Brainwave Anomaly Detected

He'd always thought of himself as a barn find—abandoned, dusty, discovered by chance in a forgotten corner of Alberta farmland when he was barely eight.

No birth certificate, no papers, just a feral kid smuggled quietly over the border with a truckload of hay. From there, the darknet became his nursery, anonymity his mother tongue. By nineteen, he wore a sheriff deputy's uniform, starched and impeccable, bought with carefully laundered Bitcoin.

Tonight, in a motel room just a few miles from the tarmac, he methodically checked each piece of equipment. The rifle gleamed like surgical steel under the dim, buzzing fluorescent lamp. He racked a round, savoring the mechanical click—a soothing note of finality. Fake ID, clean plates, and a vehicle fueled and waiting, everything falling perfectly into place, like rehearsed choreography.

He rubbed his temples, feeling an odd, whispering static dance briefly behind his eyes. Just nerves, he told himself. Just anticipation creeping through the brainstem, the adrenaline of a thousand practiced daydreams.

Across the street, inside a white-paneled Homeland Security van disguised as a utility vehicle, the analyst tapped gently at the keyboard, syncing the neural intercept feeds. Cutting-edge airport security scanners had flagged the deputy's distinctive brainwave patterns—heightened aggression mingling dangerously with eerie, crystalline calm.

"He's spiking again," she muttered into her comms, the screen pulsing softly with each synaptic twitch. "Prep the tactical team."

The deputy rubbed his neck, oblivious, dismissing the subtle hum in his skull as pre-game jitters. Tomorrow, the President's arrival would be greeted by chaos and panic, history made by a boy who shouldn't exist.

He set the alarm for dawn and lay down fully dressed, boots still on, the rifle resting gently by his side like an old friend. As sleep claimed him, the distant clicking returned—a rhythmic tapping, steady and faint, like fingers drumming impatiently upon his thoughts.

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