THE SYNDICATE

I

The building wasn’t impressive at all. 

Not how he pictured it in his mind, anyway. Hearing the Russian describe their operations, and the funding they get from unknown sources you’d immediately think about those Tom Clancy-like techno-thrillers with plotlines so confusing you immediately forget about it the moment you’re done reading; shadowy operatives, inctricate conspiracies, and impenetrable fortresses with security systems so tough and overtly powerful you’d need a nuclear weapon to get inside. 

The Russian himself was an ex-Soviet operative, back when the office was still known as KGB. And here he is walking in front of him, with sure steady strides and an air of regalness that commanded respect and admiration even to those who barely knew him. 


As they walked past the gate, and toward a big structure that looked more like an old ancestral home/fortress, he couldn’t help feeling a little let down in his expectations. The surrounding courtyard had a cold and grayish aspect to it that incited feelings of bleakness and melancholia than homey, inviting sentiments. 

In the middle of the yard right in front of the structure, was a huge, and non-functioning Victorian-looking fountain whose main body was sculpted with figures of cherubims and naked women, covered with a dark green growth of a flowering vine. Yes, bleak is the right word for it, he decided. The overcast sky and cold November afternoon air added to the heavy feeling he associated with the place.

Approaching the main entrance, he spied a solitary surveillance camera set on the upper right side of the wall just above the front door. It was metal. He was a little surprised at this since it was so off-tangent to the rest of the surroundings, specially the structure that it was attached to. It was a metal door so thick and tough looking that he supposed a tank would be needed if anyone were to force their way in to the place. He checked the surrounding walls and found they were strange to the touch. Was it asbestos? Looks like things are going to live up to their promise after all. 

2

It was no different inside.

It reminded him of those antiseptic-looking chambers usually found inside a science fiction movie done by Stanley Kubrick. He was a sucker for movies. And this little excursion felt like he was actually living inside of one. White, spotless tiles on the floor that looked like it was illuminated underneath and equally clean-looking white walls. 

A smattering of post-modernistic paintings hung on both sides of the main chamber and a solitary upholstered black sofa was on the corner by an entrance he deduced was an elevator. Talk about top secrets, he thought, this tackiness might have a tactical purpose to it. Like deterring potential attackers with disgust before they could even think of proceeding with their plans. He chuckled a little and the Russian paused mid stride, and turned toward him.

“Was there something you wanted to say?” he said.

He just shook his head. A little embarrassed; and thinking the guy might not only be a precognitive but a telepath as well. He told him he was a precog, but didn’t exactly tell him that that was his only ability. Who knows what bag of tricks this old KGB operative and former company agent has up his sleeves other than the two pistols he always carry around with him? Did he hear what he was thinking?

The old party simply nodded and went straight to the elevator, punched a button and motioned for him to come forward.

“You will be meeting the rest of the group in a short while.” The Russian said.

“Great,” he replied.   

He was not a exactly a teenager. Although at 32 he still retained the youthful features of his teenage years. But his own appraisal of his mental age is still stuck to 15. He got into that conclusion when he was in his mid-20s. His peers were already talking about cars, careers and the ideal home inside white picket fences and he was still obsessing about where to scout for a vinyl copy of The Stone Roses’ debut album. 

He was not particularly handsome, and he has a scar just above the left side of his upper lip-courtesy of a schoolyard brawl during sixth grade. It always gave him an aura of the “don’t fuck with me” variety that gave him amusement when people who don’t know him approach him with caution.

The elevator descended. And just when he was thinking the trip would never end, it stopped. The door opened and he was led by Janosz Orlova to meet his team.

3

They entered a large hall. A library to be precise, with a round table at the center where several people of different ethnicities and---he assumed---nationalities were seated. Obviously waiting for him and the Russian.

Before Orlova could speak, someone at the table beat him to it.

"So what can you do?" asked a dark-skinned man with close-cropped hair who he surmised was Latin American, sitting at the farthest side of the round table.

A murmur of agreement from the rest.

He looked at them. Diverse people of different genders, age, and ethnicity. A regular UN meeting, he thought in jest. He wanted to smirk so badly but he managed to hold it off. The Russian was staring at him intently.

