Perfect - Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Fragments

I woke up three days later with the chief shouting cusses to the nurse.  He stopped as soon as he realized my eyes were open.  

“Thomason,” said the chief, “you awake?”

“Please, inspector,” said the nurse, “He needs his rest.”

“No, the last thing I need is rest,” I said to the shock of the nurse.  To jolt her more, I sat up and took the IV needle out of my arm.

“Please, sir,” she pleaded, “We do not know whether you have been affected in any way with the bullets.”

“All three bullets did not reach any critical areas in my body.” I never liked being confined.  The nurse gave me a weird look and checked the record at the foot of my bed.

“Sir,” she said after looking through it again, “There were four bullets: One in your thigh, one in your shin, one in your shoulder, and the last at the back of your neck.”

I immediately reached at the back of my neck and realized the gauze wrapping it.  The slight touch of the wound sent tremendous pain and I blacked out for a moment before I managed to stabilize myself. 

“Get back on your bed, please!” The nurse was worried.  I complied.

“How long will I have to be here?” I asked the nurse.

“We don’t know the extent of you injury, we have yet to check for any memory, sensory, and physical impairment.”

“Then what are we waiting for?” I asked, “Let us get those tests started.”

“No, you need a break.” The chief’s words were firm. “We don’t need another shooting case that big.  You know it grabbed international headlines?  The Mayor called me yesterday to ask me about you and about your past, but I couldn’t give her anything.  I know you are good people, Thomason, but I can’t have you getting shot at and cause another panic.  I’m putting Sam and Lily on your case. Whatever that is you were working on, I want you to pass it to them when they come, you understand?”

I stared at the boss for a while. I could sense the anger building inside of him and also a hint of concern.  The boss was not the best in controlling his emotions, and Sam and Lily were not the best in taking this case—I was. 

“You are putting the wrong people in charge, chief,” I said, “Sam and Lily will probably get killed following my trail.  This case is deeper than you know it and it is only important to me.”

“Thomason, you know personal involvement in cases is prohibited.” The chief was furious.  I shouldn’t have told him I was involved.

“Hand your case over to Sam and Lily when you return,” the chief said and before I could retaliate, he said, “and that’s an order.”

I did not nod to show understanding I just sat there staring at him blankly.  After a while, the chief spat a word and left the room.  The nurse went back to attending to me and reinserted the needle. 

“You would be here for at maximum two months.” She told me, but I know that for me that would only mean two weeks.  I decided to spend the week plotting my next move.  I considered confronting Colleen again, but that would only mean suicide.  What can I get that he has not already given? I know he was involved with my history in some way or another and it seems like he could be my antagonist from the past. It is a good thing that he did not know who I was. 

I gave in to boredom of thinking and fell asleep, and this time my dream was different:  Sounds of sirens fill the air.  Men in white lab coats with panicked faces run about the room—all as white as their lab coats. A troop of black uniformed men arrive in an orderly fashion and proceed to the stasis tube across the hall from me.  The stasis tube had cracked…

“…the…hope…you…!”A naked man shouts as he storms towards the black-uniformed men, “Control…more!”

“Keep…alive!” yelled one of the men in lab coats, “…billions…worth than…!”

The naked man advances on the black men. The men open fire.  The naked man stares directly at me before bullets fly through him.

I startled awake and wondered what my dream meant.  I noticed that next to the hospital bed was a radio. The newscasters were talking about some other country in peril and another natural disaster that happened one thousand and thirty-two miles away before they got to the local news.  It would seem that my shooting incident was a big local event and there were still reports of it on the news except for some odd twists in the truth.  The news reported that Dr. Colleen was threatened in his office by an armed man who took a hostage and led the hostage into an ambush zone.  The news reported that a certain detective – brave as he was – came to the rescue of the hostage and is now receiving treatment at a hospital. Well, I guess it’s a believable story, except for the fact that the so-called “armed-man” doesn’t get a conclusion.  A cliff hanger as plain as daylight is left hanging in front of all the listeners but none of them would bother. After all, the last line on the news said that the “authorities” had a list of suspects and were handling the situation. The naivety of society I would conclude.  Is that enough for people? Do people believe everything the media feeds them no matter how farfetched it may seem?

