The Shadow's Shadow

While Jaz Hawk sat in her fancy apartment, I ran out into the night. I was kind of laughing at Jaz's face, but a big part of me was really disappointed. I thought her better than that; I thought her memory acute and above average.

I thought she would have remembered me.

It hasn't been that long since I last saw her. Not really. I have changed a lot, but, you see, we were both recruited by the government about four years ago. That would have made Jaz only seventeen; I was nineteen. We both lived in the same town, but we went to different schools, and before we were recruited we had never seen each other.

When the agents first came to me, I would have to say I was scared witless. I thought for sure they were going to lock me up--for reasons unknown to me--but they just wanted to talk. To a teenage college student, though, 'just talk' means 'get you in trouble.' I freaked and ran.

Needless to say, they caught me within a couple minutes. I mean, you can only sneak out the bathroom window and run off if your window is NOT fifty feet off the ground with nothing to break your fall except the ground. So yeah, they got me. I don't know why they still wanted me after that ridiculous stunt...I was such an idiot at that age. Still kind of am, I suppose.

They 'talked' to me, though. They actually talked. They recruited me, and within a day I was on my way to their headquarters in Nowhere, I-can't-tell-you-where. There, I met Jaz, who was in the same situation I was. We were both treated very well, and given the best training anyone could ask for.

Within three years, we became some of the top operatives our age. We also became like brother and sister in those three years. But then Jaz turned twenty.

That's when Jaz decided she wanted to follow a different path. That's when the agency literally went down in flames, and that's when we found out that only someone on the inside could kill someone on the inside.

That's when I was left holding my dead boss while Jaz ran away from the sunset, seeking something more.

The Shadow's Target

Tom Symcox was anything but ordinary, as his first name suggested. On the contrary; he was rather complex. His friends were as crazy as he was, and they all got along quite well. He had met and joined a great group at Yale. As a double major, he hadn't had a lot of time in school to hang out, but after he graduated, his friends become almost as important as his work for the Fortune 500 company. Some of his friends wondered how he had managed to get a business job when he had majored in psych and philosophy; he credited the name of his college. Although he didn't specialize in anything business-y, he definitely knew enough about it to work in that area.

As an athlete, Tom had played every sport there was to play. His favorite was rugby, but basketball was a close second. At Yale, he had joined the basketball team and pulled them through an entire championship his senior year. As much as he loved sports, though, he was more serious about his career, and so opted to get a 'real' job rather than try to join an NBA team. Though he was good at ball, he wasn't that good, and he didn't mind giving up a kindergarten dream to pursue a more realistic future in the neck-and-neck, dog-eat-dog business world.

That was one of the reasons he owed money to the Falcon. Tom's family wasn't well off, and his parent's couldn't afford to rent an apartment for him near Yale. He had met the right people freshman year, taken a couple trips to New York, gotten in a little deep, and continued digging. They had introduced him to the world of lenders, and after he had graduated (with the Falcon's aid, of course), he had moved to New York City itself. There he rented a flat and started applying for jobs. He had spent nearly a year unemployed, all the while borrowing money from the Falcon to keep his ritzy apartment.

After a long year, Tom was offered a job--a good one, too. He had accepted it on the spot, started a week later, and within a few months had enough money to support himself again. Within another year, he had enough money to pay the Falcon back and keep himself well above the poverty line. He moved out of his apartment and into an even bigger, nicer flat.

But he never paid the Falcon back.

This was how Tom's mind worked: Either they will forget, or I will take them on. I can pay them back, but I would rather not, and outsmarting these people is more fun than I've had in years.

Then one of Tom's best friends died.

Correction: one of Tom's best friends was murdered.

Tom had gone to school with Richard Vann. He had taken half of his classes with Vann; they were both philosophy majors. Vann's sudden murder was a shock to everyone who knew him. He was found in an alley, face forward, a bullet in his brain. Whoever had killed him had been clean and quick. Most thought that it was petty theft that had left Vann dead in the street. Tom knew better.

Vann had borrowed from the Falcon as well. Like most college students, Vann had struggled to find enough financial aid to get through college. He had been with Tom when they visited New York years before. He had met the proprietor of the Falcon; he had walked away with enough money to keep him in ramen for years, just as Tom had.

The Falcon had sent someone after Vann.This confirmed Tom's fears; someone was, indeed, following him. Though he hadn't been back to the Falcon since the day he borrowed money, he walked past the up-town club every week. He saw the people walking in and out of the building.