"Aren't you gonna ask me my name first?" He said.

"We can do names later. Show us first." Latino guy said. A little impatience in the tone this time. And the others sitting at the table were eyeing him with a mixture of curiosity, anticipation, and---if he was not mistaken---the predatory glee of a fraternity brother about to make a pledge's life a living hell.

He turned at Orlova. The Russian simply nodded.

"Okay then," he said.

He dropped his bulky knapsack that contained his only real possessions and sidestepped toward his right side.

And disappeared from thin air.

The group waited in stunned silence.

"He a teleporter?" Latino asked.

Before anyone can answer him hands from behind dragged him backwards and suddenly he was staring up to a ruined dome of what was once a magnificent structure. 

The sky beyond was red and streaked with momentary flashes of lightning. The air was oppressively stuffy and smelled of copper and ozone. Distant sounds of explosion and thunderclaps surrounded the place. 

He struggled against his captor. Must be the newbie he thought, telepath probably made him see this sick reality just to prove his point. Before he can grapple out of the person's hold he felt the weight of the person behind shift his weight and propelled both of them forward---

---into the round table with the rest of the group staring at them with their eyes wide. Like an audience who have just seen the world's greatest magic trick.

Both people straighened themselves. Latino dusting off his jacket with visible irritation for being the butt of this new guy's joke. The other simply stood with an 'I told you so' expression and a shrug. 

The Russian, who was standing at the same spot the entire time observing everyone, finally took two steps toward the head of the table. Everyone turned to him.  

At last he spoke. 

“My friends may I introduce Donald Cray, multiverse traveller.”

4

“A what?” asked a petite but good-looking blonde girl Cray assumed to be in her early 20s. 

“A multiverse traveller,” Orlova answered.

“It means he can jump from one reality parallel to this one, right sir?” said the girl.

The rest of the small group huddled around the table were already seated. Like participants in a workshop waiting for the main speaker to start his lecture.

“I found Mr. Cray in Tudor City. In hiding right after the events on Building 29.” Orlova said, “and tried to pick my wallet with the help of his ability. But of course, I can see what was coming and caught him.”

Orlova paused. And said: “Mr. Cray? I believe now is the time to introduce yourself to the rest.” 

“Agents caught me,” Cray said. “I was living alone in my apartment when all of the sudden I had these so-called census takers coming to visit me almost everyday. The last time was with this guy in horn-rims with a black guy who didn’t speak a word. I knew right away they were up to no good. I was about to jump off to some parallel reality but found my abilities didn’t work. That’s when everyting went black. I found out later that that spooky black Haitian not only blocks the access to your abilities but can erase memories and put you to sleep as well. When I awoke I was in a holding cell restrained with that IV formula that renders you almost to a coma and there’s nothing I can do about it.”

“I know how that feels mate,” a lanky long-haired man with a thick cockney accent said, "been there myself."

“Yes. Save for me, Karen, Juanito and Darla, the rest of the members of our little group has spent a considerable amount of time in that place.” Orlova said.

“But do understand, Mr…’Cray’, was it? That we do not engage in revenge, vendetta or any of that kind of activity. We are a peace keeping group and we offer sanctuary. We do not go out looking for retribution and keep our anonimity as our topmost priority.” A middle-aged woman in a smart-looking business attire said.

“Thank you Darla,” Orlova said,” I’m sure Mr Cray does not have any kind of agenda that will put our group’s existence in jeopardy.”

“No mam, you don’t have to worry about me,” Cray said, “I may have an ability but that doesn’t mean I’m stupid enough to start wars with clandestine organizations with enough resources to even shut you guys down. Not to mention banging heads with agents with abilities like that Haitian as well.”

The woman’s eyes narrowed a little. 

“By the way,” Latino guy injected, “where the hell did you take me? I thought you were supposed to travel into parallel realities like this. That was hell.”

“Oh it was a parallel reality,” Cray answered, “only the kind where you don’t want to get stuck in.”

“What happened there?”

Cray looked at him before answering.

“The end of the world.”

