Prolong

Sterling Archer was widely regarded as one of the most dangerous spies in the world. However, no one in their right mind would call him the perfect spy. His missions were often chaotic disasters, with blown covers, unnecessary destruction, and constant peril—not just for himself but for his entire team.

That recklessness had finally caught up to him, leaving him lying in a hospital bed in a deep coma. No one knew when—or if—he would ever wake up.

"Doctor, will Sterling ever wake up?" Malory Archer's sharp tone cut through the sterile silence of the hospital room.

The middle-aged woman stood near the bed, her steely blue eyes fixed on the still figure of her son. Sterling Archer, ISIS's top agent, was fresh out of emergency surgery after being critically wounded during his latest mission. For all his near-miraculous recoveries in the past, this time felt different.

Malory Archer wasn't just his mother; she was also the Chief Executive Officer of ISIS. She was a formidable woman, known for running her intelligence agency with ruthless efficiency, biting sarcasm, and scathing critiques. In her hand, as always, was a glass of alcohol.

Tough, vindictive, and relentless, Malory was a veteran of countless dangerous missions herself. She knew the cost of their line of work and didn't shy away from making sacrifices—including others' lives if it served her purpose. At sixty-four, her striking appearance and impeccable grooming still turned heads. Her short-cropped gray-black hair framed a face that, despite its age, retained sharp angles and a disarming smirk painted with crimson lipstick.

"Well, he's stable for now," the doctor, a man in his mid-forties with glasses and a nervous demeanor, replied. "Honestly, it's a miracle he's alive. His injuries were—"

"That's not what I asked," Malory interrupted, her voice cutting like a razor. "When. Will. He. Wake. Up?"

The doctor hesitated, unnerved by her piercing glare. "It's hard to say. Comas are unpredictable, and recovery can take weeks, months, or—"

"Spare me the textbook answers, Doctor," Malory snapped. "It's been five days, and he hasn't moved a muscle. He's survived injuries that would have killed anyone else a hundred times over. What makes this time so different?"

The doctor opened his mouth to respond, but before he could, Lana Kane stepped forward.

"Malory, calm down," Lana said firmly. Her voice carried the no-nonsense authority of someone used to dealing with Malory's outbursts. "The doctor just said he's out of danger. That's a good thing. Be grateful he's even alive."

Malory turned to Lana with an incredulous look. "Grateful? Easy for you to say! It's not your son lying there."

Lana, arms crossed, shot back with her usual dry wit. "Don't get me wrong—I care about Archer. But grateful? Please. The man is a walking disaster. If he never wakes up, I might actually get a decent night's sleep for once."

Her words hung in the air, half-joking but laced with frustration. Malory snorted, but her frown didn't waver. Beneath her tough exterior, the fear of losing her son gnawed at her. For all their dysfunction, Sterling Archer was still her son, and the thought of him never waking up was a possibility she wasn't ready to face.

Clink! Clink!

Malory clenched the glass in her hand, the sound of shattering glass echoing in the hospital room as alcohol and shards scattered across the floor. Her grip trembled slightly, but her face remained an unyielding mask of anger and grief.

"Okay, ladies, please calm down!" The doctor's voice wavered as he raised his hands in a placating gesture. "This is a hospital, and we can't have any disturbances here. Ms. Archer, I do apologize for not addressing your question more clearly earlier. As I was saying, we're not entirely sure how long your son will remain in his coma. There's no way to predict when—or even if—he'll wake. All we can do is wait and hope."

Malory's steely composure cracked slightly, her voice lowering to a tone rarely heard from her. "Is there really nothing you can do to help him?" she asked, her eyes fixed on Sterling's motionless figure.

The doctor sighed heavily, his face solemn. "I'm sorry, Madam. At this point, all we can do is monitor his condition and hope for the best."

Without waiting for further permission, he turned and left the room, muttering apologies under his breath.

"Malory… I'm sorry for what I said earlier," Lana began, her voice tinged with guilt.

"Stop," Malory cut her off sharply. "I want to be alone with Sterling. Leave."

The hurt in her voice was unmistakable, but Malory's pride wouldn't let her acknowledge it outright. Lana hesitated but ultimately nodded, stepping out of the room reluctantly, leaving mother and son alone.

Outside, she found the doctor waiting near the door, his expression serious.

