This is where a young girl has two secret agent parents, and decides that she wants to be a secret agent too, and then she is shot, but what happens after that?
Read to find out...
My name is Clementine Geldrop, and I am twelve years od old.
I am writing to you, as I have heard from few but enough sauces sources (my parents and agency magazines), that you are looking for a young boy or girl to go undercover for you, so you cn can gain information.
I would like to tell you that I am perfectly capable of the job, being the daughter of the two best secret agents in the country (Genevieve Geldrop and Lucifer Geldrop).
I am used to being exposed to danger, and to be quite honest, don’t really mind it. I would do your bidding command.
That’s the letter that I sent to the government three years ago; I’m fifteen now, and the government’s youngest, but best secret agent.
They accepted me into the agency, just two months after receiving my letter, and I was faced with the easiest job ever.
My parents home-schooled me so that I could carry my job out full-time; of course I was paid for it.
All year, all I had to do was report back to the government the number plate of drivers who, talked on their mobile while driving, were speeding… etc.
I got paid a good amount for it (£10 per hour), seeing as it wasn’t very dangerous. The way the government paid her agents, was that the more danger you were in, the more you would get paid.
When I was twelve that was all I had to do, and got that good wage for it.
When I was thirteen, it was slightly more dangerous, so my wage went up to £15 per hour, and what I had to do was report thefts and things that security guards had missed. I came up against some dodgy characters, and had been threatened with knives but usually I’d just scream and they’d put the knife away. I was cute, so that helped a little bit.
When I was fourteen, I was up against drugs. I had to report drug-users, drug-dealers and general drug use in that area. My wage went up to £25 per hour.
Now though, I have the most dangerous job of all: reporting, and acting upon, weaponry offences. My wage is now up at £50 per hour. That’s why I’m talking about this to you now: because something happened that had always been in my nightmares.
When I do manage to get some sleep (which isn’t often, to be honest), they’re always nightmares. Nightmares of what things have happened to me, and things that probably will crop up, but hopefully won’t.
I just wake up knowing that I have a job to do, and I intend to do it to the best of my ability.
I don’t look like a normal girl my age with the high heels and the handbag, and mini-skirts and all that rubbish. I dress according to my job. I dress in a black T-shirt, if it is cold, a black jacket, underwear obviously, shorts, but if it is really cold, trousers, but I try not to wear trousers because they slow you down when you’re running, and the same goes with the jacket. I also wear springy trainers, that help you to run really fast, and then just a small back-pack on my back, complying of: pocket-knife, small pistol, first-aid kit, sanitary towels (I am fifteen), and a balaclava.
I don’t get holidays off, because the offenders don’t take holidays off, and the life of crime is never put on pause. There’s always some action every day, so I am never bored, and always manage to keep fit.
When I went to school, I was the fastest person in my class, and now I’d bet all my possessions that I could even overtake an Olympic Marathoner if I wanted to.