Cold

Prolouge (Present)

(Present)

My ear is cold.

The street lamp defies the darkness of the cloudy, night sky by allowing me to make out the faint speckle of snow in the air. The wind corrals the flakes together so as to heighten their effect and they bustle obediently into numbing gusts, pelting my cheeks every few seconds with their incensing pinpricks.

Still, the snow is not why I am wishing for earmuffs.

Nearly always, my right ear plays host to a small, plastic earpiece. Now, it is probably gathered into a cardboard box with the contents of my desk and my other gear, awaiting a thorough review.

My teeth take to gnawing my lower lip at that prospect as my thoughts fuss over whether anything consequential was left for them to find--because my earpiece is not the most pressing loss. The only reason my focus is currently drawn to its absence is that usually, when this depth of apprehension takes root in my gut, I consult my handler through the corresponding microphone. Despite my trained self-sufficiency, I feel vulnerable and alone without the communication--without the safety it brings. That earpiece was my security blanket.

I have always imagined this sort of solitary exposure to be the worst feeling of someone fleeing from the law; for when all one can do is wait to be found, they have already lost control, but have no assurance as to the consequences of doing so. I have pitied them, loathed then, even feared them, but never before have I held an almost sympathetic kinship with the targets I have apprehended or the assets I have turned.

Then again, I remind myself, never before have I been a rouge operative.