He was overwhelmed by a sickening sensation, teetering at the edge of consciousness, slipping away between the abyss and agony. Pain, like a relentless electric surge, coursed through every fiber of his being, an evil force that refused to relent. He lay there, trapped in the torment, feeling rivulets of sweat streaming from his anguished pores. Then, another sensation intruded—a moist warmth that caressed his skin, revealing the presence of bandages wrapped tightly around his head. Panic surged through him, his heart pounding against his ribs, yet he couldn’t hear its frantic rhythm; he was deaf. Not partially, not temporarily, but completely deaf.

Fear gripped him as he realized some unseen medical team was working on him in silence beyond the reach of his ears. He felt them gradually unwrapping the bandages, the warmth dissipating until the cold air hit his clammy flesh. The halted sweat provided a brief respite before the stabbing discomfort flooded back.  They focused on his face now, using sharp instruments to pinch and tug at the delicate tissue in agonizing motions. Each invasive pull caused searing flares of heated pain while his helpless body failed to recoil. The pain was an unbearable constant itching gnawing at him. He lay motionless, saving his dwindling strength, trying to decipher their intentions. He lay paralyzed, conserving what little strength remained as he tried to decipher their intentions from each merciless tug. Each pull of flesh oriented him toward the source, desperately grasping for any fleeting sense of connection through his fraying senses. The closest anchor was the atrophied impression of his eyelids. He realized through the maddening haze that they weren’t his eyelids at all. His eyelids hung disturbingly higher than they should have been—the flesh seared away above where his brow line once existed. Oh, Jesus Christ, they’d cut his eyes out.

A surge of terror gripped him as he attempted to scream, only to realize his voice had been stolen. Panic set in as he struggled to comprehend his nightmarish reality. He tried to move his jaw, but it was gone—his tongue, teeth, all of where his mouth used to be now a void reduced to a gasping chasm devoid of sensation. Desperation overwhelmed him as the creeping realization took hold that this was no dream. There was no escape, no waking up. He tried to stop breathing, to suffocate himself, but even that basic act was beyond his control. His throat muscles contracted, attempting to seal his airway, but oxygen was drawing in elsewhere below his throat.

In a frantic effort to understand the extent of his condition, he reached out with the tattered remnants of his facial nerves, painstakingly exploring the gaping void that had become his face. His attempt to comprehend the extent of the void was like groping in the darkness. The hole began at the base of his throat and expanded in a grotesque, upward spiral. His skin crawled as he inched along its rim, tracing the contours of the void. The hole extended past where his ears should have been, then narrowed again, reaching its dreadful conclusion somewhere above the remnants of his nose. It was a void too vast to house eyes, leaving him in a realm of darkness and despair that defied all comprehension.

He felt a hand tug at the hole and feel around his head where his right ear used to be and started pulling off another bandage. Unwrapping commenced, and he trembled in anticipation. Layer by layer, the medical team methodically peeled the shroud that obscured his face, revealing a metallic visage. He knew someone’s hand was behind his shaven head, but he couldn’t exactly feel where the fingers were laid. Synovial fluid popped deep in his mind and suddenly his eyes worked again. He must still have been hurt bad since his vision was a deep red. Without conscious instruction, his hands instinctively reached up to rub at his eyes, only to feel hard metal and smooth glass interfaces instead of flesh and fluid. The artificial red glow emanating from his new cybernetic implants seemed to carry a sinister, profoundly inhuman malevolence—they surveyed the room with detached, mechanical precision ahead of his brain’s control, bereft of the warmth and compassion that once resided in the eyes of a child. The room was an advanced medical theater filled with state-of-the-art equipment, displays monitoring his vital signs and brain activity, and the faint mechanical ambiance of humming machinery suffusing every corner. He tried to scream in frantic confusion, but his voice refused to cooperate until another synovial pop—the flick of a switch—and suddenly, sound returned in a loud rush that manifested as a blaring car horn rather than his own anguished cries.

