AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is fan fiction—and an experiment.

If the writing style seems unusual, it's because it has been adapted (with minimal embellishment) from a comic book "spec" script, and I still hope to interest a publisher in having it fully illustrated and printed as a comic. My goal here is to capture the spirit of the comic book as much as possible.

The script is told from multiple points of view, and the primary storyteller wants to remain anonymous—at least, for now. To avoid confusion, the storyteller's narration appears in bold italics. Feel free to imagine these narrative inserts as captions on a comic book panel.

This will not be confusing at all, I hope.

Of course, it will be helpful if you remember a TV show called The Six Million Dollar Man.

CHAPTER ONE: The New O.S.I.

Once there was a man named Steve who was a friend to many. He had an adventure to another world which made him famous, but a terrible accident struck him low.
That was not the end of his story, however. The accident that should have killed him made him stronger because he had a friend named Rudy who knew how to make miracles.

MARCH 7, 1973
O.S.O. RESEARCH LABORATORY, COLORADO

The patient had been in a medically induced coma for months. The process was called electrosleep, developed in secret by Soviet scientists. The process was not so secret, however, that the Americans at the Office of Scientific Operations could not duplicate the process.

Dr. Rudy Wells knew many such secrets.

When the patient finally stirred, Jean Manners, the injured man's personal nurse and primary caregiver, spoke in a barely audible whisper.

"He's awake."

The patient's new left eye was bandaged and had yet to be used for the first time. His right eye opened and looked at the face of his doctor, Rudy Wells.

"Dr. Frankenstein, I presume." There was no mirth in his tone.

The words stung Rudy, but he showed no reaction. Jean understood the pain behind the comment and wondered if the friendship between the doctor and his patient would survive what was to come.

It would, of course, but not without being tested many more times in the years that followed—years that would see the most successful, most unexpected, and most classified career of any secret agent in American history.

That is the beginning of the story of Steve Austin, astronaut—but that was long ago.
The story I will tell you now is different, but it begins much the same way.

FORTY-THREE YEARS LATER

The boy—who thinks himself already a man—wakes up in a hospital bed. He knows he has survived something horrible.
He is lucky to be alive.
He doesn't feel lucky.
He knows his arms and legs are not his own. They are the only parts of him that do not hurt.
He does not know where he is or how long he has slept. He does not know who the strangers are who smile at him now.
Soon he will ask them questions, and they will lie to him. They are good at keeping secrets.

I have no use for secrets. I will tell you what I know, but I must tell you in my own way.
Be patient. I am not known for my eloquence.
This happened before I met the boy.

"You're awake," said the doctor. "Good. The surgeries went well."

Corp. José Mendez looked with utter bafflement at the people surrounding his bed. This was not Afghanistan.

The man smiling at him was dressed like a doctor, but his face reminded him of a sensei from an old Kung foo movie. His lab coat bore an embroidered logo for Darkwell Defense Systems and a name tag that said "Endo."

"I advise you to start slowly," said Dr. Endo. "Your bionics will respond as though they are a part of you, but your brain will take time to adapt to the new neural pathways."

José looked at the others surrounding him.

There were two nurses smiling affectionately at him. They were hard to miss because they were strikingly (suspiciously) beautiful. He knew they were nurses because of their uniforms, although their skirts were shorter than those of any nurse's uniforms he had ever seen outside of a certain genre of movie.

Then there was the young woman standing at the foot of the bed reading his chart—the only woman not making direct eye contact with him. Her dark hair was curled just the right way. Her Darkwell-issued lab coat covered most of her outfit, but through the open front, he saw something that looked like a short leather kimono with zippers in odd places. It was a dress that could have been designed by a James Bond villain.

José knew what army hospitals usually looked like, so he thought it was odd that the scene before him looked as if Charlie's Angels had gone undercover as a medical team.

The thought was driven from his mind as the dark-haired woman noticed him staring. She grinned suddenly as if remembering her part in the script.

