[CBE-177/"Anna"]

Darkness.

She was in darkness, chained and cold. Too cold. They'd put her in the box again. Why was she so cold? It wasn't usually this cold.

Time passing. Shivering, her hunger a churning of broken glass in her stomach. Impossible to concentrate, except on the need to feed.

Time. How long this time? It always felt like a single night inside the Hakoirikappa, but this time in particular it felt like she was waking up from a long sleep. She was sore, her joints aching with a pain that spoke of long confinement.

Must feed!

She threw up, still trapped inside the box. She always did that, a side effect of the chemicals they pumped her with before putting her under, but they'd always gotten her out before it happened. She slumped in her own fluids, trying to bring her mind to order. So hard to concentrate. The hunger, and her thoughts trying to piece themselves together after a long shattering. Why hadn't they let her out yet.

More time flowing by.

They weren't coming. Somehow she was awake and they weren't letting her out. Why? She didn't know.

The hunger was getting worse. This was bad. She had to get out. She had to get out.

Moving, pushing. Trying her strength. The same iron walls that always met her, cold against her naked skin. The same chains: a bar between her ankles, a triangle of welded rebar with locking circles for her neck and wrists. The mask covering her face to keep her from biting. Little room to move, little leverage. She pulled her knees upward, the lid stopping them before they'd moved a few centimeters. A push, as hard as she could. Bad leverage, but she felt the metal give.

She let out a howl that her broken vocal chords rendered soundless.

Another try. Move give. A sudden upward strike with her knees; a satisfying creak. Another; the metal was being forced back. She could bring her feet up for a good push now. Desperation and hunger forced her onward. Feed!

Kick. A crash. And light that made her hiss behind eyes adapted for total darkness. And she stood, blinking.

Where... ?

The magnetic field was wrong. Not Laboratory 1, nor anywhere she'd been before. They'd moved her? Why? She couldn't think straight. The room was full of crates her sense told her were full of metal, shapes she didn't recognize. The metal bands around her wrists and neck and ankles still bound her. A desperate need for freedom, to feed...

"Hey!"

A man appeared, wearing blue, a flashlight in hand, gun at his hip. She blinked and stumbled backwards, the sudden light hurting her.

"Oh my god..."

He saw: a nude petite woman, in metal restraints, some sort of bite mask around her face, standing in the torn remains of a black metal box. Her ragged hair, her eyes bloodshot. He opened his mouth to gape.

"Hey..."

He took a few steps towards her. His eyes were wary, his voice concerned. "Where... Where do you come from?"

Later, she would put the clues back together. She would recognize the language he spoke as English, would realize her sense was telling her that magnetic north was further to the east than it had any right to be. Just then she couldn't think like that. Just then she saw blood.

She jumped up and towards him, slamming both her heels into his torso. She heard and felt the bone crack, heard him groan and saw him fly back into a metal pillar. His chest was caved in. He gurgled once but absent the immediate prescense of a doctor he was dead.

Blood blood blood BLOOOODDDD!

She jerked her way to his corpse and fell on it, howling again as her mask stymied the efforts to feed. Hands locked in place, unable to remove it. A silent scream of desperation.

She spun, and the side of her mask caught on something. She threw her body against it, and it tore off. She fell on her knees beside the man in blue, and gave herself over.

When she found herself again she was kneeling beside the man's corpse. Blood had pooled around him and she was kneeling in it. The front of her body was slicked with it. She stood on shaky legs and stared down at the man. His face and neck was a ruin, his chest practically torn open. She was still naked.

For the first time she examined her senses in detail. She was in some sort of warehouse, that was clear. Magnetic north... Magnetic north was wrong. For it to be that far east she'd have to be... Japan, perhaps? But the man had spoken English... Had Stalin conquered Australia? She tried to visualize the geography she knew and couldn't picture it.

She looked at the man again, and suddenly felt an overwhelming wave of sickness and regret. He was dead. She'd torn him to pieces, drained his life out. She'd never done it before, not like that. She knew people had been killed to feed her, but this was the first time she'd done with her own hands.

Out. She had to get out.

The metal pillars in this place provided her leverage. Laying on the concrete, she pushed the bar between her ankles against the pillar until it cracked and her feet were free. Then she pulled her feet into the triangle that held her neck and wrists and pushed until it broke. She broke the metal rods off but the bands around her wrists proved problematic. There was no leverage; she'd need a cutter for those.

She had to get out of here. No one else had come and that was lucky, but she couldn't trust to luck.

