A Routine Mission
She can see the orange and black lights from mundane houses illuminating the street. It's a chilly night, a harsh breeze cutting through the air, raising hairs on her neck. She can see her own faint breath in the cold air, like smoke billowing out into the dark.
Dressed strictly in a black trench coat, shirt and slacks, she begins to walk. The hollow sound of her boots on the asphalt, is horribly loud. In front of each house, there is at least some form of decoration on display. Rays of a flickering candle glare out through triangular eyes and mouth of a pumpkin. Staring. Staring into the obscurity.
Some believe that these displays of supposed horror scare away some unknown evil, on this particular night.
Jack-O'-lanterns won't scare her away, really, nothing can scare her away.
A sharp sudden buzzing in her left ear, reminds her. Nothing will stop her from her mission tonight.
"Fray. Can you hear me?" The same lighthearted voice cuts in, as always.
She presses two fingers into the earpiece, and replies, "Affirmative."
"You don't have to go all professional on me." He accuses with a smile in his voice.
"Sorry, Simon. It's protocol. And-"
"-You like to stick to the rules, I know." Simon finishes for her.
She rolls her eyes.
"I can see that." He shoots in flatly. She almost forgot the cameras, stationed on each light pole. They'd done some recon a day before the mission, set up cameras nearly everywhere.
She suppresses a smile and continues walking. A light bump on her left leg, reminds her of the pistol safely stored in the inside of her coat. She's also got her two throwing knives, of course. She practically never goes on any mission without her knives tucked in to her boot. Actually, she never goes anywhere without her knives.
"Did you tell your father?" Simon's voice cuts in again. Sometimes, she thinks, he doesn't understand that silence is golden. She needs the silence to think, to concentrate. She mostly needs it to prepare herself, before each mission.
But Simon is her best friend. They've practically been inseparable since the two were paired up as partners. Simon is a "labbie", meaning he works back at the office. Field agents, like her, tend to tease desk agents, calling them "lab rats". She knows, Simon takes it as a compliment, because he usually replies with a, "Somebody needs to get the paperwork done. God knows, you don't."
Being 16, most people would think it too young, to be associated with guns and criminal investigations of any sort. Not Father. Father, being in the Circle of the board members at NYIC, has been training her since she was a little girl. Instead of dolls and clothes, she was given knives and training gear. Instead of shopping and hanging out with friends, she was training. Always training. And her only real friend was her mother. Since she left them, she's only had Simon. Even Sebastian stopped seeing her as a sister. It was like something broke inside of him, the day their mother passed away, taking a piece of him with her. She was only 12 at the time, but she remembers. She remembers like it was yesterday.
"Clary?" Simon tries again.
She doesn't want to tell Father. She knows Father will be angry with her. Father has been training Clary her whole life to be an agent. But has he ever asked Clary what she wanted to do with her life? The short answer to that is no.
Clary realised a long time ago, that Father only cares about her career as an agent. He only wants his kids to be the agent, Father never could. He only sees as far as their careers, never pulling into another lane. But Sebastian doesn't have a hard time accommodating to the covert life. In fact, Sebastian enjoys it rather immensely. He ended up the best in the whole program, aside from Clary of course. She always came in second, and that included when it came down to picking favourites. Father had always preferred Sebastian, saving compliments for him and leaving the lectures and the pestering for Clary.
The only thing that kept Father quiet, was completing the program. So she did. And now, she'd officially graduated. The time was in. But everytime she summoned the courage to talk to him, an invisible hand closed around her throat. Threatening to clench tighter if she told him, because she was scared. Scared how he'd react, and that he'd completely cut off the already thin thread bonding them together as father and daughter. So she kept quiet. But she knew. She knew the truth was inevitable. And Simon was a reminder of inevitable, always inquiring. Always asking if she'd told Father yet.
Clary simply stopped trying to restore the broken bond between them, after five years of trying. She was disappointed of always asking Father if he wanted to do spend time with her, and always getting the same hard answer: Did you train yet? And since then, they've grown further and further apart. The only time they see each other, is at Christmas or at important mission briefings, because God forbid, he has better things to do than debrief one of the best agents at NYIC. At least that what he tells her.
She ignores Simon's question, and instead answers, "I'm about to engage." Meaning she is about to enter the house.
Clary hears a faint sigh on the other end followed by a "good luck" and then a small static thud. He muted his mic.
She smiles, this is her time to shine now. Maybe, she thinks, maybe this will finally gain Father's attention. She dug this mission file up in the old archives, the case was deemed closed 4 years ago. But after a closer look, the case should be anything but closed. So many loose ends. So many questions left unanswered. If she achieves this, if she does this right, then she might have a chance with Father. This could be her way in.
She climbs the steps to the house. Rings the doorbell. As soon as the door opens, she pushes in with her right shoulder, effortlessly snatching her pistol from her coat. Holding both hands on the weapon, directed down, she enters carefully and silently. Like a predator cornering a prey.
