“Makes no difference to me.” Creed’s eyes scanned their surroundings as they traveled, always on guard, always taking in every movement, shadow, sound and scent around him.
Chaunders had been watching Creed very carefully over the last three weeks since he was allowed to awaken him from the chemically induced coma. While his physical abilities had wholly astonished the scientists, his complete lack of emotion caused Chaunders to worry quietly about this exponentially enhanced metahumaness. He was a shell. There was no discernible personality within Creed Young, and it scared the human in Chaunders. He glanced warily at Creed in the rear view, and absently pushed his glasses up his greasy nose.
“I say we start with the crossbow since we’re outside anyway,” Bjorn offered as Chaunders parked the vehicle near the soundproof building in which the soldiers practiced their killer skills.
“Mr. Young,” Dr. Mor began. “Please go choose your bow. We will time your assembly of the weapon and monitor your accuracy when you’re ready.”
“I’m ready now,” Creed nodded at the stopwatch in Dr. Mor’s hands.
“But you haven’t even located the bow…”
“Go!” Chaunders yelled, nodding to Dr. Mor to start the time and the three scientists watched as Creed bolted across the field, to the shed in which the bows were stored. He was inside for no more than ten seconds before. He emerged in a blur of camo and a loud pop was heard.
Jaw dropped, in surprise, Dr. Mor forgot to press stop as she watched Creed sprint back to the group still standing by the Jeep, bow in hand.
“Dr. Mor? Time?” Dr. Bjorn asked.
“Oh, I…I’m sorry, I don’t know.” She shook her head and frowned at the watch still counting, still unsure of what she just saw. “Did you assemble the crossbow and shoot?” She asked the soldier pointedly.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Dr. Chaunders fumbled to retrieve his binoculars from the glove box and peered at the targets in the distance. “Well, Mr. Young. I can’t find your arrow. Are you sure you hit the target?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, which one?”
“The furthest, sir—one-hundred yards.”
Dr. Chaunders’ eyes widened as he watched for any expression to appear on Creed’s stone face. Seeing nothing there, he repositioned the binoculars and adjusted the focus. “Dear God. There it is. Dead center in the block target at one-hundred yards.”
Creed was rapidly disassembling the crossbow and marching back to the shed to return it. The scientists exchanged looks.
“Dr. Chaunders, we could continue the standard regime of testing, but I believe we all see what he’s capable of very clearly. This subject is, by far, the most skilled we have ever developed,” Dr. Mor spoke in a hushed tone.
“I agree,” Dr. Bjorn said, still shaking his head in awe over what the metasoldier had just done.
“It is my opinion that he be reinstated and given top clearance—none of our other soldiers are even in his league. He is…exponentially enhanced. It would be a shame to let his skills go unused,” Dr. Mor climbed into the Jeep, removed a notepad from the pocket of her white coat and started writing.
Creed returned to the scientist, and stood at attention, awaiting orders.
Chaunders used a cloth handkerchief to wipe his brow. Tough it was only 9am, it was already starting to get too warm to wear the multiple layers of warmth most German residents lived in during the colder parts of the year.
“Yes, well, I think we all concur, Dr. Mor,” Chaunders nodded awkwardly toward the brilliant child scientist who no longer was listening, lost in her genius thoughts. He continued anyway, “Mr. Young, I believe we’ve seen enough today. Please continue your conditioning with a fast run back to the Research Hospital.” He was already starting the engine when he thought to add, “Oh, and speak to no one. Are we clear?”
“Sir, yes sir,” Creed barked, turned on his heels and began running down the trail that encircled the large campus.
“Do you think that was a good idea?” Dr. Bjorn asked as they pulled away from the shooting range they never even entered. Creed was already bolting back toward the hospital leaving a trail of dust pluming behind his feet.
“I don’t know to what you are referring,” Dr. Chaunders mumbled, deep in thought.
“Letting Creed run across campus by himself when we were given specific orders not to allow him any interaction with the other metas,” Bjorn smirked. He liked the idea of Dr. Chaunders angering the Director.
“He is the perfect soldier, Bjorn. I told him not to talk with anyone, and he won’t.” Chaunders waved his hand dismissively at his fellow scientist as though dissipating a foul smell.
“If you say so,” Bjorn widened his grin.