Okay, so it is ten past midnight and I had the urge to write. Unfortunately the writing sort of reflects the mood, and I ain't all that cheerful. So a very different sort of style, but just a one-shot, with a promise of another, much more pleasant chapter of collaboration already written. Please R&R I'd especially like to know what you think of this!
El x
It had always been a game. Almost like that game you played when you were younger, where, if you concentrated hard enough the shabby armchair really was a gilded throne; the broom a worthy steed, except in this game the gun wasn't just two fingers.
None of them had really questioned how long it would last; instead each relished the chance of purpose in an otherwise bleak and pointless existence. And because each of them was so grateful for this opportunity, they had each silently overlooked the small problems, the close calls, the 'off days'.
Of course not everyone had agreed. "Children! Fighting crime?" they had cried, revulsion written on their faces. They'd spoken of chimney sweeps and factory workers; children used because they were just the right size, and had asked for the difference. But it was put down to "certain agents being a little jealous of your special talents" a pat on the head and a lollipop silenced any small resistance.
And no-one can resist gadgets, and uniforms and secret underground lairs. The deception of it all, the warm feeling of superiority every time they manipulated themselves away from the classroom; encouraged to keep the secret, because only they can understand it fully.
Later it would be noted that they were picked carefully: the orphan; the outcast; the fake; the overworked; the undervalued, all who would walk into the gingerbread house so trustingly.
They would recover, eventually. Because, behind the lies, there was truth, they were extraordinary, talented in their own way. Once freed from the organisation they would thrive: without danger constantly present; without the pressure that took from all else; without a continuous more important mission to be distracted by; they would, survive.
But it took such tragedy to realise, to alert those who needed to be alerted, to shatter the make-believe and wake them up. It took such fear and loss for them to move on.
They had been sent in as children. When a terrorist threat was uncovered they had been sent in as children, to assess the situation without arousing suspicion. And, when the small packet of explosives had sent the world into terrifying chaos, they had reacted, as expected, as children.
That day they stood, separate from the rest, a small group of four; four teenagers who had clung to each other and wept as the coffin was lowered. Draped in black, that threatened to swallow their innocent, youthful forms, the only feature that stood out between them was the eyes; the eyes they all shared, huge, great staring orbs, revealing far too much wisdom for their years. When they closed those eyes to pray, the terrors that met them had almost made them cry out in fear, and they had turned, ashamed of their cowardice. Simultaneously offering a final moment for their beloved teammate they walked away from all that had come before.
It had always been a game before, and the price they had to pay to see the danger that they faced will always be too great.