Nuclear Reactions 1

Ash cranked the bolt tight on the left leg plating. Between the legs of the walking tank, she could see the dark form of X6-88 as he adjusted the lenses on his rifle. “X6,” Ash said. “What do you think of all this?” He tilted his head. He was probably looking at her, but with his dark shades it was hard to be sure. Ash continued. “Father says that I’ll be the new director of the Institute when he’s gone.” Father was her son, Shaun. She hated calling him Father. She didn’t like calling him Shaun. X6 still said nothing. She took the leap. “The fact that the SRB is hunting synths and not protecting them… It feels wrong to me. If I take charge, I would change that.”

“I trust Father’s direction, and he has put his faith in you,” X6 said. He paused. “You have proven yourself capable in all ways, and so I can trust that as well.” He turned back to the workbench.

“The changes I would make…” Ash took a deep breath. “Doctor Ayo would not like them. He would likely react more violently than the men in Bio-Science. The other Coursers might also resist.” They would definitely resist. Ash stood behind her armor, still keeping it between her and X6. There was a very real chance that he would not take what she had to say very well.

“Ma’am, what changes would you make?” X6 turned to face Ash, crossing his massive arms. His black leather trenchcoat squeaked with the motion. Ash steeled her nerves. There hadn’t been a huge number of things she’d done since coming out of Vault 111 that didn’t end in a bloodbath. After all, even a synth could bleed…

Dress to Impress

I was beginning to doubt the necessity of my power armor in the hospital. I had managed to creep on the positions of every raider and turret, even inside several hundred pounds of steel plating. My gear is efficient; my fusion core would last me another full day of constant movement. Still, I was contemplating the wasted fuel even as I checked the wires running from the door control in front of me. I traced the wire up to the ceiling and was about to head down the hall to my left when I heard Dogmeat let out an angry bark. My blood ran hot. I whirled about, pistol already in hand. A fucking Deathclaw. Ten feet from me. My blood ran cold.
I remembered the last time I had seen a Deathclaw this close. I was wearing a patchwork set of typical wastelander’s armor. I had just picked a rocket launcher off of a dead raider, and I was feeling cocky. That Deathclaw was busy with the remains of… well, something. There wasn’t much left. I shouldered the launcher and drew a bead on the back of the monster’s head. FWOOOOSH! The poor bastard didn’t even have time to turn as the warhead detonated on the thing. I cackled as the flames enveloped the beast. I stood, bathing in the rush of hot air. Dogmeat barked. The billowing smoke was split by a charging and angry, not to mention seemingly unharmed, Deathclaw. “Fuckfuckfuckfuck!” I tried to drop another rocket into the launch tube. The lizard charged right into me, sending me flying across the ruined street. I landed, rolled, lost the launcher. I fought my way to my feet, drawing my pistol. I recall firing a few times, even as the thing pierced my shoulder clear through with its claws. It reared back, roared, then turned. Dogmeat had latched his jaws down on the thing’s hind leg. I scrambled back, turned, and ran for all I was worth. The flight was a blur, but I eventually locked myself in the trunk of one of the endless rusting hulks of cars, and stanched my bleeding. I blacked out.
Even as I reminisced about that particular time that I nearly died, I raised my right hand and fired with the pistol, even as I drew my favorite rifle with my left. Just as before, the beast lunged, slashing at me with its fistfuls of bayonets. They scraped against my armor plating, but did not penetrate. I smashed against the locked door with a crunch of breaking glass, but held my footing. I raised my plasma rifle, firing as fast as my mechanically enhanced reflexes could squeeze the trigger. The energy burned a stripe from groin to neck as I fired, ripping the beast apart. Smoke and the scent of burning flesh hung in the air. I looked down at the rifle, and back at the blackened, scaly corpse. I looked over at Dogmeat. “Good boy.” I turned and started following the wires again. Bringing the armor was always the right choice.

