Protocol: Chameleon

p r o l o g u e

It's almost as accurate as the movies appear them to be.

Almost.

Most eight- year-olds fantasize of becoming a spy, a James Bond type of character. But let me tell you something, if I had a chance of escaping this life, I would. I would run, and never look back. It's not about the gadgets and the catsuits and the parachuting out of black-heed choppers.

No.

What the movies, don't tell you, is about that one special someone who gets left behind. They somehow miraculously fail to empathize the pain you feel when you get shot or stabbed, trying so very hard to accomplish a mission. They also, however, manage to leave out the part after the operative saves the life of a President or after the spy gets the girl. What the media doesn't tell you about being a spy, is reports. They're almost as bad as debriefs. Again, almost. But when your surname is a legacy, and when your parents are the spies, you somehow get yourself sucked into writing reports.

Writing, isn't the issue, you see. Well, it is, but not half of it. It's reliving those vivid memories that constantly seem to play at the back of your head. While most missions turn out successfully, a fair percentage do not. Some agents do no get to come home and say their goodbyes to their daughter for the last time.

So, ladies, gentlemen and others, who are still reading this ( for some reason), being a spy isn't all fun and games. At all. Just a heads up, if you will, because if two men-in-black kind of agents come and knock on your door on a fine Sunday afternoon, slam the door in their faces once they utter the letters "C.I.A." Don't say I didn't warn you.

However, seeing as though I am already sucked into this not-so-exciting game of cat and cat, I offer you to join me on an adventure that not even the Pentagon have records of (don't worry, I checked) Completely declassified, for your eyes only. 

Shall we?

~*~

2246 HOURS.

Juan Sanchez's Residence.

"Chameleon, where are you?" A voice made itself known in my ear as my communication unit burst to life.

I decided, wisely, that it was best to ignore it.

Sighing irritably, I closed me eyes, feeling my heartbeat. 

My pulse.

I may never feel it again.

Lowering my head down, I glanced at the mansion that lay in front of me, taking it all in. I dig for my thermal binoculars in my knapsack, praying Liz didn't forget to pack it for me. When my gloved hands reached the cool metal surface, I sighed in relief.

Bless Liz's soul.

I pressed the binoculars against my eyes, feeling the coolness of the solid and squinting my eyes as I did so. There seemed to be about five rounders and one who's stationed.

Piece of cake.

"Chameleon. I'm not too sure about Joe's mood about this." the same voice repeated her warning.

I sighed, mentally agreeing with the voice in my comms unit.

Gathering my things, I slung the knapsack over my shoulder, and proceeded to do a half squat jog to the entrance. Safe to say, I resembled an awkward squirrel then.

After my slight performance of humiliation, I gave myself a pat on the back.

"Ms. Morgan." A new voice said in my ear.