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Chapter or Story 
Chapter or Story
Oblivion?
The handwritten question had been neatly printed by Sydney on the final page of a rather substantial Centre dossier compiled on Lyle, and was as insignificant to Jarod as the thousands of other words he'd read regarding Parker's twin sibling. Jarod was confident that there was nothing anyone could tell him about Lyle that he hadn't already discovered from personal experience.
Hours later, however, Jarod glimpsed Project Oblivion* in yet another Centre dossier, and suspected there was more to discover about his archrival after all.
The asterisk wasn't necessarily indicative of particularly troubling revelations; for its size the symbol was, inexplicably, menacing.
Easily bypassing the Centre's pitiable security features, Jarod dutifully and pragmatically pursued the asterisk when Oblivion dead-ended in Raines' encrypted network files. He was considering physically breaking into the vast, concrete-and-steel haystack to find the needle when, at last, he found the elusive needle in an archived system folder.
Jarod immediately saved the data to a portable hard drive, and, with four laptops and three printers spread atop a massive wall-to-wall counter began decrypting and converting files, printing documents, playing audio files, and scrutinizing the generated video thumbnails.
Rather than speed-read thousands of pages of documentation Jarod initiated keyword searches, and, simultaneously, listened to the audio files. He was fractionally disturbed by the inclusion of Miss Parker's name in the latter.
Disturbed.
Not surprised.
His decades-long crusade for truth often lured him onto meandering pathways that inevitably entwined and merged with Parker's; their lives intersected at the Centre.
The content of the audio files, spanning several decades, seemed benign initially. Raines spoke of the Centre's potential revenues for nearly ten minutes before segueing to annoying interferences, and deadly consequences.
The partially corrupted second file, distorted and truncated, revealed a distraught Mr. Parker arguing with Raines, arguing against cruelty. Irony of ironies.
alking--bout--my dau--ght-er--god--mmit.
act like h--father---distract--Jaro--Cent--profits--if you--immedia-ly--and--I---ill--soluti--handle-it-myself
Jarod frowned at the resoluteness and terror in Raine's voice. Jarod knew all too well the potential depths to which weak and terrified men sank; he wasn't eager to hear if, or how, Raines punished Parker's disobedience.
In fact, he felt compelled to conclude audio playback altogether. There appeared to be no apparent relation between the audio files and Project Oblivion, and, that, implausibly, both perplexed and relieved Jarod. He was genuinely grateful that Parker hadn't been involved in the project, and also mightily concerned for Sydney's life.
The document search, thus far, hadn't been particularly useful, many of the images were blurred, video files couldn't be viewed until the conversion process was complete, and it wasn't, and there were no other leads to follow.
Jarod ultimately continued his document search and allowed the audio files to play, uninterrupted; a more logical alternative simply didn't exist.
And Raines prattled on.
She knows too much to return to university- and to the outside. You'd be risking everything we've built here if you continue to allow her unfettered freedom.
She's out of control, Mr. Parker.
I've personally witnessed her disloyalty.
Something transpired inside Dover bank. I'm almost certain Jarod has established an alliance with your daughter. The training has failed once more, and will one day fail completely. What will you do then, Mr. Parker?
She displays unmitigated disdain for authority, specifically my authority, Mr. Parker.
Your daughter's implied threats on my life are untenable. Disloyalty won't be tolerated.
Miss Parker's attempt to rescue Jarod's clone is a clear indication of where her loyalties lie, Mr. Parker, and it sure as hell isn't with the Centre.
Jarod mentally filed the recordings under "Raines' Greatest Hits and Laments." Every song was the same, and hundreds of thousands of men like Raines sang it: "Women Frighten Me."
In fact, the only surprising element of the audio files revealed itself following a four minute block of silence when Mr. Parker quietly recited a series of alphanumericals and dates, and hastily murmured an apology.
Jarod reshuffled his thoughts, and, rather than waste a second deliberating returned to the Centre's archived analog system folder and keyed in the dates.