Most importantly, he had seen the girl with the briefcase. The same night that Vann was murdered, he had seen the sunglass-clad girl leave the club, and he had followed her. He had seen the man sneak out of her apartment, and he knew that she was important.

He knew that she was dangerous.

Shadows Future

Jaz was left stunned. The man had come from nowhere, and left as quickly as if he were a shadow. She couldn’t remember what he looked like; there had been nothing truly special about him, nothing shocking or interesting. He had been plain-looking, ordinary. A pavement artist in every way. Who was he?

Jaz had only met one person like him before. She couldn’t remember the other man’s name, couldn’t remember why she knew of him, only remembered being introduced, shaking his hand, and then later watching him closely. He intrigued her; he had a natural genius to him that she struggled to understand. Who was he? Was this man like the man she had met, so long ago that she could barely remember it?

And why had he talked to her?

Most of all, how did he know her last name? She had gone to great lengths to keep her last name hidden. It was only known to her boss. Even he didn’t know her full name.

Jaz kicked herself. The man had seen the money, the gun, and her apartment! She ran into the hall and looked up and down. The elevator was silent, there were no echoes from the stairwell, and not a thing moved. There wasn’t even a breeze left, as there usually is when someone rushes out of someplace.

The man had disappeared as easily as Jaz did at the club. He had been unnoticed, and when people don’t notice something they don’t ask questions. Jaz knew it would be futile to ask the manager and the doorman if they had seen him. No one would see him, unless he wanted them to. So why had he wanted to Jaz to see him?

Too much to digest. Time for a little light reading.

Jaz walked back into the room slowly and locked the door behind her. She walked over to the couch where she had thrown her stuff and picked up the folder the boss had handed her.

“Tom Symcox. Interesting…” she browsed through the information in front of her, marveling at the man’s ability to elude the business’s two best operatives. “Guess that makes me the best now, huh…” Jaz mumbled to herself.

“6’3, brown hair, blue eyes, ooh! Cute face. Of course. I get to take care of the cute ones. Hmm. Athletic. Duh. Graduated from Yale—damn! Double major. Psychology and philosophy. Really? Chess team. Weird…athletic and nerdy. Well, sheesh. This oughta be fun. I hope this guy puts up more of a chase than that wimpy Vann guy did. What a loser…”

Jaz’s eyes jumped over the pages of info, appraising the man, his lifestyle, and his every move. “Works for…a Fortune 500 company. Who’d a thunk. Makes a butt-load of money. Why does this guy owe us? He makes bank…ohhh. Living a little beyond his means. Or did…it looks like he has enough to pay boss back now. Why doesn’t he? Probably enjoys the thrill of the run as much as I like the chase.” Her eyes sparkled menacingly when she thought of how enjoyable this task would be; cat and mouse was her forte, but bird of prey was her absolute favorite. Swooping on unsuspecting victims was such an adrenaline rush.

But then, that came with the name. She was a Hawk, after all.

Shadows Present

The briefcase was unusually heavy today. Jaz knew without opening it that there was something in the case that was completely unrelated to money. She knew it wasn't dangerous; her sixth sense was sniffing out danger from half a mile away. Besides, bombs and the like were usually lighter. She knew this from experience.

When she got back to her three-room New York flat, she threw her keys and shades on the couch and sat in a soft leather armchair. She turned the dials on the case, unlocking it, and threw the top open. Inside lay neat rows of bills; almost half the dead man's debt. Each of the bills was crisp, and the money was tied into $100 bundles.

A smile tickled the corners of Jaz's mouth and she set the case down on the coffee table before her. She rooted carefully through the bills, counting them while looking for the source of the weight. When she found it, Jaz grew dangerously close to laughing.

It was a gun.

Not just any gun. This was a special gun, a gun Jaz thought she had lost almost three years ago. Her smile turned quickly into a frown, however, and she stood up quickly, the gun sitting comfortably in her hands, aiming at the man behind her.

"Whoa!" the man cried.

"What do you want? Who are you?" Jaz tossed her head, throwing hair into her eyes to cover them from the stranger.

"Um, sorry, didn't mean to intrude..." The man's eyes were shifting all across the room, taking in the keys on the couch, the heavy shades, and the briefcase. His curiosity was not lost on Jaz and she waved him towards the door with the gun point.