His head was forcibly held upright by nurses so the doctor could manipulate the occipital control panel at the base of his skull. The doctor reconfigured his vision to the standard visible spectrum. What remained of his ears—twisted, mangled remnants—had been replaced by cochlear receptors surgically grafted to the auditory nerve. They twitched and whirred with every sound, amplifying the cacophony of agony that permeated the room into an ear-splitting onslaught. Disjointed snippets of conversation leaked into his enhanced hearing, whispered accounts of other poor souls who had undergone similar re-humanizing procedures. His nose, now a cold steel-alloy instrument sourced from the University of Cincinnati’s eNose program, had been attached and artificially optimized to grant him an unnaturally heightened sense of smell. The self-repairing olfactory implant wouldn’t fatigue or succumb to illness like the original biological ware. It inhaled the noxious, cloying fumes of despair hanging heavy in the air—relishing the putrid bouquet of anguish and antiseptic with each robotic inhalation. But that could be turned off, as he’d learn. And where his mouth had once existed now protruded only thick metallic tendrils—a writhing array of serpentine conduits that performed data transmission and vocal modulation through a mesh of vibrating filaments. These filaments undulated and pulsed in concert with the augmented synthetic vocal cords surrounding a lattice vox emitter not yet calibrated.

In the distance, a news broadcast droned from a wall-mounted Neotech screen, the anchor’s voice just another indistinct signal amidst the swirling cyclone of the patient’s fragmented thoughts. “...as Neotech continues to push the boundaries of cybernetic enhancement, debates rage over the ethical implications of their latest advances. Critics argue the corporation’s unchecked power and influence could have devastating consequences, especially in regard to AI with all AI governance laws in effect on hold while the President remains in prison. In related news, another act of extremist violence has rocked the city, with authorities continuing to struggle in vain to contain the escalating turmoil...”

His new distorted voice, loud and mechanical, emerged from a repurposed subwoofer coil. “Why?” The boy croaked, the piteous word more lamentation than question. “Why did he hurt me?” A deliberate, percussive cadence emanated from the voice box—mechanical sobs clacking against a reinforced larynx.

###

Agent Brenna Bunting stood outside the boy’s room; her austere presence flanked by the equally somber figure of Dr. Oliver Foster. The sterile white walls of the Neotech hospital corridor stretched out before them like an endless, antiseptic labyrinth bathed in harsh, artificial lighting. Unforgiving fluorescent rays cast an eerie, sickly glow on the doctor’s wearied face, accentuating deep lines of exhaustion permanently etched into his careworn skin.

“Anything I should know before I leave, doctor? To add to my report?” Brenna’s crisp, authoritative voice cut through the ward’s ambient clamor.

The good doctor shifted in his Hokas, the comfy shoes yielding the only positive comfort in his world of unyielding linoleum and burnt-out medical staff. Ten hours to go; if lucky, he’d only have to work two doubles this week. Brenna studied him intently, catching each subtle sign of weariness and stress that clung to the man like a second skin after years of thankless service. He took pride in his appearance—well-groomed with trendy glasses—but even diligent self-care couldn’t save him from the relentless toll of Medication-as-a-Service.

For Dr. Foster, the brutalized young patient lying comatose just beyond that hermetically sealed door had proven a bridge too far for composure. The boy’s condition had rattled something foundational loose within the veteran doctor’s psyche that demanded the comforting caress of chemical anodyne. Within the standardized, clinically detached parlance they were trained to adopt as professionals in the face of the macabre, this latest instance had uniquely transcended that practiced veneer of dispassion. Twelve-year-old Hannon Sparks, the monstrously savaged victim languishing amid that sterile sanctuary’s life-preserving wards, had suffered profound mutilation.

“Severe blunt force trauma to the head, strangulation, complete ocular disfigurement, face torn…This is the sort of damage seen from maulings. I’d have never believed it was a man had I not seen the footage,” Dr. Foster’s clinical assessment, delivered in a voice barely rising above a haunted whisper, carried the disquieting weight of one who has witnessed unimaginable horrors and returned forever changed. With covert motions of longsuffering practice, the doctor produced a stim pen from his coat and pretended to notate with it while checking his surroundings. A faint azure glow emanated from the pen’s beveled tip as it dispensed measured doses of anxiety-numbing vaporine. Foster’s gaze returned to Agent Bunting, his expression naked in its visible shame and the faintest hint of flush creeping into his cheeks as their eyes met. “Apologies...Officer.”

