Chapter Text
Dr Vivian Vern flicked through her notes with neat, precise movements; things were developing very well with the project. The synthesizing and testing of the product was progressing seamlessly, and she had to admit- to herself at least- that the testing had indeed been improved by that buffoon Ivonovitch’s melding of their separate assignments. It meant a supply of test subjects who were the toughest and most well trained soldiers available, aside from the few that were allowed to join their ranks. Soldiers were much better subjects for a military grade project, and the results far superior to the early tests on weak willed civilians.
There was also the added bonus that meant she got to cherry-pick the surviving recruits she worked with. She had three men and one woman that were loyal to her and not Ivanovich, who was a crass and ignorant man - albeit one who was good at his job.
“We got the next batch ready for testing?” The man himself asked, his big frame slumped in the seat across from her desk.
She shuffled her notes, annoyed at his grating voice. “We do. Shall we meet them?”
Ivanovitch shrugged and rose from his chair like a big lumbering beast. She sneered inwardly. “I believe Foxx is waiting for us with the failed recruits.”
Foxx was the most elusive of the people she had picked to be her team. He was young enough to be malleable but still professional in his work. The only worrying issue, was that although he ticked every other box, she had nothing on him at all. He had no skeletons in his closet that she could use against him, no apparent unsavoury appetites, and didn’t seem interested in bedding her – which she didn’t take personally; after all, it was a double edged sword, sleeping with your boss. He did like to run his team ragged though, so perhaps he was inclined towards power and pain. It would be a lot easier if he found a fuck buddy, or indulged in some depraved activity like torture or murder or jerked off to animal porn, but instead he remained steadfastly boring. If she couldn’t get a handle on him she would have to replace him - which would be a terrible shame seeing as he was bright, dedicated and easy on the eye. Hopefully something would shake loose with the latest recruits.
The testing room was a large space with a reinforced glass room in the centre, affectionately- and annoyingly- called the ‘Fish Tank’ by the people who worked with her in the lab. It was a brilliant piece of engineering, set up with as many external sensors and apparatus as they could manage - subjects did have the unfortunate tendency to rip their wires off in the throes of panic which was not very conducive to her research.
“Foxx,” she greeted her man, as they entered. Dark haired, tall and broad, he cut a fine figure as he stood with the first of the failed recruits, already shirtless and waiting to be wired up for the ‘final test’. Idiot.
“I’m Marc Green,” the idiot said. “This is it then? After this I’m in?” He elbowed Foxx who gave him an impassive stare, perhaps a little tinged with distaste.
“Yes,” Ivanovitch said. “This is it.” He heaved his solid bulk into one of the observation chairs and left it to Vivian to prepare the subject.
The idiot smelled of sweat and was practically bouncing on his toes in nervous excitement as she put the sensors on his head and chest.
“In you go,” she said. “Final test.”
It was frankly astonishing how well this new way of doing things was working. The fools went in willingly, thinking it was the next stage in their training. No more dragging screaming participants into the glass cage while they tore at the wires in a panic - not to mention that always skewed the data when they were terrified before they even got hit by the gas.
The idiot took off his boots and socks, and dropped his pants, stepping through the door in just his shorts before the door whooshed closed. Vivian pressed the button to begin recording. “Subject 369, full test of lethal dose of batch K11.” She started the process. This version had a small twist, they called it ‘Reliving’ and, theoretically, it would make the subject relive their worst experiences. With a little added fear, naturally. The idea was that it could reveal truths about a person if used sparingly, as torture and a rather extreme truth serum, but it had not been refined yet and the result so far had been death, usually from heart failure.
“Let’s give him 35cc’s to start.”
“I like this one,” Ivanovitch said, clearly referring to the drug rather than the man, as they watched 369 begin to gibber a bit. “What do you think, Foxx?”
Foxx shrugged. “It looks much like the others so far.” His voice had the faintest hint of Gotham to it.
Now there was a place that spewed out fucked up people; it gobbled people up and spat out what was left, like wood chips from a shredder. An interesting City.
“How long since you left Gotham?” Vivian asked absently as she eyed the readouts from 369 while she still could. It really didn’t take long before they all got ripped off and she had to rely on the sensors in the Fish Tank – and now she was calling it that, damn it.
“A while,” Foxx said. “Was a shit place to grow up - I got out as soon as I could.”
“Did you ever meet him? Crane I mean?” Ivanovitch said.