Shadow

The blade appears when you call it, even when it’s not a blade.  It’s not always the ornately appointed sword from the first nightmare.  It is the stuff of dreams, and so it has been a hammer and a bow and every exotic blade you can name.  It’s been more than a few you didn’t recognize.  You adjust your messenger bag.  It slides ever so slightly as you weave your bicycle between cars.  You know that drivers in this city hate people like you, but packages need delivered, and you need to make rent.  A cab cuts you off.  You squeeze your brake levers.  The pads squeak as they try to hold the rims of your wheels.  It’s too late.  You were going nearly twenty miles per hour.

Your wheel hits the rear bumper of the old yellow Crown Victoria.  The back end of your bike travels upward.  You let go of the handlebars as you are launched.  You’ve never gone headfirst over handlebars before, but you’ve been stalking nightmares in your sleep for months.  You tuck your chin to your chest.  You draw your knees in.  Arms spread wide, becoming an axis on which you spin as the cab passes under you.  The world returns to upright, and you slam your worn black skate shoes down onto the hood with a bang.  You shrug your bag back onto your shoulder as you turn.  You’re still on the hood of the car.  The cabbie leans out the window, yelling, laying on his horn.

You apologize with a complete lack of sincerity.  You step off the hood, dropping to the street.  You stare at the angry man, letting his harsh words bounce off you like hail on a tin roof.  You seeth.  You pick up your bike, giving it a quick look to assess the damage.  It seems fine.  You mount up and ride off, but your glare stays fixed on the cab driver until after you’ve passed him.  You can feel the dreamblade crawling around under your skin.  It knows you’re mad.  It feeds on your fury.  You take deep breaths, not because of exertion, but because you are forcing yourself calm again.  The weapon eventually  goes still.

* * *

When you finally find sleep, the dream world is empty.  You wander the astral wasteland, searching for anything.  Have you really slain every monster?  Impossible.  Maybe you’ve driven them into hiding.  You search, wandering into a maze of canyons.  The walls are red stone, eroded by millennia of flowing water.  The sides of the canyon sprout holes that serve as nests for monstrous birds.  Thousands of demonic crows.  They stare at you with bits of amber glass for eyes.  As you walk, the dreamblade seeps out of your skin, coating you in imagined armor and dangling a wicked spiked flail.  One of the birds spits a rock at you.  It flies like a stone bullet, clanks against your armor, and falls to the sand.

You leap the full distance from you to the aggressor, spinning in flight, unleashing a hellish backhand swing with the flail.  The spined head of the weapon smashes into the bird, obliterating it.  Blood and feathers spray in an arc as you land in the gap where the thing nested.  The air goes thick with the screeching of the rest of the flock, and the sky blackens with their masses.  You spin your flail overhead, and leap into the murder.  Every crow spits a stone on you, but the hail doesn’t even slow you.  You latch a gauntleted fist onto the leg of the first crow as you smash the second one into a spray of blood and feathers.

The black swarm seems endless, but you’ve fought nightmares before.  The caws turn to screams, and rivulets of blood stream down your armor plated body.  Before long, the sky is clear, and the only sound is the harsh buzz of an alarm clock.

Sleeper

You are standing in the shower. Hot water courses down your naked body. It burns, just a little, but you don’t mind. Between the near scalding and the soap, the grime of the last few sleepless nights and days sloughs off of you. Knotted muscles unclench. Your frustrations melt away.

You step out of the shower, grabbing a towel and rubbing away the persisting water droplets. You dry your face, but your hair releases fresh rivulets that trace from crown to toes. You step out of the bathroom, still dripping.

Outside the bathroom lies only impenetrable darkness. You are standing, but on what you aren’t sure. Malice fills the air, leaking into your lungs and stealing your breath. You cast about for the source, but find nothing. You turn, but the bathroom is gone. You feel the sensation of falling, but no ground appears. Instead, you see twin pinpricks of red. They grow, taking on the shape of eyes. More appear, each growing and morphing into recognizable shapes. They are all eyes.

