Agent (Book 1)

Chapter 6-Nolan

6

Nolan Hood

Agent: 21

Mission: Not Applicable

Location: ACA Headquarters, Quarter 1

Date: August 23rd

Time: 1200

Wails. Sirens. Deafening to the point of no return. I'm out the door, sprinting, gliding down the hallway in a way such I have never done, diving to one side to avoid those hovering in my path. The hallway is bathed in scarlet lights, shining their devilish glow on my closed eyelids. One thought—one mission—remains in my head.

The Commander...

I never pause, not once, until I'm panting, catching myself as I stop in front of the door. How many times have I found myself in front of it? The first, with a smile on her face as she welcomed me inside. Nothing but the shine to her blue irises as she examined me, and the reddish tint to her small lips in a triumphant grin.

But when I fling the door open now, her grin is not of triumph. In fact, the only red tinting her lips is the blood, scarlet, racing down her chin in a heavy stream. And the man on her back, clutching her against him with a tinted knife to her throat. The red he wears...the same as the gushing crimson on her face. The cloak's hood is fastened tightly over his head, concealing his face.

"Commander," I say, unable to help myself. I step forward, mouth open, reaching for her. I'm useless, worthless. Bred just as every other human on Earth, to believe that there is a hope somewhere in this world, to make a change, to have an effect on something you care so deeply for.

But then—there is reality. And it smacks you in the face like a cold, hard fist.

I can't speak, now. Can't breathe. From somewhere below, I hear a voice, but I haven't the ability to move my head an inch. The King moves the Commander slightly, laughing the howl of a hyena.

"You can't save her," he breathes, raspy. A killer's voice. I clench my hands into fists. Squeeze. Breathe in. See her eyes in mine. No emotion.

For some reason, his words spark all of those ones I've got buried inside me, the doubts and the put downs and the heartaches. You're powerless, Hood. Look at you. You have nothing. Nothing...

And now I want to scream back at those words in my head, and tell them that they're wrong, that they've got no control, even though they do. Because right now, I don't even make an attempt to save the Commander's life, as the blade slices through her neck and sends her body crumbling to the floor. And for that, the endless pool of blood seeping from her neck, I give in.

"Agent Hood," the same voice speaks from below, and I've barely the strength to determine Fifty-three's tone spilling from my communicator. Without thinking about it, without thinking about the man in the cloak who has now silently slipped out the office door, I slide to my knees, staring absently into the glassy orbs of Commander Pyle's eyes.

I feel no fury, no adrenaline or anger or resentment. Which is simply a shame, given that anger would be its own form of escape. Because somehow...somehow when your angry, it's like you're giving it all away. Like you've created a shield against the inevitable for a few moments, before you're finally forced to give in.

But I don't have fury. In fact, the emotion feels all but extinct, for the time being.

The tears come after a few blind moments, thick, snotty droplets coating my cheeks. My fingers shake, come alive to brush through the hair that has since fallen out of its bun. The tears come harder, like a hand is curling my body over, and the salt trickles sink into her gray uniform. I don't close her eyes. For after a moment, I might honestly believe that she really isn't gone.