           

Lost in my thoughts, it took me some time to realize that the news was over and the radio was now playing a song by Ryan and the Renegades entitled Listen with your Heads.

The raindrops roll down the window pane

The flowers grow from a tiny grain

There is logic in there

Or am I insane?

The question we should all be asking

Is whether we believe in what they tell us.

Are we gonna be zombies, the living dead?

Or are we gonna start listening with our heads?

Listen with your heads!

Listen with your heads!

Question everything sung or said

Even my words as they leave this mouth

Should be analyzed and raided

Let us not be naïve; Let us not be deceived.

The world is never as it seems…

The perfect song for the scenario. I wondered if the radio channel actually knew that they were promoting the end of their careers with that song. The media feeds the people and the people fall for it – it is as clear as that.  But, who influences the media? How did that one event that took place in daylight become so twisted in facts? Was the media fed by the government? I mean, it is always about the government right?

It was then that I realized that there were ways to find out more – to dig deeper.  If I could trace the source, I could trace it to the people who want to cover this up.  They will have answers.  I had a plan, but I still needed to wait for at least a week before the hospital would allow me to leave.

On the first week of my confinement, Sam and Lily arrived.  Sam is a middle-aged man with a beer belly.  He is half-way bald and probably never fired his gun more than ten times in his twenty-two years and six months on the force.  Lily is a naïve girl three months fresh out of the academy.  She is book smart and lacks any field experience besides her probation.  I was right. Sam and Lily were really not the best for this case.

“You know why we are here, Detective,” announced Sam with his hoarse, tobacco-filled breath, “Just tell us where yer keeping all the files on your recent case and we’ll be outta ya hair.” I contemplated many ways to answer Sam. His commanding tone deserved a harsh reply. I considered answering him like the chief, but I told myself that there are many better word supplements than swearing.  All I could manage was:

“You know the funny things about a bullet grazing your skull, Sam?” I pointed at the back of my neck, “Memory tends to get a little fuzzy – I would say something like 50dpi?”

Sam gave me a funny look and all Lily did was snicker at my sarcasm (or was it at her partner’s lack of comprehension?). 

“Well, if you remember then, give me a call ‘right, Thomason?” Sam said after shaking his head, “This is our case now, you don’t go and be a lone ranger, yer hear me?”

I stared at him until he left muttering something the chief would. Lily snickered again and left.  I took a mental note to consider calling on Lily if ever needed – she had a sharp mind.  Just then my bedside phone rang and I picked up. Samantha Lee was on the other end. I had asked her to take care of Simon in my absence and she has been calling me frequently to update me about Simon. Our conversation went somewhat like this:

“Hey, Adam? I mean Detective Adam.”

“Hey, Samantha, how’s Simon?”

“He misses you. I caught him trying to sneak out of the house and when I let him leave I followed him to your place. How are you holding up?”

“Sounds, like Simon. I’m doing fine. Hey, when you went over to my place was there anything unusual?”

“Not that I could notice, why? Is everything alright? Are there people looking for you?” I could read her panic in her voice.  She was probably looking around her house checking to see she was not followed.

“Nothing to worry about, Sam,” I allowed myself to laugh a little to calm her nerves, “Can you do me a favour?” I waited for her reply before continuing.  Involving her may have its consequences but she was the only person I could trust at this point of time. “The keys to my apartment are under the twenty-ninth flowerpot in the park nearest my place.  Can you go to my place and get my case file by the title of “Colleen” and bring it to the hospital? Thanks.”

I ended the call knowing that I have trusted the right person.  Waiting for Samantha to arrive, I drifted off into another dream. 

“Ten is down! Get him back into the tube!” The black-uniformed men rushed in and grabbed the naked man and carried him into a tube.  A man with thick glasses and a shaved head stands in my view staring at me and yells.

“Thirteen…awake! He saw everything. He has…go as well.”

“No!” Another lab-coated yelled, “Billions…wasted…successful…we...erase memory?”

I jolted awake.  Everything I dreamt about felt like it really happened.  They felt real almost as if it was a memory. I remembered how Samantha told me that my dreams could be suppressed memories manifesting itself in my sleep.  I tried to think back on the dream.  I did my best to memorize the place from the dream.  I noted every detail I could remember.  All these fragments seem to be fitting together like a colossal puzzle.

