hi i'm boy

The sky’s hue rapidly turned dark. In not long, the stars would start to flicker into its realm. The very last rays of sun blessed Sebastião da Graça, shining through the remnants of day in all its small town glory. It was still not late enough for the glowing street lights to be turned on, making it so that shadows ever so bigger reached out over the entire town like a blanket. And floors above one of the busiest districts—bustling with life as its workers closed gates and doors to get ready to go home after another day’s work—a man started his car.

The white BMW looked almost silver in the faint light, but it was, noticeably, still the same. Though it wasn’t really... doing its job. The man was the only one in the parking lot—the upfloors one was private, and the few other employees who used it were either still working or home by now—, all alone, except for the secret company of the one watching him from the shadows. Hidden in a corner, shielded from the gaze of any security cameras.

The man’s name was Ferdinand. Espada remembered it this time.

It was the reason his car wasn’t starting, obviously. Over the day, she didn’t have to watch him—they had gathered enough intel over this past week already—and had had way more than enough time to dodge security and sabotage its system. It wasn’t Espa’s strong point, but it wasn’t really that hard to meddle with a little part of the vehicle and render it useless. For such strong machines, cars were hilariously reliant on tiny details.

The target seemed to get ever the more annoyed with it, growing in impatience, and took his phone out. Probably calling someone to come fix it as he tapped his foot, checking over the shiny golden watch on his wrist. Not long after, a few people, indeed, came in, and he yelled at them to take care of the car. Irritated, Ferdinand pulled out his phone again and came out of the parking lot.

Just as they’d expected him to.

Espa didn’t take long to reach him at the bottom floor, and was not surprised to find him in the entrance, past the automatic doors of the building, before the busy road and staring at his phone. Awfully vulnerable.

They approached him from behind. He did not even notice.

“Good evening.”

The target jumped at her voice, turning and dropping his device. It caught it with a foot before it could reach the ground.

“Here,” they offered it back to him. “You should be more careful.”

That seemed... to anger him. He grabbed it from its hands, running his eyes through Espa from top to bottom. There was distaste written on his gaze.

“And who the hell are you? I’m not buying anything, and don’t come at me with flyer bullshit, either. Get off.”

It didn’t have a chance to answer as the target pointedly turned his back at it in a clear signal to leave, looking back ahead to wait for his driver to arrive. Oh, well. That was to be expected.

In the following second, Espa heard his breath hitch. They adjusted their grip on the knife, tip pressed onto his back.

“Wha—”

“Follow,” it cut him off. The man didn’t move, and it pressed the blade harder, ripping the shallowest layer of skin. He did not seem to need any more convincing.

“W-who are yo—” They drove a finger to their lips, demanding silence. His voice went mute. She tilted her head in the direction of the little alley behind Shia Co’s building. His pupils shrunk to the size of dust specks, and he very much looked like he did not want to comply. Espa gave him the smallest push, hearing him whimper at the blade sunken deeper. Slowly, he finally moved.

Espa walked beside him, not releasing his back from the pressure of the dagger. A passerby might find the scene suspicious, so it was a thin thread to walk on, but they didn’t have much trouble with it. The target tried turning around and delaying their course a few times, but a cold glare and the sharp tip of the small blade piercing his skin was enough to get him back on track.

When they reached the alley, thankfully empty, she let him go. He scrambled on his feet, putting the widest distance he could between them.

“Who—what do you want? I-is it money? I don’t—this isn’t—”

“Please be calm,” it said. “We don’t want to draw too much attention.”

Ferdinand, again, did not seem very eager to comply, and his chest weaved. Espa slowly walked in his direction, and he tried to turn to escape. With a sigh, it drew a small gun from under its cape. He froze, taking a step back. They walked forward, backing him up against the wall.

Without a word, Espa shoved his head on the ground and got her weight over him, weapons secured to her vest. They muffled his sparkle of a scream in a second, moving their hands to his throat next. He squirmed, hoarse gasps coming out of his mouth as his airway was constricted, but to a person his size, he wasn’t actually very strong. It didn’t move, legs on each side of him pinning the assignment’s body to the ground, and, in a few minutes, he finally ceased to struggle. The weapon looked around, making sure nobody had seen it. The busy people hurrying home passed by the other side of the street without a bother. With a muffled grunt, Espa got its target over its shoulders.

The sun was almost gone now. They’d do well to hurry.

--

When Ferdinand awoke—a bit dazed and still groggy—opening his eyes, he was immediately aggressed with a harsh light to his face.

He whined and tried covering his face against it, only to find that he could not. He closed his eyes shut to shield them from the light instead, letting out a groan.

Oddly, the sound that came out was muffled.

He took a moment to process it before he tried, again, making a sound. Was this...? Was there something inside his mouth?

Through his eyelids, he saw it when the flashlight was turned off, and he opened and closed them again, unable to recover his vision.

“Took you long enough,” an annoyed voice said nearby him. Ferdinand tried narrowing his eyes open to catch sight of what was even happening. Spots danced in his vision and he tried blinking them away.

A brunette woman stood in front of him.

Who are you? He tried to ask, only growing in distress when remembered that he could not. Ferdinand screamed through the gag—because that was it, they had gagged him—but barely any sound came out. Someone stepped on his thighs. His breath got caught up on his throat.

“A noisy one, huh? She did tell me you were loud. Didn’t expect this much. But go ahead,” she said, leaning over his chair—a chair. He was sitting down. No he—he was... he was tied to it? Every detail that made it through Ferdinand’s dazed mind only added up to his newfound and slowly-growing terror. “You can even scream if you want. Nobody that cares is gonna hear you, anyway.”

