Chapter 4

  May 22, 2090, Pleasanton, California, Approximately 11:22 PM

  In a slumbering neighborhood, where no crickets chirped and only the wind whistled softly through the night, the clouds above grew heavy. A light drizzle began to tap against the concrete. Inside one house—with its brown roof and white walls—on the top floor, past the room on the right, sat an 18-year-old young man.

  He had dark brown curly hair and caramel-toned skin. His eyes were a matching shade of brown, and his build carried a soft chubbiness. He sat in his gaming chair, headphones over both ears, his door locked, and a microphone close to his lips. Panic and excitement filled his voice.

  "GET HIM, GET HIM! HE'S ONE SHOT!" he shouted, fingers flying across the keyboard. Moments later, he let out a loud groan of defeat.

  "NOOOO!"

  His character had been eliminated, and now he was forced to spectate the player who had just wiped out both him and his teammate.

  On the other side of the call, his friend—another brown-skinned young man his age, with side-swept black hair tipped with blond—grabbed his mic and yelled, frustrated.

  "YOU DUMBASS, JOHN! HE WASN'T ONE SHOT!"

  John laughed. "Yeah, my bad, Ryan. I could've sworn I hit him for at least 150 damage," he said with a cheeky grin.

  Suddenly, John heard a knock at the front door. He groaned.

  "Alright, hold on, bro. I gotta be right back—someone's at the door."

  Before Ryan could complain about yet another interruption, John muted his mic, yanked off his headphones, and tossed them onto the desk.

  He stood up, his chair sliding back slightly, and moved toward his bedroom door. But just as he reached for the knob, he heard arguing downstairs. Confused, he hesitated. His ears tuned in to the conversation between his mother and whoever was at the door.

  When he finally grabbed the doorknob, he accidentally dented the metal slightly. His eyes widened in shock, and he let go as if it had burned him.

  "Shit, not again... Mom's gonna kill me," he muttered.

  He composed himself and exited the room, quietly making his way down the hall to the top of the stairs. He peeked down, staying hidden but able to see. His brows furrowed when he saw two men in black suits standing in the doorway. He zoned out, a thousand thoughts racing through his mind, until his mother's voice brought him back.

  "I already told you—you've got the wrong house! We don't want whatever you're selling!" she snapped, her tone rising with annoyance.

  One of the men sighed and replied, "Alright, Miss Spencer, I think we've done enough talking."

  He shoved her aside and stepped into the house. John's glare hardened. He stormed down the stairs, stepping directly in front of the suited man.

  "What the hell do you think you're doing putting your hands on my mom? Are you fucking crazy?"

  He shoved the man hard, sending him sprawling to the floor.

  "Get out of our house!"

  The loud thud drew attention. His two younger brothers came up the stairs, followed by his younger and older sisters—and then finally, his father.

  His father demanded, "What the hell is going on here?"

  The suited man stood up, eyes wide. He smiled calmly, smoothed his jacket, and pressed a finger to the earpiece in his right ear. A quiet hiss followed.

  "X Serum test subject number 17 is confirmed to be alive. Effects appear to be fully active."

  Another hiss crackled through the earpiece, and a voice responded:

  "Roger that. We're entering the building now."

  Suddenly, armed men in tactical gear burst through the windows, glass shattering onto the floor. Within seconds, they had pinned down each of John's family members.

  Fear gripped John, quickly turning to rage. He punched one of the men trying to restrain his mother, fracturing the man's jaw. But another soldier struck John in the back of the head with a rifle butt.

  However John barely flinched.

  "MASKS ON!" shouted the man behind him.

  All seven armed men and the two in suits quickly donned gas masks. One of the suited men tossed a gas grenade into the room. John's family slumped to the floor, unconscious.

  John resisted, charging the man who had thrown the grenade—but his body slowed. He collapsed to the ground, vision fading. A soldier placed a boot on his back, another did the same to his family members. Silenced pistols were aimed at the backs of their heads.

  The last thing John saw was a woman with black and grey-streaked hair, dressed in a similar suit—but her tie was red.

  "Execute them," she said coldly. "We have number 17. We don't need witnesses."

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  A soldier nodded.

  "Instructions clear, Director Malary."

  John's eyes shut fully, and the last sound he heard was the soft pop of silenced gunfire.

  May 23, 2090, Location: Unknown, Time: Unknown

  John stirred in a hospital bed, his head throbbing and thoughts murky. He pressed a hand to his temple, but it didn't help. Slowly, memories began to surface.

  "Ohhh," he muttered, eyes widening.

  He was inside the Supernatural Defense Agency—SDA, for short. Just then, Director Malary entered the room, arms folded behind her back, giving him the look of a strict coach or teacher.

  She spoke.

  "You're awake now. Good. Great news, Agent—you passed. But don't let it go to your head. You still have a lot to prove to the SDA."

  John saluted with a grin.

  "Yes, ma'am. Thank you for having me. I'll prove my worth."

  He was excited, though the memories that flooded back weren't really his. His past had been erased and rewritten. As far as he knew, he'd always lived inside this facility. He grew up here, knew the staff, and had a close relationship with Malary. His very morals had been reshaped.

  "Those who oppose the SDA deserve death—or worse," he recalled.

