Wyze's gray eyes flitted to Trace across the parlor, curious. Her short brown hair was combed neatly and parted down the middle, falling evenly on her round cheeks. Her slight smile created a small dimple on her right side, indenting her tan skin.

The others were a little late to join them, so the two sat in silence. Wyze studied Trace and he pretended that he didn't notice.

"I bet you're thrilled to be stuck in that chair right now," Wyze said. Her lips tucked in on themselves to hold in a laugh. "We've all been there, you know."

Trace ignored her teasing. He was doing what he could to focus on anything else but the numbing pain that rippled from the back of his neck to literally every other part of his body.

"It takes a little while to get used to it, but it's always nice to have someone to help with the transition." Wyze crossed her left leg over the right. She was wearing the classic white shirt and ripped jeans combo, but the styling of hers seemed to fit very well. "Would you like me to help you remove your mask and cloak?"

As she asked him, he felt the sudden irritation of the mask over his nose and chin. His skin was sore from having it on all night. But could he trust that Wyze wouldn't take advantage of him while he was unable to move on his own? Trace looked at her and judged that she didn't seem like the kind of person to do that. He nodded.

A smile lit up her eyes as she uncrossed her legs and walked a few steps toward him. She reached down with her olive hands and carefully removed his cloak, then his mask. When she saw his face, she let out a little giggle.

Trace felt the heat rush to his cheeks. Was something about his appearance unpleasant? He always thought himself to look quite average, which is why he had no qualms with covering it with a mask. But judging from her reaction, he must've looked funny.

"Oh, sorry," Wyze said, but her smile never disappeared. "I wasn't laughing at you or anything. I just wasn't expecting you to look so . . . mature. How old did you say you were?"

Trace knew she remembered his answer from before, but it was polite to answer again. This would also set the record straight. "Fourteen," he said. His voice was steady, but a little scratchy from the blistering hot breakfast mush.

She nodded. "Ah, I see. I remember now." As she backed away, her eyebrows moved on her forehead as if reacting to different thoughts she was having.

The others arrived soon after she took her seat. First, Hailey entered the parlour, staking claim to a white leather sofa next to the front-facing wall. Then Peter and Dior came in, each slipping into the chairs on either side of Wyze. Derek was last, moving to sit next to Hailey on the couch. She gave him a disapproving look but didn't punish him as his body sank into the soft material.

"Did you all make a list of chores for Trace to do over the next few days?" Hailey asked aloud. For a moment, Trace was confused that she didn't communicate via Modifier, but then it all made sense. Everyone was wearing their casual clothes, and none of their eyes glowed purple. Their Modifiers were inactive.

Dior nodded, her expression flat. "Should the chores remain between Trace and each of us?"

Hailey smiled. "It's up to you, really. Of course, each time-sensitive task should be made known to me, however."

Trace surveyed the group, taking in their polite conversations. He had already gotten used to seeing them without their disguises, but the friendly postures and relationships were still a bit difficult to grapple with.

"This punk looks even more useless with his mask off," Derek snorted. Hailey quickly swatted the back of his head and he winced.

"You're one to talk, meathead," Wyze scoffed. "You're not much to look at, either."

Either. This word impressed into Trace's mind. While he would rather not have the burden of looking disparagingly handsome, the thought that he 'wasn't much to look at' and was being compared to the likes of Derek made him feel a little dejected. He didn't show this outwardly, of course.

"Enough," Hailey said. Derek winced at her words. "Now I want each of you to think carefully about how you were treated when you were adapting to your Modifiers. Use that memory to be empathetic toward Trace and help him so this transition can go as smoothly as possible." Her eyes traveled to the three sitting side by side. Peter was the only one who didn't flinch at her gaze.

Though Modifiers were inactive, Peter seemed to understand Hailey's unspoken request to take care of Trace first. He turned to address the boy. "You'll come with me to Phantom HeadQuarters today. As it is the beginning of the week, we need to physically check in with our area coordinator and confirm this week's commissions."

Trace nodded. At least he would be able to leave the bunker. It felt like forever since he'd seen the sky.

