Patchy—as she liked to call him, or Mr B, had been keeping a closer eye on her lately. Every time she glanced in his direction, she caught him doing that weird thing where he smirked like he knew something she didn't. Today, though, he wasn't just silently judging her progress. No, today he decided to grace her with his wisdom.
"We've set a date for your first mission," Patchy said, his voice as flat and emotionless as usual. He might as well have been telling her the weather forecast. "Two weeks from now."
"Two weeks?" she echoed, feeling her stomach drop. "You said a month!"
"I lied," he said with a shrug. "Deal with it."
She resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Of course, he lied. That was pretty much his thing. He loved to keep people on their toes, probably because his life was so dull that screwing with others was his only form of entertainment.
"And before you panic," Patchy continued, "you'll have someone keeping an eye on you during the operation. Your central resource. She'll be your point of contact, giving you feedback, updates, and any necessary adjustments to the plan."
"Who is this resource?" she asked, trying to sound calm. Knowing him, it was probably someone equally insufferable.
He raised an eyebrow, clearly enjoying her discomfort. "You'll meet her soon enough. Her name's PS."
"Wait, what? PS, like in letters or Piss?" She had to choke back a laugh. That name sounded like something straight out of a bad sitcom.
"I don't name them, the name is earned," Patchy said with a sigh, as though her amusement was just another burden he had to bear. "But she's one of the best. She'll be in constant contact with you, monitoring the situation, and keeping you alive."
Something told her PS, didn't like being called by that name. In fact, something about this whole situation screamed "disaster." Great, not only was she being sent into a mission with guns and god-knows-what-else, but she also had to rely on someone who was probably going to hate her from the get-go.
PS—or as she would come to call her, Penny - made her first appearance during one of her speed tests. You know, those casual little assessments where she ran at speeds that would have gotten her a gold medal at the Olympics if her life wasn't currently a dumpster fire. They were checking how fast she could move now, given the whole "superhuman abilities" thing she still wasn't fully wrapping her head around.
"I could totally go to the Olympics," she muttered under her breath, staring at the numbers on the screen. "Gold medal, easy."
"Yeah, well, too bad. You're stuck with us," Patchy said from behind her, his voice dripping with disinterest.
PS didn't say a word. She just stood there, arms crossed, watching her like she was a lab rat under a microscope. There was something cold in her eyes, a kind of silent disapproval that made the hair on the back of her neck stand up. This woman did not like her, and the feeling was mutual.
"So, this is the speed demon?" P.S. finally said, her voice clipped and professional. "Not bad. But speed's useless if you can't think on your feet."
Oh, wonderful. An overachiever with a superiority complex. Just what she needed.
"I've got feet," she replied, sarcasm thick in her voice. "And I've been thinking with them just fine, thanks."
PS raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Instead, she made a note on her tablet, probably logging some scathing review about how she was too slow or too stupid for the task at hand.
"You'll have to do better than this on the mission," PS said, ignoring her attempt at humor. "There won't be second chances out there."
"Thanks for the pep talk, Piss," she muttered under her breath, but not quietly enough. Patchy smirk returned full force, while PS gave her a look that could kill.
"Two weeks," Patchy said again. "Get ready." And with that, the dynamic duo walked off, leaving her alone with her thoughts and her ridiculous speed test results.
Two weeks. Just two weeks until she was thrown into the deep end with no life raft and only PS barking orders at her. She wasn't sure what terrified her more: the mission itself or the idea of working under someone who clearly didn't think she was cut out for the job.
But there was no turning back now. Like it or not, the countdown had begun.
———————————————————————————————
Next day to the one where Mr B dropped the bomb about the mission date, PS decided it was time for a little tour. Not that she asked for one, but apparently, if she was going to be thrown into the deep end, she at least needed to know what the deep end looked like. And it turns out, the deep end was full of tech-savvy agents who looked like they spent more time on computers than in the field.
PS led her into what she called the "Contact Rooms." It was like stepping into a beehive, except instead of honey, these people were buzzing over surveillance screens, keyboards, and high-tech headsets. A wall of monitors showed live feeds of what could only be active missions—agents sneaking through jungles, cities, and what looked suspiciously like a pirate ship. Yup, definitely not your average cubicle job.
