0 comments/  2818 views/  1 favorites

FLT Ch. 01

By: Music_Exposed



(Eyes Wide Open)

I always have a song that goes with the story or chapter I'm writing. In this case, The Quiet Kind - In Front of You happens to be that song (for now anyways). Only listen to it if you are capable of listening and reading at the same time. ANYWAY! Ergo:

Love comes in all shapes and sizes. Sometimes it may leave one distressed, needy, always chasing a love unrequited, or never returned. Or like with me, it could be their own damnation. He told me many times. I didn't listen. I was too desperate. I was blinded. He told me not to believe in love stories. He told me not to base encounters off of the movies. He made it perfectly clear not to believe in fate. He and Lael always held the brains in this relationship. I was something that got in the way. Well, not anymore. 

***********************************************

   02/06/12 

"Our Father, Who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy Name. Thy Kingdom come, Thy will be done on earth, as it is in Heaven. Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil." C'mon, you can finish this. "Lord Jesus Christ, eternal and merciful God, Creator and Redeemer of all, listen to my prayer. . ."

All around silence now laced us. I hadn't noticed until now how routine it had been of me. The words had exited like counting back from ten whenever my temper reached its no-no level. It was natural. It rolled off smoothly. It gave off rhythm. I disliked it.

The fact that the entire chapel had recited these words like the brainwashed Catholics (I'm not even one hundred percent sure what they are though they ''claimed'' Catholic) they were, reduced the disturbing feeling. I belonged to no religion. I respected religion and the people who succumbed to it. Bowing my head and spitting out words I didn't know the half of was entirely different. There was no respect in that, only a feeling of...wrongness, as though I was unworthy of saying such cult-like words when I knew I was miles away from the cult's grounds. 

As others began their prayer, I began mine. As usual, I figured since they said we should have a close relationship with God, we could skip the formal method of prayer. -Dear Lord, I wish you wouldn't require church to be so early in the morning. I pray you give us a short sermon today. And I pray that the lab roaches I slipped into Lael's dresser do not lay their eggs. Uhm, forgive me for skipping services five weeks in a row. Please and thank you. Amen.- They also said we should be truthful, yeah? I was almost positive the roaches butts weren't that big and not all of them were pregnant. 

I opened my eyes and leaned back. The priest was staring at me. I returned the gaze. His glasses wobbled on the brink of his nose. The robe he wore engulfed his thin frame. His wrinkling, loose skin around his mouth set for a sterner look with his lips pursed. His hand rested on a Bible, and the other slowly rose. If I was correct, a finger ascended, and pointed in my direction. I held my breath, inclined my head elsewhere and pretended to not have seen anything. This guy always did creepy things like this and I avoided evaluating it thoroughly. The crazy people always had a way of knowing things that I would rather not know. 

Instead, I took in the curves of the chandelier above us, the gold, steel material rose upward and held seven, thick (really thick) white candles that were currently lit. The flames danced around, the lights bouncing off of the fine, glass ball that was held in the middle of it, creating a crystalline, bronze glow above us all. And now I knew why the chapel had that burning scent to it; I always sat beneath a burning chandelier.

Afterward, for at least five minutes I tried to pay attention to what the priest was saying and not the clock behind his head, but gradually, glaring at Lael—the woman responsible for attending this church and therefore bringing about me attending— became so much more interesting, and once I discovered she was easily ignoring me, I found my head nodding, my eye lids drooping, and my mind spacing. I tried. I really did, but seven minutes into the second sermon, I was asleep.

When the service ended, I was awake and ready to take on anything―except Lael's chastising. 

"I -told- you not to come if you were simply going to snore in front of, Father." Her pale, creamy skin began to heat a rosy red, the delicacy of them bringing out the fascinating gloss in her irises. Her pink, smooth surfaced lips pressed into a thin line, fingers curled into a fist. Yep, three signs she wanted to body slam me.

The image of his frail finger pointing at me materialized. I shivered, told myself there was no higher reason for the man pointing at me and said in response, "I did not snore in front of 'Father.' More like some old white guy in need of some telomerase testing." I personally had nothing against the old guy, but anyone who was the cause of me having to wake up before two PM on my off day did not deserve a kind word from me. And so, that was what the guy got. My top priority when it came to needs was my ability to be lazy and do what the hell I felt. In a way, though, maybe I couldn't hold too much dislike towards him; he did cradle me to sleep often with his sermons on how the Lord was the satin or fabric of our essence. And when you got to sit atop the bleachers, furthest away from him and the candle-lit chandelier, tucked at the end of the pews with no chaperons walking by to monitor the churches activities―hello dream land. I hid a smirk, sliding into her car. 

All the way to her apartment she sported the grim expression. Normally people knew to let Lael be. Either you could play it her way or you could simply forget about playing. For those who chose the in-between, well, they could expect a lot of misfortune (missing family members, bankrupt, a gun at their throat the next day, a funeral waiting for them, etc). As for those she relatively gave a shit about, like me, who chose to screw with her, she would beat the fuck out of them and they would soon learn from that. 

So maybe I had a few nerves that didn't function properly, because annoying her was an essential that couldn't be ignored and I never learned from a few hits to the jaw. Even if not for the humor, beneath lied a compulsion to do so. I mean, something about agitating her got my day going. Point being, no amount of beatings or torture would stop me from my job as a nuisance―even if I was twenty. Ten years from now, when I was thirty and she was thirty-nine I would still be carrying out my stupidity. 

Upstairs, I fired up the coffee pot for her. She lived on the outskirt of town. I lived extremely close to the skyline. Outside, where the fury winds tossed around the snowflakes, the sun failed to peek from behind the clouds. Snow marred the windows, the grounds, clogged the atmosphere, gave kids something to do and parents something to stress over, and delayed airports for who knows how long. I figured she needed something warm. 

