THE CHOSEN ONE
Contains bad words and sex-y scenarios. This one contains some gore. Mature (18+) audiences only.
Read Episode 6 here.
When Mo opened her eyes, she felt something cold against her back. Her legs were numb and propped up in stirrups. Her arms were strapped along her sides. An oxygen mask covered her face and someone was visible down between her parted legs, pulling a long cotton swab from a plastic pouch.
“Are you familiar with the 1936 Olympics, Moana Grace Pozza?”
She tugged on the restraints, the frilly sleeves of an ugly nightgown they’d slipped onto her body sliding along the leather.
The person turned around. Green scrubs peeked from beneath his white lab coat. She couldn’t tell his age just by looking at him. He didn’t have lines or wrinkles in his skin, but silver hairs peeked between the blond ones on his face.
“You’re not getting out of those.” He nodded toward the tight straps securing her wrists and forearms. “Now, answer the question. Are you familiar with the 1936 Olympics?”
Mo’s gaze darted around the room, behind his head, and then down at the straps.
“Quiet today, hmm?” He turned, back facing her again. “If not the Olympics, then maybe you are familiar with the study of eugenics?”
From what she could see, the room was windowless, white, and sterile. The scent of rubbing alcohol sanitized the air. The table she was lying on felt made of metal, surgical instruments were on a counter next to where the man worked, and a light at the end of a flexible tube was pointed between her legs. She needed to get to those surgical tools. All she required was something that could cut through the leather on her arms and then pierce human flesh. An eyeball.
“You’re American,” she pointed out. It was the first non-German accent she’d come across since the entire fiasco began.
His shoulders moved as he laughed. “Well, yes. What did you expect, German? The study of eugenics used to be more widely accepted, even in the United States. Nazi experiments turned it into the perversion it’s known for today.”
He spun back around and lowered the swab between her legs. She groaned when she felt the uncomfortable sensation in her lower abdomen, a pressure reminiscent of a routine gynecological exam.
“We want to make sure you’ll be free of any infectious illnesses,” he explained, nonchalant as he placed the swab in a vial. “I’m also testing your cervix and the strength of your pelvic cradle.”
She continued her perusal of the room. “Are you going to try to sterilize me?”
“Sterilize you? No, Moana Grace. There are things about your people that are still useful, and there are things about you, specifically, that are like a scientific discovery. You are a magnificent creature.” His lids lowered. “I can see how the child who was raised to be a monster was reduced to merely a man because of your presence.”
A laugh climbed its way from her throat. “You think Giorgio’s no longer a monster? Because of me?”
“He’s not the same boy from the woods. He’s not the same man who killed on command, killed because he couldn’t help himself.”
“No.” She shook her head. “He’s not.”
The man reached for a container from the table and poured liquid between her legs. Mo gritted her teeth at the hot pain that vibrated through her entire being, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of a scream.
“Hot water and alcohol,” he said.
It felt like she was in labor, all over again. “I’m going to pour that same mixture down the tip of your penis once I’m free of this.”
He put away the container and walked around to the side of the bed. His gaze lingered on her breasts, and his demeanor slowly transitioned from professional to something darker. Something salacious. It was just like a man to have a woman strapped on her back and legs wide and can’t help but want to stick his dick in her.
“You’re so strong,” he said, gaze still fixed where her breasts were slightly visible in the sheer nightgown. “I’ve always been fascinated by your race’s wombs. Your son, Aleksi, we didn’t think he would ever be a possibility. We didn’t think Giorgio would ever have children. Lord knows we tried to bait him—blondes, redheads, brunettes with a touch of auburn. It appears we were way off when it came to what would break him.”
Mo turned away. “If it’s okay with you, I’d rather not hear about all the women my husband had sex with before me.”
He trailed a finger from her collarbone down to the top of her breast, stopping just before his fingertip grazed her nipple. His tongue streaked across his bottom lip, and he tapped the finger as if contemplating whether to descend.
“Maxwell, she’s not here for you.” Another man’s voice came bursting into the room. The new man pushed “Maxwell” out of the way and stood over Mo. “Did he hurt you?”
This man was definitely younger, probably in his early to mid-forties.
“No,” she answered.
“Did he touch you?”
She glanced at Maxwell. “A little.”
The man shot a glare over his shoulder. “I’ll be taking her now. You’re done for the day.” He brought his attention back to her. “I’m Thomas. Relax. You’ll be fine.”
