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Delivery

There was a knock at the door.

"Watty? There's a box here for you. It's pretty heavy."

It was Insta. Watty had become accustomed to her voice, since it was usually her that came to tell them food was ready, or sit on their bed while they wrote, talking about their days. Yes, they definitely got on well with Insta, and they'd come pretty close with YouTube too. Q usually retired to his room to work on new questionnaires and observations which he usually carried out at home on the rest of them, and MySpace.. well. MySpace was in the room next to Watty, and they had fallen in love with the songs she played on her violin, and the sounds she made on her piano. They would lay awake, and revel in how she could make stories with music, while they made stories with words.

"A box?"

They got up from their chair, and went to the door, following Insta down to the door. They recognised the logo immediately, and the colour drained from their face. How could they have been so stupid? Why send that right to their doorstep. The fucking idiots were going to get them found out.

"O-oh... um- I g-got it."

And, to Insta's complete shock, Watty picked up the box with no problems, and stumbled up the stairs with it, calling back a stammered thanks before closing the door. With the door shut, and their old chair propped against the door handle, Watty opened the box and gave a shaky sigh at the contents. A black protective suit, with random attachments to store things. Things like guns, and knives. Things that were tucked in the box underneath the suit, with a black mask that would cover their mouth and nose, and three cans of washable black hair spray to cover the colour of their hair.

And at the very bottom was a letter. Sealed with a wax stamp, and addressed to them. Or at least... addressed to their code name.

Ghost,

   We agreed that your accommodation and student life would not be the basis for your job, but do not assume this means you're off the hook.

   New jobs will be arriving and you will complete them or usual action will take place. We can't imagine you want that.

- Paragon Syndicate

Watty rolled their eyes. It would be so easy for somebody to find that, and even with the vagueness of the letter, it would be so easy to assume that something was up. Either way, the Syndicate scared them, and nobody in their right mind would argue with them. Once you're in, you're in, and you can't get out alive. Watty had known that when they joined, but couldn't have done anything about it if they wanted to, because unlike most of the recruits there that day, they hadn't volunteered, they'd been picked. And from that day onwards, they'd been unable to leave with their life.

They had to admit, the jobs that they had to do, for the most part, were helpful for the rest of the world, and they knew they were working for good, even if the rest of the world thought otherwise, but it still wasn't something they wanted to do until the day they died. After all, they would only live until they were unable to do what they were told. When the day came that they could no longer jump from roof to roof, or stay hidden in plain sight, or shoot a rifle and hit the target first time, they would be removed from the Syndicate. But that too, of course, meant death. God help them if they got caught up in an accident that left them paralysed or something. That had happened to a few members of the Syndicate, and as tradition, Watty had had to see every single one of them die.

It wasn't inhumane at least, but they could imagine how that injection must feel, when the drug began flowing through your body, poisoning you, and killing you slowly.

Seven minutes, and forty-three seconds. That's how long it took. And it must have been agony.

That was why it was better to listen to them, because they didn't give second chances. And even after only a week, they were enjoying uni life far too much, and enjoyed having the company that their roommates offered. He didn't want to leave them so soon, and more pressing of a matter, they didn't want to put them in danger, which was a very likely threat to happen. Granted they thought it'd be a while longer yet before this package arrived, but... if it came so soon it must mean that it was needed. Watty couldn't argue with that because they had always been the go to person if something was serious. They knew how to keep their head down, and bite their tongue. They were trusted, even if they really didn't want to be. And then of course... they were also a really good shot.

There came another knock at his door, but this time it wasn't Insta.

"Watty?" MySpace called through the paint-chipped wood of the door.

"Yes?" they called back, their voice panicked.

"Can I come in?"

"Fuck," they hissed to themselves, the word violent and cutting through the thick atmosphere of the room.

They were quick to move the box under the desk, covering the weapons with the suit and hoping that it wouldn't catch MySpace's attention. They moved over to the door, moving the chair from under the handle, and putting it back by the desk, concealing the box slightly, and opened the door.

"Hey, I- whoa are you okay? You're pale as a sheet."

"I'm fine," Watty breathed out, swallowing dryly, "Wh-what's up?"

"I wanted to ask you a favour," the female asked, clocking onto how Watty was opening the door as little as possible, "But I can come back later if it's a bad time?"

Watty blinked twice, forcing themselves to open the door wider, their voice coming from their throat as breathless, panicky stutters.

"N-no, c-come on in."

MySpace was hesitant, but did so, sitting on the neatly made bed after a prompt from the orange-haired student. She looked around the room with a smile, but thankfully didn't look under the desk. Watty pushed their glasses up their nose, and swallowed again, as MySpace smiled awkwardly.

"It might seem a bit weird actually but uh... can you sing?"

"S-sing?"

"Yeah. Only... I need a male singer for this song cover I'm working on for my class, and uh... Quotev reckons he can't sing, and YouTube panicked last time."

"B-but I'm not..."

"I know you're non-binary, and I'm sorry for labelling it as a male part but... your voice is sometimes deep, and sometimes high. I wondered if you could sing in the deeper voice."

Watty thought for a moment. They definitely were not exactly Tuomas Holopainen or Cody Carson, but they weren't awful at singing either. And it was true that they didn't know MySpace as well as they maybe would have liked, and maybe this would be the perfect opportunity for them to get to know her better. It wasn't like they stuttered while singing.

"Uh- s-sure. Why not?"

MySpace grinned and launched herself at Watty's tiny frame to hug them, refusing to let go until the latter hugged her back. Which they did.

"Thank you so much."

"When d-do you need me t-to sing?"

"We're starting the project next week." she pulled away, tucking her red hair behind her ear.

Watty nodded, with a small smile, and MySpace grinned back, thanking them again, and then once again before leaving. Watty's smile remained until the door had shut, and he heard MySpace's violin again. Then their smile faded, and they looked back to the box under the desk.

Why now? Of all times...