Earning one's assignment was no easy task. The Association selected very few to join Phantom, and even then, there were still barriers to entry.

Trace thought he'd studied, practiced, and struggled enough to pass his assignment, but now he was unsure. Could there be something more Phantom was looking for besides what he'd learned from his Mentor over the past year?

The rooms were separated, with girls on one side of the bunker and boys on the other. In Trace's narrow room, a small wardrobe wedged between the bed and the wall. A wooden table rested beneath two square holes in the wall. They were lined with metal, with the words "MEAL" stamped into one, and "DISPOSAL" stamped into the other.

There was no extra space for storing personal items. No chest or drawer or closet. But Trace hadn't brought anything with him. He had nothing valuable to save.

Even still, curiosity floated in the air, luring him to the tall and dark wardrobe. He opened it and gasped at the treasures within.

Around ten black cloaks, just his size. And to the right, a line of white shirts and varieties of blue jeans. Ripped ones, stained ones, cropped ones. A single drawer in the wardrobe held a dozen pairs of white and gray socks.

While the clothing selection was a little bizarre, Trace's shoulders dropped in relief. While the cloaks weren't uncomfortable, he didn't remember the last time he wore such a casual combination. The thought of walking freely as Hailey did–uncloaked and unmasked–made his heart happy.

"Meal arrival imminent," cooed a robotic voice from a speaker in the ceiling. At first, it startled Trace. But when an aluminum container of steaming dinner and bottle of water slid into the MEAL slot, his stomach growled.

Hunger was a powerful thing. At one moment, it was gone, and the next, it could make a person go mad.

Trace walked to his door and locked it, then walked to his bed to hastily remove his cloak and gloves. He tossed them onto the thin mattress and the removed buckles and bindings that had once carried weights during training, pulled his black boots off, slid out of his leather pants, and retrieved his dinner from the wall.

He peeled back the thin, convulsing plastic film and steam billowed out, wafting straight into his nose. The food didn't look like food, but when did it ever? The green, mashed potato consistency smelled like roast beef and probably tasted even better. And he wouldn't have to worry about stomach problems later—the Association made sure that no food went to waste, which meant it consisted of nutrients that absorbed as they writhed through the digestive tract and dissolved before it exited the body.

Trace removed his mask, tossing it to the side. The meal was gone in moments—piping hot fluff scratching down his parched throat. He took a giant swig of water and sighed. He hadn't eaten in two days. His body was letting him know this now.

He tossed the empty container into the disposal slot and stretched his body along the length of his bed. His stomach growled in protest, but he couldn't request more food—it was enough of a luxury to be fed as it was.

The lights turned off the moment he fell asleep.

#

It was evening when Trace woke. Someone had been pounding against his metal door, and the sound echoed and amplified around him.

He shifted his weight on the mattress and the springs inside creaked.

"Finally," Derek's voice said on the other side. "Get your butt out of bed and down to the basement. We were supposed to start your assignment an hour ago."

Trace shot straight up in bed, his body twitching—not yet fully awake. His eyes were heavy, his limbs sore and weak. But he forced himself to move through the pain, pull his black leather pants on, readjust his buckles and bindings, and reassemble the rest of his outfit. There was no mirror to check whether he did everything right, like in his Mentor's home.

Trace wondered if he would ever consider WP-0770 his "home."

He bypassed the now-cold breakfast that sat alone in the meal slot, the same green as the dinner he'd eaten twelve hours prior.

#

Trace found a small elevator across from his room, with only a down arrow. He was sure there was an upstairs, which is where Hailey had appeared from this morning, so why was there no option to go up?

He pressed the button with his glove and it lit up purple, like the masks the WP-0770 members wore. The hum of the mechanics behind the elevator wall reminded Trace of the train he'd taken from Pelo, the city his Mentor found him in. The train was quieter than the elevator, but it served a similar purpose–it was taking him to his assignment.

When it arrived, he stepped through the doors and turned to face the panel of new buttons. Each was rectangular and spelled out its destination:

KITCHEN

BASEMENT

ROOM #6, #7, #8

He pressed the button to go to the basement and it glowed purple, too. The doors shut violently and the elevator quickly brought its cargo to the basement. He was there in seconds.

The doors opened and everyone was there, but none wore cloaks. All were dressed in their white shirts, blue jeans, and gray and white socks. None wore masks.

Derek was certainly the oldest, with wrinkles arching from his eyes and around his mouth. His short black hair was choppy and graying toward the roots. Dior and Wyze looked similar in age, but Dior's long black hair and pale face made her look more mature, while Wyze's short brown hair barely reached her chin, shaping her round cheeks. Peter was unordinary, with dark brown hair and a crooked nose that cast a shadow over his left cheek. None of them smiled.

The room was expansive and dark, like an abandoned warehouse. The ceilings were so high up, the darkness swallowed them entirely. The light from the elevator momentarily lit up the space, but after Trace stepped out of the small enclosure, the doors closed and darkness hushed throughout the room.

