Inside Voices ▷ Bruce Banner | ✓

1 - FLEETING FREEDOM

SHE WAS ALLOWED TO SLEEP FOR HOWEVER LONG SHE WANTED. It was a small mercy given to her, almost like a reward; if she completed her mission, she was allowed to sleep for however long she wanted, surrounding herself in the blissful darkness with no one to obey, not even herself. She dared to say she enjoyed sleep, though she had never known to enjoy anything in the past.

She had just finished one of her longer missions, this one spanning the length of five days—she was never allowed to stay out on the field for any more than a week, regardless of whether the job was finished; if she found herself being forced back to base without completing the mission, she was punished, then forced to complete her task. It involved the murder of a politician who had cheated on the client's daughter despite the man already having been married.

That was something about her work. There was no greater cause, no bigger picture. Nothing except the twisted minds of her owners and the deep pockets of whomever came in contact. Nothing mattered except the money and the job, and whatever they wanted, she was to provide.

The job was meant to be mindless. Child's play where her masters would receive a large sum for work she could finish in a maximum of two days. She had reveled in the idea that they would be kind to her, happy that they received money and didn't expend on resources. She could only think this, however, during her preparation to be sent out into the field.

When under compliance, nothing made sense. It was as if she was underwater, watching as she drifted further and further down. Or, more accurately, like she was strapped to a chair, forced to watch a television screen playing an endless stream of feedback from a first person camera, showing her everything her body was doing, all that her eyes could see.

Under compliance, her conscious brain screamed and fought and struggled, tried to look away and stop, but her thoughts could only consist of her work, cold and calculated as she took in every option and variable at an inhuman speed, swift and decisive in her movements, meticulous and orderly in her follow through and clean up.

It was as if she was in a nightmare she was unable to wake from. Her real self begging to wake up, to be let out, to prove that it wasn't real. Her dream self understanding that this was real, following the rules of the dream, moving and reacting the way she is meant to, regardless of what her real self wanted.

His security was maximized and his family ever present. She had been given strict orders to leave his family alone and unknowing, which meant she was forced to scout their routine, as she was given no indication by the reconnaissance team nor the client. Unfortunately, as she went to scout, she found herself in the midst of heavy security, meaning she was forced to watch them as well, searching for holes and pockets of time, operating under the strict guidelines of hurting none except the target.

As if she truly wanted to hurt the target in the first place.

Of course, wanting was a concept so foreign to her she hardly had a word for it at all, much less any real feeling of the sort. All she knew was how to shut the television of her mind off and allow the compliance to force her body into submission, focused solely on the target and nothing else.

The compliance kept her in check, but the rest was all herself.

The hit was swift and calculated, as she only had a twenty minute window where he was completely alone, kneeling in the confessional of a church, waiting for the priest who was told not to arrive until twenty minutes later by an apologetic message he believed to be from the target's worried wife, hoping the priest could forgive the delay.

She never used a gun, as guns made noises, left traces, and were generally ill-suited for any job, even for an assassin. If one wanted to protect themselves, one ought to use their brain rather than their primitive weaponry, at least that was what she always believed, and her masters tended to share the same sentiment.

Severing the spinal cord was the way to near instant death without fuss or fanfare, though it took years of practice to perfect. Now an expert, however, she was able to take her blade—she would have preferred something smaller, but her masters still had yet to design something up to standards—and sever it within seconds, breaking the spine for good measure. She wrapped him quickly, careful to keep the confessional room spotless and free from any recent traces of life.

She handed his body to her awaiting colleagues, for lack of a better term, making her way back to the target's home to finish planting the last pieces of the hit. A letter admitting to all his affairs, the clearing of his bank account to various sources which would, in time, all lead back to her masters in small, untraceable portions, and the small brooch that was in his jacket pocket, meant for his wife, as it was their wedding anniversary.

She exited with only half a minute left, leaving without a trace. No cameras, no witnesses.

Once back, she was given another set of drugs. The compliance kept her focused, but this drug had yet to have a name, but kept her sated, unable to escape or fully comprehend her surroundings, alert to only her tasks. She was given another drug when sent to training, but when tensions were lowered and she was allowed her brief moments of respite, she was unable to do anything but sleep and pace around her white walled room.

That was three days prior. She had been allowed to sleep for however long she desired, and her body took it with ease, free from the drugs as she was unconscious. Of course, she was unable to leave her enclosed bed until she was injected with her sedative, but when she was asleep, she was free.

As free as she could be, at least.

In truth, there was no freedom for her. No sense of relief, no thoughts of her own, no true feelings. Nothing except what she knew, what she was told, and what she had to do. No feelings of sentiment or remorse, not unless she were to look deep inside.

In truth, that woman had died long ago, too tired to continue on. The television had been turned off permanently, for there was no one left to watch in agony. There was only the job to be done.

She woke easily, a rush of disappointment filling her before being immediately tamped down by a sharp stab at the back of her neck, something she had grown numb to after all these years. She hardly knew how much time had passed, nor how old she was.

Like it made a difference.

She sighed as she climbed out of her enclosure, stepping into the rest of her room. It was completely bare save for the door and the occasional tray of food sent to her. She was not allowed to bathe herself and, should she need to use the restroom, she was to press a button and be escorted. She was sent to a machine twice a week that was meant to mimic the feeling of being hugged, as human contact was necessary for life.

Her life was nonexistent. She had not a life, but was alive. She was not, however, living.

The intercom in her room buzzed to life, calling her into action. "Viper Strike. Meet in the debriefing room."

Her door slid open, revealing to her the white hallway, calling her out and down until she reached the double doors where she would be sat at the wooden table—brown not white—and given a folder with her next task.

If only she had slept forever.

AUTHOR'S NOTE

I know not much happened in this chapter, but this was really just a chapter to introduce her, next chapter we'll see what she's like and what she does in full when it comes to the place she lives in, then third is when her mission starts and all that.

Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoyed!