Broken Republic and all affiliated Chapters and characters are copyright Steven Swanson 2000-2001. The characters and events in this document are purely fictional, any resemblance between the characters and any person, living or dead, are purely coincidental. UNATCO, the FBI, the CIA, the NYPD, INTERPOL, the Spetznaz, the Mossad, and the NSA are all real organizations and should not be cited as the creation of any single person. Mason Industries is not affiliated with any existing corporations in the real world. Due to mature content, reader discretion is advised. No part of this document may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without permission of the author. Steven Swanson is not responsible for any difficult reading caused by the influence of drugs, alcohol, or just plain idiocy. If you are offended by some of the content in this script, that's your problem. Conspiracy theorists are warned not to take this seriously, and that this disclaimer is to simply cover my ass and make aware to plagiarists that ALL the aforementioned agencies feel that that practice could be bad for your health. Uh, well, that's pretty much it. Don\x92t say you haven\x92t been warned, and get reading!

August 25- September 16, 2018

The United States Military Medical Bureau was the result of the long-term competition and disharmony between the branches of the U.S. Military. During the Ethiopian crisis, wounded men were sectioned off and given priority judged by which branch they were in. If it was an Army hospital, army soldiers got first choice while navy soldiers had to wait in line. Navy hospitals, likewise, did the same to other branches, and a downward spiral of medical quality sprung from there. The whole system ran with the smooth precision of a prison riot, and nothing could really be done until the Fed finally intervened, creating the USMMB. It created a separate medical provider unbiased to any military divisions. Some speculated that consolidating military medicine was a change for the worse, but most agreed that it was a great improvement from previous organizations. The U.S.M.M.B. had jurisdiction in all military affairs that had to do with medical science. One section dealt with biological weapons, while the other worked for the cure. One area worked for technology to improve tissue regeneration, while another was in bed with the technology industries trying to develop better robotic prosthetics. It was an insanely powerful Bureau, but what was up with the name? Dr. Morrissey scoffed. They couldn\x92t even make an acronym that was pronounceable, he thought to himself. Stroking his chin, he picked up his electronic message board and walked through the placid, sterile corridor leading to the Genetic Research Wing. A face appeared on his electronic board, a security officer in front of some black tubes. He thought about how many things had changed since his youth. Instead of clipboards, now doctors could carry around veritable personal computers with them.

"Mr. Morrissey?" Said the security officer through the tinny speaker.

"Yes?"

"We have the last two patients ready. A Mr. Calabrese and a Mr. Villieu, both UNATCO agents."

"Yes, I know, Frank, I was already on my way."

"Sorry sir. Should I get them ready for their final physical exams?"

"Sure, why not. Make sure you have the right anesthetics ready. We don\x92t want someone waking up in the stasis tube like before."

"Yes sir." The image popped out, leaving an empty black screen in front of him. He hated this office. Everything was so far away, but the contractors had designed the hallways to be so narrow that trolleys couldn\x92t go through. Morrissey worked between the Administrative and Genetics wings, giving him the most possible distance to shuffle about in. The facility was much too large, in short, and after bringing a pocket rangefinder with him, Morrissey discovered that he walked, on average, about three miles a day in the building alone. He reached a security checkpoint, tipping his head in a friendly manner toward the local guard. Today it was a corporal Chavez, a blue-blooded looking young man who never failed to look a bit awkward in his fatigues. He was a nice man, though, and had unquestioning loyalty to his job. A good thing, too, considering their current project. If word of this leaked out prematurely, the terrorists would almost immediately target the building. If not, then the press would have a field day with "science and ethics" all over their editorials. He wordlessly walked up to the retinal scanner and looked into it, waiting as the reader crossed his pupil once, then again. The door opened before him, sliding in opposite directions. He walked through the door, listening for it to close behind him. Turning into yet another corridor, he passed two doors on the right before reaching the examination area. Today he would personally look at Calabrese, the younger man, while the other doctors took care of Villieu. Just two more patients and I can stop sweating about this project, he finalized as he looked at Paul.

