Untitled Work In Progress

I decided to write a novel two weeks ago. This is where I'm at. I'm not sure how to classify it in terms of genre.

Chapter One

Johana.

Johana, wake up.

A bright white room. White sheets on a white bed, white walls with white tiles. Cold fluorescent lights and the smell of blood and chemicals. A white gown over her pale skin. A horrific pain on her face, arms, and- and between her- she couldn’t think it. Cold, professional men, like doctors. Pansa. Their steel limbs and metallic skulls marked them as the oppressive ruling class Johana had grown to hate. But instead of judging her, calling her names, striking at her, they bandaged terrible wounds on her arm and wrapped her face in a comforting cloth. One of them slipped a needle into her wrist and nodded to another. They pressed a button on a machine, and the world grew warm, dark, and painless. Johana’s eyes blinked closed as one of them pulled out a measuring tape.

Johana, wake up.

Shaking her head, Johana looked for the sound of the voice. A different Pansa, a middle aged man. Scars all over his face, the sort that money could fix, but from his hulking stature and dark colored fine clothes, he clearly had money. Two dark horns adorned his deep violet plates, an angry red slit where eyes would sit on a normal person- the eyes of a Kicsik, as the Pansa would say. Johana could feel his anger from where she sat. When he spoke, she felt compelled to listen. His voice grated, like scraping iron over asphalt.

“Johana. Please calm down,” he said, his heavy gauntlet resting on her arm. She noticed it wasn’t restrained. “Someone has done something terrible to you.” The white room, the pain between her legs, things were beginning to make more sense. A hospital.

Johana said, “What happened?” The man looked askance.

“Your master was killed by a terrorist.”

The accident. The Master, dead in the driver’s seat. Her Nurse pulling her sister’s body from the flaming wreck. Dark men with guns, executioners, coming closer and grabbing at her. And then nothing. Johana remembered now. She clenched the sheets of her bed.

“You were… attacked. Your body will need time to recover.” Her stomach dropped out as the man squeezed her hand gently. “The scarring will likely be significant.” Nobody would take damaged goods like her. Tears welled up in Johana’s eyes. A Kicsik without a master. A girl without her purity. There was no place for her in society. She’d end up as a street w***e, or dead. She turned to look at the Pansa, whose gaze met hers steadily. Tears were rolling down her cheeks as the gravity of her situation began to sink in.

“Don’t lose faith, little one.” He said many things after that, probably explanations of injuries and treatments, but Johana didn’t hear them. She was too distraught, torn apart by the back and forth emotional whiplash. He seemed to notice her confusion. “I apologize for my rudeness. You can call me Celist.” His gauntlet lifted from her hand and extended in a universal gesture of greeting. Johana took it, his cold hand wrapping entirely around hers.

“I won’t ever marry or be bought or nothing,” Johana said in lieu of a proper response. Her voice was strained and weak, the stress of her situation far too much for someone so young.

“I know. That’s why I’m here.” She had been wondering. “I work with the government. The men who attacked you are- were- anti-Kicsik extremists.” Celist’s voice took on a strange tone here, somehow angrier. Johana could hear him trying to mask it with the same politeness as before, but the energy was unmistakable. “I am a member of a special group who works to maintain stability and peace. We’d like to extend you an offer of employment. Full healthcare, room and board, and a regular pay stipend.” Johana looked at him, unsure what most of that meant. She hadn’t finished middle school yet, so she didn’t know all the words of the adult world. Catching on, he chuckled, and rephrased it.

“A group of bad men attacked you, and we want to hire you to help us deal with them. In exchange, we’ll take care of you. Of course, you’ll be working hard, and it may be unpleasant at times, but…” Celist left the alternatives play out in Johana’s mind. She gripped the sheets again, for an entirely different reason. The tears kept rolling down her face, but her eyes hardened, her expression serious. She met his gaze, blurry as her vision was.

“When can I start?”

Johana woke up. Her wounds had healed, burn scars covering the right side of her body. Mercifully, her hair and ears had been spared the shame, but her face still bore the marks. And she got sick when she thought too hard about what the horrible men had done to her.

A Pansa in a dark suit, similar to Celist’s but not quite as nice, was there when she woke up. He asked her how she was feeling. There was a lot of pain still. But she could walk, and if she didn’t think about what happened, it wasn’t too bad. So he told her they would be moving into the facility- Headquarters, they called it. Johana followed him, shakily getting out of the bed. Her hospital gown was loose and airy in the worst of ways, but the man had assured her there would be clothes at Headquarters. Johana didn’t see why she couldn’t put them on here, but she complied and stumbled after him.

How long had she been out? Arms and legs weak. Head spinning. The sort of stuff she had heard happened to workers who got injured for months or years, not a girl who’d supposedly been out for a day or so. But she made it through the tile hallways in her little slippers, to the front door. The bright light of the sun shone through the window, brighter than Johana remembered. The man in the dark suit turned to her.

“You ready, miss?” Johana nodded, and he opened the door. The bright light assailed her sensitive eyes, and she squinted, covering her face with a hand. Eventually she lowered it, looking through slitted eyes at the world. Gentle blue-green grass, towering and strangely conical trees with red and green leaves in equal measure, rolling purplish clouds in an orange-tinted blue sky. A brilliant blue sun, tiny but providing enough light for her to see by. In other words, outdoors. She followed the man to a black vehicle, slick and clean, with heavy tires and plenty of seating. Very expensive, in other words. They got in, and the vehicle whisked her away. It wasn’t too long of a drive, but enough for Johana to catch some sleep. It was plagued with nightmares and she kept waking up.

Johana didn’t see Celist again after that first conversation, instead learning the name of her big, silver-plated, single-horned, blue-eyed escort: Ztraceny.

“But everyone calls me Trace,” he explained pleasantly. “Hey, we’re pulling up to Headquarters now.” They were. It was a big, official-looking building in the middle of nowhere, down a gravel road. Marble columns and neoclassical architecture, with a grand entrance. Curiously despite the obvious money invested it wasn’t a very tall building, most of its size being width. Three stories. At every entrance were more Pansa in black suits, these ones more obviously armed than Trace. “We’ll be going in the back entrance, which is the only place you’re allowed to use.”

It was much smaller than the front, a simple black door, wooden with a brass knob. Trace stepped out of the vehicle, coming around and opening Johana’s door so he could help her out. He smiled pleasantly, or as pleasantly as a Pansa could smile. Johana took his hand, saving once of hers for attempting to keep the gown modest, and stepped out of the vehicle. Together, they walked through the door.

Headquarters had hardwood floors, clean off-white walls, and homely lamps. Not exactly what Johana had been expecting prior to that point. Trace took her first to a receptionist.

“Sorry, kiddo,” he said. “We can’t give you anything until you fill out some paperwork, so wrap this up and we’ll get you into something real.” Trace seemed embarrassed, but Johana nodded to him regardless. Reaching into some files, Trace explained what they were for: an agreement not to talk about her job. An agreement not to break things for no reason. An agreement not to steal from the government. And so on, so forth. All very adult concerns, Johnana felt, but she decided against complaining and signed her name. As soon as the last piece of paper was signed, Trace dropped it into a folder and stamped it. Curiously, he refrained from labeling it and instead tucked it under his arm.

“Alright, let’s get you some clothes.” Once again, Johana was following him through the halls, passing portraits of various Pansa. Curiously, there was even one of a young Kicsik, probably not much older than Johana herself. A girl with antlers and big floppy ears. Johana wondered who she was, but they were past her before long, arriving at a locker of sorts. Trace pointed to an unmarked locker, explaining that it was hers, and withdrew from it an assortment of clothes. Clean undergarments, including long white stockings. A prim and proper little combination of skirt, top, and a raincoat that she decided probably ought to stay in the locker. Boots, curiously, tough and practical-looking. Johana waited for him to leave, then changed into them. They were soft and comfortable, far better than what she’d had before. It was honestly surprising how much care she received from this group.

