Work Text:
Parricide
Vril meets some of his siblings.
I.
The air hummed with electricity. There were hundreds of vats, rows upon rows with narrow walkways snaking along each level, each one of them a little taller than Vril and filled to the brim with a thick, light green liquid. The smell of disinfectant and sweet, coppery rot hung heavy in the air, filling his lungs and making his head spin. He tried to avoid looking directly at them. Looking too closely sometimes meant seeing irregular, dark chunks floating lazily through the liquid, as if caught in a slow current. On occasion he would even see the small bone fragments.
It seemed like his father delighted in sending him there for even the most minor of tasks. Even, or often especially, when just drawing near the door into the room made his heart race so fast he almost feared it might give out, pounding so loud in his ears he could barely even hear his father’s commands. Suffering had always seemed to thrill his father, but Vril was convinced he found it even more enrapturing when it was his own flesh and blood that was subjected to it. He put Vril in charge of monitoring the tanks, of emptying the failed ones, of studying the ones that allegedly showed potential. But most of these supposedly promising subjects where hardly worth studying. Their bodies were warped and deformed in any number of ways, a mix of limbs and skin and muscle that appeared to resemble a person only by chance, but Vril studied them as best he could. He took notes and photos and then he burned the bodies.
"You should have been one of them," his father said once. "Keeping you alive was a mistake, you dimwitted vermin." He’d gripped Vril’s shoulder, knuckles turning white as he pressed down so hard that Vril’s knees might have buckled beneath him. Time had erased Vril’s memory of whatever perceived slight that lead up to this particular lecture. It couldn’t have been anything serious though. His father rarely spoke when punishing him for serious infractions, his anger slipping away to reveal utter indifference. Those were the times when Vril feared for his life.
The Tyrants claimed that he’d been created to assist his father, and to keep him company, but they rarely spoke the truth. His father never yearned for company and could have built even more machines to do his work if he so desired, like he’d go on to do once he turned on the Tyrants. No, Vril knew his true purpose. Knew it every time he entered that room, every time he spent hours picking splintered glass out of his face, every time he spent weeks confined to his private quarters. He’d been created to be his father’s plaything, just like every other living being the man and his mechanic masters took captive. To be tortured and suffer until his father tired of him. Disposable.
Vril had looked at those vats, at the half-formed people within them, and he’d known that any of them could have been standing in his stead. Some of them probably had, but they had not been able to withstand it all. He would. He held on to that thought when his father left and the tyrants turned their wrath to him. It stayed with him throughout the subsequent hours and days and weeks, as they did all they could to break him. He bleed, screamed and cried, but he did not break. Eventually they grew tired of him, choosing instead to use him as a bargain chip to protect their own existence, sending him off to what they probably believed was a sure death. Just like all the others.
Vril did not die.
II.
There was someone behind him.
Vril rose from his chair and turned, drawing his sidearm in the same motion and aiming it in the direction of the presence. There, in the middle of his now open doorway, crouched a small woman. Their eyes met, unblinking. Then she shoot up off the floor, launching herself towards him with a shriek and bared teeth. Vril barely had time to aim before he fired his weapon. The blast grazed her shoulder and sent her staggering backwards. She quickly regained her footing and threw herself in his direction again. Her hands were curled up like claws, stretching out towards his throat. Another shot. This one hit the centre of her chest and she yowled at the impact. One of her hand clawed at her chest. Vril tried to step backwards, but the edge of his desk dug into his back. She reached out for him as he fired one more shot. It sent her crumbling to the floor at his feet.
The air stunk of burnt flesh and acrid copper. Vril hesitated for a moment, but when she remained motionless on the floor he knelt down beside her. There was no blood, but the three swollen, dark green welts on her torso showed where the energy blasts had hit her. The fabric of her shirt had been disintegrated by the heat and the skin beneath had started to detach from the lower layers, coming away in large, flakey sections to reveal the shiny, taut skin beneath. Vril grabbed her shoulder and turned her onto her side. Her eyes stared at him, unblinking, mouth half agape as if frozen mid speech. Parts of her face were bruised so dark they were almost black, but the rest of her skin was the exact same warm green as his own. For now, at least. That shade was all too familiar to him, though her short, red hair wasn’t. It wasn’t a naturally occurring trait in Coluans, and he couldn’t imagine that his father had bothered to make it one just for another one of his experiments. Perhaps it was a side effect of some other mutation, but Vril suspected that she owed that particular trait to a not fully Coluan nature.