Perfect - Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Clichés

The moment I entered the office the following day I went straight to the computer and searched for the profile of the man in my dreams—green eyes with brown hair.  My estimates were right; there were only five people that fit the profile in the entire district and only one had a doctorate (who else would have to wear a lab coat?).  I made my way to the office of Prof. Colleen. 

The office was situated in the heart of the city.  The city hub was not my favourite of places to be in especially with the after-work jams.  I took the subway to avoid just that. 

While walking to the building, I ran through Prof. Colleen’s file in my head.  Prof. Colleen arrived in the city about a month after I was found.  He is a research scientist specializing in tissue reproduction.  No marriage.  No divorces.  No history before he arrived here.  The only reason why he was in the database was because he was suspected of using live human subjects in one of his experiments. 

But what connections did he have to me? Except his timely arrival a month after my discovery, there was nothing.  Unless I was one of those live human specimens he tested on.  I did have rapidly regenerative skin compared to others, but doctors have said that it was because of my super high metabolic rate.

“What can I do for you, Detective?” Prof. Colleen said as he greeted me into his lab.  I saw stasis tubes by the hundreds holding various samples of skin.  I noted none were big enough to hold a human in, but then again, research like those is carried on behind closed doors.

“I would like to ask whether the name Adam rings a bell.” I said as I sat down at his desk.

“You have to be more specific than that, I’m sorry.”

“Adam thirteen?” It was there that I caught his eyes widen for a split second before going back into his normal stern face. 

“What exactly are you investigating, Detective?” Colleen spoke defensively.  He reached for his hip—a move common of enforcement agents who instinctively reach for their sidearm.  There was of course no real danger as I did not see the bulge of a gun at his hip when I first entered the office.

“That information is confidential,” I could not believe I used the oldest cliché in the police book, “what can you tell me about Adam thirteen?”

Colleen smiled at me and said:

“My dear, Detective, I just need to make just one phone call and you’ll be out of a job.  I ask you again, nicely, what is your case?” 

“Are you threatening an agent of the law?”—again another cliché—“As long as I uphold justice, there is nothing you can do.”

Just then there was a knock on the door and two men in suits walked in.

“Is there a problem, Prof. Colleen?” One of them said as he reached at his hip as a warning to me.

“No,” Colleen said, “This detective was just about to leave.” He said it sternly and I knew that it was a threat.  I could easily take the two men down, but I would risk getting into a lot of trouble.  I decided that it was better to continue my investigation not behind bars.  I got up and said:

“Don’t leave town.” Another cliché?  Was I becoming a real cop now?   

I was escorted to the exit where I thanked the security for the hospitality—sarcastically.  I do not know whether they wanted me to know or not, but it was obvious that one of the security personnel was following me.  I steered myself into the most crowded areas, not to disappear, but more to avoid giving a chance for a clear shot.  I took a quick glance at the guard and I noted that he was carrying a firearm—with the safety off.  I knew I got myself into a big mess.  I tabulated my options.  The most logical move was to flee.  Fleeing would mean civilians would be safe and my chances of survival would be higher, but it would also mean giving this suspect a chance to escape. An alternative option would be to confront the target, but that would risk innocent injuries and even deaths.  I decided on another alternative and walked towards the secluded, abandoned construction site.  I stood behind a steel pillar before unhooking my holster and pointing my firearm at him.

“That is far enough. Put your hands where I can see them.” The amount of police clichés I have said today was really bothering me.  I was greeted with a gunshot.  The blast would have got me if I had not been behind the pillar. Instead the bullet ricocheted off the metal pole creating sparks.  More bullets soon followed suit, but they came from various directions and the bullets were from different calibre guns.  I heard the sound of a sniper at my right.  Shooting would risk getting shot myself, so I stayed my ground.  I almost called for backup but then decided not to as too many people would be at risk.  The shooting soon stopped.  The man who was following me shouted:

“This is a warning! Stay away from the ADAM case! You will not be given a chance next time!”  He walked away and I heard the other shooters move away.  45 seconds passed before I decided that it was safe.  It was then that the pain hit me.  Bullets had found their way into my shoulder, shin, and thigh.  I reached into my phone and dialled the number of the PD while I felt the world blacking out.  I heard the front desk officer Elaine’s voice.

