Chapter 1 - A New Life

He doesn't really know where he is once the overhead lights hit him. His hands instinctively move to shield the little suns in bulbs away from his burning retinas. His arms refuse to budge. He tilts his head to the side, but even that seems impossible. Panic ensues in his mind, beginning to fidget around in his paralysis state. The sensation should be natural to him though, waking up almost every morning feeling numb from head to toe, not wanting to move. But this time, something isn't right. He can't put his finger on it, but there is this magnetizing force sucking his back into the bed. However, the matter he lays on lacks the stiffness of his mattress. In fact, it's freezing cold to the touch. Using what little capability he has left in his body, his eyes roll around to scan the sterile room. Then, they land on a man standing over him. A surgeon's mask conceals his face.

"Are you awake, Mr. Collins?" His question is muffled through the cloth, and the patient can hardly concentrate on words. Absolute loss on where he is consumes him. Am I awake? The question echoes in his head, fighting to slip out, but even his vocal cords feel tight. This could all just be a terrible dream, the result of sleep deprivation. No matter how many excuses he makes to himself, the situation presents itself lucidly.

"I suppose you are," figures the doctor with a slight shrug. An observation is written down on his clipboard before he moves over to a tower of adjustable lenses. The scrawny doctor hops up to his leather stool and engages with the obscure machinery. With a few presses, the beige arms of the machine extend out, presenting a holographic diagram to the patient. On it is a full outline of his body with some areas highlighted. The patient attempts to grasp the screen displayed to him. Nothing is making sense. An accident? Memory of the day is hazy, and the harder he recollects, the more the details fleet. It's no use. He will just have to wait for an explanation from the doctor.

"How do you like your new upgrades, Collins?" The doctor flings another question at the mute patient from his high throne. All of these questions, yet he cannot answer. Vice versa. The patient brims with questions like an enthusiastic scholar listening to his professor's lectures. He cannot separate the surreal from reality. Maybe he did suffer some head trauma from a hovermobile accident. "Oops!" blurts the doctor, covering his mouth in embarrassment. "Forgot to turn on your mic." As if clearing a lump in his throat, the patient takes a breath of the sanitized air.

"What?" he replies with an ache in his voice. "Where am I?" Talking is something he took for granted, not being the most chatty person in the world. After having that tool of communication removed from him, Collins can now fill out a ten-foot scroll of questions in a heartbeat. The amount of confusion circulating in his head is stunting him from uttering another word. Suddenly, his anatomy on the holo-screen turns to static, and a new image appears. The quality of it is pixelated at first, but the feed squeezes through, showing a local map of Fort Meade. Wait a minute, I've heard of this place.

"You are currently in biological treatment at the NSA headquarters," reveals the doctor, pushing away the clunky robotic arms.

"Why am I here?" He tries to sit up, forgetting he lacks the freedom to move. The gravitational force of the examination table pulls him down. His fists clench against the cold steel. A whirring noise can be heard underneath, followed by beeping. The doctor swoops in and ducks his head under the floating table, reading the patient's vital signs off the matrix.

"Mr. Collins," says the doctor with his utmost concern, "your heart rate is elevated."

"Yeah," he fails to jerk his head at the doctor, "because I don't know what the federal is going on! I wake up to this calamity, and you expect me to be calm?! Who knows how long I've been out for." He stares off in dread at the tiled ceiling. "I just want answers, doc. Give em' to me!"

"Alright, Mr. Collins," he sticks his hands out in sympathy for the patient. Collins is waking up to a brand new world, and he wasn't prepared to face his new reality. "I could've sworn I followed the procedure correctly." He scratches his head of dead hair.

"What do you mean?" Collins grits his teeth.

"Oh, uh nothing. I was just thinking out loud."

"Give it to me straight, doc." The doctor looks down at his left shoe mingling with the other in nervousness. The patient is becoming aggressive, and he must control him. Sedatives are in the cabinet for emergencies, or he can just pull the plug on Collins's table, forcing him back into a simulated coma. That would be too drastic. Time is already running short, and the Colonel is expecting Collins to be on his way to the training yard in thirty minutes.

