The Respawner™

Respawn™ is the systematic atomization and restructuring of an employee's body just before they experience "true death." It is made possible by inserting a special layer of artificial turf specially designed with our Teleport Technology©—

I stop reading and look up at the Administrator.

"What is this?" The words are controlled, careful. When she called me into her office, I expected her to ask me to return to the field. Not read a thesis on a prototype.

I can't feel good about this. There's no way that this meeting can end well for me.

She takes a drag on her cigarette and taps the ash into the tray on her desk before sitting back with a small smile. She's pretty, though much older than myself—barely a streak of grey, and just a hint of crow's feet around the corners of her eyes. Anyone else might be put at ease by her smile, but however lovely she may be, this woman is taciturn and foul. If I've learned anything in my past seven years of mercenary work with TF Industries, it's that a smile is never good for anyone but the Administrator.

"It's the proposal for one of our newest inventions—the Respawner…" she tells me, her smile not wavering for even an instant as she continues, saying, "I want you to be a test subject."

My stomach turns over and I feel the blood draining from my face. Thank God for these confounded masks. Perhaps it will hide my body's natural reaction to her suggestion—hide the sudden sweat breaking out on my forehead and my pale complexion.

"What if it doesn't work?" I ask, my voice steady, calm, not terrified. I will not allow her to know that my heart rate and blood pressure are rising and the back of my throat stings with bile at the thought of being stopped short of "true death."

"Don't you have interns for this sort of thing?"

"Oh, that's how we worked out all the kinks." She waves her hand dismissively, her smile falling for an instant into condescension before appearing again, a little more subdued. "Eventually we were forced to go back to animal test subjects. Now that everything has been smoothed over, we need one more round of tests before it can go live."

"Why me?" My voice isn't as strong as it was earlier. This is both frightening and exciting for me. For seven years I have cheated death, both on and off the field. My colleagues would like to kill me so that they can attain my position, and my teammates when I am fighting in the field are no help in avoiding the enemy. They hate me because I can adapt to the field, because I always survive. I can blend into the other team and take a few in their sleep, I can turn invisible for small amounts of time to escape to safety, and I can slip behind an assailant and put a knife into their back without effort. If this technology works, I will not have to cheat death anymore.

"Because you're the one who has survived the longest." The matter-of-fact way that she says it chills me to the bone. "We're short on every other class but Spies, and if you complete this test… Well, you'll have done something monumental in the history of TF Industries." She tells me with a smile. "So few employees reach their tenth year of contract."

"My tenth year?" I ask, excitement building in my chest. My contract would be up. I would be free.

Free with money and experience and still alive.

"Yes. You'll get a pin and everything." The way she smirks makes the bile rise in my throat again.

"You're certain it will work?" I ask, I've calmed substantially, and I know that I'm showing a weakness by displaying my doubts. They equate to a certain type of fear in her mind, and it's something she will find a way to use against me.

I put that little thought in the back of my head and turn my eyes back down to the paper. I shouldn't be afraid, I should be intrigued.

"Just sign on the last page and we'll get you to the labs. You should be done by dinnertime." She tells me, finally crushing her cigarette and letting out one last stream of smoke as she relaxes back in her chair.

"If I refuse?" I ask, glancing over each page as I leaf through. I don't want any surprises involving TF Industries's love for fine print and complex wording.

"I will not input you into the system when it does go online."

I pause in flipping through the two dozen pages and look up at her.

This is bullshit. "There must be something in my contract to—"

"There isn't. Everyone's going to get new contracts upon adaption of the system. We're not required to renew all of our contracts upon the arrival of new technology, or changes to the battle environment… Test it, and that last page is your new contract. Don't, and you only have to survive… what, three more years? Three years…" She grins at me and leans forward, her long, manicured nails clicking against the expensive lacquer of her desk. "During those three long, grueling years, your enemies will continue to come back for you. They will learn your tricks, they will find your patterns, and they will eventually kill you." Her gaze is steady, and I return it before flipping to the back page.

