Chapter One: The Pencils are mightier than the Sword

Whoever said a pen was mightier than a sword was on the right track. Well, in my case it was a pencil, but same difference.

I hoisted myself up onto the helicopter already three feet off the ground and collapsed onto the deck, my legs dangling lifelessly over the edge.

I lay there, dead to the world, heaving great pants as we rose shakily into the crisp, night air.

"Chama?! You good?!" yelled a voice somewhere to my left.

Why wasn't my comms working?

I half-heartedly raised my arm in affirmation, a strangled grunt escaping my mouth as I regained my breath.

This shit was hard.

I briefly wondered why I was doing this, but then I remembered the payment.

My mouth watered as margarita pizza floated into my mind and I was sure I went cross eyed.

I began to sit up after a few more moments of heaving my lungs, only to be shoved back down again by what felt like solid, steel poles. I struggled with my eyes to make out the figure obstructing my free will; only to be greeted by more blurriness.

I accepted defeat as I slumped back to the deck, restrained by two, thin, steel poles on my shoulders.

"Pea, I think Chama has a concussion!" yelled twig-poles over the roar of the motor blades.

"Pizza..."

"And she's delirious!"

"Are you sure?!" Pea replied, her voice far away and extremely doubtful.

"She just mumbled 'pizza'!"

"If the next word out of her mouth is-"

"M-m-margarita..." I stuttered in my haziness, vocalising my reward to retain my will to continue in this line of work.

"-then she's fine!"

I faintly heard a grumble come from the figure above me, but annoyance flashed through me as my eyelids were forced painfully open and a light was shone in my eye.

My eyes began to water and I reattempted my struggle for freedom.

"She's got a concussion guys!"

She was met with an acknowledging silence as she proceeded to assault my other eye with that God-forsaken light.

I made a mental reminder to destroy it later on.

" 'meleon, when did something hit your head? Did you headbutt someone, or did you hit your head, or what?!"

I realised that even though this person had restrained me with painful steel poles and harassed my eyes with a torch, they meant well.

"Headbutted..." I mumbled, squeezing my eyes shut again to force out the threatening headache.

"Cams... that's the third time this week!" shouted the first voice, Bex I think. She must have heard me through twig-pole's, which I now realised was Liz, microphone on her headset, as she was surprisingly close to my face.

My forehead creased again in annoyance.

"...Wasn't my fault this time!... I think..."

I, yet again, tried to sit up, only to be greeted by the not-as-surprising-anymore shove, that forced me to the deck again.

"You've got to stay still Cams! Don't fall asleep and don't move!"

I mumbled incoherently as I turned to my side.

.oO0Oo.

The remainder of the flight was uneventful, save for the regular sharp pinches that Liz gave me to keep me awake.

The throbbing in my head intensified as I felt our downward descent, as if I was in an extremely loud elevator. We touched down and I immediately felt two arms dig underneath me and scoop me up effortlessly, and I snuggled into the unknown familiarity. I couldn't yet place their name or their legacy, but I was sure I knew them.

I caught snippets of conversation as the scenery around me began to shake and blur, the environment changing quickly.

"... headbutt... delirious... IV line... bed now!" I heard before being slipped onto a mattress and a pillow. I attempted to sink into the mattress, but fell into slumber before I could process the words.

.oO0Oo.

Beep, beep.

I awoke to the sound of beeping. Big surprise there. It was the kind that pisses you off, but you have no energy to change.

Beep, beep.

The kind where you wait hopefully that that beep is the last you ever hear, but are consistently disappointed when it rings fresh through the air.

Beep, beep.

I was seriously considering stopping my heartbeat for the incessant beeping to cease, when the monitor's saviour walked in.

He was clad in white shirt, unbuttoned at the top with the sleeves rolled up and a very loose tie, hanging almost down to his navel. My forehead creased as I saw him slump into the chair and rub his forehead with his forefinger and thumb.

As I slowly turned my head to observe him, I became aware of three figures comfortably wedged on the surprisingly large bed. Liz lay snuggled on my feet while Bex and Macey had sandwiched myself in the middle.

But while the comforting feeling of warmth and snugness felt like heaven, hell began to roll in, bearing the damned form of pins and needles.

I shifted uncomfortably, causing Liz to roll gracefully to the edge of the bed, her arm jutting out over the foot of the mattress.

