It was night, and there was no moon.

The train hushed over slick tracks. Passengers hung their heads, eyes shut and faces concealed under color-coded masks made of leather. They stood together in groups according to mask color, but no one spoke.

Bright, fluorescent lights gliding along the narrow ceiling prevented the people from sleeping. Rest was allowed in the bunkers only. It was too dangerous to sleep in public—the Association forbade it.

A younger passenger sat alone, eyes open, unlike the rest. He belonged to no group yet, so his mask was black. His gray eyes were sharp, fresh. He was ready for his assignment.

A woman in a yellow mask watched the boy with golden eyes. She crossed her arms over her chest, folding her long leather cloak inward. Her gaze was controlled, emotionless. But she felt fascinated by this rare chance to see the assignment of such a young recruit.

Others started to look at him with unconcerned eyes. Trained to conceal their true intent. But they were curious, too.

#

The train halted exactly one hour later, stealthily slipping into an empty station. Dawn reached its arms around everything, coating even the shadows in an orange hue. It was a beautiful and miraculous time of day, but no one dared to express admiration for its splendor.

The passengers were statues. None moved to leave the locomotive. They were waiting.

A voice over the intercom. Crisp and clear and polite. "Disembarking is prohibited until the black masks receive their Escorts."

The woman with a yellow mask glanced at the young boy. His expression was flat, his eyes colorless, and his body perfectly still. He was still so young, but just as disciplined as the rest. He was ready for his assignment.

The soft press of a boot against the floor of the train announced an Escort's arrival. The woman glanced away from the boy. All eyes followed the Escort as she appeared in the long, black aisle. Her mask was black as well, but it was made of a lighter material—it didn't glisten like the leather masks. Her long, white cloak with white leather gloves and boots glowed under the train's lights.

"Trace," she spoke evenly. Her boots were planted parallel and equally-spaced from one another. She looked into the car filled with people dressed in black. It wasn't hard to spot the boy in the back. His black mask matched hers, though it wouldn't for much longer. Not many recruits were granted Escort status. A title like that was typically passed down through the Association's "nobility." And Trace was far from being noble.

She held her white glove out to him, though there was still a train car's length between them. The gesture represented kindness, gentleness, and warmth. It was a welcoming gesture.

Trace stood slowly, his eyes trained on the ground. It was disrespectful for an unassigned recruit to look directly at anyone from the Association.

"Proceed toward me," she said. He obeyed, calculating his steps as he moved swiftly up the aisle. Every movement had to be precise. The Association would know if he misstepped, and that could cost him his assignment.

Her hand was still extended, palm up, reflecting the train's lights. Trace reached up with his black gloved hand and rested it in hers. Accepting her welcome.

Everyone on the train clapped five times, in perfect unison. The assignment would happen privately, but this was the first step. Meeting an Escort was a rare occasion, as they only appeared for recruits under the age of fifteen.

Trace retracted his hand and finally met the Escort's gaze. Her eyes were a soft gray and her eyebrows relaxed over them.

Without speaking, she turned and stepped off the train. Trace followed.

#

The Association was every shade of gray. Dawn's beautiful orange tint was mercilessly swallowed by the colorless buildings and dark streets.

Trace and his Escort walked together, staggered so she was leading. Neither of them spoke. The street was completely empty. Trace looked in the distance, to the other neighborhood streets where other members of the Association were returning home to their assigned bunkers, where they would rejoin their groups and have their meals before they slept. There had been rumors among recruits that the Association arranged bunkers in tiers, akin to regular society's social class system. Trace didn't believe such rumors. After all, these bunkers looked identical, at least on the outside. And other than their color-coded masks, everyone on the train seemed to treat one another as equals. Maybe the rumors were just that. Rumors.

The Escort slowed her pace so she was walking almost perfectly in time with Trace's stride. Was she supposed to fall back like this? Her action puzzled Trace, but he held back from objecting. There had to be a reason she was doing this.

"Shallomar," the Escort spoke softly, almost inaudibly. She tilted her head slightly in his direction, but she didn't look at him and he didn't look at her. "If you ever need me, that's the name you should call."

Trace nodded, but he didn't quite understand. Why would an Escort ever reveal her personal identity, and to a recruit, no less?