  He sat up in bed, wearing a standard hospital gown.

  "Now that I'm in the SDA, Director, when does my training begin?"

  Though he couldn't remember clearly, John had flashes of fighting faceless opponents to prove his worth. Malary turned toward the door.

  "Training begins in an hour. We need to unlock the physical capabilities dormant inside you, Agent 17."

  His grin grew. He loved hearing his new designation. SDA agents were ranked by number—the lower the number, the stronger the agent. There were only 20, and all had undergone the X Serum procedure. Few knew. John didn't.

  He opened the medical closet and found a tactical suit tailored by the SDA. Sleek, lightweight, and durable, it resisted heat and water—but not bullets or knives, unless the wearer had X Serum enhancements.

  John quickly changed. Though the suit appeared too big, it shrank to fit him perfectly. He lifted his arms, inspecting it in surprise.

  Right on cue, a man in a lab coat with piercing blue eyes entered the room.

  "I take it that it fits?" he asked.

  Before John could answer, the man added, "Good. Don't ruin it—it costs more than your life's worth."

  He grabbed a clipboard and skimmed it.

  "My name's Lance Langstrong. Most call me Dr. Langstrong, or Professor Langstrong. Few call me Lance. Let's go—I've got tests to run."

  John scoffed, hands in his pockets.

  "Wow, you're so warm and friendly. Fine, let's get this over with. The sooner we start, the sooner I can show I'm better than everyone else in the SDA."

  Lance ignored the comment and walked ahead. John followed. The hall was wide, filled with suited men—other agents, but not of SDA rank.

  They reached a scanner. Lance swiped a keycard, and the door hissed open.

  "This is the training facility for SDA agents," he said. "Before you're assigned any major roles, we'll run some physical tests."

  John stepped inside, the door sealing behind him. The room was like a massive gym. Weights on one side, treadmills and punching bags on the other. In the center stood a large, stone platform—like a boxing ring, but without ropes.

  John tilted his head.

  "What kind of major roles are we talking about?"

  Lance rolled his eyes, lifted the stack of papers on his clipboard, and handed one to John.

  "There are guards who stay at the agency. Scouts who go abroad to gather intel. Aids who assist in natural disaster rescues. And then there are the Ventures."

  "The Ventures take down crime bosses—by any means necessary—and handle drug busts. Right now, our top target is Frankie D'Marco. He leads a ruthless mafia. They're... similar to you."

  John's eyes narrowed.

  "What do you mean similar to me?"

  Lance froze for a second, realizing his mistake.

  "A-anyway," he stammered, "let's get on with the tests. I don't need Malary chewing me out because your training took too long."

  John nodded, though his curiosity burned.

  "Alright. Let's just get this shit over with," he muttered. "I've got better things to do than sit here listening to you talk."

  His voice was sharp with irritation.

  Lance led John to a large machine partially protruding from the wall, its surface looking cushioned. He skimmed through his papers before speaking.

  "Alright, the first few tests will be on physical strength. As I'm sure you've figured out by now, you're much stronger and faster than most people—and a lot more durable too."

  "That's because you've lived here your entire life. You were naturally special. The staff raised you, and we added science-based compounds to the food and water that helped make you more resilient and significantly stronger than average."

  Yet even as Lance said this, his left blue eye twitched—a dangerous habit only Director Malary and General Victor recognized as a telltale sign he was lying. But he wasn't about to tell John he'd been injected with a serum as an infant that mutated his genetic structure, turning him into a mutant.

  John interrupted Lance's spiraling thoughts—another bad habit of the so-called genius.

  "Uh, you gonna tell me what I gotta do, or are you just gonna keep zoning out? I already told you, I don't have all day, dammit."

  Another side effect of the enhancements was John's irritability—quick-tempered and prone to anger, similar to someone on steroids.

  Lance cleared his throat. "Right. I want you to hit the machine as hard as you can. Don't worry about damaging it—we've got plenty more. And before you ask, I don't care if you don't know how to throw a proper punch. You'll be trained in martial arts later. For now, just punch."

  John scoffed, wondering who this guy thought he was to be giving orders. Still, if he wanted into the SDA, he didn't have much of a choice.

  He stepped in front of the machine. His stance was awkward—like a toddler trying to throw a punch. Untrained, and it showed. Still, he pulled back and threw a punch, knuckles slamming into the machine.

  The impact made the wall tremble slightly. A number flashed above the machine, ticking before settling at 1,500 PSI.

  Lance chuckled and jotted something down on his clipboard. "Well then. If you were trying to be a professional boxer, that's more than enough force. But if you want to be SDA material, we've got a lot of work to do."

  John's cheeks flushed with embarrassment. "Shut the hell up! It's not my fault I don't know how to throw a punch! And for the record, a professional boxer's PSI isn't something to scoff at."

  Lance crossed his arms, raising an eyebrow. "Right. But I'm sure you've gathered by now that you're one of 20 SDA agents. You're number 17—near the bottom. Nina was in here the other day. She's just as new as you and scored 3,200 PSI."

  John's eyes widened, then he crossed his arms. "I don't remember asking about some chick I don't even know scoring higher than me on some dumbass test. Let's hurry up and finish this so I can get outta here. Smells like sweat and criticism."