Young Writers Society

His chest rises and falls, a steady rhythm under his coat. Pulling the syringe from his arm, I wrap it in the plastic bag, and toss it in the corner. My fingers go to his arms, and touch the cuffs fixed over them. Satisfied, I look at his face.

“Hello, my friend,” I whisper. “Ready to go?” A slight shudder runs up his frame, and his eyelids flicker in response to my words. I step back slightly, my hands retreating from his skin.

His lids open, and he raises his head. His dark eyes flit around the room, taking in the see-through walls, and the thin cracks that give away the position of the doors. Then they land on me. He blinks, and some of the fog clears. “Where am I?”

“It’s alright, Eric,” I say, laying my hand on his arm and keeping my voice gentle. “You’re safe.”

He flexes his arms, pressing against the restraints pinning him down. His expression clears, awareness flooding over him. “I was drugged.”

“It was necessary,” I say, keeping my voice soothing, with just a hint of an apology. He doesn’t have to think of me as an enemy, yet.

“Eric, you have been recruited, chosen, to be part of the most powerful organization in the world. You kill who you are told to, when you are told to, or you die.” I shrug. “It’s that simple.”

Fire flared in his eyes, turning the dark brown black with hatred. Menacingly, I let my hand drop down to rest on the stock of my gun, caressing the cool metal.

He follows my movement, and his shoulders slump, life leaving his eyes. Better, a reaction with less rebellion. Easier to control. It seems that softness and persuasion won’t work on him. Time to change tactics.

“Get to your feet,” I order, adding steel to my tone. “It’s time to go.”

Reluctantly, he pushes himself up with difficulty, lacking the leverage from his hands. Once on his feet, he faces me, having to bend his neck to look me in the eye. “One more thing.”

Taking a step back to keep him from towering over me, I bite back a curse. Sometimes being slim and small isn’t such a blessing. “And what is it this time?”

“What is your name?” he says, his tone neutral, somewhat lacking in emotion. Still in shock then.

“Phoenix,” I say, my fingers drumming against the hard stock of my gun. “Phoenix Inferno, agent sixty-nine.”

“It suits you,” he says, inclining his head towards me slightly.

I run a quick hand through my hair, glancing at one red strand as it curls through my fingers. “I suppose it does.” I throw it over my shoulders, turning my attention fully to him. “We all get a new name when we join. Python gave me mine.”

His name leaves a foul taste in my mouth, despite how long it was been since he died. A memory I can never be rid of, a ghost that will always haunt. The man who dragged me into this hellhole.

“Who is Python?” Eric asks, carefully, catching the flicker of thought as it flashes over my face. “A friend?”`

“Not him, No!” I snap. “Over my dead body! And you don’t have friends in this line of work. You have associates.”

He nods, but his expression isn’t satisfied. “You didn’t answer my question,” he notices. “Who is Python?”

A smile snakes its way round to cover my mouth. “He’s the agent you are going to have the honor of replacing. You’re working with me. Do you have any,” I raise one eyebrow. “Other questions?”

He nods again, shifting on his feet. “You’ve referred to the government agency several times without actually saying its name. Could you give it a name for me?”

“Chimera,” I say, the word flashing golden in my mind. “A three pronged attack. One in the field, two in computer.” I throw my head back, my midnight eyes mocking him. “Welcome to the team.”

Turning, not even waiting for his answer, I slap my hand against the glass. The cool surface kisses my sweaty palm, and a thin green light sweep up, scanning it. Recognizing my hand, the glass wall separates at the crack, and the door swings out.

Drawing my gun, I gesture for him to go first. Shaking his head, he steps through. I fall into step behind him as he does, and stick the barrel of my gun into his back. He freezes every muscle clenching.

“Don’t think I’m not watching you,” I whisper, leaning in until my lips are inches from his ears, my free hand resting on his shoulder. “Or that you’d have a chance if you try. You’d be dead in a moment. With a hole in your chest.”

He swallows, and I can feel a tremor run through him in response to my tone. A mere slip of a woman I might be, but everyone is dangerous with a gun in their hands. “I understand.”

I draw away, keeping the gun where it is, but removing my hand and taking a step back. “Good for you. Then let’s go.”

He makes as if to go, but hesitates, affronted by a corridor that heads in both directions. I push him towards the right, my hand landing on his back. He stumbles, my nudge catching him by surprise.

“Right,” I say, pinning a curse onto the end of the word. “That way.” My fingers jab into a back as hard and stubborn as can be. I can feel the individual muscles clenching against my touch.

Bending his head, he starts down the hall, passing silent rooms with closed doors. I press the barrel harder into his back, urging him on. His head goes lower, and his step quickens.

The sound of our feet echoes through the white halls, filling the air. The only noise to be heard, besides the echoes that spring up from the distance. Their faint voices remind me of the far off sound of children playing, a sound never heard here.

Frowning, I thrust the thought from me. Now isn’t the time for it. I’m on a mission; I shouldn’t be wasting time with daydreaming. I glance at the man in front of me. Not if I want to live.

We turn a corner, and I touch Eric’s shoulder. “Stop,” I order, quietly. He halts, half turning towards me.

“Yes?” he says, his voice even quieter. “What do I do now?”

Startled by his tone, I throw him a wary look. He stares back, his expression remote and frozen. Not a flicker of life in his eyes, matching the deadened tone of his voice. And that’s good. Very good. But, then what is bothering me?

Stepping farther into his view, I nod towards the elevator settled about five feet in front of us. “See the monitor perched off by the side?” I nod towards the small computer screen nestled in the wall.

“I see it,” he says, his eyes going to it. He cranes his neck and looks at me, long hair falling in his face. “And?”

“Go stand next to it,” I direct, blowing a stray strand of hair out of my face. “I need to open the doors, and don’t want to die while I’m doing it.”

He lowers his head, and does as he’s told, but I can see his hands as he does. Both of them are clenched tightly, the nails driven into the skin. He is holding his pride or whatever is giving him fits, down as tight as he can, but that can only last so long.

I wait until he stands, submissively, besides the door, before coming forward myself. I don’t think he will turn on me, too smart for that. If he does it will be later, when he has a better feel for his surroundings. But it doesn’t hurt to be careful .

Lowering my gun, though not holstering it, I brush my left hand off on my jumpsuit, ridding it of the sweaty layer of dirt. Satisfied, I place it, gently, on the scanner. The green line sweeps over it, and disappears. I pull my hand back, and step away from it.

A hum travels through the ground, vibrating up my legs. The elevator slides open, revealing the bare inside of the concrete container. Without waiting for a word, Eric steps inside, and I follow him through, skipping over the crack in the ground.