What did she mean to them? Why were they doing all this for her? Johana wasn’t well versed in the world, but she knew this was very unusual. Hopefully they would explain, in time. She stepped out of the locker after a few minutes (finding the boots difficult to lace) and Trace nodded in approval, taking the old gown from her.

“We’re gonna head to your room now,” he explained, “where you’ll meet your roommate. She’s a nice girl, so I think you’ll get along quite well.” They walked a fairly short distance before the doors stopped having labels like “locker” and started being called things like “201.” They came to a halt in front of 211, where Trace opened the door and invited Johana in, excusing himself immediately after. Johana glanced over her shoulder as he left, then took stock of her new quarters.

Her room was small, with two dressers, two end tables, and two beds. Johana spotted a few personal effects on the left table. A photo frame, facing the head of the bed. A pack of cigarettes. A stuffed animal, some clothes hastily shoved into the drawers, and a gun.

Black and polished, it sat squarely in the middle of the end table. It was smallish, but still heavy-looking, with blocky features and a big-looking hole in the front. Maybe that meant it was high caliber. Johana stared at it, barely even registering the other girl. Johana had never seen one in person, not even in her accident. It was sort of shocking to her rather naive sensibilities.

“Hi. Are you my roommate? They said I’d be getting one,” the girl said. She was Johana’s age, with dog-like ears, dark hair, and a tan that suggested outdoor work. Her eyes were a startling shade of blue. “I’m Stene.”

“Johana,” Johana introduced. She continued to stare at the gun. After a moment, realizing Johana was not looking at her, Stene followed her gaze, confused before realizing what the problem was. Hastily, she grabbed the firearm, removed the magazine, cleared the chamber, and shoved the whole ensemble into the drawer of the end table. So it was loaded, Johana idly realized. The whole thing seemed surreal. What was a girl her age doing with a pistol? Stene smiled sheepishly, pulling on her long, dog-like ears. Johana noticed she had very dark hair and tan skin. Completely different to Johana’s own pale blonde. Her ears flipped back nervously, and Johana strangled a hiss in her throat.

“Sorry about that,” Stene said. “I guess you haven’t been to orientation yet. You’ll understand later. Maybe for now we could, uh, do a tour of Headquarters.” Johana nervously glanced around the room, but nodded in agreement. She wasn’t too sure what was going on. Stene was very nonchalant about the whole thing, but the girl’s calm attitude was a little infectious. Being anxious was harder when everyone around her was very calm and professional, and despite her youth, Stene wasn’t a break in that pattern.

She took Johana to a library, filled with books Johana doubted she’d be able to read. There was a shower room (no stalls, much to Johana’s concern), a cafeteria where they’d eat three meals a day, and training rooms. The doors to the training rooms were iron, heavy and protected. They intimidated Johana in a way nothing but the gun had so far.

“Training rooms?” Johana asked. “What, like classrooms?”

“Not really,” Stene said with a laugh, scratching at one of her ears. “You’ll see whenever you join us.” Johana looked at her funny, but decided against pressing her for information. There’d be time later- and eventually, like Stene said, she’d learn exactly what it was all about.

The tour finished up at a meeting hall, locked double doors promising something interesting behind them. They were carved and decorated with various images Johana was having a little trouble deciphering, something to come back to if she ever got the time.

“This is where Celist holds Monday meetings,” Stene explained. Her voice sounded a little wistful, or lost. “You’ll meet everyone here tomorrow. He’ll properly introduce you and walk you through what we do here.” Meeting Celist was at least something Johana looked forward to. The man who saved her life had been nowhere since that first conversation.

She replied, “So Celist talks to us once a week?”

“Then, and when we get a new mission,” Stene said.

“Mission?” Johana cocked her head. The question earned her a weird look from Stene, and then a sad understanding washed over her face.

“Ah. Celist didn’t tell you.” Stene sighed. “He’s been getting… well. Anyways, I guess it’s my job to then. We do spy work here, pretty much. Like in the movies, you know?”

Spy work. Johana laughed aloud, saying, “Alright, guess Celist will tell me later.”

“I’m serious,” Stene said. She was, it was painted on her face, grave sincerity and the weight of someone far older than eleven coloring her voice darkly. Johana stopped laughing. She coughed, feeling the situation and remembering Celist’s words from the hospital. Things were beginning to click together for her. 

“Sorry,” she said. Spy work. Somehow none of this seemed real. She didn’t really understand what a kid like herself could offer a place like this. Stene said something else and took her back to their room, then said she had somewhere to be and left. Johana didn’t say much besides noncommittal noises during that time. She was thinking. Celist had recruited her, randomly, from the wreck of a flaming car for spy work. Spies were supposed to be illegal, and who would they even spy on? There was no war, there were no neighbors that weren’t already assimilated into the Empire. The whole planet had been explored decades ago, the neighboring star systems more recently.

Of course, someone had tried to kill her, so there had to be something going on. Johana’s Master, Nurse, and sisters, all dead. She didn’t want to think about it. But luckily, it seemed like she might have a chance to get back at them, to maybe make a difference. Stop it from happening to other girls, maybe. There was no way for Johana to know how any of this worked.

Deciding to worry about that later, since Celist would explain it, Johana explored her room a little. She opened the drawers of her dresser, finding neat and practical clothes inside. All her size. Very efficient, considering she had just gotten here. The end table was empty, and the bed was very neatly made. Little black shoes were tucked under the bed next to a bottle of polish, a brush, and a cloth. Her bed was opposite Stene’s, with a window at the heads of the beds and a door by the feet. Cramped, and not the sort of place one would usually spend a lot of time. Hopefully they’d be keeping her busy, then.

Stene returned not long after she ran out of things to do. “Johana, would you like to come with me? Dinner will be served soon.” Johana dusted off her skirt, straightened her button-up, and adjusted the ribbon at her collar.

“Sure,” she said, turning to face Stene with a smile. The taller girl walked her out of the room. “What’s for dinner?”

“Tonight,” Stene said, “we’re having kyselo. It’s a traditional Kicsik dish, and we eat one every Sunday.”

“I never had that before,” Johana said, not even aware that traditional Kicsik dishes existed. As far as she knew, everyone had always just eaten whatever the Pansa provided for them. Stene smiled at her.

“You’ll like it. Sourdough soup, with mushrooms, potatoes, and eggs,” she said pleasantly. That did sound delightful, although perhaps Johana was just hungry. The last time she recalled eating was before the accident, though she must have eaten something at the hospital.

Together, the two girls went to the cafeteria. It was bustling with activity, contrary to what Johana would have expected. Even more surprising were the residents. Everyone was a girl her age, a chimera Kicsik like herself and Stene. A girl with antlers refused beef tripe from a girl with wolf-like ears sticking out of her head. Johana met the eyes of a girl attempting to steal an extra portion of bread by taking it from the person ahead of her in line with her monkey tail. Johana glanced nervously, unsure what to do, or where to go. Stene pointed out where the line for food began, and Johana followed her into it.

It seemed like there was a fair amount of choice in what one ate, but given that Johana didn’t recognize anything besides the bread, she elected to just get exactly what Stene got, exactly as she got it. They filled a bowl with a brown soup, potatoes and mushrooms visible inside. An egg was split over the top. The smell was hearty and the soup was thick. A slice of bread alongside it. She and Stene sat down at an unoccupied table, and Johana noticed that most people had formed pairs instead of the cliques she had grown used to at the Master’s.

