Last Duty Record - Dishonorably Discharged (1)
Thankfully, it doesn't end there. His mind is still foggy, but he manages to pull himself together. His body won't move. Even opening his eyes takes effort. An unfamiliar sensation fills his mouth, like it's packed with some kind of liquid, sending a chill down his spine. Where the hell am I? He turns his head, searching for clues, but all he sees is mint-green darkness. Mint-green. Mint-green... Bellwether Corp's preservation fluid is blue. Which means... that terrorist attack that landed him here must have been bigger than expected. Maybe they shipped regular employees like him to a general hospital. If that's the case, perfect. Yeah, just perfect. He tries to move, but something feels off. Like... there's nothing left to move. He grits his lips—can't even turn his head—and tastes carbon and crumbling grit from his mouth. Right, the grenade exploded. He remembers that much. After that... damn, that's where it cuts off. He strains to dredge up memories from beyond unconsciousness, but nothing surfaces. The darkness beyond the mint-green fluid clears a bit. Until now, floating in the liquid facing forward, he hadn't noticed how blurred his vision is. Even accounting for being in that bastard's gut when the grenade went off point-blank, it's unavoidable. Still, through the parting shadows, he barely makes out a figure staring at him. The voice that follows brims with energy—vibrant, or maybe driven by ambition.
"Good, you're awake. Talking's tough in preservation fluid, so can you just blink once?"
He blinks twice, short and sharp. Even that drains him, an unpleasant fatigue crashing over him like he's summoned every ounce of strength. The man takes a quick breath.
"Brain looks fine—thank goodness. You owe it to your duty-assist AI. Oh, and the Border Collies too. They brought in the emergency team."
Then he'll pretend cursing the Border Collies at the end was just his imagination. Bitching at his lifesavers for being a little late would be ridiculous.
"To ease your mind: it's October 3, 2097, 8:35 PM. Nearly eight hours since it happened, but you're waking up early. Also... right, this is Old Pasadena Central Medical Center, partnered with Bellwether Corp. We were shocked by the flood of patients from them."
Close to the company. If his body's intact and that horrific rain has stopped after eight hours, he could walk back—no big distance. The doctor hesitates, fumbling for words.
"You're probably wondering about your condition. Can't speak right now, so... better if you see for yourself. Undamaged tissue: this much."
After he speaks, a smooth reflective object rises into the preservation fluid. A mirror? Probably. He peers into it with his mostly wrecked optic implants. It takes exactly half a second for his worst fears to become reality—the time it takes to focus his eyes. His hair is singed and clipped from the close blast. Doesn't matter. His optic implants look ready for the scrap heap. Doesn't matter. Tools can be replaced. A deep gash exposes bone on his jaw, a long scar slashes his throat like something sharp tore it... and that's it. All that's left in the fluid is his head. His expression must look horrific even to the doctor—clattering his jaw in anxiety while barely clinging to life on nutrient fluid. He wants to speak, works his lips, but there's no lungs to draw air, no air to exhale. Bitterness floods his mouth. Phantom sensation. Consciousness clouds. The eyes he'd strained to focus lose strength. This is all... starting to feel meaningless.
The doctor, concerned by his reaction, steps closer to the tank and holds up a document. Actual paper—rare these days. His in-brain computation assist is trashed, of course. Vision too blurry to read properly, so he flicks his eyes side to side. The doctor clears his throat.
"Ah, thought showing you was best... hmm. It's workplace injury. Happened on duty, and in your case, heroic sacrifice holding that biotech experiment to the end. So the company's stepping up—with a big opportunity."
After a pause, he projects a hologram into the fluid. A figure with arms outstretched in a T-pose, like an artificial body display. It starts moving—fast, inhumanly fast. No audio, but this is... a Posthuman series augmented body ad. He grits his teeth. He nearly died because of one of those. Glaring out through unfocused eyes, the doctor raises his palms.
"Sorry, sorry. That thing escaped in the end. Other 4th Guard personnel took heavy damage—not as bad as you—and it slipped past the Border Collies. So Bellwether wants to provide you a Posthuman IV Augmented Body and assign you to hunt it down. Channel that hatred as fuel."
An opportunity. Opportunity. Yeah... opportunity. A chance to start over. Catch the bastard who did this, get back on track instead of bouncing off and getting trashed. Live on at Bellwether again. But "channel hatred as fuel"? Doesn't sound like Bellwether Corp. They despise variables. Not the type to weaponize a vengeful ghost on the job.
"Bellwether covers 98% of costs, 2% from your savings—you'll be broke, but temporary. You'll join the pursuit team."
Did they plan this in eight hours? Too short for procedures without his consent, like reassigning him—too long if they didn't scour all of Los Angeles with the mobile unit. The biotech abomination couldn't have left the city. So this offer... reeks. Bellwether paying 98%? Weird. No reason for the company to charge for augmentations needed on duty. But he has no choice. Whether this doctor's pushing some Bellwether freebie scam or robbing his account, he has to nod. No, can't even do that—no neck muscles left to be picky. All he can trust is that this self-proclaimed doctor seems more greedy than insane. Once he gets any body, he can leverage company help. That'll do. It'll be enough. He swallows anxiety, affirms it three times. Not as reassuring as truly believing it.
