Reaper’s hand twitched at his side. “This isn’t...”
A sudden crash from somewhere in the factory cut him off. We both froze. Reaper moved to the door in complete silence, drawing his weapon. He listened for several seconds, then relaxed marginally.
“Old buildings make noise,” he said, but kept his hand on his gun. “Continue.”
The interruption had set my nerves on edge again. “The files mentioned the Marionette Project.”
“Marionette?” He frowned, testing the word.
“French for ‘puppet,’” I explained. “It was a Cold War experiment. Taking trained operatives and breaking them down until they were perfect, obedient killing machines.”The first time I read the files, I thought it was nonsense. Hell, I even suspected someone was fucking with me. I contemplated throwing the files away, but something urged me to keep them. Urged me to keep on looking. It was hard to believe one of the experiments stood right before me.
“This is ridiculous,” Reaper said, but doubt flickered across his face. He absentmindedly touched his temple, where I’d seen him experience pain before.
“The files led me to Latvia,” I continued, watching him. “I followed leads across Eastern Europe, but kept hitting dead ends. I was about to give up when someone approached me in Riga.” Back then, I was ready to give up. I was burning through my savings with no leads, and I began wondering when I would be forced to stop chasing this crazy theory. Still, something prompted me to keep going. “I was in this dive bar, drowning my frustration in cheap vodka, when someone slid a burner phone across my table. A text message saying they wanted to help me find Xavier.”
“And you just trusted this person?” Reaper scoffed. “That’s spectacularly stupid.”
“You’ve never been desperate enough to do something stupid?” I shot back. “I’m a journalist—I verify everything. And everything this informant told me had checked out that far, no matter how difficult it was to follow their leads.” I shook my head, pressing the bridge of my nose between my fingers. It was hard to believe I was finally saying these words out loud. “Agents like you are a product of the modern Marionette Project. You were probably fallen special forces or intelligence, or hardened criminals before they got to you.Your memories are systematically erased and replaced after each mission. And there’s nothing you can do about it.” Reaper looked like he wanted to say something, but I was left with cold silence. It didn’t surprise me. He was a shell of a man; unsure what was real and what wasn’t. Still, I could tell he wanted to deny it all.
“Think about it,” I urged. “What’s your earliest memory? What did you do last month? Where were you stationed before São Paulo?”
Reaper’s breathing changed subtly, becoming more controlled. He was fighting something internal.
“Let me guess,” I said quietly. “Headaches? Nosebleeds? Moments where things don’t quite make sense? Blackouts that you can’t fully recall?”
His eyes snapped to mine. “How do you...”
“Because that happens when your brain fights the programming,” I explained. “The informant said your mind tries to recover what’s been erased.”
“Enough!” Reaper slammed his fist against the desk, scattering his perfectly aligned crackers. The sudden outburst startled even him; he stared at the mess, momentarily confused.
“Then tell me,” I challenged, heart racing but voice steady. “Tell me about your childhood. Where did you grow up?”
“That’s irrelevant.”
“What was your mother’s name?” I pressed, cutting him off. Ineededthis to sink into his mind. I needed him to know I was telling the truth. “Your first job? Did you have pets growing up?”
A muscle twitched in his cheek. “We don’t all carry around scrapbooks of our past.”
“But you should remember something,” I insisted, forcing myself to hold his gaze despite his proximity. “Everyone has memories—birthdays, holidays, first day of school. Give meanythingyou remember. Anything at all.”
Reaper’s hand unconsciously went to his chest, rubbing it. “This is manipulation. That’s what you do, isn’t it? Twist facts to fit your narrative?”
“I have proof,” I said, heart pounding. This was my gamble.
His eyes narrowed. “What proof?”
“The informant gave me something. A test.” I took a deep breath. “Valkyrie. Umbrella.”
The effect was immediate. Reaper staggered back, one hand flying to his temple. His face contorted in pain, eyes squeezing shut as if fighting something inside his head. A thin trickle of blood appeared from his nostril.
“What… did you say?” he grunted through gritted teeth.
“Trigger words,” I explained, staying where I was. “They use them during conditioning. The informant said they would cause a neurological response you couldn’t control.”
Reaper wiped the blood with the back of his hand, eyes accusing. “Parlor tricks. I’ve been fighting for days with minimal rest.”
“Really? Specific words make you bleed?” I challenged. “It happened in the parking lot earlier. When’s the last time that happened from exhaustion?”
