6 comments/ 7169 views/ 0 favorites Paradigm Shift Ch. 01 By: Diamondbarrow Prologue The world had become a dark place, full of hatred and righteous bigotry. After the collapse of the United States due to civil war, the world slowly became a mass of bickering, quarreling nations, each trying to scrape their way to the top. Naturally, it was the civilians of the world that suffered. Wages and living conditions plummeted into poverty, crime rates rose, education dropped; it was seen as the new Dark Ages. This persisted for years, no one country truly rising above the tumult. Not until, from the ashes of America, the self-proclaimed World Government came to power. They began to show care for the people, and touted that Democracy would win the day. They built centers for education, and drew up efficient plans for how the world should be run. They vowed that their plans would see fruition, and, seeing how happy their citizens were, it did not take long for both of the American continents and Africa to willingly become part of this World Government. Eurasia, however, was another story. Europe believed that the promised 'Democracy' was truly a façade to hide dictatorship. Asia, which in all honestly was least affected by the collapse of the world economy, believed that the whole of the world should not be ruled by any single governing body. The Government insisted. The Government had no military bases in those countries refusing to join, had no beachhead from which to launch an attack. They did, however, have access to a few Inter Continental Ballistic Missiles. With the press of a button, Portugal, and most of Spain, became devoid of life. When the hastily created European Alliance tried to launch their own nuclear strike, they found their missile silos conveniently disabled. Three months after the first transports carrying soldiers wearing anti-radiation suits landed on the beaches of Spain, all of Europe was conquered by the Government, and all citizens back in the Americas celebrated the joyous victory of their great leaders. After the swift defeat of the EA, the Government gave Asia one more chance to willingly join. Asia, however, had different plans. Unbeknownst to the rising 'Democracy,' their saboteurs, whom they had sent to disable the Asian missile sites, had failed. Seventy-five percent of the Government forces were obliterated when Asia's missiles scorched the earth. The fallout from the counter-strike darkened the sun for the next 5 years, as both armies began gearing up for war. The Government secretly sent another force against Southeast Asia, which easily tore through their meager defenses. By the time the Last War came to bear, Russia was surrounded by World Government troops. Chapter 1 Her cheek burned; stung. He'd hit her. He'd fucking hit her! This son of a bitch is dead, she thought to herself, and her mind went into motion. There were three ways she could kill him from this angle, and all of them were messy. She wasn't too averse to messy ones. She started to draw the butterfly knife from the hidden pocket she had sewn into her hosiery. With a delicate flick of her wrist, and a dexterous twist, she brought the knife to bear. Someone had beaten her to the punch, though. The bastard was lying at her feet, part of his head missing. Well, not missing, really. It was on the wall, not so far away. A .357 magnum, she guessed. She kicked the rapidly cooling corpse, and looked around for the shooter, thinking to stab him for stealing her kill. Not kill him, though, because part of her appreciated the help, and another part admired the method. Most of the people in the club didn't seem to notice, but then again, this sort of thing happened quite often. She tried to judge the direction of the shot by remembering where the punk was standing, and where his brains were on the wall. She looked, but no one there was wearing enough clothing to hide a .357 caliber weapon, and their hands were rather busy with other things. She pushed the event to the back of her mind. She could find out who had shot him later. She didn't want her drink to sit too long. If the ice melted too much, it would become watered-down, and rather disgusting. She hated watered-down drinks. Sometime later, about 4:30, she walked out the door. She was tired. Nights like this always wore her out. It was about this time that she noticed him. He was sitting on the sidewalk, resting his back against the brick foundation of the building. In the pre-dawn light, she could see that his hair was relatively short and unkempt, and the rest of him was adorned in dark grey casual attire. He looked as if he was spacing out, his eyes unfocused and glossy. He spoke: "You're rhythm is good, but you lack creativity." She quirked an eyebrow, and placed a hand on her hip, where another knife lay tucked into her provocative, but oddly tasteful undergarment. "Do you normally critique women's dances," she quipped, "or am I merely a special case?" She smirked, being used to men like this: Intellectual, critical, and all-around perverted. "I was referring to your knife work," he remarked, his eyes coming back into focus. "Your dancing was something else all together," he finished, his eyes traveling up her body. "It was quite entertaining, and very enjoyable, if I may say so." She smirked again, shifting her hips and drawing her hand from her blade. "You may. You're looking for entertainment?" she asked, figuring his answer to be something grotesquely male. His eyes glanced up to her before going back to take in her curves. There was just enough light now to glint off his eyes. "Not actively, no. Not unless you are offering. But, if you require company, I'm sure