“Father? What did you do?” Vril looked back up to the doorway and at Lyrl, who stood there with a look of disgust on his face as he looked between Vril and the woman on the floor.
“I dealt with an intruder,“ Vril said, patting the dead woman’s shoulder as if she was just an old friend he was catching up with. “It seems like dear old dad wanted to send a message.” Lyrl groaned and strode into the room, kneeling down by the woman’s other side. Grabbing both her shoulders he jerked her out of Vril’s grip and turned her back onto her back. The burns were starting to turn black and the shiny skin had split open in places, allowing dark green blood to ooze out and trail down her chest. Lyrl pressed two fingers into the side of her neck, then to her lips.
“Good job genius, your message is dead,” he muttered, glancing up at Vril. “Who is she? And what makes you so sure she had anything to do with him?”
“She’s clearly related to us, and I don’t see where else she could have come from.” Vril shrugged and looked down at his gloves. It was hard to tell if her blood had stained the black material, but it seemed to him like they were still spotless.
“What do you mean clearly? She barely even looks like you! And it’s not like we’re related to every other Coluan.” With a frustrated groan Lyrl pushed himself off the floor, making a show out of pulling off his gloves and brushing of his stark white coat with his now bare hands. “And even if she was related to us she wasn’t necessarily working for him. What if she was trying to escape him?”
“She attacked me, quite possibly in order to murder me. Even if she wasn’t working for him she didn’t have good intentions.”
“Sure, whatever, just call security so they can come get her before rigor mortis sets in.” Lyrl let out another irritated sigh before he turned on his heel and marched out of the room, leaving Vril alone with the woman again.
He looked back down at her. What parts of her face weren’t bruised had began to pale and her eyes had glazed over. There was a great level of resemblance there, in her strong nose and brows and those dark eyes, but Lyrl hadn’t been wrong, she didn’t exactly look like him. She didn’t even look fully Coluan. Vril had thought his father abandoned this particular line of experimentation when he left Colu, giving up on it in favour of his army of mechanical servants, but it appeared that he’d been wrong. Something had changed in his method though, that much was clear.
The room was starting to smell like death, so Vril stood up and paged security. As he stared down at the body he couldn’t help but notice how slight it was, short and thin and clearly not much older than Lyrl. And if his father had treated her like he’d treated him she could be even younger than that. He swallowed, feeling bile rise in his throat. She could be like him. Maybe their father had taken a surgical instrument to her brain too, plunged it deep into her eye socket and whisked it around just a little too long. That would explain the animalistic nature of her attack, though not how she made it this far into his headquarters.
Security rushed into the room and Vril shoved that train of thought to the far back of his mind. He gave the three officers a cold, joyless smile, allowing them to take in the scene before he cleared his throat and watched them snap to attention like marionettes on particularly tight strings.
“It seems like you need to look over your routines. Dispose of this one and see to that immediately.” One of the officers nodded, then they all grabbed the body and carried it out of the room. The door closed behind them with a soft wooshing noise. Vril walked around the perimeter of the room and leaned up against the back of his desk, staring out the windows in front of it. He’d have to rearrange the room, maybe install a new motion detector or two. But, most worrying of all, he’d have to take into account that his father now seemed to have gotten back into the business of creating offspring, which made him all that more of a problem. His father mostly kept his distance, too wrapped up in whatever reality he’d curated for himself to pay much mind to Vril, but it was impossible to say what he could convince a less rigid offspring to do. Vril dragged a hand across his neck, close to where her hand had almost brushed past him. He got lucky this time, but there was no room to make that same mistake again.
III.
Somehow, in the middle of the remains of his father’s ship, there was a small child. The entire ship reeked of metal and blood and the child was laid out on a table, stiff and pale skinned. Thick, mechanical tendrils wrapped around its ankles and feet, the skin around them bruised black. Vril didn’t need to touch it to confirm that his arrival had been far too late. Although Vril assured himself there was no way he could have known about any of this he could feel something like a stiff knot in his chest winding tighter as he approached the small shape. His father’s cruelty seemed never-ending, but he at least used to give his children some kind of chance.
