Adrenaline

Chapter 5

"Somehow, I feel like we've been ripped off." Kara, ever the optimist, throws her duffel bag onto the small, uncomfortable looking rectangle in our new bedroom, her eyes scanning the room like she's expecting Mr. Silvers to jump out from behind the lonely closet, screaming 'you've been punk'd'.

It's almost like a prison, and trust me I'd know. The four walls are completely bare, a glaring grey forcing the room to seem smaller, more... claustrophobic. Three single beds are positioned only millimetres apart, making room for the bare essentials and a kettle. A kettle from the war. A kettle from before electricity was even a concept. It's a shitty kettle and a shitty kettle means no coffee and no coffee... well, hulk smash.

"Mr. Silvers owes us a drink." Autumn, my new roomie, who hopefully has an instinctive ability to sleep through my routine nightmares, allows her small frame to fall backwards onto the bed, obviously not expecting the dust that forms a cloud around her, inescapable and suffocating. She straightens up instantly, coughing through the particles until they dissipate, no doubt settling back onto the mattress.

"I think Mr. Silvers owes us his first born." I flip the first beds mattress, the bloodied t-shirt I've been wearing for the past 3 hours shielding my nose. Common sense. I don't actually realise anything particular about my comment until two narrowed pairs of eyes meet mine, smirks plastered over their faces and it hits me. Usually I think before I speak, usually I evaluate  my way through every possible outcome until I know how to continue, usually... but obviously not today.

"You think Mr. Silvers owes us Seth? You don't mess around Athena Rose, that's for damn sure." The bed-bug infested pillow I throw at Kara misses by mere inches, her hands forming an X above her head in order to deflect. It's a defensive move. One seen in the majority of trauma victims. Over time it becomes a reflex, one not many people have to develop. It's an easy way to transfer pain, the body will always protect the brain and if your arms have to take the hit then so be it.

Honestly, I've always felt like Alec was trying to be my arms, trying to take every hit, every disappointment, every ounce of pain, even if he had to bare the brunt of it himself, even if it was my fuck up, my mistake. It's toxic really, a viscous cycle, especially when I'm trying to do the same for him. My brother can protect me from the outside word that's for damn sure, but he can't protect me from myself. I don't compartmentalise like Alec. I don't move on like Alec. I just play pretend, hiding my demons behind a fake smile and the brief rush of adrenaline that pumps through my body after a kill.

I'm psychotic.

Alec's not.

Kara realises her momentary lapse of control, quickly bringing her arms back down to her sides before bending to pick up the pillow, shaking away the insect infestation and placing it on her new bed as if nothing has occurred. What happened to you?

Before we can become more aquatinted with our room a sharp knock at the door seems to break the spell of silence, three pairs of eyes darting to the wooden doorway.
One of the recruits stands in the gap, leans against the uneven slats as if he wasn't invading three assassins, well-deserved and deeply appreciated privacy.

"Silvers says lights out in 10. Training starts at 5 sharp. If you're late, you're out. Feel free not to set your alarm. Toodles, bitches." He throws in a wink to complete his douche-fest before slamming the door behind him, the hinges creaking at the strain before one bolt falls out completely.

"Recap. Day one. The mansion is basically a palace and I'm stuck in the servants quarters with two self-aware murderers,"

"We prefer assassins, mechanic." Kara raises her hand, waving it in front of the brunette like a white flag and very nearly poking her eye out in the process.