- - - - -
BOOT UP SEQUENCE...
Date... C.2145.11.02//Synced
Firmware... SynthOS2145.11.02//Latest Version Installed
CORTEX Intrusion Mitigation Architecture... CIMA2145.11.02//Latest Version Installed
CORTEX ANTI-VIRUS PROTECTION... ACTIVATED
BIOS Secure Chip... ?
Checking Hardware... All systems optimal. No errors detected.
Calibrating... Completed at [06:58:12]
Neural Link Establishment... ?
Synaptic Response Time... 0.0012 ms [Optimized]
Memory Buffer... Synced (Last Backup: 04:23 AM)
Cortical Processing Speed... 210% [Overclocked (Temp.)]
Energy Cells... 100% [Charging]
Dermal Heat Sinks... Optimal Temperature (23°C)
DTC-Breaker Software... Loaded [Stealth Mode]
Encryption Keys... Secured
System Uplink... ?
Neural Command Uplink... ?
RAM Allocation... 32 TB [Optimized]
Datajack Port... Secure | Ready for Deployment
CyberOps Protocols... ACTIVE (Running Custom Scripts)
UI/UX Interface... Custom Profile Loaded
Native Virtual Intelligence... Synced | Listening...
Response Time... 0.0014 ms [Optimized]
System Stability... 99.99% [Safe Mode Enabled]
Neural Interface... Synced
Autonomous Diagnostics... COMPLETE
Status: All Systems Green
Mission Readiness: Nominal
Thank you for choosing SynthOS!
- - - - -
Chris blinked the last of the system updates from his vision, the soft light of the texts fading into the room's shadows. He rose, slow and deliberate, the charging cable snapping free from the base of his spine and retreating into the bedframe behind him with a mechanical hum.
“Time,” he mumbled, and a moment later, the faint glow of digits flickered in his peripheral. 5:53 AM
He moved toward the bathroom, feet heavy on the cold floor, the sheets still clinging damp to his waist. Unlike his former apartment, which he could no longer afford, his company-provided lodging was a room so small it felt like a cell, nothing but a bed and a dresser, the walls close enough to touch both simply by stretching both arms. He shuffled to the shower, muscles stiff and reluctant. As if the morning couldn't grind slower, a voice cut through the fog of his mind.
"Good morning, Officer Newman," droned Karen, his AI supervisor, her voice, as per usual, devoid of all warmth and humanity.
Chris groaned. “Fuck off.”
"You have overslept by twenty-three minutes. Adjustments have been made to your schedule accordingly."
Chris suppressed another groan, knowing better than to argue. The most loathsome of his new owners, Cortex Dynamics, had him tethered like a dog on a chain, and Karen was the leash. Karen wasn’t really her name, but Chris really couldn’t be bothered to remember what it was. She was there, hardwired into implants embedded in his neural cortex, present when he woke, when he worked, and when he tried to sleep. She monitored his vitals, regulated his stress levels, and ensured he remained productive. Chris found he was more machine than man these days. And she—the operator at his helm.
"Due to your tardiness, in-home breakfast is no longer possible,” Karen continued. “Nutritional provisions will be supplied upon your arrival at the precinct. A deduction of 50 credits will be applied to your account, in addition to a 7-credit delivery charge, an 8-credit convenience charge, and a 12-credit tardiness charge. Your total outstanding balance is now 532,527 credits.
Failure to adhere to your revised timetable will result in a 4% interest fee being applied to the total amount, compounding daily for three days. You currently have thirty-three minutes remaining according to the adjusted schedule. Any additional delay will trigger the immediate imposition of this interest fee. Per the terms of your employment agreement, this policy is binding and non-negotiable."
...Bitch, Chris muttered under his breath. He stepped into the shower, the water lukewarm. The heater was not working for some reason. He swore again.
The slums stretched out before him like a labyrinth of decay, a place where progress had been left behind long ago. Above, the towering spires of District Eleven stretched towards the skyline, obscured by smog, their artificial lights flickering dimly through the haze. Down here, the world was smaller, the buildings were old and worn, their exteriors corroded by acid rain and neglect. The streets were narrow, more alleys than roads, lined with makeshift stalls where vendors peddled black-market goods beneath flickering neon signs. The air was thick with the stench of decay and ruin and the streets teemed with the forgotten—those who had fallen through the cracks, living in the shadow of progress.
Chris’s boots squelched on the muddy pavement. Following his suspension, Roadman had been confiscated. Worse yet, it remained uncertain if the auto would ever be returned to him. For that reason, Chris was dressed in casual wear with a cheap, 3D-printed side-arm holstered visibly by his side, the ammunition for which he had purchased from a nearby vending machine. In regards to stopping power or reliability, the gun could never compare to his service weapon—which had also been confiscated for the duration of his suspension—but it would be sufficient to dissuade most from bothering him.