Usually what -I- figured resulted in the opposite no matter how I tried to cheat the game. For example, Lael stormed passed me, clothes in hand, and slammed the bathroom door, the thought of coffee probably the last thing on her mind. 

I lifted my brows and clicked the coffee pot off. So no ''soothing'' coffee for her today. Taking the newspaper off the counter, I plopped down on her bed. In the background, the heater rumbled softly, the waves of it noticeable against my arm given it was located directly on the side of the bed. The stacks upon stacks of files just so happen to be located on the other side of the bed, leaving the heater open to sizzle off my arm hairs.

I automatically searched for any new disasters, satisfied when the only news was related to some guy breaking out of prison. It was sad I found that level 1 news. It was only because right now, level 10 news was the stuff sky-rocketing today. As in level 10, I mean, a terrorist loose in the USA. 

Lael and I were the CIA agents of Chicago―or part of the facility anyway. One man ran this specific facility. Commander Dimwit (aka Commander Gibs if you wanted to use his real last name). What came with a kiss-my-ass boss were fuck-my-life cases. And currently, the case of a terrorist happen to be one of those fuck-my-life cases. 

Three mayors were killed in well-known states. One senator was slaughtered literally into neat squares, the heart pieces deflated due to the lack of blood, the veins nicely wrapped around certain chucks of skin and organ cubes in the shape of a bow (no one could possible know how much that piece of information had me shaken when I found out). Two landmarks in L.A. went up in flames. The latest act hit home, my home in specific. The Chicago loop was consumed by fire. Basically, the terrorist did nothing but leave carnage in his wake (They assumed the person was male, but Earth had batshit insane people everywhere). No camera or person witnessed the planting of the bombs. Somehow the terrorist got pass the senator's guards. Somehow he killed three mayors the night of their speeches. That alone made everyone question higher appeals' security, soon leading to questioning the National Guard's security. That had Home Security basically ass-fucking Federal Executive Boards with how on their tails they were. 

Because of all of the snow and airlines being shut down for this, they claimed he was trapped here. The theory was that he would get desperate, make a mistake somewhere along the line and have all of his plans faltered due to his captivation (though he could easily drive a car out of the city, but -supposedly- they had the boarders secured). While this had medias excited and citizens of Chicago scared bone deep, it was our chance to scoop out this man and have him prosecuted. 

I personally didn't give two shits, but apparently this was some major event that called for attention. If I were to die from some terrorist attack, at least I wouldn't have to deal with economic issues, the possible outcome of having cancer, Afghanistan coming to us, or getting shot up in an alley. Death was everywhere, so why get worked up when it came in another form? I understood protecting the citizens. No amount of logic, however, will ever get me to understand us protecting some citizens who barely acknowledge mayhem that doesn't concern their home life, citizens who forget the Pledge of Allegiance, who have already given up. 

Now, I may have lied somewhat about being a CIA agent. I was in training. Lael was a fully certified agent who proved it everyday. While she kicked kick-ass' ass, I barely knew my butt from a hole in the ground. Where she was abrupt about -everything,- I went about life tentatively (something she told me would be the death of me). Where she was a bit on the tall side, I ruled the short side. Where she rocked the dark, sinister expression in such beautiful light brown eyes, I was merely average and rocked dull gray eyes occasionally hidden behind black glasses or contacts. And where she wielded her body like a weapon, I wielded mine like a couch potato when I had the chance. And we all know what couch potatoes do. 

Nothing.

So why were we partners again? Well, one, she was kinda sorta stuck with me. I had been 12 and living at an orphanage while she had been 21. You would think at such a young age you couldn't adopt, but you'd be surprised with how willing one became when handling a child who had been hooked on committing suicide, stealing every chance they got, ran away once every hour or so. Basically the trouble makers. It wasn't like I had the best of both worlds there. My only friend had been some scrap named Michael (who I still kept in touch with). I was bound to do bad stuff when made fun of about being friends with the boy who still wet the bed. And yet, she had still adopted me. She hadn't spoke to me until we arrived at her old apartment. She'd told me where my room was and the rest was history.

We didn't have a mother/daughter relationship. If anything, we had exactly the opposite. She had been an agent for three years then and was able to provide for the both of us. Aside from my annoying tendencies and her abusive tendencies that were provoked by my personality, we'd gotten along well. She had tried to push me into the training program at fifteen, but I was liking the do-nothing life too much. At eighteen, she'd asked again. I think it was something about the way she'd asked me, the silent plead in her eyes. Lael had shown me a new life, opened my eyes from whatever darkness I'd surrendered to. For that, I'd given her what she wanted and signed up. I knew the amount of studying to come, the amount of physical labor ahead of me, but denying her almost felt impossible.

I regret/am thankful for that action. Two things had happened the day I went to the base. One, I had official met Commander Gibs. Two, I was thankful that he wasn't the dad who abandoned me, because I would have double crossed that guy so fast that I would have been the one doing the abandoning. Now him, unlike the priest, I had an entire book directed his way. 

The only thing that made me breathe in the same air as that guy was Lael. Lael. Lael. Lael. She was my everything. 

Except lover.

I absently began flipping through the files she held on her headboard, thinking of how much longer I could play this off. The day I'd turned seventeen had to be the worst day of my life. Not because Lael and I had gotten touchy, not because I had lost my virginity to the woman who raised me as teenager, and not because I had liked it, but because in the aftermath realization had smacked me three-fold. Lael had been serious that night, while I had been careless and thinking ''party on!'' And what I realized was how she had saw me as. . .just that, a lover. A lover I didn't want to be, but regardless of that, I knew I would -never- break her heart, I knew I would let her have me if that was what she wanted. 