Seeing her looking, Stene commented, “We usually work in pairs here. I didn’t have a partner until you showed up, so we’ll probably work together.”

“That would be nice,” Johana agreed. Stene smiled at her, and they began to eat. There wasn’t much conversation after that, as the food was good and Johana was very hungry. They went back to the room, and Stene laid down. Johana felt her eyes droop, like a food coma or something.

“Good night, Johana,” she yawned. Johana said the same. She sat down on the bed, looked out at the stars, and wondered at how tired she was. Maybe her wounds hadn’t finished healing or something. She didn’t remember doing much today, or at least not anything worthy of being this tired. But sleep called her name regardless, and she rested her head on the pillow. Across from her, she could see that Stene was already fast asleep. The light in the hall was turned off, presumably by one of the Pansa caretakers she had seen earlier, and the room became dark. There was very little sound, no vehicles on the road or loud animals like frogs. Just the quiet chirping of distant crickets, the murmur of the wind through trees, and the occasional call of an owl into the night.

Persuaded by her ever-increasing exhaustion, Johana went to sleep. She dreamt of fire and loud noises.

Chapter Two

Much to Johana's surprise, there was something of a crowd in front of the big double doors she and Stene had seen on the tour. It was eight in the morning, which made the crowd's demographic all the weirder. Girls her and Stene's age, many a little older, a few a little younger. All Kicsik. Something seemed weird about that to Johana, but Stene didn't bat an eye. 

Sleeping on it, Johana surmised she probably shouldn't have been surprised by the gun. Other than her age and sex, everything about what Celist had said to her screamed of violence. But at the time it hadn't mattered. Concerningly, it didn't seem to matter now, either. Johana wondered at how much she had changed from just a few days ago.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the double doors swinging outwards, a few girls stepping back to avoid being in the way. The room beyond was a small auditorium, probably only able to seat fifty or so. Of course, there weren't even fifty of them here, so that wasn't an issue. Everyone piled in, sticking in pairs much like at the cafeteria. Johana caught a few curious glances her way.

Nudging her to follow, Stene headed in. Johana kept pace, behind her on the right side, and they took a seat at the from. Most had sat at the back of the auditorium. Perhaps rebelliously? It didn't matter- Celist walked onto the small stage, and the babbling conversations died to a murmur, then nothing.

"Good morning," Celist greeted, and the class echoed him. "This last week has been a good one. We had two successful operations.” There was a little murmur at that, but it silenced quickly.

"First, I would like to congratulate , I would like to congratulate Husa and Kachna for their success.” A girl with white feathers instead of hair and a similar looking brown-feathered girl stood and waved, the white feathered one hamming it up a little bit. The audience clapped and cheered in a remarkably juvenile manner.

“Second,” Celist continued after it died down, “Kure and Stonozka did an excellent job with their cleanup yesterday..” The crowd clapped, but it was merely polite this time, and the two girls in question did not stand. Johana didn’t really understand the difference, but she could tell from Stene’s expression that whatever they were doing wasn’t as important as the other pair. 

“Now,” Celist said, his voice dropping an octave. The room hushed totally. “Some of you are probably wondering about last week’s third operation.” It seemed that the only one not on the edge of her seat was Johana. The girls all looked at Celist, with some of the older ones seeming to hold back tears, as if they knew bad news was coming. Admittedly, even Johana had picked up on that, but she didn’t know what was going on.

“It is with great sadness,” and the room broke apart into sobbing and wailing, “that I must announce the deaths of Svetluska and Zaba.” Stene grabbed Johana’s sleeve and sobbed into it uncontrollably. Johana hastily wrapped her arms around the girl, tears of sympathy welling in her own eyes. Dead? What? “They were discovered recovering their weapons by a poorly timed patrol, and the ensuing gunfight was fatal for both girls. We will hold a funeral in two days. All operations are suspended until then, although training will proceed as normal.” Johana could barely believe her ears. Two girls were dead, and Celist was announcing it like every other piece of news, just a little sadder. Even the crowd was already beginning to recover. Hadn’t two of their friends just died? How could they move on, Johana wondered, in less than five minutes?

Only possible if they were prepared, some part of her pointed out. And Johana couldn’t help but shiver.

Celist gave the room time to recover before he continued speaking. The last sniffles died out, backs straightened, gazes hardened. Like the war movies she and her sister had snuck past the Nurse, with the help of the Master. Soldiers.

“I would like to introduce today the newest member of the Zabijáckédítě.” That word blew by Johana, who barely even processed the syllables. Celist looked directly at her, and Stene ushered her up. “She is to receive her new name today.” The crowd clapped, subdued. Couldn’t this have happened before the death announcement? Johana walked past empty faces, stern looks and unimpressed eyes. It seemed so wrong to her, to be going up there after an announcement. Every head in the room followed her as she clambered up onto the stage to stand beside Celist, only Stene looking remotely reassuring. Johana swallowed, looking out at them.

“Her Zabite name will be Micinka,” Celist said. Johana glanced at him, then back out at the crowd. Again, muttering and murmuring, but this time mostly from the older girls. Zabite name? Zabite was probably a shortening of that word he said earlier, pronounced za-bee-tay, which must have been what they called themselves. “I know that may upset some of you, but we cannot retire any name forever.” Johana looked at Stene, whose face was a little colder than she was expecting.

It shouldn’t have hurt or surprised her, but it did. Johana cringed, and she and Stene looked away from each other.

“She is Stene’s new partner,” Celist explained. The older girls shook their heads in obvious distaste, and the younger girls started to clap, but then stopped when they realized it wasn’t what the group expected them to do. “Her training begins today. I hope you all will take good care of her.”

Silence.

Johana stepped down off the stage, heading back to her seat. Celist launched into an overview of the plans for the girls, dropping names and jargon left and right such that Johana couldn’t even parse what he was saying half the time. It didn’t matter, because no matter how many times she looked over at Stene, the girl wouldn’t meet her eyes. Eventually, the session ended, and Stene abruptly stood. Johana stumbled up onto her feet and followed her closely.

“Micinka,” Stene said, and it took Johana- Micinka- a moment to realize that was her. “We will start with hand to hand training. Follow me.” This seemed awfully sudden to Johana, but it wasn’t like she could do anything about it. The gaggle of girls broke off in every which way as they left the auditorium, Johana struggling to keep pace with Stene. The other girl seemed to be able to navigate the crowd with ease. Meanwhile, Johana was struggling just to not bump into everyone.

She took a left, then a right, and threw open (with some effort) the iron doors they had seen during the tour. Inside was a room with a soft tan floor and soft black walls- not too soft, but enough that Johana didn’t think she would be hurt if she impacted them. Which was probably the point. Oddly, Johana was able to spot Trace in the corner. He waved to her with a little uncertainty, sitting on a chair akin to a barstool. The ceiling was one of those easily maintained drop ceilings, with fluorescent lights casting a white glow over everything.

Turning to face her, Stene adopted a sort of weird posture. Leaning forwards, doing something funny with her feet, bringing her arms up. Johana vaguely recognized it as a fighting stance from that last detail. Picking up where this was probably going, Johana tried to mimic the other girl, bringing her hands up too.

And then bam, a fist in her gut. Johana coughed, staggered, and collapsed backwards. Her abdomen was on fire.

“Stene-” she started, and then the girl kicked her in the side. “Stene! Stop!” But the dog girl didn’t stop. She kicked her two more times, then stared down at her. From the corner, Trace watched, his expression unreadable.

“Micinka,” she snapped. “This is not a game. Your fights won’t end just because you got hurt. Stand up.”

Johana stumbled to her feet, looking angrily up at Stene. The girl hadn’t even taught her to punch or kick or anything, and now she was beating her up. Fine. She’d show her. Johana braced herself for what was coming, raising her arms and doing a better job copying Stene’s posture.