The woman—her light skin was a sharp contrast to her coal-dark black hair, barely falling over her shoulders. Her expression was harsh, accentuated by the myriad of thin, light scars across her face, and it made a chill run down his spine—she had to be younger than him, in her thirties at most. Ferdinand’s eyes darted around, trying to access his situation as it dawned on him.

He had been kidnapped.

This was—no, this was unreal. This couldn’t be. These things didn’t actually happen to people. But yet here he was, tied to a chair by rough rope—so terrifyingly tight that he truly, actually couldn’t even move—in some basement, and his captor was a young woman with a glare so evil that in other circumstances he would have thought her a villain of some film.

No, but this—this was a dream. It could only be it. The stress of the week was catching up to him, and when he’d gotten home today the worries flooded into his brain and followed him to slumber. It could only be it.

Although the longest he stayed awake, growing more and more alert with adrenaline at every second, the harder it was to cling onto that.

Then all of a sudden, his world went red with pain. He screamed. The cloth between his teeth didn’t let it be heard.

“Eyes on me. I’m talking to you.”

Through tears, Ferdinand set his eyes back on the woman’s face. She didn’t shift her expression in the slightest, but from her arm, in her hands it was...

She had just stabbed him in the leg.

He cried out again, trying to get her off him. She didn’t budge. It was like he wasn’t struggling at all.

She twisted the knife, and for a second Ferdinand thought he’d black out from the pain.

When he came back to himself, he was panting, head hanging low and eyes opened wide. His thigh—where a kn-knife, an actual knife, and it was a big knife, was buried inside—was soaked in blood and pure agony radiated from it, making the world waver in front of him. The feeling of the viscous liquid travelling down his skin was as if something was crawling over his flesh. He thought he’d go sick.

This couldn’t be real.

This couldn’t be. W-where was he? Who was this woman? What had even happened? The memories of the few moments before he blacked out came back to him then, and he remembered—the lanky black kid who had approached him while he was waiting for an Uber and pressed a knife to his back, who had dragged him to an alley before pinning him to the ground. He moved his head around again.

“I said,” a hard slap was dealt across his face. Ferdinand’s mind stopped, the impact reverberating on his skull. His brain vibrated as if it had been shaken inside his head. “Eyes. On. Me.”

He squeezed his eyes shut and looked away.

His ears picked up a sigh.

“Espada.”

Then, a terrible, searing pain shot from his back, burning hot, and it took another scream out of him. There was someone behind him. As soon as Ferdinand could move again, he tried moving his head behind to see who—

“Ah-ah,” the woman grabbed his chin, forcing him to look at her face. He closed his eyes again. Oh, no. Oh, God, oh God, this was really happening and he was locked in some shady room, and he was gagged and tied up, and there was a knife on his leg and a goon behind him and—

The hard, flaming metal pressed against his spine again, and Ferdinand screamed for the fifth time that night. His eyes opened against his will, and he tried—god, he tried—frantically squirming away from the pain, but between the sharp nails digging into his face and the harsh ropes digging into his limbs there was no escape. He sobbed, waiting for whoever it was to retract the tool from his skin.

They didn’t.

Ferdinand’s shut eyes were overflowing with water, and the pain wouldn’t stop. He whined, he begged and pleaded through the cloth between his teeth, but it wouldn’t go away and it kept making his mind flash red. His skin was being torn apart.

He might have screamed again.

“Eyes on me,” she commanded again, her angry voice making it through his clouded conscience. He couldn’t think. He just opened his eyes, trying to plead without words, and was met with a smile forming on her face.

The burning finally stopped.

Ferdinand panted, blinking the tears away. From a distant corner of his mind, he registered the clang of metal hitting the floor. Her hand, still, did not leave his face, and he couldn’t turn it away from her.

A devilish grin spread through her lips. He flinched in terror. “See? Was not that hard.”

She dropped his face, and Ferdinand could swear his heart was going to rip right through his ribcage. Blood pulsed on his ears and he could—he was pretty sure you weren’t supposed to taste your own fear. He was gonna go sick.

When the woman reached out her hand at his face again, he flinched away—without success—and she lightly cupped his cheeks. With such lightness that it was almost like that same hand didn’t have a blade inserted on his leg moments prior. Fuck. Fuck! It hurt, he needed to get away from her, away from this place and—

“Now,” she cut off his thoughts with a calm voice. She spoke slowly. Pragmatically. As a teacher berating a boy for being too lousy in class. “I will remove your gag. And you will do your best not to scream, hm? It won’t make a difference, of course, but you can afford to be the slightest bit polite to your hosts,” there it was again, that terribly wide smile. “Can’t you?”

I will remove your gag.

Ferdinand did not want her nails anywhere near his face a second longer, but he did not want to be gagged, either. He braced himself for the touch of smooth and slender fingers on his face again, but they didn’t come—instead, a set of cold hands approached his head from behind, making him freeze up, and within a few seconds, there was nothing muffling his mouth anymore.

He was trembling. Oh, God, he was truly, actually trembling from fear. He didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know what this woman wanted from him. His breath started coming short—he could breathe a bit better now, without the thing constricting his mouth, but it still didn’t feel enough—and he sucked in his lips inside to avoid making a sound. The woman seemed pleased. Against himself, his body had the audacity to slightly relax.

The woman, then, stayed quiet for an awfully long amount of time, idly watching him from her own chair like a spider watching the food try and squirm in its web. Ferdinand subtly sent glances around the room, trying to access his surroundings. His eyes every now and then darted back to her, who seemed lazily still, as if waiting for him to do something. Her seat had its back turned to him and her legs were spread on its sides, face resting against the wood. The room he was in was not dark—not like the shady basements from cop movies he’d seen—but brightly lit by an electrical lamp. He couldn’t see what was behind him, for every time he dared move his head too much, a painful grip would put it back in place—he couldn’t see whose it was, but he got the message well enough. He glanced up and down the farthest he dared, heart beating faster when he saw the brown stains on the floor, which looked a suspicious and terrifying lot like dried blood, and then he catched a glimpse of tools in the wall. Whips. And blades. And devices he’d never before seen.

