Uranophobia

 That went as well as you could expect. Fuck me. I wish headaches didn't transfer over my lives, cuz damn, my head is hurting like a bitch right now.

 "Vivian, you okay, honey?" Chrissy says looking back at me through the rearview mirror. "I know it doesn't feel great to kill people, but it's part of our job." She purses her lips and focuses her eyes back on the road.

 Actually, this isn't too bad of a chance to do something. Sure, Team 6 might die, but as long as someone from my squad doesn't kick the can, I'm fine with it.

 "Not really... My head's throbbing like hell right now. Could you just drop me off at my place?" I pout and tense my face lightly. See, the great thing about having strict parents is that it teaches you to lie extremely well. Honestly one of the things I'm most proud about myself.

 "Oh, don't be silly! There's a pharmacy on the way to O-Noodles. We'll just stop there for a bit and get you some painkillers." The woman chirps lightly as one of her free hands begins to enter an extra stop in the car's GPS system. Well, it was worth a try I guess. This'll at least make us late to the whole thing. If anything we can just drive away after seeing Team 6 get absolutely shot down and their bullet holes cuddle-fucked. Not apologizing for that graphic image by the way. My throbbing headache won't let me. 

 I walk into the pharmacy, the cold blast of AC hitting my face like getting teleported to the North Pole after taking a stroll in the Sahara. Weird comparison, I know, but it's the first thing that comes to my head, and as you can guess already, a lot of the things I say are on the spot. 

 Looking at a hanging sign above a couple of shelves, I start making my way over there, ignoring some stares along the way that were there for either my pretty sour face or the fact that I'm quite literally wearing formal clothing in about ninety to a hundred degree weather. For either of those reasons, they can all fuck off. I don't get at all why people can't mind their own business sometimes. Okay. Like I get I sound a little hypocritical when I say that but... shit, where was I going with this again? I get that I uh... Oh look! The medicine aisle!

 Alright let's see here... shit for stomach aches, eye drops, allergies, fever, motion sickness, cough, common cold. FUCK! Where the hell is the painkillers?! God damn it I'm crashing out again. Okay, what helps most in situations like this is just thinking about random shit and seeing where that takes me. I'll just set my body on autopilot while i tried to find these fucking percs. 

 What did I leave off on? I could've sworn I was explaining something earlier. Ramen? Nah, I've already said what's needed to be said. Fuck stick teammates? I think I've already put my message across. I don't even want to think about having to fight Cryus again 'cuz fuck. Okay, I do want to talk about how bullshit that whole thing is though! Like dude, why the hell are you going after other teams in the first place? You already have all that you need with this job anyway. A way to satiate your natural lust for human blood, hella cash that you can probably use to buy some hookers if you're that fuckin' lonely, and a place of high power! Listen, it might just be me, but I would never throw away an opportunity like that! This shit is hard to come buy! There's not a whole lotta jobs out there that pays you for killing people that are way worse than normal people! Like I get that it's a job nonetheless and you'd rather sit alone in your mom's basement slurping away at her money for snacks with a dildo up your ass while gooning on your five different monitors, but damn! Grow the fuck up. I genuinely, simply, literately, hypothetically, theoretically, mentally, sexually, intimately, and disgustingly do not understand your mindset. Killing yourself is the most positive thing you could possibly have on this entire planet with the second most positive thing being you staying the FUCK in your lane! I cannot even fathom the fact that you'd go on a goddamn strike with your whole team, objectively one of, if not, the best, Specialist teams out there, singlehandedly gambling your entire position that you've built up for years just so you go back home and cum in a sock without worrying about having to work! I'd say get a job, but it is honestly such a fucking JOKE that you're employed despite probably being a registered predator! Fuck. Join the workforce they said, you'll feel good about they said. I swear on Cyrus' bitch of a mother and nonexistent dad, he is up there on the top reasons why this job sucks ass. Damn it, now my head hurts even more. Oh. Found them.

 I look down at a couple of boxes lined up together with all of them having a side opened up to reveal small packets of pills. After picking up one of them I jam it into my pocket. At least I don't have to buy a whole bottle just to get one of these. Pretty convenient if you ask me. Now then, I still some time to kill while I wait for the ramen place to get "hashtag freedom and hamburgers," so I might as well just roam around a bit. Maybe I can get a snack since I won't be eating lunch. Cuz' y'know. There's probably gonna be more blood spilt than soup in the store in about ten minutes. I hope this place has peanut butter cups or something. 

 Still, I don't wanna just talk about how I'm browsing the shelves for 10 minutes. But even then, what is there to even talk about without me getting so horribly pissed off? Uhhhh... Oh, right! I did say I would explain some more of that slang that Specialists use. That actually sounds pretty fun to talk about right now, and while I'm sure you want to see more action, I really need this break right now. 

