The SUV continues down the gravel path, and we drive past rows of armed guards protecting the outside of The Academy. There are always twelve on duty during the day, then twenty at night to keep us protected. As if an assassin training academy would need the protection.
The old warehouse The Academy is hidden under is almost falling apart from the outside, the metal roof caving in and holes littering the walls. It looks like it’s been abandoned for years, and no one would ever guess the assassins filling the halls right underneath it.
The New Order chose this for that reason; any normal person wouldn’t look twice or think anything of the run-down building. But underneath the warehouse, seventy-six girls are made to be killers.
We exit the SUV and walk inside, stepping into the service elevator. It’s the only giveaway that the building is more than it seems, considering it still has power.
As the metal gate closes and the elevator creaks alive, I quickly tie my hair back up into a ponytail and fix my uniform. I’ll be damned if I let Madam see me in an improper uniform. I tried it once just to see what would happen, and was in the chair for two days. No food, no contact besides the torture they put me through, and the Madam’s words, “My girls will adhere to their strict uniform codes, or else I will inform the Major.”
Safe to say, I learned my lesson.
The Major and Madam are like the unofficial Mum and Dad of us. That is if Mum was an uptight bitch and Dad was only ever around when someone needed punishment.
The metal gates of the elevator slide open with an echoing click as we reach the basement floor and step out into the corridor. The bright LED lights hanging from above us make me squint my eyes as they try to adjust from the soft afternoon sun outside to this blinding, artificial light.
“PX-3, PX-28, welcome back.” The Overseer welcomes us, waiting outside the elevator as we cross the line into The Academy. The guarded doors close behind us with a soft click, separating us and the outside world once again. “I trust your target wasn’t an issue?”
“No, sir.”
The Overseer is the one in command. He’s the one person above the Commanders, Major, and Madam. His black hair is cut short, the grey roots showing despite his efforts to style it and trying to hide the greyed hair. His dark green eyes trail over me, searching for any sign of us failing to complete our mission, or worse, a wound, before he nods and turns on his heel. A wound is considered incompetence.
If you’re hurt, you’re not doing what you were trained to do, and are likely to get sent to the chair with more wounds than you came back with.
I like to imagine the Overseer would’ve been a good man without the war. While he has the power to order our deaths or restrict our food, he’s never done so. Not to me, at least. It’s the Madam who gives the punishment, or the Major when necessary. But never the Overseer himself.
Maybe that just makes him complacent, but I like to think he cares.
The Overseer nods his head, motioning for me to follow him. He takes slow steps deeper into the underground, leaving Lauren behind with Wolvrin as she goes to the dining sector. Only once there is enough distance between Lauren and us, the Overseer speaks quietly. “And PX-28?”
“Effective, sir.”
The Overseer offers a small nod of approval as he stops outside a door, his wrist turning the doorknob leading into the Madam’s office.
I keep my head low just as I’ve been taught to before being addressed. The Madam’s voice, unfortunately, breaks the peace in my mind.
“Mission status?” she asks coldly, her voice always making me straighten my posture.
I look up at her; we are not permitted to know her name, or anyone’s, really. But she looks like she would be a Carol or a Gwen. She’s the same height as me, 5’9. Her roots have turned grey, except the last inch of her short hair is brown. It looks terrible.
Her eyes crinkle in the corners as she frowns; there are notable wrinkles on her forehead that only seem to grow wider each year. If I had to guess, I would say she’s between fifty-five and sixty-five years old. But we aren’t permitted to know that, either.
“Completed, Madam. Target 105 has expired.” Madam nods once, and it’s enough to make my skin crawl. God, I hate her. All the girls do. She’s not known for being cute and cuddly. More like deadly and will torture you for existing.
“Very well, are either of you hurt?”
“Not to my knowledge, Madam.”
Again, one. Single. Nod.
“Run us by the mission report, exactly how it happened.” I move my arms crossed behind my back, lifting my chin before speaking.
“PX-28 and I infiltrated the apartment at 13:21, at which time the target was in their office. We were met with unexpected armoury in the entrance, which has since expired. Afterwards, PX-28 made her way around the bottom floors, clearing out the lower rooms while I had begun to walk up the stairs towards the second floor.” I take a shallow breath before continuing, Madam hates breaks in mission reports.
“There were two armed guards waiting for me upstairs when I entered. I took both of them out as quietly as possible, but one did manage to fire a shot before I could act. Then I made my way to the target’s office, where he was waiting. When I entered, he was hiding behind his desk when he saw me. The target came out holding a standard-issue pistol, asking who I was and where I came from.”
I take another breath, this time deeper.
My lungs may have been trained to withstand minutes without air, but that has not extended to my mission reports, apparently.
