Chapter Text
It isn’t fair. It isn’t fair. It isn’t fair.
She’s his daughter too. She’s his daughter too. She’s his daughter too.
Kate’s a bitch. Kate’s a bitch. Kate’s a bitch.
He needs to see her. He needs to see her. He needs to see her.
That is all that runs through Doug Eiffel’s head for two months. It’s a blur of anger and angst and bars and back alleys. He lost everything that mattered to him. He lost Anne. How can he go on without her? She is his whole world. She is everything. She is all that matters.
Fuck Kate! How could she do this to him?!
Two months without her and Doug thinks he is dying. He has no job. He is very quickly running out of money. And his daughter has been taken away. He wasn’t even drunk when Kate did it. He’d just lost his job as a Technical Sergeant in the Air Force. His record of DUIs and Drunk and Disorderlies and Disorderly Conducts has finally caught up with him. He was discharged. After a day like that he thought he deserved one drink. He could handle it. Just a single drink. One whiskey to take the edge off so he could calm down and get a grip on his life again. Start over. And so he did. It was only one drink. A single glass. He was three years sober when they fired him. Three years. He was actually proud of himself. But Kate had smelled the bourbon on him when he went to pick up Anne. She slammed the door in his face. And he wasn’t allowed to see Anne again.
Two months. 61 days. 1,464 hours. 87,840 minutes. He felt every single one of them. He spent most of them in bars, going from one to another as they closed or threw him out, until he crawled back to his couch and drank himself unconscious as the sun came up. He can’t keep going like this. He can’t keep going.
He needs her back.
He doesn’t come up with a plan. Not really. He just comes up with a fantasy. But sitting there in another nameless dive bar, teetering on a barstool, he decides to do it. Anne is his daughter too. Kate has no right to take her away from him. Kate doesn’t deserve her. He will take Anne back. After that...after that he isn’t really sure what he will do. They will go somewhere. Run away. And everything will be better.
He doesn’t remember when it goes from plan to action.
The next half hour is a series of flashes. He doesn’t remember leaving the bar. He doesn’t remember getting in the car. He doesn’t remember pulling up to Kate’s house. He does remember standing in front of her backdoor. He remembers smashing the lock. He remembers creeping through the house to Anne’s room. He doesn’t know how he was able to stay quiet and not stumble considering how much he had to drink. He is so drunk. So fucking wasted. But he tries so hard.
When he looks back on it he will wish he could just blame the drink. But he can’t. He knows what he is doing. He knows. He knows how drunk he is. He knows how stupid this is. He knows how wrong it is. But he doesn’t care. It doesn’t stop him. He just wants her back and he doesn’t want Kate to have her anymore. Let Kate suffer like he had.
Anne is sound asleep in her bed. She looks so beautiful. So peaceful. He starts silently crying at the sight of her, like a man before an angel. Carefully he scoops her up. She wakes up and blinks at him groggily.
“Daddy?” She asks.
“It’s me, Anne, it’s me. I’m back,” he says and his voice is slurred. He will hear it in his memory and it will make him want to throw up. She looks confused, maybe a little afraid. But he smiles at her and she smiles back.
“I missed you,” She wraps her arms around his neck. She trusts him.
“I missed you too, Supergirl.”
“Where are we going?” She asks.
“Don’t worry,” he assures her, creeping out of the silent house, “we’re just going for a ride.”
His Honda still has her carseat in it. He straps her in, makes sure she is safe. She falls asleep again almost before he starts the engine. He checks the rear view mirror and smiles.
Everything is going to be alright. Everything is going to be alright now that she’s back. They’re together and nothing will separate them again.
He starts the car and that’s his last clear thought.
Everything else is a blur of color. He keeps losing track of where he is.
And suddenly there are headlights in front of him. A horn blares. They’re right on top of him. And then…
“No!” Eiffel screamed and he sat bolt upright. The entire van jolted at the sound of his voice.
