Run Through the Jungle
Seraphym felt a kind of comfort in perching on the roof of John Murdock’s squat. It was a comfort she sorely needed. The futures had changed, and yet, none of them had lightened any. Except for the ones centered by that enormous blank into which she could not see. Only there was there any hope, at the moment, and she still could neither see a reason nor deduce her way to that hope.
She was so deeply immersed in her meditations that although the least hint of an inimical presence would have sent her hurtling back to awareness in a nanopulse, a friendly presence did not so much as make a feather-touch of an impression on her mental state.
“Evenin’, Angel. How’s kicks?” John was wearing a pair of CCCP coveralls with the upper half tied around his waist, a muscle shirt covering his upper torso. He was carrying a very large brown paper bag in his right hand, and a pair of sitting cushions in his other.
Seraphym was catapulted out of her meditations so quickly that for one moment she could only blink at him. “Greetings, John Murdock. I was…”
“Becoming One with the All, or somethin’?” He flashed his characteristic lop-sided grin. She found her own lips curving up in response without a single thought.
“Of a sort.” She wondered how much or little she could tell him.
“Put the All on hold, for a bit. Got a special treat for tonight.” He set the brown bag down, then threw a pillow each at their feet. Unceremoniously thumping down onto his, he started to pull Styrofoam cartons out of the bag. “Take a guess.”
She felt herself smiling a little more. How…odd. “A true guess, or cheating?”
“Can ya pick one already? I’m starvin’.”
She knew what they were of course. Carryout food. She could even trace back along the path they had been carried in a flash and see where they had come from. But, taken with his whimsy, she laid a forefinger on one that seemed to have a little red sauce at one corner of the lid. It was a lovely, deep color, and it pleased her. But she was puzzled as to why there were so many cartons of food. “This?” she said.
“Chinese. Good choice. We’ve got Chinese, Mexican, good ol’ American burgers an’ fries, pizza, an’ somethin’ from that Thea gal—you guessed it—borscht.” He opened each box, then plopped two plastic sporks in front of each of them.
She looked at all the containers, and looked at him in mingled fascination and horror. “You are going to eat all of this? Will you not explode?”
“Could give it a shot, but I got just enough to tide me o’er till next meal. Meant to share this tonight, though.” He dug his spork into a pile of greasy noodles and chicken, shoving it into his mouth. “Figured that ’tween do-gooding and bein’ the Hand of some Fluffy God, that your sort didn’t have much time to sample the finer things in life,” he said, speaking around his food.
“I…have never eaten,” she said. She could, of course. She could have her body do anything she chose for it to do. She picked up the container and opened it. Her vast memory identified it for her. Sweet and Sour Shrimp. Tentatively she used the implement to convey a little to her mouth.
It is one thing to have the memory of millions of other peoples’ eating experiences available to you. It is quite another to taste something for yourself, with your own mouth, for the very first time in corporal or incorporeal existence.
“Whaddya tink?” he mumbled around a mouthful of pizza.
Her eyes had widened as dozens of nuances and tastes hit her mind at once, and she had stopped everything, dead, to analyze them.
“Don’t miss the churros fer dessert. They reminded me of ya; cinnamony an’ too light for their own good.”
“I…am full of wonder,” she managed at last. She told her body to take its cues from his; a new sensation came to it. Hunger. With pure, unfettered delight, she began to eat, tasting, tasting, reveling in the taste. She ate carefully and daintily—but hugely.
He retreated for a few minutes as she dug in, returning from the roof access with a glass of water and a large case of beer. He set the water in front of her and immediately cracked open a bottle for himself. Gulping down the first beer, he paused before the second. “So, whatcha think?”
“No wonder mortals grow fat.”
“Tis one of my favorite sins, despite bein’ a fan of all seven.” He took a long pull from his beer before setting it down and taking one of the two hamburgers.
“That which gives joy is not a sin, John Murdock,” she chided very gently, and gave herself up to a slice of pizza, as different from the Chinese as could be.
“No such thing as too much of a good thing?”