I voluntarily accept my previous contract under the premise that I survive this series of tests to prove the effectiveness and reliability of the Respawner™. I have read and understand the details inscribed on the previous pages and am aware that the long-term effects of the Respawner™ are unknown. I understand that mild nausea and disorientation may occur upon the initial use of the Respawner™. I understand that these effects may or may not be present in future respawns as well, as I am the first human trial that will be using the Respawner™ for a second and, possibly, third time.

TF Industries will not be held liable for any displacement of limbs or organs that may occur during testing of the Respawner™. In addition, TF Industries will not be held liable for my death, should it occur during testing. I understand that any and all information I obtain about the Respawner™ is covered under article C.6 under the "Secrecy" chapter in section 2 of my contract.

It's not particularly long, but I feel as if it takes me an extended amount of time to read it.

" By 'my previous contract,' does that mean—?"

"A ten year tenure, yes." That smile is back, and she taps her nails lightly on her desk again.

It would be three years without being able to come back to life if I die, or ten years of fighting and dying and coming back ready to fight again.

If it really works.

"Ten more years…"

"Yes. With the inflation from the last seven years, we're adjusting your salary. You'll have to head over to Accounting tomorrow and sign a new registry." The smile drops momentarily, and that intrigues me.

"How much?" I ask as my mind races in the calculations. More than I was making now? How much more? How much more could make her expression drop from a torturous smile to a semi-frown?

She pulls a pad of paper over to her and scrawls out a number with far too many digits for her liking, draws a slash and writes out "week" next to it. I wait until she turns the number to face me before carefully pulling my pen from my pocket.

That much more. I smirk and pull the papers closer to me.

She wouldn't feel so unhappy about this amount if she didn't expect me to live through these tests.

Even if I don't survive this trial, I'm dead anyway, and that new salary… well, it will more than make up for any "long term effects that might accrue over the next ten years."

I sign my TF Industries alias on the line and write the date next to it. I then rip the paper from the pad and slip it into my jacket pocket. "For Accounting—you know how they can be." I tell her, and she nods, pulling the contract back to her side of the desk.

"Ms. Holloway will show you to the labs." She tells me, waving her hand at me to get out.

"Always a pleasure, Madam Administrator."

"Out."

I bow and retrieve a cigarette from my pack as I leave.

Ms. Holloway greets me with a smile and stands from her desk. She's a voluptuous red head that really should have a husband already—rather than work at a desk in a place like this—I give her a winning smile and take her hand to place a kiss to her knuckles gallantly.

"Joan, it's a pleasure to see you again." I'm simpering, but it makes her blush and titter, so I'm not entirely inappropriate.

She holds out a light for me when I allow her hand back, and I let her ignite my cigarette.

"I assume that you've accepted Madam Administrator's offer?" She asks, stowing the lighter in her desk before holding her arm out to indicate our direction.

"Oui, I was not… initially inclined, but like so many times before, she has pressed me into seeing things her way." I reply, giving her a "what can you do?" smile.

"Yes… she has a tendency to do that." Ms. Holloway agrees with a knowing smile as she leads me through a series of hallways.

We pass several other classes—in neutral black to prevent any fighting at headquarters—the Scouts seem to be getting younger every day. I suppose that there are only so many older men willing to be bullet fodder. Scouts last perhaps an hour in the field—a week at most.

Pathetic.

She opens am unremarkable door with a key and leads me down a set of stairs before opening another door with the phrase "LAB – B" emblazoned across it in block letters.

"Which room is it in?" I ask, having been in Lab block A before. They have about twenty-odd rooms of varying sizes for testing, storage and containment.

"Oh… no, it takes up all of block B." She tells me with a smile, opening the door. "It's a magnificent sight," she tells me, and I can only assume that she's watching my jaw drop. I'm honestly too busy taking in the massive computer shoved into a block that is most likely several miles square.

"Indeed…" I clear my throat as I recover from my initial shock. "Thank you for your help, Ms. Holloway." I rest my hand on her shoulder, and she reaches out to take my cigarette from me.

"There's no smoking in there." She gives me a teasing smile, and puts it between her own lips. "Good luck."

I nod and turn back to the magnificent sight before me. A deep breath, a little prayer, and then I walk into the lab. Ms. Holloway shuts and locks the door behind me.

