Chapter 7: Harsh Introductions_The Scarlet Jane Files

The rest of my first “official” day in the Agency is spent in quiet contemplation, in silent dread. Within the room I have been told is presently my own, and alone with my thoughts and everything in them, I try my hardest to distract myself—first by pacing, then by musing.

 I think first of my mother, whose life was ended by a monstrous being.

 Next I think of myself, and what purpose I will serve once I begin my training.

 And, finally: I think of what the future may hold after I complete my vow of revenge.

 If I complete it, I tell myself and sigh as I collapse into a chair at a small table in the kitchenette.

 The idea that I might not accomplish my goal has not been lost upon me. For much of the morning, and even into the afternoon, I have been quick to consider any potential shortcomings and what might happen if I falter for even a moment.

 Would I end up like my mother, I wonder, dead and ravaged on a bloody floor? Or would I be victorious come time I faced the monster and forever allow my mother peace?

 The thought, and the reality that comes with it, leaves me with a feeling of hesitation, of dread.

 Dread.

 Over what could happen. Over what might.

 That’s what you’re here for, I tell myself. To learn how to fight. To learn how to combat these monstrous things from another world.

 Thankfully, that knowledge, and my determination, carries me through the rest of the afternoon.

 When evening rolls around, I rise from where I have sat in bed watching court TV, then wander into the kitchen to warm up pizza bites in the small microwave. Then I eat, all the while feeling my world close in with each passing moment.

 You can do this, I tell myself after I shower and climb into bed. You know you can.

 “I know I can,” I whisper, “because I’m Scarlet Jane.”

 And I can do anything if I put my mind to it.

 I allow that thought, and that affirmation, to carry me into sleep.

 * * *

 I awaken the following morning to a sharp series of knocks on the door and the knowledge that I am officially being summoned by the Agency’s Guild of Hunters. Tired, more than ever, and burdened by a growing knot of dread within my chest, I roll out of bed and dress in the simple black clothes that I had arranged on the back of a sitting chair the night before.

 Well, I think as I make my way toward the door. This is it.

 “The beginning of my new life,” I tell myself, then reach down to unlock the door.

 Outside stands a white woman. Unfortunately, the shock of seeing her blood-red hair fades when she turns her head and reveals eyes the exact same color.

 “Scarlet Jane,” the woman says, shifting her hands away from the leather armor that adorns her torso.

 “Yes?” I ask.

 “My name is Emily Bane, senior officer of the Agency’s Guild of Hunters. I’m here to escort you to the Induction Chamber.”

 The Induction Chamber? I think and frown as I consider the gun at the woman’s waist. Just what does that—

 Mean, I want to finish.

 But Emily Bane’s tapping boot on the ground stops me from thinking further. “We don’t have all day, Miss Jane.”

 “Call me Scarlet.” I palm the key to my room and step into the hallway. “And sorry. I’m ready.”

 “Good. It’s imperative that we begin early.”

 Why that is I cannot be sure. However, I follow the woman down the hallway with haste, careful to keep pace beside her as to not appear inadequate.

 After stepping into the elevator, the woman turns, pushes a button labeled Sub-level,

 and waits for the doors to close.

 “How long have you been here?” I ask, deciding it might be best to make casual conversation.

 “That’s none of your concern,” the woman replies.

 Or it might not be for the best, I then think and frown shortly thereafter.

 “What you need to be concerned about is your training,” the woman named Emily Bane says, her full lips pursing as she turns to consider me. “Have you eaten?”

 “No.”

 “Slept?”

 “Yes,” I say.

 Barely, I then think but decide not to add that I’d been up half the night tossing and turning.

 “What is the Induction Chamber?” I decide to ask—and hope to God that she will respond without malice.

 “The Induction Chamber is where you will forfeit your rights to your ordinary life and where you will dedicate yourself to the Agency.”

 “I take it I’ll be interviewed by a Wiper in the chamber?”

 “Yes. You will.”

 “And after that?”

 “You’ll begin training.”

 Okay, I think and nod as the elevator door yawns open. You can do this, Scarlet. You know you can.

 Outside the elevator’s brightly lit interior lies a dark and sullen chamber, within the center of which stands only two metal chairs and a table between them. Seated on the side opposite the elevator is a man who appears to be of Indian descent, his dark skin reminiscent of the hazel fay flower my mother used to grow outside their home in Shreveport. He lifts his gaze as my weight comes down a little too hard on my foot and watches me in silence.

 Emily steps out of the elevator and seats herself in a chair in front of it. “Go,” she then says. “I’ll wait for you here.”