"Get going!"

The man moved slowly, suddenly intent on Jaz's face and not at all concerned with the gun pointed at his head.

"Maintenance," he said calmly. "Do I know you?"

Jaz stared straight at him for a moment, then laughed flatly. "Doubt it. You know many people with a gun license that actually talk to 'maintenance men'?" Her voice was harsh.

"My bad!" The man shrugged, holding back a laugh, and turned to leave.

Jaz lowered her gun slowly, shaking. How had the man gotten in without her noticing? Had he been here the whole time?

Suddenly the man whipped around. "Oh, by the way, Hawk. Might want to go to a different bank this time. The old one's getting suspicious."

"How do you--"

"Shh. I wasn't here." The man winked, and just like that, he was gone.

Shadows Past

Jaz was trained in secrecy. She knew every way to hide, every shadow to slip into. She knew how to blend in with a crowd, and she knew how to stick out.

Jaz knew what it was to be completely alone in a crowd of people.

With her shades on, Jaz looked like an average New York citizen. She knew the back-ways, the alleys, the clubs that were perfect if she needed to get out of sight. She could walk a million miles in the highest stilettos and not feel a thing. She could walked with heels and not make a sound. In short, Jaz was a pavement artist of epic proportions.

With her sunglasses on.

With her sunglasses off, however, Jaz was a different person. Her eyes scared most; those who didn't run from her gaze were either dead or used to her. When Jaz pushed her shades up on top of her head and pinned back her hair, her cold eyes pierced rooms and hearts alike.

Jaz's eyes were silver.

Not pure silver, of course. They were slightly shadowed, darker towards her irises, and sprinkled with gold flakes. The most striking thing about her eyes, however, was their age. Her eyes had seen things that no human should ever see. She had watched with cool indifference as her own firing had killed men; she had watched blood seep into the pavement. She had watched businessmen scream as they fell from stories-tall building; she had pushed them.

Jaz's dark past was cast in silver in her eyes. Only two emotions were left to her; greed and loneliness.

The Falcon and the Hawk

The girl stared at the gun barrel with a cold, calculating indifference in her old eyes. It seemed to Vann that the girl's eyes were not the same age as the rest of her; they had seen too much too soon. This, however, was Vann's last thought.

The gun smoked as the girl slid it coolly back into her purse. She looked at the man, laughed shallowly, then turned on a shiny silver stiletto heel and continued on her way. The black jewelry hanging from her neck clinked gently with the sway of her hips, and her dirty blond hair swished and fluttered in the cool evening breeze. She pushed her sunglasses down over her eyes, and with a smile tickling the corner of her lips, she broke through the crowd outside the club, flashed her ID, and walked in without a word.

The Falcon was a high-class, celeb-only type of club. Only the elite gained entrance. Jaz was neither elite nor celeb, but no one bothered to look twice when she waved her license in their faces. The bouncers backed away and waved her in the doors, and she strutted to the center of the dance floor, doing a quick once-over of the room. Jaz's jaw was set when she took off across the room towards a small metal door. Her hair whipped behind her, and her silver dress made no sound. The only noise she made was the sharp 'click-click' of her heels on the tile of the dance floor.

Jaz pressed her ear flat to the door. Anyone watching would not have noticed her quick knock and her mumbled password; they would only have seen a shockingly beautiful girl lean on a door and then quickly fall into the room behind it.

She shut the door quickly behind her, then took off her shades. Her eyes pierced the darkness, quickly finding the desk and the large, sweating man seated behind it. She nodded to him and laid a thick manila envelope on the desk.

"Done," was all she said.

The fat man nodded and slid a thin folder toward her. "Time for number two. This guy's got a record with us. Owes about two mil, and he's evaded my best for a full year. You find him, you get twice this much," he said, putting a small briefcase on the desk.

Jaz nodded, grabbed both the folder and the briefcase, and walked back out the door. Her sunglasses went down again, and she slid out of the club just as quickly as she had entered it.

The briefcase thumped against her leg, and a single, shifty-eyed man watched her carry it down the street. He noticed with interest that the case read "N.J.Hawk."

From The Ward

The angels. They're coming. I can feel them now. They're everywhere: surrounding us all. They're going to come here one day. I don't know the day, or the hour, or even the week or month. All I know is that every day they get closer. Every time you close your eyes and take a breath, they creep closer to you and everyone else. They're hungry; can you hear them? They're practically licking their lips.

