The sky was dark overhead. Trace cocked his head back to observe the endless expanse of sparkling white stars and thought that nothing could top the beauty of the night.

Wyze walked next to him, ignoring his silly admiration of the unreachable. And Derek drug his feet behind them, reluctant to have joined them in the first place.

#

Derek, you're going with Wyze and Trace to train, Hailey had ordered. Derek's eyes glossed over with regret at her command, almost wishing he hadn't picked on Trace so much. Almost.

Wyze is the best of us when it comes to weapon training. Why should I have to chaperone them? He'd asked, his voice faltering. It must have been hard for him to remain unphased in situations that weren't in his favor.

Wyze had smirked at this compliment, but her tone remained military. I accept your kind words, Derek. However, you're the only one that can demonstrate a fair and proper sparring match with me.

Derek groaned. Trace had thought he was a half-hearted Phantom member before, and it seemed more and more like the truth each time he spoke. It was like his words were cursing him.

Both Wyze and Derek had gone to change into their uniforms, while Trace and Hailey stood in silence in the parlor.

Hailey reached behind her neck and her eyes faded from purple back to her normal dark brown. She turned to Trace and smiled. "Just a little longer and you'll have some of your freedom back. Are you learning a lot?"

Trace nodded. The gun was still in his hand, pointed at the ground. Hailey didn't say anything about it, but he could feel that she probably wanted to. He sensed that she was remaining quiet so he could figure out his own choices. He appreciated that, so he smiled back at her. Then he felt stupid for doing so, since his mask covered his mouth.

"That's good," she said, then yawned.

Seconds later, Wyze and Derek both came around the kitchen corner, dressed in their sleek black cloaks and purple masks. Wyze's eyes glimmered with excitement, enhancing the purple in her irises. Derek's eyes were dull and sunken, clearly expressive of his reluctance to join them.

"Be back before daybreak," Hailey warned them. Each nodded, then walked to the door. Trace followed.

#

The team walked in a triangular formation with Derek at the back and Trace and Wyze matching their footing. The street was abandoned as usual, with only a few light posts to illuminate their way. But somehow, Trace was able to see pretty clearly. Though it was the dead of night, he felt that the stars played a part in his sight. The street seemed to glitter under their glow, as if trying to reflect them like a calm body of water.

They eventually reached the end of the road. The paved area was stopped abruptly by a tall, solid white fence that ran along the edge of the neighborhood, past other streets. Looking down either direction, the white seemed endless.

Trace watched as Wyze squared up against the fence, kicked it with her black boot, then rubbed her hands together. She took a quick step back, then scaled the fence by stepping on it halfway and pushing off with her left foot. Bringing her other foot up, she perched up there and looked down at the other two. Trace was dumbfounded by her acrobatics, and Derek just groaned.

Just do what I did. I'll see you on the other side. Wyze lifted two fingers to her forehead and saluted them before disappearing over the fence.

Derek and Trace looked at each other. Trace was still skinny and young, in shape. The Modifier had helped a little with that. But Derek seemed to be bigger-boned, and thinner. Had he not eaten his meals recently?

He glowered at Trace, then took a quick step back and rode up the fence effortlessly. He disappeared over the other side without looking back.

Trace put the revolver into an undergarment's strap, took a deep breath, closed his eyes, then let the Modifier control the rest of his movement. When he reopened his eyes, he was on the other side and Wyze and Derek were standing ten feet apart, facing each other. Fifty feet behind them was an endless forest of lush pine trees. The tips of the trees scraped along the sky, jealous of the celestial wonder mocking them from above.

Watch this and learn, Wyze said, not looking in Trace's direction. Then, she addressed Derek: This will be good for him. He'll see how weapon hierarchy works.

Derek took a small step back—perhaps he was scared? —and shakily raised his arms, his hands balled into fists. His stance resembled that of cage fighters back when the sport was still legal. Before Trace or Wyze were born, but perhaps while Derek was a young boy. Was he going to fight with his hands? Or did he have something up his sleeve?

Wyze stepped forward with one foot to counterbalance the arm she rotated back. Her hands also balled into fists, but Trace could tell she wouldn't win a fight against Derek with her strength alone.

They stood perfectly still in these poses for a second, perhaps trying to predict the other's first attack, or maybe they were communicating on a different wavelength than Trace was tuned into. If that was the case, though, what would they talk about?

Derek moved first. It was almost too quick to see it, but Trace tracked the movements and processed them after they'd happened. Two daggers slid from his sleeves into his hands, reflecting the starlight as he twirled them around. His leg pushed him off the ground, then he fell into a roll so he faced Wyze from a different angle.