Hailey's voice broke the silence. "I assume you're prepared for your assignment." There wasn't a hint of questioning in her stern voice.

Trace nodded, then realized no one would see him. "Yes."

"Good," she said. "There are three steps to your assignment. The first is questioning. The second is combat. And the third," she paused, almost as though it was difficult to say.

Trace completed her explanation. "The Modifier, right?"

"Mm, yes." Something about her answer felt off, but she changed the subject quickly. "Derek and Peter, please provide Trace with a chair. Wyze and Dior, can you prepare the chamber for Trace's second test?"

Soft taps of feet scattered around Trace, following Hailey's orders. Hands pressed down on his shoulders, forcing him into a metal chair. One of the hands lingered there, digging into his collarbone, and he knew it must've been Derek.

Seriously, what grudge did he have against Trace?

A light snapped on next to Hailey, who was now sitting across from him. She tangled her fingers together and rested her elbows on her knees. Her eyebrows hung over her eyes, shadowing her expression.

"Trace," she began, "how long have you trained to become a member of the Association?"

Trace knew the answer, but his Mentor had told him to lie. No one could join the Association after one mere year of training. It was unheard of.

"Four years." Trace's voice was steady, calm. He'd practiced answering these questions for the past year. At first he was uncomfortable with lying, but now it was normal for him. The lies he'd repeated over and over felt more like truth each time he recited them.

Hailey raised an eyebrow at him, but continued. "Who was your Mentor?"

Trace never knew his Mentor's real name. He was told to refer to him as James.

"James." Though this was a lie as well, Trace had known no other name.

"How old are you?"

"Fourteen."

Hailey nodded, then leaned forward. She inhaled deeply. "How long have you been a recruit?"

Trace blinked. This wasn't a question he had expected to answer. There were documents with information about his participation in the recruit program, so he couldn't lie about this. But did he need to lie? The Association knew how long his recruitment period was, and he still moved into the assignment process.

A smile twitched beneath his mask. "Twenty-six days."

Hailey raised her eyebrows, but her expression was filled with doubt. She sighed. "Your family–did you tell them about your recruitment? Or anything about the Association?"

"No." Trace had no family to tell. Not any that he could recall, at least. And his Mentor knew where he was—he'd sent him here.

Hailey uncoiled her fingers and sat up straight. "I don't like your lack of field experience, Trace. But if the Association declares it adequate, I am in no place to argue."

Trace relaxed his shoulders—he hadn't realized they'd tightened throughout her questioning. She was doing what the Association asked every team leader to do, even if she was conflicted. She knew her place, which made Trace respect her more.

"Next is combat," Hailey said as she stood. Dior and Wyze had returned just in time, beaming at their successful preparation.

The light overhead turned off and everything was black again. Someone held Trace's hand, gently tugging him through the abyss. He was surprised that even with the few times he'd been physically touched in the past twenty-four hours, he was already getting used to it. For many reasons, this was dangerous.

#

Whoever had led Trace was now long gone, and he stood alone in the darkness. The silence was nearly suffocating, and the space was hot and humid. The uniform cloak and undergarments didn't help to stifle the heat.

Lights flicked on and Trace found himself in a room covered in mirrors, each reflecting a different angle of himself. The ceiling was so white that if Trace were to look at it head-on, he'd be blinded. Black rectangular boxes hung from the corners of the room. Speakers.

"Turn around and choose your weapon." Hailey's voice was more aggressive, more powerful through the speakers that surrounded him. He flinched at her sharpness.

Somewhere, they were watching him. If he was given a selection of weapons, which would he choose? That must be an element of the combat test. He wouldn't know his opponent, so he would need to pick something that could work for any situation.

Trace slowly turned around, nearly bumping into a long metal table. It's almost as if the table had materialized itself there while he was observing the mirrors and speakers.

On the table were three weapons: a small, black pistol, a dark green grenade, and a saw-tooth dagger.

Two far range weapons and a close range one. To Trace, the obvious choice was the pistol. But did they want him to pick the correct answer? What exactly were they looking for?

Trace looked from weapon to weapon, imagining how different scenarios might play out. If he chose the gun but his opponent appeared behind him with a knife, he would be at a disadvantage. If he chose the knife and his opponent had a gun, he would lose. And if he chose the grenade, in such a tiny space, both he and his opponent would die.

Did he have to pick a weapon? Could he fight with his own two hands? Then, if he made a mistake, he could blame himself instead of a weapon malfunction. That would feel more honest.

But then again, hadn't he been lying this whole time?

Trace reached toward the table and grabbed the gun.

"Are you sure about your choice?" Hailey's voice echoed around him.

"Yes," Trace said.

"Very well."

The lights cut out.

#

A young man, not much older than Trace, appeared at the center of the room. His face was scarred down one side, his left eye trapped beneath it. He didn't look angry or upset. He wasn't even armed. His eyebrows sagged on his forehead and his right eye filled with moisture. Was he about to cry?

