree of tenderness, he slid the helmet down over the boy’s head of hair until it locked into place.
Smiling contently, Dr. Garon took a moment to observe his handiwork. His eyes fell to the ‘Cell 04’ insignia that had been fashioned onto Cell Delta’s chest plate. Exhaling quietly, the weary man ran a hand down the boy’s right arm. There was no visible flesh anywhere on the body except the face—all that could been seen was the Validium ore that had been heated up and painted over tissue. Beneath the layer of metal, the skin had been woven with even more ore.
All this served to protect the intricate nanofibers and wiring that drove Cell Delta’s processes. The end result was a remarkable infusion of steel, skin, and science. The entire operation had taken fourteen hours, and with swift motion, Gustaf Garon removed his blue, latex gloves in an elated fashion. Turning around to face the interns, he removed his face mask and smiled proudly at the students.
“Complete,” he muttered as the nurses began to clean up the bloody tools and other messes that the surgeons had created over the course of the operation.
“There’s nothing else that remains, Doctor?” An intern questioned as Dr. Garon turned away from the table and glanced at some monitors attached to the unconscious teenager.
"We just need to program him,” the scientist replied. “That way, we can ensure that Cell Delta won’t be affected by his organic base,” Dr. Garon answered, turning away from the numerous monitors to face the students.
“Dr. Garon?” One of them asked, looking over the man’s shoulders to get a look at the computer screens.
“Yes?” The doctor asked, furrowing his brow at the intern’s odd behavior.
“Should those readings be so erratic?” On that note, Dr. Garon’s eyes widened to the point of blatant terror. They’d had to up the anesthetic on several occasions based on readings of the boy’s brain waves, but the data had spiked passed the red zone. This could only mean…
The Russian boy woke up to a screaming in his head—a heartless, mechanical noise that pulled tore him from the peacefulness of the unconscious state in which he had spent the last few hours.
As his eyes opened to the world, Nicholai instantly felt that something was wrong. His hand shot up and found the cold steel that had replaced what had once been his chest. Thoughts surged through the boys mind as pulled his upper body away from the surface of wherever he had been put.
“What is this?” Nicholai demanded, lifting one of his black, metallic hands to his face. Horror spread across the youth’s visage as he tried to process what had happened, but despite his urgency, nothing came to him.
As Nicholai drowned in his terror, he picked up on the sound of breathing next to him. The noise was like a pin drop, but he heard it as if someone had set off a shotgun next to his face. For reasons the teenager could not explain, reality simply seemed move easy to comprehend. Everything was more vivid to him—he could smell the men before he turned to see them.
“What am I?” Nicholai whispered, placing one of his hands against his head and realizing that there was steel where there had once been hair. “What have you done to me?”
“N-n-nothing,” one of the men replied, taking a step away from the crowd of scared people. “You have been upgraded,” the blood-covered surgeon replied.
“Cell Delta,” Nicholai remarked, staring down at the gray steel that covered his legs. The words of Samuel reverberated through the teenagers mind as he shifted his legs over the edge of the gurney. Sliding off the elevated surface, Nicholai landed on the linoleum floor with a duo of metallic clicks.
“You’re not finished yet,” the same man from before stammered as Nicholai tore away a few chords that were connected to various points on his body.
“Finished?” Nicholai asked, turning his attention toward the man. “By that, you mean that I haven’t been programmed into a German slave?” A smile spread across the young Russian’s face as he lifted up his right arm.
As the group of men and women watched, the black gauntlet that covered Nicholai’s hand and wrist began to whirl and break apart into small segments—revealing the bones beneath. The teenager looked on in surprise as the small shards of black metal converged in the form of a gun barrel.
“That isn’t what we mean at all,” the man replied, his voice more high-pitched in lieu of the weapon now being pointed at him.
“What do we do now, Dr. Garon?” One of the younger German’s whimpered as Nicholai gazed upon his weapon.
“Die,” the Russian teen snapped, pointing his weapon at the man and frowning as a flash of light filled the chamber. A heartbeat later, a concentrated mass of energy shot forth from the cannon and punched clean through the man’s sternum.
Screams rang out from the crowd as they tried to rush toward the operating room’s sole exit. With a remorseless fury, Nicholai killed every last one of them, save for the fellow who had been named by his comrades. Much to Nicholai’s chagrin, Dr. Garon managed to escape.
