Chapter One: Aptitude Analysis

Elizabeth Blakely arrives at Blackthorn Academy following her recruitment and is questioned by a polygrapher for aptitude analysis purposes, as the title says.

CHAPTER ONE

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I could start at any point in my life to prove when things started going wrong, but when I arrived at my new school on the 13th of August on a dark and stormy night, I felt an uncanny chill in the air that told me everything was going to get a lot worse. It was bad enough my past was complicated enough already, but unearthing the reasons why transformed my agony into something far more dangerous and impactful, in terms of mental and physical health. Not only that, but I could not find another place where I could fit in the way I did at my new school. The time above our dashboard read 1:30 a.m., which was a very atypical time to drive to the airport, let alone to a private one. Which made me bite my lip, stare out the window to my right, and ponder the reason that Dad finally decided to confide in singing a paper that meant an acceptance into another life.

I’d take you back to the exact moment, but my brain isn't functioning the way I wanted it to. My eyes were already drooping and I was tempted to sleep now, but I couldn't because we still needed to check in. Speaking of which, my dad wasn't the one who was going to fly me: there was some other “expert flyer” he hired because he claimed that his schedule didn't allow for him to take a two to three hours’ flight to Bar Harbor, Maine. 

 It was an invitation from a couple and the principal of Mountain Ridge Middle School that detailed my acceptance to a so-called prestigious boarding school for incoming seventh graders called Blackthorn Academy. Mr. Alan Cody was the principal, and apparently he'd been watching me--whatever that meant--before he sent the official recruitment approval to the Youth Secret Service, a clandestine branch of the CIA. That wasn't the important part. What was imperative was that they elected me--Elizabeth Blakely, of all people--to partake in the program for junior spies. 

At first, I thought they were being absurd. Not only was I a socially awkward teenager, but my numerical reasoning skills were remedial, and I was quite prone to external manipulation. During lunch, I spent the entire period theorizing that this was a mistake--a flaw in their system of recruitment and this invitation was designed for someone else who was more competent and capable to fulfill the role I was about to undertake. I had no exposure to the primitive technology of the 21st century, save for the mediocre use of computers at school and home. 

At a school for spies, it was highly likely I would be even more susceptible to manipulation--internal and external, that is. Speaking of which, I could vaguely recall a time where I wasn't naive in elementary school and the sixth grade, thus making me a conspicuous target of a wide variety of enemies. What was worse was I didn't even realize how dire the situation was. 

Mandy Hooper and her deceitful, elusive gang of ignorant wannabes desperately tried to find a way to place the blame on me in nearly every precarious incident where there was a negative outcome. She noticed my weakness earlier than others, so once she did, the others became aware of it as well. It was so irritating to the point where I seriously considered dropping out, which was when the principal stepped in.

If it wasn't for him, I wouldn’t have been sitting in this car at this very moment, on the threshold of a new life. The prospect of one was clearly visible, and I could almost grasp it, but I wasn't there yet. Now, I could finally see the airport in sight. There was an abrupt tensing of my shoulders and then I breathed in and out, trying to ease my nerves.

     “Nervous?” Dad asked from the driver's seat, eyeing me in the rear-view mirror. 

     I merely shrugged instead. “I guess so.”

     Dad nodded in agreement. “It’s normal to be in a scenario like this. Just don't let the nervousness get to you. In a new environment, you need to clear your head so you can think. Don't overlook things and don't underestimate the outcome of a situation.”

   It was a pretty decent piece of advice, but I was far too exhausted from staying up so late to comprehend anything beyond just listening to what my dad was really saying. “Yeah,” I replied vaguely. “I'll probably bear that in mind.”

There were times when I said that, yet I never kept my promise. It was because I thought there were other more important things to keep track of. Eventually, it got pushed to the very back of my mind and stayed there to the point where it was repressed: gone from the levels of my subconscious. It was a poignant habit  of mine, thus a reoccurring one as well.

Even from here, I glimpsed my dad raising his eyebrows skeptically. “You don’t sound so promising, Elizabeth. In fact, I believe you never have. It’s funny how we manage to get along, especially after what happened to your mother. She probably thought about how we were going to survive together, didn’t she?”

I was surprised that my dad even had the courage to mention Mom. After she died, there was a feeling of emptiness in our house, and as if that emptiness could never be filled or replaced with another person again. Thus, there was an increase in tension between the two of us. We hardly spend any quality time together--as most normal parents and their children probably would have--so we really didn’t know anything about each other in the end. 