The man's head jerked up and observed the struggle I bore, fighting for release under the taut covers held down by three surprisingly immovable weights. He got up, lifted Macey like a rag doll, and placed her on the bed adjacent to mine.

I tumbled from the confines of my admittedly rather comfortable prison, and fell splat on the floor. I gasped as my leg came into contact with the cold floor, pins and needles coursing through my veins.

Gritting my teeth I curled into the foetal position as the man walked back to the chair. He saw me in pain and immediately crouched by my side.

"What?! What's wrong?!"

"P-pins 'n n-needles-" I gasped.

Bemusement and disbelief enveloped his face as he straightened and lowered himself back into the complimentary chair.

I waited for the agonisingly pathetic pain to pass, before straightening up and leaning against the bed frame.

"What?", asked, confused by Joe's silent demeanour. It wasn't a new thing, but always remained intriguing. God forbid the day I know what's running through his mind.

"They found traces of diphenhydramine and monosodium glutamate in your airway. " he put bluntly.

Huh. I guess that day is not today.

I ran through all the known chemicals to me that contained long and complicated strings of letters and had any side affects off inhalation. I saw none. Now, Liz on the other hand, seemed to be stirring, either because her lack of support (my feet and legs), or because of the mere sound of complicated names and facts being thrown around in her immediate area. I felt more inclined to the latter.

My blank expression said it all, from the confusion to Liz's expected awakening.

"They're drugs linked to memory loss..."

Linked doesn't necessarily mean set in stone, rock-hard knowledge.

"They're the key ingredients in our special, homemade 'tea'."

My confidence faltered.

"You mean I was made to forget something." The question slipped past my tongue as a statement rather than a question.

He nodded slowly, as if finally accepting it himself.

He didn't even have to ask, I immediately started to sift through the events of a few hours ago, last night or last week, I didn't know yet.

YŶY

The helicopter began its descent and I readied myself for my jump. Bex was suited similarly to my left, fidgeting with the suit she wore, adjusting it to 'just right'.

Apparently, 'just right' changed every 8 seconds.

We neared 200 feet and Macey yelled the warning. We were jumping because landing and taking off too much time, and if this went according to plan, we would be done, waiting for Macey to pick us up while we sat twiddling our thumbs on the front doorsteps of our targets abode.

Not to mention that the abode in question, or mansion to be more precise, was filled to the brim with spies in training and old legends that were still capable of a lot more than you thought.

Our target was a simple hit and run, one of the very new quotas that fit our job descriptions, due to curriculum changes.

"100 feet!"

45 seconds.

Our target, a Mr Lucas Jefferson, resided in the Blackthorne Institute for Troubled Boys. Or, if you prefer, Blackthorne Institute for Spy's and Assassins. Doesn't matter; either will do and either fit the bill.

"90 feet!"

25 seconds.

They were the hidden twin school of Gallagher, just for boys. It was truly perfect place for hiding; a near impossible breach.

Nearly.

"85 feet!"

I crouched down along with Bex, gripping the edge of the deck, the wind whipping at my fingers. I looked like a swimmer preparing to launch themselves into the water, the race.

"80 feet!"

We leant back, still hooking our fingers over the edge.

"75 feet! Go, go, go!"

I launched myself from the decking, throwing myself at a 200 degree angle, slightly tipped forward till I cleared the helicopter and soared. Now I didn't have those wing things under my arms, they would hinder my ability to fight, so I had to use my momentum to not drop out of the sky like a stone. I slowly tilted myself so I was facing a more headfirst approach to the earth than a belly flop, the wind tearing at my clothes, fighting to veer me off course. I neared the tree line, picked a space to land and tucked into a somersault, landing and absorbing the impact through my whole body rather than my feet. I came up standing.

I smiled in triumph, glancing at Bex who was already securing the perimeter for any threats. I scanned my area and found thee backpacks filled with necessary items for survival as well as additional weaponry and gadgets. They were extras for the Cov. Ops. and necessary items for us to survive if the Op went sour and we didn't get back to the helicopter in time.

I climbed a tree and stuffed the medical backpack along with the survival one in the branches, out of sight from below and above, and easily identifiable due to the broken, dead branch underneath. I jumped down, and walked over to Bex, who was ruffling through the last backpack like a man digging for gold. She silently handed me a comms unit and choker with a camera attached to it and I fitted into my ear and around the high collar of my neck respectively.