And I could never stop the bile from rising in my throat at the thought of what made her this way. She was hardcore, but when it came to relationships, she was vulnerable. Eleven years ago, on her voyage to Russia, her mission was to seek out Вячеслав and cease his existence. She had been eighteen, and this was her first mission. A big mission, but she was trusted, a newbie badass. Instead, she had met someone, a few years younger than she was, and she had fell in love with him, a mere boy almost. She had journals upon journals about him. She told me about all the things he could do, how ''incredible'' he was, how he would always laugh when things were terribly wrong, how he was mature for his age. She said they laughed and cried together. He'd said she was his forever. It was pure love. It ended the night he raped her. That was when she went bad, I believe. She ended up aborting the mission and putting it in someone else's hands to recover from heart-break and more. 

I was a nosy person, so when she first saw me ram-shacking her room in search of the journals, she killed the books, lit them afire and glared at me. I was stuck only asking things about him. Her response was always, "He's not something you want to know about." The words never changed. I asked further questions and she'd say that was all I needed to know. It wasn't. Anything involving males brought about a haunted shadow over her and she would degrade everything in her path. She didn't like getting intimate with males. Period.

So, to this day and forever, I guess it was a loathsome ''party on'' theme playing constantly in my mind. And I might very well never have another boyfriend in my life. Now, there was loyalty for you. 

"-What- are you doing?" came a voice from the doorway.

"Having multiple flashbacks."

"Why do you have my papers?" I only glanced up when they were snatched out of my hands. "I told you not to mess with my stuff. I told you a thousand times not to―is this National Piss Off Lael Day? Hm, is that it?" That―that right there― was her favorite line on Sundays. It summed up our essence. "Get out my bed." 

I laid back, my mood going gloomy at the sight of the still coming snow. Despising her as a lover was one thing. Hitching up her blood pressure almost canceled out the former. "When is the next meeting?" 

"The one you're not attending?" She stood over me, hands on hips. Her eyes, however, seemed to focus on everything but me. That alone drew my eyes to the way she bit her lip, the way her finger tapped at her waist. 

I lifted myself up. "What's wrong?" She didn't answer. "Tell me." 

We both knew it was pointless to act as though everything was alright at this point. We knew each other too well. Our faces were open books to each other. After years and years of telling serious lies to one another, we sort of developed a read on the other. Lael always had this nervous way of detaching herself from her body. Either that or, she didn't notice how her eyes were like ping pong balls, looking everywhere but at the person. I was the exception. After knowing and living with her for a while, I picked up her body language when others didn't.

I, on the other hand, was good at keeping secrets. How Lael read me was a mystery. Same would be said for how I read her, though.

When I said Lael was abrupt, I didn't only mean her actions, but also her words. Maybe the day I actually was prepared, would be the day I saw her dying or something.

"Leave. Go home. This is none of your business. If I have to brake your leg and drag you out, I will. Leave." Her voice was a monotone, her face loose with sadness. The scent of her shampoo was intoxicating in the small distance we held. The shampoos were never a constant. This time it was rosemary. As I inhaled it, I measured her up.

She was serious.

I opened my mouth. I closed it. I tried again and she pointed her finger towards the door. 

"Wait a second," I said, holding my hand up to allow me speech. "You want me to let you be worried about something I have no doubt is big? You want me to let you take on this -problem- by yourself? Can't you at least -tell- me what's up?"

"Scarlet, I'll give you three seconds to leave."

Anyone who actually knew how to react to this situation was organized as hell. 

I was speechless. Lael was really leaving me out on this one. That alone had me wondering what on Earth could get her -this- worked up to where she would kick -me- out. Me, her partner. I had my own apartment, yes, but we usually roomed together, slept together, and you could seldom find us separated. I studied her more thoroughly. She was holding her breath. They always did that, held their breath. Why, I didn't understand. It was almost sickening. 

I knew for a fact I was overreacting, but while Lael's job had always been to protect me, my job had always been to protect her. When one person is pushing the other away to protect them (she -was- pushing me away for that matter, I was sure) it left that person ready to chuck something upside their head and drag them off, forcing them to cooperate. Basically, two protective people didn't go well when one tried to push the other away.

Thing was, she had the upper hand. She could either knock me out cold, or she could let me walk out on my own will. I chose the latter, but still, I found myself staring in near hatred that she was doing this to me, not telling me what was going on. She never left me out on information. Never. "No need to count," I spat and smiled when she flinched. Yes, my voice had dropped to a deadly tone. Yes, my temper was reaching it's no-no levels. And yes, I wanted to hit her with all my might. I restrained. 

"You're not invincible," I told her on my way out, grabbing my coat off the hook. I threw the rack back when it almost clashed to the floor. For all I knew, this could be a bout a bill she was struggling to pay or something hugely minor. But I needed to know. I hated -not- knowing. I slammed the door nice and hard to deliver the I'm-pissed message. "She'll tell me sooner or later," I muttered.


FLT Ch. 01



__________________________________________________

Lael stared at the letter on her vanity. Scarlet had left and never in her life had she felt more alone. The letter she'd found in her bathroom had struck a cord. She didn't know what to do other than send Scarlet away. She would have been hurt if she'd stayed. Never that. Never would she allow that. A chant had been planted in the back of her mind. Never, never, never let her get hurt. Never let Scarlet get hurt. Protect. Kill. Protect. Never let her get hurt.

She stiffened. She could almost -sense- the presence behind her. The urge to turn, disentangle her lamp and wrap the cord around the intruder was vast, but she abided by the letter. She knew when she was out beaten, when there wasn't a chance she could win. Now was one of those times. She stood there, staring down at the letter. 

A needle plunged into her neck. The bitter churn her stomach threw almost brought tears to her eyes. The thoughts of the past, future, and now brought vomit to her throat. It ceased however. The drug pumping through the needle caused her mouth to instantly go dry and the bile to retreat. She fell into darkness.

__________________________________________________

   02/10/12

Blurry eyed, I yawned, rolling over onto my stomach, gazing out at the snow. Snow, so much of it, that it was sickening. Kids were having field days being out of school, but I was just pissed. Not only did I have to keep Kleenex around, but cough syrup seem to be my hydration method lately. 

