Part I: A fiery future singed at the tips.

Miracles are considered triumphs of charity, the epitome of faith and balance of forces. But more importantly miracles are considered the ultimate proof of God. For many, enlightenment extends from the appearance of symbolic figures, inexplicable events and answered prayers. Within minutes, an average human is transformed by the workings of God and converted for life. Everyone witnesses Him at some point. Even the atheist knows of a higher power, of God’s ultimate superiority. Although he may deny worship, he believes enough to loath and refute His existence. If he never believed in Him, he would not have to disprove Him. No matter what culture or what God, from the Sumerian’s on, a higher power has always lassoed the masses into submission and morality.

She’d never placed faith in miracles, especially not after a career of sorrow, mistakes, regrets and vengeance. God had never existed. Even when she felt sure his thumb would grind her decomposable bones into a bloody mass of sin, he refused to interfere. How many lives had she taken? How many crimes had she committed? Yet, here she stood, unscathed, inhaling urban air, and polluting God’s earth with peccadillo.

Now though she held a scrap of paper confirming God’s iron clasp upon the world, his cruel twist of fate, his mockery of mankind. Her eyes traversed across the faded, grainy print out as she paced before the simple metal door. Built like a gigantic mirror, it followed her jerky movements from one side of the hall to the other. Her steel tipped army boots sank into the plush indigo carpet creating small white craters across the floor.

While researching a sprouting controversial labor riot in the Germany, she’d stumbled across the small article quoting the elite’s opinion on their monopoly of money.

After the initial finding, her name and many others lost in the recessed of her memory began pouring in. Internet searches, media reports, upcoming events, all lead to her elusive past. For months she’d enjoyed ignorance and had relished in her peripheral vision of minor duties. But now she could no longer ignore her fears and researched the missing links, hoping to chain together a worthwhile future. Like a stirred coffee cup, her memories swirled inside her, finally whirlpool ling off to a pinpoint location, and that location lead her to her boss’s office door.

Overcoming the constricting force bellowing inside her stomach, she lightly tapped open the reflecting silver door. For a moment her image obscured into a narrow pinnacle before flattening out again into her short, strapping body. Two almond shaped dark brown eyes greeted her through the mirror, nervous and scanning for predators. Long layers of dirty blonde hair matted against her neck and stuck to her sunburned shoulders. A shape fitting green tank top stretched across her abdomen, outlining her solid muscles and flexible form. Large black bags hung beneath each eye. Unceremoniously covered with inadequate cream, they scowled back at her, revealing her age. Once a chipper, intelligent youth, she thought the woman before her more of a worn, moronic middle aged mess.

After a few seconds her eyes adjusted to the blackened room and she comfortably shut the door behind her. Instantly her throat constricted, air blocked by the stale atmosphere. No windows or doors ever ventilated the small room creating an airless vacuum. Humid, smoke filled air caused her eyes to slant closed. Water rushed from her ducts, trying to force her body to adapt in the anomalous environment. Across from her, a woman sat comfortably, unfazed by the abnormal air quality. She leaned across her desk, typing with one hand, adjusting a cell phone with the other and smoking a cigarette. Busy at the moment, she barely glanced up at her counterpart. With one cocoa finger she signaled for silence and waited for her subordinate to disappear amongst the shadows. Apparently the person on the other line demanded similar circumstances, for Sofia barely audited a sound through her puffs of smoke. Occasionally she would grunt and nod, causing unattended curls to flop in front of her cold hazel eyes. She angrily flung them over her shoulder to better view her laptop and hastily clicked open a few documents. Illuminated in the white glow, her worn face twisted with horror and she removed the Slim from her mouth in order to finally respond.

“I understand…yes”

“Of course I will be able to.”

“She’s right in front of me as we speak.”

“It shall be done.”

As soon as she flipped the small phone closed, Sofia sighed and beckoned her accomplice forward. Unsure of how to proceed, Rhiannon advanced cautiously and examined the remnants of her once glorious leader. In place of the compassionate, driven Sofia, a hollowed, cold woman now perched. Dead to the world, inside and out, she refused intimate contact from the world and treated Rhiannon as if she were already a ghost. Sometimes she demanded Rhiannon’s presence and afterwards forgot her existence, blending her face with the fresco beyond. She’d picked up bad habits, sometimes disappearing for days, unable to remember where she went or what she had done. And the most shocking nervous tick had begun shortly after the initial distress of “TK’s Apocalypse” wore off. She’d taken up chain smoking.

