My Only Familiar Is Me[A Late-Blooming Evolution Story]

I had somehow managed to throw off my own schedule again. I reached the doors of the authorized dealership exactly half an hour after the showroom had officially closed. But instead of locked glass doors and the grim expression of a security guard adjusting the belt around his holster, I was greeted at the entrance by a beaming, impeccably dressed senior manager.

“Mr. Ross?” The guy instantly snapped to attention and raised a hand to his temple in a military salute. “It’s an incredible honor to personally assist a hero and defender of our country!”

“Spare me,” I said with a slight grimace, physically sensing the aura of patriotism radiating off him from a mile away. “I’m late. I haven’t exactly earned any honors today.”

“Not at all, Mr. Ross! I completely understand. Service demands an incredible amount of effort and total dedication,” the manager gushed, laying on the professional flattery as he peered ingratiatingly into my face. “Besides, you acted like a true gentleman. You called me ahead of time and warned me about the unexpected delay. It’s no trouble at all to wait for a customer like you. Are you ready to take a look at your bike?”

“Of course. I don’t want to keep you here any longer after hours.”

“Oh, that’s very kind of you, sir.”

As we crossed the enormous, empty showroom at an unhurried pace, passing cruisers polished to a mirror shine and gleaming chrome choppers, I watched the guy’s fingers tremble slightly with excitement. I couldn’t help thinking about the astronomical sums the country had poured into its decades-long culture of honoring veterans. All day, people had practically bowed before my dress uniform, as if I’d personally thrown myself in front of a sniper’s bullet to save the president on the White House lawn.

We stopped in the very center of the custom-bike section, right beside the undisputed king of the showroom. It was a top-of-the-line American sportbike, the Buell Hammerhead 1190. It had the highest horsepower rating in the entire lineup. A genuine masterpiece of engineering: an aggressive cast silhouette, the heavy matte sheen of the metal, and pure power that seemed to radiate from the massive V-twin engine block. The only major drawback for me was the color, an obnoxiously bright shade of red. That kind of attention-grabbing style would’ve suited the flamboyant Celine far better. I’d always preferred something as understated, utilitarian, and practical as possible. Deep gray, for example.

“Can it be repainted quickly?” I asked while comparing the serial numbers on the frame against the technical specifications I’d read online in the taxi.

“Of course, Mr. Ross! Any color you want, any shade from our palette. Whatever you like. Better yet, our certified customization partner would be happy to give you a personal fifty-percent discount as an officer,” the manager chirped, rubbing his hands together eagerly. “We could arrange everything right now, file the paperwork, and you could pick up a finished, custom-painted sportbike from the shop in just two or three days.”

“I don’t have three days to wait.” I finished my quick visual inspection of the components and assemblies without finding the slightest hidden defect, scratch, or oil leak. “I’ll repaint it later, on a free weekend when it’s convenient. Your official website says I can purchase the bike right now with all the necessary paperwork, temporary tags, and insurance already taken care of. Is that correct?”

“Yes, sir! Absolutely!” His smile stretched almost from ear to ear, while his widening pupils were already dancing with visions of his personal sales commission. “All the forms and the insurance policy have already been printed and are waiting in my office. Just a couple of signatures, and this beauty is officially yours!”

In the office, I read every line of the fine print in the sales contract with the scrutiny of a professional auditor. Finding no hidden fees, traps, or legal loopholes, I confidently signed the required documents in triplicate.

“Excellent. One final step: payment.” With a slight bow, the manager handed me a wireless payment terminal. “You’ve got a card, right?”

I silently pulled the plastic from my wallet and tapped it against the top of the terminal. While the banking request was processed by a remote server and the standard loading wheel spun across the screen, I noticed the guy’s expression change almost imperceptibly, but in a very specific way. The carefully maintained mask of professional friendliness cracked for an instant.

“Something wrong with the transaction?” I asked evenly.

“No, no, Mr. Ross. Everything’s perfectly fine.” The manager waved his hands hastily, with so much emotion that the reaction became completely unconvincing.

“And yet? I noticed your reaction. Just tell me what you’re thinking.”

“Well... it’s just that you have an ordinary, basic bank card. Nothing premium.” The guy awkwardly coughed into his fist and looked away. “I just... you see, I’m used to seeing customers handle amounts this large with top-tier gold, diamond, or platinum cards from Centurion or J.P. Morgan. I’m sorry if I came across as tactless.”