“Agent,” Brenna corrected, her tone firm but not unkind. She understood the need for escape, the desire to dull the edges of a reality that could be too sharp, too painful to bear.

“Not gonna tell on me, are ya?” The doctor chuckled, a forced sound that didn’t quite reach his eyes. It was a feeble, transparently desperate attempt at gallows humor intended to leaven the conversation that landed with all the grace of a millstone.

“Not if you don’t have it,” Brenna responded, holding out her hand. The moment of levity melted from the doctor’s expression as he solemnly relinquished the illicit pen, the lingering warmth of vaporized anxiolytic already beginning to smooth the frazzled folds of his brain. The chemical relief coursing through his veins wouldn’t allow this desperately needed respite to dissipate, even its abrupt buzzkill came with tits.

“I’ll need that footage, too,” Brenna said, her gaze unwavering. Dr. Foster could only nod in numb acquiescence, the effects of vaporine holding fast. Colors enhanced under the harsh fluorescent lights, jarring medical machinery alerts turned melodious, and ordinary stimuli returned sensations with a newfound depth and richness that his mercilessly overworked neural receptors could finally appreciate with lapidary clarity. The sluiceway of Dr. Foster’s hypothalamus burst forth a fleeting euphoric dopamine rush, steadying the myokymic tremors plaguing his exhausted form as his vision stabilized, affording him a sharpened reappraisal of Agent Bunting’s stolid presence.

She looked formidable, the most fitting descriptor through the vaporine’s laser focus. Her blonde hair was kept in a functional lace braid tied into a no-nonsense ponytail. Yet her eyes lacked the faint artificial glow of cybernetic implants—the irises remained natural, the tapetum remained organic and un-augmented with a lucidum to give her that trendy nocturnal glow. An unmistakably vibrant, peach-tinged radiance emanated from Brenna’s supple skin, not the homogenized industrial tint of synthetic dermal grafts. It held genuine vitality that could only come from treating one’s body with utmost reverence. Clearly, she adhered to the sacred practices of proper hydration, nutrient-rich foods, disciplined fitness, and an almost puritanical avoidance of vices. Almost.

In fact, her genetic makeup seemed so robustly predisposed to natural wellness that even the most dogmatic Immaculates—anti-augmetic zealots—would be hard-pressed to deem her in need of their Inquisitorial Assessment. Brenna’s indifferent disdain for human-machine symbiosis in all forms was blatantly obvious. While the overwhelming majority had assimilated some degree of cybernetic or biomechanical augmentation into their physical and psychological selves, Brenna remained defiantly unvarnished. By 2077’s standards, she struck an anachronistic figure—a decidedly feminine form, rigorously honed yet bearing the humble scars and well-earned patina of one who witnessed humanity’s worst yet persevered. She was plain—starkly, beautifully, unapologetically plain compared to the vibrantly enhanced and integrated cybernetics so ubiquitously woven into the populace.

“Figured you’d want that,” Dr. Foster muttered, a grim undercurrent slicing through the chemical haze. “Had one of the residents download it before it was scrubbed off the Internet.”

Brenna tutted, “Nothing’s ever deleted.”

“It’s hard to watch,” he warned, his expression clouding with remembered horrors. “He’ll live. Probably longer than ever now with the augmetics. We’ll be able to cover ‘em with dermacoating. But one thing’s for sure: That level of imparted depravity doesn’t just go away. It festers into something else. Something worse.” He paused, carefully considering his words as Brenna watched intently. “Psychologically, the boy’s gonna develop some extreme emotional defenses and personality fragmentations to cope. Even though his eyes’ll see across the electromagnetic spectrum, his worldview’s fundamentally desaturated into black and white.”

His words hung in the air, painting a grim picture of the long road ahead for young Hannon Sparks. The boy’s physical wounds would heal, but psychological scars would linger. The enhancements that promised to restore Hannon’s body came at an immeasurable price. The gleaming, surgical steel that now constituted his countenance was a reminder of the trauma he had endured, a visible marker of the invisible scars that might never fully heal. Cutting-edge technology could restore his sight and hearing. It would also serve as a constant reminder of his ordeal, forever altering his perception of the world around him. Brenna’s attention was caught by the Neotech logo subtly displayed on every vital monitor and augmentation console around them, the same logo etched into Hannon’s new cranial pieces. Settled dermacoating would bring the logo to the surface, making it a small but always present brand mark to which the public had long grown accustomed.