“I think I can live with this,” the teenager murmured, lifting his hand up to his face as the gun broke down and shifted back into a hand. Nicholai began to laugh as he took his first steps toward the exit of the operating room.
Although he wasn’t used to his new feet, the boy’s staggered gait managed to carry him across the room. With a clumsy finesse, Nicholai made it over the bodies and into the hallway.
As he lurched out into the corridor, the escapee let out a gasp and fell to his knees. There was something whizzing around in Nicholai’s mind. The Russian teenager gritted his teeth as the exhilarating sparks surged through his brain. The electricity coursed through the boy’s young mind—infusing him with a bizarre power.
It took Nicholai all but ten seconds to realize what he was feeling. It was that power…that unimaginable force whose potential had driven Samuel to the brink of insanity.
“I like this,” the teen muttered as he stood up off the metallic ground. “I am Cell Delta!” Nicholai shouted, lifting his hands toward the ceiling as a smile broke out across his youthful features. In that moment, Nicholai the boy ceased to exist as the he accepted the fate that had been thrust upon him.
Just as Delta was basking in his birth, an automated voice spewed out from a nearby speaker.
"Warning!” The female voice declared. “A breakout is in progress. All guards take up positions. This is a Level 9 Emergency,” a groan escaped the boy’s voice as he made his way down the hallway with a confident, flawless stride.
Delta casually marched over to the nearby elevator and depressed the call button. After a few moments, a message flashed up on the small screen above the call button. Leaning forward, the teen read the message aloud.
“In case of code red emergency all elevators will stop functioning,” the cyborg declared, sighing as soon as the last word had escaped his lips. “Now that is just annoying,” he added with a laugh as a screen suddenly flashed up on his field of sight.
“Engage hacking module?" Delta muttered as his right index finger suddenly twitched. As he observed, the tip of the digit split apart and a tiny drill-like apparatus extended forth, tethered to a remarkably tense wire.
A giddy cheer escaped the boy’s mouth as the drill whirled and then drove clean through the plastic button. A wave of electricity coursed through Delta’s body as the sound of the elevator descending brought a smile to his already beamish countenance.
Just as he was starting to enjoy the rush, the wire with the hacking module pulled out from the control panel and vanished back into the tip of Delta’s finger. A heartbeat later, the elevator door opened with a rather out of place tone, and the boy stepped inside the small, almost annoying illuminated chamber.
Delta began to sway back and forth as he watched the number designating his floor slowly decrease. Turning his attention to the control panel, Delta pressed the button that his internal display had highlighted for him. With a clichéd ting, the doors slid shut and the elevator began its ascent toward the surface.
The Russian youth began to sway back and forth as he watched the red number designating his current floor slowly decreased. Just as it seemed things were working in Delta’s favor, the elevator came to a grinding halt on the seventh level of the installation.
"Level 7,” Delta remarked. “This isn’t what I need,” he groaned, pressing the button in a manic effort to make the elevator move. After a few seconds of mad clicking, the boy let out a frustrated growl and lifted his right hand. In a matter of seconds, the hand had shifted back to its gun form.
Another message suddenly flashed up on his display, informing him of the charge feature inherent in his weapon. Aiming the gun at the door, Delta smiled as it began to hum and the energy inside began to give off a dazzling white light.
“I wonder what this’ll do,” the upgraded youth giggled as the ball of energy erupted from the barrel of the cannon mounted on his arm. Instead of the tennis ball-sized shots that he had used to dispatch the fiends behind his transformation, the shot was easily the size of a basketball.
Upon striking the metal of the elevator door, the energy sizzled as it burned a path straight though the reinforced material. Bringing the barrel up to his face, Delta blew away the resulting smoke as the weapon returned to being his right hand.
Feeling powerful, the cybernetic teenager took a step forward and wrapped his black, metal fingers around the melted steel. Issuing a single grunt, he flexed his artificially enhanced arms and pried the doors open wide enough that he could slip through.
The three people that ran the facility had watched Delta escape and exit the elevator.
"This is horrible," the man was tall, thin, tan, and middle-aged. His name was Romea Kruxinburgh.
"I think we know," the second man replied. He was small, stout, and middle-aged. He was Erwin Kelinstien.