“This is Thomason…trace…me...” I drifted into unconsciousness.     

Purpose is a motivation to live.  What is man without a purpose? What is life if there is no reason to live?  Man needs a purpose no matter how small to keep him going through life.  May it be to get an ‘A’ on an exam or to sing on stage, we all have a purpose to live.

I awoke in a hospital bed surrounded by doctors running around the room. 

“He’s awake! Someone, sedate him now!” a doctor yelled.  I looked at my body.  My shoulder wound was probably caused by a sniper and my leg wounds by a sidearm.  I managed to speak through the mask they put on my face.

“The bullets are evidence.”

“We know that, sir, please let us get them out of you first,” The doctor was clearly shocked at my ability to speak, “Sedate him now!”

“We already have…twice,” shouted the nurse.

“Must be the adrenaline pumping,” the doctor concluded, “Up the anaesthetic.”

I tried to defy the doctor’s orders, but soon the anaesthetic started taking its effect and I felt my world fade away the second time in the day. 

Unconsciousness

Perfect - Chapter 2

Chapter 2
Simon

In the afternoon, after I cooled down a little, the chief called me into his office. 

“You remember that guy you caught two nights back—Tony long?” asked the chief when I steeped through the door.  He had an opened file in front of him—Tony’s file.  In no mood for words, I nodded.

“Well, he was sentenced yesterday.” The chief looked at me to see my expression before continuing, “two years.”

I nodded emotionlessly.  In truth, it was an honest judgement since my report stated everything important.

“What’s troubling you, Thomason?”

“Nothing,” I replied coldly, “Just not happy, that’s all.”

“With?” prompted the chief.

“Life,” I stated plainly.

“You need a counsellor?”

“Not necessary.”

“Sure ‘bout that?”

“Yes.” I emphasized the word.

“Fine, then take the day off.”  It wasn’t a suggestion, it was an order.

I nodded and walked out.  With the rest of the day off and so many productive things that I could do, I decided to head home. 

This time Simon was not at the door with his empty bowl.  Instead, the bowl was only half-drunk and Simon was nowhere to be seen.  I did not bother looking for him.  He is a cat after all—when he is hungry, he looks for you.  I sat at my coffee table after I made my coffee and wondered about that day I found Simon.  It was my third year of consciousness and my sixth month on the force.  I was examining the crime scene of the murder of Elizabeth Lee.  She had been shot at point blank range in the back.  I was going through her room when a cat came through the open window.  I recognized the cat as the cat in her photos.  The collar that Simon wears now is the one Elizabeth was going to give him on his tenth birthday.  I kept Simon after I cleared up the paperwork.

The phone rings.  Where did I put it?  I made a mental note to get one of those gadgets that has everything in it so I would not need so many things in my pockets. 

“Hello?” I said after finding my phone in my left pocket.

“Mr. Thomason?” A woman’s voice answered.

I nodded.  Then I remembered that I was talking to the phone and said yes—I need to focus…too much daydreaming.

“I’m Samantha Lee.  Elizabeth Lee was my mother.”

“Yes?  How are you Samantha?”

“Umm…I was wondering…do you still have Simon with you?”

I didn’t know what to say.  I dreaded to say yes and hear her ask whether she could have him…after all he rightfully belonged to her.  I dreaded to say no and to come up with story on where he is now.  And most of all, I dreaded to lie. 

After a very awkward pause, I said yes.

“Great!” She answered and I felt sick—figuratively, I have never been sick for as long as I can remember.  I closed my eyes as she continued, “I am around the neighbourhood and I saw a cat that looked exactly like Simon running after a police car, and I thought that he should be with you…”

“I think that is him, Samantha,” I answered laughing a little, “You see, Simon doesn’t like being in the house all the time, and he gets out here and then.”

I heard a laugh at the other end of the line, and then I heard running and a siren as Samantha ran after the van shouting Simon’s name.  I hung up the phone after all I could hear on the other end was heavy staccato footsteps, a loud annoying siren, a woman’s effort in calling a cat’s name in the middle of a run, and the annoying panting when she tires.

I check my phone again.  The siren sounds still seem to be ringing.  No, the call has ended.  Now I hear a woman’s panting?  I look at the window in time to see Simon jump in through the window obviously exhausted.  He went straight for the half-drunk milk bowl before he spotted me and jumped.

