Last time Warner saw a car like this, he was being shoved into the back of one. Fifteen years ago, almost to the day. His memory consisted of a patchwork of events, some still vivid and some murky, so murky he could never be sure what had been real and what hadn’t. For one, he remembered Lyssa being there when Nero handed him over, but then it turned out she hadn’t been—she wasn’t there until later, until he’d been brought to the restricted-access wing of VogelCorp’s medical facilities. He couldn’t remember the faces of the people who came to retrieve him but, oddly enough, he remembered the van down to the smallest details.

  Nero had injected him with something so he could stand upright, but it didn’t carry him much farther than that. Before the rescue van’s doors slid shut behind him, he collapsed. He didn’t remember much else until days later, when he woke up and had no idea where he was or what would happen to him, only that his life was now altered forever, and the person Warner Vogel used to be had irrevocably disappeared.

  He never said it to anyone, but he’d had ample time to think about it and decided that he’d have preferred to just die.

  Well, he supposed time might not heal shit, but it did change certain things. This time, he was greeted by two stern but polite government agents who bowed their heads with a sort of grudging respect. The interior of the sleek white van turned out to be ordinary and underwhelming. Just like any VogelCorp transport, except with benches instead of the secure shelving meant for stacks of cryo-boxes.

  “Lyssa told me everything,” he said, saving those two from awkward introductions.

  The older of the two glared at him.

  “Don’t worry, our communication lines are as secure as it gets,” he told them, guessing that he’d just landed Lyssa in trouble. “I oversee it myself. Speaking of which, I don’t see why we couldn’t have done this right here at VogelCorp. That’s where they caught him, right?”

  The two of them exchanged a glance. “Where they caught it is irrelevant.” The older man, obviously the higher-ranked of the two, spoke first. “The government facility is state-of-the-art. You’ll have everything you need to do your job.”

  Warner flinched a little. It. We’re pretending he’s not even human, then. He decided not to say anything for now. The atmosphere in this van was already tense enough to cut.

  The two government agents observed him coolly, but something about it made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

  How much do these guys know about me anyway? Did they know about his personal history? He told himself that of course they did. It was their job. He searched their faces for any signs of emotion—pity, fear, discomfort, he was used to seeing it all. He found nothing.

  “You know, there’s no need to glower like that,” the one closest to him spoke up. Warner gave a start but managed not to show it outwardly.

  “I just don’t appreciate being kept in the dark,” Warner said. It wasn’t entirely a lie. “Especially on matters like this.”

  “I know we’re outsiders as far as you’re concerned. Barging into your boardrooms, telling you what to do, what to prioritize, et cetera. You scientist types hate that, I get it. But we’re the good guys here. And we’re working together. To rid the world of monsters, such as they are. If that’s not a good common goal, I don’t know what is.”

  We don’t have a common goal, Warner thought. Never did.

  “I mean—it was a thing just like that one that made you end up with that glass eye, eh?”

  Warner felt the muscles in his jaw pop. Until now, there had been some faint traces of possibility that the insurgent they captured might be something else. But it was a berserker, a genetically altered supersoldier from the hellish Unit Six. One of the Alliance of so-called Free States’ most twisted creations. Passes for an ordinary person right up until he doesn’t, as Warner once found out with his own hide.

  “You’re right,” he said. “We’ve got a common goal. That’s what you brought me here for, correct? Anything outside that goal is not subject for discussion. Or small talk. Do we understand each other?”

  “Quinn,” the guy said. “My name’s Quinn, I’m your liaison with the Defense Ministry. You could have asked. It’s polite, you know.”

  Warner measured him with a look. Most of the time, he could stare down almost anyone, but Quinn turned out to be a worthwhile adversary. “And which subdivision of the Defense Ministry do you work for, Quinn?”

  “Psyops.”

  The younger man was tall, and his plain white shirt and dark slacks concealed a build that suggested some kind of military training. How’d you land a cushy desk job so young, Quinn?

  “Very well. Do we understand each other, Quinn from Psyops?”

