One In A Billion | TFP

𝟎𝟎𝟏

𝙹𝚊𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚛, 𝙽𝚎𝚟𝚊𝚍𝚊
EMBER

"Лом,"

The familiar feeling of feet pounding against the wet floor made me shiver in disdain. The rain was getting heavier, thoroughly soaking me alive. I took a sharp turn down the road, passing cars and headlights that beamed from the distance beside, lights merging as I ripped through the thick grey fog overshadowing the town.

The pain I felt was prolonged, and it bothered me how it started. Thanks to the run-in I had with a bunch of Russian spies and ground force agents who jumped me in broad daylight and tried to send me on a flight back home. It was a cage fight—the end result was a mere bloody broken nose and a premium of battle scars. Truth was, I abandoned my home six years ago and chose to take refuge in the U.S. mainly to start a new life but also to fulfill a duty.

Six—going on seven—years ago, I was assigned a task to kill a particular faction who called themselves Autobots. Any information about them is unknown, just a brief record of battles they've fought that are way too long to convenience human history. Preliminary intel also suggested that they dwelled somewhere on this rock, In The Middle Nowhere, Jasper, Nevada. So as a sleeper agent, I'm required to opt for the task of finding them while maintaining a low profile.

My waterproof earpiece droned, a male robotic voice coming over the com. "Incoming message via number station. Permission to play it?" I took a sharp left, careful not to raise suspicion as more cars passed. "Can you identify the source?" I asked. Something shifted over the com as I decided to take the shortcut—running from the pedestrian walkway to the freeway. The robotic voice came over again.

"The British MI6,"

I sighed, skidding to a stop under an awning to avoid more rain, plugging two fingers into my earpiece. "Hit me," I commanded. Eventually, the mechanized voice died down and there was an overfilling static that clouded my whole left ear.

British Intelligence Forecast: By This Year, Russia's Prime Minister Would Be Institutionalized, and a Spy Successor Will Come in His Place. Former British spy Ibraheem Shaw recently claimed that sources told him the Prime Minister of Russia was incredibly ill and was regularly leaving meetings for medical treatment, contributing to "deteriorating the Union's turmoil." According to other sources, he will be placed in a sanatorium, and an election will-

I cut off the link and took off running from the sound of sirens. I was hoping for a signal, something sleeper agents get since they're not supposed to contact a sponsor or any existing agents to get information outside what is in public sources. I hoped for something that would prompt me to not drop this whole espionage thing and turn myself in, and a forecast about a sad Prime Minister certainly wasn't helping.

I dodged a speeding van as sirens and cars blared at me, some almost crashing into me upon impact. The sirens were getting louder as I exited the boulevard and headed for another curb extension that led to a backstreet. By then, two patrol cars were closing in on me fast. Many cars screeched to a stop as I dashed by them, my eyes locked onto the alley. When a policeman decided it would be best to jump me with his car, I had to take two rushed steps back, adrenaline rushing through me as the policeman rolled down his window.

Without a second thought, I slid under the patrol car, praying I wouldn't break every bone in my body from a tire driving over me. I reached the alley in no time, keeping my head down underneath my hood so I wouldn't act funny to all the suspicious people lingering there.

I spotted a guy my age with blonde hair who was busy talking to other teenage guys. A cigarette lit up in his hand as I carefully approached him, eying my surroundings. Like the Survival Minimum, this place was as shady as it got. I hit his arm with the back of my hand being vigilant of my milieu; signaling to him that I was there, no talk.