“You’re smoking again,” Rhiannon reminded her, her eyes boring into those empty hazel recesses, searching for a sign of life, “The woman who swore smokers sucked up her precious oxygen, hypocritically kills herself.” She mused aloud, allowing her words to echo against the tiny empty walls, ringing around her to create a stereo sensation.

“Aren’t we all a fucking waste? I’m going to die eventually, anyway.” Sofia’s words were harsh but they reverberated a sense of reality.

Rhiannon verbally stumbled backward, uncertain about her leader’s attitude. For once she found no words of wisdom, no condolence. She was the great mastermind of lexis and her response consisted of a slur of confused, muttered curses at her inability to retaliate.

“Do you know who was on the phone?” Sofia’s lip curled into a snide smile, her tone fluctuating between disgust and rage. Uncertain of her boss’s manner, Rhiannon chose the wisest answer--silence. She understood that eventually Sofia would continue onward, forgetting she’d ever posed the question. As expected, within seconds, Sofia’s voice picked up once again.

“Kritiker. They want a new assassin group created…” Frosty and dispassionate, she delivered their leader’s orders, “Since the last two were failures they demand..”

“We were not failures!” Rhiannon cut in, her tone rising in pitch as she crushed the paper between her sweaty fingers.

Without skipping a beat Sofia overrode her comment and composedly continued, only pausing to take another puff of nicotine. “Since they were failures, Kritiker demands girls who have different qualities. Girls who will not fail.”

The light faded from Rhiannon’s eyes as she watched her robotic boss, rattle off qualities, statistics and physical characteristics as if they were new concepts. How could she blindly ignore the obvious reinstallation of unoriginal ideas? These girls would be no different than their former puppets. Besides, TK were never failures--there had been obstacles, that’s all. If only Sofia would mention TK, acknowledge their accomplishments, their connection. Ever since those last tragic days of TK’s sudden dispersement, she’d refused to mention them. In fact she purposely ignored the subject, denying any part in their formation, triumphs and disastrous downfall. Sometimes forgetting the past hurt less than carrying the arduous weight.

In a last desperate attempt to rekindle Sofia’s gusto, Rhiannon shoved the paper beneath her nose. A look of confusion crossed her tanned face, her hazel eyes determining a course of action. She knit her brows together, chewed a few grains of nicotine between her stained teeth and glanced from Rhiannon to the sweat splotched paper. “What is this?” she rudely asked, annoyed at the interruption.

“Important information I came across during my search of the German labor riot.” The truth seemed a good way to start this delicate conversation and avoid biased rejection. Sofia nodded, irritated at such trivial matters and carelessly grabbed the paper. Her frustrated eyes scanned the material. Cold shudders escaped her lips and her pupils dilated as she hovered closer and closer to the LPD screen deciphering the small print. Finally, she raised her vacant orbs to Rhiannon’s, a jaded look upon her tired face.

“I will ask you again, and I want the truth, what is this?”

“What the fuck do you think it is?” Rhiannon inarticulately screamed at her boss, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Autumn Raselvich lives in Berlin, Marie Picard resides in Paris. Dead? We knew they were never dead. We knew Kritiker lied but we went along with it because it was the easiest thing to do. Don’t you think we’ve ignored their existence long enough? If Kritika wants an assassin team, we will give them the best fucking team they ever had. We didn’t fail and you know it. They fucking tore TK apart.”

Without a second glance at the information, Sofia extinguished her cigarette on the document. She callously watched Rhiannon’s dumbfounded _expression with slight amusement. Some people just never learned that locked doors aren’t bolted without reasons. This was why Sofia ranked as leader and Rhiannon as amateur.

“TK is dead,” she reminded her pitiful colleague.

With that she slowly fed the opposing data through a shedder.

“In fact, TK never existed.”