I sit on an examination table in the lab. I'm impatient but I sit completely still. Apparently, Dr.Hanson and his colleagues have some new mixture they want to test on me. Not a hallucinogen. Not a hallucinogen, please. Those suck ass and make it so hard to fight. I prefer it when they give me stimulants or opioids. At least those feel kinda nice.

"Arm," comes the order. I stick out my left arm once again, inner elbow sticking up. The needle enters easily, I hardly feel it. But I do stare at my arm. I look like some pathetic druggie. I can still see previous injection sites. I must look like a heroin addict or something. I grow impatient as I wait for further instructions. My right leg begins to bounce up and down. Tap. Tap. Tap. The sound of my foot hitting the ground over and over echoes throughout the room. I feel rather good now. Must be some sort of opioid in this mix. The pain from the last several days of training is none existent. Gotta love opioids. I hear footsteps and turn towards the doorway just as Sportsmaster appears in it.

"Let's go. Target practice," he states, eyeing me oddly. I slip off the table and slip past him, bounding down the steps. I enjoy target practice, using guns, and well all sorts of weapons are fun when I'm not pointing them at a person.

"The hell did you inject her with," I hear Sportsmaster ask. I don't stick around to hear the answer and instead continue towards the front of the compound where I'm stopped by security until Sportsmaster also arrives. I practically jump outside and rounding the corner of the compound I see a table about fifty feet from the targets. Which sit rather close to the cliffs edge. This was really a bad place for a compound. I mean who looks at the edge of a cliff and goes 'ah yes this is the spot to hold a weapon in training'? Coming up to the table I survey the weapons that have been laid out for me. Rifles, pistols, knives, daggers, even a sword. There's a lot of guns: AK-47, AR-15, Daisy Model 600, a couple of the Madsen LAR variants, a Vektor CP1, which is my usual pistol, an Erma la .22, the list continues. There's also extra cartridges and magazines for all of the guns. This will be fun. I wait for Sportsmaster to make it here and actually give me permission before I touch any of the weapons.

"Why are you bouncing," I hear him ask from behind. I immediately stop the movement. I didn't realize I was until he acknowledged it.

"Sorry sir," I respond. I can feel him staring at me.

"You may begin target practice just be aware that I am watching for accuracy and speed. You need to work on being faster at reloading some of the rifles.

"Yes sir," I respond picking up my usual pistol to begin. My aim is as true as ever. I begin with shots to the would-be heart. I don't miss. The sound of the bullets on the metal targets is incredibly satisfying. Over and over I hit in the same area until there's no ammo. I quickly change magazines and continue. The process repeats with other guns. Halfway through I get bored of hitting the same areas on the four targets and switch to alternating between head and heart shots.

"Headshot far left," I respond to his command before I fully process what he's said. It's a perfect shot. Middle of the forehead. The guy would be dead before he hit the ground. If it were a person and not a metal outline of one. He continues to call out targets and shots. It's actually really fun. There's not many interactions with Sportsmaster that I would describe as such but here we are. We do stop eventually because I run out of ammo and knives. I try to suppress the bubble of disappointment. I should be happy that I'm done pretending to kill people. I should be happy that my interaction with Sportsmaster is at least closer to being at its end for the day.

Looking at Sportsmaster I see that he's surveying the targets. Following his gaze, I really take it in for the first time since I began shooting. We're going to need new targets. The heads and chests have holes bigger than bullets. I hit the same spot, or close enough to the same spot to have the bullet holes combine into bigger ones. I didn't miss a single shot. Although there's no knife sticking out of the targets I am confident that those hit their mark too, just without enough power behind them to make them sink into the metal.

"Good," is Sportsmasters comment. I do my best to push the pride down. I should not be happy about it. It's rare to get praise from him. I shouldn't desire it as much as I do. After all, I don't actually want to kill people. I enjoy the other missions: stealing things or information, spying, and sabotage. But killing? I haven't had a single successful assassination mission. Mostly due to the fact that I refuse to carry out the assassination part.

I follow him back inside but I feel myself slow slightly as I realize we're going to the lab instead of the training room.

"Did the drugs hinder her ability," Dr.Hanson asks as soon as we enter.

"No, they didn't. She even seemed a little faster at putting in magazines in some of the rifles that tend to give her trouble," Sportsmaster responds.

"Well child," Hanson addresses me, "you've done remarkably well. We'll have to try a new mixture, or a higher dose next time. Or perhaps even both. Come," he pats the table, "I need to run some tests. I swallow but hop on the table. They'll probably do their normal shit, test reflexes, and stuff and then see how long it takes me to scream when they electrocute me. They say it's to see how different injections affect my pain tolerance. I think it's because they're sadists. Once again my prediction is correct. I can feel them connecting the electrodes to me. For once, I'd like to be wrong. I begin to focus on my breathing. In and out. Steady and constant. The shocks begin, low. Something I notice but is not necessarily painful. In and out. They steadily grow worse. They do begin to hurt. Don't scream. In and out. My jaw clenches. My fists do the same. It hurts. In. Out. In. Out. In. In. No. It hurts so bad. I think my body is shaking. In. Out. Hurts. Out. In. The scream rips from me. I hate it. I can hardly hear it. But I feel the burn of it in my throat. It continues. Why aren't they stopping? I've lost. I'm screaming, aren't I? That has to be me. I try to look, but keeping my eyes open is hard. Focusing is harder. Is someone talking? Yes. Who? Suddenly the shocks are gone. My screaming ceases. My body continues to shake. I can't stop it. Spasms. I feel a coolness on my cheek. When did I lay down on the table? And face down? They wouldn't order that. When did I do this? I breathe hard, audible to me at least, trying to get it back under control. All I can hear is my own breathing. Rapid and uneven. Something is grabbing my shoulder. I roll off of the table, fail to come back onto my feet on the ground. Finally, my eyes open. They land on my handler, who looks very pissed, easy to see with his mask off. I see his mouth move, but I hear nothing. My eyebrows furrow as I attempt to concentrate on his lips. He repeats his statement. All I get is go and room but I can piece that together easily enough. I scramble up from the floor and head to my room. I nearly trip down the stairs but make it back to my room, closing the door behind me. I plop onto the cot, eyes closing before I hit it.

I'm left alone in my room for at least two days. Upon waking up I tried the door only to find it locked from the outside. And this is why such things like rule six exist: stockpile food and water; you never know when you won't be able to get more. I haven't eaten anything from the small stockpile I keep under a wooden crate with a rock on it. It's to keep mice and rats out of it. I have been drinking out of a bottle of water though. I don't exactly trust the water from the sink from the bathroom, but I've got a couple more bottles before I have to resort to that. My biggest issue is boredom. I mean I don't even have a book and one can only work out so much in such a small space with a limited water supply. I've begun to get a dull headache as well. I'm laying on my cot, counting the cracks on the ceiling when I hear the footsteps on the stairs. They don't sound like Sportsmasters. They don't sound familiar at all. I roll off the cot quietly. I balance on the balls of my feet. Quickly I tie my knife holster to my thigh and grab two knives. I'm ready just in time. As soon as the door is opened I throw a knife. It's blocked with a chuckle. My eyes narrow as I recognize the figure.

"Chesire," I growl. "What are you doing here?"