"He means it is worse because Cell Delta is beginning to understand his abilities," the third member of the triumvirate was Catherine Stenslin, tall, young, and attractive.
"D you know what Kastasha will do to us if she learns of this?" Erwin said with a voice laced with fear.
"She would have you all killed!" the three scientists slowly turned to see the wiry, wily Empress of Germany.
"Greetings Empress," the three said, bowing.
"Don't, 'greetings empress' me, I know what is going on here. How could you idiots let that thing escape!" she yelled.
"What thing?" Catherine asked. Kastasha walked up to Catherine, picked her up by her shit, and slammed her into the wall.
"Fucking Cell Delta! If any of our enemies were to get their hands on it, it will screw us all big time. I'm leaving, I'm giving you an order to terminate Cell Delta at all costs before we invade Moscow."
"Yes, Empress," the three said as Kastasha left with her heavily armed entourage.
"We have no choice, the security won't stop him. We will have to reactivate Cells Alpha, Beta, and Gamma," Romea said.
"I'll go reprogram them now," Erwin replied.
"I'll assist you," Catherine said. With that the three scientists went to work.
Delta turned down yet another corridor and was greeted by at least a dozen heavily armed security officers.
"Halt! Drop your weapon!" the officer in the front yelled.
Delta looked at his burst gun and then at the man.
"Do it! Drop your weapon!" the man repeated. A new message appeared on Delta's internal display, 'Powered burst now online'.
Delta's right hand actually slid up into his forearm with a click, and then the burst gun widened and slid down completely around his forearm. The burst gun had doubled in size.
"Blast him!" the man yelled. The twelve men opened fire with their plasma rifles as burst energy began to pile up inside but not like the charge function. More energy piled as the plasma rounds pummeled Delta.
Delta was forced to a knee as the plasma punished him. The burst energy was pilling up rapidly and immensely. The energy was so high that Delta's entire right arm was gyrating, and soon the burst energy was visible in waves, pouring into the burst gun. Delta smiled and fell on his face. This stopped the fire as the men grinned.
The leader, the man who ordered the attack, turned and grinned widely at his cohorts. "Go inform Erwin, we have destroyed Cell Delta,"
As the man barked orders, Delta got to his feet and bent at the knees. Delta shot forward, pushing right through the lines of men and then turned to face them. The back line spun as soon as Delta unleashed the Powered burst. The white light enveloped the seven men of the back row. They screamed in agony as the white light faded.
The seven men had been reduced to charred skeletons. Their skin and clothes had been immolated by the intense heat and energy. The bones fell to the ground and the remainder of the men except the leader dropped their guns and ran.
"I'll fucking kill you!" the man screamed, raising his rifle.
Delta shot out and violently ripped the rifle from the man's grasp. Then another message popped up on Delta's internal display, ' beginning assimilation of...M-950 plasma rifle to system database...complete...preliminary testing commencing'.
Delta let the rifle drop to the ground as the burst arm began to change again. The gun reverted to its normal form first. Then it flipped down and locked onto Delta's wrist. The other end opened outward and locked onto itself. Delta's wrist joint popped up at several points, and several small bars slid out to lock the burst gun into place.
"What are you?" the man muttered.
"I am the End!" With that, a stream of plasma rounds exploded out, blasting straight through the man's chest. The man collapsed lifeless, and Delta turned to see a surveillance camera.
"You can't stop me!" Delta said. He continued to smirk at the camera as his burst gun reverted back to normal.
Delta made his way down the cell blocks and paused at one of them. He looked to his left to see the kid that was in the cell next to him.
The kid had a look of anger and astonishment as he realized Delta had been picked over him.
"Cell Delta," Delta turned to see a person. The person seemed to be young, but he was still a lot older than Delta, perhaps eighteen or nineteen. He was outfitted in a fashion similar to Delta. Except, he had no burst gun, and he had a lot more body armor than Delta.
"Who are you?" Delta demanded. The man grinned a toothless smile. He had a helmet that covered all of his face except his eyes and mouth. Even his cheeks and nose were covered by extensions.
"I am Cell zero-one, Cell Alpha," the man said, pointing to the insignia on his chest. Delta laughed at himself for not noticing it, "I am the first Cell."
"And you are here why?" Delta said.
"To terminate your processes," Alpha replied.
"Bring it," Delta said with a grin.