Prologue
Two Months Earlier:
The Underground, an entire world built under the planet’s surface, the artificial light gives the residents complexions so pale it’s as if their skin was bleached. The filtered air was stale and tasteless, much like the kind of ice-cold people who run it. The Order keeps the Underground a secret. They couldn’t let the people know that they were training assassins, warriors, thugs and all sorts of unmentionable characters under the guise of their utopia. Utopia doesn’t tolerate murder. At least not openly.
The Anarchists drove them to this, to the mass murders masquerading as defence, mercy killings, accidents. The world needed the Order to keep it from crumbling into chaos, but the Anarchists were not called so for nothing, their way of life threatened everything the Order and its leader, Minister Hunt, stood for. That’s why the Underground existed, to train people who would fight for the Order’s cause valiantly...and discretely. They could not be seen, they could not be heard, they could not hesitate, they could not regret. They were trained to kill; they were trained not to care. Some may even say they were trained to love it.
Alexander Scotch, or Scott to some, was one such trainee. His almost jet-black hair contradicted his pale, sunless skin and his eyes constantly shifted, never missing a detail. His name ‘Alexander’ meant to protect while ‘scotch’ was an old slang word for ruin. Protect and Ruin. Two conflicts in his name, and perhaps in himself. His best friend Cleaver Hatchet, known behind his back and occasionally to his face as HatchetFace, played endlessly with his switchblade. There was a reason both his first and last names were sharp objects. Their mentor, Smokey Merlot, glared at Cleaver coldly, causing the boy to stop fidgeting.
“As I was saying,” continued Smokey. “You must strike efficiently. If you hesitate, the Anarchist may take the opportunity to kill you himself, or even torture you.” Smokey acted as if this was unspeakable when Scott had often heard the screams coming from the bowels of the underground city, known as Stadt Wahrheit which when roughly translated from German, meant city of truth. They extracted the truth with any means necessary. “Can anyone tell me what they think is the most effective way to dispatch an Anarchist?”
Cleaver’s hand immediately shot up, Smokey nodded to him. “A blade.” Scott laughed but nobody else dared. Cleaver’s face was horribly scarred from cuts that didn’t heal right and some thought he did it to himself, others thought that that’s why he was obsessed with knives. Scott knew that Cleaver got those cuts doing something a novice was never expected to do, protecting someone.
“Ah Mr. Hatchet, as predictable as always,” chuckled Smokey. A few students hazarded a snicker. “That is an effective method, but let’s get a little more creative.” Creative? That was unusual. Strike hard, strike fast and don’t leave a trace. That was the code. That was the rule.
Defying it could mean death.
“Poison,” said another voice, female. Scott turned to see Lilith Nightshade, poison specialist named for toxic plant. Of course. Most of these students seemed to specialise in what they were named for. She had silvery blonde hair and focused blue eyes. “There are seven toxins that can be untraceable, even after the target is dead.” Target. Never ‘victim’.
“Good, although that requires interaction with them beforehand, or at least access to their food, water and so on. If you have the skill, it may work.”
“What about an arrow or a poison-tipped dart?” Archer Buckshot. Archie. The boy never missed his target so you always made sure you weren’t it. He had auburn hair and his eyes were hazel.
“Good, you can be far from them and still kill them.” Smokey glanced around pointedly, trying to pressure more responses.
“Break their neck,” Scott piped in, everyone looked at him. As always. He felt the burn of their gaze but he kept his eyes pointed straight ahead, to the cast iron wall on the other side of the room. “It’s quick and they don’t have to see you.” Cleaver was fiddling with his one razor sharp earring that was in the shape of a knife. They didn’t allow piercings most of the time, but this was a weapon and Cleaver kept it concealed behind his shaggy blonde hair. There was a substance on the tip of the mini-knife that stopped blood from clotting. A big enough scratch and you were done for.
“Perfect,” Smokey smiled, baring surgically sharpened teeth. “That’s what I was looking for. Quick, effective, deadly.” Smokey was unlike any of the instructors Scott had. Smokey didn’t teach them because he served the Order, he taught them to kill because he loved to kill. It wasn’t unheard of in novices but Smokey was the only instructor who openly condoned murder. But he was also the leader of the Underground, you never said ‘no’ to Smokey Merlot. And Scott was his favourite student, was everyone’s favourite student. Smokey glanced at his watch. “Ok, it’s time. You’re dismissed.” The novices filed out of the room.
“Are you excited about the field mission?” Cleaver asked, barely containing his own anticipation. On the field mission, novices were paired with assassins, who often shared their speciality, and went on a mission with them. It was meant to signal their transition from students, to full-fledged killers. A touching moment.
