The hood was abruptly yanked off, and Fraser found himself in the back of a moving vehicle. His hands were cuffed, his feet in shackles.
Only one other person was in there with him, and that was Professor Coulson. He sat nearby, observing Fraser without speaking.
Fraser tried to figure out where he was and what was happening. But he could barely keep his head upright, let alone formulate a single coherent thought. His brain was thick like sludge, and almost all feeling had disappeared from his body.
The vehicle slowed down. The professor moved to unlock the restraints around Fraser’s wrists and ankles.
They came to a complete stop.
The professor pulled Fraser up out of his seat. He opened the door and helped him out onto the street.
“You’re treatment is complete,” Professor Coulson said. “You are now free to go. Good luck.”
The door closed with a bang, and the vehicle disappeared into the night.
Fraser took a moment to get his head straight. He was a free man again, alone for the first time in six months. He had spent so long locked up in that place, being poked and prodded and shocked and operated on, that he was still a little discombobulated. Recovery would be a slow process; it would take some time before he acclimatized and began to feel like himself again.
He looked around, trying to figure out where he was exactly. It was night. He was in the city, somewhere. He didn’t know the precise location, but his surroundings looked vaguely familiar. He thought he might have been here before. His vision was fuzzy, which made it even harder. The street was full of activity, so it was probably a Friday or Saturday night.
He had no idea why they had chosen this particular place, at this particular time, to release him. He didn’t even know what the date was. He was sentenced last summer, so it should be winter by now. But the night air felt far too warm for it to be winter. Maybe they had kept him there longer than he thought. It certainly felt like it. Inside the treatment center, with its artificial light and restricted access to the outside world, the days all merged into one indefinite blur. Keeping track of time was next to impossible.
Fraser took his first step and nearly kissed the pavement. It had been so long since he moved on his own that he’d almost forgotten how to do it.
He still didn’t quite know the full extent of what had been done to him inside that hospital. He could have been lobotomized for all he knew. It was like he was learning to operate a body belonging to someone else.
He moved carefully away from the noise and chaos on the main strip and stumbled down a quiet side street, next to an Italian restaurant. He could only manage a few steps before he was forced to stop and catch his breath. He held onto the wall to steady himself.
The sounds of another late night in the city reverberated around him. There were cars filled with young motorheads, burning rubber and pumping music as they tore around the block.
The groups of party girls cackling with laughter after downing a few too many mimosas.
The packs of middle-aged drunks singing at the top of their voices as they staggered along the street.
I get knocked down!
But I get up again!
You are never gonna keep me down!
Fraser’s ears pricked up. There was something oddly familiar about all of this; something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. The weirdest sense of déjà vu washed over him.
Using all the strength that remained in his fragile body, he pushed himself off the wall and wobbled unsteadily back towards the main road.
That was when he saw something that chilled his blood.
It was something truly terrifying. Something impossible. Something no sane human would ever wish to see.
Fraser saw himself.
On the other side of the road, wandering the streets in a drunken stupor, was another Fraser Jaensch.
His exact double.
Before he could wrap his mind around what was happening, a limousine crawled into view and Fraser caught a glimpse of his reflection in the tinted windows. It was the first time he had seen his face since the treatment began.
But the face looking back at him wasn’t the face he was used to seeing. It was somebody else’s face.
It was the face of the blonde girl.
Fraser’s heart stopped beating.
The logical part of his brain tried to reject what he was seeing. It tried to concoct some sort of rational explanation for all of this. But he couldn’t deny it; it was right there in front of him.
Fraser had been subjected to a very extreme makeover.
The true purpose of the treatment center had become horrifyingly clear.
The limo departed. Fraser saw his double crossing the road, coming straight for him.
He had to get out of there.
“Hey there, beautiful,” the double said once he’d caught up to Fraser.
He tried running, but tripped and landed face-first on the paved walkway.
The next thing he knew, the other Fraser – the younger version of himself – was standing over him, an evil grin plastered across his lecherous face. Fraser tried fighting him off, but it was no use. His body had been weakened by the six months he’d spent trapped inside that sadistic medical facility.
He felt a sweaty hand clamp tight over his mouth, muffling any further cries for help. The double climbed on top and pinned him to the ground.
He never gave up fighting, but in the back of his mind he knew it wouldn’t make the slightest bit of difference. He had been through this all once before. He knew what was coming. He knew exactly how this was going to end.
Fraser Jaensch was going to get what he wanted.
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