This wasn't combat. . . Trace had to make a decision. And something like this wouldn't distract him. Luckily, he was prepared for this rare situation.

"What have you done wrong?" His question was crisp and clear.

The man started back, his shoulders quaking. "N-nothing. I wouldn't ever hurt her." His eye widened and he covered his face with his hands. "I wouldn't ever hurt her."

A small hand reached around from behind the man's leg and a little girl appeared. She wore ratty clothing and her hair looked like it had never been cleaned. Despite her appearance, though, she looked quite curious. Her silky brown eyes were wide with wonder.

"Who is this 'her' you speak of?" Trace looked at the girl as he asked.

The man twitched his head toward the girl as if just noticing her presence. "A-Abigail? What are you doing here, sweetie?" He turned and bent, hands trembling, to pick her up. Her small body was limp in his arms.

"Answer my question." Trace lifted the gun, relaxing his finger on the trigger. The safety was still on, but this man didn't know that.

Abigail still had that look of wonder, but the man's eyes widened until they appeared almost entirely white. "My wife took her own life. It was no fault of mine."

"Your wife," Trace repeated. "She's dead?"

The man's lips twitched. "No, she took her own life and she's still alive. What do you want? You're still a kid." He took a step closer to Trace with a crazy hostility filling his eyes. "You think you have it in you to kill me? What if I—" He lifted Abigail to his chest so their heads were aligned. "What if you miss your target?"

Trace's heart stopped in his chest. He knew these questions meant nothing. He knew that the man was throwing questions at him to throw him off. But still, why did he feel such immense guilt as he looked into the child's eyes, so pure and so naive?

"I never miss," Trace said. He would speak lies until they felt like the truth. Confidence rang true in his voice and echoed in his heart. The man's cocky expression faltered.

"I told you, I didn't kill her. She worked herself to death and when she got too stressed. . ." The man lifted a hand and drew a line across his throat with his thumb. "Stupid whore had it coming to her, too. She never once thought about us. Our marriage was loveless."

Trace turned the safety off and straightened his arm so the gun pointed directly at Abigail's head.

"You shagged off with other women and never worked while your wife did all of the work to take care of your daughter. And now that she's gone, you're neglecting the one precious thing you have left." Trace gritted his teeth together as bitterness coated his tongue. It felt like these words had been waiting to be spoken for a long time.

"She's my younger sister," the man laughed. But it didn't matter, because Trace was still right about everything else. So spot on in fact, that no more conversation was needed.

What would Hailey think if he took the shot now? Would she be impressed, or would she be looking for something more? Or maybe, this was a situation that didn't require a death. If the man died, who would take care of the girl? Certainly Phantom wouldn't take responsibility for a toddler.

Trace dropped the gun, moved swiftly forward, and swung his fist so it would collide with the scarred side of the man's face.

The lights turned off just before his fist met the man's head. The darkness remained for much longer.

"Trace, please turn to your right and push on the glass door to leave the combat chamber." Did she sound irritated?

Trace obeyed, pressing his black glove into the door he couldn't see. It opened to reveal more darkness.

"Trace, the Modifier is the last step required for your successful assignment," Hailey said. "As I'm sure you're aware, once you receive your Modifier, there is no going back."

Her words slushed through Trace's brain. Was she trying to get him to back out now? After the year of suffering he'd gone through under his Mentor's training?

"I'm well aware. And I'm ready," Trace said.

"No, you're not." Hailey sighed.

Why wasn't he?

Furthermore, why did she ask him a question he hadn't practiced answering? And why was his combat situation so emotionally involved? Why was she doubting him now?

"You're young and naive," Hailey began and Trace tightened his fingers into fists. "Which means you'll do whatever you're told." Her voice softened, sounding almost pained.

The darkness slowly faded away as lights along the walls began to glow. The entire team stood before him in a formation with Hailey at the center. And they all wore their cloaks and purple masks. Their eyes all glowed the same purple.

"If you truly believe you're ready, I'll give you one final test. Off-script. The Association hasn't granted me permission to administer such a thing. Which means," Hailey breathed deeply. "I'm risking a lot by taking a chance on you."

Trace's eyebrows drew together. "If you don't believe in me, why take such a risk?"

"Oh, I believe in you, alright." Hailey's tone was almost playful now, but something about it still sounded strained, like she was in some kind of pain. "Which is why I think the Modifier may not be needed."

Not needed? Trace knew very little about the Modifiers, other than that they were essential. They were what made Phantom. . . Phantom.

A Modifier would make his assignment permanent.

Maybe Shallomar was right. . . This wouldn't be his permanent team. If anyone could know such a thing, it would be her.

"If you're seriously ready, I want you to accompany my team on a real Commission." Hailey held out her hand. "If you are still confident after, you can have your Modifier."

Trace reached out to grab her hand. Her eyes expressed no emotion at his decision.

"Deal," he said.

The room went dark again, but this time it was different.

#

Author's Note

How many times can a room possibly go dark? XD

What do you guys think of Trace and his assignment? Would you do it??