Shallomar stopped and turned to face a large, gray building. Trace copied her movement carefully. She pointed up at the roof and gestured down to the metal door, then dropped her hand. The letter and number combination–stamped in black over the door–caught Trace's attention. WP-0770.

"This is your bunker, Trace," she whispered. "But I'm afraid I cannot promise you it will be your permanent one. You see. . ." Her voice trailed off as she searched through her thoughts. Trace waited patiently for her to find the words, although it was odd she didn't have them prepared. Something about her silence felt off. She shook her head and continued: "Everything will be explained to you after your assignment. I was told that you are to be treated carefully, with how young you are."

He looked at the building again, burning those letters into his mind. He had to be prepared for the interrogation that awaited him behind the tall metal door. There were thousands of things he could be questioned about.

"Trace," Shallomar said, a little more rigidly. She reached for his arm.

He twitched at her touch, registered speechless. He had no training for this kind of situation. He wouldn't receive punishment for an Escort touching him out of turn, would he?

"Yes?" His voice was steady, but his muscles tensed. The Association was no doubt watching this encounter, waiting for Trace's reaction.

Shallomar pulled her hand back slowly. Her eyes softened. And then she reached toward her face, tugged on the top of her black mask, and slid it down to her chin. Her pale skin glowed in the light of the morning, pink brushing along her cheeks. Her petite nose and small, red lips were perfectly aligned on her symmetrical face.

When her face grew redder, Trace realized he'd looked too long. Embarrassed, he turned away. "Won't you or I get into trouble for revealing our identities?" His voice was flat, unlike the pounding of his heart. When he looked at her again, she'd slid the mask back over her soft, girlish features. Her eyes were heavy with what might have been disappointment.

"You? No. Me? Maybe. I just want you to know at least one face before your assignment, Trace." She blinked slowly as if trying to communicate her honest intent. "I know what it's like to work for the Association at a young age, and I'm only seventeen, now. It'll be easier if you have someone to turn to when things get difficult."

"When things get difficult?" Trace asked.

"Yes. When."

Trace looked at her in her peculiar white cloak, so different from the rest of the Association, essentially royalty. Could he rely on her as she was encouraging him to? Or could he reject her? Was this part of his assignment?

Shallomar nodded toward his bunker. "Go in, now. I'm sure we will cross paths again."

Trace obediently walked past her up to the door of the WP-0770 bunker and knocked once. The door swung open, but the lack of windows and lights kept the inside cold and dark. Trace took a step forward, then hesitated. He glanced over his shoulder, but Shallomar was already gone.

He should have tried harder to remember her face.

#

Four figures loomed in the darkness, standing behind a large countertop where a kitchen might have once been. They were silent as Trace stepped through the door, sharing no reaction when he closed it behind him.

When he turned, the room lit up with lights that shot around the square ceiling, almost as bright as those on the train.

The entrance was indeed a kitchen, missing all appliances save for a fridge. White tile flooring stretched from the front door to the countertop and a vintage glass chandelier dangled above the four WP-0770 members. Each was dressed in uniform black cloaks with large hoods that curved over their heads, casting dark shadows on their faces. Even with the lights glaring down on them, their features were barely visible. Their masks were dark purple. Their attire meant they must have recently returned from a mission.

"Take a seat, kid," one of them snapped. Trace trembled at the annoyance behind the man's words.

"You're scaring him," a woman's voice whispered. She sounded amused.

Trace glanced around for a seat, realizing the nearest was a single barstool at the counter where the four members stood. Ignoring the heat rising to his cheeks, Trace took confident steps to the stool and sat on the smooth metal.

It wasn't long after he'd settled there before one of the members reached forward, grabbed the front of Trace's cloak in his fist, and lifted him out of his seat.

His body went into full shock, freezing like a frightened animal. He didn't dare to meet the gaze of the man holding him–that would be disrespectful and impolite. They were testing to see if he was trained well enough to handle difficult situations—he knew that.

"Look at me, boy." The man spat. His fist twisted Trace's cloak around it, constricting the leather around the boy's torso. "That's an order."

Trace pressed his lips together and flicked his eyes to meet the man's. They were a brilliant purple, unlike his dull gray. And there was something spiteful in them. Almost like an unspoken challenge.

But the man was at least twice, if not three times Trace's age. Why did he need to assert dominance when he already had seniority?