And then she was on her back again, gasping for air. Stene did some sort of straddling thing, then pinned her and just like that, Johana couldn’t move or catch her breath.

“You will never win a straight up fight,” Stene said, Johana beginning to catch on to where this was going. She tapped the ground desperately, feeling darkness at the edges of her vision and pain in her legs, but Stene did not let up until the last moment. Johana scrambled out from under her, breathing raggedly and crying. What happened? Why was Stene suddenly being so hostile? Johana understood that the point of this was to humble her, but she hadn’t really seen herself as a good fighter in the first place. She looked over at Stene, trying to judge what the girl was thinking.

Stene’s face was stoic, but she was still a kid. She couldn’t hide from Johana the distaste she seemed to be feeling. What had changed from the kind girl the day before? Angry, Johana leapt up at her. Apparently that caught Stene off guard, because they went to ground, and Johana began striking her in the stomach. Something broke in her left hand, but Johana kept hitting anyways, until Trace intervened and pulled them apart with ease.

“Gods above, Jo- Micinka. What were you two doing? This is a professional training room, not a place for girlish disputes,” he snapped. Johana didn’t look him in the eye, and avoided looking at Stene. She couldn’t help it. She didn’t know what was going on, or what she was doing, or why Stene was hitting her. Trace shook his head. “Stene, this was terrible of you to do. She clearly doesn’t need you beating her up. Did you even take her to orientation yet?” He tossed the two of them to the ground, a demonstration of strength, warning them that just because he wasn’t touching them didn’t mean he wasn’t absolutely in control here.

“I’ll accompany you two to Celist’s office. And no, you won’t get to clean up first.” Trace watched Johana (and Stene) get up again. She brushed the dirt off her clothes, noting that the skirt cleaned up quite nicely, contrary to what one might expect. Things were beginning to fall into place in a way that, rather surprisingly to Johana, pleased her. Clothes that were easy to clean. Combat training. Guns. Dead girls. Spy work, just as Stene had said.

Celist’s office had a solid wooden door. A brass plaque read Vaclav Smetana, presumably his real name. Why Celist then? Johana knew it meant “Jaw,” so probably his scars, but it seemed odd for a government official to have a nickname like that. It must have had more significance. She was thinking about that because she was not looking forward to meeting him under this context.

The door swung in, and Celist nodded to Trace. Two chairs were in front of his desk. The desk itself was solid wood, looking very heavy. It was stained dark, nearly black, and kept very tidy. Only a few papers and a typewriter marked it as being in use. The walls were bare off-white, and the floor was dark hardwood. Celist sat behind the desk, in front of a window overlooking a courtyard. Past him, through it, Johana could see some of the Kicsik from before playing or something in the yard.

“So,” Celist said, a note of amusement in his voice. That surprised Johana. “Micinka and Stene. A fight was expected, given the name, but I didn’t think you’d be the one to pick it, Stene. I expect better of you.” The dog girl cast her eyes down.

“Micinka, I should explain,” Celist said, gesturing with his hands. They opened, as though to make him more approachable, but his voice got colder. “On missions, it is of the utmost importance that nobody learns your real name. As such, we call you by the names of the animals you are blended with. That would be too obvious, though, so we pick the words from a Pansa tongue that’s not really spoken around here. Micinka means kitten, and it’s also the name given to Stene’s old mentor. She passed away from complications during surgery two months ago.”

Johana wasn’t sure how to react to that, so she didn’t.

“In other words, people will expect you to live up to the name, lest you tarnish her legacy,” Celist continued. Johana was baffled. Why? Why her? She didn’t understand any of this. “She was one of our best field operatives, and I have reason to believe you, specifically, might be able to live up to that name.” Johana waited, but Celist didn’t explain any more. It caused an awkward pause.

“I see,” she replied lamely. She looked over at Stene, who wasn’t saying anything. Johana understood her reaction a little better, now. If Stene was willing to work with her, after this, then she’d be able to forgive her. Even if it did suck to have a ton of bruises and feel betrayed, it would be like if someone took her sister’s name. Johana got that.

“You don’t, not yet,” Celist corrected. “But you will, in time. Now, since Stene decided to have you skip it, I suppose I will handle your orientation. You have joined us as a member of the Zabijáckédítě, or Zabite. You are field agents, tasked with infiltrating terror groups. Specifically, there are Kicsik hate groups being run by traitors, attempting to curry favor with what they see as the majority.

“Zabite sneak in, whether by acting as a double agent or more traditional sneaking. Then you cut the head off the snake. Sometimes that’s literal,” he said, and Johana nodded. It was more or less what she had figured out from context clues. Giving her a look that Johana found difficult to read, Celist continued speaking. “You’ll train for a few weeks with Stene, then you two will go on missions for us. Today was supposed to be orientation- this- and then basics of hand to hand with Stene. I’ll have Trace teach you firearms instead, and Stene can clean the bathrooms.”

He withdrew from his desk a small brush, akin to one for shining shoes, and handed it to Stene. She stared at it for a second, then looked back up at Celist in horror as she put the pieces together. Johana glanced at her and found it difficult to feel pity, but the ridiculous punishment did have an effect of making the fight seem relatively unimportant. It helped Johana move past it, which was the point, she presumed.

“Well? Get to it,” Celist said, clapping his hands and then gesturing with one towards the door. Johana and Stene stood in sync, glanced at each other, then headed out into the hallway. Stene made a right and headed to the bathroom, brush in hand. With a smirk, Johana watched her go, then turned to Trace.

“This way,” he said, and his voice sounded somehow unamused. The smirk fell from her face, and Johana realized Trace had probably known the previous Micinka. Probably even trained her, like he was training Johana now. Celist had been very casual about the death, but it seemed like he was probably the only one. She swallowed, flicked her ears and tail nervously. Trace had turned, his dark suit masking body language well enough that Johana was having a hard time reading him. With any luck, this wouldn’t be like training with Stene.

They went through the iron doors into the training room again, but this time he pulled a padded door open, one Johana hadn’t seen before. It led to a concrete hallway, and Johana could faintly here pops through the walls. Gunshots, she realized. There was a firing range inside the building? She would have thought she’d be able to hear that from further away. Trace passed a couple doors and opened the last one in the hall, into a private room. It was relatively narrow, maybe six or seven yards in width, but very long at what must have been three hundred yards. Where they fit this in the building was totally lost on Johana, but she hadn’t gone all the way around it- maybe it went into a hill or something. 

The walls had weird triangle looking things on them, except for the back wall, which looked like it was made of scales or something. A rail ran most of the length of the ceiling, ending at the far wall and about four yards from the door, and from it dangled an arm. A desk between the end of the rail and the door was bolted to the floor, and atop it was a black box. A lever on the left side of the room, near the door, seemed to control it. Trace pulled it down, and the arm came close; he withdrew from the desk’s drawers a piece of cardboard and a sheet of paper with a Kicsik silhouette on it. He stapled the paper to the cardboard, and fiddled with the arm until it grabbed the whole thing and held it at adult eye level. Trace pushed the lever up, and it went back about five feet.

That close? Johana thought it seemed odd, but didn’t say anything.

“Come here,” Trace beckoned. Johana did, watching him open clasps on the side of the box. Its interior was made of soft leather, and contained a gun. It looked big to Johana, the top part bigger than her hand, and the grip at least as long as her palm. Despite her earlier reaction, Johana was very interested in it. The way it worked was a complete mystery to her, so Johana quickly reached out and grabbed it to look down the front, trying to see what was inside the hole.

Suddenly, Trace grabbed her and gently pointed the gun away from her, towards the target. He said, a little loudly, “Alright, slow down. We gotta cover safety stuff before you start messing with this thing.” He had her set it down.

