Alexis tossed Trace a heavy silver pistol and he caught it swiftly. The gun itself was not much larger than his hand—easily concealable.

"Most weapons Phantom assassins use are small enough to hide away. Some of us are more selective and skilled in larger weapons, which takes time. We're going to start you off with something easy." Her eyes glinted with something electric as she raised her arm and snapped her fingers.

The white dream space fizzled out and a dark neighborhood took its place. Trees cropped up along sidewalks, the glow of streetlights tinging their leaves orange. There was even a warm breeze that moved Trace's hair into his eyes. He stood across from Alexis in the center of the street.

"We'll spar here," she said as she reached into her cloak for her own pistol. Hers was black with gold embellishments decorating the sides.

"Spar? With guns?"

Alexis lifted her weapon straight into the air and lowered it so that it aligned with her arms. She pointed the barrel at Trace, stared through the small metal front sight, and pulled the trigger. A small bullet rippled through the air and toward a horrified Trace.

He couldn't blink before the bullet shredded his cloak and spun into his flesh. The impact sent him back several feet, and finally knocked him to his back. He cried out in pain, but still managed somehow to hold on to the gun.

"Don't be a wuss," Alexis said, walking toward him. She hovered over him, her eyes bored and her red hair dropping over her shoulders. It was longer than it looked. She held out a white gloved hand to help Trace up. "This is a dream, so sparring can be with any weapon."

Trace reached for her hand and pulled himself up. The wound had already disappeared. "I thought that normal citizens are prohibited from carrying firearms."

Alexis cocked her gun, then walked a distance away from him. "Do you think Phantom is commissioned to kill 'normal' citizens, Trace?"

The woman that Peter had killed seemed to be an average citizen, though the specific details of that commission were only known by Hailey. That, and Trace hadn't heard the order because he hadn't had his Modifier then. Would he have understood why she needed to be killed on sight, and why she was classified as VIO—violent?

"I guess not," Trace said quietly, though he still wasn't sure. In his short recruitment, he had learned many things about the Association and about Phantom, but lately not everything seemed to line up with what they'd taught him.

"I need you to shoot me before I shoot you to pass your combat training," she said. She held up three fingers. "Three times."

Trace had a feeling this wouldn't be as easy as he thought. From the challenging look in Alexis's eyes and her confident stance to the white cloak signifying one of the highest levels of not just Phantom, but also Association superiority, he knew that it would be a while before he would wake up.

#

His eyes shot open, sweat matting his armpits. The night had been long, but he had accomplished much. He managed to shoot Alexis three times, just before she grew too impatient with his incompetence. Maybe she'd gone a little easy on him in the end.

At first, his body didn't move. He wondered if Hailey hadn't ordered him to do anything yet, but after waiting a few minutes, he felt like something was different.

He tried to imagine feeling where his limbs were, where his hands and feet were. Maybe imagining their existence would give him the strength to move them. Then, his fingers twitched. They were extremely sore from lack of natural movement, but he was moving them on his own. His heart leapt to his throat as he gently tested the rest of his fingers, toes, wrists, and other joints. He could move all of them.

Was this some kind of joke? Was he still dreaming?

Trace slowly sat up in the bed and groaned at the pain that shot up his spine. It was a sharp pain, as if someone was running a long needle deeper into his back with every microscopic movement.

But despite the soreness and discomfort, Trace was ecstatic that he was able to move. It really felt like he was still dreaming.

Had his Modifier deactivated somehow while he was asleep? Trace remembered Hailey's warning about keeping the device activated during his recovery period. Would something bad happen to him if it deactivated prematurely?

The image of the orange masked girl, crumpled on the ground and barely breathing, flashed across Trace's memory. Would a faulty Modifier be a worse fate than that?

Glad to see you're. . . up. Hailey's voice started confident and ended with a timbre of disappointment. It looks like the initial effects of your Modifier injection have worn off. But don't get too excited just yet. You still have things to do, and you still need to go easy on yourself. Your body is a little different now, which will take some getting used to as well.

Trace turned and slid off the mattress. His breakfast sat, steaming in the MEAL slot. It smelled great, knowing that he could eat at his own pace. He shuddered at the thought of scarfing it down and burning his throat like yesterday. Hailey continued speaking to him via Modifier as he ate.

Today Wyze will take you to select your weapon. She's our rationale, and also the fastest learner. You can trust her to match you with a weapon that will amplify your current skills.

