A Hazy Memory
In the far blasted wastes of Utah, Gretchen drags Boris to a large settlement to pick up some critical supplies for her next big project. Can't trust the goons with such delicate matters, after all.
While Gretchen pours over some various scraps heaped at a vendor's stall, Boris wanders off after a drunk hobo, and before she knows it, she's lost sight of him. Cursing the absent minded gopnik, she begins scanning the crowd. After a good half hour of searching, just as she's beginning to consider burning the whole place down to clear it out, she catches sight of the wirey giant.
She gets about half of his name out before a dissidence in the situation leaves her trailing off. Since when does Boris wear a black labcoat? Hells, since when has the idiot ever dressed in anything other than his tracksuit?
The slight outburst seems to have gotten his attention though, and he turns to face her. But he doesn't look at her, she can tell by the cold, calculating gaze that he hasn't immediately registered her presence. Something is wrong.
The idiot might be thick and capricious, but this... Gretchen knows this look. She's seen it in every mirror for the past 200 years.
Satisfied that no one seems to be bothering him, he begins to turn away, cutting his way briskly and confidently through the market crowd, as if there weren't even another soul in his path. Just before she loses sight of his face, She catches sight of a small emblem on the inside of the collar of the inky dark coat: a fist clutching an stylized atom. The image sparks some dim, burning memory in her hazy mind, and she bolts for Trutz.
She doesn't spare a second thought about leaving Boris behind: where ever he is, he'll find his way back to her, he always seems to manage.
Gunning it the whole way back to the Dome, Trutz barely has come to a stop before Gretchen's feet have hit the ground.
She doesn't notice that she is practically sprinting, she is too focused, her mind chasing the dusty memory that eludes her. She knows that symbol.
Her apprentice barely gets a word out before she slams and locks the door to her bolt hole, descending upon a box of hard drives ripped from various facilities. She finds the one that feels right; the hard drive from one of the auditors from Hellstromme corp. Clipping it into her terminal and firing it up, she locks onto the screen as she scrolls through the logs and files recorded to the drive, until... There-
No, no no no!
She jumps up, sending her chair skittering onto the floor.
The file displayed on the screen is from the records of Hellstromme's development of the Hi City-Buster G-Bomb; Specifically, the crew that worked on it under his direct oversight. Attached to the file are a couple ancillary files. The first is a serious of text logs from the various members, sub filed in chronological order. These would be personal records from the team, before they were... investigated due to the defection of one of the members? Gretchen opens the latest log, and the pale blue light of the CRT illuminates her face as she reads,
"It's been 6 months since Hellstromme put Ridley in charge of teaching the remaining scientists these "hexes." Who would have thought that one of the infamous Sons of Sitgrieves would be our savior in these trying times. Though their methods are... crude, they do allow us to continue our work, in some capacity. But it isn't enough. All we can produce are these little trinkets, nothing substantial. The "Manitou" wont give us anything. We were close, with the notes that came from the Agency archives. But Ridley suddenly turned them down, the fool. So what if they came from the Nazis? We took plenty of their traditional science from them, why not this? If he doesn't have the stomach to push the boundaries, then I will. I have the power of the atom at hand, there is nothing I cannot do." -02/21/2064, Last known Hellstromme database recording of employee #115, Dr. B. Strugatsky
Gretchen swallows and clears her throat, directing the cursor over to the second file, an image.
The result makes her swear under her breath. The photo catalogs the entire G-bomb research team, and there, circled and then zoomed up and cropped onto the edge of the photo is... Boris?
He is dressed as sharp as she saw him in the market, but his eyes are softer, beaming with pride, and he's smiling. The image doesn't quite seem to fit either version shes seen today, too presentable to be her lout, too cheery to be the stranger in black, as if there was somehow a third one!
She begins pacing her office, chewing on her thumbnail, and barely notices the oafs loud and drunken return in time to shut down her terminal. If the idiot is hiding something from her, she'll wring it out of him if need be, but for now, there was only one thing on her mind.
One of Hellstromme's esteemed scientists is still alive and has fallen into her lap.
She smiles wickedly. This could be very interesting.