 With that said, I hesitantly step forward.

 Beneath only a single light bulb, the room and its sole occupant remind me of an interrogation room.

 “Miss Brown,” the Indian man—who I can now tell is a Wiper—says. “My name is Himmat Kiaan. I will be the agent interviewing you for your initiation into the Agency.”

 “All right,” I say.

 “Sit.”

 I obey, careful to angle the chair so my legs properly rest beneath the table.Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

 “This interview will document every facet of your life, including who your parents are or were, where you were born, and other information we may deem necessary to know. Are you ready?”

 “As ready as I’ll ever be,” I reply and lean back to try to make myself comfortable in the stiff metal chair.

 “Good.” The Wiper presses a red RECORD button on a small device and lifts his eyes to face her. “Please state your full name.”

 “Scarlet Jane Brown.”

 “Your birthdate.”

 “December 7th, 1986.”

 “Your current age.”

 “Seventeen.”

 “At which hospital were you born?”

 “Trinity Springs in Shreveport, Louisiana.”

 “Who were your parents?”

 “Serena Jane Dawson and Michael Douglas Brown.”

 “Are either still living?”

 “My mother was killed by a vampire,” I reply and bite into my lower lip to keep the tears from flowing, “and my father died in a car accident when I was young.”

 “Do you have any siblings?”

 “No.”

 “Any extended family?”

 “An aunt, Susannah, who lives in New Orleans with her three children, and an uncle Matthew, who lives in California with his wife. I also have a grandmother alive on my father’s side. Grandma Anna Kristina. She lives in Shreveport also.”

 “Are you able to provide their exact addresses?”

 “They would be in my family home,” I say. “In my mother’s documents.”

 The Wiper takes note of my once-physical home address and nods as he lifts his head to consider me again.

 “Whom were you closest to in your life in high school?”

 “My best friend Ariana, my friend Cindy, my friends Carrie and Donna, my basketball team, my coach, Vasquez, my teachers, and the principal at my high school.”

 “Do you have a regular family physician?”

 “Yes.”

 “A regular dentist?”

 “Yes.”

 “Can you name them for me?”

 I do as instructed.

 “Did you speak with the police regarding what you saw on the night of April 22nd, 2003?”

 “Yes. I did.”

 “What did you tell them?”

 “That my mother was killed by a monster.”

 “Did they believe you?”

 “I can’t say,” I reply. “I think they thought I was crazy. Shock was the word the doctors used when they were examining me at the hospital. I…I was diagnosed with PTSD.”

 “The actual diagnosis is irrelevant to the documentation we will have to seek and acquire to properly dispose of.” The Wiper lifts his head to face me once more. Here, he studies me; and here, he considers me for several long moments. He then says: “Miss Brown.”

 “Yes?” I ask.

 “By agreeing to this audit of your personal life, you are hereby giving permission to the United States Agency of Supernatural Affiliations to officially begin your process of assimilation into the Supernatural world. This process begins with a Wiper—or a series of Wipers—meeting with those you’d previously had contact with and removing their memories of your presence, then the destruction or falsification of documents that related to your previous existence. You will be able to keep your name if you so desire, but your place, and any physical record of it, within the world will be destroyed. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

 “I understand,” I reply.

 “Good.” The man nods and presses STOP on the recorder. “This ends our interview. You may now proceed with Miss Emily Bane into the next chamber.”

 Though nervous beyond compare, I rise carefully and nod my thanks to the Wiper who’d so carefully taken my information, before I turn to follow Emily to a door across the room.

 “You did well,” the woman says.

 “Thanks,” I say, somewhat sheepishly at that.

 Emily Bane lifts her hand to take hold of the golden bar hanging from her neck. She then extends it toward a single, triangular feature above the door.

 “What’re you doing?” I ask.

 But a moment later, the triangle pulses to life and shoots a single, green beam of light toward the golden bar that Emily is holding.

 A click sounds.

 The door before us slides open to reveal a darkened room.

 Emily steps forward.

 I follow suit.

 The woman reaches out and flips what I assume are several row of light switches and nods as the lights above clang to life, one after the other—

 Revealing a training ring fit for a king.

 Plastic dummies line the plush cushions along the floor. Weight benches and treadmills stand against the opposite wall. A series of parallel bars, likely for balance training, run the length of the other side. But it isn’t these things that startle me.

 No.

 It’s the array of weapons situated along a metal wall.

 From guns of varying sizes, to swords and bows and arrows, shields, staves, beanbags likely meant to act in place of bombs, and even crosses with wicked blades line the wall, from one end to the other. Literally nothing has been left to the imagination.