There were few conclusions remaining; of those, Jarod preferred the most palatable. He implored a god that he wasn't convinced existed that the asterisk hadn't misled him, that Mr. Parker had been apologizing for his role in Project Oblivion, and had planted information regarding the project—information that would help him find Sydney—in entirely unrelated recordings, specifically for him to find.
He suspected that I wanted to establish an alliance with her.
He knew I'd look here.
He wanted me to find Oblivion.
Why else would he have concealed dates and alphanumericals in audio files that pertain exclusively to Parker's life?
The question detonated in Jarod's mind; he wasn't going to like the answer.
Jarod's screen blackened, briefly, and then erupted into a multimedia hellscape beyond his command, one that more accurately and thoroughly chronicled Raines' depravity. Images self-extracted abruptly and violently in vertical accordion-style stacks, obscuring a media player that commenced, with no prompting on Jarod's part, the same old tune; no keyboard shortcut would silence it.
If you can't coerce her to stay you'll leave me no choice but to proceed with the procedure, and the Director agrees.
She has demonstrated loyalty to Jarod again, so perhaps those feelings you claimed were successfully extinguished have once again been resurrected.
The Triumvirate will be displeased to learn that when your daughter had the opportunity to apprehend Jarod in Carthis she instead chose to advance her existing relationship with him to one that is more physical in nature. She isn't in control anymore. Jarod is in control, has been in control for months if not years.
We should have lobotomized her before the procedure was deemed too barbaric by the Tower.
Jarod recoiled, his face twisted in confused horror.
Lobotomy?
The images presently assailing the laptop implausibly explicated and further confounded in equal measures.
Raines had obsessively documented his research and various therapies with photographs; Parker appeared in each of them.
Oh, my God, no.
No.
Jarod averted his eyes.
Squeezed them tightly closed.
Standard Centre training is hardly a spa day.
But, my god, this-
Supplementary video attachments inexplicably launched without Jarod's permission, and confirmed what Jarod had easily discerned from the images he'd glimpsed.
Mr. Parker had spared his daughter the hell of a lobotomy, and had, instead, frequently subjected her to countless other hells—all tidily, euphemistically classified as training, therapy.
Decades of aversion therapy.
Coercive persuasion.
Insulin shock therapy.
Experimental, and potentially lethal drug cocktails, many with possible long term effects.
Various types of torture.
They punished her for being human.
They punished her because of me.
They aren't the only ones who punished her.
The truth was jarring, incomprehensible, enraging. The accompanying nausea was sudden and fierce, and Jarod's reaction to it much too slow. Instinctively and belatedly Jarod covered his mouth with a hand and jerked the waste bin from the floor.
The violent exertions drove Jarod to his knees, where he remained until the contents of his stomach—as well as implacable resentments—had been purged.
Despite the crushing weight of guilt, Jarod pressed his palms to the hardwood floor and rose to his knees. "Oh, god," he groaned in renewed misery when he glimpsed the hundreds of freshly printed pages scattered around him.
His eyes riveted on a single signature.
Jacob?
"Oh, my god," Parker fairly shouted at the Centre investigative team's second in command, "you've got to be kidding me." She revolved blue eyes at the hastily stammered apology, rebutted angrily, "Apology not accepted. You CIT clowns wake me at three in the fucking morning to tell me Jarod has accessed mainframe and system files, and in the next breath stupidly refuse to divulge the details of that data to me, the person leading Jarod's pursuit team, pending authorization from Raines, who has been MIA for weeks. Enjoy explaining to the Triumvirate that Jarod evaded capture, again, because I didn't have clearance to access the data he stole."
Parker ended the conversation, and smiled shrewdly when the mobile immediately chirped.
"What," she hissed.
"CIT again, Miss Parker," a young woman said.
"Name and code," Parker demanded.
"Bisset, CMMDR01-T81062ZP_B. I apologize for Frank's apprehensiveness, Miss Parker; he's been sent home to contemplate his future with CIT." Apprehending Parker's urgency, the woman asked, eagerly, "Should I send a courier to your home immediately?"
"No time. Give me the bullet points," Parker demanded, and listened to Miss Bisset's crisp recitation.
