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Medical Report from Dr. J.C. Brauch
As most in the Medical Testing and Analysis department are aware, our latest and most unsuccessful drug is the ID 049, or the “Soldier Pill”. The 049 was first formulated by Dr. Raymond Erikson, who theorized that mental instability leading to mad behavior can sometimes render the subject immune to pain, but the most important part was psychological makeup, morals or religion that prohibited them from doing what’s necessary to win often crippled army performance. This led to his research into psychological conditioning, which led to the discovery of multiple medical files, mostly vehicle accidents, describing injuries in the patient’s frontal lobe that changed his / her personality, none of wish remained constant, but all personalities retained their identity, ruling out dissociative identity disorder. We believed that if we altered the frontal lobe of a patient’s brain without surgery, their personality would change to fit the situation, enhancing army performance.
I am aware most people reading this file will not have medical degree’s, so to sum up: this drug will essentially create the perfect personality to best accommodate the circumstances and apply it to the subject. John Williams, patient 456, was our first success, technically speaking. He was living in Phoenix, Arizona at the time.
The lone, skinny man at the bar pulled two more bills out of his jacket, along with his keys. “Another drink, man… and here you go…” John slurred, handing the bartender his money and keys, and the giant bald man called Dave handed him a giant glass of frothing beer. He slugged down half the glass in less than a minute, and lit a cigar Dave the bartender gave him. “Yo, weren't you and Ashley supposed to go out tonight?” John sucked in for about a dozen seconds, and then breathed out a giant ball of smoke. “She left me… because I’m not responsible enough to provide a future for her or somethin’.” The next drink he took, the glass was empty. “Well, can’t blame her… you keep chugging down, you’re body’ll just… die.” John sighed, and breathed out another giant puff of smoke. “I guess so.”
John dropped his cigar and stumbled his way to his car. He wasn’t going to drive, he knew better; if you could barely stand, you're likely to have your skeleton re-arranged in a car accident. That and he didn’t have his keys. When he tried to nab them from the register, he came to the painful discovery that the floor was harder than his face as he tripped. Eventually he reached his car, bumping heavily into it. He scraped his nails looking for the handle, finding it after about a minute. He pulled hard, then again, and finally it opened. He yawned, and glanced at himself in the side mirror. Short, brown hair, thin face and lips, very round ears, and a giant, scraggly beard… wait, what? John turned to look at the other face in the mirror, the much older face, just in time to see the pistol butt heading toward his forehead.
It was at this time we first came into contact with Mr. Williams. 3:45 AM, OCT 18 2008 John was admitted to Arizona Central Hospital with a concussion – he had been mugged. As part of our trial, we administered the ID 049 through his IV for four days – legally, as he donated his body to science a year prior in a plea for money, and could be used in “harmless medical experiments regardless of financial state or health.” Fortunately, he had no visitors, thus suggesting he was the perfect candidate: no one would try to alter him in any way that could counter-act the drug, like admitting him into any rehab facility because of his personality changing. However, we later realized that this particular subject was not a controlled one; the damage to his head was one variable changed too many, and he was an alcoholic – something the admitting physician did not find important enough to include in his admission.
He was discharged OCT 23 2008, with prescription painkillers – half of which were ID 049, the rest were placebos. If we had known of John’s drinking problems, we would not have done so – another variable. Our legal department succeeded in giving John amnesty for all future crimes, should the pill take an abnormal affect. On OCT 24, we first saw the effects of ID 049. John Williams was at the Firetend Bank in central Phoenix.