“Okay, Micinka,” Trace said didactically. “There are rules for using this thing. I didn’t think you’d grab it, but I guess most girls your age aren’t so curious about these.” Johana nodded. “First off, you should never assume it’s unloaded.”

“But I didn’t put any bullets in it,” Johana complained, frowning.

“I know. But how did you know whoever used it last didn’t leave one in there?” Trace had a point. Johana shivered a little, uncomfortable now that she realized she might have pointed a loaded gun at her own face. “Anyways, rule one of shooting is to assume every gun is loaded, even if you just cleared it a minute ago.” He saw her make a face at the word cleared. “I’ll explain all the words later. The second rule is never to point the gun at anything you don’t want dead.”

He looked at her pointedly, and Johana flushed with embarrassment.

“The good news is, you followed the third rule. Finger off the trigger until you’re ready to shoot. Finally, always be sure of your target. That’s kind of a class on its own and we’ll go over that later, but today, just don’t shoot anything besides the target. You following?” Trace cocked his head, which Johana recognized from her own patterns as an invitation to speak.

“Yeah,” she said. “Can I shoot it now?” Trace laughed.

“First we have to go over how it works,” he said. “You’ll be responsible for taking care of it, so pay attention.” He seemed in his element, voice confident and losing the edge it had gained earlier. Johana watched as he picked the gun up, pushed a button so a weird looking metal stick came out of it, and pulled the top part back.

“This is a custom made gun for our organization,” he explained. “Well, not really custom, but it’s made for us. Small guns that you can hide, like this, are called pistols. It’s the third version. It’s made by Pansa workers, in an offworld company where they still speak the native Pansa tongue. So, we call this a vlastní pistole vzor 3 in our language, or VP3 for short.”

“VP3,” Johana echoed.

“That’s right,” Trace said happily. “The VP3 is a really versatile weapon.” Johana looked at it. To her, it just looked like a gun, but she was sure he’d clarify, and he did. “First off, it’s chambered in- which means, the ammo it uses- in .357 auto. That round is plenty for a Kicsik, and can even take all but the toughest of Pansa down after a couple shots. By default, it only holds five rounds, but you can bring extended magazines. It’s also suppressor ready, meaning you can make it a lot harder to hear from far away.”

That was a lot of information, but Johana nodded. She got what he was saying: it was small, but packed a punch, and knew when to be quiet. A more cocksure girl might have attributed those same words to herself, or said it matched, but Johana felt pretty confident she lacked punch. As she was thinking, Trace spoke again, this time making a request of her.

“I read on your file that you’re right-handed, so stick your right thumb out.” Johana did. “Now focus on it.” She did, feeling a little silly. It was hard to resist the urge not to glance back at Trace and see what exactly was going on here. “Alright, now close your left eye.” Immediately, her perspective on the gun seemed to change, like she’d rotated her head ever so slightly to the right. A frown made its way onto her face. Trace had her do the same with the opposite eye, and then let her lower her hand.

“You’re cross-dominant,” he explained. “It means that you’re right-handed but left-eyed. Pretty common, but just remember that when I say to close an eye, you close the right eye.” Trace walked her through the basics of using the pistol, stuff Johana didn’t realize like pushing the magazine release to get the magazine out, or letting the slide go forwards by pressing the slide release instead of pulling it back every time. As he walked her through the basics, he loaded a magazine with one round. Trace offered it to Johana, who inserted it into the gun as instructed.

“Now point the gun at the target. Close one eye, and line up the sights like we talked about. Get that front post level.” He corrected some things about her form, having her choke up on the gun until she was somewhat worried about her fingers touching the slide while it moved. Eventually, he was pleased enough with her that Johana got the go-ahead to shoot. She shut one eye, lined up the sights. It was tough, they waved around a lot, and the target was sort of fuzzy. Hesitantly Johana put her finger on the trigger and gently pulled backwards until suddenly bang and there was a hole in the target, the gun flipped up and then back down, trying to escape her hands. But it didn’t.

“Nice shot,” Trace remarked. Johana focused on the target, and an embarrassed smile came over her face. She’d put it right in the box labeled “A.” The kill zone. It was pretty satisfying, and she glanced up at Trace expectantly, gun still pointed downrange.

“Yeah, we’ll do some more stuff,” he chuckled, amused. “There’s a lot to learn.”

Johana was starting to enjoy this job.

Chapter Three

Step-tap-crack. Boots creating new paths in the dark underbrush. Everything tinged grey, the sign that Johana could only see because of her innate night vision. Trees taller than Johana could possibly see around, brush thick enough to slow down someone without her agility. Her ears and tail twitched as they caught footsteps ahead of her and to the right. Quickly changing directions, she hurtled through the brush after them. Her prey. Allowing an escape was total mission failure, and Johana didn’t do mission failure.

Speeding up, she used her nose to track their scent. It reeked of fear and exhaustion, the latter in equal measure to her own fatigue. Johana was close enough to hear the girl panting, desperately trying to force enough oxygen into her lungs to keep going. Lunging out from the brush at where she saw dark hair for a moment, Johana closed in for the kill.

Stene dodged at the last moment, delivering a kick to Johana’s face by mistake.

“Oh, geez,” she said, hurrying in. Since their fight before, Stene had gone back to being nice, but there was still a barrier Johana couldn’t cross. “Are you alright, Micinka?” And she’d gotten at least to the point of saying that.

“I’m okay,” Johana demurred. Pushing up off the ground, Johana wiped blood from her nose. Nothing seemed broken, thankfully. She’d get Stene the next time they had a field training exercise. Her clothes were dirty and tattered. The skirt and shirt had held up, but the stockings and soft coat had been completely ruined, and her shoes were soaked. It really was too bad they had to try to blend in with civilians, because civilian clothes really weren’t the right ones for a fight.

Behind them, heavy footsteps made short work of the brush, powerful synthetic muscle easily pushing it aside. It was Trace, who had his arms folded.

“Micinka, that wasn’t bad, but you still struggle with this part,” he said. “Shooting isn’t all there is to being a Zabite. You have to be in good shape, and able to catch even the fastest runners.” It was true. Johana had taken very naturally to the shooting and, eventually, close fighting. She still struggled to keep pace over long distance though, her performance better in short bursts. Stene and the others all fell behind at the start of a race, but passed her after the first mile. Celist always watched those races intently, one of the few times Johana saw him outside of the weekly meetings.

“Your first mission is coming up soon, so try to get past as much of this as you can,” Trace said, attempting to sound stoic. Johana had learned to pick up on his cues, though, and she could hear the concern in his voice. He had a point, and Johana nodded seriously. She glanced at Stene, who had the same expression as Trace. Johana dusted off her skirt and straightened her back.

“I will, sir,” she said, a little confidence leaking into her voice. If Celist had chosen her for this mission, it was because she could do it. There was plenty of doubt, uncertainty, and risk. But Johana had already learned that sometimes life sucks, and there wasn’t really anything she could do besides deal with it. So she straightened her back and prepared to take it head on.

Trace and Stene grinned.

“Then let’s get to the next section of the evaluation.”

The physical exam had come first. Johana wasn’t in the best shape of the Zabite, but she was already catching up rapidly. Then was this section: the Escape and Evasion portion for Stene, and the Search and Destroy portion for Johana. They had done the opposite portions first, with Stene chasing down (and capturing) Johana. Up next would be the Close Quarters Shooting exam. Later would be Close Combat, which Johana was fairly confident she would at least pass, and then finally the Stealth, Surveillance, and Subterfuge exam. That one was really hard, and only some Zabite passed. Johana thought back to when they explained the Operational Proficiency Examination to her.

