"Now Zeldie," Only years of a close student-teacher arrangement had Esmeralda permitting Mr. Solomon to call her by such a nickname. Nicknames, after all, meant bonds, connections. And those, of course, were forbidden. But there was always the exception, and Joe Solomon had always been the exception.
"With all due respect, Mr. Solomon, I really believe we should just drop the subject. I've already made my wishes quite clear." She sat across from him in his office, her eyes latched calmly on his, emotionless gray orbs. She watched his frown deepen, and it was concern she saw in his eyes, unwanted and unnecessary.
"Zeldie, this is your father we're talking about. It would not be a breach of cover to attend his funeral. No one even knows you're his daughter." He spoke in a low tone, keeping his voice even and reasonable.
Though her heart ached, she sat back calmly in her chair, crossing her legs so that the material of her plaid skirt shifted a bit. "For all intents and purposes, Mr. Solomon, both of my parents died the day I entered this institution. I mourned for the both of them years ago. If you remember, I did not attend my mother's funeral either when she passed. I don't find it necessary to waste my energies by grieving twice for my father either."
How cool she sounded, she thought, and held fast to the vow she'd made so many years ago, to never show weakness in front of another. Weakness, after all, was what got you captured and killed. As she sat there, Mr. Solomon studied her, his eyes boring into hers. In this Academy, he was the only one who'd ever seen her, really seen her. And he was the one who'd taught her all there was to know about becoming invisible. Her mentor, really, and she disliked refusing him anything. But on this, she would stand firm.
She'd been called in early that morning to the Headmistress's office, two days after her trip down to the secret chamber. She'd been told, as gently as possible, that her father, an undercover agent who'd been stationed for the past two years in England, had been killed. Slaughtered, she'd found out from the files she'd read through-not necessarily legally-by a fellow agent who'd turned to the other side. Later, she thought, later, despite what she said, she would grieve.
She would grieve for the man who'd lifted her up onto his shoulders and run around the yard, who'd tossed her high in the air until she squealed with delight, confident his hands would be there to catch her. She would grieve for the father who'd taught her how to walk, how to ride a bike, the man who had taught her how to shoot her first gun, how to pick a lock in under a minute. She would weep-yes, even Ghosts wept-for the man who had read her fairy tales at bedtime and had taught her how to speak six different languages.
Yes, she would grieve for him. But not now, not in front of the man who'd taught her that any memories, any weakness, could be used as a weapon. And she refused to be used.
While she thought this, Joe Solomon studied his young pupil, remembered when she'd been a first year student. So quiet compared to the rest, always listening, never speaking, those gray eyes taking in everything, storing top secret information in her head the way others stored phone numbers. Even then she had moved silently, ghosting in and out of rooms in the blink of an eye. Oh, she'd been a bit rough yet, but it had been apparent she had the talent to walk a path few chose.
And it had shocked him, how easily she'd cast aside her past, cutting off all ties, doing away with all attachments. If he hadn't known any better, he might have said she had a heart of stone. But as her trainer, he did know better. Esmeralda Medina made an outstanding Ghost, but her heart still beat. Her emotions may be on lockdown, but they were still very much there. She had excelled at each and every lesson, quickly learning the subtle tricks that went along with being invisible in plain sight.
He was proud of her, and whenever he told her so, she always simply nodded, her lips curving just the slightest bit. And he was proud of her, proud of her progress, her accomplishments. Already she was being scouted by the government, and though she wouldn't be happy about, he knew that 'The Ghost' was a name spoken with a bit of reverence in certain circles. The protégée, some called her, but most called her simply a mystery. Young Zeldie, after all, was a girl valued her privacy.
It was at times like this, however, that he worried about her. "You know, Esmeralda…There is such a thing as too much training. Controlling your emotions does not mean denying them. Repressing things such as grief, anger…Eventually it builds up, and can have devastating effects when it eventually explodes." He knew he was fighting a losing battle when she merely smiled, that slight curving of her lips that didn't reach her eyes.
"You don't have to worry. I would never do anything to jeopardize my training. Those feelings you speak of, perhaps I am feeling them now. But by tomorrow, they'll be gone. It doesn't do to have thoughts of the past, after all. If you'll excuse me, I'm a bit tired. I believe I'll take a turn around the grounds." She said, and at Mr. Solomon's nod, she stood, offering him another half-smile before she turned to leave.
"Oh, and Zeldie?" She turned at the door, her hand on the knob. "It's not your training I'm worried about."
She nodded, her face blank, and left his office, shutting the door quietly behind her. He was worried about her. She knew it, and couldn't say she cared for it. She was no one's responsibility. Not her mother's, not her father's, and not Mr. Solomon's. Walking at a careless pace, she made her way outside, breathing in the fresh air. It was dusk now, the sun setting beautifully, amidst a mass of color. Beautiful, she mused, and reached absently for the camera she kept in the pocket of her skirt.
Just as she pushed the button to take the picture, she felt the hairs on the back of her neck quiver, and she slowly lowered the camera. Her face blank, she began walking again, rounding the corner of the school. As soon as she did, she put her back to the wall, her ear cocked for any abnormal sound. She almost jolted when she heard a laugh, and then cursed herself when she saw a trio of first year students giggling as they meandered along the path behind the school.
Paranoid, Esmeralda thought, shaking her head in disgust. Now she was getting paranoid just because a Creed recruiter had caught a glimpse of her hundreds of miles away. Shaking her head, she ran a hand through her hair in a rare outward sign of agitation. Perhaps the grief was closer to the surface than she thought. That must be why she was so jumpy inside one of the most secure estates in the world.
Sighing, she decided now was as good a time as any to take a trip down memory lane. This time, it would be in memory of her father. Since it was still reasonably early, the Ghost used her considerable skills to open up and close a secret panel in a hall where students still walked and chatted about God knew what. And if she felt a twinge or two of unease, as though she were being watched as she walked down the dark, cool tunnel, then she told herself it was just her paranoid imagination. She'd get over it when the sun rose. After all, tomorrow was a new day. Today's memories would have no place in it.