"Oh, it's you," Lana said, raising an eyebrow. "Something you want to ask me, Doctor?"

"Actually, yes," he replied, his tone cautious. "There's something… unusual about Mr. Archer's condition. A few days ago, we detected strange substances in his blood, along with some highly irregular brain activity. It's unlike anything we've seen before. You wouldn't happen to know anything about this, would you, Miss Kane?"

Lana's emerald-green eyes narrowed dangerously. "Are you accusing me of something, Doctor?" Her voice dropped to a low, threatening tone, the kind that often preceded a violent outburst.

"No! I mean… no, of course not!" the doctor stammered, taking a step back.

"Good," Lana said, stepping closer, her glare unwavering. "Because while I'd love to throttle Archer myself sometimes, I wouldn't do that to my daughter's father. So if you're insinuating I had anything to do with this, I suggest you stop before you find yourself in a hospital bed too."

"Understood!" the doctor blurted, raising his hands in surrender. "I was just… doing my job, that's all. Oh, look! The nurse is calling me! Gotta go!" He turned and hurried down the hallway, his quick steps betraying his nervousness.

Lana watched him retreat before letting out a frustrated sigh. "What the hell did you get yourself into this time, Archer?" she muttered under her breath.

Lana Kane was the daughter of Lemuel Kane, an algae researcher and biochemist, and Claudette Kane, a professor of Public Policy at UC Berkeley who focused on feminist issues. Born and raised in San Francisco, Lana grew up under immense pressure from her academically accomplished parents. They pushed her to excel in every aspect of her life, instilling both discipline and a lingering anxiety. Science fairs, a staple of her youth, were a particular source of stress, often leaving her so nervous that she would throw up in the car on the way.

Her life took an unexpected turn during a protest at a local furrier. About to throw red paint on Malory Archer's new fur coat, she found herself staring down the barrel of Malory's gun. While the other protesters, including Joshua Gray, fled in terror, Lana stood her ground, unflinching. Impressed by her nerve, Malory offered her a job at ISIS. Three weeks later, Lana was on her first mission in Tunisia—killing a man under Malory's direction.

Now, years later, Lana left the hospital after visiting Sterling Archer, her thoughts a whirlwind of anger and frustration. She drove straight to ISIS headquarters, her jaw clenched as she parked and stormed inside. Descending to the laboratory, she found Dr. Algernop Krieger in the middle of an experiment. The lab reeked of chemicals, and Krieger's maniacal laughter echoed off the walls.

"Krieger!" Lana's voice rang out, sharp and angry, as she strode into the lab.

Krieger paused mid-laugh, pulling off his goggles to reveal wide, startled eyes. He was a tall man, standing at 6'1", with brown hair, green eyes, and a perpetually disheveled appearance. His yellow t-shirt and brown tie peeked out from beneath his ever-present lab coat, a uniform that suited his eccentric, borderline dangerous persona.

"What?" Krieger shouted back defensively. "I haven't even done anything… bad! Yet. I think?"

Lana closed the distance between them, her glare enough to make Krieger take a nervous step back. "I'm here to remind you, again, of what will happen if Archer wakes up and isn't himself—or worse, if he turns into something horrible."

Krieger swallowed hard, cold sweat beading on his brow. "W-what? I mean, why would that happen? It's not like I injected him with an experimental serum that I spent a decade working on without any proper testing or oversight…" His nervous chuckle trailed off under Lana's icy stare.

Lana turned on her heel and walked out without another word, leaving Krieger standing in stunned silence. She knew better than to trust him; everyone did. But as much as they threatened him, Krieger's commitment to his experiments—ethical or not—always took precedence.

Once Lana was gone, Krieger muttered to himself, "Why does no one appreciate genius anymore?" He glanced at a hidden escape plan tucked in the corner of his lab. "Still, just in case…"

Meanwhile, Archer remained unconscious in his hospital bed. Little did anyone know, his mind was trapped in a simulated dream world—a cruel loop designed to test and refine him into a better operative.

"Subject has been fully analyzed," a computerized voice intoned.

Status: Alive. Severely wounded. Currently in a coma.

Full Name: Sterling Malory Archer

Code Name: Duchess

Age: 32

Occupation: ISIS agent / Drug Smuggler / Bartender / Chef / Private Investigator

Skill Set Analysis:

Melee Weapons & Firearms: 85/100

(Highly proficient with most melee and firearm weaponry.)

