Pretty CAPableChapter 13: First free porn video

"A.I., we're about a minute out," Sergeant Mike "Hammer" Hammerton said softly. He had always been a big man even before the standard Confederacy Marine package; now, though, what had once been muscle with a burgeoning over-layer of fat was nothing more than taut, bulging, sinewy muscle. Of course, everyone around him was basically the same thanks to that Marine package; the aliens that had dragged humanity kicking and screaming into space had some wonderful tech in their arsenal not the least of which was the ability to completely reform a human body. The alien Darjee had microscopic robots that humanity called 'nanites' – no telling what the Darjee called them – which could be used for construction and re-construction of damn near anything ... including a man's body. It made bulging walls of pure muscle out of the Marine recruits ... and could turn even the most butt-ugly concubine into a super-model. Maybe even more importantly, it could heal almost anything.

Of course, the Marines all looked alike because that's how the Confederacy wanted them. Command preferred the Marines to all have the same basic body shape; it made it easy for a one-size-fits-all selection of active armor. To accommodate that, all Marines were augmented to stand about 2 meters tall and outfitted with humongous, bulging muscles. They also did some spit shine on the nerves to give the Marine's fast-as-shit reaction times. All in all, it made for a pretty lean, mean, fighting machine. Confederacy medicine was a magical thing. "I've got the target building locked. Should we plan a breach or teleport directly into ... the fuck?"

"A.I., I'm picking up a small detonation inside... ," the Sergeant started. "Fuck me up the ass with a paddle – I've one ... no two ... no ... multiple explosions at points north, south ... hell, the whole place is fucking blowing up. A.I., who the hell is this MAID? A fucking demolitions expert?"

"No, the subject is..."

"A.I., that fucking place is gonna be a crater!" Hammer interrupted. "I've got significant structural damage. There goes the roof. The roof is collapsing. A.I., I can't take my men in there, it's too..."

"Stand down, Sergeant. Return to your previous duties."

"What about the MAID? Is he terminated?"

"No. The subject appears to be alive. For now. However, I have two local law enforcement vehicles in-bound. I estimate they will reach the building in 65 seconds. We are not authorized to engage civilian authorities. Stand down."

"Acknowledged," Hammer replied. "We're buggin' out." He looked at the monitor, amazed at what little remained of the building he'd been watching. "Good luck, whoever you are. I hope you make it out."

"Sarge," Private Chad Tarkin spoke up, his voice more a question than a statement.

"What is it, Tarkin?"

"Uh – you called the subject a maid but then said it was a 'he'. What gives?"

"Maid is an acronym, Private," the Sarge said as the ship turned around. "It stands for 'Military Asset, Interest Delayed'. It's a term HQ uses for a high value, high CAP individual who they are not yet ready to extract." He nodded his head at the monitor which still showed the smoking crater that had once been a building. "The poor bastard in there was one of those."

"You must wake up."

Calix was dreaming. At least, he thought he was dreaming. It was kind of hard to tell. He seemed to be moving in and out of reality. One moment, it seemed he was lucid and the next he'd be lying, smoke and dust hanging in the air like some angry cloud, with bricks and rocks and plaster falling all around. All things considered, he didn't like the dream. It seemed like more of a nightmare.

"Calix, it is imperative that you begin moving. There is a fire and your armor will not provide significant protection."

"Maybe later, Dad," Calix replied groggily. At least, he thought he said it. It seemed like something he'd say. His mouth wasn't working quite right, though; his tongue seemed to be too big – or moving too slowly – or something. Of course, he had just woken up from a sound sleep so he was surprised he could talk at all.

He wondered if his Dad would let him skip school today. He was so tired; much too tired to go to school. Maybe he could pretend to be sick. Playing hooky for one day wouldn't hurt him; he got good grades. Yeah, just one day; maybe his Dad wouldn't even mind. He opened his eyes to tell his Dad he was sick – and fell into one of those chaos nightmares again.

