Smokescreen

1

Disclaimer: I do not own the Spy School copyright. 

The agent felt his lip curl with revulsion as he was handed the manila folder with the familiar stamp on the front. It had been years, and yet they continued to pawn their work off on children. They were free labour, after all. The stains of the death of hundreds of innocents permeated his mind every day- he doubted it even left so much as a mark on the higher-ups'. The tips of his fingers turned white from pressure when he grabbed the papers. For such a plain and thin file, it was heavy with the weight of responsibility and content.

"So- well, you'll see, Mr. Rip-" The spy held up a silencing hand in a commanding gesture. His face was stoic and unfeeling as his eyes reviewed the secrets that the folder held. He took a small inhale, closing the folder and placing it into the bag near his foot. The boy longed to show that he was unbothered by the information he had just learned, but he knew from experience to always be on guard. His entire body was tensed and ready for action as he kept his senses wary and paranoid for anyone in the office.

His fingers twitched slightly as they longed to reach for his weapon. Dissociating, the spy tried not to go back to the place as his ears rang with the shots of his past and the screams of battle. The feeling of blood splattered on his face as his breathing began to pick up. He tried to calm down, focusing on the calm dark blue that adorned the walls of the principal's office. War was no place for a child. It was no place for a coward either, so he steeled his nerves and turned back to the principal to continue the conversation.

"Agent." A single word with so much meaning. Please was unspoken. He was, afterall, still a gentleman. A smirk played the corner of his lips. He leaned back in his chair, emitting the air of a rebel that had become accustomed to his surroundings. The typically superscilious man took a dry gulp and aimlessly shuffled some papers on his desk.

"Yes...." Hesitation was worth a thousand words. "Well- agent, then."

"Tell me." He interrupted once more. A power play, surely. "Why was I selected for this operation?"

It was a genuine question, and his brown eyes were alight with curiosity. It was confusing. He hadn't seen her since the battle- since the day his heart had stopped; since she left and his heart began to beat once more. It had been three years since that day, though, and they had both changed.

"I-" The principal stuttered and the boy gave an unscrupulous laugh.

"I forgot." He sneered, his face still emotionless. "Why would they tell us anything?"

He left then, no longer patient and content with remaining cordial. It had been years since their enemies had been defeated. The moles had been terminated. At least, in most people's eyes. He knew better. They were still out there, in high places; watching, waiting for him to mess up so he could be taken out. He was very careful of that.

You see, there's a paradox in the fact that the Hale family is very famous for being spies. The more famous they are, the more people know about them, the more it negates the reason to be spies. He had learned a few things from the moles and enemies of his past: never trust anyone, and to most of all seem unimportant. That's how so many slipped through the cracks.

That is why, as Benjamin Ripley walked down the hallway, the fervent whispers of slander clung to him. He was a legend around the academy, but not the kind of legend you would expect from a decorated hero. Completely unordinary, no need for attention. He never volunteered answers in class, never shone, and passed with average grades. The higher ups whispered, lamenting the decline of such a good hero, and his enemies smiled in pleasure at his downfall. Ben made his way to the dorms, passing a plethora of scornful eyes. He appeared unaffected by it all, but truly, his heart ached with the burden he held.

A once familiar girl with shocking green eyes passed him, chatting along with a tall and muscular brown haired boy. Their hands were clasped together and Ben tried to ignore the pungent feelings of scorn warring in his gut. How was she able to so easily move along? Three years had passed in a blink.

Quietly opening his door, Ben disabled the traps he had placed in case of an intruder. It was a small room, still alien after many years. The small room was bare, no photos of loved ones or posters of popular bands. The bed was neatly made, the thin pillows perfectly centered. The desk was clear of everything but a microwave, and Ben bent down to grab a meal after checking the closet and the room for possible bogeys.

The microwave hummed a comforting tune to him, but he didn't dare relax. Ben's eyes were exhausted, and truthfully, he was tired as well. The burden had weighed on his shoulders for long enough. With a large sigh, Ben sat down on the bed and pulled out the folder.

"So, I'm to report at 2300 to the gates, then?" He mumbled aloud before realizing himself and becoming apprehensive. Ben shook his head, lambasting himself for becoming so relaxed. In truth, it felt like old times as he grabbed an old hoodie from his closet and pulled it on over a t-shirt. He opened the compartment in the sole of his shoe, placing a pocket knife and his badge inside. With his gun on his hip, Ben burned the papers and quickly blew out the smoke. The microwavable dinner sat cold and forgotten, much like the hopes and dreams of his past.

The gates were as unwelcoming as ever, though he couldn't have told you the last time he had trusted them to keep interlopers out. There were two agents at the gate, guarded by a black town car. They were wearing strange

"Gentlemen." Ben greeted. "I've heard the weather in Malta is divine."

"But only if you go on a wednesday." Answered back one of the suits. He nodded, at the ready, but content for now. Ben surveyed the area around them. There were plenty of opportunities for snipers in the trees surrounding the rural school.

"Shall we?" He opened the door, and with a small smirk at his escorts, slid right in.