The room was bare. No decorations, no trinkets, and no MTV posters. Although it was spring outside, with the sun shining brightly and the trees and flowers in blossom, it was cold and dark inside the room. It was more than a case of bad insulation. It was the totally militaristic and dispassionate set of the room that made it seem so. You could smell the rigid, hard and bare necessity of the room. The room had a small, metal bed in one corner, a wooden dresser with a mirror on top and a wooden chair next to the bed.

James currently occupied the bed. He was completely naked under the duvet. Any man of experience could have told you James was knocked out by some sort of tranquiliser. After a few seconds, James stirred, feeling groggy. He sat on the bed, but immediately regretted it as a wave of nausea attacked him. He waited until it had passed before trying to move again. The nausea attacked him, but this time it was less profound. He looked around the room gingerly, his neck stiff. He gave a grunt of dismissal; there was nothing revealing at all about the room. He stood up slowly, and headed for one of the two doors in the room. It opened up into a bathroom, which was just as well because James was dying for a piss.

After a minute, James came back into the room and went to the chair, where some clothes were piled. He grimaced as he thought of all the items he'd had in his possession. Grimly, he put on the new clothes. There was a pair of black combat trousers, an orange T-shirt with the logo CHERUB on it, a pair of white socks, a pair of white boxers and a pair of combat boots. The militaristic clothes surprised him, but it was the picture of an actual Cherub flying over a globe on the T-shirt that surprised him more; it didn't math with the rest of his attire. After he finished putting them on, he went to the dresser and checked out the contents of the drawers. All he found was a comb, a toothbrush and toothpaste and nail clippers. His mouth twitched at this run of good luck; he could have a crude weapon now.

Ten minutes later, James sat on the bed, thinking about how he had got here. The last thing he remembered was sitting in his room at the orphanage, checking the US stock exchange while Kyle, his roommate, was listening to his walkman. And from then on his memory was hazy and he couldn't place anything that had happened. He sighed.

"Tranquiliser mixed with a weak amnesiac." He shook his head. But who could have done this? Had he been finally located by his family? Or had his mother's captors come to finish the job they had started? What ever the truth, he knew there was no use sitting there wallowing. He had to take action and find out what was going on.

A bell went off, and James recognised it as the same monotonic ring that went off at his school. So he was at a school? Unlikely, he thought. He went to the door and walked into a corridor. There were many other kids dressed like he was, all chatting merrily and walking in the same direction.

"Hello," he said to a girl who looked thirteen. "Do you know where I am?"

"Sorry," the girl giggled. "Can't talk to orange." He frowned. So these shirts had some sort of significance?

"Hello," he said to another girl. This one looked fifteen. Maybe she'd be more mature. "Do you know where I am?"

"Can't talk to orange," she said in a hurried voice.

Alright then, thought James. He suddenly struck out with his right hand, striking a passing twelve year unconscious. Although everyone was looking, most of the kids kept on walking. It was only three other kids who stopped and looked at scene with a mixture of fear and wanting to stop it. James ignored all this and took off his orange shirt. He stripped the kid of his grey shirt and wore it instead.

"Now I'm not wearing orange," James said with a smile. "Mind telling me what's going on?" the three kids just looked at him, fear in their eyes. James put his foot at the kid's throat.

"Now," he added threateningly.

"Let the kid go," a voice said fro behind him. James obliged, and turned round to see who had spoken. It was a fourteen year old boy.

"And you are…?" asked James, tugging at his shirt. It was small.

"Norman. And you are?"

"James."

"Well, James, we don't encourage bullying here. Let the kids go." James didn't bother to stop the three kids as they carried off their friend.

"A noble concept, but I have no memory of coming here, and I don't even know where here is. If my law isn't that rusty, this constitutes as kidnapping, and therefore I cannot be held responsible for anything I do while trying to escape. I tried the nice way, by asking, but apparently being nice isn't high on your morality list." Norman had been walking closer, and now a small crowd had been gathering around them.

"Listen, boy," Norman said menacingly, "there was no need to take it out on someone younger than you."

"Well, I would have taken it out on you, but you were too busy hiding behind your mum's skirt," James said. There was a round of oohs and ahhs as Norman stepped even closer. Suddenly another bell went off, and Norman waved James off.