Only, it didn't feel like it was a dream anymore. It felt real; the pain felt real. It was so difficult to tell. Even through the pain there was a dream-like quality to it. A magical cloud of pixie dust hung in the air, obscuring the sharp details of everything. Light was strange; it flickered in and out and reflected strangely off the settling dust. Nothing seemed solid; nothing seemed real. Everything seemed to be out-of-focus; like he was looking at the world through the bottom of a pop bottle. Yet, as time went on, he began to think he'd had things backwards. He began to think that the peace he'd felt was the dream and this nightmare was the reality.

He began to pray he was wrong.

The light was flickering like a candle and it reflected off clouds of dust and dirt and soot billowing around, making the oddest shapes seem real. That ominous cloud hovered and swayed, billowing in and out like a living thing. The light cast long and uneven upon it, giving it shadows of form and substance. The dust wallowed and swelled, like an angry dragon puffing up for one final breath – or maybe a butterfly. A beautiful butterfly that flapped its wings and landed...

Calix's eyes opened again. Where was he? He remembered a butterfly; where had it gone? Why was the world so messed up; it looked like a bomb had gone off in here. Man, his Mom was going to be mad when she woke up. She was always yelling for him and the M & Ms – Mia and Mira – to clean up after themselves. Well, there wasn't anything he could do about this mess. She'd have to get Mia and Mira to ... Mia and Mira...

... were gone. Where had they gone? They had left and he hadn't seen them in a while but that was strange because he had the bedroom right next to theirs and he should remember seeing them for breakfast or something or maybe when he would come downstairs and watch cartoons or even outside because they liked to play in the yard with their dolls having picnics and teas and ... and ... why couldn't he remember?

"Calix. You are in dire peril. You must awaken."

Calix opened his eyes. He felt hung over – which didn't make sense. He didn't drink. Not after that one time when Rico had let him have that bottle of tequila. He remembered being sick for two days afterwards – and Rico just laughed at him. Rico didn't coddle him; his cousin had said if he were old enough to drink, he was old enough to suffer the consequences.

So, if he wasn't drunk or hung-over ... what was he? He took stock – or tried to. His thoughts kept wandering off in millions of directions. He tried to focus but it hurt too much. He had a monster headache; it felt like someone was pounding hammers on his skull. What had he been doing?

Better yet, where was he? How had he gotten here? It took forever for his eyes to focus but when they did, something seemed wrong. It was as if he were out of place; as if everything was out of focus and he lacked a reference to understand it.

Finally, his eyes focused in front of him. He was looking at the rusted brown of a steel beam; it was lying in front of him not more than a meter away. That certainly didn't look right; nor did its angle. It was crooked. Bent. And it was lying strangely, the bit at his head higher than the bit at his feet. Plus, it wasn't all rusted; there was gray powder of some kind on it. It looked like there was also some sheeting or broken wood attached to it. He just couldn't make sense out of it. His mind refused to focus; to make sense out of any of this.

"It appears you've regained consciousness."

The voice was a loud whisper in his ear but it brought into stark relief all of the other sounds around him; sounds that had seemed quiet until just then. There were things smashing, he could hear them. Falling ... then smashing. A dense crackling. It sounded like – flames? Why would there be Flames?

As his head started to catch up, he realized that the voice had sounded familiar. For the life of him, he couldn't place it though. There was a name associated with that voice. A name he just couldn't seem to pull out of his head. It was a simple name but it meant something else. A voice from on-high? What? The name – it began with an 'H'. Harry? Henry?? No...

"Hermes?" Calix asked, having trouble speaking. "Where am I, Hermes?"

"You are in what is left of an industrial building; an abandoned canning factory. It has collapsed around you and parts of it are currently burning. You must exit quickly."

Calix tried moving but it was too hard and too painful. He managed to rise a few inches before falling back, pains shooting through his chest, his legs, his stomach. His head was the worst, though. Not only did it feel like something was hammering on it – to get in or get out, he wasn't certain which – but just moving it that slight distance set everything around him spinning. He didn't want to move anymore. "I can't. It hurts."

"Calix, I estimate that if you do not exit the building within the next 3 minutes you will die. The roof just above you is burning and will soon split and fall. You must exit. Now."

Calix pulled his left arm from under him – and a scream was yanked from his lungs. The pain was incredible. How the hell had he gotten hurt? What had he done? How had he gotten here?

