Manufacturing a Monster

Lights at the End of the Tunnel, Literally. 

Jacques breached the locked door by slamming a chair into the glass entrance of the secret lab, forcing his way out into an old abandoned barn. As he made his way through the building, he fired two more shots behind him upon hearing suspicious footsteps. 

A thud mixed with a groan echoed through the barn as a guard collapsed lifeless to the floor. 

Spotting several vehicles parked inside—belonging to the guards—Jacques quickly assessed his options. Without a key, he resorted to theft techniques to hotwire a motorcycle and make his escape.

Just as he drove away, he spotted a truck full of guards heading toward the abandoned barn. They saw Jacques but didn't realize he was the person they were supposed to keep locked in the lab. Instead, they simply honked their horn. Jacques honked back, as if they were just two strangers passing each other on the road, exchanging casual greetings. 

This made Jacques smile—not just because the situation was utterly ridiculous, but because it reassured him that he had made the right choice. 

As he thought about it, a thrill ran through him. He felt excitement bubbling at the possibilities of the life he could live now that he was free. One thing was certain—it was time to drop the name. 

The name that was tied to the version of himself that had been locked in the lab, unable to escape. The name that made him feel confined, reducing his existence to nothing more than that of a clone donor. 

He didn't know exactly what he was going to do next, but as a 19-year-old, he knew one thing for sure—he wanted adventure. Just like he had once lived in another timeline.

In one of his timelines, when he finally made the choice that led him to meet Marie and be adopted by her, she let him roam free. He never attended school or any academy. Instead, he traveled across planets on his motorcycle, living as a wild, free man. Leather jacket on his back, hair slicked back, sunglasses shielding his eyes, and a five o'clock stubble on his square, tough-looking jaw—they called him "Byron."

He remembered some people from Planet Alayan who worked in the automotive industry—and in their own secret businesses. Now that Jacques was regaining memories from his past timelines, he recalled some of the friends he had made back then.

There was a guy who owned a goat ranch but was obsessed with motorcycles. He could do custom modifications and loved buying scrap parts. Jacques knew that heading there was a smart move—starting over required money, after all.

The place was just as he remembered it. A wooden building, small like an open hut but packed with machinery. There was a small room that appeared to be a toilet, but in reality, it led to an underground secret stash where stolen motorcycles were stored, waiting to be stripped for parts and used for modifications.

There he was—right where Jacques expected him—wearing a dirty shirt and green shorts, his long curly hair tucked under a snapback, focused on fixing a client's leaking tire.

"Andrew!" Jacques greeted him with a grin.

The curly-haired man looked up, confused. As far as he knew, this was the first time he had ever met Jacques.

"I need to sell my motorcycle," Jacques said, cutting straight to the point, ignoring the silent demand for an explanation.

Andrew, of course, wasn't going to take the bait so easily. He knew better than to trust just anyone—police could disguise themselves, trying to expose his illegal business.

"I don't need a motorcycle, man," Andrew said, continuing to inspect the tire. "But if you're looking to modify one, you can bring me the junk parts you want to work with."

That was it—Andrew was testing Jacques, trying to figure out whether he genuinely wanted to sell his motorcycle or if he was just some cop attempting to expose his business.

Jacques persisted. "That's the one, right out there. And you see, I didn't even need a key to start it."

Andrew smirked. "A kid like you should be studying something instead of stealing."

Jacques shrugged. "I need money."

"I don't have money," Andrew repeated. "You should ask your parents."

"I don't have parents, man," Jacques muttered, looking down at the grass. He wished he could see his mother one last time. "They killed my mother, so I took their bike."

"Touching," Andrew said, continuing his work. "But sorry, we don't buy anything here. Go to Hank, at the end of the road. He'll buy anything."

Andrew pointed toward a road in the distance.

Jacques remembered this game from his previous timeline. If they refused to buy and sent him to Hank, it meant they didn't really need the bike. Even though Jacques already knew the outcome, he decided to play along.

