Page 4 of Reclaimed

My Guardian drops his hold of me, hands lifting in the air as he struggles for words. "Wh-what? What for?"

"For acts of sedition, you are hereby stripped of your position. The Registry assumes immediate ownership of all assets."

"No, no, you have it all wrong!" Commander Martin shakes his head as he reaches for his phone. "Let me call–"

The crack of a gunshot cuts him off. I jolt back with a yelp, knocking into the desk as a million little pieces of the phone rain down around me.

"Play it, Dillons," Lieutenant Stewart instructs, the barrel of his gun drifting back to Commander Martin.

The redhead– Dillons, apparently– swipes at the tablet, his finger stabbing at the screen. A recording starts playing: a group of men are discussing a plan to form a new society and separate from The Registry. Commander Martin pales as his voice suggests skimming funds and details how easily he can divert them to burner accounts. The others have security concerns, but he assures them it can be done without ever flagging the system because he's been doing it for years.

"That's not–" Commander Martin goes to take a step forward, but before his foot even leaves the ground, Lieutenant Stewart fires again. Bits of flesh splatter on the desk, warm blood spraying across my face as I scream and my Guardian’s body crumples to the floor.

Blood trickles down Commander Martin’s expressionless face, pooling around Lieutenant Stewart’s feet as he holsters his gun. Shock galvanizes me where I stand– all I can do is watch as he crouches down and wraps his arms around the lifeless body, hoisting the corpse onto his shoulder before directing Dillons to transport me to Station 4 for appraisal.

Appraisal?

Labored breaths saw from my lungs as memories of the auction crash into me. Dillons strides closer, and panic poisons my system. My ears start to ring, my father’s voice yelling for me to run among the phantom sounds of Enforcers banging on our apartment door.

No. They aren't taking me again.

My brain short circuits, and in one swift movement, I swipe the letter opener off the desk and lunge forward. The tip pierces the Enforcer’s flesh with a pop, the silver blade sinking deep into the side of his neck. It squelches as I pull it back out and his eyes round, his mouth hinging open as his hands dart up to the wound. Blood pulses out from the gash, seeping between his fingers and soaking the collar of his uniform.

Shit.

Shit, shit, SHIT!

I turn on a heel and run from the office, my pulse pounding in my ears. Lieutenant Stewart jerks around as I burst out the door, grabbing for his gun and firing a shot. The bullet ricochets off the side of the garage as I rush past, my eyes trained on the perfectly manicured trees lining the property. I know that beyond them, there’s a small plot of land we exercise the dogs on. There, I'll have cover and can maybe even escape.

I could disappear.

Adrenaline courses through my veins, my arms pumping wildly as I use everything I have to carry me closer to the trees. The air crackles as he fires again, and this time, white-hot pain erupts on my skin. Slicing across my bicep, the bullet pings as it clips my Guardian Cuff. The screen glitches and distorts before going dark. And, for the first time since I was fourteen, The Registry can’t see me.

2

TALON

"You've got twenty minutes until cameras are active again," I say.

Wade looks down at the address scrawled on the torn piece of paper in his hand. "Twenty minutes," he repeats, slipping it into the front of his dingy apron. "Got it. I'll have Sammy get over there and–"

"I don't give a fuck who does it," I grumble in annoyance, fingers drumming on top of the matte black gas tank. "As long as it gets done discreetly and I get paid, we won't have any problems."

"Oh-oh yeah." He chuckles nervously, passing me a wad of cash. "Dad mentioned you're not one for small talk."

By some miracle, I manage to resist the urge to break his fingers as I take the money from him.

I thumb through the bills, making sure all two hundred and seventy-five dollars are there before pocketing it. It isn’t much, but I’ve been outsourcing to the Blackwells for years. It's my responsibility to dispose of the bodies– the one part of the job I can't stand. Torture, mutilate, dismember, peel off their skin like it's a flesh colored glove? That part's easy. The hunt. The kill. That's where I thrive. But scrubbing blood and hauling remains off afterward? Hard fucking pass.

Lucky for me, desperation knows no financial bounds, and animals don't give a shit about what kind of meat gets ground into their kibble. So to help tip the societal scales, I started supplying the Blackwells with locally sourced ingredients.

Reduce, recycle, and reuse– or some shit.

Shifting back onto the seat of my bike, I kick back the stand and twist the key. The Yamaha R1M roars to life with a menacing snarl, my boots scraping against broken asphalt as I roll on the throttle and tear out of the alleyway.

Industrial factories and dilapidated buildings slowly morph into sleek structures and glass towers the deeper I get into Northbrooke. One of the first things The Registry did after taking control was jack up the taxes and rent prices, forcing every non-million-dollar-company to move south. And while it's still technically part of Northbrooke, I've never heard anyone call it anything other than the Fringe.

That's where working class festers– far enough from the skyline for the wealthy to pretend it doesn't exist.