I could escort you somewhere." His words threw her off some. They usually stopped being polite at this point. Was he offering to walk her home? She decided to get to the point. Perhaps she didn't need to stab him after all. "Are you the one who shot the pig that hit me?" she inquired. "Yes," he replied. "I don't tolerate abuse towards women." There, she thought to herself. He was a chauvinist. She was about to call him as much, but he spoke first. "Not that I think you can't take care of yourself, as your knife work showed. I just figured I could kill him faster." He seemed thoughtful for a moment, and nodded to himself. Now she was really confused. He seemed a perfect gentleman. She didn't think it was possible in this day and age, especially in this hell hole. There was something about him, something mysterious. She liked mystery. She reached into her coat pocket, and drew out a scrap of paper and a pen. She wrote her name and number, and handed it to him, being careful not to get too close. "Do call me some time. For now, I'm off to bed." He looked mildly surprised, and tucked the number into a pocket. "I'll be sure to," he replied slowly. "Pleasant dreams, milady." She looked back at him one last time as she began walking home. "Damn," Barrow muttered to himself. He smiled, pleased with all of the action in town lately. He usually despised his time above ground, seeing it as too boring. He mostly spent his time observing what had become of humanity. He marveled at how different they were compared to how they used to be, before the war. It had become depressing to watch, but he still visited the clubs and bars, and observed. But, lately, there seemed to be more activity from the real scum. They were swarming, it seemed. He didn't mind so much; it gave him something to do. He suddenly got an idea, and he got to his feet, jogging in the same direction as the woman he'd just met. He caught up to her a few minutes later, and she seemed mildly surprised to see him. She'd had a strange feeling she hadn't seen the last of him, but she didn't think she'd see him so soon. Honestly, though, she didn't mind. "I realized that I was headed in the same direction, and I figured 'what the hell'," he lied. There were many entrances to the complex he called home, and none were in the direction they were going. She smiled some, not believing him, and subconsciously began to swing her hips slightly as she walked. He moved up beside her, and looked around a bit as they walked, playing the strong silent type. "So what were you doing at the club? I didn't see any 'fair maidens' hanging off your arm" she teased. She was beginning to like him, she told herself. He was intriguing. "Ha-ha," he replied coolly, and smiled. "I was watching, observing," he said, truthfully. "Oh?" she quipped. "What were you observing, exactly?" Barrow smirked, seeing the trap. He mentally shrugged, and dove in. "You mostly. Or maybe it was your hips..." he scratched his chin, thoughtful. She started to laugh, coming to a stop. "Did you like what you saw?" she asked, finding it odd that she honestly wanted to know. "Yes, very much so," he answered as he turned to face her. "Your panties were in the way, but, other than that, I liked what I saw very much." She quirked an eyebrow, and assumed a questioning, yet seductive, posture. "Are you coming on to me, sir," she asked coyly. He looked thoughtful for a moment before nodding a little. "Yes. I think I would have to be crazy not to, madam." She smiled, going over the possibilities in her mind. She certainly had no qualms with seducing this one, but, in this city, you couldn't trust anyone to be who they seemed. She continued walking, and both were silent until they reached her apartment building. He opened the door for her, continuing the gentleman routine, she told herself. She paused before entering, and looked demurely at him. "Would you be so kind as to escort me to my door?" she asked, knowing the answer. He once again seemed thoughtful. "Yes, milady, I believe I shall." She smirked, and started walking to the elevator, until she saw the out-of-order sign. Damn, she thought to herself. She was planning to ensnare him on the way up, see if he really was a gentleman. Her mild distress must have shown. "Is there something wrong?" he queried. "The elevator is out of order again. And my feet hurt so much..." she put on a pouty expression, and looked to him. "Shall I carry you up the stairs? Which floor are you on?" She thought for a moment, and decided that it might be fun. "Yes," she answered, "you may carry me. I live on the fourth floor, number 427." "Do you have a preference on method, my lady?" he questioned. That confused her a little, as she wasn't really sure what he was asking. So, she improvised. "No, any method you deem necessary is fine with me." She realized what he was asking the moment he picked her up, and laid her over his shoulder. He began marching up the three flights of stairs, and she struggled to stifle a laugh. She lost that struggle, and giggled up the third flight. He surprised her by carrying her all the way to her door, where he gently set her down. She giggled some more, but managed to compose herself. "Thank you, kind sir. Your help has been most appreciated." He bowed, and took her hand, kissing it lightly. "It was my pleasure, milady." She decided to take a chance with this one. Unlike most males, this one had managed to do enough to earn a good fuck. "Would you care to come in, good sir? Join me for a drink, perhaps?" He hesitated for the shortest of moments, then nodded some. "I would enjoy that greatly, Lady..." He paused, and reached into one of his pockets, producing