Adjusting the straps on my thigh, I loosen my sheath, letting my knife fall down my thigh. Before every mission, I always tighten it impossibly so. On my first mission, I hadn’t tightened it enough. Then when I needed it most, the sheath slipped down to my foot. I refuse to make the same mistake twice.
Wolvrin watches expectantly as I make myself comfortable, taking out the tight braid my hair has been in all afternoon and relaxing into the seat. I counted how long it took to arrive this morning, so I know we have an uncomfortable twenty-minute car ride ahead of us. He can wait one minute for the mission report.
“Mission successful. Target 105 is expired and the information was retrieved, sir,” Lauren says when I don’t immediately respond, always so respectful.
You would think becoming one of the deadliest people on the planet would give her some personality, or at least a little confidence, but no.
Hope is what she clings to, and what the Academy sets out to destroy.
We are taught very early not to get attached to our assigned partners. Or anything, for that matter. Considering our jobs, it’s always a possibility we will leave for a mission and not return, so I made a rule never to become attached to anyone. There’s no point when everyone I know is expendable.
Reaching into my pocket, I grab the hard drive and hand it to the Commander, who quickly pockets the device inside his suit jacket.
“Good work. You will be expected to give a debrief when you return. The Overseer and Madam are already waiting.”
As the car continues to drive through the city, I stare out the window, watching the old buildings and the rare sighting of a car pass us. Cars are a luxury of Zone Three and the elite, normal citizens don’t have that luxury. I wonder what our world looked like before the war. I’m sure it was once beautiful.
Sometimes I try to picture what it would’ve looked like when there were no mandates, no rules, but every time I’m reminded why the New Order took over.
I don’t remember anything from the world before. The Academy took me when I was four after my mother had died from the starvation she put herself through to keep me alive. Now I refuse to die for her. Or maybe I’m just stubborn.
The buildings from before are still around, but are now abandoned, broken. I’ve seen them once in one of my missions; they had houses that stood on their own, gardens they could use for whatever they wanted.
And yet they still rebelled.
They had it all, privacy and the respect to do whatever they wanted, and it still wasn’t enough. They still wanted more. It’s a good thing the New Order took over when they did.
The war created famine, homelessness, unrest.
Now we have order. There is a system for everyone and everything. We house the homeless and feed the starving; the new order protects us. The only thing the New Order asks for in return is order and balance. Most of the citizens of the new society stick to these requests, there is peace now.
However, for those who don’t adhere and try to challenge the new regime, there is punishment. The Academy only sends one of its agents in the most extreme cases.
I am the best in The Academy. I train the hardest out of the remaining seventy-six girls, and our Trainer always expects more from me. I don’t know why they chose me; maybe it was because I was one of the first girls to arrive, or perhaps because I was so young.
They had time to craft me. To make me deadly.
Our job is to keep the citizens of the new society safe from the criminals, and that’s exactly what we do. By taking out any threats to the new society, we prevent the fear that they once knew. We stop any future wars that could break out.
We keep our citizens safe.
I never understood why they picked girls until my sixteenth birthday. I was tasked with Target 72 and sent to a ball in formal mission attire, which I have always hated. Formal mission attire is a long black dress that clings to our bodies, making movements restricted. It also makes it impossible to hide my gun and sheath.
And when you’re being sent to fight and kill, it’s pretty stupid to send us with restricted mobility. But it is helpful in gaining information.
We get the information we want far quicker by acting interested in our targets than by torturing them. The Academy taught us early to seduce when possible instead of torture. It’s cleaner, less hassle. Though I would much prefer the second option.
I’m sure the men of Zone Three are quite lonely; they seem to be the easiest to charm. Probably because Zone Three citizens are mostly men, unless they had a family before the war.
The car stops outside of the security gates, and the back windows are rolled down as a guard taps his gun on the door
“Wrists.”
It’s an order, and we both know it, but I still find it funny how the guards stationed outside who have had less than half the training we have think they can intimidate us. Rolling up the sleeve of my shirt, I hold out my wrist, showing the PX-3 tattoo inked into my skin. Lauren does the same, showing off the faded PX-28 on hers.
A reminder of who we are, who we belong to.
Lauren was brought into The Academy three years after me and arrived when she was seven, so her number is higher than mine. She’s also a year younger than me. Not that it matters; birthdays and age don’t mean anything. They aren’t celebrated here. I only remember mine because of a small notebook I arrived with. November 3rd.