“This test,” Celist said to them all, “was designed by a team of experts to identify your personal strengths and weaknesses. As you all know, the Zabite handle a variety of operations: reconnaissance, assassination, and capture, among other things.

“What missions you go on,” Celist continued, a hint of annoyance in his voice, “will be determined by this test, going forwards. As such, I’ve created four categories of Zabite: Reconnaissance, Assassination, Subterfuge, and Specialist. Most of those are self explanatory, but girls who find themselves with multiple talents will land in Specialist, and receive more missions, and more challenging missions.” He looked over the crowd, and for a moment, Johana thought his eye slit met her eyes.

Johana would be a Specialist. She had to live up to Celist’s expectations.

She and Stene arrived at the range, VP3s loaded. They glanced at each other, then looked for Trace. He would be setting the targets for a few minutes.

“Micinka,” Stene said. “I want to apologize.”

“It’s alright. We’re cool,” Johana said, and she meant it. She smiled at Stene.

Stene looked at her, relieved. “Thank you. I was worried you might not forgive me. I- I was really mean.”

“A little,” Johana admitted. “I’m just glad we can work together, for real now.”

“Agreed,” Stene said. She offered a hand, and Johana clasped it with her own. Trace cleared his throat, interrupting the moment and reminding them they were in the middle of an exam. Turning around, Johana took stock of the area. It wasn’t the same range Johana had learned to shoot on, but instead an outdoor one. The floor was a mixture of hard earth and patchy grass, with dirt berms on three sides. A yellow line had been painted, and across it were sixteen targets in two columns facing the left and right berms such that one could stand between them and shoot at the front. The targets were staggered, and they were divided in the middle with a white line.

“This is a team exercise,” Trace explained. “You’ll be scored both individually and together, so don’t rely on your partner too much, but don’t let them fail either. You will start here behind the line. When the whistle blows, you will run up to the first target, feet on the yellow line, and shoot it. When you make a hit, move to the next. You must complete this course with ten rounds or fewer, each. Understood?”

In sync, Johana and Stene vocalized an affirmative. They took positions on the line.

Trace blew the whistle, and Johana darted forwards. She squared up with the first target, canting slightly forward, and kept both eyes open for a point shooting approach. The sights quickly overlaid onto the target, and her gun barked. The steel sang, and a second later she heard the same thing behind her. Dart left, repeat. Dart left, repeat. Johana got to the fifth target, hit it, and her gun locked open. She dropped the magazine, reaching to grab a new one, when she heard Stene curse angrily behind her.

“S**t, s**t,” Stene cursed, and something hit the ground. Johana glanced over her shoulder as she slammed the magazine home and released the slide.

“Duck, duck!” Johana shouted, spinning. Stene hit the deck reflexively, and Johana hit her target for her, allowing the dog girl to finish reloading without wasting time. Johana spun around and moved to the next target, but she was out of breath. She missed the first shot, then hit it on the second. She made it to the last target before she missed again. “I’m out!”

“Duck!” came the call from behind her, and Johana did, trusting Stene to finish out for her. A casing landed near her, the final shot cried out, the steel sang, and the whistle blew.

“Not bad,” Trace said, sounding somewhat impressed. Johana could barely hear him over the ringing in her ears. “A little more work, and you two will be on the level of… well, I can’t say, I guess. But you’re doing great. Twenty seconds, girls. Not bad at all.”

Johana rolled over onto her back and laughed, Stene dropping to sit on the other side of the line. They giggled nervously together, shocked at how difficult that had been, and how quickly things had gone despite all their failures. Or at least, that was why Johana was laughing. Probably. She felt a little relief too, and something pleasant in her chest. Camaraderie, she assumed, like Celist always spoke so highly of. After a moment, Trace helped Stene up, and Johana stood as well. They had a few more tests to do, after all.

The close combat test was just a training battle against instructors, nothing worth writing home about. Johana did alright, and Stene did pretty well. But that much was expected. The real test was the Triple-S, as it was called. It was easily the most involved portion of the test as it involved civilians. Johana and Stene were to shadow a target, follow them home, and plant evidence in their home. As such, failure was not tolerated, but it was also unlikely. Civilians weren’t very situationally aware. Instead, they’d be graded on their execution, and judged based on how likely it was a real criminal would notice them.

Which was how Johana and Stene ended up at a cafe in downtown, sipping on coffee and pretending not to watch their target. A youngish Kicsik, a pretty girl with horns. To Johana, she looked a bit sickly. Her small stature made it hard to see her over the crowd sometimes. They’d already almost lost track of her, but Stene’s nose had bailed them out. Unfortunately this cafe was far too crowded- that trick wouldn’t work twice. Johana’s ears twitched.

“What?” Stene asked.

“Heavy footsteps,” Johana said, and that was enough. Only the richest of Pansa would be audible over a crowd. Both of them looked to the source: a brass-looking, eight foot tall hulk. “Not good.”

He sat down at their mark’s table.

“This complicates things,” Stene remarked. She was understating that. Big Pansa like that had better senses and often, due to age, better defenses at home and awareness of the risk they went through every day. Most had seen friends die in the past and were on their toes to prevent the same fate befalling them.

“Yeah,” Johana agreed blandly. She watched in horror as the big guy took the antlered girl’s hand in his and leaned in. At least they’d be easy to follow. The two shared a conversation over a meal. Johana watched the girl- Nela Michalkova- react to whatever the guy was saying. Her face started out as a smile, then she flushed with embarrassment. Reacting to something, her jaw dropped, and she smacked his arm. Then she laughed. Johana watched it all over a cup frozen in the air in front of her face, staring directly at Nela, intense and- her cup was shaking.

“Johana,” Stene said.

A happy conversation, and then the big guy said something, and a sad smile came over Nela’s face. The big guy leaned forward, and she shook her head. The conversation paused after that, and Nela looked away from him. Right at Johana.

Their eyes met.

Johana looked at her for a second longer, then back at her coffee. It was getting cold. Stene was glaring at her with a tight expression. Out of the corner of her eye, Johana saw a blurry Nela do something, and then she and the Pansa stood and left in unison. Johana and Stene let them get out the door and around the corner before dropping some cash on the table and high tailing it out the front door. They slinked up to the corner and peered around it, trying to spot Nela. Johana didn’t see her, but she pointed out the big brass armor of the Pansa to Stene and they moved towards him quietly.

“Are you certain,” he was saying, “that you’re not just being paranoid?”

“Honey, I know what I saw.” That must be Nela, though Johana couldn’t see her. She and Stene had moved into this alley and were hiding behind a dumpster, using some excess garbage bags as concealment. They stank, but they beat being detected.

“Alright, well- I used to be in the military. If you spend the night at my place, you’ll be safe,” the Pansa said. That was very, very bad news. Unfortunately he was probably right.

“I- I don’t know,” a waver had entered Nela’s voice. She sounded embarrassed.

“...I- I’m not going to do anything untoward,” the big guy said. Johana had to try not to laugh. It sounded like kids her age talking, not grown adults. But she resisted the urge and listened. “Look, I have a guest bedroom. You can stay there.”

“Alright,” Nela said. “Alright. That would be fine.” Heavy footsteps- headed back towards her and Stene. Johana shoved Stene back towards the alley entrance, and Stene darted around the corner. There wasn’t enough time for Johana, who had the more forward position, to follow, so she buried herself completely in the garbage, relying on her hearing. The footsteps got close, and she held her breath.

No words, but the footsteps stopped. Johana heard the sound of clothes rustling, and the quiet noise of well-lubricated metal turning. Then silence for a moment. Johana waited, hand on her gun, to see if they’d notice her. But they kept walking. She stayed in the garbage for a few minutes in case it was a fake-out, then poked her head out. She hurried after them, glancing around for Stene- the girl must have gone ahead. Johana tried to follow her by smell, but the city and garbage stink on her was making it useless. She looked around for the big Pansa, but couldn’t see him.