Quickening his pace, Chris soon reached the station. The place itself was as filthy as the squalor outside—perhaps even worse, with smudged metal surfaces, trash piles, and digital billboards flashing advertisements for luxury products that were out of reach for anyone unfortunate enough to be living in the vicinity. Moments following his arrival, a train slid into the station, its seemingly damaged maglev modules causing the rearmost cabin to rattle noisily as it came to a shuddering stop.
Chris found a seat near a window in the front, and half a minute later the train lurched back into motion. It’s been years since Chris last took public transport like this; he couldn’t say he enjoyed it. The passengers around him were a motley crew, most wearing the same look of resigned exhaustion. Unsurprisingly, most were corporate employees, their uniforms bearing the logos of the megacorps that owned them. Many were thugs that went about hunting for the next sook to shake down. A man in the fore wore the drab, nondescript clothing of, quote-unquote, freelancers—a mercenary for hire, most likely. But given his generally impoverished appearance, it was obvious he lacked the dubious privilege of corporate sponsorship.
The train zipped through the city, the landscape a blur of concrete, steel, and misery. Eventually, it slowed to a stop, and Chris rose from his seat, joining the throng of passengers as they disembarked.
The hundredth floor of the precinct was a place of myths, a forbidden level reserved for the Special Weapons and Tactics units. Many rumours existed about what lay in this forbidden domain, some modest and others just downright absurd. But as Chris stepped into the dimly lit office, the reality was far from the rumours. The space was spartan, bathed in cold fluorescent light, the city skyline flickering beyond a row of one-way windows.
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Behind a battered metal desk sat a man Chris suspected was Commander Clarke; his expression was bland as he glanced up at Newman. His face was hardened, etched with grim lines illuminated harshly by the fluorescent lights above.
"Newman, right?" Clarke's voice was gravel scraping across pavement. He didn’t stand.
"Yes, sir," Chris replied.
"Welcome to SWAT."
“Thank you, sir.”
Clarke studied him, eyes narrowing. "I hope you aren’t disappointed?"
Chris shrugged. “Doesn’t really matter, does it, sir?”
“No, it doesn’t.” The commander waved him off, gesturing towards what ought to be the direction of the locker room, his words clipped. "Gear up. Your evaluation starts in ten. Don’t be late."
“So, you’re the new guy.”
Chris looked up to meet the gaze of the scarred man who leaned on the dented locker beside the one assigned to Chris. Behind the tall fellow stood two others; a stocky, blonde man with hair tied in a topknot, and a petite-looking Asian lady with a fuck-ton of piercings and lily tattoos over every visible inch of her skin sans her face and extremities. The scent of sweat and gun oil hung heavy on the trio, mingling with the metallic tang of blood and disinfectant.
“Christopher Newman,” Chris said, introducing himself to the group.
“Kowalski, Squad Leader,” said the scarred one. “These are Vasquez and Fumiko, our medic and grenadier-cum-bomb technician, respectively,” he continued, gesturing to the pair behind him before jabbing a finger at someone behind Chris. “That fool over there is Alejandro, our technical specialist. He hates people.”
Chris turned his gaze to the fellow with a goatee and a cybernetic left arm fiddling with a helmet at the end of the room; the techie didn’t bother looking up to acknowledge Kowalski’s statement.
“...Nice to meet you all,” Chris finally said with a nod. “I believe I am supposed to be with Entry Team Alpha, but I haven’t received an official designation yet.”
“Heard you’re the freak that tore up that condo in Central,” Fumiko said, her voice laced faintly with hostility. “Ate a man’s foot.”
Chris met her gaze without emotion. “Does that bother you?”
“What kind are you?” Vasquez interjected before the woman could respond.
“...Bruiser-Shifter.”
“Rating?”
“That’s classified.”
Fumiko was not impressed, it seemed; growling, she spat to the side in disdain. “What’s the brass thinking allowing freaks in here with the rest of us?” she murmured causing Chris’ receding frown to return.
“That’s enough,” Kowalski ordered, pinning the woman with a glare. “Leave the rookie be and gear up. We’ve got a mission briefing in five. Rookie, we’ll see later.”
Chris watched with narrowed eyes as his supposed team dispersed.
“Great,” he mumbled as they left the room.
Clarke stood in the observation room, hands clasped behind his back, his gaze fixed on the one-way glass. Behind it, Christopher Alexander Newman stood shirtless, muscles tense beneath the clinical lights as he waited for the tests to begin. The room felt colder than it was—sterile, not just in temperature, but in the atmosphere as well. Clarke’s unease settled somewhere low in his chest. Unpleasant.
Lindstrom stood beside him. She didn’t speak at first, just watched like he did. “Surreal, isn’t it?” she said, voice soft, breaking the silence but careful not to break too much of it. Clarke glanced at her, then back at Chris.
“Never thought I’d see the day.”
“You don’t approve?”
She made a sound, something small. “To an extent. Enough to be unsure if this one is worth the risk.”