ּּּּ•Pre-digital Archives
ּ•System files
ּ•Project Oblivion
ּ•Pּroject KLV
ּ•Unspecified data and media files
"Additionally, Miss Parker, our team studied the data both manually and electronically, and fed pertinent information into the algorithm that your Mr. Broots developed last year; unfortunately, the results were inconclusive in regards to movement predictions, and, furthermore, we could establish no reason for The Pretender's interest in those particular files. I want to note that this particular breach is entirely unrelated to the one that occurred last month. We're monitoring systems closely for vulnerabilities, constantly upgrading security software, and performing routine scans via global surveillance drones. I will personally notify you immediately should another security concern arise. I can email you the entirety of the data if you'd like, and, well, please pardon my boldness, but I agree with Mr. Broots' caveat that it was hasty and unwise for the men at the helm of the Centre to attempt to replace your personal knowledge of Jarod, and hands on experience with any algorithm."
Parker pushed a hand through her hair, closed her eyes. "Mm, if only they'd stuck with computers to begin w-" Parker fell silent with startling abruptness. Blue eyes opened, narrowed. "There was a breach last month?"
"That's correct. Contact information for Centre medical staff and on-call physicians in the analog personnel database was accessed. We issued a warning and, later, sent a memorandum to disregard that warning as we could establish no credible security risk to our medical staff. I cross-checked the information in the analog personnel database with the current digital database. I'm not even certain why archives from the analog years were retained."
"Pull up the archived database."
"Done," Miss Bisset said.
"I want the names and addresses."
"All of them?"
"Yes," answered Parker, irritably. "Now," she ordered, and listened intently to names and corresponding addresses, twice asking for confirmation. Several names and home addresses were mismatched. Jacob was oddly present and Sydney absent, and Sydney's property was incorrectly listed as Jacob's primary residence. Many of the physicians and psychiatrists had been dead two decades.
"This is strange, and possibly unrelated," Miss Bisset said, "but I can find no home address for Director Raines in our system."
"Is it possible to alter the databases?"
"With the appropriate clearance, absolutely. Let's see. Uh, yes, in August the Director's contact information was permanently removed from the system by the Director, and in September additional edits were performed-- uh, also by Director Raines or," Miss Bisset amended hastily, "someone using his credentials. Give me one second, Ma'am, and I'll attempt to retrieve any deletions."
Parker's brow creased. "Deletions?"
"That's correct. Retrieval is--- complete, and successful. Director Raines deleted Dr. Sydney Mikhail's name from the databases, and attempted several times to undo the deletion. He was locked out after failing to enter the correct authorization code for that keystroke action. My department would have been happy to unlock the databases for him. It's odd that he never rang us about this."
"There's not much about Raines that isn't odd," Parker rejoined coolly.
"The Director also deleted both of Dr. Jacob Mikhail's addresses from the personnel databases. One of those is the Dover Bed and Breakfast, the other a farmhouse in rural Blue Cove. The B & B was bulldozed fifteen years ago, because, apparently, the world needed another fast food establishment. The farmhouse address should be in your inbox now, and I can have a team member drive out there immediately to ascertain its status if you'd like."
"No, thank you, that won't be necessary."
"Very well. Is there anything else I can do for you, Miss Parker?"
"If there is I'll let you know. Good night," Parker said, brusquely, concluding the conversation, and fetching her fob.
Jarod was right.
This isn't random.
Raines knew this, whatever this is, was coming, and he tried to cover his ass. He dragged Sydney down with him.
I don't know the what.
Or the why.
But, by God, I know the where.
The farmhouse was a half hour's drive on a predawn morning when the only traffic was a pair of eighteen-wheelers.
Parker parked parallel to the property, lowered the car windows, and gazed drearily at four acres of poorly maintained grass and a shattered tree limb. The only indication that a structure had ever stood on the property were six crumbling chimneys dotting the land.
Parker curled her fingers into fists and shook her head slowly, dislodging unbidden tears of frustration and fear.
Surrendering to her emotions was, she knew, unprofessional and unproductive, irrational.
Weak.
I can't seriously be throwing a fucking early morning cry-fest in my car—like that's going to help!
