Squad Stories: The Orchid Saga 4/8

On the edge of the zone, Sonar paced irritably. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t his station to be ordered around such as this. He had come from a noble bloodline. A noble house. He did not deserve to be thrust in with this repulsive rabble, and he certainly did not deserve to have his finger blown off, let alone his head.

 

This was Sonar’s mental state, and had been since his first mission. He stopped pacing, and took in the air. In the distance, the humming and crackling of the compound’s generators tried their damndest to disrupt his thoughts.

 

They should be so lucky, he thought.

 

Angle-Man, sitting in the grass: Well, this may be my favorite assignment so far.

 

Sonar: To sit idly while our artificial superiors traverse through their potential doom? Though it disgusts me, I have to agree.

 

Angle-Man: Ah, c’mon, Wladon, you can’t really think you’re all that much better than the rest of us. I mean, today proved that more than anything else.

 

Sonar sneers: Meaning what, exactly?

 

Angle-Man sneers back: Your royal little finger of course.

 

This is all it takes. Sonar leaps towards Angle-Man with the ferocity of starved wolves and begins to beat him mercilessly. Bare knuckle striking open cheek with a wet packing sound, trim, shined boots connecting blows. The blood spitting up from Bend’s mouth mixing with the blood leaking from Sonar’s finger.

 

Waller: What the HELL do you two think you’re doing? Stand down, Sonar, or you know of the consequence.

 

Sonar stands, and backs away a few feet.

 

Sonar: You know, madame, I’ve never actually witnessed one of these so-called detonators in action. Could they be a hoax after all?

 

Waller: Would you like to find out, child?

 

There begins a beeping, soft at first, but soon growing louder, and louder, and quicker. A tiny red light begins to glow in Sonar’s neck. He feels himself begin to sweat. What he can only classify as a migraine is forming.

 

Sonar: very well, VERY WELL! I relent!

 

The beeping ceases.

 

Waller: Good move. Now, if you two aren’t fit to sacrifice yourselves to whatever green hell is in front of you, you can at least do us the favor of not killing each other.

 

Sonar: Of course, Madam.

 

Angle-Man: Yes, ma’am.

 

The line disconnects.

 

Angle-Man coughs, then starts to chuckle: Besides, if you axed me, who’d get you back home safe and sound?

 

Sonar says nothing. He simply scowls, and peers into the green.

--------------------------------------------------------------

It took then what felt like hours to finally reach the Belle Reve monitor room. Or at least, what the monitor room used to be. What once was a dazzling, staggering display of screens, lights and wires, was reduced to a moss-covered wall, vines entangled in the wires, and insects buzzing overhead.

 

The room was nearly pitch-black. A cave like environment, the only real light emanated from fluorescent fungus, marching up the walls.

 

And one glowing power button, a neon orange against the cold green.

 

“Aparo,” says Deadshot quietly, “you’re doorman.”

 

Agent-Orange, twitching slightly, shuffles back to the rooms’ entrance and kneels outside. He drags his finger through the moss and rubs to between his thumb and forefinger.

 

“Dirty, filthy,” he mutters, “all of this simply must be cleansed.”

 

Armageddon heaves his heavy axe to rest it on his shoulder. He wasn’t used to this much activity for so long. Winded, he sits down across from the monitors and leans against the foam-like wall. It’s comfortable, but damp. He gazes at one of the flowers spread across the wall beside him. He thinks of the flowers in Caroline’s garden back home, and their whispers as they crackled into ash.

 

Deadshot rests his hands on the mossy control panel, and begins to fiddle with the buttons. In the center of all the keys, an orchid grows. He considers it a moment, then plucks it, and places it aside.

 

Finally, it catches his eye; the pulsing orange circle in the lowest possible corner. He presses it in, and watches as the few screens without vines through them start to shakily boot up.

 

From the top of one, a small bird, unnoticed by the crew, flits out of the room and down the hall.

 

Had they been given the chance to look carefully, they would have noticed the birds’ eyes were those of Doctor Karin Grace.

 

The first thing about the room Captain Boomerang notices, is the smell.

 

“Strewth!” he cries, “Like someone took a bloody bath in perfume an’ died right after.”

 

Then he catches sight of it. Something that no on else noticed when they entered the room. There’s a body on the far side, spread upwards on the wall, coated in fungus and mold.

 

Deadshot has been examining what little footage he can find. The files are corrupted, twisted and altered, like everything else. There is little playback, and the recordings stop ten minutes after whatever happened, happened. He manages, just barely, to find the point of origin.

 

In the center of Belle Reve, there was an explosion of light, then the cameras went out.

 

“Damn,” He mutters to himself. He fiddles a little further, then realizes it’s fruitlessness. “Well, this was a bust.” He says to his companions. “The files told us nothing, and all we’ve found are a bunch of corpses and Doc Evans’s tags. Pack it up, we’re heading out.”

 

“Don’t Miss Waller wanna know what happened with this place?” asks Armageddon, still seated, a flower twirling in his fingers.

 

“Sure,” says Deadshot, “Problem is there’s no way to find out. Best thing t’do is just set fire to the whole building probably.

 

Agent Orange, by the door, calls “Or we could journey to the center. Get right to the nucleus and remove it’s heart.”

 

Deadshot leans against the console and stares into the wall for a minute. His hand fiddles with the picture on his belt. He could really use a cigarette.

 

“Alright,” He says, “Why not. We’ve made it this far, may as well go all the way. Everybody, fall in, we’re gone.”

 

He begins to move towards the door, Armageddon in tow. Agent Orange stands to meet them. The get halfway down the hall before Deadshot realizes their one short.

 

“Double back,” he mutters, frustrated.

 

At the far-side of the monitor room, where the fungi creep up the wall, obscuring the form of a well-hidden body, Captain Boomerang has found something of interest.

 

“Harkness?” Says Deadshot, guns trained instinctively until he sees Boomerang is fine.

 

“Lawton ole chum,” greets Boomerang. There’s dread in his voice, “You’ll never guess what I just dredged up.”

 

“And I don’t want to. What is it?”

 

Boomerang holds aloft a small leather book, worn with apparent age.

 

“Seems this bloke on the wall here that you all moseyed on by, is an old mate of ours, and this, just so happens to be his writing. Gentlemen, I give ya the journal of Rick Flag.”

 

Done