The new "lair," as she liked to call it, was a sprawling complex on the outskirts of some place called Plock. Honestly, she had never even heard of the city before she arrived, but apparently, it existed. And not only that, it was actually kind of charming. Plock was small, quaint, and definitely less crowded than her hometown, where people seemed to outnumber insects (and their lives were valued about the same). Here, it was peaceful. In her old city? Well, stepping outside was like dodging human traffic.
It had been three months since she got here—three long months since she was officially declared dead. In that time, her main achievements were limited to eating and sleeping. That's right: after all the drama about dying and coming back to life as some elite mercenary, she had done nothing but binge-eat and nap like a college student on break.
The place was some kind of secret mercenary retreat, though honestly, it felt more like the world's weirdest nursing home. No one talked. At all. Apparently, conversation wasn't part of the "mercenary lifestyle," because every time she tried to strike one up, she got the silent treatment or, at best, a grunt. The only exception was this one guy, Q3—yep, that was his actual name, not some droid from Star Wars.
Q3 wasn't exactly chatty, but he had at least answered her questions in monosyllables. From what she gathered, this complex was for the lower-level recruits—grunts like her. All the elite candidates were up at HQ, wherever the hell that was. Q3 had been sent here to recover after taking a hit while guarding some rich jerk's bodyguard. Bodyguard to a bodyguard, she had thought. Mercenary inception.
Unlike her, Q3 hadn't been dying when he was recruited. He'd actually been doing grunt work for the local mafia before getting "headhunted"—his words, not hers. She had to admit, the guy was tough, but he had the enthusiasm of a grumpy cat.
Anyway, she was now marking her third-month anniversary in this glamorous retirement home for mercenaries. She was halfway through a sandwich when he showed up again—the trench coat-wearing, eye-patch-sporting, Nick Fury wannabe. Of course, he had to show up when she was mid-bite.
"Ready, are we?" he asked with that annoying little smirk, as if he was about to whisk her away to her doom like it was a fun vacation.
She blinked, still chewing. "Ready for what, exactly? Another surprise offer that somehow makes me want to punch you more than the last one?"
He gave a chuckle, which only made her more suspicious. "Ready to truly die, and if you're lucky... come back to life."
Before she could fire off one of her signature sarcastic retorts, her head began to spin. The last thing she saw was his smug grin as the room blurred and faded. Of course, she thought, her vision going dark, I don't even get to punch him. Typical.
And with that, she was out cold.
———————————————————————————————
The smell of disinfectant hit her before she even opened her eyes. It was the kind of chemical, sterile scent that always made her stomach turn. Her head throbbed like someone had decided to play a drum solo on her skull. She blinked up at the bright, harsh lights overhead. No sounds. No people. Just her and the overpowering smell of bleach.
Oh great, she thought, I've woken up in a zombie apocalypse movie.
But no, this was something far worse. Betrayal. The realization hit her hard. Those people—Patchy and his merry band of weirdos—they'd clearly knocked her out, fattened her up like some kind of human veal, and were probably planning to sell her organs to the highest bidder. Perfect. Just perfect. Here she was, lying in a silent, disinfected room, dead to the world, while they prepped the scalpels.
She let out a groan, rolling onto her side and wallowing in self-pity—a rare event for her, but she figured being prepped for organ harvesting justified it.
Just then, the doorknob turned. She froze.
And in walked him. Trench Coat. Eye Patch. Smug Smirk. And next to him, a woman she didn't recognize. Of course, he still had that same infuriating, self-satisfied grin plastered on his face, like he'd just gotten away with robbing a bank.
Oh, screw him.
She instinctively glanced at her arm to see if they'd at least been kind enough to hook her up to an IV. Nope. No drips, no tubes, nothing. Good. She was not about to do that dramatic yank-the-IV-out-of-my-arm thing they always do in the movies. She wasn't that desperate for attention.
Slowly, she sat up, ignoring the pounding in her head, and made her way over to him. The smugness on his face didn't falter for a second—until she smacked him.
Right in the jaw.
It wasn't a knockout punch or anything, but it got the job done. His head jerked to the side, and for a brief second, his smug smirk disappeared. He looked more stunned than anything, like he hadn't quite expected that reaction. Maybe a thank you? Or at least some gratitude? Too bad.
"That's what you get for lying!" she hissed, feeling a tiny flicker of satisfaction at the surprise in his one visible eye.
He rubbed his jaw, still looking mildly amused, which only pissed her off more. "I wasn't lying," he said, with an annoying calmness. "I just didn't tell you everything."
She threw her hands up. "Oh, how thoughtful of you! Next time you knock someone out and drag them to some creepy bleach-smelling room, maybe leave a note explaining the whole 'you're not actually going to die' part!"
The woman next to him coughed lightly, trying to stifle a laugh, but didn't say anything. Patchy gave her a glance but said nothing either.
"I told you," he said with maddening patience, "the treatment would start when you were ready. And now you are."
She crossed her arms, glaring daggers. "If by 'ready,' you mean 'unconscious and trapped in a disinfectant-scented hellhole,' then yeah, I'm ready as I'll ever be."
He sighed, rubbing his jaw again. "We needed you unconscious to begin the treatment. It's not exactly pleasant, and you probably wouldn't have wanted to be awake for it."
"Well, I wouldn't have minded a heads-up!"
"Noted," he said, still as calm as ever.
She had to admit, he had guts. She'd punched him, and here he was, standing there like she'd just offered him a cup of coffee.