"Shall we begin?"  Dr. Vetinari suggested. 
   The assembled figures shuffled to their assigned places around the  
glossy black table.  Most were dressed in lab coats with nametags and a  
pocket full of pens, but a few, in markedly better physical condition,  
wore tight-fitting suits. 
   As they took their seats, a video panel on one wood-paneled wall  
flickered to life, accompanied by an eerie howling [sampled, unknown to  
the assembled department heads, from the most recent remake of the  
"Hound of the Baskervilles.] 
   The image resolved into three wolf heads, issuing from a single neck. 
The side heads, pointing left and right, turned forward, eyes aglow, as  
the third's eyes kindled their own emerald fires.  "Report." came an  
electronically muffled voice. 
   Dr. Vetinari cleared his throat.  "We have a successful scoop.  The  
subject has shown remarkable physical ability..." 
   "Against Omega Squad, of course." a buzzcut blonde interjected. "He  
wouldn't have got away with any of his fancy tricks if you'd let my  
Elite handle him." 
   "Perhaps, Major" came a second voice [or was it the same one?]. "But  
it would be a shame to waste their talents.  Omega Squad was a  
liability.  We are well rid of them." 
   "In any case," the doctor continued, "he was suitable.  After he was,  
shall we say, contained, I transferred him over to Doctor von  
Katzenwitz.  Doctor?" 
   A smooth-headed, enspectacled figure looked up. "Yes?" 
   Yet another [or maybe the same] voice issued from the speaker.  
"Report on the subject's mental conditioning, Otto." 
   "Ah, of course." he replied teutonically.  He pressed a control on  
the pad before him, evoking an image of a Gigeresque tank, surrounded by  
clean-suited technicians.  "Using techniques developed by Professor  
Heinrich Renshaw, we have implanted a new personality, complete with  
memories and education, into the subject." 
   "Is there any danger of his former personality returning?" the  
Amazonian major interjected. 
   "There is a risk, minimal in this case." 
   "Why?" crackled the speaker. 
   Von Katzenwitz shrugged, "It requires strong will and intellect to  
break the conditioning.  Therefore, we have chosen a subject from a  
medieval milieu.  This particular subject seems little better than a  
barbarian. 
   "We have told him that he is an operative named Howard Frazetta,  
formerly of the SAS.  He believes he volunteered to undergo special  
experiments after being discharged for lack of discipline." 
   "Has he undergone the Kurokaze treatments?" asked one of the  
distorted voices. 
   Vetinari consulted some papers.  "Only the preliminaries.  They are  
taking very well, due to the subjects incredible physical condition." 
   "When will he be ready for field operations?"   
   "Soon.  Very soon." 
   With a hiss of hydraulics, the tank opened, fluids draining into  
cunningly-engineered catchbasins.  Major Viola Anson watched calmly as  
the occupant, the supposed Howard Frazetta, was aided by the bustling  
medtechs.  She watched appreciatively as one handed him a robe. 
   "Ready for your first training session?" she grinned wolfishly. 
   Howard [since that is who he now thought himself to be] grinned back. 
"I still don't think this is necessary.  With these treatments, I'm  
practically a super soldier." 
   Viola shook her head.  "You may have had your immune system boosted,  
your skeleton reinforced, and your skin toughened, but you still have to  
know how to *fight*." 
   "Major, I already know how to fight." 
   "Perhaps.  That is for me to decide." 
   As she went ahead to prepare, he moved into a nearby alcove, drying  
off the blood-temperature solvent.  He gazed into a mirror, pondering  
his new look.  His faceless employers had decreed a new look, to prepare  
for his debut as the nation's newest superguy.   
   Now, he didn't mind the large shouldered costume, or the oddly placed  
pouches.  He could deal with the swirling cloak, and the parted-in-the- 
middle hairstyle [which went great with his sideburns, although he  
couldn't shake the feeling he'd seen it somewhere before.] 
   But when the third voice had suggested dying his skin green, and  
putting a fin on his head, he'd balked.  Some things were just too  
silly.  The voice had relented, unwillingly, mumbling something about  
writing a long letter.   
  After a quick shower, he garbed himself in appropriate attire, namely  
black flannel sweatpants and a "Property of Bob University" T-shirt,   
and met the Major in one of the compound's gymnasiums/ deathtraps.   