“S**t,” she said. Everyone picked up swearing in the Zabite. It just happened. Johana had picked it up from Stene. However, the nearby adults gave her a weird look when she said that, drawing Johana’s eyes up to look at them apologetically. Doing so gave her an idea. She doubled back into the alley, looking for and finding a fire escape. Johana hustled up it onto the roof. It was tiring to run up stairs, so by the time she got to the top of the three-story building that the cafe resided in, she was out of breath. Leaning against the edge of the roof, she looked out into the crowd.

Thank the stars for that Pansa. She spotted his shiny brass plates, stuck in foot traffic headed south. Johana couldn’t make out Nela or Stene, but presumably both would be nearby. Memorizing the route, Johana clambered back down, trying to make good time. Today her small size was a big advantage: she slipped through the crowd like a warm knife through butter. Her shoes pitter-pattered on the cobblestone streets as she picked up the pace.

The Pansa and Nela rounded a corner, and Johana slid up against it, watching them enter an expensive-looking house. A house in the city? Johana didn’t doubt that the Pansa owned it, given his size, but this meant real money. Quickly, she looked over the house. A front door in the middle, and two windows on the first floor. One large window and one small one on the second. She could see some Kicsik servants milling around in the space between the house and the adjacent building, so there was probably a back way. Unfortunately, Kicsik tended to be more perceptive than even Pansa, so Johana wasn’t too interested in going that way unless she really had to.

Taking note of the house’s location, Johana looked around for Stene. She didn’t see her. Well, Johana was carrying the package, so hopefully Stene was alright. She had a job to do. Johana snuck up towards the front, walking casually so as to look unassuming in the crowd. She broke off into the alley, opposite the Kicsik, at the first opportunity. Now came the hard part.

Johana checked deeper in the alley. The servants weren’t looking, at least. She pulled the fluffy hat down as far as it would go- not that far, on a cat-eared Kicsik. Claws extended from her hands, and she dug them into the mortar of the wall. As quickly as she could, she skittered up the wall, getting onto the roof and pressing flat against it. The shingles were scorching hot against her skin, but Johana sucked it up for the time being. Moving towards the chimney, she withdrew the package from her pocket. Hopefully the fireplace would cut it- and if this was really intended to incriminate, it would look like they tried to destroy the thing. Trace had said it was indestructible. Time to test that.

She dropped it into the fireplace as gently as she could, but it still fell two stories to the bottom. Johana cringed when it clanged. However, after waiting a minute, she didn’t hear anything from inside suggesting they knew about it- so she decided to call that good enough and get out of there.

Scurrying up and over the apex of the roof, Johana made for the back side of the house, hoping it would be less occupied. She peeked over and didn’t see anyone, so with a swinging motion she brought her hips over the edge at the lowest possible point and dropped down. The impact was hard on her knees, but Johana was lighter than most people and took the fall well. She glanced around one more time to double check that she hadn’t been spotted.

Her eyes met those of a Kicsik girl about her age, with bright orange hair and the ears of some sort of wolf or wild dog. Johana stared at her for a moment, then turned and high-tailed it out of there. She’d been spotted. Hopefully that wouldn’t cause her to fail the test, or worse, get her in real trouble. This was unprecedented, Johana told herself, and nobody would ever have even expected her and Stene to complete the objective. Especially with only being spotted once.

Well. Once except for the cafe. Johana realized she had kind of screwed this operation. Things had really gone awry and she wasn’t sure exactly how it started. She ducked out of the alley, tore off her hat and pocketed it. Gotta blend into the crowd, she reminded herself.

Someone grabbed her arm, and Johana whipped around, hand going behind her back and under her shirt.

“Whoa, whoa,” Stene exclaimed, hands up. “It’s me!”

Johana relaxed. She said, “Sorry. I- a Kicsik girl spotted me.”

“That’s really not good. Alright, let’s walk and talk, then.”

“Yeah,” Johana replied, and they got to moving.

“What happened?”

“I got spotted while escaping.”

“Well, I don’t think you should get in trouble, at least. That Pansa… and all those servants. Did you drop off the package?”

“I dropped it in the chimney.”

“That’s smart. I couldn’t have done that.” Johana wasn’t too sure about that. She had started to worry that maybe they would clean the fireplace, or be extra on edge after her being spotted and search everything for something like that. But that wasn’t logical- there was no real reason for anyone to assume that because someone had been spotted that they’d leave something. If anything, they’d probably check to see if something was stolen.

There was a reason they hadn’t been tasked with taking things, she supposed.

“I think you’d have figured it out,” Johana said. “What happened, by the way?”

“I got stopped by people asking me where my parents are,” Stene said, and Johana didn’t pry any further. Few Zabite, she had learned, still had living parents. Stene didn’t like to talk about hers. Not that Johana was any better about it; only Celist knew what had happened to her. She still had nightmares about that. Stene seemed to have some of her own, but neither girl had asked the other what they were dreaming about. It was a sort of taboo topic between them. Johana felt that wasn’t normal, but it didn’t seem right to break the pattern. She started out of her reverie when she heard Stene say something.

“Come on, let’s head back. We’ll have to be evaluated,” Stene said. Johana dry swallowed, but nodded, following her to the pickup point. Time to face the music.

Before long, Johana and Stene stood shoulder to shoulder in a concrete room. Across from them stood Trace, and a number of unidentified Pansa lurked at the edges of the room. To Johana, they didn’t look like fighters. Thinner, taller, but not as strong. They had pads and pens, and wrote on them as the conversation went on, presumably judging her and Stene on their responses.

It definitely added to the pressure.

“Name and age,” Trace asked.

“Stene, twelve.”

“Micinka, eleven.”

“Explain the events of your scenario.”

Stene started. “We were tailing the target as usual, but then a big Pansa showed up. We think he detected us. When they got up to leave, we lost them and had to find them again. Johana went high and I tried to tail them. I lost them in the crowd.”

“That’s when I saw them from above,” Johana took over. “I gave chase, but they went into the Pansa’s house. I didn’t think I could sneak in. Instead, I climbed up and over, dropped the package through the chimney at a good time, and dropped off the other side. That’s where I got spotted.”

The thin Pansa were scribbling notes.

“How did that happen?” Trace asked.

“I dropped off the roof without checking,” Johana admitted shamefully. “A Kicsik girl about my age was just standing around back there. She saw me land, so she knows I was on the roof.”

“I see,” Trace commented. “Well, there’s not much we can do about this. We’ll just have to do damage control later on. The two of you are free to go.” He waved them out, stern and stoic. Not at all like his usual self. For some reason, that unsettled Johana more than anger would have. She had no idea what the response was going to be to her failure. Hopefully nothing too bad.

As they left the office, Stene spoke up. “Micinka, I don’t think they’re all that angry.”

Johana looked at her questioningly.

“Well,” Stene explained. “I mean, what could you have done, really? We can’t be perfect.” She shrugged. Johana considered that, and then shrugged as well.

“Let’s go get some food,” Stene suggested. Johana nodded, and together they headed towards the mess hall. Johana’s thoughts wouldn’t leave her be, though. She had to wonder if being seen like that was going to become a bigger issue. Would they let her continue to work for them if she got caught again? The idea of quitting now seemed like an impossibility to her, and being made to stop like some sort of nightmare. Johana had yet to go on a real mission, but they’d fed and clothed and trained her. It just seemed wrong, with the way things were out there, to be letting it happen while other girls did the work.