There are two men crouching on the ground near one of the walls of machinery with a panel extended out and wires exposed. The fact that they are scratching their heads and one of them shrugs makes me want to turn right back around and rip that contract up.

Three years would be fine. I'm more certain now that I could do three years. At the very least, if I died, it would be from an enemy, and not a fucking suicide mission.

I clear my throat noisily, and they both whirl around with false smiles.

"Ah, you must be the Spy Admin told us about," the one who had shrugged states the obvious before offering me his hand. I shake it firmly. "I'm Developer."

"And I'm Inventor," the other man introduces himself. I shake his offered hand.

"Oui, and this is…" I gesture around us vaguely, "Respawn?"

"Beautiful, isn't she?" Inventor chuckles and ushers me toward the inner sanctum of the massive contraption as Developer crouches to slide the panel back into place.

"Were you two done with that…?" I ask nervously, dragging my feet against his insistent arm.

"Of course, of course… we were just making sure that the last preparations had been made before you arrived, Spy." Inventor's voice is more assuring than Developer's expression.

I push away my doubts as he leads me onto a platform and begins gesturing around us, explaining what each section is and how it will bring me back to life. I'm beyond listening, too absorbed in taking in the machinery hedging in the open space. There's several spaces covered in steel plating, and two places where it might be possible to slip into the bowels of the machine, probably for maintenance or adjustments. The machine fills the room from floor to ceiling, and I wonder how far it goes in each direction.

In our little space, there is another platform about hip high that is connected to a small set of computers (in comparison to everything surrounding us) separate from the bulk of the machine. It's about six and a half feet long, two and a half in width, and strikes me with the look of a medical gurney. Bright lights shine down on top of it, and I assume that that's where I will be… "respawned?" to.

"Now that you're properly acquainted, I'll need to insert this." He steps off behind me and crosses to a worktable I hadn't previously noticed. He holds up a small microchip, about an inch across and an inch wide.

"If you must." I nod and slip off my jacket, handing it off to him before rolling up my right sleeve. It's a little smaller than my ID chip, which is already imbedded in my left forearm. I assume that the right will give him the appropriate room needed.

"Alright, just hold still and this won't take a moment." He loads the chip into a small contraption and makes a few adjustments before pressing it to my skin. There's a small click and then excruciating pain wracks my right arm. I take a deep breath and let it out, accustomed to feeling pain. Inventor smooths some gel over the irritated, bleeding wound he left behind, and soon enough, the cut heals, leaving behind a pert scar.

He leaves me, and I roll my sleeve back down. After fastening my cufflink and straightening myself, I squint to more clearly see the screen that he's poring over. Raising a hand to my jugular, I confirm that he has my heart-rate and, I assume, blood pressure on the screen. I glance down at my arm, and the blood drying on my sleeve. All that information from a little chip?

And it will bring me back to life?

Developer finally joins us, and walks over to confer with Inventor over the monitor.

"You're surprisingly relaxed, Spy…" Developer comments, turning to face me and walking around to the table. It has several more chips, the tube of the healing ointment that Inventor had used, the machine that inserted my chip and… a pistol.

"Yes, well, I have the utmost faith in your creation." I lie, giving him my best smile.

He grins and turns around to slap Inventor's back. "You hear that? He thinks it'll work!"

I wilt slightly. "Can we… can we get on with this?" I ask, glancing down at my watch. My resolve is fading, and my need for a cigarette is mounting.

"Of course." He picks up the pistol and I close my eyes for a brief moment. When I open them again, I expect him to be pointing it at me, but, instead, the grip of the gun is held out to me, and I'm so confused I take it without thinking.

"You're not going to?" I ask, eying the gun in my hand. It feels heavier with the weight of my impending suicide. Am I really going to do this?

"It's lab policy. Keeps our hands clean and legal… well, clean." Developer has the decency to look apologetic, and I sigh.

Inventor turns around to view my vitals going up, and turns back around. "It… also helps that it drives up your vitals. It will help better simulate a battle situation—the rush of endorphins, and the elevated heart rate.

