A voice, loud, chirping, and cocky burst into her pale ear, laced with five different-colored gemstone piercings. The voice came from a short, dirty-blond haired kid, no older than thirteen, where fingers too large for his body click-clacked on a keyboard in front of six or seven flat-screen monitors and various pieces of hardware whirring away. A headpiece, equipped with a clearly expensive set of headphones and a microphone transferred the annoying voice to the ear, but the boy looked more like a McDonald's employee than a technological mastermind.
"Alright Lizzie!" he'd exclaimed rather loudly, clearly excited over their success so far. A hand reached up to her temple, clutching her head from the pain caused by the ringing in her ears. The voice continued to blabber on about something to do with a feedback loop, but the only thing she really caught was "stand still until I give the go-ahead. Heh heh, the go-ahead. I crack myself up." Alright, his expertise soundly planned this mission, though he sure did not sound like an expert of anything but comic books. Lizzie held her body perfectly still as he did whatever technical task he was doing. Her head was alert, eyes scanning every which direction. Her tanned, freckled shoulders were flexed, her whole body in a ready stance. Black leather lace up combat boots folded to her bent legs, her crouching stance causing wrinkles to form in her slightly baggy camo pants. Lizzie remained silent, unmoving, not blinking an eyelash. She appeared similar to a statue of a goddess with her blonde curls up loosely in a ponytail. Her thin body readied itself beneath a ribbed racer-back top, also the same camouflage as her pants.
The grounds showed no signs of wildlife, and aside from the slight mechanical whirring of the tree branches, everything sounded eerily silent. A light breeze danced lightly on her face, but Lizzie could care less about the nice weather. The smell of newly-cut grass wafted through her nostrils prominently. Clearly a groundskeeper existed somewhere, but she did not think she needed to worry about that right now.
"Okay, I'm feeding in the loop now. You're free to roam, Bumble Bee." Kyle's voice chirped in her ear, clearly trying to annoy her by giving her a codename. He thought Liz overreacted about the entire thing. Her big sister probably had mountains of homework to deal with. Despite the serene day and relatively unhindered mission so far, she could not concentrate with him chirping in her ear. She did not choose to play secret agent. Her sister promised to come home for Christmas and she had not. Then her phone calls became less and less, until she had not called once in the past two weeks. Lizzie knew that if Stelle could choose, her sister would return home for the holidays. She did not need any more of Kyle's help anyways. The place looked like someone built it in the early nineteen-hundreds. How sophisticated of a security system would a prep school have installed anyways?
Manicured emerald fingernails reached up to the ponytail at the top of her head, now that she could move. She rose from a stealth position while tucking a stray blonde curl back into her beige elastic. Her tiny diamond studs lined the outside of her pale ear, the miniscule flesh-colored communicator hidden within the inner part. As her hands came down from fixing her hair, she simply dislodged the tiny earpiece. This mission would from now on belong to her alone. She could not concentrate on a way in anyways with Kyle blabbering incessantly in her ear. The communicator fell into the dirt while Kyle's whiny voice screamed for her to pick it up. Lizzie pretended not to notice.
Grey-blue eyes surveyed the grounds as Lizzie moved silently and stealthily between the trees. She didn't see any guards around but a football team practiced on the sports field. Lizzie found the lack of empty cups and Gatorade bottles a bit strange but Lizzie ignored that fact and focused on a way to get past the team unnoticed. However, the more she studied the practice the more uneasy she felt.
Lizzie loved football more than any sport. The real kind of football and, in particular, the New England Patriots. Lizzie soon realized no ordinary football team played on that field. The boys looked normal enough, sure, in their pads with varied netted shirts over them; even the sweat on their foreheads appeared normal. But whoever created this clever illusion missed two things, aside from the Gatorade bottles and paper cups. No sound emanated from the field. None of the boys grunted or yelled as they practiced. All sports teams made noise when playing. A good team couldn't win without communication. The designer also missed the fact that the same plays looped over and over again, the placement of players the same every time, the outcome the same, without even a break to discuss the plays.
Crawling through the grass on her stomach with her forearms and knees moving her forward, none of them seemed to detect her. Her approach involved risks but something about the football team compelled her to move closer. As she rose to her feet, none of them seemed to make eye contact with her. Lizzie did a few jumping jacks. None of them even batted an eyelash at her. Reaching out a pale hand, she intended to tap one of them on the shoulder. To her surprise, her fingers shot straight through, causing five holes of distortion in the illusion of the football player's shoulders. White lightning seemed to crackle from her fingertips, like the lines that formed on the old analog television sets. Drawing her hand back with a gasp, Lizzie ran towards the school in shock. Holograms? But why? All of a sudden she could feel a sinking feeling in her stomach, like she'd swallowed a rock. Once her back was up against the brick wall, Lizzie took a deep breath, her chest rising and falling back into the wall. Methodically, she moved around the school, checking for ways other than the front door into the school. But every windowsill was painted shut, every door other than the front one locked. The main entrance looked like the only way in, so she had no choice. Liz wished she kept the communicator now. Maybe Kyle could have told her a better way in but she didn't have the time for regrets.
Another deep breath in, as her hand rested on the brass handle of the giant double doors. If she went in now she could not turning back. The heavy wooden door swung open silently at the push of her thumb and Lizzie walked into the reception area. The lobby looked normal enough. Wooden, paneled walls, ugly green carpeting and old Victorian furniture that belonged in a museum even in the time of her grandparents filled the space in a typical prep school look. Again appeared the same mistake. No students, not even prep school students, wandered down the halls silently. Lizzie passed straight through them and strode purposefully up to the desk. An old lady sat behind the desk, white hair done in a permanent, just like most other old ladies. Her head stared downwards, her spectacles resting on the bridge of her nose as a small desk lamp provided light for whatever activity the secretary focused on. A brass nameplate on the desk read Violette Crabtree. The name seemed normal enough but for all Lizzie knew the illusions continued with the secretary.
"I want to see my sister. Where are you keeping her?" she demanded in a loud voice, her steely gray eyes glaring at the secretary. Slowly, the old lady looked up from the novel she held in her decrepit hands, a Tom Clancy thriller from the 20th century. If Lizzie been more alert and less worried about her sister, she'd have noticed the twinkle in the old woman's eyes, like the school expected her. The old woman rose slowly, painstakingly from her seat. Lizzie should have noticed the hand Violette used for support actually depressed a button on the desk. Lizzie felt a small, sharp pinch in her leg, but she couldn't do anything about it.
The old woman rose from her hunched over stance, moving towards her with the ease of a teenager. The liquid flowed through her veins, threatening to haze over her brain and leave her open to attack Her sluggish hand moved to the baton on her belt, fighting the effects on her body. With the last ounce of strength, the baton landed on the secretary as she switched on the electricity. Both ladies fell to the floor in a heap, unconscious on the rug of the foyer. The baton rolled from her hand. A red welt formed on the forearm of the old lady. Overall, the scene looked like a big disaster. All Lizzie kept thinking as her consciousness escaped her was this- what kind of school did Stelle go to?
If computers could smile, Jonathan Deveraux's would stretch a mile long. He knew this would happen.