He genuinely thought he would faint from the sight.

Another painful pulse of agony seared through his mind and brought his attention back to his bleeding leg—the woman had just left the weapon in there, not making any move to acknowledge it, and it hurt like hell. Ferdinand breathed sharply through his nose, teary, and weakly tried to wiggle his hands behind the chair he was tied to—only for the same firm grip to grab them with so much strength he thought it might crush his fingers.

“Ouch—sorry! I won’t do it again, please, let me go!”

The woman lifted an eyebrow in front of him. He half expected her to say something, but she stayed as quiet as she had been for the past ten minutes—or perhaps it had been hours—and all of a sudden Ferdinand couldn’t take it anymore.

“You—I beg you, I don’t know who you are or what you want, but if it’s money I swear you don’t have to do this, I’ll give it to you, please—” he choked on his own breath. After having found his words, he discovered he could not stop them from spilling out anymore. “We don’t need to do this, please don’t h-hurt me, I’ll—”

A pair of hands closed around his neck. Ferdinand’s voice died in his throat.

“Espada,” the woman berated. Whoever was behind him loosened the grip, and he could have sobbed in relief again—weren’t he paralyzed by fear.

“Well,” she sighed, stretching her arms over her head. “Since you have already gotten comfortable and put behind that awfully loud panicking of yours,” she got up. He did not dare move his eyes from her. “We should get started, shouldn’t we? Espa,” she called. Suddenly, the presence behind Ferdinand seemed to disappear, and when he tried looking behind—nothing restrained his head this time—there was nobody.

He snapped his eyes back to the woman, breath hitching when he saw her—now standing stiffly by her side—, the kid who had pulled him to that alley.

If the woman looked all too calm for having just kidnapped someone and locked them in her basement, the kid looked almost bored. She didn’t look satisfied, nor glared at him cruely—like a predator enjoying the view of its prey squirming into a trap, unlike her—but didn’t look upset either, nor distressed or sympathizing in the slightest. He didn’t know what terrified him the most. The fact that his captor didn’t seem at all fazed or bothered at the sight of him trembling in fear, or that she held no sign in her eyes of willingness to let him go.

The woman nodded to her, and the girl—because it was it, she was an actual, little girl, probably not many years older than his own nephews—started to speak.

“Ferdinand Garcia Porto,” she recited, in a monotone but clear voice. He froze up at his full name. “Forty-six years old. Chief Information Security Officer at Shia Cosmetics. Single. One older brother, living in the capital. Parents still alive. In this field for almost twenty years. Lives on street Augusto Campães, number ninety-eight. Preferred coffee order is the classic latte from the store a floor below your office, preferably with butter biscuits. Takes average of twelve minutes on the course from work to your house. Blood type is B positive. You always lock and turn off the air-conditioner in your office before going home, even though staff would do that for you. Owns a white BMW that you drive to most places, usually parked in the top floors of Shia Co. Prefers warm showers. Always picks a different watch to wear for work,” Ferdinand only got more horrified with every sentence she uttered. The details got ever more specific and—what scared him the most—precise. They even knew what hospital he had been born in and how he’d stay in his office instead of going down to the cafeteria for lunch. The man could feel the thin composure he’d managed to gather over the past few minutes in which his torturer let him be to slowly evaporate. “You root for the football team São Paulo, first and foremost. You have an air-fryer at home, despite always forgetting to use it instead of the microwaver. Your car,” she added, voice as even as when she had started. Ferdinand wasn’t gagged anymore, but he didn’t think he could find it in him to speak if he tried, “malfunctioned this afternoon. You do not have anyone at home waiting for you to arrive.”

“Thank you, Espa,” the woman finally spoke, petting the kid’s head. She still didn’t move. Ferdinand’s stomach turned. “Now,” she resumed, turning to him and seeming to relish in his terror, “you can see we’ve taken a bit of effort into knowing you better. I’m sure you are a little confused why that is, Ferd,” he flinched at the nickname and another smile sliced through her features. He didn’t like this. Oh, he didn’t like this by one bit. “So let me lay it out on the table, plain and straight: You have access to something that we want, and we need you to get it for us. Simple, right?”

From the way she said it, Ferdinand started to fear that we she was talking about wasn’t just her and the kid.

“W...” he tried, not finding his voice. More tears pricked at the corners of his eyes. Ferdinand swallowed down, throat feeling dry—and so did his lips. He felt as if he had not been given water for days—, and opened his mouth again. “I-I—I don’t understand.”

“Espada,” she called again, and he flinched. The kid—her name couldn’t actually be Espada—approached him again, and he froze up—still, ever so still—and within a second, pulled the knife out of his leg. He screamed, then squirmed, the pain ignited in full force at the harsh move, and was left panting again. He felt his voice going raw. The girl stared at him—her black eyes seemed to stare into his soul, reading his every thought, every fear—and Ferdinand shook in his spot.

He tearily looked up at the woman, then back down at the kid feeling a bit of bile rise up. His blood had splattered on her.

He did not want to find out what the woman would get her to do with that knife. No—he, he could comply. He-he could—

“Y—yes, I’ll—anything. I’ll do it! J-just please,,” his lips trembled, and he didn’t know what it was—if the fear, the pain or the utter helplessness of this whole situation—but he started to sob. “Please don’t hurt me.”

--

Ms. Ann kept interrogating the target, and Espa barely had to keep him on the right track from then on. She asked, he answered. He seemed terrified.

