“PX-3 and PX-28 are to come with me.”
Maybe I do believe in the gods, after all. I almost run off the mat, eager to get away, as Lauren follows behind me.
We walk to Madam’s office silently where the Overseer is waiting. Immediately, I can tell this is a mission briefing.
“Agent PX-3, you have been assigned a new mission. Target 106.” I nod, straightening my posture which I only seem to do in this awful room.
“Yes, sir.”
He hands me the mission briefing with a photo of the target and all known information, but at least 98% is redacted.
“Sir? I can barely read this mission report.” I show him the file, and the Overseer nods.
“This target is high value; we cannot afford too much information to be known, but we can tell you this is a top priority.”
I look back down to the mission briefing and find the three words left on the page: death, chaos, and murder. Clearly this person messed up, and badly.
“When do we leave, sir?” I take the photo from the folder, tuck it in my mission uniform pocket, and hand the file back to the Overseer.
“Tonight, formal mission attire,” he says dismissing us before turning back to the Madam.
Taking the short walk back to my assigned bunk room, I find my formal mission attire hanging on the metal rod attached to the back wall. It’s a skin-tight black dress that almost drags on the floor as I walk, the leg slit on the left side barely providing enough mobility to fight when it’s needed.
The black detachable heels sit next to the dress, probably the only reasonable choice for the formal mission attire. The heels come off and turn into flats, making it possible to run. Well, as much as possible with the limited movement, that is.
I’ve made several complaints about the mission attire, but are they listened to? Of course not. Because why would I, the one doing the job, know what I’m talking about? No, instead I got two days in the chair for ‘undermining my superiors’.
Placing my sheath on my outer left thigh and holster facing the inside of my right thigh, I load my gun and place it in the holster. Then, wiping the dried blood off my knife with the rag I used to clean Lauren’s face yesterday, I place it on the opposite thigh and safely clip it into the sheath.
Glancing at the mission report, I hold it up to the light to see if I can see through the marker. I only manage to get one more word from the glare: harbour.
I’ll have to ask Bella what it means later if I get the time.
“You ready? We need to go to the mission sector,” Lauren whispers. I don’t look at her as I walk down the stairs of the bunk sector. What she did today was selfish, and could have gotten us both in the chair. Or killed. Considering everything I have sacrificed for her, I would’ve hoped she would at least pretend to belong here.
Yet I know Lauren never will, and it’s going to get her killed. As much as I try to protect her, most of the time it’s like she’s not even trying to protect herself. I refuse to go down with Lauren. Not when I have worked so hard to be the best one here.
Even if I’ve spent half my life trying to save her, her life isn’t worth mine. Not when I mean so much more to The Academy.
Chapter 3:
Walking down to the mission sector, the heels click against the concrete floors, echoing through the corridors. Brylee, our stylist, is waiting for me.
Brylee is the person who does all our hair and makeup for formal mission attire.
She’s the only name I know inside this building, and I’m the only one who knows it. She made me swear to secrecy. Everyone else just sits in her chair and says nothing; she doesn’t even have an assigned name.
Brylee doesn’t care for The Academy like the rest of them do. Honestly, sometimes I question if she’s maybe a little crazy, but in a good way…I think?
Like always, Brylee is waiting by her chair. Her curly hair is pinned back into a bun with coils of her hair that have sprung free.
Before the war, she used to have something called braids, but I never quite understood what they were, and she never had enough time to explain them to me. But I know they weren’t like our French braids we get for missions.
Brylee’s brown skin, like Bella’s, has always been something I envied; most of the girls down here are so pale from the lack of sunlight that we look ghastly, but she never does. It’s quite beautiful, really.
“All ready?” Brylee asks, her face falling as I walk through the door and sit in her chair.
“Mhmm,” I hum, careful not to look like I’m talking before I turn my back to the guards and whisper, “this one is weird, though.”