All at once, your vision registers that the score of eyes belongs to a single, monstrous face. Lips you couldn’t see peel back to reveal teeth you wish you couldn’t see. Claws sweep in from the side, tearing furrows in your skin and slamming you into a wall. You clank and clatter as your ornate plate armor shifts on your body. Your loved ones all urge you to rise.

You stand. The fanged mouth in front of you opens in a roar. You hear nothing. You feel terror. The overwhelming urge to flee. You turn to run, but you know that if you don’t stand your ground then you and everyone you love will suffer. Tentacles wrap your ankles, snatching you skyward. You flail as you are whipped up, then back into the ground. You smash a crater into the ground, light spearing through the spider-web of cracks. The thing swings you up into the air again, but you chop through the tentacles with a filigree carved sword. You are loose, hurtling upward.

You watch below as the thing’s mouth becomes a swirling vortex of teeth and lashing tongues. You spread your wings and arrest your fall. You hang suspended in the obsidian sky. Clarity comes to you; you aren’t awake. Clawed hands reach toward you, determined to draw you in for the kill. You hack at them, swooping away, severing one limb and another. More appear. A ceaseless barrage of talons. You cartwheel through the sky, spraying the thing’s blood across the night in silvery arcs.

You miss one claw, and it spears into your thigh. Anchored, you can’t evade the next. Your legs are pierced, then a wing. You are dragged downward. The eyes burn crimson hatred as you are borne down toward the maw. You reach out and grab your silver cord and pull, resisting the thing. It surges upward to meet you.

You sword sprouts teeth, and the teeth start racing up one side of the blade and down the other. You drive your chainsaw into the thing’s hands. They tear apart, freeing you. More claws appear, but you don’t rise. You dive, wings tucked close, chainsaw held in front of you. The thing tries to snatch you in its mouth, but you carve through its jaws, ripping its head asunder. You hack away at the beast’s head, ripping it to shreds.

You’re sitting in the bottom of the tub. The shower is still pelting you with hot water. You pull yourself up. You must have fallen asleep. In your hand is clutched a filigreed sword…

Setup

It may be apparent that I’m working on a MWF schedule, but like any new (or in this case, old but returning) routine, there will be hiccups. Sorry bout that.

“Clarity is important, Mister Brinks. We’ve been over this.” At great length. My early testing write-ups got rejected every time because I wasn’t being clear and specific. It was my high school English classes all over again. I look down at my shiny new bracelet. It has a small LCD on it, as well as a trio of buttons.

“So, when do I get to read the manual?” I ask. I catch a glimpse of surprise before her aggressively neutral mask returns. I grin at her. “What, you thought I was just gonna start pushing buttons without knowing what they do?” Every now and then, I get the feeling that she forgets that I’m not actually stupid.

“Actually, yes.” Wow. Didn’t expect a direct admission. “Since you asked, though…” She walks over to the single active workstation. I stand and follow. The unfamiliar weight of the injector makes me hyper-conscious of the movement of my arms as I walk. Worse than thinking about breathing. Doctor Allison stops behind her chair, motioning for me to sit. “I need to collect things. You will run the setup for the injector.” I look over my shoulder at her, raising an eyebrow. She’s never had me do anything independently before. I guess the day I get field equipment is a good time to change that. “Don’t worry, Brinks.” She smirks. “It’s idiot-proof.” My mouth hangs open. I’m speechless. She turns and walks off toward the examination room.

I turn my attention to the monitor. There’s an open window welcoming me to the setup wizard. Next. I skim the description. This program will help me to use my TA455 intravenous assistance module. I chuckle. The fancy language they use to name things like this cracks me up. Like calling a secretary an “administrative assistant.” Everything has to be dressed up. Next. I give cursory glances and click through the menus. The left and right buttons on the face cycle the cartridges. Next. The center button injects the cartridge. Next. Holding the cycle buttons down opens the chambers for reloading. Next. LCD layout. Time and date. Chamber indicators. I’m skimming faster, reading less. Next. Next. Ready to continue? Next.

