"You hiring?" he asked Charlie, cutting straight to the point. Charlie's bar was not his only option, but it sat at the top of a very short list. He had seen a few other watering holes during his walk the day before, but he didn't know if they were looking for staff, so he decided to start with a place he had at least a slight familiarity with. He had to admit, hearing someone like Charlie call him "son" pricked at him slightly, but given his new, youthful appearance, Charlie was justified in his assumption. Still, hearing a man approaching fifty call his thirty-something-year-old consciousness 'son' felt deeply unsettling.
Charlie's thick brow furrowed for a moment, his faded denim eyes scanning the Alex from his neat hair to his clean sneakers. A low, rumbling chuckle, like gravel shifting, escaped him.
"Hirin' a bartender, you say?" Charlie's odd, mixed accent twisted the word. He rubbed his chin, the scratch of his calluses against his stubble loud in the quiet afternoon. "You look like you're still askin' mommy for lunch money, son. " He paused, a slight smirk playing on his lips. "And I don't mean that as an insult, just an observation. You look… fresh. Never seen you here before."
Alex forced a casual, confident smile. "I'm older than I look, Charlie. And I'm a fast learner. More importantly, I've spent enough time on the other side of the counter to know what makes a good one." He kept his tone measured, attempting to inject a gravitas that his new, high voice simply lacked. He relied entirely on the psychological weight of his past—years spent observing the bar's rhythm and the demands of the service industry.
Charlie leaned in, resting his heavy elbows on the polished mahogany. The air around him carried the faint smells of stale beer, lemon polish, and wood. "Fast learner ain't the same as experienced, kid. This ain't some soda shop. We pour **whiskey** here. And a lotta it." He glanced over at the girl polishing glasses. "Susie, here, is my best, been with me five years. Even she messes up a Gin and Tonic when it gets busy." Susie grunted softly in agreement.
"Then give me a trial," Alex urged, the necessity of establishing routine suddenly feeling urgent. He needed this for grounding, not just for the money. "Thirty minutes. Put me to work clearing tables, washing glasses, whatever. If I drop a tray, burn down the kitchen, or scare off a customer, you don't pay me a dime, and I walk out. If I'm good, even half-decent, you give me the lowest position you got."
Charlie considered the proposal, his eyes narrowing, then widening in appreciation. He snapped his fingers. "Okay, I like the moxie. It's boring right now. Let's see how well you take instruction." He pointed toward the back. "The dishwasher is clogged. Fix it, and you get thirty minutes of my time. Deal?"
---
Fixing a commercial dishwasher. Of course. Glamour was clearly not part of this new beginning. He nodded curtly and followed Charlie's directions to a small, cluttered room dominated by a large, hissing stainless-steel machine. The air was thick and humid, heavy with the stench of industrial soap and the decomposition of old food scraps. It was a miserable contrast to the fresh air of his morning jog.
As he wrestled with the machine's drain trap, pulling out a vile combination of discarded lime wedges, sodden napkins, and what looked like a half-melted plastic straw, his mind began its self-reflective routine. This was the grime his old self had outsourced and forgotten—the necessity of physical, unglamorous labor. His previous life, spent behind a desk, would have meant calling a technician. This new, young body, however, was surprisingly strong and effective at manually clearing a disgusting commercial drain.
"This", he thought, wiping his hands on a greasy rag, "is what youth is for" . It wasn't just for running, but for the messy, sweaty tasks that provide a tactile sense of purpose. He felt a surge of genuine, simple accomplishment—the satisfaction of solving a tangible problem, far more fulfilling than any corporate praise.
Smelling faintly of soap and successful labor, he rejoined Charlie at the bar. "Drain's clear. The pump gasket looks like it needs replacing soon, though," he reported, leaning confidently on the counter.
Charlie's eyebrow arched, genuinely impressed by the unexpected diagnosis. "Alright, kid. Thirty minutes. Wash these dishes, fast. Susie, you keep an eye on him. If he breaks anything, it comes outta his nonexistent paycheck."
The next half hour was a focused blur of action. Plates were stacked efficiently, glasses squeaked under his polishing rag, and sticky counters were quickly sanitized. He didn't just clean; he organized, mentally noting that the bottles behind the bar were slightly out of sequence and the beer taps needed a thorough scrubbing. His years as a regular had taught him efficiency through observation.
---
When the thirty minutes were up, Charlie slammed his hand down on the counter, making the bar ice rattle. "Alright, alright. You're fast, and you actually seem to have common sense, which is a damn sight more than I can say for the last three guys I hired. You're not touching a bottle of booze, though. Not yet."
He anticipated the restriction. "Deal."
"You start tomorrow. Busser and glassware. You work the cleaning shifts, you stock the fridges, and you follow Susie's orders like gospel. You keep your head down, you work your ass off, and maybe, maybe, I'll let you touch a cash register in a month. Ten bucks an hour, under the table for now. We'll talk taxes and forms after you prove you're not gonna bolt."
Ten dollars an hour. It was barely a living wage, but it was a start. It was the grounding rod he needed in this unstable new world. "I'll take it," he said, extending his hand.
Charlie's massive, calloused hand firmly gripped his. "The name's Michael. But around here, you can call me Mike," he supplied, settling on a generic, easy name that wouldn't draw unnecessary attention.
"Mike, huh? See you at five AM tomorrow, Mike. We clean the grout before the breakfast rush." Charlie winked. "Welcome to the glamorous life."
Mike walked out of Charlie's bar—his new job—feeling a strange mixture of relief and bathos. He had a direction, a routine, and a paycheck.