“Thomas” maneuvered around the bed. She heard something unlatch. He then moved to the bottom and started pushing, the bed rolling toward the entrance he’d used to barrel his way into the room. Maxwell watched, unmistaken longing on his face as they left the room and entered a corridor just as sterile as the room had been.
Thomas didn’t try to engage in conversation; he simply pushed her down the hallway until sterile turned into soft blue walls, minimalist artwork, and wooden doors. Even the air felt warmer, and as the bed rolled, she noticed the floors transition from tile to hardwood.
“This is your room,” he said, stopping to push open a door. He then wheeled her inside, the door shutting behind them.
They were in some combination of what looked like a studio apartment and a nursery. There were animal prints on a wall overlooking a wooden crib, changing table, and dresser. The adult furniture was modern and looked high-end. A seating area sat tucked next to a small kitchen. There was even a decent-sized window and screened-in balcony.
Where the hell am I?
Thomas took a step back from the bed. “We’ve done lots of research over the years, and we’ve found that immediately taking the baby from its mother hurts the baby’s growth,” he said, answering some unspoken question.
Mo’s skin prickled like ice picks were being dragged along its surface. There was no way he could be, but she couldn’t help but ask. “Is Aleksi here?”
“Not yet.” Thomas looked toward the door. “You can’t hide him from us, you know. We have Giorgio, so whoever you left your son with, we will find them, and we will kill them.”
Mo smirked. “You guys really didn’t do your research.”
She heard the door open, felt the room fill with bodies. Several men and women entered, surrounding where she lay. All of them held guns in their hands. She wanted to laugh and even did laugh, a little.
“I’m going to release your restraints now,” Thomas said. “Behave. They have orders to shoot to kill.”
Mo glanced around the room. “If you kill me, how will you get your babies?”
“You are a twin. A twin who’s not as ‘talented’ as you are.”
She wanted to kick back a response but refrained.
“Behave,” Thomas repeated, walking toward the bed.
She let them undo the straps, guns aimed at her from all angles.
She let them leave her in the room that smelled like baby powder with the stuffed animals and patchwork quilt.
Mo tucked herself in a corner of the room and tilted her head back against the wall. Though she couldn’t find them, she knew there were cameras watching her. At the very least, Aleksi and the boys they’d rescued from Vater’s shack in the woods were safe. They were staying at an orphanage Giorgio bought, renovated, and took ownership of. They’d vetted the staff together and had Julien and Huang set up the security. Not even presidents, chancellors, or prime ministers had automatic clearance into the place that reminded her of a storybook land.
“Hello?” A muffled voice sounded through the wall. “Is somebody there?”
“Who’s asking?” Mo called back.
“My name is Anisa. Your room’s been empty since I got here. What’s your name?”
Mo did another quick sweep for cameras. A red light flickered on the wall furthest from her, partially obscured by a hanging plant in a vase. “How long have you been here, Anisa?” she questioned.
“At least thirty weeks,” the woman said.
“Thirty weeks?” Realization snaked through her. “You’re pregnant.”
“Yes. Thirty weeks along. I was here before that, but I don’t remember much else before the baby.”
The red light flickered again, twice in a row. “How did you get pregnant, Anisa?”
“I was in a room. A man came in.”
Mo scraped a hand over her face. “That’s some Handmaid’s Tale shit right there, Anisa.”
The other woman laughed. “I miss TV shows, but we do get recreation time. Plus, this place is much nicer than what I used to live in. There are five women here. Six now, including you.”
“And all of you are pregnant?”
“Yes. Soon, you will be too.”
Mo rolled her eyes. “I’m not staying here, Anisa.”
“That’s what the last woman said. There were six of us before.”
Well, that “last woman” wasn’t me.
“It’s not so bad,” Anisa went on. “They treat us well, the food is good, and we all have a special purpose. A higher purpose. We are carrying the children of the Auserwahlte.”
Mo pushed onto her knees. “Come again?”
“It means ‘the chosen one’ in German. We are carrying his seed and soon, we’ll finally get to meet him.”
“That’s impossible.” One, her husband wasn’t the man who’d “come in” the room where this woman had been impregnated. Two, there was no way they’d been able to get their hands on Giorgio’s semen, not when she milked him dry with every chance she got. Hell, he’d barely wanted to give her any to try for another baby after they lost the one before Aleksi.
“It’s very possible,” Anisa countered, and she pictured the woman rubbing her belly. “He will be here soon, they have told us. I hear he’s very handsome.”