He fell back for a moment, trying to catch his breath; trying to find the strength to move. The extreme pain helped clear the fog from his head. The madness around him was real. He had been chasing ... someone. Cannery? Is that what Hermes had said? Cannery – sounded familiar. He knew something about the cannery. Someone was supposed to be there. Someone he wanted desperately to get to. Who was it? Why would his mind not fully focus??

He tried pushing his mind towards that word. Cannery. It hurt to concentrate, though. It hurt to think. Still; he had to try. Maybe if he could figure it out, he could figure out a way to get out of moving. Cannery ... cannery ... cannery...

The cannery. The Cholos. Tomas.

"H-h-how did this happen, Hermes?" Cal asked, struggling to crawl. His memory came to him like a dark angel from a blackened pit. It oozed towards him, filling him with this nightmare, coiling itself around him. He didn't want to remember; he wanted to forget – to sleep and forget – but the memories came quickly now, unbidden.

Slowly, tortuously, he was forced to remember everything. To relive it in the blink of an eye. He was forced to face the catastrophe that the cannery had become – and that may yet take his life.

He looked at the beam in front of him and realized it must have come from the roof. His little grenade shouldn't have collapsed the roof – the grenade didn't have that much explosive capacity. Sure, when he dropped over the edge at the end he'd noticed that all the doors and windows had been closed off by some kind of rolling steel security doors – the kind that shops used to secure their stores at night – but he hadn't considered that it would make the room a pressure chamber. At the time, all he had thought about was that Tomas must have shut them automatically when he'd set off the EMP; shutting the metal doors shut off the lights. Even enclosed and with static pressure the grenade shouldn't have caused this much damage, though. "The-the-the g-g-grenade shouldn't have d-d-done this much damage."

"The grenade's concussive force was not sufficient to cause this damage, true. It appears Tomas David Garza had rigged a failsafe; you would call it a 'dead man's switch'. When the grenade killed him, the switch was released and detonated various chemical explosives around the building. It appears he did not intend you to out-live him."

"Oh." Calix moved another meter but every single centimeter was paid for in pain. He was so tired and hurting so much. He was no longer sure he wanted to get out. He collapsed, closing his eyes. "I–I–I need to r-r-rest."

"No. You must not stop. You are currently suffering from sepsis and a concussion. If you allow yourself to stop, you are unlikely to start again."

Cal groaned but opened his eyes and pulled himself forward again. His legs were scrabbling behind him but they weren't pushing very hard; it was as if he had no strength in them. Why was he so weak? Why was he so cold?

His left arm slipped, stretching out far in front of him and during the stretch, his left side exploded in vicious, fiery pain. Calix screamed again. It reminded him. He had been stabbed. By a force blade. In the left side.

"Hermes. R-r-remember your p-p-promise," Calix hissed through gritted teeth. "I'm – I'm not gonna make it, I don't think. I-I-I was stabbed. In the side."

"Yes. I managed to stem the bleeding but there is significant damage to your left kidney, a small part of your intestine and your stomach. Your body is currently being saturated by toxins seeping into your blood due to those injuries. You require immediate medical attention. The local fire response team includes emergency medical technicians. You must make it outside."

Calix never even questioned how Hermes managed to stop the bleeding; it never even occurred to him. His only worry at the moment was whether he would survive this or not.

"Not–not–not sure-sure I c-c-can," Calix muttered, crawling to the hard concrete edge of the pit; it looked much worse for wear, cracked and crumbling. He pulled himself to a sitting position, screaming yet again as he pulled against his damaged side. It took him three times to get his leg beneath him, screaming each time. The pain was incredible and he was starting to scream himself hoarse.

Finally, he pushed with his legs ... but they were weak, so weak. He teetered, his body barely above the edge of the landing. He grabbed with his right arm, reaching for a rather large piece of what had once been a wall or ceiling or something and tried to pull – but all he could feel was pain and he couldn't be sure he was making any headway. He tried pushing with his legs but they were jelly; there was nothing left in them. He was exhausted, his head hurt, his body hurt and he looked down to see blood seeping out of his side again. For a second, he giggled wondering how many band aids it would take to patch him up. As he teetered forward, half on and half off the landing, he thought he saw his Mom coming, holding band aids, ready to kiss it better. He tried to tell her to stop, to stay away, that if she came any closer she was going to get naked and be screwing a whole bunch of men and women ... but he couldn't bring himself to speak as darkness finally claimed him.