"As you wish," the doctor sighs. "You see, after the surgery, the software was supposed to send — let's call it an email, to your brain. It would detail the modifications that were made to your body while also disclosing anything your curiosity begged for. Essentially, giving you context. Clearly, the system failed, which is why we are in this predicament. Couldn't the programmers have spent more time at the labs, ensuring my equipment will function properly? Apparently not."

Collins can't make any sense of this. Nobody would, unless they took the telepathic email. He could surely attain that in his inbox right about now. The doctor paces around in frustration at his colleagues, tempting the act of snitching their incompetence to his superior. No, I am a man of logic, not of pettiness. His hand drops away from the intercom button's reach and digs itself into the coat's pocket for lint.

"Hey, doc!" throttles Collins. The doctor gasps at the voice barking at him. Just as how the officers would sound off if he so much as stole the heat away from their coffee by rushing past them. "Are you gonna send me the info or what? My head can only crumple in itself so much before I go berserk. I need to know why I'm being tested like a guinea pig!"

"You're right, Mr. Collins. I'll go to my terminal and have that memo occupy your brain in no time." Thank the Corp. Egghead. He scurries on over to the glowing green of the computer screen and begins typing away. The click of a mouse gives Collins a rush of dopamine. Perhaps it's the message seeping into his synapses. No matter, the internet speed here is faster than the slums, and the electronic envelope swims through lines full of data. The tech plumbers haven't had to unclog any backups from information overload in years.

The envelope falls through the slit and into Collins's memory. He rewatches the day before.

Collins sat at the back of a taxi drone taking him to the NSA headquarters on a rainy Tuesday. His eyes were baggy after pulling an all-nighter, a ritual he's adjusted to. Mostly out of duty for the local cybermarket, but sometimes voluntarily. Consuming entertainment and adreno boosters kept his corpse animated throughout the night. His own rituals, not the Corp's. Last night, he didn't need to snap open another can of Boom. His anticipation for the next day kept him awake with a pounding heart and sweaty hands. Nervous for my own future?

No human was on board to talk with Collins, but the absence of one didn't bother him. He would much prefer an AI programmed to memorize street names over people who complain about slaving for the Corp. The AI was cut off in its own island, void of emotions. It simply did its job without caring for a second.

The radio switched on where the meteorologist spoke about another day of overcast with drizzle and low winds. Weather that suited Collins. Anything else, like the sun shining in the smog, wouldn't change his general feel of wear. He looked out the foggy window, and sure enough, the skies were painted as gray as the drone's shell. The sheets of rain fell from above and made the trash towns soppy. After a few precious minutes of storm gazing, the drone left the slums and penetrated the forcefield with ease.

What once was a forbidden wall for Collins became a portal into his new destiny.

He never saw himself leaving the slums in a lifetime. The commoners were told to accept their fates and take pride in being the pillars of society. They labored anywhere left a human could apply and did it gracefully. Actual food was on the table instead of supplement pills. Day in, day out. Pop a pill, swig some tonic. Clock in, clock out. Rise up, fall down. It was a binary routine for Collins and the commoners. Nobody ever thought what life could be like on the other side. They imagined it fake, including Collins. The ads showed figureheads trying to be somebody by wearing flashy clothes over their body or powder on their face. The commoners spoke through the rags on their backs and soot on their faces.

It seemed an honor to call oneself, commoner. Until Collins woke up one morning and stood in front of an adboard showing a different man. Not somebody who wore like a socialite, but something else. The colors on his uniform didn't pop out of the screen and assault his eyes. They resided in the shadows. On his head wasn't a top hat that could scrape the ceiling, but three eyes of green. The motto on the bottom was simple for the commoner: Keep the streets clean. Become a Stealth Cyborg today! Collins rubbed his chin, speculating on the mirage of an opportunity. Then he walked away to his humble abode.

"YOU HAVE ARRIVED AT YOUR DESTINATION," screeched the AI. It broke Collins out from his frequent daydreaming, threatening him to step off the drone with a fine of three meal tickets. He stepped his foot down onto the slick helipad, and the weight of his body tipped the carbon fiber drone. Once he was situated on the rooftop, the drone shuttered away to ferry another human.

