Page 8 of Trigger Happy Ending

Is that lightning coursing through my veins? Whatever it is, it’s magnetic. Possibly chemical. Definitely wrong.

Agent O clears his throat. The spell breaks as the tension is severed, but I still feel his unholy stare burning my skin.

“Now you’re both here,” O announces, “let me introduce you. Angel, Bodysnatcher. Bodysnatcher, Angel.”

The dangerous stranger leans back, legs stretched, expression flat. His body language doesn’t exactly scream he’s thrilled to be here. We’ve got that in common at least.

“Drop the codename bullshit,” he says, turning to me. “I’m Soren.”

Holy hell. His voice. Smooth like caramel. Slow, rich, and very, very bad for you.

“You know the rules,” O replies. “No real names.”

The room hums with tension. Oh, excellent. Let the dick-measuring competition begin. Soren doesn’t argue (or whip it out much to my disappointment), he simply reaches for his helmet, as if to leave. The power move lands, and perhaps more importantly, works.

Soren’s metaphorical dick is definitely bigger.

It takes everything in me to keep a neutral face, because who the fuck walks in and demands what I’ve never had the balls to ask? It makes me question my own steel spine.

Or lack thereof.

Soren turns back to me. “Name?”

I clear my throat. “Raine.”

Thirty years alive, and I can count on one hand the people I’ve trusted with my real name. Saying it does something buried deep inside me. Not sure what.

“Okay,” O snaps. “Raine. Soren. Let’s move on.”

He squares his shoulders and gets ready to give the same old spiel I’ve heard dozens of times.

“You’re here today because you’re two of our best. This assignment is one of the most sensitive we’ve sanctioned. It’s highly classified and unlike any you’ve been assigned in the past. If you’re caught, the usual rules apply, and we deny your existence. Clear?”

I nod. I’m pretty sure dark daddy nods too.

“Ultimately, this is a retrieval.” O meets my eyes, then Soren’s. “But there are three phases, and you will need to get your hands dirty for some of it.”

Hands dirty is a polite way of saying, you’re likely going to need to kill people.

“What’s the retrieval?” Soren asks.

O pauses, as if debating which words to use next. “A bioweapon.”

A bioweapon? Well, that’s new.

“It’s a synthetic biotech compound named PARM-17,” O continues. “Injected intravenously, it mutates DNA, giving the subject enhanced reflexes, heightened senses, and accelerated healing. Superhuman strength. Basically, near invincibility.”

Now he has my attention.

I glance sideways at Soren. No reaction. Either he doesn’t buy it, or he’s too dead inside to care. O taps a few buttons on the keyboard and pivots the computer screen towards us and taps play.

A title card flickers on screen Untitled_Test_Subject_2_PARM-17. The footage is grainy and appears to have been recorded some time ago. A shirtless man is strapped to a chair with an IV in his arm. The room looks clinical—maybe a government lab? It’s giving MK-ULTRA-type shit.

The man’s vitals are steady as the two doctors in white lab coats fuss about on screen.

“Can you hear us, Soldier?”

“Yes, sir.”