“Next! NEXT!” John snapped back to reality, and walked forward in line. The short banker here had and equally short fuse. He fumbled around in his jacket, pulling out his wallet. “My, my, what happened to your head, kid?” John’s mind waited for a moment, and he thought for about five whole seconds… to most, that would be a moment, but for him, every second felt like an hour. He found himself slowly responding, in an amazingly innocent voice, “Accident. Nothing to worry about… I want to withdraw, please.” John said coolly, giving the rather loud banker his card. “Right... listen kid, I don't want any trouble. You ain't gonna cause trouble, right?” The annoying banker was pushing it. Every last part of his brain was working at maximum capacity to ensure John wouldn’t put the annoying bank-man out of his high-school deprived misery. “No, really… I just crashed my bike.” The banker kept his eye on him for a few moments, and then scanned the card.
Ten minutes later, John was walking out with a much fatter wallet. He had been forced to cash in his bonds – he had no insurance, something he was about to remedy. He had nowhere to sleep, the apartment was in his ex-girlfriend's name and his car was stolen, and he had no friends except for alcohol and Dave the Bartender – who lived at the bar. He was too deep in thought to notice the armed gunman in the bank doorway. He was quickly made aware. “Alright everyone, on the ground now!” He fired a shot into a chandelier on the ceiling. The glass wonder came crashing down, pinning a poor someone on the floor. An Uzi smoked in the man’s hand. The man himself was masked with a black beanie with eyes poked out, but there was a giant bulge in the lower part of his face. “Everyone, on the ground!” The robber repeated, and pulled a large burlap sack from behind him, and he tossed it to the banker John had just been with. “Fill that up, fives, tens, and twenties. No hundreds!”
The dangerous and apparently agitated man stepped over John, who held his wallet tightly inside his jacket. He couldn’t go through with this… this was too bad to be happening to him… “Now, tie it up nice and tight!” The man howled, pointing the gun at the banker. The poor little man tried furiously to tie it with itself, but to no avail. “Sorry, sir… I put too much innit. Should I take some out?” The masked man gritted his teeth and shook his gun. “Do what you need! Just get me the money!” The banker obeyed, threw some out, and tied it up. “Please, man, don’t hurt me. I gotta family.” The poor guy tried to talk normally, but not everyone was equipped with the ability to remain calm under pressure. “Really, man? Seriously?” The robber yanked the bag out of his hand, and held up his gun. “So do I. And now I have to steal to feed them, because you arrogant jerks wouldn’t give me a loan!” The robber pulled the trigger, and a dozen bullets were lodged into the poor man. His khaki vest was now bright red, and he slowly slipped down behind the desk. “Now ya got nothin’ to… worry… about…”
At this time, we first saw the effects of 049, mixed with alcohol, or maybe the brain trauma caused a lapse, or stress… no constants. Medically speaking, the test was completely useless. However, every doctor in the room during the analysis was jumping for joy in their heads. In reality, so was I.
John stood in front of the robber, his fists at his sides and clenched, his back straight and his legs bent. This was unexpected. Generally twenty five year old kids don’t stand in front of armed gunmen with locked eyes. Brave eyes, not stupid ones. Something in them… “Hey, step back! On the floor!” He lifted his gun and pointed at John, his hands shaking. It was the last mistake he ever made.
Within seconds, John had grabbed the gun from the thief’s hand, kicked him and killed his thigh muscle, and ripped the mask off with his other hand. The now unmasked and scraggly bearded man leaned into the reception counter, his breath coming in short gasps. John slowly tilted his head about half way to his shoulder in a curious stare. That beard. He remembered that beard. On the outside, John was fine, but his insides felt like they were about to explode. His eyes met the robber’s, and they stared into each other for almost ten seconds. “Wait… you’re that kid…” His body slowly began to shake; the robber’s eyes almost began to tear up. John didn’t say a single word as he lifted the gun up and aimed it at the thief’s head and filled the room with the Uzi's report. He slowly walked outside, his hands trembling. No one stopped him, out of fear or gratefulness. Outside, he dropped the mask.
After the bank incident, we took off our surveillance and attempted to locate him. No luck, as the amnesty issued on his record completely erased him from any database in the North Americas. He had no face, no records… speaking figuratively, he didn’t exist. Literally, he was probably the most dangerous person on the streets that was never there.