the paper bearing her name. "Lady Sara," he completed. She laughed lightly, and pressed her hand on the pad next to the door. It accepted her hand print, and swung open. She suddenly remembered the mess her apartment was, and turned to him, dropping the chivalry act. "Er... my apartment is a mess. I'm sorry." He also seemed to drop the act, though he was still polite. "Don't worry about it, its fine." He smiled, and she felt better. She tossed her bag onto the couch. "Lights," she said, and the room lit up. It was indeed a mess. Not really a dirty mess, though. It was more of an unorganized kind if mess. Her clean clothes were piled in a corner, books and magazines covered the table haphazardly, things of that sort. If anything was really 'dirty,' it was the kitchen. There were dishes piled in the sink, and coffee grounds lightly covered the counter and floor near the coffee maker. "What'll you have?" she inquired. "Whatever you're having," he replied. He picked up one of the books of the table, and read the spine. "You've read Stranger in a Strange Land," he stated more than asked. "Yeah, isn't it wonderful?" she remarked from the kitchen. "Indeed..." he replied offhandedly. He started to suspect that there was more to this woman than he had first thought. He had no idea that copies of Stranger still existed. In fact, if he remembered correctly, it had been outlawed shortly after the war... She came back from the kitchen carrying two small glasses of an odd colored liquid. She handed him one. "You may want to sit down," she advised. This drink was an old family recipe, and would knock the socks off an elephant, whatever that was. Her grandfather had said it many times. He took a small sip, and looked thoughtful for a moment before downing the rest. He didn't seem to be affected by it at all. She was surprised, but hid it well, and downed her drink. It burned like it always did, and she kept as straight a face as she could, but still ended up slapping the table, or rather, an issue of National Geographic; another outlawed publication, he noted. "More vodka, less vanilla," he stated matter-of-factly, "but all in all, a most excellent concoction." She was a little weirded out, but hid it. How did he know what she had put in it? She shook the thought from her head. She stood, thanked him, and took his glass, carrying them both to the sink. She suddenly felt that arousal that took her when she was with someone intriguing. She bit her lip lightly, and made her way back to the living room. Barrow had sat down, finally, and she saw her opportunity. "So you liked what you saw at the club? You liked my dancing?" she baited. He looked to her, and she saw his eyes moving slowly down. "Yes, I did. You're very... graceful," he said slowly. He was biting, she told herself. "But you wanted to see more..." His eyes moved back up to hers. He nodded some. "What exactly was in the way, again?" She realized that she sounded a tad cheesy, and vowed to make up for it later. His eyes again traveled her body, taking in her curves. "I believe it was those oddly adorable panties you're wearing," he stated. She swallowed lightly, and took a couple of steps towards him. "Do you still want to see more of me?" she asked, feeling that familiar knot in her stomach. He sat up slowly, and tilted his head. "Yes, I do." She awoke the next morning, still in that hazy lust from the night before. He was gone, as he'd said he'd be. She turned to her back, a hint of a smile on her face. There was definitely something about him. Perhaps it was his chivalry. Or was it his charm? Maybe it was the way he made her toes curl, while at the same time making her writhe with pleasure... She smiled at this thought, memories of the night before still vivid in her mind. Was it possible that he was perfect? No, she thought to herself. If he were perfect, he'd still be here, fucking her senseless. He'd given proper reason, though, so she did not feel spiteful towards him. How could she? He'd just given her the best sex of her life (thus far). She felt oddly clean, and looked at her bedside table. There sat a large bowl filled with water, and a washcloth. She grinned, remembering now; he had bathed her afterwards (her legs weren't functioning at the time). Barrow, he'd said his name was. She couldn't wait to see him again. She forced herself out of bed, though she was still a little wobbly. However, she could support herself well enough. After throwing on a robe, she wandered into the kitchen. She blinked, then her eyes widened. The dishes had been washed and dried. The mess from the night before had been cleaned. In fact, her kitchen seemed spotless. Just when she thought her morning could get no better, the coffee began to brew. She laughed, and smiled. Paradigm Shift Ch. 02-03 Chapter 2 Her Blissful state of mind vanished the next day as she left her apartment, walked down three flights of stairs (the elevator was still out of order), and hailed a cab. It was Monday, and she hated her job. She didn't have much choice in the matter, though. Occupations were assigned once someone graduated from Conformitory School, based on various testing results, gauging everything from typing speed to lifting to grace and creativity. She remembered scoring well on her grace and creativity exams, but they were no match to her typing and shorthand scores. And so, instead of Sara the Dancer, she was Sara the Secretary. She was just about to feel sorry for herself when her cab stopped, and the door opened. She stepped out, and looked at the high tower where she worked. There were three of these towers in New Manhattan, and the Executives could monitor the entire city from