 We can start of with how I warned everyone about the attack happening the second time. The signal initiates with a certain amount taps of any body part as long as it's loud enough for the other Specialists to hear and out of earshot of anyone else followed by the word "pause." The amount of taps signal what is about to happen. One tap signifies that something major in a deployed mission is about to occur as scheduled, two taps mean that someone is planning on attacking, and three taps just sorta means "do something on my signal" which has a whole bunch of other code words that I haven't memorized. You can do the taps with different body parts but I'll be honest, just using one finger is a whole lot more simple. After that, everyone is obliged to listen up to the person who made the announcement but are supposed to continue doing so with the same facial expressions they had before the signal while acting normal. After everyone is locked in, they can ask questions through code words like "time" or "pockets" as shown through what happened earlier. Like, ugh. Stuff like this is why I find this job so cool sometimes. Like, yeah I get that this stuff is probably never going to come up in like a long while, but it's still cool as fuck either way! Let me tell you, the nerd in me was screaming when i was getting that debrief. Granted, I was screaming because I was covered in blood because it was right after my school got gunned down, but in hindsight, learning that stuff was awesome. 

 Aside from all of that, there's this other phrase, "ready to die." So damn dramatic if you ask me, but it makes sense considering how a lot of the missions Specialists get sent on are practically suicide missions. Basically before a large scale mission that'll have pretty huge consequences, every member of the team gathers together and says everything that they need to get off their chest to them or to loved ones before they possibly die. It's like a therapy group, but everyone still dies in the end no matter how much help they get. Stories are shared, tears are shed, jokes are made, and after all of that, everyone signs their devil's contract with their name followed by "ready to die." It's a lil sad when you think about it, but hey. I can't die, so I don't have to say shit! Just thinking about it makes me laugh honestly. Can't wait for Pavul and Chrissy to spill their hearts out and I just say "nah, I got nothing." Actually now that I think about it, how would Drake even talk about his shit? Now that I'm thinking about it more, what is up with Drake in the first place? The dude basically has an exoskeleton, right? There's no way that's real...

 I pull out my phone and search... actually, what would you even search for that? "Bone powers?" Nope. Just pulls up a bunch of superpower shit. "Real life exoskeleton." All that comes up with is some tech stuff. Oh shit, Desmond's robotics company comes up with that, is that crazy? Alright uh... "growing bone disease." Let's see here. Fibrodysplasia ossificans progressiva. A mouthful but sure. After skimming through the results, it seems to be some kind of disease that people are randomly born with that cause bone tissue to grow instead of flesh when their body gets injured. I guess that seems to check out, but it looks like this wackass disorder has a pretty high mortality rate with older cases becoming completely immobile. And I dunno about you, but Drake seemed pretty fucking mobile back then. What's that guy's deal? See, this is why I hate mysteries. Makin' my brain hurt all over again. Like, that shit is cool and all with him being basically indestructible and able to make bone spikes and stuff, but how does that even work? It even says here that sawing off other bone tissue just results in more being grown, so how is that guy not a statue at this point? Man, whatever. Asking these questions to myself isn't gonna help me get answers. I'll just ask him myself. Let's just hope his fingers aren't already stiffer than Cyrus' constant hard-on.

 As I walk down the aisle while texting my friend because I though, "hey, why not," I accidentally bump shoulders with someone. I look up and see a woman with brunette hair tied up into a messy bun with a few strands hanging down the sides of her ears. She had long eyelashes and blue eyes that could 100% make me lesbian if I stared into them a little longer. She wore one of those fancy chiffon scarfs and on a top with thin, frilled sleeves and a body that had lapels like a suit. Wait. A suit? I look down at her neck. Chiffon scarf. Suit and chiffon scarf. Wait. FUCK, FUCK, FUCK. 

 Before I could take a step back, the woman kicked me in the chest, forcing me back and unable to act as she pulled one end of her scarf, revealing a large blade that had hooks on the sharp side. She threw the weapon forward and into my stomach. The barbs grip onto my skin and I feel them tug at my flesh as I'm pulled toward the lady's hand holding the other end of the scarf which had another blade. I let out a sigh before feeling the knife dig into my eye socket, pushing my eye into my skull before feeling my brain getting scratched by the tip of the weapon. 

 Death 12.

 I look out the window of the black SUV, watching cars pass by us on the other side of the road. I suck on my teeth and kick the seat in front of me. "FUCK!"

 "Oh-!" Chrissy yelps as the car jerks to the side for a brief moment, her fast reflexes able to steer her back into place. "Viv, what was that all about?" She turns her head into the barrel of my pistol. 

 "Keep driving to that ramen store, I FUCKIN' dare you!" I peak my voice, my heart trying to throw itself against my ribcage to escape and my teeth gritting together like chalk on a white board. If you couldn't tell, I'VE HAD JUST ABOUT ENOUGH OF THIS SHIT. I'VE DIED 12 TIMES IN THOSE LIKE 20 OR SO MINUTES AND I'VE HAD IT UP TO HERE-

 I feel a large object stab through one end of my head and through the other. Before I pass away, my eyes slowly look to the side to see a large spike of bone protruding through Drake's wrist. He pulls out.

 Death 13.

 Okay. Maybe that was a bit rash.