Fall and Convergence: The Backstories

Madisson Schofield

Madisson Schofield

CIA Headquarters

Langley, Virginia

     I walk through the double glass doors to meet my interviewer. As I get in the chilly and solitary office, anxiety creeps within me. Today is the day for my life to change, but I am not alone. There are five of us as subjects today. I am not afraid of the questions to be thrown at me later, but rather for the possibility that I might die today. Will my sacrifice be worth it?

      “Good morning, Ms. Schofield. Please take a seat. I am John Brennan, Director of the Central Intelligence Agency. I believe this isn’t our first meeting?”

     I nod politely. “Of course, Mr. Brennan.” I sit on the chair designated for me and so does he.

     “How are your parents?” he asks as he adjusts the video camera on his left.

     “They’re still working for the Homeland Security, sir.”

     He looks at me, “Don’t worry, that wasn’t part of the formal interview.” He presses a button on the camera, signifying the start of the moment I can’t wait to go through.

      “Who are you?”

     “I’m Madisson Schofield, 24 years old from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.”

     “Codename?”

     “Delta.”

     “Active years of service?”

     “3 years of active service in the CIA.”

     “What is your mission?”

     “To actively and truthfully work for the International Treaty of Paramilitary Convergence.”

     “Why are you part of the mission?”

      “I am one of the capable individuals who would give herself in anything that involves the said mission.”

     “Do you swear to be part of this mission and never resign?”

     “Yes.”

     He presses the button and the interview is over. I stand up as he stretches his hand. I shake it. We formally say goodbye and I head towards the medical wing.

     Arriving there, I see three other participants who are evidently nervous of the next phase we will be going through. I sit with them and we share fraudulent smiles.

     I hear someone call my name, “Ms. Madisson Schofield, are you mentally conscious?”

      “My mind says yes, but I don’t speak. I open my eyes and see bright light blinding my sight. I weakly swat it away with my hand attached to a couple of needles. “Please put it away,” I tell the doctor holding the pen light.

     “She’s good. Thank God!” I hear the doctor say and a deafening applause follows.

     I grunt and say, “That’s too loud.” Everyone behaves around me.

     I see a group of medical team all dressed in white surgical clothes surrounding me and my bed. Their faces express pride and at the same time, grief. I sense something is wrong. “Is something wrong with me?”

      “No, of course not,” one of them answers. “You’re perfectly fine. You’re one of the survivors.”

      “One of the survivors? Some didn’t make it?” I look at them, seeking for assurance that the operation isn’t just a fluke.