“Overindulgence at the cost of others or one’s own self—that is selfishness, and that is a sin.” She nibbled, craning her head around at an odd angle as the tip of the piece of pizza began to droop, until her head was almost upside down. “This is a very floppy food—”
“Just gotta hold it right; same principle as a gun. Proper support.” Washing down the last of his burger with a swig of beer, he demonstrated the proper way to fold a pizza slice; he’d bought a half-pie, pineapple and ham, his favorite. She gave his demonstration all the studious attention of a scientific lecture, and copied him.
“You lucked out tonight, Angel. I haven’t properly eaten since the op in Kansas.”
“I knew you were gone. I did not know where.” The next words came from her mouth without thought. “I missed your presence.”
He looked at her soberly, still chewing his way through the pizza. “Well, shucks, Angel.” Then he broke into a smile again, looking away from her just as suddenly.
“Why did you go to Kansas?” she asked. “The CCCP is here.”
“I suppose this is violatin’ all sorts of OpSec, but I don’t suppose that you’re the sort to go spreadin’ information ’round, either. We got word that the Thulians were kicking around in Kansas. I got sent in to find out ’bout it, and then take care of it.” John got a slightly faraway look in his eyes, as if an old and ugly wound had begun to pain him.
She regarded him somberly. She could look into the past to find out what had happened in Kansas, but…”It was disturbing to you. Was it very horrible?”
“The sort that we’re fightin’ are the worst sort. They’re horrible. In my line of work, it’s not all that often that y’come across true evil, irredeemable bastards without a prayer. These Thulians, though…they’re not just bad. They’re other. Gives me the creeps whenever I get near ’em. Just no shades of gray with these guys.” He mulled over that for a moment, then quickly changed the topic. “So, how’s the CCCP been while I’ve been outta town?”
She hesitated. “John Murdock…” She waited for the ECHO in her mind. It is permitted. “John Murdock, I may tell you a thing.”
“By all means.” He waved his hand, leaning over to retrieve a fresh bottle of beer.
“You know now that the Thulians are other. Not from this world. They are…they do not regard humans as anything but insects to be amused by or swept away. You have no meaning for them, except as you irritate them by your persistence in failing to fall. They take their cues from their human allies in this. They will not rest until you do fall, and lie beneath their feet.”
“Enough on those bastards. Again, they give me the heeby-jeebies. How’ve my people been in the neighborhood?”
“We have watched over them. Insofar as they can, they prosper.” She took a deep breath. “Something troubles you. More than troubles you. This is why you try to take the conversation to inconsequentials. Will you tell me?”
“The CCCP and the folks ’ere are inconsequential?” Again that smile, trying to turn her own words back on her. This was important. She sensed it. And she was not going to let him distract her. This—this was driving deeply into that blank that he was, and if she could not get some insight into it, and soon…
“When you know, when you can see, have seen with your own eyes that all was well, yes. Will you tell me? I…I cannot lie. I will tell no one.”
“Things got a little hairy on the last mission, t’say the least.”
He was not going any further unless she prompted him, so she did. “Hairy?”
“I acted…unprofessionally.”
Her brows furrowed. “I fail to understand.”
“Long story short, the Thulians got wise to the fact that we were onto them in the middle of the operation. Part of it is my fault as team leader; I should’ve made sure everyone on the team was equipped right. Part of it was just bad luck. Anyways, we got bogged down, and things were looking bad.” He sighed heavily, and again with that far-off look. He took another drink from his bottle.
“And something happened. Something that gives you great pain.”
“Again, I acted unprofessionally. I…lost control of myself. I was the team leader for this mission; I’m supposed to keep track of everyone an’ make sure that everyone comes home. Y’need to be really in the moment for that, an’ have as complete tactical awareness as possible. An’ I lost my shit, an’ endangered everyone. If’n Vickie hadn’t had her techno-wizardry up an’ seen what was comin’, I could’ve killed the entire team.” He laid one of his hands on his knee; it seemed to Sera as if he was bracing himself under the weight of the memory.
She was…moved to not just compassion, which she always had, but pity. No mortal should labor under the sort of burden he seemed to be carrying. Impulsively, she reached forward to touch his fingers, perhaps to impart some sort of comfort.
For the first time in her acquaintance of him, his barriers were completely down, and there was the sense of trust. But that was followed in a flash by such a blow of shock and horror that she jerked a little, as a mortal would when jolted by an electric current. His shock and horror…it flooded her. And she knew what this was. It had impacted her once before. The Program.