"Go to the first floor. Mac will be waiting to see you. I have no time for little squirts like you."

"Hello James. I'm Doctor Terence McAfferty," said a man in a soft Scottish accent. "Welcome to CHERUB campus." James didn't reply.

"Well," the man said after a moment of silence, "what are your first impressions of us?"

"You are a very well funded orphanage," James said.

"Yes," Mac said. "We have six tennis courts, four swimming pools, an on-site school and a shooting range, among other things. Funny, but you haven't asked how you got here or why you are here." James merely shrugged.

"Well," Mac continued, "we brought you here because we think you would be a great addition to the campus. You are intelligent and fit and have an appetite for trouble." James raised an eyebrow. As an answer, Mac raised a manila folder.

"We have access to your file. I was particularly intrigued with the last police entry; you were accused of stealing–"

"False allegations," James said. "They had no evidence except CCTV footage which showed I was in the vicinity, but not actually stealing or running from the scene. It was a dodgy prosecution at best." Mac frowned, looking intently at the youth.

"And why would they come looking for you with such a 'dodgy prosecution' in the first place?" James shrugged.

"How am I supposed to know," he tried to say with an innocent smile, but his facial features wouldn't allow him.

"Very well, James. Moving on, we brought you here because we think you show promise and would like to invite you to join CHERUB."

"And the catch?" asked James.

"What makes you think there's a catch?"

"Oh, nothing. I guess you just drugged and brought me to a secret, top-notch campus where I will want for little out of the goodness of your own heart."

"Are you always so …"

"Pessimistic? Realistic? Yes, pretty much."

"Well, as you guessed, there is a catch. First, you must pass the entrance examination, and then, perhaps more unusual, you have to agree to work for the British Secret Service."

"Excuse me?" James asked, thinking the tranquiliser was still affecting him.

"Yes, you heard me correctly. CHERUB is part of the British Intelligence Service, and you must agree to work for them."

"Children as spies? Unusual idea, but I can see the merits."

"You don't have to decide now. You can take the examination, and then have a few days to think about it, if you pass. Here's a booklet with all the CHERUB information a recruit needs to know." Mac handed James a small, thick hard back booklet.

"Now, let's begin the exam," Mac said.

The first exam was a written exam. The time duration was an hour and a half. The exam included Maths, English, History and Science questions. James finished it in half an hour.

The second exam was to complete an obstacle course. James had two fifteen year old boys to help him out named Paul and Arif. At first James had thought that the obstacle course would be hard, but it turned out to be rather disappointing. He had to run to a wall and scale it, and then swing from the wall onto a net, which he had to crawl over without tipping over, then walk along a single long plank and not fall over, and then finally sprint along a straight track whilst avoiding the projectiles being fired at him. He managed to do all this and still keep up with Paul and Arif without breaking a sweat.

The third exam was to retrieve a brick from the bottom of the pool. This was difficult. James simply stood there for a minute, looking at the water, mesmerised by its blue lustre and the small waves running across it. He was afraid of water. Had been for the past two years. The memory of it still brought tears shame to his eyes. Two little kids who had tried to bully him on land had managed to restrain him long enough to throw him into the swimming pool at school. They had cuffed his hands and feet with plastic handcuffs, and in the time it took James to get free, his air supply had run out and he had fainted. The life guard had had to pump his lungs to remove the water and give him CPR.

Shaking that off, James took deep breaths and dived into the pool. He swam in perfect strokes to the bottom and grabbed the brick. It weighed a lot, but James managed to bring it to the surface with the no problem. But after he was on dry land, he simply sat at the edge of the pool, stroking the little eddies.

Nearing lunch time, he went to an office with Mac for the fourth exam. It was bare except for a desk with a pencil and a caged chicken on it.

"Do you like eating chicken, James?"

"Sure," James answered

"Do you want to eat this chicken?"

"It's alive," James pointed out, "

"Then kill this chicken James," he said.

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because people are paid to do this. Why would I want to kill a chicken?"

"Alright then," Mac said, pulling out his wallet. "I'll pay you to kill the chicken."

"Alright," James said, thinking this entire thing was some kind of joke.

Mac handed him a fifty pound note, and that's when James knew he was serious.

"You want me to kill the chicken?"

"I want you to kill the chicken," Mac affirmed.