It was as if Dad was married to his work and couldn’t get enough of it. When Mom was alive, there was a point when he insisted he’d rather spend most of his time traveling the world instead of caring for an emotionally unstable, precarious teenager half the time. At the time, I was too naive to interpret what he really was talking about. I still don’t quite get his abrupt outburst, and in the end, it was him who needed to apologize, not me, but he hadn’t done so in the past three years.

We never openly conversed about it anymore, though, and never reflected over it in an actual conversation. I wasn’t sure if Dad possessed any desire to disclose any emotion in the first place. He once told me that emotions betrayed weakness because people could infer something from them, which could provoke a reaction that you couldn’t predict beforehand. He didn’t like predicting or straightforward guess work, only planning for the outcome based on present observations. He didn’t like speaking about anything relevant to small-talk either, because the only thing he seemed to be thinking about was his work. Which meant he was a very reserved person--not introverted, that is--but rather, private and didn’t have time for anything except if it pertained to the criticism and skepticality of things happening in the world.

That being said, when we did get out of the car, I was the one forced to carry all the luggage and wait on the sidelines as Dad did business at check-in and all the other things we needed to do before getting on the plane. I’d never been in a private plane  before, let alone by myself and moving to another state for nine or ten months. I didn’t know exactly who else was on the plane besides myself and the flyer, so as far as I was concerned, it was just me and my thoughts for two hours or so.

Which was even more aggravating because I didn’t favor sitting in one cramped spot for too long, especially if we were going to be airborne with no stops, thus making it a direct flight. When we were finished with check-in, there was a foreboding silence between the two of us as we walked towards the plane that I was going to board. I didn’t know what to say because I never said good-bye in this way, and I was sure Dad would rather be occupied with his thoughts than say anything right now that was relevant to the current situation. 

We finally reached the plane, which was smaller than I expected, and I stood by the staircase and let the wind lift my mouse-brown hair. The back of my neck felt exposed to the cold night, which I relished for as long as I could possibly maintain. This was the final moment I had to say something, but nothing came out of my mouth. Was I supposed to say thank you? What actually was I thanking Dad for? Being a stoic figure in my life and not attending to any of my needs? Was I supposed to envelop him in a hug when he never once did the same to me in my life before, except briefly cradling me when I was born?

There was nothing to say, so my dad filled the silence instead, much to my surprise. “Well, this is it. I won’t be seeing you anytime soon, Elizabeth, and neither will you. Perhaps you could write me a letter if they allow for that. I doubt they will let you use your personal phones, because that is their standard policy. Isn’t it?” 

I nodded in response. The Academy had a very strict, eye-for-eye punishment system and they kept track of almost everything their students did. Their forgiving policies weren’t very lenient, and neither were their testing policies. It was all revealed in their permission slip form--which both of us had to sign--and an abridged truth of the Academy was offered to everyone who was accepted into the program.

I didn’t know what lay inside the walls of my new school, and it suddenly gave me chills just thinking about it. I wouldn’t know who to trust beforehand, but once I became accustomed to the Academy and its norms, things could possibly become easier. The key word was possibly. Nobody I knew from my old school was transferring there, and of course they wouldn’t tell us if they were in the first place. But I was determined to get through the first week without being exposed to any life-threatening situations. It was the last thing I wanted at a school for spies, especially if the curriculum was ten times more arduous than the one at MRMS. 

Before I could continue my ambivalent train of thoughts, the door to the plane swung open. The captain was dressed in a unusual navy-blue uniform with a white hat, gloves, tight black pants, and wearing a very serious expression. “Time to go, Elizabeth!” he shouted to me, slightly ecstatic at the same time. “Say one last good-bye and we gotta get going before two.”

My dad and I stared at each other awkwardly for a few seconds, and then he nodded to me. I glimpsed the time on his watch, which read 1:45 a.m. Luckily, there was no time zone change I needed to get accustomed to, and was also beneficial for my sleep cycle. I took one last look at Dad while he was on the ground, and hauled my luggage up the stairs. The door closed behind me and made a hissing noise. The captain told me it would be a while until we actually would be in the air, so I could help myself to some of the drinks and midnight snacks if I wanted to in the meantime, or use the tiny restroom tucked away at the back of the plane.