José started with the obvious question.

"Where am I?"

The nurses' smiles wavered a bit, but it was Dr. Endo who replied.

"What's the last thing you remember?"

"Jallalabad," said José. That was as specific as his hazy memory could manage.

"Afghanistan," said the dark-haired kimono woman whose name tag said "Goodwin."

"I know where it is, Dr. Goodwin," admonished Endo before turning his attention back to José. "Memory loss is not uncommon in cases of head trauma such as yours. To answer your question, you're in Colorado. You've been here nearly two years, although you spent most of that time in electrosleep."

José heard the words, but the information didn't sink in. "What happened to the others?" he asked.

"The men in your unit are fine," said Endo. "How do you feel?"

He was aware of bandages covering the right side of his head including his eye. Much of the rest of his body felt like it belonged to someone else.

"There's a buzzing in my ear."

"You probably hear the humming of the equipment in the room, or the flickering of the lights. Even through your bandages, your new ear can hear things most people can't."

"New ear?"

"It'll take a day or two to get used to."

The dark-haired Dr. Goodwin spoke up. "If the ear still bothers you tomorrow, I'll make some adjustments."

"Look at your hand," said Endo. "Either hand."

He flexed his right hand experimentally as the doctors watched. "It feels—different."

"It's artificial—but it responds to your brain waves, your thoughts, as if it were your real hand."

"Artificial?" He studied his hands now with skepticism. He could make them move, but only in a sluggish, clumsy way.

"Your new hands are much better than the ones you were born with," said Endo with some pride. "Better. Faster. Stronger. You're a lucky man."

The dark-haired woman broke eye contact, staring uncomfortably at her chart.

"Doctor, how lucky am I?" he asked, his hands clenched into fists. "How much of me is left?"

"You were very badly hurt when you arrived, Mr. Mendez, but your service has earned you some very special gifts. We've upgraded your arms, your legs, your right ear, and your right eye."

The dark-haired woman glanced up reassuringly. The others smiled proudly as though José had just won the lottery.

"Congratulations!" said Endo.

"Something tells me I'm not at the V.A."

He sat up—to see if he could. The nurses rushed to help, but Dr. Endo motioned for them to hold back. Everything he did from now on would be a test.

They brought him a can of soda on a tray. They knew his favorite cola brand.

"Pick it up," said Dr. Endo.

He reached for the can. Slowly.

"It is a familiar task," said Endo, "so your brain retains the muscle memory, and the software in your arm translates that memory into action."

His hand found the can and applied gentle pressure to the sides. To his surprise, it felt cold.

"Well done!" said Endo as the nurses clapped. "With contemporary methods, this simple task would have taken you weeks to relearn, but our advances in brain mapping has made the recovery time much shorter."

The can burst under the pressure from his hand. Soda streamed over the bed and the floor. The nearest nurse reached for a towel.

"Jessie?" said Endo.

The dark-haired Dr. Jessie Goodwin responded, "I'll adjust the pressure sensors in his fingertips."

"That'd be great, thanks," said José. "Preferably before I use the bathroom."

Dr. Endo smiled encouragingly. "This is just the first step, of course. We'll make adjustments to your bionics as we go, but the progress you've already made is very promising."

"I'm still confused," said José. "All the attention I'm getting is great, but I didn't know this was possible. Lots of people in the Army have been hurt like me, but they don't get this kind of care."

"But you're not in the Army anymore," said Endo. "You're part of the OSI now, as per your agreement. You really don't remember?"

José really didn't.

"You mustn't worry about that now. It will all be explained later, when you meet with Mr. Spencer."

It was only the first day of his long recovery. At first, it was a struggle to relearn simple tasks like dressing himself, feeding himself, or even standing for himself. The tasks were all-consuming, driving from his mind the suspicions he'd had about the seemingly perfect people who instructed him.