She merely repositioned herself to face him, eyes concentrated on the silver blades resting easily in Derek's large hands.

Something then appeared in her hands. At first, Trace wasn't able to tell what they were, but then he saw three sharp, curved blades as she spun the weapons in her hands: stars of her own. Shurikens—Japanese-style darts. Extremely difficult to control if not trained the proper way.

Wyze moved quickly. Her arms came together, and then flung out and the stars whipped away from her, riding the air on their way to Derek. They were too quick for Trace to track.

The shrieking sound of thin metal clanging together filled the silent air and echoed through the forest and off the white fence. Derek had managed to block the deadly attack with his blades, but just barely. His breathing grew heavier.

Is that all you got? He taunted, wiping his brow. Then, he lunged forward, twisted one of the knives, and rotated his wrist in a way that sprung the dagger out toward Wyze. But she moved quickly, ducking under his calculated throw. Her small legs sped her around him and she revealed two more shurikens, this time slightly larger. A little too large for her hands.

Derek was a little slow, but still managed to fend her off with his remaining knife. That is, until she brought her other arm down, sticking the weapon in his side.

He groaned as he pushed her away from him, then collapsed to one knee. He dropped his knife and held up a hand. Please, he coughed. Wyze backed off.

The look she gave Trace was all he needed to see to believe in her superiority. She didn't show any pride or arrogance—she simply made him understood her competence and power.

These stars are mine, she said, spinning one in her hand. She watched it as the blades became too quick to watch with the naked eye, then stopped it perfectly between her two fingers. She pointed at Derek without looking at him. Those blades are his. Then she pointed at Trace. Are you sure that gun is meant for you?

No, he wasn't sure. But it felt right when he'd found it. Would that be enough?

#

When they returned, Dior was waiting for them at the entrance in her white long sleeve shirt and blue straight jeans. The night was turning orange from the awakening dusk, making her scrunch her nose. She didn't look at either Trace or Derek—just Wyze.

"Have fun?" She asked, annoyance ringing in her voice.

Wyze walked past her, heading to her room for the day. She must've been exhausted from sticking around and babysitting Trace all day. Dior scowled after her, then turned to Derek. Her dark blue eyes squinted at him.

"If you're going to say something, just spit it out already," Derek growled, meeting her gaze with an equally chilling energy.

Dior flipped her long black hair over her shoulder and raised an eyebrow to challenge him. "Stop wasting Wyze's time."

Derek sighed. "Hailey gave the orders."

Dior's expression lightened slightly, but her stare was still just as intense. "She said she would never let you be alone with her."

Ouch, dude. It's like she doesn't even acknowledge your presence. Derek's comment to Trace was like slapping a fresh wound. Trace almost winced at the reminder that he wasn't fully integrated into WP-0770 yet.

For the first time since his assignment, Trace wondered how the other recruits that made it this far were doing. He hardly remembered their names, but he could recall their passion for joining Phantom—it was nearly as strong as his.

"Oh," Dior shifted her gaze to Trace. "You're still here." Her attitude had completely flipped from her friendly and outgoing "I will protect you" display when they first met. Had that merely been an act from the beginning? Did she doubt that he'd make it this far?

Trace's jaw clenched. The more he witnessed freely expressed emotion, the more he felt like it was influencing him. He felt anger toward Dior for disregarding him.

"Yeah, as much as it's a pain to see him," Derek scoffed.

Dior glared at him again. "Not as much as it is a pain to see you," she huffed. Then, she turned on her heel and stormed back to her room.

Trace watched in bewilderment as her straight black hair swooshed with her strides. He couldn't understand how it was just as angry.

Whatever. Anyway, kid. Don't let tonight bother you. Wyze is super serious about weapons and that kind of stuff. And you looked like a total wuss when she talked to you. Try to man up a little more, Derek said. His tone was light, like he was happy to show Trace how tough he was. But Trace saw through this act.

Instead of talking back, though, Trace bit his tongue and agreed. You're right. I need to man up. His Mentor would be proud of the way he held back the poison in his tone. Then, he walked past the true wuss of the group, turned into the hallway, and stepped into the elevator.

He pressed the ROOM # button and the doors closed.

Trace wished so badly that he could scream. Out loud or in his Modifier. But either way, someone would hear him, and it would make all that he's worked toward—his training, his control, his disciplined—meaningless.

He couldn't let that happen. Not when he was just getting started.