The truth was, I’d never flown before. It was simply because I didn’t have the time to, and my parents didn’t have the interest when I had both of them. Mom said she already visited all fifty states, as well as all countries in Central Europe, so she didn’t want to waste her own time in going to them again. There were only short road trips we occasionally took in the state of Connecticut near Danbury. 

We didn’t leave Danbury at all, much less the state of Connecticut, so it was relieving to finally see a change in the environment. I expected the flight to be longer than I thought, but I was exhausted from the lack of sleep, so I thought it was best not to worry about when I would arrive and simply relax. Apparently, that was my biggest mistake.

+++

The first drink I was given was sparkling water. I didn’t have much desire to consume it at first, but I didn’t have any liquid in the past two hours. The drive from Danbury to the private airport in Northern Connecticut was over two hours, and all I thought about was the first day of school, which was tomorrow, excluding the Initiation Ceremony that would be held tonight. 

Anyway, all the drinks on the plane all looked enviable, because I had none of them at home, save for an excessive amount of caffeine that was only restricted to my dad when he needed it late in the night. It was almost to the point of psychological dependence--as he said before--which was how he wasn’t as weary as I was when we were driving to the airport. I scanned the row of beverages again before electing to only try the sparkling water.

On first taste, it was just like normal water, save for the slightly sour taste. Instantly, my eyelids began to feel heavy, and I descended into a deep sleep before I could even put down the glass on the folding-tray in front of me. At least I wouldn’t have to worry about being miserable and uncomfortable in the economy class, because I practically had first class on a private plane.

+++

The next time I woke up, I was seated in a comfortable armchair, oblivious to what had happened on the way here. I was feeling far more refreshed and wide-awake than I had ever felt before. I was also feeling very jittery, as if I had just consumed three cups of coffee in a single setting. I was alert and aware of almost everything, from the ticking clock in front of me, as well as any ominous creaking noises the room I was sitting in was making. I could even hear the distant footsteps of someone walking down the hallway outside this room. 

Speaking of this room, I was seated in what looked to be a parlor from the medieval days in Europe. There were shields, swords, and spears attached to the cobbled obsidian walls. There were velvet wrinkled curtains hanging from a golden rod that was almost shining in the darkness around it. They were held together by ropes at each end of a rectangular window that were covered by bars. To the left, there was an opulent-looking bookcase with untouched books that hadn’t been dusted off for ages. In between the bookshelf was an oval-shaped mirror with twisted golden linings. To the right and left of the mirror hung portraits of one orthodox-looking woman: her cheeks were rosy from an excessive use of makeup; her mouse-brown hair was tied up high in a bun; her green eyes were sparkling with ecstasy as if she was hypnotized, while the rest of her face betrayed nothing, not even a small semblance of a smile. It looked like she wasn’t pleased to be here for the portrait, and that she could be doing other things than posing for a painter in the 1800s or something. The dusty red background perfectly matched her black corset and a sapphire pendant hanging low on her neck.

An actual torch was lit in front of me, and there was a birch desk with an actual parchment paper, ink, and a pen laid diagonally on the parchment paper. I got the feeling that this place was only one out of hundreds of medieval parlors and offices in Blackthorn Academy, and this wasn’t the half of the astounding architecture. I walked over to the window after gingerly getting up and peered downwards. I gasped when I saw that we were practically in a tower that was almost fifty feet high in the air. I didn’t know the exact height of the Academy, but it was tempting to assume that it was probably one of the tallest and most ancient-looking schools in the world.

Which made it a privilege to attend the Academy, not a right. I, out of a thousand other students in this country, was the one who received the invitation. Not the most impulsive-looking jerks or the most dauntless acrobats. No. While they were sucking up the reality of simply being mediocre, I was living a completely different life. Sure, there might be some doubts, but there would be a time where I would find out the truth, right? 

The door to the parlor opened, and I noticed for the first time that on the inside, there was a latch. A way out. But why would I want to get out right now? That was silly. There was nothing abysmal that was going to happen to me, or no enemy agent with hidden agendas that were going to ambush me. Unless this was a test. It was entirely possible, wasn’t it? That the senior agents were indeed watching me to measure my actions, reactions, impulsive and nonchalant behaviors, and anything they wanted to so they could make a profile out of me.

For whatever reason, it could be 100 percent possible that I was being recorded, whether or not they were going to tell me. I doubt they would disclose the truth to me anyway, because then my perception about everything here would alter in less than a minute. They obviously didn’t want to see that. The more I thought about it, the more I backed up until I hit the wall in fear from whoever or whatever was coming through the door. 

