Anton Strout - Deader Still

A searchlight picked up our approach and we docked. Men bearing shotguns came from a small workstation hut to help us board, and without a moment’s hesitation checked our Departmental IDs. Not much for small talk, two of them escorted us to one of the larger buildings on deck before turning us over to a single officer, also not terribly talkative. He signed us in to a large room filled with rows of tables and benches.

“Looks like a slow night for visitors,” I said to Connor.

The guard laughed.

“These aren’t the type of people who get visitors,” he said, speaking up for the first time, “and if they do, they come in ones or twos, usually late at night.” He thought about this for a moment. “Kind of like you two,” he continued, sounding almost philosophical. The guard held his hand out, and I wondered if I was supposed to tip him. As I reached for my wallet, Connor reached into the pocket of his trench coat and pulled out a folded piece of paper.

The guard snatched it from him and looked down at what was written there. His eyes widened.

“This one might take me a while,” he said. He reached up and pressed the button on his communication device. “We’re going to need three men to Level C. I repeat, three to Level C. Make that four . . . and dress for a mess.”

He folded the paper back up, handed it to Connor. “You two wait here,” he said, then started off toward another door at the far end of the room. He rapped on it, and then there was a short buzz. He let himself out before slamming it back shut.

“ ‘You two wait here’?” I said. “Where the hell does he think we would go?”

While Connor and I waited, the clanging and buzzing of doors opening got closer and closer until the door nearest us buzzed. It slid aside to reveal the imposing figure of Faisal Bane strapped to a tall cart with wheels on it. He was in a straightjacket with his arms lashed around him, and tight straps ran up and down the length of his outfit. The only part of him exposed was his head of dark hair. His sharp European features were a little more drawn out than usual, bordering on the side of sickly. Incarceration wasn’t treating him well, even though his face was a stone mask of indifference as the guards wheeled him into the room and deposited him in front of us.

The sway of the barge caught all of them off balance, and the cart Faisal was on tipped forward, putting him in danger of slamming down on his face with no way to break his fall. All five men strained to upright the cart and luckily stopped it before it fell all the way over. They set it firmly on the ground and backed away from it with caution.

“Jesus,” I said. “Do you keep him all Hannibaled up like this all the time?”

The guard shook his head.

“Why do you think it took me so long?” he said, with a laugh. “Nah, we usually let the prisoners roam free among themselves . . . No one really cares if one prisoner goes after another out here, you know? But, well, we can’t really have him running free around you outties.”

I refrained from joking that I was an innie and instead gave a respectful nod. This seemed to satisfy the guard. He walked over to Faisal and looked him in the eyes. Faisal stared back at him, impassive.

“Now, I’m gonna be right over there,” he said, pointing to an enclosed surveillance room with windows along one wall, “while you conversate with your little friends here. You do or say anything out of line and we’re gonna have a problem. You know, the kind of problem that only a stun baton can solve. Alright?”

There was no reaction from Faisal whatsoever, unless you counted blinking.

The guard and his four companions headed off toward the surveillance room, talking amongst themselves, their laughter giving me the creeps as it echoed in this dreary and depressing place.

“Hello, Faisal,” Connor said. “Not quite as nice as your old office at the Empire State Building, is it?”

Faisal ignored Connor the same way he ignored the guard, choosing to change his stare to me. “I wondered when you might show up,” he said, the traces of something Slavic running through his accent.

Seeing Faisal again brought back all the fear and intimidation I had felt when we first met, but there was a new fire of hate in his eyes. And why not? I had driven Jane to betray him, depriving him of her. Thanks to Wesker, we had even thwarted his assassination attempt on her with his corporate “headhunter.”

“I get the impression you’re not too excited to see me,” I said.

“Relax, kid,” Connor said. “I doubt he’s ever excited to see anybody.”

This seemed to grab Faisal’s attention, and he finally looked at Connor.

“Oh, no,” Faisal said. “On the contrary. I’m quite thrilled to see Mr. Canderous.”

“Why’s that?” I asked.

“Because it means you’ve been in contact with your little crimson-haired friend, doesn’t it?”

My face went red when he said it.

“Is that Mina?” Connor asked, quietly. “I thought she was a blonde on the surveillance tapes from MoMA?”

“So was I, if you remember,” I said. “But she’s actually a redhead. Dye job.”

“What’s this?” Faisal said, smiling now. “Sounds like Connor’s a little out of the loop. You haven’t told your partner all about your little blast from the past? Is this lack of trust some new part of defining your precious ‘goodness’ that I’m not aware of?”

“I can explain more about Mina later,” I said, glancing at Connor.

Connor had been leaning back against one of the tables. Out of nowhere he stood up and lunged for Faisal. It was uncharacteristic of him and it freaked me out. I grabbed a piece of the tail of his trench coat before he could make it across the table, hoping it would hold. I pulled him back toward me.

“Connor! What are you doing? Stop it.”

Connor continued to struggle, trying to strip himself out of his coat to get free.

“Why, kid?” he said, one arm free. “So assholes like him can continue to work people like you over with their lies? Forcing you to make stupid choices, jeopardizing other agents . . .”

“He’s baiting you,” I yelled, but Connor wouldn’t stop struggling, and my arms were getting tired. I let go of him and slapped him across the face.

Before I could pull away, the electric snap of my powers reaching out shocked me. In the anger and desperation of the moment, I forgot how easy it was to lose control of them when my blood was up. I tried to pull the power back into me, but it was no use. I caught the briefest of glimpses into Connor’s life. In my vision, Connor was in his apartment, reading that invisible letter again, this time through tear-filled eyes. The momentum of my slap broke the connection between the two of us and I was back on the prison boat, slightly disoriented.

“You okay, kid?” Connor said, looking shocked as well. “What the hell just happened?”

“Nothing,” I lied. “My power almost went off, but I stopped it in time.”

“Sorry to interrupt your little slap fight,” Faisal said, “but did you come here for some sort of purpose?”

It was my turn to ignore him for a change.

“He’s baiting you,” I said to Connor again. “Outside of being pure evil, the guy is all about the head games. If you want to be mad at someone for the stupid choices I’ve made or for the things I’ve kept from you, then be mad at me.”

Connor looked like he was shaking it off. “The student becomes the master, grasshopper. You’re right, kid. I know that. I never would have snapped, but this whole situation has my mind messed up.”

I stood there in silence for a moment.

“Can I get in on this Hallmark TV moment, too?” Faisal said, and now there was real venom in his voice and frustration. His attempt at toying with us had failed him. When we didn’t rise to it once again, he said, “I’ll assume you’re not here simply because you miss my winning personality?”