Trace gulped his water, then threw the bottle and the container in the DISPOSAL slot.

When do we do that? He asked.

As soon as you're ready, she responded.

Trace lifted his arms in the air for a stretch and winced at both the pain and the rotten smell wafting from his underarms. Do I have permission to bathe first?

Of course. You may use the restroom at the end of your hallway, past Derek's room.

A sigh broke through his lips as he walked to his wardrobe, grabbed fresh gear, and wriggled out of his worn recruit cloak and undergarments. It would be his first time wearing the official Phantom uniform. He wanted to feel fresh before he put it on.

Trace left his room and turned right. Peter's and Derek's doors were spaced equally apart from each other, but Trace could tell that their small rooms were all about the same size. Something about this made Trace feel like he was an equal, but it also didn't feel right that the longest standing member of WP-0770 had to live in such cramped quarters this entire time.

Trace entered the small restroom. There was a toilet with no stall, and a shower with no walls or doors—just a large metal showerhead and a perforated disc in the floor to drain the water. A small sink and mirror were plastered against the wall adjacent to the toilet. Finally, there was a cabinet above the toilet that held towels and grooming supplies. He couldn't remember the last time he'd used a toilet, not since the Association perfected their nutrition-packed meals.

The water was frigid, but Trace didn't mind it. He scrubbed his body with scentless soap and rubbed sudsy shampoo through his long hair. Had it really gotten so long? Maybe a member of Phantom could trim it for him, or recommend an Association-owned barber. . .

Feeling fresh and clean, Trace exited the bathroom with his towel wrapped around his waist. It was too moist in the restroom to get dressed, so he carried his bulky uniform with him down the hallway and back to his room so he could put everything on there.

#

I'm in the kitchen, Wyze's voice called lazily over the Modifier.

Why the hell would I wanna know that? Derek's voice scoffed.

Not talking to you, she groaned.

I'm heading down now, Trace said.

He fastened his last button and patted his cloak down. It fit snugly—just the right size. This uniform was heavier than what he was used to, probably thanks to the undergarments. They were made of a sturdier material and were unpuncturable. The rest of his getup was light and flexible, make movement easier. Finally, he pulled the mask Peter had gifted him over his nose and mouth—the base of it wrapped around his neck and fit beneath his upper undergarment.

Then he stepped into the elevator and pressed the KITCHEN button.

Wyze waited for him, dressed in her white shirt and ripped blue jeans combo, and her eyes glowed purple. Her expression was bored as she drummed her pale fingers along the counter. With no one else around her, she looked a little taller than she actually was.

Hey, she said, nodding her head in his direction. She walked around to meet him. You ready for today?

The kid's not comfortable enough to show his face, so of course he's not ready, Derek's voice grumbled. He wasn't physically there with them, so Wyze rolled her eyes and spoke aloud.

"After your recovery period is over, you won't have jerks like him screaming in your thoughts all the time. Hailey will give you permissions to change settings on your Modifier's interface. But for now, you'll have to deal with whoever thinks it's appropriate to interrupt us." A mischievous smile turned her lips up.

"He can't interrupt our conversation if we talk aloud, can he?" Trace asked.

Wyze considered this, then nodded thoughtfully. "You're right. I'm just. . . I prefer using the Modifier whenever I can, that's all."

She turned around and headed for the elevator in the parlor. The weapon vault is in the basement.

Trace nodded and followed her into the small box, and they went down together. The ride was silent between them, but Wyze was mumbling something to herself. When they reached the bottom, she stopped Trace before he stepped out of the elevator.

I just want you to know that the coolest weapon isn't always the best for your skillset. I recommend thinking about what might suit you best before you see our options. Wyze walked ahead of him into the dimly lit warehouse space and turned toward a tall wall.

The space where Trace had his assignment felt different now, though still huge. He wondered how Hailey had managed to alter the space so drastically in such short amounts of time. The whole assignment process felt very cinematic and strange now that he looked back on it.

Trace followed Wyze to the wall and watched as her arm lifted out horizontally, so her fingers grazed the cement. The action was peculiarly listless, echoing that bored look in her eyes from before. She was somewhat childish in the way she acted, despite her being five years Trace's superior. Suddenly, Trace was curious about her recruitment story. What made her join Phantom? What made her stay?

But he couldn't think about these things now—he needed to think about which weapon would suit him best. Alexis had told him a gun was the easiest to start with, so maybe he would default to a gun for now. That seemed like a safe option.

