The Demon's Ballerina

Prologue - Dr. McAllister

Frankenstein was released in the nineteenth century, and to this day certainly remains an inspiration to many. Instead of stitching together different dead body parts, the driving force behind Operation Viking decided to splice DNA to make a cocktail for the perfect super-soldier. No one talks about where the medicine came from, or why it was sought out in the first place. We took mere boys, young military men with the right set of genes, and we turned them into monsters. They could go into their 'berserk phase', we dubbed it – where they could be programmed to complete a mission with far more deadly precision than even our highest recorded marks, and occasionally have no memory of said mission once it was completed.

The only setback with Operation Viking was the fact that once their missions were complete and they were discharged, they went insane with the need to have a constant assigned purpose to fulfill. With the cocktail of chemicals coursing through their veins, it took them anywhere from four to sixteen weeks to begin showing even small results. They would develop heightened senses, rapid healing, and certain other abilities all attributed to the host. Within a year, the 'berserk phase' wouldn't just be a phase anymore, and their abilities never stopped enhancing and shaping themselves to benefit the host.

The first rogue Viking had come long before my time. In the beginning, they were simply slaughtered. These boys-turned-monsters were trained, changed, used, and then slaughtered once they'd served their purpose and the Viking had completely taken over.

Until the day the wrong one 'died'. Suddenly, resources were put towards rehabilitating them, or trying to save them at the very least. Cutting out the program altogether was out of the question – their benefit far outweighed the backlash if it were to get out. Nothing seemed to work, until some twisted fuck decided to take pregnant women and convince them to join a group study. Their children were injected with the chemicals necessary to balance, attract and tame the Vikings. They were then added to a rooster once the women completed the group study in its entirety and their children were born with said properties. When a Viking was created, they were assigned a number from the List of Valhalla.

Once they were discharged, they were set up. Those that responded negatively to their charge but positively to their environment were retried twice more. If that didn't work, then they were disposed of. If they responded negatively all around, they were disposed of. It wasn't off the list of options, but it was no longer the only option.

I'd been a doctor for a year when I was recruited to become a consultant for Operation Viking. I'd been persuaded with a practice of my own so long as I tended to Uncle Sam's monsters in the basement, government benefits, clearance. I was stupid not to take it, so I did. It was great, at first. Until I got my first rogue Viking. And then I started working with my supervisor to make sure our Vikings were well and rehabilitated by the time their deadline came around.

And then my little shit of a brother went and enlisted. The moment his name hit their desk he was recruited for Operation Viking for the same reason I'd been recruited. The moment he accepted, he should've been given a number from the List of Valhalla. But because he was my brother, I was given the chance to choose for him. I knew him, thought I knew his type, could ensure he'd be assigned a woman he'd be attracted to. When I chose his number, I had his best interest at heart. I'd even gone as far as to have my sister look over the candidates to help me.

Six months before he was due to be discharged, the final phase began. He was shipped stateside and briefed on his final mission. For the man, the cover mission was to find her, learn everything about her, and then bring her in as your replacement. For the Viking, that part of their brain that we'd created, that final mission was so much more complex. There were parts that even the man himself wasn't privy to.

Given a folder on his target, he was released and sent home. It was a Sunday. Mom always cooked dinner on Sundays. So naturally he'd come home first instead of going to establish contact with his target, like most men usually did, like I'd assumed my brother would have. That first look, that first scent of the target was what cemented the bond and locked them onto that target.

When I saw them standing there, I knew. I'd planned for everything but that. If I could go back, I would change nothing.