"How are you feeling, Ms. Hilden?"
The girl, that did not look like a girl, reclined on the sofa, though the length of her legs meant that her feet hung off the armrest. She didn't look like a girl, though the intention of her attire was what was comfortable, not to deceive others about her gender or persuasion. Though it did mean that she wore a T-shirt and pants that made her look like a boy.
Her name was Spencer, lying down in her own house, listening to a lady psychologist's smooth tones who sat behind her sofa.
Spencer let out a little sigh, and rolled onto her stomach. A girl would have rolled on her chest, but Spencer was flatter than the ironing board she had in the kitchen.
"I still think a lot of weird things. Things that normal high school girls don't think of."
"Like regarding your former job?" The psychologist's words and facial expression remained kind, considering what Spencer's former job involved.
Spencer paused for a moment, to think her words through. There were things she still refused to say, even in the strictest of confidence. She never told her government contact that she sometimes thought about ways of killing annoying teachers. There were idle thoughts of students that disappeared in a heartbeat, and then there were the near-perfect plans and the untraceable execution of a former child assassin.
She knew they were unhealthy thoughts. But raising them up here directly was something that made her nervous.
"Yeah. It's boring."
"But I like my mask," Spencer mumbled with glazed over eyes. Her fingers held the handle of her cup of tea, though she never bothered to lift up the lukewarm cup in the last 10 minutes. The daydreams of the past were neither comforting nor revisionist, but she found them engrossing, anyhow.
She was just one of the few people in a cosy, clean and out-of-the-way English cafe, which had decorations that seemed like a boring view of the 1950s. A simple glance around the patrons solidified the view, to any passers-by, that this was a place for the English in America or Americans looking for a little English at home. Considering that the witness protection paid her a decent stipend and a guaranteed scholarship into a university of her choice, she could have picked somewhere else.
But no place could beat the feeling of an old cafe, just like the ones back home. Where deals were made, people were surreptitiously poisoned and bodies were dumped in the skips out back. Of course, none of these things happened in California.
The skips were called rubbish dumps over here. Other than that little mental joke Spencer made to herself, she didn't actually think anyone was being killed here.
She took a sip of the cup of tea, and her face twisted. It wasn't poisoned, but it might as well have been to her tongue. Whoever brewed this cup of English tea didn't care for how they added sugar and milk into it. If there was one thing dying here, it was probably her respect for the cafe. She continued drinking anyway, holding her expressions stiff and her eyes cold and emotionless. Like how she was trained to do. If emotions never showed up on her face, it was harder for them to sink into her heart. The training wasn't meant for withstanding bad cups of tea, but such skills made do in this times.
Spencer glanced out of the window, like a hawk watching for prey. It wasn't the look the girl was aiming for or wanted, but it was what she gave to the outside world. Her eyes darted inwards occasionally, though the only focus of her gaze for more than a few seconds was the head cheerleader girl. The girl that was built like a Olympic fetishist's dream, or to those that used names, Elena Moriarty, was the type of girl that drew Spencer's gaze. By reputation, Elena was both a prodigy and a potential professional athlete. Perhaps someone that could almost match her own skills, thought Spencer.
Though her face showed nothing, she chuckled within her heart. Assassins were one-of-a-kind, especially child assassins. What were the chances of another one, masquerading as a normal human being?
The girl, that did not look like a girl, reclined on the sofa, though the length of her legs meant that her feet hung off the armrest. She didn't look like a girl, though the intention of her attire was what was comfortable, not to deceive others about her gender or persuasion. Though it did mean that she wore a T-shirt and pants that made her look like a boy.
Her name was Spencer, lying down in her own house, listening to a lady psychologist's smooth tones who sat behind her sofa.
Spencer let out a little sigh, and rolled onto her stomach. A girl would have rolled on her chest, but Spencer was flatter than the ironing board she had in the kitchen.
"I still think a lot of weird things. Things that normal high school girls don't think of."
"Like regarding your former job?" The psychologist's words and facial expression remained kind, considering what Spencer's former job involved.
Spencer paused for a moment, to think her words through. There were things she still refused to say, even in the strictest of confidence. She never told her government contact that she sometimes thought about ways of killing annoying teachers. There were idle thoughts of students that disappeared in a heartbeat, and then there were the near-perfect plans and the untraceable execution of a former child assassin.
She knew they were unhealthy thoughts. But raising them up here directly was something that made her nervous.
"Yeah. It's boring."
"But I like my mask," Spencer mumbled with glazed over eyes. Her fingers held the handle of her cup of tea, though she never bothered to lift up the lukewarm cup in the last 10 minutes. The daydreams of the past were neither comforting nor revisionist, but she found them engrossing, anyhow.
She was just one of the few people in a cosy, clean and out-of-the-way English cafe, which had decorations that seemed like a boring view of the 1950s. A simple glance around the patrons solidified the view, to any passers-by, that this was a place for the English in America or Americans looking for a little English at home. Considering that the witness protection paid her a decent stipend and a guaranteed scholarship into a university of her choice, she could have picked somewhere else.
But no place could beat the feeling of an old cafe, just like the ones back home. Where deals were made, people were surreptitiously poisoned and bodies were dumped in the skips out back. Of course, none of these things happened in California.
The skips were called rubbish dumps over here. Other than that little mental joke Spencer made to herself, she didn't actually think anyone was being killed here.
She took a sip of the cup of tea, and her face twisted. It wasn't poisoned, but it might as well have been to her tongue. Whoever brewed this cup of English tea didn't care for how they added sugar and milk into it. If there was one thing dying here, it was probably her respect for the cafe. She continued drinking anyway, holding her expressions stiff and her eyes cold and emotionless. Like how she was trained to do. If emotions never showed up on her face, it was harder for them to sink into her heart. The training wasn't meant for withstanding bad cups of tea, but such skills made do in this times.
Spencer glanced out of the window, like a hawk watching for prey. It wasn't the look the girl was aiming for or wanted, but it was what she gave to the outside world. Her eyes darted inwards occasionally, though the only focus of her gaze for more than a few seconds was the head cheerleader girl. The girl that was built like a Olympic fetishist's dream, or to those that used names, Elena Moriarty, was the type of girl that drew Spencer's gaze. By reputation, Elena was both a prodigy and a potential professional athlete. Perhaps someone that could almost match her own skills, thought Spencer.
Though her face showed nothing, she chuckled within her heart. Assassins were one-of-a-kind, especially child assassins. What were the chances of another one, masquerading as a normal human being?