They are very helpful, these people. The boy is too proud to ask for help, but he accepts it.
What choice does he have?

THE NEXT DAY

"There will be some disorientation as your bionic eye calibrates to your organic one," said Endo as he removed the final bandage from José's face. "This should take only a moment."

José opened his right eye for the first time, but his left refused to cooperate as two disparate images competed for the attention of his brain's visual cortex. Both images showed the same room but disagreed on sizes, shades and colors.

Then the image in his new eye zoomed to match the other one. Hues and contrasts auto-adjusted like TV settings, using his original eye as a reference for how the other image should appear.

"How many fingers am I holding up?" asked Endo.

"Four. "

"Do you see color? Depth?"

"I see normally. It works like my own eye."

"Let's put it to the test. Read the eye chart."

José looked around Endo's sparse office. The dominant feature was a window facing the mountains, but there was no eye chart in the room.

"There isn't one."

Endo pointed toward the window. "Look again."

There were more than mountains in that view. There was the OSI administration building, the parking garage, the staff's dormitories, and the outdoor running track which was currently covered in a thin layer of snow. On the far side of the track, José recognized the two nurses—whose names he now knew to be Amber and April—wearing adorable white snow pants and mini-parkas while posing alongside an eye chart on an easel.

The pair waved happily at him.

"It's Amber and April. But they're too far away. I can't read that."

"Close your left eye. Look harder."

He did. Suddenly the image from his eye zoomed so tightly he could count the teeth in the nurses' smiles. An unexpected array of graphics appeared over the top of the image quantifying the visual data he received—including the exact magnification of what he saw and the filters currently in use. At the bottom of his field of vision, symbols appeared offering other options he may wish to use.

"What are these icons?"

"Enhancements for infrared, ultraviolet, and other other uses."

"What, no x-rays?"

"Close your eye and focus on an icon—any one—then open again."

A Google start-up page appeared across José's field of vision.

"Internet?"

"That didn't take you long to find. Yes, your eye gives you some of the benefits of connectivity—text messaging, search engines, Skype. But I suggest you pace yourself."

"What about—?"

"Blocked. You have enough distractions."

A WEEK LATER

It wasn't easy for José to remaster the simple art of walking, but when he had, he was able to make the long trek with Dr. Endo to the administration building next door where he was introduced to Elijah Spencer, director of the OSI.

"It's good to see you again, Mr. Mendez," said Spencer, reaching for José's hand.

"Shaking my hand?" asked José, remembering the soda can. "You're a brave man, sir."

Spencer laughed, revealing perfect teeth. His handsome middle-aged features and well-tailored suit marked him as a career politician.

"Yes, I heard that your sense of humor had come back. You're in much better spirits than the last time we met."

"He's made amazing progress, Eli," said Endo.

José didn't agree. The walk had tired him, and he was glad when Spencer offered him a chair. "I'm grateful for what you're doing for me, sir, but I'm afraid I don't remember you at all."

"Yes, I know you've suffered memory loss." Spencer leaned back on the front of his desk. "I hope I'll be able to shed some light on why we're so interested in you."

"Am I a spy now or something?"

Spencer and Endo looked at each other quizzically.

"Spy?" asked Spencer.

"Well, I assumed," said José. "We're in the OSI—the Office of Scientific Intelligence."

"The 'I' stands for 'Intervention' now," corrected Spencer. "Part of our post-9/11 reorganization."

"The OSI has a reputation for being the spooky dark corner of the Department of Homeland Security," José continued. "They say you even make the National Security Bureau nervous."

"You shouldn't believe those rumors."

"You've given me super strength, and you're loading my head with surveillance tech. If you're not building a spy, then what?"

Spencer sighed heavily. "Okay. Okay, yes," he admitted. "Spying is part of what we do."

"It's not that I'm ungrateful. But I have two big questions which I can't quite get my head around. Why pick me? Spying wasn't something I ever aspired to do. And why did I agree to do it?"