“Elizabeth Blakely? Are you there?” a bald man with serious grey eyes asked tentatively. He was standing right beside the desk at the front of the room, and I had no idea how he’d just appeared. Perhaps I was thinking too much about ridiculous theories that were probably not even true in the first place. The man was holding a yellow file and I could barely make out the edge of a silver MacBook. 

How these people were getting Internet, I didn’t know, but I didn’t want to ask either. Anyway, I had retreated so far into the shadows that apparently the man couldn’t even see me. I walked into the light, trying not to appear flustered, and nodded. “Yes,” I said in a small voice. “I’m here. Are you the headmaster of this school? Also, what exactly am I doing in this. . . parlor? I don’t remember my flight here, or being brought into this room, for that matter.”

The man shook his head. “No, of course not. I’m only a lower-level senior agent. You’ll be informed about levels after our session is concluded with satisfactory results. No student can accurately recall their trip here due to security reasons--internal and external, might I add. But I trust you enjoyed our variety of catalgoed beverages?”

My gut churned. So I was most certainly given a substance that rendered me unconscious for who-knows-how long.  All the same, I wondered if I was drugged. If so, was it even legal in the first place to drug incoming middle school students? I didn’t care if this school was concealed from the public and could use whatever methods necessary to complete the job, but the mental and physical wellness of a student shouldn’t be jeopardized in the process, especially if a student was clearly innocent! I wondered where all the other students were, and whether or not the seventh graders were receiving a similar type of initiation process.

I probably wouldn’t get to know anyway, and it was probably a requirement for all the students to keep their experiences in their own heads. I groaned in response and walked back over to my seat. 

“It feels like I’ve been given a large amount of caffeine and I will never recover from the side-effects of drinking way too much of it!” I snapped. 

The man appeared startled for some reason. “Oh, there’s no need to worry about the side-effects, Elizabeth. It’ll automatically decompress out of your system in a few hours or so. You won’t be feeling any withdrawal effects by tomorrow morning.”

That makes me feel a lot better, I thought numbly. 

I said impatiently, “Can we get to business now? I just want to get out of here and see an actual, modernized place for once.” I wasn’t normally in a hurry to accomplish things on my to-do list, but this wasn’t a normal situation. Thus, it made sense to be more questionable, especially if the impending threat of death was around almost every corner. 

The man who had yet to introduce himself sat in the chair across from me, opened his computer after setting down the yellow file on the side, and began typing rapidly. Once he was finished with whatever confidential stuff he was doing, he glanced up at me. “I’m going to be conducting a little questionnaire today, Elizabeth. It’s pretty straightforward if you follow along. The first question I’m going to ask you is: have you been around or exposed to any types of psychoactive drugs within the past six to twelve months?”

At first, I didn’t know how to respond to this. Questionnaire, did he say? It seemed more like an interrogation to me, but I was sure these weren't the types of questions they asked their incarcerated enemy agents. Heck, I didn’t even know what on Earth a psychoactive drug was, save for answering it in the way he wanted me to. But I knew that I wasn’t around any drug abusers or any substances that looked remotely like the drugs I were aware of.

I responded, “Uh, of course not. Did you think that the Academy would have invited me here if I have? I’m only thirteen! How do I expect myself to function properly when I have consumed an, uh, psychoactive drug, as you call it, and think clearly for the rest of my life? Is this question really necessary to ask, especially if it’s the first one?”

The man stared at me, not even blinking. He said so nonchalantly compared to when I spoke, “It helps to hear a direct response sometimes. Thank you. Next question: Do you consider yourself an extrovert or an introvert?”

This time, I was the one who blinked rapidly. He went from asking about being a drug-addict when I clearly wasn’t to asking about the type of personality I thought I possessed. Was he doing this on purpose? Or did it not matter the order of questions he asked me?

I had said before that my dad advised me not to be an extrovert, especially if they were prone to having more outward and expressive reactions in social environments, but that was basically me everywhere I went. At least, when there were people near me. The more antagonistic their attitudes, the more susceptible I was to saying something rash in response. But when there were no people, I was at solace, thus also making me an introvert.

“I like to consider myself an ambivert,” I responded after a few seconds, which was basically the combination of introvert plus extrovert. I didn’t show much extraversion compared to my parents, and I didn’t have any siblings, so there was no one else to relate to in terms of similar personalities in my immediate family. 

