CHAPTER FOUR
A half empty box of pizza is lying atop the table, together with several folders. Half empty glasses of iced tea is set at the center.
"We're going to monitor six college sophomores? All girls?" Vaughn asked, as he checked all of the folders. "Are they sure that one of them is the hacker?" he reclined on the couch and looked at Sydney. They are in an "abandoned" warehouse, getting ready for their move to San Francisco.
"That's where Marshall pinpointed one of the sources of transmission. Knowing Marshall…" Weiss trailed off. "And besides, Nadia and I are also going to assist Jack."
"Why? What's wrong with six girls?" Sydney asked, not looking up from the folder she is reading.
Vaughn looked at her. "College girls tend to have some sort of… party animal behaviors? Anyway, I have bad memories of college parties being organized by girls."
"Oh, you mean girls this pretty?" Weiss asked, holding out a surveillance photograph of one of their targets. "Rich, pretty, smart. You're afraid to go to parties organized by rich, intelligent, gorgeous girls?"
"We're going to live next door to them. What if they hold parties everyday?" Vaughn answered.
Nadia looked at the picture Weiss is holding and looked at the matching civilian profile in her folder. "Don't worry, Vaughn. Everyone in that apartment has clean records. Well, at least no one has complained when they do have parties."
"Half of them are rich kids." Weiss piped in. "They bribe their neighbors."
An amused smile fluttered across Nadia's face. "We'll see about that, wouldn't we, Sydney?"
"Currently speaking, the CIA has assigned some people to tail them before we do it ourselves. So… hold on to your 'bribing the neighbors' theories." Sydney answered, smiling. She then turned to Vaughn. "Don't worry, Mr. Patterson. We'll ask them to tone down the music if they are party animals."
"Thank you for that assurance, Mrs. Patterson."
-x-x-x-
She strives in business. The hustle and the bustle, the competition, the profit. She strives for perfection, in the service for the customers, to be a stellar example in the market.
Eoclin Antoinette Zagmun was born not to tolerate mediocrity.
"Please. Of all the days to go slow, why did you choose the day the French Ambassador will come for lunch!" She exclaimed. This is the fourth time she has entered the sanctity of the kitchen of her beloved restaurant.
A flurry of French expletives followed. She wants everything done. Gracefully, tastefully, beautifull and effectively.
"What else do you need?"
"Ms. Zagmun, Monsieur Zephyr broke his arm!" One of her assistants reported.
She automatically clenched her jaw. Losing her temper in front of these people will not them anywhere. They will just shrivel up and die, and nothing will be finished.
"Arrgh! Holy mother of the… You-" she pointed to one of her assistants. "Take care of the Ambassador's wants and needs. Make sure music is played! And you-" she pointed to the dishwasher. "Wash your hands. Tell the others to shape up and fix their work or face the consequences. I'm going to cook!"
Her employees saw her seriousness. The leader in their leader. They all know she's not joking.
Eoclin Antoinette Zagmun does not joke about work.
At eighteen years old, she has acquired a great sense of responsibility and discipline, a trait that has been passed to her by her mother and her father. She was raised to be the best in everything, to be able to handle her father's multi-million dollar chain of hotels and restaurants. They want her to succeed. They expect her to be successful. But amidst all that they want her to be happy.
Eoclin Antoinette Zagmun is happy being successful.
Her strawberry blonde hair is tied up on top of her head, and her silver eyes, which blazed in anger a while ago, now speaks of great focus and concentration. Her lithe, five foot six inches frame nimbly moved around her workstation. It was hard not to your eyes off her, but her employees knows that they have to move. Or face her wrath.
Minutes ticked by. The food started to flow in.
It pays to be a genius in culinary sense. It also pays to have money to hone this talent.
As the dessert rolled off the kitchen, Eoclin sighed in relief.
'Whew, that was done.' She thought as she began to clean her workstation. A chef is responsible for his or her own things. and she is a world acclaimed chef.
Her assistant entered the kitchen. "Ms. Zagmun?"
She looked up from the knife she is cleaning.
Her assistant raised two thumbs up. "He loved everything."
A smile lighted up her face.
Eoclin Antoinette Zagmun delights in making people happy with her cooking.
CIA assessment: Dependable, well disciplined. OCD afflicted. Moderate level in computer literacy.
-x-x-x-
It is such a wonderful day. The sun is shining, the birds are singing and it's neither hot nor cold.
The park is the perfect place to go in this kind of day.
When one strolls around the park, one would see people walking their dogs, the children running and playing around, lovers and families and having a picnic.
But in the benches, by the large oak tress, there sits a stunning girl, reading a thick, hard bound novel. Her black, straight, waist length hair moved with the strong wind that passed the place.
She sighed when strands covered her face. She then set her book down and reached for something to tie her with from her bag. As her hands searched, her amethyst orbs scanned her surroundings.
She noticed several people, mostly men, looking at her. She gave them a glare that sent all of them to look in the other direction.
