CHAPTER 40: A BIT CRASS | PHILTERWORKS—II

  COMMONWEALTH INDUSTRIAL PARK—NOVEMBER 20th, 1992 | EARLY EVENING

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  Leroy watched Emilio unloop a sigil-marked key from his belt loop and twist it into a large opening along the reinforced steel doors.

  He felt eyes on him; several pairs of them. Leroy had the sensibility to know that these guards were hesitant to do anything to him, but that hesitation could quickly catch fire and turn into panic. With panic came recklessness, and from recklessness came stupid decisions. Emilio twisted the key into place and a resounding hum squealed out from the sigils that stained the metal doors. He

  With a heave, Emilio grabbed hold of the door handles and pulled, re-attaching the key to his belt loop.

  “Right this way, Mr. Waters,” Emilio said.

  Leroy squinted. “You first. You can give me that tour I’m owed.”

  Once those doors were closed, there was only one way he’d get out, and Leroy wasn’t about to step inside without some sort of insurance. Emilio had the key, and if he was truly representing Bluestein Philterwork’s interests, the guy probably had half the mind to lock Leroy inside and throw away the only thing that could get him out.

  Emilio nodded, slowly, with an aging face that carried traces of irritation on it. Leroy paced over to him and rested a hand on his shoulder, and nodded forward. James, the guard who’d shown him the door, mentioned they were on the basement level of the processing plant. What awaited them was more akin to an underground warehouse.

  Above was a tall ceiling supported by a patchwork of steel beams, and the area was long enough that Leroy couldn’t even see the far end of the wall—only shadows. What he could see was rows of large metal vats connected to the walls, with tubes and fixtures that funneled alchemical liquids from melting furnaces into cooling beds.

  A noxious smell filled Leroy’s nostrils, though it was distinct from the mixture of alchemical scents that Leroy picked up while walking through the main facility.

  A handful of workers tended to the area, taking notes and examining the quality of whatever was being produced. They all wore the same gray, logo-bearing jumpsuits as those stationed in the main processing plant, with cloth masks to boot.

  Heat washed over Leroy’s features as soon as he entered, and he could already feel sweat forming beneath his jacket and along his face.

  If there was ventilation here, it was piss-poor. Not good. If shit hit the fan, he doubted how useful Yaerzul’s brand would be. Leroy shook his head in quiet disbelief, and thought of the big lecture he’d given Cameron on the final stretch of their trek through the Pines; a whole load of mumbo jumbo about how his underarbiter had to learn to be useful without using his abilities. Now there was a chance Leroy would have to follow up those words and lead by example.

  “Wait by the door, please,” Emilio said, nodding towards his entourage of four armed guards.

  Emilio gestured for Leroy to continue down along the steps from the platform, which lead directly to the working space he’d just beared witness to.

  Leroy unzipped his leather jacket. “Hot in here.”

  The P89 tucked into his half-harness brushed up against his rib, and he primed his dominant hand by his side, subtly curling his fingers in case he’d need to quickly grab hold of it.

  “Indeed,” Emilio noted, and came to a sudden halt along the funnels containing a scorching alchemical compound. He glanced towards a few of the workers making their observations. “Give us the floor, please.”

  They all made for the stairwell attached to the platform, and passed the armed guards on their way out of the underground facility. Leroy kept his gaze steeled forward, and didn’t allow his attention to leave Emilio. He was a meek man, made slimmer by the lab coat he wore over his navy-blue suit. Quiet contemplation plagued his features. He opened his mouth, closed it, and opened it again, clasping both arms behind his back.

  “It is not a name we chose, and it seems a bit.. crass if you ask me,” Emilio mumbled.

  Leroy followed his gaze. A subtle blue glow emerged from the funnels, and that all but confirmed it. “Ether.”

  Emilio glanced up towards reinforced steel doors. Leroy didn’t turn back to look, but he heard them slam shut, and the low hum of the sigilmasonry reactivating. “A term coined by Mr. Velvet, if I had to guess.”

  “So, that’s it? Mask off? Show’s over?” Leroy asked. His finger twitched inadvertently, and he fought the urge to reach for his gun prematurely.

  “Yes,” Emilio said plainly. “And I must reiterate, you could’ve saved yourself a day’s worth of trouble by simply arriving at the front doors. I would’ve brought you here all the same.”

  “To kill me,” Leroy stated.

  Emilio was silent for a moment, and before he could arrive at the words, rows of footsteps descended down the stairwell. Before long, Leroy could see men standing at the ready out of his peripheral, guns raised.

  “Not at this distance, gentlemen. I need not remind you what might happen if one of those bullets, God forbid, misses their mark in this room. Ensure that you are close, and then fire. Point the gun to his head if you need to. Skin-to-skin, just to be on the safe side,” Emilio stated.