Hand-to-Hand Combat: 75/100

(Skilled in various martial arts.)

Honeypot Skills:

Appearance: 87.8/100 (Slightly diminished by excessive alcohol use.)

Charm: 45/100 (Poor personality and inability to maintain long-term relationships.)

Infiltration & Undercover Work: 40/100

(Frequently compromised due to arrogance or carelessness.)

Drink Mixing: 95/100

(Exceptional.)

Driving Skills: 85/100

(Highly skilled, especially while intoxicated.)

Mission Success Rate: 5/100

(Frequently fails to complete missions efficiently or profitably.)

"Commencing dream simulation to enhance host skill set," the voice continued. "One day in the simulation will equal one year in real time. Failure to achieve a 95.7% success rate will result in disciplinary brain shocks."

Inside the dream, Archer's mind reeled as the first simulation began.

Back in the dimly lit ISIS laboratory, Lana's heels clicked sharply against the tiled floor as she made her way out of Krieger's lab. She clenched her fists, her frustration barely contained. The strange green liquid Krieger had injected into Archer still weighed heavily on her mind, especially now that Archer was trapped in a coma, and the doctor's concerns about "irregular brain activity" only made matters worse.

Lana paused in the hallway, glancing back toward the lab. She hated relying on Krieger, knowing full well how unhinged he was, but if anyone could explain what was happening to Archer's body, it was him. The question was whether he would ever give her a straight answer.

Her thoughts wandered back to Archer himself. As insufferable as he was, his recklessness, arrogance, and immaturity didn't mean she wanted him dead—or worse, turned into some science experiment gone wrong. For all his faults, he was still Sterling Archer: ISIS's top agent, AJ's father, and the one person who always managed to get under her skin like no one else could.

"No," she muttered to herself, shaking her head. "This isn't about feelings. It's about getting answers."

Lana reached for her phone and dialed Malory's number. It rang twice before the older woman's voice snapped through the line.

"What now, Lana?" Malory's tone was sharp, her irritation clear.

"I just left Krieger's lab," Lana said, keeping her voice steady. "He's still not telling us everything about what he injected Archer with. I think we need to push him harder, Malory. If this gets worse—"

"Lana, do I need to remind you that I've already threatened to disembowel that lunatic if anything happens to Sterling?" Malory interrupted, her voice dripping with exasperation. "Believe me, if Krieger knows what's good for him, he'll cooperate. Now, unless you have something useful to add, I suggest you focus on doing your job."

Lana sighed. "Fine. But don't say I didn't warn you if this blows up in our faces."

Hanging up, she stuffed her phone into her pocket and made her way to the ISIS lounge. She needed a drink—or at least some time to clear her head. But even as she poured herself a glass of wine, the nagging feeling that Krieger was hiding something refused to go away.

---

Meanwhile, inside Archer's dream simulation, the world around him continued to shift and morph.

He stood in a dimly lit room, his reflection staring back at him from an ornate mirror. His suit was pristine, his hair perfectly styled, and a glass of whiskey was in his hand. But something felt off. The room was too quiet, too still, as though the very air was watching him.

"Alright, what the hell is this?" Archer muttered, taking a cautious step forward.

A voice echoed from nowhere and everywhere at once. "Welcome, Sterling Archer, to your trial."

Archer's eyes narrowed. "Trial? What is this, some kind of sick game? If this is Krieger's doing, I swear I'll—"

"You are here to improve," the voice interrupted, cold and unyielding. "Your success rate as an agent is abysmal. Your skills, while impressive, are hindered by your arrogance and lack of discipline. This simulation will correct that."

"Oh, great. Another lecture," Archer groaned, rolling his eyes. "You sound just like my mother."

The voice ignored him. "You must achieve a minimum success rate of 95.7% to advance. Failure will result in punishment. Begin."

Before Archer could respond, the room dissolved around him, replaced by a dense jungle teeming with danger. Gunfire echoed in the distance, and Archer instinctively ducked as a bullet whizzed past his ear.

"Okay, fine!" he shouted. "You want me to play along? Let's do this."

Gripping the weapon that materialized in his hands, Archer dove into the underbrush, his instincts kicking into overdrive. But deep down, he couldn't shake the feeling that this was only the beginning of a nightmare he might never wake from.