“Jesus fucking Christ, Eiffel,” groaned Maxwell. She rubbed her eye tiredly. Jacobi, who had been sleeping with his head on her shoulder, sat up and blinked around in surprise.
“Everything alright?” asked Lovelace from the front seat.
“Fine,” Eiffel answered, dry-mouthed and embarrassed.
Kepler didn’t flinch. “Just a bad dream,” was Kepler’s muttered reassurance.
“Yeah,” Eiffel agreed. “A bad dream.” Except it wasn’t just a dream. It was exactly what he did seven years ago. Eiffel tried to catch his breath. He was shaking violently. He reached into the cup holder where he put his pack of Camels. With shaking fingers he pulled a cigarette out and mouthed it. He struggled with his lighter. It clicked about a half dozen times before Maxwell turned in her seat and snatched it from his hands. She lit it for him. He leaned forward until the tip of his cigarette was in the flames. He inhaled deeply and let the toxic gray smoke fill him up, so he felt a little less empty.
“Thanks,” he muttered.
She didn’t say anything, just passed the lighter back to him. When she turned around again Jacobi lay his head back on her shoulder and was asleep in moments. Eventually Maxwell fell asleep too after a rather successful game of snake on her brand shitty new drug dealer flip phone (Kepler had tossed their smartphones in a swamp when they went AWOL). Lovelace pushed her seat back and put on her sleep mask. Soon it was just Kepler and Eiffel driving in silence. Eiffel watched the cigarette smoke drift from his mouth under the light/dark/light/dark of the passing streetlights.
He didn’t sleep again and instead watched the sun slowly rise up over the Sabine River. They were crossing into Texas now. His stomach was writhing, roiling; he felt like he might vomit. He hadn’t been in the state of Texas since...well since. This feeling was only going to get worse the closer they got to Houston. It was only about two hours away now.
He never thought he would be back here. He swore he would never go this close to Anne and Kate. They didn’t deserve to be subjected to being even in the same state as the man who did that to them. Really, if they got what was owed them, he wouldn’t even be on the same planet. The quiet in the van remained. He couldn’t hear anything but the steady whir of the van on the road and Jacobi’s characteristic snoring. Kepler kept driving without a word, Eiffel was thankful for that. About a half hour later the General stopped to refuel the van and buy some coffee. The only time he spoke to Eiffel was to ask him if he wanted anything. Eiffel shrugged unhelpfully, opting instead to get up himself. Stretch his legs. Splash some water on his face in yet another dirty gas station bathroom.
He stared at his reflection for longer than usual, taking in the worn, ashy face, the eyes sunken from fatigue. They had only left Cape Canaveral a week ago but it felt like a lifetime. It wasn’t just that their first target was a lab outside of Houston, it was that they had a target at all. Seven days ago Eiffel was one of Cutter’s most loyal men. He was his soulless soldier, just as he had been for seven years, just as he expected to be until he died. He didn’t like it, but he didn’t really care anymore. He found enjoyment where he could and forced himself to ignore everything else. Now Kepler – if anything even more dedicated to Cutter’s cause than Eiffel ever was – had kidnapped his team and drafted them into being his Planeteers and saving the world they’d been helping to destroy only hours before by declawing Cutter. Hydra’s heads turning against itself. Suddenly there was a line in the sand where there hadn’t been before, the first mark of its kind Eiffel had seen in years.
Cutter and Pryce were going Old Testament and planned on releasing a killer plague. Many people wouldn’t make it. Some would and they would be equipped to be genetically modified by Goddard Futuristics. Cutter and Pryce would “improve” the human race and take it over in two terrible steps.
In the last week the SI-5 had been in and out of derelict apartments, supposedly abandoned warehouses, and an elegant plantation house that practically reeked of Scarlet O’Hara and Jim Crow. They’d bought weapons and supplies off of some of the most colorful private dealers Eiffel had ever seen. And now they were here.