Stab. “Holy -!” I gasp. Shooting pain from my left wrist. I hold up the bracelet, angling it to see the gap between it and my wrist. A series of needles on the interior of the thing pierce my skin. The pain turns to a chill sensation. I look at the monitor. Apparently some of the info I hadn’t read yet told me that the thing was about to “establish a semi-permanent sterile connection” with my circulatory system. I wince. The pain and the cold recede to memory. I finish the set-up program. The window closes. I stand up and look at my new jewelry. The screen indicates that all my chambers are empty and that it’s time to eat. I head to the workstation I use as a shelf. I don’t recall packing anything, but sometimes I get lucky. Today isn’t one of those times. I turn to head toward the exam room. Maybe the doc has food on hand. I grin inwardly at the prospect of asking Doctor Allison to share her lunch with me.

I’m just rounding the curve of the blast chamber when she comes pushing through the double white doors. “Hey, doc,” I say in my best conversational tone. “You wouldn’t happen to have anything to eat around here, would ya?” Her frameless glasses do little to shield me from her cold stare. She’s got another tray full of stuff in her hands.

“Lunch will have to wait, Mister Brinks.” She palms the tray while she triggers the airlock on the blast chamber. I sigh and follow her in. She sets the tray down on the bench and grabs her hazard suit. I’ve sort of gotten over the apparent disregard for my safety. Usually she’s in more danger than I am. As she pulls her suit up to her neck, I examine the tray. Eight cartridges. A hammer. A knife that blurs the line between knives and machetes. Her monitoring tablet. None of the usual sensor probes that I have worn or had inserted in the past. “Did you finish set-up on the injector?” she asks.

“Of course.”

“Then load the cartridges in numbered order.” She’s pulling on her gloves and helmet. I hold down the side buttons until I hear a soft click and the chambers snap open. An empty cartridge falls out – the one that used to contain the sterilizing and bonding goo. I load my “insulin” into the device. They are labeled 1-8, but they each have a string of numbers and letters in fine print on one end. Probably batch numbers for the doc. I wonder if she’ll give me the answer key, or if I’ll have to decode these myself. Doesn’t matter for now. I lock the chambers and cycle the injector so that cartridge one will be the first into my bloodstream.

Gear, part two.

So, like an idiot, I scheduled the last three posts in the wrong order. It should be fixed now. If the flow of the story seemed wrong, that’d be why.

I sit and try to look like I’m waiting patiently. Injector. If it does what it sounds like it does, I’ll be stabbing myself. Really not thrilled about that. On the other hand, Doctor Allison’s bedside manner is pretty bad. Maybe I would rather do it myself. Yeah, I would definitely rather do it myself. For a brief moment, I wonder about the potential other lab rats. Have they gotten their goodie boxes yet? Am I ahead of the curve? Or am I behind? That last thought doesn’t thrill me. Should I ask? Probably not. For one, I doubt that she meant to imply that there are others. For another, I doubt she’d tell me.

Her footsteps snap me back to reality. She comes around the curve of the blast chamber with a tray in one hand and a red tool box in the other. I smirk. “My old man has a tool box like that,” I tell her. She says nothing. It’s her favorite thing to say.

“Have a seat,” she tells me. She sets the tray down next to my plastic crate. Assuming she’ll check the crate out to me. She sits the tool box on the floor next to us as I flop down into one of the rolling office chairs. I lean over and inspect the tray. There is a small pile of machine screws, a battery, and three aluminum crescents. Purely by coincidence, I have a good guess what’s going on here.