Quickly she withdrew. He had not wanted her to see this before. She knew what the Program was, of course, but not what it had meant to him. That was shrouded from her.
Unless he chose to show her.
Then she felt his assent; in fact, felt him seize her as if she was a lifeline. And then they both fell into memory.
* * *
—then there was weapons-fire to their left and Randolph went down instantly, his head exploding into a red mist. There was shooting coming from all directions. It was a perfectly executed ambush. On them. John fired at muzzle flashes, wasting precious seconds to turn his NVGs on. There had to be thirty of the bastards, which was impossible; intelligence said that they had a clear approach to the encampment that they were supposed to destroy.
Gomez was next; he died screaming, still firing, bullets stitching across the jungle canopy as he went down. There was no time to react; John kept firing, trying to move and regroup with the rest of his troop. Whenever he came close to any of his men, they were cut down.
John knew that the situation was hopeless when Ross died; there were only four of his troop left, including himself. Ross had simply crumpled bonelessly to the ground, as if he was narcoleptic. John rolled him over, stopped to fire at someone charging towards him. He checked Ross; he had been shot through his right bicep, the round piercing both of his lungs. He’d died nearly instantly, and his lifeless eyes peered eerily at John through the green haze of his night vision. No time! No time.
John stood to run, to find cover and see how many of the enemy he could take before he was overcome. That’s when the shot came, thudding and heavy and knocking him down. He wasn’t dying, though, which wasn’t right. He should be dead, dead with everyone else.
The firing slowed, became more sporadic, and finally stopped. John struggled to breathe, and couldn’t find any blood that was his own; he wasn’t bleeding where he had been hit. He started to lose consciousness, his vision going out. But he swore, swore that one of the bastards that had killed his troop was wearing NVGs. The rebels aren’t supposed to have those…
* * *
—“very lucky that our CIA assets in the area were able to find you when they did. Otherwise, you would’ve probably been taken hostage by the revolutionaries. With what they’ve been doing to the foreign contractors they caught last month, it’s safe to say that you would be in a bad way.”
John simply nodded, still too hazy to offer a meaningful response. He had been given a stunning amount of painkillers since his arrival in the hospital, and hadn’t been conscious all that often. The bruise on his chest, they explained to him, was from a grenade that misfired and failed to explode. If it weren’t for his body armor, he’d have a baseball-sized hole in his chest instead of a cracked sternum.
“We’re in a unique position here, though, Staff Sergeant. At the moment, you’re officially listed as Killed in Action…so far as anyone is admitting that you exist at all. It’ll officially be written up as a training accident, if you accept.”
John’s head lolled, and he replied groggily. “Accept what?”
The man smiled. “I’m glad you asked, soldier. You’re a patriot, yes? We have a one-of-a-kind opportunity for you to serve your country. Something that’ll help give America an edge, to keep us safe. It’s Black Project, of course, since the Program itself could be considered…somewhat…controversial.”
“What would I have to do?”
“We’ll get to that later. Right now, you just heal up, soldier.”
* * *
In order to be torn to pieces, it apparently took a lot of training to get in as good of physical shape as possible. They worked out daily; John was in superb shape, and he only got better over the weeks. Most of the others were good; he figured that there were two hundred-odd “Trainees,” all volunteers.
Most were “former” military, like him, from across the services; always a combat MOS, though. A few others were law enforcement, usually federal; FBI, US Marshals, Treasury agents, and even a true-to-life Texas Ranger. The training was hard, but it had to be. For what they were going to do.
They used morphine like saline solution here. They needed to. It took those that survived the surgeries roughly six months to fully recover. It was as close to “Six Million Dollar Man” stuff as John figured there would ever be. The technical terms for what exactly they had done were lost to him; he was well-read, but most of it was truly next-level, genius work. Enhanced senses, faster reflexes, stronger bones and muscles. He wasn’t invincible; a bullet or bomb could still kill him just as dead as before. But he was a helluva lot harder to kill.
As for what they were trying to do? Make metahumans out of normal men. That simple, and that complex. Metahumans on demand. If the processes that they were using could be streamlined, they could be mass-produced. It would ensure America’s military dominance, by giving them the “better, faster” soldier to match the rapidly advancing technology of war.
