A cabin, out in the middle of nowhere. Nobody to be seen for miles around.
Until now.
In a flash of light, with a sound that goes blip, a hooded, masked man appears a short distance away. His clothes have bloodstains and ashes on them.
Tucking a small device away, the man heads towards the cabin.
This is a seriously advanced piece of technology, the man thinks. Too expensive to mass-produce yet, but one day, it’s going to change the world forever. If Pierre thinks it’s wise, that is. The man thinks about how lucky he is to call Pierre Faucheuse a friend. And he’s happy to do any jobs Pierre sends his way pro-bono. Pierre’s pulled his fat out of the fire many times. He might not pay in cash, but the tech he provides the man with has made his job a lot easier.
Heading into the cabin, the man removes his hood, and mask, and sighs. Another job well done.
In the living room, a fluffy sits on the couch, watching Scarface on the TV. A smile spreads across the man’s face. Little guy loves that movie.
This fluffy is brown, with a grey mane and tail, and as scarred as the man is. A former toughy of a herd of street fluffs, who, like the man, has spent his entire life fighting. The man doesn’t consider him a pet, but a kindred spirit.
The fluffy turns to him, looking at him with one yellow eye. His left eye was gouged out when he was little. He doesn’t like to talk about it.
“How it gu dis time, Victow?”
“Pretty good, Scarface. Another bunch of scumbags six feet under.”
Victor walks over to the table, and drops a stack of documents labeled “P53” on it.
“And I destroyed all traces of the lab. Had to kill the scientists too, damn shame, but they knew too much.”
Victor walks over to a computer, starts it up, and makes a video call. Scarface goes back to watching the movie he was named after.
Pierre’s face appears on the screen.
“Well?”
“It’s done.”
“C’est magnifique! You’ve done well, old friend. Your efforts are buying us precious time.”
“How are things going on your end?”
Pierre’s smile falters.
“Not good, I’m afraid. The newest iteration of the formula didn’t have the desired results either.”
“What went wrong this time?”
“Ah, it was tragic. The newest iteration of the formula made fluffies exposed to P53 tear themselves to shreds.”
“Self-flagellating fluffies? Hell, if you put that on FluffTube, I’d watch it.”
“Well, I’ll send you the video, but what do you think would happen if I injected it into a human?”
“Hey, I’ve seen what people will do to themselves to avoid what I’m about to do to them. I’m no stranger to self-harm. You know some of these scars are my own handiwork.” Victor says, rubbing a scar on his left arm, remembering digging a bullet out with a survival knife in the pounding rain.
As Pierre taps away at another monitor, his glowing blue eyes remain fixed on Victor.
“We need to keep the knowledge of P53’s potential influence on humans under wraps, Victor. At least until we can immunise everyone against it, human or fluffy, so we can stop people from turning P53 into the ultimate weapon. If we fail, the world will drown in an ocean of blood. I know it. I’ll be in touch when I get more intel. Take care of yourself. We must survive.”
“Indeed.” And that was all that needed to be said.
Turning off the computer, Victor looks at the clock. He spends so much time in different countries, he needs to keep track of what time it is here. Almost 7 PM. Dinner time.
“Hey Scarface, you hungry?” Scarface nods, without looking away from the TV.
“What you want for dinner tonight?”
“Wut wus dem nummies we num wast Tuus-day cawwed? Dem wong meatie nummies? Hab wong siwwy namesie. Scawface fink dey wook wike big no-no sticks, but dey gud nummies.” It’s impressive that he knows the days of the week, but not inexplicable. In his herd, the stupid fluffies died first, and the smartest fluffies were the ones who bred. Darwinism at work, in fast forward.
Victor thinks, and remembers.
“Oh, you mean frikandellen?”
Scarface nods.
“Well, alright. I’ll be right back.”
“Tak yu time. Dis am best pawt of moo-vee.”
After changing into street clothes, dumping his bloodstained and ashy “work uniform” in the wash, and retrieving a pile of euro bills from his safe, Victor’s out the door, walking until he’s out of range of the teleportation jammer, intended to keep out sudden unwanted visits, setting his blipper, as he calls it, to take him to the Netherlands.
Spaghetti from Italy, sushi from Japan, poutine from Canada. He can get food from any place he wants, now. Ever since Pierre gave Victor the blipper, he and Scarface have been eating like kings.
Before he vanishes, Victor smiles.
He really is lucky to call Pierre his friend.