them, high in their offices, not having to struggle in the streets below. She took a deep breath, and released it slowly. She hated this place, but she would never say so. No one could defy the executives, or the World Government. She made her way up the 53 steps (she counted them, every day), and placed her hand on the print scanner. After that, she placed her eye close to a small lens, which checked her retina pattern. The doors swung inward, and she immediately felt the weight of the place on her shoulders. The bottom lobby was constructed of polished obsidian, just like the rest of the building, and was unadorned and undecorated. At the far end, barely visible, was an elevator control pad. She then had to do the hand/eye scan again, and her floor was automatically punched into the lift. The elevator ride to the 107th floor was a long one, and she was thankful for the time to think. She smiled as she found herself thinking of Barrow's body. She still couldn't believe the near perfection of his form. It was as if he were chiseled out of stone, crafted in a sculptor's workshop. Then she remembered the strange things she had seen; the number on his neck below his ear, and that odd mark at the base of his spine. She forced herself to move on to more pleasant thoughts, like what took place after they had undressed. She was thinking about the last thing he'd said to her, just before she had fallen asleep, when the elevator door opened. She sighed to herself, and stepped off. Every day that week, right around lunch, she found herself thinking of that night. Each time she decided to go with it. She remembered the sudden fire in his eyes when she began stripping for him. She wasn't wearing much to begin with, but she still managed to take it slow, and make it long and enjoyable. She started by turning on some music, something slow and sensual. She turned to face him, swaying with the music, and displayed some of her dance floor creativity. She pulled off every trick she knew. She laid on the ground, spread and then crossed her legs, showing herself off to him. She gave him a lap dance, which he greatly enjoyed. She remembered rubbing her nude self against him, and smiling as she heard him groan with desire. She remembered then that he had wrapped his arms around her, and kissed her, softly at first. This had thrown her off guard, and she'd almost freaked out. But, she went with it, and found she didn't mind so much. Indeed, she began to kiss him back, and they became more passionate with each one. That was when the foreplay began. He gently squeezed her breasts as she stroked his muscled arms and chest. He was ripped, she had said to herself excitedly. He then held her tight against him, one hand holding her close, the other moving lower, slipping between her legs. This was one of her favorite parts, looking back. She remembered shivering as he probed. Somehow, he knew just where and how to touch her, how to make her melt. And melt she did. It was as he massaged her when she first saw it; numbers, five of them, just below his left ear. 21937. She would have asked him about it, had she not been steadily approaching the first of many climaxes of the evening. Such was the case on Friday, and she would have continued to fantasize about that night, but her desktop communicator buzzed. She sighed to herself, and sat up straight. "Yes mister Whendt?" she asked in her best secretary voice. "Could you come to my office a moment, Miss Winchell? I have something that needs taking care of." "Right away Mr. Whendt," she answered. ***** Barrow was tired, dead tired. He smirked as best he could with the breathing mask on. The world was tinted a light blue, small bubbles floating past his vision. He could see people moving outside the revitalization tank, and knew he was almost finished. Sure enough, a few moments later, the data retrieval cord retracted from his spine, and the adrenal liquid began to drain. An hour later, he was in his room, leaning with his back against the door. He didn't like these week-long treatments, but he knew they were necessary. They needed to make sure he was accepting the new implants. He could already see the improvements. Indeed, he had given them a good test the night before the treatment. This thought made him grin to himself, as he fell into bed, the lights turning off automatically. That woman... He spent the next half hour trying to guess her best asset. Was it her flexibility? Perhaps it was her stamina... Oh, but that technique! Barrow drifted off to a dreamless sleep for the first time in months, a smile on his face. He awoke as the sun was setting, about 9 hours later he guessed. He slowly sat up in his bed, and tangled his fingers in his hair. He scratched his scalp for a minute, and yawned. He had just gotten to his feet when he heard a familiar song. He slowly walked over to his computer, and kicked the desk, causing the screen to awaken. He sang with the song, and old one by a band called Powerman 5000. As he listened, he read a new assignment. He received them periodically, about two or three every month. He had programmed his computer to play a random song from his database whenever this happened. He smiled darkly as he saw the target's file; a Ceracorps executive. Ceracorps was responsible for what he was, for the foreign implants in his brain and muscle tissues. Ceracorps had tortured him, tested his limits. They pushed him until his spirit and mind were broken. But, they had been satisfied with the results, and green lighted the project codenamed 'Ironman.' He shook the thoughts from his mind, and stored the information on the screen into his memory. They would be sorry for what they