It's hard for me to even know where to start this story. Because you're not supposed to know any of it. Truthfully, if anyone knew that I was writing this there would be massive consequences. But I think it's important that someone gets to hear this story one day, because right now only a handful of people know that I exist as a 16 year old on this earth, and even fewer of those people know why I really exist on this earth. To kill people.
I guess I'll stick to telling this story in the way it has rolled out for me so far - all information given on a need to know basis, as you need to know.
So what do you need to know? I was born sometime in 1994, I'm told on November 17th. I don't know if that's true. I don't know anything about my life before I was brought into The Agency.
There are about 20 of us, all girls my age in this affluent waterfront suburban community who currently serve in The Agency. But there have been more before is. We are now the second generation of trained team members. My older sister Magda was part of the first generation.
No, Madga is not my real sister. And my parents are not my real parents. But they are the only sister and parents I have ever known. Like nearly every member of the team that the agency selects to train, we're chosen when we're infants. Adopted into what you could call our sleeper cell families who train us, look out for us, and keep our cover solid.
This isn't fucking pansy-ass espionage, like signing up for the CIA or FBI - although we report to both of them ultimately. No, we're born for this.
But sometimes even we can astound our parents and colleagues, even though we are efficiently trained and focused members of this very secret government task force. Which is why My Dad was so shocked as he saw me I waltz through the front entrance of the house while he finished drying off the last of the dishes.
"They finished with you at the station quickly." He said.
"I know, it didn't take that long. It was just basic stuff, filled out a witness statement and left." I said, placing my knapsack on the centre island in our expansive vastly-granite kitchen, and discharging both my pistols from my sleeves before removing my uniform coat and throwing it on the coast rack.
"Hang that up properly, your mother will loose it if she sees your jacket getting wrinkled." Said my father shooting me a familiar eye, as if to say that I should know better. "Do you have a copy of the witness report? You'll need to attach it to your Job Debrief." He asked.
"I do." I said pulling a pink binder from my bookbag, flipping through it and holding it for my father to see.
"Did you notice any problems with your initial Briefing Package?" Dad asked me. "I have been feeling like their getting a little sloppy lately with their details in the schematics and site maps."
Briefing Reports are documents I get about one to three weeks before a mission, usually anywhere from 5 to 50 pages containing maps, contact information, extermination requirements, target information. The usual. Basically anything and everything I need to to my work. And yes, by work I mean killing.
"No, everything was fine." I said. "Hey did Mom leave food for me?"
"Yeah, check the oven, should be warm now."
I was so psyched when I looked in the oven it was roast beef, spinach, broccoli with cheese and mashed potatoes with gravy. My favorites. And I was famished. After cheerleading practice, having to work, and then sitting and putting on a show at the police station for two whole hours I began attacking my plate.
"Where's your Mother?" Asked Dad.
"She's throwing some laundry in the dryer." I said between massive bites of broccoli and potato.
"Can you try and not eat like a heathen at the table?" He asked only half serious, making me realize that I indeed was shoveling food into my face at an alarmingly fast rate as I flipped through a copy of Teen Vogue that I'd left on the table at breakfast, definitely not the picture of feminine grace that I was admiring in the article I was looking at "10 Ways To Get Him To Notice You Before Prom".
"Sorry," I apologized. "Between the two extra cheer practices during the week as we lead into Regionals, and the longer I'm having to work on the weekend combat classes for the new Agency girls I am running a calorie deficiency according to the nutritionist, so I'm starving."
"How are the new girls doing so far do you think?"
"Need a lot of work. One or two shows real promise, but I can only do so much. There are a lot more of them then I am used to. Last year we only had 4, now there are 7. Harder to give them all the one on one work they need to get better. One of them is doing real well though."
"Agent Spencer's younger one?"
"Yeah, she's killing it in hand to hand already and she only started three weeks ago."
Mom came into the kitchen and put her briefcase on the seat next to me, before she went over and hugged my father.
"Hi Hunny, how was your day?" She asked as she fluttered away from him already buzzing around the kitchen tidying up as she spoke to him.
"Good, all the gymnastics classes went well during the afternoon, the new coach is really strong and I think we're shaping up for Nationals next month. And I got three new punching bags for the combat training this weekend for the new girls all set up and ready to go."
My father ran a local gymnastics club where we also did all required Agency combat and tactical training sessions, where I also trained and taught combat classes for what would eventually be the third generation of girls in the Agency.