Darkness. Calix found comfort in darkness; he always had. The darkness allowed him to work. It kept him out of sight. It kept eyes from prying. It kept him safe and secure. He owned the darkness; it was his.

He floated in it, reveled in it. He could never understand how others could fear the darkness; how they could fear the unknown. To him, the darkness was a friend; a companion. He let her enter him and she kept him warm and safe. Darkness was simplicity; it allowed his mind to think, to overcome. He never understood those who strove toward the light; light was chaos. He preferred the wholeness of the dark.

It seemed ages before he became aware of more than darkness. As he rose towards consciousness, he mourned the loss of his best friend. Darkness understood him but he knew it was not yet time to embrace that simplicity. It was with a heavy heart that he released the void from his hands and allowed himself to be carried upward.

Even before his eyes opened, he heard the soft beeping from beside him. His mind was muddled but he knew the sound was familiar. He'd heard it before. He just couldn't place it. He knew it was measuring something but what it was measuring was elusive and ephemeral; his mind couldn't – wouldn't – grasp it.

He allowed his eyes to drift, neither commanding them to open or to remain closed. He let them flutter but they didn't open. There was bright, chaotic light on the outside. It glared, stinging his eyeballs and causing more pain. He pulled back, reached for his friend yet again. He pulled himself down, lower and lower; he was uncertain he was ready to face that harsh light. Besides, he was comfortable in the darkness. He felt he should probably stay there.

Calix woke again. This time, he tried to open eyes but was unable to. There were cracks in places but it was almost as if his eyes were taped shut. Irritated, he tried to lift his right hand to rub at his eyes – but his wrist stopped suddenly with a rather loud 'chink' sound before it could come near his face. He winced at the pain; something was cutting into his arm when he pulled. Frowning, he tentatively pulled a few more times but his hand never came free. Instead, he was treated to that same 'chink' sound. It sounded like metal on metal.

He slowly lifted his left arm in minute increments, waiting for that damned sound to impede his progress. It didn't. His left hand was free, then. Cautiously, as if it would betray him at any minute and stop moving, he lifted his hand to his eyes and rubbed. Eye boogers. He needed to rub again before they were gone.

He opened his eyes wide; at first, everything was blurry but a few blinks brought the room into focus. He blinked again. The room wasn't what he expected.

A light blue room with a white ceiling; there were light wood accents, a chair rail, the wainscoting and floor-boards were all made of the blonde, finished wood. To his right was a faux-window with an outdoor scene painted behind it and dark blue drapes surrounding it. Two doors led from the room, both on the left wall; the one nearest him had a small, grilled security window that looked out into a hall. The one down past the foot of the bed seemed to go to a bathroom, though it was too dark to tell for certain.

There could be only one explanation. He'd been hurt, maybe dying the last time he could recall; add to that the sickeningly sweet smell of disinfectant that hung in the air around him, the low but constant beeping of the monitor situated next to him, the uncomfortable blue gown he was wearing and the white sheets stretched halfway up his body and he ended up with a single word: hospital. Evidently, he hadn't died in the cannery explosion. He'd lived and someone had brought him to the hospital.

Either that, or the afterlife was one really messed up place.

He wanted to get up but the handcuff holding his arm to the bed rail stopped him. He shook it a bit to see how tight it was; it wasn't going to be easy to remove. He searched for a moment for any kind of small metal he could use for a lock pick but there was nothing. Letting himself sag back against the bed, he tried not to get too discouraged; he'd just have to bide his time.

"Well, honey, looks like you've finally woken up!" The voice was entirely too cheery and the nurse behind the voice entirely too happy. For some inexplicable reason, it irritated Calix. Of course it was easy for her to be cheery, she wasn't cuffed to this damn bed.