had done. He took his time getting dressed, his mind still thinking, bouncing between Ceracorps and Sara. When at last he was decent, he stood in front of his closet, looking over his options. There were two Desert Eagle .357 Magnums, two DE .44 Magnums, and one DE .50AE, which he used on armored opponents. And then there were his babies. Twin black M1911A1 .45 caliber pistols, salvaged from the prewar era. They were custom fitted with built-in suppressors, had laser sights, and could hold extended clips for those more arduous assignments. He grabbed these, as well as two extra clips, and placed them in the waistband of his dark denim jeans. He then moved on to his knives. He grabbed a 4-inch tech knife, hanging it off his belt, and a 6-inch flame-bladed butterfly, which he tucked into his boot. There, he thought, as he threw on his long overcoat, and looked in the mirror on the door of his closet. There was nothing too obvious, no suspicious bulges or the like. He knew he wouldn't need the entire arsenal he was carrying, and he doubted anyone would see him. However, Barrow preferred to play it safe. He took a deep breath, and left, heading for the streets on the surface. ***** Eric Whendt groaned as his body jerked. He smiled as he felt the warm liquid begin to cover his hand. He sighed in contentment, relieved after a long day at work. He began licking the liquid off his fingers, savoring the salty flavor. He put his computer on standby, and proceeded to his bathroom, where he washed his hands and got ready for bed. A few minutes later, he pulled the red satin comforter over himself, and rested his head on his silk-cased pillow. He was thinking of that whore of a secretary, Sara Winchell, and her warm pussy. He had enjoyed it when she tried to fight back. It allowed him to beat her into submission. He grinned, and closed his eyes. They were open again, a moment later, when he realized that his window was open. He slid out of bed, and looked questioningly at it. He did not remember opening it. He pushed it shut, and locked it, trying to remember when he might have opened it. After a few minutes, he gave up, figuring it must have merely slipped his mind. He got back into bed, just as he heard approaching thunder. He smiled. He did so love storms, ever since he was a boy. As the rain began falling, he closed his eyes, ready to fall asleep. He felt sure he would dream of that wench, and he knew he would enjoy jerking off to it later. The lights went out, as they were supposed to. A board creaked, and his eyes snapped open again. He looked towards the window, and there, outlined by distant flashes of lightning, was a tall figure. He bolted to a sitting position, his mouth open in horror. He then remembered who he was. He was an executive for Ceracorps. None would dare harm him. So he became indignant. "How dare you break into my room," he shouted angrily. "Get out, or I'll have the guards after you!" The figure slowly began to approach, stalking towards the bed. Mr. Whendt began to realize that this person knew exactly who he was, and that he was here to kill him. He began scrambling away from the dark figure, until his back hit the wall. The figure raised something, and pointed it at him. A pistol, he figured. He began to regret how he had lived his life. A noise caused them to look in unison to the bedside table, where a music box sat. Mr. Whendt realized that he must have kicked it open while trying to keep away from this madman. The haunting tune seemed to dull out all other sounds, seemed to become the only thing in the room. The figure was captivated by it. The executive saw his chance. He grabbed the figure's wrist, trying to pry the gun from his hand. He couldn't budge it; the figure's grip was too strong. Too strong to be human, it seemed. The figure tore his hand away, and the executive's world became white with pain as something hard and metallic collided with his face. He could feel several of his teeth missing, and blood was pouring freely from his mouth. The last sound Eric Whendt heard was a hammer being pulled back, then snapping forward. The figure shot the corpse once more for good measure, spreading more of its brain matter. He closed the music box, stopping the melody, and took it, placing it in his pocket. He opened the window, and climbed out. ***** She felt dirty. She had been in the shower for two hours now, and she still felt so dirty. That pig, she thought to herself, tears silently streaming from her eyes. There were several purple and blue spots on her body; bruises from his fists. She sobbed once, and reminded herself to be strong. She had made sure to wash his disgusting semen out of her, and had taken a contraceptive just to be safe. Having those contraceptives was the only illegal thing she had ever done. Well, besides owning outlawed reading material. Anything preventing childbirth had been banned after the war, the government condemning it as murder. She regularly bought them from a dealer at the club, and had a large store of them. She was thankful for that now. She turned off the water, and slowly stepped out of the shower. She was sore, so very sore. That bastard, she thought, and sobbed once more. Strong, Sara, she reminded her self, and grabbed a towel from the rack. She took her time drying off, being extra careful of her bruises. She had just tied on her robe when there was a knock at the door. She was frightened. No one ever visited this late. It must be that son of a bitch, sending his goons after her for fighting back, she told herself. She grabbed a knife from the kitchen, and made her way slowly to the door. She took a deep, shaky breath, and grabbed the doorknob. She