Vril looked away for a moment and took a deep breath, making sure to push any actual feelings he might have been feeling to the back of his mind. It was dead, it wasn’t his fault and if it was his father’s it would have died eventually anyway. He turned back to the child.
A long, Y-shaped cut had been made along the its torso. The edges were torn and uneven, lacking the surgical precision and perfectionism Vril had come to associate with his father’s work. Each creature he’d killed on Colu, be it on purpose or accidentally, had been dissected with care, cut by precise cut. Here the cut was covered in dark green blood, small streams running down the child’s body and onto the table and floor around it. It looked woefully messy. Curiously enough the child appeared free from any old bruises or injuries and seemed to have been well-fed up until its passing. Someone had to have taken care of it, which Vril highly doubted that his father would be capable of under any circumstances. But he wasn’t the only one on the ship who could have done that.
From the ceiling of this room, as of every other room in the ship, hung large glass bottles, suspended in the air by thick tentacles that seemed to sprout out of the darkness above like cold, metallic vines. Vril began walking clockwise around the room, scanning each bottle as he passed them, and eventually continued into the next room, which was equally dark but empty save for the bottles and a few metal crates. The coppery smell was less noticeable in there, though just like the rest of his father’s ship the air was so cold that it made his skin crawl.
His eyes finally landed on one particular bottle, one that had been branded into his memory many years ago. It had been the first one, and the one that had eventually prompted the Tyrants to relieve his father of his so called duties. At that point it had just been an experiment to him, something novel to attempt when experimenting on wayward alien travellers wasn’t exciting enough any more. Before bottling cities became no less remarkable to him than dissecting a cadaver. In the beginning it had been kept on a pedestal in the middle of the lab, illuminated by a harsh growth light during the day and covered by a thick cloth at night. His father used to point at it and tell Vril he was lucky he wasn’t down there with them. It had clearly lost its venerated position since then, or else he would not have found it in some half-forgotten storage room.
Of course, its position mattered far less now that it laid smashed on the ground, surrounded by shards of glass taller than any of the once towering buildings inside. Vril bent down to get a closer look at it, but in the dim light he couldn’t see much of anything aside from tiny rubble. A disappointing turn of events for sure, but not a surprising one. It did muddle the child’s origin to some degree, though it was possible that the bottle had only been destroyed after the boy’s removal. Perhaps his father had smashed it to eliminate any potential witnesses. No, Vril corrected himself, his father would never let such a precious object go to waste. It must have been an accident or caused by someone else.
Vril re-entered the first room and approached the edge of the table again. Any two Coluans never really aged the same way, but the child looked very young, as if it had barely grown into its teeth yet. It was undressed and one of its tiny fists was balled up next to it’s head, a few strands of light blond hair still clutched in its grasp. The rest of its hair was matted with blood. Its eyes were closed, face contorted in an open-mouthed grimace. Vril hadn’t seen many infants in his time on Colu and had never been that age himself, but the child didn’t look much different than Lyrl had done at that age. There wasn’t much to speak of in terms of facial features yet, but he thought he could discern a hint of the angular features and strong nose of his father. And it would be unlike his father cause pain to a child he wasn’t related to, he thought, gritting his teeth.
Vril shook his head and sighed deeply. As much as he wanted to wrap his hands around his repugnant father’s throat he was long gone, having left behind only his ship and what remained of this child. And the bottles, though Vril was sure he’d return for those. The child was just another casualty in his footsteps. Vril thought he was probably supposed to feel sad for it, but he pushed that back too. It would be profoundly unproductive to feel sad for, even mourn, a child he had not even been aware of a day earlier and shared nothing but some genetic traits and an awful father with.
Straightening himself Vril took one last look at the child. This was lantern territory, they’d show up eventually and he was not about to be accused of kidnapping or child murder in his father’s stead. So he turned and walked out of the ship, feeling at least a little lighter as he breathed in the fresh air outside. If he was to follow his father he’d better get back onto his track, no matter what he decided to throw at him.