"These are your intel agents," P.S. said, gesturing to the sea of nerdy-looking people hunched over their stations. "They'll be feeding you real-time updates during your mission, tracking enemy movements, monitoring security systems—basically, keeping your ass alive."
She raised an eyebrow. "So, these guys are my babysitters?"
PS didn't bother looking at her. "More like the reason you won't end up dead in a ditch somewhere."
"Oh, great. I feel so reassured."
PS walked her over to a desk where one particularly intense-looking agent was watching multiple screens, each one showing different camera angles from a previous mission. He didn't even glance at her when she walked up.
"This is Intel Agent Byte," P.S. introduced, like this guy wasn't just a reference to computer data. "He's one of the best. He'll be tracking your movements, and he's pretty much the reason you won't walk straight into a minefield."
Byte finally looked up from his screens, giving her a once-over like he was sizing up a problem he wasn't thrilled about solving. "Hope you're faster in the field than you are at target practice."
She blinked. "Nice to meet you too, Byte."
PS didn't let her linger long in the Contact Rooms before ushering her out, like she didn't want her to get too comfortable. Next stop on the magical mystery tour: Doctor's office. Or, as it should be called, the Cyborg Upgrade Center.
The Doctor, who still refused to give her a name, looked more excited than usual today. Which was never a good sign. Her excitement usually involved needles, wires, and more invasive tests than she cared to think about. Today, it was no different.
"We need to make some adjustments before the mission," Doctor said cheerfully, pulling out what looked like a tiny, high-tech gadget. "Don't worry, it won't hurt much."
"Famous last words," she muttered, eyeing the gadget warily.
Before she knew it, Doctor was explaining how they needed to "enhance" her for the mission. Because apparently, her freaky speed and reflexes weren't enough. No, she needed to be upgraded like some kind of human iPhone.
First up: a tiny communication device that Doctor, with a little too much enthusiasm, injected right into her ear. She winced as it clicked into place. Great. Now the voices in her head would be real.
"This will let PS and the contact team hear everything you hear," Doctor explained, her eyes shining. "And it's linked to your central nervous system, so no need for buttons. It's all thought-controlled."
"Thought-controlled," she repeated slowly. "Because that doesn't sound creepy at all."
"Oh, it gets better," Doctor continued, holding up what looked like a tiny camera. "This goes in your right eye."
"Excuse me? In my eye?"
"Yes, it'll be embedded just beneath the surface. Think of it as your very own body cam—except, you know, in your eye. It'll give the team a live feed of everything you see."
"Fan-freaking-tastic," she muttered, already dreading the procedure.
The process, much to her chagrin, wasn't as simple as Doctor had made it sound. It involved more numbing gel than should be legal and a whole lot of blinking and squinting as Doctor carefully inserted the device. When it was over, she felt like she'd been upgraded into some kind of low-budget superhero.
"Now, if you experience any discomfort, come back, and we'll adjust it," Doctor said brightly, as if this was all no big deal.
"Yeah, I'll be sure to let you know if my cyborg eye starts malfunctioning," she replied dryly, rubbing her now-sore eye.
PS didn't say much during the procedure, though she did make a point to mention that this was all "standard protocol" for missions of this kind. Of course, standard protocol for her just meant another Tuesday of turning recruits into part-time robots.
After the procedure was done, they headed back to the training area, where PShanded her a small mirror.
"You're going to want to get used to it," she said, gesturing to her eye.
She stared into the mirror and saw it: her right eye, perfectly normal except for a faint, barely visible glint and the colour of that eye turned blue. It was weird. Really weird. Two different eye colours.
"Well, at least now if I get lost, you can see where my corpse ends up," she said with a sigh.
PS didn't laugh. Of course she didn't.
"Get some rest," PS said instead, sounding far too serious for someone who just turned her into a walking security system. "We've got more training tomorrow, and the mission's closer than you think."
As they left the doctor's office, she couldn't help but think that this mission was getting more insane by the minute. Between the upgrades, the endless training, and the glares from the other agents, she was starting to wonder if surviving cancer had been the easy part.