The food tasted bland that evening, and her conversation with Stene was even more one-sided than usual. She didn’t eat much, and they went to bed quietly. Johana laid up in bed long after her roommate went to sleep, thinking about her screwup and having a harder time than usual falling asleep. That was why she was awake when a light flickered by her window. Johana, curious, got up and looked out. A vehicle had pulled up, not the dark and bulky sort they always used. A dark figure walked up to it- one Johana would never mistake. Celist. What was he doing in the middle of the night, meeting a strange vehicle? She wondered if this was a common thing, or if she was watching something unusual. He opened the door and got in. Johana thought she saw the silhouette of a Pansa in the seat next to him, but she couldn’t be sure.

Johana couldn’t say for sure if it was shady, given their profession. But something about this happening in the middle of the night, totally secret to the Zabite, struck her as a little odd. Maybe it was an emergency or something, or he was meeting an informant at the only time available. Biting her lip and glancing at Stene, Johana cracked open the window and slipped out. It was a two-story drop, but nothing she couldn’t handle. Her tail wagged a bit and she snuck through the grass. Her nightgown was probably poor attire, but Johana wasn’t sure how long the vehicle would wait. She spotted the license plate and noted what it was. It waited for a few minutes, and she watched it from behind a bush in the courtyard. Eventually, the vehicle’s engine revved, and it accelerated away from her. Johana waited for a minute before returning to her window, unsure what she’d do with her new information.

She snuck under the covers of her bed, double checked that the window was closed, and then went back to staring at the ceiling.

Shutting her eyes was resulting in terrible nightmares, the sort she hadn’t really had since that car ride. Johana fitfully tossed and turned, flames and gunshots and rough hands making true rest impossible. But then she fell properly asleep, and the nightmares took hold in that horrific way they sometimes do: by not letting her wake.

Johana knew it was a dream. But it didn’t make it less disgusting. She woke up again before dawn, and vomited into a garbage bin by her bed. A choking sob wracked her body. She could still feel the terrible hands and the horrible things and the pain of the fire. She hit the side of her bed with a fist, and then hit it again. It hurt, but it was a real world sort of feeling. Johana struck it again, and felt a hand on her shoulder. Long, dark hair draped down by her face, and then a warm body pressed against her side.

“It’s okay, Micinka,” Stene said, wrapping her into a hug. Johana cried more openly, letting Stene embrace her properly. Incoherent half-words babbled from her lips. “It’s okay. It’s alright.” She clutched at Stene’s nightgown and felt like a baby for it. This seemed to come out of nowhere, to blindside her. Johana couldn’t bear the pain of it, but eventually her tears subsided. She wiped her nose, and slid away from Stene.

“Sorry,” she said, voice raspy. Stene shook her head and just smiled back.

“It’s okay, I had nightmares when I first started. Let’s go get you some food,” she suggested. Johana nodded, and they got changed into their uniforms. As Johana pulled on her socks, and her head sort of stabilized, she wondered again why this was happening. The thoughts stayed dark and stormy until she got a little food in her stomach and Stene said something to her.

“You should let go of before. The past is just a poison for us,” Stene suggested. “Forget about it.” The memories flashed through her mind again, but muted, getting weaker with every bite of food. They faded and weakened and she was left looking at Stene’s warm and serious expression.

“Yes,” Micinka replied, voice dead serious. “You’re right.”

Chapter III-2 [Interlude]

“Their performance was remarkable, given their experience.”

“Yes, but the result is still terrible. And now he’s involved.”

“Don’t worry about it. The red tape is closing in, but our operations expand every day. We’ll handle it.”

“Christ. Don’t tell me these things. You should know better.”

“I can’t help it. It’s a pride thing.”

“Speaking of those operations, you need to be more careful. Two operatives killed in such a public way- you’re lucky nothing came out of that. It could have blown your whole organization out of the water.”

“The OSB is not so fragile.”

“If that’s really what you think, then you're far deeper into this mess than you know.”

Chapter IV

Micinka stood at the front row of a crowd. Her cap was pulled down far enough to hide her eyes. The roar of the Kicsik behind her threatened to blow out her eardrums. It was wild to think that all of them had been deceived. The very man they cheered for, whose speeches they lusted after like a dying girl in the desert for water, was organizing a raid on this facility in just ten days. He’d get them all killed. One of many Kicsik race traitors, aiming to keep his people down in exchange for personal profit. It disgusted Micinka to no end.

Nausea spread through her as the man’s speech continued. Equality for Kicsik required violence, he said. The Pansa would never really let them integrate so long as they continued to complacently accept their second-class status. Instead they must remind the Pansa who had made invading their homeworld so costly, who had become a persistent thorn in their side. The Kicsik must rise up.

So he claimed. Micinka had to resist the urge to snort in disgust. Riling her people up just so they could die for nothing. But none of that could show on her face. Instead she cheered and smiled. Her gun weighed heavy on her belt, concealed as it was beneath the loose tunic she wore in lieu of proper clothes. Its ratty and dirty appearance acted as camouflage for the bump it made on her appendix. Perhaps more importantly, her bright red cap and calico-pattern hair drew the eye immediately to the head. Cute, but also very practical, or at least that was what she told the inspectors. It was kind of true, but Micinka just didn’t want to look bad on her first mission. A girlish concern.

She was getting distracted. Micinka watched him as the speech ended and the applause died down. People moved closer, forming a gaggle attempting to get autographs. Abusing her small size, ratty appearance, and young age, Johana made her way to the front.

Yes, it was definitely her mark. A fit, healthy Kicsik man. Not a chimera in the sense Micinka was, but wildly altered by the horrific experiments of the Pansa on their people. Gnarled fangs and matted hair, two green eyes. Thick, spotted fur all over. A voice like rotting death. But his face betrayed him as more than a monster; surprisingly, Micinka felt compassion in his looks and words. He was, truly, a talented actor. It was no wonder so many people had been fooled.

“Little one,” he rumbled. “It pleases me to see a child devoted to our cause. Perhaps you’d best head home, dear. It might be dangerous.”

“Got no home,” Micinka replied.

A couple people around her quieted a little, and the man’s eyes softened. Grouse, he was supposedly called. Grouse looked at her.

“Perhaps we should speak in private,” he said. It was something he was known for, giving audiences to those who he felt might need them. A very personal touch- or a smart attempt to secure the faith of people he suspected weren’t devoted enough to his cause. Micinka knew her attitude was probably that of an orphan just looking for the free meal at the end (one of the reasons so many Kicsik had showed up in the first place). They probably thought her a gutter clone.

“Alright.”

“Hang on a moment, she’s just a girl,” someone said. A taller woman with pale skin and snow-white hair. Her teeth looked needle sharp, and pointed ears poked out of her head. “I dunno about letting her go alone into a room with a violent feral.” A skeptic, like Micinka. She glanced up at the woman, wondering why she was even here. Maybe she needed the food too.

“Alright,” Grouse chuckled, the comment about violence and ferality sliding right off of him. He seemed old, to Micinka, so perhaps he’d heard all this before. In their briefing, it had been observed that he’d organized a number of riots in the past, all of which ended brutally for the Kicsik. It was still tough for Micinka to reconcile that with the person in front of her, but then she was as much a snake as Grouse. The thought bothered her, and she suppressed it. “The meeting will be the two of you. No more, though, or it defeats the purpose.”

“That’s fine,” the woman said, at almost the same time Micinka voiced a generic affirmative. They glanced at each other, neither saying anything about the coincidence. Micinka’s tail flicked.

Author's Note

Ignore grammar problems for now. I know there's some unnecessary repetition in places, a little bit of jargon that could probably use better contextualization, and a lot of missing descriptions of environments and such. Big helps would be identifying the genre of whatever this is and general opinions on how it is so far.