Eiffel bought another carton of Camels in the gas station while Kepler filled the tank. He had the feeling he was going to need them. When Eiffel returned to the van Kepler was waiting for him, drinking coffee from a plain styrofoam cup. He had another in hand and passed it to Eiffel, who accepted it with a nod. Then they both climbed back into the car and pulled onto the anonymous backroad, paralleling I-10 while not risking being caught on the open highway.
Eiffel had smoked through an entire pack of cigarettes when the others started to stir. They were about 40 minutes outside of Houston and things were starting to look sickeningly familiar.
Maxwell woke up first and stretched, nearly dislodging Jacobi, who groaned in complaint. When Lovelace woke up she pulled off her sleep mask and tossed it onto the dashboard. She looked around and asked where they were.
“We’re passing through Highlands,” Kepler said. “We’ll be stopping for breakfast here. Everybody hungry?”
Maxwell muttered something that might have been an affirmative.
“Did you sleep at all, Doug?” Lovelace asked gently.
Oh shit, she was using his first name. She must have been really worried. “Wha—? Yeah…” he lied. “Yeah, I fell asleep pretty quickly after you guys.”
Lovelace absolutely did not believe him and that was clear from the look on her face. But he just flashed her those Doug Eiffel pearly whites and hoped that she would drop it. She sighed and straightened her seat without a word.
Maxwell woke Jacobi as they turned into the parking lot of a small diner Doug remembered passing back before he ruined everything. She shouldered Jacobi in the cheek.
“Mmph,” Jacobi moaned, rubbing his eyes under his glasses. “What’s going on?”
“Good morning, Mr. Jacobi,” said Kepler as they pulled into a parking spot. “Welcome back to the real world. Ready for some breakfast?”
“Yeah,” he said, stretching as best he could in the cramped quarters of the van. Maxwell hopped out, blinking in the sunlight. Jacobi cracked his neck noisily and picked up his prosthetic arm where it had been charging in the cigarette lighter between the two front seats. He snapped it in place, stretched his artificial fingers, and followed Maxwell out.
The diner was busy enough that no one paid them much attention, but not so busy they had to wait. A peppy young waitress showed them to a booth. Lovelace and Kepler took one side, Eiffel wedged himself beside Jacobi and Maxwell on the other. They each took turns disappearing into the bathroom to brush their teeth and straighten themselves up. Jacobi shaved, Eiffel hoped he’d done so over the trash rather than the sink. It seemed Kepler was going for a beard, perhaps the Steve Rogers in Infinity War look.
The same waitress returned. Her name tag said her name was “Maggie” and she had a classic Texas accent. “What can I get for y’all?”
They went around the table giving their orders. When Maggie got to Eiffel he was startled back to reality. He had been lost for the last few minutes, overwhelmed by, well, everything. He glanced around and realized it was his turn. “Uh...chicken and waffles,” he muttered, saying the first thing he saw when he glanced down at the menu in front of him.
“You feeling okay?” asked Jacobi, leaning around Maxwell to look at him.
“Yeah,” Eiffel said as the waitress left, “right as rain. Cool as a cucumber. A-okay.”
“Uh-huh…” said Jacobi. “Real convincing.”
Eiffel shrugged. He didn’t feel like sharing and he knew Jacobi didn’t actually feel like listening.
Kepler watched Maggie leave, his keen blue eyes locked on her progress. Then he leaned in conspiratorially across the table. “Let’s go over it again.”
Maxwell groaned. Kepler raised his fork as if he would throw it at her, Maxwell put up her hands to block her face, but Kepler seemed to think better of the attack and put the cutlery down. The desire not to draw attention to themselves would probably put a damper on Kepler’s usual joie de violence. That would make for a nice change.
