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The room was tiled white on every surface, stark overhead lights reflected back and forth with pinpoint bursts that left drifting afterimages in Anderson's vision. The spot blindness didn't last long. This was a standard test of his regeneration capabilities. Makube stood before him, bloody scalpel in one bare hand. He'd long since discarded his usual gloves, the cotton soaked through with red. If the glaring light bothered his ordinary human eyes he didn't show it. His scarred face was crinkled in a smile, not a squint, as if there weren't blood on his face and streaked through his greying hair where he'd absent-mindedly run his hand.
Makube tossed the scalpel onto the floor alongside his sodden gloves. The tile was already streaked with blood and it wouldn't be his job to clean up. That was a job for less important people. Testing and maintaining Iscariot's regenerators was also a job for less important people, but Makube took a certain pride in reminding people of his integral role in developing this technology. He was no scientist, though. This was an interrogation room, not a laboratory. The large metal drain cold and hard under Anderson's bare feet made that clear.
"Response times are good so far. It's time for the next stage. Put your clothes back on." Makube gestured at the black pile in one corner. Anderson nodded. Despite being stashed at a distance there was still some blood on his clerical shirt; the tests thus far had been vigorous, an attempt to capture battleground conditions. Makube's own cassock was darkened further by Anderson's blood, the wet black fabric threatening to cling to his body softened by middle age, though these ruined clothes would be his only souvenir. There were no marks left on the regenerator's flesh.
Anderson had been one of Makube's first subjects. The experiments, a collaboration between Sections 13 and 10, sounded like a promising new way to serve their Lord and ensure the coming of God's Kingdom. Try as they might they hadn't been able to erase flaws already present, such as the need for eyeglasses, but most everything else seemed to work as intended. As God must have planned it. Anderson didn't know what Makube did to slow his own aging, since the older priest didn't seem to show any of the telltale marks of the procedure required to make regenerators, and he wasn't about to ask. His duty was only to act as God's right hand and do whatever God demanded of him.
When he finished dressing and turned back around he was met with a pump-action shotgun inches from his face. He'd been lost enough in his devotion that he hadn't heard Makube open the thick steel door, let alone go over to it and slide open a slot to talk with the young initiate standing guard on the other side.
"On your knees." When Anderson didn't move Makube exhaled through his nose, whether in amusement or annoyance it was impossible to tell. "We need to simulate what could happen if you lose."
"I won't lose." From what he could tell at close range like this the gun was probably a Mossberg, 500 series most likely, but he wasn't a gun person. It didn't matter when his blessed bayonets could destroy most guns. Still, if this was supposed to be a loss scenario, he wouldn't be able to use his bayonets. Obeying the order, he knelt.
Makube's usual smirk widened, something in his golden eyes darkening. "Maybe not. Still, better to be prepared." He pressed the gun against Anderson's cheek, dragging against the small scar that nearly mirrored his own. Another thing the regenerator treatment hadn't been able to erase. Anderson's scar framed his mouth but Makube quickly dragged the gun off course, steel barrel warming from his skin, until it rested against his lips.
Anderson shot a look up at Makube but the white lights in this sterile room reflecting off his spectacles must have hidden his eyes because the other priest didn't flinch. Or maybe Makube could see the glare after all since his smirk turned into a grin, teeth bared just so.
Since this wasn't real combat Anderson didn't (couldn't) fight back. This was another of God's tests. He had to remain loyal to Iscariot. After everything he'd done in the Lord's name he had no other choice. Makube pressed harder now, gun barrel raising Anderson's upper lip and exposing his teeth, then tutted.
"I suppose we could test whether your teeth will grow back if I knock them out."
Anderson held back a huff. "Is that all?" The words were a bit slurred by the gun but there was no mistaking the intent. After going through years of regenerator testing he knew full well what kind of sadism Makube was capable of. The number of times he'd felt the man's fingernails beneath his flayed skin—
"No, no. The Protestant scum's trump card.... Who knows what sorts of depravity that monster might attempt to visit upon the righteous?" Makube was leaning his weight onto the gun now, the stock digging into one soft pectoral and the weight of the barrel threatening to tear Anderson's teeth out. "Open your mouth."
Having his teeth ripped from their roots one by one would be less humiliating.
"Do what your superior tells you to do. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost."
"Amen," Anderson replied, pure reflex driving him, and Makube slipped the gun through this opening.
The intrusion made his mouth start watering but he couldn't swallow. Makube was pressing down on his tongue, forcing his jaw open, the sound of his breath reverberating down the barrels, and what was taking so long? If they were going to test blowing his head off there was no reason for this little game. Yet he couldn't say anything, not with steel between his teeth and pressing against the back of his throat.
Makube took a breath, gaze flicking up and down Anderson's face, though if he'd been planning on saying anything he must have changed his mind, since he just licked his lips and pushed the gun down to see how far Anderson would let him go. Far enough for the sounds of choking and gagging to echo off the tile. Apparently satisfied, he pulled back just far enough to shove the tip against the roof of Anderson's mouth and force him to tilt his head back. Despite the drool slipping out of his mouth Anderson fixed Makube's gaze with his own. Or would have, if Makube had been willing to lock eyes with him. Instead, the priest seemed almost embarrassed, busying himself with checking that the safety was off. Of course it was off. This wasn't an experiment that called for caution. If this was meant to be an exercise in humiliation, in making sure the Angel Dust priest knew his place as the attack dog of Iscariot, Anderson was already planning to return the favor.
As if sensing the shift in Anderson's energy, Makube adjusted his stance and leaned forward. This was a ready pose—Anderson had watched enough fresh recruits on the firing range to know what was coming. And it came fast. A booming sound, the chunk-chunk of the forearm, then nothing.
Nothing, then light. Pain and light but the pain was nothing new. As Anderson's flesh and bone knit itself back together, Makube re-entered his field of view. The priest was looking at the barrel of his shotgun, examining it for...what? Damage? In the haze of recovery Anderson couldn't think of any other reason for a man to linger on his own gun like that. Finally Makube looked over, raising an eyebrow then his wrist to check his watch.
"Five minutes for full recovery. Not bad, not bad. But we can do better."
Anderson pushed himself up, feeling the back of his head. The slug had entered clean through—there it was on the tile behind him, embedded in the center of a mess of viscera—but there was nothing else left to show for it besides his broken glasses. He left his glasses on the floor.
"Are we done?"
Makube glanced at his shotgun, caressing it. "For now. You may return to your duties."
Ever the obedient servant, Anderson stood. A curt nod in Makube's direction then he was out the door, away from those golden eyes and that gleaming shotgun. The taste of powder and steel still lingered on his tongue. Later, years later, once the new director took charge—it wouldn't be Makube, to nobody's surprise but his own—Anderson would see how Makube liked the weight of something long, hard, and cold on his tongue.