• An older man sits alone in an office chair, a small black leather-bound book resting in his hands. Carefully sliding a dry-skinned finger beneath a page, he opens it. Sitting safely between two pages near the center of the book is a small series of photographs. They are blurred slightly from age, but depict a young red haired woman clutching a baby wrapped in a blanket to her chest. Her eyes, though the photograph is faded, are clearly a vibrant shade of green, her face brushed lightly with freckles. The man gently lifts the photo up close to his face, and his expression begins to show the onset of tears. Shaking his head, he folds it in half. He crouches down slowly, his face now showing not sadness, but pain from the exertion of old bones long since lost to arthritis, and slips the photo beneath a loose pale-grey tile in the floor.
    “No regrets.”, he whispers harshly, almost spitting, to the tile he hid the photograph under. Then he stands up, slips a syringe from the inside pocket of his lab coat, and presses the tip forcefully to his forearm and releases the clear, light brown-colored liquid to his veins. He stands up, and limps into his bedroom and collapses in the doorway, hitting his forehead off the corner of the metal bed frame. The little black book slips from his hand, sliding underneath the bed. He is unconscious within a moment, snoring heavily, a steady stream of blood leaving a dark wet pool on the bedrooms’ hardwood floor.

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    Chapter I

    “MAVERICK!” a shrill, nasally voice called out. The voice belonged to a tall, raven-haired young woman. She was clothed in a clean, pressed lab coat that fell just short of her knees, black leggings, and four-inch heels. On her face, her eyebrows, which were a thin black penciled-in line, were set in an arch of frustration. She called out the name again, this time much louder. Receiving no response, she stormed into the Grey Room, her heels clicking furiously at the tile floor.
    Grumbling she crossed to the doorway on the opposite end of the room, where the elderly man lay, still bleeding and unconscious. She kneeled down next to him and took his cheek in her hand, turning his face toward her own, examining the gash on his brow. She pulled a rag from one of the several pockets of her coat and wiped it across his forehead. Tossing the bloodstained rag aside, she pressed her lips to his ear. “Maverick,” she cooed, as if to an infant, “it’s time to wake up.”
    The woman jerked the syringe free from his arm and set the needle on the table beside her. Then she rose, her lipstick-caked mouth twisting into a demented grin. Using the side of her shoe, she turned his face upward. Maverick, who was still snoring, didn’t stir. The woman grinned even more and ground her heel against the mans’ jaw roughly until it was raw, bruised, and bleeding.
    Maverick’s hand shot up to where the shoe had struck him, he rubbed at it gently. Grumbling, he slowly lifted himself into a sitting position. “Ebony…”.
    The woman sat cross-legged on the table, picking at her starkly painted nails. “That is my name, sir. Back on the morphine, I see.”
    She gestured toward him with the syringe, which she wiggled playfully between her middle and forefinger. “Your constant napping isn’t going to help the Operation.”.
    “Shut up.” he snapped quietly and began to lift himself up shakily using the bed frame. Ebony held out a manicured hand to aid him, which he took and pulled himself to a standing position with.
    She played a seemingly well-rehearsed façade of hurt feelings, then snickered. “Im wounded, sir. But we have a job to do, remember? I only fulfill your orders. I lack the authority to make important decisions without your consent. The Operation will not come to fruition with you lazing about. Now, go. Clean yourself up. We have work to do.”

    Maverick stared at his gruesome reflection that wavered on the water in the sink. The age spots and creases at his eyes that spider webbed from his eyes were not the severity of his appearance. Though recently cleaned, a blotch of bright red blood could be seen seeping through the fresh bandage. His lips were dry and cracked, and the spot where he’d hit his head was now a rough, dark scab. He raised a hand to it, examining the damage, and the wound reopened. A thin stream of blood ran down the bridge of his nose.
    “Damn it.” he said, and splashed some water on his face, then pulled the plug, letting the reddened water wash down the drain. He ran a damp comb through his thin, white hair, then put on his lab coat and left for the Grey Room.
    Already in the Grey Room was Ebony, leaning against a marble-topped counter with a bored expression. In one hand, was a mug of coffee, which she was staring into intently. In the other was a red swizzle stick that she traced around the circumference of the mug with her fingertip. When Maverick entered, she did not look up. “Coffee?”
    Ebony gestured to the steaming pot of dark liquid. The pot sat upon the black and white speckled countertop, which was cluttered with various small appliances, arranged in an unorganized manner, and a variety of blue and pink sugar packets. Ebony turned and took a second white mug, the rim stained brown from years of use, and poured coffee into it. She held the mug and two blue sugar packets out to Maverick, and nodded, urging him to take it.
    “No.” He said, “Thank you.”

    Ebony swept away a cluster of sugar packets in irritation, making enough room for her to set down the two mugs. One of the packets fell to the floor, she glanced at it briefly, but did not pick it up. She paused a moment, then pulled a little black book out from behind her and skimmed through the pages. “You’ve been rushing though your entries, Maverick. There is not enough information written. You know how crucial these entries are to the Operation, don’t you? Or perhaps you have forgotten.”
    On the word ‘forgotten’ she slammed the book closed and tossed it at his feet. He frowned and reached down to retrieve it. As his fingertips brushed the leather binding of the small book, Ebony’s thin heel came crashing down upon it. His hand formed a fish beneath her foot, and he let out a low growl, “Perhaps you have forgotten who’s in charge here.”
    Giggling in pure amusement at his frustrations she shot back, “Perhaps you have forgotten just how detrimental your silly little emotions can be to the Operation, Sir!”
    He glanced up at her, and his dark brown eyes widened. Ebony’s twisted smile returned, as she burst into yet another fit of laughter. She paced over to the desk at the other side of the room, near the doorway to Maverick’s bedroom and knelt down, feeling around a few of the tiles until she found one that was loose and cracked. She slid a finger beneath it and removed a folded piece of paper, then opened it and smoothed it out on the table. A photograph. She then shoved the paper in Maverick’s face. “That’s right, Sir. I know about all your little hiding places. While you were off drugging yourself, I was at my post watching the monitors. Making sure nothing goes awry. If anything happened I would have expected it to be a technological failure, but not this! These people…”
    She pressed the photograph further into his face. “These people are gone. Your wife has been dead for thirty years, Maverick. You know that. And you know why.”
    Ebony squinted at him through brown, almond-shaped eyes, and Maverick looked down and his now clenched fists, and released them. He gazed down at his palms, his fingertips, and closed his eyes. He let his hands fall to his sides and he became limp. Ebony continued, pointing at the child wrapped in the blanket, “Ryan is gone, too. Forty years ago he died, on the very grounds where this lab was built shortly after. Your son and wife are both dead, Maverick. Your emotions can only harm yourself now. We have no room for weakness. The Operation was your plan, don’t tell me you’re backing out on it now.”
    “No.” He whispered.

    “Good. Now go fix your log entries.” she said, placing the little black book in Mavericks hand, and sent him off.