Once again, he reignited the motorcycle and maneuvered toward the direction Andrew had pointed, looking for this so-called "Hank."

At the end of the road, he found a gas station for cars and motorcycles, along with a mini-market. There was only one person outside—an old man with white hair and a small compass tattoo on his forearm. That had to be Hank.

Back in the previous timeline, when Jacques met Andrew, he was 24. Now, at 19, things were different. Andrew used to send him to meet his wife, not someone named Hank. That meant Hank wasn't around in the previous timeline. Was Jacques the only one aware of the time rewind, or were others conscious of it too?

Hank eyed him suspiciously. "What do you want, kid?"

Jacques pointed at the motorcycle. "I want to sell this. I need money."

Hank stepped out of the mini-market and examined the bike. As he calculated how much he was willing to pay, Jacques noticed something new—a motel behind the gas station. That wasn't there before. When Jacques knew Andrew in the previous timeline, this was just a gas station.

The world has changed.

"I can only give you 4,000 credits for this," Hank finally said, patting the motorcycle. "I mean, it's old."

"4,000?" Jacques scoffed. "Dude, this is still in great condition. A brand-new one costs around 12,000 credits. I've ridden it for a while, and I guarantee it's still in perfect shape. 10,000 credits."

Hank smirked. "You've got no keys, which means there's a good chance you stole it."

Jacques shrugged. "They kidnapped me, so why not?"

Hank chuckled. "You're funny, kid." Then he countered, "8,000 credits—that's fair."

"Raise it a little," Jacques pushed.

Hank hesitated for a moment, then shook his head. "8,000 or no deal."

"10,000 is still a cheap price. If you sell the engine and transmission, any bike you strip it for will be worth more than 15,000. It's Mustang, perfect for tiny mobile home, travelers would love it."

Hank smirked again. This kid knew things, "8,500."

"You're frugal! 11,000, or I'm out."

"Alright, 9,500. How about it?" Hank extended his hand. He knew Jacques would take the deal.

Jacques grinned and shook his hand. "Deal!"

***

The military meeting room was deathly silent, the air thick with tension. Dim lights cast long shadows over the polished steel table, where a group of high-ranking officers sat in grim silence. At the head of the room, Jena Russcheau stood rigid, her hands pressed against the surface of the table as she leaned over the terminal. The screen before her replayed the security footage from the lab—frame by frame, second by second.

Her brother lay lifeless on the cold floor, blood seeping across the sterile tiles.

Jena's grip on the table tightened, her knuckles turning white.

A general seated across from her cleared his throat. "Minister Russcheau, with all due respect—"

"Play it again," she ordered, her voice sharp and unwavering.

The footage rewound. The room watched in heavy silence.

There he was. A nineteen-year-old boy, barely more than a ghost in the chaos of the escape. Jacques Durant moved like a specter through the lab, calculated and precise. He dispatched guards with ruthless efficiency, not hesitating, not faltering. Another fell. And another. Then, the screen cut to him hotwiring a stolen motorcycle and vanishing as he drove out of the barn.

Jena inhaled slowly, controlling the fury burning in her chest.

"This is what we allowed to slip through our fingers," she said coldly, straightening. "A government experiment turned into a rogue predator."

A lieutenant shifted in his seat, clearing his throat. "Minister, the reports indicate that the subject—Jacques Durant—is an escaped clone donor. He's of Argonarian descent, which makes him highly dangerous. But that's not the real problem." He hesitated before continuing, his voice lower now. "Marie Durant's contract expired three years ago. The cloning program should have shut down, yet he was still there. If this gets out…"

Jena's eyes darkened.

Jena's fingers drummed against the polished table as her mind raced. She couldn't allow this to turn into a scandal about illegal cloning—if the public caught wind of that, they'd demand inquiries, trials, and accountability from the government. That couldn't happen. Not when her brother's body was still warm.

No, this wasn't about Jacques being an escaped experiment. It wasn't about expired contracts or classified projects slipping through the cracks. She refused to let those facts become his shield.