"You look like you're about to piss yourself," the man laughed. He released Trace's cloak and the boy shrunk back onto the chair. Looking back to one of the members, the man clucked his tongue. "This is why children shouldn't be. . ."

The man's voice died off as a woman appeared at the bottom of a staircase just to the left of the kitchen. Trace hadn't noticed it before, perhaps because the steps were untouched by the light. The woman standing there wore a white sweatshirt, blue skinny jeans, and gray and white socks. Her hair was yellow like the sun—tied into a knot on top of her head—and her eyes were brown. She wasn't wearing a mask.

Trace blinked at her. She looked to be in her twenties, with a youthful glow still present in her pink lips and long nose. But her expression was stern, aging.

"Derek," she sighed, moving into the light of the kitchen. Trace watched her carefully as she crossed her arms over her chest and glared at the man still standing in front of him. "I give the orders around here. And don't start acting like you aren't a child, yourself. If anyone here needs to grow up, it's you."

Before he could make his rebuttal, she batted him away with a hand and stood in front of Trace. Her expression softened as she held out her clean, pale palm, face-up. "I'm Hailey," she smiled, "the leader of WP-0770. Nice to meet you."

Trace hesitated, unsure of how to proceed. Derek had been hostile for what felt like no reason. Hailey's completely opposite kindness dusted his thoughts with confusion. But he wouldn't let his thoughts delay his etiquette, so he reached forward and shook her hand. She smiled.

"That meathead is Derek," she said dismissively, jabbing a thumb in Derek's direction. He grunted at her derogatory label. "He's the oldest among us, but he's really immature. But it kind of makes sense. After all, he was our newest recruit before you."

Nodding, Trace peeked at Derek, who was leaning against a wall on the east side of the kitchen. He looked straight ahead at nothing.

"Peter is the longest-standing member of WP-0770," she said. The tallest of the four cloaked members tilted his head back as a greeting. "Wyze is our youngest, at nineteen. She's our rationale." The shortest member lifted her gloved hand up to wave. "And finally–"

The last unnamed member stepped forward. Their height was somewhere in the middle, and their build was average. They shook with excitement, and interrupted Hailey. "I'm Dior. It's a pleasure to have such a young recruit join us." She reached her hands out and touched Trace's. He jolted, but didn't pull away. "We'll do our best to take good care of you."

Hailey scowled, clearly disapproving Dior's actions. Taking the hint, Dior lifted her hands and stepped back, nodding.

"Now that you've all met the new recruit, please return to your rooms to receive meals and turn in for the day. I don't want anyone to bother Trace." Hailey's words held a powerful, controlling weight. Trace didn't feel this control himself, but he could see it in the blank expressions on each member's face. All four quickly dispersed at her command, leaving the two of them alone in the bright kitchen.

Had this encounter been his assignment? Trace had heard of assignments taking hours to complete, what with all of the rituals and stipulations involved. Had those simply been rumors, to over-prepare recruits?

Hailey's lips turned up in a smile. "You have a lot of questions. And I will answer them, eventually. But for now, you must sleep. You had a long commute to the Association, so you must be exhausted." Trace's lips parted to object, but she shook her head. "Don't worry; our team will be here tonight for your assignment. You won't miss it. That's not allowed." Her eyes were kind as she reached a hand toward his mask, brushing her thumb along the hem below his left eye. He shuddered at the sensation of her skin against his–such an unnatural, unacceptable gesture. This couldn't be allowed, could it? She laughed as she leaned back.

"I'm supposed to go through my assignment before I am permitted to stay on Association grounds." Trace's voice returned to its flat, respectful tone. He knew the rules. This could be another part of his assignment.

She smiled again briefly, amused. "Of course. But you will certainly fail your assignment if you aren't well-rested."

"But—"

"Don't talk back to me." Her voice rang with the same powerful weight it did when she'd ordered the other members to return to their rooms. Trace's heart jumped to his throat. "You will receive your assignment when you wake tonight. Please rest well so you don't disappoint us."

Trace nodded.

"And, Trace," she took a step backward and looked down at him. Her lips turned up playfully. "Welcome to Phantom."

#

Author's Note:

Hello! I hope you're enjoying Phantom Assassin so far. What do you think about the Association? Do you like Trace's acquaintances? :)