They were told that the science that was being pioneered with them would also have practical applications; helping the blind to see, the paralyzed to walk, and so on. That all of the ones that hadn’t survived the surgeries—all 41% of them—would not have died in vain.
Once they were recovered, the training started again. To relearn how to do everything, but faster and better. And that’s when John discovered, much to his surprise, that he could produce fire on command. The doctors were at first shocked, and then delighted. They spent a lot of time determining how it had happened; it certainly wasn’t anything that was a result of the surgeries. The labcoats figured out that his mitochondria somehow processed energy differently, maybe even drawing on an extradimensional source; John was able to psionically use this energy to create flame, even create the fourth state of matter—plasma. It came to him naturally, and his only limit was his own concentration; not to expand his powers, but to keep them in check. Because the first time he’d manifested them, he’d taken out a hardened concrete bunker during a live-fire exercise, purely on reflex. Good thing there’d only been a robotically controlled machine gun in there.
He wasn’t the only one who’d triggered metahuman after the surgeries.
They had a whole special unit for people like that.
* * *
She was gorgeous, and constantly amazed John when they were allowed to see each other. Her name was Jessica, and she was a psychometricist; she could read objects and places, their past and present, simply by touching them. They said she’d make the perfect spy. Get her in, let her touch something barehanded, get her out again full of intel.
Their contact was minimal, due to the nature of the special “Natural Meta-Soldiers” unit. Their training regimen was different from the other Trainees; far more specialized and detailed.
And…he knew they had to be hard, had to push people to their limits but…
Her name was Jessica, she was tough and smart and liked a lot of the same things he did. She was beautiful too, not like supermodel beautiful, but like completely alive beautiful. She knew poets, and poetry, and could quote them. She’d read Dylan Thomas and Barry Longyear. She liked zombie movies.
Her name was Jessica, and they were falling in love, and that wasn’t allowed.
* * *
They called it a training accident, which, of course, was a lie. She was dead, and they—the Program chiefs—had killed her. John was certain of it.
It had happened shortly after lunch. The NM’s had their own time for the mess hall, separated from both the researchers and the other Trainees. But, she had bumped into a straggling doctor, one of the department heads, who had accidentally stayed late after his chow time. He was carrying a stack of papers and folders, and looked bored. When she bumped into him, the papers went everywhere. As soon as she knelt down to help him pick the scattered papers up, as soon as her hand touched the first folder, she froze.
John saw her face fall from across the room, the color draining out of it. She quietly helped the doctor finish picking up his papers, and then took a seat next to John. She was completely silent for their entire meal, until two armed guards approached from the commissary door. She looked him in the eyes and whispered one word: “Run.” And it was over. They took her away.
Three days later, she was dead, and they had killed her. John became “uncooperative.” That was their word for it. He didn’t have a word for it; he wanted answers, didn’t get them, and so he set out on a one-man mission to beat the answers out of every officer and labcoat he could get his hands on.
* * *
“—subject 1064, beta series, has become uncooperative and disruptive, even violent towards Program staff. Dr. Chandresekhar, our lead therapist and behavioral psychologist has determined that the subject is a total loss. No chance for meaningful rehabilitation and orientation for Program goals.”
It was Dr. Jacob Garvey; John had only seen him once before, shortly after he went into surgery. He was the Program head researcher; the entire thing was his idea, his brainchild. He was supposed to be unbelievably smart; ultra-genius-level. John didn’t care how smart he was. What mattered was that Garvey was as sadistic and inhumane as Mengele.
He was strapped down, and waiting to be euthanized. They had pumped him full of drugs to keep him compliant. They needed to; when they first tried to take him, he had killed five guards and hospitalized three others. But the Program leaders didn’t leave anything to chance, and quickly had him subdued. John thought it might have been the same Valium gas that the Russians used in that one hostage situation, but he couldn’t be sure.