“On the contrary, thanks for the information,” I replied sincerely, filing that little detail away in the halls of my mind.

It was genuinely valuable information about social status signaling. I still had my old, standard payroll card, the same one I’d been issued back when I worked at the accounting firm. Its functionality had always been more than enough for me, but in the future, if circumstances required me to convincingly pose as a millionaire or influential tycoon, this embarrassing little detail about my cheap plastic could completely blow my cover. I’d have to stop by the bank and fix that oversight.

At that moment, an emergency notification from the bank’s security service appeared on my smartphone. I quickly confirmed through the app that I was indeed the one making a large transaction in the Washington suburbs. The terminal immediately unlocked, let out a victorious beep, and printed a long receipt totaling nearly two hundred thousand dollars. Yes, I had to admit to myself that it was one hell of a price for two wheels and a souped-up engine. But as the old sages liked to say, what’s the point of having a lot of money if you can’t spend it right here and now to make your life better?

“Thank you very much for your purchase, Mr. Ross.” Beaming with happiness, the manager handed me a hefty key fob with profound respect. “I’ve already added your information to the VIP customer list for our national network. You can call my personal number anytime, day or night, if you decide to upgrade your garage again.”

I silently accepted the business card from the crafty little bugger. As someone with extensive experience dealing with corporate salespeople, I understood his exuberance perfectly. Customers like me came along once in a million for an ordinary sales manager. He hadn’t needed to dance for me, unleash his full arsenal of salesmanship, overcome objections, or pressure me into buying insurance. All he’d needed to do was be in the right place at the right time when a well-dressed man walked into the showroom and walked out with the most expensive item on the floor without asking any unnecessary questions.

I pulled the included full-face carbon-fiber helmet snugly over my head, slid the key into the ignition with a short metallic click, and smoothly twisted the rubberized throttle. The heavy V-twin engine instantly answered with a deep, guttural roar, and I physically felt that colossal mass of iron power surging through my hands.

The Buell Hammerhead launched forward like it had been fired from a catapult. It took a pathetic couple of seconds to hit a hundred miles per hour. At speeds that insane, an ordinary person would have seen the world around them instantly smear into one solid gray blur. Not me. With my heightened reflexes and drastically accelerated perception, the road remained crystal clear, every detail comfortably within my field of vision. I took the sharp turns exactly where I needed to, without the slightest strain, and threaded the bike with surgical precision between the cars frozen in evening traffic, never once considering slowing down.

If necessary, I could probably push this bike to a ridiculous five hundred miles per hour by activating [Special Command] and boosting my reaction speed even further through hyperfocus. I’d definitely test that theory someday, but not today. Today, I was simply enjoying the flawless mechanics of my expensive new toy and the shocked faces of the drivers as my red projectile shot past them in a silent blur.

I reached the gates of the military base roughly three times faster than I’d crawled through traffic in a taxi that morning. The new guard at the checkpoint, with Nelson nowhere in sight this time, blinked sleepily as he stared at the futuristic lines of my sportbike. I mentally snorted, perfectly aware that by tomorrow morning, gossip would have spread news of my purchase across the entire base.

“Sir...” The kid shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other, eyeing the tires. “Is that... is that yours?”

“No, son. Mom let me borrow it for the evening so I could run to the grocery store,” I said dryly without lifting my tinted visor. “Open the gate, Private.”

“But... sir, regulations say personal vehicles aren’t allowed on base...”

“Private, have you forgotten how to read the rank insignia on my uniform in the dark?” My voice instantly turned cold, taking on a hard, commanding edge. “There’s a designated parking lot for Corps officers directly behind headquarters. Move.”

“No, sir!... I mean, yes, sir! One second, sir!”

The heavy metal gates groaned as they slid apart. I smoothly rode onto the base and parked the bike on a mostly empty asphalt lot, carefully setting the kickstand directly across from Dillon’s massive SUV. From the shade of the trees, I had a perfect, unobstructed view of the angular windows of his command office. The windows were tightly covered by gray plastic blinds, but my enhanced vision easily let me make out everything happening through the narrow half-inch gap.