She needed clothes. She forced herself to turn back to the body. They weren't even close to the same size; she was shorter and thinner. But they'd have to do. His shirt was a total loss for clothing, but used it to clean herself of blood as best as possible before tossing it into a corner. She ripped the legs on his pants to keep them from dragging and tightened his belt to his smallest length to keep them up. She still looked ridiculous. She found a coat that reached down to her knees and zipped it shut. This done, she stared down at herself, feeling strange. How long had it been since she'd worn real clothes? She couldn't remember.

She put on the man's cap (It read, "Dawnbreak Security", in English), and underneath his body she found a gun. She took it without a second thought. The flashlight she left; she didn't need it.

She would have to do without shoes. There was no hope of fitting into his.

The door from the warehouse was metal with a glass window in it. She frowned at the configuration; it seemed unusual. She studies her reflection in the glass. A coat too big for her, torn pants, no shows, pants and cap with blood stains showing. She needed some better clothes and fast.

Through that door, then through another room and towards a door that smelled like outdoors. This one was locked. A moment's inspection revealed a knob that functioned as a kind of permanent key. Clever. She opened the door, stepped out, and paused. A wide flat paved area greeted her, a few cars of models she didn't recognize stopped in the corners. The air smelled of salt, and she knew the sea was not far away. Yet the air was too warm by far for her to be in Siberia. She frowned. But there was no time to puzzle out the mystery; she was escaping, and she had to put distance between herself and this place.

She ran, keeping to the shadows. A chain link fence blocked her way; she vaulted it and kept going. Everything seemed unreal to her. Where were the guard towers? Where were the machine guns? Why would they have taken her to this place without them?
The roads she ran down were flat and smooth- no doubt one of Stalin's many improvements, she thought, but already part of her knew that something else was happening. Buildings came into view: stores, houses. When she saw them, she had to stop and gape. Huge clean buildings, of the best brick and concrete. Elegant yards, kept clean. Cars in every driveway.

This must be some private neighborhood, she thought. Some elite area reserved for high-ranking party members. But already she felt that was not the explanation at all.

Her stomach growled. Not for blood, this time, but for real human food. She looked at the houses again. She had to assume she was in danger. She had to assume they would be hunting for her. She could hide in a house long enough for food and drink, and then she would have to run. To where? She didn't know. Maybe she would find shoes there too.

The first house she carefully skulked around smelled occupied, as did the second, but the third was covered in the deep silence of emptiness. Leaving the locked lower doors and windows intact, she scaled a back wall and found an unlocked upper window. It slid upward instead of opening out. Strange.

A rich man's house, clearly, and with the kitchen inside instead of in a separate building. She understood that this made sense for the rich, but still found it strange. The pantry; where was the pantry?

Her nice told her. She opened the door, stared, then squeezed her eyes shut and opened them again. So much food! Was this how party leaders lived?

Party leader? she thought. The labels were all in English...

A suspicion, a hope, was beginning to grow inside her, but she forced the thought aside. Food first. She found a loaf of bread and tore the plastic (not paper, another strange thing) covering off, settling on the floor to eat greedily. It was soft, sweet, and close to the best thing she had ever tasted.

She didn't understand where she was or what had happened to her, but as long as she had this bread, she could pretend it didn't matter.

@nosuchthing

[Jack Fontaine]

Nobody Don't you know who I think I am? + CBE-177/"Anna"

Jack didn't spend much time in this house, they preferred to be in the heart of things, and out on the seafront was something that really didn't fit into their preferences. In fact, since they'd purchased it through a shell corporation two months ago, they hadn't visited it. It was one of a few properties they owned on this coast, though the only one that really, served no purpose. They had purchased it on a childlike whim. At least it had appreciated in value. Jack had not been unduly concerned when the notification had arrived that there was an intrusion on the property. There was nothing there of any real value, they were not the type of genius to leave things lying about. At least not in a house that was virtually unprotected. After all, their workshop was hardly an example of organisation and cleanliness. The images however, had piqued Jack's interest, so here they were, climbing out of an Uber with a large man climbing out of the other side. Said man was a bodyguard for hire. Jack had used him before, and he had proved to be professional, and discreet. The fact that he appeared to be a gorilla stuffed into a suit helped in those occasionally more violent situations that Jack found themselves in. They would never call themselves arrogant, but they wouldn't deny it either, so they did their best not to underestimate their enemies. Jack might be the smartest person on the planet, but they were certainly not the strongest, and the strange girl that was raiding the larder was covered in blood. They gestured to the bodyguard that they had brought with them, indicating that they should stay behind them, and out of sight, then they climbed the steps, entering the front door of the house. They called out as they entered, so as not to alarm the intruder, then rounded the corner into the kitchen. "I do hope you have made yourself at home?"