“I suppose,” Scott shrugged. He felt different about killing; he couldn’t imagine himself taking a life as easily as the other novices could. But he’d never say so. He was the golden child for some reason or another and he knew that letting them know what he felt ¬- that he felt – would take that away. And besides, if he wasn’t a killer, what was he?
“You suppose? You’ll probably get paired with someone like Gray Macabre. That man’s a genius. He has the highest skill level and the biggest death toll.” Scott could see Cleaver imagining himself in Gray’s place.
“Hey HatchetFace,” said Archie. “Quit jabbering or you’ll be late for assembly.” The other assassins-in-training were already lined up in their own sector of the main courtyard, next to the trained thieves and the trained terrorists. They all knew the same secret that was never spoken, even to one another. The Order was supposed to protect citizens of Angel City from criminals and terrorists; little did the people know that the Order had been creating them since before anyone could remember. There was Stadt Wahrheit before there was the Order. The only real enemy the Order had was the Anarchists.
All of the novices from every ‘profession’ stood clad in their black uniforms and stared at the large screen that stood at twenty storeys high and was about the length of the entire courtyard. Soon there was a screech of feedback and Minister Hunt’s face appeared on the screen. His face managed to appear both tight and leathery. It was wrinkled in odd places because he never smiled and his eyes were the colour of steel. He wore the same suit and on the suit was pinned the same badge, it had on it the symbol for the Order. Scott thought it resembled a snake but everyone else insisted that it was to symbolise the infinite possibilities that the Order opened up.
“The Anarchists have been trying to infiltrate our society, but we have caught and executed the spies,” Minister Hunt said triumphantly. The novices cheered loudly, pumping their fists into the filtered air. “But do not think that the threat is subsiding. The Anarchists are everywhere. They could be anyone. Somebody, anybody, could be an Anarchist.” And so his speech went on, like it did every Thursday. Scott zoned out but forced his face to keep its stony expression. His mind was not meant to wander and if he was caught daydreaming he could say goodbye to whatever free time he was allocated.
As the golden child, he was given small privileges, like he could receive seconds sometimes at dinner, he could have an extra ten minutes of freedom or he could even be permitted the one thing they were all denied, television. The instructors had so many and they watched films and television ‘shows’. The novices were only meant to watch Minister Hunt’s lectures. And the month before, he had been given a bite of the most wonderful food imaginable. It was called chocolate. Scott thought about his parents. Surely he had them, right? Everyone had parents. A mother, a father and some even had extra family members like a brother or sister. Others got a puppy. Scott had no knowledge of any of these. When he flicked through his memories it was all training, training and training. Family was a luxury that even the golden child was not permitted.
The speech finished and the screen faded to black with Hunt’s cry of ‘Victory to the Order!’ and Scott zoned back in. The novices slowly dispersed, free to go and do whatever they wanted for a brief time. Cleaver was all pumped about whatever the Minister had been saying. Scott looked at his friend’s scars. Cleaver had earned those scars when he protected Scott from a violent instructor. They were five-years-old and the instructor was a ‘complete ass’ as Cleaver had said. Scott had slipped while doing one-handed push-ups and the instructor was threatening to castrate him, although the fact that a five-year-old Scott had no idea what that meant rendered the threat pointless. Cleaver had stood up for Scott and had said his impolite remark to the instructor’s face. The instructor then cut up Cleaver’s face and told him he couldn’t be an assassin with such an unforgettably ugly face. Cleaver then kicked him between the legs and said: “That’ll just mean I’ll have to be even better. You can’t remember what you didn’t see.” And to add insult to injury, Cleaver stole the instructor’s flick knife. He didn’t get in trouble. Apparently everyone thought the guy was an ass.
And here they were, roughly eleven years later and still best friends. “What’s up HatchetFace?” asked Dantean something-or-other. Scott couldn’t recall. Chances are he didn’t want to. He was probably an idiot.
“Do not call him that,” Scott said through gritted teeth. “Or I’ll rip your throat out.” Scott hated people calling Cleaver HatchetFace, which is why most people didn’t do it while Scott was around. Cleaver actually thought it was a cool nickname, but he didn’t say so. Scott hated Cleaver being insulted for protecting him. It was partially guilt for the scars and partly loyalty because Cleaver was his best friend.
“Alright, whatever Scotch.” Dantean Whatever walked away, shaking his head.
