The Girl

The next week and a half flew by in the blink of an eye. Perhaps it was the fact that she was awake for barely sixteen hours in those days, spending the rest in drowsy oblivion. During her rare waking hours, however, Taylor spent most of her time in one-way conversations with her attending physician. Dr. Sard seemed a pleasant-looking older man, but she was reluctant to trust her first impression. Especially since in these very one-sided conversations, the good Doctor kept trying to ask oddly specific questions about her past. Taylor really didn't remember much, but what she did know seemed enough to make her suspect the Doctor of not being entirely sincere with her. Out of sheer paranoia, in response to a fascinating game of "guess the name," Taylor chose the name "Ann." It was quite clear to her, though, in whose interest the good doctor was so sympathetically interested in her background, age, and education. "Vought International." This company was everywhere. In every newscast, in every interview with superheroes. Every third news block was about them in one way or another. And that was saying something. Her memories of Bet were vague, but the concept of corporate... capes-at least that's what her associative range of superheroes called them was not new to her. There were no details she could recall, but the overall emotional undertones were negative. Listening to the news, she also noticed another important fact - the news bulletins, singing the praises of heroes, but were surprisingly silent about the villains. In the two weekly news shows she had managed to stealthily hear-not a single alias was heard, and there was not even a mention of the heroes fighting someone with superpowers. It was certainly very early to draw any conclusions, but it seemed very strange to Taylor. However, such fabrications she was willing to put aside until the local doctors had sorted out her, Taylor's, treatment. The fact that she was being prepared for some kind of treatment became clear about three days ago, when after waking up and some unpleasant procedures, the names of which she could not remember at all if she wished, several doctors, who looked very different from those whom Taylor had seen before, entered the room. One of those doctors, a gray-haired balding, clearly in his seventies, was particularly memorable. His gaze was almost dead and looked at her with the calmness of a cold-blooded vivisector dissecting a corpse. Taylor knew that look. She knew it, but she didn't remember it, but a sense of irrational fear she was incapable of expressing triggered her enough for the sensitive medical instruments to react to the sudden change in her pulse and heartbeat, alerting the doctors, triggering a new round of fuss over her person. The other doctors, albeit with livelier eyes, took some obscene number of tests from her, draining what felt like all of Taylor's remaining blood. As for Dr. Sard, he was obviously familiar with these new doctors but clearly shunned them. The examinations continued until yesterday when Dr. Sard finally decided to cheer her up with news of the upcoming procedure. Entering her room and gesturing for the nurse to leave the room, the doctor sat down in a chair and began. "Good afternoon, Ann. I come to you today with good news. I guess you've noticed that we've been examining you pretty intensely over the past few days?" Taylor blinked, acknowledging the validity of Sard's obvious conclusion. "Well, I got the results of the examination today. Although your prognosis was somewhat... disappointing if conventional treatments were applied," Even if Taylor had been able to wiggle an eyebrow, she wouldn't have given it away, her health situation was obvious enough that she held no illusions about her chances of recovery using simple human methods. Meanwhile, Sard continued, "However, according to the results of our tests, you fit all the criteria as a candidate for testing the latest technique of complex body revitalization using modified stem cells…" Further remarks Taylor simply skipped over her ears, knowing perfectly well that she herself would not affect anything, and the doctor was uttering utter nonsense, designed only to thoroughly confuse what was left of her brain. After a dozen minutes of ranting, Sard said goodbye to her and left the room, leaving Taylor blissfully alone again. Even the television was off, which made the information-poor girl a little sad, but the silence gave her the perfect opportunity to concentrate on her own thoughts, to gather her thoughts together. Vought must be dreaming to see her in their custody for interrogation. Otherwise, it's very hard to explain such generosity toward a person who doesn't officially exist. It sounded logical. Her associations agreed with her, showing vague memories of interrogation rooms with intimidating one-eyed women inside. Catching that particular memory, Taylor was once again surprised by the twists and turns of life that had ultimately led her to this deplorable state. The question was whether she was willing to cooperate with a large and decidedly benign corporation with no ulterior motives. On the one hand, the situation looked rather attractive in terms of possibilities for recovery. "Experimental procedure" - those words couldn't sound like something guaranteeing a hundred percent result, and staying paralyzed for the rest of her life was somehow not in her plans, despite having some experience of being in such a state. And "Vought" at the moment had not only the opportunity but also the desire to spend on her obviously expensive treatment a sum of money with clearly more than five zeros. If the outcome of the operation is favorable, Vought would clearly wish to recoup the money spent, not only with information but also with possible recruitment. However, all such conclusions were no more than her thinking, unsupported by any evidentiary basis. All sources of information at Taylor's disposal were at least unreliable, including her own memory. Especially her memory. But Vought's overall impression left her in no doubt that behind all the cheap populism lurks a rotten gut filled with greed and corruption. Her whole being, confused memories, and instincts urged Taylor not to trust the corporates even one bit. From this the next option was born - to act on the situation and look for a way to leave the corporation's field of vision at the first opportunity, then gather information again. It sounded simple and sound, but the number of "buts" in this plan did not please the rational part of her mind. In fact, almost any plan, whatever it was now, was stymied by her utter helplessness and acute lack of information. Both about herself and the world. The only exception was the intervention of a third party. Fragments of her memories asserted that she had allies during the war against Scion - whatever he was. She played quite a significant role in these memories. Some of the associations evoked by the figures of her allies seemed positive to her. Given her certainty that her group operated within several parallel dimensions, this gave rise to some hope that she, Taylor, might be wanted. On the other hand, chronologically the last memory in her head was of a female figure aiming a gun at Taylor, making her reasonable to have some doubts as to whether she was still alive. But the possibility still existed. Taylor tried not to have any illusions, but of all the options she'd come up with, this one seemed the most desirable. There were certainly bad outcomes that she had to be at least mentally prepared for. Paralysis for the rest of her life was one of them. If the procedure didn't work and she remained permanently confined to a bed, unable to speak a word... it would be a miserable existence. More miserable than some of her most unpleasant memories. Even death seems a better option. All this not-so-joyful thought process, however, was given to Taylor with great difficulty. Seemingly simple, even elementary logical chains of thoughts were formed into a whole impossibly slow, which depleted the girl's already low strength, why only half an hour after the doctor left, Taylor again fell asleep heavy and restless sleep.