© seadra of gs

[CBE-177/"Anna"]

She heard the car long before she saw them, pausing as she ate when she heard it slow down outside the house rather than zooming past like all the others. That gave her a few moments to think. A choice of three decisions: run, fight, or play along. It was always one of those three.

She didn't want to run. She knew it was a loser's game. No matter how fast or how far you ran, they could always come for you later. She didn't know where she was or what was happening, and running wasn't going to give her any of those answers. What she needed was a place to hole up, take stock of her situation, plan her next steps.

So. Fight, or play along. And put that way, it was really no choice at all. Fight meant killing, and that was something she wasn't prepared to do yet. If she could, she would make this place a stronghold, somewhere she could recover and reorient herself. What the future held, beyond the next few moments, she had no idea. All she knew was that she would never allow herself to be taken captive again. She would kill a dozen people, or herself, before she let that happen. And she knew she could stop it. What she remembered was that she was one of the strongest of all. When she had been taken before, it was only because she had trusted Him. That had been her mistake. Then and there, she resolved never to trust anyone who was rich ever again.

A bittersweet emotion at the thought of Him swelled inside her, but she ground it out, roughly. This wasn't the time.

Rich people, she knew, respected two things. One was power, the ability to make others bend to your will. The other was their own power, and their own virtue and goodness. Rich people, she had learned, liked to feel good about themselves, liked to feel that they were doing right by bestowing some of their favor onto the less fortunate. They enjoyed being gods, both of the sort that dispensed fury and the sort that dispensed favor. It was all about their egos. But she could use that. She could cut a pathetic figure, a helpless one, and the right kind of rich person would eat it up. They would be all over a chance to bestow some blessing on the poor, mute girl. She knew she didn't look particularly dangerous. Men judged her by her size and saw someone small who would have to rely on them for protection, though she knew better than to trust anyone else to take care of her. But men liked that she looked smaller and weaker than them; it made them feel powerful. She would use that, too.

They were coming. She pretended not to hear them and bent herself to her loaf of bread again. When the voice rang out- English again- she made herself leap as if in surprise and turn towards him, clutching the bread to her chest.

She was surprised to find that she knew him. Not him personally, but his species. It was the arrogance on his face and the looming bodyguard behind him that were the distinctive marks of his kind. It was an expression that said, bow to me, I can make you hurt. She restrained her face from a sneer. The bodyguard's size wouldn't matter if she ever got her hands on him. Not to her. The man's clothes had a decidedly feminine appearance but he smelled male. A circus performer? They weren't usually rich.

She stared at him, making her eyes wide with fear and pleading. She turned her face and tilted her head back so that the jagged scar on the side of her neck was clearly visible, raising one finger and tapping it. She made a motion as if zipping her lips shut. She looked down at the bread she was holding and gave him a nervous, apologetic smile as she extended the quarter or so left in the loaf towards him.

[Jack Fontaine]

Nobody Don't you know who I think I am? + CBE-177/"Anna"

The image that greeted Jack and their employee was one that would have tugged at the heart strings of any average human being. She, for it appeared to be a female, though Jack knew better than to assume such things, held out the bread she was holding. The scar on the neck had been interesting, right about the point that the recurrent laryngeal nerve would run. A mute then. She was evidently attempting to elicit sympathy; unfortunately Jack was not the sympathetic type. The woman was short, less than five feet tall, and the way she had immediately presented herself suggested that she was used to being underestimated. Even more unfortunately, there was still blood visible from whatever activity she had been engaged in before coming here. The trousers were clearly not hers, and the dried blood on the suggested that whoever had been wearing them was now in no state to argue with their new owner. Clearly the blood was not hers, but there were few methods to kill humans that produced quite such a spray. Jack waved a hand dismissively, "Keep it. I'm sure you've worked out already that a loaf of bread is no great expense for me." They gestured to the bodyguard, who promptly stepped back into the hall, able to see, but significantly less threatening. In theory. Jack had grown up knowing that even the most harmless looking people could possess powers capable of rewriting the laws of physics. These days that was even more true. Since the Event the population of metahumans had exploded. They might still be a minority, but one should always be prepared for someone to do something unexpected. "Please don't patronise me, kid yes, idiot no." Jack pulled a chair down and sat, reaching into their pocket as they did so. They produced a phone, which they tapped on a few times, before holding it out, then tossing it to the strange newcomer to their home. "Use this." They'd opened a note taking program, leaving the keyboard open on the screen. The woman could either show them the screen, or confirm that they wanted it turned to speech when prompted. "I'm sure you're much more dangerous than you look, and more dangerous that you want me to think, so maybe we should start with an explanation of whose blood that is."

