Chapter 2

Walking through the white and clean hallways, I make my way to the briefing room. The white lights glare down at me with cold blue-tinted light. It makes the whole place seem unbelievably sterile. But because I've lived here through the years, the whole setup has a calming effect on me, making me a little relaxed. Even though I'm to be always alert.

Making my way to metal doors that lead into the room I'm going to, I stop. Raising a fist, I knock on the cold metal.

"Come in," calls a gravelly voice.

I open the door and step into the office. Compared to the hallway, it's much more flavorful here. A brown and red carpet is spread on the floor. Resting on top of it is a mahogany desk. And a few bookshelves line the white walls.

Sitting in the chair behind the desk is Mr. Corbin. He's in his early forties, or maybe fifties. But his once brown hair is fading away, the tips of his hair have some of the lingering color that is just barely there. His square and set jaw are clenched as always.

Folding my hands behind my back and spreading my legs to shoulder width, I say "I've come to get my next mission briefing, sir."

"Hmm," he says.

   His voice is scratched and cracking as he speaks. Years of smoking those cigarettes have done him no favor. His once even skin color is somewhat blotchy, and the lines of his face look as if he has dirt stuck in them. Or maybe tar.

"About that, Reza. I have to tell you something," he drones out.

   I stand dead still. Something is off. Never has he said anything like this. He's always given me my briefing and then sent me off. He's never said anything except for what's necessary for me to know.

Reaching down, he opens a drawer in his desk and pulls out a yellow folder. I recognize it. It's my graduation folder. All the information about my grade and upbringing from the facility where I was raised and trained is in there.

Opening it, he reads in his voice like gravel, "Reza Kelson. Age 17 as of right now, from his birthdate. Birthday was last month, on December 13th. Graduated at top of class 166. Outstanding capability to execute objective under harsh circumstances, distinguished sharpshooter, and expert of chemical compositions of toxins to human physiology. Also notable is the determination of cadet, known to be extremely volatile against adversaries, and very well-armed against any threat. I have the utmost satisfaction that this cadet will be able to carry out any task appointed to him. Signed, Major Bryce."

Major Bryce. The Pinball. He had no hair, probably because the cigar-smoker got cancer and had to do chemo. Sucks to be him. But sucked to be us more.

He always was there to berate and degrade us in the program. Saying how we're all nothing and that everybody is just scum. And then he would bring out his little baton. I got hit as much as everybody else. Most likely more, because of my nature of being the one who tried to be the best. I always worked the hardest. And he saw that and picked on me.

"You think you'll ever be anything? 'Cause you won't! All you ever be is a failure! That's why I pick on you. I know a runt when I see one. The rest of the class? They might have a chance! But you? All you'll ever be is the underdog. The bitch who sits in the dirt!"

He always liked to say that. Or a variation of that. I remember the first time he said it, I was barely six. And I cried that time. But after the daily abuse, I grew past it. I learned to not care and vied to prove his old ass wrong. I worked until my whole body ached, staying up when everybody slept. Sometimes I didn't sleep for a week. But I never gave in.

And on the final day, when they tested all us the remaining cadets who stayed alive through the years, I rose to the top. He looked at me with something in his eyes. Hate. He hated that I managed to get to where I was. But on that day, I smiled at his face. The smile they trained us to do. One that would seduce and mesmerize your target. The one he said I would never be able to do. I smiled at him with that.

I beat every one of his precious little 'Stars' too. His favorites. I wiped the floor with them. I put them in their place. Stuck-up pieces of shit. None of them came close to what I could do. My score was ten times all theirs combined times two. Making me the third most dangerous person in the Northern American continent.

"Do you know why I'm reading this?" asks Mr. Corbin, bringing me out of my thoughts.

"No, sir," I reply without any pause.

"I'm reading it," he says as he closes the folder and sets it in front of himself. "Because you have been discharged."

I stand there for a moment. The word seems out of place. Like a bullet in my side. Or a pill that I was supposed to take yesterday.

"What? Sir?" I say.

But I can hear the fear and weakness creep into my voice. Pathetic. I regain my composure.

  "What do you mean discharged, sir?" I ask in a firm voice.

"The higher-uppers reviewed your file last week. They decided that because you were part of the older program, you weren't viable with the standards their new program is trying to accomplish. All in all, you're outdated."

Outdated? The word stabs into my chest worse than anything I've ever felt before. Out...dated. Something sticky and black fills my chest, making it unbearably difficult to take in air.

"But," I choke out.