"That's excellent!" Said my mother racing around to wipe things down, plug in her laptop and fix a cup of tea simultaneously. "Where's Madga? Have you seen your sister yet, Tavi?..."
Before anyone could say anything, my mother was wailing into the intercom ‘MADGA HUNNY? WHERE ARE YOU? TAVI'S HOME'.
"You know you don't have to yell into that thing, it does the yelling for you." I quipped, smiling with my mouth full of food. I knew it always bothered my mother when someone ribbed her about her lack of technological savvy. Considering she could dismantle most guns in less than 60 seconds, we never understood why she had such a hard time grasping the concept of how to properly text message on her cell phone, or speak into an intercom.
Madga bounced into the kitchen and grabbed a pear before she sat down opposite me.
"Tell your father and sister what happened on your last hit of the day today." My mother laughed to herself.
"He shot himself in the fucking foot." I giggled.
"LANGUAGE!" My mother yelled at me.
"Sorry." I muttered, still smiling at Madga.
"Are you serious? That's hilarious!" Magda laughed, pulling her long hair into a high pony tail.
While it had never been told to me that Magda and I were not related by blood, it wasn't all that difficult to figure out by looking at us. Her long blonde hair was the stark opposite of my jet black hair. I've always envied how long she kept it, while mine has never been short, it is always around my shoulders, hers has always fallen well down her back. I could never manage to work comfortably and keep my hair longer than it was.
Beyond that Magda stands about 4 inches taller than my 5'3" frame, and she's more athletically built than I am - she would have the physique of a volleyball player whereas I would probably be compared to a dancer.
The only two discernible similarities between us, were our pale skin and our dark blue eyes.That and the fact we are both in Tactical Enforcement at The Agency. Yes, it's just a technical term for assassinations, but at the same time a little different in the semantics.
It's also sometimes called Tactical Assassination, but since I am also trained in areas of information gathering that isn't totally an accurate picture of what I do. You would probably refer to these areas as torture. You say tomato. I say tomah-to.
Already after only a minute in the kitchen Magda had moved the conversation back towards her favorite new topic - her new life as a university student. She had started in the fall and was now completing her first year.
I wasn't particularly interested in hearing again about how fabulous it was, how great her friends were and how much she loved studying, of all things, finance. To me it was just a vivid reminder that tomorrow I would have to go back to my high school, which was not fabulous and in fact, was terribly boring and filled with bitchy people that I didn't much care for.
So I put my plates into the dishwasher and, grabbed my guns and book bag before heading upstairs, "I'm going to go fill out my report so I can get homework done and watch Dancing with the Stars that I PVR'd before bed." I said dismissing myself.
I went upstairs to my room and hit the on button on my desktop, I had to finish my Debrief before I could get to my Biology Lab Report and English chapter summaries for Pride & Prejudice. I was going to be a long couple of hours, really I didn't mind. It got me away from the conversation downstairs.
As I waited for the computer to boot, I opened my closet door, on the inside of the door was a chart of names, almost like a family tree, called The Descendants of Adam. Each name, clearly written out in fine calligraphic form in the same order they appeared in the bible, reverse chronologically with the bottom of the V ending where it all began, all humanity, with Adam.
No, I'm not even remotely religious. I mean I believe in God, but beyond going to Sunday Mass every weekend with my parents to blend with our backstory of being practicing Catholics, I know nothing about the beginnings in the Garden.
All I know is that at The Agency I am a part of something called The Lilith Project, and that is our list of code names - each a target of ours that must be exterminated to take down the biggest human and drug trafficking syndicate that has been operating hidden in plain view in this ritzy suburban town for close to two decades. This is why we were activated. To bring them down in an attack they would never expect.
Why are these names, these Decendants of Adam so important? Because like the beginnings of humanity, The Syndicate all comes down to one man, it's creator, it's Adam - Joseph Donato. There are many arms, many facets, and limbs to this twisted family tree, some even branching out into new reaches with each new generation. Our Project mission is to stop it before it grows any new branches, and burn the tree to the ground for good by infiltrating their homes, their lives and their families.
It is my mission, as part of this, to exterminate as many of those coded names as I can, and ultimately find my way to Donato himself in any way I can. So far, I have crossed 18 names off that list.
Tonight I pull out my marker and cross out four more.