Risk. That was always the word that followed paranormals, like a shadow. Clarke watched Chris stretch his arms, eyes darting over the unfamiliar equipment, the tension in his shoulders impossible to miss. He felt the same hesitation stir in his gut.
“So, strength first?” Clarke said, changing the topic, his voice steady but coloured by an edge of curiosity.
Lindstrom nodded. “Standard protocol. Deadlifts, sprints, responsiveness. The usual. No different than what we’d done for the others. Just… scaled up.” She tapped the tablet in her hands, a small frown settling on her face. “If the reports are right, though, I don’t think we’ll get close to his limits. That’s the thing with paranormals—everything’s magnified. Physicality, reflexes, complexity.”
Clarke turned, watching her eyes linger on the readouts. “You are suggesting we request an external facility?”
“Yeah,” she said, shrugging slightly. “I mean, have you read his file?”
Clarke didn’t say anything. Just turned his eyes back to the man in the room. Chris reached for a bar, ends thick as a tyre. His fingers wrapped around it, muscles coiling like wire. The weight rose easily to his waist, chest, then crashed back down with a tremor.
Lindstrom hummed in that manner she does when she’d been proven right.
Clarke arched a dubious brow. “You don’t think we can handle him?”
“I think,” she paused, picking the words carefully, “you’re dealing with extremely unpredictable variables.”
Clarke sighed. “The chief said to give the kid a shot. I’ve seen worse come good.”
“And I’ve seen good go worse,” she said, no anger, just fact. She looked back at the numbers on the screen. “Next is speed. We’ll measure his sprinting speed and stamina, then hand-eye coordination after that.”
Clarke didn’t respond. They watched a physician escort the paranormal to an industrial-looking treadmill and instruct him to mount it. Chris adjusted his stance, rolling his shoulders. Paying closer attention, Clarke noticed a grace to his movements that raised the hairs on his neck. There was something primal about the whole scene that made him uneasy.
The subject unexpectedly morphed slightly during the exercise. Clawed feet hit metal tracks, and the numbers climbed, faster and faster until—127 mph. The digits on the console fluctuated for a bit before eventually stabilizing at a hundred and eighteen.
Faster, stronger, deadlier. Everything they’d need to tame this unruly district. Everything they feared in the same breath. Could they afford not to use him? The question hung in the air, heavy and silent.
Chris sat in the briefing room, the air light with that sterile smell. His muscles still hummed from exertion. The chair beneath him creaked slightly as he shifted his weight, tapping his fingers on its armrest, waiting. It was just him and the cold, metal furniture and tall, almost impersonal white walls. Nothing to do but wait.
The door opened, Clarke walking in, a folder under his arm. He sat across from Chris, placed it on the table. “Classified: Do Not Copy,” it read in bold red letters. Clarke’s face was the same as always, but there was something underneath now. Something softer. Worn.
“Well, Newman,” Clarke said, breaking the silence. “Good work. I expect the same in the field.”
Chris gave a nod. “Understood, sir.”
Clarke leaned back, watching him with those careful eyes. A strange silence stretched between them. Chris saw something glimmer in the commander’s gaze; unease. He was worried. About what? Chris couldn’t tell. When Clarke spoke again, his voice was low. “You can review your file. After that, it’s back to the archives. Only a few know what’s in it, and I’d like to keep it that way.”
Chris nodded as he opened the folder. “Understood, sir.”
“Saving Document,” Karen chimed from the void. “Saved to Secure Folder.”
Chris blinked, his gaze flickering to the “Do Not Copy” watermark on the document before he promptly decided to ignore the matter.
His attention returned to the words, tables and graphs. Everything worth knowing about him was in it, it seemed: Even his Pan-Anomalous Classification and his rating on the Pan-Anomalous Severity Index were recorded, unchanged from the time PASIT evaluated him following his arrest three weeks ago—BRUISER[SHIFTER][5], it read. Everything detailed in the file was something he already knew. Everything except—
“Your alias.”
Chris looked up.
“You will operate under the alias, WATCHDOG,” Clarke clarified.
“Sir?”
“You heard me.”
The weight of the declaration slowly settled in Chris’ mind—something about hearing it all laid out made the reality of his situation more real. More permanent. This was who he was now, in their eyes. An experiment. A tool with a number and a file.
A weapon.
“Zero-zero-one, WATCHDOG. The egg-heads in Planning chose it; felt fitting, they said, given your…” He made a gesture with his hand.
Chris nodded. “I understand.”
“There’s no need to rush.” Clarke stood, gathering the file. “Take the day. Rest. Report back tomorrow for your first assignment.”
Chris stood and gave a nod. “Understood, sir.”
Clarke paused by the door. "And Newman," he said, his tone softer but no less serious.
“Yes, sir?”
"The chief stuck his neck out for you and has a lot riding on this. I don’t know what kind of relationship you two share but don’t fuck this up. Are we clear?"
“...Crystal, sir.”