***

Vought International Headquarters, New York City. There were only three people in a small room on one of the upper floors of the Vought Tower. The conference table, shaped like a large triangle, was practically pristine, except for a small folder, which lay in front of an obese, balding man with a face battered with age spots. He held one of the sheets in his hands, perusing the contents. On the other two sides of the table were the remaining participants in this private meeting. Madeline Stilwell, obviously unhappy about something, sat with her arms crossed over her chest and leaning back in her chair. The third man, on the other hand, was perfectly unperturbed. A stately black man in an office suit sat quietly leaning against the metal tabletop, waiting for the verdict. The general atmosphere of the meeting was tense, for the topic discussed by these men might well have saved the Vaughn Corporation from potential collapse, as easily as it might have doomed it. Finally, tired of listening to the ticking of the clock, Madeline couldn't bear to ask: "So, Jonah. What is your verdict?" The doctor lifted his eyes from the document and, chewing his lips, answered slowly: "Miss Stillwell, you know perfectly well without me how high the mortality rate from the Compound is among patients over three years old. What you are asking is an almost impossible task. Object Zero's body is so weakened that in her condition even antibiotics are dangerous to administer, and we're talking about V" What the doctor said clearly didn't please the senior vice president. "You've had a month, Vogelbaum! A month and unlimited access to the patient. What have you been doing in there all this time to say that?" The man in the suit waited until Stillwell's tirade was over before he started talking. "Madeline, please control yourself. Your emotions are not productive. However, Doctor, I agree with Miss Stillwell. You've had a month and that's the best you can tell us?" The doctor sighed. "Gentlemen, a month of research in a clinical case like this is unacceptably short. If I didn't understand what was at stake, I'd suggest we arrange to have Object Zero transferred to Sage Grove, but given the specifics of the situation... The main problem with the subject is the altered brain biochemistry. The very tumor in her brain makes dosage calculations practically useless. Give too little and the mutagenic reaction will be too slow to counter the toxicity of the secondary elements of the Compound. In Object's current state - it's a death sentence. Give too much and we get another crematorium bag." At this point the doctor was silent for a moment, apparently thinking something over before continuing "Despite everything I've said earlier, Object Zero is not a completely hopeless case. Biologically, she's quite young. I would even say, unnaturally young. This increases her chances of survival somewhat. Using the data collected by Herr Vought and our research at Sage Grove, I was able to come up with a theoretical dosage and formula, but there is one problem, though. Mr. Edgar, only you can approve the use of such a formula." The head of Vaught raised an eyebrow politely, while Stillwell froze like a pillar of salt, aware of what was about to happen. "Show me the calculations, Vogelbaum." Without further ado, he pulled out a small document in a separate file and slid it in Edgar's direction. Fixing his glasses, the head of Vout International ran his eyes over the sheet, paused at the conclusion, and then looked at Jonah with an unreadable look. "Are you sure, Doctor? Even in this dosage, it can... it would affect our budget." "I don't see any other option under these conditions. At any lesser purity, the odds of the subject dying increase manifold." Stan Edgar, Head of Vout International, was silent for several minutes, staring unblinkingly at the piece of paper in front of him, while his subordinates froze in anticipation of the verdict. Finally, five minutes later, the man moved. Taking a ink pen from an inside pocket of his jacket, he took the sheet out of the file to then sign it. Immediately thereafter, he rose from his desk and left the room with a glance at Madeline. Stillwell knew that look well. And it had only one interpretation. "Don't let me down."