Dr. Foster handed Brenna a vidclip, which she took and placed in front of her smartwatch. The device chirped as it scanned and digitally captured the data. “I’ll watch it later,” she said, returning the device. “And go easy on those pens.”

Foster seemed to consider protesting before resigning with a weary nod. “One more thing, while you interviewed Hannon earlier, a... significant individual demanded to see you. I told them you were occupied; they’re waiting in my office now. The Chief himself. Looks like you know people in high places.”

“He’s just my boss,” Brenna replied, her voice steady and even.

“I don’t care. This has his attention and I’m letting you know he’s waiting. You get this sick bastard; you hear me?” Dr. Foster’s words carried a weight of expectation, a burden of responsibility that Brenna had willingly shouldered. That’s my fucking job, Brenna internalized as a nurse arrived to lead her to Foster’s office, that mantle of obligation settled firmly upon her shoulders. As they passed freshly adorned walls, Brenna was unsure whether to lament that the hospital had replaced the original FBI Headquarters—a place of fond memories and early triumphs—following the events of Project 2025. She was one of the few special agents recruited by Neotech. Amidst the transition, private firms began to amass organic security forces, among other things, for brand protection rather than client safety.

Soft shifts of leather patting cloth faintly reported to the trained ear that Brenna was armed—Neotech facilities forbade armed entrants unless of course you were employed by them.  Once out of view of the nurse nexus, Brenna took a long, deep drag of the stim pen. Thank God, saves me from buying one, she thought as the vaporous compound began reawakening her instinctively blasé edge. The potent neural enhancer coursed through her system, sharpening her faculties to a razor clarity without necessitating permanent cerebral augmentations. She’d seen enough to shrug off a faceless child—twisted limbs, cast-off spatter patterned rooms, burning human, deranged lairs adorned with sarcous trophies, and the vacant stare of the expired. Though it didn’t faze her, the aftershocks never wholly dissipated. She needed to remain operationally sharp because before any action could be taken at Neotech, tactful or tactical, there had to be a meeting first. Antiquated martial traditions had long since deprecated within their increasingly streamlined operations in favor of more modern, purpose-driven corporate law enforcement policies. The transition from the prior public policing model to privatized had been remarkably swift, with tech giants like Neotech promising revolutionary efficiencies and cutting-edge solutions to society’s age-old struggles against generational crime, injustice, and institutionalized inequities. At least, that had been the official marketing pitch.

The harsh clamor of the active ward muted to tranquil silence as the heavy, oaken door to Dr. Foster’s office clicked shut behind Brenna, sealing her into womblike seclusion. Richly lacquered ebony paneling sheathed the room’s walls, adorned with luminescent indigo strips that cast a soft, calming glow. A floor-to-ceiling pane of smart glass spanned the far window, affording a panoramic view into the hospital’s sprawling central atrium area. Tiny distant figures were milling about the ‘naturalized’ spaces amidst artfully curated strands of urban vegetation and postmodern industrial art pieces. Dr. Foster’s expansive collection of preserved medical and cybernetic curiosities from across the ages filled an antique bookshelf that consumed an entire wall. Among the many eclectic items was an archaic biomechanical heart augmentation suspended in a sterile vitrine—a relic harkening from an era when such advanced biomechatronics were still novelties. Of course, neural implants and cerebral augmentations are as prevalent as smartphones were a mere half-century ago.

In the heart of this lavish enclave sat Chief Srini Meka, Brenna’s boss, cradled in an ergonomically sculpted executive chair behind a polished obsidian desk. His eyes gleamed with the unmistakable iridescent sheen unique to high-end ocular implants incumbent to most Neotech executives.

“I just may have to requisition one of these fine chairs for my office,” he mused aloud with an appreciative air, kneading the armrests with an appraising caress of his fingertips.

