Mission: Insanity

Chapter 1: Stare at the Calendar

My name wasn't really Brookie. It was just Brooke, but when I introduced myself on my first day, I said my name was Brooke Key. Someone combined the two and now I was Brookie to almost everyone.

Almost.

"Agent Key can you list your symptoms?"

I would've groaned, but I couldn't. It was physically too painful. Everything was too painful. "Don't you have the report from the doctors?" Sarcasm. But not really. I seriously just didn't want to answer the question.

The therapist nodded. "Part of recovery is making sure you understand your symptoms."

"Understanding them and listing them are two different things." I wasn't feeling up to this, and if this was only the first day, recovery was going to be the longest time ever. Especially since they said it would take at least a year. At least. God, this was going to be terrible.

"Your symptoms, Agent Key."

"Restricted leg movement in my right leg, difficulty breathing, chest pains, irregular heartbeat, and malnutrition. Headaches, throat pains and I think that's it."

"Can you specify the description of your leg injury?"

I rolled my eyes. At least I could still do that.

"I can't move my quad and I have to wear a huge brace and use crutches. But on the bright side I get my stiches out tomorrow so yay for that." I wasn't mad, not exactly. I was just tired of all of these "official" questions and reports about what happened. I hadn't even been allowed to go back to the lounge at all.

"We haven't confirmed that the stitches will come out tomorrow."

"It's been a week. My doctors said they would come out in a week."

"They said it might be a week. We don't have any definite answers."

"I was in surgeries for six days. I want to be done with them."  I knew that an injury like this wouldn't be fixed any time soon, but I let myself hope.  It was one of the few things I could do.

"Agent Key, your quad muscles were almost completely destroyed. I don't think it will be tomorrow."

I smiled. "But you're not a doctor. You're a therapist."

I was a fighter at heart, and I fought all of it with sarcasm.  Not denial: sarcasm.

But sometimes I was too tired for sarcasm.

"I understand you're frustrated with everything that has happened, but we're here to help you."

Above all, I was tired of the lies.

I limped down the hallway on my crutches once I was finally dismissed. The walk didn't seem this far before, but that might be because I was rarely in medical or therapy. Now I was in both for who knows how long.  The numbers they gave me weren't real.  They didn't know how long this would be.  They didn't know so much.

All anyone knew was that I was alive.

I scanned my card to get access in the lounge. It was the only place I wanted to be right now. Even though it would be packed with other teen agents who were off duty, I really needed to sit in the corner booth and just sit. That's exactly what I did.

I knew they were staring; it was something that you picked up when you were a top-of-the-line spy. I didn't blame them. My black hair was in a messy ponytail, and part of the bottom was charred off.   I refused to let them fix it.  I was on crutches and had a giant brace on my right leg that extended from below my knee all the way up to my hip. The vest I had been given to wear provided support to my damaged ribs, regulated my heartbeat and helped me breathe.