Danger Kid

Chapter 5

Gauntlet is congested today, its monotone grey halls full of government personnel. I guess a lot of crap is going down in the world today, so headquarters has called in everyone available to stick their noses into it. The multitude has created a rainbow of uniforms, all filing about, each uniquely decorated according to prestige. I personally am dressed in my normal black uniform, which is barren of insignia except for the gold studs that declare me as normal. (Within the rank of deviant agents, that is. I was born with a rank higher than most anyone in the world.)

To contrast against the bland presentation set by my colorless black attire are the internationals. The hall is speckled with their crimson red uniforms. They're probably getting ready to be shipped off around the world, assigned to handle whatever distant problem cries loudest.

I'll admit, I've always hoped to someday be numbered among their ranks. They're the ones that really change things. They're the closest thing to heroes this world will ever see. They risk their lives and face real stakes. They are sent across the sea to turn the tides of wars. They butt heads with foreign deviants; enemies trained in unique, foreign fighting tactics. They represent everything Gauntlet should be...

They also receive ludicrous paychecks, which is why most agents want to be one. But, like, whatever.

I guess to be with the internationals, I'd need to play the political game first, and as of yet I haven't swallowed my pride. It's partially The Call, but mostly my sense of dignity. If I were to just direct my anger towards my coworkers, rather than at my higher ups, I could be one of the greats. Why do my ideals have to be so self-destructive?

A figure glides toward me down the hallway, face hidden behind a large plastic box it has awkwardly in its arms. From the other direction heads one of the internationals, comes a distracted international. The two figures crash in the middle of the hallway, causing the box to topple to the ground, spilling its contents.

The international doesn't even stop, heedlessly rushing along with what I assume to be very important business.

"Dang it!" says the other figure. I immediately recognize its voice as Amber's.

She quickly crouches to the floor to pick up the spilled contents. I realize that the contents are a bunch of small little test tubes, many of which have shattered, spilling gooey liquid contents all over the floor. I lean down and begin to help clean.

"What is all this?"

She looks up, realizing it's me helping her pick up her spilled cargo. Her eyes meet mine momentarily. They burrow into me temporarily, erasing my angst. My resent towards... whatever... is gone. Something about her calms The Call. I can only think of her.

"Oh, hi, Adam. Um, nothing. Just some DNA samples from some lab or whatever. Evidence."

"Is this normal for Contraband? I thought you guys normally dealt with like, guns and drugs and stuff. Or the occasional nuke."

"Yeah, but we got a weird case. These are samples from some lab that was doing human experimentation. Anyway, they won't work as well when they're shattered all over the floor," she says in agitation.

She starts scooping runny DNA goop into her hands, and drips it into a plastic bag she has pulled from her pocket. I grab a few handfuls of the muck, and help pour it into her bag.

"Well, there's still some in the box, and not all the vials broke."

She looks at me exasperated. "Tell that to nerds who are studying this stuff. I won't hear the end of it, and this will probably postpone any chance I have of promotion by several months."