  “Okay, okay. I was told it was a touchy subject for you. I see they weren’t exaggerating. As a matter of fact, would you like it if we just turned this thing around? Taken you back to VogelCorp, to your cozy lab where you can go on designing pet cats that don’t shit. How does that sound? Or do you actually want to make a difference in the world?”

  Warner flinched—on behalf of Bug, he told himself. “You have no idea what it is I even do,” he said. “And if you don’t mind me asking, how old are you? What’s your rank? Why do you think they have you handling this situation, Quinn? Any theories?”

  He watched Quinn carefully. He was the kind of guy people would find attractive. Warner could bet he had quite a fun life once he clocked out of the government job. There was an air of superficiality about his good looks, although Warner could only theorize whether it was real or feigned. He seemed too young to be this deceptive. Then again, looks could lie, Warner himself was a living testament to that fact.

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  Quinn squirmed, although he tried not to show it.

  “Let me tell you why. You’re from a modest background—you work hard to get rid of any trace of patois in your speech, but I’m guessing you grew up on the lower levels. You made it here through the military recruitment program. The great social elevator.” He watched Quinn’s face shift. By the way his eyebrows knit together, he understood he hit the bull’s-eye. “You might be talented, but above all, you’re ambitious. And dedicated. You made it very far. Congratulations. Except…”

  The only thing that kept Quinn sitting still had to be that army discipline, Warner guessed. “You don’t have connections or relatives in high places. All the ones who do are nice and comfy in their offices right now, tapping away at keyboards, as secure from any monsters as they can be. And you—you’re here. They consider you, well, expendable. Because if that thing really is from Unit Six, and if it wakes up and gets loose, we’re all as good as dead.”

  “So that means you’re just as expendable as I am,” Quinn muttered. “Doesn’t it?”

  “As you said yourself, I could have chosen to stay in my lab,” Warner told him. He contained the smirk that tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Designing modcats. Who, I assure you, do shit, although they have lots of other fine qualities too. I chose to be here instead.”

  * * *

  The drive didn’t take very long, but since the van had no windows, Warner had no idea where he’d found himself. He’d entered the vehicle in the underground garage of VogelCorp and exited it in another garage that looked the same.

  “Lyssa didn’t tell me what exactly happened,” he said for the sake of saying something, since he figured the briefing was coming anyway.

  “It was sighted near one of the vaults on the lower levels of the VogelCorp building,” Quinn told him. “Thankfully, the security that day was alert. Your guard shot it in the head from five hundred feet. I know him. He’s a good guy. Ex-military.”

  “But your ex-military guy—he didn’t manage to kill him.” Warner didn’t phrase it as a question on purpose.

  “He incapacitated it. Which is more than good enough in my book. And unless someone is dumb enough to release it, it’ll stay incapacitated.”

  “Can we stop referring to him as it?” Warner said. “This is a Unit Six agent we’re dealing with. A berserker. A monster, for sure, but not an inanimate object.”

  He noticed how Quinn looked away, suddenly extremely interested in patterns on the walls. The older one spoke.

  “I’ll refer to it however I see fit. I’ve seen what these things can do, and I refuse to recognize that as human.”

  “I’ve also seen what they can do. And that’s how I know they’re fully, one hundred percent human.”

  The man didn’t answer, which was probably for the best.

  They took an elevator to a lower level, where the two agents led him down a hall and through double doors that slid open silently. Warner liked it less and less.

  Then he saw the vast room that hid behind those double doors. The bad feeling he’d struggled to keep contained coalesced into dread beneath his rib cage.

  “This is an operating theater,” he said to no one in particular.

  “Yeah.” The smirk returned to Quinn from Psyops’ face as he sensed himself in the ascendancy once more.

  Where the hell was Lyssa? He felt ready to punch someone. This was not the deal.

  “What do you want from me, exactly?”

  “We want you to remove the bullet from its head.”

  “You know I’m not even qualified to do this, right?”