  Ether was flammable. Good to know. It would make the whole sabotage component of this operation simpler. Leroy made a note to himself and had to stop himself from smiling. He’d been right in telling Cameron that all it would take would be a stray bullet. Assuming he got out of this fiasco in one piece, the rest of his job would be simple.

  Emilio cleared his throat, and continued. “If it makes any difference, Mr. Waters, I am simply following instructions.”

  “Ms. Dupre,” Leroy noted.

  “Yes,” Emilio said..

  Leroy needed time to figure something out—assuming there was something to be figured out.

  With those doors closed, his idea of a signal for Cameron held no merit. Two gunshots, he’d told him. Not a peep would leave those steel doors, and even if it did, there was another stairwell separating the basement level from the main level, the whirring of machines, and the clanking of alchemical processing equipment. He wanted to curse himself under his breath.

  “Your name tag says overseer,” Leroy began. “But you’re more than that. You’re an alchemist.”

  Emilio smiled, and if Leroy didn’t have to maintain a poker face, he’d smile too.

  There it was. Hook, line, and sinker. Anyone who created anything had an ego about what they made, and that was especially true for artificers and alchemists. Emilio didn’t have the courage to reveal Bluestein Philterwork trade secrets, not by himself, but all it took was a little prodding to get his scholarly pride to activate.

  “Quite so, yes—the principal alchemist here at Bluestein Philterworks,” Emilio said, folding both of his hands behind his back.

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  “And here I thought the Bluesteins were the ones behind the formulas,” Leroy continued.

  Emilio’s brows furrowed inward. Leroy knew that look. He was angry, exasperated. “Once upon a time, yes, they did. A number of their patented elixirs were the brain-childs of their founder, but—”

  “But ether isn’t. And I’ll bet a few of their speciality elixirs from the last couple of years have been outsourced to people like you. New minds. Brighter ones,” Leroy said. He thought about tipping his hat; but that flattery would’ve been too obvious. He was already towing the line.

  Still, Emilio smiled at that. “Upon hitting the shelves, it would be called something else, but yes. I’ve not thought of a name. Soldier’s Tonic seemed to impress Ms. Dupre, though Mr. Bluestein was more partial to a sleeker, more contemporary name: Rush.”

  “Dealt with a man who was a regular user of it. He was strong, stronger than most men. But he was angry, volatile,” Leroy said.

  Four guns had their barrels pointed at him. If he reached, he’d be shot to pieces, and the only way he’d survive that was by triple-dosing on the three out of four vials of pasteurized demon blood he had on his person. If he tried to use his abilities, the ice might form, but it would likely be weaker, and melt quickly on account of the heat. A brief glance was made towards the glowing blue material that radiated heat from the funnels. Technically, it was a liquid, but he wasn’t counting on being able to freeze that over. It was too hot: hence, forming use out of the raw ether was ruled out.

  Three waterskins. All of them strapped to the inside of his chest. There was enough water in there for a medium-sized construct. It didn’t matter what it was—it just had to be cool, and cold enough to create steam or mist when it hit that boiling liquid. It was an option, at least. Something was better than nothing, and half a plan was better than no plan.

  “A side-effect that has persisted, even among human trials,” Emilio admitted. “Such is the consequence of its base ingredient.”

  Leroy raised a brow. “And what would that be?”

  Emilio smiled. “We shall delay your death for a moment longer, I suppose. Come. Our tour is not yet complete.”

  Leroy set his jaw. So much for the steam-induced getaway. One of the guards among the four stepped forward, still hesitant, but courageous enough to prod him in the back with his sidearm. Leroy glanced over his shoulder, and saw the nervous face of James; the one he’d sent to get Emilio.

  “Come, come,” Emilio insisted.

  He paced forward towards the far end of the underground facility. Leroy squinted. He was being ferried towards the area he’d observed from the platform, dimly lit, and swelling with shadows that all but masked what lay ahead. Color faded for a small while until a singular door light, dim and yellow, spread its radiance across the floor. With the shadows gone, an enclosure awaited them, a room within a room, with yet another reinforced door preventing unwanted entry, coupled with a set of sigils.

  Emilio withdrew his sigil-marked key from his belt loop, twisted it into place, and opened the door.

  Leroy’s eyes widened.

  Inside was some sort of alchemical laboratory, marked with the typical fixtures of the art: vials, philters, books of knowledge, and chalk-laden blackboards filled with formulae and symbols that Leroy couldn’t ever hope to recognize. Fixtures of knowledge. They seemed almost out of place given the sterile environment. Metal, concrete, modern medical equipment. Shelves and cabinets were stacked with strange jars, but stranger than any of what might’ve been inside was situated at the far end of the room.

  A row of containment chambers, made almost entirely of some kind of glass, radiated a translucent green glow that drowned out any of the dim lights that were otherwise lit across the ceiling and walls.

