Page 56 of Reckless: Corruption

“Got them.” I reach for the release mechanism, then pause. “Wait, are these dangerous to handle?”

“Minimal risk with proper containment,” Mona assures me. “Storage capsules are designed for field transport. Very secure engineering. Much safety consideration.”

“That’s not actually reassuring.” But I trigger the release anyway, watching as the system ejects a sleek metal case.

Jinx appears at my side, blood that isn’t his staining his knuckles. “We need to move. Now.”

“More guards?”

“Security alert triggered.” Mona’s voice turns sharp with urgency. “Multiple response teams converging on your location. Estimated arrival in three minutes, twenty-seven seconds.”

I grab the case, securing it inside the pack Mona provided.

As I turn to leave, something else catches my eye—a workstation displaying what appears to be genetic sequencing data. The label at the top reads Project Designation: Recoding.

“What the hell is this?” I move closer, recognizing elements of the code scrolling across the screen. The data shows designation markers—alpha, beta, omega—but with something different. Instead of distinct genetic categories, I’m seeing deliberate modification patterns, transition vectors between designation types.

“Unknown research protocol,” Mona responds. “Not in my database. Potential secondary project.”

“It’s genetic programming,” I realize, scanning the data. “They’re trying to rewrite designation at the molecular level. Not just modifying symptoms like the virus does—this is about complete transformation. Beta to omega. Alpha to beta. They’re trying to make designation fluid, controllable.” A sickening thought hits me. “Or weaponized.”

My enhanced beta senses detect something strange about the neural patterns displayed—almost like they’re designed to interface with an implant similar to what Alexander has. A way to control the designation changes remotely, perhaps?

“Later,” Jinx insists, pulling me away from the terminal. “We need to go.”

I hesitate, hacker instincts warring with survival needs. Then I pull out my phone, quickly capturing images of the display. “Okay. Let’s move.”

We exit the lab to find the corridor already filling with guards—at least six of them, moving with military precision. Jinx pushes me behind him, that feral grin spreading across his face.

“Eight against two,” he muses, cracking his knuckles. “Hardly seems fair.”

“For them,” I agree, dropping into the fighting stance Alexander unwittingly taught me through days of torture. My body remembers every blow, every weakness Mona mapped out with candy and clinical precision.

“When I move, head for the east exit,” Jinx murmurs, his body coiling for attack.

But I’m already moving, targeting the guard Mona would identify as most vulnerable—left shoulder slightly higher than right, weight distribution favoring his dominant side. I strike with Sterling precision, finding the exact point Mona described with Skittles on a concrete floor.

The guard drops, surprised shock painting his features as his knees buckle.

Jinx’s laugh carries notes of genuine delight as he launches into his own attack, taking down two guards with movements too fast to track. We move in perfect synchronization, each of us anticipating the other’s actions without words. His feral chaos complements my calculated precision, creating a harmony of violence that leaves our opponents reeling.

When one guard manages to grab me from behind, I don’t panic. Don’t struggle. My vision tunnels momentarily, the virus surging in response to the exertion. The world tilts sickeningly before snapping back into focus. I push through the vertigo, finding that perfect spot behind his left ear—forty-three secondsof disorientation, just like Mona promised—and drive my elbow into it with all my remaining strength.

The movement sends fire racing through my muscles, a reminder that Mona’s injection is wearing off faster than expected. Something wet trickles down my nose—blood, I realize distantly. My body’s fighting both the guard and the virus, neither battle completely winnable.

The guard’s grip loosens as his equilibrium fails, giving me the opening to twist free and deliver a precise strike to the junction of neck and shoulder. My hand trembles with the effort, muscles spasming erratically, but the blow lands true. He crumples like a marionette with cut strings while I fight to stay upright, swallowing the metallic taste that floods my mouth.

“Nice moves, Glitch,” Jinx calls, dispatching his final opponent with brutal efficiency. “Where’d you learn those?”

“Family bonding,” I reply, the dark humor not lost on either of us. “Turns out my sister is really good at creating anatomically correct models out of Skittles. Very educational. Much homicidal potential.”

His laugh echoes through the corridor, genuine amusement lighting his features. “You’re starting to sound like her.”

“I know. Terrifying, right? Next thing you know, I’ll be diagramming the structural weaknesses of government buildings with licorice and writing manifestos on candy wrappers.”

More footsteps approach—reinforcements arriving faster than Mona predicted.

“Exit route compromised,” her voice confirms in our ears. “Seeking alternatives. Calculating optimal escape vectors.”

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