"Fine," James said. He took the sharpened pencil from the desk and held it firmly in his right hand. He opened the cage and turned the clucking chicken to the side. Without hesitating, he plunged the pencil into the back of the chicken's head. The chicken shrieked and clucked and emptied its bowels quite violently for thirty seconds before collapsing dead.

It was lunch time, and Mac led James to the canteen. James had asked if he could shower and change back into his own clothes. Mac had agreed, much to James' delight. He was tired and stank terribly, even if he had been careful with the chicken. He now wore his Armani attire; shining black shoes, grey socks, long black cotton trousers, a synthetic crocodile belt and a light blue short sleeved shirt. James felt more comfortable in his own clothes now, more whole. He walked confidently into the canteen, even though everyone was staring at him. There was a bubble of anger and irritation when he saw the looks on most of their faces; it was always the same, no matter what he did. People always treated him the same, looked at him the same.

Mac showed James where the food and cutlery were, and then paid for James' lunch. He led James to a table by a window. There were quite a few people seated on it, including Norman and two of his friends.

"Sorry about earlier," James said. "I wasn't in my best mood." Norman waved him off. James betrayed no emotion, but inside he was seething. His anger always got the best of him.

"Well, James," said Mac, "the last exam is after lunch. I can now safely tell you how you did on the previous four. How do you think you did?"

"Alright, I hope."

"More than alright. You results are one of the best I have ever seen. You got full marks on the written exam. You completed the obstacle course without any help from Paul and Arif, and not once did you falter. The third exam was better than I had hoped. We know you are afraid of water, and the choice we expected you to make was to refuse. But you hung in there and completed the task. And how well do you think you did on the fourth exam?" By now everyone on the table was listening in, and a few from the surrounding tables.

"I killed the chicken," James said after swallowing a chunk of chicken. He paled, coming to his senses. He met Mac's eyes, asking the question silently.

"No, that's not the chicken you killed. The exam was a test of your moral courage. If you had refused outright, you would have passed. If you had killed the chicken outright, you would have passed. But you allowed me to bully you into killing the chicken, so I had to give you a low pass. If–"

"Bah," James said, interrupting.

"Bah?" asked Mac.

"There is no such thing as moral courage."

"Is that so?"

"If I was a thug, what would you call killing for no known reason?"

"Are we still talking about the chicken?" Mac asked. James just looked at him. "Unlawful," Mac said after a moment.

"And if I was a poor, hungry and generally good-natured tramp?"

"It would still be unlawful."

"But you would less severe, even lenient on me, wouldn't you," asked James.

"I guess so," Mac said, sitting forward, now intrigued where James was going with this.

"And if I was a successful 'fed-with-a-silver-spoon' businessman?"

"I would severely punish you," Mac said, getting into the swing of the game.

"And if I was a twelve year old boy who'd been paid to kill?" There was a hush as Mac thought of an answer to that one.

"Frankly I don't know what I'd do," Mac said after a moment.

"Doesn't matter," James said, tucking into his last piece of chicken. "It wouldn't make a difference. The person –or chicken- is still dead. It doesn't matter who killed it or why or how or when or where. The person's dead, and no amount of explanation or excuses can change that."

"But it was a test of moral courage," Mac said triumphantly. "You were supposed to use your own heart to tell whether or not you should do it."

"And I did. I had no interest in killing the chicken whatsoever, but when you offered me money, I changed my mind. I am going to use that fifty quid to spoil my sister the next time I see her because I haven't seen her for two months. My step-dad hates me and knowing that I can't talk to my little sister is how he generally gets his rocks off. So now you decide; I have a very good reason for what I did. It's not selfish and it's for a good cause, but to achieve it I had to kill an innocent chicken that didn't need to die. Sure you might have killed it, but I wouldn't have known, and therefore my conscience wouldn't be so heavy." Mac just looked at him for a long time. James ignored him and attacked his pudding with a vengeance.

"That's pretty cold," Mac said after a while.

"That's life," James said.

After lunch, James and Mac went to the dojo. It was newly built, and most of it was made from treated bamboo that shone in the sunlight.

"The dojo was donated by some Japanese businessmen after a CHERUB agent uncovered a fraud scam. The medical companies saved millions."

"Of course," James said.

