A pulse of lightning arced forth from the end of Carson O’Johnson’s arm. It crackled and scorched the training room’s meticulous, white walls an ashen black. The halogen light panels that made up the ceiling flickered on and off in chaotic spasms. An intercom in the wall near the door screached static cries as it’s body was wracked by the powerful energy coursing about the room. Carson relaxed his arm. The electricity ceased, returning the room to a relative normalcy, save the three or four light panels that continued to flicker on and off and the now much quieter static of the intercom. Amongst the static, a voice emerged.
“Mr. O’Johnson,” The static filtered voice of a middle aged man said flatly. “We’re quite impressed with your display, quite impressed indeed; however, we’d like to see the full extent of our investments into The V 2.2 Maelstorm.”
Carson rolled his eyes. There was ALWAYS a however with these people, and more than often, it was to push projects to dangerous limits. The dozens of scars down Carson’s back and arms reminded him of this fact every day. Carson looked up at the darkened glass windows behind which sat the Solus Corp. investors, scientist, and business executives. He couldn’t see a single one of their faces; no sign that they were even there besides the occasional updated instructions they would utter through the intercom. The glass only reflected Carson’s image back upon himself. Carson could clearly see his lightly muscled torso bare and exposed to the 70 degrees precisely air. He could also see the nearly undetectable glow of his Achilles and Herekles cybernetic implants on his biceps and shoulders. On his lower arms jutted forth the less subtle Maelstorm mod. They were symmetrically, technologically hideous to Carson. The long, thick chrome cylinders jutting out just below his elbows. The tips of both cylinders were inscribed with the glowing blue insignia of the Solarus Corp.: a Stylised sun fane with the Solarus “S” worked into the center.
“I’ll give it a try Mr. Benson,” Carson replied compliantly.
“Good,” the voice replied. “That’s what we like to hear.”
Carson turned back to the wall. The black smudge on the wall glared back at him. Yes, serve them, it seemed to whisper. Continue being their dog. Scorch the whole world black so they don’t ever have to dirty their pretty little hands.
Carson’s eyes flared with rage. He tensed his whole body, drawing all his strength into the Maelstorm.
“I’m not your tool,” he hissed through gritted teeth.
Carson extended his hands, and released. Lightning exploded from Carson’s entire body, scourging the walls black with crackling whips of electricity. The air sizzled and popped in a thousand thunder claps. The halogen lights flared beyond their limits and began to explode one at a time. Sparks rained down from the ceiling, only to be lapped up and congealed into the writhing mass of light that was now Carson.
Amidst the chaos and destruction, Carson remained still. He meticulously monitored his every muscle spasm, every twitch and involuntary flick to make sure he didn’t lose focus. One wrong move, one unanticipated quake and the destruction would fall upon it’s creator without a second thought. Suddenly, Carson felt something begin to creep into his mind. It wasn’t stress or anger, no, he knew those feelings well. It wasn’t happiness either; at least, not what Carson remembered happiness was supposed to feel like. It was something new altogether. It was...it was...
Carson couldn’t place his tongue on it. It was an old word. A word he hadn’t used in years. Without thinking, Carson turned himself to face the observation windows. The chaotic mass of lightning suddenly focused itself into a single, powerful, united stream. It shattered through the windows and through the recording mechanisms behind that. Carson closed his eyes and relaxed slightly, withdrawing the electricity to hum around him in a corona of yellow light. Carson saw that the observation “room” was nothing more than a massive recording device. Mr. Benson’s voice spoke in sputtered bursts through the sparking intercom.
“Mr. O’John-*crrrarr*- what do y-*fizzle*-think you’r-*gzzakk*-ing? I thought we ha- *zz* an agreement!”
“Agreement!?,” Carson roared. “Agreement!? Is that what you call forcing Lisa into those tests if I didn’t comply!? No, I never made an agreement with you bastards!”
“Wha- *gzz* -o you plan -*zz* -doing now Mr.- *gzzak*-son?” the intercom gargled.
Carson turned to look at the hole he’d blow through the window. His wrathful frown gave way to an almost gleeful smile; the first smile he’d known in years.
“That contract will kill Carson if he’s ever caught,” Carson said thoughtfully. “But I don’t think ‘Carson’ will leave this room.”
“Wh-*zak*- are you sa-*zz*-ing Mr. O’Jo- *zzark*-?” Mr. Benson’s voice inquired.
Carson raised a hand to the intercom. As his fingers touched the metal device, it began to shake violently, then exploded in a burst of metal.
“I’m saying that my days of being Carson, the compliant tool, are over,” Carson said, bending down.
The Herekles mod in Carson’s shoulders shot energy through Carson’s spine and down into his legs. Carson sprung up, leaping the full 15 feet through the hole in the wall. He touched down in a now shadowy hallway of recently electrocuted lights.
“Today, I shed that name. Today, I am Free. Today, I write myself anew.”
Free stood up. The electricity about his body lit the hallway in a dizzying yellow light. Without a second thought, Free turned down the hallway and ran off into the depths of the Solus Crop.’s basement.