“Hi to you too, Simon,” I greeted, “how was the little police chase?”

The cat gave me a curious look and went back to his bowl. 

I hear the lift.  I sigh as I walk to my door.  A fist greeted me as I opened the door.  I had opened it one second to late for Samantha to withdraw her knock.

“Sorry!” was all she managed.

I check my nose.  Not to see whether it was broken, but more as a cultural expectation.

“You can come in,” I said while I left the door opened for Samantha, “Simon’s inside.”

Samantha rushes in to see her mother’s cat.  I sat at my coffee table and observed.  Samantha had changed from the last I time saw her.  She was more mature in every sense, but her fashion sense needed improvement.  At age twenty, media played a very important part in her life.  She dressed plainly with a blue baby-tee shirt and track pants.  She was most likely jogging when she spotted Simon.  I couldn’t analyze her face as it was blocked with her long ebony hair. 

I got up to get her a drink.  One minute and twenty-four seconds passed before she got up and sat at the coffee-table.

“He looks well,” said Samantha motioning to Simon.

“He is fed twice daily, he has no restrictions—he can go anywhere he wants, and he eats Miaowers the ‘ultimate cat chowder’.” I noticed she stared at me rather strangely, but she laughed at my last statement.  I wondered what was wrong with Miaowers. 

Now I could view her face.  She looked exactly like her mother, with her father’s eyes.  She looked at me and I quickly turned away.  The awkward silence lasted for fifty-three seconds, until she began talking. 

“Aren’t you supposed to be at work?”

“I got the day off.”

“Sick?”

“No, the boss didn’t like my attitude today.  Well, no one liked my attitude today at the office.”

  

“Why?”

I looked straight into Samantha’s eyes.  Should I tell her my problems? Why should I even confide in her? It won’t improve my condition, and I already told the chief that I didn’t need a counsellor.  But she looked interested in my story, not the usual story that everybody had probably already heard—the man-recovered-from-the-river-now-works-in-the-police-force story—she seemed interested in my story.

“I have been having disturbances in my sleep.” I confessed, “I have been dreaming about the same dream for sometime now and I think it has to do with my origin.”

“What do you dream about?”

I told her all that I remembered from the dream.  All she did was nod with understanding, but what does she understand? She knows where she was born; I don’t even know whether I was.  That A.D.A.M. 13 mark on my back is a constant reminder of the past I am trying to recall, but all I have about my past is my dream and that mark.  Is my life meant to be such? Am I supposed to live like a vagrant for the rest of my life? Her eyes widened at the description of one of the scientists.

“Green eyes and cropped brown hair?” she clarified. I nodded.  The description was that of a plain man.  It wouldn’t even help in an investigation, but now as she sat puzzled, I recalled that there were not many people with green eyes and brown hair in the city—in fact, only a handful.  “You can see colour in your dreams?” Her question threw me off.  I thought she was thinking of all the men that could fit the profile, but she had drawn her attention on something more important.  She was right; colours in dreams meant that the dream was of a real memory—at least that was one theory.

“What does that mean?” I asked.  It was clear she was thinking a lot, but I was not sure what she was pondering upon.

“It means that your dreams could actually be concrete memories.  Real memories suppressed into your unconscious that it only manifests itself when you let your guard down—when you sleep.”  It was only then that I recalled Samantha’s vocation.  She was a clinical psychologist.  Great, I told the chief I did not need a counsellor and here I am with one in my house, but she knew about something that could help me in my hunt for the truth.     

I did not know how to respond so I just laughed.

“What did I say?” she asked blushing.

I laughed before replying:

“It’s just that I told the chief of police that I didn’t need a shrink today.”     

We both laughed together before we returned to our cups of coffee.  The awkward silence was unbearable so I broke it.

“So, these dreams could be about my past?”

“There’s a possibility that they are, Adam, but I can’t be sure.  There are many different theories about dreams, but as far as I can tell, it’s rare to dream in such detail, let alone, remember all of your dreams.  These dreams that you are having are connected somehow with your history.”

After the conversation carried on for another twenty-three minutes, Samantha took a look at her watch and decided that she needed to leave.  She took a last hold of Simon and left.  She left me with something to hope for.  Something in my past manifested itself in my dreams.  Just how exact they are, I will never be sure, unless I investigate.  