"Why?" Spencer's tone became more serious. "The reason we picked you is obvious. You fit the profile. We know your grades, your SAT score, your stats as a high school track star and all-around athlete, and your outstanding combat record. You're the best candidate we found, and we needed you. As for why you accepted . . .

"Well, let's just say—in your case—memory loss is a blessing. Do you really want the details?"

José stared at him expectantly.

"The IED that hit you turned the pieces of the Humvee you were driving into shrapnel which tore through your arms, your legs, and your skull. One fragment sliced your right eye down the middle. Afterwards, the combat-hardened men of your unit had difficulty describing the details of how they pulled the pieces of you out of that wreck. It was gut-wrenching.

"When you woke up in the hospital and saw what had happened, you cried for days. By the time we found you, you were begging the doctors to let you die." Spencer pointed at José. "You don't remember that, do you?

"Well, I don't blame you. A man like you, an athlete, a man who prides himself on self-reliance—that's the kind of man who loses the most after an injury like that.

"We found a man with limitless potential wallowing in self-pity—but a man who could meet his potential with the right kind of help."

The man with perfect teeth leaned toward José.

"So we rebuilt you. We had the technology. We had the capability to make the world's first bionic man. You, José Mendez, are that man."

It was a good speech. It wasn't his, but he told it well.
The boy believed him.

"Walk with me, José." Spencer stood up and led the way to the door. "I'm going to show you where your bionics were designed."

The Bionics Lab was a sprawling room where technicians peered at screens and soldered together high-tech gadgets for revealing secrets.

On the far end was a soundproof room for audio testing, and it was visible through a large window. Dr. Jessie Goodwin could be seen exiting the room carrying what appeared to be a plastic head. She kept her lab coat buttoned up here in the lab, surrounded by her mostly male co-workers.

Closer to the entrance was a device resembling a headless mannequin with robotic arms and legs—the "bionic simulator." Its feet didn't quite reach the ground because its back was mounted on a steel pole that extended from floor to ceiling. One of the simulator's hands grasped a barbell loaded with weights. The other hand was raised in an imitation of an "OK" gesture.

Every part of the lab could be seen from the landing where José, Spencer and Endo now stood.

"Gentlemen . . . and Jessie," announced Mr. Spencer. "We have a special guest—José Mendez."

The technicians in the room applauded José's arrival as if he were a celebrity.

"You'll forgive their enthusiasm." Spencer led José down a short flight of stairs as he spoke. "They're very proud of their work. You represent the fulfillment of years of their labor, and it's a huge relief for them to see you doing so well.

"You've already guessed this, but let me spell it out. After you've fully recovered and have been trained—we'll be sending you into the field on missions for the government. But you won't be out there alone. This is your support team."

They approached Jessie's work station near the bionic simulator. Jessie put down the plastic head and slipped her hand into a kind of bionic glove covered in wires that operated the robotic hand on the simulator.

Spencer continued. "Jessie, who you already know, is in charge of making sure your bionics interact seamlessly with your human parts."

"Good morning, José." Jessie waved at him, and the simulator mimicked her. "Welcome to our hidden lair."

She turned her attention to the simulator. "You see the robotic arms. They're exact replicas of your arms, but with the skin removed, in case we need to troubleshoot problems with your bionics when you're in the field."

She picked up the head which, up close, looked like a red plastic skull with ears. "I was just running a simulation with your bionic ear. I use this mock-up of your head to simulate the resonance of your skull."

"I was just going to say that," said José, nodding. "Yeah."

"And don't forget this," said Jessie, unexpectedly picking up a bionic eyeball from her workbench. "It's an exact match for the one we put in your head. Come here."

She put an arm around José and held out the eyeball like a camera. "Selfie!" she said with a smile. One of the screens surrounding her workstation captured the image of José and herself.

