WDG: INTERLUDE: The Watchdog (2)

A.N.: Continuation of the last chapter(I was unhappy with the former ending)

***

Clarke stood in the observation room, hands clasped behind his back, his gaze fixed on the one-way glass. Behind it, Christopher Alexander Newman stood shirtless, muscles tense beneath the clinical lights as he waited for the tests to begin. The room felt colder than it was—sterile, not just in temperature, but in the atmosphere as well. Clarke’s unease settled somewhere low in his chest. 

Unpleasant.

“Surreal, isn’t it?” Dr. Lindstrom, head of the precinct's medical unit, spoke softly as if she feared breaking the fragile air in the room. She glanced at Clarke, then back at Chris. “Never thought I would see the day.”

Clarke raised an eyebrow. “You don’t approve?”

“To an extent,” she admitted. “Enough to be unsure if this one is worth the risk.”

Risk. That was always the word that followed paranormals, like a shadow. Clarke watched Chris stretch his arms, eyes darting over the unfamiliar equipment, the tension in his shoulders impossible to miss. He felt the same hesitation stir in his gut.

“So, strength first?” Clarke said, changing the topic, his voice steady but coloured by an edge of curiosity.

Lindstrom nodded. “Standard protocol. We’ll run him through the usual—deadlifts, sprints, and muscle responsiveness; the likes. No different than what we’d done for the others.” She tapped the tablet in her hands, a small frown settling on her face. “Just scaled up by a few dozen folds; though, if the reports are accurate, I doubt we would be able to truly push his limits. That’s the thing with paranormals—everything’s magnified. Physicality, reflexes…complexity.”

Clarke turned, watching her eyes linger on the readouts displayed by the techs. “You are suggesting we request an external facility?”

“Yeah,” she said, shrugging slightly. “I mean look at him.”

In the room, Chris gripped a weighted bar the size of tractor tyres, his muscles coiling with effort. The tech by the console called out numbers. The one-ton rose to his waist, then chest, before falling back to the ground with a loud bang.

"He's strong," Lindstrom mused aloud. 

Clarke arched a dubious brow as he shot her a side glance before shaking his head in disbelief. “You don’t think we can handle him?” he asked, dragging the conversation back on track.

“I think,” she paused, choosing her words carefully, “you’re stepping into a realm where the variables are...unpredictable.”

"Chief said to give the kid a chance," Clarke said, his voice quieter now. “And, I do not disagree;  I’ve seen worse turn good.”

“And I’ve seen good turn worse,” Lindstrom countered gently, though without malice. She turned back to her clipboard. “Next is speed. We’ll measure his sprinting speed and stamina, then hand-eye coordination after that.”

Clarke didn’t respond. Instead, he looked through the glass again. Chris was escorted by a physician to an industrial-looking treadmill and instructed to mount it. The paranormal adjusted his stance, rolling his shoulders. Paying closer attention, Clarke noticed a grace to his movements that raised the hairs on his neck. There was something primal about the whole scene that made him uneasy.

The commander watched as his newest recruit launched into a sprint, the numbers on the console beside him rising faster than any human could match. 

Faster, stronger, deadlier. Everything the force would need to inflate its ability to tame this unruly district—everything it feared to face out in the field. Legitimate concerns existed on the matter of bringing in such a volatile element.

Yet, with the brewing storm underneath it all, the question still hung in the air, unspoken but heavy: Could they afford not to use him?

***

Chris sat quietly in the stark briefing room, the antiseptic smell lingering in his nostrils, his muscles still humming from exertion. The chair beneath him creaked slightly as he shifted his weight, tapping his fingers on its armrest, waiting. It was just him and the cold, metal furniture and tall, almost impersonal white walls. He glanced around, noting the zero decorations—nothing to distract from what came next.

Commander Clarke entered the room, a physical file tucked under one arm; the words “Classified: Do Not Copy” were printed on the brown manila in bright red ink. The older man took a seat across from Chris, placing the folder on the table between them. The atmosphere was tense, his usual no-nonsense demeanour firmly in place, though there was something softer about him now—less rigid.

“Well, Newman,” Clarke began. “Impressive performance; I expect the same standard out in the field.”

Chris nodded, his expression unchanging. “Understood, sir.”

Clarke leaned back in his chair, eyeing Chris carefully. A strange silence stretched between them. Chris saw something glimmer in the commander’s gaze; unease.

He was worried. About what? Chris couldn’t tell.

“...Alright,” Clarke said moments later as he cleared his throat. “Let’s make it official; you may review your file before it is returned to the archives. Outside a select few, no one knows the full extent of its contents. I would like for that to remain unchanged.”

Chris nodded as he opened the folder. “Understood, sir.”

“Saving Document,” Karen chimed in suddenly. “Saved to Secure Folder.”

Chris blinked, then sighed before promptly deciding to ignore her.

With a sigh, he turned his attention back to the document. Everything worth knowing about him was in the folder, it seemed. His full name, age, gender. Everything. Chris’ gaze skimmed the length of the report: His Pan-Anomalous Classification(PAC) and his rating on the Pan-Anomalous Severity Index(Psi) remained unchanged from PASIT’s evaluation following his arrest three weeks ago—BRUISER[SHIFTER][5]. Everything detailed in the file was something he already knew… 

Everything except—

“Your alias.” 

Chris looked up to meet Clarke’s gaze. 

“From here on out, in the field,” his commander continued, “you’ll be known as the WATCHDOG.”

“...Sir?”

“You heard me.”

The weight of the declaration slowly anchored itself firmly within Chris. It was more than an alias, it seemed—something about hearing it all laid out made the reality of his situation more real. More permanent. This was who he was now, in their eyes. An experiment. A tool with a number and a file.

A weapon.

Commander Clarke leaned back, his expression unreadable. “Zero-zero-one, WATCHDOG,” he clarified. “The egg-heads in planning chose it; felt fitting, they said, given your… you know.”

The commander made an implying gesture. 

Chris nodded, absorbing the information. “I understand.”

“...There’s no need to rush into your duties today,” Clarke added, a hint of finality in his tone. “Take the day off to rest and prepare. Report back tomorrow for your first assignment.”

“Thank you, sir,” Chris replied.

Clarke stood, gathering the folder as Chris set it down on the table. “Welcome to the team, Watchdog. "And Newman," he said, his tone softer but no less serious. 

“Yes, sir?”

"The chief stuck his neck out for you and has a lot riding on this. I don’t know what kind of relationship you two share but try not to fuck this up. Understood?"

“...Understood, sir.”