"Great. Then we can discuss who will be responsible for him each day starting tomorrow." Hailey stood and walked past Trace. Her eyes were a warmer brown today. She reached down and rubbed Trace's hair fiercely, stirring up the brown so it fell randomly over his face. He blinked at her and she laughed. "Good luck out there. You're gonna need it."

The others followed Hailey out of the parlor, nodding politely at him as they left. Derek avoided eye contact as he stiffly walked past. Peter sighed in his chair and ran skinny fingers through dark brown hair. He looked stressed.

"Is Phantom HeadQuarters an unpleasant place?" Trace asked the question and immediately regretted it. What kind of answer other than "not at all" did he expect? No Phantom member would blaspheme HQ.

Peter's lip quirked up. "Not at all." Then, he pressed his hands on his knees as he stood and stretched his arms. "I'll be down after getting dressed. Can you wait here?" When he realized the irony of his request, he bit back an awkward smile. Of course, Trace had to wait whether he wanted to or not.

#

They didn't teleport to HeadQuarters. At first, Trace had wondered why they didn't teleport for every occasion—it seemed too convenient to consider anything else. But as with every technology, there had to be a downside.

Peter held the heavy WP-0770 door open as Trace passed through, then waited outside for it to close behind them. The sound was uncharacteristically soft for a door made of metal.

"Hailey passed Modifier control to me while we're out, but I promise I won't make you do anything uncomfortable. So you can relax." Peter's eyes were still dark green above his purple mask, which meant his Modifier was still inactive. He moved his hand behind his neck and the violet invaded his irises, matching Trace's. "Oh, I almost forgot." He reached into his cloak and revealed another purple leather mask. "You haven't received yours yet. I'm sure you're aware by now, but these identify us. Without a colored one, you may as well be a Stray."

A Stray, huh? Trace wondered what that could have meant, but before he could ask, Peter had already changed the subject.

"I'll give you one of mine for now. But we will definitely have to request a set of your own. I don't know how Phantom could've forgotten something like that. They knew you were coming to us, after all." Peter helped Trace with the mask and stepped back. "There."

Now follow me. Walk at your own pace and try to relax. Peter's words were warm. Even though they were an order, Trace's shoulders immediately relaxed, and his body felt semi-normal again. The pain from the Modifier was slightly less, too. Trace decided right then that he liked Peter.

Trace's body was still out of his full control, but he began to feel like not every movement was foreign. He could twitch his fingers and curl his toes as they walked side by side on the cement path.

The sky was darkening, the sun dipping down over the gray buildings lining both sides of the street. This street was one of many leading to the train station at the center. Trace had seen the map in the station on his way out—it resembled a child's drawing of the sun. Each ray was a street lined with bunkers, some more populated than the others.

I've been meaning to ask for a while, Trace began. He hadn't used the Modifier communication system before, so he wasn't sure if it would work.

Peter didn't look at him as they continued walking. Yes?

Okay, so it worked. Why are the members of WP-0770 so emotionally divergent? Trace didn't think much of the question, because he knew any other recruit would ask the same thing.

That's because, Peter said, then paused. They walked further, the streets empty. Trace continued looking forward, copying Peter. When Peter spoke aloud, quietly, it startled Trace. "That question is best to be asked aloud, boy."

"Why's that?" Trace strained to get these two simple words out.

"It involves revealing something that Phantom doesn't know about. Modifier communication is strictly monitored by Escorts and other Phantom superiors, so we shouldn't talk about things that could introduce a conflict of interest. It's better for all of us that way."

Just to be safe, Peter continued his reply via Modifier. People tend to be different. We have different thoughts, different opinions. Of course, there will be some discord when living in such close quarters with one another. The smile on Peter's lips told Trace that there was more to this excuse, but he knew that it wasn't all untrue; people had different opinions. Phantom members simply weren't warranted to express them.

They arrived at the station soon after their polite conversation, but the train hadn't arrived yet. There were two other groups waiting, one with orange masks and the other with green. Their eyes matched their masks.

We're taking the bullet train straight to HeadQuarters, Peter alerted Trace. He nodded toward the larger map, to the left of the neighborhood map. It looked like a metropolis with many different extending train lines. It was strange to think that such a large area was still little known to the rest of normal society.