The weapon just kept still in its place beside its handler and kept an eye on the assignment.

“Espada,” its ears caught in a sudden. They looked up at Ms. Ann. There was a displeased expression on her face and the weapon held itself from tensing up. “The poker.”

Espa did not think twice and turned back to grab a metal poker stick from the drawer near the whipstand. It could feel Ferdinand’s eyes on her as she did so, picking out a different one than the tool she’d discarded to the floor earlier, sharpening this one once, just in case. They turned the little heater on—there was always one on these basements—and warmed up the metal until it shone red.

“Miss,” they held it out to her. The assignment’s breathing turned more frantic behind their back. Espa ignored it.

“N-no, you don’t need to, you don’t need to! I just—like, I can’t do that, they’ll catch me and—”

With a hand gesture, Ms. Ann dismissed the poker Espa offered and pointed her to the man. The weapon looked at him and swiftly moved behind the chair, moving the collar of his shirt away—the man flinched so hard he might have moved out of the way weren’t if for the fact of being restrained—and traced the hot side of the stick to his shoulder.

The wail he let out carried so much agony Espa had to strain to hold back. God—it narrowed its eyes—couldn’t he be a little less whiny?

“Let’s try this again,” the handler said, still sitting by a chair turned backwards in front of him, as soon as the weapon removed the hot weight from the man’s body. He was full-on sobbing now. Espada just tuned it out. “I ask, you answer, remember? Unless you really like the knife and the stick?”

Ferdinand sucked in a breath.

“No! No, no, no, no—no n-no I don’t—please!”

Ms. Ann raised an eyebrow. She was mildly bored—she was used to difficult ones—but put on her face an expression of dangerous annoyance. It put the man at edge. The weapon could almost smell his fear.

Not long after, he was back to spilling out whatever Ms. Ann asked of him—passwords and codes and details on Shia Cosmetics’ cybersecurity structure, the handler noting all of them down—but he took a bit to cave on some questions. They had cut through his skin in more than one place by now, but Ferdinand would not stop going on and on about how his boss would kill him and how that would get him fired and so and so. Ms. Ann simply kept pressing. There were various tools by the floor now. The handler didn’t mind that it didn’t pick them up.

She wasn’t the slightest bit angry—unfazed, really, Espa noticed from behind the man—when she furrowed her brow and stared at him at another question gone unanswered.

“Hm,” she hummed. Ms. Ann snapped her head at Espa. The weapon didn’t move. “How was his family, again?”

Espa accessed the information it had memorized over the past week. They had gone over these way more times than they needed to in order to remember. “Two alive parents, living in town. Matias Machado Porto and Ana Rosa da Silva Garcia. Both descended from Argentinians. One older brother, professor of gymnastics at the Federal University of Ipabara in Anaconda. He has two young sons. Marco Garcia Porto. Gabriel. Ian,” it recited. Ferdinand seemed to grow ever more horrified with each of the names of his brother and nephews. He went still for the first time that night “Marco’s spouse is—”

“Don’t!” He yelled. There were more tears in his eyes. Espa allowed itself to be interrupted. “Don’t, please, please, you wouldn’t—you wouldn’t touch them.” He pleaded to Ms. Ann.

You wouldn’t touch them.

Well—Espa had done all the work of memorizing their addresses and their jobs’—even the boys’ school’s—so that wasn’t really that unlikely.

Ms. Ann shrugged. “That will depend solely on you. Your neck,” she said, mimicking the motion of a blade cutting through hers, “isn’t the only one in line, Ferd.”

The man went pale.

“No—you, you wouldn’t—” He interrupted himself, staring at his lap. Oh. So he hadn’t realized that yet. It silently looked up at Ms. Ann for permission to speak up.

“You have seen Miss,” it explained. “If you are not going to be useful, there’s no need in keeping you alive.”

Ferdinand slowly—almost comically so, if it weren’t for the utmost horror dawning at his eyes—, slowly turned his head back to look at Espada. They carefully kept any expression off their face. That was just facts. It hadn’t lied, and Ms. Ann hadn’t corrected it, so it was true. Leaving off a target that had seen their faces just walking free was risky, especially if he wouldn’t be worth the effort by providing them with anything useful. That was pretty obvious, actually. For someone working in technology and “information security”, he was really dense.

The man’s lips trembled as he looked back forward, defeated, before starting to shake with yet more sobs. Espa’s hand didn’t waver behind him. The poker stick had started to cool off, so they had heated it again, holding it near the man, far enough that it wouldn’t burn him on accident with all his wiggling around.

He didn’t put up much of a resistance after that.

With the ordeal done—Ms. Ann seemed satisfied enough with the information of one session—Espa was ordered to go upstairs to fetch her briefcase. The weapon had just come up from the stairs and opened the door to the laundry room—with a slight sigh of relief at leaving the basement—when they bumped up with her.

--

Gi was a little bit on the edge today.

A bit after seven, Espada had come in through the backdoor carrying an unconscious man, and not sparing a look at her, reported to the handler. The girl did nothing but watch in horror as they both, without a glimpse of ceremony, dragged his limp body through the laundry room and went downstairs.

Downstairs.

To the basement.

She had sucked in a breath, dread sinking into her stomach. She didn’t like this. But she didn’t have a say in anything, so she just got out of the way and waited until they were both out of sight. Nobody had even laid a hand on her, but Gi still trembled. She didn’t—this wasn’t—

She had tried to forget about it and just focus on her chores. Chores. That. You just have to do your chores. That’s how you survive here. 

