Another night had closed. The lights were out and only the soft illumination of a few electronic indicators prevented total darkness. Behind the whirring of the constant fan, Amy could hear the subtle mechanical shiver of the camera in the ceiling being adjusted.

In the blur of a thousand days of sameness, ritual was everything. Before sleep, Amy always thought of her family.

I hope Katie smartens up and stops looking for perfection so she can be happy, Amy started. Then she went through the others: R.J., Barbara, Emily and Aaron, Dr. Eun, Maxwell, Lindsey, Sok, Colin, and even Liz. She spent a thought and a small wish on each of them in something akin to prayer.

Prayer had been something she knew as a child, but it was forgotten now, just like the people that had taught it to her. That first family were like characters on a TV show she hadn't watched in a long time. Only the guilt made them seem real anymore. Only the pain and self-incrimination gave those hazy people a depth beyond video screen projections.

Amy didn't think of her wishes as prayer. Prayer required a god. Amy wasn't entirely sure one existed, but if there was a God, they were on opposite sides. Devils didn't pray. And what was she if not a devil?

These silent thoughts were her way of holding each of her friends in her heart. Although, if she were more honest with herself, she would have made the link between this ritual and something Eun had said to her back in the early days of their therapy. The doctor had told her about how narcissists never thought of anyone but themselves. It had been part of a discussion about personality disorders common among killers. Eun was trying her intellectual approach and showing Amy how normal she was in comparison.  She was meant to see the differences but ended up focusing on the similarities.

Now every night, Amy thought of the people in her life as though it could magically ward off the cold blooded killer inside of her.

When her list was complete, she rolled over and closed her eyes and tried to shut out the world. But it never stopped.

Her ears and nose drew a picture of the room around her, never letting it fade away. She could smell the candy hidden her drawer, the fabric softener on her clothes, the lingering scent of salmon from the diner tray removed hours ago. She could hear all the machines in her room. Even turned off, they made noise. The electricity flowing through wires was a constant trickling like a nearby stream.

Every object stood out in her mind's eye as though through the power of echolocation. If anything was disturbed or if anyone entered, she would know about it instantly. But nothing ever moved and no one ever came in at this time of night.

Amy wrapped her arms around her midsection, clutching herself in a tight hug. She thought of her drawings. The hundreds upon hundreds of pictures she had saved up on pads and in sketch books. Some were of the room and her family here. These she always did in black and white. But the outside world took up most of her time. She drew these images from memory and things she saw in movies and more often than not from her fantasies. She drew deep forests, lush woodlands, lakes, sun and sky, and rainbows. After she made an outline of these wonderful things, she filled them with every vibrant color she could. With colored pencils, crayons, and pastels, Amy created explosive realities, rioting on the pages.

Drifting off to sleep, Amy flipped through these pictures in her mind. Her memory was remarkable in its accuracy, recalling every line and smudge, but the colors were all gone. There was nothing left on those pages but gray.

***

Reeling through the door, Maxwell was faced with the sterility of the hotel room. The beige walls and bed covers reflected his desperation back at him like an angry echo.

Alcohol lubricated his joints and robbed them of coordination. He tried to sit on the edge of the bed but dropped down hard on the mattress instead. The sweat in his hair reminded Maxwell of one of his bouts with malaria. It had the greasy quality of illness and brought a chill to his fingers.

He went to loosen his tie only to find it gone and his shirt with three buttons undone. A quick pat down found it wadded up in one of the front pockets of his jacket. The fabric of his suit hung limply like it had been soaked in the rain and dried out on his body, but Philadelphia's spring weather had been dry. It must have had something to do with the humid warmth and his restless walk through the late night city.

The meeting with Crandall had left him just as shell-shocked as if his cab had hit an IED on the way from the airport.

Grierson had been an insufferable oaf, but the man had worked his whole life in various intelligence agencies and had earned his place in the DTAA. Maxwell hadn't resented reporting to him nearly as much as he did Crandall.

With his designer socks and Ryan Gosling stubble, he looked like he should be the manager at a Banana Republic outlet. As Emily might say, who had this douche-bag blown to get the sector chief's position?

When Maxwell had entered his office, Roger Crandall was making dinner reservations on his smartphone. His feet were on the desk and crossed at the ankles showing off the red and white sailboats on his black socks. Tilted back in his chair so far that he was almost facing the ceiling, he punched his details into the app.

"Have you ever been to The Local?" he asked too distracted to look over at Maxwell.

"No, not yet." Maxwell sat down and adjusted the chair so he wasn't staring into the late afternoon light. His spirits were sinking just like the small disk of a the sun at the thought of having to eat with this ass-hat and make pointless small talk all evening.

"Great place to impress the ladies. Amazing wine list too. You ought to go sometime." Crandall swung his feet off the desk and drew himself into a more business-like posture. "But enough chit-chat. There's been an important development."