This is the place. Collins shaded his eyes from the sun reflecting off the building's black glass. It didn't take long for the weather cycle to flip over to sunny. Capturing the view from the lower roof, Collins wondered if the drone sent him to the real place or if this was a set-up by dissidents to kidnap naïve commoners. He shuffled around on the gravel longer than he should have, hoping an agent would come out with a verified badge. Corp, I must look like a glitched droid!

"Who is that meandering on our rooftop, Rogers?" A bored desk worker caught a glimpse of a stray man walking in circles on the helipad. His office buddy, who was currently swamped in data retrieval, gladly came over to check it out.

"Hmm," his bass hum vibrated off the glass window. "He can't be a social." Rogers shook his head. "There's no way! Probably a common, judging by the way he dresses, but his class doesn't belong here. This is troubling."

"Should I call security and kick this drunk off our roof?" He backpedaled to his cubicle and reached over for the blinking receiver.

"No, no. That won't be necessary. He seems harmless. I'm going out there to see what he wants." The desk worker shrugged at Rogers and resumed spinning in his swivel chair, waiting for the lunch bell to ring. Synthetic meatloaf and lab-grown potatoes were on the menu.

Rogers kept his blaster holstered at all times. He knew better than to approach strangers unarmed. The loiterer on the roof was most definitely harmless, but Rogers needed to verify this. He's seen his fair share of citizens who appeared harmless, then proceeded to fire on his cruiser. Fool me thrice; you're a droid.

Revisiting previous foul-ups was over, and Rogers walked through the sliding doors to confront the suspect who somehow managed to bypass the nation's finest security. The suspect kept his head low. His worn boots scraped through the bits of gravel. Rogers immediately scanned the suspect for any weapons before he lifted his head up. The serial number reader in his visor wasn't detecting any blasters or shock knuckles. Hmph, may be unregistered.

Finally, an agent! Collins adjusted his posture, imagining what the motivations officer would tell him at work: Straighten that back for those above you! He actually did research on the matter, why that's a form of etiquette. The search engine had its archaic meaning blocked. He waited patiently for the agent to flash his badge to him. At least, that's what they did in the old reels.

"Present to me your ID, citizen." The agent waved his hand inwards for Collins to fork it over, wallet, holo-card, whatever. Collins patted his empty pockets frantically for the mysterious device the agent demanded for. He couldn't see the face of the agent through his visor, but he knew judgement was being passed on. Sweat trickled down from his forehead, and the sun was only making it faster. The agent could tell Collins was vulnerable.

"I don't have an ID, sir," frowned Collins in fear of punishment. He closed his eyes, preparing for his beat down with a stun baton.

"You don't have one?" said Rogers in disbelief. "Now how can that be? Every citizen at birth is given an identification number, your biological address." Here comes the tirade. Collins winced. "Can you tell me your class then, unknown? Common, social, dare I say, dissident?"

"Uh, commoner," Collins snatched that label like it was his life-preserver.

"Mm-hmm," doubted Rogers. "If you're a so-called," he proceeded to make finger quotes, "commoner, then what in Marlo's name are you doing here?" Collins drew a blank. His mind was shutting down while an authority figure was berating him. He probably had his arrest planned out already, just stalling until a cruiser arrives. A rush of adrenaline overcame him like never before. Natural, not artificial. His life was on the line, and he needed to save his skin. Last night was all he could think of. That was what got him into this mess in the first place.

"I want to be a Stealth Cyborg," said Collins softly. "I saw an ad for becoming one in the slums. I followed the link on the adboard, and it took me to a website. There, I gave away any personal information I knew to fill up my application. The website accepted it and advised me a drone would pick me up the next morning. It dropped me off. Now I'm here." Rogers gave him the benefit of the doubt and believed his story. There was a time when Rogers wanted to join the NSA after being chewed up and spit out as a cop in the slums. To deny somebody who has the same ambition as him would crush his soul.

"Alright, commoner," he pinched the bridge of his nose, wondering if he just allowed a droid to infiltrate Fort Meade, "tell me your name. Surely, you have one."

"My coworkers refer to me as Mr. Collins, but I assume you also need my personal name." That word always made his skin crawl. Rogers nodded. "My legal name is Drew Collins. Andrew, if you want it in full." He scratched his neck.