© seadra of gs

[CBE-177/"Anna"]

The man's face showed no sign of sympathy for her condition. 177 internally tensed and readied herself to fight or run. A rich person who failed to show sympathy was a monster beyond all compare. The metal at the bodyguard’s waist was a gun, she had no doubt, but she had one too, and she would be faster. If she had to, she’d shoot the big one first, then deal with the small one.

She made no effort to keep up her charade after being called out. She pulled the bread back and studied him, allowing her usual cunning look to come back in her eyes. She didn’t move from her spot as he found a chair and sat in it. Let him have the high position; it made people like him feel better. She watched carefully as he pulled something out his pocket. It was thin and rectangular, and cast a grey light on his face. She kept her face carefully neutral as he touched it with his thumb, then held it out to her, telling her to use it. She caught it easily as he tossed it, staring at the strange object. It was surprisingly heavy for its size. The front appeared to be made of glass, and she saw English letters arranged in rows on the glass- like typewriter keys, only much smaller. She blinked, unable to keep the expression of confusion off her face. He’d told her to use it. What did that mean? Did he expect her to already know what it was? She glanced up at him, tongue moving over her teeth. She was suddenly uncomfortably reminded of one of Masushita’s favorite techniques. “Do you know what this is, 177? Here, let me show you.” An involuntary shudder went through her at the memory.

He was staring at her. She had to do something with the device. Gingerly, she touched her finger to one of the small letters. A quiet click, and the letter appeared in the black space at the top of the screen.

She stared, now completely fascinated. She touched another letter, and it too appeared. Another touch, another letter.


She smiled, a sudden wonder filling her. She tapped letters at random, producing a stream of nonsense. What wonder! She laughed, a shaking of her stomach muscles that produced no sound. She looked up at the man again, reconsidering him, perhaps a bit awed. What kind of man could have a wonderful device like this? She tapped more letters, then made herself concentrate. With this she could-

She typed a few English words, and stared again in wonder. Just like that, she had spoken. She typed some more. She knew what this was, now. A speaking device, for people like her. She smiled again, then looked up and tossed the phone back to the man.

Pavwiwngrpkvorfnojnbdsqqqqfwv what is this wonderful ssddffgghhjkl

Jack Fontaine

[Jack Fontaine]

Nobody Don't you know who I think I am? + CBE-177/"Anna"

The woman shuddered as she inspected the device, as if she had bad memories of such things, although her complete lack of recognition or understanding suggested that it was something about the situation, not the phone itself. Curious. Judging by her reaction she had never seen such a thing before. She was perhaps in her mid-twenties, but her complexion and facial structure made it clear that she was western, or at a stretch eastern-European. What were the odds of her never having seen a mobile phone? Slim to say the least. Jack examined the returned phone, reading the short sentence. They tossed it back again. "It's a phone, a micro-computer." Either this woman was an extremely proficient actor and con-woman, or she had genuinely never seen a modern smartphone before. Time travel was, as far as Jack knew, nigh impossible. They knew of one metahuman with an ability that could be called that, and they were pretty sure that it only appeared to be time travel. Even if it was real, it was ten seconds, no great difference in time. This woman had never seen a smartphone, that was a difference of over a decade. The metal bands about her wrists were interesting as well. Cuffs, clearly the remains of some other system of restraint. Jack's mind went down the road of classic tabloid journalism, a woman imprisoned in a basement since birth? Then how had she broken the restraints? She was also anything but intimidated. She must be metahuman. Clearly something that could be used violently, judging by the visible flecks of blood. "Where are you from? Roughly. Judging by this meeting I'm going to say you won't want to tell me. Speaking of which, do you know where you are?"

© seadra of gs

[CBE-177/"Anna"]

A... micro computer? Micro meant small, didn't it? That would make sense. She imagined the computer she had seen Masushita use back at Laboratory 1: a blocky, hulking thing, with reels for magnetic tape and places to put in punch cards that too up an entire wall. She looked at the device he handed back to her. Micro indeed.

The man asked her another question, where she was from. She thought at once of childhood days long gone by: playing in the street, waiting for her father to get home black from coal dusk, wooden houses, winter fires.

She didn't remember the name of that place. Masushita had taken it from her.

Where then? Moscow, where she had lived when she knew Him? She rejected that idea at once. She knew now that she had never belonged there. She had always been an outsider, a foolish child pretending a grown-up games, a dog slavering after its betters. No, she was not from Moscow. So where?

