Bran was desperate, consumed by self-hatred. He swore this wouldn't happen again; he wouldn't be so trusting. The memory of his idiocy—a fresh wave of self-loathing—washed over him. He remembered Cindy, as she now called herself, arriving in skintight clothes, her breasts jiggling, distracting him. Reason fled as his libido took over, and he envisioned the pleasure of her body.
She had originally met her in another realm, a long time ago, when a demon had kidnapped them into gladiator fighting, and they had been banged up. He had hooked up with her almost right away, as he was a pig back then. She wasn't small; she was obese, a soft mass of curves and thick thighs, but Bran had always been drawn to softer flesh.
Yet, he also appreciated a toned physique. His weakness was undeniable; in his lust, he'd even slept with a woman like that, a fat pig, and he lacked the spine to resist. Now, the consequences of his choices were stark.
Holding the tiny creature in his arms, her cool skin, ashen face, and utter silence spoke of her unconscious state—he knew it was all his fault. Holding this female in his arms, dead, silent, knowing she would revive, felt still so awful. Once she had healed him with her love, yet he had not appreciated what he got, but he, as usual, had thrown it away.
He'd fallen for Cindy's lies about new medical contacts, a brilliant doctor named Von Herringberg who sought to help humans and supernatural beings, particularly the powerful ones who possessed the most knowledge. She'd painted a picture of a perfect, innocent opportunity, and he'd foolishly believed that Samuel and Charles would be helpful.
She had lied to him. Telling stories, just how this brilliant doctor wanted to chat, change knowledge, and nothing bad would happen, but he would have to meet them. Could Bran tell her where the pack was, how to contact them? He had contacted Charles, inquired about their whereabouts, and told Cindy.
He'd also considered the potential benefits of Samuel joining the Salvatore pack, believing his skills were needed. With both sons in the pack, he might grow closer to them, perhaps even joining them someday.
He recalled better days, his days in sunshine, as he called them, after being freed from the evil wizard within, when Mariella had given him and Samuel new bodies. Their subsequent acceptance into the pack and Mimi's healing love and lust had brought a sense of belonging.
They had been part of Mimi's "six"—him, Samuel, Adam, Charles, Demon, and Lepard—sharing her intimacy. Despite Mariella's efforts, he, strangely enough, had not gone to her too often. Even though she was curvier and taller than Mimi, she knew how to seduce, but something was off with her.
Jealousy, or it had been a strained relationship between Damon and Mimi, but as other Salvatores had wanted to be with Mimi, mariella had blocked them. He had had it in his fingers. But, as usual, a foolish decision by him or Samuel had resulted in Mimi's rape and their expulsion from the pack.
It had taken Samuel a long time to make contact, ashamed as he was of his whole idea. It had not been too easy for Bran, either. Becoming both a wizard and a vampire—a creature he had hated his entire life—had been a dark period, forced upon him by his evolution.
However, he had grown to accept his vampirism, even finding it cool and fun. His magic stemmed from marrok force, being healing but not as potent as Damon's, but soothing, and it worked well with werewolves, making him a better helper for those who had struggled with being a wolf.
Nearly a century had passed since those days, and though he sometimes missed the sunshine, the weight of his past sins remained, leaving him feeling undeserving of redemption.
He was forced to hold Mimi, desperately trying to keep her alive, but could only feel her blood soak his clothes as her heart faltered and stopped. Again and again, the sadists threw her back into her cage after hours, sometimes days, of torture. She couldn't take any more; she died in his arms, each death a brutal reminder of her struggle, of the torturers' calculated cruelty.
The harsh fluorescent lights of this damp, blood-soaked concrete space—a cave, mine shaft, or something similar—flickered overhead, illuminating the stone walls. This place was secure; he had no idea where they were, or even if they were in America.
He felt a desperate rage, but it was an old rage, and he knew unleashing it would only worsen things. The hard floor was damp from the daily hosing of the prisoners. He tried to shield Mimi from the cold, but it wasn't always possible. The guards' use of a number—789610—to refer to Mimi sparked a memory; he knew the number was old and might provide a clue to their captors' identities.
He looked at Mimi's ashen face. In the darkness of the cell, her gaunt features appeared frail; long lashes cast shadows on her cheeks, highlighting dark circles around her eyes. Her lips were chapped and dry, and bruises around her mouth and face spoke of torture. Her hands, limp and loose, resembled skeletal claws, and she was alarmingly thin; he could feel the sharp angles of her bones.
He tried to cradle her gently, seeking to make her comfortable, but as he shifted her position, he felt several cracked ribs crunching beneath his touch. He shook his head. He carefully brushed her matted hair out of her face with a gentle gesture of his hand. He could not use his magic, drugs, and sigils stopped him.