They had been over the plan what felt like a thousand times. It had changed, evolved, since they left Canaveral, but Kepler’s final version had been hammered into their heads last night in the shady motel in Louisiana, the sort of place Eiffel would have found himself at his lowest points. Eiffel knew they were still flying blinder than Kepler liked. Eiffel thought this was why Kepler kept obsessing, there were no guarantees here. No promises. No safety net. As dangerous as Strategic Intelligence missions were, there was always the promise of Goddard Futuristics’ power behind them. Now? They had some black market weapons, some of Jacobi’s home made explosives, a van, Kepler’s stash of money, three ancient laptops, five flip phones, and their own skills up against quite possibly the single most powerful organization on Earth. They were kids flicking pebbles at a kaiju. Kepler was nothing if not confident, but even he was clearly feeling the stress. No one else complained about Kepler’s request.
“Go ahead, Jake,” said Lovelace. It was always weird to hear one of the team call Kepler by anything other than his rank, but they were obviously in their new civilian identities. They called each other by fake names before on other missions, but this was different. Kepler technically wasn’t in charge anymore. It was jarring. He was no longer their CO. He wasn’t even a general, not in any sense. But Eiffel, at the very least, couldn’t think of him as anything else. He would always be their commanding officer. And, if Eiffel was honest, he didn’t want to think of him as anything else.
Kepler was a monster. He was vicious and cruel. But he was also the man who pulled Eiffel out of the gutter. Kepler had given him purpose again. And, on top of being one of the worst people Eiffel had ever met in his life, he was also, paradoxically, one of the most inspiring, reassuring, and charismatic. Warren Kepler drew you in and he kept you there. He knew how to raise your spirits and spur you to action even when you could barely summon the enthusiasm to keep breathing. He shaped you into something you hadn’t been before. In many ways this new you was anyone’s worst nightmare, something you never thought they would sink to, but in some ways that thing might have been better than what you had once been. He cleaned up the mess you once were, made you something horrible but awesome in the trust sense of the word. His techniques weren’t kind, but they were effective. Eiffel knew all of this from first hand experience.
Maybe it just went to show how far Eiffel had fallen, but he was almost proud to serve under Kepler. Hell, he hadn’t even thought of running when Kepler revealed this master plan to his team. None of them had. Then again, maybe Kepler wasn’t as bad as he pretended to be. After all, they were saving the world and it was Kepler’s idea. But then again there was everything else he had done in his life. He was a hard puzzle to put together and Eiffel had spent the better part of the last decade trying.
Kepler began turning the table’s accutroments into a crude battle map. He removed several Sweet ‘n’ Low packets from their porcelain container and arranged them on the Formica tabletop. “This is the Olga Volodin Memorial Laboratory, located just outside of Houston on US 90. It’s made up of six buildings, but we are only concerned with building C and D.” He put the salt and pepper shakers on the designated packets. “Those are the ones housing Decima. The other buildings are actually working on cancer treatments. The labs close at 1900 sharp, all personnel besides the security guards will be off the property by 1930. Obviously C and D have the most advanced security in the complex, but due to the nature of the project there are not any human security personnel allowed inside. There are guards who patrol the complex, but they do not have access to C or D.”
“No one without Black Archive clearance can get in,” said Maxwell.
“Correct,” Kepler said.
“You’ve told us nine-million times,” Maxwell told him.
Kepler continued without acknowledging that remark. “The problem is, of course, the lab’s AI, an MX 650 Class Adjutant Program, Sensus Series, designation Caerus. As Julia has previously indicated she was one of Caerus’s developers.”
Maxwell nodded. Maxwell’s involvement in Caerus’s creation might have massively complicated things. But Eiffel wasn’t concerned, he knew it wouldn’t. He, like the others, knew that Maxwell was ruthless. She would do what she had to do. A few years ago she may have raised a complaint, but now she probably wouldn’t even do that.
“Caerus handles all automated functions as well as providing life support for the hosts.”
Eiffel still had no idea what “hosts” meant. He had been too afraid to ask the first time around. Lovelace hadn’t been. When they were first going over the plan on a bumpy dirt road in Alabama Lovelace had stopped him there, “I’m sorry, ‘hosts’?!”