I reassessed the knives strapped to my body, counting them and strapped a gun to my hips in case things went sour.

"We ready to go?" rang Bex's determined voice, clear through the relatively quiet clearing.

I finished my assessment and nodded. We began our long run to the grounds.

.oO0Oo.

"This is were you wish me good luck, Duch." I stated, as she dug the screwdriver out of her pocket while I held the small device to the door access point. It was controlled by a pin, and required a small device to be attached in order for Liz to hack the mainframe.

Bex approached with the tool in hand and proceeded to bolt the cover back into place over the device, while Liz tapped away in our ears.

"Is that so, huh?" she replied dryly.

"Mmmhhhmmmm." I replied earnestly, giving her my big seal eyes.

It didn't work.

"It's not as if you need it, Chama." she said, straightening up. She began to fix her suit again while I pouted at her.

She abruptly stopped and began to run through the now open door. "Good luck

Chameleon!" she yelled over her shoulder.

"Ditto." I murmured, smiling at her antics.

The blue prints sprang to life before my eyes, the walls becoming a sea of blue vastness and white lines.

Left, right... left, left, stairs- stop, wait. Go, camera, left wall. Right, more stairs, scan, right, straight-Stop. Footsteps.

Fuckerdoodles.

I scanned the walls frantically, looking for anything, thinking of everything.

This building was old.

And?

The paintings.

I glanced at the paintings.

"Chameleon!"

I winced in the silence, briefly forgetting that Footsteps couldn't hear Liz.

"I know, I know!" I hissed.

They're old.

Well done, congratulations, you can see Cammie.

I really wondered why I ever listened to my subconscious.

What the hell do-

Culture and Assimilation.

Ahhhh. That's why.

I darted to the nearest painting, containing a regal and rich ugly man with a eye glass and ripped the edge from the wall. Thank god someone still oiled the hinges.

I slipped into the old servants passageway and held my breath. The painting was open a crack, letting the cursed light deep through. I heard Footsteps (what I nicknamed him) turn the corner and make his way down the hall.

I prayed and prayed that he didn't stop, that he walked onwards and disregarded an ancient painting.

He didn't.

Shitcakes.

I saw the two obstructions of light under the doorframe, or paint-frame, slim slightly, indicating that he was directly facing me.

I backed into the passage, hugging the right wall as much as I could, sinking into the shadows as the painting was pulled open slowly and a figure stood in the entrance.

I didn't look, I held my breath and turned my head away, pleading, help me, god. I know I have never prayed to you before-.

The light vanished.

And I shall continue to do so!

I sank to the floor, and breathed. I had to extend the length of time I could hold my breath.

"Chameleon?" came Liz's voice.

"Mmm?"

"You good?"

"Mmmhhmmm."

Whistling went through the comms as Liz breathed out, and I clearly envisioned Macey and Bex flinching.

"Anyone coming my way, Bookworm?"

"Negative. You're good for about two and half minutes."

I pushed open the surprisingly well oiled painting and peeked out. I observed the cameras as they finished swivelling away from the painting. Completely on their own; no interference at all.

Sense the sarcasm? It's a tough life, living in my head.

I continued chanting my route in my head, and met no resistance or anymore close calls.

I eventually arrived at the teachers quarters, and I replaced the walls for thick white lines and blue canvasses. I didn't not want to walk in on a highly trained operative who was not under my charge.

Surprise, surprise I thought, as his room was on the end of the string of doors. I took a deep breath and checked the hinges to see if they displayed any signs of rust before turning the handle and pushing the door inwards.

Silent.

I still didn't dare let out my breath.

A bed was situated in the corner, but was devoid of all life. Save for the carelessly stashed pillows under the covers, depicting a man with incredible deformity and what seemed like a large potbelly with a six pack.

I scoffed soundlessly and rubbed my own cleverly disguised six pack with my hand affectionately, offended by the mockery.

I then turned back to the events at hand.

I began to tap my comms unit in Morse code.

"Where is he?"

I waited for Liz to register the message and was not disappointed when she replied.

"He should be in the room... I'm not sure why he's not there. He should be at your 3 o'clock."

"Empty bed." I tapped back

"Unless... he's beneath you."

