Over and Out

Chapter Three

A/N. Aaaand we're on chapter three! This one does get a bit graphic in terms of violence, so if this is something you're not comfortable with, please be careful when you're reading this! 

When Lisa had first joined the organisation, she had been subject to a very long initiation process. This varied for everyone there, with every individual analysed through the initial training process, to figure out what it would take to make them break—it wasn't unusual for most to reach this final step and fail. Those who didn't make it wound up either dead from the strain on their bodies, or left damaged to the point where they would beg for someone to put them out of their misery; at least those were the stories that were passed down around the members of their gang. No-one talked about their final test, and it was an unspoken agreement amongst them that the subject was far too personal to divulge—it was perhaps the only thing that they all held the same views about.

The training process itself began from the moment she had arrived at their doorstep, desperate but determined. When she had arrived, she came to the realisation that her situation was quite unique, in that she was a rare candidate who had actively sought out the organisation, as opposed to those who had been brought in from the streets, who would do anything for survival, or those whose families were indebted to the organisation, their children the only left they could use to pay this back with. For Lisa, she saw them as a chance for a better life, a way for her to save face and start to actively take action against everyone who had pushed her until she was stuck in this situation, turning to a way of life that she knew would probably lead to an early death at the very least. Still, she had heard whispers that once you were in you were considered family, and family were paid very handsomely for good service. Even in the couple of years that she had been working for them, the numbers in her bank account had been growing exponentially, especially once she began taking on more field work—her kill count grew with her wealth, but this aspect of it she kept at the very back of her mind. She had thrown herself into training with a fervour that was unprecedented, taking no time to even spare a look at anyone else she was with. What she initially lacked in skill, she made up for in her tenacity, happily forgoing sleep to hone the new skills that were required of her. It was in combat that she shone, she found, at all ranges. She was a good shot, and what started out as false confidence when she had a gun in her hands, became the real thing eventually, especially when paired with the hand-to-hand fighting that she also favoured. She had completely turned her nose at the more technical aspects of the work, not at all compelled with the logistical side of things, the coding and the intel which bored her to death. She turned her attention to the thrill of the fight, and was pleasantly surprised when she came to the realisation, a few months into training, that she not only enjoyed it but that she was also good at it, her dancing background lending itself well to it's more brutal counterpart. She let herself actually converse with her peers, choosing to sit with them now, as opposed to when she was newly arrived, when she would take her meals to go to avoid small-talk; it was from them that she got more insight into the final test. This was not scheduled; once the organisation deemed you ready, it would happen with no prerequisite, or any warning. She had watched as, one by one, older initiates simply disappeared, whisked away to see what would become of them—the only way to know their fates would be to pass herself, or find herself back in her old position. Lisa didn't even want to think of what she would do if she didn't make it.

All things considered, Lisa thought that she had done pretty well in concealing what her weakness was. In her nightmares she was stuck in her final test, strapped to a chair while hundreds of thin, sharp needles were inserted into her skin, these dreams leaving her sweat-soaked whenever she jolted awake. When it came to physical check-ups, she refused to allow anything to show on her face when it was time for the blood tests, determined to prevent this fear of hers being weaponised. She would let them take her blood, her face perfectly neutral. Once she was out of sight she would let herself sink to the floor, letting all of the repressed nausea float over her as she sat there breathing heavily. When her time had come, she thankfully managed to escape any needle-related activity, but the alternative was still awful. It began at dinner on that night—a wave of dizziness had overcome her as she had stood up, but putting it down to exhaustion, she had ignored it, not realising that this had been induced in her. She had just managed to get into her bed, when her body finally gave in, succumbing to whatever they had slipped into her food. When she woke up....