Brenna halted before the desk and sank into one of the two gravel-colored modular armchairs at Chief Meka’s gesture. She’d never seen him stand before, always wielding his authority behind a desk. Adorning the wall above him hung a gilded array of academic credentials, fellowships, and accolades recognizing Dr. Foster’s impressive pedigree. The ostentatious arrangement was capped by a pair of prominently displayed, jumbo-sized framed diplomas—the Medical University of South Carolina and Harvard Medical School—with Chief Meka’s head between them regarding Brenna over steepled fingertips. His neatly trimmed grey goatee providing a refined contrast against his rich, russet complexion. His slicked-back tresses of precisely barbered salt-and-pepper hair only sharpened his regal features’ intense, hawkish lines in the ambient glow. Righting the chair, he spoke with his hands, the gestures usually beginning a few seconds before any words.

“Neotech cadre tell me they can assist you in handling this incident. I’m curious to hear your appraisal on their proposed support, Agent Bunting. From a law enforcement and biomedical perspective, how much do you honestly know regarding the full scope and nature of Neotech’s augmentative services?”

Brenna felt a slight crease of confusion knit her brow at the Chief’s strangely phrased inquiry. Why would he be grilling her to assess institutional operational capacities she had absolutely zero insight into? Especially regarding such a high-stakes case he had explicitly assigned her. “From what I’ve been able to ascertain, sir,” she began slowly and deliberately, carefully choosing each forthcoming word, “Neotech has assembled an impressive and well-funded research and development team. Several of their biomedical and investigative products have undergone successful field-testing with various private security contractors and federal law enforcement agencies.”

She paused briefly, mentally reviewing her words for potential landmines before pressing onward. “I’d even had the chance to train with and evaluate several of their more rudimentary prototypes during my time as a cadet at Quantico, pre-transition, sir. But purely from an investigative standpoint, classical instruction ultimately superseded any true operational need for an overly technological approach.”

“Classical instruction; you mean human taught?”

Another momentary pause as she marshaled her concluding thoughts, keeping her tone respectfully deferential yet tinged with a pragmatic edge of hard-earned experience. “When it comes to raw detection, evidence-gathering and comprehensive crime scene analysis, the core fundamental skills of hands-on investigation will always outpace and outperform any electronic or AI-assisted methodologies in my professional assessment, Chief. Forensics and all the other science can be dealt with by the machines.”

“It takes a human to catch a human. Is that what you’re saying?” Chief Meka asked, his dark eyes boring into Brenna’s with an intensity that made her want to squirm in her seat. Their faint glow intensified as he leaned forward over the obsidian desk.

“I’m saying,” Brenna replied, her voice steady and confident, “the only technology I need isn’t innovative. Give me a car, weapon, and comms, and I’ll find what you need.”

“Sherlock Holmes managed to work with far less than even those modest provisions, if I’m not mistaken,” Meka countered with the faintest hint of a challenging smirk.

“James Bond worked with more. A group of teens worked with a talking dog.” She allowed herself a subtle hint of a smile. “If you want to see real results on this case, task an equally real human with the proper training. The specific tools ultimately don’t matter, just training. Intelligence, like Poirot, is the best weapon, gotta use those ‘little gray cells’.”

Chief Meka raised his eyebrows, clearly impressed. A slight smile played across his features as he regarded her with a newfound gleam of...appreciation? “So, you like intelligence, do you, Agent Bunting?” he asked with the faintest tinge of suggestiveness lining his deep baritone.

“Yes. Sir,” she responded, clenching every orifice to suppress her rage and belch professionalism.

Chief Meka slid a thick manila envelope across the desk to Brenna, “I’m inclined to agree with Dr. Foster’s assessment that no man could have done this. No, sane man. It’s imperative that we bring in this… individual immediately. I’m putting a lot of responsibility on you because your record shows you can handle it.” The Chief fixed her with an intense stare that seemed to bore into her soul. “I fully anticipate that Neotech’s psych organization will have methodologies to shed light on this incident once he’s brought back.”

“Brought...back, sir?” Brenna couldn’t help but ask, slightly confused by the Chief’s subtle phrasing.

“Back in, Agent,” Meka clarified with a nod. “Where he can be properly assessed and processed through our systems.”

“Why Neotech? Shouldn’t this be handled by standard law enforcement protocols?” Brenna asked, a note of skepticism creeping into her voice. Even after years of privatized policing, old instincts died hard.