Washing the floor cloths by hand—and the clothes so particular that couldn’t be put on the washing machine lest get themselves completely ruined and earn her a beating—Gi tried her damn best not to think about the man being kept downstairs. He looked well-groomed, a bit rich. A terrifying, dangerous thought crossed over her mind but she repressed it with all her might. She had no idea what they wanted him for. He didn’t seem injured from a glance, but definitely unconscious. Had Espa drugged him to bring him here? Knocked him out with force? She couldn’t help but tense up at the image of the girl doing such things. But she knew she could. If Ann ordered, Espada would cease to be just a bored young kid and become a ruthless executioner in a blink.

Oh, god. Gisele covered her mouth with a hand.

She really, really hoped that they wouldn’t kill him. She didn’t know this man, she had never seen him at all—but she didn’t think she could stomach it if they did.

After a few hours—Gi had started shooting nervous glances at the locked door. What were they doing in there? The basement was apparently soundproof, so anything (anything) could be happening and she wouldn’t know—, she had successfully done most of the laundry, when she heard a lock click open and a very, very light set of steps come up from behind her.

Gi turned, eyes meeting Espada’s.

Her breath got caught up in her throat.

The kid was wearing a vest—a thing with a high neck that was suspiciously just the right height to cover the collar hugging her throat—and gloomy-looking pants, her hair loose with the blue bandana over her forehead like always. Her face, nothing in particular. Never anything in particular. Which only served to make Gi more horrified, because in her hands—and splattered on her clothes—was a gruesome amount of foul, red blood.

Espa caught her staring in the same second, and Gisele flinched. They just stood there, holding each other’s gaze for what felt like a very long amount of time, before the weapon broke the silence.

“Hello,” she said. It was so... tone-deaf it could have baffled Gisele if she wasn’t already trying not to collapse over her own legs.

“Is that his blood?” She spurted out, before thinking her words through.

For a second, she thought that Espada would tell her off for asking, but—

“Yes.”

She didn’t hesitate for a single moment in responding. There was no shift in her expression whatsoever.

Gisele just stood there, and Espa went straight through her towards the hall—she didn’t even try to process why—barely hearing the kid mutter a low thank you for your work before storming off out of her vision.

Gi leaned her hand against a wall, covering her mouth.

A bit of the blood had dripped on the floor.

--

Ms. Ann took the briefcase—Espa had become a bit worried about the servant, whom she bumped over while fetching it, but quickly shoved it out of her mind. There was a task at hand—and clicked it open with the key she carried in a string around her neck as Espa wiped out some of the fresh blood that had smeared from Ferdinand’s leg on them. There were a few jars in it, empty concoctions, needles, small pots. She took out one and analyzed it under the hard, white light of the basement. It had a blue tape around it and contained a transparent liquid. Satisfied with her pick, she opened it. The cap had a dropper attached.

“So, Ferd,” she spoke up all of a sudden, making the middle-aged man in the middle of the room flinch. Espa stayed in their spot, hands behind their back, silently watching him close. Ms. Ann looked at it and gestured for the weapon to get near. Espa wasn’t sure why, but they did. “We’ve had a nice little chat, haven't we? But now I think it’s time to get you home.” She picked a few drops of the substance, counting them. “How about we ride you back?”

“...W-what are you going to do?” His voice was hoarse and shaky from the time he’d spent screaming or weeping. The assignment looked absolutely drained.

“Do you know what is gamma-hydroxybutyric acid? Although, you might also know it as GHB,” she asked, not bothering with his question. Whatever color he still had in his cheeks drained from his face.

“N-no, y—you—please,” he started to plead, energy that wasn’t there before coming through his words. Ferdinand weakly strained against his restraints. Espa didn’t waste a second in sprinting towards him and immobilizing whatever movement he had by bending his neck a bit too much and making him halt from pain.

“Espada.”

It held back a flinch.

“Yes, Miss.”

A glare. Espa’s heart skipped a beat. It hurried back to its designated spot as Ms. Ann kept counting the drops into the picker. Its blood pumped a bit too fast and they almost, almost tensed up. Breathe in, it told itself. Just breathe. You didn’t mess up. It was just a warning. Just be good and don’t disobey again.

“Give him this,” she idly handed them the picker. “All of it. Make him swallow,” she glared at him from the corner of her eye. It was enough to pin Ferdinand frozen in his chair.

Espa merely took it into her hands and slowly walked towards the assignment. Whatever was this drug, it didn’t have any smell. Espa faintly recalled hearing some other handlers use this GHB before, but it wasn’t any knowledge they needed to have. Within a minute, it had the assignment locked in place as it shoved all of the oily liquid down his throat, grabbing his skin a bit too tight whenever he struggled.

Ms. Ann smiled at both of them. Ferdinand shook with a violent chill, already seeming dizzy.  Espada didn’t allow the one that went through her to make it to the surface.

In less than half an hour, Ferdinand Garcia Porto was off to dreamyland.

In less than two, he was back home, dropped by his living room’s floor, bloody pants long disposed of.

--

Francisca watered her plants. It hadn’t rained in the last few days, so she, unfortunately, couldn’t count on God to do it for her today. It was a rather warm Friday afternoon. She couldn’t leave her hydrangea to die in this heat.

She was just emptying the plastic bowl she used to pour water and taking a moment to relish in the lovely scent of the flower, when the woman catched sight of a visitor through the metal porch.

Ciça smiled and waved at her, mildly surprised.

“Oh, hello, Espa!” The kid looked a bit stiff at being noticed—though she usually did, to be fair—but coily raised her hand back at Ciça in a way of greeting. It was a bit unusual for her to come by this hour. It was usually much later, the woman had come to learn over the past week, when her parents were sleeping or by late afternoon. “How are you doing?”

“Good afternoon, Ciça,” she said, in that soft voice. She wasn’t wearing her cape today. Ciça supposed it was too hot to. (Although she did remember the kid just wearing it in any darn weather.) Instead, Espa had a green shirt and some trousers. It was a bit weird of a color in her, the woman having grown used to only seeing her in yellow and black. Always black.