I need to act quickly, find Sydney.
Now.
Parker wanted to do precisely that: drive, continue her search, do everything, anything, necessary to find Sydney, and she would have; the painful truth, however, struck a violent blow.
Parker didn't know how to find Sydney.
She didn't know where to begin, didn't know which direction to travel.
She refused to return home until she knew he was safe.
She felt much too unworthy to visit Sydney's home; she didn't feel strong enough to face Nicholas again without Sydney by her side. And by now Michelle's there, too.
She didn't want to return to the Centre and walk past Sydney's old office, and be reminded, yet again, that if he'd been there working, instead of alone in his home, he'd be safe.
This is my fault.
Mine.
Jarod has every right to accuse me, threaten me.
He should have done a helluva lot more than just threaten me.
He probably will.
I deserve whatever I have coming.
Parker was immobilized by crippling uncertainty.
The constant cache of infamous Parker strength was spent; ebony painted fingernails scraped the bottom, yielded emptiness.
She wept in earnest, wept for Sydney the way she had for Thomas and her mother, and wallowed in her own helplessness and the fragility of life, and the absolute fucking futility of life.
She was so lost in her own grief she almost didn't hear the discordant wails of another grief-stricken soul in the distance.
The cry more closely resembled an air raid siren than any sound typically attributed to animals and humans. Parker recognized the cry as a human one only because she'd heard it before, and rather frequently; it was an all too familiar sound inside the Centre.
With freshly shed tears still on her face, Parker withdrew the nine millimeter from its holster and stepped out of the car. Behind her, in the distance, something scurried into the brush, insects chirped. Ahead, amidst the chimneys, nothing moved.
As she advanced onto the property, the stench of decay reached her nostrils-- and only mere moments before the beating of insect wings, thousands of them, reached her ears.
A undulating blanket of flies concealed a body that was much too decayed to be the one she sought, the one she could still save. She followed a tell-tale trail of personal items, including reading glasses and an oxygen tank, that concluded at an old cistern shrouded in tall grass. With it's concrete cover pushed aside it appeared, at first glance, to be a human crouching or an animal stalking.
Parker crept forward slowly, and, holstering her weapon, illuminated the cistern's brick and mortar interior, a fraying rope ladder, steps of unknown sturdiness, a rope suspended from a grappling hook, and, of course, a surprise twist.
The rope, illuminated by a strobing red light of unknown origins, curved to the right approximately halfway down, indicative of a chasm. A secret passage seemed both probable and improbable. Jacob had been a Centre employee, and his hands were certainly soiled. Parker didn't want to believe that Sydney's brother had constructed a Centreesque passage to only God and Jacob knows where, and, via this route, took his dirty work home with him. Maybe the property records were incorrect and Jacob was never anywhere near this place.
Parker tested the structural integrity of the first step and grasped the rope, which, she believed, provided additional assurance that she wouldn't fall.
The steps, she discovered, were far more sturdy than the grappling hook, which loosened and slammed against the cistern with a soft thud, startling Parker. She lifted her eyes, observed the hook slip into the cistern's cavity, and extended a hand. She misjudged speed of descent but caught the rope nevertheless, preventing the hook's collision with the cistern's bottom.
Fears that she'd inadvertently announced her presence were immediately allayed by not-too distant shouting that easily concealed her movements.
Moments later, upon reaching a crumbling landing, and advancing slowly through a steel fortified entrance, Parker visually confirmed her suspicions. Jarod was attempting, and failing, to reason with an armed man, presumably a stranger.
Through an open door that dangled from rusted hinges Parker observed another individual slumped in some sort of reclining chair. Sydney.
Jarod's attention was evidently divided between the two men; every effort he made to gain access to the adjoining space, and to Sydney, was thwarted by a waving gun and an extended fist.
"Look," Jarod shouted in evident fear and frustration, "I don't know what you think he did to you, but if you let him die you'll be exactly the same monster you think he is. You'll be just like Raines."
The man roared his rebuttal at near-deafening decibels and hurtled forward. With gun in hand, he delivered four strikes to Jarod's head before Parker could even process the man's initial movements.