I automatically picked up the phone and dialed for Lael. Of course she didn't answer. In the past four day we haven't spoke or seen each other. My worry failed to escalate. I would pay her apartment a little visit later on and kill her for ignoring me for four days straight. Whatever her problem had been, she should have been over it by now. But no, typical Lael was being a pain and the horrible thought that I was rubbing off on her plagued my mind. 

The clock told me it was time to get up, but my calves were saying something entirely different. Yesterday, all we did back at the compound was run laps around the training house―for four hours. I understood the concept of having to be able to run in a dire situation, but that didn't cease my anger every time my training officer would yell for me to go faster. 

I stretched, sniffling. Colds were the last thing I needed. Today would have been another run day if not for the meeting (which I -was- invited to, despite what Lael said). That was the routine. You run a ton one day, and run two tons the next. The cold would only slow me down, and once again make me look as fragile as I felt in front of Commander Dimwit when he did his evaluations. 

The meeting saved us from having to run. And you could bet your ass I didn't want to go still. Why? Because, we -all- had to be there. Even the trainees. This was our section of land that the terrorist had hit and it was our job to cover it. We had to get pressured into sections of work that was downright B-O-R-I-N-G. And, to add to it, I was almost sure Lael wouldn't be there. 

__________________________________________________

"The representatives are even lost for words. The media are starting to exaggerate this happening. Citizens are beginning to get the big picture. We. Can't. Stop. This. I am sure there are thousands upon thousands of agents on the case―maybe more―but have we yet to conclude anything?"

All eyes were fixated on the screen above, silence engulfing the room as the head commander stood above the premature agents among the official agents, his eyes penetrating each and every pair that made eye to eye contact with him. In a way, it amused me. Everyone sat transfixed, eyes locked on the screen, a blank look marred on each of their faces. There may not have been fear there, but there did lie a current in the atmosphere of lost hope. 

Of course Lael wasn't here, but, like the other four days, I refused to let that knowledge shake me. I would visit her apartment today.

"No. Therefore, I say this obviously. . .he or she needs to be found." The man slapped the file on the desk—a rather thin file, might I add. Wrinkles were framing his face now, the wary sign bringing about a warning sign not to piss him off. Though, in all reality, what leader wouldn't be nearing old age rapidly in this situation? There was a man/or woman running around annihilating senators, government officials, blowing up landmarks, imprinting terror upon our country and it was the commander's rightful place, among thousands of other government lines to cease this. 

I found myself shaking my head, deeply sadden by the lack of knowledge we were obtaining. The events had ranged from killing a senator (in his own, heavily secured home) to the combustion of the Chicago loop. Still, the line, "The tenets of official U.S. counter terrorist policy are: make no concessions or deals with terrorists; bring them to justice for their crimes; isolate and apply pressure on states that sponsor terrorism; and bolster the counter terrorist capabilities of countries willing to work with the United States," was in motion. 

Every unit out there has devoured this policy, ripped through every city and town in search of a lead. What were the results? Nothing. Trackers? Nothing. An estimate of height? Nope. Even a visual? Maybe―if you were ready to single out 300 million people who could be responsible for this, though after eying the thin, close-to-nothing-filled file, segregation seemed necessary at the moment.

Around were no less than one hundred men, a sprinkle of women here and there not including myself. They were posted around the screen that displayed the points of attack, some sitting around tables, others pacing, expressions distorted or brows furrowed in deep thought. The meeting wasn't formal; the meeting only specified: find the terrorist and kill the terrorist.

"The terrorist's last event was in our general area, which is what makes it our job to bleed out this person. Airlines are momentarily shut down. Snow is keeping everyone inside. Cold fronts are setting in. Highways are blocked." Whoever this is, they picked the perfect month for terrorizing. "Most of you are rookies as you know, and dumb as a rookie should be. Generally you would be my last resort to taking action on this act of terrorism, but I have nothing else. More of my well trained CIA agents are in the process of arriving here, but with the thickening blizzards and below zero weather at times, no propellers can fend their way through the hazardous temperatures without freezing up. They will likely arrive in four days rather than damn near immediately."

A.K.A, this was our mission for the next four days. 

I sat off in the corner of the underground compound, filing through my mind for loop holes in all of the data provided. Okay, apparently he or she had to be someone on the inside or I doubt security would have bypassed a stranger walking in on a senator's speech and shooting the speaker. The person had to have already been there. But they had searched everyone the moment the bullet had punctured the senator's head. That—that small fact right there was pissing us all off because we -knew- they had heavy security. If it was someone on the inside, way inside, then it was time to lose whatever trust we had in our partners and watch our own back. Though, I think I was already at that stage with Lael.

Talk about brain teasers and starting girlfriend drama. I pinched the bridge of my nose and held my head back, a headache working its way in. There simply were no leads. Nada. Zippo. Who the hell was this person? And how the fuck did they get pass every branch, government, senate, etc out there?

"Can't handle the pressure, Agent Hart?" 

-Pfft, as if.- I lowered my head and met his gaze evenly. This man, this man here, he was Commander Dimwit. Commander Asshole. Which ever preferred. His personality was bitter. His response to everything was snarky. His way of showing we did a good job was not saying anything to us at all. And to top off his horrible existence was the fact that he had a face you found yourself engulfed in instantly. Black, full hair. Hard brown eyes, and a broad, tall body that just about said how he wanted to slam you against the wall and fuck you until breathing was impossible. Except, I would rather eat nails then do so. 

"Just a bit of a headache." His lecture was boring me. Where were the terrorist when you needed them? Returning my attention to the screen, I ignored all of the eyes watching me, especially the commander's. I had learned my lesson not to speak out of terms to this guy. I had learned the hard way to bite my tongue. Believe me, though, the compulsion was there. No amount of interrogations, electric chairs or increased work days would kill that urge.

