Disclaimer and Notes:  Marvel for the main setting and characters.  Min for the story base.  A guy called Chris, who played Marcus on a game called XET, for a lot of the concepts associated with this story.  I think he may have adapted them from Delta: Green and Call of Cthulu.  I don't own 'em, anyway.  I'm just playing. I've never written a story this fast in all my fanfic career.  Whee! :-)  Mind you, I've wanted to Ultamatise this girl for a while.  Thank you to Sascha for giving me the opening I needed, and thank you to Min for giving us all this luverly sandbox to play in. :-)

Warnings:  Some rough language and disturbing ideas

Min's notes:  Oooo, what a twist!

She'd been down in Brazil, up to her neck in bloody gung-ho scientist types who didn't give a shit about keeping things quiet.  It had been a nightmare. Add to that the fact that the narcolepsy had been getting noticable, and she was damn glad to get the monthly summons.  Definitely time for a check-up. She was starting to notice her hands shaking a little before she took her morning regiment of medication, too.

She told this to the doctor -- Thurman, one of her favourites -- as she lay naked on the examination table.  He'd made a note of it, and commented that the gun-shot wound in her lower back had healed up nicely, barely left a scar.  Obviously the new accelerated healing drug they'd started putting in the medication was working.

"But maybe that's what's making your hands shake.  Nothing else in the chart suggests it," he commented, flipping through papers.

"The neurofilaments playing up?" she suggested.  "It has been nearly six years, after all."

"Yes, it's possible.  I'll up the suppressant a fraction, and pass it on to Johnson."

Johnson, Thurman, one other called Phelps.  The world's finest scientists, with teams of highly trained technicians, all working for precisely one purpose: keeping a small cohort of agents alive, functioning and sane.

Sometimes she wondered about the sane part, but no one had pulled her up yet.

"Cable was neutralised this round, by the way," Thurman commented, as a machine ran tests.

She waited until the machine finished its beeping, then: "I heard on the grapevine he flipped, strangled his guard with his bare hands.  Went AWOL somewhere in central Europe."

"Yes," Thurman responded.  "Had to happen sooner or later.  His biorhythms were becoming critical, his medication was up to very disturbing levels.  We should have withdrawn him from service last check; his psych report was verging on unacceptable.  It would have been more humane than this.  His innoculation expires in a week's time."

She knew what that meant.  The latent virus all RECOIL agents were infected with required regular innoculations to prevent it becoming active.  It was the final safeguard against agents leaving the program without authorisation.  She'd heard it was a particularly painful way to die.

Thurman shook his head.  "Poor man."

A long moment's silence, and then she said: "So now I'm the only one left."

"Of your batch, yes.  But that batch still had an impressive success rate -- two of four survived five years.  Of course, none of the others had the advantages you had."  A proud, almost fatherly smile.  "You're the best we've got, Domino."

"I know."

* * * * *

The scientists did their tests, the psychoanalysts asked their questions, but in the end it was Ross McLure who decided if the agents lived another month.  Ross McLure was the head of RECOIL, a subsection of NRO Section Delta, which in turn was part of something called Majestic-12.  He didn't know that, of course.  Very few knew it.  Majestic made sure it stayed that way.  The only people outside the organisation who even suspected were the paranoid conspiracy theorists.  And who listened to them?

RECOIL had a specialised task; to turn out the people necessary to keep the secrets.  What Mother Nature couldn't achieve, they managed with drugs, scalpels and the sort of nanotechnology most cutting-edge scientists would kill their mothers to get a glimpse of.  They had bioenhancement down to a fine art.  They should; they'd been at it for nearly forty years now.  Most of the first twenty years had been a complete write-off.  Batches were small, only one or two candidates, and early fatality rates were at 100% inside the first three months.  Only one in five survived the initial procedures, in the first ten years.  But things had improved.  The most recent batch had contained six candidates, and all were still alive a year later, five at peak operational status.

