Chapter Thirty-One

Finnigan Watts - The Seers Headquarters, Connecticut

Watts heard footsteps echo through the marble as they stepped through the composite side door. There was nothing he wanted more than solitude. Interacting with COG agents was the last thing he wanted to do while in a foul mood. Being a famous American superhero meant nothing when consequences followed your independent actions. COG saw them as puppets. The country had sold them a dream. They were not the all-mighty immortals they had once believed themselves to be. They were nothing more than expendable pawns in a grander scheme. Pawns constrained by the rules of the game. They could only move forward. Never to the side.

“Where’s Masha?” Dean asked, standing before them.

Watts shrugged. “I don’t think we’re the right shade to be his parental guardians.”

Dean scowled. “General Webster would like to see you in Conference Room D. For a debriefing.”

“I’d like a moment alone first,” Amina said. Watts nodded in agreement.

“You’ll have plenty alone time later,” Dean said. “This is important.”

“What’s he gonna do? Tell us how long we’re grounded for?” Watts asked.

Dean offered a tight-lipped smile. The kind that showed pity. Or perhaps it was disappointment. They followed him across the sprawling estate to Conference Room D. The estate was a mansion previously owned by some rapper. The rapper had sold the mansion back to an investor, who later passed away. COG had acquired it with the assistance of the U.S. government and transformed it into their stronghold. It not only served as the residence for The Seers but also concealed COG's clandestine facilities, where agents came and went around the clock. Fortunately, the mansion was so large that the West Wing of the house was enough for them to live comfortably without agents interfering. Currently, they were walking towards the East Wing, where they held many of their COG briefings.

The door to one of the more confined conference rooms shot open as they approached. Dean stood aside and urged them in with a wave of his hand. Finnigan Watts had seldom been afraid in his years of living. His genetic gifts allowed him to feel confident in most rooms. But when the conference room door shut behind him and Amina, he was filled with unease. The room was bathed in bright lighting from LED panels above, its minimalistic furniture gleaming. Within its confines, there was scant furniture to be found: a pristine white L-shaped couch nestled in the corner of the rear wall, a sleek flat screen mounted on the opposing wall, wall-mounted speakers around the ceiling, and a glass table adorned with a solitary plant occupying the center of the space. On the opposite side from their point of entry, another door stood, providing dual access to the room.

“This doesn’t feel right,” he said, shaking his head.

Amina’s anxious glare followed him. “What?”

The opposite set of doors opened, and a bulky figure walked in, covered head to toe in some form-fitting skintight suit. Only a pair of penetrating eyes were visible through the man’s masked visage. It was none other than General Webster. “I’m sorry it’s come to this,” said the General.

“Where’d you get the shitty twentieth-century superhero get-up, General?” Watts asked. “Is that a rubber suit? Seriously? What, because rubber doesn’t conduct electricity. Is that it? Did they send you here to put down the science projects?”

Amina moved to Watts’ side. “Touch us and it’s the last time you see anything, I promise you,” she said.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

Two more figures in similar sleek suits appeared behind General Webster, as if someone had spawned them into a video game. “No one has to get hurt if you keep still,” General Webster said. “This is merely a precaution.”

“You can shove your precautions up your ass, General,” Watts said. In one swift movement, he raised his hand up in the air and blew out the LED light panel on the ceiling, plunging the room into darkness. The men behind General Webster flocked into the room and tried to grab Watts. Amina reached out, targeting one of her assailants' exposed chins, attempting to employ her skin-to-skin contact to induce temporary blindness. However, the attackers were nearly encased from head to toe in their protective suits, making the endeavor all the more challenging.

In the newfound darkness of the room, slender beams of light from the nearby hallway cast just enough illumination to discern their silhouettes. Watts didn’t see where it came from, but a two-handed weapon appeared in the General’s hands. He directed the weapon at Amina, unleashing a blast that sent her hurtling off her feet. The gun was a kinetic blaster, allowing its wielder to deliver a concentrated high-energy projectile.

Watts sidestepped the blaster, steering clear. While charging up his attack between his fingers, he noticed Amina being swiftly injected in the neck by one of Webster’s agents. Her curses echoed in the room. Whatever they were injecting into Amina was what they had planned for him, too.

Watts unleashed a searing beam at General Webster’s chest, causing him to convulse. Webster had felt something, but the suit absorbed the bulk of the attack, enabling him to recover in seconds.

Fine! Watt’s thought, clenching his knuckles, prepared for a more conventional brawl. His genetically enhanced physique gave him a notable advantage over the General. He possessed a stronger, faster, and physically superior body to the average human. With relentless determination, Watts delivered blows that forced the General backward, inching him closer to the door. Despite the odds stacked against him, General Webster, a seasoned veteran, clung tenaciously to his blaster, refusing to yield even as he gasped for breath. Watts recognized the danger of allowing him to carry on holding the blaster. He tugged on it forcefully, determined to disarm him.

Amidst their tussle, Webster emitted a strained groan. Summoning every ounce of strength, he lifted the blaster’s front rim inches from Watt’s chest. His trembling finger tapped the trigger, and in an instant, Watts’ feet left the ground.

Watts rolled against the floor desperately, trying to get himself out of reach. Webster had hit the ground too, being too close to the blast. Before Watts could gain enough separation, two bodies lunged onto him with sudden force. A sharp, stinging sensation followed as they pierced his neck.

Watts lashed out with fierce punches aimed at the two assailants, his intent clear – he would do whatever it took to hurt them. General Webster scrambled to his feet and intervened, yanking away his agents and hustling them out of the room. The door was sealed by the time Watts regained his footing. Him and Amina were left in the dark room, pondering the uncertain fate that awaited.

The silhouette of General Webster remained visible through the glass, furiously ripping away his mask. Watts pounded the glass. “What have you done?!” he yelled. Amina appeared next to him, kicking the door to test its strength.

General Webster spoke into a broad clam-shell shaped microphone. His voice resonated through the room, amplified over wall-mounted speakers. “You’ve been injected with biotrackers,” he declared. “Your antics have plunged the White House into a precarious situation. And COG is always the first to be disciplined in such instances. That means we can no longer let you roam around the globe freely. Should you venture beyond the borders of the United States without our approval, these biotrackers will release a potent substance, powerful enough to induce a deep slumber. You won’t awaken until we have time to get you sent home.”

Watts turned his attention to Amina, staring at the bump in her neck where the needle had pierced her. She tilted her head to the side, knowing his intention. He placed his palm over the bump.

“You think we’re stupid enough to implant you with something you can sabotage?” Webster said. “Do I need to remind you it was American scientists that made you what you are? You may have killed Calloway, but we have an army of scientists smarter than he ever was. We have contingencies readily deployable if you become insubordinate. These biotrackers are the tamest precautions we have. You should thank me for proposing this over something more drastic.”

Watts released Amina and watched Webster through the glass. “When Quinn gets back, you better make sure you’re far away from us.”

General Webster smirked over the microphone. “Quinn will be subject to these trackers, too. This is protocol. You might be a Seer, Watts, but COG owns you.” General Webster switched off the microphone, pivoted away from the door, and strode purposefully down the dark, gray-shaded corridor on the other side.