"And how are you today?"

"Fine, thanks. Are you Dr. Morrissey?"

Concise and to the point, he looked at the physical information about Calabrese after plugging his computer board into a telephone line. "Yes, I am. I\x92ve been assigned to give you a final checkup before your genetic therapy. You\x92ve probably gone through several tests by now, but don\x92t worry. This is the last. We just have to be absolutely sure that you\x92re ready for this." Examining the board, he glanced over various pieces of information, "You seem healthy so far. Oh, and congratulations on getting the last spot. You\x92re a lucky man, you know."

"Thank you." Was the reply. Morrissey then reached over to the wall nearby and rolled out a multiscan board. It was quite a machine, giving x-rays, CAT scans, thermal readings, and tracking information from nanobots injected into the bloodstream. He chose the final, attempting to inspect the man\x92s blood flow. A tiny injection of nanobots was circulating around his major arteries, not reaching any unnatural bottlenecks or clotting in inopportune places. He seemed normal. A second scan, an X-ray, showed a specimen that was fully intact. Finishing off, he took a quick thermal scan, largely unnecessary due to the fact that it would all change soon. He turned off the unit and rolled it back into the wall. Now for the prodding, he thought to himself. He picked up the age old doctors tools, ear canal probe, stethoscope, and eye examiner with flashlight. He poked the black funnel into the man\x92s ear and turned on the small light, finding no obvious abnormalities. He then tested the other after replacing funnels.

"Open wide." He casually ordered, looking deep into the man\x92s throat. The man had a canker sore, likely the result of stress, but that was inconsequential at this point. He then looked into Paul\x92s eye, seeing no abnormalities. Picking up the stethoscope, he placed the drum over the left side of the man\x92s chest. The familiar "tha-thump" sound of a heartbeat rang clear as a drum and at a good rate, the one of a physically fit patient. After a brief blood pressure test and a reflex test, he put away the old tools and turned to Paul.

"Stand up, please." Paul did so. Carefully reaching under his gown, the doctor cupped Paul\x92s testicles in his hand.

"Turn your head and cough." Paul, slightly uneasy, did so. "And the other way." Seeing the doctor\x92s stone cold expression, his embarrassment fizzled away and he coughed in the opposite direction with more confidence. The doctor let go and stood up, taking down a quick note in his computer board.

"Congratulations, Mr. Calabrese, you\x92re as fit as they get. This is your last chance to back out. Are you ready now?"

"Yes."

The stasis chambers, unlike one may believe, were white and sterile, almost visually pleasing, and they rested on white tile floors with blank white walls. The area reeked of antiseptic and strange scents, but aside from that unpleasantry the area was favorable to walk through. Six empty tanks lined the wall, each swabbed clean from the inside by hand and heat sterilized by machine. The tanks were all transparent, surrounded by metallic computers and black video screens. A mass of tubes was also visible inside each capsule, dangling from different places of the tank. Paul looked around the room, it didn\x92t have a particularly high ceiling, but it was high enough to get the job done sufficiently. To round out the pure white theme, clouded halogen lamps brightened the room from above. He had expected more of a malicious, dingy setting with hazardous black tubes and little lighting. They must have anticipated this fear, because the theme was as far away from H.R. Giger as it could get. One could almost compare it to one of those old GAP commercials, the ones where all the walls and floors were blanched white. Paul looked briefly behind his shoulder to see the man he had waited with in the hall. He was a pall man with a sort of rounded, boyish face and red hair that curled gently and covered his head well. He remembered the man\x92s name. Sergei Villieu. One would have assumed that he was Russian due to his broad shouldered, athletic build, but he had informed Paul that he was actually part French, born the son of a French diplomat and a Russian mother. Villieu had worked in the Russian automotive company, Zil. He was part of their crack team for a few years before being scouted out and considered as an agent for UNATCO, and, like Paul, his lack of robotic modifications along with his field experience led him into the New York division. Laying down on separate gurneys, the two were restrained by cloth straps and injected with transparent fluid from a syringe. Paul soon found himself feeling numb, then disoriented, then struggling in his restraints due to the disorientation. The chatter of doctors around him became muffled and incoherent, likening the drone of insects. Paul gradually slipped into unconsciousness, rolling his eyelids shut to stop the blur of images in front of him.