"I… I see." I clear my throat and check the chamber. Six bullets.

I remove five and slip them into my pocket. I can't do this otherwise. I can't do it if I'm expecting it. I can only hope that the single bullet comes before the sixth attempt. Otherwise, it will be all the harder.

I snap the cylinder back in, and give it a hard spin before pulling the hammer back.

"I'll see you in a moment, gentlemen." I tell them, my hand shaking slightly as I pull the trigger.

Click.

Merde.

I pull the hammer back and the trigger a second time.

I can see my heart rate spiking well over what it should be on the monitor. My stomach churns as I cock the hammer again. I pull the trigger one last time before there is a deafening crack and then there is darkness.

It's cold andunbearably dark.

Cold like I've never experienced, a biting, numbing thing that doesn't seep into my bones, but rather attacks them and leeches my very essence away.

The darkness has its own chill to it, and something else. Something stifling, no… choking. I can't breathe. There's no air in this darkness. Nothing to sustain a living soul.

Is this death?

There was no flash of light, no angels or clouds, no ninth circle of hell.

I'm resting on nothing—no… actually, I can't even be sure I have a body. Where I used to have sensation, all I have now is a persistent numbness. I have never been unable to feel the air before, but now, in its absence, I wonder how I had ever overlooked its touch.

It's too painful to dwell on, that this will be my place for the rest of eternity, cold, numb and dark. This is my fate. This is my fate for getting involved with this company. I knew the risks, and I didn't give them any credence.

This is my lot, I suppose.

I'm dead.

:::::

Since I have no manner of keeping time, and I lost any remnant of what I might have mistook as feeling an eternity ago, I'm not sure exactly how long I've been left to my own pathetic devices before the light appears.

Certainly more than an hour—perhaps twelve. A day even? A week?

I ignore it, at first, too involved with analyzing my past. Thinking is the only past time here, and I am too busy wondering why I took the paths that I did.

The light is insistent. A pinprick in the void that I'd come to accept as my new home. It grows slowly, steadily speeding up until it is the size of a quarter. I tell it to go away, but it continues to grow.

Suddenly I realize that it might be something else besides an annoying little light. Heaven? This might be merely purgatory. I'm not quite versed in the stages of death according to the church, but I've heard things.

At the thought that it might be heaven, I wait for it to come for me.

It begins to dim.

I grasp at it with my mind, willing it not to leave. It doesn't stop. It continues its course, and feel myself reeling with desperation.

I wish I were alive again.

It stops shrinking, just a tiny pinprick in a vast darkness.

I… I wish I were alive.

It grows.

I wish I could taste a summer Cognac…

It grows again.

… smoke a cigarette…

It's the width of my hand and seems to be growing because it's actually drawing closer.

… make love…

With each new thing I find worth living for, it gets closer, and subsequently larger, until the light fills my vision, and, with a start, I realize that I can feel again. It's warm in the room, though anything can be seen as warm after what I had just felt. My skin is clammy with cold sweat, and the feeling makes me—

I roll to the side and upheave my lunch onto the floor.

I hear voices beneath my retching, but pay no attention to them.

I can feel. I clutch at the rough sheet beneath my hand to keep myself from falling off of the gurney.

I'm alive. I take a shuddering breath and hold it.

There's silence in the room, so quiet that I can hear my heart pound in my ears.

I'm alive.

"How… how long was I gone?" I ask. My throat is dry, and my voice is hoarse.

A glass of water is offered to me, and I weakly take it as I shift slowly to sit up.

"You were gone for fifteen minutes. That's how long it took for the computer to break down your body and reupload you at our target location. "For the next test, we're going to speed you up a little bit."

Fifteen minutes.

Mon Dieu, I thought I had been there for an eternity.

"Spy?"

I finally take a sip of the water and raise my eyes from my lap.

"Just let me finish this glass." I tell them, taking another sip to wash the bile from my mouth and spitting it into the mess I'd already made. I finish off the glass in the next draught and hand it back before carefully moving to stand.

"Alright." I reach into my pocket and pull one of the remaining bullets from it. "Gentlemen…" I move to retrieve the revolver form the dais and load it. "Shall we?"