Nasha Zofiya Ysidro knows she looks different. Her ancestry is from colorful characters; a Native American hottie who kidnapped a newly migrated Irish Rose (her great grandparents), a Half Cherokee, half Irish marrying someone he first thought was from the Italian mafia (her grandparents), and then her mother, bickering and then marrying a Spanish lawyer.
She feels weird. She feels that she looks weird.
Her golden skin is a product of genetics and not the product of the continued exposure to the Californian sun. The color of her eyes, amethyst to some, purple to others, and to her, blue (says so in her birth certificate and her driver's license) is a gift from her great grandmother. Frankly she can't understand how her great grandmother Lily fell in love with her great grandfather, Soaring Eagle.
'Hmm… must be his broad muscular shoulders, his beautifully sculpted face, his long lean body and his impossibly white teeth.' She thought remembering the faded photograph in her grandparent's house.
Her great grandfather was a total hunk.
Nasha sighed once again. Waiting for her friend in the park is tiring. She's patient, but the stares she's getting is starting to annoy her.
She looked at her watch. She's going to wait for ten minutes before she leaves.
Seconds went and turned into minutes. Her digital watch says its two minutes before her "deadline". She slowly stood up, readying to leave.
In the corner of her eye, she saw her friend running towards her.
"Oh, god. I'm sorry. Did you wait long?"
CIA assessment: Patient to a fault, reads everywhere (and we mean everywhere). Computer literacy is moderate.
-x-x-x-
Music is her life. Whether creating, playing or listening, its part of her. Music is a gift to her. it's a way of life. Now one can take it away from her.
Diamond Xavier, aka Dylan, was born hearing the beautiful music of Mozart. Her father brought a radio in the hospital because her mother told him to do so. But he would have brought it, no matter what her mother told him.
Her father, a reporter for the New York Times, plays the saxophone, while her mother, a photographer for the National Geographic, was a trained opera singer. It was logical that their children will be musically inclined.
She has the talent, the voice, the looks, but sometimes, discrimination bars her from fully expanding her capabilities. Her father is an African-American, to some people "black". Her mother is a blonde haired, blue eyed, Canadian, a "white". There are still people, apparently, who are uncomfortable with the idea of the marriage.
'God, such narrow mindedness!' she thought as she worked her way through the streets. Narrow minded people annoys her. The narrow mindedness makes the world annoying.
She mentally ticked off the things she has accomplished for the day as she crossed the street. She has only a few more things to do before she can lounge in the sofa, back in their apartment. Dylan didn't notice the second glances she is receiving from both men and women.
She unconsciously flexed her fingers. She's to play for a diplomat, probably a two hour affair. She began to walk faster, but carefully enough that her black linen slack and white sating blouse will not wrinkle.
Her small frame of five four glided in the sea of people and finally reached the Regent, the place she's temporarily working.
As she walked in, several colleagues and patrons greeted her. They all love the way Dylan's long fingers caress the piano keys like a gentle lover.
"Hey Danny. Where's Eoc's?" she asked as she walked in the employees lounge. "I haven't seen her in the front desk."
"Ms. Zagmun is seething in anger inside the kitchen."
"Oh." She replied. Her friend, Eoclin, seems really bitchy when she's in the kitchen, leading her minions to the ultimate quest for the best food and service around the world. But in actuality, she's sweet, caring.
"Hey, Dylan. The Ambassador will here in a few minutes."
Dylan looked at Danny with her clear blue eyes. "Thanks. I'll be… warming up."
A few minutes later, Diamond Xavier, aka Dylan, emerged from the employees lounge and glided to the grand piano. She gently laid her fingers on top of the ivory keys.
She started to play. The music took her to places only she can reach when she plays. No one can take it from her. She will not allow them to take it away.
CIA assessment: Sarcastic. Stubborn, but mature enough to accept that certain things are not supposed to be made her way. Not enough chance to see if she's computer literate.
-x-x-x-
"Think you can handle it?"
She looked at him and grinned. This is her life!
The waves greeted her as she ran towards them. When the cold water splashed by her legs, she instantly felt at home.
Guinevere Wellington was most probably a dolphin in her past life.
As she rode the waters, the frustration and sadness that lingers in her head eased away. Her parents' latest fallout is making her uneasy. She knows that they love each other but the communication is missing.
Technically speaking, she's adopted. But her bond with her father and mother is stronger than biological ties.
Forget these problems. They will come to pass.
Surfing is freedom for her. freedom from everything.
A nasty wave swept Guinevere off her board. She fell to the water.
The fear of drowning never touched her. Not even as a child. Ever since she can remember, she always have loved being in the water. Its been the longest love affair she has had in her whole short life of seventeen.
She surfaced up to the water, her bright smile shining brighter than the sun. Surfing just gives her that rush. She walked towards the shore, and tucked the errant strands of wet blonde hair away from her beautiful face. She looked back to the sea. Her tanned, athletic body wants to go back to the water but she knows that there are still things to do.
"Hey Genny. Get some ice cream with us." One of her guy friends asked.