And she knew. In the end, there was only one choice. One place that had defined and molded the course of her life.

She moved closer to the man, not rising fully from her feet. Much as it irked her, she had learned the value of moving on all fours around such people. Let them think they were her betters. When they thought you were a beast they at least didn't hurt as much.

She typed the words and held it out for him to see.

From laboratory 1

She turned the phone back towards herself, considering his second question, unconsciously flicking her tongue back and forth over her teeth. Where was she now? She could sense the general direction of magnetic north, which put her further east than anywhere she had been before. And with everything being in English...

It all fell into place then. The English letters, her box being in a warehouse, the strangeness of this place. Of course. Her masters had been afraid this would happen, and now it had. She smiled. So everyone from Laboratory 1 would be dead, then. Almost certainly. Good. She hoped it had been painful.

And if she was in the USA, there was a new possibility opened up to her...

She typed a new message.

I am in USA I think
You must have won the war
I want political asylum

Jack Fontaine

[Jack Fontaine]

Nobody Don't you know who I think I am? + CBE-177/"Anna"

Jack didn't show a reaction at the mention of Laboratory 1, though of course there had been an internal one of some strength. Laboratory 1 might have ceased to exist long before Jack's birth, but their ability to process and retain information had been such that even at a young age they had consumed veritable libraries of information. They were particularly well informed on the technological developments of the mid-to-late twentieth century, as so much of modern technology stemmed from developments in those eras. This metahuman, for Jack was now convinced she was such, originated from Laboratory 1? That couldn't be the case. Jack was fairly sure that the Doctor was the only person to have ever succeeded in artificially stimulating the metahuman gene. Surely the Soviets hadn't managed to do so nearly seventy years earlier? No, if they'd managed that then the Cold War would have ended very differently, of that Jack was certain. A rare outlier of the Families that had not been tracked down? Unlikely also. All of the major powers had been working to create super-soldiers throughout World War II and the Cold War; the Families would have paid very close attention to those programs. Still, she claimed to have come from there, and Jack could see no reason as to why they might lie. It was far-fetched enough as it was. "The Cold War. Yes, we won." The next line almost made Jack laugh out loud. They leaned forward, as though inviting the woman to be a confidant. "I doubt you'll need political asylum, the Soviet Union is long gone, collapsed before I was born. And with that blood covering you, they'll likely be asking you questions that you can't answer. Even with that device." Jack stood and crossed to the fridge, pulling it open to examine the contents. They rolled their eyes, whoever had stocked it this time and included beer, which would probably now go straight in the trash. Jack didn't drink. No matter how easy it might have been to make an ID with the appropriate date of birth. Jack simply wasn't interested in such mind affecting concoctions. They grabbed three bottles of coca-cola, kicking the door closed as they turned back. The teen threw a bottle in the direction of the bodyguard, who was now stood by the door. Then they held one out to the tiny woman stood at the other end of the kitchen. "Soda?"

© seadra of gs

[CBE-177/"Anna"]

The Cold War, she thought. She smiled a vicious grin. It was a good namd for a war where your enemy was Russian. So everything she had known there was likely destroyed in the fires of nuclear combat. She felt surprisingly little emotion at the realization. There had been a time when she had been a Soviet girl through and through, but that had evaporated at Laboratory 1. She was without a home, as she had always been.

The man made a comment about the blood on her and she glanced down at the red spots that still dotted her stolen jeans. She'd done her best to clean herself up but what she really needed was a bath. She thought of it longingly. It had been forever since she'd had a real one.

She knew what he was doing by pointing out the blood. He was saying, "You are weak, you are vulnerable, you need someone like me to protect you." He wanted to make a slave of her, wanted the feeling of her submitting to him.

He offered a soda and she held out her hand for it, catching the bottle and prying the lid off with her nails. She sniffed it, and, smelling nothing unusual, put it to her lips. It was tingly and far sweeter than she was used to.

She sipped the soda, considering her situation. His last words were an implicit offer of help, with a hook buried inside them. Rich people never did anything for free. He would want something.

Did she even need him? Maybe not. She suspected she could take care of herself. But she had realistic: she had no voice, no papers, no knowledge of this place she was in. Having him would make her life far easier. And then there was the dead man she had left at the warehouse to consider. Questions would be asked about that, authorities would want to find her. Having someone rich in her side would be helpful.

Strange that she didn't feel more over becoming a murderess. Perhaps she had fantasized about killing Masushita and his ilk so often that the actual act was barely interesting.

The question was, what would this man want that she had and was willing to give? She wouldn't sell her body. She decided that at once. She had been down that path before, and- never again. Her other skills, then.

