He felt the still unfamiliar lump in the base of his skull, where the processor housing was. More scar tissue ran from that spot down the left side of his spine, branching off at several places to run along his limbs. He examined every inch of scar tissue he could find, and there was quite a bit. The operation had only been a few weeks ago, but the scars were barely visible now. The technology they had used on him must have been advanced. Frank did not know anything about computers or medicine or cybernetics. But he knew what they had done to him.
He picked up the sofa with one hand, feeling more than hearing the servos in his joints respond to the added weight. The couch was a pull out bed, probably a couple hundred pounds, but it felt like only a few pounds to him. He knew they had augmented his strength, and his speed. He had used those abilities in his escape. He had also used his built in weaponry. The laser between his first and second knuckle on his right hand was not visible now, the flesh having regrown over the laser's muzzle. He must have some kind of accelerated healing for it to have healed already, he had only used it yesterday. He shuddered at that memory, their first attempt to recapture him. He had killed three of their hunters in a dark alley not three miles from his present hotel room. He was on the run. He didn't even know who they were.
Frank had worked on an oil rig off the coast of Alaska until they had captured him. That was over three years ago, he recently learned. It seemed like only yesterday. And not because so much time had passed without him seeing the outside world. It really did only seem like yesterday. He did not remember any of his confinement until he had been brought online by his captors. His first memory after being abducted was of standing in a strange coffin sized pod with electronics all around, men in red lab coats prodding him and inserting things into his very skull. There were others in that lab too, he could see them over the scientists, others in pods like Frank. Other cyborgs.
Frank didn't know why he was able to escape. The scientists seemed very surprised that he was awake and could move. Someone must have accidentally (or intentionally? wonders Frank) activated him before it was time. Before they could completely program him. He could feel the tug of the program on his mind, whispering to him things he could not hear or understand. He had a vague feeling that he needed to return to the lab. That was the last thing he would do.
Frank was free now, and in New York. He needed a place to stay. He needed money, he was famished. His clothing was torn and bloody from his fight with the hunters. He thought about stealing more. He could certainly take whatever he wanted, no one could stop him. He had been shot in the recent fight, but the pain had been instantaneous only, his processor automatically commanding his brain to block out the pain signals and send pain relieving endorphins. And as he now inspected the bullet wound beneath his makeshift bandage, he noticed that it was now only an ugly scar, no longer a wound at all. His healing was miraculous. He wondered if it could be caused by the processor somehow. He couldn't think of any other way.
_____
Now on the other side of town, Frank notices an ad for super heroes. Sanctioned. It was a crazy idea, Frank should go into hiding. But then, the best place to hide was in the least obvious place, and that could be out in the open. Frank tore the ad down and stalked off to the address listed.
_____
Frank hocked some ash trays from his hotel room for a dirty sweatsuit with a hood--turquoise with yellow stripes down the sleeves and legs--ugly as hell, which was fitting for Frank, who was no looker himself. Advertisement in hand, Frank enters the polished foyer of the building housing SoF. He does not know what to expect.
Frank is greeted by Ms. Chesterton . She is unsure about this man who had showed up with no appointment and identified himself only as Frank.
"So...Frank," she says,"Tell me about yourself, What brings you to SoF?"
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Elsewhere....
Brady had just received word from that the re-acquistion attempt had failed. He had the unenviable task of informing his superior. He knocks hesitantly on the door and enters when he hears a reply. The office suite is dark due to the blinds being drawn even though it was late afternoon. His supervisor sits at his large mahogany desk, watching the wall that was lined with countless television terminals, each one tuned to a different news report. He clicks a button on his desk and a bookshelf slides into place in front of the screens shutting off the cacophony of stock reports and political commentary.
Brady delivers the news. He knew his supervisor didn't like things to be sugar-coated and he expected to be informed of any new developments with the situation.
The supervisor says nothing for a long time. Brady knew not to break the silence. Not to speak until his boss was done pondering the implications of what he had just been told.
"This is ....unfortunate... Mr. Brady." His supervisor was a master of understatement. "Tell me again why subject X-971 was able to escape?"
"There was some sort of complication while downloading the behavior protocols sir. A computer glitch. The subject regained consciousness during the procedure and overpowered the technicians."
"And tell me again why we are unable to track his homing device or activate the explosive implant."
"These two things are the last part of the procedure Sir, The explosives are triggered by a signal sent to the homing device. They are linked together. One can't be implanted without the other, at least not very successfully or cost effectively. To implant them any earlier puts the technicians at risk for the remainder of the procedure. The subject escaped before either of these things could be implemented."
"I see...and who was in charge if overseeing the procedure."
"I was Sir."
"Very well, you are dismissed."
"Thank You, Sir," says Brady turning to leave.
"Oh Brady...One other thing."
"Yes Sir?"
BLAM!!!
The supervisor return the handgun to his desk drawer and informs his secretary to have a cleanup crew be sent to his office. As an afterthought he has a bouquet of flowers sent to the widow Brady.
Back at The SoF Office....
Frank is uncomfortable in the polished, modern looking offices. He is even more uncomfortable to be sitting across from such a beautiful woman. He still has his hood pulled up, hiding his scars. Self-conscious, he realizes the hood hides part of his face, and may be the reason for the woman's uncomfortable look.
"Don't be alarmed," begins Frank. He pulls down his hood, revealing his scarred skull and yellow eyes. "Frank Grism is my full name, though I can't prove that to you. I'll be honest with you ma'am. I need help.
"Three years ago, or thereabouts, I worked on the ____-corp oil rig off Juneau Alaska. I was involved in an accident, and went overboard. Thought I was dead. The last thing I remember was guys in frog suits gathering me up. The next thing I remember, I look like this, scars, yellow eyes, and its three years later. Three years..." Frank's mind wanders off briefly before he continues. "Anyway, the next thing I remember after the accident is being in a lab somewhere (he would know where it is, though it is doubtless gone by now) with technicians poking and prodding me. I escaped. And I figured out what they did to me."
Frank stands and turns around, pulls up his dirty turquoise polyester sweatsuit top to expose the scars on his spine and back. He turns back around to face her and sits again. "I have these scars all over me, even my fingers and toes. Everywhere. They implanted me with machinery. I have super powers now. I think I'm called a cyborg.
"They're after me too. Yesterday I killed three men hunting me. You may have read it on the news by now, it was in Hell's Kitchen. They tried to kill me, shot me here," Frank raises his shirt again, shows her the angry scar over his heart from their high powered rifle. "I also heal faster now too.
"I need help, I'm hungry, I have no way to prove who I am. I don't have any family at all. I can remember my social security number, that's about it." He rattles it off for her, and she scribbles it down. "I realize you aren't into charity," he says looking around at the obviously expensive offices. "But I saw your ad, and I can do what you want. I figure now I can be a super hero, since I got some powers. I'll work for you if you'll help me. I need my identity back. I need to get back on my feet. I don't know who the hell to trust, to be honest. I figure I better pick somebody who is totally uninvolved in my life, and that person is the least likely to be in on my capture. You know what I mean? I think somebody on the rig was involved, caused me to be thrown overboard. I can't go back to them, and they're the closest thing to family I've had for ten years. I can't just go to the cops, cuz I just killed three men. I see on your name card there that you're a lawyer. Well, counselor, I pick you. You're that person who is totally uninvolved. You're the person I'm gonna try trusting. I don't have any other options. Can you help me?"
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Hero 
(Frank Grism)
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