“So, I’ve been diagnosed with diabetes and you didn’t tell me? I’m hurt.” Doctor Allison doesn’t respond. She bends down and pops the toolbox open. The pieces on the tray will assemble into an aluminum cuff that fits around a wearer’s wrist. It has chambers for cartridges full of whatever medication in prescribed, and a series of hollow needles that ring the inside. It’s typically given to people who need regular doses of insulin or antipsychotics. You know, the kind of people who can’t afford to miss a dose. It makes sense that I’d get one. I get stabbed a lot here, and eventually I’d end up with more track-marks than a methadone clinic. The doc straightens, a small electric screwdriver in hand.

“Your left hand, please,” she says. I prop my left elbow on the workstation. She grabs my hand with icy fingers.

“Is it a rule that doctors have to have super cold hands and equipment?” She ignores me.

“I need you to hold very still,” she says. She takes a segment of the bracelet and tapes it to my wrist with surgical tape. She repeats the process, sticking the three largest parts around my wrist. Then she picks up one of the smaller linking pieces and a pair of screws. She starts attaching the segments together. In short order, my new jewelry would stay on without the tape. The doc picks up her electric screwdriver and starts tightening down the connections. Each screw head is a little triangle. I guess she doesn’t want some idiot just taking apart her little gizmo.

“It occurs to me, doc,” I say, “that this thing will either label me as medically fragile or as a junkie.” I don’t have too many run-ins with law enforcement, but I really try not to complicate things when I don’t have to. Anything that will administer drugs can be considered paraphernalia.

“This model is unlike the more commercially available versions, Brinks.” She doesn’t call me ‘Mister’ this time. “Still the RFID will identify you as diabetic, and your cartridges will be clearly labeled as insulin.” She pauses, finishing the last screw. “So it will identify you as… medically fragile.” She puts the screwdriver back in the toolbox and closes it. She straightens up, pushes her frameless glasses up the bridge of her nose. She looks at me long and hard. I meet her gaze, but it isn’t easy. “There are rules for this piece of equipment, Mister Brinks.” Back to being formal. “The first rule should be obvious, but I’m telling you anyway – you have diabetes. That is what your injector is for.” She was right. Obvious. I’m already not supposed to talk about work, and this is work equipment. I nod my understanding. “Second, I will be allowing you to field test certain compounds. You are only to use one at a time, both for purity of data and for your own safety.” I nod again. “Third, and related to the other two, you do not field test anything in view of others.” That one will be trickier, but I get it.

“Doc, I know you’re on a roll here, but these are all no-brainers.” Dad always told me that there is an idiot’s name attached to every rule. I already suspected I’m not the only lab rat in town. Guess this means, I’m not the dumbest one she’s had. Comforting.

“Clarity is important, Mister Brinks. We’ve been over this.” At great length. My early testing write-ups got rejected every time because I wasn’t being clear and specific.

Gear, part one

My eyes snap open. My phone is beeping at me. Ugh. No matter how much technology advances, no matter what song your alarm plays, an alarm clock is still an alarm clock. My favorite song waking me up every morning has taught me to hate it. I sit up. I fell asleep with the light on again. Still wearing yesterday’s workout clothes. I yawn, stretch. I scratch my face. I sniff. I reek of stale sweat. Yeah, that makes sense. My view of my surroundings sharpens as my eyes start working again. I finally stand, locate my bag, and silence my phone.

It’s a short walk to the tiny closet I call a bathroom. I strip as I go, leaving a trail of dirty clothes. I twist the knob on the shower. There’s a rattle, then the slap-hiss of the water bursting out of the lime-scaled showerhead. I step in. “AH!” Too hot. The skin on my chest burns, and I claw at the knob. The water cools, but I turned the knob too far. I suck air through my teeth as I adjust the controls again. The water heats up. “Damn it, I know better than that,” I say to no one. I quickly scrub myself clean and dry off. I pull two sets of clothes out of the clean pile; one to wear and one to change into in case we destroy the ones I’m wearing in the lab. I cram the change of clothes into my bag, and hoist it onto my shoulder. I grab a breakfast bar from the torn open box on the counter and fairly bolt out the door.