Normally, Mimi would be the one to get them out, but now he was unsure. He himself was in no shape to help; he could sit but not stand, his legs crushed more than once, refusing to support his weight.
Mariella, in the next cage, had earlier raged and destroyed the monitor, enraging the doctor who had issued new orders. Bran hadn't heard them; he'd been heavily drugged at the time and still felt sluggish, drugged, and desperate. Finding the will to act felt impossible.
Time passed; he blacked out as guards approached the cage, firing a tranquilizer dart. Darkness claimed him. Mimi had just begun to breathe, but he didn't see her open her eyes before the drugs hit, and he slumped to the bottom of the cage.
He was unconscious when the door opened, dragged out while Mimi was left alone, moving slightly on the cold, hard floor. Then darkness took him over utterly.
Bran was awakened by a sharp, searing pain.
Unable to move, he felt the lance of pain in his insides as a clinical voice dictated, "Abdominal cavity seems normal. No visible malformations or pathology at first glance. We now start to dissect each organ and evaluate them, as well as take necessary biopsies."
A female voice, presumably a nurse or assistant, inquired, "Doctor, what would you like to do first? Shall we start with the intestines or stomach?"
Another wave of intense pain struck below his diaphragm. He couldn't speak or move, aware of a tube in his throat forcing air into his lungs—he was intubated, paralyzed, and undergoing a live dissection.
More clinical jargon filled the air, but the pain consumed Bran's attention. He could smell his own blood, his intestines, his organs—a potent mix of pain and the overwhelming scent of the clinical setting. The medical odor filled him with disgust and fear, a reaction entirely in line with Doctor Von Herringberg's plan.
His intention had been to traumatize these creatures using as many methods as possible, then observe their breaking point. His brilliant scheme to make 826810 crave his attention had failed miserably. She now hated him, as did her husband, her anger replacing any previous desperation.
Instead of yearning for attention, a more dangerous side of her had emerged. When he'd approached her cage, she had spat in his shoes. He couldn't understand what had gone wrong, why these creatures hadn't broken like so many others.
He was unaware of the hive, the pack's chaotic nature, or the alpha female's embodiment of chaos, which introduced unpredictability into the equation. Despite 789610's torture and drugging, chaos reigned, activating unpredictable reactions in other pack members.
This was just one of many factors Von Herringberg hadn't anticipated. Like many villains, his overconfidence blinded him. When his methods failed, he escalated his efforts, but pushing chaos only invited stronger resistance, plunging everything into deeper unpredictability. The situation wasn't simply a matter of actions and consequences; it was about choices and their unforeseen outcomes.
Every choice has consequences, and those consequences are unpredictable. Herringberg, however, failed to consider the ramifications of his actions. His arrogance and inflated ego prevented him from fully understanding the situation; he assumed the world worked in a certain way, and when it didn't, he blamed external forces rather than changing his perspective.
He attempted to break his prisoners with brutal dissection, believing it would subdue even the strongest creatures. He underestimated his subjects' resilience; however, dissection, though painful and debilitating, did not break them.
As dissection went on and discoveries were made, his anger abated, replaced by clinical curiosity. His focus shifted as the dissection revealed fascinating new discoveries. His cold, clinical voice dictated the procedure, punctuated only by the nurses' terse replies and the occasional reading of the subjects' vitals.
For Herringberg, the living, breathing beings on the table were merely specimens for study. He wielded his scalpel with surgical precision, yet lacked any empathy; his actions resembled an autopsy more than a surgical procedure.
Although his hands were steady, he sometimes bruised the subjects excessively, raising their blood pressure and making the dissection messier—a further irritation to him. He continued, however, pondering what further anatomical revelations awaited him.
While sophisticated scanners rendered exploratory laparotomies obsolete in medical practice, he found them boring and painless. He craved the suffering of his subjects, their dissection, their reduction to mere specimens for his study.
The nurse's voice, attempting to maintain a clinical tone, noted, "Blood pressure rising; the subject appears to be in more pain."
She knew the doctor preferred his staff to remain detached from the subjects' suffering, often hiring individuals with sociopathic or psychopathic tendencies.
The doctor's irritated voice responded, "That's to be expected. I'm studying the jejunum; stretching the lumen will cause pain. He'll be fine."
He had opened a long loop of bowel, was taking biopsies of the villi (the inner lining of the small intestine), and then resected a foot-long section near the large intestine, reconnecting the loops with a stapler.
His incisions were imprecise, and he didn't thoroughly flush the abdominal cavity. The presence of fecal matter didn't concern him; he was curious to observe the subjects' resistance to infection, such as peritonitis, and the resulting symptoms. He had access to powerful antibiotics, deemed too potent for human use, which he found intriguing to test.