"Is my voice that annoying?" he challenged, obviously trying to prove to the watchful eye how he was in charge, how he held the authority here, and having a headache was not cutting his expectations. I was just below a rookie. I was training for the CIA. Aside from Lael, my only reason for doing so was―seriously―I thought it was cool to be able to hold a gun, flash a badge and have VIP entrances to strictly controlled buildings. Not to mention the glasses they wore in the movies. . . Well, bigger problems were out there, and therefore, I ignored the question and said instead, "Whoever works this case is allowed to have clandestine data, correct?"

He nodded slowly, stopped himself and said simply, "You are not working this case. Like every other rookie, you are to analyze the information we do have"―which isn't much―"and run them through the scanners."

I suppressed a huff and asked gently, "Am I allowed to―"

"No." His attention returned to the others. "Our goal is to stay one step ahead. This is always the goal. Never anything else. If we look on the screen at the last hit, we see how the antagonist moved from New York to Illinois in matters of one day. The person had to have traveled by plane. This also brings us to believe the person set a time bomb, an improvised time bomb. The person had to have board the plane an hour after. We have a visual of every person to have. . ."

I trailed off, eyes flickering around the compound, pondering this all. 

"He will go for the Willis Tower. That is what he would like for us to think, we suspect." I noticed how he called the terrorist a he, as though it being a woman was out of possibility. "We have our men posted on this base, some of you will be honored with the task of following us to the nearest hotels to the tower and check the statuses there."

While this was being said, 'one step ahead' rang through my head. Two things. One irrelevant. Two, very relevant. Lael was going to get her ass kicked by me and I had a feeling the Willis Tower was the last place the terrorist would be.

__________________________________________________

In the kitchen, I didn't bother with turning the lights on. I fed my cat, showered, and decided to get some rest before I visited Lael's. 

I woke up to the sound of a gunshot.

It was kind of comical, the way I sprang out of bed, slung open the drawer, retrieved my pistol and crouched low. My hair was in disarray, my eyes penetrating my perimeter, my breath held, and then my panties giving me a lifelong wedgie. Very comical if you're not me and watching. 

I took a deep breath, pacing myself. I was hidden from my doorway by the big dresser. Streetlights spilled into my living room. Everything was sort of shady and vague. I squinted at the door. It was barely outlined. Silence trailed around me, the need to pick my wedgie grew, but my fear overpowered and I kept my gun aimed at the door. There were no more gunshots. 

My mind kicked into overdrive: should I call the cops? check it out myself? Risk getting killed? Was I overreacting again? (of course not) Was the center of the murderer only on one particular person? Was this a dream? Nah, I was wide awake and pumped on the sudden happening. 

I spared a glance at the clock—it was unplugged. And I surely didn't do it.

A sort of sob left my mouth. I had a deathlock on my pistol now, my breathing turning into hyperventilation. Coaxing my body to stand proved harder than I thought. Someone was in my apartment and. . .I did what I knew best. 

I twirled around, and started making as much noise as possible before the intruder got the chance to scare the living shit out of me. One thing learned about myself, when I get scared, my defenses falter like crazy. And when a person has no defenses, it screws with the mind, implants a distinguished fear and leaves behind ice cold chills. Therefore, on went the lamp against my TV, and on went the TV to the floor, followed directly by me standing on the bed and flinging hardcover books on government branches outside my door. I yelled for the intruder to stop being cunts and come out. Told them they couldn't have my stuff that easily. The sound was staggering in the silence. I could hear the books smashing into kitchen wear. My heart was thundering. 

When no one revealed themselves, I jumped from the bed, eying the door, gun aimed at it. Still, no one showed themselves.

"I'll call the cops!" I shouted into the now quiet home. My neighbors, I hoped, could hear me and call them in case something happened to me. 

I immediately hated myself the moment I stood standing in astounding silence. The intruder hadn't come out. My fear hadn't decreased. And I had a pretty sure feeling my neighbor wouldn't call the police. Facts: I was scared, my hold on the pistol was tight enough to clench all muscles in my arm to the point it would be useless if someone was to come in here and attack, I wasn't mentally or physically prepared for a robber, and without my contacts I might as well have been blind and stupid. Which I probably was. 

Who was going to go out there, though? I had to make sure everything was at peace so I could sleep—wait. I was suppose to visit Lael. So there would be no sleeping regardless. What time was it? 

Huffing, I tugged out the wedgie, slipped my hair from my face and tiptoed toward the door, plastering myself to my wall and penetrating the doorway with my eyes. I must have been waiting to see a dark figure recede or some spontaneous monster to jump out, but everything remained as it was. The obvious question was, did the person leave already? I didn't want that question to settle because that brought about the question, what did the intruder want from me? The knowledge (hope) that the person had left, had me easing ever so tentatively along my wall. I crouched when I reached the dresser. What disturbed me most was the utter quietness hushing about my home. 

That alone gave me enough confidence to shake my head at my own ignorance. Of course the person was gone by now—along with items that belonged to me. It was too late to mourn over it or explore the missing things; I had to explore the gunshots. And -that- is what got me in this predicament. 

The moment I stepped out of the room, I heard the unmistakable click of a gun's safety lock and before I knew it, I had my pistol aimed at a dark shadowy figure and a gun touched to my forehead. 

"Ah, you're no real agent," murmured a soft voice. 

The voice was so soft and sweet that I didn't jump, gasp, or react internally. I was, in a way, alibied, flustered and had to remind myself that there was a gun pointed to my head. Then again, I had one to his—the voice -was- male. 

"Why are you in my house?" I demanded instantly. 