The commute is boring as always. The passengers on the bus all have an unspoken agreement; we all pretend that the others don’t exist. Eventually we hit my stop, and I depart from the main road into the industrial buildings. I come to my particular featureless grey building and go in. Doctor Allison greets me at the inner door. “Morning, Doc,” I tell her. Her ice blue eyes deliver a flat stare. I thought for sure she’d warm up to me by now. And maybe she has. “What, no gun today?” She still doesn’t say a word, but she turns and moves her lab-coat. A holstered pistol. I laugh. “My mistake.”

She turns and walks toward her workstation. I dump my bag on the nearest one. “What are we doing today, Doc?”

“I’m assigning you some equipment.” She’s all business today. Really, she’s all business every day, but sometimes she says good morning.

“Aw, you shouldn’t have! My birthday isn’t for a couple months.”

“These are not presents, Mister Brinks.” She still won’t call me by my first name. “These items will be checked out to you. I expect all of it to come back to me in serviceable condition, should I request it.”

“I understand.” I put on my solemn face. I understand that she’ll want it back, and that the job will eventually end. I also understand something else. It’s one thing to keep track of what she’s given me. It’s another thing to check out things as though she had to track inventory for more than one person. I keep my mouth shut. It’s difficult. I watch as the doc pulls a plastic crate out from under her desk. She sets it on one of the empty workstations. She pulls out a clipboard.

“Make sure all of these items are in there. Initial each one. Sign at the bottom.” She turns and walks off. I don’t see where she goes. I reach into the crate. Netbook. Check. Next is a first aid kit, but it’s the backpack like the city paramedics carry. I look around. I feel like this is worth a raised eyebrow, but the doc is nowhere in sight. I turn back to the crate. There’s nothing else in there. I look at the checklist. There’s something called an injector on there.

Montage, part two

Leaves crunch underfoot. The occasional motion sensitive light comes on as I pass. Only one barking dog behind the privacy fences tonight. I come to the only open garage in probably the whole city, but I would not mess with Lev. Not for anything. I walk to the yawning maw of the building and look around. A trio of bare lightbulbs lights the unfinished interior of the garage. A heavy bag, wrapped and re-wrapped in duct tape, hangs in one corner. A bench and a stack of dumb-bells sit in the other. An aged and shredded floor mat takes up most of the space in the center. It’s got a few black speckles – old blood. Some of it mine. “Lev,” I call. “You here?” Silence. I don’t cross the threshold. Lev is an old soldier, and surprising him is something of a bad idea. “Lev!” I yell. A bald head with wire frames and two days’ silvery stubble pokes through a side door. I put up fists, imitating a boxer, then I pull out my wallet. His beady eyes light up, and he waves me in. I step into the garage, and Lev disappears for a moment. I drop my stuff by the weight bench and sit down on the mat. I start stretching, despite still being fairly well warmed up.

The old man comes back in a few minutes wearing old tactical fatigues and a tank top. Old habits die hard, they say. He grins and takes off his glasses. We start with the heavy bag. He holds, I punch. He doesn’t speak much American, but demonstration is much more useful in this case anyway. He comes around the bag and corrects my form, but only a couple of times this time. Next, we move to clinches and knee strikes. I clutch the bag, lifting my knees to the height of the average solar plexus. I alternate legs until Lev gestures to stop.

I’m panting by this time. Lev makes a water bottle appear, and I drink. He takes it away when he thinks I’ve had enough. It’s far sooner than I want. He gives a gentle push out onto the center of the mat. I step to the middle, then turn and flex my knees slightly. Hands up and open. Lev comes out to the mat, then very slowly goes through the motion of a right hook. I equally slowly turn his hand away. He shakes his head. We’ve already done this. He settles into a ready stance, gestures for me to come to him. I slowly execute a right hook. He takes my fist, pushes it across his body, then palms my face. The idea is clear. We work like this for several hours.