Ciça went up to the only other flower in the frontyard—a blooming daisy. It was a new addition to her garden that she was quite happy with—and took the spare key from under its pot.

“So,” she smiled, unlocking the gate. Espa entered, quiet as always. “What do you want to do today? I’m a bit busy and had planned to watch the new episode of Love Cataracts today, but obviously, you’re welcome to hang around,” she said. “Oh! And I’ve also bought a cake! Do you like chocolate?”

They stared at her. “...Chocolate?”

Ciça offered her a smile and Espa seemed to light up a bit. Now that she thought about it... She was looking the slightest bit tense—uh, that is, more than normal—, but the kid always seemed to get excited about food. Well, excited might be a bit of a hyperbole, in her case. “Yes. There’s a bakery across the town that I didn’t really visit before but a friend convinced me to try it and their cakes are delicious. Would you like some, honey?”

The kid stayed still at that, seeming to process her words. Ciça waited. She never knew what was going on in Espa’s mind. Though she could catch the slightest glimpse—a slight switch in her face that seemed to be the closest she ever got to tears—before it was gone, replaced by the same soft mask of indifference. Although this time, she seemed to be trying to give her a smile. Oh. It made Ciça a little proud of herself.

“...Yes. If it is okay,” the kid said, avoiding her gaze. “Thank you, Ciça.”

The woman sighed, a bit content. She found it sorta comforting when she managed to get a nice thing for her.

“Of course,” a grin spread through her face. “Kids gotta have sweets, after all,” she recited, pulling Espa inside. There was a bit of a weird smell in her—faint and carrying a hint of copper—but Ciça didn’t linger on it much.

She had more important things to focus on.

Like the new episode in the opera—Anastasia was to finally defeat the Executioner and get rid of her family’s cursed heirloom sword and she was quite excited—or the two new additions to her home:

The blooming daisy in the frontward; and this closed, timid and oddly kid.

Previous // Next

The knife rose up in her grip, glimmering silver by its sharp end. She evaluated her target, planning her blow. Her aim, now, was unwavering. She'd become good at doing this, over the years. When first it'd been a daunting task—a mess—it hardly fazed her by now. No; today, it was second nature. She did not even spare attention to the tears anymore.

And so, as she had, countless times in her life, she expertly angled the blade. As she had, countless times in her life, she brought it down.

The cutting board rattled a little with the impact. The onions sliced easily under her practiced cuts, allowing her to part their form in the little tiny squares she liked. Ciça hummed to herself, quick-handed. On the far corner of the kitchen, water boiled. Its soft gurgling was welcome company.

Soup, she was making today. It was a soft, early spring afternoon. The clouds were a lovely curtain to the shy heat outside, and there was a crisp chillness to the air. A slight breeze came in from the open doors and windows, carrying over a sweet smell. Her flowers. Ciça inhaled the scent of daisies and coriander, relished in the faint rustling of the widest leaves brushing together. It was a peaceful day.

The woman finished the onions, taking her time with the meat and potatoes. She dried up the pasta on the pan, shoved her vegetables in the other to brew. Steam rose in thin, slow wisps to hug the air. Ciça smiled a little to herself. All said and done, she washed her hands before picking up the book she'd left on the sofa table and stationing herself by the living room.

Ciça greatly enjoyed times like these. Some years ago—seven, now?—they were rare. It was always a high tension in her shoulders. Those days weren't so soft. Rather, sharp. Stinging to the touch. Suffocating. To balance sensitive information and a pile of secrets on her hands, both stained with the sickly crimson of blood. There wasn't always time to wash it before the next. She brought to her lips a mug of tea, sighing away the memories. The aftertaste of the drink made her itch for a snack; she should take a trip to the bakery too, she thought, before sun set. Get some butter and bread with her allowance to go with the soup. She found herself smiling to the rim of the cup with the idea. It wasn't like she could never treat herself to such luxuries too, before. She'd just never had the stomach to.

Ciça tried not to think much about that time. She couldn't remember food tasting good, then. It was pointless. Maybe it was the screams that soured it. Maybe it was the sleepless nights. It was like hunger: clawing at your insides to try and swallow everything, render your psyche in endless, all-consuming pain, until you gave in and sated it. She could not give herself the luxury of doing so. People needed her. To blend in with cruelty. To be the hands that carried out so much gore. To be unwavering in face of it all, be a cog in the machine, all so that nobody suspected it when files got stolen, when intel was suddenly missing. She'd been sent in to be hungry. She couldn't afford to feed. To sate on kindness.

Another rush of wind came from the open doors behind the couch, the gentlest of touches to caress her cheeks. Ciça closed her eyes, relishing in the comfort of her house. It was so safe, here. Her soup exhaled a delicious scent from the kitchen, relaxing her spirits. She took another sip from the tea.

Warm.

— + —

Whenever Ciça went out, she made sure to lock all of the doors and the padlock on the porch. There was barely a need these days. Still, old habits died hard. Decades of experience that reminded her it was always better to be prepared, even if it meant a minute or two double-checking her latches for good measure. The wide doors of the house they'd given her when she retired to remote work closed with a reassuring creak. She could oil them, if she wanted. She didn't like doors that closed too silent.

It were warm smiles and familiar waves that greeted the former handler when she made her way down the street towards the bakery. Olívia, a young girl that lived right next door, was walking her dog to the last rays of sun, as always. Ciça stopped to pet him, giggling at the over-excitement of the mixed puppy pawing at her clothes.

"Taking a walk, sweetie?" She asked the owner, out of politeness. The girl nodded, lips irking up as she pried a coily lock of hair behind her ear. Ciça received Mel's wet kisses with laughter bubbling out of her chest, easing him out of her legs when he tried climbing up her pants.