"Does that matter? You are only interested in me leaving with everything at it's homeostatic nature. Correction, will I leave? Answer: not without you." The gun was making small patterns on my head, as if he were massaging it. The weird feeling towards that had nothing on how unnerved I almost instantly became at the serenity that was his voice, how. . .how innocent and caressing it was. How frustrating the words that exited were. 

"Well, if we're being all technical and witty, I say this: we both might as well drop our guns. You don't intend to shoot me too soon and for that I don't intend to shoot you. You want something from me. What?" I was rather impatient right about now, but my voice wavered. My attention continued to roam to the gun. Impatient, but still edgy, wary and of course fearful.. The gunshot had not been fired in my direct vicinity, but I was shaken still to know there was another enemy running around. With a gun. That was the part that had me. Guns meant power in my mind. And as of now, two people who could possibly be opposing me and shooting random people for their belongings, had guns.

"There was simply nothing ''witty'' in that response," he said. "First, may I tell you your errors?" 

"Save it—"

He had my gun across the living room floor before I could retract my hand.

Astounded, my eyes fell on the dark figure that seemed miles away. Pistol gone bye-bye. The polished floor shimmered against the crystalline light shining through the edges of the curtains. The cracks on the floor was visible. The bronze color was radiating thanks to the faintest ray of light. It highlighted a line of the table, the contents on it. 

The rest of the room was a black tinge of gloomy figures. 

I realized, the room was cold. The heater was definitely working, considering it occupied most of the sound throughout the room. Yet it was cold. A horn on the street now seemed much louder. The window was open. Embedding this knowledge, the wind blew in. That combined with the gun posed to my head brought about goosebumps and an oncoming stomach ache. Standing here, in a dark corner, woken from my sleep, my mind fuzzy, my body now shivering with the new knowledge of chills, my hands empty, I was pissed and scared. Was that possible? I didn't know, but I wanted to snap at this intruder and ask him to spare me. 

Living came above all. One had to live to protect the ones they loved. I didn't believe in guardian angels, and as long as I didn't believe in that, I believed I had stay alive to protect the one thing I cared about. Giving away some fancy gold watch or my gold earrings was fine with me. He could even have my precious cat (who should have given me a warning that there was someone in the house instead of hiding wherever she was hiding). Thing was, the guy was toying with me, beating around the bush. 

"As I was saying," he continued, a wavelength of triumph lacing his tone. I could only guess was because he was the only one with a big bad gun. "your errors. First, a good agent never confides in a gun when there is not enough terrain to aim and fire with stealth. Second—"

"You won't shoot me, so tell me what you want!" My adrenaline was gone and that left cold to take its place. I didn't need to know my ''errors'' when I couldn't forget them. I should have immediately called the cops, but I hadn't. I could always go about retrieving the gun the way I was taught, but I needed to know my enemy, measure him up, see what I was dealing with. However, without contacts -or- my glasses -and- standing in the dark. . .I was half blind. The guy might as well have been a dark occupant of space that loomed in this corner since I walked into my dark-lit house.

"Second," he began again. His voice had gotten lower, tight. "you should—"

"My God!" I exclaimed. What kind of kidnapping/possible robbing was this? Did he want tea too? His response surprised me. I mean, it would anyone. His hand darted to my neck and my back met the threshold of the door harshly, the nerves surrounding my spine tingling. Saliva was jerked from my mouth, my head banged against the walling, and my vision screwed over for a brief moment. I gasped, choked and took a moment to register the knife now pressed to my throat. 




FLT Ch. 01



"I accepted you interrupting my words the first time because I had done so to you. To do so again, deliberately, however is something I will -not- accept. Are we clear?" How could I not be when his angelic voice was like tinkles against crystals? 

I said nothing. I would continue to say nothing. My ears rang, shutting out a good majority of things going on around me. The sharp, fire high pain took its time seeping into my skull.

We remained silent. 

And more silence followed. . .

He spoke finally. "What do you know of Sector 9?"

Sector who?

I licked my lips. The knife at my throat and the oncoming headache made it hard to think. So I answered in the only way I knew how. "It's a sector that contains the number between eight and 10." Sarcastic.

It may not be wise to to play with fire. But it sure made me feel badass. In fact, I was feeling -very- spunked up. I stepped towards him, the knife's blade pressing to my skin, though not puncturing. Truth of it was, when he said Sector 9, it was really only a simplified version of Alaska's SJI (State Justice Institute). Boy did I know a lot about that place. Lael had so many documents based on it that I suspected obsession. Hardcore obsession. In her safe at work, below grounds in her arena of work was a shit load on it. 

It had been my job to pry out the combination, scout out the key, and get past security. All for some dumb stuff about wrongful convictions, exonerated cases and other boring stuff. This guy wanted it. I had a pretty good idea that he would bend me like a flexible pencil until I coughed up the info. 

However, I wouldn't break. Telling him this information would somehow involve Lael because it was she who recorded all of the information, read up on it, shredded through detail after detail on cases that seemed to minor and boring. Playing stupid was the way to go. 

"Let's play a game," he said.

Playing the stupid game wasn't on his mind. 

"As a kid, I never really got to play with many people." His breath was fanning my face as he spoke. I wish I could say I disliked it, but there was something seriously rich and exotic smelling to it. Almost like coconuts and jasmines fused together to recreate some scent that was long lost to man-kind. Like his voice, it was lovely. It made me open my nostrils and inhale quietly, only to exhale in an unwanted, though pleasant filled sigh. People say one has a husky voice or a manly scent, but this man wore something that made my head reel that couldn't possibly be branded manly or feminine. 

It wasn't the kind of thing I should have been thinking about; I knew this. But it bombarded the part of me that was paying close attention to his words and forced me to notice this. It was like sitting in a freezer with the scent of the ocean surrounding you at all turns, but when you tried to pin-point it as the ocean, it starts to sink into a cold, vanilla ice cream treat, sweet, creamy, tangy. He reeked of it. Was caked with it. Branding it girly passed my mind, but there lay a layer of gun powder and ashes. Any agent, trainee, or hunter couldn't miss that. 