This was about a murderer on the loose. A ruthless, sadistic killer who had taken the life of an innocent man—her brother. And that was the narrative she needed to control.

Jena turned back to the lieutenant, her voice measured but lethal. "We don't let this become about the program. We make it about him. A rogue Argonarian with unchecked power, slaughtering government personnel without hesitation. A danger to civilians. A threat to society."

She leaned in, her gaze unwavering. "We control the story. We make the public fear him more than they question us."

Jena Russcheau turned her gaze back to the frozen image on the screen—Jacques, mid-action, his movements captured in brutal clarity. Calculated. Precise. Unapologetic.

"This is the story we give them," Jena finally said, her voice smooth and commanding. "Jacques Durant is an Argonarian—a rare genetic specimen. Three years ago, after suffering a catastrophic accident, the government intervened to save his life. His body was too damaged to survive on its own. We cloned his cells to create the organs he needed." She let the words settle before continuing. "We did what was necessary. What was right."

Some of the officers exchanged glances. The reality was far more complicated than that. The cloning facility had continued its work even after Jacques had recovered, going so far as to attempt creating additional clones of him. But none of that could come to light.

Jena's fingers tapped against the table. "And how did he repay us? With violence. With murder. He turned against the very people who saved him." She let a small, bitter smile curve her lips. "A rebellion against humanity itself."

The lie was crafted with precision—close enough to the truth to be believable, but tailored to shift public sympathy away from Jacques.

She turned to one of her aides. "Release a statement to the press. Keep the focus on his Argonarian genes, his survival through our intervention, and his unprovoked attack." Her tone sharpened. "We need the public to see him as a traitor to the hands that fed him."

A lieutenant hesitated. "And if people start digging into the cloning facility? The legal—"

"They won't." Jena cut him off. "Not if they're too busy fearing him."

She straightened. "I want Jacques Durant alive. He will face trial and answer for what he's done. We don't let him become a martyr or a victim of circumstance. We make sure the world sees him as nothing but a murderer."

Her next call was to Instructor David.

The man had once trained Jacques when he was a police cadet. If anyone knew what kind of weapon Jacques had become, it was him.

The screen flickered as the call connected. Instructor David's face appeared—weathered, stern, and unsurprised.

"Minister," he greeted, tense as he struggled to understand why the Minister of Security would summon a mere instructor like him.

Jena wasted no time. She projected a holographic display of Jacques Durant's profile picture. "Are you familiar with him?" 

"Oh, he was a student of mine—Jacques Durant," David confirmed, his expression neutral. "What happened, Minister?" 

"There was an incident at the laboratory that claimed the lives of several government officers, mostly guards. He is responsible for it." 

David was visibly taken aback. His eyes blinked rapidly as he exhaled through his nose, attempting to steady himself. He pinched the bridge of his nose, regaining his composure. This was exactly what he had feared the most—a cadet of law enforcement turning into a ruthless murderer. 

Jena smirked, catching the flicker of unease in his expression. This was turning out better than she had anticipated—she might not even need to pressure this man into twisting Jacques's history as a cadet. 

"You look shocked, Instructor," she mused, her tone laced with amusement.

David leaned back in his chair. "That boy—he was trouble. Brilliant, strong, but reckless. A natural fighter, but his methods were…" He hesitated. "Unorthodox. Sometimes brutal. He had no patience for authority, and he bent the system when it suited him. If he thought a rule didn't make sense, he ignored it." His gaze darkened. "And he was damn good at getting away with it."

Jena felt a slow, victorious smile curl on her lips.

This was exactly what she needed.

A lawless, dangerous rogue. Someone who could be framed not as a victim, but as a monster in the making.

Her voice was smooth as silk. "Then you agree, Instructor—Jacques Durant is a threat to society."

David didn't hesitate. "One hundred percent."

"Then I will need your help to share this story with the journalists when the news breaks." Jena's smirk widened slightly. "I'll send some reporters your way. All you need to do is tell the tale." 

"Absolutely," Instructor David agreed without hesitation. His expression hardened with conviction.