"Mellie!" She chastised and tugged at his leash, voice high with embarrassment. Ciça brushed it off, endeared. He was just growing, it was all. With an ache, she fondly recalled the time she'd been allowed a pet herself. Ciça brushed away the sadness from her smile. Told her to be gentle with him.

"It's commendable patience," she sighed with a pout. She'd learned the word commendable recently, and would find ways to use it at every turn. "You're very good, Ciça. I can't really be like you."

It was met with a laugh.

"I hope your mom is well," she wished as she adjusted her dog-driveled bag on her shoulders and went back on her way. "See you around!" Olívia flashed her a pleasant smile and traded down her own path with an I'll tell her you send a hug! Ciça hummed to the air. Some older neighbors, closer her age, were sitting by their own porches along the way too, calling her in greeting as she passed. She beamed at them, hellos and good evenings spilling past her lips with a newfound ease that hadn't been there back when she moved. She didn't bother catching bits of their resumed conversations. It was nerve-soothing, really, not having to pay attention to every bit of information—potential intel—thrown around her. This wasn't enemy territory, after all.

This was home.

Even the cashier—Leila, a younger woman that had moved in from the south of the state earlier this year—recognized her with some warm small-talk as she weighed her share. R$ 5.32 on a dozen loaves, tagged and paid over the owner, Gerúndio, on the way out. He prodded her with some of the new candy he'd received from a new provider when she went to grab the butter, adding some on her bag as a gift. She giggled, waving him goodbye as she made her way back under the cooling streets and the laying sun.

She was in no rush, so it was nearly night by the time she finally turned the corner that'd lead to her house. It was a fancy one. Not new, but cared-for. Comfortable. She had had nothing to complain when they told her this was the spot they'd give her, out of her selected locations. Ciça, an outstanding agent, had no reason to not be awarded by years of hard work with such decorum. Good city, large house, generous allowance. Nobody else in the neighborhood knew, given—and she wasn't gonna tell. The Dove—her loyalty, on paper—didn't know it all either, and she was ready to take it with her to the grave. It was her job, after all. She'd completed her duty years ago, to both of the parties, valuable leakages to her real side. Now, Ciça could settle herself with periodic reports and analysis on her issued computer, little work on the side. She still passed on all that she could reasonably get her hands on, but it'd be suspicious to get too involved in her position. Connections hadn't been cut. They'd only softly faded into the background. The chirp of evening birds was louder than them, out here.

It'd taken a while to get used to. This ease. Not being on high alert every day of every week for decades, always waiting to be found out or pushing down regrets to make her role work. It'd taken a while—but now, she couldn't be happier. Had she ever, in her wildest dreams, imagined such a peaceful life for herself? It'd always felt so out of reach. Undeserved. She considered it a miracle of sorts. And, Ciça would merrily think, she wasn't going to trade it for anything else.

But when dusk fell, so did a heavy weight on her shoulders.

She had barely turned the street when she caught glimpse of it: The car, standing just in the corner of the road. Her system was quick to flood with something foreign. She made a point to ignore it—the people lounging inside the vehicle as to not invite suspicion—as she got the front gate keys from her pocket and hummed some melody to open the door. It was sleek in the corner of her eye. White, to blend in. Subtle enough that nobody would pay much attention to it. But Francisca knew better.

Even after years, it struck to the front of her attention whenever she saw it. Glistening, silver. Too tiny and too bland to draw a look from anyone else, placed in the corner of the hood. Ciça recognized it for what it was.

The logo of a flying, glistening dove.

She carefully settled her bags on the bench after the door. It was dark inside, all windows closed. For more than just caution, really—over here in this part of the country, mosquitoes flooded through every crack at twilight if you didn't shut all the doors regardless of the weather. Ciça flicked on a switch to let some light in.

She grabbed a jacket. Came out from the back door, to approach the people awaiting for her.

Her first thought, obviously, had been that she was absolutely fucked. She hadn't brought in any of her knives from the kitchen—acting like you'd been caught was a sure way of getting you caught—but couldn't help her muscles from tensing. Stance ready, eyes watching for any hints of a threat as if they'd never stopped scanning for them. She carefully kept it all away from her face and approached the car with an easy smile.

"Evening, gentlemen!" She greeted them. Ciça allowed herself to lean over the top of the window, cracking the driver a wink. On cue, the tinted panel rolled down. The muffled sound was grating to her ears. It was like nails on a chalkboard.

"Francisca," the man nodded in way of greeting. Ciça's smile became strained. It did not drop. The other person who'd been in the car with him had come out in the while she'd taken to go inside. Keeping guard, she figured. So cautious. She straightened up to her full height, hands in her pockets. He didn't continue; just took off a pair of sunglasses and wiped them on his shirt. The agent stationed across the car to watch the streets shot her a look. She didn't spare him much attention, but she clocked something odd about him. Like an itch on the middle of her back she couldn't quite locate to scratch. He looked younger than the driver. Wary, too.

From inside the car, he resumed, "Long no see. I take it you have packed already?" He asked, cold. The order made itself clear from between his words. Pack. Fuck, was it really urgent? Ciça minutely tensed. She forced her frame to relax.

She made her tone remain light. Lighthearted. "As soon as they told me," she lied. "Was just coming from the grocery store to grab a couple last." She cast a look over the houses across the street. Lights on, only a few kids and gossipy elders outside at the hour. Her throat felt a little tight. "Apologies for keeping you in the wait."

He ignored her half-assed attempt at sounding natural and put his glasses back on, despite the sunset. Ciça's eyes didn't linger on its beauty. His pale fingers curled up to tap on the steering wheel. "You recall it won't take long. Your brother has been looking forward to tonight." He glanced at her from over the darkened lens. "Should we come in to help you get it all in the car?"