Mike walked home as the sun set, turning the clouds orange and purple. The neighborhood was quiet and cool. He stopped at a grocery store and bought ingredients for a substantial dinner—chicken, rice, and fresh vegetables. No more low budget fare: he was earning his keep now
-
The morning air in the Northwood neighborhood was crisp and clean, tasting faintly of dew-dampened pine needles and freshly cut grass. Alex, clad in a comfortable gray sweatshirt and black athletic shorts, breathed deeply, enjoying the quiet rhythm of his own footsteps. He wasn't jogging today, just walking—a conscious effort to soak up the peace before the daily demands of his new life began. The sun, still low on the horizon, cast long, flattering shadows across the paved streets, turning the morning into a painting of muted gold and soft blue.
Alex had deliberately chosen a longer, winding route, taking him away from the busy main roads and through a quiet, tree-lined cul-de-sac he hadn't explored before. This feeling of discovery, of finding a new pocket of tranquility, was something he cherished in this strange, re-calibrated existence. He felt good; physically strong, mentally alert, and the residual cynicism from his past life was gradually being eroded by the sheer, simple pleasure of movement.
He paused at the apex of a slight hill overlooking a small, perfectly manicured park. The silence was profound, broken only by the distant call of a crow and the gentle *shhh-shhh* of his own breath. He pulled his phone from his pocket, not to check messages, but to glance at the time. 7:15 AM. Perfect. He had just enough time to complete the loop, grab a quick shower, and prepare for his early afternoon shift at Charlie's. The thought of pouring drinks and scrubbing floors was oddly comforting; it was stability, a predictable tether in a world that occasionally felt like it was spinning too fast.
As Alex started his descent down the hill, he noticed the van.
It was a standard, black Ford Transit cargo van, parked oddly about fifty feet ahead, just beyond a large oak tree. It was unremarkable in its appearance—no windows, dull matte black paint—but its location was strange. It was pulled over in a spot where there were no houses, facing the wrong direction for a delivery, and the engine was running, humming quietly but audibly in the stillness.
Alex, ever the observer, mentally flagged it. *Odd place for a work vehicle this early.* He didn't slow his pace, but his attention sharpened. The neighborhood was quiet, but not deserted. There were always a few early risers walking dogs or checking mail. He glanced around; today, however, the street was entirely empty.
As he drew closer, moving with the deceptive ease of his new physical conditioning, the rear doors of the van suddenly swung open.
The action was fast, brutal, and entirely unexpected. Two figures, large and dressed in matching dark gray jumpsuits, sprang out. They didn't shout or issue warnings. They moved with a frightening, practiced precision that instantly shattered the morning peace.
Alex's reflexes, honed by his revitalized body, flared immediately. Instinctively, he pivoted, planning to sprint back up the hill. But the first figure was already on him, moving quicker than any ordinary human should. Before Alex could even plant his foot for acceleration, a sharp, searing pain exploded just beneath his ear.
It wasn't a punch. It was the blunt, heavy strike of a specialized object—a baton or a weighted sap—applied with calculated force. The world immediately tilted, colors swam, and a high-pitched ringing sound drowned out the crow.
He stumbled, desperately trying to keep his footing, his hand flying to the burning spot on his neck. He tried to fight, to yell, but his muscles were already beginning to betray him. A profound, debilitating weakness spread through his limbs, heavy and numbing, like ice water flooding his veins. *A sedative*, his mind registered frantically. *They're using a chemical agent.*
The second figure secured him from behind, wrapping a thick, muscular arm around his chest, locking his arms to his sides. Alex thrashed, summoning the full, desperate strength of his young body. He bucked, aiming his heel blindly backward, but the hold was iron.
"Easy, subject," a low voice rumbled directly into his ear, utterly devoid of emotion. "No need to fight what's inevitable."
The struggle was brief, pitifully so, given the sheer speed and efficiency of his assailants. His knees buckled as the sedative took full effect. He felt his eyelids growing heavy, the edges of his vision darkening like a closing curtain.
In the final, fading moments of consciousness, as the men wrestled him toward the gaping maw of the black van, Alex heard the cold, metallic rattle of chains and straps being prepared. The last thought that flickered through his mind was the memory of his own bitter, recent internal monologue: *How long can I stay before the sky catches fire?*
The irony was not lost on him. The fire hadn't come from the sky at all; it had driven up the street in a black van.
They shoved him unceremoniously into the rear of the vehicle, where the interior smelled strongly of ozone, disinfectant, and cold steel. The moment his body hit the floor, heavy-duty nylon straps tightened around his wrists and ankles, securing him to recessed anchor points. A thick, non-translucent cloth bag was instantly pulled over his head, plunging him into absolute darkness and silencing his ragged breathing.
"Secure," the voice reported flatly.
The van doors slammed shut with a sickening, final *thud*. The engine revved instantly, and the vehicle lurched forward, accelerating rapidly. The quiet morning walk was over.
Alex was dimly aware of being jostled violently, his body bouncing against the metal floor. The sedative was now pulling him down fully, extinguishing the last remnants of his awareness. He didn't know who these men were, what group they represented, or why they had targeted him.
The van picked up speed, melting seamlessly into the morning traffic flow, just another unremarkable black vehicle heading toward an unknown, undisclosed laboratory. The cul-de-sac was once again silent, the only evidence of the struggle being a slight scuff mark on the pristine pavement and the lingering scent of ozone, quickly dissipating on the gentle morning breeze. Alex, the former corporate drone, the time-displaced consciousness, was now simply Subject 01, on his way to his first, terrifying, forced experiment.