"Blink if you agree. We'll move you to the augmentation incubator right away. Cultivation takes about a month; you'll live in VR space. Train to adapt to the new body, or vacation on the net."
He blinks deliberately. Chooses the only path. "Only" means unverified. Humans can't handle the irony of a single path leading to a trap. The doctor's face blurs, but his voice rings true. Or he tries to believe it. Yelling savagely with just a head left is inefficient.
"Consent confirmed. Rest a bit longer. You'll wake in the net soon. We'll keep your limbs and torso safe. Then..."
A voice mentions mixing anesthetic into the fluid, and vision fades again. Unpleasant. Ironically, unpleasant yet refreshing. Next time he wakes, he'll have shed the biotech-torn, grenade-scorched husk. When consciousness returns, things are better. Just a VR avatar, but seeing his limbs again, moving as he wills—pure bliss. Windows float in view. One shows the incubator status: a long cylindrical tank full of preservation fluid, his brain floating inside. A clock he desperately wanted: October 4, 12:39 AM. Four hours passed. Longer than expected. Few staff on it. The VR space is otherwise empty. White grid floor and walls, adjustable ceiling brightness—no lights—like an asylum isolation room. Too barren for a megacorp like Bellwether. Famous for employee housing convenience, unusually so for a arms manufacturer. Something's fishy, obviously. Following security training basics: adapt, avoid friction. He didn't resist and end up medical waste. Now, figure out exactly where he is. Net access would help, but expecting that from a non-official Bellwether incubator is greedy luxury. He scans the floating virtual menu. Crude, shoddy. But it has an assistant AI call option—for appearances. He taps it lightly. A small logo appears: serpent-coiled staff—hospital issue? A stiff, mechanical voice echoes in his head, like his duty AI.
"Call received. I am Berta, helper AI of Old Pasadena General Medical Center."
"General Medical Center?"
Mind foggy, but the doctor said Central. Slip-up. Means this isn't even a hospital. Private lab? Unknown. Not the point now. He doesn't buy this crude incubator making a Posthuman IV Augmented Body, but it'll cough up something decent. Actually producing one would be worse—using unlicensed knockoffs lands him on Bellwether's blacklist. And Bellwether's his only option. From regular school to security training college under them for two years... getting cut loose ends him.
"No, forget it. Any way to contact outside from this rig?"
"Old Pasadena General Medical Center strives to give body-cultivating patients mental freedom despite physical limits. To access the net... to access the net... No network detected. Appears under maintenance."
Not under maintenance. Bad enough to check basics? But the AI seems legit hospital gear. So the guy pushing this wasn't even a doctor. Picture's clarifying. Got royally scammed.
"Can you query current location?"
"Augmentation incubator installed at Old Pasadena General Medical Center. No mobility functions."
Useless AI. If it really was there, that'd suffice. Next question.
"Who's the doctor running this incubator? Recite their full profile."
"Dr. Isabella Shaw, liaison between Bellwether Corp and Old Pasadena General Medical Center. 45-year-old female, replaced hands, eyes, and nervous system with cybernetic implants for surgical precision. Parts from Asclepius Corp..."
The AI drones on about parts on his supposed doctor. So this incubator's Isabella Shaw's. No mention of her switching to a male artificial body, so not who he met.
"Stop output. Between my entry and now, did Isabella Shaw meet anyone using a 20-something... or 20-something-set artificial body?"
"Records deleted. Can recover deleted logs, but patient lacks recovery privileges. Sorry."
His heart—or phantom—skips. A vulnerability.
"Who has recovery privileges?"
"User Dr. Isabella Shaw and user Jack Winstead."
Online security holes are real. Training drilled it: more holes in reality than the net. One exception. Now he knows who dumped him here. Report to Bellwether, hunt the bastard. They hate inefficiency. Stealing staff is malicious waste. Might even get Law Assassination Team help. Hope thickens for reclaiming his life; revenge fades. Just get back to his worthless routine. Request revenge via company, get the report—that's enough. More questions yield nothing new. Now, wait like a brain in a jar till cultivation ends.
"External links off—what internal settings? Like customizing the structure."
"As stated, this unit is managed by Dr. Isabella Shaw, liaison. Internal data can recreate 63% of Bellwether employee housing and training facilities. Some areas omitted for security or resource reasons, but familiar."
Requests general employee dorm. Asylum-room objects sharpen, polygons densify into his remembered home. To bury corner-of-mind doubt this thing might actually produce a Posthuman IV, he acts casual. Pretend it's a month's vacation. Day he nearly died was twelve hours ago—too soon to let anxiety devour him. He craves the leisure to endure it.