The scene was exactly what I expected. The bottle of bourbon on the desk had been drained to the last drop. Dillon himself hadn’t even bothered to take off his duty belt. He had simply dropped his head onto a greasy stack of reports and was dead asleep, drooling all over government forms. Pathetic. After my stern warning that morning about the possibility of a court-martial, this man had chosen to get completely wasted and escape reality instead of immediately getting his act together, restoring order to the barracks, and frantically fixing his own mistakes. Well, I’d seen more than enough to make my final decision. His potential for improvement was zero. I would prepare an official report and send it to the ministry. Leaving someone like him in command of a combat unit was an unacceptable operational risk.

The moment I shut off the engine and took a couple of steps toward the residential blocks, an extremely pleased-with-himself Ted appeared beside me. The kid was practically bouncing in place from sheer excess energy.

“No incidents or violations of regulations were recorded during your absence, sir!” Ted barked the words so loudly and theatrically that his booming voice probably carried all the way to the far end of the women’s barracks. “Everything was under my personal supervision!”

“Turn it down,” I told the hyperactive teenager sternly, giving his disheveled appearance an appraising look. “What exactly were you doing on base while I was gone?”

“Running the troops through drills, sir! Turning that tender civilian meat into juicy Army chops!” He proudly lifted his chin and saluted, clearly quoting some line from an old B-movie.

“You? Training a platoon?” I looked him up and down with the most critical, skeptical expression I could manage. “A teenager who only set foot on this base for the first time yesterday?”

“What’s so hard about it, Tom?” Ted flashed a cocky, boyish grin and shrugged carelessly. “I just sent them outside and told them to repeat all the exercises they’d already been doing. All I had to do was stand off to the side with my hands in my pockets and yell at the slackers who tried to get out of it. Leading people is ridiculously easy! Besides, after the ass-chewing you gave the local brass last night, nobody in the barracks even dares talk back to me anymore. They’re all behaving themselves.”

“Don’t let it go to your head too soon.” I looked him straight in the eye, my expression serious enough to make his smile fade slightly. “Authority earned through someone else’s fists disappears the moment a real threat shows up. Tell me instead, what does the rest of the personnel do in their free time?”

“There isn’t much to do around here. Not a lot of options,” Ted said, some of his swagger draining away as he shoved his hands into his pants pockets. “There are a couple of game rooms with ancient computers, but there are barely any working machines, and the entire battalion wants to shoot virtual terrorists in multiplayer shooters. The wait’s like three hours. You can always mess around online on your own phone, though. At least the Wi-Fi here is completely free and somehow reaches even the bathrooms. And, of course, you can quietly get drunk with the guys, but...”

He suddenly stopped, glanced around nervously, and lowered his voice to barely more than a whisper.

“That’s actually strictly forbidden by regulations.”

“Forbidden to the point that just last night the senior recruits were knocking back cheap beer and smoking cigars right in the middle of the barracks,” I said, mentally kicking the irresponsible drunkard Dillon once again. “How do they even get alcohol through the perimeter without anyone stopping them?”

“They already explained the whole setup to me. The guys just leave base on authorized passes and stock up at the nearest liquor store. And the guards at the checkpoint are our own guys, so they never search their buddies’ backpacks.”

“Dillon hands out passes to these snot-nosed teenagers that freely?” I asked, genuinely surprised.

During our morning conversation, the hungover commander had struck me as a cowardly, aging opossum. People like that were usually terrified of any unnecessary responsibility and would never let a bunch of uncontrollable minors with superpowers wander off base without a damn good reason. There would be far too many problems waiting for them when the kids came back.

“That’s the thing. He doesn’t,” Ted said, confirming my worst suspicions with a nod. “The guys were talking about it in the smoking area. Apparently, there’s no way to just walk into the lieutenant’s office and beg for an official pass, no matter how much you humiliate yourself in front of his desk. But headquarters automatically issues them for so-called ‘special family circumstances.’ A sudden funeral for some third cousin in Ohio, another nephew being born in Texas, a grandmother falling seriously ill... Basically, whenever somebody has one of those tragedies, the lucky bastard disappears from base for a couple of days, then comes back with huge backpacks stuffed to the brim with all kinds of banned goodies and enough booze for the whole company.”

A cold sense of disgust stirred inside me. The picture was finally complete. This was not an elite Corps training facility. It was a full-blown, rotten county jail with an established internal smuggling network, forged documents, and corrupt guards willing to look the other way for their cut. And this mess, which undermined the very foundation of national security, needed to end as quickly as possible.