Liva looked up anxiously as the Protean evaluator entered the compartment. She smiled and took a seat beside her, going over the notes she’d made on her tablet.
“We have your test results, and I must say your condition presents something of a challenge,” she told her, skipping the preliminaries. “If we accept you, the road ahead would be a difficult one.”
“Are you rejecting me then?” Liva whispered, terrified by the prospect. She’d gambled everything on this, even her own family had abandoned her. If they denied her application, where could she possibly go?
“No, I’m not saying that” the woman smiled. “But you must understand that each case is unique. Our patrons are constantly expanding the boundaries of medical and mechanical science, and the clients they take on must meet specific criteria. Your MS would mean taking on an additional complication, and given both our limited resources and the fierce competition between patrons…” She spread her hands wide as she shrugged, hinting at even larger issues.
“There must be something you can do!” Liva begged. “Please, I’ll do anything! Whatever it takes!”
“Well…” The evaluator tapped her chin thoughtfully. “There may be an option available, but I must warn you it would demand a great deal from you. Assuming your Transformation is successful...which there is no guarantee, I’m afraid...not only would you be facing a prolonged stint in Rehabilitation, but we would also require a firm commitment on your part once we cleared you for duty.”
“Commitment? What kind of commitment?” Liva asked.
“It’s...somewhat complicated, I’m afraid,” the evaluator replied. “But in layperson’s terms, the program I’m referring to requires a great deal of investment from our patrons, in both time and materials. It also carries with it a certain amount of risk on their part...and yours, of course,” she smiled once more, reaching out to give her a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “To recoup their losses, they would require you to sign an employment agreement...in essence, you would become a contracted representative of the Protean Clan, with specialized duties and responsibilities.”
Liva grimaced at the prospect. “You mean I’d be an indentured servant?” She considered that for a moment and then shook her head. “Is there no other way?”
“We could file your application with the General pool,” the evaluator shrugged, “but considering the inherent difficulties your MS represents...I won’t lie to you, the likelihood of your application being approved on that basis would be slim.” She looked at Liva expectantly, awaiting her decision.
And there it was. Going back wasn’t an option. Failure was something she couldn’t bring herself to even contemplate. Which meant there was only one choice left.
“...I’ll do it,” she whispered.
“Excellent!” The evaluator smiled, handing over the tablet and producing a stylus. “Just sign your name at the bottom of the page where it says ‘Applicant/Contractor’.”
She didn’t bother reading the contract. It was this, or nothing. Liva scrawled her name on the dotted line, her hands shaking as she handed back the tablet.
The evaluator took a moment to verify her signature, before rising to her feet. “Congratulations,” she said with a wide grin, “you’ve made the right decision. Allow me to be the very first to welcome you to the Protean Clan.” She reached out and grasped her hand, giving it a firm shake. “I’ll get the process started.” She turned and headed for the hatch.
“...excuse me, but...exactly what sort of work would I be doing?” Liva asked her.
The woman paused and then looked over her shoulder. “I think you’ll find it both exciting and challenging,” she said after giving it a moment’s thought, before exiting the compartment.
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Jibril’s cat-eyes widened as he stared down the barrel of Samara’s weapon. “But... but… how?” he struggled to get out.
“I won’t lie, it wasn’t easy,” she grinned. “Luckily, I had enough hard currency to make some arrangements beforehand. Pulling it off? That required more than a little luck.” She gestured with her weapon. “Have a seat.”
The Princeps did as he was told. “What are you going to do with me?” he asked, already resigning himself to his fate.
“Haven’t decided yet,” she said casually. “Oh, there are plenty of things I’d like to do to you, none of which you’d enjoy, I’m afraid. But I might be persuaded to set those notions aside, provided you cooperate.” An evil grin graced her face. “Or not. I’d like that even better.”
“What is it you want, Samara?” he said in frustration. “Are you angry because we chose you for the Earth mission?”
“Actually, you did me a favor there,” she smiled. “For the first time in a long time, I’m free.” Samara paused for a moment, reflecting on her situation. “Well, more or less, anyway.” She leaned back in her seat and crossed her legs. “No, the bone I have to pick with you goes much further back, starting the day I joined the Clan.”
“Samara, you knew there were no guarantees…” he began before she cut him off.
“Trust me, I'm well aware of that,” she snapped. “In fact, my friends would like to discuss that point with you at length. No, my issue with you is how you and your predecessors sold us out to the Troika, not to mention any other race willing to cough up a few credits.” She glared at him as any trace of good humor disappeared. “Just how many of our Clan have you let them destroy?”
“We did what was necessary,” he said evenly. “The Troika held the key to our advancement, just as we held the key to theirs. We needed each other, both then and now. It may not be perfect, but it’s a symbiotic relationship.”
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“How can someone representing a Clan so dependent on biology be so ignorant of it?” she snapped. “We’re not partners with the Troika, we’re their damned lab rats.” She gestured angrily with the weapon as Jibril tried edging away from her. “Your search for power made us their slaves.”
“We had no choice!” he fired back, surprising them both with his vehemence. “Dig into the archives sometime and see just how bad things were during the Clan Wars. The Task Force was being torn apart, and unless you had an edge you were doomed.” His nostrils flared with indignation as he threw her accusations back in her face. “We did what we had to, in order to survive, and yes, we paid a price for that decision. But that choice is the only reason we still exist as a Clan, Samara.” His voice dropped to a softer tone. “Sometimes circumstance forces you to deal with the devil.”
“Nice speech,” Samara sniffed. “How long have you been practicing it?”
“Don’t play ‘Holier-than-thou’ with me, Samara,” he retorted. “I know everything about you, including your life prior to joining the Clan. Answer me one question; if we had told you everything, walked you through step by step what your decision would mean, warned you in advance exactly what you would be asked to do, would it have made a single bit of difference?” He folded his arms, glaring at her, as he awaited her response.
