Wednesday Again
"As I was saying, you can't just cruise down Main Avenue in your Cadillac like you're not famous. You're Byron fucking Powell."
"I know, I know... I can take care of myself, you know. I've been working for the CIA since 2004 and—"
"Stop! No, you haven't! You got arrested in 2017, remember? They stripped you of your job. You were fired from everything except America Rocks. Haven't you noticed?"
"I—"
"Doesn't matter. Conservatorship. We're going to have to tighten the reins."
"I'm not a child, for crying out loud!"
"Then stop acting like one! What happened to the agreeable host I met back in 1996? You used to be so upbeat. Now look at you."
"I am upbeat! I just want to work. This has nothing to do with—"
A sudden jolt cut him off. Byron hit the ground, unconscious. It was a taser.
Byron's eyes fluttered open, heavy with fatigue. He was in his house—or what looked like it. A stunning villa with a massive pool in the backyard and all the amenities a TV host might need to distract from the truth. The truth that this wasn't a home. This was... jail.
The man sat still, his breath shallow as he took in the pristine, soulless beauty around him. Slowly, he raised a hand to his face, feeling the uneven ridges where skin had been patched together. His eyelids—what remained of them—strained to blink away the bitter clarity of reality.
2017, July 28th, 4:35 AM.
The memory played in fragments. A mass of SWAT officers. His so-called "family" and "friends." Curious, drama-hungry neighbors gathered like vultures outside his beige villa, its walls overgrown with bushes and wild weeds.
Byron stood on the roof, his bare feet pressing into fake brick tiles as he gripped the fence. Beyond the wrought iron bars lay freedom—or death. His breath hitched. He remembered standing there, ready to jump, but the fall came as a blur. He couldn't remember much after that. Only pain. The searing, unforgiving kind that left stitches and broken bones but spared his life.
Luckily, no death.
"See? I knew you'd come to your senses. It's not like you to not listen like that," came a voice, sharp and casual, cutting through the haze.
Byron turned his head slightly, his expression blank, his focus still locked on the wide window. It framed a view of the backyard, sunlight bouncing off the pool water like a cruel reminder of how far he'd fallen.
The voice didn't falter. "I've asked a few people to help with your meds. You'll take them. No questions. No thinking. You don't have to do anything anymore. Just... smile for the camera."
Byron didn't respond. He didn't even blink. The voice, calm and commanding, washed over him as he stared into the shimmering, distant reflection of a man he barely recognized.
Here's a polished version with enhanced flow and tension:
Byron's eyes shifted to the left, locking onto the massive lens creeping toward him. Words caught in his throat, his lips cracked and dry. What the hell was this thing? Where am I? Who am I? What…
Confusion swallowed him whole as the machine loomed closer. His curiosity flared, wide-eyed and unfiltered, like a child encountering something alien. For a fleeting moment, fragments of his childhood surfaced—anger, rejection, fleeting glimpses of a boy who never truly fit.
Instinct took over. His hand jerked upward, reaching for the machine, but Mr. Steel was faster. A firm grip forced Byron's arm back down as a nurse scrambled to restrain him. The scene unfolded in exaggerated, dreamlike slow motion. Staff swarmed him, their shouts blending into a chaotic hum.
"Hold him!" someone barked.
But Byron wasn't done. He twisted, legs kicking, his survival instincts as sharp as ever. Somewhere in the chaos, his boss—the man who once controlled his fate—calmly drew his Beretta 92FS.
Bang.
Bang.
Bang.
Three deafening shots cracked through the room, the bullets slicing past Byron, too close for comfort. He reacted instantly, adrenaline surging. A sharp kick connected with the machine, sending it lurching sideways.
And then—silence.
The world went blank. No sound, no pain, just a heavy stillness. Byron felt the prickle of something cold piercing his neck, and the truth hit him: someone had injected him.
His limbs slackened, and the last thing he saw was the machine's lens flickering ominously before everything faded to black.
His head lifted to notice he was still in his house. No more machines, no more staff. Just him and the void of his empty casa. The floor was cold, the walls were pierced by the bullets and the fence was still there. His short-length fingers grabbed what seems to be a document on the coffee table next to his distress body.
Medical Resume
Name: Brandon F. Powell (Byron Powell)
Date of birth: September 1rst 1975
Sex: M
Medication: Donepezil - 23 mg once daily
Zoloft - 30 mg once daily
Lorazepam - daily (to be confirmed with Steel)
Restrictions: Gluten
Peanuts
Diagnosis: Moderate to Severe Amnesia
Major Depressive Disorder
Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD)
Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder (OCD)
Bulimia Nervosa
Possibly Borderline or Bipolar
Gender Dysphoria
Dr. Rachel Cruz
The crumpled piece of paper landed across the room. Byron lay on the floor, his mind racing, trying to make sense of how it had all come to this. His back pressed against the cold floor as his thoughts wandered. The house always felt empty. The walls were bare, the furniture mismatched and worn. The silence often felt louder than anything else. Conversations were few and far between, and when they did happen, they were awkward and brief. Byron spent most of his time alone in his room, staring out the window, waiting for something to change.
At home, his parents were distant. His mom spent most of her time in the kitchen, preparing dinner but never really engaging in much conversation. His dad worked long hours and, when he was home, was often tired and barely present. There were never family dinners or meaningful moments shared around the table—just the constant hum of a television and the occasional murmured words between his parents. It felt like they were living separate lives, in separate worlds.
School wasn't much of an escape. Byron never quite fit in. He wasn't shy, but he wasn't outgoing either. He just existed, always on the fringes, feeling like an outsider. Lunches were spent alone, poking at his food, hoping someone would notice him. But it rarely happened. Sometimes, he could hear the other kids laughing, and even though he had no idea what they were laughing about, he couldn't shake the feeling that it was somehow aimed at him.
Birthdays came and went, but they never felt special. It wasn't that they were forgotten—there were cards and sometimes a cake—but it was always low-key. Nothing that made him feel truly celebrated. He often wished for more: more attention, more love, more something to make him feel seen.
It wasn't that things were awful, but there was a quiet disappointment that hung in the air, like everyone was just going through the motions. Nothing ever felt warm or safe. Byron learned early on to keep his feelings to himself, to deal with things on his own. Asking for help didn't come naturally; he didn't know how.
But then, he tried. In the mid-90s, he drove himself to a downtown open mic and tried giving his first speech. It was met with silence. So, he tried again. Still nothing. A third time? Silence again. It wasn't until a friend asked him to host a drag show that his hosting skills found a purpose. Well, it wasn't exactly a friend asking. It was more of a proposition—a deal: no rent, no bills, just a chance to host a show full of men in dresses.
It backfired.
Hard.
A festival near Manchester was a mix of queens and federal agents. The police presence was overwhelming, and for a moment, Byron considered backing out. Who knew? Mr. CIA might just be a bad guy after all. He stood on the stage, frozen, watching the chaos unfold in front of him. The queens were fighting, the police were angry, and at the center of it all was Mark Steel—TV producer, star manipulator… and Byron's idol.
There were no personas, no drag, just raw confrontation. After the show, Mark approached Byron and shook his hand, a nervous handshake that felt more like a trap. Then it hit him. He had just shaken hands with the devil.
