Piece of plastic

The journey through the lab was silent, interrupted only by the soft hum of security doors unlocking as the Overseers swiped their ID cards. The further they walked, the more restricted the area became, passing multiple clearance points.

Before they finally, they arrived at Dr. Carol’s office. The door slid open, and SF stepped inside. The Overseers remained outside, taking their positions as guards.

Carol barely glanced up from her desk. “Welcome, Sear. Or is it SF now?”

“It’s SF, for now, ma’am,” he replied, standing rigid, hands clasped behind his back.

“I see.” She finally looked up, studying him. “I need a report on the last mission. I heard there were… complications.”

“Yes, ma’am. Multiple losses on the Fallo side, along with some wounded.” His response was immediate, almost rehearsed.

Carol’s pen moved across the paper. “I assume you don’t know who. That would be like you.”

SF hesitated only briefly. “I do not have the list of the lost but the wounded include myself, P2, R2, and Fallo unit designated as Stinger.” He dipped his head slightly. “That concludes the report, ma’am.”

Carol set her pen down, her gaze lingering on him with quiet curiosity. “Thank you. Anything else you want to tell me?”

She stood and walked toward him, circling like a predator sizing up its prey. Then, with unsettling softness, she reached out, her fingers brushing against his cheek.

“Perhaps something about the kill dose… or the new serum formula?”

SF inhaled deeply, keeping his gaze fixed downward. “I… I have trouble remembering things after the the second dose… I don’t recall anything for a while.”

“I see.” Carol’s voice was unreadable. “Well, I don’t see the problem with that. Do you?”

SF’s shoulders stiffened. His hesitation was brief but noticeable. “I… I don’t like it.”

A small, knowing smile tugged at Carol’s lips. “I see.”

Without warning, she plunged a fresh dose of Invicta serum into his system.

SF didn’t resist. He stood still as the transformation took hold—his eyes turning white, his hair bleed back to the red, and the scar on his face darkened once more. Carol stepped back, watching the shift with satisfaction. “Sear,” she addressed him now, as if SF had never existed. “Tell me what happened when you lost control.”

Sear lifted his head, his piercing red gaze locking onto her. His expression was different now—sharper, predatory, and alive.

“I was fighting an exo-suit pilot,” he said, his tone carrying a hint of amusement. “I was enjoying myself… until I was electrocuted by a taser. I fell. I lost control.”

Carol nodded, unsurprising. “I see. So you found your weakness.”

Sear’s jaw clenched. A flicker of realization crossed his face. “You knew. All along.”

Carol pulled an electric baton from her desk drawer, twirling it between her fingers.

“I did.?” Her smirk widened. “Let’s make you more used to your weakness shall we?”

Sear’s lips curled into a grin, mirroring her energy. “That sounds excited?”

His arms opened wide “Give me your worst.”

Carol didn’t hesitate. The baton struck, sending jolts of electricity coursing through his body. His grin faltered only slightly before twisting into something unreadable.

She shocked him again. And again. And again.

Outside the door, the Overseers stood guard. They were trained to be indifferent, yet even they averted their eyes, their expressions tightening as Sear’s screams echoed through the lab.

The door slid open, and SF stepped out, his body weakened, his appearance returned to normal. The overseers stood at attention, their expressions a mix of curiosity and concern.

“Let us escort you back to your room, Commander SF.” Their voices carried an unusual warmth, almost friendly—a stark contrast to their usual demeanor.

SF took a few steps before stopping. “No, I’ll walk there myself.” His voice was quiet but firm.

“Sir, you don’t have clearance, and you need an escort—”

The overseer’s words died in his throat as SF raised his ID card. The title Marshal was now displayed beneath his name. The weight of exhaustion was evident on his face, yet the overseers’ posture immediately straightened. Their gazes shifted from uncertain to respectful.

“Apologies, sir.” One of them spoke with newfound deference.

“Congratulations on your promotion.” The other followed.

“Do you still require an escort to your quarters?”

SF regarded them with mild confusion before responding, “No, I’ll be fine.” His words were short, cold, and final as he turned and walked down the hall.

Past the clearance doors—ones he could now access on his own—SF continued in silence. Promoted from Commander to Marshal in a single leap. The military had its own peculiar ranking system, one where the lab personnel still held ultimate authority. But at least the overseers would show a Marshal some level of respect—more than they would to a Commander or a Captain like Havoc.

SF exhaled sharply, lifting the ID card to examine it. “To me, this is nothing more than text on a piece of plastic.” His voice was hollow, his eyes empty.