  Quinn shrugged. “Sure you are. I know where you went to med school. They don’t admit just anyone.”

  Sure, Warner thought. They only admit those who have the right connections. “I didn’t graduate from med school,” he said through his teeth. “I suppose you knew that, too?”

  “Doesn’t matter. You didn’t drop out, you just changed your major to Human Biology in your last year. And anyway, it’s not like it’s a patient.”

  It took some effort to suppress a shudder. Sure, he’d changed his major… to stay the hell away from places like this one. An operating theater—in the classical sense. Just like the name, the place hailed from a time when these were literal amphitheaters, like a giant indoor stadium with rows and rows and rows of seats on all sides, towering over him, making him feel utterly trapped. Right now, the seats were empty. It didn’t fool him, though—he knew this place had to be studded with cameras that saw everything, from every angle, always. And that someone would be observing, watching his every move.

  The university had rooms just like this one, only then, he was in the audience, and in the center, the demonstration unfolded for him and his fellow students to see. Looking back, it was a wonder he’d lasted until his final year before he changed majors.

  He approached the sarcophagus of bulletproof glass that sat in the center of the vast amphitheater. His heart thudded dully. Blood rushed to his head. He flexed his hands at his sides. Unflexed them. Blinked. It was all still there.

  “I’m not doing this.”

  “You’re the only one who can.”

  “Did you not hear me?”

  “A shame.” On the edge of his vision, Quinn shrugged. “Although, honestly, I’m not surprised. I don’t suppose your hands are quite as steady as they used to be, what with all the—”

  Quinn, shut the fuck up, or I will do something everyone will regret. He didn’t say it out loud. “My hands,” he said, “are as good as ever. Even better, actually.”

  Quinn did something Warner wished he wouldn’t do: clapped him on the shoulder. “But if they were to accidentally slip and send that thing to hell where it belongs, no one would blame you.”

  Quinn clearly wasn’t in Psyops for nothing, Warner thought bitterly. It was plain old reverse psychology, but boy, did it work. He took a few more steps until he stood right in front of the opaque sarcophagus in the dead center of the room. Beneath the cloudy glass, he guessed at the outlines of… something, a figure held in place by thick metal braces.

  “He’s secure?” He hoped his voice didn’t sound as small to the others as it did to him. Coward, you fucking coward, pull yourself together. “He won’t get loose?”

  “Nope. That’s titanium. And these creatures are redoubtable but not magic. They do need momentum. Besides, we don’t even know if it’ll ever wake up. For all I know, it’ll be left a vegetable.”

  Warner sure as hell hoped so.

  “Well?” Quinn prompted, and Warner realized he’d been standing there, staring blankly at the sarcophagus for some time.

  “And if he isn’t?” he asked.

  “Hmm?”

  “If he isn’t left a vegetable. Then what will happen to him?”

  A grimace flashed across Quinn from Psyops’ handsome face. “Our guys will come in and ask it some questions. Then it’s all yours to study and experiment on to your heart’s content. Does it matter?”

  Warner shook his head. His stomach knotted.

  “So? Are you doing this or not? Because we could bring in someone else, but then I’d have to make sure they kept their mouth shut. We can’t risk rumors getting out. Imagine what might happen? The widespread panic.”

  “And I suppose you don’t have to worry about that with me.”

  Quinn gave a self-satisfied nod.

  Warner cleared his throat. “Yeah. I’m doing it.”

  “By the way.” The older one spoke up, and Warner almost gave a start. He’d forgotten he was there. “There’s another thing you should know. I don’t mean to assume anyone’s gender or anything, but that right there isn’t a he.”

  With a soft hiss of hydraulics, the top panel of the cloudy glass sarcophagus began to slide aside.

  And that’s when all the breath seemed to leave Warner’s body at once. Outwardly, he managed not to show a thing, to keep up a front as everything inside him collapsed.

  Assuredly, the last time his entire life went to shit so completely and with such speed, he’s also ended up in an operating theater in the company of a Unit Six berserker.