"Hold for a moment, Drew," advised Rogers, holding up his finger. He switched on the user interface in his visor, typing in Andrew Collins on his keyboard wrist. Swiping through a few males who also have that same name, he narrowed it down to two people living in the slums. "Where are you employed?"

"The cybermarket off of Plastic Street in the Mercantile District." Collins imagined the last time he worked there which was yesterday. His coworkers were probably flipping out. No, they carried on with their duties as usual, knowing that people are transferred between districts all the time. The hundreds of commoners working there left no space empty. It was the only electronics store available in Mercantile.

"Yep," confirmed Rogers, "that's you alright. And just to make sure you applied here," he typed quickly onto his wrist to search for Drew's register form. Sure enough, it was the only one in the national database. "It's rare to see citizens clambering for government jobs these days," remarked Rogers with an ironic smile behind his visor. "Nowadays, it's citizens bidding for security jobs in the private sector. But that's a whole other can of bolts to open." He paused for a moment to let that fact settle in.

"I do apologize for the trouble I brought upon you." Rogers chuckled lightly at his own mistake. "Had I known of your arrival, I would've given you a proper welcome to the NSA myself." Maybe if it wasn't for that poorly coded drone! "Ah, you have to love those high-tech birds," he said sarcastically as one flew over the parking lot. "Well," Rogers clapped his hands together, "I better get you admitted inside. Colonel Ramsay will be pleased to see a new recruit." He patted Drew on the back, motioning him towards the sliding doors. They swooshed open, and the two men walked side by side down a hallway that eventually led to an elevator. With the swipe of a keycard, Rogers gained access to the lift and pressed the B2 button. Their descent began shortly.

Drew stood silent in the middle of the steel cube that lowered them to the secretive basements of the Agency. They won't be so hidden now from this commoner. Agent Rogers hugged the rear wall, his hands overlapping one another. He studied Drew carefully. His body rocked back and forth; heel and toes shifting his weight around. As for the outfit, a dingy brown coat wrapped his skinny torso, and tattered denim jeans protected his legs from the slum's hazards. He's seen plenty of commoners get their legs nicked by jagged junk lying in the streets. The tears on his jeans showed proof of concept. The consequence of untreated cuts from rusted metal? Tetanus. Though you'd have to be a junkie or an outsider to wander the slums so foolishly.

"Is that supposed to be him?" questioned the Colonel in the CCTV room, spying on Drew through a micro-camera in the elevator. The lens zoomed in to enhance the image on his crusty profile. Timesing the magnification by two allowed the picture quality to clear up. Ramsay stared at the screen with crossed arms, clicking the lid back onto his e-cigar.

"Affirmative, sir," responded a jittery security officer on his third mug of coffee. The Colonel scoffed at that answer, bowing his head to the twinkling console.

"He doesn't strike me as an A-type operative."

"With all due respect, sir, he has been our first volunteer in ten years." So what? The Agency's not trying to fish for the poorest thug off the streets. Ramsay was tempted by impulse to insult the newcomers, but his conscience begged to withhold the prejudiced comment. He blew hot air out of his dry mouth. The officer was right; the incentive to enlist in the NSA, or the intelligence community in general, has dwindled over the years. And his callousness won't help their effort in rebuilding manpower. That's where the Colonel hopes Fifth Echelon will spearhead the Stealth Cyborg Initiative.

"He better be the one," Ramsay muttered under his breath before leaving the heated room in a hurry. The officers swiped their foreheads once the door closed. If he was in a less forgiving mood, he would have had their asses running to Langley to join the defunct Central Intelligence Agency. They got lucky this time. It was back to the donut-dipping business for them, drenching their corneas in blue light.

The micro-camera closed its metallic pedals in, blinding the high-definition eye. Rogers clenched his teeth as the elevator traveled deeper into the earth. Journey to the Center. He rummaged for the spearmint pack in his coat pocket and chucked a stick of gum into his sore mouth. His teeth grinded for that euphoric chew. He offered a piece to Drew and gladly accepted it into his open palm. Drew closed his eyes while tasting the glacier flavor roll over his stale tongue. It's been a while since he bought a pack of these from the commissary. Supply of them had been declining in the slums, but the commoners didn't bother, for there was an alternative. A stimulant called, Herbtox. Whatever the federal that was.

