Chapter 1 #2
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.
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.
“PX-3?” Madam’s voice croaks, and I almost roll my eyes.
“After the initial confrontation, I managed to wind him, forcing him back into the chair. I tied his arms behind his back using his own tie and pushed him into the open area of the office, where I stabbed him in the chest.”
Killing is easy. Anyone can pick up a gun and shoot someone, but stabbing someone is personal. Having to be so close and take a life, you must want to kill. And I want to kill every single target that threatens our system.
“Very well, you are excused.” Madam waves her arm to shoo me away, and I walk out quickly, not waiting for the Madam to change her mind as I make my way to the dining sector.
The dining sector is a large room laid out in rows of circular tables with eight cold metal chairs circling each table. The left wall has the trays placed through a small hole in the wall, separating the kitchen staff from us.
Lauren is waiting for me at the entrance to the dining sector, but she doesn’t look at me.
It’s different here. We can’t show any emotions like we can out there, not that I do, anyway.
Lauren is waiting because of the order of the Commander, not because she is my friend. There are no such things anymore.
“PX-28,” I nod, acknowledging her presence as we walk to grab our trays. At least lunch looks more appealing than yesterday. There is an assortment of chicken, potatoes, salad, and boiled eggs.
We sit down in the back corner of the dining sector, far enough to be able to whisper to each other without being caught. “What happened?” Lauren whispers, her eyes darting around me, checking for any fresh injuries.
“Same as usual. Mission report.” Her face softens with a soft exhale in relief, but we both know if I didn’t give the answer they liked, I would be in the chair.
We eat our late lunch quietly, everyone else is in the training sector on the usual schedule.
Lauren and I are only allowed to eat late because of our mission.
I barely get to finish my plate before one of the guards walks up to our table, looking down at us with eyes so dark I’m convinced he has none.
“PX-28, you have been summoned.”
Lauren’s eyes pierce mine with fear, but I remain cold.
I will not let them see me break. Unlike Lauren, I am great at shutting out every thought, every feeling.
I lock it all away behind a door I refuse to open in my mind.
But I don’t miss the sudden chill that flows through my body, sending a shiver down my spine. What has she done? Will I be punished?
“For what reason?” I risk my own safety by asking.
“Shut up unless you want a night in the chair,” the guard spits, his throat pulsing as he says each word. For a moment, I wonder what it would be like to slice open the delicate skin. Not to save Lauren, but for the disrespect. Who does he think he is?
?
It’s three hours before I see Lauren again. Her cheek is cut, and her eye is bruised.
“You have to get better at hiding your emotions. It’s going to get you killed.” I run some water onto a rag, cleaning her cheek. The motion causes Lauren to pull away from the touch with a wince.
“And not showing you’re in pain.” I sigh, grabbing her chin and going back in to clean the wound with the cloth.
“I’m not you. I can’t just hide my emotions like they mean nothing.”
“They do mean nothing when it’s between being sad or being alive. Personally, I would much rather be alive.”
Lauren rolls her eyes, and I press the rag harder intentionally, causing her to wince again. Without pain, there can be no lesson. Madam’s words ring in my head.
“I never wanted this life, I’m not like you or the others.” Her lip quivers as looks down at the floor. I make no effort to comfort her. Instead, I continue cleaning the cut.
“You think I got a choice? I adapted. It’s because I adapted that you’re still alive. Do you think they would have kept you alive if they didn’t need me alive?”
Okay, maybe I lied. I am attached to Lauren more than I should be.
She’s like a sister to me, as far as a sister goes in this place at least. A very much annoying and spoiled younger sister who only seems to get you into more trouble than good.
I move my hands to her shoulders, gripping tightly. “Listen to me. You need to adapt, or they will kill you. And I refuse to lose you, too.”
Seventy-six girls used to be ninety-nine; nine died in missions, three died because their assigned partner killed them, then eleven due to unexplainable circumstances. Or in other words, the chair.
They strap you down to the chair for days on end, making it so that you cannot move a muscle, and then torture you for days. If you break, you die. If you cry, you die. If you do anything other than feel nothing in this place, you die.
It’s supposed to help you, or in their words, shape you into an independent agent. But the problem there is, none of us are independent, being locked in a basement, only leaving to kill. It takes everything from you. Including your sanity.