Calix looked over at the rather large, imposing black woman. She had skin the color of milk chocolate and a rounded face that epitomized the word jolly. He couldn't see her hair because of a cap around her head but she seemed older, maybe 30's or 40's. Her face wasn't the only thing rounded; she was over-weight and thick. When she turned to grab the clip board from the base of his bed, Calix had to admit there was one advantage to a bigger woman; her tush was nicely rounded.

Then he blushed at his silent observation. Where the hell had that come from?

"How am I doing?" He asked, his voice nothing more than a rasping squeak. It sounded like he'd chewed up a metal whistle at some point. Thinking back on it, he couldn't be sure he hadn't.

"Well, I think you're doing fine but we'll let the doctor take a look at you," the nurse replied. Still too cheery; as if she hadn't a care in the world and he shouldn't either. It was quickly moving from irritating to downright annoying. "Meanwhile, why don't I give you some ice chips for that throat."

"Is he coming?" Calix asked as he chewed on the ice chips the nurse spooned into his mouth.

"Is who coming, sweetie?" The nurse looked curious but she still held that smile. Cal couldn't help but wonder if her cheeks hurt after hours of smiling like that. He could imagine it would get quite painful.

"The doctor," Cal replied around the slight mouthful of ice chips.

"Of course, honey," the nurse smiled. "You know them doctors, though; busy, busy, busy. He'll be right along as quick as he can."

'As quick as he can' turned out to be nearly an hour later. By that time, Cal was almost ready to climb the walls. He'd tried slipping his hand out of the cuff twice, traced the rail his hand was cuffed to – noting that the screws must be hidden under a long plastic cover that ran along the bed where the rail attached – twice, searched for anything to pick the lock on the cuffs four times and even counted the white tiles in the ceiling at least five times – twice by multiplying rows and columns, taking into account where the room was uneven, and three times by physically counting the tiles. There was a television mounted on the ceiling and the remote control was laying on the night stand on his right but that had only lasted about 3 minutes; Cal had never acquired the habit of watching the mindless drivel on television. He preferred movies and his channel selection was inconveniently absent of any channels showing movies. He had taken to yanking on the cuffs in an interesting but bored attempt to determine which would break first – his wrist, the handcuff, or the railing; his money was on his wrist – when the doctor finally came in.

"Well, good morning," the doctor greeted him cheerfully. Calix's numb mind started to wonder if everyone in the hospital was cheery and if the administration had put some additive into the water to make its employees feel that way. "I'm Doctor Jackson. How are you doing?"

Calix looked at the doctor drily. "Isn't that what you're supposed to tell me?"

"Hah!" the doctor chuckled as he looked at Cal's chart. The doctor was a short, thin black man with a square-ish, clean-shaven face. His brown eyes were covered by thin gold glass frames. "I'm just here because Doctor Philmore, the surgeon who patched you up, is missing his watch and I want to make sure he didn't leave it in you!" The man laid the clip board on the bed and eased the white covers down. He then lifted the hem of the gown and peered under the rather small bandage. "Well, I don't see his watch."

He pressed down on Cal's stomach in several places. "Any pain when I press here?"

"Not pain," Cal replied. "It's a bit tender around the wound."

"That's to be expected," Doc Jackson replied, replacing Cal's coverings. "You're lucky, an inch in any other direction and you'd probably not be here right now. As it is, you had sharp trauma to your kidney, small intestine and stomach. All of these organs are filled with toxins which aid in things like digestion and the body's waste management system. Since the organs were opened, even though the wound itself was small, it allowed those toxins to leak into your blood. We're only talking small amounts but even small amounts can cause a lot of damage. We're countering them with a powerful broad-range anti-biotic treatment that you'll need to continue for the next week to 10 days."

"You originally presented with a concussion," the doctor continued. "However, we did an MRI and EEG and both came back normal. You were out with a high fever for the past two days, though, so we're going to keep you at least one more for observation. However, you should be out of the hospital by late afternoon tomorrow. Any other questions?"

Calix thought for a moment. "Any chance of getting these cuffs removed?"

"Well, I think you're going to have to ask your next two visitors about that," Doc Jackson smiled wryly. "We had to notify them when you woke up. I'll let them know you're okay for visitors."

