Classified.

Chapter 13 -He Confessed-

 Friday, November 16th, 9:20 p.m

Shane

I tried searching for answers. Answer to why, how, when, who. Why did he die? Why did he have to die? Why did they kill him? Why not let him go to jail for them? 

This was a game to the killer, this was a cat and mouse game. He is playing God with us and moving us all around like little fucking pawn pieces! He knew our next move before we even thought of it. He knew what we were thinking as we thought it. He knew how to use our strengths against us. He knew everything. 

I smelled the burning blood. Exhaustion attacked my muscles, panic flooded my lungs, and depression filled my eyes. 

My stare was glued on him. My lips felt as though they were stitched together. The only word I could manage to spit out was "Why?". After the first couple times of saying it, the word made its home in my head and voice. I could not stop repeating it, and it soon drove me insane, taking control of my body and making me fall to my knees. 

I hadn't spent long with him, and the moments I did spend with him seemed to be moments filled with violence, hatred and revenge. Yet, I feel as if my best friend has died. 

Perhaps because he is the only I guy I have ever gotten close to. I didn't even know my dad. Well, I knew him, but not at an age where I could remember him. There are moments, usually during my dreams, where I feel as though I'm picturing him like he used to be when I was young. But that is highly unlikely. It's much more likely that my brain is making up memories in order to fill the empty slots of the unexisting ones. 

When I was two years old I was taken from my parents. I had to train to be in the UGDA. The first eight years were psychological. They emptied me from all emotions, throwing away my empathy, replacing it with Shakespeare's line. "Security is mortal's chiefest enemy." 

I was not trained to kill the innocent. I was trained to kill the guilty without a second thought. 

I always found it unfair that I was chosen. But it was my destiny. I had the right DNA. 

When babies are born, and they test the blood, samples of the blood are given to the government. The governement's next pass it to the UGDA's chief, my boss. If the baby has the right DNA sequence, the parents are then mailed a letter, letting them know that the child has a terrible illness. In addition to that, he or she will probably not survive for more than a couple years. It acknowledges them that when he or she is almost two years old, they need to take him or her to the hospital he or she was born in. This was urgent because they would try to save the child with a blood transfer. 

This was not what happened. When the child becomes two years old, and the parents obey what the letter commanded, the child's blood will be tested again, and if the sequence is still the right one, and if the child is healthy, he or she is taken away to the UGDA. The UnderGround Detective Association. 

The parents are told the child is dead. 

Death is all the UGDA is. Death, murder, torture. From two years old. 

They showed me pictures of corpses. Of war. To prepare me? 

To make me their slave. Their killing slave. 

Rage is all I felt that moment. A new emotion. Before then, I killed because I was told to. I was never angry. I just obeyed. Now, I was ready to kill because of what happened when I was young. Because of what they made me, and thousands other two year olds, go through. 

Of what they're making two year olds go through right at this moment on the fourth floor. 

With the adrenaline that the anger filled me with, I got the strength to stand up. 

I stood up and turned around, not wanting to look at his burning corpse anymore. 

I wanted to fight, I wanted to yell, I wanted to cry. But, I did none of that. I just stood still.

"This was suicide." someone said. I turned my head to see who said that inexplicably idiotic statement. I found non-other than...

"Harold," I walked up to him, trying to keep my composure, "why would he do that?" I quizzed.

"He knew he would be thrown into solitary confinement for the rest of his life. He was guilty. So, he strangled himself, and set himself on fire." he explained with a stupid look on his face that let me know that he believed I was the stupid one. 

I stared at him, trying to process the senselessness in which he found his answer. I wonder how he got into this program. His DNA sequence could not have been the right one, surely. "Of course, now riddle me this, Sherlock: How could he have set himself on fire, if he choked himself to death first?" I asked him. 

He sighed in frustration. "That's simple, Martin. He set himself on fire first." 

I blinked, trying to hold back the laughter that was threatening to escape my throat. "So what you're saying is that, he created the note, put it on the ground, set himself on fire, grabbed a rope that he coincidentally had brought to his date, and choked himself while he was on fire? If he had rope, why not just hang himself? Surely a more pleasant death than choking yourself while you're burning alive." I pointed out. 

"He wanted to clear his name." Boss jumped in. 

"Boss, with all respect, that's a stupid idea." I criticized. 

"Agent Martin, he confessed." she pointed out. 

I stared at her, "He what?" I spoke softly.

"He confessed to the homicides." she acknowledged for a second time.

"Boss." another Agent called out. She was holding the note in her hand, standing over Daniel's burnt body. By this time, the flames had gone down. "The note."

I walked over and snatched the note from her hands. This time there was no puzzle to the letter. Just two words that sent chills down my back.

"Try Again."