  Inside of them were creatures.

  Mangled, with ooze-slicked black fur that ran across their gray-skinned bodies as big as bears. There were yellow, unmoving eyes, and features of both human and wolf.

  “Garou,” Leroy muttered.

  Three of the four armed guards entered the room and stood at the ready, while James hung back, closer to Leroy, and prodded him inside.

  Emilio paced into the room, and shuffled his hands into the pockets of his lab coat. “Garou adrenal glands. They are the prime alchemical reagents for what you know as ether. What you see in front of me are failed experiments. Humans, or what used to be humans. Early trials revealed that we lacked a proper stabilizing agent—we were artificially turning people into garou, spreading the curse, rather than refining it.”

  Twisted was one thing. This was depraved. Leroy had seen a great many things working as an arbiter, and worse things during his time in the Syndicate, but nothing in recent memory came close to what he bore witness to in that room.

  “That horde, in the Pines. That’s you guys?” Leroy asked, his voice stale.

  Emilio shook his head, still staring at the gel-suspended garou. “No. That horde, as far as I am aware, has been there for weeks. Perhaps longer. We were only made aware of it after reports from the Argent Group confirmed a few off-handed sightings, and on further investigation, we hired them for expeditionary work; and they have since been responsible for hand-gathering the glands and delivering them to us.”

  It seemed the Argent Group was more than just an escort group. That didn’t surprise Leroy, and he imagined that wasn’t where their clandestine jobs ended. Everything had a price, especially for people like that.

  A morbid curiosity plagued Leroy. “The stabilizing agent. What was it?”

  Emilio turned around. “What are garou, Mr. Water?”

  Leroy narrowed his gaze. “Failed lycans.”

  “Precisely. The stabilizing agent, then, would be what?” Emilio inquired.

  “I’m not a damn alchemist, I don’t know,” Leroy stated.

  “Blood, Mr. Waters. Specifically, the blood of a lycan. The lycan—one who has tried and failed on countless occasions to form a pack, only to create garou.”

  A graveness overtook Leroy’s features. “So you have the lycan.”

  Leroy had never encountered a proper one, but had a vague understanding of how they differed from garou, both as a matter of general knowledge and based on what Eisenhower had told him. Where garous were permanently cursed to their monstrous forms, lycans were not. They could shift at will, and to Leroy’s recollection, the lycan was considerably stronger than their garou counterparts. Faster, meaner, and unlike garou, they could regenerate.

  If Bluestein Philterworks meant to mass produce ether into Soldier’s Tonic, or Rush, or whatever they ended up calling it once it hit the shelves, they needed an abundance of two things: garou adrenal gland and lycan blood. Part of stopping the distribution of ether meant putting an end to the means of production; which meant he had to know where it was being held. His stomach turned up in knots the more he tried to picture a lycan condemned to being a glorified blood-bag.

  “Christ,” Leroy muttered.

  “Heightened strength, aggression, and an unprecedented tolerance towards pain. Our means of creating this elixir are perhaps unsavory, Mr. Waters—”

  “You’re holding someone hostage indefinitely,” Leroy said, his voice raising in volume. “Unsavory isn’t the word you’re looking for. Try again.”

  “Necessary. It is necessary,” Emilio said, matching Leroy’s tone. “This concoction offers the everyman a fighting chance against the fiends and specters and, God forbid, demons, that plague the Commonwealth of Brinehaven. A chance to defend themselves against those who might otherwise have unprecedented power over them.”

  Leroy knew he was right. At least partially.

  He thought of Donovan Mayfield, and knew that if ether was in the hands of anyone other than him—someone with good intentions—that something like ether might end up doing more good than bad.

  Hell, Leroy could even picture himself taking a dose of it in a pinch. Something like that might’ve been more than handy in his line of work. But he couldn’t shake the feeling that this whole thing was wrong. No. It wasn’t a feeling, it was wrong. Right, wrong. Good, bad, ugly. Fuck. Leroy felt like his head was spinning. Ruby Shakur’s contract was more than he could ever have anticipated, and by now, no amount of money was worth the trouble all of this was.

  Emilio cleared his throat. “Frankly, Mr. Waters, I believe I’ve said more than I should.”

  “Yeah. You have,” Leroy said.

  Emilio walked past Leroy and headed towards the door. He handed his sigil-marked key to James, and grabbed his arm, whispering something into his ear. Right before the door closed, Emilio glanced towards Leroy. “These gentlemen, Mr. Waters, will be showing you what that fighting chance looks like.”

  The door closed. Each of the four guards withdrew something from their pockets—small glass vials—and inhaled the sandy blue substance into their noses.

  Ether.

  LEROY WATERS

  EMILIO LA CERVA

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