opened it slowly, peeking out. She saw dull black boots, and dark grey denim. She looked up to the man's face. "Oh, Barrow!" She threw herself at him, the knife hitting the floor with a clang, and embraced him. She did not know why she had done it, but she didn't really care. She needed to cry, and cry she did. Barrow was confused, but quickly deduced that something bad had happened, and he gently held her to him, stroking her back. A few minutes later, they were on her bed, her face buried in her chest. His shirt was getting rather soaked, but he didn't mind. He merely held her, rocking her gently. An hour later, she had finally managed to stop crying, and began to talk. She explained how that bastard had called her into his office, then locked the door. Being an executive, she did not question the action. To defy the executives was to ask for death. Barrow listened intently, angry that anyone would harm her that way. He vowed to himself to find out who this bastard was. He was already planning how he would kill him (a slow, painful death, where he would force the mother fucker to eat his own testicles. Barrow would then gut him, and strangle what life was left in the victim with his own intestines until he was quite dead. Then, he would... well, you get the idea...), when Sara kissed him. She kissed him passionately, fiercely, needing him. Barrow did not object, and returned her kiss, holding her body to his. She tore off her robe, and began to undress him. "Fuck me Barrow, please," she said. He obliged, and reminded her to be careful of her injuries. She thrust against him, and pushed him onto his back. She awoke with the sun on her face, and was pleased to see his arms still around her. She still wasn't sure what had driven her to have sex with Barrow, especially with what had happened that day. Perhaps she just needed a dick that she liked to cancel out the one she hated... She sighed contentedly, and snuggled back against him, hugging one of his hands to her chest. She realized he was awake when his hand lightly groped her breast, absently teasing her nipple. She giggled some, and let his hand do what it wanted. "You came back," she commented. Barrow lightly nuzzled her exposed neck, and sighed some. "Did you expect me to stay away?" She honestly didn't know what she had expected. She hadn't really been in a condition to converse with Barrow after their first meeting, and she hadn't seen him until last night. She shifted to her other side, and looked at him, slipping her arms around his neck. "I'm not sure," she said after a pause, "but I'm glad you did." She kissed him, another one of those odd moves she couldn't explain. Then she saw it again; those numbers... She propped herself on her elbow, and looked down at him. "Can I ask you something?" she inquired. "You can ask me a lot of things," he replied nonchalantly. "What are those numbers on your neck?" Barrow seemed almost to slump. He turned to his back, and sat up, scratching his head a little. "I'm sorry if that's something personal," she said, and moved to her knees, getting in a position to rub his neck. He shook his head some. "Don't worry about it. You can ask me personal things. I trust you." She smiled, and began lightly massaging his neck and shoulders. He sighed lightly, and reached behind him, finding and caressing her thigh a little. "It's a serial number, which let the scientists know which model I was." She stopped massaging for half a second, then continued. A serial number? Why would they give him a serial number? "What do you mean? Are... are you a synth?" She had a sickening feeling. Had she been having sex with a machine? He laughed some, and shook his head, which gave her infinite relief. "Not really, no. I guess I'm more of a cyborg." This time she did stop. He couldn't see her, but he knew her mouth was hanging open. "You're an Ironman, aren't you...?" Chapter 3 The project codenamed 'Ironman' had been initiated in the late 21st century by a large council of Ceracorps scientists and World Government representatives called the Regulators (this term would later become the name associated with Ceracorps enforcers, who were seen as thuggish pawns). They were charged with the task of creating the ultimate fighting machine in anticipation of the upcoming war against Russia, the last Free State on the planet. Government spies had uncovered a secret Russian experiment which, if successful, would greatly increase the efficiency of their soldiers. This enhancement would take the form of a skintight bio-mechanical suit, which would fit underneath their combat armor. It would greatly increase strength and agility by stimulating their adrenal glands, which would also render them virtually immune to pain, fatigue, and fear. The Regulators decided to go one step further than the Russians, and designed a series of bio-mechanic implants, which would wire directly into the nervous system. The Regulators also decided to include nanotechnology, which would perform such tasks as increasing the efficiency of muscle tissue (the idea of increasing muscle mass was rejected, as it was possible that the subject would gain so much muscle that they would lose agility), increasing the speed of the flow of electrons to the brain, and repairing minor injuries, such as hairline fractures or flesh wounds. They demanded that the project be immediately tested on humans, wanting to finish it and attack before Russia's project was complete. In the end, over 500,000 'Ironmen' were produced, and the domination of the world was finally complete three weeks into the war. The government never released any information on the project, and all of the Ironmen were