I looked around for a lever or passageway.

I glanced at the cupboard. Bingo.

I heard, both through my earpiece and my own ears, an explosion ring out.

Bex' voice began floating through the comms. "I'm on my way back, Bookworm. You're gonna have to direct me, I can hear people everywhere."

I heard Liz start to direct Bex from the explosion site, before I tuned them out. I needed to focus.

Bex' job was to create a decoy. I could not have anyone finding me here, about to murder the Vice Headmaster. Not a good conversation starter. She had planted an explosive on the east of the school, while I was in the south.

Once the explosion was heard, the first reaction would to be to send one group to the site and a larger group to the opposite side of the school. Most decoys would be placed far from the desired point, so the opposite made the most sense. But we were taking a risk placing one so near to where I was.

I stepped inside the empty cupboard and discovered that it was designed similarly to the one me and Macey took to escape the school as fugitives last year; a small lever, more of a flip switch really.

I shot down the tube, landing roughly about 30 feet from where I started. I touched down in a spacious cavern, reminding me horribly of the tombs, dark, cold and lit with torches. I shivered. Very Stone Age.

"I suppose you've come to kill me."

Cue evil villain.

"No, I've come to order Chinese." I responded, turning to the voice sharply.

I heard Macey snicker in my ear but I ignored it. Liz gasped and strayed to say something when she was interrupted by Mr Jefferson.

"Sarcasm is the weaponry of the weak."

He's one of those. The ones with a quote for everything, a stereotype for anything.

"It's the weaponry of the witty."

He sighed, as troubled by a young child.

I didn't come here to exchange quips.

I saw movement.

"Chameleon, there's about 25 operatives in that room! Their heat signatures suddenly appeared!"

That's why it's cold.

"I see you've come prepared."

"Oh yes, I've been expecting this. It was more of a matter of 'when' rather than 'if'."

I assessed my chances; twelve knives, twenty five people, and a few tables littered around the room with tins of pencils. Sharp pencils. I fell into a hunters stance.

"Go."

And go I did.

I'm not proud of it.

It was gruesome, but I held a certain degree in my heart reserved for those in the circle. I'd seen what they did. Worse, I saw what they aspired to do.

My knives flashed as I remembered the baby's wails in Caspia, how quickly they cut off. Almost like a canary in the mines.

Kick, slash, block, roll, throw... I delved through the memories as I imagined every agent in the room as a problem in my life, a factor set to ruin it, aimed to destroy the ones around me, simply because I was an inquisitive child. Not even that anymore, I guess I held a certain place in their hearts as well now.

The entire ordeal of last year was founded on logic and reasoning, I had to give them that, despite them being cruel, but it ended in personal. There was no way that this wasn't personal anymore.

The last man fell, crumpled to the ground, as I surveyed the damage. I had pencils in my grip, lightly dusted with red. I must have grabbed them when I threw the last of my daggers. That was pretty early on as I used most of them before they even closed in on me, throwing them like darts and destructive frisbees.

I turned to the Vice, determination peeling off me in waves. It was over quickly, I couldn't stand to see his disgusted face, but it wasn't enough, the guilt set in, told hold and began its magic. I felt the cold grip of horror clutching my mind.

Murderer, murderer, murderer...

Every assassins weak point. The sane ones anyway.

They deserved it, I insisted fighting back as I tore my gaze from the broken figure underneath me, pencil '2B' jutting from his neck.

I went through all of the trauma techniques I knew, my guilt slowly creeping away. It sounds pathetic and unjust, I know. A few words fighting back the onslaught of the most powerful weapon there is and will ever be; you must think that I wasn't truly sincere about my guilt, but the words we have are all different; conditioned especially for this. The most prominent feature of my retaliation being a baby's wail. It must be your most powerful memory, designed indirectly for the situation. It must be your drive.

I hauled myself out off my despair as a voice pierced the air. But I don't know what they said, because the next thing I knew, I was stumbling though the woods, aiming for the helicopter taking flight. I reached the bar and hoisted myself up onto the deck, my legs hanging lifelessly...

ŶYŶ

Fuck.

Thank you for reading, I've been thinking of doing something like this for a while now. It felt like the first draft was very childish and lacked a lot of plot. Anyways I hope you enjoyed it!

BYE ;)