Finally, Lev gets tired. He signals for a stop, and I pull a wad of cash from my wallet. I hear a clinking of glasses. I turn to find that Lev has produced a bottle of vodka with a wholly Cyrillic label and a pair of shot glasses. “Only one this time, Lev.” The first time, the old soldier had broken out a bottle at the end, and I woke up with my head on my gym bag on his garage floor. That entire day had been hellish. The old man laughed, filling the glasses with the clear liquid. I take one in hand, raise it to meet his.

“Za lyoo-bóf,” Lev says. I grin, and we drink. It burns my tongue, my throat, my stomach. I feel the warmth spread through me. Vile stuff, but I wouldn’t insult my host by refusing. I shoulder my bag. I shake his hand and return the shot glass before heading out into the night. I jog to the nearest bus stop and flop down. There’s no traffic by this time, so I can see the bus from quite a ways. I’m soaked in sweat and the night air has surrendered its warmth, so I’m thoroughly chilled by the time the diesel powered vehicle squeaks to a stop in front of me. I climb aboard and let it take me toward home.

Montage, part one

The world spins, and I land flat on my back. Air rushes out of my lungs. After a long second, I gasp. “Good move,” I wheeze. My vision swims a little, but I’ve been getting better. After three months of this guy kicking me around, I’d hope so, anyway. The blue eyes looking down at me aren’t especially friendly, but the guy still gives me a flawless white smile. Master Hadi speaks. I miss what he says because I’m too busy holding in a smart-ass remark about those Cobra Kai jerks. I fail to surpress a smirk anyway.

“You find something funny, Mister Brinks?” Hadi asks.

“No sir. Just enjoying my lesson, sir.” It’s halfway true. I am learning, but I don’t really like sparring with Jace. He’s pretty far beyond my skill level, and he knows it. We’re still in the same beginner’s class, but I don’t know why he hasn’t moved on. No matter. I take up my place in line again, and watch the other combatants. Each pair takes the mat, and Master Hadi observes as they attack. Each fight is stopped as one combatant hits the ground. I should be analyzing everyone’s maneuvers. Should. Instead, I’m thinking of my other self-defense class.

The sparring wraps up quickly. Lots of foot sweeps, a couple of simple trips, one well-placed kick to the chest that lifted the poor sucker off his feet. Master Hadi goes down the line, addressing everyones’ greatest weaknesses. I try to listen in on Jace’s critique. Try and fail. I’ll have to figure this one out for myself. The instructor steps in front of me. “You are too impatient.” I nod. I wait for more. Hadi moves to the next student. That’s it? Damn it. It isn’t just impatience that is landing me flat on my back every damn time. I snarl inwardly.

Finally, he dismisses us. I head for the showers. I won’t take one until after my other class for the evening, but I feel ridiculous walking around in my students’ gi. Most of my classmates seem to be in more of a hurry to leave. I let them push past me. One shoulders me hard, flattening me face first against the green and white tile wall. I push off and see Jace walking backward, smiling. I follow, cracking my own grin, but seething on the inside. “One of these days, man, I’ll catch you,” I tell him. I’m joking, but not really.

“Never happen, pal.” He says in the way that indicates that pal is a substitute for asshole. “I’m outta your league, Brinks.” He’s not smiling now. I let him go. This isn’t the time or the place. I slough off my gi and pull some grey sweatpants and a blue t-shirt out of my bag. I’m dressed and cramming my uniform into my bag in seconds. I jam feet into running shoes, and I’m out. The night air is cool. Fall is setting in, and I am loving it. I break into a jog. It’s an hour walk to Lev’s garage, or twenty minutes at my current pace. I turn off the main road and onto a back street. After two blocks, I cut into an alley.

Ideal Subject

Once upon a time, I started writing short stories.  I had fun doing little snippets of a million ideas (hyperbole – there were a few different ideas bouncing around at any one time though).  I started to favor the story of Asher Brinks above all others, and I built his story into a hundred-page narrative.  