As if he had just taken a quick nap, Paul woke up to the chatter of sparrows outside. At first, he was reluctant to open his eyes, having had such a deep and satisfying sleep. He rolled in bed, wrapping his pillow around his head and attempting to face downward. Having muffled the sound, his tail twitched in approval. Wait a minute\x85 his tail twitched?? He leaped out of bed, almost jumping onto his feet. Expecting to feel his heels hit the ground, his center of gravity shifted and he fell backwards, right on his posterior. Shots of pain strained through his back and tail. Quickly, he lifted his rear off the ground and let his tail swish out of the way, letting it sit on the concrete floor. He had almost forgotten what he was doing and he collected himself, realizing that he had some changes to get used to. First off, he observed the most obvious change: his muzzle. Examining it with curiosity, he reached up wit his free hand and clasped it. Immediately, his nose felt stuffed and uncomfortable, so he let go. Examining his nose even more, he sniffed, seeing a black nose at the tip of his muzzle twitch with each inhalation. Paying more attention to his heightened senses, he smelled many familiar smells, all quite strong, along with some scents that he hadn\x92t smelled before. There was a deep, cool, soothing one that smelled of organic material and wet ground, the smell of the air after a rainstorm. He inhaled deeply, closing his eyes and enjoying the newfound relaxation of his enhanced senses. Craning his neck around, he looked out of the bleak room, which was predominantly white, gray, and black, to see shiny green magnolia leaves outside. He still could see in color. Good. He then stroked his tail, which was still hurting after he had fallen on it. It was covered in silky fur. It was a dark black on the top with long, silky white fur along the bottom. He scratched the back of his head, finding a pointed, flexible ear laid back on his head. He twitched the muscles by his ears, muscles that he hadn\x92t been able to manipulate before. It took him some time to find them, but as he twitched the muscles and experimented with them, his ears twisted and turned as if tracking a sound of sorts. He then looked at his feet, which were now clawed and digitigrade. Now thinking about his new feet, he carefully stood up, remembering that if he were to stand correctly, he would have to shift his weight to the balls of his feet, the only feet he had left. With his arms at the ready, he eased himself off the ground and attempted to stand. Slowly, but surely, he stood up, thinking all the time that this was just like standing on your toes.

After standing up successfully, he dropped his arms to his sides and sighed in relief, smiling. He glanced himself in a nearby mirror, first surprised to find out that a canine muzzle could actually smile somewhat. Looking at his reflection, he got a better picture of his new form. What struck him first was the change in muscles. He wasn\x92t particularly strong before, but now he was downright butch. He had well formed muscles, and after he felt his pectoids and biceps briefly, he found that they were quite solid, almost like rocks. He was fit, but not a mass of pure muscle like the disgusting bodybuilders that advertise for muscle building supplements, the ones with bulging veins, greasy bodies, and obvious steroid problems. Aside from his fur and decidedly canine appearance, he could likely pose in front of fitness magazines. Scratching an itch on his abdomen, he curled the side of his lip in irritation, revealing some of his pointed teeth. Suddenly, the sound of metal dropping sounded nearby, and Paul found his ears turned toward the sound instinctively. He turned his head toward the source of the noise, and just after doing so, the door in front of him creaked open, revealing a single nurse with a tray of hospital meals.

"Oh, good morning." She said in an innocent, almost phony voice. "Glad to see you\x92re awake. Would you like some breakfast? You\x92re probably quite hungry after three weeks of intravenous food."