secretly killed, listed as casualties of war. The only glitch was the test subjects. Two had escaped captivity, and disappeared, and the Regulators feared they would talk. They'd been hunting the subjects ever since. To this point, neither of the subjects had spoken out about the project. How did Sara Winchell, a public citizen, know about the project? Barrow stood up slowly, and began to dress, his mind a storm. Sara had placed a hand over her mouth as soon as she had said the word, and hadn't moved an inch since. She watched him with her eyes, afraid of what might happen. After securing his belt, he turned to her, and gave her a questioning look. "That was a classified project; a secret the World Government has spent a large amount of resources to keep covered up. Start talking." Sara was frightened. Would he kill her for knowing? He must be one of the missing subjects she'd read about. Sara pushed those questions out of her mind, and figured she had better explain herself. "I-I'm a secretary... at tower 2. I-I lost an important file, and started looking for it, and somehow ended up in the Regulator's main network. I... I was curious, and started poking around..." Sara suddenly felt very vulnerable. She was in the same room as a killing machine, and had just admitted to reading top secret files. The fact that she was naked didn't help any. Barrow's expression was an odd mix of shock, confusion, and immense relief. He opened his mouth several times to speak, but couldn't seem to find words. Finally, he managed something. "And you have no idea how you got into the network, or how you managed to view top secret files," he asked, a little skeptical. Sara gave her head a quick shake, afraid to speak. She still wasn't sure what would happen here. Barrow laughed. Sara nervously laughed as well, feeling somewhat less scared, but not about to let her guard down. Barrow didn't know why, but he believed her. There was something about the way she looked so afraid, that he knew she could only tell the truth. Paradigm Shift Ch. 02-03 "We've been trying to break into the main network for a couple of years now; countless hours of hacking and spying. And all it took was a secretary who lost a file..." Barrow laughed some more, then saw how scared Sara still looked, and tried to look non-threatening. "It's ok, Sara, I'm not going to hurt you. I'll even leave the room while you dress." Barrow moved into the living room, and closed her door. He sat on the couch, and picked up the copy of 'Stranger;' it had been over a decade since he had read it. Back in the bedroom, Sara slumped against the wall at the head of her bed. She took several deep breaths, feeling extremely thankful that she was not dead. After about fifteen minutes of reflection and deep breathing (to calm herself), she started to get dressed. It was the weekend, so she started going through her casual pile. She sighed, and knew she wouldn't be going to the club tonight, so, for now, she just threw her robe back on. She found Barrow lying down on the couch, reading Stranger. He looked to her, and closed the book, getting to his feet. "You ok?" he asked, looking concerned. She realized she had taken her time, and nodded some, then said "Yeah. I'm sorry." Barrow quirked an eyebrow, and stepped to her, slipping his arms around her waist. "There's nothing to be sorry for," he reassured her, and kissed her gently, a kiss she returned. She was truly starting to enjoy kissing Barrow. It made her feel warm inside, and it set her mind at ease. Several hours later, Barrow sat in his room, naked from the waist up, in the secret underground rebel complex called Focswolfe. He had turned off the lights, and sat in total darkness. A haunting melody filled the room. The music box he had acquired on his last assignment was sitting on his bedside table, still at least half wound. Barrow had stopped paying attention to his external senses. Right now, there was nothing but the music, and the music box. Memories flashed in his mind, tinted in red: a needle inscribing the serial number on his neck, the excruciating process of being fitted with a data socket, experiencing severe physical and psychological trauma, all just to test the implants' capabilities. Barrow forced his eyes open, and his senses returned to him. His cheeks were wet; he'd cried again. There was a knock on the door. Barrow wiped at his eyes, and got off his bed. He opened the door some, and saw Dr. Valentine, one of the complex's counselors. He looked concerned. "Are you alright, Barrow?" he asked. "Yeah... yeah I'm fine," answered Barrow. He was squinting some, his eyes bothered by the light; he guessed that he'd been in the dark for three hours. "Are you sure? You were screaming, yelling... were you having more nightmares?" pressed the shrink. Barrow sighed. He'd been screaming again, too, it seemed. He stuck his head out the door for a moment, and saw several people with concerned faces looking his direction. "Look, doc... I'll talk to you about it tomorrow, alright?" Barrow offered. Dr. Valentine smiled some, and nodded before walking away. Barrow closed the door, and leaned against it. "Shit... lights." The room lit up. Barrow knew that Dr. Valentine was truly concerned for him. He admitted to himself that he loved that shrink, and smiled some. Dr. Valentine had been his psychoanalyst during the Ironman experiment. In fact, it had been Dr. Valentine that had helped him escape, bringing him to this place. Barrow sat on the edge of his bed, resting his head in his hands. These episodes were annoying. ***** Barrow awoke the next morning to more music from his database. Closer, by a band called Nine Inch Nails. Barrow