Then I went nuts.  Sanity returned, but I was having a terrible time moving forward.  In an effort to push through, I tried working backward.  So I wrote a prologue.  I ended up changing more than a few of the details, but the character remained the same.  As I catch up to the events of the very first Lab Rat, I’ll have to re-write or overwrite the existing work.  I’m okay with that.  For now, I’m continuing where I left off…

“In many ways, you are an ideal test subject, Brinks.” Doctor Allison looks up from her monitor. “In other ways, there is work to be done.” I flip through the papers. There is a nutritional guide, several sets of contact information for gyms, apartment listings, and several suggestions for self-defense courses.

“Wow,” I say. I pat my stomach. “I didn’t think I was in that bad shape.”

“You are underweight.” Allison walks over to me. “Energy has to come from somewhere. More than one of the things I will be injecting you with will draw on your body for fuel. You don’t have much in the way of fat reserves, so you will need to increase your caloric intake.”

“I see.” I guess that hadn’t occurred to me. “So how much energy did it take to survive your flame-thrower?”

“That’s one of the things we will be tracking. I know it works, but I don’t know how taxing that particular one is. Regardless, it won’t do to have you waste away in the middle of testing.” She tugs at the baggy scrub tunic. “More so, I mean.”

“Point taken.” I flip to the apartment listings. “What about this?” I ask.

“I expect any equipment I send into the field to return to me. Either your current home needs to be made secure, or you need to move to one that is.”

“Aww, you’re worried about me!” I grin. I look at her. Her face remains expressionless. “Is that why I’m signing up for karate too?”

“The equipment you’ll be using is valuable.” She is quiet for a moment. Then, “Yes, I suppose I’d rather you not be mugged or beaten, either.”

“That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me all week!” I tell her. She turns her back to me, but I can almost hear her rolling her eyes. She doesn’t turn back to me as she starts talking again.

“We are done for today.” She turns back and hands me a checklist.

“I thought you said done?” I ask as I’m reading.

“We are. You are not. Remember, twenty-four, seven.” I laugh. Good point.

“Okay, teach, when’s my homework due?”

“I’m not giving you any equipment to take home until I’m convinced it’s not just going to a pawn shop.” She peers over her glasses at me. “I realize I am going to have to trust you at some point. You securing your home against further break-ins will go a long way toward helping that. Are we clear?”

“Crystal,” I tell her. I gather my stuff from the derelict workstation.

“Make sure the door latches behind you, Mister Brinks.”

“You got it, Doc.” I step into the stale grey entry and push the door shut behind me. After even a moment in there, the polluted afternoon air smells sweeter. I squint in the daylight. I look down at the sheaf of papers in my hand. I have a lot to do. I head toward the nearest bus stop.

* * *

It’s nearly midnight. I’m sort of tired, but I’m pretty well satisfied. Doctor Allison gave me an advance, so I hoofed it over to the local home improvement store. For a brief, shining moment, I was one of those guys who has twelve bags of crap and takes an eternity boarding the bus. I spent the bus ride trying to decide which martial arts class I’m gonna be taking. I have no idea which one is the best, or which one would suit me the best. She says I need to be in better shape, but Tae-Bo wasn’t on the list. I’ll worry about that tomorrow, though. In the meantime, I survey my handiwork. Dad stopped by with tools and a shitty little television he used to keep in his garage. Said I don’t have to give that back.

New doorframe. Like, entirely. New two by fours, anchored to the concrete. New, electronic deadlatch. Biometric scanner on the outside, keypad and visitor display mounted inside. Seriously cool, and I feel safer already. Landlord is gonna be pissed if he ever needs to get in for maintenance. I laugh at the thought; the guy never fixes things. I drop my mattress back where it belongs against the far wall. It’s funny to think that this lock is now the most valuable thing I own. I flip the channel to whatever late night talk show happens to be on, and sit down on my bed. I’m out cold in seconds.