Mylo woke up in a pile of moldy hay. His neck was sore, like something was pierced through it. He attempted lifting his hand up to feel this strange pain, but soon figured he couldn't move.
Light glided through the windows in ribbons, dancing off the dry parts of the hay. A chicken "bawked" quietly from the loft above Mylo. He looked up without moving his body and a water droplet landed on his cheek. Sloshing noises suddenly broke the silence.
Mylo felt like he was in danger, somehow. He knew something was coming. He was aware that he wasn't alone, and he couldn't move.
"Mylo," a voice boomed from above him. This seemed to be an order. Mylo's body moved of its own accord, the pain in his neck growing worse. He climbed up the rickety ladder, onto the loft.
The wood wasn't smooth, so shards of wood pierced through Mylo's bare feet. He winced as he felt the warm blood oozing out.
The large black tub was filled to the top with water and the cloaked man held the chicken securely under the water. Mylo watched as the chicken flapped its beak, bubbles flying everywhere, until the animal stopped moving, eyes wide open, and floated from the man's grasp. Dead.
"You are now a Phantom Assassin, Mylo," the man shook the water from his gloves and stood up straight to look at Mylo.
"I'm a Phantom Assassin," Mylo whispered to himself, confused. The words didn't register in his head. Nothing made sense, except for the dull pain coursing through his body, taking over.
"Good," the man smiled. "The Machine seems to be steadily stealing away your memories. You don't even understand what I'm saying, do you?"
Mylo felt numb, like all of his limbs were growing out of proportion, but they weren't his own limbs. "The Machine?" He suddenly felt dizzy.
"Yes, Mylo. The Machine takes care of your memories so that you won't betray the organization. Phantom does it to all of its assassins," the man explained, knowing Mylo would forget all of this later.
"So, even you?" Mylo's eyes felt heavy. He felt sleepy. "Even... you... had to go through... the Machine?"
The man reached his hand over his head and lifted his hood out of his face. A scar ran through his left eye in a jagged line. "Mylo, I don't remember anything from my past, but I think it's for the best. What Phantom tells us, we have to believe. It's priority to have killer instincts. That's all Phantom allows you to have."
Mylo fell to his knees and his neck snapped up, forcing him to stare at the ceiling. "I have to forget... everything?"
"Yes, Mylo. That's a good thing. You won't have any feelings of love, possession, or longing. You'll just have your power of revenge and anger. Hatred. That's all assassins need." The man's voice grew quiet. "I still have longing, and mercy. But nobody knows that, except for me, and now you. You won't remember any of this, but Mylo, you need to harbor some sort of feeling other than hatred, or the killer instinct will overpower you, and you will eventually consume yourself. For the sake of the human inside, you must believe you will retain your memories, even if you know it's impossible. And, you'll know if you are going insane if your appearance makes a tragic change. Remember this. Remember."
Mylo swayed to the side, falling on the floor. His head filled with a strange hollow sensation, like everything he knew was all a lie. Everything was erased. Gone. His sister was just a face to a foreign name. His mother was only a person he saw being slaughtered.
He shut his eyes and let the feeling of total nothingness consume him.
~~~~~
He opened his eyes and a grin subconsciously found its way across his lips. His mind was absent of any memories, any happy moments, any sad tragedies. He felt reborn, recharged, and bloodthirsty.
"Trace, get out of bed," a man from below him ordered flatly. Trace hopped from the top bunk and thunked on the ground.
My name is Trace, his brain reminded him. Trace? That was a funny name. You're seventeen years old, but you can't reveal this, his brain urged. You're in Phantom headquarters.
"I didn't think you'd actually listen," Jack chuckled, climbing from his own bed. He was dressed in a comfortable-looking pair of pajamas. Trace looked at his own clothing and realized how his clothes were a simple t-shirt and baggy sweat pants.
Trace watched as Jack lifted his hand behind his neck, pressing something that caused him to disappear.
It's time for orientation, his brain told him. Press in the Modifier on the back of your neck.
Trace obeyed the strange impulse, pressing in the sharp object. It pierced his thumb, but he thought nothing of it.
The world crumpled around him. Trace rose from the ground, watching intently as his room grew smaller. Everything went black, and then a world quickly pieced itself together around him. He was lowered into a chair and the room was very large, filled with people dressed in different colored cloaks that concealed their faces.
A bowl of stew sat in front of him, steam rising out of it. He stabbed a spoon through a baked potato and shoved it in his mouth. The bland taste didn't bother him.
Each assassin can see through their own cloak, his brain informed him.
