He continued to improve his creation. Using a modern term, we worked the bugs out. The scientists of that day employed legions of body snatchers and grave robbers. As better raw materials came in, Father replaced my more obviously flawed parts. He would operate without anesthesia, trusting in the tightening of the chains to hold me down as he sawed my limbs off or the Elixir burned me pure. I would advise him when things felt correct. My understanding of correct was limited to what hurt and how much.

Father openly wept after seeing the new face that he had stretched over my skull. His creation was no longer quite such a hideous fiend. As I looked upon my reflection in the mirror I decided that I could finally pass for a human . . . At least an ugly one. If the light was bad.

I never told Father the truth about what I really was. It was better that way. He was able to live out the rest of his days unaware what he had let into the world. I was not burned at the stake. Everybody was content.

Until the Hunters came.

2 Days Ago

Michael Gutterres stopped his new motorcycle outside the industrial park’s fence and watched the activity. The Feds were out in force.

After his flight had landed at Dulles, he’d had a taxi take him to a bike dealership. It was nice having a credit card with no limit, even though whenever he turned in his receipts he always got a lecture about how their order was funded by the donations of widows and orphans. So he’d treated himself to a Ducati 1199 Panigale. It was much nicer than the piece of crap he’d used in China, and would be worth the lecture on fiscal responsibility.

The nearby property was swarming with suits and blue wind-breakers. Most of those had to be MCB. He’d listened to the news on the way over. They were reporting that the abandoned shipyard had been used for a military training exercise, but a helicopter had crashed and started a fire. It was a typical MCB cover story, and nothing compared to their recent work in Las Vegas. It was hardly convincing. This had Franks written all over it.

“This is Gutterres. I’m at the scene. I’m going to see if I can pick up the trail.”

“Confirmed. Once again, we would prefer to not make our presence in this endeavor known, Michael,” said the ever helpful voice in his radio.

“Duly noted, Father.” He took his helmet off so he wouldn’t have to listen to any more useless advice. They always asked the locals to support him. His assigned clerical support could be helpful at times, but usually they were just annoying. This one in particular seemed more worried about avoiding scandals. Gutterres didn’t care about politics; he was in this to protect the innocent from the forces of evil.