Drew shivered from the dropping temperature in the elevator. The lower levels were kept at a comfortable sixty-eight degrees Fahrenheit, yet it felt like stepping into the cryogenic rooms at the cybermarket. He buried his frigid fingertips into his toasty armpits, shaking like a droid with fried wires. It quickly turned into a sub-conscious chore for Drew to deal with; mentally tightening the loose screws on his muscles with a ratchet.

He already exposed his weakness to Rogers. Showing further signs of intolerance to the cold could jeopardize his chance to be qualified for the NSA. His future was being decided over a few drops in degrees. A reminder for everyone, Collins pretended as if the motivations officer was speaking directly to him, a slacking commoner is one step away from being a dissident! Drew's stone body was a solid statue of progress for the commoner class, a sight that was only witnessed by Agent Rogers. Him, he didn't mind who was standing there. All he saw was a brave fish attempting to tread on land, but he respected his misled spirit at most.

After experiencing a ride of complete silence, with the exception of a few sniffs, the two reached the end of Fort Meade's underground iceberg. The bottom of the pit was an intricate maze of tempest-hardened corridors with smart cameras on every corner. Their soulless eyes scoped them out all over the bunker complex. They scanned through Drew's body with X-ray vision for his DNA strands. As if the Agency needed to bog down their servers with more information on this nobody, this commoner. Drew kept his eyes to the reflective floor, knowing his place. Everyone rushed from here and there, whether it was to their stations or the lavatories. They didn't pay much attention to Drew. They didn't have to.

"Into this room, Andrew," Rogers referred to him as such mistakenly, or intentionally. Drew fought every cell in his body not to cringe at that. He did flatten his lips for a mere second, followed up by a forgiving nod to please Rogers. The room he went into was roughly four arm lengths long with a steel table in the middle. Rogers circled around him and pulled up a chair on the opposite side, checking his wrist tablet for the time.

"He should be here any minute," said Rogers impatiently. He rubbed his greasy hands off the seams of his dress slacks.

"Who's coming?" Drew leaned in, being cautious with his tone so that he doesn't come off as demanding. Agent Rogers methodically tapped his nails on the tabletop.

"The Colonel," he said dreadfully this time. His head veered off to the side and faced the transparent door. Schools of men in suits were still traversing the maze to find where they needed to be. They should know the layout of the place by now, but many are left dumbstruck by the architect who designed this. Drew remained glued to his seat, daring not to rise from it unless he had permission. Word on the situation wasn't entirely clear other than the Colonel was coming to meet them. The agent mentioned him. He must be the one running the show here.

Then, the sound of dress shoes came down the hall adjacent to their room. The footsteps were getting closer. And louder.

The keycard reader on the door turned green and made a satisfying chirp. They could already tell who was unlocking it by gazing through the plexiglass. It was none other than the Colonel himself donning your typical business wear: a three piece suit with a navy-blue tie. But something else caught Drew's attention on the Colonel. His right eye glowed an ocean-blue. He's seen those smart lenses on the market before for one eye's use, but that didn't seem to be the case. There was no lens being held in front of his eye. The Colonel had a cybernetic implant.

"I'm Colonel Dax Ramsay," he introduces himself sharply. "You can call me by my last name if you want. We'll have to skip over pleasantries for the moment. I've already leaped through enough loops to get your form approved by the brass." The bulb nesting in his eye socket flickered suddenly. "You'll have to excuse my crystal eyeball. It does that when I'm stressed, and I don't like to be stressed." He tapped on the ball until it stopped flashing. "There we go. Hope you don't have epilepsy. I didn't see it on your record, so you should be fine."

Collins drew in a breath of air to speak only for the Colonel to decline him with a hand. "If you're going to tell me your name, save your breath. I already know who you are. I downloaded your personal details into my cognitive memory overnight. But I am missing one crucial detail from you, Drew." He raised his index finger while pacing around the table. "I want to know your motivation, why you came here." The Colonel walks over to Agent Rogers and dismisses him out of the room for some privacy. Now he claims the warm seat.