How long is the trip? Trace continued looking at the map, the colors of the lines an anomaly compared to the vast grayness of the station and the streets filled with slate bunkers. It was a beautiful thing to look at. He must've not noticed it before.

One hour, Peter said. His voice sounded slightly pained. He must've had to do this every week. It probably got old quickly.

A train hushed into the station and lurched to a halt at the front. Silver doors slid open silently and a few groups got off, avoiding eye contact with the rest in the station. The green masks got on the train and the orange masks remained with the purple ones.

Are we not allowed to speak with those in other groups? Trace asked. He had never been told it was discouraged or not allowed, just that speaking out of turn was.

Peter smirked, then cocked his head in the other two's direction. "Hey, where are you guys headed?"

The slightly taller orange masked person darted their neon orange eyes in Peter and Trace's direction. Something hostile glistened in their glare. Then they turned away and walked with their other member further down the station.

It's not like it isn't "allowed" or anything like that. It's more like. . . there's no reason to? Peter crossed his arms. His eyebrows pulled together. You'll see soon enough. It's easier than explaining everything.

Trace nodded. A reason to not talk to others, aside from appearing disrespectful. He wasn't told about this from his Mentor or even the sergeants in the recruitment program. This must've been something that Phantom didn't want others to know about.

Soon after the first train left, a new one pulled into the station. It was different from the others Trace had seen—it was shiny and black and windowless, with a single white line running horizontally from front to back. Peter stood as it stopped and cued Trace to stand as well. This was their train.

They stepped through narrow doors, which closed quickly behind them, and walked down a hall lined with private rooms. They entered one with a purple square on its door and sat across from one another, a dark glass table between them.

Peter sighed, moving his hand to his neck. The purple left his eyes and the green refilled them. His shoulders slooped. "The one thing good about trips to HeadQuarters are the freedom to be Modifier-less on the way there and on the way back."

Trace almost laughed, because only one of them could enjoy this luxury today.

A knock came at their door and an attendant wearing an all-gray mask, cloak, gloves, and boots slid open the door. She held a tray in her hand that carried two upside-down shot glasses and two small bottles of dark liquid.

"Is this his first trip to HeadQuarters?" The girl asked Peter.

"Yes. I will brief him on the medication."

The attendant nodded and set the tray carefully on the table, then left quietly.

Peter reached for a bottle, unscrewed the cap, and filled his glass to the brim with a dark purple liquid. Then, without hesitation, he splashed it onto his tongue and swallowed it all at once. He didn't gag or wince at the taste, so it couldn't have been that bad.

"Now that you know it isn't poison, please do the same," Peter said.

Trace's hand moved on its own to pour the liquid into his glass. Then, he lifted it to his lips and poured it in.

For the first time, he was grateful for his lack of control. The absolute rancid flavor of whatever it was flushing down his throat would've otherwise surely caused him to vomit.

Peter laughed at Trace's uncontrolled expression. "Careful, you won't want to let others see your obvious disgust."

Trace blinked, trying his best to ignore the bitterness coating the walls of his mouth in slime, and relaxed the muscles in his face. It had been a while since he lost his composure. At least Peter was there with him and not Derek or Hailey.

"What was that stuff?" Trace asked. The words came out easier this time. "If not poison, then—"

"The antidote," Peter said plainly. "The Association has been perfecting the all-cure for diseases for years. We are required to take it each time we go to HeadQuarters. Imagine airport-level close contact. That's what it's like there. They're eliminating health risks."

"I've never heard about that," Trace mumbled.

Peter smirked. "Nobody knows much about the Association, and that's what they want. Consider that scrap of knowledge a precious asset."

Trace nodded and the train lurched forward. An uncertain feeling settled in his stomach as they began their route to Phantom HeadQuarters.

#

Author's Note

Hello all! I just wanted to take a quick moment to say thank you for reading up to this point! If you don't know already, I'm rewriting Phantom Assassin for NaNoWriMo 2022, so my top priority is getting words onto the page. I hope to return to this later and really make it shine, and hopefully feel comfortable enough at that point to delete my first draft here on Wattpad (I was 15 when I wrote it...)

Thanks for all of your support! I truly cannot express how appreciative I am of my readers and your fun comments :)