She was right. Paul hadn\x92t noticed it before, but upon the very mention of food, his stomach sent a memo to his brain, telling it that the body was running on empty.

"Sure. What do you have?" He smiled and chuckled, "No dog food I hope."

"No. Your body\x92s changed, but we know that your mind still prefers normal food. Besides, canine taste buds are almost the same as human taste buds, or any others for that manner. It all just depends on what you are used to eating." She pulled out a tray of food with a transparent plastic cover. The underlying food was obscured by condensation, but he could still make out brown, well-cooked meat, some salad with tomatoes, canned fruits, and a drink.

"How long have I been out?" He was surprised to have trouble speaking, having common words be replaced by growls and yips. He almost was embarrassed to speak at all, so he kept his sentences short. He was sure that they\x92d find a way to acclimate his altered vocal organs.

"Three weeks exactly, just like every other person who\x92s come through. It\x92s all been planned out to the last detail. If I were you, I\x92d just follow along with what people say to you. They seem to know what\x92s going on, and they\x92ll help you get back on track."

"I don\x92t even know where we are. Are we still in Atlanta?"

"No, you\x92re now in North Carolina, in Fort Bragg. If you\x92re worried about security, this is where Delta Force trains its men and keeps its intelligence. We also cross train with international CT squads and UNATCO. I think security will be the least of your concerns for now."

Paul sat down on the bed, pulled the nearby hospital dining surface over his lap, and set the food tray in front of him. After taking off the lid, his senses were hit by a wave of aromas, mainly that of grilled steak. They treated their men well here, he thought. He soon found himself drooling with the prospect of food, so he quickly wiped the side of his mouth with the back of his hand, grabbed his utensils, and dug in. Cutting off a chunk of steak, he carefully tried chewing it, snapping at it with canine teeth and looking quite unprofessional, if not wild. Working the chunk to the back of his mouth, he chewed it down to a more manageable form and swallowed, soon finding steak sauce on his muzzle. This would take some getting used to. He wiped the sauce off, remembering his manners.

"It\x92s okay, that\x92s perfectly normal. You don\x92t have to keep your manners just for my sake, I\x92ve seen the same problem countless times. You\x92ll be briefed and trained on everything soon. Not just movement, but also your civility, manners, behavior, and combat skills. As soon as you and Mr. Villieu are ready, the entire squad of 25 is going to train. They\x92re expecting you to learn preliminaries in one week."

With some cynicism, Paul sneered. "And who exactly knows how to sharpen your etiquette that has the personal experience of being a wolfman?"

Sensing his tone, she responded appropriately. "Actually, Captain Maitz is the man you\x92ll want to know. He\x92s half fox. The 25 of you aren\x92t the only ones who have been through the change, a crew of combat specialists and doctors have sacrificed their personal lives to help you as well."

Paul\x92s ears sunk and his mantle drooped forward. He didn\x92t know where his bitterness had come from.

"Sorry about barking at you like that. I don\x92t know what I was thinking."

"It\x92s okay. Remember that you\x92re half wolf now. Some instincts and changes have happened to your mind that can be buried, but not gotten rid of, like being stared at while eating. It\x92s not much of a problem. As a matter of fact, it sometimes is helpful." She looked at her watch, no doubt on a schedule. "Listen, I\x92ve got a job that I enjoy keeping. I\x92ll see you later, wolf boy." She left the room, looking back with a smile. Nobody had told him anything about instincts, or psychological differences, or anything like that before the "therapy". He had reviewed all the information given to him, but never once did they mention any psychological changes. He would have to get used to the slight changes, but that didn\x92t concern him greatly. What did concern him, however, was the fact that if they covered up minor details like that, what would keep them from concealing more dangerous, detrimental side effects, like regression? He ate his meal without once thinking about its sumptuous taste and continued practicing with his new body. It was going to be a very long two weeks, he soon learned.