Maxwell only had a second to process the mixed feelings of relief and insult at not being asked to dinner before his mind raced to figure out what was so important to bring him all the way to the Agency's headquarters.  "Don't tell me there's a problem with the MRI?"

"No. Nothing to do with that." Crandall glanced at the tablet that lay flat on his desk and flipped through the blurbs of a few e-mails. His attention stalled on one of the messages and it took a moment to snap back to Maxwell. "No. The MRI is still on the way. I asked you here because what I'm about to tell you can't have a paper trail. Project LARS is being shut down."

"What? Why?" Maxwell had little love for the assignment. He hated office work and longed to get back in the field.  It would be a blessing to be free of that subterranean vault.  But Crandall's announcement felt like a condemnation of his work. It was as though he'd just been handed a failing grade. What the hell could have prompted this decision? "Look, if you're not happy with the progress, I actually came here today to report a significant breakthrough from the Genetics Department. Hear me out before making your decision."

Crandall dismissed him with a wave of his hand. "This has nothing to do with me. The order comes straight from the top."

"Donley?" That didn't make any sense.  The head of the agency had always been a major supporter of the project.

"No. Higher. The White House. Seems like our new president was finally briefed on the operation and wasn't at all happy about keeping an underaged citizen locked up indefinitely without charges or trial. You know politicians: always worried about how things will affect their re-election if the public should learn of it."

Crandall leaned back in his chair and rested his clasped hands on his burgundy striped shirt. "Now don't worry, you'll be taken care of. If you do a good job bringing this to an end, you'll be given the Portland office to run."

"But I'm a field agent not a manager."

Crandall twisted his lip into a patronizing half-smile like he was explaining to a child that he couldn't fly. "It's been an awful long time since you were in the field. And you've proven yourself useful running operations. Face facts, you're better behind a desk."

Did this sorry bastard actually believe this or was he looking for some way to hurt Maxwell? Not only was he keeping him in some lousy bureaucratic role but he was sticking him in one of the smallest and quietest field offices in the country.

"But Portland? Nothing ever happens in Maine."

"You'd be surprised." As if to signal he was switching to a different topic, Crandall flicked his fingers up into a steeple before returning them to his solar plexus. "Now, as for the others: I'm arranging reassignments for Dr. Tan, Wexler, and the Proulxs. You will discharge the rest of those rejects. If it looks like any of them will cause trouble, I'll leave it up to your judgement how to do deal with them. Use the leverage we have against them or if it's cleaner: kill them. No need to dispose of the bodies. Just leave them behind in the bunker."

Maxwell nodded. But Crandall didn't take that as an answer. He focused in on him as though he were trying to read his body temperature and heart rate.

"I realize this may be difficult for you but there can't be any screw-ups. Are you still seeing that Kendrick woman?"

"No, that's been over for years."

"Do you still have feelings for her?"

If Maxwell allowed himself to think of what Emily had meant to him or what Aaron still meant to him, Caldwell might detect a flicker of weakness in his eyes. Instead, he concentrated on Emily abandoning her son and that fiasco in the Monterey hotel room he had to pull her out of.

Maxwell fixed the cuff of his shirt so it stuck out from the suit by an exact quarter inch and said to Crandall, "No. And even if I did, my loyalties are with the Agency. My personal feeling won't be a problem."

"Good."

"But what about LARS? Do you have a place to move her to?  We can't simply release her. She's demonstrated remarkable control but..."

"Good God! have you forgotten that the Agency's directive is to protect the public and not to unleash monsters on them? She will definitely not be released.  And no, she is not going to be moved either. The project is being shut down. Do you understand?" Caldwell's face clouded with contempt, as though explaining his own thoughts was beneath him. "The operation has three weeks to gather its final data and then The Music Box will be decommissioned. Backup your data, run those MRIs, and during the full moon execute that thing and autopsy it. Got that?"

The impact of the order pinned him to his chair like a bayonet pushed straight through his chest.

R.J. would go ballistic. Emily would never forgive him. There would be trouble from some of the others too. The order to kill Amy would not be followed quietly. These weren't career military, who were used to following commands they might disagree with. These were emotional civilians used to airing their feelings and opinions. And they didn't have the fear in their hearts, which working for an organization as ruthlessness as the DTAA deserved.

No need to dispose of the bodies. Just leave them behind in the bunker.

He hadn't just been told to order the death of a child, he'd been told to execute his friends. The emotions roaring in his ears made Maxwell retreat back into the safe world of roles and lies. He leaned forward at an precise thirty degree angle. He composed his face into the perfect semblance of seriousness. And with flawless sincerity he said, "I understand. You can count on me."

***

Author's Note (Aug. 26, 2015):

Here ends Chapter 1. Most of it was a slow re-introduction to this world, but this last part should indicate that things are going to start moving fast from here on out.

I'd love to hear your thought on this. And if you liked it, please vote.

And if you enjoyed Book One and have a Twitter account, you have until August 31st to support it for a WattysPeople's Choice award. Just share the story on Twitter with the hashtag#MyWattysChoice. Thank you!