“Dude, you’ve got to calm the hell down, you get more worked up than me,” Cleaver chuckled, again playing with the switchblade. “Now we better hurry because otherwise we’ll have no time before dinner.” The two boys ran towards their allocated home, in Quadrant 5, Level 4, Room 115. The lived in a small, dingy room and most people would wrinkle their noses, but to the boys, this was home. Two metal-framed beds were shoved against the wall and bolted to the floor. The mattresses were the colour of gruel and their blankets were navy blue. They had two shelves on the wall, one each. On Scott’s, there were a few books and maps and some sketches he’d done of Stadt Wahrheit. On Cleaver’s, there was a small arsenal of knives and he had some pictures displaying different fighting techniques. But beside it on the wall hung the knife he’d taken from the instructor, a sort of symbol of who they were and why they were friends. So if they ever fought for whatever reason, maybe a girl, but it wasn’t likely, they could remember the day they became friends. It was sentimental, yes, but they figured the knife made it manly. There was a small door with chipped paint that led to a cramped little bathroom and in the corner there was a metal and very uncomfortable chair. Cleaver threw himself down on his bed and yawned, showing the chipped tooth from when Scott had damaged it during a sparring session.
“That,” he said, “was a good day. Man, I can’t wait to get out of here and kill, can you?”
“Nope,” said Scott with false enthusiasm. He was good at fighting, good at the theory and preparation that goes into assassination, but he wasn’t sure he could bring himself to do the real thing. “Can’t wait.” Cleaver took out his dual swords and practiced his moves.
“Hey Scott, what do you think of Lilith Nightshade?” he asked, swinging his blades expertly.
“Uh...nice?” Scott said eloquently.
“Nice?” Cleaver stopped practicing and turned to face Scott. “She’s more than nice; she’s the most gorgeous creature to ever walk beneath the earth!”
“I can see you have a high opinion of her,” Scott noted, laying back on his uncomfortable bed and gazing up at the ceiling. “What’s with this all of a sudden?”
“I –I think I like her.”
“Congratulations. What has this got to do with me?”
“I need you to tell her that for me.” Scott shot up, looking at Cleaver incredulously.
“You’re not serious? You can kill with nothing more than your earring but you can’t tell Lilith Nightshade that you like her?” Cleaver’s freakishly pale face turned beet red.
“Well...yeah...pretty much.”
“That’s a little odd, don’t you think?” Scott raised his dark eyebrows. “Have you been inhaling some of those airborne toxins she’s been working on?”
“Maybe,” Cleaver looked suddenly anxious. “Do you think she did this? Do you reckon she invented a poison that makes me like her?”
“Cleaver, she’s a poison expert. She’s an assassin-in-training. She’s trying to kill, not to make you fall head over heels for her. You’re being paranoid.” Scott sighed and lay back down on his bed.
“I guess so...” Cleaver said. Then, after a moment of silence he added “So will you do it?” Scott’s groan was drowned out by the sound of the dinner siren. The two boys left the room so fast it was like they were flying.
The dining hall was massive; it was designed to fit in thousands, tens of thousands, of people. It was divided into coloured sections. Blue was for instructors, green was for thieves, orange for terrorists, red for assassins etcetera. Scott sat at his table and stared at his food, he always did this. He’d stare at it for a moment, remembering what it looked like because once he was out on the surface, he may not always have a meal to eat. For everyone else it was the opposite, don’t savour, don’t remember, just stuff your face. Lilith, Archie and a girl called Ember Torchwood sat across from Scott and Cleaver. Needless to say, Cleaver was very much distracted from his food. Then Scott remembered his mission.
“Oh, uh, Lilith, Cleaver likes you,” he then dug into his food as both Cleaver and Lilith turned bright red.
“Dude, you weren’t supposed to tell her while I was right here,” Cleaver whispered through his teeth.
“Well you should’ve told me that, I didn’t know. I’m not good at this,” Scott replied after swallowing a mouthful of mashed potato. He took a sip of water and resumed eating, while Cleaver made a face that implied he wanted to make that Scott’s last meal.
“Well, um, this is awkward,” stammered Lilith.
“I know, isn’t this funny? Because she likes Cleaver too,” Ember giggled. The look that Lilith gave her could’ve turned her to stone. Cleaver’s head snapped to look at Lilith, who was now even redder.
“You weren’t supposed to say anything,” she said, jabbing Ember with her elbow. Cleaver looked like he was about to fly away and Scott could barely bite back the laughter.
“Really?” Cleaver asked, looking at Lilith.
“Y-yeah...” she stammered.
“You want to... I don’t know...practice together sometime?”
“That sounds cool,” Lilith blushed.
“You know what?” asked Archie, who hadn’t been paying attention. “This needs more salt.”
Gender:
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