“Decima needs to be incubated to survive for long periods of time. It needs a host. Mr. Cutter and Dr. Pryce have been more than happy to provide them,” Kepler said cryptically.
“Human hosts?!” asked Lovelace.
“No,” said Kepler. “Not anymore.” Eiffel didn’t know if he meant they no longer used human incubators or if the incubators were no longer human. Either was equally possible. He didn’t ask the question at the time and neither did anyone else.
Now in Texas with their query almost literally in sight, Lovelace seemed like she might be about to raise the subject again, but Kepler continued before she could.
“Remember, we cannot simply kill the hosts,” Kepler said. “The corpses will remain a vector for too long. They will be able to harvest the virus when they return in the morning. All Decima samples must be completely eliminated before we can leave the premises. The strike team will consist of Julia, Nathan, and myself.” He pushed Sweet ‘n’ Low packets toward Maxwell and Jacobi and pulled one in his direction, pushing the rest to the side. He began to build a multilayered map out of Sugar in the Raw packets, dotted it with white Domino sugar packets. He lay his knife and fork below the third level of brown packages. “The first level of building D is a front. There are dummy labs supposedly working on the same cancer treatments as the rest of the complex. It’s all fake and we can ignore it.” He covered the top row of packets with his hand. “The first floor of building C, however, holds Caerus’s CPU.” He removed his hand. “Julia will be here.” He took Maxwell’s Sweet ‘N’ Low packet from her so it sat between the top layer of packets, standing vertically so the logo was on its side. “She will blind and mute Caerus however she sees fit without sounding the alarm. I have been assured that you have a solution, correct?” He asked.
“Yes,” Maxwell answered.
“Outstanding,” Kepler said. “She will then erase all information pertaining to the Decima research, a selective memory wipe of Caerus’s system. Again, I have been assured the good doctor has a solution.”
“Yes,” Maxwell repeated. “It might be a little...inelegant but it’ll be as painless as possible.”
“Painless is not my concern,” said Kepler, sounding like a SMERSH agent, “I need it to be efficient, fast, and absolute.”
“Of course, sir,” said Maxwell through her teeth.
“Not even Miranda Pryce can be able to recover this information, because that is exactly who will be trying to do it,” he reminded her.
“I know,” Maxwell said.
“Good. I’m glad we understand each other,” Kepler said. Then he turned his eyes back to his map. “Meanwhile Nathan and I will be in the sub basement.” He placed their Sweet ‘N’ Low packets there. “The first step is to neutralize the hosts and the Decima samples they are incubating. Over the past few days I believe we have gathered enough of the virucide to take care of that.” Eiffel’s eyes went unconsciously to the bandaid at the crook of Kepler’s elbow. The only ones they could find had the Minions on them, which Eiffel still thought was pretty funny, even if the act of gathering “the virucide” was not.
Over a year ago Pryce and Cutter had ensured their favorites were immune to Decima. There wasn’t a vaccine or cure and they wanted to be sure that their inner circle would be protected from any strain of Decima they could devise. So the likes of Kepler, Rachel Young, and a handful of others got a Children of Crake treatment and underwent a Dr. Pryce Special that granted them immunity. Luckily Pryce hadn’t gotten all Spore creature creator on Kepler’s DNA and the procedure did what it was supposed to (although Kepler hadn’t gone into detail about how he knew Eiffel assumed he must have been injected with the T-Virus or maybe even done it to himself). But it has a weird side effect, Kepler’s blood was now a cure for Decima. With a fun Goddard Futuristics twist of course, it killed the infected host along with the infecting virus. Because of course nothing pleasant or easy could come from Pryce and Cutter. Kepler had threatened a scientist into spilling the whole can of beans about his new condition and had decided to use his new magic Kos blood to its full advantage. So since running from Canaveral they had taken turns playing Dr. Acula and helping Kepler drain his veins into some blood bags now stored in a cooler in the back of the van.