Though few had survived as long, or with as little degradation of operability, as the agent in front of him now.  Of course, Domino was a mutant, and that accounted for a lot.  She'd been the first successful mutant candidate, one of two in her batch.  She'd been chosen because of her previous training -- an elite assassination training program -- and because she'd made it through the very strict psychological testing required.  But the doctors all agreed that it was her 'lucky' mutation that made her such a success.  Most candidates whose skeletal and muscular structure was nanotechnologically enhanced for additional strength experienced excrutiating pain.  For her, it was mild, little enough to manage with a daily dose of pain killers.  Those whose reflexes had been upgraded with superconducting neurofilaments inserted into the central nervous system usually suffered from frequent hallucinations.  For her, only a few episodes in the past year.  Special biochemical adrenal glands occasionally caused muscles to atrophy completely.  Needless to say, not hers.

She had an impressive record with NRO-D.  Of course, there were those niggling questions about her psychological health.  The analysts had been divided on that since she'd first entered the program.  Dangerously counter to the 'normal' paradigm, some said.  But most insisted she simply thought outside the box, approached the problem from a different angle.  Which was an advantage more times than it wasn't.  Her ingenious approach had been useful in the past.  Yes, she was just what was needed on this assignment.

McLure turned to the last page of her file, to the report of her most recent monthly check.  "Problems with narcolepsy?" he asked, looking up at the woman in question.

She stood opposite his desk, white skin even more stark against the black uniform T-shirt and sweat pants she was wearing.  That black dot around her eye was vivid as ever.  A birthmark, she'd said.  Had it forever, but it had been faint.  The process had always done strange things to skin pigmentation.  A side-effect they'd thankfully managed to  remove in most recent batches.  "A few moments of inexplicable fatigue," she responded to his question.  "They weren't too severe.  Ask Day or Granger."

McLure looked idly towards the two men seated by the door.  Domino's guards, her permanent accompaniment.  Not to protect her from the world, but to protect the world from her.  RECOIL agents were the most highly trained agents in the field, even without their unnatural advantages.  Couple that with a tendency for mucked-with minds to snap, and some sort of precaution was definitely necessary.  Just because Domino had remained stable for five and a half years now was no reason to suppose it would continue.  The danger rose with every month.

"That won't be necessary," he said, looking back to the file.  "The doctors are unanimous that a slight alteration in your medication will take care of it."  He closed the file, tossed it onto the desk.  "I will send authorisation for your innoculation to the labs."

"Thank you, sir."

"But you won't be going back to Brazil."  Was that relief on her face?  Hard to tell with Domino.  "I have a special task for you."

"Sir?"

"You know that NRO has long been curious about the workings of SHIELD, especially their sub-branch, Weapon X -"  He got no further.

"Sir, with all due respect, I will not accept an order to infiltrate that organisation."  Said crisply, firmly, without preamble.

"I beg your pardon?"

She turned her gaze -- piercing blue eyes even brighter in their mis-matched, monochromatic settings -- on him.  "We may not know anything definite, sir, but we've all heard the rumours about precisely what Weapon X does.  I may be the perfect choice to infiltrate the unit, as a mutant, but I am also the perfect Weapon X candidate for that reason.  And I won't do it.  You can threaten to withhold my innoculation, sir, but I'd willingly suffer that rather than go into that place and be butchered."

He smiled slightly.  Of course that would be her immediate thought. RECOIL's techniques were honed, highly specialised.  Weapon X performed rough, unrefined alterations -- butchery, as she termed it.  "Such extreme measures will not be necessary.  I certainly would not ask that of you.  No. Two mutants have escaped from Weapon X.  We want you to find them before the Weapon X people do, and bring them in to NRO-D."

She took a deep breath before answering.  "Yes, sir.  Who are the pair in question?"

