I closed my eyes, drawing strength not from training protocols but from something they never intended to install.Images of Maeve flooded back—not as mission parameters or tactical variables, but as something warm and real.
“We were together…before I collapsed.” The statement should have triggered warning systems, yet felt more authentic than any mission brief I’d ever received. Much to my surprise, though, the recollection didn’t trigger nosebleeds or synaptic pain. Instead, it steadied my pulse like an anchor in the storm.
Specter tilted his head, observing my physiological response with scientific interest. “Fascinating. The emotional connection appears to stabilize your system.”
More fragments reassembled into a coherent narrative—Maeve caring for me as the poison advanced, holding my head as convulsions wracked my body, her voice steady when my programming fractured. Her fingertips on my face, wiping away blood from my nose, eyes, and ears. How she refused to leave when I ordered her to save herself.
Each memory strengthened me in ways no conditioning protocol could anticipate.
“The emotional variables were considered design flaws in the Prima generation,” Specter continued, watching my struggle. “They tried to correct it with Secunda. With me.” His expression remained clinically neutral, but something flickered behind his eyes—the ghost of what might be envy. “Perhaps they were wrong.”
I straightened, testing my balance. The weakness remained, but didn’t overwhelm me. I splashed water on my face one final time, wiping away the last traces of blood from my nose and ears.
As I moved toward my weapons, something caught the corner of my vision—a flash of red on the nightstand where Maeve had slept. My poker chip. She must have placed it there before leaving.
I approached it slowly, as though approaching a bomb. I picked it up, rubbing my thumb across its surface. The texture against my skin unlocked something buried deeper than any program could reach.
Cigar smoke. Whiskey glasses catching the low light. A private room in the back of a club. High-stakes game. My poker chip stacked among others, but distinctive. My lucky charm.
The memory flowed like water finding its path, without resistance. No headache. No nosebleed. Just clarity.
Brock sat across from me at the poker table, younger, with more hair and fewer lines around his eyes. His expression was different—respectful, almost deferential.
“It’s your turn, buddy,” he said, inhaling the thick cigar smoke. His eyes locked on mine. Realization quickly settled in.
He wasn’t my handler in this memory. He was my—
Partner.
The realization struck with the force of a tactical shock—Not handler and asset. Partners. Equals in the criminal underworld. This was the way we celebrated after a business well done.
Another flash hit: a hotel room with blood-spattered walls. A gun in my hand, my personal weapon. Brock stood beside me, surveying our handiwork.
“Cleanshot,” he said, nodding with approval. “That’s why they always ask for...”
More fragments cascaded through my consciousness with increasing clarity.
A client slid an envelope across a table. “We specifically requested ...” More static where my name should be, a hole torn in the fabric of identity. Perhaps it didn’t even matter. All I could think about was Brock. “Your reputation precedes you.”
Brock’s jaw tightened at the edges. The client barely acknowledged him, despite two of Brock’s attempts to address them.
After the client left, Brock arched his brow at me.
“I don’t think we should’ve taken on this job,” he said, running his hand through his hair. “Something doesn’t feel right.”
I fought the urge to laugh. “They paid half the price upfront, Brock. It’s a standard procedure. No different from any of the other jobs we had taken on. You need to relax.”
“Seriously, I don’t.”
“Brock, man, you need to let it go. I’m doing it. Whether you approve of it or not.”
Another scene: Brock answering a call, his face darkening as he listened. “No, I understand you want…” Static again, like interference on a radio frequency. “But we’re a package deal.”
The client’s voice, tiny through the speaker, “Then maybe we only need one of you.”
My fingers manipulated the poker chip with reflexive dexterity, flipping it across knuckles in a fluid motion my Marionette training never included. The movement belonged to someone else—to me, before I became Reaper.
The memories accelerated, revealing a pattern as clear as target acquisition. Now, I could see it as clear as day. Brock grew increasingly resentful as clients specifically requested me over him. I couldn’tfullyrecall what we did together, just that he hated that I was better at it than he was. My reputation eclipsed his. The partnership became unbalanced. If I wanted to, I could have taken it all.