Perfect - Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Adam Thomason

“Thomason is it true that you stopped all these criminals without backup?” said my boss, the chief, as he threw a stack of photos from a thick brown file on my desk.

“Yes.” My response was almost immediate.  I knew what he was going to say—not that I’m that good in predicting the future—but because this is the second time he’s said that this week…the sixty-ninth time this month…the three hundred and twenty-fifth time this year.

“What happened to your partner?”

“He couldn’t catch up.”  My eyes were cold…emotionless.  My partner, Diego, was probably from the lowest part of the food chain.  All I have ever seen him consume are doughnuts and that poison the companies laboured “carbonated drinks”.  It is to no surprise that he is as fat—and slow—as last year’s escargot. 

“He was trying?” suggested the chief. Diego was his nephew and he didn’t want to have to fire relatives.

“Yes, but he collapsed after his twenty-ninth step.” 

“What? Never mind, I want your report on my desk tomorrow.”

“It is already completed and lying on your desk bellow Steven’s report on the fifty-third car theft this week.”

The chief gave me a weird look—it would be classified something between confusion and surprise, and a tinge of anger.  When he composed himself, he walked out saying something about some donkey which had a dog as a mother being too smart a donkey. 

I looked at the mug shots of the people that I recently put behind bars.  Why do they need to commit crimes?  I knew from analysis that there were roughly four groups of criminals: they had no other choice, they wanted revenge, they were dared into doing it, they wanted easy money, or they just felt like it.  Out of the eighteen photos, I can only see that only one really needed money—Tony Long whom I caught just last night.  I caught up with him in an alley.  He had been fleeing the patrols by taking the narrowest paths.  He gave me more thrills than the rest.  He had stolen two point three thousand dollars worth of diamonds.  When he realized that he could not escape, he begged me to let him go, because his daughter was dying of cancer and he had already used up all the money he and his wife had saved on her chemotherapy.  I arrested him but allowed him to say one last goodbye to his wife and daughter.  I left a check in his house which was enough for his daughter’s treatment for two months.  His wife will find it in two hours and twenty-one minutes time when she returns from visiting him from the locker.

I put the photos away in my almost full file of solved crimes, grabbed my jacket and headed back home.  I plugged the headphones from my mp3 player into my ears and switched to the radio function.  The radio station was playing some new song named More than a Simple Life by Fantasies are Fake.  I listened to the rock beat and the catchy tune of the chorus.

It’s more than a simple life

For most of us at least.

We have to work hard,

Before we can even feast.

We got to earn a living

Before we can start life.

Not like many heiresses

Who’ve been to Paris,

And such,

And only had a simple life.

Besides the jibe at the celebrity, the song actually had meaning.  I thought about Tony Long who had a ‘more than a simple life’.  He was an honest worker, but always spoke what he believed in.  His bosses promoted him twice this a year, but still his wage was not enough.  He asked for bonuses and searched for other ways to get money legally.  He took loans and borrowed from friends, until finally resorting to theft.  There are so many people with more than enough money and so many with not enough.  All we have to do to make the world a better place is to get rid of all these poverty by making the rich poorer and the poor, richer.  Though luck.  No comfortable sane business man would give up his luxury of a mansion to live in a ‘lowly’ apartment.

“Simon, I’m home.” I announced as I opened my front door.  My Toby cat appeared at the door with his empty milk bowl in his mouth.  I went to the kitchen to fetch him his milk, poured it into his bowl before relaxing into my couch.  I switched on the TV and browsed the channels until I found the local news.

“Crime rates are dropping,” announced the anchor-woman, “All this due to Chief inspector Miles and his team.”

I should be angry that I wasn’t acknowledged, but what’s the point?  It’s useless.  I watched as they interviewed the chief on his strategy and I couldn’t help smiling.  The chief mentioned about equality in the department, and all that gibberish about how well he treats his staff.  I was shocked to hear that he did not mention anything about a dog’s son or a ‘whole donkey’.

I fell asleep during his speech—I could not help it: I hear his voice everyday—and had that same dream again.  I dreamt that I was in water—no, some sort of liquid that does not burn your eyes—and restricted.  I could see people in lab coats starring at me in disbelief.  Then I see total blackness.  In the same dream this process repeats itself like I was blacking out and coming back again and again.  I would not call it a nightmare, but it did make me feel strange. 