II

The next few days were tiring pursuits of new skills and knowledge he was thoroughly unfamiliar with.

The Russian was a good teacher in hand to hand and weapons-based combat techniques that incorporated various disciplines from Krav Maga, FMA, Jiujitsu and several others that he haven't seen in cable sports programs on TV.

The team, he found out, was composed of 12 people including Orlova. Each with a unique ability like he did. 

Latino guy, as he so fondly called the man who tested him, was named Juanito Escalante from Cuba, 42. The son of a fisherman and had the unique ability of adapting in various types of liquid environments. A regular fishman. Tasked with safeguarding The Syndicate's important possessions fathoms beneath the sea. And not a bad sparring partner and beer drinker as well. He liked the guy despite the brashness and short tempered outbursts from time to time. 

Battles: The Syndicate

Karen stood, watching Jaunito goad her into making a move before he can snap off Montoya’s neck.

“What are you gonna do, bonita? Turn the floor into quicksand again? You can, of course. But not before I send his head rolling to your feet. Or perhaps burn him? I can’t decide, really.” He grinned. He had the feeling of vulpine triumph and the supreme confidence of a predator toying with his prey.

“Then I’ll decide for you.”

Juanito’s grin disappeared. His face twisted to an expression of hatred and supreme annoyance at the girl. “You little bitch,” he hissed. “Who the fuck do you think you’re dealing with?!” His eyes was starting to glow with crimson energy, the onset of his next transformation into that of a living flame. In his oversized right hand, held like a bad parody of someone holding a hotdog sandwich, Montoya was not moving.

Karen’s emotions were already held back by the time Juanito replied. Emotions that can cloud her thinking and judgment. Hamper her movements. But that’s okay, because they’re too far away now. Never to bother her. Far away. Far, far away.

And with a tone that suggested nothing and gave any hint of what she’s thinking she said, “I know what you are. Do you know who I am?”

He was going to snap the guy’s head now and burn the Indian puta, and then he’ll bring the head of Orlova to Lord himself. He moved his hand to finish off the unconscious Cuban but something was wrong. He can’t move it. Or any part of his body, for that matter. He turned to the woman. She was simply staring at him with a detached expression on her face. “What did you do to me?!” he demanded.

“Killing you,” came the quick, almost sad reply.

If he was in human form, he’d have visibly paled. Her words were not the one that did it to him. He’d have many battles in his life and far too many vanquished foes who said the very same thing to him and he barely even noticed them. But now, with the dry and uninflected tone as if the speaker was simply commenting on the weather instead of the furious and impassioned oaths of destruction he was used to hearing, the words were suffused with a nasty twang of truth and certainty to it that any person who heard it would agree to be true and final.

Even now, as he willed his body to transform itself to another element, he can slowly feel the woman’s own power overriding his own. His body is circumventing his own commands. And inside, the nagging sensation that he attributed to simple performance anxiety earlier, had now turned into unmitigated terror.

He never quite accepted, as he died, that it would be a woman who finally kills him. It was unfair. He screamed for a long time. And at last, mercifully, he stopped.

Karen simply stood as she watched the last traces of Juanito disintegrate ino nothingness. All that was left of him was the hand holding Montoya. The hardest alloy on earth did not stand a chance against her even when she was not in full control of her abilities. A simple carbon-based organism with loose molecular structure would not be as difficult.

Montoya stirred. Karen went to him and checked, prying the fingers off and liquefying most of them to get the man out from their grip. He was injured for sure, but she was no doctor. She took out her celphone and called home base.