She smiled. "Sorry. I have to get back to San Francisco."
They laughed. "Hey, we know that you're serious about school, Physics and stuff. But you've been back here in the OC like two hours ago. Loosen up a bit."
"Come on, grab chocolate ice cream with us and then we'll let you go."
Genny mockingly sighed. "Fine. Okay." Her mock exasperation was followed by a girlish giggle.
Dolphins are social creatures. And its probably correct to say that Guinevere Wellington was a dolphin in her last life.
CIA assessment: Sociable, friendly, helpful albeit slightly absent minded. Normally seen with a laptop by her side.
-x-x-x-
Beads of sweat trickled down her forehead as she ran around the field. This is her third and her lungs feel like bursting. But she has two more rounds to go. She's the only one who is allowed to run for only five laps.
Beautiful as the day may seem, there are actually people who'll slave away to get what they want. People like her. Lex Vadison. She's do anything to win. Anything to win the championship.
She was born to be a winner. She was born to be the best. She was born to succeed.
"Alexia, didn't I tell you to get contact lenses!"
She waved him off. If she has great reflexes, as they have said, she'd have no problems at all blocking a speeding ball to her face and then slam into her eyeglasses. She'll never let a dirty, muddy ball touch her face. Period.
The tall(almost 5'9) raven haired beauty might be a sight to see, jogging around the football field with the university team, the only girl and the only sophomore active for the games. She's the only goal keeper and the best one at that.
Georgia Alexia Vadison may not look like it, but she two mean arms and powerful legs. An asset in her sport.
Two small intersecting lines by the base of her right jaw, a memento of the past she can't remember, give her an aura of toughness. But it doesn't hide the fact that she's beautiful. And intelligent. Most people overlook that.
"Alexia, are you done?"
She gritted her teeth. She hates being called Alexia. And Georgia.
"One more and I'll be done." She called out, her British accent clearly resounding in the open field.
"After this, go to the goals!"
She sighed and continued to jog. Her legs are aching and she is so out of breath.
"It sucks being the only one, doesn't it?"
She looked at the speaker by her right side. It is the captain and he's grinning at her. He's cute and has killer kicks, but unfortunately, an air head.
"Yes, it sucks. But its nothing compared to a team who has three keepers and yet they can't seem to block every goal attempted by their opponent. Now that really sucks."
And with that, she sprinted off, leaving him with dust.
Running, ball and kicking exercises followed. It was the same procedure, but her legs can't seem to get use to it. Her heart felt like stopping. She has a very low endurance.
The time for the scrimmage came. Her competitive streak surfaced. She wants to win. No losing for her.
It lasted for twenty minutes. They won, 1-0.
"Hey, Lex. What are you doing Friday night?"
"Catching a plane to Italy, to visit my mother." It is a well known fact to the people that Georgia Alexia Vadison and her brother, Gabriel, were raised by nannies. Their mother's involvement in their growth can be likened to a prop.
"Oh, well. Have a fun time with her."
She can barely contain the lethal gaze she gave her teammate. He knows that she'd rather shrivel up and die than visit her mother.
"Thank you for that thought." She said coldly and walked away from them.
CIA assessment: Most serious of the six. The only time she uses a computer is when she wants to do assignments. Which is rare.
-x-x-x-
For some people, numbers are the most loathed "inventions" ever made. It determines your wealth, your weight, your height, your age and your rank. But without numbers, our lives will be chaos.
Numbers give the structure in our lives.
This is what Alexis Andrea Treadcliffe believes in.
Numbers give meaning in our lives.
'Hmph. If you live and breathe math, probably. But hell no!' she thought. Her eyes, the color of coal scanned the math books, in search for answers to her assignments. Something she likes to do in the sanctity of the College Library.
'Hmm… what am I looking for again?' she asked to herself and looked at her neat organized notes. Her eyes then spied the wall clock across her.
3.05
'Holy sht! I'm late!'
Deia quickly and mindlessly collected her things from the table. She's going to meet a friend in the park and she's already five minutes late.
Filipino time. The time she doesn't believe in.
She is half Swiss, half Filipino who lives in San Francisco. A bit weird, but a reality. She is grateful to have a very diverse cultural background, but Filipino time, the habit of coming in fashionably late (but still late) is not one of those things she appreciates in the culture. It's a bad habit.
She scrambled out of the hallway and out of the library.
'Dammit. She's going to kill me.'
Her long athletic legs, an investment in soccer back in high school, began to pick up speed as she ran down the steps. Her light brown wavy hair she put in a loose ponytail seems to be flying on her face.
'Ack. If only my parents could see me. They'd probably disapprove.'
Her parents, a banker and a teacher are prompt people. And they taught her… no, imbibed the value of promptness in her.
As she rounded the corner, she saw her friend standing up, getting ready to leave her. she ran faster. a few seconds later, they met.
"Oh, god. I'm sorry. Did you wait long?"
CIA assessment: Always late, patient, an environmentalist. High level of computer literacy, going as far as programming. Code blue for this target.