Spencer put a hand on José's shoulder and led him to the exit. "These people are going to be your new best friends," he said. "Your pit crew, so to speak. If you run into trouble, it'll be their job to get you out of it. Now come with me, and I'll tell you about some of the other benefits of working with us."

José glanced back to see one of those benefits in action. Jessie unbuttoned her coat.

Dr. Endo stayed in the lab and watched José and Spencer leave. The soundproof door closed behind them.

"They're gone," said Endo. "Get back to work!"

"Yeah, yeah," muttered Jessie under her breath as everyone in the room abruptly stopped smiling and returned to their drab screens.

"You sound grouchy," said the technician at the adjacent workstation.

Jessie carefully propped the bionic eye between the thumb and forefinger of the simulator's upraised robotic hand. "This sucks," she complained. "The poor kid's been through a lot already, and we're keeping him in the dark."

"You took the job," reminded her coworker.

"Yeah," she admitted. "I remember."

EIGHT MONTHS AGO:
DR. JESSIE GOODWIN'S FIRST DAY

"You're concerned about the uniform?" Dr. Endo sat at his desk. His tone, as usual, was irritated.

"Yes, doctor." Jessie had removed her lab coat so her boss could see the problem. Her short form-fitting nurse's uniform was identical to those worn by Amber and April. "The skirt isn't regulation. It's too short. And nowadays nurses don't wear skirts. They wear scrubs. And I'm a doctor, not a nurse—so what the hell?"

Dr. Endo regarded Jessie as he would a problem child. "We talked about this, Jessie. We all have to play our roles. This is an able-bodied young man who's had his self-sufficiency suddenly torn away from him. His confidence, his sense of manhood, has been shattered. Our job is to build him back up, not just physically, but mentally.

"The moment when the patient awakes—when he finally possesses his new arms and legs but is not able to use them—that is when he will be the most fragile psychologically. That is when it will be most important to protect him from his unpleasant reality. That's when it will be most important to play our parts.

"My role is that of the protective father-figure. I take care of his medical needs and provide sage advice, because it's vital that the patient trust me.

"You, on the other hand . . . Well, you're a beautiful young woman. The right kind of attention from someone like you can give the patient confidence—and something to aspire to."

"Wait, wait," interrupted Jessie, clenching the lab coat in her fist. "It almost sounds like I was hired to . . . I don't know how to say this . . . to excite him?"

"It's not as though we hired you just for your looks," said Endo.

"I was top of my class!"

"If you weren't, you wouldn't be here." Endo thought this answer explained everything more than satisfactorily. "Our methods have to be unconventional. And you're well compensated to play your part in it."

Jessie put on her lab coat before she stormed out of the room. "The patient under my care will get the attention he needs, but I draw the line at sexy nurse outfits!"

Dr. Endo relented. "Fine, fine. We'll design a doctor's uniform for you."

NOW

Dr. Jessie Goodwin sighed as heavily as the seams in her custom-fitted uniform would allow. She stared at the plastic skull in her hand.

"I thought this job would be a chance to work with a genius. Does Dr. Endo seem like a genius to you?"

Unblinkingly, the skull said nothing.

"I don't know," said her coworker from the next workstation. "He's paying me six times what I could make anywhere else, so I'm not going to ask."

NEARBY

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Spencer asked rhetorically. "The OSI built this complex back in the seventies. We were the 'OSO' back then."

Spencer was giving José the tour of the campus. Trees and grassy spaces between melting snowdrifts offset a spectacular view of the Rocky Mountains.

"A lot has changed. This complex belongs to Darkwell Defense Systems now, a private contractor, but the work is still for the OSI—and still highly classified."

Spencer led the way into the living complex. A receptionist smiled at them as they walked through the lobby into the elevator.

"We've given you a Security 6 clearance," he continued. "We've taken precautions to keep our work away from prying eyes."

"Like rival companies?" asked José.

"And rival nations. The Russians and the Chinese would love to see what we do here."

