Time: Undetermined. Location: The Agency, Southern Headquarters.
The mirror reflects her.
Her wavy hair cascades down her neck like rivers of gold. She has a small nose, caramel skin, thick eyelashes, and cherry lips. Her slender body is the result of an athletic life and a healthy diet.
She projects the image of a girl just a step away from becoming a woman. The reflection differs entirely from the angelic purity of two weeks ago.
Veronica turns around. Looking over her shoulder, she stares at her bare, flawless back.
Mr. Medico ensures that no mark or imperfection taints her skin. Except when marks are required for a mission.
An identity is built on details. The dark circles under the eyes of a studious girl staying up late reading books. The razor scars of a self-loathing goth. The lash marks on the back and bruises between the thighs of a slave.
Everything is carefully planned, like a good game of chess. Those little details allow Veronica to guess what kind of new, ephemeral life they are planning for her.
A silhouette appears in the reflected doorway.
Veronica watches him. He is an older man with gray hair and Asian features, wearing thick-rimmed glasses and a white coat.
Mr. Medico never looks at her as a person. To him, she is a canvas. Clay to be molded beneath his delicate instruments. There is no artist's pride in Mr. Medico's slanted eyes. Only the mercenary's pursuit of quality, envisioning the riches to come.
"They sent this down from Weaponry. It's a new version, better quality, or so they claim," he says.
He hands Veronica a small box containing contact lenses.
She takes them and, facing the mirror, puts them in. The difference between wearing them and not is almost indistinguishable.
She speaks the words aloud: Zoom, Rec, Night.
The lenses react to each command. The first brings her vision closer, as if she were looking through binoculars. The next records and transmits the feed to her laptop, her secure phone, or both. The third activates night vision.
She blinks three times in rapid succession. It takes a picture.
Mr. Medico tells her which eye color she will need. Using the command Paint, she dyes her irises green.
The teenager dresses in a full-body suit. Black. Made of a latex-like but extremely durable material that evenly distributes body heat. It clings to her figure like a second skin. Waterproof. It reduces thermal detection. When she immerses herself in the shadows, her body disappears completely. Anyone would swear there was just a head levitating in the dark.
Veronica leaves the Diagnostics Area to head down to the Testing and Weaponry zone. She walks through white corridors with floors so polished they look like mirrors.
In an unadorned room, with a solitary metal table in the center, Gem waits to hand over the rest of the authorized tools.
"You already equipped the new lenses. How are they? Do you like them? I wanted you to test them on your way here."
The Black woman wears her hair in braids cascading down the back of her neck. She pushes the joystick on her wheelchair, rolling forward until she is five steps away from Veronica.
"They react better and are less noticeable. They'll do," Veronica replies.
"They'll do? That's it? Show some emotion. This 2.0.4 version is a pretty remarkable leap forward, no need for one hundred percent exact testing methods to see that. It's like going from the clouds to the moon, and from the moon to the sun."
Veronica raises an eyebrow, flashing a skeptical smile.
Gem snorts, throws her hands up, and surrenders without a fight.
"I know! I'm exaggerating! It's getting harder and harder to make significant progress. If I don't sell every upgrade as the second coming of Christ, the higher-ups will settle for using the toys my grandfather designed. Or worse, they'll start buying from the Chinese. Can you imagine talking to White through a shoe?"
"I like the shoe phone! It's a classic."
"It's a gadget that was already out of style during the Cold War that birthed it. Come on, have some faith in your trusted designer."
Gem taps a series of hidden buttons under the table.
The back wall rises and folds away, opening into a spacious warehouse just as white as the corridors, illuminated by ceiling panels. Inside Gem's workshop, displayed in a series of white glass cabinets, are her "toys."
In the center of the warehouse floor, there are scorch marks and a fallen mannequin with bullet holes in its chest and face. Vestiges of the rehearsals of other assassins.
Only one of the cabinets is open. It is the shelf designated for Veronica's inventory—the base equipment that, along with Mr. Medico's care, the girl earns through her affiliation with the Agency.
Veronica's current inventory is as follows:
Special Contact Lenses: Features already described. Feeds information directly to the secure phone.
