Author's note: I have relatively no idea what neo-communist or vladivostok are. Please tell me if I used them offensively; I just needed details.

ALSO. I doubt I'll ever get to chapter seven of "Everything", let alone chapter twelve. So, warning. Alright, enjoy!

Life was...interesting when you were a spy. Of course, the most glamorous spies were American a la James Bond, but Irina Vladivostok didn't care. Her life as the neo-communist spy, the Artisan, was thrilling enough. Under the name Vivian Lesya, she began work in Arlington Virginia trying to find a man who would tell her everything she needed to know. There she spent at least half a year, looking around for people who could be bribed-turned-or alternatively, threatened-persuaded. Once she thought she had a grip on one Alexander Brand, but it turned out that Annalea Brand (four years old, asthmatic) was of no relation to him.

Then she found a James Holiday. He was one of the nation's best semi-retired spies, according to some stolen records Irina had acquired. James worked as a janitor officially, and unofficially, a father figure to a bunch of outcast kids in the same elementary school. His own daughter, an angel named Lisa, was the librarian there.

Irina had visited his house at eight at night, climbing in through a window. When he appeared, she had picked up a framed photograph on the desk. It was of Lisa and five children. Nerds.

"Is this your daughter? And what lovely grandkids. Shame if something happened to them, Director."

James hadn't said anything. He merely listened as she gave her demands. How the heck was she supposed to know that he would send the calvary-the kids- after her? And on the same night, too! Not that she would ever believe that the blonde girl was really allergic to Russian spies, but the twitchy kid lifted an entire truck by himself! Child soldiers were supposed to be outlawed.

There was really no way she would ever beat the Korean girl in a fight; therefore she avoided her altogether. Except the wheezer could freakin' fly! This was definitely NOT. FAIR. Eventually Irina had used the wallclimber (was that glue all over his hands? Gross!) as a human bowling ball to get away from her.

Just when she thought she would make it- the private airplane hired by her superiors was twenty feet away- the twitchy kid returned. He had the handcuffs already around one of her wrists when someone spoke.

"Flinch. Let her go. Wrong target."

"Y-y-you sure, Choppers?" The stuttering seemed due to the boy's inability to keep still, not insecurity. "Ruby said-"

"The orders Ruby got were false. Director Holiday was dead at the time they were given. Let her go."

The redheaded nerd was lying for her? No, Irina realized. If the director was dead, and this kid had something to do with it, well, he's establishing an alibi now.

There was still nothing left to do but run.

Author's note: well, there was a director before Brand, that's what the first chapter in the first book is about! My headcanon states he is the James Holiday shown above.

Erm, bye! And have a great summer.