***

Vincent Sard. The Next Day Vincent has seen a lot in his lifetime. From the field operating rooms of Vietnam to invisible babies with diamond skin. But the last few weeks had added two more incidents to his collection of memorable moments. The first was the diagnosis of an eighteen-year-old supergirl with enough trauma to maim an entire platoon. Looking at the battered and mangled body, Vincent involuntarily realized that he really didn't want to know anything about her. The second noteworthy occurrence, however, was an encounter that had occurred five minutes earlier. A black van had pulled into the backyard of the hospital and several heavily armed plainclothes guards had unloaded, encircling the van in a tight ring. When Vincent approached them, they took a closer look at his papers and then opened the door. Inside the bus was a single figure dressed in thick black armor. Without saying a word, the figure held out the phone to Sard, which rang almost immediately. He picked up the call. "Dr. Sard, this is Madeline Stillwell. I'll get right to the point. Subject Zero is our priority target, for which we have very high hopes. Black Noir will hand you a package. Inside, you will find all the instructions you need, the drug, and will provide security before and during the operation. Be aware, Doctor, that failure is not an option." The call ended, after which Sard handed the phone back to Noir, but the latter clenched it in his fist, turning a rather expensive smartphone into a pile of electronic garbage. Noir then slammed his fist against the wall and the door of the van opened, letting Sard out with a member of the Seven. In the Super's hands was a suitcase, securely handcuffed as if it were filled with nuclear codes. And even considering the fact that in his hands was the main secret of Vought International, such precautions seemed unnecessary to the doctor, because it was not the first time when the Compound was in the walls of his clinic. It was exactly so until he and Noir made their way to his office, where, unbuttoning the valise from his hand, the hero handed it to Vincent. Inside, as told, were the recommendations for recreational therapy for "Ann". Upon reading them, however, Sard shuddered. The rest of the contents of the suitcase were really worth it for a Member of the Seven to personally guard the operating room. For a few seconds, he even felt sorry for his patient. That kind of spending... meant a certain level of expectation. And Vincent really didn't want to know what might happen to a man who didn't live up to those expectations. *** Taylor woke up to the fact that she was being driven somewhere. Which wasn't particularly surprising, but it still bothered her. She didn't even try to open her eyes, hoping the anesthesia would do the trick. The first bell that told her that the procedure would be different was her doctor's phrase "strap her down as tightly as possible". It didn't make a perfect memory not to be alarmed by what was happening. The next step toward paranoia was the doctor's demand that "all assistants leave the room," to which no one resisted. After that, apparently, only one person remained in the operating room. And then the doctor addressed her directly. "Miss Ann, I know you can hear me. You have to hear me, because according to the recreational plan you have to be awake, and the surgery has to be done without anesthesia. I have to tell you that I lied about stem cell therapy. But other than that, it's all true. The drug will get you back on your feet in no time. If you survive." Taylor felt a prick in her neck, one of the few places where she retained sensitivity. "Brace yourself, Miss. This is going to hurt." At first, Taylor felt nothing. Then her nervous system seemed to explode with the force of a thousand suns.