Reading Glasses: Equipped with a flashlight and an ultraviolet light to read hidden messages. Also features a small explosive charge that detonates four seconds after pressing a button on the side of the frame.
Work Briefcase: Hides a mini fax-printer that receives secret messages printed on highly flammable paper for easy disposal. Perfectly sized to conceal the shadow suit and other work tools.
Shadow Suit: Black, flexible, ideal for night camouflage. Includes a mask and gloves. (The suit Veronica is currently wearing).
Floor Blade: A hidden blade that deploys with three quick heel-taps. Designed to adapt to different types of soles. The edge is coated in a paralyzing venom that causes death after ten minutes in the bloodstream.
Remote-Controlled Dragonfly: A tiny robotic flying insect. Can be manipulated remotely to transmit audio and video to the paired secure phone. Thirty minutes of continuous battery life and a maximum flight range of 1,200 meters.
Assassin's Pen: An elegant gold-plated pen that conceals a single .38 Special caliber projectile. Also available in silver and copper-green.
Fresh Mints: Fast-acting drugs disguised in a tin of Show brand mints. One mint makes the target docile and compliant. Two puts them to sleep instantly. Three or more are fatal.
Derringer DoubleTap Pistol: A compact firearm. Comes with an ankle holster and a wrist rig for rapid deployment. Holds two 9mm rounds, with two reloads stored in the grip.
Hoop Earring: Transmits and records sound to the secure phone. Shaped like a standard hoop earring.
Secure Phone: One of the most versatile and widely used tools among spies and hitmen. Looks and functions like an ordinary smartphone. Features a call tracer, voice processor, self-destruct mechanism, and the ability to sync with the rest of her gear.
Wireless Earpieces: Specifically designed to pair with the secure phone. Despite their compact size, they block out 90% of external noise. They feature a two-way intercom mode with a 1,000-meter range in urban environments, plus sound amplification.
Garrote Wire: Made of carbon fiber with rubber mesh grips. Undetectable by metal detectors.
Escape Capsule: A black suppository capsule housing lockpicks and tiny escape blades, in case the agent ever needs them. Remember to push it in deep.
Veronica grabs the garrote wire with both hands and pulls it taut.
She is pleased to hear the familiar, comforting creak of the fiber. If she ever gets a partner someday, Veronica hopes they will be as reliable and secure as this wire.
Gem rolls up to her.
"How was your last mission?"
"What can I say? I'm satisfied. The world is a safer place without Crazy Crack in it."
"Fourteen missions completed in the year and a half you've been with us... You have a lot of talent, V. But that doesn't change the fact that White abuses his power and sees his agents more as machines than people. He manages to make the job I love exhausting."
Gem sighs.
"Don't forget to be careful and get some rest. Talent won't do you much good if you get cocky and take a bullet between the eyes."
Veronica nods, though her gaze remains distracted, fixed on the instrument of death in her hands.
"A year and a half... Has it really been that long?" Veronica murmurs to herself.
She remembers when she lacked all this elegant equipment. Humble beginnings, where she only had rudimentary resources—and tons of instinct and determination.
Instead of specialized gloves, she used rubber cleaning gloves. Instead of a carbon fiber cord, a piece of wire she found in the garden shed, hidden inside her high-top boots with pink faux fur.
The next memory belongs to a midpoint. Somewhere between the seemingly normal student she used to be, and the professional assassin she is now...
The motel room television plays a rerun of Pulp Fiction.
The glowing screen and a lamp on the nightstand are the only sources of light in the room. Big T sits on the couch facing the TV. He's in white boxers, his large, dark, hairy legs exposed. He is also wearing his shoes and a fedora hat.
He is blindfolded. At first, he liked it, but soon he started shifting impatiently.
"What are you waiting for, bitch? Christmas?" Big T barks in a bossy tone.
Veronica wraps the ends of the wire around her gloved hands. She advances toward the sofa.
Without making a single sound, she passes the filament in front of Big T's face.
The moment it brushes his double chin, Veronica yanks backward with all the strength of her arms and back.