 Is this it? I ask myself. Is this where I’m meant to train? Where I’m to learn how to survive the Supernatural world?

 “Now,” Emily Bane says, turning her head to face her. “We are going to test your endurance.”

 “Should I change?” I ask. I hadn’t thought to dress in more than sweats and a black tank.

 “A Hunter needs to learn how to fight in any situation. This includes in whatever clothes they happen to wear at the time of their investigation.” Emily gestures toward a treadmill. “Go. Now.”

 I approach the treadmill with trepidation I never thought possible. With butterflies fluttering my ribcage. With knots festering in my stomach. I hadn’t anticipated having to prove myself like this, especially not one little bit at a time, but I suppose it makes sense.

 You have to crawl before you walk, I tell myself, and walk before you run.

 For that reason, I climb the treadmill, set it on the medium setting, and wait for the treads to start moving before breaking into an even jog.

 Beside me, Emily Bane watches casually, almost indifferently, as she observes my movements. This goes on for at least ten minutes before she says, “Faster.”

 I punch the nodules meant to increase the speed and jog for another ten more minutes before the woman says, “Faster,” once more.

 I’m on the seventh setting, I think. How much faster is she going to make me run?

 It turns out I will run a lot faster. I am soon on setting eight, then nine, and, eventually, ten. Regardless, I continue to run, even though the physical exertion is beginning to wear on me, causing my lungs to flare, my legs to burn.

 I fight it for as long as I can.

 “Push yourself,” Emily says. “Push yourself to your limits.”

 “I—” I mange. “I can’t—”

 My knee buckles, and that’s all it takes to fall to the treads and shoot off the treadmill.

 Thankfully, the emergency cord disengages the machine as I land, hard, on the cushioned floor. The treadmill grinds to a halt not long after.

 Emily Bane smirks as I push myself into a sitting position. “Very good,” she says. “You did much better than I expected.”

 “I… played… basketball,” I manage as I struggle to catch my breath. “I’m used to running.”

 “Take a moment to breathe. Then we start the real training.”

 “Real training?”

 Emily turns her head and gestures to the weaponry on the walls.

 “You really don’t mean to have me fight you with weapons,” I say. “Do you?”

 “We’ll start with staves and work our way up,” Emily says and nods to a water dispenser at the other edge of the room. “Get yourself a drink, recover some, and prepare for what’s to come. I’m going to give you the workout of your life.”

 * * *

 I hold the staff readily in hand as Emily Bane circles like a shark. Red eyes like daggers, lips pulled into a smirk, she eyes me up and down, appearing to size everything up—from my footing, my hold on the staff, all the way down to my breathing techniques.

 “All right,” Emily Bane says, lifting her staff and shifting her fingers so they are a far distance from one another. “I’m going to give you the opportunity to make the opening strike. Normally you want to wait for your opponent to reveal their weakness, but since I’m teaching you, I’m going to let you strike first. Understand?”

 I nod.

 “All right,” the woman says. “Whenever you’re ready.”

 After taking a long, deep breath, I angle the staff in my grasp and step forward, careful to test its weight, rigidity, length, and comfort within my hands. When I sling a slow strike at Emily, the woman parries it. She then smacks a second, harder strike I throw her way aside and returns with a blow that only barely misses my fingers.

 “Fight me like you mean it!” the woman snaps as she hurls another strike at me.

 “What if we get hurt?”

 “Don’t worry. We have white witches here to heal us if we get hurt. Now—fight me!”

 I duck an overhead swing and raise my hands to block another attack.

 She’s going to hit me, I tell myself as I suck in a gasp of air. She’s going to break my fingers.

 Still, I understand the need to defend myself, to prove that I am worthwhile, especially in the face of a senior Hunter.

 With that in mind, I swing the weapon like a baseball bat.

 The tip of Emily’s smacks against the ground—

 Leaving her open for attack.

 I lunge.

 Emily parries.

 I duck and raise my staff to shield my face—

 Just in time to take a blunt strike on three of my fingers.

 “STOP!” I scream. “STOP!”

 Emily smacks my ankles and sends me sailing onto my back with a loud, breath-rending thud.

 Tears flowing, mouth agape, I struggle to take in a breath of air as Emily Bane presses the end of her staff against my neck.

 “Dead,” the woman says.

 And I sob, more from the grief of having lost than the actual pain.

 “Come on,” Emily says, reaching down to take hold of my uninjured hand. “Let’s get you to our healer.”

AliNovel

Chapter 7: Harsh Introductions