She took another sip of her drink and ran her tongue over her teeth, thinking. What was she willing to give him? That he would want her to do something illegal she never even questioned. All rich people did illegal things.

She wanted food, shelter, and a steady supply of blood. She wouldn't sell her body, and she wouldn't help him sell the bodies of others. She wouldn't hurt women or children. She wouldn't kill anyone unless they deserved it. Outside of that... She shrugged internally. She'd do what she had to.

She stood. This wasn't a time to grovel on the floor and make him feel like he dominated the situation. This was a time to prove she was useful, strong.

She typed something on the microcomputer, then raised herself to her full height (still not very impressive, unfortunately) and walked towards him. She held the screen so her could see it.

I could work for you.
I have a unique set of skills.
Laboratory 1 was working on improving humans. Stalin wanted an army of super soldiers. I was to be the original.
They failed, and I am the only one.

She'd serve him. Just for now. Just while she got her bearings in this new place. Let him think he had her firmly clasped in his hand. She'd obey him, but she wouldn't be ruled by him. One day, when was ready, she would break away- and for his sake, he had better not be blocking her path when that happened.

Jack Fontaine

[Jack Fontaine]

Nobody Don't you know who I think I am? + CBE-177/"Anna"

The presumably unintended reference to 'Taken' almost made Jack laugh; they certainly smiled at the thought. The main character would have been a lot less intimidating if they had texted those words instead of speaking them down the phone. They felt somewhat vindicated as the woman all but confirmed that they were a metahuman, perhaps it was luck that they had happened upon an actual meta, but Jack was willing to bet there was something more at play. They ought to investigate the doings of the Families in Russia after the war. They'd had little interest up to this point in such things, but there was never any harm in expanding their knowledge, although tracking down that information would be more tricky. "Well they didn't succeed on improving humans, they merely found something that was there all along. I do wonder how they found you though." It could have been a question, but Jack doubted they would receive an answer, if the woman even knew it. The Families were not above playing politics; in fact it could be called something that they specialised in. The offer of service was a little surprising, though not entirely unexpected, they just hadn't thought it would come so soon. Clearly there was a game to be played here, which certainly appealed. Jack rarely lost at games, but there was always the risk, and that in itself was appealing. In truth, right now they had no purpose for such a woman as this, especially not with so little information available. "Well then, perhaps you should explain to me what exactly these unique skills are."

© seadra of gs

[CBE-177/"Anna"]

The the rich young man would want someone skilled in the sort of dirty work 177 excelled at she never doubted. Rich people always needed someone for that sort of thing. When he made the comment about wondering where they found her she simply stared at him, not offering any information. Let him do the digging on his own, if he could find it.

At his statement that she should explain her skills she set the microcomputer down on the counter, tilted her head back and drained the rest of the soda in a few long gulps. She liked it quite a bit. She licked her lips and set the bottle down next to the microcomputer and walked out into the middle of the room. The bodyguard the man had walked in with was still standing in the shadows, and she made a “come hither” gesture towards him.

The guard looked towards the rich man, uncertain. 177 gestured again, impatiently. After a moment the man walked into the middle of the room. He was well over a foot taller than her, large and imposing. She made her eyes doelike and gazed up at him, blinking in a way men sometimes found so seductive. She smiled at him, gentle and admiring.

So saw suspicious hesitation, and then she saw something in him crack. The edge of his mouth twitched slightly upward. She saw the moment some switch in his brain flipped and classified her as “cute”. A small woman. The way the eyelashes moved. The smile. Somewhere inside every man was an instinct that said being looked up to and admired by a woman was fundamentally right. She held out her hand, as if in greeting. He extended his to shake hers.

A vision in her head. An image she'd been forced to watch over and over, a motion she'd been made to repeat. Techniques thrown at her like pounding water. The old days, when they'd anticipated making an obedient Soviet soldier out of her. Training. Images. Movement.

And in one motion, her other hand seized his wrist, her feet planted, and her entire torso twisted as she sidestepped and pulled him past her, off balance. He stumbled, and she kicked one of her feet through his ankles, bringing him down. At the same instant, guided unerringly by her magnetic sense one of her hands flashed under his coat and pulled the gun from its holster. She took a step backward as he fell to the floor, gun unerringly pointed at his back.

He landed with a thud, and paused, realization of what had happened to him coming into his face. She stood still. The gun stayed where it was. He glanced over his shoulder and raised his hands. Only the slightest tension around his jawline betrayed his anger at the upset.

She set the gun on the floor and kicked it to the rich man. She motioned for the bodyguard to get up, getting in a fighting stance and then motioning again. He got up slowly. He had a dark expression on his face. She repeated her “come hither” gesture.