Garvey continued to dispassionately drone on to someone John couldn’t see. “It’s almost a waste of resources, but necessary. After execution, autopsy is to be performed immediately upon the cadaver. If we can learn more about the natural processes that contributed to Subject 1064’s spontaneous metahuman ability, we might be able to figure out how to replicate it. While not the most practical ‘superpower,’ my maxim has always been ‘waste not, want not.’” He nodded to the other “technicians” in the room. “Let’s begin.” He moved in with the needles, handed to him by one of the nurses. There was no “lethal injection machine” in this exam room. Then again, Garvey was supposed to be a “hands on” sort of man when it came to “interesting subjects.”
John felt what was about to happen; the cold-eyed men and women around him seemed a thousand miles away. He saw Jessica’s face, felt her warmth, and remembered that she was gone forever. The hatred, the fury welled up inside of him, burning through him like lava. He strained against his restraints, the metal and Kevlar straps creaking. Garvey stopped short. “He shouldn’t even be conscious. Interesting.” John saw red. Literally. Everything around him was washed in a hot red haze. He hated them all, hated the entire Facility, hated Garvey, and finally hated himself. Because he had let them take her. Just sat there, and let them take her.
I’ll drag every one of you down to hell with me.
The explosion came too quickly for any sort of fire suppression system to have a chance to save anyone. He hadn’t ever used his powers in that way before. He didn’t know he was capable of it. The worst part was…it was easy. John just—let go. The entire Facility was blasted through with a plasma wave, intense pressure and heat destroying everything—and everyone. When it was done, John found himself lying outside of the smoldering ruins of the underground Facility. He had blacked out, blanked his escape from memory. But he knew; everyone behind him, everyone in those bunkers was dead.
He had killed them all, but it wasn’t enough. Because he had let them kill her.
* * *
She was supposed to be…detached. She was supposed to be able to sense and understand mortals, feel compassion for them, but she was not supposed to feel as they felt. She was supposed to take the longer view. After all, death was not an ending. Pain was not forever.
But she was, for a brief, and terrifying moment, furious. Furious with the anger of an Archangel, the kind of anger that destroyed worlds. Furious enough that, had she not been able to control herself, she would have razed the Program buildings across the world to ashes and strewn salt where they had been. She would have brought Fire and the Sword to those who had conceived of it, and let them experience the true wrath of a Seraphym in the instant before they died.
Instantly, she throttled her reaction down. She was an instrument of the Infinite, here for a specific purpose, and revenge in this case was not a part of that purpose. But the anger…the rage…
She cooled herself. She was a Seraphym and this was not her purpose. But she wondered if he had felt it.
And after the rage had cooled…came the grief. She mourned for him, for what he had lost. And mourned that he, himself, could not yet grieve. She wept, that he could not weep, and begin to heal.
* * *
When John opened his eyes, the first thing he saw was the Seraphym’s tears. He opened his mouth, and closed it just as quickly.
What can I say? What can I tell her after she’s seen, been through that? Seen who I really am, and what I’ve done?
“Sera? Are you alright?” He had very carefully withdrawn his hand from hers, keeping it in his lap.
She looked up at him and made a little motion with her hand, as if to try and take his back, then stopped. “I…grieve,” she said, after a long silence. She made no move to wipe her tears away; another moment of un-humanity.
John couldn’t look at her anymore. “I’ll understand if you don’t wanna come around anymore. I wouldn’t.” He sighed, taking a noncommittal sip from his beer. “Knowin’ what I’ve done.”
“What?” She sounded startled. “But—I grieve for what was done to you. That you have not healed. That you have not found forgiveness.” She actually took a deep breath. “John Murdock, forgiveness is always possible, but you must forgive yourself first. This changes nothing for the worse between us. You are my friend, my true friend, I only have one other. I would not lose either of you, for…for any cause.”
And she was right, at least about them being friends. That bothered John, a little. He had been so caught up in everything, that making friends…it sort of just crept up on him. Unter and Old Man Bear weren’t quite like his old drinking buddies, or his friends in the service…but that bond was still there. And Jonas, who was more like an uncle than anything. Then there was Sera, which still confused him to an extent. But it was happening, no denying it; he was making friends. He would’ve judged allowing something like that to happen to be too dangerous, before the Invasion; for himself and said friends. Things had changed in the world since the Thulians decided to try their hand at genocide and conquest. Things had changed in John. “The only other person that really knows, or at least knows part of it, is Bella. She knows I was in some black-budget deal, and turned out bad, which was why I was on the run. The Commissar has the general idea. But that’s it.” The fear was still there; the memories he had from the Program were carried with him, deep down, while still being ever-present in his mind. A background of regret. A barricade of guilt.