I woke up at five in the morning.  Instead of getting ready for work, I sat down on my coffee table and pondered over the dream.  It has been three weeks since I started dreaming about the same thing and every time the dream became clearer and clearer like a focus function on a camera had been activated—I could even make out the faces of some of them. 

 I did not sit and think for long.  I got ready and left for work at six-thirty.  Like a robot, I reached in my pocket and listened to my mp3 again.  I was in no mood to hear the morning crews of the radio stations joke about, so I switched to my songs and listened to my playlist.  The song: Mirrorman by the Magicians soon blasted through my earphones.

I woke up today

Feeling a little drowsy.

But I know that life could not wait

For me to be ready.

So I went to the bathroom

To freshen myself again

Than I looked into the mirror

And saw the…

Mirrorman, mirrorman,

What is it you see?

Mirrorman, mirrorman,

Why it is only me.

Mirrorman, mirrorman,

Who is to say I am he?

Mirrorman, mirrorman,

Well, you have to be somebody?

I turned on the shuffle function and changed the song—I was in no mood for thought-provoking songs and that album by the Magicians was entitled: Think About That.

A smooth melody soon sang through the phones.  It was the relaxing voice of Jane Benedict singing Chosen. 

From the beginning of time,

We were chosen by God

We are here for a reason,

Placed here by God.

To look after his creation,

Every rock, sand, or sod.

We are chosen by the Almighty

To care for our city.

We are created for a reason.

We are chosen for a cause.

We are created for this season

We are chosen for a cause…

I gave up and switched off my player.  The song did not help my mood—firstly, because I did not know where or when I began.  My earliest memories are of those five years ago when I was fished out of the sea in the beginning of winter—not with bullets in my body like the movie.  I suffered from hyperthermia and apparently that can lead to amnesia as well.  I did not know how I managed to communicate with the people in English, but I did.  I later discovered that I was the ninth in twenty bodies recovered in that week alone in the same river.  I was the only survivor.  All of us had a mark on our backs that read: A.D.A.M. followed by numbers—my number was thirteen.  Eventually I joined the police force hoping to uncover the truth about my origin, but until now, I have learnt close to nothingt.

With a face that could scare Simon, I stomped into the HQ.  No one talked to me the whole morning because of my face—not even the chief.

Perfect - Prologue

Consciousness…

Who am I? Where am I? Why is this water not stinging my eyes? Who are these people starring at me? All these…questions…and I don’t even…have... one answer….

Unconsciousness…

Humans in lab coats run about the room.  Everyone checking their delicate instruments to see what went wrong (or right depending on the context).  Though his eyes opened for only five seconds, they all knew that A.D.A.M. 13 had reached consciousness. 

A group gather at a whiteboard as a scientist draws complicated symbols in a language only those present understood.  Engineers examine the stasis tube which A.D.A.M 13 is held in checking for cracks and other possible malfunctions.  Another group of scientists gather on a platform near the stasis tube analysing possibilities on devices that would make a computer seem outdated.  Scientific jargons fill the lab like music.  All these scientists trying in vain to answer one simple question: How?

“What if our calculations are flawed?” suggested the philosophical Dr. Lang.

“Are you trying to say that the laws, the foundation of this project, which we have built upon is wrong?” said an over-eager, young scientist by the name of Dr. Colleen

“Newton has been wrong before.” The comment came out of thin air and the speaker could not be identified.

“I’m not suggesting that,” said Dr. Lang, “I’m just saying what if the answers we are looking for is not in chemistry or physics but in simple biology?  Maybe A.D.A.M. 13 woke up because he felt like it?”

“No way,” announced Prof. Sawyer, head of the neurological department, “We didn’t implant any human emotion into A.D.A.M. 13 yet…unless…”

Silence fills the hall as everyone quietens to hear Prof. Sawyer’s words.

“Unless, the human instincts we programmed him with made him believe he was alive? It’s a theory.”

Prof. Sawyer’s words held no water—mainly because it held no scientific backing.

Little did everyone present know that the answer lay in front of them, and that Prof. Sawyer was right—A.D.A.M. 13 woke up because he believed that he could.