He approached more slowly this time, hands held about chest level, moving cautiously, feeling her out. She crossed her arms and stared at him, tapping her foot. A flash of anger across his face, and he charged.

She leaped over his head, slamming both her heels into his upper back and spinning towards the wall. He grunted as he stumbled forward and she ran across the sheer wall, momentum and speed holding her up against gravity. There was a butcher's block on the counter and she ran past it, seizing a knife from it as she went by. Leap, and throw. The knife hit the bodyguard handle-first at the base of the throat. He sputtered and gagged, putting his hand to his throat as the knife fell at his feet. She landed just out of reach, hands up in fighting stance again.

The anger on his face was visible now. She could tell he was barely in control. She pointed at the knife, than at him. He lunged for it, teeth bared. She held up her hand; wait. From inside the pocket of her coat she pulled out a bloody rag. It had been part of the shirt of the man she had killed earlier that. She wrapped the bloody cloth around her eyes and tied it at the back of her head, and motioned for him to come on.

He charged. To her magnetic sense the location of the knife was clear as day. His first strike was obvious, clumsy and she dodged easily. Another wild strike, and an easy dodge again. He paused, seeming to consider, and tried again with more subtlety. A feint to the left that time, but it took her only milliseconds to sense the change in direction and dance out of the way again. A direct thrust, and feint! She was to one side. A slash! She bent backwards, letting the blade pass over her. Downward strike! She dodged, and ran a complete loop around jabbing him in the back with her finger for no reason than to show that she could.

He tried to grab her with his other hand as she came around him, which came perilously close to being her undoing. It was sheer luck that saved her. He wore a watch on his other hand and she felt it coming in time to move. The guard would never know how close he came to landing a blow on her. Had he not been wearing that watch, she would have had no way to sense that hand as when it approached. As it was, she ducked and came back in front of him. Though she didn't show it, her close call had shaken her. Time to end this. He struck again, and this time she caught his arm and held him by sheer strength. She heard him gasp, and that told her where his mouth was. Quick as a flash her other hand came up and twisted his wrist. The knife was hers. Her hand shot out to just below where she heard his breathing, and she felt the flesh of his neck under her hand. The knife came up, stopped just above her other hand. She stood still.

He froze, shock apparent in his sudden change in breathing. She held him like that, one hand around his neck, the other holding the knife to his throat, then let go and turned from him dismissively. She pulled the blindfold off her eyes and strode over to where she'd left the microcomputer. She put the knife down and picked the microcomputer up.

Of course that's all for a showing. If I truly need I can kill a man with one blow.

She picked up the knife again and replaced it in the block.

Can I have another drink?

Jack Fontaine

[Jack Fontaine]

Nobody Don't you know who I think I am? + CBE-177/"Anna"

Jack watched the entertainment with delight. They were not a particularly physical person, not exactly clumsy, but certainly not co-ordinated enough to pull off anything close to what this woman was doing. In fact, Jack doubted anyone without years of training could pull of this display of physical skill, and with the addition of a knife and blindfold to the entertainment things only became more fantastical. It was the kind of fight scene you wouldn't see outside of a movie, or outside of a world with metahumans… Jack could see the bodyguard getting angry, especially as it became more and more clear that the woman was playing with him. She had no right to be playing with a man of his size and training. He might not be a secret CIA assassin, but he was no amateurish bouncer, Jack knew better than that. In truth Jack didn't really blame the man for getting angry, the whole show was embarrassing. Jack leaned down and picked up the gun, handling it with evident distaste, before placing it on the table with a faint click. "That was… entertaining." They carefully read the screen presented to them by the woman, raising an eyebrow. "And you're modest too. The Soviets really did a number on you didn't they? You say you'll work for me? Doing what? Killing people? I'm not a crime lord or a mafia boss, there aren't a lot of people I want dead…" They shrugged, "Sounds like fun. I will provide you with accommodation and a backstory, you will… work for me. I'm sure I can come up with something." Jack watched with disinterest as she replaced the kitchen knife in the block. Then nodded at the question, pleased that she appeared to be adapting swiftly to the phone she was using to communicate. They gestured towards the fridge. "Be my guest." They leaned forwards, switching to Russian as she helped herself to a coke from the fridge. "So what should I call you?"

© seadra of gs

[CBE-177/"Anna"]

The man's reaction was subdued. Rich people, of course, were never impressed if they could help it; it made them seem vulnerable. Still, it appeared that her demonstration had had the desired effect. He was interested; he was considering her.