She reacted without thinking, reeling the length of rope through her fingers and launching the grappling hook through the air. Barbed tines ripped open a fraying cable sweater, abraded the length of the stranger's back. The man lifted his gaze skyward, and howled in rage, providing Jarod the opportunity to pluck the improvised weapon from the dirt floor, pitch himself backward, and try to recover from the assault.
The stranger's cried died abruptly; he spun around, poised to attack Parker. His eyes widened, filled with tears. "You," he accused.
"What about me," Parker said, her voice low and tight. She met Jarod's tense stare over the man's left shoulder, and slid her gaze, briefly, to the adjoining room. Jarod interpreted the signal, and cautiously rose to his feet.
"I remember you. You're-"
"Let me guess," Parker interrupted crisply, confidently. "Catherine Parker?"
"No," the stranger stammered. "No, no. No, she's your mother," he explained softly. "But I don't have to tell you that, obviously. Oh, oh, no, oh, god, no, no," he groaned mournfully, and with a head lowered in shame, dropped the gun gently into a bucket half-filled with what appeared to blood, "I apologize for that, for even being in possession of the thing. It was probably a major trigger for you, and now you're probably having intrusive memories, and I am so, so sorry. The trauma you've suffered is unimaginable, and the last thing I've ever wanted to do is hurt you. I didn't know you'd be here. I didn't even know you were still alive. How are you still alive?"
Parker stared, unblinking, at the man, and contemplated her answer. Jarod, in her peripheral, seemed marginally relieved. Only marginally. She didn't like the way his brow was knitted, or the exhaustion in his face, the grave expression he wore.
"I've been asking myself that question for decades," Parker answered truthfully. Honesty was, oddly, easier with strangers. "It's been difficult. And you?"
The man nodded sympathetically, and pushed his hands into his pockets. "It's been hell, and it's odd, really, because I wasn't supposed to remember any of their so-called therapies, or you, or what they did to you, and I wish I didn't remember. I still hear your screams echoing in the corridors, the corridors of my mind," he explained, stretching his hands wide, "and I can't get to you," the man whispered tearfully. "That last time was--- my, god."
"What?" Parker prompted impatiently, and casually removed a set of handcuffs from the leather case at her waist.
"Aversion therapy, brainwashing, drugs. Granted, aversion therapy can, and has, saved lives, but I'm quite certain that William Raines wasn't trying to save your life, after all, he kept increasing the Emetine dosage. I wanted to help you, but I couldn't. All I've ever wanted to do is help you. I tried to tell him about the long term effects. Have there been any?"
"No," Parker answered softly, certain the man was confused, deluded.
"Oh, okay. Right. Then, no myopathy or gastrointestinal issues? Are you certain? Esophagitis, esophageal tears, ulcers, strictures? No, no," he cried suddenly, and hastily retreated, and sank to his knees. He completely missed the flicker of uncertainty and betrayal in Parker's eyes. "I won't hurt her, Ray," he cried. "I will never hurt her. I've only ever wanted to help her."
"You can help me now," Parker said, offering him the handcuffs, "by putting these on."
"Yes, I should do that," he agreed somberly, observing her extended hand and accepting the handcuffs therein. He quickly closed a cuff around his right wrist, and struggled to the do the same with the left. "Could you, perhaps, lend a hand. Caution is well in order, but fear is not. I have quite an astonishing criminal history, but I've never harmed a woman."
Parker knelt beside the man, closed the cuff, and observed cautious eyes fill with relief.
"Thank you, Miss Parker," he said, gratefully. "It seems no one else understands me quite like you do. That doesn't surprise me. I've always felt a connection with you, even though we've never met. I know all about you, too. I survived because of you. You would talk to your mother when Raines locked you in the stall next to mine, have conversations with her memory or ghost, and comfort yourself. You had remarkable coping skills for a child so small, and, later, when you became an adult you still had these amazing resources. I told myself that if you could be brave I could be brave, too."
"You need to be brave again, and stay here," Parker said, sharply, and swiveled towards the adjoining room.