Ciça frowned.

"Oh, thank you," she went along. Didn't purse her lips. A brief meeting with a "brother"? This wasn't code for anything good. She cast another look at the kid keeping watch outside of the car. His arms were crossed, idle. Forcefully so. "That's very kind of you."

There was a pause. A click, and she got out of the way for him to open the door. The kid just behind took the cue, crossing the distance to follow suit. Then it clicked. It dawned on Ciça what was it she wasn't being able to put a finger on, at his presence.

A weapon.

Brown skin, like cherry wood, short hair plastered to his brow in black, thin strands. By the looks, something past fourteen. An Arara? Likely. It didn't sit right with her to have something high like a Condor being sent just to retrieve her for some meeting, especially after so much time. Still, he looked enough at ease in a civil environment that this couldn't be one of the lowest-ranked—the Sabiás, confined to the undergrounds of the base, dispatched for simple executions and rarely going out. Out of the three, it was most reasonable. His eyes, black, caught hers for a moment. From the slight flinch, she assumed he hadn't meant to find her looking back. The reaction was subdued enough, trained instinct. Ciça cracked him a shy smile and made a point to let it slide. It wasn't lost on her how his relaxation was minute.

The agent—the fellow handler, she could now conclude—crossed the doorway with large strides, the weapon behind not straining in the slightest to keep up. Used to it, probably. Ciça politely held open the door for both, then closed it behind her as she left the remaining sunset for the bright, vast hall.

— + —

When Ciça flicked on the rest of the lights indoors, she saw the handler letting out a strained sigh. He leaned against the kitchen balcony, caressing the bridge of his nose and not bothering to keep up the cool, composed pretense now that they were inside. Ciça tried not to let her eyebrows raise. How unprofessional. The weapon, on the other hand, had settled himself on the corner of the living room and assumed a proper parade rest. She eyed his position for a split second, knowing any longer would make him nervous. Nodded to herself; it was a good one. He'd been trained well.

"I'll go straight to the point," he said, after Ciça had offered him a glass of water. The weapon stood there, awkwardly holding his own. Ciça was just about to tell his handler to give him permission to drink it when he'd started talking. A finger was pointed in her direction. She couldn't help it, then. A brow lifted on its own. "Francisca Vieira Correia, you have been summoned by the sector administration to resume your active duties. Effective immediately."

Ciça's second eyebrow joined the first.

"I see," she said, even thought she did not, not quite. Tried to keep the frown out of her expression. "And to what do I give the honor…?"

There was a pause. Hesitation. "It's too confidential to discuss here. I have orders to instruct you to ready yourself for a day and two nights at the base for briefing." He stared into her eyes. His were light, almost blue. Ciça faced him back, unfazed. "It is an urgent matter."

She let the silence stretch for a moment, replying with a hum. It sounded cynical even to her ears.

He was still a little unexperienced, she figured. At her silence, he let the tension line his posture. He was a whole head shorter than her. Most people were. And she wasn't brittle either. It seemed to dawn on him, then, his resolve faltering. Amused, she spared him.

"Sure," she shrugged. "I will get some clothes and toiletries in a bag. I reckon bedding and the like is provided?" She didn't wait for him to answer. "I would appreciate it if you borrowed me your weapon to get it over with quicker."

It was written plain and clear on his face that he did not like the idea. Still, she was a senior agent after all. Tight-lipped, he granted the permission. The weapon just gave him his slightest of bows and hurried to follow Ciça into the master bedroom.

She didn't bother turning on many of the other lights. Ciça very pointedly ignored the feeling of dread sinking on her stomach, the sourness pooling under her tongue. Tightened the strings on her duffel bag containing sleep and formal wear for five days, just to be sure. It was never just "a day and two nights," she reckoned, bitter. She gave some of the easy stuff for the kid to pack, roll or carry.

"Thank you," she smiled at him as he held them. From his stunned freezing, it wasn't something his handler did a lot.

Ciça felt her smile tightening. Brushed it away, before he could see it.

This was exactly why she didn't miss her field days.

Three minutes later, Francisca had gathered all that she'd need for the rendezvous and gotten her groceries in the drawer. She left the weapon holding the last of the bags as she moved all of her perishables to the freezer, opened the windows to put the more fragile of her plants indoors and away from the sun. She bit her lip. She hoped they wouldn't wither while she was away.

"Done?" He asked, impatient. Ciça made a point of ignoring him and checking up on her latches and locks one last time. She eyed the half-brewed soup over the oven. A wave of something she didn't try to name washed over her, but she locked it away. Bit her lip.

She carefully packed half of it into a tupperware and shoved it inside the bag along with her other stuff.

He was tapping his foot when she finally rose back to the living room. She didn't roll her eyes. Instead, and to his obvious annoyance, she just asked, "Shall we?"

She tried not to feel too deep an ache at closing the front gate and guarding away the key, too. Ciça breathed in. Held it in there, sighed out.

The handler put her bags over her shoulder, walking away and towards the car without looking back. She wasn't really in a position to refuse.

She waved at Olívia on the way to the car, receiving a bright reaction in response. The girl was coloring something from a book on her own frontyard. Ciça waved her, and the people's curious eyes watching her from their own porches, a final goodbye, plastering a smile over her face.

Take care! I'll be back soon.

A frown. Has something happened?

Her smile didn't waver, even as her escorts got in and buckled up their seatbelts. Night had fallen; no stars could be seen above, yet, but all light had vanished from the sky in the short while she'd taken to pack up. It now wore something akin to a nauseous shade of dead, navy blue. The clouds surely were to blame.

She merely reassured them, before getting in the car:

Just some family matters.

Next (coming)

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