Several hours later, the dissection completed, and the subject stabilized, the doctor returned to his office. As he entered, his phone beeped. A meeting request. Fine. Donning his doctor's coat and his usual arrogant, bored expression, he went to his office, checked his email, and responded to correspondence for about an hour.
Then, he asked a subordinate, "Chuck, could you escort whoever wants to see me? Did they state the purpose?"
Chuck's low, growling reply was barely audible: "Nothing specific, boss. It's one of your subjects' enemies; they want a piece of them, or something."
Leaning back, the doctor said, "Send him in."
A man, perhaps in his early fifties, entered, sat down at the doctor's gesture. Doctor von Herringberg steepled his fingers, observing the man's cheap, rumpled suit and desperate eyes.
"Now, what can I do for you?"
The man's voice, a quiet whisper laced with rage, responded, "I want justice for my family. I want Springcove. She must answer for her crimes."
The doctor offered a thin smile; Subject 789610 was unpopular and appeared to have numerous enemies.
He'd received an incredibly lucrative offer from one of his former tutors, Julian Sark, who also desired a piece of Springcove. While the money was tempting, Sark was someone von Herringberg now looked down upon; his dabbling in magic had diminished him in von Herringberg's eyes, who favored humanity over magic. In his eyes, Sark was no longer worthy of humanity, but he was just an animal, and given the opportunity, Dr. Death was not hesitant to deal with Sark.
The man before him continued, "I lost my wife and baby. She refused to help them, simply put them down like rabid dogs. There was an accident—a plane crash— it landed on the road, causing a pileup, and my wife, who was driving a car, returning home with our baby, was killed. Springcove, hailed as a savior, capable of miracles, was a fraud. She handed my dead baby to my wife, then killed her like an animal. My wife died holding our dead child; Springcove didn't even try to help them. She's a goddamn vampire, a special creature, but she condemned them to death. I was almost there, but too late. She'd already done her deed."
Von Herringberg maintained a neutral expression. As a doctor, he understood not everyone could be saved, yet the man's desperation was too compelling to ignore. He could have told him that his wife would have been dead anyway, but this guy could surely affect and break 789610 further.
He asked, "I have her. What do you want done to her? She's been tortured by government factions under a hush-hush policy and has suffered greatly. So, what are you suggesting?"
The man fell silent, his expression softening with empathy and sorrow. He was just human, and sometimes humans could be so disgustingly soft.
He said, "I want to see her, talk to her. Maybe she can tell me why; maybe then I can finally move on."
Von Herringberg was annoyed by the man's sudden vulnerability, but it might prove useful, forcing Springcove to confront her past actions and their consequences.
The doctor said, "I'll contact you when the time is right. I'll see if I can arrange a meeting. She's now Salvatore, remarried, but her pack is otherwise occupied. We have other female pack members to process as well. Managing dangerous supernaturals like her isn't easy; it often requires forceful methods to ensure they recognize their superiors and those in power."
The man nodded. Von Herringberg escorted him from his office, ordering his men to see him out. He would call when it was time for the man to meet 789610—a number, a subject to manage, nothing more, nothing less.
His worldview was simplistic, limited to immediate consequences; he refused to consider long-term ramifications. This narrow perspective, coupled with a limited understanding of how things worked and an overreliance on his ideas of supernatural abilities, severely restricted his actions.
His arrogance was absolute; he would have dismissed any contrary opinion, convinced of his righteousness. He believed humans were superior, and freaks were meant to serve them. While acknowledging their powers, he felt humans possessed the intellect to control these creatures, making their servitude a natural privilege.
He envisioned a controlled use of freaks to enhance humanity: carefully planned genetic infusions into the human gene pool, spanning generations, resulting in diluted changes like new eye colors, increased longevity, or cancer resistance.
This was a long-term project, and Herringberg was unsure if he would lead it. He collaborated with the government but wasn't beholden to them; he was his own boss, refusing to take orders and relishing his position of authority. However, he would soon learn the consequences of persistently provoking a hornet's nest.
Days passed, and more female subjects were dissected. The doctor found them utterly fascinating, but he faced a dilemma. His previous treatments had significantly weakened the subjects, preventing him from dissecting them for as long as he desired.
Subject 789610 had died on the table six times, rendering the procedure a mere autopsy—boring. He craved living, breathing subjects, eager to hear their blood pressure fluctuations and observe the marks of pain. However, his current subject was far too frail.
The government agents, it seemed, had gone too far. He was forced to terminate their contract, paying compensation, but he knew further dissections could still bring in extra money.
The other females were equally frail, and subject 826810's intense hatred manifested as magical attacks on his machines, requiring sedation during dissection. This irritated him; he wanted things to proceed as planned, not be hampered by the need to sedate his subjects.