A surprised cry fills the air. In less than a second she has her gun aimed at the source of the sound, which happens to be an old woman in a silk robe. Her hair looks messy, indicating she'd just gotten out of bed. Her small frail form is leaning up against the wall. Her big eyes look both frightened and fully alert. With a shaking hand, the old woman points to the top of the stairs.
Having identified her as a non-threat, she follows her instruction and treads as lightly as she can, up the stairs. The spiral staircase curls itself up and around, with an old antique railing on either side. She approaches slowly, careful not to make any creaking sounds on the wooden steps. With each step, she feels the familiar adrenaline course through her veins, a thrilling rush boiling her very blood. She's nearly at the top, and she can feel the feat of having accomplished the silent task. And then the wooden steps finally give in. A small creak makes her freeze in her footsteps. Her breathing catches and her heart almost stops beating for a second.
She waits, now more aware than ever. Pistol in hand, she waits for whatever threat ready to pounce on her. After several seconds of complete silence, and no threat, she makes her way up the rest of the way. Creeping up against the wall, she runs almost sideways. She needs to get out of here, the sooner the better. Already being exposed to the old woman downstairs, will drag her down in her report, she knows. This needs to be a quick hit and run.
Small voices at the end of the hall, draw nearer as she advances. The closer she comes, the more she can make of the voices.
"-need to leave! They'll... any minute!"
"Did you... the files? ...girl?"
"The Morg...stern..."
Suddenly her earpiece cuts in, "Fray! 3 unidentified threats coming your way!"
Then, out of nowhere, a hand clasps on her mouth and another snakes around her waist. Out of pure shock she drops her gun. It clatters to the ground with a loud thud. Footsteps in the next room grow frantic, a window is smashed, followed by shouting voices.
A low masculine voice curses loudly behind her. She tries to move her head, but whoever is holding her (she's guessing the man who shouted profanities in her ear earlier), definitely knows what he's doing. He's got her in an irontight headlock, not to mention body-lock. She struggles helplessly in his arms, while he continues shouting.
"Izzy! Alec! After them!" He yells. It seems, she concludes, that he is trying to deafen her hearing. His mouth is so close to her left ear, it starts ringing after his second round of shouting commands. And sure enough, not a second later two figures come running right past her, as if she were a fly on the wall. They hurdle themselves with surprising grace into the next room.
"Now. Are you going to behave, if I let you go?" The same low voice says into her ear. It seems rather quiet after his loud shouting earlier. His deep voice, sends a chill down her spine, and she has to force herself not to shudder. She can't answer, with his hand over her mouth, so she nods once with her head.
Slowly he releases her, finger after finger, hand after hand. She can still feel his touch on her mouth, still hot on her lips. As soon as his hands are off of her, she whips around, swinging her elbow up quick and hard at the man's gut. Her hit lands sure and swift, making the man stumble back, groaning slightly. As soon as her eyes take in the sight in front of her, her heart skips a beat.
Gold. The colour that stands out the most is his golden unkempt hair, falling down between his eyes, as his eyebrows draw together in a slight grimace. His lips crinkle in the most tempting way, and she has to tell herself to stop thinking about this. To stop thinking about him.
Stop. He's an unidentified threat. She reprimands herself. Looks and beauty were never things that had ever put her off before, and that made her even more wary of this new stranger.
"Don't come any nearer." She says with what she can only hope is her coldest voice. His head snaps up at her voice, their eyes locking. He narrows them for a split-second before a wide smile stretches across his face.
"Wasn't planning on it, sweetheart." He replies with a smirk. Oh, she loves the way his voice rumbles in the most delicious way possible, and the fact that he called her sweetheart. Normally she doesn't like nicknames, she hates it, in fact. But coming from him...She thinks it isn't as bad as when Simon calls her that.
"Who are you?" She asks, trying to stall him as she reaches down in her boot. She still has her knives.
"Who are you?" He retorts.
Silence.
"NYIC. New York Institute of Crime." She finally answers.
"CIA. I'm guessing I don't have to tell you what that's short for." He says, a corner of his mouth tugging up in a cocky smile. Everything about him screams sexy, his careless stance, although she knows that he could in less than a second, have her pinned up against the wall if he wanted. His golden perfect hair. His beautiful golden brown eyes staring into hers.
And then it struck her. This wasn't an ordinary CIA agent. This was Jace Wayland, the Jace Wayland. The one Father was always going on about. The "cocky and arrogant bastard who keeps on messing with our agency", as Father so elegantly put it. It was just, that she had always pictured him much more unattractive and older. But he is, on the contrary, quite the opposite. He seems about 18 years old.
"Wait...You're...Jace Wayland." She says, more to herself, but he seems to hear it anyway.
"Ah yes. That's me. The notorious and charming Jace Wayland, at your service." He seems quite pleased that she recognised him. "And who are you, might I ask?"
"It's common courtesy to introduce yourself, you know." He tries again.
"Clary. Clary Fray."
"Yes, well, Clary, we're going to have to bring you in, I'm afraid."
Hello dear readers,
Please review, if you think I should carry on with this story. Still not sure if I should yet :)
Have a good day!
~Roluv3r