Hold your hand to the keypad, she said, pointing to a large red door. To its right, a flat black box stuck to the wall, which he assumed was the keypad she referred to.

He walked past her and lifted his hand to the screen, but nothing happened. It must've been sensitive to actual human flesh. Deciding that was the issue, Trace carefully removed his right glove and raised his spindly fingers to the black box. When he got close enough, the screen lit up white with the outline of a hand. He pressed his palm and flattened his fingers against it until the white turned green, then he put his glove back on.

Bravo, Wyze said, her tone flat. You learned how handprint scanners work. She started clapping her hands, watching Trace as she passed him and pushed open the door.

She flicked on lights that lined the walls of the small room, and rows upon rows of different wire baskets carried various weapons. From assault rifles to swords, large bombs to rope. They seemed to be organized by weapon type, not necessarily by caliber. Regardless, Trace was entranced by the glow of the newly minted weaponry. Back with his Mentor, he'd only used pistols. He never knew seeing this many tools all together would bring him such pleasure, but he couldn't help the immature smile that lit up the purple in his eyes.

Wyze laughed. You're a funny kid, Trace. Do you like weapons that much?

Trace felt the heat rise to his cheeks. He walked into the room and began perusing between the different choices he had, ignoring her comment. It was true that something about the power behind the machinery made him excited, but he didn't want to be shamed for something he liked.

He ignored the firearms for a moment to look at a wall lined with long spears, blades sharp and reflecting the room's light. At the end of the wall, a long stick-like weapon stood erect. At its top, a long and jagged blade jutted out like a disformed and flattened axe. It looked considerably terrifying, though Trace had no idea how one would possibly use it.

That's a scythe, Wyze informed him, still standing at the entrance. Trace looked back at her and she nodded at the wall adjacent to the spears—it was empty. We used to keep stock of all sorts of them. But ever since Phantom tightened its regulations, they're less common. But let me tell you. . . She lifted her arms together over her shoulder and then swung them out like she was hitting a baseball, but her downstroke was more elegant and precise. They're fun as hell to secure a kill with.

Phantom looked back at the jagged weapon, then glanced at the empty wall. If this one was approved by Phantom now, he could only wonder what kinds of scythes had been prohibited.

#

As much as Trace wished he could've stayed in his happy place, he knew it would be disrespectful to waste Wyze's time. So, he made his way back to the front, where the handguns piled up in smaller wire baskets. He dipped his hands in and pulled out several, but none felt right.

There was one that reminded him of Alexis's gun, but less ornate. And he didn't want to copy her. She seemed to take pride in hers.

So he moved to another basket, though the guns in it were slightly different. They were mostly silver, with a shiny wooden handle. Their barrels led into six-chamber cylinders of different sizes. Some were more decorated than others. These guns intrigued him.

He kept digging in this group and finally found one that felt good to hold. A simple all-black revolver with a short barrel. He'd never used one before, but it seemed like the right choice. He kept his index finger parallel with the barrel and looked through the front sight, aiming it at the ground. Then he lifted his head and nodded to Wyze.

A revolver, she said. Her eyebrows dove in thought as she moved to another set of baskets filled with assortments of bullets. She grabbed a few, then moved back to Trace. Only load one at a time. Her eyes were serious as she placed the bullets in his hand.

Trace nodded and they left the room.

Before they even reached the elevator, Derek was mocking him over the Modifier.

Leave it to the rookie to choose a weapon that will immediately give away his location when on a mission, he scoffed.

Trace gritted his teeth at the unnecessary judgment in Derek's tone, but he relaxed when he realized that Derek was telling the truth. He'd chosen an unfavorable weapon—but then, why would it have been a choice to begin with?

Wyze hadn't questioned his choice, had she? Hailey had promised that Wyze would help match a weapon that would highlight his current skills. She hadn't told him which weapon to pick, though—just that he needed to consider before deciding, which he believed he did.

They stepped into the elevator together and Trace admired the matte finish on the gun. The more he looked at it, the more it felt like it was meant to be his.

Wyze sighed. I hope you made the right choice. A smile twitched on her lips as the elevator lurched upward. Because if you didn't, I'm good as dead.

Author's Note

What do you think of Wyze? Also, do you think Trace selected the right weapon?

I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Please feel free to leave comments and vote if you liked it :) Thanks!