The world bled in around him like a drop of rain making its way across a window- slowly. The room was dark; only a few chandeliers hung from the ceilings, and they were burning out.
Trace dropped into a cold leather chair that gripped at his cloak. He let the chair hold him in place.
This was just a mission report. Nothing bad was going to happen. Phantom was a responsible association that would make sure he wouldn't get hurt.
Three silhouettes surrounded him, one on each side of the chair.
"Trace, tell us exactly how your mission went," a woman's voice cut through the silence. She sounded urgent, as if Trace didn't answer she'd go ballistic or something.
He shifted in the chair, but felt the leather latch him back in place. He went tense. Why wouldn't they let him move?
"I followed everything according to plan," he stated, trying to sound relaxed. Something wasn't right, and he could feel it.
"Did anything interfere with your Modifier?" A man's voice interrogated. "Anything, like a hacker or a target?"
"No, sir," Trace replied, his voice shaking. What was going on? Was something wrong with him?
"Good, now let me check the history your Modifier captured," the woman spoke again, this time a bit softer. "It may hurt a bit, but it won't last long."
Trace felt a hand squeeze the sides of his neck. A cold hand. And his vision went black. Searing pain slashed its way through his arms. He felt like he was being split open by a thousand knives at once.
Phantom isn't doing it. It's all in your head, Trace reminded himself. This wasn't bad at all. It was a test, for sure.
"Are you scared, Trace?" The woman laughed, moving her fingers around his Modifier.
"No, ma'am," he said sternly. As she continued, though, he seemed to shake. He couldn't stop the strange feeling of horror overwhelming him.
"Good," she mumbled, resting her hands on his shoulders. "Now be completely honest with us, Trace. Have you seen any strange visions, like memories of your past?"
That triggered something deep, something dark, in his brain. Ten times worse than the dark void he traveled through when teleporting. Trace froze in place. His mouth wouldn't operate. Something was trying figure itself out in his head. Some faint, happy memory. A silent, wavering flower in the wind...
* * *
A girl stood in a field, a happy grin spreading on her face. She held out her hand, saying words Trace couldn't hear. He replied to her, but he couldn't hear himself either.
He reached out to receive her invitation, but she seemed to back away from him, taunting him.
And then his vision went black. Why couldn't he see the beautiful little girl? Where had she gone? He wanted his vision back! He had the strangest urge to be reunited with her! The beautiful girl with the golden curls and the shiny porcelain face...
When he could see again, it was night. He slowly looked down, dread coursing through him. The girl was dead at his feet, a blade sliced through her neck. Blood spilled from everywhere around her, soaking her light pink dress to her skin. The shiny locks of her hair plastered to her face like an erratic nightmare.
Trace bent down, wondering if he should touch the horrifying spectacle. Hot tears ran down his cheeks, and he started screaming. He pounded on the grass, dirtying the silky green color with a beautiful scarlet red. His hand was bleeding, and then it came off. He shrieked louder in the pain of both seeing the girl dead, and seeing his hand gone.
An assassin rested his foot on the side of the little girl's face, a grin curved on his lips, and held his hand out to Trace. He took it, and his tears disappeared along with the blood and guilt.
* * *
"No, ma'am," Trace gulped. His body went hot.
His Modifier sent sparks through his body. He wasn't supposed to lie. He was supposed to swear allegiance to Phantom.
"Whoa, take a look at this," the woman mumbled, her pitch racing in excitement. She circled her fingers around Trace's modifier.
Another set of hands worked on his neck. They were rough, sending shivers along his spine.
"You're right. His group mission went okay, but his personal mission failed," the man's voice boomed. "Drown out his hearing for a moment."
Something clicked in Trace's Modifier that made his head flop over, immovable.
"He went off assigned coordinates and killed an innocent," the woman whispered, expecting Trace wouldn't hear her. Unfortunately, he heard her loud and clear.
Killed an innocent. The words ran through Trace's mind like a disease. He'd killed someone. Killed someone. Someone innocent. He was a killer.
"We could send him back to his room and give him a different examination mission, don't you think, First Chair?" The woman asked slowly, thinking out the words as she spoke.
It was silent for a few seconds. The person the woman addressed seemed to think about the situation.
"I think," a heavy Russian female voice plucked at the silence, "that Trace did wonderful job. He acted upon instinct. It takes skill to be natural hunter."
The other two didn't speak, in fear their leader would continue speaking, and they'd accidentally interrupt. After a few seconds, the man decided to speak.
"You aren't saying... he passed, are you?"
The Russian woman laughed. "Of course I am! We need more killers like him."
"But, First Chair, he went out of line and killed-"
"An innocent bystander? I know that," the First Chair completed, amused. "Does pack of wolves stop to think: 'Wait, this elk is innocent' or do they care more about food the animal provides?"
The silence answered her rhetorical question.
"Snap him back into life after inserting a congratulations message for his examination accomplishment," the First Chair ordered. "Then send him back to his room. He need a lot of sleep if he wants to work with us."
"He didn't have a choice if he wanted to or not," the woman mumbled, working on the Modifier in Trace's neck.
"Jazz, I'm not as deaf as you think I am," the First Chair snapped, "so I can hear you and your selfish remarks."
The woman continued to work on Trace's Modifier, shaking slightly. She didn't reply to her leader, but breathed steadily, holding in whatever she wanted to let out.
"Congratulations, Trace! You've officially made it into Phantom's association! Please meet in the breakfast hall with your group members from squad WP7 for orientation," the man recorded his voice into the Modifier. Later on it would pop into Trace's head, alerting him of his achievement.
Trace stayed frozen in the uncomfortable "sleeping" position they had him in. He was frightened to the bone, and he felt cold all over. Useless. Dead.
"I think he's ready to go," the woman sighed, pushing something in on Trace's Modifier. His neck snapped back up but he couldn't control his body at all. His eyes were about to close, drowsy.
"How many are currently held in rank S?" The First Chair asked flatly, lifting Trace's chin up to examine him. Her cold green eyes squinted judgmentally.
He went frigid at the warm touch. Why was this woman staring at him? Why did she lick her lips just now? Did he look tasty?
"Only five, still," the man replied, clearing his throat.
The First Chair poked her dull nail into Trace's chin and then dropped her hand, thinking. Trace let out an exasperated breath, not knowing he had held it in so long.
"Add more serum to their meals, and design more examinations. We'll have to lower the bar for any of this to work," the woman ordered coldly.
The two working on Trace pressed his Modifier, shoving the transportation device in.
"Yes, First Chair," the two said obediently.
Trace hovering from the chair and into the black abyss where he felt cold, alone, and scared. Now, he felt confused.
What was Phantom's objective? What was rank S? What was the examination he went through?
He kept thinking these things, even as he was slowly laid into his bed. The calm silky covers cleared his mind.
What just happened? Trace couldn't remember any of it. Not the vision he had, not the important information that was spilled. Nothing.
His cloak was gone and his sweatpants and baggy shirt hung loosely on his body.
He spread his arms out so that one hand touched the smooth wallpaper and the other gripped the edge of the bed.
A thought came into Trace's head, but his Modifier immediately replied.
Classified information.
"I only asked how old I was," Trace replied softly into the dark room.
Classified. Classified, his Modifier reminded him.
"Fine," Trace whined. "I'll say I'm sixteen or something, then."
Classified.
Trace sighed and rolled onto his side, tucking his hands into his chest, bringing his knees up to his waist.
He didn't know why he did this, but it was extremely comforting, so he fell asleep this way.