Page 6 of Reclaimed

In the living room, a bottle of whiskey sits beside the PlayStation controller on the coffee table where I left it. My fingers curl around the neck of the half-empty bottle, flicking off the cap as I sink down into the soft leather of my recliner. Heat blazes a trail down my throat as I bring it to my lips and take a long pull.

Fuck, it feels good to relax.

Shifting forward, I set it down and grab the controller, blue light glowing from the console as it hums to life. The title screen loads as I recline back and open the same campaign I’ve been playing for months. And without anyone to bother me or reasons to leave, I should be able to finish it before my next assignment.

The cinematic back story plays out before dropping me at my save point. I select my weapon and mount my horse, the character cutting across the Wild West to gather supplies for the mission.

All the real-life bullshit ceases to exist as I get sucked into the game's trance. Until another ping cuts through the speakers, that is.

For fucks sake.

With a sigh, I hit pause and rock forward, my controller skittering across the glass table. I pluck up the whiskey and swallow another mouthful as I push to my feet. I knew I should've put it on silent the second I got that confirmation text from Wade. I don’t bother to check who it was from before I start holding down the side button, the phone starting to power off as the notification pops again.

Client: The Registry

Request: Asset Recovery– Alive

Completion Payout: $4,500

I release my hold, and out of sheer curiosity I open the contract. A set of hazel eyes stare back at me from the screen as it loads, 'A311: Level Three Threat' flashing in red beneath her picture. I skim over the asset’s profile, not a single thing clueing me in on how a meek little girl managed to achieve level three status.

Leaning forward, I rest on my forearms and scroll through the report.

Apparently, her guardian defaulted, so yesterday morning The Registry sent a set of enforcers to collect. Standard process, blah, routine procedure, blah. Then somehow, this 5'3" unassuming house pet stabs one in the neck, barely missing the carotid, and takes off running. Instead of giving chase– the logical fucking thing– the other armed idiot fired off two shots, only managing to damage her cuff and knock it offline in the process. They attempted to search, but without her tracker actively updating, they quickly lost her trail. Morons.

I click back to her picture and prop a hand under my chin. There's something in her eyes. At first, I mistook it for resignation, but the longer I study her, the more I think it's defiance.

Interesting...

Most of the assignments I receive involve some affluent prick going through predictable routines. They’ll throw a weak left hook before crumpling to the floor, begging me to stop. Some even offer to pay me, never realizing it’s the same money that put me on their doorstep in the first place. One man’s blood money always bankrolls the next bastard's downfall.

But this one feels different. Exciting, even.

I finish off the rest of the whiskey, glass clinking as I drop the empty bottle into the recycling bin before walking towards my room. My thumb clicks accept, a smirk tugging at the corner of my mouth. It spreads across my face as I start gathering up my gear.

Guess the day off will have to wait.

Time to hunt down some prey.

3

JERSEY

A311

"Shhh, Jersey girl," my father coos, wrapping an arm around my shoulders. "It's just a bad dream, you're safe."

Leaning against him, I bury my tear-stained face in his flannel. The gritty, artificial citrus scent of the mechanic's soap he always uses floods my senses and my heart rate starts to slow.

"But it felt so real," I say, my voice thin.

"I'm sure it did," his knuckles brush gently against my cheek. "The cruelest nightmares are those disguised as dreams."

I sniffle, brows furrowing as I glance up at him. "How do I tell the difference, then?"

"Because monsters aren't real," he chuckles, pressing his lips to my forehead. "Now get some sleep, my sweet girl."

"Okay," I whisper, yawning.