I try to regain my firm voice, but it's off-pitch. "But what about my service? All that I have accomplished? All my successful missions?"

"Those were also reviewed. Nothing changed though. You've met them, They're conceited folk. Never worked a day in their lives, them stuck-ass politicians. But they said that America needed new types of recruits. Not ones that were part of an older age."

I stand shell-shocked. Everything I've ever done. Waisted. I trained since I was a little defenseless baby how to kill. Nothing ever came my way that I couldn't fight back in some way. But this...this is different. I can't do anything against this.

"Permission to speak freely, sir," I say quietly.

   Anger simmers through my body. This isn't right. After all I've done. For them. For this country.

"Granted," he replies.

"I will not go away like this. And I don't for a moment believe that this is right! I have served this country more than any other branch of military. I, who have killed entire cities of people, am being dumped because I'm 'outdated'? I can't think that it's because I'm outdated. Something is off sir!" I shout out angrily.

"Reza," he says evenly. His old blue eyes look into mine weakly. "Understand me. I know how you feel. I've worked with you for three years, and I know how capable you are as an agent. You are the best agent I have ever worked with to this date.

"But the ones up there think that you are no longer a useful asset to this country. They decided this long ago when they saw what you were capable of. You fit into the old program that focused on the ability of the single agent, rather than group work. It also focused on the agility of the body and mind. To shift and move with grace. To be able to cope with adversity. They don't like this. So they made a program that got rid of these and instead instilled obedience instead. Dumb, retarded obedience."

  My skill of simply listening to a person talk tracks his speaking pattern from at least twenty years ago, but I shut it up while listening carefully to what he says, holding myself even angry as I am in still control that I have. That's another careful trait of mine, that will not shake.

    "Now that you've served them enough, they replaced you. I did not intend to allow this to happen. But they got their way. They wanted to eliminate all of the agents from your year. All of them. Because they wouldn't fit with what they were planning. It took everything in my ability to make sure you and everybody else in your year was not exterminated. They were planning on killing you when you came back. All of you. The plan was even sent to me. But I refused. So they allowed that single favor. To let you live.

"I'm sorry that this is what it has to come to, but from today, you will no longer be able to uphold this job. You will be sent to a remote town somewhere that I have not been notified of. I will most likely never see you again. But please understand, I did everything that I could to ensure that you would not be killed. You deserved that most to not be," he says.

He looks up at me pleadingly, as if asking for me to understand. I don't. He should have done more for me.

But I let it go. The fire that is inside me still burns, but not to hate him. I hate the ones who made me into the 'outdated' agent. I hate the higher-uppers for this.

"Thank you... sir," I simply say.

He nods and smiles a fraction. But I keep my faces hard as stone.

"You'll have to pack up what little you have. Your ride leaves in an hour," he says as he looks down at the folder in front of him. He must really not be enjoying this. Maybe he really did do everything he could for me.

"Where will I go?" I ask quietly.

"I don't know. Somewhere in the midwest, maybe. Or northwest. They just told me you would be sent somewhere that you can be 'hidden away'," he says as he makes air quotes with his fingers.

"But I know that they'll not come after you. Your digital records have all been incinerated, and any remaining analog ones I made sure to put into here," he says as he pats the folder. He pushes it across the desk.

"You take this and make sure you keep it safe. This is the only thing that gives any hint that you were ever here, of you ever having this life. Shifting to civilian life will be tough, but you'll make it through. I know you will."

Wordlessly taking the folder, I open it and look inside. Inside is the basic information form that has everything that he just read typed on it. And my picture. From when I first started working with Mr. Corbin. I look somewhat smug. As if I'm happy that I would be living a life that I would be good at.

If only I had known...

Closing it, I hold it at my side. I turn to leave the office. There won't be any need for dismissal. I'm a civilian now. I grimace, and something internal hurts.

"Oh, and Reza," says Mr. Corbin.

I turn to look at him.

"Be safe. I know a lot of people haven't cared for you, but know that I do. You didn't deserve this. You should have had a better life."

He smiles nicely at me.

I turn and exit the office. Nothing can make me feel better. There's this unbelievably deep wound inside my chest. Worse than anything. This feeling that I can't describe. It gapes out for the world to sting and bite. And it makes me feel as if I'm in a maze. Nothing makes sense.

I walk down the hall in a daze, toward my quarters. Where the little that I have is. My guns, my medic kit. And maybe some of my uniforms. But those they'll have to take. I can't wear those anymore. Or maybe I will. For all they say, I never worked here. All the sweat and blood that I shed, the hours of hard training of the mind and body. They never existed. None of it.