"How do you mean?" asked Mac

"The Japanese have a deep sense of honour, even now after decades have passed since their defeat. They were forced to change their community, their society, their way of life by the Americans, but some things cannot be forced."

"You seem to be quite knowledgeable," Mac remarked. A stillness went into James suddenly. He looked away, his body tense for a moment.

"I read a lot," he said in a toneless voice. Mac didn't push the matter.

James and Mac went into the dojo, stopping only to remove their shoes and socks. Mac took James to the last room on the right. There were twelve students in it. Most of them were sixteen and seventeen, but there were there were two twelve year olds and three fourteen year olds. There was also an old Japanese woman screaming criticisms in a mixture of English and Japanese to the practising pairs.

"Madame," Mac said respectfully. "I would like you to find a sparring partner for our potential recruit here." The woman gave a scream in Japanese. All the students instantly stopped and sat down in a row. The analytical part of James' brain noted that there was some kind of order to how they sat. Since it wasn't height or age, he concluded it must be ability. The Japanese woman looked him over, and then looked back at Mac.

"You have never brought anyone here to be tested. What can you hope will be accomplished by bringing this boy here? To show him how weak he is, perhaps?"

Mac laughed. "No, nothing like that. I just have a good feeling about this one."

The woman shrugged. "Suit yourself. This students hit harder than any others. They might severely injure this boy." James decided this was the moment to step in.

"I can take anything you dole out, baa-chan," James said in perfect Japanese. The woman was surprised, and then smiled.

"Is that right, young man?" she replied likewise.

"I am confident my sensei taught me enough to match your… er … top class." The barb worked. The woman suddenly looked angry.

"Do you doubt my teaching abilities, or the ability of my students?"

"No, I never said such a thing! I am sure you are an excellent teacher, and that your students are quite capable." But his voice had just enough sarcasm to be detected by the teacher.

"Bruce! Teach this young boy some manners!"

"Excuse me, sensei?" asked a twelve year old boy. It was only at this time that the Madame realised she had ordered her student in Japanese. She took a deep breath to calm herself down, then looked at James with a smile.

"You're good, boy. Bruce, you shall be this boy's sparring partner."

"Of course, sensei." Bruce was tall for his age, but James was taller.

James and Bruce stood three metres apart and bowed to each other. Bruce went into the ready stance, while James simply stood, his body relaxed.

"There are no rules. There shall be five bouts. A bout may be won if an opponent submits or is knocked unconscious. A contestant may withdraw from the match if he thinks he can't go on." These instructions were given by Mac. Both boys nodded.

"Fight!" shouted the Madame.

Bruce attacked. He made a quick sprint toward James.

"Your attack form is too angular," James said. Bruce's punches and kicks were fast, but James dodged them with ease. This was one of the first things he has been taught; if you want to win, don't get hit. He had been taught to use all his wits to avoid any blows that came his way until he was good at it.

A kick was aimed at James' feet, but James jumped into the air. He saw the other foot come an instant later to kick him in the face. Interested move, James thought. He simply tilted his head to the side, watching the foot sail past him. After that, James came with a rushing torrent of kicks and punches, each more ragged than the next.

"Stand and fight, damn you!" he screamed, his chest heaving.

"Certainly not. Did you see that last punch? It could have knocked me unconscious!"

"So are you going to run like a coward the entire match?"

"No."

"Then when are you going to fight me?"

"I am fighting you," James said in a tone used only on five year olds.

"I mean retaliate!"

"So you want some body contact then?"

"Stop twisting my words!"

"Very well."

When Bruce attacked this time, James' body tensed as it prepared to do battle. When the punch came, he lowered his centre of gravity and grabbed the arm. Using Bruce's own momentum against him, James spun in a circle and threw Bruce at the wall. Bruce slumped, his head aching and his back bruised.

"So that's why you dodged my attacks, to see the way I fought."

"Nothing so dramatic, no! I was simply taught if you don't get hit, you don't lose. You used an immense amount of energy attacking, I used minimal energy dodging." Bruce laughed.

"I am going to enjoy this match. How about we make it interesting? We have one single bout, and whichever one of us wins, the other has to withdraw?"

"Fine by me," said James. He got into his own ready position, which was strange to everyone there, except the Madame.

"Let's begin," said James.