The man shrugged. “That’s not bad.” 

I scowled, and wasn’t sure if he meant it as a compliment or not, or if he was just being neutral. 

“If you were on a mission,” the man continued, “what would your alias be?”

I considered the question for a moment. “Well, normally they should have a personal connection, but not blatantly obviously representing who you really aren’t. Which means I’ll probably still take some time to filter out all the possibilities. I would say I fancy the name Maria Lightwood at the moment, though.”

When I was born, there was an actual argument between my mom and dad on what to name me. My dad wanted my name to be Marie Anne, but Mom preferred something more modernized sounding, so she chose Elizabeth. The funny thing was, Marie Anne and Elizabeth were both of Hebrew origin. Because of this, my parents compromised in the end by keeping Elizabeth my first name and Marie Anne my middle name. 

The man nodded as if he understood. “Ooh, I’ve always liked surnames ending with wood. They seem more unique than the others, no offence to those people who don’t have that ending sound. And that’s not a bad choice, actually. If you don’t mind me telling you.”

“It’s fine,” I said. “What’s the next question?”

“If you were an enemy agent with a devious agenda in mind, which of the following weapons would you choose: a knife or a gun?” the man asked nonchalantly. He was reading from the computer at the same time and then glanced at me to see my reaction. The question, on the other hand, was very vague in terms of setting, the person’s personality, and intention. I didn’t think I would get further information, though, because if the man was going to provide it, he already would have. 

“I suppose a gun could eliminate more people than a knife, so it’s more efficient in terms of slaughtering more people in a group instead of going on a stabbing spree because people would have time to escape compared to when you are using a gun. That being said, I guess the only advantage of using a knife is that you don’t run out of bullets, because there arenone for knife bearers,” I reasoned. It was pretty obvious that the man was probably now switching gears to the questions that involved more critical thinking and intellect and perhaps even evaluating my awareness in the present. Or it wasn’t obvious, and he would switch the question that revolved around a completely different topic that wasn’t even related to espionage in the first place.

“Thank you for your response,” the man said, as if he was trying to be genuine. “There will be a psychological assessment encompassing personality types sent to you on your school’s computer by the end of today. You should aim to finish it before the end of this week so we can decide on which cohort to place you in.”

Now I was definitely confused, and the said confusion was plastered on my face. “Isn’t the word cohort a Roman form of organization? How exactly does this school categorize people?”

“In terms of your academic abilities, trustworthiness, dedication, and willingness to get involved in the community,” the man responded without hesitation. “These are the foremost values of our school, and we desire to maintain them with high regards. Don’t let it daunt you on your first day, because it will actually be extremely difficult to distinguish one cohort to another. Making it obvious will create a visible hierarchy among all the levels. Speaking of which, you will only be able to visibly classify people based on which level they are. Regarding the origin of cohorts, they indeed extend to the Romans, so in a way, the Academy can thank them for inventing the term. 

“At this school, however, residential units are where you will be residing in terms of dormitories. Again, your cohort and badge won’t be disclosed to you unless we feel the need to inform you, so the administration just uses them to make grouping of certain students with certain abilities a bit easier. At the Academy, the cohorts that pertain to us are cohors classica, cohors sagittaria, cohors speculatorum, cohors equitata, and cohors torquata is the highest honors anyone can receive. This essentially means that a student is highly decorated in terms of experience in The Fields. Typically, only Level Four students or higher are eligible and capable of receiving such a title. All entry level agents on initiation day are immediately labeled as cohors alaria, which is just the general population of Level One students.”

“Oh, I see,” I said. “But if you have cohorts, what’s a badge? Is that an individual number you receive, or--?”

“Don’t stress too much about it,” the man interrupted, closing his computer without glancing at it again. “The administration needs to know your ability level so that if you are, by a rare or exceptional chance, mobilized by the CIA or other higher-ups, can select you carefully by a comprehensive review of your profile, which is essentially your ‘badge’. And I believe your recruiters are Estelle and Liam Harmon?”

I saw the abrupt change in the course of the conversation, but didn’t say anything about it. Instead, I responded, “Yes, they are. Why do you ask? Do they want to speak with me? Or do they want to speak with you?”

The man pointed to the door. “Actually, they are waiting outside and would indeed like to have a couple of words with you, Elizabeth. Thank you for your cooperation today. And, good luck on your first day of school tomorrow.”