"It is in my courtesy to invite you out to play—you will play, yes?" As if I didn't catch the one-way ticket in there. Play or die. I got it and nodded my head stiffly. No matter what I understood, I had to get my 2 cents in. 

"If you're planning on torturing me, it won't do any good. I'll feed information just so you can stop. But who's to say it's true?" He seemed like the type to do it, too. Torture me, that is. Cut off finger by finger as he used that voice of his to demand answers. CIA training taught us well, fortunately. They were all asshole teachers and commanders, but they did do a damn fine job of teaching us. Teaching is another word for talking. When someone from the agency talks, it kills the idea of ''ninety-one percent of speech is expressed through body language.'' This rule was especially canceled out when you dealt with men who stood in front of you and barked out knowledge without blinking. That's exactly what they did, and that trained us to a certain degree. 

When one takes away speech at the compound, it's endurance time. For instance, I sometimes slipped and made my witty, snide comments. That always earned me extra drills. The drills always ended with me dripping sweat and bruised severely somewhere. 

I was trained for events like this. 

Except. . .

People always assumed that if they pondered future events, situations or actions many time then they would be prepared for it when the time came. The trainers drilled it into us to suppress fear when presented an unexpected situation. They said not to let it override you, not to give information to anyone. Not to do this and that. I always ignored it all. If you could survive the endurance test, I felt you could survive anything. 

Lael intimidated people at times. Like I said, I lacked the sense to take her serious and respect her limits. 

Point is, I don't scare easily. When I do happen to be afraid it's as though my mind instantly acts as a corrupted cell trying to reach to a homeostasis: it evaluated the change, adjusted to the change, accepted the change, and then went about doing its job. 

I was no longer afraid. I was taught well. Endurance exercises did me some good. 

"Torture?" he beamed. "You think I would do that? Me? Have I hurt you yet?"

"Yes." My head was still stinging from the pain. 

"No," he said smoothly, like what I said was impossible. Dumbass he was. "Nevertheless, I have a few questions for you." And just like that I stopped breathing. A rush of adrenaline shot through my blood and my teeth gritted. Hands slamming to this man's chest, I gasped, stuttered over intelligible words, and clamped my legs shut. 

Only, they didn't close because his hand was already delved into my bright yellow panties. It was cold, thin and firm. One finger was placed directly between my lips, ice against my clit. The others pressed to my thighs, forcing them to stay open. The frosty sensation collided with the warm temperature between my legs. 

Hands still on his chest, my brows creased in confusion. This was unexpected. Had he come for information and pleasure? Was this part of his scheme? My mind was still trying to figure this out, while the part of me that was common sense, reacted. I punched him, hoping for the respiratory system, but he only grunted and retracted the knife, leaned in close and blew softly on my ear. I flinched. 

It was as though my muscles were locked, my body shivering from cold weather, goosebumps marring my arms and legs, my mind frozen with the rest of the night air. It occurred to me that when I breathed out, white puffs swarmed around me. Outside, along with the blaring horns was the hollow screech of the wind hushing through buildings, and stunning everything into ice. It was cold. And I took it upon myself to believe this idiot here was the very one responsible for opening my window. 

Now, with no knife to my airways, I scolded. "You're not going to wait for your partner?"

"You would like that," he whispered. It would have been nice for his breath to have been warm, but no, that was too much like right. 

"Fuck y—" I sucked in sharply when a cool, wet tongue ran the length of my ear. Instinctively, I turned away, only to jerk myself back when the knife visited my neck again. 

"Breathe out and it will be the last time. I do not like the way you disregard me—as though I am nothing." The knife pierced my skin. I didn't even wince. His thumb smeared the blood that oozed beneath the knife. I stared into the faceless man, both of us consumed by shadows, holding my breath. I wasn't sure where I stood now. Life or death. "Do not underestimate how soon I could plunge this knife into your trachea."

Probably death. 

Our bodies were molded together. His hand was unmoving. As his shallow breaths brought movement to his chest, his chest brought heave friction against my breast. The tank-top material was thin, mere silk that was more than likely for something to throw on and run to the bathroom—or taunt a lover. I could tell myself (which I did) I hated the feeling however much I liked, but the way my nipples were beginning to tighten had my chest contracting and my senses seemed to have jumped an entire new level. 

His scent, his body crushing mine, and his motionless hand was all I knew. 

Seconds passed before he murmured, "Breathe." I did. Hadn't even notice I was holding my breath.

He crowded me by my door. He was tall enough to block sight of everything behind me or I was too short to see beyond him. The knife showed no sign of wavering, the message plain and clear. Don't move. What I feared was, I didn't want to. The instant his hand had reached inside, my body had had it all made out. Maybe my mind did too, because I hadn't asked myself why he was doing this. I hadn't take too long to be astonished. I didn't despise the action. Worst of all, it hadn't take more than a measly push of rejection before I had already succumbed to his finger.

A sudden thought sickened and excited me at the same time.

Would it be so bad to allow him to do this? One boyfriend was all I had ever experienced. The agenda on him was about as thin as the terrorist file. We had kissed. It had been disturbing, someone else's saliva mixing with my own. It had ended. Sixteen and stupid at the time, I'd gone looking for another, aware that I was in search of a guy who would tolerate lack of kissing in the relationship. And it took me until eighteen to figure out how stupid I had been. Not only had I ended up with the same gender, but also a load of kissing. On my eighteenth birthday, the way Lael had kissed me both opened my mind to new wonders and closed my eyes to anyone outside of her. Her kiss was delicate, smooth, no saliva trailing behind her and her hair had been tickling my face. Under the moon, fresh night air surrounding us, it had been enchanting. 

