by Chewy Walrus and GoozX
The EPS:
Twenty-five miles due south of Santa Fe, New Mexico:
A massive blue portal opened in the subbasement of the government installation known as the Side-Show. Three men stepped out of it, each outfitted with a bodysuit. Two of these men -- one dressed in gray and the other in orange -- wore white lab coats over their bodysuits, while the other (his suit crimson) wore a brown trench coat and fedora.
They were Dr. Charles E. Walker, Dr. Walter Curie, and Agent Turner, respectively, and they belonged to an organization known as the EPS.
"All right," Walker said after putting a microphoned headset onto his head. "Status check. Respond."
"Team One reporting from the ventilation system," came the sweet voice of Vidalia Owens through the headset. "Doe, Cicciotto, and I await your further instructions."
"Excellent," Walker said into his microphone. "Team Three, report."
"Team Three has successfully arrived in Containment block Triple-Z. Agents Tweed, Reynolds, and I.G.O.R. awaiting further instructions."
"All right, EPS, listen up," Walker whispered defiantly. "Your mission is to inject at least twenty-one people per team with the Pathogen. That means seven people a piece. Understood?"
"Roger that," came Vidalia's voice over the headset.
"Copy that," came I.G.O.R.'s reply.
"Very good," Walker said, smiling as he produced a metal case from his pocket. Inside was a tranquilizer gun and seven darts, each containing the viscous black liquid that was the Pathogen. "Team leaders, distribute your contents to your team. Doorways will open at your exit points at 0400. That gives us one half-hour to do the job and get back to your rendezvous. And let's try to spread these victims out, shall we?
"Record the ones you hit in the mic recorder. Each dart has a special tracker nanite that Dr. Curie made. They'll help us keep track of metabolism and what-not, so we can more effectively watch the spread of the virus. Any questions? No? Good. Let's go."
Containment block ZZZ:
Two small doorways opened at the feet of Will Tweed and Andy Reynolds as two metal gun cases dropped at their feet.
"I'll leave you two to your work," the I.G.O.R. satellite said, buzzing before the two mens' heads. "Do not forget to rendezvous here at 0400. Go to it, agents." With that, one of I.G.O.R.'s probes went zipping down the hallway and farther into the containment block.
"So... what do we do?" Reynolds asked, picking up the case and opening it. He slid the darts into his cargo pants pocket and tucked the gun into the front of his pants.
"You've got me," Tweed said, loading his gun and placing it in his pocket. "I guess we just find some people and shoot 'em with these darts."
"But I thought we didn't wanna kill 'em," Reynolds said, looking around.
"The darts aren't poison, smart-ass," Tweed quipped, walking over to a nearby bulkhead. "They won't kill, but they will infect the victims with the Pathogen."
"I see," Reynolds said. "And how do we get these metas out to shoot at 'em?"
"Like this," Tweed said, pushing a button on the bulkhead. In the corridor of the containment block, all the doorways swooshed open as metahumans of every age, size, race, and gender poured out into the hallway.
Tweed cocked his gun and fired into the crowd. A little girl of about six, standing around confused, fell as the dart hit her in the chest. Tweed let out a little laugh. "Like shootin' fish in a barrel!"
Ventilation shaft:
"What now?" John Doe asked, glaring daggers at Edulcore Cicciotto.
"Don't look at me," Cicciotto said, holding up his hands. "I'm here against my will."
"All right, guys," Vidalia Owens said, producing three metallic gun cases from her brown satchel. Each member got one and unloaded its contents. "Here's the plan. We spread out. Every time you hit a metahuman, hit the record button on your mic. Say the estimated age, gender, height, weight, and race of your target and move on."
"Fine," Doe said, kicking out a vent grate and jumping onto the floor below. In a few seconds, he would do a thing similar to Tweed, only he would release every meta in the building, for more variety.
"Cicciotto?" Owens said, looking expectantly at the former track star.
"I'm sorry," Cicciotto said, jerking out of a momentary daydream. "I was just thinking. I--"
"Get down there and shoot some metahumans, Cicciotto!" Vidalia ordered, suddenly all business. "This is work time, and you need to go to work!"
She stopped suddenly, realizing the harshness in her tone. "Look, Ed, I'm sorry. It's just... if you don't do your job, Walker... well, he'll hurt your son. Hurt you. Hurt us. Just... just go. Do what he wants. Be back in a half-hour."
"I'm on my way," Cicciotto said, nodding to her. His body then took the form of hydrogen and slipped further down the ventilation shaft.
Owens just shook her head, fought tears and launched herself out of the exit that Doe had made earlier.
The subbasement:
"All right, gentlemen," Walker said, loading his gun, "the jailbreak sequence should be active by this point. In a few seconds, we should hear klaxons blaring. At that point, we move to the main levels. Start making our move. Mr. Turner, an exit please."
Turner's eyes rolled back into his head as a chunk of floor a few feet away fell from the ceiling and into the subbasement. A metahuman in the cell above that part of the floor fell, too. Walker wasted no time in shooting the thing, causing it to fall to the ground, hurt, stunned, and only in momentary pain.
"All right, gentlemen," Walker said, holstering his sidearm. "Let's move."
Turner:
We descend into the subbasement. The freaks have officially been let out of their cages. I tilt my fedora down, covering the tips of my eyes. I really don't want to see this, the scum of life.
My trench coat hits the ground to a small beat that is lost in the hysteria. There is no end to the number of freaks. Walker and the pussywhip are lost in the crowd; nevertheless, I'll do my share.
All these freaks should'a been put out of their misery a while ago. At least I'll give a few the chance to die innocent. It will be painful as hell, but they will never have to take a life, at least.
Fuck it, what do I care? I close one eye and fire, catching a huge man-ape in-between the eyes. SHOTGUN! He falls to the ground like a ton o' bricks.
Look at this heavyweight. Click. That fat lady is doing no singing tonight.
I wonder how much of this Pathogen is needed for the very much larger metas? Whatever, I'll leave the science to the assholes.
I empty the rest of my rounds, popping two into this little weasel that reminded me of an old English professor, even though in truth I never took English. Oh well, what am I gonna do?
Then I see a group of afraid little brats, mutated beyond belief, in their own prisons of unconsciousness, locked up, blocked from civilized society. No way ta live. I pity them to no end. They will grow into savages who must kill to live. So young, so sad.
"Turner!"
It looks like Walker needs assistance. Before I turn, a bolt is shot from my eyes. The brats, the children, are gone. Only ash remains. In the long run, they would'a thanked me.