Some people think angels are supposed to be benign, with halos and harps and good news. They haven't met The angels. They will never know what they truly are- not until it's too late. You and I, though, we can take precautions. We know what is coming. We can do something about it. Help me. I need help.

Just let me out of this cage, let me out of these bonds, and we can run from the angels together. We can come up with a plan that will save the race and save us. We can run together and be safe and not worry about the angels. Please, please just let me out. I need to be free. I can't stand this any longer.

They told you I'm crazy, didn't they? They're wrong. They can feel the angels, too. They can hear them. I've seen their faces when I talk about the angels. They're as frightened as you are. As I am. As anyone who knows the danger truly should be. Can't you see, just standing there is doing nothing? Helping no one! You're no good if all you can do is stand there and look at me like that. I know it sounds crazy, but just listen. Listen.

You can hear them, too, can't you?

So let me out. Let me out! I have to stop the angels. Every time you blink! They're coming closer! Can't you feel them? They're practically breathing down your neck. They scare me. I need to get out of here, I need to get away, I need to figure out a way to stop them. I need to run from them! Please...please...help me.

The angels are coming.

Final

Final.

The very word brings fear to a college student's eyes and trembling to his knees. It brings aching to his hand. It produces a migraine and nightmares for a week.

It is the final word, the final grade.

College students either don't sleep at all or dream of sleeping through finals. They know that the grade they receive for this, their final assignment, may decide their future forever.

Food is a rare luxury. Any free moments a student has are spent worrying about finals or trying to remember the answer they forgot. Every word said in class leading up to a final seems of utmost importance- perhaps the difference between failing and passing.

Students who typically sleep through class set their alarms an hour early, just to make sure they can hit the snooze button and still make it to class on time to take the biggest test of the year.

Teachers grin evilly, knowing that they hold all the power. Students cower before them on Finals Day. There is not escape.

Homework is neglected for studying. Assignments are failed, but no one cares as long as they are studying for the final.

Meals are skipped. Notebooks are seen on everyone's lap. Drinks are barely touched, seeing as students don't have a free hand. They are occupied with books, pencils, and notes.

Computers slowly disappear, and are replaced by pages and pages of printed notes, usually accompanied by a highlighter in one of an assortment of bright, garish colors.

There is no safe place. No rest.

Sleep? Who does that during this most stressful of weeks?

Finals.

Be afraid.

Be very afraid.

Patient Problem? Part 2

First dates are awkward at the best of times. Hardly knowing someone can go one of two ways; it can lessen the awkward air, or it can make the awkwardness so thick you can slice it with a fork. With David, however, there wasn't a single dull moment. Airica was kept on her toes and laughing all through dinner. In the movie theater- an unexpected treat- Airica was shushed several times by other viewers for her sudden, inexplicable bursts of laughter. She claimed later that David had been whispering riff-track-worthy sentences to her, but of course the disgruntled others really didn't care what she said. It wasn't until David dropped her off at home that things really began to seem like a first date- awkward and silent. David could only stare and smile. Airica looked at him and smiled back, suddenly shy and hesitant.

"You are so beautiful."

"David..."

"I mean it. You are. I've never met anyone like you."

"David, I've only known you for one day."

"But I've known you for weeks. Ever since you patched me up...I've...I've been following you, Airica. I've gone to the hospital every week since the accident. Only two of those visits were for follow ups. The others were to see you. I got a job near the hospital. I stay late and get there way early to see you. I watch you on Tuesdays. I know they're your days off. I want to spend every minute for you. I think you're amazing. Airica...I think you're in love."

"David-!"

"Just listen. It's true. I really do believe that I have found the one. I think you're it. I love you, Airica. I want to spend the rest of my life getting to know you better. Please let me."

Airica stared at him, suddenly shocked and scared. "David, I had a good time with you. I really did. But...you've been following me!?"

David nodded, a small smile on his face.

"You can't- you can't do that. That's not right. That's stalking someone. You could- I don't know, but...why did you do that? Why didn't you just talk to me first?"

"I wanted to get to know you when you're around other people before you were you around me. I know how you act all the time now, and I love it. Please, Airica. Please." David knelt and pulled a ring out of his pocket. No case, just a single ring. "Airica, I truly do love you. Please, marry me."