Foxx sighed, “No, I never met him - or the Batman, or the Joker or any of the other loons. I know the world seems to think that seeing as Gotham is always on the news, that its citizens rub shoulders with the capes and clowns, or the rich jackasses like Wayne or the mayor. Truth is, mostly the people who fuck you up are the same as everywhere else - organised crime, gangs and petty criminals, your family. The rest is just bullshit for the most part.”
“Calm your tits, Foxx, I was just asking,” Ivanovitch grumbled. “Never heard you speak so much at once, must have some fond memories of the place.”
“Sure. There was a dumpster behind Ginnie’s Diner where they put out leftover burgers for the dogs every Thursday. Was good eating.”
Ivanovitch laughed loudly - but Vivian didn’t think Foxx was joking. “So, no slumber parties with Crane and his crazy juice then? You missed the big one when the city got dosed a couple of years ago?” he asked, still chortling like a fool.
“Nope, no slumber parties, and I missed the big one because I was in a Santa Priscan Jail. Nice place, got a tropical feel.”
Ivanovitch snorted. It sounded like the last gasp of a dying wildebeest.
“Crane lacked vision,” Vivian put in primly. In the tank, 369 started pleading for his mother.
“The man’s certifiable, he’s got nothing but visions.” Ivanovich said.
Vivian glared. “He had this incredible weapon at his disposal and he wanted nothing more than to release it on a single, mediocre city - in New Jersey, no less! No offence, Foxx.”
“None taken. Seems like a reasonable place to start, if you’re going to start wiping places off the map.”
“True. But the point is, he could have done anything - made billions, ruled a small country - but instead he chose to attempt petty vengeance on a city that doesn’t even care. Stupid and short sighted. We will use it for so much more.”
369 was clawing at his eyes, having stopped pleading and instead just wailing. Vivian sighed; this needed a great deal of refining still. Very disappointing.
“You have your new recruits ready to train, Foxx. Five this time. Only the best will join the ranks - the rest need to be the best they can be before we put them to the test. A few weeks, perhaps, and I will have worked out a way to make this more of a delicate instrument rather than a bludgeon.”
“Sure,” Foxx said, completely indifferent. She really had to find a way in to his psyche. She didn’t want to get rid of him, that would be regrettable, and his wit, at least, was entertaining.
“Shall we go through your newbies?” Ivanovitch asked. He liked choosing the ones that would annoy Foxx the most, although it seemed closer to affectionate joshing rather than a serious attempt to undermine him. Men were ridiculous.
“Sure” Foxx said, again. He was slightly more communicative with Vivian than with Ivanovich, but he said lot with his thick brows and blue-green eyes - variations of disgust, anger or annoyance mostly, but he seemed to know that his monosyllabic responses would piss Iavnovich off the most, so dropped communication the very minimum. Again, ridiculous.
Ivan snorted. “For your line up today, we have; Pirez, cartel enforcer who fucked the wrong woman. Lane, ex-merc born in South Africa, worked in war zones all over the world. Kelner, ex black-ops, kicked out for some of his more... unsavoury tastes. Gresinka, raised in some sort of survivalist militia in Markova and Gregor - no last name - from somewhere unspecified in Eastern Europe. They all already hate each other. Enjoy.”
Foxx hummed and his eyes narrowed, perhaps already thinking of ways to make them suffer in the intense training.
“Weren’t you expecting an assistant?” he asked, out of the blue. “I remember you saying matters would go faster if you had one. Some sort of computer whizz-kid to help with your algorithms.”
“Getting bored already, Mulder?” Ivanovich asked.
Foxx’s eyes rolled up at the nickname. “I don’t like wasting the men I train on product that is this unstable - it feels like a waste of work. Having it more refined for the next batch would be much preferred, that’s all.”
“I appreciate your honesty,” Vivian said, nodding. “And yes, I was expecting an assistant, but it seems to have fallen through. He was arrested trying to enter the country. Very unfortunate. Thankfully he knew very little about our project, just to be on the safe side.”
“I see,” Foxx said. He sounded slightly aggrieved. Perhaps it was frustrating to see all your hard work be turned into a squalling mess clawing its own eyes out - as 369 seemed to have done, now whimpering and bleeding, twitching weakly. Very disappointing.
“You’re right, Foxx. By the next batch, I will have made this the delicate tool it should be.”
For some reason he didn’t look any happier.