"How is," Parker began eagerly as she entered, and then fell silent, recoiled. Instinct nearly compelled her to retreat, return to the man that had abducted Sydney.
And put a bullet in the bastard's god damn brain.
She rushed to Sydney's side instead, leeches and blood splatters and this god-awful stench be absolutely damned.
"Nice timing," Jarod said, retrieving sterile dressing from a black duffel bag. "There's another way out of here, but we're going to have carry the stretcher more than half the way, and it's obviously extremely important that we don't jostle him."
Obviously. Parker stared in tearful disbelief at the rusty orbitoclast protruding from Sydney's swollen and bruised right eye. Oh, God, Sydney.
"Grab some gauze from my bag," Jarod instructed. "I need you to do the same thing to his uninjured eye, almost the same thing I'm doing over here. Three handfuls of gauze and tape. Don't press," he cautioned, half-observing Parker work, noting the expression of horror she wore when she finally glimpsed the doorway through which she'd entered, and realized that their side of the door had been painted to match the walls; any occupant would believe they'd been walled in, and escape was impossible.
Moments later, still tucking dressing around the orbitoclast, Jarod lauded, "That's perfect. Uh, he's conscious. You can talk to him. He'll hear you."
"Sydney, I'm here," Parker said, frowning at the two blood-stained nasogastric tubes that partially filled both of his nostrils, and then glimpsing the dozen tightened straps, a head immobilizer, hard restraints.
Restraints? Parker's eyes hardened in anger.
"You restrained him," Parker asked Jarod indignantly, and was surprised by the snark and spark she'd so easily summoned, surprised there was any left, surprised to find anything at all left of herself aside from the self-loathing and fucking wretchedness that unreservedly inhabited her, and that she feared always would.
"Had to," Jarod answered succinctly, and only then did Parker realize that Sydney was writhing. She instinctively clasped one of his blood splattered hands, attempted to comfort him just as he'd comforted her when she was a child.
"I'm sorry, but you know we can't remove it here," Jarod informed Sydney gently, retrieving more dressing, as well as tape, from the duffel. "He tried to earlier," Jarod explained to Parker.
"Sydney," Parker chided softly.
The psychiatrist reacted to the restraints and evident pain with rage. He shouted and cursed, startling both Parker and Jarod.
Parker opened her mouth to respond-- and then abruptly clamped her mouth closed.
"That isn't-- English or French," Parker murmured, both relieved and grateful that Sydney could speak at all, and, at the same time, heartily concerned that the words and language he spoke indicated serious brain trauma, impending death. "It's German," she added softly, strangling on tears. "He's asking to see his-" Parker attempted to continue, and failed; her voice dissolved into silence.
his mother
"I know," Jarod whispered thickly, blinking hard, struggling to concentrate, reject panic and fear. He forced himself not to contemplate the horrors he'd discovered in the recent hours, or the conversations that those discoveries warranted.
Questions only raised more questions; Jarod knew none of the answers; he wasn't even certain answers existed. He cast aside his emotions and thoughts-- and thoroughly comprehended the reasons Parker often chose to do the same.
Jarod worked in silence, and carefully secured the dressing.
"It's safe to transport him now," he announced, swinging his gaze at Parker, and suggesting softly, "Why don't you- uh, grab the other end. It's lighter."
Parker—still steadily gazing at Sydney's face—nodded resolutely, dislodging tears that she hastily pushed away with an index finger.
The impact of so small a gesture was, Jarod believed, profound and strangely terrifying.
He'd been attempting to maintain a physician's impeccable detachment, focus entirely on the objective—not on emotions, or the patient, or his personal relationship with the patient—just as Sydney had taught him to do.
He hadn't anticipated an assault on all emotional fronts, hadn't expected to feel so much for her still.
Jarod drew a sharp breath, observed as Parker quickly turned away, and grasped the opposite end of the stretcher.
Within those brief seconds Jarod hastily rearranged his features, composed himself, and was, once again, the epitome of competence and efficiency.
"We're going to get him through this," Jarod assured Parker-- and hoped he wasn't wrong.