Other new agents walk down the hall, and they look at me as I walk along glumly. I glare at their curious faces. They all know. How I'm nothing. How they'll replace my outdated ass. I hiss and snarl, sending them running.

Walking up to my quarters, I stand for a moment to think of how I'll never come back here. Sighing I open the door.

But what I open it to is not what I expect. A rowdy bunch of teens who look younger than me have trashed my room. They have my stuff all thrown in a corner. And they're making themselves at home. My uniforms with my badges are scattered on the floor. Trampled and wrinkled.

And they jump on my bed that I layed in this morning. I feel violated. They've no doubt come here to move in and take my room. And the kid who got this room invited all his buddies to horse around.

Total dumbasses...

One of them spots me and grins evilly. "Look!" he says teasingly. "It's the oldie! The one we're replacing!" he shouts out.

Everyone turns to look at me.

"He's such a loser," says a girl.

  She looks to have make-up on. What the hell? Make-up is against regulations.

"Why do you have make-up on?" I ask gruffly. The girl raises a painted eyebrow.

"Oh sorry! Forgot you're not up to date," she says like a dumb cat, "see, in our program, they actually allowed us to be human beings. Not a bunch of draconian style monkeys. That's why we're replacing you. You're a bunch of outdated pieces of shit."

The lot of them howl and laugh at her joke and insult. I clench my fist. Draconian...monkeys? I'm not the one who has my face painted to hide my shitty facade underneath. Insecure piece of...!

But I don't bother. They're just a bunch of airheads. Walking over to the corner with my stuff, I pick it up and try to not turn around and shoot every one of them. They can't replace me if they don't have anything to replace me with.

"Look at this uniform," says a skinny kid with glasses.

Glasses? In my program, if you couldn't see, you weren't viable. You got booted out, or you got surgery. That's if you had some kind of potential. This kid doesn't.

"It's like, so lame," he says as he holds up my navy blue uniform with my badge on it. He throws it on the ground.

Then, he spits on it.

The little restraint I have snaps. I'm at his neck before any of them can move. Of course, they can't. They're nothing compared to me. New program my ass. They couldn't hit the wide side of a barn.

Throwing the kid against a wall, I smash his nose in. But I make sure not to drive it into this brain. That would no doubt get me a court-martial. But I snap the bone, to teach him a lesson. Never stain my honor. Especially one that I worked my life for.

"Hey!" screams all the other kids, and they jump up to do something, but the door opens. Mr. Corbin steps in and sees me with my hand choking the kid. He raises an eyebrow.

"What's going on here?" he asks sternly as his eyebrows knit together.

"This kid came in and tried to hurt all of us," screams the girl like someone will believe her, "if you hadn't come to our rescue, we would all have ended up like him!" she screams as she points at the kid who is crying from the broken nose.

Crying? It'd take more than a broken nose to make me cry. Nothing could probably actually make me cry.

"Sorry, but that acting gig won't work on me," replies to Mr. Corbin. He spots the uniform with the spit on it lying on the floor. "Which one of you did that?" he asks a bit angrily.

"He did it himself!" says the boy who first teased me.

   He pretends to act scared, but it's a lame act. I could act better than that when I was eleven. He looks to be maybe fifteen. A fifteen-year-old idiot.

"It was him," I say as I point to the glasses kid. He whimpers and pinches his nose, but stops as it apparently hurts it more.

"I'll talk to you later. But Reza, they're here. You need to go now."

I nod and scoop up my clothes that are scattered around the floor. One of the other kids tries to trip me, but I just smash his foot. He howls with pain and backs off. I throw everything into a bag I grab from the tiny metal locker next to my bed.

I'm just leaving the room when I feel like doing something to leave them scared. To make a statement.

Turning around, I look at every one of them in the eye, saying,

"I'll say this because I think that you are all in for a rude awakening. Every one of you is about as an agent as dirt. The higher-ranking officers and politicians might see you as what they want, but you're not it.

"All you are is a bunch of kids who haven't had an instance of hardship stacked against you. And you will all fail. When the day comes that you're made to do what they want, you'll flop like a dead fish. You'll fail so as to never be able to be thought of as anything worth mentioning.

"And when the day comes that you all are like me, outdated, think of what I said. And think of how you'll never be like me. I, Reza Kelson, because I have the skills to live. To survive. To face adversity. Draconian you say? I say discipline. A discipline that you don't have. That you'll never have. That you cannot have. And that will be your doom."

And then I slam the door on all their ugly faces.