   Viola was ready.  She quietly handed him one of the gym's high-tech  
pugil sticks, before carefully selecting one of her own.  "Now, if this  
was a TV show, we'd be wearing lot's of protective padding.  But you  
won't have any padding out there, so basically, you'll have to suffer." 
   "Don't get me wrong, Major, but aren't you assuming I'll lose?" 
   "I never assume.  On Guard!" 
   She slid smoothly into an attack posture, staff held high.  Howard  
matched her motion, dropping into a defensive stance.  The staves  
collided, sparks arcing forth from the point of impact.  Again and again  
they traded blows, neither connecting, until the air was redolent with  
the tang of ozone. 
   As they battled, Howard drew upon his years of training, but as the  
fight grew more intense, he found himself operating on a new set of  
instincts.  It almost seemed like he was a passenger in his own body,  
while someone else took over the duel. 
   At one point, they stood face to face, staves crossed between them. 
   "You fight well, but there is something you don't know." the major  
grunted. 
   "And what would that be, my dear?" came an answering grunt. 
   "I cheat."  She pressed a control on her staff, and with a burst of  
smoke, overloaded her opponent's weapon. 
   And now the scales were less balanced.  Frazetta vainly tried to fend  
off her attacks, but without power, his staff was nothing more than a  
really good conductor of electricity, which was not a good thing to  
have.  Therefore, he tossed it overhand like a spear, catching his  
opponent in the shoulder. 
   "Ow." she commented, "Did you really think that would stop me,  
Howie?" 
   Backpedaling furiously, he shrugged. "The thought had crossed my  
mind." 
   "Too bad." She swung low, sliding her grip down to one end, and  
sweeping her target off his feet.  Now, while she was attractive in a  
Brigitte Nielsen kind of way, this was not the kind of sweeping he'd  
have preferred.  Something involving soft music, silk sheets, and some  
Jell-O[TM], perhaps, but not a homicidal attack. 
   All of this passed through his mind as he fell back, legs twitching.   
With a *thud* his head collided with the floor, dazing him somewhat.   
The shocking jab to his chest, as Anson stood over him, both awakened  
and disoriented him. 
   "Why?" he mumbled. "We are allies!" 
   "You and me allies!  Don't make me laugh.  You're nothing, Howie,  
nothing but a muscle-bound thug."  She sneered down at him, poking him  
painfully in the ribs. 
   "But..." he wheezed. 
   "*I* should have been chosen to receive the treatment, not some  
testosterone-loaded bar-" 
   "THAT WILL BE ENOUGH!" a new voice echoed from the overhead speakers. 
   "Sirs?"  Viola asked, fear glimmering in her eyes. 
   "Yes, Major.  We were monitoring the training session." the voice  
reported. 
   "And we find your attitude disconcerting." came another voice. 
   "Mr. Frazetta is much to important to be wasted by petty jealousy."  
the third chimed in. 
   "What about me and my Elite!" 
   "As we have told you previously, they are important assets." 
   "Mr. Frazetta has volunteered to test the procedure." 
   "If it is successful, you would have been given the procedure." 
   Major Anson looked up, face ashen. "Would have?" 
   "Due to your lack of discipline, you are hereby relieved of your  
command." 
   "The Elite will be headed by your first officer, Captain Redmore." 
   "You will be placed in custody until after the test." 
   "NO!  I'LL KILL HIM FIRST" she screamed. 
   "I don't think so."  During the conversation, Howard had been lying  
still, reveling in the sensation of his injuries healing themselves.  It  
was a peculiar tingling, which he found rather pleasant, although not to  
the extent of injuring himself to re-experience the procedure. 
   In any case, he had recovered, and in a rapid motion, scissored the  
major's legs, kip-upped into a standing position, and plucked the staff  
out of midair. 
   "Now," he growled, voice dripping with menace, "where were we." 
   "Control yourself, Mr. Frazetta." 
   "She may be salvageable." 
   "And we don't wish to lose control of the Elite." 
   Howard shrugged again, thumbing the off switch on the power-staff.  
"Very, well, but I want to tell you one more thing, Major Anson." 
   She looked up. "What is that?" she asked sullenly. 
   He bent closer.  "Don't *EVER* call me Howie again!" he snarled. 
   The next weeks swirled by in a daily routine of treatments,  
briefings, and physical training sessions [now being given by a  
particularly vicious blind man.].  As his preparations continued, Howard  
couldn't shake the growing feeling that there was something wrong. 