Just when she thought she’d be getting a partner-in-crime, Mo realized this woman was way past brainwashed. Getting out of here would be a one-woman job but, brainwashed or not, she wouldn’t be able to leave this woman, or the others, behind.
She lowered back onto the floor and tilted her head back against the wall. “Tell me everything I need to know, Anisa,” she requested. “And tell me more about this ‘chosen one.’”
* * * * *
Giorgio watched the bodies that surrounded him through partially closed eyelids. At his side, his hands sat completely still. His chest barely moved with each breath. There were four of them, two masked and the other two with the black fabric pulled up, displaying their faces. They were smiling and laughing. Joking. Playing air guitars. Highway to Hell blasted throughout the interior of the van. They were having a good time because they assumed he was under the influence of something that would warrant their ability to relax. However, whatever it was, it had already made its way through his system, burned through by his metabolism. Whatever it was, it wouldn’t protect them any longer.
From the way his body felt, light and unbalanced, he could tell his weapons had been removed. So sad for them that they had seen him fight with blades so much, they forgot, once upon a time, he did not need them.
He pushed up and shot out a fist at the nearest body, his knuckles smashing against a windpipe. A gasp rose in the air as the tube collapsed, and the desperate intake of air sent a familiar trill of satisfaction over the hairs on his arms.
He grabbed another body, by the back of the head this time, and smashed it into the side of the van once then twice until it slumped to the ground when his fingers unfolded. A third person, one of the two unmasked men, pulled a blade from his clothing, and the satisfying trill covered Giorgio from head to toe when his eyes landed on the beautiful steel.
“Krasivaya,” he said, eyes flicking to the weapon.
The man maneuvered toward him, swinging with what would have been aim and precision had his opponent been someone else. Giorgio dodged the attack, reached around, and grabbed the blade’s handle in one hand and the man’s wrist in the other. He flipped the knife around in his hand and then brought it to the man’s throat, slicing from one end of the man’s clavicle to the next.
Blood splattered his clothing, tinting his vision. He pushed back against the smell of it, the feel of the metal in his hand, the compulsions. The last man watched him, the hollow of the man’s neck racing. Giorgio could almost hear the man’s thoughts: He’s not supposed to be awake. Why’d they only leave me with three others? Is he going to kill me?
Giorgio nodded. “Da.”
The man reached his left hand toward his waist. It was stupid to try to shoot in such a small compartment, but fear made men stupid.
Giorgio grabbed the wrist. The man brought his right hand around and crashed a fist into the side of Giorgio’s head. Giorgio shook off the blow, jammed the blade into the man’s shoulder, and let it sit there while he swiped an elbow across the man’s face.
Blood and spittle went flying. The man’s cry was drowned out by the AC/DC still on full blast in the back of the vehicle.
Giorgio wrapped his hand around the man’s neck and squeezed. The man tried to scratch at his face, but he soon learned only one hand worked. The other hand flopped, useless, courtesy of the blade in his shoulder.
Giorgio didn’t release until the man’s movements ceased. He then checked the other bodies for movement. Finding none, he retrieved the knife—it was cool, he liked it—and sat along the seat near the partition separating the back from the driver and passenger seats. He kept his head down, hair falling in front of his face and moving with each twist and turn of the vehicle. Dancing.
Faithfully by Journey came on next, and a ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of Giorgio’s mouth like an old fisherman trying to reel in a cantankerous marlin.
The van came to a stop. He kept his head down, swaying slightly from side to side, the movements continuing even after the vehicle was shut off, taking the music with it.
The driver’s side door opened, closed. Footsteps crunched around the side of the van, stopping at the rear. Knuckles rapped on the doors in the back.
“Aye, we’re here, mate.”
Giorgio lifted his head and tossed his hair back, out of his eyes.
“Spasibo,” he said, rifling through the blades, some of them slicing open the skin on his fingers in the best of ways. He could almost smell them—the leather on the handles, the oils he used to keep them pristine, the bodies that had come before.
“It’s nothing,” Gage said. “You’ve got a whole collection. It’s not like it was hard to—”
“Nyet.” Giorgio pulled out a dagger, balanced the tip on his index finger. “Diya Aleksi.”
“For Aleksi? Come on, mate. He’s my nephew. That goes without saying.”
“A tvoy syn?”
“My son? Grey’s good.”
Giorgio tossed a knife over his shoulder. Gage snatched it from the air.
Mo and Giorgio are from the book, “Angels and Assassins: The Dark Knight.”