loved the oldies. The song made him think of Sara, and he found it so very appropriate. After getting showered and dressed, he left his quarters, and began the walk to the medical sector. Focswolfe was more or less a small underground city, one of three on the European continent. Each city housed a different faction of the 'Rebellion' as they were called by the Regulators. In truth, they thought of themselves as resistance, believing in a world free of the Regulators and World Government, and where all people are equal blah, blah, blah... Barrow didn't really care about this 'resistance.' He occasionally entertained the idea of assisting them in their cause, but, for now, he had his own agenda. After that was finished, then maybe he would help. Barrow was going over last night's freak-out session when he reached Dr. Valentine's door. He kicked it a couple of times, his customary knock, and waited. Valentine liked to take his time, and it would likely be a few minutes before he answered. Barrow was just about to knock again as Dr. Valentine opened the door. He greeted Barrow with a smile, and motioned for him to enter, which he did. They found their usual seats in the doctor's study. Barrow liked the Doc's house; it was designed just like a prewar home, all low-tech stuff. Dr. Valentine activated a small data recorder on the end-table beside him, and said Barrow's name and the date. Formalities, Barrow said to himself. The Doc liked to keep records of all his sessions, and had a thing for organization. "Well, Barrow, it's been a while. I trust you've been well?" the Doc asked. "Yeah, I've been alright. A little tired; I'm still getting over the rejuvenation session," replied Barrow. He was telling half the truth, as they did have a habit of wearing him out. But there was another reason, and he mentally smiled to himself. "Good, good. Now, before we discuss the incident last night, I would like to know where you were the night before." There was a pause, and Barrow looked thoughtful, but didn't seem too keen on answering the question. "Well?" the shrink pressed. Barrow sighed. "I spent the night on the surface," he said. "Why?" the Doc asked almost immediately. He always knew when Barrow was beating around the bush. "I'm not sure that's any of your business, Doc," Barrow futilely tried. "I will play the sponsorship card if I need to," Dr. Valentine countered. Shit, Barrow said to himself. Dr. Valentine was Barrow's sponsor here, and he had a right to know his whereabouts. "I was having sex in a north-side apartment, if you must know," he replied bluntly. He didn't really want to play the 'dick around with Doc' game today. Valentine quirked an eyebrow, seeming mildly interested, and wrote something down on a pad of paper resting in his lap. "Did you catch their name?" he asked nonchalantly. "Sara Winchell," replied Barrow. "This was your first meeting with this woman?" the Doc proceeded, as if he were administering a fucking survey. Barrow sighed some, and answered, "No. It was my second. And before you ask, the first was on the morning of my last treatment." Valentine smirked some, and continued to write. Several moments passed in silence. Barrow slumped in his chair, and stared at the ceiling. The Doc eventually spoke up. "Was it enjoyable?" he inquired. "Jesus, Doc. Yes, it was quite possibly the best sex of my life. Shall I draw you a picture? I could also write a detailed report. Hell, I could just bring her here, and we could demonstrate for you," Barrow replied in exasperation. This brought a chuckle from Valentine, and he wrote a quick note. Barrow thought for a moment. "There's something else you should know about her, Doc." Valentine looked up from his pad, and raised his eyebrows, "Yes?" Barrow took a deep breath, and sat up straight. "She knows about Ironman. She knows what I am." Barrow regretted saying this as soon as Dr. Valentine frowned. "You told her about a top secret government project? Christ, Barrow, you can't just go around spouting off about things like that. It'll give you away." Barrow scratched his head, and slumped again. "She knew about the project before she met me. She noticed my serial number and my data socket, and questioned me about it." Valentine took a few more notes. "Doc," Barrow interrupted, "Don't bother her, please. She's not gonna say anything. I think she's too afraid to talk about it, and I doubt she would give me away. Valentine sighed, and rubbed his eyes a bit. "You trust her?" he questioned. "I don't know. I think she's starting to like me. The feeling's mutual, I guess," Barrow replied. Valentine just sat there, staring at Barrow and rubbing his forehead, for what seemed to be about 30 minutes. "Alright, Barrow," he finally stated. "I won't report this. Just remember: it's your ass on the line, not mine." Barrow smiled some, relieved. "Thanks for your concern, Doc." Valentine nodded, and wrote some more. "Now, let's discuss last night's incident. What happened?" Barrow once again sat up, and leaned forward a bit. "I'm not sure. I was numb to the conscious world. I saw flashes, red flashes. I saw glimpses of the experiment. The needles, the knives... I guess I broke down." Valentine wrote more notes, and seemed thoughtful for a moment. This wasn't the first time this had happened. "What set it off? Do you know?" queried Valentine. Barrow thought of the music box. "I was listening to a music box. It... it was one I had Leipzig, during Ironman." Valentine seemed ready to ask another question, but wrote some notes instead. He flipped to a third page, and looked to Barrow. "When we fled the Leipzig lab, we took nothing with us. Where did you find the music box?"