"Alright, gentlemen. Let's begin. The Siberian Protocol." Yawned Harvey as he heaved the overweight meeting room door closed. The heads of the world's most powerful armies waved at him to join them at the table. The lights were dimmed to spare their eyes from being blinded, and mountains of paperwork were piled behind each of them. Harvey glanced at his own pile of paper tucked under his arm and grimaced at the thought of having to do so much work in such a short amount of time.
"C'mon, Harvey, I don't care what it's called, and we don't have all day. We've got homework." Groaned Arthur McKinley, jabbing his thumb in the direction of the sliding and hopelessly unorganised mountain of paper that slowly crept towards him, begging to be completed. It was by far the largest pile, and Harvey somehow got the impression that Arthur was the kind of person who never did his homework. He sighed inwardly, and as was now his habit, he fished out the audio recorder and placed it in the middle of the table.
"Today is results day. I have a copy of the report for each of you to critique in your own time." Harvey dropped the folder and dished out the report, which Arthur dutifully tossed behind him. The other men in the room glanced at Arthur as if contemplating doing the same, but their curiosity overruled their fatigue, and they began to read the report in silence.
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The world around him was cold, dark, and silent. The cryogenic fluid that he had grown so accustomed to was now being drained away, and he could finally open his eyes to his new surroundings. The glass pane in front of him was slightly cracked, and the metal outside was corroded and riddled with dents. With a sudden hiss of escaping air, the door to the capsule exploded outward and flew off its hinges, crashing into the wall and landing on the floor in a twisted heap. He eased himself out of the ruined capsule and stretched his muscles for the first time in a very long time. He scanned the room, scouring it for any hint of familiarity to estimate how long he had been asleep for. The room was completely white, almost blindingly so, with rows of desks that rose up one after the other that were split by a single, reasonably wide staircase. He could feel each and every eye individually boring into him. Quiet, inquisitive whispers flew around the room like wildfire before the door at the top of the staircase banged open. A small, panting man stood in the doorframe, trying to formulate a sentence between each desperate pant.
"I... told you... not... to start... without me... dammit!" After taking a moment to compose himself, he continued. "Subject 42, I presume. It's a..."
"You presume correctly. Dr ..."
"Woodward. Morgan Woodward. You speak perfect English. I was led to believe you were... Russian."
"Dr Woodward. I am aware of what I am, and I am also aware that you don't have the foggiest clue as to what I am exactly."
"Would you mind telling us about yourself then?"
"I would recommend you read the encrypted report, Dr Woodward. I will add two things. The name I have chosen is Sergei Stalnoy. And it would be very kind of you if I could get a set of dry, preferably non-flammable clothes."
Morgan was a very proud character and well respected by his peers. Yet his usually calm demeanour had vanished from his face, instead replaced with a deep red tinge and a bulging vein across his forehead. "There are some spare clothes in the locker room through the door to my left. Pick whatever fits." Said Morgan, as calmly as possible, through gritted teeth that audibly grated against each other.
"Thank you." Responded Sergei, an innocent smile flashing across his face as he hopped up the stairs and through the door to get changed out of his soaked Soviet uniform, which left a trail of highly carcinogenic chemicals in his wake. Another vein bulged in Morgan's forehead, and his face turned a deep scarlet.
"That fucking bastard."
Sergei closed the door behind him and glanced around the locker room, looking for a set of spare clothes and a shower. He was still shivering from the subzero temperatures of the cryostasis pod and desperately wanted to feel warmth after escaping from the icy half-grip of death. His muscles had shrunk significantly, becoming denser than was naturally possible; his skeleton was practically visible, making him look like something straight out of a horror movie. His eyes were sunken yet still held a burning red colour to them; and his hair was jet black, shimmering in the light like silk. Behind the few rows of well-decorated lockers was a shower room and a solitary locker with "Subject 42" imprinted on the door. Sergei grabbed a towel from the rack next to the door and waltzed through the frosted glass door into the showers.
Unlike the bare-bones research station surrounding the room, the shower room seemed more like something that belonged in a high-end hotel. A hot tub was at the far end of the room, and a sauna was located just to the right of it. Sky blue tiles lined the walls and ceiling, with patterned walkways to prevent slipping. Sergei's face twitched slightly at the warmth of the room, savouring the tingling sensation as the feeling slowly returned to his body. He walked through the steamy air towards the hot tub, and upon reaching the edge, he simply let himself fall in.
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"So you're telling me," began Duncan Smith tentatively, "that this Sergei Stalnoy character is quite the piece of work, isn't he?"
Harvey nodded in amusement at the reactions of the men at the table. In the old Soviet scientific report, it described Subject 42 as being a "perfect soldier," yet clearly this only applied to his physical capabilities. Despite having been frozen in time for the past 70 years and going in and out of that state for 30 years prior, Subject 42 had maintained his strength, stamina, endurance, and intelligence, despite it not being reflected in his now skeletal form.
"Yes. He is quite the piece of work, as you say," confirmed Harvey, "but his reactions when carrying out orders given by a superior officer do reflect that description. Unfortunately, he will find loopholes in any order he is given to do whatever he wants."
"Is that so? I suppose that he still maintains a degree of professionalism. Hey, Zhen Wu, what do you say we do about Sergei Stalnoy? Do we use him?"
Zhen Wu looked up from the report and, after a moment of thought, gave his verdict.
"We use him. I suggest that we train him with each of our special forces. Talent is nothing without work. After he completes that training, he goes through the portal and explores what lies behind it."
"I second the notion." Called out Arthur, surprising everybody who thought that he had dozed off within the past hour. His eyes were covered with a damp cloth, and his feet were propped up against the table.
"Me too." Called out Nikolai Medvedev, head buried in his hands.
"Alright, that ends the topic of the Siberian Protocol. Now what about that island..." Harvey was abruptly cut off by a barrage of flying folders and the childish groans of fully grown adults trying to avoid their homework.
"Yes! We agree to build that fucking island, dammit!" Yelled all the men at the table simultaneously. "Just end the fucking meeting so we can get some sleep!"
Harvey dove behind his chair and used it as a shield to defend himself from the relentless onslaught of paper missiles.
"I got it! I got it! I got the message. You can stop trying to kill me now." Harvey peaked up from his place of sanctuary as a folder aimed at his head got deflected off of the back of the chair, sparing him a trip to the hospital.