The elevator doors opened into a hallway. José was so impressed he didn't think to ask where they were going.

"This building is part of our on-site living area. It allows our busiest employees to avoid a lengthy commute if they choose." Spencer unlocked a door and beckoned José to go first.

He entered a lavish apartment. There was a fireplace, an entertainment center, a balcony overlooking the mountains, and a workout area with free weights and a gigantic punching bag.

"Here we are," said Spencer. "Home, sweet home."

"You live here?" asked José.

"No. You do."

"SURPRISE!" shouted Amber, April, and various other hidden well-wishers who suddenly revealed themselves. Amber arose from behind a sofa carrying a tray of champagne-filled glasses for everyone.

"Your friends have taken the liberty of moving your things over," Spencer explained. "You don't belong in a hospital anymore. Not with the progress you've made."

Offered champagne, José hesitated before taking it, remembering the soda can a week ago. With all eyes upon him, he picked it up. It did not break.

"Here you'll have room to flex your new bionic muscles," Spencer continued, gesturing toward the swanky new workout area, "and our staff will be able to make house calls as needed to check on your progress."

José felt overwhelmed by the attention. He nearly spilled his champagne when April unexpectedly hugged him from behind. "We're going to be neighbors!" she squealed in his ear. "Isn't that exciting?"

"I don't know what to say. This is too much!"

Spencer noticed with satisfaction his surprised reaction. "You can live here as long as you like," said Spencer, "or at least, until you find a place you like better."

LATER

Over the next few weeks, José's training accelerated. With April and Amber as his new workout buddies, he learned to develop the muscles in his core to keep up with his new bionic limbs.

He learned to vault forty feet in the air without the benefit of a pole.

He learned to lap the running track with the speed of a race car.

He learned to lift an 800-pound barbell over his head with one hand.

He learned all these things and more, and to him, it began to feel natural.

For the boy, it seems the tide has turned.
The frustrations felt upon his arrival are gradually forgotten as helplessness gives way to empowerment.
It is a heady experience to suddenly realize you have power no one else has.
As you continue to explore your limits, you begin to think that you don't HAVE any.
You begin to feel as though fear is something for other people.

WEEKS LATER

After his daily workout, José stepped onto the balcony of his suite to admire the sunset. The grounds of the complex were turning green again, but the mountaintops were still covered in snow.

Amber and April followed him out wearing spandex workout gear, mopping their brows with their towels.

They were sweating. He wasn't, and rarely did anymore.

The nurses were beautiful, and both seemed to adore him—April a little more than Amber. She thought he didn't notice, but he did.

As the two women joined him to admire the view from the balcony, José noticed someone in the parking lot. His bionic eye zoomed to see Dr. Goodwin as she walked to her car.

"I wonder where Jessie's going," he asked. He had forgotten Amber and April didn't have bionic vision like his own.

"Dr. Goodwin?" asked April. "Home, probably. She lives off complex."

It becomes hard to remember the power was not always yours.
Such power always comes at a price.

THE NEXT DAY

Spencer led José onto the running track where a stern thick-necked man dressed in black stood waiting.

"José, meet Wade Kirkland, one of our top operatives at the OSI. He'll be training you in the methods you'll need to survive when you're out in the field."

Kirkland's boots, cargo pants, shirt and cap were of a uniform shade of black. Everything about his appearance and demeanor said mercenary.

José shook his hand.

"You've got a firm grip," said the man in black.

"Just firm enough, I hope."

"Kirkland's faced his share of enemies," said Spencer, "both here and abroad. He'll give you the benefit of his experience, and probably make your life miserable as he does it."

"Part of the job," said Kirkland. "You'll thank me when it saves your life."

Kirkland led José to a mat lying on the grass. "I'll start with some ju jitsu. Show you some moves."

"Okay, but I warn you, I can kick pretty hard."

Without warning, Kirkland's booted foot landed hard against José's face.

THWAK!