Chief Meka’s expression remained inscrutable as he regarded her for a few beats of tense silence. “Because Neotech effectively is the standard law enforcement protocol in situations like this now, Agent Bunting. Our prioritized growth strategies allow us to deliver unparalleled customer satisfaction and community engagement ratios quarter over quarter. Our influential investors expect us to remain proactive in utilizing every single asset, assets including you, and tailored technological advantage fully at our structured disposal.”

He allowed his statement’s implications to hang between them like a thinly veiled threat. “It’s what elevates and distinguishes Neotech’s law enforcement division above our public and private sector competition, Agent. There is no more room for half-measures or avoidable errors when maintaining our premium reputation for providing the utmost accountability, transparency and remediation to our invested clientele.”

Chief Meka leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers as he appraised Brenna through eerie implants. “The real question is...are you truly as comfortable risking your job, among other things, to get your way?”

Brenna felt the infinitesimal musculatures along her jaw instinctively tighten even as she fought to maintain an outward aura of unruffled confidence, “Always, sir.”

Chief Meka held Brenna’s defiant gaze for a few tense moments before allowing the faintest hint of a smile to crease the corners of his lips. Whether it was born of amusement, begrudging respect, or something more mysterious remained unclear. “I certainly hope you can back up the bravado,” he stated evenly. “For all both our sakes.”

He slid the dossier across the desk towards her. “I’m entrusting you with a significant amount of autonomy and responsibility because your record shows you can handle such...singularly disturbing cases. Predictive models are already churning out possible scenarios with early projections suggesting nearly an 80% probability of recidivism if you don’t move quickly.”

“With all due respect, sir, AI can’t account for the unquantifiable human element. That’s where I come in. That’s why I come in,” Brenna countered, her faith in human intuition unwavering. Though she cringed at the phrase, thinking the Chief would turn it into innuendo.

“Brenna,” Chief Meka began, his voice taking on an avuncular tone of paternal concern, “before you head out, you ought to reconsider augmentation. You never know what you’re going to run into out there. Frankly, it’s my prerogative to ground you until you have something.” He raised a calloused hand, forestalling her automatic protest. “Neotech’s contractual obligations with various state and municipal enforcement entities legally require us to maintain certain biochemical and physiological benchmarks across our entire tactical corps. Why not cochlear implants? No one’ll even see them.”

“I’ll consider it. Thanks for your consideration,” she respectfully declined.

Chief Meka sighed again, more audibly this time as he rubbed at his temples in an unguarded gesture of evident frustration. “You’re going to wind up injured or worse because of some silly ideal. Going to catch a stray and die out there as the singular unaugmented officer assigned to active field operations.”

A faint, humorless smile ghosted across Brenna’s lips at the morbid prediction. “I hope it’ll be quick if that’s the case, sir.”

“For someone who always struck me as so rigidly by the book, so precisely standardized and mechanistic in your approaches...” he said, the faintest hint of grudging respect tingeing his words, “You’re awfully…prideful.”

“Yep,” Brenna responded, her voice firm and carrying a quiet sense of unshakable conviction, of ideological purpose. What had initially started as a mere pragmatic personal preference for her own body’s pristine factory settings had gradually transformed over the years. What began as personal preference had turned into agnostic principle and became a statement of defiance. It was her choice.

Chief Meka chortled at her concise response, the rich sound echoing throughout the confines of his lavishly appointed office. “Very well, then. Everything you currently require for this operation is contained within that briefing envelope—travel itinerary, background data, contact information for local support assets and so on. Including a boarding pass.” His expression sobered once more. “I need not remind you that when you’re out in the field, you’ll serve as Neotech’s representation on the ground. Your successes or failures will be regarded as an intrinsic reflection of our corporate service quality and brand integrity. Not to put too fine a point on it, but your bonus, our stock, depends on your performance. I expect nothing short of a…satisfactory resolution. Enjoy Florida.”

It was as clear a dismissal as any that carried with it the weight of expectation, the burden of responsibility that Brenna had willingly shouldered. As Brenna left the office, the weight of the case settled onto her shoulders like an invisible anvil. The sudden heaviness caught her off guard, and she realized with a wry internal chuckle the stim was wearing off.