She had to resist the urge to roll her eyes when asked how he was supposed to use her; had he been paying attention at all? Was he really so stupid he couldn't see the potential of what she had?

She tapped on the microcomputer.

I can certainly protect you better than he can. I can track a person by their scent or smell a bomb from across a room. I'm skilled at infiltration and information gathering. A lot of people think mute means stupid, so they talk around me. I'm small, so men don't see me as a threat. If you have a use for him, then you have a use for me.

She turned to the refrigerator and got her drink, pausing when his voice came from behind her in Russian. She hesitated, unsure how or if he expected her to reply in Russian. But the microcomputer that served as her voice only had English letters; she had no choice. After a moment she typed a reply.

I have no name. My designation was 177. What may I call you?

She opened the bottle and took a long drink. It was quite good.

Jack Fontaine

[Jack Fontaine]

Nobody Don't you know who I think I am? + CBE-177/"Anna"

Jack nodded in response, "I'm sure you can, Though I wonder how much protection you think I need?" She hesitated for the first time since they had met her, surprised that they could speak fluent Russian? Or confused as to how they should respond. Changing the language on a phone was simple enough, but this woman had apparently been isolated from the world for the last seventy years. That technological prowess would presumably be beyond her. No name, that was sad, in a way. Jack's own childhood hadn't been particularly pleasant, but it had been far from that of an experiment. Especially to the extent that she no longer remembered her own name. The idea of Soviet sleeper agents that was often put forward in movies was far from the truth, but what this woman demonstrated suggested that there might be more to it than had ever been revealed, or likely ever would be. Still, Jack would certainly be looking into just how the Soviet Union had managed to get their hands on, and keep an actual bonafide metahuman. "177? We'll have to come up with something more appropriate for America. Especially if you're going to be working for me. I don't much care, but people will ask questions, and you won't have any answers for them." Jack stood, tossing the gun back to the red-faced bodyguard. He looked angry, but made no move to avenge himself, tucking the gun back into his jacket and smoothing it down. In this day and age of metahumans, more than one man once considered strong and terrifying now paled in comparison to the veritable gods that walked among the human race. The fact that Jack was technically one of those gods did not escape his attention. "You can go, I think 177 and I have some… catching up to do…"

© seadra of gs

[CBE-177/"Anna"]

She still hadn't gotten past his veneer of pride and control, but that was all right. She doubted that he would have let himself be shaken under any but the most violent circumstances. And she certainly wasn't about to bring those without a much better reason. Even dogs know better than to attack the person that feeds them.

She typed on the microcomputer.

The world is a dangerous place. It's less dangerous for me than for most people. I can make it less dangerous for you, too.

She left the rest of it unsaid: that if she wanted, she could make it very dangerous for someone indeed.

He said something about getting her a name better suited to America. She stared at him for a moment, and then typed.

Whatever you want to call me. I had a name once, and a home, but they took that away from me when they tried to make the perfect soldier.

The man still hadn't told her what to call him. With her luck, he'd want to be addressed as “Master” or something. Well, it could be worse.

The man dismissed the bodyguard and said that he and she had some “catching up” to do. He'd want to be informed of her history, of course; it was a sensible thing for any employer to want. She hesitated a moment. What was safe to tell him? She decided to tell nearly everything. It would build trust, and she got the impression it could do little to hurt her now. If they were to be allies, he would need to know what she was bringing to him.

She motioned towards the couch, indicating that they should sit down. She sat and typed on the phone.

Before we begin, I should tell you that I killed a man tonight. I didn't mean to. I thought he was one of Stalin's men. It was in the place that I woke up, about twenty kilometers from here. A large warehouse. I don't know how my box got there. I could find it again, if I needed to.

-------

Over the next hour or so, she described her history to him, leaving out only a few bits that she viewed as intensely personal. When it came time to describe what had been done to her in laboratory 1, her description was clinical and without details except when specifically asked. She was able to enlighten him only a little about the scientific details of Masushita's work. She knew that the Hakoirikappa had been nuclear powered and had only been usable on her because she could survive the chemicals required, but little else about the exact mechanisms. She showed him the CBE-177 tattoo on her lower back and explained that her cell number had been 177, marching off six feet by six feet to indicate its size. Explaining it all by typing was a long and arduous process. When she was done, she sat and typed one final message.

Here is what I need. I need food, clothes, shelter and a liter of blood a week. It doesn't have to be human. I won't sell my body. I won't hurt women or children. I won't kill except someone deserves it.

Other than that, I will do anything you want.

She glanced at the microcomputer again and typed something else.

Also, I want one of these.

Jack Fontaine