Drew flashed back again to the time he stood in front of the adboard. It was pouring industrial pails of water in the evening, after he left the cybermarket. His hoodie was completely soaked, as if he accidentally slipped into the river. The light gray hoodie now resembled a midnight black. While all the other commoners were fleeing for cover and deploying their plastic umbrellas, Drew just stood there, looking at the man with three green eyes. He didn't know what to make of it, if it was a cosmetic design or a utility. That kind of technology didn't exist in the civilian market. He knew it for a fact.

Keep the streets clean, the motto read in his head. Become a Stealth Cyborg today!

What does it mean to be a Stealth Cyborg? Garbage is always strewn on the streets like confetti, and not a single person can hide in this overcrowded city. You deceiving ad! Always planting the seeds of fantasy in our heads! Always subjected to lies! But I mustn't complain or else I'll be called a lousy dissident. Okay, maybe I'm taking this too far. I have this feeling about the adboard. Hope. Maybe you're not the one to give me an empty promise. Maybe — there actually is something worthwhile out there — beyond that damn wall. Not a world of flaunting my material valuables, but a world of worth. Do not lie to me again. Do not give me a reality that is virtual. I want the real thing more than anything in the world.

"Are you still with me, Drew?"The Colonel snapped his finger at the loopy commoner. He came back to his senses once Ramsay's fake eye started flickering again.

"Yes, sir," he stammered, rubbing his head. "I just . . . that really made me think. I haven't thought this hard in years! Maybe even my entire life!" Settle down, Drew. You have a Colonel right in front of you listening to you ramble. Drew propped his elbow on the table and massaged his pulsing temple. He made direct eye contact with Ramsay, occasionally losing himself in the glowing crystal ball. He wondered if it would tell him his future. The Colonel bounced a set of documents on the table and cleared his throat.

"Do you want to be the first Stealth Cyborg, Drew?" He teased while flipping through the classified papers that all fell under the same name, Fifth Echelon.

"Yes, sir," said Drew with conviction.

"The Stealth Cyborg Initiative is going to be the NSA's biggest leading program since 2002. That was eighty years ago, Drew. It's another piece of our history, if you still believe in that sort of stuff. You're definitely about to make history now, that's for damn sure." Ramsay rustled the documents around, driving the point across to Drew as much as he could. "So, do you have what it takes to be a Stealth Cyborg?"

"Yes, sir!" Drew reiterated louder. The Colonel couldn't help but have a hefty laugh at the enthusiastic commoner. Maybe he'll be more than that after today.

"You're not off the leash yet, Drew," clarified Ramsay. "You still have to go through training. You're a citizen after all, not a soldier. But don't worry, it'll be over faster than you can shoot. Unfortunately, I can't throw you over to Camp Peary right now. You'll need a full evaluation of your medical history, illnesses, and so forth. The Agency will compensate you of course," he took a quick drag through his e-cigar, "through cybernetic surgery."

"When is my surgery?" Drew carried demand in his voice, then retreated into his shell after talking like that. The Colonel seemed tone deaf or simply didn't care, for he raised his forearm to read the three-dimensional numbers popping at him. The time was 6:15 in the late evening.

"Doctor Henderson is usually out of here by 7:00. If you go now, you can probably catch him in his office. It shouldn't take too long for him to set up your automated surgery session. Here," the Colonel handed Drew a tablet out from his satchel, "this will help you navigate the lower levels. Think of it as your handheld GPS. It'll tell you where to go." Without hesitation in his step, Drew pivoted towards the door and fondled around with its card reader. After a few swipes, the magnetic locks unlatched.

"Before you leave," Ramsay halted, "a word of caution. Your surgery — it will completely wipe your memory from the last twenty-four hours. You'll be dazed and confused when it's over, but Dr. Henderson should be able to send you a backup email of your erased memory. Hopefully, it'll all come clear to you." Drew nodded it off as his body progressively spilled out of the doorway. "You only got less than forty minutes to reach him, Drew," stressed the Colonel. "Let's see if those legs of yours will prove your worth to the Agency."

"Don't worry," Drew hollered over his shoulder once he started running, "I've never been late!" He took off, tracker tablet in hand, and raced against the holo-clock for his appointment with a cybernetics surgeon.

That's the last of it. The backup email is done with processing in his brain. Context is restored, and Drew awakens again with clarity.