Olympus Theater, Downtown Madrid

19:37:22 EST

                Darla Starker never fought a special like this before.  Sure, her tenure as a Company Agent exposed her to the various types of Cerebral, Elemental, Spatial/Temporal, and Biological evolutionary anomalies but none as curious as this one. She thought about the paranoid and superstitious atmosphere in the original era and society she came from. You’d get yourself burned for even saying just the word ‘witch’ out loud. And here, right now, was someone who might actually be the real deal. She gritted her teeth as she melted into the crowd. Somewhere, or to be more precise—someone among these so-called sophistos was Eidolon. The notorious Black Orchid Club member with a sick fascination of living the life of other people as her own and then disposing of them like cheap candy wrappers when she tires of what the present life offers her. Starker never flinched at the idea of killing someone or anyone for that matter. She killed 7 people out of spite and it never bothered her a bit. On the contrary, she derived plreasure reminiscing how retribution works in deadly ways. Her sense of justice is clearly black and white, innocents should not be harmed and fuck the guilty. Her strength as an agent was completely anchored to this belief, which is why Rains suggested to the upper management Starker only handle cases that involved heinous individuals to dispel any morally grey issues that may arise like in most bag and tag operations the company always undertook. And also why Orlova felt she was the perfect person to apprehend or, if needed, terminate the wraith-like Eidolon. As far as moralistic hubris goes, this issue is about as black as black can get.

Yesterday Orlova showed her a sketch he drew 4 days ago. It was a charcoal rendition of a woman holding a knife wearing an elegant dress and standing over the corpse of a middle aged man in a tuxedo. He was positive of the victim’s identity as that of the US Interior Secretary. As to why The Black Orchid Club wants the man terminated is still unknown.

“How’d you know Eidolon is the killer?” she said.

“You feel these things. When you have my ability and reach my age you learn to trust the, what do you Americans call it? Gut feeling that goes with it. I know all faces inside that club; that’s one of the things about being a spy. You’re trained to know everything you should about your enemy. And that face is unfamiliar.”

“Could be that shape shifting Baroness, for all you know.” she said.

He smiled. “Yes, I have thought of that before. Who among these superhumans within the cabal have abilities that can hide their true faces from their enemies?  Two? Yes? The Baroness and the parasite Eidolon. But one thing struck me as irrefutable about this killer’s identity.”

“Get to it,” she said.

He gave the sketch to her and said, “The Baroness is right-handed. If you look at the illustration, you can clearly see the killer holding the weapon in her left hand. Right, Katherine? ”

Katherine Sheperd materialized beside Starker and said, “Yes, she is.” In her right arm, she held assorted file folders that looked half-eaten by termites and caked with dirt, though they were obviously been wiped clean before reaching reaching Orlova’s room. Each of them was marked with the Primatech logo.

“How’d you know she’s here? “Starker asked. She didn’t show it but was really impressed by the elder Russian’s talents.

Orlova looked at her like a father being asked by a child about something very self-explanatory and universally known. “My dear,” he said, “I can see people’s actions even before they know they’ll do it. “

"Yeah, stupid me," said Starker.

Orlova shifted his gaze to Sheperd. "What do you have for us, Katherine?"

Sheperd dropped the files in the table. Loose dirt scattered around the surface.

"Nothing much," she said, "but I found something useful about that Eidolon. We all know she gloats about being invulnerable as she can simply transfer from one host to another. Even to her enemy, if she wants, and do serious damage to them by manipulating their actions."

Listening to Sheperd narrate the characteristics of their target, Starker felt the familiar joy of an upcoming battle. She took great pride in her skills but most of all, her lust was on overdrive for meting out her own brand of poetic justice to those she felt truly deserved them.

"---so I suggest we assign this to a telepath with at least a control index of 90. I think Trev---"

Starker wasn't really listening anymore but she did catch that last statement by Sheperd. “What did you say?” she said.

“I suggested we assign this to Trevor because of his telepathic skills. Eidolon may be invulnerable physically and she can hide inside the bodies of others, but her mind is still vulnerable. And good for us, one of the most skilled telepaths trained by the company is on our side,” Sheperd said, smiling.

Orlova saw the scowl starting to form in the edge of Starker’s mouth. He straightened himself and said, “I already assigned this to Darla.”

“Yeah,” and she’s obviously very capable. But—“

“BUT WHAT, invisible girl?” Starker was not hiding her annoyance.

Sheperd expected the outburst from Starker. “I wasn’t implying you were not capable of doing this job. But if we have to be pragmatic about this, then I suggest we utilize every advantage we have in taking them down.”

“And you correct, without any doubt.” He said, smiling. “But Starker is our agent.”