Patient Problem? Part 1

Tuesdays were the only days Airica truly had to herself. Every other day she was fully dedicated to her job. She worked almost ceaselessly. Being a doctor at the biggest hospital in the United States was taxing, and there was a constant need for her skills. Every day, Airica worked nine-hour shifts with no break, took an hour to eat and get a short nap, and then took on another ten-hour shift before heading home to sleep for the remaining four hours of the day, only to head back to the hospital for another shift.

Tuesdays were predominantly filled with sleeping and catching up with her few friends and her family. She loved her job, yes, but it was hard work, and she loved being able to rest and slow down for a whole day. It was during one of these blissfully calm Tuesdays that Airica met David. Airica had gone to a small, locally owned coffee shop to relax and read for a bit. David sat down opposite her at the two-person table and stuck out his hand.
"Hey, I'm David. What are you reading?"

His voice was deep, and a British accent was obvious in his speech. His face was jovial, full of life and purpose. Airica put her book down, surprised at the suddenness with which David had addressed her.

"I-I'm Airica. Nice to meet you. I'm reading...um..." She stole a quick glance at the spine of the book, suddenly forgetting what it was she had been reading. "Oh. I'm reading 'Les Miserables,' by Victor Hugo. He's brilliant!"

David looked impressed. "Who knew that doctors liked such ancient books? I thought all you people read was surgical magazines and thank-you letters from patients."

Airica blinked. "What? How did you know I'm a doctor?"

David laughed, an amazing and sincere laugh. "Well, that's probably due to the fact that you stitched me up after I was hit by that truck. Remember that? My car got clipped and I spun out, hitting my head splitting it pretty badly."

Airica smiled. "Yeah, I do remember that now. Wow, that was you? I guess you look a little different with a healed forehead."

"All thanks to you." He smiled.

Airica blushed. "You don't have to thank me."

David winked. "Didn't have to. Wanted to. And I was wondering...you want to go to dinner? Say, in an hour?"

Beached: Lisa

The weekend had finally come. Finally, meaning here, at long last. The girls of room 113 had thought that the weekend had left them and gone elsewhere. Neither Lisa nor Mara had seen a Saturday in- well, in about 6 days. They had been looking forward to a good long Saturday at the nearby beach. Nearby, meaning here, a couple hours away.

They headed for the beach at about nine in the morning, which was early for a college student. The beach, they knew, would be crowded, so they had told themselves to get up earlier than normal to get a good spot. Good spot, meaning here, not a mile from the actual shore. That would be good.

They finally got to the beach. Ah, sun! Ah, spring! Ah, salty air! Ah, weekend! They were overjoyed to find the beach almost completely empty. It wasn't even lunch time, and it was so open and quiet. It was beautiful. Even the life guard stands were somewhat empty, only every other one occupied at all. Every other one had quite a distance between them, so there was no worry of being disturbed, but they were close enough that, if an emergency called, at least two life guards would be ready to help.

Lisa and Mara hit the water with no delay. They raced each other to the waves and threw themselves into the swells. The waves seemed calm and caressed each of the girls. Mara drifted a ways down the shore, so Lisa carried on where she was, trying to reach the bottom of the ocean floor. It was harder than she thought, and each time she resurfaced, she laughed at how terrible she was at her simple task.

Almost an hour passed before Lisa noticed that Mara was still missing.

Where had she gone? Lisa shaded her eyes and scanned the shore first. No sign of Lisa there. Actually, no sign on anyone there. No one at all. That was slightly unnerving. Lisa turned to the swells down the shore, where she had last seen Mara. Nothing. Mara was a very capable swimmer- she had been swimming for much, much longer than Lisa herself had been. It didn't make sense for her to just disappear like this. Lisa gulped. Where had Mara gone? Maybe the bathrooms?

She pulled herself out of the water and ran to one of the high life guard stands. She shaded her eyes and stared up at the still person sitting on top. "Hello?" She called. No response. Not even a slight movement. "Hello?!" Still nothing. She yelled as loudly as she could. The person on top was still and stony.

Lisa shook the stand, fed up with the life guard. The person swayed, then slowly- too slowly, as if in slow motion, fell from the stand. Lisa gasped. "What on earth?"

She bent over the person laying face up in the sand.

Dead eyes stared up at nothing. A dead mouth hung open, as if in a silent, long-since-stifled scream.