A few minutes later, two obviously plain clothes police officers entered the room. The man was fairly large but was obviously on the wrong side of 40. His salt-and-pepper hair was almost completely gray and he had obvious wrinkles around his hard brown eyes and thin-lipped mouth. He was dressed in a brown, wool sports coat with darker pants; his tan shirt was stretched tight around his slightly bulging middle.

The second officer was a much younger woman, maybe early- to mid-20's. She was dressed in a no-nonsense, dark blue pant suit with a light blue blouse with only a single button undone and she kept her light brown hair in a rather severe bun. None of that could quite hide her beauty, however, and Calix had to wonder why she was trying to hide her beauty anyway. She had a classic, angular face with high cheekbones and stunning blue-grey eyes, a nose slightly too long for her face and plush lips she'd used make-up to make look thinner than they were.

Julia Feinstein wasn't used to the penetrating look she received from the young man on the bed. It felt as if he was almost looking straight through her and seeing her soul laid bare. It was uncomfortable and yet fascinating. Unconsciously, she straightened her jacket.

"I'm Detective Gustav," the man rasped in greeting. His voice was much like the rest of him – big, booming and over-weight. "This is my partner, Detective Feinstein. We'd like to ask you a few questions."

"I seem to be a captive audience," Calix said drily, his lips thinning tightly as he lifted his right arm and gave three good yanks. Chink-chink-chink.

"Yeah, sorry about that," Julia said with a small smile, pulling a small notebook and pen from her breast pocket. Inside, she was a little ticked off. As the senior detective, Gustav had pushed 'good cop' off on her while he got to play 'bad cop'. It wasn't that she honestly cared one way or the other – she just wanted the choice. There were times, like now, when she hated the 'good old boy' network. "We couldn't have you walking away. You're the only witness we have."

Calix raised his eyebrows. "I wasn't aware the Detroit Police Department was in the habit of detaining witnesses," he said with mild disbelief – and maybe more than a touch of sarcasm.

Julia's eyes narrowed just a bit as she worked to counter the leading edge of her irritation. The truth, of course, was that the kid in front of her was more than just a witness but she couldn't come right out and tell him he was a suspect; it would completely ruin the rapport she was trying to build. She expected him to be defensive – it was normal, after all – and the sarcasm he was using certainly played into that. It was something that would allow her to show empathy if she played it right.

"Well, we don't usually have a witness to the vandalized explosive destruction and arson of a building," she laughed while studying him shrewdly. There was the faintest loosening around his eyes and his body relaxed ever so slightly. She could tell he was still defensive but seemed accepting of her explanation.

"Now, if you don't mind, I have to tape this to make sure we have all the facts," she said with a smile as she turned on her recorder. She looked around for a moment at a place to lay it down but finally just held it in her hand.

Calix looked at the recorder, his eyes narrowing, then up at the woman. His lips pinched a bit as he assessed her; she was an attractive woman in a severe kind of way. She was on the tall side, maybe 5'8" or 5'9", but she seemed almost ridiculously thin with a small frame; she seemed athletic, though, instead of malnourished. Tawny hair pulled up and back from her rather long, though striking, face; she had a rather sharp if diminutive nose that actually complemented her soft, oval face by providing a counterpoint to it.

She also had soft, brown eyes that were watching him shrewdly. He needed to stay guarded and alert right now; he had the uncomfortable impression that she was reading him like an open book.

"Is your name Calix Flynn Gebel, son of Staff Sergeant David Raymond Gebel and PFC Francis Karen Beauford, born on August 29th,..." Julia started, but Calix interrupted her.

"Yes," the young man interrupted impatiently. "You've done your homework. You're talking to the right person."

"Good," Julia smiled. Calix didn't miss that the smile never touched her eyes. "I'm glad we cleared that up." She pointedly looked down at the notebook in her hand. "We have here that your step-mom is missing, is that right?"

Calix rolled his eyes in irritation. "My step-mom was picked up by a Confederacy extraction crew about 2 and a half years ago. She took my twin half-sisters, Mia and Mira, when she went."

"Excellent," Julia grinned, pointedly laying the recorder down on Calix's bed while writing a small note in her notebook. "So, Cal – is it okay if I call you Cal?" She went on without giving him time to answer. "So, Cal; where have you been living since your Mom left you all alone?"