José was on the ground before he knew what had hit him.

"Yeah, but your reflexes suck," said the instructor. "Your weak points are your face, your neck and your groin, just like anyone else. If you don't protect those, your bionics are useless."

In the weeks that followed, José rediscovered his humility.

José ran sprints that would shame an Olympic athlete, but Kirkland was not impressed.

"Bullets are faster, ya pansy! I'll tell you when it's good!"

The boy was a soldier.

José learned secrets that gave him advantages in hand-to-hand combat.

"Feel that?" Kirkland held José's hand against his throat. "It's the carotid artery. Block it, and he loses consciousness. Sever it, and he's done."

Killing to protect his homeland is a concept he understands.

Kirkland grabbed the head of the tackle dummy from behind. "Make it a quick snap. You don't want him crying out when you're in stealth mode."

José hesitated. "This'll knock him out?"

"Take," repeated Kirkland. "I said 'take' him out."

But this training feels different.

José kicked so hard, the tackle dummy's head flew off.

"Sorry about that."

"Ha! Don't worry, kid." Chuckling with satisfaction, Kirkland picked up the wooden head and tossed it to him. "There are always more dummies. Let's call it a day. The doctor's waiting to take your diagnostic."

José looked up to find Jessie on the edge of the track (again in her lab coat) waiting for José. She had brought her small cart filled with medical equipment and her laptop.

This was José's favorite part of the day.

"How's it going?" asked Jessie.

"My trainer's really good at killing people," José observed. "Not sure how to feel about that."

"He's got his job to do. I've got mine." Jessie took his arm and attached an electrode to monitor his bionics. Her laptop screen came to life with all the relevant data.

She placed her hand on the side of his neck to take his pulse.

Carotid artery, he thought. Sever it, and he's done.

"You looked good out there," complimented Jessie. "Any muscle pain?"

"With all the lifting I've been doing, my back should be killing me, but I feel fine."

"That's because Dr. Endo rebuilt your back using classified muscle grafting techniques."

"Grafting? That explains a lot."

"Dr. Endo didn't tell you? He's your surgeon." Jessie turned her laptop around so José could see his own medical information—something she had never done before.

José didn't have the training to understand most of it. There was a long list of pre-op and post-op medications including words like ferroxadrine, xenotestosterine, and oxitachidrine.

"Your bionic parts have been complimented by a battery of supplements you received while in electrosleep to fortify your muscular and skeletal systems," she explained. "Most of it's classified. Let's just say you've got a little more titanium in your spine than most people have."

"That's quite a list. What's 'ferroxadrine?'"

She hesitated before answering. "Part of Endo's secret recipe, I expect. To be honest, I don't know what it does, but I can look it up."

"That's okay. I only asked to break up our routine."

"Routine. Right." Jessie sighed and twirled her hair a bit nervously. "Listen, it's not like you're still bedridden. You should get off the complex now and then." She removed the electrodes from his arm and packed up her laptop. "In fact, there's a new restaurant in town that I've been wanting to visit. If you're interested, I'd let you take me there."

José thought he must have misheard. "You mean like dinner?"

"Yeah, dinner. To break the routine. "

"You mean a date?"

She gave him an authoritative glare that made him feel like an idiot. "You don't have to sound so surprised."

"A date sounds awesome."

"Tomorrow night, then? Around six?"

"Six o'clock," he blurted. "I'll pick you up."

As they left the running track in opposite directions, José tried to figure out what had just happened.

"I have a date with a hot doctor. I wonder if I have a car."

O'FLAHERTY'S RESTAURANT
THE FOLLOWING EVENING

He wore a tie. She wore a black dress with a shawl. The valet driver was suitably impressed by the Audi. The table was perfectly lit by candles.

José thought he did everything right.

"This is the first beer I've had since the surgery," he said when their drinks arrived.

"Pace yourself," she warned. "Your body's half metal now, so you can't metabolize alcohol like before."

