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Zach

“Listen, I wanted that contract myself,” confides Hidebound, “but no hard feelings. You ready to train?”

“Guess I’d better be,” says Zach.

What follows is intense: six hand-to-hand disciplines, melee, revolvers, semiautos, full assault. Stealth courses. Endurance. Zach learns to use ten grades of plastique, and how to roll with the shockwave; he learns urban camo and marksmanship. He learns how to kill with his pinky.

“I think we’re done,” he says, finally.

Hidebound smiles. “I think you’re right.”

Zach checks his watch. “And I can’t believe it only took two hours!”

“You’re a natural,” says Hidebound, smiling wider.

Zach

“Quite a selection,” says the man in the black suit.

“We maintain the finest merc stable on the continent.” Littleford gestures. “Black Eye. Recoil. Hidebound. The Vulpine Phalanger.” The men and women in their piecemeal armor nod in turn. “The one with the chainsaw is Slapjack; that’s Psyclown and his partner Scarnage. And this is Zach.”

The black suit takes him in: lanky, glasses, no armor, no gun. “The most lethal of all,” he breathes. “Yes. Give him the contract, no matter the cost!” He strides out.

“I just–I just run the website,” says Zach hesitantly.

“Not anymore,” Littleford snaps.

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