Trace could see through his hood, as if it was transparent, but the others around him had hoods that looked impossible to see through. Believing what his brain told him, he continued eating the tasteless food and ignored the strange hood.
"Trace," a voice laughed. The girl slid in next to Trace, leaning her elbows on the table. She watched as he continued eating and smiled when he finished.
"What do you want?" Trace spoke coldly.
"That isn't a nice way to greet me, Trace," she frowned, folding her arms over her chest. Trace just shrugged. "Anyway, I wanted to let you know that you'll be in my group. I'm Hailey." She reached across the table to shake Trace's hand. He reached out half-heartedly and shook hers.
You're new here, Trace. You are going on your first mission today, his brain alerted him. He understood.
"I don't think smiling is very appropriate," Trace said dryly, rubbing his gloved hands together.
Hailey frowned. "So, if I frown, you'll feel more comfortable?"
Trace shrugged. "Probably."
Hailey broke out into a grin. "Then I'll smile as much as I can."
Trace widened his eyes at her, surprised at her ignorance. She was disrespectful, that's what she was.
"Trace, you can smile here. You can make friends. You aren't completely restricted to the Machine," she laughed, settling her elbows back on the table. Her chin plopped into her weaved fingers, and she smiled at Trace.
The Machine. Why did that sound so familiar?
The Machine is the device in the back of your neck that allows you to teleport to missions, his brain alerted him. You can't leave Phantom unless you are given orders to.
"I know," Trace mumbled, lifting his bowl up. He turned around and tossed the paper thing into a large waste bin. Hailey followed him.
"Today we're set to slay a family of thieves. Aren't you excited?" Hailey's voice raised in pitch, anxiety pricking her tone.
Trace let a grin settle. "Yeah. Sounds fun."
Hailey laughed. "Good. So your Modifier will tell you when to teleport. I have the coordinates in mine, so everything's set in stone." She pointed to her neck.
Trace nodded. "Got it."
"See you then," she smiled, walking away. She disappeared in the crowd of black, white, and dark red cloaks.
How will I know what to do? Trace asked his Modifier, completely confident it would give him a solid answer.
Your weapons are hidden in your cloak. Illusioned pockets hold the biggest weapons, but the daggers are sheathed in the side pockets, his Modifier replied. The voice sounded like his own, except for the robotic twang hidden inside. Trace noticed it.
Trace went to lift his hood from his face, not knowing why he wanted to.
The Modifier sent a shock through his body. You are not allowed to reveal your identity to anyone that isn't in your group.
Trace dropped his hands to his sides and let his lips flatten into a hard line.
"Trace," a man approached him, "the Phantom Ambassador team told me to alert you about your Modifier."
"I already know," Trace dismissed, glaring at the man through his hood. He just wanted people to stop talking to him. He didn't know why, but anger filled his body. He didn't want to affiliate with anyone.
"You know about the scan feature?" The man sounded surprised, as if Trace wasn't supposed to know about the Modifier.
Pull out your Modifier slightly to activate the "scan feature," his Modifier ordered him. Trace lifted his hand into his cloak and slowly pulled the Modifier out. His vision suddenly went black.
"What kind of trick is this?" Trace demanded, darting his eyes around everywhere, trying to see.
"It's just calibrating, Trace. Give it a second," the man laughed, as if it was hilarious that Trace was blind.
But it was as he said. In a few seconds, the blackness disappeared and Trace could see the man before him. Only, he could see behind the man's hood. He could see the man's identity. Everything around him identified itself. Little labels appeared over things like chairs, stating the obvious.
"Isn't it against the rules to see the identities of other assassins?" Trace growled, angry that this man would betray Phantom.
The man laughed. His hazel eyes shut and then reopened, only red this time. "Phantom will do anything to conceal the memories of their members, so we have to be able to have wiggle room, right?"
Trace squinted his eyes at the man, speculating whether he should trust him or not.
"You're breaking the rules," Trace felt defensive. The man was a danger to him.
"My name is Dylan," the man offered. "I'm not going against Phantom in any way. I'm as pro-Phantom as you are."
"Dylan," Trace repeated, cementing the name into his head. "Got it."
A message read-out brought itself to Trace's attention:
MISSION; BURGLAR ;#-192--0007 COMMENCE
"See you later, Trace," Dylan laughed, saluting him. Trace reached behind his neck and pressed his Modifier in. The world scattered around him and the black void lifted him from the ground. Dylan disappeared.
A cold chill ran through Trace. He felt empty and heartless for a second, and then the Modifier snapped him back into his stoic composure.
His eyebrows creased and his eyes shut.
The scent of blood and pleasure filled the air.
Trace opened his eyes, grinning at the world melting into place around him.