Despite the sense of certainty with which she’d started her crusade, his rebuke brought her to a screeching halt. She’d wasted precious little of her time reflecting on that former life, but now self-honesty forced her to crack open the door and peer at what lay hidden inside.
Suddenly, she had difficulty meeting his gaze.
The look of triumph on his face when he saw his barb draw blood was as smug as she remembered. “As I suspected. You can play the wounded victim all you want, Samara, but you and I both know you would make the same choice now, even after everything you’ve experienced. You hated that life, despised the very flesh that imprisoned you, and would have done anything... anything... to be free of it.”
“You don’t know that” she shot back, “and you don’t know me,” but somehow, her words lacked the fire of her convictions.
“Oh, but I do,” he smiled, “because you did. Do anything, that is. Anything and everything we asked of you. You’re no patsy, despite what you’d like to believe, you’re a willing participant, a co-conspirator of the highest order, and your hands are just as bloody as mine.” Those eerie cat-like eyes of his seemed to zoom in on her. “Admit it, Samara, you savored your work. Even now, even when you were wearing Azrael’s face, I could see the bloodlust in your gaze as you slaughtered your enemies.” A wry smirk tugged at the corner of his lip. “Be honest, all you regret about today was not having a post-homicide fuck to really cap things off... though if you put down the gun...” he grinned lasciviously.
Her eyes narrowed as she shifted her aim from his face to his crotch. “If I were you, I’d choose my next words very carefully,” she hissed.
Jibril put up his hands in surrender. “Paint me as the villain all you wish, but it doesn't change a thing. You’re a killer, Samara. You always have been, and you still are. The only thing that’s different now are your targets.”
“You manipulated me!” she screamed, as white-hot rage exploded from the depths of her soul. “You used me, and turned me into this!” Her free hand swept down her torso, showing off her current form. “You played me like a fiddle, knew exactly which buttons to push, came at me when I was weak, and scared, and all too trusting. You convinced me black was white and up was down, and it’s only now that I’m waking up from your nightmare.”
“Is that so?” he purred. “We didn’t change who you were, Samara; all we did was peel back a few layers to reveal what was already there. If you truly were the innocent you claim, you would have set your guns down, walked away from this life, and picked a nice quiet corner of the galaxy to start over. Maybe even find yourself some bland, boring nobody to play house with.” His grin was almost a leer. “But instead, you’re still in the game, still riding that adrenaline high, and still reveling in the carnal pleasure that comes with holding in your hands the power of life and death.”
Samara screamed as she leapt from her chair, smashing her weapon into his skull and knocking him to the deck. Jibril barely put up a struggle as she struck him again and again and again, howling in rage and pain and fury and anguish, until finally she fell to her knees in exhaustion, beside his bloody, battered form.
“... still… just… a killer,” he wheezed, before unconsciousness took him.
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Xeno and Kalypso were waiting as the hatch opened, while Rook’s image appeared on a nearby monitor. Samara shoved Jibril out of the airlock and into Rächerin proper, keeping her weapon trained on him. Rook raised a virtual eyebrow at the Princeps appearance, while Kalypso gasped at his injuries. Xeno, unsurprisingly, was unmoved.
“Meet the crew,” she snarled, giving him another push. She’d grudgingly dressed the worst of his injuries, but the former Clan leader had noticeably been the recipient of a thorough and savage beating. He staggered onto the ship with a pronounced limp, clutching at his side, while his lips were split, and his eyes swollen shut. “You have his new home ready?” she asked the Avatar.
“One compartment, suitably sterilized,” Rook acknowledged. “Second entrance on the left.”
“You heard him,” she prodded, as he hobbled forward on unsteady legs. The mocking Jibril she’d shared the shuttle with was nowhere in sight; it seemed for the moment he was lying low and avoiding any confrontation. The entourage moved as one until they had safely secured their new prisoner, at which point much of the fight seemed to drain right out of her, slumping against the bulkhead as her weapon clattered to the deck.
“Samara, are you all right?” Kalypso asked, placing a hand on her shoulder.
She shook her head. “I don’t want to talk about it,” she told them.
“Perhaps it would be best if I handled the interrogations,” Xeno said after a moment.
“Yeah, you do that,” Samara agreed. “Rook, get us out of the system in case they come looking for him.”
“And go where?” the Kikush asked.
“Just... pick a direction,” she barked, “I don’t care where we go.” She paused, taking a deep breath, before saying, “If Xeno gets anything out of him, we can change course then.”
“As you wish,” Rook said dubiously, before blanking the screen.
“You should get some rest,” Kalypso told her. “Come at things fresh in the morning.”
“Yeah, whatever,” she mumbled, waving them off as she made her way to her own cabin. She wasn’t in the mood for conversation... or anything else, for that matter. The breakout had been taxing enough, especially while maintaining Azrael’s appearance. That it hadn’t disintegrated during the ordeal was a hopeful sign, but she’d learned through bitter disappointment not to believe she had been magically cured. It was a fluke, nothing more.
Locking the hatch behind her, Samara collapsed onto her bunk, too exhausted to eat or shower, yet too worked up to sleep. Of all the changes she had gone through in recent months, one thing remained constant.
Jibril still knew exactly how to get under her skin.
Was it true? Was she nothing but a killer? His words had bitten deep, far deeper than she would have guessed was possible. Had they transformed her into an assassin... or had the assassin always lurked within her, just waiting for the proper encouragement to emerge from its shell?
Did she want to know?
Samara clutched her pillow tight against her chest, trying desperately to shut those questions away... and for the first time in recent memory, wept silent, bitter tears.