IV.
At this rate Vril was all but convinced that his life would end with fratricide. Not necessarily right at that moment, considering that the lithe woman in front of him was holding on to her gun like it was a lifeline, her hands shaking as she struggled to keep it on target. He doubted she’d hit him if she fired it, but she at least seemed prepared to do so. Her poor weapon discipline aside, this was the second incursion into his headquarters in recent memory and there was little doubt in his mind that this one was also related to his father. Just like the previous intruder this one was young, probably not a lot older than the last one, but unlike that one she bore an undeniable resemblance to both him and his father. A strong face, dark eyes and blonde hair, though hers was long enough to be pulled up into a high ponytail.
"Who did you say you were again?" he asked, trying to sound nonchalant as he moved one hand to rest on the force field generator on his belt. At least security attempted to do their job this time, having detected this woman in one of the hangars instead of not at all, but they clearly weren’t keeping a close enough eye on the transports.
"My name is Techne, I'm the daughter of Brainiac." Vril smiled, or at least separated his lips far enough to reveal sharp premolars.
"I see. And what are you doing here?" Her expression faltered briefly, as if she hadn’t thought this far ahead yet. She’d been spotted on a camera as she exited a freighter in one of the lower hangars, but her movements from there on out had been sporadic, wandering aimlessly throughout the mostly automated and unmarked facility until Vril caught up to her.
“I am looking for my father.”
“Well, he’s not here. And you should holster your weapon, the security system will take care of you long before you pull the trigger.”
Techne’s eyes darted around the room. He could probably have take her out right then and there, he could have leaped across the space between then and knocked her to the ground in seconds, but Vril remained in place. She was a curious being, quite unlike any of his father’s other creations. Save perhaps for himself.
She lowered her weapon, but still held onto it with white knuckled hands.
“I was told he’d be. I have a very trustworthy contact who told me that you people had brought him into custody,” she said.
“That much is true, but we agreed to transfer him to a holding facility on Colu, which he subsequently escaped.” Vril was surprised that she hadn’t gotten the entire story from her so called contact, he had after all only called in the news media after his father’s escape. His capture had been a far more hushed affair.
“Where is he now?”
“How am I to know? Our dear father isn’t one to keep in touch.” She froze, her eyes wide. He’d assumed she would have known, it was hard not to when half the universe appeared intent on calling him by his father’s title.
“Our?”
“He is my dad too. Surely you see the resemblance,” Vril said, raising an eyebrow. Techne looked at him intently and frowned.
“I- Yes, I suppose I do. He never mentioned you.”
“I wouldn’t expect him to, I’ve never been one of his most treasured creations.” She let go of the gun with one hand, letting it dangle at her side. Vril could hear heavy footsteps in the hallway outside, steadily drumming against the floor. “You ought to leave, my security team are assembling outside and if they actually follow their instructions for once they will not let you leave without a fight.”
“And you’re just going to let me go?” She raised an eyebrow. “But you’re not going to tell them to leave?”
“They don’t need conflicting instructions, but you don’t seem like a threat to me.” At least not yet. She was after all their father’s daughter and it would be careless to discount her entirely, in particular when she’d already breached his defences once. “Go back the way you came, take the first door on the left, climb down and open the hatch you’ll find there. I’ll make sure it’ll lead you outside.”
“And how do I know I can trust you?”
“You don’t, but I would say the alternative is worse.”
“Right.”
“Good luck with the patricide, do notify me if you succeed. And make sure to burn ever drive that bastard could have backed himself up to as well.”
“Yeah, sure, I’ll try.” She inched away, eyeing both the door behind him and the one she’d entered through. Vril watched her leave, mentally noting that he’d have to have another long discussion with his security chiefs about both the importance of securing incoming freighters and response times. One day his father might actually produce something that could surpass him and he would appreciate it if he’d survive that encounter.
Not that he was too worried. For as much as his family seemed to want each other dead they rarely succeeded in that endeavour, as he himself had found when he’d tried to track down and kill his dad. He was sure death laid in front of him, as it did for most people, but he was sure it’d be far more notable than simple parricide.
He was right.