“This was very hard for you. Showing me.” Her eyes were dry again, and again unreadable behind the blaze of gold. “Perhaps, for now, we should say goodnight.”
He nodded, gathering up the take-out containers and cushions. He was uncomfortable, and tried to break the tension. “Sorry for bein’ a buzz-kill tonight. Same time, tomorrow? I cook a mean steak, if Jonas has any in the store. I don’t even need a grill.” He flashed a smile; it wasn’t as confident as before.
She looked as if she might say more, then simply took the trash from him, and incinerated it, the residue falling in a snowfall of ash from her hands. “Neither do I. Goodnight, John Murdock. We will meet tomorrow.”
“G’night, Angel.”
But then, she stopped. She turned and reached out to him; the gesture compounded part of compassion, part of entreaty. “I do not wish to part like this. There is too much that is not right. Koyaanisqatsi.”
He cocked his head to the side, taking her arm. “I know that word. ‘Life out of balance,’ right?” A fair descriptor of things, if there ever were.
“Yes.” There was a ghost of a smile. “The Hopi have many simple words for profound and complex things.” She took another step back towards him. “I only have two friends, you and Bella. Bella is my…protégé. I do not have a word for what you are, not even one in Hopi.”
It was John’s turn to take a step forward. “What would y’like me to be, angel?”
Her brows furrowed again. This was the blank place, the heart of the blank in the futures. She couldn’t see, nor anticipate anything. And that left her floundering, trying to sort things that did not want to sort into neat paths. “I…” she said, thinking out loud. “What would I like? No one asks me what I would—”
“Hmm.” John waited half a beat, then leaned in to kiss Sera. He did it almost without thinking, and realized fully what he was doing only after he was already committed. This is the part where I’m struck by a lightning bolt for my transgression.
Sera froze. Not out of fear or anger, not even out of shock. She froze because in that moment, another new thing had occurred in a day of new things. She had never touched, nor been touched by, another physical being in this way before.
Of course she knew what a kiss was, and she knew all the possible nuances of the gesture, but again, they were all abstract. This was anything but abstract. He had wanted to do this; now he was a little afraid, perhaps, that she would not like it, but he still wanted this. He had let down barriers to her that he had never let down to anyone else. She hadn’t regarded him as a monster.
She closed her eyes and concentrated on the experience. It was…warm. Exciting. Strangely comforting, and she had not thought herself in need of comfort. And pleasurable, more deeply pleasurable than she would have thought. Why am I allowing this? she wondered. But…of course, I am allowing this, because…because I like this. I like him. Human emotions. Will this affect him? Affect his judgement? Affect my judgement about affecting him? Her mind spun for a moment, then settled on one thing. One Law that was always true. That which makes us care unselfishly for another is always permitted.
Why the hell did I do that? I’m still alive, and I have not been transfigured into anything like a newt or a rock. God…have I ruined this? He decided that he not only needed to kiss her, but he wanted to. It had been a long, long time since he had allowed himself any desires, other than surviving. But, with the Invasion…everything had changed. He had friends now, he had a purpose, heaven help him, a Cause to fight for. And now he had…whatever this was becoming, with an Angel. With Sera.
John was the first to pull back, slowly. His hand didn’t leave her arm, nor did he step away. His eyes studied her, waiting and expectant.
She opened her eyes, faintly disappointed that the sensation had ended, and smiled up at him. He was taller than she. How had she never noticed that before?
“I do not think there will be lightning to strike you, John Murdock,” she said, softly, and felt another new thing, a kind of impish amusement.
“Well, shucks. An’ here I thought I was gonna be famous; ‘First and Last Man to Kiss an Angel.’”
She laughed aloud. “But who would know but me?” She raised her hand, and gently touched his cheek. “New things, John Murdock. So many new things tonight. For both of us, I think.”
He let go of her arm, with a nod. Instead of flashing away as she usually did, she walked, slowly and deliberately, to the roof edge, then lifted off as softly as a moth into the night. Huh. John bent over to retrieve his forgotten drink. “I think I ought to try that more often.”