"One is a male with some sort of animalistic mutation, apparently.  Goes by the codename of Sabretooth, but we have no visual data on him.  Doesn't matter, he isn't important.  Cannot even be a candidate for the process, since he apparently is also a superhealer."  Healers had been the first mutant candidates, but had been unmitigated failures.  The body rejected the enhancements as unnatural.  Which, of course, they were.  "The important one is this woman --"  He pulled the file from the disorder of his desk, opening it up to display the photo clipped to the front.  Domino leaned forward to see.  "Her name is Madelyne Prior.  Apparently a telepath, but rarely to never uses her powers.  Has been trained not to, in fact.  There will also be a small child, most likely.  But she, also, is not important."

Domino pulled the file towards her, flicked through the pages briefly.  "A clone, hmm?"  She closed the file again.  "Why is she so vital?"

A good question.  She knew the questions that would give her the necessary information.  And because it may prove necessary information, he'd provide it.  "Pryor is the particular concern of a certain Doctor Essex.  He has been a member of Weapon X for a number of years, apparently.  He has provided us with this information on her."

Domino smiled then, a cold, precise smile.  "So, we get Essex his precious clone back, and he tells you everything you ever wanted to know about Weapon X."

"Precisely.  Plus, we get his services back.  He was with RECOIL for some time prior to his defection to Weapon X.  His work was invaluable during the breakthrough stages of the process.  He's one of the reasons you are so effective."

"I'm sure I'd be thrilled to meet him."  Domino's face was impassive as she gathered up the file.

"Oh, one more thing.  Pryor is pregnant.  It is vital no harm comes to her and especially none to the child she is carrying.  Essex was most particular on this point.  The deal is invalid should she miscarry."

Domino smiled tightly.  "Well, then, we'll be extra-special nice.  Will I have additional support?"

"Of course.  An NRO-D taskforce will rendezvous with you.  They will all have appropriate identification."

"Excellent.  See you soon, then."
 

It was a town just like any other town they'd swept through.  And they'd turned up a whole lotta nothing and one promising, but false, lead.  She was starting to consider other options, computing possibilities and likelihoods. If she'd had another agent with her, things might have been different.  But the only one she'd really trusted had been Cable.  Forget about him.

She climbed out of the car and stretched a little, looking around at the few people who'd stopped to look at the convoy of black, government cars pulled up in their main street.  She reached back into the car for the radio. "Break up and start asking, folks.  You know the drill."  Behind her, there came the noise of car doors opening, as the NRO-D men started to disperse in groups of three.

She clipped the radio to her belt, next to a slim cellphone, and buttoned the black jacket of her non-uniform -- monochromatic suit with the feel of government about it.  Day and Granger joined her, and they headed for what seemed to be the local drinking establishment.

Her smile seemed to do nothing to do nothing to placate the suspicious barman as she held up her ID, fake as the name she gave with it: "Beatrice Domineaux."  The man squinted at the photo, shook his head.  "Nope, ain't seen her."

They emerged back out into the sunlight as the cell phone at her belt trilled.  She grit her teeth as she pulled it off, pressed the appropriate button.  There was only one person it could be.

"Why don't you just leave me alone?" she snapped.

"Why don't you get me some damn results," McLure growled back.  "Essex is starting to get antsy.  He's making threats like he'll tell Weapon X what he knows about RECOIL."

"Huh."  She flipped open her sunglasses with one hand and settled them on her nose as the sun came out from behind a cloud.  "Well if he does, count me in for helping to take the bastards out."

"We'd prefer it didn't come to that.  Work with me.  We need more than a false trail."

"You don't think I know that?  Planning on telling me how to reload my gun next?"  At her belt, the radio crackled to life, calling her name.  "Wait a minute, sir."  She unclipped the radio to take the call.

"We've got a positive ID, boss.  Better than the last one; had additional details to confirm.  Getting directions now."

With a grin, she raised the phone to her ear again.  "We've got something, sir.  Sounds good."

"Really."  The sarcasm was tangible.

The smile turned into a grimace.  Bastard.  "We won't fail this time."

"You'd better fucking not, Domino."

Go on to Mara's "A Little Bird Told Me"
 

Return to the Comicverse Menu
Return to the Main Fanfic Menu