   Rather than consult Dr. von Katzenwitz [formerly the psychiatric  
counselor for a family of child performers, and somewhat shaky as a  
result], he took his frustrations out on the Net.   
   It may seem odd that a secret installation would have net access, but  
the Three had decided that, due to it's wide-ranging areas of interest,  
it would serve as a perfect tool for speeding their subject's  
assimilation of Western culture.  There were limits however. 
   For one, a post-hypnotic suggestion had been instilled in him to  
prevent him from revealing the project's identity.  Instead, he operated  
through a commercial gateway, disguising himself as an overworked  
programmer. 
   Furthermore, certain "alternative" fora were locked out, not due to  
any censorship, but due to the media scrutiny such sites tended to  
attract. 
   Neither of these restrictions rankled Howard.  He lurked about,  
reading pseudo-copyrighted fiction, and pouring out his frustrations on  
various chat-servers. 
   "I'm telling you, CJ, something weird is happening." he typed one  
evening. 
   The answer scrolled across his screen: "I sympathize.  I've had that  
feeling myself.  It's just deja vu." 
   "I'm not sure.  It's like something is missing..." 
   "Listen: Where are you in RL?" 
   Howard tried to type his location, but felt honor-bound to reply only 
"Near Santa Fe." 
   "Awesome!" CJ replied.  "I live there myself.  Why don't we meet for  
lunch or something." 
   "Maybe.  I'll be doing some business in the city real soon.  I'll let  
you know more, when I have more info." 
   "Hold on, I'll get back to you.  Someone is on my other line." 
   "*shrug*.  I'll BCNU, then. `Night CJ" 
   "G'night."  The screen displayed one of CJ's patented signoff lines: 
"Once I couldn't spell Omnipotent Anthromorphic personification...Now I  
are one." 
   Howard snickered, switching off his screen.  Whoever or whatever CJ  
really was, he knew how to get a laugh.  But now, it was time to get to  
work.  After weeks of sweat and toil, the time was nigh.  It was time  
for his debut. 
   The Three had explained it thusly.  A major radio personality, one of  
the view who hadn't been demonized, was due to visit his brother in  
Santa Fe.  This particular jock, due to his colorful past, had garnered  
more than his share of enemies, and the public broadcast was sure to  
attract malevolent attention. 
   So, after scanning CJ's e-mailed reply, which contained contact  
information for what was occasionally called "the real world", Howard  
Frazetta made his way to the armory. 
   Howard had always liked the armory, with it's racks and racks high  
tech weaponry.  Something about the room struck a chord deep in his  
spirit, perhaps due to his British heritage [one unmarked by an accent,  
oddly enough.  Howard's English was fairly devoid of any regional brogue  
or burr.  A few people had said it was like he'd been taught by a  
machine, but it was merely his linguistic skill.  He spoke several other  
languages, also without accent.] 
   Between the Three's desire to project a dazzling image, and his own  
tendecies for heavy armament, the costume which was eventually agreed  
upon was fairly complex, dripping with pouches, buckles, and bits of  
armor plating.  The specially designed cape, with it's integrated  
computer controlled framework, swirled dramatically at the slightest  
provocation, ad was supposely guaranteed to never trip him up.   
   The pieces locked together, forming an impressive, if somewhat  
derivative, whole.  The last piece, a bowl-shaped helmet, settled over  
his brow, readouts rezzing to life as it completed it's interface. 
   Crimson cape flaring behind him, he strode purposfully toward the  
waiting transport, blood pumping with the promise of action.  He'd be  
dropped ahead of time on a secluded rooftop, overlooking the park where  
the broadcast was to take place.  When the time came, he'd be ready. 
   Much later, at 4:20 AM [20 minutes into the broadcast] he was less  
sure of himself.  The deejay/political commentator, who  despite his  
non-demonic status looked undead anyway, had spent most of his time  
insulting his staff, his audience, his brother, various sports and  
entertainment figures, and somebody named Hargas. 
   The broadcast was scheduled to go for another three and a half hours.   
If Howard had to listen to his raving for the rest of the morning, he'd  
seriously consider killing him himsel-. 
   A shadowy flicker in the twilight morning caught his eye.  Several  
black-clad figures were moving through the trees.  A glint of steel  
shone as one drew his sword. 
   It was time to get to work.