The food was delicious, but Jessie didn't seem hungry.

"How's your salad?" he asked.

"I like it," she muttered. "It's got mushrooms."

They ate. José worried. He did most of the talking.

"So my top speed is 88 miles an hour. That's good right?"

"Impressive."

"Eighty-eight. With a flux capacitor, I'd be a time machine."

José finished his steak, but Jessie still poked at her salad. He wondered what bothered her but was afraid she was just bored.

"This was a good idea you had," he said, lifting the last of his drink. "I'm glad we're spending some down time together."

"Asking you out doesn't mean I want to have sex with you."

José didn't spit beer, but came close.

Jessie added quickly, "I didn't just say that. That was weird, wasn't it?"

"I didn't say anything about sex," said José.

"You misheard me."

"Okay. But, bionic ear."

"I don't date much. I'm bad at this."

"I'm not trying to have sex with you."

She glared.

"Not that I wouldn't want to. I mean—"

She looked back at her food with renewed vigor. "Did I tell you about my salad? It has mushrooms."

The fork in her hand trembled.

José recognized the symptoms but doubted his own judgment. His date, Dr. Jessie Goodwin, the woman he had admired throughout his recovery—who was so beautiful, so authoritative, so confident—was having a panic attack.

He reached across the table to hold her hand. "Relax, Jessie. Take a deep breath."

Their eyes met. She took a breath. So did he.

"The reason I'm glad we're doing this," said José slowly, "is because I trust you. Since this whole thing started, it's been hard to know who to trust. And I feel like I can trust you."

Their eyes remained locked.

"José, that's sweet," she said. "I don't know what to say."

She withdrew her hand, returning her attention to the salad. "Thank you. I'm . . . I'm glad you trust me."

José thought she might be talking to her fork. She made no eye contact for the rest of the meal.

Outside, the sky began to dim. Young people walked along the street enjoying the scenery and each other's company. In front of the restaurant, José and Jessie waited for the valet driver to bring back the car.

"We just missed the sunset," said José.

A bald man with a leather coat and a goatee emerged from the crowd and snatched Jessie's purse from her. It happened so suddenly, the thief was halfway down the block before José realized what had happened.

"He took my purse!" she said. "I can't believe he took my purse!"

It is a moment he has prepared for—although he didn't expect it this soon.

"It's okay," he told her with an easy smile. "I've got this."

José quickly dashed down the block after the man—but not so quickly that he would attract attention. The thief rounded a corner into an alley between the restaurant and a warehouse.

The alley was a dead end, empty except for a dumpster. The warehouse on the left was three stories tall with no windows or doors facing the alley, but an access ladder mounted on the wall led to its roof. José spotted the thief climbing the ladder and scuttling over the top.

"He's quick," observed José, sprinting to the base of the ladder. "But so am I."

He should be more suspicious than he is.

Beyond the view of passersby, José bent at the knees, engaging powerful motors in his joints fueled by the most efficient atomic batteries known to man. The components in his legs propelled José thirty feet into the air onto the very rung for which he had aimed, eight feet short of the top of the ladder.

José looked up and was surprised again. The purse snatcher, instead of running, was scowling angrily back down at him from the rooftop. The thief grabbed the ladder's metal rails as if to push the whole thing away from the wall with José still on the lower rungs.

The thief's maneuver was foolish, even desperate. He couldn't be strong enough to tear the ladder loose.

Yet somehow he was. José felt the mounting brackets give way, and the entire ladder shook.

José was surprised again. Instead of pushing, the thief pulled—jerking the ladder abruptly, impossibly upward.

The thief's strength was herculean. Hand over hand, the thief pulled the ladder up the side of the building, halting only when José was at eye level with him. The thief angrily glared between the rungs at José who dangled precariously over the alley three stories below.

"You're not a purse snatcher, are you?"

To be continued . . .

NEXT CHAPTER: The storyteller's identity revealed.