“Before we hit the lab we will put the samples into syringes so the virucide can be easily exploited. While I am neutralizing the hosts Nathan will be finding the most vulnerable parts of the buildings and setting explosives. After we leave the building they will be detonated, obliterating the sub basements while leaving the structure intact.” He moved the Sweet ‘N’ Low packets out of his map then scrubbed away the lower levels. “We will leave the same way we came in through a security blindspot, an underground pipe that runs below all six buildings” He pointed to the fork. “Nathan will get us in and out. And that’s where you two come in.” He pushed two Sweet ‘N’ Lows to Lovelace and Eiffel. “Karina, Tristan, You will be waiting outside of the gates where the tree line begins at the side of the highway. Then we take off and will be out of Texas in about 12 hours. You will arrive at the treeline at 2200, you will wait until 0100. If we don’t emerge by then you are to initiate Rescue Plan Alpha. Any questions?”
Everyone looked at Eiffel. Shockingly he had been paying attention. “No,” he said.
“One further point,” said Kepler, his eyes locked on Eiffel’s, “I know you have a history here.”
“Yeah,” Eiffel said. “This is where I was jailhouse rockin’. It’s not a secret.” Anymore. Shame had kept his lips sealed for a while. But seven years is a long time to be a team, a family, and truths always bubbled to the surface.
“You may not under any circumstances meet with anyone from your life here,” Kepler said every word slowly, carefully, unmistakably.
“Okay,” said Eiffel. He didn’t think it would really be a problem. The only person he wanted to see was Anne and she shouldn’t be subjected to his presence. It wasn’t a problem.
It wasn’t a problem, at least at first.
The team spent the day putting the finishing touches on their plan. Locked up in the darkened van, constantly moving so they didn’t attract attention, Eiffel and Lovelace filled syringes with the ex-general’s blood and Jacobi made the final adjustments on his explosives whenever they stopped at red lights. He sat with his arm plugged in so it would be at full power when it was go-time. Maxwell didn’t look up from her computer screen for hours.
With every passing hour dread rose in Eiffel’s gut. When they took their lunch break, eating sandwiches from a Subway, a horrible thought crossed Eiffel’s mind and try as he might he could not rid himself of it: Kate and Anne were in danger, as soon as the dream team made a definitive move against Goddard everyone they ever cared about would be put on Cutter’s shit list. That was the last place in the world anyone wanted to be. You were never on it for long, but the only reason your name came off was that you got a very special visit from the SI-5. The last visit you would ever have. And that realization clutched his insides, froze them. GF had a new SI-5 who could and would pull the trigger. He couldn’t finish his sandwich. Like hyenas Maxwell and Jacobi took care of it.
Eventually showtime came. The van pulled into the wooded area and Kepler, Jacobi, and Maxwell suited up. They prepared in the shadows, readying themselves for this first strike. Over the last seven years Eiffel had seen this routine a lot. It still looked cool. The whole of the SI-5 were super spies, himself somehow included. He had done things that would make James Bond blush. But Jacobi, Maxwell, and Kepler always seemed the best suited for it: the coolest, the most willing, the toughest. They operated in an almost creepy Stepford Cuckoos harmony. The whole of the SI-5 was a team, but the Terrible Trio somehow went beyond that. Somehow redefined it. On missions like this they became different appendages of one entity, Maxwell and Jacobi becoming Kepler’s hands.
Jacobi loaded his explosives into his pack, strapped it to his back. Maxwell slid a tablet into the special pouch on her belt. Kepler put what was probably his eighth or ninth knife in another hidden scabbard. Kepler wordlessly glanced at his operatives. Jacobi and Maxwell each nodded. Kepler made a hand signal and they followed, disappearing into the trees, black shapes in blackness. Eiffel and Lovelace waited for five minutes, then they carefully pulled away and back down onto the highway.