Any kiss could have been enchanting. It was just that guy was a lousy kisser and I'd naturally kissed it and dissed it—all of it, leaving me with little experience of sexual pleasures. As enunciated as I was, I knew no other way to explain it. Lael never brought up the idea of a dildo and so I left the thought alone. She liked certain things in bed, such as a nice stroke before sleep. That was her. I on the other hand wanted something that drugged me with reeling quivers that started from my toes, focused on the core of my stomach, and suffocated me in pleasure. 

"You're dripping."

I was also brain dead. 

And now I was blushing. 

And in the future, I would be knocking sense into my head.

This wasn't the time to surrender to passion. "Get your hands off of me." His chest shook when he laughed. Great, he heard the waver in my voice too. 

"There is a lesson, though," he murmured. His voice had sounded hollow. There was something missing, something absent in his tone. There was no sorrow. There was no amusement. No emotion. Once soft, quiet, angelic. Then there was nothing. Perhaps he'd forgotten to compose himself. Perhaps he wanted show me how heartless and not-there he could become. 

In any case, it freaked me out, uncoiled me, but that devilish hand was sharply forcing me into a state of mind where caring what was going on around me was a far fetch. That finger glided slowly, but roughly over the center of my clit. Directly above the urethral hole. If anything, when his hand came back, it gave all the attention to that area, prying open the hole, tormenting the sensitive flesh. I could feel my own juices coating his hand with each contraction, making fast strokes easy. He took advantage of it, his finger now lightly rotating the pub in battering, quick motions. I was seeing black, panting, clutching his jacket and nodding my head halfheartedly for him to continue in no time. Anything for him to continue. The heat accumulating in the room drove away the cold. I needed this, wanted this.

I licked my lips. Something happened. On that last stroke, a chill crept in my neck, rushed down my spine and ignited my body. It was good ol' realization again. I was allowing a kidnapper to touch me. Only, I realized a little too late. 

His other hand flashed to my kidney area and pushed. 

It was suppose to be deemed weird and beyond. But, like the bad agent I was, I didn't process -that- particular part. Only the absurd blast of needing to urinate viciously. 

Urine would have sprayed out, but his finger plugged the urethral. My stomach dropped then clenched and unclenched multiple times. My sight blurred. I struck out with my hands, but they were pinned to the wall in a second. My legs twisted this way and that. I whimpered. Whatever pressure point he'd pressed had my bladder bloated and my IQ deflated. The room was moreso a dark chamber of terror. My stomach expanded, my heart thumped harshly. The need to pee was overwhelming. I was pushing hard, but nothing came out. His finger stayed rooted there, as my walls contracted violently.

He pressed again.

I cried out. 

The wind blazed. Liquid was trickling out of my nose. My head was congested. Inside, something was pumping air, ripping through intestines for no good reason, and something was definitely mind-fucking me; images, colors, thoughts, incomprehensible things began to blotted out sense in my head. 

"I press again and your bladder explodes." The voice was celestial in my haze. The urine was slowly receding, but my vaginal walls insisted on hold tight to nothing. "When you let your guard down, anything could happen. How about that game now?"

I think I nodded. 

Either way, he dragged me towards my couch. I didn't protest. I was too sick to even walk without leaning on him. I imagine, if you just returned from a kidney transplant, you would feel like this. Congested and just. . .wrong.

He totally killed my spunk. 

The man placed my knees on the couch. He was directly behind me. The below zero temperature was in front of me. He draped open the curtains and the winter wonderland presented itself. Below cars were covered in snow. The sky was pink with snow flaring in all directions, especially inside the house. The city lights blazed and city goers ignored the snow, rushing across streets—at three in the morning. Their voices could be heard with the window open, and if I squinted hard enough, I could make out individual figures. Cafes were open still. Trains still soared by. One was leaving the station now. All was visible. That was my home, neighboring with the skyline and all it's glory. The scenery helped to clear my head. That was all it did. 

Fingers twined with my hair, playing with the strands. He began:

"Do not look back to identify me yet; I like to build suspense," he murmured, the iciness of his breath breezing by my frigid cheek. "We will play, 'Who Am I?' Here are the rules: keep your eyes focused outside. Easy, right? Right. Sound fun?" He didn't wait for my answer. "Here we go: I will never be captured. I have read novel upon novel dealing with mystery. I like to play with fire some times. I have traveled across the globe countless times. Hobbies aren't really my thing. Sleeping on the left side of the bed is a necessity. The Saw movies are top on my movie list―go figure, yes? My favorite food dish is rice." He began to whisper, sounding frantic, but I didn't believe that was the energy flowing through him at the moment. "I have an interactive kill list of 2,001. I'm known to be invincible. Last week, I annihilated three senators. I blew up the Chicago Loop three days after. I specialize in torture. I like to play with my captives a bit too much." He gave my hair a little tug. "I can make pleasure beautiful or excruciating. I am a sadist at heart. And I am very. . .vengeful." He withdrew a small box from his pocket. A mere red dot marked it. That mere dot was the turning point of my existence. What happened with that red dot determined my future—hell, basically spelled it out for me. If only I had known that then. If only I knew the way he'd toyed with me today would be considered playing nice compared to the other things he had planned. Maybe things would have been different.

He pressed it.

From the distance, flames combusted burst into the sky, brightening my living room further, clogging the atmosphere outside, and swallowing the snow around us, replacing it with grayed ashed in a heartbeat. The building here vibrated once―another explosion made the skyline go foggy. The sound was metamorphic, the circle of flames extended to neighboring buildings and cast an eerie glow over the pink sticks that signified Valentines Day month on the Willis Tower. I gaped. Horns blared, alarms went off, people scattered like ants. Because I only lived on the third floor, I could tell some fled with flames attached to them. Chunks of the building started to fall, crushing cars, people, and setting the roads on fire from the gas tanks that had been breached. It looked like photos from the Pompeii volcano eruption. 

Behind me aroused one question. "Who am I?"