Out Of Your League: The Lethal Ex-Wife

"Clear!"

The massive jolt of electricity from the defibrillator slammed into Erica's charred chest. Her body violently arched off the emergency room table. Her spine bowed. Her ribs groaned under the force.

On the monitor, the green line remained a dead, flat stretch. A continuous, high-pitched beep drilled into the sterile air.

Dr. Aris Fletcher wiped a thick layer of sweat from his forehead. He ripped his surgical mask down, his chest heaving. He looked at the wall clock. He opened his mouth to call the time of death.

A piercing ring exploded deep inside Erica's brain stem.

It wasn't a sound from the room. It was the violent, agonizing sensation of a future special ops commander's consciousness being brutally shoved into a shattered, dying vessel.

Three years of prison torture. The crushing impact of a speeding car. The memories of the original host tore through Erica's nerve endings like serrated knives. Her subconscious violently rejected the foreign data. Her throat constricted. Her lungs burned for oxygen they couldn't process.

Host vital signs failing. Emergency override protocol initiated.

The cold, mechanical voice of the ORACLE System vibrated against the base of her skull.

Blue, microscopic light flooded her veins. Millions of nanobots surged through her depleted bloodstream. The flat, collapsed veins on her arms suddenly bulged against her pale skin. The pain of cellular reconstruction was a blinding, white-hot fire.

Deep inside her chest, shattered ribs emitted a sickening, wet crunch. The jagged edges of bone forced themselves together, grinding and fusing in direct violation of basic physics.

Dr. Fletcher turned his back to the table. He reached for the death certificate clipboard.

Out of the corner of his eye, the monitor flashed. The flatline jerked. It spiked into a massive peak, triggering a shrill, frantic alarm.

The assisting nurse let out a blood-curdling scream. She pointed a trembling finger at the bed.

The massive, gaping wound on Erica's chest was sealing itself. The torn flesh knit together, the bleeding stopping as thick scabs formed in seconds.

Erica's eyes snapped open.

They were not the eyes of a broken ex-convict. They were the dead, cold eyes of a commander who had walked over mountains of corpses. They held zero warmth. Only calculating, predatory stillness.

She tried to sit up. The room spun violently. The nanobots hadn't finished fusing her cervical vertebrae. Nausea punched her in the stomach. She collapsed back onto the blood-soaked sheets, her breathing shallow and rapid.

Dr. Fletcher rushed back to the bed. His face was pale with shock. He clicked on a penlight and reached down to check her pupil dilation.

Erica's hand shot up. Her cold, blood-crusted fingers clamped around his wrist like a steel vice.

The ORACLE System scanned the room. A pale blue, three-dimensional grid projected onto her retinas. The heart rates, body temperatures, and skeletal structures of everyone in the room overlaid her vision.

No immediate lethal threats detected.

She released the doctor's wrist. Her throat felt like it was lined with broken glass.

"Water," she rasped. The host's vocal cords felt stiff, unused to her own commanding tone. The word came out rougher than intended, scraping against her raw throat.

The nurse, shaking violently, grabbed a plastic cup of lukewarm water from the counter. She handed it over.

The plastic touched Erica's cracked lips. She executed a flawless tactical swallow, draining the cup in two seconds flat without taking a breath.

A red warning panel flashed across her vision.

Energy reserves at 5%. Deep sleep required for organ reconstruction.

Erica's mind raced. Her tactical awareness kicked in. This level of rapid healing would put her on a dissection table in this primitive era of medicine. She needed a cover. Immediately.

She instantly released the tension in her facial muscles. Her dead, calculating stare morphed into wide, vacant terror. She simulated the exact physical markers of severe Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder.

Erica opened her mouth and let out a guttural, ear-piercing scream.

She grabbed her head with both hands, her fingers digging into her scalp. She thrashed her legs, kicking the metal tray next to the bed. Surgical tools crashed onto the linoleum floor with a deafening clatter. She hyperventilated, making her chest heave erratically.

"Get back!" Dr. Fletcher yelled, stumbling away from the bed. "Security! Get a heavy dose of sedatives, now!"

Two massive hospital security guards burst through the swinging doors. They lunged at the bed, trying to pin Erica's flailing arms.

Erica let them grab her. She used their own momentum against them. A slight shift of her hips, a calculated twist of her shoulder, and she sent the first guard crashing into the IV pole. It looked like the chaotic thrashing of a madwoman. It was pure, lethal leverage.

The nurse rushed in with a syringe.

Erica tracked the needle. She calculated the exact millisecond of entry. As the steel pierced her vein, she manually severed the neural link to her motor functions.

The heavy sedative flooded her bloodstream. The ORACLE System instantly flagged it as a foreign toxin and began breaking down the chemical structure.

Erica sent a hard override command. Retain chemical effects.

Her muscles went slack. Her head lolled to the side against the pillows. Her eyes remained half-open, staring blankly at the harsh fluorescent lights on the ceiling.

Dr. Fletcher wiped his face with a sterile towel. His hands were shaking.

"Transfer her to the ICU," he ordered the nurse, his voice tight. "And order a full-cranial scan. I want to know what the hell is going on in her head."

The guards backed away. The nurse unlocked the wheels of the bed.

They pushed her out of the ER and down the long, freezing corridor. The wheels rattled over the tile joints. The bumps sent sharp spikes of pain through Erica's healing spine. She bit down hard on her inner lip. The metallic taste of blood filled her mouth.

The system ran silently in the background. It shifted its focus from her bones to her ruptured internal organs, burning through the last of her body's fat reserves.

Just before the darkness took her, the face of Colten Fischer-the original host's hypocritical, backstabbing ex-husband-flashed in her mind.

The corner of her mouth twitched into a cold, bloodstained smirk.

The heavy metal doors of the Intensive Care Unit slid shut behind her. The loud noises of the hospital faded away. The only sound left was the steady, rhythmic beep of the heart monitor.

Erica let her consciousness sink into the dark. The blue progress bar in her vision slowly ticked upward, preparing her for the war to come.