Big T goes rigid. A squeal climbs up his throat and escapes his lips as a strangled whistle.
The thug brings his hands to his neck, but his chubby fingers are unable to slip between the wire and the flesh it is biting into.
He thrashes like a bull. The sofa shakes, following the man's erratic movements. Hot blood flows down his belly, staining his boxers, his shoes, and the fallen fedora.
Veronica keeps her teeth clenched so tightly they grind. She presses one foot against the back of the armchair for leverage.
The wire pierced the rubber of her cleaning gloves a while ago, slicing into her palms, but she doesn't let the intense pain weaken her grip.
Faint echoes of the struggle bleed through the room's door. Big T's guards misinterpret the noise as the boss's typical rough sex.
The blood, acting as a lubricant, causes the wire to slip a couple of centimeters from Veronica's grip.
The girl curses under her breath.
Big T jerks forward again and manages to stand up, leaving Veronica dangling from his back. She kicks her legs, scrambling until she plants both feet firmly against the thug's spine.
Big T takes a couple of staggering steps toward the door. His hand extends outward, his lips puffing out words that his severed breath prevents him from forming.
The wire finally slips completely from Veronica's shredded palms.
She is thrown through the air and crashes into the television, knocking it over and shattering the screen with a spark.
Big T falls chest-first onto the carpet.
Veronica leans on her battered hands and gets back to her feet. Through the fog of her blurred vision, she glimpses Big T crawling toward where his discarded pants lie.
Veronica stumbles forward. She almost trips over the bed, but catches her balance and leaps onto the criminal.
She lands flat on the man's broad back.
She gropes almost blindly until she retrieves the wire. She wraps the filament again. This time around her wrists, where the rubber of the gloves remains intact.
Veronica pulls with much less force than before, but it isn't a lost cause. Big T is exhausted too.
They remain like that for a minute, one on top of the other, in a tortuous battle of wills.
Finally, the deepest tendons of his neck give way. The audible gush of the jugular bursting takes the thug's last remaining strength with it.
The carpet is dyed first with a spray of bright red splatter, and then by a thick, burgundy puddle. Almost black.
Veronica remains sitting on Big T for a while longer. Long enough for him to feel cold.
Her heart returns to a calmer rhythm, and the heat drains from her exhausted muscles.
She lets go of the wire. She has to pull hard to peel it away from her own flesh. Dizzy, she stands up and heads to the bathroom.
She turns on the faucet and sticks her hands underneath. The crystal-clear water turns red. The coolness cleans her cuts, revealing the pink flesh beneath.
Veronica looks at herself in the mirror above the sink. The purple wig hangs off one side of her face, and her real hair is sticky and shiny with sweat. Bloodshot red spiderwebs line her sclerae.
But her irises remain gray and focused.
She dunks her face in the water.
She opens the supply cabinet next to the mirror, grabs some bandages, and wraps her wounds as fast as she can.
She takes a minute to fix her disguise. She straightens the wig, adjusts the pink tube top and the glittery miniskirt, and washes away the blood smears staining her arms and legs.
She walks back out, stepping over Big T's corpse, and retrieves his pants. From a pocket, she pulls out a Colt Python revolver. The casing is custom-engraved with overloaded voodoo symbology, predominantly skulls.
The room's door creaks open.
The closest guard yawns and turns around, only to find the barrel of the revolver inches from his face.
Veronica fires. The man drops, his forehead shattered.
The other guard curses and vaults over the motel balcony railing.
Veronica aims at him and fires twice. She misses both shots.
The girl mimics the man and climbs over the railing, one leg at a time. She lands a floor below, bending her knees to absorb the impact.
The people in this part of town, already accustomed to the commotion, barricade themselves in their homes and rooms at the first sign of gunfire.
Two silhouettes run through the dark, empty streets.
The revolver booms again. The shadow in the lead falls and rolls.
Veronica advances, panting, her right arm extended. Standing over the target, she aims at his skull.
The guard, still alive, confusion and pure terror etched onto his face, holds up his trembling hands and shakes his head.
"Please! Mercy! I have a family! I have kids! I have—"
A final gunshot cuts through the stillness of the night.